Jinx! Jinx! Voodoo, Jinx!

Depending on who you talk to, I may have asked for it. If you ask me, I blame jealousy!

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!

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.

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!!

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

Seeking

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.

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. I blame Joe!  After 5 years of turning wrenches under his shingle, I apparently developed a place in my heart for his tastes for classic vinyl.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Thanks, Joe.

This is a damn shame. 6 rides in the month of November. Illness, work, travel, all conspired against me, this month.

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.

The Repairman

I fix things.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Age is a Mindset

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Postulations on Pedaling with Precipitation

All this thunder and rain; It's the sound of me getting slower. 

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.

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."

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!"

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?

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.

Fool's Gold is looming, and I guess I better start earning my own keep. 

Swamp Air

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.

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 Golden Girls.

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.

I'll still be in the woods, just maybe not quite so often.  I may be getting soft, but hopefully I'll be smiling.