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I Don’t Miss the Life.

I miss the euphoria of seeing the Cape May lighthouse after a day on the bicycle. Two-hundred and eight miles. The last eight counted, too. I never said, “a two hundred mile ride”, it was always the exact number of miles.

Donna ringing that cow bell and laughing all day, “you got this, bro…”

We did it in 12 hours and we did it in 20 hours and all times in between. One year it rained in an unrelenting deluge. The lightning got so bad we had to stop in Egg Harbor and take shelter on some strangers front porch. The poor people inside never come out to confront the smelly guys in spandex standing there sweating. An unplanned stop, just long enough for our legs to stiffen up like boards.

We had 16 flats that year. With 105 miles to go, I was out of spare tires. We stuffed a five dollar bill in the sidewall. It held. We made it to Cape May.

The ride evolved into a crew of three, John, Franko and me. Why these guys continued to be friends with me, to this day, is beyond me.

One year, after a shower I ate so many eggs and hash browns the waitress was concerned for me. John just said, “keep feeding him, he’s quiet when his mouth is full.”

I got really mad at John one year. At 180 miles in he told me we had almost thirty miles left to pedal. I flipped and called him, “a fucking pessimist!”

John had a spreadsheet in the SAG car. If you stopped to piss he would punch in the numbers and remind you that sunset was 8:34 pm…

Another year I told Franko of my plan to kill him and hide his body in that big field along the route before we got to that last WaWa store. When I stopped there I’d tell everyone I just lost him.

Franko said, “shut up and pedal…”

The season ended on Christmas Day and started on New Years Day. Riding in temperatures below zero. Skinny road tires in the snow and ice, because “fitness,” everything was fitness, everything was geared to the “doubles,” a double-century. People think 100 miles on a bike in a day is a lot, so you double it.

By now, mid-May, we’d be doing 400 mile weeks, 140 to 160 training rides on weekends. 120 Saturday and 120 Sunday and 120 Monday – “triple witching weekends.” One year I rode nearly 15,000 miles. That averages about 55 miles a day and I did take a day off now and then.

It never occurred to me the absurdity of riding 160 miles on Saturday, so you would be ready for 200 in a few weeks.

It was always about fitness and sleep and lack of sleep. Worried so much about not sleeping enough you’d not sleep.

Thinking any family trip within 100 miles was “rideable…” I’d just leave 4 hours ahead of anyone.

Then I stopped.

I think the broken bones and the injuries finally caught up.

It was hard for a time.

Something wasn’t right

Then one day I rode my bike for an hour – just one hour – less than 20 miles. A local loop. It was kind of awesome. Then I ate a cheeseburger and didn’t worry about the fat content or carbs in the bun

Then the next day I rode 20 miles again.

I liked my bike. I didn’t hate it. It wasn’t a torture machine. It was fun.

Then one day a group of young studs swarmed me and I just let them ride away.

I got back to the shop three minutes after them. No one died. I wasn’t humiliated.

I miss the euphoria of rolling across a finish line running on fumes.

I don’t miss the life.

Drowning in the Desert

“Right after my boy drowned, I let it all go to the wind. I ran off to the southwest. I had some friends there, and they offered me a place to stay and try to heal and recover. All I did was get fucked up, day in and day out. Mainly out there in the Saguaro Desert, in that dry heat. That shit will drain the life from you, and leave a man weak and confused.”

“I recall being naked in somebody’s backyard pool, in Mesa, Arizona, 1984, the wrong pool, the wrong house. Tripping my ass off on gobs of peyote mescaline and good Mexican tequila and Negra Modelo beer.”

“From the next house over—the place where I belonged, and the pool I was supposed to be in—the stereo was deafening. Cyndi Lauper’s ‘She Bop’ was telling me, as I struggled to hold my head above the water and not drown; a fear rose in me of being found dead and naked in the neighbor’s pool, the fear that everything I’d ever known or been told about right and wrong, the rule of law and the rules of being a man was wrong.”

“It somehow felt right that I drown, like the boy did, sucking all that warm water into my lungs. By rights, I should have drowned, but I didn’t. All I did was float there in that water, face down, listening to that goddamn song, thinking about my dead boy. Not a day goes by, Shug, I don’t wish I’d died in that pool.”

—Charlie

The Truth is in the Water

Emmett Till

Every time it happens I think not a damn thing has changed since Watts, and Bobby Seale and Huey Newton—1966.

Not a damn thing has changed since Marvin wrote Inner City Blues—1972.

Every time the cities explode with rage I say to some other white guy, “What exactly do you expect?”

Malcolm X said, ““Concerning nonviolence, it is criminal to teach a man not to defend himself when he is the constant victim of brutal attacks.”—1964

Cities will burn again and in a twist of doublespeak that would confound George Orwell, the fascists will blame the anti-fascists. ‘Proud Boys” and the Klan and the other cowards will say things in private they don’t have the balls to say in public, and call themselves patriots.

Emmett Till, 1954, beaten and militated, then shot for passing a comment to white woman, in a grocery store in Mississippi. Recently the white woman, Emmetts accuser, Carolyn Bryant, admitted he never touched her and she made up the accusation.

Not a damn thing has changed. This has always been America. 1861 to 1954 to 2021, not a damn thing has changed. Just the words. The words of some may not be so harsh now. Maybe there is a contrived illusion of compassion and understanding, but not a damn thing has changed since Emmett Till, and not for a hundred years looking back and not for a hundred looking forward.

This has always been exactly what and who we knew we were.

Every time it happens I ponder the crime of being a black man in America—2021

Thank you, Mark Baskerville for clarifying the horrific details of Emmett’s death

Sunlight in July

There is a comfort in knowing if I stand in this exact place and look to the west, every July 15th at 6:34 am, when the sky is cloudless and clear, the sun will shine precisely on that spot, that rock.

The trees around me will grow and die and fall, and the rock will probably be there for thousands of years, but that spot on the earth will always catch this July sunrise.

No matter what is in this spot, I imagine the sun will hit it at this exact moment in the year till the end of my time and well beyond, the end of all time, I suppose.

That patch of dirt out on my back lawn is my particular and perculiar and private Stonehenge.

Nothing is significant in this date or day or time,other than it was noticed at this moment, waiting for my coffee to perk. The comfort is knowing that as long as I can count on the sun hitting that spot next year, and the year after that not everything is broken.

So then, I take comfort in the laws of motion and inertia and gravity and particles of light, and not much else or many other things. My cousin is a scientist and he bought me a book on physics. He’s understands things, the mechanics of the universe. I don’t understand anything, I just need to know some things still work.

I’m feeling a little windswept today, but not enough to billow my sails, or right this ship; the safe harbors are gone. I feel at the mercy of the wind.

Ricky

There is this kid, Ricky, he works for a client of mine. A constant question asked at this place, “Where is Ricky?”

Ricky does electrical work, he drives the truck, he mounts tires, he manages the parts room, he mows the lawn. He pulls data cable. He builds walls and hangs and tapes sheetrock.

I just need to say, “Ask Ricky to run me some cat5 over there.” I never worry how it’s done. He leaves them marked clearly for me.

He’s done remote computer support for me when I couldn’t get there, “Have Ricky get me on remotely.”

We’ve worked together on the hot-tar roof fixing security cameras, in 90-degree sun, sweating. I’ve never heard Ricky bitch. He laughs at my Spanish and says, “That’s not how you say it, man,” and we both laugh.

Yesterday I saw him standing still, a rarity, In front if a big flat-screen TV. He was watching the president speak of his latest immigration plan.

I’m not 100% sure Ricky is here legally. I never asked. I couldn’t care less.

I walked up to him and asked him if he was ok.

He said, “I’m scared, Bill.”

I put my arm around my friend and said, “I’m scared too, buddy.”