Blakeley and Back

When you are doing something you enjoy, something you are lost in the hours pass unnoticed; it’s as if you were living unfettered by the confines of time. It’s unusual for me not to have a general sense of time; it’s more common that I have no sense of direction. I can get turned around quite easily, but usually I know what time it is.

I don’t wear a watch as I don’t like the feel of something on my wrist; I used to carry a pocket watch until it quit. Now I carry a pocket phone that lets me know the time. It’s not as elegant as a traditional time piece – but it gets the job done, plus a few others.

When I was a kid growing up in Belle Plaine there was no need to have a watch, as there were plenty of ways to keep track of time. There was the noon whistle – more like a siren that blared across town letting you know it was lunch time. There was at least one church steeple that displayed the time in all four directions. Plus there was the clock above Gerdes’ Shoe Store.

It was the summer of my tenth year and my friend Steve’s idea of the day was to go for a bike ride.  Steve was an idea guy and many of his ideas included mischief and adventure.

The bike ride was to Blakeley, a tiny town of rail, river and road. I had been there before by car; one time, in 1965, Dad scared the whole family by getting us real close to fast–moving flood waters. It was mid–morning when Steve and I began our trip from his house where we had packed a lunch of peanut butter sandwiches and a couple cans of pop.

Steve had a spider bike (high handle bars, banana seat, dual brakes and multiple gears controlled by a shifter on the frame). Mine was a red and white Schwinn Roadmaster. It was a sturdy, heavy bike that featured a coaster brake and one speed.

Sometime during the trip it might have occurred to me that neither had I asked for permission, nor had I told my parents what I was up to. If it did, I did nothing about it except pedal.

Steve and I crossed the river twice that day, once when we got to Blakeley and once again when we were coming back into Belle Plaine. For, instead of turning around and heading back home when we got to Blakeley, we took the long way home by taking the northerly route across the river in Sibley County.

During that day we stopped to throw rocks from the muddy river banks, flung sticks into the water and watched trains disappear down the tracks. When we stopped for lunch under a shade tree, Steve grabbed what looked like tall grass and showed me how it could be taken apart and put back together again. He called it puzzle weed. It’s also known as horsetail or Equisetum (for those of you keeping score at home).  

After lunch we came upon a long driveway where several large dogs charged out to greet us or eat us. As we were unsure of their intentions we pedaled as hard as we could and were somehow able to outpace the snarling dogs. I felt most vulnerable on the down stroke of the pedal motion as my leg was close to getting chomped.

Sometime later we crossed the river again and climbed the hill back into Belle Plaine. At Church Street we waved good–bye. I headed east, and Steve pedaled home facing a sun that was no longer high in the sky. When I got home Mom and Dad were waiting for me; two weeks would pass before I and my bike were allowed to leave the yard. All the other adventures Steve and I had that summer took place within the city limits. It was a different time and we were lost in it.