A Chase in the Park

The sun’s rays were softening and diminishing with each minute that ticked away.  Sunset was scheduled in just shy of an hour as I walked north along the river’s edge in Cardiff, Wales.  Bute Park was on the other side of the water, but the first walking bridge I encountered was fenced off.  I continued onward until I reached a small waterfall on top of which was a bridge with no barriers.  I traversed.  

On the opposite side of the river, I came upon yet another fence.  A few locals nonchalantly climbed over it by using a stone that seemed designed for aiding trespassers.  The ascent looked easy.  A woman approaching me from beyond the barrier hoisted one leg over the fence as though mounting a horse and then swung her other leg over and hopped onto the ground.  Her fluid motion led me to believe this was a habitual practice and, therefore, not frowned upon.  I, too, hurdled the fence and sauntered into the forbidden Bute Park, which officially closed fifteen minutes ago.   

There were exercise stations spread throughout the park.  I managed to do ten pull-ups at the first station, and at the next I climbed the monkey bars.  By this time, the light was fading, and a soft grey shadow spread across the fields as the sun began its disappearing act.  A few cyclists and joggers whizzed by me in both directions.  I was comforted by their presence.  At least I wasn’t the only one trespassing.  If I were caught by the authorities, not only could I plead ignorance since I am foreign, but I could also indicate that everybody else was doing it, too. 

I continued my childish game of exercise and gripped two horizontal poles, bent my legs, and lifted them off the ground.  As I shrugged my shoulders and inched my sweaty palms forward on the bars and traveled leglessly, I noticed a middle-aged man wearing a black beanie pass me on his bike.  Since he was traveling in the opposite direction, I could see his face but the scant light concealed any remarkable details beyond a generic description:  white man, brown hair, average height.  I thought nothing of him until I reached the next exercise station when I spotted him walking his bike a few paces behind me.  Maybe he had reached the barrier and decided to head home. 

 
While inventing explanations for the man’s presence, I traveled onward up the concrete path when I reached a fork in the road.  The left arced around a garden and led into the center of the park, whereas the right curved toward the river again.  I chose the path on the right, and the strange man followed.  As I inspected the outskirts of the garden away from the pavement, I saw him approach me.  Before he could pass me, my eye was attracted to these vibrant flowers in the middle of a field, so I jogged toward them and snapped a photo in the depleting sunlight.  

As I was composing the picture, the man passed me on the right and headed up a dirt path surrounded by trees.  I could smell the marijuana on him. 
 
Darkness was falling, and images of Deliverance briefly flashed across my mind.  Horrid thoughts of being raped by a savage man in the wilderness motivated me to seek the shelter and safety of the hostel.  I reached the path again, and in front of me I saw the man at a three-way intersection:  the dirt path he took, the pavement I was treading on, and the fenced-off bridge.  He was standing still, as though waiting for divine intervention to choose his path for him.  Or maybe he was waiting for me to decide.

I approached him confidently and yet casually so as not to show the fear rising inside me.  I did not want him to know what I was thinking.  At this point, my rational hypotheses regarding his behavior no longer seemed applicable.  I was convinced he was following me for reasons unknown to me, and I wanted to get away from him as soon as possible.  If not for the combination of moonlight and light pollution from the city nearby, I would have been swathed in complete darkness.

The man was still standing near the intersection.  When I came within a few feet of him, I could make out the stubble on his beard and the gray hairs that clung to his temple. 

He fit the image of The Bad Guy invented by my grandma to prevent me from making noises after bed-time.  After tucking my brother and me into bed, she told us not to talk, or else The Bad Guy would hear us outside.  Apparently, he strolled around the neighborhood after dark listening for the hushed conversations of children.  When he heard a naughty boy talking after bed-time, he would knock on the door, and the adult in the household would have to give up the child to The Bad Guy.  If you were caught, he would eat you. 

Although I had never completely believed this cannibalistic folklore, I never completely doubted it either, so I usually stayed quiet after lights-out.  Although my grandma never recounted this tale in much visual detail, I had always imagined The Bad Guy would have black stubble and rough skin on his face.  In my mind, he wore a brown cowboy hat and always squinted his eyes and furrowed his brow, because he never wanted you to know what was going on inside his head.

The man in the park was wearing a black beanie, not a cowboy hat, but he stared at me intently while I considered my escape route in my calmest manner possible.  I tried to compose myself as though stumped with a decision of which brand of yogurt to buy, but really the alarms inside my cranium were blaring at full-blast and my terror level was elevated to RED.

As a last resort to convince myself I was being silly, I considered that maybe the man worked at the park and he was corralling the final visitors and encouraging them to exit promptly.  But then again, if he were a park ranger, he would’ve reminded me that the park was closed.  He didn’t say a word to me, so I went back to assuming he was a creep who either wanted to steal something that I needed or give me something that I didn’t want. 

I started crossing the bridge, which had no barrier on this side of the river.  As I reached the fence at the end, I looked behind me.  The man was rapidly walking his bike on the bridge toward me.  If I didn’t jump over this fence now, I would be trapped between the barrier and this mysterious stranger. 

I gripped the cold, metal bars, slick with rainwater and swung up my legs over the railing.  For a brief second, I envisioned slipping on the wet terrain and falling prey to the maniac, but instead I landed on the trail and began walking briskly toward the streets of Cardiff, relatively illuminated compared to the dark park.  I did not want to immediately run because I did not want to alarm the man and let him know I was aware of his intentions.  He had a bicycle and could catch up to me with relative ease, so I was forced to strategize.  I watched him over my shoulder and waited until he was preoccupied with hoisting his bike over the fence.  With his attention diverted, I sprinted up the path until I reached the sidewalk. 

I learned this trick from my days running cross-country in high school.  When you round a bend, you should quickly surge ahead because your opponent can’t see you.  When the path straightens out again, your opponent’s morale is debilitated because seemingly you increased your pace, but really you didn’t. You have a brief speed burst and then resume your previous pace.  This illusion is enough to widen the gap and discourage the pursuer from catching up to you.  He realizes now that he’ll have to expend more energy than expected——energy he may not possess.

On the sidewalk, I blended into a crowd of pedestrians and shrouded myself with the hood of my rain jacket.  I ducked inside a convenience store and pretended to search for a Reese’s candy bar.  From reading numerous detective novels, I learned that if you are being followed, never lead your pursuer directly to your safe haven.  When I was fairly certain I evaded my tail, I headed toward the hostel.

In all fairness, the man may have been riding home, and our paths could have been coincidental.  My paranoia could have dramatized the entire episode, but I prefer to think he offered me a sinister look when I met his gaze at the crossroads.  Without that menacing stare, there would be no adrenaline rush, no suspense, and ultimately no story.  I face such little danger these days, so it is nice to have a taste every now and then.        

Practical Uses for Obsolete Fortresses

I’m tired of looking at ten-thousand-year old rocks.  So I learned about the early inhabitants, but now I can’t keep track of all their names.  I’ve been perusing museums of the United Kingdom to learn more about its history.  Tracing an ancient land’s stories back to its origin is exhausting work.  After visiting nine museums and two castles in the past two weeks, I’ve certainly learned a great deal, but by no means am I an expert.  

The advantages of growing up in America are becoming clearer to me.  At least in our schools, our American history textbooks were not very thick.  Most of us carry the important bullet points in our wallets.  We remember Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, Benjamin Franklin, and we vaguely recollect the guy on the twenty dollar bill. 

In England I am having difficulty correctly arranging royal names on a timeline, but then sometimes I think, “Why bother?” So the Romans came over for a visit then the Normans or Anglo-Saxons arrived.  Or was it the Vikings?  History certainly does repeat itself:  over and over again, various groups invaded and conquered foreign lands.  Sometimes it’s nice to know who came knocking, but how can one effectively use this knowledge? 

When I visit museums, I believe I’m merely collecting data, which I will briefly ponder and then stow away for a long time.  I can imagine using historical tidbits at a social gathering, but I wonder if this strategy would benefit me.  Who eagerly flocks around the pedantic know-it-all regurgitating historical facts at a party?  Not many, I would surmise.  So if retelling the history of Wales won’t likely win me any friends, what is the purpose of knowing these tales?

Of course, I could use these facts to inspire fiction like George R. R. Martin drew upon Scottish history to create A Game of Thrones.  Should I find a history buff, I could at least ask him or her moderately informed questions.  Mind you, this isn’t the kind of history that teaches you not to repeat the same mistakes.  Assuredly, I need not be reminded that it is impolite to enslave a foreign population. Nor is it good manners to drop a bomb on innocent civilians.

Instead, the kind of history I explored in the United Kingdom is somewhat mythical.  I say the word mythical because many people weren’t very enlightened back then.  These people thought blood-letting was a smart medical procedure rather than a means for an expedited death.  These people lived in castles and frequently chopped off their opponent’s heads.  The world of fortresses and motes may prove useful for survivors of a zombie apocalypse.  (Cardiff Castle would be an exciting location swap for The Walking Dead... if only they were in Wales instead of Georgia.) 

I don’t want to suggest this medieval history is useless, but I don’t see too many practical applications to the real world.  After all, one of the main reasons tourists flock to old castles and churches is because they are so unlike our steel monoliths we build today.  When the ancient edifices become surrounded by chain restaurants and parking lots, you can easily see that we don’t live in the auld times anymore.  Our modern architects combined with global capitalism has severed our ties with the glorious past wherein knights fought in clunky armor and a dragon sighting was a possibility in remote territories.

Visiting these museums and parading around the castle’s grounds is really the only feasible mode of time travel.  Even though knowing these ancient stories might not win me a girlfriend, it’s nice to periodically escape the 21^st century.