A Simple Act

Stopping By Stream

Here on the Mosquito Lagoon an algae bloom is at full growth and totally obscures the water. There is no clarity and I sit here sipping a beer and wondering about my lungs and not caring but I also wonder about the seabirds. They are sight fishermen and this water is an ill-looking tone of greenish-brown and there is no clarity; these pelicans and osprey and cormorants and herons must be starving here in this late summer that refuses to end.

There have been record high temperatures all over the place all summer and as I sit here in the middle of the MosquitoLagoon I notice I am sniffling and yeah, it is hitting my nostrils, I can't smell it but it is there and the dolphins I usually see here are absent today.

Get the Vote Out

 Today is an election day here in our little corner of Paradise Lost. The various local movers and shakers and go-getters are up for re-election. My vote is this: we round up the whole sorry lot of them and bring them down here to the Lagoon and throw them all into this murky mess caused by ambition and tax-bases and too-rapid growth with too little concern for long term effects on the ones who are not political, the fishes and dolphins and seabirds and yea and verily, the old cyclist sitting here on a long pier in the middle of what is normally a crystal clear aquarium of rare natural wonder.

It Could Be Worse

Not twenty miles from where I sit in this recently primordial area they plan to soon enough build 23,000 new homes and schools and the inevitable strip malls and doctor's offices and chain restaurants and so on. The local leaders are excited about all the revenue but I am reminded of the old story about the fish that swam into a discarded bottle to get at an elusive bit of food, ate it and found itself too big to get back out. That is the message in the bottle, I fear, but politicos and developers are deaf to any sound other than the ring of the cash register and yeah, even I may reap some small reward off this disastrous project once it gets rolling. My hypocrisy is an honest one.

And Now...Bicycles!

But what of that? I rode a bicycle to get here, at least. And that poor old steed suffers from a bottom bracket so creaky and groaning that it was a dangerous act indeed to ride this far, this fifteen miles or so from the Whispering Pines trailer park and Nature Conservatory.

A Simple Act

But not for long. My loyal reader Roadie Ryan was kind enough to send me a barely used Shimano UN54 replacement BB, a sealed bearing beauty that will long outlast me and my bike both, I think. In fact, I am certain of it. Because, in typical Trailer Park Bike Shop Fashion, I just assumed the correct size I would need. I was wrong. When the replacement arrived from the country called Seattle, I played with it and fondled it and then sat it next to the computer to admire. Ryan also sent a finely crafted Bottom Bracket tool to help with the installation. After a full day of professional -level procrastination, I casually wandered over to where the old Schwinn was resting daintily in the work stand. I fiddled with the pedals and wiped the worst of the road grit from the cranks and then I put a socket wrench on the nut that held the crank on and gave it a turn. I learned a while back about lefty-loosey and righty-tighty but with bicycles, ya never know. They can be tricky. But off came the nut (with surprising ease) and then I got out my trusty Park crank remover tool and removed the crank. Nothin' to it. But right away, I noticed something was wrong.

“This old bracket has threaded male ends on it,” I said. “That ain't right.”

“And yet there they are,” said the Voice. I went over to the table and picked up the new unit, shiny and glistening from my absent-minded polishing of the night before, polished like so many rosary beads while I watched multiple video clips about how to change a bottom bracket. ( as a side note, some of those videos are pretty slick and some of them are so unintentionally bad and hilarious that one must assume Ed Wood has returned from the Great Beyond to do instructional videos.)

Nowhere in those damnable videos was there any mention of threaded male bolts on the end of the bracket and I stood there staring foolishly at yet another detour on my trail to Cycling Nirvana.

Where Am I ?

“Hey! Wake up!”, said the Voice.

“Huh?” I had been drifting off to a High Country that I sometimes visit, a place of cool winds and no insects and laughing cyclists whose wheels never quite touch the ground. There are coffee trees with taps hammered into the side and smiling scantily-clad barristas handing out cups of steaming delight at no charge. Elsewhere there are the twinkling wine streams and not too far off, always a perfect bike ride away, is the Beer River...

“Hey!” The Voice was a little louder this time. “Stay with me, here. Threaded bolts...”

“Oh yeah. Where was I? I must have drifted off. Threaded bolts...” As I usually do at times of high crisis I went to the fridge, cracked a beer and sat down at the computer. I dashed off an e-mail to Ryan, explaining my dilemma. This was when we both figured out that since the old bracket was born a male and the new UN54 was female, I would need crank bolts.  Those 8th grade sex-ed classes were finally paying off.

Clusteration

This set off a chain of events that defies explanation. Let me explain: In order to not lose any loose parts, (which I can do in my sleep) I re-assembled the old bracket, cranking down the old nut really tight. I still needed my bike operable for quick neighborhood trips. I then set out on just such a trip, (a quick dash to the beer store, of course) and right away I realized something was very wrong. Gone was the squeaking and groaning and sense of imminent disaster. The bike had become as smooth and quiet and easy to pedal as if, well, as if it had a new bottom bracket. All this time the crank had been loose and I am such a reluctant mechanic that I had naturally figured it to be the bottom bracket. 

Meanwhile, without saying anything, Ryan, in another burst of philanthropic benevolence, had arranged to drop-ship to me a set of Sugino's Finest crank bolts. Imagine my surprise when the postman handed me an unexpected package. Imagine my further surprise when I tore it open to find only one (1) bolt. A flurry of e-mails ensued as Ryan sorted things out. But that same day Bear Dye dropped by to pay me off for the recent work I had done and that was all she wrote.

The Sailor In Port Cyclist

Armed with a fat pocket and an un-crippled bicycle I was once again the good ol' Trailer Park Cyclist, pedaling madly and with great relief all over the place. I did daily rides of thirty and fifty miles. Nights were spent in happy torment sweating over a hot computer making decisions. Bicycle parts were ordered. Tires and brakes and a new front wheel and pedals. Old debts were caught up and some rum got drunk (drinked, drunken, partook of?) Tequila also. There was gladness in the kingdom and more bicycle riding and the other crank bolt came in.

Fix-it Man

I took out the old bottom bracket and laid it up on the bench to compare with the new one. The new BB was too small, of course, but I didn't care. I zipped off yet another order for the right size and I will send the much-travelled gift unit back to Ryan in the land of coffee and ferns. But I will keep the crank bolts as a token of his good-hearted help and wherever that UN 54 ultimately ends up, it will have stories to tell  about that time it went to Florida and got all polished up by that crazy guy.

The Moral

Last week, while in one of those dark nights of resentment and loathing and general misery from which I sometimes suffer, I complained to a friend who knows a little something about dark nights her ownself. She said to do something for somebody else, a simple act of kindness and it would take me outside of myself and brighten my world.

I ain't done it yet but I'm working on it. Right now I sit here surrounded by bike parts both old and new and my Little Darlin' is in the stand, all her parts removed; a stripped frame sanded down almost to bare metal and over the next few days she will get new paint, the Trailer Park Matte Black I have been wanting; she will get her parts polished and tuned and re-installed with loving care and she will, if all goes well, carry her Rider to new places and more-better stories; she will carry him to far places farther away; places  of new faces and sights and sounds and where hopefully he will get a chance to do some simple thing for someone else, a thing like Ryan did for me.

“And a place with espresso trees and wine streams and a beer river?” asked the Voice.

“Maybe Voice. Who knows? The High Country is for dreaming.”

This algae bloom here in the Mosquito Lagoon won't be going away until the first cold snap of Autumn arrives. That will be quite awhile from now. I don't know what will become of the sea birds that hunt these waters for sustenance.   I really don't know.  Meanwhile the summer rains continue to fall and wash fertilizer from lawns into the lagoon and road slime and all the harmful by-product of human existence. We can't help it, it would seem, we are only human. We are getting better at it, I think, but if we don't find a way to do a simple act of kindness for the place we live and the creatures we live with I fear we may find ourselves receiving a message in a bottle that we won't like.

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Soap Box 

#79

Take This Job and Love It

I received a comment just now from a post I wrote called Shakespeare was a MonkeysUncle.

AnonymousJuly 26, 2012 7:59 AM

Tim Joe,

I've enjoyed your blog from the beginning, but whenever you go this long without a post I start to worry. Either you are too busy (which is both good and bad). Or some crazed lunatic drove you off the rode while you were out riding, which has caused injury to your typing fingers. Either way, keep 'em coming and I'll keep reading. Hopefully you can find the inspiration to blog more often because you write great stuff!

Jason from Colorado

Saddle Up and Let's Go For A Ride

Jason, first of all let me thank you for your generosity and kind words. It means a lot to me and therein lies a tale. (As it usually does once I get started...)

Don't Ask "Y"

Three weeks ago the 'Y” key popped off the keyboard of my laptop computer where I am wont to tap merrily away, gleefully spreading my wisdom and fertilizer. I fiddled with it and toyed with it and finally, after great effort and frustration, I was able to break the “U” key also. This set in place a series of events that culminated in a dramatic climax one hour ago when I walked off the first real job I have had in close to three years.

Pondering my crippled computer, I worriedly considered my options: do I take it to the computer guy for what will no doubt be a costly repair? Do I try fixing it myself, until the only key left undamaged is the question mark? The hinge on the screen broke a couple months ago also so now I can't close the lid. This little 17” HP Pavilion has been a true friend and loyal soldier for over five years now, serving as my home entertainment center, my surf board and also, of course, my word processor. But I can see that the end is near and as always, I am eternally broke. Then the phone rang.

Here We Go Again

It was Bear Dye, my old protege and nemesis asking if I wanted to do some trim work on a series of condos just down the street from the Whispering Pines. He asked this question by way of voice mail, for I long ago stopped taking his calls at first ring, due to the fact that I too often regret taking his calls at all. But just when that phone call came in, I was gazing in wonder and desire at a beautiful new Mac Book Pro, carved by skilled robotic artisans from a single block of aluminum that was mined in a lonely mountain retreat somewhere in Tibet or Indiana.

                                                         To Beer Or Not To Beer

“I may have to give up beer for awhile, to save the money,” I was thinking to myself when the phone rang. But after listening to Bear's offer of work, I said a silent “Hurrah,” and started planning what wise and enigmatic words I would soon be typing to the joy and delight of all three of my readers. Imagine how great I might become if I only had a “Y” and a “U” key again!

Hi Ho And Here We Go!

So I rang up Bear Dye and agreed to meet with him on the morrow to discuss my new good fortune and what I would have to do to get it. I spent a long weekend digging my truckload of carpenter gear out of the storeroom, oiling and polishing and tuning and whistling while I worked. The Blonde, grateful that I might be taking my first baby steps towards getting out of the Park and back to my former role as a Titan of Construction made arrangements for me to have the old Dodge Caravan as a work vehicle. I loaded all my gear the old way: neatly and loaded in a presentational manner, for in the old days when a Journeyman like myself pulled up at a job site seeking work, the wise Contractor would look at your tool kit and the condition of your tools to make an initial judgment of what manner of Craftsman you might be. Nowadays they only want to see your insurance and licensing paperwork, thus explaining the quality and sadness of so much new construction: it is being done by clerks and forgers.

Blame It On Monday

And thus Monday came and I showed up and right away the trouble started. The owner of the company, an affable Italian by way of Chicago, apparently did not believe in drawings or blueprints but instead used the time honored method of verbally describing what he wanted while waving his hands in the air by way of illustration. When I indicated some lack of understanding, he became frustrated.

“Sheesh, you young guys and your dope, it ain't like the old days. OK, I'm going to show you one more time. Come over here and I'll walk you through it.” I kept my mouth shut, refraining from commenting or saying that I was probably older than him and it has been many years since I was a doper. He proceeded to grab various pieces of scrap lumber and arranging them in a fashion that would clearly work only with prayer and Divine Intervention. It was nine o'clock and all I had done thus far was walk around with a very fast talking and wealthy man who was very happy to have a lot of guys to berate and cajole and compliment and insult. This job was his sandbox and he was the big kid. I started thinking maybe I would get that beautiful new Mac Book Pro some other time. What's so hard about typing without a couple of keys? How important is a “Y” and a “U” anyway? I called Bear, who was busy at a different site.

“You're setting me up, aren't you?” I said in my best accusatory tone.

“What do you mean?” he asked. I've known this damnable miscreant since he was a young guy roaring around in a little Japanese car with loud mufflers and a tool pouch in his trunk. He helped me build a lot of houses in the early eighties and now that I think of it, we smoked a lot of dope. Weird.

“Bear, this guy is a nut and you know damned well that whatever I do he ain't gonna like it.  I've been down this lonesome road too many times. You are dumping it on me so you can make a couple bucks and I can take the heat and ultimately fail.”

“No, man, I'm just swamped with work and I need you to cover for me until I get caught up and can get down there with my crew.”

This was a lie. His crew spends their days ripping shingles off old roofs and prepping them for the roofers. His crew spends their days setting trusses and slinging hundreds of sheets of plywood in the ninety degree Florida sun. They are an intrepid and hard-working bunch upon whom the intricacies of trim and stairs and careful, detailed work are of as arcane a concept as how a computer works or what makes the tide flow. But I am always a loyal soldier.

“OK, look, let me get through the day and I'll call you tonight.”

A Week Goes By Like Nothing

That was twelve days ago and I have slaved pretty hard my ownself, fending off the crazy Italian's harassment and vague instructions. I am forty years a carpenter, and I have seen much. I have worked as a General Contractor, I have built tree houses. I spent twenty years away from home, installing commercial restaurants filled with fine woodwork and I have been a constant student of my trade, a proud craftsman and generous employer and a friend of my co-workers. I have never expected gratitude or recognition for these things; for I believe that those are the traits of of a craftsman and a gentleman and in the professional world, the traits of success.

If you work for me or with me I know your wife's name. I know if you have kids and how they are doing. This ain't bragging, it is just how I believe the world is supposed to be and I have met others who practice these policies and I am always glad to meet them. I have many readers who I share mail with and who I have never met but each of you are important to me and I want to thank you, Jason, for speaking out and inspiring this post.

Get To the Point

So, as visions of my shiny new computer evaporated from my dreamscape, to say nothing of the shiny new Surly Long Haul Trucker (the new one with the disc brakes that I covet and was going buy after the new computer) evaporated also, amidst all this mist and condensate I reached my fill. Angelo, the crazy Italian Contractor, couldn't say goodbye or fuck you properly because, after nine working days of constant contact, he still did not know my name. (unless I was secretly named at some time “Buddy” or “Skippy” or “Sonny” and I did not get the memo.) His wife, Donna, is in Chicago tending to the funeral arrangements for his father Angelo Senior. He passed away after a long bout with emphysema.

He didn't know my name and I am OK with that. I didn't quit because of Angelo. He was just the fuel for the fire. It was Bear, and his pitiable personal greed that forced my retreat to the Trailer Park. He hit Angelo with a sizable invoice today, the day before Angelo was to fly to Chicago to bury his Dad. Bear could not help it, he has payroll to make and mouths to feed, mine included. Angelo is missing the pinky finger from his right hand and has a twenty year old daughter who dropped out of school last year and seems to quite likely be on drugs.

And there was I, Buddy Skippy Sonny, there I was standing in front of a guy with a lot of grief and pain and a big unexpected invoice who suddenly realized that I was incompetent, dishonest, lazy and in need of a good stern lecture and probably was a thief and why should he pay for work he was unhappy with?  I called Bear and his comment was that if he doesn't get paid how will he pay me?  

A Gentle Caress

At times like these I always seem to feel the breeze on my face. This was one of those times and I was sad for these guys and grateful for the breeze and sad for all the confusion and anger and fear and I am sometimes filled with remorse for my life;  this is the last act of the play and I am trying to do it right.  I was a Full Speed Ahead guy myself, in my day,  torpedoes be damned but now I am slower and I thank bicycles and the road and gentle breezes.

Bear was on hard drugs when I met him and he came to work for me as a twenty-something wise-ass with pretty good cut and fit skills but he will never be a trim carpenter. I would sometimes take Bear's share of the draw check to his house and give it to his wife Kathy because Bear was nowhere to be found while out on a binge. I remember his kid Little Bear, the Wild Injun who is the spitting image of his dad, except he is taller now, taller than his father and even taller than me and he graduates this year as a young engineer from Sante Fe University.

All of life ebbs and flows. Angelo's father is gone, having just recently left. I'm here and all of you are here, but not forever. I once believed that money was the score card of success, but I was wrong. It is people that is the score, they are all here and here we are. My little computer is dying here under my uncaring fingers and I need a bottom bracket for my bicycle. No long rides for me until I get the new part and the new tool. It is somehow taking me a long time to get this all figured out but I'm working on it, man, I'm working on it.

And learning to type without a "Y" or "U".

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and House of Pain
#75

The Friendly Ghost

 Ya Can't Get There From Here

 Blasting through Daytona in a light summer shower, the Trailer Park Cyclist is a friendly ghost, swooping through low-rent neighborhoods where he fits right in; bedraggled and scraggly and no stranger to the demimonde. He is a soaring spirit, his soul cleansed and cooled by this gentle sweet rain. With a head full of future dreams and a heart heavy with past failings and haunted by late night visitations from fallen family and soldiers of his command, he knows that it isn't all his fault; and yet some of it is his fault and he knows it and as the morning rain soaks into his superheated skin and cools his superheated soul he is lost on a deep ocean of powerful memories; but he is not yet lost; not yet, for the Trailer Park Cyclist is a Master Brinksman. He is old and crafty and he knows where the line is...he has pushed hard and with bad intent in the past and yes, he knows where the line is and where lies the Edge and when to forge ahead and when to grab at the last moment for the salvation of the lifeline.

Whatever

Besides all that, I have a 7:30 AM appointment next Monday at the VA Clinic (22.2 miles from my trailer) and I am currently painfully and pridefully without an automobile.

“Who cares?” I say, smirking like a maniac and gazing fondly at my 1981 Schwinn Super Le Tour.

Night Rider

That's Super with a capitol S and 55 miles and 3.5 hours later here sits I, strong, bold, not haunted nor daunted. I did a practice run this morning, testing two routes to the Clinic. Both are fraught with peril. It can be murky and weird around here just before Sunrise. The local drivers are World Renowned for their faulty driving practices and on Monday mornings they ain't always at peak performance. So I will be wearing reflective clothing and have a rigged up head light and some kind of taillight and if even ONE hungover driver fails to see me I will douse my hair with Trailer Park Special Chain Lube and set my head on fire. That always works and like Richard Pryor once said, “When people see a black man in his underwear running down the street with his head on fire, they get out of the way!”

Uh Oh Toto

But this morning on my dry run I got lost and inexplicably ended up in crack town. Trust me, that is a 24 hour a day enterprise and any scraggly old white bastard pedaling an old ten speed through there is either undercover or shopping. I was neither, (for the record) but there I was anyway, only slightly lost but with strong legs and actually enjoying the experience. Crack dealers are apparently as guilty of profiling as the police are and I was variously whistled at and waved at and knowingly nodded at in a 'come hither' fashion and while I enjoyed my new-found popularity, it was way too early for drug abuse and I had to find that Clinic in a timely fashion in order to properly map my plans for next Monday's predawn excursion.

Bingo!

Then just like that, there it was: the Glorious Governmental Refuge for the Weary of Body and Soul, there it was and I checked my time and miles, marked them down on my two year old piece of scrap paper that somehow magically continues to serve as a place for deep thoughts encountered on my rides; it has my mileage and ride report notes for near on 4000 miles now and has been soaked by rain and once nearly perished when threatened with emergency use in the roadside bushes during an especially overwhelming gastrointestinal emergency. But that scrap of paper is still with me and I made my pertinent notes, glanced scornfully at the gathering morning clouds and started thinking about beer.

No worries there, mates, I know where they keep it throughout my vast rambling realm and it wasn't long before I was guzzling a 24 0z Budweiser at creek side and mashing up some honey-roasted peanuts, staring-down some little bait fish and pondering all manner of things.

Beechwood Aging

By some inadvertent punching of the keyboard one night while in me cups, as they say, I ran across an old girlfriend from those promising post-high school years when I still had hope of the Presidency and if not that, at least the Nobel, the Oscar, or the Pulitzer. Anything but the Trailer Park. But I stumbled across this past love and she has gone on to become a middle level executive at a mid-level organization that does things I can't remember. In high school she was by far the most exotic beauty and clearly the most likely to one day be a femme fatale and she was always just outside my reach.  But I hit a stronger stride in my young manhood and while high school was not without its successes, some late-onset physical maturity and a pretty good job and a pocketful of cash brought me some small reward later on. She and I were that sparkling nascent promising couple and it was a rewarding and intense six months, I'll tell ya. But I was only joking about a steady job, my heart was in the Cosmos and I had no intention of succeeding, not in the way she saw it and I was headed elsewhere (which turned out to be Los Angeles) and she had plans that involved cars, clothes, suburban splendor and so on...

But I ran across her trail late one night and she asked me: “Have you aged well?”

Rubicon

That was over three years ago and that not-so-innocent little question started a train of thought that has plagued me continuously ever since. It has caused no end of unsettled rumination on my part and I find it to be a kind of a trick question. Nor have I found the answer. It is a thing that is hard to know and one would have to perhaps seek judgment from a source outside of oneself to get a glimmer of clarity.

In the case of the old girlfriend, I suspect that what she really wanted to know was how my late-onset physical maturity was holding up and I also suspect she would be mildly horrified to see this quasi-fit fifty-six year-old man with too-long hair and a Goodwill personal style blasting around on the wrong side of the tracks in the rain on a Saturday morning, just a little lost, grinning foolishly and waving and nodding at the neighborhood crack dealers and pedaling rapidly and with strong legs, a friendly ghost from her deep past, a haunting memory of how it was before she achieved Cougar Status and how he somehow transcended his fate and magically held the line.

Fish, Beer, Peanuts  and Peacocks

I know this: on the way home I stopped to look at fish, eat peanuts and drink beer. I finished that joyful chore and meandered back to the highway, only a handful of miles from my home. As I exited the woods, there they were: the Peacock Peleton zapping by as though shot from a confetti cannon. A 24 oz Budweiser takes up a little gastro space and I was just a little stunned but what the hell? I gave it a push and fell in on the wheel of the last rider, hoping my heavy breathing and burping wouldn't alert him to my presence before my legs loosened up and I hit a stride. It is fun as hell for a constant solo rider like myself to feel the pull of fifteen guys doing 22mph. It is easy and like cheating to keep up and one of these days...

All's Well That Zens Well

The Trailer Park Cyclist is home now, showered and drinking beer and typing. His Little Darlin' is hosed off and wiped down and shiny and that bicycle, at least,  has certainly aged well. Those rascally riders pulled in for a break and I wanted to stop and hang out but I am only a friendly ghost, I don't think they would understand and I went on my way, pedaling strong into a very mild headwind. A milder headwind than usual, I think. A trusty bicycle and a light heart are probably hopeful signs of aging well.

The Cosmos is still here and so am I and I don't think this story has an end. There is no end and living in the Now is what they tell us to do but if I don't make plans and take trial runs I might end up in the wrong neighborhood.  That's why I do it.  That and the fish, beer, peanuts and peacocks.

Ya know?


Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Ruminatory
#70

Shakespeare Was A Monkey's Uncle

Monkeyshines

It has been said that given enough time, a gang of monkeys could type out the works of Shakespeare. How long that would take is hard to say, but I am troubled by wondering if that very experiment is not taking place in a secure laboratory somewhere, probably in Nevada. Chimpanzees in Nevada is a disturbing enough thought, but what I am wondering is if this experiment (started in the fifties) when typewriters were the only writing machines available, what happened when they switched over to word processors? And now, since this is an exceedingly long-running experiment, what are those monkeys typing on? Do they have internet access?

To Steam Or Not To Steam

Let's fire up the Quasitron 6000 Steam Powered Search Engine and find out.

There isn't any coal or firewood. Uncle Bill took it.

“Voice! Where ya been, buddy?! It's been quiet around here. I missed you!”

France. And the news is that it has been anything BUT quiet around here.

“Aw, Voice, I meant quiet by my standards. Anyway, I need to fire up the ol' Quaz and get to the bottom of this typing monkey question. My readers are thirsty for knowledge and it's up to me to give it to them.”

Oh, you give it to them, alright.

“Har Har, you funny. Bust up that last chair and get it in the firebox and let's do us a Wisdom Search!”

Voices don't bust up chairs.

“Then what are they good for? Alright, I'll do it myself. Where is it? Wait, don't tell me...oh, yeah.”

Throw Another Chair On the Fire

The last combustible chair had gone to the Great Spirit on a wing and a prayer at the now famous Last Cookout. It was a purely sacrificial offering to cement my vow to “live outside and never sit down again.” I am a man of many vows and adjectives and sometimes I get carried away. The downside is that there is no fuel on hand to get the Quasitron up and running.

So Now, Let The Rambling Begin!

OK. Hmmm...typing monkeys, Shakespeare, what else? Well, there is always Bicycles.

Born A Ramblin' Man

My friend Gypsy ByTrade is meandering around Alaska and is apparently preparing to meander down here for a little dirt time. He has been posting some great stuff for anyone interested in the Wild World of Fat Tired Bikes as well as dispensing some wisdom and tech about How Ya Do It. This is a guy who has spent more time on a bicycle than off of one and knows his stuff.

His buddy Cass Gilbert at While Out Riding is currently in Ecuador and posting some very nice stuff that is definitely worth a look and will put a little foreign flavor in your day. I have always been fascinated by these cyclists who trek Out There, traveling light and doing some valid work letting the everyday people in Other Places know that not all Americans weigh 300 pounds and drive 40 ton four-wheel-drive behemoths in order to get to a McDonald's that they can see from their front porch. Somehow that is important and maybe if the Heads of States just stayed on the porch and let us commoners sort things out we could do it with a dance-off or a singing competition or a pie-eating contest instead of killing half the population.

I have seen some pretty wild stuff at drunken family reunions (remember, Granny Comstock was a Hatfield) and those church socials can get pretty rough but neither of these events require battleships or nuclear weaponry. Not yet, at least.

Also...

Jaquie Phelan is in Europe doing something; I can never quite tell what but I am confident that whatever it is, the girl is representing and making two wheels and our clan look good.

Let's see, what else...

If this doesn't pick up soon I may change my chair busting policy.

“Hush, Voice, I'm free-associating, letting my mind wonder about while I type in case a nugget pops out.”

Sounds scary.

How To Be A Senior

Lloyd Khan is wandering the streets of New York City, sending back brief reports and photos that will make you wish you were there. If I can be like Lloyd when I hit seventy-plus, I'll be glad to do it. I have been a fan and follower of his work for almost forty years now and he never disappoints. Go to his site when you want a little whimsy and delight. It only takes a minute and you will be glad you did.

I'll Bet You Wish I Had Some Wood Or Coal

This planet is, for now, our total reality. Our ventures into space thus far are the equivalent to sticking a toe in the water. We haven't really been to Space Its Ownself, outside the Solar System: we are like children at the age when Mom first lets us play around the corner, out of her sight. And of course, as soon as we venture around that corner we find ourselves in a strange new world. Even if we have been around that corner before, it is strange and new because we are seeing it on our own, with our own eyes and souls. How we conduct ourselves there is up to us, now; we are on our own and we gotta do it alone; Mom ain't there and it is up to us. For myself, I have always loved rounding that corner and while I have often reveled in my misanthropic worldview I am, (as I age and grow in wisdom and girth) I am finally realizing that it is this planet that makes up the goldfish bowl and this is it: it is just us and we better get good at it or all the typing Chimpanzees in any number of Infinite Universes will not be able to come up with a story that will get us out of the Truth once Mom comes looking to find out why we were late for dinner and if our Home-work has been done.

Trailer Park Disclaimer

I promise to lay in a new pile of wood and coal for the Quasitron 6000 and type better next time. Don't hold it against me, I am only one goldfish in a big, small bowl. I am riding my bicycle and I hope all of you, also, are doing the same. It counts, somehow.

O wonder!

How many goodly creatures are there here!

How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world,

That has such people in't.

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Philosophy Phactory

#69

Signs and Portents

Dark Clouds

After the Last Cookout that took place under glowering thunderclouds of unrest, I found myself the next morning shuffling through the living room/bike shop/kitchen of my trailer, wondering why my faithful yellow dog was growling at me from under the workbench, wondering where my pants had got to and wondering if there was any more beer in the refrigerator. I went to look but imagine my surprise when I saw that my dorm-size little reefer unit was not there. I scratched my head and other parts and shuffled over to the coffee maker. I flipped up the lid and it gracefully detached itself and flew out the window.

“This ain't gonna be a normal Monday,” I found myself thinking. So I got my white steed down from the work stand, took her outside and prepared to ride a wobbly ride to the Seven-Eleven for a much needed jolt of caffeine. What I saw out there worried me greatly. No carnage. No bodies, no empty beer cans, no rib bones or discarded rum bottles. The whole party area was neat and swept and the plastic chairs wiped and stacked. There was my little fridge, humming contentedly on the patio.

“Not good,” I said out loud. Daisy growled a little louder from under the bench. I knew I would need coffee before anything else and started to mount my bike, then realized I had not yet solved the missing pants problem. Way back when I was a young rascal I learned to always put my pants in the same place every night in case I had to find them in the dark, due to fire or police or early arrivals. (I have an old friend about whom I could write volumes. One time down in Costa Rica he had a particularly ravishing tica with whom he would spend many an amorous afternoon lounging in languid joy. Her husband was a disc jockey at the local radio station and they would tune in his show as a kind of timer for their liaisons. The husband, smelling a rat (an Anglo rat) as jealous husbands often do, got crafty and taped the last hour of his program and headed home early. My friend, about whom I could write volumes, no longer goes to Costa Rica. He really liked it there, too.)

Meanwhile...

Where was I? Oh yes, my pants. I went back into the house, simultaneously realizing that wherever my pants were, there also was my wallet. Seven-Eleven coffee is pricy. But No. No pants. So I dug into my trunk for my other pair, went over to my change jar and dug out as many quarters as I could, pulled on my least crusty t-shirt and saddled up to sally forth towards one of my highly rare ventures into a commercial chain-type retail establishment.

It's Better In the Morning

Man! How seldom I get out on the bike at the sunrise hour! Birds were singing and the air was as crisp and delightful and as breathable as, uh, as...the air was cool and sweet and an early gentle tailwind pushed me and the bike down the sidewalk for a ghosting mellow glide that was just the thing for a hung-over Monday morning. Fresh from the depths of my dreams and the bemusedly befuddled stupor of too much drink and too much food and too much shouting, knowing damn well that there was something drastically out of kilter with this Monday morning and my life at the Park, I didn't care.

Magic In the Morning

I didn't care, man! What magic there is in a bicycle! I was a soggy Superman, bedecked in a clean uniform, flying slowly and gracefully on patrol the half-mile to the coffee store. I have moments of glory on my bike, fierce battles with the wind:  I have times when I find myself so far from home that I have to wonder how I got there; there are odd sightings of road kill, human monkeyshines and frequently unbelievable driving by normal-looking people who must in reality be Hollywood stunt drivers. There are, indeed, many stories to tell...but I hereby declare in print and in writing with my hand on my heart (or where my heart would be if I had one), that there is NOTHING that compares to the quiet slow glide and the first few pedal strokes of an early morning sojourn into yet another glorious day.

Meanwhile, Back At the Park

But enough of that. I got my coffee and I got back home to my oddly neat homestead and I found my pants and soon learned that the events of the previous evening were just as gruesome as the lack of physical evidence implied; but this  Booger is a Happy Place (or tries to be) and a Blog of Bicycles, not Drama. So we will set that tale aside for another day.

I Rode Some Riding

Instead, let's talk about yesterday's ride. I got in 55 miles without dying and I had a blast. The wind has apparently chosen me for its own pet toy on the semi-long rides. It somehow manages to always stay from the same direction: whichever one I am headed. But in typical trailer park fashion, I am rebellious and I laugh at the wind. Hah! Hah! LOL! LMFAO!  Take that, Aeolus!  I boldly pedal off, ignoring his  breezy replies and I do my miles, man. I rode up to Daytona against the wind, hacking away at it with strong legs and a head full of recent trouble and worry that made me strong; manic but strong. (My friend, about whom I could write volumes, used to be a wrestler. He called it “retard strong,” which I have always found hilarious in context, but of course otherwise politically incorrect. Although retardation and politics seem to be correct enough in context, if you ask me.)

Blowout!

Just across the way from the Daytona Racetrack I was hitting a good lick, doing 22 mph with a momentary and rare tailwind, something I have learned to take advantage of and enjoy whenever it happens, however fleeting. An ambulance was wailing up from behind and this is a busy and confused thoroughfare filled with uncertain drivers of the touristy variety; they sometimes forget that they are driving a rented automobile as they gaze in awe at the Giant Stadium of Vehicular Wonder there alongside the road. I was listening over my shoulder as that siren grew louder and wondering if it might not be something to worry about as distracted drivers pulled over to get out of the way; then I remembered that this is Florida and nobody pulls over for police cars or ambulances except for the European tourists who might be mistaking all the commotion for an invasion from Mars.

But imagine my surprise as the ambulance blasted past me and at THAT PRECISE MOMENT had a massive blowout on their right rear tire! KABLAM!   I mean man, it was LOUD and I was certain that the debris and escaping compressed air would mark my doom. The ambulance swerved dramatically into my path and I knew that I was in trouble because everything shifted into slow motion which is a sure sign of impending calamity. I had nowhere to go: as usual the bike lane was serving as emergency parking or a place to pull over and take pictures of the quaint and scruffy Florida Homeless Cyclist. To my right was an un-jumpable curb and to my left was four lanes of freaked out drivers, so I did what I had to do: I locked up the brakes, got a little sideways and came to rest about four feet from the back of that disabled meat wagon.

Good Ol' Schwinn

As near as I can ascertain those are the original 1981 brake pads and they did their job just fine. I climbed over the curb, felt the rear of my bibs to make sure there was nothing in there but padding and then was surprised to realize that this tumultuous event took place directly across the highway from that Outback Steakhouse job that I have been stalking! What does it all mean? I can sense that the Gods are talking to me, but as usual, they are talking God-talk. Why don't they just do it like the Old Testament, where God would say “Hey Jonah, I need you to get over to Kentucky (or wherever it was) and tell the people there a bunch of stuff.” Then, unlike Jonah, I would go to Kentucky and Speak the Word, as long as God helped out with some bus fare.

But this is 2012 and these modern Gods speak in mysterious words that they probably get off Twitter, which I don't understand.

The Coffee Was Good

But the coffee? The coffee was good. I am proud that I can glide a half mile on my trusty thirty-year-old white ten speed with one hand without spilling a drop.  It gives me pleasure to bravely survive drastic vehicular events,  although I do wonder what happened to the victim that the crippled ambulance was on it's way to save.  The Pines Are Whispering and I am confidant that if the Gods have a Message that they want me to carry to Kentucky or anywhere else, they will sooner or later find a way to tell me. Until then, the mornings are sweet, the air is fine and these days, well,  these days that is enough for me.

Peace my Friends! There is more to tell and I am here to tell it!

Yer pal,

tj

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Survival School

#67

Memorial Day Friday

Dragging the Dog to the Vet

Just after sunrise on Friday we loaded our asses into Jungle Jim's '78 VW Bus and pointed her North towards Daytona Beach and the local Veteran's Administration. Jim is an old hand up there; he has long been going in for treatment of his body and soul. Me, I usually only see a doctor after a few moments of wild excitement and an ambulance ride.

But recent episodes around the Park and some lack of physical aptitude on my part caused Jim to come around to my trailer recently armed with a six-pack of Bud and god knows what else. He was a point man on a mission: get the Fix-it Man to a place that understands the aging process in guys who have a powerful aversion to admitting weakness and who may have a few tunes playing in their heads that never made it to the Top Forty.

I Am Stubborn

I drank his beer and nodded solemnly in agreement to everything he was saying but I wasn't going. That shortness of breath is just my recent weight gain and the fact that after only fifty miles on my bike I need a recovery day of 48 hours was lack of training. Sitting in my room for hours on end playing computer chess and drinking beer while honing the Ka-Bar to razor sharpness was, was, well; those are my hobbies. No need to get poked, prodded, interrogated and classified by those incompetent hacks at the VA. Who needs 'em.

I Am Crafty

But I agreed to go, then I started figuring out a way to get out of it. I was confident of my ability to dodge the whole thing by going for a predawn bicycle ride and I laid my plans with care. I oiled the chain and topped off the tires. I filled my water bottle and threw a banana and some trail mix into my Goodwill messenger bag. I went to bed feeling a little guilty but proud nonetheless that I was my own man and Independent of the System.

The next morning I quietly opened the trailer door with my Schwinn on my shoulder and gently crept down the stairs.

“You don't plan on riding in the dark without lights, do you?” I didn't drop the bike, but I jumped a little into the air.

“No, man, I was, uh...what are you doing out and about so early?”

“Waiting for you. Go suit up, brother. The first visit is the hard one.”

“Oh, that's right! We're supposed to go to the VA this morning! Damn, I forgot. Let me get changed and I'll be right out.”

Old and Older Discuss Right and Wrong

So as another Memorial Day Weekend began, two old pony-tailed veterans found themselves trundling North in a thirty-four year old hippie van as the morning sun came blasting out of the Atlantic Ocean. The day was clear and made for long rides and sailboats, drinking in the shade, taking the dog for a swim; the day was perfect for everything except a visit to the vet. I mean doctor's office.

“Jim, you realize I wasn't in Vietnam, right? I didn't enlist until the end of the war and I spent the whole time in the Air Force, riding my motorcycle up and down the Pacific Coast smoking pot and chasing girls.”

“Doesn't matter.”

'Yeah, man, but it just doesn't seem fair. You and your buddies in the Marines were over there getting your asses shot off and I was just goofing off Stateside the whole time. And what about all these young guys coming back from the Middle East? They need help worse than I do.”

“No they don't.”

“What?”

“If you were still knocking back the bucks and had medical insurance, would you have gone to the Doctor by now?”

'Well, hell yeah.”

“OK. So you know that you need to see a Doctor. When you gave Sam those four years of your life when you were just a kid, you made a deal and he made a deal and now here you are years later at a time when a guy needs a little help. You held up your end of the deal, you kept your promise and now it's time for Sam to keep his.”

I Am A Veteran

The sun was up now and I was looking out the window of the bus. I had my face turned full right, I was Right Face and I was watching the sun and it would be a couple more seconds before I could turn my face back into the van. Familiar scenery was flashing by but I was not seeing it; I was seeing a time long ago and remembering how it felt to be eighteen and me and a couple buddies were picking up our greens from the base tailor. We had them tailored to fit a little better and look a little sharper and we polished our boots while we sat around doing nothing. You do that a lot in the military. But you never know. We were proud to be a part of something, right or wrong, and while this time it wasn't our turn to bleed or die or kill and suffer we had the strength and pride in our hearts to know that called upon, we would go. Willingly and with sharp uniforms and polished boots and nervous smiles, ready to do whatever it took for Our Service, Our Country, and Each Other. Most of all for each other.

“Thanks, Jim. Really. The bus is running sweet.”

“Yeah, brother, I adjusted the valves a couple days ago. And you're welcome.”

For an excellent short piece by my friend Jim: Deep Hunting

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Old Soldier's Home

#66

Drama, Dust and Dramamine

A Year Goes By Like Nothing

A lot can happen in a year. Not at the Whispering Pines Trailer Park; this place is like a bad black & white television series stuck on summer re-runs for all eternity. Certainly a lot happens, it is just that the stuff that happens almost never varies and mostly involves the cops coming around to pick up some lost soul who “forgot” to show up in court or “forgot” to drop by the office and spend a little quality with their probation officer. Last week the gendarmes came screeching into the center court where I live and two squad cars did pretty cool sliding stops in the gravel parking lot. This sends up huge clouds of dust that invariably find their way into my trailer so that my bike shop/living room looks like a remake of Lawrence of Arabia, except this time Lawrence is not as slim and rides a bicycle instead of a camel.

The lawmen (and woman) leaped out of their cars and quickly surrounded the trailer across from mine.

Yippee kayay

Drawn guns always catch my attention. I was up on a ladder pressure washing a trailer whose roof I was getting ready to paint. Rather than remain in my precarious perch where I felt rather like a bird on a wire I decided to clamber down the ladder and mosey on back to my own trailer. I was wearing my pressure washing clothes. These are a big oversized pair of bright yellow fisherman's overalls and a pair of very white rubber boots. Pressure washing is wet and messy.

The Tink

My path took me past Sgt. Tinker, a guy who has been on the Hawks Park force as long as I can remember. And I can remember pretty good since he is the only human that has ever lifted me off my feet by the shirt collar with one hand. Of course, I weighed a lot less twenty years ago but he hasn't aged much and his six foot six frame is still pretty stout.

“Who you guys killin' today, Tink?” He had his right hand on his gun and he was talking into his cell phone with the other.

“Hold on a minute , honey,” he said. He wasn't talking to me. “What's up, dude?” he said.

“You're surrounding an empty trailer,” I said.

“I'll call you right back,” he said into the phone. “You sure?” he asked. He was already snapping the strap closed over the top of his gun and you could feel the tension go out of him. It was a palpable thing.

“Of course I'm sure. You after Little Mike?”

“Yeah.”

“What's he done this time?”

“Shoplifting.”

'Oh good lord. Dramamine again? What a dumbass. Oh well, when he comes home I'll ask him to give you a call.'

“Yeah, right. He also has a VOP. I want him. You goin' fishin'?”

“Nah, I dress like this all the time now.” I went into my trailer to get out of the hot overalls and watch what they would do next. I tried to decide what was the right thing to do. Before I came down off that ladder I had seen Little Mike duck into the dumpster enclosure on the other side of the Park. While I was drinking a beer and watching the cops (who were now clustered in the middle of the parking lot in conference) the Blonde came over from her trailer, the one next door to mine.

“They after Little Mike?”

“Nah, they're just surrounding his trailer for practice.”

“Don't be a smart aleck. He's hiding behind the dumpster.”

“I know.” The two squad cars were pulling out of the center court. More dust. 

“How do you know? You were way over on the other side.”

“Because when I am up on that ladder I am like unto the Lord, and see all things.”

“Yeah, right, Lord. What are you going to do?”

“I'm gonna get out of these hot damn rubber clothes. Wanna help?”

“I mean what are you going to do about Little Mike?”

“I know what you mean. Nothing.” But it was too late to do nothing. We heard that loud 'CHIRP' the cops make with their loudspeakers when they want everyone's attention and there they were, storming back into the still dusty parking lot, kicking up yet another cloud of dust. I was going to have to pressure wash that trailer roof again, after all this dusty drama. Little Mike was just a flash of bright red Bob Marley t-shirt and baggy shorts, the kind you have to hold up with one hand in order to run. He flashed like a ghost into his trailer and slammed the door behind him. The cops repeated their surrounding positions. Like I said earlier. Reruns.

Dressing for the Five O'Clock News

I went into my room and took off my Tuna of the Sea outfit and put on a pair of shorts. I pulled on a nice clean t-shirt. It was one of the Redfish series by Guy Harvey. The Blonde and the Twins bought it for me Christmas before last. I went back into the front and got another beer out of the fridge. The Blonde was watching the action across the parking lot, maybe thirty feet away. The cops had their guns out again.

“Why do they have their guns out? They look stupid.” She was worried.

“I don't know.” I reached up on the key board and took the keys to Mike's trailer off the hook. I chugged my beer and went outside. Big Tinker was in the same spot. The strap was off his gun and this time he wasn't on the phone.

“Hey Tink,” I said, in a voice that wasn't a whisper and it wasn't loud. It was a voice I would use to let a distracted friend know that it was his turn at the pool table or to point out a tailing redfish on a quiet lagoon. He turned a quarter turn and saw the keys in my upraised hand.

“What are you going to do with those?' he asked.

“Let you guys in so you can get a clean shot.”

“Stop fucking around, Blix.” He muttered something into the radio on his shoulder and the guns went into their holsters. I went over to the porch and the two cops that were there moved away, one to the side and one behind me. I would make a pretty good shield if shots were fired but I knew damn well Little Mike didn't have a gun and that if he did that damn squirrel-headed fool would shoot himself in the foot before getting one off in my direction.


 But as I was getting up to the door I had a sudden vision of butcher knives.

Trailer Park Negotiations

“Mike!” My trailer park voice. Maybe friendly, maybe not. It depends on you.

“Go away! You can't come in without a warrant!”

“Mike, you dumbass, it's me, Tim Joe! Not the cops! I've got the key and I'm coming in! These guys are pissed and I just want to get you out and safe and sound and in the back of the patrol car before this gets any worse. It's only shoplifting man!”

“Go away!”

“You already ate that whole pack of pills, didn't you?”

“I'm not coming out!”

“OK, dude I'm coming in!” I put the key in the lock and turn it slowly. I turn the knob and give a push.

Nothing. The deadbolt is locked. I take the other key and put it in the deadbolt. It won't turn.

This happens. There is so much turnover and confusion here at the Park that keys and locks get swapped and lost and my big hero moment is now stymied by a ten dollar deadbolt.

The Red-Faced Redfish

I turn to the cop behind me. He does me a favor and doesn't mention what a loser I am. I know that Tink won't be so gracious and I look around for a way to get back to my trailer that doesn't involve going past that big ape. I am surprised to see that while I was busy playing the Big Man   a couple more squad cars have pulled in. Those must have been some very important pills.  I turn back to my trailer just as the Tinker goes bombing past me, moving fast.

“The hell with this,” he says, going over to the rear door of the trailer. It doesn't have a deadbolt. 

 “You inside, the manager has given me the keys. We are coming in!”

 I look down at the ring of keys in my hand, then I look up just as Sgt. Tinker puts his big ham-size hand on the flimsy aluminum rear trailer door. A shotgun has magically appeared in his other hand and I am not surprised when he yanks the whole door out of the wall, lock, hinges and all. He reaches in and makes a grab and out comes Little Mike, all 160 pounds of hallucinating thrashing little squirrel-headed shoplifter. The other cops swarm all over him and Big Tink comes over to me. That twelve-gauge looks like a toy in his hand. 

  “Here's your keys back, sir,” he says in a loud voice. 'Did you see me enter the residence at any time?”

“No, sir, looked to me like he came out on his own. Practically flew out.”

“I'll take a picture of the damage he did coming out of the door in case you decide to complain to the department.” I look at the door laying there in the dusty grass. It was no more damage done than any given weekend in any given trailer in this dump.

“Why, Sarge, whatever are you talking about? I'll have that door fixed and swinging before you guys even get that rascal back to the station. And as always, I apologize for your troubles.”

“No trouble at all. See ya next time. And by the way, you're fixing this place up pretty good. Keep it up.”

"I'm doing the best I can, Sarge.  I'm doing the best I can."


Whispering Pines Trailer Park  and Squirrel Cage
#62