Aug. 26, 2003 - 11:45 a.m.
Dear Meghan:
Bike riding was always a big thing for me. Even now, I can remember riding down Washington Street, with my father directly behind me, learning how to ride for the first time. Without training wheels, my father would run along with me, one hand on my back, one hand on the ‘fender’ of the back wheel, giving me a final push when either he thought I was ready to go solo – or his smoke-filled lungs merely gave up the idea of encouraging any further running. And even now, I can recall getting as far as Jimmy Jennings’ house (a childhood pal, of which I now remember nothing) and looking back to see my father standing several houses back. Panic. Spin. Crash.
I do not recall the second time I went solo. I must not have crashed.
My friend Joe Hougas and I lived near some strip mines. Morris, Illinois is a small town, so corn fields and strip mines fit in perfectly with the one-main-street environment I was raised in (though we were not lucky enough to have a teacher with the surname Bordello). The best thing about strip mines was that all this dirt would be piled and piled and piled, forming fabulous roller coasters of soil, over which we’d ride our bikes nearly every weekend.
I recall two particular hills that Joe knew well (he lived closer) that were wildly steep - yet close enough and one could start at the top of one, push off, whirrrrrrrrr down the first hill and make it to the second’s peak without any pedaling. Joe took me there one morning and we walked our bikes up to the top of Peak #1. He pushed off, whirrrrrrrrrrrrrred and made it to – and beyond – Peak #2. So I followed suit.
Now, the one thing you have to know at this point – as you envision me as an 8-year-old whirring down Peak #1 en route to Peak #2 – is that communication between children is not nearly as clear as it should be.
So I whirrrrrrrrred to the valley between the two peaks and whirrrrrrrred just as fast up the side of Peak #2. At the top of Peak #2, the bike-trodden path took a sharp left onto a relatively level plane. To the right and forward, there was nothing. Literally. So I whirrrrrrrrred to the top of Peak #2 and, being unaware of the sharp let, headed straight and plummeted a couple of stories into a very stony pit. Crash.
Times are a little easier now when it comes to biking adventures, though Chicago has its own share of them. Tina and I were riding our bicycles on Sunday and found ourselves on a busy street behind a guy who was biking extremely slow (hereinafter called the “Slow Guy”). Tina, who was in the lead, pulled off the street and onto the sidewalk, with me right behind. In front of us: an old man pushing a cart. So we went back into the street, just at the point where the Slow Guy was still just ahead of us. We passed the old man pushing the cart and vroooooomed up onto the sidewalk, again with the motivation of passing the Slow Guy. In front of us this time: a man. With a sprightly dog. And a baby carriage! Quickly, we zipped off the sidewalk again, and AGAIN the Slow Guy was just ahead of us. We bided our time until man/baby/dog was behind us and quickly made a dash for the sidewalk. In front of us suddenly appeared a fairly large black man. With a walking stick. Yes, he was blind!
We abandoned the idea of passing the Slow Guy and veered off to a corner 7-11 to get something to drink. A homeless man was sitting on the curb outside the front door. “Hi – got any change you can spare?” he said cheerfully. To be honest, in this economy, I cannot spare all that much, so I usually say ‘no’ anyway – but in this case, I had no money whatsoever. So I said ‘no’, predictably enough. As Tina went inside to get a cool beverage or two, the homeless man went into an incredible diatribe along the lines of “stupidfuckingyuppieyoubastardfuckingshit” etc. - - - UNTIL the next person approached the 7-11. “Hi – got any change you can spare?” he said cheerfully. When the new person said ‘no’, the homeless guy changed back into “assholebitchcocksuckerfaggot” mode and droned on and on. Tina and I watched him for a bit as we drank our orange thingymybob, and the guy varied – perfectly on cue – between the happy “Hi – got any change you can spare?” and “motherfuckereatmyshitpussy” modes. Truly amazing.
Spoke too soon,
Vincent
what they said - what they will say
