The traveler

I have been away for as long as I can remember.

Born into wayfaring. Into shimmering blacktop and dust clouds. Towards mountains, deserts, lonely streets, filthy hotel rooms, and dangerous areas of town.

Parched and alone, relieved only by the shade of menacing fingers; dark woods teeming with teeth and claws; or the fleeting coolness of a soda from a dirty bodega. Then back I go to oppressive heat and unfriendly glares.

I watch movies alone to sooth and distract my mind.

I eat furtively and quietly in diners and on park benches. On lonesome trails and crowded sidewalks.

I sleep. Awaken. Pack up, and move on.

Always heading toward home without ever having known its warm embrace and soothing whisper. Never smelled dewy grass that was my own, waved to neighbors known for years, or shared a beer with a trusted friend. Sat down to meal cooked by all, smiles and loving eyes comingling at the center of the table, framed by friendly light from faded, old lamps.

On a sunny morning, I stepped out of the trees; leaving weariness – and wariness – behind, into a field of flowers that was strange and new, yet immediately familiar. The outline of town lay just beyond, beckoning my tired feet and aching body and worn mind.

The scent of lilac, honeysuckle and wildflowers overwhelmed me, and sat, and then lay, falling back loosely amidst the stalks and thorns and petals and grass, as they brushed against me in the morning breeze, scratching my skin satisfyingly. I let bumblebees buzz around my head and ladybugs crawl on me.

I breathed in deeply the sweet aroma of home, filling my body – as through drawing in water – from my hips up to my shoulders. Then I let out a long sigh.

Sunlight in my eye awakens me. It’s late afternoon, the sun has traveled across the sky. I stand up and stretch. I pick a handful of flowers, especially the fragrant and dewy lilac.

Then, cinching the straps on my heavy pack, I bounce a bit on my heels before heading back into the forest and away from this place, flowers in my hand.

Anchorage (a love letter to home)

(with apologies to Carl Sandburg)

You were once the crossroads of East and West
Keeper of the gateway between new and old
Off in the corner, yet noticed when needed
At the edge of forever by our own fingernails.

I knew no differently: you were me and I was you
And together in the snow we found our place in the world
While the rest of them twisted and burned in roiling water
We simply crunched past on our frozen, quiet way.

They say you are cold and I know this
Your pitch black mornings let me stay under the blankets
Or to contemplate the day’s start - still so far off - in a quiet kitchen
They tell me you are dark, and I nod and smile
The miserly light that you offer drives me out into the snow
To risk fingers and toes before returning to the fire
They wag that you are lonely, and I agree
We are made from your expanse, meant to return
And being lost amid your empty whiteness makes us thankful

Each time away grows longer and farther
A remembered breath, misty and faint in the air,
Grown whispier in my warmer, later, lighter days
Than when it came frozen from my reddish cheeks.

Each time I’ve returned you’ve become more like them
Busier
Brighter
Trying to belong
And not nearly so cold. Just like me.

We have aged.

But there are times when we can go back
To wake up in darkness, laugh in twilight
And crunch on past through the cold and quiet
While they writhe and squirm and ask for help.

I’ve arrived in search of your comforting clutch
And to hear your heart beat beneath the snow.

Hump Day

A rudderless boat on a cloudy day
On an aimless drift through a crowded bay.

Rusty steel and angry horns
Menacing bows like threatening thorns

But do not lose faith in such a place
For the sun will show like a beautiful face,

And lead you out from amid the blare
To follow that smile to quiet, sweet air.

Heartbroken

A second spring, every leaf a crackling, golden bloom
Their softly rustling, whispered hidden words were songs
That lured me shirtless and bare into a warm, thoughtful breeze.
I hoped that it might last forever, as I walked among the trees
Through peaceful evenings and golden sunsets, that all along
Were just the lying double talk of a manic, relentless doom.

Like dead skin it collects in nooks and corners, insectile
Leaving behind skeletal fingers to wave and mock and cackle
As I try to cover my flushed, raw skin, caught bare in its malice.
I thank God for light, for heat, for wise words that offer solace
For the ease that which this modern life arms me to attack
The primal dread, fear growing as the sun retreats, all the while.

Imagine those nights, breathless within, while the howls outside
Those musty, mudden walls announced that summer was slain.
Flickering candles in hollow lanterns do little to allay the fears
Of those who now must seal away and mete out nightly tears.
Chilling winds and driven snow will soon arrive to cover the plain
When the bonfires of Samhain are gone and warming embers died.

Long months are ahead, and I must ignore the hopeless wails
Of old men and wolves for whom this winter will be their last.
Under harsh beams or withering candles, beneath nylon or hay
In front of a television or storyteller, sanity's tested either way.
I hope the husk I hear in my ear is a new voice, not the past
Whispers who've told me sweet lies of dewey grass and lover's tales.

The Quiet Man

The quiet man rocked his creaky chair
While the sun set just a bit earlier that day.
A dead leaf landed in his wispy hair and
He stared at his boots for something to say.

The porch’s faded color matched the dying grass,
Splinters and rusty nails that bit like the cold.
His coffee was bitter, his mood like brass,
He did not want to say goodbye to the old.

The spring mornings had seemed endless.
Damp grass and shade trees beckoned
Drenched in the sun’s golden excess –
That led to the lake, to swim with friends.

Dragonflies and fishing reels buzzed a music -
Summer songs to dance and steal kisses
And the last of the green on the popsicle stick.
Over campfires and crickets, the reminiscence.

It was sleepiness that finally led them to dreams
To dive into blackness, and surface again
The cool waters on hot days of delighted screams
To strip off their clothes and run in the rain.

From behind the screen, his daughter’s voice,
“Dad? You okay out there?” He just sighed.
It wasn’t as though he had any other choice.
So he sipped and rocked as summer died.

Hello sunshine

I'll watch a sunrise
Growing upon the grass
Sneaking through the curtains
and straining through the glass.

Hello sunshine.

Brushing your lashes
Lifting your cheekbones
Coloring your lips
In rhythmic, stirring tones

Hello sunshine.

A Hump Day retrospective on the eve of 500 posts

I started this blog over two years ago shortly after I finally became a bike racer.

I wasn't sure what I would produce or focus on, but looking back, that first post pretty much set the tone for what has followed since. "Bicycling, poetry, and other bullshit." Those first free form verses came on a Sunday night following the week in which I joined my bike racing team. The previous Monday I completed my application at the meeting, then had my first sprint practice on Tuesday, did my first time trial on Thursday, and my first team ride on Saturday.

Earlier that Sunday, I'd ridden out to a team social in Oak Park, then riding back with two seasoned messengers, Andrew Nordyke and Adam Clarke, through the Austin neighborhood after dark. We kept off both the headlights and the brakes - Augusta was banging that night. I had never ridden with such focus. It was an awakening the likes of which I'd experienced the first time I commuted to work or rode 50 miles by myself. I felt so connected with the bigger picture I was literally bursting when I got home to write it down.

My first race was also a seminal point in my life, and so I wrote my first race report as culmination of a journey. And I haven't ever really lost that perspective. Each race is a learning opportunity, another notch in the table, always a positive experience, no matter how much of an emotional wreck I may seem immediately after.

I have grown as a writer far more than I could've hoped for ever in my life, let alone a mere two years. It shows that whoever you are, whatever talent you have, if you are completely honest about what you write, regardless of the consequences (often in the comments), the end product will always be positive and high quality.

My chops as a poet have come exceptionally far; I will be so bold to say. The worst kind of poetry is self-serving, pretentious drivel, meant to overwhelm with haughtiness and an overwrought sense of self-importance, which masks the lack of real insight, and tells rather that shows. I’ve learned to paint with words, to communicate my experiences by painting pictures inside your head. And I’ve never been above utilizing a little humor.

At first it was completely free form, lacking even verse.

I began to experiment with metaphors to stay away from telling you what I was thinking, and instead show how I was feeling. This was written three days after Peter Ombregt died racing in Matteson.

I found that I wrote best when I didn’t think – think about how my words would be read, how I’d be perceived. That comes later. It’s best to just get it all down there, throwing paint against canvas, strumming open strings at full volume, and then sort, rework, or discard after.

This produced some wild results, at first.

Yet it led to some personal breakthroughs for me: learning how to write a Shakespearean sonnet, and successfully experimenting with new rhyming schemes after some inspiration from Dylan Thomas, such as these pieces, "Untitled" (within a larger post), "And So I Go" and "An Ode to Ride..."

This effort eventually led to “From Martyr to Gladiator,” of which I am very proud. As I began writing, I wove the rhymes and pentameter out of nothing, and just let it take its own shape. This work addresses my lack of competitiveness – in both my professional and personal lives, and especially bike racing. The martyr fears conflict, specifically risking failure. He fears not failure itself, but failing after trying. So rather than risking the disappointment of failing after trying, the martyr simply gives himself to death without effort, hoping for pity.

He receives none; nobody respects the easy way out. The crowd has no chance to cheer for him; the easy way out has no chance of success.

They heap praise on the gladiator instead. The gladiator tries no matter what the risks. He cannot succeed without first trying. So he welcomes failure and death because while winning is the goal, self-respect is what ultimately counts.

The poem definitely affected me positively. After writing it in April, it became my mantra, and I finally began to have real success on the bike in May and June.

Finally, the bullshit comes and goes on a daily basis. Sometimes it’s loaded, other times empty. I love to make you think, to help you learn and laugh, and always to piss you off, or just give you some insight into what has made me who I am.

Tomorrow will be my 500th post. How fitting it will be a Thursday Hate.

Could it be any other way?

The weekend in quatrains, part 2

In the low heat of morning, I never boiled
Releasing the sludge that coated my skin
In a slow rising steam, the days I had toiled
Shimmered off, exposing the shine within.

Live wires bared, my smile jumped and arced
My body went taut at the strength of the current
Those who touched me were shocked from the spark
And kept their distance, or again be burnt.

----------

Sign says yes, sign says no
Who the hell knows which is which?
Not the loser in sandals and kimono.
Lance and Lancette? Shut up, bitch.

The weekend in quatrains, part 1

Headed home on Friday's sweet breath
Reacquainting my legs to spinning gold.
Suffering for others is passion's quick death
You can't always do as you're told.

----------

We stopped at that oracle of high Chicago-style
Don't ask for ketchup, not even a dab
I hope somebody told those four New Yorkers
Who rode up from downtown in a taxi cab.

----------

My stumbling fingers just get in the way
That voodoo is best left for someone else
Yet it will do to get me through the day
And up those hills to find my pulse.

My faltering focus was broken by insistence
And it lured me out for some tangy jokes
I wanted more than just a sip of that sense,
But that could wait for my sweat on my spokes.

Lost

Floating for years on the bobbing waves,
trailing my fingers in the swirling eddies,
I've only known the bone dry driftwood
lashed beneath me - white, hot, hard.

Lying under the blue dome of mem'ry
The bright sunshine wipes clean any
Pain from past days, other lives, old friends
There is only the breeze and smiling clouds.

Only a scent on the air, full of promise
Or a squawking bird, giving a tease
That I may slake my empty longing
On a wet, sandy beach - with shade and drinking.

But I float on, trailing my fingers
Heartened by the smile in the vapors,
Those wispy, gleaming teeth above
Promising yet another day of only love.

Hump Day

Sorry for the Delay. Oops, it's May.
Once again, I missed National Poetry Month. So, here's a not-very-good poem for the month of May.

The melted cold is falling from the sky
Our frozen breath and icy memories
Of nights by the heater, warm scotch and wine
Now dampens my hair with sweet juicy berries
A dew grown heavy by months of longing
For a sight of her skin, a scent of musk
To hear her laugh, and feel the relieving
Warmth of the sun on your neck, and the husk
Of her breath in your ear, an erotic brush
Like the breeze blowing through the new green lush

From Martyr to Gladiator

A sun-baked statue, in the crowd's dull murmur
Bathes in the gaze of an unrestrained fervor.
The glint of my sharpened blade cuts just as deep
As the eyes of the lion pierce my will to resist.

Prayers alone once gave me the strength to leap
Providing a mantel on which courage to keep.
In that giddy state I’d give his mouth my wrists
And fall to my knees to await pity and capture.

Yet the spit from the mass would only persist
A frothing and oily anger, screamed and hissed.
Still slick with naiveté, I’d only stare and demure
At the shadowy hate - backlit madness - and weep.

The heat of the sun sucked up, one-by-one, my tears
And breathed life into a single flower, sown in fears.
And the petals grew black, grown sour in the heat -
I’ll give spit, sweat but no more my own blood.

At this affront, the crowd stood in their seats,
And cried, showered me in their graces and screamed
With love for me, for my birth from that bud,
For my certain death by teeth, club and spear.

Now that I fight with the beast in the mud,
Not accepting release from his bite in the flood
Of hurled spite and venom, and rotten sneers -
I stand in the sun and welcome my defeat.

And so I go

Alighting from my snow-covered branches
To lush poppy fields, planted in my dreams
Horses tails and sunlit seeds, floating there
In the scent of fresh blood and citrus'd air
And I dance for hungry lions on haunches
To hold off the nights of growls and screams

And so I go

Under their watchful, wise, and haunting gaze
I flee to stained glass sunsets, over wine
To muse on the footprints of those braver
Dusty by time, their story's not wavered
They knew that truth lay deep inside the maze
I only lament what should have been mine

And so I go

The lions will move on to easier prey
To leave me with the lemon-scented breeze
To drown in fatigue and a heavy sleep
To feast - on pain, on knowledge, both deep
And refresh in the salty cleanse of the spray
To return to face what I left with ease

And so I've come

To reclaim what I'd lost, that stolen gold
And retake of what little ground is mine
That naive patch of skin is not a lie
A gift from gods of wings on which to fly
To soar above the sad and smoggy cold
Drinking with joy warm sunshine and wine.

And so I've gone.

Hump Day

A birthday haiku for Newtrøn:

Tattooed, Ninja Stare
Eating fear and shitting watts
Good wheels and big balls

----------

February 17: 179 lbs.

16 days.

"Yeah, but you're still only going at light speed..."

Barren

I know that I have only seen it rain
That never has it stormed within my path
I read the pages, looking at the pain
And heard the ruminations on God's wrath.
I cow'r in fear to dwell upon my fate
That's been foretold by corpses walking past...
They cackle at my slick-skinned naivete
With toothless leers and bony fingers crossed.
Expensive clothes and robes now turned to mold
Rotten, sour agelessness of excess
To be undone by no amount of gold -
Illuminating only scars and sadness.
While great swaths of fire, birthed by lightning,
Clear the remains of every living thing.

A Simple Gift

Tis that moment, just past a night of despair
A newborn breeze - glowing, sweet and delicate
Gift us with assurance to look past the breaker
To shed fear and bias in the absence of light
Be not a hero, a shining knight, or savior
Simple words have always pushed to greater heights

Tis your words that will inspire
A struggle carried on our backs
Gift us with strength and fire
To overcome our tears, to
Be
Free

Monday Verses

Hungry...

Like a bad best friend with a pack of smokes
Leading me with him to take a few tokes
Tempting to ditch my good boy church friends
Whose eyes linger on through an envious lens.

Killing it all, a mother's good work
Gone to waste for a laugh in the park
That's his trick, for a smile in winter
Just pay the price of ruing the summer.

Humbled

I drank from the cup
And passed it around
Full to the top
Of a taste more profound
Than anything sweet,
Than a stomach that's full
Of their pain n' defeat
From the charge of the bull.
A more lasting nurishement
Of beautiful contentment.




I was named XXX Racing's 2008 "Super-Domestique" on Sunday night. To my non-cycling audience, domestique is a French term that literally translates as "servant." In cycling it is a rider who works for the benefit of his team and the glory of his leader.

To me, this is the highest honor I could ever receive from my peers, bigger than upgrading, bigger than winning a race. Hearing Brian Boyle (the Good) introduce the as-yet unnamed winner, I could only imagine it was someone in the 3s, who'd spent the summer leading out Ed, Randy, JT, Luke, Peter, or Shane. Someone visible on the road, in Northbrook, and in the mud. Someone without a lick of self-doubt, possessing razor-sharp decision making and a threshold of a masochist. Several names entered my mind and they stayed there right up through "I'm proud to give this award to a fellow Irishman, Brian..."

And still, I feel like I don't deserve it. My three podiums and medals this year happened by the grace of several very selfless teammates working hard for nothing more than appreciation, plus the bonus of a Butterburger on the way home, and a few beers back in town. Maybe some cash if the check was even worth it.

I too, had my share of leadouts and bridges, blocks and sacrifices this season...of course I always put Team first. But who didn't?

I felt extremely humbled to have received the popular vote for this award, given the character and caliber of those who've received it in the past.

Monday

Fell off the rollers on Saturday in a teammate's garage. It was quite dramatic. A quick transcript:

ACT I, scene 1
(Thursday night @ Goose Island)

Me: "Hey Randy, I got the hang of the rollers pretty quickly, first try! I can do no-handed, drink from the bottle..."
Randy: "Great! Try out of the saddle next...just remember to keep your weight back."
Me: "OK!"

(Saturday morning in Jacques’ garage)
Me: "Hey guys, watch this…"
(4 seconds later)
Jacques: "Dude, are you OK?"
Me: "No."

----------

Yep. That's me, circa January 2001. By next March in 2002, I'd dropped around 40 of those pounds, a year later, another 40. Cycling didn't get me there, but it's kept me there. It may be an obsession, I will admit that. But it's better than drugs and it's way better than Big Macs.



----------

The Lelli is at Mission Bay as I write this. I hate to be cliche, but since I'm the first one to order one, her name will be Maxine. Kinda obvious I know, Max Lelli and all, but I got mine first, so there. Plus a road bike has to have a female name. Your cross bike or mountain ride is your best friend, but your road bike is your lover.

----------

Click here for something to inspire you through the winter. This is not your teammate's ordinary race video. A truly inspired look at the sport, nay lifestyle, that we all lead. Hope to see you next summer. (Choose the very high quality option.)

----------

One of my poems has been selected as a semi-finalist. I know, I know, it's no more "official" than those Who's Who scams, and they're of course asking for fees...but it will be published, regardless what money I give them. At least that's something, because they can't publish every haiku about Aunt Mabel's cat they receive.

And I still could receive $1000. Gotta start somewhere.

I wrote this poem back in October, while up in Milwaukee with my mom who was visiting my aunt, now dead at 64 of cancer. I rode 54 miles round trip from my other Aunt's house south of Whitnall Park to a cousin's place on the Northwest side via the Oak Leaf trail on a brisk Sunday morning...

Their fiery colors warmed the day just born
And ashes just as bright as flames
Gave a way forlorn
New life, new light. A voice exclaims,
"The warmth is gone, but summer I don't mourn!"
The visions of those days still give me pain
A sweetish breath of agony
a mem'ry again
frozen there, tart and wry
To tease me out of thought and to remain.

Hump Day

First, something's been on my mind a bit...

Let the sunrise speak and sing a song to you
With ripened fruit overrunning with truth,
And words and lines as plain as the day it breaks.
There should be no fear to run along the banks
While screaming, wildly spinning arms and legs
Alone or not, the sand is your audience.

For to be on stage is to read from a script
And be force fed from those golden hands cupped
Holding rancid wine and stale moldy bread.
Intoning outward to rapt eyes his lies whispered
Into your tender ears, unable to cry or scream
Feet nailed to the ancient wood, unable to dream.

I've been reading a lot Dylan Thomas lately, and above is an attempt to emulate it. I find his prose and his rhyming schemes fascinating. I actually don't read a lot of poetry, but his work especially speaks to me for his ability to paint with such vibrant colored words. It really doesn't matter what he's saying, but none it is dry or dull at all. And uncovering the puzzle of his rhyming is so freeing and enlightening. There is no limit to what he creates - lines that rhyme with others right below, or four and five away, at the bottom of the stanza. Or not really rhyming at all, just matching syllables and phonics.

His writing is indescribably beautiful, inspiring, and mystifying.


----------

About three years ago a very good friend named Joe gave me a book for Christmas, over drinks with a few of us at the Hungry Brain. The Modern Drunkard's "Handbook For Drinking in the 21st Century." We got pretty sloshed that night, unironically. The Christmas before, Mat - who was also at the Brain that night and received one in return - gave a me flask full of Jameson at rehearsal on Christmas eve, that I drank and refilled and drank again...and then got us thrown out of Simon's by literally passing out while standing in the middle of the goddamn bar.

As a rehabilitated drunk - not through AA, but rather cycling - I look back on those four or five 3am nights a week with still more than bit of fondness. I loved the socializing that ran like an engine with its oil freshly changed...smoking cigarettes and sloshing the smallest drops of Irish Whisky down my jeans in between laughs and gesticulation...going home with a different woman seemingly every night. It was degenerate to be sure, but I was good at it, had a nice balance. I made it to work on time every morning, for the most part. I never caught an STD...and I never did any drugs harder than weed...

Stopping was hard. I feel as if I've abandoned a lot of people in my life, people I now hardly see anymore. But I know they are they there, and we see each other when we can, and frankly, the mornings after were harder. They aren't awake in the mornings.

I am now.

The sunrise at 25 miles an hour on a beautiful weekend morning is just as good a social lubricant. And no less degenerate if you've ever been privy to a conversation between me, Peter and Newt on those morning rides. The enjoyment and satisfaction of putting in, physically, more in 4 hours than most get done in a week is what pushes me at 6 am without an alarm.

And that hot, strong coffee and chocolate chip cookie eaten and drank as my tired legs rest taste far better than the highest top-shelf Manhattan and cigarette bummed from a woman far out of my league ever will.

Not that I don't miss it. That and my friends. And don't think for a minute that I am a teetotaler. I still enjoy a Manhattan, a Martini, a fine glass of Goose Island - Chicago's finest - and certainly a good bottle of wine. And I still drink with those friends. Drinking to get wasted is empty. So is bringing home a new woman every night.

Alcohol and sex are gifts. Ultimately, doing each for love makes both worthwhile.

My old Christmas present reminded me of that yesterday, after I dug it out of the bookshelf and really began to read it for the first time. A lot of it is stupid, Mad magazine exaggeration, stuff that in real life would land you in an episode of Rehab - but there are some genuinely truthful moments in there.

The tips on pulling off a successful party are a must read:

Think of your party as one of those chimp-piloted rockets they used to send up into space. They were huge, bad-ass rocket ships doing important scientific stuff and did it matter if a wild-eyed monkey was flying the fucking thing? Of course not. If anything, it made those missions even cooler. Why? because most people like monkeys even better than astronauts and - trust me - everybody likes monkeys more than prison wardens.

And the chapter on drinking alone is actually a beautifully written lesson. Drinking alone was never something I was afraid of. In fact, it helped me move from the perpetually paranoid, cringe-inducing, nervous-wreck I was from sixth grade through roughly age 28 to the semi-normal person who laughs at his own jokes and craves attention at all costs that you know today. All human foibles. And drinking alone - and getting to know and learning to love my inner self in the process - gave me the confidence to embrace them.

The best part, though, is when I read the book, I hear Joe's voice narrating it in my head.