All the World

          Tuesday’s forecast called for a high near ninety degrees and humidity in the uncomfortable zone. To me, that meant a perfect day for a ride into the wilds and mountains of Pennsylvania on Route 144. This may be my last chance to ride on one of my favorite roads in Pa. this year before my hip replacement surgery next month in August of 2024.

          The route takes me through some of the most beautiful and secluded places in Pennsylvania. The road, for the most part, is smooth and well-kept and the abundance of shade covering the road will bring relief from the heat and humidity. It’s a road little traveled by other commuters making it perfect for a get- away ride.

          It was a little before nine o’clock in the morning when I pulled out from my driveway, and I was anticipating the solitude of the deep woods and a chance to talk to The Keepers and those that have gone before whose spirit wanders the forest.

          I made it a point to stop at the local convenience store just up the road a few miles to pick up some meager supplies for my trip and fill up my tank for the 175-mile voyage. A full tank will fill the fuel needs of the bike, and some beef jerky, cheese crackers, and two bottles of water will quell my hunger and thirst until I arrive back home late afternoon or early evening.

          The morning was cool but not cool enough to warrant the need for my signature blue jean jacket as I felt the calm anticipation of the road yet to come.

          Several towns and settlements must first be endured before entering the domain of The Keepers and their welcome. It was then I began to feel the heat and humidity encroaching. Route 144 could not come soon enough.

          I followed Route 322 through the town of Clearfield and picked up Route 53 just south of there. Following Route 53 a short distance I found my goal of Route 144 West near the small town of Moshannon.

          It was only a short distance of travel before the signs of human habitation disappeared and for the next twenty miles or so, I was alone on the road only seeing two or three other vehicles and no homes or refuge save for an uninhabited camp or two and no cell phone service should a need arise. Only tall scrub brushes lined the road. I was alone with my thoughts and the song of the bike for entertainment. It was perfect.

          The scrub brush that lined the road took over from past clearcutting and it soon gave way to a more forested path. A large boulder covered by graffiti marked the spot where I made my first stop to get a drink of water and explore the boulder.

          Most of the graffiti was of the people who had stopped there at various times past marking the date of their visit and their first names and except for the markings on the rock, there was little damage to the surrounding area except for a foot path which I followed around the rock to seek a place where I could climb to the top to get a better view and perhaps get a picture or two.

          There was no easy way to the top and I would have had to scale my way up. In my younger days I would not have hesitated. But today I just followed the path back to the bike, enjoying a handful of wild raspberries I found along the way.

          Back at the bike I took the opportunity to just listen as I rehydrated and replenished. There were no human sounds except for a jet far overhead and I listened to The Keepers whispering a welcome. The gentle breeze, the birds, and even the rustling of a chipmunk are their voices.

          I was introduced to The Keepers many years ago as a young boy by my dad.

          We were out for a walk through the woods on our way to the local reservoir where we would eat a little packed lunch before returning home.

          On our way there we paused, and dad told me to just stop and listen. Then, as I sat listening now, there were no human sounds. Just the sound of the deep woods. Dad asked me what I heard, and I replied that I heard the birds and the wind in the trees, but I felt like someone was watching. “Good, that’s the …. watching out for us.”

          Unfortunately, time has erased just what dad called those spirits. So, it is for that reason I now refer to them as The Keepers.

          After packing my camera and other accoutrements back on the bike I continued my journey to my next destination, Hyner View.

          Route 144 will take me to the town of Renovo and there I take Route 120 East to the small town of Hyner and up to Hyner View State Park which sits high on top of the Alleganey Mountain range where I hoping to get some pictures of the valley below and If I’m real lucky, there’ll be some hang gliders or parasailers to watch and photograph.

          After the boulder the road continues through some deep secluded woods and along the way I enjoyed the passing of a deer and a couple of wild turkeys as I traveled the last fifteen miles or so before reentering civilization at the town of Renovo.

          I made a right turn at the stop light at the junction of Route 144 and continued on Route 120 for about six miles then headed up the three-mile winding and curvy road to the summit of the mountain and Hyner View State Park.

          I was hoping to find someone parasailing or paragliding but what I found there was even better. I was the only one on the summit and I took advantage of the moment to take in the spectacular view and take some photos while enjoying the solitude.

          I decided it would be a good time to find some shade and break open my snacks. I was about halfway through my cheese crackers and jerky when I heard a familiar sound. A biker couple was approaching, and I waved as they parked their bike and took in the view.

          The couple stayed but a few minutes and another friendly wave by both parties left me alone to finish my jerky and crackers and take in a final view of the valleys below. I did not want to leave the serenity and calm of this place with its spectacular view, and I wished my wife was with me to enjoy them together.

          Packing up my bike for the ride home I experienced a brief moment of uneasiness. I had been having problems with the bike, for the past few days, starting. It had been hard to start and would turn-over slow. I found the ground cable to be slightly corroded and I hoped my fix of cleaning the cables would not let me down so far up the mountain and far away from any help. My trepidation was unfounded when she fired up and roared to life.

          Riding down the mountain I came upon a Timber Rattlesnake warming itself in the middle of the road. It was stretched out to about four feet in length basking in the sun and had about three sets of rattles on its tail. I didn’t wish to harm the serpent. It meant no harm to me. This was his domain, and I was the intruder. But I did pick my feet up in case I startled him into striking. He made no such move, and I quietly thanked the dark creature as I passed.

          The way home was uneventful, and the traffic was light. I took my time and enjoyed the final few hours ride home admiring the green and lush mountain scenery and the view from Route 120 overlooking the west branch of the Susquehanna River.

          Often on my mechanized wanderings I learn a thing or two and today was no different. I’d like to pass the small bit of wisdom on to you, if I may….

          If you ever store beef jerky in your pack, be it for snack or emergency. Don’t forget toothpicks!!!  

Of Troubadours and Titanium

          It was a good day for a ride. The temperature was near ninety, but the humidity was much lower than we had experienced the previous days during a rare heat wave of week straight with ninety plus degrees and humidities that would rival the tropics.

          Judy and I agreed that a trip to one of our favorite destinations along the Allegheny River would be pleasant and welcome relief from the heat as well as a nice place to get our evening meal and we could get there in about an hour and a half.

          We were about halfway through our voyage, and I was feeling the calming effects of the ride. I was getting lost in the day and my mind was clearing out the accumulated trash when a stop at a traffic sign told me that I had forgotten the sunscreen. “Way to go, dummy!” my plastic good luck charm and constant motorcycle companion, Clyde, said to me.

          I told Judy of my forgetful folly, and we made it a point to stop at a stop-n-rob to purchase some protective lather for the rest of the trip.

          Our search of the store revealed nothing that would ease the effects of the day’s sun on my face, neck, and arms, and our query of the attendant proved that there were no such items available. “Oh well, most of the damage was already done.” I told Judy and we settled for a cool drink instead before continuing our pilgrimage.

          We had discussed an alternative to our usual Foxburg Allegheny Grille before leaving home. There is a wine shop across the street from the grille with a covered patio where you can sip your preferred fermented fruit drink and engage in intellectual conversation. The grille also has a patio, but uncovered except for shade umbrellas at each table, but boosts a beautiful view overlooking the river.

          It was pretty much decided by the both of us on our trip down to try the covered patio at the winery and enjoy a bottle of wine there along with a meal of something from their kitchen. It was something we had always talked about but never “got around to it”.

          When we arrived at our destination, we saw that the parking lot was almost full and figured that the grille would be busy. A quick look at the winery proved that we made the right choice as the patio there had quite a few tables open.

          Once inside we chose a flavor of wine suitable to both our pallets. We were told the kitchen was not open yet and that remodeling was taking place but not yet done. But we could get a pizza from across the street, and it would even be ordered for us if we wished.

 Judy and I gave our order for pizza to the wine server and took our chilled bottle on ice and two glasses to the patio. We found a comfortable table under the shade of the rustic wooden roof.

Also under the roof was a singer for the listening pleasure of the winery patrons. A man named Joey Stallman was there with his electronic equipment he used for the background music to his songs. Although he used no guitar, he was well versed in the use of the harp (harmonica) and the melodica (a sort of keyboard played using the mouth and fingers) for his accompaniment, along with the electronically recorded music. I added to the man’s tip jar and enjoyed his music, the wine, and the day. We soon had our pizza, and all was good.

His music was an eclectic mix of folk, folk and classic rock, and southern soft rock. He preformed several numbers of each before singing “Rambling Man” by the Allman Brothers. The Allman Brothers are a favorite of mine while on the road during extended trips on two wheels and when I told the singer of that, he serenaded me with two more Allman Brothers songs “Melissa” and “Midnight Rider”. All three songs I sometimes sing in my head while accompanied by the sound of the motor of my bike and the road. I added a few more bucks to his tip jar.

After making sure the wine had dissipated, Judy and I headed for home. It was a good day and a calming and peaceful day that I wished would have lasted longer.

My time on the bike has been limited this summer by a substantial amount of mileage. A rainy spring and a broken hip are my demon foes. The rain is controlled by a power greater than I.

I have been informed by doctors and other medical professionals that I need a hip replacement, and in August of this year I will undergo the only surgery I have ever had during my time, save for a tonsillectomy at the age of twelve.

Oh, I can ride just fine. When I’m in the saddle I’m pain free, and I have no problems controlling the bike. But if I were to lay it down or even just tip it over, there would be no way I could right the bike back up or even assist in doing so. And in the worst-case scenario, a wreck or spill may damage the, already broken, bone beyond repair

I have been told my hip has been fractured for some time due to the loss of cartilage. I have been grinding bone on bone and the fracture is due to that stress on the bone. I wonder how many miles I have ridden with that fracture. Only the worsening pain caused me to seek medical attention after thinking all along, these past few years, it was just old age and arthritis. “Stubborn” would be the anecdote my wife would use. Freely and often.

On a subsequent visit to the surgeon’s office, I was curious as to the surgical procedure used to replace my hip. I kind’a wish I wouldn’t have. (Caution, the following explanation is graphic.)

I was told that an incision of about six inches would be made in my lower back. Then the offending bone would be pulled out from my pelvis, cut off, and the replacement would be hammered, yes hammered! into my leg bone.

Geeeeze!!! That didn’t even sound nice and the mechanical side of me, along with forty years of die-setting, wonders if maybe the bone could be drilled and tapped and the man-made replacement gently screwed in. But I’m a retired die-setter and not a surgeon. I do wonder too as to the type of hammer used. My better judgement tells me not to ask. Visions of a mad man swinging a large ballpeen hammer sticks in my mind.

Having spent forty years in the powdered metal industry, I was also curious as to the type of metal used to manufacture the replacement part. “Titanium” was the answer I received from the physician’s assistant.

Titanium, chemical element Ti and atomic symbol 22, is found only as oxide and must be refined. It can be polished to a high luster. It has a low density but high strength and is corrosion resistant. Making it almost perfect for a man-made bone replacement. (No, I’m not that smart. I had to look this stuff up.)

So just how long have I ridden with a broken hip? That’s hard to say. So far this year I have a pitiful 1956 miles logged on the bike. A far cry from the previous seasons when I had twice that amount, and even more, by this time. But considering I have had this pain for a couple of years now, 10,000 miles would not be a stretch of the truth. Addiction has no limits.

Though I have the usual trepidations about the surgery, I am looking forward to being free from hip pain and living on extra-strength over-the-counter pain medications and medications that reduce inflammation.

I was enjoying a return to competitive shooting, on a casual level, before my hip pain. Recent trips to the range now consist of sitting on the tailgate of my truck, plinking down targets no further away than about twenty-five yards to avoid the painful walk to reset them.

But more importantly, I miss the daily routine at Planet Fitness with Judy, our walks together, and the rides with her.

Remington, SinterFire, and Me

          Seventy degrees plus under mostly sunny skies. Quite unusual but quite welcome for the fourth day of March, and with my motorcycle still in its winter hibernation I turned to my second passion in life and decided to send some copper and lead down range to add some extra pleasure and meaning to this beautiful day.

          Some twenty-six years ago I purchased a case of twenty-two ammo. I was down to my last two-hundred rounds from that case, and I was determined to burn those last rounds up today. Though I have shot many more double duce rounds during the last twenty-six of my life, this particular case of ammo held a special place and memory for me.

          My son was four years old when Judy, myself, and Lewie stopped at “Grice Gun Shop” in the next county one afternoon. There in the middle of the store was a display of Remington Viper twenty-two ammo. Case after case was stacked to the ceiling and on sale. Purchase of a case, approximately 2500 rounds, meant you were eligible to enter in a drawing for a go-cart, curtesy of Remington.

          After picking up the ammo and filling out the required form, I asked Judy “Wouldn’t it be great to win that go-cart for Lewie?” Though I don’t remember the exact content of that exchange, I’m sure the fact that he was only four years old and that I just wanted a reason to buy a case of ammo came up. Both points I could not refute. I can however, attest to the fact that after twenty-six years, that ammo shot just fine.

          As I was setting up the chronograph to test some handloads I made up during the long winter months, I heard a deep and distinct throbbing in the sky. A military helicopter was coming low over the western horizon and against an almost cloudless sky.

          Being somewhat of a minor league motorhead, I have a fascination for military war birds and military machinery in general and I was fixated on the chopper as it approached me only a few hundred feet above. There’s was something about the deep rhythmic sound of those rotor blades that gave me a sense of awe and when it was just overhead, I gave the chopper and her crew a wave and a thumbs up. If anyone of her crew was looking downward at the time, I hope they saw me and know they have my respect.

          (Later after returning home, I looked up the type of aircraft I witnessed and with its very distinct shape I found her to be a Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk. A very beautiful bird.)

          The air was getting warmer, and the sunshine felt good on my face and arms. I was in no hurry to finish my range time. This type of day so early in the month of March is a gift not to be taken in any degree of disregard or indifference.

          I gathered my gun and equipment for some testing through the chronograph. (A chronograph is an electronic device for measuring the speed of a bullet when it’s fired from a gun.) I am partial to one type of projectile, manufactured by SinterFire, for my nine-millimeter handguns and carbine. I take pride in the fact that during my time there before my retirement, I helped produce these bullets and found them to be an excellent projectile.

          After a few trial handloads I found that my favorite pet load to be still the best load for accuracy with a twenty-five-yard distance grouping of two inches from a rest. I’m sure younger eyes and steadier, less arthritic, hands would do much better.

          I just received a phone call from my son Lewie. I texted him earlier to tell him a package had arrived for him. Lewie works in West Virginia and only gets home a couple times a month at most so it’s always a pleasure to see him and even better when we can squeeze in some range time as we have just done for tomorrow. So far retirement has been good.

How Badass do You Think You Really Are?

        Recently a friend of mine shared an interesting photo with a group of likeminded individuals of which I happen to be a proud part of. The photograph was of a motorcycle towing a trailer with what appears to be a female companion seated on the bike. It was parked alongside a snow-covered road somewhere in the Midwest.

The photo brought back memories of my share of extreme weather riding. My record low temperature for riding was 20 degrees. I did that several times while still working full time when the afternoon springtime highs would get up to 50 degrees and above.

 My first unplanned snow ride was back in 1980 on my Kawasaki KZ650. It was early spring and a warm day. I wanted, no needed, to ride and hopped on the bike and took off for wherever I ended up. I ended up about 60 miles from home when an extreme cold front blew in with high winds. I turned around and headed toward home. As the wind blew the temperature fell fast and I had about 40 miles to go when it started to sleet. At about 30 miles to go the sleet turned to snow and I rode the berm of the road the rest of the way home.

I remember riding to a reunion in Montrose Co. I was up on Monarch Pass at the divide between Gunnison National Forest and San Isabel National Forest taking pictures and worrying if my bike was going to make it down off the pass without fouling the plugs out due to the low oxygen at that high altitude (about 11300 ft +/-). It was June and I was taking pictures of the snow that had been plowed up along the road when some other travelers told me of rain coming. I got on the bike and headed down the mountain right away. I stopped for gas and a quick bite at a place about halfway to Montrose and I was about halfway done with my gas station supper when it started to rain. I had a rain suit with me, but it was buried at the bottom of my luggage, clothes and other stuff (that’s a mistake I’ll never make again) so I just hopped on and hit the throttle and prayed.

The rain came down hard and turned to sleet and I remember the feeling of loneliness and panic. I had unknown miles to go before Montrose and if the sleet started to lie on the road, I would end up cold and wet high in the Colorado Rockies with nowhere to wait out the storm. It would be dark soon and I had no desire to put my survival skills to the test.

It was about that time I rode past a road sign that stated Montrose was about 60 miles ahead. “I can make it. It’s about an hour and a half.” I remember thinking as I kept getting wetter and colder. Now even my boots were soaked through, and my feet and ankles were so cold I had to lift my whole leg to shift gears. By the time I rode into Montrose it was dark and my knees were so cold they hurt to put a leg down at any stop sign or light. When I got to the little hotel I was booked into, I could barely get off the bike without tipping it over. I couldn’t straighten up or bend my knees. When I walked into the hotel, I must have looked like Quasimodo to the people I rode three quarters of the way across the lower forty-eight states to see.

Then there was the time I got caught in one of Mother Nature’s most violent events, a Tornado.

I was on my way to Jackson Wy. for another reunion with those guys and gals of like minds when just west of Chicago on I-80 I ran into the darkest mass of black clouds I had ever seen. Debris and tree limbs were blowing around me and the interstate highway had turned into a stream of running water and a sudden wind gust swatted me from one side of the highway to the other. I was certain my life was going to end there until I found solace and cover under an overpass.

There are other similar weather events I could mention. But would any of them make me a “badass” biker? No way! I am not, nor have I ever pretended to be such. But looking at the picture of the trailer towing motorcycle sitting along a snow-covered road, I can only think of one thing… I’m not *THAT* crazy!

You Can’t Keep a Biker Down (Green Grass and High Tides)

          It was a good Father’s Day weekend. Four hundred miles in two days going wherever we wanted or ended up. Not a record for me by a long shot, but just a good weekend.

          Judy and I set our sights on a town just north of Pittsburgh Pa. that carries the name of simply… “Beaver”. We had passed through this town several times on our way to the Pittsburgh airport and vowed to return to try the cuisine of a Thai restaurant. Judy and I are both fans of Pad Thai., So we pointed the bike in a southwest direction and followed Route 68. If we didn’t make it or changed our minds, so be it. It was a little over one-hundred and seventeen miles one way if you count a couple of wrong turns.

          The weather was mid-seventies with partly cloudy skies. I was in my zone with my wife of forty years to lean back on, I could clear my mind and enjoy the music of the bike and the soft whispered calling of the road.

          It wasn’t long before a song floated into my mind. It is a song about those that have gone before us. Singers and song writers that reappear in our hearts and minds and perform for us again. “Green Grass and High Tides Forever” by The Outlaws is a song I once fell in love with as a teenager growing up in the seventies. I have been a fan of classic Southern Rock ever since. The Outlaws, Blackfoot with their classic “Highway Song”, Molly Hatchet, Allman Brothers, and .38 Special, just to name a few.

          But today, instead of singers and songwriters, I thought about those that I have said “Goodbye” to. Mom and dad, my friend Wizard and all the others, but specifically Dad and Wiz. Dad with his love for adventure as a young man. A love I too embrace. And Wiz who shared a love of motorcycles with me.

          I believe that it was Dad’s love of adventure that he tolerated my love of motorcycles and motorcycle adventures and I believe that was the reason he sometimes just smirked and shook his head at some of the mishaps Wiz and I would blunder into. Just as I have shaken my head and smirked at my own son’s blunders while Judy worried endlessly. Just as my mom worried about me.

During my fifty-three years of two-wheeled adventures I have taken my share of tumbles while riding. Most have been on the trails during times of distraction or miscalculation and those times when a dose of machismo mixed with a cup of young teenage bravado cloud all rational thinking.

          It was early April of 1971 and I had just taken possession of my Honda SL-70 just a week or two prior. I was eager to ride and experience my newfound freedom. The little motorcycle could take me places better and faster than my Tecumseh powered minibike ever could. Afterall, it had gears, a working clutch and a real motorcycle motor! But probably best of all it was red. Not only my favorite color but the color of the motorcycle of my boyhood hero.

          So, Wiz and I plotted our first of what would be many motorcycle rides in a place and surrounding that became our war room for deciding upcoming rides, study hall.

          Wizard had not yet talked his dad into his own SL-70 and was still riding his Honda Z-50 (a.k.a. Mini Trail) for the first month or so after I had mine.

          We had not yet discovered the many trails in our area that lay hidden in the woods and strip mines. So, we decided that we would try out a couple of small hill climbs and jumps that were popular near me.

          Wiz and I were well into the afternoon when we decided to switch bikes. Wizard seemed to take to my bike easily. Me, on the other hand, not so much with his.

          We both decided to take it easy with each other’s machine and start off by going up the easiest of the jumps and I was to go first.

          So off I went on Wiz’s little Honda 50. I started up the jump in second gear but about halfway up the little bike started to bog down. Being used to the shifting of my bike, I shifted down to go into first gear. But on the Z50 shifting down put the bike into third and I stalled out in the middle of the hill.

          I had not yet learned the necessary trail riding skills and started rolling backwards, rapidly! The handlebars turned and the bike rolled over top of me, and together we rolled, flipped, and slid to a stop at the bottom.

          I laid there for a short time to get my wits back while Wiz franticly checked over his bike for any damages before asking if I was ok. (Priorities were in place back in those days.)

          After finding no damage to his machine I finally stood up to get my own damage report. Other than some frazzled nerves, I thought I was ok also. Then I felt something running down my right leg.

          I slowly lifted my pant leg up to reveal a deep and long puncture wound. The chain tension screw had somehow punctured my leg during our down hill wrestling match and blood was pouring out. There was blood and small pieces of flesh stuck to the tension screw and I felt sick.

          The Honda shop was just down the trail a few hundred yards, and we rode there to seek first aid.

          The owner’s wife, Fay, cleaned up the wound and put a butterfly bandage on it. But the blood kept coming. She ordered us to go home immediately and get medical attention.

          There was no way I was going to fess up to this since both bikes were damage free and knowing full well such a mishap as this would mean some sort of sever penalty.

          So, once I got home, I did the only thing I could think of. I wrapped the leg with old rags. Yes, dirty old rags. Several layers of them!

          It was about supper time and dad was home. I don’t remember just what mom had made, but I wasn’t hungry. The rags were getting soaked by then and my leg was beginning to throb. Mom and dad sensed something was wrong.

          So, with the rags getting saturated and dripping, I had to fess up. I told the whole story truthfully, figuring that since it wasn’t my bike and there was no damage to Wiz’s, the penalty might be lessened. And if I had been on my bike, I would have made it up the easy hill. It was the logic of youth.

          Seeing the blood-soaked rags, mom went into panic mode. Dad inquired as to the amount of grey matter I had used for both the accident and the use of old rags as bandages. I gave the universal excuse kids use the world over in times like this “I don’t know…”

          Supper was cut off right after the blessing was said and dad and I went to the emergency room.

          The attending physician stopped the bleeding and gave me a shot of antibiotics to help prevent infection. He told dad that he did not want to stitch up the wound since it had been roughly six or seven hours since the incident and any foreign material that may be deep inside would be sewn into the wound. He also told dad to keep an eye out for infection and that I was to stay off the leg and bike until it heals. Once home dad repeated the doctor’s orders and asked me if I understood.

          The next day, after dad went to work, Wiz and I were riding.

          I had written a story some time ago about the time Wiz and I decided we could take the winter no longer and went for a ride. I will refresh your memories.

          It was a cold winter day with winds blowing and bone chilling cold. Wiz and I were on our SL-70’s cutting trails through some fresh fallen snow. I had hit two separate patches of ice and both times I went down hard. Damage to my bike was minimal but my right side glutinous maximus took the brunt of the falls before Wiz and I decided that riding in such conditions might not be the best of things to do on such a miserable day.

          The next few days my right glutinous turned a psychedelic cascade of colors. Black, blue, green, and yellow were what I could see in the mirror and my butt hurt badly. The following weekend Wiz and I were riding.

          About a year and a half ago I suffered nerve damage and back pain, and I went to physical therapy for help.

          I explained my condition and symptoms to the physical therapist and told him it hurt to even walk upright. We talked about different strategies and exercises I would be doing. After he finished explaining everything, he said… “Don’t worry, we’ll get you walking upright again.” To which I told him… “This is March, I’m not worried about walking. Just get me on my Harley before riding season starts”.

          He thought I was joking; I wasn’t.

HAPPY FATHER’S DAY DAD! You done did good and we all miss ya.

Horseradish and Cling Wrap

          With a high temperature in the upper sixties and no call for rain, I am eager to get out to the local shooting range and put a few rounds down range. This type of day in February is a rarity here in Pennsylvania. But first, I must prepare for supper tonight.

          Since retiring some two years ago and Judy not yet retired, I have become a housekeeper and part-time food prep, when I’m not riding my bike or shooting or some outdoor chore. I’m no cook! To hang that label on me would be a joke and an insult to all cooks and chefs. Except for a pitifully few dishes, I just do what I’m told and how I’m instructed to do it.

          Tonight’s dinner menu will be a simple one consisting of soup and chicken salad sandwiches, and it is up to me to whip up the chicken salad.

          One of the ingredients that goes into many of my creations is horseradish, and chicken salad is no different.

          Horseradish is a root vegetable made from the Horseradish plant. Ground up and mixed with vinegar and salt, it’s added with many recipes to give a spicy kick to dishes or a topping or dip to meat such as meatloaf and prime rib. Or anything you might want to spice up. (My favorite is to put a large dollop on a hard-boiled egg.)

          My dad had planted some horseradish, before the purchase of the house and property by my wife and I in 1985, and it was around the late 1980’s or early 1990’s that mom and dad had come up to visit us one day when the subject of said horseradish plants came up in conversation… and that was all it took.

          I headed to the garage to retrieve a shovel while dad maned the sink to clean and peal the roots.

          I made several trips in and out of the kitchen with handfuls of roots while dad prepared them for grinding. Each time I entered the kitchen the pungent aroma of the root became a little stronger.

          Judy and mom had been in the living room conversing about what ever mothers-in-law and daughters-in-law talk about, when the smell drifted into the room, and we were questioned as to our intent and knowledge of what we were concocting. We assured our wives that we had everything under control and that “This was going to be some good horseradish.”

          Dad and I determined that it would be best to put the chopped-up roots into the blender to grind them to a coarse consistency before adding the vinegar and salt for a final blend. When we did, we set off bomb!

          The kitchen exploded with a strong stinging odor that instantly watered our eyes and noses and headed through the entire house blanketing each room with a stinging aroma that no one could escape.

          Judy and mom quickly retreated to the outside while dad and I were stuck in the kitchen with eyes watering and noses running so badly we could hardly see or even breathe and laughing so hard we couldn’t speak.

          With all the windows and doors to the house open and a fan blowing on high, dad and I added the vinegar and salt to the blender calming the burning aroma to a tolerable level.

          Dad and I finished our evil concoction with several jars each and stern warnings against ever doing that again. That was the last time horseradish was ever planted around the house. If I could go back in time, that’s one of the stops I’d make.

          After I had finished with mixing the chicken salad, I covered the bowl and placed it in the refrigerator.

          Has anyone ever been able to tear off a sheet of cling wrap without it sticking to everything, including itself, and not what you intend it to?

I hate using the stuff. I have never been able to tear a clean sheet of it without struggling to unstick it from itself to be able to use it.

It was invented, or more aptly, discovered, by accident by a worker at Dow Chemical in 1933 and first used as a protectant for planes by the military.

They should have left it at that. I’ll stick with aluminum foil.

Bowling for Bikes

          A few yards from my outstretched legs lays the stream I grew up beside. Many a childhood adventure surrounded the small babbling stream known as Rattlesnake Creek. Panning for gold and imagining what I will do with my wealth. Or fighting a, far away, adversary with my friends and saving the world from global domination.

          Taking a break from my chore for the day of cutting, splitting, and stacking wood, I sit here in my folding chair at the spot I hunt from, just yards from the bank of Rattlesnake Creek. The old folding redwood chair resides here year around and, at times like this, I will sit in the peaceful serenity of my spot and in the arms of The Keepers, and just listen and think and remember. 

          It was fall days like today, with temperatures high in the sixty’s and sunny, that Wizard and I would ride to get every bit of mileage in before the coming winter and as I recall those carefree days, I suddenly begin to chuckle to myself.

          It was the summer of 1972 and Wiz, and I were cleaning up the barn that Wiz’s parents owned. It wasn’t a barn for domestic animals or livestock. The barn had been built and used by Wizard’s Grandparents at a time before the horseless carriage became common place. The barn had been purposed for tack and leather and storage as an addition to the hardware store they owned, and Wiz and I agreed to clean it out for a wage in order to keep the gas tanks of our SL-70’s full for adventures yet to come and a burger at the local Tastee-Freez.

          Tool after tool, thing-a-majig after thing-a-majig, all kinds of tooling meant for leather crafting back in the early part of the last century, were thrown into a pile destined to become part of a landfill. But two treasures were uncovered by Wiz and I that day that caught our eyes and imaginations.

          One was a recipe, from the prohibition era, for “potato wine” (a.k.a. vodka) which is another story. The other, a very old bowling ball.

          “A bowling ball?” Wiz and I asked each other. Immediately our minds began to merge and synchronize as to devious and mischievous ways to dispose or destroy of the solid hard orb. Things like, “roll it down main street late at night” and “make a sling shot out of two trees and see how far we can shoot it.” were all rejected by the two of us for one reason or another.

          Finally, I suggested, only jokingly, “Let’s drop it off the fire tower!” Wizard looked at me with evil intent in his eyes and a grimace on his face that told me he took my suggestion seriously and was running with it.

          Before Wiz could say anything, I was trying to talk him out of it by explaining that it was about ten miles of rough trails and dirt roads to “Boone Mountain Fire Tower”. And how were we going to get it there on our bikes over that kind of terrain?

          Wizard’s response was… “Look around, we got leather and stuff to make a bag to carry it!” And so, it was. All cleaning ceased. We now had a mission, and that mission must be carried out clandestinely or we would not succeed.

          Most of the rest of the afternoon was spent on constructing a crude (the term “crude” is being optimistic and kind.) sling/backpack combination out of brittle and dried out leather.

          The mission was set for the next day. Since it was a weekday there shouldn’t be anyone around the fire tower and we would rendezvous back at the barn at the unobtrusive time of 10AM… so we wouldn’t have to get up early.

          Wiz was the first to carry the twelve-pound projectile in the Frankenstein backpack of our combined engineering, and he came to an abrupt stop less than a couple of blocks from the barn.

          “This thing sucks!” he said to me, and I began to chastise him for being a wimp. “Then you carry it!” he commanded, and I took the sling, and its precious cargo, and slung it over my shoulders and we continued on our mission.

          It wasn’t long before I figured out what Wiz was talking about. Every bump, be it big or little, made the heavily laden leather sack slam into my spinal column. We hadn’t even made it out of town yet when I pulled over.

          A discussion ensued as to just what we were going to do now. There we were, right in the middle of town with a bowling ball strapped to my back, on a side street that was near the towns police station.

          We couldn’t get caught on the street by the police since were too young to drive and on unlicensed vehicles. But we couldn’t go back to the barn and chance getting caught by Wiz’s parents and answering as to just why we were carrying a bowling ball in a leather pouch and what were we going to do with said bowling ball. But it’s a rough and bumpy, ten-mile, ride to the fire tower. Our failure to test our equipment prior to the mission may have just compromised it.

          It was agreed that we must continue with our mission, but we must get out of town as soon as possible. But how would we carry the ball the rest of the rugged journey? Wizard, sort of, took command and grabbed the leather sack and its content and hung it around his neck and took off toward the town’s limit at a, less than, hurried speed with me in pursuit ever vigil for the authorities.

          As soon as we reached the safety and seclusion of the over-grown remnants of the abandoned strip-mines that surround the town of Brockway, we stopped to rethink just how we would continue to the fire tower. I had formulated a plan.

          I explained to Wiz my idea of taking the leather pouch and removing the straps then folding it several times. The carrier of the bowling ball would then sit as far back on the seat as possible and place the folded leather between his legs and onto the gas tank to keep the ball from contacting the tank and damaging it or our more delicate personal anatomy.

          Wizard agreed and we removed the strapping from the pouch, folded it several times and since it was my idea, I’d be the test dummy.

          Everything was in place on my bike. Starting out from a stop, without losing the ball, proved to be a little tricky, but doable. Now, if I can keep my speed low enough to not let the bowling ball bounce and drop to the ground, yet fast enough that the rest of the ten-mile journey wouldn’t take until the, proverbial, cows come home, this might work.

          We made numerous stops to trade bowling ball duties over the next several hours, but we made it to the Boone Mountain Fire Tower.

          We parked our bikes near the tower and walked over to the first step and looked up. High above us loomed the hundred or so steps to the final landing where we would drop the ball.

          Each of the four legs supporting the tower had a concrete footer or pad. One of those pads would be our target for the ball.

          Step by step we ascended the tower taking turns carrying the bowling ball like it was a convict walking the final steps.

          Standing on the top landing, the honor of dropping the ball was determined by a coin toss and I had won the toss.

          Leaning out over the rail of the landing as far as I could, I lined up the ball with the concrete pad as best I could. “Wait! Don’t drop it yet.” Wiz said to me, and he produced a coin and lined it up with the bowling ball to test my accuracy. When he released the coin, it fell right onto the footer. We knew my aim was true.

          “Do it!” he said with mischievous glee, and I released the ball.

          I no sooner had let go of the ball when we both exclaimed in gut wrenching horror “The bikes!!”

          In our insidious eagerness to get the twelve-pound ball to the fire tower and hurl it to its subsequent demise from the top, no thought was given as to where we should park the bikes. They were just a few yards away from the concrete pad we had chosen to send the ball towards its fate. Any inaccuracy in my aim or an erroneous bounce would send the ball on a kamikaze path to our machines. All we could do was watch and hope it would be the other bike that was destroyed by the freefalling projectile.

          The ball hit the concrete pad with a resounding “whack” like an amplified strike from a baseball on a bat on a homerun hit. It bounced back up to, what seemed like, halfway the height of the tower and headed straight towards the bikes. Wizard and I could not bear to watch. We turned our heads away from the destruction that was about to unfold and closed our eyes.

          We both gave a loud sigh of relief when we heard a loud “splat” and not the sound of metal being annihilated.

          Wiz’s bike was the closest to the pad and there, just a few feet away from the right side of his bike, laid the ball, silent and still. Wiz and I descended the tower faster than a kid on Christmas morning.

          The ball showed little sign of damage, save for a small chip. The concrete pad faired just as well. Showing a small bit of imbedded material from the ball.

          Not wanting to carry the ball the ten miles back to town, we unceremoniously carried it into the woods where we buried it under leaves, sticks and a couple of logs hoping no one would find it and begin some kind of investigation.

          In the fifty, or so, years since, I’ve wondered if anyone has found it. Perhaps sometime in the future some archaeologist will be studying our civilization and wonder how a bowling ball ended up in the middle of the woods.

Quest for Ambrosia

          Ambrosia. In classical mythology it was meant to be the food of the Gods and those who partook of it would become immortal. In today’s world it has become to mean any food especially delicious to taste and smell. Also, a desert made of oranges, coconut and/or pineapple. Or a soft rock group popular late in the last century.

          Food, without it we die, period. Too much and we become one of the, over fifty percent of the U.S. population that are overweight. Food can be a source of enjoyment and celebration, or a way to find comfort and consolation in times of stress or sorrow. It can even be given as a gift for a holiday or accomplishment.

          As for myself, I confess and plead guilty to being a few pounds above target weight for someone of my age and stature and enjoying an occasional indulgence of culinary temptations and treats. Ok, let’s face it, I like to eat, and I deny myself very little. But daily trips to the gym and moderation of intake have kept my weight, as well as my glucose, in check and my doctor happy.

          The search for the elusive ambrosia has been a destination for many trips on the motorcycle by my wife and I. We have dined on the exotic and the common. In places ornate (but not too ornate) and places that are best described as “repulsive”. Both types have served us delicacies and disasters that mask their façade. Though we have had some delicious meals, we have yet to find ambrosia.

          A large portion of the many thousands of miles, trekked each summer by motorcycle, have been ridden to some type of eatery. Whether it’s hundreds of miles, or just around town. North, south, east, or west.

          Lately we have discovered a small hole-in-the-wall place southwest of us, in the collage town of Slippery Rock, called “Elephant 8”. It serves Asian dishes of mixed types that has us going back.

          The other side of the coin had us hungry and in search of a restaurant, this past summer, whose name we could not remember, but we were determined to find.

          After a failed search of over a hundred miles and a hunger that demanded sustenance, we rode to a nearby Italian restaurant that was directed to us by Judy’s cell phone.

          Outside the restaurant was a wood fired oven filling the air with smoke and an aroma that was reminiscent of “hunt’n camp” many years ago.

          After we were seated inside, the menu proudly proclaimed the pizza and stromboli’s were cooked in the outside wood oven.

          Our hunger now was at its most volatile and a wood-fired stromboli was the only thing that would fill the void.

          Our wait for the wood flavored Italian entrée was a short one and we had just barely finished our salads when the waitress brought it to our table.

          It was dark and had a hard shell that could have been used as bullet proof armor. Inside, the dough was undercooked and raw and after a polite protest we were given an apology by the cook with the explanation that the oven had over heated. Our hunger had overruled any thought of returning the hard dough and we ate what we could.

          When we finished, we paid for our meal, understanding that things don’t always turn out as planned, and we were given a ticket for a free meal the next time we go back. If we ever do.

          Just days ago, I preformed my yearly ritual of washing the bike and storing it for the winter so our quest for Ambrosia will continue next year.

It’s that time of the year when the deer are in rut and in search of mates. All the while hunters, hoping to harvest their own form of Ambrosia, are pushing them all through the woods and out onto the roadways. It’s a dangerous time to be on two wheels with Pennsylvania being a leading state for road kills. Body shops are always booked solid from now until after December.

          I too will join the legions of hunters in pursuit of the white-tailed deer. But not with the enthusiasm of my younger self. It’s not the harvesting of a deer that I have lost enthusiasm for. My Dad once told me that “taking a deer is the easy part. The work starts after it’s down.” He was right….

Billy’s Email

Yea, I know. I haven’t written anything in quite some time. My annual case of the “winter blues” combined with a badly pinched sciatic nerve have left me a little scared and slightly worried.

          With spring just a few weeks away I fear my worst fear may become a reality. I may not be able to ride. Even a temporary setback would be the harshest of depravation. To not feel the awakening world surrounding me while guiding my machine through the fragrant blossoming hills and valleys is a concern I would rather not deal with.

          It is that fear that drives me to physical therapy and to the “gym” every single day. I do it not for the noble reasons of health and good physical conditioning and wellbeing. No, I endure the therapy twice a week and the daily one-hour regime at Planet Fitness for the sole purpose of being able to ride.

          When I first fell victim to the electrifying pain that shoots down from the right side of my glutinous maximus and into my leg, I pretended to ignore it and went about my daily life. Then one day the pain put me on the floor with such a sudden electrifying shock I had to do something I dread. I went to the doctor. The next day I was sent for x-rays and physical therapy.

          So now I have gone from being unable to walk without pain to being able to do most everything either pain free or greatly subdued pain. But there are still times when I turn or move just the right way it feels like I’ve been plugged into the electric outlet on the wall.

          With this on my mind, I received this email from my friend and biker buddy, Billy G. It is a short story about how he too is feeling a little worrisome about the world as it is now and the passing of a friend and also the weather and a text he got from his girlfriend, LuAnne.

          It made me laugh but it contained a very poignant message. I asked Billy if I could share his story and he agreed. I hope you like it.

          Here is Billy’s story………

I just had to share this ….

I didn’t sleep well last night and woke up feeling like crap this morning, thinking about the world at war and one of my friends passing (My friend Paul Quattro, who owns the body shop that painted my Batmobile) ….

And hating the weather…. Two days ago I was in a T Shirt working in the yard and garage, and took a bike and the Batmobile out for a spin.. Today it’s 26degrees and snowing..!!

But I just got through a round of texts with LuAnne….

She was happy that all of her help showed up this morning at the barn, and they got all the necessary work done in record time, which gave her more time to do other things that she had been wanting to catch up on… 

When I texted her, she was in the manure bin with a rake, making room for more manure, and was happy that she had the time to get that and other things done… 

And it struck me…!!  When your mind is right, you can be happy standing in the middle of a pile of shit..!!

Suddenly my day just got a lot better..!!

Hope you guys and gals are having a Great Day..!!

Billy G.

I *WILL* ride this spring……

Hang in There

Rich