I like to go for bike rides. I don’t know why, but I find it very fulfilling to put in some earbuds, crank up some music, and just ride. I know listening to music while riding isn’t recommended or safe, but I don’t really care.
Sometimes when I ride, I sense that I’m being followed. It’s not like there is someone behind me, but it’s a presence behind me that I cannot see. I feel an urgent need to distance myself from the presence, and I pedal faster and faster. Often, my heart pounds in my chest and my breath comes in short gasps, but no matter how hard or fast I pedal, the presence is still there.
I manage a bookstore at a local community college. I have had this position for almost five years. I assumed that most of my family knew what I was doing at this point in my life. I assumed wrong.
My mom and I recently had a telephone conversation. I don’t remember what exactly we were talking about, but my job became the topic of discussion. I mentioned something about receiving books for the new semester or something like that, and my mom said, “Why would you be ordering books?”
“Because I manage the bookstore, Mom,” I replied. “That’s kind of what I do.”
“I thought you were President of Student Activities,” my mom said, flabbergasted. “I’ve been telling everyone you were President of Student Activities!”
“There’s… uh… there is no such position,” I explained, “and if there were, I wouldn’t be qualified to do it. What made you think I was the president of anything?”
“You post those videos on Facebook of the kids eating the weird stuff,” said my mom. “Why are there videos of kids eating weird stuff if you weren’t President of Student Activities?”
1 + 1 = 2, right?
“Mom, we do an annual food eating contest in the bookstore,” I said, “and the videos are funny, so we post the videos.”
“Oh…” said Mom.
“I’m just the director of the bookstore,” I explained again.
“Oh…” said Mom again. “Well… I think I’ll just keep telling people you’re the President of Student Activities.”
“… but that position doesn’t even exist, Mom.”
“The people I tell will never know that,” Mom laughed.
When I am riding, I often feel self-conscious. I’m afraid the people in cars and pedestrians I pass are all looking at me and thinking, “Look at that old fat man riding his bike. He must have gotten a DUI and that’s why he’s on the bike.”
There is a bar in downtown Gering called the Union. The Union has a fenced outdoor area that is popular for musical performances in the warmer months. Because it is fenced, people on the outside can’t see in, and people on the inside can’t see out. More than once, I have ridden by the Union on a summer evening and heard the people within the fenced area laughing. It is impossible for me to imagine that they are laughing at anything other than the old fat man on the bike outside. They can’t see me, and I can’t see them… and for me to think that my being there on my bike is of such importance that it would result in laughter from inside is ridiculous… but I can’t shake the thought from my mind.
The instances of laughter outside the Union transport me back to my college days where a few friends and I would go to a bar for some drinks. Inevitably, I would make my way to a restroom only to walk by a table of people who would break out in laughter. I knew without a doubt that they were laughing at me.
“Look at that loser, all alone.”
“Well of course he’s all alone, did you see him?”
Of course, the people at the table didn’t really say that. The people didn’t even know that I existed, why would they waste energy laughing at me? They wouldn’t, but my mind could never find that rational conclusion.
And now, when I ride my bike by the Union, I always make sure I have my earbuds in…
I went back to Montana a couple of months ago for a graduation. At the reception, I was able to see one of my aunts. This aunt was always one of my biggest supporters. She always told me how successful I was going to be. She is one of those “you’re so smart, you can be anything you set your mind to” kind of supporters. She always let me know that she expected big things from me. She was excited to see me, and I her.
“So, you’re working at a college,” said my aunt.
“Yeah, a community college,” I replied.
“So, what are you dean of?” she asked matter-of-factly.
“Dean?” I asked.
“With an education like yours, I suspect your a dean… or are you a vice president… president?” my aunt asked.
“Auntie, I have a bachelor’s degree,” I said.
“I thought you earned your master’s,” my aunt said.
“Uh… no… just my bachelor’s,” I said. “I’m not really dean of anything. I run the bookstore.”
“Textbooks?” my aunt asked. You would have thought she just swallowed a fly.
“Yep,” I said.
“Oh… my,” said my aunt. “When will you get your master’s?”
“When I win the lottery,” I joked. “Education is expensive.”
My aunt didn’t smile.
“But it pays off,” said my aunt.
“But I’m almost fifty,” I explained. “Given the constraints of time and money, by the time I could get my master’s, I’d be retirement age.”
My aunt’s left eye started to twitch ever so slightly.
“It’s never too late,” she said as she started to walk away from me and towards another table of relatives. “I expect big things from you!”
My preferred time to ride bike is at dusk. I like riding when the sun is under the horizon but still casts a halo of it’s warm light into the sky. The sun has done its amazing job of warming my side of the earth, fueling the growth of plants, giving us our daily dosage of vitamin D, and everything else the sun accomplishes in a day. The sun’s job is done on our side of the earth, but dusk gives us a daily reminder of the legacy of everything great the sun has accomplished.
When I ride at dusk, the presence doesn’t seem as close. I feel the most free when I ride at dusk. Once the horizon completely swallows the last of the sun’s light, the presence gains strength. Dark is when I usually head for home, because the presence can be almost suffocating. I head for home, my short little legs pumping and my lungs gasping for breath, in an effort to get home before I actually discover what draws the presence to me — or what exactly it is. Ignorance, after all, is bliss…