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Crack the Sky "The weather-cock on the church spire,
though made of iron, would soon be broken by the storm-wind if
it ... did not understand the noble art of turning to every wind."
I entered the gas station and asked the traffic advisory expert behind the till about our upcoming route. Freight trucks, buses, and, worst of all, holiday traffic - plied Highway 16 nonstop. (How 80-year-old drivers qualify to operate 40-foot Winnebagos towing a sport-utility vehicle and a motorboat is beyond my wildest imagination.) "Ya know," the expert drawled, screwing his lips. "I've driven it countless times ... but I can't say for sure whether it has a paved shoulder or not." I reckoned that meant not. Our dream route atomized in a puff of dusty smoke. Despondent, I exited. The convoluted afternoon sky had grown dark - so dark that streetlights flickered feebly, attempting to illuminate the baleful gloom. I stared heavenward. An uneasiness gripped me. Anvil-shaped thunderheads had closed within hammering distance. Funnel clouds dangled wispy tendrils earthward. "It's headed straight this way," Sharon said, calculating the wind direction. She pointed to a restaurant across the road. "I vote for waiting it out." Being the ever optimist (tailwind!), I taunted her. "It'll pass." Sharon regarded the sky's sinister features. The wind shrieked like a banshee, rebuking me for even daring to think about challenging its menacing supremacy. "An all-out drenching is assured," Sharon said, and prepared to launch into a full-scale difference of opinion. But before she could, a fellow hopped out of a cow-patty brown aging Buick. Engine running, headlights glimmering, windshield wipers flapping, he ducked under the roof's overhang alongside us. "Hi," he said with a big smile. He reached out and grasped my cold fingers in a warm and hearty handshake. "My name's Jerry," he introduced himself. "I ride a bike, too." As the wind gathered intensity, Jerry asked us questions. "I've seen a lot of cyclists go by," he said. "And I've always wondered what you guys carry in all those bags." While presenting Jerry with a list of essentials we lugged in those burgeoning packs, fat raindrops began splattering the parking lot. Like an overweight tap dancer on a trampoline, pear-shaped globes bounced off the tarmac and leaped against our shins. "Not good biking weather," Jerry judged. "It'll pass," I said. The rain turned to hail. Ice particles shot from a pistol-grey sky, ricocheting off the blacktop like wayward bullets at a Serbian wedding celebration. "That would have caused some bruises," I winced. The wind twisted, whirled, writhed, corkscrewed. Hail turned back into rain. Hydrous globules slobbered our bare legs like some over-friendly St Bernard. "I think your riding is done for the day," Jerry surmised. I nodded. "Can I buy you folks a coffee?" he asked. "My lady works across the road at the coffee bar." I accepted his kind offer. It sounded a rather salubrious way to spend the next, oh, 24 hours or so. I didn't even have to consult Sharon. Call it male intuition. We dashed across the road in record time. Carl Lewis would have been proud. I held the door of the Prairie Pantry as Sharon stepped through. "See?" I whispered. "It's passing." "Yeah," Sharon nodded. "Like a kidney stone. And a good thing about raindrops that size? We can dodge 'em." As Jerry guided us toward a booth I was thinking that something we had come to term as the 'kindness principle' was in effect. The first time we noticed the rule was on our cycle trip across the States. Whenever we became dispirited - from rainy weather; a bike breakdown; or just from being on the road too long, far from family and friends - someone (or something) happened along to rally our spirits. It occurred repeatedly ... so often that we began to wonder if a series of occurrences weren't merely coincidences at all. Perhaps a patron saint really did look after wayward travellers? Jerry's wife, Ruth, hustled over. While exchanging introductions, pleasantries, and weather forecasts, Ruth offered to buy. "Tips have been good today," she smiled. What a province! Regardless of the weather, that Manitoba hospitality persevered. Jerry peered out at the fury still swirling in the heavens. The storm had turned, taking another run. "Looks like this cloudburst isn't over yet," he remarked. I'd say his appraisal held water. Ruth brought hot chocolates. Jerry turned to his wife. "How about if we ask these folks if they'd like to spend the night at our place?" Ruth agreed to Jerry's good idea. "I have to work till 8 pm," she said. "We'll have a late supper." She brought more hot chocolates. We slurped appreciatively, savouring the rich goodness, feeling the warmth flood down into the very depths of our beings. An hour later, the rain eased to a drizzle. Jerry led us back across the road. While we grabbed our bikes, Jerry hopped into his car (still idling, headlights dim, windshield wipers slapping). At a stop sign three blocks later, we pulled alongside two mud-spattered mountain bikers. Sharon and I chatted with them, waiting for traffic to clear. In a brief opening, Jerry zipped out. Pedalling at 40 kilometres per hour, Sharon and I glued ourselves to Jerry's bumper. The mountain bikers sprinted behind, trying to catch up. Just when they were about to close the gap, Jerry picked up the pace. Sharon and I, tucked in the big Buick's slipstream, smiled and shifted onto our large 52-tooth chainrings. That was the last we saw of those pretty mountain-biker-dudes-clad-in-sleek-cycling-duds. "Well at least they look fast," Sharon laughed, glancing at their rapidly diminishing forms in her mirror.
"Bring your bikes through here," Jerry said when we arrived at his place a few minutes later. We pushed our loaded bikes through a backyard gate. There, parked on the grass, was a much-chromed and gold-plated Harley. I laughed. So that's what Jerry meant when he had said, 'I ride a bike, too.' "Great bike!" I said, admiring the gleaming machine. "Yeah, I like it," Jerry responded. "Over the winter, I park it in the living room." (And to think, I had felt remiss about working on my bicycle in our basement.) "Come on in," he invited. "I'll introduce you to the kids. Well, only one - our daughter, Sabrina, is away at Turtle Mountain bible camp." Like a proud, but nervous papa, he added, "She's 13 and drop-dead gorgeous." We met Jerry's 11-year-old son, Jerry Jr. Or, as Jerry referred to him: "Little Jerry." We also met Jerry's dog, Sabo - an intimidating hulk of Doberman-Shepherd. "Good Sabo," I muttered. "Good doggy." "Just stand still until he gets a sniff of you," Jerry advised. "He's only bitten three people." He paused, and squinted, as if remembering something unpleasant. "Oh, yeah, and mauled one guy." Comforting. Sabo smelt us. He liked us. At least he didn't bite us. I wondered if the mauled guy counted as one of the three? "I'll show you his training," Jerry said. "Sabo! Watch 'em!" The big dog's ears perked. Sabo glared at us and growled. I gulped. A guttural laugh broke from Jerry. "At ease, Sabo." The big dog relaxed. "That's a lot of fun when the sister-in-law comes over," Jerry said. "Your bikes will be safe here tonight." "No kidding!" (I didn't even bother to lock our bikes that night. I thought it'd be kind of fun, in a sick sort of way, to watch a thief try to steal them ... but a bike wouldn't be much good to someone without legs, would it?) Jerry glanced at his watch. "I have to get ready for work," he said. "I'm a plant engineer in Neepawa. Actually, it's pretty much a Homer Simpson job," he joked. "I watch dials to make sure the plant keeps cool. It's a pretty good job. Lots of time for doing what I like ... and getting paid for it. I've taken a ton of courses," he said. "Sometimes I play computer chess. In the summer, I spend a lot of time polishing my bike. As long as I keep those dials in the right place I can do anything I want...." "That's the job I'm looking for!" I said. "Of course," Jerry said slowly, "if an ammonia line ruptures, you're dead." Hmmm. Always a downside. Jerry left. Ruth wasn't home yet. Sharon headed off to shower. I was left alone to entertain Little Jerry. I took the opportunity to show him some of our biking gear. "This is one cool stove," I said, pulling out our WhisperLite mini flame-thrower. "How does it work?" Little Jerry queried. "I'm so glad you asked." Little Jerry was about to receive one brilliant stove demonstration. One he'd still be talking about when he graduated - from university. I assembled the miniature blowtorch on the kitchen table and began pumping the plunger with long and steady strokes, pressurizing the metal fuel canister. "You guys have fire insurance, right?" Slightly after 8 pm, Ruth arrived home on her mountain bike. Somewhat of a miracle, the house was still standing. Nothing a little ceiling paint wouldn't fix. "No fender," I said, observing the telltale mud skunk-stripe decorating her backside. She shrugged. "Yep, hardly ever rains around here. You guys hungry?" As usual, we were. Ruth set to work frying chicken, boiling baby potatoes, and stirring a big pot of beans. Sharon and I tossed together a cucumber and tomato salad. While waiting, Little Jerry shared a box of chocolate-covered almonds with Sharon and me. When Little Jerry departed to rent an Arnie video, his mom said, "Those are his favourite! He must really like you guys." "Yeah," I grunted. "We've bonded." I didn't mention the fab stove demo. |
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