Welcome to the Bottom

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be afraid. Someone on Facebook has pictures of you.

W.B.Z.N.