Poems from the Street: Between




Between young and old,
black and white,
rich and poor —

Between right and left,
gay and straight,
man and woman —

Between Inside and outside,
thought and feeling,
dreaming and waking —

Between now and then,
yesterday and today,
today and tomorrow —

Between them and us,
you and me
ourselves —
We need to build more bridges.

August 19, 2014


Stories from the Street: Old Man with One Arm

One Armed Man1024


An old man with one arm, African–American, sat on the bench in front of Days Espresso. He was bumming cigarettes, but I didn’t have any, having quit in January. He said, "Hello" to me but nothing more. I said, "How are you doing?" but he didn’t answer. He didn’t ask me for anything — a relief – but just his presence made me feel guilty. I wanted to fix his devastated life, but I couldn’t. I tied up my shiny bike; the price of it would feed the old man two months, but that wasn’t going to happen. I went inside and got a coffee. The old man finally walked away. I hope he had somewhere to go.


Poems from the Street: Dogfight

Buchertown Greenway 6

Dog fight out on the street –

Two pit bulls, one leashed

And one free,

hardly a fair fight.


Sun rakes the street

with searing rays.

It cooks things dry,

Makes dogs want to fight.


Fumes from cars

are WMD –

choking, toxic.

My bike makes no fumes.


Allant in Cherokee Park


The Bike as a Drug

Trek Allant 20Syd Weedon

I had an intervention with myself and faced the fact that I am a bicycle junkie. I’m an addict. I don’t feel really right until I get out on my bike and ride. I received a particularly upsetting telephone call two nights ago. I thought about it for a couple of minutes and then I put on my helmet and reflective gear, turned on the lights and rode my bike until I got my feelings in order about what I had heard. The bike has become my drug.

The bicycle is actually a bunch of drugs for me. It’s my psychotropic anti-depressant. It’s my blood sugar reducing diabetes drug. It’s my cholesterol-reducing Crestor replacement. It’s my stiff-joint, NSAID, anti-inflammatory. It’s my blood pressure reducing anti-hypertension high blood pressure drug. It’s my diet and sleeping pill.

I have hypertension (high blood pressure) and due to the drugs I take for that, I need to have regular blood tests. A couple of years ago, I began showing very high blood sugar in the tests. My doctor said that I could go on another drug or get some aerobic exercise every day. I opted for the exercise and got really serious about getting some significant bicycle time every day. I’m averaging seventy miles a week on my bike and my blood sugar has been reduced by 60%.

The bike is my “non-steroidal-anti-inflammatory” drug. Once upon a time, just climbing the stairs in my home would have my knees screaming. Today, I climb them like a sixteen-year-old – no pain.

The bicycle is my diet pill. When I committed to riding my bike every day, I weighed 212 pounds and wore a snug 38” waist pants. Today, I weigh 178 and wear a loose 34” waist paints – in a bit more than a year and a half. My significant other totally loves the transformation. I feel fit and sexy rather than old and overweight.

I still have to take my high blood pressure meds. While I am getting better readings, I still have times when the blood pressure is too high. The bicycle is helping, and there may come a day when I can quit taking the meds, but it’s not here yet.

The bicycle is my sleeping pill. I have always been one who fights sleep. I will stay awake all night under the right circumstances, but that is unpleasant. It is hard for me to fall asleep at night, but when I have ridden 16 miles in a day, I care barely stay awake until midnight. It is well known that better sleep improves your overall health, including weight, skin, healing and mental acuity.

And yes, I suppose the bike is my cannabis. If you accept the traditional characterization that cannabis is a “euphoric” drug, then I’m getting my euphoria these days on the bicycle. After an epic ride, I really do feel euphoric, even if I’m tired and the muscles ache. I’ve smoked some pot in days past, and favor its legalization if for no other reason than to stop screwing up the lives of millions of young people who get arrested for it, but for me personally, the magic weed doesn’t do much for me these days. The bike is a different matter. A good ride will definitely produce a euphoric feeling, and I often wish that I could just keep on riding.

The bicycle simply makes me feel and look better. Even a fairly short ride will give me a warm glowy feeling. I suppose it results from the increased oxygen levels and the release of endorphins. Endorphins are described as “endogenous morphine” which is “released during exercise, excitement, pain, spicy food consumption, love, and orgasm.” After a good ride, I feel like I have taken some wonderful, perfect tranquilizer, but without any drug overhead. I have the proverbial “sense of well-being” while being acutely aware of my muscles and body. I have lost so much weight that I had to have my suits taken in. In the past couple of months, I have had several people, including doctors, tell me that I look “great” and it has been some time since I last heard those words. That’s great for the self-image. The bike is good for the body and the mind.

Yet, there is a downside to this rosy scenario. There are a few days when I cannot ride. Either the weather is just too foul (I don’t ride on ice or in thunderstorms which threaten hail), or I have business or social commitments which preclude a bike ride. On these days I go into serious bicycle withdrawal. Even on these dark days, I don’t despair because I know the clouds will go away; the ice will melt and my faithful two-wheeled medicine cabinet will be waiting for me in the garage, eager for another adventure and another chance to make me healthier.


Gabby–Lessons from a Cat

Gabby enjoying a spring afternoonWe have been adopted by a big black cat. I named her “Gabby” because she talks a lot and is always ready to express her opinion on anything. As to breed, she is what I learned to call a “Persian” although she does not have the flat face of the current crop of over-bred Persian cats. She is a beautiful animal and very affectionate. I don’t really know where Gabby came from. She began hanging around our house, but she was very wary of us and would seldom come up to us. We began to put a bowl of water on the porch because she seemed to be hanging out around our front porch a lot. One night in the fall of 2013 I invited her to come into the house because the weather was really foul. She came in for a while, but it was obvious that she was nervous in our house. I guessed that she could smell traces of our dogs who used to live here. Months went by and she began to come around more. One evening I let her in and she stayed the night. The next day Marian bought her a cat box and some cans of food.

For a couple of months Gabby would come and stay a couple of days with us and then disappear for a couple of days. I didn’t really like that, but I didn’t really want a full time pet either. I had done fifteen years with the dogs and I was tired of being responsible for animals. If she wanted to visit, I would feed her, but if she wanted to leave, that was OK too. I didn’t want to be tied down to a pet. Eventually, it became clear that Gabby wanted to stay with us. I don’t know if her original human moved away or what, but our home had become her home. At the same time, I began to think of her more as being “my cat” even though my attitude about a full time pet hadn’t changed. She’s a prowler. No matter how much I feed her, she still wants to go out and prowl the alley. When the weather gets stormy, I worry about her being out and getting cold and wet. I worry about her being hit by a car crossing the street or prowling the alley. I worry about her catching a mouse that’s already been poisoned. I lost a couple of cats that way a long time ago. I wish she would just stay in the house where I could take care of her and keep her safe from all of the perils of the alley. That’s not who she is. She will stay in for hours but the time comes when she needs to go out to hunt birds and mice. Trying to keep her inside just doesn’t work. She’s miserable. I have to accept that about her. She came to us as a free agent and that’s the deal; I can’t change the rules.

We had a dog that shared a lot of Gabby’s karma, Thor. He appeared on our front porch one frigid January night, injured and dirty. Boss Dog, Lucky, accepted him and he became a part of our family. Thor was a beautiful German Shepherd who grew to 120 lbs. He was wonderful around people, but around other dogs, except Boss Dog, he was Murder, Inc. I paid some vet bills before it sunk into me that Thor could never be off a leash, ever. We tried to train him to behave better, but it didn’t work and he spent his life tightly controlled because he just couldn’t be trusted around other dogs. He would fight and he always won. We adjusted because we loved him, and Lucky, also a GSD, loved him as if he were Lucky’s own puppy.

Experience has taught me that acceptance is one of life’s great lessons. Whether it is cats, dogs or people, we have to learn to accept people as they are. This was a hard one for me. When I was young, I knew how everybody ought to be living their lives and who they needed to be. I still spend a portion of each Sunday morning telling people how they ought to act. I guess old habits die hard. The difference for me is that I have learned to accept people, dogs, and cats as they are. If I can help them live their lives, that’s great, but I don’t waste time trying to make them live up to my expectations. With our buddy, Thor, we loved him so we accepted the way he was and made adjustments. We didn’t approve of everything he did, but we loved him and figured out ways to make it work.

Love is the secret sauce. We never really live up to each other’s expectations, but when we love, we can accept and receive acceptance. That brings a lot of peace to our lives. And who knows? If this acceptance thing really catches on, one of these days I might even get around to accepting myself.



My Guitar 2 b&w

Endless band practice
made thunder on dank bricks
in somebody’s basement,
in old warehouses, in garages.

The right note makes
medicine with the night air,
cauterizes cuts,
cools the fever for a time.

Sinuous costumes
of desolation concealed
an enormous prank played
on the sleepy universe.

The almost-thereness
and nearly-maybe
poured from speaker cones
the unconscious deluge.

These pictures have soft
focus and deep gray.
The shutter slowed way down
to soak up available light.


Returning to the Bicycle

My BikeI think I was five when I got my first bicycle, a beautiful blue thing with training wheels. I couldn’t wait to get the training wheels off, but it took me a couple of crashes to get that whole “pedal and balance” thing down, but I got it. Once I got going, I must have ridden a million miles on the dusty streets of Texas as I was growing up.

In 1960, my dad saved up 45 silver dollars and bought me a “Western Flyer” 24” bike. It was a beautiful thing with a red and white frame and a battery operated head light. It had chrome fenders. It was a great bike, if a bit heavy, but I wish I had those 45 silver dollars today – they would buy a lot of bicycles. I rode that bike for about eight years. Back in the day, we rode our bikes to school when the weather wasn’t too bad. I wish I knew how many miles I put on that bike. It went through a lot of changes. It lost the basket, fenders and headlight. It acquired a “banana seat” and high rise handle bars which were all the rage when I was in the eighth grade.

In my freshman year of high school, my folks bought me a Schwinn 5-speed. It was blue and chrome, heavy like all the Schwinns of that era, but it was a lovely bike. I ended up leaving it in Tennessee when I left Maryville College after a difficult first year there. My dad was pissed off about that. The biggest problem with that bike was not the weight, but that I had gotten a drivers’ license and cars were just a whole lot more interesting. I was without a bicycle for the next eight years.

In 1980, I bought a matched set of Nishiki Olympic 12 bicycles, one for me and one for my bride. These were very high quality Japanese road bikes assembled of the best components which were designed to compete with the Raleighs, Schwinns, Bianchis and Peugeots. They had light chrome molybdenum frames, 12-speed SunTour derailleurs and other quality components. These bikes were so good that in 2013, I am still riding mine and it has never needed repair.

Back in the day, we called this style of bike an “English racer.” Today, they are simply called “road bikes” or “touring bikes.” We rode them to train for high altitude backpacking trips in the Rockies. When we taught our kids how to ride bikes, these were the ones that we rode, leading the kids like ducklings on their little training bikes. Then the kids got drivers’ licenses and we got dogs that needed to be walked, so the bikes began to gather dust in the garage. Sadly, the dogs passed their time in our lives and are gone. In the meantime, I developed glucose intolerance, and my doctor told me that I needed to get a minimum of thirty minutes a day of aerobic exercise if I want to stay off diabetes medication. At first, I just walked my thirty minutes, but I kept walking past those dusty bikes in the garage. Finally, one day in the late summer, I hauled the Nishiki out into the backyard and washed it off with a garden hose. The old sparkle emerged from beneath the dusty patina. I found an ancient bottle of bike lube and oiled the chain and derailleur sprockets. The last step to make the faithful steed roadworthy was to bring the tires up to 90 PSI. My lower back wasn’t wild about that job.

ShiftersMy first tentative test ride after the long layoff was simply to ride the bike up the alley behind my house. The alley has a slight incline and my calves and thighs immediately reminded me that I was no longer fourteen. This was going to take some work, but already the sensation of gliding through the air silently was casting its spell. It would take some work, but it would be worth it.

I returned to my bicycle purely for health reasons – to lower blood sugar, reduce blood pressure, and improve heart and lung function. To be honest, I expected it to be a chore, mentally interesting perhaps, but physically uncomfortable and difficult. I don’t think of myself as any kind of natural athlete. Yes, I have backpacked the Rockies and the Appalachian mountains, played football in high school, am an expert swimmer and rode bikes from my childhood, but I was never in any danger of being drafted by the Yankees or the Patriots. As a child I had asthma and it seemed like I was sick a lot. The physical things I did, I did by strength of will because I wanted to do them. I have never been one of those who found great joy in physical exertion for its own sake.

The part I didn’t count on was how good the bicycle riding would make me feel. A bike ride of three miles or more – not very far – will give me a warm glowy feeling. I suppose it results from the increased oxygen levels and the release of endorphins. Endorphins are described as “endogenous morphine” which is “released during exercise, excitement, pain, spicy food consumption, love, and orgasm.” After a good ride, I feel like I have taken some wonderful, perfect tranquilizer, but without any drug overhead. I have the proverbial “sense of well-being” while being acutely aware of my muscles and body. I have lost so much weight that I had to have my suits taken in. That’s great for the self image. The bike is good for the body and the mind.

The streets have changed. There are a lot more cars on the street, and many people drive them way too fast. With the smart phone craze, there are a lot of distracted drivers, and I am sure that there are many more who are under the influence of substances. It’s easy to see why so many cyclists are drawn to off-road and cross country riding. It’s nice when you don’t have to worry about being run down by a car. I like to ride the streets and run errands on my bike when I can. A lot of my mental work in cycling surrounds the charting of routes that avoid the crush of automobile traffic. I have added lights to my bikes to increase my visibility to drivers and I use them even during the daytime. I buy riding clothes in bright, electric colors – yellow, chartreuse, and orange – to further enhance my visibility. Even with these precautions, I do not assume that drivers will see me. Most do, and they treat me well on the road, but it only takes one distracted or impaired driver to ruin your day, and perhaps your life. I take nothing for granted.

Nishiki at Days 2My hiatus from the bike caused me to miss much of the political movement that has developed around cycling. More people than ever are using bicycles for primary transportation, and cycling sports have reached a high level of development. BMX, cycle cross, mountain biking and triathlon have really come into their own during the past couple of decades, these taking their place alongside traditional bicycle racing. All of these sport and utility riders have formed advocacy groups that have pushed for greater access to the roads, more bike lanes, bike parking and similar accommodations for bicycles. It’s a different world for cycling these days.

I’m sympathetic with the issues which have grown up around the new bicycle movement. Driving a car used to be fun; now it’s an exercise in Darwinian selection. I have driven a car long enough to have a sense of the increasing automobile congestion on our streets and highways. Unless something changes, our cities are quickly approaching the point of daily gridlock in which streets will become impassable due to the volume of motor vehicles. Obesity has become an epidemic in our culture. Heart disease is a top killer. Diabetes is also becoming epidemic. Regular bicycle riding reduces blood sugar, strengthens the heart, reduces weight and increases blood oxygen levels. All of this contributes to overall health and reduces health care costs. Bicycles don’t burn fuel, saving money and improving the environment. Since 1899, almost 3.5 million Americans have died in automobile crashes. That’s more than all the fatalities we have suffered in all of our wars. There are many good reasons to reduce our use of automobiles. The political and ecological arguments for the bicycle have nothing to do with my choice to return to it.

My rediscovered love for the bicycle, that lovely device which lay dormant in my garage for a decade, is rooted in the way the bike makes me feel, what it does for my body, and the way it opens up my mind. It is a purely sensual sort of thing.

My Helmet


That Day

In 1959 John F. Kennedy ran for president. His opponent was Richard M. Nixon. I was a first grader in Hearne Elementary School in Hearne, Texas. We were in Hearne because my dad had bought a gas station on the advice of his father who thought he had inside information that a new highway would be coming through Hearne, and gas stations located there would be goldmines. I remember during the campaign of 1959, we would chant in the school cafeteria, “Kennedy, Kennedy, he’s our man. Nixon belongs in the garbage can.” Kids supporting Nixon would offer their counter-chant, reversing the two men’s names. None of us actually knew anything about the two men. We were first graders reflecting our parents’ choices. Kennedy always won the chant contest and he won the election.

The new highway went through another town and my dad’s business venture suffered. My dad was a very spiritual man and he read the business failure as an answer to a question he had wrestled with for years: a sense of call to the ministry in the Presbyterian Church. We moved to Austin, the capitol of Texas and the location of Austin Presbyterian Seminary. My dad had lost so much money that he couldn’t go to seminary right away. He went to work at Lyndon Johnson’s TV and radio station in Austin, KTBC, selling advertising air time. My mom got a good job with the Department of Public Welfare. I went to school at Robert E. Lee Elementary in Austin. I loved Austin in those years. It was an amazingly energetic place to be. We weathered the Cuban Missile Crisis there.

On November 22, 1963, I was in the fourth grade. We were in study hall after lunch when Mrs. Sanders came into our room. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. She told us that the president had been attacked in Dallas. They turned on the school’s intercom and we listened to the radio broadcasting the events, moment by moment. The news was very careful in those days. First they said that shots had been fired, then that Kennedy and Connally had been hit. At some point, it was announced that one of President Kennedy’s wounds was a head shot. I had been hunting by this time and I knew the power of a rifle. The schools had planned to let us out early, because the Kennedys were to fly to Austin and there would be a parade up Congress Avenue to the capitol. I had ridden my bike to school that day, and I had planned to ride down to Congress Avenue to see the parade. It wasn’t all that far. The school turned us loose as planned, but I didn’t ride down to Congress Avenue. I rode home and turned on the TV. I was the only one home. I watched Walter Cronkite announce that the president had died. I don’t really remember what I did after that. Eventually, my parents came home and life continued on.

The world changed for me that day. Maybe it was the end of my childhood. I was still just a kid, but now there were questions about everything. Who did what? What would happen next? Were we at war? These are the type of questions that adults ask, not kids. I never thought like a kid again after that day.