Inspiration Series Part II: The Toothless Rider

Summer, 2010.
I was living in a tent
in Northern Maine
training my brains out.
working at a bike shop

****

he leaned his thousand-dollar bike against the building
and walked into the shop
blowing smoke from a butt he
tossed at the door.

sweat rolled off his brow.
July in Northern Maine can surprise you with the odd scorcher.
he wore full length jeans and wreaked of
burnt nicotine and body odor.

he'd been outdoors for a while.
his Native American skin
was ebony from exposure.
"i need a new bike"
he said, flashing a toothless smile.

the last thing i wanted was to
be within a million feet of his stench,
but i remained professional.
hell, my BO may have rivaled his at the time.

he talked
i listened, or tried to.
he mumbled a lot and
spittle flew from his mouth
as his tongue tried to make noise against teeth
that hadn't been there in years.

Presque Isle was his home
but he had weekly business in Waterville.
something to do with doctor's appointments
or some other Native American government benefit

he was broke
and i was fascinated.
surely he couldn't afford the transportation.
Waterville was nearly 250 miles away.
I looked into his deep black eyes
hoping my assumption was correct
"So how do you get to Waterville?"

"I ride my bike."

the truth was in his eyes.
in the matter-of-fact
way he said it.
in his lean body frame
and black skin

i never mentioned my exploits.
i wanted to hear about his.

it wasn't about fitness.
he could've outridden most people
who walked in the door of the shop,
but that wasn't even on his radar.

it wasn't about the image of being a cyclist.
he wore sneakers and used platform pedals.
there was no helmet to be seen.
he rode more miles per week than anyone i knew
including me.
his cycling regimen was LIFE.

that man, wearing a sweat-stained cotton tee shirt
and tight, dirty dungarees
didn't buy a new bike

he just wanted to talk cycling.
he changed me.

----------------------------------------------------
for the first installment of The Inspiration Series, click here

Travis

presque isle, maine
i moved there on a whim
following a false lead on life
to the cheapest apartment i could find
in the shortest amount of time
it was part Section 8 housing,

and even though i was in my mid-20s
my mind was like an 18 year old-
impressionable after a year and half
in Pennsylvania
had taken me down a few pegs

a teenage mom lived next door
school age
but not attending.

sometimes we would meet in the stairwell,
her eyes always averted mine.
lack of confidence.
lack of worth.
she really had no chance.
her body language dripped shame.

she might have been
the most beaten down person i have ever seen
when you are 16, in that position
i don't think things can get worse
and they certainly aren't headed for better.

Travis would come up the stairs
wreaking of weed,
talking to his cronies.
blast through the door
as the man of the house
yelling and throwing things around,
but he wasn't shit.

The baby would cry for hours.
Is anyone even around?, I would wonder...
But then Travis would yell "SHUT UP!"
and something would go flying.
And I wouldn't get involved.

One night, a fight ensued.
Baby screamed.
Mother screamed.
Travis went on a tirade,
and the apartment shook as he slammed the door
and ran down the stairs.

It was -30F that night.
I seriously debated whether I should follow him
and toss him off the dam and into the freezing water
and end his worthless life.

I almost justified going to jail
to free this girl-
with her slumped-forward shoulders, downcast eyes
and her infant
of Travis

Shaking, I bolted across the hall,
opening the door without knocking,
to make sure everyone was okay.
Teenage Mom was there with her teenage friend.
Both wide-eyed and in shock
As a good samaritan, I was an intruder.
Help is not help
if it's unwelcome.

It was then that I knew
She must have grown up in this shit

She was going to hand down
those same life parameters, standards, and expectations
over to that poor baby

my belief that humans were inherently good
perished that night


kp

Crotchety

it was a sunny late spring day like this one.
i had just tuned a bike, and the finishing touch was the lubing of the clipless pedals.
i was wearing Nike Free shoes- minimal tread.

I brought the bike into an almost vacant parking lot.
I stood up and pedaled hard, undergoing the usual stress test, shifting under load. After 4 or 5 pedal strokes, my shoes slipped off the freshly lubed pedals, and before i knew it, both feet were dragging on the ground, with all of my weight on my crotch on the top tube of the bike going 15 mph.

Wanting to cry, I coasted to a stop- crotch still on the bar, shoes torn up.
A glimpse of yellow in my peripheral, i looked to the left.

An entire school bus full of high school kids had seen it all.
That must have been the funniest damned thing they had ever seen.
Listen to your guidance counselor, kids.

kp

Of Hulks and Hippies

3 weeks to Infinitus.
I've been asked if I'm ready. I really don't know. The race is too long. Too much can happen in the mountains of VT.



What I do know is that I lived a savage winter. I passed this road every day, and "Become a Savage" kind of became my personal mantra for the winter.

My profile picture is the Hulk in transformation.
I am drawn to the idea of a struggling man hating...and then embracing his dark inner strength. Am I ready to leave the struggle and become something else? I will go to the mountains and lay my ego down at the starting line.

Then, after a few days and hundreds of miles of running, the forest will give me my answer, and I will be grateful for this opportunity, regardless.

kp

No Glory

in retrospect
the finish line is what's glorified

remembrance of jubilation
news articles
and video spots
photos worth a million words
and even more footsteps

how do you prepare for the next
when you only remember the good?

dig deep.
remember the squeaking of wet shoes
socks saturated with dirt
the sting of old bandages creating new blisters

staggering out of bed
on 2 hours of sleep
stuffing swollen feet into damp shoes
for another 20 hour day

the way a mile can last forever
or how you can't squat for a trailside shit
how it's possible to forget germ phobias
sitting in a portapotty
actually enjoying it

when you can't keep your chin up
and your headlight beams down
illuminating fresh bear tracks
hair on the back of your neck stands up
on a cold night, with mist pouring down
and everything is soggy

the owls hoot a sad and lonely song
created solely for the way you feel
and everyone else is living their normal life

and a warm bed is hundreds of miles away

kp