Bike MS 2.0: 0 for 2

A Short Ride

(Goofing around, pre-race. Note how the picture is taken with an outstretched right hand) 

NOTE: I've been told - correctly - that many of my posts are too long. I can't help it - I derive way too much enjoyment out of dissecting the little details of every-day and not-so-every-day situations. In an effort to appease those of you who are so easily distracted (put your iPhone down!), I've split this event into two posts. It was either that or not provide you with my bucket-bath strategy, post accident. The choice was easy. So enjoy part one...

This year’s Bike MS 100 mile ride was supposed to come with a healthy does of redemption. A vencing of past goals set, yet not achieved. Succeeding where I had once come up short. Last year I was young Bruce Wayne, alone at the bottom of a well after having not reached the 100-mile mark, waiting for someone, anyone to rappel down and ask me why we fall. “So that we can learn to pick ourselves up”.

This year, I endeavored to pick myself up.

And as a result, I fell harder than ever.

There are probably still parts of me on the side of the road. But let’s not spoil it and start at the beginning.

Part I: Preparation

This section will be short.

If not entirely physically prepared for the ride, I was at least in a mentally solid state leading up to it. Having missed last year’s 110-mile mark by just 22 miles (OK, that’s roughly 1/5 of the entire ride, I realize) due to a random Midwest monsoon, I was ready to push my body well beyond its limits to achieve the century mark. Quads be damned!

My training primarily consisted of riding to and from work, a straight-shot 11.5-mile ride along a little traveled auxiliary road. Twice a day, three times a week, and throw in a 20 or so ride over the weekend and I was averaging 70 – 80 miles a week. Enough mileage to trick my brain into thinking I was ready. And silver lining - unlike my morning commute, on Bike MS Day I wasn’t likely to be called an a-hole by that angry, ruddy-faced gray-haired man who drives a Jag and apparently is always late for work. If you’re that guy and reading this right now, you’re an ass. Stop reading my blog.

(Bike, bag and bottle setup I used to ride to work) 

Part II: Race Day

Told you the preparation section was going to be short. 

A pair of bat-signal-esque spotlights (yes…sticking with Batman for the moment) cut the pitch-black morning on race day, signaling to me that the day had come; it was time to pick myself up once again. As I breezed past the parking attendant motioning me away from the parking garage – volunteers only - pretending to be lost and distracted, I guided the Saturn into the spot where it would sit, untouched, for the next three days.

(Starting line, pre-dawn)  

I readied my bike, the same thick-tired hybrid from the previous year, and dropped it off near The Other Team Garmin’s loading zone, at which point I began walking around the parking lot, shaking out my nerves one squeaky spandexed step at a time. I wanted coffee so bad, but for once my brain listened to my stomach, which predicted intestinal unpleasantness. I spotted a few team members with whom I chatted briefly, but mainly kept to myself. Much like my days running on the high school track team, when it comes to individual sports, I prefer to be alone beforehand, to let my mind psychologically assault my body in hopes of turning butterflies into adrenaline. Sometimes it works.

To keep to myself without being a jerk, I put in my ear buds, though I didn’t hit “play”. Preparing for what I imagined would be a lonely, at-my-own-pace ride, I loaded an audiobook onto my iPod. I chose one of the “Castle” books, a clever spin-off from the show of the same name, which I enjoy. I didn’t expect to keep up with my teammates, all of whom had fancy road bikes with sexy, slim tires. Yet I still had to be entertained, or my mind would roam to unimaginable places during what I predicted would be an 8+hour ride. My brain would hurt more than my hammies.

I was pleased to see the sun peeking over the building I spend so much time in, as it signified the beginning of the race. I positioned myself with my team, headphones jammed in my ears, watching the 8 or so groups of similarly spandexed bikers roll out before us. I’ve completed a handful of what I consider endurance events, and after each one has begun, I am overwhelmed with a sense of relief. Relief that this event that I (should have) trained for for so long is finally here. No more imagining how it will go. No more freaking out over my diet and training schedule. No more guilty feelings after downing a handful of Skittles, just because they’re there. It’s race time.

(Assorted spandex-wearing Other Team Garmin members at the start)

I figured I would stay with the group for the first 10 miles or so, then branch out on my own once everyone began settling into a rhythm. At that point, I’d hit “play” and let Castle narrate me towards the finish line. It’d be the best sort of cycling partner – one that I can shut up at a moment’s whim, or just listen to for hours on end, with no expectation of conversation.  

It seemed like a solid plan, and as I sidled next to my pal Tommy, my 65+mile partner from the previous year, I was feeling great. Though it was chilly, after a few miles I was almost fully thawed out, appreciating the rising sun on my face. I would be cold again, very, very soon.

Part III: Disaster

With a capital "D"! 

Chatting with Tommy about I have no freaking idea what, we hit a downhill stretch roughly four miles in that propelled us down the road at 27 miles per hour, dewy grass whizzing by my peripherals. The precise speed and distance are permanently etched into my brain because - and I can’t underestimate the importance of what I’m about to say here – they marked the exact point, time and place on the time-space continuum that my bike drifted off of the road, onto gravel and into the weedy un-mowed grass. No big deal, right?

 (Taken mere moments before the crash. Notice 1) the gravel, 2) the thick, unkempt grass and most importantly, 3) the fact that I was taking pictures of my own shadow while riding a bike. Distraction much?)

In an instant my bike came to a screeching halt, the momentum from the bike transferred to my body, ejecting my ass off the bike’s seat, my hands white-knuckled the handlebars as I performed a (probably graceful) moving “endo”. My grip became dislodged from the bars, my back and butt hit the ground simultaneously, I skidded until my helmet hit a crunched up Natural Light can, and my collarbone went “CRUNCH!!!” Or something like that – it all happened so fast. As of yet, no witnesses have come forth. 

Instinctively I un-mangled myself from the position that I landed in – think chalk-outline dead guy in an 80’s buddy cop film – and got on my knees. Holy shit, what just happened? My brain was racing, trying to unlock the mystery, clues all around me. As I attempted to get up, I felt a twinge of pain in my left knee. Tommy had pulled over roughly a hundred yards ahead and was gesturing to me, asking if I was OK. I gave him what he must have translated as a meth-head stare, ignored his inquiry, and reached with my right hand towards my knee to assess the damage. Knives entered my shoulder as I felt the sound of celery braking! What the hell was that?

  

Stuck navigating the wreckage – my wreck – with so much fog in my head, it took a few seconds before I realized how to proceed without antagonizing the beast. Left hand reached up this time, began on the outside of my right shoulder, traced it towards my neck and holy crap, my collarbone was broken!

Didn’t even need a second opinion as I stood there, frozen, starting to comprehend the severity of what had happened, while hundreds, if not thousands, of cyclists sped by, shouting “You OK?”; “Got what you need?”; “Did you just break your collarbone, dumbass?”. I kicked the crunched Natural Light can, glad that at least part of my body was functioning properly. The crunching sound it made gave me even more chills.

 (VIDEO: Footage from the aftermath of the wreck. 15 seconds in, look on the right side of the road and you'll see my attempting to get on my feet.)

By the time Tommy reached me and realized that I was actually pretty bad off, he made the wise suggestion to call the support number on the orange bracelet we were all given, but that he almost left in his car. Mine was wrapped around my handlebars - not that I was cognizant enough to point that out to him.

Admirably, Tommy waited at my side while the support vehicle was hailed. I felt bad that his race-day experience was being affected because I forgot how to ride a bike. That he stood by my side as the hundreds and hundreds of cyclists – remember, this was only 4 miles into a century ride – wheeled past us. His ride would be tougher as a result of this delay. But I was grateful to him as I stood there, because I could feel my body going into shock, which for me manifested itself in the form of dizziness and an aching desire to barf.

I got down on a knee and did my best to ignore EVERYTHING around me, choosing to focus on just one thing: not puking. I could feel the waves of shock reverberate through my body, stemming from the top of my head, down my chest and through to my numb toes. I was able to stand, shakily, as the support car arrived. I waved Tommy off and thanked him profusely. He would eventually catch up to another member of the Team and finish the 100-mile course in great shape. I was sincerely glad for him. And a bit jealous, too.

My mind increasingly foggy, two older gentlemen approached me, made me sign a form (didn’t even think to ask them what it was), and began the uncomfortable and painstaking process of trying to bandage my right arm in a make-shift sling. You know when you take a general First Aid class, and they teach you to make a sling out of a triangle of cloth? They missed that class. They were overly gracious though, and kept me talking, trying to distract my focus from the sound of broken bones grinding against each other. 

After a few minutes had passed – and another couple hundred cyclists – my sling was as good (or bad) as it was going to get. I wandered out of the shade because my fingers had also gone numb and I realized that these guys weren’t going to be taking me anywhere – they were some sort of Tier 1 support. I was so jacked up on adrenaline, I stopped trying to understand the situation and just assumed it would work out. My ride eventually materialized in the form of another volunteer driving a maroon pick-up truck. He, like so many others throughout this ordeal, instinctively greeted me with his right hand outstretched, then realizing his folly, retracted it sheepishly. I told him it was no problem, made an awkward "fist-bump" reference, and then we headed to his truck.

He was nice enough to gather the strewn debris of my accident and stuff it in my bike bag. As I walked to the truck, my lower right back began to throb. Awkwardly reaching for it with my left hand, I realized that my Pentax camera (waterproof, dust-proof, mud-proof and most importantly, shock-proof) was still in the back pocket of my bike jersey, and had borne the brunt of my fall. Later on, examining the damage to my jersey, you can clearly see the size and shape of the camera lens, as painted in grass stains. And it still takes pictures.

(Grass stains highlighting my camera lens)

I was driven past Garmin HQ and to the Olathe Hospital, which was just a few miles away. I was fortunate – if you can call it that – to have crashed so early on in the race: I didn’t need an ambulance; the hospital was close-by; volunteers were probably still in that early-day, overly-helpful mood. I chatted a bit, but mostly I tried to replay what had happened. I was in a state of legitimate disbelief. I was not heading to the hospital. My bike wasn’t on the back of this guy’s truck. My bones weren’t grinding against each other with every loose turn. None of this was happening. Right?

As we pulled into the emergency drop-off zone at the hospital, I had two realization: 1) this was the first time I’ve actually been dropped off at the hospital by a stranger (felt like a movie), and 2) my wallet was in a backpack headed for Lawrence, and inside it was my insurance information. All I had was my driver’s license, a credit card and three Clif bars. It was a rare instance where, as an adult, I had absolutely no idea what to do. My mind-fog prevented me from reaching any reasonable conclusion quick enough, so I simply went to the counter, pushed my credit card and license through the slot and told the attendant, “I’ve broken my collarbone and don’t have my insurance card.”

(Screenshot of my ride. Click the link below to relive it. 4 miles out, 4 back to Garmin, 4 to the Hospital and 4 more back to Garmin)

http://connect.garmin.com/activity/231525432

Turns out it wasn’t a huge deal after all, and I was whisked away to be examined, have x-rays taken (not as painful as a dislocated elbow, but still not fun), given a goofy-looking “immobilization device” and painkiller, then sent on my way. Nobody there disputed my diagnosis – in fact, the doctor clarified that the break was not a clean one, but over time the bones would heal and I’d have a bump there, but all would be just fine. He recommended I see a specialist for a second opinion. I planned to take it up on it.

Fortunately I had been able to call Melody when the doctor was examining my x-ray. Talking to her had been hard enough, but I was relieved that she left work immediately to pick me up even though - and I can’t really understand why I did this - I told her that I’d be fine and I didn’t need her to come to the hospital. No backup plan. I was obviously still not thinking correctly.

  

Until this point, I hadn’t had time to feel like and idiot or begin to consider the long-term implications of this sort of injury. The emotional gravity of the accident snuck up on me as I began to leave the emergency room. 

Seeing Melody sitting there in the waiting room hit me like a Mac truck. There’s no handbook for what to do or say when you see a loved one in such a vulnerable state. Or in my case, meekly standing there, eyes dopy from drugs, wearing only biker shorts, shoes and socks, my jersey draped over my shoulders don-style, arm in a sling, chest exposed, hair greasy and disheveled, emotionally unstable. Seeing her made it real. Others – people I know – would now know about this. Both of us were on the verge of tears, so I just leaned into her with my good shoulder and let her hug awkwardly hug me. It was as heavy a moment as we’ve had together. 

Stay tuned for the epilogue, which focuses on drugs, before-and-after x-ray images, doctors, naps, many shirtless images, hours and hours of TV and the stunning resolution to the bucket-bath issue mentioned at the top.

US Soccer

My National Pastime...

(Way to ruin our romantic, patriotic moment, Alexi!)

A perfect Saturday for me does not involve watching eight hours – just two games worth - of college football; a great Sunday doesn’t mean plopping myself on the couch with a coffee for ESPN NFL pre-game, followed by the noon game, the three game, the post-games highlight recap show, then steak and wine for the Sunday night game. Waste of time.

Ever since I was a kid – dating back to the time when I actually liked “American” football (I'm taking an active stance against this now) – I have always associated great weekends with ones when the US National Soccer team plays. My memories of watching these games date back to sometime between 1990 and 1992, when relative unknown’s like Tab Ramos, Marcelo Balboa, Cobi Jones, Eric Wynalda and Alexi Lalas, who is pictured above, ruining, with his red ginger beard, the one picture of me where I’m not making a stupid face. Whose the jackass now, Melody!

There’s something great about being a long-time fan of the US Soccer Team. They’ve never been great, though they have pulled off a few great victories, most recently against Italy and Mexico, on foreign soil. Those nail-biters turn euphoria-jackers make up for the ridiculous number of silly losses or 1 – 1 ties against the likes of Jamaica, Ecuador and The Virgin Islands (maybe not a real team). They are – and have always been – a maddening bunch.

What makes their exploits fun is that they convene only every couple of months, depending on the tournaments going on in a particular year, play a few games, then hop on planes and disburse to their club teams. It’s never the same group of guys, but if you watch them enough, you’ll pick up on the names. The look and feel of the team is constantly changing, and with each iteration, hope springs from within long-time enthusiasts like myself.

One of the greatest – certainly most memorable – moments of my childhood was watching not the US team, but the German team play in the 1994 World Cup. Sweating through our clothes in the swampy upper deck of the Cotton Bowl in Dallas, my family and I were tiny white specs of foam in a roaring sea of blue-chested, face-painted South Korean fans. They didn’t care that their team was playing a tournament favorite, nor that no matter how loud they cheered, we’d never understand what the hell they were chanting.

They yelled and screamed until sweaty blue flecks of paint spattered those around them. When my then-hero, Jurgen Klinsmann (I’ll let you guess which team he played for) netted two early goals, I was resigned to celebrating on the inside, so as to not unnecessarily offend my new, passionate friends from the other side of the globe.

South Korea netted two second-half goals to bring the score to 3-2 (all five goals were scored on the opposite side of the pitch, unfortunately), making the last half-hour a tense affair in which the strong German side was in danger of dropping a few points to the plucky Koreans, whose fans, by the end of the game, had all but converted The Brantners (oh us of very German heritage). But it was not to be; Germany held on for a 3-2 victory in one of the better games of the tournament. No, the best game of the tournament for us at least, because after seeing a World Cup game in person, even having today’s digital television technology in the early 90's would have still been inferior.

I wandered off topic from the US team, but with good purpose. Jurgen Klinsmann, who scored twice in the only World Cup game I’ve seen in person, my favorite soccer player as a kid (though I rooted for the US team, but they never fielded a player of Jurgen’s quality or manliness), had now become the head coach for the US team. After only about 8 years of courtship.

(Jurgen - literally my favorite German-born US coach) 

The team hosted an open practice at LIVESTRONG Sporting Park, home of Sporting KC. Not expecting too much entertainment – not wanting it really, as I was nursing a hangover – Melody and I spent a few hours in the stands, chilly, watching Jurgen run the dudes through some drills. It was neat to see them interact with each other, goofing off as I once did with my club and high school teams, and as I assume all teams from rec leagues to the pro's do.

With a serious game in a few days, this was more of a shake-out-the-nerves practice - the players didn’t even wear shin guards. Jurgen addressed the crowd, as did SKC coach, and former US team member, Peter Vermes. Though not full-speed, what did amaze us was the technical skill of some of the players, primarily when messing around and juggling between drills. Simply mind-boggling, the control they have.

(Dreams do come true)

After the brief session, the players practiced their victory lap and we took off. After seeing them practice, I realized that if I had seriously pursued soccer after high school, there’s a great chance I could have kept up. With the guys shagging errant shots and taping calves.

 (VIDEO: Check out Jurgen finishing what his players can't)

To the game at hand, the US had to beat or tie Guatemala to ensure passage into the next qualifying round for the World Cup. Because of a silly first-round tie to Guatemala on the road, and a first-ever loss to Jamaica in Kingston, they had again, maddeningly, not coasted through the easiest of groups. Unless you count pasting the thoroughbreds from Antigua and Barbuda.

Were we nervous? No. Were we kinda nervous? Yeah, a bit. As a US fan you have to be optimistic, but fear the worst. But with a full A-team squad, minus only Landon Donovan, we had a decided advantage.

I was able to get a large group to enjoy the game with me – ten of us in the end. My brother Eric made the 5 hour drive from Oklahoma City for the game, which, if you ask me, is a decent thing to do. Being on a school night, we didn’t want to account for planning a tailgate, so instead we hit up The Yardhouse, our sometimes post-SKC game bar. Enjoying beautiful weather on their outdoor patio, we drowned our pre-game nerves into thick, dark, foamy stouts and lettuce wraps.

(Eric and I pre-game - this is taken from an odd angle, he's not really that much taller than me)

As we headed to the stadium, we were escorted by thousands of flag-waving, face and chest painted US soccer fans of all ages. The stadium filled up quickly, and once player introductions began, the sell-out crowd seemed to move as one, a unified sea of red, white and blue, pulsating and shifting with the very strong winds that night.

(Sneaking a patriotic shot with an unknowing fan's flag)

(Nice Pants)

(Sold out!) 

Our seats were within an penalty kick of the ESPN telecast table, at which sat ESPN anchor Bob Ley, former US team standout goalie Casey Keller, and, you guessed it, ginger himself, Alexi Lalas. A polarizing player due to his long red mane and scraggly goatee – not to mention his reckless and sometimes flawed style of play – more than a few heavily-imbibed fans strode past us yelling something that rhymed with “Alexi Lallas, you suck!” Maybe it was specifically that.

(Two of these guys, in the mind of the soccer public, do not suck) 

The highlight of the game for me took place not on the field, but rather on the stairs near the booth, when on my way to purchase a Guinness I made direct and non-creepy eye contact with Casey Keller. I gave him a pointer and mouthed out “You the man”. He simply responded by returning my pointer, and arching his eyebrows in a manner that suggested that not he, but rather I, was the man. That’s right, Casey Keller and I had a broment.

(As any true US fan knows, emotions can change in an instant) 

The on-the-field action was amazing. Other than the stunning 4^th minute Guatemalan goal, that is. Defense broke down and Tim Howard uncharacteristically let a guy make him look like a fool. Way too many blue-and-white-clad fans of the Central American not-quite-powerhouse sprang up from their seats, filling the stadium with a raucous cheer that the majority of the attendees had never expected to hear. At least not this soon.

(SKC was ROCKING!)

The fiesta would end soon however, as minutes later SKC star, and recent US team call-up, Graham Zusi sent a corner kick into the box, which was volleyed about until good-ole Captain Dreamy (Melody’s terms, not mine – though no dispute here) Carlos Bocanegra poked it into the net. In my elation, and still recovering from a right-side collarbone injury, I experienced a temporary moment of insanity and put Melody into what can only be described as a serious headlock. But now that she’s a fan of the team – in part because of the “dreamy” players thing – she understood that all was good. Even if her words said the opposite. 

(This guy is hot)

(Zusi: not as hot as Bocanegra) 

Next, Melody’s favorite piece of eye-candy, Clint Dempsey, netted a brace (that’s soccer for two goals) to put the game out of reach. The Guatemalans were overmatched and outplayed in all aspects of the game, even hustle, which is where the US sometimes falters. After a few stoppage-time minutes, the whistle blew and the US was securely into the next round.

(Victory Lap)

The players took another victory lap – this time a legitimate one, and the crowd stayed for a while to cheer them on. In what quite possibly was the funniest moment of the night, Clint Dempsey even took the time to pose with a super-creative fan’s oversized head poster of him giving the stank eye. 

(Clint Dempsey, the human bobble-head) 

Scrolling through recaps of the game the following day, I read that this was just the third time the US National Team had played in Kansas City. I attended last year’s win over Guadalupe – a 1-0 victory that should have been 7-0 – as well as the 2001 game against Costa Rica, though I missed half of that game because I didn’t own a GPS device at the time.  

I’ve attended every single US game played in Kansas City, all three of them victories. Chad as well, and my brothers have made it out to two of them apiece, even though they don’t live here. Rumor has it that this game was a tryout to see if the stadium would be a good venue for a larger, even more important, matchup, say, against the likes of Mexico. If so, I’ll pony up the cash once again, ceremoniously put on my US jersey, invite the crew and let the party begin. Because if El Tri thinks they’ll walk out of Sporting Park with a victory, they’re muy incorrecto!

Sublette, KS

Doing Manly Things in Western Kansas

(I dare you to argue with this guy)

Too many times, when a weekend excursion is being considered, we waste time on the little things such as logistics, schedules and planning. We get bogged down in the details of an event, and thus risk sucking the fun out of it. We remove the opportunity for something great and unexpected to cross our path by meticulously organizing the who's, the what's and the where's. Not in Western Kansas. 

Not in Sublette. 

Ever heard of it, yeah I thought not. When you ask for directions and the response is, "Go past Dodge City", you know you're headed to no-man's land. But alas, I do know a man who calls Sublette his home. This man went to college with me and owns his own construction company. He loves KU hoops, hates sober dancing, and runs a tight ship. He is Hef. And he lives in the middle of freaking nowhere. 

Jaron, Ashley (Hef's sister) and I decided to team up and make an impromptu trip to visit him out there, along with fellow Hefners Jordan and Whitney. Whitney's a schoolteacher in Moscow and Jordan has his own agricultural spraying business in Sublette. All the good citizenry of Sublette know the pair by name, making them the Kennedy's of their own town, just more masculine and less concerned about physical appearance. Which is exactly why it's a blast to visit them. 

(You know you've made it when your name is on buildings and dunebuggys)

After a relatively quite night eating at "The Restaurant", we watched some Olympics then shut it in before midnight. We wanted to save energy for what was going to be a busy day, and we needed some rest after a lovely seven hour car ride. This was smart though, as our next opportunity for shut-eye was Sunday at three in the morning. 

Coffee and some waxy donuts set the stage for our first country endeavor: Shooting. For the second time in a month, I fired firearms. I'm basically a gunsman. If I was seeking manliness the last time I sprayed some lead (do people actually say this?), then this time, I was solidifying it. See below. I'm doing no less than 7 manly things, all at the same time:

1) Holding a "tactical"

2) Looking like I know how to use it

3) Wearing a trucker's hat

4) Wearing shades

5) Sporting a beard

6) Unkempt hair

7) V-Neck t-shirt (of questionable manliness here, I'll admit)

(Could be a pic out of the classic action flick, The Rock)

We got our gun on at the classic I-live-in-the-country gun range: a field. Hef's buddy has a dirt mount arranged, as well as a variety of wooden and metal targets. All we needed was a table and, like, nine guns.

(The menu)

The girls were decorating Whitney's classroom - the complete opposite of manliness, I must say - so we met up with Hef's buddy Michael and his wife Chelsea at "the range". At our own pace and speed, we loaded clips, then unloaded the shells into the targets...or near the targets. There was always a watchful eye so those less familiar with weaponry (I'm looking at you, Greg) had a safety valve to lean on. Below is an amalgam of awesome shooting pics, a virtual shooting gallery, if you will:

(Is that clip aftermarket, Jaron?)

And of course, my favorite, our Secret Service shot:

And that was our morning...

During lunch, talk shifted towards how we'd occupy ourselves in the afternoon. With no clear winners being talked about, Hef proclaimed, "Why don't we go to the Dunes?". It was a great question. There was no good reason we shouldn't. It wasn't planned, but with the Hefner's trailer full of toys, it'd be a pretty quick process to head on out. So that's what we did. 

(Warning: this trailer contains awesomeness)

We headed over to Jordan's place, where we grabbed the four four-wheelers and his dunebuggy, then loaded them into their trailer. The trailer, built up from the inside, has residing in it all of the amenities one would need for a sweet dunes trip: helmets, gloves, boots, gasoline, spare parts, flags, straps and even a garbage can. All labeled, and in their proper resting position. It's a work of art. 

Michael and Chelsea met us at the Syracuse Sand Dunes Park, where we unloaded the rides, geared up and set out towards the sand. 

With relatively few hiccups, we were out and shredding in a moment's time. I've written about our adventures on the sand here, so there's no need to fully describe how it went. Needless to say, it was as badass as could be expected. With less people - our group comprised of five four-wheelers and on dunebuggy that seated two - we were quicker and more nimble as a group than in times past. 

There was one coming-of-age incident, however. In a never-before-seen display of manliness, I rolled my bike. Up a sand dune, I saw the action slowing down and decided to cut it right...moments before I hit a ridge. The four-wheeler rolled over me, burying half my body in the sand, its hind wheel repeatedly whapping my hind quarters as wormed my way out. No broken bones, no dislocated elbows, no strains or sprains...I was just left with a nice scrape on my lower back and an Eye of Sauron-looking bruise along my right thigh. Currently it has more colors than a Bob Ross happy sky. I feel very manly (except when I roll over and agitate the scrape). 

We hit it hard for a few hours - another advantage of rolling light - then packed it in. It was a great day to ride, and even though the muscles are always sore afterwards, it's a great feeling to be out there, kicking ass. Monday's go by so much better, when there's recent memories of fresh sand in the brain. 

The awesomeness did not stop, though, as we cleaned up and grabbed some delicious mexican food, and drowned in gigantic margaritas. Then, with nothing better to do on a Saturday night in Garden City, we went to Sammy's, which caters to three demographics: 1) people who stay in hotels, 2) people who eat steak and 3) people who like disco. Yes, it's a hotel/steak house/disco all in one. A marketing guy's nightmare. 

We did not dance, though the people watching was an Olympic event in itself. Lots of inappropriate grinding and too-tight shirts; quite a few mullets and mustaches; a drunken batch of bridesmaids; and a healthy variety of rap, latin and pop music. It's almost worth the seven hour drive, all in itself. 

By this point in the night, Ashley and Witney had rejoined the fracas, and we took turns ordering round after round for each other. We were headed to Michael and Chelsea's to crash, so what did we care? Besides, some of us had major muscle discomfort by this point in the night, and needed a natural numbing agent. 

So when the lights came on just before two, we almost headed home before detouring to IHOP. This makes the second time as an adult I've eaten there past 2am. The first time occurred at this very same IHOP the last time I was at Sammy's. Maybe it's something in the drinks. Or the air...it does have a faint odor of manure just about anywhere you go. 

And that was our day; not a bad one at all. And not a single bit of it planned. I guess amazing things just tend to fall into place when you're with the right people, in the right place, wherever in the world that may be. So next time you're in the middle of nowhere...look for a Hefner. I'm sure they'll show you a good time.

To view the rest of the photos, click here: Cool Sublette Photo Gallery