Getting Saucy . . .

After a day of blog comments consisting mainly of either monosyllabic count-offs or criticisms of the lack of the thread's entertainment value as a way to whittle away the afternoon while awaiting the day's main event, the riders arrived at the lot in a convivial but purposeful mood. Nocar and PC arrived simultaneously sans vehicle, having serendipitously joined forces en route. Flouting tradition, PC deposited a sixer of Cali-brew next to the flag of PBR on the tailgate before flopping down in RG's camp chair to suckle a couple before the ride, randomly bantering with the assembling crew. A discussion escalated over the topic of used cycling shorts, somebody stole and then returned RG's bike; meanwhile nobody could keep their eyes off Nohandle's massive, sculpted legs.

Everyone pouted a bit over B's absence and then cried real tears when Spawn failed to show, just to get it out of their systems. Talk of new trail circulated. Perplexed by the lack of a default ride leader, the group of 8 elected Newb to navigate (being fast and therefore in the front anyway, a logical choice). Dropping dam play, we knew this was going to be an extraordinary ride. After climbing back up to the road, we veered off to sample the as yet unnamed singletrack newness. Friggin' sweet! all agreed. Around the lake, up left lip and then detour somewhere. More succulent trail. At some point PC complained about being tired or some nonsense and had the audacity to request a 5 minute stop to eat a sandwich, prompting requisite heckling.

Climbing rock garden, Nohandle's rear tire burped and began to spew juice. At this point, he had no choice but to pull out the pump that he stole from C-man on a previous Tuesday and reveal his transgression. After a spontaneous and intense tug-of-war over the pump, forcing the remaining six riders to form allegiances in support of either the plaintiff or the defendant, the contestants called a draw and agreed to joint custody, each carrying the inflator on every-other Tuesday. After several hundred fervent pumps and an equal number of increasingly adolescent remarks from the peanut gallery involving tube socks, Nohandle decided to roll on without resorting to tubing the thing, despite continued spewing (albeit at a lessened rate).

When one astute rider observed that it was already nigh on 9:30, fears of an early taco shack closing led to an every-man-for-himself flight back to civilization. Tacos were served with efficiency family style per the new protocol, prompting a standing ovation. Captain donned a suit and tie and offered a gallon jar full of homemade habanero sauce to high praise. By the end of the feast, we had taken down about 64oz of the tasty paste, as it made constant rotation from tray to face.

As the Knot emptied out, three revelers remained at the bar. To everyone's surprise, a scuffle broke out that very nearly led to a fisticuffs in the parking lot. Taco Bettys handled it with aplomb, though, managing the situation as a golden retriever owner might check the aggression of an unruly German shepherd in a crowded dog park. The FT3 crew looked on with incredulity, never having witnessed such an uncivlized scene in our otherwise orderly and, frankly, dignified watering hole.

But that's just my perspective.