The Streak Is Over, But The Wild Static Keeps Me Smiling

I thought I should make an announcement: my no-flat streak is over. It ended back in August when I was on the road with Chris and Kyle.

How long was the streak? About three years and over 6,000 miles I estimate. Not only did I complete my 2007 American Bicycle Tour and Megatransect with no flats, but I went flat free for the next two years, which included that awesome biking adventure with my friend Jake Belvin as well as a few epic days of riding with Chris and Kyle.

But then I got my flat. It was a pinch flat. I should have known better, but those nasty pinch flats can sneak up on you--heavy loads, low pressure, and rough roads do it every time. (A pinch flat is when the inner tube gets punctured after being pinched between the rim and an object, usually a curb or a rock or something with an abrupt edge.)

The flat happened in Telluride, Colorado but I really didn't mind. I kind of enjoyed it, really, for it was the truth of the unknown. My tire went flat, I thought, Ha ha! Ho ho! A little entropy every day keeps the doctor away. And with insurance the way it is these days, staying away from doctors and hospitals is a financially smart and healthy way to live.

The flat was a good surprise, a little helping of chaos when I was getting comfortable and cocky. And although the flat was a surprise, my reaction was predictable. I enjoyed the flat because I usually enjoy the weird things in life. I've learned to love the unlovable. When people ask me why, I always say: "the absurdity is part of the beauty."

This isn't a new thing for me. I've always loved those crazy unpredictable moments and the weird outcomes of the future. Go out into the world, do things, move around, interact, observe--and the good weirdness will come. The bad weirdness might come too, but that's a whole other tangent I'm not ready to explore. Let's stick with the good weirdness and those crazy unpredictable moments.

I'll tell you this one story. Back in grade school, some of my fondest memories happened on the snowy days. Days when my brother and sister and I went to school and it was snowing. This was in State College, central Pennsylvania, so they could deal with some snow. Life went on. And so we'd be there, sitting in our classrooms, and the snow would be coming down like sweet anti-school magic. The possibility of cancellation was always there. And the teachers would talk in whispers. And we'd all be waiting for an announcement. And as the unknown moments went on and on, I could sense the tension affecting the teachers. Classroom control would slip. I wasn't the only child going crazy inside. We all wanted to get out there and unleash our furry upon the world with snow balls and snow forts and high-speed sledding. If I had a more advanced musical vocabulary, I might have been bold enough to lead the class in a singing of the Clash's "Should I Go Or Should I Stay." But I didn't. I smiled, and looked around, and looked at the teacher, and looked out the window, and reveled in the glorious unknown.

Going home early was the preferable outcome, of course, but I realized it really didn't matter. I was already quite happy. Not with school, obviously--classrooms and school clothes always made me uncomfortable. What made me so happy on those snowy days was the indecision, the wild static of the unknown, that little bit of chaos that could bring the whole train down like dynamite on the tracks.

I loved that stuff and I still do. Why just the other day I was at the supermarket with my brother and my grandfather, and after scanning all the groceries, the cashier looked at us with a sad look and said, "I'm really sorry guys. We're gonna have to do this again."
"You mean scan them all again."
"Yeah."

And that's what we did, all seven bags. And the whole time that was happening--while my bearded face was giving off a polite smile--my inner school boy was just going crazy. I didn't mind the re-scan. I was loving it. I was happy just to be there, stepping on the toes of chaos as we went around the room for one more dance.