tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76893794009914136722024-03-05T08:09:21.162-05:00ApebikeWhat's your inspiration?BIGWORMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01402622780492354683noreply@blogger.comBlogger191125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7689379400991413672.post-20245618948656083382014-08-05T14:41:00.002-04:002014-08-05T14:41:18.824-04:00Vicissitude<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.dailyartfixx.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/04/Fall-from-Grace-Jason-de-Caires-Taylor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.dailyartfixx.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/04/Fall-from-Grace-Jason-de-Caires-Taylor.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
In my line of work, (real estate appraiser), I see folks at home. It's kind of personal. Hell, it's a lot personal, to have some stranger come to what is your supposed safe place, and wander through taking pictures, scratching notes on a clipboard, and asking about your septic system's functionality. I always try to make folks feel at ease. They typically need me to be there, but are not always all that excited about it. <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But once in awhile, folks surprise me. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I see it all. Hovels maintained as if they were the Taj Mahal, and McMansions on the verge of meltdown. It will shock you to see how some folks live. On this particular day, I had just left an 8 year old manufactured home, in the woods of eastern Havana. Folks bought it in 2006 right at the peak of the real estate boom. Brand new and shiny, and freshly installed on their own private acre. As with many after the Great Recession, something went sour. They've lost their palace, and the bank has it now. This is where I come in. Once again, I am to let the bank know how best to liquidate this property. I arrive and find the front door has been kicked in, the A/C unit is gone, as is the water heater, ALL of the kitchen cabinets, appliances and fixtures, and the shower and garden tub from the master bath. Apparently those bath fixtures didn't fit through the stock bathroom door size, so the walls were "customized" to allow sufficient exit space. The place is a shambles, and is likely no longer worth much more than the land it sits on. I ponder this on my way to my next appointment. That type of scene is not at all uncommon. Sometimes it's an angry homeowner. They figure that if the bank is taking it, then so be it. But if they can't have it, nobody can, so destruction ensues. Other times, it's just the rural location and a home sat vacant too long, so local thieves step in, and help themselves to anything that may be cash-worthy. Regardless, it's not the pretty side of the human animal. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My next stop is a much higher end home, but again, it is under contract as a short sale. Something went wrong in someone's dream, and their homeownership path is altered. I'm a little nervous on this one. I've just left the bad, and due to a miscommunication, this particular gentleman had been around home all day the day before, awaiting my arrival. I however, had no idea he was expecting me, and so was a bit on edge as to the attitude I was walking into, today. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Nobody is home, so I proceed with my sketches and measuring. I'm around back when I hear a car horn blowing. Apparently my truck was in the way of where HE wanted to park. Here we go, I think, and steel myself for the interaction. I round the corner to see an all black SUV with gigantic chrome wheels, FAMU Rattler plates, Pittsburgh Steelers stickers on the windows, and a necklace swinging from the mirror, consisting of 5 large rattlesnake rattles threaded on a leather cord. Blaring from all 4 rolled down windows, so all the neighborhood could enjoy........ the twang of country music. This was not what I expected. Out of the vehicle climbs an older black gentleman with a big straw hat, and a scruffy grey beard. Again, not what I expected. I give him my name, and ask how he is doing. Typical cordial pleasantries. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>T N T!! Taint Nothing Ta-me, my man! Taint nothing ta me!, </i>he exclaims. <i> </i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
I can't help but smile, and tell him I'll go on about finishing my inspection. He opens the doors, offers me a drink, and tells me he'll be outside mowing the grass. I get inside, and see he's already pretty much moved out. But the place is spotless. There are signs of cleaning still ongoing, but predominantly, this place is move in ready. I just keep thinking that this guy is out here mowing the grass, which looked perfectly fine to me, for a house he's losing in a short sale!! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I finish my inspection, and head back out to be on my way. Mr Homeowner stops the mower and asks about my bike in the back of the truck. I'm used to this. It happens. But then he asks if I'm married. Not any longer, I answer. I suppose I had a funny look on my face, probably because I was trying to figure out why I had answered this way. A simple "no" would have sufficed. He throws up his hands.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>Let's just call it vicissitude!</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
Again, I can't help but smile at this guy. He keeps surprising me at every turn. He tells me he lost his wife of 41 years, last year, and that's why he's giving up the house. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>I was gonna say, that if you are married, just be sure she rides, too. </i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Funny you should say that.", I told him. "The young lady in my life now, does. In fact, it's how we met." He smiles broadly, and tells me that's an excellent thing. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>I hope to be in that exact same place in my life again, someday. </i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
This man is experiencing more than enough <i>vicissitude</i> right now, yet his positive attitude was infectious. The man's head was high, and he was on his way, wherever that may lead. I wished him luck on whatever the next chapter of his life brings, but after I left, I more felt that I should have thanked him. Thanked him for showing me what folks can be. Thanked him for reminding me what I always want to be. Keep them guessing, but show them substance. Put something in this world that is worth being there, even if it's something as intangible as simple good will.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
BIGWORMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01402622780492354683noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7689379400991413672.post-4772837166791988662014-07-23T11:41:00.002-04:002014-07-23T11:41:43.262-04:00Meh<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.listofimages.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/02/Old-Bus.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.listofimages.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/02/Old-Bus.jpeg" height="200" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Five months and eleven days. I saw the date on my last post, and realized this little piece of the interweb may be considered dead, or at least so severely atrophied, that it likely can't survive beneath its own diminished weight. <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's not that nothing has happened, its just that my motivation to write has been clogged like a mistreated artery. I feel like I'm searching for something to fill a void. My motivation for most anything is nil. I don't want to go to sleep at night. I don't want to wake in the morning. I don't want to take the time to think of something to write. Creative juices are as dried and tacky as last week's Kool-Aid spilled on the kitchen floor. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Bikes always motivated me, kept me amped. Lately, the very machines seem to reject me. In the past 6 months, I've had more mechanicals that any one man should. I may need to relieve Wrecking Ball of his moniker. One of the few things I've considered myself good at, the love and care of cycles, seems to be in question. The logical part of my brain recognizes most of these failures as outside the normal realm of prevention. But the frequency... The frequency just keeps banging away at that common denominator. Broken derailleurs, broken spokes, broken hubs, broken seatposts, and broken confidence. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Now, it seems to be broken motivation. I got excited to do big hours in preparation for Fool's Gold. That race kicks my oversized ass, and that motivated me. I've done it twice, and improved the second time, but there is so much room to continue. I put down 38.5 hours in 3 weeks. Took a week off, and was ready to repeat. Life stepped in and hid my bikes, my shoes, and any pride I felt in following through. Again, rational brain recognizes life is just that way, and you just do what you can to work around. But emotional side steps in and says to hell with all this. I hate failure. Failure triggers the garbage that muddies my waters.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
All just speed bumps. Speed bumps that seem like mountains when staring at them, without motivation to get over. I miss my friends. I miss the big rides with them. I miss seeing them 3 or 4 times a week. My social life has been on two wheels for more years than I can remember. Now, with everyone missing, it's just harder to get excited. The slightest rain or schedule conflict, and going home seems more intriguing than getting out for the ride. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Meh</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Well, that should be just about enough crying in my beer. Sometimes I spend too much time Huck Finn style, drifting on my raft. Time to get back in the driver seat. Let's see if we can't get this old bus moving in the right direction, or at least turn the corner. </div>
BIGWORMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01402622780492354683noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7689379400991413672.post-20493572888530242782014-02-12T10:11:00.003-05:002014-02-12T10:25:41.723-05:00New Leads to Old<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5hDd47CXa8OTYKZdTHsXPgYo1iNiatIEzyjnxF08EmvsTmBwh9zRSW-CPuuMl0pvotfHyIN-H-eOAVSpAuibmXMg6VXSj-JnEmfLEvHblgJtd22xn2zAq2d-_ODMm9Bbvu4NaAVl9KiU/s1600/Untitled.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5hDd47CXa8OTYKZdTHsXPgYo1iNiatIEzyjnxF08EmvsTmBwh9zRSW-CPuuMl0pvotfHyIN-H-eOAVSpAuibmXMg6VXSj-JnEmfLEvHblgJtd22xn2zAq2d-_ODMm9Bbvu4NaAVl9KiU/s1600/Untitled.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
My last post was all about seeing something new; doing something different(ly). I think that ultimately, I'm just burnt out on my mtb, lately. Winter brings the dark, and dark traditionally limits us to mtb night rides. Truth is, we limit ourselves. Last week's night cx ride opened my eyes to other dark options.<br />
<br />
I brought up the desire to do a dedicated clay road ride and the crew jumped all over it. Last night found 7 of us rolling into the twilight, while the clay roads unfolded beneath. Everyone seemed to have a good time, and I for one was just plain stoked to be doing something new. <br />
<br />
This morning I was looking at the map of our route. I was looking at other options, kind of like one of those choose-your-own-adventure books, I read as a kid. What happens if I choose this turn over that other? I had this one particular right turn in mind. I zoomed out on the map, followed the little track through the trees to the north, and see that it pops out just south of Blackshear Rd, off Thomasville Rd. Blackshear rings a bell deep in the recesses of my memory. I dig a little deeper, and it all comes to the surface. The aerial photos became a playground map of my youth. My grandmother lived on Blackshear, when my Grandfather was the superintendent of Hines Hill Plantation. I see the roof of the little old house, and it looks like the pond out back has succumbed to algae or lily pads. It looks so green compared to the black water I remember being told to stay out of during family events in that backyard. A slide show plays instantly at the thought of that pond out back. The green grass backyard as big as all the world in my child's eyes. Family scurrying about, as my Dad and his Dad fried fish in the cookhouse. Aunts and Grandmother shoeing us away from underfoot, as they carried pies and other goods down to the picnic area by that pond. Running around with a stick of some sort that made the perfect sword, fishing pole, wand or whatever else was needed in any moment of unbridled. imagination.<br />
<br />
I look just north of Blackshear and I see where my old house used to be. It was referred to as The Cracker Shack, back then. I wonder if that was a pet(or derogatory) name my Mom and Dad made up for the place, or if it was "officially" known that way by the plantation in general. I follow the smaller plantation tracks through the woods, to the 3 Small Ponds I always bragged about. "Where I live, we have THREE ponds in the woods behind the house!" In my mind, it was quite the brag, in the 2nd grade. We rode bikes all through those woods. My first bike was a Huffy that looked like a dirtbike. 20" knobby tires, fenders, number plate, the works! My brother had another 20" wheeled bike, with a bass-boat red banana seat, sissy bar, and apehangers. Dad would take us out on those roads, my brother and I on our own, while the youngest brother rode in a child's seat on the back of Dad's Sears 10spd. Knowing what I know now, I honestly don't know how he rode those skinny road tires on those dirt roads, with all that extra weight, and absolute garbage for brakes. Riding 2 rut roads covered in pine straw from pine trees that had to be at least a million feet tall. <br />
<br />
The Cracker Shack is gone now. It makes me sad seeing that. Reality is, it was ancient when I lived there and that was a loooong time ago. My first thoughts when seeing it replaced by a big storage building were bitter. My history replaced. But that old house was probably long past any functional use. That old house was home for awhile, and now it will always have a home of its own in my memories. <br />
<br />
I think I'll be taking that right turn I was looking at, in the near future. If I remember right, there was a little church at the end of that road, just before the highway. I think I'll go see about that. I think I may need to see if I can get into my old yard, too. The house is gone, but I bet the roots of those memories are still planted pretty deep in that piece of earth.<br />
<br />
Last night's ride made me happy... because it was something new. But today, seeing how something new can tie so deeply into fond memories of my past, well, that was a very unexpected gift. One that makes me infinitely more happy that I opted out of the same old, same old, and opened another future door to my history.<br />
<br />
<br />BIGWORMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01402622780492354683noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7689379400991413672.post-62747244437627572282014-02-03T14:44:00.000-05:002014-02-12T09:19:47.833-05:00Dead Ends<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://distilleryimage4.s3.amazonaws.com/b8df94d28c3911e3b8c61207f57a3820_8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://distilleryimage4.s3.amazonaws.com/b8df94d28c3911e3b8c61207f57a3820_8.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
This first month of the year feels all out of sorts. In my head, one warps up tools, ideas, and plans for a "new" event, at the tail end of a "closing" event. In other words, prep bikes in December, for events of January. <br />
<br />
My January went nothing at all like that. The opening week saw me scrambling to bandage a hemorrhaging bike, in time for Felasco. She came together, and I suffered through my 12th tour of those woods. After Felasco, I found that the Tallboy was still bleeding beneath all those bandages. The rear shock was scritching and squirting(technical terms) with every cycle. No time to send it off for a rebuild before Ididaride. So I borrow, not one, but 2 rear shocks from folks, only to find both of those in worse shape than my own. Scramble, pillage, rape, salvage, beg, bailing wire, and too many freaking hours in my shop later, and she's bandaged, yet again. <br />
<br />
Ididaride starts fast as always, to get that coveted spot in the singletrack, ahead of the lollygaggers. It will slow to downright hiking speed, if you get mired in all that. About 12 miles in, I've been long bittered by my cold wet feet, and the fact that my body is not settling in after the fast start, I feel tired, but hope it will come around. The only thing that came around, was my rear wheel, after I clipped a pedal in a corner, planted my knee firmly in the trail(causing the first ever tidal wave in the Suwanee River), flipped ever so gracefully around to land on my back, slammed the back of my head into the ground(causing 2nd ever tidal wave in the Suwanee River), and watched curiously as my bike flew overhead, and tried to kill Tiny Might, who was still in front of me at the time. I get up, and though I very much love Mexican food after I ride, I was not at all enticed by the spoke and rim taco that used to be my front wheel. I had zero interest in walking, but knew the wheel was never going to be the same again. I took the wheel calmly from the dropouts, and proceeded to bit the ever living shit out of it against the ground. Mechanically speaking, I was trying to straighten it enough to allow it to spin between the fork legs, so I could limp out. Metaphysically speaking, I was absolutely trying to kill something that was raging inside me. I sent the group on, knowing I was effectively done for the day. Once they were clear, I continued the mad thrashing of rim and earth. I found a large tree, about 6-8" in diameter, and set about trying to bend the rim around its trunk. A loud crack, the tree that I was now recognizing to not look so healthy, vibrated, shook, and began to fall. Ahhhh hell!!!! I was struggling between my natural desire to run, and the desire to not kill any innocent rider, that just happened to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time. I gave it one last hard push towards the woods, and backed off. Crisis averted. <br />
<br />
The wheel spun just straight enough to get me rolling. It heaved, jerked and swayed, but rolled. The spokes creaked and groaned with every rotation, but they got me to a highway, and back to White Springs. I must have looked like Debo, riding that hoopty down Main St. <br />
<br />
The Tallboy is now on blocks, and I started trying to get another bike together in time for Urban Gorilla. After 6 hrs in the shop, and driving all over hell and back to chase down parts on Saturday, I made it happen. Sunday dawned wet and foggy, but I was stoked. Bike looked good, and rode great. I was very ready to get in some much needed hours. About 4.5 hrs in, I pick up a stick, that wrapped my rear derailleur up like a...well....I don't really know what. She was a mangled hunk o' metal, I know that. I tried to convert the bike to a singlespeed, but 3 pedal rotations later, she bound up tighter than all hell. Unrideable, and unfixable with the tools on hand, I sat dejectedly on a park bench, and waited for evac.<br />
<br />
It gave me plenty of time to ponder some things. Mostly, I pondered retiring from mountain bikes. I'd spent probably 25-30 hrs in the shop this month, only to have 2 bikes more dead than they began.<br />
<br />
Today I drove all over Gadsden County, and found all these cool roads, that I couldn't wait to ride on my road bike. Sweet roads that climb and descend the crazy topography as you move south towards Lake Talquin. But every one of these sweet roads came to a dead end. At first, I wrote them off. For some reason, it just feels wrong to use roads that don't connect, when laying out a new ride loop. See, there it is right there. Loop. But then it hits me. Who made that rule? Why do I have that feeling? Maybe that's just bullshit. Maybe I need to to readjust my thinking, and be okay with all the backtracking. Continuity is great and all, but does it have to be the only way? <br />
<br />
These threads of thought may seem incongruous, but in my head, those dead end roads, and all of the dead end wrenching I've been doing, seem to tie together about perfectly. I've already begun backtracking across the nuts and bolts, the assembly, disassembly, and reassembly of those bikes. While it seems like rehash, it's simply a necessary evil, of riding bikes. Though I really wanted to, I could never really just write off those bikes. And this weekend, backtracking be damned, I'm going to go ride those dead end roads, both ways, and enjoy their gifts, coming AND going. <br />
<br />
<br />BIGWORMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01402622780492354683noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7689379400991413672.post-79367033089627836712013-12-03T10:26:00.001-05:002013-12-03T10:27:23.873-05:00Sales Technique<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://i.ebayimg.com/t/Nishiki-Cascade-Frame-and-Fork-Richard-Cunningham-Elevated-Chainstay-Design-/00/s/MTIwMFgxNjAw/z/XGsAAOxy8HlSc~K0/$(KGrHqRHJEsFJmNijd1iBSc+KzsV6Q~~60_57.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://i.ebayimg.com/t/Nishiki-Cascade-Frame-and-Fork-Richard-Cunningham-Elevated-Chainstay-Design-/00/s/MTIwMFgxNjAw/z/XGsAAOxy8HlSc~K0/$(KGrHqRHJEsFJmNijd1iBSc+KzsV6Q~~60_57.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Customer - Why does the back of the frame look like that?<br />
<br />
Shop Guy - This bike has elevated chainstays. It allows them to tuck the rear wheel up underneath you, real tight. <br />
<br />
Customer - What's that do for you?<br />
<br />
Shop Guy - It makes the bike more responsive; real good for doing wheelies.<br />
<br />
Customer - Oh really? Show me.<br />
<br />
Shop Guy - Umm, uhh, naahhh, I'm not a wheelie guy. I'm more of a jumper.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
True story. (Names withheld to protect the not so innocent.) <br />
<br />
<br />BIGWORMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01402622780492354683noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7689379400991413672.post-54490995382684593872013-11-25T13:12:00.002-05:002013-11-25T13:17:15.374-05:00Weather or Not...I look out the window at the gray day. Winter is finally showing in North FL. The high today is far below what we've had recently, and the wind bites a bit at bare skin. Yesterday, I got texts and emails, saying it would be okay if we cancelled the morning ride due to in-climate weather. It was cold for us. High 40's when we rolled out. <br />
<br />
But when I look out that window, I imagine the lone figure plowing his way against the wind. Doing the work that others save for fair weather. I romanticize the struggle against the cold. Maybe it's the images of Andy Hampsten over the Gavia.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://cdn.media.cyclingnews.com/2011/05/03/2/pic80319495_600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="http://cdn.media.cyclingnews.com/2011/05/03/2/pic80319495_600.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Maybe it's wanting to emulate a fraction of the perseverance of those hardmen that raced the 2013 spring classics.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://d4nuk0dd6nrma.cloudfront.net/wp-content/uploads/2013/03/CORVOS_00020932-135-e1363571481199.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="http://d4nuk0dd6nrma.cloudfront.net/wp-content/uploads/2013/03/CORVOS_00020932-135-e1363571481199.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Maybe it's just me enjoying watching the local skinny fast guys shiver and shake. They certainly showed me no mercy during the summer, when my clydesdale sized fame wilted with core temps in the millions. <br />
<br />
I think mostly, I just like the change. Cycling can take many flavors in our home town. The brutal oppressive heat and humidity of the Summer, gives way to golden yellow Fall light, and the smell of leaf fires in rural yards. Winter brings the cold black of night rides, until Spring rolls around with all of its colorful visuals and the sweet smells of nature awaking from its slumber.<br />
<br />
Each has its time and place in forging us in our pursuit of fitness, growth, perseverance, mental toughness, or simple peace. Like any great new album, play it long enough, you'll be ready for a change. Right about now, I must be ready. That cold gray road sure looks good to me.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />BIGWORMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01402622780492354683noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7689379400991413672.post-32725972290715236452013-11-06T10:00:00.002-05:002013-11-06T10:05:55.723-05:00Let It Go<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://wayuphighhimalaya.files.wordpress.com/2010/05/bike-shop-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://wayuphighhimalaya.files.wordpress.com/2010/05/bike-shop-2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Daylight savings has ended, and it's quite dark when I leave the confines of the office, at the end of the workday. Last week I dug out my light systems, to see what was still functional, and what was in need of repair. Repair is a tough call on these light systems. We ride a lot at night, and the guys I ride with go damn near as fast in the dark, as they do in the light. Consequently, the light systems have gotten expensive, to produce the light needed to keep up with these fast bastards. I try to take care of them, but during the long hot summers, cycling through battery charges is far from my mind, and the batteries occasionally come up short the next season.<br />
<br />
Batteries have gotten outrageous! A new battery for my HID light runs about $135, ON SALE!!! That kills me, as I can buy an overseas built, new school LED light, for about $85. The whole system for $85, and they work great. I have one now, and use it almost every ride. My hang up is with the waste. I cannot stand to toss a perfectly good light, that simply lacks a battery. In the appraisal business, we call this incurable functional obsolescence. The cost to cure the problem, exceeds the contributory value of the item damaged. Or in this case, it exceeds the value of the ENTIRE system. But the waste....<br />
<br />
I go through the same thing with cordless drills. I have two drills that I bought for about $135. But both batteries are roached, and no longer take a charge. New batteries run $45/ea. Here we go again.... <br />
<br />
I have two dead drills and multiple dead cycling lights, all sitting in no man's land on a shelf. I can't bear to toss them, but they don't work. I have a few friends that have dared to call me a hoarder. These are close friends, and can get away with that, but still... Is it truly hoarding when you just don't want to be wasteful? I have a shop full of 10 generation old cycling parts, and I'm a hero when I pull out that 1994 widget that saves your favorite ride's shifting. But the rest of the time, folks snicker and point, and suggest that I should be on that damned TV show. I can see it now, bald and wailing as some bright shirt and glove wearing jackass tosses my first generation XTR cranks into a trash bin, and a counselor tries to discover what grave happening in my life triggered my salvation excess. <br />
<br />
Maybe there is some great issue in my past, that my psyche decides to bury beneath bike parts. But mostly, I believe it comes from not having money as kid growing up. So now, when I have something nice, I intend to hang onto it until it rots away in my fingers. Even in my shop days, I was a fixer, more than a replacer. I always tried to get that guy's shifter to kick out a few more weeks, because I knew his money was hard earned, too.<br />
<br />
But now I'm at a crux. These lights, they cost more to fix than a whole new light, so that runs counter to my saving the cash ideology.<br />
<br />
But the waste...<br />
<br />
I think I have a problem. Anybody know a good hoarding counselor?<br />
<br />
<br />BIGWORMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01402622780492354683noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7689379400991413672.post-45973128811923770012013-10-14T20:54:00.001-04:002013-10-15T11:42:23.086-04:00Jive Turkeys and Crash Test Dummies. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKInncri8nGBFE-OpRTT5W-ies0dlVjfEK8EfQj1hCmFcq6fvwWzBLWrBBWpb6FeEOhnEU8K1sXnm5TYXyFfTOVWrztdPVwIw17SWiT_fH_HMhuFj8Z1b8_nIuPTeE0QBvWbFQWHE12WR6/s1600/Gird+Your+Loins+Jive+Turkey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKInncri8nGBFE-OpRTT5W-ies0dlVjfEK8EfQj1hCmFcq6fvwWzBLWrBBWpb6FeEOhnEU8K1sXnm5TYXyFfTOVWrztdPVwIw17SWiT_fH_HMhuFj8Z1b8_nIuPTeE0QBvWbFQWHE12WR6/s320/Gird+Your+Loins+Jive+Turkey.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
The scratching chatter of knobs seeking purchase set off alarm bells. Something was all wrong, but the time for correction had passed. I jumped up and got sorted, before Lil Ball could catch me wallowing in the dust. I choked back the adrenalin shot, determined not to let the jitters steal what flow was left. This was mine. It felt good, and I deserved it, dammit. I got back up to speed, and carried it through the last bit of trail, barely visible in the dusk. <br />
<br />
Earlier in the ride, I'd listened as StorminNorman explained how he had been trying to improve his cornering, by trying to use his third eye, through his belly button. I get the principle, but the visual is much better. I was trying to figure out how he was gonna get a belly mounted monocle to stay in place, as he ponch-pointed his way through the woods, like some kind of half blind, Star-Bellied-Sneech. I guess my mental mocking earned me a stick in my belly eye, because I never saw that root, I cross rutted over. <br />
<br />
Wrecking Ball had his moment too, but I missed the show. He caught back on, describing the perfect wheelie over a root section. Followed by even more perfect placement of the front wheel exactly where it needed to go....to stop dead. His body had its own ideas on inertia. He said the whole move felt <i>so </i>perfect, that he was quite certain that he could ride it out, even though his hands had already abandoned their posts at the grips. Luckily his sternum was there to take up the slack, and he chest pounded his bars and stem until they relented their ridiculous effort to keep him upright, and dropped him to the forest floor. All I can say is, it's a good thing he has that Terr-ection stem that hit him way up on the chest. Otherwise, he might have gotten a black-belly-eye.<br />
<br />
I've always heard that if you're not crashing, you're not pushing. And without the push, their is no improvement. Taking stock afterward, I'm not so sure I feel all that improved. Mostly, I just feel like I ran out of talent. Personally, I think that belly eye StorminNorman was chattering on about sounds way easier, and maybe somewhat less painful than my alternative. <br />
<br />BIGWORMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01402622780492354683noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7689379400991413672.post-73056370832948016022013-10-09T20:05:00.002-04:002013-10-09T22:44:29.785-04:00Palm Trees are Candles in the Murder Wind Mayhem, Bedlam or Angry-Friends, it just doesn't matter.<br />
<br />
Have bike. Will travel.<br />
<br />
The world gets topsy-turvy, be it the big world, or just the little ones in our heads. Relatively, it can all feel the same. Lately, our duly elected politicians squabble like school children and hold our government hostage. Everyone speculates at who is to blame. Within the crew, tensions arise and poison the vibe. <br />
<br />
He said / She said.....whatever. <br />
<br />
I should probably be a whole lot more involved in the big picture, or at least aware of these sorts of things, but the truth is I struggle with it. My OCD nature would dictate that if I start trying to follow or understand our political miasma, I must then try to fully follow and understand. I'm afraid that will take way more time and commitment than I am willing to give.<br />
<br />
In my little world, I'll take care of business to the best of my ability. It can leave you feeling dingy at times. In the interim<i>, </i>I'll wash away the dirty with a little sweat. I'll buff away the stubborn spots with trail grit and sand. And I'll do it all from the saddle of my bike.<br />
<br />
During tonight's scrub down, this tune came bubbling up. Seemed fitting.<br />
<br />
<i>When the hills of los angeles are burning<br />
Palm trees are candles in the murder wind <br />
So many lives are on the breeze<br />
Even the stars are ill at ease <br />
And los angeles is burning</i><br />
<br />
<i><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/W5WZSnZEh7Y" width="420"></iframe> </i>BIGWORMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01402622780492354683noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7689379400991413672.post-17692423306807598442013-09-23T08:27:00.001-04:002013-09-23T08:27:26.266-04:00Anti-Monday Ride StokeAs always happens when the races come through town, the local TB/Caddy race course gets ridden in, all the lines come clean, and it's just crazy fast/fun. The weather had even cooperated, and it was just about to get down right dry out there. I'd forgotten what that looked like. I got a couple of good days out there, and now the rains have returned. Get it while you can, right? On the upside, this rain is actually a front trying to push through, and on the other side should be our first taste of Fall. <br />
<br />
To combat the Monday's, and just to keep the early week stoke rolling, check this out. Really makes me wanna be out on my mtb. Rain should be clear later in the week, and temps dropping 10+ degrees....<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" height="281" mozallowfullscreen="" src="//player.vimeo.com/video/74449652" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="500"></iframe><br />
<br />
<br />BIGWORMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01402622780492354683noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7689379400991413672.post-67592639135628059402013-07-21T18:42:00.000-04:002013-07-21T18:42:56.682-04:00Sexy Sucks!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://sheldonbrown.com/images/wheel36.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://sheldonbrown.com/images/wheel36.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Remember that title phrase. It may save you a lot of heart ache in your life. That's what was running through my head as I stood as patiently as possible, trying not to lose my cool with the 5,785, 862 gnats that continually stormed my eardrums, nostrils, and eye sockets. Their attempts at broaching my cranial orifices was unrelenting. Sexy sucks.<br />
<br />
It was one of the first sunny days in a long time. I'd even snapped a pic half hour earlier, to prove to myself later that it wasn't just a dream. I was actually riding a dry bike, in the sunshine!!! I suppose with the better weather, came upbeat spirits, and a general overtone of feeling good. Who doesn't feel good when the sun shines warmly on your face? All these good feelings motivated my dumb ass right on into the A group ride, as it rolled from the parking lot. Now, I've not yet seen the end of this ride, while still WITH this ride. I take my beatings in stride, with a general understanding that these beatings should eventually lead to my seeing the end of the ride, at the same time as the rest of the ride, and not some mildly embarrassing moment in time later. The ride did it's usual, and I was redlining from time to time, but hanging on longer than I expected. Then sexy started sucking, and not in a good way. <br />
<br />
PANG!!!!!! The front end shuddered, and I looked down to see the errant rock that had caused a lapse in my much needed concentration, were I still to be in contact at the top of this never ending hill. I see no rock, but notice, quite unhappily, that my front wheel is beginning the tell-tale wobble of one in which one of its spokes has suddenly become more passenger, than participant. It gets bad enough that I can feel the drag as the rim rubs the brakes with every revolution. I pull out of the group to assess the damage, and Mr Harvey stops alongside. I encourage him that I'm good, and that he should continue his campaign to hang with this bunch of skinny folk. He explains, through the same heavy breathing that I'm experiencing, that he's quite happy to see how my wheel is doing. I decide to disconnect my front brake cable to gain maximum brake clearance, and simply take it easy back the way we came, albeit with only a rear brake. Great plan, except that sexy really sucks!<br />
<br />
It would seem that skimpy little 18 spoke wheels really do not like it when one spoke up and quits. The other 17 struggle to maintain a semblance of order but utterly fail .My rim was wedged tight against the fork blade, and would not roll. I accepted the evac offer of Mr Harvey, and watched as he rolled off to get his car. <br />
<br />
I should know better. I DO know better. But the siren song of sexy has plagued men since the beginning of time, and I'm no desire free monk. I bought my first sexy wheels a long time ago. Dura Ace beauties, all low spoke count and deep rims. Spokes all in pretty little pairs, reaching from the hub to the opposite side of the rim. So much marketing mumbo-jumbo about lateral stiffness and low rotational weight. My first sexy wheels made my old Ultegra hubs and Mavic CXP rims looks downright dull. I rode them happily, and tried to ignore the weak points as they arose. At first the black anodized rims faded to some obscure mint green. No sweat. Probably my fault for using some harsh cleaner. I wondered if the front end of my bike was getting soft in corners. Surely, it couldn't be all that sexy up front. Everyone knows sexy is intended to make things stiffer. Then I broke a spoke. Sexy would never use a standard spoke. That would be...well....not sexy. So I head to the shop, and then another, and then another. Nobody carries sexy spokes? Why the hell not? I NEED a sexy spoke!!<br />
<br />
After waiting for 2-3 weeks, I finally got what I needed. During that off time, I noticed that those were some fugly green rims I was running, and my 32 spoke back up wheels sure did turn nice. Reality sets in, the sexy wheels were traded for my first hydraulic disc brakes, and I built some damn fine wheels with NORMAL, everyday, run of the mill, get 'em at any shop around, spokes. I was back where I belonged. I've been building wheels for a long time, and I know what works. Funny thing, I rarely ever have trouble, with MY wheels. So I was happy as a clam, and safe again.<br />
<br />
Hi! My name is Bigworm, and I am a sexy addict. Sexy just never lets up. First it's a stolen glance at the deep curve of a 40mm carbon rim. Then a friend gets a job at a sexy wheel manufacturer, and he tells you all the GREAT new ways that sexy can improve your life. But I do remember that sexy can bite, so I resist and resist, until I finally succumb to half-sexy. That's only half dangerous, right? These pre-built wheels have pretty bladed spokes, but at least they are not the DUMB aluminum ones. That's just silly-sexy!!! The rims are only a little deeper, AND they are aluminum, because carbon is just silly-sexy! My rationalization wins out, and I'm on a pre-built, wheel SYSTEM. Mavic takes us above and beyond simple wheels, into systems. How can you go wrong with a system? <br />
<br />
Apparently you can go so wrong, that you end up on the side of the road, on the first sunny day in weeks, trying to see just how long you can go with 252 gnats in each ear, singing a rousing chorus of "We will eat your sanity!!!", without running screaming into the woods, clawing at bug filled nostrils and eyes! Seriously!!! Sexy sucks!!<br />
<br />
Flash and I joked about it the next day, after I'd finally convinced my brain that there were no more small winged bugs deep in my ear canals. He offered up his back up wheels; the ultimate in un-sexy. He's got Ultegra hubs, Open Pro rims, and all silver. Not even some black laced spokes. Those wheels are the true blue granny panties of the wheel world. Nothing sexy whatsoever, but they offer full coverage, and they get the job done. I was so fed up with sexy at that moment, I almost offered to buy the damn things off him. <br />
<br />
Like I said before, I'm Bigworm, and I'm a sexy addict. I'm not quite fully clean and sober, but I'm working on it. Hubs were ordered. Rims sit patiently in a corner. I'll be back on 32, gloriously traditional j-bend spokes, none too soon. I've learned my lesson again.....for now. <br />
<br />
.<br />
<br />
<br />BIGWORMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01402622780492354683noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7689379400991413672.post-32767765704393249452013-06-11T12:26:00.000-04:002013-06-11T12:26:11.328-04:00A Shout Out to Kevin(This started as a comment on <a href="http://bigjimsriding.blogspot.com/2013/06/i-missed-ride-for-hope.html">Big Jim Slade's piece</a> about missing the Ride for Hope. As I recanted the story in the little comment box, I felt it deserved more. I know that words on this little piece of seldom visited internets isn't much, but it's what I have to offer. )<br />
<br />
<br />
I had kind of lost touch with what this event was really about, this year. I was more worried about the logistics of herding cats, and getting myself and my crew on the same page. <br />
<br />
I got to the event late, and missed the start with the century folks. I think that was a gift. <br />
<br />
While I was chatting with everyone I know(Bigworm for Mayor!!), a guy on a trike smiles and waves. I just thought he was being friendly. Turns out, he was actually smiling at me, specifically. He rolled over and said, Hi. His smile was infectious, despite struggling to tell me who he was. I knew he was familiar, but I just couldn't quite place him. Turns out his name is Kevin, and he was a regular customer, from back in my shop days. At that point I remembered his smiling face, on top of a strong, 6' tall, healthy body. He told me he had been diagnosed with brain cancer, and that being able to ride this day was a gift from God.<br />
<br />
Kevin was on my mind a lot that day. A couple of years ago, all I could think about as I cramped and suffered in the heat, was my mother in law, that I had watched wither under the scourge of cancer and the dreadfulness of what we consider treatment for this disease. <br />
<br />
Kevin was right about that gift. Thanks for reminding folks, Big Jim.<br />
<br />
<br />BIGWORMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01402622780492354683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7689379400991413672.post-30675779222752078732013-05-03T11:18:00.001-04:002013-05-03T11:32:00.800-04:00Rain Day<div>
<div>
<div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.sicklines.com/news-images/progrt2011/20110410_progrt_mud-rut_0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://www.sicklines.com/news-images/progrt2011/20110410_progrt_mud-rut_0001.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
This weather is kicking my ass. I tried to say it
was kicking my "I wanna get faster" ass, but Big Jim Slade straight up
called me out, and said he's pretty sure it's not the rain, kicking THAT
ass.</div>
<br />
<br />
That's why I don't really like Jim. I tolerate him, like you would tolerate a conjoined sibling growing outta your ass.</div>
<br />
<br />
Anyway,
I'll be sausage fest riding on Sunday. But, my legs have not had
oppurtunity to turn a pedal more than once this week, as apparently, I
have a whopping case of Norman's-Scared-of-the-Rain-itis. I hate
Norman's-Scared-of-the-Rain-itis, so I'll be seeking a cure tomorrow.</div>
<br />
<br />
The
doc says the best cure for this chronic 3rd placement, overbraking,
slow turning, incessant whimpering malaise, is quite simple. Wait 'til
it's raining. Walk out to your bike. Climb aboard, and pedal off into
the muck with your friends. Channel you inner little kid; the same one
that still lets you make motorcycle noises when you hit that corner just
right, or blast monstrous millimeters of air off that water bar.
Remember the unadulterated joy it was to take a HUGE FLYYYYYIIIIINNNNNG
leap, into the nearest mud puddle. Then smile from mud filled ear, to
mud filled ear, when you realize that you just wall of watered your
closest buddy.</div>
<br />
<br />
Mostly, just let go. It's why we do this
anyway, right? We just wanna let go of all the day to day garbage that
will suck your soul if you let it. Tomorrow, I'm gonna go play in the
mud, and then I'm gonna wash it all off.<br />
<br />
Just what the doctor ordered!BIGWORMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01402622780492354683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7689379400991413672.post-5332596320878665272013-04-19T09:45:00.001-04:002013-04-19T11:21:33.355-04:00GA On My Mind.... and other stuff, too. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6gQKgGAQhV75NpQY_FlrwmAW-gSwLBXJN4IYAPa-N5V4r4TMEbbyHmx828KfJ9Kaajwd-HYM140D5OEGrEQMYsAcY-GGFRdlAxY2xWpb7mkmp1WbqqBVcAu6cvF4c067h8ihr6st-WPk/s1600/2013-03-10+14.32.25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6gQKgGAQhV75NpQY_FlrwmAW-gSwLBXJN4IYAPa-N5V4r4TMEbbyHmx828KfJ9Kaajwd-HYM140D5OEGrEQMYsAcY-GGFRdlAxY2xWpb7mkmp1WbqqBVcAu6cvF4c067h8ihr6st-WPk/s320/2013-03-10+14.32.25.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I think my t'aint may fall out Sunday afternoon. I really don't want it to, but I'm not sure I'll have a choice in the matter. Sometimes t'aints just do what they want, regardless of their host's wishes. I suppose it's like any relationship, though. If you ask too much of your partner, they may just decide enough is enough.<br />
<br />
I've never been the cyclo-touring type. But, this year, the local <a href="http://www.cccyclists.org/tosrv/">TOSRV double century</a> event has offered a clay road version. The thought of two days of new to me clay, sounded appealing, so I'm in. It looks like there are 35+ other like minded souls, who wish to anger their t'aints as well. Should be quite entertaining, by sometime Sunday afternoon. I wonder if Cairo, GA has a t'aint trauma center...<br />
<br />
On another front, the 2 of you who actually read this, may have noticed that the Bikeposse Ride Info is stuck on 3/21 ride info. It's not that that was such an epic day, that it should never be changed, left to remind those who missed out, of their now clearly, purposeless lives. It was more a matter of nobody actually cares. I honestly have no idea whether or not folks actually referenced that little ride info tool, but I kept it up, so that it made an easy place to find out the plans. Now however, there is no need of plans, as Bikeposse is dead. Like most great tribes, it died from inside. No overthrow. No hostile takeover. No coup. Just quiet diminishment of interest until it withered and the wind blew the dust in many different directions. I know that diminishment may not be an actual word, and that some of you may not want to hear my whining. Whatever. It's my place, my rules. If you wish to read happy things, go <a href="http://bigringcircus.blogspot.com/2013/04/finding-charlie.html">here. </a> He does good things, and tells of them quite eloquently. Me, I'm just crabby, right now. <br />
<br />
Not really crabby. Actually, I'm quite excited to get my tourist on. Very much looking forward to 2 days where my main focus is turning the pedals, and eating food. No mowing the grass. No dishes or laundry. Just pedal, shower, eat, sleep, pedal home. And of course eat, shower, and sleep again. Then Monday comes and my soul goes back into hiding. Though the bikeposse regulars think that they belong in a<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tH2w6Oxx0kQ"> Kansas video</a>, there are still a few old friends and a couple of the new faces doing this ride, so I look forward to the weekend. <br />
<br />
Maybe if my t'aint actually dies, I'll change that Bikeposse Ride Info tool, to some kind of T'aint Memorial. I wrote this blog <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZCVuqFSsf5Ce1Djg2DoO4J-9_gEg6b1c9DJhkogi4Bk7MIYn6L-_gNzOAQN_Lc7tUjhriH9Ebl3ezTt6a4JGMIF9PGj6B_eCItmVE81-egK3Tl4JwoHkH2YV0juFf4QKYHn3-Lr0fOmo/s1600/172080760_85c420a322.jpg">in loving memory of...</a><br />
<br />
<br />BIGWORMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01402622780492354683noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7689379400991413672.post-87353352322169230982013-02-07T10:54:00.003-05:002013-02-07T11:00:31.842-05:00Jinx! Jinx! Voodoo, Jinx!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.bubblews.com/assets/images/news/355544073_1352370967.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://www.bubblews.com/assets/images/news/355544073_1352370967.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Depending on who you talk to, I may have asked for it. If you ask me, I blame jealousy!<br />
<br />
You see, I have a couple of friends. Well, I have more than a couple, but these two in particular, are quite particular. These two call me more than all the others combined, when it comes to chasing down bicycle imperfections. Don't get me wrong. I'm not griping about these calls. In fact, I somewhat enjoy them. It's something akin to the involuntary laugh that we all let escape, when your buddy, who just happens to be putting you in a bit of distress on your own favorite singletrack, blows the next corner and yard-sales through the woods. Sure, I don't want them dead, but a little bruising never hurt anyone.....much. Builds character!<br />
<br />
Even more than the guilty pleasure that comes from watching these friends struggle with their demons, I honestly hope to take a counseling approach. Either these guys have way more issues with their bikes, due to some sort of horrible luck, or they pissed of somebody in a past life. Or, and here's where it gets sticky, maybe these guys are just so particular, that no bicycle with the complex moving parts of today's dual suspension, multi-geared machine, will ever meet their standards of bicycle decency. <br />
<br />
I may have gone so far as to suggest to one, or both, that maybe they would be happier on full rigid singlespeeds. Of course I said this with only their best interests at heart, and in no way intended to be jabbing at their exposed weaknesses. Everyone who knows me, knows I'm all serious, all the time!!<br />
<br />
And then it happens. Slowly at first, but it's gaining momentum, and I don't like it. First my main bike begins a creak that lets all nearby, feel fairly certain that a pregnant goose is giving birth to a cow sized, man baby. The racket nearly drove me to tossing the offensive squawker straight into a creek at Redbug, and then hitch hiking home. <br />
<br />
No sweat, it can be sorted. In the shop, I'm working through the exorcism of the goose demon, and I realize that my rear shock, apparently now has more air than oil in its damping mechanism. As it cycles through, it sounds like small pebbles pushing through an AC vent. And I'm not talking pretty little riverbed pebbles, that you decorate your fishbowl with. I'm talking hate filled, sharp toothed, rocks that later break down into ferocious sandblasting grains, and eat holes through your favorite metal door on that cherry '40 Ford you WERE restoring, until that malicious rock-sand made swiss cheese of that panel!<br />
<br />
Fine! I'll just ride my hardtail. I go to throw my tires back on, and my compressor won't go above 25psi, which is not anywhere near enough to mount those tubeless tires. Whatever. Grab some tubes, and 2 of the last 3 I have, have holes in them. So with one 26" tube stretched to fill that 29" tire, and the other just as flat the St Mark's Trail, I hang it on the wall, hang my head in dejection, and return to my dinner.<br />
<br />
The day dawns anew, and I write off these problems to coincidence. I take the cx bike with, knowing that she's trustworthy and versatile. I roll out after work, enjoying the crunch of gravel beneath my tires, and the smell of a false spring, as temps are far too warm for this to be February. As soon as it's too dark to see without lights, fate drops a hammer on my ride, yet again. I break my chain, and realize that I have left my chain tool in the truck.Once I borrow a tool, and set about the repair, I notice that my chainring has teeth nearly as sharp as those of those damnable rocks we discussed earlier. You know, the ones swimming through my rear shock and eating holes in '40 Ford doors. That means that I've gotten lazy, and let my chain wear beyond simple replacement, and a full drivetrain is in order, and soon to be on order.<br />
<br />
Now all of these occurrences can be spun. What's that old saying about crisis and opportunity having the same symbol in ancient Norse Mythology, or some other culture that folks get tattooed without actually knowing that they just got "washing machine" permanently inked on their forearm? Anyway, the creak can be corrected, AND I learn more about the inner workings of my new steed. The rocks can be removed from my rear shock, and sent to some primal feeding pond, where they can eat all the metal they want, AND, my shock can be rehabilitated a'la the 6 million dollar man. When it returns to me, it will be custom tuned, systematic, and hydromatic! Why, it'll be Greased Lightening! The need for a new drivetrain has prompted me to move beyond the 9+ year old, 9 speed system, to the newer 10 speed hotness. Now when the guy at the gas station parking lot says he likes my 10 speed, he'll actually be right for a change. <br />
<br />
So, I'm looking on the bright side and not trying to give too much credence to the occult, but just in case, Lil' Ronnie, will you PLEASE take the pins from all those little voodoo dolls you made, that not so mysteriously resemble all of my bikes? I'll TRY not to ever tell you you need to be on a single speed, again. I'll be here for you in your time of bicycle need, and I'll do my level best not to smile too much.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />BIGWORMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01402622780492354683noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7689379400991413672.post-5363257838201807152013-01-25T12:14:00.000-05:002013-01-25T12:51:41.248-05:00Seeking<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://sphotos-a.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash4/185751_10151205174006149_1532348018_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://sphotos-a.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash4/185751_10151205174006149_1532348018_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
With all that has transpired in my life over the past few years, I find far too few moments of inner peace. These moments have not eluded me altogether, they just seem to be more scarce. My patience is short, and my temper quick. I wear these traits like an ill fitting suit.<br />
<br />
This morning, I've been trying hard to simply let things go, and relax. In the process, I created a new Pandora station, based around, of all artists, Neil Young. <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Joes-Bike-Shop/141902196148">I blame Joe! </a>After 5 years of turning wrenches under his shingle, I apparently developed a place in my heart for his tastes for classic vinyl. <br />
<br />
This was always my favorite time of year, at the shop. Doors wide open, and the cool winds blowing through the shop kept us sane after the hateful heat of the summer. Saturday mornings, it was Click and Clack coaching us through car repair, followed by the reggae show. But most of the time, Joe would crank up some classic or another, many I'd never even heard before. Mornings at the shop were spent on the porch, discussing whatever. Lunches were spent on the porch, discussing whatever. Afternoon breaks were spent on the porch, discussing, yet again, whatever. All to a backdrop of tunes so loud that customers were forced to shout their needs. <br />
<br />
I remember Big Ed coming by, a few months after he quit the shop to go work elsewhere. He came in the back and his face was so earnest, as he said, "Don't ever quit, man. You don't even realize how good you have it here. It sucks out there, and you'll hate it.". I knew how good I had it. It all seemed so much more simple then.<br />
<br />
Eventually I left, too. Growth, temporary insanity, maturity, whatever it was, it came time for me to fly the coup. I miss it.....a lot. Joe's family, and I've been remiss in my reunions.<br />
<br />
I may not make it by there today, but in the meantime, I'll lounge in the happy memories in my headphones. Today, my past will bring some peace to my future.<br />
<br />
Thanks, Joe.<br />
<br />
<br />BIGWORMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01402622780492354683noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7689379400991413672.post-56199636719725341352012-11-30T15:29:00.001-05:002012-11-30T15:29:26.986-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn1xkNfEC2bHV02Cc5CaaOyyacCGv-znRla1LDHC-9UW5pvbRco3YdpAcwkEF1gGtes68oGtDfKZ11MEJVQdcCxQN1qDZXmHytnKQYqFIEhJAbDC3T9fpCRCYhD1WzzxB8Wi749mlTMbc/s1600/Garmin+Calender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn1xkNfEC2bHV02Cc5CaaOyyacCGv-znRla1LDHC-9UW5pvbRco3YdpAcwkEF1gGtes68oGtDfKZ11MEJVQdcCxQN1qDZXmHytnKQYqFIEhJAbDC3T9fpCRCYhD1WzzxB8Wi749mlTMbc/s320/Garmin+Calender.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
This is a damn shame. 6 rides in the month of November. Illness, work, travel, all conspired against me, this month.<br />
<br />
No worries, though. Tomorrow starts a new month, and I intend to make up for lost time. The weather is off the charts. This is my favorite time of year to ride. Crisp in the mornings, but mellow by lunch. What fall color we get around here, is in swing, and I like the sound of leaves crunching under my tires, and the smell of fireplaces still burning. It may be Winter in other parts of the country, but it's still Fall, here. <br />
<br />
<br />
BIGWORMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01402622780492354683noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7689379400991413672.post-24299038972207627212012-11-27T12:35:00.001-05:002012-11-27T12:37:02.521-05:00The Repairman<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2566/4100763042_d4e577eb43.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2566/4100763042_d4e577eb43.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I fix things.<br />
<br />
I fell into wrenching on bikes, many years ago. Like many of my employment choices, it wasn't something I aspired to, it was simply something I felt I was qualified to do, and it made me happy. I do not believe that a job defines a person, but I do think that a person who is open to it, will find that their definition will lead them to places where they belong, where they fit.<br />
<br />
I suppose my personality just works along the lines of a repairman. People just naturally reach out to me, when something isn't quite as they feel it should. So and so is mad at what's his name. What wheel makes sense for my new ride? My bike won't shift into any gear, ever. My dad is driving me crazy. It doesn't matter. I just seem to spend a lot of time helping folks fix things.<br />
<br />
I'm good with that. It makes me happy. On occasion, it can be a drag. When I roll up to ride, and the first 3 guys who greet me, are not so much greetings. Why does my brake squeak? My front derailleur is backwards. Have you seen my handlebar anywhere? Sometimes, I'm just like you. I'm just ready to turn a pedal in anger or peace, but mostly just ready to ride off the days problems. I'll fix your issue. Just not this very second. Right now, I'm gonna fix me, then I'm all yours.<br />
<br />
When life is at its most blustery, and the winds of aggravation buffet even the heartiest jacket, I find solace in my shop. The feel of the cold metal and the greasy grit make sense to me. I take the bad, and I make it better. There is a tangible, measurable improvement. My conscious brain knows that control is an illusion, but the rest of me finds peace and stability, in correcting the misplaced strands of a machine's web.<br />
<br />
<br />BIGWORMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01402622780492354683noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7689379400991413672.post-78401785011197440492012-08-31T10:33:00.000-04:002012-08-31T12:01:02.203-04:00Age is a Mindset<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m92nzbkp0E1qmgzkto1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m92nzbkp0E1qmgzkto1_500.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Saw this photo on a tattoo site I follow. It struck a chord. People who know me know that I do not look like your typical 42yo business professional. That's because I am not. I work in an industry that is rife with conservatism and I play along, as needed.<br />
<br />
Occasionally someone feels the need to explain to me that I need to grow up. I need to match their sense of what I should be. <br />
<br />
I don't deny my years, or live in some sort of desperate battle against the march of time. I see it coming, and feel its effects. There's no fighting the inevitable.<br />
<br />
Remaining young is a goal of the mind, more so than the body. My blood still boils at the first chords of my favorite old punk songs, and I seek new bands that instill the same excitement. I can still laugh at the dumbest of jokes, or be engrossed by something as simple as the wind blowing waves across the water. My bikes still take me to that escape and liberation that I found when I was a kid cruising the neighborhoods. <br />
<br />
I look at my tattoos and wonder what they will look like when I'm ancient. But, I do not regret. Each is a reminder of a time in my life, and I like remembering. With time, the mind has a funny way of laundering our memories, and keeping our favorites near the top of the stack. I think it's Nature's way of assisting our souls in remaining Forever Young. BIGWORMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01402622780492354683noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7689379400991413672.post-46728030744526852882012-08-14T15:17:00.000-04:002012-08-14T15:17:06.151-04:00Postulations on Pedaling with Precipitation<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeBbzdUzkGcbd6CR3BYu1HiSKYNNkf62TR6oXXELluJqj21q1uSySScthVROQfSaB822H1LPdUL-FqiLpOccRSjc2UnEWpBvkLBVQcQ3xzQcAMz60j4KUsq3-sXvSaD5fNdObxTWr-8Rw/s1600/torrential-rain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeBbzdUzkGcbd6CR3BYu1HiSKYNNkf62TR6oXXELluJqj21q1uSySScthVROQfSaB822H1LPdUL-FqiLpOccRSjc2UnEWpBvkLBVQcQ3xzQcAMz60j4KUsq3-sXvSaD5fNdObxTWr-8Rw/s320/torrential-rain.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
All this thunder and rain; It's the sound of me getting slower. <br />
<br />
Everyday, the predictions swing wildly, and the accuracy is only mildly more reliable. 80% chance, and we've got dust bunnies and blue skies. 30% day ends in a monsoon.<br />
<br />
It's the same ol' cliche. "A monkey could be a weather man." "My window is my best weather judge." "They should be paid on accuracy." <br />
<br />
I don't want the job, as I think it's Mother Nature's sense of humor, treating meteorologists as her whipping boys. "Predict me, will you?! I doubt it. You're not worthy!"<br />
<br />
I have a rain bike built, but it's far from my favorite ride. So I hedge my bets, leave it in favor of another, and come up snake eyes. Can I really continue to blame it on fate, when I make the same bad wager, over and over?<br />
<br />
Time to wake up and smell the mud puddles. Time to break out my fenders and older, tired, kits. Find that old pair of shoes that still had just enough life left in them, to warrant a spot in the corner of the closet. Time they earned their keep, again.<br />
<br />
Fool's Gold is looming, and I guess I better start earning my own keep. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />BIGWORMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01402622780492354683noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7689379400991413672.post-25170311566115729642012-07-16T13:09:00.000-04:002012-07-16T13:09:08.244-04:00Swamp Air<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/8/83/Cloud_forest_mount_kinabalu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="304" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/8/83/Cloud_forest_mount_kinabalu.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
This past week of mountain bikes has me questioning my worthiness. I finished some much needed repair on the Titus, so I thought that the return of 5" of squishy love would be a welcome change on the trails. <br />
<br />
Unfortunately, that did not come to pass as I saw it in my head. The errant brake is now working well, and the suspension is definitely nice. However, Tallahassee's summer has finally arrived, and is as moist as ever. Three rides in the past week, and all three finished with my jersey pasted to me, as if I'd been hit with the full force of a fire hose. My fingers emerge from my gloves, looking as prune wrinkled as the <a href="http://images.wikia.com/entertainment1/images/b/b1/GoldenGirls.jpg">Golden Girls</a>. <br />
<br />
In the past, I mocked those who asked how we ride through the summer. It's Florida after all, so suck it up. Maybe I'm getting old. Maybe that ship has already sailed, and I'm already old. Either way, I feel that my cx bike is looking at me with a knowing glance. My road bike softly promises to help create all the breeze I can muster, if only one or two small repairs are handled. Something tells me the rides will still be tough, but at least I won't spend every ride getting slapped by swamp mop banana leaves. When I stop for whatever reason, the number of mosquitoes that require a Hulk Smash, will be limited to triple digits. <br />
<br />
I'll still be in the woods, just maybe not quite so often. I may be getting soft, but hopefully I'll be smiling. <br />BIGWORMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01402622780492354683noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7689379400991413672.post-35660979212009718222012-05-31T13:26:00.000-04:002012-05-31T13:38:56.263-04:00Cure<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://bea-kwan.net/garden/catharsis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="http://bea-kwan.net/garden/catharsis.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://bigringcircus.blogspot.com/2012/05/fresh-starts.html">Juancho</a> touched on the subject of rebuilding yourself via cycling. Today, I get where he's coming from, but on a more immediate note, I'm thinking more along the lines of the short term reboot. <br />
<br />
Life came out of the box swinging today, and it feels like the round may never end.<br />
<br />
These are the days, I most want to ride. These are the days I want to sit on the front of the group, and go until I can't feel my fingers anymore. 'Til my arm's tingle and my vision gets spotty. Until the white hot fury burns away, and leaves me clean again. <br />
<br />
Sometimes, reducing things to their basal elements, is the easiest way to gain perspective. Since there are no lions to wrestle, or dinosaurs to dodge, I'll just go ride my bike.BIGWORMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01402622780492354683noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7689379400991413672.post-4835897482682970472012-05-21T08:27:00.001-04:002012-05-21T08:29:36.902-04:00<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/hHez5HSltsA" width="420"></iframe> <br />
<br />
I didn't know Tripp all that well. He was a regular at Revolutions, at the birth of the BC crew. He was a quiet sort of guy, but not unapproachable. He left town for awhile, but eventually I started seeing him on our local trails, again. He would always say hi, and we'd stop and chat when the ebb and flow of our concurrent rides allowed.<br />
<br />
While I don't know much of Tripp's life story, I always liked that bikes had remained a theme in his life. Having been in this for so long, I've seen a lot of faces pick up bikes, and then send them back to some dark corner of the garage. Last time I talked to Tripp, he was excited about another new bike. I don't recall exactly what it was, but does it really matter? He was still excited about another two wheeled toy. <br />
<br />
I don't know that I ever met any of Tripp's family, but I do recall him talking of children. My heart goes out to them, now.<br />
<br />
I heard unconfirmed reports that Tripp was on a trail when his time came. I can definitely think of worse places. May we all be so lucky, as to be in place that has brought long time happiness, when it's our turn. <br />
<br />
With the Dave's ghost bike ride last week, and now this, my tree is a bit shaken. The song above is my favorite reminder to embrace today, for all it's worth.<br />
<br />
God speed boys. God speed.BIGWORMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01402622780492354683noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7689379400991413672.post-59700124797432375392012-05-16T10:29:00.000-04:002012-05-16T11:16:17.160-04:00Memorial<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://thekristiproject.webs.com/candle_0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://thekristiproject.webs.com/candle_0.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Tonight there is a Ride of Silence, to deliver a ghost bike to the site where my friend lost his life. The weather is grey and ominous, and life's stresses weigh heavily on my shoulders. No matter the weight, things could always be worse. I could be in young Jake's shoes, and have seen my father in ways that no son should ever see. I could be the mother driving that car, carrying the death of a father, forever on my heart. <br />
<br />
I lost an old friend, but there are those who lost so much more. To them, my heart goes out.<br />
<br />
The cacophonous, clamor of life can be earsplitting at times.<br />
<br />
Tonight is for silence. <br />
<br />
<br />BIGWORMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01402622780492354683noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7689379400991413672.post-63417075014286958252012-03-30T14:26:00.000-04:002012-03-30T14:26:57.551-04:00Troubled Waters<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.urbantallahassee.com/v4/images/stories/News/cornplant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://www.urbantallahassee.com/v4/images/stories/News/cornplant.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
When I was a kid, I can remember seeing the spillways of the Lake Talquin dam, open to the Ochlockonee, below. The water roiled and bubbled, and made the most interesting patterns on the surface. My Grandfather warned of the dangers of those churning waters.<br />
<br />
<i>Take a man, or boy, down below and hold him there. Too much power in that kind of water, for a man to fight. </i><br />
<br />
I would watch the local fisherman, as their boats lurched and strained against anchor lines. My Grandfather told me of how they had to use extra weights to keep the bait and lures below the surface. Having watched my favorite toys sink like lost stones, when inadvertently dropped, I marveled at a water that would return pure lead, to daylight. <br />
<br />
I couldn't understand how this was a place for good fishing. What fish would choose this tumultuous environment for his home? I could understand spawning salmon, but these fish were certainly not going to find their way clear to Lake Talquin again.<br />
<br />
My own life has taken on a feel of those turbulent waters. Life will do that sometimes. She'll get so rowdy, you're quite certain that you're at the end of your anchor line. <br />
<br />
Maybe those fish didn't choose that spot. Maybe the lake or the river simply brought them there, and they were only looking for an eddy, so that they may take a breather. <br />
<br />
I can get behind that. I've had my moments in the eddies, and I'll be seeking still more, until I drift clear of this crazy water. In the meantime, it was just good to find a reason to remember my Grandfather.BIGWORMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01402622780492354683noreply@blogger.com6