LYRICS

Progeny

Rob Castro

Mick O'Grady

Written by Mike Daily

Chapter Nine

Mick changes his P.O.S t-shirt to a Radio Concuss to match the bike.

Black, red, and white.

So he won’t have to switch out the DOOM Dunk Nikes he’s wearin'.

Nike SPR VLN’s.

Collector’s items.

Back when they were still in the box.

He customized ‘em with the Aesop Rock round laces.

Grey jeans he’s got on are keepin’ the knobby knees undercover.

Kids would ask Mick during summers in York why wasn’t he wearin’ shorts? Was he crazy? In this heat? And high humidity?

Legs are too skinny.

His response could’ve been that easy.

R.L. Osborn didn’t wear shorts very often either.

Not unless he was lake jumpin’.

Even when he was lake jumpin’, now that Mick thinks of it.

R.L. was wearin' jeans when he did that 360 off the dock into the lake at the end of the Mountain Dew commercial.

Mick puts on his Bell helmet and Atmosphere fingerless gloves.

He zips shut his backpack.

No, he reconsiders. It’s too hot for these.

He takes off the gloves.

He unzips the backpack, stows the gloves, zips it shut.

This is startin’ to make some sense.

Mick picks it up.

He opens the dressing room door and exits.

Paramedics.

Rodd’s got a Trek mountain bike up on a repair stand.

“Pronounced pain, O’Grady!” he calls out.

The paramedics laugh.

Female, male.

“I failed to mention I’m a certified suspension technician,” Rodd says to the female paramedic. “Check your oil, m’am?”

He drums his fingers on the red Stratos Pro rear shock.

“Yes,” she says. “Please.”

Is her tongue pierced? Mick wonders. Slight lisp.

“Hi, I’m Mick,” he says to her.

“Glorieta,” she says.

Unpierced tongue, Mick sees.

“Nice to meet you, Glorieta. And you must be—?”

“Angelo,” the male paramedic says.

Angelo and Mick shake hands.

“Mick’s visitin’ from Oregon,” Rodd says. “Hopefully you won’t be seein’ too much of him. I know I will.”

“Our panniers come from Portland, Oregon,” Angelo says.

“’Pan-yers’,” Mick says. “I was wonderin' how you pronounced those saddle bags on the sides.”

“Panniers,” Glorieta says. “Yes.”

“Custom made for NMM,” Angelo says. “New Mexico Medics.”

“I can have your overhaul done next Monday, Glorieta,” Rodd says. “Gotta order some parts.”

“October the 14th?”

“Not this Monday. Next Monday. The, uh…”

“Better check his calendar!” Angelo says and laughs.

Rodd checks his Carpet Queens calendar.

“October 21st,” Rodd says.

“OK,” Glorieta says. “I guess. I’ll ride my Yeti.”

“You’ve been hammerin’ hardcore on this thing. That’s what I like to see.”

Emergency call comes in on a walkie-talkie or two-way radio. Glorieta responds. Angelo says later guys. They leave the warehouse.

“Careful everybody!” Rodd calls out after them.

It’s 9:56 AM.

Mick says he saw that Rodd checked his Carpet Queens calendar. Miss October looks pretty serious about her Petersons in front of a roaring fire. Is that a Skyway T/A?

“Good eye, O’Grady.”

“Totally tricked out,” Mick says. “She even has a Mickey Mouse bell on her bars like ‘The Master of Balance’ Robert Peterson had. How badass.”

“Ground Control Freestyle Team from Foster City represent!”

“Is that where Carpet Queens are from?” Mick asks. “San Francisco?”

“New York. They’re based in Queens, New York.”

“Carpet Queens Bike Club is from Queens. That makes total sense almost.”

“Carpet Queens are BMX society’s ‘One Percenters,’” Rodd says.

“BMXSociety.com?”

“No, BMX society in general. Social misfits to begin with, you know? Carpet Queens are the elite one percent of us who’ve managed to become independently wealthy social misfits. The Dons who can afford anything. They ransack old school bike shop owners’ garages and basements and attics. Or their men do. Women accomplices.”

“Ooh,” Mick says.

“From coast to coast, they’re relentless,” Rodd goes on. “Their ruthlessness to expand their collections is second to none. Step One: Negotiate. Step Two: Liquidate. Carpet Queens have cleaned out entire warehouses that way. It’s insane. It’s sick but they’re smart. Any bike or part or article of clothing they want, they get it and they keep it stored in the original packaging.”

“NOS,” Mick says. “’New Old Stock.’”

“NOS. Yeah. Until they build their ultimate showpiece or they don’t want it anymore or until they want somethin’ else they see online of course, then they flip it. That’s why dudes call it the mentally illest bike club on the planet.”

“Because they’re jealous?”

“They flip or they trade. I’ve worked out a few trades here and there but it’s very rare. I got lucky. Jealous? Did you say?”

“Yes,” Mick says. “I am. Do they call Carpet Queens the mentally illest bike club on the planet because they’re so envious of their collections?”

Rodd puts on his helmet.

“They’re green with envy. Neon green with envy. The calendar models ride more than the Dons do. That’s the sickest thing about ‘em.”

“That is one stretched Peterson she’s doin’, I must say. Stretched-to-the-max.”

“Oh, they get into it,” Rodd says. “The models do actual freestyle tricks. The first year they did the calendar—2010, I think—the girls were just posin’ with the bikes. Which, by the way, not all of ‘em were the freshest. Some of ‘em were so ridiculously overbuilt, they were obscene.”

“The models?”

“The bikes,” Rodd says. “The show bikes.”

“Oh, I thought you meant the calendar ladies.”

“No, the bikes. Some of Carpet Queens’ first builds were such tragedies. Catastrophes. Eye candy shenanigans.”

“Dionysian Crankensteins,” Mick says. “The ‘NY’ in ‘Dionysian’ needs to be capitalized on their hats to stand for ‘New York’: DioNYsian’s Crankensteins.”

“Neck bolts sold separately,” Rodd says.

Mick laughs.

“They have to color-coordinate everything. Araya triple-dipped chrome rims with black and red anodized spoke nipples. Who had set-ups like that, O’Grady? No one that I ever saw. They pick the most expensive cranksets you could get from mail order ads in the mags or catalogs. Titron titanium pedals with high-polished LRP cages? Remember LRP? Loncarevich Racing Products? I could keep goin’.”

“Go on.”

“We gotta get ridin’.”

“Oh yeah.”

“I want you to see somethin’ first on this GJS. Scope the treads on these tires. They still have the release powder showin’ on ‘em. That is straight from the Tioga factory, babycakes. Mid-‘80s.”

“OMG. Seriously.”

Mick takes out his phone. He taps the camera app. Takes a close-up photo of the back tire. Asks Rodd why he’s doin’ this.

Rodd snaps on his yellow Jofa mouthguard.

“Why am I doin’ what?”

“Why are you gonna ride your ’82 Steve Bennett ‘Bio-Air’ GJS? Shouldn’t it be in a showcase in a climate-controlled museum? Next to Pat Benatar’s guitar?”

“Neil Giraldo was Pat’s lead guitarist. She didn’t play. She married him. Well I guess you could ask my wife Chat that question: ‘Why did Rodd decide to ride his Bio-Air?’ She’ll have a more in-depth answer to it. Since she’s also my psycho-analyst. But I’ll tell you this, man. I’ll tell you this. I don’t know what’s gonna happen, man, but I wanna get my kicks before—“

“Kix? You just had a bowl of Kix.”

Rodd laughs.

“Time to ride, O’G. Leave your backpack. Lock it in that locker. Take the key.”