20 – A Gunshot - Travels with Walter

June 18, 2015

20 – A Gunshot

We're on the road before six. It feels like some kind of victory. We're so proud of ourselves. But then we pass the lone fisherman on the lake who's been casting for the last hour. A fleet of lawn mowers already charge down the fairways of a golf course. The birds are like, Where the hell have you been? But it's not early enough for the guy in the Jeep Grand Cherokee who blows past the flashing lights of a stopped school bus because, hey, screw you little second-graders, I'm late for work at a job in Syracuse that I can't stand.

Today is Walter's birthday. Three years ago he popped out into this world somewhere in Southeastern Idaho and nothing has ever been the same since. It's a good reason to celebrate, so we celebrate. It's not like we're throwing a party or singing songs or buying festive hats or anything, but we want to show him that we care. We want him to know how much he's loved. We do this the best way we know how: with chunks of beef jerky bought at the first gas station we find.

Following a route Kristen made, we pedal on peaceful back roads, some with painted center lines and others without. Walter barks at a fake plastic deer that stands guard over the yard of a mobile home with faded and creased metal siding but doesn't respond at all to the dogs that bark from beneath beat-up trucks as we pass. Despite what Google Maps told us, a road that's supposed to go through instead dead-ends at a closed gate. This is how we find ourselves next to a house with a sign out front for Crazy Eddie's Animal Control.

On our backtrack we see a State Police SUV approach us. Then it pulls a sharp u-turn and heads back the way it came with the gas pedal pressed to the floor. We see it again less than a mile later. It's parked in front of a mobile home with its red and blue lights blazing. The trooper walks toward the home while a man sits in the passenger seat of a red Toyota Camry out front with his legs hanging out of the open door and his feet flat on the ground.

Fifteen seconds later, bang.

A gunshot. No question about it.

Kristen glances back and we look at each other for half a second.

"Go! Go!" I yell out to her.

We mash the pedals as hard as we can to try and put as much distance between ourselves and the home as we can get. My mind goes wild places, scary places. I picture the trooper being shot by someone hiding behind a door or at the end of a hallway inside the mobile home. I imagine what I think that would look like, to see a body slumping over or falling to the floor because of a bullet strike. I can't help but wonder if it's one of those escaped convicts we've been hearing about for the last two weeks. And I think about how if you shot anyone, and most of all a police officer, your first move would be to get the hell away from where you are. If that happens there's a fifty-fifty chance the shooter would be headed our way.

It's fight-or-flight time and we're in full flight.

But a minute later I think about how, if the trooper was shot, we need to do something. We can't just run. I call out to Kristen to stop.

"We have to call 911," I tell her.

And so I do. The dispatcher answers after three rings. He spends two minutes with me asking where I am, what I saw, what I heard, who was around, and so on. I answer the questions as clear and calm as I can, but I'm wired, wound tight.

Then he asks me, "Can you hold for a moment, sir?"

I sit waiting. The line beeps in a flat tone every three seconds.

It takes about a minute for him to return to the call.

"Are you still there, sir?" he asks.

"Yeah."

"Okay, I've just made contact with the officer. He said there was a car-deer accident earlier. He was probably just dispatching the deer."

Ah. Well then. I guess that explains it.

In that instant everything we just experienced comes into focus. The guy in the car had hit the deer and was sitting in the passenger seat because he was still stunned by what happened. The officer was walking back behind the mobile home to put the thing out of its misery, not heading to the front door. It took only one shot to do the job.

I guess that's standard business out here. There are lots of deer, lots of cars, and lots of guns after all. But it'll never feel that way to me. I'm from a part of America where you only hear gunfire when one person's trying to kill another. There's a gravity to the sound of a handgun blast that I just can't ignore.

Pedaling so fast she managed to create a little speed blur.

The flat country roads and fields of young corn that follow feel placid and dull in comparison. I get over the weird feelings about what happened with the gunshot by spend a lot more time than I should thinking about the TV game show Wheel of Fortune. I wonder if it's still on the air, if Pat Sajak still has that amazing head of hair, and how Vanna White must feel to have spent her entire working life turning giant letters while wearing a wide fake smile.

We stop at a farm stand in Canastota to find fresh blueberries and tomatoes. As soon as we roll to a stop, the three women who sit talking in the chairs out front spring to life. The bikes we're riding, the distance we're traveling, the dog we're pulling — they're amazed by all of it. They talk about their dogs, living and passed. They warn us about the hills ahead. They say things like, "You two don't got an ounce a fat on ya, do ya?"

It's a good time; everyone laughs and everyone smiles. And there's nothing strange about that now. As the miles have passed we've found that Walter helps draw the best people in our direction. Once they're in front of us he helps bring out their best qualities. He's like some kind of furry little ambassador sent on a diplomatic mission to delight people he's never met before and will never see again. We're so lucky to have him with us out here.

Beyond town we head west on the Old Erie Canal Trail. It's a thin line of gravel only a foot or two wider than the stance of Walter's trailer, set among so much grass and so many trees. The bees are hard at work, mother geese hiss at us when we pass too close to their young ones, and the shadows of hawks floating on the breeze above the trees flash across the ground in front of us.

No one's around, so we help Walter out of the trailer and let him run free. He charges ahead with eyes focused and legs pumping while we idle behind at five or six miles per hour. With the beef jerky and meatballs and now this, it might in fact be the best day of his life.

It's a beautiful day, but the forecast calls for thunderstorms to roll through in the afternoon or evening. We know the closest state forest is a long way off, and in all honesty we'd rather sit around, drink beer, eat blueberries, and talk to our parents on the phone than bang over the steep hills that wait for us down the road. And that's what we do. We head into Green Lakes State Park, set up the tent, and turn into Team Lazy Fuckers.

Three dog years equals twenty-one human years, after all.

As our day winds down it seems like everyone else is just warming up. Families yell at each other and parents threaten their kids with violence if the little ones don't get out of the road right now. Belches echo loud and long and dudes chop fire wood with such anger that it's only a matter of time before someone loses a toe. The inside of the tent glows orange from the competing infernos that rage in the fire pit of every camp site but ours. I think we've left the gun shots behind, but the chance of being burned alive while we sleep is still in play.

Today's ride: 51 miles (82 km)
Total: 693 miles (1,115 km)

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