One's Cycle
by Scottie Kersta-Wilson At the faint sounds of Taps, I jumped off my bike. Oh, I didn’t have to; no one was around to see me. But at Taps, every person on Post who was outside at 5:00 p.m. stopped and faced the music--even third graders on shiny bikes. So I stood next to mine patiently waiting for the last note that meant I should climb back on my bike and race home.
That year, my family lived at Ft. Leavenworth, actually we lived on many Army Posts over the years, but this one was special. I was almost nine, the Post was self-contained, and I had a brand new blue Schwinn. Freedom was mine. My bike was transportation to a world all my own. I could go anywhere in this citadel as long as I came home right after Taps.
It’s not important where I went. Even freedom has confines, but on my bike I could touch its edges. Back then, Ft. Leavenworth was still a Cavalry assignment—many soldiers rode horses. And I had mine. I peddled my steel steed to piano lessons, the post swimming pool, and Sunday School. On most days, homework complete, my bike and I traversed as much ground as we could, at times chasing Indians, at times the cowboys. One day I thought I’d have to shoot the Schwinn; I overfilled my back tire and it exploded.
As I galloped around, secure in my emancipation, I didn’t know yet that the coming years would bring the freedom to become a success in business, a photographer, an alcoholic.
But now it was time to head home.
This was before electric guitar lessons, Scouts, and softball.
Before Vietnam, the Gulf War, and Kosovo
Before my first car, my first lover, my first drink.
Through the years, I kept steady company with a bicycle. In my twenties, there were the hilly “centuries” in central Texas--100 miles in a day. I’d realize that I’d reached a hill’s peak and for a moment my childhood exhilaration would return. I’d stand up on my pedals and race the wind--this time my mount was Italian and red. The momentum ripped the breath from my mouth as we galloped together again.
In my thirties, I spent a week cycling the Oregon coast, when the only things that made me stop for the night were hunger and the sounds of the Pacific as it accepted the sun. I was free--physically and emotionally--from the rest of the world. Or, was I still just chasing Indians, this time within self-imposed boundaries?
In my forties, from a gallop to a canter to a trot, there came slow and easy rambles along the Eastern Shore. Still mobile and still accepting whatever the elements could bring me, the need to return home was imminent. My confines no longer set by my mother, but by my body.
Now, as I balk and rail against the sound of my own Taps, high above a populous city, I am protected again, this time by steel and glass and a 24-hour doorman. I overlook a lake that blends blue into the horizon, and remember and feel, and sit and pedal my stationary bike, legs turning in familiar circles. And wait for Taps.
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Tombs of the Unknowns
by
Scottie Kersta-Wilson
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