Doyle got tipsy a couple months back when he was in San Francisco and left his colors at Amnesia.
The 6’6″neo-lightweight is mostly on the sober train these days and can’t hold his liquor any more, and he likes to dance, and dancing in such a hot place as Amnesia requires a certain amount of disrobing, we guess.
Being a member of the Black Label Bike Club and not Cyclecide Bike Rodeo, Doyle could’ve potentially been in big trouble if someone else from Black Label had found his colors that night, and not a Cyclecide clown.
Most bike club members would agree that anybody who leaves their colors behind somewhere deserves to get f’d with — sweet Jesus, did we just doom ourselves to misplacing our own vest? — but out of all the mutant bicycle organizations, Black Label’s the one that takes the colors shit real serious.
They would’ve made him suffer before they gave them back. We only messed with him a little.
Black Label — our direct ancestors, and the fathers and mothers of the tallbike joust — just held their Chino’s run this past weekend. An annual gathering of the chapters outside Minneapolis, this Bike Club event is nothing at all like the Bike Kill … it’s more like their version of Bohemian frickin’ Grove. Card-carrying members only.
They all meet in Minneapolis and go to Palmer’s and ride bikes to a campground and trade secret handshakes and hold confidential meetings and drink lots of beer. And it was to this event that Katy Bell sent Doyle’s colors, via air mail, to another Bike Club member’s MPLS house. No doubt the Black Label kids verbally abused the crap out of Doyle upon the jacket’s ceremonial return.
Word on the street is that some hardcore Bike Club members would’ve preferred to confiscate Doyle’s colors for a painful amount of time, as this is the second time he’s lost them. They’re also known to drop full members back down to prospect status for certain offenses. Of course, this tough-talk rumor might also be some Black Label-style hardcore lore.
All Cyclecide did was to sew a clown nose on the outside, and to beer-elf the inside with Sharpie, and to smash blobs of white greasepaint in the pockets so when he reached in his pockets he’d get clown makeup all over his fingers and then (hopefully) unknowingly smear white all over his face and clown-elf himself.
That’s okay, right?
They’re not going to kill us, are they?
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