The Destruction of All Bicycles

I’m on a mission to eliminate all bicycles. Destroy them. Pound them. Jump on them. Whatever it takes.

Destruction number one. I purchased a blue, 20 inch BMX from my friend Rory, in the sixth grade. Twenty payments at $1 per week. A grand total of $20. The bike had a smooth ride. Really smooth. Slick bearings I presumed. The black handle bars had a V-shaped crossbar. I leaned them forward slightly, per the style in 1987. Totally rad.

I rode down to Whittier Elementary School, cruising my little blue machine on the sidewalks, jumping off the high, two-foot curbs. This thing was fast. Really fast. I revved up for a solo drag race down a corridor. I’d take the 90 degree turn, darting to the right in the last moment.

The sidewalk was slick. Really slick. When the turn came, I turned the handle bars, but the bicycle kept going straight. I straightened them back out. Oh no. I thought. The tire took the hit first. Then my head plowed into the old, red brick wall. It took a moment to regain my composure. I’m okay. I’m okay. I thought. I started turning around to ride off, but the bike was stubborn. It wouldn’t move. I looked down and saw the bicycle frame split in two places. The front wheel was unable to turn. So much for my $20. So much for this rad, blue machine. It’s cruising days were over.

Destruction number two. My friend’s younger brother, Justin, let me borrow his 16” BMX bike on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. The bike was too small. I had to raise the seat stem approximately 12” higher than the handle bars. We were at Whittier Elementary School, and once again those two foot curbs were calling me to jump off them with Justin’s little bike.

This thing had hops. It felt like a feather. I was energized. I took that first jump and slammed it right onto the blacktop with some serious confidence. Slam. I heard a small squeaking sound. I had split the frame. Again. Poor Justin.

Destruction number three. In my senior year of high school, I was riding a red and white, Spalding brand 18-speed that was a little too tall for me. Approaching stops was tricky because the cross-bar didn’t give me any mercy.

One afternoon, I was riding home through the neighborhoods by North High School, my secondary alma mater. Three factors led to the destruction of this final victim. First, it didn’t have coaster breaks. Second, I was riding with no hands. Third, I had my head down, and had just opened a 16 oz, glass bottle of Gatorade.

I looked up just in time to see the collision coming. Oh no. I thought. My tire, then my head, plowed yet again into another non-moving object. This time it was the rear end of a parked, 1990 Chevy Blazer. I fell to the ground. The bike sat halfway on top of my legs. I had split yet another bicycle frame. I looked up at the Blazer and noticed that the mouth of the 16oz, glass Gatorade bottle, somehow suction-cupped itself onto the rear window of the Blazer, at a 90 degree angle, without breaking any glass. Hurricanes do weird stuff like this. I stood up, threw the bicycle to the ground, uttered a few profanities, pulled the Gatorade bottle off the Blazer, and wheeled my bike home on its back wheel.

It’s 15 years since my last victim, but I’m still on a mission. The destruction of all bicycles.

White Man in a Black Church

It's hard to shake off "visitor status" when you're the only white man visiting a several thousand member black congregation in Inglewood, California. That's what I found out in 1999, when a friend of mine named Lori invited me there for a visit. We arrived separately and she was running late. I sat in the back of the congration just a few steps above the main walkway that ran to the exit. Lori missed me while entering and sat far away, towards the front-center.

The worship service was great. I loved singing repetitions of chorus as it helped me get into a nice focus on the Lord.

A few hours later, the whole thing was over. My plan was to exit stage-right and wait for Lori outside. As I came down the steps towards the main walkway, a woman noticed I was a visitor (duh...). She shook my hand. I tried to step down again, but the next woman also shook my hand. I tried again, but unfortunately a chain reaction had begun which I'd never be able to stop.

My memory is cloudy, but I shook dozens or maybe even hundred of hands that day. It took me a number of minutes to make the door which wasn't far away. It was the closest I've ever felt to being a politician at a rally.

Pitch Black Stall

I walked into a bathroom at the community college and sat down. The stall was quite relaxing and I guess this is why they call it the restroom in the first place. This is one of the few places many of us relax in our fast paced lives.

I’m minding my own business and playing Tetris on the cell phone. I hear a man exiting. All of the sudden, he turns the lights off. He probably didn’t know I was in the stall. Anyway, the room went pitch black and it was silent.

I turned off Tetris because the soft glow of the cell phone was a little weird in the dark. I’m sitting there thinking to myself, This is really strange. But, what am I supposed to do? I can’t get up and turn the light on.

No one came in the bathroom for five minutes. I was trying to take care of matters, but it's surprisingly difficult to know where things are in the dark. A slower process.

Try sitting in a public restroom for five minutes in pitch-black silence, without erupting in laughter at some point. The dark silence dragging on and on is like a British comedy without words--more and more ridiculous.

It was pitch black. Lights out.

April Fool's Day Gone Wrong

Jesus Beltran was a foot taller than me. His heavy, adult-like frame didn’t belong in our seventh grade classroom. These physical discrepancies, along with my egotistical sense for the dramatic, were my undoing.

It was April Fool’s Day, 1988. Jesus and I headed to class. We had decided to stage a fake fight in Mr. Willis’ history class for April Fool’s Day. Mr. Willis was a young and naive twenty-something with pale white skin and red hair. The perfect target.

Jesus and I had a plan. I’d throw a wad of paper at him several desks over, hitting him in the side of the head. He’d get angry, stand up, walk in my direction, and then we’d pretend to fight by wrestling each other to the ground and roll around a bit. Once Mr. Willis pulled us apart, we’d both look up with smiles and say, “Happy April Fool’s Day!”

Here’s what really happened. I’d say we had nothing less than a communication error. I threw the paper. I missed Jesus by ten feet. He stood up and came over. I stood up and moved towards him. Jesus proceeded to clock my block off. He decked me with a full blow. His heavy hand fit well into the curves of my cheek and eye bones. He lunched into me after the sucker punch and desks were all over the place. Our classmates gave us some room, some to watch and others to save their own skin.

Within seconds, Mr. Willis pulled us apart. His face was flushed red, just like his hair. Jesus was still worked up and slightly out of control, but Mr. Willis had a hold on him. Half-dazed, I looked up and said to Mr. Wills, “Happy April Fool’s Day!”

Unfortunately, the fool was me!