Spokes in the Wheel: 2025

It’s hot. Africa hot. An eerie silence has descended upon my neighborhood. From my perspective on the front porch, not a single person is in view as far as I can see. The yards are all empty, the windows all closed, the shades all drawn. My schoolmates and I are all home from school now, and yet the streets that are normally the venue for afternoon baseball are strangely empty, the striking players refusing to play in these conditions. It will be a few hours yet before the other kids will venture out, waiting for the oppressive heat to wane. A long, crowded commute on a hot school bus has left us instead craving a tall glass of something cold and sweet and a cool place in front of the TV. But I will watch no television today, for I am in my mother’s doghouse again. I will have to sit out here on the porch for a while and serve my sentence. It seems that I alone will brave the harsh elements of this early June day.

But I am alone only in the human sense.

The magpies, normally annoyingly vociferous, are silent, taking refuge on the lush, green grass under the two black walnut trees in my front yard. They cast a wary eye towards the porch as they wait for the cool of evening to resume their normal routine. Their banana yellow beaks agape, they pant in a futile attempt to cool down. My dog Chuck, the object of the magpies’ anxiety, lies off to my side, panting also. The Labrador retriever was a gift from my parents on my fourth birthday. Three years old now, Chuck is experiencing his hottest summer yet. His black coat surely was not designed for the extreme heat of the Sacramento Valley. For the birds on the lawn he has no interest: a bird dog with no will to hunt the teasing magpies who surely haunt his dreams. Today these natural adversaries have a common enemy in the heat, much like the lions and cheetahs and zebras and gazelles of the Serengeti Plains. They lie disinterested in each other, side by side under the searing sun, waiting for nightfall to hunt and be hunted.

With dark brown, sorrowful eyes, Chuck pleads to me for help but there is little I can do. My mom won’t let him enter her house—a sterile, bright white, dirt-free environment that has certain areas where even I am not allowed to go. Dogs are dirty, she says. I have already hosed Chuck down once in an effort to cool him off, but the relief was short lived.

When the heat becomes unbearable, I turn on the hose once again and he allows me to wet his thick, black fur. Taking turns, we lap the cold, rubbery water from the hose. Relieved again for the time being, a goofy smile stretches across his muzzle and I giggle as we play in the soothing water. Sufficiently cooled off, we then return to our accustomed positions on the porch, having consumed so much water we can barely move. We both just stare out into the rising heat. There is not much else to do but wait it out.

The insects have also fallen silent. The cicadas, usually filling the summer air with their shrill song, have given up for the day. Likewise, the katydids and crickets have lost their voices. The only sound is the distant drone of Interstate 80, which runs right behind my house. Even the record-setting heat of this summer day does not slow the highway traffic. Like a purring cat that never wakes, there is a perpetual din that remains constant, day and night. The sound is a natural part of my environment, like the wind hissing through the trees or the rain pattering on the roof. But only on a very still and quiet day like today do I notice that the freeway is even there.

My house sits atop a hill, making our yard slope steeply towards the street. From the front porch the walkway in front of me drops off out of sight as it makes its way to the shimmering road. It is as if I am sitting on a dock watching ships sail over the horizon and disappear. To the left of the walkway, along the side of the garage, drooping bottlebrush bushes drip their red, prickly flowers toward the ground. The honey bees and the big, fat bumble bees that frequent these plants are nowhere to be seen. Red lava rock, as hot as it has been since its volcanic birth, covers the ground around the bushes. To my right I check the chrysanthemums, also floating in a river of red lava, for signs of life. The butterflies—Monarchs, Tiger Swallowtails, Cabbage, and Buckeyes—are gone too. However, I notice that there are tiny yellow crab spiders in some of the blooms, waiting motionless for an insect meal that will not come today. Above the mums, geraniums flourish in a planter box built just below the living room window. I stay away from them though because, unlike most people, I think they smell like dirty socks.

Our well-manicured grass is difficult to mow because of the slope. My dad says that I will be big enough to mow it myself soon. The slope of the yard does provide some benefits though. My driveway has become the favorite place for the neighborhood boys to race their Hot Wheels. We carefully set up the long tracks and race them all the way from the garage to the gutter. Lately I have been winning because my dad showed me how to put sewing machine oil on the axles to make the cars go faster.

The two walnut trees create a canopy that lets little sunlight filter through to the turf. Around the trees, a circle of stones protects the delicate daisies caressing the trunks. Like huge, six-foot hay bales, bunches of pampas grass run along the side fence. The blades are long, narrow, and razor sharp like swords. My father planted them as a deterrent to burglars but for the most part they only cut the neighborhood kids and devour our wayward baseballs. And anyway, Chuck would never let a burglar get over the fence.

The garage of our house looks like an old brown barn from a Midwestern farm. Its broad, angular roof ends on either side with eaves that hang down very low. A seven-year-old like me can easily run beneath them, but adults must duck or walk around. Over the large front door, decorative woodwork mimics the doors of a hay loft.

Over the slope of the lawn I can see the street. Images from some far-off, distant place dance and shiver in the silver heat that rises from the asphalt like fleeing spirits. Walking home from the bus stop an hour or so ago, the road a black skillet, I felt the heat biting me through my leather sandals. I tried to hop as I walked in an effort to keep my feet off the ground as long as possible, like the lizard I saw on television that alternately raised two of its feet above the fiery desert sand to keep them cool. But for me, it didn’t work. I resorted to walking in the gutter, where a small stream of warm but refreshing water flowed, even though I knew that my mom would probably get mad at me for soaking my good sandals. And I was right. So here I sit on the front porch with my dog, both banished from the house, waiting for my sandals to dry.

I find it a little hard to breathe, the heat like a mighty python constricting my chest. The air is dry, still and tasteless. Dead. No breeze to carry fragrance, no moisture to enhance it. I look over to Chuck and see that he is already dry again. Scooting over next to him I draw a deep breath. A dry dog, like a dry summer day, has no smell.

Sweat forms tiny pools at the base of each blonde hair on my arm. I sit and watch until the pools grow large and overflow their pores, generating small streams that flow down to the lake forming in valley of my elbow.

Even though the sun falls lower toward the horizon, this is the hottest part of the day. As the shadow from the front porch overhang creeps forward towards the street, the first signs of life appear before me. A trail of ants strings across the walkway, following the shadow of the overhang, noticeably avoiding the sun. I drop a small stone in their path and they become confused for a short time. But they quickly find their way around it and resume the serious business of being ants.

The magpies are still sitting under the tree, waiting. This is the first time that I have ever been this close to them. Normally they are very timid. My dad says this is because they are quite intelligent. His friend had one when they were kids and he taught it to talk. Dad says that you have to split their tongues with a razor blade to form a fork in order for them to speak. I have always wondered what it would be like to have one for a pet but I’m sure my mom wouldn’t let me have one. Birds are dirty, she would say.

I hear the doorknob click and turn around to see my mom opening the front door. “Are your sandals dry yet, kiddo?” she asks.

“Yep.”

“Okay, you can come in now.”

“Can Chuck come?” I ask.

“No honey, he’s filthy.”

“Hmm. Okay, I’ll just stay out here for a while then.”

With a frown and a shake of her head, my mother closes the door. Chuck and I stare out into the rising heat. We’re just going to wait it out.

Before any long vacation I typically do some spring cleaning and sell things for pocket money. It usually doesn't amount to that much, maybe enough for a meal or a T-shirt, but it's not really about the money. Vacation is simply motivation to get rid of stuff.

One time many years ago, right before Jennifer and I went to Mexico, I sat and ripped our entire music collection, which was around 300 CDs. We then sold the CDs to the now defunct Dimple Records back when CDs had value. We had quite a few pesos for fun money.

Most of the time, however, I sell bike parts. Being a lifelong cyclist, and a hoarder, meant I had a substantial collection of parts in The Archive. Until recently, The Archive was vast and deep, but when we moved to Folsom I didn't have the space to hoard anymore.

Last year before we went to Cabo I had a five dollar sale on Craigslist featuring derailleurs, shifters, cassettes, pedals, stems, handlebars and various other parts. Everything was in great shape and as you can imagine, business was good. The beauty of selling things cheap is it seems to limit interactions with weirdos, scammers and negotiators. Everyone showed up with cash and was happy with their near-new parts.

In a couple weeks we are again going to Cabo San Lucas, but this year The Archive is looking a little thin. What remains are the parts I will still use and really old crap with a very limited audience. Last year the front derailleurs weren't a huge seller for obvious reasons—the front derailleur has gone the way of rim brakes and friction shifting. I think I sold maybe three or four of them. I looked at what was left and decided a "grab bag" package deal was the way to go.

I listed 14 front derailleurs and various adapters and shims for 20 bucks. Even at that price it took almost a week before a got a bite.

It doesn't seem like all that long ago when I was using front derailleurs. I personally never had a real problem with them—on the trail or setting them up—but once I tried a modern single-ring system I knew I was never going back.

Now the house is completely free of front derailleurs, and a little bit of history is gone from The Archive forever.

Later.