"For my friend Jack"

Shortly after moving to my new place in a Minneapolis suburb last summer, it became apparent that the neighborhood was infested with rug rats. Normally, I’d find the racket of kids screaming, running, and jumping around in my front yard an irritating nuisance. But for some reason, this time it reminded me of the street I grew up on. I guess I’m getting old. I soon found the noise a welcome distraction. Not exactly music to my ears, but not nails on a chalkboard, either.

One evening as I was carrying groceries in, a kid walked by with his head down, pushing his BMX bicycle. The chain had come off. I told him to bring his bike over. After setting my groceries down, I grabbed my tools out of the garage. I then proceeded to show him how to thread the chain back on the sprocket and adjust the rear bracket to take the slack out, so it wouldn’t happen again. He also pointed out that his handlebars were loose and asked if we could fix those, too. I said “No problem. Here’s what you do…” Ever since, the kids have appointed me the designated neighborhood bike mechanic.

My tools got a rest this winter. But with the advent of spring, I figured it wouldn’t be long before my services were back in demand.

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A few weeks ago, I received notice that a good friend had suddenly and unexpectedly passed away. Jack and I went back to junior high school in Des Moines. But it was much later – after we’d both graduated from high school and our respective colleges and moved back to our home town – that we developed a profound connection through a sort of “bicycling fraternity.”

A couple of weekends a month, from late spring through late fall, we’d get together with a few of our biking brothers for a ride. More often than not, it was a 35-mile loop west of Des Moines from Waukee, to Van Meter, to Adel and back. Each small town had a local tavern, where we’d stop for a pitcher of beer or two and maybe a quick game of pool before continuing on our way.

We didn’t subscribe to the “spandex” bicycling fashion code, preferring baggy shorts, old faded t-shirts and bandanas to skin-tight, neon-colored Lycra tops and black “marble bag” shorts. Consequently, the bartenders readily adopted us as one of their own. When they’d see us riding up, they’d have a pitcher of beer and glasses waiting on the bar by the time we’d dismounted and walked in. It’s hard to believe that was more than 15 years ago.

While I consider myself a recreational cyclist, Jack lived to ride. He bicycled almost every day, rain or shine. When winter snow kept him from pursuing his passion outdoors, he rode inside on training rollers.

Jack owned more than 25 bicycles. And he did all the work on them himself – even lacing the spokes into the hubs and truing his own wheels – in a custom bike workshop he built in his basement.

As you might imagine, Jack was in exceptional physical condition. One summer he and a couple of his hard-core bicycling buddies ambitiously pedaled coast to coast across the U.S. in 48 days. When Jack got the urge to “dig in his spurs” and ride hard and fast, few could keep up. Naturally, his premature death came as a shock.

But as good an athlete and avid a cyclist as he was, Jack was an even better human being. Women typically described him as a “sweetheart of a guy,” while his male friends used terms like “quality,” “above-board,” and “stand-up” to categorize him. Jack had an easy laugh and quick smile. But it was his rare talent for gently – almost subliminally – deflecting any conversation that became critical or hinted at cynicism that stood him apart.

Jack also had a soft spot for kids. One summer while he was still in college, he and his best friend from high school decided to coach a little league team together. Intent on avoiding the high-pressure, parent-fueled “win at all cost” mentality common in some youth sports, they stressed teamwork and fun; never mind the outcome. It came at as a surprise to some when their team won the league championship. Not to those who knew Jack.

I learned a lot about bicycles from Jack. Other more important lessons too.

Jack left behind a wife and 10-year-old son. It was his son Ben who came up with the idea of honoring his dad by having flexible nylon wristbands made with Jack’s name and the motto “Ride on” embossed on them. Ben wanted to pass them out at Jack’s funeral. Unfortunately, the company making them screwed up the order and they weren’t available in time for the service. However, a couple weeks later, all of his friends and family have blue Jack Jordison memorial wristbands. Mine arrived in the mail two days ago.

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I got a knock on my door tonight. There stood another kid with a bike, the chain knocked off, back tire rubbing on the frame, handlebars wrenched sideways. My first customer of the new season. I told him to set the bike upside down on my porch and went to get my tools. I showed him how to fix everything, then handed him some spray lube to get his bike working smoothly again.

As we finished up, he looked down at my hand, pointed at my blue wristband, and asked “What’s that for?” I paused for a moment, smiled, and explained, “It’s for my friend Jack. You know, he fixes bikes better than just about anybody.”

“Better than you?” he asked. “Way better,” I said. The kid nodded, smiled, and said “Thanks a lot!” as he climbed on his bike and rode away, a happy camper.

I just stood there, staring at my wrist and shaking my head, a shit-eating grin on my face.

I thought to myself: Only Jack could fully appreciate the irony of this moment.
I chuckled, and somewhere I could hear Jack sharing a good laugh with me.


(c)2010 Thom Burns