You Gotta Know When To Walk Away

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!

[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

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

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

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

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

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

#26