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

I Could Live Here

Sorry I have been derailed. I know I owe you all a post on my Pennsylvania odyssey. I have a guest blog (from Pete Repeaty) a thug from " The Lig" I want to post too.

Right now I am wrestling some dilemmac forces. Bear with me. I WILL BE BACK.

W.B.Z.N.

Brothers In Arms (part duex)

"I am sure there is a hot tub time machine around here somewhere."

The old ski lodge had a cool, budget feel to it. Signs of low coffers were subtle, but everywhere. Painted floors that showed traffic patina. Rust stained bathrooms, and the antique ski lift all added to the "we've had better times" vibe. Still, it had a low pressure, everyman, ski resort feel. If I skied, I would be here with the rest of the cast of "Meatballs". The lady at the counter didn't laugh, and my brother Jim was quick to ad something like:

"Don't pay attention to him, he does that."

She immediately laughed and I wandered off. My brothers Jim and Davey have transitioned into cute, funny, older guys and I am still in that awkward tweener state somewhere between "used to be cool" and middle age crisis. Clearly, she was in their demographic and my jokes would be useless here. 

We met our guides and went to the first warm up zip line.

 Now I should say (for the sake of full disclosure) I have always been the action sports dude in my family. I fully expected to talk Jimmy through the fear. Turns out he was fine and I was pretty much freaking the whole zippidy do line day.

The fact that the girl totally loved Jimmy and Davey and pretty much treated me like a scared ten year old only dumped salt in it.

We had a legit good time. Not one ruffled feather in the whole flocking day. We got home and I made an awful dinner, which my brothers ate and then lied about how great it was. Jimmy's married to an Italian woman (who of course can really cook) so it was hard for him. Davey stabs at, and adds weird things to his food when he doesn't like it. When he continued to reach for the maple syrup, I knew the pasta prima scara was bad. After all our differences, and all our wacky history, that can only be classified as love, or they were to tired to care.

It was nice to have a good memory that we will have forever. No matter what happens in the future any one of us will be able to say;

"Remember that time we went on the zip line?"

That is what life is about. If you don't make good memories, no one will do it for you. We done good brothers.

W.B.Z.N.

Brothers In Arms

I don't know what it is about fine hotels (Deity of choice knows I have not stayed in many) but I sleep like a baby in them. The A/C gets set to Shackelton, you have more pillows than Jeanie has in her bottle, man that is living. Davey and I woke up around seven, he with a Guinness hangover, me as hungry as a bear. The Elan breakfast buffet was not great but at least it was really expensive, and the tea was awful. Let that be a lesson to you: The Waffle House will not win any culinary awards, but it is good and consistent (arteries be damned).

We headed north on 85 to Spartansburg , and finally turned inland, headed for the mountains. I was finally on vacation. Junkyards filled with classic American metal, hot rod shops around every corner, cabins on hills in the distance and dropping temps made me breathe deep and turn up the Pandora. My head was spinning like a light house beacon as I explored the fantasy of living in the country. Brother Jimmy was checking on our progress and making sure that we didn't go missing in the wilderness, but even that would have been fine with me, nothing is better than a driving a country road on a nice day. We winded through the Pisgah National Forrest on the snake of a road 221 becomes in the mountains, descended into Linville and arrived at my brother Jimmy's house.

My brother Jimmy is a powerhouse of energy. He is a magician of a V.W. mechanic, can play nearly anything with strings, sings like a banshee and has dedicated his life to the Catholic Church. He and I have not always had a rosy relationship. It is our similarities that divide us more than our differences. Two people that have charged opinions and the nuclear energy to defend them, will often butt heads. I have taken great delight in provoking him and he counters with passive aggressive tactics that he never owns up to. There is a strange competitive undercurrent to nearly all we do and say, that makes it tiresome for us both. Who is more at fault is any ones guess, but it suffices to say it is a chore for both of us to endure the other. Still I have to say Jimmy has been a good brother to me. He kept my cars on the road for years, and used to come to the biker bars I played in as a kid, to make sure I was okay. All things must be measured in equal and I know we both carry more fault than either will ever admit. It is a family tradition that will last the ages.

We arrived at his house in the late afternoon and took the tour of his retirement digs (currently under renovation). We had tea and dinner and settled in for a night of cards and stories of the family. Whenever I get around people from my family, I grill them for answers about my Father and Mother. There is a lot of mystery that may never be solved, but each time I learn something new. It is these moments I live for, when no one is trying to prove anything, defend anyone or settle some ancient grudge that (as my ole Mum used to say) was stuck in their craw. We played rummy deep into the night and then, as our clan always does, we went from spirited talk to asleep on our feet in seconds. We all retreated for rest.

                      
We awoke to steady drizzle and the thoughts I had of riding this beautiful areas trails, started to look dismal. I got an early start and headed up to Beech Mountain to find a bike shop and some advice. I arrived to more rain, a "closed" sign and realized it was Monday, a day most shops from here to Mars are closed. I searched my phone for a shop in Boone, called to find them open, set the NAV to the addy and headed off. Now in my head I am thinking fifteen miles is not that far, and I had no idea that my NAV (nick named Su Su) can be a sadistic bitch. She sent me up and down a road that Tour De France organizers wouldn't dare send elite cyclists to. I had some guy riding my ass the entire ride (because after all I am a Floridiot, the most hated of all N.C. invaders).

I found the shop and the requisite dismissive rat that worked there.

"Oh you are from Florida....ya well here's a map of a trail I take my girlfriend on....that might be good for you."

"Thanks man, I was hoping for some more stuff like I rode in Brevard, you know like, Sycamore and Dupont..."

His expression and tone never changed and all the trails he mentioned were 45 minutes to an hour away. I am starting to get the feeling this is not going to work out between us and we may need to see other people. I thank him and head back down to Jimmy's house.

On the way way down the mountain I see a sign for the longest zip line on the east coast and I get the idea it may be nice for Davie, Jim and I to do something we can all do. It would be really nice to create some memories together for a change. I pitch it to them like Robin Williams on crack, and (HOLY CRAP!) they agree to go. A phone call is made, an appointment is booked and as we head back up the hill, the sun comes out, proving to me without doubt, that (Deity of choice) approves.

More later.......

W.B.Z.N.

Long Ride

My guidance system was set to the coordinates of Dauset to ride solo. This trail and I have had our differences. The first time I rode it was an epic fall trip with the Worm, Curl, Lil Ball and Cliffbar. The next two were soaked with rain, plagued by mud and ended with us getting lost and bonked. I had to face my foe, and doing it solo made me all the more nervous. I have been avoiding solo rides at home, and this trail is in the middle of nowhere. 

I can not say that I had a great ride. I can not say I hated my ride. I can only say it was a completely new sensation and that I am glad for it. I did get lost and I did find my way out. I did ride Huff and Puff twice and I am sure that my heart rate never went below 165bpm. If it was from being out of my element or the relentless climbing, I will never know. All I can tell you is; I never saw another rider and for the first time in years, I felt like a new rider again. When I returned to the parking lot the sky was nearly dark, I was tired, hungry, and smiling. It was time to head to the Chateau Elan' and to hear me Ole' Bother Davie sing some Irish tunes.

My brother Davey is loved by all, everywhere he goes. He has the enthusiasm of a child and he greets every day with wonder and excitement. This quality is unaffected by reality or circumstance. He has been playing the same songs for years and neither he nor anyone else, ever tires of them. He is unfazed by any audience or venue and plays his sets as though they were his last act on this earth. I always marvel at how he loves to perform, and I am sad to say it is a quality I lost long ago. Being in the audience and watching makes me wish I could return to the days I enjoyed bars and the people in them. I do miss performing, but after (an estimated) 3000 plus gigs, over thirty years, I lost the taste for the form. I watch as people enter the room and Davie wins them over. A table of rich women in their twenties sit right up front and ignore him while drinking cosmos. One is wearing a sash that says: "Bride".  They are not pretty and I suspect time they will not improve them, but they look like they will have money forever judging from the Coach bags, Rolex watches, and large diamonds on their ring fingers. Davie does not engage them, but instead stares through and around them as he smiles, tells stories and introduces the next song. He mentions that he usually plays this song at weddings, but thinks it might be good. The girls swing in their chairs and face Davie for the first time as he sings: "You Say Nothing At All" by Alison Kruass. The women move their mouths to the words and never turn away from Davie for the rest of the set. He repeats this process with another loud table by playing "Patty Won't Be At Work Today" by The Dubliners. He has succeeded in getting the room on his side. I shake my head and laugh.

I am tired and since my new medical parameters prevent alcohol, I retreat to the room. Tomorrow we ride to North Carolina, to visit our brother Jimmy in Land Harbour. I drift off into a dreamless sleep, after a great first day.

More later....

W.B.Z.N.