Looking for the Stolen Bikes, Episode Two: The Tunnel People

(Continued from Episode One, in which I found myself out of luck and out of quarantine on the south bank of the Rillito River after an encounter with some homeless men. I was told one of the stolen bikes might be found in a tunnel across the river. One of them pointed me north, and I am looking at where we might have to go.)

Across the Rillito River, running clean and cold with snow melt from the mountains north of Tucson, a pair of large drainage tunnels framed a group of men lounging in the desert sun of late winter. Most had shirts off. A few smoked, sitting on the floor of the opening to the tunnel. Theirs was time, time to waste, to wonder, to watch riders roll by, recreating on expensive bikes, bikes worth more than they might earn in a month or two or three.

Must be nice, they might think, to wear tight shorts and colorful jerseys and glide along on a machine that is so light and smooth it almost does the work for you, or has a motor and does do the work for you. So close, but so far. 

Homelessness can make people desperate. These men did not look desperate, but discouraged or demoralized. Baggy pants hung below hips over boxers with waistbands up to abdomens. They were young mostly, the surplus labor force in a holding pattern, outsiders keeping each other company.

At least that's what I told myself as we planned what to do next.

Aaron arrived in Zippy, the '97 Nissan 200 SX that had seen better days. It was missing the rear bumper, had a bungee cord holding the trunk lid closed, and dents from various episodes of bad luck, hard knocks, sharp edges, moving objects, maybe an asteroid or two. It had some antiquated surfer-dude bumper stickers, like "Life's short. Go surfing!" and climbing stickers "Knot now. I'm going climbing."

Zippy had been my car for a while, then it was handed down to Sean, then to Aaron. With each step down the ladder of ownership, it had grown more oxidized, faded, wrinkled, decrepit, and loved. It was a doddering old dog, drooling its way from destination to destination, loyal to the end. We keep things, cars and bikes, rather than upgrade, usually. I guess you could call that a character defect, or grasping pathology, but it was the way we did things, the way we looked at things, had to do with the role things played in making our lives better. People need some things to define themselves, to use as tools and beauty and fun.  

The cars in our family have names like Zippy, Zappo (Sapo, or "toad" in Spanish), Soobie, DeRanger, and others, but we are not particularly a car-crazed group. The vehicles all have around 200,000 miles on them and look worse for the wear. My truck, for example, has been totaled three times, but that's another story.

Suffice it to say, Aaron's car had character. He parked it next to Soobie and Zappo. Now we were three, each arriving in his own vehicle, an embarrassment of riches. All for the cause of finding our lost sheep, the missing bikes. 

Aaron stood incongruously tall from the driver's seat. At six-three, he didn't seem the fit for a mini coupe. He fit better in the trucks he drove on the open road, the big eighteen wheelers he piloted back and forth across the country.

"What's the plan?" he asked, eyes behind black aviators shaded by his trademark black cap and shaved head. "I've got the pepper spray if we need it."

"It's not here," I said, keeping six feet of social distance because of the coronavirus. Even sons are not exempt from quarantine protocols. "We have to go across the river to the Quik Trip. There's an opening to a big storm tunnel there. A guy said that's where the bike is. We'll take Zappo. Oh, and keep your distance... no physical confrontation, and take it easy, keep it low-key, mellow."

So we piled into Zappo for the short drive up to the Quik Trip. As described, there were dumpsters behind the store and next to the opening of a large tunnel. We had driven almost a mile from the mouth of the tunnel, where it emptied into the Rillito. This was a long tunnel.

Walking from the activity of the convenience store past the dumpsters, we left the world of commerce, busyness, and light and gazed into a stooped-over world of cast-offs, makeshift shelters, and darkness. I was hoping that whoever was there would be near the opening. They were not. What was there, were shopping carts, dumpster treasures like old chairs, wood pallets, blankets, and random junk. I swear I saw a flat-screen TV, but that has to be more my faulty memory that actuality.

A smell of rot and piss emanated from the dank, stagnant air inside the opening. If ever there were a vector for contagion, this had to be it.

"I'm not going in there," said Sean.

"Me neither," said Aaron.

I read a sign scrawled on a large sheet of cardboard: "Do not enter this tunnel without a light. It's fucking DARK in here, and we will not save you or come looking for you or care about your screams. Bring a fucking flashlight!"

Fair enough I thought. Don't go in without light.

I peered in as far as I could see as my eyes adjusted, and I could make out a shelter of sorts of tarps and cardboard. It looked like shelters I have seen in slums in Central and South America. It showed resourcefulness in the face of lack. Here too was testimony to the harsh life assigned to those who don't fit, can't fit, or don't want to fit into the role of wage earning consumers. Like the virus, this disease was spreading, if my experience this morning was any indicator.

There were tracks in the sand, bike tracks, and shopping cart tracks. It was clear from the tracks that many people passed by here, that the tunnel was home to several, maybe a dozen, or two, or more, people. I had heard of the homeless camps along the river, that they were growing and that there were more of them, but I did not know people were living in storm drains, tunnels that ran with fury and flood when the rain fell hard enough. This was a harsh lesson about poverty and despair, which I saw here in abundance.

But there were no bikes to be seen. If the bike was here, it was further down the tunnel than I was willing to go. It was clear to me that we would not recover the bike today, or maybe ever.

I retreated to the railing above the opening to the tunnel and considered options. I could come back with a flashlight or headlamp. I could just wait and see if the bike and rider came out.

As I sat with these options, a figure began to emerge from the darkness and entered the light at the source of the tunnel. He paused to let his eyes adjust after turning off his flashlight. He looked at home in the dark, out of his element in the bright light of traffic, of consuming, of high-speed hustle.

He blinked and looked right at me.