Glory Days

My eldest brother Ted is the kindest soul that has ever walked this earth. He would literally give the shirt off his back for friend or family. Once upon a time he defied all given logic, beating a disability and his undersized genes to slay a giant. He became a U.D.T. Frog in the sixties. The legends of the training from that era are often told to recruits of the new era. It was the toughest, and most glorious six year period of his life. As a result he compares everything that he is going through to his time in the "Teams". It is an old family jest that Ted can take a discussion about a sandwich and get going about the U.D.T. days.

I have become more like him than I like to admit. My short tenure as a band manager was by far the toughest thing I ever tried to do. Mentally and physically exhausting every skill I ever acquired as a salesman, musician, person.... everything. It took all my effort to get through a day, and when I thought I had seen it all, the next day made the previous, a joke. The problem with these type of experiences is, that while going through them you never have the luxury of enjoying the view. To do so would take your eye off the target, and peril would be eminent. It is not until the battle ends that any real perspective can be gained. You must gather with others that were there, and tell the stories like Nam vets, at a therapy group, because hardly anyone else can bear to listen. My wife has been touching me on the arm for the last three years, to let me know it's time for the conversation be normal, and not about "the time the band was on Carson Daily" or whatever story de' jour might be. Like my Bro, I can connect the thread, from any conversation back to times of fury and heroics.

What do you do when you reach a peak and nothing but valleys lay ahead? Valleys are good and peaceful, the weather is nice. It is a stable place to live. It is the easy place, where the good life occurs. I still feel compelled every so often, to slip the on ring, become invisible in my parlor, and remember the dragons breath. I try to channel the energy into my latest attempt to return to cycling form, and my flashbacks are getting dimmer by the day, but the reminders are everywhere. People remember the tragedy of 911 as a news clip, I remember flying by the smoke on our way to showcase for Roadrunner Records, gripping the arms of our chairs, white knuckled and silent. I hold my hands around the candle. I try to shut out the wind. The white noise grows and the names are all but gone from the wall they were sprayed upon, so many years ago. Like it or not all our footprints get washed away. It makes the gray paint on my cement block office walls a shade or two darker. It gets harder as the years plod on, to push the rock uphill.

Now the thrills I get come at the hands of my sons exploits. #1 on the blocks at his first swim meet, bringing home an "A" in trig, or Lil W.B. nailing a vibe part in marching band, or killing a Muse song in the garage with his band. I feel the warmth of my blessings. I thank the universe for allowing me to ride, and have a family. I have so much more than I deserve. I just wonder if the wizard will ever come back.

Hey, did I ever tell you about the time.......

W.B.Z.N.

Panic Switch

For three days the lights haven't worked in either bathroom or our bedroom. I have been waking up completely disoriented, like touring days of old, in unfamiliar hotel rooms. Ms. Wrecking Ball wakes me. She has taken a cord to the neighbors, for the two refrigerators. I am am the ugly American. I have two refrigerators. My biggest problem is an over abundance of food, I am now protecting like a penguin, on an egg, in winter. The city crews are here. As I open the windows, I see a guy shaking his head and another going for a shovel.

The electricians have the fuse panel torn apart, and wires reach out like hungry children. They have been in the same position for thirty six years bringing power to this house. Now they are a chaotic tangle separated and useless, because a couple lights flickered and went out. I am starting to sweat, it is subtle, not the hard working sweat of productive effort, but the slow immobile accumulation of moisture. Sticky at first, then a stale wetness. I look out the window and remember Mrs. Hillier rapping me on the hand with a ruler for putting my sweaty arm on my paper. White City Elementary had no A/C but they made fresh rolls every day. There is a second electrical contractor truck dripping in oil in my drive and a third city truck rolls up. They are all jovial and discuss the deals they got on Beretta rifles and where they are going for lunch. I am a babe in the woods, they could walk up and say I had unicorns in my lines and I would be powerless to disagree, they hold the switch, and I can't wait to get the gadgets back. I sit like a chick in the nest waiting for them to throw up in my mouth. I hear my voice, as a child, scream in my skull: "Please, I beg you, make the monkey clap the cymbals again."

My mind drifts, I am tired. I haven't slept well for days. When did I become a coddled, power sucking, misfit? How did I get here? I used to go to the beach for hours with no water, money or food, just baggies, wax and a towel. I hitch hiked to the beach, 18 miles each way, when I was thirteen. I skated for hours on one frozen mini pizza and two Pepsi's. I used to play six, forty five minute sets, with ten minute breaks, after loading in stacks of speakers and rigging lights. Now I am in a panic, because I am sweating and I can't access the Internet. I have an irrational image of shows evaporating off my DVR. How did I end up such a pampered shadow of the "tough it out" kid I once was?

The hours erode away, each explanation is more absurd than the one before. There is a hole with five guys sitting in it. A new crew arrives. They all agree that a herd of cats inserted a computer virus into government files that disintegrated the insulation on my main line, which any idiot can see is not reading right on the meter, the guy mumbling pigeon red neck is holding. I am such a dumb ass. Everyone leaves. A new inspector comes and tells me he can hook up the power but the line will definitely fail, and soon. The new fuse box is in ($1500.00) and it looks really cool. I walk in and see green and red L.E.D.'s blinking all around. Nothing, including me, knows what time it is. I go to the bedroom, flip the light switch, and nothing happens.

W.B.Z.N.

Help!

We need to figure out things that will get Big Worm on Facebook. Top ten lists, compromising sex photos, run what ya brung people! Lets make this happen.

W.B.Z.N. *photo credit B.J.S.*

Trail Blazer

If you ride the Fern trail, you owe him. If you ride Tom Brown, you owe him. If you ride Cadillac, you owe him. If you ride nearly any trail in town, you owe him.

I remember when I started riding to work nine years ago, I would see him on his red Cannondale. He was a quiet guy and I had just started riding. I had the zeal of the newly converted and I couldn't engage him about riding, until I mentioned that commuted on Fern everyday. His eyes lit up and he told me that he was one of the designer/builders of that trail. He had hoped people would commute in the woods to work. Just before the famous Winn Dixie section of Fern fell to the bulldozer, he and I squeezed in one last ride. We stepped over felled trees and rode around the machines. He pointed out springs, plants, and all we were losing. I felt as though I was watching a man eulogize a friend.

Over the years I would see him sporadically on trails and at Cycling advocacy meetings. He was the one voice that all the tribes of cyclists, and the people we were trying to reach, respected. He never beat his chest, he never sought recognition, he just helped, worked, and smiled his way through the trying process of moving the greater good forward.

Let us not forget, he is a great cyclist. His exploits are legend. I once asked if anyone had ridden the pipe on the old Fern trail and the only response I ever heard was "I saw Harvey ride it once." That's before the stories of him getting lost in underwater caves, sliding down glaciers, and rafting rivers with Mingo in Alaska.

He is leaving us to take a job in D.C.. We have all lost a great light for the cause of all things cycling in Tallahassee. Hopefully he will make it back our way, but if not, we owe him.

"I was just thinking that of all the trails in this life, there are some that matter most. It is the trail of a true human being. I think you are on this trail, and it is good to see...."

Kicking Bird, (Dances With Wolves)

Thanks for everything John.

W.B.Z.N.

Last Wave

I have been thinking about firsts lately. Most of them are clumsy half hearted attempts that never lead to anything.

My first stand up wave was on a Styrofoam kick board. It snapped later that day. My first stolen joy ride, on my older Bro's translucent Val Surf skateboard, ended in blood and a beating. My first stroll around a drum kit was a mishmash of Sears (and other worse things) with tin cymbals. My inaugural jaunt on my Kona Fire Mountain, laid my lunch out before me in the parking lot of Winn Dixie. Elizabeth O'Mara probably doesn't remember the patented half nose, half upper lip maneuver I pulled on her in forth grade, but I could close my eyes and paint that picture. There's no avoiding stubbing toes, in the off balance dances we perform, heading into the unknown. If they were on film you would turn away and suffer an involuntary wince reflex, and a tattoo on your long term montage, that no amount of editing, or slick soundtrack could make poetic. They were epiphanies and train wrecks in equal scale.

Each one of those horrific first ascents put a gaff into my side. Lifelong obsessions all. I know its corny but, a ride can change your life. A revolution can occur anywhere. I found that out, on a shoulder high right this weekend. It was like I awoke from a coma. So powerful was the episode that now my normal routine on the hamster wheel, is simply idiotic. People are having serious conversations all around me and all I hear are echoes of the phrase "Who Gives A Shit!" I ain't gonna abandon my post, but I have to say riding bikes, playing drums, and getting waves are the priority right now. My discontent has sprung from pretending these things weren't as important as they once were. All that changed with one wave. Now I am reevaluating everything.

The Kool-Aid has officially worn off. I am reading a new script. Get the bandages and motivational posters ready. LAY DOWN SOME GROUND FIRE.....I'M GOING IN!!!!

W.B.Z.N

Dancing On The Jetty

There is a certain smell the east coast gets, when the Atlantic has been stirred up by swell. It is a mixture of salt water, sea weed and tar. The sand is mixed and coarse under your feet. There are more surfers than tourists. Even those not tuned in to the surf station, know that something is different. They look out at the waves and wonder what it would be like to be way out there.

We arrived at dropping tide, around noon. I figured after two days of macking surf, the locals would all be elsewhere trying to get their jobs back. There was still plenty of swell when we unloaded. Lil Wrecking Ball and my Bro Davey got out of the car looking at postcard Huguenot; blue water and sky with perfect chest to head high rights, licked by a slight off shores. I set up camp and gave L.W.B. his board, Davey went with him dragging his 9'6".

After the umbrella was hoisted, the sheet was anchored, and the coolers were parked in the shade, I grabbed my yellowed 7'2" and waded out. I caught a nice little right, and it was lined up so perfect, I just stood and trimmed for a few yards. I caught three more and L.W.B. made it outside to sit with the big boys. Davey paddled for a big one and went over the falls rodeo style. L.W.B. and I caught one together and he fell because he was laughing so hard. I pushed him into another and he fell on the take off, and got dragged for fifteen yards before coming up, hands first, laughing. We all caught a few more, and cruised in to recharge.

We sat and ate sandwiches, and L.W.B. asked why I was so happy. I told him the beach was the only place I felt totally comfortable. He turned back out to the waves and pointed and talked a hundred miles and hour. He skim boarded, rode his Boogie board and stayed in the water until I had loaded the car and started it.

It could not have been a better day, except I missed having number one son and Mama there. He was stung by a Man-o-war on his last trip and it will take a bag of video games to get him back in the water. Mama doesn't see the logic in five hours of drive time for three hours of beach. Go figure. You can't have perfection, it angers the Gods.

I am a surfer. I had forgotten that.

W.B.Z.N. *Pics from: http://www.mrsurfs.com/

Tomorrow

Boards are loaded. My sons want to know if it will be small enough for them to paddle out. I was wondering the same thing. Pray for my neck, arms, and shoulders. HOOIY! Goin right!

W.B.Z.N.