Shiloh

And Comes A Storm

The Trailer Park Cyclist is hitting a good lick, pedaling strong into a shifting headwind. He is in Shiloh, a ghost town in the purest sense: here there are no houses, no stables, no ghost town saloons. Here there is nothing except the ability of the powerful machine that is the US government to make anything that it no longer needs or that is in its way disappear.

Shiloh is gone.

But what of that? He hits another stroke on the pedals. This wonderful machine beneath his legs is old. This machine beneath his legs is old, and the Trailer Park Cyclist, himself, is old. But not so old that he and his machine cannot stroke and blast through time and space, hitting a good lick through a piece of Florida history. Shiloh!

Curb Appeal

When it became imperative that we feeble rascals called the human race must shoot forth into space, outer space, we did what we always do: we cleared some land. A lot of land. Confident that Outer Space would be the next real estate boom property we went ahead and leveled Shiloh.

And Yet

When you are pedaling your ass off in this vast and horrid wilderness that is the Canaveral Preserve there ain't much to see. Palmettos and roadkill make up most of the scenery. There is a lot of Florida heat. Humidity and dust are your onliest friends and you wonder why you came. But then, one stroke of the pedal follows another and you remember why; you remember that where and when mean nothing; it is the stroke of the pedal and your inner world of remembering and searching that brought you here. You are here because this is where you are supposed to be and yes, and yes, but what about Shiloh?

What About Shilo?

Who knows? Listen, mates, a late season storm named Sandy is scratching at the door and me, your old buddy Tim Joe, thought he would live up to his reputation as a Rough Rider and hit a lick Way Out There with a storm coming in. And thus, as ever, I survived and am here to tell the tale. Sadly, this little bluster and blow failed to meet our expectations and sixty miles later I have nothing much to tell about except a new trick I learned. Reverse Flow Track Stand.

Yeah. With a forty mile per hour head wind thirty miles from the Trailer Park you gain character. A lot of character. This is a post season storm and the wind is whipping around like a rabid wolverine and I may need to be put in a Home if I ever GET home...man this sucks...

And still, what about Shiloh?

It's Good Enough For Me

I cannot say. There was an early little school in Shiloh Village. There was an educator there who had once been a slave but somehow magically transformed his fate into that of a teacher of the little white kids who lived in the area. That's pretty cool, wouldn't you say? There is a grave there that I looked at, a pioneer lady who now sleeps alone, because of our efforts to conquer Space. I learned some of these things while being blown backwards on two wheels by a bitch named Sandy who I loved all the same.

She is still here, scratching at the door.

So, yes, my friends, Shiloh still lives, I will see to that. And here am I, rum-fortified and beer-strengthened. This little fake storm scares me not, I already pushed her back harder than she pushed me. These winds come and go and they are meaningless. Here's what about Shiloh:

Shiloh Lives. As do we. Power, my friends...power, life and faith! Shiloh!

tj

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Preservation Society

#83

New Bike

I Blame Hugh

A little while back my friend Hugh over at Hugh's Bicycle Blog conducted a bold experiment in cycling: he (on purpose) purchased a bicycle from WalMart and took it home.

No, he really did. This seasoned veteran of Old Steel rehabilitation took real dollars out of his pocket and plunked them down for one of those bicycle-shaped objects that they sell at that Hell Hole of Crap and took it home for a little New Steel rehabilitation. Now, trust me when I tell you that I am a loathsome hypocrite. Almost everything I own comes from this  Son of Sam. The keyboard I am typing on came from there, and I cuss a little cussing as I have to inexplicably go back every few sentences and re-type the capitol “I's” because this verdammdt piece of crap not only makes me go back and fix something but because it also reminds me that I use a capitol “I” way too much.

Morning Radio

But so what? It's my Booger, ain't it? Yeah, man it's all about me! Whee-hoo!

Calm down. I'm in it too, you know. said the Voice.

“And me too!” said the Blonde.

“And me!” barks Toby the Trouble Puppy.

“Daisy, do you want to chime in on this gruesome Greek chorus?”

“Of course not,” she says. “I am far too dignified to demand attention. I rely on my innate Yellow Labrador nobility and statuesque beauty to get my way. Besides, dogs can't talk.”

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

“She's not a full-blood Lab, ya know.” said Toby.

This is what happens when I try to type while listening to morning radio with a hangover.

Wait, There's More

O.K. So let me stop libeling my friend Hugh and gossiping about his descent into Wally World. Instead, let me wallow in my own recent transgressions: I did it also.

Yeah. 

 WalMart is the single source of bicycle inner tubes in my village. (Except for the pseudo LBS by the Interstate that charges eight dollars for a Sunlite tube and meanwhile I am being pestered by salesmen to look at fake Harley Davidsons and four-wheel-drive bush whackers.) So while out there picking up some tubes, some much-needed underwear and this season's six pairs of socks, I ventured to glance at the over-stuffed two-story racks of new so-called bicycles that I would never consider and can't afford anyway even if I did consider.

And yet, there she was.

Shiny, black, new...and huge. The biggest bicycle I ever saw. This beautiful creature was so large and disproportionate to the other bicycles that she looked somehow royal. This was a two-wheeled Clydesdale, a fitting steed for Cycling Royalty such as myself and I really did need a new Beach Cruiser, didn't i?

Well, it is true that you gave away the old Mongoose, and the recently refurbished Little Miss Dangerous has no business on the sand...but this is a WalMart bicycle! If you buy this bike I'll have to stop talking to you. And if you are cycling royalty, you must mean the Court Jester.

Seals the Deal

That was all I needed to hear. Armed with the knowledge that such a vile transaction would not only get me a cheap-ass beach bunny but might also forever rid me of that nagging Voice, I started planning my evil plans. I did what I always do when planning a Big Ticket purchase: i start figuring out how to get someone else to pay for it and then I dive into the deep end of the Internet. The reviews there were much as I expected: all over the place. It is, after all, the cycling forums. But one note was struck throughout: this cheap piece of crap could indeed be ridden, after proper tuning, some serious remedial application of lithium grease and selective replacement of key components.

That is just exactly what Hugh did with his wally-bike experiment, and he was pleased with the results, and said so. And Hugh is the kind of guy I listen to. He ain't sellin' nothin' or running for office.

One Man's Diet Is Another Man's Bicycle

Having refrained from beer for three weeks in a failed effort to lose fifty pounds, (I lost fifteen then bought a keg) I had a little extra cash. Well, a LOT (for me) of extra cash. Enough to make the purchase. So I did. I bought the second new bicycle I have ever owned.

Memory Lane (Can't Be Helped)

The first (and only, until now) new bicycle I ever owned was a Schwinn five-speed Stingray. One day Ricky Roberts and I were out riding figure-eights in front of my house. We were doing these slow figure-eights and spitting at the junction of the loops in a contest of accuracy and saliva having and flirting with infinity. We both were riding our beat up old sting-rays cobbled together from the huge parts pile behind Ricky's house. My Mom came to the door.

“Tim Joe!”

“It wasn't me Mom! Ricky was spitting and I was trying to dry it out by riding my bike over it!”

“Come in here for a minute.” It was only fifty feet to the front door but it was a metric century (lol) of concern and tribulation as I racked my brain for what recent crime I had committed. There were plenty of crimes to consider, but I was primarily thinking about which ones she may have caught wind of. I figured I was relatively clean but judging by her stern tone it was something serious. By the time I reached the front door I was fairly confident that whatever it was I could somehow pass the blame off onto one of my little brothers. I stepped into the living room.

“Tim Joe.” The same threatening tone.

“Yeah, Mom?” My step Dad was there, too. Weird. He had a funny look on his face.

“We saw your report card.” Uh oh.

“I can explain...”

“You got straight 'A's. But you also got a bunch of 'unsatisfactory behavior' marks.”

“Mom, I...”

“So I went down there and met with your teacher and the principal. What a couple of assholes. Go into the kitchen.” This was seriously weirding me out. My step Dad had a really odd look on his face and I was certain that whatever was in the kitchen would be bad. But ever was i brave and thus, into the kitchen I went.

Yeah, Baby!

There she was. A brilliant, purple, glistening Schwinn five speed Stingray. The one with the big wheels and the stick shift. The very bike that we boys had almost daily made a pilgrimage to the local bike shop (Old Man Gillis's place) to venerate. All the tags and stickers were still on her. I started yelling.

“IS THIS MINE?! FOR ME? YAHOO! WOW! I CAN”T BELIEVE IT! CAN I TAKE IT OUTSIDE?” The odd look on my Dad's face was him trying to suppress a giant smile of pride. In those days that bicycle represented a big chunk of his take-home pay.

“You take that bicycle anywhere you want, honey. And listen to me, sweetheart. As long as you keep getting those straight 'A's' you don't have to take any shit from anybody. But you are always going to have some asshole trying to tell you what to do. Always. The hard job I want from you is learning to tell them to go to hell in a way that makes them think they won.”

Wise words, Mom. Wise words indeed and a lot of miles and a lot of hardship have passed since you told me that. I have not always got the best marks but I have tried. Sometimes the assholes got the better of me, but not always. Not always.

But Things Don't Always Work Out

I remember riding the bike out the front door and into the street. Ricky Roberts was a block away, drawing or writing something in the dirt. When I pulled up on my new stallion, he didn't even notice.

“I heard you yelling in there,” he said. He looked pretty bad. “Were they hitting you?” Everyone on the street knew that Ricky and his big brother Randy's drunk-ass Dad hit them. It was 1967. Three years later Randy got wasted in cross-fire outside of Khe San. One night ten years on down the road a friend told me that he had been there and had heard about it, and while the story never came out, it was two Long Range Patrols that shot the shit out of each other in the dark and the rain.

And Yet...

I put the kickstand down on my new bike. I have to remove a flip-flop and put it under the kickstand so it doesn't sink into the sand. We don't get spectacular sunsets on the East coast of Florida, but the Sun goes down all the same. This new bike looks pretty damn fine in the waning light of a pretty good day. I turn and look at the Atlantic Ocean. It is big, and Life Its Ownself is big and small, and listen: it is hard to grasp it all. I resolve not to try. As for me, I'll settle for momentary glimpses of life outside of myself; and the realization that i am not alone. We are all interwoven and while a new bicycle can bring much joy there is beauty and grace and a certain splendor in everything. There is beauty and grace and tragedy and hope and all we have to do is look. It is right here in front of us.

Next: WalMart ain't evil, just stoopid.

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Filosopy Phactory

#82

Give Me Three Steps

Man's Best Friends

Almost Prolific

Hello Everyone! Surprised to see me? Yesterday morning I lubed up the keyboard and  dusted off the thesaurus and used it for a coaster where I placed my special typing brew. No, not brewski, not yet anyway, I still have thirty pounds to go. But what we have here is a shot of milk in a large cup of coffee along with a healthy dash of Ovaltine for the vitamin factor. They haven't invented Starbucks around here yet so I am on my own and that is the best I can come up with. But by swapping coffee for beer  my typing speed has improved drastically and you should see how neat and precise my handwriting has become.

Cursive Words 

I know you think I am kidding but when was the last time you tried to write a sentence in a fine hand? Do it now and if you are like me you will be amazed at how hard it can be. Who cares? Me. As I rapidly age my way into the future I refuse to lose any old skills and I continually try to add new ones...like bicycle maintenance.

Ya Either Got It or Ya Want It

I just ain't a natural born mechanic. While I can take a word or phrase or sentence and wring it around and twist it about until it screams in agony or sings and dances with the simple joy of being, a thing as obvious as correct chain length or derailleur alignment or cable adjustment is completely beyond my ken. I once owned a '73 Chevy StepVan. When the transmission exploded I was proud of my ability to crawl under there and tear the diseased part out, using only minimal cussing and the use of the sawzall. But when I took it to the transmission guy he cracked it open and, like a Doctor with bad news, came into the waiting room to break it to me gently.

“Would you step back here, sir?”

“Why, Johnny? And why are you calling me sir?” I knew I was in trouble.

"It's shot out, Tim Joe, and I just wanted you to see it before I send it out to the scrap pile.”

“OK.” I was already imagining the agony of taking my old ax down off the trailer wall and heading into Miss Massey's woods yet again, hunting down some dead tree to chop up and haul home so I could fire up the Quasitron 6000 Steam-powered Search Engine in order to start hunting for a new transmission. How long, O Lord?

As long as it takes, obviously,  said the Voice.  I take the coffee off the thesaurus.

"Shut up, Voice, I'm being rhetorical."  I put the coffee back on the thesaurus.

I know A Lot About Art, But...

There on the drastically cluttered bench in Johnny's shop was the old tranny. The housing was separated and laid open and I could see what a transmission looks like on the inside. It looked like a one of those convoluted M.C Escher paintings where stairs go nowhere and switch back on themselves. Johnny, still pretending to be a sad doctor instead of the mechanical pirate he really is, pointed gloomily at the inner workings of this incomprehensible device.

“See?” He said. The only thing I could see and make sense of was his greasy and calloused finger and his gnarly old hands that had repaired or replaced at least a half dozen motors and transmissions for me over the years, the same hands that had counted endless dollars that I used to own and would obviously soon be counting some more of the same.

“Uh, yeah. No. See what?” He took on that pseudo-serious manner he gets when explaining the obvious to dolts like me. He learned it by watching the Professor on Gilligan's Island.

“See here where these grooves are cut into...” I had already drifted off to the woods behind Miss Massey's and was wondering if I should get enough wood to fire up the grill after I got the Ol' Quaz up to steam and hunting a new unit for my soon to be departed truck. I could hear the birdsong of the forest and somewhere, far off, the faint strains of Lynard Skynard singing “Give me three steps”...

Sadly, It All Leads Up To This

So the other day I was out on the front porch of my trailer. I had the bicycle in the stand. I had just finished putting everything back together after cleaning and painting and so on and I didn't put the front derailleur on. I never use the small ring up front and that area of the bottom bracket and front mechanism is always the dirtiest part of the bike, so I left it off. This meant that  I had suddenly developed an increased interest in the functionality of the big 34 tooth cog on the Sram cassette that I put on last year. I would need that big gear to climb the bridges around my riding area. But when I tried to shift into that gear the rear derailleur jammed up into the chain. I was convinced (due to all my previous problems with transmissions) that this simple little bicycle tranny (the rear derailleur) was somehow broken and would need replacement.  There  I was unbolting her when my friend Corky came by to borrow a beer. While we stood there drinking two of the same I pointed out my bad derailleur and explained my problem. Bending over for a closer look, Corky gave the chain a tug.

'It looks like your chain is a couple links short. Two or three links.” I immediately flashed to the Gerber baby food jar I had tucked away on my workbench. No longer full of applesauce, it now contained several schrader valve stem caps and a piece of Sram chain, three links that I had removed when installing the chain last year

“Well, Corky... I, well, you know I write a Blog about bicycles and I read a lot about them and I'm pretty sure the problem here is the derailleur. Want another beer?”

“Sure. And what's a Blog?” I went to the refrigerator and got out a couple more frosty Budweisers. Then I casually drifted over to the workbench and picked up the little glass jar with the three incriminating links. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the Corkster out on the porch on one knee, intently fiddling with the chain and derailleur. I was thinking fast and hard. I quickly unscrewed the cap, plucked out the links and palmed them under my beer. I went back out to the porch.

'Here ya go, Cork. Man! Look at the size of that squirrel!” As he spun around to catch a look at the imaginary giant I dropped the three links on the floor under the rear wheel. Corky turned back to me.

“I guess I missed it.” He looked at me a little more closely.

“Ha ha, well, those big squirrels are pretty quick.”

'Yeah, I guess so.” He looked suspiciously at his beer. He tried to casually look behind me. He and I go back a long ways.

'Well, I guess I'll be going. He chugged the beer and set down the empty can, trying not to make it obvious that he was looking into it for signs of mysterious residue. “Good luck with your bike.”

“Oh, hey, thanks, man. No need to run off. Hey, what's this? I bent down to pick up the three segments of bicycle chain. “ Well, I'll be danged! You were right, man! This must have fallen off when I was putting everything back together!”

Corky looked a little dumbfounded at the thing in my hand. He looked back to make sure a giant squirrel wasn't approaching stealthily from behind. He looked at the beer he had just finished and he looked at the expression on my face and we both bust out laughing. Old friends are the best.

'I guess I'll have another beer after all,” Corky said.

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and House of Mirrors

#81

Little Miss Dangerous

Did I Mention That I Have Been Off...the Bike

Man, it has been a hell of a no-ride ride getting through the end of summer in Florida and the total rebuild and painting of my Old Schwinn le Tour. No riding for me is usually accompanied by extended periods of increased sloth and drunkenness. I did that but also there was an unexpected rush on trailer rentals which means suddenly it is up to me to get the derelicts ready for occupancy. Not the two-legged derelicts, I mean the ones on wheels although there are plenty of wheeled derelicts here too; perhaps that sounds insensitive but come down and spend a little time in the trailer park and you'll go home as politically incorrect and hardened as I find myself becoming.

And So: 

A little time on two wheels usually softens me up but instead I have been hacking away at these beat up old trailers and meanwhile scratching together the scratch for a little pile of bicycle parts and accoutrements to spruce, paint, rejuvenate and ready the Old Girl for new adventures and some extended mileage. Bear with me while I reminisce over the last few weeks of bikework. There will be a lot of pictures, so feel free to skim.

In the Beginning

My friend Coyote brings by a Sad Derelict looking for rescue.

I had little interest in those "skinny tire" bikes;  my belief was that a sturdy mountain bike was more suitable for the kind of Urban Bashing and Beach Cruising that I liked to do;  it was obvious that this fragile little dragonfly would not serve my needs.  But Coyote is an old friend and he only wanted twenty dollars.  I had stumbled across this "fixie" thing online and thought "Maybe I can build one of those" even though I was only vaguely aware of what a fixie was and had no idea what I would do with it.

Then, Just Like That...

I got some degreaser and some new 27" tires and tubes and did my best to get her up and running.  If anyone is interested, you can go back to the earliest pages of this Booger to co-experience the crazy days of my beginning to learn about fixing bikes.  FIXING bikes, not FIXIE bikes.  I still don't know anything about those things.  But after a while I got everything together in some kind of primordial fashion and went for a ride.  WOW.  Suddenly, I had discovered flight!  Swift and sure, this bicycle tracked like it was on rails.  Soon I found myself tearing along country roads in a way I never knew existed. I was hooked!

The Forums, the Late Nights, Poverty Vs. Parts and the Joy of FedEx

Well, that title says it all, does it not?  I was instantly swept up in the fever of studying into the wee hours of the morning, reading about all things Road Bike.  I drooled over derailleurs and contemplated cleats and yeah and verily, I do now confess that carbon was one of my desires. Yes, all things carbon were coveted by this impoverished near-derelict sitting in his dilapidated trailer, staring deep into the screen, unashamedly hooked on bicycle pornography.  How dare I consider these exotic bits and pieces, many of which I did not understand the use of, and none of which I could afford?  I needed a motor for my Big Truck, did I not?  Then it happened.  The Blonde, in a moment of inspiration, brought home from somewhere a big orange and black FOR SALE sign.

"What are you selling, my dear?" I asked.  I was experiencing a tiny hint of apprehension.

"Nothing.  I thought you might want to sell the Big Truck."

"WHAT?!  I've had that truck for twenty years! She was Once Lost and then Found!  I've put four different motors in her and I'll be damned if I'll ever let her go! Are you insane?"

She is not.  I have always made it a planned thing in my life to have one clearly sane person close to me so that I don't have to be.  It can be a hard chore for the sane ones, but they seem to stick around all the same.You can read all about it here, in a post I wrote called Big Trucks Go, Big Trucks Come.  But this is what my beloved Big Truck looked like.  

Man!  I loved That Truck!

The guy that bought her got scammed by shady mechanics and she still awaits a new power plant.  I fully expect to get her back again one day.

How To Mend A Broken Heart (And A Bicycle)

The proceeds from my heartbreak went to pay some much-needed payments, but I managed to set aside a few bucks for bike parts and a workstand.  I got a few cans of paint and some specialty bike tools and got to work.  The end result was quite satisfying and so, armed with a modern 700c rear wheel and new drive train I was extending my rides Way Out There,  riding farther than I thought realistic and eventually I found myself getting sorta-fit and doing all-day rides that took me past the dreaded-yet-desired 100 mile mark.  I was a Real Roadie at this point, I thought.

More thought than miles,  said the Voice.

"Voice!  You're back!  I thought you weren't talking to me anymore!"

I'm not.  But someone has to monitor your Blogular un-poetic license.

"Whatever.  And shut up, I'm trying to reminisce without booze."

At least I don't have to watch you cry and type at the same time.

"Hey!  That's not...that was Joan Wilder, not me."  Stupid Voice.

                                                                         So Anyway

The mid-end result was a pretty roadworthy little vintage Schwinn.  I put a lot of miles on her, had some adventures and even flirted with the Big Time. A visiting dignitary provided us with the only existing photo of Me Little Darlin' during this phase of her ascension:

Whoops!  How did that get in here?  That's the Old Drive-in Movie theater in my home town where I lost something back in 1972.  Can't remember what it was...

There we go!  You might note that she looks a little more capable and perky than she did in the previous "before" picture.  Black and white, also, like the drive-in photo.  I wonder why those went out of style?  They made for some awesome Saturday nights.

Let's Wind This Up, said the Voice

"Okay, Voice, Okay.  Sheesh!  Whose Booger is this, anyway?"  So anyway, after many happy miles I began to detect noises that made me wary of getting Too Far Out There.  This occurred at about the same time I started to think about overnight camp rides, something where I could go sixty or eighty or yes, even a hundred miles out, spend the night in a new place, then ride home in the morning.  Or not.  Maybe go another leg of fifty miles or so and spend the night and then finish up the next day.  ( I realize that I have employed some questionable geometry in this fantasy, but hey, that's what fantasies are for.  Pretty much.)

Rock and Roll Show

Creaking and groaning noises from the bottom bracket and highly questionable brakes and tires and frayed cables and rust didn't fit into this fantasy all that well, so, following on the heels of yet another minor infusion of cash,  I ordered up a pretty fair pile of parts.  One night, in anticipation of FedEx,  I took a few parts off the bike in preparation. It felt good.  I liked it. So... I took a slug of rum, a follow-up slug of beer, locked the Voice in the bathroom and took the whole bicycle apart.  I took it down to bare frame, got out some sandpaper and started sanding.  Over the next couple weeks I worked my way through a few (4) bottles of rum, many (100) (a century!) bottles of beer and two (2) packs of varying grit sandpaper and six (6) cans of flat black Rustoleum.   I listened to a lot of Classic Rock,  I danced a little and  I switched to cheap wine (3) (jugs) and kept going, polishing parts, cleaning the chain and cassette and the derailleurs and brakes. Everything went really slow and with great deliberation.  I wanted it to last.  I was having fun, man!  I polished rims and sprayed and drank and received parts from the United States Postal Service (remember them?) and the FedEx truck came three (3)(!) times and a Loyal Reader even pitched in.  I fretted and worried and then, when I went to let the Voice out of the bathroom he wasn't there.  I shrugged my shoulders, went back to drinking and polishing and assembling and cussing and then,  just like that, there she was:

Little Miss Dangerous

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and (Bicycle) Rehab

#80

I'm Not Political, But...I Can Dance

There's No Excuse

Hey!  My bike has been down for a full-blown rebuild and paint job and the weather around here has been weirdly wet and all that equals No Riding which usually means I compensate by doubling my already prodigious alcohol intake and the blurry keyboard makes composition difficult...

I Blame Mitt

Plus the election brouhaha nonsense is making me crazy and I have been listening to National Public Radio at work which usually leaves me suicidal by quitting time.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

But the future is bright!  Tomorrow the Old Schwinn will be finally ready for a photo shoot even if I ain't:  a month or so of no riding has left my ass as wide as a, uh,  wider than a,  wait...well it got big and a few days ago at the end of a six-day weekend involving whiskey, beer, really cheap wine,  store-bought pizza and wings and peanut M&M's and lots of broken glass, in a moment of despair over my Lack of Style  I decided to give myself a haircut.  Now my dog barks at me when I come into the trailer and then, to make matters even more worser,  I accidentally, (while trying to perfect some new dance that is all the rage in Korea or France or one of them places),  lost my balance and stepped on her tail and so she packed up  her things and moved back in with the Blonde.

Lonely is the Haunted

Enough is enough:  the dog is gone and the Voice ain't talking to me and the bike will be ready and I really, really need to get back on the Road.  Until then, my  friend George Hahn put this up on his site today and I promptly stole it.  Here it is:










So until I get some miles under me and something bicycle related to tell about hang in there:  my recent decline was actually all about missing Interbike this year and when I pout, I can really pout.

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Halfway House
#79

Roll Call

Hijacker

As most of you are painfully aware, I have an annoying habit of coming over to your Blogs and typing a comment that is usually twice as long as your post and then rambling around and saying stuff that pertains to your topic in only a vague way, while managing to make myself look cooler than I am and all-wise and knowing and nothing if not verbose. It cannot be helped; I was born Excited About Life and interested in everything. While that interest here in our little clique is allegedly centered on bicycles, that is mostly a ruse. Oh, we all ride, as near as I can tell. But it ain't the only thing we do and that is how it should be.

The Secret Life Of Cycling

We also communicate and interrelate and since I started this page I have come to know, if only via the Web, a whole menagerie of new people who share my passion for cycling and we really are members of a vast Secret Society, once you think about it. Chain rings and derailleurs and headsets and carbon and lycra and wattage are our secret code and we know things denied to non-cyclists; we are familiar with the weather and we know where dogs are and we have our elite pantheon of secret gods, with names like Grant and Sheldon and Snob and yes, Lance...I may get into that in a minute but I already wrote my say onTHAT subject a while back.

We are in on a secret that should be shared by everyone but it isn't. Ours is a happy world of pedals and wheels and the sound of the traffic, the sound and smell of country lanes and the song of the surf and ours is a pretty happy world (except for the Lance part) and not all of us wear fancy clothes to go for a ride and so, in my usual errant manner I come to the subject(s) of today's post.

Doug

I have a friend and fellow pedalist and sailor who lives somewhere north of here. His name is Doug and he posts over at Life In theSlow Lane. A while back I rather imperiously demanded that he post a post and, like the true-hearted soul that he is, he complied. I was a little abashed at my forwardness but then immediately rewarded by what he had to say. Simple stuff and rather than hash it out here why don't you guys go have a look.

Harold

My other buddy Wayward Home posts even less than I do, if that is possible, but each one is a corker and his last effort will break your heart and make you grab the nearest dog, spouse, sibling or friend and hug them and tell them how much they mean to you. Seriously. Do it right now.

Judi

Judi, the Mistress of Miles and Madness, is feeling her age and it makes me glad because I am WAY older than her and half as strong, but always glad to hear that I ain't the only one feeling the good pain of our velo ventures. A thing about her is that since I started reading her stuff I have witnessed a lot of ups and downs in her life but she always comes through looking like she planned the whole thing. I know this: if I ever have to go to Hell and get back out, I would want her in my posse.

Paducah

Once in a while I get in these little moods of wanting to shout out to some of my friends and readers. I remember when there weren't any and it was a cold and desolate place here at the Park. I will have to leave some of you out, because (happily) there are so many of you now that it would look like the Manhattan phone book if I list you all. OK, maybe the Paducah phone book. (I lived there once).

Mission Statement

When I first started writing this Booger I had glorious plans to be the Voice of the Unwashed Cyclists, the Clydesdales and Athenas and homeless riders and the beginners and the mechanically challenged. I still want to do that because I myself am all those things, except an Athena, and I am only marginally homeless, but the Clyde and the mechanically challenged I am. (and unwashed I also am a lot of the time.)

Nicholas

Nicholas the Gypsy by Trade is living this wild life of constant beauty and bicycles. His photography and lean, sinewy posts, combined with his ever diligent search for the elusive Fat Bike Formula of Perfection, is very addictive and I warn all of you to beware: his quest is riveting and told in a style that will one day be required reading in High Schools across the planet. Or it should be. Today's post is in fact, a kind of echo of Nick's most recent publication. He is sending postcards to a long list of friends and readers and I was happy to see myself included. Postcards! That's so cool! Now I want to get a big stack of postcards and send them all over the place.

The Jackson Two

There is this brother and sister out in Texas that somehow seem to have become a kind of surrogate family to me. I don't know why. They never send me postcards. But when I first crossed their trail it was instantly as though I had known them forever. The sister part is Crystal Jackson (coolest girl name ever) and she posts as CryJack over at Fight Stupidization. Not a bicycle to be seen but we cyclists fight stupidization every day so check her out and you'll see what I mean. Her brother, Tohner Jackson, is a fellow woodwright but you can bet I never did any wood stuff like he does. He is an artist and apparently the custodian of a very old soul. Check out One Tree Woodworks and tell him I said hello.

Dee

South of the Whispering Pines is a land called Hanalea, I mean Australia and I have my friend Dee there. She is a bicycle advocate and horticulturalist and model, an epicure and who knows what else, a racing cyclist and cartographer. Cartographer.  Plus she was mentioned at the Snob's, which is, well a kind of pinnacle of achievement.

“What do you do for a living?”

“I'm a cartographer.”

"No way"

"Way."

I think she is in her old home of Nova Scotia right now. That's right. The land of the Trailer Park Boys. Dee, if you're reading this, tell Ricky and Julian I said hello.  And Bubbles, who is also a kind of cartographer.

Art VandeLay and One Scary Chick

See what I mean? Because of bicycles I know these cool-ass people. Wayward drives a locomotive, a real-life locomotive; Swampboy Steve at Hey Look At me is an architect, (as well as a trail-builder and cycling advocate) and the list goes on. Angie the Bikinator is one to keep your eye on, I am certain she will one day be a cycling journalist of note and reading about her efforts as an amateur racer always leaves me slightly exhausted.

Old World Craftsman

There is a place to go when it is time to work on your bicycle, or if you want to see a craftsman do wondrous things to crusty old bikes. His name is Hugh and he once was a mason by trade. If the work he does restoring old bicycles is any evidence, he must have been a hell of a builder. He meticulously takes apart and rebuilds bicycles that were fairly run-of-the-mill before he got hold of them, but after he puts the Hugh wang-dang-doodle on them they are two wheeled works of art. You won't believe your eyes but what makes his place special is his friendly, down home writing style. Go there and read about changing out a head set or bottom bracket or wet sanding a frame and you will leave with a warm feeling that as long as we have guys like Hugh, everything will be OK.

The Land That Time Forgot

As soon as you leave Hugh's it is a natural thing to stop by Cameron's Old Ten Speed Gallery. That's where I go hang out with my fellow fans of the Old School and really, after a visit there you will wonder why anyone would ever buy a new bicycle, when there is so much excellence, beauty and grace in all things old.

Disclaimer

I realize that it wasn't that long ago that I wrote a similar post, extolling the virtues of my friends. Please bear with me. While I have a knack for spinning a yarn and sometimes making you smile, I have a mandate from myself to make damn sure that those around me know that they count and are appreciated. 

Meanwhile, Back In Manhattan

 Here's another one:  His name is George and he seems to be tackling two worthy challenges at once:  Style and cycling.  George Hahn is a city boy, as are many of my friends.  But he is, without a doubt, one Sharp Dressed Man.  He has recently signed on as a cycling writer and while I don't know if it will work out for him, it will not be for lack of support from the Whispering Pines.  My own "style" has been cause for concern in recent years and if you guys go by and give him an encouraging word it will be appreciated, I am sure.  In particular, read his tribute to his father.  Any  writer this straight up and honest is worth watching.

"Every Body Say Hey!  Put Your Hands Up and Say Yeah, Yeah Yeah!" (john lennon, et al)

All of you. My soul-brother KAZ, Roadie Ryan, Bill Hopp the Anonymous Hoosier, Jason in Colorado, Jim Bangs, Jonathan, my other brother Matt in my old stomping grounds in California,  Dan in Las Vegas, The noble Bloke on a Bike, Brian the Boss in Old Virginia, all of you, on and on...

Uncle Ed Is Watching

When my Uncle Ed Comstock passed away in 1970 the funeral procession was unexpectedly long; so long that police had to come work traffic and the crowd at the cemetery was huge. People came from all over the country to attend. There was not a dry eye anywhere and the mayor and some other politician made comments and it took two preachers to get him in the ground. Who was this dignitary? He was a shoe salesman. He sold shoes for forty years at a little store in a small town in southern Indiana. But every person who got fitted for shoes by my Uncle Ed walked out of that store with a smile on their face and feeling better about themselves and never even thought of going anywhere else for their next pair of shoes. I'm pretty sure that some people got shoes they did not need just to get another dose of Ed Comstock.

He is looking over my shoulder as I type this and I hope I did it right.

Yer pal, tj

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Feel-Good Factory

#79

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