Monthly Archives: August 2008

Colorimetry

Not all riders mix well. In a given ride the perspective of what is happening will change dramatically based on the surrounding influences and circumstances of the individual ride experience.

Only having my own inner monologue and palette as reference, I have to imagine all others have some similar self-conversation and barrage of images and emotions between their ears during a ride and that their behavior is a response to the particular shade of blue or red that they see.

For example, on an average fast-paced ride my thoughts may look like this-

A Japanese kamikaze is taking heavy fire as he swings the yaw over the horizon and points his gun sight on the deck of a carrier ship.

Scene changes to myself as an old man. Fragile, but riding my three-wheeler to go get the mail/ image changes/ I am eating cat food in the park-

King Kong rises up and spreads his powerful arms, breaking his shackles and roaring in pre-mayhem triumph,

I am standing over the stove, vigorously whisking a roux,

And then I am back. In the woods, on my bike, locked on Wrecking Ball’s wheel, or far out ahead of Mystery and S’quatch. Many minutes have gone by. I remember nothing since passing the last bench, back across the powerlines ages ago.

I try to pay attention, and thus I slow down.

Now I am standing in the sun, soaking wet, dazzled and blind by the sparkling water of a spring. I hear the thump-snap of a watermelon being cracking open

I am an elected official. I am a superhero. My power is turning pedals.

Riders in front of me. Riders behind me. We are somehow together, yet not.

-Juancho

Tallahassee invited to dance with Fay?

Look at this. We made the centerline of the cone of doom. Place your bets.

I just hope a hurricane will supply enough rain to tamp down those huge pillows of pine needles raked up on the trails in the forest. I know, I complain about everything.

No complaints about splashing around on the eastside this overcast morning with a soft, steady rain falling. Bushy and I saw hardly a soul out there.

-Juancho

Here from There


Broken glass tastes like honey and barbed wire feels like silk these days.

There are no woods like the home woods and there are no other woods like ours.

Forgive me this moment of optimism, this suspension of hostilities. My inner thug, protector and enforcer, seems to have taken some time off. Riding out at Munson two days in a row after fresh rain I just can’t find anything to complain about. I can perceive no injustice to motivate myself.

Turning the pedals is both means and end.

-Juancho

The Surf is Not Up

Around 400 surfers crowded the break last night, converging on the occasional swell like it was the last beer at the party. Old guys, young guys, girls with powerful haunches, and me. I paddled the “Becker Board”, large enough for a family of Polynesian immigrants to comfortably commute the Pacific Ocean.

A tiny crest appears on the horizon and the water begins to churn with confident triceps and shoulders all chugging towards the same imaginary fixed position. There is not eye contact, no verbal communication, only getting there first or getting the fuck out of the way.

“Excuse me miss, were you planning to ride this wave to the shore this afternoon? If not, would you mind terribly if I attempt to do so?”

This approach got me nowhere.

I eventually settled on a strategy of picking up scraps, which is the strategy which has served weaker dogs well for thousands of years. A big wave would carry the talented twenty or thirty away, snapping and snarling at each other- then I would gleefully paddle for the next wave, or the one after that.

Snickering beta dogs have their fun too!

-Juancho

Old 101

Thanks to sponsors I have use of the Giant TRC-1 while I am out here in California and though it is indisputedly a road bike I am not one to turn my nose up at sponsorship. After giving the bike a basic shave and a haircut it is ready to roll.

I toured 65 miles along the Old Highway 101 route up the coast. The villages along the way are tame to the outside observer. Art galleries, surf shops, and Smoothie cafes pepper the roadway from La Jolla to Del Mar. Blaring sunshine and cool winds help portray an image of worry-free monotonous glamour, but the names I pass echo the great journeys of Dean Moriarty and Henry Miller. Encinitas, Solana, Leucadia. This stretch of coast is iconic to America. For all the horror and the glory of Manifest Destiny, this is the end of the line.

This is the encore performance to the great American Dream.

Juancho

Break Time

Not break time for me suckers, I meant for you.

Back to your summer schedule of pudding and bon bons, marathon re-runs of Bonanza and dreaming of football season. I watched and learned as you went on vacation one by one and got taken down by sloth and lethargy in the fold of the family bosom.

All right, I fear the self same fate and regret leaving the Titus home alone where it is undoubtedly throwing unsupervised parties with other unattended cycles. My brother is probably the one buying them all the Purple Extreme they want.

I am an earth sign and thereby bound to dirt forever, but this week salvation lies offshore.

-Juancho

The Wolf

Beyond the fence dogs hear the wolf howling-
rarely sleeping, always hungry, he is prowling.

Curled up beneath the porch the dogs aren’t sleeping-
closer, closer, closer the wolf is creeping.

Dogs nibble kibble while the wolf is sucking bones-
Out in the woods the wolf is hunting all alone.

Juancho