Indecencies Confronted While Riding My Bike

 

Not a photo of me, but I like her.

Rode my bike on the RailTrail today, mild and sunny, good day for exercise – which meant more people were out to enjoy the weather. I passed an old maskless man sitting on a low wall near the train tracks, withered beard, wind-battered mountain of a face, shoes repaired with duct tape. He was leafing through a stained newspaper as I rode by him, and his presence loomed large -- it seemed I’d unwittingly entered his force field, disturbed some serious afternoon equilibrium. It’s okay, I said to him without words. I’ll be gone in a second.

“Wicked butt,” he muttered in my wake.

Really? I giggled quietly to myself. And, savoring the sweet breeze on my face, I let the comment go.

“Wicked butt!” he claimed again, louder. 

I kept pedaling. 

“WICKED BUTT! WICKED BUTT! WICKED BUTT!!!” He was yelling now.

I then had to pause at an intersection and wait for the light to turn green. He was quite a distance away by then, and I couldn’t help myself--I turned around. Was he still sitting down? Or was he heading in my direction?

He was standing, not leaving his post. But he held one hand in the air to emphasize the salient point of his sermon: “WICKED BUTT! WIIIIIICKED BUUUTTTT!!! WIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIICCCKED!!! BUUUUTTTT!!! Roaring. Howling. Not smiling. 

A couple of pedestrians crossed to the other side the street to avoid walking near him. Though startled and angry at being yelled at – after all, my butt is quite ordinary and decent and no one had asked his opinion anyway -- I also felt a little worried about him and about others who might disturb his space. Lord, what’s up with that guy? Alone on the tracks, shoes falling apart, battling who knows what demons? Hope nobody gets hurt.

The light turned green. I continued on, nearing home. 

At the last stoplight before my street, a disheveled sandy-haired woman looked me up and down. She was unmasked and a bit unsteady, maybe intoxicated, as she reached for the “walk” button. Then her gaze rested directly on my mask. “You know, this ain’t no church here, honey!” Her voice was a harsh squawk. 

What the hell is with people today? I asked the birds in the sky. Either my butt is wicked or I’m holier than thou? Look, I don’t want to get mad at homeless people struggling to survive the day. But can’t a bitch just enjoy a sunny bike ride in peace? 

At my front door, dismounting my bike, I noticed that my so-called stretch jeans had slid far down below my T-shirt & jacket….which possibly meant that part of my bottom had been exposed – like the classic “plumber’s butt” – during my ride on the Rail Trail. For all I know, that roaring old man was a modern St. Pantaleon, aka San Pantalone (patron saint of trousers and lotteries) who was attempting, in his uniquely frenzied way, to warn me of a regrettable breach of propriety.

So, um .... What have I (re)learned today? Wear a belt. Pray. Let shit go. Keep moving.