“Oh pleeeeze God, not another winter on my bicycle”, I blurted out loud with hands clasped, knuckles white.
Prior to my bicycle days, I cruised through life in a propane converted hatchback my Uncle Al helped me buy. It was a decent car, kind of sporty, a bit of a pick-me-up for just having come through a serious lengthy illness. Together with a new lovely flat, I felt I was getting my life back. Until I rear ended someone on the Alex Fraser bridge. Not only did I loose my safe drivers discount but was slapped with a whopping 20% surcharge, or $2,200 a year, for emphasis. I was 31 years old and had no choice but to give up driving. Hence three years on my bike which included three winters. I suppose one can be considered lucky to be able to do a winter on a bicycle at all, but that’s not exactly how it felt some days.
But it wasn’t all bad. I covered many miles exploring pockets of the lower Mainland that I never would’ve done in a car like tugs on the river, sailboats in the bay, brambles along the border, migrations at the bird sanctuary, and water at the watershed. From shady downtown streets to wide open gravel roads, under bridges and over passes. From the grocery store to the college campus, I felt proud of myself for making lemonade out of lemons. I didn’t particularly enjoy riding in the winter– the wind, the rain, the wet – but it did teach me the fact that driving was indeed a privilege not a right.
By the fourth October, I was done. I covered 80 k a week to and from work all summer and didn’t want to pedal through another winter.
Two weeks after my plea to God, I got a call from my dear old Aunt Jennie.
“Well, I’m getting rid of the old car,” she said. “I asked David if he wanted it and he said no, then I offered it to Heidi and she said no, so you’re my third and final offer or else its going to the wrecker’s.” Wow…
Having grown up with Aunt Jennie, I knew the family, that they took care of things, including the car. I’m sure they bought it brand new, a mid size 4 door box suitable for a family of five – a family that was now grown and long gone. I’m guessing it was their second car in life, the first one lasting twenty years as well. Although it was no screaming heck to look at, a Chevy Malibu Classic four-door sedan, basic beige inside and out, it looked like the old style ghost cop car. So with a gusty “Thank you,” that was the beginning of The Mo’s Mobile.
I had to customize it and naming it was a good start. It reminded me of my first car way back where I had fun picking off the ½” chrome -r-c-h across the hood, going from Monarch to Mona. But something about the word Oldsmobile across the trunk struck a happier chord. I always thought to order a couple more letters to rejig it to ‘Mo’s Mobile’ but never did get around to it. So with that in mind, I ordered two decals in 4” black vinyl letters using a character font, and proudly christened the Chev’s hind quarters The Mo’s Mobile. Already it was feeling like mine.
Trinkets hanging from the rearview mirror came and went. Tropical freshies, Mardi Gras beads, and a crystal prism to name a few. My personal favorite was, as my cousin Blair called it, “The Obstruction”, a giant strawberry sponge the size of a softball with no real function. It was just a big, and colorful. Which was just what the non-color background needed. My version of a spongy dice.
After a couple of months, the ceiling fabric began to sag. Another month went by and it began to rub your head like a balloon you want to stick to the wall. Being from a family of runts, it didn’t really bother me but it really irritated my passengers, which I found hilarious so didn’t rush to replace it. Plus it was an ugly job to do because there was a layer of foam insulation underneath the loose fabric that was disintegrating and sprinkled down like black gun powder. I knew it would be a mission to get rid completely, so kept putting it off until the day finally came.
I went to the Thrift Store, thinking old curtain or something, but the most perfect 1970s bedspread with dark brown, tan, and pumpkin colored geometric shapes leapt out. My eyes lit up and it was sold. The lady took my two dollars and I happily skipped out of the store.
On a bright summer morning, I layed out all the supplies for surgery: glue, scissors, exacto blade, paint brush, drop sheet, rags. The old lining lifted out easily but the crumbling insulation snowed down coating everything in black grit, but looking at the funky bedspread on the doorstep, I persevered. Working against gravity wasn’t exactly a holiday but I smeared bottles of LePages glue on bare metal, then cut fabric to fit. It was a good exercise in body contortions and in the end I got the job done and it looked terrific.
Other bits of spunk and flair came and went over the years but The Mo’s Mobile turned out to be one of the best cars I ever owned – aestically and mechanically. I grew to love its basic beige with my aunt and I marvelling how it hid the dirt so well.
**
Six months after I got the car, my mother was diagnosed with cancer. The number of trips that car made to Campbell River and back is impressive, the number of ferry line ups, sailings and missed ferries is staggering. How many times I threw my bike in the truck, and an overnight bag in the backseat. How often I’d stretch out across the bench seat gazing at the strawberry from the bottom up absently studying those 1970’s geometric shapes.
As my mother continued to decline, the trips back and forth became more frequent. Sometimes with her and sometimes not. I remember one particular occasion when Mom and I were speedily racing down island to get to catch a ferry when we got pulled over.
The cop got to the car and I rolled down the window waiting for instructions. In a louder than necessary tone, Mom made no bones expressing her fear of missing the ferry. The cop was either deaf or gracious as he asked for my drivers license and registration.
We scrambled for them, mom muttering in disgust as I tried to hush her. He walked back to the cruiser and took seemingly hours to return.
Leaning back in the window, he noticed the ceiling.
“Is this your car?” His comment silenced mom.
“Yeah” I said slightly smirking back.
He really looked at and then nodded.
“Nice.”
He handed back my license, told us to slow down, and wished us a good night. Mom and I let out our breath thankful for the interior decorating gods.
That whole year the The Mo’s Mobile purred like a cougar cat and never failed once. Mom passed in June and we had a full-scale celebration of life in Burnaby on a Friday. And the timing belt on the car went on Saturday.
I guess we all were a little tired.
***
PS. That rear ender on the Alex Frazer and those three winters on my bike did something. Weather had become so insignificant compared to what was really going on.
Mom got exactly one year from diagnosis to passing and in the last weeks when homecare came to relieve me, I’d go for a bike ride. Rain or shine, I learned to live completely in the moment where the breeze rushed through my hair and fluttered through my heart. Being so drenched with life itself, the weather couldn’t touch me.