Titus Racer X: Retired

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I swear it’s a perfect fit.  12/07/07
I have to reunite with the Titus before I can put any words together.08/12/2008
Despite all efforts to avoid conflict and mitigate the frequency of assaults, in the end the rider must succumb to the savage nature of his surroundings and procure himself a shiv.  I prefer the Titus Racer X. 08/29/2008
It is time to lay my sword of righteousness down and pick up my one true weapon- the fully automatic Titus Racer-X. This year in honor of sweet victory it will read “This machine kills fascists” along the top tube. 11/06/2008
I’m staring over the next few days like the unengaged battlefield, polishing the grey gun-metal of my Titus Racer X.  1/12/2011
The Titus Racer X is secreted away in the trunk of a rented Impala like a doomed starlet.1/25/2011
I have been riding the Dogboy’s spare 29’er for weeks and the Titus was headed for the dustbin of history. 10/24/2011
  
The Titus tracks like a laser and I jumped from wheel to wheel like a red sucker fish. 12/30/2011
I just finished cleaning the Titus stem to stern. It is beginning to show some wear and tear. I can tell we are now in the sweet zone where everything works, it fits like a pair of skinny jeans, and I can’t imagine life without this bike. This is a sure sign that it is probably in its last year before the unraveling begins. 3/12/2012
I already own the greatest modern mountain bike available, the Titus Racer X for which I am most humbly thankful. 3/15/2012
It might be time to sell the Titus. 3/19/2012
Officially de-commissioned this day, June 20, 2012.
Juancho

Roots

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Before the great trail boom of the early Tens riders of the Seven Hills trails were tenuously affiliated by common interest and a desire to not associate with one another.  Riders marauded in groups of 3-5 chopping their way along deer runs and drainage culverts harvesting ticks and impetigo picked up in the people-free zones of unintended spaces and unmonitored woods.  They rode bikes, but they did not go on bike rides. Cycling was a fierce and  vagrant way of life.  Conflicts were settled by jousting in a bull ring until one rider remained to defend territory.  Lesser riders slunk off to the FSU campus and the Power lines to gather skills and strength for the next encounter.

Bottom brackets had to be drained of rusty water and bearings were stolen and scavenged wherever they could be found.  Rims were straightened against Water Oak or Slash Pine.  If you could not repair your bike alone, you were left in the woods to die or learn.  It was the way of things in the pre-enlightened epoch.

After the turn of the new millennium, the Seven Hills experienced a period of cataclysmic growth, an asteroid of public interest and government-sponsored development occurred.  The indigenous tribes adapted or died off, with a rare few retreating to the confines of the Live Oak Connector to survive on dead trees and no trespassing signs.  Trails became faster, and a source of pleasure.  New routes mushroomed in park and forest.   Cycling evolved. The trails soon bore scars of too much love, like a burn from Daddy’s beard.  Gradients were nuanced, and technology began to merge with nature, improving on the organic design of terra firma.   New tribes swept in on these changes and rolled the trails in powerful numbers.  As farmers and builders they came to stay and make their mark upon the lands. 

Many years passed.  Zip-lining  emerged as the new dominant force in the Seven Hills.  The government was forced to turn their attention to the trees as the demand for new branch-free pathways became shrill.  The trails below fell into disrepair, but the proud infrastructure of the builders held true. Roots entwined through bridges and kudzu covered wall rides.  Red clay sank below cinnamon sand and held a firm base just below the trail like a secret. 

Refugees banded together, some carrying the genes of the indigenous riders, and some were descendants of the Great Builder Era, unable to adapt to the trees, and left to grunt and scratch at yesterday while their kin zipped through tomorrow.

The Seven Hills trails became wild and beautiful, sloppy and dangerous, with breath-taking lines unattainable by humankind or nature alone.

Juancho

The Union Suit

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Cousin Todd and I moved to Bozeman, MT within weeks of each other, and remained roommates for the duration of our three years there.  For most of that time we lived on Babcock St. in a 1-bedroom apartment.  For a year of that time, Ma Ingalls, from down polebarn way, lived with us as well.  It was cozy quarters for three college friends from Florida looking to experience the Bridger Range and the Molly Brown.  We had one bathroom, a red pleather couch, and a 6’x6′ painting of St. Gabriel and the Devil done by local  artist, Edward Hemingway.  We all three worked at the Leaf and Bean Coffee Shop on Main Street.  Between us we owned about 5 official work shirts that we shared indiscriminately.  None of us had known a winter. 
Cousin Todd lived in the breakfast nook.  He slept on a nest of dirty clothes, afghans, and quilts made by our Grandma Jewel.  Sometime in late August of 1994 he received a red union suit in the mail.  He took it from its plastic wrapping, put it on, and never took it off again.   
I remember those days warmly.  Ma Ingalls lived in the only bedroom.  I lived in a 3 season Eureka tent within that same bedroom, and Cousin Todd in the nook.  Winter lasts from late July until the first week of June in Montana, and we spent many of our evenings holed up near the wheezy radiator playing chess and loathing the smells and sounds of one another.  Pop that gum again, I would think to myself, and I am going to put you out of your misery with the cast iron skillet when you look outside.  Ask me whose turn it is again you brainless dolt and I will drag you out in the snow while you are sleeping, he probably thought to himself.  Ma Ingalls would nag us about what we were going to cook for dinner, why couldn’t we save money, or find dates.  We were a family and a team.  
Ma and I each wandered our own way back to Florida, and found our densities.  Cousin Todd settled in the Willamette Valley, in a town called Port Land, Oregon.  He lives with his steadfast and capable wife and his two little boys.  All wear union suits.  They wash them on the 4th of July.
One week from tomorrow we will have our first family reunion of the Babcock Gang.  Up in the trees above the Pole Barn we will toast the years. 
Juancho
 

Broiled

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I did the stand up thing and rode San Felasco, rather than drive by on I-75 pretending it is not there.  It was 4:00 O’Clock on a June afternoon, which ain’t shit compared to August or September.  The temperature was well below 100, lingering in the low-nineties- child’s play by Central Florida standards.  The humidity was up there, and that’s the real killer.

Still, I was so glad to be above a trail and moving through the shady trees.  A 700 mile round trip shot to Northeast Alabama is a fine way to spend a weekend, with the pontoon boating on Smith Lake, a marvel that deserves its own post when I have time to comprehend its 500+ miles of shoreline. Stately cruising and swimming in fresh deep water is magnificent, but I am an Earth sign, and dirt brings me refreshment.

Juancho

Taco and Me

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The Apalachicola National Forest after a good soaking is as good as North Florida riding gets.  The soft crunching of wet sand under tires is satisfying like popping bubble wrap, or picking at a scab.  You just can’t leave it alone.

That is me in the front, wearing the yellow jersey, and behind me is my old friend Taco.  We quit calling him that in the mid-nineties, but I am bringing it back today.  He grew up in a small town in Wisconsin, which is a state somewhere in the U.S.A.

  Being of Sicilian heritage, his olive skin set him apart in the mostly Germanic and Scandinavian community.  Children, being of limited experience, assumed he must be Mexican, and named him accordingly. 

That’s how I remember it anyway.

We hit the late afternoon woods under ominous navy blue clouds, but the rains had already come.  The dew on fragile ferns whished off on my ankles and salamanders salamanded as fast as they could to avoid being tracked over.  Carve and pedal, carve and pedal, the Twilight trail just gives up the love on a late summer roll.

Wrung free of the day we loaded muddy bikes into the van, both a little amazed at how great the ride was, and what a good long ride it has been.

Peace Taco!

Juancho

A Rising Tide

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Two straight weeks of bicycle-less free fall, my longest break since The Crash of Great Clarity. Truthfully, the ride I am counting two weeks ago was itself not much to speak of, but just an interlude in a long lull. I drove to Munson Monday last night, passing harder riders as they pedaled their way to the trail head in the heat. Cold A.C. blowing on my face, it was drive or nothing for me.

My routine in disarray, I pulled on a pair of mismatched gloves, one from the late Eighties, the other a remnant of my messenger gear from the mid-Nineties. My helmet was nowhere to be found. I put a Park Tool sweatband and some sunscreen on my shiny head and rode off to accept my fate. Just one lap around the trail, no big deal. It doesn’t matter if I feel good or bad, ride fast or slow. This might be a good day to ride back with the Noobz and give back like all the goody two-shoes harp on about. Juancho- humanitarian.

Then Wrecking Ball appeared in the crowd with his enforcer son. My mouth went dry and my eyes dilated.

9 weeks back on the bike and riding every day, WB is moving back up the charts. I track his progress daily, measuring my slide against his climb. How far can I let the rope out before it slips from my fingers? Time to find out.

Our lap time was in the range of being slow for a fast ride or fast for a slow ride, depending on your perspective. I’m calling it slow, and I pray WB is calling it fast.

Juancho

Fresh Starts

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I passed a seeker on a road to nowhere today. It is the road to Panama City actually, which is somewhere for some. Me in a rental car, a comfortable Mazda 6, and a hotel room at the end of the drive. Another notch in my traveling stick. I passed him with a wide, slow berth, but too fast to read the sign. It didn’t matter. I already knew the cash in my wallet was his, and my big bag of tamari almonds. Work horses and wild horses still nicker and neigh together given the chance.

It took me a couple of miles to get the decision all the way to my right foot, so I turned around and cruised easy until I saw him in the bike lane up ahead. I pulled well off the road and got out to hale him.

“What’s up Hardcore!” I said as he pulled to the shoulder. “Hammer down!” He replied. I could have hugged him for that.

His dog jumped out of her covered wagon to sniff me.

I gave him a twenty and the bag of almonds and his eyes registered the cash, but it was the almonds he raised like a bag of gold. When you are still five miles from supper on a country road a $20 won’t get you too far. He said he got divorced 11 months ago and he didn’t know what to do with himself, so he just got on his bike. That was in Texas, and he was in the Florida Panhandle by way of Virginia Beach. “I’ve been doing this a minute” he said, when I asked if he wanted my half-bottle of water. “Got 5 jugs in the trailer.”

I introduced myself, encouraged him to stop by here and say hi if he ever got the chance. He repeated “big ring circus” twice and said, “I can sure remember that!” We shook hands solid and good, then parted ways. A truck stop dinner 30 minutes away for him, and who knows where he would lay his head. He introduced himself as Commodore. I went with Juancho.

I had the thought that there is only one story to tell about riding bikes that is worth telling. That’s the story of how we ride to lose ourselves, then find ourselves again. For an afternoon or a year, most of us are riding desperately from one thing in hope of finding another thing. It’s all one story. All one ride. That’s my story at least.

I have fallen apart and ridden myself back together again more times than I can count. The last time it happened this is what was waiting for me when I let myself put my kickstand down.

Happiness.

Juancho

Suwannee Love

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You know by now that when I go quiet around here it means one of two things. Either I am not riding or something big is in the offing. I can’t tell you why though, because the Wrecking Ball will read this and I need to maintain a cloak of secrecy around my training regiment. I mean training regime. I mean training regimen. Maybe I am rolling 4 hour solo vision quests under the early summer sun. Maybe I am eating Cobb salads in hotel rooms and watching Celebrity Apprentice. I will never tell, but Clay Aiken got robbed.

This weekend is the Florida Folk Festival and it is going to be one of the most memorable yet. Back Porch Revival, the family band, will be performing as they have for many years. My cousin Matt will be featured on the fiddle for the first time, ushering in a new era. He is often referred to as the family “miracle baby” due to surviving some severe trauma at birth. Technically speaking, he is disabled, but not on the fiddle or anyway else I would say. The kid can rip on stage. He’s 21 or so, which just means I am old as a big Cypress tree. That’s him on the left with the bass, before his promotion.

The other reason is because I will be holding hands with this girl a lot.(She’s the one on the right.)

The third reason is because we are staying at the Ramada Inn in Lake City instead of sleeping in the dirt being eaten alive by Chiggers, or in the back of the van with no blanket or pillow, just sweating. Both have been the case in years past.

Somehow, despite the heat, the lines, and the blisters, the Folk Festival comes together for a magical moment under the big pines and I feel lucky to be a Floridian, and just lucky to be myself in general.

You are lucky to be you too.

Juancho

The Off-Season

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You can try to deny it, but the facts are the facts. You are off of your game. I am speaking to myself here. I have had a cold for so long now it is officially my buddy. I enjoyed a long, lingering decline, banking off of the bottom of the wave and cruising back up for months, but the gains of fall and winter are now squandered. There comes a point when you can’t just ride yourself back to the top of your game. Some off-season conditioning is required. Here is what some random internet source says about the “off-season.” I agree with most of it, but not #3 (totally ludicrous) and I am not an athlete, I am a bike rider, and a mountain biker specifically. Let’s keep that clear.

“The off-season is characterized by providing rest, alternative activities and mental refreshment.

Often, this part of the year is easily seen as a time to have fun and not do your sport… the off season.

Frankly, what athletes do on their time off at the end of the year is never really associated with their performance in the next season. But, it should be as the transition phase has some key ingredients that get the body and mind refreshed:

1. Low training volume – reduced load on the body helps remove any niggling injuries and gives the athlete time to reflect on their underlying motivations to compete. Plan for a month-long transition, before commencing pre-season training.

2. Some exercise – having done so much training for the rest of the year it becomes part of the athlete’s lifestyle to be active, so I’d include some moderate exercise which is not what you’d normally do. Depending on the sport, examples could be rock climbing, mountain biking, hiking, swimming, pool running or surfing. As fitness is easier to maintain than develop, a little exercise during the break may be enough to maintain most of the fitness built over the last year and make for an easier start to the new season. Aim for 3-4 sessions a week of 30-60 min at an effort level of 5 to 7 out of 10.

3. Virtually no participation in the main sport – this is a chance for overstressed joints and muscles to rebuild and the mind to have break from thinking about technique, strategy and constant training. For the athlete that has had to manage an injury during the season, the transition phase is a great time to address muscle imbalances and weaknesses. This pre habilitation (as distinct from rehabilitation) can strengthen the muscles and joints for better training during the season.”

So let’s go swimming, paddling, maybe play some ping pong. I will sort out this new bike dilemma, rejuvenate, and re-invent my cycling avatar for 2013. I’m waving a white flag for the summer, or maybe I just need a nap.

Juancho

Meltdown

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What do you get when you combine a full-time pants-wearing job, a glam-rock video shoot, and a social calendar to rival Kim Kardashian (Kimye?) That’s right, the answer is illness. The band hadn’t applied the first dab of eyeliner before I had a sore throat and shoulders full of broken glass. I staggered through the week, finally surrendering on Wednesday and sleeping for 10 hours. Some of you might remember when I slept 10 hours nightly, and took a nap from 3:00-4:15 every afternoon. Those days are over. I have a life now, more like a life and a half. My skill-set doesn’t always match up unfortunately. I failed to get the word out about a birthday party a couple of weeks ago, and inadvertently dissed a few friends. That hurts. Relationships really matter to me, and I pride myself on handling them carefully. What can I say? I’m not used to people caring so much. As a unit of 1 you have the privilege and burden of choosing to include yourself or not, but being part of a team of 2 elevates you into a whole new strata of social interplay. I’m going to pay better attention and not go with the “wing it” method that served me so well as an antagonistic misanthrope.

I am going to have an opportunity to get it right soon, as my teammate and I will be getting married soon. By soon, I mean within the next 50 or so days according to our license from the state of Florida that sits beneath our rings– one gold, one titanium. There will be a party, or a series of parties, and the memo will go out far and wide.

Aside from securing the love of my life beside me forever, the next biggest priority I have is to torture some of you with my continued hemming and hawing about a new bike. I have received some priceless emails and texts begging me to just buy something, anything and shut up about it. To them I say, hmmmmmmm, maybe I should get a road bike instead? But then what kind of road bike? I will have to do some research.

Anyway, one thing at a time, that’s what keeps me out of trouble.

Juancho