Lil P Helps Out

Klicksta popped in yesterday afternoon for a whirlwind tour of my training grounds and a quick taste of the Yazoo Taproom before beating it back towards the West in hopes to allude winter in a sunny locale. She was all "have to keep certain wattage" and "cadence can't drop below blah". Yeah, weaksauce excuses for "ouch you're hurting me, please slow down". Whatever. It was a good testing of the new coaching waters, so to speak.

I can't afford the high dollar coach/attorney/PR guy/computer monitor fixer like the elitist racers of the world. So I looked at my coin jar and searched the internet for an affordable solution. Luckily just about anywhere you click on the net nowadays you can find a little Peter. Most know little Peter's aren't of much use, but at least this looney is cheap.

Say hi to Coach Peter and his psycle of doom.

Apparently, parts and frames aren't selling so well and he's pulling in extra cash as a coach/chastiser/shenaniganerarian/and all around big galoot until the Feds decide to bail out mismanaged Canadian companies. I mean, how long can he stay in business with products such as these:


OK, I'm only joking. That's not an actual product (though those are his actual shorts), but a 3D rendering he had built up from a 2D Crayola and napkin design he cooked up at dinner with a $9 box of wine that he'll send over to the far East (or West depending on your point of view) and have made into tin can two niners. Sounds like the story of GM doesn't it?

But I digress, back to the story at hand. It seems Lil P's coaching/chastising has started to pay off, I am now able to beat a girl (who has to stay under 150 Watts and over 90RMP cadence and has a cold, and is tired, and was coming off 2 6 hour races in 3 weeks, and what were those other excuses Klicksta?) Anyway, thanks to Lil P's training program (keggers and lace) I was able to stay ahead of the out of towner who had no clue where we were going or how to get home. Talk about your well spent loonies.

The Journey

"I am really getting psyched about long days in the saddle. I've gotten into this issue on road riding. I don't want to just ride, I want a destination: something to "shoot for", as apposed to just riding the hell around for a bunch of hours going nowhere in particular (which is boring as shit)."

I've had a lot of time to think lately. Doing so, I've not ridden a whole lot. Mostly spending my time in the woods out back carving trails into the hills. I've only ridden a short portion of it (on my road bike) but am looking forward to completing the first loop and taking Black Death out there with the dogs hot on my wheels.

No power tools. Only hand tools: a rake, a mattock, and a weeding blade. The manual labor has been enjoyable. Moving dirt, clearing trees, the strain in the back, the solitude of the woods. Horses, dogs, and the neighbor's cows have kept vigil as I've worked. All I need is a cartoon bluebird and I could film a Disney movie.

I've kept off the computer a bit lately. Instead finding solace in books and music. I've recently read up on my friends. One in particular has me thinking. He's planning several really cool long distance rides. Normally, I'd be excited to join in, but the motivation to do so isn't there. It's not that I don't want to ride, I'm just not into the destinations. Likewise, he's not into the hours of going nowhere in particular.

Today while working on the lower section of the new trail, which requires a lot of back breaking benching, I pondered his upcoming ride and tried to find motivation to join in. It's just not there. I don't want a destination. I don't want endless hours on State Routes. I love the exploration of the unknown. Finding the old Berlin service stations, the Gray beard's of the roads ending in the river and learning the history of his lands, the old shop in Fly, and the long forgotten logging roads. To roll up to gorgeous overlooks, rocky caves, or interesting old bridges that are found hiding among the remote back country roads that go nowhere in particular. The spirit of exploring. Not knowing where the road will take you or how far you've gone.


I miss my camera. The motivation to ride of late has been to capture images of a Tennessee most don't, or won't, ever see. Capture barns before they are gone, land before it becomes McMansions or strip malls, old quiet country lanes with their curvy rolling hills before they become graded mass transit speedways.

Perhaps a bike and blog powered version of Tennessee Crossroads is in my near future? A glimpse of Ri'Chard's on a Saturday night, or an early breakfast at Larry's? Wall rattling, brake flanging stories from the Depot Bar and Grill? A cold Yoohoo and a turkey, mustard, and hot sauce sandwhich from Fly. It could make a spectacular coffee table book, or a calendar, but mostly it would prove a worthy destination to the journey.

Getting Lost in the Leaves

I love fall. The cold nights, cool days, the falling leaves, changing colors, winter looming in the distance. We don't get the frigid cold or the snows of my youth here in TN, but the autumn is a bit longer which is perfectly fine by me. Caramel is ripe and ready for the pickin', as are the apple trees, stocks of pumpkin and pecan pies, and of course, Halloween. The only holiday that never seemed to suffer the typical divorced family strife of "who gets it this year". No battles of who's family we travel too, no missed school or strange schedules, no feelings of guilt associated with it. Just pure unadulterated joy to be outside at night in the fall. Always happy memories Halloween. Usually drizzly rain, cold and some fog in the old home town. Time spent in the woods out back enjoying the electricity of the spooky night. Wes's mom would make us homemade caramel popcorn balls, even after "they" stopped it for supposed safety reasons. We few lucky ones still got the real deal, not that cheap wrappered candy. What happened to that world?

My digital camera is dead, I lost 2 years worth of photo memories with my work computer, and my faithful old 2004 iBook can't handle editing or opening the new images I do have. Sad days for a photo junkie like me (I inherit that from my father, the consummate photographer).

Thanks to Adam "Mean to the Joe" for these snaps from our short escape from the real world enjoying the out of doors.

Cooler than a Canadian Skull Jersey

Get Well Hodge

Hodge was involved in a motorcycle accident. C6 & C7 fractures with a lung contusion. Surgery to follow soon. Keep him and his family in your thoughts.

Heal fast my friend.

The Cowboy in Me

Born in 1922 on a homestead in Wyoming. At 3 years of age he was out shooting a .22 rifle. The family then moved to Pine Ridge South Dakota, where his dad raised sheep and range fed them along the reservation. By 13 he had saddled up a horse and worked as a cowboy herding cattle. He found a rope discarded by one of the older cowboys and kept it, used it, it's now in my possession, as is his saddle.

When the cowboy jobs dried up, he got a job cutting logs with 2 others. The 3 of them could cut 100 trees a day with a 6' straight saw earning them $10 or $3.30 a piece.

By 17, his sister married and had a small child and a need to get to Colorado where he'd been told they were paying $0.25 an hour. He took a 1938 engine his older brother (who had recently gotten killed out in Montana) had taken apart to fix, and built it up and installed it into an old Plymouth body. He fixed up the front cab and made a flatbed for the back. They loaded up all their possessions and headed to Colorado. Stopping at dark and throwing a mattress down on the ground to sleep.

Upon arriving in Colorado, he soon learned they weren't paying $0.25 an hour, but there wasn't any work in South Dakota besides cutting timber, so he stayed. He found a job clearing irrigation ditches for 4 hours (after 4 hours they'd cut on the water and he'd have to climb out or be drowned). Eventually he got a job with the railroad as a candy dancer (maintenance workers on a rail line with the very long headed hammers that pounded ballast around ties to keep the rails level). He worked his way up to brakeman. One cold, rainy, sleet, snow filled New Years Eve he was in one heck of a foul mood when his buddy came to pick him up for work. He was told to bring his bag because they were headed to Rock Island. Who is, he asked. We are, was the reply. They were hiring 3 brakemen for the Rock Island Illinois line, so they headed off. He worked the line for a while before moving up to the main line in Galesburg.

20 years on the railroad before a hernia operation that wouldn't heal kept him from working as a brakeman. Out of a job, he found they were hiring building inspectors. He took the test, passed, and for 20 years was a building inspector for the city of Galesburg.

At 80, he rode a horse bareback with no halter or bridle from the field to the barn. All was fine until the other horses came running. He quickly found himself without a way to stop the runaway animal. To get to the barn they'd have to go through a grove of trees where a branch was within reach if he jumped, or he could hold on and take his chances. He held on.

I think I'll hold on too.

Like the song goes:

We ride and never worry about the fall
I guess thats just the cowboy in us all

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