Going down in Denver

“If you’re screwing with me, I’ll kill you..”

That was how Jimmy first heard about his dad’s Parkinson’s diagnosis. He thought nothing of those words then. Doug, his father, often talked that way without really meaning it, particularly on the phone. What got Jimmy’s attention this time was the silence that followed. No light-hearted insults, no stupid jokes at the caller’s expense. The silence was odd enough to make Jimmy look up from the video game he was focused on.

           Doug ended the call. Jimmy braced himself for the string of put-downs he could typically expect from his father. Then he noticed something else that was odd: For what seemed like the first time every, his father was somber and said nothing.

           “I’m sick,” Doug finally said. “The bad news is I’m sick. The worse news is I’m going to get sicker. The even worse news is I’ll eventually die from it. Turns out I do have Parkinson’s disease. In the lottery of life, I have really hit the freaking jackpot here.”

           For the first time he could remember, Jimmy found himself concerned about his dad. His concern must have been painted on his face.

“Don’t worry, I’m gong to be around for a while. I’ll be kicking your butt playing Call of Duty long after you’ve finished college. But the long-term for me looks grim,” Doug said.

“Yeah, about that,” Jimmy said. “I don’t think I want to go to college. I think I want to learn to design video games. I can do that here. And having me around starts to sound like something you might need.”

Doug’s eyes flashed. “Video games?? Time for some constructive ridicule here. Let me remind you the last time we played Call of Duty, I shot you,” Doug spat. “As they tell most of the poor saps who try out for American Idol, it isn’t for you and you should forget it. Besides, a game designer? That’s just a way of saying you’re a loser. The only way to get into a profession that’s respectable is to go to college.“

“Well,” thought Jimmy, “on one level my old man is back.”

“Look, let’s not talk about this now,” Doug said, oblivious to the pained expression on Jimmy’s face. ”Look, I’ve thought about what I would do if it turned out I really am losing my faculties. There was a guy with Parkinson’s who rode a bike 300 miles across South Dakota. I want to do the same thing but across Colorado. My college buddy Santora is out there. He still runs his bike shop, and I can lean on him for help.”

“OK, my turn to tell you to get real,” Jimmy shot back. “You don’t train for a 300-mile bike ride by riding a bar stool. You’re in no shape to do 30 miles, never mind 300.”

“I can get in shape. Before you were around, I spent a lot of seat time on bikes,” Doug said. “That was before I had kids and responsibilities.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s why you’re around the house so much,” Jimmy said blankly.

‘But I’ll have to do it soon, while I still have the strength. Santora can set me up out there,” Doug said.

Santora’s idea of setting up his friend with a bike took the form of a carbon-fiber $12,000 Pinarello Dogma F12 which Doug learned about as Jimmy rode with him to the airport. Doug whistled when he found out.

“Santora says I’m going to be riding in style out there,” Doug said as he ended the call. They pulled into the airport terminal and Doug handed the keys to Jimmy. “Here, drive safe on the way home.”

The two looked at each other awkwardly. Finally, Doug said, “I’ll see you in a week or so.”

Jimmy looked at his father. He heard himself say, “Dad, just don’t die.”

Doug half smiled at this, turned and walked into the terminal.

It was five days later when the accident happened. Santora saw it unfold like a slow-motion bad dream. Pedaling up a hill behind Doug, he felt the dark sedan as it passed him too closely. He could see the driver with just one hand on the wheel, leaning over the passenger seat and not looking at the road. Doug had already crested the hill, out of the sedan driver’s view. Santora saw the sedan brush against Doug and send him over the handlebars of the $12,000 Pinarello.

Doug wound up in a ditch. The Pinarello smacked a guard rail and pin wheeled into pieces that followed Doug’s arc into the weeds and ditch water.

It wasn’t until late in the evening with Doug resting in a hospital bed that Santora thought about Jimmy. He figured Doug was in no shape to call anybody. The two-hour time difference between Denver and the east coast put the call late enough to wake up Jimmy from a sound sleep.

“Jimmy, its Santora. I’m sorry but I’ve got really bad news. Your dad got hit by a car. We took him to the hospital.” Santora thought about his $12,000 Pinarello and his voice fell. “He’ll be ok, but the bike is gone. It’s a real tragedy what happened to it. I’m going to deal with the bike. Sorry, but you’re dad’s bike riding days may be over for a while.”

Santora could see Doug motioning for him from his bed. “I gotta go. I’ll call again when I have more details.”

But in the middle of the night and woken from a deep sleep, this isn’t what Jimmy could make out. He bolted awake when the words “Your dad got hit by a car” came through. But the cell phone kept dropping Santora. “We took him to the hospital….is gone. It’s a real tragedy……I’m going to deal with……days are over. I gotta go…..more details.”

Gone. The words sank in, and the differences Jimmy had had with his father suddenly seemed meaningless.

Sleep was over. In a haze, Jimmy sat in bed not knowing what to do. “I’ve got to go to Denver,” he concluded. “I’ve got to see him.”

An-early morning Uber got Jimmy to the airport where Jimmy pulled himself together well enough to figure out how to book a seat on plane. On the ground in Denver, Jimmy tried to reach Santora, but the call went to voice mail. “Good thing I’ve got his address,” Jimmy thought. He handed it to the Uber driver and tried to sleep in the back seat.

Jimmy didn’t see anyone at Santora’s bike shop when the Uber pulled into the parking lot. It was still early. The door was unlocked, so Jimmy walked in. He spied what looked like a cremation urn on the check out counter.

“Wow, Santora said something about handling the details,” Jimmy thought. As he touched the urn it struck him that his father would have wanted his ashes spread on a bike path.

It was then that Jimmy heard what sounded like Santora talking in the back of the store. “Hello?” Jimmy called.

“….What??” was the response from the back, though it wasn’t Santora’s voice.

Jimmy turned to see both Santora and his father emerging from the back room. Jimmy spun to face them, his hand brushing the urn off the counter and onto the floor, where it shattered.

“Grandma!” Santora exclaimed

“……What the hell are you doing here?” Doug yelled.

“Damn you, I thought you were dead!” Jimmy shouted.

“Grandma wanted to be spread over Pike’s Peak. I guess now she’ll have to settle for being spread over the floor of a bike shop,” Santora sighed.

“How in the cosmos could you figure that I was dead from a simple brush-off by a car?” Doug smiled.

“Well,” Jimmy said to himself, “My old man is back.”