A few of us hit the White Mesa trails Monday night under the full moon. I would say it was night to remember, a night of romance with that special someone… but it wasn’t. A late night biking experience with three Air Force pilots and one wanna-be astronaut (or wanna-be CIA operative, or wanna-be truck driver, or wanna-be rock star) tends to produce a competitive environment with ZERO hand shaking, butt slapping, or group hugs. And why White Mesa on the night of the full moon? Well, White Dirt + Full Moon = No Lights Required. Awesome!
With this group of riders, or should I say psychopaths, if you can’t get your ass across the slope, down the hill, up the rocks and back to the car – then you will be a late night snack for the New Mexico based Skinwalkers. Ever hear of a Skinwalker? Well head out to the New Mexico desert and check it out. You may survive, you may not. We all did. But that is because we had a 41 year old machine leading the way. That machine goes by the name of CAGE! (Is that like ‘Nicolas CAGE’? Nope. It’s like ‘CAGE him up before he EATS your YOUNG!’)
Speaking of Cage, here he was conducting the pre-brief.
A few minutes rest at the 1/2 point.
Here is a pic of us checking out the danger that lurks in the ‘bowels of Hell”. (That would be a New Mexico sink hole – for you geologists out there.)
The last climb and an opportunity to survey the landscape under the full moon.
Damn. Anyone have a bottle opener? Tedd, we need your jaws of steel over here, Tedd? Oh crap, he didn’t make the ride… Tim saves the day. (BTW, I just realized – “Jaws of LIFE” was a result of Tedd’s demonstrated ability of opening beer bottles with his teeth in Mexico. To think I never made that connection. I’m a dumb ass!)
I’m still confused. Who got it wrong, BPR or PBR? Interesting. I’ll lose some sleep over this.
And just when you think the new day is here, you wake up, head to work and the Harvest moon is still up and full. (Is it the harvest moon? Or was that last month.) Anyway, my corn field needs some harvesting. Ok, maybe not. The deer, beers, mice, weasels, vampires, werewolfs, and skinwalkers have pretty much devoured my corn. That’s cool. Better to chew on the corn then Judd’s flank side. Nice moon at 6:30 AM, ain’t it?
And for all you geeks out there. (Yes, you know who you are.) Below is a graphical rendition of the experience. The data is below. Lucky for us, the hotties / babe-o-rama’s / chicas didn’t show up, there were serious traverses across wicked slopes / cliffs / etc, a few dips in the toxic pools of Earth excrement and a few screams here and there due to shear fright. Not that the babes couldn’t handle it, it’s just not cool to show fear in front of the babe you want to impress. Oh wait, no chicks will talk to me – let alone ride with me. Well, the Air Force pilots (Top Gun types) didn’t want to dent the cool factor with the momma-sons.
So, you may ask, “Why 2+ hrs for 8 miles?” Well, you weren’t there. It’s tough dude, tough.
One comment before I go & crank out the daily Crossfit routine – with a six pack.
AND TO SUM IT UP BEFORE WE ARE OFF TO THE 24 HOURS OF FURY:
…a few thoughts via the killer band AGAINST ME!
“Please tell me I’m not the only one,
that thinks we’re taking ourselves too seriously,
Just a little too enamored with inflated self-purpose.
that thinks we’re taking ourselves too seriously,
Just a little too enamored with inflated self-purpose.
Talk is cheap.
And it doesn’t mean much.
Don’t lose touch.
….
And it doesn’t mean much.
Don’t lose touch.
….
Constant entertainment for our restless minds.
Constant stimulation for epic appetites.
Is there something wrong with these songs?
Maybe there’s something wrong with the audience.
Manipulation in rock music, fucking nausea.
I’m losing touch.
I’m losing touch, and it’s obvious…”
BACK OF THE PACK RACING 
