It’s been months, long winter months, since I last rode my bike to the marsh at the end of the bike path in South Amherst.
My legs are not trained, not strong, and despite the burning in my thighs and the hard use of my lungs, I’m almost there. It’s a beautiful day, unseasonably warm. Early blooming flowers are on display on leafless branches, bobbing in the restless wind of this early spring day.
And there ahead of me, way ahead, I see what appears to be a large green object moving toward me on the trail, weaving this way and that way in an ungainly forward motion. I’m tired, but not so tired to be seeing things that aren’t there. This is not a bicyclist, and it’s not a vehicle of some sort that’s lost its way and ended up here on my bike path.
As I draw closer, I begin to make out its shape and see that it’s made up of many moving parts, all attempting to move in unison, but failing miserably.
Ah, I see, it’s a group of people, walking — no, marching — together toward me, taking up the whole width of the path. It’s true that I have encountered groups of people walking together on the trail, enjoying a pleasant stroll in the controlled wooded setting of the bike path, but there is something odd about this group and the way it moves. There doesn’t appear to be anything pleasant about it, no matter the gorgeous spring day or the wonderful trail that it finds itself walking upon.
As I finally approach it, getting close enough to understand what it is that I’m actually seeing, it reveals itself to be a platoon of Army-uniformed young men. A platoon? Yes, what else can I call it? At least 15 or so young men in fatigues, each carrying huge packs on their backs, two abreast and attempting to march in unison down my bike path.
It’s the Army and my first reaction is to be offended. I mean, what in the world are they doing here, and why are they dressed like this, and how could they bring their militaristic selves here? Baffled and annoyed, I ring my bike bell smartly in warning and pass them, hopefully to leave them far behind and pedal on to reach the marsh. Once there, I find a tall, handsome blue heron, enjoy watching him down a big fish, chat with other bikers and path wanderers and forget all about that strange, inexplicable aberration.
It’s getting late. I’ve eaten my snack and ridden to the end of the bike path and now I’m heading back the way I came. If I thought my legs were tired getting to the marsh, well, now I really know what tired is. But, I take my time — no rush, no need to push too hard. The late afternoon light is slanting across the path, making lovely shadows that dance in patterns as I ride through them. The light is particularly buttery this late in the day, and the hills are blue and blanketed with moving shadows that rush across their faces.
I’m enjoying my quiet ride home when way up ahead my eye falls on another strange, large lumbering object very much like the last large lumbering object I encountered earlier in the day, the one I had hoped I wouldn’t encounter again. But, no, there it is again, this time moving away from me, obviously still working its way to its destination: my destination, I suddenly realize.
As I approach, the parts again begin to reveal themselves as individual marching Army men, each still weighed down by his enormous pack, each still attempting to march in some kind of order. Well, this is just too much, really. I have to pass them again!
I lean on my bell this time, but as I begin to pass them, I can see that they are very young and very tired. And since I am traveling in the same direction now, I have time to ask them what in the world they’re doing. The answer is quite surprising and startlingly polite, as the use of the word “ma’am” seems to end every sentence they utter.
They are ROTC students at the university they tell me, and they are “rucking,” and say this as if it is a very common expression. I take it to mean that they are marching with their rucksacks on. What else can it mean? But there is more. They are training for the Patriots Day marathon to be held in just a few weeks in Boston. Training for running, not for war. I realize that I’m beginning to think better of these green-uniformed boys, realize that I don’t mind so much their using my bike path.
I think of them and their future and hope that it will always be training for marathons, knowing the uniforms they wear tell the real story. They will graduate and become officers, and will likely end up in a war zone in the Middle East, no doubt, and find themselves carrying weapons, shooting at and probably killing people. Maybe being hurt, wounded or killed themselves.
But for them, that seems so far in the future that it is meaningless to contemplate, and so they don’t. Today they ruck and train for the marathon and know somewhere deep inside that’s not what they’re training for at all.
Karen Gardner, of Haydenville, a retired computer programmer, is an avid bicyclist and nature photographer.