Joe’s Apt.

One day while Lex, Grandma and Grandpa were on a relaxing island tour, Nancy and I decided to go for something a bit more active: bicycling around parts of Grand Bahama island. Five hours and twenty odd miles with plenty of sights to see, some of it along the shoreline. “Sounds great,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

Nine riders showed up for the tour bright and early at 8:00am. The hot Caribbean sun was baking everything and everyone in sight. Not a cloud in the sky, and I was prepared. Sunblocked to the nth degree (I burn easily). Sunglasses at the ready. iPod Shuffle prepped with Van Der Graaf Generator, Wilco, Sleepytime Gorilla Museum and The Twilight Singers. To top it all off, my favorite sun visor, a red “Go Ride A Coaster” gem from Paramount Carowinds depicting a stick figure at turns screaming, upside down, dizzy … and tossing his cookies.

At least I think it’s a he.

We should have known we were in for trouble when driver number three dropped us off, wished us a fun round of golf, and asked when she should return. “No - wait. Golf? We’re on the bike tour.” “Ohhhhh. You sure you aren’t playing golf? You’re joking.” “Bike tour.” Back in the van. A few miles later and we arrived at our destination, a van with a bike trailer along the side of the road. We said our hellos, signed our life away on the requisite liability release forms (foreshadowing), picked out our mountain bikes, checked all vital signs, and were soon underway.

Sure enough, we were having a wonderful time. Why, it wasn’t even that hot out anymore!

Our tour guide was brandy-new, very amicable, eager to please … and, as we’d learn, fearless to a fault. We were riding for a good forty-five minutes, well within reach of island civilization, when Nancy observed a rather ominous cloud formation in the distance. Clouds? When did those get here? “Aren’t we going to run into that?”

“The clouds? No, we will be riding around all of that, don’t worry.”

Question: Exactly how do you ride around approaching clouds on a bicycle? Answer: Unless perhaps you’re Lance Armstrong, you probably don’t.

It started as a light drizzle. “Everyone alright? This is nothing. Yeah! Let’s keep going.” Hmm, I guess we were worrying for nothing. Keeping on course, we made our way from the shoreline back inland to the main road. By “main road” I don’t mean it had houses, stores and other accoutrements. It was simply “the main road” with trees all around, as far as the eye could see, the nine of us riding in single file along the right shoulder.

The rain continued falling, a little harder now. Two more miles. “How much longer ‘til we reach a building or something?” “Very close. Keep going. This way. We’re going to ride straight through it.”

We’re going to what?

Two more miles, and still no sign of life aside from the trees to either side, and the occasional car passing by, wipers on, headlights on. The raindrops, once gentle, were now stabbing us all over.

Five more miles. The rain actually worsened, leaping from an original intensity of one to about eleven. We had officially crossed from black-and-white over to technicolor.

That’s when the lightning and thunder started. Together. Zero delay.

Not only were we now drenched to the bone, not only did we have a visibility of about thirty feet, not only were we gulping down rainwater at an alarming clip, we were also acutely aware of just how ungrounded we were.

Stupid.

From the rear half of the line, Nancy screamed: “GET THE VAN!” The tour guide didn’t look back. The sound of thunder was inescapable, and hardly delicate. He probably didn’t hear her, it was so loud. He kept on going, faster. We kept up the pace as best we could, and then …

Insert momentary flashback here.

I was riding home from college on New Jersey State Route 46, heading west, right where Route 3 empties onto it. I remembered how, from the relative safety of our car, I happened to look up and to the left, across Route 46, just in time to witness a transformer high atop a telephone pole get incinerated by a lightning bolt.

Now here I am, miles from home, counting on each strike to hit anything but me. The odds appear significantly against you in the thick of a storm. Out in the open. White knuckles aplenty. Must remain calm though. Just get to safety. We’ll be fine.

Winning the lottery? Forget it. Struck by lightning? “Hey, you never know.”

End flashback.

… we heard a tremendous BANG from overhead. It turned out a tree had just been struck to our immediate right.

Nancy and another rider fell off their bikes in response to the lightning crash. Scrambling back on, they frantically yelled ahead to the front, “GET THE VAN!”

Our fearless tour guide now heard them. He turned his head long enough to shout behind him: “Keep going! This way! It’s just a little bit farther!”

“NO! STOP! GET THE VAAAAAN!”

At last he stopped, looked behind, then ahead, then behind, perhaps to soak it all in. (Yes, “groan now.”) Perhaps he was starting to feel his own sense of mortality a bit more.

Good.

At last, he relented: “Alright! Everyone, TURN AROUND! We’re going back!”

“We are so dead,” I thought.

We were in fact so single-minded in looking ahead through the sheets of rain that we must have been oblivious to the side roads. About a quarter of a mile back was a relatively obscured street. There was no sign, but so what? We turned left and made out some new construction in the distance, and a few homes already completed. We kept to the right-hand side, pedaling with all deliberate speed.

The very next bolt touched down not twenty feet ahead and to my left. I looked up just in time to see a telephone pole transformer get hit with a tremendous BANG and burst into a mini bonfire, only to be extinguished by the rain moments later. Déjà vu all over again.

Now who was about to toss his cookies.

Nancy was thinking to herself: “I just want to see my son grow up. I just want to see my son grow up.” Over and over.

We leaped off our bikes, left them at the side of the road, and ran to one of the finished homes, taking shelter under a one foot overhang.

CRACK! BANG! BOOM! POP! The bolts kept on coming, from all sides. We made our way to the front porch, which had a two foot overhang, and knocked on the door. No answer.

The street was soon flooded. The bikes were submerged to varying degrees.

After multiple tries, our fearless guide reached the tour business owner on his trusty Motorola. Of course we had no idea what street we were on, and neither did they. GPS? Nope.

We picked a few telltale landmarks and advised them to check every single side road they came across. About a half hour later, they found us. So did the family whose front porch we were taking shelter under. They drove across a few lawns in order to reach their own, and parked themselves right in front of us. As they stared, bewildered, from the safety of their car (what a funny sight that was), we quickly waded through ankle-deep water, fished out the mountain bikes, fixed them to the trailer and sloshed into the safety of the van, altogether heavier by several orders of magnitude.

My iPod Shuffle, affectionately named Wrigley, had been relegated to my shorts pocket for the duration of the ride. I’m sorry to report that, having been soaked through and through, the poor iPod had long since drowned, the sole casualty of the trip. No matter. iPods are more easily replaced than, um, what’s that word I’m looking for … people.

With everyone relieved to be safely inside a grounded vehicle, the tour guide and owner headed for a beachfront restaurant to treat us all to lunch. (It wasn’t part of the original deal, but in this case they were making an exception.) Upon arrival, the storm was already on the wane. The power, alas, had not returned, and so we would not be sampling the conch fritters. However, they did have gas stoves, and they managed to whip up a number of other tasty treats. Yum.

Three of the riders opted to finish an abbreviated route after the meal. The rest of us headed straight back to home base. Nancy and I proceeded to hug Lex for a seemingly indeterminate amount of time that afternoon.

The next day featured an extended Dolphin Encounter, fairly close to the Atlantis resort (where Rob and Ambuh were wed). That turned out to be insanely great for everyone involved, but that’s another story for another day.

As for me, I just tried my hand at winning Mike Davidson’s latest iPod Giveway (number five in a continuing series).

Hey. You never know.