Caution and the Wind

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I rode a familiar path yesterday. I was alone and without hurry. I took the harder lines and worried not about my pace, content to grind up staggered rooty banks and awkwardly lope over rock and log. Another entry into the category of just happy to be there, with nothing to prove, and yet I felt the shame of cowardice as I passed a few spots. I used to hit that every time I thought to myself. It’s easy and all there. The risk is illusion the reward in the pocket. Hush up another voice said, and just ride your bike.

Every mile is precious and not to be gambled on a brief flash of panic, a steadying, and then the nonchalance of the lucky. We didn’t ride with cameras on our heads back then, like reality show contestants, so we are resigned to vague memories and the fading echoes of pride. We were young braves riding stick ponies who pounded our chests at the trails. Oh well, old chiefs ride with prudence and lay long tracks across the land.

Juancho

Show and Tell

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This morning I feel like telling some other people’s stories, or letting them tell us themselves.

Ernest Gagnon–

If you haven’t heard about Ernest Gagnon yet, it is just a matter of time. For the record, I wouldn’t race cyclocross if my life depended on it, or maybe I would?

And then there is this girl, Malala Yousufzai— 14 year-old blogger from the Swat Valley in Pakistan. She was shot in the head by the Taliban for writing about how much she liked school and bright-colored clothing. Two other little girls were also shot in the attack.

Two people telling their stories, both fighting for their lives.

This blog thing is potent.

Juancho

Take the Pain

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An open letter to TMBA, from Langston Hughes.

Mother to Son

Well, son, I’ll tell you:
Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
It’s had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor —
Bare.
But all the time
I’se been a-climbin’ on,
And reachin’ landin’s,
And turnin’ corners,
And sometimes goin’ in the dark
Where there ain’t been no light.
So boy, don’t you turn back.
Don’t you set down on the steps
‘Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.
Don’t you fall now —
For I’se still goin’, honey,
I’se still climbin’,
And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

So leave some trails alone y’all. Accept that there are places you aren’t ready to go, risks you aren’t willing to take, pain you don’t want to accept. Real “flow” as you call it, is revealed like character. You can’t fake it all the time.

-Juancho

Steady

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I saw a small group of riders clustered at the bench by the trail-head as I climbed the winding path from the parking lot. My plan was to stop, set the clock, and proceed to disappoint myself with another lackluster time trial effort. I didn’t really care about the clock part. It is just something to take my mind off of hard things, and have a reason to dig into the soreness.

I recognized his profile from a hundred dusky yard out. We call him Big Worm, but to be honest, he deserves better. Just the sight of him caused me to bring my knees and elbows in, straighten my back, check my right calf for rookie marks, and downshift to a high tempo spin, in other words- polish up my act. Flanked by five guys ranging from 16- 50+, all of them stone cold trail mercenaries, I un-clicked with a big smile. It’s good to be seen on the trail sometimes, by people who understand what it is all about. Lucky for me they had just finished a “hot lap” so they were ripe for a cool-down.

There are some classic wheels to follow in this town on road and trail, but none are better than Worm’s. With no debate we insisted he lead out and the rest of us fell in like baby ducks. I don’t think I know what the issues are, but confidence must be part of it. Knowing that you are riding a fast enough pace to keep everyone occupied, but not so fast that anyone falls out or blows up, is a hard thing. Most guys I ride with, including myself, take riding point as a direct challenge and pretty much “go ’til we blow.” It’s only fun for the first 8 minutes, then it can get lonely.

We almost piled up when a Pygmy Rattler crossed our little peloton. In our scramble to avoid the threat, we failed to see it now pinned beneath a front tire, until a slight shift set it free to shoot for the tall grass. Seeing snakes on the trail is a gift. Not seeing snakes on the trail is the concern. Snake season is almost over around here, and the Grey Fox Squirrels come out to reign. I’ve seen both snake and squirrel in a matter of days as everything handles their plan for winter business.

It wasn’t the fastest ride (nor the slowest by far!) and it wasn’t the longest ride, but it was the ride I needed last night. Bunny-hopping rollers in the near dark on the way to the parking lot I had a mindless moment- an infinite split-second vacation- where there was only this wheel now that wheel, released from the earth then reclaimed by it greedily.

Juancho

The Ride

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Let this post just be about the ride.

September steam and tree farm rows, carpeted with copper needles and pressed down by mid-night rain. Let it just be about three boys hidden down inside three men, turning and turning and turning and turning their pedals over again. Let this one post not be about life or death, just another batch of words.

Not deep, nothing heavy, crossed some fences undetected. Torn by smilax, gorged on by ticks, bikes fall away. We float through the mist.

I can hardly breathe because the air is so thick, but it is just another bike ride- feel the burn, light the wick.

Juancho

A Closer Walk

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Where better to hide than the great City of Loss? The no place matters but this place and no time exists but now brittle facade of the French Quarter? They sell masks right on the street to hide your crying eyes and give you saucers of sugar to dip your fingers.

Where else but a town that lives ever on the cusp of oblivion to pray for someone who stares off that balcony last night, today, tomorrow? Might as well drink, be merry, and join the second line. We all will get our chance to lead the parade.

And not enough beads in the world to change that. Laissez les bons temps rouler.

Juancho

Repetition

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I came across the term “Character Pathology” at work yesterday, and I stumbled over it. I couldn’t quite get a handle on the concept. It has something to do with a psychological disorder related to multiple personalities, or so I deduced.

I called for back-up and reached out to a bona-fide professional and he explained it to me this way.

“The brain does well what the brain does often.”

As in, if you are attacked by murders of crows every day of your life your brain is excellent at swishing your arms around your head and screaming. This is not a problem and a perfectly healthy way to respond to bird attacks, and not just crows. It becomes a problem when the crows go away and get replaced by other things, like having to be at work on time, or improving your lap time at Munson Hills, or responding to stressful situations. Your many years of arm-flapping screaming become hard to undo.

I am talking about habits I think.

We all know it is hard to get up and exercise, it is hard to learn new things, it is hard to quit smoking, it is hard to change your life in any measurable way because we are all suffering by degrees a level of character pathology, or more simply, inability to adapt or initiate new behaviors.

Stuck in a rut. Give someone a hammer, everything looks like a nail.

Like this…

“Would you like a glass of water?”

Response: (Waves arms about head and screams a lot.)

“Does that mean no?”

“I’m sorry, I spent a significant portion of my life being attacked by crows, I would love a glass of water.”

If any real psychotherapist would care to weigh in and save me now would be a good time, but what I am really getting at is that in order to change something significantly, like a lap time at Munson, you have to lean in towards the adversity and change the way you think, which changes the way you act.

You can’t just buy a new bike.

Juancho

Motivation

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How many bloggers have blogged about motivation? If I had a penny for every time some blogger thought I wanted to read about their lack of motivation, or their desire to get motivated, I could ruin a laundromat full of dryers.

It’s just so tired, and so am I. My woman is out of town so there is too much bed. It is hard to sleep with my flank unguarded and two animals staring and plotting against me telepathically. It is psychological warfare and I am not equipped for that.

The weather is softening, and the new bike is a joy, but the effort to get it took a toll on all involved. Schedules were disrupted, rides were missed. It is a carbon fiber velveteen rabbit, and not yet a real bike.

The only way to make a bike real is to love it, and the only way to love it is to suffer in its saddle.

Juancho

Grey Beards and Young Wolves

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Throwback Saturday saw me out in the woods with S’quatch and Hitops, enjoying sweet Grandmama Munson without a clock, a purpose, or 32 of my lesser-known acquaintances. those guys, a couple of grey beards, both had stories or grand conquest and achievement, an aligning of their personal mission, values, and talents resulting in a crystallizing moments of personal and professional validation. I can only hope to find such a moment in another 10 years. Until then, it is shoulder to the yoke and turn the press and grind the corn, squeeze sugar from the cane, and then do it all again. A working beast is a happy beast.

Meanwhile, down at Joe’s Bike Shop-

I saw a ghost, or the reverse of a ghost, not an apparition of a person once fully formed, but a person conjured forth from an incomplete image. The son of Shins, now 20, walks among us as a citizen. A few short years ago a kid, visiting in the summer, flipping his emotional bangs is now a fully-mo-hawked semi-human with ink to call his own and a confidence that shows he has not just arrived here a post-adolescent, by whining and sucking his thumb, but by adventure and work in the cold Rocky mountains and not pulling cappuccinos either, but w-o-r-k work. So now he has earned his cappuccino spot at Lake Ella and well-deserved it is. The next generation is here, staring us in the face and wondering if if is too soon to try to take the meat from the grey beards.

Be careful young wolf, grey beards don’t get that way giving away the meat. Wait your turn and you will be well-fed.

Juancho

Punch Drunk

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I got the new bike, but it was delivered rally not included. Same stinky van, same work schedule, just a slighter lighter payload in the rear cabin and a slightly heavier one in the cockpit.

I watched from the window of my 4th floor balcony room overlooking the Gulf of Mexico in Destin, FL and envied the young men deploying the chaise lounges for the day. Carrying them two by two, they popped them open and dropped them into the sand, ready for more privileged asses to fill them. I laced up the serious black Rockports, checked the ink fill on my marker set, and headed towards the basement for a day of meetings- miles and years away from the clenched fist resolve to make a difference that lead to this moment. Dry bran muffins and tired-eyed social work executives awaited me, so no longer could I linger.

It’s a hell of a thing to complain about, but growing up is a hell of a thing to do to a kid.

Juancho