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.