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Last week I was invited to the Chico Bike Races by my friend Matt, a killer photographer who wanted me to try and help him cover the event. I’m pretty sure that it was the eighth running of the race, which turned out to be far less of a race than I’d originally thought. Instead of sprinting through the streets, the eight teams entered each provided a house with booze and entertainment. The only competitive aspect was the stipulation that no house could be left until the refreshments ran dry, and that was really more of a Mexican standoff with vomiting.

 Shit got rowdy right off the bat. This is easily the best photo I’ve ever taken.

 The first house hosted dozens of magnums of champagne. Pounding those in the mid-morning with an on-point hair metal set from the DJ blasting in the background made this shirt seem perfectly appropriate.

It took about 2.5 seconds for people to start rocking out.

It’s impossible not to have a good time when panda pimps are handing out loads of hand-rolled party favors.

I’m not sure who hired her, but she proved to be a wonderful hostess fully trained in fine art of fanciness and pleasure.

 If this isn’t the perfect PSA imploring men to not wait for old age to get sleazy, I don’t know what is.

 The best part about this is how there’s already an exploded anus on her robe.

 I’m not sure if this dude was posing for me or not. That particular house was providing pints of gin and tonic, and after he skulled one he just kind of stood there for a minute.

 Statue or not, the plastic-storage-binfuls of cocktails had quite the effect on everyone in attendance.

 Everything about this dude is spot on, but the real cherries on top of the violently psychotic alcoholic look are the stockings.

 The combination of swans and fireworks is a look so draining that only an entire day dedicated to binge drinking can actually fuel it.

She looks like that one Victoria’s Secret model if, instead of modeling, she dedicated her life to not giving a fuck.

 This would be the perfect pitch for a children’s show sponsored by a cereal colored with LSD.

Lest you think otherwise, there was indeed a fair bit of actual riding. Just instead of a peloton, it was a loud, slow, wobbling mob that even raccoon crusties could keep up with.

 I think she was the only person I didn’t see yell an obscenity at some point during the day.

Now, the girl who brought her own fucking lampshade to the party, she done got loose.

 After the DJ at the first stop, every house had a band playing, which was fucking awesome.

With short sets to play, everyone put some serious effort forth. Loud and fast all around.

 Bringing your own booze to an event already guaranteed to provide enough hooch to kill the majority of people involved is a move I have to respect.

 One moment you’re in a tree house and the next thing you know you fall out just to have a pandawoman laugh at you.

I don’t know why but I tended to stand up a bit straighter around this crowd.

 This is the first time a Google image search for “Canadian pasties” won’t result in poutine-loving albinos.

 It’s like he performed an emergency tracheotomy on himself but got things all mixed up.

Of course she looks nervous. She’s got the only cookie in the entire 200 person group.

I told this guy that he looked like the rebels in Riven and he totally knew what I was talking about. Nerd bonding.

 Anyone who gets a tattoo of this deserves immediate citizenship.

 This look of curious disgust is what I assume the ending was like for me. After six hours of shoving sauce into my gut (just trying to fit in with everyone else) I couldn’t tell you a fucking thing about what actually happened. And I guess that means I lost the race. Oh well. It was a goddamned blast.