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Somewhere out there in the woods of Alachua County is a moment waiting for me. It may be a moment of quiet splendor, where I pause in the saddle to watch a fawn snuffle for acorns while I reflect on the great bounty that befell me in 2011. I will genuflect in gratitude before clipping in to savor the final miles of a glorious day.

Somewhere else out there is a different moment. This moment finds me sitting beside the trail, my sooty bottom all wet and itchy. My blurry tears fall on my bottom lip and pool there. Some physical or mechanical failure ties me to defeat. I am eating chocolate and waiting for the bus.

Juancho

This time next week we will be driving towards oblivion, which is just a dramatic way to describe a bike ride that costs $50– The Tour de San Felasco. Tommy offered his mea culpa today, which is nothing to be concerned about. He has been working day and night, up to his elbows in chest cavities from here to Georgia. Should you ever need it, you would want his to be the hands up in there. His job ain’t easy, but at least it is stressful. He’s not the surgeon so don’t get on your high horse about doing what it takes to make the big money. He volunteers his time and donates any earnings to various charities that benefit small children or cute animals. They don’t make them like that anymore.

It doesn’t matter, like I said. We march onward into the fray, singing of caissons. He won’t begin to apply himself until it gets ugly, which is when he shines. The colder and wetter the higher his odds. I am the opposite. If the sky is grey I will struggle to get out of the car. Two elements that make me cower are wind and grey skies, especially when they are spelled in the British manner, with an “e”. Those are indeed the greyest of all.

I can’t do much more to be ready. Trim off a couple of Christmas lbs (Ham and Grand Marnier), pick up some shoe covers in case it is 12 degrees, and figure out what I am carrying on the ride (the 10 essentials?)

Tonight the Glitter Chariot rides into town for a performance at the FSU Museum of Fine Art, so I must put aside thoughts of bikes and become El Managerio to the stars. M will be doing hair and makeup as well, so for us it is a family event.

Tomorrow may involve some light road biking and napping, which is redundant really because road riding is effortless compared to mountain biking. I don’t make the rules, that’s just the way it is.

Sunday will be one last epic hammerfest with the Dogboy, who is Micky to my Rocky, except he is also my Apollo Creed. I guess what I’m trying to say is “Thanks Dogboy!”

There. I feel so good knowing the internet is aware of my plans.

Juancho

The Stegosaurus is not the most glamorous dinosaur, but it got the job done in the Prehistoric rumbles I am sure. Click the title link to learn more about this impressive beast. I can’t vouch for those children’s bona fides. If you want to hear the song sung right you have to meet my 3 year-old buddy Lucy. She knows what’s what about a Stegosaurus song.

I felt like a Stegosaurus out there today lumbering behind the Dogboy, who is some kind of long-distance fast rolling dinosaur. It was a workman-like three hours of saddle-time out to the Munson Twilight Zone by way of a whole bunch of sandy trails with lots and lots of sticks. I’m calling it 28 miles.

As I have said, San Felasco can’t come soon enough. It can all go to hell by the 14th, but so far things feel good. Who cares right? There’s bigger fish to fry than a long, cold bike ride.

Such as…

What’s up with the dude on the Bachelor? Why doesn’t he get a haircut? The 90’s are over bro, tighten up. Speaking of haircuts it should go without saying that if you live in the area and need to polish your avatar, my girl is a terrific stylist and affordable.You should see what she has done for my look. BRC readers get a break of course. Ask for details.

What else? Is Mitt going to make it happen in Iowa? I just don’t know. That Rick Santorum is one charming S.O.B. don’t you think? Friendly, funny, the total package.

Blogging is easy really, anyone can do it. Look how effortless I make it look. That’s because it really is that simple. One word comes. Another word follows that word. Piece of cake.

Speaking of cake, how many of you put on some holiday lbs? I’m logging in with 4 official, 6 unofficial. That sets me up perfect for the Felasco taper. Whatever that is. One word. Two words. Onward we all go.

Juancho

We rolled out from the center of town and within 5 minutes I was in unfamiliar territory. Years of riding the same crosstown routes makes all other choices invisible. As soon as we dropped into the trail behind Leon High School I was moving in an alternate reality. The same landmarks along the way, but an entirely different perspective. It was bumpety bump and clackety clack for quite a long time, interrupted by a tour of the steepest hills in town. By the time I saw a familiar trail it felt like we had ridden to Thomasville by way of Albuquerque.

I was the only one riding little wheels I think. The rest of them were loping along on their gangly 29’ers. It didn’t matter. The Titus tracks like a laser and I jumped from wheel to wheel like a red sucker fish. What? I took a turn now and then.

Juancho

5 days before Christmas and you think I’m going to play the organ grinder reel about how the holidays are supposed to be about things that matter, but instead we get all caught up in the guilt of impossible to meet obligations and the frenzy of mass consumerism? Please. 5 days before Christmas and you think I’m going to ring my silver bell of charitable acts and try to make you cry talking about lonely elderly neighbors and kids with empty stockings hanging on a cold hearth? Not today. Let’s just have a conversation about a bike ride instead. I showed up at Dogboy’s house a few minutes early on Sunday 5 lbs overweight and tired from the ride the day before. I’m nothing if not strong at the gallows step and too proud to hide. I drove past a couple of the bike church boys on my way there, so I already knew what I was in for- a long drop on a short rope. The great reckoning ride of payback. Tommy rode up, and I was glad to see another bike with 26″ wheels, and then a fellow on a 1988 Cannondale Beast of the East rode into the driveway. He dropped me on a previous ride so I knew not to get my hopes up. I was determined to take my shot to the ‘nads and go home hardened by my shame, with a cold eye towards San Felasco. We discussed a route and I breezily suggested a course that kept me firmly established in a close orbit to my 1998 GMC Safari (Van of Champions.) My suggestion fell so short of the expected mileage that it was met with open whooping– that Juancho! He’s so silly! Dogboy cut the chuckling short and announced we would be riding east the way I suggested, by an amended route that took us far to the north, in view of Santa’s workshop. My bowels felt loose at the sound of shoes engaging pedals. It was too late to de-chamois and un-bib so I resigned myself to crouching in the poison ivy at some point in the ride, preferably alone and well-dropped by that point. This never became a problem as my body recycled all of that matter back through the system to absorb remnant micro-nutrients as the pace demanded more power. Within minutes of leaving the Dogboy’s house I was hanging on, lost in a town I have been in 24 years. I decline to comment on the specifics. There will be no Garmin map of the this ride. The wheels anoint the way as we go, and thus becomes the trail. Others may remember it differently, but the pace began at a high simmer. The first dirt we saw was my old friend the Live Oak Connector and I dropped into that oaken-rooted snarl with joy. Full-suspension and little wheels are assets in such terrain. I followed my favorite lines like summer’s hit song and my heart beat solid in my chest. Through Panther Creek and up over the power-lines Tommy blasted us with Dogboy whispering evil in his ear. I stopped caring what was in my tank and just enjoyed burning it up. We paced through traffic and neighborhoods, drainage and easements, park and parking lots both. I rode in the front and in the back. Thousands of pedal strokes later we rode into the familiar trails of the east side, my hopeful destination back at Dogboy’s house. By now mindlessly grinding and unconcerned with the fate of my legs, we ran into Bigworm, riding alone. We rallied behind his nimble wheel into the lower Cadillac trail and rode each to his own pleasure and pace. We rode some Tom Brown, then the Fern trail- for so long my trail to home, rewinding back through the years and the miles, playing the game of this has changed this has not, do you remember that? I remember this. Juancho