SSNV 23 – The 3rd Annual

It’s dark, about 9 PM. There isn’t a soul out in it. The wind is howling and it’s cold. Everyone has been in bed for a few hours already. The party started early, went hard and flamed out as the temperatures dropped and the wind grew in strength.

Mama Bear is yelling at me in the tent about the keys and that the 4Runner is locked with Jesus inside.

Somehow, I wake up and drag my sorry ass out of the tent. Yup. There’s the dog and the doors are locked. A frantic search for the keys ensues. We find them. They are on the dash of the car, locked inside. Our alcohol addled brains struggle to understand how that is possible until I remember the playa from a few weeks prior. Jesus had been inside and locked and unlocked the doors multiple times in multiple instances. At that time, I had the keys in my pocket.

As I mentioned, the wind is howling and it is cold. All of my cold weather gear is also locked inside the car. I’m in my shorts and a sweater, no gloves, no beanie, no puffy, no pants. Wojo hears us and gets up. He hears what’s going on and suggests that we can figure it out in the morning. The dog is already in there. He’s safe and we’ll probably have to call a locksmith. He climbs back in his van. His suggestion seems logical in the face of the weather so we also crawl back into our tent.

Of course, Jesus has already shat all over the back of the car so we have that to look forward to…

Stan throws a hell of a party.

SSNV is a “race” in Beaty, Nevada. A self-declared singlespeed state championship coupled with a family gathering of misfits from around the state and surrounding areas.

I don’t even remember how it fell onto my radar last year, but once it did, I let JT know and soon we were planning to go. We did. It was fun and we committed to attending again this year.

We did.

It was fun.

The Legend of Stan

“I do 30 marijuanas a day.” – Stan

To say that Stan marches to his own beat would be a misrepresentation. I don’t think there is a lot of marching going on. Instead he started a band and plays guitar to his own beat. Rumor has it that he has a stage somewhere on Highway 95 in Northern Nevada where you can see him playing his guitar to said beat whilst wearing a cow mask. Passersby simply wonder what’s up with the cow mask wearing guitar player. Truth be told, I’m not really sure.

In passing conversation, what we’ve learned of Stan is that he is an old punk rocker from a small Northern Nevada town. How he got into riding bikes, we’re not sure, but he spent his career as a school janitor and being the bad ass that he is, he retired a few years ago and is now living his best life. Part of living that best life has been him throwing this party in the desert for anyone who will show up. Not only does he set the stage for a great shindig, but he somehow manages to wrangle prizes and swag out of the bike industry that far outweighs the attendance. This means that everyone who shows up, goes home with a bunch of cool, free shit.

And when I say free, he gets the extra swagger of doing the whole goddamned thing as a volunteer project. There is no entry fee, no camping fee, just a request that you donate to Spicer Ranch to help Dave maintain his trails and keep the rad thing he has going in Oasis Valley sustainable.

This little singlespeed party in the desert took place over the last weekend in October. This happens to coincide with Beaty Days.

Prior to the race, there was a parade. This parade consisted mostly of local 4X4 groups driving their rigs on the pavement and throwing candy to pre-diabetic children. It was led out by what we can only assume was the entire staff of first responders for the area with wailing sirens and flashing lights that stretched for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually, a few got the clue that the sirens were a bit much and finally flipped them off. Holding our hands over the dog’s ears was a dead giveaway.

You can see the Alliance above not participating in the parade. The rest of the SSNV crew somehow got in and rode by throwing things. I’m not sure what they threw to everyone else, but we got a few of those tiny, airplane style bottles of Fireball. Well played, Stan, well played.

Actual bike riding, and maybe even a little bit of bike racing, did happen after the parade.

The start time was moved up due to the impending windstorm and most of us lined up at 12:30. The folks wearing DC jerseys rolled back into the ranch at about that time. They got a handicap and the rest of us tore out of there like a bunch of old peeps on singlespeeds who had already had some Fireball.

Mama Bear was in it to win it. The year prior, her and Shalena had gotten some shade for not completing the race despite being the only females there, they were kicked out for not riding for the whole time. Who knew singlespeeders were such sticklers. This year, being the only woman riding (Shalena kinda broke herself), the Bear was guaranteed top spot, but she wasn’t going to let a technicality get in the way. She ripped out of the gate and I quickly decided that any real effort wasn’t worth it. Not only had I been battling a cold, but I had a camera strapped to waist and I wanted to document this shit show.

That’s all to say, she left me in the dust.

The DC jersey wearing fools eventually caught me when I stopped to snag a couple pics. One was inebriated enough to completely miss the obvious turn and end up in the sage brush. I watched from across the way and waited, not sure what the hell was happening. When another rider came up from behind, he realized his mistake and made his way back to the course. After hitting the shutter button a few more times, I started following. I quickly passed him and then saw another shot and stopped. He passed me and then promptly lost the course again hanging a hard left when all he had to do was go straight. Hmm.

Once again, I promptly caught him and as I went straight, I yelled back that the course was the opposite direction. I rode for a bit and stopped to make sure he hadn’t got lost in the desert. He eventually came into view and I sauntered on, stopping at any junction to make sure he was coming and then stopping to snag some photos. He was a great model after all.

We finished up the first, and our last, lap together. I was feeling like garbage and had no desire to continue pedaling around in circles just to pedal around in circles. I pulled the IPA out of my fanny, along with the camera and posted up at the finish line snapping photos of anything and everything random that was happening.

The race continued. Some people stopped for beers or just to chat. Others took it serious. The lead rider came in and had just a few more minutes left. He was going to wait out the clock until his buddy showed up and forced his hand as both headed out for one last romp through the desert.

Mama Bear finished up her time and came across the line as both the first and last lady.

I present your 2023 Singlespeed Nevada State Champions.

You may be asking yourself why they are holding giant winter squash over their heads and that would be a valid question. Stan apparently grows a wicked garden and the grand prize for the champions was a giant gourd.

This all was done by about 2 pm.

As you would expect, the party then continued in full bore. Prizes and swag was handed out like candy. As the wind increased and the temperatures decreased, the party moved indoors. This meant that we all crammed into the adventure vans. At one point, there were somewhere between 4 and 6 of us sitting in the bike parking area of the Digger’s van and we were happy as fuck to be in there.

And then like the irresponsible adults that we are, the party ended as we all went to bed way before 9.

The wind stopped at some point during the night. The quiet was soothing and the cold felt good as well. Sometime after 6 am, Mama Bear and I wake up and decide it’s time to see if we can figure out the dog situation. Our best plan is to see if we can get the dog to unlock the doors. We spend close to an hour in the freezing temps (not exaggerating here, the dog bowl was frozen solid) trying to entice Jesus to paw the button again and free himself. He wasn’t too into it.

We moved on to the backup plan, try and find a locksmith. Apparently, there aren’t a lot of them around Beaty and especially not around 7 am in the morning, in the freezing cold on a Sunday. After multiple calls and some tense conversations, one finally agrees to come over from Amargosa Valley. We settle back in, make some coffee, Wojo lights up the small fire pit and I wrap my blanket around me desperately trying to fight back the frigid wind that has kicked back up.

Coffee is brewed and we wait.

Of course, Mama Bear hasn’t given up. Sometime around 9 she gives it one more shot and sure as shit the damn dog hits the button and frees himself.

Now all we have to do is clean up all the shit. Lucky for us, we purchased some covers a couple of months ago and all but 3% of the diarrhea is on the covers making clean up way easier than it could have been. By 10ish, we are headed to the Denny’s for some much needed “naughty food.”

And then it was home. Seeya later misfits. Thanks Stan!

Embrace Chaos. Seek Discomfort.