Close call last night.
Due to a general lack of coordination, and a complete abdication of responsibility on behalf of the group, we lost the S’quatch last night. The evening was billed as a singletrack affair at TBP, not really S’quatch’s favorite thing, nor mine usually. I was eager for the change, and looking forward to steep drops and teeth-chattering rooty sections.
I had a bad feeling something like this was going to happen. When 4 grown men exchange more phone calls than cheerleaders on Prom night, something is going to go wrong. Missing equipment, misunderstood rendevous points, and 37 riders from rival gangs all converging at once? Guaranteed fubar.
Still, everything was going fine. Powder and I were locked in heated battle, him with his elbows pushed all the way out to prevent me from passing, and S’quatch thundering behind us. We pass a bottle of gatorade which had bounced out of someone’s bottle cage. Powder and I note it, and keep moving, while S’quatch, true to his feral man/beast nature must stop to pick it up. Trail booty! What’s next? half-eaten powerbars out of the restroom trash can? Asking your buddy if he will swab out some excess chamois butter for you (Yo man, just reach in there and get me some of that, you know you got too much!).
10 minutes later we’re back at the trailhead, and S’quatch is AWOL. A quick huddle ascertains that he is not on the TBP trail and therefore must be headed out the levy trail. Apparently, like Elmer Fudd chasing Bugs Bunny, we were consistently a drumbeat away from catching him.
Many theories were offered.
-The trail was too tough and he just rode home. (Powder)
-He blazed out for some big 1/2 speed road miles. (Juanch0)
-He fell and knocked himself out because he wasn’t wearing a helmet. (Lickedy Split).
We part ways with the mystery unsolved. By 10:00 P:M, we are preparing to rally the posse for a search, and Mrs. S’quatch’s cell phone # is dialed, ready to connect with the push of a button. I really don’t want to be the one to make that call, and thankfully I don’t have to do it. Powder calls to tell me that S’quatch has arrived, walking the big blue ox.
And now, I think it is only fair to let the man speak for himself. S’quatch? What happened?
It is common knowledge that Sasquatches are illusive creatures by nature. A lesser-known trait is that Squashes are notorious for self inflicted sabotage when threatened by a faster Squash. Trivial gifts of nature, (Gatorade) can trigger a cascade of defeat that eventually leads to tire deflation. A smart Squash will let the air out with the valve; a lesser Squash will sharpen a stick with a rock to construct an airtight alibi.
First of all, who the hell is Squash?
Second of all, Squatch was never FOUND, as that would imply that a diligent, bro-worthy search had actually taken place.
All I’ve got to say is I bet my road biking bros (if I had any) wouldn’t have left me to rot like that.
A man reaches down for a trail treasure and comes up in a foreign land, where every man rides for himself and the feral dogs pack up randomly, each howling their own set of lies to an embarrassed moon.
Sure. Roadies always wait up for their bros, absolutely correct.
Then they get together for tea and eat little cookies.
It’s only to be expected. The earth’s magnetic field goes awry in that godforsaken patch of ground. If Dante plied Tally’s singletracks, he’d tack up “Abandon Hope all who enter here” over the entrance (wherever that is). Only it would be in Latin. That twiggy forest from Blair Watch is Central Park by comparison.
In other words, glad I missed it.
BTW, tea & cookies beat hell out of being TOTALLY FORSAKEN BY ONE’S BUDS. But hey, missed connections happen.
Last night I pedaled all of 6 blocks from Leon High to Decent Pizza, rewarded myself with a slice with anchovies and a pint of Bass, then pedaled back for Li’l Hitops’ guitar recital. That Monroe Street passage is tough!
I think its best to shoot Monroe after a couple beers, the instincts sharpen up.
Hey yo, Juancho, if you call me MRS. Sasquatch again everyone in this Big Ring Circle Jerk will come to understand exactly why you fear me so. The MR. thinks I should be dubbed Flame, but I’ve demurely settled with a moniker that acknowledges my lesser role in this sphere. Don’t make me second-guess myself.
I typed it three times, but I keep deleting it. Maybe I’ll grow a pair tomorrow.