Latest / The Starter / Ep 8: Ship of Fools

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Ep 8: Ship of Fools · The Starter

• Ship of Fools There is something beautiful about maintaining a simple machine. You attend to its needs. You clean and oil the works. You pull it all apart to diagnose and repair any faults, and then you put the whole intricate puzzle back together again. It’s an art. There is also something beautiful about dropping your bike off at the shop and picking it up a few days later, complete with a full tune-up, new tubes and tires, and a ride that’s smooth as butter. My brother Greg and I differ on these schools of thought. When he was in his early twenties, Greg bought a VW bus in Oregon for a thousand dollars, and drove it all the way back to Michigan. The bus made the journey home, but it needed work. He parked it in our mom’s garage and took apart the engine, piece by piece, laying it all out on the concrete floor. He cleaned and oiled every little important mechanism before reassembling the machine. Nestled inside the various tubes and compartments, he found a dead mouse. For weeks he labored over the engine, and finally put Humpty Dumpty back together again. It fired right up. Greg likes to maintain his machines. Bicycle care and automotive repair have never been favorite pastimes of mine. I decided long ago that the smell and feel of grease on my hands does not bring me closer to nature. If I can swing the couple hundred bucks, I’ll drop the bike off at the shop every time, and let the mechanics work through the headache and the grease. Ultimately, I am interested in the end result; a long and enjoyable bike ride with no real concern beyond pushing the pedals, taking in the scenery, breathing in the fresh air, and at some point, arriving at my destination. A few years ago, I realized that I needed a break. It can be hard to slow it all down sometimes. The have-tos of everyday life start to take over - work and home and kids and bills, and so on and so forth. Sometimes, you have to stop and decide what frivolous shit is important enough to put it all on hold for a minute. When the seasons start to turn from summer to autumn, my wife has Michigan football. Going to games at the Big House is a deep-rooted tradition in her family. It’s her time to get out there, let loose, and scream for and against the teams on the field. I have been to plenty of football games over the years, enough to realize something about myself: it’s not my scene. I have the bike. October in Michigan makes you forget about the blistering cold winters with endless gray skies, and the sweltering summer days that we just sweat our way out of only a few weeks ago. Autumn days are sunny and clear, the air is crisp, and the whole picture comes alive with the colors of fall. Perfect bike riding weather. My favorite rides are rail trails; train tracks that were abandoned long ago and turned into bike paths that guide you through farmland and forests and sleepy country towns. Once or twice a year, I plan a route about 60-70 miles out, and book a campsite. A couple days in the saddle with nothing to do but pedal and breathe and let my mind wander. There’s a thirty-five-mile trail north of Ann Arbor that I had ridden once before; the Mike Levine Lakelands Trail. It starts at one prison in Whitmore Lake, and ends at another prison, in Jackson. “The P to P Trail,” Greg called it. He was intrigued. Last October, Greg drove up from North Carolina to help our mom with some work around the condo, and he brought his bike. He had just hand tuned the whole deal, and attended to some minor repairs. It was ready. Greg and I discussed routes, and settled on The P to P Trail. Before he drove up to Michigan, Greg prepared for our bike trip - namely, by making beef jerky. On the morning of our departure, we carefully packed our gear into the saddle bags and tightened it all down. Early autumn sunlight stretched into the garage. We sampled the jerky. It was salty, but flavorful. The first leg of our journey brought us up through Ypsilanti and into Ann Arbor, following the Huron River through Gallup Park, where my mom used to take us as kids to walk the trails along the river and feed the ducks. We stopped for a little snack. Greg chewed on some of the homemade jerky. I ate a peanut butter and banana sandwich I had made that morning. “Hey while we’re here, try not to crash your bike into some twelve-year-old girl on a ten speed,” Greg said. A deep cut from our family history; the infamous bike accident that tore up my face when we were kids. “That wasn’t here though,” I told him. “It was Hudson Mills.” “Oh,” said Greg. “I don’t remember too good sometimes.” Hudson Mills was a metropark west of Ann Arbor that had a three mile bike loop; a nice safe path with no vehicles. The day of my bike accident was my mom’s birthday. I was six. I was riding along the path on my old black and gold one-speed. It had seen better days. The grips had worn off the ends of the handlebars, exposing the rough metal underneath. Riding toward me on the opposite side of the path was some girl on a ten speed. The impetus of the crash has always been unclear in my mind. I could not tell you what brought our bikes together that day and caused me to fall head over handlebars, slashing open my upper lip on the way down. As I lay in the grass on the side of the path with blood pouring down my face, a motorcycle pulled up. The rider had seen our accident from the road. My mom rode up on her bike; at first she thought I had been hit by the motorcycle. It’s funny what you remember as a kid. I couldn’t tell you how it felt to have my lip sewn back together, or whether or not it hurt when my face was mangled by the jagged metal handlebar. But I remember riding in the back of the park vehicle with my mom, and I was wearing a green visor, like the ones you see accountants wear in old movies. “Look,” I told my mom. “My visor didn’t break.” It was still intact. My face was a different story. It took sixteen stitches to put my lip back together. After the doctors sewed me up, my mom took one look at my face and demanded that they go back and do it again. “It’s crooked,” she told them. As everyone waited in the ER, Greg scratched at his skin. He had a wicked case of poison ivy. My mom asked the doctors to check him out as well. A little two for one deal. Happy Birthday, Mom. Gallup Park was about ten miles into our ride. We still had a long way to go until the P to P Trail. We kept pushing north, and made our way up past Ann Arbor and into Whitmore Lake. The first prison was in sight. Along an unassuming intersection not far from US-23, the rail trail began. We turned our bikes onto the path, grateful to be off the main roads and settling into the thirty-five-mile ride ahead of us. No self-respecting bike ride is complete without music, and I had brought my little Wonderboom speaker to carry us along. I had a playlist in mind; “Dead Cuts,” a whole selection of choice Grateful Dead tracks. I pulled it up. “Hey you know what song I’ve really been into lately?” Greg said. “Ship of Fools.” “Oh yeah,” I said. “That’s a good one.” I flipped through my playlist, and put it on. Went to see the captain Strangest I could find Laid my proposition down Laid it on the line As Jerry’s voice carried the sweet ballad, we rode along past the prison, into what we thought would open up into farmland and greenspace, and carefree pedaling along an old rail trail. Instead, we ended up at a McDonald’s, stationed along a busy roundabout with heavy traffic circling in and out. Underneath the sign of the Golden Arches was a collection of crushed beer cans. “Hey you know what I could really go for right now?” I asked Greg. “A McFlurry. Oreo - those are the best.” Greg sighed. “No man, I’m good.” My brother does not share my sweet tooth or my penchant for a nice cold ice cream treat. We started up a side road along the interstate that was riddled with potholes and gravel and heavy machinery. The road was deeply under construction. We bounced along the rough roadside, and I stopped. “Hey!” I yelled to Greg. He continued pedaling and didn’t look back, unable to hear me over the drone of highway and din of roadwork. I had a feeling we were going the wrong way. I pulled up the map on my phone, and sure enough, we were a couple miles off in the wrong direction. Our rail trail was behind us, and we were heading north into some godforsaken construction nightmare, with road workers crushing beer cans under McDonald’s signs, and nobody stopping for a McFlurry. I pedaled faster. My bike tires bounced along the gravel, and I caught up to Greg at a stop sign. “Hey man,” I said. “I’m pretty sure we’re going the wrong way.” “Huh?” Greg stopped and looked around. A passing car kicked up a cloud of gravel dust, and I showed him the map. The October sun beat down, and Greg strained to see the screen through the glare and the dust. “Yeah, I think you may be right,” he said. We turned our bikes around and headed back toward the roundabout, and the McDonald’s. “You sure you don’t want a McFlurry?” I asked Greg. I had dreams of vanilla soft serve flecked with little broken bits of Oreo cookie. “Bro - it’s not shamrock shake season,” he said. We pedaled on. Somewhere near the prison, we had fallen off the path. This time we followed it close, past a little creek, and through a field of tall grass, all along a towering chain link fence with coils of barbed wire at the top. The clatter of construction vehicles and road noise dampened in our wake. I once again pulled up my Dead Cuts playlist, and put on “Ship of Fools.” Saw your first ship sink and drown From rocking of the boat And all that could not sink or swim Was just left there to float There are certain events in life that feel universal. Things were one way, and then, life was different. You remember exactly where you were when you got the news. When Michael Jackson died, everyone watched the news unfold on the TV screen over the bar where I was working, at a country club in Sorrento, FL. When the OJ verdict came in, our entire middle school gathered in the library, and watched the newscast on an old box television wheeled out on a cart. And when Jerry Garcia died, I was at summer camp; Camp Sancta Maria up in Gaylord, MI, where my brothers and I spent the better part of our summers for many years. I was twelve. We were sitting down to lunch in the mess hall when our table counselor broke the news. He was a big guy, normally loud and rowdy with the rest of the crew. That day, he was quiet. I thought of my uncle. Our Uncle Bobby had been on Dead Tour, selling his trademark Devil Stixx and tee shirts, and generally just out there living the dream. Bobby had taken our oldest brother Brian to a couple Dead shows earlier that year. He had offered to take me as well, but my mom refused. I was too young, she said. My brother Brian’s good friend, Brian Beauchamp, was head counselor that summer, and he was a fellow Deadhead. Every night after taps played over the loudspeaker as we lay down in our bunks, Beauchamp would play “We Bid You Goodnight,” the sweet a cappella gospel number that closed out many Dead shows. That night, as Jerry and the boys sang “lay down my dear brothers, lay down and take your rest,” things felt different. I love you oh But Jesus loves you the best And we bid you Goodnight Goodnight Goodnight Then Beauchamp closed it out softly over the loudspeaker, like he always did; “Goodnight campers.” When my sister-in-law Becky gave us the news - the final news that our brother Brian was no longer on this earth, Greg and I arrived at the same song, at the same time. A couple weeks after that hot day in July, I told Greg something, “I’ve been listening to a lot of Grateful Dead lately," I said. “Europe ‘72. That album has always reminded me of Brian.” “He’s Gone?” asked Greg. “Yeah,” I said. “That one.” Greg told me that after he got off the phone with Becky that day, he went upstairs to his office, closed the door, and put on that song as loud as the speakers would go. He sat there, and listened, and let the tears fall. On the surface, it seems like an obvious choice. Sure - “He’s Gone.” What else would a band of brothers who grew up on the Grateful Dead listen to when one of us bites the dust? Well, any major dude with half a heart surely will tell you, my friend; that song wasn’t written about death. Brian had explained that to me years ago, not long after that summer when Jerry died. Growing up, my brothers were giants - invincible. And for me and Greg, Brian, the oldest, was our guide. There was no way he could be gone. It just didn’t feel like that was a possibility in this world. The song did not make that truth any easier to accept, but maybe it was just something we needed to hear from a voice other than our own. Like a steam locomotive Rollin’ down the track He’s gone And nothin’s gonna bring him back He’s gone As Greg and I rode on and left Prison One behind us, our path opened up to rolling acres of farmland, with occasional breaks through the forest. The autumn sun shone through the changing leaves and cast a warm orange glow over the whole scene. It was glorious. The little Wonderboom speaker nestled snug in the bike pouch hanging from my handlebars, and the Dead played on. “This playlist is perfect, man.” Greg said, as we pedaled along. “Thanks, bro.” I said. “It’s all the faves.” Greg has a road bike, and the pedals are the clip-in type that you need special biking cleats for. One of the connections kept giving him trouble. We stopped along the trail, and Greg sat down in the grass to attend to the clip. “Is it just the left one?” I asked him. “Yeah,” Greg said. “Only on the left side - yeah that’s the Crips side.” I paused. Out of nowhere, my brother had just hit me with a Snoop Dogg lyric from “Drop It Like It’s Hot,” as he sat in the grass and messed with his dorky bike cleat. It was the funniest and dumbest thing I had heard in a long time. I laughed so hard, tears came to my eyes. We sat there on the side of the trail in our ridiculous fluorescent bike gear. “Brian would approve,” I said. “Yeah,” Greg agreed. He secured the clip, and we kept on moving. We floated down the trail, and the miles flew by. I had to take a piss. We stopped at a party store along the trail, and I picked up a couple bags of chips; Ruffles - the cheddar and sour cream kind. The cashier rang me up. “Is there a bathroom?” I asked her. I was closely approaching the pee-my-pants level of having to go. She looked at me. “No, but there’s no one staying at the house out back. You can just go behind the store.” “Thank you,” I said, and grabbed my chips. I relieved myself behind the party store. There’s nothing quite like a good piss when you really have to go. I walked back to our bikes, and Greg’s face lit up at the sight of the Cheddar and Sour Cream Ruffles. We dug in, and rode on down the trail. Our mom, as always, checked in. Where are you? How is the ride? Did you get there yet? Throughout our lives, there has always been a steady undercurrent of motherly concern. It’s something you get used to, and can count on. We may have been two grownass men in our 40s riding our bikes 120 miles over two days, but in her mind, we would always be her little boys out there in the big scary world. When we got to the campground, we responded, and pacified our mother's concerns. We had made it in safely, in one piece, and we were doing great. At the campsite, Greg gathered wood for the fire; a novelty I was not used to on my solo bike trips. I usually just skipped that whole ritual and went straight to my tent after the sun went down. The fire was nice. We picked through our cache of snacks and put together the most balanced gas station meal we could muster: potato chips, jerky, peanuts, and an apple - covering most of the five basic food groups. After dinner we sat around the fire and bullshitted as I played some of my favorite singer songwriter tracks over the little Wonderboom. I put on Bob Dylan’s “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.” The song reminded me of Brian, but not because of the obvious lyrical content. It was because of Guns n Roses. Growing up, Brian had all the GnR cassettes - from Lies to Use Your Illusion. I picked through them and dubbed my own copies. The “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” from my childhood had Axl Rose’s trademark screech and growl, backed by Slash’s wonderfully distorted guitar licks. The Dylan version always reminded me of Brian’s tape collection, and the blue, black and purple cover of Use Your Illusion II. “Hey you know what’s wild about this song?” I asked Greg as we sat and watched the flames dance in the campfire. “Bob Dylan wrote it for a movie soundtrack. That kinda blows my mind.” “Yeah I can see that,” said Greg. “It’s interesting, sometimes when you have that kind of direction - a goal in mind, the songwriting can almost be easier. It’s like they tell you, ‘okay we need the song to fit this scene here and have this kind of vibe.’ You have a format to work with. It doesn’t have to just be plucked from the ether.” “Huh,” I said. “I guess I never thought about it like that.” I might not always like to admit it, but my brother, the sax player, knows a thing or two about a thing or two. For the record, dude has a grammy. As the sky grew dark and the stars multiplied overhead, we let the fire die down, pissed on it for good measure, and retired to our tents. In the morning, we woke up to a light drizzle, and made quick work of packing up camp. We were due for some caffeine. The nearest coffee shop was almost two hours away on bike, and by the time we got there, we were cold, tired, hungry, and in need of a boost to bring it all back home. We got egg sandwiches. Greg ordered an Americano - black. I got a latte with an extra shot and oatmilk. Greg gave me shit for it. Then he spilled his hot sauce. The ride home was smooth and uneventful, just how we wanted it. The last leg brought us straight down Textile Rd, a busier thoroughfare than our mostly backroads journey on the way out. Cars flew by as we pedaled along on our thin strip of roadside. I spotted a fresh roadkill in front of me. A raccoon, gruesomely splayed out on the asphalt. Its fur blew in the wind from the passing vehicles. I swerved and guided my front tire around it to avoid the mess. Greg rode on in front of me. “There’s a lot of carnage on the road,” I said. “Yeah,” Greg agreed. We kept on riding. When we got back to the house, I fired up a french press. Greg took his coffee black, and made a face when I poured oatmilk into mine. The hot coffee was excellent. Greg finished his cup and went back to my mom’s to help with the condo. I responded to a few work items, and left to pick the boys up from daycare. Playtime was over. We now returned to our regular programming. Business as usual in our world that had changed immensely since that hot day in July over a year ago. “I feel broken,” Greg told me one day. I knew what he meant. We no longer functioned as we once did. Something deep within was badly fractured, and it was still unclear whether any amount of repair could make it whistle again. But any major dude will tell you; any minor world that breaks apart, falls together again. It’s been almost a year since my last overnight bike trip, and I think I may be overdue. We are once again heading into that beautiful and magical season in Michigan when the light hits a little softer, the air breathes a little crisper, and you remember why you live here in the first place. Today was Brian’s birthday, and we made it through another one without him. The Vinyl Exchange is still going strong. Greg and Becky and I all sent each other records again this year, for Brian. I got them both A Tribe Called Quest; People’s Instinctive Travels & the Paths of Rhythm, a classic Brian album. On the song, “Luck of Lucien,” there is a line that will always echo in my mind in Brian’s voice; Lucien, I’ll leave it up to you Voulez-vous Rendez-vous Cou-cou Les poo-poo Brian would always sing this line in his best French accent, a la Pepe Le Pew, the romantically aggressive cartoon skunk, from Looney Tunes. Greg got me Rolling Stones: Some Girls, another Brian classic. Becky sent me a record by a lesser-known artist; Danny Golden, whose song “Fare Thee Well” will forever color the day we celebrated Brian’s life, and tried to bid some sort of goodbye. This morning I played all three records. Then I went for a bike ride; one of an entirely different nature. After our son Teddy was born, I had dreams of riding my bike with him trailing behind me in one of those neat little toddler bike trailers. Locked in and ready to roll in the Burley Bee. But things don’t always go the way you plan, especially with toddlers. Our first few rides ended with Teddy screaming his head off as I pulled him through our neighborhood in the bike trailer. After that, we took a break on the father-and-son bike rides for a while. Last spring, we tried again with Phillip, and had similar results. But today - oh today, we had victory. I sat the boys in the bike trailer, strapped them in, plied them with snacks, and away we went. Over the creek and through the woods, past the park where the boys play soccer, and up the hill for good measure. For twenty-five glorious minutes, Teddy and Phillip sat next to each other in the bike trailer, peacefully. They didn’t fight, or argue, or scream. It was magical. I rode on. At home, I lit the candle that Lizzie had bought for Brian the year before. “What do they call this candle?” I asked her. “Like what’s the Hebrew name for it?” “It’s Yiddish,” Lizzie said. “It’s a yahrzeit candle. Traditionally, you’re supposed to light it on the anniversary of someone’s death.” She paused. “But we can make our own tradition.” The boys watched the flame dance around and laughed as they tried to blow it out - like a birthday candle. I asked them if they wanted to put on a record. Teddy spoke up. “I want the one with the guy that has the ice cream cone on his head,” he said, and my heart grew three sizes that day. I brought the boys into the family room and plugged in the Christmas lights that hang across our wedding photo above the turntable; it has become my ritual for putting on records. I flipped through my collection and pulled out Grateful Dead: Europe ‘72, the album that Greg had gotten me for last year’s Vinyl Exchange, the one with the classic cartoon of the Ice Cream Kid on the back cover. Teddy’s favorite. “Cumberland Blues” gave way to “He’s Gone,” and we stood there in front of the speakers, listening. Phillip reached for me to pick him up. I held him in my arms and swayed slowly back and forth before the record player I had bought myself as a consolation after Brian’s funeral. Jerry and the boys sang on. Nine mile skid on a ten mile ride… Nothin’ left to do but smile, smile, smile