by Joe Kurmaskie

Opinion

Mud, Sweat and Gears: A Rowdy Family’s Canadian Adventure on Seven Wheels

[Editorial Note: This is an excerpt from Joe’s new book.]

Chapter 13 — James And The Giant Peach Bicycle

“Well, I believe in the soul, the small of a woman’s back, the hanging curve ball, high fiber, good scotch, that the novels of Susan Sontag are self-indulgent, overrated crap. I believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. I believe there ought to be a constitutional amendment outlawing Astroturf and the designated hitter. I believe in the sweet spot, soft-core pornography, opening your presents Christmas morning rather than Christmas Eve and I believe in long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days.” — Crash Davis, Bull Durham

Nothing so large and exuberant has ever gotten the jump on me, at least not in broad daylight, during good weather while riding a bicycle with not one, but three clean, unobstructed views through rear facing mirrors.

Yet, there he was, just off my left as if beamed in from the planet of gigantic Irishmen. James the massive celtic warrior atop a towering peach colored mountain bike, front basket made of wicker and a silver bell he was overly fond of ringing after making a salient point or just because he was extremely happy ... which was most of the time about everything; sunlight, the sound of gravel under his wheels, the act of breathing.

We’d finally met someone more excitable than me.

“That’s absolutely brilliant!” “Can’t say I’ve ever happened onto anyone pedaling such a substantial getup over hills ... and by the looks of it, for distance! Brilliant!” Everything James said came with an exclamation point.

“Holy crap!” For a seven year old, Enzo used exclamation points in acceptable doses, unless sugared up or describing a Legos creation he’d devoted hours to. Given that a shirtless giant with a full head of red hair, graying thicket of beard, matching bath mat of chest hair, speedo in the colors of the Italian flag and hiking boots, was matching our cadence a few feet off the starboard bow, I seconded Enzo’s emotions, and let my son’s language breach slide.

Quinn just shook his head and smirked, just another day at Road Scholar U.

By way of greeting, I bumped fists lightly with our flying Irishman at 17 mph. He liked that. We exchanged names, followed by the standard who, what and what not. That’s where the conversational path diverged in the wood. During a brief lull, James broke into the song, “The Night Pat Murphy Died.” His voice matched his body — massive and surprisingly tender but all over the page.

“Nice pipes,” Quinn shouted up to me during the chorus.

“No self control,” I yelled back. Looking at the man again, I added, “Or pants.”

Quinn cracked up.

If James heard me he took no notice.

Photo by Joe Kurmaskie"I didn't eat all the chocolate, I swear!" (Actually it's dirt, but chocolate sounds better...)

By the third verse, Enzo was singing along with the chorus. God knew my son could use some distractions and merriment. We’d been through four, maybe five micro-climates before noon. The morning thunderstorm, bashing waves along the seawall, had left Enzo mud-slathered and salt-sprayed. Both the mud and salt had dried, leaving raised blotches across the length of him like an al fresco painting. Occupational hazard. The trail-a-bike rider wears more of the roadtrip than everyone else aboard. Even with a stiff plastic pebble guard, much of the day’s events would end up smeared and splattered over his clothes and up his back. Seems that when the world treats you like a rolling Jackson Polick Canvas, singing helps.

By the time James caught our rear wheel the sun was out in force, but it was by no means speedo weather.

Quinn pointed this out. Or he called attention to the “country colors” James was covering his private bits with.

“You wear our flag, but you don’t sound Italian.”

James rang his bell with extra gusto, pedaling closer to Quinn, sizing him up proper.This would have frightened less men, but not my continental drifters.

“I like your eye for detail, son. Name?”

“Quinn!”

“The Mighty Quinn,” Enzo added.

“Well done,” James noted, smiling over his shoulder at Enzo. “Always talk up your brother, always stand by his side.” Two quick rings of the bell. No one could argue with that. We pedaled along, matching cadences for a few hundred yards, pondering brotherhood.

“Quinn. A good Irish name, but you’re defending Italy’s colors.”

“Mom’s Italian, Dad’s Irish,” Quinn said.

“Dad’s a mutt actually, I said. “But a good chunk of it circles back to Ireland.”

James let loose a surprised whistle, as if he’d made a real find — dinosaur bones or a human head.

“You’re ten/two splits, then! I wouldn’t want to go against you boys on a soccer field or a barstool.”

James — Big, bold, brassy, more than a little inappropriate, and sporting a gold tooth, like a pirate. Just the sort you rarely meet outside of a long bike ride. And because we were on wheels, I felt confident we could move on down the road at a quick clip if he turned out to be rabid rather than delightfully excitable.

“I wear the Italian flag out of respect for our most formidable rival on the playing field ... besides, my kilt was off to the cleaners!”

He winked at Enzo.

“But it’s too cold for a speedo,” Enzo countered.

James shook his head vigorously. “This be Canada in August, lads. If not now, when?”

That gave us a good laugh. If I’d had a bell I might have rung it. James’ mood was contagious and we’d been on the road long enough to embrace it.

“Let’s play some ‘I believe’” James said. It wasn’t as much a request as a call to order. “It’ll put us in an exuberant mood,” he added. As if more exuberance were possible, but I was willing to try. Only I had no idea what game he was talking about.

“We trade on things we believe, the only rule, try for profound one round, sublime the next.”

I shoved a confused squint at the massive Irishman.

“Did you see the movie Bull Durham?” he said.

I sighed at the mere thought. A thoroughly satisfying two-for-one: baseball and buddy flick. I especially loved the scene where Costner tossed out that list of things he believed in to impress Susan Surrandon.

“I know how to play now,” I said.

James erupted like a howler monkey and cranked off a few rings of the bell before diving into the game. If he had a brake on that bike or on himself, he hadn’t engaged it around us yet. He cleared his throat.

“I believe everyone should nap under a palm tree at least once, and pee out of doors often.”

Enzo chuckled.

James nodded over to me.

“I believe ... the combination of lyrics, keyboards, percussion and guitars on The Who’s, “Teenage Wasteland” [Baba O’Riley] saved me from breaking bad every single day of high school.”

James smacked his handlebar, “Of course it did!”

He turned to Quinn. The pause was so long I thought that perhaps Quinn was unclear on the rules of the game.

“I believe ... you should consider pants,” Quinn said.

Our kevlar caravan burst into sustained laughter. James shook his fist in mock rage and rang his bell. It was on now.

Enzo stopped pedaling the trail-a-bike to consider his contribution. Fortunately, the trail-a-bike isn’t tied into the tandem’s drivetrain because the little man stops pedaling for any number of reasons — interesting roadkill, a particular cloud formation that’s caught his eye — all activities I consider his inalienable right as a child, especially one repeatedly recruited into his Dad’s unorthodox travel adventure projects.

“I believe ... I’ll always want another dance.”

The boy’s his own Soul Train program. Soundtrack or not. Find Enzo some cardboard, a beat, and the little man’s golden.

James kicked off the next round.

“I believe ... in facing into the season’s first cold wind, searching for the moon every night and spending whatever it takes on proper footwear.”

“Hell yes!” I’m thinking. We grunted our approval in unison. He WAS sporting a solid pair of hiking boots jammed into toe clips. A rather clunky footwear selection, but then he wasn’t carrying a small third world country behind his bike.

My turn.

“I believe jealous hearts and worried minds never held anything together.”

James took a closer look, sizing me up. Like maybe there was a bit more cortex than spinal chord helming this operation after all.

“Now you tell me!”

“I believe ...” Quinn waited for our full attention. “That William Shatner was the only captain who didn’t need special effects to command a starship.”

Silence. James nodded vigorously, Enzo laughed.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” I yelled into the BC afternoon.

James and his game had me using exclamation points now. From Priceline to cheesy legal dramas on network television, “The Shat” was unstoppable. A real force of nature. I flashed on him wrestling a young Ricardo Montabon in “The Wrath of Khan” before Enzo pulled me back from my trekkie daydream.

“I believe peaches should never be put into a can.” We’d had roadside stand fresh fruit the day before. Enzo’d worn the evidence of juicy peaches on his face well into the next day.

“Good rule for fruit in general,” James said. “Unless you’re canning for personal use over a winter. I can’t tell you how much canned crap they made us eat in the service.”

We pedaled along for a stretch, no doubt thinking about fresh fruit and James’ military service.

“I believe ...” James paused, which was something new for him, “I believe it’s better sometimes not to know the odds or the reasons.”

To be continued...

Joe Kurmaskie rides a bike for the joy of it. His next book, “Mud, Sweat and Gears: One Family’s Rowdy Adventure Across Canada on Seven Wheels,” will be on bookshelves September 2009. For more information go to www.metalcowboy.com.