Those damn Lefties!

Running from the north end of Carmel, Indiana and snaking through the center of Indianapolis is an approximately 15 mile long ribbon of asphalt called the Monon Trail.

Built on an abandoned railway line, the trail is part of a larger trail network in central Indiana giving runners, walkers and cyclists a safe path for commuting to work and recreation. According to the city of Indianapolis, in 2005 alone the trail was used 1.2 million times. In short, it's a busy stretch of trail and like most busy roadways there are rules. The city of Carmel went as far as posting a speed limit for cyclist on the trail and at key intersections there signs showing who should yield to whom: cyclists are to yield to everyone, roller skaters yield to pedestrians, and pedestrians are free to enjoy the trail at the speed or leisure without having to yield to anyone except the occasional squirrel, fox, and in rare instances deer crossing the trail.

That's the theory.

Seldom have I encountered a skater who was zooming down the trail doing the best Apolo Ohno impression. The cyclists are another breed entirely. Some cyclists, usually sporting a team jersey of some sort, speed down the trail as if they were in the middle of Tour de France time trail, shouting "on your left!" to anyone who may be in their path.

Depending on the tone and volume, "on your left" can mean a few different things. Spoken in a light friendly tone, the phrase is akin to the ring of a bell, a friendly alert that someone is coming behind you. But said in an abrupt angry tone, "on your left" becomes "fuck you, get out my way!" Those are the extremes and there are many different shades in between.

Often the phrase is unnecessary as the poorly tuned and maintained bicycles squeak and rattle their presence before a spoken warning is required. Other moments the trail is virtually empty and wide enough that one can pass without disturbing a walker's meditation.

There has been an increased use of bells on the trail lately which has provided a more pleasant alternative to that annoying phrase. Short of a bell, I wonder how difficult it would be for a cyclist to slow down when approaching someone on foot and simply say: "excuse me." Is it naive to expect such a courtesy?

I may have to accept that the "lefties" are here to stay and instead of listening to bird songs and the wind rushing through the trees, I should carry my own soundtrack and isolate myself from the rest of my trailmates.

There was a plan

There was a plan. I was going to use this platform to trace my observations of life, the universe and everything in a rough chronology; from my childhood in Miami Beach, to my college days in Connecticut, through my time in New York, Washington and onward. All stories told from the perspective of someone who has chosen to eschew internal combustion engined transportation in favor of my own two feet. After the initial post, I made a list of topics I wanted to cover and thought that list would provide a solid framework for this blog and propel my stories forward to the waiting eyes of millions. But as the great poet Robbie Burns once wrote in "To a Mouse, on Turning Her up in Her Nest with the Plough: "best-laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft agley," Unlike the speaker in the poem, I can see forward and with apologies for delays, it's time to walk and write ahead.

Life on two legs: a confession

I've been living with a very dark secret, one that I have been carrying my entire life. After all these years it's time I told someone, anyone, the world before this secret completely consumes me. Ok...here it goes... for most of my life... I have been... a walker.

God, that feels good. Now before I'm flooded with comments about my lack of a car, how I've been a Luddite for shunning the marvels of my own internal combustion engine powered transportation, let me give you some background.

I spent my formative years in Miami Beach during the Sixties and Seventies. I realize that by today's standards that make me "ancient." That is another subject, for another post, on another day. The reason I mention my formative years on Miami Beach, is that it was, and still is a small town. Long before Miami Beach became SoBe and as a result became the ocean side appendage of the city of Miami, Miami Beach maintained it's identity as a city, true and whole, incorporated in 1915.

As a small town, it is very walk-able and I walked EVERYWHERE. From our apartment on 4th and Meridian I would walk to elementary school, walk to the southern branch of the Miami Beach Public Library, walk to Washington Park, walk to visit my dad at Piccolo's Restaurant where he was the baker, walk to the drug store with the newsstand in front and the soda fountain inside, I even walked to the 5th Street Gym (above the drug store) where to had my first, laughable attempts at boxing lessons and never ran into Mohammed Ali.

My parents didn't own a car and neither had a driver's license. My dad, being legally blind, couldn't see well enough to drive and my mom was terrified of driving. I'm not sure why or if there was a specific incident that triggered her aversion of being in control of a car. I never asked, the unspoken question was never answered and that was that.

Of course there were limits to my bipedal wanderings. I didn't walk across the causeway to Miami, at least not until I was in high school. Weekends were often spent taking the "C" or the "K" (later the "M") bus across the MacArthur Causeway to downtown Miami where we would have lunch the McCrory's lunch counter where Elsie would always give me extra potato chips with my hamburger. Lunch would fuel an excursion around the aisles of Burdines, Richard's, and a visit to Yamamoto's store loading up on Japanese rice, laquerware, figureheads to ward off evil spirits, rice candy and origami paper. There was always sandalwood incense burning and to this day, I can't disconnect the sandalwood's scent and the sights and sounds of that store.

More background to come...