Keith

I hate bicycles as a general rule. I don’t mean from the perspective of a driver dealing with cyclists on the highways and byways, though those encounters can be harrowing enough. No, I deeply dislike standing astride a velocipede and pushing off on one of the pedals. I know torture will follow. 

I dislike the general mechanical ineptitude of bicycles. They creak rattle and clunk, all while you sit on an instrument of torture that if you were forced to sit on it against your will would be recognized as medieval torture. That and having to pedal and sweat. You get no quarter on a bicycle. 

So you have to push down on the pedals to achieve progress. While all this is going on you are considered to be a vehicle with all the rights and obligations pertaining thereto. I stop at stop signs and motorists melt down in confusion when I don’t simply glide on through. I look over my shoulder instead of blindly swerving across lanes of traffic, all while lurching and clunking and swearing gently under my breath.

I know Webb Chiles, a Masonic cycling cultist, despises me for my anti bicycle dogma and half Key West can’t afford a car as they throw their money into the great rental maw that consumes their lives but I would rather walk on crushed glass in bare feet reciting verses from  the Bhagavad Gita in Sanskrit than ride a bicycle. And yet sometimes a man has to do what a man has to do. I arrived in time for my appointment on Stock Island by velocipede. 

“Well that’s a surprise,” Keith said from astride his Yamaha scooter’s broad thickly padded saddle. “I never would have guessed you would show up on a bicycle.”  I said nothing, principally as my numb gonads were once again consuming most of my attention. Every time I descend from the high Olympus of a rigid bicycle seat I worry that I will never restore normal feeling “down there.” Who would voluntarily crush the family jewels into submission just to save a gallon of gas?  Not I. Layne was at home aboard GANNET2, plugged in and air conditioned, organizing storage and I thought a nice ride would make up for the afternoon’s planned caloric intake. Silly me. 

It was a good afternoon. Keith and I worked together and apart in dispatch for a dozen years and as we have grown older and less brash we find ourselves with more outlooks in common that I should ever have imagined. We talked politics and travel and hardly touched on work, his work, as I am RETIRED. By the way, it would take more than crushing my gonads by bicycle to make up for a plate of Cajun pasta at Hurricane Hole. 

My last three years in dispatch when I retired from supervising to save my sanity and that of those around me, I worked on Keith’s shift where I found a quiet refuge to simply do the work and enjoy the process of taking calls and sending help to those in need, no office politics involved. He helped me gain my equilibrium after years of work related stress. I am grateful. 

It was a pleasant afternoon, one of those moments when I appreciate the value of Key West as tourist destination. I had no need to check my watch to see if I needed to go, to prepare for work, to meet an obligation. It was a matter of sitting around and talking and reminiscing and enjoying retirement. Another thing Keith and I have in common is his firm determination to retire when the time comes. He will probably stay in Key West, his retirement is planned, and I like the way he thinks. Dispatching has given him too a secure future in old age. 

I got home in good order, despite  the damned seat post that kept sinking as I rode forcing me to adopt a bizarre crouching posture as I hunched over to push the pedals and got my chin almost scraped by my knees on each revolution. Quasimodo on the tour de Key West.

Dinner was grilled burgers under the stars, a cooling breeze and palm fronds waving overhead. Our moochdocking landlords had a parent staying for a visit so I found myself chatting about the merits of Key West with someone else, an other enthusiastic visitor… Bernard from Cork in Ireland loves the tropical ambience and I found myself meandering through another long conversation this time fueled by iced water as I struggled to stay focused. Winter time made everything dark at six in the evening so by 8:30 it felt like midnight and I was well past my bedtime. Irish whiskey and Irish conversation will do that apparently.