Missing Tuesday Nights Won't Get You Up Squaw Ridge

When I got home from work, Mrs. Nocar asked me who was in the crew for last Tuesday’s FT3. I told her it was just the troublemakers. She responded, “that’s you and B, and…” she paused and thought, “Nohandle? No, not Nohandle. Newb.”

The pre-ride activities commenced with a session of rider grooming. B had spent the day in Georgetown and required tick removal. We enjoyed a protracted kitting session, while enjoying non-traditional, pre-ride hydration.

Newb made his FT3 RideLeader debut. Out the back, cross Sly Park at MET, up the steep trail to the horse camp. At this point I had already failed to remain in compliance by changing gears. As the ride Peter, I struggled to keep up with the SSers, and relied on the bits of flat section to catch up. As we loped up Chiquita, we wondered if we could include a new permanent section on the blog: the wiener box. In it would appear the top 3 most Petery riders. We spent a significant portion of the ride debating who would be in the wiener box. 

B was enjoying a ride on Newb’s latest addition (a SS, double rigid, steel Voodoo), when we turned down the Right Lip. He shredded the corners with Newb and I in hot pursuit. With a sudden jerk, B was flying off the bike and barrel rolled over a downed log. He had first thought he was going to bunny hop the log, then realized he couldn’t and made desperate evasive action. He emerged unscathed, but when we reached the bottom of the Lip, he realized that the Voodoo’s front wheel was less true than a political campaign ad. Newb commenced beating the wheel against the ground and tightening spokes until the bike was rideable.

Lake loop with Mars roving to horse trails to Rock Garden up the wedding march, and then the utter lack of trail skills of our little party of misfits became apparent. Nothing looked right and we stopped to consider where we were and put on our rain jackets. Somewhere on the forest roads between the march and the qualifier, we chose left turns over rights, finally bombing a bit of singletrack back to the Lake and more Mars Roving to tacos.  

We took the corner spot at the business end of the bar. All of the sauces were assembled before us and the beer cooler was just inches away. Mother Rye engaged us in serious discussions about the effects of mine tailings on lacustrine ecosystems, local homicides, and 70s music. B summed it all up by telling the parable of the mercurial taco.