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NEW YORK UNEASY
Spring in New York City
Those who wondered about the static nature of my reports from New York City may wonder no longer. I was caught up in the normal peaks and valleys of life; in a valley to be sure this time, but not the worst valley I've ever passed through. One factor was the freaky weather, extreme cold, unusual heat, the highest pollen count in years. I was walking the streets with tears streaming down my face, and it wasn't because I had been rejected in some sex-charged romantic adventure; it was because of the pollen. Everyone was discussing the pollen count when we should have been out in the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens observing the children, the amorous couples, and the Orthodox Jewish families out for a stroll. The famous Japanese garden is being rehabilitated at long last and I do need to visit the ancient, imperturbable turtles who sun themselves on the rocks in the Japanese pond.
As I write, the Yankees are on Fox TV, brought to the non-cable subscribing public by Rupert Murdoch, who has entered the Mayor's divorce controversy by filling his tabloid with laudatory stories and editorial cartoons about the Mayor's sweet-faced paramour, Judith Nathan. Donna Hanover, the Mayor's current wife, who is living in Gracie Mansion with their children as is the Mayor but in a separate bedroom, was depicted as a witch flying off on her broom. I swear it was recycled from a Hate-Hillary cartoon; Donna Hanover's head superimposed on the witchy image originally composed for New York's junior senator.
The New York Post is a secret vice usually available only to New Yorkers. It has many pages of scurrilous  gossip, and then "news" devoted to clobbering people Rupert Murdoch doesn't like. I suppose others living in cities cursed with his holdings have experienced
his editorial predilections.
Well, it's not quite Memorial Day and the Yankees aren't quite in first. Whaddya gonna do? The Mets are worse, even tragic in their ineptitude.
So no one's thinking it's going to be the Subway Series II, which makes the corporate powers happy. A split city World Series sells a lot more consumer goods to the citizens of our beloved country! Okay, this is a come back
column, so I am going to keep it short. Think about people like Rupert Murdoch and the promoters of major selling events. Then think about what a democracy is supposed to be about, and the
quiet erosions of rights in recent years. I enjoy the gladiators, but I prefer the rights of a free citizen.
Your New York Uneasy Correspondent.
© 2001 by Sarah Scott
MINNESOTA FOX TALES
Searching for Mercer
Ohh, the time has come to tell you about Mercer! For several years, my summer
vacation consisted of an annual bicycle adventure called ‘The Des Moines Register's Annual Great Bicycle Race Across Iowa’, (RAGBRAI) which is really just a great excuse
to party from one end of the state to the other for an week entire week. RABRAI has many facets, and one for me was the chance it gave me to spend some time with my
cousins, Clark and Kent (yeh, I know, I didn't name them), and eventually I even dragged Jerry (the husband) along for the event. He  finally came along as a truck driver, and found himself ideally suited for the job.
RAGBRAI was also a personal challenge, a way for
me to get in better physical shape. I was never willing to train to the point of being physically strong, but I trained for endurance, figuring that if I had cardiovascular fitness, I'd get where I was going
eventually, even if not very quickly. The RAGBRAI is about 500 miles long, although it varies with the route, from year to year, so that makes for 70 and 80 and even 100 mile days.
The event causes the springing up of various small and bigger enterprises who cater to the needs of the 10,000 plus riders, providing food, liquid refreshment,
post cards, t-shirts, and of course, most importantly, sanitary facilities, although it is also helpful that there are miles and miles of cornfields along the way. I believe it has been
proven that corn along the RAGBRAI route grows taller than anywhere else in Iowa.
That first year was a struggle for me, especially the first day. I had never ridden more
than about 20 miles at a time, and  that first Monday, riding east from the Missouri valley,
I was unprepared for hill after hill of roadway, 70 miles of it. I swear I even saw a mountain! Near the end of the day, I was very pleased to come upon a lemonade stand, proudly proclaiming "Made in the
Shade Lemonade." I credited this drink with my survival this first day.
As the week wore on, I found that the friendly couple from Arkansas
that ran this concession always positioned their stand somewhere near the end of the ride for the day, and strategically, at the top of a hill. Let's face it,
nobody wants to stop halfway up a hill or halfway down a hill either. While I rested and drank lemonade, I patted their cute little puppy, a sheltie, which had found his own spot
in the shade, under their pickup truck. I have an affinity for dogs, and found out that this was "Mercer."
I enjoyed my daily stops and conversation, and chance to pet Mercer during the ride,  but wondered at the unusual name. One day I asked if
there was a story behind the name. Well, it turns out that the Arkansas couple are avid bicyclists themselves, and in fact, pay for their visits to RAGBRAI with their lemonade business. They take
turns riding, leaving the other to manage the lemonade stand. Of course, being strong riders, they'd have time to finish their ride and be back at the stand before I ever showed up.
The previous year had been Iowa's sesquicentennial, the 150th celebration of statehood, and this couple had been part of a group of bicycle riders who crossed the continent as part of that celebration, starting in
California and ending up in Washington, D.C. When they were looking for a name for their new puppy, they explained, they thought right away of Mercer, one of the 150 riders who was well-liked by all for his
outgoing and friendly nature. Well, that really piqued my curiosity. Now I was interested in meeting this fellow, Mercer, and the next day, asked further about him at the lemonade stand.
"Oh, he's on the ride," they said, "In fact, he stopped earlier in the day."
Well, I kept my eyes open, and looked in particular for the little "150" license tags that the 150 riders all had on the backs of their bikes, but I never saw Mercer.
The following year, I decided I would make it a personal quest to find Mercer. With a whole week to
look, even in a crowd of 10,000 people, I felt I could surely find him. Of course, I realized I needed more information. When I found the Lemonade stand and my Arkansas friends, near the end of the first
day, I asked for a description of Mercer. "Oh, he's 50ish, has longish, kind of curly hair, and has the kind of smile that makes you
think you'd like to know him." That evening, I found my cousin Kent, who is an awesome rider, chatting with a couple of 150 riders (they had their 150 nametags on
their bikes is how I knew) and asked if they'd seen Mercer. "Oh, yeh," said one, turning and looking down the street. "In fact, he was here talking with us just a few minutes
ago."
I asked for more description about what he looked like. "Well," said my informant, "He likes to wear funny hats."
When the conversation broke up, I enlisted Kent, and our friend Bob in the search for Mercer. I gave them the description I had, and we fanned out, searching the beer
parties and street concessions, and people listening to music, looking for Mercer.
Once or twice I found someone who fit the description, and asked if h e was Mercer. This was kind of clumsy, and not very flattering to people, so after that, I developed the modus operandi of just
walking right up to a likely Mercer candidate and saying, "Hi, I'm Rachel, I'm from Minnesota," which resulted in getting the name of the candidate, which was inevitably
NOT Mercer. I took photos of these candidates, impressed as I was by how many fellows on RAGBRAI fit the description I'd been given.
I was also becoming amazed at how easy it is to meet
people that way, but of course, I was on a Quest. After a few hours of looking, Bob came running up. "OH, Rachel!" He exclaimed! "I've found Mercer! I'm sure it is him!" Bob
is rather shy, and of course would never think of approaching someone he doesn't know. He was excited and led me back to see the fellow for myself.
He was a friendly looking fellow, and had a mustache, rather longish hair and a captain's hat. But he was not Mercer. Bob was so disappointed. "Oh," he said, "I was
just sure it was him."
I carried on my search the following day, meeting a number of 50ish men with friendly smiles, and photographing them, (one I actually interviewed twice, which I realized
immediately, from his British accent, once he started talking.)
Often, in the evenings, once we'd reached our  overnight towns, I'd find 150 riders and ask about Mercer. It always seemed as if he had
indeed been there, but each time, I'd just missed him. I was getting the impression of a guy who kept on the move.
By Thursday I was becoming discouraged, but no
less determined. As I watched 150 riders pass me through the early part of the morning (very few riders are slower than me, so I get passed a lot), I looked for Mercer's name, but no luck. Then, as I
recognized yet another 150 rider, Wayne, I hailed him, and putting on a small burst of speed, pulled up next to him as he started to pass.
My cousins Clark and Kent, and Bob, my husband
Jerry and I always camped together each night. We had a little circle of tents. At first light, before dawn, we were up, packing our tents, throwing them, with our duffle bags, on the trucks,
and rolling out on the bikes by six am. This is the best time of day to ride. It is cool, there is little traffic, and it is quiet. Even on the road with thousands of other cyclists, at
that time in the day, you hear very little other than the sounds of rubber rolling on the road, and the murmured "on your left" as people passed. I figure I probably got to see
more riders than almost everyone, and probably heard those words, "on your left," more often than almost everyone, since I started so early and cycled so slowly.
So by the time Wayne was passing me, it was probably about ten in the morning and I'd been at it about four hours.  At any rate, as I saw him passing, I realized that what I needed to do, if I were to find Mercer, was to find a 150 rider and stick with him until Mercer showed up! So I tried to strike up a
conversation with Wayne, a 60 something guy from California who used to have his own bicycle touring company. I had to pump for all I was worth to keep up with him, and it was clear he had very kindly slowed down to stay
with me.
We talked about his touring company, and he gave me tips about my cycling. I don't think he was fooled into thinking I was anything but a struggling, slow rider.
We had chatted for an hour or so when I finally confessed to him my "Quest." I told him about the dog Mercer, and how that had led me to want to meet the real Mercer. And
how we had a litter of puppies that spring and I had named one of them Mercer, as the name pleased me. This seemed to amuse him, although he was very polite about it.
"Well, I'll tell you what," he said, "in about 20 miles we're going to come to a farm where we're holding a reunion for the 150 riders, and I bet Mercer is going to be there."
"Why don't you come along with me," he said, "and you can meet Mercer." I almost fell off my bike. After looking for Mercer unsuccessfully now over two RAGBRAIs, it
seemed hard to believe that I would actually meet him! After another hour and a half of some of the hardest cycling I've ever done, we turned onto a gravel drive beside an old
farmhouse. A circus-type tent had been put up, and in the shade of the tent, cyclists were helping themselves to a large spread of hor d'overs.
Wayne spied our man. "Mercer!" he called out. A 50ish looking guy with longish, slightly curl y hair walked up to us. He was handsome, unassuming, and had the kind of smile that made you want to meet him. Wayne put his arm around the younger man and said, "I hear
you've become so famous, that now they're naming dogs after you!" Mercer laughed. Wayne made the introductions and walked away.
Well, an unexpected shyness came over me. I felt a little foolish telling this man, who had a right to his own life and privacy, that I had been on his trail over two RAGBRAIs. Plus, he might think
(understandably) that I was a stalker or nut of some kind. So what could I say? I guess I told him about the Arkansas couple, and their dog, and that I'd looked forward to meeting him. I found out he was
from Minneapolis, not far from us in northern Minnesota.
After taking all those photos of people who were NOT Mercer, I kinda choked.
I couldn't bring myself to photograph this very nice man as some sort of trophy. I mean, people are people, and shouldn't be stalked or captured as if they were objects. It just
didn't seem right. And maybe it's better this way. Mercer, the Quest, is and will remain, a mystery, an evanescence built of the best of the imagination, as it should be.
So I wished him well, and went to find Wayne. We still had a long way to go that day. And Wayne was the real treasure that came out of my quest, and all the other people I
met while I was looking for someone else.
Yours truly,
Dot
your faithful correspondent,
© 2001 by Rachel Scott
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