Conscription of the Soul

 By: Jimmy Hackett

Somewhere in the desert sand, a shadow of me lingers on the trail. Searching for something. Or perhaps just searching for an excuse to wander. Among the mountains and nature. In the dusty Martian landscape, my eyes look outward. Forward. Beyond. I look for something. I hope I find it.

“It will be fun.” A phrase never as convincing as the orator would hope.

A couple of days out of Tour – de – Tucson and my brother and I were walking around a bike-swap, looking for a bike for him to ride. My ride? A decent commuter bike, fit for the casual cruise around the university campus. But a bike race? O who am I kidding? I didn’t possess the physical abilities to push any bike to it’s physical limits. After a couple of hours of shopping, me came across a decent street bike for $100. The next stop, the bicycle repair shop.

You’ve never gotten a good deal until you’ve paid cash for bicycle repair. $20 bucks rebuilds a whole bike. It makes sense, these repair men and women certainly aren’t spending on hygiene. And I imagine they bike most places, keeping their cost of living down. Is there a branch of behavioral economics that analyzes the different living patterns of people in different industries? We all here about the cost of living between different cities. What about cost-of-living vs different levels of lifestyles. Can I pay you less if you live in a van…with roommates?

With a bike purchased, we were ready to race. Morning of, we woke up and got dropped off early by our mother. We took the Isuzu Hombre.

The Isuzu Hombre was street legal the way you can legally take steroids in a weightlifting competition. Much rides on not getting caught. This truck came equipped with folding seats behind the driver and passenger seats. Folding chairs. As if someone designing the vehicle just had a religious experience at a BBQ.

We were dropped off at the event with some time to kill. We decided to bike to a nearby McDonalds. A full rundown of proper McDonalds ordering is beyond the scope of this class. For now, let’s just establish that the pancake breakfast is an absolutely terrible order. Keep to the McGriddles. And of course, double up on hash browns.

After a full meal, we needed to rush back to the starting line. As what would end up being a harbinger for things to come, as we approached the traffic light, it changed. My brother braked hard and I ran into him.

Slam and crash. Welcome to the morning show. But the show must go on. And go on, it did. We made it back to the starting line and prepared for the race to start. At moments like these, many questions float around in your head. A question that is never productive immediately before events scheduled to last several hours…do I need to go to the bathroom. Completely irrelevant, because it wasn’t a possibility.

As it stood, I had never been more hydrated in my whole life. I was a water balloon on top of this steel beast. I was reminded of a time I was younger. Rushing home on a bike to pee. Only I didn’t make it. About half way home the gentle spray caught the tailwind of my drift and splashed into a million beads of urine. I really hoped that didn’t happen again.

BANG! The race began.

And with the blink of an eye, bikers of all stripes began awkwardly putting their machines in motion. The race got off to a decent start. My brother and I were nearby each other for close to a half mile. He was waiting patiently to make a move and get ahead of the pack.

He got up in the saddle and began to accelerate. Then, another bang.

A misfire? Terrorist attack? Disgruntled employee? No…a bike tire. His bike tire. We pulled over, unsure of the next move. Then, a flash of genius. 

“Here”, I said. “Take my bike.”

And just like that, I had gotten out of the race!

It was a perfect ending. I got to be the hero.

Until out a nowhere some son of a bitch shows up the spoil the whole day. A bike repair man strolling throughout the race, repairing flats for free. Terrific.

Who the hell does this guy think he is, trying to get me back in the race? Never underestimate iatrogenics, harm done by the healer.

Without an excuse, I hopped on the repaired bike. But this bike lacked the creature-comforts of my bike. Namely, a seat that didn’t double as a shoe horn. So, I called my brother, informed him of the good news and swapped back bikes at the next stop.

And so it was, a scenic ride through the Martian landscape. I did need to go anywhere. I was simply enjoying the ride. Until I came to the next rest stop.

Lightening never strikes the same place twice. If it does, stay far away from that spot. Because it will probably strike there again.

At the rest stop, my brother was patiently waiting, again. Another flat tire! This time I had no reason to give my bike up. We were half way through the race. There was no chance of getting picked up and avoiding the whole thing. We were in the middle of nowhere. The only way out was to finish the race. So we waited for a repairman to show up and fix the tire. Then he was back off. I would be too. After I finished my second slushy at the rest stop.

The mistake wasn’t biking after a full breakfast. It was continuing to eat along the ride. A few hours into the race, and I encountered my first incentive to peddle faster, the specifics of which are left to the reader’s imagination. So I peddled and peddled. No more rest stops. No more breaks. I needed to reach indoor plumbing, quickly. My first ray of hope came as I saw the stretch of highway. I knew that meant I was almost finished.

It was at that moment; I realized the police had abandoned the race. Fitting. Those who remained didn’t deserve the protection afforded by officers guiding traffic on the highway. Funny thing about highways. They don’t have bike lanes. And funny thing about truck drivers. They don’t give a fuck about bike riders. But I continued to peddle as fast as I could, flashbacks of my childhood bike ride fresh in my memory.

For a total of 8 hours, I peddled 40 miles of harsh desert terrain. For the mathematically curious, though not inclined, that works out to 5 miles per hour. Somewhere between a brisk walk and a jog. 

I was making good time. In fact, I remember passing another McDonalds, deciding to keep stride and finish the race instead of stopping. At the McDonalds, I happened to notice two elderly ladies with their bikes sitting up against the wall outside. They were taking insulin shots. I turned my head and looked behind me. There was no one. I looked back over at the ladies and saw them get back on their bikes. NO!

When you find yourself neck and neck with two old ladies still dripping blood from her insulin shot, you realize that life is not a summation of past events. It’s footrace with destiny. With your pride on the line. Who I had been up to that point no longer mattered. What mattered is that I beat this old bitch in a bike race. And I did! Crossing the line in style. I parked my bike and found the nearest bathroom.

I didn’t think about the race much in the following days. That was, until they published the results in the paper.

Clear as day. In black and white. My name. Third from last. I was immortal.

What does it mean for something to exist? Where do things really come from? I don’t know. Somewhere in the past, I am still riding in the desert. Racing towards a bathroom. Towards salvation.

Abandon me in the ocean of life, and watch me swim to shore.

Watch me float aimlessly in space, grinning at the privilege.

Wherever I am, I am home.