This morning as I rode to work, just as I approached the overpass, I saw a man who was pushing a wheelchair near the bike path. He wasn’t sitting in the wheelchair, he was pushing it along, with a pile of some clothes or other stuff on the seat. But as I passed near him he had stopped pushing and had lifted both arms in the air. He was saying something. As I passed I heard a few words, a snippet only, a brief fragment: “…everyone, this man on the bike, everyone…”

  1. Thanks a lot Bart, for pretending you didn’t know me this morning. I’ve become a homeless man doomed to wonder endlessly in the deep south of out great country. If you had listened just a moment more you would have heard me say: “Everyone, this man on the bike, everyone, HE’S MY SON, and he doesn’t know me”.

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