Tag Archives: Magic

Oyster and Pearl

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A pearl is no blessing if you crack a tooth on it, and a rainy day is no fun if you can’t get wet.

You might lead a horse to water, and it just stands there hungry-

or you teach a man to fish when he’d rather have a hot dog.

The world is your oyster so you better suck it up, or if that’s not your thing then a little hot sauce on a cracker’s the same difference to most.

Hindsight is twenty twenty if you’re standing on a chair, and if you put your hand over your eyes you can see my house from here.

If every day is the same then tomorrow might be different.

Is it poetry if the words hang together like scotch tape with a little hair stuck on it?

Is it still a merry-go-round if you aren’t having fun, or is it just a go round?

You’ve got the oyster and the pearl, one’s good for now, the other’s good forever.

Which one do you want and which one do you get?

Shit cuz, I’ll take the oyster-

Just because you saw the sun rise don’t mean you get to see it set.

-Juancho

Now

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Who is that and where did he come from? I asked myself, startled to catch a rider closing fast in my periphery. Oh, that’s right. That’s my friend Stevie, and we are in Tallahassee, FL. It is the winter of 2013. It is Saturday morning. All of these facts ticked back into place, securing me back in time and space. Briefly, or possibly forever, I was someplace different than here. I was no where. I was no thing. I was an empty vessel hurtling through the cosmosphere, free from ego and self-awareness. Maybe I was not an empty vessel hurtling? Maybe the cosmos hurtled through me, and I was the full vessel containing all things?

Thousands of micro-decisions, adjustments, and judgements were processed in my absence from the moment. Chattering over roots, letting the front end go in tight, banked turns, and constantly, effortlessly performing the ceremony of force to pedals.

With ego rushing back in my thoughts cried more, more! And with that I heard my breath, then smelled the lake, then felt my legs- just flesh and tiring flesh at that, then I was fully again myself and on a bike, but for that moment I dropped myself, if not Stevie.

Juancho

Happy Holidays

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No writing means no riding, as the two are, for me, a self-sustaining perpetual motion machine. the holidays are just tough, and although we had just the right amount of Christmas, the whole season is a careening asteroid bent on destruction of the normal and healthy routines that keep us balanced and well. There is really no solution, just endure and survive.

This little scribble is a step in the right direction.

-Juancho

Familiar

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My paternal grandfather, Ollie, whom I called Papa, lived in a little enclave of a trailer park for all the years I remember. It was a community on a little lake, with a pavilion where people gathered to fry bluegill, crappies, and bass the residents caught as they enjoyed their retirement. Papa was an anchor in that park for a lot of people, so I remember him driving friends to the doctor, fixing lawn mowers, and generally holding court on his front porch where he sat on a slider, legs crossed and usually smiling. I remember him as a happy guy, clever with his words and hands.

His part-time job in that park was taming squirrels, who would one by one learn to trust him and take peanuts from his fingers. When he sat out on the patio, the squirrels would gather about the edges behind ficus trees and hanging ferns, twitching their tails and sniffing in anticipation. The park, the squirrels, My papa, and his frost-blue Buick all lived under a dome of oaks and tall pines.

I think this is one of the reasons I love Munson Hills so much. It smells like I remember Charlie Oaks Trailer Court smelling. The squirrels that live out there are mythic in size, equal parts bold and elusive. Big bull grey fox squirrels– as big as cats- rule alongside the Pileated Woodpeckers who coast between the trees. Last Sunday I got to ride out there with a long-time friend who moved on from Leon County to greater things. His name is Mel, but that is not his real name of course. There are no bike trails in Singapore, where he lives today, and yet he rode like it was 1991 when he was known for pedaling hours beyond the rest of us, and into neighborhoods and land we never saw.

The Big Greys were either out in force, or one was following me, as I sighted at least five in our 8 mile cruise. I stopped at one point, dumbfounded at the nonchalance of one particular squirrel stallion, shimmering black stripe down his back, with grey wispy sideburns. He rooted and picked over acorns not 20 feet away. I whistled a long, low note and he spun to face me. “Hey old squirrel!” I said, and my words echoed back off the packed needle floor. He wandered a little further off as Mel approached to find me standing in the trail, resting on the bars. “Are we almost done?” he asked, ready to put this ceremonial roll in the books.

“Yeah, just one last little hill that goes a bit further than expected, and we’re out of here. “No reason to hold back, so just charge it and get yourself good and winded.”

I wanted a picture of that squirrel so bad, but he wouldn’t stand still and I’m no photographer. More often than not, as I’m slowly learning to get used to it, you just have to appreciate that you were there for the moment at all.

Juancho

Talent

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“Not so the wicked! They are like chaff that the wind blows away”.

When I was a breakdancer (1985-2001) there were a few moves that separated the players from the haters. First there was the windmill, and later, the flare. There was no getting around it, these were compulsory skills if you hoped to compete. I practiced the windmill for hundreds of hours. I had a permanent bruise on my right hip for my entire sophomore year of high school. By my junior year I could take flight. Now, at 42 years-old I can still feel the allure of dropping a hand to the floor and launching my legs into the air- letting the centrifugal force carry me over from chest to shoulders until the momentum takes over like a perpetual motion machine, which is when you can let go and grab your crotch like the real pros.

The flare, borrowed from gymnastics, is responsible for ending my career. The same stout, squat thighs that distribute pain throughout the peloton now betrayed me back in those days. I was forced to accept retirement and hang up my sneakers.

The slam dunk. The ollie. The wheelie. The curve ball. the back flip. What else?

There comes a time with all pursuits when you are confronted with your limitations or your growing edge. It takes a while to find out which it is, and often there is pain involved.

I watch Huck Shins drop a double flight of stairs, narrowly avoiding crushing his head on a concrete berm, and laying sparks across the corridor from his chain ring kissing the corner of a step. In spite of those dramatics, his performance was exhilarating to watch, but I was never truly worried. In contrast, when I watched Tommy Torso line up form a jump on the Cadillac trail I knew it was a bad idea, failed to stop him, and watched him swim through the air and popcorn down the trail before coming to rest with a bone poking up beneath the skin of his shoulder. He met his growing edge, or his limitation it would seem.

These are hard moments and bitter lessons.

I once wanted to be an artist, but drawing the human hand proved too much. I play some guitar, but scales confound me. I may get a little air, but I’m happiest with both tires on the trail.

The rarefied air may be sweetest, but the air is pretty savory just beneath it.

Juancho

Cheaha

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Wow, talk about your schadenfreude hangovers. I should be ashamed of myself, but I’m not. I still remember 1996-2004. Cut a brother some slack.

It is time for the Cheaha Trip, which is well chronicled in these annals. That means time to transition to a different hangover this weekend. Not like that silly! I mean a hangover from being with friends, huddled strong around a gigantic fire, telling whoppers and recounting 20+ years of mishaps and incidents like:

“Remember when Bird sliced his leg with the axe? That was so funny!”

“Or when Mystery broke his collarbone and slept sitting up in the truck all night before going to the hospital?”

“Remember when it snowed on us in Pisgah and we stayed up all night so as not to freeze to death?”

“Drive slow through Warner Robbins.”

“Let’s try this shortcut back to camp.”

Ah hell. We are getting old, and our songs are tired, but we’re still funny.

See you in the mountains.

Juancho

Write one for us

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I spent a month on this guy’s couch in 1996. Seven of us returned from all corners of the earth- Oregon, Ft. Myers, Sarajevo, D.C.- to organize an event in Tallahassee to help the Bosnian people who were being shot in the streets and starved to death.

It was a heavy time, and we were by and large a bunch of young unemployed dipshits. While we sat around this guy’s living room drinking Scotch and making international phone calls, he went to work every day to make signs. Big signs, little signs, vinyl signs, metal signs, it didn’t matter as long as he made people’s signs NOW!

He came home every day to a changing scene. One of us adopted a puppy that ate the couch and crapped indiscriminately, thanks Tim! Another day a busload of Rainbow Gatherers appeared and laid siege to the house for a week in a passive-aggressive occupation. We skirmished with the hippies all day, fighting for control of Chuck’s thermostat and remote while he made the signs, paid the bills, and came home to play guitar in his room and sob quietly in his sleep.

You know how that story ends. With a little help from Bill Clinton and Richard Holbrooke we saved Bosnia, went broke, and left Chuck to clean up the garbage bags of moldy bagels, the dirty ashtrays, the empty bottles, and the dogshit.

There are no friends like old friends, right?

Now Chuck is a full time artist and a musician who makes signs for no man, woman, or child NOW or any other time. Signs can kiss his ass. He does it all, living the dream by playing in three bands, making art, and supporting the work of his immensely talented fiance, Kelly Boehmer.

Together they are anchor members of the art and music ensemble The Glitter Chariot. The GC is a family, and when love found me last year, the GC were quick to adopt her and draft her into service as a hair and makeup artist. We love the Glitter Chariot and everything they stand for, and the shiny, tiny horse they rode in on.

This new song was written and recorded here in Tallahassee at Harmonic Cycle Studio, by my friend and first bike mechanic at Joe’s Bike Shop. The yellow guy (sad Bert) in the video is Ryan Berg, Glitter Chariot co-founder and pioneer. He drives the GC vision like a stolen Prius and he loves the wings at Hooter’s.

There a lot of links in this post, and there truly should be more, but the talent runs too deep in this group to list everyone here. There are many links because we are all connected.

All I’m trying to say is that I am so proud of my friends, especially Chuck, who knows hard times and heartbreak, and wasn’t afraid to share it in this sad and gorgeous song. He got the girl too, and now he has this.

Take a moment to unpack your baggage and listen by clicking here.

Juancho

Follow the tracks

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Thanks for the kind words y’all. We feel better over here.

Look at this picture. I look happy right? Hale and hearty? Ready for the World? That shows you that a picture lies a thousand words. The Wrecking Ball and I had a Tallahassee bloggers summit meeting, attendance (2) today.

I felt awful. Legs of broken glass. Lungs like tiny ketchup packets of air. Just awful. It was a beautiful blue bird day though, and we set the world to rights-proving once again that the bicycle is magic.

Juancho

Show and Tell

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This morning I feel like telling some other people’s stories, or letting them tell us themselves.

Ernest Gagnon–

If you haven’t heard about Ernest Gagnon yet, it is just a matter of time. For the record, I wouldn’t race cyclocross if my life depended on it, or maybe I would?

And then there is this girl, Malala Yousufzai— 14 year-old blogger from the Swat Valley in Pakistan. She was shot in the head by the Taliban for writing about how much she liked school and bright-colored clothing. Two other little girls were also shot in the attack.

Two people telling their stories, both fighting for their lives.

This blog thing is potent.

Juancho

Steady

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I saw a small group of riders clustered at the bench by the trail-head as I climbed the winding path from the parking lot. My plan was to stop, set the clock, and proceed to disappoint myself with another lackluster time trial effort. I didn’t really care about the clock part. It is just something to take my mind off of hard things, and have a reason to dig into the soreness.

I recognized his profile from a hundred dusky yard out. We call him Big Worm, but to be honest, he deserves better. Just the sight of him caused me to bring my knees and elbows in, straighten my back, check my right calf for rookie marks, and downshift to a high tempo spin, in other words- polish up my act. Flanked by five guys ranging from 16- 50+, all of them stone cold trail mercenaries, I un-clicked with a big smile. It’s good to be seen on the trail sometimes, by people who understand what it is all about. Lucky for me they had just finished a “hot lap” so they were ripe for a cool-down.

There are some classic wheels to follow in this town on road and trail, but none are better than Worm’s. With no debate we insisted he lead out and the rest of us fell in like baby ducks. I don’t think I know what the issues are, but confidence must be part of it. Knowing that you are riding a fast enough pace to keep everyone occupied, but not so fast that anyone falls out or blows up, is a hard thing. Most guys I ride with, including myself, take riding point as a direct challenge and pretty much “go ’til we blow.” It’s only fun for the first 8 minutes, then it can get lonely.

We almost piled up when a Pygmy Rattler crossed our little peloton. In our scramble to avoid the threat, we failed to see it now pinned beneath a front tire, until a slight shift set it free to shoot for the tall grass. Seeing snakes on the trail is a gift. Not seeing snakes on the trail is the concern. Snake season is almost over around here, and the Grey Fox Squirrels come out to reign. I’ve seen both snake and squirrel in a matter of days as everything handles their plan for winter business.

It wasn’t the fastest ride (nor the slowest by far!) and it wasn’t the longest ride, but it was the ride I needed last night. Bunny-hopping rollers in the near dark on the way to the parking lot I had a mindless moment- an infinite split-second vacation- where there was only this wheel now that wheel, released from the earth then reclaimed by it greedily.

Juancho