Bones

Not really feeling like typing the whole sorted tale of my demise, but here's a little morsel for you BASTARDS!

W.B.B.C.B.Z.N.

Digging In The Dirt

What is it that leads us to believe big events will change us or our lives? The movies convince us that everything leads to closure in the third act. The lovers are united. The hero's journey ends with the defeat of his foe and his fathers death avenged. The under dog has one moment in the sun and gets carried out on the shoulders of his friends who understand the epic struggle, the pain of his trials and the glory of his payoff. My experiences have been very different. The moments of clarity have all happened in the silence of the night, at a stop light or (dare I say it) in the feeble space of this blog. Still, some part of me sees the worm on the hook and thinks the meal is free. There is a sap that lives inside me that has been walking around for years with a tattered speech in his breast pocket that no one will ever hear.

Last year I sat out The Tour De San Felasco (fifty mile mountain bike ride) for reasons beyond my control. In the geologic terms of my life a mere hiccup, like a volcano in the history of the earth. Grand scheme just a random event, for the villagers down lava stream, it's a little different. I thought I might feel better and normal if I completed this fifty mile vision quest. I went with the usual suspects and my son Lil W.B. (doing his first Tour De Felasco) down to Alachua, threw my hat over the fence and went after it. It all started fine with the usual exuberant beginning; laughter, loud heckling and seeing friends on the trail. Then (despite an endless line of hodads in our way) the rhythm was established. After the first sag stop the herd thinned and L.W.B. and I became a pair. The trail was spectacular and I was delirious with joy. The trails between stop one and two were my favorite of the day, traffic was negotiable and I was riding with my son as I hoped we would. I was all teeth riding in the woods of happiness.

After stop two I made a navi error (set back#1) and all the work we put in to catch up with Jauncho and his robots was gone. L.W.B. flipped his Irish switch and rode away from me with little or no effort, in retaliation for my mistake. At lunch L.W.B. and I, reunited with the crew, ate, and got a slight head start. We rode great for a while but as the crew caught us on some really soft double track I bobbled and went off the back. (Set back#2). I fought my way back on and then Big Worm caught us and he L.W.B. and I settled into a good pace. Somewhere on another soft section, with a tough climb, B.W. went off the back. Treeman had found us by this time and on the long power line climb the dust and a piece of Cliff Shot set off a coughing fit which led to a small asthma event (set back #3). I rode through the coughing, despite Treeman wanting to interview me during the worst of it. On the crest of the hill Worm caught me and dropped the hammer on the fastest downhill of the day, taking my son with him. I caught them on the toughest single track climb of the day (in what can only be described as super soft Nestle' Quik). Once over the top and back onto the soft double track, I watched as Worm and L.W.B. disappeared with no reply from my aching legs.

At some point in this ride I am always alone and the anger fairy comes. I was mad at Cory for dropping me. I was mad at Worm for coming by without a word and riding away. Derwood, had some cramps and rode with me for a few miles, brightening up the darkest part of my ride. On the grass hill to the last sag stop, I began to find some solo mojo, knowing I had six miles to go. This is the reason we all come back to this ride. At some point you are unable to race, your brain shuts off and you get to a place where you are nothing more than a slave to your bike. You live for little landmarks that let you know how close you are to finishing. All the fear and anxiety of being weak in front of the crew and your son, the demons you live with from last years volcano, all go away. You know you are going to make it and the brutal, exhausted nirvana sets in. You son is a real honest to goodness cyclist. The crew is an assemblage of dicks that is never going to cut you a break. That's why you hang out with them, because you are a dick too, and no one else will have you. You don't really feel that bad and the pain is no longer magnified by fear. You ride into the last clearing and see the gate. You don't need an award or a pat on the back from anyone. It was only a big deal in your head. It is really just another mountain bike ride to which you have attached a bunch of symbolism. In the strata of your timeline, it will be another grain of sand, over the miles and miles of dirt.

W.B.Z.N.

Hello My Friend

 I am a pretty good musician and had I not reached beyond my local surroundings I probably could have played for life. I was in a band from Ft. Pierce that was the toast of a one horse town. Then one fateful night, while trying to get gig's in Tallahassee, I ambled in to Bullwinkles and saw "John Kurzweg and The Night". I stood slack jawed as his band put on a demonstration of what a real band should sound and look like. The chasm between what we could do and what they did was vast.

Growing pains drove me from my home town in 87 and I ended up back in Tallahassee. My first week in town I saw him again in Finales doing a crazy solo act on acoustic guitar. He played with a drum machine and beat his guitar like a drum in the spaces where the playing stopped. I made a promise to myself that he and I would play together some day, but he was living in Jacksonville. I was a nobody that couldn't get arrested, much less land a gig with a former Atlantic recording artist. I formed a band with other outcasts and we we began to do gigs under the moniker of "The Reign". We had a devoted following that always came to see us. Our dance floor was packed every night. I was bitter that my life wasn't going according to my plan. I had an awful ego problem and a huge chip on my shoulder. I was at the top of my game as a musician and at the bottom of my humanity.

One night while playing "Gimmie Shelter" at the Flamingo Cafe, I looked up and saw John in front of me. As the solo approached I lifted the guitar off of my band mates neck and handed it to him. What took place after he started playing was a transcendent moment in my life as a musician. We traded lines on the remaining vocals and when the song ended we took a break. John and I exchanged small talk and he left the club. After that I fired and hired three other guitarists trying to get that feeling. Finally John agreed to fill in for a few weeks until we could find someone to fit. My anger and ego put him off  and a few months we parted again.

Over the following years I had two or three other bands and I tried to get John in all of them. Finally in 94 I convinced him to sit in with my new band "Radio Bikini" and he stayed for five years. He never officially joined the band. I was married and had children and playing with John and Dale softened some of my edge. Through all his time playing clubs he had a day job as a home recording engineer and producer. He recorded a band called "Creed" in his living room and the rest of that story is too big for this page and not mine to tell. He became a multi platinum producer and worked with some of the best musicians in the business. I became a part time musician, then later quit playing to manage "socialburn" "No Address" and "Go Radio". The next six years were a roller coaster as I found myself again working with John this time as the producer of the bands I managed. There was tension, good times, big hits and crushing lows. John's life took him to Santa Fe where his career settled down his marriage ended. We were both left with huge wounds no one really understood except he and I. It was then that we became the great friends we are today. John and I would spend hours on the phone discussing the merits of Grand Funk, Muse, every band, singer, drummer and guitarist imaginable. We talked like Nam vets about our days in the thick of the music business.

John's band from the eighties "Slapstick" did a reunion show at The Moon and it was a huge event. He looked happier and more at home on stage than ever and I felt just like I did when I saw him in 84. They decided to make it an annual event and this year John wanted to do a show of his originals at The Mockingbird Cafe. He asked Dale (the ambassador of joy, and bass player from Radio Bikini) and I to back him up.

For five glorious days I was a musician again. We practiced for hours, but we didn't have the time to get the show up to the standards. We did our best, but in the end we had to wing it. The show sold out and the place was filled with John's fans, our friends and family. It was a great shinning moment I never dared hope for, having been on the bench for so long. In the end it was a good night and I think everyone there got their moneys worth. For me it was a dream come true and I was reminded again how lucky I am to have a friend with such talent, but also the grace to lift me back up to the stage. I have no words to express  my gratitude. If you were there I hope you felt the magic and overlooked the imperfection. If you weren't there, dare I say, you missed something pretty special.

A week and thirty hours went into that gig but it really represented a lifetime of friendship.

W.B.Z.N

My Midnight Confession

Bless me blogger for I have sinned. It has been a month my last bloggfession. I have taken the trail in vain twenty two times. I have used abusive language to fellow cyclers ....well ...a shit load. I have lusted after obstacles and had unprotecteded affairs with logs I had no business jumping. I have convented trails with rocks and skinnies and logs (oh my!). I have ridden with my fork locked out for an entire Cadillac night ride. I have denied light to a friend riding a step up in the dark. I have laughed at others when they rode off trail. I have failed to ride when the weather permitted. I have blamed my bike and tires for mistakes that were clearly caused by my bad braking and cornering. I have swung vines into riders behind me. I have been racist toward any and all "STRIPES"! I have half wheeled Paul Lawrence and Dave Norman (two men in dire need of skills and nick names). I have done the Higher Ground ride three times.

I am not sorry for my sins and I plan on committing more of these offences and many others.

Fileds of Gold

I am still grinning (and coughing up dirt) from the cross race. I got a really good start (that's me top left). It's good when it's open class. The fast guys love being behind base racers on mountain bikes with slow motors and questionable skills. I stunk up the first few corners and made some dudes grunt and skateboard push behind me. I was laughing so hard I almost couldn't feel my heart exploding, on the first open section.

I had a simple strategy; stay with the big man as long as possible. The course favored MTB's but the soft climbs, crazy wind and stampede dust, tore me a new one. On the second lap run up, big man demanded I come around him. I am scared of him, so I did what I was told, and ran from him like a sorority girl in a slasher flick.

 I (kind of) got away from him, but on the final lap he hunted me down like a dog, and got with in spitting distance, in last few corners. Ever the sportsman, I called him a "some bitch" when I realized he was back on my bumper and mentally gave up. Then I heard a grunt and thought the big man crashed. I knew it was a gift (from Deity of choice) and ran for the finish like my Irish arse was on fire. I edged him out for umpteenth place. Turns out the Big One did not crash, he just bobbled and did what has been dubbed by the gallery as; "The Dab Heard Round The World, or By The Three Guys Standing There". 

Great day all around and as always, the best part is when your race is over and you get to heckle the rest of the riders. If anyone says CX racing is not fun, slap them open handed and leave a big red print on them, so they know they are stupid.

W.B.Z.N.

Do You Remember?

The human capacity to forget should never be discounted. It is the motivating factor for all great come backs. It is also the death knell for people that can't or don't want to improve.

I have been complaining about my local trails. I have had the white boy blues since I got back from the rock laden obstacle courses of "The Lig" in Pennsylvania. The short version is; I haven't been entertained enough, so I have had a little attitude (shocker!).

Last week we had another cyclist fall to a stroke. I went to visit him and I remembered not being able to write, having balance and speech problems and worst of all, watching the clock on crew ride nights (remember those?) and thinking; Ya they are turning their lights on. Big Chris is probably yelling at them. Now they are bombing the roller coaster on Caddy. Man those guys are probably laughing on their tailgates. It's very easy to forget, especially when it ain't no fun to remember.

I was yelling at my boys the other night about something really important like: dirty towels on the floor or cleaning their rooms. My oldest boy (we call him Captain Positive) can put a good spin on anything. He has been that way since he was a kid. A buddy of his lost a big brother last week, while being the DD for his friends. The driver that hit and killed him blew twice the limit. I have never seen that look on my sons face when he talked about it, or had to watch him experience a loss this close to home. Needless to say, no one has been leaving the house without knowing they are loved and getting a hug.

Like so many of us, I had completely forgotten to be thankful for my gifts. I probably won't institute any behavior changes, hardly anyone does. I probably won't magically become a better person, but as I rode through a clearing last night on my bike, I looked up at an autumn sky. The stars were just coming out and the moon was bright as a light at eight O'clock. In that silent moment the voice of the cynic inside me shut the hell up and I thought of those parents without their first born. I thought about Brian laying in bed dreaming about what I was doing.

And I remembered.

W.B.Z.N.

Running Up that Hill

My first ever guest blogger, submitted for your perusal, a testament to what my maniac cousins and friends do for kicks. Pete is one of my favorite people in Ligonier. He is super intense, highly educated and knows more music fun facts than anyone I have ever met. Oh yeah and the dude is fearless on a bike. Enjoy .....W.B.Z.N.

Winter would not go lightly. We were two weeks past the Vernal Equinox and it had snowed each of the past three days. Most of the locals were vexed about this. Our only question was: Mountain bikes or cross-country skis? Since the valley had no snow accumulation, we chose the former. Sunday afternoon, about 2:00…On the way up the mountain, the elevation rises about 1,500 feet. We started to see some light snow cover as Homer the Odyssean van strained to reach the summit. We passed into a conspicuously different scene just before we plateaued at the AT&T towers. Rat and I shot each other incredulous looks, as we observed the completely snow-covered land. “Oh, shit,” we either said or thought in unison. We’ve been riding together for 10 years now, on average two to three times a week from April through October. A little quick math tells me that we’ve made this trip over 500 times! As we rolled south on Summit Road we debated whether to turn back and get the skis. Once we arrived at the Warming Hut and saw ski tracks on the first trails, we resumed our deliberations. Rat said we should give the bikes a shot and I agreed. However, since the snow was confined to the mountaintop, the road had not been plowed. Homer is nearing its 10th birthday, approaching 180,000 miles, I have a symbiotic relationship with this vehicle that has gotten me through ice, snow, and mud countless times. Yeah, I’ve overestimated its capabilities more than once. But that’s what AAA is for, eh? We did a few fish tails as we headed for Wolf Rocks and pulled off twice to let oncoming vehicles pass. I was not about to slide off into a ditch and have to get towed on the third day of April. We continued to debate the merits of skiing vs. riding, but we agreed that under the enticing white layer of fresh snow lurked a wet mess, sure to adhere to our slats. The end of Summit Road forms a nexus with Linn Run Road. As we turned west I remember saying, “We could ski this easily.” Pulling into the Wolf Rocks parking lot, we saw two other vehicles. No bike racks. Hikers? Skiers? A Jeep Cherokee had Iraqi Freedom license plates. Homer sports bumper stickers that plead, “War is Not the Answer”, “Let There be Peace on Earth”, “Stay Human”, and “War doesn’t determine who is right – only who is left”. My bike helmet quotes King, “Wars are Poor Chisels for Carving Peaceful Tomorrows”. Later, we would encounter them on the trail, three guys in kilts (on a 38° day) and a woman. So off we went. The snow was 6-7” deep in the woods and somewhat less on the trail. We developed a “shoot for the rocks” riding strategy to keep from spinning our tires in the white stuff. Rat was far more adept at snow riding than me. At the intersection of the Wolf Rocks Loop and Spruce Flats, we stopped and I let some air out of the tires. Something about more surface area. It mattered little. I was tired already, and we had only been riding for 20 minutes. So, on we went to the Wolf Rocks Loop, a trail that has been my nemesis since I first rode it back in 2000. It careens and cavorts, stymies and stultifies. It is a glorious track whose vistas usually afford its visitors late afternoon sun. On this day, it afforded more snow. And I scuffled, like an old man with all his worldly belongings on his back. Rat, bastard that he is, seemed to revel in the challenge. I seemed to spend as much time pushing my bike as I did riding it. I’d start getting squirrelly in a snow pile and veer left off the trail. When I tried to saddle up again, the rear tire would spin in futility, and I’d have to push my steed to the next rock, where I could get a fresh start. And I kept hitting the inside of my left calf on the pedal, resulting in a nasty hematoma (of sorts). Shortly thereafter, I’d veer left again and repeat the frustration. At one point, I grabbed the frame of my beloved bike and considered the unthinkable: I wanted to throw it in disgust. I have never, ever had such a thought through all the rides that featured endos where I landed on my head, got torn up by briar's all too happy to sample my blood, broke my wrist trying a trick on a log reserved for far younger and more capable riders, knocked my wind out by failing to land a jump properly, yada, yada, yada…But this had become too much. After ascending a really rocky hill, I got the hang of it and rode for a couple of minutes unimpeded. Then, rolling down a hill that sports a large plastic drain pipe at the bottom, I imagined that I would crash…and crash I did, but in a wondrously soft pile of snow to the left of the trail. I picked up the perfectly wet Spring snow, fashioned a softball-sized snowball, and hurled it up the hill at Rat. I missed. He just looked at me as if to say, “C’mon, ride your bike.” So I did. And we made it to the top of the Loop, where we always rest our tired carcasses against the wooden trail signs. Then off we went on the easier (imagine having ridden from 6 to 12 on a clock face, then descending 12 to 6) side of the Wolf. Somehow, it got harder. When, at last we reach the crossroads, I had very little left in the tank and told Rat this. He says, “Maybe that’s your problem,” pointing to my flat back tire. We’ll never know when it went flat, but it must have exacerbated my toils. So down in the snow we knelt with CO2 cylinders – the first one spat gas and failed to fill the tube. The next three that we produced from our CamelPaks were spent. We tried the hand pump. Much effort with little inflation. I reluctantly agreed that I’d have to walk the bike back – the same section that took 20 minutes (normally 10 at most) on the way out. So, I run with the bike, holding the handlebars, lifting the front tire over pointy rocks and roots, very nearly approximating the riding experience, but cognizant of the fact that I’m completely drenched in sweat from the ride/push of the last 90 minutes and if I don’t haul ass my body temp is going to continue to plunge. I actually stay ahead of Rat for most of the hyper-hike, and we reach Home(r) at last. The kilted warriors offer Rat some kind of elixir in a plastic water bottle. Turns out to be Balmore 12 year old Scotch. I marvel at our turn of fortune. Several minutes ago, all I could think was that fate had soured on me. Now, I swig a dram lustily. This is kickass Scotch and all is right with the world. I take my pack off and see that the outer pouch is unzipped. Oh, fuck. I frantically search the outer perimeter of the van and abruptly announce, “Uh, I don’t have my keys.” Rat queries me about where I put them and I counter, “Where I always put them, but they’re not there.” All is wrong with the world. So, off I went, back to the spot where we (tried to) changed the tube. I leave my pack (and water source) behind, wearing only a short sleeve wick away shirt, a long-sleeve synthetic shirt, and a nylon vest. I have my phone, but no hat and my hair is soaked. I run my hand thru my hair to rid it of moisture. I negotiate the rocks, roots, and, oh yeah, the freaking snow. My shoes have rubber soles with a metal clip in the middle, but I manage not to crash as I approach the crossroads: No keys. Then it dawns on me. You must have lost them when you crashed on that hill. Now, this was a desperate man’s gambit. I knew that I would have to run/hike another 15-20 minutes to find keys that may have been jettisoned from my pack. And, if I were extraordinarily fortunate to find the lost item, I would still have a 30 minute hike back. So, I proceeded to alternately encourage myself and fairly scourge my sorry 52.7 year old person. “This is crazy,” I said to myself. “But you don’t want to call Barbara and tell her to bring the spare keys, you shithead.” And on and on. It was hard. Really hard. I felt like it might be a really pointless physical effort and then it would really suck having to hump it back on the rocks, roots, and snow and, yeah, I was probably going to get hurt. But on I trod. Though, contrary to all earlier reportage, I was not alone. I pleaded my case to Jesus, Mary, The Holy Spirit, and, of course, St. Anthony. I qualified all these prayers by saying, “I know I’ll be alright, the keys are not THAT important,” sort of a way of hedging my bet. I didn’t want the Gods/angels to think that my concerns were of a high priority. But I believed. And, miraculously, the keys were on that hillside, just above a big indentation in the snow. I whooped for joy, picked them up, and held them in my hands the whole way back, paranoid that if I put them in the pocket of my shorts they’d find a way to escape again. The run/hike back was exhilarating in a way. I experienced runner’s high (endorphin release) for the 2nd time that day, what I would later refer to as a “double orgasm ride”. I employed a strategy that has worked for me when climbing really gnarly hills. I looked only just beyond my feet as I clambered o’er the trail. This has served me well when ascending Laurel Mountain on Route 30, when climbing Rt. 271 above Waterford to the 2,743’ mark, and even the hellacious Donegal hill on Rt. 711 south. You just focus on the next part of the climb, rather than scoping the all-too-daunting massiveness of your challenge. It worked. I made it back to the lot, but not without summoning pretty much every molecule of intestinal fortitude and something else that I’ll call “Murphy Jam”. Rat was rubbing his hands together above a fire that he conjured up, using the glue from his patch kit and some kindling he found under the pines. We would live to ride again. As we drove back across Summit Road I slumped over the wheel, exhausted, diminished, depleted, but somehow incredibly proud that I had summoned not only physical reserves, but spiritual reserves, to overcome a heavy weight. I learned that I know my body well and I trusted my gut, which has always served me well. I now clip my keys onto my pack, and ride with the knowledge that if things go badly, I’ve always got Samaritan spirits on the trail of life to lead me back to Home(r)… “My weariness amazes me, I’m branded on my feet…” – Robt. Dylan