All You Do Is Talk

Who wants to play free association? I had the day off due to a Jewish holiday, that got me thinking of Northern Exposure and a great episode about Yom Kippur. On my way to get the home theatre fired up, I thumbed through some Frank Lloyd Wright books and decided to let N.E. play while I tinkered with Google Sketchup. I used to (before my cycling addiction) do this kind of thing all the time, but now if I sit still, I feel the weeds growing in my legs. I have horrid dreams of Worm and Juancho riding like demons for days on end. Today, I abstained. I just chilled and spent some quality time laughing at good T.V. and trying to recreate a virtual Usonian.

I had to be the roadie for my son's drum line tonight, at the Cobb Middle football game. They took the other schools lunch money (again) and as soon as I got the bongo's in the car, I Starsky and Hutched it over to Barnacle Bills. I did my Robin Williams on crack impersonation for Fat Lad and Mrs. Lad.

We are planning a day time ride with Sinks. We are meeting at Cabo's for lunch at 11:30, then we will do some form of the big east loop. All are welcome if you can play hookie. For the sake of our visitors from across the pond, please come so I don't talk them into a coma.

That's the news and sports. See ya tomorrow.

W.B.Z.N.

One On One

I was scrolling through some old posts tonight. I sometimes find comments I missed the first time around. It's kind of like pulling a ten spot out of some jeans, fresh from the dryer. I looked back on the dark slump I went through. It all seems like a distant memory and I have the bike, my friends, and family to thank, for dragging me through. I am back in the world I love, with only a tiny bit of residual grouchiness on the edges. The cool temps, and the fall filter on my lens, have my old world looking new. I have logged five days of riding this week, and all the preps made for tomorrows ride. Now if I could just sleep.

Lil' W.B. and I headed out to Tom Brown this morning. We made a stop on the way at GBS, for a rear hub adjust on L.W.B.'s Haro. He did a test ride on a 15" Giant. I had a flash to him taking off the training wheels, and I said out loud, "Man, how can he be big enough for that bike?"

Justin replied, "Ya I know, it seems like yesterday I was selling you those little five speed Gary Fishers!"

It's funny how those moments creep up on you, and make you aware of the time flowing by.

We had a splendid ride, and the weather was fine. We rode home listening to the radio, with all the windows down, and the sun roof open. L.W.B. wants to race this year, and told me he will: "Probably sit in so he doesn't miss a turn, and then just pass at the end and win it."

Not one shred of doubt or sarcasm (that I could see) on his face. A little tear formed in my eye, as I realized the world had another W.B. to deal with. We talked about what kind of cars he likes, and his middle school drum line. He's kind of quiet like his Mom, and these times of brisk conversation, are rare gold flakes in the stream.

All in all, it's a pretty good life I have, and yeah, I still want more. I like where I am. I like looking back at where I have been. I have some big questions about where I am going. I can't escape this feeling that years pass in moments, and lifetimes are lived in seconds. The hours are spent looking back.

W.B.Z.N.

Time After Time

I am the star of a "Revenge of The Nerds" sequel every time I enter Joe's. I have been the victim of fictional repair explanations, involving quantum equations by Pete. They usually end with me confused, broke, and with one of the three repairs I requested. Scott takes a more Eddie Hascallion approach by complimenting me on weight loss, a new hair cut, or how everyone is talking about: "how fast I am getting". I fall for it every time. I usually get about two words into my thank you speech, before I see the concerned look on Joe's face, and the laughter leaves the left side of Scott's Cliff Bar hole.

A couple years ago, I attended a Fish Lap Time Trial, and Scott was the timer. After my lap, he told (a very out of shape) me, that I had beaten Worm. Over the next half hour, I cornered everyone I could find to give them advice for a good lap, and to mention casually how awesome I was on my lap. Scott and Pete rolling in the grass, with hysterical laughter behind me, didn't stir one ounce of suspicion in my tiny egotistical noodle.

Ever since the Joe's Time Trial, I have been watering the seeds of doubt. Scott asked me if I had been riding a lot, and complimented me on my lap. When he said I finished with exactly the same time as Worm, I knew something was rotten in Denmark, and said: " Ya whatever, there must be some mistake." I have had the time, and the lap, stuck in my craw for days and decided to get the monkey out of my Camelback.

I supposedly ran an 11:40 on the Joe's lap. Two days ago I ran a 12:00 in a slight rain and the day before that I ran a 12:30 (the same time as Juancho).

If ever I bring my bike to a pawn shop, having the same time as Juancho, will be part of the final decision.

Yesterday, I went out with the Rocky Theme playing. I pulled up to the start line, and looked down at the fading spray paint on the grass, like some pale scar from an old wound. I set my 1993 Casio G-Shock to zero, and adjusted my helmet so it tilted slightly to the left. I clicked into my pedals, and hit the start button. Phil Ligget's voice rang out like a beacon as I: "danced on my pedals, to the music of the Tour de France" and "many a pedal, turned in anger." Sherwin chimed in that we were watching a performance that: "...would make Eddie Merckx throw his bicycle into the Seine!"

I crossed the line in 11:28 and just like Louis, after he bedded the jocks girl in the moon room, I basked in the orgasmic victory only an underdog could feel.

...And yeah, I realize Scott still got me...BASTARD!

W.B.Z.N.

Synchronicity

Sunday, we did our Tom Brown race simulation. This is an annual event that either: Makes one stick ones chest out, or makes one reevaluate everything from what one ate, to why one needs a new bike, to one speed dialing the suicide hot line. The results almost never reflect race performance. But just like Gallup polls, millage ratings, and reality shows, we discuss them at length as though they are real and important.

I approached the event without any science or forethought. I flatted, broke my pump, and had a rather dramatic intestinal event (I will spare you the data). Having said all that, it was a good day to be a cyclist, on a ride with the crew. The weather was fantastic, and I came home laughing.

The highlight of the day was being dropped by Worm while he had the best three laps in recorded history. He is the new "aw shucks fellas, I'm really slow" convert in the ever growing cult of Marquis de Slade'.

*This entire post was presented in current time and contained no nostalgia what-so-ever. Please use your decoder rings to find the secret messages about Magnum as all my posts are subversive homage to the mythical former cyclist/surfer.*

W.B.Z.N.

Catch My Fall

Can you feel it? It's nearly here. We got a little whisper of the season change today. This is the best time of year to be on this rock. I am ready to roll in the leaves BABY!

All the best music is released in the fall. It is the forth quarter and all the new bands have had their shot from January until September, now the heavy hitters come out to play. The biggest artists start the Christmas set up and give us the (supposed) best music of the year. That's why all the magical songs in my (and probably your) IPOD are from this season.

I also relate it to football (which I know nothing, and care less about) and playing in the halftime shows in mighty marching Cobras. I still have dreams I am in marching band, hyperventilating on the sideline. The music, the weather, and late night bus rides home with girlfriends huddled under my jacket...well you get it.

When I moved to Tallahassee, this was the best time to play. The students came back and I spent many a magical night singing to people in the Bullwinkles beer garden. I have a vivid memory of playing "Streets Have No Name" and when the first cord came through the P.A. the crowd erupted. I looked up at some white pin spots, beaming off into the stars, and I thought I had the world on a string. My wife and I had just met.

This is also the time of year the best swells march towards the shore and the North Jetty's first peak. The cooler temps and bigger size thin out the Spicoli's. The presence of mackerel and spinner sharks make the normal act of paddling out by the rocks, and honest to goodness adventure. I 'd have the bus windows down, my board in the back, and "Unforgettable Fire" in the Pioneer, tape deck. I'd run red lights all the way to the park, singing at the top of my lungs, and drumming on the steering wheel.

My first fall as a cyclist was epic, I had just found Cadillac and I thought I was on some forbidden mysto trail. The leaves clear out and the view over to Fallschase from the first ridge was always a good reason to grab a tree. I thought my Kona Fire Mountain, was the best bike ever made.

Last year after weeks of healing, I was green lighted to ride in the woods again. My son goaded me into entering the Tom Brown race. I crashed on the start and got so pissed, I passed five people on the first climb. I finished just a few seconds off my previous years time.

I am sure some bad stuff has happened around this time of year too. I just can't remember any of it today.

W.B.Z.N.

One

I am trying to find power that will keep me going, even though I know every inch of every trail in town. I rode with a new guy yesterday, a transplant from Gainesville. He could not say enough positive things about our Tallahassee trails. He loves the fact that they are so long, and the technical climbs are a welcome change. Where he used to ride, there are a few trails a couple miles in length, and he had to ride a lot of pavement to connect them.

It seemed kind of stupid to complain to a guy that loved the area so much so I, "quit my belly aching" as my old Dad used to say. My legs felt like lead and I remembered the new guy was on a single speed, and never more than a couple feet off my wheel. I gave him a little heat on some of the more fun stuff out at Caddy, but he was always there.

He has a pretty unique set up, both brakes on the right, and a pipe affixed to the left, with a four inch PVC sleeve to fit the spot where his left arm would be. Did I mention he had only one arm? We used to ride with a guy that had a prosthetic leg a few years ago...he used to kick my ass too.

W.B.Z.N.

My Fathers Eyes

I can remember the look. Not quite disappointment as much as it was disbelief. It usually involved me coming home to find my Dad there three hours early. A police car, with one or more of Port Saint Lucie's finest, was either in our driveway or curbside. The Officer would usually look amused or (in one memorable case) furious. The circumstances didn't matter. I was about to have a logical conversation with one of the smartest people I would ever have the pleasure/displeasure of knowing, in my life. He had a method of outlining the latest adventure in terms that really didn't require any input from me, and yet he had the audacity to ask me rhetorical questions.

"So when you decided to set the Porta-Let on fire, did the phrase (this is a dangerous and bad idea) ever enter your pea sized brain?"

"I dunno."

"There's a lot you don't know apparently, and we are going to take some steps to remedy that situation."

Then the next few weeks would be strictly scheduled in a manner that would make a military strategist recoil, in a combination of abject envy, and morbid fascination.

It was this little photo album I was leafing through in my mind, as I spotted my 5'1" thirteen year old, behind the wheel of a late nineties Chevy Camaro. He was warming up for his hot qualifying lap around the back yard. The sound of my skidding wheels and the transmission groaning into reverse, probably tipped them off. Like magic, when I backed up, they were all gone. Had David Copperfield been riding shotgun, he would have been unable to stop himself from blurting out:

"How the F*^# did they do that?"

Thank God for cell phones. When my son arrived at my drivers side window he was a shadow of his former self. So clearly busted was he, that he didn't even put up a fight. He quietly got in my car and spilled the beans like a waitress at Sonny's. I dropped him into the protective custody of his Mother. When I arrived back from my road ride, the house was ready for a Dwell photo layout and my doe eyed Daytona 500 pole sitter was waiting, in all his angelic glory.

If there is a heaven, my Dad certainly has sore ribs from laughing at the karmic freight train that t-boned my ass last night. I wonder how many more boomerangs are out there in the abyss. It's funny, they sound kind of like a helicopter... right before you lose consciousness.

W.B.Z.N.

Hands Across The Water

I should say at the beginning I don't surf as good as I used to. In fact, I don't surf as good as I did ten years ago, which was not near as good as I was when I lived by the coast. The problem is, in my head, I still rip. I have the knowledge of a good surfer. I get in out well, and I know how to get in position. I am not nervous in good sized Florida surf, after that the well is almost dry. I am always surprised at how hard it is to get waves, even though I do nothing to strengthen my paddling muscles. Once again, logic is not part of my thought process.

When you surf all the time, there are intrinsic things you do, that go away when you don't surf on regular basis. You have a lot more trouble getting to your feet, and turns are not fluid. This confuses the old brain that thinks it still rips. On crowded days (like yesterday) you only get a few shots at the bigger sets, if you blow it, the crowd mentally marks you, and just like that, you are out of the bread line.

Panama City is not my favorite wave. When it's big, it almost always looks better than it actually is. It is a weird break that is hard to master. It's shifty, peaky, and very inconsistent. Because of it's location on the surf starved Gulf, when there is a faint hint of swell, everyone in north Florida goes there. The crowd however, is very cordial. People talk to you and let you get waves, even if they know you are not local. On the East Coast, that is a dream you will never see. Panama City may be the most "southern" surf break in the world, (in attitude not longitude/latitude).

I had a really cool conversation with a local about a secret (not so secret) spot that breaks in the inlet by St. Andrews Park. He was talking about how you need a boat to surf the spot. He was telling me the ins and outs of how to paddle out and where the take off point was. This is golden knowledge usually reserved for locals of good standing. By the end of the conversation, he actually asked if I was going to be in town Thursday. I felt as though I would have been invited, if I could have stayed. I am still shaking my head at how friendly the guy was.

I got a few waves, phoned in a lack luster performance, and paid about sixty bucks for the privilege. I had an obscene sea food dinner and the drive over and back, was rainy mess. Still, I find myself with a very pleasant after taste. I am hopeful for mankind and surfkind after being treated so well by polite strangers. I guess sometimes when you lose you win. I am very happy to know people can surprise me (in a good way) after so many years in the water.

Thanks Rusty.

W.B.Z.N.

Signs

I have a history of what we used to call "Barging". It's a Dogtown term I picked up from the mags in the seventies. Since we had no parks and most ramps we built were torn down or just plain crappy, we had a habit of throwing our legs over clearly marked fences. We skated pools and we used to skate the roofs of newly built houses before they tar papered them. We also cut fences and skated some twenty foot pipes at the nuclear power plant in St. Lucie. Every so often they would catch us and we would give them names of famous skaters. I was Jay Adams twice, and Tony Alva once.

I have parked illegally to surf North Jetty Park when I was broke, and I have paddled across the inlet to catch reef road, from the private Colonnades property.

On a very memorable night ride, we were chased by an angry land owner though the connector with our lights off, running blind to the power line. It was the best ride ever.

In the the immortal words of Chris Stevens, from K- Bear in the morning;

"Nothing is sweeter than five finger candy!"

I am sure I will have to pay a fine someday, but by my count, I am ahead.

W.B.Z.N.

Gardens Of Stones

Getting a ride together is a delicate thing. The person that gets the ball rolling is always walking a tight wire between what they want, and what everyone else wants. It is a thankless job that if done well, never gets mentioned. When the problems arise the organizer gets the tar and feathers. Big Worm is our scout master and he does the job without any fanfare. He is also the best mechanic in town, which means that after organizing all the rides, he gets to diagnose every one's bike problems. Usually this all goes down without a hitch, but today there was some drama. The ride came together late, everyone had an idea of what they wanted, and we had some dissension and desertion. It was heated, but we will ride Tuesday and all will be forgiven.

I have been hearing about a mythical house, from a legendary ride, I missed with Mingo and Mirco last year. I have been bugging Worm and Mingo a long time to go back out there. There was some weirdness but I was so stoked to do something different and (for the first time ever) everything rolled off me. The ride was brutal hot, the mosquitoes where Jumangiesc, but the payoff was worth it.

W.B.Z.N.

Staring At The Sun

I have ridden over the levy (on Piney-Z Lake ) twice since Fay hit. People have told me there is a nine foot gator lurking around. I wondered if I was a bulls eye in some reptilian hunting scope. I'd be an easy meal with water and ground at equal height.

I saw some bird watchers up ahead. A guy dressed head to toe in olive Columbia clothes. He had safari hat and a pair of binoculars. Despite his tragic appearance, his wife was quite fetching. He returned my greeting with the least possible effort. He didn't bother to hide his disdain for cyclists but, his wife smiled. I figured this was good, any self respecting nine footer can make quick work of these two. I was in the clear. The sun was just above the trees and I was going to be cutting it close.

I made my way up Pedrick, over to Avondale, climbing through the Vineyards, across Mayhan, and over to the Greenway.

The sky was on fire and I didn't care if I got caught by the darkness. I rode the long way out, by the old graveyard. There was not a single vaporous, full body apparition to be found, but I was startled by how much the hill hurt. I did scream in horror after riding open mouthed through a cloud of gnats. Other than the sunset, and the gold clouds, there was nothing supernatural out there tonight.

Back on the pavement and the downhill to Capital Circle.

I turned onto Doomar, someone behind me yelled, "Lance!" from a car on Blairestone. I rode past the swamp and back into my hood.

There is a lot of scary stuff out there, none of it got me.

W.B.Z.N.

Amazing Grace

It turns out that if you ride, even when you hate the idea, you feel better afterwards. I am lucky I have some friends that don't judge me for being a moody cuss. Big Worm called yesterday and informed me that we were riding on the road. I know from experience that if I put up resistance, he will just come to my house and prey upon my guilt reflex, so I saved us all a step and showed up. The boys all did their part to get my Wrecking Ball swinging. Ice Berg goated me into a duck sign sprint. Little Ball coached me to the front on the sprints and Worm made a nice pocket of air for me to sit in. Big Jim Slade did his usual "I'm so slow" routine and then crushed me on a few climbs. Everyone brought something to the party.

On the Robot Army front, Juancho and his Munson Patrol Unit have been leaving cryptic messages threatening military action if I am not present on a sugar sand assault soon.

So, I thank you all. It seems as though the chemicals in my brain have stabilized, after all my friends each threw in a hand full of baking soda. Just like Linda Blair after the holy water, I feel as though I am on the mend, (sorry about the pea soup and all that stuff I said about your Mom in H. E. double hockey sticks).

W.B.Z.N.

Blah, Blah, Blah!

I have a long standing tradition of going through phases. I had a five year period where I could not stop drawing architectural (can I use that word if I don't have the degree?) floor plans and house designs. I was possessed. I read about all the mid century masters and visited some Wright buildings. I studied terms and memorized house names in the off chance I ever ran into anyone that was able to talk about such things.

I had a two year period of obsessive vintage snare drum restoration. EBay actually sent me an email saying I may have what they called a "problem". It reminded me of some bar tenders I knew in the eighties.

Until recently I have been a very focused cyclist (which is what I am, not a biker, which applies to Harley owners). I also surf when it's convenient and conditions are good. Once in a while I skateboard. These are all things I have done my whole life and every ten years or so I add another thing to the list.

Lately though all the things I used to day dream about at work have lost air. It could be the recent modifications to our trail system (Thanks Fay!) or it could be I am shedding my skin once again, in any case it's damned unnerving. I am never happier than in the throws of some senseless obsession. This blog has been a particularly good one. It allows me to be creative and say things that I don't normally get to say (without being interrupted or ignored all together).

Now I am no better than a plastic bag, in The Great Pacific Garbage Patch. I am stuck in a floating pattern that seems to have no beginning and no end. I hate all the food I used to like. I could really care less weather I ride or not, and on the off chance Juancho gets faster than me (in between stopping for food, and the random need to sit on the ground) I will be okay with it. Why? Because I have lost my ability to give a shit.

So until further notice, I will be sitting here waiting for rescue. The professor can get his own coconuts, I am on break.

W.B.Z.N.