What I Remember of My Sons' Recollection of their Math Teacher's Mountain Biking Years

His racing name was "The Kid." They don't know why--heighth? Lack of facial hair? They have no idea. They think he was young when he raced. There was some guy named "Red Elk." He was just a regular white guy but he had a red afro and wore terry cloth headbands. Red Elk was a real character. It should be known that The Kid once beat Lance Armstrong. Don't expect to find this fact on the internet because Lance will never admit it and there were no reporters. But it happened. No one could beat The Kid in Colorado. The Kid treated the mountains of Colorado like it was his personal playground. That's why Lance couldn't win. The race was in Colorado.

It takes about two minutes to change a blown inner tube. Most guys change two tubes per race. Not so for Red Elk. Red Elk wore pre-inflated tubes around his neck when he rode. Not fully inflated, but just enough to carry across your chest like an archer's bow; probably about half inflated. He also carried CO2 cartridges in his pockets. You really shouldn't carry CO2 cartridges in your pockets, especially in a mountain bike race in Colorado. But that's just the kind of thing Red Elk did. Red Elk had no concern for personal safety. When Red Elk blew a tire he would simply replace it with the half inflated tire and then connect a CO2 cartridge. No pumping. You see? That gave Red Elk a two minute advantage over the other racers. But none of this mattered to The Kid. The Kid beat Red Elk every time. Especially in Colorado. Actually, it wouldn't have mattered if Red Elk didn't change any tires, he had no chance and he knew he had no chance, but every race he'd look at The Kid and say, "Today's the day kid, today's the day." But it was never the day. The boys can't emphasize enough The Kid's home field advantage in Colorado. It was ridiculous.

One time The Kid showed up to the starting line and he hadn't finished his coffee. It was a really good coffee. He didn't usually get this kind of coffee. The race started but The Kid just couldn't toss that coffee on the ground, because it was a special type that was really rare. So he had to finish that coffee. If he had a thermos he would've saved the coffee but he left his thermos in the truck. So he sat at the starting line and finished his coffee. He started the race like five minutes behind the rest of the racers but he still won. It was only by a minute or two, but he still beat everyone. When he passed Red Elk, Red Elk threw one of his half-inflated tubes at him. It was just a joke, but it ended up going over The Kid's helmet and blinding him for a few seconds on a really dangerous gravel hill. Red Elk didn't know it would blind The Kid. Red Elk was actually really good friends with The Kid. He didn't mind that The Kid won every single race. One time The Kid was in Istanbul and he stayed at a downtown hotel for three days, as he was chekcing out he ran into Red Elk. Red Elk had been at the hotel next door for the exact same three days and they never knew it. They were both totally blown away. They were both in Istanbul, staying right next to each other, and never saw each other. Not even once. They were totally surprised. It was The Kid who noticed Red Elk. Red Elk was just walking by carrying a backpack. He only saw him from behind, but The Kid knew immediately. It was the red afro. You don't see many of those. Anyways, when Red Elk threw the half-inflated tire, The Kid had to ride blind for a few seconds. Most guys would've hit a tree, but this was in Colorado--The Kid could've rode the whole course blind. That's how well he knew the Colorado trails.

They pause and wonder why people would spend money traveling to Colorado, back in those days, when they knew they had no chance against The Kid. Not even Lance Armstrong (though he'd never admit to it) and you won't find it on the internet, but it's true. They swear to God it's true. The Kid told them himself and he's a math teacher. And math never lies.

In Preparation For Releasing My Father's Ashes

Early summer and the front yard’s overgrown.
The light falls spotted through the black walnut leaves.
“We are all like the grass,”
the scriptures sing again and again,
“Here today and tomorrow thrown into the oven.”
Green grass, shot through
with mysterious,
unending,
green.
The passage,
like your absence,
is familiar and dreamlike;
hard to follow while lying on my back
smoking this cigar,
blowing circles
to the June sky.
Grass or sun,
cigars or human beings,
all memory is made from burning.

Five summers AWOL.
I still see your mischievous smile,
your helpless tears.
Your life now a story,
a picture book,
a fable,
an inspiration--
dependent on the teller.
“All stories are untrue,” you once told an audience,
knowing full well that stories are all we have of the truth.
This is my story:
We loved each other as best we could.

With your hands
I gather the cut blades,
pour the grey diesel,
drop the wet stained tobacco,
then stand
vigil
while the red rolling waves spray
foxtails like fireworks.
I stir
and rake
and stir.
Still I see
green never burns.