We were minutes from closing time at the shop when a guy walked in, dragging a bike. This was in olden times, before mountain bikes had suspension or I had a modicum of good sense. He needed help with the near-bike and was on deadline for his kid’s birthday. Neither my manager, Hal, nor I had the sense of responsibility that comes with kids, but something in his eyes caused us to take pity on him.
We double-teamed the bike like a Formula One pit crew. Within a half hour we’d taken what couldn’t have been ridden an inch and turned it into a respectable source of fun. As we settled up he beamed with the light of a man redeemed. Then he looked up and said something unexpected.
“You like ribs?”
Hal and I looked at each other incredulously. Who doesn’t like ribs? As we were in Memphis, ribs are to local cuisine what gasoline is to a car—you always find the former with the latter. We didn’t so much nod as laugh.
“I work at The Rendezvous. Come down Friday night and I’ll take care of you.”
Memphis is known for Elvis, the Blues and BBQ. And within the annals of Memphis BBQ, The Rendezvous isn’t just an institution; it’s a shrine—the holy of holies. The thought that we were going to be served ribs at The Rendezvous—for free—was better than winning the lottery. We’d earned this.
Friday evening our coworker Chuck joined us for the ride west toward downtown and the Mississippi. As we passed through one of the area’s sketchier neighborhoods, I realized I had a slow leak in my rear tire, so I asked the guys to give me a chance to pump it up a bit. No sooner had I clamped the pump on to the valve than the guys began to bellow at me to get back on the bike. What could the big deal be? I wasn’t listening to them in any detail, until I registered, “Pat, come on! They’re coming!” My buddies were already riding away.
That was when I looked up and noticed two guys basketball player tall and lean jogging toward us with a body language that didn’t so much suggest malice as spell it out. I pulled the pump off and made a running mount onto my GT Avalanche with them but two or three strides behind me. We were unprepared in a grand way. Not only did we sport nothing to defend ourselves, our bikes lacked lights or even reflectors; it’s possible we weren’t wearing helmets. It’s hard not to be this stupid when you’re in your 20s.
Our man locked the bikes in The Rendezvous’ boiler room and then fed us like he had something to prove. We hoovered plates of cheese and sausage, pitchers of beer and full racks of ribs before sopping up rib juice with bread. We opened our wallets to tip him, but he brushed us off.
With bellies sloshing, we pedaled from The Rendezvous to Beale Street. Once the birthplace of the Blues, Beale Street is now a center of nightlife. The bars serve beer, cocktails and live music. We parted the crowd as we charged, single-file down the middle of the pedestrian-only street, swerving through drunk tourists, careening down steps, rooster-tailing through a fountain and outrunning security guards.
Beer bold, we went in search of more challenges to conquer. We tried riding up the steps at Court Square, then bounced down the stairway leading to one of the weirdest tourist attractions I’ve ever encountered, Mud Island. That’s when I had the best idea of all. We went to a parking garage with a spiral driveway so tight and steep that it couldn’t meet modern building codes.
I no longer recall how many times we sprinted up it, some five stories, racing each other with the sort of desperation I’d needed earlier that evening. We’d take a breath at the top and then plummet down—no brakes—until terror tightened our fingers.
The next day, back at the shop, I was so sore I struggled to walk.
When I was in college my buddies and I would imbibe in various intoxicants and go for night rides around town and campus. No lights, maybe a reflective belt. It even got to a point that I had a second set of wheels for my Bridgestone MB-2 with slicks and a tight ratio cassette on it. We would rip around and through all the drunks leaving the bars. We would ride the rail trail in absolute pitch darkness and almost hit people walking, also without any lights. One of the best parts was the campus parking garage “crits.” That parking garage claimed some of my skin and also a helmet. I was really glad I wore a helmet.