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

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?

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

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

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

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

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.

TJ

Agent KAZ

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Hallmark Moment

#35

Take This Job...

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