The old man remembered his first bicycle, a cruiser his brother had
assembled from disparate salvaged parts. The frame, from a 1938 Schwinn Flying
Star, had been stripped bare. No chain guard, no fenders, no kick stand, no horn, no
handlebar grips, nor lights. His brother had been a purist, had reduced the concept
of bicycle to its bare bones, to its essential function. The bike’s wheels had wooden
rims that warped when he left the bike out in the rain and produced a loping
motion, like riding a camel. He loved riding that old bike, the freedom, the thrill of
silent motion, the sense that he and the bike could go anywhere he chose, maybe
to the ends of the Earth.
In those days, the ends of the Earth began beyond the bluffs along the
Mississippi River, that “mile-wide tide” where Huck Finn and Jim had rafted down
through the American mind. Here, at the highest point in Illinois, he would lay down
his bike, sit back in the tall grass, and look out at the world, and he would dream of
riding his bike on adventures beyond the distant horizon. In those moments he
would be so absolutely content that he promised himself, even if he lived to be one
hundred, he would never forget those carefree, sanguine hours, dreaming above
the river.
Now, as he entered the Mercury Bike Mart, he smiled at the clarity of the
memory. Michael Moss was eighty-seven years old, and he had never stopped
dreaming of a bicycle odyssey beyond the horizon. But when he was younger, life
had always gotten in the way. Then, more recently, death had, or at least its second
cousin, old age. But the dream had always been there, smoldering away in his DNA.
Never had he seen so many bicycles in one place. There must have been
hundreds. They were formed up in rows along the floor and they hung high
overhead from the ceiling. Mountain bikes, road bikes, racing bikes, folding bikes,
freight bikes, something called BMX bikes. Fat wheels, skinny wheels, some with
seats set so high and handlebars so low that they could only have been designed for
contortionists. There were brands he had never heard of, like Kona Sutra, for God’s
sake, or Endorphin, even one company with a stupid brand called Evil Bikes. Along
the walls were racks of accessories like lights and reflectors and computers and
tools and water bottles and luggage racks. There was a huge display of clothing,
jackets and Jerseys, even padded underwear for both men and women, all in
flamboyant, eye-scalding colors. All that useless shit! For a moment, he mourned
his brother’s brown naked Schwinn.
“Looking for a bike?” the young clerk asked. He was wearing a Mercury Bike
Shop T-shirt emblazoned with an image of the Roman winged god riding a purple
racing bike. It occurred to Michael that Mercury was not only the Roman god of
shopkeepers, but also of thieves. He resolved to be wary.
“Why the hell else would I be in a bike shop?”
Undeterred, the clerk pressed on. “For a grandchild?”
“For me.” Under his breath, he added, “Dumbass.” Michael caught a glimpse
of himself in the mirror next to the rack of bike apparel. He saw a tall, thin old man
with a long beard and ponytail. He found himself irritated at the clerk, the little
prick and potential thief. But then he was always irritated at something or
someone. He generally suffered a low-level aggravation with himself.
“We’ve got just the thing.” The clerk led Michael to a display of adult
bicycles. “Here we have the Royal London 3-Wheel Trike Bike. Very stable. No
balance required.” He moved to another. “Here is the Schwinn Meridian trike. Huge
basket on the back for groceries and stuff.”
Michael rolled his eyes. “I don’t want a damn toy. I don’t want a bike to go
grocery shopping.” He moved to a row of shiny new road bikes. “I want a touring
bicycle. One like these.” He touched the handlebar of a bright red Pinarello. How
beautiful, he thought. He traced his fingers over the leather seat, the frame,
marveled at the exquisite design and engineering. He had always considered
bicycles a work of art, as much a joy to look at as to ride. Then, sadly, as his reflexes
and balance and endurance began to wane, he had set his bike aside. But it was still
in his room, as much a part of the décor as the paintings on the wall. It had been
ten years since he had ridden his beloved old 3-speed Raleigh. As his dream of a
long road trip recently began to resurface, he thought of bringing the Raleigh out of
retirement, but he knew it was too heavy and only three gears wouldn’t take him
over the mountains and diverse terrain that guarded the ends of the Earth.
A group of young people came into the shop and the clerk left Michael for
the new customers’ greater sales potential. Michael walked along the racks of road
bikes, examining each with his eyes and the touch of his fingers. He noticed that
each had a price tag, but he ignored them, noticing only that bicycle prices had
escalated in the last half century. He kept returning to a beautiful black Dutch
bicycle, the hand-made Koga World Traveler. He loved the idea of having a bike
made in Holland and he imagined himself riding along the Zuider Zee where ships
from all the Seven Seas once sailed. The bike looked so solid and substantial, yet he
could easily lift it with one hand. It had a step-over frame to make it easier to
mount with his rheumy old legs. The Koga World Traveler appeared both graceful
and muscular and it spoke to him of independence and the miles and the wind and
silence.
“I’ll take this one,” Michael said.
“Don’t you want to ride it first?”
“No,” he said. Refusing to haggle over the price of art, he wrote out a check
for the full price and then rolled the Koga World Traveler out to his van.
Michael had lived in his apartment ever since his wife had run away with her
bridge club partner, abandoning he and his daughters, a half-century before. She
had disappeared from his life, but in recent years, his daughters visited often to
make sure he was eating properly and to remind him he was a lonely, friendless,
introspected old recluse whose funeral would be lightly attended. They insisted he
get out more, take up a hobby, maybe ride his bike again, or join a bridge club. He
would remind them what happened the last time he took up bridge. He also once
had plenty of friends but he had driven them all away with his quarrelsome and
arrogant manner. It was all his ex-wife’s fault. The anger he felt when she left him
to raise two young girls alone, especially through the teenage years, had festered
through the decades, sometimes rising to the surface when he would strike out
against anyone with the abysmal luck to be nearby. He was helpless against this all
powerful force no matter how hard he tried to reform.
He rolled his new Koga World Traveler into his one-bedroom apartment. It
was not difficult to discern that Michael had once been a map salesman until his
retirement some twenty years before. The walls were covered with maps; world
maps, contemporary and ancient, topographical maps, globes, and maps of specific
egions throughout the United States and the world. Azimuthal projections. Conic
projections. Cylindrical projections. But, to Michael, these maps were more than
paper. They reflected one of humankind’s oldest adventures on the planet, the long
pilgrimage to discover the dimensions and nature of God’s world. Over the years,
he had traced some of the most historic and intriguing roads and trade routes of
noted explorers and adventurers. He imagined himself walking beside Marco Polo
and Ibn Battuta and other legendary explorers. In his mind, he traveled along The
Great Silk Road, the Incense Road from the Persian Gulf to the Red Sea, the
Chisholm Trail from San Antonio to Fort Worth, the route of the ancient camel
caravans across Arabia. Along one wall was a bookcase filled with the journals of
travelers and explorers. It was in this room of maps and dreams that Michael was
most happy, even at peace, here among these bold travelers whose spirit he
shared. Against another wall was his faithful old Raleigh. He had already talked with
it about his need for a lighter touring bike with more gears. For years, he had
engaged in unabashed conversation with his bike, a mute, but gifted and
sympathetic listener. The Raleigh had accepted its fate with admirable grace. It
would be a gift to the Boys and Girls Clubs of America. Now with a heavy heart and
a keen sense of betrayal, Michael rolled the old bike out into the garage and
replaced it with the Koga. Because he named everything he loved – his pocketknife,
his ukulele, his van – he named his new black bike Shadow. The Raleigh he had
named Walter.
Michael didn’t ride the new bike right away. For days, he was content to
merely look at it and dream. He imagined it framed by the Himalayas, or against a
Persian Gulf sunset, or resting against a giant redwood tree in the Muir Woods.
Sometimes he would walk it around the room, admiring the craftsmanship of its
creators. Often, he would step over the fame and sit back in the saddle, his hands
on the handlebars, his eyes on the distant horizon. It was not settled in his mind
why he was reluctant to ride Shadow. Partly, he knew, it was fear. He was well
aware his balance was impaired. Sometimes at night, he could feel his heart
fluttering like trapped butterflies beneath the covers. Recently, when crossing a
busy street, he had miscalculated the speed of an approaching car and he had been
forced to run, a breakneck loping gallop that seemed to dislodge his vital inner
organs and left him breathless. He feared that to actually ride the bike might prove
how stupid it was to do such a thing. But, perhaps the most salient reason he
delayed riding Shadow was that he had dreamed so long of an epic trek that to
actually begin it might end the dreaming. What if reality didn’t match up to the
dream. It would be like yearning for apple pie and being served rhubarb pie instead.
But as time passed, his resolve to make a grand expedition on the Koga World
Traveler only grew more intense. Then, one morning, as he awakened from a dream
of wheeling freely through strange and mythic lands, he knew the time had come to
make his dream real.
Michael loaded Shadow into his van, then returned to the bike shop to
accessorize his bike for the coming journey. At first, the clerk thought he was
returning the bike for a refund. Smirking, the clerk said, “Changed your mind, I see.”
“Didn’t change shit,” Michael growled. And I still think you’re a little prick,
he thought. And without further ado, he began to collect what he would need for
his expedition. He selected panniers, saddlebags, to mount over the front and back
wheels. He also selected tools, spare bike parts, small bags for the tools and
miscellany to mount under the handlebars and under the seat. He selected a highpressure pump. A patch kit and several water bottles to mount on the frame. The
oddity of a bearded old man outfitting an expensive road bike, drew the attention
of a number of young bikers who were hanging around. He thought they looked silly
in their tight pants and zany Jerseys. He wondered what Daniel Boone or
Meriwether Lewis would think of these outfits. Even Marco Polo, who wore
pantaloons and slippers, seemed more fit for the trail than these clowns. They
gathered around offering unbidden suggestions until he told them to fuck off. He
paid his bill and rolled Shadow back out to Eddie, his van.
It took nearly a week to completely outfit his new bike. From a sporting
goods store in the mall, he purchased a Nemo one-man tent that weighed barely
more than a pound and a sleeping bag that weighed next to nothing. From the
same store, he bought a water purifier, light-weight cookware and a tiny stove and
a small pot and frying pan. For silverware, he would use his pocketknife, Hezekiah.
He also purchased an array of instant and freeze-dried meals, as well as peanut
butter and granola bars.
Then, one night, after watching Naked and Afraid on television, he loaded all
the gear and supplies and clothing he had purchased into the bike’s panniers and
packs. The last thing he packed was Blackie, his Beretta 25-millimeter pistol, in case
he might encounter bandits or revolutionaries. Then he rolled Shadow out into the
back yard where he leaned the bike against a loblolly pine.
A pale crescent moon, like something from an Arabian fable, bathed Shadow
in a soft nimbus of light. All else was darkness, stillness. Even the normal sounds of
the neighborhood, dogs barking, late-night television, a distant train, all seemed
muted and illusory. And there was something else in the night. A massive presence
that had not been there before. Above the loblolly pine, above his garage, the
moonlight revealed a great mountain, its peak frosted with snow. A cold wind
swept down from the mountain’s dark shoulders. Michael shivered, worried about
hypothermia. It was time to make camp.
He removed the tent and the sleeping bag from the bike. By the light of a
small battery powered lantern, he pitched the tent and stuffed the sleeping bag
inside. He wondered if he should build a fire as protection against wolves or snow
leopards or demons. Instead, he removed Blackie the Beretta from the pack and
chambered a round. He turned off the lantern, whispered a prayer he had not
thought of since childhood, then, after a time, he went to sleep.
At first light, Michael rose and made coffee on his little stove. The mountain
rose in the middle distance, blue at its base, the peak shrouded in silver mist. He
listened to the mountain, heard an almost deafening silence. Then he heard the
sound of prayer wheels spinning in the cold mountain air, a magical sound the great
explorer Ibn Battuta had described in his journals. His heart filled with both
euphoria and apprehension, Michael broke camp, packed his gear, climbed aboard
Shadow and set out down the road.
The road between Nepal and Tibet coiled down the face of the mountain,
often through corridors of juniper, often through corridors of stone. To the right,
the Himalayas rose into cloud. Far to the left, were wide golden fields of poppies.
Alongside the road, sheer drops plunged down to a small, swift river white with
rapids. There was a scent of juniper in the air and somewhere in the distance, the
ethereal melody of brass Yak bells haunted the morning. The road of crushed stone
was surprisingly smooth and as Michael maneuvered the downhill curves, he
thought it was the next best thing to flying. Occasionally, he passed a Buddhist
stupa, its dome strewn with colorful prayer flags streaming in the wind. Now and
again, he passed a solitary pilgrim, or a family of nomads. They would pause to
watch this strange, wheeled apparition pass, then turn back on their arduous
journeys.
The trek was not as difficult as Michael had feared. He had quickly learned
how to work his way through the bike’s many gears, his legs felt strong, and his
balance had returned like a lost memory. At noon, ahead in the distance, he saw a
yak caravan silhouetted against the sky. The caravan was probably carrying grain or
salt, maybe silk, spices, precious stones from China and India. Later in the day, it
was apparent Shadow was faster than the yaks. By evening, Michael had caught up
with the caravan just as the Sherpa traders were making camp. There must have
been two-dozen yaks, great wooly beasts, some black, a few white, most black with
white faces, legs and tails. They all had bright flags and red tassels woven into their
ears. Michael thought, with their enormous size, obvious strength and great long
curved horns, they were the most noble creatures he had ever seen. Their long hair
and tails swept the ground like luxurious gowns.
At first, the Sherpa traders, though obviously curious, paid little attention to
the strange cyclist in their midst. They set about building stone fire circles,
gathering wood and dried dung and tethering the Yaks. Michael noticed they set
out guards armed with rifles. Ibn Battuta had written that caravans were often
attacked by bandits or bands of criminal monks. Michael was glad he had brought
Blackie. The Sherpas showed no signs of hostility. They simply went about the
business of repairing gear, feeding their yaks dried peas, and setting up their yakhair tents. After a
time, several of the men approached, smiled, gestured at the
bicycle. They squatted down and examined the bike as if it were some new species
of animal. Then they rose and gestured for Michael to follow them to where others
had built a fire out of the wind behind a wall make of unloaded boxes and packs.
Soon they were sharing a meal. The Sherpas offered Michael yak butter tea and yak
milk stew. Michael offered the Sherpas peanut butter, granola bars and freezedried potatoes.
After he pitched his tent, he returned to the fire where his new companions
were drinking something that sounded like chaang from wooden mugs. The drink
was piping hot, wickedly intoxicating, and seemed to race directly into the
bloodstream. One of the men around the fire began to play a strange stringed
instrument, some kind of lute with a drumhead like a banjo. The music he played
was melodic, soothing, and Michael began to feel a spiritual connection to the men
around the fire. His stomach filled with yak stew, his brain buzzing with chaang, he
realized he had never felt so happy, so content. Not since those days he lay above
the Mississippi with his brother’s bike those many years before. All his irritation at
the world, at its citizens, and at himself began to fall away. At last, he was living the
life he had always dreamed.
When the fire began to die down and the iron pot of chaang had emptied,
the Sherpas dispersed and returned to their yak-hair tents. Michael crept into his
bright orange tent and wriggled into his sleeping bag. For a long while, he lay
awake, listening to the yak bells. Feeling at one with the Earth, his companions, and
the flow of time. He had just begun to doze off when he heard the first shouts and
gunshots.
By the time he wrestled out of his sleeping back and crawled from the tent,
the camp was in chaos. They had been attacked by a band of marauders who were
firing into the tents, stealing packs of trade goods and driving away the yaks. One of
the bandits was trying to carry way Shadow, struggling to free it from where
Michael had tethered it like the Sherpas had tethered their yaks. When he yelled at
the man to stop, the thief turned and fired his rifle. Michael felt a stinging punch in
his stomach, yet managed to fire Blackie, again and again, until the man fell.
Michael pried the bandit’s dead hands away from Shadow’s handlebars, then he
waded into the melee, firing Blackie at the enemy, until all his bullets were gone
and everything went dark.
When Michael regained consciousness, it was apparent the bandits had
been driven away. The Sherpas were caring for their wounded and burying their
dead. Several Sherpas had gathered around where Michael lay. One was treating his
wound with yak grease and honey. Others were offering healing prayers. They all
regarded him with the deepest respect. Then he felt the Sherpas gently carrying
him back to his tent. For a long while they stayed with him, wiping his brow, feeding
him spoonfuls of chaang to kill the pain. Just before dawn, Michael closed his eyes
and feeling no pain, he slept.
In the morning, it was his eldest daughter who found him. She had been
looking for him in the house when she noticed his tent and his new bicycle outside
beneath the loblolly tree. She found him inside the tent. At first, she thought he
was sleeping. She smiled, realizing she had never seen the old coot looking so
peaceful. Then she saw the blood and the pistol by his hand.
When the police came, their first thought was suicide or an accident. The
pistol had been recently fired. Yet, the investigating officers were confused by the
size and nature of the fatal wound. Michael was carried away. All his maps, Shadow
and Walter, Hezekiah and his other beloved possessions were donated to the Boys
and Girls Clubs of America. Since Michael’s death was an open case, Blackie would
be held in the police property room until the mystery of his death was solved.
If you enjoyed this story, you might enjoy my new novel, The Lost Caravan, available on Amazon and at Barnes & Noble