#53 you got to bring ass to get ass

You're colorful, Mack. Dumb, old-fashioned and out of style...but colorful.
It is evident in the lack of velocaching 'roun here. Sucka.



Your mama still workin' in them $10 houses? Whew! That's quite a conversation opener. But, that ish is old news. This is the new news:

UP where you can see stuff like this. Sheep sleep along this route, but you won't.

With your Sleaze Otter V experiences, you should be able to work this out.

Where would a wood-rat cache if a wood-rat could cache goods?

In closing, I'd like to say you ride this town like a sissy and I think you ought to consider stepping your game up.

#52 pick up

Some mens think... a little titty kissin is the answer to every woman's dream...

Well.

It is not. A well placed velocache goes a lot further than caressin with your fingertips, even.

So, go climb up little water, Senor, and turn a la izquierda al un primero camino. Disfrute de su paseo en bicicleta, maing.

This is valuable info, too:

Etc. Whoa! Hey! Slow roll it. Stroke it with emotion. Oh yeah.

#46 smells like Palladium

After 2 weeks expectorating on the couch, your cheerful correspondent made his way up to the highway that divides Monterey Bay's really rich people from the only kind of rich people.

Despite the warnings, no punk-ass bitches were located. Just a not much worse for the wear cache.  Inquiring minds want to know how many people drove past this treasure without knowing what valuable goods were within arm's reach from their car window.

Ready to cough all of the way down the hill

Do as The Man says

Treasures abound, some (used?) bib shorts, various bits and stickers, fine literature, HAMMer gel, and the most godawful smelling mini-stove I've ever smelled.  I think the stove may have been aged in the bowels of Monterey.

#46...this one goes out to my niggas

who be havin to deal with these punk-ass bitches:



42% of automobile operators have 50% of their attention on the road. Be careful out there.



Git to gittin!

45 - get it while it's dry

Based on a true story

Go here. Ignore the used rubber on the ground.

looking eastish

look up

#43...everything you hope it will be

You been here?


You know where this one lane goes?


Pfffffft. And you call yourself a cyclist. What the?!? Get here quick. You will learn discipline, climbing, discipline, descending, and a host of convenient and fun little-trafficked connectors from Monterey to Carmel. From the bottom to the top.



This is a good cache. I just returned from interbike. It's all waterproof an shit, but still...

#39 Found

Smoke this skinwagon!

VC #39, right behind the pricklers where the memorable (?) Michelob Ultra was consumed during that memorable (?) Sleaze Otter

We didn't linger long, as a broken-down car and inhabitants were hanging out there. Back down Aguajito to the home ranch for some tearing into o' the box.

Please oh please let this be inside

No signed Burt Ward pictures, but a bounty worth of a thirsty king. Hammses, Italian flag crochet gloves for style, flair, and a bikeable stoner proclamation.

But wait....there's more!

Having solved the world's problems, I'm glad we are finally living in an age when your hydration pack can provide a misting cool.

#39 Ram it in your climb hole

Don't fool yourself. This one is going straight up your pedal chute. Like a ship without an anchor. Like a snake without a chain. Like a feather haired teen in too-tight cut-offs atop a rickety pair of scuffed white roller-skates.

True Sleaze Otter aficionados will riggity-recognize the power pedestal behind which rests a box filled with sweet sweet Velocache. Many of you have piled bottles of Michelob Ultra atop this Monument.





And since you're already up there, you may as well continue on and get #38; on which I checked and still in situ is which.

That's science talk for get off your arse. You are an early morning lover and you must be movin' on.

#36. Latest edition

I know you said you wanted a velocache that you could be in the woods to find. Like at the (used to be) Stairs an ish...



And to you false-balling niggas jus grab yo crotches. But if you paid, nigga, pat yo pockets.



1st, get thee to thee oaken singletrack. Soak it up. It's still good.

That way lies Freedom.


If you see this, you're Right.


Grab a seat on the New Stairs!


Remember when this was the type of view from the (used to be) Stairs?

Well now it is what it is at the New Stairs. Looking at this tree, reach around to your left, push the sawed off plank aside, grab a warmish Hamm's, and let this view do it's do on you until the location of the traysure reveals itself....

War at #33 1/3

If the Night Time is the Right Time, then the Full Wolf Moon is even righter, right?

Velocafe Monterey really rolls off of the tongue. Is this the Western location of The Caprock Bar?

Slightly crazed / Full Moon Fever

Loot of handlebar bag with map case for lost suckas, big and sexy beer, bar tape, surly beer getter, and rubber chicken stress ball with egg translucence.

Moonlit rides tend to bring out the philosophical, and why is that dang moon so much bigger on the horizon than in the sky? Now we know.

special favors come in #31 flavors

What with winter all settled in, like a puffed up salamander here on the Central Coast, a ride may require more than it's own reward to really pay off. Know what I'm sayin?



I'm sayin that smelling the Wild in and of itself will, sadly, lose it's draw if you are wet, windblown, uncomfortable and/or bloated. So here's where Velocache really shines. Like a greasy $1 dollar bill crumpled in the gutter, it gives you an unreasonable lift of spirits and motivation all out of proportion with it's reality. Let Velocache be the wind beneath your wings that's really needed to get you out! and on the bike in this bleakening season.

This is the cache that sent me up and along the ridge to Dana's Drop, and I haven't ridden that in at least a year. So that's cool. It's a sandy rut these days, but it leads to some worthwhile get through trails. I popped out onto rushy rush 68, which I crossed and climbed towards the steps from the West.



This quickly became steep to the point of ridiculousness.



The steps from above did not appeal,

so I engaged in some bushwacking like you read about to reach the Scenic Trail and come at the treasure from above. I appreciate a clever turn of phrase, so I knew to look to the left if viewed from below, which would be right for me...





You know the treasure will be cheap and tawdry (and occasionally even offensive) yet it still holds out the possibility of revealing itself a poorly framed xeroxed copy of a badly airbrushed T-shirt featuring the visage of Charles Bronson, or some other inspiring jackpot. It is this sliver of possible brightness which you must cultivate into the burning flame of an actual bike ride.I knew it would be quite a climb to get back up, so I delayed opening the treasure until I got to that one spot overlooking the bumper to bumper on 68. It's a nice spot to soak in some rays.

On a related note: Gary Fisher, like Nick Nolte, gives me the heeby jeebies. I first became aware of this in the gay 90's, when Fisher had 70foot long banners of his face hanging above the booth at Interbike. That was notably over the top. Then there was the claims at being the Godfather of Mountain Biking- hurk!ohgodholdmyhair- like it wasn't some kid riding his bike where he liked (if you're a romantic) or cyclocross nutters (if you're an anglophile) or the fucking cavalry (if you're a buffalo soldier) or Joe Breeze, Tom Ritchey, Charlie Cunningham, et al (if you're from NorCal , bro). Then it was inventing the 29" wheel (which at one Sea Otter I actually thanked him personally for popularising, since I am a gentleman, if a slight cad) when we all know it was Wes Williams. Booyah. Finally (I can only hope) it is the increasingly "bespoke" ensembles of facial hair and tailoring.


So that horrible t-shirt scared me more than any Omen reference or 80's Christian Metal. I will consider it a personal slap in the face with regard to my ability to fly in the face of fashion and wear it as a symbol of my continuing resistance to the stupidification/marketing of the next big thing in bicycling. It shall be the podium from which I launch my diatribe at the unsuspecting when they notice in passing polite speech my garb. A springboard to a meaningful discussion on what is Good and True in cycling versus what is an unsavory cult of personality, what is a false usurpation of our common history in cycling, what is madly scrambling for the new at the expense of the proven.

The really horrible part is that he has had a lot of very good ideas on bikes and bike design, and has promoted some worthwhile niches- not least 29" wheels and commutative bikes, which are both dear to my heart. But, look again at the shirt. It's that kind of unabashed hubris which calls for a real dislike. So I still shudder at the sight of him. And that makes this a Velocache win, I suppose. Especially since when I first saw it I thought "That's not a very good likeness of Phil Collins."...


and I shuddered.

#31 Flavors

In addition to the Baskin-Robbins tie-in, Wikipedia reports that 31 is Turking slang for mastubation ("otuzbir"). Knowing is half the battle, they say.

You'll have to use your imagination or some ether to make these look like The Exorcist stairs. Follow that bike!

What a scenic bicycle. Someone has an eye for color.

Choose the sinister path

The traysure is right in back of that widow-maker, nestled in the underbrush.

And if you want to know what a widow-maker feels like, crank this tune my brother and I loved as young lads.

Dirty #30.

Baby, o-o-o-o-o baby



#30 will get YOU pumped up.

They's only one hill like this one.

Hill climb. WOOOOOOOOOOO!

Where you's can park your bike in front of a view of Monterey like this one.



This wall.




This little Monterey Pine.



Ready? GO.

#24 Hours of Bubaline

Saturday found me on the old cross bike from about 8 am until 4 pm, doing random odds, ends, errands, and heroic detail from Huckleberry Hill to Castroville and back. Found time to sneak out to Ord to continue this game of hide the beers, with the sun beating down on a beautiful November day.

I was heading up to the site of #23, but since the small print at the end of the previous post suggested trickery, I thought I'd stop at the caprock on my way to replenish my constitution....and what have we here?

Now, were I a lazier man I would have called it a day, smug in the knowledge that I had tricked the trickster, pranked the prankster, fucked the fuckster (?) who had clearly devised some scheme to make me pedal up that damn hill just to turn around. But a better man than I said it best:

"When I'm paid, I always see the job through"

So with that I soldiered on, down 50 and up 49 to the rock, all the while whimpering for my softie mountain bike gearing. Finally made it up the road that was known as 3 sisters until recently, and settled into the original site of #24.

Oh, but I had already seen through the trick! But then I biked up there anyway...so now I'm confused. Am I smart or dumb?

Now that I had "earned it", I opened up the VC box to find a veritable trove of treats, including 2 cans O Bud, stickers, patches, cowbell, wicking shirt, and a BOB hat.

And, the remains of my previous cache, which snootier folks than myself had left behind:

Wade Garrett Sleeveless Tribute T (only slightly moldy)

Bottle of New Glarus Fat Squirrel Ale
(I was thirsty and very thankful some trifling label mold had been enough to keep lips off of this tasty brew)

Between new trash, old trash, empties, etc. I had to stash a little bit of garbage up there, so I gotta get back soon. I'd hate to see a California condor die due to a Budweiser Silo wrapped around its neck.

In summation, I think that the author really proved his point, that biking around in a former military base hunting for beers is a perfectly reasonable use of one's Saturday, and said wordsmith probably came close to an epiphany when gazing upon the expanse of Ft. Ord and all he had accomplished that day.