1st entry in my Autobiography

· "You’re going to be an alchy"

A hopeless catholic boy was I - endeared to the mysteries of faith and the rules of living. Father Endres was, as were the entire Boy Scout Troop 134 Leadership, a well-known and respected drinker. Maybe it was all the trips to the chalice and the blood of Jesus that led him to have the thirst, but reputedly it was the brandy that slaked it. So it was that I was both a hopelessly hopeful catholic and a beginner drinker.

My sister Gayle, the one I’d hoped to marry someday when I was 4, in a manner adopted me when I was 14. She invited me to hang out with her friends on the occasional occasion to play football and listen to Kansas records and complain about the injustice of having an older sister and an older brother. For this I thought she was very cool. She was a recent graduate of Fort High. The year was 1976, the school colors at Fort were Black and Red, but there was no Black at her graduation ceremony. Red yes, and white and blue. Stars and stripes.

My 6^th, 7^th and 8^th grade years were spent with my best friend George. He had a Crossman pump bb gun, a huge AFX slot car set up, a garden shed and the spirit of the Marlboro man. It was with George that I learned the thrill of killing small critters such as frogs and chipmunks, but also the agony of not quite killing something a bit bigger – say a squirrel. Oh George’s anguish that the fucker would not just be dead from the wrist rocket shot that partially crushed its head, and that it needed further crushing underneath a large stick and then George’s foot.

George and I smoked Marlboros (that we bought for his mom – wink) and wished we had horses and lever action rifles.

Soon enough George and I also discovered the thrill of girls – hoping they would join us in an exclusive double date game of kick-the-can; when they didn’t show hoping that they somehow just got a bit lost on their way over and that they’d hear us yelling, “AMY!”, “THERESA”, over and over again at the tops of our lungs. And the thrill of boners although very fortunately NOT the thrill of ejaculate.

And so it was that decades later I realized that my sister Gayle did not, in fact, want me to hang out with her and her friends. She was trying to save me from the path I was well down toward being permanently weird.

And so the time had come where I had kissed Nancy (well, she kissed me and it was so hard and wet that our teeth hit and my cheeks got wet, and I touched her boobs, and I’d been to a few parties where drinking was involved. I didn’t especially like or dislike any particular alcohol I drank at that point – but I remember being shocked when each time I drank, I got drunk! And there were other rules to follow, like being home by 9:00.

Gayle knew that night right off the bat that I’d been drinking a lot (of sloe gin – which as I witnessed earlier that evening, when barfed makes it appear to drinking newbies that the barfee is dying a most unpleasant death). She steered me into the kitchen under the guise of helping her do the dishes. Dad was in the “dining room” watching t.v. (it is for that reason that I insist rooms be called what they actually are rather than, “the old E.D”,”the old ICU”, “the dining room”. Not that we didn’t eat in the dining room and maybe it was actually a dining room, but the space actually served as a “family room” – console t.v. that needed to be hit just so to make it work, a couch with boogers under the dust ruffle, a squeaky chair and a little table lamp).

“You’re going to be an alchy”, said Gayle.

“No I’m not”, said I.

“What?” she asked.

“I’m not going to be an alchy”, I said. I’d only been drinking 2 or 3 times that year and it seemed rather audacious for her to be labeling me this way while I was in the throes of being blissfully intoxicated. Honestly it did concern me a bit, but I knew even then, perhaps instinctually, that the only thing to do when being called a drunk (or a pot head) by anyone was to make an immediate and pronounced denial. “I’m not even that drunk”.

“No”, my sister said, “you’re going to be an uncle”.

Phew – she didn’t think I was an alcoholic after all.

The 1st day

A few months ago I committed to gaining some healthy weight. I felt at the time that 180 pounds was too skinny - for a strong man. I've since regretted writing that because 1) I still weighed 180 pounds. The weight I'd lost wasn't for a lack of food and by all reasonable measures I was very healthy; and 2) I weighted 180 pounds. How many 6 footers would love to see the 180's on their scales?

Well - last night I blasted the scale at 198!! I was very surprised and quite pleased. I have actually been working pretty damn hard at gaining good weight. My nephew has been coming over a few nights a week to do heavy lifting and we always follow the work outs with whey protein drinks - oj for me, milk for him. Then we eat piles of eggs, meat or whatever else there is in the fridge.

Last night I was at the farm and got out my "lincoln logs". They're actually sections of telephone poles that I pick up and drop, and pick up again. One is really good for flipping end over end. One is really good for just picking up and walking. The last is really good for carrying on one shoulder and doing very deep squats. Playing with these feels like REAL strong man training.

Interesting turn of events - my weight is back exactly where I want it. I was HOME playing with telephone poles. I have a gold band on the ring finger of my left hand. I cleaned the VFR and did a lot of fast riding (fast, not hurried).

It is the first day of the rest of my life.

p.s.

To my loving sister -would that we could take away each other's sadness and pain. Thank you for checking on my blog and leaving comments. It makes me happy to know you've been here.

There comes a time

Hurdles help you gauge the distance you're running. The distance is meted out as you run, and as you look ahead, it's not the finish line you see, but the next hurdle.

Obstacles give you something to overcome and/or traverse so the finish line isn't the only goal.

Curves, twisties, elements, wildlife, traffic, cages, wet leaves, sand, orange cones, glaring sun, oppressive heat and oppressive cold are what make the ride interesting. The interstate is synonymous with cruise control. Who needs a throttle? Acceleration?

A rabbit sprang into my path last summer. Knowing instantly that it was a rabbit I did nothing evasive. Then a thought occurred - what if it had been a dog or a deer? Would I have been ready?

I decided then and there to treat minor obstacles as opportunities to hone my riding skills -emergency braking, swerves, avoidance maneuvers. And I did.

A deer sprang into my path last fall. As soon as I detected movement in my peripheral range I began braking HARD. The fawn was determined to cross my path at 90 degrees. My rear tire locked and I started to skid. My front was still rolling but at the point where I started to swerve to my left the fawn decided to change its course to parallel. As it voided its bladder onto the pavement I came to a complete stop. The fawn lived. I lived. The fawn pursued its destiny. I pursued mine.

I wrote awhile ago about the Shaky Man. He was not a victim of his pathology, his obstacles. He is defined by what he chooses.

I am not a victim. I am a motorcyclist. And a strong man. And...