A Pair of Dreams

I'm in Vancouver, and Melissa Benoist, in costume as Supergirl, surprises me downtown by wrapping one arm around my shoulder, holding out her phone, and snapping a photo.

"Super selfie!" she says, grinning. "Hey, you should be on the show. You'd make a great Harvey Bullock."

I have to admit that of all DC's character's, my current rotund physique most closely matches that of Bullock. I'm a little confused, though; in the comics, Harvey Bullock is a detective working for the Gotham City Police Department. But I rationalize this by figuring Supergirl's writers have perhaps had Bullock transfer over to National City. In any event, the pay is $2000 a week and I get to be part of the Arrowverse, so I take the job.

*  *  *

It's 4 AM and Sylvia wakes me up. We're in our old condo. She reminds me that Sean, Mike and Scott are coming over for McDonald's. Sean has already arrived on the balcony on a rented bicycle glider, but I haven't actually picked up the food.

I join Sean on the balcony and we launch the glider, pedalling back offshore to Sean's yacht, picking up our McDonald's order, and cycle-gliding back to the condo. Scott and Mike arrive and we eat in the darkness, four identical orders: Big Mac combos, medium fries, medium Cokes. Mike notes with some disdain that there's a triangle of toast in his Big Mac. I check and see that my Big Mac also includes a slice of toast.

"Well, it's a bonus, I guess," I say, eating the toast.

Everything is so real as to be more convincing than true reality. Not for a second do I question the bicycle-gliders, Sean's yacht, or the fact that Sylvia and I have moved back into our first condo. The only thing I question is why I arranged for a McDonald's dinner at 4:45 AM.

Flying on the cycle-gliders is effortless and exhilarating. After supper, I fly over the beaches of Hawaii, shooting photos for Google Maps as I ride the wind. Turquoise waters lap at white sand, and the sun beams down benignly. All is good, but a voice at the back of my mind questions my sanity, and it is that voice that brings me back to reality, awakening with my alarm. 

Alberta Velocipede

A few years back, Mom and Dad caught some people riding velocipedes on an Alberta farm. The original image was a little crowded, so I tested my image manipulation skills by seeing if I could paint them out convincingly. It turned out all right, but then I had the idea of adding blur to make it look like the cyclist was speeding across the prairie. It's a little primitive, but sort of fun. 

Universiade Tickets, 1983

Back in 1983, Edmonton hosted the Universiade, an international competition of university athletes. I was only 14 at the time we scored these tickets and not much interested in sports, but I was happy to see some of the spectacle. I remember nothing of the volleyball (the fact that the stub isn't missing seems to indicate that perhaps I didn't use the ticket), but I do recall the cycling vividly, perhaps because there was a mid-race crash that involved most of the riders.

What amuses me most is the price of the tickets. Even in 1983, paying six or eight dollars to see world-class athletes seems a bargain.

Two Wheels to Nirvana

They say you never forget how to ride a bicycle once you learn. But they never mention the other unforgettable memories associated with cycling, to wit: crashing the first few times during the learning process.

I learned how to cycle in Leaf Rapids, on a small one-speed blue and white bike with coaster brakes and a triangular vinyl seat. I believe it was during my kindergarten year that Mom and Dad took me out to the back alley behind 8 Churchill Place and gently coaxed me into position. With a white-knuckle death grip on the handlebars and my eyes huge with fear, I waited for Mom or Dad (I don't remember who was holding onto the bike) to push me into oblivion.

On first release, I managed to pedal perhaps one full revolution before crashing sideways into the unforgiving gravel of the alley. Mom and Dad dusted me off for a second try, and that time, wheels wobbling all the way, I managed perhaps two or three meters' distance before slamming into the ground. A few tears may have flowed, but I stood for one more try.

This time the bike teetered port and starboard only a couple of times before my body found its balance, and like that I was off, pedalling down the length of the alley and circling back again in triumph. That kind of speed - I'm sure it was all of five or six kilometers an hour - was a revelation. What a joy it was to speed along the road unfettered, the power of my muscles multiplied so easily by a few simple gears. I imagine anyone who's enjoyed cycling remembers that first transcendent ride.

The Tricycle Summit

Here's blonde Earl again at the far left. This photograph was taken sometime in the early 1970s in Thompson, Manitoba. I barely remember the house, and I don't remember the other children at all. Who were they and where are they now, I wonder?

I do, however, remember the tricycle. I was very fond of it. If it were midsummer and I suddenly came into possession of an adult-sized trike, I'd quite happily ride it 'round the park, legs pumping perhaps not quite as quickly as they once could, but pumping nonetheless with great nostalgic enthusiasm.

Rocket Cycle

I believe this is the only photo ever taken of the three-speed bicycle I owned for several years in the early-to-mid 80s. This bicycle is infamous for two moments seared into my memory.

One summer day, I met with my friends Paul, Jeff and Vern to cycle around my Leduc neighbourhood. Racing through back alleys was a common enough pastime in those days, careening around blind corners without helmets or padding of any kind. Many knees were skinned, many shins filled with tiny bits of gravel, many skulls bruised. On this particular occasion, Paul, Vern and I wound up far ahead of Jeff and we loitered at the end of an alley waiting for him to catch up.When Jeff came ripping around the corner, I shoved my bicycle forward a couple of feet, directly into his path. Jeff doesn't believe me to this day when I make this claim, but I really meant to pull back in time so he wouldn't hit my bike.

Sadly, my reactions weren't fast enough. Jeff's front wheel slammed into my front wheel. And then the world slowed down. My bicycle spun 90 degrees to the left with me still straddling the seat, giving me a perfect view of Jeff's shocked features as he careened over his handlebars. My jaw dropped as I read the betrayal creeping its way across Jeff's face; he screamed "Whyyyyyyy?" as he flew through the air. Jeff corkscrewed in midair almost gracefully, but landed flat on his back on the hard-packed dirt of the alley. A cloud of dust was kicked up by the tremendous impact, and Jeff's body left an impression in the dirt road, just like a Looney Tunes character.

After we finished laughing, we hastened to make sure Jeff was okay. Fortunately Jeff's body has evolved to absorb tremendous amounts of punishment over the years; his pride was more wounded than anything.

I got my just desserts a couple of years later, showing off for my brother Sean and our next door neighbour Keith, who were outside on the front lawns of our houses. I pedalled to top speed, intending to slam on the rear brakes in the driveway and skid to a stop. But when I angled into the driveway I squeezed the front brake rather than the rear and was flung over the handlebars as the front wheel locked up. I'd begun to scream "Rocketman!" as I approached the driveway; it turned into "RocketmAAAHHHHHHH" as I slammed into the earth, the left half of my body hitting soft grass, the right half hard sidewalk.

The impact left me with a nice set of bruises and it destroyed the bike. The front wheel was bent into a V, the brake lines ripped off the handlebars, the frame twisted. Considering the damage to the bike, I counted my lucky stars that I wound up just a little sore.

I miss that bike.