The Look of Luck

He was near exhaustion when the day turned an ugly black, the clouds thick and heavy. No weather for a biker, he thought. A bolt of lightening cracked, thunder echoed—1,001, 1002, 1003, he counted. You missed again, he said, laughing into the surrounding blackness. But it was humor noir, a pretense. He knew he was lucky, that’s all. He crouched low as rain fell in torrents, pedaling like a madman alluding capture. His past receded with each mile as he moved on.

The bike’s tires hummed rhythmically, slicing through the steam rising from the black asphalt. Nothing moved in his vision. The oppressive silence hung lifelessly over a foreboding landscape of palmettos, marshes and sedge grass.

He passed sun-bleached signs of smiling faces, now faded and weathered, ancient reminders of yesterday’s dreams of resort retirement. Nature had reclaimed its rightful title to the derelict developments rotting in the bug-infested swamp bogs. He pedaled on, faster.

Ahead a freshly painted green sign read, Beach 9 Miles. His bike was laden with everything he cared to own. Freedom was close at last…how lucky can a man get, he wondered? The Bike sped on.

The humid heat and a merciless sun had baked raw his exposed flesh, making the days long and grueling. Civilization was a distant memory, a world away. The rain was refreshing, cool to his burned body. He thanked the clouds for it. Lady Luck’s still with me, he thought, his spirits ascending, his thighs pumping. Soon, with any luck, his feet would find freedom from the shoes. Hope pedaled hard with him.

A week had passed since he’d signed the deed. He’d said goodbye to the house, leaving with it the crumpled divorce decree. He cleaned up the other details---sold the old car, cashed in his meager pension, closed the bank accounts and said farewell to the few friends who remained in the grimy industrial hell he’d called home for so long. Their children, laden with their own families and careers, were gone, having melted into the urban migration to the mega-cities of the South. He released his old life and moved on without it. There were no tears.

His wife, with her insufferable appetites, had deserted him for a slick shoe salesman who’d promised her utopia in Miami. He knew it was a cheap cocktail lie, but then it was her choice. Pure chimerical fantasies of freedom, he mused. Now he was free to move on, so he left, never looking back. Lucky stars for both of us, he thought, as he pedaled south.

He smelled the salt air before he saw the ocean. Traffic had increased as the evening sun set in an orange ball. It was July 3, and the island was preparing for the annual Fourth of July celebration. Posters proclaimed the “Freedom Celebration” as families streamed onto the island. Beach lots were packed, people preferring the broad way over the narrow one, he thought. No Vacancy signs flashed, their neon gases glowing in the dusk. America on vacation. He was now himself a transient and had no continuing home…anywhere. He had other plans.

His bike slowed, made a small turn and stopped. As luck would have it, the path ahead was still barely visible through the canopy of shrub oaks in the evening’s fading twilight. It reminded him of something he had read once about the eye of a needle. He dismounted, locking the bike to a tree. The beach lay ahead, exposed through the needle’s eye of the sandy path. Got it all to myself…how lucky can a man get, he thought. With his backpack he moved along the narrow enclosure toward the horizon’s great expanse.

Carolina jasmine scents filled the air, wafting upon the breeze’s gentle breath, stirring the oleanders. Children and lovers moved ghost-like in the night upon the shore as they strolled silently near the water’s edge. His torrid activity had ceased, his day was over. The surf sang softly as he lay peacefully in the lee of the dune. The moon slid imperceptibly silent across the vast night sky, a reminder to him that motion was innate in nature.

Morning exploded in a burst of blazing sunlight. Stuffing his new life into the backpack, he retreated through the needle’s eye. He found coffee and breakfast nearby as the island awoke and teemed with fresh life. What a place to celebrate freedom, he thought. Besides, there was no hurry…he had the rest of his life. He embraced the concept, although unconstrained leisure was still new to him. Unhurriedly time crept ever forward, even as he moved slowly among the crowd’s ever-changing flow.

He had time to think. He wondered about his life. He had been lucky, although he acknowledged that “lucky” was an esoteric concept. What was luck anyway, could he recognize it? He pondered this as the beach crowd, like the tides, ebbed and flowed in constant motion. Nothing rested for long, he observed, not even his own mind. He tried to picture what “luck” might look like but he could not capture the fleeting thoughts. Just accept it, he concluded.

As the day moved on, his peregrine instincts became restless. It was time to go. After a bike check, he mounted up and pointed the bike west. He and his luck began to petal. It felt good to be on the move again, his quads responding with the fresh life of resistance. Why not, he laughed…what’s luck anyway but a discipline, an indomitable faith in whatever decision the ironic forces of Fate may choose. Maybe today they needed help, he thought, so on he pedaled on.

The long climb to the top of the Bridge had robbed his lungs of wind. From there, three hundred feet below, the marshes spread out far and wide, as silent as the Serengeti Plain. Below him lay a steep downhill mile, and in the center of the road a setting sun. Behind him small fireworks signaled the celebration of freedom. From this point he could retreat, perhaps find a more permanent life in heaven’s waiting room. It was decision time.

His memory made the first move, reminding him that men shut doors to a setting sun. In his mind the poet spoke, “…a little rest upon the wind, and my longing will gather dust and foam for another body, and another woman will bear me...” He gave the bike its head. Plunging headlong into the face of Freedom they sped down the steep decline---10, 20, 30, 40 mph, speeding now westward into the sun and the luck that waited there.

Thoughts on the “look of luck” flashed through his mind. An ephemeral picture emerged through the lens of the needle’s eye, quickly fading. What did he see in that fleeting moment? He saw the luck of American freedom, forged daily by discipline, always moving forward, relentlessly in pursuit of the future.

He cast a final backward glance to the fading island lights. Thank you, and goodbye, he said. How lucky can a man get? He thought about it as he pedaled on into the possibilities of another day.

Bud Hearn
June 6, 2009