Old dogs barking at clouds

Ruff, Ruff! Bark! Howl! Sorry about that. Just grab your coffee and pull up a chair on the porch, because today we’re talking about one of life’s great mysteries: why some folks in our little town treat a kid on a bicycle like it’s the Apocalypse!

You know the scene. Our sidewalks are wide enough to host a parade, a picnic and a game of hopscotch all at once. Foot traffic? Mostly someone walking their Yorkie and the occasional retiree headed to the post office. Yet every so often, a couple of elementary schoolers come pedaling by — laughing, weaving a little, maybe popping the occasional wheelie — and you’d think the Gog and Magog war had arrived, complete with training wheels.

“Slow down!” comes the cry from a shadow. “Get off the sidewalk!” shouts another voice from a doorway. The kids, bless their sweet little hearts, usually wave and keep going, because they’re kids and the sidewalk is right there, begging to be used for something more exciting than walking in a straight line like us responsible adults do.

Here’s the thing: I do get it. I’ve slowed down as I’m getting older. My joints creak, patience thins, the world gets a little louder and a little faster, and suddenly everything feels like it’s coming at you fast. But watching a grown man shake his fist at a 10-year-old doing what 10-year-olds have done since bicycles were invented is like watching an old dog barking at clouds.

We’ve seen that dog. He’s usually a grizzled veteran with more gray muzzle than energy. He’s earned his spot on the rug. But then a fluffy white cloud drifts by, minding its own business, and suddenly it’s World War III on the front lawn. Ruff! Ruff! Ruff! Deep, serious barks. The cloud, naturally, does not care. It keeps drifting along, changing shape, probably thinking about whatever clouds think about — rain, maybe, or that one time it looked like a dinosaur.

The old dog gives it everything he’s got. He’s protecting the yard. He’s maintaining order. He’s fighting the good fight against ... atmospheric vapor. Eventually he trots back inside, tail wagging proudly, convinced he just saved the neighborhood from certain fluffy doom. The cloud? Still out there, unbothered, probably heading toward the next county.

That’s our sidewalk warriors. The kids aren’t a threat; they’re just living the way kids live. They’re burning off energy that would otherwise turn into bouncing off the walls at home or — God forbid — staring at screens all afternoon. How would it be if they banded together and scouted out the most vulnerable building and windows? But they’re learning balance, confidence and the ancient art of “don’t hit that bench.” They’re being kids. And in a world that seems determined to package childhood into scheduled activities and safety bubbles, letting them ride their bikes on a perfectly good sidewalk feels like one of the last normal things we’ve got.

I’m not saying there aren’t real safety concerns sometimes. A little courtesy goes both ways — kids should watch for pedestrians, and parents should set some ground rules. But the level of outrage over a mostly harmless bike ride in a town this size? That’s the cloud-barking territory.

Remember when we were the ones tearing around on banana-seat bikes with playing cards clothes-pinned to the spokes? We rode on sidewalks. We rode in the street. We rode through puddles and over cracks and under low-hanging branches that occasionally taught us valuable lessons about ducking. Our parents didn’t hover with helmets and liability waivers. They just said, “Be home by dark,” and trusted that, if nothing else, the neighborhood busybodies would keep us mostly intact.

Those busybodies, of course, are still with us. They’re just older now, and their target has shifted from me to “these kids today!” Fair enough. But maybe we can cut the next generation a little slack. The clouds aren’t out to get anyone. They’re just clouds. And the kids on bikes aren’t delinquents in training; they’re the sound of summer, the flash of motion that reminds us the town is still alive.

So next time you see a group of them pedaling past, maybe smile and wave instead of shouting. Or at least mutter your complaint into your coffee like the rest of us civilized folk do. Let the old dog rest his voice. The clouds — and the kids — will be just fine.

After all, one day those bike-riding hellions will be old men (and women) themselves. And if we’re lucky, they’ll be barking at clouds too. Just hopefully not at their own grandchildren.

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