I feel as though Im an individual who lived through the largest, most destructive plane crash in history, and now Im in the unenviable position of having to recount a flawless blow by blow version of every catastrophic detail in as few words as possible. So lets give it a shot. Friday evening found us at Oneonone Studio in the heart of Minneapolis' warehouse district, where by the way, the new shipment of Swobo goods just arrived. Geno, Complayna, Demonika, and The Doughnut Queen got to installing and merchandising, and I fell back into the shop to partake in long over due hand slaps, and hugs with some of the Mafia, Big Zeke as well as Nate and an assortment of the crew from Lincolns Monkey Wrench Cycles whod arrived earlier in the day. Drinks were drank, tiny bikes were ridden, stories were swapped, and after a trip to Pizza Luche, slices were consumed with ferocity.We had to get home, and rest up for what promised to be a couple of days of debauchery of Caligulan preportions
Waking up at Hurls after a nights drunken sleep, we made our way to Liquor Lyles to sign up, and see what kinds of new booze could be forced down our gullets. As Hurl said upon looking at the happy hour schedule, 'youd have to work really hard NOT to be here for happy hour.' Seriously, at almost any hour of the day, you order a drink, you get a free drink. You order breakfast, you get a free drink. Im not entirely sure, but I think if you go to the bathroom, use 'and' in a sentence, or even wear pants, and theres a free drink in there somewhere. Shortly after the surprise arrival of Wakeman, all 114 or so of us stepped out into the brisk Minneapolis day to begin the adventure. Geno led us out, and Sov, the damn instigator of this whole train wreck, brought up the rear as we swerved through the cities side streets and back alley ways on our way to the tracks, which are more or less the gateway to the single track trails which we would find ourselves ripping through, bobbing over, derbying across, and falling down on all of the way to the infamous Hobo Camp. There were a few 'feats of strength' along the way, one of which was riding both ways across a janky skinny which Id last ridden at the Singlespeed Worlds the Mafia had thrown back in 2000. Somewhere during the hubbub, Sov caught a Kenda to the face, and effectively postponed his modeling career. Once we wrapped up business there, we were on our way to The Hobo Camp. This is where the chaos was really unleashed. A big fire was started in the pit, Surly Nick got the home brew and the hot wine flowing, and the relay race began. I feel as though I should mention at some point in this mess, there were bacon, peanut butter doughnuts served, but I had to retreat to Hurls with Fiona, Ron, and Demonika to see if I could find a bike that wasnt a rolling mechanical, which as it turned out was generously loaned to me by Ron. His limited edition Salsa 29er was now mine, and he got stuck with another one of Hurls frankenbikes, which he spent most of the rest of the afternoon crashing. I think I remember letting Ron know that there was a good chance his bike wasnt going to come back in very good shape, and there most likely was going to be blood on it. Both of which ended up being true. Now then, back to the relay race. The best description I can offer is this; if any of you are old enough to remember what slam dancing was like before the metal heads, and the jocks got ahold of it, you know, when youd go down, folks would help you up again, well it was like that, except there were 100 or more people involved, and bikes were everywhere. Every time one of your six team members would get upon a bike, ten people were attempting to pull them off, while ten more were attempting to keep them on. Once you got away from the ruckus, youd complete a single track hot lap, and then the madness would start all over again. I saw a video this morning of a mob, while attempting to free me, or hold me down, actually ended up catapulting me into a tree, and a crowd of bystanders. This might explain why my entire right butt cheek is now a brilliant shade of black. This kind of activity went well into the night.
Right around midnight, we finally retreated back to the welcome safety of Hurls, but not before Geno and I piled into a bloody heap on the side of the bike path in some bleak attempt at one final two man derby.
Upon waking up the next day, bruised and battered, we once again foolishly returned to Liquor Lyles for breakfast, and more drink specials. There was a cross race on Sunday that I had every intention of winning, so we had to make a quick break to the scene of my imminent victory. What ensued was a colder, and less orange '50 yards of hell', and we tried with all of our might to break the spirits of every hapless soul to cross our paths. Dollar premes were in abundance, and usually tucked into open flys, or an occasional ass crack. Without a doubt, every serious-as-a-heart-attack ATHLETE soon developed a healthy loathing for our ilk, but had no problem taking our money from us. Ill go on record here and say that verbal abuse comes cheap these days. After kabobs and beer were generously provided across the street, we made our way back home, and prepared for our departure away from the scenic village of Drunkingham.
Im home now, and it all seems like a boozy dream. Honest to god, do yourself a huge favor and dont miss this fiasco next year. Simply remember to avoid loaning out your brand new 29er to anyone with a falling down, and bleeding problem.