Pixie

Ten years ago when my parents were preparing to move to a new house, my brothers and I helped them pack up twenty-five years' worth of accumulated belongings.  While crawling through their tight attic, I discovered what appeared to be a tricycle, but no small children had lived in that house; my parents and I had moved there right before I graduated high school, and I was the youngest child.  A flashlight beam stirring up swirls of dust motes revealed none other than my first bicycle, a 1960s-vintage Schwinn Pixie, complete with training wheels.

My first bike—a Schwinn Pixie

My parents had tried to sell the Pixie in a garage sale just before moving those many years earlier, but unable to unload it for even the twenty-five-cent price that still marked it, my stepfather had put it in storage rather than give it away.  Perhaps he was more sentimental about that old bike than I had thought.  He had patiently taught me to ride it, eventually scooting me down the street on my own, where I promptly smacked into the tailgate of a parked pickup truck.

After helping my parents finish their packing, my wife and I stowed the Pixie in the back of our car and headed home for Houston.  A day or two later I photographed the bike from every angle.  It had held up remarkably well—the paint was bright red, the solid-rubber tires were perfectly round, and the chain needed just a squirt of oil.

A strip of masking tape on the saddle showed an asking price of 25¢.

After scrutinizing the old Pixie and mentally cataloging early memories of it, I stowed it in my own attic, and there it will remain until my wife and I sell our house.

By the time I was seven, I had outgrown the Pixie and inherited a second-hand Huffy Dragster, a gold spray-painted three-speed that was a notch up on the cool factor, but, like my friends, I wanted something better.  Though I coveted a Schwinn Apple Krate or Pea Picker, my folks bought a slightly more affordable Fastback Sting-Ray, but it was still the best Christmas present this ten-year-old boy had ever received.  Although it had no spring suspension system or MAG sprocket, that bright green Fastback was light years ahead of my previous bicycle.  It had a banana seat, butterfly handlebars, and a five-speed stick shift.

My all-time favorite bike—a 1969 Schwinn Fastback Sting-Ray

In junior high I graduated to a ten-speed road bike, a Schwinn Continental, and this is where my story takes a dark turn.  When I was twelve, I breezed through a red light and was t-boned by a fast-moving pickup truck.  I am told I traveled a good distance through the air before hitting the pavement.  In those days nobody wore a helmet, and my cutoffs and a tank top only intensified my cuts and scrapes.  My obliviousness landed me in the hospital with a broken wrist, fluid on one knee, and a concussion.  Everyone said it was a miracle I survived, but a week later I was released and well on my way to mending.  My overriding memory of the episode, strangely, occurred weeks later as I watched my brother scavenge the pretzel-shaped bike for parts.

After the accident I didn't ride a bike for nearly a year, and when I got a new one, a yellow ten-speed Volkscycle, it took even longer to get up the nerve to cross major streets.  My interest in bicycles waned as I grew up and channeled my energies into cars, and it wasn't until college that I renewed my love affair with the open road. After wearing out my last Schwinn, a silver LeTour, I bought a Trek hybrid, which I rode for almost twenty years.

My Trek 730, which I called "Fade."

In the aftermath of Hurricane Ike, my wife and I began riding our bicycles regularly, initially as convenient way of getting to and from the grocery store but eventually for pleasure as well.  We have taken our bikes on trips, most recently braving the backroads near my in-laws' home (in southwest Missouri), and bicycling continues to provide a major source of recreation and exercise.

Riding the backroads of southwest Missouri, near Joplin

I recently bought another bicycle, my eighth (for anyone who's counting), a Specialized Hardrock mountain bike.  This was a Christmas gift to myself, and while it doesn't have a banana seat or stick shift, it is every bit as fun to ride as I remember that Fastback being, and like my old Sting-Ray, it's calling me to jump a curb and head off-trail.

My latest bike—a Specialized Hardrock

Waiting for the Green Man

Harlaxton Manor—Harlaxton, England

In the summer of 1995, I studied in England with a group of undergraduate and graduate students from West Texas A&M University.  We lived and studied at Harlaxton Manor, and when we weren't traveling to other parts of the country, several of us made daily commutes to London to study at various museums and libraries, including the Tate Gallery and the British Library.

The Reading Room of the British Library

Those few weeks in England provided dozens of amazing learning experiences.  In addition to studying handwritten poetry manuscripts and scores of paintings, I made many new friends.  There were thirty or so students, and most of us had never met before, but we very quickly bonded, forming small groups with similar interests and areas of study.  Early on, several of us went to the British Library to apply for five-year passes that gave us access to a wide array of books and manuscripts.  At the end of the semester, I had completed two graduate classes, one on Pre-Raphaelite art and literature, the other an independent study of the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins.

I spent a lot of time writing in my dormitory-style room.

One of the requirements for every student was to keep a daily journal.  While some people found the assignment tedious, I savored the experience and looked forward to the hour or so I set aside each day for composing my entry.  In addition to giving me a chance to reflect on my experiences while they were fresh, the journal provided a permanent detailed record of the time I spent in England.

Photocopy of overlapping pages from my journal

Although we didn't have to do so, I gave my journal a title, Waiting for the Green Man, which is a reference to the pedestrian signals I saw all over England.  The Green Man is the equivalent of the white figure that gives us permission to cross intersections in the States.  In the brief time I spent in England, I did a great deal of walking and, as a result, lost ten pounds.  The walk from Harlaxton Manor to the train station in nearby Grantham was two miles, and every time I arrived at Kings Cross in London, I walked an additional two to five miles to and from various tube stops and study destinations.

This brings me to the focus of my blog.  My brief experience of studying in England challenged me to see things differently, to reconsider, time and again, my assumptions and my perspective of the world.  It was one of those rare opportunities for me to see things as a student; I had been out of graduate school for more than ten years and had been teaching full time ever since.  It was refreshing and eye-opening for me to renew the sense of discovery that I had last known as a full-time student.  In the seventeen years since that summer in England, I have continued to change and evaluate my perspective—personally, culturally, artistically, and politically.  The entries that follow will reflect a sampling of those shifting points of view.

Group photo of my classmates and professors