Consider Me Gone

Travel in my life has always occurred under the strangest of circumstances. So it is with some excitement, and trepidation, that I tell you, I will be out for a few days. My brother Davey is leaving Las Vegas and asked me to fly out and drive back east with him. Never one to to shy away from a Mongolian cluster f*#+ I agreed. I am sure the journey will be filled with epic scenarios, that even Dennis Hopper on acid, couldn't dream up.

We will try to hit the Grand Canyon, the Petrified Forest and see my ole pal in Santa Fe'. I am stoked to be knocking a few things off my bucket list, and worried about being off the bike this close to the BUMP and GRIND race in June, but I heard the knock and I'm off.

Please turn out the blog lights when you leave, and I will try to accumulate some stories and pictures from the road.

W.B.Z.N. (over and out)

The Things We've Handed Down

Not much to report today. The Wrecking Ball gene is alive and well in my line. Went for a little spin with Lil' W.B. (look for his record to drop this fall) last night. Thankfully, the kid has better form than the old man.

Sorry for the blurry pics, I am not only a hack writer, I couldn't take a picture if you handed it to me!

W.B.Z.N.

Give Blood

Giving up, in theory, is fantastic. It's a way to make the pain stop. It's a solution for your fear. It ends conflict. It also has a bitter after taste.

I have been trying, with all my heart, to walk away from road riding. I even have new routes, that avoid some of the stressful bike lanes, on my mountain bike rides. I had convinced myself, that these were rational decisions, being made by a mature person. Why fight? The cars hate us on the road. If you fall on pavement it really hurts. Bones break, skin evaporates, bikes fold up like paper. This was the easy solution.

Friday was a hard day to be a cyclist. A kid named Rick, was hit by a car, on Monroe Street. In moments of drama, everyone wants to make grand gestures. March on the capital. Alert the media. Form a protest. The hardest thing of all, is to just do what we do: Ride bicycles on the street.

Hours after the crash, people posted comments on local news web sites, taking the side of the driver. One by one they lined up to tell the stories of cyclists getting in their way, running stop signs....on and on. Not one word was mentioned about the kid with a destroyed hip, and skin so badly damaged, he will need grafts.

When I first heard the story, my initial thought was to never ride on the road again. I ended up riding in rush hour traffic down Blairstone. It's all I could do. This weekend, I went on an epic road ride with the boys. I can't stand the thought of my friends being out there without me.

It sucks to ride with traffic. Others will be hit, hurt and killed. The best we can do, is ride on the road, exercise our rights, and encourage others to do the same. Our only hope, is to have so many of us out there, they will be forced to coexist with us.

In the immortal words of Freddie Mercury;

"Get on your bikes and ride!"

W.B.Z.N.

The Beat Goes On

My youngest son is an aspiring drummer. He plays in the middle school band, and hopes to make the drum line in high school. Last night, he told me the auditions for the high school line were taking place. He wanted to see how good the drummers were. He's in seventh grade and wants to have his skills in order. Was I impressed with this line of thinking? You bet your drum key!

There was a room of nervous kids, from twelve to sixteen years old. Everyone was trying to be funny and gain some social capital from the group. They were presided over, by some David Spade clone, that was there to assess them. His mission was to make them pay for the cruel genetic roulette, that made him a great music student, but prevented him from having a female in his life. Yes, he was wearing painters pants from Old Navy. Yes, he was wearing crocs. Yes, his hair was cut by a flowbee. Yes, he could play, and had a vast amount of musical knowledge. Yes, he planned on torturing these kids.

The kids had to get up in front of the group and play whatever rudiments (scales for drummers) he decided they should know. The object of this exercise was to find out what they couldn't play, and make a joke of the kid on the chopping block. Next they had to sight read several pieces of snare and bell music, until they failed. While the kids played, the Spade made inside jokes, whispered to his court, and made notes sealing the fate of the kids, playing for their lives.

This ripped the scab off every memory I had of academic music. I remembered every twit that had hazed me from middle school through college. I remembered the happy day, I bid them all a fine "F#*^ YOU!" and went on to play clubs, tour, and record for the next twenty years.

The problem is, I also walked away from my dream of being part of a college drum line. I never got my degree. These are a couple of items on my short list of regrets. Also, it should be noted that, the times I spent in my high school drum line were amazing, once I got through the initiation. I loved playing the cadences and the halftime shows. I gained skills during those years that served me as a musician, and a person.

My son is small for his age, like I was. He has the attitude of a ten foot Gorilla, like I do. He is in for a rough ride, and I know it's not healthy to insulate your kids from their life trials. Still, I think the firm hand shake and the "I will kill you, and pick my teeth with your bones" stare Mr. Spade and I shared, may help a little.

W.B.Z.N.

This Must Be The Place

I finally found the home of the trail Gnome. It's in plain sight, but you'll never find it. He has been fixing bridges, leveling out trails, and putting 4x4 balance beams all over the place. I caught sight of him trying to talk a hapless traveler into a coma tonight. Poor bastard had a flat. The gnome parked his Puglsey right near him, and started weaving his spell. Just before the guys eyes rolled back in his head, I gave him a tube and sent him on his merry way. I tried to get a shot of the lil guy but he went in his house, and slammed the door.
Well, he does good work. He takes a lot of pictures to prove it, so for now the location of his lair is safe with me. If he ever starts talking about the proper tool for a drainage ridge again....all bets are off!
GNOME BASTARD!
W.B.Z.N.

I Fall Apart

Apparently, this device, makes you ride really fast. It monitors your heart rate, miles, and a bunch of other useless crap. It's just a fad like that intranet thingie. Big Worm has one, as well as Frog Legs. I hate them. Worm, in case anyone is wondering, is on a serious training regimen. He is riding nine days a week, and I hate him. Micro hasn't ridden since Reagan was falling asleep in the White House. He was on the ride last night, and even though I didn't see it, I think he had one, hidden some where. I was looking for a cyanide pill, when I heard Mirco joking and laughing on one of the bad climbs, so I hate him. All this started with Silk. He talked and blogged about it so much, he made everyone else want one, so I hate him.

I have been riding 10-14 hours a week and I am still slow, so if you are reading this I HATE YOU!

I will be on eBay if anyone needs me (that I don't hate).

BASTARDS!!!!

W.B.Z.N.

Tres' Bien Ensemble

I have a long history of not getting the girl. I realized this, when I was looking at birthday cards for my wife. I landed on a "Sixteen Candles" audio card with a picture of the dude that played Jake, (google it, I'm tired) and Molly Ringwald, in the final scene. I was thinking of how many Molly's I have lost to Jake's. "I know This Much Is True" mocked me as the card opened.

Third grade; Tammy Tippens left me for Bobby Larrito because he had long hair.

Sixth grade; Tammy Reacer left me, for my best friend Andy, because he looked more like Peter Frampton, than I did. Thus ended my run of Tammy's

Tenth grade; Julie Johnson left me for Rich Vincik, because he got his license before me.

Eleventh grade; Rhonda Noyse left me for James Bell, because he had a Mustang.

When I met my wife, she was a waitress at the Flamingo Cafe'. She took one look at my leather coat, (with shoulder pads) the boots, bolo tie, and puffy shirt, and she asked me if I was a drug dealer. When I asked why she would think that, she told me that all musicians were broke, and since I had a new car and clothes, I must be subsidizing my income. I was working days, playing five nights a week, and I was really offended by these assumptions. I had to have her.

She was dating a guy named Dane (I know) he was nearly six feet tall and he looked like a model. Everything I lack in the looks department, he had spilling out of the bucket. They had been dating five years, and they lived together. I had no chance.

The thing I didn't know, was that he was a chump. He gambled, drank too much and had a roving eye (and other body parts). He committed the ultimate sin against women, he neglected her. Slowly, (eight months, but who's counting) I made in roads. I would rub her neck while she rolled silverware. I would give her a longing glance while singing U2 songs. We would accidentally meet at Finale's after work, and hold hands under the table. It wasn't long (eight months, but whose counting) before Dane (I know) was filling out a change of address form.

Michelle and I have been together for nineteen years. During that time, I have watched her grow from a shy wall flower, into an assertive business woman. She is the living embodiment of kindness and patients. She will spend money on gifts for friends and family, but I have to force her to buy clothes for herself. She lives with me, which guarantees her a good after life. How could you not love a girl, whose name is a Beatles song?

This Sunday is her birthday. Last year, she slept in a chair at the hospital, while I drooled in a neck brace. The year before that, she was away on business. This year, it is all about her. I am going to make sure she knows it's her day. She will never know what she means to me. I am always looking over my shoulder for some Dane (I know) to steal her away. You see kids, sometimes the funny little guy in the story, does get the girl.

W.B.Z.N.