Stubborn Rides in Tandem

It is entirely possible that two very stubborn people are not the best candidates for learning to ride a tandem bike together.  But for us, that very stubbornness may have been the only thing that made it possible.  We certainly didn’t have the experience, knowledge, or even gracefulness that might be recommended for new riders, when we wheeled the giant electric-blue steel Schwinn cruiser into the bike shop near our house and asked to have it fixed up well enough to ride around town. 

The bike was a treasure from Noah’s old Missoula storage unit, salvaged as a freebie years ago from someone not interested in fixing it up.  It seemed like a great idea, when we moved back to town, to get it road-worthy and take on the town together.  We didn’t want to drive everywhere, Noah didn’t have a bike yet, and surely, how hard could it be?  It looked like a fun adventure. 

When we went to pick it up from the bike doctor, we debated whether to bring the dog with us or not.  I had biked with Malaya enough to be wary—usually I used a special spring-loaded shock cord that attached to the bike seat post, since simply holding the leash and handlebar had led to a few disastrous spills.  Noah insisted that she come, certain we could pick up the bike, step aboard, and ride off home with dog trotting along beside, no problem. (I always thought I was pretty optimistic before I met Noah, whose faith in great possibilities tends to eclipse my own outlook).  He agreed to my compromise that we first take a little test ride without her, just us on the bike, before adding the husky into the mix.  We would see how it went. 

The place we got the bike fixed is a small bike shop that specializes in repairs and used bikes, rather than slick and shiny new retail gear. In fact, there’s not a whole lot of slick and shiny new in the shop, including the employees and patrons. The two repair stations are well-worn, a bit greasy, and visible from the front desk.  A jar half-full of change and dollar bills on the counter is labeled as a fund to get one of the owners to shave his grizzled beard.   Every Thursday is a happy hour where friends of the  shop come to drink beer and compare stories.  We picked up our bike on a happy-hour night, and the place felt more like a small-town Montana bar than a bike shop; we got the same friendly but skeptical eyeballing outsiders would get in any such establishment.  Malaya and I were the only females in the place.  When our friend and repairman Don rolled the tandem out it drew some interest from the peanut gallery.  Luckily the air conditioning inside and the heavy July heat outside kept them from coming out to observe our first attempts at riding it. 

For a few decades now I’ve taken for granted the ability to swing up onto a bike smoothly and be on my way. I love the easy roll and the feeling of freedom, and a well tuned and fitted bike rarely fails to bring a smile to my face.  I’ve never added another person into the mix on the same vehicle, however.  When Don handed the bike over to us outside, Noah and I each touched a set of handlebars, looked down at the bike, then up at each other and suddenly realized we didn’t really even know how to start this thing.  “So, um, any tips?”  he asked Don.   

Thankfully, Don did not laugh at us, but thought for a minute before offering: "Well, you just have to communicate.  The captain, that's the one up here in the front, has to say if he's going to turn or slow down.  You can't just stop pedaling suddenly.  That won’t go well. The stoker, back here, has to say when she's going to shift gears.  Don’t make any sudden movements.  Oh, and pick which side you want to start on--right pedal up or left." 

It seemed like reasonable advice, so we straddled our respective seats, put the right pedals up, counted "one, two, three..." and proceeded to lurch a few wobbly feet forward before tipping so far we had to stop.  It was nothing like biking alone.  It was like being a kid in those first shaky lessons on a two-wheeler.  We stared at each other in shock, wondering if we'd just wasted a bundle of repair money getting this thing fixed, and thinking maybe we shouldn't even have kept it in the first place.  Maybe this bicycle built for two idea was ridiculous.  Maybe we just weren’t the right people for it.  Certainly it was going to be a whole lot harder than we thought.  We tried a few more precarious attempts making it a few feet farther each time, and discovered that there were a few more things that needed adjusting.  The rear seat swiveled left and right, one wheel needed a quick re-align.  Don took it back in to fix, but those problems seemed minor compared to the general operator incompetence we felt. 

Inside, the local crew was at least two beers into their evening and getting chatty.  "You ever ride one of those before? How'd it go? " I admitted it was a bit harder than we'd expected.  "Well, the thing is, the faster you go, the easier it is," was the advice from one corner, punctuated by a long swig.  That bit of advice seemed useful, at least.  When I explained that we intended, eventually, to also have the husky running beside us on-leash, they smiled and shook their heads, informing me that that was a pretty advanced maneuver, not something to aspire to anytime soon.  When I admitted that Noah fully intended to have us riding with the dog by the time we got home that evening 10 blocks away, there was outright laughter. 

Since I had lobbied for leaving the dog at home and just picking up the bike, I shot Noah a very pointed glare to drive home the fact that perhaps we were setting our goals too high. These were not just average innocent bystanders, after all; every knee in that bike shop showed some scars or scabs.  These guys knew all the ways to crash a bike, and from the sound of the guffaws and the knowing glances at each other, they knew that adding a feisty two year old husky to the mix was one sure way to do it.  One character leaned in across the counter when Noah was distracted by something and offered "You know they also call those bikes 'divorce machines' right?"  I gritted my teeth and laughed, said we'd see how it went. 

After the second round of adjustments we tried again and managed a few shaky, swerving, but steadily improving loops around the block. Each one was punctuated with a steady commentary of “ready?  Up!  Ok, braking….ok, here we go…whoa!  Whoa!” and so on.  It was still tough; we were still throwing each other off, each trying to balance on our own, but we were moving forward, at least.   Relieved that perhaps the thing wouldn't turn out to be a complete waste, we paid our repair bill.  At my insistence we left on foot, walking both the bike and the dog.  Even though we had, technically, succeeded in riding it together, and were clearly getting the hang of it, we were a bit deflated.  Our plan of cruising through this town delivering coffee on the coolest bike around seemed pretty far derailed at this point.  We were not at all sure that we had done the right thing.   

As we walked home we rehashed some of the commentary from the bike shop. I told Noah about the "divorce machine" and the specific skepticism about our potential for riding home with husky.  He'd missed that the first time around, and I immediately knew that filling him in on that was about to make more trouble.  He didn't say anything, but his face shifted--just slightly--into the expression that generally means he's about to prove someone wrong. Noah does not like to be told that it cannot be done.  He got in the captain seat and rode the bike, solo, down the block and back.  He still had the stubborn eyes when he returned.  “Let me try it, just me, with the dog” he said.  Skeptical, and still limping slightly from an ankle sprain in recovery, I handed over the leash and watched with some trepidation, but they managed it up and then back together.  I knew by the time they returned that I’d be in that backseat before we got home, so I gave up my resistance, and gave it a go.  It was a long straight 5 blocks home at that point, just one stop sign, and sure enough, we managed.  A bit terrifying, true, but we made it, and safe. 

Within days, we’d improved dramatically, and though it will never be as easy or efficient as our nicer solo bikes, we’ve come to love the tandem, partly because we made it work even against all odds and common sense.  Every time with ride with Malaya we are a bit of a spectacle, and have caused at least a few people to widen their eyes and jump to the side of the river trail bike path when we come through.  One of these Thursday nights we need to ride up to that bike shop, still together, and dog alongside, to show it can be done. 

Within a week or two of getting the bike fixed up, we took it from home down the river trail to listen to some music and get a drink with a friend passing through town.  On the way home, riding in the dark, all I could see where the edges of the trail whipping by, Noah’s white shirt billowing into my face as the cool air from the river broke up the July heat.  Though I couldn’t really see where we were going, I am learning to trust that we are still on the path.  We’re learning to communicate, and to roll with the motion a bit more, rather than fighting for balance, working against each other.  We’ve relaxed into the sway and motion a bit more, so we don’t freeze up and tip over. 

On that night-time river trail ride, just before whooping through sprinklers and letting Malaya really open up and run, we were laughing and shouting over each other, too, trying get on the bike and also to remember the words to a Ray Bradbury line we both love:  “drunk and in charge of a….No, no, it’s…as an Irish police report..wait, intoxicated?...right pedal up!….no, drunk on life?…NO, No, I HAVE IT!” It was Noah who remembered the first half:  “I was drunk and in charge of a bicycle, as an Irish police report once put it.”   And that set us straight to finish triumphantly together as we launched the bike forward:  “Drunk on LIFE, that is!  Filled with one half fear and one half adventure!”    That line has never seemed more apt than as we pedaled off into the dark, leaning ever more eagerly into our own unique mix of fear and adventure. 

Time of uprooting

Dozens of heads of garlic hang drying in the entryway to our short-term summer rental apartment; a place to live, but not quite a home.  We harvested these just before leaving Oregon, a task squeezed into the end of one of those very busy days of packing and moving preparations.  Digging and pulling out of the long beds at the B-street farm at dusk after integrating our 6 hens into their flock, it was the most literal sort of pulling up roots.  Some came out easily, giant, plump heads and thick necks.  Others took a bit of digging; the garlic harvest was an impromptu addition to the chicken drop, so we dug without tools, sinking just our hands deep in the warm floodplain soil in the almost-dark. 

Here in Missoula, with hot August air carrying a bit of forest fire smoke, the garlic seems to be curing well.  The outer layers of skin have dried and tightened to a papery sheen. The roots, curled and frazzled at the base of each head, have dried to a crackle too.

I have a habit of testing them as I walk by, brushing my fingers against those roots that still cling to some small clumps of Willamette Valley clay.  I’m not sure I’ve ever felt a kinship to garlic before, but something about them hanging suspended soil-less in the air strikes a bit close to our own uprooted state.   We’ll have to move out of this summer rental next week, garlic and all.  As we clean and box up the garlic for winter storage, we’ll leave some of those biggest cloves at the top, hoping to find some new local soil for all of us to sink into before winter. 

Current Local Time

Why put writing here?  Because there are lot of people with whom I want to share the stories, but when is the last time I wrote you a real letter?  Probably not as recently as I’d like. 

When Noah and I first started writing each other we were on different continents.  You might expect geography to be the biggest challenge, but an emailed letter doesn’t necessarily take longer to arrive from Madagascar than from Montana.  Instead, it was time that was the tricky element.  Even something as simple as evening, morning, or day of the week was convoluted.  When someone is that far away, half the time it is already tomorrow for one or the other of the parties. 

We dealt with that in two ways.  One trick I soon discovered was that  typing “current local time…” with any country or city filling in that blank, brings up a line at the head of the search results that gives the time in that area.  As our correspondence grew more frequent, “current local time….” searches quickly began to accumulate.  Sometimes I could track his progress through a long multi-country assignment by the ways google suggested completing the search terms:  current local time….Madagascar…Sri Lanka…Kuala Lumpur…. Papua New Guinea.   

But we also fell into a practice of simply creating our own references of time based on bits of the letters, events that had happened and been shared in stories.  A vivid stormy run labeled the end of a rough trip in Ghana the time of the mango lightening.  Back in Forest Grove, I was trying to keep my head above water at the end of my first year of teaching in the time of the maple buds . 

I like this way of telling time.  It has no sharp time-zone borders on the map, but it ties us in to the place we are in in a wonderful way.

Some of my favorite work has been the fieldwork that let me know the seasons of a place in that kind of time-telling.  On a recent drive through Montana, reminiscing about my graduate school fieldwork, I remembered how I knew when it was time for different stages of my plant surveys.  It wasn’t that June 1^st was the time to count the lupine plants.  That was a good range to start from, but the real measure was when the camas was almost done blooming and starting to fruit.   

When you spend every day, especially long Montana summer days, walking the land scanning for seeds, seedlings, new plants, you notice a lot of things.  When you part the grass to find every single shoot of stoneseed in a long strip of grassland, you see a lot of other things along the way.  You get pulled, deeply, into the local current.  You learn the current locals—carrion beetles in ludicrous colors, ants, voles, nests of baby vesper’s sparrows with open begging beaks, the paradoxical moonwort (it sounds magical, and it may be, but it’s also real—Botrychium paradoxicum).  Part of the move, the job-leaving, the attempts to make new jobs of our own that fit a bit better, includes the goal of noticing and knowing in that sort of detail again. 

My goal in sharing writing here isn’t just to have a nature journal, though.  It’s a venture and a practice in storytelling of all sorts, and a reminder to notice the local currents--a way to share the stories from wherever local currently is.