Pacified

I noticed something on a ride this weekend that got me going on the whole “cycling steals my life” thing I sometimes get into. It was a beautiful afternoon ride with a close friend. It had been a week since I’d been on the bike so I had fresh legs and a whole craw full of troubles. Warming up and catching up on each other’s news, we were riding along trading rants, passing the righteous indignation back and forth like a fur-ball hacky-sack. It felt good to judge the wicked.

Then we shot through Woodville and out Natural Bridge Road, and the black asphalt was so smoothy smooth and black-tar new that we fell in line, hit the drops, and started pedaling to make mama proud. And of course my mama was gonna be prouder than his mama if I had anything to say about it. You know how it goes.

Several zentastic miles later, shortly after we shot past the actual Natural Bridge Spring Group and out into the pine forest beyond, we came out of the trance and started riding side-by-side again, at which point I thought we’d turn back to our tasty dish of hate. The only problem was, I swear to God I couldn’t remember a single thing we were bitching about.

Seriously, I went to the word bank and all that was available that a human might understand was how Piney everything smelled and a random thought that I think had to do with chocolate, or at least really rich dirt. I was Pacified, with loads of sweet miles ahead.

Back home later, after 50 miles or so and an extremely proud mama, I still couldn’t remember the problem. Any problem.

That stack of papers I HAD to grade this weekend: whatever. The pile of paint cans blocking the garage door: they’re suddenly all part of the plan. My wife’s increasingly alarmed reports concerning our “flea problem”? I propose the one who cares the most take care of it, and keep me posted.

You see where I’m going? Pacified.

Then there’s the Sasquatch young-uns. A good daddy gathers the child-beasts and heads out to the swimming hole with what’s left of a nice afternoon. "Who wants to go to Wakulla Springs?", I ask ¾ heartedly. Hey, I’m willing, but one kid’s battling the Final Boss and the other just started a school project, and I haven’t given them any notice because how was I supposed to know how long I’d ride? It’s a beautiful day out there!

"Besides, come on, ya'll. Do we really have to go anywhere when it feels so good just laying around in this lovely time and space in our own rosy skin? Can’t you hear that sweet, low, hum of life and feel that warmth spilling from your spent heart? Who wants a smoothie?"

It’s a problem that, at least for me, “needless worry” anxiety and “get things done” anxiety and “personal values” anxiety all fall to the same elixir of cycling bliss. “No worries” covers a lot of ground on the back side of a soul ride.

Guest Blog by Sasquatch

Fat Lad Doesn't Care

26 or 29
Who cares how many times your wheels go round on the same hills and loops we pedal? I don't; It's all just riding.

Full Bounce or Fully Rigid
Who cares if you bounce from rock to rock in righteous rolling or glide down the trails sprung forward on the latest tech? I don't; It's all just riding.

Geared or SingleSpeed
Who cares if you mash the cranks with vigour or spin up the ascents climbing to the big end of the cassette? I don't; It's all just riding.

Full Jeycore Race Whippet or Downhill Demon
Who cares if you don lycra to hammer the miles or body armour to hammer the hills? I dont; It's all just riding.

Weekend Warrior or Die Hard Pedaller
Who cares if you get your rides in where you can, fitting the joy in around real life or whether you have to get the miles in, all else be damned? I don't; It's all just riding.

Supermarket Special or Carbon Race Ride
Who cares if your steed was a few hundred dolars from Walmart or the latest,lighest,fastest that money can buy? I don't; It's all just riding.

Sand or Mud
Who cares if we're grinding through loose and dry or grinding through loose and wet? I don't; It's all just riding.

tires or tyres?

Clearly, it's tyres.

Guest Blog by Fat Lad (our brother across the pond)

The Prophet's In(n)

He’s 58 years old and stands 5-6 at best on tiptoes. By his own description he looks like Charles Manson, but he’s more Old Testament prophet eccentric than homicidal hippie crazy. His take on politics and religion will send you scurrying back to the safety of the weather, or asking him to whip up another plate of pancakes and soy sausages as a diversion. Better yet, get him to tell you about his adventures at Paris-Brest-Paris or Boston-Montreal-Boston, or one of his 27(!) assaults on Mount Mitchell.

Here’s to Michael Davis, who runs a corner of road biker heaven called the Bicycle Inn of Bakersville, North Carolina. Show up one afternoon for a three-night stay. He’ll take you on the “Frankie and Charlie” tour of Bakersville, which ends in a screaming descent down the main street of town. Spend the evening on the porch trading war stories with the other guests. After breakfast the next day, let Michael shepherd you around to the Tennessee side of Roan Mountain for a 5-mile climb that starts after he’s already (respectfully) kicked your ass for 45, and mercifully crests with only 8 miles of rollers and downhills back to the Inn. He’ll also snap your picture a mile from the top and make it look like the whole climb was like Sunday afternoon on the St. Mark’s Trail. Day 3 is a tour of the Toe and Cane Rivers, concluding with a fast and scenic run through the farm fields of Jack’s River Road. As Sasquatch learned on our visit in August, Michael will even true your cantankerous rear wheel between rides.

I’d nominate Michael for the Clydesdale Hall of Fame, but substitute blogmaster Sasquatch, at 6-3 and 240 and a snob about the category, says he’s too small. (Come back, Juancho! Sas’ is drunk with power.) So call this a Hitops Profile, like the Dewars ads that used to run in the mags. All that’s missing is Michael’s favorite Scotch: a protein powder shake spiked with ambrotose, which he calls the “best shit in the world.” Oh, and by the way, The Bicycle Inn does NOT take Visa.

Guest Blog by HiTops

Memo to "Progress" : Climb on This.

Sasquatch here, playing Ed McMahon in Juancho's absence. Juancho asked me to organize a few guest spots while he's away. Rumor has it Big Worm has a thing or two to say, and I may have a post in me if I can find the time. Aucilla Sinks always has a shiny two cents, HiTops is steady at the wheel, and Fat Lad could throw a nugget or two at us from across the pond. If these folks, or any of the other fine circus crowd wants to cue up for a post in Juancho's absence, shoot me an e-mail at yosasquatch@gmail.com and we'll have a sit-down. I'm already a little drunk with power.

Today's guest blogger is our own Wrecking Ball, who's got a thing or two to say about fighting the good fight. Tuning in to W.B.Z.N.:

Climbs are good. You hate them when they are happening, but the ride back down wouldn’t be as sweet without the pain. Some master force is after our climbs. We will all be weaker for the loss.

Many years ago, a random guy on a bike had informed me, that the Winn Dixie hill on the Fern Trail was going to fall to progress. I had been riding a scant ten months and it took me most of that to master that hill. It took six months for me to ride the 2x6 crossing the creek. I cursed that hill every time I rode it. Still nothing could have prepared me for when John Harvey and I had the last ride before the bulldozers. The next day it was gone.

People have their eye on the Oak Tree climb out at Tom Brown. Sure it’s a good cause and the city needs a disaster command center, but I say it’s all part of the plot to weaken us as a group. No will to climb, no will to fight. They will jerk the leash and we will have no wolf left. The poodles we become will yield to the master.

Today I was riding the Greenway or as we call it “up hill both ways”. That God cursed climb has given me more beat downs than I can count. They were cutting in the new road for the development I have been hearing about for a couple years. Is another climb in danger?

I have been accused of building houses on the grassy knoll, but consider what I am saying. Without the climb we are nothing and the act of bombing down is meaningless.


W.B.Z.N. (sitting in)

Undergoing Routine Maintenance

Thanks for stopping by, the Big Ring Circus will re-open shortly.

-Juancho

Don't Wake the Dragon

Uh-Oh, play time is over.

I bet it has been nice and peaceful in the kingdom while I was away hasn' it? Fig juice running down your arms while you listen to tales of wars gone by sung by some traveling bard? Riding in harmony, one with the other, out and back and out again?

Well forget about all of that. I have found my leathery wings and that means that you will be hearing me bellering, wheezing, crying like a baby with a sore tooth, and cursing like Eddie Murphy somewhere on the trail behind you, or Gods be merciful, in front of you.

That's right. I'm trotting out this tired old schtick one more time, like Meadowlark Lemon dribbling in a circle on his cracking arthritic knees. People will wince in sympathetic embarassment, but they also will whisper
I know...it's sad, but he's a legend!

Now where the hell is that San Felasco application-

Roar-

Juancho

he hath ridden

No bugles, no fans, no drama. Tommy the Torso just came over, loaded my lethargic ass up and took me to the Northern Woods. A couple of times I felt like I knew what I was doing.

We may have found a pulse.

-Juancho

Potential Energy

So you see, that is why it is incredibly difficult for me to ride right now.


Solve for X

juancho

Good Morning Juancho!

Have you ever dreamed you were sleeping while you were sleeping? If so, why can't you remember the dreams you had while you were sleeping in the dream? Your dream's dreams per se?

I'm on the fence this morning. I still haven't ridden my bike so writing about that is out. Hmmmm, on the table we got the following.

Reasons to ride or not ride the San Felasco 50.

Why Dungeons and Dragons is a great metaphor for real life.

The conspicuous absence of magic.

What I should have for breakfast.

The utter predictability of comfortable people and their justifications for remaining so.

What to call my new garage band I'm fit'in to start up.

Hear that snapping sound? That's the streak breaking.

Hope you are well,

Juancho

I could not bring myself to leave the house all weekend, or what bit of weekend I caught. The weather is perfect, and I knew about the 9:00 A:M Sunday Joe's ride. I was awake at 6:15 A:M and could easily have made it, but the jones for a clean and peaceful nest was too great. I wanted a chicken in the pot, fresh sheets on the bed. When I return from a trip of any length, I feel a bit like the madman, the ranting lunatic. By leaving I see Tallahassee, my life, and your lives as well through the magnifying glass of nostalgic optimism. I magnify all of our traits. For instance, in my class last week I was proselytizing about Publix, where shopping is a pleasure. It doesn't matter that they insist on wrapping their vegetables in little Styrofoam boats, they are the best grocery store in the history of the world! I will lead people to believe that lake Ella is actually a lake. I will claim the canopy roads run everywhere, and happy children wave from the branches of Live Oaks as you ride your bike to work. I tell people that my friends are fascinating people who enjoy discussing art and literature, Geo-politics and the impact of hip hop on white American culture. They build things with their hands and they play rock and roll music.


Then I come home and behave as though it were all true all the time.


-Juancho