Saturday, October 15, 2005

October Rink.

Being as the last Rink was found by all to be a universally excellent soiree, as well as a pernicious demonstration of moxie and derring-do, it was determined that there should be another such Rink on Saturday. This Rink would also celebrate those of CHUNK 666 and its ilk that were born in the month of October, a surprisingly large and influential faction of CHUNK, known as the "Rocktoberists."

Rocktober October RInk


  • Saturday night finds the weather on the surreal side: misting rain, occasionally intensifying to a light, light drizzle. Wind and cold, thankfully, are absent. The lack of wind, or even much of a breeze, amplifies the effects of the fog machine.


  • A barrel fire serves as the axis point of the rink. Due to the general dampness of the evening, people would alternate between rink-riding and warming up and drying off around the fire.


  • The recent return of the rainy season meant the shores of Lago Siracusa had expanded back out their pre-summer levels. Deeper, too. Soundings found it a full eight to ten inches near the center. Numerous rinkers tear through the depths on various CHUNK bikes. Some are caught off guard by the Lago's depth. One plucky fellow piloted (unknowningly) his vessel directly over the all-organic "plug" that creates the lake. The front wheel slipped sideways and out under him, generating a spectacular splashdown! As a band was playing over in the shop, only Big. B., Root Dog, and myself witnessed the mighty fall. Big B. gave him a beer, and the rider spent the rest of the evening trying to dry off by the fire.


  • In distant days past, the nigh entirety of the CHUNK 666 fleet could be found in a single stable. In modern times, the herd is now distributed according to available yard-space and personal collections. The tendency being, "if you build a bike then, you must to provide housing for it, for it is of your own blood." Keeping this observation in mind, the CHUNK fleet tends to appear small, although evidence at the Rinks is to the contrary. For on these occasions, where the vast majority of the fleet converges in one location, for one evening, the bikes of CHUNK 666 are legion.



  • The Hack II provided my transport that night. Following the previous Rink, Big B. related to me how impressed he was with the "solid" nature of Hacky. This was due to his observing numerous persons riding it, almost always with a passenger. I confess this escaped my attentions before, but at this Rink I saw what he was on about. And it seemed a bit dodgy to me, I admit. Must four persons ride the Deuce at the same time?


  • Rino debuted Bumpty, his re-engineered Humpty, previously a long-term tenant of the chronic-pile. A great, great ride for the Rink. Not so sure I'd want to ride it any distance, though, even as far as the beer store.


  • As will happen at Rinks, a bit of a spontaneous, racous, rolling duel betwixt Big B. and myself precipitated. He was riding Cameltoe, and I was rockin' Denk's chopper. Round and round we wove, an intricate game of seeing just how close we could actually bring those front wheels right up next to each other, yet without actually touching, much like a game of 'chicken,' but side by side, and not head to head. Add to this an outstretched arm, snagging at clothing or forearms.


    Competition is fierce and merciless amongst CHUNK 666 at the Rink.


    The match was decided on the tighter western turn, where I was trying to route Big B. into the Lago once again (given Cameltoe's size, this mattered little). We got caught in a mutual death grip, Big B. taloned to the shoulder of my jacket. I, in turn, latched to a handful of pant leg. And then and there Big B. lost it, and plowed into a female pedestrian bystander, categorically clothes-lining her! He immediately began to drop profuse and sincere apologies, to the point where she insisted that he stop, or he would be the sorry one! Dear me! I, on the other hand, circled the two of them, prodding Big B. to "get back on your bike! I'm not finished with you yet!"


  • Looking forward to the Zombie Holocaust.


  • Upon discovering I was upon the final bottle of the half-rack purchased on the way to the Rink, I decided it would be my last of the evening. By the time I had downed the last drop the clock was crawling up on 1:30 a.m., so I provided my neighbor Monica with a ride home in Hacky, rather than letting her walk home unescorted.




  • It has been reported the Rink carried on strongly for a few more hours, fueled by the fire and ample remaining stores of beer. Of particular note was Big B. riding Swampthing around with Denk balanced on the back. Big B. lost control at a corner (the theme of the evening, it would seem, I might add), and careened into a blackberry bush. This blackberry bush that had been poisoned, causing the dead branches and thorns to be especially hard and inflexible, tearing the bloody hell out of his arms. Then Big B. slipped on the stairs of his basement, and broke his fall with his elbows.


  • The next day Big B. and I cleaned up the pile in the backyard. We drank leftover beers. I found a pair of pliers flattened into the dirt (for lack of evidence to the contrary, I blame it on Ninja). Also found: someone's piss bottle, estimated to be at least one year old. Really now, that's gross.