Shamanistic Rituals and Blitzing the Slickrock

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White Dynamite stood in the center of the room, swaying from side to side, chanting, “great sky, please come here.” His eyes were closed, and he gripped a cluster of multicolored cloth strips. His voice was rough and the melody repetitive, like an ancient ballad. “Oh, my spirit, I would ride ten Mongolian cows to see you,” he roared.

Six of us had gathered around, sitting on stools pushed up against the walls of our St. George mountain bike dojo. It was just after midday, the “horse hour,” according to the zodiac clock. For White Dynamite the noon hour is the perfect time to go on an otherworldly ride. “Sky of the wolf, please help me, a man in need, with a heart of peace. Great sky, please enter our dojo.” Juniper twigs burning in a cast-iron stove gave off a fragrant scent; the smoke is believed to attract spirits. Blankets draped on the walls to keep in the heat made the room seem even smaller, and in the corner opposite the door was a collection of amulets, figurines, colored scarves, bits of cloth, and other talismans—a shrine to White Dynamite’s guardian spirits.

Suddenly he collapsed. Two helpers caught him, and he gave a wolflike howl. Then he cackled like the villain in a horror movie. “The spirit has entered him,” Pookie, whispered.

And so began our 2016 conquest of the Desert Southwest. Juggernaut style. Mercedes sprinter van, dyno-sized lodging, and case upon case upon case of beer. We banged out our respective 50s on the True Grit course and then hit the high country for Jem, Cryptobionic, Hurricane Rim, and Gooseberry jam sessions.

Results: Guapo, 7th in Masters 40; Fang, 7th in Masters 50; rest of us… we were there.

Oh, and we met this lunatic and unwittingly became embroiled in a community dispute over a huge metal bull dong:

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This is where we pedalled:

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Editors note: As is our practice at Juggernaut HQ, this entry has been heavily plagiarized.

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