Mean Street

There's only been two activities I have done in my life that scared me. One was spring board diving (insert Louganis joke here..). My Father, and a few of my brothers were competitive swimmers. I really wanted to do something that my Father considered valid. I was a skateboarder, surfer, and a musician, all activities for the soft of head, in my Dad's eyes. I decided to dive my senior year. I was pretty good, but I could never shake the fear I felt, flipping and twisting in the air. I was able to do anything my coach asked. He loved the fact that I would throw my body, any way he deemed necessary. Just because I was scared, and by scared I mean, wake up screaming in a cold sweat scared, didn't mean I sucked. I just really didn't enjoy myself. My Mom and Dad were proud to have something to say at a party that didn't require an apology. There were some nice looking girls on the the swim/dive team.Things were good for a while. Eventually, a thought started creeping into my head, that it was just a matter of time before the board and I met under less than optimal circumstances. One day my hair hit it, then a hand. I moved up to three meter, where the mistakes had a higher penalty. On a Thursday practice that winter, I blew a back one and a half layout and landed flat on my front side. I got back on the horse, over rotated, and painted the back porch to match. My coach had to lift me out of the water, I was cooked. Thus ended a brilliant ten month diving career.

The other monster in the closet is road cycling. I have been doing it for eight years now and I can't shake the fear. I hate riding in groups. Like diving, the fear is not paralyzing and I still ride aggressively, but I am always thinking of the bad things. The horrible noise of the bike and rider meeting the ground. The fear of an unstable rider, taking me out. Road riding is all about being smart. It's about knowing when to lead, and when to follow. It's about, small refined adjustments of shifters, brakes and body position. These arts, are all lost on me. After all these years, I would still classify myself as a twitchy handler. Last and certainly not least, it kills my neck, on the ride, and for days after.

There's a lot I could say in defence of the discipline, but at the end of the day, I just don't enjoy it. I am tired of dreading road days, and all the feelings that come with it. I don't feel like it beat me, I feel like I am putting something to bed after a solid effort. Life is short and so am I. I will be spending my time in the woods if anyone is looking for me.

W.B.Z.N.

The Longest Day

Last week was odd. I have a theory that the full moon and the high winds made things go kookie. I had one of the most frustrating weeks I can remember, as a cyclist. I missed legendary rides, bonked on the ones I attended, and was plagued by flats on my solo endeavors.

Easter Sunday, I rode with Big Worm, Darien, and Faust. We had a splendid time. Everyone was funny and in good spirits. Worm, fresh from his "Chairs" victory was in cruise mode: Not slow, not fast, but happy and chill. Someone beat Darien on an epic sprint for a yellow sign. It was a good day, and if there is a better way to spend three hours, I challenge you to find it.

Then it was off to Orlando to see the boys play for a record label. This is always happy, and relaxing. All the way there, I was settling local band disputes, acting as a relationship councilor, and trying to guarantee the appearance of said record business guy. In the winds of chaos, somehow the band pulled off a stellar set. Said record business guy was animated and throwing compliments around like dollars at a strip club.

It all ends well. How? I don't know it's a mystery!

I hopped back in my reasonably priced car, and drove through hallucinations, weird gas stations, and bad food, toward home. I took 27 which was delightfully empty and freshly paved. "Hearts of Space" (on NPR) serenaded me back to our fine locale. The story ends with me in my own bed, in a fitful night of tormented manager dreams.

I'm back at work, where everything is predictably boring and I thank (deity of choice) for it.

That's all I have for you Pumpkins. Don't fret, I am working on another homage' to Frank Zappa that will have you clicking over to the BRC before you can say: "Poor spelling, bad grammar, inept punctuation, and weak content!"

W.B.Z.N.

Three Chords and the Truth

Making records is a difficult thing. Making good records is nearly impossible. Making magical, world changing records is something no one can do. World changing records make themselves taking passengers and prisoners on the way. They all start innocently, with a couple of people in a room, one person at a piano, or with a guitar. Some soul aches, is angry or joyful and the only way to pay proper homage, is through song. Once the inspiration has been wrung out of the writer, like a cloth, the judgements begin. The artist may be the first, but when others to hear it, they all take a whack. The song will be subjected to inhumane comparisons and criticisms.

Studious are dark places filled with cigarette butts, bad bathrooms and people that never see the sun. These are carpet covered rooms where romance, and dreams get stamped out like roaches, caught it the light. When the "record" button is pushed there is no where to hide. The computer can tune the notes, and timing, but if the song is an impostor, it will be naked in front of a laughing, ninth grade class.

All great songs all start as a shells. They must be built, piece by piece. Lucid arguments occur over the shaker part on the second chorus. Hearts break when a high harmony is cut. Hours are spent recording parts, no one will ever hear. The ultimate horror is to finish a song, and realize it is absolute shit. It is a mystery any songs get recorded at all. The fact that some songs are good, is proof of the paranormal.

If no one dies during the tracking process, the song must be mixed. The melodies must fly in and out like ghosts. Every part of every song that makes it to this point has had a war fought on its behalf, and yet it still may die, with one push of a button. Parts are featured and then fade like fog.

The song is finally released into the world. It is handed to a friend, shipped by truck, or downloaded to a device. Once that happens you are powerless to stop its life. You have to stand and suffer a thousand deaths or worse, glowing accolades.

The miracle is, it can save a life. It can be the only thing that gets someone through a day. It can say the things the less poetic of our species cannot. It can be the theme of revolutions. It can resurrect the perfume of a lost lover. It can bring the dead back to life. It can allow you to drive your first car. It can make you wonder what happened.

It is a noble mission. It is usually done for all the wrong reasons. Still, in spite of all the efforts to ruin them, great songs happen.

Havin' a Party

I don't think I was ever more amped to ride than last night. Tuesday is a crew night, and I had done my recon on Monday so I could roll some of the new Fern stuff. I bagged everything but the Big Guy (just sayin). I left work early, and got all my stuff ready. It was not to be, a comedy of errors and brush fires kept me off the bike, and I missed the party.
I heard BDS, Jose' and John all rolled the Lincoln Log, and nearly everyone rolled the little log and other stuff. Well... bully for you you guys!
BASTARDS!

W.B.Z.N.

Loggie Log Logs!

Loggie Logs, collect them all, trade with your friends. I have to give a big shout out to Porn Stash. He rolled the short log both ways on his first try. Slade put some muscle on the qualifier, and the pyramid. I am prouda dem boys!

W.B.Z.N.

Oh Crap! Thanks um....I think

Imagine this, only WAY skinnier. Now, multiply it by two. That's what is on Fern. Todd, Ken, John, and many others built a lil' piece of the North Shore here to Tally.

Now for those of you keeping score, I have been doing a lot of bitching (on blog and off) about the lack of obstacles on our refurbished trails. This is the big "shut up". I rode a little pyramid but, the logs are still saying "want some?" to me as we speak.

I dare you to go roll it from end to end. Pucker factor of 8.9.

W.B.Z.N.

A Stratocaster With A Whammy Bar

Today I forgot someone was dead. For a split second, I thought it would be nice to see him. I remembered he was gone and I felt that light go out all over again.

The first time I saw him was against my will. I was dragged by a friend. The lights went down and the band tip toed into a slow 9/4 figure. It was haunting from the first bar. There was an endless pause before he came slowly out, lit a cigarette, and took the guitar from his roadie. They shared a sentence or two, nodded and walked away from each other. An applause swelled, but it was a different applause than shows I had been to. It had a knowing air about it. The noise that rises for a pop star is much different than the sound smart people make for an artist.

He looked out knowingly, like he was greeting an old friend. He took a long drag on the smoke and wedged it into the strings of the guitar, between the nut and the tuning pegs. The crowd stood up waiting for him to play, he laughed and spoke into the mic.

"Siddown, yer makin me nervous."

He played the opening melody of "Watermelon in Easter Hay". The tobacco Strat once owned by Jimi Hendrix sang for him the way it always had, with big round blues tones. I remembered seeing Jimi set that guitar on fire in an album jacket. Now that same connection between Jimi and I was forty feet away. Did he write "Lil Wing" on that? "Castles Made Of Sand"? Was this the instrument that yielded the mysterious "Watchtower" solo?

Through out the night the smell of Colombian virgin bud and cloves drifted together with the musical reorganization of my mind.

"City of Tiny Lights", "Lucile Has Messed My Mind Up", "Muffin Man", and finally they closed the show with a brutal version of "Whipping Post" by The Allman Brothers.

I saw him three other times. The last was on a pier in New York City in the summer of 1984. As the sun went down, he and his amazing band weaved complicated rhythms and impossible melodies into the night so perfectly, I forgot my band was stranded there with no hope of rescue. He reminded me that music could save souls, make them laugh, point out absurdities, and shine the light on hypocrisy.

I was in Montana Studious with the band I was managing in 2002. Dylan, Miles Davis and many other legends had rehearsed there. I was in the bathroom trying to compose myself, before a label showcase. I looked at the wall and saw a hand written quote of his, comparing the music business to swimming in shit. I laughed and put some water on my face. It was going to be alright. It was just a stupid game.

I wonder if there is a kid out there that doesn't want the trappings. A kid that is writing impossibly scary and provocative lyrics. A kid that is dedicated to the art and discipline of becoming a musician. A kid jamming in Joe's Garage.


W.B.Z.N

Down In A Hole

Being mean to grommets (kids) when they are becoming surfers is a right of passage. In Ft. Pierce, it was a contact sport. You keep them from getting any waves, and when they do, you harass them for sucking. You drown them, take their boards and eat their food while they are in the water. There is only one problem: Grom's grow up.

Jay Dimartino was a great surfer from the time he was a kid. He is also one the funniest guys I have ever met. He could joke his way out of an electric chair. When he was coming up, we hassled him pretty hard. He moved to the North Shore of Hawaii and was known for charging in big surf. The first year I went to Hawaii, I insisted on looking him up. My friend Kevin, warned me not to go surfing with him. I really wished I'd listened.

The North Shore was too big to surf and we went to a spot on the east side called "Seventh Hole". You had to walk across a golf course to get to it. Way out in the middle of the ocean there was a wave breaking. Jay kept telling me I would be fine, but I became worried when Kevin refused to paddle out. Jay walked out on a limestone shelf and I followed. When we got half way across, he turned to me and said, "Don't step on the black things, they are urchins." I looked down and the entire shelf was black.

We paddled forever, and I never saw a wave break. We were in the middle of the ocean, when Jay sat up.

"Where's the wave?" I said to Jay, as he looked out to the horizon.

He pointed casually out to sea. Waves rose up out of nowhere. He caught one and I was out there by myself. The current was pulling me into the break. Set two came, and I was too far in. The wave unloaded on the shelf and eight feet of white water came towards me. I let go of my board and swam for the bottom. The water was crystal clear and, you could just watch it go over head and then surface. I came up, got a breath, and thought I dodged a bullet. Bubbles started coming up around me. The air pushed down into the reef, was now resurfacing. Suddenly, I was ten feet under water and figuring out, you can't swim in bubbles. I was in a hole in the reef, looking up confused at the rock walls. My cord was taught, and my board pointed skyward. I climbed my cord hand over hand, and pulled myself to the surface, just in time for the next wave to unload on my head. I was out of air, and in a full body adrenalin shake.

"This is it." I heard a voice say.

Luckily, there were only two or three waves to a set that day. I paddled back over to Jay. He was howling with laughter.

"Whadaya doin over there?" More laughter.

I caught one wave, and paddled for twenty minutes against the rip. Jay caught a wave, cruised past me, and laughed at how slow I was moving. I climbed onto the shelf like a drunk sailor and shuffled my feet through the urchin's. Kevin was there, shaking his head.

Jay writes about surfing for About.com. He is every bit as good a writer as he is a surfer. I haven't seen him since that winter in 1991. Karma sucks.

W.B.Z.N.

One Step Up, and Two Steps Back

I had a great ride Monday. It was like poetry, or flowing water. It was the closest I have come to zen. Art without effort.

Tuesday, I had the worst Bonk in memory. Tonight on the Joe's loop, no air and the familiar shaking hands. I am baffled by the experience. It is impossible for me to compute.

Tom Petty said it best;

"Talk on the street, says you might go solo!"

It's time for me to put in some lonely miles!

Out.

w.b.z.n.

The Road Goes On Forever and The Party Never Ends!

Joe's ride starts tonight. I wish I could share Worms Christmas Eve vibe. I have to admit, the scariest moments I have spent on a bike, were on this ride. I am twitchy on a road bike so, I cannot point and accusing finger at anyone for being a crappy handler. I cannot separate myself from the slow, unwashed mass. That said, I am not sure thinking about your health coverage is the best train of thought in a group of newbies, and over amped roadies, that can't contest a Food Lion sprint.

I long for the days when Big Ray, Snowman, Worm, and other regulars, kept us knuckle heads in line. Maybe this year will be different. I feel pretty good when I am surrounded by my friends. It looks like a lot of BP's will be in the hizzy, so maybe it will all be great. Where did I put those Rolaids?

W.B.Z.N.

Dear God, last nights ride was really bad. Please, in the future, if you could never let me feel that way again, I promise I will try to be a better person. The part I really never want to feel never, ever, again , is the part where my mind and my legs are not connected, and that dizzy feeling that would not allow me to control my bike, that was bad. Also I never want to see Big Worm, Jim Slade, and Porn Stash, go by me that fast ever, ever, again. God, why would you let two guys with no skills drop me on wet rooty trails? I just don't understand. There I was in the valley of death, with a very serious fear of evil, and..... well you know the rest. Also could you wipe that snide smerk off of Big Worm's face?

Thanks for listening.

w.b.

Sunday, Bloody Sunday

Many of you young whipper snappers may not remember "Slade". They wrote "C'mon Feel The Noise" which was covered by the very lame hair band, "Quiet Riot". Big Jim Slade (the bands name sake) is the dark haired one in the back. He wrote all the hit songs. He was/is a very competent musician, and yet he relegated himself to the back. He believed he wasn't good enough to be up front. It is a problem that still haunts him on our rides....tragic. Humble? Yes. Shy? Maybe. Insecure? Well, he wasn't breast fed, and I think we all know the damage that can cause. It was a genetic twist (no pun) that his wet nurse had inverted nipples. It really sucked (pun) for Jim, but for his wet nurse, it was an occupational nightmare.

Sunday, Jim had a bad ride. Bad like Lincolns night at the Ford theatre. First, he rode off a cliff, and then he tried to see what would happen if he went into a corner real fast, locked his front brake, and turned the bars. After that, he had to lay down for a little bit. Later in the ride, he tried to kill Big Worm by throwing his body in front of him. Worm seemed to think it was funny, but the rest of our gentile crew was horrified. Darien got the vapors!

Now the back story is, we made a pre-spring trade for the Slade. We shipped off one of our MVP's to Cali (because he was an uncaring twit) and in return we got the kind, likable, Slade. Now our crew is a lot like the Mob. We decide who comes in, and there is only one way out DEATH! That, moving, or not riding with us anymore.

Now Slade had a bad outing, and this is to be expected in the pre-season. Call it jitters, jinx or something else that starts with J. Crash (no pun) said it best in Bull Durham; "You gotta a million dollar arm and a nickle brain!" Now that has nothing to do with Slade, but it's my favorite quote from the movie.

Slade, you will suit up tomorrow, and you will ride, because you are with us now! Lube your chain, straighten out that puss (no pun) and we'll see ya tomorrow! We know where you live!

By the way, "Slade's" other big hit?

"Run, Run, Away".

Not this time Jim!

W.B.Z.N.

Might As Well Jump

The hardest thing about surfing in Hawaii (for me) was getting in and out of the water. It could be the difference between a magical day or a trip to the hospital. I had surfed the North shore the year before. Now I found myself at the jump off spot on Maili Point, feeling as though I had never been in the water. For some reason, my whole year was coming to a head. I was in a band I hated, my father had died that winter, I had just married, and now I was unable to get in the water. Some big decisions had to be made and made now. The boys in the parking lot were starting to notice my lack of resolve. I felt the pressure of their stares and the clock ticking on my life. I was thinking of what I would say to my brothers, also surfers, if I backed out. I was thinking of what I would say to my wife, if I got into trouble out there. The reef in front of me rose and sank away again. I watched the the white water hiss up to the ledge and draw back. I put my cord in my teeth, so it wouldn't snag on the rocks, and on the next wave, I jumped.

Once in the water, I paddled hard to get off the ledge and followed some guys out to the point. The next two hours were a blur. I was in and out of position, I had to fight the current to get back into a safe take off zone. I caught a few waves in between the bigger sets. Then a huge set came through while I was too far in. I looked up and all I could see was a big Hawaiian looking down at me on the first wave. I hesitated to see if he was going right or left. When I finally paddled left, he angled toward me and I panicked, pushed my board away, and dove for the bottom. When we came up our boards were tangled by the cords. He was giving me the Nanakuli death stare so, I took my cord off, pushed my board away to free him and hopefully, stop the inevitable beating. He sat between me and my board until a wave came through and took it away. He told me I was dangerous, invited me to leave, and paddled off. There was a lull, so I swam to my board and went in.

When you do something that scares you, everyday stuff doesn't seem like that big a deal anymore. It could be a century bike ride, quitting a job, a bully, pick your poison. In the end you have an arrow in your quiver no one can take away.

W.B.Z.N.

Dude, That's Sick

The Worm is fighting off the plague, I hope he makes it. His denial may be stronger than mine. He's hitting the Zicam, like a bong before a Phish concert. The curse has swept through our ranks like, well... a plague. It started with M-dub, then B.D.S., and Ice Berg always has a cold. All I know is, our lines have been broken and our flag is danger of falling to the enemy. Moral is at an all time low. Our days, once filled with battle plans, lights on chargers, and heated debates about where and when we would ride.....distant memories all. When the Worm is out of commission, the troops lay down their arms and scatter to the winds.
I suppose if a virus can end WWI, it can open a can of whoop ass on a cycling crew and still get home in time for dinner.
I haven't been on a bike in five days.
He that hath no stomach for this fight , let him depart!
I will never forget you, my brothers in arms.
W.B.Z.N.

Sinop, Turkey

Guam

Okinawa

No Waves Here

People that don't surf will tell you, "there are no waves here". It is a refrain I have heard all over the world. The above picture is of Wallace Air Station, on the China Sea, in the Philippines. I was told bringing a board on that tour, was a waste of time. There is a point break around the upper left corner of this picture. When I was there, it was about four feet, and very good. About ten minutes before I checked it, I was told it was always flat.

I once saw six foot plus waves rolling in for miles in a town called Sinop, in Turkey, on the Black Sea. Everyone I talked to said the waves were small, because the Black Sea is not an ocean .

In Guam, I watched in horror as unskilled Japanese surfers flailed around on a perfect deep water left, breaking in an inlet. The paddle was short, dry and easy. The payoff was a great left with a slopping take off. It got hollow for a short section inside, then it fizzled out in deep water. I tried to get the Japanese guys to lend me their boards. They always said yes, but wouldn't let go of their boards. That wave broke everyday for a week, and it was in walking distance from my hotel.

Same story in Okinawa. Waves everywhere, but not a drop for me.

What a glorious thing the internet is, you can get detailed maps and information about waves all over the world. I did not have the internet in 1991. I have tortured myself for hours looking at waves from places I have been, but never surfed.

When I arrived in Hawaii, the first Gulf War had started and the base was empty. We had ten days and no gigs. My best friend Kevin and I surfed everyday. To say the waves were epic, is an insult to the waves we rode.

I always spend more time thinking about the ones that got away, than the ones I caught. I'm funny that way.

W.B.Z.N.

Get That Red Lizard Off Me!

How in God's green earth is this stuff legal?
I'm off to more weird dreams. Let me kick start the humidifier. Thank God I got a flu shot!
w.b.z.n.

Greed

I have been riding quite a bit since August. Usually this means there is a race or event at the end of the rainbow. Not this time. This is about a period of time, when I was off the bike. I had cervical fusion neck surgery in April of last year. I couldn't exercise at all for four weeks. I spent the next six weeks on my stationary trainer. Ten weeks in, I was allowed to ride on the road. The second week of August, I was given the okay to ride in the woods. Before all this happened, I had the luxury of sitting in a recliner for eighteen days. Things like sleeping in bed, and not being awake at three in the morning, were out of reach. I thought about all the riding I missed when I was healthy. I made a promise to myself that wouldn't happen again.

Big Worm was my trainer for San Felasco this year, and we averaged six days a week. We rode in mud, light rain, whatever. We found ways to get the miles in. We had a few weeks of really bad weather and that made us adopt a new policy. If the sun was out, we were riding. You never know when the rain is coming.

I got a cold today. It's been coming on for a few days. Denial didn't stop the onset. I rode five days this week but, there were some lite days, and I took Tuesday and Friday off. My abusive inner monologue started in on me. I listened, for a time, then I remembered the recliner, Magnum P.I., Miami Vice, and the three a.m. T.V. schedule.

A little cold is not so bad. I had a good run of luck. I am going to try to settle in and enjoy the ride.

W.B. Zipper Neck