Never See It Coming

seventeen

Floyd's Music Store, May 3, 2003: The young opening band for socialburn just finished their set. They are elated. They high five each other, in front of a sold out crowd. They start wave to their friends and family. A loud, rude voice comes from behind:

"Hey what the fuck are you guys doing? Get your shit off the stage!"

The young guys scatter like recruits in boot camp. They are grabbing hand fulls of cables and guitars and pushing gear off the stage as fast as they can move. I look over at Neil Alday (the socialburn singer that I manage) who is laughing so hard, no sound is coming out of him.

Tallahassee, April 18, 2013: I am rolling an old road cases off of the red and blue rubber mats of my garage. This area was for bikes and a work stand for the last fourteen years. Since the day I gave up playing music full time. Since the days I stopped managing bands. This was the sanctuary where the arsenal was kept. The weapons that kept all my demons at bay. The desire to play music and sing was beaten back with sweat, bikes and tools. This shop was kept spotless, the vigil was never forsaken, the watchman never slept and the past was a distant dream. 

Now the space was full of road cases. Cases that had been flown around the world, and dragged into every rock bar in Tallahassee. The old blue drum set inside was beaten and chipped. The cobalt piano finish was pale compared to the day they were new 1988. But they are cleaned, lubed and wearing fresh drum heads. A horn beeps from the van out front. I smile and roll the bass drum case down the driveway.

One year ago this week I had taken my first ride after breaking my right collarbone. A year and a half before that, I had heart surgery. One month before that, I'd had a stroke. I had trouble talking. I couldn't write my own name for a week. I thought I would end up on disability. Slowly it all came back, but no matter how hard I tried, I never felt right on the bike. I felt funny around my friends too. It wasn't anything they did or said, but my world had changed and nothing was the same color anymore. Some part of me never came back from the hospital. August twenty first, and that tiny blood clot changed me forever. The Bike Chain Crew were all different too. Life had caught us all unaware. The difference was, they could still ride. I still rode too, when I could, but it wasn't the same. I had to accept the fact that cycling was not the central thing in my life. I look at my BC jersey, hanging on the bike stand, as I load the last case and shut the garage door.

The light guy tells me to wait for the fog. I hear the intro music start. First the sound of flipping through radio stations, a few seconds of a socialburn song, then "You'll Have Time" by William Shatner starts to play with the opening lyric: "Live life like you're gonna die...cause your gonna!"

"Amen Brother!"

I say under my breath and walk out a little ahead of the rest of the band, to put in my in-ear monitors. I start playing the drum intro to "Save Me" the first song of our set. Eight hundred people stare up as we go from song to song. The applause increases after ever tune, and slowly the crowd warms up. I see the silhouette of Neil, my old friend. I watched him play for huge crowds from the side of the stage as his manager and now I am playing with him. Life is strange. I never saw any of this coming. I count off the last song and look over to see the drummer and bass player from Blackberry Smoke watching. Their arms are folded and they look tired and unimpressed. The drummer is tapping his foot. We finish the song. I give some drum sticks to a few people that ask for them. Blackberry Smoke's stage manager is screaming at us to get our gear off the stage. I start laughing.

"Calm down Sparky."

I say to the twenty something manager.

"This ain't our first rodeo."

I move him out of the way with my left hand and walk by with some cymbal stands.

The gear is all cased and in the van. I am drinking a beer outside the back stage door, soaked in sweat. I  look up and see Charlie Starr from Blackberry Smoke.

"Y'all have a good time? The crowd treat you right?"

"Hell ya man. Thanks for letting us play the show. We are huge fans."

I stop talking because I know the drill. The singer was just being nice. Headliners hate talking before they walk on stage. They want to be left alone. I tell him to have a good show and walk over to our van, sitting in the shadow of a forty five foot Prevost Touring Coach. I change my shirt next to a dumpster and climb in the front seat.

"Well Eddy?"

I say to my old friend and sound man.

"Sometimes you are on the bus and sometimes you are in the van."

Eddy turns and laughs out a cloud of cigar smoke.

"Ain't that the fucking truth!"


W.B.Z.N.

Waking Up

seven




She is running through a field and Joey's chasing her. They are in a sheep pasture up above the place he surfed in Santa Barbara. She could see the the little dots of surfers out on the point. It was one of those breezy perfect days you learn to ignore in California. He is taking pictures of her but she's feeling playful and uncooperative. She's running, trying to make him chase her. Just when he thought she was going to pose, she runs again. She's laughing so hard she can't breath and finally leans over to catch up with her heart. The amber grass shares hues of her caramel skin and gold hair. She continues to play and run from him and just when it looked like he might give up and loose his patience, she pulls her hand knitted shirt over her head and throws it away. She looks over her shoulder. He takes her picture and falls for her, in the blink of a shutter. She's been holding that flower all morning, spinning it in her fingers and day dreaming. They were on the beach and decided drive up the hill while the tide switched. He captured her there, and all of who she was that day. She was caught like a firefly in his lens in front of those green Santa Barbara hills that matched the color of her bikini. She falls onto a blanket and watches him walk out of the sun. He takes his camera from his neck and sets it on the edge of the quilt. She stops laughing and looks up at him. She pulls her arms away from her chest, glances down at her bare breasts and then back up at him. It's the fall of 1971. It is the best season of her life. She is nineteen.

"Gretna, wake up honey. The surgery is over, c'mon honey, open your eyes. I have some water for you. Everything is fine, try to open your eyes."

Roscoe had pulled all the wood from the fallen porch and stacked it near the garage. He spent a few days pulling nails and separating the trash from the the good. He was done with the ramp and other than a few nails and screws, was able to finish the entire thing with what he salvaged. When the roof cascaded off of the house into a pile of intertwined lumber, it took with it the steps and an old chain swing. He figured she would need a ramp to get into the house. Those steps were as useless as the porch and he presumed they were both built by the same lazy hands. This whole house seemed ill supported and in need of work. For now she could be wheeled up and that made him feel better. He saw some paint cans, whose drippings matched the porch deck color and tomorrow he'd look to see if it could be stirred and used. For today he was done and he loaded his tools into his old bug and strapped the wooden step ladder to the luggage rack on top. He wiped his hands with a towel and admired his work. He loved to do things right and to help. Today he had done both. He reached into the passenger side and grabbed a bowl and some kibble. As he filled it, the dog came from the woods and wagged his way toward him. He sat it down next the water bowl and smiled.

"See ya tomorrow."

She is watching the boys come down the walk. No matter what was going on in her life, she loved seeing those kids come home from school. She wanted to be like one of those women, at the Timber Lane Hopkins Eatery. They played tennis when the kids were at school and complained about bad caterers over lunch. They had the strained faces of women who didn't dare gain an ounce, for fear of being replaced. Kerry wished she could just be a stay at home Mom. She was starting a new job next week and this was her last few days of freedom before the stress came back. The boys were pulling at each others back packs and laughing. They both had sticks in their hands and a sword fight could break out any second. She caught a reflection of herself smiling in the window. It felt good. Those boys were never a burden. They were the thing she did right. She couldn't wait to hear what happened that day. The rain had finally stopped and the first wisp of fall hung just outside the last grasp of summer. It was a good day.

He loaded his drums into his car after eating lunch. His youngest son was playing a jazz groove on the drums in his room. He marveled at how good he was. His oldest was on his way to his life guard job and looked every bit of the college freshman he had become. He said goodbye in passing and he watched young man drive off. He had done some things well. He did have moments of pride, in between all the anger and regret. It was in the air. All good things happened for him in the fall. When he lived by the coast it marked the start of the surf season. When he came to Tallahassee, it was the return of students and packed gigs. On bikes it was the magic time of cool temps and night rides with his crew. Spring was the first verse, summer was the dark bridge and September marked the first notes of the chorus. He was rehearsing tonight, feeling good for the first time in weeks and he stopped to recognize a rare moment of content. For now that was all he needed, little shot at something good.


W.B.Z.N.   

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)