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| Home Information About Us and Our Mission, Plan, Ideas, History and Song. |
| Human Family Reunion We come today with open minds and warm hearts. |
| How Now Do I Live My Life? Final exam essays from my class called U.S. Pluralism and taught at William Jewell College. |
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 Saturday, May 22, 2010 Setting at Liberty Those Who Live with Limitations 816-803-8371 Box 442 Liberty, MO 64069 RideforMS@aol.com www.greaterliberty.org From Biscari Brothers Bicycles in Liberty. Three great routes! Fully supported. A full description of our ride will soon appear on our website. |
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How Do We Live Together After 9-11? April 20, 2007 April 20, 2007 April 19, 2007 April 17, 2007 April 11, 2007 March 28, 2007 March 7, 2007 January 31, 2007 January 25, 2007 December 22, 2006 December 20, 2006 December 7, 2006 November 10, 2006 October 31, 2006 October 23, 2006 October 3, 2006 September 26, 2006 September 18, 2006 September 12, 2006 September 7, 2006 September 5, 2006 August 27, 2006 July 24, 2006 July 18, 2006 July 7, 2006 June 11, 2006 May 26, 2006 May 22, 2006 May 9, 2006 Let all sit down to dinner together April 18, 2006 February 4, 2006 January 18, 2006 January 15, 2006 January 10, 2006 Janurary 2, 2006 December 31, 2005 December 23, 2005 December 19, 2005 December 5, 2005 November 28, 2005 November 28, 2005 November 28, 2005 November 15, 2005 November 11, 2005 November 5, 2005 October 21, 2005 September 18, 2005 September 14, 2005 September 12, 2005 September 6, 2005 August 5, 2005 July 21, 2005 July 21, 2005 June 17, 2005 May 21, 2005 May 21, 2005 May 17, 2005 April 29, 2005 April 15, 2005 April 14, 2005 March 11, 2005 March 11, 2005 February 19, 2005 February 17, 2005 February 11, 2005 February 6, 2005 February 3, 2005 February 3, 2005 January 11, 2005 January 1, 2005 December 25, 2004 An Invitation to Celebration December 6, 2004 ACHIEVER: National MS society honors volunteer November 29, 2004 Ring Dem Bells November 15, 2004 October 22 2004 October 15, 2004 October 11, 2004 October 11, 2004 September 29, 2004 September 13, 2004 September 7, 2004 September 4, 2004 September 11-12, 2004 August 29, 2004 August 16, 2004 August 12, 2004 July 27, 2004 July 25,2004 July 19, 2004 July 18, 2004 July 15, 2004 July 15, 2004 July 9, 2004 June 28, 2004 June 04, 2004 June 04, 2004 May 24, 2004 May 10, 2004 May 4, 2004 April 24, 2004 April 25, 2004 April 17, 2004 March 23, 2004 March 11, 2004 February 16, 2004 January 26, 2004 January 26, 2004 January 23, 2004 December 29, 2003 December 29, 2003 December 23, 2003 December 19, 2003 December 19, 2003 10,000 November 29, 2003 November 25, 2003 November 27, 2003 November 26, 2003 November 29, 2003 November 23, 2003 November 22, 2003 November 20, 2003 November 19, 2003 November 18, 2003 November 17, 2003 November 15, 2003 November 14, 2003 November 13, 2003 November 11, 2003 November 10, 2003 November 8, 2003 November 6, 2003 November 4, 2003 November 3, 2003 November 1, 2003 October 31, 2003 October 30, 2003 October 29, 2003 October 24-28, 2003 October 23, 2003 October 22, 2003 October 20, 2003 October 19, 2003 October 11, 2003 October 10, 2003 October 9, 2003 October 3-5, 2003 October 1, 2003 September 27, 2003 September 26, 2003 September 25, 2003 September 24, 2003 September 23, 2003 September 22, 2003 September 23, 2003 September 10, 2003 September 10, 2003 September 6-7, 2003 September 4, 2003 September 3, 2003 September 2, 2003 August 30, 2003 August 29, 2003 August 28, 2003 August 27, 2003 August 25, 2003 August 23, 2003 August 22, 2003 August 21, 2003 August 19, 2003 August 18, 2003 August 16, 2003 August 13, 2003 August 12, 2003 August 11, 2003 August 9, 2003 August 7, 2003 July 24, 2003 July 24, 2003 July 13, 2003 July 3, 2003 June 24, 2003 May 10, 2003 June 9, 2003 June 2, 2003 Ed's Elite 100 Bike Ride May 22, 2003 May 21, 2003 May 19, 2003 May 10, 2003 May 9, 2003 April 6, 2003 March 27, 2003 April 1, 2003 April 26, 2003 March 15, 2003 March 5, 2003 March 5, 2003 March 5, 2003 February 11, 2003 February 10, 2003 January 28, 2003 January 20, 2003 November 3, 2002 September 12, 2002 September 10, 2002 August 24, 2002 August 19, 2002 August 9, 2002 August 6, 2002 August 6, 2002 July 30, 2002 July 2002 June 29, 2002 May 18, 2002 April 16, 2002 April 16, 2002 April 16, 2002 April 9, 2002 March 31, 2002 March 12, 2002 February 23, 2002 |
By Ed Chasteen
Forty-three pounds it registered on the airport scale at KCI: that handsome Samonsite suitcase with my Bike Friday inside, folded up and partially disassembled. Now at my London B&B, I have the case open in the hall and the bike nearly back together. Until I come to the front wheel quick release. It comes with two tiny cone-shaped springs to give the required tension. Half an inch, if that. Half an ounce at most. So small and light it’s hardly noticed. If it had been, as it should have been, in my suitcase back in Kansas City, it would not have registered on the airport scale. But its absence makes everything impossible. That little piece of wound wire gone missing! The front wheel won’t attach! My dream of riding in England up in smoke. Hold on! “I bet you’ve never had a guest with a problem like this,” I say to the young man on duty at the desk. “I need another little spring like this.” “You win,” he says. ”Never had a request like that.” But he’s up to the challenge. He locates a nearby bicycle shop in the yellow pages, dials the number and hands me the phone. The shop has a quick release. “We’re about a seven minute walk from you,” the shopkeeper says. “I have MS and can’t walk. My bike is my way of getting around. Would you bring it to me?” “Things are a little slow here right now. I think I can get away.” He says. I’m sitting on the front step when Adam appears, waving the quick release over his head. He’s riding a bike even smaller than mine. With a single motion, he folds the bike and brings it inside. “Five pounds,” he says when I ask the price. I give him ten. “For your trouble,” I say. For the next few minutes we compare our baby bikes. I thought my wheels were small. His are less than half the size. Bike Friday mine is called. He says his is a Comedian. I’ve come to several entrances to Regent’s Park in central London, intending to ride in the park. Painted in bold white letters across the sidewalk at every entrance: NO SKATEBOARDING NO CYCLING. I want to go in. I see others doing it. Then I see a man riding toward me from inside the park. He’s about my age. I stop him. “Pardon me. I’m visiting. I want to ride in the park. But these signs!” “It’s not allowed. Everybody does it. The police may stop you.” And he rides on. When I teach bike safety in elementary schools at home, I tell students to always obey all laws when they ride. I don’t enter the park. I fold my bike and flag a taxi back to my B&B. At the corner of Tavistock Place and Marchmont Street, I dismount. Fold my bike and take it inside the Valencia Cafe to place my order. Then I take a red sidewalk table, prop my bike beside me and wait for my fish and chips to arrive, a fitting dinner after my full English breakfast. As dusk comes on, the baby bikes of varying sizes come from all directions, together with full-sized bikes aplenty, people of all ages and both sexes aboard. Taxis painted in all colors, advertising a plethora of products. Traditional black taxis in somber elegance. No buses. And no horns sounding. Traffic flowing in a choreographed stream, efficient and aesthetically pleasing, pedestrians weaving effortlessly among the moving machines. Gratitude for my affliction is not something I ever expected to feel. And it’s not the unmitigated variety that comes upon me these three days in London. With walking hard and joyless, I find pleasures close at hand. Conversations with the various people on duty at the desk in our B&B. Sitting long at supper at our little sidewalk café. Reading the local paper. Watching the flow of people through the streets in their varied conveyances. Catching snatches of TV in the B&B parlor. Visiting with other guests. Hearing the unfamiliar languages spoken by the young black women who clean our rooms. To me they speak English. When they don’t know I’m around, they speak the language of their birth. They likely have come farther to England than I have. And for a more serious purpose. A young woman guest I overheard saying she is in England to enroll in graduate school to get her Masters in Russian Studies. The degree in English Studies these maids and housekeepers pursue requires a life-long tution and confers no higher status. Here in the shadow of Buckingham Palace, they go about the routine duties that make London livable. Anonymous and replaceable. Poorly paid and largely ignored. Singled out usually when they have failed to perform some task. But sitting in my room long after most guests are out for the day, I hear them in the hall as they go from room to room to make the beds and vacuum the floor. Though I don’t know the language they speak among themselves, I sense their excitement and their optimism. They have come to London to make a new and better life. It goes as well for them, in their own estimation, I gather, as it does for others who start from a higher plane. From the tabloids sold on street corners, it seems that life among the rich and famous is not all peaches and cream. The British Museum and Buckingham Palace are just blocks away. But it’s a less known London I get to know. MS puts me in places I would not have chosen. And teaches me things that otherwise would not make themselves known to me. “Nicki,” she says when I ask her name. Fifteen years now she has worked here at St. Athans B&B. An hour away by train she lives. “But my husband can drive to get me in 30 minutes. Four different trains I have to take to get home.” Saw my first priest on a bicycle today. Such a sea of cycles I haven’t seen since China. This intersection of Tavistock Place and Marchmont Street can’t be unique in London, so there must be other English priests caring for their flock by bicycle. I spotted it last night as we had dessert at Valencia café. An Indian restaurant. So I’m here today for lunch. Sweating as I eat! If that happens, I’ve come to the right place. It does. And I ordered the medium hot curry. Ice cream is the perfect counterpoint. On a rainy day in London town, a perfect meal is the best umbrella. I hardly notice the rain on my ride back to the St. Athans. Bobbie and I stayed several times at the St. Athans in the spring of 1982 when I taught for a semester at Harlaxton, about a 100 miles north of London on the A-1. Now our daughter, Debbie, is teaching there for a semester, and we are on our way to visit.. Bobbie’s cousin, Johanna, has come with us. She has never visited London, and she and Bobbie are doing the town while I poke around the neighborhood. Just had a visit with Ben and Robin, two French businessmen spending the night here at St. Athans. They flew here on Ryan Air from a small French town for just 20 pounds. They are here to promote their real estate business. According to their flyer, prices start at 16,000 Euros. Ben laughs when I ask what I could buy for 16,000. “Nothing you would want,” he says.” Add a zero, and you could get a modest place. From everywhere. To everywhere. By the thousands. At 8:30 on a Saturday morning, King’s Cross Rail Station is a people magnet, drawing floods of people to this London center, then sending them by rapid transit across England and to the world. Bundles and packages of all shapes and sizes they carry on their backs and in their hands. Others they push before them or pull behind. With precision and dispatch it all proceeds, premised on the assumed beneficence in every heart. Only one with malice at heart and a bomb in a bundle and this magnificent movement of the masses would instantly morph into a mindless stampede. The lives lost could be counted. The fear born and trust destroyed would be discussed by academics and debated by politicians far into the future. Saturday is market day in Grantham, and the streets are filled with merchants and shoppers and the curious. We are among the curious. Things have changed in the 23 years since we were here. Hops Sings is still here. Catlins no longer sells rum balls. Malcom and Nita Knapp still live at 7 Swinegate, just a few doors from the Blue Pig and across the street from St. Wulfram’s Church. The long drive through the front gate up to Harlaxton Manor is closed, and we’re routed through the village. Lot’s of traffic on a Monday morning in Shakespeare’s home town. Some of it on a bicycle. All vehicles share the road with an orderly nonchalance. No horns sound. No rude gestures. And the old English ambiance of Stratford upon Avon exudes gentility and refinement. Staying left as I ride the streets of Statford comes more naturally than I thought it would. Tea and scones, with clotted cream and jam, about 4 PM at the Noel Arms in Chipping Campden, a little Cotswold village we drive through. Lower Slaughter and Upper Slaughter, small villages not far from each other. Bourton on the Water is as pleasant a place as the name implies. Dinner at the Rosetree. Lodging for the night at the Alderley Guest House, welcomed by Margaret and her two dogs. No neon in the night. Occasional street lamps and moonlight giving the golden stoned homes and shops a subtle glow that fades to shadow. When I go for a ride just at daybreak, I see the Small Talk Tea Room, a boy on a bicycle delivering the morning paper, sheep in the pasture. I hear church bells ringing and cattle lowing. Big cities take center stage and command our attention. Tiny towns whisper in our ear and are heard in our soul. Elizabeth Jones grew up on this sheep farm some six miles from Besty Coed in Wales. Her eldest son now runs the farm. She opened her home as a B&B in 1972 and doesn’t want to give it up. This house was built in 1664. Her parents bought it in the 1930’s. Florence has five children and 10 grandchildren. They all live close by. She has visited Patagonia and Argentina, where many Welsh have gone. By her description, Elizabeth doesn’t get out much. But in her 33-year tenure as a B&B hostess, she has welcomed the world to the two rooms at the top of the stairs in the only home she has ever known. Devised by a 19th century local cobbler, this Anglesey village’s name must be one of tourism’s most successful publicity stunts. Almost everyone has heard of the village, even if few can pronounce it’s name, which means “St. Mary’s church in the hollow of the white hazel near a rapid whirlpool and the church of St. Tysillis near the red cave.”LLANFAIRPWLLGWYNGYLLGOGERYCHWYRNDROBWLLLANTYSILOGOGOGOCH While I’m sitting at the intersection of Foregate Street and St. John Street in Chester a passing pedestrian asks me the time. He must not live here. From where I sit, I can see two huge clocks, both with the correct time. I discover a new word in Wales to describe my bike riding. “Araf” is the Welsh word for slow. I collapse my Bike Friday after a three-hour ride through the countryside and carry it into the Gregory Arms. This is where they sat that night. The six of them. One of them turned 21 that day. They had come to The Greg to celebrate. They sat long, nursing their beers. The most sober of them took the wheel for the drive, less than a mile, back to their dorm. Twenty-three years have gone by since that night, and not one of us knows what caused their car to crash into that brick wall. For days after, we all sat and cried as we planned six funerals. One of the six had been in my class earlier that day. I had just read his essay, telling me he had been a wayward son. And vowing to do better. I had not visited the Gregory Arms prior to that night. I could not bear to come after that night. I would be teaching in England for only that one semester. Then back to my regular assignment at William Jewell College. These years later my daughter has been sent by William Jewell to teach here in the English Midlands for a semester. I have come for a two-week visit. It is mid afternoon on a Sunday. Tomorrow I fly home. And at last I am at The Greg, drawn by a picture in my mind of six young men. They never had wives or children or careers. They left sadness in hearts and holes in lives. But sitting here at The Greg and remembering them as they were that day, a bittersweet joy comes over me. Words I learned long ago in a college poetry class come to mind. Houseman’s long poem is called Shropshire Lad. Lines from that section called To An Athlete Dying Young come unbidden to my mind as I sit here where they sat in the last few minutes of their lives. Smart lad, to slip betimes away The six of you did not plan a dramatic exit from center stage. You had no way of knowing that none of us would ever forget you. Time has not lined your faces in our minds. As we grow older, you remain forever young. After dinner back at Harlaxton Manor, I disassemble my bike and return it to its suitcase. We take the train back to London on Monday for a last night on the town before flying home on Tuesday. Agatha Christie’s The Mousetrap has been playing on the London stage for 53 years. More than 20,000 performances have taken place before the one we see Monday evening. At intermission we all explain why we think this or that suspect actually committed the murder. When the curtain comes down, my suspect is proven guilty. Everyone congratulates me for what was, in fact, a lucky guess. |
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