Long Riders:
Long riders are children of the wind and
sky, land-lost sailors who ramble alone or in pairs, strangers where they
sleep. Their bicycles often look like
dusty camels borne on strange, ragged wheels.
Their faces are weathered, sunburned and worn. Ratty road maps protrude from the well-worn
pockets of blue jeans home modified to Knickerbocker length. They grin and sometimes they hear voices in
the air.
Seventieth Spring:
Springtime is when an old man’s fancy turns to
cycling. A few months ago I spent a sunny day servicing
Ms. Raleigh and her stable mate, Sir Dexter, for the season. You know my palfrey, Ms. Raleigh. Sir Dex is an old Specialized cross-bike,
built of sturdy chrome moly steel with wheels to withstand pot holes and ruts
while fully loaded with groceries. I should, perhaps, post his photo too.
The Silver Feather Band:
Visualize a lonely, isolated band of forest
dwellers living in some niche in pre-historic or post-historic time.
Their world, their very survival is precarious. They hunt and gather,
avoiding all contact with others who may also occupy the forest. Contact
with strangers is fraught with risk of attack, extermination. They live
quietly, without music and unnecessary speech. Yet, the band is lonely
and too small to propagate itself. They must communicate with
others and somehow, without a common language, transmit their peaceful
intent.
The Silver Feather Band has gathered in the mist
and ferns along the banks of a pool in a clear running
stream. Water and forest sounds gently caress the velvet darkness of
early night. Insects thrum synchronically. A few stars glitter in through the forest
canopy. As they wait and listen, they hear the faint sounds of another
band approaching the other side of the pond.
The Red Feather Band:
They too are in the same situation. They
need, but fear with good cause, contact with another band.
* * * *
A woman from the Silver Feather Band rises
and sings a single note. Her group joins her, fearful, but full of hope.
A man from the Red Feather Band rises and
responds. His group joins him.
The two groups exchange tonal message
intending to communicate peace and goodwill, ultimately circling the pool and
singing their notes together. The full moon rises over the forest canopy,
occasionally penetrating to the floor. The singing fades to
silence. The forest and water sounds continue. The insect chorus resumes.
No one knows what will happen next.
(With thanks to Jared Diamond and his recent The World Until Yesterday.)
