Husker Finnegan

(repost from the super new cool blog that is so super and so ultra secret, you know nothing about it.)

I used to ride my bike a lot in Seattle. I did not have children on chosen weekends and I would take off early Saturday morning and come back late. I could put on 150 miles and be the happiest person in the world. One day I was riding on Lake Washington Blvd on my way to Renton, for no real reason, and I happened upon a group of slow moving cyclists. Generally speaking, when you pass slow movers you announce it by saying something like "on your left" as you pass, so as not to startle. Generally speaking I did not say anything, I came up too fast, I was wearing ear buds listening to music and I was hyper alert and watched each and every front tire to see if they were making any adjustment and once I was past them, I did not worry about what they might be doing, because that was already a fading memory.

As I passed the slow riders I switched gears and really started to move, which in bike terms probably meant I was doing 25 miles per hour, on a flat road, so not fast, but for me, a good speed. Without me knowing it, one of the slow pokes had picked up his pace and slid in behind me, inches behind my back tire, he was hunched over his handle bars and peddling with an ease that meant he was well trained, a conditioned athlete or a competitive dick. I would later learn he was all three. His name is Husker Finnegan, and he is The Irish Prince of Seattle, or at least that was one of my favorite nicknames for him. As our friendship developed from that day, nicknames became a hobby of sorts. I was almost always Bert, short for my last name. He was the Irish Prince before any ride, but once we had put miles on the bikes and pushed one another around the lake or over to Redmond or on some other adventure, then I would come up some mean and nasty name, like shithead McGee or Slow Poke Drunken Fool.

He was far from a slow poke, in fact, he could beat me on any ride any time he wanted. Most of the time he did not seem to care. I am a competitive jerk when it comes to competing. He is not. He rides and rides hard, but his will to win and to see others lose is just not that intense. He just enjoys sweating I think.

We were riding on a hot August evening and I was having trouble keeping up and I called out Husker, Husker, but he was listening to music and could not hear me. Huck I screamed and he turned his head and slowed the bike. Huck, Huck Finnegan. I started to laugh as I passed him.

The rest of that summer Huck Finnegan and I rode a lot. It was a summer of miles and miles and excess amounts of cheap Mexican food. You hardly ever recognize moments in life that are close to perfect and only now do I realize that summer was one of those rare times. We rode because it brought us peace and joy and sometimes those moments are what we seek out later in life. Peace and joy are hard to come by once complexity comes into play.

I no longer live within riding distance of Husker, he of Seattle, me thousands of miles away. He called last week. He, for the first time ever, is going to be a father. He called for my advice. I laughed and hung up the phone.

I was in a hot bath when he called back. Apparently he was serious, his wife of 14 years is pregnant. Shocking news since he is impotent and she is eggless, or so I had been told for, well, 14 years.

I should not have answered a cell phone in a hot bath, but I did. Advice I offered. I have thousands of children in millions of countries and I am skilled and irresponsible in most parenting situations, so I am an expert. Husker listened for a few minutes as I laid in the hot tub and rambled about being drunk at the birth, especially if you are in the actual birthing room. Drunk, as in super drunk and bring extra to drink during the entire birthing process. He hung up.