A Cautionary Tale

It started as a normal walk along the trail. With the sun peaking through the trees and an unseasonable lack of chill in the air, I made may way north to the grocery store. I split my shopping between a large chain, an large organic food chain and farmers' markets. This particular morning I was headed to the large chain, excited to redeem digital coupons for several free items: two containers of greek yogurt and a box of protein bars. The coupons are issued every Friday and are live for two weeks. If I plan things right, I can redeem three at once. There's no real reason for doing this other than it feels a bit like a holiday when I can walk out of the grocery store with three items and no have to dig in my wallet for any of it. This particular day was just such a holiday.

Happy with my "purchases" I made my way out of the store and south along the trail. I should describe the trail. It is situated on an old Monon rail line and runs about 15 miles through Indianapolis and one of the north suburbs. The backbone of a system of trails that snake through the city, part of Indianapolis' effort to connect neighborhoods and provide commuters a bike trail connection to downtown.

Still early in the day, the trail was empty and made my way home. Paying attention to the sound of woodpeckers, squirrels and other creatures in the trees that line the trail I paid little attention to what looked like trash bags piled off in the distance. On occasion there have been bags of leaves thrown over backyard fences that have landed on the pathway, so the appearance of an overstuffed black plastic bag would not have been at all unusual.

As I got a little closer, I noticed it wasn't a garbage back at all. For this distance I couldn't tell exactly what it was, but I was certain that it was not a bag of any sort.

At 10 feet away I was certain I knew what was in the middle of path.

It was a sleeping bag, with a sky blue stocking cap peaking out of one end. Instinctively I slowed my pace. While I didn't feel anything evil, I became cautious, "just in case."

At 3 feet, the (hopefully) sleeping figure was on to my left with a shopping bag under their head. I noticed a few items in the sack with their price tags showing in the increasing light of the morning. But I kept walking.

Seeing homeless on street corners and alleyways is a daily occurrence for most of us. It's something we have learned to tune out, like the sounds of traffic or commercials on radio. Silently we are thankful that we are looking down at the figure on the street rather than looking up at disapproving eyes. We attach words like "lazy, "addict, and "bum" to our fellow human, making ourselves comfortably superior as we move on our way and promptly forget the person we've just past.

And that's what I did. I walked past this figure I encountered on my morning walk, happy in the knowledge that it wasn't me. Then, as the distance between us lengthened, my steps slowed.

Then I stopped. Walked back and observed this person curled up in their sleeping bag. Looking for signs of breath I stood and watched for a few minutes. If they were sleeping, I didn't want to wake them. Fortunately, I saw the steady rise and fall of their shoulders and an occasional turn of their head.

Why did I stop? I stopped because I thought that could be me or someone else I knew. Who knew what circumstances led this human here to be sleeping on the Monon Rail Trail, but here they were.

I opened my bag and left one of the containers of yogurt and half the protein bars and proceeded to head home.

With the right combination of circumstances, however unlikely, we could be sleeping in a shelter or warming ourselves on a street corner steam vent. Regardless if the cause is an addiction, mental illness, or the loss a home because criminally high mortgage rates, homelessness is a reality for many.

The homeless should not be pariahs. They are human and deserving of the dignity afforded to all people in the world.

The world is a much better place when we move forward together.

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...