The Idea is Born
Chapter 1 - Hmmm, a computer with modem on a recumbent... (March, 1983)
What’s the matter Steve? You going to be a bum all your life?
— Phyllis Roberts (my mother)
Suburbia is not a place; it’s a state of mind.
I waved at my Columbus neighbors, but after four years didn’t know them. Change, evolution, and growth sounded more like vague counterculture concepts than the basic objectives of daily living.
“Wow, you’re a writer!” someone enthused at a party. “What kind of stuff do you write?”
“Oh, you know, high-tech — three books on computers, magazine articles about artificial intelligence and microprocessors, geeky stuff like that. I also write for corporate clients.” I winced, thinking of the IN-DEEPER basket that I was avoiding by being there.
“Man… a life of freedom. I envy you…”
“I can’t think of anything I’d rather do for a living.”
(except play)
One afternoon in the spring of 1983, I went for a bicycle ride with my friend Walt, an engineer at the Anatec division of Atlantic Richfield. For a year or more the company had been my sugar daddy, paying me to write documentation and sales literature for their line of industrial process control systems. Walt and I crossed paths every few days to cycle the farm roads, swap engineering war stories, then swill gin-and-tonics as the grill sizzled.
We were an hour into the ride when something strange appeared in my mirror. I didn’t know yet that a nexus was upon me.
The apparition, half human, slowly gained on us. “Hey, I think were about to be passed by a recumbent!”
“Nah, the election’s not till November.”
But indeed, the image revealed itself to be a graybeard pedaling a black Avatar 2000, designed by the legendary David Gordon Wilson. I had never actually seen one up close — and stared so hard that I yikes-jounced through a pothole.
The old fellow pedaled alongside, gnarled legs in front of his body, weathered hands resting on grips below the seat. Bemused by the curious engineers on old-fashioned diamond frames, he introduced himself as Robby McCormick.
We plied him with questions. “How much faster is it? Any issues with stability at higher speeds? What about heavy touring loads? Is visibility a problem? How much did it cost? Are there any discomforts? Ever have trouble with dogs? Do you actually get anywhere, or do you spend too much time answering questions?”
Robby chatted easily as we cruised along, informing us that in the three years he had owned Avatar serial #1, he had put over 18,000 miles on it… averaging more than 500 miles a month.
Would I like to give it a try? Oh, hell yes! We swapped machines.
Immediately I swerved, dropping a foot to the pavement to avert disaster, then the corrections became smaller as my biological control system achieved critical damping. Within a few minutes I was flying the bike-a-lounger, steering with responsive handlebars under the seat, exploring the gears.
I was actually comfortable on a bicycle.
Robby huffed along on my red antique, looking absurd on the giraffe frame (I’m six-foot-four). His hips swiveled in a parody of the hula. “Like it?”
“I’m in love! Where do I sign?”
I climbed back onto my boring Miyata and rode in silence while Walt gave recumbency a try. Like a tiny revolution, something was fomenting in my brain — something radical, insane, and exactly right.
It was the memory of a grand scheme, the almost violent recurrence of a fantasy I had entertained off and on for years. An idea was crashing the gates of suburban complacency, tempting me with visions of adventure. This would be the way: I’d get rid of everything, move to a custom heavy-duty recumbent, and travel the world.
I had tried before, collecting travel brochures, maps, and touring gear over the years… even a 27-foot motorhome named Sparky that was to be a mobile writing office with my editorial partner. At times of stress the notion would resurface, sending me on month-long projects of trip preparation. Always there had been one basic problem: no money.
Well, there was still no money — but I had a plan.
After Robby bid us farewell and turned south toward his Arlington home, Walt caught up with me. “Alright, Roberts. What the hell kinda caper you cooking up over there?”
“What do you mean?”
“I know that look. You’re either thinking about starting a business or planning on writing a book. And they probably both have something to do with recumbents.”
I spoke through my panting with quiet conviction. “I’m never spending another winter in Columbus. I’m going to build a recumbent and take my business on the road.”
“Right. I can see you dragging an office around the country in a bicycle trailer.”
“All I need is a portable computer and an assistant. I shouldn’t even have to carry a disk drive, since I can transmit copy through CompuServe to my home system when I get done editing.” The beginnings of sunset were just pinking the sky over bare cornfields, and I rode a moment in silence. “I really could live like this.”
“I’m sure you could, until the money runs out. Look, in the year I’ve known you, I’ve heard more harebrained schemes than I can even remember. There’s only one thing that’s gonna get your ass outta debt, and that’s work.”
“I’m talking about working.”
“No, you’re talking about playing — which ain’t a bad idea if you can get some sucker to pay you for it.”
“All that house in Dublin is good for is giving me a place to keep my junk! I’m a single writer — why do I need a three-bedroom ranch in suburbia?”
He took a swig from his water bottle and replaced it in its cage with nary a glitch in his pedal cadence. “Well, I can’t argue that point.”
I grinned over at him. “So how do you feel about getting together on a recumbent-creation project?”
“Now that might be interesting! Wouldn’t mind having one o’ them things myself.” He veered off with a wave and headed home to dinner.
I rode slowly back to my cluttered house: a place of unfinished projects, overflowing office, dirty dishes, tall grass, dust, and cooling fans. I left the bike in the yard, grabbed a beer, and slumped on the couch with the cat on my lap. In my thoughts I soared down mountain roads…
My present life felt like prison.
The certainty was growing so fast that it frightened me. For most of my adult life I had been a homeowner, half-assed entrepreneur, technophile, and collector of geeky trappings. My living room was office and library — file cabinets, thousands of books, photocopier, computers, steel desks, shortwave radio, stereo gear, laser, and cameras. The rest of the house was crammed to the rafters with tons of crap, including a darkroom, none of it important in the context of life on a bicycle.
I would have to trash my lifestyle while still living it. The Idea was only ninety minutes old, and I was cataloging the tasks that lay ahead while clearing a table in the Trip Room.
The phone rang. A willowy friend from Marysville invited me to a cookout in the country, a welcome alternative to work. Without so much as a nod to deadlines, I showered and dressed while road fantasies swirled, then climbed into my Rabbit GTI (with WORDY vanity plate), drove through Dublin’s old-fashioned shopping district, and accelerated onto the highway.
There. On the radio. I turned it up.
The voice was haunting. A guitar, articulate and clear, spoke with a sort of measured mournfulness, the blues of the highway, a perfect complement to The Idea. It was the birth of a theme song. I turned it up further; Robert Plant was conjuring images of travel.
I glanced up at the Escort to make sure it was on, then pushed the speedometer to 80, high on movement, high on the dream, high on US Route 33. The miles flew by, and I could have driven forever.
But here was the Marysville exit, and there was Madeline, and before long the evening was in full swing. Small talk and big talk; barbecue and video games; a country house and strangers meeting. As the night grew chilly, action withdrew to the living room and the patio keg, focusing voices and smoke onto too small an area. Impatient with conversation, I strolled alone to the fire and perched on an upended piece of cordwood…
Yes, goddammit! I would unload the tonnage with an epic garage sale, then use the money to build and outfit a recumbent bicycle — including a portable computer for word processing and communications. I would find an assistant and office space, develop new magazine markets including a column or two, and locate an agent to line up a book deal.
I visualized my tattered red swivel chair rolling west, dragging the clinking remnants of bonds that had kept me chained to my desk for years. A modem would be my link to the universe — exhaling articles and a book as I sailed down the road.
Now and again people dropped by the Oasis of Brainstorming, curious about the silent brooding back hunched alone by the fire. How could a guy stay so long away from this six-foot longhaired beauty giggling at a Space Invaders video game? Who is he anyway? He’s kind of antisocial…
I sipped my beer, thinking about bicycle lights and solar power, camping gear, file-handling, cash transfers, frame geometry, and how I was going to get everything ready before winter. Sometimes I visualized a US map and dreamed; sometimes I frowned at the immediate and difficult problems. But never did I question The Idea; I just kept logging on to the fire as the night grew fuzzy.
Back home alone at 3 a.m., I blearily poked about in my garage. There it was, buried in junk and harboring a few spring spiders. Its legs were bent, but it would do — I dusted it off with my smoke-scented shirt and refreshed the phone number with a Sharpie. Leftover from the last attempt at escape, it was about to sway once again in the gusty breezes of passing cars.
Holding the flashlight in my teeth and shivering with more than chill, I planted the sign in my front yard:
FOR SALE
BY OWNER
BY OWNER
Preparations had begun.