Feel the Cool Rush Through Your Veins

Banging one of these bad boys each day for the past 2 months and am finally feeling better. See you in the late spring for the Chinaman 100, the summer for Gran Fondo C-Dubs and the revamped Scottish Beer Cross. Happy Holidays to everyone.

MRC Starts Doping Program

There's a cold rush and a shiver runs through my body as the drugs are slowly infused into my bloodstream. Yes we here at the MRC, after reading the USADA instruction manual on running a "medical program", have embarked on our own doping regime.

The jerks down in St. Louis will recall my bizarre diet of massive amounts of Chinese food and a ration of 1beer per night due to the medication I was taking for advanced Lyme's. Well those drugs failed to do in the nasty virus that has holed up in my body so it was time to bring in the thermonuclear weaponry - Rocephin. I still can't drink any alcohol - that blows - but finally after 4 months of crippling pain the daily IV infusions might be making some headway. Stay tuned for developments and more stories of cycling adventure when I can get back on a bike.

Burnin' At The Bluff

Hello loyalistas, connoisseurs and rabid fans of the MRC/Team Seagal movement. With your esteemed author and blog Svengali, Crotch, away in the land of coconuts, grass skirts and Maui waui  enjoying the first sips of marital bliss, the task of capturing and relaying to one and all, the vivid ugly truths of this year’s Burnin’ at the Bluff has been passed on to a relative neophyte in the Seagal movement – Mr. C-Dubbs.  I will do my best to convey all that happened and leave it to you, the readers, to determine just where that blurry line of reality ended.

Following standard operating procedures, the wheels at Team Seagal HQ were put into motion long before the race with the plan to deploy an army of warriors who had been starved of meat and women for the better part of a month to ensure maximum carnage on the field. Among those signed up for the operation were defending SS team Nicwad, Leg Titty & Nadly with Sasha she-manning up once again for the full 12 hours of self inflicted pain, the Lawman shamuing once around the clock in the Clydesdale class, while Punchor of Cocks, Scooter and Gino Fellino smartly opted for the opportunity to ride all day and party all night in the 6 hour class. Winging in from the Eastern front I was in a bit of a scramble as Taggort and Schlomo Axel bailed and elected to race in the Sand in My Mangina Classic leaving me hanging like a big booger. Rather then wipe I did the only thing that made any sense (to me that is) and immediately signed up for 12 hours of self-abuse. It sure made a lot of sense – no riding for the past 6 weeks and little in the way of single track riding – maximum suffering. Thank Energor my moment of stupidity was saved by Mrs Titty and Stove who were going through a similar crisis as Josh “Mr Waffles” couldn’t decide if he should shit or get off the pot. A few calls of encouragement from Arm Baby and Toscani and the deal was sealed, Messy Marla and the Missouri Mountain Men would be racing for the rock star award.

Thursday - Arriving in St. Louis I was warmly greeted by Senor Arm Baby who immediately set about having me translate my supply requirements before setting out to the largest Target I have ever seen where after wandering around in a daze we procured these politically correct taint wipes.

From there it was off to visit one of our esteemed sponsors, The Hub, for the usual supplies the airlines won’t let you carry on and of course one of those lovable little packages of Degree pit stick.

Rolling in the Arm ‘Stro, stops were made at Casa de Titty to procure the necessary supplies to keep us going for the weekend, pickup the ex-Toscani/C-Dubbs St Louis based Kona Big Unit then heading to Nico’s digs for consultation on the impending weather and route to our destination – Mark Twain National Forest. Excited at the prospect of traversing the most dangerous highway in Missouri and witnessing the onslaught of Bathtub Mary’s that line the road providing safe passage I hid my disappointment at the safer Highway 55 passage but was rewarded with the sight of that beautiful blonde pedaling cars for Sparks  (link this blog http://sparkstireandauto.com/blog-2/) . If it hadn’t been for Jayson’s focus on getting to Council Bluff I might very well have had a new used car to go with my new used Big Unit.

Finally rolling into Council Bluff young Edward greeted us with the hammock city having been established (unlike previous years Campground C had been hijacked and we were stuck in the leper colony know as Campground D). Making the best of it the all important bike stand was centrally located and quickly put into action by our top mechanic while C-Dubbs and Nico went in search of wood in to fuel the eternal flame of Camp Seagal and serve up the infamous braquito.

A quick visit to drop off my own brats at Mt Kohler and it was off for the assault on Council Bluff summit, thankfully Nico had made sure I was properly set up with the right hydration system to get me there.

Eddie showed his potential to become the next Ansel Adams with this beautiful shot of the view and this equally compelling portrait of C-Dubbs and Mr Titty. Soon after arriving back at base there was a scramble for shelter as thunderstorms swept the campground.

Having survived the night Friday the house of Mt Kohler was pushed to it’s limit Saturday morning after a round of braquitos before we headed out to mark the course. The course offered up some spectacular views, and excellent social log at the top of the second climb and an offering from Energor in honor of Coach’s absence.

Having been so overwhelmed with view from last night we made the trip up the elevator to the bluff where Nico served up Coach summit style.

A four hour social course marking/ride later we rolled into Camp to find most of the troops, PBR Dave and most importantly Mrs Titty. Unfortunately for Stove, arriving late has it’s drawbacks as Mrs T and I agreed he would get the first lap on race day. As should be expected when the sun went down the IPAs went down as well and the bonfire roared.

Race day weather was akin to the turd in the punchbowl, rather then sunny and 70 it was cool and cloudy, staying warm in camp while Stove, Jayson and the crew were out working up a sweat on the trails was going to be hard work.

With smoke grenades and Sex Pistols screaming the battle was under way. Immediately I rolled up my sleeves, set about translating the day’s strategy, eating, generally fucking off and having a good time with Mrs T. Leg Titty rolled into camp with the Jerks holding onto a 20 second lead, Gino was manhandling the 6 hour race with Punchor, Scooter and the rest of the crew snapping a few wrists. Nico’s departure into battle meant Stove’s arrival at the camp and yet another jerk to party with until my first lap. Nico was in with close to a minute lead, Punchor was out after hitting the deck, registering a 7.2 on the Richter scale Lawman was crushing laps fueled goji berry brownies and Sasha was deep in the pain cave and not really liking life. Well, as the hands on the clock closed in on 9:00 Nadly, Nicwad and Arm Baby had snapped the wrists of all competition winning with almost a 5 minute lead. Gino was firmly ensconced in the PBR throne of champions with a 6 hour victory and Lawman bagged 2^nd in the Clydesdale division.

Such domination of the podium had the troops in full party mode with Scooter using moves only seen in the dojo as he danced up a storm. Perhaps it should have been referred to as a tornado and apparently the owner of the amazing boots was unimpressed with his dancing skills taking our beloved Scooter to the grass in a full naked choke hold.

The podium showers of PBR were soon replaced by the mother of a storms driving the troops back to base. Somehow Scooter managed to make it into the hammock only to find a swimming pool, showing superior attitude and super state of mind it was right to the Subaru Inn for a solid night of rest before the Sunday Cx race.

As for your author, well it was one tremendous time and I want to say thanks to the team for showing me yet another tremendous time. See you at Cxmas (one more time Gino)!

Something's Burnin'

I can assure you that it is neither this

nor this

But it will include this

Sure just like Brett Favre, I have claimed to be retired only to come back to the starting line with a number plate on the bike. But unlike Brett, I have not been unleashing my paws on a busty ESPN correspondent

that trolls the locker rooms of the NFL looking for journalistic action.  No my paws will be all over the icy cold PBR tallboys that will be in plentiful supply at Bunrin’ At The Bluff, the 12 hour classic at the infamous Council Bluff.

Once again I am off to the sordid lands of St Louis, home to a number of interesting tidbits of information and of course Team Seagal where I will be looking to inflict maximum wrist snapping carnage, consume copious amounts of PBR, stuff my pie hole with the infamous braquito and translate as many of the ancient scriptures as one Nico Toscani can throw my direction. Stay tuned for more as C-Dubbs excellent adventure approaches.

W 101 (aka Wildman 101)

Well enthusiasts of the MRC it is that time of the year when the trails of Coburn, PA run fast and furious with riders that truly like to inflict pain on themselves pulling out all the stops and buying the first class ticket on the pain train.

This year started the same as the past 9 years with packing and loading of the car taking place the weekend before so it would be up and out first thing Friday morning. The big difference this year was Mr. & Mrs. Top Chef were joining in on the fray with Top Chef going for his second dirty century despite declaring at the finish of the Shenandoah 100 “I finished and there is no reason to ever do this again” wanted to be there for the party that C-Dubbs had planned for the race. Mrs. Top Chef was tossing her hat in the ring for the uber secret Wilderness 40, an exclusive women’s only event.

Just as the roosters finished the morning wake up call the Top Chef clan rolled into Casa de C-Dubbs with the FJ assault vehicle fully loaded and it’s driver looking to replicate this with a hardy breakfast of egg rolls and my famous Mt Kohler shattering Costa Rican coffee. And not to disappoint the breakfast of champions was consumed with a vengeance, the double deuce was completed and we were off on TC & C-Dubbs great adventure.

Waking from her motion induced coma, Mrs. TC made use of the modern era’s version of Morse code and shot a text to Mrs. C that a visit to Mt Kohler was in the cards for her man. It was off at the next exit where we managed to find the most disgusting bathrooms East of the Mississippi. Only the “egg” sandwiches we procured to stuff down our pie holes topped this. Turns  out the egg was some trademarked synthetic patty, akin to the 100% pure beef stuffed between a bun by the King. Back on the road motion took over and Mrs. TC was out like a light until we hit Lewisburg where she put the incredible thing to work locating the finest coffee in the area. Driving down the back alleys I wasn’t sure if the jolt we were looking for was coffee or ice.

Nerves were fraying as the local delivery truck blocked our route down the back alleys and the quest for caffeine was slowed to a crawl. With java onboard, we plunged deeper into the bowels of Amish country where we kept on the lookout for Harrison Ford and Kelly McGillis. We had no luck with our star search but we did catch a couple of future Floyd’s drafting off the back of the horse buggies.

In Coburn it was time for a Chinese fire drill/episode of spouse swap as TC joined me in the Audi assault vehicle to establish base camp and the ladies headed off in search of ice to cool down the massive supply of booze (2 cases, a few bottles of wine, magnum of champagne, rum punch and of course the flask of del Maguay. With tent city established  and space for our dear friend from the Midwest, Garth Prosser reserved, TC and I set out for the recon ride up the first climb.

Conditions were so humid that half way up we had to pull out our trail towels to dry off before attacking the summit. Once there it sank in, this was the 19^th time I had been to the top of the climb and tomorrow would be the last. Shed a tear, fuck no, I was glad it would be all over tomorrow. Pulling into the campground we grabbed our better halves and headed out for the traditional ride of the final rail trail.

Being a civic minded individual, Mrs. C-Dubbs was doing volunteer work at the registration table while the rest of us were doing our best to make room for more ice in the cooler. That is until the thunderstorm rolled in and we had to batten down the hatches to prevent the base camp from blowing or floating away. Now that Toto was safe from the storm it was off to see the Mrs. and get my number.  Stepping up to the table I requested my number, “69 please” and was greeted by a chorus of “hello Chris” kind of like everyone at Cheers calling out Norm’s name when he sits in his  usual spot. It has been a tradition to ride with number 69 since getting it in my third race (yeah get your mind out of the gutter on the connotations behind the number, I am a fan of the Kentucky Kid – Nicky Hayden).

 From here it was back to the campsite where Top Chef and I decided to relive the adventures of the S&M 100 and we got down to partying ASAP. About a six-pack later for each and it was time to go and pickup the take out Italian for some pre race carb loading. Time has the unique ability to move at a much slower pace in central Coburn so our meal wasn’t ready which meant only one thing – across the street to the Elk Creek Cafe & Aleworks and a pint of Great Blue Heron Pale Ale

 Meanwhile back at the restaurant the locals had clearly suffered a similar fate we all have when calling an outsourced call center - trouble understanding our accent – and the lack of an Amish twinge meant that lasagna with cheese got mistranslated into cheese pizza. Passing on the offer to wait (another hour) while they cooked up a fresh batch we grabbed the pizza, dropped the cash and headed back to the campground.  The forces commenced to eat then party then eat then party and most amazing is the restaurant gives out fortune cookies with the meals. Well being a big fan of these bits of flour TC and I grabbed them and literally inhaled dessert before getting back to partying (for those not astute in training techniques it was clear we were going for a GOOD time and not a good time

At all of the Mountain Touring events tradition is for Chris Scot to ride around before sunrise, gently ring the gong to awaken us and then get right into the soundtrack from Pulp Fiction.  That initial ring has the same effect on me as a box of laxatives on a constipated old timer and I did my best impersonation of a penguin as I waddled over to the Port-O-Johns to release the first round of destruction. And me being me I knew it was time to ride when I completed the triple lindy and arrived back at the campsite from my third sortie. Now it was time to slather on a hand full of Bag Balm pull on the kit and get ready to rumble.

Start – 20 Miles

The decision was made to ride the neutral section with the ladies and all of us were in a casual state of mind and found ourselves in DFL at the base of the first climb. TC and I bid farewell and rode off to the summit and on towards aide station 1 at 20 miles. The first 20 were rather uneventful although we did spend a bit of time chatting with fellow NECS rider Jocelyn “Straight Arm” Linscott who would eventually cross the line first in women’s singlespeed. As we neared the aide station the previous night’s party and consumption of extra salty pretzels by TC came back to haunt him with the first of many, and I mean many, piss breaks taking place.

Miles 20 – 40

Despite the extreme humidity it was clear that TC and his over salted pretzels were staying hydrated as a few more stops were made to wash the dust off the plants. Having counted on the same dry conditions from the past 9 races, and a favorable forecast from the MRC’s crack meteorologist Amy Freeze, TC and C-Dubbs had opted for the fast rolling set up with TC running Specialized Fast Trak up front and a Renegade on the rear. C-Dubbs had went with the well tested by somewhat sketchy handling Specialized Renegade up front and a WTB Vulpine on the rear (both 1.9 of course). While in the past this has proved to be a quick rolling combination this year it proved to be a handful on the greasy single track and I went to the mat within 100 yards starting the first section.  Having survived the slick riding and now tentative on the bike-handling front I finally caught TC at the base of the next climb where I needed to towel off from the effort. Jocelyn caught us while we socialized road side and having felt the effort of the last section considered joining us until she realized that climbing and momentum on a singlespeed are critical and stopping was not good for either.

Mile 40 – 60

Making sure to give my thanks and farewells to the aide station workers I caught up with TC as he finished up another nature break and we headed off to the base of Beidlehmeimer Rd and the site of the unsanctioned Beer Station. For 9 years I have ridden past the station of pleasure and never once stopped to sample the sweetness of those icy cold Keystone Lights the boys were serving up. This year I was into breaking tradition and stopped for a social beer with the gang.

Of course there is one down side to the consumption of such fine yeasty malted beverages at this location, the steepest and longest part of the mind fuck, I mean climb, came right after the last icy cold sip. Once at the summit I waved TC by so he could put his superior technical and descending skills to work. Being in the Penn State area I was almost as drooling like Jerry Sandusky in a locker room shower as TC’s Specialized Carbon Epic soaked up the rocks and roots while my IF dished out a bit of a rear end beating (and not a Criss Angel type of rear end beating). By the bottom our hands were so numb from being on the brakes for most of the 2 mile decent that we were begging for some climbing to relieve the pain. Seegaer road was just ahead so were going to get our wish fulfilled but thanks to the keen observational powers of TC a bandit aid station was serving up eggrolls and we were hungry.

While our fellow racers passed and showed looks of surprise at our dietary selection before such a big climb they showed looks of shock and awe as we passed and then dropped them like a cheap date on the ensuing climb.  The summit of Seeger Rd provided the welcome sight of aide station 3 and knowing we were more then halfway.

Miles 60-72

Up to this point things had been going smoothly but now is was time for a long rocky singletrack section that took about 30 minutes to clear. The views off  the ridge were fantastic and almost made the effort worth it, and I say almost because it was wet and greasy and not a lot of fun. Finally at the end of the section we were then routed onto the Sasspig descent where TC rocketed into the distance and then into the woods as he missed a tricky 130-degree downhill turn., meanwhile yours truly was doing a bit of hike-a-bike down the climb. Finally we were onto Sassafras trail where TC was his element. Also at the same time the consumption of soooo many gu’s meant that TC’s insides were a brewin’ up a storm and suddenly there was a swarm of chamois geese that attacked and followed us for the remainder of the race. As we rolled into aide station 4 at 72 miles there was a lot of rumbling, and not from TC’s chamois geese but from the impending thunderstorm.

Miles 72-88

We expected to see our ladies at the aide station being the top-flight bottle bitches but they were nowhere to be seen. Right as we rolled out the heavens opened up and we were blessed with some cooling rain for the entire length of the Stillhouse Hollow climb which takes the better part of an hour. Shockingly the sun came out right at the top so we both decided to break out the trail towels and dry off at yet another of the bandit eggroll aide stations.

After a series of descending/climbing/descending/climbing we passed Little Poe Trail entrance, once a great reward at 83 miles in but now a hiking only trail. Instead we were treated to another climb where we passed a rider walking and I let him know is was about 30 minutes to the summit (turns out it was about 10-15 minutes). Here I made one of my last passes of the day only it was an Amish horse drawn wagon and not a racer. In addition to losing the sweet singletrack of Little Poe and gaining more climbing pain you also got an extra long dose of Panther Ridge Road, a washed out jeep track littered with baby heads that requires membership in Jackhammer Operators Local 16– oh joy just what everyone wants at 85 miles in. At the aide station we learned that the ladies had encountered mechanical difficulties early on but were safe at the base camp – more on this in another post.

88-101

With requests for EPO going unanswered be bid a farewell to the crew and for the headed out for miles of rail trail, a final climb and the ride to the finish. Taking a casual ride up the climb TC got this shot of me a the final summit for the final time. 

We coasted the descent before be treated to a bouldering session at the 97 mile point – WTF!

Well we hardened the fuck up, hauled our bikes over the boulders and set out on the final section of rail trail where wouldn’t you know it I got a flat. Adding insult to injury another thunderstorm came rolling in and made the final stretch of rail trail into a sea of mud. Just as the rains were ending Mrs. C-Dubbs caught this shot of us rolling past the finish line.

Final time 11:06, a bit slower then our target but then again those bandit aide stations are a distraction. Crossing the line it finally hit that I had just finished my 10^th W 101 and hard as I tried to visualize all those finishes all I could see was this –

Post race

With a typical calorie burn rate exceeding 7000 for the race I was like a bear coming out of hibernation, anything in sight was fair game. Heading straight for the grill the hot dog disappeared faster then Harry Reems did when he was with Linda Lovelace. Having to wait another 10 minutes for the burgers when I got mine I had crazy eyes going and headed right to the trash can, tossed the plate and ate the whole thing in 4 bites while leaning over the trash, it provided great amusement to the gang. Next up was the traditional get naked and bath in the river wash down.

Then it was back to the campground to eat/party/eat/party/eat party until a new member showed up to join the Shanghai gallery.

The clear winner of the Rock Star award was Mrs. C-Dubbs who despite stumbling over to the cooler (tripping on tent lines) rocked the wine bottle right up to the midnight hour and then nursed the next morning hangover like a true champion.

The Gran Fondo 2012

Welcome all literary critics, connoisseurs of Pulitzer prize winning journalism and trouble making cyclists. I do have to apologize for the rather lengthy delay in reporting on our latest non race/cycling escapade - Gran Fondo but it has taken that long for my brain and body to rehydrate enough to be able to put a thoughts to keyboard.

In what is fast becoming the marquee event of the summer we had our largest turnout to date for an MRC non race with 14 non racers looking to man train around Ulster and Sullivan counties.  While the MRC is devoted to the worshipping of carbon fibre and mastery of the Italian dialect is a must we, of all things, do not exclusive club as was evidenced by the participation of Murp was aiming to dominate the time trial bike division.

Displaying the focus and technique to fast transitions Murp arrived at the casa in a spray of gravel in dust, hopping out to sign in, then departing in another hail of gravel as he raced home for the proverbial “forgotten cleats”. Those astute enough to realize this meant a delay in the start headed for the man cave and a final translation of the course and a pre non race beer.  Once agin displaying his mastery of the transition, Murp once again arrived in the “transition area” at full speed sending some non racers running for cover.

 Coming out of the man cave from the pre race "safety meeting" was akin to Specoli getting out of the van. 

.

 Fortified for our date with pain, the peleton headed up the 420 foot climb up the driveway and rolled out toward our date with destiny and the first stop was the climb up 44/55 to Trapps bridge. The tone for the day was set at the base of the climb with Frank, El Obamaor, Senor Agua and Fat Chick taking off while the rest of us formed the autobus and socialized up the slopes. The day’s first KOM points went to Frank, El –Obamador, Senor Agua, Fat Chick and then, in a true duche bag binky sucking move, MacGyver who sucked C-Dubs wheel like a hooker sucks a John at the entrance of the Lincoln Tunnel and shot around in the final 200’to take the last points.

Taking count at the summit we were down one with the Murp no where to be seen. After a 5 minute wait we canned the no drop policy, agreed – f*#k him and off we went for the next summit. Turns out our triathlete had broken a spoke, ran a couple miles with his bike to get a new wheel and then set off to rendezvous with the troops at the Ashokan – true MRC harden the fuck up attitude. The summit of 44/55 results were the same only this time Top Chef slotted in for 5^th. The descent down the back side had us hitting the high 40’s at which point we discovered that the most excellent spoke cards suddenly became weapons of death as they dislodged from wheels and came at anyone behind like ninja death stars.

         

 Top Chef, displaying superior bike handling skills picked up in the dojo, managed to dodge C-Dubbs death star. At the bottom Top Chef and C-Dubbs pulled to the for the return trip bottle drop, but more on the significance of this later.

Rolling along the pain train, or in these conditions the sweat train, was derailed when Flying Frank (not to be mistaken for summit conquering Frank) flatted and we all stopped for the repair and Tibetian goji berries that Sherpa Braveheart had in the massive supply pack he was carrying.

 In true no MRC no drop style we waited for the repairs to be completed and then pace lined it to the supermarket/aid station where we discovered that Flying Frank was no where to be seen (apparently the victim of another flat with no spares). Rich the Masher volunteered to head back and then meet up with us at Bread Alone by riding the second half of the course backwards. Knowing the next KOM points were a short climb right out of the supermarket C-Dubbs pulled a classic cheese dick move and jumped the pack on the roll out for an early lead up the climb. Maintaining a steady tempo and looking good for a potential summit victory C-Dubbs was derailed when his bag of gu and drink mix exited his jersey forcing a dismount. The summit was another Ground Hog day with Frank beginning to take a stranglehold on the KOM jersey.

Next up was the 12 mile climb up Peekamoose with the usual crowd going at it for the points only this time the heat and humidity was starting to take their toll with non racers getting shelled off the back. Waiting on the summit, where Frank had secured not only his second growler but the 50 Kroner prize for the Cima Coppi and a lock on the coveted KOM jersery, we were caught in a downpour that brought back memories of last years rainfest.

Then through the mist arrived the seasons first summit guppy, 3 Beer Rossi followed by Sherpa Braveheart who was being to strain under the load he was carrying.

 The ensuing descent, the steepest in the area, was done in a total downpour with everyone, except Braveheart, hard on the brakes. Our master descender was seen speeding off into the mist on a course straight to the official MRC team car/support vehicle where we would dine on the finest cuisine of the far east later in the ride. Meanwhile the rest of the gang did a bit of choo-chooing until we arrived at one of the favored stops of the MRC – Bread Alone – where the crew stormed the espresso bar and caused a meltdown by the help.

 Just as we were wrapping up the doubles in rolled Flying Frank and Rich the Masher, having ridden the course backwards to meet up and get to ride the same roads the other way. Well somehow in the flurry of orders the Masher’s sandwich was passed over and as we mounted up to leave Rich was forced to jam as much into his pie hole as possible before wrapping the rest up for the jersey pocket (nothing quite like a turkey and mayo sandwich sitting in the jersey pocket for an hour in the sweltering heat).

Still shaking from the double espressos we headed across the Ashokan resevouir and a rendezvous with Braveheart and the MRC sag wagon.

 First priority was to Towelie off, translate the course map and set off for the Sampsonville climbs and our arrival at the base of the 44/55 climb where Top Chef and C-Dubbs revealed the superior doping methods of the MRC – pure Peruvian coca leaf tea.

 And this tea had been brewing in the sun for a couple of days with multiple bags in each bottle to ensure that we had a superior attitude and superior state of mind for the final 5 mile climb. Despite the bottle advantage we were carrying the results at the summit were the same with Frank nailing down all 3 growlers, the Chima Coppi 50 Kroner note and the coveted MRC KOM jersey. With Braveheart cheering us on at the summit the shattered pack rolled back to HQ in smaller groups to a fired up grill, cold yeasty malted beverages and the Tour de France.

Check out the rest of the pictures at Braveheart's gallery.

F