After rolling the idea of a tour around in my head awhile, and bouncing ideas back in forth with Troxler, a friend who has toured part of the Appalachians on his Kona Sutra, I decided on a short trip out to Lake Mineral Wells State Park. Trox would meet up with me at some point west of Fort Worth, since I would be leaving from Saginaw, and he would be leaving from Fort Worth's Near South.
By car, the trip to the state park is generally about an hour, but by bicycle, we would need to find a backroads route, and carrying loaded panniers in the Texas heat, we were expecting the ride to take the better part of a day.
Troxler took Henderson (Jacksboro Highway) and met up with me just before crossing under the 820 overpass into Lake Worth. I made my way through the suburban streets of Saginaw and North Fort Worth, and after an hour of pedaling to the rendezvous point, our official ride would begin. We each made accommodations for carrying "extra" water: Troxler added two new bottle cages to his fork, and I packed a backpack hydration system as well as extra bottles in my front pannier. Neither of us packed much in the way of food, just beef jerky, trail mix, Cliff Bars, and the like. Our plan was to lunch in Weatherford and sup in Mineral Wells. A fire ban precluded any traditional cooking at the camp, and I had been advised not to try and pack the way I normally do, so no Coleman Stoves, no solar-powered refrigerators, no kitchen sink.
Passing through the town of Lake Worth by bicycle made me nervous, but Troxler and I made it all the way across the Lake Worth bridge and onto the relative safety of the frontage road without a single car horn or ugly-worded complaint from the drivers we may have inconvenienced.
We took a left on Confederate Parkway, by the Fort Worth Nature Center, and headed southwest towards F.M. 730. Years ago, I had noted that this stretch of road had its aesthetic qualities: rolling hills, rural ranch fences with countless horses and cattle dotting the landscape, but today, the bicycle offered a much more intimate look. During one of our frequent water breaks, I was lucky enough to spot a hummingbird on barbed wire fence just before it lifted off and started feeding on wild Texas gaura flowers nearby.
This intimacy with the land was coupled with vulnerability, a fact impressed upon me every time a gas drilling truck passed by or a rancher with those extra wide rear-view mirrors barrelled by. Confederate Parkway does have a reasonable shoulder for the first few miles, but at some point, maybe at the county line, it disappears, and we were forced back onto the left side of the white line. Some engines seemed to roar angrily as they accelerated after having to slow down for us, and some of the angriest sounding engines belonged to those whose mirrors passed within inches of my puny Styrofoam helmet.
Pausing at a dusty intersection to rehydrate, I spotted a shiny German coin in the dust, scarred by being run over countless times. I pocketed it as Troxler caught up with me, and we waited for traffic to thin out before pedalling out again. Pacing was a challenge for me...I wanted to maintain a healthy, easy cadence, but did not want to drag on the hills. Without a rear view mirror, I frequently looked over my shoulder to find Troxler trailing behind. I trusted that after having pedaled from Pittsburgh to DC, he would know better than me how to maintain a healthy pace, so I tried to follow his lead, though he rode drag. Donning an orange safety vest, he was trusting that I knew the route, and was providing a visual warning to drivers as they approached from our backs.
Confederate Parkway met F.M. 730 in a dusty, treeless hilltop, a few yards north of a convenience store where we stopped to refill our ice and water supplies. The miles that lay ahead were sunny, hot, dusty, and dry. Construction crews interfered with traffic flow at the tops of two consecutive hills, and Troxler and I took advantage of the safety cones and the extra wide shoulder. When possible, we took the lane on the downhills, accelerating up to 35 miles an hour, celebrating the cooling effects of the wind, and earning as much purchase as possible for the next ascents.
On a steep uphill climb, a few miles north of Old Dicey Road in Weatherford, I felt my rear tire go flat. Fortunately, there was a building for lease across the highway, sporting a healthy awning that shaded us as we worked excruciatingly slowly, due to the mind-numbing heat, to get the tube changed. My Schwalbe Marathon Supremes were supposed to be nearly bullet proof, but a tiny piece of rock was enough to slice a piercing hole in the tube. I blame myself for this, as I had been riding a bit lower pressure than called for.
A tenant or owner of the building must have heard us, and he poked his head around the corner to see what was up.
"Oh, hey guys, everything all right?"
"Yeah, just fixing a flat in your shade," Troxler responded.
"That sucks, man, unless it was Fat Tire Ale!" he laughed as he left us fools to our heat-induced stupor.
We used the slight inclination of his driveway to get rolling again and wrestled up the next hill, and the next, and then, finally, we coasted down a long steep descent and made a right on Old Dicey Road, running parallel to Highway 180, until reaching Weatherford's downtown area. For lunch, we headed towards the city square, and found a diner across from the castle-like courthouse.
Deciding to update my spouse as to our safe arrival, I found that she had already messaged me, inquiring about our single set of keys for our single family car, a Dodge Caravan. I stepped out of the air-conditioned diner to dig into my back panniers, and lo and behold, her keys were at the bottom of my bag!
This would mean, an upset redhead would be stranded at home with two kids, while I was out in the wild west.
Troxler asked, "Do you want to head back?"
"Naw," I replied, quietly, "They've got water, and plenty of food at home, let's finish this thing."
Before I could update my Facebook about the dangers of packing my wife's keys into my panniers, she had already beaten me to it with a post that seemed to garner a lot of sympathy from her plethora of |Facebook friends.
We settled our tab, headed across town, and made our way to Peaster Highway and found the trail head to the Lake Mineral Wells State Trailway, a former railroad. It was such a relief to know that for the next 20 miles, we would not have to look over our shoulders or cringe at the sound of someone's Jake Brakes roaring up behind us. Instead, we found the chalky trail to be mostly shaded in the first mile or so by oaks, and pecans, and other native trees. Wildflowers and wild plum shrubs crowded the shoulders of the trail, and animal sign was abundant. The effects of drought could be seen in the curled leaves of many of the understory plants, and in the constant companionship of thousands of grasshoppers who flew and rattled their legs and wings in flight as we disturbed them.
Caution is needed for anyone using road tires on this trail: there were many places where the gravel and sand were loose enough to cause our bikes to bog down and lose their grip. A few crevices could be found, big enough to cause a problem for thin tires. Texas plants such as cacti and mesquite also posed threats to bike and rider. Many of the planks on the old wooden bridges we encountered were being replaced, one by one, by state park staff, but there were hefty splinters in many of the old weathered boards that remained.
At the Garner trail head, Troxler took advantage of a local general store to get fresh cold water. The trail west of this trail head was particularly tricky and loose, but with a modicum of caution, we managed not to completely lose control.
By the time we found the trail that splinters off to Lake Mineral Wells State Park, it was 5 in the afternoon, and we had been cycling since 8 that morning. Fatigue had not totally wiped us out, though. We needed considerable energy to climb the 5% grade that leads up the amphitheater where the park's paved roads could be found. We checked in at the park headquarters, but it was nearing closing time, so the receptionist suggested we find the campsite we wished to use and just wait until morning to pay and register.
I packed lighter than usual, and only had a sleeping pad and a sheet, eschewing a tent for the sake of pure minimalism. Troxler set up his Big Agnes single sleeper tent he had on loan from one of our bike shop buddies, and we decided to skip showers and swimming and all of those niceties to be able to make it to the town of Mineral Wells in time for dinner.
Back we went down the steep, loose, sandy trail with its precarious switchbacks to the main trail way, heading west to the town made famous for its Crazy Water and the Baker Hotel. Crossing Rock Creek, the source of water for the park's lake, I noted that far below our bridge, it seemed cool and shady as the clear greenish water trickled over large boulders to fill a small pool where the shadows of bass could be seen waiting for their next meals. I would have loved to ditch the ride and spend an hour down in that creek with my ultralight spinning rod and wacky worm, but Mineral Wells and dinner awaited our arrival.
As the trail neared town, industrial sites and marl pits could be seen and heard from the trail. The town's active fast food restaurants and outlet stores also came into view, and we pressed on to the trail head, just a few blocks south of the Baker Hotel, that towering monument to the trend that swept our country in the late 19th and early 20th centuries: the taking in of mineral waters for their healing effects.
Starving, Troxler and I found that many businesses surrounding the hotel seemed to have failed or be in the process of dying. The few eateries I could identify through the help of my smart phone were not open on a Thursday night at 7pm, for some reason, so we were left with the choice of finding a sandwich at an ice cream shop we stumbled upon, or cycling back to the junk food outlets at the outskirts of downtown.
We chose the ice cream parlor, and found the food to be light and tasty. Our salads were fresh, and the atmosphere was quiet and cute and quaint. Coca Cola signs and antique drug store soda counter memorabilia abounded. One wall was lined with wooden booths that included a hat rack at each setting, just like a drug store from the 1950's or 40's. As we began to eat, the proprietor, a friendly middle-aged woman, left the counter to begin a Bible study where other folks around her age sat at two joined tables to listen to her discuss the promises God made in the book of Genesis.
"Now the Lord didn't say he would never destroy the world again, but he said he would never use a flood to do it!"
I listened, and the days of my young life in the church came back to me, as I recalled so many of the conversations I had heard about the Bible's application to modern life. For many, it would seem an odd juxtaposition...the commercialism of Coca Cola with the conservative Christianity espoused by the ice cream lady, but I decided to order a Dr. Pepper and a chocolate ice cream and keep my mouth shut.
The ride back to the campsite was pleasant as the sun's angle slanted and the shadows lengthened. By now, what little sunscreen I had employed had done little to prevent a rather raccoon-like appearance to develop around the pattern of my sunglasses. Maybe it was this appearance that encouraged those banded-tailed bandits to badger me all night. I slept little, what with throwing rocks at the six or seven camp robbing rascals as they made their way to our panniers and tried to steal our trash that hung from our lantern hook. At one point, I tried to get a drink from the camp water spigot, but my headlamp revealed that scorpions abounded in the gravel where the water splashed to the ground. With that intelligence found, I moved my sleeping mat to the top of the aluminum picnic table at our campsite and tried to sleep despite the creaking it made whenever I rolled and despite the sound of approaching coons and armadillos who probably meant no harm as they rustled in and around our campsite.
Troxler claims he didn't sleep well either, but jokingly said, "I think there may have been a single tiny moth inside my tent, that bugger! Made it hard to concentrate on sleeping, don't you know?" He had probably lost more sleep to my cursing the coons than anything else.
If you're ever in Weatherford, and you like fresh bread, try the old fashioned sandwich place just north of the square. I'll not name the old fashioned sandwich shop, for fear of sounding commercial, but I found the food to be healthy and fresh and the atmosphere fun and inviting. The shade from the outside awning was especially appreciated as I found that my front tire had gone flat while we dined, due to a mesquite thorn.
Rather than experimenting with alternative routes home, we backtracked our route to Fort Worth and stopped in at Trinity Bicycles to share stories and a cool drink. My wife, still key-less, convinced her sister to come down and pick me and my gear up...though I should have finished the ride home on my own power, I felt no shame in accepting a lift after the triple digit temperatures and the lack of sleep!
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Monday, July 18, 2011
To Tour or Not to Tour, before the end of the SUmmer...
If only there was a River Road leading out of the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex, a great bike route that followed a meandering crystal clear cool river full of cascades!
Since I brought Lenora, my very own Long Haul Trucker, home from the bike shop, summer has intensified, and we've had little to no rain anywhere in the state. I purchased some schoolbus-yellow Ortlieb panniers for my planned tour down through the hill country, and have tried to increase my daily distances to build up for the 70-80 miles a day I had planned to do, but I may just need to wait until November before I head out on the open road. Heat exhaustion is not pretty, no matter how interesting the surrounding terrain.
In the mean time, I've been motivated to paint again. A few weeks ago, some friends of Trinity Bikes in Fort Worth went out on a hot ride around Benbrook Lake. One of the riders snapped a picture of the gang resting and clowning around at the intersection of two dirt roads. The picture was so well composed, it reminded me of a Frederic Remington cowboy painting. I decided that the next oil painting I'd attempt would be inspired by that photograph, and so I've begun.
Despite the stagnant heat of my garage "studio," I'm enjoying the smell of turpentine and the challenge of creating a fresh image out of the gummy, sticky tubes of paint that have rested idle for the past 15 years or more in a dry-rotted tackle box in my dusty garage.
I have an ulterior motive for finishing this work: I have an interview to teach art next week, and they've asked for a portfolio. After years of teaching English, and only sketching in a journal during slack time, I found that I had no finished works of art to show. So, whether I get the job or not, I will feel some satisfaction that I finished a painting, even if I did not tour in the everlasting heat.
Since I brought Lenora, my very own Long Haul Trucker, home from the bike shop, summer has intensified, and we've had little to no rain anywhere in the state. I purchased some schoolbus-yellow Ortlieb panniers for my planned tour down through the hill country, and have tried to increase my daily distances to build up for the 70-80 miles a day I had planned to do, but I may just need to wait until November before I head out on the open road. Heat exhaustion is not pretty, no matter how interesting the surrounding terrain.
In the mean time, I've been motivated to paint again. A few weeks ago, some friends of Trinity Bikes in Fort Worth went out on a hot ride around Benbrook Lake. One of the riders snapped a picture of the gang resting and clowning around at the intersection of two dirt roads. The picture was so well composed, it reminded me of a Frederic Remington cowboy painting. I decided that the next oil painting I'd attempt would be inspired by that photograph, and so I've begun.
Despite the stagnant heat of my garage "studio," I'm enjoying the smell of turpentine and the challenge of creating a fresh image out of the gummy, sticky tubes of paint that have rested idle for the past 15 years or more in a dry-rotted tackle box in my dusty garage.
I have an ulterior motive for finishing this work: I have an interview to teach art next week, and they've asked for a portfolio. After years of teaching English, and only sketching in a journal during slack time, I found that I had no finished works of art to show. So, whether I get the job or not, I will feel some satisfaction that I finished a painting, even if I did not tour in the everlasting heat.
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| Lenora's First Ride: We stopped by the First Friday on the Green, in Fort Worth's Near South before heading north to Saginaw. |
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| Original Photo by Durango Ruiz, a fellow Night Rider and friend of Trinity Bikes. When I first saw the shot, I imagined that Bryan McKendry, crouching, was adjusting a brake caliper. He later informed me that he was posing for an unseen camera, mocking the way some urban youths brag about the greatness of their wheels. Either way, I'm sure there's a number of stories to be found in this image. |
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| Garage Studio: Goforth Ride Day 2 |
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| Adding texture and shaping the riders, day 3 |
Monday, June 6, 2011
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
December 18 and the Ding Dong Ditchers
December 2, 2010:
At about ten til ten, while I was checking my Facebook updates, I hear a frantic ringing of my doorbell, the same frantic ring that I heard back in December of 2005 when I rushed to the door to find my neighbor's wife holding her yellow lab by the collar, saying "Bryan, can Chester come over...our house is on fire!"
This time, when I rushed to the door, instead of a neighbor needing help, I found empty space. I walked out into the darkness, but could hear no one. I had been the victim of the ageless childhood prank, the "Ding Dong Ditch."
I shrugged it off, but annoyed, I surveyed the cul de sac, and finding nothing, went back to the house, signed off of Facebook, and went to bed. Two weeks later, it happened again. This time, the doorbell rang frantically, and a fist pounded on the door itself. This time, I was not at the computer, but I was snuggly wrapped in my comforter with my wife and my toddler, enjoy tranquil sleep. I flew down the stairs, ran out the door, and once again, nothing. I looked at the clock and saw that it was after 11, far too late for a respectable kid to be pranking someone on a weeknight.
This past Friday, being the start of the Christmas Holidays, I figured that some kids might have a little time on their hands, so I chose to sleep on the couch by the front door, blinds open enough to see outside, porchlight burning, but all lights in the house off. I chatted with friends on Facebook, played a video game, read blogs, and ultimately, fell asleep.
At some point in the night, I opened my eyes and glanced outside to see three figures standing on my porch. I could not believe it! I flew to the door, opened it, and in my sleepiness, tried to be menacing...saying "can I HELP You??" with a voice that sounded from the depths of my rage, indignation, and fear. I really knew nothing about the figures on the other side of the door, who they were, what they might be capable of; all I knew was that I wanted them to feel fear. They must have, because their eyes looked about to pop, and they ran down the slope of my yard, across the street and clumsily climbed into a waiting getaway car which seemed unready for the task as it sputtered and coughed a bit before taking off.
My wife heard the commotion, and fear and concern mingled in her voice as she asked from upstairs, "what's going on? What happened?"
"I scared them, I think, honey. God, it's 3:30 in the morning!" I lay back down on the couch and watched, and sure enough, I saw a car returning, sans headlights. It turned the corner across from our cul de sac, and disappeared. I put on my running shoes, a jacket, grabbed my bicycle headlight, and headed down the street. I called the police department's non-emergency number and informed them about the boys. I figured I might find their car parked and bang on their door in return, but no luck.
I returned to my home and camped on the couch again. Then a shadow emerged from the sidewalk beyond the brick wall that edges one side of our lot. I watched as the boy, trying to be sly, peered into my window. I got out of the couch, pointed my finger at him like a pistol, and muttered, "I got you, son of a bitch!" and ran to the door. I had inadvertently locked the deadbolt, and the shuffling of unlucking it tipped him off, so he was in flight by the time my bare feet hit the pavement of the street. I chased him to another car, yelling "Stay away from my house or I'll kick your ASS! I mean it! I'll Kick YOUR ASS!"
I called the police again, telling them that I saw the car more clearly and that the culprits had returned. I got fully dressed, grabbed my keys, and went out to the old minivan, its windshield frosted, and started the engine. Wasting valuable time, I waited for the defrost to kick in before I took out in search of their car. As I exited the cul de sac, I saw one of Saginaw's patrol vehicles parked at the end of our street, and realized that I had just ruined the chances of having the boys arrested. I pulled up to the officer, walked out with my hands in a friendly open gesture, and approached his driver side window. "Good morning, officer. I'm the guy reporting the nuisance kids."
He smiled and said that there had been other events in the evening, including a burglary and a propping of a giant, inflatable Santa against a homeowner's door. He said that the homeowner had reported a box propped against the door, and they thought she had said, "bomb," and so there had been a few moments of stress before my call came in. I returned home one last time, imagining that things would be peaceful knowing that a peace officer was watching over the lane.
I updated my Facebook page with messages about my adventures, but a nagging suspicion haunted me. One of the boys looked familiar, despite the sleep in my eyes. He was a former student, one of my best, and I knew that his father was highly respected and worked in a high-profile position at the same school where I taught. Another former student had posted a picture of this young man, posing against the fender of his new car. Though the color didn't seem right, it was definitely the same body and make as the second car that visited my home. I sent a message to a colleague, whose sons were in the same organizations at school as this young man, and asked her if she knew anything about his car. I finally fell asleep again around 5, but had a 50 mile bike ride planned, for which I had to wake at 7.
The bike ride was an hour away from home, up in Denton County, and it was an all-day affair. While at a resting stop, I checked my voicemail and saw that my colleague had called. "Bryan, I need you to call me back as soon as you get this." I dialed her up, and she informed me that I was right in my suspicions, but moreover, her own oldest son, one of my AP students, was in the car when the event went down. She said that there were six young men gathered at our local park, ready to come over and apologize to me as soon as I got home from my bike ride. I laughed out loud, and she warned me that I had to be mean, that I had to remain angry with them, and I sighed and said, "well, I'll do my best, but part of me is heart-broken that my own students would do this to me. I thought I had a good rapport with my classes."
The last thing I wanted to do when I got home from Denton was entertain a group of teen-aged hoodlums, but when they showed up, their heads bowed, I couldn't find the rage anymore.
"Boys, you realize that you brought out the very worst in me this morning? Had I caught a hold of one of you, this could have been a tragedy. Texas is the last place for guys your age to be doing such a stupid prank." They kept their heads bowed as I recounted the death of the Dallas musician who, suffering side effects from an anti-smoking drug, tried to enter someone's home until they shot him through the door. I told the boys how, if asked two days ago who my best students were, they all would have been on the short list. I used the old "I am so disappointed in you..." and I told them how angry I was that they had disrupted the peace of my neighborhood, and had violated the sanctity of my home.
One of the boys looked up and he said, "I know this may seem hypocritical to say, but you need to know that we respect you. You were my favorite teacher last year, and I know this is a poor way to show it..."
I looked him in the eye, and then the others, and said, "you guys have done the right thing in walking over here to apologize, but an apology is not enough; I think you have cost me aproximately 10 hours of peaceful sleep, so I want you each to spend 10 hours of your own personal holiday time to give back to the community." They agreed to do whatever work I wanted them to do, so I instructed them to return at 9 a.m. Monday.
I went to Walmart and bought some contractor bags and bright orange vests and wrote nice, meaningful messages on them: "Thou shalt not ring thy neighbor's doorbell in vain," read one; another: "Friends don't let Friends ring doorbells and run..." I made four vests, because another young man, absent from the apology meeting, was identified by my colleague as a participant. The boys showed up on time, and I offered them work gloves, the "safety" vests, and some garden tools and sent them out into the neighborhood.
"Boys, you'll find all manner of unsightly trash out in the park: beer bottles, cans, used condoms, you name it. Clean it up. Be careful. No injuries. Keep track of your hours, and if you need to make two days of it, you may." They set out, pulling a garden cart, chuckling about the humor of my vest inscriptions, but they worked all day, on into the dark, and the pile of bags they stacked was quite impressive. They pledged to never disturb my peace again, and I dismissed them, saying "Gentlemen, you earned some respect back by owning up to what you did, and I appreciate that. If you need anything from me, don't be afraid to knock on my door...just stay long enough for me to answer it next time."
At about ten til ten, while I was checking my Facebook updates, I hear a frantic ringing of my doorbell, the same frantic ring that I heard back in December of 2005 when I rushed to the door to find my neighbor's wife holding her yellow lab by the collar, saying "Bryan, can Chester come over...our house is on fire!"
This time, when I rushed to the door, instead of a neighbor needing help, I found empty space. I walked out into the darkness, but could hear no one. I had been the victim of the ageless childhood prank, the "Ding Dong Ditch."
I shrugged it off, but annoyed, I surveyed the cul de sac, and finding nothing, went back to the house, signed off of Facebook, and went to bed. Two weeks later, it happened again. This time, the doorbell rang frantically, and a fist pounded on the door itself. This time, I was not at the computer, but I was snuggly wrapped in my comforter with my wife and my toddler, enjoy tranquil sleep. I flew down the stairs, ran out the door, and once again, nothing. I looked at the clock and saw that it was after 11, far too late for a respectable kid to be pranking someone on a weeknight.
This past Friday, being the start of the Christmas Holidays, I figured that some kids might have a little time on their hands, so I chose to sleep on the couch by the front door, blinds open enough to see outside, porchlight burning, but all lights in the house off. I chatted with friends on Facebook, played a video game, read blogs, and ultimately, fell asleep.
At some point in the night, I opened my eyes and glanced outside to see three figures standing on my porch. I could not believe it! I flew to the door, opened it, and in my sleepiness, tried to be menacing...saying "can I HELP You??" with a voice that sounded from the depths of my rage, indignation, and fear. I really knew nothing about the figures on the other side of the door, who they were, what they might be capable of; all I knew was that I wanted them to feel fear. They must have, because their eyes looked about to pop, and they ran down the slope of my yard, across the street and clumsily climbed into a waiting getaway car which seemed unready for the task as it sputtered and coughed a bit before taking off.
My wife heard the commotion, and fear and concern mingled in her voice as she asked from upstairs, "what's going on? What happened?"
"I scared them, I think, honey. God, it's 3:30 in the morning!" I lay back down on the couch and watched, and sure enough, I saw a car returning, sans headlights. It turned the corner across from our cul de sac, and disappeared. I put on my running shoes, a jacket, grabbed my bicycle headlight, and headed down the street. I called the police department's non-emergency number and informed them about the boys. I figured I might find their car parked and bang on their door in return, but no luck.
I returned to my home and camped on the couch again. Then a shadow emerged from the sidewalk beyond the brick wall that edges one side of our lot. I watched as the boy, trying to be sly, peered into my window. I got out of the couch, pointed my finger at him like a pistol, and muttered, "I got you, son of a bitch!" and ran to the door. I had inadvertently locked the deadbolt, and the shuffling of unlucking it tipped him off, so he was in flight by the time my bare feet hit the pavement of the street. I chased him to another car, yelling "Stay away from my house or I'll kick your ASS! I mean it! I'll Kick YOUR ASS!"
I called the police again, telling them that I saw the car more clearly and that the culprits had returned. I got fully dressed, grabbed my keys, and went out to the old minivan, its windshield frosted, and started the engine. Wasting valuable time, I waited for the defrost to kick in before I took out in search of their car. As I exited the cul de sac, I saw one of Saginaw's patrol vehicles parked at the end of our street, and realized that I had just ruined the chances of having the boys arrested. I pulled up to the officer, walked out with my hands in a friendly open gesture, and approached his driver side window. "Good morning, officer. I'm the guy reporting the nuisance kids."
He smiled and said that there had been other events in the evening, including a burglary and a propping of a giant, inflatable Santa against a homeowner's door. He said that the homeowner had reported a box propped against the door, and they thought she had said, "bomb," and so there had been a few moments of stress before my call came in. I returned home one last time, imagining that things would be peaceful knowing that a peace officer was watching over the lane.
I updated my Facebook page with messages about my adventures, but a nagging suspicion haunted me. One of the boys looked familiar, despite the sleep in my eyes. He was a former student, one of my best, and I knew that his father was highly respected and worked in a high-profile position at the same school where I taught. Another former student had posted a picture of this young man, posing against the fender of his new car. Though the color didn't seem right, it was definitely the same body and make as the second car that visited my home. I sent a message to a colleague, whose sons were in the same organizations at school as this young man, and asked her if she knew anything about his car. I finally fell asleep again around 5, but had a 50 mile bike ride planned, for which I had to wake at 7.
The bike ride was an hour away from home, up in Denton County, and it was an all-day affair. While at a resting stop, I checked my voicemail and saw that my colleague had called. "Bryan, I need you to call me back as soon as you get this." I dialed her up, and she informed me that I was right in my suspicions, but moreover, her own oldest son, one of my AP students, was in the car when the event went down. She said that there were six young men gathered at our local park, ready to come over and apologize to me as soon as I got home from my bike ride. I laughed out loud, and she warned me that I had to be mean, that I had to remain angry with them, and I sighed and said, "well, I'll do my best, but part of me is heart-broken that my own students would do this to me. I thought I had a good rapport with my classes."
The last thing I wanted to do when I got home from Denton was entertain a group of teen-aged hoodlums, but when they showed up, their heads bowed, I couldn't find the rage anymore.
"Boys, you realize that you brought out the very worst in me this morning? Had I caught a hold of one of you, this could have been a tragedy. Texas is the last place for guys your age to be doing such a stupid prank." They kept their heads bowed as I recounted the death of the Dallas musician who, suffering side effects from an anti-smoking drug, tried to enter someone's home until they shot him through the door. I told the boys how, if asked two days ago who my best students were, they all would have been on the short list. I used the old "I am so disappointed in you..." and I told them how angry I was that they had disrupted the peace of my neighborhood, and had violated the sanctity of my home.
One of the boys looked up and he said, "I know this may seem hypocritical to say, but you need to know that we respect you. You were my favorite teacher last year, and I know this is a poor way to show it..."
I looked him in the eye, and then the others, and said, "you guys have done the right thing in walking over here to apologize, but an apology is not enough; I think you have cost me aproximately 10 hours of peaceful sleep, so I want you each to spend 10 hours of your own personal holiday time to give back to the community." They agreed to do whatever work I wanted them to do, so I instructed them to return at 9 a.m. Monday.
I went to Walmart and bought some contractor bags and bright orange vests and wrote nice, meaningful messages on them: "Thou shalt not ring thy neighbor's doorbell in vain," read one; another: "Friends don't let Friends ring doorbells and run..." I made four vests, because another young man, absent from the apology meeting, was identified by my colleague as a participant. The boys showed up on time, and I offered them work gloves, the "safety" vests, and some garden tools and sent them out into the neighborhood.
"Boys, you'll find all manner of unsightly trash out in the park: beer bottles, cans, used condoms, you name it. Clean it up. Be careful. No injuries. Keep track of your hours, and if you need to make two days of it, you may." They set out, pulling a garden cart, chuckling about the humor of my vest inscriptions, but they worked all day, on into the dark, and the pile of bags they stacked was quite impressive. They pledged to never disturb my peace again, and I dismissed them, saying "Gentlemen, you earned some respect back by owning up to what you did, and I appreciate that. If you need anything from me, don't be afraid to knock on my door...just stay long enough for me to answer it next time."
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
7.8 miles to work and 35 miles to get back home...
When I was a boy, driving to visit relatives in other states was how we spent family vacations. My dad being in the Air Force, we seldom lived closer to relatives than a short 12 hour drive. In my restless boy's mind, the trip home was always more than twice as long as the getting there, especially when we lived in Florida and drove up to North Carolina for a few days at a time. I-95 is monotonous, but after seeing the huge oaks and the antebellum houses in the Carolinas, the return to the drab stucco homes that waited for us in Florida removed all desire to see the next mile marker...
Tuesday morning, I had a workshop at the Region XI Educational Service Center, just a couple of exits south on I-35W from North Loop 820. My wife needed the car, so I was left to set up a last minute carpool with one of my colleagues, or attempt to cycle my way down there. I used Google Maps and plotted a bicycle route and realized that it was only 7.8 miles to the workshop if I chose the route that would take me through the Diamond Hills neighborhood. I decided to go for it, believing the hardest part of the trip would be the stretch of Blue Mound Road I'd have to negotiate with all its morning traffic.
Sure enough, Blue Mound Road was dicey. Near Saginaw High School, there's very little shoulder, and only two lanes to handle the thousands of vehicles that line up on their way to work. As the road widens to four lanes, the shoulder seems even narrower and I tucked my elbows in tightly to keep from getting snagged by a rearview mirror. Each storm drain opened like a pitfall, threatening to throw me down into oncoming traffic. Broken glass and sheet metal screws and other rough debris crunched under my road tires and I feared the flat that would slow my commute even further.
Once past North Loop 820, Blue Mound became a two lane road again, with extra wide shoulders to accomodate the occasional semi rig that needs to park on the side of the road by the many warehouse and industrial facilities. At this point in my ride, I was able to take a breath and enjoy the sun rise.
Soon, I was in the neighborhood. Some would emphasize the last syllable in the word, but despite all I've heard about the Diamond Hills neighborhood, I saw people out on the sidewalk, talking amiably to their neighbors, I saw old homes landscaped with heirloom flowers, and I saw children walking and riding bikes to school. I heard a chicken or two, and I did see a loose pit bull roaming the streets, but all-in-all, I found the morning ride pleasant and peaceful once away from the hubbub of the heavy traffic lanes.
I arrived an hour ahead of schedule, which was ample time for me to do the bird bath and paper towel rub down to try to deal with the sweat of the morning exercise, and I was energized and ready to listen to our presenter and learn the skills I was supposed to learn...
When the workshop ended, I realized that I was done about an hour earlier than I had expected, so, instead of retracing my earlier route, I took the scenic one, and ended up in Saginaw only after seeing the better part of the Trinity Trails, the Arts District, the Burton Hill area, Riverbend, Samson Park, and so forth and so on...
I'm addicted to pedaling, it seems, and when given the choice of retracing my path or blazing a new one, I always choose the latter. And like those boyhood roadtrips, I often find the return home to be twice as long as the getting there.
Tuesday morning, I had a workshop at the Region XI Educational Service Center, just a couple of exits south on I-35W from North Loop 820. My wife needed the car, so I was left to set up a last minute carpool with one of my colleagues, or attempt to cycle my way down there. I used Google Maps and plotted a bicycle route and realized that it was only 7.8 miles to the workshop if I chose the route that would take me through the Diamond Hills neighborhood. I decided to go for it, believing the hardest part of the trip would be the stretch of Blue Mound Road I'd have to negotiate with all its morning traffic.
Sure enough, Blue Mound Road was dicey. Near Saginaw High School, there's very little shoulder, and only two lanes to handle the thousands of vehicles that line up on their way to work. As the road widens to four lanes, the shoulder seems even narrower and I tucked my elbows in tightly to keep from getting snagged by a rearview mirror. Each storm drain opened like a pitfall, threatening to throw me down into oncoming traffic. Broken glass and sheet metal screws and other rough debris crunched under my road tires and I feared the flat that would slow my commute even further.
Once past North Loop 820, Blue Mound became a two lane road again, with extra wide shoulders to accomodate the occasional semi rig that needs to park on the side of the road by the many warehouse and industrial facilities. At this point in my ride, I was able to take a breath and enjoy the sun rise.
Soon, I was in the neighborhood. Some would emphasize the last syllable in the word, but despite all I've heard about the Diamond Hills neighborhood, I saw people out on the sidewalk, talking amiably to their neighbors, I saw old homes landscaped with heirloom flowers, and I saw children walking and riding bikes to school. I heard a chicken or two, and I did see a loose pit bull roaming the streets, but all-in-all, I found the morning ride pleasant and peaceful once away from the hubbub of the heavy traffic lanes.
I arrived an hour ahead of schedule, which was ample time for me to do the bird bath and paper towel rub down to try to deal with the sweat of the morning exercise, and I was energized and ready to listen to our presenter and learn the skills I was supposed to learn...
When the workshop ended, I realized that I was done about an hour earlier than I had expected, so, instead of retracing my earlier route, I took the scenic one, and ended up in Saginaw only after seeing the better part of the Trinity Trails, the Arts District, the Burton Hill area, Riverbend, Samson Park, and so forth and so on...
I'm addicted to pedaling, it seems, and when given the choice of retracing my path or blazing a new one, I always choose the latter. And like those boyhood roadtrips, I often find the return home to be twice as long as the getting there.
Friday, September 10, 2010
New daydreams
The more I pedal, the more I feel the need to.
Labor Day Weekend, I biked from Saginaw to downtown Fort Worth to pick up some coffee. Not just any coffee, but a bag of locally roasted beans I had heard folks talking about. A fellow Night Rider, Paul Allen, had roasted a bag and left it at Trinity Bicycles down on South Main. The gorgeous sunny weather and the freedom of cycling through town, across the Trinity Trails system, even down some of the less savory streets that make up part of my route, all worked together to feed my newfound addiction.
On my way to the waiting java, I started dreaming of longer trips, trekking across country, slowly digesting the miles, one bite at a time. I wondered about investing in a touring bike, and, since I was picking up my coffee at Trinity Bicycles anyway, slowly worked one of the guys into a conversation about my potential upgrade from a fitness bike to a touring bike. I'll skip the details, but I left the shop, with some bikes on my mind to check out later when I could get online.
On my way back home, I ended up on the western side of the trials, headed towards the Naval Air Station. As I pedaled along the gravel-strewn dike path, I noticed ahead of me a fellow wheeled exerciser. Instead of a bicycle, he was steadily working the wheels of a wheelchair. Muscled arms, sweaty and red with what looked like enormous effort, he approached and I offered a "good afternoon" to which he responded with equal politeness as he passed. By the distance from our crossing paths to the nearest access to the trail, I estimated that he had gone at the very least, a mile, but I suspect he had done more than that.
Seeing people like him, suffering who knows what health condition but still able to get out and enjoy the exertion, makes me all the more inspired to pursue a long bike trip next summer. I haven't made up my mind where I want to go most, but just the idea of challenging my endurance while seeing the country from the intimate perspective of the bicycle saddle just fills my imagination today.
The boys at Trinity Bicycles, having heard that my wife won't let me drop a grand on a new bike before cleaning out the garage, have offered to come up to the suburbs and lend me a hand. As soon as I get caught up somewhat on my finances, I'll give them a call and start building up my touring machine.
Until then, I'll be daydreaming over those websites that users use to gloat over their conquests (the two-wheeled conquests) as they post pictures from all over the world showing off their heavily-laden panniers and their front racks brimming with cargo.
Labor Day Weekend, I biked from Saginaw to downtown Fort Worth to pick up some coffee. Not just any coffee, but a bag of locally roasted beans I had heard folks talking about. A fellow Night Rider, Paul Allen, had roasted a bag and left it at Trinity Bicycles down on South Main. The gorgeous sunny weather and the freedom of cycling through town, across the Trinity Trails system, even down some of the less savory streets that make up part of my route, all worked together to feed my newfound addiction.
On my way to the waiting java, I started dreaming of longer trips, trekking across country, slowly digesting the miles, one bite at a time. I wondered about investing in a touring bike, and, since I was picking up my coffee at Trinity Bicycles anyway, slowly worked one of the guys into a conversation about my potential upgrade from a fitness bike to a touring bike. I'll skip the details, but I left the shop, with some bikes on my mind to check out later when I could get online.
On my way back home, I ended up on the western side of the trials, headed towards the Naval Air Station. As I pedaled along the gravel-strewn dike path, I noticed ahead of me a fellow wheeled exerciser. Instead of a bicycle, he was steadily working the wheels of a wheelchair. Muscled arms, sweaty and red with what looked like enormous effort, he approached and I offered a "good afternoon" to which he responded with equal politeness as he passed. By the distance from our crossing paths to the nearest access to the trail, I estimated that he had gone at the very least, a mile, but I suspect he had done more than that.
Seeing people like him, suffering who knows what health condition but still able to get out and enjoy the exertion, makes me all the more inspired to pursue a long bike trip next summer. I haven't made up my mind where I want to go most, but just the idea of challenging my endurance while seeing the country from the intimate perspective of the bicycle saddle just fills my imagination today.
The boys at Trinity Bicycles, having heard that my wife won't let me drop a grand on a new bike before cleaning out the garage, have offered to come up to the suburbs and lend me a hand. As soon as I get caught up somewhat on my finances, I'll give them a call and start building up my touring machine.
Until then, I'll be daydreaming over those websites that users use to gloat over their conquests (the two-wheeled conquests) as they post pictures from all over the world showing off their heavily-laden panniers and their front racks brimming with cargo.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Choosing the Path of Least Resistance
I'm the kind of driver who, when needing to go left, will sometimes turn right, just to go with the flow--- until an opportunity appears to make a u-turn. I despise waiting, and loathe going against the flow. Constant motion is my desire. Like a cycle of nature, I'd rather go with the flow.
When cruising on my bicycle, I use the same principle. Rather than trying to be militant about my right to be on the road, I try to pick the route with the widest shoulder, the least congestion, and the greatest chance of my personal survival. Riding a bicycle requires diplomacy, especially when you consider that even the smallest of smart cars could potentially run you down and end your cycling career. For better or worse, the cyclist is connected to the environment in which he or she pedals. Not isolated by the artificial bubble of the automobile, the cyclist must be concerned about every shard of broken glass or sheet metal screw that could puncture a tire, every flying insect that could sting or blind him, every distracted soccer mom whose SUV could flatten him. For this, the cyclist is rewarded with a greater awareness of what it means to be a living, moving creature in that natural activity of moving from one place to another.
Late to cycling in my adult life, being 35 years old before purchasing a "serious" bicycle for the purpose of commuting to and from work, I had initially reveled in the youthfulness that I felt when cycling through my neighborhood, nostalgic for the days of my adolescence, when my Huffy was my chariot. Now into my third year of commuting by bicycle, I have begun to see cycling almost as a spiritual activity. It's hard to deny that there's a certain peacefulness in finding the downside of a long rolling hill, the breeze in your face, especially when the road is open, free of all vehicular traffic.
When cruising on my bicycle, I use the same principle. Rather than trying to be militant about my right to be on the road, I try to pick the route with the widest shoulder, the least congestion, and the greatest chance of my personal survival. Riding a bicycle requires diplomacy, especially when you consider that even the smallest of smart cars could potentially run you down and end your cycling career. For better or worse, the cyclist is connected to the environment in which he or she pedals. Not isolated by the artificial bubble of the automobile, the cyclist must be concerned about every shard of broken glass or sheet metal screw that could puncture a tire, every flying insect that could sting or blind him, every distracted soccer mom whose SUV could flatten him. For this, the cyclist is rewarded with a greater awareness of what it means to be a living, moving creature in that natural activity of moving from one place to another.
Late to cycling in my adult life, being 35 years old before purchasing a "serious" bicycle for the purpose of commuting to and from work, I had initially reveled in the youthfulness that I felt when cycling through my neighborhood, nostalgic for the days of my adolescence, when my Huffy was my chariot. Now into my third year of commuting by bicycle, I have begun to see cycling almost as a spiritual activity. It's hard to deny that there's a certain peacefulness in finding the downside of a long rolling hill, the breeze in your face, especially when the road is open, free of all vehicular traffic.
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