Windfall
Most call him, “Doc.”
A few call him Spence.
I call him dad.
I spent today at my home in Colorado.
Yet my heart and mind were 1,500 miles away, riding bikes with him;
an ever less likely possibility;
recently waylaid by the latest pre-school virus.
Of today’s ride that wasn’t?
It may have been our last.
But we’ve been saying that for years.
He’s got advanced lung cancer;
or perhaps it is the other way around?
So far, he has a 2-0 lifetime record against cancer.
This latest bout was prognosed to kill him two years ago.
Yet here he is – rolling on – our world better for it.
He is a healer of the highest order;
having kept vigil over his community for 44 years.
He’s of the sort you want meet in your darkest hour;
not there to bark orders;
not there to hold hands;
his purpose is greater;
to pull you right the fuck out of whatever hole life put you in.
He has always known the right word to utter in a room full of wrong.
That is his calling.
It has bettered countless lives.
Today he has another calling.
Burt Hill is its name;
at least twice a week;
in rain, snow, or sun.
A thousand foot test of the soul.
He begins by draping decades old lycra over his wizened frame;
then dons the lord of all bike helmets and straps down his portable oxygen generator.
Finally, he saddles up;
e-bike chomping at the bit;
oxygen tubes dangling from ears like reins;
and puts the screws to old Burt Hill.
Sometimes he stops to snap pictures;
of the windmills;
sunsets;
critters.
His photos are meant for family;
friends;
anyone who will listen.
He means to doctor everyone off their ass.
It works.
On days he makes the top, he stops to rest on a farmside boulder.
The monolith belongs to Jack, his high school classmate.
Dad and Jack got reacquainted there a few years back.
One day, dad arrived to find a lawn chair set beside the rock.
On the chair hung a sign;
“Doc Annabel’s Rest Stop.”
Hilltop talk complete – dad sets course for a breathless descent of Windfall Road;
a narrow ribbon of gravel;
the hallowed ground of father and son;
all that stands between our here-and-now, and his ever-after.
He yearns for a tailwind.
He tucks for more speed.
The wind in his beard.
His heart on his sleeve.
I love you pop. See you on Windfall. In a month; and forever.
You can cheer my old man on at https://www.strava.com/athletes/39514030. It will confuse the hell out him – but he’ll love it.
