It was about two o'clock on a lazy Tuesday when the lights go
out. I'm hard a t work rebuilding a series of SONET ring connections
for a big client, but when there's no power, there's no network,
and therefore no need for a Network Engineer. I pause about half
a second before deciding to take the rest of the day off.
In no hurry to go home, I find myself aimlessly driving the streets
of the neighborhood where I grew up. One place is as good as another
when you have no destination in mind, so I'm not displeased when
I end up in front of my old house. Guided by an inexplicable impulse,
I stop and get out. Not really knowing why I'm doing this, I open
my Rover's back door and
pull my cruiser out. I don't remember leaving my PL-24 in the
truck, but there it is, with my gloves on one side of the handlebars
and a pair of dusty Airwalks tied over the other. Conscious of
how silly I must look in my shirt and tie, I carefully remove
my oxblood Cole-Haans, slip the Airwalks on, close and lock the
"Disco", and pedal away.
I could ride these old streets with my eyes closed, and maybe
my eyes are closed when a small Honda backs out right in front
of me. My front wheel strikes the fender and I fly gracelessly
over the hood. I see the ground coming up. "This is going
to hurt," I think, and it does, but just for a second before
I fade into friendly unconsciousness.
"Hey dude. Wake up. Wake up. Hey dude." Someone is shaking
my shoulder, and I open my fuzzy-feeling eyes.
"I'm okay," I say from long habit, not knowing whether
or not I really am, but in fact I feel pretty good, not at all
like someone who just smacked his head into a sidewalk.
"What happened?" I shake my head a little and take a
better look at my questioner. He is a tallish, skinny dark-haired
kid, about fourteen years old, wearing a "Rockville BMX"
t-shirt and an outrageous pair of Hawaiian-style shorts. He looks
familiar. Very familiar, in fact, he's me.
"I ran into a car," I say to this imitation me, taking
a cautious look around to see why something like this might be
happening. Everything looks fairly normal, but the cars are all
old. Strangely shiny, but old models nonetheless.
"Your cruiser's okay," the kid who is me says, "but
is sure is weird looking for a Redline. Is it a real old one?
I've got an '85, well, heck, it's right over there." And
sure enough, my old race bike is laid over in the grass, exactly
as I remember it, right down to the Moto-Control plate. "You
always wear a tie to ride?" he asks.
"Um, not always." I stand up and face him. At 6'2"
and 245, with my grey hair and wire-rimmed glasses, it's hard
to see any resemblance to the 5'11", 150-pound, fresh-faced
young rider in front of me, but I'm certain that something beyond
odd has happened, and that this is indeed my teenaged self. He
sticks out his hand.
"Always glad to meet a fellow rider. I'm....." and he
gives my name (Which, of course, is Jack Baruth---JB).
I pause for the tiniest moment and make a small decision before
shaking his hand and saying, "Jim Boswell. I was just riding
through your neighborhood, looking for new, um, spots to, er,
chill."
"Chill," he says in a noncommittal fashion, and I can
see that he thinks old cruiser riders have no right to say that
word, but he lets it go. "Well, Jim, if you follow me I'll
show you where we ride around here." Naturally, he tests
me a little by sprinting down the street to see if I'll keep up.
I can't, of course. His form is classic mid-Eightees: leaned over
the bars, power-wheelying as often as possible, hitting the sides
of driveways for a foot of air and a quick cross-up. I know the
jump to which he's taking me---my brother and I built it in 1986,
only to have it torn down the following year.
We reach the jump and he hits it immediately, pulling a "Crews",
a jump named after the factory Patterson pro John Crews, consisting
of crossing-up to the seat and crouching to the side of the bike.
To my surprise, I am able to imitate him, my knees bending the
right way as if I'd done a Crews just last week. We meet by the
side of the jump.
"What kind of brake is that?" he asks, but when I open
my mouth to tell him it's a V-brake I can't say the words. So
that's the rule, I think: no talking about the future. I'd laugh
if it weren't really happening.
"Oh, just an old part I dug up."
"When's the last time you raced? You've got three numbers
on your plate instead of two numbers and a letter, so it's been
a long time, right?"
"You could say that." I don't know how long I'll be
allowed to stay in my happy past, and I've got to tell myself
something useful without violating this no-future talk thing that's
going on. I nearly panic before the answer comes to me. "I
used to write an advice column for young riders like you, as a
matter of fact. I've been racing for a long time now, and there
are some things I can tell these riders to save them hassle in
the future."
"Like what?" My younger self's attention has been piqued.
Then, as now, I loved to listen to more experienced and skilled
racers tell stories.
"Well, if I could start my racing career all over again,
and be fourteen years old, I'd worry less about winning. I'd race
as often as I could, because time passes quickly and you have
a job and responsibilities before you know it. If I were young
again, I wouldn't shy away from meeting other racers. I'd make
sure I knew everyone in my class. I'd go right up to the pros
and ask them for advice instead of just holding out a number plate
for them to sign. If I had talent, I'd seek sponsors out instead
of waiting for them to come to me. I'd stick with one bike instead
of endlessly switching frames and components trying to buy my
way into a victory. I'd stop putting off beginning a physical
fitness program. Of course, I'd never start drinking alcohol or
using drugs, and that way I'd never have to quit."
Something is happening--I can see a sort of fog start rolling
in around us. I'm running out of time. "Um, don't forget
to keep your spokes tight, put a lock washer from a hardware store
between the flat washers when you assemble Profile-style cranks,
don't stay up late the night before a race, watch the brake caliper
of the rider ahead of you going into a turn so you can decide
whether to rail over him or cut under, um..." The fog is
thickening, but my younger self doesn't seem to notice.
"What else?" he inquires, as if we had all the time
in the world.
"Uh, pay attention and do your homework so your life outside
the sport doesn't fall apart, always grease your brake cable when
you change brakes, never consciously pull up out of the gate,
if you can only afford to race one day of a National, race the
second day because you'll be physically fresh and your comp won't,
look under your armpit at the guy behind you and not over your
shoulder..." The fog is between us now. I reach out for his
hand, but it is slipping away. "One last thing," I yell,
and I can hear him yell back,
"What?" I try to tell him, but he's gone, and I'm back
at my desk, with a monitor full of switch diagrams blinking in
front of me and a phone ringing two lines at once. It's still
Tuesday, the power's on, and if I don't hurry up the entire state
of North Carolina won't have a dial tone tomorrow.
I didn't get to tell myself the biggest lesson I've learned in
BMX: Don't take it too seriously. The sun will rise and set tomorrow
whether or not you win, or even make the main in your class. Nothing
will destroy your happiness and your career in our sport faster
than worrying too much. We're all riding little bikes around a
little track to have fun, right? Sooner or later every intelligent
rider figures that out, so do yourself a small favor and take
my word for it. I can't tell "myself", but I can tell
you in the hope that your time in the sport will be at least as
happy as mine, which as I look back now, seems like a dream, no
more solid than the little story we've shared, and no less true.
My brother was working at the local Sam Ash music store when a young rider came in wearing a T-shirt that had a quote from the above column on it. I don't know whether the dudes who made that shirt were genuinely touched by this column, or whether they were making fun of me. It was probably the latter. Regardless, if you see the shirt, let me know---JB