|Road bike, abandoned railroad cut|
Or, perhaps it's where, or how I ride, or how fast? Or slow? But today, on this hot Father's Day Sunday, I rode a while on gravel trails with road tires pumped up to 100 psi, what's my identity then? If I switched to a, I guess, more appropriate mountain bike, with softer fatter tires, would that change me into someone or something else?
Maybe my identity mainly derives from where I live, somehow my essential character is inextricably linked to the character of the place? For example, do I live in a city with fast reliable rail and trolley links, or rather, one that used to have them, until they were erased by auto industry and land barons?
|Back in the day, light rail senior|
|Probably the egret will always win over electric "fat" bikes, for me|
|Plaque near the abandoned railroad cut|
|No one should be identified by this|
|Thank you, gracious anonymous water deployer. Who are you?|
How about our jobs? Should we identify deeply with those? I've come to look at others who do, and myself when I do too much, and think, poor bastard, stop that. Today a job is nothing more than an economic transaction, for better and for worse. If your job happens to be your calling then that's different, and I don't refer to you here. I refer to most of us, who work in places where we might find out tomorrow morning that our number is up, that we are dismissed, laid off, sent packing, with a few weeks of severance and a COBRA health insurance fare-thee-well love note. If you've put your heart into that job, spent nights and weekends pouring yourself in it, then that happens (hey it's not personal, it's just business), then, you poor bastard, who are you now?
We are rough around the edges, and looking inwards, find at the core....what? I hope that if I did somehow run into those Hohokam people from 700 years ago, that we actually could learn and know each others deep names. Not what I ride, or how they dig their canals, or where they live, or where I'm from, or what odd sounds I make when I speak, but our deep names. I hook onto that thought, stand next to my bicycle in an abandoned railroad cut, and try to think ancient thoughts about a people who may have known who they really were better than we ever will.