Lived to Tell
I sure was glad tehschkott broke his wrist (apparently) the second time the Karate Monkey ate shit on the slick train tracks on Harbor Island, because the first time it happened, he easily could have had his head smashed like a soggy melon by an 18-wheeler.
It wasn’t even really that close, but all the elements were there: the bike skittering sideways toward the back wheels of the semi-trailer, his helmetless noggin heading straight for the massive tires, the driver of the huge rig completely oblivious to the drama unfolding right behind his cab; I could envision it perfectly and was very glad it only happened in my mind’s eye and not the real ones behind my glasses.
That would really have made me feel bad about pushing to ride around my favorite man-made island in all the Duwamish waterway. As it was, the place was accursed enough, causing, in addition to at least two spills, two flat tires, one a spectacular tube rupturing, again precipitated by those infernal tracks.
Still, we did manage to find ourselves at one point atop a parking garage, admiring a spectacular view of downtown I’ve never seen before, so for me, at least, given that the flat Gods chose not to single me out for punishment, and, more importantly, that I didn’t have to be traumatized by the sight (and the sound, which really would have been unforgettable) of a human head being flattened by the back wheels of a petroleum tanker, I count the evening as a genuine success.
There was enough rain to keep the crowd down to just bike nerds, though not enough to really be miserable and although we were unable to lure either Joeball or Henry to the Skylark or Nine Pound Hammer respectively, “Uncle” Ito did show up at the first place all well-groomed and sober in the Jetta—which frankly, if you wanna know the truth, was a sight even scarier than tehsckott’s first tumble.
It wasn’t even really that close, but all the elements were there: the bike skittering sideways toward the back wheels of the semi-trailer, his helmetless noggin heading straight for the massive tires, the driver of the huge rig completely oblivious to the drama unfolding right behind his cab; I could envision it perfectly and was very glad it only happened in my mind’s eye and not the real ones behind my glasses.
That would really have made me feel bad about pushing to ride around my favorite man-made island in all the Duwamish waterway. As it was, the place was accursed enough, causing, in addition to at least two spills, two flat tires, one a spectacular tube rupturing, again precipitated by those infernal tracks.
Still, we did manage to find ourselves at one point atop a parking garage, admiring a spectacular view of downtown I’ve never seen before, so for me, at least, given that the flat Gods chose not to single me out for punishment, and, more importantly, that I didn’t have to be traumatized by the sight (and the sound, which really would have been unforgettable) of a human head being flattened by the back wheels of a petroleum tanker, I count the evening as a genuine success.
There was enough rain to keep the crowd down to just bike nerds, though not enough to really be miserable and although we were unable to lure either Joeball or Henry to the Skylark or Nine Pound Hammer respectively, “Uncle” Ito did show up at the first place all well-groomed and sober in the Jetta—which frankly, if you wanna know the truth, was a sight even scarier than tehsckott’s first tumble.
posted by Professor Dave at 9:05 AM
6 Comments:
Did you try to lure me?
oh man, times.
And how hilarious given our earlier conversation. I think we must have prefaced the evening with our ride down 1st ave - "If I get hit by a car on my bicycle and die, don't let it be from some clueless girl in a Honda. Hit me with a fucking TRAIN. If I die, let it be from a meteor falling from the sky." "Please, hit me with the engine from an airliner. Make my passing not just tragic, but truly notorious. Let it be big. With explosions. And gore. And grandeur. And majesty! No dying slowly and peacefully in a hospital after a long, slow but futile battle with some nameless cancer or illness. No soft passing from this life to the next. No quiet conversations at the foot of my bed with whispers - "should we turn it off"? And the answer being... duh! Do not make my passing be merely sad. Make it fucking tragic. Make it fucking epic. Let my passing be a mark on the lives of those who witness the event. I hope you have to go to therapy to deal with what you witness when I go. Let it be an arrow in their storytelling quiver when they want to hit the bullseye, or reach for distance. Let it be that thing they say that brings others together. That thing where they say, christ were you there when Scott got it? And a select number of people nod and give each other that wide eyed "oh man" look, shake their heads, and chuckle awkwardly into their beers. Let that moment be fantastic. Let it reflect the life we at least tried to lead. Please god, when I go, make it BIG. Let me go out with a bang, and not as T.S. Elliot writes, with a whimper."
Oh, and it was that first hit that screwed up my wrist. By the time the bike went out from under me the second time, I was a vet. I didn't even hit the ground. It went down and I basically just stepped out of it.
Learnin!
Poetic license invoked. As my mom always said, "Never let the facts get in the way of a good story."
License granted. Heartily!
I invoked license on another word that night, but cannot remember what it was now.
I blame the beer.
http://tinyurl.com/yh5jd7n - just for posterity
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