Late March on the Lexington Battle Road

  Late March in Massachusetts.  A ring appears on the surface of the pond at the train station.  And then it disappears.  Another one appears, and then is gone.  A fish?  It seems too early.  Too cold.  But maybe.

   The ringleader of our Sunday morning softball game sends an email to the group.  Opening day will be put off a week at least.  The field is too soft.  More rain is coming.  And the temperature Sunday is expected to reach 40 at best.

   There is still snow up in the mountains.  My ski pants hang in the entryway, where I left them after skiing two weeks ago.  If there will be no softball this weekend, perhaps I should go skiing again.  It’s that time of year, when the end of winter and the beginning of spring stare each other down.

   Late March in Massachusetts.   Patience.  Patience.  The fish are at the bottom of the pond, but they will rise. 

   The following weekend is a touch warmer, but still not dry enough for softball.  The urge to be outside is overwhelming.  But I have had enough of my winter walks down along the Charles.   So I drag my bike out of the back of the garage and load it in the back of our van – portaging up to the trail that follows the Lexington Battle Road.  It’s dry enough for a good, fast ride through the woods and open fields and past the historic homes, but cold enough for several layers and some gloves.

When I stop for some water at Merriam’s Corner, where I will turn around to head back, a small detachment of British troops disembarks from their sedans and minivans, pulling on the straps of their historic gear, tucking their cell-phones out of site into baggy woolen pockets.  They must have come to rehearse for the Patriots Day activities that will occur in a couple of weeks, when great crowds will watch reenactments of the opening battles of the Revolutionary War – the quick, deadly clashes at the Lexington Green and Concord Bridge.  The Redcoats form up for their officers and march off to the sound of pipes and drums.

I ride ahead, pausing here and there to watch the troops come forward along the old Battle Road, through the trees, through the meadows and past the low stone walls.  This must be how it would have looked to the Minutemen who snuck through the woods and harassed the British column as it marched back to Boston.  Sniping with my camera instead of a musket. 

Here and there along the old road are walkers and bikers, out for some fresh air and exercise on a Saturday afternoon.   Oblivious of what marches toward them down the road.  As I ride well ahead of the troops, looking for a new vantage point to take a photo or two, and nod a greeting to travelers coming my way, I resist the urge to say it.  But once, when I pause next to a young father with his two little girls on their bikes, I find I can’t quite resist it any more.  Just as the sound of fifes and drum start to come around the bend, and the girls start to wonder what it is, I have to tell them. “The British are coming.  The British are coming.”