Woodschopper

It is warm here in Alabama. Not heatwave hot, but steamy like the meatball pan at a Subway sandwich shop. I did not let that stop me from gutting out a fantastic loop at jewel of the South, Oak Mountain State Park.

I arranged a little play date with a colleague who made the unfortunate choice of telling me he rode mountain bikes. Not wanting to take any chances I opted for the more brutal counter-clockwise (I think?) option of climbing to the ridge up the jeep road and bombing down through Blood Rock as an early assessment. Ex-Navy Seal worked in his favor, residing in flat Pensacola did not.

He is a game fellow and we got the whole 17 mile loop in before reporting for work at 10:00 A:M. If we had taken much longer someone would have mopped us off the deck as we melted into the road. If it wasn't my favorite Joe's Bike Shop jersey I would throw it out. I'm avoiding the obvious- it will never smell right again.

I felt good, out there chopping that wood. Riding bikes is hard work.

Juancho

Out of Office

I am off to Alabama this morning. Will somebody feed this blog while I am gone? Two scoops of malarkey in the morning, and don't forget to clean out the box.

This is a work trip, but as I am ever hopeful, the bike is packed into the trunk of a white Chevy Malibu. If all goes well I will be at Oak mountain shortly after sunrise tomorrow to try to squeeze in the full loop.

Ten days ago that was an intimidating proposition. With the help of so many MVP's out there I have ridden myself back into "form" although the form looks like the same as ever- a cinder block wrapped in pancakes.

Forest time trialing with Dogboy, red hill ranging with Soup and the Wrecking Ball, Eastside singletracking with PC Tommy- I managed to work out the kinks with the help of all the familiar faces and trails. Thanks everyone, except you Dogboy, you almost killed me.

Juancho

Tree Cult

Until recently, news out of Reddick, FL had been sparse.

We all should have known better.

For those of you joining us late, you can pick up the backstory by searching the following terms in this blog, should you care, and I hope you do. Few of the stories told in this blog can be considered factual, but the events and characters related to the following terms are real-frighteningly so.

Ma/ Pa Ingalls
Pole Barn, polebarn, or po'barn.
PBT/ PBT Therapy
Modified short loop
Razorback
San Felasco
misery/ St. Joe Bay
Liars/ Cape San Blas
Hate/ocean/canoe
Princess bed
"Suey" Dog
mountain soda
tapvat
Donkeys
Donkey Whisperer/ing
Inkspot Project/Accomplice/liar accomplice

This is why there is nobody to blame but oneself for not seeing this coming. All news out of North Marion County is now tree-related. All bikes are dusty and their eyes gaze steadfastly upward to the crowns of Live Oak, Cypress, Eucalyptus, and for all we know Slash Pine. They wait politely for you to finish with your niceties so they can begin disseminating propoganda about their new prime directive- Tree Climbing.

This isn't slingshot in the backpocket, Mommy can't see me up here tree climbing. This is 60 meter static line, soft anchors, prussik knots and "tree saddles." At first blush it appears to be a sport, or what you might call an activity. The most cursory of internet searches yields the truth to be far more disturbing.

To reinforce this point I offer: Exhibit A.

So how is that I know the following new terms will soon be added to the Reddick/Alachua database?

Trees/terror
Heights/ need to pee
Tree time
Branch mother
Ma Ingalls/ticked off
credit card
adventure
fun
Reddick Volunteer Fire Department

Please click the link to access the manifesto.

Juancho

The Antidote

I can't think of a problem that can't be solved by going for a bike ride. Not one.

A good bike ride cures: anger, depression, boredom, nervousness, irritable bowel syndrome, existential dilemma, mid-life crisis, loneliness, agoraphobia, xenophobia, and procrastination.

Actually it does nothing for arachnophobia, as witnessed today watching the boys jump off their bikes clawing at helmet straps to evict large banana spiders. Nobody seems to mind all the ticks hitching a ride.

Overcast skies and an acquiesence to professional ineffiency brings a much needed improvement in the riding conditions. The more time in the saddle the less time to make bad decisions elsewhere. Instead of getting involved in that upside-down mortgage I went for a ride. When I finished I didn't even want a house. I wanted a tuna fish sandwich.

It is hard to get in trouble when you are living in the pain cave.

Juancho

Get Lost

Not all who wander are lost, but most of them are.

That is what I was thinking as Squatch (remember him?) prompted one random turn after another out in the land of Munson. Gas lines, powerlines, random squirrel trail, he was into all of it. Everything looked like a good idea.

I give him full credit for his appetite for adventure late on a Thursday evening.

Me, I don't like to feel "unplotted" on the map. I operate from a position of expecting disasters large and small. I automatically calibrate plans b to g for a given circumstance. I enter crowded venues plotting bathroom locations, exit signs, and options for sheltering in place. Every ride I consider the possibility of having to walk it out with a stymied mechanical. Call it what you want, but it comes from past black eyes and kicks in the balls that caught me napping.

I got this way from needing contingency plans and developing scenarios in crisis. It is no coincidence that my work provides me a bird's eye view of a world where things have fallen apart. When I realize the situation is recognizably altered from the expected norm, I can finally relax.

"See" I think to myself, "I knew it was all going to go to shit. Good thing I read up on the edible organs of the Pine Beetle." I then cheerily go about the harvest of the beetles, content in knowing the other shoe did drop.

I don't think Squatch sees it like that. I'm sorry I didn't want to get my wander on last night brother, but to me that's just called getting lost.

Juancho

Bon Dia!

The Tour de France visits Barcelona today, where I spent 1/39th of my life. Seems pretty insignificant now, but certain years in our lives loom much larger than others. The four months I spent in Sackets Harbor, NY were like ten years in a Turkish prison. The past ten years I have lived in Tallahassee feel exactly like ten years. The year I spent in Barcelona I remember as the greatest long weekend of my days.

I didn't have a bike in Barcelona. I was a bigtime walker. From Barceloneta up through las Ramblas and all the way to Montjuic, where today's stage finishes. That would be a day well spent.

I regret not having had a bicycle in Spain, and I regret not having a Catalan novia too. I had my whining American girlfriend with her love of pastry and beer, and I had a pair of Vasque boots that I wore everywhere- until I made a Catalan friend named Jordi who sighed with hopeless embarassment every time I showed up looking like a missionary/ lumberjack to go out for the night. He pointed me in the right direction and I dropped some serious pesetas on some Barcelona finery. Dudes there dress sharp.

When my American girlfriend and I parted ways, I went to war-destroyed Bosnia to escape her- she told me she was screwing some guy in Prague in the months before I got there. I nodded in total understanding, of course you were dear.

Te echo de menos Barcelona. Viva Catalunya Siempre!

Juancho

A Showdown

I watched this guy stand and fire a roman candle into the woods next to the bathrooms at the Munson trailhead. The rain just quit as I pulled into the parking lot so I wasn't specifically concerned about a fire, but more the general disresepect for Dr. Munson's lounge. It boomed from his hand three times and then he flung it into the woods.

"Hey! What in the hell is wrong with you?" This-my tactful lead-in.

Stammer, sputter, unintelligible mutterings, and then he charged towards me.

I quickly got off the bike and prepared to be shot at, stabbed, or confronted with a bad odor. As he closed in the focus improved through his coke bottle thick lenses. Emboldened by my lycra wrapper, he might have assumed he was backing down a James Taylor fan, or a man who buys free range eggs.

I think I was a bigger wad of gum than he was ready to chew. The only scary part is how much I wanted it.

I asked him to please pick up the debris and think about the rest of us who care about the forest.

After it was over I realized that's what a guy who buys free range eggs would say.

Oh well, better that than jail.

Juancho
now in italics!

Feasting at the Barbed Wire Buffet

Jill Homer, a blogworld sister from Juneau, AK, finished the Tour Divide mtb race from Banff, Canada to Antelope Wells, NM last night. Something like 2800 miles of mostly solo pedaling. Can you imagine walking out the door to go for a ride and being gone for 24 days? I mean, I have had some rides where the Wrecking Ball tormented me so the ride felt like it was three weeks long, but it was actually about 2 or 3 hours.

You can check out more about the race, and find Jill's "call in" updates here. The pain and isolation is at times so apparent it is hard to listen to, but she never quit- and so today us bloggers are proud to raise one of our own on our shoulders.

Congratulations Jill Homer, you did a hell of a thing.

Juancho