Harlem ‘94

In 1994 I bicycled solo across the northern U.S. This was one of my more memorable stops.

Close to falling

From my saddle

 In drunken exhaustion, 

Three weeks of asphalt

In my mirror, 

The infamous, grueling 

Going to the Sun 

My third mountain pass,

Shed of fifteen pounds since

The far Salish Sea,

One hundred twenty miles since sunrise,

I slowed, stopped the

Turn of gears, my prayer wheels,

With each revolution my clipped in feet

 Praying me nearer Bar Harbor and

That ocean distant never seen.

Dismounting into

Labor Day Weekend ‘94

Little Harlem was

Lit almost neon orange by the

Fading prairie light.

Here thirteen souls

Left behind their lives.

Desperate for a toilet

But with nowhere to chain my bike

I left it propped 

Against the restroom wall.

Minutes later

I emerged into disbelief

Turning to heart stopping terror.

I was alone,

My bike, my transport , shelter, food,

MONEY, MAPS

All stolen.

With neither phone nor service

In despair

I chose to round a corner

Seeking shade, a wall, rest.

Twenty feet away

Lay my bike…..A prank?

I believe

The panniers acted as sails,

The hard ceaseless wind had been

My thief.

The town park

Proved a place of weeds and rust,

Old swings, a merry-go-round,

Dreariness plopped down behind 

The cinder block cop shop.

I chose the Airmen Memorial 

a well groomed and watered park

Right off Highway 2.

November 30th, 1992

The skies exploded into

 Thunder rolling over thunder

Horrors of light and flame.

Training in low level refueling,

Thirteen McChord airmen perished 

When their two planes collided

North of Harlem.

Built by volunteers,

Funded by donations,

This park without restrooms

Lay adjacent to a service station,

Convenience store, restrooms,

Pocket lounge and casino.

Rule 1: Get the tent up!

Rule 2: Buy beer!

Rule 3: Read  (Gerald Durrell on Corfu)

Around sunset

Fleeing the hard rain

Of a thunderstorm fleeing

The Rockies,

I ducked into the dim light 

And drunken ambience

Of the tiny casino,

Found a stool.

A cute, very young native

Female of unending frustration 

Aggressively denied knowing 

Any drink named until:

Do you have orange juice?

Do you have vodka?

Great! mix the two.

I stole quick snug looks

Around the snug little bar;

The clientele, all but me,

Were native.

Rye chased with Budweiser

Appeared the house special.

Judging by the ubiquitous arguments 

Tinged with slurred words of violence

This drink drunk since breakfast

Cast a metaphysical spell 

Transforming plain old drunks into

Shamans of dark purpose.

Near me two argued

Over feeding the juke box.

The lady won forcing coins

Upon her man.

He arose, he fell, he crawled

Across the beer soaked carpet

Keeping clutched coins held high,

Kneeling before the altar of music,

Yes!

He could just reach the slot,

Let loose his coins in a clatter. 

My cute bartender warned of

An evening wedding,

Stay away from town!

Apparently weddings 

Came tinged with danger.

I retired early to my tent and

Durrell’s hilarious memoirs.

Cars accumulated, parked 

In haphazard hurry 

‘Round the little bar.

Lighters and voices flared

Out into darkness,

Gunshots were aimed at

The moon.

Eventually,

Desperate to urinate undiscovered,

I peed into my old tin cup

And flung fluid hot out my tent door.

Sleep eluded me,

Chased long into the night

By the smoking squeal of spun wheels, 

The sweep of headlights 

Across my tent

In an imagined search of violence.

Morning,

Facing away from

Abandoned cars, 

The casino’s skirt of drained beer cans,

I gazed east 

Into the quiet dawn beauty 

 Of the reservation.

But where to get breakfast?

 

Author's Note

Decades have passed. Some memories are sharp, some hazy. My description of the town park is accurate as to the feel of the place, my memory of the contents is very vague and probably inaccurate. Thanks to the generosity of local people, the memorial park is very real. My experiences in the bar happened as written. The wedding took place as did the fringe activity. My night in my tent was just as described.

Reviews

[Thomas W Case]

This reads like a long hard mile turned into memory—dust, thunder, and human chaos all riding alongside you.
There’s grit in every stop along the way, but also a steady observer’s eye that refuses to let the world blur completely.

[Michael Sun Bear]

Thanks Thomas, you write great reviews.

[Desert Knave]

I can easily visualize the wind making your bike take a short flight. Excellent story-telling, thanks for sharing it here. ~Jim

[Michael Sun Bear]

All through eastern Montana and into the Dakotas strong winds were a constant and often blew into my face, the reverse of the fabled west to east trade winds. Those few minutes when I thought my bike and all belongings stolen was truly one of the most horrific experiences of my life.