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I can smell the sawdust from my dad cutting the pieces of plywood that would fit into the bed of his green Ford pickup.  I think it was a ’76?  Compartmentalized gear storage underneath and compartmentalized kid storage above it.  Compartmentalized from he and his new bride that is.  Soon after they married, bringing two kids each into a new family they decided a quest was needed to bond us all together in a common love, or loathing, of the outdoors.  Us kids, ranging from about 7 to 15, two older sisters joining two younger brothers, piled under the topper of the truck with our pillows and blankets and a thick foam pad to make the ride from central Florida to Murphy, North Carolina and the Nantahala River Valley.  I wish I could remember our detailed list of supplies, but I imagine there were boxes of Little Debbie Pinwheels, canteens of iced tea, GI Joe action figures- in the era of COBRA not the Barbie-sized doll man.  I do remember throwing a tennis ball over and over at the rear window of the truck topper making the drivers behind us blink, and blink, and blink before roaring around us in 80’s road rage.

We had no concerns about seat belts, perched as we were atop a plywood launch pad secured by a fiberglass bubble.  The only thing between us and the road its own self the caring hands of a cautious parent.  I am sure the grown-ups worried some, but in the back of the truck?  It was all party time.  With a new little brother to lead astray, and an extra big sister to irritate, we had a lot going on.  I am sure we whined through the pass-through when we needed to go to the bathroom, or re-stock the candy supply, but I remember it as an idyllic float along the American asphalt river.

We all remember my dad veering dramatically to the side of a mountain highway to shoo a bee out of his trousers.  And we remember tumbling down the Nantahala falls under the direction of a fairly amateur guide.  There we are in the picture, my brother’s tiny determined arm the only part you can see of him, while the rest of us hang on, mouths wide open, charging into the drop.  All in one boat, headed down the rapids, no better metaphor for family.

This weekend I am headed north again to see the mountains, the humble hills of Cheaha in Alabama.  I have a family of my own now, a plus one not including the dog and cat, but the quest remains the same.  Get closer, think slower, and appreciate the magnificent taste of coffee by a campfire, and food eaten while seated on dirt.  Whether by destiny or design, I can’t really say why there will be no pack of mongrel children in the back of the van.  I just know I am lucky to be here at all, on this earth.

To have one person beside me, and a trekking tribe of friends to meet me there is more than anyone has the right to expect at birth so I will take it and try to remember the details.

Sappy ole Juancho

You can talk all day about your bigshot deals made over sushi and how you schooled those bureaucrats down at headquarters, but none of those accomplishments mean a thing when you are unloading your bike from your vehicle down at the trailhead and you bump into a friend lean as a piece of rebar. Sure, he has regrets too, or one hopes so, but being slow will never be one of them. That is your regret alone today, or at least in this parking lot. So you rationalize your choices, and you chuck yourself on the arm for keeping that blood pressure down. You take a moment to count your thousands of blessings–your beautiful partner, your apricot poodle, getting that damned deck pressure-washed and sealed, reconciling all of those receipts, nephews and nieces, a rock-solid van, and moving that blog to WordPress. You kick ass buddy!

But- those are all just the saccharin song mewling voices of weakness uniting in a choir of shame while your buddy, and Lord knows he ain’t perfect, but there he sits a few hundred miles of riding into his month while you try to catch a quick 7.5. He maintains eye contact, no telltale glances to the midriff and why won’t he? Just one reason to hate his guts. To literally hate his glossy-entrailed, sinewy guts for his sneering pride would be so helpful, but there is nothing but love there, and you manage to laugh together, all three of you, as your other buddy contemplates his own status, mercifully and safely in the mean on this equation. Ha ha ha! We laugh about riding bikes and not riding bikes, and everyone knows the score here. Bikes. We like them. So off he goes on a road rocket while you galumph into the woods like a bear at hibernation weight, your over psi tires sagging into the sand. During your brief and painful ride you have some epiphanies- about commuting, more big deals over sushi, and how you don’t work for things, you work for the mission man, and that doesn’t ever need to change. So pivot bro, make the necessary adjustments, ride somewhere and write something that will let you show your pixelized face to Reverend Dick and the rest of your circus friends.

Juancho

A phalanx of phlebotomists is a sobering sight before breakfast. Five black women await five white men. They will draw our blood to sample the ore for impurity and excess. The chief steps forwards and reads from the list, “Mike, Mark, Randy…Randy?” Mike and Mark jump up and go, pairing off with purple scrubbed technicians to room one, room two, room–“Randy?” Randy just sits there. He appears overwhelmed by this efficiency. He says to the chief, “I’m Randy.” “Then why aren’t you moving?” She replies. Her tone puts the spurs to him and off he goes for a little pre-prandial desanguination.

I mumble to the man next to me, “I’m going to be ready when she calls my–” Juancho?” Yes Ma’am!” “Room Three, no Four, it looks like Randy still can’t get it together. Right here sir”, and she leads Randy by the elbow to a chair where his steward is already posed with a needle.

Mark was red-faced and cursing at the television when I sat down. “Eight years of this shit.” He fumes at the screen, talking of a government shutdown. “Eight years of this bullshit!” Mark’s blood sugar is going to run high with an attitude like that, and his lipid panel is going to be off the charts. I take a few deep breaths and try to will my blood to comply, to bring me back good news, but I’m concerned. Not enough lazy days and hunger to keep my blood clean, so there is bound to be some evidence of lifestyle, of progress, of success to scare the wits out of me.

The chief is going to handle me personally, and I try to soften her up with a good morning, and how was your weekend. “Fine.” She says, too professional to ignore me, and too professional to not process me quickly. She will draw the blood of dozens today, and it does not appear that she dislikes the task. She grabs my right hand and turns my forearm up, then snaps a rubber tie beneath my bicep. Patting my vein to bring it up she asks, “You okay?” and I wonder why she asks.

“Sure.” I say with a dismissive wave of my unbled hand, “take what you need there’s plenty.”

The pinch of the needle, the release of the tourniquet, and the tap flows a rich red, telling all of my secrets.

Juancho

I woke up Sunday morning with a Saturday night head. Little dog harpies yawped and squeeched me right out the door in a panic. Hunched over the steering wheel like a slug on the window I crept along the miles I felt too discouraged to ride. Will this story ever get older? My body is the financial crisis of 2008. The wealth did not transfer, it just ceased to be. That fitness is no longer in the market.

I hate summer. Not Summer, the Apricot poodle, but the sticky, disgusting season that covers my skin like I’m wrapped in Saran wrap and suffocates me slowly. I blame everything on north Florida panhandle heat. I have learned my lesson. The only way to ride hard through August and September is to be mutant strong at the end of May, and then launch yourself into the spiderweb of dew hoping to scrap your way through to October, which is still a lot like September.

And another thing- getting used to this new site is tough. Even as I type I have in my view a cockpit of gauges and tools. What do they mean? Why do I need them? How will they change our lives?

We will see. Until then I am dancing with the date that brunged-ed me. Complaining about the weather, and talking about bikes.

Slow, hot, Munson, whining. Refer yourself to the archives for context.

Juancho

That title might be a bit hyperbolic, but I ran into Ms. Moon, of www.blessourhearts.blogspot.com Friday night.  Look at us out on the town.  Not bad for a woman who prefers the company of chickens and a misanthropic cyclist.  She was there with a whole mess of family, to watch her friends play some music.  I was there to apply for a dish-washing job.   I’m afraid I tanked the interview, but I aced the swimsuit competition. 

-Juancho