Three Weeks and a Day.

                    I had a call, a feeling, if you will. I needed to ride again. Not the day trip type of ride I enjoy with my wife and brother-in-law where we ride to destinations, enjoy a lunch, and return home the same day or sometimes next day. No, this was different. I needed to ride to a place where I could fulfill a mission to a promise. A promise made to my friend Wizard many years ago and time may be running out.

          Day after day this urge persisted. From the time I brought the bike out from its winter hibernation in March I continued to hear the call of the Sirens. That call was intensified by several thoughts of reasoning. My summer last was cut short by the replacement of my innominate bone or simply “hip bone”. ( the term “innominate” comes from the Latin term meaning “bone with no name)

          Other thoughts of rational reasoning also came to mind, “At sixty-seven years of age, how much time do I have left?” and “When will that time come?”. These are questions no one on this earth knows the answers to and it wasn’t until July that I would submit to the call.

          Preparations were hastily made and a course was laid out. Friends residing along that course were notified of my approximate arrival day. I asked each of the friends if I could impose a night or three on their hospitality. Without hesitation each of the would-be hosts gave a gracious “Yes” to my question.

          My ultimate destination for this trip would be Canyon Texas, just slightly south and east of Amarillo, to a friend whom I had met through a “loose group of buds” who share the passion of motorcycles and a short-lived TV show in 1969 called “Then Came Bronson.”

          Don Collins and I met for the first time back in 2010 at an impromptu meeting of the Bronson fans. We immediately became friends and continued to meet at other Bronson reunions until family matters, sickness, Covid, and my hip replacement got in the way. Each time we would lay plans for a get-together something would arise, and our plans would be put on hold for another year. This year I was determined to follow through.

          Canyon Texas would be the target point of my mission and my promise to Wizard.

          My trip would turn out to be an eclectic mix of roads combining both four-lane highways, secondary roads, and some that turned out to be a mix of both with a paved cow path or two thrown in to keep things exciting.

          My trip began on Friday, July 18^th, 2025, at 7:15 AM on my 2017 Harley Davidson Road King. I turned left out of my driveway and headed south towards DuBois Pennsylvania where I will begin to follow US Route 119 South. This would be my home for the next two days when it would end in Pineville Kentucky.

          My first overnight stop would be Charlston West Virginia at a hotel I booked the day before.

          Crossing over the border of Pennsylvania into West Virginia, Route 119 turns into a winding road through the hills of that state and into many small towns.

          I was enjoying the winding road high up in the Appalachian hills when a sudden rain shower descended. Its approach was obscured by the thick tree-lined roadside and the shower turned into a downpour. The rain was so hard it all but blocked out my straight-ahead sight of the road. With nowhere visible to pull over all I could do was slow down and keep riding.

          The high humidity along with the hot roads caused the rain to form a thick blanket of fog over the high roadway. My windshield was not only covered with rain but now it had fogged over along with my glasses. I was riding blind. I could not see to pull over, nor could I tell if anyone was behind me, in front of me, or coming the other way. All I could do was to keep the white line to my right and the yellow lines to my left. Small rivers of water were running down the road, and more than a few large puddles were ridden through with water as deep as the ground clearance of my bike.

I had been on this route before in more favorable times and weather, but the beauty I remembered was now obscured by the driving rain. I had rain gear with me, but the storm moved in so swiftly I didn’t have time to put it on before becoming soaked.

It’s a bit of a conundrum for me to decide just when to use rain gear. In the past I have found that putting it on in anticipation of rain causes me to sweat uncomfortably before any rain that may or may not fall. On the other hand, waiting until rain is seen or felt is a losing hand as more often than not, I’m soaked before even putting it on. As I was then.

I rode into a small town just as the rain was starting to let up enough to see the road and I pulled into a small convenience store to get my bearings and wait out the rain to see if it would let up any further and it did indeed let up and even came to a stop within a few minutes of me pulling in.

          I was wiping off my glasses and windshield when three young boys, who I guessed to be about ten to twelve years of age, came up to me and ask if they could “rev the motor”. I looked at them kind of disgustedly but remembered my own youth at their age when every motorcycle was magical, and every motorcycle motor sang beautifully with every twist of the throttle. How could I deny them the magic that ultimately brought me to this point so long ago?

          “OK, let me start it up first.” I told them. There I was, soaking wet and cold, firing my bike back to life for the enjoyment of a couple of young kids. They didn’t care that I was shivering, or the water was dripping off my wet clothing, they wanted to hear the motor sing and feel the power that was under their control. After each of the three boys had taken a turn at the throttle the smile on each of their faces made it all worthwhile. That will be a memory that I hope will stay with them for the rest of our lives.

          The boys rode off on their bikes excited and smiling without a “Thank you”. But I really didn’t need one. Their smiles and my own long forgotten memories came to me instead. That was all I needed.

          The rain had subsided and the sky improved enough that I continued my way south on Route 119 to my first destination for the night in
Charleston West Virginia.

          Route 119 through West Virginia, as I previously stated, is an eclectic mix of highways, two lanes and curved roads filled with turns sometimes as much as 180 degrees. Road signs caution each turn to a suggested speed of anywhere from ten miles-per-hour to twenty and thirty miles-per-hour and they continue for miles and miles through small towns and dense woods with sparsely scattered homes along the way. You lose a lot of time on this road but make up for it in the fun of the curves and the beauty of the scenery.

          It was some time before the road turned into a four-lane highway. But once it did the traffic on the road was light and provided welcome relief and tranquility. The warm air flow dried my clothes and mind while the bike sang to me.

          I would need gas soon and I remembered a Sheetz store near a place called “Weston” in West Virginia right along my four-lane Route 119.

          (I had tried to fill up back in Pa. in Allegheny County but in that county all the gas pumps have a vapor shield on all the handles, and I could not get enough gas in the tank to fill it up before the pump trigger clicked off.)

          I pulled into Weston Sheetz and decided to take a break before filling up and heading out.

          I was enjoying my usual mid-day snack of cheese crackers and beef jerky when I started to contemplate my reasoning for this trip.

          Many years have passed since my youth when my friend Wizard and I seriously plotted our future plans of traveling cross-country on two wheels, visiting and discovering different places, different scenery, and the people who make up the land. We were the young boys I had met and introduced to the sound and freedom two wheels can bring. My mission was twofold.

          I had decided that because much of our plans centered on riding through the rugged beauty of the western desert and high plains, I would bury two photographs of Wiz and I in an appropriate place somewhere in the southwest. One photograph was of the two of us. Each of us were sitting on our Honda SL-70’s and I can vividly remember Wiz’s mother taking the picture with her Kodak Instamatic camera. We were both 13 years old in the summer of 1971. The other photograph was of the last time I saw my friend alive.

          It was late spring of 2013, and I had ridden my 2009 Wide Glide the two plus hours to the nursing home in Muncy Pa. where Wizard resided since Multiple Sclerosis and years of heavy alcohol consumption had ravaged his body.

          The ride there was cold and I had to stop several times to warm up but Wiz wanted to see my bike, and I promised him on a past visit I would ride it there so he could see it. I’m glad I kept that promise.

          Just before I left my visit, Wiz asked me in a feeble and barely audible voice to please come back and visit him again. Again, I made a promise to him that I would. I was never able to keep that promise.

It was late October on a Sunday morning, and Judy and I were getting ready to visit Wiz. I was in the shower when the phone rang. Judy answered the phone and without hearing the conversation, something inside of me made me grow cold.

After I finished my shower and got dressed, Judy told me what I had somehow known. “Wiz passed away this morning.”  At only fifty-six years of age my lifelong friend was gone and with him, a piece of myself.

My other reason for making this trip was to make it more personal. This may be the last trip I took.

Each one of us on this earth carries traits and genes handed down to us from our parents and ancestors. Eye color, nose dimensions, height and weight, and so on. Then there are certain genes that define us with our parents and ancestors that can’t be seen.

It’s also in our genetic make-up that determines our health and if we are prone to any diseases and future maladies. Such as it is with me. 

I remember as a boy hearing whispered conversations carried on by the adults in the family about a trait among the men folk. “The Reddinger Curse” was the code name given to the disease by some of the adult family members, that had taken the life of my grandfather, my dad and both his brothers, (my uncles) with some of their male offspring also having suffered the curse. I don’t know just how far back the course of the curse went but I’m certain it went further just by the tones of the whispers. The “curse” I refer to is Prostate Cancer.

From the time I was a teenager and into my adult life I knew I would be a candidate for this malicious malady, and I kept it in the back of my mind throughout my entire life. So, in my early fifties I began to get regular yearly PSA tests.

          PSA is short for “Prostate Specific Antigen” and is a measurement of a protein produced by the prostate gland. The amount of that protein in the bloodstream normally is small. But a diseased prostrate has higher levels of protein and those levels determine if further testing and measures need to be taken.

          For many years my levels were in the normal range of 4.0 and below. But the most recent test showed a spike well into the 6 range and a biopsy was suggested. I asked Judy to remain quiet about this and to say nothing to anyone until the final results and outcome.

          “Why would I keep something like this quiet?” you may ask. My reasons were many but include not wanting sympathy and not wanting to burden others. I wanted to lead a normal life and not let my cancer become a topic of conversation at every meeting. I did not want to burden members of my family, who were carrying burdens of their own in life, with mine. I am still me, still husband, still Dad, still Papa, still brother and still friend. I did not want to become someone to coddle and walk softly around. To borrow a biker phrase, I wanted to “Live to Ride, Ride to Live.”

          Does that make me a hero or brave? Not in the least! I just wanted to do what I had to do and get it over with. I want no accolades or “At-a-boy’s” and certainly, no sympathy.

          After finishing my midday snack, I filled the bike and continued my southern trip. The midday heat was rising as well as the humidity and it was to stay that way the entire trip. All the way to Little Rock Arkansas and finally to Canyon Texas.

          I continued on Route 119 through West Virginia and into Kentucky to the town of Pineville where Route 119 ends and there I would find Route 25E south. Route 25E runs the rest of the way through Kentucky and into Tennessee. It’s a two-lane road cutting through the two states with more beautiful scenery and the road itself is enjoyable and fairly smooth. But the heat of this trip would put a damper on the enjoyment of the ride. But I knew I must press on.

          By the time I got to the end of Route 25E the heat was starting to take its toll. I wanted to get to my first destination quickly but the stops to stay hydrated hampered my journey. At each stop I would remove my helmet only to have it drip with sweat. My water would replenish my body. But only for a short time.

          By the time I got to my next route I was exhausted and had another 100 miles or so to go. I wasn’t the man I was many years ago, but I had to finish my mission. I just kept pushing myself.

          Route 411 South in Tennessee would take me to within just a few miles of my friends Marc and Debbie but on that road, there is road construction and a detour at the Bush’s Baked Beans factory.

          (Judy and I visited the factory a few years before and though we were unable to actually see the workings of the plant, we did get a small bite of their sampling at the restaurant they have on site and admired their display of the many dozens of different flavored beans. What you find in your local grocery is just a small portion of what they actually produce.)

          Traveling the detour south took me into the city of Maryville and it was there that I lost my way and searched for a way to reunite with it. I was hot, tired and lost. My phone did have a Google map app but in the bright sun and vibrating handlebar mount for my phone, it was an exercise in futility to even try to read. So now not only was I tired and exhausted, but I was also stuck in stop-n-go traffic trying to maneuver an 850-pound machine.

          Just about the time I could go no further I saw a sign for “Truck Route 411” and figured that might take me back to the route 411 I wanted. Following it took me to a road that signs indicated it was “Scenic Route 411” that was the detour I had missed.

          When I finally made it to Marc and Debbie’s house, I was exhausted more than I can ever remember. But the worst was yet to come in the days ahead.

          Marc is a high school friend of mine. Some good times and mischief were part of our education as well as learning a trade. Marc studied Auto Body and I made an attempt at Auto Mechanics. The two shops were side by side and we also shared a math class.

(Marc had a beautiful ’68 Chevell and I had a WV Beetle. Marc’s car was as fast as it looked. My Beetle could reach a top speed of sixty-five. If there was a tailwind.)

          We lost track of each other after graduation in 1976, and it wasn’t until 2021 that we stumbled onto one another on the Internet, and this would be my second such road trip to see him and his wife Debbie. Both of us are married to wonderful wives. We both found good jobs, raised a family, and retired without either of us knowing the other’s history. Too many years have passed too quickly.

          For the next two days Marc and I reminisced about school and talked about our lives all while sitting on his back porch drinking iced tea. It doesn’t get any better than that.

          We also talked about my prostate cancer. Marc was also a victim of prostate cancer, and his battle was an inspiration and help and I gained inner strength from him, contrary to my promise to myself to keep my secret.

          Early the third morning I said goodbye to them and promised to return in two weeks on my return trip home.

I headed north to I-40 West. This road would be my home for the next six days with a two day stop at another friend’s home in Little Rock Arkansas. I wanted to take some secondary roads and avoid the interstate as much as possible. But the heatwave at the time was so intense I just wanted to get where I was going, be with my friends and move on to my promised mission.

The heatwave hovering over the southwest was bearing down on me with an unforgiving vengeance. Temperatures were hovering around 100 degrees and forcing me to stop more frequently than I had planned. At the hotel that night west of Memphis, I dreaded the ride to my friend Tom’s house near Little Rock, and I seriously considered turning around and just going home. But again, I just kept going. I had to keep my promise.

The next morning, I was back on the road while the morning’s weather report echoed in my mind. 105 was the predicted high for the day and I had left before sunup to try to get what little advantage from the heat as I could.

Riding a motorcycle in that kind of heat is like riding in a hair dryer. The air blowing on you brings no relief. The heat comes from three different sources, the sun, the hot pavement, and the motor. The perspiration dries immediately and you are susceptible to heat exhaustion and stroke. I had learned early on, from previous trips, to carry water. Experience taught me that two bottles of frozen water topped off by two bottles of cold water inside an insulated lunch box will stay cold all day. By the end of the day, I had consumed at least three of those bottles and about half of the fourth.

I got to Tom’s house, just outside of Little Rock, late afternoon after foolishly following my Google Maps directions and ending up down a very old road and onto an old playground that looked like there hadn’t been a kid near it in ten years.

Fighting the bike out of grass covered sand would have been an accomplishment for even a much younger model of myself, let alone the sixty-seven-year-old me. Stupid damn cell phones. That’s just one reason I hate’em.

Finally, I just gave up searching and pulled into a Dollar General parking lot and called Tom for a rescue. I found out there are two Dollar Generals in his area, and I had no clue which one I was at. But Tom did figure it out and escorted me to his home.

Tom and I spent the next two days just hanging out and talking while I rested up for my last leg of the trip to Don’s. It was a welcome relief to just do nothing and I appreciated every minute.

However, I did accept an offer from Tom to attend a local car show and show off his ’72 Buick GS. I have a soft spot for early seventies muscle cars and that was Buick’s offering at that time. I especially like the fact that the car only whispers “muscle car” without giving away its true undercover identity. A car that could easily carry Mom and Pop and the kids to church on Sunday after burning rubber down the local strip the day before.

(I believe we did catch some rubber on an up-shift going to the car show. What I wouldn’t have given for a car like that back in my wild days.)

The heat wave was still bearing down and the thought of two more days on the road in that heat was something I was not looking forward to. So, on the third day I left Tom’s early. Once again to take any small advantage before the sun tortured me to my limit.

          Time and time again I would stop to hydrate and desperately search for any kind of shade or air-conditioned oasis. Just a few minutes of cooling air would feel like a waterfall. But I needed to fulfill my mission and perhaps my last ride. I pushed myself to go on. Each day ended in exhaustion. Each day I pushed myself to my limit.

          On the second day, after leaving Tom’s home in Little Rock, I met up with Don just outside and east of Amarillo off of I-40 at a huge roadside stop called “Buck-ee’s”.

          Don had made it a point to tell me about the place and to meet there with the promise that I would be impressed, and impressed I was. The place was huge! 108 gas pumps line-up in two directions. The store itself has 74,000 square feet of space. A restaurant and a sandwich shop are inside along with a souvenir shop, clothing store, the cleanest public restrooms I ever patronized, and the largest display of jerky I can ever remember. All types of jerkies and about any flavor you can name. We were only there for about half an hour or so before Don led the way to his house about twenty miles away.

          Apon riding my bike into Don’s garage I was greeted by the real owners. Two dogs, Cooper and Daisy and several cats. They allow Don to reside there with rent being food, shelter and love.

          The next four days were spent mostly in Don’s garage surrounded by motorcycles of various kinds and replica Model A Ford. I felt at ease and relaxed by all the machines and wished I had a garage like it at home. This is a man’s “Man Cave” and it’s a hobby, as well as a part time job, for him to fix and flip these machines to new owners to better fund retirement. And occasionally keep one for himself. I believe the Model A may be there for a while.

          Tuesday of that week turned out to be a busy day. Durning my stay I had told Don of my plan to bury the pictures, I carried the entire way to Texas, at an appropriate spot in the desert. He came up with an idea that filled my needs, and my promise to my friend Wiz, to perfection.

          About sixty miles north of Don’s home is the exact middle of the famous Route 66. It’s marked as such by a large sign and also painted on the road. It sounded perfect!

          So off we went in Don’s truck with a pick and shovel to a place Wiz and I dreamed of seeing “someday”.

          It was there, behind the sign, that Don and I buried the pictures of Wiz and I. The act of finishing a long ago promise to a friend, combined with exhaustion from the trip and knowing of the battle I would begin once I got home, I broke down as I said “Good-Bye”. Not one to display such emotion, I felt both relief and embarrassment once my composure was regained and we turned our backs on the sign marking the half-way point of Route 66 and the promise kept.

          Along with the sign distinguishing the center of Route 66, is a restaurant and a gas station. Much to our dismay, the restaurant was closed for the day but the couple who owned the filling station had set up a grill outside and offered burgers and dogs to anyone who cared to fill their hunger along with their tanks.

          Don and I accepted the invitation to partake of the grilled culinary delights and eagerly devoured them on our way back to Canyon to join a regular tuesday meeting of a group of Don’s friends at a joint called “The Pine Shed”.

          There I had the honor of meeting some of Don’s friends and shared a couple of drinks and good conversation. These were a great bunch of guys. All different political sides, different races, and walks of life. None of that mattered to them. They were friends. The way life should be.

          On Wednesday Don and his girlfriend, Marsha, took me to a play about the history of Texas. It was an outdoor play in the middle of Palo Duro Canyon near the town of Canyon Tx. I enjoyed the musical history theater and saw the pride on the faces of those from the state of Texas. It truly is a state to be proud of.

          The next morning, I started on my way home. The heat wave was still pounding the Southwest making the miles seem longer than my trip down and I prayed and hoped there were no delays as a stop along the way on the hot pavement might be more than I could endure. The four bottles of water I carried were worth their weight in gold. They would be my survival at such an unplanned stop.

          Except for the heat and two close calls, the way home was noneventful. I made the same stopovers at Tom’s house in Little Rock Arkansas and again, at Mark’s home in Cleveland Tennessee and in between an overnight stay at the same hotels. At each stop I would find rest and relief from the heat before returning home to Brockway Pa and my wife who I badly missed during the entire trip.

          The first close call came somewhere in Oklahoma as I was getting ready to pass up a tractor-trailer that was having some kind of problem keeping up speed.

          I had started my change to the left passing lane to go around the truck. Just as I was gaining speed, I looked in my rear-view mirror and saw a car gaining speed on me while it was still in the right lane. Backing off the throttle, I knew what the driver of car was going to do and sure enough he sped between myself and the tractor-trailer with just a couple of feet between truck and I.

          The second was in West Virginia back on Route 119.

          I was admiring the surroundings and saw a fence between myself and a steep hill to my left. I was wondering why anyone would put a fence at the foot of such a steep hill when I rounded a turn and saw a huge Black Angus bull right in the middle of the road!

          I hit the brakes hard and heard the car behind me do the same. Fortunately, there were no vehicles approaching in the opposite lane and I was able to swerve around the bull. In doing so I saw the black beast running alongside me and at that same moment heard a vehicle behind me screeching to a stop. Behind the car was another vehicle. This one failed to get stopped and ran into the back of the car behind me.

          I couldn’t stop to help. The bull was still running beside me! I took a quick look in my rearview mirror and saw both occupants get out. I figured both to be ok. I just wanted to get away from the charging bull beside me and gunned the throttle.

          The rest of the way home was uneventful though the heat wave was still showing no mercy.

          On August 9th I was back home. Arrangements were made for a biopsy of my prostate to determine if there were cancer cells present.

          September of 2025 the biopsy was performed, and the results came back the following month, positive. I had cancer. So began many covert trips to Pittsburgh Pa. and to three of the highest skilled urologists and urology surgeons.

          Doctor Jackman, who performed the biopsy, discussed several options with us. A complete removal of the prostate gland, brachytherapy, or radiation.

          Removal of the prostate is the most radical. Brachytherapy is the implant of radioactive materials, a.k.a. “seeds” slightly smaller than a grain of rice, into the prostrate. Radiation therapy is an older form of treatment and the least effective. My choice was brachytherapy.

          Since my choice of treatment was brachytherapy, I was referred to Doctors Ronald Benoit and Ryan Smith. Both would perform the implant procedure.

          My battle started in November of 2025 with hormone treatments via pill form followed by an injection in late December.

Those treatments left me feeling weak and tired with little energy to do household chores and to even continue my daily routine at Planet Fitness. I was fortunate that my treatments were in the middle of winter so that I could hide my secret better. Even the job of removing snow from the driveway required the help of my wife. I did not want to ask anyone but her for help, least my secret be known to others.

Finally in February of 2026 the brachytherapy was performed by Doctor Smith and Doctor Benoit.

I arrived at UPMC in Pittsburgh Pa. around 10 am and wheeled into the O.R. about an hour later. I was put under anesthesia for the procedure and implanted with sixty-plus seeds. An hour or so later I was awakened and after some rest and rehydration I walked out. By late afternoon Judy was driving me home.

In the following days and weeks, the forewarned side effects from the radioactive seeds were taking a toll on me. The bathroom became a very important place for me, and I had to make sure I wasn’t any great distance from one.

March was to be my last hormone injection.

I had considered foregoing that second injection due to the side effects I had mentioned previously. But given encouragement from Doctor Benoit and Doctor Smith I reconsidered and accepted the injection and prepared myself for another round of low energy. I’m glad I did.

By the middle of May I was starting to feel my energy returning and the bathroom became less important in my day-to-day activities.

June 1^st was the day I had been anticipating and wary of. That was the day of my post-op PSA.

I went to the lab and had my blood drawn and the results sent to Doctor Benoit. I was asked if I’d like a copy of the results. I said yes and asked that the results be put in an envelope.

That evening Judy and I opened the results and Judy read them. 0.064! I had gone from a high 6 reading to 0.064. I won my battle. I was relieved. I needed to ride to celebrate.

June 4^th, three days after my welcome results, I headed back to Marc’s house to share the good news and sip some southern iced tea on his back porch to celabrate.

The trip down was my usual Route 119 and I had sunny skies. Ordinarily I prefer straighter roads where I can sit back and let the bike sing its song to me. But I do enjoy this stretch of road through the back woods and hills of West Virginia and this time I had another mission.

Pine Mountain is halfway between Whitesburg and Oven Fork Kentucky on Route 119. It’s 7.6 miles of steep road with curves and a switchback both up and down the 2800-foot mountain overlooking some of the most awe-inspiring scenery.

There is an overlook near the top and I pulled off to take a minute to soak in the view. The overlook is on a slant and gravel covered so I stayed on the bike with a grip on the front brake, looked up and told God “Thank you” before returning to my ride to Marc’s house near Cleveland Tennessee.

The two days spent at my friend’s house turned into three due to reports of heavy rains on the way.

It’s become somewhat of a joke between the members of the “loose group of buds” that wherever I ride the rain goes with me. I didn’t let them down this time either.

I left on the third day early in the morning and less than a half-hour later I was riding through the rain and it stayed with me for a full day and a half.

I thought about going home interstate but the thought of highway speed in pouring rain wasn’t something I wanted to do. So, I stuck with my old well-known route. It wasn’t much better.

The turns and twists in the driving rain made for some slow cautious riding. Visions of washouts along with gravel covered and wet roads kept me cursing the rain and riding even slower.

At times my vision was hampered by a downpour and my distain for the rain became thoughts of just giving up and selling the bike when I got home and just quit riding. I had it. Enough was enough. I’m tired of getting wet.

The second and final day of my ride home started out just the same as the day before. Rain, rain, and more rain. I was cold and tired and just wanted to get off the bike.

As I neared the Pennsylvania border something happened. A curtain lifted and the skies cleared. I could relax and enjoy the ride the rest of the way home. It felt good to be able breath in the warm sunshine and feel my clothes dry.

By the time I got home I was completely dry, except for the inside of my boots. And as I was unloading my gear I thought about the day and a half of miserable rain I had just ridden through and how tired I am of getting caught in it.

So, I made up my mind. If someone would have pulled in the driveway and asked me to go for a bike trip. I would have had to say…. “Let me take a shower first.”

Addendum….

I ask all the readers to do two things. First, if you are male, please get yearly PSA checks. I had NO symptoms of my cancer and I felt fine. It was only because of my yearly PSA checkups that the cancer was found early.

Second, please don’t call my bout with cancer a “Journey”. It was not! There seems to be a trend now days to soften harsh words so as to be more acceptable to the snowflake minority among us.

Cancer is not soft-hearted. It must be fought and battled against. I did “battle” with it. I did not take it by the hand and went tra-la-la’ing down the road.

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….