For Everyman

This will be the fifth time I have tried to write a blog about Dave Baton. As others have said, we were not very good friends, but strangely I have had several heavy conversations with him. We shared a love for cycling, we both did low voltage stereo wiring, and we were both Fathers trying to raise sons. We talked a lot about the challenges of raising boys, of when to be heavy handed and when to do nothing (by far the biggest challenge all fathers face). I always seemed to run into him when he was on a peak or deep in a valley, and as such, our talks were weighted with the problems of life.

In the last few years he had really seemed to be in a good place. I never saw him without Jake in tow. If he was with Jake he was smiling, because seeing your kid do what you love, is one of life's great gifts.

After all my health issues, he followed my Facebook page and always seemed to know what was up with me. He had a blunt sense of humor and once asked me point blank if, I was going to live. I howled with laughter, for one of first times since I was out of the hospital. He was my kind of dude. I have a weakness for people that are incapable of bullshit and Dave was the king of that mentality. Some people are put off by that and it's not fun to be on the receiving end, but I always dug his intensity and honesty. The more blunt he was with people the more he made me laugh. That was just Dave.

I can't accurately comment on his life, or what it was like to be his friend, but I can say this: I was always happy to see him, and he was always seemed happy to see me. On the last Munson Monday ride, I extended my hand to him and said "there he is the legend!" He smiled, stuck out his hand and said: "I always read about your rides on Facebook, now I'm finally on one." He was proud to tell us all that Jake had been riding well. He never stopped smiling the whole time we talked.

The next day he was gone. When I found out Jake was with him when he died, my heart broke. I just can't imagine how much that little guy is hurting. I wish I could do something grand for Dave's memory and for Jake, but the hell of it is, we are helpless, except to begin the grieving.

Tuesday night my son and I saddled up and rode from our house, an hour after getting the news. Every time a car went by my shoulders hunched. We had to ride, it was literally all we could do. Had it been one of us, Dave probably would have raised hell when he heard the news, but I promise you, he would still ride.

See you at the finish bro.

W.B.Z.N.

Crossroads

Back in the in nineties I quit drinking for five years. I didn't have a drop. I realized the sauce was not my friend and not only got on, but bought, painted and drove the wagon. All went well for a long time. I didn't even drink at my wedding. Then one night I had a real beer. I had been going through the motions (with the near beer kind) and it was all fine till the McCoy went down my Irish gullet. My whole body Grand Malled in one exquisite seizure of recognition. All though I never went back to my "hey I wonder where my car is?" status, my days as a non alcohol devotee had ended. The O'Doul's would never heal my wounds again. It is one thing to abstain when you have never indulged, and quite another to taste the nectar and repent.

Dieting has been a similar exercise for me. I am fine once I find a thing I can eat and lose weight. The novelty and receding pounds distract you from the fact that you haven't eaten anything good in months. Then (quite innocently) you go to a Mexican restaurant with friends after a ride. That alchemy of Mariachi, Americanized, cheesy Eden hits your buds (which have been languishing in solitary at Gitmo) and you are officially F*#^+D! You will catch your reflection while you make your next salad and wonder if Tolstoy ever witnessed such misery.

And so kiddies this is the point I am zooming in on. Can one go back to his goat herd after a great vacation in Gomorrah? Time will tell. Jauncho had a burger. I had Mexican food. Who will return to the monastery, and put on the hair shirt first? What does it mean when Big Jim Slade tells you to eat a hamburger while he sheds 20 pounds in five weeks?

It is how we perform at the bottom of the curve that determines our eventual altitude.

W.B.Z.(*BURP*)N.

Make this go on forever

June has been a hell of a month. My #1 son departed for, and returned from, France. How did he become so smart and well adjusted? #2 is tending a very productive veggie garden, working sporadically at Zone5, and heads off to Summer Jazz Camp next week. I have dug my way out of the pit at work, and I am riding pretty good considering. My head is up.

I have been employing a relaxation technique before I fall asleep. The result has been spectacular, prophetic, technicolor, trips to neon oceans, where I surf for hours, or nose wheelie vintage skateboards, down black top ribbons, for miles.

I pray to all that is benevolent, this is a new chapter and maybe my period of heavy testing has passed. Please forgive me if I guard my chips and back away from the table. Battle has left me scared and vigilant.

My life, like my riding, is not that pretty. I hit obstacles hard. I don't care if my chain rattles, I just want to be rolling when it's over.

W.B.Z.N.

Going To The Country

I stole this pic from the Rev. Everything he needs for four days is on that bike. If you don't think that is cool, leave my blog and never come back. That is some Kung Fu, ninja, Mad Max, Daniel Boone, coolness.

I have always thought that real men should be able to cook and camp, neither of which I know how to do. I gotta do something about that.

Rev, you dakine bra!

W.B.Z.N.

Right as Rain

She was singing and I don't mean softly, or in a meek fashion. She was singing up to heaven, hands and voice raised for all to hear. It was dark and about 5:45 AM. The guy parked next to me grunted and groaned and acted like he was on his way to the gallows. Yes, I recognized the symptoms, I invented them.

"What is she going on about?"

He said to no one, and continued fumbling with his bike strapped on a rack.

"Redemption."

I said, as I walked between the cars and with in a foot of him.

I know something about the subject though, I must confess I have never felt absolved of anything I would consider a true sin. I have been reborn many times physically, emotionally and musically. I have been back from the depths of places I never thought I would escape. I have pulled off things I had no business accomplishing, and I have fallen short of things well within my reach. She was singing for salvation and for me, and even though the music was for her headphones only, I new the tune.

Today I was David, and Goliath was 68 miles of road. The cancer charity Ride-4-Hope was the only cause that could make me saddle up for such foolishness. My buddy Big Worm, formulated a plan for me and I decided two nights before, to sign up and figure the rest out later. That is how I came to be standing in a dirt parking lot, before dawn, wearing sunglasses, while laughing at the grouch that couldn't appreciate good, authentic, free Gospel (at this ungodly hour).

The boys trickled in one by one and we rolled out at six thirty. Before long the pace settled in around 20-23 Mph, and we began passing folks that were riding at a more conversational pace. We rolled passed a woman with a triathlon set up and she said loud enough for everyone to hear:

"We will see them on the side of the road later... don't worry."

Big Worm shot her a glance and as is his character, said nothing with words, but volumes with his expression. Not being one to waste a clay pigeon, I took aim.

"No we won't!"

I said as I passed her.

"Just because you have funny bars on your bike doesn't mean you know everything!"

She opened her maw, like she was going to catch flies for the next ninety miles. And just like that, the spirit moved in my body and I was my old self again, whacking the hive and killing the silence, for all hoping to have a quiet morning ride.


We rolled along at a quick pace but I was feeling fine and even worked up front on a climb. By the time we got to Monticello (the splitting point for the Hundred milers and the Hundred kilometer-ers) I called my girl and told her all was well and I was going to keep going. This was my projected bail out point (if my neck or any of my other feeble parts were feeling rough) and Mama W.B. was on stand by to evac me. Mr. Fightclub, his son, nephew (all towering examples of genetic bigness) and I, took the left and veered away from the safety of our B.C. bros and headed west.


M.F.C.'s crew and I followed in behind some guy in his fifties who proceeded to light the pace up for about four miles. I told him I could pull for a while just as our next turn came up. I pulled and then M.F.C.'s nephew went up front, all the while the pace was pretty fast. We dropped the older guy, but a young man (name escapes me) rode with us for a while putting in some big pulls, until he too disappeared off the back. With in eight miles of the finish, other metric riders began catching us and all was festive as we rolled back into town. I decided to sprint for a yellow sign, while smirking at F.C. and his nephew when out of nowhere I heard laughing on my left. I watched as Don Davis (printing his real name, because I hate him) snatched my glory and my sign as everyone laughed.


It was remarkable how unremarkable I felt when I rolled though the finish line. I didn't want to talk to anyone and found a quiet corner to drink a Gatorade. I loaded up my car and decided to roll out before the boys got back from the hundred miler. Some things are better left unsaid and I drove home, had a swim and went to lunch with my girl and Lil W.B. (number one son is in France).


It was a good day on the bike, I couldn't have dreamed of having, even a month ago. It is proof to all that wish to see, that there is always hope. The easiest way to redemption, is to ride to it, on a bicycle.



W.B.Z.N.

Devils and Dust

I suppose I should be angry,
I suppose I should be sad,
but after all is said and done,
the crash wasn't that bad

The newly baptized and the old angry zealots turned out to testify at the Chapel Munson. There wasn't a free pew in the house, and you couldn't take a breath without ruffling another sinners coat. It was obvious to me that there would be fire in the sermon and I wasn't disappointed.

I can't explain it but I have been feeling really good. Good, despite baffling my doctors and not being able to feel my right arm after a month. Good on the bike, good in my life. I have a new mantra and it goes something like this:

I am thankful for feeling good and I will do all I can (today) to take advantage of it. I do not expect to feel good tomorrow. I will try not to live in fear. When I feel bad, I will rest and hope for the best. Today I will ride.

So with that, I showed up at Munson, caffeinated and ready to go for broke. Jauncho smiles like a politician theses days. He lives safe in the knowledge that he has put in a herculean effort to become a new man. We picked on him when he was the fat kid and now he has a lot of quiet, venom in his blood.

You can read his blog for the play by play, all I can say is this: Homey is running better than ever, but even after I crashed and killed myself to get back on with the pack, I had gas in the tank.

To be continued......

W.B.Z.N.

Typical Reaction

I like to bandy about flowery words. I love to take the licence with all things dramatic. In this case I will just say: I rode bikes with my friends and LWB, and it was grand. I thank you (Deity of choice) for letting me come to the well once more.

W.B.Z.N.