Sunday, March 3, 2013

The Crackhead

This last summer I was starting to make some real progress.  Hills were rounding out a little, and where once a head wind would hush me to a stop, I was able now to pedal through.  One particular morning early I set out for the town of Snelling.  Its a little over thirty miles away, the majority of which is a long straight road to the east and the rising sun.  About half way along I began to take notice of my own rhythm, my cadence and my breathing.  I was beginning to relax into the saddle and sometimes my legs even pedaled without conscious effort.
It was an incredible morning. No traffic. It was one of those days where the temperature is perfect.  Neither to hot or too cold...almost unnoticeable.  I let myself think that I was actually doing well.  I looked at the ground, the roadway, and the passing gravel.  It seemed that it was moving beneath me a little faster.  I had no aches, no nagging discomforts.  Again I dared to allow a moment of pride. A sense of accomplishment, speed and the notion that I was finally just maybe getting the hang of it all.

Not a moment after that thought hung in my third eye, there was a rattling sound behind me. Within a second or two, a guy on a rusty old Walmart mountain bike whizzed past me like I was standing still.  He was sitting upright riding no-hands wearing nasty soiled jeans.  His shirt was off, tied around his head by the sleeves like a white trash bandanna.  He was mumbling to himself in that one special way that Meth addicts are known to do.  His arms flung to his chest and sides without reason or purpose, seemingly in defiance of his own need for balance.  His knees where wide and it appear that he pedaled from his heels.   I'm not even really sure if he notice me.  Did he see me?  He gave no indication save for the fact that he had passed me by.  For a few moments I could hear him jaw and mumble to himself as he rode off in the distance.  I was tempted to pace him from behind, to see if I could determine how fast he was going, but it was no use.  In my mind I had a mental image of a group of Olympic cyclists, hauling their collective asses down a course, only to be passed by in a flash by this spectacular character.  If it wasn't for the absurdity and hilarity of the situation, the self doubt that started to wedge its way into my consciousness would have found purchase. I began to laugh out loud, quietly at first, then without control.  My laughing fit affected my breathing and rhythm which dissolved somewhere on the road behind me. 

I think of that crackhead often and ponder where he was off to in such a hurry. I'm sure I'm better off not knowing the answer, but I wonder just the same.  It has occurred to me that perhaps he didn't know either..but it doesn't really matter.  That particular dude, with his arms an legs going in all directions, and his totally crap bicycle did me a favor.  It made me remember to keep it real.  While I may in fact be improving there is not yet cause or reason for a self appreciation party.  I hope he is OK.  I hope he will find his path to health and happiness.  I hope I see him again.

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