Otherwise know as The Day Don Powers was too Drunk to Walk Uphill.
Or downhill:
When I got into my truck Sunday morning, I had three voice-mails from 1:30 am.
"Gruhha you douche bag we're gonna make sure you don't win anything tomorrow" said a someone with a West Virginian accent. I could hear Rich Dillen's maniacal elf cackle in the background. Bunch of cool guys.
I got to the rugby field 30 minutes late, but since it was Punk Bike, I was still 30 minutes early. I pulled on my banana suit and started making cruising around the parking lot.
Cinder Bloch Lochner was already pretty loose, and he had a backpack full of fireworks. Good combination. Dicky was making his debut as a Team 7-Up rider, and this guy's impersonation of a teen pop star wasn't scary at all:
Nice bike tinsel.
We started the derby. I ran into Dicky's back wheel and fell over. Chris Beech was crushing everything with his monkey paw. Then he was shoved by some angry hipster on the sideline.
He was depressed by his defeat for the rest of the day:
Poor sad Beer Monkey.
I missed the start of the next few stages, and won nothing. Cinder Bloch, still feeling loose, sprinted around me and crashed into a mud puddle. His denim short shorts filled with smelly dirt.
Jordan told me that he could unhinge his jaw and ride with a beer can in his mouth. Then he told me the story again. And again. Apparently he has no short term memory when he's drunk.
Then he noticed some mud in his dreadlocks. Somebody asked if he washes them, and he sighed.
"Man, it's sooo hard being punk and dirty all the time," he said.
There was a hill climb. I didn't want to go fast, but I did want to beat Dicky, so I kept reaching over and pulling his brake levers. The little elf man kept falling back then trying to sprint around me. We got into the woods, and he found a punk.
Angry that he had a punk and I didn't, I stepped on his bike, and refused to move until about a dozen people had passed us.
Then we found some mud, which smelled like a stew horse manure and everything in the world that has ever died. So Erika and Kelsi wrastled in it:
*the wrastlin wasn't filmed. shame.
After that, Cinder Bloch Lochner had to poop. He crawled over a hillside at the quarry, and settled down. I gave him time to get comfortable, then kept over the edge of the quarry with a firecracker. I lit the fuse, lobbed it, and ran.
It landed next to his foot and started blowing up.
"Ah! Man that's fucked up," he yelled. We were cracking up, then someone came over and scolded us for giving their dog a mental breakdown. So we put the bottle rockets and other explosives away.
Meanwhile, Andy Forron was making rounds with a mason jar of whiskey, which he bought from a guy in WV who was deer hunting on a porch with a cat in his lap.
And the speakers in Andy's backpack continued to play Scraper Bike. That song is at its best played on loop for six hours.
Then we rode through some more mud. Only one person had to get a helicopter ride to the hospital. Good day.
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