I don’t understand cell phones. Seems our whole society is talking on them at all times. I’m not sure why, or what everyone has to talk about.
Some years ago my family switched from “the brick” to several smaller phones. Of course, by today’s standards these were pretty large. But for the first time, we had truly portable phone devices. My thinking was that these things could provide us with more security. They would make it possible for any of us to summon help when away from home. In those days, one of us was in grad school at nights, and the family cars were not so reliable.
I also intended to include one of the phones in my gear when I was riding a long brevet. I reasoned that, it would be a good idea to be able to contact folks if trouble arose.
I was facing a really tough ride, on a new to me, route. We would start riding in Dalton; the route would take us north, up into the Smokies.
I should emphasize something. The phone I packed was not really a pocket sized device. I packed it in the randonnee bike’s capacious tour bag, and forgot about it.
A few words about that bag. It’s English. It’s astonishingly waterproof. It can carry a lot of stuff. No matter how it’s packed, the thing you need now is on the bottom, under everything else. The bag has two convenient side pockets. Things that are not too large, and needed often can be packed in the pockets. The bag is magical. Anything that is stowed in a pocket will not be needed. If the item is needed, it will have somehow managed to move into the main compartment, on the bottom.
The ride had started, as all US brevets seem to, in the wee-small hours of the morning. We’d wandered around the route, gradually working northward. The approach to the town of Dahlonega included several long steep climbs. Then we were out of Dahlonega and heading up to Woody Gap. That’s the opposite direction from the most common way to handle that gap. It’s a very long climb, and quite steep.
I’d just settled in to doing the work of the gap climb. I was not feeling particularly good. I’d been on the bike for four hours. It was getting hot. The cell phone started ringing.
I had to stop to answer it. I had to stop on the climb!
I don’t like to stop while climbing. Let me rephrase that. I hate stopping before the top of a climb. The restart hurts. The steeper and longer the climb, the more the pain. It is difficult to bring the bike to a controlled stop on a good incline. It is much more difficult to support the bike while rooting around in bags and such. And the re-start is especially hard.
I was a good mile into an eight mile climb, when the noise started behind me. At first I didn’t get what it was. Then I recognized it. The phone!
I drag the bike to a stop on the scanty shoulder and turn around to find the phone. (Still ringing.) Unbuckle flaps. Open rain fly. Dig through clothing, food supplies, rain gear, tools, spares… I’m strewing my belongings all over the roadside. There it is! On the bottom. (Still ringing.) I grab the thing and it goes silent.
In those days the phone did not identify a missed call, and did not store numbers. Or if it did, I had no idea how to work those features. Best be safe.
I punch in the home number. Waiting. Waiting. My wife finally answers. She has no idea who called.
I pack everything back up, and resume my climb. Ouch.
A mile and a half goes by. I’m settling in to it, my rhythm firmly re-established, when… The phone is ringing again! Yike!
Jam on brakes and yank the bike to the shoulder. Dismount, clumsily and painfully. Turn. Unbuckle flaps. Open rain fly. Dig through clothing, food supplies, rain gear, tools, spare. Strew belongings all over the roadside. Yes! On the bottom. AGAIN. (Still ringing.) I grab the thing and it goes silent. I growl. I pack everything again, making certain that the phone is near the top, and remount. Ouch! Pain!
Most of a mile goes by, and…
BRRRRTTTING!
Stop! Spin! Open bag! Strew clothing and gear! Got it! Hit “Answer.”
My shop was hosting an event that day. The lady on the phone was a good and sweet person who had volunteered to work the event. She thought she was at the right place, but no one was there. Where should she go? (I forbore the giving of a theological answer.)
In the weeks and months prior to this weekend, I had known the event was coming, and I had known I would not be involved. I had entered this event, the one I was riding, over six months before. So I had not informed myself of the particulars of the race that the shop was hosting. I knew absolutely nothing, had no access to anything at the time, and had no way to be of any help to this lady. I told her that. I also told her I was not at the shop or home as I was, as we spoke, riding in another event, and climbing a godforsaken mountain! I hung up.
Something nagged at me. I had a feeling that this was not over. I was also concerned about the limited battery life of the phone. So I stuffed the bulky thing into a jersey pocket, repacked, remounted, and restarted. Ouch! Ouch! Pain!
I spent a mile cursing. I rode another mile re-settling myself. I was nearing the final climb to the summit. My head, heart, and legs were in harmony again. I…
BRRRRTTTING!
I screamed in frustration!
Stop the bike. Drag to the shoulder. Dismount. Spin. Unbuckle. Yank open. Strew clothing and gear. NO PHONE! “Oh crap!” It’s in my jersey pocket! Reach. Lunge. Fumble. Answer.
“Steve?” the nice lady said. “I can’t find anyone. I’ve tried calling everyone I know, and I’m here, and it’s more than an hour after I should be here. What should I do?”
I drew breath for a sharp reply. Then expelled it slowly. “Dear lady,” I replied, “I am, at present on the side of a mountain in north Georgia. I don’t know where you are. I don’t know where they are. I don’t care where anyone is. Have a nice day.”
I hit the disconnect button. Then I turned the phone off. Then I removed the battery. I should be given extra points. I did not throw any of that into the woods.
If I ever meet Alexander Graham Bell, I am going to kill him. Twice. Slowly.
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