Stupor Cross, Not Just Another Night in Northern Utah

It happens this time of year.  The longer days and warmer temps get the sap running and the bean churning out irrational thoughts.  So there you are.  Waiting for something to happen.  As if from a Divine source, the above comes in the form of an email.

Stupor Cross, it appears, is a race which is a complete mystery until moments before the start.  You have no idea what you are getting into.   But all of that is soon forgotten as you stroll by the prize table.

The rewards for a top notch performance on a night like this speaks for itself:

Yet victory is not even a blip on the horizon and by all means it is not guaranteed. 

The stages lay out like a grand tour where the strong in leg and robust in liver will have the advantage. 

With seven stages and intense competition running deep in the veins of the FARCA Nation, you find yourself somehow unprepared for the horror to come.  Bikes circle like sharks in front of the shop, and the tension becomes too great.  You could cut the air with a knife.  Someone says something like, “did he just say go?” and Stupor Cross 2008 lights out of The Powerhouse like a cat doused in gasoline.  The sprint through icy corners and dimly lit streets to the first check point, Whiskey Gamma, strings the peloton out. 

 

Diving into Wiseguy, we are greeted with pints already poured forth, and through miracles of physiology the throats open up requring nary a gulp to pour ice cold Budweiser straight past the tonsils.

Here it is key to note that the words, “This is not a social bar crawl.  This is a race,” which were delivered at the pre race briefing are taken to heart and the Wiseguy crew hardly knows what hits them by the time the field is out on Main St charging towards the next checkpoint, Quebec Gamma, Quigley Gulch.  With a shot of Chratreuse, 3 PBRS and now a Pint of Bud sloshing around in the stomachs, riders choose various avenues through the neigborhoods.  Bile flares, but is repressed by the call of the ultimate prize, the Sherber Fleece. We have entered the alps now and and the split has been made. 

The snow was set up perfectly for rallying the track and F.A.R.C.A poster child, Kafka, was rocking his Favre tribute gear with the power of a giant sized Favre.  The sweat beaded as he attacked to the finish of le’ Alp DueQuigley.  He savored the moment.  Clearly.  Yet the jersey was not to be his for long.

While basking in the glory of his stage victory, Kafka saw the race lead dash away as Rector disappeared into the night. Sensing the moment was his this proved a prophetic moment in the race drama which was rapidly unfolding.

Rector charged ahead into Mahoney’s Irish pub for an elixir of German disaster, brushing by the drug testers waiting at a table near the taps.  Within moments he had donned the leader’s jersey, pounded his shot of Jaeger and charged out the door to the Bank Bar feeling the peloton breathing down his neck.

The race was soon in turmoil.  Jaeger rumbled and the Tecate’s waged a civil war with the Krauts.  This looked like a predictable and scripted finish to the queen stage.  Some of the riders looked to regroup for the grand parade down the Champs Ely-Bikepath to Fresshies.

But the race commisars had another idea and stopped the peloton outside the Bank for a mandatory smoke break.  It seems there was a suspicion of rampant doping from the finish prior and this move was intended to neutralize the advantage held by all of the dopers.  The press was focused on the trashy tabloid rumor that this was an effort to get into the head of the COPS who had been nipping at the heels of the race lead for some time.  Advantage-Marlboro Man.  The COPS made that butt his his bitch and had time to pose for a product test shot of the new Smith and Wesson COP1 which was being put through its paces on its first outing.

Meanwhile a ruling was being made against Pat, who failed to heed the uniform protocol and came dressed as a replica of himself.  The rules clearly stated:

Finding themselves split on the prospects of getting knifed on a basis of their appearance and wanting to see Pat cough a cement mixer back into a bar tender’s face, a decision was made and a double pint finish penalty was delivered.  Silently, a vicious attack came from the unspoken combo of Troy and Billy as they dashed north through the sleepy ville of Bellevue.  The rest of the race was charging after the time trialing duo on a mission towards the finish line in Hailey.

The race exploded in the final kilometers and Johann countered  a strong move by Troy by sprinting into Fresshies via the more convenient smoking entrance.  He barely nipped his shadow-like opponent at the bar.  Billy was on a mission and he would not be denied his time in the Sherbert Fleece. 

The COPS had to put the smack down at the finish with some unruly crowds and one drunken miscreant was apprehended.  This maneuver may have not cost the COPS victory but it did cost Dirty Bird a beer.

All around the bar, The Peloton of the 1st Ever Stupor Cross reveled in the post race glow savoring the sweet taste of competition.  Thanks to Mark D for providing his unwavering judicial skills to keep the record straight and enforcing the bylaws, codes, treatises, treaties, and like legal incumbences which ensure that the purity of FARCA endures the test of time.

The ladies .  Ah the ladies.  Well, they came thinking this was a pub crawl and were sadly left alone at the alter yet again.  But their support was much needed and appreciated and we determined that their podium..

was indeed stacked.

Thanks to Wiseguy, Fresshies and the deep pockets of the FARCA Education and Intoxication Foundation for making this event a reality.

Till next time…