On the Fests

Working my way to the police tape barrier I elbowed another hippie in the face, the satisfying crunch of bone disintegrating sending a pleasant shock up my arm. Stomping a too slow pair of skinny jean wearing, long haired emo wienie boys I carved myself and my friends a spot at the front of the crowd. We were here to watch the bicycle races.

Over the past week Central Oregon has played host to the Cascade Cycling Classic, a multi-stage pro bike race that during the last several years has drawn the biggest names in form fitting shorts and sore grundles, including everyone's favorite enuch, Lance Armstrong. Last night was the final race of the series, a high speed criterium oval race around the main downtown block. As the final race, with the shortest track, the biggest crowds and the most desperate racers this race promised to have the highest potential for carnage, therefore being a must-see event for the vast majority of the Bend population.

As soon as Miss Kay, Nickmate and I had established our post on the inside edge of the last turn in the oval before the finish line the spotters whistles began blowing shrilly, announcing the arrival of the pedaling horde. Vanguarded by a referee astride a flashing BMW motorcycle they began wizzing around the turn, the collective hiss of a thousand bike tires running over the pavement at speeds above 30mph sounded like nothing so much as the mother of all bee swarms, or perhaps a locust horde of apocalyptic proportions.

Eagerly I watched the tightly packed mass hurtle around the turn, the flashing colors of the crowd making me dizzy. Yet I dared not look away. Right when my hopes began to fade it happened. The best possible occurence occurred. With a twitch and a shimmy one of the central riders bikes wobbled, and went down. At the speeds they were riding, packed as tightly together as they were on the turn, his fall was unavoidably catastrophic.

Oh the violence! Bikes by the untold dozens flew through the air, the shriek of mangled carbon fiber and steel mixing with the sound of bones snapping like stale bread. Tightly dressed bodies skidded along poorly maintained central Oregonian asphault, shedding skin faster than a python special on the national geographic. Unlike the snake show, this skin did not fall off to reveal shiny fresh scales, just pulped muscles and shredded tendons and guts and black stuff. Clapping my hands hard enough to sting I laughed until tears streamed from my eyes, and I might have actually pooped myself a little.

The only thing better than seeing one skinny hippie bicycle rider eat shit is seeing an entire column of them do it, while their adoring hippie fans wail and moan and tear their dreadlocked hair out by the roots. It was a perfect night in Bend.

Or it would have been if that had actually happened. Instead what happened is we battled our way through the smelly patchouli-oiled white bread west-side bend-elites to see the promised carnage, only to watch several successful, very non violent laps by the bikers, whereupon we grew bored and fought our way down the sidewalk to Sidelines sports bar, where we enjoyed a few cold ones and some greasy fried food. Choosing to avoid the crowds upon exiting the bar Marissa and I bombed out to the old mill in our gasoline powered, smog producing motorvehicle to watch a talkie in the theatre. We saw the new Johnny Depp gangster flick. It was alright.