An Early Morning Bike Ride in Philly

Most of my dreams I cannot remember. Of the ones I can, some are often different scenarios with familiar actors. Rarely is any dream a recurring one telling the same story, except one. It's not exactly a nightmare.  It is more a  Kodak moment I have never been able to forget. Over the years, I have replayed that moment in  a few quick flashes many times in my dreams. It is always the same. The next day I am able to get on with my day without any disruption. This morning however, the dream woke me up and now I am writing about that Kodak moment. This was the first time I remember waking up with tears in my eyes and an intense feeling of loss, guilt, .... I just don't know what it was.

It was 1990 or maybe 1991. Kent and I were attending the East Coast NBDA Expo at the Pennsylvania Convention Centre on Vine Street in Philadelphia. The NBDA is retailer group made up of Bicycle retailers from across the country. It was a three day event. My partner and I stayed at the Howard Johnsons Motor Lodge, located in the shadow of the Franklin Bridge that crossed the Delaware River to New Jersey. We had brought our bikes to get to and from the venue and also maybe take in some sights.

The second morning, I got up early. I asked Kent if he wanted to go for a ride in the city streets and watch Philadelphia get on with its day. He begged off, turned over and before I was dressed, he was sawing wood again.

I started pedaling around 6:30 AM. Philly was awake, but not up to full steam. Rush hour's heaviest period was still to come. I was hoping I would have more empty streets to cruise on, but even at 6:30 AM, the main arteries were busy with cars rushing to destinations in the city.

Philadelphia has a lot of one way streets. As a cyclist, I have always liked one way streets. The possible dangers are mitigated to a degree by having everyone moving in the same direction. But then that morning I realized I might be mistaken about one way streets, especially ones with 4 or 6 lanes filled  curb to curb with cars late for work. 

Somewhere near City Hall I pulled up, got off my bike and stepped up on the sidewalk. The huge four way clock on top of City Hall told me it was past 7:30 AM. I had reached my turn around point. After checking the street map I had with me for the best way back to Howard Johnson's Motor Lodge, I took some minutes to drink some water and look around. 

The streets and sidewalks had become hectic streams of pedestrians and cars hurrying here, hurrying there Everyone was  focused on where they were going, never looking anywhere but straight ahead; avoiding eye contact with everyone around them. I stood and marveled at this impersonal flow of humanity.

I almost did not notice him. He was sitting on the sidewalk, his back to the wall of the skyscraper next to us.  He was wearing a nasty looking Army jacket with an Airborne patch on the shoulder. He was black and both legs had been amputated just above his knees. Around his neck, a cardboard sign dangled that simply said "Vietnam Vet". A trucker hat turned upside down next to him had a few coins in it. There was a bottle of Thunderbird wine propped up on one of his thighs. My first thought was pity, my second was this guy has given up and who's fault is that?

The busy world swirled and stepped around him.  I was struck by how invisible he was to everyone who passed by. Men in sharp suits, well dressed professional women in heels, delivery guys pushing two wheeled carts stacked to the sky with boxes: everyone acting oblivious and ignoring this legless man who sat up against a skyscraper. 

Our eyes met when the vet looked up at me.

His eyes were filled with an emptiness that cried, "I am nothing, a human shell, my humanity, long gone....... Help me. Don't help me. I am past caring." 

I looked down. I could not meet his gaze anymore. I was embarrassed. I felt my face grow warm. I turned away.

I stood with my back to him and tried to deal with the uncomfortable position I was in. I had already relegated this man out of my emotional concern and was concentrating on how I felt, not how he felt. I scrambled for excuses to ignore this guy just as everyone else did. I wanted to not feel bad. I dug in my pocket and pulled out the emergency paper clipped stash of cash I always carry on bike rides. 

Turning around, I was about to take the three or four steps his hat, but I stopped. He had pulled his zipper down and right there on this very busy city sidewalk in downtown Philadelphia, his piss trickled out and formed a couple of streams that headed for the gutter six or seven feet away. Meanwhile the crowded foot traffic passing by did not even slow down. One well dressed woman took the time to stop, look at the vet, purse her lips and then carefully step over both streams of piss to continue on her way.

 When he was finished pissing and he had zipped up, I stepped over and put the whole twenty dollar emergency stash  in his hat. Our eyes briefly met. His face and gaze unchanged. I received no acknowledgement of my attempt to buy back the guilt I felt. How my face looked to him, well, I don't know for sure, but if it looked like I felt, it was the face of someone in anguish. I climbed back on  my bike. My fun ride was definitely over.

I hoped the twenty dollar gift would help me cope with my feelings. Obviously it didn't help. I am sitting here thirty some years since the incident, still thinking about it and now I am writing about it.

I think I'll leave it there ................Later........

<><><><><><><><><><>

I have always hated war. I hate that humans participate in it, glorify it, look forward to it. If any human trait is proof we are not ready or deserving to consider ourselves an awesome species, our love of killing each other would be the number one indicator.

I have tried to find a song that dovetails well with how I feel about that moment in Philadelphia so long ago. I keep coming back to a song by Ferocious Dog, a group from across the Big Pond. The song focuses on returning British vets from the stupidity of the last war in Iraq. It isn't about an American vet or the Vietnam War. The message is the same. The results for the soldiers are the same. Wars may be fought on different playfields by different teams, but the the brutal aftereffects remain timeless and universal in the damage they inflict on the human soul.

Here is "Broken Soldier".