The Memory of Running

  For my sister’s shower, Aunt Paula turned to Francis Gerard, whose previous cookbooks had been among her favorites and whose latest one, Fun, Food, and Fantasy, she absolutely loved. From its pages she chose a unique luncheon consommé (aux profiteroles), saddle of lamb (Prince Orloff), sautéed tomatoes, a delicate dish of flageolets, and a Gruyère soufflé. She even had Mogen David wine, which was sweet and which was Count’s favorite, even though he was confined to a different part of the house. The girls thought this was the fanciest, nicest luncheon they had ever had—except for Ethel Sunman, who fell asleep and missed it.

  The party broke up slowly, and there were lots of tears and kisses. Mom probably held Bethany’s hand as one by one the girls filed past her tall and wonderful child. When it was all clear, Count came into his TV room with his tray of leftovers, and Mom, Paula, and Bethany cleaned up.

  It was always nice at Paula’s. Count was unique and funny and, really, I guess, a very kind man. He could be blunt and sort of odd in a usually inappropriate way, but, as my pop always said, “That guy would give you the shirt off his back.” And he would. After a while everybody kissed good-bye, and Mom and Bethany drove back to East Providence.

  Count had two more servings of the lamb and questioned Aunt Paula extensively about this guy Prince Orloff; then they watched TV.

  It wasn’t for about two hours that something in the back of Count’s head told him that wherever Wiggy was, he was being awfully quiet.

  51

  The guy who shot me found my great bike after all. We put it in Roger’s workroom, and he and Kenny polished it and oiled it. I ate lots of vegetables and rice and juice stuff, while my things dried in the high mountain sun. I spent a whole afternoon watching Kate at her loom and talking about my sister and folks and Norma. It’s true that I’m a man who has a hard time talking about anything, but it was easy with Kate, and I found myself saying my feelings in ways I never had been able to before. Like Bethany. God knows I loved my sister, but in some ways, probably because I never really stood up to her voice, I hated her a little, too. Hate is hard to admit. Somehow, with Kate building a rug in the middle of that sunny room, it seemed at least all right to know it. Somehow.

  Kate called Norma again that night and told me she thought they could be real friends. Good friends. I thought so, too. In some silly way, I thought I had done this really wonderful thing for Norma. At least I was glad to have helped friendship.

  So Roger and Kenny drove me and my bike and stuff to Durango. It was a pretty day, sun and clouds and chilly, but I was dressed for the weather, even prepared a little. I felt encouraged when I looked at my road map. I had come more miles than I had left to Los Angeles. Just knowing that made me feel great. And vegetables also. Roger taught me stretching exercises, which I added to my vitamins and bananas and spring water and other things I was learning about. I had a new book, too. Kate had given it to me and said it was an appropriate book for me. It was called Suzanne of the Aspens. It was a fat book, and I hoped I would like it.

  I said good-bye to Roger and Kenny and pedaled across the San Juan River down toward New Mexico. My route would take me through the Navajo Reservation. Kate told me that the reservation is the size of New England. Now, that’s large. Almost too large for me to think about. I like things, or I’m finding out I’m liking things, better when I see all their little parts first. That’s good. I knew that if I saw some of the little parts, I’d understand better, and understanding has been a problem area for me.

  By nightfall I had gone sixty-five miles, which, considering I got a late start out of Durango, was pretty good. In those sixty-five miles, the country changed completely. It was as if you came off a mountain and at the bottom of the mountain was a desert. It just spread out there in the semiflatness. Wind cut out of nowhere. I pulled off the road, lifted my bike over a fence, and walked in maybe fifty yards from the road. Far enough that the whiz of trucks and cars wouldn’t rattle my sleep. I staked out the tent and pushed my saddlebags inside. I spread out the sleeping bag. After I had a quick supper of cold rice and beans, water, and of course a banana, I snuggled into my bag and began Suzanne of the Aspens by flashlight.

  This was the true story of Suzanne Bowen who left Boston, Massachusetts, with her husband, Captain John Bowen, who had fought in the Civil War, and her young son, John Jr., and had gone across the country on horse and foot and wagon to settle in California. When they got to the Rocky Mountains, Captain John got very sick. The three of them were forced to leave their wagon train, because the other travelers were concerned it might be smallpox. That night, with no one around, in the middle of nowhere, Captain John died. His symptoms were a sore throat. If only they’d had penicillin, everything would be all right. The next morning Suzanne and John Jr. buried the captain, then started back to where the wagon train had gone. But by nightfall not only were they lost but John Jr. was terribly sick, too. When he died in the morning, I closed up the book and shut off my flashlight.

  52

  Aunt Paula called Mom a few days after the shower. Wiggy had not returned. Uncle Count was inconsolable. She took the call in the den.

  Pop, Jeff Greene, Bethany, and me were in the living room watching the Red Sox. The Yankees were at Fenway, and they were a hated team, and my pop was the biggest Yankee hater of all.

  “Concentrate,” he would mutter to every Bosox batter.

  Bethany sat curled up with Jeff on the couch. “We got to get a new catcher, Pop,” she said with determination.

  “Give the kid a chance,” Pop said, waving her off.

  “He’s thirty-five years old.”

  “That’s not old,” chimed in Jeff.

  Bethany patted his hand. “It is for a catcher, sweetie.”

  Mom had finished her phone conversation and came back to the Red Sox.

  “Find Wiggy?” Pop asked, his eyes glued to Harry Peterson and his full count.

  “He’s run off. Poor Count.”

  The Yankees called time with two out and the full count going. The manager dragged his ass to the mound.

  Mom looked over to Bethany. “He was there when we were opening gifts, wasn’t he?”

  “Who?”

  “Wiggy.”

  “Oh, yeah. He was jumping all around in the paper.”

  “Well, he’s just run off.”

  “Probably a girl dog,” Jeff said.

  “Jumping all around like that. Jumping on my presents.”

  I looked at Bethany then, but she just smiled and pointed to the TV. “Here we go,” she said.

  53

  Two days later I made Gallup, New Mexico. I would have done it sooner, but the ride was a true crow’s flight. Those few miles in New Mexico were the most peaceful of my trip. The air was sweet with sage (as Kate said it would be), and the cool, sunny air became like fuel. I had gone through Farmington and saw this thing on the horizon. The man who cooked my poached eggs at El Pollo’s restaurant told me it was Shiprock. It looked like a ship, and the eggs were excellent. At the tiny town of Naschitti, I met a Navajo who was just sitting by the side of the road. We had a banana together and some of my water.

  “I’m Smithy,” I said.

  “Good banana,” he said.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Ronald.”

  “I knew a Navajo in the army.”

  “I knew some white guys in the marines.”

  I remembered the Navajo in the army. His name was Jesse, and he thought the training was absolutely stupid. When our drill sergeant would scream at us and we’d all jump up, Jesse would take his time. It wasn’t defiance either. It was a sort of denial.

  Later on, on the road to Gallup, some guys who looked like Navajos ran me off the road and into a ditch. I wasn’t hurt or anything, but I kept thinking how strange a human being can be. They can be Jesse, or Ronald, or they can drive trucks and try to scare you—or, like that policeman, shoot you.

  But this did not get in the way of how wonderful the feeling o
f New Mexico was, and after three nights on the zigzaggy road, I rolled my bike into the Gallup bus station and slept on a warm bench. No one bothered me.

  Early the next morning, I ate my last banana and drank my last bottle of water. I sat on my bench and counted my change. There was a little more than twenty-four dollars. So there it is, I remember thinking. Twenty-five dollars, a bike, and my stuff. I cannot describe to you how perfectly wonderful I felt all over as I pushed out of the bus station and into the very early New Mexico sun. Across the street in a parking lot, three trucks, old pickups, were unloading goods for a farmers’ market. There were half a dozen long tables set up, and the men unloaded, and the women arranged a display of food. Some little kids ran around the trucks and under the tables. I walked the bike across the street and bought a large cup of Mexican coffee. One of the women put a cinnamon stick in it and handed me a puffy piece of dough covered in powdered sugar. It cost a dollar and was wonderful. I leaned against one of the trucks, ate my dough, and watched the kids run around.

  “They left yet?” a voice called.

  I looked past the kids at two men. They stood straddling tall English racing bikes and wore fancy headgear and tight-fitting uniforms of blue and black.

  “Huh?” I asked brilliantly.

  “The road club. They gone yet?”

  “There they are,” the other one said, pointing to another lot. I turned and saw perhaps three hundred bicycles and their riders milling around a platform truck.

  “We’re not late. Great! C’mon.”

  The two men pedaled off. I swallowed my coffee and watched them.

  He turned and yelled back at me, “C’mon.”

  I got on my bike and followed. All of the men and women, and it seemed equally divided, had on beautiful tight outfits of various colors and designs. It was obvious that they were all from different teams or clubs. They all seemed to be different ages too. I spotted what looked like a young family with their grandparents. A large banner over the truck read GALLUPROADCLUBANDSESWANBICYCLESRIDETOTHEDESERT. A pretty little teenage girl in a purple suit came up to me with a clipboard in her hand.

  “It’s twenty dollars for the three nights, room and board. Gallup to Winslow, Winslow to Williams, Williams to Kingman. Kingman is technically the desert.”

  “Twenty dollars?” I said.

  “Seswan Bikes are picking up room and board. We’re responsible for the two rescue vans that are going to be with us. That’s the twenty.”

  “I’m not with a team or anything.”

  “No teams. These are all clubs. Independents can go, too. It’s not a contest or anything. You could be a club of one.”

  “Okay,” I said stupidly. I say stupidly, because I’m old and a little fat and I’m going. I took out my money and counted out twenty dollars.

  “You’re number 307,” she said officially, pinning the paper number to the back of my sweatshirt.

  “Thanks.”

  “So what do you want me to call your club?”

  “I told you I’m not in a club.”

  “Yeah, but now you’re a club of one. What should I call it?”

  I thought for a second, but I couldn’t come up with anything original. “Norma,” I said.

  “Club Norma,” she said, writing it down. Then she walked off into the crowd of people and wheels. Suddenly I had an awful feeling. What if where I had paid twenty dollars to go wasn’t where I needed to go? I now had five dollars in my saddlebags. I took out my road map and looked for Kingman. I heard someone testing the speakers on the truck.

  “Testing. Testing. Can y’all hear me okay?”

  Kingman. Damn. I couldn’t find it. How about Winslow?

  “I’m Bob Eastman, president of the Gallup Road Club, and I want to welcome y’all to our big event. Gallup Road Club and Seswan Bicycles Ride to the Desert.”

  It was so frustrating. I mean, I’ve been a Boy Scout. It was astounding how I couldn’t find where I was on a map.

  “Every year we have more and more folks joining us on the beautiful route, and this year we have more than three hundred. I kid you not. Three hundred.”

  Winslow! There it is. And there’s Kingman. Perfect. Right through most of Arizona and just above Los Angeles. I began to stretch out my poor old body.

  “Now, everything is clearly marked, and we’ve got spotters along the route, and you’ll find the hundred twenty-five miles to Winslow a flat ride. Don’t race. It’s not a race. There’s the Rocky Mountain Roadsters, and they’ll be taking off first, but don’t try to keep up, because they’re training for the nationals. Just try a steady pace. Make sure to get your official—Can y’all see what I’m holding up? This is the official Seswan Bicycle Lunch Pack. Fits on the frame. Comes with sandwiches and juice and energy bar. It’s free, so get the pack before you head out. And remember, safety, safety, safety. See y’all in Winslow.”

  Some of the riders didn’t listen to Bob Eastman. They grabbed the Seswan Lunch Packs and pedaled madly after the Rocky Mountain team, but most everyone else set a reasonable pace through the high desert air. The lunch pack wrapped nicely around the bar of my bike and attached with Velcro. I pushed off from the parking lot into the main body of bikers and, after a few miles of getting used to riding in a crowd, let my mind drift over everything. That’s really the best way to do it. It sort of lets your thoughts do the biking, and your body with its little aches and stuff sort of becomes detached. Sometimes, not always, but sometimes, if my thoughts are free enough and truly take me away, my body becomes almost a portion of the bike itself. It’s weird and nice.

  People passed me, I passed people. My good bike sat sweet on the road. Three very pretty girls, maybe twenty-five or so, passed, then slowed a bit, and I fell into a similar pace. It was nice, thinking away, and also watching their round little bottoms sitting so strongly on those leather seats. They wore blue-and-gold uniforms and they were numbers 78, 79, and 80. I could have watched them for twenty miles. I did. We passed into Arizona at Lupton, traveling in a happy, raggedy line down through the great reservation. Some of the riders were getting tired by now, perhaps having misjudged the ride. There were trucks trailing behind, of course, so no one would get stranded out here. I felt bad for the riders who had pulled over. I remembered what the seven-mile ride to Shad Factory had done to me. I was glad, though, that the three friends with the nice little bottoms seemed strong.

  After a couple of hours, one of the rescue trucks casually passed us, and I saw my sister, first on the top of it, in her spectacular pose, then looking out from the back window. She was waving to me and smiling, and her hair had been braided. I didn’t want to lose this vision of Bethany, so I increased my speed slightly and pulled away from the pretty bottoms. For the next hour or so, I followed my sister closely and admired her beautiful stillness, even if it was in my mind. Finally, as we entered the Petrified Forest at Adamans, Arizona, she turned skyward, changed into a lonely cloud, then disappeared into blue.

  I stopped a little off the road to have my Seswan lunch, added a banana to it, and headed out again at an easy pace. I’d had to change into my shorts and red T-shirt, because even though there was a little brace to the air, the ride was hard work and my temperature was warming up. That’s the thing that has happened to me. When I’m getting something, hot or cold or whatever, I’m aware of it. I never was before. It’s okay to be aware.

  By late afternoon several trucks began to pass, carrying riders and their bikes who had fallen out. I saw the grandparents and one of the kids. It would be hard for a grandparent, I guess. By five o’clock I passed a sign saying WINSLOW 8 MILES, and twenty minutes later I followed big makeshift signs to the Winslow Fairgrounds, where the Arizona National Guard had set up tents for the event. There were maybe sixty people already there. I looked around for 78, 79, and 80 but didn’t see them. I parked my bike in a rack, checked my tires—because part of the deal here was that if your tires failed, old Seswan Bicycles would fix them—then got in line for
a big spaghetti dinner. I took my dinner alone by my bike, then carried my saddlebags and sleeping bag over to one of the rows of army cots.

  “What do I do?” I asked an official-looking older woman in a blue dress.

  “Are you a participant?”

  “Yes, I am. I’m number 307.”

  “Okay. It’s coed. First come, first served. Rest facilities are on either side of the tent.”

  I put my stuff on one of the cots and went to a restroom. They had two trailers set up on each side of the tent. Men and women. I was glad the restrooms were not coed. I washed up in a sink bath and paper-toweled off. I was getting good at a sink bath. I walked back to my cot, grabbed my sweatsuit, and returned to the restroom to put it on. It would be cold, and I wanted to remember to do the things I needed to do to make myself the most comfortable. Being clean was one. The sweats were another.

  When I got back to my cot, the tent had still not filled up very noticeably. It was a good time to lay out my things and repack them. Kate had a great idea for keeping my socks and underwear dry. She bought these big plastic food bags, and what I did was put my clothes in the bags. I put on clean, dry socks and put the old ones in my dirty-sock bag. I was getting efficient. That was something Mom and Pop admired in people and something I never got the hang of until I broke it all down to a bike and saddlebag. I stretched out on the cot using my sleeping bag for a pillow. It was time for Suzanne of the Aspens.