Walk a mile in my shoes – Austin on foot. 8 mile afternoon?
But first, a word from our sponsor:
New Mile Markers:
I’m unsure that I like the capital expenditure on the new mile markers, but I did catch a few on the camera I had with me. It was a thoroughly uneventful afternoon. I poked at some horoscopes, poked at some writing, but I wasn’t getting results that mattered to me. I threaded a worm on hook, and tossed it in the lake, chatted with a neighbor briefly, but no one was interested in what I was offering. Sun was out, and while I was fishing, I peeled out of the t-shirt I had on, the wan February sun warming my back, offset by decent north wind, with twinges of winter still in its teeth.
A cancelation meant that it was time to hit the trail, literally. Austin’s Hike and Bike Trail is a miracle in an urban space. Just south of downtown, in fact, bordering downtown in places, the eastern half – more like a third – is largely underused and under appreciated. Wide open spaces, playgrounds, basketball hoops by the power plant, just a nice jaunt on a winter’s afternoon.
To be sure, I wasn’t having a good hair day, with my back to the wind, but that didn’t interrupt the experience. Sun was out. Fish – and clients – weren’t biting. I recently rearranged the iPod with an ear to “marching music,” and as such, I was marching along, merrily marching along.
Johnny Cash’s “Hey Porter,” and a good train song, I guess. Over the earbuds, I could hear a lonesome whistle, as some kind of eastbound freight train was edging its way through, a few blocks from me. Nice when the tracks line up like that.
I rounded the bend for the eastern terminus of the trail, the Longhorn Dam, and the winds seemed to funnel down the river’s channel, adding a chill. Might’ve been the sunburn I was getting, too. Ted Nugent was screaming over his guitar, “just what the doctor ordered”, as I struck off across the thin grass, between the lake’s edge and Lakeshore Drive. An ambulance, really, EMS, went screaming by at full volume.
I’ve got a new (cheap) digital camera, and it takes a special kind of cord. I was heading towards the Radio Shack, there on Riverside Drive, and I noticed the emergency vehicle was parked in front of one of the Mexican restaurants. I was just unplugging the earbuds, as the Chemical Brothers were finishing up “Out of control”.
A motorcycle cop, a squad car, and EMS were there. I caught a fragment of the conversation with the patient, “So what do you like to drink? Beer? Wine?” Apparently, the reality-impaired person liked vodka. I’m guessing, just a judgement call on my part, but the state and condition of the patient suggested he was also dwelling-impaired. I took a seat inside, and watched the proceedings. The officials were actually, so it seemed through the glass, quite patient with the patient. One EMS guy kept a (gloved) hand on the guy’s shoulder, a good touch.
Conversation I overheard, inside the restaurant: “Man, I haven’t had this much to drink ever. I’ve been out every night since I got here, only threw up once.”
Outside, the patient was carted off to some place, possibly a hospital. War: “Spill the wine,” although, Low Rider might be more culturally correct.
I drank a quart of tea, had some chips, a little Carne Guisada, and shuffled next door to Radio Shack, to the tune Blue Oyster Cult’s “Godzilla.” “History shows again and again how nature points up the folly of men.”
I pulled out the camera, and for the second or third time, no cord that matches the tiny plug on the damn (cheap) camera. Back, out on the street, across the bridge for a second time, headed towards the north shore, then down the long pedestrian ramp, and along the north shore. In a Big Country, “I’m not expecting to grow flowers in the desert/But I can live and breathe and see the sun in wintertime…” I think I played that one twice, winter time music.
According to the map, it’s one mile even from the I-35 bridge to Congress Ave., along the hike and bike trail. Joe Ely, singing about about Billy the Kid, then asking if I’m listening, Lucky, Jimi Hendrix with Johnny B. Goode, Deep Purple’s Highway Star, just as a young hooligan raced by on a trick bike.
Downtown. ZZ Top, Concrete and Steel.
I fetched myself a small (iced) espresso, wandered home, and then, the original intent, was to put together a short a video clip of the experience.
(2 min. 7.5 mb, mpeg-4, whatever that means)
