Broken Bird and premonitions
I signed us up for the river run on Saturday. I was supposed to unlock the bathrooms, since we've been having issues with our weekend Gates Guy for the parks, so I cycled down to the Marina a bit early. There were already many people gathered under the bright blue sky; moms with strollers, the entire high school wrestling team, 
old people, young people, and one man in a diaper and wings, with a bow and arrow.
Michal showed up two minutes before the gun. He was late, he said, because he was looking for his other glove, and did I know where it was? Of course not. He had one pannier on his bike with water and an extra coat, since he would be cycling to Hood River after the race. He's crazy. He's really serious about cycling as much AS POSSIBLE. But, at least this meant that I would be able to keep up with him during the run; he would be saving his energy for the following bike ride.
I was able to run the first 2 kilometers. We passed the wrestling team, including their coach who was running in his jeans and boots... only in The Dalles! As we jogged along the river trail, I heard shouting from over the tracks. A bum was calling out to all the runners as they passed, but his ranting was unintelligible. I noticed he had a nice little bonfire going, right below the I-84 overpass. That can't be legal, I commented to Michal, but more conversation was prevented by the stitch in my side. I'm so out of shape. I started walking, and Michal did not protest... he slowed beside me, and we walked and talked for the next 2 kilometers.
Just a few hundred feet from the finish line, I saw my mom standing by the trail. She waved, and we stopped to greet her; obviously we were not going to win any awards in this race.
"Look at this bird," she indicated a tree on the riverbank where a little brown thing was struggling. Michal peered closer. "It's stuck on fishing line," he confirmed. There was a 4-foot chainlink fence between us and the tree with the bird. I felt an urge to help the pathetic little thing. Mama was fussing over it from where she stood. "Oh the poor thing."
"I'm going to grab it like a chicken so it can't flap it's wings. I think it's just it's leg that's stuck."
I hoisted over the fence and crept slowly towards the bird. Mama made her psshhh bird call in an attempt to calm it down, which was kind of cute but useless. The bird freaked when I reached for it, and fell off the branch, but I got it. One leg was twisted in this stupid thin plastic thread. not fishing line, just fuzz from a piece of trash. I broke the thread with my thumb nail and kept the bird contained in my right hand. it's leg was like a piece of spaghetti, limp and juicy red. Gross and irreparable. "It's leg is broken, should I kill it?" I asked my audience.
"No, just let it go in the grass," said Michal. Mama wrung her hands.
I let it go. It did not try to fly away, but flapped into the cover of some bushes. I pulled myself back over the fence and onto the trail, feeling a little shaken by the whole incident. Mama carried the trash - it was an old sweatshirt from which the thread had come. People don't know where their trash goes. Its killing birds. Everywhere. I had a very sad, overwhelmed feeling.
We finished the race. We ran the last little segment. Michal biked to Hood River and back: a grand total 57 miles.
But I'm still thinking about that bird. I told Michal tonight, "you know we're going to see people like that on the side of the road in Central America. What are we going to do? We can't help everyone." The more I think about that little bird, the more I know that it is dead. I hope some animal ate it quickly. It was such a fragile little thing, I doubt it would have lasted in the February night."We didn't save it's life," I pointed out to Michal, "we only made ourselves feel better."
Its impossible for me to see suffering and not want to help. I know that there will be helpless little children (and adults) full of pain and misery in Central America, and it will tear my heart to ride past them on my bicycle. But what can I do? Aren't they just like the little bird - maybe I could free them from a moments pain, but their situation is so dismal that they are destined to die in misery. And there are thousands of people throwing their trash into the habitat that though I may free one bird from the wreckage, there will always be one more stuck in the mess...
Michal did not have a solid answer for me. He acknowledges that we will witness much pain and suffering. What will we do with it? We shall see.
old people, young people, and one man in a diaper and wings, with a bow and arrow.
Michal showed up two minutes before the gun. He was late, he said, because he was looking for his other glove, and did I know where it was? Of course not. He had one pannier on his bike with water and an extra coat, since he would be cycling to Hood River after the race. He's crazy. He's really serious about cycling as much AS POSSIBLE. But, at least this meant that I would be able to keep up with him during the run; he would be saving his energy for the following bike ride.
I was able to run the first 2 kilometers. We passed the wrestling team, including their coach who was running in his jeans and boots... only in The Dalles! As we jogged along the river trail, I heard shouting from over the tracks. A bum was calling out to all the runners as they passed, but his ranting was unintelligible. I noticed he had a nice little bonfire going, right below the I-84 overpass. That can't be legal, I commented to Michal, but more conversation was prevented by the stitch in my side. I'm so out of shape. I started walking, and Michal did not protest... he slowed beside me, and we walked and talked for the next 2 kilometers.
Just a few hundred feet from the finish line, I saw my mom standing by the trail. She waved, and we stopped to greet her; obviously we were not going to win any awards in this race.
"Look at this bird," she indicated a tree on the riverbank where a little brown thing was struggling. Michal peered closer. "It's stuck on fishing line," he confirmed. There was a 4-foot chainlink fence between us and the tree with the bird. I felt an urge to help the pathetic little thing. Mama was fussing over it from where she stood. "Oh the poor thing."
"I'm going to grab it like a chicken so it can't flap it's wings. I think it's just it's leg that's stuck."
I hoisted over the fence and crept slowly towards the bird. Mama made her psshhh bird call in an attempt to calm it down, which was kind of cute but useless. The bird freaked when I reached for it, and fell off the branch, but I got it. One leg was twisted in this stupid thin plastic thread. not fishing line, just fuzz from a piece of trash. I broke the thread with my thumb nail and kept the bird contained in my right hand. it's leg was like a piece of spaghetti, limp and juicy red. Gross and irreparable. "It's leg is broken, should I kill it?" I asked my audience.
"No, just let it go in the grass," said Michal. Mama wrung her hands.
I let it go. It did not try to fly away, but flapped into the cover of some bushes. I pulled myself back over the fence and onto the trail, feeling a little shaken by the whole incident. Mama carried the trash - it was an old sweatshirt from which the thread had come. People don't know where their trash goes. Its killing birds. Everywhere. I had a very sad, overwhelmed feeling.
We finished the race. We ran the last little segment. Michal biked to Hood River and back: a grand total 57 miles.
But I'm still thinking about that bird. I told Michal tonight, "you know we're going to see people like that on the side of the road in Central America. What are we going to do? We can't help everyone." The more I think about that little bird, the more I know that it is dead. I hope some animal ate it quickly. It was such a fragile little thing, I doubt it would have lasted in the February night."We didn't save it's life," I pointed out to Michal, "we only made ourselves feel better."
Its impossible for me to see suffering and not want to help. I know that there will be helpless little children (and adults) full of pain and misery in Central America, and it will tear my heart to ride past them on my bicycle. But what can I do? Aren't they just like the little bird - maybe I could free them from a moments pain, but their situation is so dismal that they are destined to die in misery. And there are thousands of people throwing their trash into the habitat that though I may free one bird from the wreckage, there will always be one more stuck in the mess...
Michal did not have a solid answer for me. He acknowledges that we will witness much pain and suffering. What will we do with it? We shall see.
Here is a picture of a child in Honduras. This kid's name is Dennis. He lives in a garbage dump. I pulled it off some humanitarian website.
Oh the heart ache. And we haven't even left yet.
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