G-Money: Da KING 'a 'CROSS! (CX Provincials)

That's right, for the 4th time this season GMC struck down with fuurrious anger upon those who futilely attempted to poison and destroy his legs.

The 2008 CX provs. were held, like the preceding series, on top of Africville - though a baselayer of ice underlaying an inch of slushy mud effectively made it a different course. The freezing rain also helped in the 'new challenges' dept. Most of CSD has been indoors, feet all kicked back an' shit (aka - doing the school thing), so we were a bit nervous as we watched TNB roll up. We decided then and there that there was just NO WAY we could race in legwarmers and henceforth busted out the most scalding warming oil we had between us.

Sitting on the line the atmosphere (in contrast to the actual atmosphere) of the race was one of the best all season long. TT da Don was on the mic as master of ceremony all day long, and we ourselves supplied the soundtrack to the brutality. Belliveau, hawkin' his mow, rolled up in full force with Stewart Wight, hoping to steal our stacks away to Moncton. Thankfully, in this tough ecomonic climate, such dreams were crushed - into smithereens. I actually got the holeshot, but quickly was blown to the back of the pack by Mac-10, G-Money, Beli, and, uh, a few more. The triad of quadruple-diget wattage would increase their lead as the day wore on, lapping most of the pack by the last lap. G-Money snagged the top spot by a bit more than a minute over Mac-10, who was 20 seconds up on Tim Armstrong. A battle for the scraps ensued between myself, GOT, and the Young Gun - sorting itself out in that order. Enid ate the women's field for brunch, though she was it for Graller representation as Corporal Gray was recovering after taking a few hollows last week. Unfortunately Quadz was recovering from his organizing career and decided to join the ranks of the cow-bellers rather than the field. With cross not exactly a sprinter's event, we can empathize with him.

We've gotta rep the awesome volunteers who made it happen, from the Big Man to Comissaire Neil, and also the awesome cheering section. DTB, Daryl, JB (and the rest) - you guys were fuckin' great; a straight up orchestra of cow-belling. The interested reader is referred to Stewart et al., 2008, for an indepth report from the angle of the volunteers and cheerleaders. We've co-opted some of their sick pictures, but make sure you watch their video, Jeezy says "it's the realest".

What's next for ya crew? Well, looking ahead all I can see is a landscape of partying, snowboarding, exam writing... and of course the almighty Winter Bike League series of training rides; Sunday mornings too heavyweight for Evander Holyfield. Make no mistake, they'll be detailed right here...

-'Chops

CSD send off

It was with heavy hearts that we learn K-balls was leaving us for smoggier pastures in T-Dot. In true CSD style we threw together a night on the town that can only be called EPIC. It began with a last minute pick up of the Grallerz in DTB's hyundai (a vehicle that really shouldn't be on the road). Lacking seatbelts, TossedSalad sat on Hotwheel's lap-one of the many gender inversions that have happened. As we travelled up quinpool road, hawkeyed DTB noted that we were being tailed by a cop van and that he was getting very close to us. We felt that an anal probe was inevitable. The car began to speculate on why the cops were on our ass. Was it the broken window? The broken taillight? The excessive number of vehicluar occupants? In an effort to eliminate possiblities, TS tried to hide Hotwheels by leaning back and she tried to bend her head to her knees all the while crying out " I'm hyperventilating".
DTB took a mad corner onto pepperell just to see if the cops were following us and that is when, in a poignant affirmative, the sirens and lights went on behind us like the fireworks of a spanish wedding.

At this point TS suggested running, K-balls loosened her bra, Lambskin began winding his right hook, O'toole took a picture and Hotwheels did up her seatbelt. The cop approached the window and DTB opened the door huskily laughing while she explained the window didn't work. The cop did the usual rundown of questioning, helped DTB find her registration papers and cordially suggested to Hotwheels that her belt is fastened before getting pulled over. Then he went back to his van. CSD spirit didn't fail us though. We speculated on how this event would inform our partying that night and we vowed to split the cost of the ticket. We got off easy, thanks to DTB's charm and rack. She got a $10 ticket for driving with expired insurance.





We managed to go another 15 minutes without incident. Cruising through downtown on the prowl for a parking spot we got hung up in an intersection full of oneway streets. DTB had no choice but to pull a tire squealing 360 in the middle of the Grafton/Prince searching desperately for a way out while Lambskin screamed out "they're all one ways". At some point TS and O'toole were dropped off at a sausage fest dinner at the Argyle and K-Balls, DTB and Hotwheels headed up to Maxwells. The hours flew by as we flew through 4 kegs of apricot ale. The crew from guys' dinner joined us (Old man, MacB, Fosterbater, Fast eddy, TS, Sleepy etc) and the two party lines amalgamated over brew and conversation. After Maxwell's we attempted to get into the pogue btu due to long lineups, abandonned that effort and landed at the old triangle. O'toole is forever scarred after hunkering down for a whiz in the triangle bathroom and realising that the stall next to him was a hotbed of guy on girl action and the voice at the sink egging it on was TS's. We left the triangle in a tequila haze (Thanks TT) and headed up to the Dirty Dome. At this point the mega party was down in numbers. They were dropping like flies, cluttering up gutters and doorways throughout downtown.

Left was Hotwheels, DTB, K-balls, TS, TT, MacB, Fosterbater, Lambskin and O'toole. We moved through the Dome, feeling crunching under our feet-was it glass or teeth after a barfight? The women's bathroom was full of friday night tramps looking for love after wiping vomit from their chins. The dome past in a blur but we were all still standing. Next stop was a cab back to the Grallerz for an impromtu scoth tasting and a meal of eggs and bacon. That was put on hold though after our cabbing kicked us out for arguing about not taking all of us. We headed up to Pizza corner where we dodged bullets while chowing down. Many of us got separated in that mayhem but true to the csd in all of us, we reunited at the grallerz for the last leg of the epic night. The final 6 were standing-Hotwheels, TS, TT, Fosterbater, O'toole and Lambskin. The scotch bar was opened, the redbull poured and Muchmusic turned on. The party wasn't over. Glasses were broken, drinks were spilled. Fosterbater and O'toole snuck out around 5 and then there were four. CSD stayed strong to the end. At 7 am we opened the door to send off TT and Lambskin. The sun was just coming up, lighting their way to the cab.

ELGIN Two Thousand and Eight - The Final Frontier

Like a taciturn horde of stone-faced conquistadors, we again began our weekend of conquest by propping our sails upon upright mounts and casting off into a highway 102 sunset. Rather than pillaging gold, our mission was instead to pin down and steadily dissect both quadricep and unconscious mind. Elgin has always been a fitting finale for the XC season. Its relaxed atmosphere, off the beaten path location, welcoming community, and utterly epic 'one massive loop' course format create a vibe that warms the heart and makes me recommend the Elgin Eco Association change its slogan immediately to simply 'shit's real'.

Presenting for your ultimate galaxy renowned hit squad were The Grallerz, The 'Old' Man, Fresh Ben, Marty, Peacock, The Young Gun, Robertson, The Burge, and yours truly.
Proper preparation began at the bar of the Timberland Motel, where potash, shotgun shells, and lift kits define masculinity. Marty got pretty damn ham hammed after 3 beer--I was getting nervous--I thought he was going to start a fight with the closest VLT enthusiast. With an evenings worth of trash-talk spat, we decided that we could go to bed with mostly cleared psyches, readying them to play Twister in the morning.

We awoke to a parking lot filled with at least a hundred folk who were going to embark on a similar cross-country experience, substituting flannel for fitness and beer for breakfast. We knew it was going to be a long wait for the Timbo' special so we sat together and enjoyed staring back at the locals. After 3 cups of coffee we were ready to navigate the backroads and roll into the race just in time. We found our own parking lot behind their fire station, and proceded to roll out the chairs and run out the bass. Upon hearing such heavyweight tuneage, neighborhood kids arrived, forming a row twenty feet back observing the proceedings. We applied our warming oil with much smirking.


The first half of the 80 meters-of-killer race was relatively flat and dry. Belli and Taylor drove the pace two-up, with myself and the 'Old' Man riding 2nd wheel with much viligance. We hit the first climb and quickly broke away from most of the field, continuing our ATV trail paceline until the Massive Interstate Smash-Up. We were riding tight, ripping a slightly false flat ATV descent--cranking it in the big ring--when Taylor lost it on the saturated clay soil. He augered in hard on his hit and shoulder, and I swerved, running over his bike before ending up off the trail. Belli and Martin hit him and both went down hard, with Belli somehow trying to get his foot into Martin's poor ear. To compliment his psysical injury with one mechanical, the bike gods removed some of his XTR spokes from his rim, but thoughtfully kept the spoke-local areas of the rim together with the spokes as they'd gotten to know each other quite well over the course of Marty's epic troubles with that wheel earlier this season. I think I heard him say 'frig!' once or twice as we picked our shit out of the mud and chased after TT.

The second half of the course is where it really started to gnaw at the frontal lobe. We stopped for some lube and a reunion party with The Burge at the top of the first climb, and maybe stole a glance or two at the glorious view of rolling fall colours stretching to the Bay of Fundy, but quickly started the 'real race'. Belli and Taylor began driving each climb, only to be hemmed in by the vulgar display of power the 'Old' Man would conjure up in reply, as he and a following 'Chops would drop them on each descent. With everyone still together we were machine-gunning an apparent glacial scree of a descent when Taylor double flatted. At the bottom of this descent was a 3 foot deep stream that we hit at 50km/h, becoming totally saturated for probably the 10th time. Such a massive upset in group dynamics resulted in a new homeostasis being established; only Belli, myself, and the 'Old' Man remained on the front.

It is also important to note that Belli was rocking his national team vest for the occasion. This was convenient, as my screams that he hit the front at every road section made for a win-win situation. I'll call you Team Canada in front of everyone, and you pull me around. Deal?
We had in fact just survived another of his massive pulls on a dirt road flat when we again stabbed the fall foliage with our carbon bars and began skimming the top of a steep, washed out descent. With Belli taking it easy on his borrowed scalpel, I unknowingly opened a gap. There was about 20km to go, and I decided to try my luck; finding my head screaming 'what the fuck are you made of!?' as my legs fluttered with cramps. Right after hearing a course marshall tell me 'c'mon man! Home stretch!' I hit the massive, Atlantic Candian K2 of a climb before the finish. It had to be 20-25minutes long, with sections of 25 percent, stand-in-the-granny steep-ass shit. I was positive I was going to be mowed over by Belli, and finally cleared the summit with a kink in my neck from looking back so much. I finished with a two minute gap, and promptly collapsed. The best story is that of the 'Old' Man. After surviving K2, we had to climb a disguesting 'dirt-bike singletrack' that was torn to hell, winding its way through an old orchard. The apples had fallen weeks ago and were scattered everywhere, but after his crash and bonk seemed to TOM like a venerable nebula of salvation. With absolute disregard to losing his hard-fought third place, he wandered around this garden of eden gaining strength for the final push.

The Grallerz had great rides with 'tossed taking home the third place cake over both Roberto (5th) and Bruce (9th). Hotwheels, not to be out done, crammed an igloo cooler full of ice--taking the win in the master blaster category and also beating every other women in the 40km.
The Burge went to war with the Young Gun in the twilight of the race, but like the infamous Gerald Bull, TYG found more range in his artilery--21 seconds more to be specific. Fresh Ben held it down right behind them for 7th, ahead of Ekemtaba's Replicator. Peacock arrived second in the master blaster 80km. Good on ya mate, ERRRRRAAAAAAH!

In closing, The 'Old' Man said it best, describing the event as a "...4.5 hour carnival of total aerobic suffering. It's healthy to take yourself to the edge and have a look within. Many people go their whole lives without pushing themselves to that point."

Not us, my friends, not us.

Raiding the Fort

[This is, according to my usual fashion, late. Almost two weeks. Whoops. --Q]

Upon returning to the castle last fall, the raiding party (CeePee, 'Chops, and Austen) was in consensus: 4 Hours of French Fort Cove deserved every superlative in the book: fastest, smoothest, best! Knowing this I planned to go this year and on returning I agree with every word. I haven't ridden in Ontario but I hear it's sort of like road biking on dirt. It's not the technical 5km/h-picking-over-rocks-and-roots difficult that we know so well, but made so because you're averaging 20km/h in the woods trying not to shoulder check trees. It's disturbingly fun.

In traditional form 'Chops let loose some early bass beats as front wheels were put on, chamois donned, and chains lubed. We perfected a three-part harmony for the chorus to M.I.A.'s Paper Planes, later to be sung as we rolled into the first section of singletrack. A few minutes before 10am CSD rolled out to warm up, check out the first corner, and have a few gummy bears. The trio returned en masse to find the riders meeting over and the gun about to go off, perfect timing. We turned our bikes around at the front, waved to Pickle, the official team support staff, and the four hours began.



A fairly large group of us rode the first ATV climb in pairs, chatting and looking forward to the day of riding. Lines and corners were figured out on the first lap, and at a couple of points we made group decisions about which way to go--after that we were alright. By the end of the first lap we were down to a handful of riders, and unfortunately for this reporter he was soon going to leave the group. As I settled into my own pace through the singletrack 'Chops and Austen were riding solidly with a Terrier nipping at their heels.


For the next four hours (my final time was around 4:45) I rode pretty much alone, occasionally coming up on a rider, who more often than not had a massive grin on their face, and of course seeing an incredibly welcome bottle being held out for me as I came though the start-finish. Did we mention our feeder was also our photographer? Check out this rocking action shot that deserves the jealousy of the most senior SI photog—they don't even get this stuff at the Super Bowl:


Seriously.













As for the trails themselves, they were so dry and dusty I felt I was in a New York club bathroom with Robin Williams every time I drifted around a corner picking lines through the baby head rocks. The lines we did were so fast and tight we all had nosebleeds by the end of the day. It's not often I feel I'm on an Australian rally course but when you're ripping a bench-cut section with a gorge on your right down to the river and a haze of powdered earth in your eyes it feels just as epic.

I'm always amazed how quickly an endurance mountain bike race passes, but maybe that's because the two I've done have been under clear skies on wickedly fun courses. I was almost sad to know my second-last lap was coming to a close. To still have the eagerness and energy to jam through whoops and nail descents after three and a half hours of racing is surely the hallmark of an awesome course. I rolled in a half hour down on 'Chops and twenty minutes back of Austen, figuring on a fourth or fifth place (first and second were already sealed by the aforementioned pair) only to learn the Terrier hadn't gone out for lap seven, choosing to curl up in his kennel instead. Who knows, we might have just swept the podium. To my dismay there was a pesky "experienced rider" (in the frustrating way TT is almost twice our age and still faster than most) who ended up being five minutes up on me. I'm not sure when I got passed, but it was probably during a cross-eyed, leg-cramped fit on the singletrack climb. Ah well, for the first season of MTB racin' I was pretty pumped!

After we all chilled with the support crew (who graciously doled out chocolate milk and courageously withstood my filth and stench) we made our way down to the podium/gazebo/parking lot to be showered in accolades.



The only stop of note on the way home was in Shediac to eat at a faux-KFC, Dixie Lee. This is because everything, at 7pm on Sunday, was closed. Never has boxed food been so appreciated, or at least not by Austen. He was pretty impressed.

Q out, p-out.

Fitz of Fury

Alright, got a brief Fitz report for yas.
Course was pretty damn muddy and the descent demanded the utmost in white finger concentration, especially when sessioning behind the wheel of Opus-Atlantic. 'Chops eventually took the lead, never to relinquish a nice even-numbered crushing of the point series. Behind him the battle between Gmoney, Young Gun, and The Old Man raged, with Youngmoney eventually taking 2nd, Gmoney 3rd, and TOM 4th. Marty rolled in a muddy and disheveled 5th. JB was back there somewhere after a two-week singletrack sabbatical. He'll be ready for revenge come Elgin. Randy held down his four grueling laps to roll in 11th. Enid fininshed with one less 1, taking the win over Coach Sherle. She was damn pleased with her fast self.

Right on, now I've gotta go read Psychology and Law or something. This weekend CSD is penetrating the wilds of northern New Brunswick, attending Fort French Cove in da Miramichi. Our bass is going to scare all the deer off the roads, I'm sure of it.

'Chopz.

Curse of The Gorge

“Do you guys always sing while racing?” a comment from the winner of open women Caroline Towell. The answer is no, but on a day like today in The Gorge it was completely necessary.

The day started off with a rainy drive into the valley for the twelve noon start to the race. After our legs and a pair of arms were oiled up we headed to the start line to chat casually until the gun. The race started of pretty quick with G- money taking the lead early on up the double track climb, he was joined in a second by me bridging the gap and then, the euro machine that he is, Aston Martin used his DB9 horse power to come up and join us. G-money and I, assuming that Jamie’s shore racing and his “screeching in” had got the best of him, we rode on at a decent pace through the woods. We were pleasantly surprised when we heard a yelling Lamb behind us and he was back on the CSD train.

We rode at a decent pace until the train was derailed when I crashed into GMC and Chops at the bottom of the tech as hell decent. We rode pretty chill most of the race with the racing beginning between me and chops on the last lap. We discussed why the Myatt and Comeau children were cheering solely for chops and not the young gun and we confronted them about it later on. Some high lights of the other laps were stopping for a lube break and offering some lube to the chasing hub rider. I thought to myself and expressed out loud how annoyed that guy must have been, catching us only because we stopped to lube our chains. We also decided to add to the race we would start singing. We came up with our own version of living on a prayer. Jamie was the lead singer, I was the back up add some Woahh’s occasionally. On the last lap the singing and socializing stopped so we could focus on sliding the corners and picking lines. I led into the first single track section and put as much power out as my LK’s on a slick trail would allow. Chops stuck on with no problems, we lockout our forks and hammered the second section of double track and refueled. I led into the next section of single track, but was passed by a serious lamb once out on the open road. We railed the first berm and chops rode the ladders with a double latte in hand. I stayed with him until I had to get off my bike in one section where he opened the 10 second gap that would win him the race. We stayed about that far away for the remainder of the lap. He told me that he was worried that I would catch him on the last running section, but he had enough of a lead going into it to take the win. At the finish line we discussed the race then headed down to the cars to clean up. I had the luxury of a puddle next to the truck and took advantage of it for cleaning me off. Once I was presentable I drove up to the team car where the bass could be felt on the drive up. We then switched the song to Living on a Prayer by Bon Jovi, the very song we remixed during the race. We then made our way up to the tent where all the riders that braved the weather huddled underneath to receive awards. It was overall a great day on the bike and just and intro of the horsepower that we’ll be able to lay down on the dry dirt of Fitzpatrick Mountain in two weeks time. Stay tuned for the next update.

Yo

Andrew

Bridge Jumping and Hood Fronting - The CSD Sandwich

Sorry, not off the Confederation Bridge, though the ruthlessness that traveled across it Sunday morning nearly required a third lane. Oh yes, another weekend went by where CSD loaded up the team car and ran the bass out to a foreign locale. Sitting shotgun was (suitably) our Young Gun, while crammed in the back rested the terror of The Valley, Quebec's free radical, Apogee-Kuota's time trial extraordinaire, Garret McLeod! Beside G-Money chilled a young import from the hinterlands of Pictou - Justin MacDonald.

We rolled in with the song of CSD's week running rather hard (The Roots - Don't Say Nuthin), and watched with delight as francophone craniums spun around with a scowl fitting of Quella DeVille (101 Dalmatians, yo). Registration went as smoothly as an open corsa, as Cycling PEI really has their shit together with new full time staff, who not only organize well run races, but expertly build parts of the course as well! Back from the lodge, we set up our chairs and let our brains finish digesting the drive- switching from Kowalskian mode to a more calculated and explosive Jason Bourne. Yep, this meant changing beside the car, zip-tying plates, deciding on air pressure, and switching from DJ Khaled to Tool (as per Megan's request). Shit was real when we decided to take a warm up lap on the 'speed-tech' course of the season. By speed-tech I mean that there were no rock gardens to be picked through, miserably technical climbs ascending which would be an accomplishment etc. What greeted us was a spider web of ultra-flowy, bone dry singletrack and short power climbs on the cross country ski trails. The singletrack, though rooty, was well routed and meant that we were almost always sliding through corners in the big ring, or banking off mounds under an almost exclusively hardwood canopy. My favorite section was a newly cut descent toward the end of the 30 minute lap, which had us launching off a huge piece of slate-turned-drop, landing with only time enough to hear the click of spectator's cameras and the satisfying squelch of cooperative Fox suspension, before diving into some berms and getting a few stabs at the big ring in before the trail turned down the fall-line. The last sensation felt before dumping gears for the climb ahead was the thhrrraaaaap of tires machine gunning over step ladders of roots. Yeah, I don't regret taking myself off the road.

On the start line most were jovial about the 27 degree blue sky, while others were nonchalant about the competition thing and out to enjoy the perfected trail system. On the other hand, Ryan Taylor and I had assigned our peripheral vision to monitoring the other's gear selection and likelihood of jumping the gun. There was no 'yeah, come ride with CSD for a few laps while we talk shit and ponder the wingspan of circling buzzards'. We tore off the line like there was something other than a few waiting ego multivitamins on it, and embarked on a 2 hour dog fight. L'espy happily made contact with us after 15 minutes or so, and I welcomed the opportunity to shout back at Ryan: 'It's a fuckin' CSD sandwich, bitch!'. The deli soon went bankrupt though, as the Young Gun jammed at the start of the glorious aforementioned descent - he snapped his hanger clean off with his millions of foot-pounds of heart-stopping torque, as he set up to launch the rock drop and fly clean over the head of Taylor below. Alas, the wholesome podium girls of PEI wouldn't land a peck on the face of a junior this weekend. Taylor and I said a few prayers to our gods, and kept on maintaining, albeit more carefully on bushy ski trails.
I felt pretty pathetic and flailing towards the middle of the third lap, and was paranoid Ryan's asking me to take the front amounted to an 'I know you're getting tired, I'll tire you a bit by hammering this climb, then you take the front and dig your own grave while I rest behind your likely slower self-set pace, recharging to attack your lactic ass'. I double fisted two gels and told myself to 'haaardin' the fuck up', Chopper Reid style. So two gels down the hatch and I'm feeling good again starting the last lap. Taylor jammed it up the first climb, and then ripped the naturally awesome descent. At he top of the next ski hill climb he asked me to take lead through the next section of glorious false-flat downhill singletrack, and I obliged the man. I ripped it as hard as I could, hoping the Rush would rush ahead of his hardtail. On the final sweeping, off-camber corner he crashed behind me and I burst out onto the ski trail and started hammering with reckless abandon for the rest of the lap. I was shoulder checking as if I had a nervous twitch, while the threat of imminent cramps made my calves feel as if they actually did, but I built my lead a little bit to take the win by a minute. G-Money rolled in third to complete our ideal of a CSD sandwich. Justin took second in the U17, after a hard fought battle with fellow Pictoucian, Ryan MacDonald. Rob slew the expert field, and brought some ice home in his icy blue new car. The prize money was generous and appreciated, and much thanks from the team car for the bridge pass.

After the awards wound down, we threw back our beer, ate our hot dogs and followed Duncan and co. to a huge bridge over a little inlet. L'esperance wowed Prince Edward's entire island and part of the Magdalens with his handstand-behind-the-guardrail-to-multiple-backflips performance into churning brackish water. I cut my hand on some barnacles climbing out after a boring feet first hippity hop of the side. We were pleased to present with such a pleasing scent at our next stop, Pizza Delight in Cavendish. A cranky Lespy got agitated with G-Money for stalling the team car at the Cobequid Pass. I thought they were gonna to fight. JMD giggled and didn't know what to say. I turned up the tuneage.

Next stop might be the Tour de Shore in Newfoundland, or if not that, then the Gorge race in Kentville September 1st. Taylor has stated that he may come party and race Kentville with us, expecting to be properly recovered from Guad by then, and anxious to collect the money C-PEI has put on my head. Press on, folks, and thanks for reading. 'Chops out!

Another Woolastook Exploit

Yeah, it was no 5 hour battle through glory country, but the Wooly Bear Classic was a solid good time. Marty (soon to change his name to Ed Austin) hammered with reckless abandon from the moment we hit the 102, an hour late. We showed up to the race as they started the count down, but a vote was taken on the start line and everyone thankfully decided to wait for us to rip our bikes off and throw some shorts on. Ryan Taylor shredded the field off the line, showing remarkable compassion for our car-legs. He soon flatted, and I took the lead, slowing the field considerably, hoping Marty would rejoin. We kept it chill (except for the descents) and though Marty never made it back to the front lines (he double flatted and spent the second half of the race questioning his god), Taylor did. I saw him slicing through the singletrack below me on a singletrack bench-cut section towards the end of the lap, and waited till he was on the back of the train (actually just myself and Geek Stink Breath (Cormier) before applying some Nova Scotia Power to his BC Hydro. I got a bit of a gap while he shoved GSB out of the way and tore after me, but he must have still been tired from Guad, as I steadily (and excruciatingly) built up a 3 or so minute lead by the end of the race, taking the NB provincial title back home to the land of restrictions on imported honey bees.
The excitement of the day didn't end there though - on the way home we ran out of gas (we had every kilometer per hour of autobahning set to get us to the race exactly for the start time, gas light be damned). We pulled over in front of the decrepit "Central New Brunswick Economic Opportunity Agency", on the old Trans-Canada. We stood outside the car and hoped someone we knew coming from the race would stop, but no one did. However a car full of straight up Flanders Family Christians did, and Martin got in, sitting on a backseat filled with bibles (I think they were going door to door), and they took him to a station. He spent hours walking from station to station, hoping to find one that had a gas can he could borrow, with no luck. Eventually he found one at the Canadian Tire gas station and, low and behold, Duncan from PEI happened to be there on his way from from getting his drank on downtown. This thoroughly reignited Martin's faith in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, as Duncan even drove him back to me and the car. Glorious Lord indeed.

Next stop on the CSD World Tour will be Brookvale, PEI, for the Red Mud Mountain Mayhem race. Watch yo back, RT!

The GORE Report

Alright yo's, its been a long time since the last update. We sessioned successfully at the provincial championships a few weeks ago, and some members went on vacation while others built further upon their massive fitness base, doing laps of the Jowe Howe century loop. Oh yes, we were ready for Gore Fest alright...
By ready, I mean we were so rested, and so trained and tapered, that we could afford to stay up all night partying fucking hard! We let no one down, and pulled out all the stops to flood the bloc (field) with as many CSD playaz (staff\honorary members\day pass holders\bros) as possible! Jeff even brought a system to pound the sound of Spryfield across the Rawdon Hills all night long. In fact, we made so much noise that our bass was requested to be toned down for fear of blowing out the campfires in the 'quiet camping' area further down the hill. The true highlight of the evening came when it was decided that a team streak around the field (to commemorate our victory in the night pseudo naked crit, where L'esperance's boxers were 'removed' by an excited spectator) was necessary. We were warming up for the morning's leman's style start, sans clothes, when a deranged fan burst forth from another campsite and started to follow on his bike, with HID light. The Burge friggin lost it. I was too drunk at the time to even notice, but he ran out of the crowd like a psychopathic out-lier and threw the intruder off his bike, onto the ground. HID-0, CSD-1. Clothes were donned, and we continued carb-loading. Shit was real.

In the morning we crawled forth from our tent village, and decided to raid the local village of Kennetcook, looking for anything to put in our churning, hungover (or still drunk) stomachs. We banged on the door of the local hole in the wall diner, and then noticed the sign stating they didn't open till 10. In a panic we jumped back in the cars and railed the corners of highway 14 until we landed in the Elmsdale Tim Hortons for a proper pre 8-hour race meal. I brushed my teeth in the bathroom. A dude asked me if I was just out watching the motocross race.

9:45 - the crew is assembled down at the start line. We were entered in most of the categories: Myself and JB in 'CSD... The Conjugation', Ashley, Tony, and Sean in team of 3 mixed, Martin in solo, Chris in solo singlespeed(!), and Geoff (Apogee-Kuota), Kelly, and Heather in the almighty 'CSD Dream Team'. L'esperance formed CSD Composite with his two imported riders from Prince Edward's Isle. The Grallerz and Team Tomlin actually partied so hard that racing was out of the question for them, but the rest of the team was happy they were there for the main event. JB and I decided to do two laps at a time, so this meant, with him starting, that I could practically go back to bed. He ripped off two fast ones, and coming across the line to be the first riders on their second lap was an established pain train of JB, L'esperance, Geoff, and surprisingly (as he was racing solo and is hardly expected to hammer) Marty! We made sure to cheer in a most obnoxious manner. Good thing Eli wasn't there (training mission) - he would surely have been Embarrassed.

Thankfully the sun came out and began to dry the course in the afternoon. Actually we were just thankful there was no more rain, let along the sun coming out. By 6:00 we were quite well established on top of the podiums in our respective categories and the team stoke was running hot. My favorite memory of the race day was our last lap - a chilled out 'bro lap' consisting of myself, Martin (in all his cramping glory), and Geoff. We rode slowly, taking in the sights and cheering fellow riders who were likewise making their way back to home plate. I think the only bike-related mishap that occurred all day was Geoff flatting on that lap - no one even had any bad crashes.

We donned our long sleeve jerseys, most commemorative Oakleys, and proceeded to the awards ceremony where we took the Solo Singlespeed, Overall Solo, Team of 3 mixed, Team of 3 Men and Team of 2 categories. Yep, money for nothin', an chicks for free. Party the hardest, race the fastest ;) Thats how we do. Pictures to come! 'Chops out!