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I keep fucking procrastinating to fucking write about my fucking adventures
In June I joined the local chapter of the Fucking Bike Club. I guess it started in St Louis and has spread to other cities. The mission: every full moon we meet at "the corner", and bike to wherever, usually with a backpack full of beer. (Some people have built convenient beer holders into their bikes. Note to self: get on that shit.)

I bike to the corner at 8:30 PM. About a hundred other bikeaholic souls are there as well (I'm not good at counting, there were probably more). We're getting ready to bike at 9, for some of us this means shooting the shit with the other FBCers, for most of us it's polishing off a can or 2 of Pabst or whatever their brew of choice is.

At 9, our fearless leader stands on top of some kind of air conditioning thing or something and shouts "Welcome to the Fucking Bike Club, you are all now permanent members!" Cheers all around. Then he explained this month's theme, which was Rubik's Cube. Each of us who felt like doing it (no rules, no politics, just come as you are and bike this bitch) wore several different colors of clothing, and at the end of the ride the goal was to be wearing all the same color. I didn't play but I helped out a few others, and at the end of the night I found myself wearing a white wife beater that was a two sizes too small.

Then we started fucking biking. No destination, just follow whoever feels like being the fucking leader. People in cars asked us if we were the Full Moon Bike Club (the clean and press-friendly name we're sometimes called). 10 minutes later I found myself at some part on the east side that had Frisbee golf structures, or holes, whatever they're called, it's been too long since I've played. Met some decent fellow bikers and chatted.

Then we biked to the bike bridge that goes over highway 30 and hung out at the top of the bridge. At times big bunch of people jumped up and down to try and make the bridge swing, which freaks out an acrophobic like me who's terrified of roller coasters.

Then we bike to the back of an abandoned building. A bunch of people climb onto a hill and moon everyone, chanting "this is what my butt cheeks look like", in tune to that familiar chant heard at the big anti-Walker rallies at the Capital this winter.

Then the few of us who had survived the typical attrition found ourselves at the Crystal Corner a half hour before bartime. I felt proud yet dorky to be sporting my too tight wifebeater. Mission accomplished.

The rest of the details I'll not spill here, as I gotta keep some secrets, and I'm not sure if the first rule of the Fucking Bike Club is to not talk about the fucking bike club, or maybe just the details, but then again we don't really have any rules, we just bike this bitch to death for the sheer purpose of biking this bitch to death, and that's the only rule you need.

(I couldn't make the July and August rides. Had to work July, and it conflicted with a bitchin' party in August, even more bitchin' than the FBC.)

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More like it's nihilistic evil twin that only comes out at night. We don't care about taking the roads back, we just wanna bike. And shotgun Pabst.

they don't care either. i think it's just an excuse.

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