Live to Ride ... A UFO

I pulled into Roswell, NM after a long, hot day through Texas, but in spite of the temperature I was psyched. As a kid I grew up with aliens on the brain, what with The Outer Limits, My Favorite Martian, and The Three Stooges in Orbit on television and Devil Girls from Mars (!), Alien, and E.T. on the big screen, followed by early video games such as Space Invaders. For years I have read various accounts of Roswell and the 1947 UFO incident and of course Area 51 in Nevada. So this was a big moment, one planned for some time and I intended to make the best of it.

I tend to be a proponent of the theory that popular culture reflects current angst. With the rise of industrialism in the west came such novels as Mary Shelly's Frankenstein and The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, which reflected fear and uncertainty about the reach of science and technology. This fear was revisited during the Great Depression, as filmmakers put their own technological twist on the gothic novels of the 19th century, demonstrating again the uncertainties of technological utopia when faced with the vagueries of climate and the greedy financial manipulations of man. Western's filled the movies houses during the period of World War II and immediately after, when we ardently desired the US Cavalry to ride to our rescue, and of course the 1950's saw peak in the alien invasion genre, the spectre of the Cold War and those "godless Commies" who were out there and going to get us. Crime dramas filled the airways during the chaos of the '60's and today we see that genre, in combination with new horror/alien movies, returning as fear mongers stir up in us the threat of a new invasion of aliens.

I don't pretend to understand what the so-called "reality shows" reflect. Years of serious drug and alcohol abuse, maybe?

All of this comes to mind because of the newspaper headline "Ex-military officers: UFOs real" in my newspaper the other day. The upshot is that a group of former Air Force officers has asserted that UFOs visited their bases and that the government is covering it up. We are just certain that some unknown someone out there is going to travel a bazillion miles to snatch away from us Truth, Justice, and the American Way, and of course the government itself is involved in the conspiracy!

Or maybe not a bazillion miles ... maybe just across the border. But "they" are going to get us, none the less and "government" can be depended upon to help snatch our freedoms. We never get tired of this stuff, do we?!

Anyway, I pulled into my motel, got settled and started making the rounds. I loved the International UFO Museum and Research Center, where they sure do put together a convincing case for the veracity of the Roswell Incident and government cover-up. I chatted with locals and with visitors, some of whom were delightful and others who were clearly nuts ... but fun none-the-less. Some were sceptics, some were believers, and some were just like me: interested in learning more.

We live in a time when we are very afraid of aliens ... a sadly typical response to times of economic uncertainty when we look for scapegoats upon which to heap our fear and anger. We become afraid of that with which we are unfamiliar; having been steeped for a lifetime in an Enlightenment worldview which says that we can control everything, when the reality of post-Modern chaos strikes we seek to place the blame somewhere, to imagine that if we just get control of this one thing, then the world will resume turning on it's proper axis. And right now taht someone is the "aliens" among us. I wish the world were that simple.

The truth is that we do not have an immigration problem and we do not have a political problem, we have an economic problem. And come to think of it, maybe we don't really have an economic problem, but rather a moral problem: greed. I think maybe it is greed that is the true Alien germinating inside of us, just like that slimey critter inside the crew of the Nostromo which, under orders from their corporate masters, had stopped to pick up this horror. They were unwitting slaves considered to be expendable by those in power, motivated only by corporate profit.

That there are aliens I have no doubt; the question is do they come from within, or from without?

This Town

This town is my home, it's deep in my soul

That's why I'm at home even when I'm on the road

I inherited nomadic genes from my mother. If it were not for World War II my dad would never have ventured more than a couple hundred miles from his birthplace, but not my mom. Mom's side was the most nomadic; the legend is that my first English/American ancestor was a Puritan who fled London for the New World after being involved in a plot to kill the king. His family stayed in the northeast for about 200 years, and then the nomadic gene reared its head once and they started heading west again. So it's no wonder she beat feet outta' town as soon as she could, flying a bi-plane with her boyfriend around the midwest, working on the Alcan Highway during WWII, runninga flower shop in Gallup, NM, and travelling all over the country.

So my ancestors were a mix of nomads and settlers. Near as I can figure out, both sides settled in northwest Missouri/northeast Kansas almost 200 years ago. Those are deep roots ... it is no wonder that my daughter Carly has made her home in that region; it's almost as if the land calls us.

The Nomad gene can lay dormant for awhile, but eventually it rears its head again. Scientists experimented with fruitflies, trying to breed certain traits out of them. But even after one hundred generations those traits would pop up. And so it was with mom, and so it is with me.

But then when times get tough, you find yourself drawn to your roots. When mom's first husband - the true love of her life - died suddenly, she returned home to St. Joseph, Missouri and stayed for twenty years. But then she got a new opportunity in another state; I was around by then and mom never tired of telling folks about what happened when she asked me what I thought about moving far away, leaving friends and family. She just beamed when she would recount how as a ten year old I said nothing, just went into my room, packed a bag, and said, "When do we leave?"

But though she lived a long life and travelled far from home, when mom lay dying she told me she wanted to be buried in St. Joe, with her family. She wanted to go home. So we returned her ashes there and as I stood in the midst of my family history, I felt the call to home as well, even though I have not lived there in over forty years. Weird. But maybe not. Maybe all of us who wander carry home with us, which is why we can wander. St. Joe had it's best days around 1890 and was already a town in trouble when I was growing up. But the solid foundation laid as I was a child - the friends, the family, the memories - have served me well over the years. Injust a few days I head off for another new place, another home, another group of new friends. I have come a long, long way from home ... and I have never left home. This town is deep in my soul, and I suspect that is true for many of us who wander.

Link to YouTube video showing scenes of St. Joseph, MO set to Rehab's "This Town": http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mP9d4wJMOnQ

New Friends

My first motorcycle was a 1970 Honda CL 70. With a single cylinder about the size of my fist it wasn't much - most self-propelled lawnmowers today have more horsepower! But it had two wheels, it was mine, and with it came freedom. It was a new friend that allowed me to expand my horizons and make many more new friends.

Over the years I have made many new friends; some were of the mechanical kind and had names like Honda, Kawasaki, and Harley-Davidson, while others were of the human species with names like Kelly, Dale, and Belinda. Some machines had single cylinders, V-twins, or in-line four's, but each delivered on the promise of getting me from one place to another. Some people were heterosexual, others homosexual; some Caucasian, others people of color, but each delivered on the promise of human relationship, of kindness and grace.

So both had something very important in common - they opened my eyes in new and exciting ways. Each provided me with new experiences and understanding.

I have never understood motorcyclists who disdained rides other than their own brand. You can be loyal to a brand (I am a primarily a Kawi guy myself) and still appreciate what other bikes bring to the scene. Each type of motorcycle has its own wonder and beauty. Who cannot love the rumble of American Iron, or the incredible dependability of the Japanese imports? Or marvel at the superb engineering of the Germans or curvacious sexiness of Italian makes? Each has something distinct and wonderful and can open us to a new and deeper level of understanding, just like a new friend. At every invitation I am offered I try out a new bike - make a new friend - and see/experience the world in a different way.

In just one week my wife and I load up the truck and leave Phoenix, Arizona for Bellevue, Washington. We leave a lot of good friends here ... just as we have in Glen Ellyn, Waterloo, Wichita and so many other places. And we will make a lot of new friends in Bellevue ... just as we did in Glen Ellyn, Waterloo, Wichita, and so many other places.

I have never understood human beings who disdain humans other than their own brand. You can be loyal to a brand (I happen to be an American Christian, myself) and still appreciate what other cultures and religious traditions bring to the table. I have been privleged to worship with Hindu's, Jews and Muslims and each has taught me something new and wonderful. I spent five years sitting Zazen with the Buddhists and treasure every moment of that experience and every lesson learned.

There is nothing like a new friend, regardless of brand. They open our eyes, they give us new insight, and they provide us with an expanded view of the world. I'm looking forward to my new friends in Bellevue, both human and mechanical!

Commonweal & The Law of the Bro

One of the lessons I learned when I began to rebuild old bikes is that if you replace one old or broken part on the bike, the other parts get jealous.


"You love First Carburator more than me," says Second Carburator after I have replaced a gasket on leaky First Carburator. And like any jealous sibling, Second Carburator decides to act out and leak as well, and of course at the most inopportune spot, just like when your kid throws a screaming fit in the grocery store where there are eight hundred potential witnesses that prevent you from duct taping the little bugger to the cart .... oops, did I say that out loud?


Anyway, as I was testing the 1978 Cafe Racer (picture) after completing some modifications, I smelled gas, looked down and saw Second Carburator leaking like a sieve. With age comes wisdom and wisdom dictated that, given the high temp of a running engine AND the Arizona desert, I shut down the bloody machine and pull over to the side of the road to see if I could apply a temporary fix to prevent some sort of spontaneous combustion that would in future years be ascribed to aliens from Planet X.


A short digression: in Motorcycle Mythology, there is the Law of the Bro' which states that should one Motorcyclist see a Brother Motorcyclist stopped by the side of the road, Bro #1 should stop to inquire if Bro #2 is having trouble or simply relieving himself. Such consideration for the stranger and sojourner is an act which benefits the common good, and can be traced back thousands of years, as virtually all sacred texts commend this act to be honored among all people. It can be seen as altruistic but it also prudent; I may need your help one day and our mutual survival depends upon acting for the common good, so a moments inconvenience is little investment in potential future compensation.


Now back to our narrative. I was pulled over on the side of the road, laying under the motorcycle with parts and tools scattered about, trying to figure out what to do (Note to self: When traveling with small children and motorcycles ALWAYS carry duct tape) when I heard the rumble of not one but of many V-twin engines. Oh joy, rapture! The cavalry has arrived ... help motors ever closer with the roar of American Iron! Surely one among them will have some duct tape ...


But as I peered out from under the bike to welcome my saviors, I my jaw slackened as, one by one, they motored on down the road, without so much as a "Howdy-do" or "That'll teach you to ride metric!"



The words which crossed my lips in those moments would do a sailor proud. I brought down upon those buggers the wrath of Zeus, Kali, Czernobog, Loki, Set, Cybele, Khan, and every other potential bad-boy of whom I could think. How much more friggin' obvious could it be that a MotoBro needs help!!!! So much for the Law of the Bro'.


Which brings me to the Commonweal, a foundation of American democracy. Almost a decade of the so-called Bush Tax cuts has resulted in the loss of millions of jobs, forecloseure on hundreds of thousands of homes, the need for the taxpayers to bail out the large economic institutions of Wall Street, and a humongous increase in the deficit. Americans in the top two percent of wealth - who receive the greatest benefit from both the tax cuts AND government services in the form of the protection and infrastructure provided by the American government - continue to proclaim that it's "their money" and that tax cuts are the only way to save our economy. How much more friggin' obvious can it be that people need help? So much for the Commonweal.


Yeah, just like a half-dozen motorcycles roaring by me is the best way to encourage me to buy a different kind of bike.


I personally don't think ANY of the tax cuts should be maintained. People are hungry, homeless and lack adequate medical care in this, the wealthiest nation of the world. If I need to pay a bit more, sacrifice some small amount at this time in my Nations history in order to help those in need today and to provide a more secure future for those who follow, so be it. Safety, security, and freedom have been bequeathed to me by my forefathers, and I should do no less. Enlistment in the military is not the only way one can serve his/her country and the greastest test of our moral fiber is not a declaration of faith, but our active willingness to sacrifice for the sake of others.

Nothing New Under the Sun

I love to read and I love to ride, so it is no suprise that I love to read about riding. One of my favorite genres is the journey narrative, particularly if the story is about motorcycle travel that predates 1940.

You see, we human beings have a tendency to imagine that the universe revolves not around the sun, but us as individuals. We imagine that our personal experiences - both positive and negative - are the biggest or the best or the worst or the first or the greatest or the latest. We forget (or ignore) that, as the Preacher said some 2300 years ago, "What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again, there is nothing new under the sun" (Ecclesiastes 1:9).

As much as I enjoy reading contemporary journey narratives, a constant irritation for me is that the authors rarely, if ever, acknowledge that someone has gone before them. Each author seems to imagine that THEIR journey of discovery is something revolutionary and radical ... and perhaps it is to them, but not to the cosmos. I would just like to see a little humilty and perspective.

For example I recently read a book about a woman who traveled by motorcycle across North America. The story was filled with insight and elegant prose, but I wearied of the constant "It's hard to be a woman on the road" refrain. While that is no doubt true to a degree, it is a heck of a lot easier to be a woman on the road in 2010 than in 1910.

You think it's tough riding across the USA wearing leathers, try wearing "a close fitting cap, sailor blouse with green coat and regular riding breeches with leather leggings" like Margaret Karslake in 1916 ... who advised how much more comfortable this outfit was than the normal long skirt!

You think Blue Highways are a pain ? How about 1400 miles of mud and macadam between New York and Toledo, ridden by Katherine Kelly in 1911!

You think it is hard to find gas in western Montana ? Try riding with the van Buren sisters (pictured) in 1916 Mexico! And on and on it goes ...

One of the privileges of thirty years of ministry has been to listen to the stories of people whose working lives ended about the time mine started. I never cease to be amazed at - SURPRISE! -how adventuresome many were in their youth, and how they did dumb and delightful youthful things just like me. My own mother for example shared some of the stories of her life during Prohibition ... OMG!!! There are just some things a boy should not know about his momma ...

We need to put some perspective in our lives. As complicated or joyful as a single moment may be, it is only one of bazillions of moments in eternity. Each moment and experience of an individual life is important and has value, but we are living in a time when it seems that too many folks think every moment of their lives deserves applause. Like I really care what somebody had for breakfast this morning!

In America we place great emphasis on individual worth and self-esteem. Frankly I think we would be better off toning it down a bit and placing more emphasis on the commonweal, what one might call the One Body. As great as any individual or single experience might be, chances are that somebody has done it before, which does not take away from its importance but only keeps it in perspective. You see, there is nothing new under the Sun ...

Humility

There is a common saying among motorcyclists: "There are only two kinds of riders - those who have dropped their bikes and those who will drop their bikes."

The simple truth is that with only two wheels and a contact patch about the size of your palm you will invariably put your foot down on a slippery surface or squeeze the front brake while the wheel is turned, lean the bike beyond its tipping point and find yourself having to pick several hundred pounds of machine up off the ground, which while not impossible, ain't easy.

The good news is that generally a dropped bike occurs at slow speeds, where control is far more difficult and skill far more important, so the damage is mostly to pride rather than person.

There are exceptions to the rule. I once saw a beautiful, very expensive Dual Sport bike loaded with extras - panniers, headlight guards, skid plate, nerf bars - parked outside a store. In fact the extras probably cost as much as the bike itself.

Anyway, I walked toward the bike and thought "Wow. This rider must have some stories to tell." But as I got closer and started really examining it, I realized there was not a scratch or dent on the bike - the paint was impeccable, the fixtures highly polished, and the tires barely used. As I looked it over the owner came out and I learned more: it was a three year old model with about 1200 miles on it and the owner proudly declared "It has never been dropped."

No doubt, Sunshine, since you only ride the thing from your momma's house to the store. The dude had probably spent more on soap and polish than on gas and oil. I have never understood why in the world someone would buy a fine bike like that and never ride the thing ... who does s/he think is impressed?

But enough of my rant for the day. You get the point -if you have done any riding other than straight lines you have, or will, drop your bike. And my own experience is that you usually drop it at the most humiliating times.

Like when I had traveled several thousand miles in all kinds of weather on all kinds of roads and not had a single problem. Then I pulled into my daughter's house and being tired (a bad sign) thought I would pull up the steep drvieway onto the narrow sidewalk flanked by my son-in-laws carefully manicured lawn/flower bed to unload the bike. Nothing like saving yourself ten steps ...
You guessed it. I headed up the steep drive, didn't keep the RPM's high enough, tried to turn too sharply to avoid the posies, started to wobble, squeezed the front brake and suddenly found myself rolling down the steep driveway with 700 pounds of motorcycle sliding down behind me. The good news is that the bike stopped and I kept rolling.

There I was, with my bike laying on its side in the driveway with the tires stuck up in the air like a dead possum. Daughter Carly came out, looked at the bike, shook her head, and went back inside. I had begun to hope the "dad is an idiot" stage had passed ....

Anyway, there was nothing I could do about it because of the angle of the drive (did I mention how steep the sucker was?) until my six foot something, 200+ pound son-in-law got home to help me pick it up soo I went inside and waited.

And you know, it is amazing how helpful folks want to be. In the following forty-five minutes no less than five neighbors stopped by, rang the doorbell and asked "Do you know you have a motorcycle laying in the driveway?"

Really? It must be those pesky Schnauzers down the street - always getting into mischief! Arrggh!!!! Of course I know it ... I'm the idiot who dropped it there, thank you for reminding me!!!!

When the bell tolled for the sixth time I picked up a bat and with murder in my eyes opened the door ... only to find a guy standing there grinning. "Saw the bike. Did the same thing myself last week. Need some help?" Rage subsided, we picked up the bike and I was saved from further curious inquiries as to the location of my motorcycle (though I think the children did have a conference to see if they should petition to have my license removed).

A year passed with no further incidents and the season for my annual road trip once again rolled around. First stop this year was other daughter Ashley's house in San Diego. The ride was good (although VERY hot) and the final stage along Highway 78 absolutely beautiful. Got there with no problem, pulled into the steep drive (carefully), unloaded the bike, changed clothes, and then thought I would just run down to the gas station and fill her up. So down the driveway I headed (did I mention how steep it was?), saw a car coming, turned the wheel ever so slightly and squeezed the front brake ... yep, you guessed it. Down I went, followed by more head shaking.

No wonder my wife and kids worry about me when I hit the road. Everytime they see me it is with the bike on the ground.

Thank God I only have two daughters ....

Why Be Nice?

Given my life history, there are only a couple of people who know me from almost the beginning, and only one with whom I have had constanct contact for over forty-five years, and that is my best friend from elementary school in St. Joseph, MO, Mark Smith. We are "blood brothers" in the sense of having taken that Native American stuff seriously and actually pressed bleeding cuts against one another (I know, I know ... we were kids for God's sake!).

I left St. Joe just after the Sixth Grade, but Mark and I stayed in contact over the years and the various ups and downs of life. After reading my post "Memphis Blues" Mark asked me the question, "Why be nice?"

I refrained from inquiring as to why he asked, since we have been friends long enough to have had some less-than-nice encounters (I recall a couple of fist-fights and he once smacked me in the kisser with the butt-end of a rifle), but it got me to thinking: Why Be Nice? And I have come up with three answers.

The first is that it is simply part of the social contract; we are nice to each other because it greases the wheels of life and just helps the day go far better. When I am working on a bike and get in way over my head, I call CLS Cycles, a little independent bike shop in Cave Creek. There are only a couple of guys there, but they are invariably helpful, courteous, generous with their time ... in other words, nice. I thanked Cameron (the owner) one day and complimented him on the attitude of the shop. He looked at me and said, "I just treat you the way I want to be treated." Pretty cool and a perfect example of the social contract. Imagine if we put that into practice on the road and extended courtesy to others, like letting someone in in front of you instead of hitting the horn and putting the pedal to the metal, as is the wont of most of us American drivers?

Perhaps this kind of interaction is "phoney" in the sense that such behavior is automatic, but that is OK, because behavior can affect our attitude and suddenly that which we had been doing by rote becomes internalized and a part of us. I am no longer "being" nice, I am nice! Like they say in marriage counseling, "Fake it 'til you make it."

Second, sometimes being nice can change another person's behavior or attitude. At Sherwood Elementary School we had a principle, Mercedes Gibson, whom we called "Merciless Gabson". She was a tough old gal and I can remember complaining about her to my mom. Now, back in the day if you complained about a teacher your parents did not go running to the school to find out why they were treating Their Precious unfairly but instead told you that you probably deserved it. Mom was of that mold and just looked at me and said, "Why don't you try being nice to her?"

I figured I had nothing to lose, so I started saying "Good morning Mrs. Gibson;" "How are you Mrs. Gibson?"; "Can I help out, Mrs. Gibson?" And doggone it if mom wasn't right. All of a sudden Mrs. Gibson and I did not have a problem. Who'd a thought?

Which leads me to the third and in my mind most important, reason to be nice: because it is the right thing to do. It is a form of action instead of reaction. I am choosing of my own free will who I will be and how I will act, rather than responding to the actions of another and allow them to determine who I will be. It is an ultimate act of freedom because I am choosing to be master of my life rather than giving that power to another. It takes guts and discipline and there is no promise of reward, but like I said in Jazz Man, sometimes doing the right thing is it's own reward.

Looking ahead

A vital skill of riding is the ability to look ahead, not just in the figurative sense of anticipating potential problems, but literally looking ahead, down the road, rather than staring at the ground just in front of the bike. Navigating curves, executing u-turns, or manuevering through crowded traffic conditions is made far safer and easier by this one habit. But training riders in this simple to understand but difficult to execute practice often results in severe headaches for the trainer (or for the rider who fails to heed the advice - see picture!).

And now I know why: Evolution.

Even though we have the physical ability to gaze into the horizon, it seems that we are hard-wired to look only as far as our immediate interests and concerns reach out, a trait necessary for survival. Psychologist Bernt Spiegel writes: " ... looking ahead goes against a deep rooted behavior: the greater the danger and the sharper the experience of threat, the more restricted the view will be to the immediate area ... As soon as a danger (or the fear of danger) pops up, our view is limited to the nearby surroundings."

Simply put, that means when we see danger we look at the danger in an effort to monitor it and protect ourselves. This is good in many instances; if, for example, a man-eating predator is within striking distance I bloody well better pay attention rather than worrying about how difficult it might be to ford that river a few miles away.

But this instinctual habit is not so good in other situations, like when riding a motorcycle we enter a curve WAY too fast and find ourselves creeping towards the guardrail, and fixate on the guardrail. Since a bike tends to go where we look, a nasty crash is often forthcoming. This target fixation in motorycling can get you killed, but such instincts are very difficult to overcome. The only solution is to raise your head and move your eyes from the problem (guardrail) to the solution (the safe road), which is counter to the "Watch out for the guardrail!!!!" screaming in your head. This solution, while simple in theory, is very difficult in practice and requires discipline; you must let your brain over-ride your instinct.

I think this brain/instinct struggle factors into a great deal of decision making/problem facing in our lives. When confronted with an unpleasant situation, we tend to focus on the problem rather than the solution and as a result the problem - the perceived threat - suddenly seems insurmountable, a form of target fixation. We get so focused on the problem that we don't look at the solutions and eventually the problem wins. So just as with riding we have to make our rational brain (training & experience) over-ride the bird-brain (instinctual response from 10,000 years of evolution).

Instincts have kept us alive but in a new world it is ultimately our brains - our ability to learn and adapt - that will keep us alive, both literally and figuratively, whether on the road or in the job.

Where they burn books ...

I first traveled to Berlin just after the fall of the Wall and I fell as well - in love with the city. Such adoration is not uncommon, and there is even a phrase for it, from an old Marlene Dietrich song: "Ich habe noch einen Koffer in Berlin" - "I've still got a suitcase in Berlin".

I have visited and even lived in Berlin since that initial infatuation. With each visit I wander the streets, visit the museums, and return to my favorite haunts. I have spent so much time just meandering that I actually know Berlin better than any other metro area! Although the city is young in terms of years (it was really only a hodge-podge of villages until the 18th century), so very much has transpired that there is much to learn.

One place of return is the Bebelplatz, located across from Humboldt University along the Unter den Linden. I return there to be reminded of one significant event: at that spot on May 10, 1933 Nazi students and members of the Hitler Youth piled up and burned as many as 20,000 books, including those by Ernest Hemingway, Jack London, & Helen Keller. After World War II a memorial consisting of a glass plate (pictured) through which one can view empty bookshelves was built. Next to it is a plaque with a quote from a play by Heinrich Heine, lamenting the forced conversion of Muslims to Christianity in Spain: "Dort, wo man Bücher verbrennt, verbrennt man am Ende auch Menschen" - "Where they burn books, ultimately they will also burn people."

Which brings us to the so-called Christian church in Florida which is sponsoring "International Burn a Qu'ran Day" on the anniversery of 9/11. Such an action is reprehensible; it no more represents Christianity than destroying the Twin Towers represents Islam. To destroy the holy book of another religious tradition is itself an act of terrorism and betrays the core values of the Christian faith.

In Nazi Germany they burned books and the Christian church remained largely silent. Thank God that many Churches in America are not remaining silent, but speaking out against such vile behavior. I urge every person who claims the Christian faith to encourage prayers of support for our Muslim brothers and sisters during the time of worship. A moment of silence will not do - too often silence is seen as acceptance.

I have learned much from my time on the road and perhaps the most important lesson is that there is a time for silence and a time to speak out. Now is the time to speak out.

Memphis Blues

I was in Memphis and no visit there is complete without hitting Beale Street, visiting Graceland, spending more than a few hours at the Civil Rights Museum, and seeing Sun Studios. I was within walking distance of Beale Street and the Civil Rights Museum, but a long way from the Home of the King and Sun Studios. I snooped around a bit and discovered that it would actually be cheaper (and certainly easier) to take one of the pre-packaged van tours that would cover both, so signed up for a trip the next day.

The van showed up, made a couple more stops to pick up some other folk and off we headed, all the while Paul Simon's tune playing in my head:

I'm going to Graceland,
Graceland,
in Memphis Tennessee
I'm going to Graceland,

The day was great. I really enjoyed seeing Graceland (stuning how small it really is) and later standing on the exact spot at Sun Studios upon which Elvis got his break. The day was a good reminder of how hard work, persistence, and a bucketful of luck go together to make success, AND how it can all suddenly disappear. And then in a blink of an eye it time to head back.

That's when the day got funky ...

Seems that one of the vehicle's used by this company had broken down, so we were doubling up. Space was not a major issue, but geography was, as we now had passengers who were literally on opposite ends of town and Memphis ain't no small town. And it quickly became apparent that I was to be the last one dropped off.

Patience is definitely not one of my virtues - just ask my daughter Carly who will tell you of the lecture about "chillin'" she once gave me when some clown cut me off in traffic and I went all Jerry Springer on him. But then make sure you ask her husband about her temperature in traffic ... the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, even if the apple doesn't want to admit it. So when I realized that the half-hour ride was going to be a two and one-half hour tour of "Motels in Memphis" I was not pleased.

But every now and then something clicks and we find The Zone. Atypically for me, I accepted the fact that there was nothing I could do about the situation, sat back, and enjoyed the scenery. I just chilled.

As we finally arrived at my motel, the driver asked me to wait. He made a call and then said to me "Look, you have really ben a great guy and we feel bad about the delay. How about we treat you to some real barbeque in the best Blues place in Memphis?"

To which I responded with typical wit: "Huh? You talkin' to me?"

"Man, most folks would have belly-ached the whole ride, but you smiled, helped old folks with their souvenirs, and didn't complain at all. We just want to do you right."

I honestly didn't think I deserved anything for just being a nice guy, but didn't want to appear rude so said, "OK."

"Here's the address; just show them your drivers license and it's on us."

Now, I am not a connoiseur of barbeque nor an educated music critic, so I don't know if this was really a great place or just his cousin's resturant, but a couple of hours later I showed some folks my drivers license, had a few beers, ate like a pig (actually I think I ate a pig), listened to some blues, and had a hankerin' to return to Memphis ... soon. It was a great night.

Mostly the reward for doing the right thing is just doing the right thing. But every now and then the Blue's ain't so bad ...

Photographs and Memories ...

On my wife's phone is a picture of me with our two granddaughters, Kyleigh and Tallulah, both of whom hover around two years of age. As you can imagine they are Opa's ("grandpa" in German) delight and as any proud grandparent will tell you, the most beautiful and intelligent children God put on the face of this earth.

The photo shows the three of us sitting on the kitchen floor eating. I got the munchies one afternoon during our family reunion, rustled around until I found something, and was quickly joined by the two waifs who heard the sound of a package being opened. Neither of them has met a food they won't at least give a try and they figured I was a sucker for a pretty face, so we sat down and started snacking.


My father disappeared from my life when I was about five years old and that made things kind of rough for my mom. Make no mistake, I never went hungry, never slept in a dumpster, and always had clean clothes - but there wasn't much left for "extra's" during those first years. But every now and then my mom would shout "Let's have a party" and get out some crackers and cheese and we'd sit down to chat or watch TV and munch away. Curious, is it not, how the simple memories are often the fondest?


I thought of those "parties" with mom as the three of us sat on the floor having our own little party. And I saw my mom smiling in Heaven, watching her son and great-granddaughters continuing the tradition. Charlie had his angels, and Opa has his: Kyleigh, Tallulah, and mom.

Photographs and memories ...
All that I have are these
To remember you ....


But as long as we have those photographs and memories, the person lives on, no matter how long they have been gone. Perhaps memory is one aspect of eternal life.

I don't think I will ever let my wife change that wallpaper on her cell phone ...

A License to Practice ...

I pulled out of Carson City, NV headed for Berkeley to meet my wife for a few days of R&R. We had just finished a week of family reunion in Colorado and as much as I love and delight in my family a reunion with 50+ folks is not restful! So I traveled south to hook up with CA 4, which looked to be a lovely road and lots of fun.

Lots of work is more like it.

CA 4 IS a lovely road, with lots of hairpins, switchbacks, incredible scenery, and quaint little towns. Perfect for zipping around on a light and nimble sport bike. But if you are riding a 700 pound fully loaded cruiser you sure as heck don't "zip" and you better pay attention as you navigate tight turns with queerly canted inclines or you are going to find yourself sitting in the street wondering what just happened.

I was bemoaning the fact that I could not enjoy the scenery because I was concerned about not taking a header over an embankment when I suddenly thought: "But you love to practice, dummy." I do love to practice ... about once a month I head down to the church parking lot, set up a course with circles and weaves and practice all the techniques I have been taught over the years. And of course I have spent a large chunk of change learning those techniques from highly competant professionals.

So in an instant my mindset changed ... I was no longer dragging along the road but instead was practicing entry, apex, and exit on an incredibly beautiful track. And when I finally reached my destination several hours later I was in a state of exhilerated exhaustion, having engaged my mind and body in a delightful day of practice at absolutely no cost!

I am currently reading a complex but fascinating book by the German psychologist Bernt Spiegel entitled "The Upper Half of the Motorcylce." Spiegel has spent much of his career with Formula 1 racing, but in the past decade or so turned his attention to motorcycle riding. And when I say psychology I don't mean the fuzzy, feel-good nostrums one sees in pop-psychology, but the down-and-dirty, let's attach electrodes to the gonads, establish measurements for stupidity, or dissect the brain and see what's going on research kind of psychology. His focus is on what one might call the Mind-Body continuum, arguing that there are times when one should let the "gut" decide a course of action and other times when the brain should override our natural tendencies; this ability is only achieved through contstant practice, both physical and mental. By doing so we can in some mysterious way become one with the bike so that the "bike is riding us" rather than us driving the bike - we become the upper half of the motorcycle. The book is rather pedantic (what would you expect from a German researcher?) but if one can wade through the facts and figures there is incredible knowledge to be gleaned.

In one section he speaks about the novice rider and the development of technique and offers this quote: "A license is permission to continue to practice without supervision."

I love it! Ever time we ride we have the opportunity to improve our skills, to actively concentrate on what we have learned and make ourselves better and safer, riders. And when I say practice, I mean within appropriate limits. Entry, apex, and exit combined with speed are the most important elements in riding curves, and the failure to execute them properly leads to many, many accidents. So when I "practiced" along CA 4 I did not vary my entry-point, set up a deeper apex, change the exit and experiment with acceleration all at the same time but instead altered only one variable at a time, learning about my machine and my own abilities. After awhile I was able to connect all the elements within safe margins and discover that my riding had improved tremendously.

Permission to practice is not license to risk hurting someone else; it's fine to push limits on a track where there is someone to cart your dumb-ass to the hospital and broken machine off to the bone yard, but NOT on a public road where your mistake could not only kill you but injure someone else.

I think we should apply a variant of this concept to ourselves: "Life is permission to continue to practice without supervision."

None of us gets it right all the time ... we are human after all and sometimes we fail to let our brains override our "fight or flight" tendancies, often with unfortunate consequences. Like me on CA 4 now and then we find ourselves in a less than optimal situation. But if we view those situations as opportunitie to practice that which we claim to hold true, such as kindness, respect, graciousness - how much better human beings might we be?

Have a good day's practice!