Darkness

I have always loved putting on gear. I loved squeezing into damp, smelly wet suits. I loved putting on two pairs of knee pads, wrist guards, elbow pads and my crusty Pro Tech helmet. I dig putting the battery in my Camelback, arm warmers, leg warmers the Cool Max base shirt... HELL YA! Gimme some more stuff to put on! Some part of me knows its game time and soon I will be doing something that "normal" people think is weird.

I rode past the election signs in my neighborhood out to Blairstone. I cringed through the corner of my first road crash, but after that it was all big ring and breathing. Big Jim Slade's words were still ringing in my ears:

"Charge your light I want to ride a long way tonight!"

I was late, stoked and running through hypothetical routes in my mind. All I cared about was being in the dark and riding for more than two hours.

We picked up Cliffie (his real name because nothing else would work) on Fern and off we went. I lead out the lower part of Tom Brown. Cliff lead out Cadillac, and Slade got us out of the Alford maze. Lights came on, things got cold and when we split back at the Fern levy, everyone was happy and hungry. I rode home down Blairestone as hard as I came out. I caught a couple guys on bikes on Woodgate hill, and chastised them for not running lights. I heard one of them drop some gears behind me, so I rose out of the saddle, stomped my big ring, and he was a memory.

Back at head quarters, dinner was on the table and iced tea was brewing.

Never doubt the power of a good ride.

W.B.Z.N.

People Get Ready

I don't air my specific political views much. I don't feel as though I am qualified to inflict my preferences on people. I think it is a complicated subject and that the people that have to do the jobs we vote them into, have more to deal with than the public ever knows about. I don't really go for blanket statements about either side, even though (in moments of weakness) I make generalizations, it's hard for me to believe people are bad or good, based on what team they cheer for.

I voted today. The line was long and it was colder than I expected. I was a fly on the wall and managed to escape without being drawn into any specific conversations. Everyone seemed to be mindful of the fact that others around them may not share their views and were careful not to offend. A man and woman a few spots up from me were talking. She clearly for one candidate, he for another. She said some things I thought were a little off base, and he said some things that put him in a definite category. Neither were saying anything of any real substance. Then they found a common subject they were both very passionate about. They had both adopted children from other countries. They discussed the challenges they faced, and it seemed to me they could be friends. When his time to vote came he wished her good luck, and she thanked him for saving the brother and sister he had adopted. They had both done something I could never have the strength or conviction to do, and I found myself admiring them. It's one thing to talk, and quite another to act.

It looks as though all the early voting records for Florida will be broken this week. There is room for everyone in line. Please go vote.

W.B.Z.N.

Come Together

Little W.B. and I headed out late Sunday for a spin. I was lazy and missed the crew ride for lack of sleep. It was still nice and crisp when we got to the car park at Blairstone and rolled onto Fern. L.W.B. is riding so well and after seeing some of his peers do two laps at the Tom Brown race, he is thinking about fitness and how he needs some. He is finally able to roll at a pace that makes it feel like a ride, and not an exercise in patience. Pappa is proud.

We did a piece of Cadillac and came back through TB. We saw a twelve pack of empties, left by some human slime and on our way to the trash I ran into Chuck Goodhart (Tallahassee Parks MTB division). I talked to him about my recent skirmishes on the pavement and he shared some issues of his own on the subject. It all ended well with Chuck filling us in on the future projects planned for T.B. which include a skills course, where now a parking lot stands...I call that progress. He took my number, and now I will have to put my free time where my mouth is, and replace some complaining with attendance at meetings. Mr. Goodhart, as a good writer once said: "You sir, are aptly named."

W.B.Z.N.

For What It's Worth

I'm telling ya right now kiddies you better fasten your seat belt because this is going to be a bumpy ride. If you hate it when I spout off about travails of being a cyclist in this part of the world, I am giving you a guilt free pass, to change the channel. You will not hear one ounce of rebuke from me. Go ahead I'll give you a minute to switch over to Jill or Bike Snob.

Here's the quick breakdown of why I am fuming. In the past two weeks I have been splayed on the pavement by a guy walking against a light. I had a group of subhumans, open a car door intentionally on me. I was lectured by a guy (with his dog off the leash on Fern) for going too fast. I am not even going to delve into all the stink eye/no replies, I get on Tom Brown and surrounding trails, when I say "hi" to all the "other" users. I guess today I am a little sick of being part of the most hated minority on wheels. I get a little tired of following rules and still getting treated as though I have no rights anywhere on a bike. Tonight on my solo ride I was: flipped off, cussed at, and swerved at, by some fat F%$# in an S.U.V. who hasn't exercised since the Nixon administration.

Now you would think that I would spend the rest of this blog telling you the sorted details and putting a funny spin on it, but you might as well get your money back right now, cause it ain't going to happen. Instead I want to relay one message to all my brothers and sisters, because I know if you are still reading this you must be a dyed in the wool cyclist or at least a sympathiser. Don't bother trying to educate non riders. Don't bother telling anyone (other than cyclist) your stories. Don't expect anyone to be sympathetic to anything that happens to you, on the road or trail, because the reality is this: They think we are idiots for being out there. To them, we are all over zealous tree hugging, lost cause collectors, that have nothing better to do than get fired up about an issue they see as petty and boring. If they do listen to you beware: it's only so they can tell you a story of an asshole cyclist, they encountered on their ten minute commute.

I am through trying to talk any sense into anyone about this subject. I am also through accepting any responsibility for my part in it, to appear objective. I have tried to see all sides. I have been obeying the traffic laws like Sergeant Friday. All to no avail. I am of the opinion that Gandhi himself would resort to murder if he had to ride in this city for more than a week or two.

Just once in my life I would like to see one of these F#^*'s, get a ticket. Then I could mail off my money to the IRS with a smile. But lets face it...It's not going to happen and we should all stop expecting a good result in this debate. National, state and local government does not give a shit about us or the airways would be littered with P.S.A.'s on the subject. In the very least there ought to be a section of the drivers license test on cycling rights and laws. Don't hold your breathe though, because it is never going to happen. There is no money in it for the stooges, and there are a lot more of them than there is ever going to be of us. We will NEVER have the lobby power, as a group, to change this shit. Get out your spoons kids, cause if you are going to ride a bike, you are going to eat shit.

Bon Appitit!

Thanks for listening.

W.B.Z.N.

Ridin Dirty

Another cycling legend is under suspicion of doping charges. The cycling world was rocked by allegations that famous blogger, and semi-competitive cyclist: The Human Wrecking Ball is the subject of a performance enhancing drug scandal. After finishing a career best fourth place in the Tom Brown race, the other beginners cried foul and asked for an inquest into the sudden jump in W.B.'s performance.


'We've gotten very used to taking his money and never seeing him again, but this year the guy gets the whole shot? It's a little weird." Dave Berger (race organiser) commented on Monday. "Look, we run a clean program and if he wants to do drugs and race....he should take his road bike to Europe where that kind of thing is expected!"



The allegations arose after photos of Wrecking Ball (in the 2004 race) surfaced on the Trail Gnome web site earlier this week. The difference in the appearance of the rider raised eyebrows across the north east section of the county, and soon after demands for an investigation grew.




Before in 2004

After in 2008




"Look anyone can tell something is different about the guy. He has a ton more facial hair and he looks like he is going to kill someone. I think team pressure (from BikeChain.com) finally got to him, I mean look at the guy, he's obviously filled with rage and he's wearing purple pants. I don't know how he beat Red Dragon (long time rival and team manager) back in 04."
A fellow beginner class rider (that asked not to be named) commented off the record:
"I just think it sucks for the beginner riders that have to spend all their money, to take four pounds off their bikes and borrow parts, just to stay competitive! The guy wears a camel back ...I mean ...Who does that!"

"Look who cares? I wasn't even on a box...I was on the grass for Christ sakes! Big Jim has won two races after not riding for nine years... how come nobody is investigating him! Let a short guy finish top five and it has to be drugs right? Why, because I am the only guy in my class with hair? It's discrimination, pure and simple!"
Wrecking Ball said in a press conference (that no one attended, he recorded his own comments and demanded we print them).

Greg LeMond will be in town later this week to interrupt the a small discussion group.

Fellow Team mate and accused sand bagger Big Jim Slade, could not be reached for comment. The five people that read his blog really could care less about the scandal, but admitted they would probably read it if Juancho doesn't post anything that day.

Stay tuned for developments in this story, if you feel like it, or are in prison, or a family member of the accused.

W.B.Z.N. news

Me and The Boys

You see them coming at you, in pairs, three's and alone. They move aside and let us come on through. I can remember the years I spent riding solo and what it sounded like to have the ruckus come toward me. At first you can't make out the voices and then, pieces of conversation, mechanical bike noise, and the line of laughing faces, breeze by you. It can take all the fun out of riding solo, or at least make you feel like a party is going on, and you aren't invited.

There are a lot of guys in our crew that contribute to the greater good. They all bring a unique talent to the table that everyone benefits from. I have been thinking about all that Red Dragon and Frog Legs did, at the race, to get all the gear, shirts, food, sponsors, and the race tent set up, so that we could all look good and be part of a team. They put a ton of effort into the shop and selling/tracking all the gear everyone buys and sells through them. When you couple that with the fact that you can almost never please anyone, it's a pretty daunting task. They get the crap bugged out of them, every time we ride, or hang out at the shop. Still, there's a place for everyone to sit, and drinks in the fridge.

I always have felt like the low dude on the totem pole because I am not (what I call) O.G., I am the f-n new guy for life. These guys have a lot of history and even though I have been here for few years, I always feel like I could be voted off the island any second. It is why making the podium (actually the grass) at Tom Brown was such a big deal to me. I felt like I was finally worthy of the crew of riders I hang with. I was as proud to wear our colors and actually do something for once.

I love being part of the Chain Gang, making the noise, and being part of the long line of riders. I hope I can keep my torch lit for a few more episodes.

I am going to go get water, and fix the hut now......... talk amongst yourselves.

Ring My Bell

I remember a story about (novelist) Marcel Proust tasting a Madeline cookie and recalling his whole childhood. It was an epiphany of sensory recollection that inspired the twenty two hundred page of a novel: "In Search Lost Time"

For me the same can be said of music. It's unfortunate that these pedestrian, radio songs, are the marker fossils for the most poignant moments of my life. It is dumb luck which song you hear at the cross roads, and just like a duck emerging from an egg, you are imprinted with that moment forever. The song and the memory are inseparable. You hear them in your car and secretly turn them up, hoping the voyeur in the next lane, doesn't catch you singing.

Today over lunch, I heard a song, and told my brother a story about the summer of 1979. I went to Pennsylvania with my folks, and he stayed home. It was "that" summer that so many songs and books are written about. On the way north, I skated in my last ever big event, one of the last in Florida, that marked the death of the skate park era. I turned sixteen in Ligonier, met a girl and well...we learned a thing or two, about a thing or two. My cousin George and I spent our days at the "Ligonier Beach" pool. The big hits on the jukebox that summer were: "Chuckie's in Love", "Shattered" and "Ring My Bell". The mono soundtrack bombarded us from a single megaphone speaker and I saved the entire experience onto my hard drive. It must have been a pretty good story because my brother (who has a pretty short fuse for all things sentimental) didn't interrupt me once.

I started another love affair that summer, on a borrowed Schwinn Scrambler. There was a little outlaw BMX trail, behind the baseball field, and I was hooked after one run. That poor kid hardly got to ride his bike if I was around. It took twenty two years for me to get a bike of my own, but just like a good little duck, I never forgot.

See? It's always about the bike....

W.B.Z.N.

Budapest By Blimp

I hung out with my producer friend yesterday. We talked about all our mistakes, triumphs and analyzed each other. We told war stories and then went down the rabbit hole to our mutual friends house, Paul Tamanian. He an abstract artist and person. As you approach his house the hallucinations start. There is excellent art (his and others) everywhere and his house moderne' and it's contents are a mini vacation for the senses. He has very eclectic taste in music and usually plays a couple hours of things I have never heard. It always sends me to Itunes to run up my card.

Bringing John over there is like giving fireworks to a room full of eighth graders with lighters and cappuccino's. As long as you have the ability to stand back and remain uninvolved, the show is quite good.

On all fronts I have cool friends. Some are famous...poor Bastards.

I haven't ridden a bike since Sunday, I have to remedy that.

I have plenty of video of their phonetic boxing match, but unless I get thousands of comments, or a check from one of the perps, I am not posting them

W.B.Z.N.

You Gotta Have Friends

I have never entered a race with any intention of placing. I always have a fear of not finishing. This week has been far less than stellar. Monday, I went out and timed myself for one lap and the results were terrible, about two minutes slower than my second lap, at last years race. I had to face the fact that I wasn't in good form, and I considered not entering. Tuesday, I go down like a bag of hammers, on the road, on my way to a group ride. Wednesday, I laid around sore and dejected, until Worm called and assured me I would be fine the next day. Thursday, night I rode with the crew and had a horrendous ride, even though the pace was SUPER SLOW! Friday and Saturday, I tipped toed around the trail, and still felt like someone was holding my rear tire. Saturday, Red Dragon called and told me I should just go as hard as I could for once, and see what happened.

"If you are not first you are last!" Red Dragon said, and then he hung up.

I have been poking Big Jim Slade with a stick, for a couple weeks, about how I was going to beat him. I have to admit when I rolled up to the line, I thought I was going to get waxed. I had only one chance, and that was to get a big lead on Slade and get away.

The race starts, and I find myself with the whole shot. I went into the woods in first place and on the first climb no one was coming around. On the last steep section, I hear a Colombian racer behind me say something in Spanish, and I figure he is going to move on me, so I got out of the saddle and attacked all the way to the first section of single track. I held the lead into Tom Brown and I thought I would never see Slade again. All I had to do was hang on, then a voice behind me said:

"That was a great start T."

I turned around in shock and horror to see Slade on my wheel. My heart literally broke. This was what I feared most: Slade riding my wheel and taking me at the end. I tried to calm down, and just ride the course, but I was rocked by the sight of him. We held the lead for the first lap and I attacked again on the climb to Cadillac. At the top of the climb, two guys from our class got by me. We were stuck in traffic on the single track, and the three guys in front of us (not in our class) were really stinking up the place. Sloppy, slow and there was three of them. I started talking to them and finally got around. I went hard to Tom Brown, but Slade burned the hill up leading to the single track and caught me. Red Dragon was yelling like a man possessed, that we were fourteen seconds off the leaders. I was gassed and Slade came around me. He could not have been nicer, and told me to let him know when I wanted to get back around, to which I replied...." Whatever." Slade increased the gap and I said out loud:

"Well that's it."

I was out of legs and unless Slade fell in front of me, I figured I would never see him again. He ran into traffic on a technical section and a guy fell in front of him causing he and another guy to step off their bikes. I was able to ride the section and I was right on top of them again. The same guy fell again, and Slade melted down on the dude. It was totally warranted, and seriously funny, but the guy wouldn't let us pass. On the next climb, he went down hard on some roots and stopped us cold. I pushed my bike by he and Slade, and once again I was in front. The only problem was now I was holding everyone up. I put a little attack on the next hill and coasted through some technical stuff to the bottom of the first big climb on Cardiac Hill. Jim came around me and really accelerated, I tried to keep him in the grass and off the one line, and we stayed side by side for most of the climb. When we crested the top, I made a little attack and pushed by him and into the gun range.

Then something strange happened: Slade started talking me through the next climb. I really wanted to give up and when he saw me sit up, he would talk me back into peddling. The guy in third (who we had passed four or five times) attacked us on the Oak Tree climb and got about a thirty yard gap. On the last climb (by the Humane Society) I attacked again, and we dove into the gully. Ice Berg caught us on the last section of single track, and told us someone from our class was closing and we needed to pick up the pace. Slade told me not to worry, he wasn't going to challenge me for the lead, and to go harder. Over and over he kept saying to me: "Your doing great....Go!"

Berg came around, we got on his wheel and he pulled us all the way to the BMX track (Thanks Bro).

We could hear everyone yelling as we sprinted up to the BMX start, and my son was at the top pointing over my shoulder at the guy in sixth. I was totally gassed but I went in as hard as I could. I could see the third place guy in front of us, but I was dying. My son ran from one bank to the next, to urge me through the BMX turns, it was the most awesome moment of the race for me. Slade caught me as we exited the track, and headed for the finish. I could hear him yelling: "G0! Go!" and we sprinted into the start finish line with me fourth, and Big Jim Slade, in fifth.

I really would have given up if Slade hadn't been behind me, and I know in my heart he gave me fourth place. Even though he will never admit it, I know the truth and I am thankful to have a friend and teammate that is that good of a guy. I don't know of anyone that would have done that in his position, and it says a lot about who he is as a person, a cyclist, a team mate and a friend. I thank you brother, I'm honored that we will have this memory, for the rest of our lives. It was my best finish, and the best race I can remember. I owe it all to Big Jim Slade. Thanks man.

The rest of the day was spent hanging out, eating, drinking, and lounging in the small city that Red Dragon, Frog Legs, and their families set up to keep the Bikechain.com Team comfy, cosy, and in the shade.

The sport and expert guys from our crew went off, and the low point of the day happened, when Big Worm broke his saddle on the first lap, and had to drop out. This is the second race in a row that he has been in the hunt, only to be sidelined by a mechanical. It really sucks because he is faster than ever and has been training hard. He's going to nail one soon though, and when he does it's going to be sweet, for him and all of us.

We took a lot of medals for Team Bikechain.com and the afternoon was great. I watched my son ride the obstacle course and having my wife see why I ride so much (instead of cleaning the pool) was really cool.

Here's the medal count for our team, as near as I can remember: (correct me in the comments if I am wrong).

Base 40-49, W.B. 4th

Base 40-49, B.J.S. 5th

Sport 30-39, Frog Legs 4th

Sport 40-49, Long Shanks 3rd

Expert Junior 15-18, Ice Berg 1st

Expert 30-39, Silk (in the best sprint finish of the day) 2nd

Expert Single Speed, Ball Zack 3rd

It was a killer day. I am still buzzed from it all. I know it's all probably funny to all that know us and have seen the bickering first hand, but today was the Chain Gangs finest hour. I will never forget it, and I plan on boring the shit out of people the rest of my life with stories about this weekend. I know I have said it before but....Thanks Fellas!

W.B.Z.N.

On The Eve Of Destruction

Something happens to men and boys when they compete. It doesn't matter if it's darts or Normandy, once the game face is on ....it's on. I realized something was wrong with me when I drove in a go cart race for charity. I was on the last lap when another driver and I, entered a chicane with a hay bale lined, one lane exit. I got the line and turned to look at the face of my rival as he went in to the barrier. It was clear I had a problem.

Luckily I am not alone. I found a bunch of like minded wacko's when I started riding with the "Chain Gang". We have some game faces on that won't be off till about noon tomorrow. There is absolutely nothing at stake. No boundaries, no foreign oil, no one avenging a fathers death, just the oldest and dearest cause of them all: bragging rights.

I can hear the announcer dude now:

"In a world where beginners do two laps, the corners are soft, the hills are long, and the stakes are high, friends will roll to line and risk it all."

Tums anyone?

W.B.Z.N.

*Photo by Trail Gnome*

Your Time Is Gonna Come

In my head I was feeling hard core. We ride in the rain. It's race week, these things have to be done. I imagined all the drivers looking at me in their rush hour cocoons and thinking I was nuts.

I saw the purple hue of petroleum products seeping to the top of the water, standing on the pavement. I made a mental note to be careful. It hasn't rained in a while and I knew the roads would be slick. As I eased into the corner, and I was mindful not to cross any painted lines on the street. A quick look left verified I was clear of traffic and I accelerated through the corner. I started to lean and as I turned my head back to the right, an old guy was walking out into the cross walk, about ten feet in front of me, pushing his bike. I grabbed a handful of brakes and next thing I knew, I was sliding on my hip and elbow.

That first few moments after you crash are the worst. The adrenalin dump, not knowing if you are hurt, and the voyeuristic stares from people at the light. Information is swirling in your brain and you just want to take inventory of what is falling off your body. I wasn't off the ground before the old guy was asking if I was alright. I was really pissed because I had my new Bike Chain Jersey and socks on. My socks were ripped and I figured my jersey was toast. I was hoping I could still salvage a ride but, my leg and elbow were starting to get stiff. I was headed for the bench.

Blood on the elbow, ripped glove, cheese grader on the hip, but no broken bones. The bike seems okay. My phone rings, and it's big Worm singing a Mac Davis song. I try to wait for the end of the chorus, but I am seething with anger. I interrupt the last few "Baby Baby don't get hooked on me's" before Worm hits the high note of the big finish.

The trip up the hill to my house is slow and miserable, but mostly I was mad I couldn't ride with the crew. My race this weekend is either over, or it is really going to suck.

In nine years of cycling, I have never gone down on the road. It is a fear I have buried under layers of denial. Some part of you knows the check is coming, but a self preserving instinct makes you think there is an escape.

Pavement sucks.

W.B.Z.N.

Map Of The Problematique

When I first started riding, the only trails I knew were Fern and Tom Brown. I don't really remember how long it took before I could do a whole lap without stopping. Back before they built the Weems development, I would sit at the top of the oak tree climb, look out at the trees below, and wait for the wheezing to stop. It was a nice little reward for making it up the hill in my Billibong baggies, cotton tee, and hiking boots.

Later that year, I entered my first race in the "First Timer" class. I got passed by an eleven year old girl that was crying, and a guy in sweat pants and a Styrofoam helmet beat me to the line by about ten feet. Still, I doubt anyone was happier with their performance than I was that day.

The traffic on the grand jewel of our trail system starts to really increase the week of a race. By Thursday the lines start appear and come Friday the berms are built up and the trail is so fast and manicured you would think it was all rebuilt by hand. Friday night everyone is out and running laps. Sandbaggers talk about how slow they are, and people on the fence about entering fret over their heart rates and lap times. Friday is the first day you know the direction of the loop. The butterflies and flaws in equipment weigh heavy on the mind of anyone with a number plate. It's like the circus has come to town and anyone can be in the show.

We all race for a lot of different reasons, but for me it is a celebration of another day I am allowed to ride, despite my long list of ailments, advanced age, and lack of skill.

Am I going to enter? I usually do, but I never make up my mind til the day of the race. Besides I am so slow, I'd hate to clog up the course for the good riders.

W.B.Z.N.

Anything Goes

We are trying to get plans together for a farewell dinner for Fat Lad and Mrs. Lad tonight. Nothing has been set in stone so.....read the title of the post.

Al is knackered (sp?) so we will just be eating/drinking. They need time to pack and some others have kids....so early may be better. In the interest of time, I think we should eat in the North Monroe area. That gives everyone easy access to I-10 and Fat Lads hotel.

We need some of the Juancho crew in attendance!

Please post your ideas here for all to read, and please be as funny and sarcastic as you like.....

BASTARDS!!!!!

W.B.Z.N.

Whipping Boy

I slid out of work early yesterday. I was fresh from a day off and it made perfect sense to my Wrecking Ball brain to take another half day. Mr. and Mrs. Sinks (two of the most zen like, naturally happy people on the planet), Big Worm, the guests of honor, Mr and Mrs. Lad and I (one of these things is not like the others), met at Cabos for lunch. I ate lite fearing an impending legectomy with Sinks and Mr. Lad at Tom Brown. We tried in vain to get Worm to ditch work but, he is not as easily swayed as I had hoped. Tacos and Burritos were soon devoured and it was time to venture out to the woods.


We strolled down Fern and I suggested that Mr. Lad and Sinks go for a spin through T.B. while I escorted Mrs. Lad down the paved path. We saw a little turtle and Mrs. Lad took tons of pics. At the entrance to Cadillac we came upon the heavy breathing duo and proceeded onto the trail. Again I suggested that the lad and Sinks head up Caddy and I would protect Mrs. Lad from bandits on the multi use trail. By the time we got to the levy Sinks had done his best "aw shucks" on the Lad and I was fully digested and and fresh legged. Mrs. Lad took some pics of the local flora and a little gator cruised by to give our wilderness a little credibility.

The Lad and I bid adieu to Sinks and Mrs. Lad as they headed back, and I took the lad for a run out to Alford Arm and the Bucket Loop. We made our way back to the car and after taking The Lad and Ladette to the bike shop, we parted with plans to meet at Cool Beans for the Lads birthday dinner.

Dinner was all I hoped it would be. The food, service and repartee was top drawer. Ms. Worm (bitter from being a Tampa Rays fan) gave me a beat down as though I owed her rent. All in fun, and one whom frequently dishes cannot complain when the serving hits HIS plate. I took my beating and even through I landed a few ill placed, half hearted jabs, I never really made it off the canvas. Well played Madame Worm!

We went off to have a few at Finnegan's Wake, where I took every opportunity to derail any sensible conversation towards the absurd. Mr. and Mrs, Lad were very patient with our "what's a lemon called in England?" line of questioning and fun was had by all...mostly at the expense of my height deficiency, and the the barrage of comedy from Ms. Worm.

The highlight of the evening for me was being honored with an official "Bad Brains MTB Club" jersey from our fair cousins of the British Isles. I shall wear it proudly and slay all enemies of the crown.

Gentleman in England now a bed, shall think themselves a cursed they were not here, and hold their manhood's cheap, whilst any speaks, that hung out with us............ ON FAT LADS BIRTHDAY!!!!



W.B.Z.N.