Author Archives: Juancho

The Rise of Taco

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I can’t wait for hunting season, because right now I feel like the prey.

Joey Bushyhead came down from his tree stand and into the saddle. He has moved from the shadows of stealth training to open hostility on the trails. I fell victim to the Sicilian Dragon.

The Sicilian Dragon is a famous chess opening for black, the aggrieved position, which must counter the advantage white has by dictating the opening move. The Sicilian Dragon, a variation of The Yugoslav, is characterized by its combative nature and willingness to engage in early sacrifice. The message to white is- sure you can develop your plan, but not without paying a dear price.

Now is a good time for me to declare unequivocally that riding bikes is an activity to be enjoyed among friends for benefits of mutual health and well-being. Any message to the contrary taken from this blog speaks to your own miserly nature and need for validation at the expense of those dearest to you. Of course. This expression of goodwill is a fundamental cornerstone of the BRC philosophy and any discussion of crushing, dropping, or putting the hurt on someone is not tolerated here.

My options for enjoying the mutual benefits to our health and well-being from in front of Joey Bushyhead are few. The only adequate response to the Sicilian Dragon is rapid development. White must advance his position, at painful cost to his ranks, in order to achieve high ground and establish a winning position before the bloodletting proves fatal.

-Juancho

Munson Time Trail

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I prefer to operate on half-truths, lies, and innuendo when it comes to my cycling prowess. The less people know the better.  I am a cagey and dangerous yard dog who wags his tail until you are close enough to bite.  I only ride for fun, unless you look tired then I twist the rusty spoon in your side meat if I can.  If I am the one who is hurting, I switch my narrative to appreciation of the moss in the oaks, the Great Blue Heron, and the swish of tall grass across my shins.  Why hurry?  We have all day.

It is awkward to pivot from a salute to the all day epic in my last post to a breakdown of a 7.5 mile lap around the hamster wheel, but this site is built on nothing if not contradictions. 

To the best of my memory yesterday was the first time I have ever raced a mountain bike.  I raced against the clock for money as a bike messenger in Portland, OR. I have done events like San Felasco, and of course every ride is a race at some point, but this time there were witnesses and record-keeping.  I can’t say I cared for it.

A time trial is a race against the clock, with riders starting at one minute intervals.  This means there is a possibility of being caught, or catching someone else.  The former is awesome, the latter- humiliating.

My name got called behind a kid I was pretty sure I would not be seeing, and I had no idea who was coming behind me, and I planned to keep it that way until the end of the lap.

And that is exactly how it happened. One frantic, panicked lap all alone, sweating like a dry drunk at a job interview.

Results are pending.

Juancho

Doing it Wrong

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I got a report from Bike Church last night that enlightened me.  In an attempt to circumnavigate our sometimes lake, Lake Jackson, those guys were flinging their bicycles onto the brush to trample down a path through the swampy fringe.  Shins were laced with tiny cuts, like an emo kid’s arm, and the circles beneath the eyes spoke to the brink of dehydration, and yet the tone is euphoric, the smile- fulfilled.

If you are worrying too much about what is happening on the bike trails, you are doing it wrong.

A good Tallahassee area ride involves some cross-town urban assault, suburban orienteering, wasteland bushwhacking, and then maybe a little single track for dessert.  Engineered trails are fun, but hopelessly artificial.  They are to be enjoyed in moderation, like crystal meth, and nothing to build a habit around.  Mazes are for gerbils. 

Venture out, find some chiggers, bonk out and see spots.  A good ride should make you whimper for home, a supplicant for deliverance, stronger.

-Juancho

Play-Mor

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 A little camper on the road to heaven, that’s what we got.  Just a little spot to rest our heads where the world can’t find us and wi-fi signal stands for why fight it?

We will accessorize it with our new little dog, Summer (Chanel.) In her little t-shirt that reads, “I’d rather be barking” she will ride on the dashboard and sniff out the way.  

A guy can’t spend the next four decades like he did the last two, rolled up in a tarp drunk by the fire.  That’s no way to earn the title “Elder Statesman.” 

This summer I have thrown out the old Juancho playbook. Someone else will have to tote the turpentine and barbed wire.  I’m retired from that game.

Juancho

Groucho

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The problem with organizing things is that things get so organized.  There is little room left in the conversation for individuation and free will.  Once the move is made to get organized, God help the outliers.  The nature of any compromise is for everyone to sacrifice a little something for the greater good, and the volunteers line up down the block to take on the burden of suggesting what you might wish to sacrifice.  The result of a good organized effort is the lowest common denominator multiplied by the exponent of the shrillest among us, divided by those with the most free time. 

Don’t believe me?  Check my logarithm-

I am glad so many people are interested in trails and biking, except when I am riding of course, because then there they are- riding their bike on the trail at the same time as me, which threatens my status as a unique dewdrop on a precious lily. 

There’s nothing wrong with being in a club, I just don’t want to belong to one that would have me.

-Juancho

Van Love

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People have some pretty strong opinions about vans, and van drivers. There is something about the capacity and versatility of a cargo van that makes people jealous.  I don’t understand the vitriol.  Nobody is stopping them from getting a van of their own.  The limitations exist in the mind.  Like wearing Crocs.  You swear on your life you will not be caught in them and then there you find yourself, eating mayonnaise from the jar in the ugliest shoes on earth.

Non-van drivers see van drivers like this
We see ourselves like this

So maybe there are a few too many coffee cups, moldy bike jerseys, and stale almonds under the seats. There could always be more. You might think you are too good for it, but I have room for you, your bike, some dental floss, and some nasal spray and we can go anywhere we want.

Vans lead the way-

Juancho

Title IX

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We spent another magical weekend at the Pole Barn, undeterred by an ominous forecast of 10 inches of rain.  The weather caught us eventually, but not until we had soaked up all the love Reddick, FL has to offer. 

Tree Climbing was the order of the day, and Cousin “City Hands” Todd, and my dearly beloved both established their superiority in the canopy straight away.  City Hands made a point of arriving before us so he could already be on rope and underway when we got out of the car.  Melissa awoke Saturday morning and said to me, the ceiling, and the trees themselves, “I’m going to climb that tree today.” Thirty minutes later she was jugging up the rope, immersed in the gear and culture of recreational tree-climbing.  While she enjoyed the elite air of the “the lounge” 70 feet above, I spiraled below awash in sweat and discomfort.  It is a joy to watch someone discover new talents, and there was a lot of joy to behold on Saturday.  Hooray for Title IX. Athletic women kick ass.

Soon she will have a mountain bike, and then I will really have something to cry about.

After celebrating arboreal victory and toasting old friends all night, we delayed the sad, rainy drive home with brunch at Sisters in Gainesville.   There needs to be a special word for the pride one feels when enveloped in the successful dream of a friend or family member.  To relax  in the care of the folks at Sisters is a gastronomic vacation to the Mediterranean.  With Tropical Storm Debbie dark and drizzling outside, coffee, champagne, and fresh eggs inside, it was another charmed visit to the Alachua-Marion vortex where  for reasons I will never question, I am lucky to know great people.

Juancho

Echo de menos todo el mundo

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  Many of you reading this used to be here–  Now you are in Royal Oaks, Michigan, Singapore, Hood River, OR, Bozeman, Montana, Bristol (outskirts), Panama City, Portland, Reddick, Ft. Myers, PSL, Miami, Sarajevo, Hoboken, Jensen Beach, Korea,  Asheville, NC, and parts unknown.
Last night we celebrated the Summer Solstice down at the All Saints Hop Yard.  They ran out of lanterns by the time we got there so we had to make wishes on strangers’ light.  For me, I thought about many of you, and the years that have passed, and that in spite of so much I have hung on in this place and built a life.

  We learn to do without. We make room for something new.  That’s the hard part.

We let go of each other and trust that the wind will carry us where we belong. 
But for a time we lived together in this place. 
Juancho

Titus Racer X: Retired

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I swear it’s a perfect fit.  12/07/07
I have to reunite with the Titus before I can put any words together.08/12/2008
Despite all efforts to avoid conflict and mitigate the frequency of assaults, in the end the rider must succumb to the savage nature of his surroundings and procure himself a shiv.  I prefer the Titus Racer X. 08/29/2008
It is time to lay my sword of righteousness down and pick up my one true weapon- the fully automatic Titus Racer-X. This year in honor of sweet victory it will read “This machine kills fascists” along the top tube. 11/06/2008
I’m staring over the next few days like the unengaged battlefield, polishing the grey gun-metal of my Titus Racer X.  1/12/2011
The Titus Racer X is secreted away in the trunk of a rented Impala like a doomed starlet.1/25/2011
I have been riding the Dogboy’s spare 29’er for weeks and the Titus was headed for the dustbin of history. 10/24/2011
  
The Titus tracks like a laser and I jumped from wheel to wheel like a red sucker fish. 12/30/2011
I just finished cleaning the Titus stem to stern. It is beginning to show some wear and tear. I can tell we are now in the sweet zone where everything works, it fits like a pair of skinny jeans, and I can’t imagine life without this bike. This is a sure sign that it is probably in its last year before the unraveling begins. 3/12/2012
I already own the greatest modern mountain bike available, the Titus Racer X for which I am most humbly thankful. 3/15/2012
It might be time to sell the Titus. 3/19/2012
Officially de-commissioned this day, June 20, 2012.
Juancho

Roots

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Before the great trail boom of the early Tens riders of the Seven Hills trails were tenuously affiliated by common interest and a desire to not associate with one another.  Riders marauded in groups of 3-5 chopping their way along deer runs and drainage culverts harvesting ticks and impetigo picked up in the people-free zones of unintended spaces and unmonitored woods.  They rode bikes, but they did not go on bike rides. Cycling was a fierce and  vagrant way of life.  Conflicts were settled by jousting in a bull ring until one rider remained to defend territory.  Lesser riders slunk off to the FSU campus and the Power lines to gather skills and strength for the next encounter.

Bottom brackets had to be drained of rusty water and bearings were stolen and scavenged wherever they could be found.  Rims were straightened against Water Oak or Slash Pine.  If you could not repair your bike alone, you were left in the woods to die or learn.  It was the way of things in the pre-enlightened epoch.

After the turn of the new millennium, the Seven Hills experienced a period of cataclysmic growth, an asteroid of public interest and government-sponsored development occurred.  The indigenous tribes adapted or died off, with a rare few retreating to the confines of the Live Oak Connector to survive on dead trees and no trespassing signs.  Trails became faster, and a source of pleasure.  New routes mushroomed in park and forest.   Cycling evolved. The trails soon bore scars of too much love, like a burn from Daddy’s beard.  Gradients were nuanced, and technology began to merge with nature, improving on the organic design of terra firma.   New tribes swept in on these changes and rolled the trails in powerful numbers.  As farmers and builders they came to stay and make their mark upon the lands. 

Many years passed.  Zip-lining  emerged as the new dominant force in the Seven Hills.  The government was forced to turn their attention to the trees as the demand for new branch-free pathways became shrill.  The trails below fell into disrepair, but the proud infrastructure of the builders held true. Roots entwined through bridges and kudzu covered wall rides.  Red clay sank below cinnamon sand and held a firm base just below the trail like a secret. 

Refugees banded together, some carrying the genes of the indigenous riders, and some were descendants of the Great Builder Era, unable to adapt to the trees, and left to grunt and scratch at yesterday while their kin zipped through tomorrow.

The Seven Hills trails became wild and beautiful, sloppy and dangerous, with breath-taking lines unattainable by humankind or nature alone.

Juancho