Why not bike all the Des Moines area bike trails and write about them?

Well, there is the fact that my knees are unwilling to bend after two, fun-filled knee replacements. Listen, I’m not complaining, but to get out of the swimming pool with my granddaughter, I have to shoot up like a whale next to the edge of the pool, land on my side, and then do a downward dog to get to my feet. This advanced whale-maneuver does not help in getting on a bike or, surprisingly, getting a date — as my wife tells me.

And if that circus show wasn’t enough, I’m now weighing in at such a hefty amount that my belly is a sentient being demanding the right to vote, own property, and, like all good Americans, carry a machine gun without a permit. I get it. Live free or die. But now I have an unwanted guest claiming election fraud and going wherever I go. 

And finally, perhaps the coup de grâce, I’m afraid of falling off my bike after multiple bike accidents. Seriously, I don’t have that many remaining front teeth or remaining unfused vertebrae to put Humpty Dumpty back together again.

So, it’s decided.

Let’s start with Urbandale. 

South Karen Acres Park. Shooting off Roseland Drive, I cross a narrow wooden bridge and ride into a treed park hidden in the middle of residential backyards. Tennis courts (top notch), playgrounds, and bathrooms. This is a place to get away from the world. Peaceful. Quiet. A spiritual retreat.

“Whack!” I flinch as a tennis ball rockets across the court. Two women, aged somewhere between 30 and 80, are playing a no-holds-barred match. The volley is fierce as I weave around the courts trying to avoid becoming collateral damage. Thank goodness for my bicycle flack helmet.

Suddenly the volley ends and the two women laugh with exhaustion and grab their water bottles. 

Whew. Thank goodness our murderous instincts require hydration.

Down the hill I go, past the apartments, around a small golf course, and across 78th Street.

Flowers flowers flowers.

And the trail turns into a tunnel of trees following the winding North Walnut Creek. Rabbits, squirrels, birds, baby deer. Breathtaking.

But what is really breathtaking is to look into people’s back yards. This should be called the Gladys Kravitz Thruway. It is a snooper’s paradise, which is fortunate because I am a professional. And those folks living along the trail have outdone themselves. Beautiful flower gardens. Sculptures. Carved walkways of crushed stone or cinders. One resident even has signs “blessing you” for not letting your dog poop in their flowers.

I would love to live in this neighborhood, but I’d never meet the “be kind” zoning requirement. It’s my joy in teasing my granddaughter that is at fault. And, really, who’s to say I’m wrong when I tell her that her parents might not be coming back? 

Down through the tunnel under 86th Street and into Colby Woods Park and the Charles Gabus Memorial Tree Park. A place of small winding trails, sculptures at every turn, massive trees, and a grandfather reading a book to both his granddaughter and a crazed biker. 

Past the dancing children sculpture, I cross the bridge to Walker Johnson Park. 

Walker Johnson Park is a paradise of slides and swings and tennis courts and ball fields and a skate park and a pond. At the pond, two little boys drink pop and try to catch minnows with a small net. I’d love to bother them, but they are looking too happy. And I already know their story. 

Once upon a time there were two young boys, Owen and Zach. They were quiet boys who did not draw much attention from anyone except when they were told to “Watch out! Get out of the way!”

And they did watch out and they did get out of the way.

One day, Owen was at the tennis court watching his sister and her friends. And Zach was at the skate park watching his brother and his friends. Owen’s sister told him to get out of the way. Zach’s brother told him to get out of the way.

So Owen went to the pond to see if there were any frogs. And Zach went to the pond to see if there were any turtles. They didn’t see any turtles or frogs, but they did see each other.

Zach went and got two nets from his brother’s car. And Owen went and got two pops from his sister’s car. And Owen and Zach looked for minnows and drank pop. Happily. Quietly. Together. The End. 

It could be true. 

Time to climb back out of the parks and head home. 

My oh my, what’s this on the side of the trail?

A manhole cover painted by Buck Jones and sponsored by the Urbandale Public Art Committee. 

So I text Buck.

“Buck, was this some wild, out-of-control flashback?”

Buck texted me that there were (or are) beavers in this area: “So that design was picked because of that and for its playfulness, thinking it might bring smiles to those passing by.”

And I smile.

Playfully.

And I bike home.

Joe