The Dirty Chain Gang Rides: Sidewindered

"That everyone? Then let's roll!" It is a familiar question, and following self-answer, out on the trail at which point, of course, the ride recommences. This time though, and after a mere couple downward strokes of the pedals someone suddenly let out a yell, "there's a snake in my boot!" Next thing there is a scramble, Richard jumping people to reach the scene before a little trail dachshund that had tracked us up the hill could beat him to the prize, some of the gang yelling leave it alone, and then Richard again, holding onto a six-foot long be-sidewinder. And yes as ya'll can plainly see by the photo a six-foot long snake would indeed mean Rich is a good eight-and-a-half-feet tall. Just how the heck do ya'll think he could have been jumping over people if'n he warn't?

Even though I was looking toward some longer mileage saddle time this mornin', and after sharing vittles with some o' the gang the night before, it didn't really take a lot o' proddin' to change those plans and git on out to that mustard-covered range with the Dirty Chain Gang instead. Consarn-it, there warn't no outlaws to chase down today, and ol' Shoeless Pete was in a rather sedate, mellow mood; between ya'll and me, I think it had something to do with all that yellow coverin' the hillsides (ten points to who-some-ever gets that musical reference), but sometimes ridin' for the simple pleasure of it is indeed the best medicine

And a fine Spring mornin' it was too. Spurs jingle-janglin', bouncin' along rocky trails, the warmth o' the sun shining through that cool mornin' air, birds singin', sharp spines of thistle bitin' hands 'n shins, sweat stingin' eyes - it jus' don't git any better'n that. Hell, easy rider even felt compelled to do that rutted descent off the dam, the one that comes after the log drop, the one that two weeks ago during Two Wheel Tuesday brought a rider to grief (collapsed lung, multiple broken bones and teeth, brain bruise, or so I heard tell), that descent that has allers been a white-knuckle ride for this "world's worst descender." I survived that one unscathed, or "above the snakes" as the lingo goes. If ya'll don't palaver cowboy lingo "above snakes" translates as "still alive." After a couple o' those longer uphill trails I looked back to notice one rider slumpin' on his bars after e'ryone else had kicked off in pursuit of some imaginary desperado and asked if he were goin' ta be a-okay; he replied that he was maybe goin' to be "airin his paunch."  Yup, it were one helluva way to spend a mornin'. 

Eventually the gang reached a point where they were a goin' to slide down along the backside. They would git their money's worth outta that ride, that's a sure thing, but I was still a lookin' fer some distance outta this ride, having been unable to completely shake the notion free o' my noggin' during the first part o' the ramble. And so I said "adios compadres, I'll see you at the end," and pulled the reins to the left, for a second, solo, loop around the shinin' waters of Puddingstone Lake. I didn't see the gang "at the end," they were all chowin' down on their breakfast grub by the time I finished up, but I did find those miles I was a lookin' for. 

up from the stream crossing

what kind of a day was it? the smile don't lie

And anyway, who was it that started singing 

"... My ding-a-ling,

My ding-a-ling

I want you to play with my ding-a-ling..."

Ten points to whom-so-ever guesses correctly (I reckon some of y'all will have no clue, while others will immediately know the answer).