The Brothers’ Bike Ride

Minivan Name Winner

Thanks, everyone, for voting and for contributing all those name ideas. It was a very close race. Almost all of the options had two votes, and the winner had three.

The minivan’s name is the coolest-looking one: ONYX. It is pronounced ah-nix, in case any of the Sullivan Bros. need help with this.

Please claim credit for yourself in the comments if it was your idea. Or don’t.

Day 2: Pensacola to Crestview
Saturday, February 27

On Friday night my sleep deficit combined with my massage after-effects to knock me out by 7:45, the earliest I’ve gone to bed in a long time. I figured I’d wake up around 5, feel spry, blog impressively for a couple hours, join the boys for breakfast, and head out into a sunny Pensacola morning for some tourism.

I woke up feeling ready to start the day at 2:15 a.m. Fine, I thought, I’ll get at least two-three more hours. Let me just check my phone first…

It is never a good idea to check your phone in the middle of the night. Just don’t do it.

I saw that my mom had sent me a message in our game of Words with Friends. Here is the message:

I have some not so good news – not terrible, but not good.

That was it. She’d naturally expected me to write back right away because it was so early when I last played her, and she’d made her next move immediately after I’d made mine. Still.

At first, in my half-asleep state, this idea of some not good news sat quietly on a stool in the corner of my brain. But of course it got up after a few minutes and started walking around. My grandmother had not terrible, but not good cancer. Something had happened to my niece or nephew. My mom had hit my car with hers. Something had happened to her car. What counts as not terrible but still bad? 

To be fair, I didn’t just worry about the mysterious bad news. I had all kinds of thoughts for the next three hours, some of them of the “oh, that was kind of like a dream thought, I’m probably about to fall back to sleep, great, oh, but I just noticed it so probably not” variety. Technically it is not my mom’s fault that I never fell back to sleep. Technically.

The news is that one of my cousins on my mom’s side is getting a divorce.

Two on, one off

My dad decided to take the day off because he wanted to visit the National Naval Aviation Museum. Over breakfast I agreed to go, too, but back in my room my bed seemed a lot more enticing than airplanes. I napped while he was at the museum. When he got back, we enjoyed a beer in my room while he told me about the museum. It was my favorite part of the day.

Dad and I went to Panera Bread for lunch before starting for Crestview. What I saw of Pensacola struck me as an unending stretch of strip malls, miles of bleak and disorderly commercial real estate. Much of America is like this, I know, but Pensacola takes it to a grotesque extreme.

After lunch we stopped at a Barnes and Noble and wandered around. Dad said he’d buy me something, and despite having over 100 unread books in my apartment, I couldn’t turn down that offer. I ended up with The Devil in the White City, nonfiction about the construction of the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair and a serial killer doctor who lured young women visiting the fair to their demise. Its author Erik Larson writes in that confident New Journalism prose style that everyone finds irresistible. I’m going to like it, even though sometimes I’m going to think, But how do you know that’s what he was thinking?

We arrived in Crestview and I promptly fell asleep for another two hours.

Yelp says The Wild Olive is the best restaurant in town, and I want nothing but the best for my uncles and dad, so I steered us there for dinner. The food had a fancy presentation, and it was good, but my working class dinners the previous two nights were actually better.

Hotel Art of the Day

A Musical Interlude
Photographs, ~12″ x 12″
Residence Inn, Pensacola

Hotel Art Score

4/10. Are you thinking about some really classy classical music right now? I should probably show the full array here, with the shelf that has two tasteful vases and model Woodie on it. Honestly I have nothing against these photos, or the wall display as a whole. It’s a simulation of a homey arrangement that just feels especially inauthentic. But so what!

Art Art Score

3/10. The photos aren’t bad, exactly; they just aren’t art. I find them amusingly dramatic.

Day 0
Thursday, February 25

For who knows what reason — work stress, old age, the presidential election — I’ve been having trouble sleeping for the past few weeks. On Thursday I woke up at 4:15, tallying five hours, and that was that. People’s bodies can get accustomed to lack of sleep, I know, but I don’t think it’s good for any of us. Eight hours or bust is what I always say!

During breakfast the Hampton Inn lounge played generic light pop and CNN at the same volume in a subtle commentary on media oversaturation. I read the Wall Street Journal, a paper I generally enjoy when I run across it, and have just now spent about ten minutes reading conflicting reports of its political bias. I detected no bias. Its crossword was fairly challenging, and by that I mean I haven’t finished it yet.

I hung out with my laptop till the guys arrived, then we headed for the Gulf Breeze Motel on Dauphin Island, speculating about the fates of Downton Abbey characters during the drive. Dauphin Island is a quiet coastal town; it reminded me a little of Chincoteague, minus the cutesy antique stores and coffee shops. For a chilly weekday in February the motel was surprisingly booked.

Time travel shot (TTS)

The guys got to work putting their bikes together while I ran out to a gas station for beer. By the time I got back twenty minutes later, Mark was all done and Tim was close to finished, but Brian was engaged in his standard bike-building struggle.

It’s never easy

We were all a little worried about my dad. He’d been sick for three weeks with a terrible cough that kept him from sleeping and thus getting better. He hadn’t exercised in a long time and had barely trained for the ride during the winter. He’d worked himself ragged and had reached a point where he didn’t even care whether he rode. At the motel he became increasingly frustrated with his bike, and eventually Mark offered to finish putting it together for him after we ate.

Dinner was at JT’s Sunset Grill, a modest family place with views of the water. I watched the sun set as Tim tried to slice a fried green tomato with a plastic knife (“Don’t fight it,” I told him). Our meals — delicious fresh fish, seasoned perfectly — were terrific. We talked through plans for the next day. It felt good to have the band back together.

Dauphin Island

*

Day 1
Friday, February 26

My mattress in the Gulf Breeze Motel was wonderfully firm and granted me seven decent hours of rest. Things had not gone as well for my dad, who was up most of the night coughing and worrying. “You don’t have to do this,” I said. But he needed to prove to himself that he could. So he headed out with his brothers, and I promised to rescue him if he needed it.

First day of the last ride

I just wouldn’t be able to rescue him between the hours of 11 and 1, because I’d booked a massage in Pensacola.

My massage therapist was a mild-looking man in his twenties, tall, black, with glasses. Was he cute, Beth? He was cute. But he seemed uncomfortable with the idea of saying words; he was nervous and overly formal, and I diagnosed him as feeling like he couldn’t be his real self at work. I wanted to ask him questions — “How long have you been doing this? Does it ever get boring? Does this music (it was distractingly bad) drive you crazy? Do people ever proposition you?” — but based on his distant responses to my initial attempts at small talk, I sensed any conversation would just make him feel more awkward. Maybe he went into this line of work in order to speak as little as possible.

I’d asked him to focus on my perpetually aching shoulders. He did, and I was grateful; sometimes massage therapists just run mindlessly through their routine. As part of this he asked me if I’d ever heard of Biofreeze. I had not. It sounded futuristically dangerous. He haltingly explained what it is — a menthol-based “cold therapy” gel — and offered to use it on my shoulders. All massage-related decisions need to be made before the massage begins, because you’re in no place, mid-massage, to have rational thoughts about anything. I felt myself tense up at having to make a choice while face down on a table, searching my mental Google for “Biofreeze death.” To stall for time I asked him if Biofreeze was an extra charge. It was not. In the end I agreed. Biofreeze was applied. For a few seconds my shoulders felt like they were on fire, and after the sensation passed they felt the same as before, but I have no regrets.

Despite the social weirdness, despite Biofreeze, it was a great and much-needed massage, and I left feeling relaxed and happy — especially after I checked my phone and saw a message from Dad saying he was doing okay.

As I was paying, a potbellied mailman entered and said to me in a deep southern accent, “Excuse me, ma’am, does this shirt make me look fat?”

I looked at his shirt, which barely reached the bottom of his gut. It had black smudges on it.

“It’s your fat that makes you look fat,” I thought. He would have liked it if I’d said that, I think, but my impulse to be polite is too strong. “No,” I said.

“Well, she’s a good liar, I can tell you that,” he said to the receptionist.

“He does this every time,” she told me.

Soon after I settled into the hotel the bikers arrived. My dad had gone though some tough moments, but he’d made it to Pensacola in one piece. We dined at the nearby McGuire’s Irish Pub, which had a comforting Towne House (R.I.P.) vibe, and enjoyed more delicious fish.

Hotel Art of the Day will return tomorrow. In the meantime I invite you to:

NAME THAT MINIVAN

It’s a nearly new Toyota Sienna painted in a sparkly black.