Posted by: Tobias Schlingensiepen | December 19, 2011

Two Bikes in Dover – and One in Bethlehem!

I was invited to go for a bike ride with a group of men who ride once a week together and amiably refer to themselves as “The Old Fogeys.” My friend, Kevin, who rides with them on occasion, asked me if I wanted to go along.

To get ready, I pumped up Rosinante’s tires in the morning. A half hour before heading out to the rendezvous site, where we were to meet at 1 p.m., I checked the air pressure – the rear tire had lost 50 lbs. Slow leak. Not good.

At this point, if I was going to ride at all, there was no other option than to ride my miniature recumbent with its 13-inch wheels. Not ideal, and certainly not for riding thirty plus miles out to the little crossroads-town of Dover. How would I keep up with the others?

The Old Fogeys were a no-show, but they were very kind to send someone to the rendezvous site to let Kevin and me know that we would be the only two riding – if we still intended to ride, that is.

Now if there is one thing Kevin and I have done a lot of over the last year it’s ride, and we were going to go ahead with our plans. Dover it was! I did, however, warn Kevin that I would have great difficulty keeping up with him, since I had really brought along the wrong tool for the job, as it were. “Leave me behind, if you like. I’ll catch up.”

Kevin was a half a mile to a mile and a half ahead of me most of the time. But I could usually see him now and again, cresting a hill in the distance. Occasionally he would circle around just long enough to make sure I was still rolling. (Kevin is a very conscientious team-rider; I learned and appreciated this when we rode RAGBRAI together last summer.)

It was a beautiful day, the sun shone brightly and the skies were blue. There was a chill wind from the northwest, but we were dressed to enjoy it. We saw several Red-Tail Hawks. Once, when Kevin was riding alongside me on the left, I saw a Red Tail flying just over his left shoulder in the distance, keeping perfect pace with him. What a photo that would have made!

When I finally rolled into Dover, Kevin was standing at the intersection in front of the cafe, keeping an eye out for me. (He may have been faster, but I at least had remembered to bring some money!) We sat down to a cup of coffee and some chocolate cream pie – um…ummm!

At one point, on the way back, he mused what he might print in his Facebook-status when he got home. This is part of what he wrote:

On the way home we went up 57th. I got to Valencia Rd, and waited and waited . When Toby finally showed up, I looked at him and told him the last time this ride took me so long, I actually walked it. Then we both started laughing. He then told me he had stopped to take pictures of some Llamas. We had a great time riding today.

I completely agree, adding only, just because, that if I were re-writing the story of the Star of Bethlehem and the Wise Men, I might consider the following dialogue:

Star:            “You guys are gonna ride camels? All the way there? Seriously?                        Come on, really?”

Wise Men: “What do you expect us to do? Walk? According to our astrological                            records, we humans won’t be able to fly for roughly another 1.9                                  millenia.”

Star:            “Humans, fly? And they call you Wise Men?”

Wise Men:  “Look, just lead the way. We’ll follow.

Once the Star and the Wise Men had arrived at the scene, what a beautiful sight they beheld! The star shone its light upon the holy family so gently, and the vessels, containing the gold, frankincense and myrrh, too, were bathed in its light. In this moment, all trials and tribulations were forgotten.

What’s that? It can’t be! But it is! A chrome fender and some spokes caught some of the star’s light! It’s true, a bicycle was present at the birth of Jesus, sneaking a peak from behind a haystack. All of a sudden a high-pitched bing, bing, bing could be heard. Jesus was gazing intently in the direction of the sound, which hailed from a little bicycle bell, which Joseph was playing.

Merry Christmas!

Posted by: Tobias Schlingensiepen | December 8, 2011

From Bank Drive-Thru to Confessional

For once, since it’s getting cold out, I took the car to the bank to make a deposit and withdraw some cash. When I pulled up to the drive-thru, I laid my checks inside the canister and sent it on its way through the pneumatic tube.

I waited for the teller to say hi, as he always does when I pull up, but instead I heard his voice through the intercom saying, “I’ll need to see your driver’s license in order to give you cash back.” ‘Really,’ I thought, a little nonplused. Looking at him through the glass window at the side of the building, I said, “This is the first time I have ever been asked for my driver’s license.” “I’m sorry, sir,” came his response, “but it’s required of everyone.”

‘Whatever,’ I thought, as I punched the button, shooting the canister with my license back to the teller, as if I were launching a missile.

It occurred to me that I was angry. Taking a step back mentally, I asked myself what had caused it. Was asking me for a valid photo-I.D. really so unsettling? Was it that providing an I.D. was a change in the usual routine? Or worse: Did I think I deserved special treatment? Maybe all of the above?

All I knew was that I had felt anger and now hoped I had not somehow communicated that anger to the teller, who, after all, was just doing his job, protecting my assets from any Tom, Dick, and Harry who might decide to drive up and ask for cash from my account.

I was roused from my musings by the teller’s voice over the speaker saying, “I’m sorry, Tobias. I didn’t recognize you without your bicycle helmet.”

“No problem,” I said, lying. (There was a problem, even if I didn’t know what it was, a problem that was not his but mine.) “Eric,” I said, “I’m the one who should be sorry. If I snapped at you, I apologize.”

Eric was gracious.

Advent is a season of penitence. Readings, featuring John the Baptist, are a tradition this time of year. John preached a “baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.” According to John, God was offering an opportunity for repentance – not in the Temple, where such business was usually conducted (by priests – and at a cost, it should be remembered), but in the wilderness, along the banks of the river Jordan. Forgiveness was flowing freely now.

I imagine it was a welcome surprise, one for which folks were grateful, as I was when I suddenly realized that a bank drive-through could become a confessional.

Posted by: Tobias Schlingensiepen | November 30, 2011

Come, Lord Jesus. The Advent Watch.

Advent, I have to admit, is one of my favorite seasons in the Christian calendar. It’s about waiting, watching, being alert. But for what? For Christ to return.

Seriously?

What does it mean to utter the traditional words, “Come, Lord Jesus!”

Fr. Richard Rohr, O.F.M., in his little booklet, Preparing for Christmas. Daily Meditations for Advent (© 2008), says of this phrase that it represents a leap into the kind of freedom and surrender that is rightly called the virtue of hope. The theological virtue of hope is the patient and trustful willingness to live without closure, without resolution, and still be content and even happy because our Satisfaction is now at another level, and our Source is beyond ourselves (p. 5).

To await from the Lord’s return fulfillment  (not just any fulfillment, but the fulfillment of all fulfillments), to be true to the one who is to come as no one other than the one that dwelt among us “full of grace and truth,” is to be freed from other ultimate claims on our allegiance, especially those devoid of grace and truth. Worldly claims to ultimacy have too often ended in horror.

One theory claiming ultimacy for itself in our day seems to be the one that espouses that, if governments would just refrain from any regulatory influence on the “free” market, we’d all be better off.

Critical questions should always be asked of any theory, but especially of such purporting to offer simple and sweeping solutions to our current economic problems. First and foremost, we should ask: who stands to gain by such a theory, and who will lose out? Such theories, contrary to common assumption, are not merely academic; they are also tools in ongoing human struggles for power.

Without any rules, the word ‘free’ in free market would simply refer to a market dominated by its most powerful players. That, in fact, is what we have today, due to globalization. A global market  is one which, for lack of any global regulatory body with enforcement capabilities, is almost impossible to regulate; it is the reason that multi-national corporations can operate with unparalleled freedom, i.e. without restraint. Because of this lack of restraint in the global economy, multi-national corporations are increasingly successful in dismantling restraints within the framework of national economies, and this because they can play off one national economy against the other until they get the concessions, the “freedoms” they want.

In other words, says the global corporate player, ‘If I don’t like your nation’s rules, fine; I’ll just base my headquarters, or even my production facility, in some other country, one without labor laws and high corporate tax rates, one that will help me maximize my profits. Such maximization always occurs at someone’s expense. Politicians, eager to be seen as being proactive on the jobs creation front (not to mention being keen on campaign contributions and a post-political careers in the lobbying industry) are quick to ‘respond.’

This is the cause of the downward spiral, the ‘race for the bottom,’ in which we currently find ourselves, and in which we will continue to find ourselves, if we do not succeed in establishing some internationally binding rules that ensure that the markets do not benefit only its strongest players. Freedom understood in this way would be little more than domination of the many by the few. Freedom of opportunity requires ground rules, rules that ensure some degree of competitive fairness.

Blind faith in an unregulated market is starkly at odds with our own U.S. Constitution, though you’d never know it by listening to those that would interpret the latter merely as a document designed to ensure as little government influence on the economic sphere as possible. On the contrary, the Constitution rests on the fundamental insight that human (special)interests, left unchecked, are destructive; it therefore establishes a form of government that does not deny the existence of such interests but forces them into a process of legislation designed to lead to their being transformed into a general interest, one that truly serves the good of all.

That the Constitution can be misconstrued as advocating anything other than this shows a disturbing trend, namely one in which the marketplace is increasingly seen as the chief means of organizing human life, relegating politics, and our republican form of government no less, to a mere supporting role of little or no significance in the scheme of things – a disturbing, but also a dangerous trend, since the de facto prevailing uncritical anti-government bias runs the serious risk of leading to a situation in which the democratic process may well be sacrificed to so-called market laws, erroneously thought to be equivalent to laws of nature. In short, by endorsing this trend, we are allowing ourselves to be transformed from being citizens into being consumers only.

Buying into an unqualified notion of an unregulated market as the solution to all our problems is naive; worse, it leads to a mentality that favors the strong and creates a multitude of victims. The disparity between winners and losers is growing by the year. We try to mitigate this troubling fact by telling ourselves that the losers are somehow themselves to blame for their lack of success which is, as this view would have it, the result of their failure to work hard.

This view seeks to reassure “us” that we won’t lose what “we” have by explaining away “their” misfortunes as the result of “their” own irresponsibilty and inaction.

In truth, there is no guarantee that today’s winners will be tomorrow’s winners. The financial sector has demonstrated clearly how even the savings of hard working people can be gambled away virtually overnight. A lack of any substantive regulatory activity, designed to prevent this from happening again in the future, coupled with a lack of holding those responsible accountable, proves that ‘free’ also means that it can not only be done again, but done with impunity.

That we do not want to look this state of affairs in the eye is understandable. It makes us afraid.

Ideologies gain their allure by promising to alleviate our fears. Unfortunately, they also take advantage of them, with someone (or some entity or entities) standing to benefit, who then seek to control the terms of our existence.

There is only one solution, really. We need to be watchful and alert. We need to confront our fearfulness and cultivate courage. Without courage we will not be able to think and act in ways that will lead us to be responsive to need and to assume the responsibility necessary to address it, conceptually and practically. It takes a willingness to be a citizen, rather than a consumer, to take on such a task; it takes embracing the idea of a common good, of civic responsibility and duty. A body politic cannot afford any losers without losing itself.

Christians, in spite of repeated and serious failure to do so, have no excuse for ignoring this insight, for it is fundamental to our understanding of community, of being members of the body of Christ.

Advent is about waiting, watching, and being alert. Observing Advent is no passive exercise! It includes being on the watch for false messiahs, whether in the form of charismatic leaders or ideologies promising ultimate salvation. More importantly, it means looking out for the true Messiah.

From what direction will the true Messiah come?

When Christians say, “Come, Lord Jesus,” we are saying something truly important, something critical. We are confessing:

The one who is coming is the one who identified with the poor and the vulnerable (see Matthew 25: 31-46); the one who is coming is the one who identified with their need; the one who is coming is the one who ultimately, at his return, will identify with us, but only to the extent that we ourselves also identified with and threw in our lot with the poor and the vulnerable, with him.

Come, Lord Jesus, come!

Posted by: Tobias Schlingensiepen | October 26, 2011

Talk to Me

Cycling is so much a part of my day to day life that it has, for the most part, replaced the car. The only trunk space I have is a backpack hung over the back of my mini-recumbent, a charming little cycling device I bought at a neighbor’s yard sale. In addition to my purchase, I believe I have made a new friend of this neighbor. He bought another recumbent, one with larger wheels, also at a yard sale. He says he misses the old one, but is cheered that I enjoy it as much as I do. And I do – I really do! According to its solar powered computer, in the last eight weeks I have ridden over 620 miles! I still can’t believe it myself. A ride to a nursing home, to a hospital, the church, to a grocery store, to the bank…it really adds up.

A couple of weeks ago, I showed up at my doctor’s office for a routine appointment. Something had happened earlier that day that made me so upset I was steaming. A very rare occurrence! Of course, the first thing my doctor’s nurse does every time I arrive is weigh me and check my blood pressure. When she put the cuff around my arm, I thought, ‘This is going to be good!’ The result: 90/60. ‘Wow,’ I thought, ‘if I’m not upset, I may go into a coma.’ Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but: integrating riding into my very full weekdays is a) about the only way I can make time to exercise and b) measurably better for my health than going out for rides a few times a week (which I also do when possible).

More than any of these benefits, however, I enjoy the time between one appointment and another, the change of pace, the fresh air, the light, and the beauty of the autumn foliage. By the time I get to my next appointment, I am ready to give it my all. Well, okay, sometimes someone will call me on my cell phone, in which case I pull over, answer the phone, wedge it between my ear and my helmet straps, and voila – I am talking on my hands-free communication system. “Hello, this is Tobias…What? Hang on a second, I have to cross the intersection while the light is green…Okay, ready. Talk to me!”

Posted by: Tobias Schlingensiepen | August 23, 2011

It Fell from the Sky

For Caitlin Almond

It was a cool morning, so I decided to forego the use of my car, choosing instead to ride a bicycle to Brewster Place, a retirement community, where I hoped to visit several members of my congregation that day. Since the bicycle I usually ride has a flat I haven’t gotten around to mending yet, I decided to take the recumbent bicycle I purchased earlier in the summer at a neighbor’s yard sale.

Riding a recumbent is quite different from riding an ordinary bicycle; it feels somewhat like being in a reclining chair, only that your legs are propped up on pedals and in constant motion rather than resting; there are no armrests – and certainly none with convenient pockets for storing a cold can of beer or a TV-remote! Anyway, it was too early for a beer, and who would’ve wanted to watch TV or channel-flip on a beautiful morning like this? The trail was sun-dappled and, through branches of trees reaching out to each other across the trail, I could see blue patches of sky overhead.

I saw a young father and his two young children riding their bicycles ahead of me. By the looks of him, I guessed him to be a colleague from another church in town. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted me coming up from behind and instructed his daughter to keep to the right. The sound of his voice confirmed that it was indeed my colleague. I slowed just long enough for him to recognize me. We exchanged greetings. As I passed, his son shouted, “Dad, I want a bike like that!”

Farther down the trail, just before the place I would turn and start up the steep incline to 25th Street, it happened. I suppose, if it had to happen at all, I should’ve at least been grateful that its appearance was what it was, and that it ended up where it did. Great, I thought, now what? There was nothing I could do about it, so I continued on my way, hoping it would just stay put.

But, when I got to Brewster’s Health Center, I leaned over to lock my bike, and that’s when I noticed that it was completely hidden by the short sleeve of my beige shirt. No, not that! Please, please! I swiped my visitor’s pass and made straight for the bathroom where, to my horror, I discovered that things were far worse than I had allowed myself to imagine. In the wall mirror, I now saw that not only was my forearm covered but also the left sleeve and the left side of my shirt below the sleeve all the way down to the waist.

Had I really been riding an armchair, and had the whole morning up to the moment it happened simply been a film I had downloaded from Netflix, now would have been the appropriate time to reach for the remote. I could have just pushed the rewind button (or whatever it’s called now, in the post-video DVD-era) and left things at sun-dappled trail and patches of blue sky. Better yet, had I been the film’s director, I could have shouted “Cut!” just after it happened and done the whole scene over again.

What had happened?

Same movie, different perspective, namely that of an additional, previously unknown actor. “Camera ready? Roll!”

The camera pans a group of trees not far from a bike trail. Zooming in closer, a bird – wait! Yes, a Robin – can be seen greedily gorging itself on the sun-ripened, deeply purple fruit of a Mulberry tree. The Robin continues in this manner for quite some time, as if no such repast will ever present itself again, until it simply cannot devour a single berry more. It is just sitting there, its feathers ruffled, predictably immobile, presumably allowing itself time to digest the many berries it has consumed and perhaps also the beautiful view from its privileged vantage point somewhere high up in the crown of the Mulberry tree.

Just then, in the distance, it – the Robin – spies a cyclist. (The camera now assumes the bird’s perspective.) It spies the cyclist, but something strikes it as being somehow odd. It’s not just any bicycle the cyclist is riding. Just what it is it cannot determine. As the cyclist draws nearer, it appears to the Robin that the rider is riding a bicycle very much resembling an armchair. What’s this, the bird is thinking to itself (which we know because this is where I, the director, judiciously employ subtitles). What’s this? Cycling’s now a form of relaxation, is it? It’s bad enough cyclists feel like they own the trail – a bird’s never been killed by colliding with a pedestrian! Do they now have to rub it in by dozing while they drive? The nerve!

Our view, remember, is identical to that of the Robin, which, as the lens suggests, suddenly dives down unexpectedly, and at great speed, in the direction of the cyclist. We begin to fear a collision is imminent, but the Robin, pulls up just short of the cyclist, whom we now no longer see. Instead, our vision blurs amid the foliage at the far side of the trail. “Cut!”

Okay, I’ll cut the crap (hint!). Suffice it to say it was deeply purple. Suffice it to say it fell from the sky.

Posted by: Tobias Schlingensiepen | August 18, 2011

Summer Vacation

“Seriously, you rode your bicycle across Iowa for your summer vacation?” someone asked. Well, I tried!

With a group of fellow cyclists, I participated in the oldest cross-state, non-competitive bicycle ride in the country, now in its 39th year. Sponsored by the Des Moine Register and known by the acronym RAGBRAI (Register’s Annual Great Bicycle Ride Across Iowa), this ride covers 450 miles in seven days, beginning at the Missouri and ending at the Mississippi River, each year by a different route. This year’s route began in Glenwood and ended in Davenport. The daily destinations in between were Atlantic, Carroll, Boone, Altoona Grinnell, and Coralville.

It’s a huge event! There are 10,000 week-long riders, chosen by lottery, with up to 5,000 additional day-long riders, and an unknown number of people who just ride along without officially registering. On day one, I couldn’t believe the number of riders wending their way over and around the many hills. The road was bicycles and colorful jerseyed riders as far as the eye could see. I felt like an ant amid millions of other ants, all in search of a picnic to raid. There were very young riders and very old riders. The oldest I saw were a father and son duo riding a tandem together; I don’t know how old the son was, but dad was 94, and man could he ever peddle!

RAGBRAI is also humorously referred to as the Spandex Mardi gras because there are a number of participants who ride dressed in all kinds of costumes, usually in addition to the usual cycling shorts and jerseys. One recumbent bicycle was actually ‘done-up’ to look like a banana. One team had riders all dressed in black and white, cow-patterned jerseys; it’s members even mooed when they passed other riders. Team Loon from Minnesota, donning loons atop their bicycle helmets, seemed otherwise quite normal. What team was I on? Our group actually did adopt a name one of us made into a t-shirt, which read: The Downhill Specialists.

Iowa, which doesn’t seem to have suffered from the heat as much as Kansas has, presented itself in lush greens, with cornfield after cornfield appearing on track to yield a record crop. Scattered between them were farmsteads, their houses, outbuildings, and grounds all meticulously maintained and emanating the charm of a frugal Midwestern prosperity some may erroneously think long since extinct. What makes this ride special is the incredible beauty of Iowa, and the impressive hospitality of its people. Each town through which we rode put on a huge welcome that was indistinguishable from an enormous street festival. Even churches put on all-you-can-eat pasta lunches and dinners. In this way, I met some members and the pastors of two United Church of Christ congregations along the way.

We were fortunate to have our own SAG-vehicles and drivers. Dennis and Dana quickly drove their vehicles to each day’s destination, hoping to find a campsite (preferably in the shade and close to both portable toilets and showers), set up the tents, and unloaded our bedrolls and backpacks before the campgrounds filled up and the cyclists arrived. I was grateful for them, since I had to sit out days 2, 3, and 4, waiting for antibiotics to deal with the bronchitis I suddenly developed. While I recouped, I tagged along with Dennis, whom I had only met briefly once before. In helping him with the daily preparations, I found a new friend. His can-do, cheerful, and kind personality were just what I needed, not least given the news that Ed Morrill, Doris Bricker, Carl Miller, and Ann Hale would not be there, a vibrant part of our congregation’s life, when I returned, lending sad new significance to the phrase ‘summer vacation.’

To their memory, to their spouses, family members, and friends I dedicate my participation in RAGBRAI XXXIX.

[Passing through South Amana, one of the famous colonies of the same name, I asked whether anyone still spoke German and was immediately interviewed by  journalist Kyle Munson from the Des Moines Register, which sponsors the event each year. Kyle wrote daily articles on RAGBRAI. To read the article and interview, just click on this link: http://www.desmoinesregister.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=2011107300320]

Posted by: schlingensiepen | July 1, 2011

Riding with the Man of La Muncha. Part V

I will spare you the details of our drive to Cleveland, saying simply that it was a blessing that Tobias took up his brother Christopher’s kind offer to make his Garmin available to us for the remainder of our travels; otherwise, we would never have cleared the Chicago metro-area. After several hours of driving, we finally arrived in downtown Cleveland, where Tobias had a meeting at the United Church of Christ national office. The national UCC, located at 700 Prospect Avenue, also owns and operates the Radisson Hotel, which lies just behind it, and is connected to it by a walkway.

We were put up in one of this hotel’s many rooms, and a very nice one, I must say. Yes, I, Rosinante, a bicycle, spent the night in the Radisson – but! There were two double beds, and I was fully expecting that Tobias would bed me down in one of them for the night. I’m serious! I mean, how often does a bicycle have the opportunity to sleep in a Sleep Number bed, the kind that allows you to enter a number and adjust the softness or firmness of the mattress to your own personal taste?

(Hey, if you Sleep Number people read this blog, would you consider a tax-deductible contribution to First Congregational Church? Or perhaps you could develop Sleep Number adjustable pew cushions. Just a suggestion.)

Instead of affording me this much-deserved luxury, Tobias merely moved a chair, put down my kickstand, and parked me between the desk and the window behind it (Of course, the curtain was drawn!). He must have felt my icy gaze upon him because, before leaving for dinner with Rev. David S. Moyer, he paused in the doorframe, turned around, and said, “Are you kidding? There is a sign in the bathroom instructing guests not to use towels to shine their shoes. Why would I allow you to get chain oil and grime all over these high-end bed sheets? The stains will never come out. Besides,” he continued grinning, “you have tires. It’s the same principle as the Sleep Number bed; I’ll just inflate or deflate your tires to whatever PSI-number suits you. Later.”

I was speechless. Tobias just grinned, blew me a kiss, and departed.

(To be continued…)

Posted by: schlingensiepen | June 8, 2011

Riding with the Man of La Muncha – Part IV

The next day came – and, yes, we rode! Mitch got out a bike, a black cruiser with wide chrome handlebars, and no gears – the perfect bike for a comfortable ride along Chicago’s Lakeshore Trail. We rode it from somewhere nearer its northern end 10 miles to the Navy Pier and back.

The sun shone brightly and warmly in a clear and cloudless sky.

At different places along the way, we could see  Chicago’s skyline, its buildings huddled together, as if planning something, conspiring, like the members of a political machine – only in the light of day! To the most recent Mayor Daley, who, like his father before him, ran one of these machines, the city owes its excellent and extensive network of bicycle trails and lanes.

Tobias, at one point, remarked to Mitch that he didn’t see how anyone could have enough courage to ride the bike lanes through town – narrow lanes alongside all the cars parked bumper to bumper. “If one of the car doors were to open suddenly right in front of you…and with all the traffic alongside…no way, man!”

As he said it, I thought: ‘O ye of little faith – and a pastor, too!’

We continued on south, veering off trail in order to ride on the North Avenue Pier. Extending out into the lake a considerable distance before spiraling leftward, it forms the southern terminus of a series of wave-breaks that presumably prevent the tide from lapping up the golden sands from the beach that fronts Lincoln Park.

Toward its end, Mitch took a picture of Tobias, holding me triumphantly over his head, with the skyline of the Windy City behind us. In his neon-yellow cycling shirt, Tobias looked the part of a new kind of bicycling superhero – Highlighter Man (a name his step-daughter came up with for him).

Here and there, men were fishing off the pier. Judging by their dress, they were not sportsmen but hoping to land a meal.

The pier’s surface was deteriorating; there were several deep craters. Tobias steered wildly a time or two in order to keep my tires from falling into one or another of them and potentially assuming all kinds of geometrical shapes for which I presume no terminology yet exists and, more importantly, on which riding would prove quite impossible.

We pedaled onward, around and past the Montrose and Belmont Harbors – hundreds of yachts and sailboats nestled snuggly there.

Where were their owners?

Perhaps some were tired of being retired, I mused. Others were probably at work, squatting in front of computer screens somewhere high up in the city’s numerous skyscrapers, hoping the weekend ahead would be as perfect for sailing as the one that now taunted them from beyond the office window.

We arrived at the Navy Pier, riding to the end of it, where a large, multi-ton anchor stands as a monument to the memory of the third incarnation of the USS Chicago, which once it served. Flags were flying from the several tall poles standing on either side of it, borne on the breeze blowing in from the lake, a lake that appeared to the eye unbounded, vast as the rolling sea.

Posted by: schlingensiepen | May 26, 2011

Riding with the Man of La Muncha – Part III

Just after leaving Iowa City, Tobias pulled into a filling station. While he waited for his tank to fill, he came around to the back of the car and patted my frame, saying, “I’m sorry about missing our ride this morning, but don’t worry; we’ll ride along the shoreline of Lake Michigan for sure! I’m really looking forward to it.” The weather forecast for that whole week, however, hadn’t been favorable, predicting mostly overcast skies, with a high probability of intermittent rain showers. For this reason, no doubt, Tobias added: “And if it rains, we’re riding anyway!” In fact, skies ended up being mostly sunny; any rain we experienced was limited to our highway travels, giving way to sunshine and blue skies wherever we stayed. An incredible stroke of good fortune!

On the drive from Iowa City to Chicago, the scenery was largely expansive vistas of freshly tilled land, bounded here and there by low-lying hills, along which cozy groups, consisting of farm houses, barns, and other outbuildings, were nestled in fairly close proximity to one another, like islands of an archipelago. Each farm was nearly equidistant from the next one, as if by some original agreement. Who would ever voluntarily choose to leave farms like these? I thought. Collectively, they gave the appearance of having accomplished that rare human feat of balancing self-sufficiency with mutual support, a balance as rare as it is desperately needed again today.

From my perspective, the first afternoon and evening in Chicago was uneventful, which, after the long drive, was just fine by me. I was pleasantly parked in the dining room of the lovely O’Connell home. There, I was free to enjoy the silence and study at my leisure the unusual artwork that adorned its walls. It was just what I needed.

Mitch asked Tobias if there was anything he would like to do during his stay in Chicago. “Actually, two things, if possible. I’d like to ride my bicycle along Lake Michigan sometime while I’m here,” Tobias answered. “And,” he continued after a brief pause, “ I would also really like to see ‘The Bean,’” referring to an art installation by Indian-born, English artist, Anish Kapoor, thus dubbed by the citizens of the Windy City and located in lake-front Millennium Park.

It was quickly decided that, after the kids got home from school, they’d all drive to Millennium Park, walk around the downtown area for awhile, and then pick up a pizza on the way home. Thus it was that Mitch, Leo, Kieran, and ‘Uncle Toby,’ as he loves to be called by his niece and nephew, soon departed for an enjoyable evening in the inner city.

‘The Bean,’ as Tobias’ photos revealed to me later, is indeed an enormous bean-shaped sculpture, made of highly reflective chrome, contracting and expanding everything visible near and far in its curvaceous exterior – the surrounding park and the people walking around and beneath it. It seemed especially to draw down over and into itself the skyline of Chicago, even the sky itself, lending credence to its apt and actual name, Cloud Gate. I had to chuckle, as Tobias later mumbled something about wishing he could practice Zen like Cloud Gate.

From Cloud Gate, they walked past the Chicago Art Institute, then westward into the city, where they saw other works of art – Marc Chagall’s dreamlike scenes from the eastern European Jewish world of the Schtetl; a tall sculpted figure by painter and sculptor, Joan Miro; the large metal equine sculpture by Pablo Picasso. Of course, many touristy photos were taken, albeit with their subjects assuming all manner of silly poses along the way.

In close proximity to the Picasso, one sight made a deep impression on Tobias – a small veteran’s memorial, a rectangular area, bounded by an iron gate, within which an ‘eternal flame’ kept watch over the honor of those who had served their country, and very near which a lone gray pigeon lay, nestling so close to it that its tail feathers were already partially burnt. The pigeon seemed oblivious to this and made no motions to move, looking sadly like a dove sullied and seared by mortal conflict, yet tenaciously bent on guarding the promise of peace to the end. Una paloma de la Mancha, existing only to ‘dream the impossible dream,’ I thought to myself, as Tobias showed me the photo he had taken of it.

A couple of hours later, the house door burst open suddenly and everyone rushed in, clearly excited by their exploits and made ravenous by the enticingly delicious aroma emanating from a box, containing pizza Mitch extolled as “not just any pizza!” Lou Malnati’s Chicago-style, deep-dish pizza is apparently a legendary pie. It is so esteemed that, no matter where you live, as long as you are willing to pay the price it will be delivered to your door. Malnati’s, as Tobias read somewhere, has even sent its pizzas to Iraq and Afghanistan, where they have satisfied the appetites and boosted the morale of the troops stationed there. When Tobias, who thought he had tried it all, bit into the pepperoni, spinach, and tomato pizza for the first time, his facial expression changed to one of disbelief mingled with bliss. It was as if, inexplicably, the ‘Man of La Muncha’ had just been granted the unexpected opportunity to kiss the tender hand of his lady, the beautiful Dulcinea of Toboso.

For a picture of Tobias greeting “Cloud Gate,” copy and paste the following link:

http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=2038856613730&set=a.2038698689782.121517.1313701873&type=1&theater

[To be continued…]

Posted by: schlingensiepen | May 13, 2011

Riding with the Man of La Muncha – Part II

We arrived in Iowa City in the late afternoon. I was taken off the bicycle rack and parked in a room off the kitchen in Tobias’s brother Christopher’s home. (Is the grammar here right? What does a bicycle care!) It was a nice spot, next to a window, and not far from Christopher’s bicycle, which, as it turned out, was stored just across from where I was standing, in a closet. (Tobias and Christopher were planning to ride us the next day.) As Christopher excavated his bicycle from all the stuff in which it had been completely buried over time, I heard him tell Tobias that he hadn’t ridden it in about ten years. Can you imagine?! ‘That dreary garage in Topeka,’ I thought, ‘is not such a bad place to be after all!’ Tobias got his heavy-duty bicycle pump out of the trunk of his car, filled this poor bicycle’s tires with air, and to everyone’s amazement, including mine, they held it – even after all that time! After applying some oil to the chain and bearings, Christopher took it out for a brief spin around the block. “The gears need a little attention, but otherwise not bad,” he commented later.

That evening, Tobias and Christopher sat at the kitchen table, enjoying a noodle salad with chicken that Christopher’s wife, Cathy, had prepared and that they both continually agreed was very delicious. Christopher, though, got out a bottle of fish oil sauce he claimed would give it an even better flavor. From where I was, it reeked of liquid Lutefisk – bah! And Tobias didn’t seem impressed either, although I’ve seen him eat things no sane person would look at, let alone eat! They washed it all down with a glass or two (or three) of Cabernet and chatted away, oblivious to the lateness of the hour.

While Tobias and Christopher brought each other up to speed about the happenings in their respective worlds, I and my new friend entered into a conversation of our own. He took the initiative, first clearing his throat several times, for he hadn’t spoken for a long time. He said, “Thank goodness I’m finally out of the closet!” I couldn’t help myself and laughed at that one. Not amused, he blurted out, “How would you like it, if you were buried in a dark place for years and years, completely unable to move, and all alone?” I apologized profusely for my complete lack of sensitivity to his long predicament, explaining that I was thinking about something completely unrelated. “From now on, I’ll try not to let my mind wander off again,” I promised, “It’s been a long day, and I must admit that I am rather tired.” Now it was my companion who chuckled, quipping, “I guess I am now ‘tired,’ too.” He seemed truly surprised that he still had a sense of humor and continued chuckling for quite some time. “I didn’t mean to bark at you,” he continued at last, “but, after being locked away for so long, I’m a bit irritable, it would seem. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” Then, after a brief pause, he continued, saying, “Please, do tell me something about yourself…”

Thus it went for most of the night. He asked the questions and I answered. For this reason, I guess, he felt he owed me another apology, saying after awhile, “Please forgive me for being so inquisitive. It’s just that I’ve been buried away in the dark for so long I need to hear that there is still a world of light and motion out there. I told him about several of the longer rides Tobias and I had enjoyed together, rides along the Kansas and Missouri Rivers and through the Flint Hills, describing in as much detail as I could muster the landscapes through which we had passed, the birds and the animals and the people we encountered along the way. His attention hung on every word!

After a time, I said, “If what I am about to ask is not too intrusive or painful for you to consider, would you share with me what it is like to be in a state of complete isolation for such a long time?” He pondered my question for what seemed an eternity. This I began to take as evidence that he was either unwilling or unable to respond to my query. I was about to relieve him of the burden I now felt I had unduly placed upon him, when, suddenly, he began to speak. “I’m not sure how to answer your question…how to put it,” he said thoughtfully. “At first, I turned for consolation to the many memories I had, revisiting past experiences. But, after a time, these began to fade, or rather take on a different characteristic, a different feel, if you will. They now had a dream-like quality, so that I could no longer tell whether what passed before my mind’s eye was a memory of something that had actually taken place or whether it was rather a mental construct, a hallucination of sorts. I lost my bearings, if you’ll permit the phrase, or better: I was adrift, like a dinghy tossed about on the rolling waves of the sea. Then, after a time, the sensation of the sea disappeared and, with it, the sensation of the dinghy to where there was no longer an objective world, nor – if you can imagine – a subjective one. It was as if there was only consciousness itself, except that it wasn’t a state but an action, only one without a cause or an effect, an endless or eternal becoming…Oh, I am sorry… I’m afraid none of this makes much sense, even to me.”

“On the contrary,” I assured him, “this makes a great deal of sense. I am quite certain that I have experienced something rather like it myself, although much less keenly, while out riding.” At this, my friend instantly took on a cheerful, even a blissful aspect, and I could now sense a deep bond between us. We spent the rest of the evening, indeed most of the night, talking about these perceptions, but in a way that didn’t analyze but rather affirmed what we now knew we shared. From my perspective, it was as if we had now passed from mutually communicating mere information to each other to an intense awareness of communion, a state in which we became as one. At last I felt I knew what worship was – our hearts were united by a greater reality, one we could not possibly comprehend but that comprehended us. We were being baptized, washed in a surprising and profound sense of love, for which all our subsequent words became a witness, expressing our uncontainable sense of gratitude. If bicycles were capable of shedding tears, they would have been flowing freely. What a glorious evening, what a glorious night!

[Note: Tobias and Christopher slept in the next morning. Christopher was trying to fend off an incipient migraine and Tobias was eager to make Chicago before rush hour. Needless to say, we didn't go for a ride, as we had been led to expect. My friend, who I thought would be rather disappointed, shrugged it off, saying, "Last night, with you, was the ride of my life." "It was," I acknowledged in return, adding that I would have Tobias call Christopher after a few days and encourage him to go on regular rides. "I would really appreciate that," my new friend said. "Thank you!"  "No, thank you!"]

[To be continued...]

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