The Palendrone
In our darkest moments
we must strive for the greatness that lies deep within.
There is no one else who can find your courage for you.
It has always been within,
so, brush away the obstacles and
allow yourself to trust the only one who can truly help you,
and that my boy, is you,
and you alone
–Author Jeff Scott
“If the bicycle hadn’t been invented, mankind would never have known the true spirit of flight.”
“Is this what you believe Mr. Jenue? Mr. Jenue? Ground control to Mr. Jenue!”
Mr. Buckman’s voice soared the great divide and brought my class, Mechanical Engineering, to a nose-dive crash landing. The daydream breaking tone in his voice seemed slightly angered as it instantly pulled me off of my bicycle seat and landed me back at my desk.
“Is this your idea of an essay, Robert?” Mr. Buckman asked. “Where exactly did you get your facts for such a statement? Did you by chance clear this invention theory with the Wright brothers, who I’m sure, as your statement says, “Received their knowledge of aerodynamics from the bicycle?”
Buckman is a harsh, bastard of a teacher. Supposedly he’s the best teacher on campus. I think he got his rating because of some TV history program that used him as a guest speaker. They considered him an engineering historian, an intellect. If he’s really that good, then I can’t imagine why he’s teaching about the mechanics of engineering. He should be building something beyond human capacity. What’s that they say, “Those who can’t do, teach.” If only I had some way to prove Buckman wrong.
To add insult to injury and embarrass me, Buckman didn’t just throw my paper on the desk, no, he folded it into an airplane and let it gently glide across the room and into the waste basket.
“Mr. Jenue, write another paper, but this time with facts. Do your research, don’t hypothesize.”
I just sat there and looked at him… What an ass, but that was a pretty cool plane.
The bell rang and as I stood up, I couldn’t help but to catch the eyes of the girl who sits next to me, Sarah. Her gaze was directly toward my crotch. She saw that I caught her and she smiled.
“Nice shorts.” She smirked as she got up and walked away.
“Mr. Jenue, may I see you for a moment?” asked Buckman.
I stepped over to his desk and was silent.
“Robert, when you’re in my class please try to respect what I’m asking of everyone; papers that mean something. This is not a high school creative writing class.”
“Yes sir,” I replied.
“Oh, and please try to dress appropriately for class. Leave your biking clothes for your creative classes.”
With that, I left. I didn’t excuse myself, I just walked out. I didn’t want to hear any more of his crap. He should be glad I didn’t wear my cycling cleats and do a wild tap dance on his wood floors. Excuse me, a wild, creative tap dance.
Looking at my watch, I had to ride roughly 10 miles within the next 30 minutes… any longer would make me late for work. I knew I’d never make it in the stop and go of traffic, so I figured I’d high-tail it down to the beach and ride the bike path.
Shoving my feet into my cycling shoes and jamming my books into my pack, I locked my foot into a pedal and pushed off to get some momentum. In a matter of seconds, I was speeding through campus.
Just trying to get to the beach, the traffic was crazy bad. I nearly got hit three times. Fucking drivers need to be more careful. My dad laughs at me when I complain about drivers not paying attention to cyclists.
“Hit one head on with your bike and see who needs to watch out for whom,” my ol’ man would preach. Then he’d add, “Bikes may have been around before cars, but so were horse drawn carriages and you don’t see them on the road anymore.”
He had no respect for cycling. All he understood was how to throw back a tall can of beer while watching a ball game. “Don’t participate, be a bystander,” should be his motto.
Even after dodging pedestrians here and there along the bike path, I made it to work in record time. Skidding to a stop, I quickly glanced down at the timer attached to my handlebars. If I could’ve given myself a high-five, I would have. My time was 38 seconds better than yesterday.
I know this only means that I may have gotten through a stoplight a little quicker or dodged one less pedestrian on the path but so what… 38 seconds is 38 seconds.
My shoes click clacked off the linoleum floor as I made my way to punch-in on the time clock. Sammy, a corn-row wearing, big black woman who makes no bones about the fact that she is big and she is black, sexually harasses me every time I pass the front desk.
Sammy is actually one of my favorite people. Every time I show up for work dressed in my bike shorts, she goes off. Maybe even “gets off.”
“Oooo if I had that ass boy, I’d never stop touchin’ myself. Don’t make me come over there and test those melons. You want to cut some wind resistance? Give me a razor. I’ll help you shave those legs. I’ll shave ya all up in that crotch of yours if ya let me. Bring those legs on over here boy, I know ya ain’t a turkey, but let me grab a piece of that tender white meat.”
“Sammy, you wouldn’t know what to do with me as much as I wouldn’t know where to start with you.” I joked as I went to change clothes.
Shouting down the hall to me, “You need help startin’ just let me know, I’ll show ya where to start,” she paused a brief moment, “You can even keep those shoes on, ride me, spur me a goo’ one now and then.”
I just kept walking, wondering if sometimes she might be for real.
Entering the locker room, I couldn’t help but to notice him. He was old… very old but solid in frame. When our eyes met, I almost feared him. Standing by a bench in front of the lockers, he was buttoning his shirt and then grabbed his smock.
“How are you doing? Are you new here?” I asked.
Quiet for a moment, he was reserved.
“Yes, I’m filling in.”
“Really? For whom?” I asked.
He patiently looked in his locker and then looked at me. “I’m filling in for Dr. Lonchek.”
“Wow, I thought they fired him.” I replied.
“They did. That’s why I’m filling in.” He was hesitant, then… “I’m Dr. Peleton. And you are?”
“Peleton, like in the bike race?”
“No, like Pel-ee-ton.”
“Oh, got it. My name is Robert. Robert Jenue.”
“What do you do here, Robert?”
“I’m an orderly/janitor. One of the patients has an accident in their bed, special agent Jenue miraculously appears to clean things up. Make everything, well… orderly.”
When we shook hands, I was amazed at his strength. I almost winced but stood my ground. Looking at his hand as he pulled it away, I saw a severe burn mark from years gone by. Though I’m not one to pry, I figured I’d know about it sooner or later. I tend to find out little things about everyone around here. Actually, here and wherever there might be. I’m a glutton for background information, yet I damn near failed my last history exam.
Coming out of the locker room only a moment after Peleton, I scanned down the corridor and to my surprise, it was empty. He only walked out a few seconds ago.
“Hey Sammy, did you see where Dr. Peleton went?”
“Dr. Who?”
“No, not Dr. Who, Dr. Peleton.” I joked.
“We don’t have any Dr. Peleton here.”
I just met him. I just saw him in the locker room. He’s replacing Dr. Lonchek.”
“We don’t have a replacement for Lonchek yet.”
“Are you sure?”
“I don’t know who your imaginary doctor is, but if you want to imagine me as a doctor, I can give you an exam you’ll never forget.”
She smiled and I wandered back down the hall looking for the oldest doctor I’d ever seen. Just as I was passing the recreation room, I spotted him. He was standing by a couch looking out a window. Standing strong with his hands on his hips, his smock thrown just behind him, I drew near and couldn’t help but to notice a set of legs seated in front of him.
A little old woman, Miss Halen, was busy trying to get the doctor’s pants unzipped. When I patted him on the shoulder and interrupted any further action, a flurry of flustering began from Miss Halen. Dr. Peleton just looked at me smugly.
“Don’t you know how to knock?”
He began buttoning his smock as he turned and walked away. Following as best and quick as I could, his pace was incredible for a man of his age, which I figured was close to 80, maybe more. Now I had an idea that he just might not really be a doctor.
He handed me his smock as we walked down the corridor. “You sure do know how to screw up a sure thing,” he boasted with his hands waving in the air.
“Are you even a doctor?” I asked.
“I’m as much of a doctor as you are a cyclist.”
The distaste of his answer swirled across my scrunched-up face.
“What the?” I regrouped. “Are you or are you not a doctor?”
He snapped back at me, “Are you or are you not a cyclist?”
“That has no bearing here. It doesn’t matter if I’m a cyclist, but it does matter if you’re a doctor.”
Loosening his tie, “And why is that?”
“You can’t have the patients play with you. You were about to let her jack you off.”
“And she might have enjoyed herself if you hadn’t interrupted. Who are you, the jack-off police?”
I hesitated and chose not to reply to his question. “Come with me.”
I grabbed him by the shoulder, and we headed in the direction of Sammy. Halfway down the hall, he made a quick right and jumped into an unmade bed. I followed him into the room where he grabbed a chart from the end of the bed and handed it to me.
“This is me. This is my bed. I arrived this morning,” he said sadly, trying to draw me in with his apathetic voice.
These are two-man rooms and in the next bed over was Mr. Adama, who was soundly sleeping to the low volume of the afternoon television news. Mr. Adama was a very small man in height, standing all of 4’11 but a big Japanese commander in WW2. He was nearly 100 years old and one of those people I knew the history of but… didn’t care to really know the history.
Looking at the chart of the mysterious Mr. Petrov Peleton, I questioned him. “How do I know this is really you?”
“I’m sure it says somewhere on that chart that I’m a germaphobe. I wouldn’t do this if I wasn’t who that chart says I am.”
With that statement, Peleton got under the sheets and pulled a cover over him as he lay back.
“What does that prove?” I asked.
“If I’m a germaphobe you think I’d get in someone else’s bed? Around here, who knows what old codger has pissed or soiled their bed?”
“Um, that would be me.”
“Oh, that’s right. You did say you’re the crap collector.”
Sammy made her way into the room and looked at Peleton.
“Are you going to be giving us trouble?” She asked with a stern look.
Peleton just looked at the size of Sammy and was speechless. Politely he looked at her again after skimming by my gaze.
“No ma’am. I’ll be good.”
“That’s right you’ll be good, or you’ll have me to deal with.”
When Sammy left the room, Peleton looked at me.
“What do you say, 3 to 350?”
“350 what?” I asked.
“Pounds, 350 pounds. Her arms were the size of my chest.”
That’s it! I found his fear. Everyone fears something and Peleton just told me his; a big 350-pound black woman.
“Don’t let her catch you wandering the halls without a pass.”
“A pass?” He inquired. “What, are we in 3rd grade?”
“You’re not in grade school, but I’ll tell you this, Sammy will enjoy taking a ruler to your ass if you don’t obey.”
With that little threat hanging over his head, Peleton got quiet.
“Up front, are we going to have trouble with you?”
“I’m not trouble. I’m just not ready to die.”
That caught me off guard and urged me to ask…
“What do you mean, not ready to die?”
“Come on. It’s a fact. The kids leave you here not because they can’t take care of you, but because they know when they do, then your days are numbered.” He paused a moment. “It’s the last stop before hell.”
“What, you’re not going to heaven?” I joked.
Peleton tucked his chin and shook his head. I almost felt sorry for him, but recalled a hard lesson learned from an older gentleman who was a patient here. I once felt sorry for this man who was suicidal and just before taking his own life, he took the life of a fellow orderly; stabbed three times. It’s not that I won’t feel sorry for someone, but I know I have to keep this place on a professional level. I’m friendly, but I’m well aware about getting too involved in anyone’s personal affairs.
A code over the intercom directed me to a bedside that needed cleaning. I told Mr. Peleton that we’d talk later and welcomed him aboard. His chin lifted and like a little child recovering from a scolding, replaced his frown with a smile. Walking away, I wasn’t sure what to make of this instant change of emotions. “Let it go,” I told myself. “It’s time for some dirty work.”
Throughout the rest of the day, Peleton’s comment was on my mind, “I’m as much of a doctor as you are a cyclist.” For someone who didn’t know me, that was a pretty cruel statement.
After work, I donned my gear and went for a ride. Usually I head straight home, but tonight I had bunched up energy and knew if I’d gone home, I’d be restless.
What the hell did he mean, “Much of a cyclist,” and why was I letting this bother me?
Counting cadence as I rode, trading off the power in my legs, left for right, I pushed and pulled my pedals to train my legs equally, I felt exceptionally strong.
I live in an area known as, The Riviera Village, it lines the south-west boundary of Redondo Beach, California. Just to the south of the village is the wealthy community of Palos Verdes, and it offers incredible views of the Pacific Ocean, and a road known mostly to cyclist as, the Switchbacks, a place where riders venture for a session of torture. I’m sure it’s nothing like climbing the Alpe D’Huez in the Tour De’ France, but it’s still the place you go to practice climbing what seems like a never-ending hill.
Tonight, while riding through the village, it was quiet. Come the weekend, the place becomes a local destination offering everything from fine dining to casual beach attire type pubs.
As I rode through the village, I heard someone whistle at me. Least, I thought it was for me, but when I looked for the source, I didn’t see anyone. I didn’t feel violated or offended by any means, but now I understood the gawking that women go through… though I think it works differently for men. If a woman whistles at a guy, usually it’s in fun and they know each other, but it could be an instant notification that there’s interest and the guess work is no longer part of an equation.
Making my way out of the village, I continued to ride a few blocks over to the beach and cruise down a long, steep, access ramp. Once on the bike path, I balanced my bike in place while setting the timer connected to my handlebars. Like a bat out of hell, I raced onward. My destination would be the Redondo Beach pier and then back to the end of Torrance beach. It was roughly 2.3 miles in each direction and my goal tonight was 11 minutes max.
As I pushed myself, I fed thoughts to my body… Harder! Stronger! I could feel the lingering misty sea air streaming off of my face as I continued speeding and ordering myself… Harder! Stronger! Faster! The only thing to fear while riding at night was a pedestrian not looking before stepping onto the path. Still, I rode with a deadline in mind.
My turnaround at the pier was quick and my timer read 5:20. I was on track to make my 11 minutes or less, a reality.
I knew I had the ability and screamed in my head… “Harder! Faster!” When I came across the lifeguard station at the path’s end, my finish line, my timer read 11:02… Not good enough. If I ever want to be taken seriously as a cyclist, to me, I’d have to do the five miles in less than 10 minutes. That would be just under two-minute miles or 29 seconds for every quarter mile. Broken down even further, that’s a constant 30mph.
Peleton’s words crossed my thoughts once again and I began to wonder what he could possibly know. Did he see me ride while coming down the street to work? He couldn’t have made the statement without knowing that I rode.
Cruising home and into the driveway, I could see the light to my mother’s bedroom go out. Looking to the other side of the house to my father’s room, that light was already off. My parents hadn’t slept together in the same bed since I was 10. My mother says that my dad is restless, kicks, tosses and turns all night long. Together they agree that they just can’t get a good night of sleep in the same bed. I often wonder what’s the real source of the problem.
As I entered the house through the back door, Beckham, our miniature Schnauzer, greeted me as usual. Beckham is the second family dog we’ve had, and he’s been great. He always warns us of someone coming to the front door, and once of a prowler trying to steal my bicycle from near the garage in back. Beckham is eight years old but has a lot of puppy left in him. He got his name because of the soccer player, David Beckham. When we first saw my Beckham playing with his six cute little siblings, he was maneuvering a small flat soccer ball around the yard.
“Come on boy, let’s go upstairs.”
Quietly climbing the stairs with me, Beckham entered my room and after turning in circles a couple of times, he found his position on the floor beside my bed.
My mother has a habit of laying my mail on my bed and amongst a credit card bill was my monthly magazine of Cycling. One day I’d like to be written about, or at least have an honorable mention in an article. To me, this would be big. It’d mean I’d made it; known for my riding skills.
As I lay on my bed, I looked at the cover of the magazine by using the dim light of my nightstand lamp. I tore a picture of a rider out of the magazine and glanced across the room at the collage of professional cyclists tacked to a cork board on my wall; riders that I aspired to be like. I set the picture aside, “One day, that’ll be me on the wall,” I said aloud. “One day.”
I glanced at my dresser where someday I’d likely display all of my cycling trophies and the medallions they hang across your neck when you’re about to pass out at the finish line. These are what you get for honorable mention or effort… I wasn’t sure which.
I did know one thing, if I were ever to receive a trophy any bigger than three feet; I’d need a much bigger room. I continued to look around my bedroom, a room that hasn’t changed once in the 16 years we’ve lived here. Nothing had changed except for me getting older and physically bigger.
Seriously, I can’t remember the last time I changed my room around. Who’s got the time? All I do is wake up, go to school, go to work, go to sleep and wake up again. What a life!
Something has got to change, and unfortunately, I know that I’m that something. I’ve got another year of college before I graduate with a Bachelor of Science degree. I’m not sure why I decided to be an engineer. What I would create or work on is beyond me. I don’t know that I want to work for the aerospace industry, which is big here in southern California, because I can’t see myself working in a lab all day. If I’m going to have a job as an engineer, I would hope it to be somewhat exciting. I haven’t had “exciting” in my life in I don’t know how long.
Bored, but not yet tired enough to sleep, I grabbed the remote for the TV. Scanning channels faster than I can ride a bike, there wasn’t anything interesting that caught my eye. Well, there was one thing, but I wasn’t going to foot for the $40.00 video for something I couldn’t touch. A guy has got to be pretty desperate to buy a video of half-naked giggling girls showing the same thing 50 other girls have already flaunted.
It may sound like I’m not enticed by young women my age, I am, as long as she’s got a brain between her ears. And by brain, I mean knowledge of more than just giggling as she flirts with a camera. I shut the TV off and lay still with my hands behind my head. With a deep, relaxed exhale, I slowly closed my eyes and wandered into sleep.
I make sure to eat a good breakfast every morning before my ride to school. My mother thinks I’m crazy because I ride, rain or shine, rather than drive. I’ve been trying to convince her for years that she and my father need to dust off their bikes and, at the least, go for rides down at the beach. “Get out and get some exercise,” I tell them. My father usually grunts and walks away, and my mom just continues to do whatever she’s doing; acting like she didn’t hear a word.
Grabbing my pack and helmet, I’m out the door and down the road in seconds. Every time I get on my bike my mind instantly goes into race mode. Can I beat the clock? I set my timer at the end of the block just as I pass the stop sign.
One of my neighbors, an older guy, works down the street from the college and there’ve been a few times I’ve seen him getting to work at the same time I’m rolling into campus. It makes me kind of proud of myself that I’m staying healthy and fit; measuring myself against society’s need for cars.
A few times during class, I caught myself thinking about Peleton and wondering if he’s giving the other crew members at the care center a hard time.
Gazing out the door of the classroom, I caught a glimpse of Sarah, the girl from my engineering class. She was looking right at me. I hope I don’t disappoint her since I decided to start wearing clothes over my riding shorts while in school; a suggestion given by Mr. Buckman.
Pointing her finger at me, she suggested that I come outside. I stayed seated and shook my head. Then she went as far as to hold her hands together in prayer form and beg me. Once again, I shook my head.
“Mr. Jenu, I see you shaking your head. Is there something you don’t agree with or understand?” asked my math teacher, Mr. Callen.
“No sir, I get it. I’m just thinking to myself.” I responded.
Looking back outside, Sarah was gone. She is a hottie… that’s for sure, and what she wants with me… I have no clue.
On Tuesdays, I only have my math class, so when I get done with school, I usually head for a ride to Santa Monica beach. I have a few hours of leisure until I have to go to work.
Just as I got down to the bike path, ready to shoot over to Santa Monica, I stopped my bike. Peleton crossed my mind. Go to work, I heard in my brain, Go to work. I looked toward Santa Monica for a moment and then headed in the opposite direction, to work.
Upon entering work, the usual sexual harassment I get from Sammy was delivered in silence because, this time, the owners of the nursing home were near. Sammy just looked me up and down while licking her chops with a dirty little smile. Then she went as far as licking her fingers clean like she just got done with a rack of ribs.
Walking down the main corridor, I was about to pass Peleton’s room. Mr. Jarvis, the owner of the home, was standing at the bedside of Mr. Adama, the WW2 Japanese vet. From what I could hear of the conversation, Mr. Jarvis’s grandfather was in WW2 and escaped a prisoner of war camp. I couldn’t quite catch which camp. I’d have to go check my history, but I knew it was either a German or Japanese camp since Mr. Jarvis is as American as one can get, regardless of the sur-name.
Feeling a tap on my shoulder, I turned to find Peleton scampering low behind me… using me as a shield.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“They’re wrong.” He whispered as he pointed to Jarvis and Adama.
Peleton walked away from behind me and jerked his head as in, follow me.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Away from them. They don’t know what they’re talking about. They weren’t in the thick of it.”
“The thick of what?”
“The war. They’re talking about WW2 as though they were right there. Maybe the Jap was, but not the Jew.”
“The Jew? Mr. Jarvis?”
“Jarvis? That’s his name? I had to get out of the room because they wouldn’t shut up about the war.”
“Were you there?”
Peleton got really quiet, really fast. Then as he began storming away, he blurted out, “They just don’t know!”
I stood watching him quickly scurry down the main corridor. Standing still, a thought crossed my brow… Maybe I should have gone on that ride to Santa Monica.
It was a busy day at the nursing home. I had to prepare three people for an ambulance ride to the local hospital and there seemed to be an abundance of wet bed linens, many more than usual.
Throughout the day, I caught Peleton peeking around corners, watching me do my job. When it came time to leave, he was nowhere to be found. I looked in his room and asked Mr. Adama if he’d seen him. Asking Sammy, who I knew Peleton would avoid at all costs… she didn’t know either.
Going to the back of the building where I lock my bike, there he was, sitting in a patio style chair.
“What are you doing out here?” I asked.
“Waiting for you. I need to talk.”
“You were watching me all day. You couldn’t talk to me earlier, like when I was still on the clock?” I smiled.
“You smile so easily.”
“It’s better than frowning. I get enough of that from my home life.”
“Did they talk to you?” Peleton asked.
“Did who talk to me?”
“The Jew, Jervis, Jarvis, however you say it. Did he talk to you?”
“About what?”
“About me.”
“What about you?”
He stayed silent, looked away and stood up. “Good evening Mr. Jenu.” He casually walked away and into the center.
I watched him leave with his two big secrets: the Adama/Jarvis issue and what I truly wanted an answer for but forgot to ask… What did he see in my riding?
I could have gone back into the center and play his cat and mouse game, but I’d seen too many older people try to get attention this way and decided that I’d let him talk to me when he was ready.
Mounting my bike, I turned on the head and tail-light. I pedaled forth while tapping the button on my timer.
High-tailing it to the beach, when I finally got to the bike path, I looked toward home and then toward Santa Monica. I hadn’t done a long night-ride in forever and I knew that if I stayed on the bike path that I could go fast, but I would still have to be extra careful about the knuckleheads crossing the path in a drunken stupor.
I veered to the right and figured I’d make my way to the smokestacks in El Segundo. It’ll be a good six to seven-mile ride, one way.
I wasn’t pushing for maximum speed on this ride because I just knew I’d find some idiot walk onto the path in front of me. There are a lot of bars located close to the bike path and many late-night consumers of ale. Somehow the ale always leads the consumer onto the path, it’s almost a given. As I said, “drunken stupor.”
As I rode, I tried to clear my mind of any and all mumbo-jumbos. I didn’t want to think about my day to day living but just when you don’t want to think of something, well, sure enough, there it is creeping its way across your brain.
I heard myself telling Peleton that I get enough of the frowning from my home life. I’m an only child and there’s been an absence of happiness for as long as I can remember. My mom and dad do things away from each other. When I was younger, around the age of five, everything was great. We used to go to BBQ’s at my uncle’s house every weekend and play in his swimming pool. Somewhere along the line, that ended, and I never found out why.
As I got near the Hermosa Beach Pier, I had my first encounter with a man who appeared to be drunk. He didn’t see me coming and as I passed him by, I heard an exclamation of something concerning God building a dam and something else about watching a buddy shit.
Needless to say, I didn’t waste my time going back to ask him what he meant. I did the sentence structure in my head and had a good little laugh.
By the time I got home from my ride, it was close to midnight. Riding through the Riviera Village once again, I heard someone whistle. This time I turned my bike around and went to find the source.
Just as I was passing a small pub, I found the whistler. Sarah, from my engineering class, was walking with her work apron still on. Just as I thought, girls don’t whistle at guys unless they know them, but I had to ask…
“Was that you who whistled?”
She smiled and admitted it was.
“I couldn’t help myself. Those shorts you wear are so tight that your ass just begs to be whistled at.” She smiled along with her comment.
I almost felt like I was blushing. I’d never known a girl to be so forward. Let me rephrase that, I’d never known a girl to be that forward towards me.
“You have time to get a drink?” She asked.
“I don’t drink.” I replied
“What about a lemonade? You can drink a lemonade, can’t you?”
I was silent for a moment, thinking about it. I could go home to a dark and lonely house or hang out for a while with Sarah. Hmm… “Yeah, I’ve got time for a drink.”
I locked my bike to a post and followed her into the closest pub.
Though I live close to the village, I rarely find the time to hang out in any of the watering holes. I prefer to be doing something with my mind or exercising my body. I sat in an out-of-the-way booth with Sarah, and she ordered the drinks.
Sitting in a way that didn’t leave room for intrusion by others, we began having a conversation about her. When she spoke, she seemed to be very animated with her hands, something I’m not at all used to… touchy-feely.
There came a point when I thought she left the table to go to the restroom, but after waiting for a bit longer than what should be normal, I looked around and found her standing outside, smoking a cigarette.
“I left a few bucks on the table to cover the drinks,” I told her, “I need to leave. I have an early and busy day tomorrow.”
“You can’t stay?” She seemed to plead.
“No. I have to go.”
I gave her a hug and unlocked my bike. As I rode away, I could see her take another drag of her cigarette. The thought of the cigarette made me want to spit.
Thinking about this beautiful girl who was obviously interested in me, I began to wonder if my deal-breakers were too strict. To me, smoking is the most disgusting habit but… who am I? What are my flaws? I laughed at the idea that I could have any flaws. Then Peleton’s comment crossed my mind regarding my flawed riding.
After school, I rode straight to work and confronted Peleton regarding my riding. He laughed.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“You,” he replied. “I made that comment days ago and it’s taken you this long to ask me about it.”
I was silent, waiting for an answer. He, too, was silent. Finally, I blurted out, “Well, are you going to tell me?”
“Tell you what? I’ve never seen you ride. How would I know if you’re a good cyclist?”
“Then why did you make the comment about me being a cyclist?”
Peleton smiled, “I saw the wardrobe and the riding shoes. It’s the only thing I could use to throw back at you.”
“That’s it?” I asked, somewhat disappointed that I’d been played. I turned and walked away. About 20 feet later his voice chimed out…
“But now you’ve told me mountains of information. You’re really not that good.”
I stopped in my tracks and turned to look at him.
“Now you’re just trying to mess with me.” I accused.
He was silent for a moment and then a smile came across his face, “If I could make a comment that had you thinking for days that you don’t measure up, then perhaps you were already stuck on the idea that you don’t or can’t measure up.”
I was silent as I stood looking at him, trying to absorb his words. The he continued…
“I haven’t given a single moment of thought or wonder if your accusation of me not being a doctor is true.”
“Because you’re not a doctor.” I replied.
“No. I’m not… but you evidently are a cyclist. A cyclist, who it seems, is riding in circles because of an immature mind.”
I turned and began walking away. He continued with what I hoped were his last words…
“You Americans think you’re great at everything because of the fact that you’re Americans. You’re all riding in circles.”
I looked back for a moment and saw him walk into his room.
What the hell did he mean by that? Great! Now I’ve got another comment to think about… just what I needed. I looked down the corridor toward his room as I stood in front of the time clock and scanned my badge. I shook my head in a slight anger.
Throughout the day, I thought about what he’d said. Again, I was miffed. I couldn’t figure him out. How could he know anything about me? He said that I told him mountains of information; that I was saying I’m really not that good. What the fuck!
I finished cleaning up a bed and decided to search Peleton out before leaving for the day.
I rounded a corner and found him in the lounge being chastised by a guy about the same age as my father. The guy was wearing a dark suit and though his hair was slicked back, you could see the grey had seeded permanently.
“If you give these people one ounce of trouble, I’ll have you shipped back to your homeland. Germany is cold this time of year. Don’t forget who’s paying your way here.”
I stepped back around the corner but continued to listen.
“Do you understand me?” The guy demanded to know.
Peleton was silent as the guy continued to berate him. I felt like I should do something, but the part of me that collects the history on people told me to stand down and take notes.
The man sternly said, as though he were parenting Peleton, “So, are we straight? Do you understand my terms?”
I peeked around the corner and caught a glimpse from the guy. Peleton followed the glimpse and glanced back toward me for just a moment. I stepped out and nodded. Knowing that I wasn’t welcome at this meeting of the guy’s mind, I walked away just beyond the wall where I could continue to listen.
Everything seemed to go silent and when I peeked once again, they were both gone from the lounge. I stepped out from around the wall and searched them out. Passing the front door to the building, I looked outside and saw the guy getting into his car across the street. I figured Peleton must be heading to his room.
A code call came over the speaker for a cleanup. I looked briefly in Peleton’s room as he was crawling into his bed and covering up.
I felt bad for him being chewed out as though he were a child, but maybe there was something I didn’t know. Though I was now the one with a mountain of information, I didn’t feel as though I should have that information just to use against him. I shook my head and moved on to do the cleanup.
Later in the evening as I was clocking out, Sammy caught wind of my ass and started talking about me riding home in the dark and how I needed to ride her home in the dark. I just laughed as I walked out the back door.
Waiting by my bike, Peleton was finishing off a cigarette. He smashed the butt out on a nearby pole and with his fingers he rubbed out the remaining tobacco onto the ground, placing the filter into his robe pocket.
“You smoke?” I asked
“Sometimes; usually only when I’m making decisions.”
“So, who was the guy I saw earlier?”
“My son-in-law. He’s a real piece of work. I don’t understand what got into my daughter’s mind to marry that… that bastard.”
I didn’t say anything, but thinking about it, I realized that Peleton may have some issues regarding Jewish people. I know he’s originally from Germany and I’m beginning to wonder if there’s a connection from his youth and maybe WW2.
“Tell me Robert, how do I get what you Americans call, a hall pass?”
“A hall pass? What do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean… a hall pass. I want to leave this place.”
“Leave it? For good?”
Peleton paused before answering, there was something in his demeanor that changed.
“Just one last road trip.”
“Road trip?” I asked. “What do you mean road trip?”
Peleton looked at me with the most serious look I’ve ever encountered from someone his age.
“Tell me Robert, do you aspire to be a great cyclist or are you content to just ride forever with unanswered hopes and dreams?”
I hesitated because I wasn’t sure where he was going with this, then I thought about his question. No one has ever asked me directly what I wanted from riding. I’m not so sure I even knew what I wanted.
“Robert, I can make you a great rider!”
I smirked, “Yeah right!”
“You don’t believe me.” He charged. “You don’t know me or my past.”
“I stood quiet for a second. “So, what am I supposed to know?”
“If you will go to my daughter and ask her for a hall pass, I will teach you what it takes to be a great cyclist, perhaps the greatest the world will ever see.”
“That’s a pretty fuckin’ tall order, don’t you think? I mean, come on… the greatest?”
“Go to my daughter’s house. Have her sign a waiver that frees me from this place for a week. Then, ask her for my brown case, the one with stickers of my travels on it.”
“And where should I tell her you’re staying during your “free time?” I asked with a semi-smile.
“I’ll be staying with you. You’ve agreed to take me to a nearby cycling track where I will teach you how to perform better.”
“And she won’t laugh when I tell her this?”
“No. My daughter, Mirna, will honor your request because she knows cycling is the one area in my life where I’ve been considered great. It’s the one thing that has given me the most joy, besides her of course.”
“She doesn’t know me from Adam, what makes you think she’ll agree?”
“Just do it. She’ll agree. Just don’t let the bastard mensch husband know what’s happening.”
Peleton handed me a small piece of paper with Mirna’s phone number and home address.
“Isn’t bastard and mensch contradictory?”
Ignoring me, Peleton asked… “Will you do this for me? Will you let me train you?”
“That means for a week I’m going to have to take care of you. I don’t know. I mean, are you staying here at the center during the night and then hang out with me during the day? What about school, I’m there in the afternoon and then I come here to work.”
“There is a holiday coming up. We can use it for an extended pass of five days.”
“Boy, you have everything figured out don’t you. What about money?”
He smiled, “Bring me the pass and the money will appear.”
I was hesitant, but I agreed to talk with his daughter and even to let him train me. I wasn’t sure how my parents would react to a guest in the house but, what the hell… let’s find out.
On my ride home, I thought about the stale loneliness in the house that had been haunting me for years. Then I had the idea of a houseguest and how it would throw my parents totally off guard.
Riding up to my front lawn, like clockwork, the lights from two separate bedrooms went out almost simultaneously. This was so common that I suspect they wait until they see me ride up, then thinking that everything is okay, they go to sleep.
I walked my bike to the back and locked it in the garage. Beckham had come out the doggy door to greet me. Good ol’ Beckham… I wondered if he’d had a voice, what he’d say about my parents. They say dogs pick up on vibes. I bet if he could talk, he’d ask me to get him an anti-depressant prescription.
Instead of going into the house, I called Beckham over and we went for a late-night walk. He’s pretty mellow. I rarely have to use a leash in the late evenings. He checks out the latest doggie odors left on lawns and plants and then proceeds to do his own business. Like the old folks I take care of, I also do with Beckham. For obvious reasons, taking care of a dog is so much easier.
“Let’s go Beckham, it’s time to go home.”
I started running toward the house and when I turned to look at Beckham, I noticed he wasn’t running with me. Hmm, even the dog doesn’t want anything to do with going home. In a stern voice, I called for him to come. It took some coaxing, but he must have finally figured that I wasn’t staying out all night.
Beckham followed me into the house and up the stairs to my room. Finding his comfort spot, he took a couple of turns as usual and then, soon enough, he was down for the night.
I picked up a cycling magazine and browsed through it as I lay in bed. Then, while scanning the TV channels for anything of interest. I looked over the edge of the bed at Beckham.
“What do you think boy, mom and dad going to like a houseguest?”
Beckham seemed to look at me as in, “You want to invite someone to this hell-hole?”
He laid his head back down as I did the same. “Goodnight, Beckham.”
Ah, Saturday morning. My alarm goes off at 5:30 which allows me to be ready to ride by the break of daylight. Taking my water bottle from the fridge and adding an enhancer, I shook it while cramming a couple bananas into the back of my riding shirt.
Petting Beckham on the head before I walk out the back door, it didn’t take long for him to walk through his doggy door and see me into the garage.
Beckham’s face seemed to say, “If only I had a bike and was tall enough to pedal, we could escape this place together.”
Inside the garage, I stopped next to my bike and thought about what I’d just said. Here I am making up words for my dog… words concerning my personal thoughts… from what I’m truly feeling within.
Straddling the bike, I looked at Beckham and smiled. “Yeah boy, maybe if you had a bike and were tall enough to reach the pedals, we could escape.”
With that wishful thinking, I pushed off and took to the street. The best thing about an early morning weekend ride is that most everyone is still sleeping and the roads are free from traffic… less chances of injury by auto.
I rode down to the bike path that, for me, starts at Torrance Beach and is uninterrupted all the way to Malibu. Actually, there is a chance of running into early morning surfers. They tend to not look while crossing the bike path on the way to the water. I know this due to once colliding with a surfer who had jumped from a staircase onto the path at the very moment that I was winning a race in my mind.
Needless to say, it was like the peanut butter in the chocolate scenario, neither of us knew who was truly at fault, and we were both in a good deal of pain. Luckily, there were no broken bones or broken skulls for that matter. It was at a time that I didn’t see the need to use a helmet. It’s only takes one lucky or unlucky break to realize how valuable a helmet can be.
I caught myself harping on the bike path/pedestrian thing in my mind, which I find usually angers me rather quickly. It’s just so damned ignorant of people to not pay attention to where they are, where they’re going and what is happening around them. It’s like people on their cell phone being distracted when driving.
I learned that riding with a flashing headlamp is a good deterrent for unsuspecting pedestrians. When a rider is moving along at 20mph or more, the distance thing can get confusing for someone about to step onto the path.
My pace was running at about 21.3mph and in another minute I’d be passing the Santa Monica Pier. Looking at my timer, I was 45 seconds better than last weekend’s ride. Screaming through the tunnel beneath the pier, I shot out the other end like a cannonball looking for the side of a ship. If I hit the Malibu Pier within another seven minutes, then I’ll have set a new record for myself.
A good quarter mile ahead of me rode a group of cyclists and my aim was to come upon them like an eagle swooping in for its kill. I kind of wished that one of them would see me coming so we could play a little game of Hound and Hare.
No sooner did I speak it; my wish came true. Just as they started to really take off and I began thrusting my legs harder, I noticed in my rear-view mirror another group of cyclists coming up on me.
“Let the games begin.” I said aloud.
I stood up for a quick moment to adjust my ass on the seat and then began reeling in these weekend warriors.
My legs were like fine-tuned pistons that just cranked faster and faster the more I asked of them. In no time at all my front tire was an inch away from the last man in the pack. Within seconds, I was in third of what turned out to be 10 riders.
The first two riders blew it when they looked over their shoulders to see where I was. I was as polite as I could be, nodding hello as I egotistically left them in a place I like to call, the dead zone. It’s a place where there is no hope, no second wind and definitely a place where you stop pedaling and ask, “What happened?”
I liken myself to a boxer that trains for 15 rounds. I’m not a weekend warrior. My bike is my way of transportation, and most every time I ride, I ride with a race mentality; to go the distance no matter what the opponent throws at me.
I looked in my rear view and the pack of guys that were chasing me were now grouped with the guys I passed. Out of about 20 cyclists, one emerged and broke away from the pack.
Is he coming for me? I wondered.
Glancing again in my rear view, sure enough, he was. I let up on the speed so he could catch me. I figured that if he was the only one willing to break from the pack, then maybe I should give him a chance.
It took a good few minutes for him to close the gap, and I really had to restrain myself to compensate his momentum. Finally, he was close enough to draft me.
I thought about what I wanted to do but decided to let him continue drafting… catch his breath. Checking his cardio would be as simple as asking him a question, which I most certainly did.
“Where did your group start out?”
“El Segundo.” He replied.
Okay, that’s a good little ride so far. Not as far as I’ve come but it’s still a good trek.
“How far are you guys going?”
“We ride to the Malibu Pier,” pausing to take a much-needed breath, “and then back to Manhattan Beach Pier.”
“How often do you ride that distance?” I wanted to know for the decision of how I was about to treat him and his group.
“Oh, we ride every weekend and some of us get together for a quick ride after work on Wednesdays.”
I was silent and realized he was basically just another weekend warrior.
“How often do you ride?” He asked.
Answering with my ego… “I ride at least 50 to 60 miles a day.”
“That’s pretty impressive. It also explains how you left everyone in the dust so easily.”
It actually felt good to be complimented, but then I made the decision to let him revel in what he’ll never be if he remains a weekend warrior.
“See ya.” I said as I pulled away.
Though he didn’t want to quit, and he thought he could keep up, and actually tried to do so, I left and decided to not look back.
Reaching the Malibu Pier, I realized that I had screwed up by slowing down to talk to the guy. I was off my best time by four minutes. Damn!
Relaxing while eating one of my bananas, I thought about trying to beat my best on the return trip. I knew that with the busy traffic, and the potential problem of pedestrians crossing the bike path, there was no way I could do it and clock a good time.
Both groups of cyclists finally arrived at the pier. Everyone dismounted their bikes as if they had actually put in any real work. I mean, El Segundo to Malibu is a good ride, but its also a cake walk… easy peasy. The guy who rode with me came over to where I was sitting.
“Want to ride back with us? We could use a good pace man.”
I was silent for a moment, thinking about his offer. Then, I came up with an alternate idea.
“You guys are going to Manhattan Beach Pier…” I stated. “Would you guys be willing to give it your all to get there before me? I’ll give you a 15-minute head start.”
He held up a finger as in… give me a minute and went to talk with his group. When he came back, he asked…
“Are you a professional? Are you like a James Justice?”
I was floored by his question. For anyone to put me on the level of the legend, James Justice, the cycling god of gods… well damn, I felt good.
“No. I don’t ride professionally and I’m not even near the level of Justice.”
“Fifteen minutes?”.
“A 15-minute head start,” I confirmed.
“You’re on. Give us another 10 minutes rest and we’ll be ready to go.” He walked back over to his group, and I peeled my last banana.
Ten minutes on the dot and he looked to me as the guys mounted their bikes. I nodded as I clocked the time. I pointed at him to go and away they rode.
I sat still, watching them pick up speed, making their getaway, hoping I wouldn’t embarrass them. I started to wonder if 15 minutes was giving them too much of a lead. I’d really have to pedal my ass off and at the same time, be as careful as possible in traffic.
The more I watched my timer, the longer it took for 15 minutes to pass. I envisioned my ride and made mental notes of all the places I’d have to be concerned for my safety.
Getting through Venice Beach was probably going to be the hardest part. There’s always a lot of activity happening. Venice runs the gamut from street performers, beach-goers, skaters, cyclists to Hari-Krishna’s and bodybuilders. It is one very busy beach. If anything, I’d ride the streets instead of the bike path when in Venice.
In a matter of seconds, I’d be off and riding. I figured that with a 15-minute head start they should easily be near or past Venice Beach by the time I catch them.
I’m determined to chase them down and embarrass them… if at all possible.
I skipped a few steps and shoved off, swinging my right leg over the bike as if it were a horse. I hit the button on my timer and thrust forward with all the power in my legs.
I rode as if I was a part of the bike. I seemed to be one with the elements and all that surrounded me. People saw me coming and casually moved to the side of the path. Coming up from their rear, I vocally warned beach cruising cyclists that I was near and on their left. It’s funny to see people trying to adjust and recall which side is their left.
I knew the riders had to be past Venice by now and, at the least, they’d be getting close to Marina Del Rey. I knew there were a couple of streetlights along the way and if they happen to get caught by them, then I would get an extra minute or so in my favor. I just needed to get through those same lights as quickly as possible.
Once again, I shot through the tunnel at the Santa Monica Pier like a cannonball. When I came out the other side, I damn near shit my pants because there was a small child on his tricycle riding in circles on the path. Had I been a fraction of a second faster I would have nailed the kid.
The kid’s mother yelled at me to slow down as she rushed to her child. I’ll admit, I’m going fast, and I know that this hour of the morning can be dangerous, but parents really need to get a clue about the safety of their children when out in public. It’s a bike path, not a playground, not a pedestrian path.
Years ago, in the local Beach Reporter newspaper, there was an article of a guy on rollerblades who was moving along at a good speed, and he saw a cyclist coming full bore from the opposite direction, a small child was in the crossfire with his mother not far off. The cyclist barely missed the kid, but the guy rollerblading didn’t.
In order to not hurt the kid, the guy that was skating had swerved and crashed, banging his head on the ground, cracking his skull. The mother took her small child and left before anyone could catch her. From the story in the paper, the guy spent many months in the hospital and then had to relearn how to walk. Over the years I’ve proudly berated many parents who have no clue how dangerous the path can be.
Making my way through Venice was pretty easy. I slipped through the stoplights with ease and if I kept up this pace, I figured I’d see those guys in about another eight, maybe ten minutes. I haven’t come across many groups of riders who can sprint for long periods of time for more than two or three times in a day, especially when they’re weekend warriors.
Just as I had that thought, I rode up on a guy wearing their club colors. I guess he was already physically tired, and I instantly knew why. In the back pocket of his shirt was a banana for cramps and a bottle of soda. That’s a bad idea. The soda will give you a caffeine rush, but when that rush ends, you’re fucked.
“How far ahead are they?” I shouted as I approached.
He responded in such a weak tone that I couldn’t make out his response as I raced by.
There are many signs of a weekend warrior and soda is the epitome of someone who just hasn’t learned the most basic of bodily needs while on a ride. I think that’s why at every riding event there’s a beer or soda waiting at the finish line. People are so tired when they cross the finish line that the promoters don’t want them passing out… easier to keep ‘em on their feet, than pick them up off the ground.
I kept telling my legs to go faster, as if they could really hear and do what I said. Though technically, my mind was calling in the order and my body was doing as told.
Then, up ahead, I saw them. Three more of the riders were dwindling and it only took another moment to stream past them. Six more riders to find and victory will be mine. I pushed onward, harder, faster.
There is a long strip of path on the Marina Del Rey canal. On one side of the path, you’ll see boats coming into the harbor and on the other side you’ll occasionally catch a college rowing team.
This part of the ride was my least favorite because it always seems that you’re fighting a headwind. You’re heading westward, right toward the ocean and the wind is rarely friendly to me. I always try to duck my head down and push through.
Riding close to the edge of the road, if I were to stray too far to the right, I’d be in the dirt. Just before the bridge, I lifted my head and slowed my speed so I wouldn’t crash during my turn.
When I lifted my head, I lost all concentration when I spotted a beautiful woman carrying a big rucksack, the kind you use for hiking. I damn near hit her even though she was in the dirt and off of the path. Wow! She was hot!
I wanted to look back, but knew I had a mission to complete. I came upon four more of the riders about a mile past the bridge. There were now just two riders left and one of them was the guy who agreed to this challenge.
Coming around another turn with a slight climb, I found the last two riders… the best of these weekend warriors. After passing an RV beach park, I rode up on one of the two and he wasn’t looking strong… at all. Passing him on a hill, I smiled as I cruised by.
“Thank god! Now I can quit.” The rider exclaimed as I waved goodbye.
I had one guy to go and as it turned out, he was the one I expected to last the longest. Though he only rode on weekends, he had tree trunks for legs. If I had to say what type of tree, they’d be as powerful as the sequoia redwoods.
I knew if I could catch him… scratch that… I know when I catch him by the end of the straight-away, a road that stretches for about one mile with no curves or hills to complain about, then I’ll beat him to the Manhattan Beach Pier… easily.
The straightaway is an access road right on the beach that keeps cyclist, skaters and runners away from the dangerous and very busy highway, and it’s also a road that separates the city of El Segundo from Manhattan Beach. It’s where someone like me can pick up speed and not really have to worry about John Q. Public getting in my way.
Ducking my head and positioning my body in a tighter form to the bike, I hit the access road and gave my legs a secondary GO signal.
Picking up speed, I peeked my head up for a moment to check the road and find my target. I could see him about a quarter mile ahead. I knew I was going to catch him within the next two minutes and at that point, I thought that it might be a good idea to draft him for a while; make him work a little harder.
When you ride off of the access road there is a wide turn to the left and you’re back on the regular bike path with pedestrians and surfers and everyone else who can become an instant obstacle. I knew there were a lot of small turns coming up and the beachgoers tend to kick sand across the path, so this could make for a slippery situation if I was going too fast.
I didn’t know how experienced this weekend warrior was, but if he didn’t know this terrain as well as me, then perhaps it wouldn’t be such a good idea to ride an inch from his rear tire… in other words, I better not draft him.
Just before the end of the access road, I caught him and tapped him on his back.
“Thanks for the chase.” I smiled as I rode alongside of him.
“Did you really wait the 15 minutes?”
“Honestly, yes I did.”
“Then we really suck!” He laughed.
We continued to ride and make our way on the path that was getting busier with pedestrians by the minute.
“So, do you want to finish, or do you concede that this race is over?” I asked.
“I think we know what would happen if I made an all-out run for it. Though, I still have to go to the pier and wait for my buddies.”
“Maybe I’ll see you around on the path sometime. Take it easy.” I said as I rode away.
My adrenaline was high; I was in the zone and felt really strong. I thought about Peleton and wondered what he could possibly teach me. I just out-rode 10 guys on a return trip from Malibu. I know Peleton doesn’t have that kind of stamina.