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Do you see that tent in the post below this one? Do not buy that tent. That tent is screen on all sides and it has a specially designed vent that funnels cold air directly into the crack of your ass. I feel very lucky to still have my someone special in my life. Much like the celebrated 2008 trip to Bed, Bath, and Beyond I avoided a horrible bike ride by shopping for comfort. In order to survive the 26 degree temperatures we drove into town in search of insulation. While we explored the halls of Wal-Mart the rest of the gang went for a bike ride, sort of.

12 miles in about 5 hours involving a lot of walking and pushing bikes, that is the report from the first ride. The day was nearing darkness when the Dogboy rode into camp alone. Riders were scattered all down the mountain he said, and a ride would probably be appreciated. Ma Ingalls and I loaded up in the truck and bumped along down the mountain road with a box of canned beers for the bonked. The first rider we came along was Tommy, and he happily got in the truck. The second rider was my friend Big Dave, riding a 1988 Trek Antelope 820, aka the lead sled. He wears running shoes and his bike has one toe clip on the left side. He wears a buck knife on his belt. He pedaled along just below walking speed, but he refused assistance. “Maybe on your way back,” he said. The next trail refugees were Pa Ingalls and Mystery– the Un-tameable Stallion. They walked side by side with their heads down, arms locked out pushing handlebars. They were a sad pair indeed. They loaded up in the truck, Mystery reclined across Tommy’s lap as he could not bend his legs without cramping. Another mile down the hill we found Panama City Thomas, gamely pedaling. I took his bike and he crawled into the bed of the truck.

On and on we drove down the hill, almost to the highway. Our very own Magnum, left for dead by the others, was cranking along in silent agony. He went into the truck without a fight. He later admitted that he heard us coming and got on the bike to make a good show of it. I suspect he was truly turning the pedals though, broken but not unbeaten.

When we got back to camp, Big Dave was at the fire enjoying some suds and preparing to go find some wood to chainsaw. We’re going to put him in the Clydesdale Hall of Fame for that performance.

The Cheaha trip produces stories big and small, and this is just one of them.

-Juancho

Nary a ride occurs lately without a crash happening. My theory is that everyone is pushing right now, taking advantage of summer fitness efforts to uncork some epic rides in the crisp fall air. Legs and lungs that moved you at 10 mph in August move you 15 mph in November. We are all out there 5 miles ahead of ourselves.

Last week I took a new rider out and he too was pushing himself, trying something for the first time, putting himself out there. He took a fall so nasty, with consequences so horrific, that I didn’t even mention it here. He is fine now, recovering with 10 stitches, and drafting his story for publication right here at the BRC. He is a resilient guy, and good in a crisis, and I suspect he is a good enough writer to get the job done.

The last four days included 4 rides that I would hold up as the best I have ever had. Oaken legs and abundant sunshine, big wheels and little wheels, single track and not, I laid down some quality miles. I am five miles ahead of myself, but catching up fast.

A week ago I moved in with the limb I have always missed and today I resigned my job of 9 years to take a new chance.

When you are on the roll of a lifetime you don’t tap the brakes.

Juancho

In 1985 my first girlfriend moved away to Alabama. We were pretty serious for 15 year-olds. I watched her drive off in the back of the family wagon, pedaling down the street as they pulled away forever. We wrote letters. I told her all about my big dreams of becoming an airbrush artist someday, and she told me the boys in Alabama were nothing like me, and that we would be together again. I never made it as an airbrush artist, and eventually life absorbed us in our own small worlds.

Her name faded into the mythology of my past, holding the place of First Love. I ruefully thought of her living in a separate universe from me, not knowing who she became. We were together forever and trapped in 1985.

We stayed together forever and 15 for 26 years. We bumped into each other this past summer and picked up where we left off- No, I don’t airbrush anymore. No, I don’t really break-dance either I told her about the Crash of Great Awakening, the perils of sucrose, and my commitment to reading the great postmodern novels of the new millennium. Who has time to airbrush? She was surprised to hear I was still single. With the sweet van you drive? She would say. And the angry political posturing? Single? Really? But it was true.

I said something to her in a conversation this summer that sounded familiar to her and she unearthed the 1985 Nancesowee, our yearbook from 9th grade. What I said was, “I have never met a girl like you before. Sometimes you are so funny and cool to be around and other times you are just quiet and beautiful.”

From the day I picked myself up off that pavement (June 2, 2010) a lot of good things have happened in my life, but none so good as this one. I got my girl back from Alabama and she moved in last night. We’re all shacked up.

Welcome home Melissa!

-Juancho

My ears quit ringing. The ever-present hissing and ringing of the last six months just stopped. There is no explanation. Is it gone for good? Who knows. This does tell me that it can stop. What have I learned from the ringing? The lesson I learn always and in so many ways- humility and acceptance. I learn the lesson that when you have had all that you think you can take, you can take a little more. You don’t have to suffer from ringing ears or anything else forever, you just have to suffer it this moment, and the next moment, and now this moment right here.

That’s how we get by, whatever our afflictions.

Juancho

Daylight was on the wane by the time the Munson Monday ride got rolling and like usual, Mellow Johnny says, “If you want to go fast, get going” and with that about 15 riders coast into a line based on invisible negotiations and off they go. Big Worm was in a full lather when he pulled up at the trail-head so I knew better than to catch that wheel. I tailed in behind the last of the fast guys and watched the line of riders dance and bob through the trees. I stole a glance back and saw as many riders behind me as there were in front. The first time I rode with this many people it was panic city. Where should I be? Am I going too fast? Am I holding anyone up? Now it is all familiar and I get in where I fit in and make adjustments.

I chased the lead group in a 4-pack behind some well-known faces and a wild card on flat pedals wearing gym shorts. All the way to the power-lines we were in sight of the lead group and I was cozy as can be. On the first small climb the gap spread and gym shorts got antsy, asking our front rider, “Come around?” This got him a begrudging, “go for it!” which means I ain’t doing you no favors, but if you see the line be my guest. This is exactly what I would have done.

Opportunity presented when front guy got too hot under the collar and abruptly gave way. Gym Shorts lit it up and passed both front riders, one of them a well-known big engine roadie. I had misgivings about trying to ride away from that dude, but Gym Shorts would not be denied. The backside of Munson is full of long open runs of trail across flat ground. It is signature Munson forest with tall pines and wild flowers caught in glimpses as your speed reaches the high point of the ride. We were closing fast on another knot of riders when Gym Shorts asked if I wanted by him. “Hell no” I said, “let’s go get those dudes!” Gym Shorts laid into it hammer and tongs and we went by three riders on the outside edge in the grass with no time to look back. I recognized them briefly as lead group riders shelled off the back. Gym Shorts was starting to flag and I offered to spell him at the old trail-head. He gave way and I pulled through steady, trying to give him a chance to recover. He had just finished a 3.5 mile pull. He never stopped pedaling and he never let off the gas. His was the best wheel on the trail, but the seams were busting loose now. Ever the ingrate, I took one last beseeching look at him and saw his shoulders slumping. I stood up on it and chased a flash of blue far up the trail. There was enough time to catch one more.

I buckled down and leaned into it, sprinting through the sandy sections, trees, and uphills. I heard Blue Flash blow some snot. The gap was closed by a third. I heard the snap and crashing of brush behind me and here came Gym Shorts half-crazed and off the trail, but out of the saddle determined. Blue Flash caught a glimpse of me and grabbed his water bottle cuing me to do the same. At the base of the last climb he exploded upwards as did I, timing my jump to his. My big red rig responded, uncoiling its energy into the grade. I had Blue’s wheel and I could hear Gym Shorts 50 yards back. I relented, trusting that Blue was all done- and that was a mistake. An old racer from way back, he tucked chin to chest and heaved pedals around to claim some daylight as we pulled to the bench and the waiting pack.

So much fun someone ought to sell tickets. All you folks who make it happen every week, thanks, and big props to Gym Shorts, that guy is a mule.

Juancho