Tight White Pants

I am fifty entries into this blog-o-sphere story telling medium and it has been brought to my attention that I have not introduced Ka’mya to how I met her grandma Larri…


…as with almost every good story in my life it always seems to start with the fire department somehow. I had already been divorced by now for several years. I had taken on extreme bicycle riding adventures as a way to heal my heart and to keep my mind clear. There was a volunteer firemen’s convention being held in Klamath Falls and normally several of us fire guys would annually attend. I got the bright idea that I would ride my bike over to the convention this year. Only hitch was it was 135 miles over to K. Falls and uphill most of the way. I corralled the guys going to this years get-together and we hatched a plan. I would take off pedaling at first light from Cave Junction and they would use my van and drive over to the convention later that afternoon. If they saw me passed out along the road they could throw me in the van and we would keep going to our destination unless I needed to be hospitalized. If I was deemed to be ok when they caught up to me, they would continue on to our hotel room in K. Falls. The emergency back-up plan was that if I did not arrive at the motel before 9:00 that night they would drive back and retrieve my broken body along my mountainous route somewhere. With all hands clasp together, we say, READY… BREAK.  Back in the day I wasn’t fat or bald like I am today.  I was actually in pretty good shape from all the bike riding I did. At one point in my life I rode almost 400 miles every week.

That crisp June morning I pedaled out of town like I had done so many other mornings, alone. I had ridden several 100 mile bike adventures before this day, but under much less desirable weather conditions. This morning it was just cool enough I had to wear a wind breaker but I could tell it soon would be stowed away. The sky became a bright Southern Oregon blue as the sun filtered over the mountains to the east. Within an hour and a half I was skirting along the Rogue River some thirty miles from home already. I rode the old abandoned Interstate 5 highway system through the small communities of Rogue River, Gold Hill and into White City before jumping on Highway 140 for the big hump over the mountains and into Klamath Falls. The sun was at eleven-o-clock when I reached 140. My body felt good and warmed up by now. I could see the roadway stretch forward as well as skyward as I made my

approach into the mountains. No more

communities of any consequence lay between this point and K. Falls as I geared down for the steady climb ahead. I had never traveled this road before so each turn in the roadway revealed a new view and more hill. I climbed higher into the forest, for what seemed like for hours, periodically clicking down another gear because the grade steepened. I finally leveled out on top, near Lake of the Woods, exhausted from the thinner air in the higher altitudes and the last forty miles of up hill pedaling. I thought to myself, Whew, only about thirty plus miles to go. Surmising too, if I had climbed for forty miles already the rest of the journey must be down hill, right? Cumulus clouds were forming and I could see a thunder storm brewing far off in the distance, almost day dreaming to myself. I was snapped back to reality when I saw my van speed by and no break lights come on. No stopping and checking to see if I needed hospitalization yet. I think to myself “damn there goes a perfectly good plan out the window”, as I peddle forward.

Those thunder clouds that I thought were so far in the distance, weren’t, as the sky opened up on me. Quickly retrieving my wind breaker jacket from the pannier on my bike as the rain began to fall. Well not really fall, it more like pelted down on me. To the point that the drops actually stung when they hit my skin. Within a minute I was soaked to the bone and freezing cold from the ensuing wind that came with the thunderstorm. Just as I began what I thought would be my final downhill descent into my destination that late afternoon storm disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. Wanting to put as much distance between me and the unruly storm I unleashed my bike as I headed downhill. I had traveled only two miles before the road suddenly flattened out again and stretched far into the distance. My short decent did help dry my cloths but dampen my spirits, thinking I was over the hump and headed to my motel room for a shower. At this point I was simply plodding along trying to figure out why my dumb comrades didn’t stop and check on me. Stupid Fuddruckers leaving me in a storm like that, I am now instinctively pedaling onward. Up over another damn hill of significant grade but this time when I got to the top I could see K. Falls laying off in the distance, I estimated eight miles. The sun was riding the mountains far to the west of me as I gritted down for the final push into the new town.

I pedaled into my motel parking lot at exactly 9 o-clock. The guys were just coming out of their rooms for the billy blaze rescue mission when I fell over on the walkway in front of them. No, “hey how was the ride”? No, “are you ok”? Nope, none of that girly boy kind of stuff from these fire comrades. First words out of their mouth, “damn that sure took you long enough to get here, we’re hungry lets go eat”. I can tell you after riding one hundred and thirty five miles; food isn’t the first thing on your mind. Your sore ass is. A shower is next thing because it might help relieve the pain in my aforementioned, sore ass. They gather my limp body up and throw me in the shower, yelling all the time “hurry up we're starved” as I try and let the warm healing water run down the crack of aforementioned sore …

I’m whipped, double dogged whipped to be exact. I actually can barely walk in fact, having no more muscle tone left in my legs from the long ride and the heat rash I have developing in the same area I have previously mentioned. We walk a couple blocks down the street to some steakhouse. Not for the steaks but for the after hours entertainment they had scooped out earlier in the evening. I normally walk bull legged but I really fit into the cattle town of Klamath Falls that night. These fire guys are ready for a big night out; I’m ready to go to bed as I force food down my empty gullet. They want to hit the dance floor and have a few drinks when I inform them it’s 10:30; I need to go back to my room before I hit the floor from exhaustion. I hear them all yelling something like “Pussy” to me as I limp out the door heading back to my soft bed. As I approached the motel we were staying at I could hear music coming from the adjoining bar. The music sounded pretty good so I thought I would crawl through the bar and go to my quiet room though the side door. As with most bars it was dimly lite inside and gagging cigarette smoke wafted around the room. As I sauntered cowboy style across the dance floor I noticed a young lady setting with some friends at a nearby table having some drinks. I thought humm, I better have some more liquid before hitting the hay so I sat down near the back doorway and ordered… dramatic pause… a 7 up; they don’t have Dr. Pepper in bars for some reason.

This young lady was dressed in tight white pants with one of her legs crossed over the other and through the dimly lite room I can see her toe keeping time to the music the band is playing. I throw back my ice cold 7 up and think to myself, I should go and ask that young lady for a dance before I head up to my room for some well deserved rest. I amble (actually kind of stumble) through the tables towards her and ask her if she would like to dance? She gives me one of those looks, up and down and I’ll be darn if she didn’t say yes. About twelve thirty the fire guys stroll into my bar and find me still dancing with the lady in tight white pants. Boy did I hear it from them. The bar closed down at two-thirty and then Larrieann and I had to go and stand in the parking lot talking for an hour and a half, with the guys chiding us from their motel balcony. Finally I had to tell her that I needed to go to bed because I had just ridden 135 miles over the mountains from Cave Junction and I was very tired. Of course I knew she didn’t believe a word I said as I stumbled off to my room. 4:00 in the morning, I knew I had a 7:00 breakfast appointment with some other fire friends and I still needed another shower. My head landed on the pillow at 4:30 in the morning. No more had I closed my eyes and my room phone rang. The voice on the other end of the line cheerfully says “billy blaze this is your 4:30 wake-up call” as I hear the guys in the adjoining rooms just howling over the cleverness of their practical joke.

So Ka’mya, that is the story of how I first met your Grandma Larrieann