Knock-Knock-Knockin’ on Heaven’s Gate

11 May 2012 | No Comments | posted by admin | in Blog

 

I’m going to come right out and say it: I love me some End Times. The pageantry, the potential for amphibian-based weather phenomena, the suddenly driverless Hummers. It all gives me an uh-oh feeling in my bathing suit area. That’s why I was especially stricken with the eschatology jollies when I heard that the good folks at Velodirt were going to reprise their Rapture ride in the desperately remote mountains outside of Yamhill, Oregon.

Meant to coincide with crazy coot Harold Camping’s prediction for the end-of-days, last year’s inaugural edition was the highlight of the cycling calendar for those lucky enough to make the cut. Imagine if you will: Hunter S. Thompson and Jack London drink a sixer of Four Loko. They put together  a Gran Fondo. In Borneo. That was the first Velodirt Rapture in a nutsack. A lot of man vs nature /man vs man / man vs stupid Hutchinson Bulldogs, frozen hands and a fucking minipump. And maybe throw some locally-produced beefsticks in the mix. Just for flavor.

When I first learned that the Rapture was happening again, I had an epiphany. Which I think is Greek for when you get stung by a bee and then have a boner for like alot more than six hours, which the doctors tell you should be somewhat fatal but often turns out pretty okay. But it is also means an idea that comes to you like lightning. Which this did. “Rapture,” said the thing I read. And then I went into full free-association mode:

“Biggie Smalls wrestling a bald eagle!

Holiday gift paper that doesn’t ask for permission before it touches you in your no-no place!

Disembodied mom jeans on the 405 freeway!”

And then I remembered this:

The Heaven’s Gate doomsday cult.

These duders and duder-ettes were hard to the mu’fuckin’ core, and on my level on so many levels. Fixation with UFOs and early Star Trek? Check. Affinity for name brand athletic footwear? Check. A penchant for matching sweatsuits that would make the cast of The Sopranos reconsider their fashion choices? Check. Mate.

 

But, alas. If you want to buy a team’s-worth of purple Nikes and athletic apparel in Portland for a May cycling event you have to have that shit locked down by the previous April. We are far too lazy for that shit. I mean, c’mon. I just got around to putting those sweet anodized purple Kooka cranks I got in 1996 on my hardtail race bike. Square Taper 4 Life, Bitches.

Back to the Velodirt Rapture. It took place outside of Yamhill, Oregon. A town once renown for its papermill,  Yamhill is now the largest exporter of sad, coffee-related wordplay in the continental U.S. Mourn you til I join you, Yamhill.

But this is a bicycling-associated social media platform. What about the 4000-word diatribes on the struggles one undergoes when turning pedals purely for recreation? Where are the masturbatory, monochromatic photo essays? The self-congratulatory recounting of that one time someone got a flat and the Sprinter van was still five minutes out?

Fuck it. We got weird, lit shit on fire and then drew a dong with a light stick and a long-exposure camera. That’s how we party.

A huge thanks to the fine folks at Velodirt for another amazing event. We’ve said it time and time again: They put on the most consistently mind-blowing, well-executed, challenging cycling events we’ve ever taken part in. We would follow them to Siberia in January, Death Valley in August, or Beaverton….whenever. Class acts all the way. Chapeau, Velodirt. If it wouldn’t violate the terms of our parole we would totally take you across county lines and make you ours.