funny thing.i emaild joe to offer to send him some of the shirts i make,and you know what... he emaild me back and was super cool. In talking i relized that i should have bought his books from his site http://www.metalcowboy.com/
the proceeds go to a great cause. his latest book Momentum is your friend
is great! here is excerpt,its kinda long sorry.
He did every single thing as if he did nothing else.
Climbing a healthy series of switch backs through the chill of a Colorado dawn, I don't feel tired. I don't feel the miles I pedaled yesterday or the weight I'm carrying now. Pockets of warm air hug the corners of the road. I spot wildflowers, rebels against the altitude, clinging to the washes as I clear tree line. When I look over my shoulder there's another cyclist, some industrious insomniac out for an early morning ride. He's determined to catch me before the top, but it doesn't happen. We rest beside a sign marking Cottonwood Pass, at more than 12,000 feet above sea level.
It’s every man’s secret desire to raise a middle finger to the approach of mid-life. High time to stick it to the reaper while I still have the lung capacity. I want to humiliate that cloaked coward. Put Death in polyester bellbottoms, gaudy gold medallions, cue the DJ and make him do “The Hustle” for the viewers at home.
After that maybe we’ll dress life’s little party crasher in tight Lycra, ride him hard, then drop Death like a wet bag of dirt on some slow rise in the Midwest.
Who’s with me?! "You're coming from where?!" Insomniac asks a second time, looking over 14 feet of loaded rig: my two boys and the tagalong bike and trailer I've been towing for 1,576 miles.
He nods reverently. "And here I thought I was doing something this morning.” We let that hang there for a few moments. In an uncharacteristic show of modesty, I try to shrug it off. The cycling equivalent of Jack Lalane pretending he hasn’t just crawl stroked the English Channel pulling a hundred speed boats by his teeth.
“Don’t kid yourself." The Insomniac spreads his arms wide, in an effort to take in the whole monstrosity, before he gives up. “Oregon all the way to Washington, DC pulling that? My man, this is a bold statement.” I want to agree with him, but my perspective blurred beyond repair somewhere back in Idaho. These days, unless I’m in well over my head, it’s not even interesting. I should probably have that checked.
When it comes to needing a competent mental health professional, Insomniac could certainly give me a run for my money. It turns out bold statements backed up by equally derelict actions are his operating instructions. He has to be pushing thirty, but when the helmet comes off a spectacular abundance of piercings, ten in one ear alone, and a little metal pipe, glowing cobalt blue in the predawn light, runs the width of his pinched and punctured forehead. It’s an unsettling marriage of tribal art to a pack of angry teens. You know the ones who loiter, smoke, curse and nod with no enthusiasm from the steps of the public library; maybe a tribal leader failing community college who’s stopped speaking to his parents. “I lost my sweetest trick bike into Blue Mesa Reservoir last weekend,” Insomniac announces.
A promising way to open an anecdote, it brings my second grader, Quinn, back from whatever reverie he’s lost in across the horizon. Five-year-old Enzo pops up through the top flap of the bicycle carrier, a prairie dog emerging at the first whiff of excitement on the breeze. “It wasn’t a road bike.” As if this explains everything. We wait him out. “I do BMX most weekends. Trick riding, extreme jumps. People know about me . . . I mean people outside the Colorado aggro biker community.” We nod encouragingly. “Dudes, I’m awesome.”
I recognize this behavior. To back up bold statements, a certain amount of grandstanding is required. Not always pretty, but absolutely necessary if one wants to complete the motion. “On weekends, we toss up a plywood ramp on the railing of the bridge. It’s sixty feet to the water. Crowd mushrooms by noon. Music, Frisbees, lots of vans, a real Dead Show vibe.” But with more tattoos and Incubus music is my guess. “Never a question of ‘if,’ I’m just waiting until the crowd can’t take anymore tension.” Or they’ve run out of ecstasy, perhaps?! “Where was the other ramp?” Quinn asks. His question makes me proud and a bit melancholy, motivated as it is by a sense of safety and his misguided belief in self preservation as a universal human trait.
You can tell Insomniac lives for moments like these. “The lake Big Guy. I’m over the top and landing in the lake . . . roll tape, news at 11. You want to catch huge air, nail a triple spin like you do this every day, then kick out from the bike before hitting the water. No one wants to be near their ride when it lands. Bonus for a quick resurfacing to snag your swag before it sinks to the bottom.”
I watch Quinn’s world-view shift before my eyes. As though he’s studying the zoo orangoutangs hanging on high vines doing something foolish with fruit, a garden hose and their nostrils. The evolutionary connection has been made. I will need to watch my eldest son more closely the rest of the way to the Atlantic. “Nailed the jump but did it get ugly on the way down. Bike came back under me. I had to take evasive action or else . . .” “Or else monsters would get you?” Enzo’s into the story now, standing completely upright in the bike carrier, solar cover thrown back and bracing himself with the top bar . . . essentially turning his rig into a de-facto Popemobile and himself into a mini pontiff. We’ll teach him the official Vatican wave later. “Or else I’m impaled on my bike seat and they’re dragging the res for my remains.” Insomniac winks, playing to his audience. “But I’m not going down like that.”
I interpret for the boys, complete with hand gestures. We should all have access to a diplomatic translator in Lycra. “Speared, splattered . . . sunk.” A cliffhanger before breakfast… it just doesn’t get any better for my kids. “Bammo . . . I have to give the handlebars a roundhouse kick, then torque my back around like some circus performer, Dudes. Hit the water so wrong I forget everything until I’m pulled out and panting back on concrete.”
The boys sigh at the same time and in the same pitch. The only thing more satisfying than Insomniac’s ending would have been if it included a prize at the bottom of the box. They might be done, but I have a few loose ends that need tying. Like how he has come to possess such a high performance road bike. “My brother took it in trade for a drywall job. He says I’ll bury his best time by the end of the summer.” Replaying how Insomniac stalked me up the mountain like some sleek jungle cat leaves little doubt. “You know, there’s not a lot of crossover between trick riders and roadies,” I say. Insomniac looks back down the mountain. Its angle and the distance to the lake below are something out of a Dr. Seuss drawing. Then he eyes our bikes, the boys and the radical tilt of the Earth in the other direction. “There ought to be,” he says, not a trace of guile in his voice. “If this ain’t extreme, I relinquish my membership.”
We wait for sunrise at the top of the world—casual gods surveying an Evergreen kingdom that spans for miles in every direction—then roll the summit and barrel into another day on the road.