Cross The Universe

W.B.Z.N.

So Real

I found some old lyrics I had written in a lifetime long, long, ago and .....well you know. I was a love sick pup most of my younger days and spent considerable time writing about the love interests in my life. I also kept journals and wrote a lot of short stories. I almost never wrote when I was happy. This (I assume) is why my quill dried out in the last couple of decades. There have been no creative writing classes, no bands to bring songs to, and in the current trend of stability (in the relationship department) no lovelorn heart to mend. There was nobody to read the stories, and without melody most lyrics fail to stand on their own, so...why write...right?

I have been in some pretty bad bands in my day, some good ones too. Even in the bad bands, we managed to write a good song or two. I don't think anything is quite as rewarding as having an idea about a phrase or a melody and then hearing it played well. As you get used to songs and the shine wears off a little you figure out which ones hold water and which are hollow. The really good songs change as they age, while retaining the essence of the original idea. It is funny how I can look back and remember how I felt about those songs and those subjects, some three decades on. I am always surprised about how vivid those faces and times are when I hear the old tapes, or flip those spiral notebooks.

Fourteen years ago (DEAR GOD!) I took some classes when my first son was born. One of them was a writing class. It was great to know that someone would hear your story, even if you suffered a thousand deaths during the critique. Writing fell to the wayside, as diapers had to be changed, I had two jobs and two sons, a year apart. For the next three years, I never lifted my head from the grindstone, trying to keep the bill collectors at bay. Later, I did a lot of recording for local artists and managed a band. Then, like a summer squall, it all just settled. I was left without any crusades to fight so I threw down my sword, and went home.

This blog has rekindled some of the old feelings. I feel like a writer again and now I think of ways I can smash my days into the blog and tie them to bicycle. A couple of the crew guys (at our Thursday lunch) asked what was up, and why I hadn't posted anything. It made me realize this little blog is worth writing.

I'll wait over there for the "a thousand deaths" part now.

W.B.Z.N.

Bark At The Moon!

Nietzsche once said: "If you stare into the abyss long enough it will stare back at you."

I can tell you now that I have tried it, I saw nothing staring back, but I do have sore hands, a sore knee (with a small cut) and I can't stop laughing. Conventional wisdom would dictate that if you are wearing a four hundred dollar light on your head, and you are also riding in the dark, it might be wise to turn on said light. Well conventional wisdom has never been an element of any ride I have been on with the crew.

It was almost a full Beaver Moon last night (thanks Rev) and someone made a joke, regarding the validity of the manhood, of the poor unfortunate BASTARD! that turned his light on first. This led to a full a lap of Over Street and Red Bug in the inky depths of darkness. What's that? Not enough of a challenge you say? Oh, let's also ride without brakes! Because I wasn't hitting enough unseen obstacles before! We averaged about three miles an hour, and screams of horror were belted out about every two seconds. All I know is my arms feel like I lifted a 67 V.W. Bug.

The highlight of the evening was when Frog Legs yelled out, in absolute terror: "STUFF!" because he was out front, warning us of danger, and had no idea what he was rolling over. My eyes are still dilated.

Ideas for future rides;

1. Live Oak on flat tires.

2. Munson on road bikes.

3. City ride on stiff single speeds.

4. Tom Brown with out saddles.

5. Bike Church with out weed......well okay that last one ain't gonna happen.

W.B.Z.N.

Both Sides Now

Both sides of the happy/sad coin have their good points. I usually have great artistic energy when I am in a blue period. I always sang better, played better, and wrote better. I lived in a universe that had vibrant colors. I liken it to how junkies must miss the needle. You know its bad for you and you can't live that way, but man you miss the prick. Eventually, you have to leave the circus, and it's best to escape without wearing much clown paint. In this respect, I was lucky and managed to eek out a life. Half based on sheer luck, the other half on loved ones, reeling me in from the edge.

Life is great. I am loving the world in ways I never thought possible. I notice every leaf in every different phase of the fall. I am enjoying being the guy I am this minute, more than I ever have. Still, I miss my days as a smart mouthed rogue without a pot to piss in, or a window to throw it out of. I could never go back, but like a reformed criminal, I case banks, I will never rob.

I just came off of one of the best weeks ever. The rides have been off the charts. I had great times with family and friends in equally rewarding amounts. All this back and forth is just a result of wanting to be an artist and really being a soccer Dad. I don't know if there is room in the shell for both nuts.

W.B.Z.N.

Mistaken

Yeah so, it turns out that night riding alone out at Tom Brown and Caddy is about is about as hard core as getting coffee from Star Bucks. Apparently everyone does it. Same old story I think I am cool, turns out I am a clone.

Slade, Ty and I picked up a single speed Bob on our travels last night. It looked like Disney's "Parade of Lights" out there. We rode the same (more or less) route Slade and I rode Tuesday but about a half hour faster. You couldn't go two feet without tripping over someone riding with a light on his head. The highlight of the night was Ty's ferocious attack on Alford Arm hill. Don't let that guy fool ya ...he's got a motor. BASTARD!

I will miss the Bike Chain Thursday lunch again, due to the overwhelming amount of BASTARDS! that threw my hat in the ring, for the Fat Of The Land steering committee. I would never be part of a club that would have me as a member, but I admire a good gag so, I agreed to meet with the guys that actually know what they are doing.

Someday I guess our crew will ride together again, but I am not holding my breath. We are split into fast and slow factions and the fast guys have their race faces on. I guess I'll see y'all at Felasco.

That's the news kids I would have put in more effort, but comments are down and times is hard!

W.B.Z.N.

Available Light

More than anything riding solo in the woods, in the dark, separates the hard core, from people who ride bikes. For me it all started last year when the impending San Felasco Eco Tour forced desire to overcome fear. Like most things I get into, I tipped toed in. I continued extending my comfort zone until it was the norm. Last night was my first solo of the season. I headed out to the levy on Caddy and it felt like playing an old tune by memory. A few verses, a couple of choruses and the relief of the bridge. You count the bars and settle into the rhythm, falling back on chops you thought you had forgotten.

Tonight Big Jim Slade and I headed out as a duo. The trail seems tamer with a partner and we went much farther than we would have alone. We talked story all the way out and all the way back. We saw green eyes of spiders, and the amber eyes of gators. We ran into a small battalion of the Higher Ground crew, and then headed back into Tom Brown for the encore.

As Jim loaded up, a band echoed in a distant warehouse. I felt the itch of a recovering addict, and wondered aloud if they had any songs. The old habits die hard. I rode over to get a better listen and like a bad joke, the music was gone. I laughed at the irony, and once again was riding solo, back home in the dark. All great gigs end the same: with a late ride home alone.

Lead kindly light

Lead thou me on.....

W.B.Z.N.

Hello It's Me

If there is anything to the Karma principle, I have gotten off easy. I was quite a tool in my former lives, and amassed a resume of atrocities my catholic confessions couldn't wash from my memory, or my soul. I can imagine what people that still know me, are saying aloud to their computers. I may still be tool*ish*, but believe when I say, I have traveled far. I have been blessed beyond anything I had imagined and as I have stated many times (in this Google approved layout) I find myself wanting more. This usually leads to all kinds of retrospective analyzation and a cruel form of Monday morning quarterbacking. It is by far my most practiced dark room activity.

I fell victim to one of the oldest adages; "Nice guys finish last". Like a chump I believed it and never hooked up a filter to my cerebral cortex. I cannot tell you how many times I have missed the boat only to wave to the nice guy, on the deck of said boat, drinking a cocktail. I suppose some of it could be genetic. Some of it could be environmental. The Napoleon Complex is an oldie but goody, but none of these excuses ever get me to sleep sooner.

If I have any redeeming traits, I have learned them on a bicycle. The bike has changed my world and introduced me to more like minded people than I have ever met. I believe the lessons I learn in the saddle have had more influence on my daily thinking than any activity I have pursued. It is the common thread that decides how I plan my days, who I associate with, how I vote, and who I hope to be. It dictates when I go to sleep, how I eat, and when I do laundry. It reaches further into my life everyday and like any true passion, one can never get enough.

I have much to learn as a person, and a cyclist. I have a big open space where my dreams used to be. I want to fill them with something that is fulfilling and successful. I know a change is going to come. Until then... I need to go ride.

W.B.Z.N.

*photo by Trail Gnome*