The War and Treaty - Ain't No Harmin' Me (Live From Jimmy Kimmel Live!)

I lost my mother on Saturday. This has been a long time coming. She suffered greatly and while I am glad this chapter is over for her sake, I know that this hole in my life will not be filled. And while I'm starting to now really process the grief that I've been holding onto for the last four years, I'm also processing the lessons I have learned and am learning through this time.

 

I’m not a Christ follower but I do believe in a creator… and I believe that our ancestors are always in our corner.

God and the devil, good and evil, the lightness and the dark, negative and positive. These forces have always been here and are a part of living in this world.

Sometimes, a lot of times, it feels like the bad guys are winning.

Don’t let them win.

Love is the only way out of this mess. 

(And you are thinking to yourself - well ain't this some hippie shit... I know, I know... keep reading )

I’m talking about the mundane, every day kind of stuff.

The invitation to fall into a go-nowhere argument or the the poorly thought-out accusation where the other person would love for you take the bait and run with it.

Don’t do it.

Don’t react.

Breath.


And don’t just surround yourself with people that you love and love you, but also the ones who will tell you the truth that you may not want to hear.

As for me, I’m learning how to eat my pride.
And I’m learning how to sit on my hands.

Everyone needs a little bit of grace, including me.

 

Well, well, well.

I'm still here. Fought my way out a long and agonizing PTSD-fueled depression that was threatening to end me. I got the help I needed and am now back in the land of the living. I've learned a thing or two about a thing or two. I also still love the hell out of Lucinda Williams and learned that I need to keep my hands in the dirt and grow things as much as possible to maintain my sense of peace. Getting back on my bike. Avoiding the fakers. Doing shit that makes a difference whenever I can.

My life these days... is a good one.

Cord Cutting

The van backed up to the loading dock and I watched as all of the items got carted into the auction house.

These were the last of the things from my half century on this planet and some of those things had been around a lot longer.
I watched as my grandmothers 100 year old secretary was taken into the space along with the Van Erp mica and amber glass chandelier I had purchased for the someday home that never quite happened. Various fire king plates, grease jars, and kitchen items from the 1930’s. Old pictures, prints, a pachinko machine. The long dining room table I had planned to use for crawfish boils and other fun things

Items that at one time I had been waiting to build a rambling, much visited and well-lived-in home with.

As an earth-bound Taurus who loves my comfort, security and artistic surroundings more than most, I was born to nest. Sharing a happy and healthy home with a life partner was pretty much what I figured would eventually happen.

But a life that includes these things has not been the message that I continually get back.

And it's not that I don't believe that I deserve these things, because I do... but there's something else is in the cards and I know enough to know that I need to finally let go and let the river do what it's going to do.

So I let go and have discovered that place in me that is able to honor the sadness that I feel by giving it some space to move on through.

And as I keep whittling down the stuff that belongs to somebody else's life, I realize that this is all just stuff and what I’m doing is opening up the door to even greater possibilities by continuing to move forward.
I am now able to let this past with all of its hopes and expectations fall off of me like a second skin that no longer fits.


Hello out there, bring it on.  I’m listening.

There never was a long game

And I am no longer a space for misery.

The power of Folk

I spent a couple of days in Louisville, Kentucky on the banks of the Ohio river a few years back while assisting friends during an Ironman event. I can remember reading the signage, detailing how they marched slaves down the street where I was walking, newly auctioned off to unknown masters. Chained, shackled and boarded on boats destined for the deep South. Many did not make it to their final destinations due to illness, most likely caused by the extreme emotional stress they were placed under.
This was where the phrase, “Sold down the river” came from.

It hit me hard as I began to imagine entire families and relationships being dismantled exactly where I stood. There is nothing like the power of place to deliver the gut-punch of reality. I am not one for outward displays of emotion but the tears fell. I could feel the suffering still hanging in the air. The experience took me by complete surprise.

Three years ago Patty Griffin began to work with this song about the underground railroad. Of slaves escaping, inspired by something Toni Morrison had written in her book, Beloved. The lyrics went through several transformations before it reached its final incarnation with the help of Robert Plant who also lent his voice and power to this song.

"I had the song in an odd shape and couldn't really figure out how to use it," she says. "He came in and arranged it so that it became what it is. He came up with the tempo and the mood on it."

It had impact for me on this Easter Sunday evening as I drove home from my solo meal of etouffee at a local creole hangout. Feeling a little wistful, missing my own people, this beautifully haunting song came over the radio.

It has been my experience that the best songs and stories need so few words to convey the meaning and have impact. When it is crafted as gorgeously as this, I am inspired to write lyrics that are spare and honest.
The simplicity and depth of emotion is why I love the art form of Folk and American music so much.

Meet me in the evening, where the river is low
Meet me on the waters of the Ohio
No lines, no lines, the river is a river, not a line
My blood is the water and it's darker and deeper than time

If the hounds are howling, then you cannot hide
My friend, I will meet you on the other side
No lines, no lines, the river is a river, not a line
My love is the water and it's stronger and deeper than time

Meet me 'neath the moon, under the singing tree
If you are the first, stay there and wait for me
If no one comes by morning and the sun is a-rising red
If no one comes by morning, please forgive me, my friend
For I am dead

I'm going to start my own line of greeting cards

Starting with Valentines day.


Knock, knock motherfuckers!

Who's there?

The Valentines day possum!



Exactly.

“That’s when I knew you’d be good in the world.”

If there was ever a photo that captures who I am for all time, it is the picture above. Confident, strong, half wild. An accomplished hand-fisher, snake catcher and girl of the woods already. I was 11 years of age and still getting used to having to wear shirts in the summertime. I am standing there covered in mud and catfish grime after a two and a half hour struggle with a mighty warrior who tested all I knew about nature, and myself up to that point.

The rod and the 5 pound test-line were way too light. I knew when I saw that first sunlit fin flash under the surface of the swirling water, the powerful pull on the other end of that hook was not a turtle. I can still feel my heart getting ready to beat out of my chest at that moment, knowing that it was going to take all the smarts I had to land this one. Too much tension and the line or pole would break. Not enough tension and he would sever that line himself.

The struggle was on. I was focused like never before and we fought until almost dark. I would play him and let him out, play him and let him out… over and over as I ran along the banks of the pond, staying with him. Making sure he was exhausted before I could even think about bringing him in. When it was time, I waded into the water to get him. I was taking no chances until I had him safely on the stringer.

I had caught plenty of fish up to that point. Knew how to skin and fillet my catches and filled the freezer with them. But this was new territory. This was going to be hard. And from that time, I intimately knew what it was to have complete respect, gratitude and sorrow for the animals that become your food. I did a lot of growing up on this day.

Up until now, I felt the day was uniquely mine. I had no idea how this had impacted my father until I saw this experience come to life in the pages of his latest book, Ruined Days.

When I got to page 109, the tears started to roll...

——————————————————————————————————————————

Reno Pete, in part of the final letter to his son with instruction on how to take new information on the JFK assassination public and profit from it.

"You decide if you are up to it. I know you are. If there’s anything to life after death I’m behind you and smiling at you all the way. I always loved you. Believe me I’de of taken your mom’s place if I could of. I know that was our sticking point. It was crazy hard to go on after that. Crazy hard. Revenge didn’t even make a little dent in it. It hurt us all to see you, what it did. If you do this you will sure enough ruin some days, and the money will set you up. I think you can do it or I’d never put it out there for you. You’re a little different than I was, more like Cobb maybe.

Remember how you played that bigass catfish? Took you half the day. That took patience, strategy, smarts and stamina. Especially for a little boy your size and age then. That’s when I knew you’d be good in the world. Little light line (5lb test?) big fish 14lbs. Remember how good that was on the grill? We could see you were proud, deserved to be, we were to. Your mom thought that was the best catfish we ever had. Salt, pepper, lemon. Those were good days. Get em while you can. I know you don’t think so right now but good days will be there for you again.

Sorry to bail the way I have by now. (If your reading this I have.) Fucking drs keep you going like the battery bunny. Keeps their paychecks coming. Well, that’s it. You only need to read more if you’re going for it. If you do, play it like a 14lb catfish on a 5lb test. Carefully. Patiently. Use violence only if you have to (you’ll know) and then quickly and out. It’s a tool. Use it when they balk or lie or try to play you. Also use it to piss them off. When someone is angry they don’t think right. Pistol whip a man and you’ll piss him off but you’ll scare him to, he will know your for real. Be sneaky and chickenshit, not frontal assault. I know you guys bulled your way in the middle east, but sneaky pays off.

Travis folded the papers–blue-lined notebook paper torn from a wire bound school type notebook–and poured the rest of the coffee. Damn. Reno remembered that catfish. It had taken half a day to land that sucker. Travis was not about to lose it. It bent the light pan-fish rod double at times. He’d only been dimly aware that his father was there the whole time, now and then offering quiet advice, but not getting in the way. That night they’d cooked catfish steaks. Cobb and Vanita were there. His mom and dad. Some friends of theirs with kids his age. It had been a good time. A relaxed time.”

From the book: Ruined Days by Guinotte Wise

Dirty Kanza registration happens tomorrow at 8:00 AM, 1.9.16

It's that time again. Tomorrow morning at 8:00, registration opens for the Dirty Kanza 200 and 100. Everyone from the lone first-time cyclist to entire teams of road-hardened gravel pelotons are setting their alarms for Saturday morning to be among the first in line to register on bikereg.com.

For the last three years, the buzz has been that it would sell out in the first hour. It hasn't happened yet. It takes a day or two before selling out, but 2016 may change all of this. If the wide variety of gravel rigs out there being offered by every bike shop in the universe is any indication, the popularity of gravel "grinding" is doing nothing but continue to grow.
And one of the top gravel events going is the Dirty Kanza. People are even starting to come from other countries for a chance to do this Flint Hills monster. Lucky for me, the heart of all this gravel goodness is only 108 miles directly southwest of Kansas City on I-35.

As always, the town of Emporia will celebrate all things cycling for a few days on the first weekend of June, rolling out the red carpet. The town's folk will show up in force. They are open and friendly in a way that you just don't see these days... anywhere. They will tell you they are glad you are there and mean it. It is kind of amazing and is the final part of the alchemy that keeps me coming back.

I wasn't sure how I was going to feel about the winter gravel season this year, but that familiar rush of joy of having goals (looser... as in not crushing) and contact with people who I have come to call my friends over these last three years, started to sweep over me. Messages began to filter in as I got in gear with hotel arrangements, sticker shock stopping me momentarily after finding the Best Western "Hospitality" House had almost tripled it's rates for the event. After a few more unsuccessful calls, I remembered to start breathing again after a friend reached out, offering his family's Emporia home to three of my Boulevard teammates and myself.

So... no more floating around in the strange early January doldrums... wondering about the direction of winter training. I'm committed. I start building the 2016 season tomorrow. All that is left to do is to make sure my fingers are on the keyboard at 8:00 AM.

http://www.dirtykanza200.com/registration/

Jingle Cross and lessons learned.

Photo by bahumut  - instagram.com/bahumut/

Quietly ensconced in my loft. I am back from the biggest cyclocross race on my schedule, Jingle Cross. Steel cut oats with cinnamon, cherries and walnuts are bubbling on the stove top, my sustenance before I head out for a ride on this uncharacteristically warm December day. I have a few hours to reflect before I hit the ground running in search of work.
In the past, athletic achievement has been the gauge of how I was doing on the grand scale. It was the one area of my life that I felt that I could shape and as long as I had that by the tail, the rest was gravy.

But the reality was that the balance was off. Way off.

During race #1 on Friday night at Jingle Cross, I achieved my very first dfl… Dead Fucking Last. The starkness of it came flooding in as I stood at the foot of the monster known as Mt. Krumpit. Unable to walk for a minute as the mud had turned my feet into heavy birds nests. While children heckled me from the side of that long muddy climb, I stood there looking up, feeling defeated and wondering if this was how it was all going to end. Did I somehow miss my cue to bow out gracefully?

I was not having fun. I was not in peak condition. Mentally, I had been checked out for the entire season no matter how hard I kept trying to kick-start it. And there in that mud hole, I finally gave myself permission to stop the self-flogging.

Sometimes all the hard work and preparation in the world won't stop things from happening and the harder you hold on and fight, the further away you find yourself from the goal. It’s the end of the season and I know that a serious reframing of this entire experience is necessary.

Perspective.

This was the year that everything ground down to a halt. Nothing, absolutely nothing has come easy to me. As the silver in my hair increased, I turned my attention from all the usual avenues of escape and finally stopped running, or at least running as fast, from the work I knew I was going to have to do. The inner work.

Yeah… that work.

So, athletics, my buffer and anesthetizer, for the first time ever… has had to take a back seat while I am figuring out a new way of thinking, and being, with myself and others.

A year and a half ago, the beginning of the relinquishment of the demons that have driven me, felt like death. This year, I have been learning how to think for myself apart from my activities, or a job or my relationships. That isn’t to say I can’t return and enjoy sport. It just needs to be better balanced when I do come back. And, I will be back, after the reasons I do this in the first place get a serious retooling. That goes for the other areas of my life as well.

This is a good place… the correct place for me to be right now.

And Then the Devil Comes out of Nowhere.

 "The sharp edge of a razor is difficult to pass over; thus the wise say the path to salvation is hard,"

So, I participated in a local ride, a fundraiser for Aids. A very good cause, put on by incredibly motivated and gifted people. It was a great ride, a wonderful day and a lot of money was raised. It was also a day where I was surrounded by alcohol at every turn. Normally, not a problem. After a couple of hours I found myself increasingly on guard... the vibrant colors and the hard-to-define smoke and lime scent of the iced margaritas mixed with that of lemon, orange and sultry aroma of the cheap pinot used to make the sangria were beginning to take a toll.

Sometimes a relapse is that simple. The mine fields present themselves when I am at my most relaxed and unaware.

I could see the noose out of the corner of my eye. A line from the 1984 movie "The Razors Edge" came to me. When, Sophie, faced with the bottle of absinthe, as her old but jealous friend, Isabel, was savoring the amber colored drink before her, extolling its virtues. "It's like listening to music by moonlight" she said.

And I know that is all it would take, just that one. And the truth of the matter is, I don't know if I would come back.

One Simple Word

You have just one word to describe yourself. If you could describe yourself all encompassed, really quickly, sum yourself up, in one simple word. What would that word be? For me? That's easy. 

At this time in my life the word would be: Wanderer. 

My city

The weather is glorious and the beauty of being a freelancer is that I can slide out and get in it anytime I want. Somehow, the mail always gets through and the boss is not going to miss me for an hour or two.

Cyclocross practice started a few days ago and my legs are feeling the deep ache from running for the first time in months... so I took it easy and made some time to look at the sites that surround me on my daily rides. One of my favorite parts of a ride is heading back east on Woodsweather road, past the River Bend Antique Flea Market and up the decrepit old bridge that takes me under the Broadway and up to my pad.

It gives me the warm fuzzy's... being surrounded by all these structures that hail back to the industrial revolution, random art and chunks of old carnivals along the side of the road, street people and vendors who I recognize from months of riding here. The sounds of rail cars coming through and the smell of fall settling in has different connotations for me now than it did at this time last year. It feels like anything is possible and that my turn is coming.

Old Kansas City, at its best.

The genuine article

Serious Mother F*ckers. 

When we see them, we know it. They don’t come around often. They are like the wild second cousins that my mother would not allow in the house because she was afraid of them and their effect on me while all I could do was stare in slack-jawed admiration. I think she knew the battle was already lost. If you are very lucky, you might have one who exists on the periphery.

I’m not too proud to say that I still aspire to this level of badassery in my own life. Every day.

Writing myself alive: The year I said "F*ck it."

 

This is what I have been doing, since August 1, 2014. Daily. Without fail. Even if it is just a sentence or two. 

 

I gave myself the permission to let it come. Sometimes tightly edited. Sometimes in messy little uncensored piles that weren’t much to look at and made me wonder just what the hell I was thinking.
I’d look, close the door on it and move to the next day, and the next one after that, until I had a pretty big pile of thoughts, poems, story’s and mixed up balls of words that I didn’t know what to do with.

But there it was. My year.

I was able to go back through all of it, pick up the thread and see where it was leading to. The struggle, all the sentences, words and ideas were leading me back... to a version of me that I wasn’t quite sure of yet.

Stronger, more sure, able to be still and listen.
Iron, reshaped and fresh out of the forge.
Smoke, still rolling off of my shoulders.

Sometimes you have to travel to places that are unfamiliar and far away in order to do the work that has got to be done. Nobody needs to understand or approve. It’s just you, giving yourself time and attention.

I’m not finished with this chapter yet, but I am coming to the end and knocking the final edges off.

Why do you ride?

I am putting in crazy, long bike miles this week as I head into the final two days of the Mariposa Challenge, a 31 day, online women's cycling event put on by Sram. I have 250 miles in for the week, going for another 75-100 miles today and more tomorrow. Currently for Kansas, I'm tied for third place. This is just the background noise though. The river that runs through my life necessitates it. My pound of flesh.

Been doing a lot of thinking on these rides... about the nature of competition. And beyond that, why I push so hard, when is enough, enough... what that means and why I do it.  I'll be sharing those thoughts at a future date.
 
It's always about feeding the right wolf, isn't it?


https://www.sram.com/stories/mariposa-challenge

Top O' the Mornin' to ya

 

Everybody's got to start the day with a ritual and this is mine. Not even sure the stuff works on this old bod anymore but sure do love it. The velo boys, (Max and Dustin) at City Market Coffee Roasters take care of me and know to call when they roast this "micro lot". It's so much like real Kona that the only difference is the price. Bike people stick together and they spoil me rotten

I freaking love my life down here by the river. The West and East Bottoms have a soul. Started to realize I was home a few weeks back. It's a good feeling, to belong somewhere. People look at my rides on Strava and wonder how I come out of them alive. I don't know if it's the Boulevard kit, my skin color or the fact that I can look as mean as a bag of hornets, but I have come to relish my inner city explorations. I think it is as simple as treating people right. Always tip your hat and have respect for the turf that you are on... and also, deep in my bones, I know I am on ancestral land and that makes it my territory too.

The rain is starting to come down in the old KCMO... I believe I just may go out and ride in it.

The past does not equal the future.

Don't ask me how I know this. Maybe it is from being around for a long while. When I decide to let the things I don't need (anger, aggression or old pain in any form that makes me do shit that sets me back.) to burn away - I move forward with this new feeling where I know in my gut that what happened to me, no longer defines tomorrow.

We all get the short end of the stick. We all do. That's just life.
Understand it. Honor it. Then let it go.
Let. It. Go.  

This morning was all about things not going as planned.

Never smart to count chickens before they hatch. Expectations are like wayward bullets… and pointing the gun at your foot. You can work your ever-living ass off into the ground and it is still no guarantee that you will get the job, the relationship will be saved, the brass ring snatched off of the pole.
One thing I can do is approach all things with the common sense I have been given and see that i am entitled to absolutely nothing. Zip. Nada.
The chicken count is low but it’s ok.

Realizing this is an opportunity to see how good I actually do have it… and that I am the original comeback kid.

"White line's in the middle of the road,

... that's the worst place to drive."

Feed the right Wolf.