Riding High

Scott Oglesby

Description

Take a fast Manhattan ride with Steven McGowan, an aging, burned-out pot dealer looking for an easy exit from his crime-lite life. But grab your helmet, there's a dicey curve ahead when his Southern ex-boozing father shows up heaven-bent on patching up family wounds. Then hang on for a heady road trip through a whacked-out universe of rowdy dopesters, down-home geezers, Russian limo-drivers, and overzealous drug warriors. Pit stop with spiritual shrinks, Rasta gurus, homeless angels, and a tough-love sweetheart for inspiration and fresh wit. Will our old-school slacker steer a new course and deal with his life, dad, and sweetie? Or will he just roll another doob and crash on comic despair? Lord knows, but before his wild ride is over, you'll either hug him or strangle him with your bare hands -- if you don't laugh or cry yourself into a ditch first.

Riding High is a bittersweet tour of dysfunction and redemption, but stay on its path of black humor, pain, and promise, and you'll find a metaphor for a country still in recovery from Vietnam, the Cold War, a misguided drug war, and the breakdown of the American family.

Sujets

• Humorous
• Riding High
• Trafford Publishing
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Trafford Publishing
• Date de parution: 05 novembre 2003
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781412213486
• Langue: English

Extrait

Riding High
 

 
a novel
 
This is Scott Oglesby
 
 
Author’s note:
 
This is entirely a work of fiction. Characters, locales, events and situations that might appear similar to reality are purely coincidental and accidental, or attributable to the author’s lazy imagination. In addition, nothing about this work should be construed in any way as an advocacy to consume, grow, sell, or distribute drugs or herbs of any type, legal or otherwise. The author does, however, advocate a common sense approach to the decriminalization of all of the above activities for world citizens over the age of eighteen.
 
 
 
 
 
book design by Helene Dolney
inside art by Scott Oglesby
author photo by Peter Monroe
 
 
 
© Copyright 2003 Scott Oglesby. All rights reserved.
 
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.
 
National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Oglesby, Scott, 1946-
      Riding high / Scott Oglesby.
ISBN 1-4120-0560-4
      I. Title.
PS3615.G54R52 2003   813’.6   C2 003-904 7 97-0
 

 
Suite 6E, 2333 Government St., Victoria, B.C. V8T 4P4, CANADA
Phone       [phone]      Toll-free       1-888-232-4444 (Canada & US)
Fax      [phone]      E-mail        [e-mail]
Web site www.trafford.com       TRAFFORD PUBLISHING IS A DIVISION OF TRAFFORD HOLDINGS LTD. Trafford Catalogue #03-0929 www.trafford.com/robots/03-0929.html
10   9      8      7      6      5      4      3      2
Contents
riding high  
going fishing  
icebergs of concern  
domestic pursuits  
golden handcuffs  
trailer trash  
daydream city  
fools sport  
race bait  
family planning  
too late for coffee  
batting zero  
home alone  
R+R = THC  
psychic suicide  
romantic rendezvous  
drug test  
comrades in anarchy  
Valentine  
shotguns and troopers  
Jersey vacation  
shameful notions  
big mistakes  
schlock therapy  
Uncle Maxie  
a southern thing  
missing in action  
genuine concern  
fertile ground  
road trips  
war stories  
conspiracy of love  
psychobubbas  
disco fever  
toast of the town  
Arklabama blues  
changing gears  
dramatic whimsy  
pooh bear  
sure as hell  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
for daddy
 
 
riding high  

Steven hunkered down over the low-slung handlebars, pulled his knees in and coasted. He listened to his skinny tires humming on the pavement, felt the wind rushing over his goggled face. The cool morning breeze airbrushed him alert, energized him, made him feel young. He felt his neck muscles tighten from the cramped angle required to look forward—north, up Tenth Avenue, one-way and all to himself, except for the cars clogged at the intersection a block ahead. He was catching up to them now, and doing a pretty good clip, thirty miles an hour, he figured. Passing cabs like they’re standing still. He grinned, noting that they were still—three lanes of them, stymied five deep at a Manhattan red light.
With a flick of his head, he glanced over his shoulder then angled out of the far right lane and into the space between cars in the middle lanes. It was safe here from car doors flinging open, a constant fear when riding next to the parking lane. He cruised up to the light and looked for room between the cars moving across 43rd. Spotting an opening, he stood in his pedals, pumped hard and shot the gap between a cab and a Toyota. He sped past them, through the intersection and into open road.
Exhilarated, he pounded his legs up and down like pistons, swinging the bike frame side to side at each stroke. He had the lights for a few blocks now, so he released the handlebars, sat upright and coasted again, his arms spread like wings. Cheap thrills, he thought with a smile. Even at his age he could still crash a light so fast that most drivers didn’t even tap their brakes. Look out for guys over forty with something to prove.
He’d been riding like this for years, his main pillar of exemption from being just another massed and teeming New Yorker. What he lacked in physical prowess he made up in danger quotient. Sure, it was crazy—hot-dogging at high speed as if the cabbies gave a damn if he lived or died. If he had kids he’d be like the normal guys his age, riding sensibly, their offspring mounted behind them on tot carriers. Without health insurance, he knew it was doubly foolish. But it made him feel centered. Powerful. I am prospering in all that I do, he affirmed silently. I’m releasing myself from fear and limitation. God provides me with all I ask for.
Beaming positives, he sprinted for the next two blocks until he saw the crosswalks ahead full of people. Crossing against the light, they were comrades in anarchy—like him they ignored the signals, watched the traffic instead. He slowed up slightly and yelled, “Coming through!” He weaved gracefully through their stuttered steps. Behind him he could hear the rumble of traffic catching up. They overtook him just as he leaned into his turn at 55th Street.
Soon he was snaking through bumper to bumper vehicles in midtown, but it was only for a few blocks. In less than a minute he was curving around Columbus Circle and onto an entrance road to Central Park. Cars were banned here this time of day, and when he rolled onto peaceful West Drive, the hush of natural greens and browns replaced the roar of traffic. Now the hazards were rollerbladers and strollers, but if there were a collision, at least he was up a notch in victim hierarchy.
He coasted again, absorbing the new visuals of trees, lawns, and outcroppings of rock. With a long deep breath, he finally allowed his diligence to recede. He could almost feel the tension shedding off his skin along with exhaust soot from cars. Riding through the park always brought back wistful memories of his former cycling life in California—serene rides in the tawny hills of beautiful Marin County, and San Francisco with its sensual vistas of blue skies and ocean. In Manhattan he had been forced to forge new rhythms from the gritty poetry of potholes and gaping storm grates, adapt to the edgy etiquette of horn-happy cabbies, and share the road with mirrorless panel vans and gargantuan tractor-trailers. It wasn’t as artful, but it had certainly made him more alert.
On his right now, a horse carriage was merging with him onto East Drive where it curved north. He dropped down two gears, stood in his pedals and passed the carriage quickly, then powered up the winding hill, avoiding numerous joggers. In front of the boathouse he passed several riders on mountain bikes, feeling a
tinge self-conscious. Alloy racers like his were the speed kings in the park, but he had always been a reluctant competitor. Around other riders he was a secret warrior, careful to hide any hint of challenge. It highlighted one of the major backfires of his life—by avoiding competition in anything, he unconsciously competed in everything. But today he laughed off his mind game—other factors were rationing his competitive forays, like his thighs which were killing him. And the dope was wearing off.
With a few dozen muscle-burning strokes, he reached the plateau behind the Met Museum. He slowed his pace some, sat up and extended his head forward and down. A stiff neck was a price he willingly paid to ride buzzed-out on weed.
Suddenly, a group of roadies burst by him—a club going super fast. In matching red-and-yellow team jerseys, they rode in real tight together, their motions uniform, all in the same high gear. He watched them for a bit, wondering at his ambivalence towards them. Speed was about all he had in common with roadies. He had never been a clubber. He usually rode solo, digging the anonymous feel of whizzing by in helmet and shades, too fast to be noticed or participate. Clubs weren’t very dope-tolerant either. They took themselves too seriously—staying real to keep a competitive edge. Another dumb reality for people who can’t handle drugs. He smiled, and impulsively reached back to a small leather bag strapped to his carrier. Look at me, he laughed, advertising my stash to thieves. But jeez, what could they do—swoop down from a passing bike?
Chuckling at his silliness, Steven cruised lazily all the way up East Drive, past the reservoir and ball fields on his left and Museum Mile to his right, insulated by meadows and trees. This was the part of his job he always liked. It was too bad the park leg was so short.
Ten minutes later, he was sweating in the foyer of a huge apartment building on West 104th. He played a riff on the buzzer of his friend, Victoria—artist, dogwalker and customer. He was already thinking ahead; just asking Victoria how she was doing could be dangerous, you might hear how to build a clock when all you wanted was the time.
“Friend or foe?” a female voice crackled.
“Un amigo,” Steven jibed, using up most of the Spanish he knew.
In the elevator, he tried to cool down by pinching his jersey over and over to blow air on his torso. He was determined to make it a
fast stop, others were waiting. But so was Victoria when the door opened, a pack of exuberant dogs trailing behind her. “Hi,Vic.”
“Hey, love.” She planted a kiss on his cheek as he rolled his bike out. Equally friendly, the canines jumped on him as if he were a delivery of fresh meat,