Tag Archives: Love

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

I find myself sniping at the local trail advocacy group more and more, and it is not a quality of my character that I admire. Whining all comes from the same place, a desire for attention. I’m no different. I feel that certain issues were not given proper attention, and until that balance is rectified I will just have to sit on the sidelines and spit in someone’s soup.

This might get boring, being a mix between “Ain’t it awful” and “It was better back when” but nobody pays me to write so I am just going to satisfy myself.

I can’t follow a group that doesn’t recognize its heritage. If you don’t know where you came from, then how do you know where you are going?

Learning to ride in this town there have always been certain names that stood for cycling. Local legends who macheted through urban seams and forgotten parks to carve out gnarly trails and pioneer connectors that opened up huge swaths of territory to mountain bikers. Some of them just rode, and tackled ever more challenging feats like riding to the end of the land at St. Marks then swimming their bikes across the river and riding further into the salt marsh. Riding mountain bikes was not a sport, it was a statement. Classic lines like the Park Ave gazebo run or MLK Jr through Frenchtown were run like downhills at Whistler, and stairs were de riguer to the culture. Cross-forest epics that ended in glory at a sinkhole, or defeat at a barbed wire fence filled Saturdays and Sundays, Thursdays and Mondays.

Many of those early pioneers are still around. In the push to organize, they failed to adapt. Being individuals and visionaries, they lacked the bureaucratic skills to survive on the reservation. Like Crazy Horse, they fought a doomed battle and lost.

That culture still thrives in Tallahassee. Anyone with the guts can show up at 8:45 A:M at Lafayette park on Sunday mornings and get their legs ripped off. Don’t make dinner plans, or expect your spouse to be able to come pick you up. Cars might not be able to get there. You might have to carry your bike, ride over a log, outrun some dobermans, and get chiggers. It is understood that there is no obligation to wait, such grace is a courtesy. It is the most inconvenient of rides.

Some of these pioneers anchor a bicycle culture the recreational rider knows nothing of, keeping regular folks rolling on thirty dollar bicycles. They complete 900 mile round trip rides in a week and draft semi-trucks on Immokalee Highway. No sponsors or support team, they do it for love.

Others took their vision and skills to big cities, where a machete is wrapped in oilcloth somewhere in a cedar trunk.

Maybe with some of them in charge less would have happened. We might not have a roly-poly thing at the Cadillac trail, and I might still hate the rooty mess of Tom Brown park. Munson would be over-run by horses and motorcycles.

Perhaps I personally am much better off as a rider in this town now, but reservation braves still dream by the fire drinking government whiskey and singing tribute to the fallen and free.

FOTL!

Juancho

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

 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