A Brush with Fame
by Jacquie Phelan

On a rainy winter day some time back, after suffering through weeks of wet, Charlie and I fell under the spell of a travel brochure -- a fit woman kayaking on a turquoise lagoon somewhere blissfully warm and sunny. In an instant we signed on. It was an educational tour, up close and personal with gray whales and paddling with a pod of similarly inclined tourists. To tilt the novelty balance in favor of the familiar we signed up Charlie's dad, since he had always wanted to try kayaking.

Unknown people were the scary part of our big adventure: to paddle, eat, and camp with who? We had never done this sort of tour before, and we didn't know what to expect. Our guides, Bob Parker and Linda Svendsen of Boojum Expeditions, sent lists, maps, reassurance, and an invoice.

During one pre-trip conversation, I was told a famous person would be among the guests. "But we can't tell you outright." I exhausted 20 questions naming rare people who had achieved renown. Neither an entertainer, a politician, nor a scholar, this dude was dropped at fame's doorstep.

"Oh, and try not to let on that you know who he is," we were advised. The pressure was on. Be casual. Don't pry.

Enforced nonchalance would make sense, smoothing things for this frightfully famous person -- or FFP as I call him. Nothing rocks the boat like an inquisitive party-girl with absolutely no fear of talking to strangers, especially famous ones.

We met in La Paz and took a chartered bus to Bahia de Magdalena. With the three of us were a Canadian doctor, the FFP, his melodramatic girlfriend, and their school pas Aidan and Eva, and a pair of landscape architects who acted like secret agents.

Over dinner and Pacifico cervezas, I quashed the urge to hum, "Hail to the Chief." Two points for discretion. My thoughts plea-bargained their way around the imposed gag order. How's a girl to have any fun? On the other hand, how's a famous guy to have any fun?

Each morning, we would pull our double kayaks across the sand, and then paddle them well offshore to watch the leviathans from a respectful, scary distance. We collected shells, made camp, and sipped spiked punch. Our brilliant guides worked the magic that gifted hosts do to make every person feel special and included. Around each night's campfire, we shared stories, and lost track of which day it was. One evening, as Charlie and I awaited sleep in the dunes, looking at the sky and listening to whale sighs puncturing the sea silence, I asked, "Is he bad at ANYTHING?

That evening, the FFP had serenaded the group with his guitar and proven to be a pretty good singer. For the heck of it, I decided to let the gang, especially my husband and father-in-law, know how incredibly famous my bike was. Take the strain off the other guy.

FFP had once mentioned braving Manhattan traffic on a mountain bike. "What kind of bike do you ride?" I began, faux-innocently.

"A Dime-in-Back," he answered.

"Hmmm," I said "Custom jobs like the Cunningham are just a dream to ride. 'Outside' magazine just did a story on my bike. I happened to bring along my framebuilder."

Surprised laughter from Charlie and his dad.

"And the guy who made HIM."

Years earlier, I had quit telling people my bike won the race, not me. A fellow I had just bested cured me of such pseudo-modesty. He retorted that not everyone can afford a custom-built bike, and how would I like a knuckle sandwich?

But gosh-it-all, FFP is not only famous by birth, but loaded -- sheltered from want, as they say. A life carried out in relative anonymity. He was happy to hear about the Cunninghams and their frame.

"I'm producing a bike festival this summer. You guys should come, birthplace of the sport and all. We're gonna tack on our wedding, too. Check out the upcoming issue of VeloNews."

Luckily, world-famous Charlie Cunningham had retired early that evening, or he would have perished of shame.

"You won't forget the date -- it's 8-8-88," I continued, persistent as a mosquito. August was yet seven months away. Isn't that plenty of notice for busy FFPs? Even for the wedding of a perfect stranger?

Linda picked up the nuptial thread and told how she had surprised her future husband, Kent, with a bona fide Mongolian wedding. No story topped that one, that night or any to follow. In a moment of bridal envy, I doubted my upcoming fat tire fiesta could approach the romance of a thousand-year-old horseback ritual. I knew, too, that someday I'd read about FFP when he finally tied the knot -- maybe with the girl next to him. Nah. Too flighty.

We received a trip roster at tour's end, complete with the full names of each of our companions. Sure enough, I had an address to send my wedding invitation to. I never heard back.

A month after the trip, Charlie, who never notices tabloids or newsmagazines, pointed to the cover of Newsweek, "Hey, look who's there!" FFP looked better in real life than in pictures, and we wondered how weird life must be for him, being snapped and snared, gossiped and groped. I wondered if he knew we knew who he was, or if he cared.

I hadn't thought of FFP for years, then I heard the news Saturday morning. A friend and I were biking, when Heidi cleared her throat and said, "Too bad about FFP."

I shuddered. "What about FFP?" And hoped he was just playing that old trick of telling the public, "I'm going here," and then sneaking off to there.

No such luck. The following day, every newspaper, magazine, and TV station in the world blared the sad news. Our perfect stranger, the gregarious kayak camper, had crashed into the sea en route to a wedding.