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Time travel into the past is a journey we each make when recalling a memory. For this treatise, I put a distinct spin on a recent recollection unique to my own worldview; and you know me—I’m a bit abstract (euphemism for “out there”). I chose to “leap” into the present from my teenaged past. I hope you enjoy it. Here we go… It was a bright June dawning as I mounted my bike, and peddled into the quiet of a new day; whirr of spokes and tires, singing of birds, and whisper of a breeze the only sounds; sounds that enhanced the serenity. I’ve loved these mornings since old enough to remember. It’s hard to accept that one day such daybreaks will occur without my observation and participation. Riding, but not seeing I started to reminisce about life in Northwest Ohio long ago… A verse came to me... I grew up inside of a village where the houses are old / But the graves are carefully tended / And in the farmer’s fields, they grow telephone poles and billboard signs / And to enlist with the army recruiter seems like freedom / And smoke rises from the fires as they burn their desires / Because they’ll do anything not to be a failure… I went back into myself until I was eighteen again, and as I rode on, observed my present surroundings with those eyes, as if I’d magically been transported to 2012 with no knowledge of what happened in between… Houses are huge, mainly made of brick, sitting amidst well-manicured lawns. Most have attached three-car garages. My eighteen-year-old had only seen simple wooden frame homes of half the square footage and a detached garage for one automobile. Trees look the same. Streets are wider. What kind of bike is this? It has 21 speeds. Our bikes have one to five…some lucky guys have 10-speeds. I’m wearing a helmet. That’s unusual. Even the Italian bike racing teams wear soft caps with the bills turned up advertising Cinzano, Bianchi, or Fernet Branca. Come to think of it, why am I riding a bike? I have a driver’s license. What girl would ever give the time-of-day to a guy on a bike? I’m on a path now that parallels a major street. This trail is something else; about three meters wide and covered with smooth asphalt. Wow, this sure beats riding on streets or uneven sidewalks. Vehicles pass me in both directions. And what a dreadful disappointment they are! Teenagers love automobiles, but I don’t love those I’m seeing…numerous brands of single-color, small, four-door sedans...they all look the same!…boring!...and what are those boxy, car/truck combinations? Where are the snazzy two-toned and tri-toned two-door hardtops and convertibles with throaty sounds of V-8 engines? Where are the sexy, little European roadsters like MGs, Austin-Healeys, Alfa-Romeos? What happened to each brand having its unique style and look? Work trucks look about the same…Hey, there goes a Corvette and a new version of a VW Bug. I’d recognize those anywhere, anytime. The store-front businesses, like the homes I observed, have much improved design and color palettes for their buildings. They look welcoming. All the tacky, flashing neon signs are gone. Parking looks more convenient. The bike path turns left and leaves the thoroughfare. Trees are on both sides and hang over me. This is really neat; like riding through the woods. In addition to riders, there are people of all ages, running on the path. That’s different. We only run during sports practices, and then only because the coaches make us. Why would anyone run just for the heck of it? Geez, there’s a guy, must be in his fifties, with a pot gut. Hope he doesn’t have a heart attack. I must say I like the brief, form-fitting outfits the girls wear. Must be some kind of new material, but it clings nicely to their athletic bodies. Whoa! Bouncing boobies! Oh, to REALLY be eighteen again (sigh). My destination is coming up on the right, a large sports complex. We only have ill-equipped school gyms, which are off-limits except during school activities. Sometimes we sneak in, but get in trouble (big-time!) if we get caught. Nobody in my world is concerned about fitness. A few adults play tennis, and the rich ones play golf, but most get exercise by cutting lawns with hand-pushed mowers or working in gardens. After locking my bike (why?), I enter the complex. My image appears in the reflection of the door… Hey, I still have all my hair, and it isn’t even gray. Good genes I guess. But, when did my brown hair turn blond? And why? Inside I find the answer. I swim laps three to five times a week. Why do I do that? That’s worse than running! Anyway, the chlorine and sun must’ve lightened my hair. I recall reading about 1930s and 40s bleached blond movie heroines like Harlow being referred to as “chlorines”. Whatever, I like the surfer dude look. After shoving around some weights, I’m back on the trail. Suddenly I fast forward to my early twenties a memory brought on by passing vehicles that look like vast improvements to the Volkswagen Microbus. They’d be handy to haul around surfboards instead of old, used hearses… A second verse came to me... I moved to California where the houses are new / And the graves are carefully tended / They wear the mask, they pump the gas, stand in lines, drink cheap wine / Hang up their dreams in the smog, and pretend everything is fine / Still putrid smoke rises from the fires where they burn their desires / And they’ll say anything not to sound like a failure… Back to eighteen… Some time later when I leave the sports complex I notice there are eleven other bikes locked (again, why locked?) to a series of racks where mine is also secured. Son-of-a-gun, I have the very same lock I had as a tenth-grader. I can tell from the combination. They must last forever—like Zippo lighters. We never lock-up our bikes. All of the bikes locked in the rack (mine included) are identical save for color. Further most riders are adults, male and female, not tweens and teens. That’s a change. About a mile and a half later I reach another athletic complex with an outdoor lap swimming pool. I lock-up my bike again (how strange) and seek out the locker room to take a leak. (See, I have this appendage that I need to run water through every few hours.) Televisions in the locker room are large and flat with incredible definition, contrast, and color. One has a young lady surrounded by a chorus dancing and singing in sync with her. The lyrics are repetitious and rather boring. So is the melody. Is this what music has become? Later by the pool, I suffer piped-in music by different artists, each sounding pretty much the same as the other: a heavy beat overpowering everything else. Once in a while there is some kind of recitation by a guy with poor English skills who sounds pissed-off. What happened to lyrics, harmony, and melody? Man, this stuff is terrible. I guess not everything—especially automobile styling and music—has progressed. Sometime after sloshing through 1,500 meters I emerge smelling of chlorine that never seems to shower off. The exertion reminds me that I’m not eighteen any more. Oh, well—back to the future! Copyright by Gene Myers, author of AFTER HOURS: ADVENTURES OF AN INTERNATIONAL BUSINESSMAN (2009), Strategic Publishing Group, New York, NY – a hilarious account of the author’s overseas travels; and SONGS FROM LATTYS GROVE (2010), PublishAmerica, Fredericksburg, MD - a mildly sinister, but amusing work of fiction. Both are available from Amazon and Barnes & Noble, and available in Amazon Kindle and Nook formats. Visit www.myersamazon.com
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past, present, bike, bike path, automobiles, running, swim, Northwest Ohio, California, music,
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