Friday Flash: The Madness of the Ancient Mariner

"With my crossbow/ I shot the Albatross..."


We had been a month at sea when the helmsman began to see things in the shadows that weren't there. We chalked it up to the days and nights at sea, the staggering chill of the Southern Sea, the lack of food that wasn't salted beef. 


How were we to know that he  had been slowly losing his mind? He gave no sign of it so far as we could tell: siting watch when it came his turn, pronouncing the time by his knowledge of the stars, the sun. If he too often looked to the horizon and shuddered, if he too often called out that he had seen something that was not there, what were we to think? 


After the Albatross came, our great symbol of hope that flew round the mast and perched in the shrouds, who shared our food and answered to the name of God, all of our spirits lifted. The Albatross was such a jolly companion; an enormous white banner that flew pure and beautiful against the sun, leading us through the ice and bringing a stiff wind.


If after it arrived the mariner grew more unsettled, how were we to look at him and say "madness of the mind" and not "madness of the sea"? When we knew, alas, it was too late! 


The mariner, armed with his crossbow and standing watch, stood over the gleaming white corpse of our good omen, our ocean friend, with a feral smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. 


"I have killed it," he said his eyes wide and vacant, "the demon that has dogged our steps and whispered such evil into the night." He grinned and it was a dead man's smile, a grimace without any humanity in it. "Here it lies," he called, "Dead at last, thank the Lord!" 


And such a cry did rise from the assembled, but what were we to do? There it lay, the last tie we had to land and all of the good things it brought, and standing over it the mariner with his arrow dripping red.

Biking Miami: An Amateur's Memory

One of Miami's Ghost Bikes, commemorating a cyclist killed on the route. This one is by the Bear Cut Bridge and it yields a moment of silence when passed.

Let me explain something about bike rides with my father:  he and the rest of his team think they’re in the Tour de France. I’m allowed to say this. I am forced to watch the Tour with the rest of them come July every year. I think for my father it’s penance for making him sit through the SuperBowl.

But regardless of the personal habits of the members of the 25^th Parallel cycling team, nothing prepared me for a Sunday morning ride down to Key Biscayne.

Let me begin by saying that I am not a wimp. It is a long, far ride, approximately 40 miles round trip from my house down to the Last Homely La Carreta on the Key. The morning dawned cooler than we had expected, forcing me to turn around and put on a long-sleeve shirt beneath my cycling jersey before we left. I ride a Specialized with clip-less peddles, so I borrowed some bike shoes in addition to gloves. Sunglasses on, GU in my back pocket, tight shorts clinging to me far too tightly for before-seven-in-the-morning, and we are off, moving forward with the reassuring click of shoe clips nestling into their proper peddle slots.

Things I’d Forgotten I Hated:

1. Clips that don’t make a sound to let you know they’re in place.
2.  Falling over on a bike that isn’t moving.
3. That strangled laugh my brother makes when he’s trying to hold it in.

Across US-1 we can see another group of bikers waiting for the lights to change. They too are chafing at the bit. I wonder where they could possibly be going this cool, dewy morning. When the light changes, we are off, speeding across the mostly deserted roadway and sparing no more thoughts to the other group. My brother and my father know the back roads like their shoe size and we make good time, my dad pushing us to keep a nice, even 15 mph speed.

Things I’d Forgotten I Hated:

1. Trying to keep pace with 15 mph when all you want to do is 13.

2. The difference between those 2 mph

3. Road bumps.

We barely see anyone else on the roads. Sunday mornings are reserved for the dedicated, it seems: joggers with intense gazes fixed always ahead of them, people with iPods pushing strollers that come with handbrakes, cyclists pinned in the aero-position, flying down the street in a whip of color and the high whine of a quickly-moving bike chain.

Things I’d Forgotten I Hated:

1. Bikers who don’t announce they’re coming

2. Falling off a stopped bike into oncoming traffic.

3. The inventive curses of bikers forced off course

It isn’t until we come around the corner, leaving the dark, quiet area above Alice Wainwright park that you can really see them. The peloton in all its glory. 

Miles of bikers, lycra-clad backs all hunched in a familiar shape, the garbled sounds of conversations that whip past too quickly to hear more than a few words. It is a glorious, colorful riot and it is all over the road.

The last lane to the right of the causeway has been left open for the bikers since new legislation passed, and we ride through with impunity, aware now of the rush of cars that has been strangely absent from our trip so far.

There are 4 of us in what feels like a pace-line cobbled together from misfits, but we buzz down the road, keeping to the edge while more and more bikers speed around us.

A giant group splits around us like a wave against a rock and we are surrounded for what feels like forever, stuck in the center of a peloton that appears to have no end.  They take off down the street, easily 50 of them, probably more, helmeted, clipped, laughing men and women who take up 2 lanes of traffic as they begin their climb of the bridge.

From far away it looks like a horde of multi-colored ants has started an ascent of the Causeway, and I cannot begrudge motorists and police officers who claim to hate bikers. At this moment, as they swarm up the side of the bridge, impeding traffic and ensuring that everyone sees them, I hate them too.

They cut off a bus, and we shake our heads as we prepare to begin our own ascent of the Causeway. “This is what gives us a bad name,” someone says. No one disagrees. My brother is unleashed, sent to take the bridge to his full potential while I follow along, clicking through my gears until I am at least resistance, sitting back in my seat and counting light poles until I reach the top.

And then I am flying.

Things I’d Forgotten I Loved:

1. The sound wind makes when it rushes past your head at 28 mph

2. Knowing that it’s just your weight and pedaling that are making you move as quickly as a car

3. The back side of the Bridge.

When we get to La Carreta, we stop for a quick break. I eat the things I’d put in my pocket so long ago this morning and listen as all around me bikers laugh and mingle and take a break. The garish colors of jerseys are spread like the detritus of a tropical flower shop all around the tiny restaurant’s parking lot. The bike racks look new and are completely full of Pinarellos and Treks, Specialized, Felt, Cannondales; rows of bikes everywhere, leaning up against legs and trees and the sides of the building. In the plastic chairs that make up La Carreta’s outside seating, bikers lounge and throw their heads back with laughter and sheer delight as they sip their early morning cafecito.

We need an allen wrench and the man sure to carry them is not riding with us today. It’s alright, though. Key Biscayne is a biker’s economy on Sunday mornings. An allen wrench appears almost instantly when we call into the crowd. How could it not?

Water bottles refilled, helmets re-situated, we set off again. Back toward home.

It’s a biker-eat-biker world out there, but it’s pretty worth it.