I’m in it for the long haul. How about you?
On account of I got a short time to live and a long time to stay dead…
So-and-so met me in the parking lot after dark and we drank beers and bourbon while pulling bikes and bags into useable configuration. Then we rolled up that singletrack for hours, heading for a hillside campsite that has water, an old stable for shelter and a shitter because I like 2 dumps every morning. Yep. I got my wake-up poo, and then my after coffee poo, too. We all have our burdens to bear.
I’ve got a story about some backpackers the following morning with a drone but without courtesy that I can tell you next time we’re together in real life. You know- face to face type stuff. This is not the venue. Suffice it to say: manners are important. Seems like more and more, people are incapable of compromise. I blame the internet.
Seeing ourselves as in the Right (like, “correct”) we continued on the path of righteousness. That path is a weaving one, full up with stops to shotgun the beer that has punctured in your frame bag. Obviously, if your buddy has to suffer that it is only proper that you do the same. Obviously. If only to maintain a unified front. Solidarity. The path of the righteous person also, in this context, involves some work with that pull-saw you’ve packed in order to to keep the way clear. If not us, then who?
Of course, the overall “purpose” of this go round was: ENJOY LIFE. To that end, we went looking for that bottle of rye I knew to be hidden way back in the hills. Back in December of ’14 some drinky goons had stashed that thing between a rock and a hard place along a ridge-line flat spot with a rocky outcrop but no designation on any map… known as Drunkard’s Roost, Boozer’s Knob, or That One Spot depending on who’s doing the talking. No one had seen this legendary bottle since. Until now.
Mr Y described it as looking “like a shipwreck” and he cast a dubious eye upon it. Well, friends, the bottle was dusty but the liquor was clean. Hey now.
More, more, more.
You’re a reasonable person. You know how it is arranging days off. Once things are set, that’s what you get. So even though as the days got closer, and we began to see that the weather was going to suck ( and potentially SUCK), we knew we’d get what we got but we dang sure weren’t going to call it off.
We set up the 2nd night’s camp in this (other) stable and customized it real nice with some locally sourced bushcraftery. A picnic table? Sure. COTS?!? If it’s good to you, it must be good for you. It rained like hell all that night, and I can tell you honestly that there are few more satisfying feelings than being warm and dry and fat and drunk while the weather outside is frightful.
The morning showed with a steady but light drizzle. Not that it mattered, because we were riding anyhow. We stowed the gear and hung all the food in well-sealed bags from the rafters so we could spend 1 day riding without 4 days worth of crap strapped to the bikes. Around lunch time we saw some holes in the clouds and the day got nicer from there. Always worth rolling the dice. Always.
More things happened, too.
New lessons were learned, and old ones forgotten. If you don’t know how to tie a taut-line, you better ask somebody. If you can ask yourself at all whether more booze will fit in your gear, IT WILL. If you don’t have a spare tube(s) (FUCK YOU, this is central California, and tubes work great.)- fine, or some plug for your motherfucking tubeless- you will have fucked yourself pretty good, maybe to the point of walking a looooong way while pushing your not-very-easy-to-roll-with-a-flat loaded bike. If you can’t get along thru compromise and willingness to deviate from your set plan, you won’t have friends who stick around for very long. I was kind of shitty about route choices, and I apologize. It’s a process. It’s a long haul.
#shutupandparty #thatsthewrongbeer #thisropeswingsucksby