Doce

I heard this Pablo Neruda poem tonight in a Yin yoga class, which is a sentence I never ever thought I would get the opportunity to write, but out of respect for all of the soldiers for peace the world over, I’m going to share it with you guys on this day. Tomorrow I hope to continue my takedown of the tour of San Felasco. -Juancho

Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.

For once on the face of the earth
let’s not speak in any language,
let’s stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines,
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.

Fishermen in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victory with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about;
I want no truck with death.

If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.
Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive.

Now I’ll count up to twelve
and you keep quiet and I will go.

San Felasco

I told Tom early on I wanted it to be just another bike ride, a long-even boring- day in the saddle. Before lunch Tom had crashed twice and claimed the nickname “Crampa” as he struggled to keep up on his tiny-wheeled bicycle. I was having a different experience on Big Red the 29’er. If I wanted to pass, I passed. If I wanted to catch up, I caught up. I pictured where I wanted to be, and Big Red transported me to that place. Thought-powered.

The incentive to do a ride like San Felasco for me is to mark a place in time. The ride experience itself is less important. Creeping lines of riders crawling through the singletrack harumphing and wheezing in the dust, everyone blaming someone for something. Too slow, too rude, too aggro, too mellow. Someone taps a brake and the backlash travels back for miles down the trail.

A meniscus of dust lingers above the trail all day and you are either eating it or serving it up to someone else, and everyone gets a good taste of both.

Our little trio had few rules for the day, but the most important was to avoid mixing it up with the boys in the Black and Orange, the Bikechain posse. There are too many of them, and they think and act as one. They are like an automatic weapon on a battlefield of six-shooters. Always, another rider can be dispatched or expended just for the fun of blowing someone up and leaving them a pile of smoldering quads.

I could hear them calling to me through the trees, “Juancho where are you? We are coming to get you!” A guy in front of me said, “Jesus Christ I’m glad I’m not Juancho.” I told him I was Juancho and he immediately yielded the trail and hid behind some bushes. “Don’t let them see your eyes!” I warned him as I stomped through the rest of his pack of friends.

Trapped in a malingering crowd of weekend warriors the Black and Orange caught me and the Wrecking Ball lived up to his name. Employing his Ft. Pierce dirtball heritage he punk-rocked his way through the crowd earning whimpers of protest from the Milquetoast Docker set like, “Just tell us what you are doing please!”

What is he doing? He is wrecking you. That should be obvious and count your blessing that he isn’t coming back. We passed about thirty people by hyper-driving through the center of the pack, his son floating along the outside line like the shadow of a hunting raptor. We enjoyed open ground for the next few miles to the lunch break.

That’s a good start on the lying. I’ll cook up some more later.

Juancho

Projection

Somewhere out there in the woods of Alachua County is a moment waiting for me. It may be a moment of quiet splendor, where I pause in the saddle to watch a fawn snuffle for acorns while I reflect on the great bounty that befell me in 2011. I will genuflect in gratitude before clipping in to savor the final miles of a glorious day.

Somewhere else out there is a different moment. This moment finds me sitting beside the trail, my sooty bottom all wet and itchy. My blurry tears fall on my bottom lip and pool there. Some physical or mechanical failure ties me to defeat. I am eating chocolate and waiting for the bus.

Juancho

Fountain of Sorrow

Wow. Now that’s a weekend. Are they this good because I can’t take them for granted anymore, or is life just that good? It’s a hard call.

We spent major time behind the scenes in support of the above performance by performance art troupe, The Glitter Chariot. It is hard to explain what goes on at these events, but they are high risk, emotion-driven performances that borrow from old country standards, children’s television, and personal stories of heartbreak and loss. The next night they turned it out glam punk style and left the stage a smoldering pile of sparkly cinders.

It was a weekend for bicycle heroics too, by riders young and old, but I’ll tell you about that later. It is Monday after all, and I need to find some pants.

Juancho

Honed

This time next week we will be driving towards oblivion, which is just a dramatic way to describe a bike ride that costs $50– The Tour de San Felasco. Tommy offered his mea culpa today, which is nothing to be concerned about. He has been working day and night, up to his elbows in chest cavities from here to Georgia. Should you ever need it, you would want his to be the hands up in there. His job ain’t easy, but at least it is stressful. He’s not the surgeon so don’t get on your high horse about doing what it takes to make the big money. He volunteers his time and donates any earnings to various charities that benefit small children or cute animals. They don’t make them like that anymore.

It doesn’t matter, like I said. We march onward into the fray, singing of caissons. He won’t begin to apply himself until it gets ugly, which is when he shines. The colder and wetter the higher his odds. I am the opposite. If the sky is grey I will struggle to get out of the car. Two elements that make me cower are wind and grey skies, especially when they are spelled in the British manner, with an “e”. Those are indeed the greyest of all.

I can’t do much more to be ready. Trim off a couple of Christmas lbs (Ham and Grand Marnier), pick up some shoe covers in case it is 12 degrees, and figure out what I am carrying on the ride (the 10 essentials?)

Tonight the Glitter Chariot rides into town for a performance at the FSU Museum of Fine Art, so I must put aside thoughts of bikes and become El Managerio to the stars. M will be doing hair and makeup as well, so for us it is a family event.

Tomorrow may involve some light road biking and napping, which is redundant really because road riding is effortless compared to mountain biking. I don’t make the rules, that’s just the way it is.

Sunday will be one last epic hammerfest with the Dogboy, who is Micky to my Rocky, except he is also my Apollo Creed. I guess what I’m trying to say is “Thanks Dogboy!”

There. I feel so good knowing the internet is aware of my plans.

Juancho

Static

How can you get so damn tired from doing nothing? I spent the first three hours of the morning sitting in a room full of state office workers. They were sitting in the near dark (budget cuts) watching another state office worker read to them from a PowerPoint presentation. The room was simultaneously a little too warm and a little too cold. Being a private contractor I snapped out of it and escaped when they briefly opened the airlock to the outside world to allow for a mandatory smoke break. Some of them just sat staring at the slide that said “MANDATORY SMOKE BREAK” and continued taking notes. I looked at the 4.25 x 5.5 tablets (budget cuts) to the left and right of me and read “MANDATORY SMOKE BREAK” in the hollow penmanship of the saddle-broke.

I’m just kidding, you can’t smoke on state property in Florida. The slide actually said, “MANDATORY 10 MINUTE SOBBING.”

The rest of the day all I could think was that there, but for the grace of God goes me, but the ache never left my sacrum and the chill never left my spine. I suppose it is a skill like any other trade requires. What I saw were hardened poker faces of the terminally secure, but inside they were living wild and daring fantasy lives.

Wilford Brimley with the too-tight pink oxford and the high-water, washed-out Dockers was walking along the Thames with a Derringer in his shoe and a pretty duck of a girl on his arm, easing his way back to a room to pass the day sequestered until the gaming parlors recovered from the beating he gave them.

Juancho

My name is Stegosaurus

The Stegosaurus is not the most glamorous dinosaur, but it got the job done in the Prehistoric rumbles I am sure. Click the title link to learn more about this impressive beast. I can’t vouch for those children’s bona fides. If you want to hear the song sung right you have to meet my 3 year-old buddy Lucy. She knows what’s what about a Stegosaurus song.

I felt like a Stegosaurus out there today lumbering behind the Dogboy, who is some kind of long-distance fast rolling dinosaur. It was a workman-like three hours of saddle-time out to the Munson Twilight Zone by way of a whole bunch of sandy trails with lots and lots of sticks. I’m calling it 28 miles.

As I have said, San Felasco can’t come soon enough. It can all go to hell by the 14th, but so far things feel good. Who cares right? There’s bigger fish to fry than a long, cold bike ride.

Such as…

What’s up with the dude on the Bachelor? Why doesn’t he get a haircut? The 90’s are over bro, tighten up. Speaking of haircuts it should go without saying that if you live in the area and need to polish your avatar, my girl is a terrific stylist and affordable.You should see what she has done for my look. BRC readers get a break of course. Ask for details.

What else? Is Mitt going to make it happen in Iowa? I just don’t know. That Rick Santorum is one charming S.O.B. don’t you think? Friendly, funny, the total package.

Blogging is easy really, anyone can do it. Look how effortless I make it look. That’s because it really is that simple. One word comes. Another word follows that word. Piece of cake.

Speaking of cake, how many of you put on some holiday lbs? I’m logging in with 4 official, 6 unofficial. That sets me up perfect for the Felasco taper. Whatever that is. One word. Two words. Onward we all go.

Juancho

Flying Circus

Dogoby, Tom, and I just rang in the new year with a blistering show of single track flexing down at the parks. I came straight from a chicken plate and if I could ride like that every time I ate fried chicken, I would eat fried chicken more often. Thanks Zaxby’s. Most of us are tuning up for San Felasco, and likely peaking too early. That’s just the way of it. If I don’t end up alone and crying on the trail at some point then it isn’t San Felasco. And who cares really? We rode well today. Live for the the day and all of your yesterdays will be good memories and all of your tomorrows will be full of hope.

I heard that somewhere. Happy New Year everyone. Chins up. Best efforts.

Juancho

Saddle Tramps

We rolled out from the center of town and within 5 minutes I was in unfamiliar territory. Years of riding the same crosstown routes makes all other choices invisible. As soon as we dropped into the trail behind Leon High School I was moving in an alternate reality. The same landmarks along the way, but an entirely different perspective. It was bumpety bump and clackety clack for quite a long time, interrupted by a tour of the steepest hills in town. By the time I saw a familiar trail it felt like we had ridden to Thomasville by way of Albuquerque.

I was the only one riding little wheels I think. The rest of them were loping along on their gangly 29’ers. It didn’t matter. The Titus tracks like a laser and I jumped from wheel to wheel like a red sucker fish. What? I took a turn now and then.

Juancho

Hard Rock

Hard Rock has a soft spot for my girl. I understand. He sees in her the same things I do. She’s compassionate and funny, strong-willed and a natural beauty. She’s too good for either of us, but things just worked out right for me. Sometimes things just work out right for one person and not for another. There is no easy explanation. Not a lot of things seem to have worked out for Hard Rock.

Good luck in rural Alabama has something to do with being born into the right family, or maybe it’s about not being born into the wrong family. That ain’t everything, but it gives a person a fighting chance to make it to the starting line. Hard Rock looks like he had to whip every dog in the county just to get to breakfast. He’s dirty in a way that can’t be easily washed off, and he is too young by many years to be missing his teeth.

Hard Rock assesses me with a cold eye, seeing a bespectacled man in a fuzzy sweater who gets to hold hands with the girl he admires.

He pulls a pistol out of his camouflaged folds. He wants to sell it to me. I feared he was only going to offer me the bullet. He wants $150 for it. The pistol will accommodate a 45 slug or a 410 Shotgun shell, but I decline. He shrugs, “Suit yourself” then asks cordially of our life in Tallahassee. We shake hands. “Nice to meet you Hard Rock, I’ve heard a lot about you.”

We have a beer and chat by the fire, as Hard Rock is primarily an outdoor guest. He’s completely full of shit, as good storytellers must often be. He gets a check every month, but it doesn’t go far, which is why he really needs to sell that gun.

I don’t know a lot of people who would open their doors to a guy like a Hard Rock and treat him as a friend. He does what friends do though, he lends a hand, bums a smoke, and tries to tread lightly when the women are around. If he asked you for change on a street corner you wouldn’t give him a nickel.

Bobby, my girl’s daddy, has a soft spot for Hard Rock, and don’t let him catch you bad-mouthing Hard Rock. Bobby sees the man inside the man, which may be his gift. He is the one who gave Hard Rock his name, recognizing that his old name had not done him much good to that point.

I think about the siege of Sarajevo, when good citizens got murdered in the streets and starved as polite society collapsed around them. It was the miscreants, the criminals, and the outcasts who rose up and defended the city.

Juancho