Urban Assault Ride St. Louis: Adult education vs. mid life crisis.

Sunday, I took part in the New Belgium Urban Assault Ride in St. Louis with my teammate.  If you are not familar with the ride, it's essentially a cross-town scavenger hunt/alley cat race that begins with a Le Mans style start.  Various checkpoints are located and tasks accomplished for the accumulation of token beads to signify completion of the entire route.  It was while waiting for the starting gun that would signal our sprint for the bikes that I managed to snap this picture.

If you look closely at this photograph, you will notice two fellow riders who are emoting expressions that matched what I was feeling at that very moment.

Having managed to actually survive the race, I still awoke this morning with a back so wracked in pain that there was no concievable way I would be riding my bike to work.  I believe I was about 75% of the way through the castle-shaped, inflatable bounce house at the finish line of the race when a disk in my lumbar spine decided it was no longer taking any of this nonsense and thus decided to check out.  At any rate, as I climbed into my car this morning, a stench overtook me so reminiscent of my old high school locker room, that I had the sudden urge to look for my jock strap and check it for Icy Hot.  I attribute the colorful blend of aromas emanating from my car to the following things that remained in it from the previous day, well cooked by the afternoon sun and left to marinate overnight:

1. My muddy socks and shoes from the piggy-back polo competition that occured through a swamp at the Big Shark check point in which my teammate both dry humped and goaded me on with his CrankBrother cleats.  Next time, you are on the bottom, my friend.

2. My chamois and jersey that were soaking wet from the swim across the Holiday Inn pool mystery checkpoint, also wadded up and tucked in next to the aforementioned shoes and socks in the back of the car.

3.  The still-lingering smell of the foot long gas station burrito and ENTIRE gallon of milk my teammate tried to consume on the drive home, despite the 93 degree temperature outside.


Despite this, considering the post-race activities, the event could be considered a "success," by which of course I mean that the New Belgium Brewery sold a tremendous amount of beer.  (This makes me happy, as I'm a big fan of New Belgium beer).  And by post-race activites, of course, I'm referring to the game in which someone bends over with a plunger between their legs such that the handle is pointing backwards, and a complete stranger must place a PVC tube onto the erect stick with only their thighs, thus assuming the ever-popular "modele du chien" which is French for "the style of the doggie".

Yes, the days of the old "get-to-know-you" game of passing an orange between partners with your neck is now apparently considered old-fashioned in favor of the currently in vogue "doggy-style-stick and tube" game.  And thankfully, some took this opportunity to teach their children some all-important life lessons regarding the "birds and the bees", or the "sticks and tubes" as it were.

(Behold the power of beer son....this too shall be you in a few years).

And speaking of small children learning from acts of drunken debauchery, I think it's worthwhile to note that it was a COMO family that took both 1st and 2nd place in the family competition AND second place in the bike-limbo competition.  Big congrats to the Overshiners!

And as if it weren't enough that I had willingly subjected myself to the indignity of being ridden like a mule, suffered at the hands of an inflatable castle and possibly irreversibly permeated my car with the stench of my teammate's cheap microwaved burrito and milk mid-afternoon snack, it was upon my return to COMO at the end of the day that I discovered that partaking in such events might be the manifestation of some mid-life crisis I'm suffering. Individuals like me have actually been named with the acronym "Mamil" or a Middle-Aged Man In Lycra according to the BBC News Magazine.

"Flashy sports cars are out, now no mid-life crisis is complete without a souped-up road bike. Why?

The article outlines some of the distinguishing characteristics of the "mamil" including:  #1 being male (check), #2 being between the age of 35 and 44 (check), and #3 lusting after Pinarello Dogmas (check).  No mention was made regarding playing "sticks and tubes" or fully-clothed cannon-balling a Holiday Inn swimming pool....but I don't think they bode well either.  Who knew having a mid-life crisis could be this much fun?