The Trailer Park Cyclist

Journey

2012-02-22T11:49:00.003-08:00

Dumpster Diving

The other day I finally got motivated to do a little work on my old Mongoose Alta. For a couple years she was my only bike and I put a lot of miles on her before I got the Schwinn from Coyote and rediscovered the beauty and the wonder of big skinny tires and gears and the sensation of flight that they impart. After that the Goose mostly sat in the corner collecting dust. I would ride her to the beer store once in a while just for old time's sake, but she felt sluggish and slow compared to the Schwinn. But the other day the Blonde found a bicycle carcass in the Park dumpster and pulled it out for my inspection.

Derelict

It was a sad kind of thing. The frame was brand new. It was one of those low-end comfort bikes they sell at beachside bike shops for weekend riders to use to cruise the boardwalk. It was a single speed, of course, and thoroughly stripped of wheels and chain and seat. All that was left was the frame and fork and handlebars. I put it in the corner with the Mongoose and more or less forgot about it until one day I was straightening up the shop and there it was.

Its a stolen bike, said the Voice.

“No kidding, Voice. What of it?"

It's a stolen bike so you should give it to the cops. The serial number is right there on the bottom bracket.

“Voice, that is a noble intention but you forget: we live in the crappiest trailer park in town and those cops will wonder what happened to the wheels and tires and chain and so on and furthermore, O Noble Voice, perhaps you forgot that here in the Living Room Bike Shop there are many bicycle wheels, tires, used chains and various other parts that might cause suspicion to be cast my way. Duh.”

No, YOU duh. But you're probably right. So what will you do with it? I had not considered this question. In fact, it just occurred to me that I had a probably stolen and definitely stripped and serialized bicycle frame stashed in a room full of bike parts.

“Here, Voice. Take this thing and put it back into the dumpster. I don't want anything to do with it. It is a Tainted Thing. I have spoken.”

Have spoken all you want. I am only a voice and so if that poor derelict is to find its way to the trash heap it will be your problem to make it so. Thus speaks the Voice.

Ashes to Ashes

Stupid Voice. But as usual, the Voice was right. I guess. I pondered further about taking it to the Cop Shop but finally said to hell with it and threw it back from whence it had come. I was crafty; I waited until Wednesday morning to do the disposal. The dumpster guy comes on Wednesday so there would be minimal exposure. I didn't wipe off my fingerprints because it seemed ludicrous to do so...but you never know. I then went on about my day and forgot about the episode, pretty much. I did make note of the sound of the dumpster truck doing its job later that morning and I do remember thinking to myself, “That's that,” and then I went for a Town Ride.

When I came back to the trailer a couple hours later there was the same forlorn frame leaning up against my gate. It looked like it was scratching to get in the same way Toby the Trouble Puppy scratches to get out.

Boomerang

“What the hell,” I thought to myself. Then I knew. The Blonde. I stuck the frame under my front stairs then went next door to her trailer to have a Domestic Policy Conference (DPC). When I walked in she was standing at the counter whipping up a bowl of potato salad. There was something sizzling away on the stove and it sure smelled good and for a moment I forgot why I was there but then I remembered and cleared my throat dangerously in preparation for a stern lecture about stolen goods and social-economic levels and class-based police perception and other things that would come to me after I got started but I was still drawing in a powerful preparatory lungful of hot air when she beat me to the punch.

“Don't go clearing your throat and lecturing me, mister.” She didn't even look up from her work. “Jungle Jim came by here with that thing and said he found it in the dumpster first thing this morning. He said he knew you would be able to get the parts off and recycle the frame. It's aluminum.”

“Who said anything about a lecture? What smells so good?”

If You Can't Beat 'Em

So, setting aside my high moral integrity I took off the mediocre (but alloy) cranks and chain ring. I removed the handlebars (also alloy and the exact high rise bars I have been wanting for the Goose.) I tossed the frame into the Trailer Park recycle pile. Two days ago I put the new bars on the Goose and installed some fat street tires and went for a test ride.

The Big Kid's Bike

Not bad! I had a really cheap big Bell brand saddle from who knows where. I put this on the Goose as well and the upright and soft ride was sweet and it was like a new bicycle and I have been riding it all over the place, kid style. I needed some new handlebar grips and the only place in town for that is the new Super Walmart that opened last month way out on the far side of I-95.

Stranger In A Strange Land

No one we know has been out there yet. To venture beyond I-95 is to go to a Far Country. We get all our needs at the Winn-Dixie and the Dollar General. Well, sometimes one of My Needs requires a trip to Big Bob's Liquors. But these places are a five minute drive and a fifteen minute bike ride so to go much farther than five miles from the Whispering Pines is not necessary. Until now.

So enamored was I with the novelty of my new Kid's Bike I decided to ride it the twelve miles out to the new Super Store and see what this place was all about. Plus, the only other option was the motorsports hunting and bicycle shop boutique that is the closest thing to an LBS in our little town and I was tired of their avarice. When they charged me eight dollars for a tube a couple weeks ago I took a vow and so far have stuck to it. So, child-like and full of wonder, I pedaled off to Oz.

Relapse

As many of you may remember, I had some kind of rather severe bronchial infection last week. I still do, but it has improved enough over the last few days that I felt strong enough to venture forth. As I pedaled vigorously towards the Interstate I had second thoughts. I was coughing again and not feeling strong at all. But cycling is about nothing if not suffering and perseverance. No pain no gain! And I really wanted those grips!

Here There Be Monsters

The shoulder and the sidewalk both gave out about a mile from the Walmart, and I had to traverse the four way cloverleaf at the Interstate. These things are nightmarish for a cyclist. Cars are hurtling around in high-g turns, tires are screeching and whining, the shoulders are strewn with glass and steel-belt wires and some unidentified but gritty substance seen no where else. There is no clear cut way to get through the thing with anything resembling decorum or dignity. If you attempt to use “vehicular cycling” you will be rapidly reminded that as a vehicle, a bicycle is a paltry conveyance when an eighteen wheeler is thundering down the Off Ramp while some bastard who didn't leave on time for the airport is blasting through a yellow light and taking the On Ramp on two wheels while he screams at someone on his cell phone. Even the safe traffic ain't safe in the vicinity of one of these hell holes and there it was and there was the new Super Walmart just on the other side.

Fear Not!

But I am, after all, the Trailer Park Cyclist. I pulled off the filthy shoulder onto the grass. I went a few yards up the side of the On Ramp, waited for a lull and dashed across the On Ramp over to the relative safety of the underside of the overpass. I did some cocky bank shots off the concrete slope under the overpass, paused on the other side to determine that there was no threat of four or eighteen wheeled doom waiting for me and dashed across. I was through! There it was! Good Lord, look at the size of this place. It's like a little city!

America the Bounteous

Walking inside I didn't know whether to weep with pride, shame or bewilderment at the absolute huge cleanness of the place. It was vast and immaculate. That is the only way to describe it. I once saw the Grand Canyon and I remember thinking that it was so large that you could see it, but the brain could not process the vision. It was so alien and strange that there was some kind of disconnect taking place. This Super Walmart is aptly named. Six Whispering Pines Trailer Parks would fit inside.

And yet, for all its vastness and glory, there were only three different handlebar grips to choose from and all three sucked. But I didn't tarry. I grabbed the least suckiest of the three, paid my eight (!) dollars and got out.

The Rest of the Story

Outside, I spit on the handlebars, carefully spread the spit around and slipped on the new grips. Yep. They sucked. But I wasn't riding twelve miles home on bare bars. 'Oh well,” I thought, “they'll do until I get up another order for Tree Fort Bikes or Jensen.” I wait until I have enough money for a hundred dollar plus order so that I get free shipping. It doesn't take long to spend a hundred dollars on bike parts, but it takes me quite a long time to accumulate that one hundred dollars.

I jumped on board and before I even hit the first pedal stroke I realized the new front tire I had mounted yesterday was flat. Real flat, not sorta flat. New tube, serviceable (and fat) tire, careful installation, proper pressure, FLAT.

Sometimes that ol' Karmic Wheel spins pretty quick, said the Voice.

“What?! Cough Cough. Argh!” More coughing. No tools, no pump, no spare tube...looking across the vast plain of the Walmart parking lot, I wondered if that gas station way over there would have an air pump. I decided to push the Goose over and find out. It was a long push, but yes, there was a pump. It would require four quarters and I had twelve bucks left after my shopping spree.

Trailer Park Manifesto

When you are really poor you learn to do without things that some people cannot imagine living without. As for myself, I am sort of poor on purpose. I have learned through brief periods of poverty that I can certainly do without almost everything I can't eat, drink, or wear. If I wanted to do some carpentry work around town, which I would not mind doing, I will need a truck, which in turn will require insurance and gasoline, as well as periodic service. These days things are so bad that carpenters make much less money per hour than they did five or six years ago. But gasoline prices have become drastically higher. Also, the encroaching gentrification of our little surfing/fishing town means that various local government agencies are taking themselves a lot more seriously these days and once that happens, permits and licenses and insurance requirements go up. So, for me to get back in action at the age of fifty six I would have to work significantly harder and longer to make less money to help feed these oil companies and government agencies and car dealers. So for now I fix trailers and ride bicycles.

Where was I?

But manifestos don't fix flat tires. That requires pressurized air, not hot air. So I put four quarters into the machine, apply the nozzle and squeeze. The tire makes a feeble effort to inflate but then quivers and dies in my arms like a tragic heroine in a bad Western.

There must be a hole in the tube, said the Voice.

“Cough! Hack! Ya think?! Really?!”

Attitude: the Difference Between Ordeal and Adventure

(quote courtesy of Bob Bitchin)

Alright, then. I got eleven dollars and there's a Walmart right there. I'll lock up the bike here at the pump and walk back over and get a tube, put it in and be on my way. I walk briskly back across the prairie/parking lot. While inside the store my head starts pounding and those little cold beads of sweat are popping out on my forehead. But I'm way out here in the Florida Outback and this tube is four dollars after tax. OK. When I get back to the bike I notice I ain't feeling so great but there is nothing to do but get this tube on and get out of there. Bending over to take off the wheel I also realize that this 36 spoke rim I decided to put on yesterday is not a quick release. It is two acorn nuts and I need a wrench and now I'm starting to get a little downtrodden. I stand and gaze across the wasteland/parking lot. It's a long way. A shadow darkens the sky and I look up and there it is: one of those fat juicy pregnant-looking Florida cloudburst thunderstorm clouds that were promised for this afternoon. This cloud is quite obviously looking right at me and laughing. Staring at the bike I briefly consider trying to loosen those nuts with my teeth but this gas station is busy and I don't know how these Walmart shoppers will react to the sight of a fifty-something homeless guy thrashing around on the ground in a torrential downpour trying to eat a bicycle.

There's nothing to do but hike the hundred miles back across the parking lot and back into this god-forsaken Cathedral of Crap and buy the cheapest adjustable wrench I can find and then once more cross that parking lot and if this trip don't Get 'er done it will be a fortunate thing that I am so close to the Interstate because I am going to go over to it and throw my bike into the path of an eighteen wheeler and then jump in after it.

Adventure!

A couple of hours later I'm sitting in my trailer drinking my third Budweiser and wondering about my day. The rain never happened and on the way home it took only about fifteen minutes of pedaling before the ordeal was nothing more than another Tim Joe story and Blog. I found a slow and steady cadence on my Big Kid Bike and my breathing and pulse regulated and that was it. The coughing let up and my head quit pounding. Pretty soon I was singing the refrain from that old Journey song, “Wheel In the Sky.”

Not a bad day after all.

“Actually, it was fun.”

And you got a new tool. That cheap little crescent wrench is kinda cool.

“Hey, I forgot about that!”

It doesn't count as an ordeal if there is a new tool in it.

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and House of Pain
#52

Roseanne, the Zombies and the BUG

2012-02-15T07:21:00.007-08:00

Hack Hack Cough Cough

It has been rather cool here in East Central Florida for the past week and I managed to contract one of my dreaded every-other-year colds that tend to put me on the skids for a couple days. When this happens I bravely face my illness with as many potions and powders and pills as I can get my hands on. My goal is to survive through over-the-counter induced coma. I pile books next to my bunk, add blankets to the pile and say my farewells to my dogs and my woman and then crawl into my nest to meet my fate.

Trailer Park Benefits

We don't have a Health Plan here at the Park; in fact, if anything, it would have to be called an Unhealth Plan. Besides, I am far too bold and manly to report to the hospital for a mere chest cold. Not me. What I do is take a bunch of pills that look vaguely like Christmas candy, drink syrups that taste like nothing else in the world and then spend two or three days catching up on my reading, sleeping and alternately whimpering for mercy and howling for more soup or orange juice or whatever else enters my feverish head.

The Bad English Patient

The Blonde is always very indulgent for the first couple of hours. Once she realizes I actually do have an illness and not just a more worser than usual hangover, she suddenly remembers a bunch of errands and shopping she forgot to do and then disappears for the next couple of days. She ain't no Florence Nightingale, but I admit that I am the worst patient in the world and if we were Eskimos, there would be an ice floe somewhere out there with my name on it.

But that was three days ago and now here I am, typing merrily away with only an occasional rumble in my chest and that delightful sniffle thing that doesn't warrant an actual nose blowing but makes you snert and sniff and wish for warmer days.

Irregular Programming

As an inveterate Bicycle Nerd I hang out at a Site called Old Ten Speed Gallery. Over there we are like those guys in High School that really did believe that Esperanto would one day be the One World Language, instead of Klingon. But our language is bicycles and OTSG is like that saloon where everyone knows your name. In the course of yacking it up about an old Schwinn Caliente a frequent contributor mentioned that Roseanne Barr and John Goodman are appearing in a pilot episode of a new TV series. This time the plot centers around life in a Trailer Park.

I know what you are thinking. You're thinking “Hey! Trailer Park Cyclist! You live in a trailer park!”

Or maybe you're thinking, “Esperanto? What's that? Some kind of soup?”

Or, “ Remember when this Blog used to be cool?”

Hold on. I have to blow my nose. Did I mention that I have been sick?

Hooray For Hollywood

So anyway, these Hollywood big shots are going to try and illustrate in a touching and humorous manner what I live with everyday. They will get it wrong, of course. These guys are so far removed from this layer of strata that they can't even imagine what really goes on. Me, I came to trailer living late in life, as many do. But most of those other elderly trailer dwellers have sold their homes up North and came here to live in pretty nice trailer parks with golf carts and swimming pools and clubhouses where they all get together and do all that hokey crap that you do when you retire. Whatever it is. I don't know. I only say it is hokey because I went to one of those places once and in the clubhouse there were a bunch of people only marginally older than me actually doing the Hokey-Pokey. No, really.

The Whispering Pines isn't a retirement trailer Park. It isn't a place where elderly people come to hang out until, You Know. I guess those big fancy retirement parks are like luxurious ice floes.

Zombies!

The Whispering Pines is more of a place to come and not wait for the Big Sleep, but rather to embrace it. Most of the people here are pretty drug-addled. The advent of these super-strong downers like oxycontin or whatever it is has created a new American Class. While the middle class is shrinking, we now have the Rich, the Poor and the Zombies. Government subsidized medical programs are shoveling these Zombie Pills into the eager maws of the impoverished like Manna from Hell. I see it everyday. The sheer volume of these pills is unbelievable.

I don't expect to see a lot of Zombie episodes on Rosanne's new show, but it would be pretty cool if there were. In fact, unless I break down and buy a TV, I probably will never even see a single episode.

This is all a little depressing. Probably aftershocks of the meds I took for my cold. Did I mention...

Meanwhile, Back At the Bicycles...

In the world of bicycles, frequent commenter and Horticulturizing Cyclist Dee was kind enough to answer my query as to what she has been up to Down Under:

To: Trailer Park Cyclist:

In my copious spare time I am the president of the James Cook University Bicycle Users Group. A couple of years ago the Uni got a new high tech central cooling system, and all the old individual cooling plants were set to become redundant. The cooling plant for the library was housed in this great little building I had always liked, so I contacted my facilities management people and asked if it could become a bike shed when the old plant was removed. To my surprise and eternal gratitude they thought that was a great idea, and they spent a lot of money to make it happen. It needed a new concrete floor, and a roof (I guess it never had a full roof before) and they partitioned off a workshop and added lockers. They wanted to add showers but there was no plumbing available. I almost lost the project at that point because they figured if I couldn’t have showers I wouldn’t want it, but they were so wrong!

Anyway, many meetings and good will later it is all happening. Took us a fair time to get the community bike shop concept going, because it needs volunteers. I got tired of waiting for interested people to come together and went out with another employee and gathered up all the abandoned bikes at the colleges and put them in the shed, and now lots of people are really excited to have bikes to play with, and the workshop is starting to take shape.

O-week is next week, and we will be selling cheaply anything we get fixed by Wednesdays market day. As for the rest, I figure I will invite students to choose a bike, join the BUG and do it up to keep for free themselves. I just love all this. I am a terrible doer.

But NOT a terrible Zombie. Good work, Dee! JOIN THE BUG!

That's it for now.

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Hack Attack

#51

Floating

2012-02-04T09:24:00.001-08:00

Notes From A Sunny Day

I went out for a Float yesterday. A Float is a ride that I take that requires that I exert absolutely no physical exertion. It is a ride involving quiet streets and trails and sidewalks. I'm going really slow and that is OK because I am also going nowhere. The main requirement for one of my Float Rides is that I have as little external stimulation as possible. Well, there are two main requirements: no exertion and no exterior distractions like threatening automobiles or chasing dogs or road debris or even beautiful scenery.

I took this ride totally unplanned. I originally set out to cruise over to the beach at a moderate pace and then ride over the Big Bridge one or two or maybe even three times because it is the only “hill” for miles around and sometimes I like to pretend I am On Tour and I am told that touring involves hills.

But The Best Laid Plans

But as I floated coasting down the gentle incline that leads from my trailer to the river, as I adjusted my glasses and wiggled my flip flops into an optimal position in the toe straps and as I prepared to turn North onto the River Road I realized I wasn't up for a ride. I just didn't feel like it. There was trouble in my soul and things I needed to get sorted out in my head (and heart) and I should go back to the Park and work out some of these damned little nuisance issues and get going.

But Then...

Or you should just wander aimlessly on your bicycle and do your sorting and worrying and then go back to the Park. The Trouble at the Park is self propagating and will always be there.

“You don't think I know what 'propagating' means, do you, Voice? Well, I do.”

Don't worry, there won't be a quiz or anything. But when was the last time you did lazy figure eights in the parking lot across from City Hall?

“It's been a long time. I think I'll do that.” The City Hall in our little town of Hawks Park sits across the River Road from a big park and boat launch ramp and is surrounded by water on three sides. On a weekday there is almost no one there and back before I was a Serious Cyclist I would ride my old Tramp Steamer ('91 Mongoose Alta converted to single speed) all over the place. I was always going slow and those big tires gave a very pronounced floating effect. The Tramp is set up for a pretty upright position and has a big padded saddle and she was my daydream ride before the Big Schwinn came along. Now she mostly hangs on the wall.

Why Fight City Hall?

So I went to the big public parking lot and did some figure eights. Low and Slow and I amused myself by seeing how tight a circle I could do on my Old Ten Speed before falling over. Remember that? Remember being a kid and just Goofing Off on your bike and doing nothing except pedaling around with nowhere to go? I do. If you don't remember, go out and do a Low and Slow Float and it will come back to you. It is a necessary thing to sometimes reach inside ourselves and find that kid that could laugh out loud and to remember a time when Troubles were fleeting and life was a long and seemingly endless path that stretched out before us. A long path of hope and promise and joy.

It is a promising path when you are looking forward from youth but a tormented trail when looking back from the end of the story.

“You're just chock full o' wisdom today, aren't you Voice? But shut up. I'll do the proselytizing around here. And anyway, you're wrong. Sure, There's plenty of stuff I wish had been better, but to call my life a “torturous trail” is wrong. There were lots of good times. Like today.”

The Heart Of the Matter

By now I have left the parking lot across from City Hall and wandered into the the big old neighborhood down the street that was carved from a primeval Florida Oak Forest. What is nowadays called the Indian River was once a huge soggy swamp. The oak trees and palms that grew along the edges of this swamp had plenty of water and rich soil in which to propagate. (Ha!) Those oaks are ancient and moss-covered and the houses in that neighborhood are from a time before we cookie-cut our dwellings. They are large and individual and handsome and the sidewalks in front are made of some kind of concrete that you don't see anymore. The streets are broad and the sidewalks are empty and just right for a sunny day when a Troubled Cyclist needs to pedal around lost in thought and sorting things out and has no need for speed or destination. The Spanish moss hangs low and must be dodged; some low hanging limbs reach out for a high-five and I absent-mindedly give them one. I can wander this place all day, crawling along the sidewalk at a far faster speed than walking but pretty slow all the same.

Meanwhile, Back At the Park...

Whispering Pines Trailer Park is an old and venerable institution. It has probably always been the Worst Trailer Park In Town. I know that it is these days. After a year of working pretty hard to get things cleaned up and fixed up, I can look around me and see improvement. Where before there were crumbling wooden steps leading into dilapidated trailers, now there are neat little roofed porches of my design and installation. I have ripped out many rotten floors and walls and replaced them with appropriately inexpensive but carefully crafted repairs. Roof leaks have been fixed and fences mended and added and there have been some minor landscaping efforts. Improvement, yes, but far from anything I can qualify as satisfying.

Words To Live By

The motto of this Blogsite is “Life ain't that bad when you're happy with what you have.” There are times when I am proud of this attitude and there are other times when I see it as a cop out, a form of Acceptance of Less that could also be considered the Byline of a Loser.

Whatever

But what of that? As I wander slowly through these quiet streets of fine homes with their facade of tranquility, maintaining my pace with only an occasional pedal stroke, I realize all too well that within these dwellings there is as much joy, pain and turmoil as there is inside the lowliest Trailer here at the Park. Human Life is Universal. All the rest is stage settings.

Life.

Grandpa Was A Tree Hugger

My cadence today is about six RPM and it suits me just fine. I'm not going anywhere, not anytime soon, anyway. My efforts at the Whispering Pines have been rewarded with My Own Little Corner of the Park. The heavy burden on my soul today has many sources. One is that I am Becoming Happy which has always been a sign of clouds on the horizon. There are other things going on, things that are not really my business or problem but the Problems of the Park all seem to find their way to me soon enough. But I have Me Little Darlin' to pedal slowly around this cool old town and I reach down and pat the top tube. I really do. As a writer and delusional cyclist I tend to anthropomorphize All the World. I can't help it. There is a powerful Pagan somewhere in my ancestry and I am glad for him; because of him I seek out the sounds and signs that bring me into the Here and Now. Would you rather listen to the wind in the trees or a politician? Would you prefer conversing with a squirrel or the Lady Behind the Counter? Stare at the television or the rising Full Moon?

I'm not special. We all see and hear these things. Like a listener turning the knob on an old-time analog radio, we skip many channels in search of the sound we want to hear. There are many stations to tune into.

You are being sentimental and maudlin, said the Voice.

“It's just that kind of day, Voice.”

We've Been Down This Road Before

And so it is. In the enforced Slowing Down of this damnable Recession I came to this little Trailer Park where my old friend Coyote has lived for many years. I knew about this place and when the Blonde and I found ourselves at the end of our resources and my not inconsiderable ability to dodge old creditors and scam new ones was no longer working, when all my best efforts brought us to the face of defeat I sounded a retreat, rented a little trailer and began again.

And so Here Am I, burdened with Happiness, pedaling a bicycle that I love around a town that makes me glad no matter where I look, pedaling slowly and with wonderful mindlessness around this Old Hawks Park while the voices in my head rage back and forth, sorting things out for me while I take a ride and high-five ancient oak trees and let the voices have their way up there. It takes very little effort on my part; in fact, it seems the less effort that I spend on Trouble , the more quickly It is resolved.

Enjoy your Ride, Boss. I'll let you know when we get it figured out.

“I know you will, buddy. I know you will.”

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Think Tank

#50

The Incredible Lightness of Being A Clydesdale

2012-01-23T14:59:00.000-08:00

You Think That Other Guy Is the Fat Cyclist?

Look, there is something I want to make clear: my Buffalo Status is getting worse. To call myself a Clydesdale is an insult to the equines of the world. But then again, a Clydesdale may be bigger than a Buffalo. How am I supposed to know all this stuff? I know when I was a little kid the Budweiser Clydesdales came to town for some event or another and Mom took us to see them. Man. Those things were big. Ummm, Budweiser...

Weighty Matters

Where was I? Having finally sobered up long enough to sit down and bang out a Blog post, I found myself thinking about weight. Well, I suppose that we all think about our weight pretty much all the time. We are the Fattest Nation on Earth and the Most Obsessed With Thinness. Crazy, huh? While I have always ridden a bicycle for relaxation and exercise, it wasn't until this past year that I became obsessed with all things cycling and weight related. And a funny thing happened. I found out I could increase the length and speed of my rides only slightly and the weight would start to drop off one drip at a time.

Wow! That means I can eat all I want as long as I add a few miles here and there and bear down a little on the stretches that I used to ride slowly!

Yeah, right.

And Another Thing

The other thing that happens is that the Cycling Obsession results in a lot of time looking at other cyclists on the internet. It is easy to identify with these people. I mean, we all ride bicycles, don't we? The thing is, photographers and editors of cycling magazines tend to not photograph fat cyclists. Yeah. So I spend many hours imagining myself thin and strong and fast but then the Reality of the Saddle sets in once astride my steed and I'm huffing and puffing and arguing with the speedometer and blaming my Mom for taking me to see that Budweiser Parade when I was only five years old, imprinting me for life and giving me The Thirst That Is Never Quenched.

So I Ride

So I got my holiday-enlarged self out on the bike a couple days this week, riding my old familiar 24 mile course. I have seen the scenery on that ride so many times that looking around and goofing off is easy not to do. Instead I ride, I push and sometimes instead of downshifting to maintain my cadence I just pedal harder. I pedal a little harder until those big thigh muscles start complaining and then I back off and catch my breath and congratulate myself on my stupendous effort and then I do it again.

But Man Those Ribs Are Good!

I don't know if it will work or not but something's gotta give. In my twisted world-view I figured starting a Barbecue Sauce Empire and Rib Shack would meld gracefully with my efforts at Cycling Superiority. Since Uncle Bill and I have started having Sunday cook-outs every Sunday, guess what happened to my Sunday Centuries? Unless eating a hundred ribs and drinking a hundred beers counts as a Double Century, I'm not doing so hot.

Those cookouts are a lot of fun. They have a slight chance of translating into a late-life career change that may Save the Day. Those Century Rides were endurance events. They didn't start out as Centuries. Originally I was very unemployed and very poor and very depressed and I would ride my bicycle A Long Way and then realize I had to ride back, also a long way. Then I started measuring the miles and realized that if I did it on purpose I could brag about it online and then one day I realized that sooner or later some Young Gun would drop by to make me Prove It.

Whatever Happened To Billy the Kid?

I'm not too concerned about a shoot-out, however. I am Old and Tricky. Any Bonzai Buckaroo comes around here lookin' to Ride Long with the Old Man will first be stuffed so full of ribs and beer that his carbon fiber bike-cycle will collapse beneath him before the first mile. Besides, I am accustomed to being a Clyde and I'm good at it.

So How About This?

Today I rode 24 miles in an hour and twenty-five minutes. The wind was gentle and out of the east on a more-or less North-South ride. No hills. A really nice day. Is that a good time? I have no idea. I mean, yeah, I had a good time. But how fast is that in the real world? I know a group can generally go faster than a solo rider, due to drafting and humiliation and those slots in the helmets. But that is my fastest time on this familiar course and since I have some catching up to do, I thought it might be a personal challenge to see how many minutes I can whittle off that target time of 1:25. It might cause me to whittle a few pounds off my Buffalo Butt and get me back to that coveted Clydesdale Status.

What's In the Stand

Meanwhile, what about Bike Repair? Funny you should ask. I haven't been doing any. We all know what that means: something is due to break. Oh, I had a roadside flat last week. I fixed it in twelve minutes. I seem to be timing things these days. But I had it fixed and up and running in twelve minutes so now I guess I have another target time to try and reduce. Not that I want to work on that particular time.

Old Steel Rules

But, no, my Old Schwinn has only been mounted in the stand for purposes of worship. I haven't even squirted any lube on her for a while now. Man, I love that bike! What a machine! Thirty-plus years old and still Kickin' It. That Mavic wheel and Tiagra hub are still as sweet and smooth as they were when they were new. The chain is shiny and the SRAM cassette silent and crisp.

But now that I have jinxed myself by writing about over a thousand and a half maintenance free miles, I think I will wander over to the bench and grab some clean rags and some Armor-All and a spoke wrench and some chain oil, open a can of Clyde and do a little worshipful work.

Have You Hugged Your Bike Today?

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Buffalo Preserve

#49

Moonshine

2012-01-19T10:49:00.000-08:00

Another Day In the Park

Three trailers over my good friend Jungle Jim is revving the motor on his old Triumph motorcycle. The sound is just distracting as hell, especially when I am trying to Blogulate and Edify. But there is nothing to be done about it; to Jim it is the Music of the Spheres and also totally necessary as he tries to get his crotchety old Weber carburetor to do its proper job. Many, many years have passed since that motorcycle left the factory and it takes a genius like Jim to keep it alive. I know all this and appreciate it and so the revving of his old engine, while distracting, is music to me also.

Plus I appreciate my friend Jim and feel indulgent towards his sometimes crotchety proclivities. Old guys should stick together and we do. It is not a secondary consideration that Jim has an old Raleigh Pro stashed away in his stash room and he has not thrown a leg over that bike in Lo These Many Months. As you all know, the TPC is not a covetous or materialistic person, but me and Jim are the same size. And that Pro has a full Campy drive train.

But That's Not All

Also filling my ears is some birdsong and squirrel chatter outside my door. It is mid-winter Florida, we are suffering from some downright chilly 50 degree nights and it only got up to 70 yesterday...

Trains!

Wait...as I type these words the Florida East Coast Railway train just blew through. The tracks are only about a half mile from my trailer door and it is one of the comforting sounds of my life. I live in a really sweet and quiet place. That FEC runs on a schedule and it reassures and guides me through the night. In the old days I would wake up at 3 AM and start worrying about every possible thing I could remember to worry about. But now the 3 AM train blows through in the middle of the night and I stir in my sleep and think to myself 'That's the Three O'Clock Train” and I fluff up my feather pillow and go back to sleep. I never dream about bicycles, but I wish I did. At 6 AM the Morning Train comes through and gently wakes me from my bicycle-less dreams and I start my day.

Two Doctors Are A Pair A Docs

To be gently awakened by a freight train is just one of the many paradoxes of the World of the Trailer Park Cyclist. Here's another: As a Blogular Wizard and Wordsmith of Many Wonders, I frequently find it necessary to skip work and massage my weary brain with morning beer and birdsong. This don't sit so well with Miss Jo the Trailer Park Manager. As I type these words she is at my trailer door.

“Are you busy?” she asks.

“I'm always busy, Jo. What do you want? I'm Blogulating.”

She comes in with a Spiritual Offering. By spiritual I actually mean spirits, as in the Old Way of referring to alcohol. Every so often Miss Jo gets a mysterious shipment of corn liquor from her family up in Arkansas and she then buys a couple gallons of apple cider and some cinnamon sticks and cooks up this heady brew that keeps me incapacitated for several days. I like it. Today is one of those days and one of the cool things about being poor and living in a trailer park is I can goof off, listen to birdsong and freight trains and drink moonshine and yet, miraculously, the World Keeps Turning.

Yet Another Disclaimer

Be Thou Not Jealous, my Friends and Readers! It is a life of Sloth and Cycling but remember: mixed with this glorious laziness are frequent periods of working on sewer pipes and mildewed floors and rotten walls. It ain't all drunkenness an foolishness. Sometimes I suffer.

But not today.

Remember When I Was Cool?

So...what about the bicycles? No news. I rode 24 miles a few days ago. That's my old Regular Loop that I have done so many times that I really do it as though it were a dream. My other More Better ride is the Daytona Loop, but I ride it less because it involves Old Highway One which is dirty, filled with tire-piercing debris and homicidal pickup drivers. But it takes me further afar and so I take it when I am feeling bold. Today? I don't know. Just hanging out with you guys and doing nothing. I could ride, but sometimes it is pure luxury to just be a dude (and a lazy dude at that) and share my thoughts and kookiness with my friends.

Tell them about Toby the Trouble Puppy, said the Voice.

“What?”

You know, how cute he was with his head on your pillow this morning and...

“Voice, this is a Lazy Drunken Dude Post, not a Gay-Turned-Into-Martha Stewart post. Man! This won't look good when your annual job review comes up! You know, there are a lot of Voices out there looking for jobs! You better watch it, buddy!” Stupid Voice.

That's not what you said when the Six O'clock train was coming through. He was licking your nose and you liked it.

Well, that's true. Ol' Toby the Trouble Puppy is one cute little rascal. What a day! Miss Jo will get by, as will the Blonde. Toby the Love Puppy will be a danged cute little dog, Miss Daisy will continue her noble Elder Dog status. The birds will sing, the squirrels will chatter, and the trains will run on time. Hopefully, also: the World Will Turn. I am somehow certain of this.

Treat yourselves today, my friends. You deserve it.

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Distillery

#48

What About Lance?

2012-01-13T20:01:00.000-08:00

The Story Thus Far

As many of you may recall, I was negligent in my duties a while back and let the Quasitron 6000 Steam Powered Search Engine Thing fall into disrepair. This resulted in considerably less ranting on my part, cut off as I was from The World Outside the Park. But ultimately, repairs were made and yesterday I managed to scrape together enough coal and scrap lumber to get a fire going and build up a little steam and spin the dials and pull the chains that would tell me What Was Going On Out There.

I Heard the News Today

Skimming across the usual stories of human folly and dog tricks that make up much of the news, I was surprised to learn that it was already an Election Year. Imagine my surprise! Apparently, that Son Of A Bush wasn't ruining things anymore and some Foreign Guy took over. At least his name looks foreign. Is that legal? Thinking perhaps that I might garner some Blogular Material by looking at the Political News I jumped in.

Yuck!

Then I quickly jumped back out and took a quick shower with extra soap and resolved the same resolution I make every four years: to pretend that I live in the Emerald City and the Man Behind the Curtain is a Benevolent Man and everything will be alright. That may or may not be working out but who knows? I live in a Trailer Park.

Lance and Casey, Sittin' In A Tree...

Meanwhile, the Ol' Quaz kept chugging away and wheezing and rumbling as it is wont to do. I arranged the abacus-styled letter board into the roughly-hewn words “Cycling News” and got this result:

“Lance Armstrong Announces Marriage to Casey Anthony”

“What the hell,” I thought, "That can't be right." I kicked the Quasitron strategically, causing it to shudder spasmodically before spitting out another result:

“Pope Declares Lance Armstrong Is the Antichrist.”

“What the heck has that fool boy done now?” I wondered. “I thought he retired.”

He only retired from Pro Cycling, said the Voice. He is still actively involved with his cancer charity.

“You mean LiveStrong? Why would that get the Pope going against him? Helping the families of cancer victims seems like a good thing. Sometimes I wonder about that Pope guy.”

Maybe the Quasitron needs another kick, the Voice replied.

So I broke up my last good chair and threw it on the fire. I wasn't going to kick the Ol' Quaz again; the care and maintenance of our machinery is a human responsibility. It is important, however, for humans to remember to keep their machinery simple and to never let any one machine rule over too many functions, lest we become mere slaves to the machine. That's why, in my wisdom, I ride an elderly steel bicycle with down tube shifters and employ a steam powered computer. But I was worried about this Lance stuff. I rearranged the the letters on the input abacus to say:

“What about Lance?”

Play Outside

This time my trusty Search Engine spit out a report and a reprint of an article in a popular thing called a “Glossy” that has a shiny surface and displays many shiny things that cost a lot of money. But if you buy this glossy you can at least gaze in admiration at those things; and meanwhile gaze in envy and wonder at the blessed gods who can afford those things. This particular glossy is apparently called “Outside” and is aimed at people who would rather sit inside and look at pictures of the outdoors without actually going there and getting dirty and sweaty and bug-bit and all the gritty stuff that goes on “outside.”

I remember hearing my mom yell “Play Outside!” as though it was some kind of punishment.

But my Mom is gone now and Lance Armstrong is still here and it seems as though a lot of people wish he was gone as well, but not me. I don't know Lance, but I respect him. And I'm wrong. People don't want Lance dead. They want him alive and sequestered at Guantanamo Bay or Leavenworth and they want him water-boarded and they want to take humiliating photos of him piled naked on a pile of fellow pro cyclists and they want to poke him with sticks and shoot him full of arrows.

St. Francis d' Armstrong

OK, I got the arrows part from the photo accompanying the article in Outside Magazine.

That article did a kind of dirty thing. It didn't attack the man; it instead went after the charitable organization that he represents. It kinda-sorta made sneaky, devilish little insinuations that somehow, if Lance Armstrong used performance enhancing drugs to become the World's Greatest Bicycle Hero, cancer sufferers should be left alone to face the vast void of the sickness and loss and pain of a debilitating disease that will strip you down and tear you to pieces, caring not if you are the victim or the caretakers of the victim, the tortured friends and family watching their loved ones slip away as ravaged and torn as a leaf in the rapids. A leaf in the rapids is lost, lost already the moment it leaves the tree, but that ride down the rapids, through the rocks and going faster than you can stand...

Listen: Every person in America knows someone who has died of cancer. It's that bad. And cancer people die. It is just the unavoidable truth. Did Lance use drugs to win those seven Tours? I don't know. I think he probably did. What if he just drank an extra glass of orange juice or used some sexual magick ritual involving lady rock stars and human sacrifice? Dammit People! Its professional sports! Our bloodthirsty television-addicted species won't be satisfied until we once again have coliseums filled with ravenous spectators demanding the Death of the Loser.

Here's the Part I Don't Get

But Lance Armstrong ain't a loser. In this case the ravenous crowd is calling for the death of the Winner. Why? I'm still not certain. Maybe he is Just That Good. Is it really cheating when you play the game by the secret rules? Sure, it is ethically or morally wrong; but who amongst us stands on a high enough pinnacle of righteousness that we can judge?

Seven Tour de France Wins. Seven. Doped to the gills in a school of sharks also doped to the gills.

Scandals of sex and debauchery? No. Murder of ex-wife and boyfriend? No. Bossing around and intimidating team members and fellow riders? Sure. Go win the biggest event in cycling seven times and that becomes almost a responsibility. I would do it.

Professional Cycling ain't no Sunday School, folks. It's more like the world of Gangsta Rap. (Do they still call it that?) You can meet death plying your trade. Intimidation is part of the skill set.

Back to the Park

Ok, Ok, let me take a breath here. The fires are quieting down in the Quasitron 6000, evening is upon us and I realize that I have been ranting. Me and Miss Daisy both need to go outside and do our business. It might interest my readers to know that I am a doper. Stay your outrage, I say, stay it! My dope is the beers and shots of rum it takes for me to strip away the veneer of bullshit that we all wear to get through the day In This Our Modern World. I cannot bare my inner thoughts without a little chain lube and self-eraser libation. It takes a certain amount of chemical soul-stripper to get to the truth.

Trailer Parks Are Where Its At

I am home and safe and free from the slings and arrows that Lance is facing, alone, out there in the dark night of Fame and Infamy. Godspeed Lance! Be thou not the Fallen Warrior! Fear not the rabid hyenas that circle the fire and jabber for your blood!

You are an American Hero; twisted, flawed, but Heroic all the same.

It is night; I have a home and a warm blanket on this chilly night at the Whispering Pines Trailer Park.

I hope all of you, also, are safe and warm.

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Domestique Training Center

#48

Guilt and Expiation

2012-01-10T05:12:00.000-08:00

Hello everyone!

It would give me great pleasure to say that the reason for my long absence is that I am very busy, which would be true. But it doesn't give me pleasure at all. In fact, I spend my days skulking around the Park with a dark cloud of guilt hanging over my head. Why guilty, you ask? I'll tell you: Even though I am constantly occupied and never seem to have enough time, I can honestly say that since the New Year started I haven't done a single constructive thing. Which ain't good, considering I earn my keep by being, uh, well, constructive.

No working on trailers, no riding my bike; I'm falling behind on my beer-drinking and Miss Daisy the Yellow Dog really needs a bath. Oh, the shame, the degradation! Worst of all is how I have been ignoring my Beloved Blog and the Three People who read it! O Wondrous Guilt!

In Other Words You're A Lazy Bum

So what have I been doing? Glad I asked. The truth is, I don't know. I took a 40 mile cruise Sunday Morning and huffed and puffed over a course I usually ride with ease. In spite of my best efforts to abstain from over-indulgence, the Holidays have certainly taken a toll on my physique. When I pulled on my bib shorts for the first time in 2012, it looked (and felt) like some Evil Elf had sneaked into my closet and sewn a bowling ball into the front liner. And listen: that same Elf apparently works on bicycles as well; my handlebar drops were obviously several inches lower than they were last Fall and I spent the entire ride with my gloves on the hoods. This meant, of course, I spent almost three hours riding around in a mostly upright position resulting in the dreaded symptom technically referred to as PITA. Look it up in your medical journals.

Do You Want A Little Cheese With That Whine?

I know, I know: I live at Whispering Pines, not Whimpering Pines. (As a side note, I have lived here for nigh on two years and I still don't know what those Pines are whispering about. It's spooky.) But all my Masculine Whining aside, it has been a multi-layered dilemma that I suspect my Readers are familiar with: cycling is physically addictive and endorphin junkies like me need the fix. But Seasonal Affective Disorder sets in sometime after Thanksgiving, the skies darken and the temperature drops. The warm glow of the computer screen beckons and there is nothing like a frosty beer or ten while you are surfing the web and imagining all the riding you are doing while reading about all the riding others are doing.

And I live in Florida! The cold weather I am complaining about would be positively balmy to my Northern Friends. (The North is defined as any area above Interstate 10.) Hence the guilt.

This Part Ain't Funny

Another thing happened just before Christmas. A touring cyclist from Oregon was hit by a truck here in town on Hwy One. A seventy-two year old man with "low blood sugar" was blasting South in his van and had a dizzy spell or something and ran over a twenty-one year old kid who managed to pedal all the way across the United States before getting to Florida and...what? The newspaper only reported that he was in critical condition. There has been no follow-up story and by now it is old news. We may never know how it turned out.

My Friends Try To Cheer Me Up

That section of road is part of my North Wind Ride. When I ride North to Daytona, I return on that very shoulder of the highway. It could have been me. At the cookout Sunday, I was talking to Uncle Bill about bicycles.

“Aren't you afraid somebody might smack into you with a car when you're out on the highway like that?”

I instantly flashed to the Oregon kid's accident. It wasn't pretty. I don't know what that young guy looks like, but sometimes I get up the courage to look in the bathroom mirror in the morning, so I know what Tim Joe looks like. It was Old Tim Joe I got a mental snapshot of being struck from behind at high speed by a truck veering onto the shoulder. Man, it wasn't pretty. I took a big gulp from my Budweiser, took a breath and looked Bill in the eye.

“I'm not afraid,” I said. “It could happen anytime, but there is nothing I can do about it. I can't let it stop me from riding.”

There were others around the fire and everyone started talking at once about various people they have known over the years who managed to get run over while riding bicycles. What cheerful Sunday conversation for the Trailer Park Cyclist!

But I am not afraid. I rode over 2500 miles in 2011 with nothing I could really describe as a close call. There were moments. Oh, there were moments, to be sure. But what are you going to do? Wear high visibility clothing, pick your routes as best you can, be very aware of your surroundings and Keep On Stroking.

Ahem. OK. Now then, back to the whining...

What does 2012 hold in store for us? Hard to say. I have a hard enough time even typing the number 2012 and associating it with an actual date. Isn't that the Future? Seriously, what the hell happened?

One year follows another and so on but how can so many years have gone by so fast?

Maybe That Is What the Pines Are Whispering About.

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Old Folks Home

#47

Chicken, Beans, Bread and Eggs

2011-12-11T07:23:00.000-08:00

The Once and Future Cyclist

After a month on hiatus I planned to come back strong with a kick-ass post about epic rides to far away and exotic places. I was looking forward to relating my thoughts and dreams and taking my readers along for the ride. I was even planning a dramatic and colorful New Look for the Trailer Park Cyclist website. There would be Exciting Contests and Fund Raisers and, and, Pictures! And once a month I would give away a shiny new carbon fiber bicycle. Yee-Ha!

Well, that didn't happen. But I promise that if I ever find myself in possession of a carbon fiber bicycle I will Give It Away.

Life's A Bitch AndThen You Move Into A Trailer Park

What happened instead is pretty mundane stuff. As you all know, I was recently restored to my post as trailer park repairman. Although stripped of my former title (Head (Only) Big Man In Charge of Fix-it) I still had plenty of work to do, work of a rather dismal nature. Rotten wood in bathroom floors requiring scraping and chipping and frequent hand washing. The usual tearing out of rotten walls and floors and all the while I was trying to think up Great Things to say for the benefit of my constituency.

But there was nothing in my head but moldy dust and the pressure of getting these trailers ready and constant thoughts of “why didn't I stay in college” and

“Chicken, beans, bread and eggs...anything else?”

“What? Don't do that! I'm Blogging! Blogging is Holy!” The Blonde is on her way to the Winn-Dixie and getting supplies for this afternoon's cookout. Uncle Bill is going to whip out a big pile of chicken and ribs. But there is a House Rule that when I am composing one of my masterpieces, There Shall Be Silence.

I talk all the time while you are Blogging, said the Voice.

“Don't I know it, Voice. And shut up. Now where was I?” Once my concentration is broken it can take days for me to get it back. Let's see..."It was the Best of Times"...no, that ain't it. Uh, "Call me Ishmael.".. no, dangit...

“OK, Honey, I'll be back. I'm taking the dogs with me. If you think of anything else, just call me.”

Arghh! This must be why Beethoven went deaf and Van Gogh cut his ear off!

The Life Of the Trailer Park Cyclist (Sans Cycling)

And so it goes. If anyone is interested, here's the latest in the Life of the Trailer Park Cyclist. And don't worry, I'll get bicycles in there somehow.

Be They Ever So Humble, There's No Place Like (Mobile) Homes

Off in one dusty corner of Whispering Pines Trailer Park there is a trio of seriously dilapidated trailers. Well, actually, only two of them are dilapidated now. One of them got the Tim Joe Whang-Dang-Doodle put on it last spring and now it is a shiny clean and new-like mobile home. It sold immediately to a guy who was obviously not able to afford it and then the money ran out and he was vacated rather rudely by yours truly and the Blonde moved in. I'm sitting in the kitchen there now.

Next door is a trailer that is so bad that it was uninhabitable and we were going to tear it down for scrap (about $600 at the recycling center) but then I got one of my bright ideas and bought it really cheap from the owners and so after hacking away at the other units in the Park all day I go hack away at my New Castle. I'm halfway there and there is an Old Chinese Proverb that says “Before undertaking any adventure, put your trailer in order.” Or maybe that's an old Tim Joe Proverb. I can never tell.

So I'm ripping that trailer down to the bare frame and then putting it back. The Blonde and the Twins are safe and dry and comfortable here in their own space and I am putting mine back together with a dedicated Bicycle Repair Center up front and a Writer's Nook in the back. I have truly gutted this trailer. There will be a sweet little kitchen space designed for Barbecue Sauce cooking and bottling and there will be Books and Bicycle Parts strewn throughout.

A Man's Trailer Is His Castle

Best of all is I will be putting in a cool drawbridge between the two trailers that really works so that when I am pontificating and blathering I can retreat into my manse and pull up the bridge. On the bottom of the drawbridge will be signs that say Keep Out! And Genius at Work! And maybe a Skull and Crossbones.

I must be entering my second childhood. All I think about is bicycles and my not-so-secret-diary (This Blog) and trying to look cool. I basically wear the same kind of clothes I did when I was eleven years old. I like it.

A Father and Child Reunion

Speaking of kids, My Number One Son flew out from Los Angeles at Thanksgiving just to see his Dear Old Man. Well, that's not exactly true. He also had business in Tampa Bay trying to hustle some kind of deal from some investment guys he knows. But he came by Hawks Park and we went to the Crooked Angel Saloon where he bought the Old Man several Yeungling Black and Tan draft beers. He doesn't drink so he had grapefruit juice. It had been over three years Since Last We Had Met and it was a pretty potent afternoon.

We walked around the Beachside District where we had lived during his childood. We went down to the River where he had fallen in that time, setting free a dead snook he had caught.

“Dad! Look at this big fish I caught!” It really was big. But he didn't have a fishing pole.

“How did you catch that fish, Beau?” I named him Beauregard, to the outrage of all four Grandparents.

“It was just floating by so I grabbed a bucket and put him in it. Can we eat him?”

“Not a good idea, son. Better throw him back.” He was disappointed but not surprised by this answer. Beauregard has always been a pretty smart (and resourceful) kid. He had to be smart and resourceful, with me for a Dad. I wasn't always there. Beau was seven at the time.

Secrets of the Universe

But when he swung the bucket to throw the big fish back into the water the magical forces of Inertia and Centrifugal Force took the Boy, the Fish and the Bucket in with them and he fell in, getting a bad cut on an oyster bed that was there. He got several stitches in his hand and wrist and that night when I was tucking him in, showing him how to elevate the wound on a big pillow (a trick I learned the Hard Way) he was in a little pain. I could see that he was fighting back tears.

“But at least I got the Indian River in my blood now, Dad.”

I was fighting a few tears myself.

“Yes, son, you certainly do. And you are a very brave little man. Now, what shall we read tonight? “The Red Pony” or “I Wish I Had Duck Feet?”

“Duck Feet!” At seven years old Seuss always trumps Steinbeck.

And that boy Beauregard who bought the beer the other day is no longer seven years old; he has grown. He is now Big and Strong. His intelligence and resourcefulness has endured.

He has read his Hemingway and his Steinbeck and all the rest and he is blasting his own way through Life and the Universe. Soon enough I suspect he will find himself reading Seuss and Sendak to another in the line of Comstocks. I hope so.

As Usual (Sigh) the Philosophy Part

What is the Meaning of Life? This: We are a Young Species. We're only getting started. Raise smart, strong and resourceful children and the Universe will handle the rest. The Reason and Purpose is not ours to know. Not yet, anyway. And remember this, you guys: every other species on this Blue Marble is involved in doing the same thing: raising smart and resourceful offspring and it isn't a contest, not really, but those species that go too fast will lose. So it actually is a contest, I guess. Each species verses itself. And thus I fear for ours.

Ahem...OK, I Got Carried Away...

I know: What about the bicycles? There is actually huge news on the Bicycle Side of Life here at the Park (and also Marin Co., Ca.) but not yet. I don't deserve to talk about it yet but soon enough I will and then we'll have some fun. Meanwhile, I feel sorry about the lapse but there ain't nothin' I can do about it. Sometimes I ride, sometimes I hide. Try to hang with me and I'll try to make it worth your while.

yer pal, Tim Joe

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Barbecue Shack

#46

Sharp Dressed Man

2011-11-09T09:20:00.000-08:00

But Then Again, They Might Have Been Car Salesmen

One day last summer I was out earlier than usual, doing a fast run to Daytona and on the way I was cutting along on my beloved Riverside Drive and two Roadies were coming towards me on the other side of this fairly narrow road. They were guys about my own fiftyish age, but they were clearly not Trailer Park Cyclists. They had that Look, that silver-haired-tanned-corner-office look and they were wearing matching jerseys of maroon and gold, their club colors I suppose. Of course they were riding those bikes that are made of the same materials as the Space Station and these two dudes were pedaling along really slow, laughing and having a good time out there in the early morning sunrise. They both smiled at me and waved and for one quick moment I didn't want to be the Trailer Park Cyclist anymore, I didn't want to be this Ragamuffin Bum that takes pride in poverty and rides around trying to encapsulate salt-of-the-earth observations on Life...hell no, for one quick moment I wanted a Corner Office on the Twentieth Floor and and a Hot Secretary and a Trophy Wife and all the other things that flashed through my ravaged brain on a morning run to Daytona.

Those guys looked sharp! Man they looked sharp and well-coiffed and at ease and rich and as I turned North on my old nitty-gritty Highway One for the highway part of my sprint North to wherever I was going I was a little embarrassed to be me, at the moment. I was grateful that those two dazzling Captains of Industry had deigned to acknowledge my existence and I was a bit ashamed of myself for not working harder at the American Dream. Then You-Know-Who butted in.

Those two guys probably wish they were YOU.

Good Ol' Voice.

Tales From Days Gone By

“I doubt it, Voice, but thanks anyway.” But who knows? Here's what I'm talking about: Thirty-five years ago I dropped out of college and went looking for a job. I got lucky and landed a position with a restaurant equipment supply firm as a district sales manager and just like that, I went from being a long-haired hippie freak college kid to a guy with a closet full of suits, a new company car and a haircut I picked out of a haircut catalogue my over-priced hair stylist wanted me to try out. No, really.

Quit laughing. This is serious.

Once A Pirate...

I drove from meeting to meeting and never really knew what my job was, exactly, but it seemed to involve a lot of flirting with receptionists and laughing at jokes told by old fat guys sitting behind desks. Every once in a while if I needed extra cash I would cajole and bully and con some poor Mom & Pop team into buying WAY more equipment than they needed at prices they could not afford. We sold it to them on a buy-here pay-here deal and when they inevitably failed, I would pull up with a big truck and our warehouse crew. While I stood there sympathizing with the bankrupt and bewildered victims, the crew would take the stuff back to the warehouse and steam clean it and polish it up and get it ready for the next unsuspecting Hopefuls who came along. I remember more than once these people would apologize to me for failing. They felt they had let me down. I was twenty one years old.

Don't Do It If You Can't Live Up To It

It just never sat right with me and at twenty-one I thought I was just being a killer salesman and a future Captain of Industry and I was proud to announce my title and flash a little cash at the local Disco (I said stop laughing!) but when I would on occasion find myself having a beer at a corner bar I would lie and say I worked construction. Man, one of the things I have always tried to get across to my sons is never do anything you can't brag about.

You've done a lot of things you can't...

“Shush, Voice, I'm pontificating here.”

Meanwhile, Back To Bicycles

What does this have to do with cycling? Everything. I just can't stop to explain right now.

So ultimately I left my job as a scummy suit-wearin' fancy haircut-havin' disco-dancin' douche and hitchhiked to California. I got a job in construction and started doing all the stuff that I am still doing Lo Unto This Very Day. Except I added Bicycles.

Back To the Car Salesmen

So when I saw those two sharp-dressed cyclists cruising by that morning I knew that I had made a choice many years ago and just for a moment I regretted that choice. Those guys had really good haircuts.

Tales of Brave Ulysses

But I am, after all the Trailer Park Cyclist. Had I continued on the Path of Avarice I might have ended up pedaling along with those two Corner Officers in their matching kit, but then I would never have found my way here to the Whispering Pines Trailer Park. For the first time in the Park's history, we have a Full House. We have a waiting list. The other day the elderly Owners came to me and thanked me and gave me a raise in pay. I am Changing this Park and thus I am changing the neighborhood. To celebrate, I went to Walmart and bought two new inner tubes and some much needed socks and underwear.

Uh Oh

Then, while I was doing my extravagant shopping something snapped inside my brain and I decided to Go Back Out and Make a Little Cash.

Go ahead and get it off your chest

“Shut Up, Voice.” But as usual, the Voice is right.

If It Ain't Fun, Why Do It?

It has been a real blast here just fiddling around with trailers and I haven't even seen the inside of a motor vehicle in over a month. My beat up old Dodge Caravan threw a belt awhile back and the battery died and I just let it sit. Come to think of it, that was three months ago. I work where I live and I have become pretty comfortable and it took about a year for me to settle down and realize I was happy. I started writing this Blog and made many new friends who are just friends. They don't work for me and sometimes they give me stuff. I got started with Uncle Bill and our whole Barbecue Sauce Venture and just everything I do is fun.

For Cryin' Out Loud, Just spit it out!

I Get Gifts

“OK, OK, Voice! Sheesh!” What happened is that my Long-Time Reader and good friend Agent Kaz, (code name The SwellGuy) sent me a Care Package recently. He had some old clipless shoes lying around and decided I needed an upgrade from my infamous practice of riding around in flip-flops. I wondered what I would do with them since I don't have any clipless pedals and no extra cash to buy any, but today the UPS truck pulled into the parking lot and as usual everybody came out of their trailers Hoping for a Miracle. Today's miracle was mine, though, and as I carried my prize into the trailer I thought those must be some big shoes for such a big box, but I knew.

Aww, KAZ...

I knew and I was already blushing and embarrassed and the Blonde was there and when I opened the box there were the shoes and of course some Shimano SPD pedals and a cool little hat and a saddlebag with a multi-tool and some gloves. There was also a Really Nice Saddle and...a Bell Helmet. And some brand new Bontrager Bib Shorts.

A Helmet and some Bib shorts and I am wearing them right now and wearing nothing else and when Miss Jo came to my open trailer door a minute ago she was startled at first but then started laughing.

“What in the hell are you up to now” she asked.

“My friend KAZ sent me some bicycle stuff. Pretty cool, huh?” I stood up. “They have padding in the seat to make them more comfortable on the bicycle.”

“No Way!”

“Way,” I said. “Come feel.”

“Yeah, right.” she said. “I wasn't born yesterday. Are we still going to Home Depot in the morning?”

“Can I wear my new outfit?” I asked.

“Whatever,” she said, shaking her head and heading home. Miss Daisy had a huge dog-smile on her face.

FUN

See what I mean? Fun. It's more fun now and for a long time it wasn't and I don't want to rock the boat but I gotta hustle a few grand for the Sauce Thing and a couple other minor projects. I don't know. I'll figure it out.

Say thank you, KAZ

Thanks, Karl! I never get gifts so I don't know how to do it right but I really appreciate it, buddy! And thank Miss Neen for me!

That's All, Folks

Goodnight Everyone! Thanks for coming along for the ride!

Yer pal, TJ

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Trail's End Haberdashery
#47

A Ride Report In Three Parts: Part Four

2011-11-04T06:46:00.000-07:00

A Century is A Lot

I got sidetracked halfway through yesterday's Blog and started telling the heartwarming tale of the Family Life of Old Tim Joe, for what it is worth...but I also left myself stranded without beer or succor way up in Ponce Inlet, about thirty miles from the Whispering Pines Trailer Park. The ride did not end there. I had Miles to Go and there was a certain darkening to the sky that made me think I better go those miles pretty quick. The day was getting late and my business and reminiscing about Days Gone By was done and I was more that ready to leave the past behind and hustle on South to yet another little Market where there would be beer and peanuts and a quick sprint home.

Florida Climb

Florida ain't much for hills but we do have these artificial hills called bridges and the big ones are pretty big and I am on one now, climbing and spinning and going pretty quick considering how many miles I have traveled today, but it has been a segmented journey so filled with good moments and swift riding and short breaks that I don't feel a thing. I'm riding Me Little Darlin', a 1981 Schwinn Super Le Tour that I got from Coyote for twenty dollars, but there is considerably more money in her now. Early last summer, I installed a Mavic 36 Spoke Open Sport rim with a Tiagra hub. I also put on a Sram cassette and a new Sram chain and listen, those Were Dollars So Well Spent that I wish I could spend them again, but it may never happen. After 1500 miles or more they look and feel the same as they did the day they came off the truck. The Kenda Kwest tire I put on is showing just a little wear and all things considered I can only report Absolute Satisfaction with these products.

But right now I am descending on the down hill side of this big bridge and going pretty fast and there is something happening with the road surface. It is pretty rough and I just remembered that this is the original 27” front wheel with the rusty spokes and Kmart tire and is this safe?

Something New, Something Old

Sure, why not? I retained the big old wheel because I liked the way it looked and I get a kick out of doing things that might shock the purists; but also my brain tells me that this big thirty-six spoke rim is probably doing more than a little to create this super smooth ride that I get when out ramblin' about on Me Darlin.' Whatever the case, I made it just fine and cut left onto the river road again and it is only ten miles to the beer store and that blessed wind that has held steady out of the Northeast all day has cooled now in the late afternoon and has shifted slightly to the North and this will be a sleigh ride home with a cool, hard tailwind and a heart full of memories and joy of life.

Mumbles the Clown

I put the hammer down and blast those ten miles like nothin' and there it is, the Nova Road market and I dash inside to grab a Foster's and some more honey roasted peanuts. I really love those things. At the counter the cute teenage girl clerk wants to chat. I notice my hands are shaking a little and that I find it hard to speak. I am in Long Road Mode and I realize that I have not spoken out loud in hours and suddenly I feel the effect of almost ninety miles of pedaling my bicycle. I nod spasmodically and mumble at the clerk who now thinks I am a Challenged Person (which I am, sometimes) and then I step outside and I go over to the bike. I stash my peanuts and my beer into my messenger bag and I look at the sky. It is clear enough for now; there are only twelve easy miles left to go and I have a beer break coming up so it will be alright.

The Afternoon Break

I swing a leg over and hit a couple licks on the pedals and once again I am gliding. On days like this I feel more natural while pedaling than I do when I am standing and walking. The bicycle is part of me, or I am part of the bicycle; it is a thing that is hard to define. I'm pushing hard, stroking steady and smooth in front of that following breeze and now I am crossing these three little bridges that will take me Home. Just on the other side of the third Little Bridge is a secret Creek-Side Clearing that houses the Homeless on occasion and sometimes serves as a Break Room for a certain Trailer Park Cyclist when he is Homeward Bound from a Journey to the North.

Here it is a Quiet Spot and only six easy downwind miles to the Whispering Pines Trailer Park and listen: it makes all the difference, stopping here. Stopping here to stretch, fuel up on beer and honey-roasted peanuts is just what I need to get me through to the end. One Hundred Miles Is A Lot. One hundred is a lot of miles, but not really; today one hundred miles is hardly enough. Right now I'm sitting here At Peace and In the Moment; right now I'm sitting here by Side of Stream: sitting here in the Here and Now and being the good Zen Monkey I one day hope to become. I am Stopping By Stream, I am breathing, sipping the cold Foster's Beer and chomping on peanuts. I am chewing them really good, so that they can get in there and do their job. I need that juice now! I am having a staring contest with a small school of fish that are just a few feet away, wondering who I am and what I am doing.

No Getting Out Of the Philosophizing

Which brings up a point that has beleaguered my brain for Lo These Many Weeks. What is a Century? It finally soaked through to my sometimes almost impenetrable conciousness that what I am calling "Riding a Century" is actually “Riding a Hundred Miles.” An actual Century is a group ride, and organized event. I guess. I really don't know. Nor do I care.

They Came From Outer Space

I saw some comment somewhere saying something to the effect about trying to finish a century ride in five hours, which of course is an average of twenty miles per hour. Now, in a group, working together, why not? But it sounds stressful to me. It makes me think of Responsibility and Concentration and a certain Regimented Procedure and it sounds like trying not to crash into the other guy's wheel and having to watch where you blow snot and worst of all, trying to “chat” and be a Good Fellow.

Not that there is anything wrong with all that. I've never done it, although I suppose it is inescapable and some day I will find myself in a group of guys wearing space-man suits and saying manly things and talking about stocks and hedge funds and carboluminum, even though I don't have any of those things and never will, by plan and design.

But What About Tim Joe?

But what I call a Century is something else. I may have to rename it. The Homeless Century. Those Homeless Guys you see out there on their bicycles are not out riding for exercise. They are not really riding to get someplace, either. What they are doing is Living On Their Bikes. They have no where else to properly be, except to sit in some stand of trees where their tents are and where they sleep. So they spend most of their day on their bicycles because once they stop moving, sooner or later they will encounter the police.

Don't ask me how I know all this.

How I Do It

This is not a Homeless Rant. I know a lot of those guys and most of them know what they are doing, they know what they are doing and why they are living the way they are living. It might surprise some of you to know that they like it just fine and that they see some of you as the victims of society. But for now, let us set that aside. What I am trying to say here is that over the last few months I have fallen into the trap of being a Conscious Cyclist, of thinking about speed and cadence and carboluminum and Shimano and Sram. And while all of this thinking was made necessary by the many long miles that I have been riding in the Year of our Lord 2011, I fear that it has caused me to think of Me Darlin' Schwinn as a machine and myself as a cyclist. She used to be my Easy Chair where I would relax on Long Summer Sundays while I lounged about the countryside that surrounds my home. The casual observer would see a rather bedraggled old guy out pedaling around on quiet roads alone, but I was never alone, as you can see. I was riding with old friends who are gone and thinking about friends who are here. I was sneaking up on wildlife to whom I was no threat. I won't be making any road kill today.

The best parts of my long bicycle journeys are the moments like this one, where I pull off on my stealth machine into a small clearing at creekside and enjoy a well-earned beer and reflect on the day. Many, many times at this spot I have wanted to keep going. I did not want the Ride to Stop. But the Ride never really stops. The Ride never really stops if you are doing it right.

I think I will call it a Free Century.

And Then, Home

So that's it! Six easy miles and I will be home. Slightly more than a hundred miles, but when you ride a Free Century, nobody's counting. I will pedal on back to the Park and hopefully Uncle Bill has stoked the fire in the Quasitron 6000 Steam-Powered Search Engine and hopefully he left me a couple cold ribs and some of the potato salad in the fridge. Remember, it is still Sunday Afternoon at Whispering Pines Trailer Park, Where Time Stands Still. And I know those ribs will be there and I know Cold Beer will be there too, because that is how Uncle Bill (one of the friends still here) Rocks and yeah, that is How I Rock Too. Thanks for staying with me, my friends!

By the Way: Happy Birthday Uncle Bill!

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Rib Shack
#46

Ride Report In Three Parts: Homeward Bound

2011-11-02T18:12:00.000-07:00

And just like that, We're on the Downhill Side of a Hundred Mile Ride. I'm doing the Homeless Pirate Run. I'm blasting South along a River Road that is beautiful enough on it's own; but there is so much Magic and History wrapped up in this trail that we are riding on that I fear my Beautiful Dreamers will find their credulity stretched to believe it. Relax, guys, I am done with the history lesson. Maybe. Maybe not. Ya never know.

South, then! Destination, Ponce Inlet. Let us pause for Visual Enlightenment:

This is the place where I live and ride

This is what happens the first time you taste Uncle Bill's Gator Sauce

Dangit! I told the Blonde to get out of the way, I'm photo-journalizing here!

Okay, here is the picture I was looking for

Back to the Bicycling

Ahem. South to Ponce, then. I get there, I do that aimless Drifting Around by Bicycle thing I do, I drift some more and then I pedal over to a Little Market that has served Ponce Inlet for many, many years. Back when the TPC was building Hideouts for Millionaires me and the Crew would retreat there for lunch and shade. These days, I go there on my bike rides and for you-know-what. Beer, I mean. And after a pretty fast (even for me) blast down the river, after meandering around this really nice sanctuary, I am ready for the Homeward Beer and interested in seeing what changes have taken place at that little market since the last time that I was there, several months ago. And change has indeed taken place: They Are Closed. Out Of Business.

OK, Now I'm Pissed

While it is true that I write this blog for fun and because I don't have anything better to do, sometimes I have got to break it down and step aside from the jocularity (sparse as it may be) and tell the truth. Twenty years ago, before I went over to Tampa for a two-week job that evolved into seven years of hard labor and wheelbarrows of money, I was a Pirate Captain and builder of Big Houses and I had a semi-loyal crew that went where I went and helped me do things that made all of us some money. Not a lot of money (for me that came later) but we made enough money to feed the fires and to feed the three-foot tall junior pirates running around in our various yards while the Big Pirates built fires and cooked meat and drank beer and said Har!

Listen Up

The Best Pirate of them all was a guy we'll call Broc Branham and he was my Right Hand and a Better Man and all that and all those houses we built, a lot of those restaurants throughout the South and etcetera may have been funneled through me and my various creditors but it was Broc and his Motley Crew that made it happen.

It was Broc Branham who made piles of lumber become buildings and and it was Broc Branham who made empty lots become places to eat and live. One day we were sitting on the side of that little market in Ponce Inlet, Florida. It was the only market in the Village. Off to the side was a retaining wall and some cool deep shade and we would go there to get Gatorade and slices of Pizza and yeah, sometimes, beer.

"We ain't gonna make it, brother," I said to Broc. He knew what I was talking about.

"It'll be alright," he said. "I'll make it."

Fuck it man, we were way down on payroll. Being the Master of Disaster that I am, I had conned the payroll company we were using at the time into carrying us for a couple of weeks until we got to the point in this McMansion where the tide would turn and I could get a big enough check to settle the waters. But it had been a steady 100 degrees everyday and the boys were hurting and the contractor we were working for was holding the check that would solve everything until we did This Much Work and the payroll company was holding the payroll until they got a check...which was leaving the boys a little less than motivated. And it was Friday.

"Look, Broc. We'll send them home now and call it eight. Then tomorrow you and me will come in and hack it out until we get the fuckers their money." He looked at me with that hard-core direct way he had. This was a man that was a little over five-foot-eight and about 150 pounds. He could stare a hole through a brick wall.

"OK, Boss," he said.

And we did. We sent them home and we all drank beer and whiskey that afternoon. I learned a long time ago the Hard Way: if you can't make payroll at least Buy the Beer and I did and the next day me and Broc Branham went up there and hacked away at it and got our asses kicked by the heat and by what came down to two guys doing the work of ten guys; we hacked away at it until our hearts were nearly broke. Then we hacked away at it some more and we fucking kept doing it for six days until I could walk into that fat-assed contractor's office and not say a word. He took one look at me and Broc and cut the check.

This is..Well...

Twenty years later I have come to this little market in Ponce Inlet to grab a beer and sit in the shade of that retaining wall and remember my brother Broc Branham. But the market is closed. No Beer.

And Cancer took Broc six years ago, while I was off in Virginia, not here at home; I was off working in Virginia and there is No Beer Here and no Market; just these memories and the Blonde that Broc left behind and the two nine-year-old blonde-headed twins that lost their Dad...this must be why I like to ride Long Miles Until It Hurts but then, I too am getting old.

The Happy Ending

But what of that? Old Tim Joe was an Old Orphan his Ownself, Fat and Drunk and Dying the Hard Way over in Tampa Bay, dying of loneliness and depression and one day he took a drive over to his old stomping grounds on the East Coast and accidentally-on-purpose bumped into the Blonde and the Twins and now we have been five years together...the Twins are sixteen now and the Blonde is her Old Self and I Am Here and I Am Pedaling My Ass Off and sharing all of this with you guys.

Magic and History, wouldn't you say?

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Orphans Home
#45

A Ride Report In Three Parts (Everybody Still Awake?): Pirates

2011-11-01T15:02:00.000-07:00

The Story Thus Far

The Way I was headed this Sunday morning was a meandering run first to the west. I had not been on the bike for days and just wasn't ready to fight a headwind at 10 A.M, so I took a morning boost to the West. After that I will turn right and feather my way into the Northeast, taking the wind on my starboard bow, angling in such a way that were I sailing I would be close-hauled and shouldering my way against wind and wave, doing some pounding and getting a bit wet. But not today; today I am only doing a little urban pedaling on a Long Ride.

Where I will turn right it is pretty far Out There on what was a Country Road when I first moved to this part of Florida almost thirty years ago; but that infamous housing bubble and those rascally mortgage companies fixed that. Now there are a lot of three story office buildings and strip malls and condos that sit eerily quiet on a brisk Sunday Morning, and I fear they are just as quiet for the rest of the week as well. But these buildings suit me just fine. They are dampening the effect of the wind and this shiny new wide commercial lane is empty and I am a ghost, a ghost cyclist pedaling fast to the Northeast and putting down miles. I am looking all around me and trying to remember what this place was like when I first saw it, but there is not much to remember. Cow pastures and huge oak trees, primarily, those huge moss-draped Live Oaks that I call Worship Trees, because on a really hot Florida summer day they are good to sit under, drink your water and say a prayer.

It's True: I Am A Druid

I look at one office building parking lot. There is a big For Sale sign out front, worn and peeling and forlorn. Just behind the sign is one of those big Worship Oaks, spreading its branches wide and shading an empty parking lot. Once it had shaded cattle lying underneath to escape the sun.

Progress Is Its Own Reward and the plight of those cows and realtors don't concern me this morning. Today I am all about the miles and going nowhere. This stretch will give me thirty miles of progress, thirty miles of angling up on this route and then I'll have fifty miles and then I'll turn South. That will put the wind on my Port quarter, a broad reach with a lift and I will ride to Ponce Inlet. Sounds easy, doesn't it? Today, so far, it is.

Pirates!

Florida is a Pirate Place, and we are still here, all around, everywhere, if you know how to look. (Some of the worst pirates used to sit in those empty office buildings; but they have taken their plunder and moved on.) Were you to enter the woods behind many of these buildings you will find a tent and a bicycle, sometimes two or three. They go by the name of the Homeless, but that ain't it. These are Florida Pirates, unshipped crew waiting quietly for a Captain and a boat and a horizon. These guys live outside normal society but they are here, all the same. Were you to give them a house to live in, you would soon enough find them sleeping out back around a smoldering bonfire.

Florida was founded by pirates. They called themselves explorers and Conquistadores, but if you ever ran into them on the high seas you would be hard pressed to tell the difference. One of the mightiest of these pirates was a diminutive little man with a giant ambition and a touch of the poet. His name was Juan Ponce deLeon.

Teaser

I won't go into the history and story of Juan Ponce, not yet. I'm saving all that for a novel I'm working on about a couple of beach bum Hobie sailors who run into an old guy claiming to know where the Fountain of Youth is and who may or may not be Don Juan himself.

The Inlet

Today the only importance of the Spaniard Who Owned Puerto Rico is that an opening into the sea on the Atlantic Coast of Florida, an opening once known as Mosquito Inlet, was ultimately re-named Ponce Inlet and a Lighthouse was built there and a fishing fleet established and then, just like that, two hundred years go by and it has become an elegant tourist stop and an exclusive hideout neighborhood for retired corporate pirates.

Halfway

My long Northeast trek is behind me. Those empty buildings did their job well enough, they efficiently blocked and tempered the wind and I am grateful for that; but I miss the pastureland. But what of it? Here now is Old Ormond Beach, once home to some of the greatest Pirates of all time, men with names like Flagler and Rockefeller. Here now is Ormond Beach and I am turning right again, the wind has not changed and I will get that bit of lift from a breeze that started out strong enough and is only growing stronger. This is cycling!

Break Time

I know a park where I can sneak a beer and a banana and some honey roasted peanuts. The market where I buy these supplies is frequented by those guys I mentioned earlier. Their pirate-cycles are out front. They're buying beer too, and why not? Nobody here but us “homeless” guys.

Har!

Do Herons Fly At Night?

Last night before the wine took over I had gone out behind the trailer with Daisy so we could do our business. There was a small bonfire and meat cooking on the grill. Looking up, I noticed the wind was pushing the palms around pretty good, and pushing the clouds out of the sky creating one of those crystalline nights when the stars twinkle and shimmer and seem close enough to touch. As I look two huge Herons fly over, pushed by the wind and looking not so much as though they are flying but rather hurtling through the sky, sent on a mission by whatever god deals with the ways of birds and leaving me (as always) glad just to be here.

Wishlist

I need a new saddle and often look longingly at pictures of Brooks B-17 leather beauties on the interweb, but what of that? I toss my empty beer can and banana peel and so on into the nearby trashcan, step from the bench of the concrete table where I am sitting (so that my feet do not touch the ground) and into the pedals. My old saddle is a cheap plastic thing I pirated from some other bike and is wrapped with black electric tape and so far this year I have put in almost 2500 miles sitting on that seat, so I think she will be good for a few more. It is about 26 miles to Ponce Inlet and that beer was good and the day is only getting better and my butt feels fine.

The River

I will be following the River South to Ponce Inlet. The tide is unusually high, a result of that stiff East Wind trying to blow the Ocean over the barrier island and into the river. Helped by the gravitational pull of a nearly new Moon, the waves are lapping up over the seawall and there is salt spray misting across the road. The temperature is about 80 degrees Fahrenheit and I'm breezing along at 19 mph and I have to control myself to keep from bursting into song. I am a bit wary; the right combination of wind and wave could slap me down and off the bike and I am hard pressed to imagine a mishap I would cherish more.

This is a Blast! Pirate Cycling!

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Pirate Hideout

#44

A Ride Report In Three Parts (Unless I Forget): The Beginning

2011-10-30T16:59:00.000-07:00

Coffee Can Fix Anything, Almost

I crawled out of my bunk this morning and after stopping by that one little room I went into the big (for a trailer) kitchen/office/bike shop room to make some coffee and try to piece together events from the night before.. It was the last Sunday of the month so I had a long ride to do and I also figured it was high time for a blog post but the high time of the previous evening was creating something of a fog in the area of my brain.

“No problem,” I thought, “I'll just make the coffee extra strong and fire up the Ol' Quaz to see What's What on this fine Sunday Morning in the Year of Our Lord 2012.”

2011, said the Voice.

“What, Voice? I thought I told you to keep quiet until I get my first cup in the morning.”

It's 2011, not 2012. And how on earth did you manage to drink most of that jug of wine?

“Wine? What wine?” But I knew. I had already seen the way-less-than-half -full jug of cheap screw-top sitting on the counter. I got down the coffee filters and the coffee and threw an approximate amount together, filled the pot and poured it in. It hurt to do this and out of the corner of my eye I was certain that I had seen Earnest & Julio smirking at me from the label. Note to self: never drink wine that is bottled in New Jersey.

Ya Gotta Keep the Home Fires Burnin'

While the Mr. Coffee started doing that gurgling thing it does I went over to my trusty Quasitron 6000 Steam Powered Search Engine. With the right amount of lever pulling and knob turning, with a judicious pull on this chain and a tap on that dial, followed by a firm kick in the right spot, the Ol' Quaz can be counted on to spit out some juicy fact or rumor or photo or some tidbit or another that I can then weave into a Blog Post of Magic and Delight.

But not today.

Tales of Brave Prometheus (Revised)

The night before, while fascinating Miss Daisy the Yellow Dog with tales of my Victories and Exploits in Days Long Gone, while waiting for Uncle Bill the Gator-Slayer to hurry up and get those ribs off the grill and while yelling at the Blonde to get another fruit jar because Coyote's comin' over...while thus occupied with the busy business of a Trailer Park Pundit I had forgotten to put to bed the Quasitron 6000 by filling and banking her night coal and That Was Bad. I ran out to see if there were any coals left in Bill's cooker and tripped over an apparent corpse on the front porch.

“Bill! Wake up, Dangit! The Quaz has Gone Out! This Is Bad! And leave my dog alone!" Billy mumbled something about Dale Earnhardt and went back to snuggling happily with Miss Daisy. We always joke about how if Uncle Bill and his Old Lady ever split up him and Daisy could get married. If he keeps hangin' out with me at the Park on Saturday nights that might happen sooner than later. On my way back inside Daisy growled at me as I awkwardly stepped over the two of them. “Good Girl,” I said absent-mindedly. I knew it was useless.

Better drink some coffee, said the Voice.

When In Trouble, When In Doubt, Saddle Up and Head On Out

“Good idea, Voice. And shut up. I gotta think.” The voice has this highly aggravating trick he does of fading away while laughing anytime he wants to let me know that I'm screwed. I poured a big mug of black coffee and sat at the table gazing forlornly at the Quasitron 6000. One would think that after going to all the trouble to get a three-ton antique steam-powered search engine installed in a forty-five foot long single wide trailer, I would take care of the thing. But, Hey, I'm the Trailer Park Cyclist, and we all know what that means. So now there was only one thing to do.

Follow Standard Operating Procedure

I got my Goodwill messenger bag down from the hook over my repair bench and threw in my pump and a spare tube. I got a couple bananas and put them in too. I already knew I didn't have any trail mix. I checked the pressure in both tires and added forty (!) pounds to the front and fifteen to the rear.

I tickled the chain but I knew she was lubed just fine and I took Me Darlin' down from the stand and went out into the sun. Uncle Bill was sitting on his cooking stool and rolling a cigarette. “Hey Bill, do me a favor and fire up the Quaz on your way out, if you don't mind.” He just smiled and nodded and bent over to fish through the cooler, looking for any survivors of the previous night. I did that Stepping Off of the Porch and Onto the Bike Thing that I do and headed out.

Here There Is Magic

All of you know the feeling. You make those first few pedal strokes and just like that, you're flying. Just like that you are not a Normal Human anymore, because now you can fly. My morning start is beautiful: about six pedal strokes puts me on a gentle downhill to the Morning river and birdsong and river mist and I adjust the straps on my toe clips and wiggle around saying hello to my saddle and feeling the grip of that Cinelli cork tape and I am transitioning from my incarnation as a hungover, worn-out, past-his-prime Trailer Park Refugee into something swift and sleek and swooping and free and ready to go.

I hit the river road and today the wind is from the East and I am so wrapped up in self-indulgence and happy-to-be-here-ness that I Head West, against all convention, letting that breeze push me along like, like, uh, push...dang cheap wine! It is a pretty stiff late-morning East Wind on the Atlantic coast and I know just the road that I can use to ride West on this sunny Sunday and be alone. I have only been pedaling for ten minutes and I am sailing along at twenty-three miles per hour and yeah, baby, I'm in Church and This Is My Religion and I know I'm cheating but it is okay: I'm going west for about ten miles of Mind-Erasing wind-filled Glory and then I will start angling around in a sneaky roundabout fashion that will cheat the Wind. I'll ease my way into the Northeast and by then I will have the Stuff, the Stuff we cyclists get for free; but not really; it isn't free at all. It feels free on a Sunday Morning like This One but it is very much earned. We earn it by riding our bikes for miles and miles and we earn it by thinking about bicycling and we earn it by learning about bicycles and keeping our bicycles clean and lubed and ready and the Stuff is the reward. The Stuff is that kick, that feeling of strength that makes us speed up when we see a hill.

Up Yours, Aeolus

And I've got it now, I'm turning into that angled crosswind that I knew would be there and I say “Hello, Aeolus, good morning, how ya doin'? Now excuse me if I just shoulder on through and you might want to step aside, pal.” 'Cause it's Sunday Morning and I got the Stuff and I got Miles To Go.

Aeolus said something I won't repeat, even if it was in Greek.

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Temple of the Stuff.

#43

Too Little Miles and Too Many Links: Blame Bill & Aeolus

2011-10-23T10:30:00.000-07:00

What I Didn't Do

Man what a beautiful day! It is seventy-three degrees Fahrenheit out of doors, right now, the sun is crisp and the day is clear and fine. I just got back from a little eighteen mile ride on my bicycle. I am a bit disconcerted at the short mileage: there is only one Sunday left in the month and I have yet to ride a Monthly Sunday Century, a custom I have been loyally observing since I got my “81 Schwinn Super Le Tour back in April, I think it was...of course, there have been a few occasions when that Sunday Century happened on a Saturday, if I check my records I think there is a Wednesday Sunday Century also, an accidental Century...

But the point of course is to get out there and just do it, get the ride in and log the mileage.

What I Did Do

But not today. I did not set out with the idea of doing a hundred miles today. I was only planning my usual 25 mile “training” run. I didn't take any beer money or food. Also, I have been guilty of quite a bit of Practice Carousing in celebration of the changing of the season and as a warm up for the strenuous, professional-level carousing that takes place in the coming Holiday Season.

It starts with the Waiting for the Great Pumpkin down at Uncle Bill's house. Sometimes I think that dang UB likes beer as much as I do even though he is always trying to convince me that he only drinks beer when I am around. What a crock. That little rascal always has a case or two of Bud when he shows up here at the Park.

After the Pumpkin doesn't come, we start the pre-Thanksgiving eating and drinking. Hams and ribs (always ribs) and whatever else comes around. This necessitates the Drinking of the Beer and along about sundown the Rum comes out. What a bunch of sinners.

Blame the Big Box

Anybody who ever goes to Wal-Mart already knows that Thanksgiving and Christmas are all one month-long holiday and there is nothing to be done about it. Except drink heavily.

Bicycles, TJ...What About the Bicycles?

But what about the Bicycles, you ask? I don't know. I was not a roadie last year. I just goofed off around the neighborhood (and beyond) on my old Mongoose Alta Single Speed. Training rides? Hah! Training for what? The Apocalypse? Then it happened. My Buddy Coyote brought me an old Schwinn and the rest is history. Suddenly I was Fast (a little) and sleek and geared up and rockin' and rollin' and staying up late shopping for bicycle parts on the Internet and thinking about bicycles and then I wrote a guest Post for Fat Cyclist and then I started this here Blog and started writing down how many miles I rode and what the weather was like during the ride and thinking about riding my old bicycle to California to see my son and become a Movie Star and get a really nice trailer in Malibu...

By the way, last week I wrote another Guest Post for Fatty called Life and The Wind. You can see it here, anybody who is interested.

What's the Point?

Frequent Readers have probably given up looking for any rhyme or reason to my posts. I just get on here and free-style type and what comes out comes out. Today, for example, if there is any theme, it is one of Confession and Expiation. Confessing for not riding a hundred miles today and all the boozing I have been doing. And preparatory confessing for the hell-raising I am planning to do in case I forget to feel guilty about it later. Feel free to join in, both with the guilt-producing behavior and the expiation. I won't tell.

OK, We Give Up. Send In the Sauce

As some of you are aware, Uncle Bill and I have hatched an evil plan of Gastronomic Hijacking and World Domination based on his Mother'sSuper-Secret Barbecue Sauce. She got the recipe from her mother, and that mother got it from hers, and so on back in line to the first Lost Buccaneers to ever wash up on the shores of our remote little corner of Florida. I have applied my minimal marketing skills to the problem and it shows. While we produced a few bottles of sauce, shipping costs are such that we are at a loss as to how to get the Sauce to you guys without making it so expensive that it becomes impractical to sell over the Internet.

What I decided to do last week was to send out samples to my Booger friends in a kind of Betty Crocker Ponzi Scheme. If any of you will send me the price of shipping (about $5.00) I will send you the Sauce. Then you get your friends hooked and put together a case order. I figure if I send it out in 12 bottle or even 24 bottle cases shipping will be spread around and get the per-bottle price down to something reasonable.

This whole thing is at the embryonic stage and I didn't start this Booger to sell barbecue sauce. But Hey! I told UB that I would see what I could do and so far nobody is complaining. Anyone who wants to can write a review on your Blog or write a Guest Post Review on here or at the Uncle Bill's Site. My buddy Matt over at Dillon Bikes wrote one you can see here. We swapped Sauce for a T shirt.

Aeolus LOVES Uncle Bill's Gator Sauce

Not really. I don't know if Aeolus ever even tasted barbecue. He's a Greek God and me, I don't know any Greek Gods: I just hang out with Uncle Bill and various Pirates and Cyclists and Boogers. But I would bribe Old Aeolus with a whole case of sauce if he would just make up his mind and blow from one direction or another. Part of why I ended up taking such an abbreviated ride this morning was that the wind was doing that blowing from everywhere thing so that no matter which way I turned the wind was in my face and frankly, I had a gentle but persistent hangover. I also had a nagging list of chores waiting at home so I just packed it in and pedaled on back to the Park. It's not the first time this has happened, on the same route. It happened back when Agent KAZ visited, so I have a witness. Sometimes the best way to beat the wind is to not be in it.

Tired of Typing (How Do I Blame the Wind for THAT One?)

Blah. It's a beautiful day but here I am saying Blah. There were a lot of Links in today's post, which I don't like to do, but I wanted you guys to see some of those Other Places. This Sauce thing, I don't know. I want to shift from talking it about here and move the ordering and promoting over to the Uncle Bill's site. You can link to it from my Blogroll. I want to set up a little bit slicker package but right now I don't know how, there's no money in it and let's face it, I'm basically giving it away. I'm giving it away to you guys for fun and something to do and I also think it is Good Stuff.

That's All For Now

That's all I got right now. There's beer in the freezer and the day is crisp and clear and cool and beautiful and Old Tim Joe is gonna go out and sit in the sun and rub Miss Daisy's ears. She likes it and I do too.

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Bierstube

#40

But What About the Bicycles?

2011-10-19T08:24:00.000-07:00

You Have Got To Be Kidding

Last week I was thinking that maybe on my Booger I should try to be a little more Socially Conscious and stick in some Politics, or a Statement or somehow otherwise do something except pretend that I am happy about being poor and living in a Crappy Trailer Park and being old and slow. Maybe I owe it to somebody somewhere to stick my two cents in (if I had two cents but believe it or not, I don't). But I have two beers (part of what happened to the two cents) and maybe enough energy to Rant a Little so here goes. My Booger is about Evocation of Mood, it is about Encouraging Others to Ride Their Bikes and it is about being Grateful for What You Have by showing everyone what little I have and how happy I am about it.

But What If

And I am happy about it, pretty much. But what if things get worse? What happens when you go to the ATM and it says Go Fuck Yourself and so you go around to the bank doors and they are locked? Or you head over to the grocery store and those doors are locked too?

Wow.

Protest!

So you join a bunch of other people and go down to City Hall to say Hey! We need money and we need food or we will huff and puff and blow City Hall down. But they just call in the Fire Department and the Police (two groups who have jobs and plan to keep them). They hose you down and arrest a few of you and tase a couple of you and then everybody goes home to dry off, calm down and get some rest.

There's Got To Be A Morning After...Maybe

Then when you wake up in the morning the electricity is turned off and you think to yourself “That's odd” must be a transformer or something so you decide to take a shower and get dressed and then go outside to see what's what. But when you get to the shower you discover that the water is off, too.

Uh Oh

What the Hell, you think and you decide to go next door to check with your neighbor. When you step outside you are surprised to see all your neighbors milling around out there in their bathrobes and bunny-rabbit slippers looking like they need to shave and brush their teeth and looking like they damn sure need a cup of coffee but they can't, they can't do any of those things and you can't either.

Can't happen here, you say? Why not? Says who?

Cold Hard Truth

All of the suppliers of these suddenly missing things, these Banks and Water and Food and Electricity, are provided to you by who? Let's say it together:

Corporations. Really Big Corporations.

Bring In the Clowns

So right now there are a bunch of people standing around various City Centers in various cities needing a shave and needing to brush their teeth but apparently having already had way too much coffee.

Trailer Park Manifesto

The Official Trailer Park Policy on OCCUPY is this:

We're for them.

I like it. If I wasn't Professionally Poor Me and Uncle Bill would be out there cooking huge piles of Barbecue for them and bringing them Kegs of Beer and trying to sell them sauce. Listen up, gang, whatever those nuts are doing out there OCCUPYING they are doing SOMETHING. They're out there in the rain and the weather Raising Hell and getting arrested and doing something else: They are getting National Attention and they are on our side, they are for us, the Human Beans.

They are for Us, the People. Will the world change due to their antics? It already has. This is one of those god-awful election years and these blow-hards running for the Right To Steal the Most Money In the World will have to answer to the OWS crew in one way or the other. The only thing those so called leaders respect more than Filthy Lucre is POLLS. This Blog here at the Trailer Park is a Poll. So go ahead and spit it out. What do you guys think? Don't worry, I'll still send you some Sauce. Speak your minds.

OK.

Coming Up Next: The Trailer Park Cyclist Explains God, the Meaning of Life, and How to Maintain a Steady Cadence.. All surprisingly related.

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Bully Pulpit

#39

Dog Days Again

2011-10-15T10:22:00.000-07:00

Who Let the Dogs Out?

I finally got chased by dogs today. Other cyclists frequently talk about being chased by dogs and it never seems to happen to me. I was starting to get a complex about it. Am I such a wreck that I can't even get a dog to chase me? Of course, it doesn't help that I spend so little time on the bike these days that any dog that wanted to chase me would have to get in his car and drive over to Whispering Pines Trailer Park and chase me around whatever crappy trailer I am trying to put back together.

Back In the Game

Yes, it is true, Miss Jo the Trailer Park Manager had to bring me back out of retirement. The New Guy she hired to replace me made a noble effort to Be Me but let's face it. There's only one Me.

Not counting the Voice, the Voice said.

"Shut up Voice. You don't count. And you're getting me confused."

It's So Easy Anyone Can Do It

The funny thing about carpentry is that the better you are at it the easier it looks. Take a set of stairs for instance. Nothin' to it, right? What could be simpler? Hah! The New Guy's first effort was so dynamic, so artful, so creative that it drew fascinated attention from every tenant in The Park. Plus the fact that the NG's artwork was being displayed on the side of the Blonde's trailer. This...creation was nailed to the side of the Blonde's trailer in a feeble effort to replace the rotten steps that had collapsed beneath her and Miss Daisy the Yellow Dog at bath time. (Not the Blonde's bath time. Miss Daisy's. The Blonde takes her baths inside now, and has ever since we moved into town. I do miss bath time in the country, though.)

Hey! Eyes Up Here

While Blondie and me don't always agree, she has always respected my skill at cutting pieces of wood into various shapes and then nailing them back together so that they are a stairway or a house (or even a nice juicy pile of money when I get a bunch of other guys to cut and nail with me).

“Look at this crap,” she said, gesturing disdainfully at the NG's work. “You can build a better stairway than that even when you're drunk. Which is a good thing since you...”

“Yes, yes, Honey,” I said, interrupting. “But I'm sober now and I must confess, looking at this work here before me is sobering indeed. Don't try to use these.”

“Oh, don't worry. I wouldn't go near that thing. It made Toby bark.” Toby the Trouble Puppy has grown in size quite a bit since his rowdy arrival at Whispering Pines but his brain seems stuck on “Puppy”. In this instance, however, he was quite accurate in his assessment. Those steps made me want to hike my leg and bark like a dog.

It Ain't Over Till It's Over, Rover

Later that afternoon I was sitting at my table and running my fingers listlessly over the keyboard of my computer. I had a nice clean blank screen in front of me but I also had a nice clean blank brain inside of me. Nothing was happening. Then I saw Miss Jo coming across the parking lot. Now something was happening. Miss Jo has a determined and purposeful stride that gives her the look of someone on the way to kick somebody's ass. She was coming towards my trailer. Our last meeting had been alcohol fueled and less than pleasant and I looked around for a place to hide but it was too late and she was on the porch.

“Can we talk?” she said.

“Of course,” I said, “And I'm sorry about the other night. You don't really remind me of a...”

“Whatever,” she said. “That's water under the bridge. I want to know if you want your job back.”

“Well, Jo, I don't know. I saw those stairs that Your New Guy built and I have to confess, I just don't have it in me to do that level of work. You gotta remember that I'm only a carpenter. That guy is an artist and apparently an idiot savant, only without the savant part.”

“I'm never going to hear the end of this, am I,” she said.

“Never. And I demand that all my demands be met.”

“Tim Joe, half of those demands are illegal and the other half physically impossible. And you're too old for that kind of stuff anyway. I don't want to be responsible for giving you a heart attack.”

I found this intriguing. The only demands I remember making was to be allowed a little more bicycle time and a new deal on my trailer rent. And a new hammer.

“OK.” I said. “Where do I start?”

“Where else? Replace those stupid stairs. That Ex of yours is threatening to call the Building Department and the newspaper and PETA and anybody else she can think of that might give me more heartburn than I already have.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said. “By the way, you didn't happen to write down any of those demands I was making, did you?'

But she was already off the porch and on her way to another meeting. With the New Guy, no doubt.

No One Here Gets Out Alive

So once again I find myself crawling around tearing out rotten floors, re-framing collapsed walls, building simple but functional non-artistic stairs and generally picking up where I left off. And getting so little time in on my bicycle that I can't even get chased by a dog.

“I'll chase you, Dad.” said Toby the Trouble Puppy.

“That's good of you, puppy, but I don't want you chasing bicycles. And dog's can't talk.”

That's what I was going to say, said the Voice.

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Asylum

#38

Put Me In Coach

2011-10-06T17:23:00.000-07:00

I Can't Play Center Field

I don't know, man. My desire to hit a Home Run every time I sit down to type makes it hard. But do any of you come here for a base hit? I mean baseball. I kinda remember there was some sort of drug related base hits Back In the Day but the Trailer Park Cyclist struggles to be more or less Family Friendly. And this is supposed to be a blog about cycling and I know next to nothing about baseball except that I sucked in Little League. All those late nights reading under the covers by flashlight (because I wasn't allowed to read so much because it was making me weird) caused me to be almost blind and when they stuck me out in Center Field I never knew what the hell was going on. Sometimes I would hear a "Thunk" somewhere nearby and when I looked for the source of the noise there would be a baseball laying there. Then I would hear all this yelling but what the hell, when you are way out in Center Field you can't understand what they are all yelling about so I would run in to see what they wanted. Turns out that what they wanted was the stupid baseball so then I would have to run all the way back out there and look for the stupid thing and by then it was no longer all that important.

Coaches

But luckily, my baseball career was quite short lived and later on Jane Pierce, the school librarian, figured out what was weird about me and fixed things up so I could spend all the time I wanted in the Library at good ol' Stringtown Grade School. I went through those stacks pretty quick and she later got me into a deal at the High School where I was supposed to excel and become a Great Writer but what actually happened was I met Debbie Barton and somehow got distracted. I was twelve and she was fourteen and I'm not sure she ever read a book in her life but she knew some things that may have been in all those books that I read, but that I didn't fully grasp at the time.

Miss Pierce had pulled me aside one day and said that I had a gift and to always nurture it but then Ol' Debbie pulled me aside and told me some Other Stuff and Therein Lies A Tale.

Relax, You Won't Feel A Thing

Don't worry, I'm not going to Tell the Tale. The Final Page ends with a Pretty Old Guy with a head full of Stories and Adventures sitting in a Little Trailer in Florida trying his best to Sort It All Out and Keep It Going even though it often feels as though it ain't worth the effort and the best thing to do would be to Saddle Up and Pedal Off Into the Sunset.

Sigh

Which I sometimes do but I always come back before it gets too dark. Like I said, I don't know, man. The Onset of Fall and these cool evening breezes bring out all this Nostalgia and Introspection and then I spread it around here on this so-called blog about cycling.

But then, I am, after all, writing about cycles (in a way), life-cycles, I guess, and bottom brackets (Debbie Barton) and headsets (Miss Pierce) and boy, if I stretch this analogy any farther It's gonna snap back and smack me in the forehead like an unseen home run hit into Center Field.

I know that where some of you guys live the evenings are getting way cooler than they are around here and I also know that some of my readers are also spending a little time Looking Inside. Go ahead. It don't hurt, much. Have a frosty libation or ten while you're at it.

It Ain't Over Till It's Over

Me, I plan to keep on pedaling and thinking about pedaling and writing about pedaling and sorting things out. I don't own a sofa or a recliner or a television and I only sit down to type this stuff or read the typings of others , mostly you guys. I plan to keep on pedaling and to stay as strong as I can because there is always another Adventure on the Horizon and I want to Be Ready.

Just Checking In.

Yer Buddy, TJ

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Navel Gazing Retreat

#37

The Three Essentials

2011-09-24T12:52:00.000-07:00

It Takes Good Gear To Do the Job Right

Here at the Trailer Park Cyclist World Headquarters and Beer Guzzlery we utilize the Quasitron 6000 steam-powered Computer Search Thing to constantly seek out all items related to Cycling and Trailer Parks and Beer. It is an exhausting job and requires a lot of coal and a lot of Shoveling of Coal and sometimes I have to get up in the middle of the night and kick the damned thing strategically to get it going again. But it is Worth the Effort, because every so often the Ol' Quaz spits out a gem like this one:

Dateline Hollywood, CA

...Rich Movie Guy Cracks Noggin in Bicycle Accident, Lives, Gives Away Fortune, Sells Mansion, Moves Into Trailer Park...

(The Quasitron 6000 is programmed to print my notifications in simple language that even I can understand before the first cup of coffee.)

Intrigued, I threw an extra shovel-load of coals into the boiler. I twisted three creaking knobs fully open, I tapped the crusty gauges that let me know we weren't about to be Blown Asunder and then I yanked on the appropriate ropes and chains that would guide the Quasitron 6000 and the Trailer Park Cyclist deeper into this fascinating story...

Three Essentials for a Movie

Tom Shadyac, a highly successful Hollywood writer and director, is also a cyclist and something of a hippie, as near as I can tell. But this is a kick-ass guy: his movies include most of Jim Carrey's big hits like "Ace Ventura" and "Liar Liar". ( I never saw those movies but I suspect Money Got Made).

And One Keeper

But Listen: Tom also wrote and directed “Dragonfly” with Kevin Kostner. Now I have seen that movie: in fact, I've seen it a couple of times. “Dragonfly" the Movie doesn't have any Jokes or Karate or Gratuitous Nudity, (the Three Essentials) but it is, according to the TPC , A Reasonably Good Motion Picture. (RGMP).

Kicked By A Mule

After a near-fatal accident while riding his bicycle in Virginia, Tom went through a long period of Concussion Stuff and Soul Searching and ultimately decided Materialism and Gratuitous Nudity weren't the most important things in life and did that whole Dumping of his Wealth Thing and really, truly moved into a Trailer Park.

In Malibu.

Yeah, I know. Well, give the guy some credit, which he may need right about now. A trailer park is a trailer park. But still...Malibu? I had no idea there were trailer parks in Malibu.

You can put Good Odds on the Ol' TPC looking into that subject at a later date.

Trailer Park Tips

I saw a video of Tom showing his Trailer to Oprah or Diane Sawyer or Geraldo or one of those guys. It's a Pretty Nice Trailer and I think I noticed a Porsche in the driveway. But hey: it looked like an old Porsche. Hell, Jungle Jim has an old BMW and Coyote has a pretty cool old Volvo, so at least Tom Is Trying. (A funny side note is that in the video I spotted a telescope in the living room of his trailer. Like I said, Tom is a kick-ass guy. It didn't take him long to figure out the value of Amplified Vision in a trailer park. I personally use an antique Keuffler&Esser builder's transit.)

Get to the Point

What's The Point, you ask? Even if you didn't ask, I'll explain.

The Meaning of Life

Tom's story is Newsworthy. Why? Because there seems an inherent Yearning In the Heart of Everyone for things to be less crazy, less strident, less pressurized, less...well Just Less. With you guys, I realize I am Preaching to the Choir. By your very attendance (roll call) here at the Park it is fairly safe to assume that the first thing on your mind in the morning is not how to get a bigger piece of Some Other Guy's Pie. (Actually, a Slice of Pie sounds pretty good right about now. I just got in from a Forty-Miler.) But by your attendance here I know you already understand about the Quiet Moments Alone Out There on your bike and the fun times going Fast Downhill when you have to look around to make sure no one is watching when you sing out “Wheee!” and Laugh Out Loud like a kid.

But that's just us.

It's All About Me ( I Wish)

Back when the TPC was a Respectable Person I followed the path of Avaricious Intent. Not because I was money hungry, (luckily I have never been afflicted with that sad disease). Instead, by being Good Enough At What I Did, various people wanted me to do More Of It. That meant I needed help, and that Help would have to be paid. Suddenly, there appeared around me many other people I did not want to know but they also had to be paid. Think Insurance Companies, the State, the Fed, Accountants, Equipment Suppliers, on and on. And Lawyers. Always with the Lawyers. What the hell lawyers have to do with pounding nails I'll never understand, but they got in there.

The more pressure that was put on me to Produce the less I found myself even so much as thinking 'Wheee!” and the only time I laughed out loud was in a saloon and even then I knew I would have to work harder later to make up for the fun I was having now.

And nowhere in that tale resides A Bicycle or A Ride Thereupon.

Tom's New Flick

Tom Shadyac just made a new movie called “I Am” which is more or less about his experience and transformation. I probably won't watch it because I already live in a Trailer Park and know How to be Poor just fine but some of you guys may want to check it out just in case. I doubt it will have any of the Three Essentials but you never know.

Shut Up and Listen, Oprah

Here's what Tom figured out and told Oprah, who I don't think is a cyclist:

1. It is scientifically proven that the entire human race is connected

2. It is human nature to be cooperative rather than competitive.
3. If you don't do what your heart wants you to do and follow your passion, it will destroy you.

Maybe THAT is the Three Essentials

Enter the Dragon

The Blonde, even though we no longer live in the same trailer, still comes by to bring me food or to visit Miss Daisy the Yellow Dog. I was telling her about this story. "Dragonfly" is her favorite movie.

“I don't get it,” she said. “What does living in a trailer prove? Why would he give away all his money? Who did he give it to?” Very practical questions from a woman who thinks, practically.

“I don't know,” I said. “I don't know. I just know how things seem easier and better, though, now that I don't have that big machine to run anymore.”

“Oh, I know,” she said. “You always said you felt like you were running down the railroad tracks with a train behind you.”

“And that I would be OK as long as I kept running, but if I stopped...”

“I know, Honey, and you're a lot more fun to be around these days, but still, he gave away all his money? He must have got hit on the head pretty hard.”

“Sometimes that's what it takes, I guess,” I said. The Blonde took Miss Daisy off for a bath and I cracked open a beer and went over to Me Darlin' Little Schwinn where she was resting in The Stand after our quick Forty Miler of the Morning.

“What do you think, Darlin'?” I asked the bike. (Yes, I talk to my bike. Don't you?)

She thinks that before you give away all your money she still needs a new seat. Some chain oil and some new bar tape wouldn't be bad either.

“Shut up, Voice," I said. "Nobody asked you. But while you're here, what do you think?"

You already know what I think. You're doin' all right.

Yeah, man.

Tom Shadyac, Filmmaker and Trailer Park Cyclist Trainee

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Spiritual Retreat
#36

A Visitor From the High Country

2011-09-18T07:17:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer

As some of you may have guessed, the TPC ain't always a Socially Acceptable Animal. And I don't mean just in High Society; there's plenty of High People all over the place here at the Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Animal Preserve. What I mean is, I Ride Alone. Not because I smell bad (which is possible) but because I am the Only Roadie I Know. I see Group Rides out there and I have been known to stalk the occasional Stray Phred, but in My Isolated Reality it is Me My Ownself, pedaling away, Desperately Seeking Refuge in the solace of Endorphin Rushes and Bunny Hops Over Road Kill and the certainty that if I ride long enough and hard enough I will receive an Epiphany of Enlightenment and Revelation that will transport my Long -Tortured Soul to the High Country of the Sweet Climbs and New Blacktop that is the Valhalla of We the Two-Wheeled Seekers.

Hold on a second. I need to re-read that opening paragraph.

Wow.

Who's On First?

I wish I could write like that. Wait. I just did. But not really. Like the Best Ride You Ever Took, Telling the Truth is just a thing I Do In Passing, on the way to getting to the other kind of Rush I get by Riding Hard and Fast. I have the honor of Spilling the Beans here on this Blog about the Dirty Little Secret of Cycling: Anybody Can Do It and it is a lot more fun than some of these guys make it look.

You don't even have to wear a helmet if you don't want to.

Did I Just Say That Out Loud?

OK. Everyone calm down. Like Kurt Cobain said: I Swear That I Don't Have A Gun.

But look how that turned out.

Visitor

Today I rode with a Fellow Booger and one of those Boondock Saints you bump into when you least expect it: Karl Allen Ziegler, the Swell Guy. Here's how it went:

Karl, sent to Florida on a Top Secret Mission for the Government of Latvia, needed my services as an apparently delusional Cycling Super Hero of shabby demeanor.

No, that ain't it. Gimme a minute. Oh Yeah:

Agent KAZ of the United Underground Organization of Boogers and Hay-Bailers was sent by the Higher-Up Echelon to recruit the World Famous Trailer Park Cyclist to save the Latvian Orphans...

That may have been it but I have never (for the record) been to Latvia. I think.

Have You Any Grey Poupon?

The truth of the matter is simple: My Internet Buddy and Blogging Colleague Zig had a business run to Orlando. He set aside a few of his highly precious hours to come by the Park for a ride. Look, I wasn't always poor, but I might as well have been. So when a dot. com industrialist like this guy pulls into the Trailer Park in his Limo to check me out and go for a ride, I Go For A Ride.

Now, it didn't start with a ride. First we ate caviar and drank champagne and I briefed Agent KAZ on the Facts of Life. Let's face it: I am, after all, the Trailer Park Cyclist, Friend of Man (and Women), King of Beers and a Pundit of Ill Repute. The Facts of Life are, to me, just another briefing. But then things got interesting.

This Is All Top Secret

“Agent Tim Joe, sir,” said Agent KAZ, acknowledging my Senior Agent status in spite of his dot.com wealth. “There have been reports of Slow Riding and Phred Stalking coming from this sector and Snob sent me down here to sort things out and confirm that you are on the job.”

“Whatever, Ziggy. Saddle up and tuck it in and let's go for a ride. I'll brief you on my Work Thus Far; that is, if you can keep up. And for Lob's sake, if we come across any other cyclists, drop back. That $6000 piece of crabon you are riding will blow my cover if any Nu-Phreds should be out there playing hooky from their day-trading jobs.”

The Swell Guy, in spite of his initial Awkward Normality, proved to be a Good Agent.

“Yes, sir”, he said.

That was easy, said the Voice.

“Shut up, Voice,” I said. “He bought the beer.”

This All Really Happened

Now listen: Like I keep trying to tell everybody: I ain't fast, as far as I can tell. I'm a Clydesdale and a Beer Drinkin' Fool and I only ride bicycles because it is the Most Fun Thing I Do. So when one of these Really Fast Guys drop by for a ride, I usually change my underwear, Slam a Couple Beers and then go out and give them what they came for: a chance to humiliate a Poor Little Old Man (me) who can't Keep Up.

That doesn't always work out the way they planned.

But in the case of Karl Allen Zieglar, it worked out just fine. He let me set the pace, he gave me a little schooling on how to drop into a pace line, he encouraged and helped and smoothed my ride and made me glad that he was there.

We Pause For A Soliloquy

The world can be a lonely place. How often have any of you found yourselves feeling a little alone and downtrodden in a room full of people? Well, I have and in case it happens to any of you, Take It From Me: putting a lamp shade on your head and moon-walking over to the keg just won't get the laughs you think it will. And if it does get a lot of laughs you probably want to get out of there fast. What does this have to do with today's story? Everything, sort of. Let me explain.

Uh...well, I know there is an explanation here somewhere but I dropped it and it rolled under the refrigerator so you'll have to figure it out for yourselves.

Back To The Here and Now

Our ride was brisk and enlightening. We talked about a lot of stuff. We rode the trail of my Cervelo Guy story and down along the River. I kept hoping something spectacular would happen so he would have a Big Story to tell his coming grandchildren in his old age. And in a way it did. We were having a couple After-Cheeseburger Drinks in my trailer. The sun was glowing magically across the highway, sending just the right amount of September warmth and light into the room. A gentle Florida sun-shower rattled the roof and awnings and cooled and cleansed the afternoon air.

“Tim Joe,” Karl said, “This has been a great day. I really hope we can do it again sometime.”

“Oh yeah, Karl, it was great and thanks for everything. But...what if we never meet again?”

There was a moment of silence. There are very real and solid reasons why I say stuff like that. As a Senior Agent and Pundit of Ill Repute, listen up, gang: Ya Never Know. Twist the Lime and Get the Juice. Ya Really Never Know.

Here's One From the Heart and The Park

This one is for you, KAZ! I hope you will always Remember the Ride: I hope you will always remember how All our Winds were headwinds that day and how well we ignored them! I hope every ride you take (on two wheels and in your life) will be sweet and that the Wind You Ride will forever be at your back; But most of all I want to thank you for being my friend.

Agent KAZ

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Hallmark Moment

#35

Take This Job...

2011-09-13T15:07:00.000-07:00

The Once And Future Has-Been (Again)

Sigh. It was bound to happen: the higher you climb, the more people there are shooting at you.

Hear my tale of woe: It's All Over! No longer am I the Head (Only) Big Man In Charge of Fix-It at the Whispering Pines Trailer Park. After days of struggle to climb to the top of the heap here at The Heap, I was shot in the foot by that most rascally of hunters: Myself.

Yea and Verily, it was Me My Ownself who perpetrated my downfall.

In other words, I Quit.

Who Was Alzheimer Anyway?

Why, you ask? Even if you don't ask, I'll tell you. Have you ever been internally nagged by some, well, nagging feeling that something just ain't right? You know, where you find yourself buttering your toast in the morning and suddenly realize you already buttered the other side and you just put sugar and cream in your coffee only to remember that you normally drink your coffee black?

Tourette Sounds Like A Bicycle Brand

Or you notice that you are mumbling a lot and cussing unexpectedly so that your Yellow Dog hides under the Trailer and thinks that you are looking at her and thinking about dog-fur gloves in preparation for the Winter of Your Discontent, even though it is still not so Glorious Summer in a Crappy Trailer Park in Florida?

Probably not.

I realize that Both of My Readers are fabulously wealthy and only come here to see how the Bottom Third lives. But since you are here you might as well listen to my Sad Tale and then I'll say something about Two Wheeled Conveyances instead of Two-Faced Contrivances.

(Or not. Suffice to say, I am a bit off balance right now and when I am Off Balance, I Ride. Which is ironic, if you think about it.)

How It All Began

Friday night, while helping Miss Jo the New Trailer Park Manager clear out some Extra Alcohol she had laying around I wisely decided to engage in High Pressure Contract Negotiations. At that time I was President and Head (Only) Member of the Florida International Brotherhood of Trailer Fix-It Men and therefore authorized to do whatever it takes to Hammer Out a Better Deal for my Constituency (Me).

It didn't go so good.

Big Brother Is Watching

The next morning I had some vague intuition that something was wrong and I better look outside before opening the front door to let my Nervous Dog out to do her business.

Nothing.

“Okay”, I think. “So far, so good.” I took the Winn-Dixie plastic grocery bag full of empty beer cans and headed for the dumpster. Somehow, an empty Tequila Bottle had got in there, also. Now where did that come from? “This ain't good,” I thought.

You worry to much, the Voice said. Then, when I got to the dumpster, I noticed Miss Jo's Brother's car was at the Office.

Uh Oh, the Voice said.

“Shut up, Voice,” I said, probably out loud, which is always a bad sign. Miss Jo's Brother sometimes goes around collecting rent with a gun on his hip. Seriously. As crazy as I am, I could never make this stuff up.

Looks like somebody is gonna get schooled, said the Voice.

“Looks like a good day for a bicycle ride”, I said back. “And shut up, Voice.”

What a Beautiful Day! (To Cut and Run)

I walked casually (but quickly) back to my Trailer, grabbed my Long Ride Stuff and saddled up my old Schwinn Le Tour. My LRS consists of a cheap messenger bag from Goodwill loaded with a spare tube, a patch kit, a pump and some tire irons. There is also a pressure gauge and I throw in my wallet and my cell phone and a couple bananas and some trail mix, if I have any. While I was doing this I explained to Miss Daisy the Yellow Dog that it would be a Long Day and I loved her and if anybody knocks don't answer and then I hid the house key in its conspicuous hiding place and GTF outta there.

I Am A Lion

Cowardly, you say? Perhaps. But it has long been a policy of mine to allow a Cooling Off Period between confrontations, particularly when it had mostly been me doing the confronting. Also, one of the best ways to win an argument is to not have it. Plus, it really was a great day for a ride.

Little Bites

My plan was simple. Ride as far as Daytona, take a break, and see how I felt. Seventeen easy miles. (Actually, they are all easy miles. Florida is Flat.) So I did. Sometimes, I like to take simple, Easy Rides To Nowhere. This Serendipitous Saturday would be one of them. But somewhere in that crinkled corner of my brain where the Truth (and The Voice) lives, I knew. I was going for the Long Ride. I have twice this year been thwarted in my Sunday Century efforts on the fifty miles or so to Flagler Beach, and today I was going to sneak up on it, grab a couple beers and coast home. One little bite at a time.

Zeno

What is it about sneaking up on distance that works so well? Zeno the Eleatic told some kind of paradox about an Arrow In Flight. Anywhere the arrow is, within its own length, for any split moment of time, it is at rest. Cycling can be like this. There have been days when I seemingly without effort cover miles and miles of quiet wandering on my bike and find myself amazed to eventually find myself back home. Today, by carefully not planning anything special, I was Sneaking Up On a Hundred Miles.

Water, Water Everywhere

There is a long stretch of ten miles or so after Ormond By the Sea of empty road with no shoulder on the northbound lane because the Atlantic Ocean is only a few feet away. But the southbound side has a good enough bike lane on the shoulder as well as a sidewalk/bike trail. I was riding this expansion-joint-filled Sidewalk Singletrack swiftly and easily, pushing into a mild headwind that I was hoping would hold out so I would have a sweet tailwind push for the ride back. There was a lone cyclist in front of me, far ahead. I was thirsty. Yes, I had water in my bottle. But I was thirsty, if you know what I mean.

It's Five o'Clock Somewhere

I caught up with the guy and from behind, for just an instant, I thought I had stumbled across Jimmy Buffet on a Bicycle. But no, as I pulled abreast I saw it was just another Margaritaville Dude like myself. Hey, Man, It's Florida.

“Hey Brother,” I said. “They got any beer around here?” He was momentarily startled.

“Uh, yeah, man, the A1A Market, about three miles up.” Three Miles? Dammit, Man, I'm thirsty!

Only one thing to do.

“Thanks Bro, “ I said. “Three Miles? I can do that.” I was already riding in the drops, but I leaned over a little deeper (headwind) and Kicked It In. The Jimmy Buffet Cyclist yelled something as I took off but I couldn't hear him. It was already Mile Fifty or so and Three More Miles Before Beer seemed a Little Daunting but I learned long ago, When Daunted: Sprint.

Ocean Mist and Cheap Beer

You might want to save some gas for the return, said the Voice.

“I ain't never goin' back, Voice!” I yelled. There was a sweet little two foot Florida breaking wave over there in the Ocean on my right hand. Up here in Flagler County the ocean mist is always present and this part of the coast has some really clear turquoise water. There was Beer Ahead and I had this little piece of Florida Real Estate all to myself, just Right Here and Now in this Perfect Split Moment of Precious Time.

Zeno had it right: Always stay Joyously at Rest during any part of Your Flight and Never Will You Be Daunted.

All's Well That Ends Well Most of the Time

The return trip? Well, as you guys all know, the first half is the funnest. On the ride home I had that tailwind I was hoping for, for what it was worth. All the same, grinding South down US One is a Chore of a Bike Ride. But as the Man (me) said, Any Bike Ride is Better than Facing the Music. And Me and the Voice knew all too well that the Piper Awaited back at the Trailer Park and She damn well would have to be paid.

It was still a hell of a day, said the Voice.

“It sure was, Buddy,” I said, “and we were looking for a job when we found this one.”

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Unemployment Line

#34

I'm Popeye the Bicycle Man

2011-08-29T17:52:00.000-07:00

To Be Or Not To Be

Man, I'm thinking about shutting down this Blog. Is that a form of suicide? Blogular Self Destruction? Who Knows? I have a Blast writing it, but sometimes I feel that I am short-changing Both my Readers if I don't Kick Ass At Every Outing. Bike Snob does it. He consistently kept me laughing at the beginning of my Velo Addiction and still does so unto this very day. But really, how hard is it to take Topical Cycling News and lambast it? Snobby is hilarious and makes me LOL daily but let's face it, Lenny Bruce was Funny Too and Look How He Ended Up. Just kidding, Wildcat. Sort of...

A Giant Problem

I can't help but sometimes feel guilty when I keep telling about Flat Tires and Inept Cycle Wrenching. I Really Do That Stuff but who cares? What I am trying to do is Share the Truth that you don't have to wear Super Hero clothes and spend thousands of dollars for a bicycle to get out on Two Wheels and have fun doing it. For example: Miss Jo the New Trailer Park Manager has a crusty old Giant MTB she found buried in the storage shed here at Whispering Pines Trailer Park and wants me to “Fix it.” She has been listening to me rant about bikes and got a kick out of reading about herself on my Booger and wants to get in on this “Bicycle Thing”.

Well, I am after all the Head (Only) Big Man In Charge Of Fix-It at the Park so I guess the Challenge is mine to meet. Her Giant isn't a bad bike at all. It is steel (real) and wearing good-enough Shimano stuff.

So I will hang her bike in the Stand and do my best. I'll make a bunch of mistakes and take forever to finish simple tasks and have arguments with the Voice and yes, I'll write about it.

What's Good For The Goose

That Bad-Ass Old Schwinn of mine ain't the only Bike I own. I also have a beat up old Mongoose Alta from the Year Of The Lord 1991 that is just as dear to my heart as the Le Tour. I had the Village Blacksmith English Peter chop off the vertical rear hangers and mig-weld on some gigantic BMX style horizontal whatever ya call 'ems and then removed all the Dangling Stuff and replace it with a short section of PVC where the cassette used to be and stuck on a single 14 tooth cog. For tires I installed a pair of Geax 1.6 Street Runners. Now she is a a fun sub-twenty pound single speed Neighborhood Blaster that I ride Like A Kid and if you guys don't have one, you should. One of Black Mountain Mike's well-heeled customers built a high-end similar bike but as I told Mike, Mine's the Trailer Park Version . Which makes it More Better Funner 'cause I can slam around on it and Trouble Be Damned.

Blame It On the Limes

That Poor Old-School Mongoose has been sitting in the corner for two months now waiting for a New Rear Wheel. I won't go into detail about what happened to the Old Rear Wheel but it involved Hub Rebuilding While Drinking and not keeping track of how Shimano Did It the First Time and then carelessly sweeping Carefully Laid Out Parts off the bench in order to throw down the Cutting Board and my Tequila Knife and The Limes and the Shot Glasses and What Happened Later.

Coyote Again

But a couple days ago I was walking around doing deep Philosophical Discourse with my old friend Coyote in his trailer-yard and noticed a crusty 26 inch rear wheel stuffed up under his trailer.

“What's that bicycle wheel?” I asked, trying to sound indifferent. Coyote is a coyote.

“Nothing. You can have it.” I picked it up, brushing off the dirt and noticing the Shimano Hub. I have just the tool to remove that cassette and rig this wheel up for my old Mongoose, I was thinking.

“Well, if you don't want it, I'll see if I can do anything with it,” I said.

“OK”, Coyote said.

Well, this was no Steal of a Deal. I steel-wooled the spokes and re-packed the bearings and scrubbed the rims for an hour or two. Then I started truing the wheel and learned a little Painful Learning about galvanized spokes and frozen nipples. (And I don't mean the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition kind.) Three spokes broke during the tuning process. I handily scrounged new spokes by cannibalizing the old Tequila Wheel, weaving them in and moving on. After an enjoyable Zen afternoon I found myself doing lazy figure eights in the Trailer Park Parking lot, re-enjoying my Old Friend the Goose and wondering about why all my best Bicycle Stuff seems to arrive via the Coyote.

Oh Yeah, I Moved A Little

For Example: Since the Blonde invited me to move into a Different Trailer, Coyote and his Ms. have been inundating me with food. Good food, too, as anyone familiar with what is sometimes called Southwest Cuisine will attest to. The other night, while I was burping on his veranda, he pulled out a very worn black leather tool roll.

“I was cruising down US One on the way home today and this bag fell off a guy on a Harley,” he said. He handed it to me. “Can you use it?” I took the stiff leather thing from my old friend and opened it.

“Any hundred dollar bills in here?” I asked. Then I noticed a small zippered pouch. “Hey, Coyote. Did you notice this little Secret Stash pouch?” He reached over for the bag, but I Know Coyote and held it out of reach. “Let me just look in here,” I said. The zipper was rusted but I got it open only to find a very worn old wooden-handled screwdriver. I held it up to the light of the fading sundown, then handed it to Coyote.

“Well,” he said, “You know: Harley's.” I nodded sagely.

“Thanks for the bag, though, brother,” I said. He gave me a little Coyote look.

“How much?” I asked.

“Five dollars?”

“OK.”

Thanks, Coyote !

And so, Like my Twenty Dollar Schwinn Super Le Tour that has become my Long Rider, Like the Wheel That Saved the Goose, I now have this Really Cool black leather tool bag hanging from the saddle of my road bike, perfect in every way and it all somehow comes channeling through this Kooky Guy that I have known for so many years now and who somehow seems to be my Personal Cycling Angel. Which is really funny, if you knew Coyote.

OK, Back To Bicycles: Today I Rode

Today I shook off the Trailer Park Induced Lethargy and Repair Chaos that has kept me Off the Bike and In the Dumps and went for one of my little Checking on the Ocean Rides. It has sadly been three weeks since my ass has kissed the saddle. I decided Trailers Be Damned I'm Going For A Ride and started out into the first real Sunny Morning since Irene the Hurricane graciously failed to Grace our Coast. It would be a nice, slow ride to the beach and maybe a quick spin back.

But No.

How Fast?

As I started limbering up my rusty legs along the River Road a guy blasts by me on a Trek Y-Foil. I caught a glimpse of this sixty year old or so guy, said to myself Phred Is Dead and put the hammer down. But this was no Fred. This guy was lean and mean and had legs like a locomotive. No big deal, I think, I'll maintain a respectful distance and see what this pace is like. Faster than I want to ride, though. Why do these guys always go so fast? Or is it just when I'm around? I was really pleased with this gentleman, though. These guys usually look back about ten seconds or so after The Pass. This dude never did. He doesn't even know this Homeless Guy is about ten yards off his wheel and pacing.

Then He Looked.

This is the Moment of Truth to me. Just once I would like for one of these guys to say, “Damn, not bad riding for a Hobo,” and then slack up and see what I am about. But they never do. What they do is turn back around and fall into the drops and start crankin' away like they expect me to pull up alongside and ask for some Spare Change or something.

So he poured it on and I poured it on and now he can't help himself, he keeps looking back and I'm always there and now my Mellow Morning Ride has devolved into a Life and Death Struggle.

Life and Death Is What You Make Of It

I'm Not Fast, guys. It's just that these Peacocks aren't always fast either. They think they are, and listen, this guy was tearing me up and was after all, older than me which is pretty damned old. But then, mercifully, the turn-off for the beach came up and he kept going and I turned off.

I gave my best and loudest Trailer Park whistle and he turned and I waved and yelled Thanks! And that was that.

Time For the Philosophy

Why do I do it? I'm not sure. I have been criticized in print for “messing” with people who are on their “training rides.” How so? I'm not wheel sucking. I stay pretty far back. I'm not messing with them until they look back and are stunned to see this guy on a Crappy Old Ten Speed wearing flip flops and needing a shave Is Still There. They were expecting to see a Bedraggled Dot on the Horizon. And one time when I was catching up to a Group Ride I was passing this lovely girl, obviously part of the group, although a Dropped part of the group. She was crying. Those fuckers had dropped her and not one of those Super Heroes had laid back to give her a pull or a word of encouragement.

So I guess that is why I do it.

I Am What I Yam

Hang with me, gang. The Ol' TPC is having such a rough time at the Whispering Pines lately that I find myself once again dreaming of a nice little Thirty Footer hand built by Yours Truly. I got the Tools and I got the Talent. What I ain't got is the Pile of Wood and the Gumption.

Anybody sitting on a Barn Load of Oak, Spruce and Cedar?

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Boat Yard
#33

You Gotta Know When To Walk Away

2011-08-08T06:00:00.000-07:00

Sunday Century

The Big Plan was to bust out a Sunday Century on a New-Old Route I have been wanting to get back to; it is a path that is both History-Laden and Ocean-Sided and a Favorite Old Trail of my Motorcycling Days. I was looking forward to the Ride and I was even more looking forward to slipping into my comfortable role of Orator and dealing out a little History Lesson spiced with Pithy Comments and Jocular Asides.

Don't Worry

Well, Y'all Dodged That Bullet. I Got a Flat just before the first of three little bridges that I cross on my way to Daytona about thirty minutes into the day. Somehow or another one of those stupid staples that go into, well, a stapler found its way onto the side of Old US One and hence into my new Kenda Kwest 35. The temperature at 8 AM was already so robust that I was able to locate the leak by the sweat pouring off my face and onto the tube. I was proud of having the right gear to Do the Job but the novelty has by now worn off and I would just as soon Some Genius hurry up and invent tires that don't get flat.

Remembering Karl

I mean, these Kendas have a Kevlar lining but it must be some kind of Watered-Down Kevlar. This was one of those staples that we used to shoot at each other in Fifth Grade when Mrs. Kaylor would step out of the room for a snort and Karl Latimer would run up to the desk and grab her stapler and let loose a barrage of staple fire and then put it back on the desk just as the knob of the classroom door was turning. A Freshly Fortified Mrs. Kaylor never noticed a thing and I often wonder which Penitentiary or Congressional Seat Karl ultimately found his way to.

But that staple should not have penetrated that so-called Kevlar and of course it left a Double-Hole Snake Bite that caused a little Shiver of Recognition to course its way down my spine.

On the Road Again

I got the new tube in and pedaled away Satisfied and Proud of my Self-Sufficient Cycling Techniques and then I heard a clicking sound and stopped, wondering what I had done wrong and what was clicking around back there. Imagine my surprise and dismay when I saw a really Antique-Looking and very Rusty Safety Pin, the kind that once was used to hold Baby Diapers together back about the same time that Karl Latimer was getting his first felony conviction. WTF?

Do They Make Kevlar Diapers?

It was stuck in there just like it would be if Kevlar had never been invented (and at this point I'm not so sure Kevlar actually exists) and when I pulled it out the tire gave a very Relieved Hissing Sound as though to say “Thanks for pulling that thing out of me” and I Sat Down to Cry. But who could tell? It's 8:20 AM now and I look like I've been Blasted with a Fire Hose and then Rolled on the Ground and I've still got 90 miles to go. On a flat tire.

Wait! I've Got Patches!

Then I remembered the sweet new patch kit I picked up last week. It is very nice, it uses contact cement instead of the glueless patches I had been using. These patches are rubber and mounted between a piece of wax backing paper and a piece of clear cellophane and they work Real Good. It is important to make sure you get that contact cement on in a nice even coat, though, and let it dry for five minutes or until the gloss goes off.

And man, I sure do wish I had those patches with me right now. But no, they are sitting on My Bench At Home where I was playing with them yesterday afternoon. But I am not At Home (In more ways than one), I am Here, on the Side of the Road, with my Bike and my Flat Tire and a Nice Even Coating of Sweat, Tears and Road Grime.

I'm Not Calling The Blonde

So I weighed my options. Call the Blonde for a Lost-the-Soccer-Match-Got-a-Wedgie Ride Home? Lock Up the Bike and Hitchhike to a Big Box for a new spare or a patch kit or both? Or push the bike the Ten Miles back to the house and stop on the way for a Six Pack and then Drink the Beer?

Well that was Ten Miles and Five Beers Ago and now here I sit bragging about my Spineless Quitter Attitude (SQA). But that Ten Mile Bike Hike was Exercise Enough and these Beers sure are Cold and I have both tubes handily patched up and that Hundred Miles will still be there Next Time.

Plus I Do Kinda Have A Job

Miss Jo the New Trailer Park Manager is a little worried about my Production Record here at Whispering Pines and so we have agreed to a more Structured Operation. Actually she agreed to it. I wasn't there when she voted on it and all I got was the memo. So now I ride a spirited little 18 mile loop every morning before work or a 24 miler if I'm Feeling Spunky, (and confident that I can get back to The Park and Into a Trailer before she realizes I'm thirty minutes late.)

It is a fine arrangement so far and I'm starting to creep my mileage back up a bit. When I was Unemployed Completely I was Riding A Lot. I wore out the original wheel on the Old Schwinn and was living on Hot Dogs and Hand-Outs. Now that I am the Head (Only) Big Man In Charge of Fix-it, I live a far more Dignified Existence but, alas, the mileage has suffered, as I knew it would.

Another Promise I'll Probably Break

But Fear Not, Fair Readers! I vow to ride at least one Sunday Century a month and come on here to brag or complain about it. I got one in on the Fourth of July (I mistakenly reported it as 80 miles but miscalculated my miscalculations). August is, after all, a Young Month and I will Find a Way.

Why Do You Do It?

My fascination with Long Miles is a simple one: I occasionally fantasize about riding the Trans-Am or the Southern Tier across America and I am always following at least one rider at CrazyGuy. Right now I am following two guys who are traveling two very different trips on the Same Road. Both are excellent writers and the juxtaposition of their diametrically opposed outlooks makes for a fascinating point-counterpoint Tour of Our Country. (See Jeff Here and Chris Here).

These Cyclists frequently put in miles Day after Day that make my paltry efforts look like the Feeble Meanderings of a Little Old Man. So I ride. I got some Catchin' Up To Do.

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Kevlar Testing Facility
#32

Guest Post: Roadie Ryan Lays It Down: Seattle!

2011-08-06T13:38:00.000-07:00

[A Note from The Trailer Park Cyclist: My computer sorta crashed yesterday and only runs in 30 minute bursts, much like myself. So one of the Original Followers of the World-Famous TPC has Helped Out by donating a Guest Post about What He Rides and Where He Rides It. Thanks, Ryan!]

A Bit of Background

Tim Joe was kind enough to ask me to write about riding in Seattle. I am a 40ish dude who likes to ride Steel Road Bikes and recently have been bitten by the Old 10 Speed bug big time. My current daily rider is a 1979 Miyata 912 . I ride to commute and run errands but mostly I ride to put a smile on my face and clear my mind. When the TPC suggested writing about Riding in Seattle a hundred ideas flooded into my head. I could write about the 38 mile Burke Gilman Bike Path, or riding around Lake Washington, or the video-game-like quality of riding the Bike Lane on Second Ave in Downtown at rush hour trying to get home in one piece. And then I remembered a nugget I have heard often about writing, Write What You Know, and what I know most about is riding in West Seattle where I live and where most of my cycling happens.

Myth Busters

First of all I need to dispel a myth about Seattle. People have the impression it always rains here and frankly we encourage that impression because we don't want everyone moving here. The exaggeration reached a peak in the movie "Sleepless in Seattle" when the character of Meg Ryan's brother says "You can't move to Seattle it rains 10 months of the year out there!" I mean c'mon 10 months! Really? That is so absurd, it's gotta be like 9 months tops.

Start Off Easy Then Add Gravel

My regular loop is not epic in distance, about 12 miles, but it does have quite a bit of variety. I like to start with a gentle down hill for the first mile or so to let the legs warm up, and then I duck into Lincoln Park to ride the gravel for a bit, it's fun, scenic and a bit of a skills course. I like to think of riding on gravel like being in a constant "Tokyo drift"; it takes getting used to but now when I hit an unexpected gravel patch on the road it doesn't feel weird to me. Also my tires are usually softer and wider than the standard super hard and skinny 700x23c which makes it easier to ride the gravel.

Out of the Woods and Around the Potholes

Once I exit the Park it's back to pavement, well sort of pavement anyway. It’s a combination of 50's concrete slab (joints every 15 feet or so) and crumbling pavement rife with potholes, like riding Swiss Cheese in sections. In one particular short descent the pavement is so rough I have lost count of the number of water bottles and clip on tail lights that have ejected from the bike while I bounce down the road at 30 mph. There are, however, a few spots that have been recently paved and when I go from the rough feel of chip seal to the smooth new pavement it is hard not to give out an "ahhhh" for those 30 yards or so of calm Asphalt Bliss.

Hipsters and Tourist and Babes -Oh My!

About mid ride I hit Alki Beach which is a stretch of road with Restaurants and Shops on one side and the Beach and Puget Sound on the other. It is reputed to be where the first Seattle Settlers landed and, I think, has some of the most beautiful views of the area. In the summer it's where the cool people hang (and the occasional Clydesdale Cyclist on an old 10 speed) and with Beach Volleyball and girls in bikini's and people crusin' the strip its like a little slice of SoCal. While there is a very nice bike path along about a 4 mile stretch here I keep to the road. In my experience cars are more predictable than 5 year olds on razor scooters, and while having a close up with a car would be unpleasant, inadvertently hitting a little kid who has u turned in front of me would be unthinkable. And don't even start me on the Mom's walking two abreast on the big path with mega-strollers talking about their relationships and simultaneously texting. In the summer months the road traffic is moving slowly enough I can usually keep up and the rest of the year traffic is pretty light, so I stick to the road. If I am lucky sometimes a Regatta breaks out on the Sound while I am passing through.

After negotiating the Alki strip I round a point and get a great view of the City Skyline and Elliot Bay. I also pass a rather industrial area near the Port of Seattle and my view is reduced to a forest of cranes but it’s a small price to pay for the wonderful view of the City. Salty's Restaurant on this stretch of the road boasts that they have the best view of Seattle from their tables and I would have a hard time arguing with them. I also like to use this part of the ride to get into a nice easy rhythm because its about time to Pay the Piper.

What Goes Down Gets to Climb

One thing about West Seattle is that at some point you are going to be doing some climbing. We aren't talking the Alps or anything but on this particular loop I climb for about one mile in the 4-6% gradient range toward the end of the ride. It's not Epic but it usually tests me a bit and reminds me to spin smooth and steady and relax so I don't end up huffin' and puffin' like the big bad wolf by the top of the climb. And on a clear day I even get a peek of Mount Rainier on the way up.

Coffee? Did someone say Coffee?

Another thing we are known for here in the Emerald City is Coffee, and Yes We Love It and Yes I Am An Addict. I was thinking about the number of coffee shops I go by on this loop and came up with ten and only two of those ten are a National Chain sporting the Mermaid logo. And I am not talking about Café's or Bakeries that also serve coffee, we have those too. I am talking about Dedicated Coffee Shops. So at any point in the ride that I am jonesin' for my caffeine fix I don't have far to go to get it. And for the post-ride or mid-ride beer stop there are also Four Pubs and a Tavern along the way.

You Call That a Ride?

Don't get me wrong, I love to get out and go for longer rides and Explore New Places and I do so as much as I can, but with a wife, child, mortgage, yard, job, bike projects, blah blah blah sometimes it’s a ride of under an hour or no ride at all. I don't know about you but I will take an hour on the bike over zero any day.

Thanks Tim Joe for letting me ramble on about Seattle and to the TPC Nation - Enjoy Your Ride.

[No, Ryan, it is Me that has to Thank You! What a great post and someday I would love to come out and ride your Cool Loop with you! TJ]

Whispering Pines Trailer Park On Location: The Emerald City

#31 (GP #1)

It's the Clothes That Makes the Man

2011-08-01T11:03:00.000-07:00

The Gump-Headed Cyclist

Maybe it was the Heat but July was a confusing Month at Whispering Pines Trailer Court. Of course, I am pretty much confused most of the time anyway, but this year the Month of July left me feeling like Forrest Gump without the Box of Chocolates.

Blame It On Uncle Sam

We started with a huge and crazy Independence Day party and things just took off from there. I met Uncle Bill and we drank about a hundred beers to celebrate the occasion and he became so impressed with my Wisdom and Integrity that he finally decided to break the Family Vow and market his Grandma's insanely delicious Barbecue Sauce. That meant I spent a whole lot of computer time last month learning about Bottles and Labels and Sauce Marketing and how to get the sauce in the bottle and how to get the labels on and if you think any of this is simple you've never tried to grasp the arcane world of the Food and Drug Administration or the U.S. Patent office or just how to get the damn printer to align properly to print labels for fifty bottles.

But I did it and it is behind me now and soon enough we will have several cases of Uncle Bill's Legendary Backcountry Gator Sauce store-ready, stamped, sealed and ready for shipping. I live in Harley Country and plan to do my best to expand the waistline of some Hog-Riders around here. My on-line Buddies will be getting samples but not yet. Trust my Wisdom and Integrity when I tell you this stuff is worth waiting for.

Saucy

Speaking of Sauce, another development that took place was the arrival of Miss Jo the New Trailer Park Manager. She is almost the same age as me but acts sixteen and looks it too. The only problem is that she has something wrong with her brain that makes her want to work all the time. And I don't mean just kinda-sorta work; I mean she hustles around Whispering Pines like a dervish on speed with wheel barrows and ladders and wagon loads of stuff and lawn mowers and weed-eaters and she does it all so fast that I sometimes think there might be more than one of her. As Head (Only) Big Man In Charge of Fix-It I am a little overwhelmed and I tried to keep up with her for most of July but then I had to put my foot down and sternly explain that I am not only a Genius of Trailer Repair but that I also am a Sensitive Artist of the Blogular Kind and that above all, I have a Reputation to Protect as a World-Famous Bad Cyclist and Bicycle Butcher of Renown.

When she got done laughing she reminded me that I still had to replace the floor in Unit 18 and that if I would quit drinking so much beer during the day to “soothe my sensitive spirit” I would get a lot more work done and still have time to ride “that skinny-tired bike” and “why don't you write your Booger or whatever it is at night?”

So you can see what I am up against.

Oh Yeah, Bicycles

In the midst of all this I did manage to get in some fairly good rides. Just not the All Day Rambles I am so fond of, although I also got in a couple of those. Yesterday, (Sunday) I did a nice little 24 mile loop that I ride, and I actually felt some pain at the end. Most odd and indicative of my low mileage stats for July.

This twenty-four mile loop was about half gravel up until last year, when the County came in and put down nice smooth asphalt. At about the same time the State came along and repaved the other half of the ride, which is U.S. One. They put in a nice wide Bike-Friendly shoulder at the same time.

If Three's A Crowd, What's A Hundred?

What this means is this little loop I consider my own ain't my own anymore. Back when it was loose gravel and pitted highway with no shoulder I would have it all to myself. Not anymore. On yesterday's ride I saw over One Hundred Cyclists.

I realize I have a reputation for hyperbole, but this is a real number. One Hundred Cyclists. I didn't exactly count them, but there were five group rides of ten to fifteen riders each. So OK, maybe I am exaggerating. But after all that time having this road as my exclusive domain, even two other cyclists is a lot.

Sartorial Splendor

Now, I know that my Readers ride their bicycles wearing Helmets and Jerseys and Bike Shorts. Well, I don't actually know this, but I suspect it. Me, my kit is a bandana and a paint splattered T-shirt with the sleeves cut off and some baggy old Dickies shorts. I ride with my flip-flops thrust into my toeclips and find it all quite serviceable. But when I ran into all those cycling groups yesterday, their Peacockery left me feeling somewhat shabby.

Somebody Catch the Dog Catcher

This was on my mind because a local Animal Control Officer had gone missing for a couple days. She was last seen riding off on her mountain bike. An area resident had seen the missing lady riding in her neighborhood. She said: "I wouldn't have noticed her except she was on a bicycle but she wasn't wearing sporty clothing."

So...WTF? Is "sporty clothing" overtaking regular clothes in the cycling world? Of course not. I live in an area where lots of people ride bikes. Only the Roadies wear cycling specific clothes. That witness was a nut, that's all.

(As a crazy footnote to this story, the K-9 Unit sent in to search for the missing woman Lost the Dog. So for a day or so, the Dog Catcher was lost and the Dog sent in to Catch Her was lost too. To cap it all off, after the dog and the lady were Found and Safe, the Sheriff's Office made reverse 911 calls to the entire neighborhood at 3 AM and woke everybody up. Hey, it's Daytona.)

You Shoulda Known Me When I Was Cool

I ride around looking like a Homeless Guy on a Stolen Bicycle. I do it on purpose, meaning I don't know what else to wear and these are the same clothes I wear every day whether I am gutting a trailer, fishing, going to the Winn-Dixie or Riding My Bike. I am pleased about this, because these clothes are very comfortable and let's face it, I'm not exactly out to make any good first impressions these days. I am haunted by the fact that any minute now the President will come on the air and make a Special Announcement that “They were Just Kidding and the Economy is Fine and we're going to start the Building Bubble back up” and then I will have to go back to being Clean-cut and Respectable and get a hair cut and put those stupid Dockers back on and my stupid Polo shirts with the Company Name on them and then once again there will be Banks and Accountants and Employees and Contracts and Board Rooms haunting my days and Dreams of Cycling haunting my nights.

Dang it, I'm digressing again. Maybe a beer will help me focus...

Meanwhile, Back At The Ranch

So, these groups were riding in the opposite direction from me, in more ways than one. I had a chance to scan each rider briefly, taking notice of How They Were Doing It. Some guys were not wearing shirts, or jerseys. Most were. They all wore bike shorts and helmets. Footwear I am not too sure about, but I don't think any of them were wearing flip flops.

A Rare Bird

Which leads up to my question: where are the other Trailer Park Cyclists? Am I the only one? I see other homeless-looking guys out riding bikes, but they are riding those homeless-guy bikes. In fact, they are Homeless Guys. I know most of them. I see Comfort Bike Cyclists out there, but they are generally Neater and given to Helmet-Wearing.

Rough Rider

I have a carefully (for me) maintained 1981 Schwinn Super Le Tour that I would put under my pillow at night if I had a bigger pillow. She sports a new Mavic/Tiagra rear wheel and all the usual new cables and lube work. When not under my butt, she hangs in my work stand for cleaning and worship. I did a ratty-ass handlebar tape job which I rather like and when I mounted my bottle cage with stainless steel hose clamps I made no effort to disguise the fact that there were old pieces of inner tube between the clamps and the frame.

All (both) of you know that I love a meticulously groomed bicycle as much as anyone. I drop by the OTSG four or five times a day. My hero/guru Mike Varley turns out bicycles at his Marin Shop that could either be ridden around the world or straight to a museum. My buddy Ryan did a fantastic job with his Miyata 912 last year. I don't know about Wayward's bike but he drives a train for a living so he already has a kind of superman status in my world-view.

Light the Fuse

So what the hell is wrong with me? For some reason I insist on maintaining a Quasi-Post-Apocalyptic Look that tickles the hell out of me. But I worry about my Upcoming World Barbecue Tour. If I drop into a town where I have cycling friends and we decide to go for a ride, will they insist that I wear a helmet? I don't even own a helmet. I know that when I get up to Rivendell GP won't make an issue of it, but he is the only one. I understand helmets for racing, NASCAR drivers and Indy drivers wear helmets. But not when they are driving the family car.

Everybody Else Is Doing It

I understand helmets for group rides, because I understand peer pressure. Having been a Lifetime Loner, peer pressure has never been a big factor with me, but it is bothering me now. I am not trying to drive up Comments and Readership by dropping the “H” Bomb, (although more comments and readers would be good). But anytime you see a flame war concerning helmets on the internet there will be comments by the pro-helmet crowd that are so vehement that it gives me pause. Why would someone be so concerned about my well being that they would want to Punch Me In the Face To Protect My Head?

Hey Fatty! Remember Me?

The Fat Cyclist was supposed to send me a Team Fatty jersey after I made my
Spectacular Debut on his Blog. But that I was going to frame and hang on the wall.

Is Anybody Out There?

I don't know. It's Lonely At the Bottom. But I am seriously curious if I am the only Roadie in existence who does not wear kit.

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Hobo Convention

#30

Dances With Wolverines

2011-07-26T19:34:00.000-07:00

Here We Go Again

I live in a Trailer Park in Florida.

I know, we've talked about this before, but I want to Addendum the Story, so to speak. And no doubt add to my impressive reputation for Political Incorrectness.

What's This Got To Do With Bicycles?

Life here at the Whispering Pines Trailer Park is remarkably like what I visualize an Indian Village in the Old Days as being like. We certainly are Tribal in our existence. Every trailer, like every teepee, is well acquainted with each other. There are communal feasts and communal celebrations. (Almost every night.) When an Elder Passes, the rest of the tribe swarms like Benevolent Vultures unto that trailer for the Passing Out of the Belongings. Sometimes the simple act of one member of the Tribe moving on to New Hunting Grounds Down the Street (or Jail) means a Bonanza of Crap to be shared amongst Those Still Free.

The Smoke From A Distant Fire

Also, there are Visual Similarities. Many of the people here, myself included, go about clothed in what might pass for quaint Indian garb. That means we spend most of the time in a pair of worn out shorts, flip-flops and little else. (The Braves, I mean. The Trailer Park Girls...well, that is a subject for another time). The Smoke of Many Fires fills the air, because everybody does a lot of their cooking on a grill. It just makes sense in an environment that seldom sees temperatures less than ninety degrees and usually closer to 100 for most of the summer. Why heat up a hot-ass trailer with cooking heat when you can just step outside and throw some fresh caught fish on the grill or at worst resort to some cheap Winn-Dixie cheeseburgers?

It Ain't Over 'Till It's Over, Rover

Also the Dogs. I don't know how things were set up in Old Indian Villages, but I am pretty sure they had dogs. If not, we are making up for it now. Every trailer in Whispering Pines has at least One Dog. I know I do. But I Am Poor, and One Dog is all I can afford. Both my neighbors have at least two and Coyote, who has lived here the longest, has four. But his dogs are Chihuahuas and Four Chihuahuas actually equals Two Dogs. (But For the Great Spirit's sake don't tell them that) When a Stranger or the Bluecoats (guess) enter the Park the combined howling and growling and general cacophany of barking is impressive. It's funny but true: I know Every Dog's Bark and from my teepee (I mean trailer) at Center Court I can get a pretty good idea of what's going on by which dog is barking which bark at any given time and place.

We Pause For A Senior Moment

Did I ever tell you guys what Three Dog Night means? Probably. I Am Ancient and thus privileged to the Rite of Repetition. Or did I already say that? For example, did any of you know that the Wright Brothers started out as Bicycle Mechanics? Not just any old bicycle mechanics either: they had their own line of bicycles known as Atlantis, Columbia, Enterprise, Endeavor etc. that they stole from the names of old Sailing Ships.

Now we return you to our regular programming.

The Crux of the Matter

Every Old Indian Village had a Shaman, or, as we call them now, Old Fart Who Thinks He Knows Everything. The Shaman was usually a pretty weird dude who mumbled a lot and could often be found Staring at the Sky and he usually drank Potions with Eagle Signs on them. And with that comes the Truth: today, in casual conversation with Miss Jo the Trailer Park Manager (My New Boss) I realized I am the Second Oldest Guy In the Park. Old Charlie the Refrigerator Repair Guy got carted off last month. He was still alive, but I suspect the Wolves In the Great Forest Beyond the Park have got his scent by now. That only leaves Jungle Jim between me and Eldest Status. What burden will that carry?

Well, for one thing, I will have to step up my intake of Potions With Eagle Signs.

I Ain't John Smith, But That's What They Call Me At the Village Motel

Be that as it may, I am enamored of this Romantic New View of my life here at Whispering Pines. Miss Jo the New Manager is one Smokin' Hot Pocohantas of a Certain Age and the easiest Boss I ever had, so far. If I wanted to carry the analogy further, I guess Bobby the Trailer Park Mayor would have to serve as our Chief and I could go on and on with the whole thing but in reality, I'm just riffing along until I start being a Bicycle Guy again.

Feel My Pain

I have no idea what that entails but there is one Bicycle in the Stand for Uncle Bill (A Wally Comfort) and my own dear Mongoose Alta (awaiting a wheel) sitting on the side. Bill's Bike only needs Two Tubes and a Lube 'n Tune but since I refuse to drive anywhere for Bike Parts and we have had Afternoon Storms for a month now I don't have the parts. Tomorrow that will change because it is Wednesday and from now on, On Wednesdays We Ride.

No, I Said My Pain

Thus Speaks the Second Oldest Bike Shaman In Training At Whispering Pines Trailer Park. Plus, I need a break from Pressure Washing and Roach Killing and Rot Removing and Air-conditioner Swapping. I need a break from Linoleum Laying and Wall Painting and Barbecue Sauce Empire Starting and On and On and On.

Ruby, Don't Take Your Love To Town

Somehow I fear my readers need a break from my endless ramblings that have Nothing To Do With Bicycling but what the heck, We're All Friends, right? Right?

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Historical Diorama

#29

What the Left Hand Is Doing

2011-07-22T18:37:00.000-07:00

Like Bess Said, It's Summertime

One of those fantastic Summer Storms that hit Florida at this time of year is raging outside the trailer. All the windows are open and cool gusts of rain-cleansed air blow into the room like the laughing breath of Baby Gods. The Yellow Dog cowers beneath my table, for she likes not these frightening aberrations on our steady Dog Days of Summer; flashing lightning and banging thunder are not her Favorite Things.

But me, I love it. For whatever reason, heavy weather has always enraptured and delighted me, sometimes on Long Rides and sometimes when caught at sea, the Blast and Crack of Mom at Her Best (Or Worse) has always been a welcome break in the Old One Day After Another Deal. The reminder that there are powers beyond our control is somehow a comforting one. It seems to take all the responsibility of the Burden of Power away from my mortal self and for that brief period of The Storm all we have to worry about is Staying Alive.

Blame It On Radio

And don't despair, my friends, I too realize I am ending paragraphs with the titles of songs. After well over thirty years in the construction business spent listening to radios on job sites it is inescapable that I would inadvertently insert musical references into my writing. Please bear with me while I'm Ridin' the Storm Out.

About Centuries

Anybody Been Riding? Not me. But some other guys have, it seems. My Buddy Wayward Home has a pretty good description of a Real-Life Century on his Blog recently.

If you are like me, you have read with fascination about these seemingly effortless 100 mile rides being done by People Who Never Sweat and seem to dash about the Wine Country in immaculate cycling garb while chatting about the stock market. I want to be like those people.

But alas, I ain't.

I sweat and I bonk and I cuss and the sweat pours out and I seek Beer and Shade and I try to think up ways I can talk somebody into giving me a ride and maybe I can get them to buy my bicycle and then I ride some more. Then I ride some more.

Then I ride some more. Listen, it's a Hundred Miles. That's a lot. But Ol' Wayward Got It Right in his description and I encourage everyone to read it and if it convinces any of you to Stay On the Porch, good for you. How much for the bike?

WWJWD?

You can do like I did, and ride Metric Centuries, then go around casually mentioning “I rode a Century today” and get confused looks from the other people in the Trailer Park who don't understand how anyone can ride a Hundred Years on a Bicycle in one day and then you explain that a Century is a hundred miles in Cycling Parlance and it is OK, because by then they have stopped listening and even if they were still listening they won't believe you. So that ain't exactly a lie and it gets you accustomed to thinking about Centuries and by the way, while a Metric Century is a typically effete Euro-wimpy Century it is still 60 miles and I rode a hell of a lot of them before I got my John Wayne On and busted out a Real Live Daytona 100.

I bet the Duke would have tore 'em up at the Tour de France.

A Girl Duke

Another cycling Blogista I follow is Riding A Century of her own and like the Trailer Park Cyclist not all of her Writing About Riding is just exactly about bicycles but this Lady Lays It On the Line and I have been meaning to mention her to you guys Just In Case. Of course I am talking about the redoubtable Judi over at Miles and Madness. I won't bother telling you about her, just go see. She is another Real Person and talks like one and I always get excited when I stumble across a hero and here one is.

Oh No, Here He Goes Again

Cycling for me is a metaphor for a Larger Truth and as a Normal Human, (which I someday hope to become) I don't get all the details. But while the sore butt and the mechanical oddities and numb hands and other numb parts are a constant reminder that cycling is also a Real World Experience, there really does seem to be something else going on here, and it is a good thing. Cycling writers like to mention the word Zen now and then and that is all right with me. As a Trailer Park Master of Budweiser Zen, I am amused and delighted that my fellow scribes attempt to capture the Elusive Clydesdale of Serenity when describing what is actually Exhaustion and Dehydration and an Approaching Physical Breakdown.

Then You Get A Flat.

Carpe Delirium!

But be that as it may, Long Rides are the the Real Deal and I love them. Go out and get some punishment, you will be glad you did.

I Can't Believe I Made It All the Way

The Storm Has Abated, as they say, and so has the Muse. Not that good of a Muse tonight, anyway. I mean, WTF is this "laughing breath of Baby Gods"? That I even dare to type such a sentence tells you a little about what riding Too Long can do to your brain.

But I wanted to drop in and say Hello, I wanted to keep in touch, so to speak. The Voice has been Silent for Lo These Many Days, which is as it should be: his job is Advice, and right now I don't need any. Right now what I got to do is Storm around this Trailer Park and Fix-It. I gotta do what I gotta do and then I will Ride Long and Hard and then I will come on here to complain about it.

Until then, My Friends, Saddle Up the Palomino...

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Juke Joint

#28

The Weatherman

2011-07-10T16:03:00.000-07:00

Unnatural Affection

How unnatural is it to be in love with your bicycle? I went for a roundabout ride today, covering some fifty miles or so in very random and easy fashion. This is the riding I live for! No idea of pace or distance or even where I am, I was just Riding for the Hell of it and just going nowhere, but getting places all the same.

I Need A Fix

One of the places I went to was this horrendous super-shiny commercial plaza a couple towns away. You all know the kind of place I mean: a few dozen acres of cow pasture or scrub oak suddenly transforms into this Mini-Disney of Retail. A Multi-Screen Movie House, two or three Chain Restaurants and then all the in-fill stores that accompany the Big Boys like Remora on a Shark. My purpose in going to this place was to scope out a new chain restaurant that is being built there. In my Old Days of Glory, I was a very prolific builder of restaurants. I was thinking maybe there would be a little work there for Ol' Tim Joe, a little work and maybe some cash for the cash box and the Internet Bicycle Parts Suppliers who Feed My Habit.

Danger!

To get there I had to traverse an Interstate Interchange, probably one of the least bike-friendly spots known to man. Sidewalks that look like they will carry you precariously through to the other side instead abruptly end. You then find yourself on a narrow shoulder with ground glass and wrecked tire debris and then even that tapers off to nothing at the exact blind spot where a distracted driver could suddenly come blasting around those bushes texting and eating and murdering you all at the same time. It is horrendous. I have encountered these interchanges before. They were once known as clover leafs but there is nothing lucky about them, unless one counts one's self lucky to survive the encounter.

Plucky

But the Trailer Park Cyclist counts on Pluck Not Luck, pluck and alertness and a really good reliable two-wheeled steed built with my own two hands using those aforementioned quality bicycle parts purchased online. She got me through and I cruised through this “open air mall” somewhat dazzled by the sterile cleanness and general plasticity of the place. I was of course the only cyclist in sight; I would have been appalled to think that Children Riders or even my Fellow Cyclists would have to brave such harrowing circumstances to get to this place that belongs to SUV's and Sleek Sedans and the Slaves that maintain them.

Anyway

But Judge Not, Tim Joe, Lest Ye etc. So I instead focused on cruising around this giant place looking for the Job Site where maybe I could get a phone number or maybe even run into an old acquaintance from The Day. But no. Even though the newspaper had said work would start tomorrow, there was not the least sign of a new building going up or the plethora of containers, trailers and equipment that accompany such a project. What the Hell?

Now I had to go back through that damn interchange again. For nothing.

Urban Assault Vehicle

This kind of riding is new to the Old Schwinn. She is more accustomed to Long Rides Down Country Lanes, or Multi-Mile Highway Grinds. Instead, for this kind of work I like to ride my old Mongoose Alta with the Flat Bars and Fat Tires. She is converted to single speed and is about as bomb-proof as you could ask for. That Alta is built for Urban Assault and that is what this was. But that Alta is hanging in the work stand waiting for a re-build on the rear hub. I have had the new bearings for days now but the old hub, after twenty years and god-knows-how-many-miles is worn and the bearing races are grooved and the cones are pitted and I really should put a new wheel on her but for now...well, you guys know the story. So I gotta Do the Deed and put the hub back together in less than pristine fashion and that just ain't what I am about. But the bike has been in the stand too long and I miss her so I'll do a sub-par repair for now and start shopping a new wheel later.

But let's keep that info between us.

The Unforgiven

I picked my way back through that dang hostile environment of Four Leaf Interstate Inhumanity and started gently cruising at slow speed along routes that were very familiar to me but that I had not seen for a long time. Years, in fact. I cruised past buildings that I had built and I cruised past saloons we had trashed while building those buildings. A couple of the guys who had been with me on the Building and the Trashing are Gone Now...one of them was My Brother. But Life Goes On for the Wicked and I guess That's Me and one of the ways I try to pay my respects to The Fallen is to tackle each new day as though it was my last. Sometimes people can get frustrated with a guy who insists on turning each experience inside out and twisting it to make sure there's no juice left before moving on. But I figure I owe it to those guys to Live a Little Extra to make up for their not being here with me to Share the Ride.

You Get What You Deserve

This is one of the reasons I ride a bicycle. As all of you know, cycling puts the rubber on the ground and your ass in the elements. You breathe the air first hand, not filtered through some mechanical cooling system. You hear the sounds and see the sights and smell the smells and interact with the wildlife, even if it is only dodging suicidal squirrels and strategic bird poop. On rides like this one the physical exertion is non-existent. I am cruising, reminiscing, trying to work things out. I am casually watching dark ominous clouds building just ahead and I know what it means when I see that the oncoming cars have their wipers on.

Elemental Man

I hit the storm, or it hits me. Who can tell? But this is a Hard Rain and there is No Shelter handy, nor do I seek it. This is Summertime Florida, man. These showers hit and the lightning strikes and then, just like that, it's over and old Poppa Sun comes back to do his thing and you are drying and pedaling and feeling Righteously Alive and looking around for someone to yell Hello! to but on this stretch it is just me and my Old Schwinn and I am feeling pretty damn good and thinking about how much I Love This Bike.

Fishing Is Everything

She is Just Right and I bought her for twenty bucks and a half pint of good rum and now I got Way More than that in her and I'm not done. She still has a new front wheel coming and a saddle and some bars, she has been promised a Tiagra Rear Derailleur (but I might surprise her with a 105). As my learning grows I am becoming a Shimano devotee. I wanted to rebel against their Dominance in the Industry but then one day I realized that I have been using their fishing gear for as long as I can remember and suddenly my whole attitude changed. All the joy and fish that I owe to my old Shimano Reels is now reflected in my Bicycle Parts Philosophy.

I'm pedaling South on US One, a sometimes grind but not today. The wind is from my starboard quarter and lifting and they repaved this highway last year with a nice wide shoulder. The World Is Wet and Clean and this ride is turning out a lot better than I thought it would. Old Tim Joe has been hiding out at a Trailer Park while he figured out Bicycles and Long Rides and how to write the last few chapters. I still don't have them clear in my head, but I can see now that soon I will. It Is All About Bicycles, somehow; somehow, it is All About The Ride.

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Weather Station

#27

Fourth of July

2011-07-05T13:48:00.000-07:00

Independence Day

The Fourth of July at Whispering Pines Trailer Park comes in with a Bang and goes out with an even bigger Bang. The boys start with the light weight stuff, (firecrackers and roman candles and so on) around the First and gradually build up to the illegal ordnance on the actual Fourth. By then the Hawks Park cops have given up and sometimes even roar up and down the street in front of the Park with their sirens screaming and lights flashing, shooting their guns into the air. Okay, I made that last part up but everybody here is pretty much on a first name basis with most of the seven or eight guys that make up the force and there are police cars here so often that nobody pays much attention until the handcuffs come out.

Andy and Barney

Here on my side of the Park next door to the Managers office Uncle Bill sets up his cooking gear and starts in on the ribs and gator and shrimp kabobs and after the Boys In Blue (Black, Actually) get done telling the Bobby the Trailer Park Mayor for the twentieth time that “No, a miniature canon doesn't count as fireworks,” they stop by for a bacon wrapped shrimp kabob or pork sandwich. It makes for a fairly pleasant working relationship. Hawks Park doesn't even have a jail.

The Pseudo Century

I started my Fourth of July Morning by riding a Century but I tried out a new route and miscalculated: it was only eighty miles. I stopped at the Park for a water (OK Beer) break and the new Park Manager was out front with a cooler, a big umbrella and several very comfortable-looking lawn chairs. She also had a table covered with various mixables and, well, she looked lonely. I had planned to push on for another quick twenty miles to keep things honest, but...well, she looked lonely. And I was curious about the contents of that cooler...

So I walked over to say Happy Fourth and she opened that cooler and there they were, a couple dozen 12 ounce cans of the special Red, White and Blue Budweiser Independence Day Special Edition Brewskis.

“I got them for You!” she said. “You've been working so hard around the Park and doing such a great job I wanted to show my thanks!”

Trailer Park Diplomacy

Well, as the Trailer Park Cyclist, friend of Man (and Woman) I felt it was my duty to accept with grace by cracking one open. I went next door to Release the Hounds, Miss Daisy the Yellow Dog and her frisky new sidekick Toby the Trouble Puppy. Miss Jo released her own mad dog Rocco the Magnificent, Daisy's best friend and love interest, and in moments, the Party started. Crazed dogs ran wildly around the yard. Neighbors dropped by to have a beer and play with the puppy. A huge gopher tortoise wandered in from nowhere, to the amazed delight of the dogs.

Uncle Bill

Then Uncle Bill pulled up with his Barbecue Rig. He is Uncle Bill because he is Everybody's Uncle. He also is the sole possessor of what I am sure is the World's Greatest Barbecue Sauce. My Readers Know Me, and they know that I am not given to exaggeration. Much. Well, a little, maybe. OK, a lot. But this time I am giving you the Straight Truth when I say that this sauce, and UB's considerable skills with pork, chicken, ribs, shrimp and gator is something you have to experience to believe. And in fact, you may get the chance.

Commercial Announcement

The Trailer Park Cyclist and Uncle Bill are in serious negotiations to bottle and market this stuff. The bottles are ordered and we are considering putting together a rig to visit around the country selling food and sauce. So if you see a '72 Eldorado Convertible with a stuffed alligator on the hood pulling a Barbecue Trailer in your neighborhood, give a shout. If there is a scrappy-lookin' Schwinn Super Le Tour in the back seat, that means I talked him into bringing me along and we can go for a ride.

We Now Return to Our Regularly Scheduled Programming

When Uncle Bill sets up anywhere, a crowd soon gathers. Also, the Hawks Park Fireworks display is right at the end of our street, so pretty much everybody in town shows up and parks their cars all over the place and walks down to the River for the show. Some never make it, because Whispering Pines is an Attractive Magnet Indeed, what with the allure of all that cooking and the horseshoes and dogfights and the Trailer Park Girls and so on. Me, I was in the same lawn chair I had been sitting in for the last four hours, the one next to the cooler. That cooler was apparently magical, for it never emptied. The brands would change, but the beer never stopped flowing.

The GF's Fam

The Blonde's kinfolk arrived en masse, a half-dozen impossibly giant four wheel drive pickups loaded to the top with kids, coolers, food, dogs, yahoos and fireworks, all of which were making a lot of noise when they got there and turned up the volume as they unloaded. And this was just on our side of the Park. Bobby the Mayor had the same scene going over at his place (the Country Club. Bobby has two lots by nature of frequent and mysterious fires and other mishaps every time the Park attempts to install a trailer next door.)

Besides these two hell-raisin' Fourth of July blast-outs, the City of Hawks Park was having their own Hoedown and Fireworks display just a few hundred yards away at the City Park by the River. So things were hoppin', to say the least.

God Bless America

It was all very Loud and Chaotic and Redneck and Very American and I loved every minute of it. My Old Bike was propped against a tree next to where I was sitting and I got to answer questions about “those skinny-tired bikes” and how (or why) anyone would ride a hundred miles on a bicycle. I don't think I converted anyone but I did get to talk about the Fall of Schwinn as a Symbol of what's wrong with America, except I think that gopher tortoise was the only one listening. He had taken up residence under the chair next to mine and spent the night there. Uncle Bill was the star, as usual, dispensing food and beer and Swamp Wisdom in equal doses. He is one of those guys who loves everybody and everybody loves him, which I suppose is How It Should Be.

But What About the Eighty Miles?

The pseudo-century was uneventful. The only thing I can say, really, is how badly I want a Brooks saddle. I'm still doing these long miles on the cheap knock-off seat from my old Mongoose. It ain't that bad, really, but it is bad enough. I rode almost continuously, stopping only once to stock up on Gator Ade and trail mix. Thirty miles of my ride was through the Merritt Island National Wildlife Refuge, but the only wild life I saw was me. I had the place to myself and really enjoyed the “training” aspect of all that straight flat blacktop, flying along with a baby tailwind and an open blue sky on the Nation's Birthday.

No, Seriously

I have a lot on my mind pertaining to bicycles that I want to go into, but can't get a handle on it just yet. I want this to be a daily Blog but I want it to be good and fun and sometimes it just ain't in me. But I'm working on it. I also have two trailers to rip apart and put back together for waiting tenants. One of them is a Real Mess. You have to live in a crappy trailer park on the highway to fully understand what a real mess is all about. Some of these people are less than tidy, to put it kindly, and when they finally bail out they leave an incredible amount of debris behind, including cats and dogs and iguanas. Yes, iguanas. Bobby the Mayor handles those. I handle the Fix-it.

Also, I have to do some serious shopping for a '72 Eldorado and a Stuffed Alligator. Anybody?

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Circus

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