July 1990
Nick is about 100 yards into a repurposed railroad alignment, freshly paved into a multi-use trail. He really wants to bring his bike up this way at some point, but today is for hoofing it.
About four hours ago was the graveside service for Paps, to be followed by a dinner at their church. Mixed in with all the handshakes, condolences, mostly unfamiliar faces and a few well-dressed females he caught wind of this new trail and arranged to take the wagon and check it out as soon as he could change into summer garb.
The sign says there are 9.3 paved miles to the next town, but as the asphalt stretches into a yet unseen point before him it seems he could keep going indefinitely.
It’s not just the things he wishes he’d thought to ask about the war, about radio, about life…it’s not just the feeling that they got the short end of the stick since Paps was only 71, and it’s not just wondering if he’d lived longer had he given up the pipe sooner, or hadn’t smoked hard in the service.
Hell, Nick has no idea what it is.
Actually, yeah, the timing couldn’t be worse. Why is July a crazy month more often than not?
It’s hot today but with a kissing breeze, and the sun should fall behind the trail’s shade wall for the most part. Should have worn a hat and borrowed some shades for this, but no one’s paying him to think today.
Classes at EIT start in a few weeks, so he’ll just keep cranking all the hours he can stand for Bain and help out with tuition.
It’s become very tempting to find a way to loop Deej into all this, but its even doubtful she’ll be around for the fair this year since she’ll start moving soon, at least that’s how he heard it.
Tim’s about to head back to base, and Irene is not too keen on the prospect of him getting deployed to the middle east. Naturally Ned stays true to form in assuring that “they’d need a good use for him before that would ever happen.”
Of course, Paps could not have been prouder to have a grandson enlist, “You know the drill, give ‘em hell and have a round with the boys on me,” he’d say with a gleam in his eye as he slipped Tim a twenty on several occasions.
Nick sighs. How is it every other year involves some earth-shaking change - actually, there’s the ones you expect and then right along are some you never saw coming…
What he really doesn’t want to come to terms with is a strange...what do you call it? A far-fetched suspicion, just a sense of a hint, that Deej might want to be closer. How is that even possible?
This trail is marked every half mile with silvery spray paint on the asphalt, although the sign at the parking lot hints there will be improvements and upkeep as they receive donations, along with an address to submit said donations.
At any rate he’s now just at a mile and starts wondering how that translates to the campus trail or, well, howbout city blocks? Seems his mom had mentioned 14 blocks to a mile, or, well that’s close enough on a summer day. Thankfully years of cycling has drilled home the need to save enough energy for the trip back so…maybe three out and back, depending on scenery.
Speaking of scenery, so far there’s been three impressive coeds float by on skates, or maybe those inline kind; two leggy gals from the opposite direction and one just passed him politely, not tall but nice tan and solid muscle tone. But alas, Nick doesn’t share much common vernacular with these types so they just fade into the horizon.
This reminds him of junior high track when some girls wore t-shirts that completely shrouded their shorts, making for an illusion that Nick, Vance and some others referred to as “inspiration.”
Now he can’t remember if he’d ever mentioned this concept of inspiration to Paps.
Ahh Paps, you wonderful crusty old fart. Now THAT is something Nick would relay to his face just to start a shit-slinging war, and the older they got the nastier and funner it became.
So now what?
Usually Sundays are the time to ponder that, but this is a special sabbath of sorts.
Paps had been expected to be around another year or two at least, and this just plain sucks. He even got away when that particular word slipped out in front of Gramma June; Tim had stared at him expecting hell to break loose but all their elders just tacitly sighed or nodded.
Nick had learned he’d be taking most of the radio gear and stuff, after the club guys had a chance to solemnly dismantle the station, which sadly had been collecting dust more than anything in recent months. He’d sensed a slight conspiracy brewing to have him take on the radio heritage at some point, so maybe he could try morse code before classes start.
This summer had been mostly work and the usual screwing around, although it feels weird, hell, maybe it’s best to get all the weirdness out of the way.
At this speed and vantage point, and even more so than from the bike, ordinary objects are highly intriguing, like an old silo, the kind that in early childhood he’d hope in vain was a moon rocket. There’s an impressive red-brick “I” house on an approaching hill, looks to be kept up and has a grain tower feeding several silver silos, not that Nick actually knows the terminology just used to describe it all.
His feet start to feel the distance at the second mile mark but he’s good to keep going. There have been a couple of serious cyclists whiz past on equipment that makes his old Schwinn seem like a toy. At first there were a couple of families with dogs on leash but they seem to stop a lot and may not even make it out this far.
If he was expecting an epiphany out here it has yet to manifest, but one thing is clear, this expedition was the right idea.