Monthly Archives: September 2008

Cliff Leonard, of Hook, Line, & Sinker Designs- you did a good thing on Saturday morning. The Dirty Time Trial was good, dirty fun. If you have a surplus of shirts I think we should sell some here at the BRC, give me a call.

With the combined effort of a respectable lap time and a number of unwitting sponsors, I was able to purchase second place. One rider came determined to bring home victory and his wad of Abe Lincoln’s procured it for him.

Congratulations to Mike McCue for winning the first ever dirty time trial!

I believe J.B. Ritter took third. Way to go J.B.

Judging by the podium, it might appear that trophies were handed out based on the number of hours our asses have logged sitting in front of the shop.

Conditions are turning toward favorable that all of our asses will soon be perched right back where they belong before Thanksgiving. That leaves us plenty of time for more FUNdraising. What next?

Storms are commonly used as a literary device to signify a lasting change or unalterable realignment in a character’s psyche. In this instance, Tropical Storm Fay has redefined the loyalties of the BigRingCircus. How can I continue to pick on Cobra Kai when they sent an emissary to deliver an envelope and kiss Joe’s ring? How can I lambast the staid and sober Capital City Cycling Crew when they sponsored the event with prizes and refreshments?

Who will now stand in the crosshairs?

I’m serious. I feel nothing but brotherly love for the roadies, the commuties, and the racies. I even have love for Bike Church, and those guys truly suck!

I guess it is back to picking on S’quatch.

Juancho

I got the wind knocked out of me a couple of times this year.

I have two avenues of thought on the matter.

Down the brightly-lit, Royal palm-lined Avenue A is the notion that the pain is a reflection of effort, and therefore evidence of growth and progress. Take your lumps and all that.

Meanwhile, I hear a low whistle coming from the shambly, Now & Later wrapper littered, single-wide trailer-rowed and graveled Avenue B that says I am just not paying attention. Crashes are the fruit of bad choices, crooked lines, and hesitating in that crease where things either go bad wrong or so right.

Either way I’m sick of the bruises.

-Juancho

Tomorrow night I will lay my head down at Oak Mountain, Alabama. Three days of working all day and riding all evening. I can hardly remember what singletrack is like.

I visited the Eastside trails finally. Things are far from normal out there, although if you work for it you can still put a ride together. Deep, sludgy, contaminated, mosquito-farm water is present at the entrance and along the lower sections closest to the railroad tracks. I saw not one riding soul out there on Saturday. Discouraging. This could be explained by the hours I rode, between 11:00 A:M and 2:00 P:M. It was hot and hazy.

Joe and I met at the park at sundown last night like sweet gay lovers and we walked the trail and I got caught up on the nightmare. Our very ownNicol sent a card with a picture of her bike and a Joe’s t-shirt and an earnest letter of support as only a New Plains Re-Migrator could do.

Joe is a little embarrassed by all the love, but I told him it is his own fault for being overly decent. It is not many of us who get a glimpse of what our funeral will be like. He should not be disappointed. Anonymous envelopes with cash show up in his mailbox. He can’t go to the grocery store without being stopped by a dozen people asking after his well-being and the future of the shop. He is not used to the attention, but it is important to people I tell him.

As Joe always has, he brings out a better side in us.

I, for one, seriously need the shop to re-open. I was working on my disc brakes last night with a spoon and a pipe cleaner. Now, they really squeak.

-Juancho

Nobody knows how he is doing it, this riding every day, leaving wagon tracks so far back in the distance they disappear into the pillows of dust he plows with those knobbie tires. He used to be an oddity, a curio on the trail, like a Maurice Cheeks throwback jersey on an Abercrombie and Fitch rack.

Now he rides every day, splits cans of tuna with the cat (getting a head start on that plan) and never speaks of scabs or cramps, or aching muscles or too hot or too early or too late or too short or too long, because he just doesn’t care anymore. Munson 30 times? Why not 100 times? Why not on empty stomachs with flat tires? Why not during a thunderstorm, with sand in our water bottles?

He may not always ride with you, but never doubt he is riding.

Juancho

This post will be entirely free of sarcasm. This post will mock no person or human endeavour. If this post has a future it is as a Lifetime Movie event.

Saturday night was a late one. Not like the old days of pre-April 2008, but in the new model, which means I was riding my bike. Mystery the open book, Tommy, and myself spun out a night lap at the only trail left undamaged in the area, the venerable sweet grandma of trails, Munson Hills. I rode without an actual cornea-boring headlamp in favor of a tiny penlight the size of the head of a match. This meant I had to stay peppy and alert so I could anticipate turns and maneuver through the forest in bas-relief.

I didn’t want to get out of bed Sunday morning is what I’m telling you. So when Joe called to meet him at the warehouse it was a fight to tie shoes and brush teeth but I slouched out of here with better late than never conviction.

We had to get ready for the Flood of Support benefit at Lake Ella for Joe and the other Lake Ella shops that were damaged. Joe is the face of this event not only because the entire world has seen him on major news outlets carrying a bike out of his flooded shop, but also because Joe is an anchor business for Lake Ella and he has been on the donating side of these events for 20 years.

At 10:30 A:M I was catching the last load of an ongoing affair. After loading a u-haul truck with bikes and non-damaged merchandise we set off for the Legion Hall at Lake Ella, host to the day’s events.

This is where I began to pay attention. The bike shop was re-created inside alongside the inventory from other shops that were overwhelmed by water.

“Whoa!” I thought, “I’m going to need another cup of coffee.”

Pete was there along with Scotty, Jackie, and this guy Aaron- who since the day of the flood seems to be everywhere Joe & Pete need him without complaint; driving the truck, carrying sloppy wet gear, whatever. Today he was bandaged heavily from a collision with a mini-van, the most recent victim of yet another serious bike-vehicle encounter in this town. Injuries aside, he was on the scene as usual, hanging out and being helpful.

There seemed to be more merchandise than there would usually be in the shop. One explanation is that a frequent target for ribbing on this very website, Sunshine Cycles, donated about 40 pairs of high-end road and mountain shoes to the cause- thereby purchasing themselves a pass from ridicule at the BRC-not that they care one way or the other I’m sure.

It speaks highly of their character, even if they are a bunch of roadie scum. If I was roadie scum, I would totally be shopping there and I encourage you to do so if you have visited this mountain biking site by mistake.

This post is now alarmingly long, and that is one problem with sincerity, it takes time. Half-truths and sarcasm come lightning fast.

The event wasn’t scheduled to begin until 2:00 P:M but already the volunteers who helped make this day happen were going to their wallets and lining up to purchase.

I started to think this wasn’t going to be a typically under-attended grassroots 3 band benefit. After all, this was Joe. If Joe hasn’t helped you out in the last 20 years then you probably haven’t needed much help. Just search this blog for his name and get a sampling of what public service looks like when you do it yourself.

By 3:00 P:M it was pouring outside, but nobody seemed to care. The Legion Hall was already packed shoulder to shoulder and the line ran down the block. You couldn’t park anywhere near Lake Ella by now. People were handing over cash at the door for the privilege of spending more cash to liquidate the refugee inventory salvaged from the flood.

Wendy Halleck was talking to the news, coaching volunteers, and quarterbacking the whole operation. She should have been in charge after Hurricane Katrina.

I stepped outside to move someone’s truck and when I turned to go back in, the path was blocked. Standing in the rain I stood on tiptoes to catch Joe’s attention. I pointed to the throng ahead of me and shrugged my shoulders.

Joe was at the center of a mob holding a fistful of cash and he just smiled and shrugged back.

-Juancho