My calendar had DEMO scribbled on it July 12th.
“Demo” means a bunch of stuff to bikers–a test-riding day at Trailhead Cyclery–always followed by a sumptuous barbecue.
I’ve never made it to any of them.
San Jose might as well be the moon for this chickenshit motorist.
OR DEMO can mean ‘demolish’ –what’s happening all around Marin: little cabins scraped and forgotten, replaced by McEstates erected on small parcels…
Demo (pron: Dee-mo)= a nickname for my racing pal Susan DeMattei. She lives in a galaxy called Gunnison, featuring Planet Crusty Butt.
I forgot to call her father to verify, and the thought slid back into the ooze.
Coming back from the morning swim ( I never swim Saturdays! But I got up and did it for some odd reason) , and lo! A familiar face is coming my way at Lansdale Station.
I execute a U-turn, near where the long-legged black policeman hides on his motorcycle, citing the bikers who blow thru the complicated five-way intersection. As soon as I stop, I’m aware of being in a river of cyclists.
One of whom was Sue! We dragged our bikes up on the sidewalk. It seems a miracle I wasn’t daydreaming, was looking at faces going by. Under a helmet, she’s no different from every other superfit blond on a bike.
On the other hand, I doubt there were many other riders that remotely resembled “St. Packrat” that morning. On my rack: a rolled up bathroom rug, a Patagonia fleece jacket, panniers bulging with found free-box treasure, and that helmet with the lace and tapestry plus huge black dahlia front and center…
We caught up on everything, including juicy peloton gossip and bike politics. She’s in town for the 3oth reunion of Terra Linda highschool class of 1980.
“Not at Deer Park Villa again?” I asked excitedly. In 1990, I’d crashed her tenth reunion (it was practically next door) and, for the first time, saw her out of uniform (skinsuit by day, nursing scrubs or jeans the rest of the time).
“Nope…it’s wa-a-ay up north on highway 37”.
“Tell the gang hello for me”. Susan’s gang of school chums is a remarkable thing. Loyal, true, and exceptionally long-lived. Or maybe not. Maybe that’s the way it’s done: reunions regularly, solidarity, utter absence of petty squabbling…Ideal Sisterhood.
In the forty minutes we chatted on the sidewalk we were passed by about a hundred Saturday cyclists…a few of whom got to hear : “Yo! It’s THE OLYMPIC BRONZE MEDALIST FROM —”
“Um, I’m trying to make you glad I don’t live in Gunnison, Susan”…