Life Cycles, pt. I
Several times a month I ride my bike to work across seven miles of city streets. It takes me 45 minutes, depending on traffic. I rarely stop, even when I should.The Atwater Bridge stands less than halfway through my journey, but it is the hardest part. It is the one place I must stop, in order to leave the street and get on the bridge, I hoist the bike onto the curbed sidewalk; I lose my momentum.
As I make my way across, I first pedal up a deceptively difficult incline into Los Angeles with both the 5 freeway and the L.A. River beneath me. By the end I am out of breath. I never look at the river, or the gentle hills of Griffith Park to my right.
This morning there was a bedraggled man who preceded me on the bridge. He was riding a rickety bike, very slowly. There was no room for me to pass him, so I was forced to slow down.
And that's when things changed. Pedaling casually, I saw a nest of birds in the rushes of the river. I saw the sun rising to my left. The bike moved easily, my legs weren't strained. I thought, "Why is it so difficult every other day?"
Because every other day I race over the bridge, competing with no one but myself, taking no time for enjoyment of the scenery or my own comfort, spoiling a joyful moment, making what should be a great ride into something with a flaw.
"Who is pushing you, Marty Barrett?" I said.
There is a rest area in the middle of the bridge, and the bedraggled man pulled to the side. Without thinking, I sped up and zipped past, soon aware of how much my legs hurt again, how I was out of breath, and how I was racing for nothing. I stopped and turned around.
The bedraggled man had resumed riding and was making his way slowly across. I got a good look at him. He was very likely homeless.
"He seems to have all the time in the world," I thought. "He's not straining himself. He's probably having the time of his life."
I thought for a moment, and decided to light the homeless man on fire. The smoke met the sunrise, and his ashes blew northwest against the line of the river. I went southwest, because the southeast is for assholes.
Labels: bicycle, life cycles, los angeles, personal history
posted
by Marty Barrett at Tuesday, June 16, 2009
2 Comments:
One of my nsg students is interested in stand-up and I was going to give her your blog address...happily I waited...Anne
In the style of "Going the Distance" by Cake
Reluctantly crouched at Atwater Bridge
Engines pumping on that bike of his
Onto the sidewalk, he must cross
Churning and burning, momentum's lost
He deftly maneuvers a sharp incline
Leaving his home and the world behind
Freeways and rivers are underneath
That's when he feels he's out of breath
Griffith Park to his right, he's homefree now
That's what he does each day somehow
And this day is normal, except for one man,
Still riding and striving as slow as he can
The time that he takes and the pace he has set
Has made him see the beauty that he oft forgets
He stops for a moment, seeing what he's learned
And thinking of the man whom he just burned.
He's going to prison.
He's going to bleed.
He's all alone, an attorney is what he will need.
Because he's guilty of murder and in the southwest
He's better than southeast, but done nonetheless
He's going to prison.
(AHHH-AHHH)
P.S. - Of course I wrote this after LMAO at your story. Peace!
- Funkyman
Post a Comment
Links to this post:
Create a Link
<< Home