The Round-Up

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

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

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

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

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

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

"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

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

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)

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