Sunday, August 30, 2020

Talking To Linda Lou From A Lake Wichita Dam Swinging Bench

Last night rain fell in copious amounts, accompanied by a thunderous orchestra of booms, along with a bright light show.

My bike was not under the usual cover I put it under when rain is predicted. Rain was not predicted for last night, as far as I knew. So, my bike got soaked. This creates what, in the past, has been a temporary problem with the crank mechanism. Previously, when it dries out, the annoying noise goes away. This time I fear that might not happen.

I did not know my bike had a problem until about a mile into heading south on the Circle Trail to Lake Wichita. Before the crank noise reared its popping head I had realized my tires needed some pumping.

So, I had already decided to cut the bike ride short when an incoming call came in whilst I was crossing under the Kemp Boulevard bridge.

A short distance later I was atop the Lake Wichita Dam, stopped at where a trail spur ends at the spillway, got out the phone and saw the call was from Linda Lou, she being one of my favorite Washingtonians.

I parked my bike and sat at the swinging bench you see photo documented above, and called Linda Lou.

The majority of the conversation with Linda Lou was regarding the recent ridiculous dystopian madness, full of lies and idiocy, known as the Republican National Convention.

On the subject of idiocy Linda Lou also brought up the time on October of 2018 when we were at the summit of South Mountain in Phoenix, looking at the handmade craftworks of a group of Native Americans, from whom Linda Lou bought a trinket or two.

When suddenly the Indians got a warning signal of some sort. I don't think it was smoke. Which warned that the the law, in the form of a park ranger, was closing in on them. And so they quickly packed up their goods. We stood there appalled at what we were seeing. The Native from who Linda Lou purchased trinkets told us this happens several times a day.

Why? We asked.

There was no answer. We all thought the Natives displaying their wares was charming and fun. Sort of like a small version of what you get to experience at the entry to Monument Valley, also in Arizona. No harm done.

But, Phoenix is in the Arizona county of Maricopa. The county where that criminal sheriff named Joe Arpaio operated, hence, maybe, the heavy handed, over blown, unnecessary harassment of a group of Native Americans minding their own business, literally.

Even though it was short, I had a mighty fine bike ride today, along with a pleasant talk with Linda Lou...

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