It seems such an impossibly long journey now, the bicycle trip from the Cold Storage Plant facing US90 out by the Lake City Municipal Airport way up to Moniac, Georgia and back for nearly a hundred miles.
But, it was nothing for Roger Sessler and I to make the trip, parking his old gray Dodge van, me the '86 Toyota Pick up beside Still Road and preparing. My preparation usually was done in haste for Roger had usually arrived on time and was impatient to get under way, "burning daylight" being one of his favorite catch phrases. I would hope that I had prepared properly with air in the tires and money enough for Moniac and on the journey we would begin.
The miles would tick by upon his old Huret Trip Odometer mounted on the front wheel, long out of production, fabricating rubber band drive belts from Sunshine hardware and other suppliers.
It was a comfort always knowing if a break down occurred, Roger would be there to supply the patch or the chain tool or the proper advice on how to get out of the jam. Always the teacher, he expected you to learn from the situation and was a stalwart proponent of being Self-sufficient.
I know it was of great amusement or consternation to see me struggling with a tire iron attempting to disengage a stubborn Continental Gatorskin tire from the rim in order to extract the punctured latex tube beneath. He could have completed the task in pit stop style urgent time, but it seems, when it came to life's lessons upon this disciples, burning daylight was suspended in the process.
Some days the journey was made entertaining by the unending monologue he provided of what was going on in every one of his kin folks, neighbors and friends down his daily route. I never in my life had
more knowledge of so many people intimately as when we made these long journeys. Upon seeing some of these people, I was often tempted to punch them out, they having no clue as to why.And knowing that the information he coaxed from me would be passed along, I tried to remain discreet and fair to my family and personal life, for I did not likewise want a complete stranger coming up and knocking my daylights out.
Not even the Internet today, with its Facebook and Twitter and instant updates could be compared.
What we post today is tame by comparison to the juicy details of failures and junk this and that Roger provided.
And we would pull over at a pre-determined place of stopping, familiar to him in the route, of which he would often take on the days I was not riding, and we would pull from our pockets a mid way snack, at least he would. I was often not as far sighted or prepared to carry such.
He would obligingly share a fig newton with me. If I could just make it up to Taylor in Baker County and the first official rest stop on our way up to Moniac, I promised I would repay the favor. He seldom let me pay.
The trip up to Moniac is through the Osceola National Forest, a monoculture planted forest of pine trees and scattered cypress stands and a few hardwoods, but mostly pines and more pines.
The main threat on the road came from the frequent log trucks, some friendly, some not so. Roger had a technique of playing the wounded, insane biker that unnerved me, riding zig zag and unpredictable when log trucks approached to our rear. He said this wounded bird type maneuver would cause them to give us wide birth. I was never convinced and felt they would be all the more frustrated and mow us over on their determined way not to be slowed to their Georgia coastal pulpwood plant destination.
Before arrival into Taylor, the scenery would improve with hardwood shade from the past remnants of urban sprawl when the boom days of turpentine spread Taylor past the narrow confines of a few old buildings and churches today. At the cross roads was the object of our desires, the little wooden general store with the hunting and fishing kill and catch wall, a place locals gather to share tall tales, lies and full four-wheel drives with overly priced gas. For Roger, it was the place to purchase the one liter bottle of Pepsi and the Sunshine brand cookies or Generic Fig Newtons. I usually opted for Gatorade and a Pay Day or Snickers bar. Roger, knowing the clerk, as he knew all the clerks in a hundred or more mile radius of Lake City, would chat and catch up on how were the kids, the boyfriend, the gout. It always amazed me his ability to know so many people and follow their every detail in life. He had a huge route.
If I was ready or not, when his burning daylight timer beckoned, he was back on the bike and making his way out of Taylor. I would again hastily down the Gatorade and follow, for often, I was unfamiliar with the route and had to keep him in sight or forever wander in the pine barrens, a specter of a bicyclist, haunted in my lost state near the border line.
Turn here, turn there, I could never remember, but I hypnotically followed the back wheel of the Vitus, the cracked head tube, the outdated everything, from the leather strap caged pedals, the down tube shifters, the handmade by the ladies at the N&W dry cleaners jerseys, with the sewn in mesh and pockets from old road race tee shirts, the side mirror I envied.
When at the end of misery and having ran the course of his many narratives, riding along in our silent thoughts, talking back to my inner demons, we would make the cross road of selling your soul to the devil and enter Georgia, with Moniac in the shade of the trees upon the bank of the other side of the St Mary's River.
He spoke lovingly of the beautiful clerk that kept me close in his draft, knowing something good would come from my efforts, some reward at the end beside the narrow view of see through Lycra tights long beyond the point of retiring.
We made as graceful an entry into the back side of nowhere as we could, trying my best not to stick out as a city-fied yuppie in my Lycra and high heel clip in shoes among the red-necked patrons adorned in the apparel of log men, swampers and other such characters straight out of Deliverance.
Eyes askance, they saw us for what we were and in their hard-shelled Independent Pentecostal raising reserved judgment and gave us a mannerly nod or wave, curled smirks betraying their true thoughts.
Out by the Ford Four-very-high-wheel drive truck a straw headed snaggle toothed blond with no meat upon her bones was gassing up, calling out, "There's my man!" Shiver's upon my then thin spine went up and certainly I was in
the final stages of heat stroke to think this was the beauty I was told of falling headlong into.
We made our way inside the dark environs of the continuation of deer,hog,bear,bass and catfish photographs impaled upon the walls, the taxidermy gone wrong to the coolers frosted over.
Pulling the Pepsi and Gatorade, not the taste of choice in this land of Bud and Blue Ribbon, we took our grub to the counter, where surely the brown headed bombshell would emerge from some misty stage and take my money and put it in her g-string and smilingly beckon me to "come hither" in Monica fashion.
But after seeing mirages all the day, it wasn't any different here. From the glare of the day, my eyes finally adjusted to the darkness, to see before me, the face eroded with the crow marks from a Hitchcock horror tale, the skeleton-like finger reaching for my money. "He's a cutie!" she drawled in her deep, filter less Winston voice to an amused local waiting behind me.
It was then I heard Roger awaken me from my day mare. "Where's Gloria?"
"Oh, hell, she done gone and got herself messed up with some drunk down in Sanderson..."
And then I knew, I had arrived too late.
Gloria had fallen for another.
I slipped her my last ten and almost said, "keep the change", but I was in no mood for
what could have beens and stashed the coins in my back jersey pockets, the sound reminding me the entire way home to Cold Storage of lost loves, of lost friends, of long journeys I so miss today, of wondering, where is Gloria today, and what came of the snaggle toothed maiden?
So many that we no longer journey long miles to see. They go on with the story of their lives and I no longer am privy to the details. I just have to hope for them it turned out well in the end.
I hope Gloria left that drunk in Sanderson.
I think today I shall forgo the Gatorade and pop a Pepsi
for my friend.
I miss my friend.
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