Riding into the holiday season, smiling like an idiot

  • By Mike Dewey
  • November 27, 2011
  • 336
                        
SUMMARY: When he and his wife find themselves in the mountains of western North Carolina, Mike Dewey discovers a thing or two about Thanksgiving ... and being thankful. ASHEVILLE, NC -- The man behind the bicycle rental counter had seen it all before, which is probably why he didn't make us feel like fools when my wife and I put on our helmets ... backwards. "Um," he said, "it might be better if you wore them like this." And he -- without an ounce of jaded sarcasm -- politely proceeded to adjust my wife's as I followed suit. Then, as if it were nothing out of the ordinary, he showed us how to adjust and secure the chinstraps, saying something like, "You two have a great ride." Even so, I felt like a kid who'd been caught unprepared for a fourth-grade spelling test, one I'd spent two hours preparing for the night before and, when the time came, managed to stumble over "glorious." "He must think," I said to wife as we walked our bikes down the hill that led to the paved path, "that we're total idiots." "Well," she said, pertly tugging on her chinstrap, "maybe one of us." Antler Park Village was particularly busy that day, which was completely understandable. As it was the morning after Thanksgiving, that wasn't a surprise. Most of the space, collected beneath the overpowering presence of the Biltmore Estate, was teeming with tourists who were trying to do something different than the typical Black Friday dash-and-cash expedition. Immune and flaunting expectation, we had decided to pedal our way leisurely through the rolling landscape, savoring the western Carolina blue sky and basking in the glow of a 70-degree holiday-weekend sunburst. But, despite the autumnal glow that stuck to us as closely as a halo to Thomas Aquinas or Mother Theresa, I still felt stupid. "I can't believe," I said, "that I didn't know the front from the back." "How could you?" replied my wife, gliding beside me. "You've never worn one before." Which is true. Oh, I know all about the government warnings and I've read some of the medical opinions, but wearing a helmet while riding a bicycle has always seemed like wearing raincoat when it's sunny. And, of course, I've never actually worn a raincoat since I was six years old. It was a bright yellow plastic crinkling thing, utterly ugly, a childhood relic best left behind ... but here's the thing: I actually don't mind walking -- or biking -- in the rain. Never have. This kind of arrogance will no doubt lead to my demise, but when it comes down to it, I don't think it'll really matter if I wore a raincoat in first grade or a helmet when riding a bike in the shadow of the Blue Ridge Mountains over the Thanksgiving weekend in 2011. Life has stranger surprises in store for me. But, to get back to the narrative, the bikes were single-speed machines which meant that, for the first time since I got a red and silver one with training wheels back when I was like four or five, there was no way to shift gears for more speed. And no hand brakes. "Woah," I said, sailing through the intersection of the bike path and the roadway crowded with cars heading into the park. "No brakes." My wife smiled, understanding immediately. "You have to use the pedals," she said, demonstrating prettily. I flashed back to a time when a pack of football cards cost a dime and Notre Dame was always in the hunt for the national championship ... a time long gone. "Thanks," I said, practicing by stops and starts. "Haven't ridden one like this in ages." It was, as I've said, a gorgeous day, not a cloud in the sky, and the bike path was smooth and nearly our own. Once or twice, we came up serious walkers and couples walking dogs, but for most of the ride, it was just us. I guess most folks were busy shopping, it being the kickoff the holiday season and all. Still, with temperatures in the low 70s and me wishing I'd worn shorts instead of jeans, it didn't feel as if Santa was due anytime soon. I could just picture the Jolly Old Elf, on a break from the chilly North Pole, lounging around in an Awful Arthur's T-shirt, cutoffs and flip-flops, grabbing some serious tanning time, jamming to the Marshall Tucker Band. Christmas seemed a long, long time away. Anyway, at the halfway point of our ride, we stopped and a kind lady power walker asked if we'd like to have our picture taken together with the lagoon in the foreground and the Biltmore House looming behind. "Sure," I said. "That'd be nice of you." This happens to my wife and me from time to time when we're on the road: I think the last time might have been over New Year's when we were hanging out in Key West. The ship's mate snapped a photo of us that we have framed and on display, all smiles. Perhaps this one will keep it company some day. It was a companionable silence that followed as my wife and I selected rock seats and simply took in the landscape, the mansion on the hill, the empty sky, the Gumby-greenish lagoon, the rowboat with three anglers testing their luck, the stream of traffic into the village. Normally, I talk a lot. The day before, Thanksgiving, when we'd wandered around downtown Asheville, I struck up conversations with a few people, just being friendly and, afterward, asked directions of a few more when we'd gotten lost heading back to the hotel. My wife always says, "I couldn't do that," which is, to me, rather endearing. Strangers would always ride to her rescue because, well, she's so lovable. Sitting on our stones, though, not saying anything, just being together, it was one of those moments that I know I'll remember when my time is up and I've got to tip my cap and walk off the field. You know what the funny part is? We were both wearing those mushroom-capped helmets and looked for all the world like something out of an Eleanor Cameron book for kids, one of those Tyco Bass stories which, if you didn't read them as a kid, I strongly suggest you check out of the library as quickly as you can. And if you DID read them as a kid, go back and experience them again. Because travel -- whether to the Mushroom Planet or to Asheville -- is always better than staying safe at home. You never know what kind of adventures await. NEXT WEEK: "How Do You Change a Light Bulb on a Three-Story Chandelier" or "I Could Have Sworn I Tucked That Hotel Key in My Pocket." Mike Dewey can be emailed at CarolinamikeD@aol.com or snail-mailed at 6211 Cardinal Drive, New Bern, NC 28560.


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