Wrecking Ball Blog

Bones

2012-01-27T20:53:00.000-05:00

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

2012-01-17T09:59:00.006-05:00

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

2011-12-28T16:22:00.011-05:00

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

2011-12-09T13:26:00.001-05:00

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

2011-11-07T09:47:00.000-05:00

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?

2011-11-02T11:29:00.001-04:00

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

2011-10-28T08:49:00.000-04:00

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

2011-10-27T07:31:00.003-04:00

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)

2011-10-11T19:02:00.001-04:00

"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

2011-10-06T12:47:00.007-04:00

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

2011-10-05T14:40:00.011-04:00

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.

Workin Them Angels

2011-09-19T16:51:00.003-04:00

Near as I can figure I am on my fifth life. Mock punches from the void. My sins and my trophies are bigger than they should be, for such a bush league player. So make your own calls on why I am still here.

I have grown tired of the doom game. I have never really been a dark guy, and I gotta tell ya, it's exhausting. No wonder those goth kids move so slow. I am tired of looking back and I am tired of worrying about what is to come. I can't articulate what it means, but I think I am starting to figure it out. I don't want to make it a slogan, a bumper sticker or fortune cookie tripe, so I will just try to hang onto the vibe and let the rest fall to the way side.

I feel good today. I'm going to go ride. I have a century posted on the watchtower in case something good is creating a dust trail on the edge of the realm. Other than that, I plan on living vicariously through my sons and riding my bike.

Demon fear
Demon doubt
get thee behind me
I cast you out

W.B.Z.N.

Chasing Pavements

2011-09-16T10:23:00.129-04:00

The Tom Brown race has become my fitness barometer. It starts looming on my horizon in May and lurks between my conscious and subconscious like a spy. It whispers cryptic messages to me as I ride, sleep and try to get through days. I hated the obligation until I was unable to ride last year and like most things when you lose them, it's value became crystal clear.

Leading up to the race I had lured myself into a false sense of bravado. I really thought I was getting fast. Then the BC crew read me the news on a medium pace ride. I fell off the back back like a drunk tourist on a cruise ship and watched in desperation as the wake trailed off into the night. I gave up and posted a desperate blog, thinking I had no chance. I did a few rides solo and picked out some lines and got back to basics. A week before the event things started coming into focus and I had a couple good rides. I knew I had no chance of placing but maybe I wouldn't be last.

The night before the race I crashed on the section of Caddy that I had been obsessing about most. This led to a long night of play, rewind and play again dreams, that robbed me of sleep. I woke up two seconds after my head hit the pillow in a frantic hurry that I could not extinguish.

I got to Tom Brown early but, I just couldn't find a place where the death fidgets would go away. I finally gave in and started warming up (an hour before my wave). On the line I was really jacked up and on the edge of needing defibrillation. A hand hit my shoulder as I staked out my starting spot. Jauncho's smiling face is next to me with (WHAT?) Bike Shop Joey in full Lycra. I hear laughing, indecipherable words, my name and more laughter. I look up to see Big Worm and crew pointing and giving me shit in full cry for all to hear. I realize everything is going to be fine, as I begin laughing uncontrollably.

(side bar) *I had asked the crew not to be encouraging but to pummel me with insults and venom on race day, a detail my damaged little noodle had forgotten till this very second.*

The gun goes off and I get a great start. There are a few really aggressive guys vying for the three foot opening we are approaching at about twenty two miles an hour, five abreast. I blink, hit the brakes, and two squeak by me. I'm fifth into the woods and I settle in and to watch the typical horror show that is the 40-49 beginner class. These guys are all fast but I swear they must never ride dirt. I would not be surprised at all to look up and see a guy in a matching day glow kit, riding at the speed of sound, with a white cane stretched out in front of him. If I wasn't so out of breath I would laugh. We hit the first multi use trail climb and (what a surprise) I go from first to tenth in the first half of the hill. I make it into the woods without losing anymore spots. I get through the tough sections of Caddy upright, despite a few near misses.

On the gravel climb to Tom Brown it is clear I am not going to be able to pace up to anyone, so I go into conservation mode. At the top of the climb, Big Worm and crew are shouting insults (as requested) and it makes me feel better going back to the woods. Once in TB the pack stretches out and I get picked off by a few more riders in and out of my class. I let them all by uncontested. At the BMX track I am considering all the great reasons I should never ride a bike again. I hear screaming. I hear my name. Is it the drill Sergeant from "Full Metal Jacket"? No, it is Big Jim spitting fire and demanding that I do not let him out run me up the hill, to the end of lap one. I am in agony as he screams in my face and I don't have enough air to howl with laughter, so I just pedal harder. I come by the BC crew tents (and the start/finish line) and I am greeted by what can only be described as a blood thirsty mob screaming insults that would make Don Rickles weep for humanity. Red Dragon flips a bird in my face. Men, women and their children yell in slow motion. They curse my family back ten generations. They are going to murder my children. It is as if the villagers that wanted Frankensteins death, are at the bike race. I am laughing as I go by, not at the insults, but at the confused expressions of people (that don't know the BC tribe) recoiling in abject terror. From this moment on, I am having a great time.

My first lap was respectable and on pace with riders much better than me. My second lap is an exercise in survival. I crawl on the climbs and get sloppy on the tight single track. I roll through the finish (in front of eight truly pathetic excuses for MTB racers, who should never darken the door of another event) in 18th place.

Monday felt like New Years Day. It felt like I had slayed a dragon and that I could push hard on rides again. The demon fear had been laid to rest. For the first time in a year I was not defined by some crap hand of genetic cards. I wasn't the "stroke guy" anymore. I was, as I have always been, a slow old guy in a beginner race. Mt. Everest (for better or worse) is where ever you place and climb it. Thank You (Deity of choice) for the great day.

I tacked my race number up in the garage. I know right where it is. I see it every time I pull in on my bike or in my car. Soon it will be just another piece of paper marking a hurdle in distant memory. I'm looking forward to that.

W.B.Z.N.

Paranoid

2011-09-09T22:05:00.000-04:00

I haven't slept for three days.

My taint feels like someone hit it with a sledgehammer.

I have spent $150 on bike repairs this week.

My legs hurt.

I have tried three different tire/tube combo's and two different Camelbacks.

I can't get enough water into my body.

People I normally like are now the enemy.

Must be race week.

W.B.Z.N.

Hallelujah

2011-09-07T22:18:00.000-04:00

OK it wasn't intentional. As my ole Dad used to say "don't sell the farm!". Well I sold the farm last week after a crap ride. Yesterday I had my best lap of Tom Brown since my return. It's a funny little coinky dink that it happened on race week. I am thinking I may not get last.

My back is doing some kind of lumbar altered states routine, but that's getting better. It follows tradition that I suffer some bizarre aliment on race week so I figure it is a harbinger of good.

I gotta find a line through the rough part of Cadillac, but other than that I am pretty sure I can do two laps.

Stay tuned sports fans.
W.B.Z.N.

The Fool On The Hill

2011-08-31T13:58:00.009-04:00

Decline is a gradual thing. A vine that starts small and then inexplicably takes over the side of the house. In my head, I still think I am a happening guy. I'm a drummer, a skateboarder, surfer, etc. I put on my denim leisure suit and strut through my day to a disco soundtrack. The sound of laughter fades in from the rear, until it envelopes the entire sound stage. I get a glimpse of myself (sans denial goggles) and realize I am a walking cliche of what once was, or may have never been, cool. I am invisible to the opposite sex, and the target of mockery.

Well that the was the scene I watched, and the dialogue I heard, as I played back the dailies from yesterdays drama. Lets start at the beginning...

Paul is receiving unsolicited (is there any other kind?) advice from me about cornering and braking. He made a little bobble and his nerves were messing with his technique. I'm nervous that I'm going to get dropped on what Big Worm had sold as a chill recon of the race loop. After a few more helpful tips, Paul grabs some brakes and lets me go by. Moto Jason is showing me the front half of his bike on every corner. There is an unspoken tension that I imagine horses feel right before a stampede. At the top of Cadillac, before the first downhill, I am right where I want to be, behind Big Jim and Worm. This is the only section in town that I consider myself an "A" rider. In between the two sections I ride well are some technical climbs and some washed out, tight corners that make my gas light come on. I hang on almost to the last gazebo before I have to give in and let Steve A and Moto Jason, go by. It takes a while for Paul to catch me, but he does and I get out of his way too. The rest of the ride is a series of regroups where the boys dutifully sit up and wait for me. Out of pride and obligation, I squeeze out two laps, but any thoughts of racing are dashed.

We all expect to get old and to lose something in the process of aging. Somewhere in the back of our minds we know it is coming. It doesn't prepare you for the actual event or knowing things will never be the same. People frequently tell me I am lucky: doctors, relatives, co-workers, and my long suffering wife. A thirty eight year old lawyer, with the same condition as me, died a week before I had my incident. There were also a lot of people who didn't have strokes, and I would rather be on that team. I never wrote on my life list that I wanted to be the luckiest stroke/PFO survivor. Forgive my ingratitude, I am working on it.

It has been exactly one year and ten days since my stroke. I wrote a few half hearted attempts at putting a brave face forward and left them in and around the virtual waste bin. Facebook had a one of my posts from one year ago, in the margin of my page today, and it read:

"It is all I can do not to suit up and go ride today. I am trying to be patient. I am ready for the next step. I really just want to ride. Go get some dirt for me!"

There were endless replies of support. I was embarrassed at how quickly I forget. Even though I woke up with my face, right arm and legs numb this morning, I realize as I write this, I am lucky. I still have a lot to learn about my new parameters. I hate seeing my friends ride away, but watching from the woods is better than wondering what they are doing from the couch. Forgive my greed, my denial is strong. I hope to find some grace in all this, but like everything else, I am slower than most.

W.B.Z.N.

Acrobat

2011-07-29T09:50:00.006-04:00

I have a lot on my mind this fine morning. There is a lot on the scale that needs to be reckoned with. I am trying to make my way through the world and not let the cynical prick that lives in my head, come out and talk. He is a Bastard and only remembers the things that hurt me. Sometimes he serves me well, but it is best if he stays locked down.

I don't want to hate people. People that speed to stop signs. People that eat yogurt and steer with their knees. People that kill cyclists that I know. It is hard to see the other side. It is the most human thing to do, but God help me, it is so very hard.

I don't want to be afraid on my bike. It is my church, my therapist, my one place where the internal dialogue goes quiet. The worst days on the bike are better for my soul than the good days I do not ride. It is always good to go ride, but now I ride with a ghost. Every time a car passes I feel the chill of his death. I think of sons living with no father. Every time I ease onto a road with no bike lanes, I have fear I have never had before. I have never been a victim of discrimination, this is all new. Twelve years I have been riding, but I feel the hate now. Even when they don't yell, crowd, beep their horns or give me the stink eye, I feel it. I know they are not bad people. They are just angry about their own ghosts. They are letting their cynical bastard drive.

It is no coincidence that I am commuting this week. Because I am alive and can ride a bike, I feel as though I should. I should ride as much as I can. I should ride on the road with my fears, with my hate, with those that hate me. I am going to ride because that is the only thing I can do that feels productive. It's my road too. I paid my share, and then some.

Tomorrow, lets ride.

W.B.Z.N.

Ride

2011-07-26T22:12:00.013-04:00

I will admit I romanticized my memory of commuting. To be fair my old ride was three miles and my current commute is five. I distinctly remember it being an easy ride, and it was almost entirely on trail.

Now I must be in actual traffic. The same traffic that I can barely stand in my car with the A/C and my Jeff Buckley Pandora station, at just the right volume. The Tazo Awake brewed to perfection in an aluminium cup resting snugly in my holder. I scream at the top of my lungs for people to stay in their lane, to go, to stop, as they approach stop signs, at salt flat speed. Ya! That's how I feel in my F*+^%$# car!

Oh! I forgot what it's like to be out of the saddle, grunting up a climb, when you are barely awake. To have that heavy pack smoldering on your back. The joy of sucking exhaust from the tip of a Suburban, driven by woman on the phone, waiting to turn right, parked in the bike lane. The sphincter tightening sprint down Park Ave. Most of all, I forgot the judgemental stares of the smokers outside the basement entrance to my office (really a converted storage closet...but hey it's a corner and has three windows!).

The worst part is the laundry. I usually wear jeans a few times before I wash them and twice on dress shirts. I hate doing laundry. I edit audio on a computer in an office that's kept at whale hunting temps all day. Pit stains are not a problem. After the 25 minute jaunt to work by bike, you sweat for about a half hour after you change, and all the clothes require cleaning, EVERYDAY! I use twice as many bike clothes, since I am still doing the same after work rides. That means I hit the end of my clothes in two days. You have to get everything together the night before because being late on a bike means being REALLY late. Nothing makes the smokers happier to see you in the clown suit, than the additional bonus of getting to glance at their watch, raise their eye brows and ask if you are off that day.

I do enjoy it. It's nice to have ten miles in at the beginning of group rides. At this point the benefit is not apparent, but I feel different. I love looking at houses. I love that dawn patrol feeling. Yes, I love riding in traffic. I can't explain it. It's a rush. Something is wrong with me....as if you didn't know.

W.B.Z.N.

Secret Of Life

2011-07-25T09:23:00.003-04:00

When I bought my first bike (twelve years ago this week) I tried to commute everyday. I used Fern Trail as my route. On dark mornings I held a Dewalt flashlight and later Velcro'd it to the bars. I wore surf baggies, hiking boots and cotton T's. I will never forget how hard core I felt, pumping out 30 miles a week.

What a life saving habit cycling has turned out to be. Since those halcyon days, I have bought eleven bikes (for my family and I) and became a junky. I took my kids out, walking behind them at first, then riding in the granny gear for years. My oldest gave it up early (after realizing he couldn't stand the sound of my advice) and is now a swimmer. My youngest has the bug and now drops his old man on a regular basis.

After getting lapped by the entire cycling community at the Dirty Thirty dirt crit last night, I figure its time I merge into traffic again. Number one sons car blew up and he and I are sharing my car. He needs to swim early and get to his lifeguard gig so I tossed him the keys and I will be commuting until further notice.

Even though I got my ass whipped last night, it was my first five day week with ten hours of saddle time. I was really shocked how slow I was last night and to be honest, it took a while to shake it. It is always better to think you suck and find out you are fast. Thinking you are in shape and getting rocked, is a little tougher to choke down. Still, I am going to call this week a victory. I have only been back on the bike four months, and I never thought I'd ever get back to where I am now.

Point it down the trail or road, throw a leg over, and turn the pedals. Say something supportive when you come around on the right.

W.B.Z.N.

For Everyman

2011-07-22T17:50:00.028-04:00

This will be the fifth time I have tried to write a blog about Dave Baton. As others have said, we were not very good friends, but strangely I have had several heavy conversations with him. We shared a love for cycling, we both did low voltage stereo wiring, and we were both Fathers trying to raise sons. We talked a lot about the challenges of raising boys, of when to be heavy handed and when to do nothing (by far the biggest challenge all fathers face). I always seemed to run into him when he was on a peak or deep in a valley, and as such, our talks were weighted with the problems of life.

In the last few years he had really seemed to be in a good place. I never saw him without Jake in tow. If he was with Jake he was smiling, because seeing your kid do what you love, is one of life's great gifts.

After all my health issues, he followed my Facebook page and always seemed to know what was up with me. He had a blunt sense of humor and once asked me point blank if, I was going to live. I howled with laughter, for one of first times since I was out of the hospital. He was my kind of dude. I have a weakness for people that are incapable of bullshit and Dave was the king of that mentality. Some people are put off by that and it's not fun to be on the receiving end, but I always dug his intensity and honesty. The more blunt he was with people the more he made me laugh. That was just Dave.

I can't accurately comment on his life, or what it was like to be his friend, but I can say this: I was always happy to see him, and he was always seemed happy to see me. On the last Munson Monday ride, I extended my hand to him and said "there he is the legend!" He smiled, stuck out his hand and said: "I always read about your rides on Facebook, now I'm finally on one." He was proud to tell us all that Jake had been riding well. He never stopped smiling the whole time we talked.

The next day he was gone. When I found out Jake was with him when he died, my heart broke. I just can't imagine how much that little guy is hurting. I wish I could do something grand for Dave's memory and for Jake, but the hell of it is, we are helpless, except to begin the grieving.

Tuesday night my son and I saddled up and rode from our house, an hour after getting the news. Every time a car went by my shoulders hunched. We had to ride, it was literally all we could do. Had it been one of us, Dave probably would have raised hell when he heard the news, but I promise you, he would still ride.

See you at the finish bro.

W.B.Z.N.

Crossroads

2011-07-18T10:58:00.013-04:00

Back in the in nineties I quit drinking for five years. I didn't have a drop. I realized the sauce was not my friend and not only got on, but bought, painted and drove the wagon. All went well for a long time. I didn't even drink at my wedding. Then one night I had a real beer. I had been going through the motions (with the near beer kind) and it was all fine till the McCoy went down my Irish gullet. My whole body Grand Malled in one exquisite seizure of recognition. All though I never went back to my "hey I wonder where my car is?" status, my days as a non alcohol devotee had ended. The O'Doul's would never heal my wounds again. It is one thing to abstain when you have never indulged, and quite another to taste the nectar and repent.

Dieting has been a similar exercise for me. I am fine once I find a thing I can eat and lose weight. The novelty and receding pounds distract you from the fact that you haven't eaten anything good in months. Then (quite innocently) you go to a Mexican restaurant with friends after a ride. That alchemy of Mariachi, Americanized, cheesy Eden hits your buds (which have been languishing in solitary at Gitmo) and you are officially F*#^+D! You will catch your reflection while you make your next salad and wonder if Tolstoy ever witnessed such misery.

And so kiddies this is the point I am zooming in on. Can one go back to his goat herd after a great vacation in Gomorrah? Time will tell. Jauncho had a burger. I had Mexican food. Who will return to the monastery, and put on the hair shirt first? What does it mean when Big Jim Slade tells you to eat a hamburger while he sheds 20 pounds in five weeks?

It is how we perform at the bottom of the curve that determines our eventual altitude.

W.B.Z.(*BURP*)N.

Make this go on forever

2011-06-28T12:58:00.005-04:00

June has been a hell of a month. My #1 son departed for, and returned from, France. How did he become so smart and well adjusted? #2 is tending a very productive veggie garden, working sporadically at Zone5, and heads off to Summer Jazz Camp next week. I have dug my way out of the pit at work, and I am riding pretty good considering. My head is up.

I have been employing a relaxation technique before I fall asleep. The result has been spectacular, prophetic, technicolor, trips to neon oceans, where I surf for hours, or nose wheelie vintage skateboards, down black top ribbons, for miles.

I pray to all that is benevolent, this is a new chapter and maybe my period of heavy testing has passed. Please forgive me if I guard my chips and back away from the table. Battle has left me scared and vigilant.

My life, like my riding, is not that pretty. I hit obstacles hard. I don't care if my chain rattles, I just want to be rolling when it's over.

W.B.Z.N.

Going To The Country

2011-06-20T20:16:00.004-04:00

I stole this pic from the Rev. Everything he needs for four days is on that bike. If you don't think that is cool, leave my blog and never come back. That is some Kung Fu, ninja, Mad Max, Daniel Boone, coolness.

I have always thought that real men should be able to cook and camp, neither of which I know how to do. I gotta do something about that.

Rev, you dakine bra!

W.B.Z.N.

Right as Rain

2011-06-13T14:08:00.021-04:00

She was singing and I don't mean softly, or in a meek fashion. She was singing up to heaven, hands and voice raised for all to hear. It was dark and about 5:45 AM. The guy parked next to me grunted and groaned and acted like he was on his way to the gallows. Yes, I recognized the symptoms, I invented them.

"What is she going on about?"

He said to no one, and continued fumbling with his bike strapped on a rack.

"Redemption."

I said, as I walked between the cars and with in a foot of him.

I know something about the subject though, I must confess I have never felt absolved of anything I would consider a true sin. I have been reborn many times physically, emotionally and musically. I have been back from the depths of places I never thought I would escape. I have pulled off things I had no business accomplishing, and I have fallen short of things well within my reach. She was singing for salvation and for me, and even though the music was for her headphones only, I new the tune.

Today I was David, and Goliath was 68 miles of road. The cancer charity Ride-4-Hope was the only cause that could make me saddle up for such foolishness. My buddy Big Worm, formulated a plan for me and I decided two nights before, to sign up and figure the rest out later. That is how I came to be standing in a dirt parking lot, before dawn, wearing sunglasses, while laughing at the grouch that couldn't appreciate good, authentic, free Gospel (at this ungodly hour).

The boys trickled in one by one and we rolled out at six thirty. Before long the pace settled in around 20-23 Mph, and we began passing folks that were riding at a more conversational pace. We rolled passed a woman with a triathlon set up and she said loud enough for everyone to hear:

"We will see them on the side of the road later... don't worry."

Big Worm shot her a glance and as is his character, said nothing with words, but volumes with his expression. Not being one to waste a clay pigeon, I took aim.

"No we won't!"

I said as I passed her.

"Just because you have funny bars on your bike doesn't mean you know everything!"

She opened her maw, like she was going to catch flies for the next ninety miles. And just like that, the spirit moved in my body and I was my old self again, whacking the hive and killing the silence, for all hoping to have a quiet morning ride.

We rolled along at a quick pace but I was feeling fine and even worked up front on a climb. By the time we got to Monticello (the splitting point for the Hundred milers and the Hundred kilometer-ers) I called my girl and told her all was well and I was going to keep going. This was my projected bail out point (if my neck or any of my other feeble parts were feeling rough) and Mama W.B. was on stand by to evac me. Mr. Fightclub, his son, nephew (all towering examples of genetic bigness) and I, took the left and veered away from the safety of our B.C. bros and headed west.

M.F.C.'s crew and I followed in behind some guy in his fifties who proceeded to light the pace up for about four miles. I told him I could pull for a while just as our next turn came up. I pulled and then M.F.C.'s nephew went up front, all the while the pace was pretty fast. We dropped the older guy, but a young man (name escapes me) rode with us for a while putting in some big pulls, until he too disappeared off the back. With in eight miles of the finish, other metric riders began catching us and all was festive as we rolled back into town. I decided to sprint for a yellow sign, while smirking at F.C. and his nephew when out of nowhere I heard laughing on my left. I watched as Don Davis (printing his real name, because I hate him) snatched my glory and my sign as everyone laughed.

It was remarkable how unremarkable I felt when I rolled though the finish line. I didn't want to talk to anyone and found a quiet corner to drink a Gatorade. I loaded up my car and decided to roll out before the boys got back from the hundred miler. Some things are better left unsaid and I drove home, had a swim and went to lunch with my girl and Lil W.B. (number one son is in France).

It was a good day on the bike, I couldn't have dreamed of having, even a month ago. It is proof to all that wish to see, that there is always hope. The easiest way to redemption, is to ride to it, on a bicycle.

W.B.Z.N.

Devils and Dust

2011-05-24T11:17:00.012-04:00

I suppose I should be angry,
I suppose I should be sad,
but after all is said and done,
the crash wasn't that bad

The newly baptized and the old angry zealots turned out to testify at the Chapel Munson. There wasn't a free pew in the house, and you couldn't take a breath without ruffling another sinners coat. It was obvious to me that there would be fire in the sermon and I wasn't disappointed.

I can't explain it but I have been feeling really good. Good, despite baffling my doctors and not being able to feel my right arm after a month. Good on the bike, good in my life. I have a new mantra and it goes something like this:

I am thankful for feeling good and I will do all I can (today) to take advantage of it. I do not expect to feel good tomorrow. I will try not to live in fear. When I feel bad, I will rest and hope for the best. Today I will ride.

So with that, I showed up at Munson, caffeinated and ready to go for broke. Jauncho smiles like a politician theses days. He lives safe in the knowledge that he has put in a herculean effort to become a new man. We picked on him when he was the fat kid and now he has a lot of quiet, venom in his blood.

You can read his blog for the play by play, all I can say is this: Homey is running better than ever, but even after I crashed and killed myself to get back on with the pack, I had gas in the tank.

To be continued......

W.B.Z.N.

Typical Reaction

2011-05-18T11:34:00.009-04:00

I like to bandy about flowery words. I love to take the licence with all things dramatic. In this case I will just say: I rode bikes with my friends and LWB, and it was grand. I thank you (Deity of choice) for letting me come to the well once more.

W.B.Z.N.

Cruel To Be Kind

2011-05-10T10:15:00.011-04:00

Lil W.B. and I have been riding Red Bug for three straight days. He used to hate this trail because it was hard, but now he likes it because its hard. Go figure. The first day we rode out there I noticed I was grinning and then it hit me, I love roots. Say what you want (pro or con) about the newly groomed trails in town, no human can come up with obstacles better than Ma nature.

There are some sections out there that you think of way before you get to them. That nagging doubt creeps in: what if I don't get over that step up? When you clean one of those roots, logs or wash outs you feel like you have done something special. Flowing clay and berms will never give you that kind of pay off (not that there is anything wrong with that).

If you can come up with a better feeling than clearing a tough part of trail and hearing a guy behind you tank it, I am all ears. After all mountain biking is not supposed to be a clean, smooth, activity. What drew me to this sport most of all was that I fell, almost every time I rode, for my first year. I will never forget the time I made it clean over the three tough climbs on the old Cadillac trail. I love all the new trail improvements, but I miss the feeling of a new tree or log crossing the trail after a storm, and committing to trying to get over it with no idea how it would turn out.

This weekend you have a chance to race on one of the last all natural, no silicone, trails in town. Sure the other ones are curvy, compliant, and their hair is perfect, but I always like a girl that fights back. Red Bug is the woman that will make you pay before you get the kiss.

I can't race this weekend, but I will be out there yelling at all my friends and laughing at the slobs learning what "skill" actually means.

W.B.Z.N.

Save It For Later

2011-05-07T22:11:00.006-04:00

This just in, I am feeling a lot better. I even rode a couple times this week. I am wondering if I have a note from my Doctor (saying how feeble I am) if I can race first timer.

Could Jauncho (skinny boy) make his flyweight race debut?

See Ya'll at the race next Sunday.

W.B.Z.N.

(un)Comfortably Numb

2011-04-25T21:37:00.010-04:00

It was a great ride. My flow was finally coming back. Gone was the obsessive braking and the jangly cornering. I was finally riding faster and smoother, a combo pack not seen since my return. L.W.B. was not up for the ride and I was enjoying being alone and stopping to see the lake, at my favorite over looks. The nagging voices from the last month, the doubts, the over thinking, were finally melting away as I forgot the bike beneath me and found something resembling a center. Whenever things come together, and I am on the verge of delight, the McCortian, Irish warning light starts to blink on my dash.

On the way back into Tom Brown I became aware of a dull numbness in my right leg. The new trail improvements lower the need to get out of the saddle, so I chalked it all up to needing to stand on the pedals. On Blairstone I really started feeling tired. I lowered the pace and settled in for the climb back to the hood.

Easter with the In Laws was good. We watched the little ones look for eggs. Everyone (but me) had cake and ice cream. Just as I was reaching the edge of my tiredness we headed home. An uneventful dinner drifted unceremoniously by and soon I was by myself in the kitchen, lit only by the dim white of my lap top. As I typed out a vapid review of my great day, my cheek began to feel a little tingly. Nothing alarming just enough to notice. I am hyper aware of all ticks and changes (post stroke) and as this development occurred, I immediately started talking myself out of any bad possibilities. I decided to give in to sleep.

This morning I woke up rested, got dressed turned on the news, and lost feeling in my right arm and left cheek. It felt exactly like it was asleep, right before the blood rushes back in with life. The punchline in my case is, I never got the payoff of the feeling returning. I have a bizarre cold limb that responds to touch but has the added bonus of phantom chills and faint pins and needles.

After seven hours at T.M.H. with "I'm trying not to look like you are going to die" expressions of the fine heath care providers, and an MRI with dye, I am home. The diagnosis? Hemipalegic Migraine. I had a little preview of this thrill ride about a month after my heart surgery....(I can't recommend it in good conscience). It feels just like a stroke (to the uninitiated) and carries all the same fear, without the brain damage. Good times. There is nothing like a karmic bitch slap to get you back into a "live in the now" mentality. They say the numbness will go away in one to five days. The only upside is, I never went into to full blown "oh shit I'm going to die" mode.

Some things you don't want to get good at, and this was in that category. See ya out there when my arm wakes up.

W.B.Z.N.

Thursdays Child

2011-04-17T20:52:00.006-04:00

I am working on something that I may or may not post. A romantic look back at a period of my youth that introduced me to tragedy. It could go over like a fart in church so like my riding, I will have to take it easy till my mojo returns.

On the riding front, I have been doing a lot of it and mostly badly. One week ago today I crashed on a leafy corner at Tom Brown. I went into the corner too hot, braked (broke?) badly and went down hard on my left side. I jacked up my shoulder, hip and ribs. Since then I have started over. I had the squeaky brake rotor replaced, put on some tires with more knobs. I spent the next week riding slowly and thinking of things I haven't in years. I went out and rode sections with LWB over and over, till I knew exactly where the lines were. It has revitalized my way of thinking. We frequently go out and ride things several times now. It is a good exercise, I highly recommend it.

Thursday, I joined the Worm on "Joe's" road ride. I was sweating it like a race. All day long I looked for great reasons to get out of it, but dammit, it was the big mans birthday. Like always he sensed my nervousness, got me on his wheel and pulled me to safety on the sprint. After that I felt loose and more confident. It turned out to be the ride that broke my bad streak. I didn't want to do the ride and it was exactly what I needed.

Try new stuff. Hang in there when it sucks. Sooner or later all slumps end.

W.B.Z.N.

Grace

2011-04-03T18:06:00.006-04:00

Bicycles are delicate things. Even the ones made for rough terrain, need constant attention and upkeep. They are fine tuned and expensive and like old cars, they rarely run right. If you love them you learn to deal with the knocks and creeks.

There are many different types of cyclists but my favorite type is the ignoring kind. They ride in the rain. They ride if their clothes are dirty. Their bikes rarely work well but they never seem to mind. They are more likely to wear non cycling material because they don't care what you think.

Then there is my group. This group hears everything. The group that worries about failing parts. We see every little thing the bike is doing and we can't ignore it. We look at the weather. We make sure all the laundry is done. We arrive early.

I am not the same cyclist I once was. I have been reminded what I felt like when I first started. The sounds of the woods. The wind. That feeling of being anxious to get out there. My fitness is at an all time low and I hate to hold up rides, but even when I am riding terribly, I am glad to be there.

I am starting to think the rough days are the best. I am starting to see that the days you ride really well are rare, and unless you enjoy the tough time, the good time has no meaning.

I will be able to stay on group rides soon, but if I go off the back, don't worry. I am just earning my reward.

W.B.Z.N.

mAN iN tHE mIRROR

2011-03-31T13:09:00.001-04:00

W.B.Z.N.

Out Of Nothing

2011-03-23T00:27:00.016-04:00

I forgot to take my meds tonight, so sleep eludes. Nothing is troubling me, I have no complaints (other than the one and only log that was removed from Munson). When I lay down and start thinking of emails I want to write, or things I shouldn't have said, its the same as seeing a "check oil" light on your dash. Oh ya the pills, I forgot them again.

My life has been full of firsts since my stroke. It started when I ran across Park Ave to avoid on coming maniacs. The thought clicked that it was the first time I had run since the "incident". After that I started noticing all kinds of firsts and this gave me comfort and gratitude. It is better if you log a first after doing it subconsciously. Recognising a first (before you do it) adds a little more weight. The firsts are still coming: First ride from the house to the trail. First ride by myself. First Vineyard Loop. I hope to one day stumble through life again, without logging little hurdles, but I doubt it will happen.

There have been some great "lasts" as well. My last call from the great people at Shands. My last dose of coumadin. My last blood test. My last visit to the cardiologist. All little reminders that the bad weather has past and the soldiering on has begun.

I think I got more out of this test than I bargained for. Not all of it good, not all of it bad, none of it as revelatory as I had hoped. If I have learned anything it isn't something I can put into words. It is not something I can take credit for. If it has changed me is it a subtle thing that I can not detect. Maybe it will aid in my evolution later, like some latent virus that I need for stronger immunity. All I can say is this: some things that used to be a big concern, are not registering on my radar. Some things that weren't on my radar, now beep back like the voice of God. I rarely feel urgency, unless I am preparing gear for a ride.

Maybe there is a message after all.

W.B.Z.N.

Hello

2011-03-19T16:00:00.002-04:00

MICROPHONE CHECK?

W.B.Z.N.

Mysterious Ways

2011-02-21T13:42:00.020-05:00

I am on the verge of surfacing from my third baptism, no wiser than I was on my first.

When I was six, I fell asleep on a kick board in a pool, in St. Mary's Pennsylvania. My Uncle Tom, had just been fitted for a suit. He was walking towards the pool with a priest, when I woke up on the bottom. I pushed for the surface and tried to yell for help. My lungs filled with chlorinated water and I drowned. He jumped in, pulled me out and resuscitated me. I woke up to see a priest, my uncle and my parents looking down at me.

I used to surf at a place called, "The Power Plant". It was deserted most days my friend Rob and I surfed there. On a huge day in November, we paddled out, side by side. We were almost out, when a huge set came through. Rob squeaked by, but I took the whole set on the head and lost my board. I was stuck in the rip and couldn't make any progress. When the next set drove me to the bottom, I heard a voice clearly say: "this is it". I got pushed in by a wave, and ended up in shallow water.

I wonder what it is I am supposed to learn? I don't feel like I live in a fog. I have lost enough to know that nothing should be taken for granted. (Deity of choice) knows I could be a better person, but I have done a lot of good in this life too. The only thing I really know is that for the first time in my life, I know fear. The fear that comes with realizing nothing can keep you safe. The blinders are off.

I am a week away from a date I have been watching for six months. I am at the gate of a mythical goal that I hoped would find me feeling different. I had hoped to feel like my debt was paid and that my sins were erased. I wanted to feel reborn. Every time this happens on T.V. or in a book, there is a message.

All the great currencies of a life; love, health, passion, (insert more here) are limited. It is easy to miss the point. Pay attention, it's happening right now.

W.B.Z.N.

I Write The Book

2011-02-18T15:44:00.003-05:00

It ain't pretty, but it got me through.

So close I can taste dirt.

W.B.Z.N.

Ready Or Not

2011-02-09T09:32:00.015-05:00

It is an unfortunate side effect of life that you will have things you don't want to face. People, situations, places, sad reminders of how we wish things could be. The "what if list" that you reveal to no one. The job you wish you had. The falling out between friends or family that never really gets resolved. The things that are never said to the ones we love.

Most days you never think of them. Then a certain song pops up. The email arrives. You hear about them third hand. You turn a corner and you are face to face with an old issue that you didn't even realize was still festering in your subconscious.

The last band I managed had a lot of potential. The singer is a very talented kid with a tough history. The type of person that has enough scars to make good art. He and I were always fine, but I could never get on the same page as his band. Ultimately they had more pull with him than I, and we parted. You cannot help people that don't trust you so trying to build a bridge is futile. Like so many other characters of my bio, they drifted away. They signed to a label and are about to release their record. They are on a few mag covers and on all the cool kid web sites. They are heading out to do Warped Tour in a few weeks.

At the new ultra hipster gas station themed bar (that I am not cool enough to drink in, because I am not rocking enough beard or kissing my male friends on the lips, as a joke) I ran into the boys from the band. They were dressed to kill, with a photographer in tow. It was all smiles as we chatted. They filled me in on all the cool stuff they are doing. I hugged the singer. I wished them luck. I was fine. Once free of the DMZ, I felt an old familiar sting, residual emotion reserved for ex lovers, and arch rivals. I was charged up for battle and had no foe to vanquish so naturally ...I attacked myself.

It's funny. Even if I could step back into Ari Golds shoes, I am sure I wouldn't. Still, I am left staring into the fun house mirror. This weird feeling will go away ....RIGHT?

w.b.z.n.

2011-02-07T17:28:00.001-05:00

Troublemaker

2011-02-04T13:43:00.002-05:00

Three more weeks......awesome.

W.B.Z.N.

Redemption Song

2011-02-01T20:07:00.004-05:00

My heart is healed. No evidence of clotting issues. No evidence of protein deficiency.

I have been a good inmate. Give me the envelope with my shit in it and open the fucking gate.

W.B.Z.N.

uNDER cONTROL

2011-01-10T07:55:00.001-05:00

Sometimes you just have to marvel at how talented your kids are.

W.B.Z.N.

Just Take Your Medicine

2011-01-03T21:44:00.016-05:00

Eight more boxes and then I am free....or not. It's a cliffhanger. Believe me when I say, I am really looking forward to the finale. I hope I have a role for the spring riding season.

I'm gonna give my shoulder a test drive tomorrow. I injured it swimming and have been out of the pool for a few weeks. It doesn't hurt, but I am aware there is weirdness. If it hurts, I plan to ramp up the walks and trainer, which I have also abandoned, in this latest crisis of faith.

Getting off the thinners is the goal, and brings with it a certain amount of anxiety. I have to wait a month and get re-tested for blood issues. Thinners suck, you can't ride mountain bikes on them, but they keep you from having strokes. Getting off would be great, provided I am healthy. During that month, I will feel like I am looking for a gas leak with a lighter.

Like all things scary, the concept is usually worse than the reality. The waiting is the hardest part. I have figured out how to navigate my little routine here at Shawshank. I always dreamed of getting out, but now I am afraid to leave.

At the very least I will get to do some riding for that month. Light, non technical, less radical riding than I would like, but riding none the less. I will use my furlough well. I promise.

W.B.Z.N.

Love You Like A Ball and Chain

2010-12-31T14:51:00.005-05:00

I am not really going to write until this God forsaken year is in the books. 2010 can go smoke rope, for all I care. I have but two meager resolutions:
1. I promise not to imagine what a persons head would look like on a spike after they say to me: "Maybe you should slow down".
2. To get on a bike in some capacity.

Happy New Year.... BASTARDS!!
See ya after the ball drops.

W.B.Z.N.

Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas

2010-12-24T21:16:00.002-05:00

W.B.Z.N.

Stockholm Syndrome

2010-11-28T21:38:00.006-05:00

It doesn't even hurt anymore. I can see bikes on cars, read Facebook status reports, blogs, crew emails about awesome rides, heck I even drove by Tom Brown and didn't cuss or punch my steering wheel.

I am just like those bad dogs Cesar Millan fixes. He gets em on the leash and they go nuts, for a little while. He stands there like a stone wall, and waits. Eventually they respond to his every "CHISSH!" like good little domesticated bitches (if they are female dogs). All that fire goes away and they break to the leash, and embrace the collar.

Just the other day, I remarked on what a nice bike a guy had. Boy he sure looked fast. I just attained the 170lb mark, the very same weight that caused the massive pre-stroke, diet and exercise frenzy. It's cool, I need the extra insulation for the winter. By the way: I recently found out your house and yard look good if you do stuff to them. Life is just SWELL! The trainer? Rode it twice last week. Walking? I did that too (a couple times). Swimming? Sticking with it, though you'd never know by looking at my waistline, it's expanding like the universe.

Go ahead and ride you BASTARDS! See if I give a levitating, steaming heap!

W.B.Z.N.

Time The Avenger

2010-11-22T08:47:00.010-05:00

For some reason I thought I was a lot closer to the day I could ride again. As I filled in my calender, to keep track of the yards per week I am swimming, I noticed an abundance of weeks. I was off by about five weeks. I have thirteen more to go (before getting off the demon coumadin) and fourteen before I can ride.

I am gaining weight. About ten pounds since the meteor hit my medulla oblongata. I am riding the trainer. I am walking. I am doing these things nearly every night. My goal was to ride the trainer the same amount of time I am swimming (about five hours a week). The total would give me ten hours of vigorous work out. I also walk about eight hours a week with my wife and still the weight is packing on. It has been three months today since my "event" and I have three months, one week to go before I can ride.

For some reason I am not mentally beaten up anymore. Being pissed off and bitter is a tiresome enterprise (even for a career pro like me). So I guess I finally wore myself out, and moved forward with out realizing it. My friends and family have been holding me up, like a hipster in a mosh pit. It's kind of hard to be bummed, when you are surrounded by good people.

I had a great time time watching the cyclocross race this weekend. Nothing is more fun than yelling like a soccer hooligan, at guys running up stairs, carrying bicycles. It all felt like "Lord of the Flies" and it was damn therapeutic. The fun stopped at 5:00 a.m. this morning. The reset button takes no prisoners. I usually swim 2000 yards. I was about to quit at 1500 when I got to the wall, looked up and realized I was in lane #5. Like an echo from the angry mob and the cross race, I heard the voices yell:

"Rule #5! Harden the F#*+ UP!!!!!"

It is very hard to laugh and swim at the same time.

W.B.Z.N.

Here

2010-11-09T07:31:00.010-05:00

After an hour of sick babies that can't be consoled, I put on my head phones. My wife smiles knowingly, she wondered when I would crack. She has the patience of a saint. Dylan, a down syndrome boy, has found a ball. I wish with all my blessings, that I could be that happy about anything. He cajoles the Latin boy with the heart transplant, into a game of catch. Soon the game is completely out of control and people in the waiting room are taking shots to the head and body. It would be annoying if Dylan wasn't so happy. The ball rolls to the twenty year old guy, with a horse shoe shaped scar on his shaved head. He looks like he just won the lotto. His smile turns on and he holds out the ball for Dylan. Dylan whoops with excitement and runs to the kid with the scar. He climbs in his lap and hugs him with all the strength of his ten year old arms. Everyone in the room is watching and smiling, except Dylan's parents. They are exhausted and worried.

A group of guys that look like gang extras from an inner city docudrama, are playing cards. They seem like thugs until one speaks to another about how well he is learning the game. The meanest looking one of them all, has the kindest voice in the room. He starts to deal the cards and they all pick up their hands. The ball hits in the middle of the table and the cards are dispersed. They all smile at Dylan, and resume play without talking.

A guy two seats over is about my age and I ask if he had a P.F.O. We exchange stories and figure out we are both cyclists. He had his stroke in July, mine was in August. We had our heart surgery the same week. We talk about cycling and how much it means to us. He's getting off coumadin in a few weeks. I am jealous. I won't be off for four months, all because of a condition, I do not have. One misdiagnosis, cost me a whole season. Jeff and I talk like Nam vets and exchange info. He invites me to come ride in Tampa, when I get off thinners. He admits he is riding against doctors orders, because he just couldn't take it anymore. Thirty to forty miles a week on the road is keeping him sane for now, but he really misses his mountain bike. I nod and feel like someone gets it for the first time in months.

Dylan goes back into the examining room and drags out a doctor. He lifts his shirt and motions for the Doctor to listen to his heart. The doctor plays along and tells him his heart sounds great. Dylan walks over to a man and starts trying to open his shirt. He wants the doctor to listen to his heart too. The room erupts with laughter. It is obvious to all of us, Dylan is an angel. A new kid comes in a wheel chair. Dylan runs full speed at him and his mother barley catches him, before he crashes into the kid. Dylan smiles and tries to hug him but the boy in the chair is very small and frail. His mother takes Dylan's hand and gently touches the other boy who smiles back. The heart transplant boy is on top of a counter. Dylan sees him and rushes off to the rescue.

I am the first one to the pool this morning. The fog swirls around the surface like dancers in Swan Lake. It's cold and I am tired. There are fifteen hundred yards in between me and self respect. The girl in the life guard stand is huddled up in a ball and she has no shoes. The old guy in the next lane laps me, as I count down the yards.

I wonder how Dylan is doing.

W.B.Z.N.

Aloha! Aloha! Aloha!

2010-11-04T08:00:00.004-04:00

R.I.P. Andy Irons.

W.B.Z.N.

God Only Knows

2010-10-26T19:14:00.007-04:00

The preliminary news is good. I do NOT have the C and S protein deficiency that causes my blood to clot abnormally. I have to stay on thinners for a while longer. After a period of time (three to six months) to be determined by my doctors, I will come off the thinners and get re-tested.

The hematologist wants to check for one more antibody level in my blood and then he feels there is a "good chance" that I will get off thinners. Which could (theoretically) lead to me being able to ride bikes again. It is still a little too soon to take a victory lap.

I am very relieved to find I (most likely) do not have the protein deficiency. That would be a burden for life.

Thanks to all for the calls, texts, emails, blog comments and Facebook posts. It's awesome to go into the ring, with a mob behind you for back up.

I will post more news as my Docs give it to me, change it, re access it, then abandon it altogether, and go with the thing they said before.

Love to you all!

W.B.Z.N.A.B.

The Last One

2010-10-25T12:10:00.009-04:00

I have had days where it was all I could do to breath. After having something called a; hemipelagic migraine a few weeks ago (which feels exactly like a stroke) my whole process of doctors, MRI's, blood tests (and most of all) fear restarted. I cut myself off from all my friends. I stopped answering my phone. I struggled though work and my kids activities. I waited for the next attack. I rarely left home, except to walk with my wife.

Once I knew the MRI showed no damage, and I was told it was a migraine, there was finally a feeling of relief. I slowly came out of the cave.

My friends were relentless and refused to let me become a recluse. Last weekend a group of the worlds best and most compassionate cycling community, organized a dinner for me. I felt rejuvenated and normal and I heard myself and others laugh again. Medicine from the gods. I rarely ever stop talking, but I must admit, I am at a loss to describe what the support I have received, has meant. I am sure I would have been swallowed by darkness had it not been for all my two wheeled family. Thank you all, a million times. Sandi and Karen were so kind to do all the inviting and organizing, thanks you two.

So now I stand on the eve of the verdict. Tomorrow I find out (hopefully, there may be more testing) if I will remain on blood thinners for the rest of my life or if I have other options. To remain on thinners would spell an end to my cycling life. It is simply to big a risk to continue. What would be a mild bump or bruise for normal folks, would be a life threatening bleed for me.

Tomorrow I see the Hematologist, find out what my hyper coagulating blood is doing, and receive my sentence. I know I am being melodramatic. I know there are worse fates than not being able to ride. I also know that anyone that rides and loves it as much as I, feels my pain. I know I am going to survive and I have had more than my share of adventure, but I had really hoped to ride for the rest of my life. I had hoped (Deity of choice) would reward a life lived healthy, and to the fullest. I am reminded that Karma is not a reward or a punishment, it just simply.....is.

Call the angels! I'm going in!

W.B.Z.N.

Inside

2010-10-12T11:24:00.010-04:00

Wondering what surprises the new day brings

all around the season sings

but not for me

Try to see the good in each day
try to forget nothing is the same
I hear the wind in tree's

Leveled out and maintained
hand grenades inside my brain
broken picture that looks okay

don't be afraid

make a joke escape the talk
get off the couch and try to walk

waking dream outlined in chalk

don't be afraid

waiting around for the next attack
try to sleep in a burning rack
my blood is filled with broken glass

I forget and start to laugh
and the demons pulls me back
the leaves are falling the sun arch's past

don't be afraid

You Better, You Better You Bet

2010-09-23T13:29:00.003-04:00

Even in my weakened state I can still make Big Worm my little bitch. I have had just about enough of the "piss" headers big man. I am home for the week so lets play games.

W.B.Z.N.

Sweet Tuesday Morning

2010-09-18T21:39:00.008-04:00

Heading down to see some Gators about a hole in my heart on Tuesday. If all goes well, I'll be home Wednesday, and hopefully (dare I think this far ahead?) back on a bike by mid/late November.

My wife's and my relationship is about to go to a new level of intimacy, as she is shooting drugs into my body. Boy the fun of having a heart issue and a stroke, just keeps getting better.

I have to say: I am thankful I have a job with really good benefits. I am thankful for the truly compassionate and quality heath care I have received. But jeez, I am worn down to the nub with all the blood giving, opinion getting, prescription filling, form writing, warning label reading, and "in the unlikely eventing" I have been doing. Like a new Mom in the ninth month, my fears have been replaced by an over whelming need to: "get it over with". Just to stay honest, I have managed to stay (a little) scared shitless.

So it is with true BC resolve that I roll balls out, no brakes, f#*^ it if I take a digger, towards this obstacle in my trail. Even if I leave some big ring teeth on it, I'm still gonna be stoked, if I am rolling on the other side.

See y'all at the start/finish. Save me a seat, a sausage dog, and a Fat Tire Ale.

W.B.Z.N.

My Brain is like a Sieve

2010-09-10T22:52:00.004-04:00

I remember when I first started riding with Big Worm, I used to complain so bad on the climbs, he would tell me jokes to distract me. Then one day he said:

"Just ride to the next tree"

"Then what?" I said.

"Ride to the next one after that." The big man said.

That's how this new thing with my noodle is going. One tree at a time. I am trying not to look up the hill but sometimes, my hyper Irish brain is not so smart. It likes to go a few more miles up the trail than it should. Lucky for me I have some really good friends, a really strong wife, and a family that drives me nuts, but is on twenty four hour call. All these things keep the chin up (if one has a chin).

Thanks to all for the help. It may be time to augment the moniker...

W.B.Z.N.A.N.
(lunch with the author for first correct guess)

The Shape Of A Heart

2010-09-03T00:54:00.013-04:00

I am nursing some pretty painful injuries. My hip still hurts from a crash in June at Santos. I bent my ring finger back on my left hand and had to bribe a guy in Lowe's to cut off my wedding band, with bolt cutters. My ring is at the jewellers being Steve Austined and my finger feels like a Bradfordville link sausage, left on the grill too long, by a cheerleaders fund raising Mom. My ring finger on my right hand, was jammed in a crash in February. It refuses to return to normal and remains stiff after many months. It was the crash, that rang in the great string of crashes, I suffered this year. Today I put my pointer finger in between my big ring and my chain, while lubing up before a ride. I went from three to twelve o clock, before I realized I was about to lop off the end of a digit, with french revolutionist professionalism.

Oh yeah! I had a stroke, and I am the proud owner of a heart defect, which by the way will be added to my career as a Artist Manager, my life as a musician, and my neck issues, as things that my friends and blog devotees will not tolerate in conversations or in this generic google layout. *Yes, I was trying to break my own record for longest run on sentence.*

I have a headache and can't take the meds that will fix it. I am waiting to get scheduled for heart surgery. I am taking rat poison to stop clotting and have been ordered to cut back on my one and only vice: Tea consumption.

I know what you are thinking: He complains, therefore he is back to normal. You would be wrong on level that would make the fabricators of the bible recoil in abject horror. I am a happy dude. I got a pass from my heart Doc, to ride today. My friend Big Jim set up an impromptu ride with some folks that I was pretty sure didn't dig me. They seemed happy to see me back in a Lycra shell. They laughed. They were patient with my long answers to easy questions. They were relaxed and rode behind me. They turned around and headed back with me, when they really wanted to continue on at a pace they were used to. Not one warm gesture or expression was lost on me. I noticed every subtle act of kindness and tried with all my being to deserve it.

I have been showered with support and good wishes. I have had people from the local cycling community, familiar faces that I thought had no idea who I was, inquire for news from my beloved crew. I have had people from my past seek me out, that I have not spoken to in thirty years after hearing about my "event". My close friends and crew all went above and beyond, as I rambled through my emotional storm. Believe me when I say, I view myself as a general nuisance that no one would shed a tear over. So these kind thoughts, prayer circle's, Madonna candles, text messages, signed cards, and emails, not only caught me by surprise but literally would not let me be anything but positive and hopeful. It was simply too much good mojo to fight. I can't take any credit for getting better and/or lucky with the recent hurdle. I was willed over by friends, family, and most of all my wife.

My hands will heal. My hip will loosen up. My heart will be patched by a surgical magician. All these things will pass, but I promise you I will never forget what has happened. Not the stroke, but all the cool people that reached out to me, and held my sorry ass up when I wavered.

Thank you, I am undeserving, but grateful.

Now lets talk about something amazing and basic: I rode my bike at Fern, Tom Brown, and Cadillac today. It was grand. The pace was slow and the woods were filled with conversation about light wheels, 29'ers and future endurance events. I jammed the same finger that I got stuck in the chain, into a tree. It is a throbbing balloon animal of pain.....I couldn't be happier.

W.B.Z.N.

Heartbreaker or Stroke Me (you pick I'm tired)

2010-08-24T07:42:00.022-04:00

I had just come off the hardest week off exercise I had ever done. Ten thousand yards in the pool, and a little over a hundred miles on my mountain bike, all in five days. I felt great. I was down twelve pounds in eight weeks. For the first time in years, I felt like I was on a mission.

Saturday morning was great. I had slept in for the first time that week. It was awesome not to be up at five A.M. I needed twenty miles and a couple hours on the bike to make my goal. I struggled through the big east loop and eased up the last two hills to my house. I needed to take my car to Darien, so he could check out my front end, so I just got under the hose, toweled off and threw some clothes on to get out the door as soon as possible. My wife and I have been shopping for a new car for her and had pretty much decided on a new Subaru Forrester. The IMBA discount made the deal really good and we just needed to see if they could get her a car with the options she wanted. I raced across town, to meet her at the dealership. We drove a car, made a deal and I was going to take LWB to the music store, to get some drum stuff for school.

I was hot, hungry and really thirsty. I was thinking I should get a Gator Aid, as I opened the car to get in. My phone rang and it was my brother Chris. Our entire gaggle of siblings was coming to town to celebrate the opening of his new restaurant downtown called "The Avenue". As we were talking my tongue began to feel like it was on Novocaine and then my lip felt funny. I told my son something was wrong and that my lip felt swollen. He thought I was having an allergic reaction, so he started looking for my inhaler. As I looked down at my console, my right arm checked out and my hand dropped the phone. My face began to droop and as I told my son to "call Momma" the words came out all garbled. Luckily Michelle had not made it out of the dealership parking lot due to traffic, and was there within seconds. When she arrived and looked in the car, I told her I was having a stroke and to call an ambulance. I can't explain it, but I just knew it was a stroke. I figured it was triggered by dehydration, but I knew it was a stroke.

The fire truck and ambulance came and I was getting really embarrassed. A couple of the Subaru guys are cyclists and all I could think about was that everyone would find out. The EMT's tested my reflexes and my concerns became focused on my son, who now looked a little frantic. They were asking him questions about what happened and I could hear him, my wife and the EMT all talking in a swirl of words and confusion. I was really afraid that when I got out of the car, I would fall down and I couldn't bear the thought of my son seeing that, so I grabbed the EMT's arm and whispered to him:

"Please, no matter what happens, don't let me fall in front of my boy."

I guess I had that intensity (that people accuse me of) because for some reason the guy looked a little scared and said:

"Okay, okay, don't worry we'll get ya."

They loaded me up into the meat wagon and started the EKG and an IV, and did some more reflex tests.

You can always tell when you are in deep shit at the emergency room, because they take you right in. They wheeled me in to an ER nurse, and with in a couple seconds a doctor appeared and ordered a CT scan. The next few hours were a blur of tests: MRI, sonograms of my carotid arteries, another MRI, of my neck and head, sonogram of my femoral arteries, and numerous visits from nurses, doctors and something called a "Hospitalist" which near as I can figure, is a man or woman that has an Indian accent so thick, they aren't aloud to do real doctoring, and to prove they are incapable, they don't really seem to be familiar with your case. They just stop by like a retail sales manager to make sure your "Stroke Experience" was all you hoped it would be. I fully expected one of them to give me a survey card. It never happened.

The first night they put some inflatable stockings on me to keep me from having another stroke, but I was pretty sure they just didn't want me walking around and asking questions any more. I also had a portable vital signs thing that I had to carry around. All this makes sleeping a real endurance sport. That's what the Xanax is for I guess, that's good stuff.

All my tests were negative, my cholesterol was 147, and all my other blood chemistry was perfect. My arteries, heart, and pulmonary system were all fine. Everyone was baffled. When my Neurologist found the stroke damage on my MRI, I was really disappointed. I was really hoping that another disc in my neck was screwed up. No suck luck.

Sunday, they did a procedure where they numb your throat, give you some happy juice and stick some echo thing down your gullet. I gotta say; of all the thrill rides I went on this weekend this one, had the highest pucker factor. It turns out that I have a heart defect called: Patent Foramen Ovale Defect. When I was born the two sides of my heart did not heal, so blood sometimes leaks into the wrong side of my heart. This allowed a small clot (that normally would have been filtered by my lungs) to get past security and go straight to my brain. The little BASTARD! then did damage in three separate areas before it went (Deity of choice) knows where. They are going to go up though my thigh and repair the defect (much like they do to install stints). That little joy ride will happen soon.

I had another CT with a dye solution (I don't recommend it) to make sure my lungs weren't showing any signs of clotting and then we waited for the neurologist to read them for a few hours. He came in to see us (on his day off) and got in my face a little, because he didn't feel like I had a realistic grasp on my situation. He sort of backed up the hearse and let me smell the roses until he was sure I would do what he told me, and then at 9:30 they let me come home.

I have some issues with my middle, ring, and pinkie finger on my right hand. They work but feel like the messages are getting delayed from my brain. My right arm works but has some delay issues as well. No one seems to notice it but me, but my speech takes a little more concentration than before. It is usually worse when I first wake up or when I am tired. The experts tell me both are normal.

Good stuff: I never lost consciousness or any memory. I didn't lose any vision. I have way more movement in my hands than most after a stroke. I can play drums a little (this was a big worry). I can hold handlebars and work shifters and brakes. I can also do a wheelie (though I will NEVER admit how I found this out).

I am determined not to take myself and my family to that dark place I went after my neck issues. I am hopeful and positive about recovery, even if it does not go the way I want it to. For now I just want to make it through my heart procedure with out complications and do what the Doc's tell me (within reason). The staff at TCH was very good to me as well as the Fire rescue guys (if anyone knows the guys in the pics please let me know who they are). The guys at the Subaru dealership could not have been better. If you know any of them, please thank them for me. I am very thankful to be alive and alert. Everything else will reveal itself in the future. My wife was an absolute rock through this whole ordeal as was my boy LWB (for calling Mom and alerting the Subaru guys). My oldest boy, future hopeful med student, diagnosed me well before the doctors. He watches "House" and "Mystery Diagnosis" and he was never worried. Smart like his Mom that one.

Thanks to all, for the love and positive thoughts. I promise I will be pissing you all off again in no time.

Love,

W.B.Z.N.

C'mon C'mon

2010-08-04T10:35:00.010-04:00

I am always a little amused when people make declarations of love. Some people need to "declare" love for spouses and children, or to proclaim their need to "spend time" with a spouse, or family member. I find the behavior odd, like saying you need to breath or eat. It always seemed to me that it was a given and the people that made the least of these declarations, had the most stable lives and relationships. I find it equally odd when people pretend that their families or friends don't annoy them, or that they don't need breaks from said folks. My point is, relationships are weird. We love people that drive us nuts. We need to be around our family and sometimes it is healthy for us to be alone.

I have been riding with my son quite a bit over the last few months. It is a little tougher being a bike Dad. It is twice as hard to get ready. There are twice as many mechanical issues, it is twice as expensive. Instead of only having to motivate yourself, you must now be a host to a little person that (most of the time) doesn't know what he is feeling, why he is feeling it, or how to deal with all the residual energy those feelings cause. Like most things I have been passionate about, the perfect days are few, but they occur just enough to keep you to keep you on the hook. When they do happen, there is nothing better.

The downside to this is; I don't get to ride with my friends as much. It wasn't bad in the beginning because LWB could only ride a couple days week, and most days, those rides were short. I could do an easy ride with him, then set out on my own, or catch the group ride later. LWB is getting pretty fit and he has grown (literally) a lot this year. He has become a stronger more experienced rider and he is able to do longer tougher rides than ever before. This has stretched the time between crew rides more and more. It was always the goal for him to be a rider capable of being on the crew rides. When he rides with us, I feel bad inflicting my language and subject filters on the crew. They did not decide to have a kid and it is not their fault he isn't old enough to talk about the various attributes of female runners body parts, or how drunk someone got the night before, or any other adult, politically incorrect subjects that make rides with the boys such great escapes from real life. I live in constant fear that they will recount some tale of my past exploits that my boy is not ready to process. When you factor in that the crew is filled with mythical people he has been hearing stories about for years, and that he so badly wants to be around the riders he idolizes, the balancing act is delicate.

The rare rides I get to be on with (adult only) crew have created another weird side affect: I am way too stoked and I want all those rides to be perfect. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and completely unrealistic. Given enough time (and Irish heritage) allows me to completely edit out all the bad footage and only run the highlight reel, over and over. I show up on adult only rides thinking they are all going to be technically great, super funny and that everyone is as stoked as me. This usually leads to disappointment. I forget that they ride together all the time, they are in bad moods, and that they don't want to recant every detail from all the time since we last rode together. I am also slower, from adjusting my riding style for the grommet and the large number of beginner/junior rides we attend. So on top of getting my feelings hurt, I usually get a good ass kicking to go with my reality check.

When I ride with my son a little part of me is pissed I am not riding harder or with the crew. When I ride with the crew, I miss my boy and I am reminded of slow I am. All in all, I am a lucky dude. I am lucky to have friends. I am lucky to have a kid that rides well. I have even enjoyed riding with some new folks I have met on the Mingo group rides. As with all things, these issues will stabilize without any input from me. Change is hard, and constant.

I'll see you on the trails (eventually).

W.B.Z.N.

Different Strings

2010-07-17T00:17:00.005-04:00

I suppose it is the ungrateful of me to expect great times to last forever. People and times change. It is the only thing you can depend on remaining constant. Eventually agendas diverge and everyone must do what is right for them. I must do the same for myself. I must forgive those on paths different than mine and I must not be so naive to expect forgiveness in return.

There are a lot of trails out there. After a great trip with my son last week, I had a revelation: Monotony is something you do not have to accept. Adventure and diversity is just a car ride and a few hours away. There is more to life than trying to make the same old shit seem interesting. I am tired of being on everyone else's ride. I want to be on MY ride for a change.

This much I know: nothing bicycle related brings me more joy than watching my son ride. Even when I am gripped with fear, watching him roll into and out of lines I am afraid to ride. I have waited forever to get to this point with him. I will not be denied that pleasure by anyone or anything. It is a fleeting chapter, and in a blink he will be faster than me, off at college, riding with his friends, or off the bike and onto something else. I can't apologize for enjoying what I deserve. I have missed too much in the past, and I would like to have this one thing I managed not to mess up.

So if I seem distant, or uncooperative, please give me a pass. I don't mean to offend anyone. I am just doing the right thing and it makes me happy.

W.B.Z.N.

The Weary Kind

2010-06-14T15:57:00.011-04:00

The chair was old as was the rug his feet rested on. They were nestled in warm frayed socks and separated from the floor by slippers. He was surrounded by old things, books and wood. A study was a fixture in his life as it was in his father's before him. He grew up knowing that men had studies. Places to go and think and read and retreat. All his life he had fussed over it, cleaned it, and arranged the mementos of his life. The things he was most proud of were placed in areas of prestige to catch the eyes of those that entered. But no one really ever picked up on the smoke signals he sent. The things that were to hard to say. The hidden codes in all he did, hoping someone would decipher and understand the struggles, hopes and sins.

He regarded his own hand resting motionless on the chair arm. It sat as if waiting for a command that would never come. If the eyes are the window to the soul, his hands were the journal of his life. A map of everything he had done, all his sweetest and bitter moments were carved into those hands. They began aching in his twenties he was fond of saying he was a living barometer. No cold front or rain storm could catch him unaware, for the ache in his hands announced their intent long before they arrived. He thought it was peculiar how the fingers curled upward and as if they had been molded around an invisible tool. Was it a stick, a handlebar, the rail of a surfboard, or the body of a pen? They were bent by a life of effort, futile and productive. He sent all those notes out into the world. He hit the drums a million times on stage and in the dark quiet of practice. Did any of the arrows hit a target? Had anyone heard? He had written secretly his entire life. Journals of all the places he had played. There were boxes of lyrics, stories, and love letters. Desperate poetry and pleading testimonials to the ones who turned away or were pushed out of sight by fate. He wished he had sent them. Those fears seemed so silly now. If nothing was meant to come from the failures of love, he would have been comforted by the knowledge they knew how he felt, in their time. He closed his fingers and opened them again just to make sure he could. He thought of all that delicate skin, covered in chill bumps that rose to meet his fingers. He closed his eyes. The whispers and moans, and the kaleidoscope of faces, each one marking a period of growth and a loss that would never be understood. Each was frozen in his mind. Some were girls, some were young ladies, and then there was the woman. She had watched over his hands for years rubbing the pains out. She had bandaged them, and lifted them in and out of slings. She put a ring on one and placed two boys in them. She stood by as they hit walls, the faces of real and imagined foes and as they were wrung together in the dark hours.

There were photos on the shelves, ancient outdated things printed on paper. The boys were in his hands and then their shoulders were under them and their hands became the hands of men. They were shaken as partners, friends and equals. Then they waved goodbye, opened doors for short visits and patted the heads of their little ones. Now his hands waited for something, whatever was next. He panned the room he once longed to spend relaxing time in alone. All those years he spent busy and rushing from one thing to the next, trying to make a mark, betrayed him now. He had always just wanted to have a few quiet moments, and now they were closing in to swallow him. All that time gone forever like water through his beaten hands.

He dreamed of propelling his young body through the water of his youth. That turbulent hissing brew that scared and compelled him. The foaming soup that he was as comfortable in as his own bed. His mind failed in menial details of his life, bills to pay, pills to take, but he remembered with gleaming clarity, certain days with his brothers and friends. The green rolling countryside of the Laniakea, and the vibrating translucent water. The rolling foil that passed over head as he ducked to escape the power. A turtle swimming beside him. The comfort of the jetty and his home break. He reached out as if he could touch them, those precious lucid scenes that rolled out before him. He enacted a primal motor response to the visions of the past. He opened his eyes to the room and the amber light that awaited his return to the present, with the patience of a jailer.

There was a picture of his friends and him, standing on an old trail, long gone and forgotten. It was just a day and a ride like countless others they had. They ripped through them like scrap paper and tap water never knowing that with each passing day they were running out. What was a mundane event, was now a rare jewel, priceless and sold cheap, before the real value was known. He held the wood frame. The crew was there. His boy was there, as was his friend. He wished he could go back and tell them how fleeting the special rides were. His mouth lifted at the corners and he tapped the frame. He lifted it back to the shelf.

The things he remembered most were the little things. The light hitting his wife's face, the boys attacking him in the hall. That great Thanksgiving swell. His sons getting their first waves. His friends yelling in the woods. Night rides and dancing beams of light in front and behind. The things that had no photos to mark their occurrence, were all the most vivid and played out in the wooden room like a movie on the walls of his eyes.

Those hands had served him well. The aches and scars were monuments to all the adventures brilliant and ill conceived, both looked back on now with equal reverence. He wouldn't change a line or a wound. He twisted the blanket around his arms and hands to fight the cold ache. He nodded off to visit those magic flecks of light. Those liquid drops of days, that trickled between his fingers and flowed away, down to the streams and rivers into the ocean, never to be seen again. He twitched in his sleep as he rose to catch waves again, tried to take a dirt corner too fast, or to reach for the woman and the children in that mirage. In these rare dreams he was the man he once was. The cold couldn't touch him and the darkness lost it's grip. He was playing. He was a singing. He was a riding. He was with his friends and family. It was all as it should be, and he slept forever in the warmth of his loves and life.

W.B.Z.N.

Help

2010-06-11T01:40:00.003-04:00

Caught in the grip of obsession and indecision.

W.B.Z.N.

Putting On The Ritz

2010-05-28T08:10:00.007-04:00

It's funny when deprived of something, how you can convince yourself you hate it. I have used this technique to recover from disbanded bands, one sided romances and jobs I've been asked to leave. Since Shimano is never going to make a Dura Ace C1-7 neck gruppo and my stock parts are getting squeaky, I decided road riding sucked. It was a little easier to take the denial route. Oh sure, I made a half hearted effort to run a higher stem with drops. The bike handled like a Yugo with a V-8. Then Big Worm took the bike to the lab, and Frankensteined that biotch. He gave it back to me with flat bars, rapid fire shifters and bar ends. The results looked cool, but the bike got real scary over twenty mph. It danced like Peter Boyle and people moved away from me like I was an escaped mental patient.

I gave up. After my extended recliner engagement a few years ago, I made deals with (Deity of Choice) faster than a Hummer salesman. Could I just ride a recumbent a few times a week? Could I maybe ride my MTB on the side walk? People heal and forget all those desperate hours, but I never will. I figured (Deity of choice) took my road bike, for the same reason he closed The Mill, took Northern Exposure of the air, and ended my tenure as a bush league manager of a one hit wonder; because he/she/it/wave/particle couldn't let mortals have it all. You can either bitch and moan or push the rock up the hill. The blood of my beloved Raleigh was dripping off the alter and the Mayans where playing soccer with its head. I had to ride the MTB and move on.

A funny thing kept happening: I would try friends road bikes and I noticed the longer ones (even with low stems) felt good. As a last ditch effort (and to make the rig sellable if all failed) The Large Segmented Night Crawler, put a longer stem on the Blue Bomber. I have done two Joe's rides with an acceptable amount of discomfort. It happened just in the nick too. Even though our trails are getting better by the minute, it was a wee bit monotonous doing the MTB thing. You can only pretend you are "Ricky the Cabana Boy" so many times before the novelty wears off. Eventually you are the same dweeb you've been for years, wearing some stupid white shorts. When that happens, the smell of cocoa butter is not so sweet. Every so often the venue must change, or the gig starts to stink like old fish.

The two Joe's rides I have done where the best rides of the year. You couldn't pry the smirk off my face with a crow bar. I will never be a smart rider in the peloton (my panicked stint at the front last night is proof). If I ever do anything cool on a road bike it is purely motivated by fear and nerves. I am the biggest dork that ever rode Joe's. I promise you I am cutting up, sprinting for yellow signs, and having more fun than anyone out there, and that makes me the winner.

Here's hoping (Deity of choice) doesn't send a group of Transylvanian rednecks up the hill with torches.

W.B.Z.N.

Wishing

2010-05-26T10:55:00.002-04:00

Seven A.M. at Poles. Setting launch code for F-Bomb. Stand by.....

W.B.Z.N.

No More Drama

2010-05-17T22:02:00.016-04:00

Dare I say it? I have had a tame few days. I enjoyed a long ride on Saturday, and it was long over due. I experienced the peace that only exhaustion can give me. It was my first big week of miles, since before the trip to N.C.. It feels good to get off the porch.

Bump and Grind looms on the horizon, like an enemy ship, blocking the sun. I am not ready for a lap of Oak Mountain, much less the new longer lap. I am not throwing my hat into the "skirt bet". I hope you don't mind if I sit this one out. I wouldn't consider going at all (now that the Bike Chain Crew is all but a memory) save for the hard work and battle ready status, of Lil W.B.. He has put in the miles. He is bucking in the chute. Thanks, in no small part, to riding with Lil Mingo. He and L.M. are all cycling friends should be. They always ride hard. They always laugh, and you have to peel them off their bikes when the dinner bell rings. The group (formerly known as Bike Chain) could learn a thing or two from those boys. Seriously, can you make one ride a week for the crew? I know you have young kids, new girl friends, jobs and whatever the f^#$! Give Momma a night with the girls, cut the yard, GROW A PAIR! You are all grown men, use your talents to negotiate.... ONE RIDE A WEEK! Either that or lets get some beer and burn the jersey's, shorts, socks, stickers and all the other shit, that filled up the space where the rides used to go. I'm not pissed, I just miss the old days. I had two young boys, two jobs and a band of knuckle heads to manage, when I started riding with the crew. I did dishes, laundry, made dinner (whatever I could) to earn my miles. Negotiation is simple; find out what they want, and give it to them. Nuff said, I'm stepping off soap box.

I used to train all week for crew rides. I lived in mortal fear of those rides. Those days are gone forever. If it wasn't for Lil W.B, Big and Lil Mingo, Worm and Slade, I would have hung up my pistols.

Hey remember that time?

Nope.

W.B.Z.N.

Straight to Hell!

2010-05-09T23:45:00.016-04:00

Maybe it's the poison ivy spreading like a gated sub division over my legs and arms. Maybe it's the groin injury I keep aggravating. Maybe it's the jammed ring finger that just doesn't feel right, months after my first crash of the year. Maybe it's the hammered knee, from the jump track crash. What diff does it make?

I hoped to be healed in the company of crew and magic trails in Ellijay and Pisgah. The riding was epic, no question. When I got home, I had the worst respiratory infection I have had since I laid in bed for three weeks with pneumonia. My house decided it needed several thousand of our dollars. My computer hard drive crashed and so did I...AGAIN! I have averaged a crash every two weeks, since late February. Whats the rub? My neck feels great! Go f#@^*+*# figure.

Then there are the human challenges. The confrontations out of the school yard play book. The small indignities that one must suffer as a price for turning O2, into exhaled breath. The subtle, passive aggressive pokes to the chest, that normally I don't acknowledge. In the current climate (tired, hurt, and out of reserves) the message goes to the bridge, where the pissed off captain fingers the "launch" buttons.

I know I am a comical character to all that know me. You would rather hear a funny story of how I fell in a creek, while my crew all stood around laughing. Sorry, I don't feel like putting on black face and singing "Mammy" for you. I am fresh off an engagement as the pissed middle aged guy, confronting a twenty year old douche bag, at the movies. I'm not coming to you as a repentant parishioner in the confessional, but as a guy ready to roll in the grass with the next prick, that flips my switch.

And the contenders are lining up. They started with the two dicks on carbon Scott's talking shit at the Stomp Out A Cure race in February. Even though I beat them both by a ton, all that remained was the anger. Not one shred of satisfaction survived the day. I had a mild skirmish with a rich Soflorida punk that almost crashed into my son. I held my tongue when the shop rat pushed my buttons. I have to say, when a local rider professed a high school love crush he had for the mother of my children, I think I behaved admirably. I gave him several outs, which he ran by like remote exits, on a desert highway. A few weeks later he let me know (in front of my wife) that he would have beaten me in the Red Bug Challenge, had he not been late.

Had any one of these grounders come my way, during a normal epoch, I would have dispatched with them like Pedroia. These incidents stack up like pancakes, and it just makes me want to box.

The bike is the cure. The miles are the meds. When the cure becomes the curse, and the conduit for all the bullshit, nothing flows. No matter where I go, the hate finds me. It could go either way, armistice or Armageddon. All I know is: the more I try to evolve, the more neanderthals I find.

W.B.Z.N.

Something Wicked This Way Comes

2010-05-08T01:09:00.003-04:00

Initiating loading sequence.

Got my laptop back bitches. I have a lot of anger. Pretend you are going to see Gallagher. Pretend you might get hit by shrapnel instead of casaba.....

W.B.Z.N.

2010-04-18T22:55:00.000-04:00

I'm gonna go get my mind right. Seeya soon.

W.B.Z.N.

The Chain Gang

2010-04-12T09:12:00.005-04:00

I haven't been this nervous before a race...ever. I was really feeling the pressure of 007's promise to make me his hood ornament. I do want to say for the record: I have huge respect for the secret agent, and from now until the end of time, you will never waterboard another negative statement out of me about him or any of his Willkillya kin. Nuff said.

The race was a well oiled machine thanks to Red Butcher, Frog legs, and a host of volunteers. The Black shirts were out in force and I would be lying if I said that I wasn't honored and over joyed to be counted among the Bike Chain Gang brethren. The race was proof that we are not just a bunch of dudes in matching Lycra.

Instead of the normal race re cap I'd like to say a few things about my friends/teammates/assassins:

Big Jim Slade:

No one who has ever ridden a bike, says worse things about themselves than B.J.S. He can't turn, he can't brake, he is slow. I am am stating once and for all, that we will not tolerate any more of that type of talk. Jim is stronger than most of the crew, and has learned how to f*^#)_+ race bicycles. He doesn't get the typical aggressive pre-race hate symptoms. He is a contender in any race in his class. You want a sport trophy? You gotta pass him. Plus it's no small thing to say he is the nicest, most generous guy ever. He would give you the expensive, only available in Europe, for team issue, shirt right off his back.

Spanish Mackerel:

He handles better than me. He corners better than me. He is funnier than everyone, but that's not the coolest thing about the Mackerel. He is the happiest racer ever. He will talk to you like you are sitting in your living room, during a race. He laughs when he is on climbs. If you get passed him, he will talk to you (and make you laugh) as you go by. He can ride once a week and still ride well. He can put in a few training weeks and take your lunch money. In any form, in shape, outta shape, he is always happy and funny. He will always be a better bike handler than me, no matter how much I ride.

007:

The dude has a life and job (which we can't divulge due to National Security laws) that would make a good book. He is strong as a couple Wakulla pit bulls, only way more determined and meaner. I really don't know him that well, but from the first time I met him at a Bump and Grind race, I knew he was a bad ass. I would like to hoist a few beers with him some time, and maybe ride with him in a non race scenario. He hunted me down like a dog during the race. He says (in his blog) that I was on a "Sunday stroll" but I was running like a sorority girl in a slasher flick. If he had his own bike, and a few more pre race laps, it would have been different. I am not being conciliatory, it's just a fact. Bury the hatchet bro, I would like to have some bladder control the next time I see you.

Big Worm:

What can I say about the big man (that will not send Juancho into a homoerotic, grand mal seizure)? Well lets keep it narrowed to race knowledge. If you want to know where the lines are for anything, road or MTB, follow Worm. A smarter cyclist does not exist. For the whole first lap, knowing how nervous and worked up I was, he coached me through all the lines, climbs, and single track. Once he got me through the stuff I was worried about, he let me by. Red Bug beats the crap out of his unhappy ankle, and I don't think his heart was ever in this race. He has kicked my ass for ten years straight on that trail. The only explanation for him not kicking sand in my face, was that he just didn't have his heart in it. He had a tough day and finally flatted. Had the laps gone clockwise? It would have been a whole different bottle of chain lube.

I would like to say a few words about Red Butcher and Frog Legs; Man, when you guys put on your race director hats, you really bring it. Fielding questions while doing twenty things at once? I would have melted down ten minutes after 7A.M.. There would be no B.C. Crew, no uniforms, no anything, if it was not for the diligence and patience you guys show for the cause. I could go on and on (and probably already have) but its a great thing you do for all of us. I know I will look back on this period of my life, sitting in a rocking chair, and I will laugh remembering all the stuff we have done and places we have ridden. I know I have post race euphoria, and I am caught up in the moment, but I would like to thank all the B.C. Crew for letting me be a part of the coolest Crew in town. I am proud to be associated with each and every one of you.

One final note to Mingo: It has been a dream come true watching Lil W.B. and Lil Mingo ride together this past few months. Lil Mingo is a lion and he has the spirit of ten kids. He is a testament to what a great Dad and rider you are. I can never thank you or him enough, for the feeling I get watching our sons ride and race together. Zak and Ice Berg have been great to those kids as well, they look up to you guys as hero's and a better example could not exist.

Congrats to all the people that raced this weekend. I would like to (and could) write pages about everyone in The Black Shirt's, but I narrowed it to my competitors. No disrespect intended.

BIKE CHAIN FOR LIFE! BLOOD IN BLOOD OUT!

W.B.Z.N.

Time

2010-04-09T12:06:00.008-04:00

divided by....

plus...

plus....

plus......

equals.....

W.B.Z.N.

Rev On The Red Line

2010-03-30T21:04:00.006-04:00

I am obligated (by a vow of death) to post this on behalf of my Bike Chain Brethren. Otherwise, they will give me a Killarney neck tie and do something to my face that will deny my family an open casket. All BS aside, this is a great event, that will make a ton of money for the Tallahassee Mountain Bike Association. Roll up to the line Bastards!

The Second Annual Red Bug Challenge is upon us. April 11th is the date, Forrest Meadows/Red Bug is the place. This was the "feel good" local race last year. This year, there is promise of better prizes and no Arctic animals on the race coarse. Last year I couldn't race, because I was unable to chip the ice off my drive train.

All proceeds go to the Tallahassee Mountain Bike Association for future good deeds on our local trails. So open your wallets, raise your heart rate, and rattle your molars out of you jaws. W.B.Z.N. will be rockin the mic like a vandal, and losing the race, to some pissed off beginner, on a six thousand dollar (full carbon) Scott. See you out there!

Go to: http://www.redbugchallenge.com/ to register.

GET BACK TO YOUR ROOTS BASTARDS AND BASTETTES!

W.B.Z.N.

Welcome to the Bottom

2010-03-23T12:21:00.010-04:00

I tried for many years to kill him. I hated everything about him. He would show up at the most inopportune moments. He would say things that I didn't want him to say. He would be neurotically funny when he was nervous. Over the years I got him more under control but around family or old friends he would awaken. It was like the expectations of the old days and people that knew him, gave him life force and he assumed control. I was a hapless passenger to his tirades, comedy routines or outbursts of bravado. He flourished in Ft. Pierce, and was the one of the reasons I left 1987.

My wife says I always get a funny look on my face when I have talked to someone from Ft. Pierce. She says my voice has a tone she has learned to recognise. George called to tell me mutual friend and musician has fallen on hard times, he is sick and they are planning a fund raiser for him. Several bands will be playing and my name came up. He would like me to come back and play with him and a bass player from my old band. My wife shakes her head and gives me a look. She hates to see me confront him. She will have to listen when I recount all the regret.

A lot of people love him. He is funny and has a lot of energy. He says the thing everyone is afraid to say. He points at the elephant in the room. He can sell you anything. He can get you a record deal. He will draw the line and dare you to step over. He is fearless. He leaves me to clean everything up, and to deal with his wreckage. He is the reason I have to ride alone, because if I hear his voice one more time, I will die. He is great to drink with and if you like a story, he is your man. In the dark, he is tortured by all he has done and said. Gallons of holy water have been heaped upon him, but he carries every sin, every decision, every incidental moment and he relives them in High Definition 1080i.

George doesn't understand, he just wants to play a few songs and pay homage to his old teacher. I want specific details about production, when we will play and if I can use my own drums. George wants to talk to him because it is easier. He would just go head first into the gig and say: "fuck it". The problem is, after he is gone, I will have another disaster to carry. Another shitty gig, in front of the very people I never wanted to play for again. The people I left, in the middle of the night, on my twenty fourth birthday. But he doesn't give a shit about any of that. He wants to show them how awesome he can play. He wants to be the returning hero. He wants them all to pat him on the back and to compliment him. There is no way to tell how the story ends. I would like to pay homage too, but maybe the risk is too high. Maybe it will raise too many questions. Maybe he won't come at all, and everyone will be disappointed.

George wants me to sing. He is not sure which songs. He wants it all to be positive. He wants to play guitar and say a speech. I wish I could just be one of those people that went along and believed everything works out. It does sometimes, and it always surprises me.

I put on my kit and go for a very long ride. I see a few people, but for the most part I am alone. He never shows up if I am quiet. Those are the days I live the most. It is windy and cool. I will have to work a little harder to get home.

He is nowhere to be found.

W.B.Z.N.

These Days

2010-03-10T11:32:00.011-05:00

I suppose it is inevitable that if you stick around long enough you become the punchline in your own joke. Resumes and Facebook bios portray the things you want people to remember, but those are not the things people do most with their time.

People, in general, never consider me a threat. Not on a starting line, not in traffic, not behind a drum kit, and certainly not toe to toe. Over the years I derived a lot of pleasure, making them aware they underestimated me. I am getting older and I have learned you can never beat them enough to make yourself feel better. They never admit they were wrong. In the end, even if totally justified, and the undeniable winner, you have still played their game, and that makes you the fool. It is in the very least, an angry waste of time.

My role has changed pretty drastically in the last few years. I am on the support team around the house. My wife is making the bread rise and my boys are becoming busy young men. I am the main cheer leader, roadie, coach, taxi, and (sometimes) a spectator in the lives that once revolved around me. It has it's moments of pure bliss and times when you have no say what so ever. Part of being a good husband and Dad is knowing when to just stand by and watch. It has always been a tough move for me to master. It frequently has no pay off, which puts it in the company of most things that must be done.

My boys will both be bigger, stronger and better at all the interests we share, very soon. Nothing could make me happier. Big C., is already smarter than I ever was and just needs a little world time, to even up the score. He has found his niche as a swimmer, and more than ever, I have a glimpse of the man he could be. L.W.B. looks like a chip off the block but really, he can do anything I can do, with about half the effort and twice the style. Fine with me. Maybe enough good traits will be passed and the short comings will fade with me. That's how it appears to be shaping up from the sideline. I hope it lasts.

I am logging a lot of saddle time with L.W.B.. Big C. and I chat more than ever, to and from swim practice. We have found a few shows to watch as a family, that have brought us all back to the dinner table. Somehow we have reeled the boys back in from the edge. Somehow we have pulled out a victory over the appliances in the their rooms.

It is okay to be in the back round. It is okay to applaud. It is okay not to kick a guys ass for nearly crashing into you, and not ever taking out his ear buds to apologise. It's okay not to slap the taste out of a counter rats face, for insulting you in front of your son. It's okay to see him learn a lesson, because for once, you didn't take the bait. I keep telling myself it's all okay.

In through the nose and out through the mouth.....

W.B.Z.N.

Pretzel Logic

2010-02-22T11:54:00.011-05:00

Sub atomic particles appear and disappear at will. Some particles can be in two places at one time. Virtual particles can become real and be measured. Some particles leave virtual turbulence when they disappear.

I do not pretend to understand physics. I suck at math, but every time I hear someone (like Stevie B. Hawking) talk about the little universe, I immediately make the jump to what I have thought forever: One disturbance in the chain can disrupt the universe.

For me it started with San Felasco prep. I'm a responsible kind of chap. I like to head things off at the pass. I like to hold up my end of the bond, and I have little patience for the unprepared of our planet. I took my bike to get fixed and upset the order of the bicycle. New parts were introduced, and problems appeared that were previously not there. As those problems were addressed, new parts and mechanics were brought into play, and the issues deepened. I tried to keep my energy controlled, but the more patience I applied, the less logic occurred. Whenever a problem was solved a new one took its place. I rode through the virtual and actual turbulence with varied results. All the towns greatest minds converged on my vehicle with equal amounts of victory and defeat. Finally the issues whittled down to noises and annoyances. The latest was a creek in the cranks which Worm (insert black hole theory joke here) fixed. Immediately after the relief set in, and I believed quiet riding was in my future, a pedal began to squeak. Just as mysteriously as it appeared it vanished. Ten minutes later, I had the worst Asthma attack of my life. My particles are disturbed and it doesn't end with the bike.

I find no humor in the fact that my new TV is a container of volatile Plasma gas. Since I brought the new TV into my house nothing has been the same. It emits high EMF, which played havoc with my infra-red remote control system. My home theatre, which had worked perfectly for years, developed a series of symptoms, that no logical audio video tweak, could connect to the new television. My five year old DVD player will not sync to the new set. They are of different HDMI eras, and a digital hand shake is impossible, due to one pin in the new wires. For reasons that deny explanation, my powered sub woofer works only after I have decided it will never work again. Just like sub atomic particles, the act of observing them changes their behavior.

The Bike Chain Crew was last together at San Felasco, since then members have been randomly appearing and disappearing. Sometimes we run into people on the trail that didn't know about the ride. Sometimes people say they will ride and don't show up. Sometimes we all start rides together and finish in different places. Some members exist but are never seen. I can not take any more of the random disorder.

I could go on for hours (like Dennis Hopper at the end of Apocalypse Now) but I suspect that you too have disappeared and are in an alternate Blogiverse as we speak, even though you seem to be in this dimension, or else why would I be talking to you?

I long for the boredom that preceded this period of flux. If any of you see my lost particles appearing in an alternate state would you please send them home? I fear if it does not happen soon, I will cease to exist....if I ever did at all.

W.B.Z.N.

Needles and Pins

2010-02-09T13:47:00.007-05:00

I have a lot of aches and pains. I can trace every phantom twinge to a past injury. My body is a time capsule of nerve portraits, of all the risks that didn't pay off. All the times the dice lied, the cards didn't come, and the inevitable moment when the chips drift away, as if by magic. These little reminders make me wonder, if there was ever a time I didn't carry some arthritic petroglyph, of a battle lost.

I love it when things are working. I believe that everything from bicycles to relationships, connect at the molecular level. How else could you explain how two guitars made on the same day, have such different voices? You throw a new surfboard in the ocean, and it glides like an arrow. A stolen glance, a sentence of small talk, and you meet your partner for life. Someone wasn't watching, their foot never touched the brake, and you never sleep through the night again. Door number one has a new car, number two has a goat. Roll the bones.

I was preoccupied with my issues when I pulled on the Lycra yesterday. I wondered if my back pain would return. I wondered if I had enough sunlight. I led a solo debate on which route would be best. I had ridden them all a thousand times. I searched for the combination that would open the lock. I fumbled for the keys. I stopped on the levy to stretch my aging neck. I opened and closed my hands, trying to squeeze away a lifetime of abuse and injury. I looked up and the sky was exploding. I couldn't look away. Suddenly the ride was not a worry or a plan. It was a moment, a memory, a picture, and a cure.

I rode home in no particular hurry, got to the tracks, and meandered back to the pavement. I forgot about my neck, my back and my hands. I couldn't remember what I was worried about. All those aches and pains are my badges of a life well lived. I remember how I earned them all. They are not ghosts of my failure. They are not my sins. They are the only memories worth having. The times when I risked it all for a frontside air, a crystal blue reef break, a bike race metal, or a multitude of dreams that never came true. They hurt and soothe in the same breath.

I will keep them all.

W.B.Z.N.

This Perfect World

2010-01-25T12:34:00.003-05:00

I was going to post a little amalgam of all the annoying speed bumps I have rattled over lately. What is the point? Why throw another log on a fire you don't want to stand by? This is what I want to see, and so I put it here, with the hope that you too will get the vibes.

It is not a great picture, and I am no ones photographer, but it makes me think of all the moments just like this or better, that I have forgotten.

W.B.Z.N.

Cold As Ice

2010-01-11T08:31:00.011-05:00

It was a weird week leading up to the Felasco Ice swim. I stressed about clothing. I stressed about my bike. The one thing I usually stress about(fitness) wasn't even on my mind. I had done my home work and the extra credit. The only thing I feared was the stuff beyond my control, like the ability to fix a bike. I had been driving Pete nuts with my bike for a week. It hadn't been shifting well, and we decided a new cassette and chain would be the fix. Pete squeezed me in at the eleventh hour, and started hitting my bike with metal objects.

Thursday evening Jim was in the best pre-trip mood of his life and asked me to ride with him. HUGE MISTAKE! Four feet into the Fern trail my bike was stammering and skipping like the tractor on Green Acres. I made it much better by complaining for every inch of the hour and a half ride. Jim offered to buy me a new bike if I promised to never contact him again.

Friday morning I took the bike back to Pete. He did his best but, we needed a five bolt chain ring. I called everyone in the cycling universe, and came up snake eyes. Pete gave me the shrug and hug of a doctor that has done all he could do for a terminal patient. Big Jim and I spent the rest of the day buying up all the cold weather gear in the county in what must have looked like a Benny Hill montage. We arrived at the jump off point, and as quick as you can say "enjoy your first class ticket on the Titanic!" we were on our way.

Friday night was the usual dinner and debauchery in G-ville. Some of us (I am not saying who, but definitely not me) got as poo-faced as Irish soccer fans and the following events took place:

1. Darnell got a tooth chipped by Frog Legs, because apparently you can't slam a beer can into a guys mouth without causing some dental disharmony.

2. Silk turned into a story teller with Alzheimer's and repeated the last word of every sentence.

3. Long Shanks became an amateur prison warden, forcing everyone to drink, as he guarded the door and randomly "checked the oil" of anyone he felt wasn't up to specs.

4. Spanish Mackerel proved he is funnier (without effort) than anyone.

5. Frog Legs tells great stories (with endings ...sorry Silk) and has the ability to make small amounts of urine escape, during laughter induced asthma attacks.

There is video evidence out there, and unless we drain our home equity, it will be available on Facebook and Youtube.

The actual ride: how should I start? Dear God it was cold. Shackleton cold. Hitler cold. My prom date cold! For the first segment we went at a pace that I will just describe as; conversational. Like sitting on a couch at the Airport conversational. Slower than Forrest Gump conversational. Really F#!^*#!g slow! That didn't stop Darnell (tongue checking his tooth every two nanoseconds) from red lining his heart rate. He was the first guy to jump out of the life boat and drink sea water. Worm tried to talk him down but after he started mumbling about dancing with hippos, Worm let go of his hand and we watched him drift away. Dan was leading the snail charge and one by one, we passed and split up.

My bike was an unbearable symphony of pots and pans falling down stairs, and the only thing that worked was the big ring. I rolled out of stop two first and rode alone, fearing my mood would ruin the day.

We all reconvened at lunch. Dan had to meet the family at an undisclosed location and absolutely could not do the whole fifty (ya know cause he has kids and stuff). Big Jim and Frog Legs were frozen solid. Worm was mugging old ladies and putting on their shirts. I was praying to all that was holy, that someone higher up the food chain would bail out and give me a dignified reason to leave this parade of zombies. Darien, did agree to bail (in a new cold induced language he invented that sounded like a cross between Cindy Brady and a Wookie) but since he just had a baby and all, he didn't fit the bill. I needed a guy I could point to and say: "Look he's a bad ass and he's quitting...I am too!" No one came to my aid and Worm and I headed out first.

Worm was in the hate cave, and I had already remodeled my hate cave twice, when we got to the power line climb. It is the hardest climb of the day, and it is ten minutes after lunch. My chain was dancing like a Chinese dragon in a festival. Worm realized why I had been so non communicative all day. Nothing relieves ones misery like seeing a less fortunate slob. Worm was all jokes and chuckles up the hill as I attacked it in my granny gear, in the big cog (the only gear that worked up hill). At the top we remembered we were friends and rode together for the next leg. We supported each other. I waited for him a few times to pee, and to take banned substances. I knew when my time of need arrived he'd do the same for me....unless Frog legs caught us (which he did) and then Worm forgot he knew me and rode away like Clint Eastwood during the credits.....excuse me while I clear my throat....

BBBBBAAAAASSSSSTTTTTAAAAARRRRRDDDDD!

The last leg was the hardest mental, physical ordeal I have ever had the good fortune to live through. At the parking lot I hobbled up to the table, demanded my t-shirt, and told a guy doing a hotel survey, to have relations with his own digestive system. Back at the truck, Worm remembered he knew me long enough to laugh and point at how destroyed I looked. I acted like a polar bear screwing a greased beach ball as I Gran Mall seizured out of seventy two layers of sweat soaked Lycra. I was feeling like a really hard core cyclist when a guy rolled up to the car next to us. He was wearing two cotton long sleeve shirts, shorts and no gloves. Behind him came his female companion in a dress and (I shit you not) a Snuggie. In last, was their twelve year old son in sneakers, tube socks, and a hoodie. I fogged the window, as they laughed, joked, and loaded their bikes. Manhood? Gone.
Good times.

We always say the same thing at the end of brutal rides:

"These are the rides you talk about for years."

Ya....whatever.

W.B.Z.N.

Analogue Kid

2010-01-05T16:27:00.002-05:00

Be afraid. Someone on Facebook has pictures of you.

W.B.Z.N.

Yesterday

2010-01-01T03:37:00.005-05:00

W.B.Z.N.

Eyes Without A Face

2009-12-26T11:47:00.001-05:00

In case there was any question Jim has gear for every situation, I submit this photo as proof.

W.B.Z.N.

Bastaclause Is Coming To Town

2009-12-23T17:17:00.001-05:00

Merry Christmas BASTARDS!!!!!

W.B.Z.N.

Working For The Weekend

2009-12-21T16:17:00.015-05:00

Friday was a perfect work day. I ate some Christmas party food and left work early. I had a gig that night and wanted to get a nap. We set up the P.A. and lights with out a hitch. We played a few tunes and all was well. I started noodling on the drum intro to the Van Halen song; "Hot For Teacher". Normally this kind of thing drives the band mates nuts but because I am not the bands real drummer, this really and impresses them. Tony the bands singer, jokes that we should do the song.

The first set is played to three dock workers and four housewives with their backs to us. The club is empty. The place is usually packed on Friday with newly divorced, fake boobied cougars and the guys that buy them drinks. On the plus side: it's raining. Tony makes a joke or two and we play a few more songs. Half way through the second set, it looks like a tour bus of middle aged party people arrived and the joint is macking in full swing. The band decides not to break and play straight through. We've all had a few more than normal, during the low key first set. Tony is shined up a little more than the rest of us and after introducing me says:

"Play that double bass thing!"

I start the "Hot for Teacher" intro, the guitar player comes in (right on que) and we launch into the song. Tony starts singing and we drop the last verse, but basically its pretty good. The crowd goes ape shit, I feel like a stud, and Tony says Good night.

The next day is going to be perfect, I have another gig with the band in Panama City and I don't have to leave until 2:30 p.m. Ms. W.B. is taking the boys to Jacksonville and I will be able to sleep in and leave rested and relaxed. At 7:00 a.m. someone is driving cattle through my house. There are loud noises and doors slamming. My left eye creeks open and sees the clock. I went to bed four hours ago. Not to worry, I need to say goodbye to the troops anyway and then I can sleep till noon like a rock star. Ms. W.B. is glad she doesn't have to keep everyone quiet and I look like a hero for getting up after a late night. They disembark and I snuggle back in to safety under my blankies.

No one told the dog I was sleeping and she had a schedule of her own:

(8:30 a.m.) Bark at all sides of the yard, make sure all the neighbors dogs are awake and barking too.

(9:00 a.m.) Run in and out of the dog door as many times as possible, at the highest rate of speed, making sure to bark at the squirrels in the front yard as well as the squirrels in the back yard.

(10:00 a.m.) Push bedroom door open lick private parts, scratch area by tags (so they jingle) then jump on the bed and make sure man owner is still sleeping.

(10:30 a.m.) Mid morning nap.

I am in the midst of a great dream, the waves are cracking and I am on a clothing optional beach. All the women are beautiful and exercising their option. They are happy to see me as they cover each other with tanning oil. They wave as I enter the crystal clear ocean. Everything would be perfect if that bell wasn't ringing. Why would anyone allow a door chime on such a scenic beach? The scene fades and I am sucked into a vortex. My eyes open and I hear the door bell ringing over and over, like kid on Ritalin is at the controls. I drop three hundred and seventy two f-bombs in the twelve steps it takes to get to the door. I am just in time to see the U.P.S. guy drive away. I give up. It's time to make tea and get on with life.

The gig in Panama City goes off well. It is a black tie, Toys for Tots, charity event. The band has played this show for four years and they love Tony and the boys. We have access to a VIP room with a free bar and a nice lay out of finger food. Three sets, thanks a lot, drums in the car and I hit the road. I get home at 5:30 a.m. and sleep the sleep of the dead. I wake up at 1:30 stoked to find out Worm is going to Tom Brown for a ride. He sent out an email to the crew, so it will probably be a big ride. I suit up and run out the door.

Worm is there but no one else. No worries. They are probably late, so we will take a short lap and cruise back though the parking lot. As we roll up to the cars, I am overwhelmed by the stench of dog poo. I go to the hose and start rinsing off the recycled dog chow. It gets on me, my bike, and my gloves. Big Worm, who is really pissed at the crew (for their no show act) is starting to show signs of life. He chuckles as I get covered in water, shit and mud on one of the coldest days of the year. We set off towards Cadillac and a joyous day of mountain biking in the church of the open sky. Big Worm leads out, and I can tell he is going to open up on the single track. No worries, I am right on his wheel and really enjoying his fast lines. He goes into a really rooty section and takes a new line. I admire the way he rips thought it and I decide to follow him. The first root rips my bars to the left, as my right foots unclips from my pedal. I push the bars out in front of me and try to get control as the next group of bigger roots approaches. I lunge forward trying to get back over the bike when the bars leave my hands violently and I go down like a bag of hammers. I try to get up but the air intake is not working, so I just lay back down and amuse Worm as I try to breath. Worm, who was really in a bad mood, now seems to be having a great day. He has a grin that couldn't be knocked off with a baseball bat, and I find myself wishing I could try. We continue to roll and my bike begins making a sound that the Wormster (always mindful of new ways to add to my misery) diagnoses as a sound his Yeti frame made just before it broke. I have to act like nothing bothers me because I just can't bear to watch Worm get any happier and we finish out the ride.

On the way home I shoot Shin's a call at Joe's. They stay open on Sundays near the holidays. He tells me to come on by. He throws my beloved bike on the rack and rips it apart like and old woman declawing a lobster on her birthday. Parts are every where and Shin's shows no signs of anything I can decipher as good news or bad. We close the shop down and Shin's keeps throwing parts of my bike all over the counters floors and ceiling. At one point he produces a bottle of Irish whiskey and offers me a snort. I haven't eaten in six hours, but it seems like a great idea. Three hours after he should have been home with his wife and kids (on a Sunday!) my bike is rebuilt, with new pivot bearings and clean as whistle. Shin's says to come by tomorrow and settle up. In the morning I run to The Cake Shop, to get pastry for Shin's and Joey. Shin's eyes water as he eats the apple cake, and Joe's eats the lemon squares while making primal, orgasmic groans. Mission accomplished.

All ying's must yang I recon.

W.B.Z.N.

In The Court Of The Crimson King

2009-12-16T22:39:00.015-05:00

Running from the dark. It is an old pastime, a deep seated fear and a primal trigger in the reaches of my wiring. My only rule as a kid was to be home before the streetlights came on. I always overestimated the daylight and underestimated my ETA to the porch. Many a panicked time trial was motored home at the top of my heart rate.

I never tired of the game and the pattern repeated. I frequently found myself waiting in the lineup for one more wave, as the fifty foot Australian pines subdivided the sun like a math graph. The switch would flip, and turn the blue ocean to oil. Over head swells look just like lull, when the contrast is turned down. The adrenalin drives the pupils open and the brain searches frantically for clues of survival. At the edge of hope, I'd catch one and aim for the last trace of glare.

I arrived at the top of a skate park snake run, when I heard my name over the P.A.. They shut out the lights and I bombed that run full speed from memory. It was quiet, roaring, calm and frantic, all in one trance. The kind of thing that makes the more aware and older in attendance marvel at stupidity, luck, and skill with equal measure. A head shake and an insult were the only payoff.

So it was that I found myself, after starting too late, with no light, picking my way out of Cadillac, Tom Brown and finally a pitch dark Fern Trail. Now the challenge is not so much how far my courage will hold, but over coming my failing eyesight. My rock and roll hearing (which is white noise at the first wisp of wind), leaves me rotating my head like an escaped mental patient, trying to hone in on what ever real or imagined threats, are scurrying in the periphery.

Safe on pavement the final act is winding down at thirty miles an hour. Nothing is as sweet as passing commuters in the bike lane, as traffic chokes the progress, of the shiny metal boxes. At last, safe in my hood, I am tortured by the smell of fire wood and combinations of dinners in the breeze. The last blocks are a hands free cruise, past holiday lights.

Darkness is a magical thing. It is where the truth lives. It is the place where love is made, and doubts grow into mountains. There is a thrill that comes with living three feet at a time, known only to those who ride in silhouette.

The Sky Will Tell Me

2009-12-14T18:22:00.007-05:00

W.B.Z.N.

2009-12-09T15:34:00.001-05:00

Jump

2009-12-06T18:59:00.004-05:00

I don't care what anyone says, doing a cross race is easier on a mountain bike.

There is some suckage attached though, like pushing the cement filled, dual suspension, piece-o-shite, up muddy hills or carrying it, and your over developed mid section, over hurdles.

I thank (Deity of choice) that there is not any video of this horror show.

W.B.Z.N.

Dirty White Boy

2009-12-04T22:39:00.002-05:00

See ya tomorrow, ya muddy Bastards!

W.B.Z.N.

2009-12-01T19:48:00.000-05:00

Thank You So Much

2009-11-26T21:55:00.000-05:00

Santa Baby

2009-11-21T20:00:00.013-05:00

Dear Santa,
In 1971, I asked very nicely for this bike:

I am sure I wasn't the best kid on the block, but dang, Frank Verillo got one and he was an Ass#*+^!

I am going to try a new approach. Please deliver the following items to my house or there will be no cookies, or milk and I will down load that surveillance video of what you did to my plastic reindeer (BASTARD!) to TMZ.com.

Sorry it had to come to this, but I see no other way to reconcile.

W.B.Z.N.

Down

2009-11-20T20:28:00.000-05:00

I'm fine. Help me up.

W.B.Z.N.

It's All I Can Do

2009-11-19T00:41:00.011-05:00

I am in the throws of another crisis of confidence. This means that I have been healthy too long, not thankful enough, and the arrival of this retched cold is proof that I am being punished for not enjoying my two wheeled gifts.

After the Tom Brown race (where I was soundly rocked) I was surprised to find out my fitness was a mirage. Then after another trip to Macon, and a mental bonk on the climbs, I was (again) denied the luxury of slaying my dragons. After weeks of hard work, dieting, and weight loss it was all a sad payoff. Back at home, I have not been able to find my groove. When I am confident, I can ride anything. When the armor fails, the demons rush in like a virus, reek havoc on all my systems, and leave me to question everything from gear, to weather I should ride at all.

All of the weeks I have spent reflecting, yielded a nugget today. I have been saving money to do the Hut To Hut this summer. All these little speed bumps have led me to wonder if I have the "stuff" to pull that ride off. If I went on that trip and failed to finish, or (horror of horrors) ruined the trip for the others, I would have a tough time dealing with it. I suffer from Asthma and I worry about the altitude. I don't know if I could do forty miles plus a day with no option to go easy or bail. The added gear and weight on the bike, all lead me to question the intent. Doubt is the bane of my existence, and it is where I am living.

I will have to get stronger on solo rides and work back to some point of comfort. Riding like life, requires that you keep moving and do the hard work alone, so you can enjoy the time with others. Felasco is the only target on the horizon. After that the decisions will make themselves.

Time for the medicine.

W.B.Z.N.

2009-11-17T11:03:00.000-05:00

2009-11-09T12:02:00.000-05:00

What's New?

2009-10-29T00:39:00.011-04:00

I used to play drums for hours when I was a a kid. Back then the radio played everything from The Ohio Players to Queen on one station. The rotation came around about every two hours and I could get through most of it before my Mom would come in, flip the light switch and let me know she'd had enough. It was a great way to get a musical education, but mostly I learned how to fix drums that were designed for kids that gave up two months after Christmas. My kit was held together with paper clips, and twisted coat hangers. It was a demented mixture of colors and companies, none of them good. I knew I wasn't going to get anything new, and if I wanted to play I was going to have to McGyver my way through.

My mother used to save quarters. I don't know where they came from but she saved a lot of them. She used them for clothes, rainy days, and once a trip to San Fransisco. She also loved the horses and quarters went to the track as well. For years I thought that's why they were called "quarter horses". She was a child of the depression and had learned to make do. She was a thrift store professional and had radar for bargains. She would take things to the counter and point out bad hems, stains and other irregularities, and then she would look at the clerk doe eyed and say what a shame it was that it was ruined. The price would magically drop and she would never let on to me or anyone that a supreme lesson in bargaining had been executed by a master.

I remember going to her in a fit of frustration, having finally had been defeated, by the pile of debris I hit with sticks. The bass drum head had broken and the rip had defied all my best efforts as well as four bucks worth of duct tape. She took me to the music store and I went to work on her to get as much as I could. I brought a pair of sticks, a snare head and the new head for the bass drum, sheepishly up to the counter. The damage was forty eight bucks plus tax. Out came the quarters, some dollars and the check book. I could see by the look on her face it was a lot more than she expected. She tried to bargain with the sales guy but, she was not in her element. Music store guys have heard all, and they have sympathy for no one. She mumbled something religious, forked over the money, and I got the heads I needed. The result was pure bliss. I was able to over look the tin cymbals, broken pedals, and the floor tom, that was really a bass drum resting on a trash can. It was thirty two years ago, but I assure you I can remember everything about that day, her face, the salesman and the glorious sound of those new heads.

It's been a very long time since I had to scrape for anything. If I need something, I just go get it. To this day though, I get a very funny feeling in my stomach when I buy heads. Some part of that day, my Mother, and where I came from, walk with me still.

I was alone, in my kitchen gripped by sadness for no good reason, when I realized it was her birthday. I shook my head and laughed as I put it all together. It has been six years since we lost her. I was on stage watching socialburn play to a sold out house at Floyd's. My phone rang and I just knew she had gone. She had been so proud of all the success we were having and used to call me to let me know our position on the Palm Beach radio chart. She used to stop people we didn't know and tell them I was her seventh son. It drove me nuts. Until the day she died, she called me her: "little kid". She was a pistol, in every sense of the word.

I make a habit of complaining about my insane family, but we made do. We learned from a master.

W.B.Z.N.

Dancing In The Dark

2009-10-26T20:28:00.005-04:00

What do you fear most? Losing your spouse, your job, your life? My biggest fear has always been becoming one of them: The Normals. Nine to five in a numb case with no escape. Working, mowing the grass, going to church, conservative clothing, thinking and the slanted perpetual smile of the damned. A world of safe moves, station wagons, potato salad and small talk. Don't offend anyone. Don't say what you think. Network your way into the club man.

It's my private rebellion. My crusade against no one. I need little things, every so often, to keep me left of center. Surfing in El Salvador, a conversation with a homeless guy, a bike race, blah, blah, blah.

The time is right for riding in the dark. It takes a few weeks for the skin to grow back, for the perception to adjust. The first few rides are an exercise in twitch. The boring trail is transformed into something that demands every cells concentration. Every sound, every root, is amplified to the tenth power. There are no strollers, no dog walkers, no stink eyed hikers. The Normals are home monitoring the crock pots, and the evening news. They are moisturising. They are on their third cocktail, hoping to escape the judgement of a sideways glance. They are trying to remember the last time they had sex. They are dancing chickens with no heads. They don't know they are dead.

I know everyone does it. I know we are not making a summit attempt after two o'clock. We aren't on patrol in Iraq or Afghanistan. Lets not over inflate our adventures. That would be UNETHICAL!

People in cars look at me like I am weird. My neighbors shake their heads. My heart beats a little harder on the fast section of Cadillac. I force myself to let go of the brakes. I am not one of them. I can live with that.

W.B.Z.N.

You Turn The Screws

2009-10-24T20:07:00.003-04:00

Nice ride today. Thirty five miles, twenty of which I was repeating the phrase "I hate Tyler" over and over like a character from a Stephen King novel. If you are unfortunate enough to be on a ride with him, that does not include technical single track, you will have to suffer the indignity of watching him ride away from you. Because he is a BASTARD!!!

W.B.Z.N.

Last Night

2009-10-22T08:36:00.004-04:00

W.B.Z.N.

Even Now

2009-10-15T13:40:00.011-04:00

I am a recovering musician. I was addicted from age nine. I suffered all the highs and lows of any addict. I have learned to manage my cravings, but every so often I wander into an alley to find my old cronies. We bend the boot, hit the bag, and for a while we live in a set list thinking of nothing more than the next song. The place where minutes become hours, the groove is oxygen and melody is the sun. It is a dangerous exercise for one with such a tenuous grip on the real world. It is much easier when the gigs suck, or when I am out of practice. Then the decisions I have made are easier to swallow. The voices are quelled and my internal monologue verifies what I feared the most: that I wasn't good enough. Sadly I have been experiencing a new wave of interest in playing. I have been practicing. I have been doing more gigs. My playing is on point. The beast is awake and it is hungry.

I did a gig a couple weeks ago and my bike crew showed up to see the old man play. To them I have always been comic relief, the old slow dude they adopted nine years ago. To see their reaction and feel the support was awesome and bitter. The questions come and after all these years the answers elude. The stage is such a great place to visit, but for me it is an old love, obsessive and toxic. The passion is explosive, the fire burns, but in the morning I am still a Montague, and music the Capulet. The night is a stolen season and in the light of day, there are jobs to work and bills to pay. I have to crush my soul back into a little box and march into Monday.

It's one thing to get applause and to see your friends smile, quite another to hear questions from musicians you admire. A friend recently asked why I didn't pursue a gig as a drummer for a touring artist. The "WHY" list begins to run, but somewhere in the back of a place you never shine the flashlight, there's a part of you that wonders if you could. Would the marriage survive? Would the kids do okay with out you at the swim meets and half time shows? Would they do as well in school? It's all bubble gum for the brain because the gig does not exist. I thought for years (conditioned by organized religion) that I never found the light because I was a bad person. Today I discovered that an old acquaintance is flourishing in the world I so wished to attain. He is not as talented as I am, and he is a colossal ass to boot. The comparison game is one of my old favorites. It's all about the scoreboard and the back story is never told. It sure makes for a fun "why not me" session when you are crawling to five O'clock. The dreams and regrets walk hand in hand.

I have said it before, and here it comes again: thank (Deity of choice) that group of guys that never saw me play, took me in and let me ride bikes with them. They saved my life. Thank (Deity of choice) for the bicycle. Thank (Deity of choice) for the woods and the canopy roads we ride. Let us all pray that the voices are forever quelled by the increase in miles. Every now and then I may get to hit the drums and sing a few songs. It's nice to go to the circus as long as you don't come home wearing clown paint.

The bike is in the garage, this I know.

W.B.Z.N.

Lay It On The Line

2009-10-12T21:24:00.006-04:00

Monday.

I hate bikes. Racing is stupid. Tom Brown is a dumb ass trail. It's been raining. I am not going to race.

Tuesday.

The new fall T.V. season started. No ones yells at me, or drops me, when I am on the sofa. The world is full of people that do not race mountain bikes. Cookies are good. I was planning on changing my riding style to: Bird watching cyclist.

Wednesday.

What am I five years old? I don't have to race because of my crew. The world needs peace and love; not a bunch of middle aged dorks in Lycra, spreading testosterone in the forest.

Thursday.

Wow the trail is REALLY getting ridden in well. I am glad I am not racing. This is great for the trail though. I am railing turns. There's way too many people at Tom Brown.....I could beat that guy. Is he in my class? What's with the stink eye Bro?..... Yo! On your left!

Friday

I am riding a little too hard, you know, in case I decide to race. I need to taper a little more. I probably won't race. I need to save money. I am glad the shop had the new shoes, tires, Ti pedals, XTR drive train, and carbon bars I wanted. It's not my fault they sent me a new credit card. I may need a divorce attorney.

Saturday.

I always stay up till four in the morning cleaning my bike, laying out my kit, and checking my cleats. I can't find my lucky socks....WHERE THE F*#$ ARE MY LUCKY, oh...... here they are. I am so glad I am not racing. It makes people soooo neurotic. Losers. I'll just take the tires off one more time, to check for thorns. Did that rotor just squeak? WHAT THE F^&*?

Sunday.

It's so weird, I have a check right here, filled out to Gone Riding....What a coinky dink. I have to poop RIGHT NOW! I have stopped talking and smiling at anyone who might be in my class, including close friends and their family members. I probably shouldn't have told that guys kid I was going to kick his Dads ass. Oh well, all is fair in love and.....OH SHIT! My class is next! I am going to kill anything that is not in a Bike Chain jersey. Why is this guy crowding me? Home boy better chill! I am feeling the whole shot! 5,4,3,2,1.....AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

W.B.Z.N.

The Sky Is Crying

2009-10-07T19:06:00.006-04:00

Tuesday, I was going to hit Munson. Big Jim convinced me to ride Tom Brown and Cadillac in prep for the impending "Race of Death" that visits our trails annually like a plague. Like a good soldier, I obliged. I rode from my house (because putting your bike on a car is just silly) and headed to Jim's place of work. As I rolled up, the faucet turned on and I heard that music they play when someone loses on a game show. Jim made a series of grumbling noises and I said:
"Well, I'll see you in the back lot" and I rode off to meet Tyler, who was sitting in the rain, waiting for us. We waited about a minute before I recieved the text from Jim:
"I'm Out."
You see Jim had just had his bike massaged by Big Worm. His bike was dialed, styled, and profiled. Jim likes things to be clean. Jim likes things to be in order. Jim doesn't do rain. Jim was f*#^+ng riding, if I had to kill him and "Weekend At Bernie's" his ass around the trail system. I have a vague memory of cussing into a phone and applying copious amounts of guilt. Low and behold Jim cracked, rolled up, changed, and we headed for the woods. You could have parked a truck on Jim's lower lip. What followed was one of the most miserable, mud ridden, roll outs I can remember. Within ten minutes we were covered head to toe in brown water and trail filth. You could hear metal grinding off our drive trains, cables struggling to move, and chain tolerances going to hell. Somewhere in Japan, a Shimano wept. In a scant ten minutes, all Worms work was decimated, and his efforts to make Jim's bike sing, were crushed, like the dreams of Seminole football fans.

Amazingly, we ended up on the Greenway, and salvaged a pretty good ride. Tyler's steroids kicked in, after we dropped him a few times (not because we were fast, but because he doesn't have gears.....schmuck!). He attacked every hill and robbed me of my delusions of fitness. He even gave me a smirk as I rolled up (four days after they arrived) to the Greenway trail head. The ride was good, and we logged about twenty miles, while the more sensible cyclists sat in their homes, coddled, and well fed, watching The Antique Road Show (Pansies!).

Wednesday, I was riddled with guilt. I called Big Jim to say I was sorry about his muddy bike and invited him for an early ride from my house. This would give me the opportunity to wash his Ellsworth, dump lube on it, floss his calipers and wipe down his frame (insert homophobic jokes here..). Off we went to do the big east loop, in the shining October sun and all was grand...until nearly the end of our ride, when we reached Fern. The clouds pissed rain down on us, in another bitter insult to our ambitions.

Jim has had a perfect bike twice this week, and twice it has been soaked and sullied. My mind wandered to Buddhist Monks making sand paintings for days, denying themselves food, water and sleep. When they are done with the masterpiece, they open the doors facing north, south, east, and west, surrendering to the wind. It is not an exercise in futility, it is a lesson that we must strive for perfection and accept that all our efforts to attain perfection, are in vane. It is in the striving that we live life to the fullest. I know! That was good right? I can hear the sound of one hand clapping all over the Internet.

In all the pictures Jim is smiling, which means he must pick up the burning pot, thereby tattooing himself and leave the temple forever....wait.... did I just mix and match eastern religions?

W.B.Z.N.

If 6 Was 9

2009-10-05T12:55:00.008-04:00

Big highs, big lows. That's what I would say if I had to sum up my life in one sentence. I have had periods of brief stability, but mostly I am in transition to one extreme or the other. Self inflicted? Certainly. Exaggerated? Probably. Perception is reality and we all live in a construct of what we think we feel, need, see, hear, and more than anything: who we are.

Today I am well. I had the best week of cycling since March. I feel fit. I do not morn the past and my melancholy has subsided. As the pedals turn, so to do the wheels. The healing increases with the miles. This is not my default setting, so I see different colors than normal. Things smell vibrant. I hear the forest. I am thankful to be allowed to wander the trails.

I ride with caution and with a sense of gratitude. You must believe me when I say: I never thought I would make it back, I just hoped to improve. For the first time in a very long time, I have a hopeful view. My world changed over night. My boys are both in high school, and are not the people they were last summer. They surprise me everyday in appearance and in attitude. All our investments in them have started to bear fruit. All is flowing and the trick is not to disrupt the momentum. Do the dishes, get the kids, clean the kitchen, throw in some laundry, rake a pattern in the rocks, revel in the task, and not the outcome. The moment is here, the moment is gone, equal parts of nothing and something, all in balance for now. The miles are the reward, not the burden.

I know, I know, go with me on this one. It usually comes up tails.

W.B.Z.N.