Category: Humor

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Motorcycle Crossing

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I love riding this time of year. Early fall, cool in the mornings, and perfect when you ride home. This morning’s ride to work was just that. I had my leather jacket on, knowing that at 49 degrees on the ride in, it would not be needed this afternoon on the way home. About six miles from home the road drops into a valley where the small community of Skiddy resides, and of course where the temperature drops what seems to be about 10 degrees. It’s also a known hangout for deer. You cross two bridges over the same creek with trees lining the banks, so I guess from a deer’s perspective it makes a great place to jump from the ditches and scare us folks on motorcycles.

Every day you swing a leg over the seat of a motorcycle, you take a chance. There isn’t a day goes by that a car doesn’t pull out in front of me without the driver looking my way – it’s going to happen, so I fully expect it. Deer on the other hand, have an element of surprise that humans posses but rarely use. Deer usually come to work semi-camouflaged to their surroundings, aren’t going to have a cell phone up to their head and they do their best work anywhere but in an intersection. Humans are usually confined to pavement and as long as your head is on a swivel, they are predictable.

This morning as the sun was coming up but yet to crest the horizon, I dropped into the valley crossing the first bridge. After the bridge there is a gradual curve to the left that can be taken without slowing down and this morning wasn’t going to be any different. Once I was committed into the curve, out of the corner of my good eye I realized a doe was ignoring the Motorcycle Crossing sign. She was stepping up onto the road from the ditch to my left wearing a stunning brown fur coat (like I said, the temperature feels about 10 degrees cooler when you drop down through Skiddy, so a coat was expected). Traveling at about 50 miles per hour and well into to the curve, I had only a split-second to react to the situation as it presented itself. My history with deer indicates an unpredictable jump out of the ditch onto the road or they are already standing there, statuesque, on the road staring directly into my headlight. This doe was just casually stepping onto the road as if waiting on a school bus, and as I rounded the curve our eyes met – hers big and brown, mine wide open. Her head moved, following me and watching to see what I was going to do next, mine doing the same thing, waiting for the inevitable to happen. Had I reached out with my left hand I felt like I could have touched her, but I’m sure she was a littler further away than that. Too close for me either way.

I accept the risk of riding motorcycles, and in a split-second this situation could have gone from a close call to call an ambulance. Remaining composed, I didn’t slow down or panic, but rather accepted whatever decision this deer was going to make. It’s amazing how fast you can think when faced with a situation involving many different factors, hoping for the best, and the only control you have is your own actions. I don’t know what the doe was thinking, but I’m sure she was just as surprised as I was.

Just like that it was over with. It all ended well and I made it to work without a scratch. As a daily occurrence, a car pulled off the exit ramp of I-70, didn’t stop at the stop sign or look my way – barely a close call but I knew it was going to happen so there were no surprises. At least the deer saw me.

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Common Denominator

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It started for me before 1974. An exposure to motorcycles through magazines, I allowed myself to be consumed by an ongoing urge to ride on two wheels. In my early days, it was about horsing around, pulling wheelies and power-slides, climbing hills and getting air-born while honing my skills and learning that hitting the deck can hurt – not enough to keep me off my motorcycles, just enough to teach me a lesson. As time moved on the competition side of me took over and I raced a little motocross only to realize I was just on the verge of being average at it before I broke my leg on the third lap of leading my moto in 1987. A fast, sweeping corner with a nice berm, I tried cutting inside, got cross-rutted and went down. Did it end my enthusiasm? No, it just changed my focus from dirt to street. It was an easy transition, and going places on a bike felt pretty good. Still in the early days, I was riding for the fun of it. Nothing to deep, just getting on and going places just for the sake of going. No rhyme or reason, or a plan in place, just riding to ride.

I can’t remember any time since the early 70’s that motorcycles weren’t a big part of my daily routine. Reading about them, riding when I could or just talking about bikes with others when we weren’t riding. Growing up with friends that ride helps considerably and learning to work on them was a plus as well. But still, at that age it was impossible to understand exactly what kind of effect this would have on me through the years. As constant as the ringing in my ears, the thoughts of motorcycles and everything that surrounds them, I’ve carried with me.

A lot has changed over the years with technology, style, performance and price – but the one common denominator through it all has been how the motorcycle influences me. The people involved within the industry – whether professional racers, moto-journalists, photographers, builders or enthusiasts all have an impact on our perception of this sport, but it’s the motorcycle that pulls it all together and brings it all to life. I ride motorcycles for transportation, recreation and meditation. It isn’t a hobby – it’s a passion, and with passion comes inspiration. That feeling I had the first time I let the clutch out, when motion turned into emotion, was truly a memorable moment. Although the reason I ride has evolved into a more complex explanation, it can always be broken down into passion.

No matter what you ride, remember why you ride. As I get older it has become apparent this is my fountain of youth, because when you’re young you don’t think in those terms. Riding motorcycles allows me to never lose that feeling of letting the clutch out for the first time and it’s also a vehicle from which to reflect on all of the miles and memories I’ve experienced over the years. We all have something we’re passionate about and mine just happens to be motorcycles. I wouldn’t change it for the world and I would do it all over again given the chance. Well, maybe I would change one thing; I would probably have taken a different line in that corner back in 1987.

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Dropping Anchor in San Diego Bay

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If there is one thing I truly enjoy, it would be meeting new people. Recently while flying to San Diego California for a motorcycle dealer show (my first trip to California), I sat next to a gentleman who, quite obviously was traveling for business as well, wearing a suit jacket and slacks. In my line of work, business casual is just that – minus the business. Blue jeans, tennis shoes and a work shirt are sufficient and from the untrained eye it would appear I was just an average guy on a plane. Who am I kidding, I’m just average no matter how you dress me. As the flight took off from DFW we sat mostly silent in our seats. During the first few minutes of the flight we could over-hear two random passengers talking about airplanes, their history, books they’ve read and some museums they both have been to. What luck, I thought, that two guys from different corners of this country could find each other and have so much in common and be seated that close for the next couple of hours. I made the comment “sounds like they were made for each other” and my friend next to me said “yes, and it is very interesting to listen to.” I agreed, and now the ice was broken and our own conversation took off.

 And as we talked, I realized that we too, are from different corners of this country and in some random strategy that only the airlines can come up with, placed us right next to each other. He is from Atlanta and just recently moved there with his work. I am from a small town in Kansas with the apparent boat anchor tied to my ankle.

We talked about the usual – where are you headed, what do you do and where are you from – mixed with some smaller details of family, life and business. And as we talked, I realized that we too, are from different corners of this country and in some random strategy that only the airlines can come up with, placed us right next to each other. He is from Atlanta and just recently moved there with his work. I am from a small town in Kansas with the apparent boat anchor tied to my ankle. He oversees a national sales force with about 140 employees selling medical devices and I sell motorcycles to those who I hope will never need such medical devices. A common thread being my daughter Kelly has had the Harrington rods placed in her back from Scoliosis. He asked how, after all these years, she was doing with them, and I thought back to the days of when she was going through that. He talked of the challenges he has with his line of work, and I could fully relate.

As most conversations do, it turned to politics and family, social media and the likes, and how this world is changing right before our eyes. He spoke of his ten-year old son, Jackson, who has a great relationship with his grandmother, wants to have a little more responsibility at home, and how his two children and wife are why he does what he does. Losing time with family at home to travel to a meeting in San Diego is a sacrifice, but right now it’s what he needs to do. Work hard, and enjoy the moments you have when you get home. Originally from Texas, he said that having family nearby was great, and they still get there once a month or so to visit. I, on the other hand, have my folks right down the street and most of my family is close enough that it really isn’t that big of a deal.

A lot in common? Sure. Different? Not in a bad way. For a couple of hours I had a great conversation with someone who I could relate to. So often we sit and not say a word, when the individual sitting right next to us is so much like us, or better yet, so different from us that it will be interesting either way. The plane landed and we shook hands. I wished him well and safe travels as I would any of my closest friends, and he was gone. I would like to think in this great big world, that I left an impression on him. We often move about our day and don’t realize the impact we might have on someone, and he had an impact on me. I learned something about the business he is in and I would like to think he got off the plane and thought the same about me. I wonder if he noticed the mark around my ankle where the boat anchor used to be.

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Twists and Turns

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This road I’m on, much like a book, has a story to tell. Whether built out of commerce or curiosity, it is here to take me to a place only the author knows of. Each chapter changes as the storyline becomes real. The harder the road is to build, the better the story gets, and it takes longer for the story to be written than ridden, so like a good book it will have its ups and downs and whirlwinds of emotion, taking us chapter by chapter until we reach the end. We can feel the hard work the author experienced and we can see his intentions of bringing this book to life. So we ride on.

Traveling through the hills and valleys on a motorcycle can tell us of the trials and tribulations of building a road this difficult. I can appreciate the difficulty and both the builder and I know that it isn’t easy to finish something that can withstand the test of time. His way of bringing the landscape to life with the sweat of his brow gives all that read his book the best seat in the house. Like every story, you can always flip back through the pages to read certain passages over and over, and as this road twists and turns, I may have to return to ride this road again. It’s that good.

Who knows how this ride will end? The suspense is building and the road only gets better. The way the author placed the sunset in just the right place and the tree line of pines with just the right amount of backdrop. Beautiful in a way, that only the one who had a hand in building this road could do. He must have been a motorcyclist as the curves come at the right time and it all seems intentional. This must not be his first time of building suspense and putting us in a place of his choosing. But we are here, immersed in his interpretation, and I think I know where this story is going to end; I think.

As you would expect, this book ends with a happy ending. I’m glad this story ended the way it did, and it has only added to my experience and imagination. I will ride this road again and I’m sure I will pick up something I didn’t see the first time and as all stories go, it leaves us in a better place. Much like a road we discover, regardless of having ridden it before, something as simple as the seasons changing can put a new twist on the story. Whether you ride a motorcycle or not, ride the “Story of Life” and see where it takes you. If nothing else, the ending may surprise you.

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Our Town

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Our town can be anywhere, and the boundaries of a zip code are no match when it comes to who we are as a community or where we end up as an individual. People come and go and even as the distance becomes greater to those who chose to explore the horizons that surround our town, they are still in some small way connected by friends, family or memories. Our town is wherever we make it and as life and surroundings change we often stay the same. We can throw ourselves into the world but if there is just a bit of small town in you, it is carried wherever you go. It’s an impact we have on those who haven’t been to our town and we wear it well. We may disguise it on the surface, but at some point our town will come up in conversation and only then will they understand who we are.

We can always return, but mostly we never left. If our town was just a little closer to where we ended up, it wouldn’t be the same. There is a threshold that is called distance, and once it’s crossed our memories become clearer and reflections become necessary. Our town is who we are no matter where we are and it shows in the foundation built by the people of every community. Is it that our town is getting older, or is it me? It was here long before me, and it will be here long after I’m gone. So leaving those imaginary boundaries of our town should be easy. For some it is, and for others, well, it is not. Someday.

There are those that only lived in our town a short while, and we hope that their experience will go with them in a positive way. For it is those few that will look back with a greater opinion of what our town is really like. Family, friends and neighbors all have that deep connection, and we see our town from a different light, but those whose roots are short should experience it in only a positive way. After all, those who left our town have also experienced a new and different community and all it has to offer. We only want the best for those who left and should welcome all that come. That’s just part of the foundation of our town.

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Big News in a Small Town

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It doesn’t take much to be considered big news in Small Town America. A house being built, new bleachers at the football field or a sidewalk that has been replaced with fresh concrete can top the list, and often do. Growing up in White City puts you on the side of being pro-active because for many years, if you didn’t have what you needed from the grocery store before 6pm, you just did without. If your car needed gas, you had to get it before the gas station closed, or wait until the morning when it opened. No, we didn’t roll the streets up at dark, unless it was dark at 6 o’clock.

But times do change and before you know it, the modern world creeps into these small, sleepy towns. I can remember the excitement when the Central National Bank expanded to include a drive-up window. I know, the hustle and bustle of the downtown area of White City can be daunting, but the convenience of the drive -up was welcomed. A few years later, the bank added an ATM machine in the lobby to make convenience more convenient but you had to get out of your car to use it. I don’t think the community could have handled the excitement of the drive-up ATM.

Our newspaper, The Prairie Post  (of The White City Register), used to print the actual paper the old-fashioned way. Big machines with lots of moving parts and loud noises with presses that weren’t good for anything but printing the good and bad news of the week,  and they worked hard to put out the Thursday paper. Real ink and no spell-check made for a wonderful paper that when you read it on Thursday, most of the news had already circulated around town. But it is great to read the paper and see your name in it on occasion. With computers finally making it into what is now the Prairie Post, the paper became a more streamlined operation. Still once a week, but now it’s only the quiet sound the keyboard makes as the news is entered in. And the phone ringing of course as news is breaking.

When the gas station updated their pumps to take your credit card day or night, I went up the very first day (after 6pm) just to try it out. Now that’s pretty convenient. But I think most of the locals still like to go in during business hours to hear the latest news and have a cup of coffee. After all, the paper won’t be out for a few more days. Most of the White City community works out-of-town and as you would expect, we have seen the ATM and pay-at-the-pump before, but when it changes the landscape of White City, it’s like we’re seeing it for the first time.

Change is good and there isn’t anything wrong with a little convenience. But I still find myself in a small state of panic as my internal clock strikes 5:45 pm. Milk, bread, gas and cash? Check.

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How It’s Going to Be

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“I have seen the past and its future is looking bright.” There are certain events or objects we encounter that evoke a sense of where we came from and where we are going, and in the re-introduction of the Indian® Motorcycle brand, we have seen the past and it is truly the sign of things to come. So, is it possible to hold the idea of “days gone by” in your hand, and feel the same wind as it brushed up against those early riders of this iconic Indian® motorcycle? Of course it is. The Thunder Stroke™ 111 easily pulls you into the here and now.

Few brands have this kind of power. The power to move us physically and the power to evoke emotion. After all, it is those two elements that have caused hearts to beat faster and memories to be made. Memories that withstand time. Just like an old, dog-eared black and white photograph that speaks volumes about its subject; the stories, the people and the times, all in a single snapshot that only took seconds to create. That split second, when time stood still, has preserved the moment for all to see. Indian® Motorcycles were there. There when life was hard and the people were harder and on the verge of there own destiny, much like we are today. We take it all for granted, but as they lived in the early 1900’s things were happening and happening fast. They too, took it for granted.

We are no different from our predecessors. We seek the freedom and adventure that life brings to us every day, and we desire what the future brings – without giving up our past. The past that defines us and made us who we are; Enthusiasts. We “make history” each time we ride, only we aren’t aware of when exactly it’s happening. It just happens. Somewhere, someone is taking that memorable photo right now that will be looked upon by another generation and their reaction will be the same then, as it is for us today. A different time and a different place, telling stories of how it used to be. Or rather how it’s going to be?

I believe Indian® Motorcycles are here to stay. Over the years they have come and gone, much like a dream with hopes of “someday.” But today is that day. History has repeated itself and Indian® Motorcycles has a future derived from a time when pride, excitement and a passion was the main ingredient to ingenuity. Just like it is today.

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One More Day

Road trips can change you. The more time you sit in the saddle watching the miles go by, the horizon change and the sun move from one spot to another, you realize you are getting closer to something as you move further away from where you started. As the scenery changes so does our frame of mind, and as we stop and mingle with the locals, we realize we are all the same no matter where we’re from, and they are just as curious about us as we are of them. “Where are you from” is the universal question, but it really means “I wish I had a motorcycle like you.” We know deep down we will probably never meet again, so we say our goodbyes until the next gas stop where we start a new conversation about our origination and destination.

Reflections about days gone by and past trips come to mind, as well as images of people we’ve known our whole life and those we’ve met along the way. They become clear as the sky above us. Who we are and who we want to be is a constant knot in our head but it all seems to untangle on the road and sort itself out. The greater the distance we ride, the longer we have to sort the dirty laundry we call our life. It’s easy to say that when every trip ends we are neatly folded, with a clean and fresh outlook on each and every day. At least until the clothes hamper gets full again.

” The greater the distance we ride, the longer we have to sort the dirty laundry we call our life.”

We are determined to make each mile count because as all trips start, they too will end. “If only I had one more day” or something along those lines always seem to escape from our lips. No one hears it so it just seems to get lost somewhere on the way home. Where does the time go? A week at work lasts what seems like two weeks in non-motorcycle time, but a week’s vacation is like a weekend off. Every road trip takes us through a time warp where clocks stop and days disappear right before our eyes, only to reappear during the work week. Ah, so that’s where they go.

So as we get closer to whatever it is that is pulling us away from the everyday life we live, we know, that at some point that everyday life will win. We return to a normalcy we so tried to outrun; to a place where time didn’t matter and the water tasted different. Boy, do I need to do laundry.

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A Day in the Life

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Walking down the halls of either the White City grade school or high school brings back plenty of memories. Not only was the grade school big for a small town, there were plenty of steps to keep Mr. Otis or Mr. Haun happy with our physical fitness. A small gymnasium was the focal point of a lot of activities like recess when the weather was bad, basketball practice when the big gym in the high school was in use, but it also served as a lunch room, and a place for prom to be held each year. How many times did I sit there in class smelling the lunch that I was about to eat? Plenty. And what about a milk break in the morning? Why yes, thank you. We spent a big part of our lives going up and down those stairs, from class to recess to lunch and back. How many times and how many steps? We’ll figure that out someday in math class.

Worrell’s house on the corner, which by the way is no longer there, took up some of the play ground, and next to their house was a make-shift baseball diamond where I broke my ankle in sixth grade. School was almost out for the summer in 1974 and now I had a broken ankle. Who knew that in a month I would have my first motorcycle and no way to ride it? Bummer. I think it was Stan and Ron, or maybe it was Rusty and Steve that carried me from the East side of the school property, past the wind-break/walkway that separated the high school and grade school buildings to the office. My mother was called to take me to the hospital, while some of my classmates told me to quit showing off in front of the girls! Whether or not that’s what was said, that’s what I heard. If you know my mother, she drove the speed limit to Junction City getting me to the hospital, all the while, with my leg crossed and my foot dangling. Good times.

We often think about those days when school was anything but fun, but it is a compilation of the good times and bad that makes the experience what it was. Worrying about homework or a test the next day wasn’t very productive and as we all know as adults, worrying about the small stuff still isn’t productive, but it’s in our nature. When our kids are going through school, we often worry about homework, tests and grades more than they do. But we all got through it. Some better than others, but that doesn’t take away anything from those that received less from the experience than some. We all have our own personal experiences and memories of those days and it takes getting older to put it all in perspective. Maybe that should be a class; “Perspectivism: A guide to putting it all together to figure it out.”

If you sit and think about all the bus trips, field trips, games (home and away), and where Mr. Albrecht took us in band, and how it all comes together with so many students and teachers trying to achieve the same goals, it’s amazing we accomplished it at all. Being an average student, using humor to mask a lot of insecurities deep inside that full head of hair I had at the time, I look back and wish that the guy I am today could have told the kid I was back then to relax and be yourself. Comparing now to back-then isn’t fair for me but that is how it is. We grow up and realize who we are and even though we feel we haven’t changed, we did – even if just a little. We find that strength inside and we become who we really are, even though it was there all along.

What seemed like an eternity to get through school, I look back and realize, just like today, the years fly by. Thanks to all of those that had a hand in my education and helping a small town kid realize those insecurities were all in my head. While humor will get you pretty far in life, it helps to have a few friends that are willing to carry you when you need help!

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The Big Picture

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There are some things in life that give us the sense of how small we are and how short a lifetime really is. Small in comparison to the power and forces of nature and all things we take for granted in the world around us. How many years have the rivers flowed and the mountains stood before our very eyes along with all those who saw them before us? Quiet, patient and without fail they continue to do what they do best while life around us goes on. We take these moments to stop and snap a picture but then we move on about our daily lives, while the mountains and rivers wait for the next photo opportunity to come along. Long before the camera, let alone the smart phone, explorers drew pictures and painted their likenesses on canvas just to capture the moment. They too were in awe of the beauty – the only difference, they had to enjoy the view a lot longer to get it down on paper or canvas.

As a motorcyclist, we will go out of our way to find such picturesque places, but we soon turn our backs to move on to whatever comes around the next curve or bend in the road. What took an eternity to make, becomes a moment in time, a memory to some, but to others it becomes an attitude. A chance to take it in and become a better person, and to be humbled with realization that I am not everything I think I am, but rather I’m brought to this place to appreciate its beauty and to allow it to change me from the inside out. It’s telling me to be quiet, patient and to be without fail.

We sometimes measure our lives in birthdays or decades, but the big picture tells us that no matter how long our life is, it’s the impact we have on those that pass by us leaving them with memories and impressions that withstand time. The moments we share with others, no matter how small or insignificant, can leave those we know and love with an everlasting snapshot of who we are and what they mean to us. So while we continue to take a lot of pictures to remember the moments and beauty that we behold, there will also be those taking their own mental pictures of how they want to remember us. Let’s leave them with some great pictures.