BigRingCircus

Keep Totin'

2012-01-24T09:39:00.000-05:00

That's what my friend, Montana Bob, would say when you whined or complained about anything. "Shut up and keep totin'." Pick yourself up and shuffle along.

Our friend the Wrecking Ball took a slam and cracked his collarbone like a number 2 pencil over the weekend. The X-ray looks like somebody smashed a sleeve of crackers in his shoulder cavity. What can you say to a man named Wrecking Ball that he doesn't already know? Nothing. He knows the only way out of this is through. Keep totin' Wrecking Ball.

Our readers up north may not sympathize, but it is too damn hot down here. This state is a steam bath of hay fever and confused Camellias and we are deep in the heart of winter. I don't like it much. Keep totin'.

My friend who suffered the horrific de-gloving of his scrotum on his inaugural mountain bike ride a few months ago returned to the trail on Sunday to lead the Robot Army, minus some 'bots, in a victory lap. We stopped at the site of of the accident and raised a water bottle full of bacteria and soap residue to his resilience, at least that's what mine tasted like. He crashed again, shoulder-checked a tree, and ran off the trail a couple of times, but the boy has the fire for riding. He'll keep totin'.

With San Felasco behind me, I need a new riding goal. I'm looking slant-eyed at the Bicycle House To Hell and Back ride. That's something like 150 mile round trip into Tate's Hell and back. That's a lot of totin'.

Life sets them up, we knock them down.

Keep totin' y'all.

Juancho

The Down and Out

2012-01-17T09:11:00.001-05:00

Early on in the ride I noticed a couple standing off trail looking down at a bike they were both holding by a handlebar. "I can't ride the whole damn thing in the granny gear." a woman said bitterly. Let that bar go and ride on I thought to the guy, but we all knew their ride was over, 4 miles into the cold day.

Crawling through the cloudy switchbacks an hour later we passed a man sitting in the dirt-his legs entwined in his frame, a knot under his eye. "I'm all right, I don't need anything" he kept repeating to the parade of riders making lazy effort to assist. "Okay?" "Need anything?" We were all wiling to give him everything but our inertia.

A baby-faced young buck, his face a puffing red badge of courage sits sucking water in a bed of pine needles. His 10,000 yard stare looks past the trail, the riders, the whole day. He is looking deep into a future where he is a fisherman with a shining white boat trailered to his F150, a cold beer in his hand, steering out the channel with his gut on the wheel. Bicycles are a children's toy in his world now.

The pushers, arms out far as though they can to reach the finish line sooner just by stretching a little further. The pushers are a game bunch. They compete against each other, racing to be not the last pusher. "On your left" we say, and the stoic pushers say "fuck you" with their steady plodding. "Come around if you want, but don't touch me. I am pushing my bike and I am disgusting."

Don't meet their eyes, don't get involved, just stay in the parade and pass them all by.

Juancho

Doce

2012-01-16T20:26:00.000-05:00

I heard this Pablo Neruda poem tonight in a Yin yoga class, which is a sentence I never ever thought I would get the opportunity to write, but out of respect for all of the soldiers for peace the world over, I'm going to share it with you guys on this day. Tomorrow I hope to continue my takedown of the tour of San Felasco. -Juancho

Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.

For once on the face of the earth
let's not speak in any language,
let's stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines,
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.

Fishermen in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victory with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about;
I want no truck with death.

If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.
Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive.

Now I'll count up to twelve
and you keep quiet and I will go.

San Felasco

2012-01-15T09:33:00.000-05:00

I told Tom early on I wanted it to be just another bike ride, a long-even boring- day in the saddle. Before lunch Tom had crashed twice and claimed the nickname "Crampa" as he struggled to keep up on his tiny-wheeled bicycle. I was having a different experience on Big Red the 29'er. If I wanted to pass, I passed. If I wanted to catch up, I caught up. I pictured where I wanted to be, and Big Red transported me to that place. Thought-powered.

The incentive to do a ride like San Felasco for me is to mark a place in time. The ride experience itself is less important. Creeping lines of riders crawling through the singletrack harumphing and wheezing in the dust, everyone blaming someone for something. Too slow, too rude, too aggro, too mellow. Someone taps a brake and the backlash travels back for miles down the trail.

A meniscus of dust lingers above the trail all day and you are either eating it or serving it up to someone else, and everyone gets a good taste of both.

Our little trio had few rules for the day, but the most important was to avoid mixing it up with the boys in the Black and Orange, the Bikechain posse. There are too many of them, and they think and act as one. They are like an automatic weapon on a battlefield of six-shooters. Always, another rider can be dispatched or expended just for the fun of blowing someone up and leaving them a pile of smoldering quads.

I could hear them calling to me through the trees, "Juancho where are you? We are coming to get you!" A guy in front of me said, "Jesus Christ I'm glad I'm not Juancho." I told him I was Juancho and he immediately yielded the trail and hid behind some bushes. "Don't let them see your eyes!" I warned him as I stomped through the rest of his pack of friends.

Trapped in a malingering crowd of weekend warriors the Black and Orange caught me and the Wrecking Ball lived up to his name. Employing his Ft. Pierce dirtball heritage he punk-rocked his way through the crowd earning whimpers of protest from the Milquetoast Docker set like, "Just tell us what you are doing please!"

What is he doing? He is wrecking you. That should be obvious and count your blessing that he isn't coming back. We passed about thirty people by hyper-driving through the center of the pack, his son floating along the outside line like the shadow of a hunting raptor. We enjoyed open ground for the next few miles to the lunch break.

That's a good start on the lying. I'll cook up some more later.

Juancho

Projection

2012-01-12T08:52:00.000-05:00

Somewhere out there in the woods of Alachua County is a moment waiting for me. It may be a moment of quiet splendor, where I pause in the saddle to watch a fawn snuffle for acorns while I reflect on the great bounty that befell me in 2011. I will genuflect in gratitude before clipping in to savor the final miles of a glorious day.

Somewhere else out there is a different moment. This moment finds me sitting beside the trail, my sooty bottom all wet and itchy. My blurry tears fall on my bottom lip and pool there. Some physical or mechanical failure ties me to defeat. I am eating chocolate and waiting for the bus.

Juancho

Fountain of Sorrow

2012-01-09T10:13:00.000-05:00

Wow. Now that's a weekend. Are they this good because I can't take them for granted anymore, or is life just that good? It's a hard call.

We spent major time behind the scenes in support of the above performance by performance art troupe, The Glitter Chariot. It is hard to explain what goes on at these events, but they are high risk, emotion-driven performances that borrow from old country standards, children's television, and personal stories of heartbreak and loss. The next night they turned it out glam punk style and left the stage a smoldering pile of sparkly cinders.

It was a weekend for bicycle heroics too, by riders young and old, but I'll tell you about that later. It is Monday after all, and I need to find some pants.

Juancho

Honed

2012-01-06T14:51:00.000-05:00

This time next week we will be driving towards oblivion, which is just a dramatic way to describe a bike ride that costs $50-- The Tour de San Felasco. Tommy offered his mea culpa today, which is nothing to be concerned about. He has been working day and night, up to his elbows in chest cavities from here to Georgia. Should you ever need it, you would want his to be the hands up in there. His job ain't easy, but at least it is stressful. He's not the surgeon so don't get on your high horse about doing what it takes to make the big money. He volunteers his time and donates any earnings to various charities that benefit small children or cute animals. They don't make them like that anymore.

It doesn't matter, like I said. We march onward into the fray, singing of caissons. He won't begin to apply himself until it gets ugly, which is when he shines. The colder and wetter the higher his odds. I am the opposite. If the sky is grey I will struggle to get out of the car. Two elements that make me cower are wind and grey skies, especially when they are spelled in the British manner, with an "e". Those are indeed the greyest of all.

I can't do much more to be ready. Trim off a couple of Christmas lbs (Ham and Grand Marnier), pick up some shoe covers in case it is 12 degrees, and figure out what I am carrying on the ride (the 10 essentials?)

Tonight the Glitter Chariot rides into town for a performance at the FSU Museum of Fine Art, so I must put aside thoughts of bikes and become El Managerio to the stars. M will be doing hair and makeup as well, so for us it is a family event.

Tomorrow may involve some light road biking and napping, which is redundant really because road riding is effortless compared to mountain biking. I don't make the rules, that's just the way it is.

Sunday will be one last epic hammerfest with the Dogboy, who is Micky to my Rocky, except he is also my Apollo Creed. I guess what I'm trying to say is "Thanks Dogboy!"

There. I feel so good knowing the internet is aware of my plans.

Juancho

Static

2012-01-04T21:17:00.000-05:00

How can you get so damn tired from doing nothing? I spent the first three hours of the morning sitting in a room full of state office workers. They were sitting in the near dark (budget cuts) watching another state office worker read to them from a PowerPoint presentation. The room was simultaneously a little too warm and a little too cold. Being a private contractor I snapped out of it and escaped when they briefly opened the airlock to the outside world to allow for a mandatory smoke break. Some of them just sat staring at the slide that said "MANDATORY SMOKE BREAK" and continued taking notes. I looked at the 4.25 x 5.5 tablets (budget cuts) to the left and right of me and read "MANDATORY SMOKE BREAK" in the hollow penmanship of the saddle-broke.

I'm just kidding, you can't smoke on state property in Florida. The slide actually said, "MANDATORY 10 MINUTE SOBBING."

The rest of the day all I could think was that there, but for the grace of God goes me, but the ache never left my sacrum and the chill never left my spine. I suppose it is a skill like any other trade requires. What I saw were hardened poker faces of the terminally secure, but inside they were living wild and daring fantasy lives.

Wilford Brimley with the too-tight pink oxford and the high-water, washed-out Dockers was walking along the Thames with a Derringer in his shoe and a pretty duck of a girl on his arm, easing his way back to a room to pass the day sequestered until the gaming parlors recovered from the beating he gave them.

Juancho

My name is Stegosaurus

2012-01-02T22:41:00.000-05:00

The Stegosaurus is not the most glamorous dinosaur, but it got the job done in the Prehistoric rumbles I am sure. Click the title link to learn more about this impressive beast. I can't vouch for those children's bona fides. If you want to hear the song sung right you have to meet my 3 year-old buddy Lucy. She knows what's what about a Stegosaurus song.

I felt like a Stegosaurus out there today lumbering behind the Dogboy, who is some kind of long-distance fast rolling dinosaur. It was a workman-like three hours of saddle-time out to the Munson Twilight Zone by way of a whole bunch of sandy trails with lots and lots of sticks. I'm calling it 28 miles.

As I have said, San Felasco can't come soon enough. It can all go to hell by the 14th, but so far things feel good. Who cares right? There's bigger fish to fry than a long, cold bike ride.

Such as...

What's up with the dude on the Bachelor? Why doesn't he get a haircut? The 90's are over bro, tighten up. Speaking of haircuts it should go without saying that if you live in the area and need to polish your avatar, my girl is a terrific stylist and affordable.You should see what she has done for my look. BRC readers get a break of course. Ask for details.

What else? Is Mitt going to make it happen in Iowa? I just don't know. That Rick Santorum is one charming S.O.B. don't you think? Friendly, funny, the total package.

Blogging is easy really, anyone can do it. Look how effortless I make it look. That's because it really is that simple. One word comes. Another word follows that word. Piece of cake.

Speaking of cake, how many of you put on some holiday lbs? I'm logging in with 4 official, 6 unofficial. That sets me up perfect for the Felasco taper. Whatever that is. One word. Two words. Onward we all go.

Juancho

Flying Circus

2011-12-31T18:29:00.001-05:00

Dogoby, Tom, and I just rang in the new year with a blistering show of single track flexing down at the parks. I came straight from a chicken plate and if I could ride like that every time I ate fried chicken, I would eat fried chicken more often. Thanks Zaxby's. Most of us are tuning up for San Felasco, and likely peaking too early. That's just the way of it. If I don't end up alone and crying on the trail at some point then it isn't San Felasco. And who cares really? We rode well today. Live for the the day and all of your yesterdays will be good memories and all of your tomorrows will be full of hope.

I heard that somewhere. Happy New Year everyone. Chins up. Best efforts.

Juancho

Saddle Tramps

2011-12-30T10:10:00.000-05:00

We rolled out from the center of town and within 5 minutes I was in unfamiliar territory. Years of riding the same crosstown routes makes all other choices invisible. As soon as we dropped into the trail behind Leon High School I was moving in an alternate reality. The same landmarks along the way, but an entirely different perspective. It was bumpety bump and clackety clack for quite a long time, interrupted by a tour of the steepest hills in town. By the time I saw a familiar trail it felt like we had ridden to Thomasville by way of Albuquerque.

I was the only one riding little wheels I think. The rest of them were loping along on their gangly 29'ers. It didn't matter. The Titus tracks like a laser and I jumped from wheel to wheel like a red sucker fish. What? I took a turn now and then.

Juancho

Hard Rock

2011-12-27T12:25:00.004-05:00

Hard Rock has a soft spot for my girl. I understand. He sees in her the same things I do. She's compassionate and funny, strong-willed and a natural beauty. She's too good for either of us, but things just worked out right for me. Sometimes things just work out right for one person and not for another. There is no easy explanation. Not a lot of things seem to have worked out for Hard Rock.

Good luck in rural Alabama has something to do with being born into the right family, or maybe it's about not being born into the wrong family. That ain't everything, but it gives a person a fighting chance to make it to the starting line. Hard Rock looks like he had to whip every dog in the county just to get to breakfast. He's dirty in a way that can't be easily washed off, and he is too young by many years to be missing his teeth.

Hard Rock assesses me with a cold eye, seeing a bespectacled man in a fuzzy sweater who gets to hold hands with the girl he admires.

He pulls a pistol out of his camouflaged folds. He wants to sell it to me. I feared he was only going to offer me the bullet. He wants $150 for it. The pistol will accommodate a 45 slug or a 410 Shotgun shell, but I decline. He shrugs, "Suit yourself" then asks cordially of our life in Tallahassee. We shake hands. "Nice to meet you Hard Rock, I've heard a lot about you."

We have a beer and chat by the fire, as Hard Rock is primarily an outdoor guest. He's completely full of shit, as good storytellers must often be. He gets a check every month, but it doesn't go far, which is why he really needs to sell that gun.

I don't know a lot of people who would open their doors to a guy like a Hard Rock and treat him as a friend. He does what friends do though, he lends a hand, bums a smoke, and tries to tread lightly when the women are around. If he asked you for change on a street corner you wouldn't give him a nickel.

Bobby, my girl's daddy, has a soft spot for Hard Rock, and don't let him catch you bad-mouthing Hard Rock. Bobby sees the man inside the man, which may be his gift. He is the one who gave Hard Rock his name, recognizing that his old name had not done him much good to that point.

I think about the siege of Sarajevo, when good citizens got murdered in the streets and starved as polite society collapsed around them. It was the miscreants, the criminals, and the outcasts who rose up and defended the city.

Juancho

Fill the Bucket

2011-12-20T10:27:00.002-05:00

5 days before Christmas and you think I'm going to play the organ grinder reel about how the holidays are supposed to be about things that matter, but instead we get all caught up in the guilt of impossible to meet obligations and the frenzy of mass consumerism? Please. 5 days before Christmas and you think I'm going to ring my silver bell of charitable acts and try to make you cry talking about lonely elderly neighbors and kids with empty stockings hanging on a cold hearth? Not today. Let's just have a conversation about a bike ride instead. I showed up at Dogboy's house a few minutes early on Sunday 5 lbs overweight and tired from the ride the day before. I'm nothing if not strong at the gallows step and too proud to hide. I drove past a couple of the bike church boys on my way there, so I already knew what I was in for- a long drop on a short rope. The great reckoning ride of payback. Tommy rode up, and I was glad to see another bike with 26" wheels, and then a fellow on a 1988 Cannondale Beast of the East rode into the driveway. He dropped me on a previous ride so I knew not to get my hopes up. I was determined to take my shot to the 'nads and go home hardened by my shame, with a cold eye towards San Felasco. We discussed a route and I breezily suggested a course that kept me firmly established in a close orbit to my 1998 GMC Safari (Van of Champions.) My suggestion fell so short of the expected mileage that it was met with open whooping-- that Juancho! He's so silly! Dogboy cut the chuckling short and announced we would be riding east the way I suggested, by an amended route that took us far to the north, in view of Santa's workshop. My bowels felt loose at the sound of shoes engaging pedals. It was too late to de-chamois and un-bib so I resigned myself to crouching in the poison ivy at some point in the ride, preferably alone and well-dropped by that point. This never became a problem as my body recycled all of that matter back through the system to absorb remnant micro-nutrients as the pace demanded more power. Within minutes of leaving the Dogboy's house I was hanging on, lost in a town I have been in 24 years. I decline to comment on the specifics. There will be no Garmin map of the this ride. The wheels anoint the way as we go, and thus becomes the trail. Others may remember it differently, but the pace began at a high simmer. The first dirt we saw was my old friend the Live Oak Connector and I dropped into that oaken-rooted snarl with joy. Full-suspension and little wheels are assets in such terrain. I followed my favorite lines like summer's hit song and my heart beat solid in my chest. Through Panther Creek and up over the power-lines Tommy blasted us with Dogboy whispering evil in his ear. I stopped caring what was in my tank and just enjoyed burning it up. We paced through traffic and neighborhoods, drainage and easements, park and parking lots both. I rode in the front and in the back. Thousands of pedal strokes later we rode into the familiar trails of the east side, my hopeful destination back at Dogboy's house. By now mindlessly grinding and unconcerned with the fate of my legs, we ran into Bigworm, riding alone. We rallied behind his nimble wheel into the lower Cadillac trail and rode each to his own pleasure and pace. We rode some Tom Brown, then the Fern trail- for so long my trail to home, rewinding back through the years and the miles, playing the game of this has changed this has not, do you remember that? I remember this.Juancho

Raveled

2011-12-19T10:18:00.000-05:00

I am writing from behind the paper curtain so I can't post a picture to accompany this post. If I could it would be a ball of yarn, snugly wound. Not too tight, just smartly gathered in a colorful ball ready to weave new stories.

I corrected the balance of my riding account this weekend, with the support of everyone around me. I had a great 3 hours out with Hitops and Squatch on Saturday in an old-fashioned south side wander, followed by an epic 3.5 hour exploration of the Tallahassee underground at the Dogboy Invitational on Sunday.

I will tell you all about it later. All of this typing is making the man suspicious. Productivity intimidates. If they only knew!

Everything is going to be okay.

Juancho

Good Fences

2011-12-15T10:23:00.001-05:00

I live in a house inside a neighborhood. It is part of a community.

Our 8 year-old neighbor girl invited us to a potluck dinner at her elementary school last night. Because I am no longer a curmudgeon, but one half of a hilarious and charming couple, I attended. We ate chili and talked to my neighbor, whom I have spoken to almost not at all in three years. The event was held in honor of the school chorus, and hosted by the indefatigable Music teacher, Mrs. Singleton.

Mrs. Singleton appeared to be in her mid to early teens. Her husband, Mr. Singleton, was the star of the evening when he played a few holiday numbers on the saxophone for the assembled, bedraggled parents + two neighbors. I told Melissa, who doesn't have a blog name yet, that I felt bad for only bringing a veggie tray and oatmeal cookies since I was slamming down chili, ham, and mac-n-cheese. She said, "Did you notice how many people didn't bring anything?"

You know, I didn't notice, but she was right. Lots of people looked like they had just come winging in from bad jobs after picking up the smaller kids. For some of the families there, this Choir Potluck was a bonanza. I forget that these are really hard times, like no joke difficult times. There were tables of food. Cupcakes and chicken wings, rice and some fresh greens from someone's garden. Kool-aid and my oatmeal cookies, plenty of food really.

The little neighbor girl was shy, but she tracked me down a cup of water because homie ain't drinking kool-aid. I think she and her mom were shocked to see us. I wanted to tell them, "If you haven't noticed, there is a new sheriff in town." We live in this neighborhood now, like-- we do our living in it.

Mrs. Singleton, browbeating the tired parents to get their asses out the door and eat chicken wings, that's more Christmas spirit than I have felt in a long time.

Go Hawks!

Juancho

Core

2011-12-13T22:46:00.004-05:00

Let's go back to my first yoga class. Walking out of the intro class grateful to have found something to hold onto in the midst of chaos. To lie on the mat and fold into myself for a few minutes at a time felt like the greatest gift. Walking out of that class I could overhear the muffled moans coming from the next room and I knew that something special was happening in there. I assumed I would never know.

Months went by and the people at the studio encouraged me to try everything, go to any class, do what you can and learn. It's not a contest. There are no points in yoga, and all that other cliche yoga bullshit that I now put forth as my own founding principles and personal Magna Carta. All of it is true and it takes a lot of effort to push aside cynicism and hear the voice of sincerity.

Tonight, in that class I never thought I would be able to survive, after 75 minutes of submission and surrender to discovering the further limit, the teacher told us he was leaving for the Badlands, Oklahoma specifically, which is bad enough for me. He said that teaching us yoga has been the greatest reward in his life, and something he never thought he would be able to do. This class in particular, known only as CORE, has served as a testing ground for many people looking to find what they had inside themselves.

At 41 years old it is hard to be a student, and harder to find teachers. I don't know this guy beyond "Give it all you've got" and "Find some stillness" but between those words is a lifetime of learning. Thank you John Hazelton.

Y'all ready to go?

Juancho

kingKONG

2011-12-11T16:30:00.000-05:00

When I submitted my application to ride the Tour de San Felasco I kissed off all hope of being in good form on January 14, 2012. The Great Magnet despises hubris.

It can't be helped though, so I hung on to whichever wheel I could get this morning and gutted it out through a grim 1 hour and 15 minutes of ride time for a total of 12 miles, if you can believe Tom's bike computer- which I for one, can not believe.

I felt really good for the first 18 minutes, then I don't know what happened. More importantly though, I have made a significant biological discovery. My left leg, often referred to as King in my narrative, is weaker than my right leg, which by default is known as Kong. This, the naming of the legs, we can blame on someone- the Greeks. Not only are they culpable for a global financial collapse, they also introduced writing from left to right. Reading, of course, was forced to fall in line much like I will be forced to fall in line, when the truck points south on January 13th.

I can let go of San Felasco, release the line and watch it drift away, but my asymetrical pins? I can not forget. I am left-handed. Do you suppose my right side is stronger because I expect it to take the brunt of the burden the world hurls my way? Is it protecting my dexterous, nimble left side?

Have I sustained more left-sided injuries over the years and debilitated my left leg's endurance by eroding the gristle and sinew that binds it together? Is it now loose like an old ball glove, hot dog bun fingers splaying apart?

I do not know why it is, but I must accept it as true. Yoga reveals the truth, and the yogi must accept it. Don't use the body to get into the posture. Use the posture to get into the body.

Come on King! I need you buddy.

Juancho

Company Man

2011-12-06T21:10:00.000-05:00

Yes! All Glory to the Company and Celebrate the Opportunity to Work!

Thank you to the most benevolent leaders for the 36 minutes of bicycle pleasure that was most enjoyable last week. Happily I strive to bring honor to the organization and woe to her foes.

Let me hear from the daily commuters, the riders who pedal in darkness, the pre-dawn swimmers, and the trainer jockeys. My days of mid-day miles are over for now. Working from a specific location is 20th Century. I might as well be driving a mule team to the potato farm.

Why do we do it? Not because we are at our most efficient separated by sheets of drywall, but because land-line telecommunications used to dictate our work geography. Live "meat-based" meetings can still be scheduled and conducted for the anachronistic, organism-reliant as necessary. Why do we fight the battles of tomorrow with the weapons of yesterday? Come, meet me in cyberspace, where the trade of ideas occurs.

Let us save the meat for celebrating the biosphere and reveling in the terrestrial and carnal delights.

Juancho

Escape

2011-11-29T21:28:00.001-05:00

Tigers, coyotes, minks, wolves, and raccoons have all chewed off a limb to escape a trap. I know that feeling.

My decade of pajama-based livelihood has come to an end. Even that description is a euphemism as I have never worn pajamas in my adult life. Let's just call it what it was- 10 years of boxer shorts and conference calls, occasionally less. I am comfortable facilitating a meeting of Docker-clad office pogues dressed in a ratty towel and a head covered in shaving cream. I divorced my intellect from my appearance when I joined the cyber-commuting universe. Many days I would go from a towel directly to a chamois and cleats without ever wearing pants. After the ride I would return to the same said towel before dropping that for a sleeping bag and going to bed.

Not anymore. It has only been two days and I am at the end of my public wardrobe. I look at myself before leaving for the new office, and I see before me Juancho the deacon, or Juancho waiting for his court-appointed attorney.

I need to hear from the pantsed and khakied veterans. How do keep track of your one true self underneath the JCPenny's cover model look? I would take a jumpsuit, a smock over business casual. Do you wear a pink tie like Holden Caufield? A black guayabera like Al Sharpton?

I can't even talk about what this does to the ride schedule. Growing up is tough.

Juancho

Inverness, FL

2011-11-27T23:10:00.001-05:00

I have turned some short drives into some epic road trips over the years. 10 hours from Atlanta to Tallahassee, 5 hours from Tallahassee to Ocala, I know how to make a road trip last. Saturday we spent 8 hours getting home from Sebring, FL. Normally that is a 5.5 -6 hour drive depending on traffic, but Saturday the traffic required Depends, more than depending. I can't believe I made the rookie move of getting involved in the amateur roadways like the FL Turnpike and I-75, but I was drowsy on gluten-based ceremonial foods and we just got carried along until we were sitting still, two among the millions migrating northward on a holiday weekend.

At the first opportunity we broke off on State Road 44, one of the few east-west state highways I haven't explored. I knew U.S. Highway 19, where every mile feels like home, was somewhere over there. I was willing to drive through anything to get there.

The Withlacoochee River shone like a string of tinsel along the highway and Henderson Lake opened out wide across the horizon as we entered the old Florida town of Inverness. 30 minutes after abandoning the interstate we were smacking our lips over stone crab claws at Stumpknockers. Unsweet tea and Rivalry day murmuring in the background soothed our frazzled nerves, and a couple of Po Boys settled us down so much I was contemplating a room and a nap.

We popped out on U.S.19 on Follow That Dream highway and swung it north for home.

Juancho

Fambly

2011-11-23T20:35:00.001-05:00

The whole family is gathered around watching America's Next Top Model, a tradition in my family that dates back to the early just a couple minutes ago. I don't know about you people, but I count on these long-established customs to bring me back in touch with what really matters. Beyond the glow of the elf-like Allison with the very close together eyes (like a Shar-pei, they are bred that way to appear more like a human baby and therefore be more appealing to the human eye) we all warm ourselves by the more intimate coals of the internet. An Ipad for that one, a PC for those two (plebes!) and a smartphone to guide the tweaking of the dressing recipe. We could all hold hands or line out a chain of dominoes down the hall and past the generations of family hanging on the wall. Look at that mullet! And those wide lapels! Sideburns and gingham, or no gingham at all, for better or worse there we all are.

Family.

Give Thanks.

Juancho

Tax

2011-11-17T12:22:00.000-05:00

Joey Bushyhead took a break from his Jeremiah Johnson routine to go for a bike ride. With a deer and a hog in the freezer he laid down his laser-sighted carbon-fiber compound bow and picked up the Specialized 29'er Single Speed. Gear is gear right?

We got to the trailhead just before dark with plans of spinning a quick lap of Munson to evaluate his general fitness and enjoy a little saddle time. I didn't need to remind him that the last person who went for an innocent lap of Munson with me had his scrotum "un-gloved" on a sharp handlebar end. We both hoped for a better outcome than that.

In my rush to beat the fading daylight I had left my shoes behind. With J Bushy suited up and ready after a 6 month hiatus, I had no choice. Flip flops and clipless pedals it was to be. For good measure, I left my light in the van, all charged up and ready to go. Surely there was enough light for a 22 minute lap of Munson?

It wasn't so bad actually, although curling my toes around the tiny SPD pedals made my feet cramp a bit, I managed to build up some speed and handle my business. By the time we turned at the old trailhead and pointed it towards the parking lot it was full-on dark. I let J Bush take the lead and pace us to the trailhead, my bare feet lacing through the wire grass in the grey shadows.

Juancho

Balls Out

2011-11-16T08:47:00.000-05:00

The story is coming soon, exclusive to the BRC, but it's not too early to mark this event on your calendars.

-Juancho

Cheaha 2011

2011-11-14T12:15:00.001-05:00

Do you see that tent in the post below this one? Do not buy that tent. That tent is screen on all sides and it has a specially designed vent that funnels cold air directly into the crack of your ass. I feel very lucky to still have my someone special in my life. Much like the celebrated 2008 trip to Bed, Bath, and Beyond I avoided a horrible bike ride by shopping for comfort. In order to survive the 26 degree temperatures we drove into town in search of insulation. While we explored the halls of Wal-Mart the rest of the gang went for a bike ride, sort of.

12 miles in about 5 hours involving a lot of walking and pushing bikes, that is the report from the first ride. The day was nearing darkness when the Dogboy rode into camp alone. Riders were scattered all down the mountain he said, and a ride would probably be appreciated. Ma Ingalls and I loaded up in the truck and bumped along down the mountain road with a box of canned beers for the bonked. The first rider we came along was Tommy, and he happily got in the truck. The second rider was my friend Big Dave, riding a 1988 Trek Antelope 820, aka the lead sled. He wears running shoes and his bike has one toe clip on the left side. He wears a buck knife on his belt. He pedaled along just below walking speed, but he refused assistance. "Maybe on your way back," he said. The next trail refugees were Pa Ingalls and Mystery-- the Un-tameable Stallion. They walked side by side with their heads down, arms locked out pushing handlebars. They were a sad pair indeed. They loaded up in the truck, Mystery reclined across Tommy's lap as he could not bend his legs without cramping. Another mile down the hill we found Panama City Thomas, gamely pedaling. I took his bike and he crawled into the bed of the truck.

On and on we drove down the hill, almost to the highway. Our very own Magnum, left for dead by the others, was cranking along in silent agony. He went into the truck without a fight. He later admitted that he heard us coming and got on the bike to make a good show of it. I suspect he was truly turning the pedals though, broken but not unbeaten.

When we got back to camp, Big Dave was at the fire enjoying some suds and preparing to go find some wood to chainsaw. We're going to put him in the Clydesdale Hall of Fame for that performance.

The Cheaha trip produces stories big and small, and this is just one of them.

-Juancho

Cheaha 2011

2011-11-09T11:17:00.002-05:00

It is that time. The annual camping trip is about to happen. Due to a lack of initiative and a general satisfaction with the 2010 outcome we are repeating our location in the Helen, Ga area. This is almost unprecedented. Only Pigeon Mt. has ever repeated, and it dominated like the 1990's Los Angeles Lakers for a while.

This time last year I went on the trip unsure if I could maintain my physical and mental health for an entire weekend away from my safe house. I was in a whirlwind romance with yoga and clean living, but still prone to debilitating attacks of late night demons and harpies. Vicodin, stay away from it. Embrace the pain instead.

This year, my romance with yoga is more of a weathered affair, comfortable with more smolder than magic. I have a new love to share this year, because what is a Cheaha trip without a major life change to announce? Nothing if you are me. This time I will be with my squeeze, my special lady-friend. 3 days with 20 some random strangers in the woods, many of them drunk, should really seal the deal for us. I am a romantic man. She tells me this all of the time.

I am not going to mention the bike at all. To talk about my mutant strength and endless wind is to invite disaster. It is better to be humble in all things, and believe me, right now? I am a humbled and grateful man.

Juancho

Change

2011-11-07T14:04:00.000-05:00

Nary a ride occurs lately without a crash happening. My theory is that everyone is pushing right now, taking advantage of summer fitness efforts to uncork some epic rides in the crisp fall air. Legs and lungs that moved you at 10 mph in August move you 15 mph in November. We are all out there 5 miles ahead of ourselves.

Last week I took a new rider out and he too was pushing himself, trying something for the first time, putting himself out there. He took a fall so nasty, with consequences so horrific, that I didn't even mention it here. He is fine now, recovering with 10 stitches, and drafting his story for publication right here at the BRC. He is a resilient guy, and good in a crisis, and I suspect he is a good enough writer to get the job done.

The last four days included 4 rides that I would hold up as the best I have ever had. Oaken legs and abundant sunshine, big wheels and little wheels, single track and not, I laid down some quality miles. I am five miles ahead of myself, but catching up fast.

A week ago I moved in with the limb I have always missed and today I resigned my job of 9 years to take a new chance.

When you are on the roll of a lifetime you don't tap the brakes.

Juancho

Tuning in

2011-11-03T15:47:00.002-04:00

Tommy and I were well into a mini-epic by the time we got on the Cadillac trail. We found some trail we hadn't ridden before off of Buck Lake Rd. and before that we saw 3 fawns and a doe bounding over a fence and prancing in the grass. I made the mistake of underestimating the local trails and took the Caddy lightly. Tommy was in the big ring and making a bigger and bigger patch of daylight appear between us so I kicked it up into the big ring myself--just as we turned into a gnarly root corner. I augured my front tire down into a crease and snapped over the bars like a mouse-trap closing. I slammed into the dirt, squeezing all of the air out of myself, and I watched the stars rise in the branches of the pines. I jumped up to walk it off repeating to myself more than to Tommy, "I'm okay. I think I'm fine. I'm all good." Then I decided to sit down because the ground was moving so much.

That was a peaceful moment. The dial-tone ringing that visits me still receded behind the harmonic gonging that comes from pressing your ear so deeply to Mother Earth's breast. Colors were brighter and the air tasted sugarcane sweet. A few deep breaths, a review of priorities (stop crashing ranked pretty high) and I walked a few minutes to make sure things were good. Other than a sure to be a whopper of a bruise on my right thigh I think this was more of a homework assignment than a full lesson.

Juancho

The Big Secret

2011-10-31T17:09:00.000-04:00

In 1985 my first girlfriend moved away to Alabama. We were pretty serious for 15 year-olds. I watched her drive off in the back of the family wagon, pedaling down the street as they pulled away forever. We wrote letters. I told her all about my big dreams of becoming an airbrush artist someday, and she told me the boys in Alabama were nothing like me, and that we would be together again. I never made it as an airbrush artist, and eventually life absorbed us in our own small worlds.

Her name faded into the mythology of my past, holding the place of First Love. I ruefully thought of her living in a separate universe from me, not knowing who she became. We were together forever and trapped in 1985.

We stayed together forever and 15 for 26 years. We bumped into each other this past summer and picked up where we left off- No, I don't airbrush anymore. No, I don't really break-dance either I told her about the Crash of Great Awakening, the perils of sucrose, and my commitment to reading the great postmodern novels of the new millennium. Who has time to airbrush? She was surprised to hear I was still single. With the sweet van you drive? She would say. And the angry political posturing? Single? Really? But it was true.

I said something to her in a conversation this summer that sounded familiar to her and she unearthed the 1985 Nancesowee, our yearbook from 9th grade. What I said was, "I have never met a girl like you before. Sometimes you are so funny and cool to be around and other times you are just quiet and beautiful."

From the day I picked myself up off that pavement (June 2, 2010) a lot of good things have happened in my life, but none so good as this one. I got my girl back from Alabama and she moved in last night. We're all shacked up.

Welcome home Melissa!

-Juancho

Circle of Strife

2011-10-28T09:30:00.000-04:00

There is a bar in town, known for its ambiance and warmth of personality. The clever and erudite of Tallahassee culture gather there to drink heady beers late into the night and watch the bartender spin fire in the street. Before the Great Skateboard Miracle of 2010 I kept office hours there most evenings. Drink this beer, it tastes like Carrot Cake. Try this beer it has more alcohol in it than actual alcohol has alcohol in it. Why thank you! Don't mind if I do! Merry with spirits this bartender and I would talk about the finer points of Eschaton and toast to Interdependence day. Those were good times, full of innocence and cynicism.

After the Great Awakening I stopped going there because I stopped going anywhere. Eventually I traded in my beer money for Om money and transferred my third place to the yoga studio.

This morning I am taking that same bartender riding. We met by me saying, "Hey you look just like Zach Galifanakis!" His world-weary tolerance of this most obvious observation laid the foundation for a friendship. For this I thank him. Today I will honor that friendship by inducting him into the Robot Army. The ranks are swelling like a mullet forgotten in the boat ramp parking lot.

After my ego has been sufficiently stoked by preying upon the novices, I am going straight to the Dogboy's house for a lunch of stinging nettles and bees. Afterwards we will roll out for a ride of indeterminate length whereby I will be inducted into his robot army or at least I will wish for the unfeeling muscles and joints of a machine until I end the ride weeping, all too human.

Juancho

Ssshhh...

2011-10-26T16:29:00.000-04:00

My ears quit ringing. The ever-present hissing and ringing of the last six months just stopped. There is no explanation. Is it gone for good? Who knows. This does tell me that it can stop. What have I learned from the ringing? The lesson I learn always and in so many ways- humility and acceptance. I learn the lesson that when you have had all that you think you can take, you can take a little more. You don't have to suffer from ringing ears or anything else forever, you just have to suffer it this moment, and the next moment, and now this moment right here.

That's how we get by, whatever our afflictions.

Juancho

Ignition

2011-10-26T12:53:00.000-04:00

I didn't plan to ride yesterday. After 4 days in a row of hard riding I thought a rest day was needed. You know how I feel about rest days though. Rest days can suck it. Tommy has the week off from work, if not from the rest of his life, so I had to take advantage and get in some Felasco prep. Maybe it was the 3 day old stir-fry I ate, or the 6 hours of uninterrupted sleep I got, but my legs felt deep and loose. We rolled onto the Silk trail up on the north side and within minutes I knew this was going to be an epic ride. Because I respect him so much I tried to break Tommy early. It took a few miles to awake the sleeping dragon, but he responded in kind. We dropped into Cambodia in the big rings, oblivious to lines or paths of least resistance. It was all smash and grab, full contact brute force over the roots. We continued the aggression across the street at Red Bug and I can't remember ever riding that hated trail so fast. There is plenty of time to lose all this fitness before San Felasco of course, so can someone remind me of this post if you see me gnawing on a fried turkey leg between now and January?

-Juancho

Tradition

2011-10-25T12:44:00.004-04:00

Daylight was on the wane by the time the Munson Monday ride got rolling and like usual, Mellow Johnny says, "If you want to go fast, get going" and with that about 15 riders coast into a line based on invisible negotiations and off they go. Big Worm was in a full lather when he pulled up at the trail-head so I knew better than to catch that wheel. I tailed in behind the last of the fast guys and watched the line of riders dance and bob through the trees. I stole a glance back and saw as many riders behind me as there were in front. The first time I rode with this many people it was panic city. Where should I be? Am I going too fast? Am I holding anyone up? Now it is all familiar and I get in where I fit in and make adjustments.

I chased the lead group in a 4-pack behind some well-known faces and a wild card on flat pedals wearing gym shorts. All the way to the power-lines we were in sight of the lead group and I was cozy as can be. On the first small climb the gap spread and gym shorts got antsy, asking our front rider, "Come around?" This got him a begrudging, "go for it!" which means I ain't doing you no favors, but if you see the line be my guest. This is exactly what I would have done.

Opportunity presented when front guy got too hot under the collar and abruptly gave way. Gym Shorts lit it up and passed both front riders, one of them a well-known big engine roadie. I had misgivings about trying to ride away from that dude, but Gym Shorts would not be denied. The backside of Munson is full of long open runs of trail across flat ground. It is signature Munson forest with tall pines and wild flowers caught in glimpses as your speed reaches the high point of the ride. We were closing fast on another knot of riders when Gym Shorts asked if I wanted by him. "Hell no" I said, "let's go get those dudes!" Gym Shorts laid into it hammer and tongs and we went by three riders on the outside edge in the grass with no time to look back. I recognized them briefly as lead group riders shelled off the back. Gym Shorts was starting to flag and I offered to spell him at the old trail-head. He gave way and I pulled through steady, trying to give him a chance to recover. He had just finished a 3.5 mile pull. He never stopped pedaling and he never let off the gas. His was the best wheel on the trail, but the seams were busting loose now. Ever the ingrate, I took one last beseeching look at him and saw his shoulders slumping. I stood up on it and chased a flash of blue far up the trail. There was enough time to catch one more.

I buckled down and leaned into it, sprinting through the sandy sections, trees, and uphills. I heard Blue Flash blow some snot. The gap was closed by a third. I heard the snap and crashing of brush behind me and here came Gym Shorts half-crazed and off the trail, but out of the saddle determined. Blue Flash caught a glimpse of me and grabbed his water bottle cuing me to do the same. At the base of the last climb he exploded upwards as did I, timing my jump to his. My big red rig responded, uncoiling its energy into the grade. I had Blue's wheel and I could hear Gym Shorts 50 yards back. I relented, trusting that Blue was all done- and that was a mistake. An old racer from way back, he tucked chin to chest and heaved pedals around to claim some daylight as we pulled to the bench and the waiting pack.

So much fun someone ought to sell tickets. All you folks who make it happen every week, thanks, and big props to Gym Shorts, that guy is a mule.

Juancho

Cookin'

2011-10-24T11:55:00.002-04:00

It was a single track bonanza this weekend. I set myself free from the burden of self-reliance and left the Camelbak at home with all of the tools, water, compass, spare tubes, dental floss, nasal spray, extra contacts, flares, first aid kit, and wheel truing stand. I rode naked. Just a water bottle full of go-go juice and two thighs full of 93 octane. I have been riding the Dogboy's spare 29'er for weeks and the Titus was headed for the dustbin of history. 26" wheels? Can you believe people used to ride those? Que ridiculo!

That risk is over now. Two days of juking and jiving through the trees of Cadillac and raw aggression on Tom Brown Park with (against) my good buddy Mystery put the Titus right back on the podium. That bike should come with a warning label it is so fast.

Still, I'm going 29'er all the way at Felasco. I'm not a complete moron.

Juancho

Respect for the Machine

2011-10-20T16:44:00.000-04:00

Enjoy this excellent reader submission by Scotty B, Thanks Scot!

Someone once said to me
"Ah, I am two kilos over, I show no respect for the machine!"
"What are you saying?" I asked… as we both rode home through a busy Canadian city. He pointed downward, at his bicycle - "to the world, to humankind, this thing is a gift, a fluke really. What if the gasoline had come along sooner? There would not be this!" - he pointed again, down at his bike. He laughed and clutched at his slightly fatty midsection, as if he were caressing a baby in the womb, "today I show no respect for the invention of the machine." "But it is only June," I said to him. "Certainly the kilometers will kill the kilos?! No?" I laughed, he laughed. We passed the Hotel by mistake. I noticed, but I was riding with a famous bike racer who had been paid more to "start" the race we had just completed, than I had been paid by my team in a year - so I kept riding with him through the crowded streets.

While stopped at a traffic light, he looked over at me and my bicycle - up and down, as if committing me to memory. "You are always there, no?" he asked. "Yes," I replied, knowing full-well the implication of his comment. In every stage of the race we were in, I had been, daily, selling my soul - honestly killing myself - and finding - for the first time in my life - the bottom step of the ladder, the entrance to the front of the peloton.

I finished that week of racing with my head held reasonably high. The next weekend was huge though, a one day loop race up "Mountroyal" 13 crazy-ass times. This was no "sleigh ride" as I had heard the flat races where I come from so aptly defined (a race flat enough to "sit-in" the draft). I started the race wearing a new jersey. I was a member of a team for one day. A "man on loan" I think one of the team directors said. "You are from that gutsy New England squad?" someone on the team said. trying to be nice. I said nothing. I had received my bike two hours before the start and was therefor busy trying to find my "home" on the vehicle.

At the start, the hammer dropped as the gun sounded. It is always like this. Up the climb the first time I was hopelessly placed, soft-pedaling, then sprinting in my big chainring, finding a wheel, settling into a rhythm, then seeing a gap ten riders up, sprinting again, and so on. At the top I was about 50 places back, one minute down on the head of the field. The gap was closed by some huge human beings at the front.

On the flat run-in through the city to the foot of the climb there was a section of the course on an interstate highway. The highway had been closed down hours before the start, but all along the sides of the road, people had parked and were standing on the tops of their cars yelling and screaming. The wind on this section was a direct crosswind - a gauntlet of sheer hell. The "giants" at the front made this section like a nosebleed. I pinned myself against the cars in the gutter the first lap and felt the blood in my head trying to escape through my teeth.

Second time up the climb - Still in the top fifty at the bottom. Massive acceleration up the climb from riders you never even heard of. But I was there. Passing people. The rest of the race was a repeat of the exact same tactic - drill it on the climb with repeated attacks, stick the peloton in the gutter along the open sections on the run-in.

On the final lap, as we passed through the congested downtown area of the city, I found myself at the front. This was not purposeful. The field came around the corner, and there it was, clear road in front of me for the first time in three weeks of getting my ass handed to me. As we came around a right hand turn, ( I remember this like it was yesterday) I looked to my left to see who it was at the head of the train flying by me, it was the famous guy I had ridden with after the race the week before. I want to say he looked at me, but that's probably me being neurotic. Whatever the case, there went the famous guy, with a line of other famous guys along behind. I was in the final selection of forty or so riders, headed into the final climb.

On the way up to the finish line, I saw my dead great grandmother, staring at me from the crowd. I had never met her. She was not there. At some point, looking to my left, over the edge of the road, I could see the city below in the background. I kept my eye twenty riders ahead of me, looking for the gaps to form, waiting for the "lull" before the final kilometer. Nothing. Just a straight line of riders. Finally though, something - there was no lull, but with two kilometers to the finish people began to blow, all around me. I was on a good wheel. Some guy from Denmark. He just kept going. With one kilometer to go, the gradient eased to something more like the roads around Tallahassee. The guy in front of me moved to the left to avoid someone blowing up. He looked over his shoulder at me - he was done. He was on a big team. He had nothing to prove. I had nothing, literally nothing, but I kept going.

I remember looking up and seeing the "meter signs" laid out above the fencing and the crowd - 900, 800, 700, or whatever. I could see too, the road, empty in front of the group I was in. "Was I in the lead group?" I had no idea. The crowd was still going nuts though, I went to stand up, but realized I was already standing. That happened to me three or four times I think during that final climb.

At the finish I still had no idea of my placing. A person from my adopted team directed me to the side of the road where there was a roped-off area in the sea of people, I got off my bike there and sat down. It was then I realized all the large boulders around me and the town spread out before me for miles in all directions. I drank about five bottles of water and used a few more to rinse myself.

It turns out I finished just outside the top twenty - 22nd to be exact. No one on my team said anything really, a hand or two on my shoulder maybe. I just went when it was time, and signed for my prize money. It turns out also, the famous guy I had ridden with - he won the race… then several years later, he went on to win the Tour de France. What the hell!?

What am I saying? Why do I write this? Well, I guess all anyone has is their memories… But as well, I think during those few weeks when I was certainly at my "life peak" athletically, that I learned something. I learned to "respect the machine." Hearing those words changed me, matured me, took me to a new space in my head. From then on, I have always considered the "invention." It may not be my "time" forever, or ever, but I will always hold a high regard for those at the front, drilling it, making me pray for my soul - for that is the truest form of respect for the greatest invention of all time - the bicycle.

No bikes

2011-10-18T12:44:00.000-04:00

I did not pedal a single stroke all weekend, not a lick. Que mas puedo decir? I am going down to the holy land tomorrow to pay penance at Santos. I couldn't help it. I am focused on my secret project. If this blog was a puppy somebody would have turned me in to the humane society by now. Lucky for me it is only a temporary, abstract image of pixels that both exists forever in the ethereal and never existed at all in the corporeal. There isn't an office to hunt you down for neglecting these suckers.

It is raining from Tallahassee to Orlando at the moment and all of the trails along the way are likely soaked. If conditions don't permit me to ride I will pull over in the San Felasco parking lot and do some success visioning. I hear that's how the champions do it.

-Juancho

Chainless

2011-10-14T11:33:00.000-04:00

Last night I rode the sun down exploring the industrial and semi-public lands of the south side of town and this morning I dropped into the old Albertson's trail before breakfast.

It is the weather. It is the big Red Rig I'm riding. It is love. It is dedication. It is gratitude and it is escape. I don't know what it is, but I hope it never goes away.

Juancho

Keep Moving

2011-10-13T09:31:00.000-04:00

I woke up this morning thinking about Euripedes, and the thinking didn't go far since I had to look him up to learn he was a Greek Tragedian and not the first scientist to discover phlogisten. If anyone knows anything about him that seems relevant I would appreciate a nudge in the right direction. I'm talking to you Gammnu.

Other than that priceless nugget I am full of optimism and hopey changiness (tm). Something magnificent could happen today, or at least nothing too terrible could not happen. I will take either option.

My tiny living room is cleared of furniture and I really like it that way. People who come to the house are compelled to state their business and keep moving. There is no place to linger, or become relaxed. I inhabit a shark tank. This suits me as there is so much to be done before the big surprise at the end of the month. Everything is changing all of the time.

Even if you sit still and consciously try to slow down, you are still in motion. Old cells are sloughing off and new cells come like fluffy popcorn kernels snapping from the oil.

Juancho

Sticky

2011-10-12T10:22:00.000-04:00

A schedule cancellation set me free yesterday morning. I jumped at the chance to sneak in a loop at the Miccosukee Greenway with Mystery. On the way over to his exclusive gated community I stopped for a diluted decaf Americano at Craig's Killer Coffee. I needed some calories to see me through the 20 mile slog on wet grass and the options were slim. A pan of blueberry muffins, straight from the oven sat on the counter, wafting buttery steam through the air. Impulsively I changed my order to a full throttle latte and asked for a muffin to chase it down.

On the way to Mystery's exclusive gated community I tore that thing apart and ate it with all the gluttony and guilt of a mother stealing food from her baby's mouth. I chugged down that whole milk, full caffeinated bucket of lust right behind it. Mystery was never the wiser. For the first 30 minutes of the ride I loped easily up and down the eastern hills, my legs deep and oaken. Somewhere east of I-10 the muffin descended into my pyloric valve and seized up the works. Oh the discomfort! The cramping and gassing! The refined white flour and refined white sugar molecules locked in a sticky unbreakable chemical chain of misery. Mystery sensed difficulty in my wheelhouse and began to turn the screws. With belly distended I hung on until the end and beat it out of his community via the service entrance, my gastro-intestinal delegation unsure of a proper course of action.

What had I done? A year without gluten, sugar, or caffeine thrown away in a fit of id-driven berry lust? Was this to be the end of the roll?

I tossed my office like Homeland Security and found my sponsor's number. On the card it read, CORE 5:30 P:M. I rolled up my mats and jumped in the van. I needed a meeting.

For 75 minutes I flexed the valve in every direction, squeezing and stretching my guts while the buttery steam released from my pores.

Oh Great Magnet forgive me!

Juancho

Get some

2011-10-11T08:54:00.000-04:00

This is not true of course, but I wanted to give you a warm fuzzy thought to start your day. You can do whatever you want as limited by: your available time, talent, skills, ability to mobilize, and willingness to assert your vision in conjunction with-- or at the expense of someone else's "whatever they want." Besides that though, it is true. You can do whatever you want.

What I want is to find the perfect couch. My living room is the size of a diner napkin so it is hard to find a comfortable couch with the dimensions of a church pew. Maybe I can find a church pew? People sleep comfortably in those don't they?

Another thing I want is a nice long sit-down here at the BRC, but what I've got is about five minutes before I have to haul ass out of here and go make a living.

Ima be back though, and we will have ourselves a proper chat.

-Juancho

Stoked for Oak

2011-10-07T08:29:00.000-04:00

It seems like I haven't slept well since sometime in the mid-eighties, when life lay before me like an unread book. Last night I got an un-tormented 7 hours and I feel like I could walk to Mars. This is going to be a fun weekend in Tallahassee, but I answer to a higher calling and Birmingham awaits. By 1:00 P:M CST I will be grinding up the jeep road at Oak Mountain. The rest of the weekend I will be where I am supposed to be.

I hear that we quit sleeping well as we age because we know time is short. I hope that is not the case. I often say that with one good night's sleep you can change the world.

-Juancho

Birmingham's Son

2011-10-06T09:29:00.001-04:00

March 18, 1922- October 5, 2011

Reverend Fred Shuttlesworth got to enjoy Birmingham for 38 years without his nemesis, Bull Connor. Jailed 35 times, beaten, hospitalized, his wife stabbed, his house dynamited-- nothing could stop Rev. Shuttlesworth from pursuing equality in the Jim Crow south. Birmingham is sacred ground for human rights the world over, and this is because the fight was pressed by Rev. Shuttlesworth and the Southern Christian Leadership Conference.

The founding fathers were remarkable one and all, but it is the leaders of the civil rights movement that stir my blood. We have a long way to go. Many people in this country don't enjoy equal rights, but the manual for how to move mountains was written in Bombay, Birmingham, Selma, Montgomery, Tallahassee, and everywhere else that people took to the the streets to integrate schools, buses, and the public square.

From Cairo to Wall Street, the people united can never be defeated.

-Juancho

Puddles

2011-10-05T09:23:00.000-04:00

I got down with the Fire Flow II yoga class last night. It differs from Fire Flow I in that it seeks to punish any muscles FF1 missed I guess. I needed it though. I had to rinse the world out of my body and mind. Nothing but the ecstasy of suffering remains when it is 102 degrees and you are bent at the waist and standing on the palms of your own hands. When I left a bunch of kids were lining up with skimboards to surf across the slimy lake I left on the floor. I hope they got their shots.

I am going to tell y'all a story in a few weeks' time that is going to blow your minds. I mention it now as a literary device known as foreshadowing, although my lazy application of the technique qualifies it more as a "heads up." You will likely forget between now and the time of the telling, but when I tell it you will say, "That's right! He told us he was going to tell us!"

It might not even be that great a story in your opinion, but I think it is a pretty good one- especially from where I am sitting.

Oak Mountain, AL is on the horizon for me this weekend. There is no better trail to become familiar with any weaknesses in your fitness or technique. Either I am going to ride the shit out of that trail, or it is going to ride the shit out of me.

More ecstatic suffering either way

Juancho

Take a pass

2011-10-04T09:32:00.000-04:00

Just as 30 riders began to roll onto the trail, Mystery reached down and pulled the stem out of his valve, letting all of the air out of his front tire in one big whoosh. He told me then that I should go on without him, but I hung back to help correct the problem. We caught the group at the top of the first hill and riders were charging, ambling, and weaving into a line from fastest to slowest and I immediately cut the corner, elbowed a woman into a tree, and began sucking up the dust of the crowd ahead of me. Welcome to Munson on Monday nights. I rode through the briars and I rode through the brambles, and I rode through the bushes where a rabbit couldn't go. I caught a glimpse of Mystery behind me a couple of places when we crossed the power lines and I figured this is where we would make our move.

The dirt was so thick on my glasses I could only see through two thumb smudges I cleared with my own spit, but I could see a jersey ahead of me and I just chased it. Eventually I was all alone. I caught everyone I could catch and that would be the end of the fun. The game now became not getting caught, and I wheezed through the trees with the desperation of a hunted animal. Mystery? He turned for home long before.

Big Worm and I tried to track him in the truck, expecting to find him walking with another flat. I got to hear about Worm's vaccination schedule and his duties in the Tour of Rwanda, where he will be working for Team Type 1 as a mechanic.

I bet there will be some dust in Africa

Juancho

Pain and Suffering

2011-10-01T22:41:00.001-04:00

Dig it, Elton John shaved his head and came to my conference last week. He's so cool. No, that is me of course, doing my level best to impersonate a neo-conservative and hopefully failing. Somebody should have straightened my tie and helped a brother out. I post this not from vanity or to invite dissection of the image, but as a prelude to a brief meditation on sacrifice and pain. My feet hurt terribly in this picture and yet I smile.

I am convalescing at momma's house this weekend after working 72 hours last week dressed like someone I would personally avoid on the street. I signed on for a 2.5 hour "Detox Yoga" session this morning that was a lot like any other yoga session except with more enhanced interrogation postures and it was 150 minutes long. It did the trick though, since I followed it with a nap of equal length. I almost have the strength to return to Tallahassee.

I woke to the alarm at 6:00 A:M this morning to register myself and Tommy for the Tour de Felasco. The site was not working and I went back to sleep after sending a colorful email to the organizer. I slept deeply, free of the burden yet noble in my intention. What could I do? I tried.

After dozing another hour I woke again to find a kind reply with instructions for registering and moments later the act was accomplished. January 14 at 8:30 A:M we will be in this grey and barren field, surrounded by white people in lycra driving SUV's and rubbing lanolin into their ass cracks.

Why?

It will be too early, too cold, too far, too regulated, too crowded, and too expensive. These are generally acknowledged as facts. Still, it will be done.

I really like $50 t-shirts.

Sound off if you are in!

Juancho

Sugar

2011-09-26T09:17:00.000-04:00

We use it sweeten bitter things, like going to work in a hotel for 5 days.

We use it to fill empty places-- dreams unfulfilled until they are crusting over and syrupy sweet.

I prefer a life of glutamates, rich, buttery, and real. The flavor of fulfilled,
and pushing back from the table.

When all you taste is metal, there is nothing to be done

put some sugar on the bit and try to have some fun.

clocking in,

Juancho

Done me in

2011-09-22T19:54:00.000-04:00

Tommy and I rode the gritty, half-wet forest yesterday in the middle of a muggy day. I suffered for the full two hours whether I was in the front, briefly, or in the back, mostly. He just rode away whenever he wanted. I can't explain it. Not enough food? A high dew point? I have no words. I took myself to a Fire Flow yoga class to have a word with myself tonight and the answer was clear. Front of pack, back of pack it does not matter. The pain is the trophy.

Still, I'm going to bring it for realz next time.

Juancho

Risk

2011-09-20T10:22:00.003-04:00

He does not want to do it. He is 7 years old, but as big as a 10 year-old. It is hard to reconcile foot-dragging with his sturdy build. He looks like he will take your bike and ride away with it, not a scared boy who does not know how to ride a bike. We met once before. He is sardonic and bright-minded. He is a talented video gamer who likes jumping on his trampoline. His mom recruited me to help get him rolling. This is an honor. I know about challenging kids and I know about bikes.

I am the man for this job.

I ask him to push his bike and follow me over to a field in the park. He gives me an ugly look and shoves his new bike to the dirt. "I hate my bike! I hate my life!"

Maybe I am not the man for this job.

Sitting on the bike he refuses to grasp the handlebars, placing his hands lightly upon them. He is making me hold him up, turn the handlebars, and provide the motivation. He allows me to push him in circles, unwilling to grab those bars and take control. Sometimes he grabs the brake and makes me stumble to avoid racking myself on his back wheel. This is funny. He smiles.

His mom is encouraging and cajoling as he tries to quit. I take a needed five. I suck at this. I have ceased caring if he ever rides this bike. In fact, I hope he doesn't. A bike is a miracle gift from the universe and not everyone deserves such joy. Riding a bike is a privilege. I am thinking of poor children to whom I can give his bike.

We are defeated, he and I. Two miserable people in a field under the sun.

"Get off the bike" I say. He gets off and I ask him to put his hands against mine, which he does. I push and tell him to push me back, to try to push me across the field, to try to push me down like he pushed his bike over. He pushes and I resist, digging my feet into the dirt. He is strong. Seven years old, and powerful as a pit bull. He is a football coach's dream, and his mother's last nerve. I tell him if he can't push he will never ride this bike. Riding bikes requires force, the thing that moves us all forward in life. We push on pedals. We push on handlebars. We hold on for dear life and we go hard at it. The pushing keeps us upright and moving where we want to go.

My feet slide in the dirt. His bottom lip is out and his face is screwed down with effort. Pushing me out of his life is the offer of the day. We push determined.

"Excellent," I tell him. That is how you must be to ride this bike today.

He is back on it, with mom taking over as the stooge who will rack herself when he hits the brakes. They make a few passes and he is turning the pedals. I see that his feet are big and he is struggling to find the sweet spot where his foot goes on the pedal. He is seven years-old, afraid and embarrassed with an almost stranger watching him fail. Now sidelined, I cheer. It makes me feel better. I want him to be among the blessed, the two-wheeled gods.

"Maybe you just want to do it by yourself" mom says. "Just try it without either of us holding on to you."

He sets his pedals at 3 and 9 like we taught him. He looks down and squares up his big, floppy sneaker. The ball of his foot is square on the pedal. His mom gives him a push off and he is pedaling hard, crouching down over the handlebars and wobbling away. He goes 100 feet and then comes to a stop, putting his foot down.

It is a miracle to see this child break free from the earth and float across the grass. I scramble to my cruiser and ride to him. "Let's go for a bike ride!" Now it is like any other ride. We are pedaling side by side around the field and under a big Live Oak, now back to the volleyball court and mom. I am talking and he is not listening, focused only on the next 20 feet at a time. A car honks in support. He acts nonplussed at the attention.

Of course he can ride. Nothing to it.

Juancho

Muster

2011-09-19T09:35:00.000-04:00

I'm just trying to make it out the door and be counted out there today. The weekend is over and I am not excited about it.

-Juancho

Progression

2011-09-15T13:30:00.000-04:00

Have I told you about the time I met Evel Knievel? There's not much to tell really. I went through considerable expense and hardship to attend Evel Knievel Day in his hometown of Butte, MT. I had hopes of getting the interview that would make my career as a freelance travel writer. Mr. Knievel didn't seem to care for me. He had my college boy number immediately and treated me accordingly. It was a brusque exchange.

I did bring back an autographed picture, but I can't remember now if it was authentic? I maybe forged it on the dashboard of my Nissan Sentra in the parking lot of the Anaconda pit mine while thinking, "Jump this asshole!" That's a strong possibility.

I am going on a Ride today, which has Snake River Canyon potential. This will be my 4th time doing this route with these dudes and 50% of those were painful beyond anything I had ever known on a bike, and the other two were outright debacles for me or Mystery. One time I was so worked up about this ride I threw my back out unloading my bike from from the van. Instead of calling "a medical" I rode anyway, listing to one side for 30 miles in 2 hours across unpredictable terrain. That was the best time I have had of the 4 outings.

I feel good today though. I can't wait. I will be happy just turning the pedals.

-Juancho

New Dayz

2011-09-14T14:47:00.002-04:00

"You have added 20 years to your longevity." The doctor told me yesterday. 20 years? Did he mean the next 20, or the 20 from 60 to 80? The twenty after that? It shocked me. to think that I was cheating myself out of 20 years of good things. 20 years is a lot of lunches with Joe and Pete at the shop, or laps around Munson just to name a few things I would miss.

There's no need to ponder the big things such as love, family, and self-actualization. Think of all the little good things you accumulate in 20 years. That's 480 books I have yet to read. Thousands of lbs of kim-chi uneaten. It shocked me. He went over my numbers like he was checking my report card and I beamed in the light of his attaboys. "Pulse rate down from 98 to 68! From pre-hypertension to perfect blood pressure! You lost 40 lbs!"

It shocked him. "There is no drug available that can do what you have done for yourself. It doesn't exist."

There is also no drug that can make you feel the satisfaction of saving your own life. I told him the whole story, starting with the visit to his Nurse Practitioner who told me, "You're going to be a regular around here for a long time" as he offered me prescriptions for Xanax and Ambien.I walked out and didn't go back until now, one year later. That guy is gone, and I'm not his regular. To his credit, he frightened and offended me. Both are excellent motivators.

On Sunday I rode Dogboy's Redline 29'er 1x9 (that's a bike for you civilians.) I hit the trail late at Munson Monday and rode as fast as I could, and with so much joy as I chicken-hawked my way through the peloton until finally breaking through to some empty trail. I caught the main group for the 2nd lap where I accelerated and coasted among riders who used to pass me so fast they couldn't even hear what I called them. I must acknowledge before it is gone, that I am riding the dream right now.

If you are struggling with your health, or with finding the motivation to change some habits, just ask and I will loan you a magic skateboard. One good slam can turn it all around.

-Juancho

A brief note on the pace-

2011-09-11T18:56:00.000-04:00

When I am the fastest man I will lead rides with benevolence and dignity. I will choose trails that accentuate the skills and disciplines earned by hard work. I will provide opportunities for communion and long turns just above conversational pace.

I am not yet the fastest man.

The fastest man yesterday rode as if he hated the woods, and wished to be out of them as soon as possible. He sought to kill us by attrition. For 2 hours the beating continued as we rode up all downhills and sought the washed-out and vine-entangled remnants of trail on the north side of Tallahassee. I rode strong and fast and angry. I was nimble, dab-free, and fearless on all terrain, but I was not the fastest man.

Riders tumbled and bled as they submitted to the pace of the fastest man. I cursed him and assayed him for weakness. Even the fastest men must sleep. We all fear something. I do not fear him though, the fastest man, I could see his wheel just ahead in the forest, a man on a bike like anybody else.

When I am the fastest man they will drown on my dust and fill their guts with chagrin and remorse. If they don't cut the oak down early it grows too strong for their axe.

Juancho

Easy Does It

2011-09-08T07:38:00.001-04:00

Turns out that if you you take too much of a few vitamins your ears can ring. I suspended my doping procedures and my ears are returning to normal. That's a little scary. It fits right in with my tendency to pile on. When my body was a landfill I could dump anything in there and I would only feel mildly different on the yum to yuck scale. Now, if the oatmeal isn't organic it is enough to throw me into a tizzy. I know just how Gwyneth Paltrow feels.

I deployed a new robot on the trail last night. This one is a total winner. Rather than building them out of scrap parts and dashed hopes, this one came to me functional right out of the box. He bought a Giant hard-tail from the rental fleet at Great Bicycle Shop and we hit Munson for the last rays of daylight. He's ready. All he has to do is remove the kickstand.

I would love to spend some time here and try to write my way out of stupefying boredom, but I have to go make that paper y'all.

Juancho

Grudge Speed

2011-09-07T08:15:00.000-04:00

I used to think my friend Tommy quit using the internet around 2001. As soon as the web went 2.0 he gave it up. His email address is luddite@dotmatrix.org. Don't bother, he doesn't check it.

Or does he?

We rode together last night and he was turning the cranks at what I have to call "grudge speed." If I didn't know better I would suspect he knew he had been compared to a baby seal, lying helpless on the ice. I am going to have to be more careful or start assuming every hollow threat I make on the internet has been taken to heart.

In order to keep it together and not get dropped I had to call not one, but two mechanicals (the old tire pressure gambit) and one nature appreciation (isn't it beautiful out here Tommy!) He just stared at me, only one foot unclipped from the pedals.

We ran at speeds more common to a road bike, and we traded body blows in the trees and on the hills. I'm going to call it a draw, and if he is reading this I hope he can leave it at that. If he has someone interpreting the internet for him, tell him I take it all back.

Juancho

Patience

2011-09-06T07:53:00.000-04:00

My ears ring. I don't know if they always rang, or if I just noticed it at some point and now I notice it all the time, but they ring, or whistle. It is not related to high blood pressure, I'm averaging 118 over 67 thank you for asking. Anyway, they ring, but I am learning to live with it for the time being.

I don't notice it when I'm riding, so that means I didn't notice it much this weekend. The Wrecking Ball and I set out on a duet Friday evening that took us out the eastside trails then all the way down to Railroad Square for First Friday. We ate Krishna food and rode laps through the milling crowds. The mohawk is back big-time. The fluffy, 80's style mohawk. It is back for boys and girls alike, and seems to have no relation to a punk-rock ethos. I even saw a Sunday-school mullet at the bagel shop. This country only has about 4 decades worth of trends then they start over at the beginning with suspenders and highwaters.

Saturday was for open warfare and unapologetic bloodletting between the Torso, Mystery, and myself. I was so wound up to ride I kept rubbing my bald head looking for hairs to pull out. I was excited and I felt amazing. I tried to club them down like baby seals, but they hung on-taking blow after blow, then dishing it back out.

Then the rains came, and we settled in with FSU football, pull-ups, and yoga. This is a college town, and the University places a high value on the lessons learned in organized sports. They compete in a league against other schools, and football is one of the games they play. This much I know for certain.

-Juancho

Getting better all the time

2011-09-01T15:27:00.000-04:00

Winn Dixie ain't Publix. Anyone can tell you that. It is a second-tier grocery store hanging on to a dwindling market. That's probably why the Wrecking Ball and I felt so comfortable lounging in their plastic chairs. Permanent "B" group riders, the also-rans, the Mister Congenialities of competition. Everybody else seems to have peaked in August, and I took the month off the bike. Wrecking Ball is discouraged, I have been otherwise engaged. We both feel like we are perpetually healing and never well.

We talked about nutrition, and sleep, and brilliant green chlorophyll dumps. We talked about hating people because they are beautiful, or maybe just for acting like they are beautiful. We talked about being hopeless and drinking the mistakes- sitting at the end of a bar. We have both seen worse times than this.

Things are looking up for me lately, really up- so up I have a crick in my neck. I don't have much to complain about, and neither does the Wrecking Ball, but we would never let that stop us.

-Juancho

Southern Tour

2011-08-30T22:03:00.000-04:00

I said I would be back and I am working on it. I am now at the boomerang point of my trip- West Point, Mississippi. Tomorrow I start the rewind process and haul it back through Alabama and across the Apalachicola River into Eastern Standard Time.

There's going to be some serious bike riding going on this weekend. Holy smokes will there be some riding.

-Juancho

2011-08-27T05:07:00.000-04:00

be back later-

Juancho

Rest Easy Daddy Mention

2011-08-26T09:23:00.001-04:00

I was driving down I-95 yesterday with the split ends of Hurricane Irene's long hair whipping rain across the road when the local public radio affiliate out of Jacksonville announced that Stetson Kennedy was in palliative care and not expected to recover. It broke my heart.

I looked out the window to the east and the sky was dark, dark blue with clouds stacking up on top of clouds, with a big anvil-edged nimbus crown leaning in over the coast. The report said he was in and out of consciousness and I wondered if he knew the storm was coming, and if he was waiting for it to carry him away?

I felt the urge to get off the interstate and go to his home in St. Johns County, and wait with other friends and acolytes who no doubt have gathered there, but instead I turned west towards the rest of my own good fight.

-Juancho

Juancho's 2011 Not Recommended Reading List

2011-08-22T10:11:00.011-04:00

A little discussed aspect of my wellness program of 2011 is literature. When you give up certain behaviors and habits they must be replaced with something. Brown rice and kale are only part of the story. Books are an essential part of my continued turnaround. I have always been a reader and a lover of books. I worked in the FSU Strozier Library for the Inter-Library Loans office my first two years of college. I would rush through my rounds of picking up and dropping off titles to be loaned abroad so I could have the rest of my shift to browse the stacks and take naps on the ledge of the 5th floor, where they keep the Early American Literature.

In 1995-96 I worked for Powell's Books in Portland, OR. At the time it was the largest independent bookstore in the country. I worked in a satellite store that specialized in books for cooks and gardeners. I was the guy who produced the UPC Scan stickers and put them on the books. I was happy to do it.

In recent years my taste became lazy. Challenging books began to intimidate me. Why bother? It will take forever. It's probably stupid. With an entire bookcase of Louis L'Amour to work through, why would I ever ride my Appaloosa in off of the prairie?

Last September I set a goal of reading one book in particular, Infinite Jest, by David Foster Wallace. I had read many of his non-fiction books and found his voice and breadth of references exhilarating. Reading DFW is like sticking your finger in the light socket over and over for fun. Infinite Jest was his most powerful wattage. This book was big enough to replace all kinds of demons and hobgoblins. So that is how it began: Brown rice, yoga, and 1,079 pages of compulsively footnoted compound sentences. As my brain woke up to the rigors of such a demanding read, I added new books to the list. I added some only because of their daunting reputations, and others because they caught my eye as books do.

I do not recommend any of these books to any of you, because recommending books is a lost cause. Books find us, and no third party can make a book the right choice for us at any given time. I draw inspiration and food for thought from many of you, so consider this a vanity post. As I pat myself on the back, feel free to read over my shoulder as you see fit. I will keep my comments brief.

Titles are linked, if you can't tell.

Infinite Jest- It had to be done.
The Instructions Instant Favorite. Join the Side of Damage.
Chronic City- Late nights with Perkus Tooth
Cloud Atlas- The best 3 short stories and a novella to ever pretend to be a novel.
Freedom- Held my nose through the entire story, loathing everyone, then cried at the end.
State of Wonder- Chew all the flavor out of this one.
-A Visit from the Goon Squad Rock and roll as high art
War- Happening right now.
Matterhorn- Dude must know people. Reads like an 8th grade book report. Not a good one.
-Stephen King On Writing Stephen King must have serious issues with Infinite Jest.

Libra This is a fantastic book if you have trouble falling asleep. Well-crafted, but oh so what.

The Unnamed, by Joshua Ferris. A tender account of an American affliction.

How about you guys, read any good books lately?

-Juancho

The Grippe

2011-08-18T09:52:00.001-04:00

That's what people used to call the flu. The Grippe. It makes sense because it grabs hold of you and drags you down. I don't know if I caught the full on grippe, but the last 48 hours have left me disconnected from reality. A spaceman on the dark side of the moon. Fever dreams and broken glass in my joints. On Monday I carried 2000 lbs of furniture with my new neighbor. I barely had time to speculate on what a hernia feels like before I was laid low with the grippe.

Two days of twilight sleeping and wet sheets. Sneezing and snotting. Planning how to get to the kitchen and boil water for tea as if it were an endurance event. The bright side is I am closing in on the end of Cloud Atlas which has proven to be the toughest read in my 2011 list of tough reads. A fever should be mandatory for reading this book which respects neither time nor space. It has me looking forward to a little Elmore Leonard.

What have I missed?

Juancho

Tools

2011-08-16T20:39:00.002-04:00

I am the son of a carpenter. His father, my Papa, was a carpenter also. He served in the SeaBees Naval Construction Force. My brother is renowned for his knowledge of tools and trade systems. We built our house when I was about twelve. My brother was six. He was on the roof hammering in shingles while I walked around below picking up lost nails and scraps of wood. I was not jealous. I thought he was being punished.

I am told I was a pretty good waiter, and I can cook anything under any conditions. I was a better than average breakdancer and I won an award in World History in 10th grade. I am not without worth.

Tools though, have a way of getting lost, or not being where I want them to be when needed. Tools are never the right size and they are rarely charged to functioning capacity. Tools for me have been unreliable. Most of my friends take a lot of pleasure in strapping on the tool belt and going about the manly business of tooling. My friends can build rock climbing gyms and pole barns. They can tile floors and mix mud with Tommy's drill, "Old Grandpa." They lay fiberglass in the boat and run duct work above and below as required.

For me, this type of activity means picking up nails and being confused. I can't keep the necessary steps in the right order and every act appears to be random and mystical. As they solid block the floor joists I wonder if burning some sage might not accomplish the same thing. Once the nails are picked up I get right to the next task, feeling dumb.

Things might be changing though. Mungam, Robot Army Regular, stopped by last night to further improve upon the rescue job Tommy did on a leaky faucet. I helped. Fixing stuff is about more than feeling stupid. It is about spending time with your bros in comfortable parallel play activity. It is about self-reliance and the joy of knowing what you have to do today. When the hot water is running freely you don't deliberate between a bike ride or yoga class. You make the water stop.

Mungam and I rode to the big Hardware stores in his gigantic pickup truck and just riding shotgun in such a rig extended my manhood a quarter inch. At one point I encouraged him to go ahead and ram the Kia in front of us since we were almost in the backseat anyway. "Nah" he said. "She should hang up and drive, but that's somebody's mom." A garnet-colored H2 Hummer passed us on the right and I said, "What about ramming that guy?" With a glance Mungam said, "and that guy is somebody's douchebag cousin."

You got to love tools.

Juancho

2011-08-16T16:10:00.002-04:00

This isn't true of course.

-Juancho

2011-08-14T16:00:00.002-04:00

I just stood in the tub watching the hot water run. I turned the handle on and off again just to be sure. Hot water, otherwise known as cash money, continued to pour from the faucet. 5 hours later and I have some quality time with my old buddy Tommy to be thankful for, and some knowledge of the mystery of where the water comes from. All anyone ever tells me is, "Shit flows downhill and payday is Friday." That's not enough to fix a faucet.

Sonofabitch.

That's okay. I didn't want to ride anyway, and my bike is at the shop. What better on a Sunday morning than the suffocating responsibility of home ownership? There's your buzz, your precious endorphins.

Yesterday I rode with the Dogboy and Greg the Leg. I went until I was spent. Somewhere on the backside of the Pedrick Greenway I said, and I quote, "I don't think you pussies could drop me if you had the gas to try." They disappeared like the Starship Enterprise. After that the ride got a little nicer, but I saw them again later. That mouth of mine, it does its own thing.

-Juancho

Claim Everything

2011-08-12T08:14:00.000-04:00

I am thinking about everything up to this point. Over the years I have said that life is like stumbling down a dark hallway with your hands in front of your face. That ignores the fact that you can learn a lot about hallways by stumbling. I should get a medal for resisting things that are good for me. Last to Learn it would read. I get it eventually, and I want a medal for that too. He Gets it Eventually proudly displayed beneath Suspicious of Motives.

To achieve is admirable, to persevere is sublime.

Juancho

Triple Play

2011-08-11T09:10:00.002-04:00

Yesterday the Great Magnet saw fit to allow me to complete some tasks that I have been working on for months. You grind and grind and then all of a sudden, boom, it's done. I had to celebrate by breaking my ride fast of 6 days. I got to the trail-head at 3:30 P:M. The thermometer read a cool 96. That number rose sharply as I pedaled into a controlled burn in the forest. The woods were charred black and still smoldering and the air was hazy with smoke and heat shimmers. I stopped to dampen a bandana and tie it around my face as a filter. With that I felt like I was being water-boarded next to a pizza oven. It was still a good ride, as most bike rides turn out to be.

Back in the Safari I trekked over to yoga and slipped into a Pranayama a few beats behind. With no time to stop at the house I was wearing my bibs and a dress shirt I found wadded in the seat pocket of the van. My shins were covered with soot and the sweat rolled down my polished bald head unchecked. Although the room was packed I seemed to have plenty of room for my Warrior Two. I went through the motions and held poses for days, but I played Whack-a-Mole with my thoughts. At its worst yoga is still a good stretch. With the tails of my button-up shirt sticking to my backside I namasted out of there and back to the van.

Swinging by the house I changed, ate a banana (major sugar!) and bumped some Nas on my way to the Tallahassee Rock Gym. The rock climbing revival is still going strong. The Torso and his family were already there and the place was packed for student half price night. I waited patiently, belaying babies and teaching newbies to tie figure eight knots. I climbed on Tuesday and the Torso's beeper fell out of his pocket from 20 feet up and brained me on my exposed dome. He appraised the lump and the nick in my scalp with chagrin. When you are climbing rocks fall, it is part of the game, but who carries a beeper in 2011? I got to tie in eventually and go at it on a couple of stiff 5.8's that were more than enough to satiate me and close out my triple play evening.

The pull-up count is at 4.

-Juancho

Good things come

2011-08-08T09:32:00.000-04:00

This time last year I was close to getting my arm out of the sling, and thinking that would end my misery. In fact things were about to get a whole lot worse. Confining a joint for 3 months atrophies the muscle and cartilage resulting in this case with a condition called "frozen shoulder." To move it beyond its stunted radius was to feel broken glass grinding in the socket. The pain meds were gone. The howling nightmare of withdrawal was swooping in with a black lust. I was so fatigued I couldn't walk to the mailbox and back without getting winded.

Then things got worse.

By September I was sucking the scum off the bottom of the barrel. Somewhere deep inside my heart I found a little courage and I fought back. One step at a time. One grain of brown rice at a time. I shut out the world and all earthly pleasures save for sweat and a search for a new way. I stacked the words of the doubters like bricks in my ramparts and thought of the day I would launch my opening salvo. -

For them all a feast of crows. Patience is its own reward.

-Juancho

Boundaries

2011-08-04T11:50:00.001-04:00

I drive a sweet van. A GMC Safari that my mom has driven from Florida to the tip of the Yucatan Peninsula and back a few times. She also drove it to California, Ohio, the grocery store and elsewhere. It is silver with tinted windows, and I know I look good behind the wheel. Anybody would. Most of the time my bike is in the back, and maybe some golf clubs, yoga mats, and a dozen empty water bottles. I call it the mobile toy-box. Some people call it the Turtle or the Shovel. This weekend it will be an art collection vehicle in New Orleans for some friends. It will return full of glitter, scraps of fabric, and coffee cups. It makes me happy to loan it to my friends who dare to do great things like make art.

What does not make me happy about it is driving around town looking at my Tallahassee neighbors standing in the heat waiting for the buses, which can take 45 minutes in some parts of town. I don't like passing people by who are walking my way on long, two lane roads peppered with decomposing opossum and sand-spurs. The conversation in my head goes something like this;

It sure looks hot out there. Those people are hating it, and that old man looks like he might fold right over his walker and pass out. I could load them all up and take them wherever they need to go. People will think that is weird, and it will likely scare them, or make them feel suspicious. I better just keep on rolling.

That's what I do, I keep on rolling. And yet I remember standing at a border crossing on the line between Slovenia and Austria in the middle of the night, desperate for a ride to catch the Croatian bus that abandoned me when I went to the bathroom in the station. Cramped by intestinal disease, dizzy from a stomach emptied by violent retching and diarrhea, my foot bandaged and bloody with 14 stitches received the day before, I had a few seconds to beg in a foreign language to each passing car to take me with them. Hundreds passed me within the first hour. A blue mini-van driven by a woman with blonde hair and tired eyes looked at me and turned to an elderly gentleman in the backseat and he nodded. A toddler was buckled into the bench seat next to the man.

She waved me around to the passenger seat.

What to do?

Juancho

Choices

2011-08-03T09:15:00.003-04:00

Happy Birthday Lopo!

It will be 100 degrees by 2:00 P:M today with a suck factor of 107-110 projected by 5:00 O'clock. Ladies and gentleman, I bring you AUGUST. I have been thinking about what to do in August since last September, when I first lurched my XL frame off of the opium couch and decided to choose life over broken-ness, Vicodin and Wife Swap. You must have a plan for August I thought. I hoped to be in San Diego, riding my bike along the western edge of this grand experiment, learning to surf at Tourmaline and playing pirates with my nephew. This was not in the Great Magnet's plan.

The BikeChain crew, whom I will soon join in the black and the orange, rode last night in the stifling confines of the north-side hardwood trails. Early reports from the wounded are that Big Worm roared a mighty roar and savaged the rest of the pride. I was safely in savasana by then after a spirited round of golf. I shot a 57 on 9 and enjoyed every chunker and topper along the way. You must have a plan for August. The bugs are so intense right now that the ticks are complaining about the dog dick gnats and the mosquitoes have to walk everywhere because they are so bloated on on sweet cyclist blood- enriched by Zone 5 cookies and cold beers, that they can't lift themselves from the ground.

You make different choices and different things happen.

I am going to do more rock climbing at the Tallahassee Rock Gym. I'm going to hurl disc golf at Tom Brown Park. I'm going to paddle, swim, and rope swing my way around the Big Bend. I'm going to break 50 at the Jacques Gauthier Golf and Social Club. I'm going to ride my bike early in the morning and late at night. I am going to drop 10 lbs and read The Pale King.

I have no idea what to do about September.

Juancho

Shotgun

2011-08-02T08:41:00.000-04:00

I grew up on the back of a bike, riding in a plastic seat strapped to the back of a 1970's Schwinn 3-speed, if I remember correctly. My parents would ride my sister and I around the neighborhood, which was a bunch of trailers spread out along a road I can't believe was paved. It was good living back in the day, when I had the freedom to wander across the fields to my friend's house to watch the Star-Spangled Banner play on television when network television came on first thing Saturday morning before cartoons. Before that though, I saw the world from the back of the bicycle, and legend has it I spoke all things I saw into being. When one parent couldn't take it anymore they would stop and switch. Did they switch bicycles, or just us children? I don't remember this displeasing me. I was happy to have a new audience to whom I could explain all of the wonders of the world through my toddler eyes. I still like to talk on bike rides.

-Juancho

Bike Thief Take-Down

2011-08-01T08:42:00.001-04:00

If you have ever had a bike stolen, you know that sick feeling when you realize your ride is not where you left it. When I was 12 my bike got stolen while we were on vacation. when I was 21 a friend hid my bike around the corner from where I was standing to teach me a lesson about not locking it up. My bike was found and returned back in 1982, damaged, but sound. It made me sick to think of some other kid riding it around, showing off my yellow mag wheels. The friend who hid my bike in 1991? I never forgave him. I hold a grudge to this day and I hope he rots in hell. We all lose so much in this life. There's no room for simulated loss. What a jackass. I digress.

A reader out in California (Thanks SY!) shared a video of a bike theft in progress outside of his company, captured on a security camera. The theft itself is illustrative as it takes about two seconds for the thief to cut the lock and ride away. Too bad for him a quick-thinking young woman only needed one second to get out there and shut him down. Click the title to view the heroic save. With moves like hers she is likely to wind up in the BRC Clydesdale Hall of Fame.

Nice work!

Juancho

Cutting the sleeves off- a meditation on Dave Baton, by his friend Scot Benton.

2011-07-28T22:03:00.000-04:00

last night i cut the sleeves off my favorite jersey
for dave
because of dave

last night i sat in a straight-backed wooden chair
no air conditioning
bolt upright
waiting for dave to show up

i thought of once when he looked at a bike i was working on
and said under his breath with a smile, "that'll never work."

he was right

i thought of once riding - full gas - off the front of some silly group ride
thinking i had things stretched out real good and proper
and suddenly realizing i had dave in my shadow
breathing words of encouragement - he was

i asked him to "pull-through," looking at him over my shoulder
"this'll never work," i heard him mutter under his breath...

he was right

tonight a million years ago
i sat waiting for dave to show up
to ride across town for beer
to stand over our bikes on the tops of hills
- listening to the cicadas and the breeze

one night as we sat quietly off Gaines street breathing in the glorious "nothing" that tends to happen
we saw a rider approaching
as the person passed going up the long hill toward the capital building
dave and i both instinctively stuck up our hands in greeting
the guy looked right at us - kept going - and did not wave back
realizing we both knew the guy, we sat for another moment in silence
then dave said, "that guy needs to raise his saddle."

he was right

a year or so later, on another hyped-up group ride, i overheard the guy dave and i saw that night -

he was talking about how he had changed his riding position - it looked very much like he had raised his saddle

last night i cut the sleeves off my favorite jersey
for dave
because i need to hang on to dave in my heart
because dave had this special way of being "right" about things
that taught me something
i will never forget him

Scot Benton

Thanks Scot, for sharing this with us. We will see everyone at Joe's Bike Shop @ 10:00 A:M on Saturday, sleeveless.

Juancho

Going all Tarzan on Wednesday

2011-07-28T09:02:00.002-04:00

Deep, deep water under overcast skies with a condensing mist floating just above the surface. Paddle through that curtain and the temperature goes up 10 degrees and the air gets sticky and damp again. "The cold water can make you cramp and sink to the bottom! Nobody is coming down to get you!" We laugh and swim to the middle, treading water in the crampiest, sinkiest spot possible. We don't cramp or sink, we float and spiral down like the otter, an animal bearing no resemblance or relation to a stalking king-beast cat. There is nobody else here, so the spring is ours and nobody else has ever been here as far as we are concerned. Dive in, climb out, dive in- performing our Jefferson County ablutions.

"You won't see no black people here" said the old coach in the parking lot. "Too many mean white people in Jefferson County." He has a look on his face like something is dead and rotten, and I like him for knowing what stinks. It never once occurred to me, but he's right. I have never seen a black person at this river. My own white skin purchasing the privilege of my extended stay in la-la land. Surely I'm wrong, and this river is everyone's river now?

An Osprey lights 20 feet above us, feathers a wet mess and head swiveling about like a mad scientist. He looks like a dangerous, vigilante chicken about to go buck wild on your ass. He looks down at us and I am concerned for my eyes, but he flies away.

There is a limestone arch beneath another little spring and you can swim under and through it. We all agree it looks easy enough, but nobody feels like giving it a go. Get a cramp and you will sink like a stone. I can guarantee I will get my foot caught on something, although my luck has changed this summer. No need to test it right that minute. Three young braves show up in a john boat and one of them does it. The others are afraid of cramps.

Back at the parking lot the rope swing deck is finally empty. The homecoming queen and her coterie have clocked out, so there is nothing to stop us from climbing the tree and swinging out above the concrete platform and over the hole to come ka-splashing down. The water shoots up your nose and into your brain, where it can do the most good. All of our bent and busted shoulders work, even if they might look funny to some.

-Juancho

Panther Update

2011-07-27T00:05:00.001-04:00

For those of you long-time Circus carnies, you remember the Jaguarundi I'm sure. If you are new to the site I am referring to a remarkable event about 5 years ago when I and my friend Hambone saw a large, dark-furred cat with a long ropy tail on the trail off of a local road in the middle of a dense suburban metro area. I was in front (of course, yo) and Hambone was right behind me and we saw the animal at about the same time. It heard us and bounded down a steep bank and into a drainage tunnel that leads into the woods. In that moment the rest of our party appeared and we were unable to find a definitive print or evidence of any kind. You can read the back-story by searching Jaguarundi, or Black Panther in this blog and I suggest you do. It would be good to familiarize yourself with the derision and scorn we absorbed for stating a truth beyond the comprehension of the existing shared paradigm. Impossible maybe, but true nonetheless. We accepted the compromise of an obscure species of cat known as the Jaguarundi (indigenous to South America.) The state wildlife office classified the sighting as " Likely Otter" which is a good argument for deep Republican cuts to their budget (the punks!)

I share this with you now as a preface to this new information I have learned which indeed proves that the shared paradigm is a fragile thing.

Click Here for and reconsider the Jaguarundi sighting anew.

Juancho

The Round-Up

2011-07-22T16:42:00.001-04:00

Back in the olden times when darkness ruled the earth (Bush II era) I would give a little report at the end of the week and recap the highlights and preview events for the weekend.

I don't care about that shit anymore though.

The Torso and I skipped out for 18 chain basket thingies of disc golf today at lunch and it was stifling hot, although not heatwave hot, or even last June hot. It was just normal hot I guess. At one point he turned his nose to the wind like a dog and said, "I sense fall coming." I fell down from laughing so hard I rolled all the way down the hill and had to compose myself before teeing off on the 11th. Who knows? He probably did smell fall, it's out there somewhere and it is heading our way. Words like that guarantee that September will be hot as pizza oven, just the way new Juancho likes it.

I will be special guest starring at Joe's Bike Shop tomorrow so come on down and buy a bike. Joe is out of town so we may do one of those "The boss is gone" sales. I will be happy to fix your bike too, if you don't mind it taking a long time and being done almost, but not quite correctly.

Maybe you should just stop and say hello.

Zone 5 is pouring beer right about now, so if you are on the north side of Tallahassee that's where you should be. For me that's like driving to Atlanta, but one of these days I will make it happen.

Memorial events for Dave Baton are established. A ride will leave from Joe's a week from tomorrow (Saturday July 30) at 10:00 A:M and proceed to the FSU fountain and back. If you ride in this town, please help make a strong show of support for his family and friends and to send a message to the community to be aware that cycling goes on here and it will continue. We all need to watch out for each other, regardless of conveyance. By all accounts Dave rode with a lot of joy for the bike and the people around him, and I expect this gathering will be something to remember for a long time. Other events will follow throughout the day.

Whatever you do and wherever you go this weekend, make it count.

Juancho

TRG

2011-07-21T11:36:00.000-04:00

It was old home week last night at the Tallahassee Rock Gym. For those who don't know, the Rock Gym was the brain-child of a couple of friends back in a time I like to call the early nineties. They sold it to a young buck with a dream, and he is still making it happen, giving North Floridians a chance to learn the skills necessary to travel far away and scare the shit out of themselves.

I used to work there, but it was more like charity really. The Torso would pay all of us rock grommets to sit down there in either kiln-like heat or damp cold and teach people how to belay, and to spray out the rental shoes with Lysol. I have nothing but the fondest memories of the place and it served as my headquarters for many years.

Last night we were back in there climbing with vigor. Four of us that date back to the conception of the place were running laps up the wall and lamenting our blown-out fingers at the end of the night. The place was packed with babies (20-somethings) grinding out torturous boulder problems and politely making way for us grizzled first ascenters to have our fun. There were messages on a marker board from folks who graduated and moved on, or just moved on. They said things like, "This place will always be my home" and "TRG Forever."

We played a little woulda, shoulda, coulda in the parking lot, but really, there is a lot to be proud of for the progenitors. They created a thing that survived. A new generation thinks of it as nothing but theirs, and they own a part of its history too.

How many of us get to do that?

Juancho

R.I.P. Dave Baton

2011-07-19T23:36:00.000-04:00

Tallahassee lost a good guy, a dad, and an extraordinary cyclist to a car on Tram road. There are really no right words, but these are good.

http://littleballin.blogspot.com/

It could have been any of us.

Juancho

ballast

2011-07-19T09:07:00.000-04:00

I filled my jersey pockets with big scooping handfuls of Munson sand last night so that I would not float away. I felt light, not just in heft, but light of heart as well. Worry-free, content. I pedaled into the malingering crowd a moment before departure. There is W.B. There is his enforcer, his son. There is Big Worm. I bobbed along near them, daylight blinking beneath my tires as I inhaled and exhaled.

I left the pack in the car. No tube, no pump, no patchkit. No tools, first-aid kit, spare glasses or food. Two strong legs, a water bottle, and some hope for the future- that's all I carried. I joined the current of riders as they seeped up the trail. At the top of the hill someone said, "If you want to go fast, then go now" and everybody waited. Two guys, then Big Worm, and when nobody moved for his wheel, I took it.

We galloped along in big ground-gobbling strides, and I hung on long enough to taste what it might be to belong there. After 5 or so miles the spell was broken. Maybe I tapped a brake, or burned the last molecule of the previous day's hamburger, but I kept on. I watched the Clydesdale on the back of Worm's jersey slowly pull away through the trees until it was gone.

I waited for the WB, and rode it in with he and his boy, my barrel smoking and low on ammo. Too much fun, too much stupid available joy to be had, out there floating away.

Juancho

Listen to Big Jim

2011-07-17T19:16:00.001-04:00

I just ate that burger and I feel better already.

The fix was in this morning when the Black and the Orange showed up just as we slackers were pulling our bikes from our vehicles. The rest of this story is so predictable it could write itself.

...

Apparently I am not so extraneous as that so I will give you the crib notes. Big Worm roughed us up right out of the gate with a bruising pace, then he turned it over to the young wolf, Wrecking Ball Jr, or Hard-Core whichever you prefer. The kid is like 14 or 19 or something and he went off the leash like Cujo and finished what his Uncle Big Worm started. I hung on (more or less) and went home looking for that step I lost in Pisgah. It wasn't under the couch or rolling around in the dryer vent so I went with the last good advice I got here on the BRC- "Eat a damn hamburger already."

How about that bike race over in France? I haven't said a word about it on here, but that's just so I don't jinx my main man Thomas Voeckler. You thought I was a Schleck fan you say? Ask me tomorrow.

Juancho

Flat Juancho

2011-07-14T21:42:00.000-04:00

I wasn't out of the neighborhood before I stopped to check my tire pressure. I added about 10 lbs all the way around to be safe. It made no difference. I stopped behind KMart to make sure my brake rotors weren't rubbing. They were perfect. I grunted along towards the Cadillac trails and stopped in the middle of the best single track to eat a Lara bar. That made just the tiniest difference. I capitalized on this trickle of juice and turned my ass right back for home. I was bonked before I strapped into my chamois, flat like Stanley, all cashed in.

I barely ate today so that might be it, but after the longest streak of good rides in my life I forgot what it was like to feel that bad. I have seen the bottom of my tank plenty, but only after chasing some of the local trail hounds or traveling many miles under the seven hills summer sun. Today it was overcast, and a brisk 85 when I left the house.

I blame Pisgah. I left it all on that mountain and I still haven't gotten anything back. I expect some dividends. You can't go that hard, and persevere that much, and not become stronger for it. Another hot meal and a good night's sleep and I will be all right. I say it all the time and I will say it again, nothing sucks like a rest day.

-Juancho

The Rock

2011-07-13T12:21:00.001-04:00

"You're coming back for me right?" I asked. "Maybe" he said as he swung out of sight leaving me anchored to a couple of pieces of protection 20 feet above the Sentry ledge and still 100' from the safety of the base of the cliff, where the yellow jackets and copperheads waited to welcome us down.

I demured his initial invitation to ascend the second pitch of the climb, reasoning that if he made it to the top and my next move could be descending then everyone would go home happy. We both took an inventory of the steps necessary to make such a thing happen, and came to the same conclusion. "The only way either of us get down is if you come up with the second rope." I rested my scorched forehead against the hot granite and squinted the sweat out of my eyes. "On belay" I said, and with that I scrapped and scrambled another 100' up the wall to two fixed eye bolts and salvation. While on rappel I descended off route and as I neared the second rappel station I realized one of our ropes was a might short of the deck. I anchored that rope to the wall and descended the second rope to the safety of the ledge. No problem.

Mystery came down behind me struggling to move the cursed purple rope through his rappel device as I had secured the end to the wall, which is apparently not standard procedure. Shaking his head, no doubt in wonder as to how he he came to have me as his only willing climbing partner, he easily down-climbed to join me on the ledge. We pulled the rope to bring it down to us and it did not move. We pulled and pulled and pulled. The rope was hung up 150+ feet above us and guess who was not volunteering to go up and un-stick it? That's right, I was preparing to holler to the cub scout troop down the cliff to save us, which is also not standard procedure.

After some heavy sighs, Mystery worked his way back up the wall, taking up slack in his rappel device as he went, which is not such an easy practice, and quite nerve-wracking. Meanwhile I waited on the ledge and looked down at our other friend, The JJ, wishing he were on the ledge instead of me, and I was the one lounging with the Copperheads and the Yellow-jackets.

I climbed back up to the low-point of the rope to free it from my impromptu anchor. This would allow Mystery to rappel freely and retrieve some gear I left in the route. This is when he disappeared for a bit and I waited, David Blaine style, perched on a sloping triangle of rock the size of a shoebox, attached to the wall by two Batman style camming devices. It was hot. I was ready to be done with rock climbing. The cool river and a well-earned cold beer were on my mind.

He did return eventually, and we regrouped to the safety of the Sentry ledge prepared to end this adventure and get on with the day.

Instead, we were right where we began, pulling and pulling on the rope that just didn't want to come down. Mystery leaned his head into the rock, arms dangling at his side. I knew he was spent. The only heavy lifting I had done involved hauling myself up the rock, while he had been up three times and down twice, always on the sharp end of the rope. It didn't look good, and the cub scouts were already gone.

I pulled on the rope in anger. I pulled on that rope with love. We both pulled on that rope in defiance of the cursed Pisgah forest that always tries to keep us in its embrace. We saw the other end of the rope move just the slightest little bit.

Oh then did we pull! Spitting, whimpering, groaning, feet scrambling to keep every inch gained, until finally it began to run freely and then tumbled down to us. 100 meters of victory lay in a snarl at our feet. The two ropes had rolled together during the rappel and braided themselves into a tight twist. This was the cause of our suffering.

We rapped down to the base, settling yet another open account with Looking Glass mountain.

-Juancho

The Pisgah Surprise

2011-07-06T21:30:00.000-04:00

That's what I call this photograph, The Pisgah Surprise. If you are new here at the circus, you may not know about the events that occurred in the Pisgah National Forest a few years back. My frenemy Mystery, the once untameable stallion, and I spent a cold night without food, drink, shelter, nor the comforting words of a good friend. We let the rivalry get a little out of hand with the, "I'm not done riding if you're not done riding" gambit. We ran out of day and hunkered like animals in the dark, burning spare inner-tubes and green rhododendrons to stay warm.

The short version is that we survived, as evidenced by the 1,048 blog posts I have written since that day. The picture you see above documents the single act of unchecked aggression during our 24 hour survival epic.

In a ruse only a true sociopath could muster, he asked me to pose for a photo to record our endurance, our courage, and our steadfast loyalty. Asleep on my feet I stood tall and waited for him to hit the button and race the timer to get in the photo.

The next thing I remember is waking up in the dirt, for the second time that twilit morning.

If you will focus closely on the details in this photo you can see the blur of white- his Jamis Dakar in motion after connecting the rear wheel with the point of my chin. You will see the little roll of jiggly fat of my exposed midriff rippling with the shockwave of impact. You will see my hands thrown up in a lazy defense, and you will see my beloved red Jamis Dragon rattling to the ground at my feet.

We are returning to Pisgah this weekend, to finish what he started.

-Juancho

Save the Cambium

2011-07-05T09:00:00.000-04:00

Pages of verse ran through my mind all weekend, all of it superior to whatever I manage to lay down here this morning. Like a waiter lost deep in the weeds, I have failed to keep up. It is too late to go back and capture the events of Friday afternoon, the slimy ride under the central Florida sun, the night on the town, the meeting of an icon.

Saturday, I came down out of the stands and got into the tree-climbing game. A year ago, even before the Accident of Ultimate Clarity, I was not able to move my body up a rope using a series of crunching maneuvers. This time, only the concern of how to get down slowed my progress. A lifetime spent beneath the shade of giant Live Oak trees and only now do I see them as the unknown frontier. Apologies to the Tour de France, sorry I missed the opening stage.

Sunday, smug with accomplishment, I rode solo around this steamy town. I rode through FAMU and FSU, Frenchtown, and into the old neighborhoods. I visited 5 of my past residences and took in all the years spent in Tallahassee, doing pretty much what I do now. I am wearing a groove in this town, playing that same favorite song over and over until I know every scratch and skip by heart as well as the lyrics and tune. I rode into the trails and the ground passed so easily beneath me. I felt like a bear dancing on a ball.

Monday morning, an encore performance, out into the forest for 4 hours of vision questing, as we moved constantly through the waves of heat, the smilax vines, and the sand. This is all so new to me again, this confidence that my body can get me in and out of adventures. Thanks to my swollen Achilles for reminding me to pace myself, slow it down, grab for those verses before they are all forgotten.

-Juancho

Juancho vs. Dogboy (advantage-Dogboy)

2011-07-01T10:10:00.000-04:00

Is Dogboy getting kinder or is Juancho getting faster? That's the question one has to ask himself when he finishes a late afternoon run through the east-side Weems loop and he feels pretty good. Let's not get carried away. I will concede that separation occurred a few times, always when I optimistically shifted down from my big ring. This would have the effect of launching the Dogboy from a cannon so quickly did the daylight appear between us. We are also friends, so to drop me completely would be awkward. Yet still, under these same circumstances I have come home from a ride with him so crushed as to need crutches to get to the bathroom, where I would then draw a warm bubble bath and let the running water cover the sound of my quiet sobbing. I suggest we split the difference and answer "both."

The goal today is to move south as soon as possible to ride with Pa Ingalls and the Micanopy Madman at the Powerlines in G'ville. After that it is on to The American Dream Art Show (that's a link.) I am going to achieve a full vacation mindset in under 24 hours.

Bloggy blog blog. Bloggity, bloggity, blog.

Got big plans?

Juancho

Clydesdale Hall of Fame-Stetson Kennedy

2011-06-30T11:31:00.002-04:00

Sometime in my twenties I discovered Stetson Kennedy, first by reading his book, The Klan Unmasked, and then The Jim Crow Guide to the South. At the time I had but two noble aspirations in my life- to be a writer and to be some kind of professional rabble-rouser. The internet had not been invented yet, and so the opportunity to do both of these things from the convenience of my underwear did not exist. The only supporting evidence I had to guide me were a collection of not that good short stories (because kids in their 20's don't know shit with rare exception) and a couple of train-wreck efforts at organizing to support various causes. I read Mr. Kennedy's stark and simple prose where he described not the ideas of doing good work, but the actions. I resigned myself to trying the unglamorous hard way, and went to work at a runaway shelter instead of trying to advocate from afar like a celebrity. Homeless kids need good potato salad more than they need college kids writing stiff essays about their plight. I guess I hoped that by immersing myself in the work I might one day have something legitimate to say about it all. If you aren't familiar with the life and legend of Stetson Kennedy, I invite you to spend a few precious Google minutes learning about his contributions to Florida especially, and to humankind in general.

Tomorrow night, at an art show curated by my friend Bill Bryson, the mayor of Hogtown, Stetson Kennedy will be opening the ball. This show, The American Dream, already stood to be an epic event without this surprise announcement. Mr. Bryson is a cultural curator, a deep thinker, and apparently a persuasive organizer. Stetson Kennedy recently marched in support of increasing the pay rate of farm-workers 1 penny for a pound of tomatoes. He is a gentleman of well-advanced age and yet he gets off the couch for justice. Decades after taking down the Ku Klux Klan, defending the Everglades, and mocking the hypocrisy of the Jim Crow South, he is still making his own potato salad.

He has lived my version of the American Dream for 95 years and I can't think of a better way to honor our nation on this Independence Day weekend.

Juancho

Check back later for a re-mix of yesterday's Juancho vs. Dogboy ride.

Deferred

2011-06-28T10:13:00.000-04:00

I would have preferred the simplicity of a quick injection of human growth hormone but the excessive hair growth on my back and shoulders was interfering with my body's natural ability to cool itself. Instead, I carefully removed the I.V. needle from the 2 pints of blood I purchased from some kid who deals it from the back door of his part-time job at a TCBY. He said he can run a mile in under 4 minutes so I figured it had to be pretty good. Big Worm said he was coming to the Munson Monday ride and I wasn't taking any chances. I slapped a booster needle of EPO into my thigh and grabbed my gear when- BOOM! Lightning crackled throughout the neighborhood and the rain we have been waiting for came all at once. Nobody would be riding tonight, not on the artificial pitcher's mound Munson has become. The trail would be a sticky mess.

There was no way to retract the increase in hemoglobin that made every deep breath taste like sweet cheesecake. I had to burn off the energy somehow so I did what anyone would do in my situation and I walked it off inside Joanne's Fabrics. They didn't ask me to leave until they ran the final batch report and rolled up the yards of chenille and chintz. The manager, a teenager with chipped, black fingernails told me I didn't have to go home, but I couldn't stay there and suggested I take it down the sidewalk to Bed, Bath, and Beyond. I told her she wasn't the boss of me and drove home in the rain. Eventually I slept, and dreamt of future glory.

Juancho

2011-06-27T08:43:00.001-04:00

I never saw it coming. When I reached out my hand to greet the Wrecking Ball before yesterday's ride, he showed me a smile full of sharp teeth as he grasped my hand and pulled me towards him, planting his knee in my groin. Doubled over in pain, I tried to catch my breath until Big Worm brought his two big hams together over his head and clubbed me to the ground. "You ready to go for a ride now Juancho?"

After that it was body blows followed by haymakers, kidney punches and stomps to the in-step, dirty boxing and where did my lunch money go. Their other two friends would occasionally stand me up and shove me into a flying elbow. I was on Bikechain posse local terrain and they really dusted off the welcome mat for me.

I spit some teeth out and asked them, "is that all you boys got?"

It was the best ride of the week, no question.

Juancho

Sweat Lodge

2011-06-25T13:20:00.001-04:00

This whole town is soaking wet this morning, and the air is moving not one single knot. I suspended my penitent practices last night and enjoyed a few cold ones, so skipping a ride was not on the menu this morning. It is so steamy that my sweat was sweating. Oh well, I felt strong. I can't wait for another three months to pass so I can enjoy another cold beer. That's going to be great.

I stopped in at Zone 5 Bikes, Brews, and Coffee on the way home and I just have to love what is going on down there. Homeboy has a grand vision and it is all coming together. All of the cycling tribes in the Seven Hills nation come together for Rendezvous and trading on Fridays. There is always a new Ellsworth on the stand, and one of these days that will be my new Ellsworth. I am consciously willing it into existence. I could use your help too- so on the count of three I want you all to help me manifest this vision.

OK, 1.....2......3 Manifest!

Outstanding, thank you all. If you have a vision you would like help manifesting, please submit your requests below and let the collective consciousness of the bigringcircus work for you.

Juancho

Justice

2011-06-23T09:36:00.000-04:00

Osama Bin Laden, Ratko Mladic, Jose de Jesus Mendez Vargas, and Whitey Bulger.

Something is going on out there in the back alleys of the world where good and evil duke it out. Bad guys are falling left and right. We can debate lots of things, like whether or not Al Gore is an international sex symbol, but we can't debate that the four individuals named above are bad news bears all the way. All of them supposedly untouchable and beyond the reach of law, and yet one, two, three, four one dead and three arrested. I'm taking it as a sign towards brighter days for all of us. Unless you are evil too, then you better lay low for a while. This is not your time.

If Justice is suddenly in vogue then where is mine?

If there is a surplus of justice going around then I would like to finally get the opportunity to dunk a basketball on a 10' rim. If the world is righting itself towards fairness, and bending the arc of the universe a little more towards justice, then when can I get a vacation? Where is my serendipitous good thing?
An Ellsworth Truth maybe? A fleeting smile from a pretty girl?

Come on Universe, hook a brother up. I try my best every day.

-Juancho

Team Type 1

2011-06-21T17:39:00.001-04:00

Team Type 1 is the feel good hit of the summer. I haven't mentioned them, but they have been on my mind as they advance their cause in the press and in bike racing around the world. I have followed the story of Phil Southerland and his steady takeover of the cycling world ever since Big Worm told me who he was. I would love for Big Worm to give us his perspective on mentoring this local Tallahassee guy in his early years, and supporting him through the Race Across America. Like the rest of us, Phil looks up to Big Worm, and not just because he's tall. Phil doesn't race anymore that I know of, but he is directing a team and an international effort to mobilize diabetics to compete and manage their disease through exercise. You don't have to be a diabetic to get the idea.

In my recent adventures in wellness I have learned a lot about blood sugar and how it affects both the mind and body. While I am not a diabetic, I was doing a good job of impersonating one until last September. Remember all that worshiping of candy corn? Raw almonds are the new candy corn.

Every time I see a TT1 jersey in a race or on a podium it inspires me to take better care of this daily gift I carry around each day.

I'm saying it now, and I hope you are reading Mr. Tour de France chief, Team Type 1 needs to be on the road to Paris in 2012 or the BRC is boycotting the race.

With good control, anything is possible.

Juancho

Acolyte

2011-06-21T00:25:00.001-04:00

Bike Church showed up at Munson Monday tonight, a few of the Disciples anyway. I rode with those guys and we ran the trail backwards and inside out of course, because nothing is ever easy about the Bike Church gang. One of them rode without a seat, I kid you not. Another one rode without water. He said we weren't going to be out long enough to need it. We rode almost 2 hours and it was 94 degrees at 7:00 P:M. When we said goodnight he was headed deeper into the forest by himself. That's just how those boys do it. Everybody has to find their own way right?

Right. Dig it.

Me? I just flowed the whole time in that be like water way that happens when you get your mind out of the way and let the pedals do the thinking. I ain't saying this was bike church, it was just a Monday night prayer supper, but that's how you learn to ride on Sunday mornings when you have to reach deep inside and send some knee mail to get the ride done.

Are you smelling what I'm stepping in here?

Juancho

The Indianhead Acres Gentlemans's Club

2011-06-18T19:05:00.002-04:00

Raise your hand if you remember Sasquatch, from the early days of this site? I rode with him today for the inaugural Brunch Fandango, a genteel affair involving no dropping, no single track, and no displays of competitive spirit. It was to be a truly regal promenade above the banks of el Lago de Lafayette.

We lost each other immediately upon crossing the first major road, no more than 3 minutes from my house, our point of departure. The fault lies with me, as I proceeded directly to the trail which I had made an effort to communicate as our intended destination. Sasquatch, observing the rules of the Indianhead Acres Gentlemans's Club, bypassed the trail due to it's singular nature and he rolled to the bottom of the hill on the pavement, or as he calls it, the bigger single track. Away he went from there, fuming that I should disrespect the Fandango with my show of aggression! Meanwhile, patiently did I wait at the end of the trail- the same trail I had identified as our intended destination. Wait I did, like a dog left behind at the rest stop. He never came back for me.

Now set your watches for one hour and you will experience the amount of time it took for us to re-connect.

There. It was quite a long time was it not, to be wandering and waiting with no hope of locating your fellow caballero, no? Si, de acuredo, hace much tiempo sin duda. We did persist and reconvene for a tour of the Lafayette Heritage nature trail, where at least one senorita informed Mr. S'quatch that I was "beating him" as we climbed to the peak of the grand colina. Foolish girl, the Indianhead Acres Gentlemans's Club does no beating, the rider in front is simply scouting, for the convenience of his fellow gentlemen.

Juancho

Shmoos

2011-06-16T23:18:00.000-04:00

Before Big Jim settled down and destroyed me and everything I stand for on a bike, he lamented the many times he is mistaken for a particular friend of ours. As it turns out I have on occasion been told I bear a family resemblance to this fellow and his brother. The reason this happens is simple. Racism.

When people look at us all they see is our pale color, our bald heads, and our swarthy Scottish frames. They never look further to see the individual inside that counts. We all deserve to let our little lights shine.

But seriously, I could not have set myself up any better for a head to head ride with Big Jim. I ate quinoa and slept 8 hours. I got deep into my practice (as we say) at yoga last night. Perfect tires. Perfect pressure. Clean gloves. Perfect.

It turns out Big Jim likes to ride his bike quite a bit. All I'm going to say is that I never offered to set the pace and he never really asked. I realized this early in the ride and saved myself some pain and anguish by not responding to his little surges along the way. Just hard blue collar pedaling from a couple of Shmoos.

Juancho

Regeneration

2011-06-16T11:12:00.000-04:00

My neighborhood is filled with smoke this morning. Is it so hot that trees are spontaneously combusting? I saw a cat stuck to the road, his little paws sunk into the melted asphalt, that's how hot it is. He was walking like he had gum on the bottom of his little cat shoes.

I had the tiniest quiver of excitement at the thought that my house would burn up and I would collect the insurance and once again travel free across the surface of the planet. In truth I know I would just rent an apartment on the other side of town and do what I always do these days. Freedom, it is a hell of a concept, but it sure is exhausting when you actually have it in your hands.

I made a salad last night of quinoa, brown rice, baby collards, walnuts, olives, cukes, and whatnot, tossed in a lemony garlic dressing. That is the caloric equivalent of loading a fresh belt in the 50 caliber, so smoke or not I must ride. I could save it for the weekend, but I don't know if it works that way?

Good grief, this has become such a blog I need to set it on fire.

Juancho

2011-06-15T09:38:00.001-04:00

Life seems to happen in little chapters, but it is hard to say who is writing the text sometimes. A few months ago I picked up my guitar and practiced every day for about three weeks. I learned (was learning?) some songs and moving past the threshold I was stuck at for 29 years and then something happened and that little chapter was closed. Maybe 3 weeks is a paragraph and not a chapter. Sometimes it feels like I'm writing my story in the first person and dictating the action,and other times life is clearly being acted upon me in the dispassionate 3rd person. I have been on a run of good paragraphs for the most part this summer, and so I am ready to push the action towards the denouement and see how things turn out for the protagonist, but I just have to live it out a page at a time like everybody else.

I hope Stephen King isn't writing this story.

Juancho

Chicken Hawks

2011-06-14T08:59:00.001-04:00

The ride rolled away from us while we were unloading our bikes from the van and that didn't sit well with none of us. That meant working our way through the pack starting with the slowest and greenest, then working our way past the nature enthusiasts, closing in on the daily drinkers, the muffin-toppers, the slow B groupers, and hopefully finding the wheel of some quick B+'ers if not an A rider worn out from the weekend. I felt pity for none of them. I have been eaten alive, regurgitated, and re-animated on the trails of Tallahassee. Been there and did all that. It was treacherous. We passed on the left, we passed on the right, we passed through the bushes and around the trees. Sometime around the old trailhead we broke free from the pack and had clear open trail ahead except for one flash of jersey off in the distance, which we felt compelled to run down. Some chickens are stronger than others and this pullet was trucking. I turned myself inside out to reach him on the final climb back to the bench and I had him too. I thrust forward my talons and prepared to scoop him up and then, WHAM! I hooked a vine that yanked me straight into a tree in slow-motion cartoon fashion. Dashed!

Back at the bench, the gentleman we were chasing remarked on how startled he was to hear me crashing behind him as he was unaware anyone was back there.

You don't hear no chicken hawks until it's too late.

Juancho

Another Day

2011-06-13T09:09:00.000-04:00

This is MR3, formally of the Robot Army, but now he has a real soul like other little boys. It is good to be back in town with no departure dates looming. All I want is a chance to get into a groove right here on the Heech'. We rode the sun down on Saturday, then I rode it back up on Sunday morning with a blistering tour of the eastside trails with Mystery. I have been riding with a lot of groups lately, and it was nice to get back to a mano a mano ride format.

Now maybe some inspiration will visit these pages again.

Juancho

Apocalyptic Phenomena

2011-06-08T16:57:00.000-04:00

Greetings from New Haven, Missouri!

We are enjoying the 13 year Cicada bloom, a rare honor I am encouraged to appreciate by our hosts. The humming rises and falls all day long and into the night. When the cicadas come out to mate they are not bashful about it. I viewed them as a nuisance until I learned that this is a bona fide episodic event in nature. Like Haley's Comet or a 100 year flood, you can't just go find a swarm of cicadas any time you wish. These events give us meaning and a way to mark the passage of time. (We met three years before the Cicada bloom of 92 and so forth.)

What other natural events meet this criteria and how are they interpreted now and how were they viewed in the past?

Please tell us.

Juancho

What is Flow?

2011-06-06T17:25:00.001-04:00

Sometimes accomplishing great things requires little effort and other times accomplishing nothing at all takes everything you have got. I am caught between two cliches here: go with the flow, and against the grain. I could be talking bikes here, or I could not be, but let's pretend that I am talking about the bikes.

Riding when it is 100 degrees outside seems like more of an against the grain kind of decision don't you think? What can I hope to gain from it? I am going to do it tonight no matter what so don't get all caught up in Yaying or naying that decision. What I am getting it is more fundamental. What does it mean to flow? Does it mean go along to get along? Because that doesn't sound appealing. When you are flowing are you pushing the pace or holding a certain rhythm? If finding a flow is the ultimate, and it is easy to argue that it is, then why all of the romantic appeal of going against the grain? Is it more noble to do things the hard way, or do we justify that when we do it because it is how we spend our time? Can you flow against the grain too?

One thing that will for sure be flowing tonight is sweat.

Juancho

2011-06-04T13:37:00.000-04:00

Today is a good day to be a sucker, because so far they are all out riding the trails unchallenged by me. I woke up at 6:00 A:M, with the little voice that keeps me out of trouble saying,The Dogboy is out there. I am not afraid of him, but I dragged my sleeping bag under the bed and went back to sleep for another hour just in case he showed up all Thor at the door as the kids used to say. I remained uneasy and gave up on sleep. I needed a justification and I wasn't feeling picky so I put on some shoes and launched a surge attack on the damn weeds that keep growing in my damn bushes. That's what I get for trying to play house, plants that nobody else is responsible for tending. My shackles weigh heavy on my soul.

Now, it is 117 degrees and the trails are for certain sucker fee so there is no point in dropping some bait if the bite ain't on.

Juancho

Heal (heel)

2011-06-02T23:03:00.000-04:00

I am watching the Scripps National Spelling Bee and wishing I could go back to 5th grade and face my nemesis one more time. I was a contender, but I could have been a champion. I don't own a lot of things, or things that matter anyway, but one of my more treasured possessions is a 1935 Oxford English Dictionary that I received as a gift for working in the catacombs of Powell's Bookstore in Portland, OR creating first generation barcodes for their massive inventory. I have lugged that thing around the country, loaned it to a kid who lived in a crisis shelter, and used it as a coffee table. Words are magic, and meant to be shared.

Which brings me to the miraculous healing of my aching Achille's heel. I think recording my thoughts and feelings about the Great Crash that Overcame all Fear released all of the pressure stored in my sore hoof. After a week of little change in its status, I awoke this morning and walked to the kitchen without incident, cooked my oatmeal, and went about my day.

Without getting too metaphysical here, I'm just going to say that pain is complicated and has as much to do with our thoughts as it does with our bodies sometimes.

I don't care if it is 132 degrees. There will be some bike riding going on this Saturday. That's bad news for the suckers.

Juancho