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Pages of verse ran through my mind all weekend, all of it superior to whatever I manage to lay down here this morning. Like a waiter lost deep in the weeds, I have failed to keep up. It is too late to go back and capture the events of Friday afternoon, the slimy ride under the central Florida sun, the night on the town, the meeting of an icon.

Saturday, I came down out of the stands and got into the tree-climbing game. A year ago, even before the Accident of Ultimate Clarity, I was not able to move my body up a rope using a series of crunching maneuvers. This time, only the concern of how to get down slowed my progress. A lifetime spent beneath the shade of giant Live Oak trees and only now do I see them as the unknown frontier. Apologies to the Tour de France, sorry I missed the opening stage.

Sunday, smug with accomplishment, I rode solo around this steamy town. I rode through FAMU and FSU, Frenchtown, and into the old neighborhoods. I visited 5 of my past residences and took in all the years spent in Tallahassee, doing pretty much what I do now. I am wearing a groove in this town, playing that same favorite song over and over until I know every scratch and skip by heart as well as the lyrics and tune. I rode into the trails and the ground passed so easily beneath me. I felt like a bear dancing on a ball.

Monday morning, an encore performance, out into the forest for 4 hours of vision questing, as we moved constantly through the waves of heat, the smilax vines, and the sand. This is all so new to me again, this confidence that my body can get me in and out of adventures. Thanks to my swollen Achilles for reminding me to pace myself, slow it down, grab for those verses before they are all forgotten.

-Juancho

Sometime in my twenties I discovered Stetson Kennedy, first by reading his book, The Klan Unmasked, and then The Jim Crow Guide to the South. At the time I had but two noble aspirations in my life- to be a writer and to be some kind of professional rabble-rouser. The internet had not been invented yet, and so the opportunity to do both of these things from the convenience of my underwear did not exist. The only supporting evidence I had to guide me were a collection of not that good short stories (because kids in their 20’s don’t know shit with rare exception) and a couple of train-wreck efforts at organizing to support various causes. I read Mr. Kennedy’s stark and simple prose where he described not the ideas of doing good work, but the actions. I resigned myself to trying the unglamorous hard way, and went to work at a runaway shelter instead of trying to advocate from afar like a celebrity. Homeless kids need good potato salad more than they need college kids writing stiff essays about their plight. I guess I hoped that by immersing myself in the work I might one day have something legitimate to say about it all. If you aren’t familiar with the life and legend of Stetson Kennedy, I invite you to spend a few precious Google minutes learning about his contributions to Florida especially, and to humankind in general.

Tomorrow night, at an art show curated by my friend Bill Bryson, the mayor of Hogtown, Stetson Kennedy will be opening the ball. This show, The American Dream, already stood to be an epic event without this surprise announcement. Mr. Bryson is a cultural curator, a deep thinker, and apparently a persuasive organizer. Stetson Kennedy recently marched in support of increasing the pay rate of farm-workers 1 penny for a pound of tomatoes. He is a gentleman of well-advanced age and yet he gets off the couch for justice. Decades after taking down the Ku Klux Klan, defending the Everglades, and mocking the hypocrisy of the Jim Crow South, he is still making his own potato salad.

He has lived my version of the American Dream for 95 years and I can’t think of a better way to honor our nation on this Independence Day weekend.

Juancho

Check back later for a re-mix of yesterday’s Juancho vs. Dogboy ride.

I would have preferred the simplicity of a quick injection of human growth hormone but the excessive hair growth on my back and shoulders was interfering with my body’s natural ability to cool itself. Instead, I carefully removed the I.V. needle from the 2 pints of blood I purchased from some kid who deals it from the back door of his part-time job at a TCBY. He said he can run a mile in under 4 minutes so I figured it had to be pretty good. Big Worm said he was coming to the Munson Monday ride and I wasn’t taking any chances. I slapped a booster needle of EPO into my thigh and grabbed my gear when- BOOM! Lightning crackled throughout the neighborhood and the rain we have been waiting for came all at once. Nobody would be riding tonight, not on the artificial pitcher’s mound Munson has become. The trail would be a sticky mess.

There was no way to retract the increase in hemoglobin that made every deep breath taste like sweet cheesecake. I had to burn off the energy somehow so I did what anyone would do in my situation and I walked it off inside Joanne’s Fabrics. They didn’t ask me to leave until they ran the final batch report and rolled up the yards of chenille and chintz. The manager, a teenager with chipped, black fingernails told me I didn’t have to go home, but I couldn’t stay there and suggested I take it down the sidewalk to Bed, Bath, and Beyond. I told her she wasn’t the boss of me and drove home in the rain. Eventually I slept, and dreamt of future glory.

Juancho

This whole town is soaking wet this morning, and the air is moving not one single knot. I suspended my penitent practices last night and enjoyed a few cold ones, so skipping a ride was not on the menu this morning. It is so steamy that my sweat was sweating. Oh well, I felt strong. I can’t wait for another three months to pass so I can enjoy another cold beer. That’s going to be great.

I stopped in at Zone 5 Bikes, Brews, and Coffee on the way home and I just have to love what is going on down there. Homeboy has a grand vision and it is all coming together. All of the cycling tribes in the Seven Hills nation come together for Rendezvous and trading on Fridays. There is always a new Ellsworth on the stand, and one of these days that will be my new Ellsworth. I am consciously willing it into existence. I could use your help too- so on the count of three I want you all to help me manifest this vision.

OK, 1…..2……3 Manifest!

Outstanding, thank you all. If you have a vision you would like help manifesting, please submit your requests below and let the collective consciousness of the bigringcircus work for you.

Juancho

Team Type 1 is the feel good hit of the summer. I haven’t mentioned them, but they have been on my mind as they advance their cause in the press and in bike racing around the world. I have followed the story of Phil Southerland and his steady takeover of the cycling world ever since Big Worm told me who he was. I would love for Big Worm to give us his perspective on mentoring this local Tallahassee guy in his early years, and supporting him through the Race Across America. Like the rest of us, Phil looks up to Big Worm, and not just because he’s tall. Phil doesn’t race anymore that I know of, but he is directing a team and an international effort to mobilize diabetics to compete and manage their disease through exercise. You don’t have to be a diabetic to get the idea.

In my recent adventures in wellness I have learned a lot about blood sugar and how it affects both the mind and body. While I am not a diabetic, I was doing a good job of impersonating one until last September. Remember all that worshiping of candy corn? Raw almonds are the new candy corn.

Every time I see a TT1 jersey in a race or on a podium it inspires me to take better care of this daily gift I carry around each day.

I’m saying it now, and I hope you are reading Mr. Tour de France chief, Team Type 1 needs to be on the road to Paris in 2012 or the BRC is boycotting the race.

With good control, anything is possible.

Juancho