Thursday, September 29, 2005
So you want to be the fastest one around do ya?
Yessir, and I want to turn S'quatch's road bike into a sour pickle.
You know what that's gonna cost you right?
I was thinking I could maybe swap you my neighbor's goat hoof shot glass and a pint of aguadiente for it?
No sir, that right there whatchu want is gonna cost you your soul.
The whole thing?
The whole thing.
I got a lot of soul, maybe you only can use a little part of it, and I could like, keep most of it for myself?
It don't work like 'dat.
Well, then can you turn Powder's Ellsworth into a Captain and Tennile record?
It don't matter, just pick one.
I can do that.
Then we may have ourselves a deal...
I'm off to the Mississipi Delta today so don't be looking for a new post tomorrow. I'm off to find the crossroads and see how I can make out. I figure with all the destruction over there the Devil is doing a brisk business and I may get away with a "No Soul Down-No Soul Payment until 2006!" kind of deal.
If you were going to the crossroads, to make yourself a deal (Not that the sweet rubes of the BRC would do such a thing) what would you be looking for? Would you trade your soul outright, or are you wily enough to trick him?
For that matter what did happen to Robert Johnson out there on that dark and lonely night?
Juancho-in A minor
See you Monday, when I'm fast as lightnin'.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Sometimes the difference between self-image and reality is frighteningly vast...
We raced out to Munson to get a late lap in on Monday night. Having no after ride plans I didn't bother to bring a pair of shorts, or my Chaco's, or a t-shirt along. I was just geared up in the usual Man-o-tard ensemble. Frayed and semi-translucent Pearl Izumi bike shorts with a flatteringly large diaper-like chamois pad, too-tight (because I'm hugely muscled) blue jersey with the sleeves cut out for maximum pit exposure, zipper open to my navel, and your basic cleated shoes. Having just completed a pretty quick lap under harsh and sandy conditions I was pumped on testosterone and pretty much felt as sexy as I thought I looked.
After loading the bikes on the Montero we were stunned to find out it would not go into gear, or start. We were broke down. I called for back-up, but the LSU vs. Tennessee game was on so I didn't expect a rapid response. While my buddy cursed his vehicle, rocked it back and forth, and manically turned the key, onoffonoffonoffonoffonoffonoff, I thought I would make myself useful and go find some survival supplies.
Now I've entered many a convenience store in my sweaty, lycra-wrapped best and thought nothing of it, usually too bonked to care, and this one was no different, except...
Was that a giggle I heard? A snort? As I pulled a 4 pack of Mountain sodas from the cooler I hollered at the counter, "Are you ladies laughing at me?" No answer, they were hushed and chastened. I approached the counter, leaving a drippy trail of slime, clip clopping like a show pony, nipples erect from the icy blast from the cooler. Two black women, unfamiliar with my cycling prowess barely suppressed their laughter as they tried to collect themselves for the transaction.
I spun, slow and Neil Diamond-like in a sexy arc, arms wide, chest out. "I know you aren't laughing at all of this." I ran my hands down my meaty frame, pressing more sweat to the floor like a squeegee. The younger lady,( pretty with elaborate nails, much weave, and nicely scented) couldn't take it anymore and doubled over in- appreciation? Swooning passion? Hard to say which facet of my masculinity caused her to lose her professional composure. Poor thing.
The older woman-more portly, quite buxom- shook her head and clucked her tongue, obviously disapproving of so much skin on display (She probably prefers to leave a little to the imagination).
"I ride bikes".
"Mmmmm,hmmmm, I bet you do."
"I'm pretty fast."
"The shoes clip onto the pedals, that's why they make that sound, you know, like a show pony."
"All right" (Standard southern black acknowledgement/dismissal).
By now the younger woman had excused herself, rapidly fanning her face as she walked away.
"I do that to lots of ladies, she'll be all right once I leave."
"I bet she will, oh honey I bet she will."
"Next time I'm wearing the pink shorts."
At least I wasn't wearing S'quatch's Molly Ringwald socks.
Juanchocrombie & Fitch
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
I awoke long before the sunrise this morning, fresh from a dream about a couple hipster Asian kids moving in and taking over. "You gotsta move that bike Yo, dat's where we're gonna put the turntables Yo!" I turned to The Daybreakers, by Louis L'Amour to lull me back to sleep, thinking "If I read one more time about Tom Sunday gunning down Chico Cruz I can rest easy." (Because Chico Cruz is fast and a dangerous man with a six-shooter.)
Chico died, as he always does, but I couldn't go back to sleep.
A sense of urgency gripped me. Breakfast. Bacon, greasy eggs with cheese, biscuits, hashbrowns, grits, sausage patties, sausage links, pancakes, waffles with peanut butter, eggs Atlantis, rivers of hollandaise merging with maple syrup beneath English muffins and black beans, or something like that.
25 minutes until Publix opens.
By the time you read this the situation has been well taken care of, believe me.
My legs are stiff, and I'm incredibly thirsty. We rode Munson pretty hard last night. I'm rolling again today with a new recruit, so no time for rest. It is raining nice and steady this morning, well before the dawn. The blinking yellow school caution light is casting itself two blocks off the glare of a shiny, slick 10th Avenue. Pretty soon people will be skidding and sliding, coffee in hand, racing to the office.
I have a yearning to be in the mountains right now, this morning. Somewhere like Deep Creek, North Carolina, sitting by the icy river drinking coffee. Cleaning my drivetrain, airing my tires, packing a lunch, and more. Riding up until there is no more up, then riding down.
Eat a good breakfast this morning, you want to be prepared.
Monday, September 26, 2005
Ok, so thanks to a couple of the boys for calling me out on my attitude problem. I assure you I was serious about refraining from soliciting tech advice, but my motives were to keep the comments pure of techno-garble unless it's about bikes, circus equipment, brewing techniques, or dart trajectories.
I dealt with the situation as I deal with many situations- I curse it, take a nap, and hope the world looks different when I wake up-and it does work.
S'quatch's feelings were hurt when I failed to praise his Trek Pilot, so here goes... "Hey S'quatch, I think your road bike looks like a rifle. I hope it makes you faster- on the moutain bike, answering jeopardy questions, whatever-just faster. Oh, and happier". How was that? Amen.
Hopefully I can get things kicked off proper tomorrow morning.
Juancho 2.0 the reboot
So, we're moving on.
There is a new addition to the BRC. We have finally scored a professional rider. You can check out her site here at www.stefybau.com She will be riding with us through the winter in order to dominate the field of women's motocross in May. Pretty cool huh?
S'quatch bought a road bike, and wrecked it the same day. You can check it out here at www.trekbikes.com It's the silver 2005 Pilot or something like that. I really don't want to contribute to the hype.
That's it. Really. I have nothing more to say.
For now, Juancho
Friday, September 23, 2005
I am out of HQ today. I get to work someplace I don't live today like you all. I'm talking shoes, pants, the whole enchilada. Cool huh?
So break it down for me people. What's the sit rep for the weekend?
Is the BRC meeting your blog needs? What can we do better around here to make your blogging experience top notch? I really do care, so don't hold back.
Just don't touch my Oreo, I only got one.
I mean, damn!
Thursday, September 22, 2005
-Because I care- Juancho
Rain, rain come my way,
Make my trail fast, like-WAY!
Aside from the death, destruction, and mayhem, hurricanes are great. They force you to slumber as the barometric pressure falls, dragging on your very bones like a suit of lead. If anybody slept better than me last night I congratulate them.
Hurricanes also bring lots of rain, even when you are 400 miles away from the action. It has been dry as a parson's throat around here for 3 weeks leaving everybody's favorite trail sandy and slow.
As of last night, the drought has been broken. I should have gotten up and ridden straight to the trail this morning, but hey, I don't do that sort of thing. It will be nice around 3:00 too.
We had a nice, normal evening last night due to the bearable temperature on the back porch. Riverboat and I threw darts. It wasn't pretty- for him. I like to believe there is a correlation between my dart game and my trail prowess, and if it is true, I will be looking for a personal best out there today.
The whole time I'm pedaling I'll be singing...
The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round, the wheels on the bus go round and round, all the live long day!
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
This is Joe. If you live in town you probably know him. He owns my bike shop. He just barely squeaks over the wire as a Clydesdale, but I'm sure the council will approve him. You can say what you want about other bike shops in town, and all their cool bikes in stock and whatnot, but me? I stick with Joe, and of course his ace mechanic, Shins, and that other guy, the tall crazy one who gets the sandwiches.
Joe is a really decent guy, and that's why God gave him a little bike shop on Lake Ella, where you can enjoy a rare breeze and watch the world drift by, carefree and lazy.
Joe works on the most awful hunks of crap ever to be churned off a Chinese assembly line, not because he likes it, but because he understands that people use their bikes for transportation. Not everybody is stressing over how they can possibly ride this weekend without getting that NEW FUCKIN' BOTTOM BRACKET INSTALLED, OH DEAR GOD WHERE IS IT!!!
No, some people, mostly poor people, the mentally impaired, and chronic DUI-heads need their Roadmasters to master the road, their Free Spirits to roll free, and their Huffies to huff. While he may swear and groan like he's losing his mind, he will get out his hammer, his vice grips, his length of pipe and make those pieces of shit work, again and again.
Conducting an actual transaction is very much like buying a goat in Bosnia. You may have to join in for a coffee and a cigarette before he is prepared to listen to your problem or accept your money. He may get your cranks pulled then become distracted by another customer for 45 minutes or a couple days. If you can't handle that, then you probably ought to mosey on over to one of the other shops. We won't miss you, no hard feelings.
There are people in this town, misfits of one kind or another, who visit Joe like he's long lost family. They are often the type who are driven away from other businesses either outright, or through cool detachment. Sometimes it drives Joe crazy, other times he seems glad to see them, but he is never cruel or impatient with the Weird Harolds. They scream his name like a rock star. JOOOOoooooooeeeee!
He has been in business so long the shiny veneer has worn off much of the retail experience. You may have to project your voice over a blaring 20 minutes of "Alice's Restaurant" or Sepulchura, or Crosby Stills Nash and Young, who knows. Profanity may occasionally slip out, but not the mean-spirited kind. "You need a stem?We got a fuckin' stem for ya'." Off it comes from someone else's bike. Who knows how that works. It is all part of the Byzantine system in Joe's head.
All I know is, Joe's Bike Shop is one of those places that make Tallahassee a real class act.
So congratulations Joe, and don't be pissed I put your picture on the internet.
I could have used that other one.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
I don't find it to be gross or anything. It smells clean. There is no actual food garbage, and the bathroom is always pretty clean too. It just displays the evidence of a dude, living and wallowing in his own, deep undercover-- dude space.
Thank God for it. He has Super cable, and a big T.V.
When I'm tired of pretending I am an esoteric Spartan warrior, I ease on down to 640 and a half for an easy chair, a Camel Ultralight, and some Ultimate Fighting.
Last night I brought dinner, pictured above. We aren't poor, or broke, we just like some Ramen Noodles now and then. For 44 cents worth of MSG and dehydrated paste, I bought myself a round or two of Miller lites and a front row seat to oblivion. Between the two of us we must have burped 40 times. Was it the Ramen?
I know, you waited all day for this?
Sometimes the circus hustles you.
Monday, September 19, 2005
The problem with making adjustments when you feel like your life is out of balance is that it takes a certain amount of balance to be aware of the problem. Often, it takes a catalyst to prompt you.
Nicking up Barbie's little dream truck (Oh poor BLDT!) was just the wake up call I needed to take a look at the schedule and figure out how to act more deliberately, less reactively.
It was a glancing blow and nobody was hurt, but it could have been ugly. The other driver was speeding, I was creeping out to look. My fault though, pure and simple. Too much on my mind, out of synch with my surroundings (I never drive at rush hour, why would I?) and I got checked. Scary.
So- take stock of your inner chaos, and if necessary, clean house.
Yesterday morning we put off riding until it was good and hot. A general rule of thumb is if you don't want to ride, don't answer the phone. Over here on 10th Ave we all answered the phone, but I don't think any of of us were really prepared for the molten beatdown we received.
98 degrees in September. Pretty typical really. This summer I have learned the heat-related symptoms all too well, and surprisingly they are very similar to hypothermia.
Shortness of breath, mild hyperventilating.
Tendency to go mute.
Bad taste in mouth (yes I brush my damn teeth).
Immediate and constant lactic burn.
We cruised through the Florida State Championship race scene at Tom Brown Park www.goneriding.com . Those poor bastards. The ego juice was flowing so hard out there. Nobody speaks civil, nobody waves.
That's a big strike against future racing considerations.
This is the South. We wave down here.
Friday, September 16, 2005
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
That is the question I fell asleep thinking about last night. As we grow older, inevitably we distance ourselves from certain youthful ambitions and embrace others, born from opportunity, new information, bargaining with the self (Just get me out of this restaurant and I'll do anything!) So what happens to the dreams of childhood? Of adolescence? Of the promises I made myself at 23 that I would never be like this or knuckle under to that? Often, we laugh those dreams away, mocking our youthful self as naive and pie in the sky gullible.
-Something like this-
If I had known how the world truly works of course I would have chosen to sit in a fucking office all day and immerse myself in petty politics. I mean really, who wants to float the Mississippi river like Huckleberry and Jim? Who wants to play on the PGA Tour? Those guys look stressed to me, much better to file that 147 in the 231A and try to beat those bastards in Accounts Receivable to the cafeteria.
I take no issue with the failure to achieve the dreams of childhood. I take issue with pretending they were not, or less, important than they are.
You can't explain away a dream.
once an aspiring professional breakdancer & future novelist.
current catcher of children running through the rye.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
This is not about cycling, and yet cycling is an antidote to the problem.
I'm frustrated and disappointed in the scarcity of good conversation flowing around here these days. The whole world seems to be going ADHD on me. Of course, to be fair, I wouldn't be realizing this if Riverboat and I hadn't fallen into some good conversation last night. It was fleeting, and abruptly interrupted, which was a shame. Until it happened I didn't realize how rare it has been lately.
I value bullshitting, playing the dozens with the bro's, and the need to just download the crap in your head on a friend, but that ain't conversation. Conversation is following a particular train of thought to a natural conclusion. Conversation is listening to, and responding to the subject being addressed, not what the subject reminds you of, or triggers for you. Tangents are great, as long they come back to the main trail. Hell, I don't know what's going on, but I find it to be sad, sad, sad.
What I hear most is "word pinball" and one-upsmanship. It's embarassing to listen to and I feel like I need to go wash my hands when I hear it happening.
" I went fishing yesterday and caught a 52 lb. Cobia with my Dad".
"Oh man, that's pretty cool, but I caught an 80 lb. Cobia once, but 52 lb. is still pretty big."
Now do you follow me? I'm not pointing fingers here, it is a common human weakness. This same thread of conversation could easily jump tracks to yet another non sequitur such as...
"80 lbs? Dude I knew a guy once who found 80 lbs. of cocaine while he was fishing".
This type of statement masquerades as related by it's reference to fishing and the proclaimed weight of the earlier fish, which itself was an attempt to kill or hijack the initial topic. Now the conversation will inevitably sink to the lowest common denominator, lies or war stories.
"President Bush has probably snorted 80 lbs. of cocaine, but nobody cares about that".
At this point the conversation has successfully moved away from personal experience into the realm of conjecture and vitriol toward (around here) a safe and common target. Boring. Boring and sad. In the initial example, the statement invites questions about "fishing with Dad" and yet that aspect of the statement is tactlessly avoided. Too personal? Too boring?
I hate to think we are all just killing time in each other's company. One on one with anybody this doesn't seem to happen, make it three and forget about it, nothing but blather and inanity.
The art of the good conversation needs to make a comeback. No more 24 hour news. Less booze.
Whatever it takes.
Chew on that shit-Juancho
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Open letter to Powder aka the Hardman-aka-The Red-headed Stranger
Let me get this off my chest right off the bat. I don't give a marinated damn how they do it out west. This ain't the west. Do you see any dogs named Bridger around here? Is Big Head Todd and the Monsters playing this weekend? No you have not, and no they aren't. I know. It's awful. I'm so not Kind!
This is the South, and if you haven't noticed, things have been a little edgy down here, so I would keep my gun in my holster if I was you. I know you used to be quick, but that was then and this is now...and tomorrow will be then too...I think.
So you just keep your head down, your eyes forward, and don't touch that Ellsworth unless you want to learn the Truth.
I'll deal with the rest of you pilgrims later.
Juancho Van Cleef
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
He is the friend who first put me on a mountain bike. I still have the frame. The fabled 1988 Jamis Dakar. He's training for a marathon. He absolutely loves to suffer. I outweigh him by 25-30 lbs. He rides titanium.
Knowing all of this I still have come to treat him like a sweet old hunting dog who needs to get out in the woods (even if he can't hunt no more). We ride on Mondays, and I habitually call it my "recovery day" since Sunday rides are often long.
He didn't sound like he even wanted to ride. He accused me of the same. I told him I would find my motivation on the trail. We rolled onto the Tom Brown Park singletrack course and he was off. I mean he was gone. My face went cold. I geared up. Click-click. Cla-chunk.
Tight, rooty, steep. My trademark curtain of drool began it's seepage onto my beard, reaching slowly down to my chest and top tube. It's viscous, with the tensile strength of a weedwhacker cord. It means I'm going fast or about to die. I was going fast. I kept him in range and waited. When the trail opened up for the long climb across open ground, the sun was blinding. I got in the big ring and stood on it. Up I went, passed him like the bum he is.
He got around me again somewhere close to the end and we finished the course seconds apart.
The Duel was on, and we headed to the Cadillac trail to finish it.
We got on the heritage trail (wider-faster) and just stayed there, pounding for a long time. Climbing so fast I felt the G's pulling against me in the corners. The drool hung like a shower curtain the width of my bottom lip. I was putting the crush on him. Every time I got a glimpse of him fading in my rear view, I got a burst of adrenaline to make him disappear forever.
It was like hitting each other with hammers. It was like trading kicks in the nuts. It was Mad Max. It was attempted murder. Pure masochistic bloodsport.
On the way back in, I eased up before the final long climb, preferring to follow him and not ride any harder than necessary. He eased up too. I eyeballed him and got a nervous laugh. He was playing the same game. I took it. I kept it. I had to. I was afraid he would trample me if I gave him the chance.
That rickety old dog can hunt, believe it.
Monday, September 12, 2005
The sun was warm, but the breeze was cool, and like everyone's favorite rock star boyfriend says, " It felt like I had no chain". We rode north into what S'quatch described as fox country, and it is true. Rolling green fields with huge and gothic live Oaks scattered across acre after acre.
We jumped in the lake and had what is sure to be one of the last swims of the summer. We played sprint/ attack all the way back to 10th Ave. Headquarters. Absolutely fucking awesome ride.
Riverboat recently asked the question, "Why don't you make your blog about something more than biking" and I am struggling for the right way to put this..."It's Not About the Bike".
Come on, that was a joke. Of course it's about the bike. Lance doesn't know what he's talking about. I guess when I started this thing, which happened late one night after a bottle of Ravenswood Zin, I was reliving the glory and hilarity of the 12 hours of Razorback. The Big Ring Bakery came to mind (Our black market Boston-cream filled cupcake operation) and I thought, "What a Circus". Boom. Done. A blog is born.
For me, mountain biking is something that I can think and write about every day, so it works. There are already too many sites out there about Sex, Drugs, and Rock-n-Roll so really, what was left? Besides, I'm open to any tangent off the trail, just ask S'quatch. I'll take this thing anywhere you want to go. Except Politics. If you take it to politics, then pray you agree with me, that's all I'm saying. I really lose it sometimes and I'm likely to say something nasty. I don't want that, it stresses me out. Nobody ever changes their mind anyway, especially me. Bitch.
See? Nobody said anything and I'm already pissed so no politics.
D&D (I'll handle the mockery, you handle the dice)
married vs. single debate (always enlightening-seriously)
Space (physical, not Outer)
Mexican Professional Wrestling
anything qualifying as "Epic"
Life vs. Death (Where do you stand?)
Words that start with P
Gangster, or other, rap
Florida and southern tradition
Food-hell yeah, let's talk about food
Things you should probably look elsewhere for, (surefire blog-killers)
College football in more than a passing reference (We kicked Citadel's ass)
goofy, zany, or madcap internet photographs.
biking as a "recreation or sport" rather than a reason to live.
Baseball- nothing sucks like baseball sucks
Politics & Religion
Dumb or Dirty jokes- I prefer my profanity to be relevant and potent.
OK? Simple enough right? We're the "Big Tent Party", plenty of room for everyone under the Big Top.
Now that we have that settled- who's riding today?
"I" says this guy.
Friday, September 09, 2005
Sascha, by God, you should be proud of me. I'm growing up. My kitchen is going to be painted today, and I only had to wait 2 1/2 years for the landlord "Big Dick" to get around to it. I am hoping we go with something like the picture above because it is important to me to project an aura of sophistication and domestic tranquility. Apparently that is how to snare the lovely ladies. Big Dick wants to go more with a color he likes to call "flat white". We'll see what happens.
I'm having a hard time getting any kind of regular ride gang together lately. Everybody is gone somewhere. Europe. Idaho. Academia. The Dark world of Ungor. Court. The Drunktank. Apathytown. Yep, that about covers it. I feel like a whore at the docks, ready to go with anybody. Shit, I'm so hard up I would ride with that Tally flasher guy who used to come around. Actually, no I wouldn't.
Today is S'quatch's daughter's birthday, but I bet he woke up more excited about my kitchen being painted. He would like to see me get it together around here, he really would. I appreciate that, but talk is cheap. If I had a nickel for every time he said he was going to come over here and get this kitchen project going I would have at least 15 cents.
Mel (not his real name) seems to be leaning toward the one year plan, which is good news. Thanks again for all of your insightful thoughts and comments. I've never been a more proud king of an imaginary kingdom. We'll see what happens next. I say get the Moots YBB shipped directly here to the lair. I'll get it all set up, just the way I, I mean you, like it dude.
Citadel is coming to town to get crushed by FSU this weekend, which is only interesting because we have some Pat Conroy fans in the house. If you've never heard of him before, he is a South Carolina writer who romanticizes losing in his book, My Losing Season. Conroy is a Citadel man. S'quatch and Hi-Tops fucking love the shit out of some Pat Conroy. They are constantly saying things like, "When I lose I want to lose like Pat Conroy lost" or "Man I really Conroyed that jump back there". I think it is important and healthy to have heroes.
For the cyclists, here is a cool website. www.bikecult.com Check out the chainwheel kaleidoscope, it's awesome.
For the non-cyclists out there, I wouldn't leave you out! you can check out this site. www.amygrant.com
I'm going to knock out a solid 2 hour day's work, take a nap, avoid the paint project, take an urban cruise through campus, meet the whole S'quatch clan at the pub early enough to play pool in a non-disgusting environment, then I will stay around to help make it disgusting.
It's important to have a plan. It's all a part of growing up.
Juancho, with links Yo!
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Aretha Franklin, Queen of Soul.
I came across a version of Aretha singing "Tracks of My Tears". I can't stop playing it.
That is why Aretha Franklin, despite her 80's hits, is our newest inductee into the Clydesdale Hall of Fame.
Congratulations Ms. Franklin!
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
We have to put the clowns in rehab, things have gone too far this time. Please check back later for our regular afternoon performance featuring, "Great Enemies of Moderation", or possibly a new inductee into the "Clydesdale Hall of Fame". Please send nominees for either category to email@example.com
Now get to work.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Football Weather. You don't have to be a fan to know what it means.
If it happened in a movie I would be rolling my eyes, but, as if on cue the wet, moldy summer air was pushed away by a dry, cool breeze on the opening night of the FSU football season.
Yes, we kicked their obnoxious south Florida asses.
What this really means though, is that the off season is coming to a close and it is time to pull out the longbow and stroke for the far and distant corners of the land. No more time trialing around the hamster wheel. S'quatch and I left a couple of the fellas standing at the 10 mile mark and rode off into the Sunday morning sun. 5 hours in the saddle. 35ish miles of trail, field, road, and catwalks.
We baptized ourselves in the well of a Cypress tree, on hands and knees in a honey-colored stream. We learned that banana spiders are not poisonous.
Although cramped and exhausted, it was back in the saddle yesterday for another 18 miles of crosstown, traffic dodging, singletrack fun.
It is just too pretty. Ride every day, sleep when you're dead.
Sunday, September 04, 2005
It's on. As my bro would say, "It's on like King Kong, smokin' on a water bong, talking on a cell phone, playin Donkey Kong". The air is slightly cool, since it is basically the middle of the night as far as I'm concerned. S'quatch and I are hooking up with the crew on the Fern trail, then hitting Tom Brown Park, Cadillac, Pedrick Greenway, and hopefully Miccosukee, then back home. It is shaping up to be my first 30+ (offroad + connector miles) since May. The plan is to go until everyone else cries uncle and falls away, leaving the two lumbering Clydesdales clip-clopping alone under the noonday sun.
The morning devotional? Bad Religion, Public Enemy, Cherry Poppin' Daddies, Dropkick Murphy's.
The fuel? Black beans and brown rice.
Pass the turpentine baby, Daddy's thirsty.
Friday, September 02, 2005
I wanted to make a song about where I'm from You know?
Big up my home town, my territory, my state
But, I couldn't figure out much to brag about- Prince lives here, we got 10,000 lakes.
But wait, the women are beautiful, to me they are
And we're not infested with pretentious movie stars, And it hit me,
Minnesota is dope, If only simply for not what we have, but what we don't.
lyrics from Ssh! Written by Atmosphere. Minnesota rapper. That's right. Minnesota rapper.
This whole conversation on place and purpose interests me to no end. If you will notice the shape of the world we live in, there is no top, bottom, high or low point other than the arbitrary way in which we choose to desribe it. It's a ball. All points are equal.
Does the globetrotting trust funder have a deeper understanding of the world than the bosnian village woman who has never gone over the mountain? Absolutely not.
You grow where you're planted, and sometimes those roots go deep in one spot and other times they spread like spanish moss crawling through the trees.
Detroit? Queens? Twin cities? Tallahassee? All trees full of ripe fruit waiting to be plucked and eaten. If you've had your fill, move to a different tree, otherwise enjoy your feast.
-Juancho- sated at the table.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Being a nature boy at heart I must admit to strong daydreams of breathless single-track riding on a sweet bike, sitting in a wet, sandy bathing suit on the leading edge of the gulf tide at St. George Island in the late afternoon when everything slowly turns blue and gold as the sun that warms your legs and back starts to dip and the moon starts to slowly rise in the sky with the sound of the surf filling your ears.
I think of laying on my back looking up at trees and the way when the wind is just right in their leaves it almost sounds like they may be trying to tell you something secret and divine if you just listen closer to them for a while longer and be still.
Actually seeing stars at night, ambitions of having a garden – tomatoes, root vegetables and maybe even some orchids.
Get a dog!
I think of the good feeling of standing barefoot in grass with a cold beer in hand and old friends laughing close by. I think of a relatively laid back life style in a southern city, where a job is something you do to pursue your lifestyle and not where your lifestyle is a job.
This ain't false advertsing people, although most of you know this to be true. Beer should have been mentioned much sooner, but other than that I think he captures our virtues pretty well. I don't know about the rest of you but I very clearly hear what the wind in the trees is saying...
"Juuuuaaaancho, you are so damn handsome."
"Juuuaaaancho, wait up for the other guys."
"Juuuuancho, are you going to eat the rest of that?"
I thought everybody knew that's what they were saying.
Speaking of trees,
S'quatch needs to come on and tell us all about the addition to his pool. He is really working on that natural, grotto-like environment. I, for one, am very impressed with his commitment to xeriscaping, which as you know, is a word that begins with the letter X.