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

I'm Popeye the Bicycle Man

To Be Or Not To Be

Man, I'm thinking about shutting down this Blog. Is that a form of suicide? Blogular self destruction? Who knows? I have a blast writing it, but sometimes I feel that I am short-changing both my readers if I don't kick ass at every outing.  Bike Snob does it. He consistently kept me laughing  at the beginning of my velo addiction and still does so unto this very day.   But really, how hard is it to take topical cycling news and lambast it? Snobby is hilarious and makes me LOL daily but let's face it, Lenny Bruce was funny too and look how he ended up.  Just kidding,  Wildcat.  Sort of...

A Giant Problem

I can't help but sometimes feel guilty when I keep telling about flat tires and inept cycle wrenching. I really do that stuff but who cares? What I am trying to do is share the truth that you don't have to wear super hero clothes and spend thousands of dollars for a bicycle to get out on two wheels and have fun doing it. For example: Miss Jo the new Trailer Park manager has a crusty old Giant MTB she found buried in the storage shed here at Whispering Pines Trailer Park and wants me to “Fix it.” She has been listening to me rant about bikes and got a kick out of reading about herself on my Booger and wants to get in on this “Bicycle Thing”.

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

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

What's Good For The Goose

That bad-ass old Schwinn of mine ain't the only bike I own. I also have a beat up old Mongoose Alta from the Year Of The Lord 1991 that is just as dear to my heart as the Le Tour. I had the village blacksmith English Peter chop off the vertical rear hangers and mig-weld on some gigantic BMX style horizontal whatever ya call 'ems and then removed all the dangling stuff and replace it with a short section of PVC where the cassette used to be and stuck on a single 14 tooth cog. For tires I installed a pair of Geax 1.6 Street Runners. Now she is a a fun sub-twenty pound single speed neighborhood blaster that I ride like a kid and if you guys don't have one, you should. One of Black Mountain Mike's well-heeled customers built a high-end similar bike  but as I told Mike, mine's the Trailer Park version . Which makes it more better funner 'cause I can slam around on it and trouble be damned.

Blame It On the Limes

That poor old-school Mongoose has been sitting in the corner for two months now waiting for a new rear wheel. I won't go into detail about what happened to the old rear wheel but it involved hub rebuilding while drinking and not keeping track of how Shimano did it the first time and then carelessly sweeping carefully laid put parts off the bench in order to throw down the cutting board and my tequila knife and the limes and the shot glasses and what happened later.

Coyote Again

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

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

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

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

“OK”, Coyote said.

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

Oh Yeah,  I Moved A Little

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

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

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

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

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

“How much?” I asked.

“Five dollars?”

“OK.”

Thanks,  Coyote !

And so, like my twenty dollar Schwinn Super Le Tour that has become my long rider, like the wheel that saved the Goose, I now have this really cool black leather tool bag hanging from the saddle of my road bike, perfect in every way and it all somehow comes channeling through this kooky guy that I have known for so many years now and who somehow seems to be my personal cycling angel.  Which is really funny,  if you knew Coyote.

OK,  Back To Bicycles:  Today I Rode

Today I shook off the trailer park induced lethargy and repair chaos that has kept me off the bike and in the dumps and went for one of my little checking on the Ocean rides. It has sadly been three weeks since my ass has kissed the saddle. I decided trailers be damned I'm going for a ride and started out into the first real sunny morning since Irene the Hurricane graciously failed to grace our coast. It would be a nice, slow ride to the beach and maybe a quick spin back.

But no.

How Fast?

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

Then he looked.

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

So he poured it on and I poured it on and now he can't help himself, he keeps looking back and I'm always there and now my mellow morning ride has devolved into a life and death struggle.

Life and Death Is What You Make Of It

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

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

Time For the Philosophy

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

So I guess that is why I do it.

I Am What I Yam

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

Anybody sitting on a barn load of oak, spruce and cedar?


Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Boat Yard
#33

You Gotta Know When To Walk Away

Sunday Century

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

Don't Worry

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

Remembering Karl

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

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

On the Road Again

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

Do They Make Kevlar Diapers?

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

Wait! I've Got Patches!

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

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

I'm Not Calling The Blonde

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

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

Plus I Do Kinda Have A Job

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

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

Another Promise I'll Probably Break

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

Why Do You Do It?

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

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


Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Kevlar Testing Facility
#32

Guest Post: Roadie Ryan Lays It Down: Seattle!

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

A Bit of Background

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

Myth Busters

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

Start Off Easy Then Add Gravel

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

Out of the Woods and Around the Potholes

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

Hipsters and Tourist and Babes -Oh My!

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

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

What Goes Down Gets to Climb

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

Coffee? Did someone say Coffee?

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

You Call That a Ride?

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


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

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

Whispering Pines Trailer Park On Location:  The Emerald City

#31 (GP #1)