The Cut

It starts a as a bet. All the bands in town have long hair stuck in limbo between the late eighties and whatever is next. They flip their mullets using hairspray by the canful like they are the new guitarist for Poison. I'm watching them take smoke breaks on Tennessee Street when it hits me they look like they were punched out of the same factory in South Dakota. I imagine them marching in step while saying "Yabba dabba doo" over and over, feeling cool, but looking like everyone else. I'm no better rocking some asymmetrical, mullet, squib, hybrid not knowing if I am a lost skater or John Cougar. I can't shake the feeling the next day at work, so in between selling car stereos, I call all of the boys in the band. I leave them messages knowing they are at the music store, the garage, or painting houses. They all get the challenge shortly after six.

"Cut your hair off if you want to stay in this band. Who ever shows up with their old bullshit helmet head, pays the whole bands tab for this week at Bullwinkle's or you're fired. Meet at Johnny's at eight so we can ride in together."

Ya it's dumb, but no one wants to be the goat, so we all secretly make arrangements with whoever cuts our hair. I call McBeth (the nickname we call the woman that cuts my hair, because of her Shakespearean flare for drama). It's last minute but I know she will fit me in. She has wanted to fuck me for years (so she says) and I don't know if the flirting is a tactic to get bigger tips or if she has real interest. I act like I'm not attracted to her and she pretends it makes her crazy. I show up at her house where she has been cutting hair off the books for years. It's cash only but she is a very good stylist. She usually has beer and weed (I don't smoke) but it adds to the allure. I can trust her, because she knows what I want. She knows my hair will be in front of three hundred people tonight. Several other band guys and me help her stay in demand as the "go to stylist" of the A list. When I walk in she is playing some bizarre shit on her stereo, Suzy and The Banshees is ending and Sinead O'Connor starts to slither around the room as I get in the chair. The room is dimly lit and you would never know it was day time outside. I feel like I have wandered into the lair of a vampire, but really I have come to expect this kind of ambush and I am neither rattled nor surprised when she enters the room in rib high pleated pants and no top. Her whole act is more suited for an erotic palm reader, or a tarot stripper. We both silently enter into a Mexican standoff, where neither acknowledges her her nudity. She has great skin, small perfect tits and nipples that were obviously pinched for effect right before she entered through the beaded curtain. She takes off the gold chain holding my cross, and asks in a husky lap dance voice, what I want. I fight the urge to giggle. It is the greatest thing in the world to see how cliche the effort to seduce is, when there is no danger of actual sex. She is beautiful, a few years older than me, worldly, with a legendary resume of hedonism, I could only imagine. I am not like other musicians I know. I secretly wish I could to be like them, and I pretend that I am. I want to fuck, snort coke, wake up confused and naked, next to whoever was available last night. I don't know if it is fear, false morality, or the fact that my internal wiring finds very few women with the traits or pheromones, that turn the tumblers of my locks. I have had my heart and spirit broken. I have known love. I am too aware of my bullshit issues. I'm also afraid to dive into my base and darker desires. I am immune to McBeth and women like her. I am in search of some immaculate virginal temptress, like the one I lost. I am trying to grasp sand, or hold smoke. Because I believe once I had the grail, the soul mate, I carry myself with a kind of aloof armor.

I tell her I want it all off. I tell her, I don't want to look like anyone else that is in a band in this fucking town. A Sisters of Mercy song starts. And she dances a little as I talk. She throws a black cloth over the mirror.

"Should I just do what I want?"
She says leaning over with her hands on my legs.

"Just make me look cool, and take those ridiculous pants off."

I turn the barbers chair with my foot away from her, in a fake and indignant gesture. I hear the fabric buzz against her as she obliges my childish bluff. The next hour is a blur of incense, and spicy wet joint smoke she pulls in and releases, between metallic scissor swipes, and razor cuts. Two years of cliche, fall like feathers to the dark floor around me. She smokes, and sings along with the latest cryptic song on the mixtape. I have overheard multiple guitar players and singers describe this same scenario, but she dances like she has never heard it before. It is the mark of a true pro. She is a fantastic combo of lightly tanned and string line white skin. Her black panties adorned with small roses and lace, are the same she wore for my last haircut. I appreciate her commitment to pageantry, like the priests of my childhood altars, my father's clip on ties, short sleeve white IBM shirts and my mother's apron. I am deep in a contact high from the sweet leaf she exhales into my face. I close my eyes and sit back listening to The Cure, The Cult, Ministry, and all the other bands she collected in a embroidered notebook, after hearing their songs in clubs or on the college station. My hands are clutching the arms of the chair as she inadvertently rubs the lace seam of her undies across my index finger. The red bandanas on her lamps are making strange shapes on her moving walls. I twitch my pinkie against the musk spot behind the veiled fabric that hides the sacred folds, that ten band dudes could draw from memory, like sketch artists at a murder scene. She finishes and walks out wordless for dramatic effect, like a rock star leaving the stage. Like she imagined she would do at the end of a performance if she could sing. She emerges seconds later fully clothed, not amateur enough to follow through with the charade. She pulls the the black cloth off the mirror and I see a person I do not know. My left side part has returned and jagged protuberances stand up at different angles off the right side of my head. I hand her thirty dollars, fifteen for the cut and fifteen for the show. I say;

"Thanks honey."
I give her a hug as she looks knowingly at my naive face.

We part and I walk out into the harsh daylight, that I forgot was there. I get in my car, catch a glimpse of myself in the rear view mirror and it is like the emperor's clothes have disappeared. A voice in my head I identify as my father, tells me I look like an idiot. Daylight is the enemy of musicians, delusions and lust. I turn the mirror away from myself and hit the denial button. I drive toward Johnny's house, praying to god my double dare worked, and that I am not the only idiot that cut his hair. A Bauhaus song comes on the college radio station. I convince myself I am a rock star and no one knows it yet. A mean truck roars passed me with a gun in the rear window. Over the music I hear;

"FAAAAGGGGG!!!!!!"

It rips passed my open window like a train in the woods. Like so many times before, since I left my home town, I wish I was behind the counter at the surf shop, or paddling out to surf with my friends, or getting home to my Moms spaghetti and meatballs. I wish I was waking up under the stripped covers of my single bed, looking up at my collage of Van Halen, The Police and U2. I drive to Johnny's beating on my steering wheel, half out of anger, half to let people know I am a musician and that this science experiment on my head is not a mistake. I am no more a man now, than I was in sixth grade, arriving for the first day of school.

My Favorite Mistake



My memory of the Flag Loop (out old Centerville Road, over the Georgia line and back) was a happy one. We did the ride at night last winter, when I was in really good shape. It was the only night clay ride I've ever done. Not long after, a plan started to hatch in my brain about connecting it and the Kilearn/Dirt Proctor route, to make it a long solo ride.

The stars aligned and I slept nine hours Saturday night. I felt like Sunday was a perfect day to take a shot at it. I was up early enough and it was cool and clear out. I started out slow feeling sluggish after my first real week of riding in a while. I got lost looking for the back door (a cut through some private roads, off Bradfordville Rd.) to Proctor. I figured it was about ten miles out to Centerville, but when I got there I had about sixteen. I was so preoccupied with my incorrect mile count, that I forgot to get water at the Bradfordville Country Store, before I headed out on the clay. My plan was to turn around if my odometer read over thirty miles by the time I reached the first turn on Metcaff. I cruised thought the Old Centerville Road clay and looking at houses and plantation gates. I wondered what it would be like to live out there. I hit the pavement at Springhill and quickly realized the climbs were tougher and longer than I remembered. At about twenty eight miles, I came to the stop sign and the left turn onto Metcaff. Another cyclist rolled up to the intersection across the street and we chatted about where we were from and where we were going. He had never ridden the Flag Loop, but he knew the roads and came with me to make sure I got the next turn correct. At the next dirt section we said our goodbyes and I was on my own again.

About this time, I started to feel a very uneasy stirring in my gut. It's that rumble and cramp, we all recognize from awful previous experiences. I began looking for a place to desecrate. In my preoccupation with impending doom, I missed my left turn and ended up on 319 a few miles south of Thomasville. The one bright spot was, there was a gas station across the road and I was thanking (Deity of choice) that I would be able to evacuate the evil in a civilized manner and also get water. At first I didn't notice all the plastic bags on the gas pumps, or the lack of cars, but when I looked into the dark pad locked carcass of the store, I said "no fucking way!" loudly to no one. My mind and bowels were already in launch mode and I had to find whatever spot I could to exercise the demons, that were coming with or without my consent. I squatted next to an A.C. unit, praying that no one would see me doing something, National Geographic would edit from a Hippo documentary. I always carry paper towels with me (for just such a party) and was thankful I had done one thing right. I walked away from the crime scene as though nothing happened, vowing never to admit guilt for the havoc I had unleashed.

A quick check of the map revealed I missed my turn by one mile and I headed down Forshalee, thankful that at last, I was headed home. This is a narrow and nearly house free road with a couple good climbs and bombing (thirty mile per hour, plus) downhill's. I was feeling so relieved that I actually got out of the saddle on a couple of the hills and forced myself not to touch the brakes going down. I got to the left on Sunny Hill and drank down my last swallow (which put Kenny Rodgers "The Gambler" on loop, in my internal radio station).

By the time I got to Old Centerville again I was really thirsty and hungry but I couldn't force down a Cliff Bar with no water. I came to St. Phillips-Primitive Baptist Church of Christ and rolled under the chain at the gate. I found a spicket and turned it on. A slow stream of brown water sputtered out of the pipe and turned eventually to a milky white water and air mixture. After a few minutes it finally became a clear clean (looking) stream. I filled my bottles after a smell and taste test. All seemed well. I decided I would not drink that stuff after suffering my previous intestinal riot, and planned to haul ass (as best I could) to the Bradfordville Store. When I finally got there, all my monkey brain could think of was RC Cola. I went in and bought water and two sodas. I staggered out to the porch and inhaled the first and then the second without a break. I slammed down the bottle on the railing, only then noticing a man and his wife looking at me in equal amounts of disbelief and disgust. I apologized and told them I'd been out of water for about an hour. I filled my bottles with fresh water and felt like a new man (after a couple dinosaur burps).

When I got back to Proctor, the idea of going back over my tracks seemed dumb, so I headed south to Crump and the Miccosukee Greenway. The idea of not dealing with cars and shaving a couple miles off my ride home seemed sound. By the time I got to the top, and the end of that trail, every root and patch of sand was causing me to spit and curse, and I swore I might never ride it again. I coasted down the sweet paved hill and back up the last climb on Woodgate, to my hood. Sixty three miles (about twenty more than I estimated) and four hours and forty five minutes were in the books. Considering all the missteps and calamity, I felt pretty good.

There is something about these long solo rides, on new routes, that make them seem bigger than they are. I am always afraid of getting dropped and lost on group rides and I figure this is good therapy for that. It's nice to know you didn't sit in and shut your brain off on another group ride. In the end you did it alone (however slow) and for this old dog, the feeling of accomplishment is very rewarding. I guess you can always do a lot more than you think you can. I need to remember that.

W.B.Z.N.

Just Take Your Medicine (and don't complain)

Halfway through my second lap at Tom Brown, I realized I would rather be doing anything than riding my bike. Big Worm and Tiny D had dropped me about ten seconds into their medium pace regimen. They are prepping D for the Tom Brown race next week, and I am here to see them. Worm is aggravated, no one is hearing what he is saying and he's just trying to help. D warms up slower than any completive cyclist of her ilk, but when she flips the switch she can red line as long as she wants. They are invisible in the distance and I am going so slow the roots on the one technical section of Cadillac, almost force me backward. I am completely and utterly unenthused with mountain biking. This activity has become some monotone dirge and I would rather watch game shows than pedal one more minute.

It was not like that when I started. Some of the trail heads were marked by no trespassing signs and for the first time since I was a skateboarder, I felt that great taste of five finger candy. To steal something was always sweeter than to being invited. This was also true of my favorite surf spot back home; The Power Plant. We you had to go down dirt roads around a gate and then finally down a perilous sand double track in my old VW bug. After navigating that maze then, and only then, could we pick the fruit of that grand emptiness. Dark gray waters awaited with great lefts and rights with no one around for miles. It was a huge oasis from the rat cage that was my home break; North Jetty in Ft. Pierce. At the plant you could catch as many waves a you wanted, and we laughed and yelled paddling as fast as we could, back out to the empty lineup. The dream was short lived as word got out and the gallery brought the bullshit by the truck load. All my favorite skate spots were illegal too. You came to a fence, looked at your friends, threw your gear over the wall, climbed it and reaped the rewards. We skated big pipes, empty pools, new construction roofs, and bone dry fountains at dilapidated hotels. The skate park, lay within minutes of where we were trespassing, but for us the rules, frozen pizza, and Steve Miller on a loop, where too much to bear.

When I started riding fifteen years ago, it was an adventure for me. Tom Brown was covered in head high grass. The unregulated trails broke off and crossed back over themselves, while others dead ended into old buildings. Cadillac was private property, rooty, brutal, washed out and fantastic. If I saw a cyclist out there, he was always better than me and everyday there were ten obstacles I dreaded. If there was a storm and a tree came down, it laid where it fell and you had to find a way over or around it. Out past the levy, in the no mans land beyond the tracks, lay the bucket loop bordered by thorns, berries, crooked fences and occasional hunters. Weems trails had four wheelers with no helmets, rich high school pricks drinking beer by fires, standing in the trash they never cleared. Beyond them lay the abandoned Fallschase development with burned out carcasses of berm houses and paved roads to no where.

All my favorite pastimes have an element of fear attached. I was afraid every time I skated a big half pipe, took off on a set wave, or reached for the top button of a girls jeans. That thrill of waiting for a sigh or screaming denial was (and is) the "thing". I was able to keep that demon alive on my cross bike by riding more dirt, on an unsuspended skinny tire beast. For a little while this year, that feeling came back. Even the smallest section of soft sand is a white knuckle death ride. I also found the feeling out on long road rides alone, wondering if I had enough legs to get home. I felt the tingle with every passing car and every turn, down roads I didn't know.

I have unfettered dreams of cashing in my retirement and becoming a dishwasher in Missouri, hiding in a rural house writing the novel, no one will read. I have to fight my steering wheel anytime I get near I-10 to keep from driving away into new, unauthorized single track. I always remember there are bills to pay, a great wife to kiss, and boys to support on their new trail. After all, I have had every opportunity to take all the shots I've wanted to take, with little or no resistance from anyone in my life. Still, I pace back and forth in my office like a caged cat that once ran wild. I peek through the blinds and wonder what they'd all say if I disappeared again, like I did back in 87'.

In the end, I am a good dog and I know where my bowl is. I ride the rides and take the easy route around the logs. I dutifully get out of the saddle on the ten foot wide oyster shell horse path. I run the fence obsessively and howl at real and imagined threats beyond my borders, like I am actually defending some sacred ground. More than anything, I fear that sound in the distance is just a branch in the wind, scraping the fence, and all the barbarians beyond my gates, have died.

W.B.Z.N.

Miles

My blood is running past the lungs and into the heart and then the brain. Dirty and clean and oxygenated and pulsed to the limit of the old man that owns it. Past the breaks that tried to kill him and it. Past the houses of the new rich and old southern money. Past the gates I trespass, climbing the hills, up to tasteless monuments of perceived success. Past the people who work harder than me and wonder what it would be like to sweat for fun, instead of need. Past the gates I am poor, down the south streets I am rich. If you ride far enough you see all things.

I am standing, pushing harder than I should, alone on the bike, the place where there is nothing but wind and breathing. The memories flood back and there are still no solutions. No matter how hard I think about the past gaffs and missteps, there is only one more hill to climb and ten more miles before I turn for home. There is a point where I am purified. Where the silence lives and beyond it, peace and absolution. If I just push a little more, it waits for me.

The clock is running in my pocket. Someone will feel like he is better than me tonight, but he knows nothing of my scars. No one knows all my stories. The stories of the times I counted waves and forced myself past the white water. The times I fought to get to class with out a bloody lip. The times I didn't defend the girls on the bus, from the older boys at the top of the food chain. They don't know the moment it all went wrong . I do.

I am rushing for the green light at the top of the hill. I am watching the car that may not stop in time. I am thinking of Dave and his son. I don't want to be another cautionary tale. I have already done that. I don't like the attention or the questions or the looks of pity and fear of contagion. I like the look of frustration. When you realize the poor bastard just beat you. When you are forced to re access. Its okay if I loose. I am the guy that shouldn't be here.

So I am running. I am riding farther than I want to. I am alone in the wind. I am unafraid of getting lost. Because I have made it home from worse than this little ride.

W.B.Z.N.

Mistral Wind



The week started well with an easy but fun ride with Big Worm and Mighty Mite. A lazy stroll with some minor efforts and a couple hard uncontested climbs. I am like a precocious child to Worm and Mite. They watch me go up climbs and they think; "Isn't he cute? Look at him breathing all heavy." MM is one of the fastest women in the state and could destroy me at will. They were saving their legs for a possible Chaires fest on road bikes. They felt no temptation to swat gnats. 

The next two days were awful. MTB rides with no power in the tank. Those kinds of rides where you just make yourself do it, because not riding would be worse. Labor and discipline. There is no happy to be found on days like these, only questions and doubt. There is a candle forever burning, in the window at home. You always feel better than you would have if you baulked.

Saturday was beautiful. I opted not to ride with the crew because I had no faith in my legs. Lil WB (seems funny calling him that since he's four inches taller than me and in college) said he'd ride with me if we went easy and on the road. I had two goals: keep the pace fun and keep him out of the wind. We took a straight route down to St. Marks Trail with only one real climb. He was talking and we were laughing like the old days. He's been so busy with school and music that we usually only exchange grunts, as one leaves and the other arrives. We were about five miles from the coast when he popped a spoke and dished his rear wheel, into the frame. I offset the skewer enough to where it would turn and we back tracked to Natural Bridge Road, where his Mom picked him up. He made faces at me as they drove off and I laughed so hard I started coughing. 

I thought I might as well head up Old Plank to Chaires and get a real ride in. I figured it was fourteen miles. I had already gone twenty eight, but our pace had been so slow I felt fine. Anyone who has ridden that route is probably already laughing. It was twenty six miles of head wind to Chaires. By the time I got there, I was feeling every inch of the forty eight miles and three hours in the saddle. I knew I had twelve miles (most of it tough climbs) back to the house. I decided to settle in and ride at whatever pace felt good. I felt like a cyclist for the first time (that week) when I got home. Success. I had about a hundred twenty miles in for the week. The Sunday weather forecast looked good.

I got up late again and headed out to look at the new trail section the MTB club cut in, and the new bridge over the tracks, out by the levy. I rode slowly and looked around a lot. I stopped to enjoy views. I smiled at people (lots of them!) on the trail. All was right and good in my head, a rarity to be sure. That was two weeks ago.

The following week had two gigs, cold pissing rain, and no rides. The kicker was a fever laced head cold that arrived Friday. Last night I had LSD dreams about a vacation that never happened. The kids were young and we were at some resort with a spectacular view. People were eating seafood by the shore. Then I noticed the entree's were fighting back. A man had a angry crab in his beard. Big blue crabs were crawling up my legs and shirt. I woke up brushing them off my chest at seven A.M. Just in time to hear the alarm. Time to go to work.

Oh, how funny life is. Mine at least is filled with equal parts joy and regret. My hours are spent in wonder or questioning every word I have ever said, and all the choices that got us here. Here where the view is good, but the crabs are coming.....and they are always angry.

W.B.Z.N.         

Down To Earth

I have played this room million times, or I should say, others just like it. They have a secret factory in South Dakota where they are made and shipped out to tertiary markets around the U.S. They are produced to placate the masses so they can survive and get through the week. The fifth tier contenders come here to drink, play music, and work the bar, trying to erase the big dreams and faces of the ones that got away. The stage is a ten by twelve feet, and is twelve inches high. It was built with all the available technology any ten year old would have, to build a tree fort. It looks like a raft floating on a acid stained concrete sea, among the flotsam of mismatched tables and chairs. There is a small dance floor in front of it. I know it's a dance floor because there are no mismatched chairs and tables there. "Yes" I think to myself in silence, I have played this place a million times, like a reoccurring dream riddle from a video game I can't escape. I never seem to get passed this level of the game for long. I can't defeat the dragon at the gates of the tour bus and limo level. I hear the sad trombone from a seventies game show play the "Whaw, whaw, what wahaaaaaw" as my avatar returns to a different version of this little bar. Somewhere in here, I am supposed to unlock the code of ascension. The good news is; it's relatively quiet. After a brief chat with the owner, we decide to load in. The Shackle backs up the van and we start to ferret in the gear like zombies. As I pull open the door, the sound hits me like a wind from a fucked up hurricane. A loud D rated local bands demo is playing impossibly loud. There is one waitress, the manager and us. This a common phenomenon, all bars must play loud music when mops are being used or bands are setting up or tearing down. It is law.

Last night we played the Tara Plantation of Atlanta's live music scene; Smiths Olde Bar. It was once a must stop for many music icons. It has great sound, lights, technical staff and a authentic vibe you can taste like a popsicle. The walls are covered with stickers and you can hear the ghosts of all the great bands, as you hang back stage. In it's hay day it was your passport to credibility in the south. Now the maiden still has good bones, but her dress is faded and her face shows the wrinkles of one who knows she's is no longer the southern debutante at the ball. Still, you cannot deny the honor you feel in her presence. This place has everything a good bar should have. It seems so simple but like love, it cannot be forced into existence, it just happens. Venues like her are struck by lightning. Legends and myths rise from these temples, like smoke from camp fires. Smith's has been dubbed the C.B.G.B's of the south for very good reason and like me she is hanging onto the denial, that dedication and love will be rewarded, but we both know it's not enough. The most one can do is look around during the glory days and try to remember the stories. The stories we recant after too many beers. Last night we played like the veterans we are, to a thirty percent capacity crowd that wasn't there to see us. The sound was great. We grooved like demons and sang like angels. We were met with applause and accolades and we were promised another date, in the hallowed main room upstairs. As we loaded out our gear, it began to rain. We carried our cases down the wet fire escape to our van. We drove home drinking the beers we took from our dressing room. The rain and cold air hit the van hard from the side like an omen, but I ignored it. These basking moments are few and even though they be drenched in idealism, they must be chewed slowly. You must savor the juice and it let run slowly down the back of your throat. They are rare birds in this game.

The Shackle is pissed about his mix position. It's in a closet/dressing room. Like me, he has come to the realization that this gig is something we never thought we'd do again. The Shackle works at high levels in the sound world. He has mixed stadiums and huge shows all over the nation. He thought his closet mixing days were over. He is perpetually positive and professional in the face of all kinds of indignities, but even he is showing doubt. He is an even share member of our team and a veteran from the days of limos and buses when I was the singer's manager. The Shackle was the front of house sound man I hired to take care of my boys, for a grand a week. We had deep pockets and an account full of record company money. I laugh at his contempt, because nothing will cheer you up like seeing the shared misery of a friend next to you in the quicksand.

We play our two and a half sets. There is about fifty people at the peak and we end with about twenty. Our singer and guitar player are pretty lubed up on Miller Lite and at the end it gets a little sloppy. The minute we finish playing, the local band demo begins to play again louder than hell through a speaker, three feet from my head. We force feed our gear and cables into cases. The bass player passes on load out and drives home separate with his girlfriend. We drag his name through the shit, as we throw cases in the van. I get paid after hearing a positive review from the manager. I know we will be back. We take perfect back roads, through the timeless rural landscape, towards Monticello and eventually Tallahassee. We make way too much noise unloading at three thirty A.M. in my quiet little neighborhood.

The next day dawns beautiful at noon. I make breakfast for Neil and I and he leaves to install cabinets on a Sunday with his Dad. I pull on Lycra, pump up my tires, and head out to cleanse my lungs of smoke, and my head from the gigs. I am trying to sweat off the clown paint, from my two nights at the circus. The sky is clear, the air is crisp and cool, as I meander around the east side paths for three hours and twenty eight miles. It is obvious, to me and everything in the woods, another spring is coming. My sins of pride and grandeur are washed away and I am reborn. Tomorrow I will rise like Lazarus, and go to work, like the whole caper never happened. I will cycle my lights out in my office and recharge them for that evenings night ride. Soon the time will change and all my rides will be in sun. The visions of the night will fade and another season will decay. There will be other rides in the woods, and gigs like this weekend. I will string them together, like beads on a rosary, hoping for redemption wherever I can find it.

W.B.Z.N.

Jungleland

She looks how I imagine a buffalo might look with a shaved face and glasses. She has a nasty expression and she is tapping her spoon 3.6 feet from my right ear. The waiter approaches and she grabs his arm, despite the steaming entrees he's holding for table six.

"NO ICE!"

She barks tapping the spoon on her cup. There are three cubes floating in the glass, as he confirms her command. She releases his arm and table six gets their food. Another man in arms reach of my left ear, is nervously crinkling fortune cookies, while he waits for a take out order. He is performing a symphony of sighs and tisks, in between nanosecond time checks.

I begin writing a book in my head about a serial killer, who's victims are Cretans that ruin his dining experiences. She is victim one, found in her yard posed like Al Jolson on one knee, hands out stretched "Mammy" style. Her eyes were tooth picked open, she had three egg roles in her mouth and was found in the early stages of rigor. The police department is stumped.

Even as I surmise, that I am projecting my anger, I cannot stop planning the death of Mr. Cookie. I just awoke from a trauma nap twenty minutes ago. The kind of tormented sleep, only a soul shaking defeat can deliver. Dark fever dreams full of symbols and icons from my greatest hits album. I sip one of the best iced teas in town, as I begin interrogating myself internally about the days events. I am trying to piece together the wreckage into a recognizable form. This will be analyzed for the forth time today; once on the shortcut out of lunch, once on the drive home, and once in retelling to my wife. I now will perform it in a duet, with my abusive inner dialogue....by far my favorite version.

Was it the Mexican food the night before, with the eight pounds of chips, ten different salsa samples and two beers?
Was it the room with the wet carpet, mold lab and suspect bed spread?
Was it the lack of focus on diet and riding the last two weeks?
Was it the elevated hyper-state I could not stabilize, for the last two days?

Oh why must I choose? They are all so good. It's like deciding which child should die, and I'm no Meryl Streep. I decide to let them all live on repeat, in my festering subconscious.

(Earlier today, at the Tour de Felasco 50 mile Eco ride)
 I am having some issues with a mild cough. I take two hits from the inhaler on the car ride from the hotel and a couple more as I unload gear. I'm starting to notice that I'm really not improving, but my Olympic level denial is working overtime, so I ignore it. A few miles in on the first climb, even at the VERY slow pace we are maintaining, so two stragglers can catch us, I am not feeling spry.

About ten miles in, at the base of some of the tougher rooty climbs, I begin coughing for real. I tell some riders behind me to come around, while I  try to pace through, and regulate my breathing. The next set of climbs has some traffic on it, I can't ride the pace I want and the main event takes the stage.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMAN, ARE YOU READY? PLEASE WELCOME TO THE STAGE...
ASTHMAAA ATTTACK! ACK ACK!"

The lights dim, the white noise erupts and I cannot turn one more pedal. My group is gone, I am off my bike and my head is balanced inside my helmet, on my saddle. Rider after rider asks if I am alright, by far my favorite thing about attacks; the question and answer round. I recover and relapse and manage to get moving again when I see my friend Zak, waiting beside the trail. He knows the look, he's a lifetime member of the lung club, and falls in behind me. There are blurry montages of roots and riders and a brutal climb, where Chris was fixing Chad's chain at the top. Zak passes the baton to Chad, and he nurses me through the next ten miles, to the second sag stop. I assure Chad I am OK and tell him to go, which he reluctantly does. I am thankful for my friends, but in my humiliated state, I am good company for no one. I get short cut info from a worried looking volunteer, who asks me three times to get in the "Yellow Truck of Shame". I crawl five miles to the lunch stop, and then take the green arrowed "Route of Tears" back to my car.

I am finishing up my solo dinner. Bison head is neck deep in a feeding orgy, showing no signs of pleasure or nourishment. She taps her glass to let the waiter know he is once again derelict in his duties. I finish my meal, which was the only good thing that has happened today. Tea to go. Check and tip. I slip into the wet reflective stream of lights and faceless cars.

I pull into my garage. The house is empty. Springsteen's "Jungleland" comes on, so I shut the car off and sip tea to a song you might hear on the radio, once or twice in a lifetime. Bruce knows the pain of a real death waltz, and what it's like to reach for a moment, and wind up wounded. Suddenly it's all just water colors, on a wall in my head, set to a tune by The Boss.

It's hard to be thankful at times like these, but we never tell the stories of the perfect rides. These are the days you put in your quiver, for the ride that used to be tough, but doesn't seem that bad now. A shit day on a mountain bike, is still better than what ninety percent of the world is doing with their time.

See you next year Felasco..... you Motherfucker.


W.B.Z.N.    

Futile



Two nights prior, I played music with a Grammy winner and a mutli platinum producer. I also played with my long time bass player. No one outside this city knows him, but he could play with anyone. The music is deceptively difficult. Little subtleties that hardly anyone would notice, but they all add levels of texture, that would otherwise diminish the songs. I should be over the moon, but really, I just want it to be over. I live in mortal fear of missing the next syncopated claymore. All ends well. I actually play the only tasteful drum feature of my life. A raised eye brow from the Grammy winner, a knowing smile from the bass man, and a nod of acknowledgement from the Maestro....better than applause or money. Still, all I can think about is getting to the bar.

"Irish handcuffs please. Thanks. Again. Thanks."

 Finally, a breath taken at room temperature and not from the open door of a furnace. 

Saturday; four hours sleep, lunch with my girl, nap, stationary trainer torture, movie, bed. 

Sunday: Tuning drums for a session with the Maestro. All the while twitching like a worm on a hook. The bike is on the car. Munson is surely prefect, gripping, damp clay and white under belly. I escape two hours later than promised. Something with the files and the pre-amps, and a ringing noise in the snare I couldn't eliminate, while maintaining the pitch the Maestro wanted. 

Scramble out of clothes, forget glasses, triple check the car doors. Hammer into paper cup way to fast, way to anxious, and way too pissed off. A thought occurs that, the current meth like state of mind, could lead to a few PR's on Strava. I am full cry in the big ring, railing a corner when I see him. Jeans, flat pedals, no lid, holding his phone attached to his ear buds. Off I go into the thicket to the left of the trail. Thank god it is full of thorns. He says; "Duuude". I ride away from him. Two corners later I run into a couple of riders I know, faces full of teeth, having the ride of a life time. They force me over a berm and yell my name as they blaze by. Instant Karma. Not stoked. I am less than a half mile into the ride. 

I finish the lap and it is getting colder by the minute, but also dark and the lot at the trail head is nearly empty. I try to hit the reset button. This time there will be no traffic. I will hammer out a clockwise lap in total solitude. I can feel my center coming back. The sky is an airbrushed license plate from 1985. I cross the power line to a long set of curving climbs. Still in the big ring, still have legs. Just before coming down the to cross the power line for the last leg of the lap, I see him. His bike is upside down and he is looking at his front wheel like he found a piece of alien technology. He has no tire irons. To my surprise, I don't either. I get the stiff tire off with a screwdriver from my multi tool. I put his tube in and its bad too. I try for ten more minutes to get the tire off, so I can put my spare tube in, but it will not budge. He mumbles something about how he could have walked to the car by now. I hand him his wheel, and ride off.

"Some days you can't do good."
He says. I wish him luck.

I fumble back to the car, in the dark, with no lights. It's the first time in years that the ride was not the cure. It was like running on a trampoline. 

Tour de Felasco looms on the horizon. I should be over the moon, but really I just want it to be over. 

W.B.Z.N.        

Wild Horses

It's 5:30, I wake up to the alarm in complete state of forget. It is a haze I stay in for less than two seconds. I rise quietly, grab my phone and head out of the room. The dining room table is covered with a grid work of bike clothing, food and accoutrement's for the Spaghetti Dirt Epic; 62 miles of clay and paved roads. I am ready. I know it. I have done the completely undramatic work. I am surprised by how confident I feel. Fear still walks with me though, and it knows better than anyone all my secrets; How badly I tend to handle mechanical failures, how panicked I change tires, how childlike I become during asthma attacks. It whispers to me at moments like these when I feel good about myself:

"What if you have an issue? What if you have a migraine or asthma attack? What if you get too excited and blow to pieces in the early chaos of the start? What if everyone sees you bent over and retching for breath?"

I have a new answer for all those questions: "Fuck it, I'll ride alone. That's how I got here." Because riding alone was what I have feared most, that's what I have been doing. Long rides on the road, learning to navigate, intentionally getting lost, and making it back, which in many ways describes my life in a perfect little nutshell. I just want to be good enough to ride with my friends. I don't want to beat anyone, or prove anything, I just want to be part of story, instead of hearing the recount.

The start is the typical  mock opera of knuckleheads. Mountain bikers moving to the front and causing all kinds of expansions and contractions in the school moving upstream. Twice I have to speak up to people fighting for Big Worms wheel (which is the most valued piece of group ride real estate in cycling). They want me to give it up and that is not an option.

We turn onto the first section of dirt, the one that Ricky Silk called; "kinda sandy and soft". He said it with raised eyebrows like it was a secret. The underscored subtlety was not lost on me. Once he described Oak Mountains Blood Rock section as "kinda technical". When a guy that can ride anything says something like that, its noteworthy. We hit the sand, I am on Worms wheel, about twenty five people from the front. It's Braveheart on bikes. People and bicycles are performing a dance that would make sub atomic particles blush with envy. The yelling starts behind me as things begin to go wrong. I follow Worm into and ankle deep section of fine brown sugar. Worm shoots far left into a hard part of a little ditch and powers though. I put a foot down and Fred Flintstone for dear life. In the process, I stop roughly fifteen riders behind me. Fifty yards away I see Worm out of the saddle on the first dirt climb, no sign of looking back, no sign of stopping. I am on the edge, breathing like a whipped plow horse, and start running in the brown talcum, with all I have. It is like a bad slow motion dream. I jump on and attack the hill, knowing that if this keeps up I will not stay with the group. I crest the hill and make the catch. We settle back into a hard pace with a little more organization and no talking. There is only heaving breath and the wheel in front of us. As I realize I am going to have to give up and go off the back, Worm tells me, we need to start riding smart and let the leaders go.

 I am saved.

We settle into a rhythm, and the drama resides. Worm  and Storman are pacing us and I recover. We chat about the melee, and laugh about how Cliffy couldn't resist going with the leaders after swearing he was going to "take it easy, have fun and ride with us" (so generous of him). We see a lone rider ahead going the wrong way. The sight of the bright yellow vest, and barbaric beard, sets all laughing. Cliffy comes into view talking to himself as we fly by. He turns and catches us with out any effort we can detect and now the ride is shaping up like we planned. We make lunch, and roll out with a few more strays heading into the second leg for home. I know now, I am going to be alright. I even do a little work at the front (a first in my career on this type of ride, where I hide from the wind for fear of death or getting dropped). Back in the first dirt section after lunch, I am again defeated in the powder and this time I take Jim Smart out. We fight our way through and I pull as back to the group, pissed and exhausted. *I really need sand skills on the cross bike.

Nearing the end of this ride (as all endurance events) when the pack smells the barn, the alliances break and the stronger gently move ahead. The talking devolves to grunts and communication via expression. Future TMBA President, Mike Yaun, stays just off the front of Worm and I and the others are specs in the wavy distance. We are almost home. The three big dirt climbs, come and go, with Worm and I cursing our way over the tops. Back on pavement, we pick off some low hanging fruit from the forty mile ride. I help on the climbs and Worm turns the pistons on the descents and flat tarmac.

We arrive in three hours forty five minutes, a time Worm and I both agreed would be a great number for the day. Beers are opened, spaghetti is eaten and for the first time in four years I am hearing stories about a tough ride, I was actually on. It all seems fine and completely mundane. The best mundane I have ever experienced. A mundane I remember from old days before the storm, before I chose to let anger steal my life. A mundane I hope to keep as long as I am able.


W.B.Z.N.

*Photo Brian Pierce (my nominee for "rider of the day")

 

Time Flies

I hate getting ready to ride. I grumble and hope for rain and dig out clothes and cuss when there are no clean water bottles. I hate my old pump and I am out of tubes. My gloves smell like a dead body. Somehow I mange to throw a leg over.

There is no way in or out of my hood with out a climb. It is a bitch at the beginning of a ride. Crawling up to the Thomasville Road light where the cars always pinch off the curb on the right turn. People come over the hill there at warp factor seven, running from the jobs they hate, rushing home to the television. I am a pissed off cyclist but at least I am not them. I hop up on the curb and then back down at the front of the right turn line. Stink eye from the lady with too much hairspray. I spot a little opening in traffic and in a supreme act of faith, drop onto Thomasville road and hammer towards Hermitage. I catch the light and lean into the great right corner with no traffic. You can hold all your speed going wide and stay around twenty five miles per hour, to the base of the hill. The missing twelve pounds in my jersey are the difference between now and the last time up this hill. I got dropped by my son here in a wheezing stagger, two months ago. 

Over I-10 and into the safety of Kilearn Estates. Drink water. Trying to ignore the smell of food I can't eat. The A.J. decent is next. A van follows me into the the first sweeping left a little too close. I drop him. The scary corner is more blind than ever with fallen trees blocking the vision of potential cars coming up the hill. The climb up to Shamrock isn't bad. Drink water. I have a line from a song I can't stop repeating in my head: "but after a while, you realize, time flies...."  

At the top I see a cyclist go by. I am still half way up the climb. I speed up involuntarily. By the time I get to the stop sign he is a half mile away. He doesn't know it, but we are racing now. He is a fake rabbit on a stick. By the church I am closer to him. He looks over his shoulder, as he starts the fast section. I get out of the saddle. On the fast climb, he is fifty yards away. By the bricks I am on top of him gasping, but I don't come around. I don't have to. It has been a very long time since anything like this has happened. I turn right on Bayshore and disappear. 

A couple climbs and a I am dropping into Hermitage. No traffic. Forty two miles per hour at the base of the descent, I sit up and ease onto the sidewalk and back up the last hill to home.  

The dog is happy to see me. I smell dinner. I want to write. I want to sing. I never thought I could feel this way again. Nothing in the future is written. 

W.B.Z.N.    

     

Don't Crack Up



You ride too much. You quit riding. You come back but don't commit. You start playing music again. You turn fifty and question every decision since the summer of 79. You remember who your friends are and that they will not wait forever. You write a story (you are not sure why or what it meant). It takes a year, and runs off the folks that like to read about how shitty you ride bikes. You are blessed but you struggle.

The calm returns one day on a solo ride, to the coast and back. It is a ride born from anger. You are angry with yourself, for not being able to ride with your people. A dusty switch flips and a rusty machine churns in the wind, on the burning lanes of Capital Circle. You are out of water, food and grinning, at the ride you didn't think you could finish.

You remember that you ride bikes. It's not what you do, it's who you are and not doing it makes you an unbearable, bi polar, fuck face. You start riding more and have a couple small victories: Complete a group ride with the crew. Finish a Chaires ride (thanks to luck and a friend that pulled your carcass home). You get invited to a ride that you normally would have been on the "no call list' for. It starts to come back a little. You get the shit kicked out of you at Munson for the uncountable kabillionth time. It's not supposed to be easy.

The cross bike is aptly named, it is the crucible of truth and the revelatory place where the spirit was waiting. It is the cave where the visions come. The trip you hated that you can't wait to make again. It's "the fucking bike" you are going to ride back to the fold.

I cannot promise I won't start some convoluted story here again (if the ghosts start talking, I must write) but for now, I am back on the bike, and blah blah blogging about it.

Tell your friends.

W.B.Z.N.

Never See It Coming

seventeen

Floyd's Music Store, May 3, 2003: The young opening band for socialburn just finished their set. They are elated. They high five each other, in front of a sold out crowd. They start wave to their friends and family. A loud, rude voice comes from behind:

"Hey what the fuck are you guys doing? Get your shit off the stage!"

The young guys scatter like recruits in boot camp. They are grabbing hand fulls of cables and guitars and pushing gear off the stage as fast as they can move. I look over at Neil Alday (the socialburn singer that I manage) who is laughing so hard, no sound is coming out of him.

Tallahassee, April 18, 2013: I am rolling an old road cases off of the red and blue rubber mats of my garage. This area was for bikes and a work stand for the last fourteen years. Since the day I gave up playing music full time. Since the days I stopped managing bands. This was the sanctuary where the arsenal was kept. The weapons that kept all my demons at bay. The desire to play music and sing was beaten back with sweat, bikes and tools. This shop was kept spotless, the vigil was never forsaken, the watchman never slept and the past was a distant dream. 

Now the space was full of road cases. Cases that had been flown around the world, and dragged into every rock bar in Tallahassee. The old blue drum set inside was beaten and chipped. The cobalt piano finish was pale compared to the day they were new 1988. But they are cleaned, lubed and wearing fresh drum heads. A horn beeps from the van out front. I smile and roll the bass drum case down the driveway.

One year ago this week I had taken my first ride after breaking my right collarbone. A year and a half before that, I had heart surgery. One month before that, I'd had a stroke. I had trouble talking. I couldn't write my own name for a week. I thought I would end up on disability. Slowly it all came back, but no matter how hard I tried, I never felt right on the bike. I felt funny around my friends too. It wasn't anything they did or said, but my world had changed and nothing was the same color anymore. Some part of me never came back from the hospital. August twenty first, and that tiny blood clot changed me forever. The Bike Chain Crew were all different too. Life had caught us all unaware. The difference was, they could still ride. I still rode too, when I could, but it wasn't the same. I had to accept the fact that cycling was not the central thing in my life. I look at my BC jersey, hanging on the bike stand, as I load the last case and shut the garage door.

The light guy tells me to wait for the fog. I hear the intro music start. First the sound of flipping through radio stations, a few seconds of a socialburn song, then "You'll Have Time" by William Shatner starts to play with the opening lyric: "Live life like you're gonna die...cause your gonna!"

"Amen Brother!"

I say under my breath and walk out a little ahead of the rest of the band, to put in my in-ear monitors. I start playing the drum intro to "Save Me" the first song of our set. Eight hundred people stare up as we go from song to song. The applause increases after ever tune, and slowly the crowd warms up. I see the silhouette of Neil, my old friend. I watched him play for huge crowds from the side of the stage as his manager and now I am playing with him. Life is strange. I never saw any of this coming. I count off the last song and look over to see the drummer and bass player from Blackberry Smoke watching. Their arms are folded and they look tired and unimpressed. The drummer is tapping his foot. We finish the song. I give some drum sticks to a few people that ask for them. Blackberry Smoke's stage manager is screaming at us to get our gear off the stage. I start laughing.

"Calm down Sparky."

I say to the twenty something manager.

"This ain't our first rodeo."

I move him out of the way with my left hand and walk by with some cymbal stands.

The gear is all cased and in the van. I am drinking a beer outside the back stage door, soaked in sweat. I  look up and see Charlie Starr from Blackberry Smoke.

"Y'all have a good time? The crowd treat you right?"

"Hell ya man. Thanks for letting us play the show. We are huge fans."

I stop talking because I know the drill. The singer was just being nice. Headliners hate talking before they walk on stage. They want to be left alone. I tell him to have a good show and walk over to our van, sitting in the shadow of a forty five foot Prevost Touring Coach. I change my shirt next to a dumpster and climb in the front seat.

"Well Eddy?"

I say to my old friend and sound man.

"Sometimes you are on the bus and sometimes you are in the van."

Eddy turns and laughs out a cloud of cigar smoke.

"Ain't that the fucking truth!"


W.B.Z.N.

Waking Up

seven




She is running through a field and Joey's chasing her. They are in a sheep pasture up above the place he surfed in Santa Barbara. She could see the the little dots of surfers out on the point. It was one of those breezy perfect days you learn to ignore in California. He is taking pictures of her but she's feeling playful and uncooperative. She's running, trying to make him chase her. Just when he thought she was going to pose, she runs again. She's laughing so hard she can't breath and finally leans over to catch up with her heart. The amber grass shares hues of her caramel skin and gold hair. She continues to play and run from him and just when it looked like he might give up and loose his patience, she pulls her hand knitted shirt over her head and throws it away. She looks over her shoulder. He takes her picture and falls for her, in the blink of a shutter. She's been holding that flower all morning, spinning it in her fingers and day dreaming. They were on the beach and decided drive up the hill while the tide switched. He captured her there, and all of who she was that day. She was caught like a firefly in his lens in front of those green Santa Barbara hills that matched the color of her bikini. She falls onto a blanket and watches him walk out of the sun. He takes his camera from his neck and sets it on the edge of the quilt. She stops laughing and looks up at him. She pulls her arms away from her chest, glances down at her bare breasts and then back up at him. It's the fall of 1971. It is the best season of her life. She is nineteen.

"Gretna, wake up honey. The surgery is over, c'mon honey, open your eyes. I have some water for you. Everything is fine, try to open your eyes."

Roscoe had pulled all the wood from the fallen porch and stacked it near the garage. He spent a few days pulling nails and separating the trash from the the good. He was done with the ramp and other than a few nails and screws, was able to finish the entire thing with what he salvaged. When the roof cascaded off of the house into a pile of intertwined lumber, it took with it the steps and an old chain swing. He figured she would need a ramp to get into the house. Those steps were as useless as the porch and he presumed they were both built by the same lazy hands. This whole house seemed ill supported and in need of work. For now she could be wheeled up and that made him feel better. He saw some paint cans, whose drippings matched the porch deck color and tomorrow he'd look to see if it could be stirred and used. For today he was done and he loaded his tools into his old bug and strapped the wooden step ladder to the luggage rack on top. He wiped his hands with a towel and admired his work. He loved to do things right and to help. Today he had done both. He reached into the passenger side and grabbed a bowl and some kibble. As he filled it, the dog came from the woods and wagged his way toward him. He sat it down next the water bowl and smiled.

"See ya tomorrow."

She is watching the boys come down the walk. No matter what was going on in her life, she loved seeing those kids come home from school. She wanted to be like one of those women, at the Timber Lane Hopkins Eatery. They played tennis when the kids were at school and complained about bad caterers over lunch. They had the strained faces of women who didn't dare gain an ounce, for fear of being replaced. Kerry wished she could just be a stay at home Mom. She was starting a new job next week and this was her last few days of freedom before the stress came back. The boys were pulling at each others back packs and laughing. They both had sticks in their hands and a sword fight could break out any second. She caught a reflection of herself smiling in the window. It felt good. Those boys were never a burden. They were the thing she did right. She couldn't wait to hear what happened that day. The rain had finally stopped and the first wisp of fall hung just outside the last grasp of summer. It was a good day.

He loaded his drums into his car after eating lunch. His youngest son was playing a jazz groove on the drums in his room. He marveled at how good he was. His oldest was on his way to his life guard job and looked every bit of the college freshman he had become. He said goodbye in passing and he watched young man drive off. He had done some things well. He did have moments of pride, in between all the anger and regret. It was in the air. All good things happened for him in the fall. When he lived by the coast it marked the start of the surf season. When he came to Tallahassee, it was the return of students and packed gigs. On bikes it was the magic time of cool temps and night rides with his crew. Spring was the first verse, summer was the dark bridge and September marked the first notes of the chorus. He was rehearsing tonight, feeling good for the first time in weeks and he stopped to recognize a rare moment of content. For now that was all he needed, little shot at something good.


W.B.Z.N.   

In A Lifetime

It's not often I recognize magic while it happens. I'm a good one for getting the point of it all days later. I'm a good one for looking back. This weekend was full of moments in the now, that filled my soul.

It was a rare and precious few days where we all hovered above the tedium and never awoke from the dream. It was like everything was going to be alright forever.

My cup overflows.

Every so often, I realize the light is good, and I get the picture.


W.B.Z.N.

You Are My Sunshine

The day #1 son was born was one of those first child stories everyone has. You don't know if was as dramatic as memory preserves, or if you were just a novice. In either case (as with all new parents) his arrival was a life changer. When he finally came into the light I said to him; "There you are, we have been waiting for you." He turned and looked right at me as my wife and I cried.

Right from the start he was just the happiest guy ever. He found joy in everything and would laugh so hard that he couldn't hold up his head. We had a fish tank and we would scoot his chair up to it and let him watch the fish with wonderment. His first word was "fish" and the first trip we ever went on as a family was to Silver Springs so he could say his only word over and over while pointing into the clear water. 

He was always extremely bright and we would let him talk for as long as he wanted. Through out his first years of school it became routine for his teachers to tell us how smart, polite and kind he was. His memory was other worldly and he routinely learned dances and lyrics to movies and TV shows. Ms. W.B. and I would be entertained for hours watching him sing and move with the characters from the Wizard of Oz and other shows.

The early years of parenthood were tough. We had very little money. My wife and I worked full time jobs and I played music four to five nights a week. We were exhausted most of the time and not the happiest folks in the world. Cray was always a calming force in our life and a constant reminder of how blessed we were to be a family. It was just impossible to be in a foul mood when that kid came into the room beaming with happiness. His brother arrived thirteen months after he did and Cray was never out of his reach. Cory would make noises and talk in sounds we couldn't decipher and Cray would turn to us and say "cheerios" or whatever it was that Cory needed and then Cory would be fine. He has always been intuitive.

I have always been hard on gentle souls. I have a harshness that I accumulated with life. It has not been easy on Cray to have me as a Dad. I am tough guy to be around on my best day. Cray only sees good in the world and approaches every situation with wonder. We used to call him Captain Positive because he always has seen the upside of everything in his gaze. Once when I was taking the boys to the park on an over cast day, I felt the need to prepare them for the possibility of rain. I said to them; "Now guys if it rains we won't be able to play at the park okay?" Cray quickly replied; "But if it doesn't rain we can play for a long time right?" That is his world view in a nut shell. He has made me a better person and softened my edges, often at his expense.

Cray excelled in school and was an honor student all through middle and high school. He was on the high school swim team and works as a life guard for the city. He saved money to go to France last year with the French Honor Society. He volunteered one hundred hours of community service, for Bright Futures. He is graduating with honors from high school with thirty three college credit hours. He is attending F.S.U. in the fall. I have no idea where the time went.

I am so profoundly honored to have him as a son and friend. He is quite simply one of the best humans I have ever known. I am in awe of his intellect and the kindness with which he lives his life. People love to complain about their teenagers, but everyday I see that guy and the way he handles himself, I feel a gratitude for having him in my life I could never put into words.

Congratulations my Son.



W.B.Z.N.
 

The Kids Are Alright

It is time to lighten things up around here. I need to open the windows and doors and let all that stale "trying to be a good writer" air out of the blog.

I am trying to think of activities that bring young and old together like cycling has for me. I get calls and texts from guys in our crew like Lil Ball and Ice Berg all the time. These are two guys (19 and 22 years old) that are real friends of mine. I am closing in on 49. We have real conversations, we are good friends and the bike is the vehicle that brought us together. I meet folks their age all the time and they never seem to be as together as our grommets are.

Now the next crop is coming up. My L.W.B.  and Treeman's B, have two guys to look up to that are both seeking degrees in architecture and sports medicine. They remember what it's was like to be juniors and they look after and harass our juniors accordingly. I am proud of Lil Ball and Ice Berg, even though I can take no credit for who they are. I am glad they are in our crew and glad they are my friends. Boys listen to their Dads because they have to, but they always look to the cool guys (one step up) for what they want to be. Thank (Deity of choice) that they are looking at Lil Ball and Ice Berg. There are so many bad examples out there.


W.B.Z.N.

My Shadow

Hipsters, carbon racers,
Old school dirt hounds
Young, old, noobs,
Veterans
The air is Mexican oil cooking
The smiles and chatter drift
Through the parking lot

The wheels of many tribes roll
Past the Capital
Past the the Thai restaurant
Past the BBQ guy
and the half priced chicken
Left at the Fairgrounds
The black hands wave from the porch and sing a single note
Past the log fence

Cars are polite
Cars pass
Cars beep
There are too many of us
They have no power
We ride in the comfort of the horde
We ride in rare total safety

All is quieting on Tram Road
It becomes a ride of silence
Weight of tragedy is with us now
We reach the spot
Under the sky that won't be ignored
Purple with back lit clouds
The fire of the setting
It was a beautiful day ending
with an explosion of light

Here on this shitty gravel strewn ground
Here in this shitty place to die
The trash blows across the monument
of paper and chain and white paint
A bike should never be a sad thing
It is today
Here a father left his son
His son saw it all
Here on this shitty ground
He had to sit on rocks and wait for help
My son is beside me, we rode tonight
It was all fine... till just now

The words drowned out by the cars
Jeep with big tires
Killed the sentences
Of respect
The cars are too close to us
They come at the worst time
They never stop.

A full uphill sprint
Shakes us out of the mood
I am out of my saddle
My son passes me
I am the last one through the red light
We all get stopped and laugh
We are all breathing hard and smirking
We couldn't help ourselves

Dave would have liked that

W.B.Z.N.

This Must Be The Place

I have never really had a home. A place where people knew my father and his before. A place where our history and present shared the same back drop. It is some ancient curse that spread my family tree leaves to the wind and settled us like a darts thrown at a map. I left Massachusetts when I was five. So my familiarly within the area and it's customs is no more natural to me than the alien world of southerners I grew up with. My only allegiance to my friends growing up was based on the fact that they too were displaced refugees of the north, living in a white bread cultural stew called; Port Saint Lucie. I never looked around and had that unsaid kinship that people in any ethnic enclave would feel. I have always envied people that knew their grand parents, whose family histories were as known to them, as the air they breathed. Even my own father was a mystery to me. I have no idea what he was like a child. He and I never played catch or went fishing. He never shared his personal stories with us. We shared moments and memories, I was not neglected or abused, but I am the last of seven. He was weary of raising high strung people by the time I was born.

I am standing outside my back door at work. The cars are passing like ducks on hyper drive, in a shooting gallery. There is a gift of cool breeze blowing and I have the feeling I have had many times when I traveled; like I should look around, in case I never come back. I have been here fifteen years. I watch the old guard come and go like zombies who gave up. The young upstarts that need to fill a gaps in their resume' before going to practice law. They pass me without speaking on the way to their cars and the lunch hour they dream of like a lost lover. I want to believe that I am not one of them, but we are all in the same life raft, wondering who will go next.

I am on a roll again. Everyone tells you you should tip toe back into cycling, but suffering from deprivation, I launched my craft at full speed. The first twenty one days I rode seventeen. I walked like the Tin Man for three weeks straight. My body carried on movements and adventures while I slept. I reached back into memory of what it felt like to have worth. The pain in my legs and body validate every short coming I play on loop in my brain. I hurt therefore I am. This plan is not supposed to work but it did. I have lost eight to ten pounds (depending on the karma scales mood). I have lost my will to eat all the time. For the first time in a really long time, I feel like a cyclist. I am slow. I bonk. I have to constantly conserve to stay on anything resembling a group ride. The revelatory new development is: if I don't ride great, I don't give a fuck. This will probably not last, but for now it is the greatest vacation from my abusive inner voice I have ever had.

Everything is different now. I will not beat the dead BC horse because (Deity of choice) knows I have whipped that corpse long after it was cold. My support group and the folks I ride with have different colored jerseys, but the spirit lives. I am surrounded by folks that look out for me, as they always have. We share a ton of common interests in the two wheeled subdivision, but we all come from somewhere else. When we ride we are the same and off the bike we are as different as people can be. The gumbo simmers and it smells like home.

The tribes of many nations share the reservation. The next chapter has begun.


W.B.Z.N. (noise in woods)

The Road To Reno

I get a message about a road ride in Havana. Treeman promises it will be "easy, easy, easy". I have heard it all before, and I am not fooled. Big Worm, King Cotton and Zak decide to join after some delicate negotiations. Thank (Deity of choice) they are coming, I am allergic to wind.

The tarmac leaving Gadsden county is pristine and whistles under our wheels. I sprint for several yellow signs to get the gold rush started. After chasing L.W.B. and Worm for a sign, I decide to hide for the rest of the ride. My legs hurt and it's going to be a long ride. The day turns hotter and the sweet pavement turns to a rough gravel mix. We stop to drink the holy water of Reno Baptist Church and head back out with full bottles.

I hear Treeman yell, "right turn!" and I notice the pavement is ending and it has been replaced with orange talcum and rocks. Big Worm howls with delight, and starts cutting three inch trenches in the fresh pow. Treeman swears he didn't know that this road was dirt. I can't help but notice he and his son are both running fat cross tires. L.W.B. is laughing his head off, as I ride like W.C. Fields. I find a ridge in the center and slow to half steam. I'd rather be lost in South Georgia alone, than have a re-broke collar bone. I am screaming like a girl at each soft section. The road comes back and we meander through the picturesque countryside, like we have gone back in time. The next downhill is a welcome sight, until I see the "Loose Gravel" sign. I thought nothing could be worse than the clay shavings we survived, I was wrong. Again Big Worm is bombing the hill with abandon, with Zak and Cotton on his heels. I squeeze my brakes.

Six miles from the car the rivets start popping. The coke from the General store (where the sweet rotund woman looked at me like a dessert menu) and the holy waters of Reno Church have all run out. My neck will not hold up the bowling ball any more and every turn of the pedals is agony. Worm, Zak, and Cotton, are a distant memory. L.W.B. and B. smell the stable and ride away,  like I am a stranger. Treeman stays with me, out of some misplaced obligation he feels for organizing the ride. The scenes become familiar again and we find the car. I hose off next to the small brick police station. Next door, the congregation is nearing the end of a song, as five soloists break free from the chorus. The cold water is the greatest thing I have ever felt.

We change, we eat, and speed home just ahead of a storm front, straight out of "Twister". L.W.B. passes out on the couch ten minutes after telling me the ride wasn't that hard. Week four of my comeback ends not with a victory or even a tie, but it doesn't feel like a loss.

These days, that's pretty good.


W.B.Z.N.

First Circle

Lil Ball (not to be confused with L.W.B. pictured) is a good kid. I think I have been riding with him since he was twelve or thirteen. I can always expect a text from him when I need it. He is good for getting me on a bike and pushing me a little harder than I want to go. My son thinks of him as a rock star and would rather die than disappoint him (same with big Worm and B.J.S.). We rode from Southwood down to St. Marks in a pilgrimage (of sorts) to get my legs back in the good graces of (Deity of choice). Lil Ball did all the work, pulling us 20 MPH down and back. He made me ride a few extra miles at the end, before he and my son, dropped me, just to keep the anger tank full.

Sunday L.W.B. and I went through our morning rituals in silence, save a few moans, groans, coughs and involuntary farts from the tired old man. Off we went to meet Lil Ball for a circumnavigation of the Vineyard Loop. We mounted up and headed down Woodgate where L.W.B. broke a chain. After a comedy of errors and a complete breakdown (I ain't saying who) I headed out alone. It was a long hot slog and I haven't been in my granny gear that much since I was in N.C.. Thinking of my B.C.O.G. brothers doing a hundred miles in Cahutta, was fuel enough to keep me going. I crawled home, ate and passed out while my legs twitched (like the bottom half of a toad in a science lab battery test).

I ended up with over a hundred miles (road and MTB) for the week and probably the most I have ridden since 2010. What no ailments? No bizarre science defying health issues? Well, funny you should ask (and thank you for your concern). I did have a crazy ass migraine, complete with the ocular blinky "C" in my left eye last night just to remind me I am not normal. (Deity of Choice) forbid, we not have some moment of frailty.

All in all, good mixed with the bad, it was alright.
We are riding bikes.
That is better than the alternative.

W.B.Z.N.