The Holy Dirty Revival

About damn time winter.  Back to Church, singing the praises of the Holy Dirt Revival.

Jebus, I missed you guys - singletrack, dusty burning lungs, mud caked water bottle mouth pieces, brush thrashed shins, ghostly knuckles, bloody limbs, broken parts, hyper-focus animalistic survival mode at high speed down the rock gardens.

 It's the most tired you'll ever see a hunting dog.  Chasing you feverishly on descents, running down all the quail in the brush ahead of you as you climb.  A good dog always knows just what to do, like late season Seal Slides.

Nothing like a flat in an ultra creepy and secluded spot to speculate the intentions of the groups hidden serial murderer.

It's good to be out sweating, bleeding, and burning in the Dirty Cathedral.