Mountain Biking in the 70's - Midwest City Style

As many of you know from my previous articles, I grew up in the middle of Oklahoma – in a little town spawned by the announcement of the development of Tinker Air Force Base in the 40’s – Midwest City – which, in turn, was home to the one and only bike shop in town, Vic’s Bike Shop on 15^th Street – whose owner, Vic, was himself a retired Air Force something-or-other. So much for the opening geographical paragraph to set the scene.

I started working for Vic at the beginning of the 10-speed boom of the 70’s. There was nothing more that I loved to do than to come to work right after a big delivery of brand new Schwinn Continentals and Varsities(along with a few Nishikis and Motebecanes and Orions) and start tearing open boxes and building up the new shiny road bikes. But alas, my specialty seemed to be repairing the old klunkers that Vic had the contract on from the neighboring Tinker AFB.

Let me take a moment to describe these Tinker klunkers. Imagine something like a 1930’s Schwinn Excelsior balloon tire bicycle. Now imagine that bike with forty-plus years of hard, hard, usage and abuse and then multiply that abuse times seven. Then imagine, in an effort at some point in time to make the bike look semi-new again, someone decides to give the bike a paint job – so, they get a gallon of enamel – let’s say like yellow – and then get a big old 5” flat paint brush and paint the bike – yellow. We’re not talking paint the bicycle frame – we’re talking paint the bike yellow – frame, wheels, handlebars, spokes, tires, seat… you know – paint the entire bike yellow! Or maybe green or maybe blue – whatever. This was possibly before the invention of masking tape. And then at some other point in time a tire goes flat or something gets bent or broken so that’s when the bike gets hurled towards a big pile of other yellow and green and blue bicycles at the end of Tinker Building 3001 and once or twice a month Vic will stop by and toss them all in the back of his Chevrolet El Camino and haul them all over to the bike shop…

 …for me to fix!

And so began my love of the old balloon tire cruisers - the good ol’ klunker - the trusty steed that was the fetus of the modern day mountain bike. And there I was, with a seemingly endless supply of worn out frames and parts to work with. My first all-terrain cruiser, Ol’ Trashmo, was built from a 1940’s Schwinn Wasp and rigged with Suntour shifting system and Universal center pull brakes. I, unlike the morons at the Air Force base, even put a fairly nice paint job on it – black frame with baby blue rims. She was a beauty.

Now, Midwest City is a fairly flat city – not the kind of city that one could ever garner any hopes for being known as the birthplace of anything that would eventually contain the word “mountain” in it – such as mountain biking. But there is this spot in the city where Key Boulevard goes under the train tracks that offers up a pretty decent downhill run. As kids, it was the first place we’d head for with our big pieces of cardboard – aka toboggans – right after any kind of a decent snowfall. The perfect place for a mini-downhill test of Ol’ Trashmo. In fact, all along the right-of-way beside the tracks offered a fairly decent run to enjoy some off-road riding with a quite a heaping helping of obstacles to maneuver around and attempt to jump over. Thus, in the fall of 1972, in the heart of the flatlands: The Birth of the Mountain Bike.

Unfortunately, as the spring of ’73 grew near, I found out I was horrendously failing Home Ec – which in turn caused me to have to take it in summer school – which I also failed so I had to take it the next semester - in the morning and the afternoon—as kind of insurance in case I failed one of them. Needless to say, I didn't really seem to be the Home Ec kind of person but my mother pretty much made me keep taking it until I finally got a passing grade and could graduate from high school. Also, needless to say, this took serious time away from me fully developing and marketing my invention of the mountain bike.

I’m pretty sure that there were spies in Midwest City in the early 70’s – especially since we were right there next to Tinker AFB – because what I discovered that had taken place during those nine years while I was in high school trying to pass Home Economics seemed just a little more than coincidence the way it mimicked those exciting moments that me and my bike shop buddies experienced on the downhill slopes of the Key Boulevard train track crossing. You be the judge:

1973 – Joe Breeze, Charlie Kelly, Tom Ritchey and Gary Fisher build and ride klunkers (old Schwinn cruisers adapted for off-road riding).

October 1976 – The first Repack in Marin County at Mount Tamalpais.

1977 – Breezer One is completed.

September 1979 – Gary Fisher and Charlie Kelly founded  MountainBikes.

May 1981 – Bicycling magazine features MountainBikes.

1982 – 500 Specialized Stumpjumpers are released in the United States.

I am fairly certain that had it not been for my mom forcing me to pass Home Economics, those 500 bikes would have been Ashtabula Trashmo Bikes (ATB’s) – in any color you want as long as it’s black with baby blue wheels!

Enjoy the Ride!

PS—For what many to believe to be the real history of mountain biking, check out the time line at http://bikinghistory.com/timeline

Cycling with Abe

Part One –

I was riding my bicycle along FM1488 Wednesday morning – having just left Magnolia and headed towards Hempstead - when I looked down and noticed what appeared to be a five-dollar bill down in the ditch to my right. I stopped, got off my bike and ventured down into the ditch to retrieve the bill. Sure enough – lucky me! – a nice, clean, and oddly enough, quite crisp five-dollar bill. Surely someone had just recently lost this since it was neither faded nor grungy like one would expect a five-dollar bill lying in a drainage ditch to be. I folded the bill in half and tucked it into my jersey pocket.

As I climbed back up the side of the ditch toward my bike, a young woman in her mid-twenties was riding her bicycle in my direction coming the wrong way down the shoulder of the road. Her attention was primarily focused along the ditch to her left. As I was bending over to pick up my bike she rode up and stopped next to me.

“Excuse me,” she said, “I was riding through here a little while ago and I think I dropped a five-dollar bill. You haven’t seen it by any chance have you?”

I thought to myself, “Gee! What are the chances of this happening?” I jokingly asked her to describe it. She laughed and said, “Well, it kinda looks like a five-dollar bill!” – then we both laughed a little. I reached back into my jersey pocket, pulled out the five-dollar bill and handed it to her. She thanked me and tucked the bill into her jersey pocket and we both continued with our bicycle rides in opposite directions. “Easy come – easy go.”

Billie Windsor crossed over to the eastbound shoulder of FM1488, continuing her ride to Magnolia and thinking to herself, “Gee! What are the chances of that happening?” She had previously resigned herself to the fact that there would be no way in the world that she would find that five-dollar bill. Guess she can chalk one up now for that feeling inside that wouldn't let her quit looking! After a few miles, Billie reached the intersection at FM1774 on the west edge of town – an intersection where usually there’s a woman selling flowers. (Billie was planning on visiting her Dad later in the evening and thought it would be a nice surprise for him to receive a rose from his favorite daughter – even though she is his only daughter!) Unfortunately, it was either too early in the day or else the flower lady had taken the day off. Billie turned right onto FM1774.

As Billie approached Nichols Sawmill Road, she noticed that Taco Juan had his mobile taco stand set up near the intersection over along side of the train tracks. (His name was really Juan Castillo but everyone knew him as Taco Juan. He had rigged his bicycle with a small trailer on which he carried everything necessary to prepare his fantastic tacos on the roadside – including a couple of stools on which customers could relax while eating.) Billie decided that a couple of Taco Juan tacos would be a well-deserved brunch after the few exhilarating miles that she had just ridden on her bicycle. She veered across to the left side of the road and pulled up to Taco Juan’s stand.

“Hey! Miss Billie!” greeted Juan as he saw Billie approaching. “I haven’t seen you for many weeks.”

“Hi Taco Juan,” replied Billie, “yes, I was assigned to a temporary job down in the valley -  been down there the last four weeks. I just got back in town yesterday afternoon and decided to take the rest of the week off so I could get in some long overdue bike riding.”

“And some of my fantastic tacos too – hey, Miss Billie?”

“Yes, Taco Juan. I’ll take two of your fantastic tacos.”

Billie propped her bicycle up against the light pole and sat down on one of the stools while Juan prepared her two tacos. He remembered that she always liked “no onions and an extra scoop of the green stuff.” When he was done, he placed them on a paper plate and, along with a paper towel, handed them to Billie while saying, “That will be four dollars please, Miss Billie.”

Reaching into her back jersey pocket, Billie retrieved the five-dollar bill, handed it to Juan and said, “You can keep the change.”

Rather than put the five-dollar bill in his cash box like he would have normally done, Juan was more intent on having a conversation with Billie while she ate, so he stuffed the bill into the right front pocket of his pants. As Billie made quick work of her two tacos and while Juan tried his best to keep her verbally entertained, a carload of teenagers pulled up on the gravel area next to them, hung out of the passenger side windows and began placing their orders for some of Taco Juan’s “fantastic” tacos. Billie finished eating, got back on her bike and pedaled away down FM1774. Juan uttered an unheard “bye” as he quickly got busy with the beginning of the lunchtime rush.

Early afternoon, around 1:30 pm, Juan determined that the lunch crowd had basically come and gone so he decided to close up shop. After cleaning a few pans and packing everything neatly onto his trailer, he jumped on his bicycle, crossed FM1774 and started making his way down Nichols Sawmill Road. During the first three or four miles of Juan’s bicycle ride, his clean-crisp five-dollar bill had been working its way down his leg on the inside of his pants – the pants that Juan always forgets about as having a hole in the bottom of the right front pocket.  As he came to the intersection at Butera Road, Juan had to slow to a near stop for a car making a wide turn out of the gas station on the corner. When he started pedaling again, the five-dollar bill secretly worked free from around his ankle and blew over into the parking lot of the gas station – coming to a rest against the curb at the southwest corner.

As Juan continued his journey home, Norman Piedmont was topping off his water bottle with ice from the soft drink dispenser inside the corner convenience store. Walking towards the door while screwing the cap back on, he thanked the cashier for letting him use the restroom and refill his water bottle. Once outside, he placed the bottle in the cage on his bicycle downtube, put his helmet back on and adjusted his rear-view mirror. He mounted his bike and headed across the parking lot towards the street. At the edge of the lot, he slowed while a passing garbage truck came around the corner. He waved to the two guys hanging off the back bumper and was just getting ready to pull out onto the road when the wind draft from the garbage truck lodged the five-dollar bill loose from its resting place and sent it scooting to directly in front of Norman’s front wheel. Norman unclipped, got off his bike and bent down to pick up the bill. “Wow!” he thought to himself. Nothing more. Nothing less. Just “Wow!” He stuffed the five-dollar bill into his handlebar bag and carried on with his bike ride.

Norman was enjoying the solitude of his afternoon ride. He enjoyed the time to think. On this particular ride, his thinking was primarily dominated with thoughts pertaining to the argument that he had with his wife right before she left for work that morning. Recounting the sequence of events for the last several miles helped him to realize that it was just another one of those silly little things that had gotten blown way out of proportion and that he probably hadn't handled it in the best of fashion. He had pretty much decided that he needed to do something extra special in the way of an apology. Of course, all of this was complicated by the fact that his wife works days and he has to be at work on the swing shift at the cardboard box factory in Hempstead before she gets home. So these were the main topics circulating through Norman’s brain as he continued the last leg of his bike ride, making his way over to Joseph Road and then north to the subdivision where he lived.

At the flower shop on the corner of Hegar and FM1488, Hazel Sanders was placing her daily purchase in the over-sized, double rear baskets of her Schwinn six-speed cruiser. Every weekday afternoon, Hazel stops here on her way into Magnolia to purchase four dozen long stem roses – each individually wrapped and then banded together in two bundles of twenty-four. For nearly two years, Hazel has worked the intersection at FM1488 and Magnolia Boulevard (also known as FM1774) near the railroad tracks selling roses to the people in their cars and trucks as they get stopped at the traffic light. Five bucks apiece. She almost always sells out in three or four hours. Not bad profit for a little bit of effort.

A few minutes later, as Hazel was pedaling through the intersection of Joseph Road and FM1488, she heard someone calling out to her. She turned and saw a guy on his fancy road bike riding up Joseph Road, waving his arm and shouting for her to stop. She stopped just past the corner and waited for him to catch up.

“Are you selling those roses?” inquired Norman – thinking that this would be the perfect way to have his apology waiting for his wife when she arrived home later in the day.

“Five dollars each,” replied Hazel.

Norman unzipped his handlebar bag, reached in and retrieved the five-dollar bill as he said, “Guess I've got just enough for one then.”

Norman extended his arm to offer her the bill and Hazel extended hers to accept it. At that precise, split minuscule moment of a second when the five-dollar bill was not fully being controlled by either the giving or the receiving parties, an eastbound eighteen-wheeler barreled by at sixty-something miles per hour and ripped the bill from between their hands and sent it rocketing down the road. Before either Norman or Hazel had a chance to react, three more trucks sped by rapidly, each one sending the five-dollar bill further on down the road and ultimately out of sight.

Hazel looked at Norman and said, “Sorry ‘bout that,” – got back on her bike and continued on to Magnolia. Norman crossed the road heading west towards his subdivision thinking, “Maybe I’ll just write my wife a sweet little note of apology.”

   

   

Part Two –

I was riding my bicycle along FM1488 Thursday morning – having just left Magnolia and headed towards Hempstead - when I looked down and noticed what appeared to be a five-dollar bill down in the ditch to my right…

Enjoy the ride!

Riding with Elvis

I was out riding the other day, enjoying the brisk air and the sunshine along one of my normal routes from my house. I was planning on doing about fifty miles before stopping at the sandwich shop about ten miles north of my house. I routinely stop there on my casual bike rides to enjoy a healthy bite to eat before heading on home. Occasionally I opt for the semi-healthy bite to eat if I decide to add a bag of chips to my selection. I guess a lot of that depends on how one looks at healthy and semi-healthy. However - I totally avoid crossing the line to mostly-NOT-healthy by adding a carbonated beverage into the mix or by adding- wait a minute. We got waaaay off track here. I hate to do this to you, but let’s give this article another shot.

I was out riding the other day, enjoying the brisk air and the sunshine along one of my normal routes from my house. I was planning on doing about fifty miles before stopping at the sandwich shop about ten miles north of my house. I routinely stop there on my casual bike rides to enjoy a healthy bite to eat before heading on home. I was about twenty miles into my ride and was just starting to give some thought as to if I would opt for the semi-healthy option to my normal meal at my upcoming rest stop when I saw another cyclist turn off of a side street and head off down the road in front of me. I increased my speed just slightly in order to catch up with him.

Often when I’m out cycling, I run into people I know. As I approached this rider, I couldn't really recognize anything that gave me an immediate clue as to who this person was. The bike was a steel framed beauty of 1970’s manufacture – and in pristine shape I might add. Nothing that I had seen out on the road or in any group rides lately. There was nothing really recognizable about the rider’s clothing – no club or team affiliation, no major ride print on his jersey, nothing – just a plain red jersey, black cycling shorts, white helmet, and of all things, sneakers! – Just your average guy riding his old vintage bike down the road.

But, for just your average guy, he was riding at a pretty good clip. I must admit, it took me a bit of added effort to catch up with him. I slowed just a tad as I pulled up next to him and I turned my head to say hello…

“OH MY GOSH! You’re… You’re… You’re…” I couldn't get myself to finish the sentences.

“How ya doin? My name is Elvis,” he replied as he turned his head my direction.

“OH MY GOSH! YOU ARE ELVIS!”

“Nice day for a bike ride, don’t you think? How far ya goin?”

I could not believe my eyes. There I was… out for a routine, casual bike ride… with Elvis. Now, we’re not talking the fat, cape-wearing, rhinestone emblazoned jumpsuit Elvis here. No sirree. This was a trim, lean, healthy (or maybe semi-healthy – depending on your definition), riding-his-bicycle-at-eighteen-miles-an-hour-down-the-road Elvis. This guy was giving me a workout just to catch and keep up with him – and he was wearing sneakers!

I replied, “I was gonna do about another thirty then break for a sandwich before heading to the house. You?”

“Sounds good to me. Mind if I ride along?”

Okay. Now like what am I going to say here? NO? I mean, how often do you get a chance to ride with Elvis? Now there’s a lot of people out there (again, we’re talking average people here – people like you and me) who can claim: I've ridden with Lance; I've ridden with Greg; I've ridden with Eddy; I've ridden with Lion King – but whom do you know, really know, that can say they've ridden with Elvis? I’m not saying that they don’t exist – I just know that none of my friends and acquaintances can say that. Plus, this gave me a chance to ask him a whole lot of questions that I had always wondered about. I replied, “Heck - not at all. I’d enjoy the company.”  – And so we pedaled on down the road.

I pulled into the lead and let Elvis draft off of me for about two miles. As I started falling back to tuck in behind him I took the opportunity to ask him, “Hey Elvis, you know, you look pretty trim. Mind if I ask what you did to lose all that weight? You know, I hate to sound tacky, and lord knows that I could stand to lose a few pounds here and there, but you had really porked out there at one time.”

“Well, to tell you the truth,” he replied, “that Elvis wasn't really me. It was a group of impersonators who thought it would be funny. I wanted to take a few years off and I had hired them to fill in. I kinda missed the fine print in that section of the contract that gave them the right to interject a Fat Elvis into the shows. Yes, it was funny for a while but then it got old. There was nothing I could do about it.”

It was at that point that I just threw all care, inhibitions, manners, whatever aside and came right out and point blank asked him, “So… you’re telling me… right now… without a doubt…. that you are not just another Elvis impersonator but that you are… indeed…  the real Elvis?”

He tilted his head my direction, curled his upper lip and said, “Uh huh-huh.” This was just too awesome! I fell on back and enjoyed the draft for a couple of miles.

You know, when you get a chance to meet a real celebrity and they don’t act all snooty with you and stuff, you really want to try and make a good impression. Treat them like a normal person. Not do anything stupid or say something that would put them off. It seemed like there was so many things I wanted to ask him about but then decided against it for just those very reasons. So I just pedaled along, in silence, wondering what kind of small talk we might engage in when he fell back and we were riding side by side again. Then too soon, before I really had much of a chance to truly think about what I might say, he moved to the right and slowed to let me take the lead. As he pedaled along beside me I heard these words come from somewhere – not sure exactly where they came from – but I was almost positive that they came from my very own mouth…

“So… you know… there are an awful lot of folks in the world who think you’re dead!”

If I could have crawled inside my bicycle tire, I would have. Of all the lame things that I could have come up with to say, that was the best I could do? Good grief how embarrassing! Most assuredly, with just a handful of poorly arranged words, I managed to ruin what could have been an exciting new friendship – along with one of the nicest bicycle rides I had been on in a while. He glanced at me with a somewhat puzzled look. I could have died.

“I've heard a rumor to that effect,” was all he said. He kept on pedaling.

I figured that as soon as we came to the next intersection he would turn off and that would be the last I would ever see of him - and I sure couldn't blame him. But the next intersection came up – we rode on past – and then the next and the next and the next. We rode on in silence.

After about twenty miles, he pulled up next to me again and asked, “How much farther to that sandwich shop?"

Sometimes rumors suck.

Enjoy the ride!

BERTHA'S CHRISTMAS GIFT-GIVING GUIDE 2012

How quickly some things plummet to the murky depths of oblivion. How easily can last year’s shining stars become dead debris floating in space – destined to burn up entering the Earth’s atmosphere (in route to those murky depths of oblivion).

Take for example the bicycle handlebar ashtray and spittoon. Last year, suppliers could not keep these items on the shelves and the mail order houses were months behind in filling back orders. This holiday season, not one of either of these items has been purchased. Okay – sure – a few tandem bike Captains went up in flames when their Stokers’ aim with their cigarette butts wasn't quite up to par. And, yes, there were those petitions started by a handful of elementary school principles complaining about the number of little BMX bikes in their bike racks out front that had the handlebar ashtray accessories installed on them. The American public – especially the American cycling public – can be a fickle lot!

And that fickleness can darn sure make it hard for the loved ones of the American cycling public to figure out what to get them for Christmas! How are they going to know what the hot cycling-specific stocking stuffers are for this year? Well – once again – thank goodness for…

Bertha’s Christmas Gift Guide for the Cyclist in Your Life

Here’s a small sampling of letters received during the last few weeks wherein the loved ones of cycling fanatics, quite similar to the loved ones that you yourself may very well have at your home, write in to get guidance and advice for that perfect cycling-specific gift. (You will probably want to make a copy of this article and leave it laying around, sort of semi-conspicuously, for them to discover.)

Dear Bertha,

My son is a cycling nut. He gets out of bed three hours before sun up, straps his little headlight on his bike, dons his reflective gear, and then heads out for his normal 45-mile ride. Naturally, as his mother, I can’t help but worry about him while he is riding. What is the best thing I can get him for Christmas that shows I love him and support his sport but at the same time shows that I am concerned for his safety.

A Dear Son’s Mom – Sioux Falls, Iowa

Dear Mommy Dearest,

Sometimes a gift is more than a package sitting under a tree waiting to be unwrapped on Christmas morning. Many times a gift is an action or something that you actually do to show your love. I think in your circumstance, something along these lines would be a perfect gift – a gift to make his morning ride safer. And, this can be relatively inexpensive since most of what you will need can be found at your local hardware or home improvement store.

Right after your son goes to bed, take his bike out in the back yard (or other well-ventilated area) and spray paint it with fluorescent / reflective paint. This paint can also be brushed on if you are ecologically concerned about using an aerosol spray paint. I would suggest using two or three different colors to make the bike more visible. After the paint has dried just a bit, place several strips of red and silver reflective tape along all of the frame tubes. You can cut thin strips to stick to the sides of the tires and even wrap around the spokes. This whole procedure can be done in about thirty minutes. There is no need to waste any time masking off any surfaces. Don’t worry about covering up any wording on the frame – such as Colnago or Pinarello or Cervelo. A good rule of thumb: The more haphazard the paint job, the more hazard-free the ride. You might even want to think about doing this same treatment to his helmet and cycling shoes.

Believe me, when your son wakes up in the morning and sees your gift… let’s just say, I’m sure you’ll see faint traces of tears of joy in his eyes!

Dear Bertha,

Let me come right to the point – I’m beginning to not trust your advice. For three years now I have written you and asked about gift-giving ideas for my wife who is a cycling nut. Granted, I made the mistake the first year and bought her a vacuum cleaner but, after several surgeries, I somewhat recovered from that and the doctors reassure me that the few small skull fragments still embedded in parts of my brain will not cause too much long-term damage. Who would have guessed that the carpet cleaning attachment for the vacuum cleaner hose could have been hurled with so much force?

Other gift ideas you’ve suggested included leaving my spouse stuck in a vat of goop for 48 hours while a mold could be made of her riding a bicycle. Oh yes – I can see that idea racking up lots of points for husbands around the world. Thirdly – the handlebar ashtray? I don’t think you even want to know what my thoughts are on that ridiculous suggestion. I even saw where you suggested that some guy buy his wife a garbage disposal for Christmas. How, in heaven’s name, does a garbage disposal even come close to being a cycling related gift?

This year, I have decided that I’m getting my wife the 132-piece Craftsman mechanic tool set and 7-drawer toolbox – regardless of what you have to suggest differently.

Boris Jones – Milwaukee, Wisconsin

My Dear Boris,

Oddly enough, this is exactly what I was going to suggest for you this year. However, you might want to possibly consider making that the pink toolbox.

Dear Bertha,

I had a wonderful idea for a cycling accessory that would make a wonderful gift idea. I was hoping that with your connections and fabulous marketing skills, you could make this available to the masses within the foreseeable future.

I’m sure that I’m not the only woman in the universe whose husband insists on bringing his bicycle to bed with him. Sure this was fine when he was single and living alone, but even with our king-sized bed, it’s really beginning to get on my nerves just a little bit. I am thankful that he finally moved the bike from the middle of the bed but, since he insists that he absolutely must sleep on the right edge of the bed, this leaves me as the one that ends up sleeping next to the bike.

Now, what I’m thinking – and you’re probably already reading my mind here – padded bicycle pajamas. What do you think?

Gladys from Gladysville, Texas

Dear Gladys,

And people questioned my sanity over the handlebar ashtray!

Dear Bertha,

Okay. I’ll go out on a limb and trust you just one last time. Pink it is.

Boris

Merry Christmas Everyone - 

Enjoy the Ride!

The Rebirth

“OWWW! SON OF A GUN THAT HURT!” …came the outburst prompted by an abrupt penetration in her side. Before those words, or even those thoughts, could be completed the pain repeated itself. Again. Again. Again. “WHAT THE--???”

Even the thicker, protective rubber shell that covered seventy-five percent of her body and kept her from directly rubbing up against the destructive road surface had proven unable to halt the violation of sharp, aggressive end of a thumbtack. With the point firmly embedded in her tender skin as well as the outer shell, there was no escaping the rhythmic, recurring jab, jab jab, jab. All she could do was to bear the pain, slowly but decisively exhale, and wait for the rotation to slow to a stop.

Still cloaked in her normal darkness, she could hear the muted sounds of a frantic rescue effort underway. As she was jolted and jerked and tossed around, she was reassured that help was on the way and this horrible pain would soon come to an end. She heard the exclamation from the other side, “Here it is!”

“OHHHHHMYYYYYGOSHHHHH!” she screamed, as the force of the object being pulled from her skin was just as brutal as it was going in. In a futile attempt to ease the excruciating pain, she pushed all the remaining air from her body – leaving her body completely limp inside the protective shell. On the verge of passing out, she could still hear the muffled, fragmented sentences amongst the members of the rescue crew. “We need to hurry, we’re losing time.” … “Anyone got any CO2?” …“Here. Use these to get that tire off the rim.”  All of the sudden – daylight. Blinding daylight.

She felt a firm grip around her waist- (She thought to herself… “Waist?  Why did I say waist? How do I know that’s not my shoulders… or my hips? No… waist kinda makes sense. I have a valve stem and… other than that… I’m just one long continuous waist…. I guess.") … (It was obvious that she was delirious.) And in an instant, she was yanked from her cocoon. At last, someone will finally attend to her wound.

But instead of the anticipated first aid and urgent attention, she was flung to the roadside while the rescue team focused all of the energy to caring for the outer shell. “Hey! What the heck is going on here? Hey! Down here! What are you all doing?” She watched as they meticulously inspected every inch of the outer shell – inside and out. After giving it a clean bill of health, the rescue team mounted the outer shell back to the inner disc and brought out a brand new 700C and – of all things – installed it nice and cozy into her old place! Right there in front of her – while she watched! The nerve!

The rescue crew tucked the new 700C neatly into the outer shell, hooked her up to some oxygen and brought her to life. “HEY!! I’M THE INJURED ONE HERE – CAN NONE OF YOU HEAR? WHAT ABOUT ME?”

Then, as if her plea had finally been heard, one of the rescue crew-members reached down and picked her up. “Well it’s about time!” But, instead of the TLC that she had expected, she was wadded up, shoved into a stinky back pocket of a sweaty jersey, and jostled around for another hour or so – until she was retrieved and tossed in a box in the back of an SUV.

She finally passed out.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“OHHHHHMYYYYYGOSHHHHH!” she screamed, and then quickly held her breath as she was forced under the surface of the water. What a way to be woke from a deep, deep coma-like sleep. How long had she been out? Where is she? And what the heck is happening now?

Then, as she feels the bubbling sensation near her side, she remembers. It slowly starts to come back to her…. the ride… the pain… the rescue and then the abandonment. How many months or even years ago had that been? Seemed like an eternity.

She feels pressure on her skin as someone makes a chalky mark on her body. (“Gross!”) Then, she is yanked from the tank of water and laid out on a bench to dry. In a few moments a sticky substance is slathered (Again, “Gross!”) across her skin where the tack had once violated her, followed by the application of a small patch of rubber and then an almost unbearable amount of pressure on the wound area. After a few minutes, the pressure is relieved and she is tossed in a pile.

She looks around the pile… there are five or six other 700C’s lying next to her – a couple of pretty good looking ones – a few a little worse for wear. There’s also a few 26ers, two little beefy 20ers and, of all things, a 27er! (Where the heck has he been hiding all these years?)  – all sporting bright, shiny new patches of rubber on their sides (or their waists – whatever).

Rebirth is good.

Enjoy the ride!

Bugtussle's Bike Bags (Part 12.5)

Intermission II (Poetic Interlude the Sequel)

My Dear, Sweet Da-duh, Da-da-duh… Margaret,

(A week or two from now)

We opened at five as usual today -

Young Jimmy, here first, had unlocked the door.
Carl staggering in, unkempt, par for course,

Over two hours late - seven-o-four.

Of course Uptown Max, was eager to start,

With pastries stacked neatly in the display

In the nick of time as in through the door,

Morning’s first customers, the Rook and Jay.

Then Two Fish accompanied by Miss D;

Some long lost leftover child of the flower;

Young couple whose eyes kept each other’s gaze;

Place was a-hoppin' within the first hour.

Coroner popped in for his usual brew;

Uptown Max looked up, said, “Hey mornin’ Mel!”

Then from the deli, the delivery boy;

An Asian lady with nothing to tell.

Olra rambled on in singing a tune;

A guy from the train went into the Men’s.

But atmospheres changed one-eighty degrees

The very instant the Young Man walked in.

Your best friend forever and ever and ever,

Ma-muh, Ma-ma-muh…. Donald

______________________________

On the southeast side of town, the sagging, wooden leaves of the double-wide garage door started creakily moving in the upward direction with the aid of the automatic opener. The door, as well as the unbearable noise, came to a stop – exposing the gorgeous tail end of a white on white 1961 Lincoln Continental Convertible – suicide doors and all. Within seconds of the garage door halting its motion, the white cloth top of the Lincoln started its routine of lifting loose from the windshield, whirring, folding, grinding, and tucking until it was completely hidden from view beneath the beautiful expanses of meticulously polished and shined sheet metal. Behind the wheel sat Emma. Emma took a scarf out of her purse and wrapped it around her hair – tied it in a knot beneath her chin and backed out of the garage.

As Emma backed the half-a-century old mechanical marvel and stylish masterpiece down the driveway, she stopped when she reached the sidewalk and pushed the button on the remote control to close the garage door. She then tapped lightly on the horn three times. Before the sound of the third tap had even subsided, the Dwarf emerged from the house next door and, at dwarf-speed, ran across the lawn and jumped in on the passenger side. Emma let her foot off the brake and backed on out into the street. Putting it drive, she drove one block west to the corner and then turned north onto Forest Hill Drive.

Shortly before reaching I-20, Emma pulled into the convenience store parking lot where a woman dressed in a cow suit and a man wearing a big diaper and a Nixon mask were waiting. Emma stopped long enough for them to climb in the back seat of the convertible then she pulled back out onto the street and headed in the direction of the Interstate.



(Back: Part 12  -  Scribbles on the Desk Blotter)

(Next: Part 13  -  Thirteen)

Bugtussle’s Bike Bags (part 12)

-    Scribbles on the Desk Blotter    -

Dolores entered the gate to the Riverside Cemetery and took the first foot path to the right – through the original section of the cemetery opened in 1907 according to the weathered plaque on the stone wall encompassing it. In this section, the monuments were tall and majestic – much like the rows of oak trees that formed an umbrella over them. Beyond the original section were several other areas opened in subsequent decades. Their ages measured primarily by the heights of the stone markers on the grave-sites. As the cemetery grew, the markers seemed to shrink in size until, as in the newest sections, the markers were flush with the tips of the surrounding lawn. It was so much easier for the yard crew to merely ride their massive  mowers over them without the need for a helper to follow along behind with a weed eater.

Dolores walked over to Section 8A. Most of the markers there were one foot or less in height. She walked along the second row and then stopped at the fifth marker from the pathway. It was definitely the tallest marker in this section and exceeded the regulation height of one foot by half again that amount – not even counting the two metal flower vases built in to the top edge. Dolores stopped and knelt down at the marker’s edge.  As she had done so many times during the last twenty-six years, she closed her eyes and ran her hands across the face of the stone – her mind’s eye reading the lettering sent from the tips of her fingers: ALPHONSE BAROOVRA  1938 - 1986.

As she spruced up the flowers in the two vases, she whispered, “Hey, it’s me again Alfie— I mean, Dr B. How’s everything going with you? Me? I’m not doing too well right now.”

Meanwhile, back over at the police station:

Detective Salamander, carrying a police regulation cardboard evidence box, walked into office he shared with Detective Bass and two other detectives.  He sat the box down on the table in the center of the room and opened the top. He started removing the clear plastic zip-locked bags of personal belongings that they had gathered from JP Bugtussle’s bike bags – the items that were in the panniers on the bike itself as well as the items that were in the bag that Jimmy had discovered under the coffee shop hedges. Just as Detective Bass entered the office with a couple of cups of black coffee, Sal pulled out the bag with the ballpoint pen.

“Good, you’ve got it,” exclaimed Arnold when he saw Sal with the ballpoint pen. He sat the cups of coffee on the table as Sal took the pen out of the bag and handed it to him. Arnold clicked the button exposing the pen tip and said, “Now, let’s see what we’ve got here…” He walked to his desk, leaned over and he started drawing circular scribbles on the blotter pad – continuous circular scribbles – blue continuous circular scribbles.

After making about twenty loops of scribbles on the blotter, Arnold put the pen down and walked over to the table to get his cup of coffee. Returning to his desk, he sat down, put his feet up and started sipping on his coffee – all the while keeping his eyes glued to the blue scribbles on his desk blotter.

Sal grabbed the other cup of coffee and walked over to his desk and leaned against it, halfway sitting on the desk top. He blew on his coffee, took a couple of sips and said, “How long do you plan on staring at that desk blotter?”

Arnold just sat there, feet on his desk, coffee cup cradled in both hands and pressed against his lips - slowly shaking his head – staring. Five minutes went by. Ten minutes. Fifteen. And at the exact moment that Sal was about to tell Arnold how stupid this whole thing was, Arnold sat up straight in his chair, sloshing a little coffee onto his pants before he could get the cup set down on his desk. He promptly pointed at the newly drawn blue scribbles and shouted to Sal, “Look at this!”

Sal took the couple of steps over to Arnold’s desk and looked at the blotter. The blue scribbles, drawn right next to the black scribbles from his pen just the day before, were starting to fade in sections. As both detectives watched, eyes steadily trained on the desk blotter, the sides of the scribbles started disappearing.  In a matter of moments, only the heavier thickness of the lines forming the top and bottom loops of the scribbles were still visible.  Within a minute after that – the blue scribbles were nowhere to be seen.

Arnold looked at Sal, “Get on the internet. Look up disappearing.” He then went to the evidence box and started digging for JP Bugtussle’s blank notebooks. 

-( 1997 )----------

“Louise, please – just let me explain,” pleaded Sherry. “I knew you wouldn’t want to talk to me but I—“

“Darn right I don’t want to talk to you. In fact, I’m ready to hang up right now.”

“Wait – Louise! Don’t hang up! I’ve got this good friend that needs some help and I think we can help him.”

“How can we help him? I don’t even know you any more – I don’t want to know you!”

“Please! Just listen to me Louise. Do you know about the power of the blood of the Madagascar Panther Chameleon?” asked Sherry - speaking as quickly as she could to try and pique Louise's curiosity.

The only reply that Sherry got to her question was the sound of the dial tone.



(Back: Part 11  -  Fortune Cookies)

(Next: Part 12.5  -  Intermission II - Poetic Interlude the Sequel)