My Dinner With Hurl

Hailing from the land of Uber people, beautiful people and Grade ‘A’ athletic types, I was unprepared for what lay waiting around the picnic table in some far off city park, somewhere deep in the heart of lake country in the frozen tundra of Minnesota. Hurl announced our arrival: "Hey - this is Dave from Nederland". A chorus of "YOU SUCK" echoed off the pond ice. Someone stole my bike and immediately started derbying in the snowbanks surrounding the picnic table. Someone else handed me something – ‘fortified’ – was the only description I got. Keeping my anthropological hat on, I didn’t hesitate – I threw back. It was some combination of heated box wine, bourbon, and spices. It set a perfect tone, a perfect beverage for the frigid madness that ensued.

After leaving the hotel in the lovely ambiance of a December evening in downtown Minneapolis I was completely lost. It took me about 30 minutes to navigate the big 3 city blocks between the lovely Downtown Minneapolis DoubleTree Suites and the house of Hurl. The house of Hurl is a museum of current and past generations of bicycle fodder. I would number the bikes at about 130. They range from Orange Crates to full sauce – fixed to rigid, all colors shapes and sizes. This is truly a person who is deep into the addiction that is the two-wheeled dervish. After a quick beer, we chased the ride down through downtown Minneapolis. Hurl on his fixed, screaming through deserted alleys, completely covered with ice, and what I would need to call rime. This was urban destruction riding – this was a ride we would never consider doing in Boulder. I see the Cruiser ride in Boulder, and I see pretty people on pretty bikes, dinging their bells and checking their cell phones, and paying $4.50 for a pint at all the fashionable downtown watering holes. I do the ‘Jedi-Thrasher’ ride in Minneapolis, and I see Carharts, Mullets, airplane mechanics, pitchers of Miller Lite, jalapeno poppers – and some of the most enthusiastic two wheeled fanatics I have ever encountered.

I lost time after the first rally point – and since I had absolutely no idea of where I was – or where I was going – I needed to hang. There were very few lights in the crowd of 15 or so riders. The ride itself was basically an anything goes urban assault of parking lots, access roads, parks, bridges, and ice. I fell probably 5 times in the first half hour, and the rest of the ride flew by just out of concentration. When we pulled into the first speak easy it was 11:30. I was worked. Beer was ordered, and I was told under no circumstances would my money be accepted in this state. After about an hour of drinking, thawing, and getting to know a few of the folks I had been derbying with for the last few hours, we headed back out into the frigid. Moist air. The general plan was to head down to the waterfront, build a bonfire, and maybe make it all the way through to the sunrise. These are working folks – who would no doubt be showing up to the office with full carpet tongue, head banging, probably scheming how to get out of the office during lunch for a quick spin.

Being the ‘in bed at 9:00’ kind of loser that I am, I opted out of the second half of the ride. Hurl agreed to bail with me, and he escorted me back through the ‘burbs into the heart of the city. The Minneapolis skyline somehow reminded me of Oz – like as in Dorothy and stuff like that. The first glimps I got was crushing – as the city looked like it was about 60 miles away, and I was pulling a quick fade. I don’t know if it was the beer, smoke, plane flight earlier that day, maybe it was the poppers. We arrived at the house of Hurl about 12:45, he gave me yet another beer, and I wandered the deserted frozen streets back to my ‘suite’.

My 8 O’clock presentation rolled around a little faster than I would have liked. Dark suits, perfect grooming, a catered lunch (for 4). They asked me politely about my evening in Minneapolis. I started to explain, and thought better, I am quite certain it would have scared them.

Back in Boulder a few days later, the snow is falling, the temperature is not hospitable for riding bikes. It’s time for the weekly 1X ritual OFS Wednesday ride, and there is not much enthusiasm from the troops. I email, and banter over the phone lines, explaining that the current conditions are NOTHING compared to the ride I did in Minneapolis. Hurl would go – I say – Hurl would go! I go alone, but I am still stoked to carry the torch though the drifts and the snowbanks and the manky puddles of our burg.

Minneapolis Mafia – I salute you, and look forward to spanking your low altitude asses in my hood sometime soon. The shed door is always open – the fridge is always stocked.