There was talk...that white folks were intent on taking over this place and remaking it in our own image... ...the New Vanilla City. Instead of strange incense, oils, and rasta caps, the sidewalk vendors on Canal Street would sell exotic Dutch cheeses and bootleg Jimmy Buffett CDs. ...had the voting gone the other way - a city where gospel brunches were replaced by Gregorian chant breakfasts... The menus at Dookie Chase's and Willie Mae's in the Treme would be revoked... Instead, bagels and lox on every plate! Imagine a Jazzfest where the Polka Tent replaces that...Gospel Tent... Something in a tasteful woodwind quartet... Some barbershop quartet. Some college chorales. In the Quarter, we were going to get rid of all those noisy streetcorner brass bands and break-dancers and the tap-dancing kids and replace them with: more mimes. - Rose
Monday. My sister told me yesterday that it would rain today. She was right. It's pouring when I get up. When I leave for work, it's mostly let up. Today and Wednesday will be rainy. It's turning into a hell of a week, preceded by the last half f the previous month, during which work became busy enough requiring me to stay late most days, as much as 2 hours after close. The temptation has been there to take the transit system home, as the schedule has coincided with my getting finished. It's a temptation which I shouldn't give in to, but has given me more time at home after work. Is this what my life has become, a struggle between maintaining my cardio workout and chores at home? As I get older, my life is speeding up, not slowing down. I have less time, not more. And I don't even have a family. I'm not even married. I'm not a part of any clubs. I find myself having to maneuver my weekly trips to the gym and grocery shopping to single available slots during the week, away from my only day off because I always appear to be out of the house on that day as well. What would this blog do without my life's endless schedule? I don't know what toll it's taking on myself, but the toll on my bike... Monday morning, I had planned to ride out to the DMV to renew my driver's license. But, in the rain? Screw it. The week is young, or so I think. I should know better. I'm out on the connecting trail to work, in my rain poncho, which I carry in my new bag for the bike frame. The old bag was past due retirement. The new one I found for 15 bucks. It was in the same sporting goods supercenter, but hidden away from the other bike frame bags, which run upwarsds of $60 to $100. For a bag smaller your hand. Bicycle products no longer are marketed to a customer, so it appears to me, for any kind of practical reason. Tiny bike frame bags and various little accessories, shaped to match the contour of the frame, strike me as being sold for a kind of metaphysical purpose;, to achieve some kind of lifestyle. The bag I purchased is shaped like...a bag. And it's larger than one which sells for more than six times as much. Rolling down the trail, I pass a homeless guy in a knit cap. I believe the cap is inside out, as the tag is sticking straight up in the air on the top of his head. It almost looks like some kind of a small sign. At work, I end up putting in 9 1/2 hours. I haven't done that for maybe three years. I head home by way of the train station. On the steps up to the platform sit a couple. The girl looks as if she's either high or dead tired. A car comes to collect them. On a bench on the platform is a figure who at first glance appears to be wrapped in colorful blankets. It turns out to be a brightly colored rainbow blanket. It's a woman with a withered crack addict like face. In a melodic voice she asks me for a few dollars. On the train, I stand where those with bicycles do, at the end of the car. Through a window in the door, I can see through the widow of the next car. That one is full of the street people who must inhabit the station after 9 PM. I'm not usually out this late. One guy is wearing a towel around his head. A couple street guys are also in my car, conversing about Burger King.
On Tuesday I get a late start. To get to work on time, again I need to make use of the transit system. Soon, I'm at a station with my bike waiting for a bus to work. For perhaps a week, I've felt a bump on my rear tire. And it appears as if the rear rim may be bent. But I felt a bump there before. I was told previously it was where an inserted liner, between the tube and tire overlapped along the circumference. The liner is to prevent tube punctures which penetrate the tire. The pandemic caused a gap in the distribution of sealant to bike shops, and this is an alternative. So, I paid it no mind. Until this morning, sitting down on the concrete at the bus gate, right next to my rear rim. I just happened to glance at it. There is a bulge in the tire. In fact, there is a hole in the tire itself, not quite as big as a dime, where the tube is visible. Jesus. I immediately understand that, if I get out or work on time, I will be going back to the old sporting goods supercenter. I don't feel comfortable riding on this tire anymore. In fact, again I stay at work just late enough to catch the bus. On the bus is a guy who's talking to someone else. He's responding to a query as to why things happen the way they do. "It's the universe. That's how the universe works. You know that." He laughs a quick kind of laugh. He responds to more queries with just his laugh. From the train I see many folk in jerseys for the city's hockey team. There must be a game this evening. My late mom was a big fan of the team, routinely going to games with the sister and attending, shall we say, enthusiastically. On this train is a bald overweight guy in a hoodie and shorts. He's talking to a female half his size. He's pontificating about life in America. He begins telling her how he was on the cusp of the chicken pox vaccine, while her "generation" probably knew of a time only with immunization against it. Somehow, he goes from a polemic about chicken pox into an analysis of the US Supreme Court. She sounds engrossed with him. The pair disembark at a station where I routinely used to pass through, on my way to and from work. 'Twas during most of the 12 1/2 years I spent with the company for which I worked the longest. I watched the old parking lot here raised for the new condominium complex which has since stood in its place. I remember a day after the condo was complete, when a homeless woman was listening to some young college or post-college types out on a balcony. I would later recognize her from a neighborhood website I used to belong to. A photo from a doorbell camera was posted there, of her telling the resident at home that she in an accident. I don't recall what her hustle was. (Or did I recognize her photo from seeing her at the station?) From the platform below she berated them for, among other things, "eating organic food!" I don't recall if they ignored her, went back inside, or both. Watching the pair leave the train, they appear to also be residents of this condo complex. As the train departs the station, I see a handful or two of homeless. They occupy this station still, this group sitting on the concrete under a walkway of the condo.
I realize that I must change trains when we reach only one of the two last stops at which to do so. I get out within yards of where I used to workout when I worked downtown. The place closed down when the pandemic arrived, and never reopened. The woman behind the desk inside I was fiends with. I wonder if the outdoor pool is still going in the summer? The next train is the one I want. It's full of passengers all in jerseys. A couple of stops later, they all file out at an indoor arena. The following stop is the end of the line. This is the city's premiere downtown train hub. Some months ago, it was the subject of criticism for its invasion by homeless. This confluence was the result of downtown's main park, at the other end of the pedestrian mall, being closed for groundskeeping. The homeless inhabitants there moved here. I watch one homeless guy headed for the station entrance. He drops a pack of cigarettes without noticing, perhaps because he's too busy jerking his downturned head from side to side, in some kind of psychological dance. Before I head over to the bike shop, I stop into a health food supermarket to grab dinner from their copious buffet. There's various meal choices prepared fresh and a coffee shop, and some tables where customers can sit and eat. These tables are popular with the downtown homeless population at this end pf the pedestrian mall. The outside benches are fenced off behind chain link, along with a row of gardens which used to be popular with homeless. I take dinner on the road. The bike shop ain't far from here. There are steps up to a pedestrian bridge over the train tracks. The steps have a ramp with grooves, for the wheels of suitcases. I use the ramp for my bike. I'm wondering if any other cyclists do the same thing, then I get to the other end of the bridge. I'm using the ramp to descend when I see a cyclist just arriving at the bottom of the steps. There's only one ramp. He must carry his bike past me up the steps. I turn around to see him use the ramp the rest of the way up. I guess this answers my question.
The Bike of Death, or Inches to Go Before I Sleep
My bike has been no stranger to this bike shop. I don't see the usual profusion of customers with skis. The season must be over. I have a brief wait for the next tech. I mention that the brake cables are beginning to feel stretched again, my rear rim may be bent, and wtf is this bulge in the tire? She puts it up on the stand and has a look before calling another tech. After a brief once over, she comes out to tell me yet another unexpected and crazy story. For reasons unexplained (What else is new?), the back rim is full of cracks. The spokes are...being "ripped" out of the rim "from the inside." Did I just step into some other universe? This has happed how, by some kind of psychic force? I tell the tech that I'm the slowest rider on the trail. I have grey-haired cyclists passing me, with their reclining seats and their windshields and their two-seater bikes. I'm slower than the goddamned rollerbladers. Well, of course there's no way to know for sure, I'm told. I just happened to purchase a bike where, in less than a year and a half, the spokes will become fucking torn from the rim. She's told by the other tech, "It happens with aluminum rims." Where, when. how? I've had bikes from department stores (in other words, of low quality) on which axels have bent and failed. I remember watching one front axle come apart as I was riding it. To my knowledge, those bikes never had as much as a loose spoke. Here's the consensus. The damage began with a fracture in the rim. It's either a manufacturing event, or I somehow fractured the rim. In other words, it was a manufacturing event. The structural failure of the rim caused the bulge and hole in the tire. "It's kind of cool-looking," she tells me. I survived this rim long enough to hear that, what could have killed me is actually cool-looking. Miles to go before I sleep. She recommends a tune up, during which any other problems will most likely be addressed. I am but her humble customer. The bike should be ready by the 12th, before which I will get a call with results of the more extensive inspection. I was prepared to have to leave the bike. I hike back to the train, which arrives in jig time. I'm opening tomorrow for my coworker, and I need to be in bed early. I make my bus connection just as promptly, and am home in time to hit the hay. I don't recall any dreams of rims disintegrating on a downhill run.
Wednesday. I'm coming home from work on the trail along the river. It's been a rainy day in the upper 40s F. I pass a couple of guys carrying surfboards. The rain must have increased the flow in the river. These are the first river surfers of the season. It begins raining again. By the time I get to the block with the open field, more campers and a pickup truck have joined it. The following morning is yet another adventure. My driver's license does not expire for four more months. But time has a way of disappearing when you need it most. And, as this is a morning when it isn't raining, I'm off to catch a bus to a connecting bus, which should get me to the DMV shortly after they open. I looked up the DMV online, and the search engine's profile lists their opening time as 7 AM. I didn't actually go to the website. At the DMV, on the windows, are a collection of signs. It's a Byzantine, almost psychedelic kind of cacophony, all in words. One sign lists the open time at 7 AM. Another lists it at 8 AM. Another sign informs patrons that they are open for services inside. Another informs patrons that the facility is open by appointment only. It's a half hour until 8 AM. They are closed. And, a woman is waiting when I arrive. She is here to renew her vehicle registration. She attempted to do so online and, she tells me, was prevented from doing so. And they misspelled her name. Try misspelling any name on the computer where I work, and it will act as if you don't exist. She leaves. I will shortly discover that this location only processes drivers' licenses, not vehicle registrations. At 8 AM, the door opens promptly. Before then, I attempted to dial the three-digit number for information about city services. At one point, I was directed to the Governor's voicemail. It's amazing the wrong numbers you are directed to in a half hour. I'm asked if I have an appointment. I replied that I didn't get the secret government message about state services being open by appointment only. I'm told that, as I am first in line (in a line of three) that I can go ahead sans state government service appointment. I wonder what they will think of in the next five years. I'm rapidly processed after that, more rapidly than any damned half hour. It's a short ride to a stop, but another half hour wait, for a bus to take me across town. This is all a matter of time. I can ride it, but am up against the clock on the way to work. My coworker had an appointment the day before, also for the DMV. That appointment didn't happen for her either. I never take this bus, and it's an interesting ride through the various neighborhoods. I end up at a train, go one stop away, from which I ride to work. I stay at work another half hour after close, and again grab another bus home. The last connecting bus home is a choice of two routes. This late afternoon I take my preferred choice. This route goes past a small residential park, just across the tracks back on my side of town. Along one end of the park is a newly assembled line of homeless campers. I recognize one camper, which used to be along the long residential street a block from my own. The same US flag is in the window.
Friday is the second day this week I must work open to close. I'm just on the trail when it's still dark. The spot where I enter and exit the trail, six days a week, was in a local news story. A car was found overturned in the river here. A body was found inside. The Platte River, which is almost gone, is far too shallow to cover even half of the small car. I'm down the trail a short distance when I decide to stop and take off my lights. The sun is rising. Just after I get going, I hear a very cheap combustible engine up ahead. I see a headlight, and a scooter approaches, pulling a flatbed trailer. A couple is on the scooter. Later on at work, I watch a homeless guy walk past the store. He glances into the trash right outside the door. Shortly thereafter, I spot him racing out of the parking lot and across the street on a tiny BMX bike. Again, I stay late at work and elect to take the transit system home. I've been doing too much of that, for the only reason that when I get out of work late, the bus shows up. With my lack of riding home together with my extended schedule causing an infusion of carbs into my diet, my weight is going up. Which is to say that I need to knock this shit off. This early evening I'm on my last connecting bus only blocks from home. I made the bus which swings around a small residential park on my side of town. I notice that now two opposite sides of the park each have homeless dwellings. The bus stops at one corner of the park for what appears to be too long to wait for an oncoming vehicle to make a left turn. From my seat, I can't see out the front window. Only when I spot someone through a side window do I realize we've been waiting for a homeless woman to make it through the intersection. Her withered face glances toward the bus. We turn onto the block with the campers. Between two of them are parked some small cars. The drivers are hanging out next to them. They are observed by a homeless guy. He sits on top of some junk, on top of a flatbed trailer, hitched on back of one of the campers. His own withered face under a cap. We make it back to my boulevard, which has been sectioned off into two lanes, for the Cinco de Mayo cruising. Across the street and around the corner I'm off the bus. I'm navigating the traffic detouring off the boulevard and onto the residential streets.
The end of another week and another early morning ride to work. Speaking of the long residential street a block from my own, there are a couple of newly arrived campers. After all of them vanishing at once, a pair have rematerialized. Around, across, and up and down, and I am turning onto the block next o the open field. I'm close enough this morning to get a gander at the newly arrived campers which have joined the pop-up tent. The camper on the near side of the pop-up has a US flag draped across the seats inside the windshield. Written across the stripes is the 2nd amendment to the US Constitution.. A novelty US flag displayed from inside the window of a broken-down camper filled with junk. On the far side of the pop-up is a smaller camper. On the side facing the street is what's left of a hand made mural of a mountain. This camper has a broken down vehicle at each end. Around another corner and I'm on the trail. Down at the spot across from the guardrail, again I pass a Park Ranger. This morning he's walking his bike. I wonder how much cycling experience he has. Again he has his coffee. He doesn't hear that a cyclist is coming up behind him, and must wait until I pass both of them. After work I hit the gym, which I could not do yesterday as I was working...before work, open to close. Saturdays I can sneak in and get done just before they close. As it's dinner time when I'm done, I decide to eat at the shopping center across the highway, as I can get a no carb meal here. As opposed to the Mexican place down the street from the supermarket. And I decide to put off grocery shopping until tomorrow morning. I'm dead tired and I have to do dishes and water the plants. And my boulevard is sectioned off into two lanes for cruising this weekend. Cinco de Mayo is being recognized today and tomorrow, and I don't want to try and catch a bus to the supermarket this evening. Instead of being at home, even as little as on a usual week, I worked open to close two days this week. I'm tired enough that I can't remember which days those were. This week has become a blur of memory flashes. Young guys all in suits approaching the platform of the campus train station. A train car with passengers who are all homeless after 9 PM. Another train car, this one in the afternoon, full of couples in city hockey team jerseys. A guy on a bus home, perhaps my age or older, announcing where we are along the route and pondering his own fate over reaching his destination. Falling apart campers. Homeless with faces wrinkled like a bulldog. A camper with the inside window covered with a US flag dictating the 2nd Amendment. Another camper with the remnants of a hand made mural. If I can just get some sleep tonight...
Cinco de Mayo is not simply the beginning of the summer outdoor festival season. If you don't count 4/20, which is usually wet and cold and miserable, though not this year. This year Cinco will be the first fest in public since 2019, in the big park downtown where Denver's staple summer festivals are all held. Technically, the first was last month's 4/20. But that one was on a Wednesday and perhaps made less of a splash than the weekend festivals. And 4/20 is something of a niche festival. The last one I saw didn't have vendors. On Sunday, I'm off to Cinco, our city having one of the nation's largest celebrations. But first, I need to do the grocery shopping which I didn't do last night. This week, the trees have been blossoming in a serious way. The overnight temps are inching up out of the 30s F. The buds together with the temperate days is a holistic experience. The season is changing in a way which is now more visceral. Against the clock this morning, I elect to take the bicycle. I'm down the street, past the church where a couple of guys in suits hold printed signs for their church. "Victory Outreach!" Probably not a laid back Lutheran denomination. Today is also Mothers' Day. At the supermarket I will grab some pink roses for my girlfriend and leave them on her front porch. She will later ask on Facebook if they were a mis-delivery. It's not easy to make me laugh. ...and she does it again and again and again. Her childlike attitude and her upside down emojis. Back from shopping, I turn around and head for her place before attempting for the first time an alternate route to the sister's new place. I leave her the largest cup I have, at least the size of a vase, and bring water in a bottle. A piece of the cup breaks off. I suppose it's outlived its usefulness as a cup. The alternate route to the sister's I scouted on a map. It's actually with fewer hills and has a bike lane. Toward the end, it strikes me as familiar before I realize that I've been this way on a bus before. When I arrive on the sister's street, I witness a snapshot of quick and diverse traffic. The first is a pickup truck with some kind of cloth affixed to the front grill. On it is a message. "God can, God will." In the bed is a big upright neon cross. This is followed by a Hispanic motorcyclist, in a bandana rather than a helmet. Finally, a Caucasian guy comes along on a cargo bike, loaded with what appears to be picnic gear. After lunch and helping the sister put shelves back together, I head toward the bike trail. I haven't been this way that I remember since the first time I was out on the trail, some 17 years ago. The trail turns out to be ridiculously close to her new place. It's a hop, skip, and a jump to the train, which whips me downtown in the late afternoon. I lock up the bike in front of the library. I didn't realize that one half of the library is closed for construction, which I discover when I run in to use the Men's room. This explains why there is no scheduled Summer Library Used Booksale at this branch, but instead a series of smaller sales, spread out among various other branches. If you don't go to a downtown festival, you never comprehend the announcements on the library website. Talk about holistic. The sister mentioned something about the grass in the big park, where the major summer festivals are all held, being as yet still off limits. The park landscaping was under renovation. It does appear that this year's fest has plenty of vendor booths, but perhaps only a single stage. And I don't see anyone on the grass. It's a bit subdued, but the vibe is there. I'm in line for grilled Polish sausage behind a couple of tall Hispanic guys, talking about woodworking and cars. Before I head home, I detour to the downtown yogurt place. When I do get home in the early evening, a neighbor who I almost never see is cleaning weeds and leaves from the four small garden plots in our courtyard. She suggests to me that each resident scrape and repaint their own front porches. She also mentions that one of the two HOA members is thinking of moving.
Right Now
Tuesday. Again I stay until after 8 PM. I get home shortly before 10. I decide to water before I hit the hay. Out of the door, of the neighbor who wants the residents to pitch in, comes an older guy and her daughter. Her dad? They leave, an on the way back he tells me my garden is "lookin' good." He mentions they planted his own flowers in the plot in front of her place. The following morning, I wake up with enough sleep for the first time in a week or so. I think I've ben eating too late before I go to bed, because I've been waking up too early. I decide that I had better take this opportunity to go to the gym while I'm feeling rested. At the gym this morning, there a couple of guys doing some kind of Ju jitsu sparring on the mat between the machines and the weight room. I'm like, 'Cool, these guys are doing martial arts at my gym.' No sooner do I think this than the gay guy comes over from the front desk. He tells them, "You can't do that in here. I was watching on the monitor and I said, 'Do I need to call the police?' Then I saw it was consensual." Consensual? Ju jitsu? This is the same guy who told me, in reference to the homeless couple who brought their dogs along to work out, that, "Legally, there's nothing we can do." Talk about holistic. This evening, I stay only two hours after we close at work, instead of three. When I do get home, there's an email from the bike shop letting me know the bike is done. I also see a local online TV news report. It's about the city's premier transit system hub. A news crew went down to report on passengers at the station and their discontents...namely the homeless. One of the said homeless hit the cameraperson upside the head, so says the reporter on camera. "That's why we are reporting from the roof of the station. It's just not safe down there." The following morning, I'm out the door, and on the bus. It's a short twenty blocks to the train station. It never fails. We don't get more than five blocks before we stop to let on a guy with a story instead of fare. If I didn't already know I was on my own boulevard... "I don't have money...right now. I don't have any...right now," says a tattooed guy. The driver just wants to get going, he doesn't have any patience right now. Ss this guy gets to sit down right now. The bus drops me at the train, which whips me off to the city's premier transit hub. When I was here last, probably while along the way to drop off my bike, the level of menace among the community of insane in the membrane members was on the level of confused bemusement. Perhaps there was one transit system security officer here then, but the worst thing I saw was one guy drop a pack of cigarettes and begin whipping his head from side to side. I step off the train this morning, and walk into so many police officers, some in tactical gear, that I have to step around them. There's a police "mobile operations unit" parked here. The two lonely homeless I see appear to be making haste to move along. The same reporter from last night's broadcast is here as well, doing another interview. I stop into a health food supermarket for breakfast from a buffet. A couple of officers are inside as well. I get some scrambled eggs, bacon, and marinated spicy feta cheese. I eat at a table. Out the window I see a tactical officer on the corner, a block away from the station. Another such officer is at the exit of the supermarket. Then it's a familiar hike up and over and down some steps across the train tracks. It's after 9 AM. I watch a young woman in bright pink shorts running along the street and another guy walking his dog. Don't any of these downtown condo residents have to work? It's okay to be unemployed as long as you don't manhandle TV news camera people, sending them running up to the penthouse.
I get to the sporting goods supercenter. There is always an employee to greet customers inside the door. Employees' summer gear includes shorts and a vest. Today's greeter says to me, "How's it goin', my man?" Then I'm in the bike shop. So, a week or two ago, I was at work when the owner came in. He used to own a bike shop. I told him what I was told, about my rim having cracked all around the circumference, and the spokes dislodging from the rim. And about the bike being less than a year and a half old. And about my being informed that it may have been caused by a fracture during the manufacturing process. The owner asked me why they were not offering to replace the rim for free. perhaps it's because...I didn't ask. I pay the bill, and then I decide to ask. Right now. The tech summons a manager. He turns out to be the guy I spoke with about my rear rim and tire options. He asks me why I brought it in. I tell him the story about the disintegrating rear rim. I always tell people, 'Where do I ride that causes this wear? I ride...on the ground.' He tells me he wishes he could have seen the rim, but it has probably been disposed of. I ask him if he was expecting me to ask him to look at it before I had it replaced. I already assumed he knew why I was having it replaced, and that he would know this...right now. He replies that he was not expecting me to let him know this, but rather he expects his employees to "do a better job of communication." I will later on be at work when I reflect back on this conversation. It occurs to me that he may have the idea that I mentioned this to the tech who took my bike in, that I originally asked her about the manufacturer comping me a new wheel. I didn't do this, because it didn't occur to me until the guy I work for asked me about it. The manager also tells me that a "teachable moment" has been lost with his employee, because yesterday was her last day. Interesting. Techs show up here only to move on eventually. He asks me what I would like, and he offers me the wheel for no charge. I let him know that I appreciate the work of his employees, and I will take the free wheel. As he is determining whether or not I've already paid the bill, which I don't realize he's doing, I take the time to put the bags and seat cover back onto my frame. Right now. The new rim and tire are both refunded. I'm back at the front door, where I tell the greeter, "Thanks for the $117 back." Soon, I'm back at the transit hub. It appears that the homeless who are present are all sitting in close proximity, along a couple of large planter ledges. A single transit system security officer is there. Wandering the platform are a couple of young guys, missing teeth and with long goatees. My train pulls and I get inside before I realize that I've lost my transfer. I jump off and ride to a machine, where I quickly validate another ride coupon. Then I jump back on before it takes off. This is the last train to catch a bus to work, the bus which runs once an hour, to be there on time. I get to work, where I now routinely stay for 2 or 3 hours after we close, just to take care of the work from customers who come in late. When I finally get finished, I run next door to grab dinner before heading home. They are a bakery who has already shut down their deli. I end up going around the corner to a Japanese place as the last rays of the sun are disappearing. I order a couple of appetizers. Another $25 meal, because I know the deathburgers shut their lobbies down at 7 PM. It's dark by the time I'm halfway home along the trail. I'm in proximity to the damaged guardrail when a specter comes into view. It's a homeless guy standing on the shoulder, off the road, slightly raised above the trail. It appears as if he's struggling with a belt in both hands. The belt is secured to the front of a shopping cart, as if he's trying to haul this cart piled high with junk. He cuts something of an apocalyptic figure, in a black overcoat with his white-haired and bearded head outside of a hood.
The driver...yells in my face, "You called the police? You want to call the po-lice?" "How could I have called the police?" I said. "You hit me ninety seconds ago." Everybody keeps yelling. "You want to call the po-lice?" the driver keeps yelling ...this is my city. I can be here. ...the other two guys... They keep shaking my hand. Over and over. "We're cool, right?" they say and the handshake. They won't stop shaking my hand. - Rose
...I was deep in the dark holds of living life in the city. I was bartending, drinking too much... ..I found solace...in...the outdoors. I wanted to be in the city less... ...a ragged character in a cowboy hat...came...up to me...put his...whisky breath up to [my face] and snarled "Where were you born. [sic]"
There are more people out there than ever before... ...94.5 million camper households throughout North America in 2020...10.1 million households in the U.S. went camping for the first time. ...leave no trace, practice fire safety, limit noise, dispose of waste responsibly... - Elevation Outdoors, Spring 2022
...deserving inmates [need] access to a supportive and structured environment where they can seek employment, develop coping skills and situate themselves... - Life on Capitol Hill, 5/1/2022
I manage to get another good night's sleep, and in the morning am back out the door to work. The long street a block from my own has a new cement path, along the open patch of field running the street. The concrete is fresh on perhaps half the length of the street. Projects such as this just don't happen on my side of town. But it's interesting. Up, down, and around, and I turn onto the street currently with the 2nd Amendment flag in the window camper and the obfuscated mural camper. A woman stands outside each of the campers. Next to the latter, this woman stands in the street. She's painting over some black marks, using an artist's paintbrush and paint to match the rest of the camper. Down the trail, by the last golf course, I'm passed by one rollerblader. Another one, with knee-length socks and backpack, is over by a big picnic shelter. After work, I get out at a decent hour. I'm coasting downhill, through the old money neighborhood just down the street from work. I'm approaching a cul de sac, at the end of which is a short path which exit onto the street. From here, the bike trail is just around a bend. I'm passed downhill by another cyclist who turns down the cul de sac. After I follow him in the turn, I check my rearview mirror. Yet another cyclist is behind me. I ain't the only one headed for the bike trail. It's perhaps more than an hour later. I'm on the trail, onto the connecting one, and off again. I'm climbing a steep hill up from the street with the campers along the open field. Over the crest and toward the other end of the street is a small homeless car. It appears to have no suspension left and a bundle is on the roof. A male driver sits behind the wheel, surrounded by what appear to be clothes. A female stands next to the open passenger side door, speaking to the driver. She saying something about someone who is a "little bitch." The following morning I'm out early on another Saturday. Last evening's homeless car has moved between the two campers, along the street next to the field. Behind the 2nd Amendment window flag camper is a run over tube of paint. On the other side of the homeless car is the mural camper. The paint job appears to have covered nothing on it. Around the corner and down the hill, and I'm out on the trail to work. I'm approaching an underpass at the far end of the golf course. Climbing out of the incline is the familiar Park Ranger on his bike. He has no coffee this morning and looks at my face before he passes. I'm down the trail, onto the connecting one, and off into the sleepy residential neighborhood. I climb a steep hill and am passed by a 10-speed coming down. At the top, the same cyclist has turned around and come back uphill. I turn one way, he turns the other, back downhill again. (?)
I'm out of work again at a decent hour. The ride home is a busy one. I'm on the connecting trail along the river. Up along the trees, on the final half of my way along this trail. I come up behind a trio of young cyclists. They are all walking their bikes because one of them has a flat rear tire. When I get to the damaged guardrail, I see a smashed-up pickup parked along the opposite curb. A plastic child's igloo is on the roof. Closing in on the last bridge over what once was a river, I pass a young lanky woman. She's in cowboy boots, a skirt, and a tank top under an open blouse. The outfit appears disheveled, and she appears disoriented, but smiles at me as I pass. I'm coming upon my exit from the trail, across from an outdoor live music venue in a park. The venue is officially open for the season. The timing of the opening was just about right. The afternoons are mild enough now. I'm off the trail and across the tracks. Concert goers are streaming in from the surrounding residential streets. Their cars are parked from here halfway along the rest of my ride home, attempting to make their way across this busy street. God help them. The lonely pair of campers along the street I turn onto, have cars parked behind them, between them, and in front as far as the curb will allow. I climb the steep hill off this street, past an endless line of parked vehicles. Where 24 hours ago a homeless car with no suspension sat, perhaps ten concert folk are sit in camping chairs, introducing themselves to each other. A few yards away, a middle-aged couple walks down the street, only to be greeted by a young woman who asks if she may join their pilgrimage to the concert. The couple gleefully accept, again introducing themselves. The following day would have been a good swimming day. The pools don't open for another couple of weeks. This morning, it's off to the sister's to assist with more unpacking and hauling boxes up from the basement. I take a route there only slightly different from last Sundays, paralleling the other just a few streets over. The result is perhaps the most beautiful ride I've ever done. I crest a hill with a view to the southwest, breaking the tree line for a vista of the tail end of the Rockies. It's a gradual climb here, but downhill is a winding rollercoaster of blind curves. Shit, this has to be a more exciting street to race on than my own crowded boulevard. At the sister's, the temperature is a little warm in her new place. We must keep the windows and doors shut because the house is being tested for radon. In the afternoon, it's off to the train station. I contemplate heading downtown to shop for new shorts and socks, both for work, before I realize that there's a department store between here and the train station. I score some interesting leftover socks and linen shorts a couple sizes too big. They should be fine with a belt. There's a line at the fitting room, first I can remember. I simply try them on there over my bike shorts. Next door, I find a new pinwheel to replace the dead one in my garden, as well as buttons for a winter coat. I do head toward downtown on the train, to grab some yogurt. Then I elect to take the bus home, the route past a small park along the way. It's small in the sense that it isn't one of the huge parks in other parts of the city. But it's a nice size place. On this late Sunday spring afternoon, it's bordered on two sides by homeless campers. Currently there does not appear to be anyone here but homeless camper residents. Today is definitely homeless day. Some are sitting out on camp chairs. It the kind of scene which surely will be interpreted negatively by those who look upon homelessness as political, even criminal.
...representatives from Englewood, Sheridan and Littleton...presented [an] action plan to coordinate homeless response systems...to address the growing incidence of homelessness in our region. ...to end the cycles of poverty, addiction and homelessness. - Englewood Citizen, Summer 2022
..."Guardians," people...who...want to take action to make this outdoors truly accessible to all. ...to provide safe...and convenient outdoor opportunities... ...a symbol that creates a community... We'll partner with local urban parks... We see the freedom to roam in nature as a human right.
...I've flatted out, raunched my crotch on the crossbar... ...both calves cactus-pierced by my flat pedals whipping around... ...sunscreen dripping into my eyes and dirt on my brow... We flow, climb, traverse, and drop and raise our seat posts... ...the new...mountain bike trail outside of Grand Junction... ...it's one you'll want to notch on your dropper seat post. ..."a marquee draw for the region." [A] former rocket scientist...helped navigate the project's red tape... "I was having anxiety dreams of dying before the trail opened." ..."motivation for people to relocate here." - Elevation Outdoors, 5/2022
"(Urban walking of hiking) embraces...parks...crossing intersections, and meandering through the city's obstacles of life." I was...up and down streets I had no idea about. I took notice...snapping quick pictures of things that caught my eye... ..."there's a whole world happening around you. Go see it." ...bear witness to the colors of the city, the smells, the people around me...grounding and calming. ...to understand the city we're in. - Out Front Magazine, 5/2022
My coworker had mentioned that she was going to need Tuesday off, for another funeral. On Sunday, I get a call from our boss. She needs Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday off. I think he tells me that he can give me a ride Monday and Tuesday, but not Wednesday. On Tuesday, he doesn't show up. I call him and he tells me I got Tuesday and Wednesday backwards. So, Tuesday morning I head for the train. IT pulls up and I get on board. A transit system security officer follows me on. She announces that she's checking fares, but the only person she asks for fare is a homeless guy asleep. His fare is expired and he's rousted. I wonder if this effort to clear the trains of homeless is related to the police presence at the downtown transit hub? I'm out of the train and onto the connecting trail to work. I'm approaching an underpass, an idyllic scene with the morning sun on a bounty of green foliage. Beyond the wooden bridge is the lawn of an apartment complex. Climbing the incline up from the underpass are a couple of homeless guys. One carries a mattress over his head. He huffs and puffs. The other pulls a mop bucket. It has cleaning supplies inside but I don't see any mop. The guy with the mattress says, "Mornin'." I'm not quite an hour late to work, and I get out at a decent hour. I will more than make up for the missing time the following day. But this afternoon, I'm on the way home on the trail. Crossing a bridge over the river, by the big shopping mall complex up the hill, I see a homeless cyclist at the other end. In his right hand is a rear wheel, complete with cassette. I pass him and he nods to me.
Thursday. The three-day open to close-a-thon is over. I'm off to work back on my regular schedule. I turn onto an entire block of newly arrived campers along the open field. The original pop-up tent is gone. A reign of newly arrived motorized dwellings takes its place, including both the one with the 2nd Amendment flag draped inside the windshield and the one with the hand-made mural. The tube of white paint is gone. Out on the trail, I'm approaching the damaged guardrail. Shortly before it, I pass a colorful minibus and a 1970s or 80s Chevy Caprice station wagon in bad shape, both parked along the curb. Just around the bend is the damaged guard rail. Parked in order of furthest to closest is a used Public Service Company-looking truck. It still has a single orange reflector on the roof, and the bed is full of junk. In front of it is what appears to be a new hatchback. On the big gravel patch on the other side of the guardrail is a line of shopping carts and wheelchairs. All of these items and vehicles will be gone by the time I'm riding home. The exceptions are a lone wooden palette on the gravel, and the station wagon. This morning, I was passed twice by lines of colorfully dressed lines of seniors on bicycles. On my ride home from work, after a lone rollerblader I'm passed by a series of couples on bikes. The first is a pair of guys who sound as if they perhaps are lawyers. One in a Stars and Stripes helmet is telling the other about how he hopes "the judge will rule" his way. The next couple is co-ed. The lady says to the guy, "I'm super-efficient on three broken spokes." He replies, "Yeah, that's what I mean." They are followed by one pair of cyclists who are identically outfitted. This couple is followed by a pair of guys on bikes. The lead guy smiles at me. Up the trail and off at my exit. I'm across the tracks, around the corner and at the crest of a steep hill. It climbs up from the block with the newly arrived plethora of homeless campers. Just over the crest is the first stolen motorized shopping cart I've seen. The battery appears to have run out next to a trash can.
Before I left work, I felt a head cold coming on. When I get home, I elect to take some cold medicine. Overnight I am asleep and awake again with symptoms. At least I can breathe. In the morning, the medicine has I believe helped, and the sleep not altogether bad. Rain is coming down and I take the bike to the bus, to the train station. Plenty of transit police are again here this morning, rousting homeless without valid fares, car by car. One middle-aged guy exits a train with a sleeping bag over his head. He walks down the platform and, as the homeless are so adept at, vanishes into the rain. My own train takes me a couple of stops to the bus. To arrive at work on time, I must take the bus which drops me off an hour early. I usually use the time to eat breakfast before my shift. This morning, I left the house without eating. I cross the busy boulevard to the breakfast place, which this morning is the busiest I've ever seen it. I put my name on a list and am told a couple of big parties arrived. I sit for 25 minutes on the floor, the only room in the place, next to a table with a family. The grandpa appears to be making a point of laughing loudly at whatever his granddaughter tells him about her suburban life. At one point his cane falls on the floor, which he reaches with his foot. I will be back here the following morning before work, only to find the place closed. The rain turns to snow, which continues overnight. It must end up knocking down some power lines. The place will be turning away customers because they are closed.
It's the Tuesday before Memorial Day weekend. There's some stuffy nose, some sneezing, some coughing. I got home Sunday from a date with the girlfriend. It was nice, but I was dead tired. I didn't get enough sleep Sunday or Monday night. Monday, I didn't get out of work until four and a half hours after we close most of the week, and rode all the way home. I didn't get to bed until an hour and a half past my bedtime. I will end up doing the same thing this evening, again leaving four hours after we close. This time I will make it to a train station just two minutes late for the train home. The next one won't come for a half hour, so I will end up riding home again and again get to bed an hour and a half late. I believe my late hours, together with my cold, are the reason I won't awake Wednesday until 8 AM. Something I haven't done in perhaps decades. Saturday, the snow had stopped. Monday, branches hung over the trail, just about head-level. I had to dodge them in the dark. In the rain. Off the trail, I passed the grimy grey camper under streetlight. I heard a male inside speaking to someone. "You think that faggot cocksucker is gonna bail you out?" he asks. Twenty-four hours later, crews had trimmed many of them. After turning off the trail in an unsuccessful attempt to catch a train, I cross the highway and cut through a shopping center. Shops and restaurants are closed up. I enter the connecting trail which I came down this morning. I passed the first guys I've seen this year out surfing the river. The flags on the tiki bar balcony, both the US and Don't Tread on Me, are on a telescoping flagpole which hasn't been raised yet. This evening, I'm now up the trail and approaching the last bridge over the river. There is a chain of shopping carts parked in the dark off to one side. Just across the bridge is a small parking lot, where a homeless camper and a small pickup are parked. The bed of the pickup is piled his with junk. I think I spot someone at the driver's side of the pickup. Approaching me under some light are a couple of homeless cyclists. Even in some light they are hard to see. They have no headlamps or taillights, and my own headlamp is off. I see well in ambient light. And as both of their helmetless heads are turned toward the camper, neither of them see me. I pass right next to the one closest to me, with white hair and a bushy white beard. He doesn't notice me until my own head blocks his sight of the camper. Directly ahead is an underpass, just beyond which is a little park area. It has some outdoor exercise machines. A guy stands next to one in the dark. It sounds as if he's pontificating toward the river. He spots me and asks if I am having a good evening. I reply, "Sure, yeah." I mean, as well as can be expected of a guy fighting a cold, who just did a couple of 14-hour shifts in a row, hasn't had enough sleep, and missed the last train outta here. I sound like a country music song. But I don't tell this to the homeless nocturnal shaman. He says, "You're sure? Okay." As long as he's satisfied, this must mean that I am sure. Soon, I'm off the trail and climbing the hill up from the block of campers along the open field. At one camper, parked in the middle of the line, I can see a small campfire. It's just outside the side door facing the field. Perhaps it's on a grill.
Wednesday. I'm on the way home. Plenty of sleep last night. I only stayed an hour after work today. Or was it two? I'm approaching the dog park, just over a small wooden bridge of which there are several along this trail. Snaking toward me and gathered in a line are 20 to 30 cyclists tightly bound. They let out a chorus of, "Bike up!" The human and cycle snake quickly slithers past me. I say to the woman ahead of me, walking her dog, "They don't look like they're on their way home from work." I turn onto the connecting trail along the river. There are 3 places where the water drops over shallow falls. The first has river surfers in wetsuits. The next two have kayakers. At the second, a couple of senior kayakers are giving the others instructions. I'm past a golf course and along a long bank of trees. On a bench is a homeless guy in a flannel shirt, talking to himself. He looks just like the singer for the MC5. Ahead, I'm passed by a dapper Caucasian cyclist in his 30s, with a trimmed beard. The trail along the river has entered bug swarm season. They congregate just about head-level in what appears to be an endless cloud. The cyclist whizzes past me around a corner as he says to me, "Bugs, man." He is vexed. He'll never make it as a homeless trail-dweller. Ahead of him sits a homeless woman in her 50s, on a low concrete wall between trail and the street just above at this point. She's in khaki pants, and a flannel shirt over a Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt. There's some pastel dye in her blonde shoulder-length hair, and she dreamily stares at the long, late spring shadows across the river. Then I'm over the last bridge across the river and through an underpass, and rounding the bend with the outdoor exercise machines. A young female pedestrian approaches, in black stretch pants, black cap and a flowing brown blouse. She flashes me the first peace sign I believe I've ever had out on the trail. I exit the trail and begin winding my way through uphill streets. Out on a long residential through street, I'm passed by a homeless camper on its way to a new parking spot. I soon turn and go downhill again, and then onto the tiny block with the grimy grey camper. I hear no voices this early evening, but there is a thin layer of white smoke wafting from the roof. Just a few yards past and I notice the passenger door open. I can hear a grinder inside.
Thursday. Am I beating this damned head-cold? I'm on the long downhill street back to the trail. As usual, some homeless dwellings have creeped around the corner from the block next to the field. On this side before the corner is now the Chevy Caprice station wagon. And around the corner, with a now full block of homeless campers, I don't see a pair of campers which were here before. Both the camper with the Second Amendment flag inside the windshield, as well as the one with the handmade mural on the side, are no longer here. I enter the trail from where I always do, a bridge. I can see a line of neon spandex-clad cyclists, all about my age or older, coming up from the underpass and onto the trail ahead of me. As I got a late start this morning, I decide that shadowing them may keep my pace up and may save me some time. If I can. These guys are not faint of heart. I stop to snap a photo though. Before a bridge over the river, the last one I cross on the way home, is a playground. On the other side of the trail is an old covered wagon, minus the canvas over the frame. Behind it is a line of shopping carts filled with junk. There's even a road construction employee's stop sign. I catch up with them where they have paused and pass them. Just beyond is a pedestrian, a homeless guy decked out in brown pants, a brown shirt and skin brown from the sun. His knit hat is maroon, and appears to have a silver sink faucet sewn onto the top. I soon enter the connecting trail, and soon am rounding the bend along the dog park. I am passed by a homeless cyclist who in turn passes a couple more middle-aged cyclists in neon yellow. (I'm in my neon yellow sleeveless shirt. The cold front has left.) I can hear his chain skipping on a worn cassette. Later on, again I leave work more than two hours after we close. I'm beginning to feel as though I'm repeating myself. I'm onto the trail along the river, all the way up to the damaged guardrail. A newly arrived green tent has been perched there, along with a middle-aged homeless guy in a matching green shirt. His BMX bike is on the ground next to the tent. With his backwards baseball cap and unlit cigarette in his mouth, he's got a pair of female groupies, each on their own bike. One lady is in what appears to be a designer leather jacket. I am soon approaching the golf course with my exit from the trail at the other end. A long line of shopping carts is lined up here trailside. Parked at the entrance to this trail from a street just yards away are a pair of Denver Police cruisers. A truck arrives, from some kind of apparent disposal contractor. An officer is soon out on the trail, asking the contractor, "Is there anything you need me to sign?" I've never seen a line of shopping carts right here, next to this golf course. They weren't here this morning. Perhaps whoever dragged them here simply couldn't pull them any farther. But the train of carts is on its way out of here now, and relatively rapidly.
Saturday. I bring my swimsuit and towel along to work. It's the Memorial Day weekend, surely the waterpark and public pools are open. I call the pool I went to last year, after work on Saturdays. It doesn't open until June 13th. More than 2 weeks? Okay. I go online to find out about the waterpark. Doesn't open until a week from today. Really. Actually, it's just as well. For the next few days a cold front will show up, and it will be too cold to swim anyway. Well, I decide that I feel well enough by now to workout this afternoon. It was a week ago yesterday when I felt this shit coming on, and decided to workout before I got any worse. After this afternoon's trip to the gym, I grab dinner across the highway before I come back on this side, to take the train. I want to stop by a particular grocery on the way home, for a product only they carry. I'm approaching the ramp up to the platform and glance at what appears to be a trio of 17-year-olds. Skinny jeans, and one has a hat from the 1970s. As I pass, I realize that they are all middle-aged homeless. The lone female sings softly as she rummages through a plastic grocery bag, hung on the post of a metal fence. Sunday and Monday are the last two days of Memorial Day weekend. I spend the mornings with the sister and we complete unpacking a series of boxes. Sunday I grab yogurt at my place downtown after waiting out a rain squall at the station where I disembark from the train. I could have otherwise caught a bus the few blocks north to the yogurt place, but the rack was fully occupied by bicycles. And mine would have been rained upon anyway. Monday, the lace next to where I work is open and I ride there for a yogurt, before catching the bus, train, and bus home. Tuesday is the end of the month. I get a decent night's sleep and am out the door to work. This last week of May was a good one, I think, to have a head and chest cold. I should be feeling better when the seasonal temperatures arrive in a few days. I turn onto the short block with the lone grimy grey camper. It's moved a few yards to a new parking spot, fresh off its interior construction work Onto a hill and then around a corner, and down a long incline. Before I reach the block with campers along an open field, I already run into a line of pop-up tents. From inside one of them, I hear a female voice let out a, "Fuck." Around the corner, the block has nary a space left for another camper. Around the corner ahead and down another hill. I'm turning onto the trail where someone is bent over, head almost to the grass on the golf course. Teir legs are spread and I can see between them, a head with dyed neon orange hair. In one hand, they hold a dog leash, and with the other are picking up dog poop. Down the trail, I approach an underpass. behind me I hear the elderly voice of another cyclist. He rigs his bell before he exclaims that he has decided not to pass. He follows me through the underpass, at the other end of which is a narrow section of trail. It's another pass under a highway overpass. It's squeezed between cement on one side and a guardrail on the other, and is never a choice place to pass. Some cyclists elect to exit onto the road here. Behind me, I hear the guy say he isn't passing me here either. It sounds as if he's talking to himself. Once beyond the guardrail, he finally moves around and ahead of me. He says to me, "Thanks for blocking." Or to himself. Or to no one. I reply, "Goodbye." I wonder what he says to other cyclists, or to the homeless. It's not long before I'm onto the connecting trail. There's an underpass below the train line, and a line of tall weeds below which follow the rail line. It's home to a collection of homeless camps. It's from here I hear someone yelling in Spanish. It's an appropriate response to this month of the shifting in familiar landmarks, crazy days at work, and the anticipation of summer events.
