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The asphalt slips by as I put on the miles and feel the breeze slip past. The sun blinks in and out as I pass under massive trees that witnessed the Revolution far in the dim past. It is a glorious feeling. I am free of the constraints of three thousand pounds of steel and plastic. I am free of the closed atmosphere of walls and ceilings. My car is my bicycle. It consumes no gasoline, emits no heat, makes no noise. My engine is my heart and my legs. I achieve speeds that vary from walking speeds to, what seems to me, warp speeds of a fictitious star ship. It seems as though I cross the boundaries of time itself.

I feel the imaginary presence of past citizens of the city. I slip past them, invisible and silent, paying homage to their achievements and their patience and their virtue.
Bethlehem is my city, my home. Bethlehem is the place where, two hundred and fifty years ago, Europeans came who had braved the hazards of the North Atlantic in tiny sailing ships to start a new life. All that I did to come here was to leave one county, one city and drive here in an automobile, some ten miles in all. I have no idea of what it was like to leave a whole continent behind.

I stop to pay quiet homage to the memory of those brave souls buried in God's Acre, an ancient cemetery of the Moravians. As I sit on my vehicle, I imagine that Count Von Zinzendorf walks amid the many cemetery stones that memorialize the deceased of many lands and cultures, both European and American. I mentally salute him for his personal and financial efforts to start Bethlehem.

I turn south and ride to the Civic Center, wherein lies a repository of knowledge and entertainment, the public library. This is a building that I have frequented often and will continue to frequent. I feel that the information clerk is a personal friend because of the numerous requests for assistance that I have made in the past. She reflects the positive and helpful attitude of all city employees.

I loop around the Center and pass ancient homes, kept in repair and looking like they did in the past.

I go down to Sand Island, a beautiful park for all the citizenry to enjoy. Across the Lehigh River, I see Bethlehem Steel, an employer of many, in times past. Gargantuan blast furnaces rear their heads up into the sky like the dinosaurs that roamed this area, millions of years ago. I ponder the memory of past years when I worked there as a draftsman. How many of my devices still work within the miles-long boundary of the plant, I wonder. The Steelworkers Union and the Management work hard to regain past glory. I silently wish them well and have much hope for success for them. They are all good men and women, like the old ones of Bethlehem. Theirs is just a different battle than the battles of starting a city long ago. They will, I am sure, be just as successful.

I am optimistic for the future because Bethlehem has a spirit that infuses itself into the citizenry. The times, the technology, and the ethnic makeup of the population changes, and will continue to change, but the spirit of Bethlehem does not change. Its spiritual character will not permit it to change.

I cross the river and head down Third Street, turning up steep Hayes Street to stop at my daughters' home to visit. It is a hard hill to climb but I make it. As I turn on to her street, her husband waves to me from the front window with my grandson, Jimmie, aside of him.
Later, I head home. Below me, I see a great city of diversity and strength stretching out for miles. It is a grand view. The wind whistles around me and I go for starship warp speed (in truth, twenty miles an hour) and I picture Bethlehem in the year 2000. It is a grand vision that I see in my mind's eye.

Learn more about this author, John Royer.
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