The 2002 Chunkathalon.

Errant members, old friends who we hadn't seen in a long time, and strangers arrived to take some damage. We were happy to see Sara Stout on a chopper again. She lent us her welding stuff years ago - heavy metal poisoning sucks. She came with with Fred Nemo, an old hippy who we respect because he is still as spry as a lad and has his own ideas about what to ride. Judas, who we'd met in Vancouver B.C. last year, came on a chopper that he had ridden down from Canadia. A few people risked the precious bikes that we had helped them make in the chopper construction workshop a week earlier. The New York City chapter visited. They're having trouble there because NYC is not Portland, and nobody can afford a yard with piles of rusting bikes and only a chicken guarding them. A traveling clown with a large gun, who we'd never met before, brought an enormous banana peel to use as an obstacle. He wandered around the course throughout the evening, shot at contestants, and got run over a few times. Robert rode up on his cargo bike with his arm in a sling. He rides that thing so much that he's not comfortable on a normal bike, even with only one arm.

This event was held first to limber the contestants up and to give the less gnarly among the outsiders a chance to compete at something. It is usually a solo event called the 40 Lap, in which the racer must drink a 40-ouncer while circling the track. Spilling, dribbling, leaving the course, and drinking with a foot down are prohibited.

In the interest of keeping things moving, we turned it into a 22 ounce relay of teams of four, emphasizing pedaling ability over drinking speed. To compensate, we used the vilest substance found in 22 ounce cans, Camo brand malt liquor.

We were momentarily confounded by the participation of "straight-edgers" - those who do not wish to take in intoxicating substances in order to avoid legal penalties or the revocation of their yogic powers.

This was a new experience for us, and some didn't know what to make of it. Is not sobriety the cruellest prison? What power could one want more than a drunken feeling of invincibility during the Chunkathalon? Years of having beer cans thrown at us by hicks in cars have made us open-minded, however, and we accommodated these "straight-edgers" by provisioning each with two cans of a disgusting energy drink mixed with hot sauce, taped together.

Sara was the gentlest and got points for performing the least traumatic rescue.

Other rescuers concentrated on getting that poor baby past the finish line quickly. That poor, poor baby.

Spidey V. Megulon. By this time the carriage had somehow caught on fire, with the poor baby TRAPPED INSIDE IT OH GOD WON'T SOMEBODY SAVE THAT BABY?

Tallbike jousting was perhaps the most traditional contest to be joined during this Chunkathalon. Because of time constraints, we only ran one fall per pair of contestants, rather than two falls out of three. Several competitors who had entered the relatively safe previous events opted out at this point.

Spidey V. Rev. Phil. Notice the five flying objects aimed at Spidey in this picture. Spectators were encouraged to support their favorite contestant by hucking stuff at the opponent.

The gauntlet was constructed out of burning crap, crashed or unborn bikes from the pile, fallen contestants from the previous heat, a ramp, a compost pile, and, of course, the giant banana peel that the clown brought. There were no rules. Whoever crossed it forward and back with their bike in the shortest time won.

This was the final event, and was judged loosely on style and duration of burning. We tried something new this time, and turned it into an historical re-enactment involving angry natives driving out a frontier woman in her covered wagon by lighting her on fire with flaming arrows. It's unknown whether any of the spectators picked up on this, however. It's more likely that they thought that we were making a statement against folk-singing rustic women who ride their bikes in circles. It's more likely yet that they simply enjoyed the elemental poetry that we wrote in the sky and on our own fragile bodies as we transmuted ourselves into phoenixes of retardedness. Or maybe they just ducked.

It had been an evening of great victories, and also of tragic defeats. After tallying the results and retiring for a short consultation, the judges announced that Rino was the champion. He is now responsible for the sins of the tribe, and is living in a world of pain as we give him extra special attention while riding. Rino, champion of the Chunkathalon of 2002.

The Chunkathalon finally received its recognition in the sporting world when the results were printed in The Oregonian of August 27, 2002.

As the gauntlet course continued to burn, it was fed scrap wood until it was a bonfire in the middle of the street, which is of course an excellently fun place to have one. We drank beer and showed off our wounds for the rest of the night.