JIM SEVERSON

JIM SEVERSON THE RIDE OF SHAME

The distance of the Ride of Shame is exactly one mile. It’s straight south on 13th Street, from Resseguie to River. I don’t recall how much time the Ride of Shame took. It felt endless, a lifetime. Eternal. Or maybe three quarters of an hour when you consider all the stops for sadness, memories and contemplation. A long time for a short bike ride.

This ride is no Tour de France. No peloton, no stages…or so I think at the beginning. There’s a single rider, me, with a sizeable backpack, a daypack strapped to the handlebars, and a bicycle rack loaded with a stack of luggage secured to my rear rack by three or four bungee cords. When I’m on the bike, the stack is nearly as tall as me. At the end of this ride, for the first time in my life, I’ll take up residence in a homeless shelter. Almost anyone who’s lived in Boise for any length of time knows the location: River and 13th. It’s alternatively known as the Rescue Mission (or “the Mission”), the River of Life (or ROL), or simply, the men’s shelter. Formerly, Community House. Look for the big neon “Boise Rescue Mission Jesus Saves” sign on the corner of the otherwise non-descript building. That is the terminus of what I’ve come to know as the Ride of Shame.

Okay, the shortish backstory: I lost my job in the summer of 2011. With the ongoing economic downturn and a crappy resume that accomplished little more than highlighting 15 years of underemployment (my BA and

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military experience having long gone to waste as things that enhanced my employability); I was unable to obtain even the same kind of unskilled part-time job I’d just lost.

With income from nearly weekly yard sales and the few odd jobs I managed to procure, I maintained the rent on my cluttered North End studio until midNovember. The yard sales were effective in removing the clutter but only delayed my impending homelessness. I hoped for some small miracle, an unexpected job offer or permission to “rough it” in someone’s backyard shed. Again, mere wishful thinking and delay, an excuse to procrastinate.

Recognizing my need to postpone the inevitable, a friend generously offered to “lend” me a spare room in his 13th Street apartment for a month. We agreed upon a day shortly after Christmas as departure day, no matter what. No more procrastinating, no more waiting for small miracles, no more paralysis arising from the fact I’d never been homeless before.

I’d use that month to contemplate my sad situation, to gather intelligence on life at the River of Life (When was check-in? When was lunch? How’s a Buddhistleaning long-hair going to fare in a building run by a Christian organization?), and most importantly, to finish the job of culling and packing. I couldn’t afford rental storage and had only been able to arrange to keep a tarpful of possessions out of sight behind a former neighbor’s garage. One last load of possessions went to the local auction, and I brought what remained of my still-too-much “must-haves” to my friend’s apartment.

December was as relaxed as it could be under the circumstances. My friend gave me as much privacy as

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possible and extended many small kindnesses. Another kind soul agreed to let me store a bicycle cart full of possessions on their property. I gave myself over fully to a life of contemplation.

It’s odd to me now that the idea of shame never entered my thoughts in contemplating my inevitable future. The humiliation of job loss, of the end of tenancy, those were nothing. I’d changed jobs, addresses, and times were hard for many people. I got that. But until I’d embarked upon the short journey, this Ride of Shame, I did not realize how deeply this feeling would impact me. It caught me completely off guard.

The day arrives. It’s a weekday, so my friend has left for work; there is no one to see me off. I leave the key in the agreed upon place and mount up, which is a little more difficult than usual, since I can’t simply swing my leg over the bicycle’s rear tire. All the belongings I can carry, shoulder-high once I get on the seat, are strapped on the rear bike rack.

The numbness starts unexpectedly with the first pedal stroke. I try to recall when, during my half century plus on the planet, when I’ve experienced such a raw, abject feeling. Failure. I don’t even know what this feeling is yet, only that it’s very pervasive. It comes with full body numbness. Mentally, I’m in quicksand, and they say that struggling is the worst thing to do in such conditions. Don’t resist, pay attention. This may be a learning opportunity; be at one with it.

The journey of a thousand miles may begin with a single step; my one mile bike ride to an unknown

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future starts with the first push of the pedal. With that first push, the ruthless, pit-in-the-stomach, physically uncomfortable shame begins. Even before I get past the silent and dark brick school, closed for Christmas break, and festively decorated neighborhood houses, random thoughts fill my ride; I briefly envision happy families in warm rooms. For me, that was not a pleasant contemplation. I keep moving.

Straight down 13th is not exactly the scenic route, and I stopped frequently, whenever the “scene” of a particular building or street corner invokes a memory. Each stop becomes a detour of sorts. I’m not in a hurry to arrive at the Mission. I stop at the corner of Fort Street, then cross Fort Street, past homes, apartments, offices. I ride out of the North End.

It turns out shame has three stages: Fort to State, State to Main, and Main to River.

There’s the donut shop on State where I’d often bought coffee, pastries. 13th becomes one-way after crossing State, so I get on the sidewalk to avoid riding the wrong way down a one way street. I stop to contemplate “wrong way.” I’d been going the wrong way for some time now, which is how I arrived at this spot in my life. I cross Jefferson, stop at the intersection with Bannock by the Greyhound station, experience the happy memory of my arrival in Boise 4 years ago. A lump forms in my throat and metastasizes into a deep and profound hollowness in the pit of my stomach.

Are we there yet? Just kidding. I’d rather not know. I cross Idaho Street, the Idaho Power building (my last utility bill payment really is in the mail), Main Street past an excellent bike shop, Grove, Front, back to two-way traffic. I find the shame warming; it’s cold out

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but I am numb to it. I pedal slowly, approach Myrtle. Only a block to go. You might think I’d want to get this uncomfortable experience over with, but I proceed slowly, further delaying the inevitable. I pass the guy flying a sign on the corner, cross Myrtle, ride past large, balconied apartments on the left, older houses on the right, pedaling even slower now, timing my arrival at the shelter for the 4 pm check-in time. Slowly the shelter, a three story building on the corner of River and 13th, looms on my right. I go around back, lock my bike to a rack, and get in line for my first shelter check-in.

It’s official now; I’m here, I’m homeless. No more detours. The Ride of Shame is over. A new experience, shelter life begins. Wariness replaces shame.

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ROADBLOCK

Time does not give one much leeway: it thrusts us forward from behind, blows us through the narrow tunnel of the present into the future. But space is broad, teeming with possibilities, positions, intersections, passages, detours, U-turns, dead-ends, one-way streets. Too many possibilities, indeed. —

SUSAN SONTAG