Time's Arrow
by Mike Ferrentino

A couple years ago, I read this book by Martin Amis titled 'Time's Arrow'. It started with the narrator's death moment, and then followed as he rode backward along the current of his life, viewing every moment in reverse. As narrator of the events of his own life, he was born at the instant of his bodily death, and so was viewing everything for the first time, albeit in reverse. Things were, unsurprisingly, a little confusing. His relationships with women, for example. They'd start with acrimony and heartbreak, every moment protracted agony. Then they'd become more comfortable and almost exciting, all the way up to the point where every moment was heart thumping anticipation. And then the woman would be gone. No explanation, no rationale. Sex in reverse was another matter too weird for the narrator to get a grasp on. Bed all thrashed and a peculiar feeling of fatigue, followed by a gigantic release which tapers ever decreasingly to arousal, then on to the bed making itself before the couple both go off to dinner feeling giddy with anticipation.

At dinner, they barf onto their plates with the aid of utensils.

I've been thinking about this idea in respect to riding lately. Time's arrow, that is. Not sex. Thinking about sex while riding is kind of overrated. Like in Time's Arrow, I've been imagining riding my life in reverse. And it seems like a pretty good way to go. Every ride starts out with me dead wiped out, but allows me to get stronger until I eventually get off my bike all full of piss and vinegar. Rejuvenating. And my bikes, which start out in various states of disrepair, just keep working better and looking newer with every ride. Then when I'm done with each successive bike, I take it back somewhere all shiny and new, and someone gives me a wad of cash for it. Of course the next bike looks a right shitpile next to the sweet one I just got rid of, but what's a guy going backwards to do?

Tires inflate themselves and grow treads just by riding. Paint chips repair themselves. Chains shrink. My clothes become clean, mud sheds from my body, and I cease to smell. The fatigue before riding is hard to deal with, and I can't understand how anyone could muster the motivation to ride when so tired, if not for the amazing transformation that takes place while riding. Sometimes I start out on a ride all sore and bloody. By the end, naturally, I'm clean, whole, blood-free, and refreshed. My clothes are no longer ripped. The whole thing sounds, in small slices, like utopia.

But then I think further down the Arrow. More time passes. I forget how to bunnyhop. My spin becomes lumpy and awkward. One of my reverse girlfriends tells me that I look like a gorilla trying to ride. My new bikes keep getting heavier and more primitive. Clipless pedals give way to toestraps. Forks work progressively worse, eventually becoming altogether rigid. Tire choices narrow way down. No more index shifting. Hite-Rites come and go. And finally, there I am, clumsy, weak and ignorant. Standing next to a black and silver Diamondback. Tennis shoes and t-shirt, confused by narrow shouldered aliens and their secret language. My Bell V-1 Pro doesn't fit very well.

That's not to say I didn't have a blast when I started out down this path to the here and now. I did. Some would say, those who knew me then and still know me now, that I had a little too much fun starting out. And most of the way in between. But I am here, now. And it's been a long, wonderful voyage of discovery. One that has no foreseeable finish point. And, since this isn't a book and I can't go backwards anyhow, I'm mighty happy to be right here, facing the direction I've been pointed all along. I think this is about the most I can ask of life.