It's that crazy American again
[What do you think makes Kent more angry? The events below, or the fact that we're so slack we don't get around to publishing his rant until a good 9 months later?]
So, the lady who answers the fucking telephone says they are open for downhill until October 9th. I don’t want to be there on the last weekend, figuring it will be a fucking beehive of dweebs trying get their money’s worth out of the creaking Iron Horse SGS’s and rusty Kona Stinkys they bought last Spring and left in the shed all Summer, so I leave on the morning of Monday the 3rd in rented Chrysler Town and Country Minivan with Stow and Go. (This means that the two back rows of seats disappear into the floor of the van at the tug of a nylon strap, which is infinitely better than having the two back rows of seats disappear into the living room of my house after a vicious, sweaty wrestling match between me and two 180 pound bench seats all soft and springy on one side and all insanely sharp and pointy metal parts on the other side, as the former takes about two minutes and has an injury risk of ze-fucking-ro, while the latter inevitably results in a trip to the emergency clinic for sutures and the postponement of all sports action due to inability to grip anything but my tiny hooter.)
So, in proper livery, my ungrateful trail bitch, Josh (The chimp with the exposed patella in #5) roll the Town and Country like scalded dogs fifteen hours into Hillbillyland listening to a disturbing blend of Modest Mouse and Jimi Hendrix all the way. Stopping only for gas, Cheddar Cheese and Pretzel Combos and Maurice’s Bar-B-Q, we roll into Snowshoe armed with a Da Bomb Bikes Mindbomb (a Quebec, Canada company with a pretty good idea of what it takes to go down) and a fully tricked Cannondale Team Gemini DH (Saint/888/Halo/2.7 Maxxis Minions) (Which reminds me, if you are going down, you should be going down on Minions, and when they try to sell you a front for the front and a rear for the rear, tell them to sod off, Put a front on the front and a front on the rear. The Minion fronts are more clingy than an anorexic blond.)
So, properly lubricated and trying to figure out what time we need to craw out of the hotel to achieve sports action, I asked the lady behind the front desk what time the lift on the freeride side of the mountain start running. She said: “This late in the season the lift on the freeride side is only running on weekends.” So I asked the lady what time the lift starts running on the downhill side of the mountain. She said: “This late in the season, the lift on the downhill side of the mountain is only running on the weekends.” So, I asked the lady what time the first shuttle leaves the parking lot for the top, and she said: “This late in the season the shuttle is only running on weekends.”
Fucked-Fucked, I said: “I called you from fucking Florida two fucking days ago and you told me the fucking place was open for downhill until the 9th. She said: “We are open for downhill until the 9th.” I said: “How the fuck can you be open for downhill when there are no lifts and no fucking shuttle?” She explained that we could ride our bikes six and a half miles up the paved road to the top.
“What the fuck are you talking about? I almost had a fucking myocardial infarction pedaling that barge 100 feet up the driveway from the parking lot to the hotel. If I wanted to fucking pedal I would have left home with a fucking cross-country bike with butterfly decals on it. I would be wearing fucking spandex, and I would have gone to one of the ten thousand other trails less than fifteen hours and $300 worth of gasoline from my house.”
“FUCK THIS.” I said. “We are going to turn around and go back down to North Carolina and ride in the Pisgah National Forest. I know the boys who run the bike shop in Brevard, and they will shuttle us 45 minutes to the top of a sick 9 mile scarefest over, under, around and through rocks the size of Subarus.”
Six hours later we were in Brevard being told that Rangers in the National Forest who were concerned that DH bikes were degrading the trail system had just instituted a new no shuttle rule in the National Forest: “IF YOU CAN’T RIDE IT UP, YOU CAN’T RIDE IT DOWN.”
Six hours later I was dozing on the sofa in my living room. The bikes never even came out of the van. No sports action. Fucked-Fucked.
Kent will be running another riding trip in summer 2007. If it's anything like this one, it should be a blast. The main blast coming from his head exploding, that is.
So, the lady who answers the fucking telephone says they are open for downhill until October 9th. I don’t want to be there on the last weekend, figuring it will be a fucking beehive of dweebs trying get their money’s worth out of the creaking Iron Horse SGS’s and rusty Kona Stinkys they bought last Spring and left in the shed all Summer, so I leave on the morning of Monday the 3rd in rented Chrysler Town and Country Minivan with Stow and Go. (This means that the two back rows of seats disappear into the floor of the van at the tug of a nylon strap, which is infinitely better than having the two back rows of seats disappear into the living room of my house after a vicious, sweaty wrestling match between me and two 180 pound bench seats all soft and springy on one side and all insanely sharp and pointy metal parts on the other side, as the former takes about two minutes and has an injury risk of ze-fucking-ro, while the latter inevitably results in a trip to the emergency clinic for sutures and the postponement of all sports action due to inability to grip anything but my tiny hooter.)
So, in proper livery, my ungrateful trail bitch, Josh (The chimp with the exposed patella in #5) roll the Town and Country like scalded dogs fifteen hours into Hillbillyland listening to a disturbing blend of Modest Mouse and Jimi Hendrix all the way. Stopping only for gas, Cheddar Cheese and Pretzel Combos and Maurice’s Bar-B-Q, we roll into Snowshoe armed with a Da Bomb Bikes Mindbomb (a Quebec, Canada company with a pretty good idea of what it takes to go down) and a fully tricked Cannondale Team Gemini DH (Saint/888/Halo/2.7 Maxxis Minions) (Which reminds me, if you are going down, you should be going down on Minions, and when they try to sell you a front for the front and a rear for the rear, tell them to sod off, Put a front on the front and a front on the rear. The Minion fronts are more clingy than an anorexic blond.)
So, properly lubricated and trying to figure out what time we need to craw out of the hotel to achieve sports action, I asked the lady behind the front desk what time the lift on the freeride side of the mountain start running. She said: “This late in the season the lift on the freeride side is only running on weekends.” So I asked the lady what time the lift starts running on the downhill side of the mountain. She said: “This late in the season, the lift on the downhill side of the mountain is only running on the weekends.” So, I asked the lady what time the first shuttle leaves the parking lot for the top, and she said: “This late in the season the shuttle is only running on weekends.”
Fucked-Fucked, I said: “I called you from fucking Florida two fucking days ago and you told me the fucking place was open for downhill until the 9th. She said: “We are open for downhill until the 9th.” I said: “How the fuck can you be open for downhill when there are no lifts and no fucking shuttle?” She explained that we could ride our bikes six and a half miles up the paved road to the top.
“What the fuck are you talking about? I almost had a fucking myocardial infarction pedaling that barge 100 feet up the driveway from the parking lot to the hotel. If I wanted to fucking pedal I would have left home with a fucking cross-country bike with butterfly decals on it. I would be wearing fucking spandex, and I would have gone to one of the ten thousand other trails less than fifteen hours and $300 worth of gasoline from my house.”
“FUCK THIS.” I said. “We are going to turn around and go back down to North Carolina and ride in the Pisgah National Forest. I know the boys who run the bike shop in Brevard, and they will shuttle us 45 minutes to the top of a sick 9 mile scarefest over, under, around and through rocks the size of Subarus.”
Six hours later we were in Brevard being told that Rangers in the National Forest who were concerned that DH bikes were degrading the trail system had just instituted a new no shuttle rule in the National Forest: “IF YOU CAN’T RIDE IT UP, YOU CAN’T RIDE IT DOWN.”
Six hours later I was dozing on the sofa in my living room. The bikes never even came out of the van. No sports action. Fucked-Fucked.
Kent will be running another riding trip in summer 2007. If it's anything like this one, it should be a blast. The main blast coming from his head exploding, that is.
Mr Cushtie posted this at 6:17 pm
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