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09/08/2007: "Searching for Permanant Vacation"

Four cyclists talking after the ride

Do you remember Jack Troup? I read in the paper that he got picked up for threatening some 12-year old girl. You remember that he was a wacko.

Yeah, he was strange. The last time I saw him, he came in the bike shop with a thick rope around his waist dragging a wooden box stuffed with all his belongings.

And what about that tall guy with the frizzy hair? What did we call him?

Permanent Vacation.

Yeah, that’s the guy. Remember how he used to stand in the intersection down the street from the bike shop directing traffic? He had a most serious, dignified expression as if he was a London bobby or something.

Yeah, I remember him. Permanent Vacation.

Bike shops attract some weird guys. I guess it’s because guys like that can’t get a drivers’ license.

Jack Troup came into the bike shop one day and Bob immediately started yelling at him, “You get out of here, now.” And the guy said, “But I want to buy a bike.”

Bob said, “I don’t care, your money’s no good here. Get lost!” Apparently the guy had fired off on some of the customers. He sort of worked there, you know.

What about that gal? Pat called her Oil Can Annie. She used to lick the oil off the concrete. I’m serious. She wanted the fresh stuff.

You’re kidding.

Not kidding. I saw her do it.

Is this something that happens just in dumpy little hick towns like ours?

All bike shops have them. They just congregate.

Even the Trek Store in La Mesa?

You bet, they’re everywhere. Maybe just fewer of them.

Yeah, when I worked at the bike shop, there was that guy, Lalo or something. After awhile, he got himself a little lawn-mowing business. He built himself the rickety-est trailer you ever saw. It was about 8 feet high—two tiers. So he had a mower, a trash can in there, a couple of rakes, a broom. I think he found some old re-bar and scraps of steel around town and somehow he threw it together into a trailer and pulled it with his bike. The thing would sway and squeal when he went around the corners.

What happened to him?

I dunno.

The Wal-Mart Man, now he needs some help himself.

Who’s that?

It’s this guy. You know we leave at 6 a.m. on the weekdays. It’s dark. We all have lights, well except for Lorenzo; he comes with no lights at all and dark glasses. But anyway, we’re heading south on LaBrucherie at about 6:10 and there’s this guy coming back into town finishing his ride. He’s on some bent up Wal-Mart mountain bike with the seat about 4” too low. His knees are coming up to his ears and he’s wearing dark clothes.

That guy’s going to get killed.

Greg said the Velo Club should buy him a bike.

We ought to buy him a grave site.

The guy’s a friggin’ lawyer I think.

Send him to Trek. They’ll know how to sweet talk him. We just yell at him to get a friggin’ light and join our parade. He weaves down the road, still alive.

Up in Brawley, I’ve seen plenty of dirtbags on bikes with stuff piled into them every which way. I’ve taken photos.

Every town has them. They can’t drive, they get homeless, all they have left is a bike. And where do you go with your bike? A bike shop. Those poor Brawley guys, what are they gonna do? There’s not even a bike shop.

Do you remember Ben Hur, from Mexicali?

That sonofabitch. He would show up on a ride with nothing, no water, nothing to eat, no pump no tube. Then he’d get a flat and try to get what he needed from everybody else. What a leech. And he wasn’t even aware that he was doing in. He thought it was the way to ride.

You know what we call guys like that in Spanish? A choncho. A guy, not exactly a leech, but a wormy, sneaky guy who never does his part, never carries his own weight.

Ben Hur’s still around.

No kidding. That was years ago when he used to ride with us.

Yeah, I saw him at the track in Mexicali last summer. He introduced himself to me. “I’m Ben Hur.” I thought he was kidding. What kind of a name is Ben Hur? That’s not a Mexican name.

I don’t know. Mexicans name their kids everything. It could be Nelson, Danny, Toribio, Florentino, or Ben Hur. Maybe his mom and dad liked the movie 35 years ago.

I think it’s more like 50 years ago, dude.

Well that’s his name.

Is Hur his last name?

Hell if I know.

You know, I bet you every bike store has at least one guy with a motor on his bike. Maybe he’s an engineer, or wanted to be one. He’s got it welded on there and sits on the top scooting around so proud. Comes in the store, muy superior.

I could dig a motor- a real small one disguised as a tool bag.

Then there’s the guy with about 6 mirrors attached everywhere possible. Mirror man.

Sure, yeah, you’re right. They come in types. What about the single guy in his fifties or sixties who buys a new bike every year? He’s got a two or three style recumbents, a top- of-the-line carbon fiber, full Campy 10-speed. He loves bikes, and cruises on them at about 14 miles per hour, one after the other.

I know that guy. Why doesn’t he ride with us sometimes?

He doesn’t like you, Corey, that’s why. You scare the shit out of him. All you guys scare the shit out of those guys. You’re too lean and mean and focused. They go the other way. Lean, maybe, and mean, but way out of focus.

That was Jack Troup’s problem. I think he was a schizo.

Well, I’d bet you two to one that the Trek store don’t have the cholo bikers comin’ round with their chrome on chrome bikes with the steering wheel, chopped down low as they could go.

Garcia’s another bicycle type, aren’t you, dude?

What do you mean?

Well, you’re the guy who needs a new bike every year.

Is that right, Garcia?

Tell ‘em.

You tell him.

You see, getting a new bike is like getting a new wife. Except you can’t get a new wife.

Shut up Corey.

You said it.

You might be surprised about the Trek bikes store. They might have some different souls up there too. They have a bigger store with a bigger back shop. Maybe they stuff the people that don’t look like Lance in the back. We should call them.

Yeah, ask them what their wacko population is.

Hell, I was riding up Highway S2 and came up on two guys heading south. I waved at them; they didn’t even acknowledge me. So I figured they must be from San Diego.

Yeah, if you see a cyclist on the road around here, you stop, hug, pull out pictures of your children and invite them to your wedding. Do you think those SD cyclists allow the cholo bikes in a Performance Bike Shop?

Tienes razon, cabron. They don’t like us Mexicans.

Shut up, Garcia, you’re more American that most of us.

I’m just playin’.

Go to Adams Avenue bikes. 3 to 1 says they’ve got more spaced out cycle shop-loiterers than we have here in El Centro.

Okay, but Adams Avenue bikes is in Normal Heights.

Nah, I think that’s North Park.

Either way, they’ve got more of their share of marginal characters. I was talking about Trek Bikes. In La Mesa. That’s a clean neighborhood. I was in there one time and I picked up a saddle and was carrying it around the store to compare it to the ones on the other bikes. A guy followed on my heels and grabbed it away from me and put it back on the shelf. Do I look twisted? Shit, I’m a pillar of the fucking community. How do you think they treat a guy with a far off look in his eyes and no shoes on his feet?

That was Permanent Vacation. Did you know him?