Mud, Sweat and Gears: A Rowdy Family’s Canadian Adventure on Seven Wheels
By Joe Kurmaskie
[Editor Note: In this issue we continue with the Metal Cowboy’s “Chapter 13: James and the Giant Peach Bicycle,” which is an excerpt from his new book, Mud, Sweat and Gears. Last month’s article left off with James the giant Irishman playing “I do believe” with Joe and the children.]
We locked eyes at seventeen mph. For a few seconds I thought I could see behind his, to the darker corners. His shoulder sported a USMC tattoo and the scar running the length of his thigh was unmistakably made by a bullet. He offered the slightest nod. Before I could ask anything he winked, rang the bell and announced, “Lightening round. Ten seconds on the clock.”
The boys loved this guy. Bipolar perhaps, but he brought it — crackling energy, games on demand, and more than a pinch of danger on the fly. Get in a car on a Friday after work with James and you’d come back with some stories or you might not come back at all.
He looked at me.
“And ... go.”
I breathed deep, like a contender about to start a breakaway.
“I believe in peak oil, short skirts, cantaloupe, Italian food cooked by Italians and that only some of us get what we deserve.”
Quinn came right back with, “I believe in wall ball, climbing too high in trees, most of the music my Dad put on my iPod, and that Dots better not be the ice cream of the future.”
“They’re all air, no cream,” Enzo whined. “What a jip.”
“Ten seconds,” James prompted my middle son.
“I believe in wall ball too, summer vacation, bike rides across countries, smores with the marshmallows browned but not burnt, and Mom’s goodnight kisses.”
I don’t know why the last bit cut me so deep. Make no mistake, life will try to break you, and often succeed, but having boys who let you inside their heads, who hand over their hopes and their well being, trusting you to safeguard them while they go about trying to be kids, like getting up each day to keep pedaling just because their Dad asks them to ... well, love that bone marrow deep is the only force I know capable of breaking your fall.
“Your turn, Mr. James,” said Enzo. We’d almost reached the top of a long, steady climb. The type that, if you’re talking, goes unnoticed until you look behind you. The water was on our right, thick evergreen forest on our left, as James slowed the pace for the first time since we’d met.
“I believe ... lads like you three give me some good reasons to carry on.”
James rode a bike for reasons that had nothing to do with garden-variety exercise, on this one thing, I was sure.
“Four.” Quinn pointed out. “Our baby brother’s back there sleeping in the trailer.”
James peered into the chariot as we slowed at the crest. An incredulous look appeared on his face.
“Brilliant.” His voice was down just above a whisper for the first time.
“Bonus round,” he shouted, and then launched right in.
“I believe ... you could best me to the top of the next rise if you had the mind to; object lesson on balls and vigor. That’s what you boys turned out to be.”
Enzo took the bait.
“You’re on.”
I shifted to our second hardest gear. Quinn timed his pedal stroke as though he’d been stroking all his life. We got the jump on James, but he came roaring back. It’s quite difficult to outpace a 16-foot, 438-pound bike train going downhill. James rang his bells as he went by on the rise. We’d used our momentum — every bit of team pedaling — and fluid downshifting to hold him off, but three quarters of the way up he chugged by. His size cannot be understated. When James spread his arms at the crest he resembled a condor about to catch a thermal updraft.
We finished out the climb as if it were a points sprint in the Tour de France. I thanked the boys for their effort, but that was lost in the parting waves to James. He looked back as he hit the flats, gave one more nod, then leaned over the straight bars of his mountain bike in a ridiculous effort to gain some aerodynamics. But then again, can’t every effort be seen as ridiculous by someone?
“I believe that man’s gonna make it,” Enzo said.
Now, I know my son was referring to the distance to his car or home or wherever James was off to that day. And maybe he meant before weather or nightfall caught him. But it made me smile thinking perhaps my boys and our own ridiculous effort reached something forgotten and unsullied for James and his Giant peach bike...
Beth rolled up quiet as a ninja. Twice in one day I’d been caught from behind without an inkling. We took mercy on her, waiting at the top while she and two sweet and salty granola bars communed.
“Did you see that biker about as big as Paul Bunyan go by?” She got around to asking. “Gold tooth, no pants. Ringing his freakin’ bell like a madman?”
A silent signal passed between me and the boys, in this case a wink. I can always count on them for the harmless con.
“Wouldn’t have missed something like that,” Quinn said.
“Ring, ring. Baby Matteo, with less than a ten-word vocabulary, sold us out.
“He was great,” Enzo confessed. “We played ‘I believe’ and sang ‘The Night Pat Murphy Died.’ It had some swear words.”
I smiled at Beth.
“Big, unstable, but not crazy.”
She pedaled out, looking over her shoulder as she went.
“Like you would know.”
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
Local Schools Get On Board the Bike Train
Second Ascent Becomes Shimano Service Center
Midfoot Cleat Position?
League of American Bicyclists 2010 State and Community Rankings
Share on