If you survive this checkpoint, you will be a minister of death, praying for war.

Preliminary scouting of our position revealed suitable training grounds at the Science World playground, originally involving a reverse scramble up the tube slide. This plan had to be scrapped because 1) it was fucking impossible, and 2) the slide had a large aluminum restrictor plate covering the top end. The latter was particularly notable because it had non-security bolts holding it on, and that it hadn't been absconded with by False Creek tweaker-pirates. I unsheathed and prepared to deploy the Park MTB-3, but Sgt. Kavanaugh pulled rank on me and we devised an alternate strategy. We assumed defensive positions, and kept a lookout for incoming blinkies to target and engage:

"NOW DROP THAT GODDAMNED SILLY LITTLE BICYCLE AND COME TO ATTENNNN-HUT, MAGGOT! FROM NOW ON, THE FIRST AND LAST WORDS OUT OF YOUR FILTHY SEWERS WILL BE "SIR." I CAN'T HEAR YOU! NOW PICK UP THAT BICYCLE AND YOU CYCLOCROSS IT UP TO THE TOP OF THIS HILL AND REPORT TO ME, MAGGOT! SHOW ME YOUR WAR FACE! YOU CALL THAT A WAR FACE? LET ME SEE YOUR REAL WAR FACE! NOW DROP THAT BICYCLE, ROLL DOWN THAT HILL, AND REPORT TO THE NORTH CORNER OF THE PLAYGROUND! FASTER! I WILL KICK YOU DOWN THAT GODDAMNED HILL, MAGGOT! I WILL KICK YOU INTO NEXT TUESDAY! I WILL KICK A FUCKING HOLE IN YOUR THROAT! SO HELP ME GOD I WILL KICK YOU BACK TO THE LAST CHECKPOINT AND MAKE YOU APOLOGIZE TO YOUR LAST TRAINING UNIT! MOVE IT! MOVE IT MOVE IT!"

...and so on. After running the playground obstacle course and doing a shot, recruits were then required to report to Sgt. Kavanaugh for push-ups and Christ-knows-what-else kind of abuse, then they had to crawl back up the hill to their bicycles and report back to me:

"HAVE WE BROKEN YOU YET, MAGGOT? ARE WE READY TO MAKE A SOLDIER OUT OF YOU? ARE YOU FIT TO SERVE MY BELOVED CORPS? THEN WHY ARE YOU NOT CRYING? THEREFORE, WE MUST MAKE YOU CRY! BITE THIS ONION, SOLDIER!"

And so our little maggots earned their maps, and spread their dewy new wings into the night and towards the party. Lyle was the first one in, and got an onion-bye because he was down with the program and cried on demand. Nick B was hot on Lyle's wheel and appeared to be suffering from mild shell-shock. Morgan fucking TRYKED it into third.

And then there was Ifny. Last time around, she was the hottest one out of the gate and never let up. This time, though, the race face was gone. Broken. Homegirl walked the field back in September, but the Winterbee spam queen could muster no better than 4th. I didn't have the heart to go too rough on her, and NikCee was grinning too bloody hard for me to slow him down too much as well. About halfway through the peloton, my throat was getting raw, and seeing as how we had more than enough Canadian Club to last us through, it was time to start passing it around.

Things started getting dirty and blurry. They always do. Leanne had me beating a hasty retreat back up to my parade podium after I dared contradict her orders in front of a recruit. Camilo managed to embarass the entire profession of bicycle messengering, take me out while rolling down the hill, and then tried to gnaw his way through the recruit in front of him on the way back up. James earned the nickname "Private Joker." I threatened to keep some Portlander at the checkpoint until he died. One saucy little number gave as good as she got and spat the onion out in our faces, and Brandon and I started running out of ammo, which meant that the onions we'd been pelting the recruits with would have to be found and recycled. Our recovery mission netted several viable specimens, and we gave them a quick wipedown before handing them off to the latecomers.

At some point Leanne took the bottle away from me and we decamped for the rendezvous point/party bunker. Bhangra, dancehall, 'ettes, cl'ettes, etc's, bikegirl-crushes, free drink tickets from Morgan, mini-circle of death (my apologies for being a complete fucking hoon), cameo appearances by the Purple House, Pedal Play made enough cream to keep them choppin' through the spring, and Morgan got to be "that guy" with his shirt off all night long.

Wendell's back in town and he's into the sauce again. Apparently this blog is worth something on the order of $564, which is almost enough money to cover the KillHlimber's rear wheel. At this rate, we can hopefully sell this shit out to Giant in a year or so and retire. Project-B: monetizin' r contentz, replaced by botz.

Why settle for a snack when you can get the full meal deal? More Ian Schwartz poached from The Come Up:



Ain't no freecoaster on the dessert cart, son:



...like I can taste anything anyway. After fighting off the Dirty Biker Bronchitis, I got dropped by the stomach flu this week, went from 40ish hours of riding down to about two, and I'm going all Bart of Darkness up in this bitch. To hell with bikecrushes, time for a date with La Maraca Negra.

Pray for dry.