flats

'It smells like urine.'

Changing a tube, in the rain, just past our turn onto NE 2nd Street in downtown Miami. We are on our way to Brickell and loop through Coconut Grove when a small piece of glass (the remnants of someone's windshield from an accident years ago? or a shard from a bum's smashed bottle of Mad Dog 20/20?), lubricated by the warm rain, sliced through the Vittoria Pave's layers of rubber and cords.

'Yep, smells like quite a few people took a piss here.'

The wind shifted and the combination of getting wet again under the overhang and the image of previous tenants relieving themselves where I was sprawled, thumbs probing for the glass lodged in my tire, got me working a bit faster.

Before the flat, we had warmed up by crossing the Venetian Way between South Beach and the downtown. Riding in the moist air, temps around seventy five, sky gray, the wind behind our backs leaving us riding in a vacuum, I thought this must be what a sensory deprivation tank feels like. Warm, pleasant, womb-like. Our stop to fix the flat brought me back to the world.

Flat fixed, my friend and I roll south and promptly take a 'wrong' turn. 'Go straight' at the turn to Key Biscayne, we were told and we jumped on the bike path under the metro line. This, it turns out, does not go straight, but rather zigs and zags its way along Highway 1 until it peters completely out at Coconut Grove. Later, as I relayed our route to my local friend, he rolls his eyes. Instead of rolling past million dollar homes and the Vizcaya Museum and Gardens, we were exploring one of the concentrated ghettos ringing Miami's downtown. 'Coconut Grove is the oldest modern continuously-inhabited neighborhood of Miami' says Wikipedia and we grip the handlebars a tad tighter as we look for Grand Avenue and the grand tree-lined streets of Bayshore Drive.

The dilapidated storefronts remind Gene and I of the time we spend working in the 'core' of Milwaukee's ghetto at King's Cyclery on 23rd and Fond du Lac. I'd found the job on the bulletin board across from the counselling center. 'Wanted: bicycle mechanic. Must be 16. Will train. Contact Jim King.' A week later I announced at supper that I'd gotten a job. Terrific, my dad said, always proud of his son's dedication to finding employment. Where is it? Both mom and dad went a shade pale when I told them, but to their credit, neither tried to dissuade me.

One of the other fellows that saw that ad on the board was Steven and he came to mind as Gene and I rounded onto Grand Avenue heading north.
'Remember the lead pipe he painted orange and carried with him on the bike?'
I don't think he ever had to use it, but Steven didn't last long at the shop. I would spend the next nine years working there.

There is a crossroads of sorts, the road splits into a fork and there are tourists wandering the sidewalks now. This represents safety, I suppose, no more thoughts of orange lead pipes. Ridiculous mansions sprout on the left of the road and the pavement is suddenly smooth. We glide back to the north.