| Booty Call for Black Ugly
by Pat Healy The first time my car was stolen in Providence, the timing was perfect. Thieves came in the night and nabbed the car from my driveway a week before the Salvation Army’s annual bike sale. I would only have to take the bus to work for a few days. I awoke early the day of the bike sale to select the only the worthiest bike to replace my car. A handmade banner in the parking lot of the Salvation Army advertised “Bikes $10 each. Three for $15.” I saw a black-framed ten-speed with a baby seat on the back that looked to be in good shape, although I would not trust the baby seat to hold any living thing. To the left of the black bike was a crappier green ten-speed with a light on the front wheel that would turn on when the wheel moved forward. There was also a Rampar R3 BMX-style bicycle with blue pads on it. I wondered if I should buy the crappy green bike just for the cool light on the front wheel or the Rampar for the cool pads. Or should I buy the bike that was in good shape, and just take off the baby seat? I looked at the banner again, and decided to take them up on their bizarre bargain. My apartment was only about a quarter of a mile from the Salvation Army, and I could have easily made three quick trips for my three new acquisitions, but I decided to try to do it in one. In favor of symmetry, I rode the Rampar and used one side of each of the ten-speeds’ handlebars as support. It looked like I was being flanked by two ten-speed ghost riders. Ten-speed ghost riders wouldn’t have been the sort of ghost riders that are represented on Harley art with the scary skeletons on low-to-the-ground chopper motorcycles, but more like skeletons with braces, glasses and windbreakers that were way too big. A few yards into my journey home I wiped out for the first time that day. After about a block I looked like I had been jumped by the two nerdy ten-speed ghost riders. My left knee was bleeding, I had grease on my shorts and my pride was bruised. I finally got the bikes home by walking the two ten-speeds several steps and then going back several steps to walk the BMX bike to where I had left the ten-speeds, always keeping all bikes in sight. My car had just been stolen from my driveway, so I wasn’t going to take any chances with my brand new used bikes. When I got home I began to combine my favorite parts of each of the bikes to make my überbike. I thought about how my father had done this for me as a child with mixed results. With about three different bikes he had purchased at the Police Auction, and bits and pieces from two that he rescued from the dump, the frankenbike that he had assembled and presented to me before school one morning had yellow and black dirt bike handlebars that violently clashed with the bike’s metallic gold frame. The front wheel had pastel transparent straws on the spokes and the rear wheel was a mag wheel. The bulky banana seat resembled nothing I had ever seen on contemporary dirtbikes, but the pads on the crossbar and handlebars said Mongoose, and to me at age seven, that was all that mattered. All the older kids in the neighborhood rode Mongooses in the woods near my house. I used to like to watch them soaring over the jumps, but had only tried it once myself on the previous bike I had, and instead of soaring like they did, I just ended up sore. It probably didn’t help that I had the wrong sort of bike for trails. It was a blue Schwinn that had been de-training wheeled during my ridership. On the one day that I tried to take the jump I drove furiously down the path, up the ramp, into the air, and then onto my face. I remember that my face felt like dirt was still caked on it long after it had been washed off and the tears had dried. I’d like to think I earned some sort of respect as a daredevil with the older kids, but I think my wipeout just confused them: A seven-year old on a little Schwinn goes over the biggest jump, doesn’t know how to pull up while going over, and lands face first on the ground, while his bike flies over him and hits a tree, rendering it unrideable. One of the kids, Brett Nelson, who was alleged to not have a belly button, told me not to come back until I got a real bike and learned how to take a jump. I told all the older kids on the bus the morning I received the new bike that my dad had gotten me a Mongoose. As I described the features, they were in awe of what must have sounded like a major stylistic shift for the Mongoose company. They couldn’t believe that Mongoose was now making dirtbikes with banana seats and they were so curious that they invited me back to the clearing that afternoon. Maybe Brett had meant I couldn’t come back until I got a real bike OR learned how to take a jump.” “And don’t forget to bring your new Mongoose,” they said. Like I would have forgotten to bring the bike that had made me the center of the conversation that morning, and might possibly get me into the BMX group that afternoon. When I rode up on what I thought was a Mongoose, they didn’t have to study it closely to realize that it wasn’t an officially licensed Mongoose product. I could tell from a distance that they thought something was amiss. Perhaps it was the long wobbly orange flagpole affixed to the back wheel that first aroused suspicion. Brett blew my cover when he revealed the fact that he once saw Mongoose pads at the bike store for individual sale. “Yeah, that’s not a Mongoose. Your dad just put Mongoose pads on it,” said Ritchie Thoman. I looked at their shiny silver Mongoose frames, and my gold, unaerodynamic frame, and realized they were right. All I had seen was the Mongoose pads, and when my dad had told me that he had put it together I thought it just meant he fulfilled the “some assembly required” that was always mentioned in commercials. With their laughter, the shame sunk in slowly, but I didn’t let it show. I hung around with them for the rest of the day in order that I didn’t act defeated, but didn’t dare try any jumps. I never told my dad that I had been rejected because of the bike he made. I think it might have hurt his feelings more than mine had already been hurt. I rode alone mostly after that, and only went into the clearing when I knew the older kids wouldn’t be there. And 20 years later, putting together my überbike was a good way for me to come to terms with the Wrongoose incident, and a cathartic way of replacing a little pride. Instead of feeling angry with my dad for pulling one over on me, I was angry with those kids for not accepting what was really a pretty unique specimen. With my basement transformed into a workshop, the front-wheel light went to the 10-speed with the stronger-looking black frame. A wide triangular springy seat replaced the cracked and weathered seat without cushioning, and the splintered children’s seat was removed. And the crowning glory were the blue crossbar pads from the Rampar that would protect my personal cargo if any groin-threatening wipeout were to occur. I eyed the specimen I had made, and thought that Black Beauty would make a nice name. There was a children’s book about a horse called Black Beauty that I liked as a kid, and I thought it had a nice ring to it, if it were in fact a beautiful bike. I decided that the name Black Ugly would be more appropriate. This bike was not ugly like an artistic eyesore, the way that many Providence bikes are. Black Ugly was a simpler ugly. There was no eye-catching appeal like the welded melted metal vehicles that the artists lock up outside mill parties, this was the kind of ugly you would rather ignore. I rode the bike to work every day, and after work a few days a week I would ride to the train station and take the train up to Boston to visit my girlfriend. With a flimsy lock I had bought at CVS, I would lock the bike to the big tubed railing around the circumference of the driveway at the train station, and in the morning I would take the train back to Providence and ride the bike to work. One weekend the police notified me that my car had been recovered, and Black Ugly remained at the train station, locked to the railing. Days became weeks became months. She was forgotten and cold. One day the next spring when I was stopped at the light by the Steeple Street bar, I remembered my bike. The line of traffic was long enough that I was right next to the entrance of the train station, I took a right and drove up the driveway to see if Black Ugly was still there. She was. We exchanged brief greetings, and I told her to sit tight because I would be back another time when I didn’t have my car with me. The car was too full to put the bike into, I explained. It was like having a supermodel on my arm, and running into somebody I had briefly dated. And for some reason I felt guilty, and gave a flimsy “I’ll call you.” I did eventually make good on my promise though, but it was more like a booty call. One summer afternoon my friends and I walked downtown to go to the bars. We stayed until closing time, so our collective lack of motor skills rendered walking home out of the question. My friend Meg called a cab, and as we tried to figure out how all seven of us would fit in, I told them they could count me out. I had other plans for getting home. They asked me where I was going, and as I ran off into the night, I yelled, Black Ugly rides again! I neared the place where I had locked her up eight months earlier and could see the lock, but not the bike. I blamed this on the blurriness of my insobriety, but as I got even closer I still didn’t see her. I reached the railing and touched the lock, wondering why anyone would steal a bike like her, but keep the lock on the rail. After feeling betrayed, a sense of feeling flattered came on. Someone had liked the bike I made enough to steal it! It was probably in better hands now anyway, I thought. I leaned over the railing to spit and saw my old friend hanging over the edge. I pulled her back over and unlocked her as quickly as I could. I cradled her in my arms in apology and noticed that not only had she not been liked enough to be stolen, but she was so disliked that somebody kicked the shit out of her. The front wheel was bent like a boomerang and both of the tires looked like rubber fringe. The Rampar pads had been removed too. At first I thought they might have been stolen, but I looked down over the railing to see them 20-feet below. Not even they were even cool enough for somebody to want. I got down on my knees and shook my fists at the heavens for letting such a horrible thing happen to such a great bike. Then I remembered that it wasn’t the fault of the heavens. It was my own neglect that had caused this to happen. I wonder now what had happened. Had a train-taking commuter gotten fed up with seeing the same bike in the same place for so many months and one day just lost it, or had Black Ugly taunted a gang member one too many times? In my drunken state, I thought I should probably give her one last ride to my house to give her a proper burial. I stood on the pedals, as the seat was gone, and looked down the hill. As I jerked the broken bike into motion, I powered the front-wheel light just enough to shine on an innocent and terrified sober couple, holding hands on a gentle summer walk. The bent wheels made me ride in a circle, the light moving off the couple, and I circled until I was parallel with the ground, slowly slinking to be lying on my side. I got up quickly as not to scare the couple into any sympathy. Maybe they thought I was a plainclothes mime, working with props in a special exclusive train station show. To distance myself further from the mime status, I said hello to them and picked up the bike and walked down the hill. I then carried her to College Hill, and dragged her up to Thayer Street. I grew more tired and less invested in the drama of Black Ugly’s ceremonial burial as the alcohol started to wear off. I was also tiring of people staring at me, which was probably just more paranoia that I was being mistaken for a mime. I began to search for other options for Black Ugly’s final resting place. Maybe I could get her up in a tree. That would be funny. As I walked by CVS I noticed the Starbucks that was due to open within a matter of days. The adrenaline that bubbled in my veins at that point makes it so I see myself from above, walking up to the double doors of the side entrance. With a pat goodbye on where her seat used to be, I locked the carcass of Black Ugly to the door handles. I laughed a satisfied laugh and slept well, hoping to see the result of my prank the next day. I could just envision the irate customers within the next few weeks, lining up and banging on the door, complaining that they needed their daily cuppa joe, but there was a hideous bicycle frame blocking them from their goal. I could see the green shirted shoulders of the managers shrugging as they tried to explain. The bike was there forever and there was nothing that could be done. When I walked by the next day, workers were putting the finishing touches on the façade and Black Ugly was nowhere to be seen. Could it have been that they had the only antidote to vandalism? I thought to myself, curse you wire cutters! I know now though that the next time I build a grotesque bike from spare parts to come to terms with one I had as a kid, and I neglect it, and then want to lock it to the doors of a Starbucks, I will use a heavy-duty lock that wire cutters cannot possibly remove. |
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