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