I am on location in Ybor City, Tampa currently, which is an entirely uninspiring location. It might have offered something 50 years ago, or even ten years ago, but now it is officially a dud. Nike is getting into the skateboard scene, and Ybor is a parody of the culture that put it on the map. The sellout is complete. I hope someone got a receipt. Instead of offering further lament, I am going to share a private correspondence that I believe is inspiring- a message from a friend currently at large in China, and rediscovering the world at 146 years old.

what up lil biscuit eater…China is well…China. I am settled and excelling at teaching sophomores who ‘speaky no english very good’. My style of interaction is a hit with the 300 students to include 8 boys. Lots of young ladies who are very timid and sweet. All have adopted english names and most look alike. Huaibei Normal University has about 18,000 students most of whom are eager to say hello when we pass on campus. I have formed many impressions thusfar and believe on many fronts China has it right. There is no violence, crime in the streets and vulgarity. The students are wonderfully naive and eager to learn although scared to make mistakes, the whole ‘losing face’ phenomena.

They are genuinely astounded as to my experiences of travels and no wife or children. They have taken english since age 12 but have had little to no opportunities to speak it in conversation. Most believe that their second language skillz will provide them a better chance at landing a job. I am getting bits and pieces of information about both old and new China. What I love is that at the end of this year I will have come to some of my own conclusions of what is and isn’t.

I am playing on a faculty basketball team and we are old and rickity and terrible in leauge play, but beloved I feel. I play ball about three days a week with the zillions of boys/men that crowd the courts everywhere. Lots of goals but not a single net. They are delighted by my will and skill. Tenacious I still am with an authentic smile and clever passes. Feeling like I have purpose in my life and am delighted I got out of Myrtle in the nick of time.

Nothing but net in this email JJ, watch out for sharp and courteous elbows!

Juancho

There is no time for this today, but time be DAMNED! I will all caps it to the rooftops. Time must be made for things that matter. The Wrecking Ball’s knitting bones, and your denial of the significance of the internet and chicken, and how combined, they rule your world? These things matter.

I rode with S’quatch and ‘Tops on Saturday and it was like old times. I left the pack in the car and rode so light I forgot to suffer. Spring, spring, spring.

I am almost 42 years old, which will be older than my dad was when he was 41. Yesterday was my grandfather’s birthday, and he has been gone now for far too long, and it will only get longer from here. I stopped mid-stroke on Saturday to spot a Fat Grey Fox Squirrel as it spiraled up a longleaf pine. It seemed important to lay eyes on him again, and to say, I see you fat grey fox squirrel, so eat your pine nuts and swing in the breeze, but know that you were seen on this day, April 8, 2012 on the eve of my Papa’s birthday. I tease you in his honor, for he was mischievous and a friend to all squirrels.

Spring, spring, spring. I’m old for a young man, and to know so little about so much. The life is so short, and the craft takes forever to learn.

Juancho

Here’s the big secret in case you haven’t caught on yet. No riding = no writing.

It doesn’t mean I only write about bike rides. It means riding bikes lifts my wordy and worldly spirits. Only when the body is fully engaged in a fight for survival can the mind slip out the back door and roam free in the back alleys of Kathmandu or drink unsweetened tea on the porch of forgetfulness. Like panning for gold, all of the inconsequential impurities rinse away in a sticky sweat. When the ride is over I am left with the images that endure, and patient thoughts that seek to be expressed.

I guess we will see what kind of flake is in the creek tonight.

Juancho

We hosted two of the sweetest, kindest children for a few days of spring break fun. At seven and nine, their eyes are full of innocence and hope. They gazed at us with stars in their eyes, and then they broke us down and scattered the pieces from Mysterious Waters to Highway 20.

Many of you know that I have passed the last 10 years easing into my days like a scalding bath- heavy sighing and slowly moving from coffee to sweatpants like Turnaround Norman. Responding to the endless needs of adorable children requires a bit more effort.

The first mistake was scheduling events that required our physical participation. “We will wear them out. They will sleep like babies.” So ignorant, so avoidable, the only babies I have ever known did not sleep until they turned 13, and these? They slept, but not until they planted their flag in my tired behind and still they were there in the morning, with their searching doe-like eyes. “You want some more of this?” They queried, with their tiny poker faces.

Interlude: How do you wake up Lady Gaga? Poker face.

I have been thoroughly informed as to the inherent lack of fairness in the world, because nobody is treated less equitably than a tiny 7 year-old girl with a canary-like voice. People move around her like giant icebergs floating through her sea, and all conversation occurs above her head. She spends her days looking up at everybody, and straining to get what she has coming to her, and I am here to tell you, IT IS NOT FAIR!

The nine year-old understands he will be expected to be a man one day, and he is not sure how much time he has to prepare. He would prefer you let him handle his own boat, chop his own wood, and tuck himself in. He indulges a barrage of hugs from all who love him, but if we could just stay focused on the Army and some football, he has things to learn, and he suspects hugging will not one day pay the bills or defeat the monsters that live under his bed. A strong kick and a sniper rifle seem much more practical at this point. He is hindered by his tender heart, and it takes a lot of chin-jutting and arm-crossing to overcome a tender heart.

We saw 107 individual animals including a Florida panther, a black bear, 3 Emus, a manatee, a few alligators, some dogs, birds, squirrels, and a black and white striped worm. Every animal was counted and loaded aboard their vacation story.

Speaking of dogs, they have nine back home, and my tribute to these great kids who wore me out to the inner sole and made me feel like a special grown-up- has been to memorize the names of all nine. Here goes.

Sookie, Sarah, Scrappy, Bama, Butch, Bennett, Ginger, Gracie, and Roscoe.

Good kids these, as all kids truly are.

Juancho

Munson Monday is back in full swing. Munson Monday is of course, not a race, but rather a display of naked aggression and chaos similar to the encierro de San Fermin. As Neal said to the crowd of 30 riders,”Okay flat bellies, get going, you know who you are.” I stood poised on the pedal, gunning for the last flat belly. I marked him and we were off, leaving the rest of the riders to enjoy a Munson promenade in the late spring air. I enjoy a stately procession now and then, but for me Munson Monday is a chance to run with the bulls and plumb the depths of my tank. I traded spots (got passed) by a kid on an 18 year-old bike that creaked like Granny’s rocker. I hung onto his wheel with the grip of death and clocked a personal best time of 32:55 for the 7.5 mile lap. You can click the title to see the stats if you are into that.

Loved it!

Juancho