A Ghost on Dover Drive
Driving up Dover from Coast Highway today, I saw a bicyclist coming down the other way. He was coasting down the hill, leaning over the handlebars and relaxing a bit. The rider was a man in his late sixties, hard and bony with shoulderblades sticking out and a big floppy hat covering most of his face.
This man could have been my father. The skinny body, the intense leaning forward, the old 3-speed bike. Dad liked to ride a bike while he still could, and he did a lot of thinking and preparation for writing when he rode. He always carried a microcassette recorder in a bag so he could stop wherever he thought of something and record an idea. I remember going to the drugstore with him for ice cream, and stopping in the middle of suburban Newport Beach while he read the latest bit of Herma or The Treasure of Sainte Foy into the little black box.
Dad was tired a lot. We had no idea that he was having heart attacks all those years. It’ll be ten years since his death this July. Happy father’s day; ride on.