Keith

Anyone who has read anything I have written knows I just love the sound of my own voice. At the drop of a hat, I can write 1000 words and end up with nothing of any worth.

But I sit silent now, speechess, muted, and stunned into silence as I try to make sense of a great friend's passing.We had so many good times, I cannot find any that stand out over the others. The petty squabbles we had over the 30 plus years we were friends, I counted on one hand. No, make that less than on one hand; maybe as low as one or two. 

Anyway, Keith is gone now. Though I was aware of his health issues, I denied the possibility of his passing as a moment that would occur sooner than later. I guess if we keep moving like nothing has changed, it keeps the worry level down. But in the end, the price of burying that worry can turn really ugly.

I will miss Keith. I will miss his tendency to smile first, look angry way later. It was bikes that first connected us. I will miss even more now, the bike rides we shared over the span of our 30 plus year friendship. 

So, I finish with one short tale of a ride we shared at some quarry in Vermont or was it northern New Hampshire?

We were riding on single track that flowed among and around large exposed sections of ledge and quarry cuts. Often, there was not much room between the trail and some kind of drop off, usually not too high. I was 100 feet behind Keith as he entered a hairpin turn that flowed around a huge section of exposed ledge. As we passed each other, Keith on one side, me on the other; he smiles, raises his hand, waves at me, and immediately disappears, gone like he was never there.

I hurried around the turn. He wasn't on the trail anymore. Because of the pucker on each side of the singletrack, all I saw was crushed pucker brush where "the car went off the cliff". I remember a sick feeling as I pulled up at the departure point. Instead of looking down and seeing Keith laying in a heap many feet down, sprawled, broken and sad, he was sitting up and looking at me from maybe10 feet down a short slope.

"Where's my Bike? ....... Find my bike."

I knew in that moment, he was okay. And I started in on him, busting his chops about his chump way of riding. 

He was a better friend than I deserved I am sure. 

R.I.P good friend, R.I.P.

___________________

The one area Keith and I had endless discussions regarding music while we killed time traveling to and from a ride location near or far away. Your band sucks, mine doesn't....... 

Keith was adamant The Doors sucked. He said their music was boring and that Jim Morrison got too much credit. He was just a malcontent the chicks were all in love with. I disagreed vehemently. The Doors were and still are on my top 5 Classic Rock list. Mostly though, we agreed on our favorites, even if they may be on different levels on our individual lists. Three artists / bands we definitely agreed on was David Bowie, Neil Young and Queen. In keeping with our mutual passion for all thing Bicycle, please enjoy by turning up to WOW, "Bicycle Race", by Queen.

IN- A-GADDA-DA-VIDA

I once listened to Iron Butterfly's, "IN- A-GADDA-DA-VIDA" over and over and over ..... and over while I tripped on LSD for the first time. It was the Spring of 1969. I was16, almost 17. I don't remember them now, but I had thoughts I was positive would change the world. ....... Okay, so what if I forgot them as soon as I came down. At least I touched base with their greatness for a few hours.

Psychedelics did change me. I spent many days during the next few years high on Acid, Psilocybin, or Peyote, whose psychoactive ingredient is Mescaline.

There was a period Snake and I took many trips in a row. We had bought 300 hits of Purple Micro Dot at 25 cents a hit. Our base price was 75 cents a hit or 3 hits for 2 bucks. And some, er actually a lot of some, we gave away. We put a bit of cash back in our pockets and ate the rest like candy. They lasted quite awhile. Towards the end of the supply, we had built up a tolerance so high, it took 8 or 9 hits to get us off. They were not as powerful per hit as say, the Orange Barrels or Strawberry Acid floating around at the time. For first time trippers or the weekend warriors,  we recommended a 2 or 3 hit dose.

The chip on my shoulder I had carried for so long as a very angry punk seemed to fall by the wayside once I began to eat acid. Yeah, I credit those experiences for calming me down some. Made the transition from trouble maker to a productive adult in the future go a lot smoother.

I remember clearly how the music of "IN- A-GADDA-DA-VIDA" created colors in waves ( I found soon, they were called "trails") that  followed my hand movements and sync'd so well with the beat of the song. It was awesome. 

Never had I seen the world through such a different lens. I wore my face out laughing and grinning so much. in order to regain some control, I went outside behind the barracks. I remember getting on my hands and knees with my face inches away from an ant hill. I watched those little bastids for what seemed like forever. All the while, "IN- A-GADDA-DA-VIDA" continued to blast through the open window in Snake's room on the ground floor of the New Barracks at Charlotte Hall Military Academy.

Playing this 17 minute tune for several hours was a physical experience I was able to repeat with other songs while on Acid. But never was the impact more guttural and soul shaking as that first trip listening to Iron Butterfly.

The last times I tripped were in the early 1990s. I was rummaging around some old stuff from my days as a single man. I found a hit and a half of some Orang Barrels I had stashed from a bigger batch I had bought in the mid 1970s. I split them with Bill on July 4th. I figured their potency would be off as they were almost 20 years old at that point. I was pleasantly surprised. Bill and I got wasted so hard, all we could do was walk around the celebrations and milling crowds down in Sanford. I am sure we had goofy looks on our faces. Since I owned a bike shop in town, I was always running into customers and their kids. I remember laughing quite a bit. No one asked if I was alright, so I guess we hid our condition pretty well.

Bill never tripped again. He enjoyed it, but it was more of a bucket list item for him. One and done.

I was not quite done with psychedelics yet. I think it was the next summer when a friend and I went mountain bike touring up around Flagstaff Lake in the Carrabassett Valley, up country Maine. My friend brought some Psilocybin mushrooms, or "Shrooms" as they are referred to by the tragically hip. It was an awesome time, though not quite as intense as the previous LSD experience at the 4th of July party on and around Number One Pond in Sanford.

I have been thinking more and more about ways to cope with the madness that currently has our country by the short hairs. One thought would be to escape. The option of a physical escape is out of the question. I love my country too much. I could escape into the darkest depths of depression that are always lurking around my corners. But no, that is a misery I will do almost anything to avoid. Then I thought about my days of carefree existence. The days when I wasn't angry; the days when I didn't feel trapped by the many chains out there that look to hook us up. Those were the days I experienced an altered state I now wonder why I stopped.

I can think of no better time in my life than now. I am retired and am not overly concerned about having a bad trip as when I was young, numb and new to the drug. I never did have a freak out kind of bad trip. I always kept at least a pinky or toe in the real world. I would expect, should I do it again, my reaction would be the same. 

It's time to get back on that wagon. .......... Wish me luck.

___________________________

The only song that will do of course for today's post is the full version of Iron Butterfly's,  "IN- A-GADDA-DA-VIDA". If I close my eyes hard, I can still sometimes see hints of the trails I was so fond of back in the day.

Roadhouse Blues

My good friend K is not a fan of the Doors. He had some mealy mouthed excuse I don't remember. That's okay. I don't particularly care for some of the bands he likes. It's the way of the world.

We were heading to the Kingdom Trails in Vermont; must have been over a decade ago at least. We were going to ride trails til we gave out or the trails did. "Roadhouse Blues" came on the radio. I reached over and cranked it up to WOW. Before K could turn the volume down, I had a big fat doob pulled out and was firing it up. He looked at me. Not sure what he was thinking, but I said:

"It's a long ago rule cast in stone, that if "Roadhouse Blues" comes on, a joint is found if one is around to be found and the highest volume available is cranked."

He went back to watching out where we were going. He was driving after all. I took a huge hit and tried to pass it to him.

K looked back at me and waved the joint off. He didn't try to turn the music down; he went back to watching the highway. I shrugged and took another monster hit and rocked out. 

I guess it was after my 3rd or 4th hit, K turned. The corners of his mouth lifted into a smile. He reached for the joint with his index finger signaling it was his turn with the doob. I handed it over. We both were rocking now. We rocked hard until the song ended. K handed me what was left of the joint. It was nothing but a roach. I had forgotten "Roadhouse Blues" was 4 minutes long. 

Smoking Pot and Mountain Biking are inextricably entwined. The origins of the current sport of Mountain Biking can be traced to California in the 1970s. A group known as the Lakespur Canyon Gang began regular rides on Mt. Tamalpais (Mt Tam) in the Lakespur and Baltimore Canyon in Marin County, north of San Francisco. A bunch of stoners looking for some fun while they baked themselves into oblivion is how I heard it from some folks who actually were at least on the fringes of that original crew. 

I met Tom Ritchey, owner of Ritchey Bikes at a bike expo in Philly in 1989 I think it was, I asked him about the pot smoking. He didn't know me so he just smiled and admitted there were some guys who smoked pot. I met another one of the originals, Charlie Cunningham and shared beers at the same expo. He agreed, Pot was an integral part of the fun for sure. 

Charlie went on to be a partner with Steve Potts and Mark Slate in creating WTB (Wilderness Trail Bikes) in 1980. They started out making components and eventually began to produce frames. I still have a brand new WTB "Phoenix" frame with a very rare one off special Charlie Cunningham designed rear brake on it. I do not know what it is worth, but I am guessing some significant dollars for sure. They had a very limited run of frames with the correct bosses for those brakes.

I bought my first mountain bike in 1986. I entered my first race in 1987. I became a full time bicycle mechanic at "The Spokesperson" that same year, and in 1988 I became a partner. But it was in the summer of 1971, the rule about the song was created. I was packed into a VW Bug with 4 other stoners (We called ourselves "Freaks" back then) We were on the Washington, DC beltway weaving in and out of traffic without a care in the world and the song came on. The rest is history.

Just another case of how the Hell did we not kill ourselves back then, I will never know.

Later Gators ........................................

______________________________

After all that writing, at least the tune has been well determined. Here is "Roadhouse Blues", by the Doors. Be sure to spark one up if one is available and crank the volume to WOW!

The Bottom Bracket

I had a dream last night regarding a bottom bracket and how it spoiled a friendship with a long time bike shop customer who now lives in Virginia. Definitely a silly dream as most dreams seem to be, but I still woke up pissed off. It also followed the tendency my dreams have of coming out of nowhere in the middle of another dream.

I was in a quandary. My garage needed a new roof. As I stood looking up at it and deciding what action I should take, Dave S walked up to me. He had with him, his recent custom build bike I sold him not two weeks previous.

"Wazup", I said, "How you liking that new ride I built up for you?"

"Love it dude. It's a beauty alright."

The way Dave said it though, I knew there was something wrong. I had owned a bike shop a long time and I could tell without hearing the customer whine, something was wrong. 

"What's wrong Dave, something not right?"

"Well, now that you...."

Dave looked at the ground and mumbled. I could not hear him.

"Jeezum Dave spit it the fuck out...... What the fuck is wrong?"

Dave looks up. His face was not a happy face. I couldn't tell if he was mad or just sad. I reached for the bike.

"Let's throw it on the stand while you decide whether to tell me what's wrong or not."

"Okay"

Dave released the bike to me and we both went in the shop. I threw the bike up on the stand and gave it my standard repair triage to find out what was wrong. I noticed the bottom bracket was loose; not just loose but sloppy loose. Whoever installed it must have been an idiot. Since I was not an idiot, I knew immediately someone else had put a wrench to my "build".

I turned to Dave. He was still looking at the floor. His demeanor told me there was more to the story. I grabbed my crank extractor and had the crank arm off and on the bench in no time. That high end White Industries titanium endlessly adjustable bottom bracket with the stupid light alloy cups was loosy goosy.  I bent down to get a better look and noticed the soft alloy tool flats were dinged, dented and mangled so bad, I knew I was right. Someone else had been fuckin with my "build".

"Whoever messed with this Dave is a moron........ If you had a problem, why didn't you bring it to me?"

Dave was still looking at the floor.

"Speak up goddammit. We're friends ferchrisakes. What happened?"

"Uh well,.... I .... you didn't answer your phone so I uh,....... took it to that new shop in south Sanford, "Ball Cycles ......... The owner, Jeff, said he could fix me right up."

I felt this huge wave of betrayal waft over me; leaving me speechless for a minute. Before I spoke, I gathered what wits I could find and in a calm voice, almost a whisper really:

"Did he fix it, ... you know, did he make it better?'

"No. He made it worse...."

Before Dave could finish his thought, I interrupted him:

"And now you will have to pay me to replace whatever parts he ruined with his ham fisted mechanics. I can tell you right now you will need new cups and bearings, but I think the Ti axle will be fine. They are more than tough, almost indestructible actually. .......Hopefully, I have some new cups in stock. White Industry parts aren't run of the mill."

I looked at Dave. He was miserable standing there with his hang dog look.

"Well, if you had answered.........."

"Don't even start. You knew I was up country for a visit with an old college buddy....... Just leave it and I will take care of it. I'll give you a call."

______________________

It has been more than a few years since my bike shop days popped up in one of my dreams. This one was about as close to a nightmare as I have ever had. Of course, this dream was just that. Dave S never brought me a bike like that. Actually, he may have been my favorite customer. He was and still is one of my great friends.

Remain calm. Dreams may come true but so what? 

_____________________

Only one tune will fit the bill for this post. Here is "Bicycle Race", by Queen.

An Early Morning Bike Ride in Philly

Most of my dreams I cannot remember. Of the ones I can, some are often different scenarios with familiar actors. Rarely is any dream a recurring one telling the same story, except one. It's not exactly a nightmare.  It is more a  Kodak moment I have never been able to forget. Over the years, I have replayed that moment in  a few quick flashes many times in my dreams. It is always the same. The next day I am able to get on with my day without any disruption. This morning however, the dream woke me up and now I am writing about that Kodak moment. This was the first time I remember waking up with tears in my eyes and an intense feeling of loss, guilt, .... I just don't know what it was.

It was 1990 or maybe 1991. Kent and I were attending the East Coast NBDA Expo at the Pennsylvania Convention Centre on Vine Street in Philadelphia. The NBDA is retailer group made up of Bicycle retailers from across the country. It was a three day event. My partner and I stayed at the Howard Johnsons Motor Lodge, located in the shadow of the Franklin Bridge that crossed the Delaware River to New Jersey. We had brought our bikes to get to and from the venue and also maybe take in some sights.

The second morning, I got up early. I asked Kent if he wanted to go for a ride in the city streets and watch Philadelphia get on with its day. He begged off, turned over and before I was dressed, he was sawing wood again.

I started pedaling around 6:30 AM. Philly was awake, but not up to full steam. Rush hour's heaviest period was still to come. I was hoping I would have more empty streets to cruise on, but even at 6:30 AM, the main arteries were busy with cars rushing to destinations in the city.

Philadelphia has a lot of one way streets. As a cyclist, I have always liked one way streets. The possible dangers are mitigated to a degree by having everyone moving in the same direction. But then that morning I realized I might be mistaken about one way streets, especially ones with 4 or 6 lanes filled  curb to curb with cars late for work. 

Somewhere near City Hall I pulled up, got off my bike and stepped up on the sidewalk. The huge four way clock on top of City Hall told me it was past 7:30 AM. I had reached my turn around point. After checking the street map I had with me for the best way back to Howard Johnson's Motor Lodge, I took some minutes to drink some water and look around. 

The streets and sidewalks had become hectic streams of pedestrians and cars hurrying here, hurrying there Everyone was  focused on where they were going, never looking anywhere but straight ahead; avoiding eye contact with everyone around them. I stood and marveled at this impersonal flow of humanity.

I almost did not notice him. He was sitting on the sidewalk, his back to the wall of the skyscraper next to us.  He was wearing a nasty looking Army jacket with an Airborne patch on the shoulder. He was black and both legs had been amputated just above his knees. Around his neck, a cardboard sign dangled that simply said "Vietnam Vet". A trucker hat turned upside down next to him had a few coins in it. There was a bottle of Thunderbird wine propped up on one of his thighs. My first thought was pity, my second was this guy has given up and who's fault is that?

The busy world swirled and stepped around him.  I was struck by how invisible he was to everyone who passed by. Men in sharp suits, well dressed professional women in heels, delivery guys pushing two wheeled carts stacked to the sky with boxes: everyone acting oblivious and ignoring this legless man who sat up against a skyscraper. 

Our eyes met when the vet looked up at me.

His eyes were filled with an emptiness that cried, "I am nothing, a human shell, my humanity, long gone....... Help me. Don't help me. I am past caring." 

I looked down. I could not meet his gaze anymore. I was embarrassed. I felt my face grow warm. I turned away.

I stood with my back to him and tried to deal with the uncomfortable position I was in. I had already relegated this man out of my emotional concern and was concentrating on how I felt, not how he felt. I scrambled for excuses to ignore this guy just as everyone else did. I wanted to not feel bad. I dug in my pocket and pulled out the emergency paper clipped stash of cash I always carry on bike rides. 

Turning around, I was about to take the three or four steps his hat, but I stopped. He had pulled his zipper down and right there on this very busy city sidewalk in downtown Philadelphia, his piss trickled out and formed a couple of streams that headed for the gutter six or seven feet away. Meanwhile the crowded foot traffic passing by did not even slow down. One well dressed woman took the time to stop, look at the vet, purse her lips and then carefully step over both streams of piss to continue on her way.

 When he was finished pissing and he had zipped up, I stepped over and put the whole twenty dollar emergency stash  in his hat. Our eyes briefly met. His face and gaze unchanged. I received no acknowledgement of my attempt to buy back the guilt I felt. How my face looked to him, well, I don't know for sure, but if it looked like I felt, it was the face of someone in anguish. I climbed back on  my bike. My fun ride was definitely over.

I hoped the twenty dollar gift would help me cope with my feelings. Obviously it didn't help. I am sitting here thirty some years since the incident, still thinking about it and now I am writing about it.

I think I'll leave it there ................Later........

<><><><><><><><><><>

I have always hated war. I hate that humans participate in it, glorify it, look forward to it. If any human trait is proof we are not ready or deserving to consider ourselves an awesome species, our love of killing each other would be the number one indicator.

I have tried to find a song that dovetails well with how I feel about that moment in Philadelphia so long ago. I keep coming back to a song by Ferocious Dog, a group from across the Big Pond. The song focuses on returning British vets from the stupidity of the last war in Iraq. It isn't about an American vet or the Vietnam War. The message is the same. The results for the soldiers are the same. Wars may be fought on different playfields by different teams, but the the brutal aftereffects remain timeless and universal in the damage they inflict on the human soul.

Here is "Broken Soldier".

Waking Up Laughing

I have been living with an accountant for many years now. I won't pretend to know much about accounting, but after all those years together with my wife, who is the accountant, I probably know more than the average slob about accounting; enough to get into trouble faster than the average slob anyway.

Now that I have established my bona-fidees, apparently there is at least one passed soul who hangs some weight on my ability to answer a tax question for them.

I was in the midst of a dream that would be forgotten as soon as my eyes opened this morning. Yeah, the dream was concluding nicely when out of nowhere Slim Pickens asked me if a bicycle could be used as a tax write off. 

As is the case in most of my dreams I took his question in stride and answered as best I could with what little knowledge I had to apply to my answer.

I told him as far as tax deductions go, writing off a bicycle had at least two problems attached. 

First of all, the IRS does not usually consider recreational equipment as a business expense. Should Slim be audited, they would insist on documentation that supported the use of the bike was a legitimate business expense.

Second of all, I know bikes can be expensive, but using one as a deduction might not be worth the trouble of itemizing versus taking the standard deduction, unless he had other other deductions that would pass the limit set by the Standard Deduction rule. And besides, since he was dead anyway, how much money did he need to hide in the first place?

I looked at Slim. The look on his face was blank. I said, " So Slim, does this help you?" 

Slim cocked his head in that Slim Pickens way only he knew how to do, yanked the straw from his mouth and answered, "Shoot, I was sure I was gonna need some tax help this year and then you go and remind me I'm dead."

I started laughing and that is when I woke up. No better way to greet a new day than with a smile on my face.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ....................................

____________________________

The only tune that would be right for this post has to be "We'll Meet Again", sung by Vera Lynn. It is the theme from the film  "Dr. Strangelove: or how I learned to stop worrying and love the bomb". The image of Slim is from that movie. It is also I think, Slim's best role ever.

Skate Park Punks

 I woke up this morning hard. No gentle transition, but a rude awakening as if I was finally giving up a fight and would rather face the day than try to recapture the night. It had been a fitful sleep. But then fitful sleep has become more the rule than the exception in recent years.

I don't often remember dreams after a night of tossing, turning, getting up, laying down, repeat. Last night was an exception.

I was some kind of BMX coach of a group of punks in their mid teens. Not sure why BMX, but it was cycling related and at least that made some sense. 

When I found them at the skate park in Somewhere, USA, they were all hanging out behind the big ramp passing a joint and smoking cigarettes. I recognized one from my bike shop. I had caught him stealing awhile back and kicked his sorry ass out of my store.

When these teen age losers saw me they did not even blink. They kept sucking on the joint and smoking their cigarettes and as if on cue, they all grinned at me. I grinned back. They flipped me off. I flipped back.

Scene shifted to this group of losers and myself at a BMX race. There was also a Freestyle competition going on inside the BMX track. My boys were kicking serious ass in both competitions. A coach or authority figure appeared and accused us of cheating. I flipped him off.

When the events were over and my team and I were tail gating at the van, another authority figure shows up and tells us we are all banned from that event in the foreseeable future. All of us flipped him off.

Somewhere the dream shifted gears and I was attempting to talk one of my punks out of quitting the team. He was the fastest of anyone he had faced in every race he had been in. Trouble at home he said. I replied that all of you losers have troubles at home. Quitting the team won't fix that. I went on to try to convince him to stay, but at some point I was looking at his back as he walked away with one hand flipping me and the team off.

Another scene shift and I notice a blackhead pimple on my shoulder. On automatic like I was thirteen again, I squeezed that sucker to clean out the pore. Instead of the predicted blackhead popping up, a small worm oozed out of the now much larger hole. I didn't hesitate. I grabbed it and yanked with steady pressure like I had been here before and done that before. Slowly I was able to get that worm out in one piece. It looked to be six inches long or so.

That was the end of my fitful sleep of last night. Suddenly I was awake wondering just what the Hell was that?

Keep it tween the ditches ..................................

_________________________

When I saw Roy Orbison's song, " In Dreams" on the list Google came up with, I remembered David Lynch's movie, "Blue Velvet" and punched it up. The song was highlighted in the movie as it was lip synced by one of the main lunatics righteously played by Dean Stockwell; making it one of the creepiest scenes in cinema. Lynch did have a way of creating creepy.

Blessing in Disguise

Yesterday I was counting my blessings. Well, I didn't actually count them, but I gave them some overdue consideration. I don't often count my blessings. I probably should count them more. I might find my good place more often.

So, The word "blessing" kept popping up after the fact. Only now I was not interested in them representing something I should be grateful for, but rather the physical texture and sound of the word as it rolled off my tongue. I was not interested in what it brings with it to any sentence. I was struck by the notion that some words either sound right or they sound wrong. And this can depend entirely on my frame of mind at the moment of word reflection.

Yesterday "blessing" sounded odd to me. It certainly rolled off my tongue just fine. It is relatively easy to understand what it means. Normally a word I never think about or struggle with in any way. But yesterday, "blessing" hit my odd track. 

I managed to get through the day just fine though. Any disruption or stress this sudden plummet into the "Odd Word Bucket" was handled with dispatch and efficiency as I worked my way through the day. But today, the word "blessing" is still holding it's hand up, frantically waving at me to pick up where I left off yesterday. I mulled over this pleasant word with Biblical overtones evoking the simple concept of being grateful.

I eventually settled on that classic old idiom - "Blessing in Disguise." That's it. I've done it now. Gone and dropped not just an odd word or two into that "Odd Word Bucket", I have now tossed in a complete phrase.

"Blessing in Disguise". Just what the Hell is that? Yeah I know what we like to think it means. Ranks right up there with "Every cloud has a silver lining". Feel good rationalizations for when we screwed up, they screwed up and we got screwed up.

"Oh I dropped that case of beer. Oh well, at least they all didn't break."

As I considered the many idioms out there that rely on contradictions to make their point, I remembered a situation that invaded a friend's life oh, I guess in the early 2000's. He was part of a crew of mountain bikers who showed up semi-regularly for the shop rides I ran out of my bike shop. Often they would also just park in the lot and go on rides by themselves. We have a nice set of trails here in the pucker brush of southern Maine.

I think it was three of them who parked and rode out that afternoon. They were still out there when I closed. I did not think anything about it. It was not until a couple of days later I think when I found out my friend had lost control on the Sanford side of the ridge that backs up to McDougal Orchards. It is a fun downhill but like any downhill, shit happens faster at speed than when poking along. My friend crashed and broke both of his wrists.

While in the emergency room, he had X-rays taken and other assorted medical things done to him. A doctor noticed something out of place in one of the X-rays.

My friend gets his casts on both hands and another friend drives him home. The Doc calls a day or two later after consulting other doctors . They want him to come in. They want to run some tests.

Turns out the one of the X-rays had an out of place shadow in it. When they ran confirmation tests, he was diagnosed with Cancer. And dammit I think it was bone cancer, but I am not sure. The following treatment saved his life. We have lost touch since, but I assume he is well and still riding past his abilities on a mountain bike.

Voila! The blessing in disguise.

______________________

Music about 'blessings" that didn't make me gag or scowl made this search the toughest one yet. Been at it off and on now for over an hour. Shit. I found a Bing Crosby tune I tried to listen to and just like when I was a kid, I turned him off and left the room. Not into the old crooners.

So what to do?

I have not highlighted any music from a group I discovered awhile ago. They are from Japan and play, uh, well, some metal, some other music I figure is more traditionally based. Regardless, they are excellent, turn it up to wow musicians.

Here is the Wagakki Band with Amy Lee of Evanescence, "Bring me to life".

First try - 12/13/2009

Ten Seconds of Peace on Earth - 11 Years Later

Most moments of our time on this planet move from one moment to the next barely noticed. Moments that stand out in our memories often are ones we focus on because we have to, want to, or expect to. Some moments though, come by accidentally and without warning. They grab our attention as unrelated circumstances come together in just the right way to make that moment stand out over the other moments on either side of it. Right place, right time sort of thing. Or wrong place, wrong time. It can certainly go either way.

While finishing up a bike shop ride 11 plus years ago,I had such a moment. This moment lasted maybe 10 seconds. So I think it would be appropriate to use my 250 word format to describe it. (Originally posted 7/14/2010)

Ten Seconds of Peace on Earth

It was a hot ride. The humid air had turned my lungs into wet sponges. Finally we came out of the woods onto Marginal Way. This shade covered back lane of neat homes meant the bike shop was only a few minutes away and I could stop wheezing.

The ritual was always the same at the trail head. The riders who lived nearby would split off shouting “Good Ride”, or “Give me a call about Sunday”. The rest of us would begin the casual half mile spin back to the bike shop.

I saw her as we pedaled onto the last section of Marginal Way. Not an unusual thing to see a woman in the afternoon busily tending to the flowers and plants in her dooryard. But there she was, water can in hand, kneeling in the late day sun that had found its way through the high trees.

As we rode closer, she stood up and removed her big floppy hat. A curl of blonde hair dropped to her shoulder. She turned and smiled at us as we rode by. Sweat glistened on her forehead. She wiped her brow with her wrist and tucked the curl back behind her ear. Her gloved hand waved.

I smiled and waved back. I knew I had just experienced a moment of peace that rarely finds its way through all the flotsam and jetsam that clutters my life on a day to day basis. For one moment, maybe ten seconds, my world was perfect. 

Post Script

It’s February something, 2022 and I only last week finally found this post tucked into a dark corner of my blog. I thought of that moment often when I was shuffling through random memories trying to find good things to think about. I had looked for it off and on many times.

In my memory, that moment always calmed me and made me smile. And now after reading it again for the first time in over 11 years, It made me smile again. I need to hold onto to these snippets of unadulterated happiness in order to keep all the other shit going on in my life in perspective.

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Image is a painting by Robert Lewis Reid entitled "Tending the Garden"

Another Free Thinker

Made the mistake of stopping for just two minutes in front of the TV this morning as I prepared the morning pet repast. I heard the most recent failed Winger slogan, "Lets go Brandon". I always get a chuckle when the Winger chuckle heads come out with what they consider another Libtard owning idea, saying, or incredibly stupid crazier than any before conspiracy theory. 

I know in the scheme of Winger nonsense, "Let's go Brandon" doesn't even ring a bell. It is a wink, wink, nod, nod smile, gotcha slogan that only has wings flying around in the local internet cesspools where the self inflicted stupidity of the Winger homelands is obsessed over. 

I had forgotten about it until Joe and Jill Biden's Merry Christmas call with an Oregon father of four went viral.  Pleasantries and good tidings were exchanged between the Bidens and Jared Schmeck. Before they both signed off, Jared blurted, "Let's go Branden".

Of course the tight asses among the elite of the Left got huffy and righteously indignant. Many mounted their high horses. Meanwhile, the slack jawed coalition of the Right laughed uproariously. Everyone it appears got something out of it. What caught my attention though was the follow up to this interaction.

Jared decided he needed to clarify his remarks . He felt they had been taken the wrong way. Insisting he meant no disrespect, he followed with this:

    "Schmeck said he’s not a “Trumper,” but described himself as “free-thinking             American and follower of Jesus Christ.”   

The contradiction in his assertion caught me and I immediately thought that following Christ meant one had given up their ability to freely think. I know that the Thumpers and Trumpers will contend I am wrong and they are free to think that. But this incongruity does not jibe with my understanding of the term "Free Thinking". Apparently Jared Schmeck's notion of free thinking does not mesh well with it either. At least three well regarded internet dictionaries have this to say:

• Dictionary.com -  a person who forms opinions on the basis of reason, independent of authority or tradition, especially a person whose religious opinions differ from established belief.
• Merriam-Webster - a person who thinks freely or independently : one who forms opinions on the basis of reason independently of authority; Especially one who rejects or is skeptical of religious dogma
• Cambridge Dictionary - forming your own opinions and beliefs, especially about religion or politics, rather than just accepting what is officially, or commonly believed and taught 

I have tried to find some way to include "free thinking" with religious belief. At best all I can come with for the free thinkers who rely on religious dogma to frame their life, is they might be called "semi-free thinkers".  And it would only apply to those who follow the spirit of the Bible or Quran and not the hard core literal translations. 

In my opinion, free thinkers generally do not fit well into the boxes religion nails around them. I know from my own struggles as a kid before I tossed organized religion out of my life, the narrow path set out by religion for me to follow did not allow me the freedom to consider that all things are possible not just that which is laid down in a book written by folks who are more interested in controlling me than setting me free.

Later .............................................

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Today's musical interlude  - Fat Bottomed Girls - Queen.  After all, the World is nothing without them.

Life is Not For Enduring

My previous post, I shared my recent mishaps on my new mountain bike.  From the comments I received, it appears I am not acting my age, or acting in a sane manner because I insist on riding past my skill set level.

 JACKIESUE told me to "stay the fuck off the bike".

 Mohaverat opined about how I will pay for my loose dog ways on a bike when I get older.

Hmm ................

Maybe not every day, but often enough, a burned in image passes through the re/viewer in my brain.   An image of what I could become if I did not push every limit I have left.  I watched my mother give in to the accrued ravages of her life and basically become an invalid the last 10 years she was alive.   The arthritis she fought most of her life finally won and she became a hunchback old lady who stopped doing anything.  Too much pain to fight it, she said.

I have a similar situation rearing its ugly head myself.  And now that I am facing the same decade of life she gave up on, I use her shriveled up painful countenance to spur me to stay active even if it hurts.  And some days, just getting out of bed can be a struggle.  But then anyone who is 64 and up certainly knows what that is all about.

This past winter my weakened immune system let some heebie jeebie get a grip on me and I became another piece of furniture in the house for a month and a half.  Once I started to feel better, I worked up a new agreement with myself.  I was going to do what made me happy as long as I could.  Screw the pain or long term negatives that may result.  I only have so many bike rides left and I plan on pushing the ones I have left as far as I can.   I may not be fast anymore, but I can still test the edge of what abilities I have left.  Some pain I understand is a lot easier to deal with than the day to day chronic crap that fills up more of my waking time on this planet.

I still want to live Life, not just endure it.

Later ..................................................

Exercising My Own Right to be Stupid

So I bought a new bicycle for myself a month or so ago.  This is not unusual.  I have owned and ridden too many bikes over the years to remember.  Owning a bike shop makes it easy.

This new bicycle is one of the latest hip mountain bike incarnations to be thought up in the design labs of the bike industry.  It is a Plus size mountain bike.  A 27.5 plus mountain bike.  It has fatter tires than traditional mountain bike sneaks.  There are many other differences, starting with the frame, but none as obvious as the tires.  What makes this bike so special is the phenomenal traction it has on the trail.  So far, I have failed it before it failed me.  It is indeed an awesome bike.  Fuji nailed it with this one.

But the bike is not why I am writing this post.  It is possibly related , but not the main thrust.

20 - 25 years ago when I was definitely nummer and dummer, I consistently pushed my off-road skill set past the sanity line.  One of our favorite lines was, "If you ain't bleedin, you ain't ridin hard enough".  As I was only gifted at birth with a normal range of athletic ability, when I began to ride mountain bikes, I began to crash on a regular basis.  While most were minor resulting in skunned knees, hips or shoulders, I did end up in the ER a few times.  A couple of concussions, a period of living with my first 8 vertebrae compacted, broken collar bone and stitches a couple of times.

After I broke my 5th helmet in less than 10 years, I decided that riding within my skill set was probably a good idea.  I had worn out any sympathy from my wife years ago and suddenly the dingers I was taking were taking twice as long to heal as they did when I was in my 30s.

I cranked it back a notch and began to come home relatively unscathed most rides.  Still had fun, and no dirty looks or sighs of disgust from my darling significant other.

That was roughly 1998 or so.  For closing in on 20 years, I have not stacked it hard enough to bring a doctor into my life.  No broken helmets anymore.

Enter my new bike.  The hot hip new steed that is currently one of the rages floating around the bike world.

My second or third ride, I stacked it hard, went over the bars and crushed my helmet on a rock.  Definitely rang my chime.  Lost some seconds or maybe a minute or so trying to remember what happened.  Went on self directed concussion protocol because I absolutely did not want my wife to find out.  Apparently, I was okay. I felt fine the next day after waking up 3 or 4 times in the middle of the night to check out my eyes.

The next week while trying to perform a tight turn I should not have, I crashed again.  This time my right forearm took it hard.  Immediate blood and ugly stuff drenched my gloves.  Dave had some duct tape and he taped it up so I could ride back to the shop.  From the hit I took, I knew it was probably stitches time.  I was right.  It took a total of 10 stitches to close me up - 3 in the deeper parts inside and 7 on the outside.

As I could not really hide this mishap from my wife, I decided to take the coward's way out and call her from the urgent care facility so I wouldn't have to face her evil glare.  Doing it over the phone did not help.  Her disgusted voice was even worse than the stare.

I blame the bike.  I blame the bike industry.  I blame anyone but myself.  If they had not invented such a fun bike to ride, I would not have been tempted to ride beyond my skill set like I used to.  But I will say that even though the bike is an evil ride, it is very much a fun evil ride and I will be riding the crap out of it as long as I am able.

So much for being older and wiser ................................

My Sunday Morning Window

The Sun is streaming in through my Sunday morning window.  It is teasing me, giving me that come hither look to bolt outside into the warm embrace of an early Spring Day.  I look at the thermometer strategically placed next to my Sunday morning window.  It tells me the Sun is offering up nothing but false hope, pulling a prank, hoping to entice me to take part in it's cruel joke.  There will be no warm embrace, no warming of my cheeks as I step out into the Sun.  It will be just the evil chuckle of a chill as it travels down my spine when the frozen wind hits me in the face instead.

So, I sit on the inside looking out and imagine a warm day unfolding beyond the glass of my Sunday morning window.  And though I know deep down I am only fooling myself, I also know that if I wait for the robins to step down from their roosts, I will know then the day unfolding outside of my Sunday morning window will at least be cordial.

Later Gator, I have a bike ride to enjoy ...................................................

Christmas Card - 2015

Every few Christmas Seasons, I forgo the store bought route and create my own gifts.  Because not everyone on my list might need or even want a bird house crafted from recycled materials, I turn what creative juices are still flowing to making and mailing home made Christmas cards.  My only rule is to use images I had a part in, either as the maker or the makee.

I have created more than a few over the years with mixed results.  But for me it is more the quality of the feeling I put into them than the quality of the final card.  From my crude beginnings using construction paper and kindergarten glue to what I have sent this Season, my intention is always to convey my best and let them know they are in my thoughts.  Is that not what this season should be all about?

The two image card above/left was a bitch to come up with.  I had these two images I knew I could do something with.  I wasted some ink before I came up with the final product.  It is non-denominational, non confrontational, and multilateral in that there is no bias, just enjoy your personal connections, at least for the moment.

Anyway, just thought I would share what I am doing for Christmas.

Ho .........................................................

Favorite Things

We all have favorite things.  Objects, songs, books, plants, people, ideals and notions...whatever.  Often, why a particular item is favored over another of similar construction and purpose are hard to pin down.  It becomes a prized possession for any number of reasons.

Longevity perhaps.  We have had this thing in our lives for so long, it's presence is taken for granted and when it is gone or destroyed, a small hole is left where it once stood.  Take my life long love of bicycles and the activities associated with them.  I cannot remember my first bike ride.  All I know is bicycles have been part of my life for as long as I can remember.  I love riding them, building them, fixing them, and selling them.  Should I lose the ability to enjoy any or all the facets of cycling, the quality of my lifestyle would plummet.

I had a favorite coffee cup once upon a time.  It held 16 ounces of Joe, was decently insulated and was shaped like an old Coca Cola glass, the kind you might have used to enjoy a true soda fountain Coke while your mom shopped til she dropped in Kresge's or whatever five and dime you had in your hometown.

The Ex-Marine

I was supposed to go ice riding this morning.  I didn't.  My daughter came up from Springfield, Mass yesterday.  I figured a visit with her even for the short time she would be here today before she left was more important than a freezing cold ride out in the woods.  And it was some cold this morning.  Windchill I figure was in the negative numbers below zero.  Brrrr.

I am glad I took time from my own selfish pursuits to catch up with the world and events surrounding my only daughter.  She is hating her doctoral program at the moment because of the courses she is being force fed.  But she knows it will get better.  Her Honda Fit  she now knows is not meant for winter style driving - too loosie goosie in the frozen shit.  And she has finally found a guy that seems to fit in with her lifestyle.

No Guilt.....Well Not Enough for Me to Not Do It

"Yeah Keith, you are absolutely correct.  I oughta give myself a new bike for my 60th birthday.  Ain't had a brand new complete bike built from the ground up in more than a few years.  Think the last one was my 'Ted', almost 20 years ago."

And so the seed was planted.  A small part of a casual conversation about bikes, riding, and when will the ice and snow be completely gone in the woods............. If anyone asks, I'll swear it was Keith's fault.

Eight on the Eighth

It is January 8, 2012.  My small part of the world has been turned on its ear.  We should be up to our keisters in snow and the trails in the woods should be too nasty soft to ride bikes.  Yet today eight of us went out and busted off some solid trail miles like it was late Fall before the first snow of winter.  I have only had to pull on the cold, cold weather gloves once this year.

By this time in January I am lucky if I have ridden once - usually a token ride on New Years Day.  As of today, 1/8/12, I have 5 rides under my belt.  Not token rides, but good efforts on real dirt............ There just is absolutely no snow out there.  Oh, some white shit is still tucked away under trees and in the deep shade, but my trails are clean and damn fast because they are frozen.

Strangest winter I have ever experienced in Maine, and I have more than a few behind me now.  I understand the mild conditions in the  US can be found everywhere this year.  I saw videos of kids kickin back on swings in Chicago and at least one was barefoot.  Strange shit I tell ya.  Maybe the Mayan Gods are giving us one last good run before they turn the lights out come December 21.

Before the New Year hits us, I accept that there will be snow.  I expect it and even hope for some.  The New Year kicks in and I want nothing more to do with the white shit.  By January 2nd I am ready for Spring.  That said, I am ready for Spring, but will hope it stays cold enough to finally give us some seriously good ice riding.  Hopefully the snow does not come with the cold.

I won't hold my breath...........................................
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Some new fiction over to BoZone Too

~  Chicago Likes Things Tidy

~ Turn Left and Look Up

~ Lying Truth - Indie Ink Challenge - 100 Words

The Best Fight Ever

So I'm abusing the Hell out of google last night and searching out information or images on anything that pops into my mind.  Yeah I know.  Get a life or something close, but what the hell, it beat sitting numb and dumb in front of the tube.

I google my name.  I google my brothers names.  I google my mom's name, Hell I go through the family one member at a time.  Nothing new really.  Then I googled "Charlotte Hall, images".  Jack pot.  I am looking at images, old and new, of the area that was named after the military school I attended in southern Maryland back in the 1960s.  There are few school buildings standing now.  They were in tough shape when I went there.  After the school closed about 1976, they fell into disrepair and most were razed when the property was turned into a Veteran's home.

One of the buildings still there has been restored and is apparently one of the finest examples of American Gothic architecture in the state of Maryland.  When I had to use it, it was just a church.  It is called the Dent Memorial Chapel.  It was built in 1884.

A Great Man's Downfall

I think I have finally figured it out.  It had been bothering me for quite awhile.  But after stumbling upon the photo to the Right, the pieces began to fall into place.

First some background.............

He was raised to be a good Conservative in a family whose Conservative values stretched back through the years more than a few generations.  His family affluence provided him with the nurturing atmosphere of privilege and he wanted for nothing.  All that was expected of him was to go forth into the World and do his best to, as historian Gregory Schneider put it, "Defend Western civilization from the challenges of modernist culture and totalitarian governments".

He went to all the right schools, met all the right people (Conservatives of course), married, had children, and proceeded to find his place in the World.  It was determined fairly early on he had no nose for business.  What else was there for a good Conservative to put his mind to but politics.  After all, the way had been paved by his family and their years long involvement in National politics.

He started out small in a big state.  His success there impressed the movers and shakers entrusted with bringing America back to its roots of God fearing Conservatism.  They saw in him a chance to turn around 8 years of Liberal sabotage at the hands of a semi pink philanderer.  They pushed him, prodded him and through creative vote counting courtesy of his brother,  managed to place him at the helm of the USS America.  May God shed his light on thee.

So what happened?  Why, with all the pedigree, all the support, all the connections, did this once fine Conservative become a pariah in his own movement?   Instead of decreasing the size of government, he allowed it to grow.  Instead of pinching pennies and keeping the deficit under control, he invaded other countries and spent money like a good Democrat.  Oh he tried to keep up appearances by appearing somewhat dim and disconnected like many of his peers seem to love.  But something had happened behind the scenes.  Some insidious moment, some Left Wing influence, some evil from the progressive side had infiltrated his soul.

When I came upon the above photo, I figured it out.  He was seduced by one of the darker evils from the Left.   He became an avid cyclist.   He didn't just ride a bike for the positive polling a kodak moment on a bike might bring.  The man fell in love with riding a bike.  And to make matters worse, he did not stop at the almost okay anal retentive roadie stage, like so many of his peers seemed to think was acceptable.  He became a mountain biker.  A type of cycling whose roots go directly to the hippie dippy pot smoking whackoes of Marin County in California.  It is a known fact that all mountain bikers either smoke pot and think war is stupid, or they have smoked pot in the past and don't mind if others do.  Even if they support war now, at one time, they did not.  In other words, mountain bikers embody the worse kind of Liberalism - Live and let live.  They have been known to get drunk or stoned and ride naked.  They will often pull off the trail to share a doob and a clif bar.  They use terms right out of the 1960s and 70s - Dude, Stoked, Gnarly - all words of subversion, every one.

So folks and whoever else might catch this,  please find in your hearts some compassion for this man.  What he thought was but an innocent diversion and healthy activity was actually a commie conspiracy to undermine his efforts to turn back the clock to when America was greater than even it thought it was.  Forgive him his fall from grace and understand now how sneaky those Liberals really are.