Thinking of You, Dad

There is a man in Austin whose name I do not know and in fact I've come to realize that the only thing I actually do know about him is that I've seen him a dozen or so times, and each time he's been pedaling a single-speed beach cruiser along some sidewalk wearing nothing but a skimpy thong and a pair of flip-flop sandals. He does this quite frequently, apparently, because it seems like everybody who's lived in this city has seen him at one point or another on his bike and when you tell someone that you saw him, the response is always something like: "Oh yeah. That guy!"

He's not in great shape, which is surprising considering how much time I figure he spends on a bike, though he is leathery and tan, which isn't surprising considering how much time he spends on a bike almost entirely naked. 


A few days ago, I was driving home and saw him off to my left -- he was coasting -- and I didn't want to look but couldn't really look away because it's just one of those things -- much like a car-wreck -- that you stare at even though you know you shouldn't. That's why I know how he tans. And that his back jiggles over the rough parts of the sidewalk.


Strangely enough, when I saw him, I thought of my Dad -- but not for reasons that suggest a criminal upbringing. Not once have I ever seen my Dad in a thong. Not even during my 8th birthday party. 


But here's the why:


- Dad often deliberately derails conversations by mentioning thongs and/or chafing -- both of which popped into my mind the instant I saw The Thong Man on his beach cruiser a few days ago. 


- I honestly wouldn't be surprised if Mom called and told me Dad had bought a beach cruiser and was doing the same thing around the streets of Washington DC. Ok. I would be surprised. But not as much as most sons. Let me explain. 


The most obvious place to begin here is that my Dad loves bikes, though usually ones a little more sophisticated and manly than beach cruisers. He has said it before -- many times before -- that something about him just resonates with being on a bike, on the road, just the wind in his face and the burn starting to creep in the legs. When people love a sport and commit to it, often it is likened to a religion. But I wouldn't say a bike or the sport of cycling itself is a religion to Dad as much as it is a chance to hurt and reveal. There aren't any places to hide on a bike -- no matter what it's made of, no matter what the brand is. The sport is simple and honest and so it was only natural that a simple and honest man like my Father was drawn to it over three decades ago and has remained so to this day.


But the real reason I thought of my Dad is that he's always enjoyed giving a middle finger to what people expect. You're not supposed to put four kids through college and have everyone come out debt-free -- because that means you couldn't own a house or take family vacations, and those are things every family needs. You're supposed to teach your kids financial responsibility by starting them off with tens of thousands of dollars in student-loan debt. You're not supposed to retire at 55 either, or to still be married and happy after 33 years. You're not supposed to do so many Ironmans that even your kids have to stop and count and usually just arrive at "a number well over 10". 


And, you guessed it, you're not supposed to ride a bike in a thong. 


One day maybe, just maybe, that old tan guy will be my Dad. Except he'd have an m-dot on his shoulder and would lean forward in the aero position as he descended not only to go a little faster but also so the people behind would see what a thong does when you lean forward. He wouldn't ride it so people would look or honk, though people would do both. I think he'd ride it around downtown Austin during a lunch break when everyone who works in an office gets their hour of sunlight a day, and he'd go by and they'd look and wonder what was wrong with him and he'd look back and smile and wonder the exact same thing, except at least he'd be wondering on a bike, with the wind in his face and the burn starting to creep in his legs, and maybe, just maybe, the burn creeping into other places that should never burn.