Category Archives: Uncategorized

Narwhals Ride the Big Waves (dude)

Swimming out beyond the break is no big deal. Swimming back is what counts. That is what it feels like to be 12 trips into a 24 trip work schedule. You can get away with bringing your true love and a bicycle along sometimes, but most of the time you have to cover yourself in petroleum jelly and kick, kick, breathe. Kick, kick, breathe.

One of the first rules of blogging I learned was this.

1. Nobody cares about the weird dream you had last night.

What if it involved a surf contest though? In seriously heavy conditions? Cancelled by a massive pod of frolicking narwhals? What if you are both relieved and disappointed that the contest is cancelled, but also thrilled and exhilarated to watch the loping narwhals rolling and dropping into hotel-sized surf, and not 4 story zone restricted hotels, but an anything goes Myrtle Beach style condominium sized wave?

I get it. You still can’t expect anyone to care.

It’s like the contest organizer told me this morning with a shrug of his tanned and hairy shoulders, “What can we do man? Narwhals ride the big waves dude!”

So here we go. Iron the khakis, gas up the rental, run barefoot on the treadmill until you get blisters, and then swim back in with the tide.

Juancho

Accountabilty

There is no time for this today, but time be DAMNED! I will all caps it to the rooftops. Time must be made for things that matter. The Wrecking Ball’s knitting bones, and your denial of the significance of the internet and chicken, and how combined, they rule your world? These things matter.

I rode with S’quatch and ‘Tops on Saturday and it was like old times. I left the pack in the car and rode so light I forgot to suffer. Spring, spring, spring.

I am almost 42 years old, which will be older than my dad was when he was 41. Yesterday was my grandfather’s birthday, and he has been gone now for far too long, and it will only get longer from here. I stopped mid-stroke on Saturday to spot a Fat Grey Fox Squirrel as it spiraled up a longleaf pine. It seemed important to lay eyes on him again, and to say, I see you fat grey fox squirrel, so eat your pine nuts and swing in the breeze, but know that you were seen on this day, April 8, 2012 on the eve of my Papa’s birthday. I tease you in his honor, for he was mischievous and a friend to all squirrels.

Spring, spring, spring. I’m old for a young man, and to know so little about so much. The life is so short, and the craft takes forever to learn.

Juancho

Welcome back

It poured rain yesterday afternoon, providing the easy out for anyone lacking the motivation to get out there. Indigo thunderboomers maneuvered over the south side like great battleships. 10 days off the bike, my longest break of 2012. I sat in the Munson parking lot, feeling like a chunky man in my funky van, ready for a little Soul-O ride.

I strapped my old cleats on and clicked my feet together to knock off the clay. I sniffed around to find that awful smell, which turned out to be my jersey. I checked my tire pressure, a perfect 70 lbs.

I would attempt to write some dialogue here, but man, that never works for me so I’ll just have to tell you. This dude, John Turner, rolled up and asked if I was riding alone. We easily agreed to roll out together and I thought briefly about stealing his lunch money. Instead, I found myself upside down with change falling out of my pockets before we got to the bench at the beginning of the trail. “I’m thinking Twilight will be nice after the rain.” He says. This is the classic upgrade gambit, and I respect the play immediately. I am tired, creaky, and just not feeling it, so of course I say, “Twilight sounds perfect.” With that I doubled my planned mileage, which paired nicely with the out of my league pace.

I shoveled extra coal to the furnace, and discontinued blood flow to my hands, feet, ears, ass, and right eye in order to keep John Turner in view. I recognized his name (not John Turner) and prayed that he was a known killer, a trail dingo of the first order, and not just another drive to the trailhead weekend warrior who was pulling my toenails out at the roots.

Halfway around Twilight we came to some agreement on the pace and enjoyed a little conversation. Both being men of the world, we traded stories of being unconscious in Spain and how we came to be at this common place and time (Tallahassee, FL 2012.)

At the juncture of the East Connector I laid down my king and we shook hands (fist-bumped.) Off he spun to finish the Twilight loop while I finished out Munson and humped it back to the van. I think we rode 14 miles in about 40 minutes so I will let you do that math.

Moral of the story- This town has a deep bench.

Juancho

Ooo, ooo, oo, aah, aah, aah!

Here’s the big secret in case you haven’t caught on yet. No riding = no writing.

It doesn’t mean I only write about bike rides. It means riding bikes lifts my wordy and worldly spirits. Only when the body is fully engaged in a fight for survival can the mind slip out the back door and roam free in the back alleys of Kathmandu or drink unsweetened tea on the porch of forgetfulness. Like panning for gold, all of the inconsequential impurities rinse away in a sticky sweat. When the ride is over I am left with the images that endure, and patient thoughts that seek to be expressed.

I guess we will see what kind of flake is in the creek tonight.

Juancho

Hang with it

Whatever it is, whatever has got you on the run- don’t give up. Hang with it. Make it wear out first. Is it your 7 year old hammer-headed cat with no tail walking around with a cone on his head and a catheter hanging out of his butt? Hang with it. Working on something hard? Building a new business? Starting a new job? Just getting over the tracks? Don’t give up.Hang with it. Got a broken collarbone? Indulge your mind. Wait, rest and hang with it. You will get better. You can wait it out.

Make it blink. Hang with it.

Whatever it is, hang with it. Don’t give up. It is as tired as you are.

To struggle is divine.

Juancho

Bombsies, Keepsies, and Playing for Fair

We hosted two of the sweetest, kindest children for a few days of spring break fun. At seven and nine, their eyes are full of innocence and hope. They gazed at us with stars in their eyes, and then they broke us down and scattered the pieces from Mysterious Waters to Highway 20.

Many of you know that I have passed the last 10 years easing into my days like a scalding bath- heavy sighing and slowly moving from coffee to sweatpants like Turnaround Norman. Responding to the endless needs of adorable children requires a bit more effort.

The first mistake was scheduling events that required our physical participation. “We will wear them out. They will sleep like babies.” So ignorant, so avoidable, the only babies I have ever known did not sleep until they turned 13, and these? They slept, but not until they planted their flag in my tired behind and still they were there in the morning, with their searching doe-like eyes. “You want some more of this?” They queried, with their tiny poker faces.

Interlude: How do you wake up Lady Gaga? Poker face.

I have been thoroughly informed as to the inherent lack of fairness in the world, because nobody is treated less equitably than a tiny 7 year-old girl with a canary-like voice. People move around her like giant icebergs floating through her sea, and all conversation occurs above her head. She spends her days looking up at everybody, and straining to get what she has coming to her, and I am here to tell you, IT IS NOT FAIR!

The nine year-old understands he will be expected to be a man one day, and he is not sure how much time he has to prepare. He would prefer you let him handle his own boat, chop his own wood, and tuck himself in. He indulges a barrage of hugs from all who love him, but if we could just stay focused on the Army and some football, he has things to learn, and he suspects hugging will not one day pay the bills or defeat the monsters that live under his bed. A strong kick and a sniper rifle seem much more practical at this point. He is hindered by his tender heart, and it takes a lot of chin-jutting and arm-crossing to overcome a tender heart.

We saw 107 individual animals including a Florida panther, a black bear, 3 Emus, a manatee, a few alligators, some dogs, birds, squirrels, and a black and white striped worm. Every animal was counted and loaded aboard their vacation story.

Speaking of dogs, they have nine back home, and my tribute to these great kids who wore me out to the inner sole and made me feel like a special grown-up- has been to memorize the names of all nine. Here goes.

Sookie, Sarah, Scrappy, Bama, Butch, Bennett, Ginger, Gracie, and Roscoe.

Good kids these, as all kids truly are.

Juancho

U.S. 231

We are going back to Alabama tonight, just a for a little joy ride up old highway 231, one of my personal favorite highways. I rank it right up there with U.S. 19 along the west side of Florida. In fact, 231 is just a good swimming hole away from taking the top spot. Driving 231 into Alabama makes me feel all southern in an irrational way. The South is the hot sun glaring off the cotton fields, the patient pace of traffic rolling less than 80 mph, and seeing the green signs for holy ground like Selma and question mark towns like Rehobeth. Sometimes I stop at the outlet mall in Red Level, just to browse the racks of Carhartts and contemplate a switch to full-time overalls.

Overalls, all the time and nothing but, now that’s an aspiration.

Juancho

American Flyer

Munson Monday is back in full swing. Munson Monday is of course, not a race, but rather a display of naked aggression and chaos similar to the encierro de San Fermin. As Neal said to the crowd of 30 riders,”Okay flat bellies, get going, you know who you are.” I stood poised on the pedal, gunning for the last flat belly. I marked him and we were off, leaving the rest of the riders to enjoy a Munson promenade in the late spring air. I enjoy a stately procession now and then, but for me Munson Monday is a chance to run with the bulls and plumb the depths of my tank. I traded spots (got passed) by a kid on an 18 year-old bike that creaked like Granny’s rocker. I hung onto his wheel with the grip of death and clocked a personal best time of 32:55 for the 7.5 mile lap. You can click the title to see the stats if you are into that.

Loved it!

Juancho

Monday Funday

You all know you love the internet and chicken, I don’t know why you won’t admit it. That is between y’all and your makers though, and not my business.

Here is a picture of the famous Oak Mountain chicken, which is found in the Rock Garden section of the Oak Mountain State Park mountain bike trail in Pelham, AL. Tallahassee really needs to get its act together in the spontaneous art representation aspect of the local trail systems. All we have are signs that say, essentially, “This is a trail.” Boring and short-sighted. More art in the woods please.

I pulled up at the Rock Garden for just a moment to acknowledge those friends and riders out there who are suffering, on and off the bike. Good thoughts manifested on sacred dirt carry more impact so things should start looking better for many of you. Don’t thank me, I am happy to do it.

We stayed in a motel so close to the interstate that you had to cross two lanes to get to the breakfast buffet, and that’s just the way we like it. Thin walls and a high bedbug count make us feel all warm and cozy.

I think it is time for me to face facts and figure out what to do about a new ride. It might be time to sell the Titus. If you have ridden a 29’er and then gone back to a 26″ wheeled bike, please weigh in, but I suspect there are a tiny and insignificant number of people in that ridiculous club. Who doesn’t like to go faster with less effort? That is all I am saying.

I’m going to blog my way out of this,

Juancho

Round Up

Juancho

Let’s get started with an update to Juancho’s Not Recommended Reading List- I got ambushed byTen Little Indians by Sherman Alexie, the noted Indigenous American author. I have a friend in Alaska who works with the tribes under the Indian Child Welfare Act, and his stories of life on the res got me curious to learn more. Now that I have finished this little book of 10 short stories I can’t tell if I am more inspired than ever to write fiction, or if I am positive that I will never bother trying. This book is amazing, and it goes to the top of my not recommended reading list.

Miami was hell, so I guess we get what we expect. Getting from the tarmac to the airport exit was like having to navigate blindfolded through the airport with periodic stops to solve a Rubik’s Cube and hand out $20 bills. Once you accomplish this series of challenges, congratulations, you are in Miami.

This morning we are loading up for a weekend run to Birmingham, AL and for me that means Oak Mountain, one of the finest mountain bike trails in the country. It never fails to tear me down to a smoldering nub. While M is preparing a young bride’s hair for her wedding day, I will be riding through the trees, a 41 year-old man in tights, and sweating like Rod Blagojevich.