I Want To Ride My Bicycle

Wednesday, August 13th 2014

“I’ve been sitting here staring at a blank page, thinking of what to write about for hours. Literally. I dated this earlier this evening, and now it’s well into Thursday Morning.....”

That’s a direct quote from yours truly at this exact time last week. And it’s about as far as I got into writing my next blog, except for some chicken scratch and ideas I have jotted down throughout a notebook. People would think I was crazy if they took one glance into any of the notebooks I constantly keep at my side. They’re like some sort of strange hipster puzzle, words scratched out, re-written, arrows pointing in all different directions. It’s a mess. But, I get it. And that’s all that matters. If you followed what the quote above says, it’s obviously since been a few more hours of staring at a blank page. 168 hours, to be exact. I tried to be consistent with this on my own, without the pressures of a deadline (which always tend to help me immensely), but god dammit, it’s hard. So, I’ve decided to do a blog every other week, instead. It just makes life that much easier for me, but all the while gives something to keep me in line, in a sense. Not that I’m out of line, but when you strive to be your own boss, I realize you must have some sort of consistency to keep on track. And a bi-monthly blog is a good start for that. Or a cop out. I don’t know, I guess that’s all in perspective. But I side with the former.

This is the first blog I’m writing on my own, away from the electronic hands of 96.9 The Rogue, and I don’t even know what to do with my own hands. While each week I was flooded with ideas (The concept being stories/writing from the road. That was my ‘cash cow’), I’m now.... Lost. I feel like a child walking to school for the first time without his parents. Knowing at any given moment I have the freedom to completely drop the ball and run away. But, that’s not my style. I get too excited at the adventurous thoughts of fumbling around in the dark, finding what I can grasp onto, and bringing it out into the light. Whether it be good or bad. Just never mediocre. And while I never was the type to run away as a child, that doesn’t mean a kid didn’t dream. There were the few instances as a teenager that I did (who didn’t at least once? It’s a part of growing up - self-realization), but that’s not what this is about. This is about the first time I really wanted to, and for good reason.

I’m not sure how “normal” or common it is, but life for me between the ages of 3-13 is a complete blur. I can honestly only recall bits and pieces. Maybe I’ve mentally blocked a majority of it for good reason, or maybe I just have a terrible memory. Who knows? I’ve really been trying to work on remembering, and writing has been helping tremendously. With that being said, I’m going to try (to the best of my abilities) to recall the first time I really wanted to run away. So, if you’ll please excuse me while I get lost in my mind over the next few hours, I’ll see what comes out. But for you, however, it will only be a few short minutes of reading this blog.

Probably like any other child’s first true taste of freedom, I remember the first time I rode a bike on my own, without training wheels, and how ecstatic I was. I’ll never forget that day and the determination I had. The drive to just... Go. But I think my drive and determination was a bit different from most childrens’ on this particular milestone. Before I get too ahead of myself though, let me rewind a few days, before my two-wheeled triumph.

It must have been summer, because I remember it being a warm sunny day, and I must have been about five or six years old. I don’t recall the exact details of the whole day. None, actually. As much as I try to. But I clearly remember coming home from the grocery store with my father and sister. We had just pulled into the driveway and were unloading the groceries. When all of a sudden, out of nowhere it seemed, there were cops everywhere. I’m not sure if they were there when we pulled up, or followed us (chased? Dad, did we get in a chase?), but they were most definitely there for a reason. And a strong one at that. To briefly fill you in, my Father had a constantly extending string of incidents with the long arm of the law throughout his life from here to Chicago, and everywhere in between. He’s since cleaned up (coming up on 20 years clean & sober), but still has some amazing and entertaining stories to tell. I’ll be sure to write about some in the future. But for now, let’s stroll back down to Murphy Ave., where my man ‘Chi-Town Slim’ was staring down probably half a dozen or so of Medford’s finest. So there we were, groceries in hand, and the cops addressing him by name (to confirm who he is, I’m guessing). Ready for anything, they demand he drop the groceries and put his hands up. Next thing I know, there was milk and Pepsi all over the ground and I was running to ‘knock on our door and tell my Mother what was happening.’ (Why did I knock? The logic of a six year old is funny) Though she could clearly see. He went on that chase and it got himself tackled, all because he wanted to make sure his kids got home safe before being arrested.

I still don’t know why that happened, and I’ve never bothered to ask. I guess it was just another incident my father had gotten himself into. Growing up, there were more than a few nights I vaguely remember my Mother waking us up in the middle of the night to go and bail him out of jail or something. Hey, shit happens. He was still a great Father to us when he was there, and he always will be. The best, in my eyes. So on with my bike story.... As I said earlier, my childhood is a bit of a blur, so I’m not 100% sure that these memories run concurrent with each other, but I get the strong feeling they do. Because it wasn’t until I really thought hard on remembering the one, that the other seemed to naturally follow suit.

I don’t remember how many times I fell over, or how many times I tried. But I’ll never forget the moment I had my balance. And I was going for it. My Father was in jail at the time, and all I wanted to do was ride my bike straight there. I didn’t even know how to get there, I didn’t even know what was at the end of the block. But all I remember thinking was “keep going!”. And then I remember my Mother yelling at me down the street to come back. To which I did. But man, I’ll never forget how badly I just wanted to keep pedaling. To just.... Go. I’m not sure what it was, the desire to ride the bike, or the simple fact I just wanted to see my Father, and show him my new feat. I’m sitting in Shari’s at 3AM, and my eyes are welling up just thinking about it. What a site, haha. It’s funny, the things you’re capable of when you have your eyes set on a specific goal. Or set of goals. The last few years for me personally have been a fucking roller coaster of emotions, loss, gain & realization. Truly life changing. And for a while, it just got to be so much that I just wanted to give up. But over these last few months, I’ve been blessed with reasons to keep pushing forward, and I have an insatiable thirst to do so. Because all bullshit aside, when you knuckle down and put in the sweat, the things in life you want will come to you. You get this strange tunnel vision of sorts that not even a fucking bull can slow you down. Or in my case, a paranoid Mother yelling at you from the end of the street.

Sorry for the cliché moral at the end, it just felt necessary to include.