Windrock Fall Festival report

This past weekend marked the annual Fall Festival at Windrock.  For those not in the know, Windrock is a former coal mine (of the mountain top removal variety, I believe) outside Oak Ridge, Tennessee (of Manhattan Project fame) and current site of much redneckery, including but by no means limited to downhill mountain biking.  The trip started out normally enough. I rendezvoused with ShrEd at Chez Bumpkin (nee Buchan) 2.5 hours after the originally proposed departure, per SOP. We picked up the Gnome, beer, and some slices in the Hill and headed for Ashevegas to pick up Peter Mills. Sweetmeat was pinch hitting as an honorary Horsemen as Dr. Mike was interviewing for the rest of his life or some other worthless nonsense.  The boy has matured — he came equipped with case of TCOB, a box of talls, and a sixer of homebrew; he can be even excused for the last since he’s been going to UNCA for approximately 17 years now.

As you can tell, the skies poured out their misery upon us the whole trip down.  Trepidation mounted as we broke our fast at the hip hop Waffle House (were we ably served by a methhead with no less than 4 butterfly tats on her neck).  Our fears were realized when we arrived, nevertheless we manned the eff up and rode anyway in true Horsemen fashion.  We loaded the Bedouin bus (see 2 posts below) and held on for dear life as it swayed its way up a road that’s claimed the lives of more than a few McCain voters.

This is where I’d put riding shots if I had any.  Until I find some to steal, I’ll put it this way:  there was more slick brown stuff than a pediatric gastrointerologist working with Medecins san Frontieres sees in a lifetime.  The mountain was definitely taking names, as Windrock is wont to do.  Sweetmeat went down first, trying to stop on wooden berm to avoid a passel of rubber necking douche bags.  The Gnome tried to pacify the same berm with a little finger bang action.  Bikes were broken and passed around, as was the Fighting Cock.  Rob from Back Alley Bikes and Tamara from the Bike Chain showed up towards the end of day, along with Tamara’s bro Joe and another Boone dude whose name escapes me because I suck at life.  Moto put in a rockstar run or two.  At the end of day we retired to our rustic retreat, which can be seen in the background below.

The commute to the campground was an adventure in itself.

Give me a sec and I’ll update you on the evening’s festivities (or festivus, as both feats of strength and the airing of certain, um, grievences was involved) as well as the riding on day numero dos.

~ by milkman on November 17, 2008.

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