Dead Man Below Deck

Chapter 13. A Near Miss

Wednesday had been a bad day, but Thursday proved to be much worse. I woke up exhausted, having tossed and turned all night. The room had been stuffy and my senses were acutely tuned to everything that was going on around me. The cars that drove by on the highway a quarter of a mile away seemed to lack mufflers. The water heater was noisy. The air conditioner sounded like it was powered by a jet engine. I got up twice during the night to use the bathroom. Betty was snoring, something she didn’t usually do. When I finally got to sleep, the damn cat stuck his paw in my mouth.

Staggering out to make coffee at five a.m., I felt like it would take a gallon of the stuff to get me going. After showering, I went out for the newspaper in a daze. The woman at the counter looked at me oddly; I probably looked like I was hung over. The paper contained nothing remotely interesting, so I went back to work on the computer.

The task that morning was to develop a bioterrorism drill for a municipal health department in Texas. The scenario I had dreamed up was for a militant group to start dousing the public swimming pool with nasty bacteria that would cause dysentery. I was going to send data about the hypothetical cases of sick kids to the health department to see if they could analyze it accurately and rapidly. By ten o’clock it was shaping up, but I was ready to quit.

Betty wanted to check out some shops in a little town just past Whitewater called East

Troy. This sounded fine to me, so off we went. East Troy had a nice little square at the center of town with a few shops encircling it. The weather was nice, so I sat on a bench smoking my pipe while Betty picked through a gift shop. By eleven o’clock, we were ready for an early lunch. We decided to try a mom and pop restaurant facing the square.

Usually I liked these little independent restaurants. Ordinary people trying to make a living providing a useful service to the community was an activity worthy of support from my point of view. The waitress was friendly, revealing a couple of missing teeth while she chatted with us. The water glasses did not look very clean, though, and the potato chips were stale. I ordered a hamburger but could not finish it. It tasted bad. Sniffing it, I could not say for sure that the meat was spoiled, so I tried to eat the thing. But I just could not get it down. Being a burger kind of guy that was an unusual experience for me. In fact, I don’t think it had ever happened before. We left that place a little disappointed.

During the twenty minute drive back to Fort Atkinson, my stomach started to give me trouble. Belches started to demand release. Betty was worried that I had food poisoning and was tempted to make me drive to the hospital in Fort Atkinson rather than home. Aside from the gas and some tingling in my arm, my symptoms were not that bad, so I just drove home.

The gassiness cleared up after I drank a Diet Coke, but I didn’t feel like going back to work in the den. A brilliant idea struck me; maybe I needed to take the afternoon off. I would go fishing. While by no stretch of the imagination could anyone describe me as a fisherman, I did have a license and a pole. Catching anything has never been important to me; the fresh air and quiet rush of the river were the sources of satisfaction that came with dropping a line in the water.

Fastening my pole to my bike with a bungi cord, I set off for the river. My route led down Madison Avenue through the center of town. Traffic was light, even at the main intersection in the village which was right by McDonald’s. I caught the green light and continued on through town toward the hospital. Turning left, I was on the river road in another five minutes.

As I peddled along, I was reminded of why we had wanted our summer home to be in a small town. It was very peaceful. Life was good. In a few minutes, all the businesses and houses were gone and I was alone on the heavily wooded road. The river glimmered off to the right, visible only occasionally through the trees. A gentle breeze was blowing in my face.

At this point a couple of people on ten speed racing bikes pulled up level with me. The bikes looked like they were top of the line and must have cost them quite a bit to buy and maintain. The bikers were wearing, of course, spandex biking shorts that looked pretty silly, but if they had padding in the seat, they might have been worth wearing. My tail end was already pretty sore. Maybe not; a guy has to have some standards. The bikers also had helmets on with visors pulled down over their faces. That looked a bit over the top in regard to the level of protection a person really needed, but there was a reason for everything.

I nodded a greeting to them, not speaking to conserve my wind. I was peddling to assist the bike motor which made me huff and puff a little.

The biker on my left did something that surprised me quite a bit. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a switchblade knife which he clicked open then swung at me viciously. I gasped and pulled my bike to the right, wobbling and slowing down. The biker on my right was not accommodating. He also had a knife and was driving it straight toward my side. Opening up my throttle to its maximum, I jammed the pedals as hard as I could and accelerated just out of reach.

Now I was cranking the pedals as fast as I could. Unfortunately, the bikers could easily match my pace. They were on racing bikes and they knew how to operate them. The only reason I was not already lying on the road with knife wounds was simple; racing bikes required the rider to have his butt up in the air as he hunched over the handle bars. This made swinging a knife rather awkward.

But not awkward enough. They caught up with me and renewed their attack. I dodged their swings as best I could. Even so, they managed to inflict some cuts on my arms that burned like fire.

By now we were starting down a steep hill. This enabled me to pick up some speed. Since the road was rough, the bikers had to devote their attention to controlling their bikes. They held off their attack for a moment, no doubt waiting until our speed was again reduced.

As we raced down the hill at a fast pace, I saw with horror that the road made a sharp turn to the left at a bend in the river. How was I going to get out of this? I would have to slow down to make the turn. These maniacs would get me for sure. I could sense a feeling of murderous satisfaction coming from my attackers. This spot was where they had wanted me to go all along. They had been herding me like a lamb to the slaughter.

I couldn’t slow down or they would get me. As I bounced down the road toward the turn, I could see a glimmer of river water through the trees. There was no choice; I had to go for it.

So I did not slow down at all. The bikers dropped back a bit, no doubt wondering what I was doing. The bank dropped off steeply from the road to the river. Shortly after leaving the road, I was fifteen feet in the air, aiming for a gap in the trees. Branches slapped my face and my back wheel banged off of a branch. Then I was out in the sunlight. The bike and I cartwheeled in the air. Afraid of landing on it and breaking a leg, I kicked it away from me in mid air. Then there was a splash and water was all around me. Not sure which direction I should go to find the surface, I just swam until I bobbed to the top.

Miraculously, my glasses were still on my face. However, they were spotted with water droplets, so that I could not see much at all. I could tell where the trees were - that was the bank. That was not the direction I wanted to go since my evil friends would no doubt be waiting for me. I starting swimming out into the center of the river, figuring that was the only safe way to go.

I have never been a strong swimmer and my clothes and shoes were weighing me down. But I had no choice. I just kept up my awkward stroke until I was too tired to continue. Then I treaded water while I caught my breath. I’ve always had a knack for dog paddling.

No movement from the bank seemed to be coming toward me. Perhaps they were watching me, but at least they had not jumped in after me. After five minutes or so, I struck out for the bank on the opposite side of the river.

When I reached it, I was exhausted, so I just held onto a friendly branch for awhile to rest. Then I dragged myself out of the water and struggled my way up the bank. Muddy and tired and dripping wet, I shook off my glasses and looked around. I could see no sign of my attackers and could hear nothing that sounded threatening. So I started the long walk home.

It took nearly three hours to find the nearest bridge then walk home. This gave my clothes time to dry, though my jogging shoes were still squelching a bit when I got to the condo. Taking them off inside the door, I trudged tiredly up the stairs.

Betty was standing at the landing looking down at me sternly. “What happened to you?”  

“Nothing much.”

“Your face is scratched. Your clothes are ripped. Your shoes are wet.”

“Okay, okay. I went fishing.”

Her face cleared up a little. “Oh. You fell in?”

“Yep.”

Then she got angry. “You shouldn’t go fishing without me. You might have drowned,” she stormed.

“A guy can go fishing without taking his wife!” Now I was mad. She was always trying to baby me.

“Never again,” she insisted. “Promise me you will never go fishing again without me!”

“That’s ridiculous. Next, you’ll have me wearing diapers.”

We didn’t speak to each other for a couple of hours. Finally, I figured enough was enough. “Look, I know you were upset. I’m sorry. How about if I take you out somewhere?”

Betty gave me her scared and angry look for a minute, then softened. “Where are you going to take me?”

“You like that Club 26 place down the bypass south of town. How about that?”

This was acceptable, so off we went. Instead of going into the restaurant, we sat at the bar which was a very impressive circular affair made of heavy wood. Betty had a fancy martini and I had a couple of ales. Then, we went over to Culver’s for ice cream. Forgiveness seemed to have been achieved.

When we pulled into our garage back at the condo, Betty looked around quizzically and asked, “Where’s your bike?” Damn. She never misses a trick.