The beach closest to the house is a small and rocky one that
all but disappears at high tide. But I know a spot - behind all the rocks,
in a little hollowed out nook in the side of the cliff - where I can sit on the
wet dark sand, hidden, reading. Well I
call it reading. Only half the time I am lying face down, my cheek pressed into
the open pages of the book.
Once in a while a noise prompts me to look up. Few people come here, most preferring the main beach down the road. But
now I hear the unmistakable sounds of flip-flops.
There are three of them, making their way along rocks
half-submerged in water. The man is athletic and agile, with a deep tan and
spiky brown hair. Close behind is an equally lean and tanned woman, blond ponytail
swinging as she hops from rock to rock. The couple moves with the lightness of teenagers, and only when I catch a glimpse of their faces do
I see they must be in their early 50s. They could be professional athletes. Runners
maybe.
As I contemplate this, they pause, waiting for the person some
distance behind to catch up. It is an elderly female form: soft, hunched-over
body, sagging chest, thinning hair, unsteady mincing gait. The mother or aunt of one of
them, I decide, and go back to my book.
Then I hear the blond woman’s voice and look up again. “Come
on honey,” she says - in the sort of firm but gentle tone used to encourage children. “Come on honey, give mommy your hand.”
I see now that she is a girl of around 14, though it is difficult to tell for sure. She stands awkwardly on the uneven rock, her shoulders hunched forward stiffly, hands at her sides, fingers fanned out, slack mouth
emitting a low pitched moan.
I feel a jolt to my system that I am instantly ashamed of. But it is the unexpectedness, the contrast of it. The couple'seffortless movements and theirbeautiful, youthful bodies, each stretching out a perfectly formed hand toward their child.
“Angie! Angela” says the man now, trying to get her to
look at him rather than down at the water. There is a big gap between the rock
she stands on and the next one, and she is terrified to cross. Her moans grow louder. “Angie! Angela.” The man’s tone is even, patient but not
exaggeratedly so, almost matter of fact.
When she still does not respond, both the man and woman step down into
the water and, in what has the look of a practiced maneuver, pick her up by the upper arms and swiftly move her to the next rock. She is large, and at once so limp and so stiff, it is as if they move a life-sized ragdoll. And then they go on with their trek.
Soon they are gone from my field of vision, but I continue
to think of them. Their light, graceful limbs and her heavy, awkward ones, the sun lighting up her sparse wisps of hair.
In my younger years, I could dwell on such a scene indefinitely,
crying over it without really knowing
why. But now I am better at willing myself to forget, at
removing thoughts and images from my mind, almost surgically. Eventually I go back to my book - reading it, then lying face down on it again.
It is not until three days later that I see her. A girl in
a halter dress, riding her bike along the tiny main street.Her left foot is missing a sandal.And she is coasting, round shoulders relaxed, head tilted back, short sandy hair ruffled by the breeze. She is squinting into the sun and
smiling so broadly, I cannot help but grin back reflexively.
In that moment I
recognise her. I look around for the tanned athletic couple, half
expecting them to be following on bikes or watching from the sidewalk. I don't see them. But the girl is unmistakably her. The face, the body, the hair, the
way her clothing does not sit quite right.It is all there and it is all
perfect, in the utter abandon of her posture and smile.
Philo and I were on an errand yesterday and passed this amazing sight near the freeway. We were not far from the house so we went back for the camera, and I jumped out to take a couple of shots from the sidewalk.
Springfield, Missouri ~ November 4, .. 
The other day I was cycling on a busy road where the city has recently installed those raised-platform intersections to make the cars slow down before crosswalks. Ahead of me, I saw a cyclist brake just as she entered the intersection - probably hoping to reduce the impact of the bump. Watching her, I somehow knew what was going to happen next and winced. And then it happened: As her wheel hit the raised platform, her bicycle flipped over, and she with it. All this occurred at a slow enough speed, so that she wasn't hurt and was soon back on the bike. But I suspect that she has no idea why the fall happened, which means that it might happen to her again.
To me, it has always seemed self-evident that it is "bad" to brake while going over bumps, and watching the cyclist's fall confirmed that. But were there actually any facts behind this belief? I got home and looked it up, stumbling upon Sheldon Brown's explanation.
When we find ourselves hurdling towards an obstacle n the road that we cannot avoid, naturally the reflex is to slow down. But this should be done before going over the said obstacle, not during. Braking is your friend, but only when done correctly (brake before the bump, then release before going over it). I would also venture to say that most casual cyclists who use handbrakes do not differentiate between front and rear.
Of course, this is just one more reason why I love coaster brakes for cycling in the city. If you're used to braking with a coaster brake in order to slow down, you do not rely on the front brake as much and are not likely to squeeze it while going over a bump. I know that some will not agree with me on that one, but that is how I see it, and the coaster brake has been a reliable ally for me in pothole-ridden Boston Metro.
Spotted around Harvard Square, this road bike is sporting a green knitted U-lock cover!
Knitting a "cozy" for your U-Lock is a fabulous and pretty hilarious idea. But if I think about it, there might be more to it. The hand-knitted cover humanizes the owner of the bicycle. It calls attention to the deeply personal anxieties over the safety of our cherished belongings. If cruel acts are possible because the perpetrator depersonalises the victim, then perhaps this piece of knitted handywork will disrupt that process by evoking empathy.