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.

Cure

Juancho 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.

Life came out of the box swinging today, and it feels like the round may never end.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

God speed boys. God speed.

Memorial

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.

I lost an old friend, but there are those who lost so much more. To them, my heart goes out.

The cacophonous, clamor of life can be earsplitting at times.

Tonight is for silence.