09 May Brothers Of The Road

Brother Of The Road

One rider’s encounter in a loving city

He looked like he was in his sixties. He was black, wearing Carharts overalls, and carrying his belongings in a small plastic garbage sack. He also had a small, open bag of chips in his hand. I knew he was destitute at first sight and that perception was validated when he stopped at a garbage can and rummaged through it.

I was sitting by my bike outside a Save-a-lot grocery store eating yogurt along with sour cream donuts. I caught his eye and asked him if he would like a couple donuts. He refused but offered me some chips. I refused.

With the offers of exchange breaking the ice, he came over and sat near me. He stunk bad. He either pooped his pants or just had not been wiping. The city itself smelled bad too and his odor was only slightly more offensive but distinct.

He said, “at least the rain has stopped.” and I thought how much more pleasant he’d be if he dipped a rag in some of that rainwater and washed himself. He wasn’t bad in any other way. His eyes were clear and the few words he said were not tinged with crazy.

Way back in ’84 someone told me, “Noone is any more of a superpower than anyone else.” and I believed in Brent like that.

I stood then and facing the store window, saw the reflection of a foreign coin which was lying beneath my bike. It was silver on the edge and gold in the middle. I guessed it was a Canadian coin but it was one peso. I picked it up and gave it to him. It wasn’t worth anything but was interesting. I told him how little it was worth but he still appreciated the gift.

I was ready to go then and after I got on my bike, I dug all the change from my front pocket, about $1.75, and put it in his hand atop the peso. He said, “You don’t have to do that.” and in his saying that I saw that he felt dignified within the civility of our short exchange. I saw him as a divine being who just happened to smell like shit. No judgment. And that’s all he needed but the money, though a small amount, was enough to be useful.

I started to ride away then said as I almost always do, “Peace brother.” His reply echoed after me, “Bless you.”

That’s how I’ll remember Wilmington, Delaware. With sadness and compassion. It had an angst. It felt like how I thought Baltimore would be but was much worse.

Afterward, I rode almost to Philadelphia to the national wildlife refuge just north of the Philadelphia International Airport. I’d picked up a couple beers and stopped at a bench overlooking a tidal pond to drink one of them. I met Brent and his dog there. He was about twenty-five or thirty with a dice tattooed on his throat.

Brent was a runner and was going to run a hundred mile race on the C&O canal that coming weekend. That’s the canal trail I rode into DC so I told him about it. He was an athlete but also just a cool guy.

We became friends and talked about empowerment. Way back in ’84 someone told me, “Noone is any more of a superpower than anyone else.” and I believed in Brent like that. I saw him empowered.

We talked for some time. He knew the refuge well and gave me some advice on where I might camp.

We parted then and I said, “Keep running.” He replied, “Keep riding.” I rode on and within a couple miles found a place to pitch my tent.

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