How A Sandwich Saved My Life....(Sort Of)

As a 14 year old,I became hooked on bicycle riding. The bicycle became an instrument of freedom,allowing me to see and explore places otherwise unreachable in those pre- drivers license days. On the bike,I was in charge of my own destiny, a sort of  "go where you want to go,do what you want to do" mentality,and I loved that feeling.

Bicycle riding back then was not what you would call popular,certainly a far cry from today, where it is a socially acceptable and popular activity,and everyone (almost) has heard of Lance Armstrong and the Tour De France. In those days it was a major happening if I saw one other "serious" rider out on the roads.Information in the way of books and magazines was hard to come by, and mostly we riders had to rely on trial and error to discover what worked and what didn't.

I had a friend who also caught the bike "religion" and we would go off on Saturdays for 30 or 40 mile rides if the weather was good. Along the way we pretended we were famous European racers (Eddy Merckx,anyone?) fighting it out over the cobblestones of Belgium or France, and dreamed of actually doing it someday.

 One such Saturday my friend informed me he couldn't go too far,as his Dad wanted him back home early to help with chores around the house. So after 10 miles he said he needed to turn around,telling me if I wanted to go further it was all right with him. It was a nice warm day,so I told him yes,I would like to go on alone. We said our good byes,and I pedaled off up the road. Ten minutes later a rider on an expensive bike came up alongside me, asking where I was headed. I told him I didn't really know, whereupon he said he was headed home to Aurora (about 34 miles from my home) and I was welcome to tag along. It sounded good to me and so off we went.


This rider was GOOD. He pedaled at a pace faster than I was accustomed to,but I hung in there while he explained about technique and training and diet and all those things one can easily read about today but were mysteries 35 years ago. So I listened and marveled to myself about my good fortune to be able to meet someone like him. Heck, for all I knew,he could of been a famous racer. What a day!

Aurora arrived,and my new buddy said he had to turn off the road we were on to get home. I said cool, since I felt I had gone far enough and thought I should head home too. I thanked him for all the advice, wished him well, and turned around for the ride back. Immediately I was greeted by what cyclists despise the most; a stiff wind blowing directly into my face.

Headwinds sap your strength, as you try to fight them you use more energy than normal,and if you don't replenish those energy stores,trouble ensues. The body depletes it's carbohydrate stores,thus running out of fuel, so to speak. The result is a weak,wobbly feeling that cyclists and runners call the "Bonk". That is why endurance athletes eat and drink frequently while training or racing. Common sense now, but back then I had no idea. I had not brought any food with me,since I was only planning to ride 30 miles or so. If  I had known I would be riding 70 miles,I would of brought something. But I didn't,and I hadn't. Money? I had .75  for something to drink,which I promptly spent shortly after turning around,for I had already drank the contents of the water bottle carried on my bike.

Mile after mile I became steadily weaker to the point where I had to get off and walk up any hill that loomed ahead. I was becoming a bit concerned....how was I to get home in the state I was in? I had no money to make a phone call home, so I forced the pedals around with wobbly legs at no better than walking speed, agonizing over the fact that at that point I still had over 15 miles left to go. So I made a decision...I would ask a stranger for food.

By then I could barely walk. I hobbled up to a house and hatched my story,I would say I had lost my wallet,and was weak from hunger. If the person who answered the door looked kindly, I would then ask for a sandwich or some food of any sort. If the person looked questionable,I would move on. Story ready,I rang the doorbell.

Luckily for me,a middle aged woman answered the door,and I pleaded my case. She asked me to wait on the doorstep and went back into the house, closing the door behind her. I am sure she debated whether or not to help, but after 4 or 5 minutes the door opened and a paper plate with a sandwich appeared. She told me that it was all she could offer,and to help myself to water from the garden hose. I thanked her profusely and just about inhaled that sandwich. (bologna as I recall). I filled my water bottle,drank it all and refilled it for the ride home.

After inhaling the food I sat on the curb until I didn't feel so weak any longer,probably 30 minutes or so. I got back onto my bike and pedaled gingerly for a few hundred feet to see how I felt, and I felt pretty good. So I headed for home and a nice cool shower. I made it,and afterwards, as I flopped onto my bed I said a silent prayer of thanks for that good samaritan who,by the act of providing a simple sandwich and some water enabled me to get home on a hot Saturday afternoon.

"Bob Carlson,I Am Sorry"

As adolescents,we all do something that we later regret or are ashamed of. It is part of the process of growing up, and hopefully, we learn a valuable lesson from the experience.

Such was the case in my Freshman year at High School, a time filled with excitement and wonder as I left my childhood behind and began to make my way towards independence along with hundreds of other boys, all of us fueled by that wonderful hormone called Testosterone, which coursed through us with reckless abandon as it changed our minds and bodies.


Beneath all that burgeoning machismo lay healthy doses of insecurity,as we all wondered (privately,of course) if anyone else felt that way. So we boys did the "manly" thing, searching out others whom we perceived to be weaker than ourselves,thereby establishing a pecking order of sorts and so giving one a sense of superiority. Of course the need to fit in was (and still is) a strong one,so we tended to hang with the guys we believed were at the upper end of that pecking order,or if that wasn't possible, to at least agree with their way of seeing things so you were not thought of as weak; especially if you were,like me,a skinny 125 pounder. This is where Bob Carlson comes in.

Bob was one of those kids everyone made fun of,through no fault of his own. Probably he was as smart and witty as any of us thought we were,and perhaps even more so. Standing no more than 5 feet tall and weighing perhaps 80 pounds he had no defense against the onslaught of taunts and mockery directed his way. I don't recall him having any friends, and he rarely spoke. Mostly he withdrew into his world and tried to shut out the words hurled his way,counting the minutes until he could get out of High School hell and back to a gentler world at home,at least until the next day when he had to endure it all again.

Gym class can be a trying time for some people, as the less athletic are made fun of and shunned from teams picked by a coach hell-bent on favoring the best players. In that regard I was lucky. Though rather small,I was able to hold my own and garnered a few friends due to my skills. Hey,it felt good to be accepted and I looked forward to gym every day. Not so for Bob....in a class where everyone was supposed to be on a team,he was not picked ever and spent class off to the side with a couple other outcast boys, shooting baskets,tossing a ball or whatever.


Shunned from team sports,Bob probably felt ok since the others were too busy trying to impress the coaches or each other,but individual sports were another story. He had to participate in such disciplines as boxing and wrestling against kids way bigger and heavier,which led to a moment I still remember as if it was yesterday.


As I wrote in the above paragraph,we had such sports as boxing and wrestling in gym, and one afternoon at class we found ourselves gathered in the wrestling room for 2 weeks of sweaty fun trying to flip and pin an opponent. Fun if you were a bigger guy but misery if you were small. The coach tried to match opponents by weight,of course,but there was nobody who even came close to Bob's 80 pounds. Even I outweighed him by 45 pounds,and Bob knew he had no chance against anyone. We knew it too, and when the time came for his match against the next smallest kid (probably 110 pounds) excitement grew among the guys as they wanted to see Bob get beat badly. Even his opponent was excited,as this was his chance to feel "tough". 


The chant "Cream him!" began slowly  but increased as more kids picked it up,including me. The coach made no effort to shut us up,he only called the two boys to the circle on the mat and told them to assume the starting positions. By then,Bob was visually shaking, and as his opponent took position above him,Bob collapsed in tears. The coach berated Bob,yelling at him to "Stop being a wimp,get up and wrestle like a man". But Bob just lay there sobbing even more.


I felt bad for him,but joined anyway in the laughter that was now permeating the room. I wanted to yell out to the group to stop,but I was cowardly and thought that if I did, I would become a target for others to poke fun of, or even worse,to have some of the tougher boys gang up on me at a later time. So I laughed with the others as the coach picked Bob up and told him to go sit elsewhere and come back only when he stopped acting like a baby.


I don't know where Bob Carlson is today, I like to think he is a successful person in whatever he has chosen to do. Perhaps he has forgotten that day in 1974, I certainly hope so. As for me,I have not forgotten, so Bob,wherever you are today, I apologize. And I hope you accept it. If you do,you will have proven yourself to be a better person than anyone else was that day long ago,including me.

Learn Before You Leap

I like photography. I like how one can capture a moment that will evoke thought and feeling among those viewing my work. I like using my lenses to show things that might otherwise be overlooked. What I don't like though, is the notion that the more one spends on equipment the better the photographer will be. That, my friends, is just marketing B.S.
Photography is about light, and how you arrange objects in that light to create a pleasing image. Owning thousands of dollars worth of equipment is no guarantee that one will be a great photographer. Yes, good equipment can be beneficial,but only if you know what to do with it. Hand a child 10,000 dollars worth of gear and what you will get is a snapshot. Hand a pro a 150.00 camera and you will get a gorgeously lit and composed photograph. Many people who have seen my images have asked me what kind of camera I use. I answer with "a DSLR". Invariably the response will be "what brand and which lens?" When I tell them,they are amazed that I use a camera body bought used, my close-up shots are done without a "macro" lens and my most expensive lens cost me 200.00 NEW!
The point I am trying to make here is that photo enthusiasts who are unhappy with their work tend to think upgrading their equipment will solve their woes. They would be better served by purchasing a few books about photo techniques and applying them to their work. After all, improvement comes from pushing the shutter button, not from pushing a credit card across a counter, and that is something camera manufacturers would like you to forget,believe me!

The picture here was done with a Canon Rebel XTi and the basic 18-55 Kit lens. Shot just before sunrise on a cool morning with mist rising from the water, the image has a kind of prehistoric quality to it.

Diggers....A Tribute

The life of a canal digger on the I&M was one of hardship. Mostly Irish,these were men who left their homeland in search of a better life in America,only to find conditions that were,to say the least,apalling. Taking on a job that other men would not tackle,these immigrants worked up to a 16 hour day shoveling mud and breaking rock to create a prism 28 feet wide at the bottom and 60 feet wide between the banks. For this, they were paid (or promised at least) 1.00 per day,though in reality 80 cents was common,and as the State ran out of money they were paid in "Scrip",a promissory note redeemable for canal land. Even scrip lost it's value, at one point in time only returning 40 cents on the dollar. The only constant in their work was a daily allowance of 4 oz. of whiskey,which they believed kept them from becoming ill. Any luxuries such as blankets and candles were offered to them by the contractors, and their cost was deducted from their pay,often leaving them with nothing on payday. Living conditions were no better than squalid, sometimes 2-3 families to a shanty,and disease was rampant. Near Lasalle, hundreds were stricken by Malaria as well as heat stroke while they struggled to dig through low-lying swampland in temperatures reaching over 100 degrees. Though these hardy souls faced unthinkable conditions,there was only one strike in the 12 years it took to complete the work,not counting the years from 1842-1845 when the State suspended all work on the canal due to bankruptcy. All in all over 1000 men perished from their labors,most buried in unmarked graves along the route or in the few cemeteries that existed at that time,though most families were too poor to create a monument for the grave. To me,the canal is their monument, an everlasting tribute to the men who gave their blood,sweat,tears and sometimes lives to dig the 96 mile long ditch that would forever change the face of Northern Illinois.

Split Rock

Split Rock,located about 2.5 miles west of Utica,IL is a water gap (a pass in a ridge through which a stream flows) created between 1836 and 1842 during construction of the I&M Canal. It was probably the biggest challenge facing William Gooding,Chief Engineer of the canal. Using only primitive black powder,picks, and shovels,workers cut through what was a solid plug of sandstone. The excavation revealed an important geological formation called the "LaSalle Anticline"in which the layers of rock are angled sharply downward due to folding. 
In September of 1851 the "Rock Island and LaSalle Railroad Company" (later to become the Chicago,Rock Island,and Pacific Railroad) began construction of a tunnel (the first R.R. tunnel in Illinois) through the north bluff. In 1882 part of the canal was filled in to make room for a second set of track running parallel to the original track, and part of the bluff was also removed. A third track was added in 1952,for which more of the base of Split Rock was removed. At that time the original track through the tunnel was abandoned. 
Around 1903, another rail line,the "Chicago,Ottawa,and Peoria" built 2 bridges to allow their tracks to cross the canal and the Rock Island tracks. A notch was cut in the east face of the southern outlier,and concrete abutments added to the north bluff to facilitate this. In addition, a beer garden and dance pavilion were built atop the north bluff and stairs added to allow passengers on the C,O,and P easy access to them.

Today, the tunnel remains,the roof black with carbon deposits from countless locomotives. The pavilion is but a memory,crumbling concrete foundations serve as the only reminder of what was once here. The stairs are hidden under tangled tree roots, and the bridges torn down after the C,O, and P went out of business. I make the trek to Split Rock at least once a year, and make the climb to the top of the north bluff. There I sit,reveling in the silence, looking out over the Illinois River Valley and imagining what it must of been like a century and a half ago,thinking about the ghosts of people I never knew,people who lived, worked,played and traveled through this same area I occupy presently. In time I will be a ghost too,and perhaps then I can meet the people who took the canal from a dream to reality.

Crossing The River

When a canal had to cross a waterway such as a river,the engineer had a few options. The usual way was to build an aqueduct to carry the canal over the river. Where the I&M Canal met the DuPage River at Channahon,IL an aqueduct was not possible,due to the fact that the river and canal were almost at the same level. So the solution here was to dam the river to create an almost perfectly still pool of water at the point where the canal was to cross. Locks were then built on both sides of the river,one to lower boats going downstream to river level,and one to lower boats exiting the river to canal level. To enable mules and horses to cross,a floating towpath was constructed. The picture which accompanies my blog shows Lock 7 in the foreground,the DuPage River in the middle and Lock 6 can be seen in the background. The dam was built southeast of the crossing. The floating towpath is long gone,replaced by a walking and bicycling path for modern day people to enjoy.

The More Things Change, The More They Remain The Same

Change is inevitable, it is a part of our everyday lives. We all learn to deal with change, some of us better than others. I, for one, tend to hold on to the "old", perhaps longer than I should. CD players, cell phones, flat screen T.V.'s.....you name it, I was probably among the last to jump on the bandwagon so to speak. After all, change for the sake of change is not always better, sometimes it is fueled by corporate greed. Take DVD players for example. We got along fine with VHS until the market was saturated, so along came the DVD player, suddenly we all had to go out and spend money on them,though our VCR's were fine. Yes, the quality was better, but the desire for the latest thing was a powerful force,and electronics companies knew (and know) this. So when I come across a place where change is not so noticeable, I cherish it. The picture which accompanies my post is of the Seneca grain elevator. The top image is a postcard from 1910 and the bottom image was made by me in 2007. Yes, some change is evident, but a person living in 1900 and brought back today would still be able to recognize his or her hometown. So change things if you must, but let's not destroy the evidence of our past in the name of "development".