April 14 (and 15-18)

Sixty-two years ago, around this time of year, my mom was very pregnant with me, waiting for her appointment with our family doctor, Dr. Cook, in East Moline, Illinois. As Mom told the story, a nurse announced that Dr. Cook was ready to see Mrs. Core. Mom got up and approached the nurse while eyeing another very pregnant woman likewise making her way across the waiting room. After some confused looks, they quickly discovered the other woman had not heard the nurse correctly, but for good reason: she was Mrs. Coram.

Mrs. Core and Mrs. Coram introduced themselves and discovered they lived in the same neighborhood. Mrs. Core gave birth on April 29 to her youngest of five children and Mrs. Coram on May 21 to her youngest of six. A few years later they introduced their sons to each other and Rich Core and George Coram became best buddies.

Over the next several years George and I practically wore a path between my house at 2828 7th Street and his house at 2816 7-1/2 Street  — cutting through the backyards of Marge Ehlers, Mr. and Mrs. Mohr and Clara Thompson.

We also got into mischief that could have been entered into a study on how children's brains don't recognize the full consequences of their actions.

There was the time when we were maybe 6 years old and I got the bright idea that we should open the locked side-door to my family's garage like Superman would — not by just going inside the house and getting the key, but by punching a fist through the door's window and reaching through to turn the inside knob. We each took several runs at the door with one arm extended, only to slam on the brakes before contact. That is, until George got up the nerve.  He not only punched through the glass with his fist, he cut his forearm, although he didn't need stitches.

There was also the time on a summer evening when we were playing in gravel alongside an unpaved road and started a game to see who could hit the tire of a passing car with one of the little rocks. Again, my idea. One of my throws got away from me, however, and went in the open, front-passenger window of a gentleman's vehicle. The man slammed on the brakes. I took off running. And George turned informant. ("I wasn't going to get in trouble for it!" he would state some 55 years later.) George led the man to my house, where by that time my parents were wondering why I had just raced in the backdoor, flown down the steps and hid in a basement closet, screaming, "He's coming! He's coming!"

And then there was the time in sixth grade at St. Anne's Grade School when Sister Colleen, apparently thinking George and I were trustworthy, sent us off to the U.S. Post Office (three blocks away) during our lunch recess, with a box of fundraising letters, money to buy stamps and her instructions to do a good job mailing the envelopes. The gentleman behind the window at the post office seemed to be expecting us, so I figured he'd gotten word from Sister Colleen that we were coming. We bought the stamps and set up our operation at a side table opposite the wall of mailboxes and the two mail slots labeled Out-of-Town and Local.

George and I started off seemingly working efficiently. We experimented with speed stamping and assembly-line stamping, but then sensed we weren't approaching the assignment correctly. George astutely observed that we were putting too much emphasis on speed and not enough on quality. We needed to slow things down to improve performance! From that moment on, we placed each stamp precisely. Each letter was taken individually to the appropriate mail slot. Sister Colleen didn't say to do it fast. She told us to do a good job. We made sure of it. No letter would be mailed before its time.

When we finally finished, we were so happy with ourselves that we were literally skipping as we headed back to school. Those happy feelings changed quickly, however, as we turned down the alley that led to St. Anne's backdoor a block away. 

"Uh-oh! We're in trouble!" 

At the other end of the alley stood Sister Colleen, still in her 20s, arms crossed, as upright and motionless as a stone statue. 

We picked up the pace.  Before we reached her, we cheerfully yelled out in advance that we'd gotten the job done. Everything mailed! It didn't help. Without raising her voice, sister sternly asked where we'd been but didn't wait for an answer. "It's almost 2 o'clock!"

We had to stay after school and clean erasers.

Those are just a few of the memories George and I have shared since I arrived at his home near Prescott Valley, Arizona, yesterday. Getting an opportunity to see George again was always part of my cross-country bike plan once I decided to follow Bicycle Route 66. The route is more than 50 miles north of where George lives. I pedaled to his place from Ash Fork, where I'd spent Wednesday night.

George met me at my hotel. We looked each other in the eye for what seemed a long time, shook hands, and the memories started to flow. A few apologies were made, right off the bat, for things we did or said as kids that have nagged us over the years. And some recollections were corrected. 

George lives alone in his impeccably neat, ranch-style house that he's decorated beautifully. He retired in 2016 from his job as a nutritionist at the Veterans Administration Medical Center in Prescott. He's been divorced for about 20 years and is a self-avowed hermit, eschewing the internet and television. (He was justifiably stunned by how much I knew about him from doing Google searches.) He's in great shape from running regularly, working out and eating right.

I'm trying to get George to pose with me for a picture. He's a little camera shy.

George has been a great host. And it looks like he's going to have to put up with me for a few more days. I need to wait here until Tuesday, when another batch of medications I need, which Susan sent via FedEx, is supposed to arrive. (She was going to bring them with her to our planned rendezvous in Albuquerque, until I got behind my original schedule.) George has a guest bedroom and has graciously allowed me to invade his space until then.

However, high-wind warnings are forecast for next Tuesday through Friday across northern Arizona.  So, we hatched this plan today: On Wednesday, George and I will put my bike and gear in his car and he'll drive me to Winslow, Arizona, where I've reserved an Airbnb apartment to wait out the winds. Once they subside, I'll be back on the road again.

Thursday's Ride

Before I left from my motel in Ash Fork at 7:15 a.m., my weather app said it was 39 degrees. So I put on another layer. I pedaled south on Arizona State Highways 89 and 89A. The first two-thirds of the day's ride was spectacular. The sky was clear. The winds were light. The roads were smooth. The weather warmed up steadily as the sun rose. I couldn't have been happier. 

At about 15 miles, after a few long climbs, I stopped at the top of a hill just because there was a nice place to pull over and enjoy the scenery. I finished off about a dozen Oreos left over from the night before.

Five miles later — where my route was about to turn off Old Highway 89 and onto a quiet backroad — sat the 89 Depot convenience store. I had no reason to stop, but pulled in simply because the place looked like it belonged in that spot and was worth a visit. After downing a Red Bull and a banana at one of the picnic tables, I dropped the can in one of the two recycling bins outside the front door. I went back inside and asked one of the two ladies behind the counter where I could dispose of my peel. "Just toss it in the bins out there. They say recycling but it's trash." Her co-worker laughed.

With the peel disposed of in the recycling bin, I eagerly got back on my bike and crossed the highway to the side road. I have my iPhone clipped onto my handlebars, and as I restarted Google Maps, which I was using for navigation, something cool happened. The music player that lies over the map started playing a song that seemed perfect for the moment — "Right Now" by Van Halen. I turned up the volume (I don't wear earbuds). With no wind I could hear it just fine.

(Right now)

Hey, it's your tomorrow

(Right now)

It's everything

(Right now)

Catch your magic moment

Do it right here and now

It means everything

I was diggin' it! I know I was smiling because an oncoming pickup that just then came around the bend made me self-conscious that I needed to tone it down a bit or risk looking silly.

Van Halen was followed by Tom Petty's "Runnin' Down a Dream," Jean Luc Ponty's "New Country" and Steely Dan's "Reelin' in the Years." As Steely Dan's closing guitar solo faded out, I got to the end of the three-mile-long side road and turned back onto the highway. Granted, the songs were in a playlist I had put together during my ride preparations and set on shuffle a few days ago, but the timing was perfect.

___

Farther down the road, the situation grew dicey.

When I got near Prescott Valley, Google Maps told me to turn from Highway 89 onto Highway 89A, an expressway. As you know, I've done plenty of riding on freeway shoulders recently, so I figured I'd just do it one more time. What was scary, however, was that it told me to ride three miles and cross an exit ramp and an entrance ramp along the way. That's just not done. Being on a bike in a spot where cars are speeding off the highway or accelerating onto it is really dangerous. I considered taking the exit ramp and then figuring out how to get on the entrance ramp. But the exit ramp was long and steep, and it appeared the street at the top was divided with a median, so I'd have to work around that to get on the entrance ramp. So, at both ramps I stopped my bike, waited for traffic to clear and went for it.

George had warned me about the cycling conditions when I told him the route I was taking. More than once he asked me, "Are you sure? Those are some crazy roads. We don't see a lot of cyclists around here." I certainly knew what he meant. I was glad to exit at Glassford Hill Road, which in three more miles would lead me to my hotel, but that road was scary too — a  fast-moving, four-lane thoroughfare with zero shoulder. The pavement ended a few inches outside the white line. I had no choice but to keep riding. Fortunately, most drivers (but not all) gave me room as they passed.

I'm not used to giving Google Maps a break, but it really had no other options. Streets and roads here were designed and built with no consideration for anything other than automobiles. (George surmised the reason is because Prescott Valley has always been a retirement community, so there aren't many bike riders around. )

I arrived safe and sound at my hotel at 1:15 p.m.

I'm going to be staying with George until further notice, watching the weather reports and hoping to get going again as soon as the winds die down.

I wonder what Superman would do?

Contact me: Thoughts or comments? Email me at richardridesusa@gmail.com.

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