Sleaze Otter

As most of you know, I tend to bitch about the lack of fun times in Monterey. Blah blah Madison this blah blah Milwaukee that. I also have a track record of failing miserably at any biking events, with my only near win taking place at Thunder Pull (where I could use my mass to my advantage). It was never for lack of trying, but usually for lack of not having a debilitating hangover or smoking too many dirt sticks the night before.

Well, this weekend I not only found some old fashioned beering and biking, but I actually managed to win part of a race. But much more importantly, I am now in possession of the King of the Mountains trophy above. She's a real beaut, about 3' tall, 24 oz. of PBR nailed to her sides, a human heart, a dead fly, a laminated bacon picture, and a rubber wiener. This is rampant speculation, but I prospect this is the same heart that one Blackie Lawless of W.A.S.P. referred to as "My Wicked Heart". I also suspect this is not the wiener he referred to in "Fuck Like a Beast".


The Sleaze Otter turned out to be a pretty good time. It was my first time participating in an alleycat sort of race, and I went in strong: drunk and wind-burned from a day at Sea Otter, fresh off a near-win game of cribbage, and smelling like pickled trout. I was feeling pretty nauseous and dehydrated, but fortunately I knew the turf. We barged in on a wedding party at Veteran's Park, then climbed up a miserable hill to highway 68. At this point I went ahead in our group of 5, since I know that stretch of road well. That ended up paying off, as I was the first one to cross the King of the Mountains line, which turned out to be on a downhill the way we were heading.

The best part of winning the KOM was that the satisfaction was immediate, as I was given the monstrous trophy on-the-spot. This allowed me to ride the remainder one-handed with the trophy held high in the dark canyon descents, like an Olympic torch with a cock on top for all to see. Let me tell you, the crewcuts rolling around Monterey were straight jealous.

At this point, Katie and I didn't have much interest in rolling 24 miles through the wind to the sixth checkpoint so we headed to the destination. The bowling alley had all we needed, mainly pitchers of water and more beer, along with a fire and some pool. The others in our group continued on to a bar in Marina named Mortimer's, which from all descriptions sounds like a place I need to see. They returned about an hour and a half later, then the other contesters and organizers/zombies rolled in. Prizes were given out, winners were doubted, and I disappointed "Carmel Bob" by DNFing, who claimed there was a cash prize I would have won. Carmel Bob's voice sounded suspiciously like Madison's own Joe Gower and he had the same habit of retrieving pork chops of Hamm's from his bag, but he didn't light off any bottle rockets in the bar or get kicked out so he must be a different dude.

Good times, and I'll be keeping my peeper's peeled for more ridiculous shit to add-on to the trophy during the next year it is in my possession. And of course, I'll be making vague plans of photo-shopping into Hitler's outstretched hand, getting stuck in the ground at Iwo Jima, and getting planted in the moon, but never actually do shit. You know how we do.