Along the barge canal

Dear You,

Hamlin Garland once observed that the highway is traveled by all sorts of people, but that the poor and the weary predominate. Still true today -- probably moreso. Yet I find in my time and in my place, the places where I find myself most often, the poor are invisible.

It was with surprise, then, that I came upon a vagrant yesterday. I was cycling along the barge canal just outside Pittsford (where per capita income is unarguably rather high), and I spotted what I took to be a pile of discarded clothes in the weeds beside the trail. As I passed I could see worn boots on one end and a cradled mass of hair at the other. My next thought was that it was a corpse and nearly stopped. Then I realized that this man was no doubt sleeping in the afternoon warmth, and the other bikers, hikers, joggers that were taking this path would surely have determined whether someone were dead or not!

A half hour or so later, as I was returning to where I'd left my car, I passed him again; this time he was afoot. Thin. Shambling along. Eyes downcast. He looked up, nodded. I nodded.

But for those two separated moments he exists only in my memory. Awhile later, as I sat outside a coffee shop, I watched people feeding the ducks, tossing crumbs from their bags into the water. ($1 a bag; available from the table near the door.) Young people walked by wearing tee shirts with names of universities across their chests, talking on their cell phones or discussing the contents of their shopping bags. Briefly I took notice of the young woman who selttled next to me on the bench to adjust her inline skates. Then I wondered -- again -- if the rumpled man was still walking along the canal . . . and where? Bushnell's Basin? on to Fairport? All the way out to Palmyra? Where would he find his dinner, and where his bed that night?

I can't know the answers because I did not stop . . . neither in the going out nor the coming back. I didn't stop to ask.

Cycling the Canal

Dear You,

It's Summer in Upstate New York, and as I live near the Erie Canal ("low bridge, everybody down") -- someday to be among the country's longest parks, with the old towpath now used by joggers and cyclists -- today was a fine time to take my new bicycle for a spin. A park nearby provides easy access to the path, and in previous years I've found several other good places to begin.

Heading out is different from coming back. I connect the earbuds to my little radio and tune to NPR, adjusting the volume and clipping the device to my shirt. After deciding which direction to go and setting the gears to the hardest, I ride at a pretty good clip along the canal. My attention is divided between watching out for the others sharing the graveled lane and paying attention to the stories on "Weekend Edition."

My fellow travelers include other cyclists (often in pairs), joggers (most often young women with headsets, and families (complete with strollers and dogs). It's the last that provide the challenge, since after I ring my little bell I have to hope they cling to the right side so I can pass. I note for the umpteenth time that I'm the oldest one out there. On the rare instances when I spot someone older, he or she is usually on foot. And me without a helmet!

When my watch says I've gone at least a half-hour, I stop, turn around, pocket my radio, and start back . . . slower. This time I'm using my senses more fully. A Canada goose with five goslings glide near the bank. For a moment, a monarch butterfly keeps pace with me inches from my face. Birdsong punctuates the quiet until it's drowned out by the little powerboat cruising by. I detect a sort of hayfield smell to the air. The sun, coupled with the exertion of the outbound round, warms me, and I appreciate the cooling breeze that my ride creates.

Philosophers urge us to "live in the moment." It's at times like these when I come closest to that.