Soil Saloon

Spaceman woke me with a knock at the door. Made me wish we were starting the race at high 2 rather than high noon. Coffee was brewed, checklist assembled. Piñata, tequila (x2) beer (x96) stamps (x2) bags of flour (x3) camera, stick, string, paper, pen, bob trailer, and of course, dirt capable bicycles.
Off we went to the park, where us three instigators, Spaceman, Stephenwolf, and myself split off to greet, meet and mark course, respectively. On the way out, we were discussing expectations. A minimum mark of success was agreed upon- at least 15 people, and a true success if any true strangers decided to attend.
After dumping a gamut of cryptic arrow-esque marks of flour around the park, the sun was at its peak, and I returned to the meeting point.
Knobby tire enthusiasts of the bay area, thank you. My jaw dropped, and my organizer’s joy rose as I surveyed not 15, but 40 plus cyclists in varied states of race gear, perched upon stainless steel single speeds, baby blue 6” travel full suspensions, carbon fiber cross bikes, and countless other manners of cycle.
After shouting out directions to the motley crew, I ran off to a few choice sections of the course to snag photos. I saw crashers, mashers, pixie bikes, the piñata crew, and let us not forget the tequila shortcut girls.

The course was a fast and relatively flat one, save the piñata peak where many tried to disembowel the groversaurus, and eventually one Showy McShow was successful. As the first of the Soil Saloon series, us organizers took this as a learning process. Riders tearing ass through the park tend to ride faster than myself slowly pedaling and putting down flour. To note, course markers should go BEFORE turns, not in them. Perhaps maps should be offered. One way or another, groups found their way around, leaders becoming followers, spectators becoming drunkards, yet somehow everyone found the tequila shortcut.
The winner, a devout evangelist of cycling safety, rolled up the final climb on a mountain bike cross dressing as a drop bar road bike, face twisted with adrenaline and the horrors of cheap tequila. Stamps he had to prove his passage, and the man was pronounced the winner. Winner of a swobo jersey that was 2 sizes and a gender too small.
Shortly after a walk to fetch more sponsorship beer (we luv u new belgium), the beeramonies commenced at the oldest celtic cross on the west coast. Spaceman original silk screened t-shirts were awarded to those that were deserving, such as the guy with a giant smile, the man with the most travel, and the girl with the cutest helmet. Swobo gear was given out, amidst much revelry, to keep arms and heads warm, and chests covered.
Soon the beer was gone, we picked up pieces and headed downtown, rehashing the greater moments of the afternoon. The pixie bike trials, the collective effort to deduce the course’s cryptic outline, the worst tequila ever tasted, and the general fun had by all.

Stay tuned to bike shops of merit within san francisco and the neighboring bay area, cause soil saloon isn’t going anywhere, we hope to see everyone out again in February for something completely different and utterly similar.