Yuppie Killer Campout - The Most Chaos

Posted on August 22 2019

Blog written by Timmy Genco, the organizer of the Yuppie Killer Campout.

Bottle rockets, booze, Sandstorm by Darude on repeat, unicorn jumpsuits, exploding aerosol cans, 20 foot flames from pallets, suit and tie clad pinata full of more booze and other adult favors, and bikes of course bikes - what else can I be describing other than The Yuppie Killer campout?

What is a Yuppie? Merriam Webster defines a yuppie as a young college-educated adult who is employed in a well-paying profession and who lives and works in or near a large city. To me a yuppie is a square, someone conforming to the rat race of social status wearing their name brand golf shirts standing in line to buy their overpriced coffee at a shop just close enough to the lower income part of town to make them feel edgy in their comfortable lives. Me... I don’t get down on that; I like dirty hands and black jeans so covered in filth, they get that oily film you can scrape off with a knife, not bought with holes but tattered from use and abuse. I want to take the yuppies so far out of their safe little comfort zones that the very foundations they think they stand on break down. So, all that is left is their true self, their genuine self. What better way to do it than to throw a party in the woods add motorcycles, booze, other contraband, and remove judgment and see what happens? What happens is one hell of a party. 

Located in Arcade New York, an hour outside of Buffalo, sits a track of private land adding up to 72 acres owned for three generations by one family. The land has been dedicated for one thing and one thing only, to party. The set up is bare bones, a single room cabin with bunks enough to fit 4, a sugar shack used every few years to make maple syrup, a barn with a single outlet (the only power on the whole land), a man-made pond, and two treehouses connected by bridge. No bathroom, no potable water, not a place a yuppie feels at home. To get to the cabin is what feels like a miles worth of a windy grave-stricken dirt road, the perfect place to test your medal on a street bike. 

We left Buffalo around 6 on Friday night with a group of 7 of us headed to party, mostly Harleys with an old Honda CL and a modern BMW adventuring scoot. One gas stop about halfway on our hour ride to check in and pick up some essentials, mostly booze and taquitos. Chris caught us there in his truck loaded up with the chopper in the back for his number one priority in the summer, to rip and dip. We arrived at the land around 8:30, Kat and Mikey from Cleveland had already arrived and set up as well as a crew of others from Buffalo. Story goes, the two from Cleveland had gone down the wrong driveway and after being told they weren’t where they belonged, they tried the next driveway down hoping this time they had it right. About halfway down the road they started wondering if they were in the right place and that’s when they heard it - Tom Vullo going absolutely apeshit on his slightly stripped down Honda Goldwing against a log giving his tire hell. The party had started.

Friday night was a blur of drinking, mushrooms, Darude’s Sandstorm, and burning of pallets. Colin, the one on the vintage Honda, spent the night giving his bike hell riding down the trails with no headlight, using only the light from the accompanying ATV to guide the way. When that grew a little old, it was time to do a burnout in front of the fire. The Honda had been running a little low and could really use the extra air coming from the exhaust and off the spinning rear tire. Friday was one hell of a night only to be out-shined by Saturdays antics.

Saturday was an easy morning, everyone sort of rolled out of their tents, bunks, or simply stood up from the ground around the fire whenever suited them. On the small list of priorities for part of the group was to get to Sugar Creek Glen. Although I was not part of this group, from what I understand it was an amazing place for a swim. After hiking up past the first waterfall, the group had themselves their own private swimming hole fit with more waterfalls and pockets in the rock like bathtubs. While half the group was swimming, the other was back at camp steadily growing in numbers as people trickled in. When the riding group got back is when the party started back up. We got it going with couple of riding games nothing too special, slow race partially down the uneven “driveway” and a weiny bite while riding under a tree with a limb split down making a giant archway. The games were a sight to see; choppers trying to perform their best while on uneven rocky terrain for nothing but the hell of it.

Once the games were over it was pinata time. The pinata of course was modeled after a yuppie in his classic blue suit with his red power tie hung with a noose from the archway, chock full of small bottles of vodka, edibles of multiple types, a couple of gift cards from our supporters at Spoke and Dagger Co. and Lowbrow Customs, and more miscellaneous goodies. It was like being back in middle school. The blindfolded striker had trouble finding its target, the pinata's puppeteer at risk of being mistaken for the pinata adjusted the height, while the crowd stood by giggling the whole time. When the yuppie finally exploded, it became a playground of chaos; all the treasures were quickly swept up and whatever was consumable was consumed. Now the party could really start. Shortly after the pinata is when the bottle rockets were brought out. What seemed like thousands of rockets lasted for the better part of an hour of constant firing. Small wars and skirmishes, lighting in pockets and behind others, shooting from bikes and mouths, it was again in a world of chaos. Once the sun set, I don’t think anyone can really give much of an accurate depiction of what happened. I know a joint was lit from the exhaust of Matt’s dirt bike and there was an incident of someone falling from the tree house attempting to take a crap off the railing.

Sunday morning everyone woke up, packed up and left at their own pace again. It was a party for the books, or I suppose for the blogs. 

The awards given out included:

Slept most- Melvin
Slept least- Paddy
Most yuppie bike- Gerald (BMW GS 800)
Least yuppie bike- Dakota (Some bike twin parted together hard tall chop)
Least prepared- Colin
Most dirting on a chop- Colin
Most cans on the bike in the morning- Angelo (around 40)
Slow race- Matt
Weiny bite- Colin and Alana 
Deepest hole dug with time- Tom (although it was in his tire and I still have it at my apartment) 


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