Rip Away

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I got picked up by two riders at Hannah Park in Jacksonville yesterday, because they are nicer guys than the degenerates I ride with at home. They gave me the proper tour and for the first time I put that place together in a proper ride. Hannah Park is the original silk purse from the sow’s ear, as there is no good reason to have a bike trail through terrain that is sandy when it isn’t swampy and has a net elevation gain of 7 feet. The biting flies complained about the mosquitoes and the raccoons stole food from my pack while I was riding. The trail is woven through a salt marsh along the Atlantic coastline which just means it is hot and hazy, the air sticky with salt. You break a sweat immediately when you exit your car and that first sheen never leaves you, as the air can’t accommodate another drop. The trail is tight and winding, brutish and ugly, and interrupted by logs and mud, which is a shame because that means it is too technical for Tallahassee riders. We prefer our trails groomed, with valets stationed at intervals to powder our bottoms and tell us what good boys and girls we are (yes we are!)

Jacksonville riders I salute you. Like a surf town with one break, riders pile into Hannah Park, otherwise known as the only game in town. This smallish park supports a hardcore ecosystem of sightseers, weekend warriors, and fat-tire aficionados.

To finish a trail ride and cool off in the ocean is an exotic novelty, so I pulled the rental Impala to the last beach access point and flip flopped down to the water in my chamois. Angry waves piled up right at the shoreline, a rip tide sucking sand and shells out to sea like a straw at the bottom of a milkshake. I saw no one in the water as far as I could see in either direction. That ocean wanted to drag out everything it could get.

I waded in enough to tease it, and in her petulance she filled my shorts with gravel and silt. I retreated to the beach and watched cruise ships positioned far offshore like pink pencil erasers.

Further Notice

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Tommy said don’t call him for bike rides anymore, not until further notice.

“Further Notice”- that’s one of those phrases that all the flavor has been chewed from, like “Going Forward.” They all mean, I don’t want to talk about it.

We understand. There are big summer projects to do, and it has nothing to do with the 92% humidity and the swarm of biting insects. He loves the misery index stuff, truly.

It is a defeat for the inner child. It is hard to justify spending the energy it takes to plow a field like mad money at the county fair. When play goes up against reason, none of us stand a chance. Inner children go sit in the corner.

There was no playing on Saturday’s ride. It was all brass knuckles and pitchforks for the three of us. Sticky heat and spider webs, burning thighs and marbles under shoulder blades. Grinding and churning against wet grass and softly melting rubber sloughing off along the trails.

The summer groove is settling in, and if we can ride through August, September may kill us, but October will be worth the wait.

Juancho

The Rise of Taco

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I can’t wait for hunting season, because right now I feel like the prey.

Joey Bushyhead came down from his tree stand and into the saddle. He has moved from the shadows of stealth training to open hostility on the trails. I fell victim to the Sicilian Dragon.

The Sicilian Dragon is a famous chess opening for black, the aggrieved position, which must counter the advantage white has by dictating the opening move. The Sicilian Dragon, a variation of The Yugoslav, is characterized by its combative nature and willingness to engage in early sacrifice. The message to white is- sure you can develop your plan, but not without paying a dear price.

Now is a good time for me to declare unequivocally that riding bikes is an activity to be enjoyed among friends for benefits of mutual health and well-being. Any message to the contrary taken from this blog speaks to your own miserly nature and need for validation at the expense of those dearest to you. Of course. This expression of goodwill is a fundamental cornerstone of the BRC philosophy and any discussion of crushing, dropping, or putting the hurt on someone is not tolerated here.

My options for enjoying the mutual benefits to our health and well-being from in front of Joey Bushyhead are few. The only adequate response to the Sicilian Dragon is rapid development. White must advance his position, at painful cost to his ranks, in order to achieve high ground and establish a winning position before the bloodletting proves fatal.

-Juancho

Munson Time Trail

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I prefer to operate on half-truths, lies, and innuendo when it comes to my cycling prowess. The less people know the better.  I am a cagey and dangerous yard dog who wags his tail until you are close enough to bite.  I only ride for fun, unless you look tired then I twist the rusty spoon in your side meat if I can.  If I am the one who is hurting, I switch my narrative to appreciation of the moss in the oaks, the Great Blue Heron, and the swish of tall grass across my shins.  Why hurry?  We have all day.

It is awkward to pivot from a salute to the all day epic in my last post to a breakdown of a 7.5 mile lap around the hamster wheel, but this site is built on nothing if not contradictions. 

To the best of my memory yesterday was the first time I have ever raced a mountain bike.  I raced against the clock for money as a bike messenger in Portland, OR. I have done events like San Felasco, and of course every ride is a race at some point, but this time there were witnesses and record-keeping.  I can’t say I cared for it.

A time trial is a race against the clock, with riders starting at one minute intervals.  This means there is a possibility of being caught, or catching someone else.  The former is awesome, the latter- humiliating.

My name got called behind a kid I was pretty sure I would not be seeing, and I had no idea who was coming behind me, and I planned to keep it that way until the end of the lap.

And that is exactly how it happened. One frantic, panicked lap all alone, sweating like a dry drunk at a job interview.

Results are pending.

Juancho

Doing it Wrong

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I got a report from Bike Church last night that enlightened me.  In an attempt to circumnavigate our sometimes lake, Lake Jackson, those guys were flinging their bicycles onto the brush to trample down a path through the swampy fringe.  Shins were laced with tiny cuts, like an emo kid’s arm, and the circles beneath the eyes spoke to the brink of dehydration, and yet the tone is euphoric, the smile- fulfilled.

If you are worrying too much about what is happening on the bike trails, you are doing it wrong.

A good Tallahassee area ride involves some cross-town urban assault, suburban orienteering, wasteland bushwhacking, and then maybe a little single track for dessert.  Engineered trails are fun, but hopelessly artificial.  They are to be enjoyed in moderation, like crystal meth, and nothing to build a habit around.  Mazes are for gerbils. 

Venture out, find some chiggers, bonk out and see spots.  A good ride should make you whimper for home, a supplicant for deliverance, stronger.

-Juancho

Play-Mor

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 A little camper on the road to heaven, that’s what we got.  Just a little spot to rest our heads where the world can’t find us and wi-fi signal stands for why fight it?

We will accessorize it with our new little dog, Summer (Chanel.) In her little t-shirt that reads, “I’d rather be barking” she will ride on the dashboard and sniff out the way.  

A guy can’t spend the next four decades like he did the last two, rolled up in a tarp drunk by the fire.  That’s no way to earn the title “Elder Statesman.” 

This summer I have thrown out the old Juancho playbook. Someone else will have to tote the turpentine and barbed wire.  I’m retired from that game.

Juancho

Groucho

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The problem with organizing things is that things get so organized.  There is little room left in the conversation for individuation and free will.  Once the move is made to get organized, God help the outliers.  The nature of any compromise is for everyone to sacrifice a little something for the greater good, and the volunteers line up down the block to take on the burden of suggesting what you might wish to sacrifice.  The result of a good organized effort is the lowest common denominator multiplied by the exponent of the shrillest among us, divided by those with the most free time. 

Don’t believe me?  Check my logarithm-

I am glad so many people are interested in trails and biking, except when I am riding of course, because then there they are- riding their bike on the trail at the same time as me, which threatens my status as a unique dewdrop on a precious lily. 

There’s nothing wrong with being in a club, I just don’t want to belong to one that would have me.

-Juancho

Van Love

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People have some pretty strong opinions about vans, and van drivers. There is something about the capacity and versatility of a cargo van that makes people jealous.  I don’t understand the vitriol.  Nobody is stopping them from getting a van of their own.  The limitations exist in the mind.  Like wearing Crocs.  You swear on your life you will not be caught in them and then there you find yourself, eating mayonnaise from the jar in the ugliest shoes on earth.

Non-van drivers see van drivers like this
We see ourselves like this

So maybe there are a few too many coffee cups, moldy bike jerseys, and stale almonds under the seats. There could always be more. You might think you are too good for it, but I have room for you, your bike, some dental floss, and some nasal spray and we can go anywhere we want.

Vans lead the way-

Juancho

Title IX

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We spent another magical weekend at the Pole Barn, undeterred by an ominous forecast of 10 inches of rain.  The weather caught us eventually, but not until we had soaked up all the love Reddick, FL has to offer. 

Tree Climbing was the order of the day, and Cousin “City Hands” Todd, and my dearly beloved both established their superiority in the canopy straight away.  City Hands made a point of arriving before us so he could already be on rope and underway when we got out of the car.  Melissa awoke Saturday morning and said to me, the ceiling, and the trees themselves, “I’m going to climb that tree today.” Thirty minutes later she was jugging up the rope, immersed in the gear and culture of recreational tree-climbing.  While she enjoyed the elite air of the “the lounge” 70 feet above, I spiraled below awash in sweat and discomfort.  It is a joy to watch someone discover new talents, and there was a lot of joy to behold on Saturday.  Hooray for Title IX. Athletic women kick ass.

Soon she will have a mountain bike, and then I will really have something to cry about.

After celebrating arboreal victory and toasting old friends all night, we delayed the sad, rainy drive home with brunch at Sisters in Gainesville.   There needs to be a special word for the pride one feels when enveloped in the successful dream of a friend or family member.  To relax  in the care of the folks at Sisters is a gastronomic vacation to the Mediterranean.  With Tropical Storm Debbie dark and drizzling outside, coffee, champagne, and fresh eggs inside, it was another charmed visit to the Alachua-Marion vortex where  for reasons I will never question, I am lucky to know great people.

Juancho

Echo de menos todo el mundo

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  Many of you reading this used to be here–  Now you are in Royal Oaks, Michigan, Singapore, Hood River, OR, Bozeman, Montana, Bristol (outskirts), Panama City, Portland, Reddick, Ft. Myers, PSL, Miami, Sarajevo, Hoboken, Jensen Beach, Korea,  Asheville, NC, and parts unknown.
Last night we celebrated the Summer Solstice down at the All Saints Hop Yard.  They ran out of lanterns by the time we got there so we had to make wishes on strangers’ light.  For me, I thought about many of you, and the years that have passed, and that in spite of so much I have hung on in this place and built a life.

  We learn to do without. We make room for something new.  That’s the hard part.

We let go of each other and trust that the wind will carry us where we belong. 
But for a time we lived together in this place. 
Juancho