by JK Franks
While scanning Craigslist for a suitable alternative, his eye had fallen on a sleek looking road bike for sale nearby. He could ride a bike, he thought. You never forget, right? He had biked all through college, as most of the students did. He and a friend had biked nearly everywhere back then.
He made the call and went to take a look. It had been a mid-grade Italian racing bike; not great when compared to the Trek he had now, nor even as good as his backup Cervelo training bike, but it had been far better than anything he had ever ridden at that time. The guy who listed it had upgraded to a new triathlon bike, and he let Scott take the older bike out for a test ride. Scott was shocked at how easy it was to maneuver and how fast the damn thing was. It was super-light and seemed to just leap up hills. He’d gone nearly five miles before he pulled back into the guys’ garage. Scott paid the guy the $900, got a helmet tossed in as well and picked up a few basics in maintenance. He also learned about a small group who rode together over by the lake each Saturday. If he was ever interested, he should let the guy know.
No real surprise, Scott's wife had hit the roof when she found out what he’d paid for it, despite the fact that it was his money, and they weren’t exactly on a tight budget. From that day on, Scott was on the bike every moment he could get. It was transportation. It was therapy. And it got him away from the day-to-day problems. If he had a challenging issue at work, or more likely, he and his wife, Angela, got into it, he would take off on his bike. Never big on confronting problems, he was much better at dodging them.
Over the months, the rides got longer, and his health steadily improved. The club rides with the small group taught him much about being safe and improving his riding skills. A job change helped as well. After getting his government security clearance, he moved from the corporate rat race to IT consulting, which paid better and offered more freedom. Now he could choose to work from home and even the hours he wanted to work each day. For some reason, this more flexible schedule infuriated Angela, but it allowed him to ride anytime weather would permit.
Turning off Highway 50 onto the nearly hidden road that wound around the reservoir lake, this beautiful little park was a nearly forgotten relic of another time. It was a familiar ride to Scott, and he knew this stretch of road was often tricky as deer and squirrels would dart out and in front of the bike. As he reached speeds of over thirty-five miles an hour in many areas, hitting nearly anything with the lightweight, but somewhat fragile, wheels would be unpleasant.
Coming out of the wooded section, he approached the familiar stained and pitted concrete structure up ahead. He dropped into a full tuck position as he descended the slightly sloping road down to the top of the dam. The road here skirted the top part of the dam. It was barely large enough for two lanes with side rails on both sides. The lake stretched out to the right for several miles, and to the left was the sheer drop of the backside of the dam. Nearing the center of the structure, Scott heard a small pop followed by a rapid hissing sound that he knew all too well. “Shit,” he thought. Twisting his right foot quickly in an unnatural motion, he unclipped his Italian cycling shoe from the pedal and slowed to a stop.
The rear tire was flat. Most likely he had caught a stone. Luckily, he always carried spares as this was about a once a month occurrence, sometimes more. He paused the ride button on the GPS at 42.67 miles. He moved the bike aside and into some welcome shade to change the tire. His gloved hands levered the brake caliper to the open position, then flipped the quick release. Using the small hard plastic tire levers, he quickly had the flattened inner tube out. He checked the inside of the tire meticulously to make sure nothing was sticking through it. Satisfied that all was well, he began tucking the new tube into the tire. Focused on the task at hand, he jumped at the noise that suddenly sounded from below him. Looking over, he saw a large metal structure with winches that raised and lowered the water gates. Someone was slowly coming up a nearly hidden set of steps on the far side.
“Howdy,” the man said. “Looks like you got a damn flat,” he said, amusing only himself. The large man, who was probably in his late fifties, came over to the rail that separated the roadway from the electrical equipment. “Need any help?”
Since he already had the replacement tube in and was about to attach the compact Co2 inflator to pump it up, Scott replied, “No, but thanks. I just about have it.” He thought he had seen this man in the park before. His green trousers and light khaki work shirt looked somewhat official.
“I’ve seen you come through a lot this summer,” the man said. “Not too many people come out this way anymore.”
“You must keep an eye on everything to notice one bike rider,” Scott said a little surprised. Taking off his fingerless riding gloves he walked over and extended his hand, “Hi, I’m Scott.”
The old man snorted, grinned, and took his hand in a firm grip. “Name’s Pete, and what the hell else do I have to do out here babysittin’ this abandoned old park? Everyone goes over to the beach at Grand Isle to swim, and there are lots better places to fish.”
“What about the dam?” Scott asked. “Surely it needs attention.”
“Used to,” he said. “Before they decommissioned it.”
Scott now recalled an old plaque on the road stating that the lake and dam were built in the early ‘40s, making it most likely a remnant of Roosevelt's Public Works projects—the controversial Social Welfare project that many say helped pull the US out of the Depression. Love it or hate it, everything from the Golden Gate Bridge and the Hoover Dam to countless small parks and flood control dams had been built across the country as a result.
“Why was it decommissioned?” Scott asked.
Pete frowned, “Its old and tired …. like me,” he snorted, and quickly recounted how the dam had been on limited duty when the last of the larger generators, housed in the bowels of the structure, had started having control issues. It wasn’t even needed anymore since they put the nuclear plant over in Port Gibson in the ‘80s.
“That would have been .…hmmm, I suppose back around ‘97. They said it would cost more to repair than it was worth. Now all the power stations are on the “Smart Grid” so they can control the distribution from the capital or wherever, but not this old girl. Now she’s only used for flood control, and honestly, there’s rarely even a need for that. The park service keeps cutting the budget and well…” Pete looked away, and Scott could tell he was somewhere else for a second. “They’re planning on closing off the park and probably shutting down this access road around Labor Day.”
“Crap,” Scott said, thinking selfishly that this would eliminate one of his favorite rides.
Nodding, but misreading Scott's reaction, Pete said, “Yep… crap, thirty-five years working here and I don’t even know if I’ll have a job after that. I got some health issues, need the insurance from the state. You know, time was we had a team of twelve people or more doing maintenance and routine patrols ‘round here. We were with the COE then—the Army Corps of Engineers—then they handed us off to the Park Service, then over to the state, who eventually just contracted us out to a facility management company. Now…well, now it’s just me. All the grass cuttin’, paintin’ and of course, inspections of the dam itself.”
Pete was bitter, and Scott could see why. He felt bad for the guy, but he wasn’t exactly a people person, and by now he was getting anxious to get back on the bike. Knowing he still had almost eighteen miles to go, he wanted to get moving before the build-up of lactic acid in his legs made them stiff or they began cramping. Curiosity did begin to get the better of him, though. Looking over at the man, he said, “I always assumed when I came over the dam, and the water was flowing through the gates, that it was generating electricity.”
“Nah, mostly just lettin’ enough water flow to keep wildlife alive downstream. Sometimes we open it for flood control as well… we can let out excess water to keep the lake level from getting too high.”
Pete unlatched a gate and said, “Come and take
a look at this.”
Scott followed him through the warren of fencing and superstructure at the top of the dam over to the backside to look where Pete was pointing. The backside of the structure was an impressive 200-foot drop to a small black river below. At first, he saw nothing, and then he noticed the small rectangle at the base of the nearly invisible steps. The door and steps were the same shade of beige as the dam.
“Once a day I have to go down those steps, unlock that door and go inside to check out the leaks.”
“That looks dangerous,” Scott said. “You mean you look for leaks?” he suggested, offering a correction.
“No, no, no… all dams leak, they’re designed that way. Concrete is porous, you know. I just measure the rate as it collects and flows down the interior walls each day and then send my reports over to the office. Occasionally, the engineers will come out and do a bit of maintenance, but that’s pretty rare these days.”
Scott shook his head, not wanting to admit that he always thought the dam was solid and …leak-proof. He looked back over his shoulder at the deep lake piled up on the backside and began to rethink the wisdom of standing here. “Pete, I appreciate the tour, and I hope I get to see you again. Hopefully, things will work out.”
“Sure thing, Scott. Ya never know… they may find a use for me yet,” Pete gave a hearty laugh. “By the way, young feller, where d’you go to church?” It was the question that seemed to come up whenever Scott met a local for the first time.
Scott grinned and shook his head, not wanting to get into that conversation. The tired-looking maintenance man laughed and said, “Had to ask, you know.” Pete began re-latching the gates and waved goodbye as Scott clipped back on the bike and pedaled hard, now slightly more anxious to get to the far side of the lake.
Chapter Two
As the miles quickly rolled by, Scott found his rhythm again. He felt a car coming up behind him, close. It was another one of those senses that seem to sharpen for cyclists: the feel of danger before you hear or see it. Although no one else was even on the road, the large, cream colored, luxury SUV passed within inches of Scott. The asshole blew his horn just as he got beside him. So much for the three feet of clearance required by law, thought Scott. He could also see the top of the guy’s outstretched hand flipping him the bird as he passed. Some drivers did not like sharing the road, especially with bikes. Scott could never understand why. Just another asshole rushing to be somewhere. That was one more reason he loved it down here at the beach; life was slower, less rushed than the city-life he had escaped. He pumped his legs furiously to get exactly nowhere just as fast as he could. Scott always felt invincible out on the bike, much less so when he was off.
Getting close to the beach but still about ten miles from home, he noticed the bike’s GPS was giving an odd reading. He honestly wasn’t sure he’d even restarted it after changing the tire, though he felt pretty confident he had. For whatever reason, though, it was now giving the wrong information. Instead of the total miles, which should have been about fifty by this point, it was reading a hundred-and-twenty-six, then five, then it switched to kilometers. Then the numbers went away, and the screen remained blank for a few seconds, the ‘Acquiring Signal’ error flashing. Probably just a dead battery. What had begun as a great ride on a beautiful day was starting to get rather tedious.
He topped a small hill revealing a great view of the wetlands that stretched several miles over to the Gulf of Mexico. This was one of his favorite sections of the ride. Coming down the other side of the hill was another speed stretch where he would be in a full tuck position to minimize wind resistance. Some moments on the ride seemed more like flying than riding.
As he moved to readjust his hand positions on the bars, he caught sight of a jet’s telltale contrail in the distance and could just make out the passenger jet, probably heading to South Florida or maybe even somewhere tropical with its load of late summer vacationers. The normally arrow straight vapor trail emitted by the engines seemed unusually erratic. The closer he looked the more it seemed like the profile of the jet was…well, wrong. Although far away, it seemed like he could see more of the jet than was normal… maybe it was just a different angle. As he slowed to watch, it also seemed to be descending too quickly toward the horizon. For a second Scott would have sworn it was dropping toward the sea as the contrail suddenly ceased, but the jet appeared to continue on. He assumed it was normal, probably altitude change or something similar. Still, he watched with an uneasy feeling as it faded from sight over the sliver of ocean that was visible from here. Immediately dismissing the scene, he dropped back down into the tuck position and began the exhilarating descent.
The last half hour of his ride was uneventful and thankfully involved virtually no traffic. Correction: there was actually no traffic. This was odd; his cottage was not on any of the main roads, and this area consisted mainly of weekend cottages and vacation homes. But even now, during the late beach season, rentals were high, and there should be at least some cars on the road. The few he did see were all parked in the bike lane.
“More fucking rude-ass idiots,” he mumbled. In his opinion, a lot of car drivers, like the guy a few miles back, felt they owned the road and had zero consideration for cyclists.
Getting closer to his home, he heard an unusual siren coming from the direction of town, which then abruptly stopped. Closer to his cottage, Scott's face broke into a grin as he saw the same cream-colored SUV on the side of the road with the hood up. A red-faced man in a suit was yelling and gesturing into a cell phone as if to somehow get a signal from an only slightly higher position. Scott now recognized the guy as one of the locals, a developer, or maybe a politician. He was not sure he had ever actually known his name. As Scott got close, the guy noticed him and stepped out directly in the path of the bike. “Hey! You got a phone?” the guy yelled angrily.
Scott answered, “Yep…asshole.” With a smile, he returned the bird salute to the shocked looking guy and rode past without slowing down.
Getting home, he slipped in the side door to his garage, took a minute to wipe the grime from his beloved bike and applied a quick mist of oil to the mechanical parts. The salt air in this area could wreak havoc on anything metal, and Scott was a bit obsessive with his bikes. He lifted the Trek onto its stand above his older and noticeably more weathered training bike. He was tired but buoyant from the endorphins the vigorous workout had pumped into his body.
Putting his cycling shoes on the shelf, he climbed the few steps and entered the cottage. Odd, he noticed, there were no sounds—no stereo playing or AC running. Well, shit …the power is out. This day is just getting better and better, he thought.
It didn’t make any sense to him… there were no storms such as the area frequently had and that knocked the power off, particularly during the hurricane season. Probably some drunken tourist hit a power pole over near town. Although he had no idea how long it had been off, it was already beginning to warm up inside. He stripped off the sweaty Cinelli padded riding shorts and jersey and slipped into some shorts and flip-flops. Scott headed back to the garage, grabbed an icy cold Red Stripe out of the old refrigerator and went to relax on the back deck. Opening the beer and taking a long and wonderfully satisfying pull, he enjoyed the cooler air in the shade of the oaks as he looked out over the black water of the swamp behind the house. Cypress trees also lined much of the view, each draped with a cloak of Spanish moss. He sat back on the deep padded chaise, which felt good on his tired, over-worked muscles. Scott finished off the beer and closed his eyes.
Chapter Three
The sun was in full force, beating down on the Mississippi Gulf Coast with fury. The county equipment shop manager known only as Bartos had come back to the shop to escape the heat and to weld bracing supports on one of the roadway trimmers. The over-sized tractor had an articulated cutting deck that could reach out nearly twenty feet to clear trees on the side of the road. The arm and cutting deck took lots of abuse in their never-ending
mission and seemed to need constant maintenance.
The man’s ever-present teammate, Solo, lay in the shadows nearby as Bartos’ welding suddenly stopped halfway down the seam he was reinforcing. “Shit,” Bartos said to the empty shop. The small, wiry man checked the welding unit, then went to the breaker box. Looking at the dog, he said, “Fuck, Solo, looks like we’re knocking off early today. The power’s out.”
Bartos had started his career with the county working as a lineman, back when the county owned and maintained the local electrical grid. Now they contracted all that to a massive power company conglomerate out of Jackson, and this was their problem. Bartos smiled as he wiped his filthy hands on the shop rag. “Thank God I’m not the one they call anymore when shit goes dark.” Solo looked at him quizzically.
As the shop foreman, Bartos had nearly a dozen men scattered around the county on various assignments. He hoped none of them had clipped a power pole or dug into a junction box and been the cause of this. Picking up one of the handsets he began recalling the crews. Only a few of them responded, but they would get word to the others as they made their way back in. He began putting the tools he’d been using away.
It took most of an hour to clean up and close the large bay doors. The heat inside the enclosed space was already becoming unbearable. Solo’s ears perked up as Bartos heard someone yelling from outside. He glanced briefly at his go-bag on the workbench, knowing there was a pistol inside, but then thought better of it. Well, fuck, he thought, who’s making that goddamn racket? Not like we get many visitors out here.
Walking out of the shop door, Bartos recognized the man in the dusty suit coming up the gravel turnaround. “Mr. Hansbrough?” he said with as much respect as he could force into his voice.
“What the fuck is going on?” the man said. “My new car dies, cell phones are out, there’s nobody on the road. I had to walk miles. I need something to drink.”
