Bikes and bikes: friends not foes

I stepped into a gentleman's washroom this morning to, well... wash my hands. There was a table in this washroom and on it was a backpack and a bicycle helmet. Someone with bare calves and bicycle shoes was making use of the other facilities available. I put my motorcycle helmet next to one of three sinks and proceeded to go about my business.

His errand completed, a slender gentleman with a bicyclist's body girdled with spandex began washing his hands next to me. He said, "You know, it's cheating when you use a motor." I chuckled and replied that I have heard that before. His comment stuck in my craw, however. When I was done washing up I addressed his reflection in the mirror. "At least we both have two wheels," I said as I reached for a paper towel.

"You're right," he answered, "I guess we are sort of on the same team."

Yes. We are. I don't see any need for rancor or rivalry in what should be a fraternity of two wheel drivers. There is also a sorority, which combined would make everyone a well-balanced family. If we are balanced between two pivot points in the unobstructed wind, it doesn't matter how we get between one end of our journey to the other. We face similar obstacles and dodge the same hazards. Don't make an enemy when you can make a friend of a fellow traveller.

I haven't owned a car since I was eighteen years old and, after many years of being the littlest thing on the public thoroughfare, I know that daily doses of excess adrenaline can make a person battle-hardened, scoffing at those who don't subscribe to the same philosophy about transportation options. That's no way to get through a day. Life's long road beckons and there is room for everyone to share, especially those on two wheels. Two wheels set a person free.

I drive a motorcycle. I also drive a bicycle. For many, many years I drove a motor scooter, which gets the least respect of all after mopeds, which I've never owned (though I someday may). I zip around Boston faster or slower depending on my means of propulsion, but I don't see any need to get upset or to feel better or worse because of what I choose to drive.

My grandfather told me he was a Democrat because he rooted for the little guy. I don't always follow his political persuasion but I tend to side with the little guy too. As someone who navigates traffic on two wheels, how can I not side with the most vulnerable. A motorcycle may be bigger than a bicycle but they are both related. One is no better than the other; both share the same perils.

Having an engine isn't cheating. I can't call something that will propel me over the highway at 110mph a motor, and it is insulting to compare the power train of even the littlest Ninja with what powers a vacuum cleaner. There is no point in disparaging another person's steed. "I guess not walking barefoot is cheating." No, it's not. It is a choice. There are bigger fish to fry than steaming over someone who doesn't travel exactly as you do. If everyone rode bicycles there would be velocipede traffic jams, the fallacy of numbers clashing into the Law of Unintended Consequences. It is better we all get along, looking out for one another and driving safely and responsibly.

Number 411 smells like #4711

Today is an anniversary of sorts, the way every day is another step closer toward extinction. This is post number 411 of the Dot Matrix, which was an eponymously titled blog until a few months ago. We suspect that a year or so from now, the title over this broadsheet will change names again. We are in no rush to hurry circumstances, only aware that constant change is here to stay.

While the title on the masthead changes, we do not start a new blog as our direction dithers. There is a rich, deep archive of entries to be spelunked for those who have the time. People with patience will learn that Whalehead King has committed whatever voodoo he does regardless of setting. His initial entries while he was the Bard of New London, Conn. bear a striking similarity to his observations about his current home in Dorchester, Mass. They will probably differ little wherever our man in the field finds himself encamped.

A man is a person and an upright person lives true to his or her code. Know where you stand. I once took a scoop of Mississippi River water in my hand and sucked it down. It tasted like metal. It tasted like all the effluent of America washed across a continent about to be dumped into the Gulf of Mexico as food for the shrimp. I felt lucky to take a sip even if it burned my throat and gave my gut a touch of dropsy. I had sipped what the continent offered and I had slaked my thirst to satisfaction.

I dipped my palm into the Neponset River today and tasted its nectar. It was clean and dirty at the same time, like salty zinc and leaf dander. What does your city's water taste like? Chlorine? The river that separates Boston and Milton is a brew steeped with bitterness and hope, with woe and joy, with smug satisfaction mixed with small scale horrorsbows. The Neponset brings Massachusetts to the brink of the Atlantic and then the river exhales. To the north, on the shore I was crouched on, lay Boston. To the south was the rest of the world. I tasted the Neponset and I headed back into the heart of Dorchester, Mass. I live in Dorchester. The air is a cologne that clings to my lapels and beard stubble.

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Memorial day

We were at the corner of Richmond Street and Dot Ave this morning at 9:30AM. The Memorial Day parade was assembled and started, heading in stately grace to Cedar Grove Cemetary to honor the war dead. It wasn't a long parade, but it was an important and grand one. The veterans's organizations were assembled, and the pomp was fit for the circumstances and occassion. We hold these truths to be self-evident: a community that honors its heroes is one that will never lose its soul. Dorchester is such a place.

A bigger crowd would have been nice, but a better audience wouldn't be possible. The sidewalks were lined by onlookers who knew the import of what they were witnessing. Tose who marched did it with dignity.

I tied a cloth poppy reminiscent of Flanders fields onto my motorcycle. It fluttered in the wind the rest of the day as I made my rounds around Dorchester. Let us remember the dead today and pay our respects throughout the year at the memorials that stand all over our noble borough. Freedom is not free.