DAD COMES TO THE RESCUE
DAD COMES TO THE RESCUE
This assay into the great beyond composed....cheese, a gude blocks oof time ago.
How I ended up with my bicycle (a ten speed Schwinn Raleigh) lost in Coatesville, Pennsylvania
(within hinterlands of Amish country), now (two score plus years ex post facto per thee catastrophe) makes for a humorous anecdote.
At that time however, any synonym even remotely affiliated with the word funny did not exist.
Matter of fact, the opposite emotion prevailed to rent asunder any notion of pleasure.
Fear and panic in all imaginary mental manifestations found me on the brink of helplessness
and utter despair. In other words, a total annihilation and dysfunction of body, mind and spirit triage
shattered. Any sense and sensibility, pride without prejudice or even one iota of optimism
got completely shredded into imaginary confetti.
In essence, a full-blown panic attack erupted, and found me in the mouth of madness.
Some brief and preliminary information might be helpful to understand with greater ease
how a routine ordinary group activity turned into a nightmare.
This generally calm, cool and collected guy found himself (in a matter of hours) smack dab
into the maws of maniacal maladjustment of psychological mayhem, and severely
dressed down my ego, which subsequently reduced me mental state into a pathetic bundle of nerves.
Webster would clearly define the following quandary as a prime examples of:
alacrity, calamity, and tom foolery.
The following paragraphs will attempt to describe chain of events, which led to
awful circumstance, and a fate worse than death. Thus starry trek kin Zarathustra,
where this corporeal being entered into doom spoke.
Now let attention back pedal prior to this incident.
A growing awareness with popularity of bicycling in general arose for me to become (not necessarily
a winner of Tour De France), but more or less independently mobile and less dependent on fossil fuel powered vehicles.
This healthy mode to build up muscles constituting (what many would describe as chicken legs),
did not necessarily take shape specifically because a younger sister and her husband participated
in major treks on a frequent basis.
No.
Quite the contrary.
Again, this desire to saddle mine scrawny tushy (thy most salient feature) with said asthma self
as a Schwinn able Spartacus, spun up inside mental cogs and wheels as fanciful rationale
(as iterated above) advanced to become independent and reliant on self locomotion as means
to transport this lightweight human cargo various and sundry places far and wide.
Nonetheless, I do offer a nod toward said sibling for her rightful degree of acquiescence
and positive influence. She (Shari) did encourage me to take up this pursuit. She helped affect
a personal decision to acquire above stated two-wheeler, which only cost a modest one hundred dollars.
Once the money gamely plunked down, an immediate obligation arose to invest subsequent energy
and time before sitting astride saddle. Proper materiel vis a vis attired in logo branded
Lycra shorts a must, These spindle shanks be damned.
I felt gung-ho like a raw marine recruited and proudly blaring semper fidelis, whence this over zealous chap soon joined the Valley Forge Bicycle Club.
Weekends found yours truly excited to participate in various and sundry group rides geared
to amateur or novice despite an insult to an outsize ego tht would be taught a taut object lesson from the skool of hard knocks.
With each successively completed day trip (and additional feather added to thine figurative cap of this doodling Yankee) a natural increase in ability and confidence became evident. A bit of that sleight of hand
(master marionette pup pet predilection prevailed), invoking the means to maneuver levers
to affect a smooth transition from one sprocket to another.
What I presumed to be a cinch often comprised meshing of metal teeth analogous to a the blowback an old winchester exhibits when fired prematurely. The attempt to confidently, gingerly, and smoothly adjust gear levers invariably generated grinding, growling and grumbling.
No matter how many trials and errors, the end result to master shifting predictably created chattering,
meshing and stuttering vibrations of mechanical parts eventually spelling ruin as metal gears
and sprockets got fused together.
An upcoming combined biking and camping trip served as the perfect opportunity to apply
and test mine mettle of newly acquired skill. An ordinarily humble trait strove to strut and swagger
like some self ordain Olympian professional rider.
The accompaniment of cited female family member and brother in law envisioned the three of us zipping
like a blur across the Chester County landscape.
Aside from welcome assistance to help with ensemble purchase of reputable and sturdy bicycle,
Shari unstintingly and willingly offered to lend mister wise guy here any requisite equipment.
A minor detail happened to be overlooked before heading off toward the wild blue yonder.
What pray tell you ask? No review took place to double check packed bags to ensure
pertinent paraphernalia safely got housed for upcoming cool and dark night. No surprise
that a critical omission became readily apparent at the most inopportune time.
After a full day (which seemed more like an eternity) strenuously pushing feet to the pedals uphill
with all the might summoned from this untested human frame, and laterally applying brakes
over cautiously when going downhill, I eagerly applauded democratically unanimous decision to bivouac.
This weary body of mine felt physically conflicted and wracked to the hilt. Everybody else appeared
to exude an enviable freshness with no need to recuperate.
When fatigue could no longer be kept at bay, the welcome respite for sleep witnessed a sudden
and unexpected panic. The search for purportedly bundled sleeping bag came up empty handed.
Oh no and ugh! A barrage dripping emitting viz feeble harsh jabbering laments followed suit.
Immediate primal groans and grunts quickly followed unprintable colorful turns of phrases.
Needless to say (and write), those next countless hours of longed for repose turned ranked as
worst foray into dreamscape and REM cycle!
Brisk temperatures with no means to stay warm
(even the stint to curl up into a ball constituted a futile effort) found this poor soul fatigued.
I rued this condition, (and felt like a deplorable basket case), while dreading
every chilled to these lovely bones passing hours without recourse to acquire one shut eye of sleep.
Oh, and in addition to lack of soundly slumbering as if buoyed aloft on a cloud
(where even the sheep adamantly refused to jump over fence),
thine bony gluteus maximus felt saddle sore, and did not look forward
to being subjected to subsequent abuse.
Mismanagement and mishandling of proper review of accessory trappings sprung
a multitude of myriad malfunctions on this misadventure.The morrow
(after awaking cold and tired) witnessed dog-awful weather added insult to injury.
Daylight dawned frigid and wet. One of the leaders offered a chance (for those fraught with fatigue
and misery - possibly such invitation with yours truly in mind) to cut short endeavor
exiting from gray rain filled skies.
Irrational and illogical thinking won the day. I declined sought after soft comfort and warmth
of a vehicle in preference to exercise arm and leg muscles, and prove to cosmic creator capability
to keep pace with the most avid and speediest human pumping machines in the universe,
A vague resemblance became clear who those two people might be.
Did you guess Shari and Andy (linked spouse)?
Correct, You just won a won a gold star!
That arrogant choice set the figurative stage for a comedy of errors with fate leering
at this wannabe king, who got more than he bargained for sans the indelibly etched
unpleasantly memorable circumstance.
In the end, I felt and wore the fools cap for precipitating abysmal outcome. Everything
went awry from that very moment.
Soon after setting off on our united destination, each person established a comfortable cadence
and pace within broad range of least to quickest bi-pedal human sim me inns in the east.
I bet you could never deduce individual filling rank and file of pokiest person to
plod along boulevard of a Raleigh tired well spoken sport.
Damn.
I must comment you (dear reader) on such acute perception.
Mundane intervals of time elapsed into synchronized motion, sound (whirring bicyclists
and falling rain respectively) before a brazen (and poorly thought out) notion gripped my mind.
Rather than remain safe and secure with majority of riders (like a respectable and sane somebody),
I fell prey to derelict braggadocio motive to keep up (go ahead and laugh to your hearts content)
with mine often-mentioned kid sister brother in law.
Their endurance, expertise and superior quality (fast as greased lightning bolts
radiating chic wear) became evident when they seemed to vanish instantaneously in thin air.
Not a clue nor trace of their whereabouts seemed evident.
I searched every direction high and low. Far and wide as the hilly terrain and vision would allow,
enable and provide yielded no sign of their whereabouts.
Wait!
A view toward distant horizon offered a pinprick semblance of floating dots that resembled
two nebulous human forms,
Some fluke of physics found distance between myself and kinfolk increasing beyond ability
to catch up (akin to some sinister logarithmic formula predicated on inputted variables),
and surprisingly enough I managed to get completely separated from all other bicyclists.
Nonetheless, I blindly and blithely rode on without an inkling of orientation made manifestly
more impossible from a combination of coeval factors.
Diminution from depletion of food, dehydration, and saturation (from an incessant
cold downpour) prompted a plea to the heavens. Every now and again, I stopped to wipe steamy
water from streaked glasses and read the tattered remnants from the crumpled
and weathered route map handed out (eons ago) earlier in the trip.
Hours slid and splashed by with a growing fear and self-loathing.
As daylight (and optimism) faded to twilight, I summoned up a little bit of courage and rapped
on the door of a simple trim-looking house. The absence of any electrical wires a dead giveaway
that this dwelling occupied by plain people of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.
A young Amish girl answered the door. Her father rushed forward and pointed down the road
at a public telephone.
After clumsily distributing all loose change arrayed atop available ledge, I dialed the operator
and discovered that requested cost to place a call to Collegeville (homeland of my father and mother)
required an additional amount of money.
That lyrical, mechanical and natural voice (synonymous with pay telephones back in the day)
indicated that the call could not be made.
Upon hanging up receiver, a twin feeling of anxiety and desperation helped coalesce and form
spur of the moment idea to escape from hellacious circumstance. This somewhat bold act of assertiveness
bolstered in part from dehydration, exhaustion and painfully strong urge for urination.
At the approach of dusk, I chanced to ring the bell of another residence located quite
so many miles distant from the first one. An attractive young mother (with a couple of curious children in tow)
opened the front door to my desperate plea. She (blessed angel) permitted me to dial home free of charge.
As soon as familiar male voice picked up the other end, I uttered in rapid-fire succession verbal SOS!
Dad, I woefully spoke to the listening and surprising ear PLEASE COME GET ME!
I incoherently jabbered away the trials and tribulations, and allowed the homeowner to give directions.
While in the backseat of the car, I peered out the window and realized just how far astray
my dastardly deeds of daring do took me.
Once home (meaning the same place occupied by my father and mother), I sat in the kitchen.
Reunion with loved ones (who gave me up for lost and about to order a search party),
the rendezvous with psychic crisis ended on a happy note. While carefully and slowly sipping
a big mug of hot chocolate, I related the twice, told tale of woe.
Epilogue found that gung-ho rearing to go, seat in the pants feisty zest to blaze
a trail as a cross-country bicyclist severely bitten in the buttock. That feverish, handlebar curling,
hell-bent vision to travel the byways and highways of this sprawling spread of spectacular
real-estate slowly but surely suffered a painless, private and quick demise.
How unfortunate to find exuberant enticement snuffed out, and the reflexive action to deprive
this me of audacity to envision unfamiliar sweeping panoramic diversity of floras and faunas extant
from east to west coast), now relegated relegated to the irretrievable (very minimally filled)
dustbin of personal predilections.
Never again would this gamesome fellow ever cyclically gambol his psyche hull away
on spokes of fate, and rush into endorphin lane lightly where angels fear to tread.
He now simply winces with envy on each and every occasion, a serious minded cyclist crosses
his path when safely and securely behind the steering wheel of an automobile.
Perhaps the challenge to ply human driven energy in lightweight yet sophisticated bicycle
(across large swaths of continental topography) will be vicariously fulfilled by either one or another
(or perhaps even both) of my young daughters. No matter the aborted vision to experience the breath,
scope and width of this grand country (from the vantage perch atop a bicycle seat), I reflect
on that incident of self-resiliency as a poignant object lesson.
Faith and optimism to surmount and transcend the dire crisis at hand
(or foot) the pathway to salvation!
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