BICYCLE DIARY, Day 1
Dear Diary,
Today I abandoned four wheel transportation officially. I sat down in the front seat of my Honda and explained to it that it was nothing personal, but--sooner or later we all get to an age when we've outlived our usefulness to others. And, like it or not, we just become useless and disgusting and annoying.
After that cheery moment . . .
My good buddy Quentin drove by and picked me up and we went off for four hours of Old Man Talk at Panera's.
You know how that goes . . . stumbling down memory lane bumping into Good Times and Remember When . . .
Then my other good friend, Bob, calls. Ironically, Bob--on Doctor's orders--isn't supposed to drive until his finger heals. He's on foot for a few weeks and he suggests we meet at the nearest Pub.
Here is the plan:
I set out on my bicycle heading East and he starts out walking West until we meet. Then we'll take one fine drinking establishment at a time and work our way through them all.
This seems like a fine, sensible way to spend a Saturday evening.
The Texas sun microwaved me and the hills slapped me around a bit, however, I knew it was good for me. Fresh air and skin cancer never hurt anybody.
He was supposed to head toward me on Camp Bowie Blvd with me heading on the same street toward him. Need I mention the street splits into a fork?
We bypassed each other, naturally and I had to double back.
I on my two wheels and Bob on his widdle footsies crossed the major highways within inches of impact with destiny: whoosh-whoosh--honk honk-whoosh. . .
Fort Worth drinking establishments cater to drinkers who snarl at the idea of a dark beer, I guess, because whenever you ask---they look at you like you just burned the American Flag.
Somehow, the idea of drinking the local Coors beer is seen as more patriotic. Well, I'd rather drink skunk piss than Coors. Call me crazy.
We got our dark brew and a glare. The bartender at the English Bull Dog Pub had the personality of a stack of lumber.
Probably a contender for the Guantanamo greeting committee chairmanship.
Off we go. Suds in dark corner--laughs--profound alcohol philosophy-and bad puns.
The Weatherford traffic circle had to be traversed to get to the next pub.
Wow.
Impossible to describe how dangerous this thing is--several directions of traffic are designed to feed into a spinning cycle of circular nonsense only to spit them back out across each other's paths while hoping the right thing happens at the right time. Total insanity for a guy on a bike and a guy on foot. Note to self: cars are faster than people.
The chest pounding heartbeat of narrowly escaping splatter on a Texas street managed to burn off the alcohol from the Bull Dog Pub.
Thirsty work is what you'd call it.
We arrive at the Skyline Bar and head on inside.
We watched some old guy with a four foot long ZZ Top beard playing pool against a Young Un with a Balabushka cue stick. It was a to-the-death grudge match. Both guys were way past drunk on their way to toxic waste.
Fast Eddy Balabushka's hands were shaking.
ZZ Top says: "I'd be nervous too if I was playing me."
The men were barely able to stand upright, mind you. I imagine stone cold sober they each were great players--but--snockered past half-gone, they were only cartoon figures stumbling around the table blotto, blitzed and bombed out of their gourds.
Instead of a game of skill this competition became a question of who makes the fewest Looney Tune mis-fires.
After three games, it was the bearded hermit who came out the clear winner. Fast Eddy shook hands and spent half an hour trying get his cue stick unscrewed and back in the thirteen hundred dollar carrying case.
On to the next bar!
Fortunately, Bob and I only had to cross one deadly thoroughfare and it was a piece of cake compared to the traffic circle.
The third bar had just opened and they hadn't thought of a name for it yet.
Uh huh--that's what I said. So, they had settled on "We're Open."
I suggested "The Bar with No Name" but they just stared at me like I'd passed gas in an elevator.
The beer was much cheaper here at the We're Open bar and that was a welcomed relief.
Ms. Bartender told Bob and I her life story. (Bob asked--I didn't)
She had arrived from Long Island, she said, with her friend a year previous and had gotten "stuck" in Texas. I told her, "Welcome to my world."
She told us she worked several different jobs at other bars as well.
One of the bars, she informed us, seems to only serve bums, homeless and street Grifters who pay with crumpled, disgusting dollar bills that look like they'd been pulled out of the belly of a Great White along with a severed limb.
"They never tip," she explained sadly.
I offered advice: "You have to get below their center of gravity and push."
She stood looking at me for--it seemed--a full minute.
Bob and I like to talk about music, our offspring, life, the past, the present and the future--and we covered the topics pretty well.
Before we knew it something unaccounted for had occurred: it got dark outside.
Who'd of thunk it?
I hadn't really planned that far ahead.
I'm on a bicycle with no light. And on the far West side of Ft.Worth the street lights are few and far between. I can't take the neighborhood surface streets because I won't be able to see what I'm crashing into as I die screaming in agony. So o o o . . .
I have to take the busy street and stay on the broken sidewalk that passes under
all the low, overhanging branches of the trees. Side note: giant spiders find low, overhanging limbs to be a dandy spot for their webs!
To say the ride home was thrilling is to not do it justice--I made it on pure adrenal gland overload. Let's just say this is a far different world at night on two wheels than you could possibly imagine in the relative safety of an automobile.
The weather was perfect and that's a good thing.
When I got home and put my bike next to my bed I went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror (searching for spiders). My face looks like I microwaved my head on High for two hours. George Hamilton, eat your heart out.
I put plenty of moisturizer on and fell asleep pretty darned fast after consuming a block of cheddar cheese. (Don't ask--I couldn't find any bread.)
I awoke to discover I had slept about six hours. That hardly happens anymore and it is a good thing. Today my face is ruggedly tanned and very few lesions and cancerous blotches have begun festering.
So, Dear Diary--that was the first day. Now, on to Day Number 2 . . .
