Living in Asheville: The views

Downtown from... somewhere near the Armory

One of the best things about living in Asheville is the views.

Another visit with the world's greatest parents

I don't think the heavy stuff will come down for a while

My parents, Pop & Kat, are back in town!

We drove through Mills River, Pisgah, and then headed up the Parkway to Graveyard Fields.

Oh captain, my captain

"Science is the captain, and practice the soldiers."

Leonardo da Vinci

Over the past year and a half, it's become obvious that I shouldn't go for mountain bike rides that last even one minute longer than three hours.

Why? I fall apart.

When I'm tired, I get lazy. And when I get lazy, I just...might...crash.

It's a pretty simple concept.

So I'm not sure why every goddamn ride ends up clocking in at something like three hours and 42 minutes. It's like keeping my hand over an open flame for 42 minutes.

Sure, it's fun, the kids love it, and it smells delicious, but it's not really a good idea.

Let's talk tires
Anyway, what I really want to talk to you about today is tires.

Wait! Where are you going? Guys???

Hang on! I'm going to do some relationshippy stuff!

Damn, I lost half of you. Which means there are about four of us left. But that's fine, because you're the kind of people who care about bike stuff. Or you're dressed up like a clown and hanging out in a cemetery at night, reading this on a cellulartronic device.

We'll get to that tire talk in a moment. First I want to talk about my life-long love for riding bikes.

Second-grade BFFs
Chris Juracka. As soon as I saw him, I knew he was the dude I wanted to be. Man, he was cool. Chicks dug him even in second grade!

Chris and I were semi-tight, but we kind of drifted away. For example, he only showed up at maybe 20 percent of the parties I threw my senior year of high school. Which means he came over 100 times to drink beer and listen to Scott Naples repeatedly play Eddie Murphy's Party All the Time.

"My girl wants to party all the time, party all the time, paaaaaaarty all the time!"

Over and over and over.

Not that there were ever any parties at my house. Not that it was technically "my" house anyway.

Getting back to bicycles, Chris Juracka and I both realized that we loved riding bikes. And doing so together was kind of fun. Especially when riding down a hill that was conveniently located right on our school's property.

What school? The Campanelli Cougars, that's who!

So we formed a bike club. And then young John Miller joined. As we grew older and got into BMX, our crew was a solid five or six strong, depending on the day.

We all rocked nice bikes. Chris had a Mongoose and I rode a Roger DeCoster. I can't remember what kind of bike John rode, but I think it was blue.

Those bikes were nice, but you know what they didn't have? Knobby-ass 29-inch tires, that's what.

Not only are they tough, but they grip the trail like no one's business. And when I'm flying downhill on a road, they hum like a UFO.

So yeah, I love my bike. I love my tires. Together, we are the captains of our destiny.

But I can't find Chris Juracka anywhere.

Official beesness

How's it goin' in there?

If you have an underground Yellow Jacket beehive in your backyard, there are basically three things you can do:

1. Hire a professional
2. Perpetuate the wholesale destruction of our sacred planet by utilizing poisonous chemicals that I'm sure the EPA has robustly tested to make sure they're safe while angry bees latch onto your skin and sink their stingers deep inside your soul
3. Put a bowl over it and call it a day

Which method do you think works best?

Don't get me wrong. I love pollinating bees as much as anyone else.

But these weren't peacenik hippy bees that sat around thinking about how they can best help nature. It was a pack of vicious thugs who were granted the gift of flight and decided to use it for nefarious purposes.

Therefore, glass dome. Game over. 

Hard Times Connector

Two-and-a-half hours into my ride yesterday, it was time to pack it in and point my bike homeward.

So I decided to cut through the Arboretum and take Hard Times Connector to the road that leads toward said home. Where beer was waiting.

Barb the builder

Deckadence

Your wife built a deck by herself last week, right?

No?

Oh. I guess your wife sucks. At least when compared to mine.

Mountain time, island time

Patience, my pet, patience...

Welcome to Asheville. Please don't move here.

I love living in Asheville, but I'm scared this place is going to become the next Austin. When 20,000 people move to your city every month, things can get messed up in a hurry.

Especially if you built your city in a desert. I'm sorry Austin, I want to love you.

But I digress. Because I love Asheville, which, you know, isn't in the desert. It's in the mountains, though it sometimes feels a lot like the islands.

For example, on Thursday, I made my third attempt to obtain a North Carolina drivers license. And once again, it ended in failure. I'll back up so you can enjoy the fun.

• Attempt #1: I didn't have proof of insurance
• Attempt #2: I needed documentation to prove what my middle name is
• Attempt #3: "It's now five o'clock. Only two employees will be left to serve you."

When they made that announcement, I waited for 15 minutes to see how slow things were actually going to become. Answer: Pretty fucking slow. Like, you-should-go-home slow.

So, I decided to go back on Friday. You know, for the fourth time. Which isn't really a big deal, because the DMV is less than a mile from my house.

"Hi," I said. "Can you take me off the list?"

"Are you sure you want to do that?" said the DMV employee.

"Are you trying to tell me something?" I said, trying to be cute and funny.

At this point, the DMV employee just stared at me. Since I'm trained in the art of sales, I knew the first person to talk would lose this little game.

I waited five seconds.

"Please take me off the list."

At that point, I should have followed up with a more direct question, but I thought we were being all clandestine and stuff like that. Like spies, or something. You know, winky-winky stuff.

She just stared at me. We were not playing winky-winky.

The moral of the story is this: Asheville is a lot like an island. Sometimes, things move slow. And the more you try to speed things up, the slower they get.

So when life slows down, go with it. Jump on your mountain bike, ride some trails, and then go back and try again the next day. Like I did Friday at the DMV.

It works a lot better that way. License, obtained. Though they won't mail it for another three weeks.

Not that I'm counting.