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

A New Dawn (birth of a bicycle)

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It took all summer, but here is the author stampeding through the trees on his new Santa Cruz Highball C. For its inaugural run I took it to the Munson Monday Time Trials, aka the only mountain bike race I have ever done. Despite a nine-day vacation/ fish taco tour of California, a total of 25 miles ridden since the last time trial, 5 passed riders, and a mechanical, my time was…about the same as the last two times. This proves that is really is the carpenter and not the tools that count.

Nothing wrong with nice tools though. It is better to have one than be one.

The Munson Monday Time Trial series deserves its own mention here as well. I called the starts last night, giving each rider their own unappreciated and distracting Juancho pep talk at 1 minute intervals. It gave me some perspective. Things started with some of the fastest known trail assassins in town, and tapered down through the ranks of the has-beens, never-weres, gonna-be’s, and don’t know they are’s. People raced for pride, fun, or some unknown secret they kept in their hearts. The last racer to toe the line was a self-proclaimed grandma who started riding in May, and when she finished her lap 30 + riders roared her name as she climbed the final hill.

Made me proud of my town, and hate group events a smidge less.

Juancho

Babalu

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Click this before reading

There is so much history in this picture, telling a story of music and friendship that reaches back over 50 years to the island of Puerto Rico and extending all the way to right to this very minute. We immersed ourselves in music Saturday night, taking in so much I could gargle and spray it into the night air like champagne. Golden notes spill out of my pockets and my footprints track a glissando path to the cheap burnt coffee in the office break room. No es cafe con leche este morning, but tendria hacer que no?

We woke to the first real change in the weather yesterday morning, and I am making a motion that anecdotal time begins on the first touch of fall air in Tallahassee. It is now 2013. Bienvenidos!

Time to make resolutions, and mine is to be in the right places at the right times, and I am not talking about work.

Toma! Baile! Viva!

Juancho

Ride a Mile

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I threw these shoes away yesterday. I wore them so long I can’t remember if they smell like the van, or the van smells like them, but as a young lady once told me, “It’s all toes and corn chips to me.”

Seven years I rode in a pair of $30 cleats. I retired them briefly last fall, but the new shoes proved to be the Achille’s heel of my Achille’s heels and I frantically dug these back out of the garbage and put another year on them.

Change is scary sometimes, and it was just easier to keep cramming my feet into something that used to work instead of making the simple adjustments to adapt to something new. Eventually things fall apart though, and you have to make a move.

That almost sounds like a metaphor.

Juancho

Thumped

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I was riding along on Saturday morning, out for my first solo ride on the new bike. Gliding on auto-pilot through the stifling humidity of the forest, and lost in reverie about handlebar rise and rake, I found myself face-down in the dirt, arms pinioned beneath my stomach and my legs arching over my head.

Generalized pain washed over me. Here we go again.

I rolled over to my back and looked at the tops of the pine trees, ever-retreating into the sky. The ripples of pain subsided until there was one throbbing pebble above my right knee. An eyebrow-shaped cut solved the case, stem to knee contact caused by a sawed off stump protruding 4 inches above the trail. In a forest full of trees, this tree defied the will of the bureaucrats and was marked for shoddy removal.

I stood and recovered the bicycle– still a complete stranger, an internet date, a wing-man’s lament. Due to be replaced, I feel no commitment to this temporary ride.

I tried to shake it off and continue as planned, but the disappointment, the ache, and the swollen lemon growing on my vastus medialis obliquus sent me homeward. I escaped the heat and the sand to join the bench full of sick and wounded riders this holiday weekend. I got off easy. The million-dollar wound.

And that reminded me, it is once again Shoulder Season.

Juancho

The Miracle Mile

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Monday night in the off-season is no time to go to Hooters in Panama City Beach.

Hoping to save some money we flew to California from the new airport on the outskirts of Panama City, FL. I am guessing that was probably not the result, but these stories are priceless so who cares?

We commenced our honeymoon at the well-appointed if downtrodden Paradise Palms Seaside Inn, cozily sequestered for an evening prior to our early departure the next morning. Our room opened onto the gulf beach, and we held hands and watched the sunset. We were not the only ones staying in Paradise, just the only ones without gelatinous front-butts pushing up over string bikini bottoms- or the only ones not chain-smoking generic brand cigarettes and cursing- or the only ones not peeing in the pool. We retreated to the cozy room, which was truthfully not bad at all, and watched as strangers drew hearts and greetings on our dew-covered windows with their influenza-covered fingers.

We strolled out to take the air and find a nibble, only to be turned away at every door by either a closed sign or a Ukrainian hostess, recently trafficked no doubt. “Vee close at 10:00″ she explained as reason for turning us away at 9:15. Her tone closed out the category for discussion.

The neon orange lights of HOOTER’S shone as the only open establishment on the Miracle Mile, Shangri-la of the vaunted Redneck Riviera. I shrugged my shoulders to my beloved, “When in Rome baby?” and she shrugged back.

From the quiet and dark streets to the tense and sweaty atmosphere of beach town refugees paying too much for bad beer is a harsh transition and a manager grinding his teeth chattered at us as we entered the room. Cocaine I whispered to my sweetheart. I think everyone working here is on cocaine. It was probably methamphetamine in retrospect given the obvious price differential and it being the off-season.

We showed ourselves to a table in the back, by a door, with a clear path of egress, and scanned the filthy menu for the item made from the most canned products. A commotion ensued alarmingly close to us, and a toothless hag at a table of eight screamed profanely, A RAT! I JUST SAW A MOTHERFUCKING RAT! RAT, RAT,RAT,RAT, RAT!

By then we had ordered beers, and unwisely chose to remain seated.

THERE IS A GODDAMNED MOTHERFUCKING RAT IN THIS PLACE, RIGHT MOTHERFUCKING THERE! Parents covered gentle ears of children, and I will take a moment to apologize to you, dear readers, for the vulgar assault on your senses. I offer it only as a testimony to the truth.

SOMEBODY IS GOING TO GET ME A FREE MEAL UP IN THIS BITCH I SAW A RAT!

We turned back to our table in time to welcome a suspicious quesadilla to the table, delivered by our waitress who made it clear that she herself had no idea what a quesadilla might look like, or be accompanied by in the way of condiments.

Another commotion ensued immediately behind us and I whirled around prepared to defend my life, my wife, our remaining honor, but it was tooth-grinder in the role of hero this time as he lunged in a giant step and came down with crushing force on a cockroach recently landed from flight. We, the entire patronage, accepted this result as acceptable and definitive and returned to our meals.

We passed on the offer of a second round, paid our substantial tab, and regarded every cent a ransom well paid.

-Juancho

Land of Immortals

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We are marooned in the land of immortals, southern California. Isaac is soaking the Florida Panhandle and our flight is canceled, so we are destined to remain here and continue un-aging.

We hiked at Torrey Pines, land of the super-brights and a pinnacle of culture. After huffing around a 5 mile loop that descends from sagebrush hills to the Pacific coastline we passed, and more often got passed by, hordes of immortals. Conversation floated around us in a language salted by Co-enzyme Q-10. Age correlated more to a wealth index than a physical appearance.

I yearned to judge and despise them, but all I wanted was to be included, to rewind time, and drop my resting heart rate to twenty-six; to suspend the animation of my deteriorating cells to an immeasurable pace and linger in the twilight of immortality forever, comparing footwear and portfolios with my distinguished peers.

We brunched at the fabled club, where I hoped to be dismissed and made to feel less than, but my hate could find no purchase. Welcomed with warm smiles and concerned, pursed lips we were directed to a table by the practice green, where the ivy twines through the brickwork, and ocean breezes mingle scents of waffles and chaparral. The huevos? Delightful. The coffee? Warmly poured. To arrive at the Torrey Pines Lodge is to truly find the end of the line. Humankind can achieve no better.

Hence the goal to remain there forever.

Juancho

Choose Your-

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Saturday night, under the oaks and the stars, listening to a jazz trio play a little out in front of themselves, I made a wise decision. I bailed on the Dogboy. Hours prior, I committed to a ride so laughably punishing that releasing myself from the commitment made me giddy. Rain was in the forecast, and a tour to Georgia by clay roads sounded not possible or fun. I took a text-message based tongue-lashing, which is a breeze compared to a phone call, and returned for a cold Sweetwater 420 Ale and holding my sweet wife’s hand.

In order to take the sting from my shame I scrambled to put together a ride with Taco and another buddy. We can call him Scarab- the prototype water bug, or we can call him “Nipples” since he detoured on the ride to address a raw nipple situation.

When someone is riding so much that they need nipple protection, you might wish you were halfway to Georgia with a drive train packed in mud. We turned it on, we crushed through mud and greasy roots, and I collected ticks like beanie babies. Taco worked for a half-wheel edge just enough to keep us grinding for 3 steady hours.

Okay, it was only 2.5 hours, and sometimes we rode friendly, but the part about the ticks is true.

It was the first ride on the new ride, but I need more time to tell you that story, which is equal parts sad and joyous.

-Juancho

The First Bike of the Rest of Your Life

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When I was two-years old we traveled through this town, Tallahassee, FL on the way home to Sebring,FL my hometown. I had a teddy bear named “Heavy Teddy.” We did everything together. He was a honey-colored bear with green eyes and articulated joints, so he was real, not like those plush bears that are just pillows with fur.

We stayed in the Ponce de Leon Motel on Tennessee street, which may or may not still be here today. In the rush to leave the next morning, Heavy Teddy fell between the wall and the bed and was left behind. I don’t know when we realized he was not with us, but I am certain I was inconsolable. Oh,the guilt of leaving a friend behind. The loneliness of knowing your best friend and protector was at large in the world without you is crushing. The thought of him finding a new friend and forgetting all about you, heartbreaking.

There was nothing to do but go home and bear the suffering with my little two-year old’s amount of courage. Blankie tried to comfort me, but we were supposed to be three and not two, and Blankie missed Heavy Teddy as much as I did.

Then, and here is my earliest memory, my mom carried me to the mailbox and together we pulled out a package, wrapped in brown paper. Tired, but none the worse for his adventures, came Heavy Teddy from the packaging. That moment was magic- validation that the universe was an awesome and just place, and that stuffed animals truly were sentient and loyal and would stop at nothing to return to their best friend’s side.

I have been promised my new bike is in town, 6 weeks overdue, and I am once again at the mailbox, hopeful, and wanting to believe the Universe is an awesome and just place.

-Juancho

Epilogue- Heavy Teddy is retired and living happily in San Diego, CA with my nephew where I will visit him next week.