The Mountainaire, The Mayhem, Missing the Turkey Butt

It's done.  I moved out of Flagstaff, and more specifically, Northern Arizona with no intention of returning for any time period longer than 2 weeks.  That's not to say that La NorAz isn't a marvelous place, it's just time for something new.  New stuff is always better, or so our current economic platform says...

At the same time, it's not done.  I'm still about halfway to Montana and currently in the process of taking to long way.  By the long way, I mean I drove to Reno to hang out with friends, family, and some of the hills and lakes I grew up in for a few weeks before puttzing into Missoula.  I need more time to grow my beard out and find a well used pair of Carhartt  over-alls anyway.  More on this later.

I tried to fill my last few days in Flagtopia with as many activities as possible, without making it feel like some contrived effort at checking things off of a "Lasts" list the way a mom might rush through Safeway while running late for her kid's first violin recital, ripping things off the shelves and slashing her shop list.  When lists make people act in such a manner, they're best left at home.   Thus, I tried to jam all the time without ever creating a sense of urgency.  It's a tough line to walk, especially if one want's to keep one's friends updated with witty, emotionally charged Facebook status updates.

After my last day of work, I went on a sick-gnasty shred with most of the Absolute Bikes crew.  We rode my favorite trail, Overlook, with enough beer and whiskey stashed in water bottles and CamelBaks to keep the most seasoned alcoholics (Eric and Noodlz) well lubricated.  It sprinkled on us for a majority of the climb up, and stayed nice and cloudy for the downhill.  That little bit of rain was just enough to keep the dust down and make the trails pretend to be Velcro, yet at the same time, none of the rock moves were slippery.  Hella Tacky, all around!

(the crew)

Post-ride, after more beer, Eric, Ray, New Adam, and I ended up at Rallie-B's, as it is the only Mexican joint open in Flag-istan around 10:30 in the P.M.  The Carne Asada tacos gave me midget stomach, but they couldn't be beat.

The following morning (Monday), Pollard and I took our dogs down to the creek so that we could swim around, get sunburned, and convince our skeptical dogs to play in the water.  We left when we realized that the monsoons were building up.  Our timing was exquisite, as the sky started to throw water and lightning everywhere about 41 minutes after we left.  During the Sunday Shop Shred, we had decided to put on an impromptu installment in the Mountainaire Mayhem series, so at around 7 in the P.M, Danny H., Noodlz, Eric, Tall Kyle, and I filled backpacks with beers (this seems to be a pretty common theme and tubes, installed protective head gear and lights, and mounted our ShitBox-SteezeMachines for a quick pedal out to the Mountainaire Tavern.  The weather seemed daunting (it was hot and humid) at first, but became more and more pleasant as the night progressed.  Everyone seemed mellow for a bike ride with Mayhem in the name, but that all changed when we got to the Tavern.  J-rad and the Mercruiser met us out there, and we immediately began do demolish pitchers of beer and mass quantities of fried food (by the way, the fried veggie platter come highly recommended).  By the end of the night, we were making friends with Mike, the lonely gentleman escaping his mundane life in an isolated corner of the bar, and a young-ish couple whose names I forget, who wanted to escape their isolated house in the mundane bar.  Eventually we got some beers to go, and remounted the SteezeMachines and hammered back to Flagstaff.  It is at this point in the story that the Mayhem begins.  Corners were drifted, bikes smashed together, horse ponds pissed in, helmets drenched in beer, personal property destroyed... I had to disengage my only brake about half way home, became the pads started rubbing on the tire.  When it came to the final 20mph sprint up the hill on San Fran going north from McConnell, my chain blew of my chain rings into a glorious moment of bottom bracket chain suck, which sent me over-the-bars and into the asphalt.  Miraculously, I only suffered minor scraps on my knees and elbows.  Such is the magic of the Mountainaire Mayhem.

Tuesday was a mellow day that began with some mediocre breakfast at La Bella Via.  That place has been hit or miss the last few times I've been there.  Maybe they should stop hiring cute waitress and focus on serving ultra-quality food.  But then they'd still be missing half of the reason people keep going there.  Mediocrity might be where they need to stay then.  Who knows.   Noodlz and I were supposed to go riding with Blair, but intensity of the night before hurt Vince's joints and my knees were all sorts of swollen up, so we played some disc golf at the Lake Mary course instead.  After that, I went back to The Pad to rest up for a big hike. Danny, Ryan, Noah, Tyler, and I were planning on hiking Humphrey's that night and getting to the summit before sunrise.  We got all geared out with rain jackets, CamelBaks, dogs, thewhole shebang, and  drove out to Snowbowl Road to find out that it is closed from 8 in the PM to 6 in the A.M for road construction.  There was a momentary buzz-kill, but this astounding crew of intelligent, adventurous young men decided to remedy the situation with a drive out to one of the overlooks on Woody Mountain Road.  None of us had been there, so it seemed like a perfect sun-rise solution.  We drove, and drove, and drove, and made some turns, and followed some sings, drank some beer, laughed more than you'd think 5 dudes in the cab of a truck could, and came to a point where it seemed like we should have seen a lookout.  After some discussion and a vote, we decided to keep driving.  At that point, whenever we began to doubt our direction, someone would holler "Look, there's another sign, let's see what it says!"  and we'd keep going.  Eventually we passed the top of Secret Canyon, which should be in Sedona, but it wasn't, and decided to stop for sure at the next reasonable camp site.  We found a pretty little ridge that looked like it'd have a great view in the morning.  The dogs, by which I mean Roger, mostly, freaked out right about once we set up camp.  We were surrounded by cattle and the only thing he could think about was blood - he wanted to tear the jugular out of some benevolent cow  and watch with delight as the cow began to struggle to stand, eventually tipping over into a pile of her own blood, lifeless.  I can hear the Spaghetti Western music in the background....  But at his core, Roger is a big pussy and may have just wanted to bark at them a bunch.  We had to tie the dogs up to prevent this from happening all night.  When we woke up, the sunrise hadn't started, so we waited around and drank some coffee French-Pressed the night before.  While the sunrise wasn't astounding, it sure as hell beat waking up on a couch to the sound of a hydraulic cutting tool.  And the company was top-notch.  

We drove back into Flag-Town, got some grub at Martanne's, and went back to The Pad for a bit of rest.  

After napping and finishing For Whom the Bell Tolls, Noah and I went to Absolute Bikes to install a roofrack on El Trook.  Fucking Plusnuts.  Cody and Sarah, and Kyle and Carly came over to the Pad for a BBQ, and much beer and celebration.  After dinner, a bunch of us went to Mia's for some pool and drinks.  Some great conversation was had, some things were said that needed to be said, and the drinks were all cold.  We called it a night relatively early, given the early nature of our previous morning.

On Thursday Morning, I woke up at 5:30 to finish getting ready to leave.  All those who inhabit The Pad woke up and saw me off, which was awesome and tearjerking.  While I had done all the physical preparations necessary to leave town, I don't think there's any way I could have ever prepared myself to leave most of my best friends in one fell swoop.  So I didn't even try.  We hugged it out, said goodbye, I got in my truck, and left.  By the time I parked at the Chronico the tears streamed down my cheeks, and I couldn't believe the move became so real, so suddenly.  I got my composure together, drove to the Residence de Rushall, where we drank coffee, chatted about life changes, and watched Alberto Contador crack in the Tour.  Poor dude.  He should really start eating meat.  By the time I left the Rushall-Residence, the intense sadness had been masked by a huge amount of stokage.  Oddly enough, I was psyched to be in the car, and ready for 14 hours of heat, flat roads and desolate terrain.  It was a long drive, and I had plenty to think about.  Also, I wasn't alone, I had three companions during the drive:

(roger)

(Grizzly Bear and weird gum-wrapper origami bird)

(ass-tons of mountains)

(El Trook, all loaded up in Minden, NV at my Grandparents' house)

I got to my Mom's house today, and Kelsey is flying in on Sunday.  While I miss all my bad-ass acquaintances in AZ, I'm stoked for the change.