I am a...

I was 12 in 1974. Certainly in most ways a modern era, yet in others it was ages ago. What do you remember from 1974? What do you remember from being 12?
Briefly and in random order here are a few of mine in terms of statements and thoughts:

• “You were queering with me, too”. Said the Boy Scout leader to the other leaders in defense of fondling me in a tent one night.
• This is bad I’ve got to get out of here.
• If mom or dad find out I’m in trouble.

I learned that’s how boys handle this kind of shame. And it becomes how a man handles things. We don’t talk. “If I tell mom or dad,( or my friends, or my wife, or)…trouble”.

It wasn’t a Scouting event that day/night. He was pretty cool – let us shoot guns on his parents’ property, make camp fires and do real camping; not just me, but lots of boys.

But, simply, it was cold, cold, cold that night and I was so cold I couldn’t sleep. I said, “I’m freezing”. He said climb in my sleeping bag. I did. It was warmer, but also sickeningly creepy. There wasn’t a lot of room. His hands on me. Not necessary. Not necessary.

I got out.

Did he do that to other boys? I don’t know, but I am certain.

I never knew why the leadership of Troop 134 of St. Joseph’s Catholic Church was unceremoniously removed and replaced a year or so later. I don’t know if my mom and dad know. I think they do; there was a meeting the parents attended. Nothing was shared. What I think happened is that another boy was assaulted and this boy did tell his parents, and his parents did go to the church and did demand…a change.

The church, the BSA, the parents made it go away. No crime was committed – just really gross, unseemly behavior. Sick, perverted behavior. And that’s what you did back then – you made it go away and put it out of your mind and I guess it didn’t matter one fucking little bit that the goddamn perpetrator was still out there. Out there was ok, because it wasn’t “here”.

I don’t think my mom and dad know I was a victim. I never told them.

I know why the grad student didn’t stop the assault taking place in the shower at Penn State, why Joe Pa only reported it internally, why the assistant coach, the assailant, was allowed to keep his reputation intact. Even today, for the grad assistant to go to the police would have meant that he’d lose his job with Penn fucking State; he’d have been ostracized for taking an internal matter outside; he’d have betrayed Joe fucking Pa!. That’s why the other scout leaders didn’t react or do anything when one of their own said, of a 12 year old child, “you were queering with me, too”. As with the church scandals and with Penn State, no crime was committed – just really gross, unseemly behavior. Sick, perverted behavior. And that’s what you did back then – you made it go away and put it out of your mind and I guess it didn’t matter one fucking little bit that the goddamn perpetrator was still out there. Out there was ok, because it wasn’t “here”.

Epilogue: Yes, a crime was committed. Crimes were committed. How many, I don’t know. I checked the state Sexual Predator Registration list and there was mine. The photo showed a 62 year old, 6’1”, 250 lb man. I recognized him. 1988 conviction for 2nd Degree sexual assault, type B. He must have plead down because the Circuit Court Access shows he was charged with a 1st Degree sexual assault.

I am a Motorcyclist and a strongman, and a husband and a father. And when I was a child I was assaulted by an adult. I am a victim. Thank you for letting me talk about it.

It's a 2006

I ride a 2006 Honda VFR Interceptor. That means my bike is almost 6 years old. But...
- the oil,filter and tires have only 2400 miles on them;
- the chain, sprockets and brake pads have about 600;
- I clean and lube the chain ever other week or so;
- I clean and polish it a couple times per month;
- I check the air pressure in each tire every time I fill it up with gas;
- Before every ride I check the brakes, lights and turn signals;
- Annually I have all the fluids checked.

I also...
- Study to be a better rider;
- Know what I'm good at and enjoy it!
- Know what I'm not good at and practice to get better;
- I only ride 100% sober, 100% of the time;
- I know the risks and take steps to mitigate them.

So what's your hobby or passion. Do you have a whole list of things you do to keep your "2006" running well and safe? to keep your 2006 running like new?

And what about yourself? And your relationships? What are you putting into your body and your mind?

I am making a resolution, here and now, to apply the passion I have for motorcycling to what is really important in my life.

Now, I know that even with everything I do to maintain my 2006, and to mitigate the risks of riding, I may crash. But I also know my 2006 will only get old if I let it get old.

Decisiveness

I took a nice long ride two weekends ago. Headed south on great Rock County roads, crossed the cheddar curtain into the realm of Northern Illinois. Took a right and passed through Galena, then Dubuque, then back home. I reckoned my direction by the position of the sun as I had the whole day to just ride and not knowing where I was was not an issue. I checked maps when I stopped for refreshments.

On the other hand - it was hot and dry and I stopped frequently for water. I wore all my gear. I practiced my good habits and practiced some things that I hope become good habits. I had fun but I rode my ride.

The path can be taken as it reveals itself. Which fork in the road can be chosen on a whim. But we need to have something to reckon our positions against so, while we enjoy not knowing where we are, we do not get lost.

Values.
Morals.
Belief.
Faith.

We need to keep our balance and know how to swim to the surface. We need to engage in adventure and enjoy the thrills of risk. But the ride cannot take ownership of us.

I agree with "it's the journey, not the destination". But each time we conduct ourselves in a manner inconsistent with our principles we have stopped the journey and arrived at our destination.

Follow the...

leader or the path.

I have for the most part over the past two plus years been a solo motorcyclist, so I felt myself uncomfortable both leading and following a friend on a long ride recently. He's a more accomplished and studied motorcyclist than me so I didn't feel qualified to be out in front and was somewhat afraid of exposing my lack of riding skills from the rear.

While tailing I found myself watching him as he prepared for and then took corners. A shift of weight, a moment that seemed like a pause, and then into the turn. I tried to mimic him a bit. And that's when I found myself going into a corner, perhaps not too fast for the VFR, but too fast for me. I could see the full turn of the corner and off into the length of the road and since there was no oncoming traffic I let myself dethrottle and sweep into the left lane.

During coffee I mentioned this to my friend and he said, "that's how you follow someone right into the ditch."

So there you have it. The perfect metaphor.

I have a path to follow every day. I encounter opportunities to make a choice when a fork in the road presents itself. But no matter which I choose it is still My Path.

You know - the person in front is only a leader in the sense that the followers grant him/her. Maybe he's the fastest, or just the most reckless. Maybe he knows the route. Or maybe he's just an ass that everyone wants to keep up front where he can be watched! Maybe he won't be there for long because everyone will stop following him.

So I posit - there would be less vitriol, less rancor and anger...there would be more self fulfillment and actualization, if we all, individually, followed our respective paths (redundancy intended)instead of our arbitrary at best, bought at worst, leaders.

Comments please...

I found a rock

Kicking through a bramble pile on the corner of my neighbor's field I found some pretty big rocks. I decided to see if I could lift them. The first one was way too heavy and I couldn't even get it off the ground. The second one was a little light. And, of course, the third one was just perfect. I can barely lift this stone and it takes quite awhile to get my hands positioned just so. But I finally picked it up and struggling, carried it over to the barn. I've got my new stone placed on top of my "lincoln logs" that I use for strong man training.

I like shopping - but not for anything in particular. I especially like shopping at resale shops. Sometimes a tie, a book, a pair of shoes, a tool, a cup...

Sometimes you discover a void, sometimes slight, sometimes deep, by happening upon something new (or new to you). You don't covet it, or crave it. You just know it's perfect for you.

(Something about this post is deeply profound for me. But upon re-reading it I'm a bit embarrassed by it. Not exactly buddhist...)

Amelioration.
Redux.
Strongman.
What’s in a name.

Conclusion.

If the rock Sisyphus shoved up the fucking mountain, instead of rolling down the other side crushed him, would he then quit? Sisyphus became my idol a while ago because of an essay, by Camus, which suggested Sisyphus didn’t quit chasing the fucking stone because he loved his work. Hoist and chase, hoist and chase.

Chasing is different than being crushed.

Whither the Center

Pompous vs. Pretentious
Pompous: Republican, Conservative, Rush Limbaugh – Ridiculous that you would think it could be any other way.
Pretentious: Democrat, Liberal, Al Gore – Your ignorance is why you think it could be any other way.

My dear father used to include me on his distribution list for forwarded emails that promoted neo-simple, generally Republican in nature, forwarded emails. I hated them, not just because I disagreed with them, but because they were always 1) wrong, and 2) insulting. So I started replying to them by hitting “reply all” and then giving a very reasoned and tempered response. No one on the DL ever responded back.
Now, I’m pretty much a Liberal, and pretty much a Democrat, but when my Liberal friends started forwarding on to me, via DL lists, Liberal propaganda I felt it appropriate to respond along the lines I did with my dad. Interestingly I often received responses from the others on these DL lists. You see where as the former concluded I was just another ridiculous, liberal pin head and just wrote me off, the latter concluded I was just another ignorant, (albeit closet) republican ass who just needed to be more open and make more of an effort to appreciate (nee agree with) their views of the world.
Propaganda is propaganda, and it doesn’t matter if it comes from the Right or the Left. It is usually based on a tenet or principle, and includes just enough fact to make it appear objective.
Here are some notable examples:
• Barack Obama got into law school because of Affirmative Action.
• WalMart is evil.
• Liberals are anti- second amendment, gun rights, self-defense and hunting.
• Republicans are owned by corporations.
• Organic food is more nutritious.
• Global warming is a hoax.
• The other side is anti-American and doesn’t care what “the American people” want.
I’ll conclude with the following:
We should all work hard and save and give charitably. We should limit our exposure to propaganda, especially that coming from 24-hour news shows and the internet. We should promote and role model – not solicit. That’s probably the most important so I’ll repeat it: We should promote and role model – not solicit. We should hold any group with no vocal dissenters up for very close scrutiny. I mean, really…party line votes? Really?

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...

Who You Are

Who are you? My answer to most questioners is a husband and father. But obviously, given the existence of this blog, I should also include Motorcyclist. It is interesting, isn't it, how different people answer this question. A lot of people when asked will tell you the title of their jobs or the field of their careers.

I just found myself wondering what happens to one's self image when one's life changes. I guess an alcoholic is always an alcoholic, but an alcoholic that stops drinking is no longer a drunk. A motorcyclist who gives up his motorcycle, either willingly or against his will...can he still be a motorcyclist? What of a husband who loses his wife?

What is now always has been and will forever be. Personal identification is clearly an arbitrary and intellectual exercise. I think that's why I started this blog with the statement, "I am a motorcyclist. For a long time I was a motorcyclist without a motorcycle. Now I am a motorcyclist with a motorcycle and I am happy." I didn't have a bike but I knew I was a motorcyclist.

I'll always be a parent. It is at the core of my personal identity. I will always be a husband. That too is at the core of my identity.

I look forward to my continuing evolution as a person, man, human. What will I become in the future? I can only guess. But I do know who I am right now.

The Seed

The man dug a small hole in the ground and in it placed a seed. For days and weeks he tended the seed - watering and fertilizing and weeding and loving. After a while the man started to tend to the seed less and less often and eventually he just gave up. The man hadn't known what kind of seed he'd planted. After all, he was no gardener. He'd assumed the seed would grow quickly and he'd be able to enjoy the fruit from the vine or the beauty of flowers. The seed was bad and was never going to grow.

While the man was away and after many, many months the seed did sprout.

The son of the man, a man himself now - a lifetime later - on a sunny, hot, windless, perfect summer day, sat down and leaned against the trunk of a tree, (he didn't know what kind of tree. After all, he was no arborist.) But he enjoyed the cool shade that the tree offered and appreciated how the leaves, tickled by breezes he could not detect, danced and shivered against the blue sky.

Don't ever ask "where should we plant seeds?" "What kind?" "For whom?" Rather, plant seeds, whatever kind you have, wherever you are and for whomever may come along.