We're guilty of wanting more

The Boston Herald

He told the story earlier this week and he told it well, the way he tells all his stories, because he is Irish and strings his words together with a natural lilt and good humor. He told it matter-of-factly though - it was almost a "by the way." And yet within the tale there was a story-teller's sense of plot and tension and, of course, the inevitable, inescapable moral:

There he is on a glorious September Sunday, he says, riding his bike as he does most every day. He can't remember when he didn't ride. When he was in school he used to compete. But for 40 years now he has limited his riding to long-distance only. Fifty miles is average to him.

He doesn't ride for the exercise. It's the feeling he loves: air in his lungs, freedom in his pores, the wind swishing by, blocking out every other sound but the wind itself.

He didn't say all of this, but I know. I know because I'm Irish too, though diluted to the point where it hardly counts, except in the heart where it always counts; and because I bike ride, though not long distances, not even half as long as his.

And yet I know all about the freedom of riding, about the way it makes you feel connected and disconnected at the same time.

There he is on this day, flying on his new bike with the extra long pedals, drinking in the moment, summer in the bright spots, fall in the shadows, the leaves rustling just a little, like a young girl in a petticoat trying to sneak into a room. There he is coasting down the road, inhaling, enjoying. But the pedal is too long suddenly, not what he is used to, very close to the ground, and when he leans to make a turn, something he has done a million times before, the pedal snags on the macadam and the bike stops short and he sails head first over the handlebars and lands on his head in the middle of the road.

Nobody comes to his rescue because there is no one around. He is on a deserted street. And so he lies there stunned and breathless, but grateful for the helmet which no doubt saved his life, grateful that he isn't lying in a pool of blood, grateful for his acute awareness.

He rests for five, 10 minutes and waits for his head to clear. Then he gingerly moves one leg and it works and he thinks: Isn't this great, my leg is okay. And then he moves the other, and it is okay, too. He checks his feet, his arms, his hands - no broken bones. Thank God, he is saying. Am I a lucky man!

And then he feels his shoulder. His right shoulder. Instantly he knows it is dislocated. It's a minor injury, an inconvenience that will cut into his tennis game for a while and nothing more. He will still be able to get around, walk, work, function.

But why does it have to be his RIGHT shoulder of all things? Why not his left? If it had been his left he could still play tennis!

"Can you imagine?" he said. "There I was offering thanks to God that I wasn't badly hurt and not 10 minutes later I was bemoaning my fate."

He laughed about it, recognized his human ways, and went on to another story. But that one lingered, because aren't we all like that? Grateful for what we have, blissfully happy - for a moment.

And then we want more.

Yes, we're lucky that it was just a fender bender and no one got hurt. But an hour later, it's "Look at the car. It'll take time and money to fix that."

Yes, it's great that we won the daily lottery, we're ecstatic. But isn't it a shame that someone else had to win it that day, too? And isn't it too bad that we played just one dollar? Think of how much more we could have won!

If we get two week's vacation, we want three. If we get three, we want four. If we come in second in a contest, we wish we'd come in first. If we come in first, we wish for a different prize.

That's the way it is. That's the way we are. Content too briefly, because we're always wanting more.