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.