Outshined

W.B.Z.N.

Coming Up Close

I remember when I first started riding. I would roll up to other cyclists and they would look at my bike. The judgement was obvious. You are what you ride and what you wear. The other side of the coin is, when you get the good gear, they wonder if you are genuine or if you just bought the package. The hard core's are always trying to spot the posers. It must be an ancient survival trait, to sort out the enemy in the tribe, and keep the bloodlines free of those in the genetic shallow end. It is the root of prejudice, but the reality is, we all have a concept of who we are, and no one wants to mingle below their station. We all pretend we don't give a shit what people think, but when you have that awkward moment of being displaced, your bones rattle.

My whole life I have been at the party, but never on the a-list. I was a skateboarder, surfer, musician, and a manager. There were plenty of times that I was on the cool side of the velvet rope, but I was never really a member of any of those clubs. I did what I always have done, I squeaked by.

People will always tell you to remain thankful, and point out the great things that you have; family, love, and health. I am aware that I am blessed and that the existence of everyone hangs by tenuous threads. We are all just a car accident, or a doctors diagnosis away from oblivion, and this knowledge has never made me feel better about wanting more. I have been in record company offices. I have had some ricochets with famous people. I have had a brief period of moderate wealth. I have traveled the world, but I always had to endure the up and down stares of those that truly belong. They have a secret language, a posture and an air of entitlement, that sends out a rich pheromone to all others of their ilk. They can spot an impostor at a hundred paces. That's who I am, an imposter

The problem with going to the V.I.P. room and not being welcome, is the long walk home. The place where reality meets expectation. The line where the facts meet the dreams. The place where the party talk and the hang over, walk hand in hand. The adjustment to the upgrade takes seconds, but a step backward is a long, painful, journey.

I will always be more comfortable holding the door, than walking through it. I am grateful for the glimpse, and even though I was a thief in the temple, I did light a candle. The game goes on, and there is never enough to bridge the gap to happiness. We all know it's not about things you can buy. It's about being centered. It's not having what you want, it's wanting what you have. I am very happy to be back among my own, and I am in desperate need of a new dream.

More on the trip later......

W.B.Z.N.

Come Undone

I have not been myself lately. Not a bad thing, not a good thing, just a new thing. Everything feels subdued. This helps in some areas (work) and in others (riding) it's more difficult to motivate.

I didn't want to ride yesterday. I was lethargic and bored, but somehow I made my way onto the bike. A woman almost clipped me on Blairstone, and I chased her from the top of the hill, to Tennessee Street. I was happy to see the alarmed look in her eyes. After that sprint, I ended up riding very hard all the way to the levy, before being stopped by a train. So on some strange level, I am happy that lady shook me out of my stupor.

It would be cool to get there without conflict, but everyone gets pulled in sometimes. My averages are better than they used to be. I can live with that.

Sorry for the lackluster posts as of late, I'm waiting for the next good one just like the rest of you!

W.B.Z.N.

It's Good To Be King

I know you don't care. Here it is anyway, one of the greatest champions of ALL sports, and most importantly a Florida Boy!

(http://www.billabongpro.com/)

KELLY SLATER WINS!!!
Eight-time world champion Kelly Slater (Cocoa Beach, USA) has trumped Australian Mick Fanning (Coolangatta, AUS) to win the Billabong Pro Jeffreys Bay for the fourth time. The 36-year-old Floridian was on fire as the Supertubes break turned on mind blowing 2.5m waves in early heats before deteriorating rapidly throughout the afternoon. Both surfers struggled in the opening stages of the 35-minute final, before Slater pounced on a clean inside wave to rack up an 8.50 score. A series of uncharacteristic falls by reigning world champ Fanning left the door wide open for Slater who capitalised with an 8.23 late in the match. His combined two wave total of 16.73 to Fanning's 9.40 was enough to clinch his fourth event victory for the year and extend his lead on the ASP World Tour Ratings.

Losing It

It's hot out there people, and no time for a slump. This is not the type of weather that forgives weakness. In these dog days, it's best to be at the top of your game moving forward. I feel like I am filling bags and the Mississippi is coming. Everyone applauds the effort, but they know the water will rise, and this will all be for naught.

The sickness is absolute. I am going on vacation, and all I can think about is how Big Worm will be lethal when I return. Juancho will be a malnourished shadow of his formal self, hardened by miles of lonely training. Big Jim Slade will say "Aw shucks" as he casually passes me on a hill. When I fall off the back of the ride, they will all wonder how I could have fallen so far, and so hard. Then they will continue their conversation, and ride as though I was never there.

All it takes is a couple colds, a surf trip, and you are me. Out in the hot sun, lagging from the herd, waiting for the big cats in the grass.

COME AND GET ME .... BASTARDS!

W.B.Z.N.

The King Of Pain

Can I mention the horrific state of discomfort I have achieved? On the surfing side of the soreness, chest, shoulders and neck are somewhere between "call Kevorkian" and "Dear God!, start a morphine drip nurse!".

I had the brilliant idea of riding with some people Sunday. Here's what the recipe called for:

Lead out till completely out of legs, and vision is blurred by humidity, dehydration and lactic Armageddon. Then, let Worm heat it up by gapping, letting back on and gapping, much like a cat plays with a mole about to die, letting it rest, just long enough to play with it some more, before smashing it. Right about the time consciousness is leaving and the black is closing in the peripheral, ride a section of Munson with a foot of fresh wet pine straw, wash out in a corner and ride full speed into a tree with your shoulder. Great! Glad to get that off my life list.

I am going to sit in a corner and hit myself in the face with a hammer now. I would like to thank all the little (and not so little) people that helped me get here.

(insert short joke here)

W.B.Z.N.

I Feel Lucky

Before I begin this little tale, let me just say; When it comes to getting skunked, I am world champion. No one can claim more mirage sightings than me. I have driven farther, for no waves, than anyone. Period.

My brother Chris, loves to call me four times a day, when there is, is about to be, or if there is no chance in hell of surf, trying to get me to drive to Jacksonville. He doesn't mean to be wrong all the time, it's just that his hopes are sometimes mixed with the facts. Friday at eight A.M., I had five messages from him. I got on the internet surf reports, looked at the pictures, and by eleven, I was in the car headed to the east coast. I haven't REALLY surfed since my neck was welded in place and I was chafing in the car. I knew it was going to be good and I was worried I wouldn't surf well.

Huguenot Park was packed but the locals were full and leaving the table. It was about chest, to head high, and fun. I paddled my 7'2" fun shape into a herd of surfers, that I could see weren't getting any waves. I waited for a long time, and finally got a scrap that didn't break by the jetty. A guy took off on me, and I just pulled in behind him and he kicked out. After that, I had no trouble the rest of the day, and got about seven or eight pretty good waves.

The real joy was watching Chris, finally riding the right board, after fifteen years of being under sized and sinking. He is white as a ghost from his chemo and radiation treatments, but he doesn't care. He was sitting inside first peak and I had to laugh, and slap the water, every time he stood up. This was the birthday present of a lifetime. I remembered him singing "Happy Birthday " to me from Bethesda Maryland, in a bed, in the National Cancer Institute, one year ago. I know I have mentioned it before, but I love to say it, he had a six percent survival rate. Less than Lance. So when he does a cut back at first peak, on my birthday, well that's as good as kicking Jan Ullrich's ass any day. I never thought I would surf again with my neck, and I didn't think Chris would see another birthday....mine or his, so Yeah the waves were good, I surfed pretty good, so did Chris....but that's the least of it.

I picked up my chips, tossed one to the dealer with a wink, and left while I was ahead.

W.B.Z.N.

Born To Be Alive

It's a classic. It has all the greatest hits from my symbol discography. The unhappy wife leaving emotionless, being lost in the bad part of Ft. Pierce, driving my old V.W. bus, jumping through hoops at an old high school, my Dad standing in the corner always there, but not talking. Yes folks, it was like main stage at a Freudian Lollapalooza. In this last part (the Dickensian finale) I am left out of gas, stuck in Ft. Pierce asking if I might "have some more". Oh yeah, it was a doozie. All my favorites in one dream.

"Happy Birthday.....you're forty five." She says, as I wake up.

Yeah whatever, you weren't so supportive when you were leaving me for "The Rock" (who she sweetly called Dwayne) in my dream. It's funny how you can wake from a dream, knowing it was all insecure, mental calisthenics, and totally be mad at someone, for how they acted in the fifth dimension.

Sure SURE! It's a classic scenario. Birthday causes life concern, and the inevitable questions that come with it, decide to put on a neurotic little play for you while you sleep. This has been brewing long before the birthday appeared on my mental horizon. I am not managing musicians anymore, which is a good thing, but it leaves me with a big empty hole (and nothing cool to say at party's or to my ever entertained In-Laws). J.D Salinger once said: "I am sick of not having the guts to be an absolute nobody!" Sure it carries more weight if you write a world changing novel, but I am wondering if I was ever anybody to begin with. {Are you waiting for the cycling tie in? It's in the next Paragraph}

I have learned (in times of doubt, cycling) the best thing you can do, when faced with a goal dilemma is: keep putting in miles. That way when a goal comes along, at least you will have legs for it! So that's my plan, till a new plan comes a long.

That, and I am not going to eat Publix sushi before I go to bed, the night before my birthday.

W.B.Z.N.

Back In The Saddle Again

The rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. Despite having a fever, I rode for and hour and a half Saturday, at noon....genius plan. I did and hour long spin on Tuesday. Last night I had a real honest to goodness mountain bike ride. I figure I lost four days of riding in the last two weeks.

Normally at the first sign of illness I get in bed, demand liquids and soup (which go unanswered cause my wife don't play that), and I watch black and white movies till the storm passes. I find no peace in this ritual, because I can feel my enemies at the gate. I know Worm is riding at lunch solo, at night with the crew, and he is eating dinner, while watching the tour, on his stationary trainer. Juancho has ridden to Saudi Arabia and back since the first sniffle cursed my head. Big Jim Slade is always dangerous because he thinks he is slow (he isn't) and this causes him to over train, insult and slap himself in the car for being weak. It's a dangerous combo-pack for the Wrecker.

I am not the man I was at Bump And Grind, but I still have a few miles in my legs. I caught a guy and passed him like he owed me rent last night. I sprinted on Blairstone and peaked at 35mph. I'm gonna be fine.....If I can just hide from Worm and Juancho for a few more days!

W.B.Z.N.

Trees

Well. I am still sick, so I will be commenting on a variety of things I am looking to for inspiration.

First, my Mother, who was a first generation American Irishwoman, used to believe that there was nothing that couldn't be cured with tea, toast and a few Hail Mary's. I would like to add NyQuil to that list. If you can stand the peyote dreams. I would like to submit last nights dream for your interpretation;

I was watching three people in hoods, performing a pagan ritual on an oak tree, but it clearly had pine bark. They were in hooded robes and it was daylight. The woman next to me said, the second person in the ritual "favored" me. Please help, as I am still disturbed by the whole dream. All comments are encouraged, sarcastic, academic, and religious.

Kelly Slater, may clinch an unprecedented 9Th world surfing championship, if he wins The Billibong, at Jeffery's Bay, South Africa this week. He entered the first event as an obligation to his sponsor and won. Then he won the next two events, and decided to see how long the streak would last. Now with no intention of staying on the tour this year, he may win the title. He has a one thousand point advantage over some mouth breathing Australian. Unbefreakinleavable! This is kinda like Lance riding a parade lap and winning a time trial.

Someone just said "Fuck" on the live feed, of The Tour de France, other than a French rider wearing the Yellow, I think that's the funniest thing that could happen in the race!

Ta, Ta.

W.B.Z.N.

I Feel Pretty

Pretty crappy. Go ride with out me again!

How could I cruise thorugh flu season and then get nailed twice in three weeks?

Oh well I'll call you when it's over.

W.B.Z.N.

Young Americans

Port Saint Lucie had a marina, pool and a rec hall with one ping pong table. The facilities were one of the selling points guaranteed in the sales contracts, issued by the General Development Corporation. It was the center of our universe and we homed in on it, every morning, every summer day.

This day, we would all be there early to watch the Kiwanis and Jaycee's set up the festivities. The burgers and dogs would be on the grill. A local band would be warming up on the shuffle board courts, with "Smoke On The Water" and "Sunshine Of Your Love". Somewhere around noon, the parade would start at the ball park, and end in this most glorious location of my childhood. The possibilities were endless, music, games, swimming, food, and the hopes of getting a girl to like us, all hung in the air.

The central obsession was our bicycles. I was a master of the wheelie, and in those days you could ride your bike in the parade, and not be chased off by officials. We decorated our Sting Ray knock offs with cray paper in the spokes, and flags on the sissy bars. We all wore red, white, and blue in honor of the holiday, and dreamed of winning an award for the best decorated bike. Prima Vista Boulevard was lined with friends and neighbors and the glory of being center stage was fantastic. We would take turns riding wheelies up one side of the street, and back the other, weaving in and out of the floats, muscle cars and marching bands. We rode next to Miss Sandy Shoes in a red Corvette. We road next to the Ft. Pierce Marching Cobras. We rode next to my friend Kevin Hand's band, as they played Jumpin Jack Flash, over and over, his blue sparkle drum set, and drumming skills the envy of us all.

The day would go on forever, and then at night the fireworks would be lit by the Optimist club, with a rag, wrapped on the end of wooden stick, soaked in kerosene. We would stay at the marina long after everyone else had gone. Full of candy, completely out of Black Cats, M-80's and bottle rockets, we tried to stretch every second of the day, we hated to see end. Cruising home sunburnt and shirtless, with the decorations tattered and dragging beneath our wheels, we were serenaded by the frogs and crickets. In fitfull sleep we would twitch and kick, rewinding and reliving all the adventures we had that day.

Happy Fourth Of July.

W.B.Z.N.