A simple ride
Note:
We are in the shortest month of an odd year. Hence, I decided to do
something a bit different with my column; I wrote a short story. IÕll jump back
into the non-fiction world soon enough. Till then, enjoy.
In a nondescript city, not unlike the small Midwestern
city of Galesburg, Illinois, lives a man named Jack. He is in his 30Õs and has
held a managerial position in a local business for several years. Jack attended
a four year college where he majored in economics. This background led him to
seek employment in the business sector. Looking back, Jack feels very fortunate
to have taken only two weeks upon graduating to land a secure job. With the
handsome income he brings in, he has been able to put away a good deal of money
over the last ten years. It brings Jack great comfort to read his retirement
fund statements which arrive quarterly in the mail.
JackÕs daily routine largely consists of working and
sleeping. He goes to work very early and sits behind an office desk nearly the
entire day. On weekends, he isnÕt often free either, due to the fact that
business reports have to be completed regularly and it is his sole
responsibility that they get done promptly and accurately. Not surprising, his
busy schedule doesnÕt lend itself to social encounters (romantic or otherwise)
and as such Jack spends most of his private time alone. Yet, since he is always
so busy, he doesnÕt really have time to be lonely. Sure, he expects to get
married some day and even have kids, but as much as this seems an obvious
future outcome, very little in his life suggests that it will actually happen.
The years just keep ticking by.
One
of JackÕs passions involves driving around in his grayish convertible looking
at architecture and gardens. Jack grew up in an old Victorian home with a
rather large backyard, where his mom spent many hours in the flower beds. His
city is replete with older homes with well-cared for gardens, so these drives
provide Jack a bit of a break from the mundaneness of his job.
One
spring day, Jack was driving home from the grocery store, something he did
bright and early each and every Saturday so as to avoid longer lines and awkward
social encounters, when he noticed that a house at the end of his block was
having Òthe Garage Sale of the Century.Ó After unloading his items in his
fridge and cupboard, he decided to head down to see if this sale was half what
it was cracked up to be. Jack loved a good deal and sometimes felt beckoned by ÒFor
SaleÓ signs. When he arrived at the cul-de-sac, he was impressed yet somewhat
intimidated by the hordes of people present. They were swarming among the piles
of goods like worker bees in a hive. After spending about ten minutes wandering
through the yard and garage (he didnÕt like to hang around too long for fear of
seeing one of the few people he knew in town), Jack determined that most of
what he saw was nothing more than the standard junk one finds at such events (stuff
that if he bought would undoubtedly end up either in his trash, on a shelf in
his already cluttered house, or, worse yet, in a yard sale he would need to
have). So he set off to leave, feeling quite comfortable being empty handed. Yet,
just as he was opening the door of his vehicle, he was struck by a glimmering
light off to his right. He turned to find that this glisten emanated from a shiny
bicycle in the yard. As if drawn in by its rays, Jack felt he should go check
it out. Upright and resting against a small maple tree, it was a model very
much like the one he rode as a child. And given that he didnÕt own a bike, he began
to consider if he ought to get one. Leaning over to see its tag, Jack was
pleasantly surprised to see how inexpensively it had been priced. Acting more
impulsively than usual, Jack pulled a $20-dollar bill out of his wallet, handed
it to the homeowner, and threw the bike into the backseat of his high-powered
machine. On his short jaunt home, Jack wondered if he would ever ride it. He
wasnÕt sure but at least it was now an option.
The
next morning, Sunday, Jack woke up extra early to a melodious song coming from
the crabapple tree outside his bedroom window. He headed downstairs to get the
morning paper. Opening the door, he noticed three people, probably a mother,
father, and their young teenager, moseying down the street on their bikes—apparently
undeterred by its narrowness or the many cars parked on it. While seeing a
biker in his neighborhood wasnÕt unusual, it was quite atypical to see a family
riding together or to see adults riding at all. Jack took some satisfaction in
knowing that he lived in a safe neighborhood and one where people were
beginning to go outside and recreate. These three neighbors even looked like
they were enjoying their leisurely ride. Having returned to his kitchen table
to drink a cup of coffee and read the headlines, Jack couldnÕt help but
reminisce about his childhood days when he and his older brother (his lone
sibling) used to pedal around chasing butterflies from garden to garden nearly
every Saturday during the warm months of the year.
Perky
from the caffeine, Jack felt antsy. He had another report to complete today but
he just wasnÕt feeling like spending the entire sunny day behind his computer
screen. Perhaps he could try out this new bike of his. But, oh, how out of
shape he was; fiddling with a keyboard ten hours a day just doesnÕt count as
exercise no matter how fast you type. But, he thought, what are the flatlands
of the Midwest good for if not a bike ride by an aerobically-challenged
individual like himself. Putting excuses behind him, Jack went to dress himself
in athletic looking garb—something not so easy to find in his closet full
of business attire.
Donning a simple T-shirt, kaki shorts and a pair of
low tops, the same outfit that he wore to mow the lawn, Jack set off on an
adventure. Having not thought out his route before he was already perched atop
his two-wheeler, Jack had no plans except to avoid getting dehydrated
(something he did consider and so had brought a generic water bottle). After
about 30 minutes and some 5 miles out of town (Jack had taken Main Street as
far as he could go without stopping), he pulled over to take break and
rejuvenate in preparation for the return home. Under an old oak tree that
spread its branches skyward as if stretching after a long nap, Jack began to
retrace his steps during this half-an-hour trip. Albeit brief, he had observed
so much in so little time. It was if a whole new world had begun to open up.
Not more than a block from his house, Jack had to
break for a stop sign. On bike, he was more careful to come to a complete stop
and look both ways. While at the stop sign, he looked down to make sure that
his foot was properly engaging the pedal—the bottoms of his shoes were
quite worn after hundreds of mows. As he did so, he noticed how much garbage
lay along the curbside—a pair of relatively new sneakers, the casing for
a cell phone, three empty plastic bottles, and several shards of sharp
glass—dangerous looking yet beautifully iridescent. Never before had he
considered how much junk was to be found along the streets. This observation
prompted Jack to ruminate over a series of related questions. Where had these
materials come from? Who put them there? Who was going to pick them up? Where
would they end up? Was his city always so polluted? Why hadnÕt he noticed this
before? (This latter question became recurrent because as he rode on these
seemingly small piles of roughage kept ÒappearingÓ before him, as if sending a
message of some sort.)
Stuck for awhile at this intersection, waiting for a
funeral procession to pass, Jack also began to smell something awful. The more
he stood there waiting, the sicker he became. What the heck was he smelling? He
looked around circumspectly and noticed that the lawns in front of the houses
to his immediate right and left each had little white flags sticking out from
them. Though, not much of a lawn ÒcareÓ expert, Jack knew enough to know that
these flags were placed to indicate that chemicals had been put on the lawn to
ward off pesty insects and/or weeds. By gosh, it was the lawn chemicals that
were making him feel sick. Breathing through his mouth (rather than his
sensitive nose) seemed to help, but Jack couldnÕt help thinking what these
poisons might be doing to him—an innocent passerby. He wasnÕt much of a
scientist but he sill remember something prophetic in his high school chemistry
class—if you smell something, it exists and it is now in your body. Yikes. These thoughts only
made him feel sicker. Oh, how he wanted to move on. Fortunately, he didnÕt have
to wait too much longer.
A couple of blocks farther on, this time Jack got
stopped by a passing eastbound train—one consisting of open car after
open car of coal (apparently carrying low-sulfur black fuel from the Western
states). While waiting, he began to sneeze and his eyes began to water, things
that rarely happened to Jack—he was one of the fortunate among us who
didnÕt have allergies. Jack had routinely been stopped by passing trains, so
this was nothing new, but on a bike, he was able to stop within only a few feet
of the passing cars. Here he was better able to ÒsmellÓ them and physically,
albeit involuntarily, respond to them. So while waiting for some five minutes,
Jack contemplated why he was reacting so strongly this time. Was it because the
coal cars werenÕt covered with a tarp or something? As best as he could remember,
he routinely saw coal cars open and coal heaped like jagged mountain tops
sitting in them. Was it because he was exercising (and so breathing more
deeply)? Was it because he was too close to the train? He knew not why but he
wondered. Also, as he looked to his left, he noticed that several homes (where
his fellow city folk lived) were located within spitting distance of the train
tracks. He began to think about what it must be like to live so close to the
tracks that one can literally smell the chemicals that were being carried on
them day in and day out. Were these residents immune to these noxious fumes or
had they just adapted to them? Never before had Jack ever considered this
question.
Well, the train passed and Jack got back on his bike. A
few blocks farther down Main Street, the train was a distant memory as were his
running nose and water eyes. However, as he approached another big
intersection, the light turned yellow then red. He came to a full stop. While
waiting for the next color change, up pulled a noisy pickup truck. The
excessive noise wasnÕt due to the booming volume of its radio or the activity
of grade-A woofers, rather, the noise was coming directly from the rear section
of the vehicle. Apparently, its muffler was on the fritz. As it accelerated
upon the greening of the traffic light, a heavy cloud of black sooty smoke
billowed on poor Jack just as he gathered himself for the first pedal. Consumed
with this smoke, Jack had to stop breathing for a few seconds. A few seconds
later and finally through the intersection, Jack pulled over on the sidewalk to
regain his composure and his breath. What had just happened? The driver, now
blocks away in the distance, didnÕt mean any harm but nonetheless Jack felt
violated. Why did he have to breathe these fumes? Clearly, there had to be a
law against vehicles with such poor exhaust systems. WasnÕt there? Jack
actually didnÕt know. How much poison had he consumed and would it impair his
health for the rest of the day/week? Jack didnÕt know. How often had he himself
been the driver (or passenger) of a motorized vehicle which had released similar
irritants (perhaps poisons) out on another unsuspecting bicyclist or pedestrian?
Jack wondered.
Unwilling to let this incident deter him, Jack
gathered his thoughts and his bike and set off again. Once out of the city, the
roads became a bit rougher. This was fine since JackÕs bike had wider tires
than a typical 10-speed. And while the bumping did slow Jack down a bit, he
didnÕt seem to mind. But, yet again, JackÕs eyes began to water and his nose
began to tickle, so he pulled off into the ditch (as no sidewalk or shoulder
could be found). Looking back towards the city, Jack spotted the culprit of his
malady clear as day. His little bike and he had created a significant trail of
dust. Not visible to him during his ride since he pedaled straight ahead the
entire way, this dust was surely the source of his discomfort. Jack shook his
head in amazement. And while he stood there in the ditch (appropriately cluttered
with samples of ÒmodernÓ garbage), he noticed how each and every car that
passed from either direction would also be followed by a ghostlike stream of
suspended dirt. Did this always happen? It must, Jack thought. But, once again,
why hadnÕt he noticed this before? He had driven on these ÒdustyÓ roads; not
everyday, mind you, since he lived in the city, but certainly often enough to
have noticed something so visible and predictable.
Not exhausted yet, Jack continued his ride. Bumpy and
a bit dusty, the ride improved because Jack focused more on the new vistas that
were opening up in front of him rather than on his physical ailments. Although,
most of what he observed were just patches of dirt (since the corn and soy that
would soon fill the void hadnÕt yet pierced the surface), Jack was still amazed
at how far in the distance he could see and how large the sky looked from
ground level.
He rode on for a few more minutes and came to yet another
stop sign. This time a tractor pulling several plastic tanks rolled in front of
him. Once again, he noticed how terrible the smells became—acidic, even
caustic, this time. Jack pondered where these chemicals were going and where
they would end up. Were these the same chemicals that he had smelled earlier on
the lawns in his neighborhood; they seemed to smell a bit differently? Wow,
what large containers they were too. Perhaps, Jack thought, he should start investing
his retirement monies in industrial chemicals since they seemed so ubiquitous.
But wouldnÕt doing so only encourage their use?
So sitting under this gigantic wooden climax of
ecological succession, Jack realized how important the decision to ride his
bike had become especially given how trivial it seemed at the time he made it.
Jack longed to ride his bike again, this time in a different direction. And, as
he sat there envisioning his next trip, lo and behold, a solitary biker, coming
from the other direction, stopped, dropped her kickstand, and began walking in
JackÕs direction.
Peter Schwartzman (email: drearth1@gmail.com) is
associate professor and chair of the Environmental Studies Program at Knox
College. Father to two amazing girls, Peter hopes that their lives will be
lived on a cleaner, more just, more environmentally-aware planet. A
nationally-ranked Scrabble¨ junkie, he is also the founder and maintainer of
websites dedicated to peace, empowerment, and environmental well-being: www.onehuman.org;
www.blackthornhill.org;
& www.chicagocleanpower.org.