Apr 26 '06 - 1747 W, 2 I - Vote Good + 5 :: Bad - 9 On Two Wheels
Published April 26th 2006 by C.I.C.L.E.
Contributed by Ron Georg : Moab
“Hiya, Ronco, what’s happening?”
I never imagined that I would miss Mike Barlow’s greeting. He was, after all, homeless, itinerant. He could drift in and out of our lives; he could never be taken for granted because his terms were all his own. But now he’ll never drift back in, and I so wish I could take him for granted.
Unless you read his obituary a few weeks ago, you may not have known him by name. His image was bigger than that for most people, and he was immediately identifiable as “the guy on the bicycle with the dogs and the trailer”. While the number of dogs varied—from one to two and back again—the image remained.
Living without was a conscious choice for Mike. He wasn’t anti-social or unskilled; he wasn’t drunk or deranged. While I don’t know what initially caused him to shake the fetters of the American Dream, I know he was proud of the choice. If all the world’s a stage, Mike had jumped off to chortle in the empty front row, dogs by his side.
When he was ranting to tourists in front of City Market or the north Maverik, or while he was snoring with one eye open at the edge of City Park, he was sussing us out. He cataloged the world’s foibles in his laptop computer, one of the few nods to modern technology he indulged. Through satiric skits and sketches he tried to make some sense of it all, while amusing himself endlessly.
He also loved to share; his stories, real and invented, were his stock in trade. They were what he had to offer in exchange for simple interaction. Anyone close enough to be buttonholed would be drawn in. With his eclectic RV, an old Raleigh mountain bike towing a homemade trailer, carrying all his belongings and at least one dog, he was an instant roadside attraction for every passing cyclist.
Of course, life in a tourist town can leave a person a little jaded, too accustomed to the daily spectacle that gives a place character. Add to that Mike’s unselfconscious attitude toward personal hygiene, and many of us would duck Mike, avoiding eye contact, hoping we could dodge his social snare.
Needless to say, I regret so many of the instances I didn’t have time for Mike, or I was short with him as he tried to corner me. If I could just hear “Hiya, Ronco,” once more, from the edge of the park, I’d flip a u-turn, park my bike and trailer next to his, and devote the afternoon to hearing his stories while my little girl, Gracie, would pet his gentle dog, Natasha.
Mike refused to suffer the indignities often associated with those in his class, both as a homeless person and a cyclist. When he was hit by a careless motorist wielding a cell phone, he fought hard to prove he had a right to be where he was, when he was, and that no one was entitled to treat him as invisible. Once, when fighting for a different cause, he was thrown out of the Grand County Sheriff’s offices; he later explained to me, “I understand. I intimidate them; they know that if they had to live my life, the life I choose, they couldn’t hack it.”
Still, Mike was always accepted as a member of this community. Moab City refused to act against him and his meager attempts to earn a living without a business license, pointing out that he wouldn’t be able to apply for a license without an address. City officials could have seen the dispute as an opportunity to squeeze Mike out; instead they chose to tolerate his quirky lifestyle.
In the end, the circumstances surrounding Mike’s demise make me proud to live in this town. Despite Mike’s history of conflict with local law enforcement, he was treated with compassion in his time of need. When Sheriff’s Deputy Louis Manson encountered the ailing man at Lion’s Park, he could have shown the callous indifference the homeless often find in other places.
Manson could have passed Mike off to someone else, or just told him to take a Tums for the chest pains. After all, there was no worried family, no concerned friends around. Instead, he drove him to the hospital himself. At Allen Memorial Hospital, when they couldn’t help him, they didn’t just write him off.
And I’m glad to be at a computer right now, instead of relaying this in person, because I am too choked up to speak as I picture the hospital staff, unwilling to let him slip away without a fight, calling in the cavalry. When they realized he needed more intensive care than they could provide, that his death was likely anywhere but certain here, they called a helicopter to transfer him to Grand Junction.
You might say they were just doing their jobs, operating according to policy, but that would ignore the fact that in this wealthy and supposedly compassionate country many people are allowed to slip through the cracks of our health care system for lack of things like insurance, money, or family. In Los Angeles, Kaiser-Permanente is being investigated for dumping homeless patients on skid row by taxi.
Here, our health care providers called a helicopter, not a taxi, not even an ambulance. It’s tempting to create a swing low, sweet chariot image, to picture Mike, strapped to a gurney, comforted by all this support as he’s carried aloft above his small camp by the side of the road. But if he looked down at all, it wasn’t to bask in the grandeur of his adopted home from so exalted a position—it was to worry what would become of Natasha.
I’m sure he would be happy to know that she was adopted quickly, by a local family who report she’s getting on famously with their other animals. The rest of us can take some comfort in the fact that Mike actually did have family, even if he’d distanced himself from them. They’ve memorialized him as only family can, and they’ve claimed the laptop which contained his musings.
Mike Barlow lived on the fringe, but it wasn’t a hardship. In the cycling world there are those who chose to live without cars, and they prefer to think of themselves as carfree rather than carless, a distinction which emphasizes independence over deprivation. Mike Barlow was carfree and homefree. And he was my friend.
Mike Barlow's faithful companion Sultan passes away.
The article below was originally published Novemember 4, 2004.
A Moment of Silence, Please-One day a few years ago I was in line at
a very crowded store, wishing I were someplace else. I'm uncomfortable
around mass consumerism; I'd rather make six stops at various
merchants-the butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker-than have all
my needs serviced by some omni-mega-corp.
So I was trying my best to slip into an anonymous void when Mike Barlow
spotted me. You may not know him by name, but everyone in town would
recognize Mike by his homemade bike trailer with the big dogs either
riding on top or running alongside. One of Mike's dogs, the big
shepherd named Sultan, had gotten into a little trouble at one of the
bike shops, and Mike wanted to make his defense, right there in my void.
It seems that Sultan, while minding his own business, had been set upon
by a much smaller, but apparently more aggressive, rag-mop of a dog.
Perhaps the little guy had wanted to establish a bit of street cred
among the other pooches, or maybe he was just in a bad mood. Whatever
the cause, he challenged Sultan, and he lost, badly. Unfortunately for
Mike and Sultan, witnesses sided with the underdog.
"They act like those little rat dogs are just cutesy, cuddly little
stuffed toys," Mike ranted to me. "But they're not; they've got teeth,
just like any dog. If they were people, they'd be angry dwarves. You
wouldn't just let an angry dwarf come up and start kicking your shins
and punching your crotch, would you? You'd kick his butt, right?"
I was hoping the question was rhetorical, but Mike stood there, waiting
for an answer. So was everyone else in line. Now, Mike couldn't have
known this, but I used to own an 80-pound pit bull, and I've been in a
similar situation, when a loose yap dog attacked my tethered pit. The
little dog lived, barely, and while no one blamed my dog, the crowd at
the outdoor event where it occurred sympathized with the toothy little
aggressor.
So, to the amusement of the rest of the consumers in line, I had to answer: "Yeah, I suppose I'd have to kick his butt."
Mike agreed, and he left me standing there, stranded outside the void.
Still, I was happy to help him in Sultan's defense. It may seem that
this was an animal who needed no champion, but all pets need the love
and protection of their owners to make it through the human world.
Living out of a bike trailer and a tent, Sultan must have seen Mike as
Alpha Dog, providing for their small pack.
Sultan died a couple of weeks ago, when the 11-year-old dog was unable
to fight off the effects of an infection. He left behind Mike and his
now solo companion, Natasha, a five-year-old shepherd mix. Mike says he
likes to space his dogs in five year intervals, with an older dog to
mentor the new recruit to the pack. Now Natasha will take Sultan's
place in the hierarchy.
Mike is well aware of the pack structure he's created. He choked up
slightly as he offered a short eulogy for Sultan: "He wasn't some
pampered, or ignored, house pet. He lived like a dog, and he died like
a dog."
You can contact Ron Georg with comments or information regarding this column at ontwowheels1@earthlink.net
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That was a very touching story. A bit sad, but very, sweet. thanks
terri (Email) - April 28 '06 - 11:04
Touching tribute. Both to the man and his dog.Nick (Email) - May 01 '06 - 19:21
wonderful article. absolutely appropriate and I am thrilled to have read it. reminds me of a friend who is similar, but alas, no longer in this line of lifestyle. homefree love.Sue Kline (Email) - October 01 '06 - 20:00