A Time in History
Miss Mae
May 08, 2007
You just can’t be prepared for when you might witness history. Well, perhaps we’re living history every day of our lives. But you know what I mean. Those really significant moments like the crash of the Hindenberg, or the sinking of the Titanic, or even 911 stands out in our memories. If you lived through those, you can look back and say, “I was right there during that place in history.”
A couple of weeks ago, the same happened to me. This might not be anywhere as impressive as the events cited above, but the occasion held excitement, none-the-less. I stood on the sidewalk and watched the race of the Tour-de-Georgia.
What’s the tour-de-Georgia you might ask. If you’re familiar with the Olympic games, surely you know of Lance Armstrong, the cancer survivor and remarkable athlete who won the Tour de France more than six times. If you’ve not heard of him, I encourage you to Google his name and read his inspiring story.
2007 marked the fifth year for the bicycle race in Georgia. Though I’d heard of it on the nightly news and saw the footage (quite awestruck that something so stupendous occurred in my humble home town!), I’d never been in the right place at the right time to see it ‘live-and-in-person’. Until recently.
A keen awareness of the historic event sharpened my memory similar to the way a charging mosquito dents the side of an armored tank. That morning of April 20, hubby and I ate a leisurely breakfast, buckled ourselves in our vehicle, and rode to town. We finished our usual errands, and then drove down a side street to check out a vegetable market. Next, we headed for the hardware store, but as we approached we saw people lined both sides of the highway.
Oh, dear. There’s been a wreck.” I cranked my head out the window, dreading to view the gruesome sight. Instead, I saw a policeman halting traffic. On the sidewalks, folks sat under shade trees. No mangled vehicles appeared.
What’s this crowd doing?” hubby asked, following the cop’s direction and slowly pulling into the street.
Is there a parade?” I looked all about, but only saw the empty street.
Cars filled the hardware store’s parking lot. Employees, wearing their lettered ‘May I Help You?’ red blazers, draped across the walk’s railings. We asked them, “What’s going on?”
They stared like we inquired if they’d consider their wives’ mothers for the ‘Best Mother-in-Law of the Year’ award. “The bicycle race,” they told us, and hubby and I exchanged a look. What bicycle race?
We joined the crowd on the sidewalk. Everyone waited patiently, even the policeman standing in the middle of the street.
I switched my purse to the other arm. A pigeon flew overhead. The policeman spoke on his compact radio. Folks on the opposite side sat on the grass and leaned back on their arms. Hmm. So where’s the bicycles?
I glanced up the street. More people lined the shoulders. Hubby raised questioning brows, and I shuffled my feet. Finally, we heard a noise. From the far left sounded an approaching car. A car? Yep, a state trooper. He comes and goes, disappearing over the hill toward the mountain.
Hubby and I looked at each other and shrugged. I set my purse on the walk. Somebody coughed. The policeman scratched his nose. We waited.
Another sound. Hurray! It’s…a publicity car with racing stripes down the side. They fly by, waving at the gawking spectators.
Okay. So we waited some more. At least the day displayed perfect weather for a bike ride. The sky glowed brilliant blue, the sun shone warm but not hot, and a constant breeze cooled the air. I wondered if those competitors packed a picnic lunch.
Something else approached. An—ambulance? Huh. I’d never considered that. So here it came, and there it went. Close by tailed another car carrying bicycles on its roof rack. Well, I’d never thought of that either. Guess they’d need those extra bikes for spares.
The vehicles streamed into a more regular line. Another patrol car topped the hill, followed by another media car, and then an ambulance. On their rear shadowed a third patrol car. Three patrol cars? What’d those cops plan to do? Ticket the cyclists for pedaling too fast?
And then—we saw them. Splashes of vivid red, dark blue, bright green, and black colored racing uniforms greet our awaiting eyes. Wearing rocket shaped riding helmets, sunglassed and squinty-eyed athletes hunched thin, wiry bodies over the handle bars of their expensive bikes, spinning their pedals like egg beaters. Crowds cheer, whistle, applause, and—zoom! They zipped by, disappearing over the hill.
The moment past and the excitement over, folks left the sidewalk, crossed the road, and climbed into their vehicles. The hardware store’s employees entered the building. Hubby and I continued our shopping, and later we returned home.
It’d been an exceptional day. Though lasting no more than a couple of seconds, we’d seen history created. In later years we’ll recall the Tour de Georgia 2007 and be able to say, “I was there. I saw it happen.”
Copyright 2007 by Lula M. Thomas
A couple of weeks ago, the same happened to me. This might not be anywhere as impressive as the events cited above, but the occasion held excitement, none-the-less. I stood on the sidewalk and watched the race of the Tour-de-Georgia.
What’s the tour-de-Georgia you might ask. If you’re familiar with the Olympic games, surely you know of Lance Armstrong, the cancer survivor and remarkable athlete who won the Tour de France more than six times. If you’ve not heard of him, I encourage you to Google his name and read his inspiring story.
2007 marked the fifth year for the bicycle race in Georgia. Though I’d heard of it on the nightly news and saw the footage (quite awestruck that something so stupendous occurred in my humble home town!), I’d never been in the right place at the right time to see it ‘live-and-in-person’. Until recently.
A keen awareness of the historic event sharpened my memory similar to the way a charging mosquito dents the side of an armored tank. That morning of April 20, hubby and I ate a leisurely breakfast, buckled ourselves in our vehicle, and rode to town. We finished our usual errands, and then drove down a side street to check out a vegetable market. Next, we headed for the hardware store, but as we approached we saw people lined both sides of the highway.
Oh, dear. There’s been a wreck.” I cranked my head out the window, dreading to view the gruesome sight. Instead, I saw a policeman halting traffic. On the sidewalks, folks sat under shade trees. No mangled vehicles appeared.
What’s this crowd doing?” hubby asked, following the cop’s direction and slowly pulling into the street.
Is there a parade?” I looked all about, but only saw the empty street.
Cars filled the hardware store’s parking lot. Employees, wearing their lettered ‘May I Help You?’ red blazers, draped across the walk’s railings. We asked them, “What’s going on?”
They stared like we inquired if they’d consider their wives’ mothers for the ‘Best Mother-in-Law of the Year’ award. “The bicycle race,” they told us, and hubby and I exchanged a look. What bicycle race?
We joined the crowd on the sidewalk. Everyone waited patiently, even the policeman standing in the middle of the street.
I switched my purse to the other arm. A pigeon flew overhead. The policeman spoke on his compact radio. Folks on the opposite side sat on the grass and leaned back on their arms. Hmm. So where’s the bicycles?
I glanced up the street. More people lined the shoulders. Hubby raised questioning brows, and I shuffled my feet. Finally, we heard a noise. From the far left sounded an approaching car. A car? Yep, a state trooper. He comes and goes, disappearing over the hill toward the mountain.
Hubby and I looked at each other and shrugged. I set my purse on the walk. Somebody coughed. The policeman scratched his nose. We waited.
Another sound. Hurray! It’s…a publicity car with racing stripes down the side. They fly by, waving at the gawking spectators.
Okay. So we waited some more. At least the day displayed perfect weather for a bike ride. The sky glowed brilliant blue, the sun shone warm but not hot, and a constant breeze cooled the air. I wondered if those competitors packed a picnic lunch.
Something else approached. An—ambulance? Huh. I’d never considered that. So here it came, and there it went. Close by tailed another car carrying bicycles on its roof rack. Well, I’d never thought of that either. Guess they’d need those extra bikes for spares.
The vehicles streamed into a more regular line. Another patrol car topped the hill, followed by another media car, and then an ambulance. On their rear shadowed a third patrol car. Three patrol cars? What’d those cops plan to do? Ticket the cyclists for pedaling too fast?
And then—we saw them. Splashes of vivid red, dark blue, bright green, and black colored racing uniforms greet our awaiting eyes. Wearing rocket shaped riding helmets, sunglassed and squinty-eyed athletes hunched thin, wiry bodies over the handle bars of their expensive bikes, spinning their pedals like egg beaters. Crowds cheer, whistle, applause, and—zoom! They zipped by, disappearing over the hill.
The moment past and the excitement over, folks left the sidewalk, crossed the road, and climbed into their vehicles. The hardware store’s employees entered the building. Hubby and I continued our shopping, and later we returned home.
It’d been an exceptional day. Though lasting no more than a couple of seconds, we’d seen history created. In later years we’ll recall the Tour de Georgia 2007 and be able to say, “I was there. I saw it happen.”
Copyright 2007 by Lula M. Thomas