Bender At The Bluff – We Don’t Need No Stinking Government To Non Race

With the fate of the United States hanging on the whims of a bunch of morons in Washington DC  it looked like the safety and control of the Mark Twain National Forest might be turned over to the vigilantes from Team Seagal. Winging my way into St Louis I was assured the riding (and drinking) would be on  a level that few men have experienced and a stalemate in DC would be only one thing – a free-for-all in the Ozarks.

Straight away I was whisked off to the Ritz Carlton where one Nico Toacani gave a warm greeting and in true MRC fashion immediately offered up a double espresso while our transportation was retrieved from the bowels of the earth. With ears tuned to NPR we waited with baited breath to learn our fate –a serious 12 hour race at Council Bluff or a 3 day party at the Enough Boat Launch.

Rather than pushing onward into the unknown we kept it close to home, making the final preparations and assembling bikes for the out of state celebrities coming in for the event (read that to mean The Dr and C-Dubbs). Satisfied that we had properly translated the assembly instructions and consumed enough beer to lubricate the rustiest of chains the assault vehicles were loaded and we headed out  for a warm up at a great St Louis hotbed of mountain biking – Castlewood State Park (which the responsible politicians of big Mo had kept open – no doubt to keep riff raff such as our crew off the streets and away  from unsuspecting MLIFs). Satisfied with the proficiency that the mechanics from Shark, TC Man and Trek had shown we set out first with some old school St Louis trails before taking it to the river and finally a spectacular ridge shot where the Dr was swept back to fond childhood mammaries from the bliss of a rope swing.

A Warm St Louis Welcome

 Doctor Enjoys Childhood Memories

With my tour guide Nico Toscani providing the deep history of the area (and this significant piece of StL graffiti)

and clarifying the rather liberal drinking laws of the region (thank you Anheuser Busch) the airwaves crackled with the news, Washington was in a state of chaos (nothing surprising or new there). Showing the type of precision that only the most highly trained special forces teams have, the boys at Team Seagal took to the world wide web (thanks for creating this Al Gore) and hoisted yet another non race flag – Bootlegger’s Burnin’.

Suddenly the engine roared, tires squealed and we plowed into the nearest beverage center to procure the required assortment of Missouri’s finest malted beverages to fuel a 2 day bender at the Bluff.

Unsure if the supplies on hand would meet the required standards for such a fine event we called on Coach to come by and do a random sampling and final can count. Having received the Crotch seal of approval we finalized the packing and then presented Coach with an incredibly rare Crank Brothers Penis Elongator to ensure a lifetime of happiness and happy endings.

From here it was off to the nearest local Mexican restaurant where the presentation included beers in quart size mugs, forearm sized burritos and a tropical pineapple nacho surprise for Coach. As we toasted the upcoming non race Senor Leg Tittay struck fear in the patrons of said establishment as he inhaled the entire burrito before some of us had put our mugs back on the table. Families with little children were seen scurrying for the door with fear in their eyes.

Serious Beer (Note the blur of Tittay's hands consuming the burrito)

 Coach's Happy Pineapple

Mutant Latino Oedipus

Upon our departure this fine dispenser of beard doping products was put to heavy use by C-Dubbs in  an attempt to acquire the proper amount of facial hair to be in the running for Mesa’s “Best Beard Doper of the Event” award. Alas despite a fine pirate fu man chu and several handlebars mustaches all was for naught as the blonde soul patch offered to Mrs. Toscani was a clear winner and any subsequent beard doping would be futile.

Back at the Toscani castle there was even moar beer drinking which led to discussions on the latest conspiracy theory sweeping StL – who exactly is responsible for all of those dominos and golf balls planted in the freshly laid asphalt of the beloved City of the Arch.

With birds in full song and Mrs Toscani out for a quick 11 mile run we celebrated the good Dr’s birthday with the ceremonial opening of the IPA  to chase down the Rifman nuggets Mr Dubbs served up for a breakfast treat and then immediately set about on the most important mission of the trip – packing the coolers.

With Tittay’s Stromobile and the Toscani Toyota packed to the gills it was off on the most dangerous stretch of roadway in Missouri as we headed away from Dickey Bubb and into the bowels of the Ozark trails. After a fine 2 hour ride from DD30 parking lot and numerous social post ride beers we headed off to the land of the Enough boat launch where the word launch would be redefined in the coming hours.

With non racers pouring in the serious partying started prior to the sunset summit ride where our Sherpa Nico and Sherpa Lawman would be responsible for the festivities on the bluff.

With little to no desire to haul all that weight back down the Elevator our summit crew set about consuming all there was with Lawman and Sasha deciding to have a romantic sunset dinner.

Summit Social

 Tittay Does His Best Karate Kid (missteps result in a 90' fall)

Council Bluff/Johnson Mtn Sunset

Arriving at the base of the Elevator a few of us were turned around on directions and we had to translate the local trail maps and drink a couple of beers before we were sure on the direction to go.

Elevator Directional Signal

Back at the boat launch the opportunity for a guided night tour of Council Bluff was missed as Coach set out with the final markings for the morning’s event. Meanwhile back at the campground non racers were pulling out all of the stops to redefine the meaning of launch. Sitting around the campfire our Race Director without a race took the lead and in mid sentence turned to the left, projectile vomited, turned back and took a long pull from his beer – a true champion in the making. This resulted in Lawman gagging his way around the campfire until the inevitable launching at the launch took place right in the vicinity of young Luke who had imbibed in a bit too much Imperial Stout and was perched in the drivers seat and periodically hurling out the open door. The action didn’t stop there, back at the campground our fine young Scooter decided that alcohol made one impervious to the cold and having upgraded from last year’s front seat of a Subaru to a tent with queen size air mattress opted to forgo the sleeping bag until the morning. It was during this peaceful night under the stars that we were startled by what sounded like a human sacrifice to the Council Bluff gods. Turns out our beloved Coach, also having sample the Imperial Stout, has stumbled into the dark and proceeded to puke his guts out right at the foot of the good Dr’s hammock. One had to shudder at the thought of what was in store tomorrow if this was the pre non race partying.

Non Race Day, unlike the beautiful days of past, dawned with dark cloudy skies and the booming of thunder which caught moar than a few non racers sleeping in tents and hammocks sans rain flies. With Lawman and C-Dubbs brewing up the infamous bowel loosening Costa Rican java, the entertainment commenced with a flurry of camping equipment racing out of the woods into the waiting dry trunks and Scooter kicking off breakfast with the first of many icy cold PBRs.

With the rains over team Clouds of Jenkem (Dr/Stove/C-Dubbs) opted for a moar civilized variant of the infamous Braquito – the Stovequito. Cook up a couple strips of bacon then scramble up eggs in the sea of bacon grease until it has been fully absorbed, wrap in a soft shell taco and inhale.

With intestines filled to capacity from java and Stovequitos we were in top condition for a visit to the drug testing center for confirmation that any positives were cerebral and not performance enhancing.

Having successfully tested positive, Clouds of Jenkem did a final interpretation of the rules and, finding a loophole, put the finishing touches on their race strategy by consuming copious amounts of fine rye whiskey.

With serious racers such as D Wayne circling the parking lot strutting their stuff Clouds of Jenkem kicked back knowing no matter how fast anyone went they didn’t stand a chance against our overwhelming stench of intelligence. The start was signaled with Scooter crushing the last of a six pack and the potato gun ejaculating its load of starch skyward. As a courtesy we let the field take a 10 minute lead before enacting the master plan. With no rules on the number of riders out at any given time we elected to send the entire team out at once. Knowing we had already sealed victory before turning a pedal and with beers in pocket for a beach front social, we elected to take in the incredible view at the dam.

Arriving at the beach, with temps hovering in the mid 70s, the echo of numerous “Service” calls resounded across the lake as Team Seagal launched an all out bare assed assault on Council Bluff lake. Having secured the swimming barriers the beers flowed and any non racer that came by was treated to multiple  “service calls”.

Having turned into water prunes and seeing D Wayne come by on his second lap we decided it was time to kit up complete the lap and establish a solid lead on the field. Back at the boat launch, with a firm lead, it was time to top off the tanks with some moar rye and a healthy serving of our favorite lunch – Chinese egg rolls. Enthralled with our lake adventures and at least 12 deep, Scooter kitted up, joined forces with Nico and Nadly on a vision quest to the lake. Heading out for our 4th, 5th and race winning 6th laps we witnessed the trail of destruction young Skeet was inflicting on the trees and rocks as he navigated lake ward. Catching him just before the dam, Clouds soldiered on and arrived for a long social on the bench with Nadly, Nico, Tittay and The Wizard of Mesa. Skeet’s arrival signaled it was time for another social swim and with Tittay wading in, a rather disgruntled fisherman let us know he was no to pleased that his wife was getting a show (must have had something to do with his wife’s comment “ they look like your penis only bigger”). Powering off over threats to call The Man once he had a signal (let’s see, by the time he hauled his boat out and drove to where there was a signal we would be long gone) we toasted him with our beers and served up any rider coming by.

Rolling into the boat launch with victory assured we got a good laugh as the irate fisherman was just pulling out. With Lawman seeming to have smoothed things over it was back to the usual chaos/partying until a couple of Iron County officers rolled in to access the situation.

In situations such as this there is only one thing to do – call on Lawman. Working his magic, and a PBR at the same time, several minutes of conversation later and Iron County’s finest gave a blast of the siren and flash of the lights as riders came out of the woods. This was followed up with a visit from the park ranger and more sweetness from Lawman to diffuse the situation.

With the party, I mean race, back in full swing next up on the visitor front were Hans and Franz on a pair of touring BMW cycles

After swilling down a couple of icy cold PBRs fine young Scooter whipped out his tool and fired off the signal to begin the full on party.

With yet another successful non race in the books everyone that was smart stayed for the night and indulged in some fine partying. Unfortunately the attempt  to get a spore inspired night ride to the summit failed.

Clearly upset with having missed the entertainment the texts from Coach arrived while en route to Casa de Toscani. Having mistaken our need for a good coffee, Nico broke out this most excellent bottle of Raspberry Coffee Stout which elicited this reaction from Coach

With numerous espressos and beers putting me right back into last nights warm fuzzy feeling Coach and Nico were kind enough to drop a slightly intoxicated C-Dubbs with the TSA agents for the flight home. Game, set, match – can’t wait for next year.

Burnin' At The Bluff or Boehner At The Bluff?

One thing is for sure, even if this Mother F#*ker

or this Mother F#*ker

can't get their shit together and come up with a plan that keeps the government running without increasing the deficit and Council Bluff is closed I am still hauling my sorry ass down to the Ozarks for some serious non racing, non drinking and non partying with these Mother F#*kers.

All I know is it's COUNCIL BLUFF time!!!!!

Chinaman 100 - MRC Ranks Grow As Non Racing Season Comes To A Close

The NECS/MRC closed out the 2013 non racing season with an encore event, the Chinaman 100, the oldest and most prized of the MRC "monument"rides. Unfortunately the full quorum of directors would not be in attendance as our beloved Braveheart was sidelined with the flu, no doubt a part of the government shutdown conspiracy sweeping our beloved nation. With the help of NetApp we were able to push the bounds of technology and planned on holding several wireless teleconferences during the ride.

It was as though the forces of nature knew what the mental state would be like for the Board of Directors and she presented us with this indicative weather.

Arriving at Casa de Top Chef the tone was being set for the day with a casual "cleaning of the chain" in the man cave, some minor bike adjustments and everyone suiting up for the days event. Arriving at the Ashokan, Paul LeTour was on point as the rest of us prepped for the coming day in the saddle. In these days of space age technology there was a lot of carbon that would be rolling that day, most likely of greater value then all of the cars we arrived in.

The roll out around the Ashokan presented us with cool, misty conditions and damp roads with wet leaves randomly scattered - conditions that had those with carbon rims thinking twice about the upcoming "descent into the bowels of the earth" from Hunter Mtn into Woodstock. Gliding into Phoenicia at the base of the day's 9 mile climb, bottles were filled, bladders were emptied at the Praise the Lord Port-o-Potty and the our Chief of IT prepared the Mirco G teleconference unit for the summit board meeting.

As soon as the landscape started to point up LeTour and Eyegor gapped the crowd and set a torrid pace on the lower slopes. To quote Forrest Gump, "stupid is as  stupid does" and sure enough Top Chef and C-Dubbs showed just how stupid they were by trying to bridge the gap. Eventually caught it was a group of 5 charging up the slopes and while spacing out watching TC's wheel suddenly the derailleur dropped a gear and my taint puckered as the pace picked up to tarmac melting speed. Realizing just how stupid we were TC and C-Dubbs sat up and from behind there was a  pleading "thank you" from our newest participant, Josh.

Opportunity presented itself and our trio pulled off to a side bridge for a view of the beautiful Yangtze river where we put our latest technology into action and held the very first MRC remote access board meeting with the directors from our Amsterdam division.

Fueled with excellent news we set off to the summit, man training along like a Cummins diesel until a fast descending LeTour appeared to deflate our spirits, letting us know he had already made the summit which was still 2 miles up the road.

With the major suffering out of the way we rolled through Tannersville and prepped for 5 miles of high speed descending pleasure. Topping out at over 44 mph the autumn air was filled with the smell of melting carbon as we held off car and motorcycle traffic on the plunge to the bottom where everyone regrouped, cleaned out their soiled chamois' and topped off at the Big Belly Deli for the run to Woodstock.

Conjuring up images of the great cult orators like these guys

C-Dubbs used the long, mind numbing stretch of Rte. 212 to preach the virtues and philosophy of the MRC and attempt to brainwash a few new riders to sell everything, contribute all of the money to the MRC and join the ranks of the chosen ones. Taking only a few miles and with fatigue setting in the trio of new riders drank the kool aid and signed on with the MRC, all we needed were names. This was quickly sorted for Eve who showed an ability to suck a wheel like a remora on a shark and thus was named our newest member - Remora.

Sucking a wheel always comes with a price and with C-Dubbs on the front feeling the hot breath of Remora on his back it was time for the Terry Tate Pain Train coming up to a slight rise that looks far easier then it really is. Dubbs dropped a gear, hopped out of the saddle and lit the fuse on Remora's lactic acid time bomb. Cresting the top Dubbs finally was able to cool the skin on his back right before it turned to third degree burns.

Back on 28 and scant miles from our saviour, Grace and the best espresso in the area, we pace lined over the rollers and into the parking lot for a social break, espressos, cappuccinos and iced teas (sans ice).

With everyone shaking from the doubles, we tackled the final 3 miles to the parking lot at full speed until the bike path where the engines shut down and we coasted to the parking lot and welcomed our 3 pledges into the secret society of the MRC.

With Remora (aka Eve) duly named it was decided that Derek, being nominated the MRC Ambassador to Surfing, would be named Dude which left us only with Josh to tag. Back at the Casa de Top Chef, the feast that only Top Chef can throw, was on with a grill full of steaks and salmon.

Our beloved Braveheart arrived with the Large Marge conference room and a flask full of Del Maguay Minero. The crew quickly lined up, loaded the plates, grabbed IPAs, wine and shot glasses and headed to the deck for sunset and some well deserved entertainment. With a bevy of desserts including a fantastic cheese cake and some form of round red Hostess Devil Dog - obviously a communist plot to infiltrate the MRC - Josh, having been in the man cave doing a significant amount of chain cleaning, cobbled together a Top Chef class dessert of cheesecake and Joseph Stalin Devil Dogs creating the Stoned Gibert and thus tagging himself to forever be known as Stoned Gibert.

It was about this time, after the Del Maguay made several rounds (with Remora putting on a great look with the first sip) that the party really picked up steam.

Dude went for a bit of PDA with Remora by fondling yon rack at which caused the sudden release of enough estrogen for every guy at the table to have sex reassignment therapy. The virtues of the Stoned Gibert ceased and a debate over cup size and cleavage began and suddenly it happened -

Only this was no walk off, it was the most feared competition of all, the tit off. Shirts were up, cleavage flashed and debate so heated it made the recent government shutdown debate seem like a playground argument. The echo meter was brought out to measure the best cleavage but it exploded from a freak of acoustical nature caused by the reverberations between the "Canyons of Cleveage" at the table, game over.

One take away from the night, our newest member Dude, is already cooking up his own non race, the Harriman Hookah 55 to be held in the early summer. Stay tuned for more details and MRC non racing news.

Its Chinaman Time

漢字亦称中文字 100

我弟弟太冤了！上访几年没人管！在广东住院的时候，我去上访，接待的人说不归他们管。没钱住院就会老家了。2010年，东莞的公安局来了，说可以给10万。让签字，我不识字，就签了。签了以后，说不许再上访了，这是救助不是赔偿。我们觉得被骗了。我父亲已经被县公安局带走了。微博是我让好心人帮我发的。
Alright, at this point you are probably sitting there scratching your ass thinking wtf are these clowns from the MRC talking about. Well it's the end of a long season of MRC non racing and the board of directors always like to go out with a bang and not a whimper. Ergo Beer Cx, but even the finest fillet mignon is never complete without a fine wine. Therefore we invite one and all to the to drink the MRC cool aid and join us for the Chinaman 100.
Now this is not just any non race, the Chinaman 100 found it's origins (and those of the MRC) as the Hillbilly 60 where the forces of the NECS and the newly formed MRC we brought together in a merger that made even the titans of Wall St M&A drool. Combining forces and non races was the equivalent of the China Syndrome, a chemical reaction that was unstoppable.

This Saturday, 10/5 (for our foreign friends, i.e. the Chinaman, 5/10) at 09:30 hours in the Ashokan Reservoir parking lot (off Rte 213) we will be serving up a healthy dose of Chinese food, grinding long climbs and watch as Braveheart disproves Newton's theory of gravity and demonstrates that a madman on a bicycle can descent faster than gravity. In fact he will attain speeds so great, creating his own gravitational force that will suck the rest of us down the hill into his vortex.
Having survived this our fearless founder, Top Chef will guide us to the altar of non racing, the espresso stop where everyone has the opportunity to fill the tank with all the rocket fuel required to make the final push back to the Ashokan parking lot. From there survivors will have the opportunity to experience fine yeasty malted IPAs and grilled cuisine at the MRC's mountain top headquarters - Casa de Top Chef.

Be assured, this WILL NOT be a painfest nor pukefest like so many of our other non races. We can guarantee a good time with none of this stuff happening -

NECS/MRC Season Finale - Chinaman 100k

And just when the mothers of the neighborhood thought it was safe to let the children back outside to play those cycle thugs of the NECS/MRC bring you the season (and what a season it was) finale - our beloved Top Chef's Chinaman 100k.
Circle 10/5 on the calendar and arrive at the Ashokan Reservoir parking lot for a 9:30 roll out and you will be in for one joyous ride and there is rumor in the air that the Rose Queen, yes Mrs Top Chef has been putting in the miles and might grace company with her presence. Moar details to follow in the coming days and make sure to pass the word via all of the social media outlets, we promise a descent that will leave your taint shut tighter than a hyperbaric chamber.

Beer Cx - The Mother Of All Non Races

P. T. Barnum you have no game when it comes to the greatest show on earth. That honor now belongs to MRC/NECS’s own Braveheart, who has morphed Beer Cross from a back alley excuse to drink and ride bikes to an amazing spectacle that left non–racers in awe and spectators with sore arms and sore ribs. When asked how he managed to pull such an extravaganza off Braveheart provided this candid response for our cameras

But before we can get into the details one must rewind the tape to earlier in the day as final preparations kicked into high gear. With Mrs C-Dubbs coming later in the day I mounted the trusty D2R2 chariot complete with flask full of Del Maguay mounted and headed off with my Sherpa pack of clothes. Having survived the massive grind up Cherry Hill Rd I arrived at the Braveheart Beer Cross compound winded but spirits buoyed by the ability to do a bit of pre non race partying. With our Master of Ceremonies picking up the final 30 bags of ice required to chill all of the beverages I did a bit of social time with Mrs Braveheart and set about finalizing preparations for the upper deck gauntlet. The arrival of Large Marge and her bounty of party supplies meant only one thing – time to head to the man cave for a Board of Directors meeting , some serious cocktailing and a bit of inspiration from the cockpit of Large Marge.

Fully inspired, Braveheart and I set about marking the local roads with the necessary signage to guide all non racers to the momentary center of the universe.

Satisfied that our mission had been accomplished the Master of Ceremony and I headed back to Rancho Malerio, parked at the man cave where further inspiration had us scrambling around like over caffeinated Chihuahuas putting on the final touches on the most feared section of any Beer Cross event – the party zone-  a place that has been know to sort the men from the boys, the women from the girls and your lunch from your stomach.

Trophy Table

Putting those cinch straps to good use

Our Host and Hostess - The King & Queen of Non Race Parties

Paul "Static Cling" LeTour

From here it was a 2 Dales Pale Ale apiece as we marked off the course of death. Right as this task was finished Top Chef arrived with Paul Le Tour and while Mr Static Cling put the final touches on his costume the full Board of Directors met in the Large Marge boardroom to discuss the course. A quick recon lap, a couple of minor alterations (I would regret these changes once the race was under way) and all that was left was the final layout of options non racers could select each lap and trust me if you went the non alcoholic route it was going to be painful.
The choices were –

• ·       Glass of Hurricane Kitty (perhaps one of the finest yeasty malted beverages)
• ·       Jalapenos
• ·       Spicy pickled pepper eggs
• ·       Sardines
• ·       English version of Twinkies
• ·       Spam

We saved putting out the Spam for last not wanting to risk spoilage in the warmer temps. Alas this would prove to make no difference, as we opened the can we were greeted with a rank odor akin to a can of soft cat food. After a couple of minutes of gagging we donned the HAZMAT suits and doled out the quantities to be consumed on each lap. Satisfied with the destruction and havoc that the party station would cause it was off to the main house for the gathering of non racers.

A final inspirational board of directors meeting in the Large Marge boardroom and it was off to the start for a final round of shots and the reading of the non race non rules.

One advantage of being a board member is knowing that non rules can’t be broken since there are no rules at a non race. While others might have been less knowledgeable on this Top Chef and I quickly plotted strategy and with Braveheart belting out “On your marks”, “Get set”, we ran for the bikes and quickly sprinted for the first stop at the party zone. 

Strategic bike placement put C-Dubbs into the lead going into the new course section through the woods but in a turn of karma kickback a stick reached up, grabbed hold of my chain and did a full nelson on the rear derailleur.

And the winner is stick

As Top Chef went past it looked like Beer Cross was over and I would be spending the balance of the event at the party zone. Then like a hot kiss at the end of a wet fist it dawned on me, this is Beer Cross and in Cx carrying your bike is a part of the race. Shouldering my ride I ran to the beer zone where TC and I toasted with a Hurricane Kitty before setting off. Earlier you will recall time was spent prepping the upper deck gauntlet, well here is how it went on the first pass through as TC did circles around a despondent Anthony Wiener who kept screaming that he had won the election and that Cindy Leathers was full of shit.

The rare New England Big Finger, a distant cousin of Big Foot and mutant offspring of Mikesquatch

With Top Chef (aka Bones) leading the charge, C-Dubbs being heckled by all non racers and unruly crowd members and the water balloon gauntlet out of ammo everyone moved to the man cave to egg on participants on their selection each lap. From what little I remember on each pass through Top Chef always seemed to be parked at the keg and was clearly enjoying the local micro brew on tap. Meanwhile the peanut gallery was constantly chanting for someone, anyone to brave one of the peppered/pickled eggs – clearly they wanted to see the Technicolor yawn that Beer Cross has become famous for. I don’t know if anyone actually opted for these but myself, I opted for the speed route through the man cave and hammered Del Maguay from the flask mounted on my bike each time through until the flask was dry at which point I turned to the jalapenos with a Hurricane Kitty chaser.

The combination of a lot of mescal, a good helping of Hurricane Kitty, countless jalapenos and a lot of running was reeking havoc with the lower regions of my belly and more than once on the descent to the bonfire pit I had to hold back the rising tide of unhappy food combinations. Noticing the screwed up look on my face our male ballerina noted how he was only able to get half a piece of Spam down before it came back up for a final look at the real world. Activity at the man cave was fierce with Mrs Top Chef (aka Hooty) having a go at the dizzy bat and careening off into the deep weeds while her team mate, Lil' Kim merely heckled all of us and encouraged mass consumption of alcoholic beverages.

With special guest timing judge, the Mayor, counting down the final minutes (the insanity went on for a full 40) the carnage continued to pile up with Lil’ Marge and the child seat crashing, Tex Obamador (the north of the border cousin of El – Obamador) blowing out his bottom bracket and parking it at the Man Cave and our WWF Death Wrestler leaving a trail of empty Dale’s around the course. With time over and everyone gathered at the man cave, it was one final drink off before heading out on the parade finish with our master of ceremonies showing the way.

As non racers milled about the bonfire consuming even moar beer and Patron the judges went about the grueling task determining the various winners (everyone was warned at the beginning that being the first across the line was no assurance of winning). When the dust finally settled and the coffee house smoke cleared, the judges came to these final conclusions –

• ·       Booby Prize and a growler of Hurricane Kitty – Lil’ Marge (I mean really, how can you non race with a child seat and not have your kid in it)
• ·       First Place Team & Women and a growler of Hurricane Kitty – Mrs Top Chef and Lil’ Kim (proof that an owl can drink and fall down)
• ·       Most Laps (and certainly most beer consumed) and a growler of Hurricane Kitty – Top Chef (everyone’s hat is off to a man that can pound them like Top Chef did still bring home the bacon)
• ·       2013 Beer Cross Champion and the new Beer Cross Trophy- the mighty Viking Helmet – C-Dubbs (thus proving the correct saying is not “walk softly and carry a big stick” rather “run drunkingly because of a little stick”)

We will leave you with these final shots and videos so that those who did make it can see what their drunken minds could not remember and those that didn’t show can cry over split milk until next year. Stay tuned for a lot of pictures but until then the final “knighting of C-Dubbs”.

Tex Obamador, Norte Americano relative of El-Obamador

The evening's festivities menu

Sweet dreams