Tag Archives: Space

An open letter to TMBA, from Langston Hughes.

Mother to Son

Well, son, I’ll tell you:
Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
It’s had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor —
Bare.
But all the time
I’se been a-climbin’ on,
And reachin’ landin’s,
And turnin’ corners,
And sometimes goin’ in the dark
Where there ain’t been no light.
So boy, don’t you turn back.
Don’t you set down on the steps
‘Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.
Don’t you fall now —
For I’se still goin’, honey,
I’se still climbin’,
And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

So leave some trails alone y’all. Accept that there are places you aren’t ready to go, risks you aren’t willing to take, pain you don’t want to accept. Real “flow” as you call it, is revealed like character. You can’t fake it all the time.

-Juancho

Monday night in the off-season is no time to go to Hooters in Panama City Beach.

Hoping to save some money we flew to California from the new airport on the outskirts of Panama City, FL. I am guessing that was probably not the result, but these stories are priceless so who cares?

We commenced our honeymoon at the well-appointed if downtrodden Paradise Palms Seaside Inn, cozily sequestered for an evening prior to our early departure the next morning. Our room opened onto the gulf beach, and we held hands and watched the sunset. We were not the only ones staying in Paradise, just the only ones without gelatinous front-butts pushing up over string bikini bottoms- or the only ones not chain-smoking generic brand cigarettes and cursing- or the only ones not peeing in the pool. We retreated to the cozy room, which was truthfully not bad at all, and watched as strangers drew hearts and greetings on our dew-covered windows with their influenza-covered fingers.

We strolled out to take the air and find a nibble, only to be turned away at every door by either a closed sign or a Ukrainian hostess, recently trafficked no doubt. “Vee close at 10:00″ she explained as reason for turning us away at 9:15. Her tone closed out the category for discussion.

The neon orange lights of HOOTER’S shone as the only open establishment on the Miracle Mile, Shangri-la of the vaunted Redneck Riviera. I shrugged my shoulders to my beloved, “When in Rome baby?” and she shrugged back.

From the quiet and dark streets to the tense and sweaty atmosphere of beach town refugees paying too much for bad beer is a harsh transition and a manager grinding his teeth chattered at us as we entered the room. Cocaine I whispered to my sweetheart. I think everyone working here is on cocaine. It was probably methamphetamine in retrospect given the obvious price differential and it being the off-season.

We showed ourselves to a table in the back, by a door, with a clear path of egress, and scanned the filthy menu for the item made from the most canned products. A commotion ensued alarmingly close to us, and a toothless hag at a table of eight screamed profanely, A RAT! I JUST SAW A MOTHERFUCKING RAT! RAT, RAT,RAT,RAT, RAT!

By then we had ordered beers, and unwisely chose to remain seated.

THERE IS A GODDAMNED MOTHERFUCKING RAT IN THIS PLACE, RIGHT MOTHERFUCKING THERE! Parents covered gentle ears of children, and I will take a moment to apologize to you, dear readers, for the vulgar assault on your senses. I offer it only as a testimony to the truth.

SOMEBODY IS GOING TO GET ME A FREE MEAL UP IN THIS BITCH I SAW A RAT!

We turned back to our table in time to welcome a suspicious quesadilla to the table, delivered by our waitress who made it clear that she herself had no idea what a quesadilla might look like, or be accompanied by in the way of condiments.

Another commotion ensued immediately behind us and I whirled around prepared to defend my life, my wife, our remaining honor, but it was tooth-grinder in the role of hero this time as he lunged in a giant step and came down with crushing force on a cockroach recently landed from flight. We, the entire patronage, accepted this result as acceptable and definitive and returned to our meals.

We passed on the offer of a second round, paid our substantial tab, and regarded every cent a ransom well paid.

-Juancho

On the way to the south trails for another mundane trip around the hamster wheel Taco remarked that he wanted to scout a route to the western edge of town. He plans to ride his bike out to the forest, shoot a deer, then haul it back through town across his handlebars. Something different, anything, sounded better than the safety of the known.

We rode through the south-side neighborhoods, back through our very early twenties. I easily pictured him on his yellow Giant ATX 760 that he bought with the money he got from an insurance settlement involving a Taco Bell drive-through.

Out the Cascade Lakes area, dry as dust, with the Cypress trees planted like spears, we found the deep sand. The sky was overcast and I was able to nurse my half-filled water bottle and empty stomach until pain gave way to elation and my legs found the deep reserve.

Juancho

Hybrid is just word for double failure.

Anything that attempts to please all of the people all of the time is a lie. Whether it is a politician, a toaster-oven/microwave, or those ridiculous barefoot shoes anything that serves two masters is a disappointment to both. Please, prove me wrong. As evidence I cite:

Hybrid bicycles- fails on both road and trail.

The Shandal- the hotness of a shoe with the vulnerabilities of a sandal

Goober Grape- Do you put it in the fridge and let the peanut butter get hard, or the pantry so the jelly gets warm?

Rap-Rock Music- see Linkin Park, Kid-Rock, Rage Against the Machine
The moped- shitty motorcycle, heavy bike.

The Ganoe- loud, slow, with mechanical issues.

You see my point, or maybe you don’t.

The reason I come back to this old saw of mine is because of a recent conversation regarding the nature of Tallahassee trails. I will pause a moment while most of you scoot your chairs back and exit the room. Continental breakfast is provided in the foyer.

So- a log fell across a trail, as some of you remember, and the world was brought to a halt while we, as a community of cyclists, discussed what to do about this emergency.

Do we keep the log? KEEP THE LOG, KEEP THE LOG, KEEP THE LOG!

Do we remove the log? NO LOGS, NO LOGS, NO LOGS!

Before some coward removed the log under dubious circumstances one of our professional trail stewards was working on an appeasement plan. Leave the log, cut a notch in it to for ease of clearing, take a slice out, for those that choose to ride around, and leave a portion natural for those who know how to ride mountain bikes. It was a solution that served everyone, a perfect hybrid.

My recent ride at Hannah Park in Jacksonville, by far the best sorry trail in Florida, crystallized my ill-defined feelings about the proposed solution. Without the logs, that trail is no challenge. With them, it is a cardiac beat-down and a technical test.

Humans are weak. When given the choice, we gravitate towards ease, especially when under pressure. Given the option to ride around the log most of us will do that. To choose the obstacle is to take the stairs when the elevator door is open.

Bail-out options breed mediocrity. There is no walk-up route on The Eiger. There is no risk-free way to drop in on a halfpipe. There is nothing remarkable about having something for everyone. I am only talking about a 24″ round log, and our coddled bottoms squeal and blubber to be saved from the challenge of learning. Shame on us.

Mountain biking is hard. It has challenges. We try. We fail. We muster our courage. We get stronger. Life is made of do or do not moments.

A challenge that can be avoided will never be confronted.

LOG UP Tallahassee, it’s all we’ve got.

Juancho

I prefer to operate on half-truths, lies, and innuendo when it comes to my cycling prowess. The less people know the better.  I am a cagey and dangerous yard dog who wags his tail until you are close enough to bite.  I only ride for fun, unless you look tired then I twist the rusty spoon in your side meat if I can.  If I am the one who is hurting, I switch my narrative to appreciation of the moss in the oaks, the Great Blue Heron, and the swish of tall grass across my shins.  Why hurry?  We have all day.

It is awkward to pivot from a salute to the all day epic in my last post to a breakdown of a 7.5 mile lap around the hamster wheel, but this site is built on nothing if not contradictions. 

To the best of my memory yesterday was the first time I have ever raced a mountain bike.  I raced against the clock for money as a bike messenger in Portland, OR. I have done events like San Felasco, and of course every ride is a race at some point, but this time there were witnesses and record-keeping.  I can’t say I cared for it.

A time trial is a race against the clock, with riders starting at one minute intervals.  This means there is a possibility of being caught, or catching someone else.  The former is awesome, the latter- humiliating.

My name got called behind a kid I was pretty sure I would not be seeing, and I had no idea who was coming behind me, and I planned to keep it that way until the end of the lap.

And that is exactly how it happened. One frantic, panicked lap all alone, sweating like a dry drunk at a job interview.

Results are pending.

Juancho