The Sacrificial Lambs

Another month has passed since the Chicago crew has graced us with their presence, and yet another notch was carved on my tree of life lessons a few weekends ago as they returned, carrying with them the wisdom of a thousand regrets.

We met early on a Saturday morning at the Kenosha Velodrome, a long day of riding, greeting friends, and wresting with our inner demons ahead of us.

Leave your dignity at the gate…

It appeared that we had missed Satan only by a few minutes, but he had left a parting gift for us to enjoy.

Mix with herbed cream cheese, spread over bagel

The dead Salmon’s leathery carcass gleaming in the sun, true foreshadowing of the events to follow. It smiled at us, as if to say it understood our crazy lifestyles, as if it had been in on our jokes. “Thank you dead Salmon,” I said aloud, wondering where its other eye was.

After the ensuing dares associated with the Salmon, we released it back to its natural habitat, and it sank into the PCB-saturated river, bubbles floating to the surface like the final puff of smoke rising from the Native American’s pipe as he watches his land being taken away. A solitary tear rolled down Josh’s face.

But we didn’t allow the tragedy of the morning to keep us down. We rode all day, trying out each other’s bikes, eating the picnic we had prepared, and laying in the sun, taking in the beauty of the final remaining days of tolerable weather.

At one point in the afternoon, a sole challenger arrived on the track, his eyes fierce with competition.

Trek “Aristocrat”, to be released in November

His tires squealed on the track as he gathered speed, but he was quickly chased back into suppression by our contenders, and the men in our crew beat their cheats wildly in celebration.

As the day began to wind down, we departed from the track, stopping for dinner at a tiny drive-in restaurant tucked into the underbelly of Kenosha. It was known simply as “The Spot,” a fitting name for a restaurant void of any sense of cleanliness. Or class. Or patrons.

Ben read the large menu posted on the front of the building, admiring that they offered “gallon jugs of homemade root beer”, stunned by the sign’s outright challenge. He decided to take it…

The rules were simple: he had to drink the entire gallon within 30 minutes, after which he would be showered with money; money which would undoubtedly become soaked with his own vomit. Not willing to leave Ben without contender, Tristan offered up his own working kidneys, also agreeing to the abominable feat.

We watched nervously for the car crash that was inevitably about to happen, waiting for the slightest sign that either one was slipping into diabetic shock.

After his sixth frosty mug full, Ben’s internal alarm began blaring loudly, echoing off the nearby houses, raising us all to our feet. He was content to forfeit his victory, opting instead to allow the pavement to sooth his raging organs.

Tristan looked at his glass with regret. It was up to him now. Three, Four, Five…he drank the glasses slowly, staring each one in the eye, determined to win this for himself, as well as the root beer’s solitary victim of the day. His stomach began to fill to capacity, and root beer escaped from his body in the form of tears, raining down on the parking lot. We backed away in amazement.

Tastes like liquid Hitler…

After he regained composer, his knees bucked under the weight of his root beer-logged body, and he was forced to sit down, pants unbuttoning in the process.

Our cheers grew louder, and he mustered the strength to chug one final glass—his seventh, leaving only a quarter of the gallon remaining. But it would prove to be one quarter too much, and Tristan hurried to the nearest bush, releasing the root beer demons from his body.

The sugary soda had struck once again, claiming its final victim. Quieted by the slaughter, we slowly got back into our cars and drove off into the evening, pondering how a beverage could be so heartless, so void of compassion.

With the mental imagery of the carnage still present in our minds, we gathered later that night at our apartment for Biketoberfest. Cale and I rocked the tandem, pushing the 100 lb. beast down south Kinnikinnick with grace.

We rode as one large entourage down to Bay View,

stopping at various bars,

seeing various interesting bikes,

This way bears can’t get to them…

meeting various people, and having various amounts of fun. The night was a complete and total success, reminding me once again how much friends truly add to my life.

We staggered out of the last bar, eager to get home, and searched our surroundings for signs of where we may have ended up. At the corner of the street Cale noticed a Cudahy sign out of the corner of his eye, and we prepared for the fifteen mile journey we would still need to make home.

Once we arrived, we found Ben motionless on our couch, still reliving the terrors of the root beer challenge. Like any true friend, J Dot caressed his head, wrapping his arms around his still recovering body, and nursed him fully back to health.

It was only then that we all realized how one can never underestimate the power of friendship…the power of an individual to sacrifice personal comfort for the sake of entertainment…

…and the power of truly bad judgment.

[callie].

[special thanks to Chris, Josh, and Kat for some of the pics]