We got up together, few words mentioned between us. An hour later we cleared up our petty fight from last night; were dressed, fed, and on our way. We cycled the mile from our house to Adam's. He offered to make coffee but as we were already late, we decided to get started. I confess that I don't even remember this leg of the trip, I was tired.
Somewhere in Stockton, California I was under a bridge, trailing behind Adam and Vito. I pulled my bike next to me and shuffled my way through crowds of strangers. Vito stood 6'5 with black, curly, Italian locks that bounced well above the primarily Asian population. And next to him Adam's swirling cigarette smoke stuck in the air. I followed my men and absorbed the grass smell mixed with car exhaust and dust. I looked and I saw tables of fresh produce, farm fresh. I stopped Vito at a table with a sign that read "homemade soy milk." I listened to one of the two women tell me about her children's favorite lightly fried tofu that she made fresh and lay on the table between us. They liked the one made with tomatoes and cilantro and that's the one I urged Vito fork out the dollar-fifty for. He put it into his backpack and we continued underneath highway 4.
We quickened our steps near a Chinese food truck and a handful of picnic tables. The thick moisture of grease padded the surrounding air. Nearby trucks unloaded fish: raw eyeballs, scales and all. I'm from Minnesota and it is exciting to see the lobster tank at the upscale grocery. But shrimp, lobster, tuna, you name it, ready to be weighed and chopped right before my eyes, fabulous. I didn't even mind the smell, maybe I still wasn't awake. The plan was to hit all three markets. This was only the first and offered food and fish, we were looking for a 54cm road bike. A cheap one.
Back on our bikes, we followed Adam, his nearly dreaded, silver hair tucked behind one ear and a rolled cigarette was soggy between his lips. Up and across the El Dorado Street bridge Adam kept pace at seventeen mph and I followed. Peddling past run down houses, dingy bars, outdated corner stores, and fields, we turned. Off our bikes once more, this was an open air market where one needed to be on the look out for gems, agile and ready to move. We locked our bikes on the gate. Mine taking a few minutes longer, I had just fallen off my bike and bent the key to my lock. I worked it through and walked beside our tour guide. Adam said, "this is our man. He's here every weekend. He gets new things on Sundays, and he doesn't know what he's got." We entered a cement auditorium first.
There Vito and I bought two cups of coffee. We pored them out onto the dirt covered ground once we were outside again. Up and down the isles we stopped and bought five avocados for a buck, they weren't Haas and they weren't homegrown, but they were a dollar. I shoved them into Vito's backpack.
In suspense we finally made our last stop, our man. The man with my functional and fitting road bike. We scrapped through all his junk, nothing. "Well it's Sunday he gets his new bikes," Adam reminded us, "that's why." We continued on our tour of flea markets, two left. Halfway between our current location and our next was Adam's shop.
Adam came to America by fluke. He landed in San Francisco, bought a vintage Mercedes and broke down in Stockton. Soon after he bought a Volkswagon bus with a painting of Mount Shasta on the side. Mid summer in Stockton, Adam a Bavarian tourist then, stripped himself of his heavy outer garments and began to sun himself. It was not long before the police interrupted him. He was in a church parking lot, needless to say this occurred a few more times. It was two years before we made friends. Now we stopped and had a nice cup of coffee, strong coffee. And on we went down the levy path and toward highway 99. We arrived, Adam deterred questionnaires by telling the friendly clipboard holder that we were German tourists on bicycle, touring Stockton flea markets.
I walked into the fairground type setting. This flea market was orderly with vendor tents in a large square making rows and rows of people selling household cleaners, underwear, tools, peanuts, antiques, and bikes. A young boy cradled his new puppy. "¿Cuál es su nombre?" I asked him. He was shy, "I dunno," I laughed. Peanuts piled on a table caught my eye and fresh peanut sauce was on my mind. A little boy sold me a pound for a dollar. He was happy to keep the change for himself. Adam had a hint of restlessness in his gait. We sped to the exit and biked back to the Levy path, continuing towards Delta College.
Vito tore off on his fancy track bike twenty-three miles per hour. I fell behind and Adam stayed in the middle. I could see Adam turn his head back at me, but I was tired and now pissed. We got there and this time it took a vendor selling fresh French bread for me to come around. Up and down the isles we went, toting our bikes and straying behind Adam holding chunks of fresh bread with our free hands.
A purple Peugeot! Finally something to look at, the man selling it found it in his mother’s garage never ridden. He wanted sixty.
It was a nice, desirable bike in good condition. But it was not the road bike I desired, this pretty purple Peugeot was not going to help me work on holding twenty miles per hour. We took one last lap for the hell of it and walked out of the market tired. We prepared to part ways: a kiss and a laugh and it began to rain.
Entertaining article Jenna. I laughed at the fish tank part of the story. Remember we would get our ice cream, look at the fish and then the sculptured cakes.
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