Travels with Matty 2018

     Nearly fifty years ago I was driving home for Christmas with my brother and an acquaintance in a red mustang hired through Driveaway. We hit a whiteout in western Nebraska that forced us off the road then got stopped fifty miles west of Lincoln due to snowdrifts. The radio informed us that I-80 was closed in both directions and that plows were heading our way. It was dark and cold, we were running low on gas, and we were bored. So we did the obvious thing. We sluiced the car across the median and drove the wrong way on the interstate until we passed the plows going west. Then it was just a matter of sluicing our way back across to the newly plowed highway. It was clean and green the rest of the way. One of us wanted to see how fast the Mustang would go and hit 110 in western Illinois before the car started shaking violently. How the Driveaway company let us have a car remains a mystery.      I was reminded of this story while stopped by road construction. Again I was in Nebraska,

      I drove west on the Calumet Expressway from Indiana into Illinois this morning. As the distinctive skyline of downtown Chicago hove into view I was ready to experience a wave of nostalgia remembering the times the family saw the same view years ago while returning from the Indiana State Dunes. Nostalgia was not forthcoming, even when signs pointed the way to Hyde Park. I realized that I’m not one for nostalgia. Chicago served its purpose of raising me and, poof, no more need for it. I feel the same about my cars, my bikes, and even my house. Thirty-two years of occupancy and then it gets torn down. I think I’m expected to feel something about that, but I don’t. It was just another tool that had served its purpose.       I left New York City with my first cold in two years. I realized that all the time I had tended to Kathy I had been in peak health, the top of my game. Mind over matter? Fortunately, this cold was mild and disappeared as soon as I started playing in the waters o

I am cruising up the bike lane on 8th Avenue on a bikeshare bike. In order to avoid a surcharge I need to change bikes every thirty minutes. I stop at a station at 55th Street. As I lock the bike I notice my shoulder bag is gone. It has fallen out of the side of the front cargo compartment. I have to wait two minutes to check out another bike. Adrenalin won’t let me wait and I start jogging back the way I came. In four and a half blocks I see my bag on the curb with a woman standing by it dialing her phone, presumably my home number which is visible on the bright orange address tag. She says that she was waiting in case someone came back for it. She says this in an accent that the current administration seems to want to hear less of. Needless to say, I am reminded of last year’s visit to New York when I left my phone in a coffee shop restroom. As I stood in line a man came out asking if someone had mislaid their phone. Obviously, I am looking for a dishonest person in New York City. So