The roar of the engines is almost deafening as we rumble down the tarmac at over 150 miles-per-hour. Within a few seconds we are gently lifted. I can hear and feel the landing gear retract and lock. The pilot banks into a turn heading us toward our destination. Wow, I try to imagine just what the Wright brothers would say.
Leveling off at just under five miles of altitude I begin to imagine just what those first few flights were like.
December fourteenth, 1903. A strip of beach called “Kitty Hawk” in North Carolina was chosen for the test flight due to its wind, seclusion, and soft sand to land on.
With Wilbur at the controls the Wright Flyer, or Flyer 1, did indeed leave the launch rails. However, Wilbur pulled up too quickly and stalled the rickety aircraft at just three and a half seconds of flight causing minor damage. Three days later they would try again and succeed with four flights total that day. The longest of the four would be 852 feet. The shortest, and also the first, being about as long as the wing I overlook at 120 feet. What would their thoughts be and what would they say if they could board the jet I now fly in?
The year of 1903 was also a first for another mechanical wonder. Three brothers, William, Arthur, and Walter Davidson, along with William Harley formed Harley-Davidson Inc.
Cruising at over 500 miles-per-hour I watch the ground below pass by. Mountains, plains, and vast acres of crops all give way and disappear to our destination of Sturgis, South Dakota.
Sturgis, South Dakota, or simply “Sturgis” as it is known to all who ride a motorcycle, trike, or some abomination of the afore mentioned, is the true Mecca and sacred destination of those that practice two wheeled freedom.
It was the year 2007 when Judy and I made our first pilgrimage to the sacred and holy lands that lay nestled in the Black Hills of South Dakota and the experience lived in our memory until our second excursion came to us quite by chance and bad luck.
I was dutifully mowing the lawn sometime in late June 2019, or perhaps it was a day or two preceding the anniversary of our independence as a nation, when I heard the most horrendous squealing and grinding coming from underneath the mowing deck. A quick check confirmed my dread and thoughts as to the cause of the noise. A blade spindle had worn out and the pully shaft was eroding the housing of the spindle away.
Looking around my yard and realizing that if I don’t get the yard mowed today, I would have to finish it on the weekend and that would erode into my time on the bike and on the road. “That just ain’t gunn’a happen!” I told myself, and I finished the yard pushing the terminal spindle passed its limit and the limits of safety.
A day or so later I put the expired spindle in my saddle bag and rode to the local lawn and power equipment dealer and repair shop. The owners are a husband and wife team who happen to be friends of Judy and myself.
I walked up to the busy counter and showed the employee there just what I needed. After I exchanged some small talk with the employee, Brad the co-owner, was helping another customer and turned to me and ask that I “stick around” as he had a proposition for me. We both finished up our business and retreated into Brad’s office.
Brad inquired as to what Judy and I were doing the last week of July. I told him that we are planning a motorcycle trip. Brad asked where we were going, and I responded in my usual “Wherever we end up.” And that we made no firm plans as to direction yet.
“Perfect!” was his response, and going on to explain, Brad informed me that he and his wife, Kim, had just procured a “toy hauler” and was planning on making the pilgrimage to Sturgis, hauling their bike out in the back of the trailer and would we (Judy and I) be interested in going.
(A “toy hauler” is a large trailer or large mobile RV with living quarters in the front and a garage in the rear.)
In a, somewhat, stunned stupor, I told Brad that I would talk it over with Judy and get back to him as soon as possible.
The following day I informed Brad that “We’re in!” and we began to make plans and provisions with only a couple weeks to spare.
Now, the last week of July isn’t the official week of the Sturgis rally. That would be the following week. The week preceding the rally would still find all roads, highways and campgrounds filled with bikers and their machines. But not to the overwhelming extent of what we experienced twelve years prior.
Due to time restraints and schedules, Brad and wife Kim, would tow the toy hauler, loaded with all our clothes, gear, and bikes, out to Sturgis in two days and Judy and I would fly out with little personal items and no luggage. Once there, we would ride as much as weather permitted during the six days there.
(There are those bikers that decry and bemoan the fact that we trailered our motorcycles. There are those that would accuse us of blasphemy against the gods of two wheels for towing what was meant to be ridden. I say to them, and all, that I have nothing to prove. This is my third year of ridding 10,000 miles a summer on my machine. How many miles did you ride last summer let alone the last three summers?)
All went well and according to plans when our taxi dropped us off in front of Brad and Kim’s camp. It was the same campground as we had used twelve years ago.
For the next five days we rode and took in as many sites as we possibly could. On the one day it rained a steam train ride from Hill City to the town of Keystone kept the four of us amused, amazed and delighted.
We rode over 1000 miles in those five days. Devils Tower, Mount Rushmore, Needles Highway, Sturgis, Crazy Horse, and Custer State Park are just a few of the roads we traveled and sights we saw.
The mountains and scenery in the Black Hills are beyond what description could justify. Rocky hills and mountains covered with Pondarosa Pine, Paper Birch, Quaking Aspen, White Spruce and Bur Oak are the most prevalent and as we rode through those awe-inspiring forests, we could feel the presents of The Keepers of those beautiful surroundings.
Out of all the miles in those six days two instances of comedy, fear, and awe will stick with us for all our years to come.
It was on our last full day when we decided to ride through Custer National Park. There is a large heard of wild bison that live and roam the park at will. We were about halfway through the park when we came upon the huge beasts. We were on our bikes with traffic stopped both forward and aft of us. It was there, in the open, that we sat. The “buffalo” leisurely walked around all the vehicles that had stopped. Including the four of us on our two motorcycles. Being fully aware of their size, they walked in and out of traffic and between us in no hurry. We sat there on our bikes froze to the seat and I with a death grip on the handlebars.
A gigantic male, with a head as large as a small car, decided he was going to check the two rumbling machines out. He looked us up and down licking his chops and was close enough we could smell him. They do not smell good! If he were to nudge us, even in a friendly manner, we would end up in a bad way. As he was looking us over and snorting, we saw the car ahead of Brad and Kim was being checked over by another male which began licking the windshield and panicking the occupants. If the driver panics and backs up, we would be run over by the car and perhaps the ensuing stampede.
The car started to back up. Neither caring nor aware of our position behind them. We could do little but try to roll our bikes backwards under the watchful eye of the huge male by our side just feet away.
Finally, just feet before being crushed between two cars, the driver of the car ahead of us made a slow break for it and worked around a few of the roaming heard. That left a gap for the four of us to ride around the heard standing in the road and make our escape also.
Another incident of comedic folly occurred a day or so prior to the roaming buffalo.
We were ridding on the Needles Highway. This road travels around the mountains surrounding Mount Rushmore and is famous for its curves and turns and the many “180” degree switchbacks. It’s also known for the tunnels cut and carved through solid rock. It was on one of these tunnels that Judy and I experienced an encounter with wild mountain goats.
These tunnels are only one lane so one must rely on the curtesy of the other drivers for a turn through them. It was one such tunnel that Judy spotted a goat standing high above the tunnel watching while the heard below was licking the sides of the tunnel drinking the mineral rich water running off the walls.
Brad and Kim made their way through the tunnel just before five of the goats decided to run into the tunnel ahead of Judy and I and slowly lick their way to the other end.
Even though these are cute and cuddly creatures, they are wild and unpredictable. A rule that escapes or is ignored by far too many that visit the park. So, as we enter the tunnel there is now a string of cars behind us carrying the people safely inside, impatient and ignorant.
We were creeping our bike along behind the thirsty goats. If I were to spook them, they may charge because now there is a mass of ignorant people closing the other end of the tunnel taking pictures! Slowly, very slowly, I push the goats towards the human fence at the end of the tunnel. If one or more of them get hurt by a scared and charging goat, I could not care less. I have more sympathy for animal than ignorant humans trying to get a picture of the cute and pretty goats.
By now we are about halfway into the tunnel and the goats are still drinking heavily of the tunnel wall water. I’m lightly revving my motor in an attempt to move the goats along. A blast from my horn might spook them.
By now the car behind me had a kid of about pre-teen years hanging out the rear window yelling at me to “Come on, you can do it.” I would have loved to have gotten off my bike and told the parents of that kid about respect and given them a lesson in animal behavior. But, by then, we were just about out of the tunnel when the goats ran towards the crowd scattering them in delightful panic as I rode passed them and chuckled.

The hammer of Thor echoes across the valley as the rains fall steady and hard. These are the days and times of summer I remember fondly and all too well.
The days of youthful freedom. The long hot days of trail rides, a twenty-two rifle, and a primitive little one-room shack that was the summer home, get-away, and sanctuary of my friend Wizard and myself.

 

It was days like today that Wizard and I would immerse ourselves into pure boyhood he-man activities. The daytime high in the nineties and humidity so thick you could almost smother from the smallest kind of exertion.
Spending the hottest and biggest part of the day tearing up the trails on our Honda SL70’s, it was not an unusual sight to find the two of us dusty or muddy, or both, carrying the days dirt from some hill climb or mud hole on our clothes and covering our bikes.
The smell of sweat and dirt on our clothes combined with hot mud cooking on the cylinder heads of our machines permeated the air with a fragrance only another dirt rider could appreciate, and Ralph Lauren could never copy.
The shack, or camp, I refer too was as primitive as a camp can get. No electric, no running water and a path to the comfort station. At night, lighting was provided by several kerosene lamps and a couple of candles in case the kerosene ran low. Heat was in the form of a pot-bellied stove for winter bivouac.
During those days of summer freedom, Wiz and I would return to the camp each day around early evening to prepare our supper. With no electric, our food stock was kept cold and questionably fresh by means of a large ice cooler. There were days when ridding far outweighed the need for food. So, our hunger, at the end of each day, forced us to overlook the dubious quality of our food that had been in the cooler for days sometimes. Hot dogs, because of their bountiful nitrite content and other ingredients that mortal man is not permitted to know, were the heartiest of our commodities to survive the declining conditions of the cooler. However, I remember consuming ground beef and sausage that sometimes glittered the colors of the rainbow and putting them on buns or bread that were either soggy or were speckled green. I cannot recall either Wizard or myself suffering any ill effects from such ambiguous food.
However, I do remember one morning, both Wiz and I, awakening to a ravenous hunger. Our food stores had been depleted the night before and all that was left were two large cans of “Big John’s” beans. (Those not familiar with “Big John’s” baked beans, be it known that the contents were packaged in two separate cans. A large can held the beans and a smaller can tapped to the top of the bean can held the fixn’s.)
A fire was hastily built in the outdoor stone fireplace and grill. Both cans of beans were opened and poured into a large saucepan and mixed with the fixn’s. Hunger hastened the cooking time and we consumed both large cans of the beans while they were still in a lukewarm state.
That day was the day we chose to restock our supplies. So, a 15-minute ride into town to the little “Mom ‘n Pop” grocery store Wizard’s parents owned was the top on our days agenda list.
(As had been our previous procedure, we would ride into town and each go our separate way to homes to catch up on chores, take a well needed bath or shower, and just generally let our Mothers know we were alive and ok. During this time of weekly exodus to the homeland, we would also exchange our dirty clothes for clean. I’m not really sure, but I suspect our mothers sometimes just burned the dirty ones rather than handle them.
After mowing grass and finishing the other assigned burdens, I would wash the bike and preform any needed maintenance on it also. Then, I would ride back into town and meet Wiz at his parent’s store. We would restock our provisions along with a couple of bags of ice. Wiz’s dad would drive us to the camp in the stores C30 Chevy steak bed truck, along with the afore mentioned provisions, and as we drove down the long dirt and grass road to camp, we would stop about half way down the road where it was the job of Wiz and I to burn the weeks’ worth of cardboard boxes from the store.
After waiting for all embers to cool “Bill” would drive us into camp. While Wiz and I would restock the cooler, Bill would look around to make sure the camp was secure, clean, and free of any hidden mischief. We always passed the formal inspection. But what he didn’t know didn’t hurt us and after returning to the store in the truck, we would get on our bikes and ride back to camp for another three to four days.)
So, after Wiz and I finished our beany breakfast we headed out toward home.
About halfway home we started to realize that we had consumed more fiber than a sawmill floor and all that fiber was starting to do what fiber does to one’s system. Only ours was on overload.
The trip home for me consisted of several stops after leaving Wizard’s home and after getting home myself, I spent several hours of contemplation, regret, and reflection, on the water closet. That day I’m certain mom burned my clothes.
I didn’t get back down to Wizards house until early evening that day. Wizard informed me that, he too, suffered the same afflictions as I that day and that “We ain’t gunn’a get any more beans.” I readily agreed. (I even seem to remember a NATO agreement of some kind, banning the use and/or consumption of said beans because of its possible use as a weapon of mass destruction for its apocalyptic effect on the gastric system.)
That evening after burning the store’s abundance of cardboard boxes and putting the fresh supply of food in the cooler (minus beans) we set out to store our bikes for the coming evening rains.
Know, keep in mind that Wiz and I would ride in all kinds of weather conditions and that our little bikes were no strangers to mud and dust and even snow and ice. But it was secure within our minds and reasoning that to let the bikes sit outside overnight in the evening dew or rain would cause them to develop irreputable rust and damage. I know not how that bit of questionable reasoning came about, but it was our gospel truth.
So it was that each evening Wiz and I would perform a bit of dangerous two-wheeled folly.
There were three steel steps leading up to the screen enclosed porch on the front of the camp. The doorway was a narrow thirty-two inches and, if I remember correctly, the handlebar width of the Honda SL70 was about twenty-nine inches. Thus, leaving an inch and a half clearance on each side.
A 1×8 plank was laid down *exactly* in the middle of the three, flesh eating and metal munching, steel steps. The screen door was propped open and out of the way and each rider was given a small amount of time to get up enough courage for the attempt and to get our life in order before each attempt. Too fast and one would travel the short distance of the width of the porch and into the camp itself. Not enough speed would cause either a stall out or a backwards roll without the assistance of the other since there was no room for another’s help due to the side railing.
If one was not square enough on each attempt, then either the brake leaver or clutch leaver would be slammed into the knuckles of the corresponding hand and a backwards roll would ensue. I will leave this part of my story neither admitting to crushed fingers nor laying the bike down in a backwards roll. But each summers end there were repairs to be made on the door jamb to some degree.
After securing the bikes on the porch for the evening, it was almost a nightly ritual to get the .22 rifle out and plink away at targets that only our imagination was limited to. Apples, old food and the target that we were most vengeful of… “Big John’s” bean cans.
On several occasions during those summer retreats, we would hike a short distance to a couple of small, and overgrown, ponds that were once used as watering holes for cattle.
Now thick with cattails and Lilly pads and algae, they were a frog’s paradise and a target rich environment for our .22 rifle. Many a four-legged reptile would meet its demise at the hands of the two stealthy snipers and our trusty double duce.
The camp was not deep into the woods but just deep enough to be void of any outside light source. So, many a starry night we would walk or ride to a nearby hill called “Manson Hill” and just watch the stars and wonder. “How many are there?” “We can’t be the only ones.” “Wonder if “Star Trek” will ever be real.” On a clear night with low humidity the abundance of stars was indescribable.
But, on nights like tonight, when Thor is pounding his mighty hammer off the anvil of injustice, the sparks and hammer blows were both terrifying and awe inspiring.
Spark after spark would light up the night. If we happen to not get the bikes on the porch that night, the lightening would reflect off the two little drowning Hondas like a Hollywood horror film. The woods would reflect in a black and white eeriness and even The Keepers would bow down in respect.
Wiz and I would silently watch the terrifying light show hoping it would end soon but last a little longer and each of us thinking the same thing. “We just washed our bikes.”
Now, some fifty years later, I am again taken back in awe of the light show before me. I can feel each hammer blow and see each resulting spark as it brightens up the night for just a millisecond. I think of those things I have just described to you and more. I smile as I reflect on them and remember my friend Wizard. I look toward Thor and nod in acknowledgement to a hammer blow that I’m sure was a sign of the many times he remembers scaring the living crap out of a couple kids.

 

I sit here, in front of this electronic, demonic, “thing” tired and weary. But in a good way. Not the tiredness and weary feeling one gets from over work. But the good kind of tired and weary feeling you get from a weekend filled with the pleasure of doing whatever it is that one loves to do. Be it motorcycles, boats, vacationing or any of the million and one things the mind can think up to amuse the body and soul with.
For me, as you all know, it’s my motorcycle. And this weekend just happened to be a good one. Not the best, but a very good one with 510 miles of black ribbon behind and explored.
The weekend started out as most weekends do for Judy and I, when the weather is obedient. I have fallen into a delightful and relaxing rut on Fridays. (We no longer report to our appointed tasks on that day of the week since going to four ten-hour days.)
Friday mornings find me doing some kind of household chore/s until about ten. Then, a quick shower, grab some ridding accoutrements, my boots and helmet and I’m gone for the day, until Judy comes home.
Once Judy settles in and powers down, we usually head out on the bike in search of new, or at least lesser tried, culinary delights. After which, we get on the bike and just ride around the counties with no destination in mind. It was that kind of a “Friday” we enjoyed this past weekend. We rode to nowhere to and from no place.
When we finally made it home, and started to relax, Judy got a phone call from my Brother-in-law Mickey, wanting to know what we were doing the next day and wondering if we would like to go on a ride with him and his girlfriend to a place for some late lunch called “Cougar Bob’s”
Now Mickey is a great guy and our ridding attitudes are a match, so he is the only one I’ll ride with. Otherwise I’m the lone wolf type of biker.
But for Mickey, the words “GOOD” and “FOOD” can only be synonymies with the word “CHEAP”. So it was, with great trepidation, Judy and I agreed to ride to, and dine at, Cougar Bob’s.
To get to Cougar Bob’s Pa. Route 666 must be utilized and having rode on that ominous and foreboding route in the past, but always on the opposite end, it is a quite pleasant and comfortable road to ride. It follows a stream for some ways and winds through some of the most beautiful green hillsides Pennsylvania has to offer.
Whoever the engineer was that named that route must not have thought it through or simply did not know the meaning of the triple 6’s. At any rate, I have been told that road signs and markings bearing the route number are a prime target for theft and several examples of barren sign poles can be seen along the route.
On our way to the primitive lounge we made a stop at a bridge that now sat partially submerged and flooded. Taking some pictures of the area I had to take a wide step across a narrow ditch, murky and crowded with swamp grasses. As I stretched to make the vault my foot sunk into the mud and was suctioned in place while my left foot was desperately searching for any solid ground to land on. None was found and I stumbled and rolled sinking both feet in ankle deep smelly muck. A salty old sailor could not have cursed better.
After returning to my feet I collected my dignity and snapped a few more photos before mounting up for the final leg of our pilgrimage to Cougar Bob’s.
The day was a good day to ride. Temperatures were in the mid to upper seventies and the sky was about half filled with light wispy Cirrus clouds mixed with left over contrails from passing jet aircraft. The road itself was surprisingly good, contrary to what it’s number might suggest, and we found ourselves at Cougar Bob’s in about half an hours’ time from the sunken bridge.
“So, this is Cougar Bob’s.” I thought to myself looking at the outside of the building in the middle of a small hamlet called Kettelville. The place was not fancy in any way, but neither was it a broken-down shack. Perhaps a rustic redneck looking joint might best describe its tar paper outside covered with a sprinkling of beer posters. Several Milwaukee motorcycles were lined up around the front and side of the building along with the mandatory handful of pickup trucks in various stages of their lives.
Entering the establishment, the word rustic was being too kind, but the people were friendly as well as the waitress and owners. A much-needed trip to the men’s room revealed chalk graffiti throughout the relief station. As I washed my hands, I spotted a tin basket filled with chalk for each patron to leave their own mark. I obliged by signing with my own calling card signature of “Hang in There”.
The four of us gathered and sat at a table with two opposing corner legs that had to be two inches shorter that the other two opposing corners legs. The waitress/bartender/cook, and probably dishwasher, came to our table and handed each of us a menu that had grown yellow with age and bore the remnants of some type of spillage at some time early in this decade.
The place was known for its specialty called a “Wedge” which was nothing more than the ordered toppings between two cooked pizza crusts. They were served in small, medium, and large portions and the waitress described the largest as being able to stem the hunger of all four of us. So, our order for a large Italian Wedge was placed.
From our seat, and looking up to the ceiling, we noticed it was covered in one-dollar bills stuck there. Curiosity overcame us and when we ask about the amount of green backs on the ceiling, we were told each was stuck there by patrons by using a quarter for weight and a thumb tack to make it stick and after the ceiling was full they would be taken down and given to charity.
The idea is to place a tack through George’s face, place the quarter over the head of the tack, fold the bill over the quarter, and toss the folded currency underhand to the ceiling. Mickey’s girlfriend, Tina, was the only one of our four to try the impossible looking feat and stuck her bill on her first attempt.
About then our “Wedge” came to our table with the Italian toppings bursting out of the middle of the two large pizza crusts. The pie/wedge was cut and quartered and in quiet hesitation I took a bite of my slice.
“Hey! This ain’t bad!” I said out loud in amazement. Mickey had done good. Yes, the food was cheap, otherwise we wouldn’t be there. But it was actually, truly good!
On the front wall of the dining area was a large, and I mean large, Moose head. There was nothing special about this Moose head, other than being large, it was like any other mounted Moose head one might find in such places as this or hunting clubs or lodges.
But what was different about this particular Moose head was several of the patrons were taking turns standing on chairs and kissing him.
When we ask about this odd ritual, we were told it was for good luck. Well…. Who are we to tempt fate especially on the route that bears the mark of the beast?
After leaving Cougar Bob’s, Mickey had to break hard to avoid hitting a deer that had wondered into the town of Ludlow and was confused by the traffic. I too had to break hard to keep from rear ending Mickey.
Also, this weekend turned out to be rain free and high mileage for us. We couldn’t have asked for much better. Both turns of good fate must have been from the kiss
(Yes, there are pictures of the kiss, but do you really think I’d post them? And for the record, there was no alcohol involved in the osculation between the four of us and said moose. We *do not* drink and ride!)

What can I say, that I haven’t said many times before. The weather was “almost” perfect today. Friday we rode 155 miles in between rain. The same with yesterday and another 175 miles. Today was supposed to be a complete wash out so Judy and I made plains to go grocery shopping and some other house hold chores. It was sunny and sixty-four at nine a.m. At Ten AM all thoughts of shopping and chores were abandoned and we
headed for a destination that need not be met. But rather a direction to point the bike and Clyde.

That direction was northwest towards Erie Pa. and it couldn’t have been better planed. About forty-five minutes into our trip the temperature climbed into the eighties. The bike was running perfect and I could breathe deep, relax, and settle back into the arms of Judy. I was in my zone, my nirvana, if you will. Nothing could harm, nothing could upset the balance within me.

Now that my time has surpassed the half century mark, by almost a dozen years, I have lost one of the joys and pleasures of riding. The peace that I find listening to the powerful and fine-tuned motor beneath me as it propels me along the rivers of asphalt, has now become muted. After forty years in manufacturing, twenty years in competitive shooting, and a life time of motorcycles, I suffer from tinnitus twenty-four/seven and must use ear plugs to tame the sound of the wind and motor least the ringing in my ears becomes too painful to endure.

It’s a different feeling on the bike when you’re use to hearing how you ride. My shifts have taken on a whole new timing. Now, instead of hearing my motor rpm’s and shifting appropriately. I must go more by “feel” of the bike. I must admit to being pretty good in the first four gears. But from forth to fifth and then into sixth I get a little confused as to which gear I’m in and which one I should be in and, on occasion, I’ve had to refer to the information window on my speedometer to see which gear I’m actually in. I’m hoping the relearning process won’t take too long.

The roads we chose for our trip were all two lane and free of the hurried pace of Interstate. So I didn’t pay close attention to the speedometer and kept our speed at a pleasant pace. Fast enough to not impede the flow of traffic but slow enough to enjoy the day, the sun and the road.

Along the way we passed many farms and most fields were in the process of being readied for this years crop. Here we are on a Sunday enjoying the day and the company of each other at the same time a farmer is working to feed the masses and bring food to our tables. All the while earning a living for his or her family. I wonder how many truly appreciate those who work the land? Or how many even really know where the foods they buy in the mega supermarkets come from?

Speaking of food, One of the pleasures Judy and I indulge in on our journeys to where ever we end up, is finding new places to eat and today as well as the past two days were no different. The past two days we found ourselves in each other’s company at a couple of places that were familiar and common to us. After which we just rode around aimlessly wearing thin the tire tread on roads close, but not too close, to home in case the weather turned ugly. Today the skies were blue the temperature was warm so it was decided that a trip to the Japanese Hibachi steak house would be a welcome treat from the burger and fry joints or the salad bars.

After our meal we decided it best to head home. The weather had turned out to be a wonderful surprise but could just as easily turn the other direction as well.

The trip home was as pleasant and calming as the trip up. (Well, except for a brief verbal encounter at a stop-n-rob quick mart.) Once home I sat on the porch contemplating the days ride and the rides this weekend in general. I was staring mindlessly at my boots. Not really thinking about them but just looking at them as I dwelled on the next ride or how many more rides I have left when I noticed something.

Most bikers put their left foot down first when stopping at a light or sign or simply coming to a stop. The tread on my left boot is half of what the tread is on my right. So I simply say to all who claim to be “true” bikers… “How much tread is on your left boot?”

Today Judy and I rode 235 miles. It was a great day!

Yesterday morning it was 35 degrees with the weather (person) promising highs in the fifties by afternoon. So I was eager to ride to work. I sacrificed the warmth and bulk of my leather cocoon to endure the morning cold in favor of a more pleasant afternoon ride home and wore my signature blue jean jacket with a heavy sweatshirt underneath and my insulated leather work gloves instead of my new electric heated gantlets. I left the house at five a.m. with a strong breeze blowing.
About five miles into the daily commute a very light snow began to fall. Asking Clyde for advice, he answered with his typical machismo bravado. “Press on! We can do it. Let’s go, let’s go.” And so we did.
Crossing the halfway point of my seventeen mile trek, the snow turned from intermittent flakes to an all-out snow shower and the temperature dropped considerably. I should have headed the warning of The Keepers and realized the strong breeze was a cold front moving in.
The road was getting wet and if it got colder before I got to work the road would freeze. Leaving Clyde, myself, and the 850 pound machine helplessly stranded, or worse.
Do I turn around and possibly run straight into the storm? Or do I continue on to hopefully stay ahead of the worst to come? “Com’on! We’ve been through worse for a lot longer.” Clyde yelled. Knowing my ageing, deafening, and tinnitus ringing ears would be further hampered by the sound of the bike and the sleet now bouncing of my helmet.
I was now hunkered down behind the windshield praying the sleet didn’t stick on the road or the temperature didn’t drop further.
Passing my friend’s house I still managed to give the obligatory wake-up beep from my horn and noticed the snow and sleet had let up. Though not completely. The road was now dry once more and I breathed a huge sigh of relief.
Now my hands were getting cold and my fingertips were starting to hurt from the cold.
Traveling through the small hamlet of Toby I thought about the long high hill that awaits me at the other end. Fearful of, once again, running into the weather I just passed through, at the high elevation of Thompson Hill summit.
As I climbed the road to the crest of Thompson Hill my fears were confirmed. The snow and sleet began to pelt my face again and the thought of the road conditions ahead played on my wellbeing.
Cresting the hill I was relieved to see the road was dry but wouldn’t stay that way for long. “Five more minutes Clyde and we’ll have made it.” By now my fingers were numb and using the clutch and front brake was a cautious and painful chore.
One more obstacle and it will be a more straight forward ride for the next two, or so, miles.
Just past the top of Thompson hill lay an “S” turn on a downhill slope with a stop sign right at the end. Slowing down to a crawl I noticed the road was still fairly dry and I maneuvered the “S” turn and stop sign as usual. Though the pain in my arthritic fingers was now intense.
The final two miles were a relief as the snow and sleet has let up once more.
I pulled into the parking lot and shut the bike off and began to chuckle at myself and the previous follies. I didn’t even try to get my helmet off and the simple task of getting my keys out of my pocket to get inside the plant was a painful struggle.
Once inside I ran to the nearest sink and ran warm water on my throbbing fingertips until I could get my helmet off.
I stowed my lunch for that day, in the lunchroom refrigerator and as I was doing so I could hear the sleet start up again on the metal roof.
My employers are gracious hosts and allowed me to bring my bike inside the plant during such conditions. And as I walked back out to retrieve my iron horse the seat had filled with sleet.
I quote my friend Jarrod in his observations of bikers… “All bikers are a little crazy. Who else would sit on top of a hot sparking motor with six gallons of gasoline between their legs.”
Hang in There
Rich

It was twenty-eight degrees this morning as I buckled, zipped, and snapped my leather cocoon into place. The forecast was calling for rain showers to move in around six or seven pm tonight. But I should be home by four thirty pm. But as my luck goes, the rain may move in early and my first ride of spring will be ruined. So, as I continued to armor myself, I entertained thoughts of abandoning the ride today in favor of a more motorcycle friendly forecast. But how could I live with myself if I were to back out now, climb in my cage, and spend yet another boring ride to, and from, work, listening to the same old songs on the radio. Don’t get me wrong, I like my truck. But it has no soul. No ability to free and relax the mind. There is little thought process to the controls of the modern family chariot and the fact that there are already autonomous propelled cars and trucks on the road frightens me in more ways than just the fact they are driverless.
A motorcycle, by contrast, demands attention, a bit of coordination, and a great deal of alertness. (Especially for those drivers (I use the term “drivers” loosely) that would probably be better off, and safer to the general public, ridding in one of those self-driving cars while they text and yak on the damn phone while donning make-up and adjusting hair.)
Yep! My mind is made up. I’m gunn’a ride damnit! So, after installing the batteries in my new electric gloves, grabbing my thermos and lunch, and running a mental check list, I headed out the door to the garage.
As the garage door opens, the light sparkles off the red/orange metal-flake paint and off in the very distant background, I could swear I hear the theme music to “2001 Space Odyssey”. It has been five, very long and cold months, since my bike, Clyde, and I were last together. Now Clyde is even more anxious than I to begin the new season. To seek out new roads and new civilizations. To boldly go where many have gone before. (Apologies to Gene Roddenberry and Robert Justman and the cast and crew of the original, and still the best, Star Trek. But you get the idea.) Anyway, where was I? Oh yea…
There sat Clyde on top of the triple-tree hurrying me along with his incessant nagging chatter. “Com’on, com’on, com’on! Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” Clyde shouted as I stuck my helmet on my head and buckled the chin strap.
My new heated gloves are slightly on the snug side I noticed but if they work, they’ll be worth the money paid, and labor spent getting them on.
Ok, kickstand up. A quick check and re-familiarity with the controls. “Beeeeeep!!!!” I accidently hit the horn checking the turn signals. “Way to go idiot!” Clyde scolded “Now you just woke up the whole frigg’n valley.”
I pulled my goggles down, put the bike in gear and pulled out of the garage. A sharp right and I’m finally on my way.
Traveling north on my road I travel through five miles of heavily populated woods and fields by members of the white tail deer. A.K.A. “Speed beef”. I’m always extra alert and cautious while traversing the first five miles of my daily journey. There are always remnants of, or whole, carcasses of deer that made kamikaze attacks on passing motorists within these five miles.
About three, or so, miles into my journey I noticed that my fingertips were getting cold and numb. “Well, there goes good money down the drain.” I thought. Then I looked down, there is no red light on the gauntlets indicating the gloves are on. I forgot to turn them on and before he could say a word, I told Clyde to “Shut up and just keep your eyes on the road.”
At the end of the five miles there is a “T” in the road and just to the left, after heading north on the “T” is a watering hole bar/restaurant where I can pull off and see to turn on my gloves.
Once I was back on the road, and clear of neighborhoods, I was motoring along at fifty-five. The air was painfully cold on my chin and cheeks, but my hands and finger tips were pleasantly warm and despite the numbing cold wind, I was enjoying the ride.
After another five miles or so, another right turn will take me through the small village of Toby. Just before getting into the village of Toby, a friend and former co-worker lives along the same road. It has been a tradition of mine to beep the horn whenever I pass his house in the wee early hours and today will be no different. As I pass “Joe’s” house at 5:10 AM several loud and short blasts were his wake-up call to another day. The first of many to come this season.
Pulling into the parking lot of SinterFire I feel refreshed and awake. Happy to know that this is, once again, the start of a new beginning. But most of all… I can get my helmet off without running into the building and running hot water over my fingers first.

My journey was just 5.8 miles. A short trip to the Harley shop to prep the bike for spring. In those 5.8 miles I could feel the fix begin. The fix from the withdrawal that I have needed so bad. Tensions diminish as I fill my lungs with the cold air. Each deep breath calls the flood of endorphins to my brain. As I pass the wooded areas, I see winters last strangle hold giving way to the coming spring. Again, my machine and I are one and we dance in short swaying movements upon the pavement stage, still white with the salt of the winter battles and still dangerous with the unspent munitions of gravel that was bombarded upon the roads to give the masses safe passage from the ice.

Very soon I will be in earnest with my machine. She will take me to my high. She will fill my tranquil needs. I will feel the warmth of my wife’s embrace as we explore the roads both new and old and capture an adventure with each new journey. Wherever we end up.

 

(Warning… The following blog will offend the sensitive type. Those of you that can’t accept the truth and who’s feelings are easily hurt, please run and hide in your safe place.)
Several months ago, the wife and I decided to broaden our horizons and go to a murder mystery/comedy, dinner theater. It was a pleasant and fun evening that Judy and I both enjoyed.
The dress was casual as well as the atmosphere and I’m at ease in that type of setting, whereas formal deals makes me tense and nervous.
We were seated with two other couples and the repartee between the six of us was pleasant and enjoyable.
I started to glance around the room at the other patrons and I noticed two things upset me. The lack of respect shown to the hostess and players of the comedy troupe and the male patrons wearing their, mostly dirty, ball caps. These two things I was brought up to never do in a public dinner surrounding.
That got me thinking about just how little respect is shown to others today out of selfish pride, laziness, or plain ignorance. So, in no particular order here they are.
• Take your damn hat off in a restaurant! I’m not talking about the bar/restaurant or the greasy spoon type joint. But in a sit-down style where there is a host or hostess, take your hat off!
• Put your cell phone away. Unless you are a first responder or medical personal on call. It’s just rude as hell to be texting or yakking on the damn phone to no one about nothing, while people are trying to take your order or to entertain you. And the person dinning beside you, doesn’t want to hear your conversation.
• Just because you’re the customer, doesn’t mean the person taking your order, or the person behind the fast food counter, or super market cash register doesn’t deserve your respect or manners. (Please, Thank you, Yes Ma’am/Sir, No Ma’am/Sir.) You are no better than those whose job it is to serve you.

Thinking about my statements, I’m reminded of the recent wave of political correctness forced upon us for acceptance. Something I call the “Hollywood Apology”. A meaningless bit of lip service ignored by most thinking people.

The “Hollywood Apology” comes from someone who says something “offensive” to, or about, someone or something who is “sensitive” or spoken about someone or something many years prior, when the subject wasn’t sensitive but now is.

Come on people!! Grow up. Buck up. And get on with your lives for crying-out-loud.

Recently, an acquaintance shared a true story with several of us. He was escorting a niece to a track and field event and before the events they were walking around the field as my acquaintance spoke words of encouragement to his niece.

They came to a spot near the track where there, on the ground, was a blanket and several Teddy Bears. Thinking they were from a family with a couple of small children the niece was quick to point out that the blanket and bears were there for support and comfort to the athletes should they need them in case of an event loss or encouragement should a contestant be too frightened or nervous before their event.

Really!? Have we sunk this low? To the point of being unable to handle the unknown and set-backs and failure? Are we so sensitive that we cannot handle criticism? Constructive or otherwise? Achievement only comes through loss at some point. Learning is through failure and trial.

Please don’t try to tell me I don’t know what it’s like to be ridiculed, mocked, made fun of, or to be shamed. I do.

Growing up I was a ninety-eight-pound weakling who didn’t even make the ninety-eight-pound requirement. I was teased and tormented. I was shoved around and even took a beating or two. Until one day I had had enough.

One of the alpha males had stopped me in the school hallway for a bit of fun at my expense. During the brief exchange of unpleasantries, he had dropped a quarter on the floor. As it began to roll away, I stepped on it to stop its escape. The alpha saw this as a claim to his territory and shoved me hard into the wall. I hit my head on the wall and something snapped. Something that had been building up inside me for years.

I connected with a right as hard as I could muster and, temporarily, rearranged his jaw line and added some color to it also. Stunned by the fact that a scrawny little kid stood up to him, he responded with a right to the side of my eye. There we stood. Looking at each other. Waiting for each to make the next move. Neither one of us did. Being it was in the middle of class time, there were no witnesses to the title fight and all authorities were dutifully teaching their respective classes. We simply picked up our books and returned to class. I had just earned respect. I was seldom picked on after that and if I was, it was the good-natured kind.

I remember coming home with my red badge of courage around my eye and Dad giving me the once over at the supper table. He looked at my red and slightly swollen eye and the only thing he said was… “What’s the other guy look like?” I shrugged my shoulders and continued with my meal. The matter was closed.

Now, before you all get upset and overwrought at the thought that I may be extolling the virtues of violence, rest assured that I am not. I tell you this story to show that no matter how much I was the target of torment, I did not run for a “safe spot” with a blanket and Teddy Bear, and a cup of coco for comfort in the face of adversity. To have done so would have been an encouragement to the alpha and all other alphas.

Think of it this way, PLEASE! If someone calls you an offensive name or says anything to you in a derogatory way just ignore them. Have enough respect for yourself to know who you are and be able to move on without an apology. Because an apology from the offender would probably be a meaningless verbal gesture anyway.

Really, when someone calls out a derogatory to you, just who has the problem? You? Or the offender?

Hold your head up! Respect others. Respect yourself. Teach respect.

Remembering rides and ventures of the summer that passed too quickly. I have little fondness or awe for the frozen moisture that now blankets the ground. My tolerance is forced upon me as I try to look beyond the next three cold and bleak months.

It will be then that I will regain my sanity, my calm, my contentment and freedom. It will be then that I will, once more, feel the wind in my face and the powerful torque rumbling just inches below me. And with the woman I’m in love with seated behind me, I will be in my zen. Nothing will harm. Nothing will hurry. Nothing will break the oneness that will be.

Two days after Thanksgiving and I reflect on the up-coming “first day” of regular rifle deer season which will begin on Monday.
I won’t be a participant in this year’s first day frenzy. No, I’m not getting soft to the taking of an animal. As long as the game is plentiful and well managed, and the meat is used. Nor am I protesting any of the many rules, laws, and regulations attached to the hunt. In my sixty-first year on this earth I just don’t have the fever I once did. I remember my Dad (a woodsman and outdoorsman few could stand shoulder to shoulder with) saying to me, when I first held a rifle in my hand and felt the call, “Shooting a deer is the easy part, once you pull the trigger the work starts.” I have no qualms about “pulling the trigger” it’s the work part that I hold an aversion to. And when you think about all that’s involved, venison is the most expensive meat one can get. Guns, ammo, clothing, food for camp, the list of expenses could go on and on. Not to mention the cost of time. For all the above reasons and the fact my son or son-in-law will not be joining me I will avoid the masses of the “first day” and dutifully join my non-hunting colleagues and go to work. Oh, I will hunt. But just not on the first day or with the enthusiasm I once had as a much younger man.
Many wonderful memories of hunting and hunting camp are imbedded in my mind. The smell of the fireplace and a hot meal after a cold hunt. The stories told over and over each year by the elders of the camp of bye-gone days of hunting and life in general. These are the times I will cherish and remember fondly.
There are, however, a few times that the memories are not so wonderful. Though not of hunting, I remember a time when I was a very young kid of about ten years in age. A neighbor took me to a skeet, or perhaps it was a trap, shoot. I remember it was a gathering of bragging and bolstering “bubba” men. (Todays skeet and trap fields are not like those of yesteryear. Women and young participants are a welcome sight on those fields of honor and whole families are not uncommon.) I was in awe and amazed as each clay “pigeon” turned to dust by the “bubba” men and their shotguns.
Seeing me standing there with my mouth agape and eyes as wide as could be, my neighbor and a couple of the bubba men asked me if I’d like to try it. After a few moments of hesitation, I eagerly agreed.
I was handed a shotgun that was longer than I was tall and probably out-weighed me. One of the bubba men assisted me in hoisting the mammoth musket to my shoulder and was told to point it at the “bird” when I holler “pull”! As it flew over, I was to pull the trigger.
I stood there quivering in anticipation. How hard could it be? There is a lot of bb’s coming out the barrel. I couldn’t miss! No wonder the bubba’s made it look so easy.
“PULL!” I yelled. The round fowl flew over, and as instructed, I pointed the gargantuan gun in the general direction of its flight and pulled the trigger.
The next thing I know I was on the ground and on my back. Humiliated by the roaring laughter of the bubbas. Through the loud insulting laughter, I heard the bubba owner of the shotgun tell his brother bubba that he switched shells and loaded the gun with a twelve-gauge hunting round as opposed to a lighter shooting trap or skeet load. That tid-bit of information seemed to increase the roaring laughter and the humiliation I felt.
A couple of years later I was ready for deer camp. I had been invited to go with my Uncle to a camp he had partnered with two brothers. Now these two brothers were not the “bubba” type. No, I think they were more of the loud-mouth know-it-all “rectal cavity” type.
Being the youngest and newest on the camp roster, I was at the rectal cavity’s beck and call. I was the new guy. I was the youngest and I had to earn my keep. Now I don’t mind doing my part and share of the work but “earning my keep” was a goal I was to never achieve. Fetching wood for the fire, water for washing and dishes and keeping the cavity’s supplied in beers was just some of my “duties” that kept the enjoyment of camp to a minimum for me. My Uncle took pity on me when the cavity’s ordered a command my way and helped me out when he could but being a minimum share holder and voter, his protests went mostly unheard.
That first day turned out to be bitter cold. I wore the old-style red plaid Woolrich suit that was all of six sizes too large for my skinny frame. The only boots I had were the rubber “barn boots” which had a piece of carpet backing in each sole for some small amount of insulation that my Dad had cut.
My Uncle and I had scouted the area weeks before and I was standing on the spot that he and I determined would give the best opportunity for a well-placed shot at a wondering buck.
I was told by my Uncle, before he took off for his own “spot”, to stand as still as I could and not to move least I scare off any weary deer in the area.
It didn’t take long in the bitter cold and wind for me to feel the cold. It wasn’t more than a short time after day break that my feet and toes began to get cold and by about eight or nine my toes were numb, and I was shaking uncontrollably. I couldn’t have shot a deer if it would have stopped to ask directions. I had to move. I was cold to the point of not caring if I saw a deer or not and now my toes were hurting from the cold.
After an hour or more of walking in circles, jumping up and down on my frozen toes, and other woodland calisthenics, I was able to keep myself from becoming a plaid popsicle.
It was a long cold time until noon when my Uncle showed up and by then I couldn’t have cared less about hunting. I was cold and shivering. Seeing my wandering tracks in the snow Uncle Max asked if I was cold. Through my blue and quivering lips, I told him I was. He smiled an understanding smile at me and said the rest of the guys have a fire going and are waiting for us.
It was about a twenty-minute walk back to the spot where the two cavities had built a warm fire and were waiting with a whole new repertoire of insults and put downs for me. All in the name of good-natured fun.
Now I can take insult and kidding as well as the next guy, but the two cavities were just cruel. “You look cold boy.” “You should have dressed warmer.” “I bet you didn’t stay in your spot did ya?” And on and on they went. Nothing I could do was right and all I wanted was to get warm.
Half way through my cold and flattened bologna sandwich there was a shot. It came from very close by. Just over a small ridge by our fire spot. It wasn’t more than a couple of seconds a small herd of deer ran into our view and were close enough to almost shake hands with.
My Uncle and the two brother cavities picked up their guns and waited for the opportunity of a buck to show up. I however froze. Not wanting to scare the deer for the rest of the crew, knowing that my gun was out of my easy reach and to attempt a retrieval would most certainly spook the herd into a speedy retreat.
That did it. After the deer had passed by, I took the verbal abuse. “Why didn’t you get your gun?” “You’ll never be a hunter like that.” “You didn’t even try to get your gun.” On and on the verbal abuse went well into the time Dad came out to pick me up and take me home later in the evening. I remember it being a long silent ride home.
Years went by and for some reason I continued to go to camp for the first day rituals and even looked forward to it. I had grown into my twenty’s and each year the verbal torment continued. But by then I learned to ignore the two rectal cavities and even gave them my share of verbal torment in retaliation. But I never out grew the stigma of being the youngest and newest member of camp and I never would. So, the tasks of water, wood, and beers, and anything else the cavities wanted, were expected for me to fulfill.
It was the season of 1983. The year I got my sweet revenge. I showed up at camp not with rifle but with a handgun. A .44 Magnum Ruger Redhawk. Now the rectal cavities had new fodder for ridicule. (You see, up until and including that point in time, I hadn’t gotten a decent shot at a buck and had never sent in for an antlerless license or “doe tag”. I was always very firm about making a swift kill and to this day, I will not take a shot unless I know the animal will not endure undue suffering.)
“You haven’t even got a buck with a rifle! How you ever going to get one with a pistol?” “You’ll never get a deer with that.” Again, on and on went the ridicule and continued into breakfast the next day. I was just about to tell the two rectal cavities to perform an act of impossible contortion when I decided to just finish eating and go hunting.
I was walking to my stand along the banks of Bear Creek in Elk County. I was about a few hundred yards from my spot on a clear and open foot path. Something caught my eye to the right and I froze. A nice six-point buck was making his way down the hill side and was unaware of my presence. With head down, he was sneaking my way about twenty yards or so ahead.
I managed to unholster my Redhawk and cocked the hammer quietly as the buck snuck further down the hill. I slowly raised the gun up and got it in the general vicinity I thought the deer would cross.
As soon as he got to the open pathway, he stopped broadside to me and stared right at me. It was a text book stance and I knew if I didn’t hurry and take the shot he would be gone.
The gun roared and recoiled. The deer dropped and never moved. I had my first buck! I shot him with a handgun with open sights and my own handloaded cartridge.
I approached the deer with caution to make sure he was dead. He was. I had made a perfect heart/lung shot. Seeing the spray of blood on the snow I felt a small twinge of remorse for the majestic creature and hoped he hadn’t suffered. And as I’ve done with every deer since, I took a minute to thank “The Keepers” for allowing me the harvest before setting off to tagging and field dressing my kill.
It took me several hours to get the deer back to my truck and back to camp by dark where I learned I had been the only one at camp to get a deer.
I spoke just three words to each of the two rectal cavities. “Where’s your deer?” My Uncle and my Dad just smiled. The rectal cavities didn’t.
I continued to go to camp for several more years after that and harvested a few more deer until my Uncle passed away. But I did learn from those Bubba’s and Rectal Cavities and I taught my wife and children the right way to shoot and hunt. With patience and without ridicule and with respect for the life of the animal. I stand in the shadow of my Father and do my best to make him proud.
(The Bubbas and Rectal Cavities in this story are true and now long gone. If I have offended anyone. I don’t care. If you’re not a Bubba or Rectal Cavity, then you will not be offended.)