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.
