There's No Reverse on a Bicycle

"Dammit. I missed him again." I pulled back through the passenger side car window and glanced at Tamer. He looked calm and relaxed, one hand casually draped over the steering wheel, the ash of his cigarette a gravity-defying length. I watched the amazing ash for a moment, awaiting its fall to Earth. It did not.

"You've got to snap it, Danner." Tamer said. "Just, you know, crack it. Whap! Like you practiced in the back yard."

"It's a lot harder in a moving vehicle." I replied, wondering again how I let myself be talked into this.

"Well, that makes it a lot more fun then, don't it? Now get back out there and put your heart into it."

I got up on my knees in the front seat, carefully working my way back out the window up to my waist. We were only going about twenty miles an hour, but I still didn't want to do a header on to the asphalt. A warm breeze blew in my face and I could smell honeysuckle. The only sound above the low purr of the car engine was the wheezing and gasping of the bicyclist ten feet ahead. I played out the Si Davey, pulled back my arm, and let fly.

The man on the bike is Richard Lawtry. He's eighty-one years old. Eighty-one. He rode 8400 miles last year. Eight-thousand and four-hundred miles. On a bicycle.

I ride a bike. After work I throw my tired ass on my Cannondale and crunch miles. After a Saturday night fun fest I pull myself together on Sunday morning and ride until I want to puke. I ride in the eye-stinging sweat of July and the lung-burning cold of February. I cuss the winds of March as I struggle to stay upright. I've signed on and raised money for the good charities and others I wasn't so sure about, like feral mothers and unwed cats. I'll pay my entry fee and ride a hundred kilometers for a cold sandwich and a t-shirt that won't fit after one washing. Why? Because I'm a damn citizen that's why...and the miles. It's always about the miles. On December 31st of last year I tallied those precious miles and do you know what they came to? Twenty-six hundred. Richard Lawtry had eight-thousand four-hundred. What in the Hell did he do, ride his bicycle to the bathroom in the middle of the night? He's eighty-one years old for Pete's sake! Doesn't he have a garden to tend or dominoes to line up somewhere?

My wife says he's a nice man, a gentleman. We met him one day out riding. He couldn't have been more gracious. He complimented our bikes and seemed genuinely impressed by the twenty miles we had just ridden. It was a nice little act he threw together there beside Evans Road.

"You know I've got the advantage over yoiu working people." He smiled. "I can ride anytime I want to."

He told us about a time trial he does down Charlotte every month. It seems he finally beat a seventy-four year old after several attempts. The seventy-four year old claimed he had mechanical trouble. I chuckled politely. He was such a nice guy and all.

"I've got plenty of time to ride. " He continued. " I just rode over to High Point to pick up my medication. That's thirty-five miles round trip. Some people think that's a long way."

I wanted to ask if his medication was Preparation H. But I didn't. I really wanted to. He dropped the 8400 mile bomb on me then and I felt a chill on the other side of my heart. After we parted ways my wife commented she thought he was kind of sexy to be eighty-one. I realized right then that I hated Richard Lawtry's guts. I thought I'd take this to my grave.

"That's it Dander. Git ye out there and give him a taste of the ole Davey." Tamer urged. "That'll give him some giddyup. He wants to ride does he? Well don't spare the quirt. Let him know there's a flogging nigh for the tarriers."

"Dear God, why are you talking like a pirate? I shouted over my shoulder. My sweaty hand slipped a little on the doorframe. The whip went high, glanced off Mr. Lawtry's helmet and ripped his sunglasses from his face, sending them flying. His head jerked around, eyes spinning wildly. He looked pretty exicted.

"What are you son-of-a-bitches? Crazy?" Spit flew from his mouth but he slowed not a bit.

I'm thinking this is not the Mr. Nice Guy I met before. But he was right. At least one of us was crazy.

Richard Tamer is six foot two and spins the dial to about 230 lbs. His uniform of choice is a plain white t-shirt with a pack of Marlboros rolled up in the sleeve, blue jeans, and cowboy boots. He smells of Aqua Velva and combs his hair back with Brylcream or some other slick substance. He has a passing resemblence to a young beefy Elvis right before things went terribly wrong for the King. Strangely enough, certain kind of women like this look. There seems to be a lot of these certain kind of women.

There is no medication he has not been on. Some of them actually prescribed for him. He has a pet duck only he can see. Tamer makes quacking sounds out of one side of his mouth and out of the other consoles his duck with words like, "Don't bark at me Ducky, now now." Some people at your finer shopping malls find this behavior disconcerting. At Wal-Mart, not so much.

He has a prosthetic leg from right below his left knee due to a car accident he has absolutely no recall of. He lost half a leg and his driver's license for life. This doesn't stop him from driving, of course, nor does the expired plates on his current car, or lack of insurance, (Insurance is for people who don't know how to drive." Explains Tamer. "I'm an excellent driver.") For some reason my wife thinks he's a bad influence. Bad for me. I think he's interesting.

He likes to dabble in obscure pursuits. Two weeks ago tomorrow UPS brought his bullwhip. It's beauty too, golden tan, smooth as butter. It's made of kangaroo hide. (All the way fron Australia." Says Tamer. "A Si Davey. $150 American.") The wrapped handle is mahogany in color and swivels, coming alive in your hand. A small twitch of the wrist sends the tip spiraling in arcane loops, competely out of my control at first. Tamer mastered it quickly and soon tutored me into doing a fairly respectable job. We practiced by popping empty Bud cans off the stump of a tree he inadvertently dropped onto the corner of his house last September. His life is not boring. Maybe that's why he can talk me into almost anything.

"Did you see that?" I yelled."I clipped his glasses!"

"That was a mighty fine result Dan, but I'm wondering if your heart is guiding your arm. Isn't that the man who brags about all the riding he gets to do while you're slaving away at work?"

"Well...I wouldn't call it bragging exactly."

"No? What would you call it? He made you look bad in front of your woman. Like all your long, hard miles were nothing. You were proud of those miles, Dander. You want to lay the Davey to him for that don't you? Well don't you?" Lighting another Marlboro, he stared ahead, looking like I had let him down.

Tamer was right, of course. I did get tired of coming up short sometimes. Real tired. Back out the window I went. Again my arm flexed but this time I cocked my wrist at the precise moment snapped the lash across Mr. Lawtry's back.

"Waaooo." He hollered at the sky and arched his back.

"I think he's finally got it Ducky." Said Tamer.

"Quack." Said Ducky.

I couldn't believe Richard Lawtry was still riding. I had to give it to him, he was a tough old bird. 80 yo

"I think he wants another, Ducky."

"Quack."

"My God man." Cried Mr. Lawtry. "Mercy. I only need a mile and a half and I'll have a million."

"Not if I can help it, you old coot." I struck with vengence. Vengence against all the skinny racer boys who pass me on hills. Against the triathalon chicks who leave me in their svelte and tawny dust. Revenge guided my hand as I struck against any rider that's faster, stronger, or more determined than me, including my wife who doesn't have the decency not to ride on the days I don't feel like it. She keeps getting her damn miles, pulling farther and farther away.

I was aiming for his scrawny ass but quivering passion spoiled my throw and I pulled it a bit much. The tip cracked like small lightning, ripping a hole in his spandex shorts, left thigh, inside, high and tight. This shot must have been proximal the nads because he let out an ungodly hyena-like yelp and veered sharply right, just missing the Carp City sign. As he jumped the ditch and headed down the bumpy slope toward the tree line, I had to admire his superb bike handling skills, hanging on like that with one hand and shaking his fist with the other.

"I know you!" He yelled. "I know who you are. You're that guy who can't climb hills. I know who you aaarrreee..."

"Can't climb?" I thought that a bit harsh as I watched him disappear under a juniper. "You think he recognized me, Tamer? You think he really knows who I am?" I pushed the Si Davey away from me.

Tamer threw his cigarette out the window, checked his hair in the rearview mirror, and said nothing.

"Quack." Said Ducky.

I felt a little disconsolate when Tamer drooped me off at my house.

"Where you been, honey?" My wife asked. She was sitting on the sofa eating yogart. It was three o'clock in the afternoon. Good Lord.

"I've been out with Tamer."

She made a face. "I wish you wouldn't hang out with him."

"He's interesting." I said absently. "Sweetheart."

She looke up. "Yes? Is there something bothering you?"

"Yeah. Do you think I can climb?"