I can’t really update until I earn some more blogger tokens so that’s what I am doing right now. I do want to congratulate the ZONE 5/ Bike Chain Service and Social Krewe on their successful event yesterday, The Red Bug Challenge. Who won? More importantly, who did not?
You can expect a surge of quality blogging when I get home this weekend, but until then you’re going to have to rely on some of the other fine sources of facts and information available on the internet.
Juancho
I was leaving the air-conditioned comfort of the gym yesterday when I saw two figures roll by on heavily laden touring bikes. They were covered completely from the sun, so I could not even see their faces. The temperature was close to 100 and they were crawling up the hill in front of the mall. My spirit burst forth from my body in a wash of admiration. I hurried to the corner store and bought two cold bottles of Zephyrhills spring water and then I rushed to the intersection at the top of the hill (Blairstone and the Parkway.) There, as they slowly approached, I began to clap and shout “Allez! Allez!” as they pulled up to the red light. Pulling down their scarves I was greeted by two broad grins.
They were on their way to Miami, from Iowa, by way of Guadalajara. They gave me a photo of themselves, a post-wedding picture? She smiling in a frilly pink dress, he triumphant and lifting her in his arms. They accepted my gift graciously and away they rolled under the hot afternoon sun.
Here is a link to their site, in case you can read Taiwanese.
http://mypaper.pchome.com.tw/frontpower/post/1321904924
Juancho
A new pleasure I enjoy on the bike is riding behind people on the trail and sweating them until they blow up or pull over. What? They should have some kind of nice experience on their bicycle? They think it is a sport of leisure and nature appreciating? Please. They must learn to suffer as I was taught to suffer. Perhaps one day the carrot, but tonight it was the stick. It is the stick for all until I came to the one I couldn’t catch, and then I knew where I belonged- for now.
Soon, it will be the stick for that one too.
Juancho
My medically-imposed exile is over. 2 days in New Orleans showed me that. I can eat and drink what I wish within reason and not suffer any debilitating effects. That’s a big relief. Now I am going right back to my penitent routine anyway. The monk’s path is the path for me. Brown rice, kale, clean water- what more is there I ask?
See you at Munson Monday.
Juancho
I took the obsessed with bikes thing as far as it could go last week, riding about 100 miles of singletrack in 4 days. That is not a typical BRC hyperbole either. To translate that number into my general level of exaggeration would result in something like “I rode 700 miles of single track in two days.) You can calculate future hyperboles on your own using the following equation.
X= (actual)(pain factor)7/10
I am in beautiful Destin, FL where the water is as clear as cat’s eye marble. It is just a fleeting flirtation with the water though as I head to New Orleans today to support my good friends GLITTER CHARIOT (click to see video).
Aside from playing Juancho in real life I moonlight as “El Managerio” to this avant garde art-ertainment ensemble. They will be opening for Quintron and Miss Pussycat(link also). By Sunday it will back to bikes, bikes, bikes, but tonight I am stepping through the frame and into the painting.
El Managerio
Saturday, OMBA Epic Route, Santos 57 miles
My heart was pounding in the parking lot while I fumbled my wheel into my fork for the third time. That sound! The pinging! I can’t ride with all this pinging! I need air in my tires. Do I have too much air in my tires? I really should have choked down another bowl of hotel lobby oatmeal and slept another hour.
Too late for all of that now. There is just me and the Titus pointed west and an old friend from here and thereabouts passing through on his way from Baja to Hood River. He is riding an Ellsworth Moment, a six inch travel bike for those of who appreciate the minutiae. I am thinking a lot about last summer- the pain of my cookie crumb shoulder bone, the resilience of so many of the families featured on Wife Swap, and the mechanized plot lines of the ensemble crime drama Criminal Minds. Mostly though, I’m thinking about all the Vicodin and the wretchedness.
So there is just nothing for it when we roll out, me leading the way, at a pace better suited for a very brief road ride. With no hesitation in my route-finding I spin us in a 20 minute circle right back to the parking lot. Todd questions me, but I shrug it off as a warm-up lap. We stopped at the Vortex, and here is where everyone who knows this guy will want to hear stories of aerials and verts, maybe some can-cans, and some rodeos. Too bad, he doesn’t have a blog and the only ride I can speak of is my own. so for this portion of the story imagine yourself just sitting in the saddle, sweating, and thinking less about the Vicodin.
Again on our way we fly to the west. We pass a small gang of cyclists, one with a speaker set pumping the jams out of his backpack. What a jackass! We are protected from the rising sun by a canopy of oaks and the air feels cool and benign. The trail unrolls like cinnamon dough. I’m sure I talked in a very loud voice the whole time. I was excited.
It got hot. Out away from the canopy of oaks and exposed to the central Florida glare I faded. I faded and faded and faded. I was riding all alone. I did this for a very long time. I am specifically not saying much more about this portion of the ride. Bleak and bonked in the 5th hour I came across the jackass, still mainlining the jams directly into the forest. He greets me and offers me a Clif bar and a piece of beef jerky. Who is the jackass now?
Friday, Morris Bridge Trail, Tampa, FL 12 miles
A trail in Florida I haven’t ridden, how exciting! My good friend Todd from back in the day is in the state and here we are with his brother, hitting some local North Tampa single track. Tomorrow Todd and I are riding Santos, so this is just a meet and greet ride. We haven’t hung out in at least 5 years I’m thinking? Maybe he has lost a step? Maybe I’m the man? The mosquitoes obviously think so.
Sunday, Eastside trails, Tallahassee, FL 18 miles
A curse on the Dogboy! A curse of saddle rash, and poison oak, flat tires, and creaking cranks! I feel nothing but pain. I crawled into the saddle this morning, numb as a combat soldier on the 41st day of the shelling. There was not enough food and sleep in the world for me last night to be ready to ride again, and yet we roll. A friendly ride with friendly friends we all agreed. Not Dogboy though, not him. A chance to push against some legitimate west coast talent? He and Todd are railing the rest of us, pounding us up the good downhills and riding them twice. At some point he asks me how the pace is and with breath sorely needed I squawk Fuck you dogboy! and though I love him like a brother I mean this sentiment sincerely and he knows it. He smiles, which is his way of displaying hurt. I make it home dragging my axe along the ground, bloody.
Monday, Munson Hills, Munsonia 10 miles
I don’t care what happens tomorrow. This is my Alamo.
I am expecting short and fast and that’s what we get. I’m used to riding above my level now and paying dearly for thinking I’m of that mold, but I see nerves in some of the other guys and I can smell the turpentine in the air. Halfway around I pass my tormentor, this time it’s King, and he is down in the dust-crashed. I hope this means a slackening, but no, displays of weakness reap aggression and the pace lifts sharply. I realize the way your legs feel and how fast you can ride are not even related. One is just a feeling and the other is a fact. The mutants, King and Todd, have severed the tether between us and they head deeper into the woods. Bushy balked at the turn to the Twlight trail, so now it is just Mystery, the Torso, and me and we are headed for the barn. Digging frantically for more juice I know this is my time, my ride, my reward for Saturday’s suffering and Sunday’s humiliation. I own this next 3 miles. They are going to have to kill me to pass me.
And here I am writing this blog.
Juancho
That’s right. I am supposed to writing about the combined 80 miles of single track we rode this weekend, and celebrating the return of a hometown boy to his ancestral ride grounds, but stupid Osama Bin Laden had to get one last lick in and steal my thunder. How many networks called to find out what gear I was in when I finished the 57 mile beatdown at Santos? None, that’s how many.
Will his wickedness never end?
I’ll let the din die down and then we will turn our attention to bicycles again.
Juancho
Lot’s of miles going on around here. I’m whooped.
-Juancho
Those of you who have been around for a while will remember the dramatic rescue of my fat manx cat Iggy over a year ago. For three days he swayed 70 feet above the yard on a scraggly limb of a water oak tree. It was February and the temperatures were below freezing each night. Unable to do anything to help, I mourned his death by the minutes. It was torturous.
And then…
Pa Ingalls, here revealed for the first time as J.B. Bates, rolled into my driveway all the way from Reddick, FL with a truckload of tree climbing gear. By pure coincidence he was on a scheduled visit to ride bikes and introduce us to recreational tree climbing, but now it was a live action mission.
Ropes were flaked, tag lines were set, harness was checked and away he went. Was Iggy as awe-struck as us spectators? Did he see a halo glowing around J.B.’s helmet, or did he think J.B. to be not an angel, but an angel of death come to carry him off to the great beyond? Either way he offered no resistance and gratefully slumped into the bag rigged at J.B.’s hip. Once on the ground he sprang from the bag and bolted for the house so fast he slammed into the closed door.
Cat officially rescued.
Now J.B. and another long-esteemed friend of the BRC, Danny “the Mayor” Lyons from www.inkspotproject.blogspot.com have gone legit. They have hung out their cat rescue shingle and another family has already been reunited with their wayward cat. Click on the logo above to learn about their services and read about the heartwarming, inspired rescue of “Kitty” from the community of Mcintosh, FL and know for yourself what heroes look like.
Climb safe Tree Cat Rescuers and bring those kitties home!
Juancho & Iggy
It was the summer of 1995 and someone was burning down black churches across the south. Me and a couple of buddies loaded up and drove deep into rural Alabama to find one of these churches and offer to help. We found the Rising Star Baptist Church in Greensboro, Alabama. There was nothing but a foundation and the charred husk of an old one room church. We walked to the nearest house and met an elderly woman who was a life-long member of the church. She invited us in and over a glass of tea we answered her questions until she overcame her bewildered state and understood that we were not with any group, we were just us. She was skeptical, of our intentions or our ability to do anything to help, I’m not sure. She sent us to the local catfish farm to ask around for the pastor, who wasn’t there.
We found him later that day and promised him we would return to Tallahassee and find a way to raise some money to rebuild the church.
This began my career in non-profit community service.
With the help of the Tallahassee Rock Gym, folk artist Mary Proctor, Joe’s Bike Shop, Quarter Moon Import Shop, local bands Felt and Sidney, 7 other churches, 2 synagogues, and a mosque we produced our first benefit show. I think we raised $1,500 which was matched by the congregation of the First Missionary Baptist Church on the corner of MLK and Tennessee Street. It wasn’t enough to build a church, but it was something, and we had done it all on our own initiative.
I know a hell of a lot more than I did then, and I’m looking for another Rising Star.
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust,
I rise.
(M.A.)
Juancho