Unvaccinated Man

I cycle the Tobin Trail five days a week in the name of exercise, but Morningstar Boardwalk is closed. Morningstar Boardwalk is a raised walkway which follows about a mile of creek bed along Salado Creek. A section amounting to eight foot of siding and two lengths of decking are damaged. The worst of the damage is where the edge of a decking plank projects about an inch up from the surface of the boardwalk on one side, meaning that if you cycle across it too fast you might experience a small bump. It's been like this since November and hasn't made much difference to anyone, and yet the city have now closed it off for repairs which never happen. Presumably they're worried someone might trip on the miscreant plank and then take legal advice. My admittedly uninformed estimate - based on my own work with hammers, nails, and the like - is that the repairs would take about half an hour, two at most, and yet nothing is done.

This is what happens from time to time. The boardwalk requires repairs and is fenced off for a couple of weeks. Last time I took to walking my bike along the creek bed parallel to the boardwalk, seeing as it was dry. This meant that I was able to inspect the damage to the boardwalk which, on this occasion, was more pronounced - a day's work at least. The persons effecting the repairs were sat around in their trucks playing with their phones - ten or twelve of them, six trucks, and not one of them even looked up as I wheeled my bike along the track of dried mud left by their tires. Eventually the repairs were made and the boardwalk was opened up once more, having been closed off for two weeks.

This time, temporary fencing has been erected at each end of the boardwalk, but it's easy enough to walk around it and carry on as normal, particularly given that the boardwalk itself is no more damaged than it was for a full six months prior to being fenced off. Then someone from the city strikes back, securing the fencing at the northern end to metal stakes driven directly into the creek, leaving no gap around which one might furtively sidle; but as said fencing is secured by means of plastic ties - the kind you might use to anchor climbing plants in the garden, some enterprising civilian with a pair of scissors takes the law into his or her own hands, and once again we are all able to make use of the forbidden boardwalk.

We're probably breaking the law, but this is Texas; plus trying to make up my daily twenty miles by doubling back over the first half of my usual route gets fucking boring after a couple of days; and the fucker has now been closed for a month with still neither a hard hat nor a clipboard to be seen, much less a bloke with a hammer and a bag of nails.

Much of the above is reiterated during my first conversation with Carmen, a fellow cyclist accustomed to daily use of Morningstar Boardwalk, a conversation initiated with one of us observing, it's still fucking closed? Seriously? or words to that effect.

I've been nodding howdy to Carmen for most of the last year without us ever stopping to talk as we pass, but I'm glad that we've broken the ice because she's a hoot and she doesn't like Donald Trump very much. She's originally from New Orleans, has a ton of cats, and seems to have led a varied and interesting life. Today I spot her from a distance. She's about five-hundred yards away on the stretch of trail running off from the north end of Morningstar Boardwalk; except all I can see is a flash of hi-viz material, the same yellow as is worn by the trail stewards. I'm trying to avoid the trail stewards, because I'm trying to avoid having that conversation about how I should take heed of the warning signs at either end of the fenced off boardwalk because I might have a terrible accident where that bit of wood sticks up about an inch.

I proceed with caution and as I come close I realise it's actually Carmen, bright yellow today, and stationary because she's tapping something out on her phone.

'Howdy,' I say.

'Howdy!' She tells me she's been trying to post something on a webpage about wildflowers of Texas. 'My friend Cary is a gardener,' she says, 'and he scattered some zinnia seeds over that ways. They're bright red and they came up - pretty too.'

I realise I know the flowers to which she's referring. I've been passing them every day - although I'd say they're more purple than red. Anyway, they seemed incongruous where they were growing and made an impression.

'So some guy planted them?'

As occasionally happens, we seem to be talking at cross-purposes.

'They wouldn't accept it because zinnias aren't native to Texas, so they didn't take my photo. Yeah, Cary just threw the seeds there and they grew.'

'I saw the flowers. I was wondering about them.'

'Here he comes now.'

Some guy on a bike is approaching, no shirt and he's tanned Texas brown with the usual Sam Elliott moustache.

'Is that Stephen?' I ask. Stephen is Carmen's husband. I met him once and they sometimes cycle together. He looks a bit like this guy from what I can remember.

'No - it's Cary,' she tells me.

'Hey,' says Cary jovially. We almost shake hands, but he changes it to a cautious fist bump. 'I turned back. That hill was too much.'

'The other side of the railway, you mean?' I ask.

He nods. 'I won't come too close. I know how the vaccinated don't like it so much.'

I'm sort of shocked as he says it with a chuckle, and these may not have been his exact words; but whatever he said is said in the assumption that none of us have been vaccinated against coronavirus because we're just not that gullible.

'You haven't been vaccinated?' says Carmen.

'It's all made up,' he smiles, apparently amused at his own misunderstanding. 'You took the vaccine?'

'Of course,' she says.

'Me too,' I add.

'I always been healthy,' he says. 'I didn't see the need. Anyway you ain't got to worry because I never see anyone.'

He's wheeling away now, talking back over his shoulder. The tone is jovial but it sounds as though he's ready for a fight. 'I eat an apple every day. I always have a bowl of Special K. The doctor says there's nothing wrong with me. Don't you worry - I won't breathe on you!'

He coughs in illustrative fashion, making a point of some description as he cycles away towards the fenced off boardwalk.

'Nice meeting you,' I say, although I'm not sure that it was. I think about the fist bump and wonder.

'They're always so angry,' I say to Carmen. 'What is that? It's like it's personal somehow.'

She shakes her head because neither of us can imagine how it must feel to be so certain of anything so vague.