Boyz in the Hood

Regardless of how open minded or tough you are when you cross the tracks, you know you are on the other side. There’s a section of the rail trail I’ve always avoided, a sketchy highway for miscreants paved with broken glass. The path is essentially a 2 mile pit nestled between cesspools and housing projects masked with kudzu to give it a natural appearance.

This Sunday Silk and I figured it was cold enough that the dirtbags would be hunkered over burning tires and staying out of trouble. We decided not to exit the trail at the usual safe zone and continue north toward home. Early in to our crossing we stopped to admire the discolored scum and trash floating in the holding ponds on either side of us and throw on an extra layer of clothes. While I was taking pond scum photos Silk noticed some sketchy activity further up the trail. The locals scattered into their vine covered hideout when we got back on our bikes.

As we approached the area were the dirtbags fled a mangled bike left behind set off alarm bells in my head, I told Silk to look high and I would look low to detect a possible ambush. Without warning a large wooden table leg crashes to the ground in front of me, when I turned to see where it came from another one was flying through the air at us. I no longer wonder where the director of the Matrix got his idea to have spinning objects moving through the air while everything else is in suspended animation. The second table leg was launched from 20 feet above and spun between us missing Silk’s head and my arms by inches. Once out of range we turned to face our attackers, two smug ghetto kids atop an iron fence.

Although I couldn’t get to them, my solace was knowing they were stuck in the ghetto and bad things would happen to them down the road, hopefully sooner than later. My anger slowly morphed into sadness thinking about those kids, there’s a good chance they have a terrible home life without roll models and very few opportunities in life. They were trapped but I got to retreat to a safe comfortable home.

Where would all of us be if we were born into poverty or neglect? Be sure to give your family extra hugs the next time you see them and thank them them for what you are.

Fungus Among Us

Found some cool fungi walking through the woods with Silk yesterday, some were the size of basketballs.

It's hard to do the right thing.

I couldn’t dig up the urge to ride, and my hunkered down riding partners were no help.

The pedals had been off my bike for nearly two weeks.

It was going to rain any second.

The trails were muddy and covered in wet roots.

The relative humidity was well over 325%

I pulled the trigger.

I got a flat.

Chased by a rabid dog.

Sweat like it was August.

Spare tube leaked like a sieve.

I had a fun ride.

Start

The Road Less Traveled

The early enjoyment curve in outdoor activities can be steep, fly fishing for example is at the bottom and walking in a city park is somewhere near the top. Outside of a stroll through the park, you have to pay to play. For years I’ve casually run a few times a month when I was injured and had to stay off the bike or when I was pressed for time. The anxiety before during and after each slog would stick with me as a stomach ache for a couple days. Last summer I took running up a notch by assigning the word training to it, running four days a week and signing up for an off road 20k. I didn’t enjoy training throughout the Tallahassee summer but oddly I didn’t hate it either.

This week in Arizona running was transformed from a means to burn calories to an activity I can get excited about. There was a desert wash behind the house I was staying in that was about 150 yards wide, covered in every imaginable spiky plant and seemed to stretch endlessly in either direction. I spent about half an hour birding in the wash and after adding 4 species to my life list (a very big deal) I was still not content, I needed to know where the wash would take me. So I through on a pair of running shoes and ran down the wash. The high desert vegetation and rocky terrain masked any hunger or exhaustion that I may have had, something was changing inside me. I wondered if this was a feeling I could duplicate and was excited to find out.

The next day my transformation in the wash was still at the front of my mind during a stunning hike up Sabino Canyon. During my hike I was constantly distracted by how much fun it would be to ditch my cameras, bird books, food and water and just run. The next morning I rushed back to the canyon to run, it turned out to be one of my best outdoor experiences. The base of the canyon which was dusty and dry the day before was submerged and lined with waterfalls gurgling its latest soundtrack. Now I'm a believer; there is a path up the enjoyment curve for runners. 


Running as a fun activity to look forward to, who knew?

Bike Shopping

What are you hungry for?

I’ve never taken much pleasure from food, it’s one of the many reasons I don't relate well with my fellow humans. As a child I wanted to live off of an intravenous drip and not bothered with meal time (this explains my love of Gu packs). Can you imagine restaurants and food shows if everyone was like me? There would be breakfast drips, snack drips and my favorite the vodka and tonic drip. I would never bonk again if my camel back was intravenous, if I saw a long hill ahead of me I would dial up the flow to 11.

There have been times I’ve eaten something so wonderful that all I could do was grunt sounds of satisfaction, I remember those 3 meals and I doubt it will happen again anytime soon. My consistently satisfying intravenous drip would sure beat what scavengers and the average American eat for dinner. I wonder if vultures have a preferred state of decay when eating carrion, are they disappointed when road kill is too fresh? Does a properly decomposed alligator offer the same stroke of luck as a fat guy catching the hot doughnut sign lit up?

A stranger in the night.

Fall arrived last night like a formula one pit stop in reverse, swapping out the new with the old in a blink of an eye.

Yesterday I sweat a bit on my sunny ride through lush green trails on the north side of town grateful of Florida’s immunity to the dull colors of winter. By the end of the day the clouds rolled in and I gloated knowing the rest of the cycling world was destine for an uncomfortable night ride in the rain and wind.

This morning I woke up Little Ball to catch a ride between storms. After a freezing coast down the hill we hit the woods and were pulled from the bikes by the Fall colors carpeting the trail.  I didn't recall a single leaf on the ground the day before. Caught off guard by the overnight transformation, our tires crunched through fresh piles of leaves hiding the trail and muting any attention to heart rates, speed or wet roots. Slices of trail were covered in sheets of large yellow leaves casting temporary sun beams despite the clouds. Even the irritating din of dried leaves caught in my wheels was incapable of muting the the rapid Fall I never saw coming.