Warm Waters And The Furry Hats

Astute readers may recall the two hilarious previous adventures I had riding freelance jobs with my neighbor’s cat, Zee. They involved an elderly man being blasted out of a cannon and a visit to a gravel yard filled with savvy-humored gravel-pit architects who needed blueprints to dig a hole in the ground. So, obviously, Zee is a good luck charm. Only good things happen with Zee around.

Well despite my unforgivable neglect, I have actually had further adventures with Zee that I’ve not told you about. Today that stops. The not telling.

Zee apparently was a total pest for several weeks after our gravel pit day. Nancy, my neighbor and Zee’s human momma, opined that I was spoiling Zee with all the travel and new experiences that I was affording him. The solution, according to Nancy, was that I must continue to show Zee the world.

I was on board with that plan.

Zee accompanied me on a trip to an outside-of-town Russian bath house that requires a password to enter and a furry hat to stay.

The trip took over two hours and Zee rode in the handlebar basket like a champ the whole time. I arrived to the bath house after a slight snow fall and just as the skies began to clear and the wind-chill dropped to an ear-numbing level. Good thing I had a furry Russian hat. The password was a Russian word that I won’t repeat here because I have a little thing I like to call respect for the fucking Russians, you know?

I uttered my password in perfect East Leningrad and was ushered in with a nod, Zee’s head poking out of my backpack.

My client was the Russian owner of the bath house who needed some special soaps delivered from town and didn’t want to send any of his employees. I don’t know if they were Epsom or what, but those fucking soaps smelled good through the cracks of the little cardboard box that housed them. It was like aromatherapy for the whole 40-mile ride from town.

I quickly found the owner’s office and delivered the box. He had demanded, when we spoke on the phone, that I stay and enjoy a soak (only did so after asking me whether I have “the furry hat that we have the require for”). I had agreed on the phone but when I delivered the box, the owner reemphasized his position on the matter—“You will stay in the smell waters until heart becomes warm and has burst with the joy. You understand?”

I told him I understood completely and made sure he knew that Zee was with me. He said he loves the cats and likes the name Zee. In fact, believe it or not, he gave me a special floating device that could allow Zee to enjoy the bath with me without getting wet. Assuming Zee kept his balance.

Zee, keeping his balance

It was really, really cozy. And my furry hat never left my head. It was kind of like this:

Teasing Tina — A Two-Wheeled Confessional

Just go nice and slow, and start from the beginning

Today we unveil a brand new feature here at My Year As A Freelance Bicyclist. It’s called The Two-Wheeled Confessional. It provides an opportunity for people to say, well, whatever people need to say.

Think of it like an interview with no questions.

Names are typically changed unless some crazy motherfucker really wants to go on the record for confession.

Oh, and with few exceptions, each of these confessions is recorded by me while the confessor and I ride bikes along a quiet country road in the small moments before dusk.

Our first confession:

Jerome Beckins of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

Freelance bicycling… shit. Freelancing almost ruined my life. It did ruin my marriage. The first time around. Then she took me back, praise Jesus. Only did that with promises I’d never go back. Back to riding, sure, but mostly back to crystal meth. You  ever had crystal? Ho-ly shit, son. You don’t want to know. You just don’t. Like you’re flying on a speckled horse through a foam party in the sky above Cancun and everything’s smelling like lavender. Except less confusing than that would probably be. On crystal you’re not all ‘Wait, why am I in Cancun?’ you’re just so… fucking… just delighted, you know.

But thing is I only got into Tina—that’s what we called crystal—I only got into Tina because of freelancing. You know what I’m talking about. The schedule, the stress, the expectations… Made my brain crooked. Made me break promises. And then suddenly there I am, long story short, selling my father’s Hank Aaron rookie card. And for what? For THREE HITS.

I used to tease that bitch. Tina. I teased her, would hold off a week, two, so’s I could make it a strong high again. I teased that bitch right up until I shook her off me for good, praise Lord. Went to rehab. Still wasn’t all done with drama once I got there. Of course I wasn’t. I mean, look, I figure, in my life I’ve gotten a mess of women pregnant. Just got lucky with the two I call son and daughter, you know. The rest never came about, one way or another, and I ain’t saying I know what one way means or what another means. But there I was in rehab, trying to start running instead of riding because I knew I couldn’t ride when I got out—but you don’t want to try and shake crystal meth without being in shape, trust me. And bam, don’t you know it, I knocked up some bitch in rehab. In rehab, man. What the fuck.

Anyway, riding. Freelancing. I don’t know how you do it. I’d be on that bike on my first job and I’d be smoking Tina and looking for a hooker.

We want to thank Jerome for his honest words and kind heart.

Dear Incline Village Bikes-A-Lot

 

Hangs-A-Lot?

Dear Incline Village Bikes-A-Lot,

First of all, the very possibility of anyone being rude to me while working at a place called Bikes-A-Lot—or Anythings-A-Lot, really—is beyond absurd.

Second, I’m not speaking in theoreticals here. A member of your staff, a young man apparently named Dustin, had the audacity to suggest that because I only have one working eye this week (had a minor surgery, won’t go into details, but I’m wearing a patch) that somehow I’m not capable of riding my bicycle during this week’s 3^rd annual Snow Rides-A-Lot event. Not just suggested, he boldly stated it—“Umm, sir, you can’t ride in Snow Rides-A-Lot with just that one eye. It just ain’t safe. Sir.”

Well, I never. What in the world does Dustin know about my depth perception? About my ability to navigate snowy streets? Nothing, that’s what. Dustin knows nothing. Little twit. That boy needs a father and an ass whoopin.

Third, really? That’s the name you went with? Snow Rides-A-Lot? What the fuck is wrong with you people? You’re the only bike shop within thirty miles, and probably the only shop in the country hosting a snow bike ride. Do you really need that branding of your stupid shop name? Can’t you do anything nots-a-lot?

Fourth, I stole some energy goo from your shop. Two ClifShots. They were right over by the door, and after Dustin offended and shocked me, I had to act.

Sincerely,

MYFB

Spoke You, Spoke Me

We here at My Year As A Freelance Bicyclist are proud to offer another selection in our famous Sunday Bike Poems series, this one on a Wednesday. This special love poem is dedicated to the delightful lady in our life.

·

“Spoke You, Spoke Me”

Blasted, bent,

broken and not broken

my heart is a spoke and you are the wheel

We spin together

The problem, of course,

is that every wheel has lots and lots of spokes—

I mean like a shitload of spokes, really, when I think about it—

Which means you’re obviously getting dick

and emotional support

from every angle

·

Still, it feels special, and it feels like

you need me a little.

 

Me and your other "friends"

More Might Be Enough

A public service announcement from Save Our Bike Lanes

Hello again.  This is Save Our Bike Lanes.

Studies show that over 73% of Americans are in favor of bike lanes. Our question is this: how many of those 73% are in favor of more bike lanes?

Our answer: probably quite a few.

But listen, the US Dept. of Defense isn’t funding this or any other of our studies, so seeing as how we’re a little bit cash-strapped, we’re going to have to just trust that we’re right, and we’re expecting you will too.

So stop digging your feet into the dirty mud of passive complacency, and tell the world: MORE BIKE LANES.

Save Our Bike Lanes. We’re working for you, sometimes even in cahoots with your enemies, so that you can have a thick white line between you and cars passing by.

“If you mean to tell me some asshole can do cocaine and then become president, but I can’t ride my bike after six or seven martinis? Then I don’t want to live in America.” — Janice Eddy, Founder, Save Our Bike Lanes

Riding Up Frank Slide, Alberta

Now THAT'S a valley floor

It’s not every day I take a job to go international, much less in Canada (too polite to tolerate me, obviously). But then again, it’s not every day I’m invited to experience the wonder of riding up a famous and deadly (in its day, and that day was 1903) rock slide.

That’s how I came to be in the town of Frank, Alberta, Canada.

The amazing thing about Frank today is the silence. Especially juxtaposed with the certain thundering loudness of a rockslide. But then I realized that this juxtaposition wasn’t taking into account that Canada is mostly empty, and thus silent, and that Frank had a hundred people die in the slide, which wouldn’t do anything to help Canada’s relative emptiness or quiet airs. Dead people are the most silent kind, after all.

Frank Slide covered something like two square miles of valley floor when it was done. Think about that. And according to reports, the slab of rock that broke free was approximately 650 m high, 900 m wide, and 150 m thick—whatever those measurements mean in American—anyway it sounds pretty huge.

I was hired to ride as far up Frank Slide as I physically could manage, then to pin a flag in the ground with the initials FPR on it. That stands for Franklin Patrick Russell—apparently a former major league baseball player whose unique slide into second base—a wobbly sideways crawl intended to make second-basemen and shortstops miss tagging him—was dubbed the Frank Slide by his teammates and fans. I guess when Frank found out about the other Frank Slide, he felt he had to connect the two with his mark.

Frank is now a successful owner of a car dealership in Detroit (believe it or not, they exist), and thus has lots of money but not a lot of time to perform flag placements in Canada. Thus, hiring me.

All went off without a hitch. Those rockslides are pretty difficult to ride on because of the shaky, crumbly earth, even after a hundred-some-odd years, but I forged my way quite a distance up the slide and pinned that flag in like it was what I was born to do.

Like a more permanent flag, but really the same idea

Spring Training

Everyone thinks that baseball bikes is easy. Or, worse, immature. Juvenile.

The truth is that if the hardest thing to do in sports is hit a round ball with a round bat (baseball), then look me in the eye and tell me it’s not more difficult to do that on a bike.

Now tell me what’s juvenile, motherfucker.

Sort of like this, except different

Charles Charging Me

People are always asking me what it’s like to go on bike rides with a Beethovin’s 2nd-era Charles Grodin look-alike.

I don’t get what’s so fascinating about it. Tim’s just a regular guy.

Someone A Bit Less Focused

I had grand plans to go back to Deep Gears, that bicycle bar I told you about, but somehow weeks and weeks and then months went by without me making the time to return. I’ll admit that my first experience was less than inspiring, but that’s just the point: I promised Deep Gears after that first encounter that I would hold its feet to the fire, that I wouldn’t let it get away with anything. At all.

Alas. I returned. Sure, it got away with a bunch of shit for like nine months, but I returned. So at least on that second night, I was a witness, an accountant of sorts.

I walked in the front door, ducking under the spoke-filled rim hanging from the door frame. An earthquake of rattling derailleurs rang down. Apparently they hang them up after they’ve been broken or worn down, a sort of welcome bell. I mean, really.

“Deeeep Geeears!” I bellowed. I’m all for a grand statement.

The crowd was, judging by their dismissive reaction to my grand statement, exactly as it had been before: completely drab. I did, however, see one bright face, one set of interesting eyes, and I ran to her immediately.

Hello, I said. Ride here often?

Come on, she said. Don’t give me that shit.

I’m just getting started, sweetheart. Hey, what’s it you like about this place, anyway?

She looked at me closely. Or slowly, somehow, if you can look slowly. She regarded me, that’s what I mean. There’s a calm in all the chains, she said. A beginning and an end, all in one. Cycles.

What the fuck does that mean, I asked her.

It means every one thing is more or less every other thing, just a different part. A chain is one and it is many.

So basically you come here for religion.

Religion? No.

You’re telling me about things being connected, about a small part being essential to the whole, and the whole not existing without the small parts. That’s religion, hon.

I fingered my helmet under the table. I wondered if she believed me.

You know what, she said, that’s interesting. I like it. So, anyway, what do you do? Why are you here by yourself talking to pretty girls?

I’m a freelance bicyclist. That might be obvious.

I guess it sort of is, she said. The way that you seem to feel like you belong here more than anyone, and yet you’re disgusted by all of it.

Right.

Do you have fun with that? she asked me.

I do! It’s like nothing else I’ve ever done.

You know, that’s why I come here, I think. It’s like nothing I’ve ever done.

You know, speaking of, you look to me like a Kris Kristofferson song. Like a character from one. Like Bobby McGee. Or someone else. Someone less focused on the road, I guess. Someone beautiful.

My husband tells me the same thing.

A-ha, right, and anyway where is that dude, anyway?

He’ll be back from the restroom soon.

I bet he will.

Home Is A Home Is A Haus

I have a story for you and I am certain it will seem implausible. Nonetheless, it is true. As I’ve repeated here many times, my job is not to force (or even inspire) blind faith in you; no, it is simpler—my job is to tell you what has happened, and occasionally, to try to lend some insight about what may have caused those things to happen, or how any of us might live a better life as a result of what has happened.

So, with that said: I moved a family’s entire four-bedroom house with my bike. Yes, I know. Stop choking on your coffee. It’s true.

A man by the name of Wildderman Kristoffer (more German than Berlin City Hall, I figured, right? Or, you know, the Berlin City Chief Roomhaus or whatever they call it. UPDATE: I just looked it up, it’s Rotes Rathaus, or Red City Hall. UPDATE 2: Hey Germans, whatever happened to democracy? What’s up with the RED city hall? Okay that’s all, carry on Germans).

Ein Berliner

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, Wildderman Kristoffer! Wildderman called me up and spoke to me in a perfect American accent and explained that he had a wild proposal for me.

“Wait just a second,” I said, “your name is what? Wildderman?”

He corrected me. “Well,” he said, “it’s actually spelled with a W but pronounced Germanic with a V sound. So it’s like Vildderman.”

“A-ha, I see,” I said. “I’m about to ask for your permission for something, but just know that my request is simply ceremonial. It’s like the Spanish king and queen—my request is basically a figurehead—because I’m going to follow through on my plan regardless of your answer. Still, I’m polite enough to ask: Can I call you Vild, like Wild but with a V?”

“That should be fine.”

“Okay great, Vild, what can I do for you?”

“I have heard that you are a freelance bicyclist.”

“Indeed.”

“And I have heard that you are strong and creative.”

“That’s true too. Hey, this is starting to feel like it’s going to get sexual, Vild.”

“No, no, no! Nothing like that. I just need an open mind.”

“You got it.”

“I am wondering if you would consider moving me and my family from one house to another.”

“You mean haus?”

“You think your German fascination thing will stop?

“Not a chance, Vild. To be honest with you, zat’s just not going to happen.”

“Okay. At least it’s sort of funny. And not totally offensive.”

“You want me to do a moving job? On my bike?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“With, what, a trailer or something?”

“Yes, that’s what I was thinking. Of course, I would purchase the trailer, and compensate you competitively.”

“Competitive compared to other people hiring freelance bicycle movers, you mean.”

“Well, no, at least just competitive for your time and energy.”

“That is a vild idea. How far apart are the houses?”

“About four miles. I looked at trailers and I estimated that it would take 23 trips. I just want to do it with no gas. Hence the bike.”

“Holy shit. That sort of sounds fun. Any uphills?”

“One hill. I researched that too. Thirty feet of vertical gain over the course of one city block.”

“That sounds alright. What’s the time frame?”

“Next weekend. Possibly into Monday.”

I thought about it. It sounded like an interesting idea, I had to give him that much. An adventure, for sure.

“Okay, Vild, I’m in.”

So here’s the thing. Thirty feet of vertical gain times 23 trips. Do the math or whatever. With a piano on a trailer behind me. Or a clothes dresser. Or a huge headboard. Or Vild’s three sons and their family safe. That all happened.

I can’t feel my thighs right now, is what I’m saying. I look at them, and I smack them and poke them with my fingers, but I can’t feel them.

And it’s been two days. It’s Wednesday.

But I tell you what. I’ll take that pain, I’ll take that numbness of thigh.

Why, you ask?

Because I just loved seeing them in that new haus.

Vild's cousin Ulrich, in Bavaria. The inspirator.