Play-Mor

 A little camper on the road to heaven, that's what we got.  Just a little spot to rest our heads where the world can't find us and wi-fi signal stands for why fight it?

We will accessorize it with our new little dog, Summer (Chanel.) In her little t-shirt that reads, "I'd rather be barking" she will ride on the dashboard and sniff out the way.  

A guy can't spend the next four decades like he did the last two, rolled up in a tarp drunk by the fire.  That's no way to earn the title "Elder Statesman." 

This summer I have thrown out the old Juancho playbook. Someone else will have to tote the turpentine and barbed wire.  I'm retired from that game.

Juancho

Elevated

The hard part of the ride is walking out the door. Picture me tired, with the corners of my mouth still crusty sweet from Johnny Ray's lemon pie, experiencing total radio silence from the robot army- but the weather!

The weather is perfectly cool, the air is what I describe as "soft."

The moment before I click into my pedals the world looks bleak.

Although I recently acquired part ownership in a multi-billion dollar insurance company and a number of investment banks I can find no joy in surpassing the expectations of my 10th grade World History teacher who wrote in my Senior yearbook

"Has potential if he chooses to apply himself."

So, aside from my ascendance as a Captain of Industry--

I have a working front brake, a new saddle best described as a comfortable suppository, and an entirely empty Saturday to paint a masterpiece of a day.
I feel listless and underwhelmed with this life.

I roll out of the driveway being careful to not ride over my bottom lip.

Turning onto 10th Avenue I check the gauge on my legs and realize the tank is full. The tank is full and there are extra jerry cans of turpentine lashed to King and Kong. I am prepared to lay siege to the trails.

Fern, Cadillac, Heritage, Pedrick Greenway, Tom Brown Park, and it is not even noon yet. Crushing up through the old Albertson's trail, which is cleaner than you would think, I pull into Mystery's place demanding everything a Viking needs for sustained battle. Careful to never look me in the eye, he and his dear wife provide me a BLT and a vat of hummus. Mystery maintains a steady patter of excuses for not riding, as if I could not see his smiling bride for myself!

I leave them to the rest of their lives and pound to the St. Marks Trailhead in time to run down S'quatch and his new riding gang. Local writer, Bucky McMahon, is training for a 125 mile ride in Tuscany next week as an assignment for a prominent national magazine that would be considered the opposite of a magazine about being indoors.

This crew bobbed along the trail like a drunken float trip, content to let the slightest momentum push them along towards the coast, a cold beer, and a night at the Sweet Magnolia Bed & Breakfast.

We give Bucky the cheered back-slapping and encouragement you give a man who has already made a terrible decision with no option for retreat. The recently enlisted soldier, the girl on the mechanical bull, the volunteer from the studio audience.

At the front of this pack rides Sasquatch, a dominant rider among his peers who coast along on shed-kept mountain bikes from the early nineties. They are all having fun, and they would most likely be startled to hear this outing described as exercise.

I feel like just another clown in the parade, but a clown with a 60 mile day.

San Whatsco? When is that again?

-Juancho

Last Man Out...

...please turn out the lights.

I could not get on the trail fast enough after one of the strangest work days I have had. Unfortunately, due to the confidential nature of my work I can't share the details of the episode. It probably wouldn't seem like a big deal to you anyway. It might sound like this:


You won't believe this, but after re-setting the flux capacitor in the number seven workbay I found the gol'darned ring cone from number eight work bay sitting right next to the turpentine tap! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha haha!

As I was saying, I was pretty excited to put on the man-o-tard and crank 'Pac to eleven.

I forgot water so I filled a water bottle with seven and a half ounces of flat Diet Pepsi and a couple swigs of hot Gatorade then up and over the mountain I went. The only way I know to ride Oak Mountain is straight up the fire road and straight down the Blood Rock section. I knew the park was closing at 7:00 and I thought I had plenty of time to get up and down.

I didn't realize the trail puts you down on the other side of the mountain, rather than the side with my rented Champagne Lincoln Town and Country mini-van.

Here's a tip for you. For summertime downhills, put up with the heat and zip your jersey. Getting stung is bad enough when it doesn't begin with a high-speed impact that drives the stingers straight to your rib bone. Happens to me all the time, you think I'd learn. Whatever, to be honest, I kind of like it.

So, when I finally hit Peavine road I was about nine rolling miles from the T&C and it was 7:33 P:M.

A GIGANTIC deer came snarling out of the trees at one time and sideswiped me at 29 mph more or less. Close call.

I followed a truck slowly out of the park. The driver waved me through right before he got out and locked the gate.

And Mystery wasn't even involved.

-Juancho

The Forgotten Coast

It's tourists inside and locals outside on a Friday night at the Indian Pass Raw Bar. Grinning people with sunburns and dogs smoke cigarettes and visit around a cast iron smoker on the patio, while out-of-towners from Orlando to Atlanta line up elbow to elbow at tables inside to partake of the authenticity. It's beer and oysters on the honor system at the Raw Bar and I don't know how anyone keeps track. The crowd is well over 50, scrubbed clean, men casual in their Columbia shirts and Sperry topsiders, the women in gauzy shawls, rough cotton capris, and linen. We aren't local and we aren't rich so I feel like we should remain in the doorway, but we take two chairs at a table with a couple, bankers from Atlanta they say, who own a little place on the gulf front along Cape San Blas rd. It's tiny, Linda says, just 900 square feet. That's all they want to keep up with, and I understand as that is the size of our house. They are retired now, after years working for the Savings and Loan Associations. They are nice, engaging in conversation about their 43 years of marriage, the years in the finance sector spent overseas in Asia, and how Gary can eat oysters until they quit bringing them. I wonder if they bought their little place on the water before or after the Savings and Loan scandal in the late 80's -early 90's, the debacle that provided the blueprint for the 2008 sub-prime mortgage dividend bonanza.

This forgotten coast was once all paper mill land. Paper became unprofitable at the tail end of the 20th century, and St. Joe, the company that owns these, and 500 million other acres of Florida land retooled itself to develop the land. They moved U.S. Highway 98 inland and built utopian communities with playful names like SummerCamp and Watercolor.

The Raw Bar is an old company store from a Turpentine company a hundred years back. It remains as an icon to the true panhandle coast culture, so all can drop in and anoint themselves with Crystal hot sauce. Pour yourself a beer, slurp oysters off the half-shell, trade stories about catching Red fish and where were you when Kate came through and flooded out the bay?


I don't think this coast is forgotten, people just don't really remember much about it.

Juancho

Mate in Four

So we are down to the endgame. 4 days to go.

I am belching nails and snorting turpentine.

After this damn ride is over with I will need a new raison de etre. "I'm preparing for San Felasco" has been my convenient answer since April.

"Juancho, we need to you to finish up those 10-47 reports by Monday."

"No can do boss I'm preparing for San Felasco."

"Juancho, why don't you love me?"

"I'm sorry baby, I'm preparing for San Felasco, I got no time for love."

"Juancho, why don't I love you? Oh right, you are preparing for San Felasco."

"Can you do more for the Obama Campaign?" "San Felasco."

"Earthquakes in China?" "San Felasco."

"Spit on me if I'm on fire?" "San Felasco."

After this thing is over, I am setting my sights on some new goals like;

-playing punk rock guitar
-opening an art gallery (naming contest coming soon)
-re-learning Algebra
-get involved with the local caving grotto
-metaphysical studies
-dialing in my 3-pointer
-loafing at Joe's
-new creative direction for the BRC

This is a lot of work for a t-shirt.

-Juancho

The BRC has moved--

All the turpentine you can drink, and all the barbed wire you can eat available now @

www.bigringcircus.com

Partisan

This blog is biased towards-

Unkempt trails
Rides with unscheduled appreciation breaks
logs
dinner with 4 people or less
contemporary, experimental fiction
Rap music
brown rice
GMC Safaris
Apricot Poodie-cocks
Cats without tails
tiny trailers
black coffee
Scofflaws (What up Rev!)
good conversation
managed risk
specialists
barbed wire
turpentine
the other side of the coin
Freaks
Queers
Has-beens
Never-rans
tin-can knights
weekday warriors
the wide open day before me
-and Barack Obama.

I can't agree to disagree. Get it right America.

Juancho

Special-versary

One year ago today, the Angry Monk retired. No more barbed wire for breakfast and turpentine for lunch. Hate is a powerful motivator, and I thank Hate for all it did for me, but Love is better. Now I am one happy kitty. Meow!

Juancho

Eat, Drink, Smash

It is Tuesday, or as I like to call it when I am not travelling, fourth Saturday.

My legs have that pressed in the vise feeling, and despite 8 hours of sleep I feel a little sluggish. I am thinking that means I am dehydrated, like a piece of jerky. My hat is off to Mystery the Untame-able Stallion for pushing the limits yesterday. I want more of that; handfuls of barbed wire and gallons of turpentine.

I might be a little dehydrated, or I might be one of those bike bloggers who writes about riding and training and what color their bowel movement was or wasn't (green and yellow like everybody else's thank you for asking.)

So whatever, yeah- I ride. What of it? You want to go right now? I do.

Sasquatch is taking his pie-hole north to the mountains tomorrow and HiTops gets the 6th man award for offering to loan out his Jamis Dakar for S'quatch to ride at Tsali since the Fisher is sheared in two and not yet replaced. Obviously HiTops truly hates his mountain bike, and wishes it ill.

I suspected it all along.

Juancho

Wobbly

Am I out of my groove because my inner ear is infected, or is my inner ear infected because I am out of my groove?  Either way, this record has been skipping in all the wrong spots. 

Time to make it right.  I got the antibiotics, but the rest of the prescription reads something like:

• Acquire perfect summer theme song
• Swim against the current
• Consult the Angry Monk
• 2 tblsp Turpentine
• 1 bushel of barbed wire
• 100 miles per week

I now welcome any and all non-binding, should-free advice from you- my crowd-sourced board of directors.

Thanks!

Juancho

Southern Ridespitality

The confounded frustrating thing about The South is that the above sentiment reflects both a sterotype and a reality of living here. After watching Easy Rider this afternoon the ugly countenance of the Deep South is sticking in my craw, especially after the fine reception I received in Meridian.

You see, I rode with some locals, and they were damn fine. Damn fine gentlemen. Not slow, but fine all the same.

There is nothing like seeing the trails from the local perspective. The route, the line, the break spots, it is all a mystery to the tourist. The same ruthless singletrack I rode last Tuesday revealed miles of gravel trail beyond it on Thursday. It was less technical yes, but literally gut-crushing climbs followed by tumbling downhills that could only compare to snowboarding through trees on an epic powder day. The gravel makes things easy. Don't touch the brakes much, pick the straightest line, pedal when you need traction and hang on like a tick on a hound. 36 mph was the number tossed out at the end of the ride. Simply amazing.

Not much time for talking, but firm handshakes, courteous warnings, and and some polite questions about the Florida ride scene. I told them we all eat barbed wire and drink turpentine down here.

Some might say the similarity of our interests and taste for gravy might have something to do with my fine reception.

That's just an insult to some genuine good folk.

Juancho

Sap

Nothing leaks sap like a longleaf pine-
and nothing tastes better than fresh, hot turpentine.

Munson was soft and plush this morning. The BRC endorses an international C.O.R.E. meeting today.

Cut Out Real Early.

-Juancho

Breaking Summer Down

If there is one lesson I have learned from the era of social media it is that you must get out in front of scandal in order to control the spin.

This is my Apricot Poodle.

Her name is Summer (Chanel) and she will flat out bark you into a shattered, whimpering hull of yourself. She doesn't bark all of the time, only when it is necessary.

When you open the door she barks: THEDOORISOPENTHEDOORISOPENTHEDOORISOPEN!

When you see people walking on the street with a quarter mile, she lets them know: YOUAREWALKINGWITHINAQUARTERMILEOFME!

Sometimes she barks:ITISTHEMIDDLEOFTHENIGHTANDITISTOOQUIETINHEREWENEEDMOREBARKINGANDIDONTLIKETHATCAT!

Other than that she is a good dog.

As someone with a poet's heart, I tend to experience life as a series of metaphors and symbolic events. The elevated trauma of an event renders it greater significance and therefore the associated symbols loom large. Hoss Cartwright, Turpentine, Barbed Wire, and THE CRASH OF GREAT CLARITY are touchstones on the epic journey of our protagonist, Juancho, a slightly fictionalized version of myself, Juancho.

Summer (Chanel) is no different. I now realize her name is no accident. Given to her by my beloved, a woman who suffers little nonsense and reveres straight-talk, this name is a direct challenge. In order to conquer summer, with its death-threatening humidity, mosquito-infestation, dysentery-covered gloves, sloppy smilax covered trails, and chafing chamois- I must conquer Summer- the Apricot Poodle with the big voice.

We have tried good cop/bad cop (I'm bad cop) and that does not work. We have tried positive reinforcement, force-feeding, isolation, inclusion, toy-motivating, food-motivating, and completely freaking out on her little, barking crazy ass.

Nothing seems to work.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the metaphor, I am out there riding with Taco, barely treading water. Slinging my extra 10 lbs over my shoulder (or wherever it settles) and suffocating my way around the woods. Every ride is a grim undertaking, barely survived. My new bike, paid for 6 weeks ago, languishes as a financial transaction, coded in pixels.

I am in need of some elegant solutions.

Summer (summer) must be broken.

Juancho

The turpentine and barbed wire buffet was open all weekend as Juancho rode and rode. When he wasn't riding he was busy writing in the third person and contemplating the use of onomotopeia- like when he whooshed through the trees making motorcycle sounds like baaaaawwwww! and waaaaaaaaa!

It just goes to show that if you leave a critter to its own notions it will always do the thing that the critter was intentionally meant to do. Only when you send critters off to school do they get ideas about putting on pants and saying things like, " I think if we can concentrate our human assets around this issue we can better focus on the implications of a long-term policy migration towards myopia" and stuff like that.

Juancho showed Squatch some singletrack other than Munson Hills. I don't think he ever saw Tom Brown Park before. He saw it up close and personal-like on Saturday. Yesterday he (Juancho) was up before dawn like an invading army waiting for the call. Juancho received a "text message" the night before about a ride leaving from Joe's at 9:00 A:M, but since Juancho is not a Hannah Montana watching tweenie, he was unable to respond to people who type with their phones. If he had his way he would be calling this report in on a rotary phone the size of your grandma's credenza.

All the same, Bigworm and gang were spotted on the west loop of Lake Overstreet, but they must have taken a wrong turn or gotten away or something because Juancho never saw them again.

-Juancho

Packing the War Bag

San Felasco War Bag Checklist

• Enduring sense of irony
• Withering sarcasm
• Loathing for those more prepared
• Mock pity for those less-prepared
• Extra Excuses
• Extra 15 lbs.
• Feelings of wretchedness
• Resignation to my fate
• Fake smile
• "Special" fake smile for certain Tallahassee factions
• Hope that I will see others suffer misfortune
• Sense of humor
• Collection of special "San Fiasco" nicknames
• Helmet with can of Guiness dangling off the front
• Regret for lack of training rides over the holidays (x 2)
• Off-hand derogatory comments for Full Suspension bikes and riders
• Internal Soundtrack (probably going with Outkast/NOFX)
• Beer to cry in (for later)
• Versatile fantasy life to escape to for a while
• Random items meant to enhance performance (but won't)
• Dread for the middle thirty miles (the rest will be easy)
• Apologies for losing it at some point
• Plenty of blame to go around
• Bale of barbed wire
• Jug of turpentine

Wow. I had no idea organized riding was so gear intensive. What am I forgetting?

William Juancho Wallace

The Cutting Edge

I knew it was going to be a fast ride when I hit the turn off of Waverly and banked into the park at Mach speed, narrowly threading the gap between the wooden fence and the speed limit sign. I had a smug laugh with myself about dropping everyone, and then I realized they were right on my wheel, grimly clamped like a row of snapping turtles.

The sun was warm, but the breeze was cool, and like everyone's favorite rock star boyfriend says, " It felt like I had no chain". We rode north into what S'quatch described as fox country, and it is true. Rolling green fields with huge and gothic live Oaks scattered across acre after acre.

We jumped in the lake and had what is sure to be one of the last swims of the summer. We played sprint/ attack all the way back to 10th Ave. Headquarters. Absolutely fucking awesome ride.

Riverboat recently asked the question, "Why don't you make your blog about something more than biking" and I am struggling for the right way to put this..."It's Not About the Bike".

Come on, that was a joke. Of course it's about the bike. Lance doesn't know what he's talking about. I guess when I started this thing, which happened late one night after a bottle of Ravenswood Zin, I was reliving the glory and hilarity of the 12 hours of Razorback. The Big Ring Bakery came to mind (Our black market Boston-cream filled cupcake operation) and I thought, "What a Circus". Boom. Done. A blog is born.

For me, mountain biking is something that I can think and write about every day, so it works. There are already too many sites out there about Sex, Drugs, and Rock-n-Roll so really, what was left? Besides, I'm open to any tangent off the trail, just ask S'quatch. I'll take this thing anywhere you want to go. Except Politics. If you take it to politics, then pray you agree with me, that's all I'm saying. I really lose it sometimes and I'm likely to say something nasty. I don't want that, it stresses me out. Nobody ever changes their mind anyway, especially me. Bitch.

See? Nobody said anything and I'm already pissed so no politics.

Pre-approved tangents:

Poker Night
D&D (I'll handle the mockery, you handle the dice)
married vs. single debate (always enlightening-seriously)
Guinness
Love
Magic
Space (physical, not Outer)
Freedom
Huckleberry Finn
Mexican Professional Wrestling
Motivation
Conviction
anything qualifying as "Epic"
Old friends
New friends
Life vs. Death (Where do you stand?)
Place
Purpose
Principles
Words that start with P
Turpentine
Barbed Wire
Gangster, or other, rap
Florida and southern tradition
Food-hell yeah, let's talk about food


Things you should probably look elsewhere for, (surefire blog-killers)

College football in more than a passing reference (We kicked Citadel's ass)
goofy, zany, or madcap internet photographs.
biking as a "recreation or sport" rather than a reason to live.
Baseball- nothing sucks like baseball sucks
Politics & Religion
Dumb or Dirty jokes- I prefer my profanity to be relevant and potent.

OK? Simple enough right? We're the "Big Tent Party", plenty of room for everyone under the Big Top.

Now that we have that settled- who's riding today?

"I" says this guy.

El J

Easy like Sunday Morning

7:30 A:M

It's on. As my bro would say, "It's on like King Kong, smokin' on a water bong, talking on a cell phone, playin Donkey Kong". The air is slightly cool, since it is basically the middle of the night as far as I'm concerned. S'quatch and I are hooking up with the crew on the Fern trail, then hitting Tom Brown Park, Cadillac, Pedrick Greenway, and hopefully Miccosukee, then back home. It is shaping up to be my first 30+ (offroad + connector miles) since May. The plan is to go until everyone else cries uncle and falls away, leaving the two lumbering Clydesdales clip-clopping alone under the noonday sun.

The morning devotional? Bad Religion, Public Enemy, Cherry Poppin' Daddies, Dropkick Murphy's.

The fuel? Black beans and brown rice.

Pass the turpentine baby, Daddy's thirsty.

Longbow

Boiling Point

A subtle clarity dappled my mind as I drove home from the Dentist yesterday. I felt, different? Better maybe? It's hard to explain. Aside from the carnage, the novocaine, the brutality of the job, I felt normal. It felt, exactly, like a fever breaking.

And there is your answer.

For the last three weeks I've complained about the heat, which is no worse than any other summer. I've kept the house at an arctic temperature and still kick the covers on the floor every night. I've physically assaulted poor Sasquatch. I've overheated so much on rides that I was on the edge of a panic attack. Grumpy, sleepy, irritable, uncreative, uninspired, accusatory, and short-tempered. I have been the seven dwarves of hell.

I believe I had a fever for the last three weeks. It would certainly explain a lot. No slump. No lack of cosmic motivation. Just ill and unaware.

As soon as my mouth heals I'm going to pour myself a big old mug of turpentine, and fry me up a big mess of barbed wire, smother it in blackstrap molassess and come out there and WHOOP SOME ASS!

From the launchpad-Juancho

Quivering in their Shammies-

bigtop

Here's a picture of Me and S'quatch cold kicking it under the big top, just another day at the office for us. I don't want to distract you from the saga occurring in the comments section below, so that will be today's main course ( I know, leftovers!) but I will tell you quickly about last night's ride. My bro and another old buddy, Taco, joined us for a loop to Munson and back. We had a hard time getting started with forgotten shoes, minor mechanicals, and a general lack of coordination, which pretty much sets me off. I was impatient with S'quatch, he was impatient with me, his wife, Squawtch seemed pretty sick of the whole scene, it was great. Piss and vinegar, turpentine and barbed wire, that's what good rides are made of. Although it was just supposed to be an introductory ride for little brother and a re-introductory ride for Taco, S'quatch had to try and take me down. Not happenin' friends. After the drumming I took in Gainesville, it was nice to be the fast one for a change. I think I'll try and round up some seriously unfit people to ride with to further bolster my flagging self-esteem. So send me your crippled, your maimed, your fat and your lazy, I got a place for them all under the big top. Now back to our story...

Droppin' Bombs

I thought I would ride right to the drop and send it over without hesitation, yet once again I found myself locking brakes as I approached the edge. This drop is so fresh there isn't a definitive line, and a humpback protrusion half-way down seems to guarantee separation from the Earth in a vertical position. "It's all in the mind" I tell myself, S'quatch, and Powder. So we stand there, at the brink, shaking our heads. It had been such a nice ride up 'til now. I felt fast, my aching left knee delivering sweet memories of my crash at Munson yesterday. I felt well, kind of hard core. Sleep deprived, hungry, with a belly full of turpentine, I thought today was the day.

Well, it wasn't.

I tell myself "you've done worse", "sit back, feather the rear brake and hold on", "the fall wouldn't be that bad". The problem is- the fall could possibly be that bad. Who am I kidding, it has been a long time since I dropped a big flight of stairs, and a couple of hits at Razorback left me speechless and puckered. Can my conviction to ride withstand a sustained recovery from injury? Do you people realize the extent of self-medication I would indulge in? I can see the cable man coming back up the street already, to plug me back into the fat suit.

Or is that just one of the more insidious voices of weakness?

Do I really want nothing but happy rides that end in Picklesimer fields before the sun goes down, or do I also need to spend a night on the cold, hard ground, shivering beneath the monolith of Cedar Rock, burning inner tubes and green rhododendron branches sipping on a few teaspoons of Red Bull tainted water?

I just don't know. I hope it doesn't take all summer to find out.