Two Stories

December 13, 2023

And a Bike Ride Too

In my haste to wrap up the previous page, I failed to include a couple of relevant stories. They're not great stories, but interesting stories (to me) nevertheless. They should have been written at that time, but I totally forgot. As I said, I was getting tired of sitting at the keyboard. That's my excuse for the forgetfulness.

I have renewed energy today, so you're going to get more detailed versions of those stories than I would have written while I was in a state of "let's get this thing over with already."

The first story relates to the photo at the end, where G-2 and his bike are lying on the ice after his crash. I'm an Ernest Hemingway fan, so I'm going to give that story a Hemingwayesque title:

The Old Man and the Ice

I'm not in the habit of posting the same picture twice in the same journal, but this time, in the interest of giving context to the story, I made an exception.

The icy road G-2 crashed on also doubles as sort of a driveway to a senior citizen's assisted living facility. Unbeknownst to me at the time, a couple of residents were watching my photo shoot from the front porch. No doubt they were wondering what the heck was so fascinating that it prompted some oddball on a bike to stoop down in the middle of the road/driveway and take a few pictures from different angles.

When I completed my silly project, I picked G-2 up off the ice and started back toward my bike. Before I managed three steps, I heard a rather gruff voice.

"Hey Bud! What did you just pick up?"

I heard him, but the question took me by surprise. "Pardon me?" I answered politely.

He shouted a bit louder. "I SAID, 'what did you just pick up?'"

I did not like the accusatory tone in his voice. It was as if he caught me stealing a $100 bill or something. My first thought was to ignore him and ride off. I was pretty sure I could pedal The Reckless Mr. Bing Bong faster than the old man could chase me with his cane. I didn't do that though. Instead, I walked over to the porch, held up G-2, and told him the embarrassing truth.

"It's just a little cartoon character I made."

"Oh, okay," he said.

I waited a couple seconds for him to say something else, but that was the end of it. There was no, "oh, okay. I'm sorry." There was no "oh, okay, I thought it might have been the heirloom diamond ring my wife dropped yesterday." There was no "oh, okay, that's a cool cartoon alter-ego you got there." No, it was just a simple "oh, okay."

Satisfied that the old man considered everything to be "okay," I continued my bike ride.

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

The other story I meant to include in the last post also relates to the bike crash topic I was discussing. I guess I got so wrapped up in the "Anatomy of a Fall" essay that I totally forgot about my most spectacular wintertime crash EVER. It's an old memory that probably won't be of much interest to most readers, but I still feel the need to share it for some reason. (Braggery, perhaps? Or maybe I'm hoping the story will appeal to the same folks who go to hockey games just for the fist fights, or the ones who watch NASCAR events just for the high speed car crashes.)

The Hemingwayian title of this story is:

The Snows of Minnimanjaro

In the days before I made my living by writing bike touring journals and acting in TV ads, I used to commute via bicycle to a regular job almost every working day for 25 years. In the months of December and January, my commute was usually in the dark--both ways. I hate to be a Greggie Downer but, even for a guy who appreciates all four seasons like me, it was a little depressing to spend most of the daylight hours inside a building.

One day my wife called me on the business phone (before the cell phone era) and asked me to stop at the convenience store and bring home a gallon of milk. It had been another long, stressful day. I didn't want to go a block out of my way to do ANYTHING, but I reluctantly consented so that my kids could have milk with their dinner.

I had my mountain bike back then, and I had enough confidence in its knobby tires that I felt safe to ride with one hand on the handlebar and one hand holding the handle of the jug of milk. I was cruising downhill when I approached the T-intersection I had approached thousands of times before. I feathered the left brake as I had done thousands of times before, but that didn't slow me down fast enough this time. I raised the other hand--the one holding the gallon of milk--and tried to contort it enough to squeeze the right brake. But it was too late.

I careened into the curb, flew into the air over the handlebars, and landed on the jug. The result was a tremendous explosion of milk--like a big, white firework.

I looked around for witnesses. Happy there weren't any, I picked up my bike, straightened out the handlebars which had turned sideways upon impact, and was lucky to ride away with only a bruised hand and sore ribs. I did not go back for another gallon of milk. Sorry kids.

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

I thank those of you who endured those stories. I know what you're starting to think because I'm good at projecting my own thoughts onto other people's thoughts. What I'm thinking is that you're thinking this journal is looking more like a chronical of day rides and old reminiscences than a legitimate wintertime bike touring journal. So be it.

Here are some tidbits from today's acclimatization ride along the Vermillion River.

Don't let the bright sun fool you. It's still below freezing.

If not for that imposing flour mill, this would be another beautiful Church of the Great Outdoors nature shot.

That's all for now.

Today's ride: 7 miles (11 km)
Total: 20 miles (32 km)

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George Hall"The falls used to power the flour mill.." Power the flour? I see what you are doing there, a very subtle way to throw in your liberal anti-war politics. "Flower Power" was a symbol of passive resistance to the Vietnam War; see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flower_power for more detail. Being of the age so as to have been subjected to the last military draft, I anxiously awaited the results of the lottery that could determine whether I lived or was shipped home in a box. My draft number was such that it was estimated that I WOULD indeed be drafted, but they reached their quota shortly before my number - so I simply got lucky. Friends weren't so lucky, and I've now lived 50+ years longer than their shortened lives.

But did I deserve to live when others died simply because of a lottery? This much I know; if we had a standing draft for military service, our Senators and Representatives would be much more cautious before committing our military to action. When the sons and daughters of Congress folks are subject to the draft, when it's not just poor folks who may die from the fighting caused by our political decisions, then perhaps we would get more rational thinking from our "leaders."

So then; well done, sir. "Power the flour" indeed. Flower power, make love not war. And, FWIW, I popped an opiod pain pill some minutes before I commenced writing this - man, that's good stuff, I'm not hurting any more. Peace all,
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5 months ago

Gregory GarceauTo George HallGroovy comment, Buddy. I got a good laugh out of your feeling the need to send a link clarifying what "flower power" means. You must think I'm a lot younger than I am.

Anyway, power to the people, far out, and try to enjoy the pain pills, even though I'm sure you'd prefer not to have to take them. (But, whatever you do, don't take the brown acid.)
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5 months ago