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Two on a Bike
| Article
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17715 |
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Section : |
LIFE
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| Issue
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6 / 1990 |
1,761 Words |
| Author
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Scott Strohmaier
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My wheels are singing; spinning on the hot asphalt, they make that high-pitched hum I love so much. Sweat trickles down my face as I punish myself, pushing the day's doubts and frustrations out of my head and body with an hour-long grind on my twelve-speed Raleigh Marathon.
With a steady fury I slowly pump a mile up a hill that nearly kills me. My mind is racing; inevitably, it comes to the topic of my obsession. My father: my old man, my pop, my enemy, my maker. Never my friend. Half of what made me but no part of me.
My daily push on two wheels gives me a chance to purge my mind of its unkind thoughts about my father. The irony of it all is that he too is a cycling enthusiast. I can't help but wonder if he isn't doing the same thing now in the windy chill of Illinois, far away from my adopted home in California.
Spring is just starting to bloom. I feel the cool air go through me as I descend the hill. I've always wondered how he could stand the cold near Lake Michigan. Often, I wonder what he thinks about during his thirty or so daily miles. Does he think of me? Me - the over thinker, the moody kid, the guy he once called "oversensitive." Entertaining when in a group, certain and focused when engaged on a project, but often bumbling and tongue-tied when alone with him.
Does he understand me? I have often thought he disapproved. I never felt he understood my quiet, creative personality, any more than I understood his scientific mind and stoic demeanor.
Years ago, he followed my lead and took up cycling to help work out his own mental and physical kinks. After he and my mother had divorced, he found himself alone, with nary a friend to turn to. So he grabbed his cycle and took furiously to the high road to pull himself out of his own pain. He also reached out tentatively to me. I both welcomed and hated this move - although I wanted to help, I hated him for having caused my own trauma from the divorce.
Around this time his own father became very sick with cancer. Throughout my grandfather's slow and painful death, my dad grudgingly took care of a man he hardly seemed to know. I promised myself I could never let that happen with him, swearing that I would never let my father die a stranger to me.
I reason out my mind and heart during my rides. There are so many questions. Does he see in me the same stranger that I see in him? Is he as uncertain around me as I am around him? Despite our differences, we are frighteningly alike. We're like two halves of a mismatched whole. We can't live together, but couldn't live without one another. Sometimes, I say things and look around for my old man, only to find myself. Just like my bike - one wheel follows the other but the two never meet.
Why does it seem that no matter what I do, I can never really connect with him? The approval I ache to hear from him is never spoken. The expression "trying to get blood from a stone" haunts me. It seems that I'm chasing him, but he's nowhere in sight.
Both of Us Alone
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