Joe Zauner
(Writer’s note: Tuesday’s ride with Jim is a fictitious serial and should appear every Tuesday until it’s done. The first two installments are included below this one, the third. All three can be found here.)
Jim and I are at the Mt. Tabor Presbyterian Church. We’re in
the café part. Outside it is raining cats and dogs. It’s nine on a weekday
morning. We’re not here for religious services. Instead we’re here for the
lovely barista who is right now missing in action and the play area for Jim’s
3-year-old daughter who is wearing her
Halloween costume. She is Ariel the mermaid. Cute.
We walk past the café counter. No one home.
Me: “Where’s she at?”
Jim shrugs. We push on. Sit. The couches are plush. Jim opens
his newspaper. His daughter trots to the play area in the vestibule. I open my
laptop. I’ve own Macs before but this is a Toshiba. Costs a third less. Works
perfectly fine. I’ll never go back. The Internet comes up. Cyclingnews.com: “Italian
court reject [sic] Ferrari agent's appeal.”
I shake my head.
Me: “Armstrong. Guy sounds like a total jackass. Did you
ever race against him?”
Jim (From behind the newspaper):
“Yes. Several times. Nineteen ninety-two national road championships for one. Lieswyn
should have won that race. He was the strongest.”
Me: “He always was the stronger before his injuries. Who won?”
Jim: “Eh, Lieswyn had his days… Armstrong won the race.”
Me: “So what was he like?”
Jim: “Armstrong? He was a dick but a lot of those guys are.”
Me: “Lot of dopers are dicks?”
Jim (Lowering the
paper): “No. I’ve met dopers who were perfectly nice people. I’m talking
about top tier athletes in general. They delude themselves in believing they
can do things that otherwise they could never do. And with that admirable
quality comes a lot of junk.”
Me: “So all’s you have to do is think you can win the Tour de France and you win the Tour de
France? That sounds easy enough.”
Jim (Folding the paper
on his lap): No. Not everyone who thinks
they can win the Tour wins the Tour but
everyone who has won the Tour thought that, before they ever won the Tour, they
could win the Tour. Make sense?”
Me: “So there’s a lot of guys running around who thought
they could win the Tour who never won the Tour.”
Jim: “Correct. The Lawyer Ride is a good example. Couple
Tour non-Tour winners there.”
Me: “Really? I like that ride. I don’t see any Tour non-Tour guys there.
Maybe they’re all way ahead of me.”
Jim goes back to his newspaper, the Oregonian. Some conservative talk-show hack in town calls it the Zero.
The Zero. The Oregonian ain’t what she used to be but there aren’t many local newspapers
anymore that are, but the Zero? Come
on. It’s won five Pulitzers. I wonder how many Peabodys little miss talk-show has
won? Zero?
I pull my head out of the laptop. From my vantage point
Jim’s 3-year-old is the perfect angel today. She’s found a 2-year-old to boss around
and so for the time being she’s not the boss of us. Gimme this. Gimme that. The number of times she’s reminded to say the
word please astounds me. Clearly intelligent, but when she wants something, forget
about it. Gimme, gimme, gimme. Jim
tried ignoring her once hoping she would say please but the word never came out.
Me: “Days like this make you happy to be a father?”
Jim: “Every day is a good day to be a father.”
Me: “Oh Jesus, that’s right. You moved here to be a father.”
Jim: “Yes. I can work from anywhere. Her mom can’t. When she
moves I move.”
Me: “She pried you out of Miami Beach. You must have gone
kicking and screaming.”
Jim: “If Miami Beach wasn’t in South Florida I’d be okay
with it.”
Me: “What are you talking about?”
Jim: “I liked Miami Beach. I didn’t own car there. But that
part of South Florida has a Banana Republic feel that I don’t care for. It puts
me on edge.”
Me: “True. Take a wrong turn in Dade County and you might
find yourself in a scene from Escape from
New York. I saw a car on fire down there once and people just standing
around watching.”
Jim: “Snake Plissken.”
Me: “Snaaake. Loved that guy. Big Trouble in Little China.
The elevator scene? Are you kidding me?”
Jim: “I liked Isaac Hayes’ gold Cadilac. Chandeliers on the
hood. But okay: if I had to go back to Miami Beach I would but I wouldn’t be
happy. I like Portland.”
Me: “You gotta miss the Banana Republic sometimes though. I
miss spearfishing and lobstering. I miss all the warm water activities.
Kayaking. Sight fishing. All that stuff. I miss the big rides too. One
hundred-plus riders every weekend. That stuff was fun.”
A Portland city employee comes in wearing issued coveralls: “Portland,
the city that works.” The coffee cups are stacked corkscrew waiting. Our girl
is not at home. And then hits me.
Me: “The city that
works. What a load horse shit. How can this be The city that works when it has one of the worse educational
systems in a state with one of the
worse educational systems in a nation with
one of the worse educational systems on the planet? I mean, I guess you could set the bar lower.”
Jim: “There are good things happening in education here in
Portland.”
Me: “Like what?”
Jim: “Google Rose Mary Anderson High School. I was at their
gala the other night. Very moving.”
Me: “Okay. I’ll do it later… So, what’s the plan for
Halloween tonight?”
Jim: “Well, little kid’s going back to her mom and I’m
turning the porch light off.”
Me: “Really? That doesn’t sound like you. Aren’t you afraid
of getting egged or TP’ed?”
Jim: “I live in the Hawthorne neighborhood. If you asked
kids in my neighborhood about egging or toilet papering they wouldn’t know what
you were talking about.”
Me: “Seriously? They don’t smash mail boxes with baseball
bats?”
Jim: “No.”
Me: “They don’t light bags of dog shit on fire, ring the
doorbell and run?”
Jim: “No. Not where I live.”
Me: “What do they
do?”
Jim (Pondering…
smiling): “Well, my next door neighbor has a son, Jeremiah. He’s 12. He’s
really into their chicken coup.”
Me: “Their chicken coup? Good Lord, what is the world coming to?”
Another guy comes in, removes his jacket and walks behind
the café counter. He’s got a greased handlebar mustache the width of his face. As
a kid I was a racist. I can look back on it today and think how wrong it is,
and so now I like to think of myself as objective, not judging based on attributes
outside a person’s control. But judging based on fashion choices? Wardrobe? Look,
they’ve made a conscience decision. I know we’re supposed to keep this city weird
but I saw a guy walking downtown yesterday wearing a kilt and smoking a pipe
like Sherlock Holmes. Weird? I suppose. Inane? I think definitely. The pipe
alone is gratuitous?
Me: “Great. Here’s our little barista. Good God, look at this jack wagon.”
Jim (Looking over his
newspaper): “Doesn’t appear she’s coming in today. (Pause) Jack wagon… where does that come from?”
Me (Knowing there’s a
joke in there somewhere): “Well, eh, I was curious about that too the other
day so I looked into it on the Internets (Said like George W.) and it
seems that (I’m stalling), well… It
started in the early 80s (And then the
punch lines comes) and there was an annual float in the San Francisco Gay
Pride Parade called the Jack Wagon.”
Jim (Shaking his head):
“Oh for the love Pete.”
Me: “Did you say Pete? Because Pete is short for Peter and,
well, I mean, for the sake of Peter. Certainly
you see the comedy in that, right?
Jim (Still shaking his
head): “Yes, of course. Of course.”
--30--
From: jzauner33141@hotmail.com
To: obra@list.obra.org
Date: Tue, 30 Oct 2012 16:28:02 +0000
Subject: [OBRA Chat] Tuesday's ride with Jim
(Writer’s note: Tuesday’s ride with Jim is a fictitious serial and
should appear every Tuesday until it’s done. The first two installments are
included below this one, the third. All three can be found here.)
Jim and I are at a party.
It’s a warm Florida evening in 1989. I’m about to develop a lifelong fascination
for a skillset Jim has that I will never attain.
We are with a dozen
friends in an oak grove near the Suwannee River. The canopy is tinged by the
light of a camp fire lit to keep mosquitos at bay. In the middle of the grove a
cold spring flows into a white sandy bottom creek. Barefoot groups of twos and
threes quietly wander to the clear water edge. Sitting there with Jim, our feet
soak in the water.
Jim is holding the can
of beer he’s been holding for more than an hour. I’m holding my fifth. I’m
depressed. Ingrid Christensen has set a new world record for 5,000 meters. It’s
almost two minutes faster than anything I’ve done. I shake my head.
Me: “Had to be a short track. No way a chick
runs 5k that fast. No way. Remember Michael
Hamilton’s 4:15 at Chiefland? Everyone said that track was short. You wheel
measure that track and I bet you dollars
to doughnuts it comes up short. No way Hamilton runs a 4:15 mile. No way.”
Jim says nothing. He
knows Michael Hamilton. Even back then he would cubbyhole his friends. Hamilton
was in the cubbyhole marked “high school cross-country and track meets.” Two
Southern boys from opposing schools, they would wave from across the infield
and casually approach, sizing each other up along the way. There to win the
same races, after 10 maybe 15 minutes they are reacquainted, comfortable and
finishing each other’s sentences. Like brothers.
Jim and I watch a red crawfish
march across the white sandy bottom. He’s big enough to eat and I bet a baited
pot could catch more like him but I want Jim’s attention focused on the Christensen/Hamilton
issue. I’m not the only one who believes the Chiefland track is short. I want something
like closure on this.
Jim however is on the
sly, watching Sherry O’Donnell lower herself slowly past waist deep into the ever so cool spring water. She barely
wears a bathing suit. Brown skin, black hair, blue eyes, she is tall, slender
and stunning. Her mother, equally stunning, said something to my father once in
Publix and he nearly swallowed his tongue. They are Seminoles and most of their
people are gone, death marched with the rest of the Southern tribes to Oklahoma
for the sake of big cotton. If there is a hell, Andrew Jackson is certainly burning
in it.
Sherry is wild, fearless.
She could take her clothes off at any second. As kids we played neighborhood
football together. She was never picked last. Tough. In trouble with the law.
Thrown out of school for fighting. Even burnt her parents’ river house down one
summer.
But boy is she
beautiful. Eighteen. It’s hard not to look.
My head is turned but I strain
to see from the corner of my eye. The water is just above her hips. She looks down
at it, hands outstretched, swaying gently, fingertips play with an imaginary
hula hoop, and slowly she stops all of it. A wry smile. She lifts her head just
enough and then her eyes to Jim. Her smile grows. It is only for him.
I look at Jim urgently.
Me: “Brother, this is
not really… This is really not a good
idea.”
Jim: “Mind your own
business right now, please.”
***
Jim and I are at a party.
It’s a warm Florida evening but this time eight months later. Jim has won the Florida
state road championships earlier in the day. The party was scheduled weeks in
advance but now it honors him.
There are maybe 30
people at the O’Donnell river house. It’s about a one hour drive from the race
course, Sugar Loaf. A drought stricken orange grove that caught fire two years previous,
it is an otherworldly sight: uniform rows of lifeless charred trees protruding from
gray sandy soil stretch miles in all directions. The hills are steep here. The
longest is almost a kilometer. Jim beat Rich Fries in an uphill two-man sprint.
A hot day, defending champion Fries upon crossing the line leaned his bike
against a car, marched through the sand, found the perfect rock and vomited on it.
I am inside the river house
with Mrs. O’Donnell. Sitting at the bar in the vast living room she mixes my fourth
g-and-t of the evening. I take a gulp. I did not finish the race today. Jim
picked me up off the side of the road in the VW van. He looked at the dried
sweat caked on my collar and said I should have diluted my Gatorade more.
Mrs. O’Donnell asks how
the race went. I am ready to talk about anything else. High above me I notice a
grouping of sturdy but blackened oak ceiling beams. I point.
Me: “Nice you could save
some money there.”
Mrs. O’Donnell: “Oh
please. Saving money was not the
objective.”
Me: “What was?”
Mrs. O’Donnell: “A
reminder to my daughter not to play with matches.”
Outside, the deck hums
with happy times. It overlooks a row of dunes, a bonfire, some lawn chairs,
people sit and beyond them the St. Johns River where during the Civil War Capt.
J.J. Dickinson, the Florida Swamp Fox, became the only American Army officer to
sink a battleship. It’s Florida lore. A Confederate sentinel spotted the USS
Columbine steaming north loaded with cargo and Negro
soldiers. He rode by horse north to Palatka to tell Dickinson of what he saw.
Dickinson rode to a
point called Horse Landing with artillery, hid in the tall pines and waited.
When the ship returned he sunk her. The white officers surrendered to Dickinson
on the near shore. The black soldiers jumped into the St. Johns. Twenty-nine
drown. They knew of Dickinson’s reputation. He routinely hung or shot Negros outside
the custody of whites. Dickinson’s law was, unassigned property will be destroyed
so as not to become contraband. I wonder if he was soulless before the war or
if it made him that way.
On the deck Mrs.
O’Donnell gazes down intently at her daughter Sherry seated by the bonfire calmly
at Jim’s feet. The mother takes a deep breath. It’s as if she has passed a
milestone. She has mentioned that Jim is good for Sherry and that he did what
she could not: tame her.
I look at Mrs.
O’Donnell. In this early part of my life, she is more attractive to me than her
daughter could ever be. I understand now why my father was tongue tied.
But I am disturbed.
Me: “Doesn’t it bother
you that Sherry has to confer with Jim on anything other than the most simplest
of decisions?”
Mrs. O’Donnell: “Nope.”
She states it flatly but
I will not let the issue drop.
Me: “I mean, aren’t you
worried about her development as a person? Aren’t you afraid that one day,
after Jim’s gone, she won’t be able to think for herself?”
Mrs. O’Donnell: “Lord
have mercy, son. We stopped hoping Sherry would break the glass ceiling years
ago. We just want her to be happy, hold down a job and stay out of trouble.
Hell, even two out of three of those would suit us… Goodness. What did you expect? Harvard?”
I look at Jim. State
road champion. He beat Fries. There’s
talk of him racing in Spain next year with the Mapei exchange program. I look
at Sherry. Out of trouble, gainfully employed (delivering newspapers) and, well, she did look happy. I begin see it
now. They can make a life together as a couple. Husband and wife even. Maybe in
Spain. It’s against my nature but I grow hopeful. I am hopeful. Hopeful for
them.
Much later in the
evening I am up off the couch looking for a toilet. It is dark. Stumbling, I
find myself in the master bath of the master suite. I’ve left the light off for
some reason. I think I’m pissing in the toilet but it sounds more like a
garbage can. I move left but that isn’t it either. About halfway through, a familiar
sound. I’ve found the target. As I trail off I hear voices in the bed room. I
peak through the door ajar. There on the deck I can see Jim embrace his lover.
My eyes squint. In the moonlight I see it is Jim and Mrs. O’Donnell.
--30--
From: jzauner33141@hotmail.com
To: obra@list.obra.org
Date: Tue, 23 Oct 2012 15:52:58 +0000
Subject: Re: [OBRA Chat] Tuesday's ride with Jim
Jim and I are riding on
the road. We’re headed to Mt. Tabor for hill repeats. It takes about five
minutes to get to the top of Tabor. Jim says this evening we’ll do six reps at
105-percent FTP. He estimates our FTP by feel since neither of us owns a power
meter. Jim says a 20 minute TT on a sheltered climb yields a good working
number. I have no idea what he’s talking about.
The first two reps we do
side by side. Jim is talking. It’s hard for me to listen. The third time up Jim
is leaving me. He climbs out of the saddle ticking over what seems an impossibly
small gear. More than 30 seconds after Jim, I arrive atop Tabor. I’m out of
breath. Jim is turning a tight circle waiting.
Me: “You climb in such a
small gear.”
Jim: “You’re at more
than 105-percent right now. You know that, right?”
Me: “I can’t climb out
of the saddle in a small gear. I feel like I’m flailing. I just slow down.”
Jim: “It takes practice.
You have to step outside your comfort zone.”
Me: “I guess so.”
Jim: “Over and over. You
have to step outside your comfort zone.”
Me: “Okay. I get it.”
I look down at my new carbon
steed. Karsten Hagen raced it last year. He’s from Bend. It’s a Specialized
S-Works SL-3. It’s flashy like a neon sign inviting bike thieves to
break into my basement but it rolls sweet like a Cadillac. It’s a huge
advantage on washboard downhill sections like the right hander on Tabor just
before the gate near the dog park where SE East Tabor Drive splits into SE
Lincoln Street. Don’t barrel down this hill without knowing whether the gate is
open or closed. If it’s closed you’ll see it about a second after you round the
corner and just before you plow into it; or, if you’re real good, slide under
it.
Jim and I ride side by
side on the paved loop atop Tabor. We’re recovering.
Jim: “Did you finish
that bottle of wine?”
Me: “Still half empty. Haven’t
had a drink in five days.”
Jim shakes his head
approvingly. I’ve quit drinking before to make sure I could. This time, however,
it’s to put Jim’s mind at ease.
Me: “Is it just me or
are you flying on the bike right now?”
Jim: “It’s just you.”
Me: “You remember that crit
in Breckinridge? You said you could’ve lapped the field if you wanted but, what
did you say? What got into print weeks later? It’s better for the sponsor if I ride
out front alone? Damn if that ain’t cocky.”
Jim nods his head.
Me: “Guys would bridge and
you’d work a couple laps and then start jumping through their paceline until it
came apart. Guys going backwards one by one. And you just kept riding alone off
the front. All night. From the gun. I was like, who is this guy? I shouted at Rich
Fries, who is that guy! And he shouted back, that’s our brother, man! That’s
our Florida brother!”
Jim and I slow. I stop
pedaling. Then Jim does the same. I’m not ready to start back down the hill
because I’m not ready to start back up it. My legs don’t feel good.
Me: “You put on a clinic
that night.”
Jim says nothing.
We stop. In front of us
is a view of downtown. The sun is setting behind some clouds silhouetted by the
West Hills. People are aiming their iPhones at it, leaning against each other,
sipping wine, taking it in. But not Jim. Jim is shaking his head almost
imperceptivity, eyes locked on some imaginary hub in some imaginary bicycle race.
He goes from side to side like he’s swapping left eye for right eye, left eye for
right eye. I’ve seen him do this for hours on training rides growing up in Florida.
Like a trance. The deeper he goes into it, the more you know, he’s on.
Me: “You never talk
about those times, brother. There were a couple months there where you won
every race in sight.”
Jim, still, saying nothing.
I want to look into his
face and understand this but his head is hung low. He’s too deep into the trance.
I lean over my bars to look up into his face and then realize that he’s not in a
trance at all but instead he’s hurting, damn near crying.
There’s a long pause.
Long.
Jim: “You asked about
Korea the other day. You still want know what happened?”
My mind is at attention.
I’m not sure what’s coming next. I look to a big cedar standing next to me. I
bet he’s more than 100-years-old but still he has nothing to say on this issue. I
take a deep breath. I shake my head.
Me: “Yes, brother. I
really do. I’ve wanted to know for more than 25 years.”
From: jzauner33141@hotmail.com
To: obra@list.obra.org
Subject: Tuesday's ride with Jim
Date: Tue, 16 Oct 2012 16:08:35 +0000
Brother Jim
reads this Friday evening:
From:
rondot@spiritone.com
To: obra@list.obra.org
Date: Fri, 12 Oct 2012 09:41:59 -0700
Subject: [OBRA Chat] OBRA ROCKS!
This
weekend the world of OBRA has FIVE Cyclocross races around for for [sic]
members and newcomers to attend. We are living in maybe the best
Cyclocross environment.
Get
out there and participate or support.
ron
[sic]
---
Jim and I are down in the basement fastening
the Macalu to
the Kurt Kinetic Rock and Roll. Can’t recommend the Rock and Roll aspect of the
Kurt Kenetic but the rest of the machine is pretty sound. There’s a bottle of
wine between us half gone. Jim is a recovering alcoholic. Has been for 20
years. He's less than a year older than I am. We’re pushing 50.
Jim arrived in Portland from Miami Beach in
late July of this year. Till this weekend he's only seen the good Northwest
weather.
I position the rear wheel of the Macalu
into the Kurt Kinetic.
Me: "This is it, brother. You're not
going to see the sun for another six months and the thing that worries me most
about you is you’re a gun owner. And not just a gun owner, but a handgun owner…
A handgun. Jim. Really?”
Jim: "Why is this such a wedge issue
with you?"
There's a pause.
Me: "This weather you've experienced
for the past three months is Northwest Nirvana. Expect withdraws. Next time you
see the sun you're not going to like it. After crawling
around in the dark like a cockroach for six months it’s going to seem
overwhelmingly bright. It’s going to feel like an enormous spotlight beamed
down from a prison guard’s tower."
Jim: "True. It'll take some getting
used to but I’m sure we’ll learn to embrace it again."
I look up at Jim blankly. Then back down at
the trainer.
Me: "Green."
Jim cocks his head. I point at the beefy
threads on the Kurt Kenetic that lock down the dropouts. They're greased with
Phil Wood. Jim shakes his head approvingly.
Me: "How are you so positive, eh?? Why
didn't I get any of that?"
Jim: "What did Staff Sgt. Anderson tell
me when I got orders for Korea? He always said the same thing to anyone who got
orders to a really bad duty station. What did he used say? 'It's what you make
of it.'?"
We chuckle.
Jim goes to something like the position of
attention. He’s our old noncommissioned officer in charge, Staff Sgt. Anderson.
Jim (In
Anderson’s slap happy Virginian drawl): "Camp Red Cloud is a great duty station, son. Just remember, it is what you make of it."
Me (Acting like an Army grunt
getting sent to Korea): "Roger that, Staff Sgt. Fuck Face."
We laugh.
There’s a long pause. No talk while I
tighten the Kurt Kenetic over the dropouts of the Macalu.
I look up. Jim is staring at the cracked
cement floor shaking his head almost imperceptibly.
Me: "Korea: That's where it all
unraveled for you."
Jim: "Let's talk about something else."
Me: "Let's finally talk about how you go from
being a pro-level cyclist to an alcoholic drug addict inside of two years."
Jim: “Those were negative times.”
There's a pause. I'm focused on tightening
the resistance wheel of the Kurt Kinetic onto the rear tire.
Jim: "You should race cross."
Me: "That's a great idea. I really need
another bike."
Jim: "Your wife makes plenty of
money. You can get a good cross bike for less than a grand off the OBRA
list. People sell stuff on there at half retail sometimes still in the box."
I take in a deep breath.
Jim grows wary. He knows how I feel about
cross these days.
Me: "You wanna know what else I should
do, Jim? Eh? Wanna know? I should buy a pink bra and wear it over my kit when I
race. It’ll be my signature. I’ll be the Pink Bra Guy. Wouldn't that be cool?"
There's another pause. Jim is staring at the
concrete again. He seems put off.
Jim: "You should wear it under your kit."
Me: “What?”
Jim: "The bra. You should wear it under your kit."
I look at Jim. He’s grinning, nodding his
head still staring at the concrete.
I get it now.
Yes, yes, giggling. I see.
Me: "Of course under the kit and housing
some mammoth double-Ds."
Jim marches circles around the trainer with
his hands out in front of his chest.
Jim: "Water balloons. You could use
water balloons to fill the D-cups."
Me: "Double-D cups and yes water balloons but filled with beer!"
Jim: "Papst Blue Ribbon?"
Me: "It’s Portland. Is it’s cross. Of
course PBR. What else? "
Jim: "They're going to bounce. It'll
take a unique approach especially going over the barriers. It'll require skill,
brother."
Me: "I’ll have to channel my inner
mommy but that's part of the deal. You can't have it both ways."
Jim: "Yep. You either got hooters or
you don't."
Me: (In
my best Bevis voice): “Some men dream of hooters and say, 'Why'? I dream of
beer filled double-Ds and say, ‘Why not?’ ”
Laughter.
Pause.
Jim looks at the bottle. He is worried about
his brother.
Jim: "Are you going to finish that
bottle?"
I put the cork back in it.
Me: "Let's go upstairs. I’ll finish it
some other time."
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