All For Veterans

 Today is Veterans’ Day in the US. 

Some time in my current life, my midlife, I noticed that I was becoming more pro-veteran as I’ve become anti-war. Those positions seemed contradictory at first. Then I realized that the best way to honor veterans—and people still in uniform—is to do everything we can to avoid needless, pointless conflict.  Oh, and to ensure that all enlisted people remember that they took an oath to defend the Constitution, not an office-holder.

Four Veterans and a VA Menlo Park Recreational Therapist pose for a photo on the first day of a 7-day cycling ride from Santa Cruz to Carmel, CA, called the California Challenge.

The next-best thing we can do is to make sure that everyone who serves has whatever they need, whether for their physical or mental well-being, for the rest of their lives.* If I had my way, I would give a bicycle to every veteran who wants one.  After all, what better way—for those who can ride, of course—to deal with stress and trauma while staying in shape?

*—Recently, I heard a mental health professional argue that everyone who serves in the armed forces, whether or not they see combat, ends up with PTSD. That actually makes sense to me. After all, the military trains people to, on command, do things very few people would do, and would result in severe penalties if they did them, in civilian life. Also, most service members join or are conscripted at a very young age, when they are more vulnerable to moral injury. Moreover, they are encouraged to bear or mask their suffering and call their denial “toughness” or “resilience.”

Where Did I Go?

Since my previous post--a week and a day ago--I haven't done a lot of riding. But what little time I've spent in the saddle has been interesting.

First, the question of why I haven't been on my bikes.  Short answer:  Didn't feel well.  More precisely, I struggled to stay awake when I didn't work (I took a day off) and didn't do any non-commute riding until Saturday.  That is when I had one of my interesting experiences.

As I pedaled up the short by winding hill in Starlight Park, along the Bronx River, a boy--about eight years old, I guessed--trailed me on a Schwinn beach cruiser-type bike. (It was not an original.)  Just past the penultimate turn, the bike lane branches:  to the right, where I rode, you continue climbing until you reach the pedestrian bridge to 172nd Street and Bronx River Avenue; to the left, a narrower, unpaved path cuts across a terrace and leaves riders and walkers at the foot of that same bridge.  He took the flat route. When we arrived at the bridge, he boasted, "I didn't have to climb!"

Then we continued riding down to Westchester Avenue, where we crossed to the Concrete Plant Park.  There, he voiced what I suspected: "I'm following you!"  His sweet gap-toothed smile beamed innocence.  For some reason, my inner cynic was quiet:  I didn't hear, "He won't be that way for long!" or "He's up to no good."  I realized that he was nothing more, or less, than a kid who was enjoying the sunshine and wind on his bike, just like the adult in front of him.

He didn't have a phone.  I asked him whether he lived nearby and whether his mother would be OK with him riding with me.  Nod to both.  Part of me wanted to lecture him about trusting strangers.  But I realized that wouldn't have done him any good.  All I could do was be an adult he--and his parents--could trust, and have fun riding with him.

Although we were only a couple of kilometers or so, he had never before seen the Concrete Plant Park--or Crotona Park, to which we rode a few minutes later.  He also hadn't pedaled along the bike lane that parallels the Park Avenue railroad tracks or the one that winds underneath the Bruckner Expressway. He marveled that I knew of those places, where I ride often.  Perhaps more important, he learned that he could ride to them.

After about an hour and a half of riding, we stopped at Southern Boulevard and Hunts Point Avenue for one of his favorite snacks:  garlic knots from Domino's.  Then we crossed Southern, where his father and brother were selling Yankees caps and other items from a stall. I expected suspicion; instead they greeted me as a friend and his father thanked me for spending time with him.  

Perhaps I will see that boy--Zane--again, on his bike or off it.  I will not think about how many (or few miles) I rode or that I didn't go to anyplace I hadn't been before.  Then again, maybe I did, after all.

 

You Silly Goose!

 For all of the times I’ve had to dodge geese while cycling the Hudson River Greenway, I’m surprised that this question never crossed my mind:  “What if a goose could ride a bike?”

Funny, how often I find answers to questions I never asked.

Well, all right, it’s a duck. Close enough. (Then again, I am not an ornithologist.)