James the Dog

Two ears are flapping up and down in the wind, following a wet nose and running like crazy on all fours - two on the handle bars, two on the peddles. Just for the love of it. James the dog was a mountain bike rider.. .

 

Life was good to James, he had all that he ever wanted; beautiful countryside, all the food he could eat, success in his endeavors, and his bed was a warm, comfy blanket of moth eaten 'cuddle me'. Life was good to James because James was good to life.. .he believed in it; he was true to his dog nature and he gave back to life by living as much of it, as fully as a dog could. But James knew that belief and betrayal are bed fellows. Ride it hard whilst the riding's good because there's something dark around the corner, something waiting behind this big rock.

Bounding over 'whoops', jumping up at 'table tops', and barking at the 'single track' with his tongue hanging in the wind, trailing a dodge of saliva in his wake. That's where he got his name from his riding buddies - 'James the Dog'. All through his life he never knew when he was doing it - hanging his tongue out. He was teased about it as a child and it hurt a lot then.. .the names and the jokes. Kids don't let up sometimes. And if you're the type to stand alone then you're vulnerable to the mob, and the mob will happily leave you in tears. James would step into his BMX bike and peddle like crazy until they were far behind him, his mind only a whirl of knobbly rubber on pavement - the still air bending to a cleansing wind in the face of his forwards locomotion, the looking glass would yield and the world would vanish to a pin prick over his shoulder. Even as an adult; when a friend would inquire after his habit, the small child in James would wince and shrink into a corner - yearning for his peddles. He would change the subject as soon as he could, pasting a laugh and a casual smile over the hurt.

And so James was fast.. .really fast! Pumping every dip for speed and cranking against his peadles and bars like a dog in a fight. Perhaps he's still running from something, and maybe he'll alwayse be, until he meets that dark shadow on his trail. But for now the name fits, this time it's right and it seems like the pain has come full circle and given way to reason. A reason for life. Ups and downs.. .pain and happiness, cycles and bi-cycles of good and bad that start as a deadly roller coaster in childhood. The older we get the smoother the ride and then you die.. .freewheeling towards the grave. The roller coaster is what keeps us alive. In contrast lies perception and life distilled into the trail. 'Give me contrast and give me the trail' James thinks to himself as he drops his weight into a loose corner. His back wheel gives, but he deals and sticks the front through the turn.

Pump the dip, thread these trees, spin hard, pump, pump, peddle dodge.. .'oh god no!' The trail betrays him, or he betrays the trail.. .there's no way of really knowing who's to blame. 'But it's not about blame.' he reminds himself - 'Sometimes I just have to find my own way, to stand alone'. And in the blink of an eye James and the trail separate for just a moment, and James is flying off of the side of a steep ravine that drops into a shallow rocky brook. 'This is going to hurt a lot' he thinks, 'I might not be able to ride for weeks or even months'. But flight is freedom too.. .

. ..Jame's tongue is dangling in the wind and his face is bright and charged of life, he's as free as a bird, he's James the Dog.

The Rock and The Sister

'There was this Big Rock.. .' is the invariable start. For those interested in mountain bike riding this phrase is how they cut their 'mtb yarn spinning' teeth. ..and face and lip and generally start their blood sacrifice to the trail. And so my own story begins - as with clear investment in this moment I move through the air fixated on the surface of the small boulder upon which, in moments from now, my face will grind to it's inexorable halt. In what seemed like an eon, I pass through finely cut and imperceptibly divided slithers of time, and in this 'tardis' of the mind the world folds into something new around me.. .and something old too.. .

One pint of milk, one scruffy artistically inclined child and one heart beating like it's about to burst from his chest. Add a little sister on a stolen bike, tie the whole thing together in an 70's 'spider man' t-shirt and you have another moment in time. Another frozen moment that will eventually lead to this one. Not so much book ends, but more over pages - 'folded and notated' in the novel of a mans life.

Jeffery plummets down the heavy street, feet 'thwapping' hard on the tarmac with his arms and fingers desperately clawing far ahead of him, trying to bring the stolen bike in front of him to a stop. He's determined not to give up and let her win this time.. .she cant win! But she is going to win. He's chasing her not with his body, but with the whole of his will, and still she remains just out of reach. He knows that he's getting tired and that she is just getting into her pace, but this makes him push harder than ever. Can't win, can't win.. . if he doesn't catch her in the next second then he never will. She's laughing - this is a game to her, but to him this is a matter of right and wrong, all power and opposites and pain and life in a child's mind. His love for his sister, for his best friend, is only matched by this moments hate for her. Small finger tips fold over the rack at the back of the bike. He can't believe that he's catching her - it seemed impossible to him, and it is. For a as quickly at they began to curl, so these weak digit tips begin to uncurl against the bikes gaining momentum.. .and his final chance of success is pulled from his grip, leaving his hand pathetic and falling.

A boy crumples to the ground, blooded and weeping, his legs a jumble of spent frustration, lungs wheezing silently for air and justice.. .his heart wronged and broken.. .

Looking at a small boulder very closely now, so close that no light penetrates beneath his eyebrow. It's in the same place that it was when his eye fixed on it one second ago and now that eye is in pitch and the rocks intimately close surface is still a mystery. This boy isn't crying, he's not in pain; all that he feels is confusion. Why did I push so hard all those years ago? Why was that so important to me? In that moment life was a terrible thing, unfair and cruel. And yet here I am - most likely covered in blood and at best in need of hospital treatment and stitches - but no pain. My friend comes down the trail and does a well appreciated, if somewhat half arsed job of patching me up - looks like it'll be stitches at least. All blood and sweat to the eye, I clip into the bike and head off down the trail faster than before. I'm still chasing something, someone.. .perhaps it's my sister.. .so far away and lost to me.