Week 21 - My bike rides (first published 12/14/20)

Here I am in this dark smelling room.  The mysterious woman is telling me about my life, what came before, and what will come after.  It is October 1984.  How I decided to get up and go to Nepal, a place, I’ve never heard of, is still a mystery.  And now, one day after landing, I find myself in this sacred space, the grounds of which are surrounded by monkeys, and drawn into this weathered ancient-looking building without a door but instead some rugs hanging down to block sunlight from the outside.

It is Spring of 1984 and I’ve separated from my wife.  I have a daughter, Aviva, who is four.   I am invited to stay in the house of my friends Bill & Annie and their two children.   I stay there for some amount of time, that time now a blur,  and then I am invited to stay in the dormer in the attic of my friend Shirley.  The attic is only partly finished with painted walls in the dormer but an unfinished attic in the remainder.  It is the summer of the Olympics and at some point and for some unknown reason, I decided that I am going to ride my bike to Los Angeles.  My blue Motobécane ten-speed bicycle was my main source of travel at the time. However, my rides consisted of going around downtown Sacramento, most trips a mile or two.  

I am jarred almost immediately when my Nepalese shaman tells me I was just recently separated, in fact pinpointing the month of March.  She further tells me I have one daughter, aged four, who I am missing very much.  Mind you she specifically identified the sex and the age of the daughter and the specific month of my separation.   Now she has my attention.  I can no longer hear the sounds from the outside.  The colors of the room come into view.  

It is almost July and the Olympics are only two weeks from starting.  Each night there is a group of us sitting on the front porch yapping until all hours of the night.  Like now, I fall asleep in the middle of conversations, only to wake up sometime later and continue where I left off.   We often greet Chris, the Sacramento Bee delivery person around 4 am as he comes to the front porch with the paper.  Sometimes, we have hot coffee brewing and he’ll stop for a few minutes and join the conversation.  He asks when I am leaving on my bike ride.  He points out the time is getting short.  

She asks for my hand.  I have a long lifeline she says.  That is good.  I am not thinking or caring about that at this point of my life but it is comforting to hear that news never-the-less.  I will meet someone next year and that will be the right person for me.  That person also has a long lifeline and we will grow old together.  We will have a daughter together.  Is she just making this all up?  I am not in all this hocus pocus stuff yet can she really be telling me my future?  My this point I am numb.  Are my legs and bottom numb from sitting on the floor, or from the senses, or from what I am hearing?

I decided to take my bike on a long ride to get ready for my trek to Los Angeles.  After all, I should be leaving any day.  I take the American River Bikeway to the end and then ride along the road at the top of Folsom Dam heading East.  As the road starts to climb into the Sierra, I stop.  I am hot and can smell my sweat as it totally saturates my shirt.  Maybe going up this hill on a hundred-plus degree day was not a good idea.  My groin is totally numb.  It feels like the family jewels have been amputated.  Maybe the ride to Los Angeles is not a good idea?

She tells me that I will find myself, that I will be stronger and a new person after my travels.  She tells me I need to be more aggressive in life, particularly in my job.  All at once, I hear some chatter on the outside.  My trance must have ended, or at least I think I was in a trance.  I notice that the woman is now standing.  I’m not quite sure when she stopped talking.  I am not quite sure if I was dreaming or if this is all real.  I can hardly stand.  I roll over ad crawl some before I get up.  We walk outside.  The light is blinding.  She puts out her hand to get paid.  I decide to pay her twice the negotiated price which is rare for the tightwad I am.  She points South.  I get on the bicycle and head south, the temple fading away in the distance.  

OK, it is the day I am supposed to leave for Los Angeles, it is Friday and the Olympics start a week from Sunday, just nine days away.  I need to find the right size cardboard box to fit into the red child seat on the back of the bicycle.  In the box, I will need to put a duffel all of my clothes, toiletries, and a sleeping bag.  A friend loans me a pair of bicycle shorts which he says will help me maintain feeling in my penis.  It is now afternoon.  People wonder if I am really going to leave.  Finally, at around 4 pm with people gathered to see if this will actually occur, I reluctantly mount the bike and after making a circle around the block, ride South down 25th street, the house disappearing at my behind.