Where am I from?

I came to the United States 43 years ago in January 1979, I don’t remember the exact date, just that it was January. I was 42 years old, a few weeks short of my 43rd. birthday. Today, in January 2022 I am 85 years old a few weeks shy of my 86th. birthday, therefore, I have reached the point where I have lived longer in America than I did in my native England.  

However, strangers ask me constantly, “Where are you from?” As soon as I open my mouth to speak, and they hear my accent. Over the years my accent has become bastardized, and people will try to guess. (Usually wrong.) Are you Australian? Or Irish or Scottish.

Then when I tell them I am from England, the next question is, “What brought you here?”  And before long I am getting into my whole life story.

So where am I from? How do I answer that when I have lived here 43 years, and the person asking is often much younger than 43 and therefore I have been here longer than them?

My father was Irish and left his homeland for England aged nineteen yet retained his Irish accent the rest of his life, so there is little hope for me to change at this late stage. It can lead to some to some interesting conversations, but most times it is a casual meeting with someone I will never see again, and it is just plain annoying.

One cannot complain about anything or get in an argument. If I do, I am told immediately, get back to Australia, or wherever it is you came from. I am left with the feeling that I don’t belong, and it is a helpless feeling. I get what racism must feel like, only that must be much worse, especially if the victim is born here.

Growing up in England I never remember asking foreigners where they were from unless I got to know them well. Now I think of it, even today if I run into someone with an obvious foreign accent, I do not ask them where they are from. In most cases it has no relevance.

I have a friend who is Swedish. I never knew until I had known him for some time, and it came up in conversation one day. “But you have no accent,” I told him. “I know” he said, I learned English in America, so I learned it with an American accent. He never gets asked “Where are you from?”

So, I am trying to come up with an explanation for my English accent that might be shorter, and more fun than my actual life story. The conversation might go:

“Where are you from?”

“New Jersey.”

“But you have an accent.”

“Yes, my father was in the Air Force, and we were stationed just outside London, England. I was 16 at the time, and the guys flying back and forth between the States and the UK were bringing a lot of weed over. I had quite a good little business, selling it to the local kids. When my father had to return, I ran away from home and lived in London for the next ten years. I was eventually arrested for dealing drugs and deported back to the US. By then it was the 1960s at the height of the British Music Invasion, and a British accent opened a lot of doors for me. Also got me laid a lot. Now I’m stuck with it.”

“That’s really interesting.”

“It is. Watch for it on Netflix.”

"Do you want fries with that?"

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Blogger's Block

Sitting at the keyboard
Staring at the screen,
A case of bike blog writer’s block
The worst I’ve ever seen.

To write exclusively about
A subject like a bike,
And try to keep it interesting
The stuff that people like.

Is really not that easy
And like my Momma said,
There always will be days like these
When there’s nothing in my head.

The bicycle so simple
You push one pedal down,
The other one comes up again
And the wheels go round and round.

Have I reached the limit?
Is there nothing more to say?
Will it all come back again
If I wait another day?

Because I was fortunate
To build a bike or two
Doesn’t mean that what I say
Is absolutely true

I try to write about the things
I've learned throughout the years
And stimulate the grey stuff
In between your ears

Often I will write about
Something or another
Some of you will share my view
And then there will be others

Who express a different opine
With words that are quite strong
But often there’s no black or white
There is no right or wrong

For example if make you think
About safety when you ride
Then does it really matter
If opinions collide?

Better our opinions
Than your head on solid metal
And you're just a statistic
When all the dust has settled

I'm not always a bike guru
With advice that cyclists seek
I’ll be the Devil’s Advocate
On a muddy two-way street

If my simple inane writings
Touch one reckless soul
Make them think about their safety
Then I’ve reached my goal

Just get out and ride your bike
Be safe along the way
Live to ride but ride to live
Enjoy another day.

If by chance you are still reading
Maybe I’ve entertained,
Made something out of nothing
And my posting’s not in vain.


Please check back again, after this it can only get better.

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Monday Limericks

I composed some limericks for your amusement, with a cycling flavor of course.

A professional golfer from Spain
Said cycling will be my new game
He had a good year
Until he slipped a gear
And dimpled his balls on the frame.

A roadie pedaling hard as he could
Was passed by a "Fred;" that’s not good
Legs, hairy and pale
With a flapping shirt tail
And a dirty sweat shirt with a hood.

Riding my bike, who would guess?
That I would come off second best
Got into a fight
With a girl at a light
Turns out, t’was a bloke* in a dress.

*bloke = man

This last one tells a story in four verses.

A weight weenie said with a grin
My bike is the lightest it’s been
With ceramic balls
That weigh nothing at all
Then his bike blew away in the wind.

It sailed ’cross the sky like a kite
Gave airline pilots a fright
Made it on Fox News
And CNN too
They spoke of a strange satellite.

It landed in a Middle East Nation
They asked the US for explanation
But not even The Donald
Or Mitch McConnell
Could explain this flying sensation.

Congress probed the mystery
And the President went on TV
Let this be a lesson
A weight weenie’s obsession
Could’ve started World War III.

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AJ, the Cyclist, and the Large Brown Dog

Driving his old Ford truck on Rural Route 61, AJ was rolling along at about sixty, his usual 5 mph over the speed limit. Some distance three cars were ahead of him. As they approached a bend in the road, he saw the brake lights come on. 

As he caught up and took his place behind the other three, he noticed a lone cyclist up ahead. "Damn cyclist," he mumbled, "Why do they have to ride in the middle of the road?"

Actually, the cyclist wasn't in the middle of the road, he was about two feet out from the edge of the lane, but with traffic approaching from the opposite direction, the lead car driver was being cautious.

The opposing traffic passed and the first three cars went around the cyclist. AJ realized he would have to wait as another vehicle was coming towards them. "Damn it," he cussed again.

The car passed and AJ when around the cyclist. He thought about honking his horn just to show his displeasure at the delay, but instead he just hit the gas pedal hard and roared by in a demonstration of raw power.

A few miles further on he saw brake lights again, and as he caught up to the same three cars, he saw them stop, then one by one swing clear over to the opposing lane. As the last car completed this maneuver, he saw the reason. 

A large brown dog was trotting along the edge of the road. Strangely, AJ showed no anger or frustration this time. Just fear that the animal would suddenly dart across the road in front of an approaching van.

He stayed back some distance so as not to startle it, and when the van had passed, he took a wide sweep around the dog as the other drivers had done. He even considered stopping to pick it up, he had thought about getting a dog, but it probably belonged to someone living close by.

Some nine months earlier AJ had taken early retirement when the company he worked for had been making cutbacks. He and his wife had bought an old farmhouse on about eight acres in a rural area. He had bought the old truck to haul lumber and other materials. This particular day he was on his way to pick up some fence posts from a farming supply depot, some fifteen miles along Route 61.

AJ arrived at his destination and picked up the fence posts. As he pulled out from the supply depot the road was clear except for a cyclist, the same one he had seen earlier. He waited for him to pass. Now there was traffic coming in the opposite direction. "Damn it, that's the second time you've held me up today," he complained to himself, wishing the cyclist could hear him.

AJ turned towards home. Some four or five miles into the return trip, the old truck spluttered, and then stalled. He was on a downgrade so he was able to coast then pull onto a patch of dirt at the side of the road. After several unsuccessful attempts to start the engine, he got out of the truck, lifted the hood, and stared at the engine.

He was not even sure why he was doing this, he had no tools with him, and even if he had, he would not know where to start. He had been an accountant all his life, and had absolutely no mechanical knowledge. He reached in his back pocket for his cell phone. It was’t there.

Then he remembered he had left the phone charging overnight in the kitchen. It was not in its usual place on the dresser with his wallet and change. "Now what?" he mumbled as he looked up and down the road. Nothing but farmland and open fields in either direction.

There was no alternative but to walk, and he had to walk on the road, tall grass and weeds at the side made it impossible to walk there. There was a white fog line painted on the edge of the road and no more than a few inches of paved road beyond that. AJ started to walk along this white line. He could have crossed over and walked facing the oncoming traffic, but he was hoping someone would stop and offer him a ride.

He had not walked far when he heard a car coming, he turned and waved a thumb. The car roared on by without even slowing. He walked on and the same thing happened again. He quickly realized his chances of getting a ride were slim. He was not particularly well dressed, and he never stopped to pick up hitchhikers.

He stopped pausing and turning every time a car approached from behind, it was pointless. For a while, he walked with his left thumb out, but then discontinued that as he resigned himself to a long walk home.

He noticed when there were no cars coming towards him, cars would swing over to the other side to pass. However, when there was traffic in both directions, they passed by a 60 mph with no thought of slowing down, often missing him by inches.

At one time, a large eighteen-wheeler went by, and although it missed him by at least two feet, its sheer size, and those huge wheels, gave AJ the scare of his life. And the back draft almost blew him off his feet.

He must have walked at least five or six miles and was by now in a trance like state when he heard a cheery “Good morning.” The same cyclist he had seen twice before that day sped silently by him. 

Somewhat startled AJ didn’t respond immediately, then called out, “Do you have a cell phone?” The cyclist had gone on by and did not understand what AJ had said. Then sensing it was a call for help, the cyclist slowed.

He looked back over his shoulder for traffic. It was clear and he did a U-turn and rode back to AJ. “Do you need help?” he asked. “Yes, do you have a cell phone?”
“I do,” answered the cyclist as he came to a stop and reached into his rear pocket for the phone.

“Thank God,” AJ said as he took the phone. “I broke down miles back and I must have walked for over an hour.” Just then, a car approached, “Here, let’s get off the road,” AJ said, “These damn cars won’t give you an inch.” 

“Tell me about it,” said the cyclist. “That’s why I always ride about two or three feet from the edge of the road. It forces drivers to slow and make a conscious effort to pass me. Otherwise they just blow by as if I wasn’t there, missing me by inches.”

“What motorists don’t realize is, if I ride on this white line,” the cyclist stomped on the line with his heel to emphasize. “There are large pot-holes or places where the road simply disappears, not to mention tree branches and other debris lying at the edge. If I come up on one of these obstacles, either I hit it, with the risk falling into the road, or I swerve out into the road. With cars passing within inches at a high rate of speed, both could be deadly.”

AJ was inclined to agree with the cyclist but didn’t answer as he felt rather hypocritical in view of his previous attitude. The cyclist continued, “That’s why I ride out there, the inside wheels of the cars having worn it smooth. It is safer, and people can see me.”

AJ called his wife and told her what had happened. “Help is on the way,” he said as he handed the phone back to the cyclist. “Thank you so much,” he added. He looked at the cyclist for the first time and was surprised that he was an older man, maybe about his own age. Earlier when he saw him, he imagined him to be much younger.

“Do you need a drink?” The cyclist offered AJ his water bottle. “Thanks, I will.” As AJ took a drink, the large brown dog appeared, wagging his tail and slinking down at AJ’s feet. ”Do you think he needs a drink too?” the cyclist asked.

“Probably,” AJ answered, “I saw him earlier on my way out here.” AJ cupped his hands together as the cyclist poured some water for the dog to drink.” The dog lapped up the water.

”Looks like you found yourself a dog.” 

"It would seem like it.” AJ answered as the cyclist mounted his bike again and pushed off. “Thank you again,” AJ called out as he pulled away. “Glad to be of help,” the cyclist called back.

AJ slipped his belt from his pants and looped it around the dog’s collarless neck. “Here boy, let’s sit under this tree and wait for Momma.”



Footnote: I wrote the above short story in 2008. A work of fiction, but one that could take place anywhere in the US. (Or the world.)

Just a different way to get the safety message across. Also, to explain to motorists that we ride a certain way in the interest of our own safety.

The message is one of tolerance, and I felt Christmas was as good a time as any to repost it, given it is the Season of Peace, Love, and Understanding.  

I would like to take this opportunity to wish all reading this a Joyous Christmas, (Or whatever it is you celebrate at this time of year.) and a Happy New Year. Thanks especially to the regular readers, Your support is very much appreciated. Thank you. 

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Chasing Charlie

I neared the top of the hill on an evening training ride on a road so familiar to me I knew exactly what lay ahead. I had ridden my bike on this country road in the rural West Midlands area of England many times before.

There would be a short steep descent, a slight right hand bend at the bottom over a narrow stone bridge, then another tough climb even longer than this one. I lifted myself out of the saddle and stomped hard on the pedals, legs aching, breathing heavy, but knowing there would be a brief rest as I coasted down the other side.

At the top I sat up to allow my lungs to gulp in more oxygen. I saw him for the first time, he was just cresting the next hill ahead, silhouetted against a pale vanilla sky as the sun set. He was too far off to make out who he was but as I knew all the other racing cyclists in the area, I was sure I would know him.

All thought about coasting down the short descent was gone as I slammed into my highest gear and increased my speed, the chase was on. This is something that all racing cyclists will do instinctively, never miss an opportunity to chase down another rider.

Of course not knowing who was ahead meant I didn’t know his speed or level of fitness. I might never catch him, but I was going to try. This was in the early 1970s and I was in pretty good shape myself and the psychological boost of having someone to chase increased my adrenalin flow. 

At the bottom of the hill I coasted through the slight bend and without shifting down I got out of the saddle again and let my speed and momentum carry me halfway up the next climb. Before my cadence dropped I shifted down, and up on the pedals again to the top.

I thought I caught a brief glimpse of him again and I was gaining on him, but the sun was completely set by now and it was getting quite dark. I reached down and turned on my battery lamps. 

I must have chased hard for about four or five miles when I came on him suddenly, in fact I almost ran into him. He had no lights on his bike and he suddenly loomed up in the darkness. I pulled alongside. I didn’t recognize him.

“Where’s your lights?” I asked.

“I wasn’t planning on being out this late.” He answered. “But I got a puncture earlier. I did a stupid thing, I was out of tubular cement and I had stuck my tires on with fish glue. I took me forever to get the tire off.”

“Fish glue?” I thought, “Who sticks tires on with fish glue?” 

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“They call me Charlie.”

“I’ll ride with you.” I offered. “It’s a little dangerous to be out here without lights, where do you live?”

“Ledbury.”

I pulled ahead of him and increased the pace a little, Charlie pulled in behind me. Ledbury was a small town about five miles further on. After a short while Charlie came through to take the pace at the front.

I slipped in behind him. It was then I got my first look at his bike, my battery lamp lit up his rear wheel and gear train. He was using an old four speed, eighth inch, freewheel block with an Osgear derailleur, a single jockey wheel on an arm under his chainwheel.

I was thinking, “I haven’t seen one of those since I was a kid in the 1950s.” I moved to the front again and remarked as I went by, “Interesting bike you have.”

Charlie didn’t respond, and we rode on at a pretty good pace. I noticed every time I was on Charlie’s rear wheel I could not get comfortable. I could not figure out which direction the wind was coming from. I would ride slightly to his left, then right, but neither was any easier.

We were within a mile of Ledbury, I was at the front when a car suddenly appeared coming towards us. The road was narrow and the car came so close that I had to pull hard to the side and I found myself on the soft grass. There was the sound of a tremendous crash behind me, my wheels bogged down and I came to a quick stop. My feet were strapped to the pedals, there was no time to release them, and I fell over sideways.

I was uninjured but my first thought was for Charlie, both he and his bike were gone. So too was the car. “It must have kept going without stopping.” I thought. I took my battery lamp from my bike and searched back along the side of the road. I turned around and walked slowly down the other side.

I couldn't find him, I was worried he was laying somewhere injured, hidden in the hedgerow. I rode into Ledbury and stopped at a public phone box and called the police. “There’s been an accident.” I told them, and I explained what had happened. A police car arrived and I parked my bike in an alley-way and rode back with them to the scene of the incident.

The two policemen searched both sides of the road as I had done. “Are you sure this is the place?” One of them asked me.

“Yes, I remember this big tree on the bend in the road.” I told them.

“Maybe he wasn’t hit but kept on riding as you fell by the roadside.”

“It’s possible.” I answered. “But you would think he would have stopped to see if I was alright.”

Eventually we gave up the search and the officers drove me back to my bike, and I made my way home.

The next day I didn’t go to work but instead drove my car over to Ledbury and started asking around if anyone had heard of an accident the previous night. Someone suggested I enquire at the local newspaper office.

I did this and met the editor of the little local paper. He listened intently as I told him of my ride with Charlie the night before and of the accident. He told me, “It sounds to me like you encountered Charlie Finch, you’re not the first.”

“Who is he?” I asked.

“Let me show you something from our archives.” He walked over to a filing cabinet and pulled out a strip of microfilm. He placed it in a projector and scrolled through the images, he stopped on a front-page story. “Here it is, about this time of year, 1948.”

I read the headline, “Local cyclist killed in accident.” The story told of a Charlie Finch who was riding at night without lights and was struck by an oncoming car. The car went out of control striking a tree, the driver also died instantly.

There was a picture of a 1940s style car smashed against a large oak tree, the same tree I had pointed out to the police officers the night before. There was also a picture of Charlie’s bike.

The front wheel was completely smashed, the front fork was bent, and the frame was buckled at the top and down tubes. The bike had an Osgear derailleur with a single jockey wheel under the chainwheel.

I first wrote Chasing Charlie and posted here Halloween 2006, and again in 2012. Readership changes constantly so there will be many who have not read it previously. If you have read it before I hope you enjoyed it again this time around.

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