!Cinco de Mayo Taco Ride! (firsto "!" upside-downo, you bastard!)

May 6, 2011

I was so excited to get out to my first Thursday night taco ride of the season that I got to the trailhead parking area early and eased the 'tro into my sub-compact car sized parking stall with an alacrity that was clearly startling to the many leisurely and/or casual bicyclists that went about their preparations with a lack of franticness that caused my own franticity to leap several rungs higher on the tall, windblown ladder of excitement. I fumbled ineffectually at my front brake caliper which had somehow become maladjusted during its incarceration in my trunk while waiting impatiently for our arrival upon the glorious Wabash Trace Trail.

My friend Ben showed up with an impatience that I felt was akin to my own doggish enthusiasm. He handed me a space-age device known elegantly as a “multi-tool.” I set my Snickers Bar conveniently atop the hood of my vehicle of unusual parkability. After I had finally adjusted the brake I turned back for what I felt would be a well-earned candy bar reward only to find that the damn thing had slithered out of its heated wrapper and slid off the hood like a half-baked chocolaty snail.

Rich showed up and we were off!
We rode forwards at speeds that stunned many of the passengers aboard their erratically ambling cycles of the bi persuasion. Someone had lit a fire under my ass, and his name was Negra Modelo.

Yes, I had a hankerin’ for some smooth, full-bodied refreshment at the lovely oasis-settlement known as Margeritaville. I busted out a lime and sliced it to add some class to our drinks and kicked back to soak in the festive vibe. I stumbled spastically towards some costumed celibrators and snapped their photo with the shamelessness of a paparazzi.

Then I met the owner of a one-year old bicycle shop who had publicized a “Surly de Mayo” event that was happily co-existing with the usual Taco Riding.

I was not prepared for the onslaught of this fleet of Surliness that had dropped anchor here in our little port of bicycling non-hipness. I staggered around in bewilderment, snapping photos blindly, slicing limes and flinging beer about in a fit of pseudoreligious dorkstacy.

When I collapsed onto my comfortable Old Bastard, I gradually eased myself back into a state of near normalcy.

I gazed meditatively at a meandering creek, stilling my mind and preparing for the next leg of our ride.

Well when we made it to Mineola we were very hungry, and Ben had started gnawing on his arm and slobbering uncontrollably. I awkwardly introduced myself to a group of slightly older diners and asked if we could share their table. Management appeared and did not appease Ben's hopeful hunger by taking his taco order. Instead, we were informed that you've got to put your name in. We finished our drinks mournfully and slunk out of the bustling steakhouse.

We fled the persecution of non-service back out onto the trail. This was not the promised land we had been promised! We sped hungrily down the trail towards the mystical town of Silver City. Why, I had heard that they made burritos there the size of a strong, strapping lad's calf! We finally arrived at our newly-acquired goal: the beautiful Austin's on the Trail bar and grill.

No crowd, no other bicyclists, in fact.

We placed our order and Rich heroically dispatched a plate of extreme spiciness stuffed with chicken meat in order to procure his status as a living legend in this superstitious town of questionable repute.

He got a t-shirt and his picture on the coveted Wall of Flame!
We pedaled hurriedly back towards our starting point with full bellies and hearts. Nor did we heed the siren calls of the libertines lining the trail like a tunnel of illusionary confessionals. We barged steadfastly onwards, one part youthful exuberance, another part elderly impatience. Chilled to perfection and salted to taste. !Saludo! (Uno "!" flippitio inverto, you bastard!)