Out of Shape Dude...

Jeeez.. I don't ride for a week, I fall a little out of shape, and next thing I know, I get this little note:

Who is this biker Dude I'm hearing about? Someone said he's some guy who rides the trails all weather, all hours, and all seasons... chasing down Lance Armstrong types and making them look like their bikes are made of lead. Tangling with raccoons and truck sized dogs and flocks of carnivorous geese and squirrels hitching rides by clinging to his Wal-Mart sweat pants. They say when he comes down the trail, even mighty oak trees back off. And the reason Chuck Norris gave up bicycling was because he heard Biker Dude was out to race him.

They say he's got a Charles Manson look in his eyes and fingers that twitch on the gear shifters like a gunfighter's, whether he's racing some psycho taxi driver brandishing an Uzi, or weaving down the trail avoiding toddlers on tyke bikes. And all while hauling a complete library worth of books all over northern Illinois.

Some lady told me he drinks Cherry coke laced with Nitro Glycerin.

And there's a rumor that he was raised by ravens... another said it was coyotes.

A peregrine falcon once tried to keep up with him. Biker dude blew him away so badly, the falcon is in rehab now for severe depression.

I don't believe any of it.

See, I waited along the trail today. In Geneva at the intersection of route 38 and the bike trail. Where many have seen biker dude zip past in a blur of blond hair, titanium, and Rolf Vector Pro wheels.


It was 5:45AM. The time when usually, right on schedule, Biker Dude passes through on his way to whatever it is he does. One rumor I heard was that he worked for the CIA eliminating foreign agents. Another was that the Navy Seals hired him as a tactical consultant. Anyway, I sat on a park bench, just past the exit from the tunnel that goes under Roosevelt Road, but before the foot bridge over the duck pond, The Mill Race Inn behind me; quiet and still. In the fog and darkness and falling leaves I waited; listening to the water gurgling under the footbridge and the humming of car tires on pavement as morning commuters sped along the Fox River bridge over head.

I waited an hour, and there was no Biker Dude. The only people I saw the whole time were a runner and an elderly guy in a crusty yellow raincoat and squishy sounding shoes; a golden retriever trailing behind him on a leash.

I rubbed my eyes and thought of taking a walk over to a nearby Dunkin Donuts to get some coffee, when, from out of the tunnel comes this out of shape guy on a bike carrying like fifty pounds of stuff bungee corded to his front handlebars. His wispy hair plastered to his head by fog. From the sound of the guy, how he huffed and puffed, I figured he carried an oxygen tank and his own defibrillator. He sure looked like he needed it. He hacked like a total couch potato lifetime Pall Mall red smoker at the end of his first marathon. His eyes bugged out to the rhythm of his pedal strokes. I expected him to drop over at any second, but he kept pushing on past me and south through Island park. I watched as his little red blinker faded in the distance. Then turned back to watching the tunnel again.

I waited for an hour thinking maybe he forgot to set his alarm or something. Dang I wish I would have gotten that coffee. What a waste. Nobody showed up.

Nobody who looked like a Tasmanian devil on steroids zipping by like he was shot from a rail gun. The out of shape guy was the only biker I saw.

Hmmm... Biker Dude indeed.

Maybe he's just a myth.

I bet even I could beat him in a race.