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I ran outside in my underwear at 3:00 in the morning to make sure my windows were rolled up on the Safari. They were. I jumped back under the covers still damp and shivered until I fell back to sleep and dreamt I was an R&B singer at the end of his career. I still had the pipes but I was jaded on the scene.

I’m up now and it is still pouring. This is good for my new hedge I planted. Camellias and Box Heather so I get two flower shows during the year. I didn’t think to ask if they will overlap in one spectacular show at any point. I can hardly stand the suspense of not knowing.

Sometime during the camping trip last weekend I left the Clydesdale club. I’m still no waterbug so let’s not get too excited. I think I know when it happened. We were climbing miles of forest road and one particular grade almost had my number. I wanted to get off and walk, but I didn’t. I just looked straight down and turned the pedals. I think that is when I burned block of butter 28 and possibly 29. The singletrack at Unicoi State Park is like riding up and down a saw blade. We screwed up the route, but Dave P. stripped down and got in the creek at a very public crossing so that kind of evened things out.

Last night I ate an entire bunch of raw mustard greens and a small bowl of brown rice. It was a delicious dinner.

A little bit of work today and then a lot of Munson later-

Juancho

When I was eleven or twelve I tried earnestly to change my name to Jake. I’m not sure what I was reading at the time, but the idea got in my head somehow that “Jake” was a cooler, tougher, and more dashing derivative of Juancho than “Johnny” as I was widely known. I tried assertive measures like:

Coach “Butch” Downing: “Johnny get over there with Levi and Joe, you’re on skins team.”

Jake: “It’s Jake Coach, just call me Jake.”

Coach “Butch” Downing: (pause) “I SAID YOU’RE SKINS, I DIDN”T ASK YOU WHAT YOUR NAME IS- GO RUN A LAP!”

(Jake runs a lap.)

I also tried subtle techniques like signing my homework “Jake Doe”. My History Teacher, Ms. Betty Phillips would read off the names while passing our work back to us and when I saw her well-traveled face scrunch up like she sucked on a lemon I knew she was holding Jake’s homework.

Ms. Betty Phillips: “JAKE? WHO IN THE TAR IS JAKE?”

(Jake raises his hand.)

Ms. Betty Phillips: (Shakes head and spits in the trash can) “JAKE?”

(Jake slinks up the aisle to retrieve highest grade in class homework.)

It’s true. Jake killed World History.

In time my dreams of becoming Jake passed. I put Jake’s denim British touring cap in the back of his underwear drawer and settled into a placid adolescence as Juancho, as you know me now- you’re humble(except for the 104 Average in World History) blogger.

Since then, the nicknames have been few and far between.

How about y’all? Got any good nicknames? Lived down any bad ones?

Come on Booger, don’t be shy.

Juancho

-out ’til Sunday.

I spent all weekend chasing my three year-old nephew around so I’m just taking a second to write this while the nurse changes my IV drip. I’m sure I will be up and around in a couple of days. We played pirates the entire visit like a non-stop LARP session of Dungeons and Dragons. There was only one good pirate and I was not that pirate.

No bikes, just pirates, alligators, manatees, art shows, play dates, and digging holes.

Treasure is an elusive thing-

Juancho

I was driving up SOMO yesterday when I got this deep nasty whiff of Lysol. It wasn’t coming from inside my van, but from across the street where the carnies were unpacking the North Florida Fair. A person can choose to be disgusted, reassured, or both, but it is a fact. Windows up, 45 mph, Lysol. I imagine that’s what jail smells like.

I’ve always had mixed feelings about the fair. I suppose it started as a way to celebrate the harvest before winter and then slowly but inexorably– like all social institutions– it sank to the lowest common denominator. Why do the cattle ranchers get a booth, but not the chicken farmers and so on all the way down to the Sleestak who guesses your weight or sits in the dunk tank.

Poor people love the fair. They save for it. They make special arrangements to attend and to have enough cash to enjoy it. Check Craigslist right now and I bet you can find all sorts of marginally working power tools and Barcaloungers for sale, somewhat stained but not easy to see. I haven’t been in many years, but I expect it is the same. The middle class may take a swing through the fair on a Friday evening in search of some romantic pastiche, but the real fair money comes from the outlying edges of the county, and the subsidized housing complexes. Poor people have it hard, they need a reason to celebrate and the fair is a reason.

I do like the lights, and that a field can be transformed overnight into a place with customs all its own and a culture unfamiliar. The carnies? That’s where they live, it doesn’t matter what town they are in. When you go to the fair you go to their town. Fairtown.

I never liked carnival rides. I can confidently say I have never, nor will I ever ride a roller coaster. More so, I can’t imagine why anyone would,especially at the fair. Stinking, greasy rattletrap jalopy Ferris wheels and Yo-Yo’s? I think not.

And yet, to walk the midway and win your girl a goldfish or a Def Leppard mirror is a sweet thing. I might not touch anything, but I still kind of want to go.

Juancho

The Universe and I are in a period of great reckoning. For every pound of flesh I owe, I receive a paid in full receipt and directions to the next negotiation. It seems no part of my life is to go unchanged this year so get on with it I say, let’s settle all accounts and see who is left wearing the barrel.

That may be cryptic, but I can’t think of any other way to say it.

This morning found me casting around for riding partners and I eventually settled on a reluctant Mystery. In a complete reversal of roles I tolerated his search for missing gloves, one more cup of coffee, and erratic pace and route selection until we finally settled in for some quality spins at the Greenway. I couldn’t be impatient as he was demonstrating something of a “Juancho’s Best Of” review of strategies for canceling, postponing, or sabotaging a ride. Being so unpracticed, Mystery had no choice but to fall in line.

After using him up, I dipped into Tom Brown Park on the way home and enjoyed a solo lap of swooping singletrack, wearing an Ipod like a common Kook. I listened to The Eels for anyone keeping track. As I tend to do, I am discovering them a few years since they broke, but better late than never I think.

And that goes for a hell of a lot of things right now.

Juancho