Lay It On The Line

Monday.

I hate bikes. Racing is stupid. Tom Brown is a dumb ass trail. It's been raining. I am not going to race.

Tuesday.

The new fall T.V. season started. No ones yells at me, or drops me, when I am on the sofa. The world is full of people that do not race mountain bikes. Cookies are good. I was planning on changing my riding style to: Bird watching cyclist.

Wednesday.

What am I five years old? I don't have to race because of my crew. The world needs peace and love; not a bunch of middle aged dorks in Lycra, spreading testosterone in the forest.

Thursday.

Wow the trail is REALLY getting ridden in well. I am glad I am not racing. This is great for the trail though. I am railing turns. There's way too many people at Tom Brown.....I could beat that guy. Is he in my class? What's with the stink eye Bro?..... Yo! On your left!

Friday

I am riding a little too hard, you know, in case I decide to race. I need to taper a little more. I probably won't race. I need to save money. I am glad the shop had the new shoes, tires, Ti pedals, XTR drive train, and carbon bars I wanted. It's not my fault they sent me a new credit card. I may need a divorce attorney.

Saturday.

I always stay up till four in the morning cleaning my bike, laying out my kit, and checking my cleats. I can't find my lucky socks....WHERE THE F*#$ ARE MY LUCKY, oh...... here they are. I am so glad I am not racing. It makes people soooo neurotic. Losers. I'll just take the tires off one more time, to check for thorns. Did that rotor just squeak? WHAT THE F^&*?

Sunday.

It's so weird, I have a check right here, filled out to Gone Riding....What a coinky dink. I have to poop RIGHT NOW! I have stopped talking and smiling at anyone who might be in my class, including close friends and their family members. I probably shouldn't have told that guys kid I was going to kick his Dads ass. Oh well, all is fair in love and.....OH SHIT! My class is next! I am going to kill anything that is not in a Bike Chain jersey. Why is this guy crowding me? Home boy better chill! I am feeling the whole shot! 5,4,3,2,1.....AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

W.B.Z.N.

The Sky Is Crying

Tuesday, I was going to hit Munson. Big Jim convinced me to ride Tom Brown and Cadillac in prep for the impending "Race of Death" that visits our trails annually like a plague. Like a good soldier, I obliged. I rode from my house (because putting your bike on a car is just silly) and headed to Jim's place of work. As I rolled up, the faucet turned on and I heard that music they play when someone loses on a game show. Jim made a series of grumbling noises and I said:
"Well, I'll see you in the back lot" and I rode off to meet Tyler, who was sitting in the rain, waiting for us. We waited about a minute before I recieved the text from Jim:
"I'm Out."
You see Jim had just had his bike massaged by Big Worm. His bike was dialed, styled, and profiled. Jim likes things to be clean. Jim likes things to be in order. Jim doesn't do rain. Jim was f*#^+ng riding, if I had to kill him and "Weekend At Bernie's" his ass around the trail system. I have a vague memory of cussing into a phone and applying copious amounts of guilt. Low and behold Jim cracked, rolled up, changed, and we headed for the woods. You could have parked a truck on Jim's lower lip. What followed was one of the most miserable, mud ridden, roll outs I can remember. Within ten minutes we were covered head to toe in brown water and trail filth. You could hear metal grinding off our drive trains, cables struggling to move, and chain tolerances going to hell. Somewhere in Japan, a Shimano wept. In a scant ten minutes, all Worms work was decimated, and his efforts to make Jim's bike sing, were crushed, like the dreams of Seminole football fans.

Amazingly, we ended up on the Greenway, and salvaged a pretty good ride. Tyler's steroids kicked in, after we dropped him a few times (not because we were fast, but because he doesn't have gears.....schmuck!). He attacked every hill and robbed me of my delusions of fitness. He even gave me a smirk as I rolled up (four days after they arrived) to the Greenway trail head. The ride was good, and we logged about twenty miles, while the more sensible cyclists sat in their homes, coddled, and well fed, watching The Antique Road Show (Pansies!).

Wednesday, I was riddled with guilt. I called Big Jim to say I was sorry about his muddy bike and invited him for an early ride from my house. This would give me the opportunity to wash his Ellsworth, dump lube on it, floss his calipers and wipe down his frame (insert homophobic jokes here..). Off we went to do the big east loop, in the shining October sun and all was grand...until nearly the end of our ride, when we reached Fern. The clouds pissed rain down on us, in another bitter insult to our ambitions.

Jim has had a perfect bike twice this week, and twice it has been soaked and sullied. My mind wandered to Buddhist Monks making sand paintings for days, denying themselves food, water and sleep. When they are done with the masterpiece, they open the doors facing north, south, east, and west, surrendering to the wind. It is not an exercise in futility, it is a lesson that we must strive for perfection and accept that all our efforts to attain perfection, are in vane. It is in the striving that we live life to the fullest. I know! That was good right? I can hear the sound of one hand clapping all over the Internet.

In all the pictures Jim is smiling, which means he must pick up the burning pot, thereby tattooing himself and leave the temple forever....wait.... did I just mix and match eastern religions?

W.B.Z.N.

If 6 Was 9

Big highs, big lows. That's what I would say if I had to sum up my life in one sentence. I have had periods of brief stability, but mostly I am in transition to one extreme or the other. Self inflicted? Certainly. Exaggerated? Probably. Perception is reality and we all live in a construct of what we think we feel, need, see, hear, and more than anything: who we are.

Today I am well. I had the best week of cycling since March. I feel fit. I do not morn the past and my melancholy has subsided. As the pedals turn, so to do the wheels. The healing increases with the miles. This is not my default setting, so I see different colors than normal. Things smell vibrant. I hear the forest. I am thankful to be allowed to wander the trails.

I ride with caution and with a sense of gratitude. You must believe me when I say: I never thought I would make it back, I just hoped to improve. For the first time in a very long time, I have a hopeful view. My world changed over night. My boys are both in high school, and are not the people they were last summer. They surprise me everyday in appearance and in attitude. All our investments in them have started to bear fruit. All is flowing and the trick is not to disrupt the momentum. Do the dishes, get the kids, clean the kitchen, throw in some laundry, rake a pattern in the rocks, revel in the task, and not the outcome. The moment is here, the moment is gone, equal parts of nothing and something, all in balance for now. The miles are the reward, not the burden.

I know, I know, go with me on this one. It usually comes up tails.

W.B.Z.N.

October

I am riding

I am healthy

I am happy

I am

W.B.Z.N.

Hey D.J.!

OFFICIAL RULES FOR IPOD OLYMPICS:

1. Every player must have his own Ipod.

2. Any and all genres of music are allowed.

3. You have five seconds to start your song after being handed the dock cord.

4. Yelling, singing along, cheering a selection, talking over songs, providing attached memories, weird facts and trivia is not only encouraged it is required.

5. Each player gets one "pull" if they disapprove another players selection.

6. Players must divulge personal attachments to selections of other players, and any physical reactions such as "goose bumps".

7. Paper and pen are needed to write down awesome selections you have never heard of, for the purpose of down loading later.

8. Points are awarded, but everyone wins.

9. Mundane selections will be met with severe verbal abuse.

W.B.Z.N.

From Yesterday

Paulie Mac has got life dialed. He is one of those rare people that knows exactly what his place in the world is and he is comfortable in his skin. He can talk politics and the next second comment on architecture. He has great taste in music and his work as a carpenter qualifies him to be called an artist. With a disarming smile, he can disagree with you, making it impossible to get mad as he dismantles your argument. He has served in the Peace Corps in Africa, and ridden in the La Ruta de los Conquistadores. He is one of those guys you wish you could be but at the end of the day, you aren't as smart and lets face it...you don't have the sack.

He has just returned home for his recent stint as a guide on the Tour d' Afrique. He rode from Cairo to Cape town over a four month period and then when it was over, he headed out on his own, cycling across the dark continent. I could go on but if you want the straight story, click on his link on my main page, and get it all from the horses mouth.

Cliffy had a little welcome home shin dig for Paulie and a small but prestigious group of folks turned out. Cliff is a great artist, a world class photog, and his house is a reflection of his tastes and talents. We drank (some of us more then others) talked (some of us more than others) and laughed well into the wee hours. We had a grand time and more than anything welcomed back one of the scenes elite. We won't be able to keep him long, but we wouldn't want to deprive him of his adventures. For an old dog like me, I look forward to reading his blog, looking at his photos, and pasting myself in there (pretend style) as he trots the globe.

Welcome home pal, sorry you can't stay longer, but we wouldn't any other way.

W.B.Z.N.

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.