Monthly Archives: June 2005

off to work

The clouds have parted and the malaise of yesterday is a bad and distant dream. I read to them all from the good book at Munson today, except most of them were too far back to listen and one of them was too far in front. It was hot as blazes, but that might have been the force of the Jamis Dragon bursting through the atmosphere. I will be absent from the circus for most of the week. I will try to post from the road, but you know how that goes. If you have a blog and try to post from the road anyway, than you know how that goes.

You know what happens when the ringmaster leaves the circus? The clowns run off and get drunk. The animals are released from their cages. The strong man lays down with the bearded lady, and the popcorn machine goes full tilt until the big top is ready to rupture. Since the beginning, all of 90 days ago, it hasn’t mattered to me if folks want to pay the price of admission (5 minutes) to join the show, or if they just want to check in now and then and think to themselves, “That guy is a jackass, I can totally drop him and write better than him”. Hell, that’s what got me started. I appreciate every click and scoff you’ve thrown my way, but in my absence, it’s going to get mighty boring around here. you might choose to play amongst yourselves. Either way I will be back Saturday and the world will be saved from certain destruction once again.

Some minutuae in your future…

• S’quatch and family will hit the road soon for an old-fashioned motor tour of the great west. Overall I.Q. in the campgrounds of America is projected to spike by about 50 points with those two kids of theirs along. It’s too bad they will use most of their untapped potential for bringing to their father’s attention all of the unforeseen sufferings they will encounter along the way. Squawtch, his wife, will diplomatically alter between steadfast support and joining the mirthful abuse with the children. No matter how you slice it folks, it works out great for us.

• The Tour de France will commence in July and the BIGRINGCIRCUS, (fuckin-A right that’s all caps) will wholeheartedly throw allegiance to Magnus Backstedt, the largest rider in the Tour by a shitload. Duh, of course we’ll cheer for Lance, we are not a communist circus after all. I still predict some rhinocerous beetle domination on the long, hot, flat sections by the “COLLOSAL APOSTLE” Mr. Magnus B.

Now is your chance to say, “But what about all the shit you talk about road bikers?” And my reply…What about it?

Have a great week amigos.

Juancho se fuera

it’s time

Rain for the whole weekend, that’s the forecast. Just like last year sitting around waiting for Hurricane Frances to come to town and bore us to death. Well, this year I’m not just going to sit by and “get prepared” for hurricane season. No way, the batteries are already purchased, the canned goods remain canned. The coleman lantern and the propane grill “Old Sparky” are ready. It’s time for action. Wet, 100% humidity action. I don’t care if I have to shoot Munson in the kayak tomorrow, I’m laying down a 38 minute lap.

Last year we got pasted in Florida by Charley, Frances, Ivan, and then Jeanne (Ah, Jeanne was so cute wasn’t she?) Now we’re back to the top of the order again, unbelievable.

It’s enough to make a man start drinking. (Well-harder stuff and earlier in the day anyway.)

BRC HQ

As you can see I have the entire BRC staff working out the details for today’s launch. Pleased with the results of the Razorback pre-test, we have decided to move the launch schedule up. These dedicated men and women are the unsung heroes of the BRC. They are calculating wind resistance, estimated time of departure, wardrobe selection, tire pressure, time of engagement, speed of roll in, proper buzz adjustment, potential for injury vs. viable rescue window, and especially “sack content”. That’s right, I’m going back to the Cadillac “hazardous area” to check out the drop zone again.

It’s all in the mind. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Just point and go. No problem.

I have complete trust in the team’s calculations. If they give the green light, we launch today.

Thanks for the epic account S’quatch, your descriptions were so vivid I don’t feel the need to replicate the journey, until sometime in the fall anyway.

Strap up boys, this trail might not go quietly.

While I was down in Alachua and Reddick ripping out 8 mile time trial loops with the waterbug crew, Sasquatch was busy picking off a major ride in the life list, the Spaghetti 100K off-road loop. 70 miles of back country clay roads winding through the north Florida/ southern Georgia plantation land. It was a bellering cry of protest from the gentle giant. As Powder continues to coax me onto the singletrack, Sasquatch heeds the call for more miles. If this crew is ever going to pull back together, I need to get them both to Dr. Santos for a prescription of miles and miles, of singletrack. I have to get to work now, I can’t be standing around the parking lot jacking jaws with you people. Maybe S’quatch will come out of hiding and tell us a little about his weekend ride. Be still everyone, he’s a little skittish. Oh! Ssshhhhh! I think I hear him coming now…

ichetucknee

“Wait a second so I can roll up the window”, he tells me. So I wait, then we promptly jump out of the car and lock the keys inside, including the spare key I gave him at the beginning of the trip when I said, “Take this key, in case I lock my keys in the car.”

Why do these things always happen to us? It is an interesting question. When the Hardman and I are at-large in the world, something changes. The stakes go up. Common sense goes down, and then things start to get interesting.

It had been an epic weekend, where all expectations were met beyond my hopes. When does that happen? OK, so I got my ass shellacked at San Felasco, and Razorback damn near killed me, but oh man, what a way to go. Tired smiles tattooed to our faces, we roll up to the Springs to squeeze in just one more moment, one more feeling, one more good WOW! before coming home. Thunderstorms are brewing, the air is unsettled, swirling and charged. AAA is called. They will be here sometime around 2006. The ranger reminds me of myself in some strange way, like a version of yourself in a dream come to give you direction and guidance.
He told us he would leave the gate unlocked and we could let ourselves out. He saw our cold cans of Guinness, knew we had nowhere to be for a few hours, and chose to trust us with the keys to the palace. I think he even considered having one with us.

So there we are, alone in a place that sees thousands of visitors in the summer. I pitched the tent, just in case nobody was going to come. Under the new moon the world was black. A carpet of fireflies lay undulating through the trees and over the water, as far back as your eyes could penetrate into the surrounding swamp. Soft heat lightening and blinding strikes lit the sky intermittently, exposing the naked world like a polaroid snapshot.

We swam, we wandered, we waited.

Unfortunately the locksmith came, like a bouncer at last call. When I close my eyes right now, I can still hear the rain in the trees and see the shadows of draping spanish moss enshrouding a wild, holy place.