Monkey Balls

Best Ride Ever!

Tuesday night rides are notorious for drama. If there is going to be a melt down, this is the ride where it will happen. Nothing of the sort happened on the this ride. We had a real reunion of some core O.G.'s (or as I call them "oh jeez").Yes I have to name them, or I will be on the no call list.

Porn Stash, with battle wounds and stories galore.

Spanish Mackerel, with several pounds missing.

Ice Berg, with his road race win grin, still stuck on his face.

Red Dragon, on a no suspenee singular.

Frog Legs, wearing gear with the tags still on.

Big Worm, too legit, and fit, to quit.

Big Jim Slade, with a public service announcements attached to his bike.

Mei Ty, back from the "Out of college, but still drinking like a frat boy" tour.

So after all my belly aching yesterday, I was on an honest to goodness, crew ride. The only thing that could have made it better would have been an appearance by the ghost, formerly known as Micro. The ride started out good and got better. We headed out to Live Oak and Chris finally knocked off the log that has been robbing him of peace for two years. Someone faster than the rest of us, decided it might be good to do a time trial at Red Bug. This idea quickly fell apart, because we couldn't get all the kittens in a box. While Legs, Berg and Slade put lotion on their egos, we all waited in the parking lot. That's when Mackerel found a tennis ball and threw it in the ring. For the next hour we had a steel cage, no holds barred, monkey ball match that was the funniest, funnest thing, I have ever done on a bicycle. There was yelling, crashes and unamused stares coming from the tennis sect. A ten on the fun meter.

Results are as follows:

1st Red Dragon-6 goals

2nd Worm/ Wrecking Ball- 4 goals

3rd Mei Ty -3 crashes

4th Frog Legs-1 crash, with goal scored on him while on ground, and 1 scab removed.

I promise you there will be a sign at Forest Meadows prohibiting such activities in the future.

W.B.Z.N.

Thicker Than Water

There is a natural law that I have been ignoring for years. I can't deny it's existence any longer. There can be waves for days on end, but the minute I put boards in my car and begin to travel in the direction of the ocean, something happens, and the sea goes silent.That being said, I did get in the water this weekend.

There is another equation I have been batting around my feeble skull. Apparently, if you do not surf, or paddle for four years, it makes you surf and paddle like a guy named Norm, on a visit from Wisconsin. I think I get this whole cross training idea. Cycling is fantastic, and I can ride for hours, but surfing is profoundly unimpressed by this stat.

The waves this Saturday were waist high, and I was in the water for a very short time. I was very surprised how tough it was to paddle. I am going to try to work some swimming in to my regimen, and make it a goal to surf more this year. I suppose I will have to do what I did before my last surf trip as well. I tied my cord to my diving board, and paddled against the tension in my pool. It is the surfing equivalent of a stationary trainer.

I did hang with my brothers, Chris and Dennis. Chris treated us to gourmet Thai food on Saturday. I ate more than a third world nation and felt no remorse.We were celebrating one year since Chris was diagnosed with cancer. He had a six percent survival rate. The emotional wounds are still fresh, but the fact that he is working as hard as ever, and surfing again is (and I know the word is over used) a miracle. There is no need for an Oprah style re-hash, he is alive and we celebrate every day that guy is walking around aggravating the shite out of us!

Dennis and I have a sick competitive relationship, and I have never won anything when pitted against him. He is a Shoalin Kung Fu style master, and there isn't anything that bastard doesn't do well. My search for his weakness continues! He beat me by one pin bowling (which isn't fair because I wasn't even drinking). I put him away at ping pong, but it was a hollow victory. My youngest son beat me twice. There is no joy in Mudville.

Well this ends my three weeks of Homer-esk (the poet, not the Simpson) weirdness. The kids are back in School, Dennis goes back to his affluent life, after visiting his trailer trash past, and I am looking forward to my routine of work, riding and over indulgent blog postings! Get out your red pens and prepare to fill the margins with my ineptitude!

Surfin Surfari

I am leaving town for the third weekend in a row. It's all part of my informal gas price research project. This time I am off to Jax, to hang with my bro's (the real sibling kind) and maybe get some waves. I will try to put up some pictures, for Magnum to criticize, when I get back. I am also planning a mtb run at Hanna if the waves falter and I am still able to pronounce my name after a day in the water.

I am sad I will miss the best weekend of the year, to be a Tallahassee cyclist. Hopefully Juancho, Worm and all their crews will drink up, and race up, the slack for me.

Remember while your riding this weekend, that person not behind you, that is not talking all time, is..... me!

Ta Ta sport fans!

W.B.Z.N.

Castles Made of Sand

My Dad used to say, "When you want God to laugh, make plans!" Well I must have cracked the big guy up this week, when I went on vacation.

1. A day at Disney World: Morbidly obese people from around the world get in your way, scream at their children and buy ridiculous things for seven times what they are worth. The food sucks, (you could do three courses at Chez Pierre for less). $60.00 for four people to eat mulch and particle board, that is deep fried in petroleum products. The rides are antiquated and in some cases so politically incorrect, I was (wait for it) embarrassed. All this for only $368.00 entry fee, plus parking, plus soylent green (I mean food). It was worth it to hear my kids complain for ten hours, and see the cynicism trait pass to another generation!

2. A day at the International Boulevard, mall of the dead: Again my kids were complete a-holes. My son looked me straight in the eye and asked for a $100.00 soccer ball. Go ahead pal....hold your breath.

3. A day at the the beach: This was going really good. I had a brief, fleeting, feeling of happiness. I pushed the kids into some waves, and caught a few myself. I built my wife a wind block/shelter, out of an umbrella and my three board travel case. I saw a look in her eye like, maybe she actually had married a hunter gatherer. It was all coming together. That's when I heard the screams and saw my son running towards the life guard station. He had grabbed a Man-O-War, not ten minutes after I showed him what they looked like and warned him ....wait for it...not to touch them!

Unlike Rocky Balboa, I know when I have been beaten. We gave up and drove home a day early. It was a quiet ride home. Three and a half hours, not one word from anyone. I am changing my last name to Griswold.

I want to ride my bicycle, a lot.

W.B.Z.N.

Mean Street

There's only been two activities I have done in my life that scared me. One was spring board diving (insert Louganis joke here..). My Father, and a few of my brothers were competitive swimmers. I really wanted to do something that my Father considered valid. I was a skateboarder, surfer, and a musician, all activities for the soft of head, in my Dad's eyes. I decided to dive my senior year. I was pretty good, but I could never shake the fear I felt, flipping and twisting in the air. I was able to do anything my coach asked. He loved the fact that I would throw my body, any way he deemed necessary. Just because I was scared, and by scared I mean, wake up screaming in a cold sweat scared, didn't mean I sucked. I just really didn't enjoy myself. My Mom and Dad were proud to have something to say at a party that didn't require an apology. There were some nice looking girls on the the swim/dive team.Things were good for a while. Eventually, a thought started creeping into my head, that it was just a matter of time before the board and I met under less than optimal circumstances. One day my hair hit it, then a hand. I moved up to three meter, where the mistakes had a higher penalty. On a Thursday practice that winter, I blew a back one and a half layout and landed flat on my front side. I got back on the horse, over rotated, and painted the back porch to match. My coach had to lift me out of the water, I was cooked. Thus ended a brilliant ten month diving career.

The other monster in the closet is road cycling. I have been doing it for eight years now and I can't shake the fear. I hate riding in groups. Like diving, the fear is not paralyzing and I still ride aggressively, but I am always thinking of the bad things. The horrible noise of the bike and rider meeting the ground. The fear of an unstable rider, taking me out. Road riding is all about being smart. It's about knowing when to lead, and when to follow. It's about, small refined adjustments of shifters, brakes and body position. These arts, are all lost on me. After all these years, I would still classify myself as a twitchy handler. Last and certainly not least, it kills my neck, on the ride, and for days after.

There's a lot I could say in defence of the discipline, but at the end of the day, I just don't enjoy it. I am tired of dreading road days, and all the feelings that come with it. I don't feel like it beat me, I feel like I am putting something to bed after a solid effort. Life is short and so am I. I will be spending my time in the woods if anyone is looking for me.

W.B.Z.N.

The Longest Day

Last week was odd. I have a theory that the full moon and the high winds made things go kookie. I had one of the most frustrating weeks I can remember, as a cyclist. I missed legendary rides, bonked on the ones I attended, and was plagued by flats on my solo endeavors.

Easter Sunday, I rode with Big Worm, Darien, and Faust. We had a splendid time. Everyone was funny and in good spirits. Worm, fresh from his "Chairs" victory was in cruise mode: Not slow, not fast, but happy and chill. Someone beat Darien on an epic sprint for a yellow sign. It was a good day, and if there is a better way to spend three hours, I challenge you to find it.

Then it was off to Orlando to see the boys play for a record label. This is always happy, and relaxing. All the way there, I was settling local band disputes, acting as a relationship councilor, and trying to guarantee the appearance of said record business guy. In the winds of chaos, somehow the band pulled off a stellar set. Said record business guy was animated and throwing compliments around like dollars at a strip club.

It all ends well. How? I don't know it's a mystery!

I hopped back in my reasonably priced car, and drove through hallucinations, weird gas stations, and bad food, toward home. I took 27 which was delightfully empty and freshly paved. "Hearts of Space" (on NPR) serenaded me back to our fine locale. The story ends with me in my own bed, in a fitful night of tormented manager dreams.

I'm back at work, where everything is predictably boring and I thank (deity of choice) for it.

That's all I have for you Pumpkins. Don't fret, I am working on another homage' to Frank Zappa that will have you clicking over to the BRC before you can say: "Poor spelling, bad grammar, inept punctuation, and weak content!"

W.B.Z.N.

Three Chords and the Truth

Making records is a difficult thing. Making good records is nearly impossible. Making magical, world changing records is something no one can do. World changing records make themselves taking passengers and prisoners on the way. They all start innocently, with a couple of people in a room, one person at a piano, or with a guitar. Some soul aches, is angry or joyful and the only way to pay proper homage, is through song. Once the inspiration has been wrung out of the writer, like a cloth, the judgements begin. The artist may be the first, but when others to hear it, they all take a whack. The song will be subjected to inhumane comparisons and criticisms.

Studious are dark places filled with cigarette butts, bad bathrooms and people that never see the sun. These are carpet covered rooms where romance, and dreams get stamped out like roaches, caught it the light. When the "record" button is pushed there is no where to hide. The computer can tune the notes, and timing, but if the song is an impostor, it will be naked in front of a laughing, ninth grade class.

All great songs all start as a shells. They must be built, piece by piece. Lucid arguments occur over the shaker part on the second chorus. Hearts break when a high harmony is cut. Hours are spent recording parts, no one will ever hear. The ultimate horror is to finish a song, and realize it is absolute shit. It is a mystery any songs get recorded at all. The fact that some songs are good, is proof of the paranormal.

If no one dies during the tracking process, the song must be mixed. The melodies must fly in and out like ghosts. Every part of every song that makes it to this point has had a war fought on its behalf, and yet it still may die, with one push of a button. Parts are featured and then fade like fog.

The song is finally released into the world. It is handed to a friend, shipped by truck, or downloaded to a device. Once that happens you are powerless to stop its life. You have to stand and suffer a thousand deaths or worse, glowing accolades.

The miracle is, it can save a life. It can be the only thing that gets someone through a day. It can say the things the less poetic of our species cannot. It can be the theme of revolutions. It can resurrect the perfume of a lost lover. It can bring the dead back to life. It can allow you to drive your first car. It can make you wonder what happened.

It is a noble mission. It is usually done for all the wrong reasons. Still, in spite of all the efforts to ruin them, great songs happen.