Chapter 7 in R.M. Dolin’s book, “The Dangling Conversation,” March 15, 2024 – The conclusion of chapter 6, Damaged Goods
ISABELLE: “You didn’t finish your story and you can’t just drop a dime about a ghost that almost killed you, and just leave it hanging.”
KYLE: “Well, like I said, it’s raining so hard when I leave the longshoreman’s bar that even continually wiping the waterproof phone case clipped to my handlebars leaves me barely able to read directions from the loading docks up slippery cobblestone streets to the only road to Milan. There’s nothing more treacherous than riding over the film car exhaust layers over smooth stone that turns into this slimy slippery grease when wet.
“I expect that, what surprises me is a toll center at the edge of town maned by serious soldiers carrying automatic weapons. I skirt along the side of a long row of backed up trucks certain cyclists can pass without paying. As I peddle toward the tollbooth though, I’m abruptly stopped by an uncharacteristically pleasant guard with flawless English.
“As I’ve explained,” the guard patiently repeats, “bicycles are not allowed on the M4,”
“But it’s the only road to Milan.”
“There is another,” he offers, “it’s a level two so bikes are permitted.”
“How do I get there?”
“It is five kilometers up this road.”
“That I’m not allowed on?”
“So, you do understand the tragedy of your situation? Tomorrow you can take a bus to the other road.”
“I have to be in Milan tomorrow.”
“I am so sorry, no more buses today.”
“I plead and argue with this pleasantly unapologetic guard, but to no avail. I consider launching an American style protest by petulantly parking in this very spot until he relents, but truckers queued up behind me are growing impatient and I’m acutely aware that I cut the line. So, as a last act of desperation, I make a final pitch. “What if I just take off, will you shoot me?”
“Our orders are not to shoot anyone today,” he replies. “I’ll simply call to that building over there and they’ll send a car to arrest you.”
“How far you think I’d get?”
“They’d have you in three, maybe four minutes of when I call,” he smiles, “hardly enough time to peddle five kilometers uphill to your exit.” He looks down at the long line of impatient truckers. “Of course, regulations require I first process all these truckers you made to wait, at least I think that is what today’s regulations say.” He stares more closely down the line. “That end truck’s my cousin, he’d take you to Milan.”
“No, I have to get there on my own.”
“In that case I am almost certain there’s something fishy with my poor cousin’s paperwork that’ll take fifteen, maybe even twenty minutes to clear. How fast can you peddle?”
“Fast enough to try.”
“Keep to the far edge of the road, there is no shoulder, and these trucks will suck you into their eddies, especially on such a sloppy day.” He hands me back my passport which I quickly tuck into the waterproof phone case. “Buona fortuna, amico mio, peddle hard and be mindful of the canyons.”
“Grazie,” I say hoping out of respect I pronounced it properly. “The priest I met this morning would say you’ll find the gates to heaven unlocked.”
“Just don’t tell my boss what I’ve done when you get caught.” I nod before slipping into the mist covered mountain, “fifteen minutes amico mio,” he shouts, “perhaps twenty.”
“A quick calculation surmises at best I’ll go three kilometers in fifteen minutes. If it takes five minutes for the chase crew to organize their pursuit, and three minutes to catch up, I’ll be another kilometer up the road. That leaves me one kilometer short of the exit, which means one thing, I’d better pedal harder. And so, I do, as if my very existence depends on it; I can’t explain this desperate need to make Milan any better than I can justify foolishly being out in this storm, but if I don’t make my exit, all is lost. With that as my back story, twenty-four minutes into my rain-drenched dash, I hear the distant sound of an approaching siren. Then, as if being teased by fate, a sign jumps out of the dense fog signaling I’m two kilometers from my exit.
“It’s been a hard climb made even harder by mountain winds, pulsating rain, and passing trucks spraying me with grimy road-water while sucking my bike into their eddies. My legs are mush, my lungs rasping, and I’ve got nothing left in reserve. The rain’s soaked through my clothes and panniers adding weight to the eighty pounds I’m packing dry.
“As the siren draws near, loud echoes bounce off shear cut walls amplifying my inescapable doom. I frantically look for hiding places, but the deeply carved mountain provides no refuge. One-and-one-half-kilometers out and the siren’s practically inside my water-logged ears, a penetrating sound that taunts me with the same evil as a wounded animal being poked by a sadistic hunter. Midway through calculating the length of my fleeting freedom, I realize, the chase crew’s stuck behind a semi grinding up the climb. There’s nowhere for the trucker to pull over and the fog’s too thick to attempt to pass, so the chase car’s stuck where it is. I dig deep for anything left and lean into the thick fog. Then, just as I face the dire fact my legs and lungs are well past depleted, the pedals soften, which has to mean I’ve reached the summit.
“There is hope, it’ll be close, but even a sliver of hope, is hope. The ascent was long and steep and wiped me out, but already I sense the descent’s significantly shorter, dangerously steeper, and in this fog, fraught with unseen hazards. I must risk it though, I must turn this touring bike loose because when a pirate says he’ll take his chances, chances must be taken. Isn’t that what this journey’s about? Isn’t this moment my metaphor; what’s been building since before Barcelona? Still though, setting gravity free on a fog-encased wet windy road with a posse in pursuit is pushing the envelope even for a pirate. Yet I do, and my bike, ladened with eighty plus pounds of gear and water, boosts gravity’s ability to build speed to the point my tires hydroplane and the stiff bike frame vibrates at the edge of control. But what the hell, hope demands consequences be damned.
“The low-pitched coughing of the semi’s jake-brake reverberates along the cut rock walls in the same piercing way the high-pitched whine of my tires urges caution; leaving little doubt my pursuers have started their descent. I lean my water-soaked body hard into my waterlogged bike setting aside the science of hydroplaning. With the truck bearing down, I ratchet up to the highest gear and peddle toward escape velocity. When it seems the truck’s about to consume me in an angry fury earlier reserved for rock pounded beaches, when the inevitability of my foolish foray reaches its crescendo, a bright blue sign leaps out from the fog with an arrow pointing down; I’ve made my exit, my precious gateway to Milan. Veering sharply onto the off-ramp while pushing even harder into the pedals, I vanish into the fog just as the semi passes with the chase crew in frustrated pursuit.”
ISABELLE: “My goodness, that’s quite a story; but at least it all works out.”
KYLE: “This is just the warm-up, sorta the same as holding hands is a prelude to a kiss. My road to Milan is only the launch of a day filled with twists and turns that’ll have me face-to-face with death and what it means to be alive.
“I coast down the exit ramp exhausted but exonerated; each waning cycle of the fading siren allowing my muscles to fall further into relaxation and recovery. I take refuge under a portico connecting two buildings at a tile plant closed for the day. Rain that’s steadily been coming down in sheets intensifies with water collecting in low spots and filling the drainage ditches that run around this valley like veins in a body. I hurriedly devour an energy bar naively clinging to the belief that soon this storm will pass. I dig through my panniers for dry clothes, but every thing’s soaked, except my journal resting contently in its waterproof bag.
“Fog hovers low over the valley floor keeping the interstate hidden so the returning chase car, with its siren still blaring, can’t penetrate my sanctuary. Wind has all but dissipated causing me to concede Father J was right, this storm’s not going anywhere. My optimistic plan to make it halfway to Milan where I can hole up in a reasonable-sized town remains intact, but with my delay in Genoa, and the difficulty riding in rain, I’m still several hours out. Camping’s not an option, not with clothes and gear soaking wet.
“I take one last look at my map to assess the three ten-percent climbs that await before starting up the canyon. Either nature or engineers dug drainage ditches along the road that gush with water on the edge of overflowing. Fog masks my mountains in mystery as rain relentlessly pounds my body and while relatively warm right now, each peddle up the canyon confronts winds flowing down that are decidedly colder.
“Between here and my hotel lies fifty miles of rugged mountains. One ten-percent climb is a challenge on a good day, but three in succession is a brutal excess only the Alps can dish out. Water skims the road with a deepening sheen that causes passing cars to shower me in grimy vapors. I begin to speculate that the custom’s guard let me pass on purpose, that right now he and his bastard buddies are wagering on my survival, a centuries old gladiator game where the thrill of the sport is the drama contained in each wretched death. And I get I might die, isn’t that the point, isn’t that why I didn’t hole up in Genoa or take the bus to Milan?
“But who has time to debate the when’s and why’s, when there’s mountains to climb. And then there’s the descents, which must be cautiously managed, not only because of slippery switchbacks, but debris’ started washing onto the road creating hazards that are only spotted when right on them. Each climb elevates me into the hovering cloud bank where the storm entombs me in an eerie quiet, each summit takes me just a little bit closer to heaven as I build toward my first brutal ten-percenter. And with each descent, I’m back on the valley floor, back below the storm, to the drainage ditch that’s lost containment; steadily working toward the next climb.
“From atop the summit my first ten-percenter, I stare at the storm below that’s been punishing me all damn day. Poking above the clouds feels like bursting through the surface of a lake just as your submerged lungs begin to inhale. I watch in amazement as lightening bounces between clouds like gossip moving through a church social, leaving me a bit uneasy about having to drop back into the chaos; but what choice do I have, my plane departs in two days, I’m forty miles from the nearest hotel, and my gear’s too wet to bivouac. Sure, I could change my reservation like Father J said, I could have holed up in Genoa, or better yet, never left Nice. Yes, I could take the bus, or let that trucker haul me to Milan, but we’ve plowed that sod already. Father J knew I had to do this, as did the customs agent; rugged men know once fate set your course, there’s no point rationalizing would-of’s, could-of’s, or should-of’s.
“My body, which I’ve been abusing all day, betrays me on the second summit. After weeks on the road, I’ve learned to read the signs and when the mind starts negotiating, you’re all in. But I can’t stop, not now, the mountain won’t let me; it demands more, and the more I peddle the more it demands, and whatever I give is never enough. Weather has become my tormentor, teasing me with caches of calm before roaring back with a devilish laughter making circus clowns seem normal. Wind bullies me with pulsating pricks as increasingly large drops batter my body like baseballs being thrown against a wall. Cold is my enemy, slowly extinguishing life, first my toes go numb, then my fingers find it hard to grip the wet handlebars and squeeze the brakes. Cold creeps all the way into my bones and once core body temperature drops, that’s it, there’s no coming back. With the whole necessarily worse than the sum of the parts, things are starting to feel like my maddening moments in Arles.
“Midway down the second decent, a strange twist in my ongoing saga arrives, as if my soul steps up with something to say, only my mind refuses to yield. That’s been my deal; my mind in tight control, leaving my soul to suffocate in silence. I realize now the subconscious reason for this journey was always about finding a way to breathe. Before starting on this quest, I’d convincingly couched my trip in words like adventure and expedition, but they always rang hollow. That’s why I didn’t stay in Nice, or take a bus, or change my reservation. My soul has something to say, and the only way to create an opening is to keep pushing; as I’ve done since before Barcelona, as I continue to do now.
“I coast into a small valley village where rain from the overflowed ditch layers the entire road leaving my bike to ride through water rising above my rim creating a contrail of vapors in its wake. While the valley’s noticeably warmer, my bone chill has set in so hard even I realize my need for shelter. I consider knocking on doors, but all the houses are buttoned-down. I briefly rationalize breaking into a shed or garage, but even my befuddled mind’s able to recognize the absurdity of that. I’m nearly through town when I spot a small church, who’d deny a weary traveler refuge in a church?
“Leaning my bike against a high-ground sidewall, I unstrap my panniers and head for the covered portico convinced once inside I can spread my clothes and gear along the pews while curling up in a dry blanket; certainly, mountain churches come equipped with dry blankets. Though chilled to the bone with one more ten-percenter to conquer, taking shelter is unfortunately necessary. Water racing down the valley covers the bottom step of the portico but since my shoes are already soaked and my feet long ago numb, I slog through the current and up the steps.
“The church is small and simple, and perhaps more accurately described as a chapel. The walls are bright white stucco with a bell tower in front having a wooden cross on top. The covered portico spans the entire front wall and is only about ten feet from the road. The white marble floor is cold, but dry; heavy wooden doors leading into the church are open, but a metal security gate is closed. I peer through the gate to the ten rows of pews with a wide isle down the center. The back wall’s mostly stained glass behind a simple altar. I’m laying out my strategy for spreading cloths and gear as I reach to open the gate, only, it’s locked.
“In growing desperation, I call inside but there’s no response. I step back into the storm and trudge around the perimeter hoping to find another door or perhaps a rectory, but no. Cold, wet, numb from riding through bone chilling rain, my mind races for solutions even as a part of me comes to terms with the consequences of a cascading series of poor decisions that started in Nice. I could easily define my entire life in terms of consequences fueled by poor decisions, which is exactly what I’m doing as I yank hard on the locked gates like a madman from Arles desperate to get inside. It’s at that moment, with all hope tragically lost, that my soul steps up to have its say. My arthritic fingers clutch the cold metal bars to keep from falling as I collapse onto the stone-cold floor, a pathetic mass of man weeping uncontrollably.
“No one can say for sure; not me, not the villagers, perhaps not even fate itself, how long I cowl on the portico floor shivering like a wet rat crying for reasons I refuse to know. Word spreads through the abandoned homes of the American in distress and it falls upon Rosina to provide assistance; she is after all, the only one who speaks English. Of course, she’ll go, she doesn’t want to, who’d want to be out in a storm like this? She arrives at the church finding me curled in a ball like a frightened child.
“Hello,” Rosina says in thick Italian English. When I don’t respond, she kicks me, “Wake up.” I stare up at this woman unsure if she’s human or an avatar of death. She’s a frail eighty-something with a black scarf over silver hair. Her black knee-high rain boots coordinate with the black dress under her black raincoat, that goes with the black umbrella in her black gloved hand. “You are American, yes? Only Americans are stupid enough be out in weather like this.”
I try to stand but can’t. “I need to be Milan.”
“Should have taken the bus.”
“I use the floor and gate to push himself upright with considerable effort while mumbling mostly to myself, “Seems to be the national consensus.”
“You come with me, rest, get warm.” With that the old woman steps off the portico and into the gushing water that’s now risen to the middle step. Slowly, but with great determination, she pushes against the forceful water until reaching the high spot in the center of the road and only then turns back. “Are you waiting for me to carry you?”
“I stumble off the portico and into the very storm responsible for everything that’s gone wrong. I’m uncertain I’m allowed to leave but decide it’s best to follow this strange woman to wherever she’s going. I don’t remember much about where she lives or how we get there, but sometime later I awaken in a warm dry bed and either the storm has severely intensified, or it’s well past dark. A dim light casts across the bedroom from the hallway highlighting my dried clothes neatly folded on a chair, and my sleeping bag laid out on the floor beside my tent. With sudden concern, I lift the blankets to find myself completely naked. Uncertain where I’m at, how I got here, or who my benefactor is, I get up, and though wobbly at first, manage to dress and stagger down the hallway. I tentatively step into the kitchen where the old woman, still dressed in black, is busy at the stove.”
“Ah, the American is awake,” she says without turning around.
“How long have I been out?”
“Long enough to do laundry and make minestrone.” She carries a large cast iron pot to the center of the table. “Sit,” she orders while pulling a loaf of bread from the oven. “My late husband used to say, ‘nothing takes the chill off bones like hot soup and warm bread.’”
I sit down as ordered, still trying to piece together the string of events that brought me here. There were the steep mountain climbs and harrowing descents, the cold rain and bone chilling numbness, the episode at the church-. It’s as if my brain’s moved on and now blocks all memory of what happened.
“You eat now,” she instructs, “then we talk. But first say grace.”
“That’s not really my deal.”
“Strong defiance for someone taking refuge in a church, but fine, we’ll just sit here while you reflect on things you should be grateful for.”
I’m about to counter, but she’s already bowed her head. Not knowing what else to do, I bow mine and am still sorting through what to do, even how to pray, when-
“So, Kyle for Kabyle,” she interrupts, “what were you doing in my church?”
I look up stunned, “what did you say?”
The woman ladles two bowls of soup and slices the bread, she then gestures to eat. “When we got here, I tried getting you out of your wet clothes, but you wouldn’t let me, so sure I’d be shocked by whatever I saw. So, I stood over there with my back turned while you undressed. I asked your name, and you kept mumbling ‘Kyle- Kyle from Kabyle.’ Is that in California? I have seen many movies from there.”
“I- ah-, misspoke. I’m from Kansas.” The woman again gestures to eat. “Kabyle’s a place I read about.”
“What kind of place?”
I take a moment to consider the question. “One where your past is abandoned to well-worn hands of fate.”
“My late husband used to say, ‘fate is the god of those who won’t see God.’ But I think you see just fine; otherwise, why would you be in my church crying like a lost child?”
“Crying?”
“Eat your soup and think about why you went there, as you convince yourself its fate.”
Rather than wait for her interrogation to resume, I change the subject. “This is very good soup, and the bread’s amazing.”
“My mother’s recipes. My late husband used to say his mom’s was better, but his bowl was always empty and bread never went stale.”
“Your English is so good, was he American?”
“NO, No, no, we’re both from here, but we did live several years on an American airbase. He was a skilled machinist and the Americans valued him very much.” She pauses for a moment staring at her soup. “Until they didn’t. That’s the thing about you Americans, you quickly discard what you no longer need.”
“Sometimes,” I stutter, “it’s best to just move on-.”
“And sometimes that leaves things unsettled, only to cause consequences later on, like cowering in a church. Have you thought about why your fate did that?”
“It’s kind of a blur,” I struggle to recall. “I reached the summit of the second peak and stopped. As I’m catching my breath a chill covers me. Yes, it’s cold, but this chill is different, like-, well-, like death or something worse. It’s so unsettling I start down the mountain faster than I should thinking I can out ride it. It’s irrational I know, because I’m alone in the clouds on an isolated road, but I race faster than anyone oughta with rain pricking me like a thousand darts, like death’s decided a thousand cuts is a punishment not worthy of my crimes. So, I push even faster, barely able to control the switchbacks. This sense though, it’s all around and growing, the faster I go the more it seems-, seems to push me. Where I don’t know, why I don’t understand.”
“The old woman gets up and quickly returns with a bottle of grappa and two glasses that she fills. “My plan was to climb the next mountain before stopping.” I slam back the grappa and she immediately refills.
“But this feeling chasing, or pushing me, what I choose to call fate, needs me to stop at that church. I rationalize it’s for shelter, even while accepting it might be something else.” The woman clears the table, leaving only the bottle and two shot glasses. “I try to go inside, but the gates are locked, why the hell they’re locked I can’t imagine.” I take another brace stunned in the sudden realization, “Father J said they’d be.”
The woman refills my glass. “You didn’t cry because of a gate.”
“No,” I answer, stiffening myself with another shot before staring blankly at her, unsure my brain’s ready to venture through that dark door again. But then, as if willed on its own, I do, and everything bottled up inside since before this journey even began, escapes. “I had a son once,” I blurt out. “At least I was supposed to. He died. Well not really. I mean yes, he died, but he really wasn’t ever alive. He was only eight weeks old when we miscarried. The doctors said my wife would never get pregnant, but then she did-, and then she wasn’t.”
“We were so young and far from family; so excited about having a child. Then one morning she awakens with pains so bad I rush her to the hospital. They do all kinds of this and that’s, but in the end, the baby is lost. We’re devastated, unsure how to process what’s happened. I try to be there for her but fall short. Instead, we grieve in separate ways. I start taking bike rides that each day grow longer; convincing myself he didn’t die because he was never alive. That’s what we’re told right? But my rides get longer just the same, and then even longer until here I am.”
“And her?” the old woman asks.
“Her solace was in the arms of another. That’s how our marriage ended, me alone on a bike and her with someone who doesn’t remind her of what happened.”
“I buried him on my rides. He never existed but still the same I buried him so deep there’s no memory, no pain, no loss. How could there be for something that never existed? I convince myself fate brought him through my life because my wife and I weren’t meant to last.” I down another shot. “It’s good I got out. She got fat and bitter. Angry and ugly; inside and out. I can’t imagine what my hell would be like if I was still with her.” I help myself to more grappa. “In that sense he saved my life.” The woman gets up and goes to the next room, returning with a dark wool blanket she drapes over me before sitting back down and refilling my glass. “It was him on that mountain, I know it as sure as I sit here. He’s the one pushing me, driving me to that church. He had things to say, things that could no longer be buried by bike rides.”
“And what was it he said that so devastated you?”
“I stare at her in a way that suggests she could never understand even while accepting she already does. “Nothing.” I answer while taking one last shot of her grappa. “Only that he’s with me. That it’s time to stop running-, stop hiding from pain that can’t be buried. After three years of avoidance, I stand in that portico cold, wet, exhausted; mourning his loss for the first time, needing to be comforted by God, only the gates are locked. And I-, just collapse. A broken man crying for the son I’ll never know, a piece of me that never got to live. Mourning my soul as well, so lost and abandoned.” I pull the blanket tighter, using the corner to wipe away tears.
“Then you show up, looking like death. As we leave the church, I realize that he is a part of me, that he’ll always be a part of me.” I stare blankly at the old woman. “Am I dead? Did you come to collect me?”
The old woman stares back with the unwavering sternness of an Italian Mom who knows exactly when and how to give someone a swift kick in the ass. “I can assure you Kyle from Kabyle, you are not dead, but you’re not lost anymore either. Tomorrow, I will take you back to church so you can see the gates are not locked, they’re never locked, they just sometimes get a little stuck.”
