My Fathers Eyes

I can remember the look. Not quite disappointment as much as it was disbelief. It usually involved me coming home to find my Dad there three hours early. A police car, with one or more of Port Saint Lucie's finest, was either in our driveway or curbside. The Officer would usually look amused or (in one memorable case) furious. The circumstances didn't matter. I was about to have a logical conversation with one of the smartest people I would ever have the pleasure/displeasure of knowing, in my life. He had a method of outlining the latest adventure in terms that really didn't require any input from me, and yet he had the audacity to ask me rhetorical questions.

"So when you decided to set the Porta-Let on fire, did the phrase (this is a dangerous and bad idea) ever enter your pea sized brain?"

"I dunno."

"There's a lot you don't know apparently, and we are going to take some steps to remedy that situation."

Then the next few weeks would be strictly scheduled in a manner that would make a military strategist recoil, in a combination of abject envy, and morbid fascination.

It was this little photo album I was leafing through in my mind, as I spotted my 5'1" thirteen year old, behind the wheel of a late nineties Chevy Camaro. He was warming up for his hot qualifying lap around the back yard. The sound of my skidding wheels and the transmission groaning into reverse, probably tipped them off. Like magic, when I backed up, they were all gone. Had David Copperfield been riding shotgun, he would have been unable to stop himself from blurting out:

"How the F*^# did they do that?"

Thank God for cell phones. When my son arrived at my drivers side window he was a shadow of his former self. So clearly busted was he, that he didn't even put up a fight. He quietly got in my car and spilled the beans like a waitress at Sonny's. I dropped him into the protective custody of his Mother. When I arrived back from my road ride, the house was ready for a Dwell photo layout and my doe eyed Daytona 500 pole sitter was waiting, in all his angelic glory.

If there is a heaven, my Dad certainly has sore ribs from laughing at the karmic freight train that t-boned my ass last night. I wonder how many more boomerangs are out there in the abyss. It's funny, they sound kind of like a helicopter... right before you lose consciousness.

W.B.Z.N.

Hands Across The Water

I should say at the beginning I don't surf as good as I used to. In fact, I don't surf as good as I did ten years ago, which was not near as good as I was when I lived by the coast. The problem is, in my head, I still rip. I have the knowledge of a good surfer. I get in out well, and I know how to get in position. I am not nervous in good sized Florida surf, after that the well is almost dry. I am always surprised at how hard it is to get waves, even though I do nothing to strengthen my paddling muscles. Once again, logic is not part of my thought process.

When you surf all the time, there are intrinsic things you do, that go away when you don't surf on regular basis. You have a lot more trouble getting to your feet, and turns are not fluid. This confuses the old brain that thinks it still rips. On crowded days (like yesterday) you only get a few shots at the bigger sets, if you blow it, the crowd mentally marks you, and just like that, you are out of the bread line.

Panama City is not my favorite wave. When it's big, it almost always looks better than it actually is. It is a weird break that is hard to master. It's shifty, peaky, and very inconsistent. Because of it's location on the surf starved Gulf, when there is a faint hint of swell, everyone in north Florida goes there. The crowd however, is very cordial. People talk to you and let you get waves, even if they know you are not local. On the East Coast, that is a dream you will never see. Panama City may be the most "southern" surf break in the world, (in attitude not longitude/latitude).

I had a really cool conversation with a local about a secret (not so secret) spot that breaks in the inlet by St. Andrews Park. He was talking about how you need a boat to surf the spot. He was telling me the ins and outs of how to paddle out and where the take off point was. This is golden knowledge usually reserved for locals of good standing. By the end of the conversation, he actually asked if I was going to be in town Thursday. I felt as though I would have been invited, if I could have stayed. I am still shaking my head at how friendly the guy was.

I got a few waves, phoned in a lack luster performance, and paid about sixty bucks for the privilege. I had an obscene sea food dinner and the drive over and back, was rainy mess. Still, I find myself with a very pleasant after taste. I am hopeful for mankind and surfkind after being treated so well by polite strangers. I guess sometimes when you lose you win. I am very happy to know people can surprise me (in a good way) after so many years in the water.

Thanks Rusty.

W.B.Z.N.

Signs

I have a history of what we used to call "Barging". It's a Dogtown term I picked up from the mags in the seventies. Since we had no parks and most ramps we built were torn down or just plain crappy, we had a habit of throwing our legs over clearly marked fences. We skated pools and we used to skate the roofs of newly built houses before they tar papered them. We also cut fences and skated some twenty foot pipes at the nuclear power plant in St. Lucie. Every so often they would catch us and we would give them names of famous skaters. I was Jay Adams twice, and Tony Alva once.

I have parked illegally to surf North Jetty Park when I was broke, and I have paddled across the inlet to catch reef road, from the private Colonnades property.

On a very memorable night ride, we were chased by an angry land owner though the connector with our lights off, running blind to the power line. It was the best ride ever.

In the the immortal words of Chris Stevens, from K- Bear in the morning;

"Nothing is sweeter than five finger candy!"

I am sure I will have to pay a fine someday, but by my count, I am ahead.

W.B.Z.N.

Gardens Of Stones

Getting a ride together is a delicate thing. The person that gets the ball rolling is always walking a tight wire between what they want, and what everyone else wants. It is a thankless job that if done well, never gets mentioned. When the problems arise the organizer gets the tar and feathers. Big Worm is our scout master and he does the job without any fanfare. He is also the best mechanic in town, which means that after organizing all the rides, he gets to diagnose every one's bike problems. Usually this all goes down without a hitch, but today there was some drama. The ride came together late, everyone had an idea of what they wanted, and we had some dissension and desertion. It was heated, but we will ride Tuesday and all will be forgiven.

I have been hearing about a mythical house, from a legendary ride, I missed with Mingo and Mirco last year. I have been bugging Worm and Mingo a long time to go back out there. There was some weirdness but I was so stoked to do something different and (for the first time ever) everything rolled off me. The ride was brutal hot, the mosquitoes where Jumangiesc, but the payoff was worth it.

W.B.Z.N.

Staring At The Sun

I have ridden over the levy (on Piney-Z Lake ) twice since Fay hit. People have told me there is a nine foot gator lurking around. I wondered if I was a bulls eye in some reptilian hunting scope. I'd be an easy meal with water and ground at equal height.

I saw some bird watchers up ahead. A guy dressed head to toe in olive Columbia clothes. He had safari hat and a pair of binoculars. Despite his tragic appearance, his wife was quite fetching. He returned my greeting with the least possible effort. He didn't bother to hide his disdain for cyclists but, his wife smiled. I figured this was good, any self respecting nine footer can make quick work of these two. I was in the clear. The sun was just above the trees and I was going to be cutting it close.

I made my way up Pedrick, over to Avondale, climbing through the Vineyards, across Mayhan, and over to the Greenway.

The sky was on fire and I didn't care if I got caught by the darkness. I rode the long way out, by the old graveyard. There was not a single vaporous, full body apparition to be found, but I was startled by how much the hill hurt. I did scream in horror after riding open mouthed through a cloud of gnats. Other than the sunset, and the gold clouds, there was nothing supernatural out there tonight.

Back on the pavement and the downhill to Capital Circle.

I turned onto Doomar, someone behind me yelled, "Lance!" from a car on Blairestone. I rode past the swamp and back into my hood.

There is a lot of scary stuff out there, none of it got me.

W.B.Z.N.

Amazing Grace

It turns out that if you ride, even when you hate the idea, you feel better afterwards. I am lucky I have some friends that don't judge me for being a moody cuss. Big Worm called yesterday and informed me that we were riding on the road. I know from experience that if I put up resistance, he will just come to my house and prey upon my guilt reflex, so I saved us all a step and showed up. The boys all did their part to get my Wrecking Ball swinging. Ice Berg goated me into a duck sign sprint. Little Ball coached me to the front on the sprints and Worm made a nice pocket of air for me to sit in. Big Jim Slade did his usual "I'm so slow" routine and then crushed me on a few climbs. Everyone brought something to the party.

On the Robot Army front, Juancho and his Munson Patrol Unit have been leaving cryptic messages threatening military action if I am not present on a sugar sand assault soon.

So, I thank you all. It seems as though the chemicals in my brain have stabilized, after all my friends each threw in a hand full of baking soda. Just like Linda Blair after the holy water, I feel as though I am on the mend, (sorry about the pea soup and all that stuff I said about your Mom in H. E. double hockey sticks).

W.B.Z.N.

Blah, Blah, Blah!

I have a long standing tradition of going through phases. I had a five year period where I could not stop drawing architectural (can I use that word if I don't have the degree?) floor plans and house designs. I was possessed. I read about all the mid century masters and visited some Wright buildings. I studied terms and memorized house names in the off chance I ever ran into anyone that was able to talk about such things.

I had a two year period of obsessive vintage snare drum restoration. EBay actually sent me an email saying I may have what they called a "problem". It reminded me of some bar tenders I knew in the eighties.

Until recently I have been a very focused cyclist (which is what I am, not a biker, which applies to Harley owners). I also surf when it's convenient and conditions are good. Once in a while I skateboard. These are all things I have done my whole life and every ten years or so I add another thing to the list.

Lately though all the things I used to day dream about at work have lost air. It could be the recent modifications to our trail system (Thanks Fay!) or it could be I am shedding my skin once again, in any case it's damned unnerving. I am never happier than in the throws of some senseless obsession. This blog has been a particularly good one. It allows me to be creative and say things that I don't normally get to say (without being interrupted or ignored all together).

Now I am no better than a plastic bag, in The Great Pacific Garbage Patch. I am stuck in a floating pattern that seems to have no beginning and no end. I hate all the food I used to like. I could really care less weather I ride or not, and on the off chance Juancho gets faster than me (in between stopping for food, and the random need to sit on the ground) I will be okay with it. Why? Because I have lost my ability to give a shit.

So until further notice, I will be sitting here waiting for rescue. The professor can get his own coconuts, I am on break.

W.B.Z.N.