Sorry Son, You’ve Been Outhung

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Clear, crisp, and cold for the roll up east from downtown. Arrows pointing Rumpus with a Chez Snipper rest stop. Gloved, pumped, and ready, the two of us roll up an improvised Davis route, dodging the steep Tabor foothills and slipping through the clumsy Gateway commerce. Despite the ice lurking in the dark street edges, it is yet another pure night for the cycle. Through the Rumpus door we go. Spinning Towel is quick with a handshake, two Hamm’s tallboys, and pucks for the Brunette. Like always, she is all glass at first, but settles down sweetly. The Snipper dials in quick and buries my hopes with two quick dismissals. Foz arrives with a proper challenge, but the Barrett Von Munchhausen climbs through an open window and steals it. The Good King  and SA fall in and shuffleboard of the highest order soon follows. The Snipper rules the night, but highlights abound. Three hangers nullified by deeper weights, as if to say, “Sorry son, you’ve been outhung.”  8 hangers in the night’s total, 4 by the Spaniel. Simply amazing stuff. The EBMB’s dominant night may have rendered the title chase moot, but the rare brand of play can be held with pride by all participants. With epic shuffling under our belt, the time had come for celebration and a Swift debut. Long, cold, sweet cycling again, with ice encroaching in the advancing hours and the moon hung low and golden. Meet the Leech in waiting and make fast friends with this new place. Snipper cuts the rug with the old country. Plastic Bertrand gets us all punk and French. Jameson and something-“czar” backs puts the Old Guard in a blaze. “Take a bite of the burger.” Whiskey puffed and suddenly stung, I get sour with Kong over mostly nothing. Better just to call it quits. Toss my bike on top of a cloud of coffee compost in SA’s rig; Carbon-assist to make it home before the pumpkin hour. The other revelers carry on into the a.m. with spirited fervor befitting the season. There ain’t nothing like a grand shuffle, cold cycle, craft pint with a fair head, and food made by those who aren’t messing around. Merry Christmas, Thirsty Fathers. Get some rest and stoke those fires. Awards night is but 7 cold days away.
Attendance: DB, SP, MB, SL, LS, TL