Monday is the 1st. May Day. This month, buds and even leaves are appearing on branches. The day before I was out on a date with a special lady. We went to my go to place where I usually eat before grocery shopping, on Saturdays after work. It's a Mexican place with an extensive menu. The clientele is almost exclusively Mexican. When someone comes in who is not Mexican, I notice right away. One such customer appears. She doesn't appear homeless, but perhaps poor. She's middle-aged or elderly and is in a tank top and denim shorts, and sandals. I notice that she has no purse, but cradles a plastic bottle of water. I haven't been here at any time when a waitress hasn't told me to sit anywhere I like. But this lady stands up front for some time before she's seated. For three hours my lady and I sit and talk about our lives. She takes me home before she's off to another of her overnight shifts. A short while later, I get a call from my coworker to work for her the following day. After another open to close shift, I head for home. Out on the trail, along a former homeless camp under two or three overpasses, and newly posted signs warning of the consequences to trespassers, a lone figure stands. He has a bike and some parcels. Overnight I catch upon my sleep. On the trail to work the following day are three kids at different spots. Two are simply standing on the trail with a parent. And out on the connecting trail are more guys walking their dogs, both on the way to work and on the way home. Toward work, I'm rolling along a creek below the trail through a long par. Above us is the waterpark, set to open now before the end of the month. At which point begins my ritual of trying to get there for a swim whenever I can before Labor Day. The summer goes past in a flash. Though the waterpark has yet to open, the first days into the lower 70s F. have arrived. Families are already splashing in the creek. I'm approaching the east end of this park when I hear a woman playing with some kids. She tells one, "You just got hit with a drone strike." Playing army has a fresh reference for a new generation. I wonder if the child is playing the role of an Afghan wedding party mistaken for hostile forces?
Wednesday. I break out the shorts, sleeveless shirt, and sandals for the first time this year on my ride to work. I can feel the season turning. I planted flowers last Sunday. I no longer, all of the sudden, need long pants or a windbreaker or even a long shirt. I pass the former and newly occupied homeless camp. One of the warning signs is gone. I don't think it even lasted a week. After work, I swing past a restaurant on the way home. I haven't been there for some months, but they remember me there. My waitress tells me that she see some grey hairs and gives me the senior discount. My drink is free. I get home and a couple of other townhome residents, the two members of our HOA, ring my doorbell. The treasurer/secretary has quite a story to tell. One of the other residents told them that I told her to go ahead and park in my parking spot. He tells me other stuff I didn't know about her. She's a hoarder. Our townhome insurance company is threatening not to carry us anymore. He had no choice but to take legal action. He won one judgement against another resident, he told me. Someone had the rafters of their carport so loaded with whatever that it collapsed and damaged a neighbor's car. The walls around their back patio are collapsing because their patio is full of junk. The judgement we won, he tells me, was eaten up by the water bill from yet another resident. This one has a leaky toilet someplace inside the residence. He says he's been run ragged by dealing with all this. I thank him for all his work. The residents with the grow house, which was busted a couple of years past, is moving out. That resident and the one who is telling tales about privileges to other's parking spots, both have enough people living inside to violate their contracts. Our little complex is divided into two halves. Our half is the only one paying its monthly HOA fee. The parking woman hasn't paid hers in two years, as he tells me, she thinks she doesn't have to. The other HOA board member says she said the same thing about him, that someone living in his unit supposed told her that she could have his parking space. She cleaned up the parking lot and called to ask for $500. Letters have been sent to the residents who haven't been paying their fees. I've actually been letting the treasurer/secretary use my own parking spot, as I don't own a car. He mentions this and apologizes for not reimbursing me for it. He runs back inside his own unit, but must first ring his own doorbell. (He keeps his door locked at all times?) He brings out an $8,000 bike to give me.
Thursday. I got a good night's sleep. Not long after I get up, I get a call to come into work early. If I get going now, I can make it in time t catch a bus there. The frying pan, into which I just put veggies and eggs, goes into the fridge. The half hour between 8 and 8:30 AM is a crosstown trip off the trail, avoiding a series of cars coming out of alleys and side streets. Weeds are busting out. The grass is flush with post-winter color. This morning, I put my first ride coupon into the fare box. The driver asks for a discount card. I've been told nothing about this. He directs me to read the back of the ride coupon. Fortunately, I have cash. After work, I ride back to the supermarket where I was recommended the discount ride coupons. Two separate employees, the shift manager and a checker, both tell me just the same story. They say nothing about a discount card, and that all a passenger needs is to be 55 or older. I can always come back a speak to the store "Director." On Saturday, I'm in a deep slumber when my trusty alarm clock wakes me. Upstairs, I notice that one battery operated clock is running slow. I replaced the battery yesterday from an old package of batteries, as it was doing the same thing then. I realize that the entire package is bad. I had purchased a new package by mistake, as I thought I was already out. A battery from this new package does the trick. I leave the house with plenty of time to make the bus to work's doorstep. I have a new book of regular transit system ride coupons. I just make the bus, and am soon at work, with plenty of time for a bowl of mixed fruit at the shopping center breakfast place. I'm seated next to a half booth with a pair of middle-aged women. I can't sit in my own booth side because two pink packages, each wrapped with ribbon, block my way in. I put my bag and hoodie over my table and into my booth, and sit in my chair on the other side of my table. After I'm finished eating, I must reach back across my table and lift them back across. The women are oblivious.
Return of the Tall, Photogenic Hippie Goddess
Sunday is a madcap day. The sister picks me up at 7:30 AM for breakfast. We then hit the supermarket before returning to her place to pot some flowers outside. Then we're off to the camera place. For the first time in months, I've finished a roll of film in my camera. The last time I saw an employee of this store, whom I refer to as the Tall Photogenic Hippie Goddess, was shortly before the business moved to its present location, just a short way down the boulevard. I run in to drop off film and pick up a new roll. Right away, I see it's her behind a counter. She's in a summer dress with a mushroom print. I tell her that it would appear that everyone from the old location was let go. She tells me that it was actually a crew with a lot of drama, and it's now a much better situation. She's off to travel Europe for the next seven weeks. It's great to see her again. From there, the sister and I go to lunch on my old boulevard. From there, she drops myself and my bike off at the gym. After a workout, I cross the street to the train, which whips me downtown. I disembark and ride a short way to the Cinco de Mayo festival. I don't recall the last time I was in this park between the State House and the Capitol. This festival has unofficially kicked off the rest of the otherwise summer festivals in the park. I spot a booth which mentions my own neighborhood. It's promoting a consortium of neighborhood business districts. I speak to a young Caucasian woman who clues me in. She works not far from where I live. I ask her in Spanish if she's white. She laughs. We discuss the encroaching other Caucasians. She mentions a local police outlet working to build trust among my neighbors, and the drop in crime over the past six years. I peruse the other booths. I purchase a dress for a lady I am dating. I ride from the fest to the pizza place for dinner. It's packed with Cinco de Mayo celebrants. One offers me his seat. Then it's back home to pot my own flowers, do some dishes, and head off to bed. Tomorrow I'm working open to close. Every other Monday for the time being. I'm in the money...
Local Denver indoor-cycling studio...pedals its way to two...awards as the fitness craze of indoor cycling makes its way to the Mile High City. "...we were selected among thousands of studios..." says...winner of...Best Instructor 2022 Award, and VP of Marketing... Known by the community...her...45-minute class is often waitlisted... "Winning the award...validates my sense of purpose...I'm in the right place at the right time." Classes...are rhythm-based cardio incorporating weights and resistance...music, lights...approachable at all levels. "It's like a dance party on a bike. It's so immersive" What sets them apart from other cycle studios is their community. There is no scoreboard keeping track of calories or heartrate... ...five classes... "That's how long it takes to get used to our lingo." ...plans to open a third location in [the] neighborhood [where I catch the bus to work's doorstep] this spring. - Glendale Cherry Creek Chronicle, 5/2022
...an offshoot of a concept started in New York City, but...a Denver original. ...while following Phish on tour and moved to Denver from Tennessee... Part dive-bar, part industry hangout, part cocktail and natural wine destination, this place seamlessly mixes high and low. It's a club that's not a club at all. ...a refreshingly unserious selection of snacks... - Westword, 5/11-17/2023
My ride home from work on Monday, I run into another cyclist who has stopped on the trail. I first saw him stopped at a bench along the trail. He's now stopped ahead of me and motions me over to a map posted off to the side. He appears in no way out of the ordinary, with the single exception of not having a helmet. He tells me he's looking for the river...which we are right next to. I alert him to this. He then asks me if the trail goes downtown. "This map says it does, and it's zero miles from here." He's reading the map backwards, which lists downtown as mile marker zero. I tell him that this trail does go downtown, to the very north end of it. Then he wants to know if it will get him to a neighborhood called Capitol Hill, which is comprised of high rises surrounding the capitol building. I explain to him that it will get him west of the neighborhood, but he will have to leave the trail and head east to get there. He's immediately distracted by some female cyclists who go past, almost as if he's making a point of showing that he's distracted. Then he asks me where "Platte Park" is. At the time, I assumed he was simply making up this park. He may have meant Confluence Park, which is at the north end of this trail, at the confluence of both the Platte and Colorado Rivers. Then he asks me if this trail will take him to the sporting goods supercenter where I get my own bike serviced. In fact, it goes straight there. "I just need to get where I can see the capitol," he says. I didn't think at the time to ask him how he got here, from there. He thanks me for the into and tries to give me a fist bump. I leave and immediately notice that he's following me. We arrive at an underpass when he asks me, "Where do we go from here?" I exit the trail and cross a busy avenue at the intersection. It takes him at least 10 seconds to realize that I'm off the trail. He's stopped at the top of the incline. Eventually, he makes it though and out the other side by himself. I exit the trail for home just as I see him round a bend behind me. It's the last I see of him.
On Wednesday, I ride home in some light rain. It's after I get home when the rain begins to come down more seriously. It rains through the night. It's always an interesting evening as such due to the local climate's aversion to precipitation. It's still raining in the morning and will be raining still when I am home again this evening. This morning, I get a late start and make a wet break for the bus to work's doorstep. Though I leave as late as possible to make it work on time (Lord help me if the bus doesn't show up), between 11 and 11:30 AM, I still must navigate traffic on the residential streets. My socks and pants are wet, but I have the bag on my back rack is inside another plastic bag. One of my customers at work tells me that he saw me just as I was leaving in my "rain gear." He didn't have the heart, he says, to ask me to let him back in. He even considered offering me a ride. He says he has a bike rack on his car. This is the first time I've seen this guy. He's a college student. he tells me that yesterday he got a text from one of his professors, alerting the class that the first 30 minutes would be held in a parking garage due to a tornado warning. I work late again and head back out in the rain to the stop for the last bus home. The following morning the rain continues. I shudder to think about the low spots on the trail to work, where it usually floods during these rain events, and/or deposits mud. On Saturday, I'm home after work. I head across the street to the Chinese place, for three scoops. On the corner of my townhome complex, standing in the grass next to the sidewalk, is a homeless couple. A bike and bike trailer lays on the grass next to them. One resident of my townhome comes back from across the street and does not interact with the pair. They stand on the grass facing the street. Another couple comes out from a unit, one of the units who presumably is not paying its monthly HOA fees. They are getting into their car with a baby when the female motions the homeless couple over. She gives the homeless woman some money. The homeless couple return to standing on the grass. Sunday. I wake up around a quarter to 3 AM. I hear 8 gunshots, not nearly as close as my townhome complex, but down the street. I go back to sleep, and in the morning, I spot yesterday's homeless couple headed down the sidewalk from the direction of their spot on our grass.
"...I mean, I just don't see many suburban women supporting [the contemporary Republican party.] Arapahoe is a very educated county. I just don't think any of us wanted [the party's current message] in our living room. ...the one true key to uniting the party and fixing its image... I think it's the person you know - the person that...helped build a tiny house for you...and did whatever service project your church was working on, and you meet the person, and you et to know them - that's the person you vote for and you don't pay attention to whether there's an R or a D by their name. Here in Colorado, it almost seems as though the R is like a scarlet letter." - Denver Herald, 5/11/2023
A decline in the general belief in political systems, a profound questioning of the effects of technology, even the retreat from so much as lip service towards established religion...render unlikely...utopias... The trouble with utopias is that they are too orderly. They rule out the irrational...and the irrational is their great discovery of the last hundred [plus] years. ...they reject fantasy as a part of [humanity]... - Aldiss
"...people controlled externally by the threat of violence and material deprivation., by the threat of losing their bourgeois payoffs... ...goods and services and information...that's all controlled by the corporate state. So you've got to deal on that level, or else you're irrelevant." - OMNI, 4/1982
"...I learned...being more thoughtful, proactive, and passionate...of the community... ...a safe space for individuals to connect with others who share similar lived experiences... ...to aid your journey through wellness... ...mental health professionals who understand our unique experiences..." - OUTFRONT Magazine, 5/2023
Sunday night I get a call from my coworker. She wants me to work for her on Mondays from now on. Monday morning it's lightly raining again. I'm out of the house at 4:30 AM. Half-way down the bike trail, in the dark and wet I run into a homeless couple on BMX bikes. The guy says, "Ooooooh...okay." The woman replies, "Fuck. Listen, you have to...listen..." I haven't been out on the trail since before it rained. Along the connecting trail, a couple of underpasses have quite a bit of sand deposited from flooding. Tuesday. I think I have time to hit the gym before work. The sister is having her third joint replaced this week and won't be available to join me at the rec center. I'm racing down the trail I just entered. There's a young couple walking their two dogs who I steer around. The guy says out loud, "Lookin' good. Keep working those legs on the bike." (?) OK. I pass other riders headed his way. Look out for this one. I make it to the gym in jig time. Not only that, but I have time to hit the bank as well. This week has seen the return of a customer flash mob shortly before close. Today, for the first time in some months, I stay almost four hours after we close. The ride home is in the dark. I roll up on a couple of ghostly wandering characters on the trail. A third is at the top of an incline just through an underpass. This guy is standing at the top, off to the side of the trail. In the dark, he doesn't appear to be homeless, but he's dressed all in black and has what could be a roll away suitcase. He's looking at something which may be his phone, but it gives off no light. He moves across to the other side of the trail and stares into the darkness of the creek, from where I listened to a ghostly voice as climbed up with my bike.
Monday is smack in the middle of the month. Wednesday morning is the first day when I'm not wearing something with long sleeves. I don't take a windbreaker or hoodie with me when I leave the house on the way to work. Buds on branches are slowly turning to leaves. Grass is overflowing on some lots. The ambitious schedule for the waterpark is that it's opening a week from this Saturday, which is Memorial Day weekend. Was it last year or the year before? They stayed closed until June and only open certain days that month, to train lifeguards. Tuesday I'm heading to work after hitting my bank just down the avenue from the waterpark. I pass it along the way. There's water in the pool already. Events are moving rapidly. Tuesday evening after work, I have a voicemail on my land line at home. My photos are ready. My route there from home, and on to work from there, takes me crosstown and beneath a train bridge. This underpass is a sidewalk which is raised above the street below, with a wooden railing along the street side. On this very sidewalk, beneath the relative shelter of the bridge above, are often either tents or sleeping bags. This morning, a pair of tents are pitched here. One appears to be perhaps a four-person tent, so large that I am able to just barely make it between one side it and the concrete wall of the underpass. I make it to the photo place in just a half hour. I'm glad that I hit the gym and bank on Tuesday, and the photo place the following morning, because I get a call Thursday morning. It's my coworker, who would like me to come in two hours early. I make a break for the bus to work's doorstep. Along the way there, I turn onto the block next to the open field. A newly arrived homeless trailer is here, along with another shopping cart which is covered in dried grass. I get to the bus stop shortly before a middle-aged guy comes to wait with me. He's in slacks, loafers, a buttoned-down shirt and a down vest. He teases me about riding in sandals, says it reminds him of the 1980s. On the other side of me comes along and stands an overweight guy in a sweater and knit cap over his curly hair in a ponytail. I can smell him vaping. This is what I get for catching a bus on a private university campus.
I think it's Thursday after work. I hit a supermarket on a detour off the trail on the way home. 'Tis the same one where I purchased discount transit system ride coupons which a bus driver rejected. This late afternoon, I need some low-fat cheese which I can get at this, one of two grocery chains which is not my usual supermarket. Inside, I spot the manager who sold me said ride coupons. I tell her about my experience with the driver, who suggested I read the back of the discount coupon, where it's clear that I'm ineligible to use them. She's perplexed that a passenger would be required to present any kind of "discount card." I tell her he appeared to be asking for proof of a disability. She replies that she's a former nurse, and that such information falls under HIPPA regulations. Also, she mentions that she has a paper which explains eligibility of discount ride coupons for passengers. She tells me that she will contact RTD and get the real story. This is what I was going to suggest to the store manager. Upon my return visit here that day after I was sold the discount ride coupons, I left with the impression that this store is a kind of fragile system. I didn't want to put any more pressure on it. When I pulled up this afternoon, I saw a realtor sign for the entire shopping center. In the meantime, she takes the book of discount ride coupons which she sold me, and does something which I do not expect. She gives me a regular book of ride coupons at no extra cost. She asks me which manager told me that I could go ahead and use the discount coupons anyway. I describe the manager to her. She replies, "She thinks she knows everything." Good coupons in hand, I head out for the rest of my ride home. I turn off the trail and onto the street next to the open field. The trailer is gone. The shopping cart remains. I turn up the steep hill. I ride up onto the sidewalk to toss an empty bottle into a trash can next to a parked truck. The only thing I can figure is that the bag on my back rack catches the trash can as I pass it. I go tumbling down onto the sidewalk. A couple of young guys come out of the truck to make sure I'm okay. I somehow fucking land on the spokes of my front rim. Great. The bike appears to be fine. I banged my left shin on something when I hit the ground, perhaps the pedal. When I get home a short time later, I have a lump on it. It subsides before I go to bed, and is gone by the next morning. I think I sprained the fingers on my left hand. It's fine by the time I get to work. Along the way there Friday morning, I'm riding under rain clouds. It rained when I went to bed last night. Along the block next to the open field, a lone homeless car. After a couple more days of rain, the river is back to being a river for the moment. At one point where the water drops over a short fall, the river surfers are back at it. On Saturday, I take the bus to work's doorstep. At the bus stop along the way to work, the bus arrives. The bike rack is full. This is a first. Fortunately, a passenger disembarks and takes one of the bikes with him. The sun comes up orange. It's a sky full of fire smoke for the following two days. The sister tells me it's coming down from Canada. Interesting. On my ride to the bus stop, at one point I thought I was having trouble getting any air.
It occurs to me on Sunday that, on Sundays, I may want to hit the gym and the waterpark before heading to the sister's for lunch. Thursday she had her third joint replacement, and I back riding to her place at the beginning of the week. Today, I grocery shop in the morning. This would need to happen then on Saturdays after work. Talk about a full summer of Sundays. With the waterpark opening this coming Saturday, it's going to be nuts until the thing shuts down in August. Mondays I'm working all day, with the exception of the Monday following next weekend. Fridays I go into work early. This leaves Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Sunday mornings before work, and Saturday afternoons after work to swim. Monday I work my usual open to close shift. Tuesday I stay a couple of hours late. On Wednesday, my coworker asks me to work for her again on Thursday. This she asks me on the phone in the afternoon. After asking me to work for her the day after Memorial Day. Thursday morning,, I'm out the door a little after 4 AM. I enter the trail at the usual spot, the beginning end of a golf course on the way to work. Not more than several yards along, on a pitch-black spot on the trail, is a lone figure. He appears to have been pulling a shopping cart or trailer with a bicycle. Both have fallen over and he's attempting to pick them up. When I get to work, the sun is rising into the first blue sky anyone has seen in a week of fire smoke and subsequent overcast death cloud. There's still an orange tint, but it's a definite improvement. There's a brief lull in the morning. I'm still not used to green leaves all over the place. In two days will begin a wild season of swimming. Swimming before work perhaps three days a week, after work on Saturdays, and Sundays. I feel as though I'm in the waning calm before the storm.
Friday. I'm waiting for my bank to open before work, sitting on a rock in the parking lot. Across the busy avenue is a prep school, K - whatever. Is it the last day of school? I see a class of perhaps sixth graders in a field with some teachers. The tall redhead teacher in the jumpsuit and blouse is cute. This class is doing something with T - shirts. Waving them around, something. A class of kindergarteners is back next to the school, having a tug of war with a rope. The bank opens, I make a withdrawal, and I'm off to work. The day goes past quickly. After work, I stop at a supermarket on the way home, after which I have dinner at Chilis. After dinner, I'm headed across the parking when I slip on something I can't see. I bang my knee, scratch my ankle and ding my elbow. My left wrist is lightly sprained, again. I never do this. I never fall off my bike when there's no snow or ice on the ground. As I'm rolling onto my back, I bring up my knee to glance at it. At first I don't see any blood. But the knee has a couple of quarter-sized pieces of skin missing. And my bike... The handlebars are at an angle now not quite ninety degrees away from perpendicular with the front rim. This never happens either. The knee works, and my first decision is simply to head home. I immediately top myself and realize that I need to go to the emergency room to, if for no other reason, have this checked out. And treated better than I know how. Let the pros go to work on it. There's a "level 1" trauma hospital in my insurance network not far from my home. Good people there. Very young, very talented. Looks like I'm headed downtown this evening. The train station is not far. I ride to the train which whips me toward downtown. It's a short ride to emergency from the station. Inside, a security guard checks my bags. Inside one is the low-fat cheese I purchased at the supermarket a short time ago. I check in and ask a nurse if she can guess how soon I will be seen. She is unable to know, it depends how soon a exam room is open. I have a seat. In the corner is a silent homeless guy in a chair. He's approached by the security guard who checked my bags, so quietly that I only first hear the guy when he's told to leave.
The guy says he was sitting outside when he was told that he couldn't do so. He claims he was told his only other option was to come inside. "Now you're sayin' I can't be in here. I'm sittin' right here." It becomes obvious that the security guard is headed back to his station, again so quietly, to summon the authorities. The guy changes his mind and stands up. "I'm leavin' I'm leavin' I'm leavin' I'm leavin' I'm leavin'..." he says...as he's leavin'. It isn't long after this when they call my name. I'm seated across from another guy who asks me, "Didn't you just get here?" I acknowledge this and ask him how long he's been waiting, "Two hours." Back in the exam room, a young physician's assistant disinfects my wounds and bandages them up. She asks me if I have plans for the holiday weekend. I mention that opening day for the waterpark is tomorrow. She informs me that I won't be attending. I won't be swimming until these open wounds heal. Perhaps in a week. She gives me anti-bacterial ointment, anti-bacterial soap, bandages, and instructions how often to use these supplies. An MD sticks his head in the door to follow up. Both of them ask me if I hit my head at all. Not this time. He informs me of something which I didn't know. "One you hit your head with a helmet on, the helmet is done." In other words, it's no longer considered safe. Every time I come either here or to the clinic a few doors from home, both in the same company, I end up learning something new. I exit around 9:30PM. It sure doesn't seem as though I was there since 8. The sky is full of lightning and a few drops come down as I'm unlocking my bike. I'm headed for home toward what I forget is a bridge, the sidewalk of which is closed for construction. I sneak out onto the busy avenue during a break in traffic, crossing over both the interstate and the river. The trailhead on this side is also closed for construction. Now, I hear a train coming and also race across the tracks. I'm soon on my corner. A street guy runs through first one crosswalk and then one perpendicular. He stops between the corner and my parking lot. He's just staring into the dark.
When I get home, I stay up late. When I get home from work the following afternoon, I'm dead tired. I don't grocery shop and I don't do laundry. I get more sleep overnight and wake up refreshed. I get the laundry and shopping done before heading to the sister's for lunch. Shit. Today is and Memorial Day will also be beautiful swimming days. I have no choice but to wait until the wounds heal. But by the time this long weekend ends, I don't know where I would have fit a swim in. Anyway, laundry hung and groceries put away, I take a short ride down the street to a bus, for another short ride. The drivers on this route often gives me something other than the usual transfer when I pay my fare. A transfer, good for 3 hours, is what I pay for. Instead, I've been receiving a "day pass" which is good until 2:59 AM of the following day. Today I get one of these. And I will put it to good use. I take the bike with the handlebars which have been turned to a strange angle. After lunch, I ride it to the train for a trip to the sporting goods supercenter. We get closer to downtown when, at one stop, a small young woman is coming up the steps of the train. She asks me for help with her bike. She's clearly too weak to lift it. She takes a seat and begins coughing. She carries with her several green balloons tied together. In the next seat past hers is a cool and silent character. He's a thirtysomething guy in a black hoodie and black pants. No helmet, but he has his hood on, and it's the first actual hot weekend. He has his own bike but ignores the young woman as he looks at his phone. At her stop, she simply drops her bike down the steps. Again I help her with her bike. I disembark next to a trail which takes me to the supercenter, which is next to a kind of plaza. Confluence Park is located at the confluence of two rivers, the Colorado and the Platt. It's the start of the summer season, the temperatures make an appearance, and food trucks are outdoor with the public. Inside, a tech straightens the handlebars straight away. Unrelated to the spill on my bike, a part needs replacing and he's like to keep it at least another day. Also, he wants to do a "crash assessment". I walk back to the train. It's a beautiful late afternoon. I may not be swimming, but I'm enjoying the hip urban scene. High rise residents are out in a park. Approaching the steps over the train tracks, I smell French pastries wafting from some open door. I jump onto a mall shuttle, headed toward the pizza place for dinner. The shuttle takes a short trip down the mall before it detours up to the next street. Along this path through the heart of downtown are the usual street characters. One guy is sprawled on his back across the wide sidewalk, his head propped against the concrete wall of an office building. Another has his pant cuffs rolled up and walks with a wooden staff. One middle-aged guy has his shirt off so everyone can see his simple line drawing tattoos. My favorite are the young couple, both with backwards caps and sunglasses. He is also shirtless to show his physique. She's in overalls. I disembark at the end of the line and jump on a bus for a short ways. I get out with perhaps five blocks to walk. My path takes me past my first bike shop here in the city, some 25 years ago. It's surrounded by a chain link fence, slated I presume for demolition. Another practical landmark due to be turned to dust. I have a slice of pizza, and after I take perhaps a 15-block walk to the train. Most of the walk is down the main artery out of downtown. It's the usual mix of homeless and residents out for a late afternoon on the town. The train whips me to the next station, where a bus carries me home.
Memorial Day. It's back to the sister's for lunch again. Then again I jump on a train to a supermarket to grab an item I forgot yesterday. I ride to a natural food store, where I pick up some soap, a birthday card, and more flowers. And it's home again. The long weekend gone by in a flash. And tomorrow I work open to close. I plant and water the flowers, sweep my kitchen and vacuum my living room for the first time in perhaps more than a year. Had I gone swimming, I wouldn't have gotten everything done. I wouldn't have any time to swim during this coming week either. Monday, I end up working a 12- hour day. Tuesday morning, I check the emails I didn't check the evening before. My bike is ready. I pack up the bags I carry on the bike frame and head out to the bus. At the stop across the street, a middle-aged a homeless couple are holding court. The female is decked out in camouflage with her blonde hair pulled back under a cap. The guy I recognize from my corner. He sits in his wheelchair out in front of the Vietnamese grocery, or he collects their shopping carts for them. He recognizes me and asks me where my bike is, making a pedaling motion with his arms. I teel him it's in the shop. It appears he's explaining who I am to the camo lady. He hasn't exactly ever introduced himself to me. This is the way of the street. I'm standing next to a young woman who may be a student, perhaps headed to campus downtown. The bus pulls up and she climbs aboard first. The driver tells her that her transfer is no good. She replies that she has no cash. He tells her than she isn't going to be riding then. She disembarks and I successfully climb aboard. I see her through the window, standing right back where she was. She's conversing with the homeless couple. I'm out at the train. I walk down to the platform before one of a couple guys on a bench gets up. He motions for another guy just across the train tracks to come over to him. The guy does, and some kind of transaction takes place. The guy who comes across is in a white tank top and plaid shorts. He's skinny and bald. He's swinging around a T-shirt. He goes back to the side of the tracks from where he came before again coming back across to this side. He asks yet a different guy, now across on the other side, has he "got any?"
The train arrives and whisks me to the end of the line downtown, the big deal transit hub. I'm off the train while guys in orange vests are sweeping the train for homeless. No street folk here. They're all back at the station where I boarded. I hike to the sporting goods supercenter. I'm in line behind a father trying to keep his two small girls quiet. The youngest is getting a new "pedal bike." It was my understanding that I needed a new derailer, and that it would be $16. I'm told instead that the current derailer simply needed adjustment, and that the service is covered under the warranty. I'm told that my bike is less than a year old. Even though I bought it in 2020. I don't argue with the math because I'm being told that there is no charge. Very good. I ride back to the steps over the train tracks and climb up and down. The electronic sign informs me that another train to a bus to work will be more than fifteen minutes. I strike out toward another station, and arrive in time to jump on a waiting train. It drops me at a station where I can catch a bus to work's doorstep. I ride to a cafe where I order food to go. I ran out of the house without breakfast. At the stop I eat before the bus arrives. The bus whips me to work, where I stay three hours past close. The ride home is through some light rain. At work, I walked down to the bakery a few doors down. There is the occasional chair outside a couple of the businesses along the way there. One is occupied by a young guy with a backpack. He's in a smart looking windbreaker and could be taken for a student. But the backpack is playing music. And his expression is one of perhaps having sniffed glue. I can't believe this month is over. With my injury, an insane summer schedule has merely been postponed for a few days...
