I've always been a dog person. While we've owned some cats (usually the result of a process of reverse inheritance), I've never been able to warm up to them in quite the same way. While dogs seem to respond to their owners with an uninhibited joy, cats are much more reserved, taking their affections on their terms. And at 54 years old, I have no patience for hard-to-get.

The first dog that came into my life arrived under a Christmas tree when I was 6 years old. He was a Dachshund, small and wrinkled, with eyes that were barely opened. My sister and I took him into our arms and our hearts, naming him "Brownie."



Over the next year, he became a welcome member of our family. My sister and I played with him constantly, taking him everywhere. But one evening, while he lay in our fenced back yard, some miscreant threw a piece of meat dipped in rat poison over the fence into the back yard. Within minutes of eating it, he convulsed and died.

My sister and I were inconsolable. It took the better part of two years for us to get past that loss. Dad had to hide the pictures and slides of him, lest the very sight of our departed pet brought us to tears.

Finally, on Christmas Day 1963, our parents bowed to the inevitable and on that memorable morning, the presented us with another brown wrinkly tiny bundle of joy. Again, we named this one Brownie. Again, we took him into our hearts and this time, it took. Brownie was a member of our family for 17 years, an unbelievably long time for a dog. Through those years, we played and took walks together. He made the foot of my bed his regular nighttime post. We shared the couch on countless evenings in front of the TV. He loved car rides, but didn’t take too well to my fiancé, unnerving her with his relentless silent glare. Every time we came home, he would be standing at the top of the stairs, leaned out as far as he could in order to see around the staircase and greet us with wagging tail and a joyful bark.

But as the years rolled on, he began to suffer physical ailments, mostly his back, a common problem with Dachshunds. In the last two years, his back legs became stiff, and then paralyzed. Finally, my Mom could stand it no longer and without telling the rest of us, she took him to the vet and gave him his final rest. I remember the day she told me, and that moment of shock and loss; feeling the sudden hole in my heart, knowing that a big part of my life had gone away forever.

I didn’t get another dog until well after we were married. We had moved from California to Missouri and bought a house with a fenced yard. We made two trips to the animal shelter to see what dogs were available. There were many of them there, including a Malamute that, when standing on it’s rear legs, was taller than I was. But amid the jumping and yelping, silent and quivering, there was a dog sitting in her kennel quietly composed and dignified. Cheryl walked by the cage door and suddenly stopped. She knelt down, and the dog responded, licking the fingers she stuck through the mesh. She turned and said definitively, “This is the one.” I know better than to argue with that tone of voice.


She was a breed called Samoyed, one of the few pure breeds left in the world. In their native Russia, they were sled dogs, herders, guards for their masters. They are a hardy breed, their faces softened by a permanent smile. They have a joyous personality, given to legendary acts of pure cuteness. I read about one couple who had gone out for the day. Upon returning, they found that their house had been broken into and been cleaned out of every electronic device they owned. Oddly, there was a pile of the dog’s toys in the middle of the floor. They concluded that this 65-pound mass of fur, flesh, and teeth, had greeted the burglar by bringing toy after toy, trying to get this unexpected visitor to play.

Samantha, as we named her, had an invisible past. She had been picked up wandering through the Mark Twain National Forest near Ft. Leonard Wood. The animal shelter staff thought that the owner might have been transferred suddenly, and unable to find a new owner, simply turned her loose in the woods. But it didn’t take long for her to find her place in our family. She was a joy to play with and to walk, and when any of us felt sad, we could find solace in the incredible softness of her fur.



One of the most remarkable things was how she looked after our kids. My wife and I both had to leave for work early, both of us out of the house by 6:00, after making sure the kids were awake. It was always touch and go as to if they would actually make the school bus. But Samantha understood the routine. The school bus had a stop at each end of our street, which actually gave them two chances to catch it. Samantha, upon hearing the bus pull into the neighborhood, immediately made the rounds of all the bedrooms, barking incessantly, urging the kids out the door. And she was good. I don’t think they missed the bus more than two or three times in the years she was with us.

Of course, twice a year, Samoyeds shed, a process called “blowing the undercoat.” And that was an understatement. Between Samantha and her partner in crime Misty (another rescue) we could depend twice a year that our house would resemble the peak of Everest. We burned out no less than 6 expensive vacuum cleaners, trying to keep the fur picked up. Of course, you could brush them, but you could easily fill two grocery bags full of fur and it would still come flying off her body.

With all the joy they provided, their time with us was relatively short. Samoyeds are short-lived, living only 11 to 12 years on average. And they also have hip problems, which makes old age a trying and painful experience. Like my Mother, Cheryl and I made two tough decisions, a couple of months apart. Misty was first, nearly blind, in constant pain and with no bladder control whatsoever. Then came Sammy’s turn, after a long night of listening to her whimpering, and even howling in pain.

After those years, with all the affection and chaos with which their presence gifted our lives, the house seemed all too empty. Our kids had also begun leaving the nest during that time, which only exacerbated the sense of loss. I was pretty sure we were done with dogs. Then, my oldest daughter, Nikki, who had adopted a microscopic little furball of a terrier who she named “Tweeter,” came to see us. She was our wild child, given to a life more reminiscent of the Woodstock crowd of the ‘60s. At the time, she was living with a pretty rough crowd and asked if she could leave Tweeter with us until her situation changed.

That was 9 years ago. Tweeter is still with us, as sweet and affectionate a dog as anyone could have asked for. To her credit, Nikki had put in the time to train Tweeter, so we inherited a perfectly behaved dog. Despite my best efforts to resist, he has wriggled his way into our hearts as deeply as any of my previous pets.



The thing is, I know how this is going to end. His parentage being still something of a mystery (when people ask what breed his is, we call him “the neighborhood project”), so I don’t know how long he’s likely to live, but I know how devastated we will be when he passes on. I try to prepare myself for that day, as I have gently reminded my wife (Tweeter has really become hers, after all) that that sad day will be upon us all too soon. I know she will suffer deeply, and I know I will feel sad as well.

But when facing that moment, I have to remember all the years of joy all my dogs have given. I firmly believe that a dog is the closest thing to unconditional love a human can receive, next to God, himself. For too many of us, that front door becomes more and more the barrier between the ruthless pain that life visits upon us, and that sanctuary we call “home.” And nothing makes you more welcome than that wildly wagging tail, those bright, happy eyes, that sheer unbounded joy signaling our return.

We all need that. It’s the affirmation that we’re never really alone.

Train Travel

I was sitting at my desk, contemplating an upcoming business trip to New York City. I was researching flight schedules out of Pittsburgh, adding up the hours I would need to allow, taking into account the drive over, security, and all the folderol I’d have to endure once I got there. My best guess was that this 90-minute flight would take about 8 hours to complete. Yes, I could have flown out of Johnstown to DC, but for two reasons. First off, the seats on those planes are decidedly tiny, whilst I am decidedly not. Plus, I’ve about had my fill of the roller-coaster ride I always seem to get on those flights over the mountains.

As I continued to ponder, my eyes went to the windows where outside, Johnstown lay basking under the bright sunshine of an all-too-rare perfect summer day. My gaze wandered across the rooftops, eventually resting on the train station. It took my brain a moment to make the connection, spawning a novel idea. Why not take the train? Upon researching, I discoverer that the train took about the same time as the convoluted process of flying. And cheaper, after looking at gas and tolls to and from Pittsburgh, a rental car, and parking in Manhattan (up to $50 per day at most hotels). I could catch the train one block from the office, and ride all the way into Penn Station, right near where I needed to be for my meetings. My bosses bought the idea, an easy sell since they tend to err on the side of the parsimonious.

On the appointed day, my wife dropped me off in front of the station, our goodbyes tinged with the sadness of two people grown used to having each other around. We've gone through this several hundred times, and no matter whether I am gone for 6 days or 6 months, those final moments weigh heavily upon us both.

I entered the station and walked straight to the platform. No metal detectors, no luggage search, I didn’t even have to remove my shoes. The train arrived almost exactly on time and upon boarding, I found myself in a surprisingly well-appointed cabin differing only from an airplane in one special way. Windows. Big, wide windows. I hoisted my bag up into the spacious overhead and sat down, discovering to my delight that the seat was wide and very comfortable. I’ve only flown first class once, after catching a gate agent in a weak moment, but this compared very favorably. Glancing down, I saw by my knee two electrical outlets. Gleefully, I plugged in my cell phone and iPod and set them to charging.

I had scads of legroom, and even when the lady in front reclined her seat (which went back quite a ways) I didn’t feel like she was laying her head in my lap, as is the sensation on an airplane. Within moments, the train was rolling. No waiting for permission to taxi, no long line on the runway, just board ‘n’ go. I saw that there wouldn’t be a movie on this trip, but I quickly discovered why. The “movie” was happening outside my window.

You can’t tell the history of trains without also telling the history of small-town America. The landscape of this country is liberally dotted with communities for whom the railroad was their reason for being. We can, and often do, drive through them without a second glance. But somehow, seeing them from the train tracks, they seemed different, as though perspective had gifted a measure of historic understanding.

Highways circle cities; airports, with some exceptions reside on the edges. A train, on the other hand, travels right through the community's heart. You see ballfields and back yards; glimpses of people’s lives flash by like frames in a movie. Two moms sit in lawn chairs, talking while their kids splash in a bright blue wading pool. An elderly woman works slowly, patiently in her garden. A young man wheels his motorcycle out of the garage, ready for an adventure of his own. And meandering down a street in a small town, two boys astride their bicycles do what young boys do best on a summer day: absolutely nothing. Sometimes, a child will turn and wave joyfully at the great silver visitor. Automatically, you return the gesture and for a brief moment, you are drawn into their world, and they into yours.

Rich people, of course never live near the tracks. Their homes, large and ostentatious yet somehow utterly devoid of character or personality lie well removed. The homes you do see have stood their ground for many years, their exteriors, like so many of us, showing the ravages of time. And yet they exude a certain character and wisdom. You sense that if their walls could talk, they would tell powerful stories, raw tales of adversity met by people of valiant courage, abject surrender, and even tragic loss, all writ large on the well-worn parchment of the human experience

Also along the tracks are the signs of a teeming economy long since departed. Warehouses and old factories line the tracks, their red brick exteriors shrouded by a patina of dust, dirt, and soot. The windows, long devoid of glass, allow brief glimpses of their tired interiors. And yet, for a century or longer, they’ve remained upright, stubbornly and patiently waiting for someone of vision to restore, revive, and resurrect them to a new life, their walls once again echoing the vibrant din of human activity.

Or perhaps awaiting only the merciful euthanasia of the wrecking ball.

Between the towns, the countryside rolls by. Liberated from the distractions of driving, navigating, and monitoring traffic, I was freed to gaze out the broad windows. I saw dense forests, dark and mysterious; green meadows speckled by brightly-colored wildflowers; fields full of healthy crops arrayed in their perfect geometry. Herds of cattle, horses, and the occasional deer dot the landscape as the graceful clouds serenely float above. There is a peaceful, languid feel upon the land and as I watched, I felt the serenity enter my soul. Here, isolated from the frenetic stress of everyday life, I found myself surprisingly, delightfully at peace.

Almost without exception, America’s great cities were born along a waterfront, or a rail line, or both. As the train approached Philadelphia and New York, I could see that the center of business had moved away from the rails, lured by the concrete ribbons of freeways. What remained was the crumbling detritus of the past. Bridges, splotchy with rust and corrosion spanned yards containing moldering piles of scrap metal, weeds, and unidentifiable chunks of broken and misshapen concrete. Scattered here and there, you even see the carcasses of old railcars and locomotives, all which have become an urban canvas for opportunistic taggers. And in the distance, rising like the mythical Oz, gleaming towers of glass and steel stand aloof, seemingly dismissive of the rich history that lies at their feet.

Every journey, whether arduous or enjoyable, eventually ends. Whether you step off into the riotous chaos of Penn Station in New York City, or the quiet platform in Johnstown, you arrive rested and relaxed.

Train travel may not be for everyone. There are those who simply can’t function without stress, anxiety, and a full-throttle pace of life. For such, “serene” is simply a synonym for “boring.”

But for the rest of us, a journey of the soul awaits along the byways of the American rail, a journey especially meaningful for those who sometimes lie awake on a summer’s night, hear the distant call of a train’s horn…

...and smile.

Top Ten Reasons Why a Newspaper is Better Than a Laptop

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, July 7, 2009

Being a child of the Alvin Toffler generation, I'm the first person to acknowledge a paradigm shift in our culture. Information technology has exploded, and every newspaper now has an online site. Some have asked why a hard copy version is still necessary.

But, I guess I'm a traditionalist. I love the smell of fresh newsprint in the morning.

So in recognition of our shifting perspectives, and out of respect for the time-tested traditions, I respectfully offer...

Top Ten reasons a newspaper is better than a laptop.

10. You can't fold a laptop to make it easier to hold.

9. You can do crosswords online, but you can't live dangerously and do them in ink.

8. Breakfast just doesn't taste good with silicon. Besides, you get crumbs on the keyboard.

7. You can't cut an article out of a laptop without killing another tree.

6. Newspapers don't need powercords or batteries.

5. With a newspaper, you don't have to worry about losing your wireless signal.

4. Nobody can hack into your bank account through a newspaper.

3. A newspaper won't give you carpal tunnel.

2. Just try to line a birdcage or light a fireplace with a laptop.

And finally...

1. If you spill coffee on a laptop, you have a $3,000 piece of junk.

If you spill coffee on a newspaper, you have...

...a wet newspaper.

The Worst Ride

Wall cloud...on steroids. Picture from NOAA


The weather here lately in the Laurel Highlands of Pennsylvania has been a bit of a mixed bag. The geography of the mountains and the proximity of the Great Lakes (Erie in particular) normally generates a fairly wet climate. It's rare, even in the driest part of summer, that we go more than three days without precipitation.

Now, this can make for a frustrating time for motorcyclists. Nobody likes to ride in the rain, but neither do we like to see our machines idle in the garage. Consequently, bikers in this area (at least the more dedicated ones) will bite the bullet from time to time, don the rain gear and hit the road. I've done this on several occasions, sparking some interesting reactions from my colleagues. A few understand the passion, tending to nod knowingly with respect. Most, however, just shake their heads scornfully. This has made for some interesting elevator rides, especially when I step in, still dripping from my ride in.

Once in a while, I get the question, usually from folks motivated to determine exactly how mentally bent and crazy I actually am:

"What's the worst ride you've ever taken?"

I love to reminisce. As I have often related before, motorcycling is more than just a ride. It's the accumulation of wonderful memories, stored in the recesses of the brain like a shelf of china cups. Once in a while, you take one of the memories down off the shelf, hold in your hands, and close your eyes, letting the remembrances flow through your conscious thoughts. And for me, after almost 18 years and close to 300,000 miles, it's a full cupboard.

Scattered amongst the shelves are good memories, autumn days through forests aflame with bright colors, roaring across a desert highway as the sun sank towards the horizon, the long weekend at Deals Gap, balancing the centrifugal against the centripetal on a knife-edge of lunacy.

But there are also the not-so-good memories. The heart-stopping sight of flashing red lights in my rear views, my accidents, and the two occasions when my bike died beneath me, both times literally in the middle of nowhere.

Now, bad-weather rides can be both good and bad. On the one hand, it's usually a time of intense discomfort, your mind on red-alert status and your body tensed for any number of unpleasant outcomes. However, on the other hand, you realize that your riding skill is being tested and you find yourself reveling in the challenge.

When I look back over the years, two incidents spring up.

It was January in Missouri. The forecast was for a nice day ("nice" meaning 40-degree temps and no precip) and with Cheryl and the kids occupied with their own interests, I decided to take the bike out for awhile. I donned my winter gear, fired up the bike, and headed out. Initially, I only wanted to go out for a half-hour or so, just enough time to charge the battery and circulate the fluids. But the day was uncommonly beautiful, the sun (relatively) warm, and suitably entranced, I kept going.

I had wandered along several roads, finding myself some 60 or so miles from home when suddenly the sunlight went out. The wind shifted into the north and acquired a bite. Surprised, I looked to the western sky to see dark, angry clouds looming on the horizon. I had lived long enough in the midwest to know what that meant. I turned and headed for home with dispatch. The problem was, I had ridden east of town, so my return trip was face-first towards the menacing storm. I rode as quickly as road conditions allowed, but I was still about 30 miles out when I rode under the leading edge of the storm and big, fat, heavy flakes of very wet snow began pouring out of the sky.

My first concern was the road surface. Wet snow is bad for four-wheel vehicles. For motorcycles, it's terrifying. I slowed down and carefully scanned the road ahead, a task becoming more difficult in the lowering visibilty. Now, generally in Missouri, it may snow for quite a while before accumulations begin. But today, the road began to quickly turn white. I cautiously navigated the straightaways, and every time a curve in the road came up, my whole being seemed to pucker up. At one point I was down to about 20 mph. I was getting close to home, when a county snow plow pulled out in front of me. Chafing at the added delay, I now had to deal with fresh salt being dumped on the road directly in front of me (think marbles here), and the avalanch of slush and road grime thrown up by the truck's massive tires. It was not only uncomfortable, it was nerve-wracking.

Eventually I got home. As you might expect, the only time I actually came close to dumping the bike was trying to get up the sloped driveway into the garage. Once safely in side, I shut down the engine and slumped over the handlebars, exhausted. I knew I had pushed the limits that day and that I was fortunate to be home alive and in one piece. I got off the bike, removed my gear, and did what I could to clean the salt off the bike. I went inside, crawled into a comfy chair in front of the television and was there an hour later when the rest of the family came home. Knowing the reaction I'd get if I 'fessed up, I remained mostly silent, awaiting the inevitable question from my wife:

"So, what did you do with your day?"

"Nuthin'."

I never told anyone about that day, until now. I guess we'll now find out how often she reads my blog.

One another occasion, I had ridden to Kansas City from Columbia to get some scheduled maintenance done on my ride, a '91 BMW K75RT. There being no BMW shops in Columbia, I had to go to KC to get any work done. I didn't mind. After all, it was a perfect excuse to go out and put 250 great miles on the bike.

The ride over was uneventful. The BMW guys, efficient as always, raced through their tasks and in less than three hours, I was back on the road.

Choosing routes is always a fun part of any ride. Going over, with time being a critical element, I stayed on the Interstate for the whole trip. Going back, however, I chose US 24, what had once been a major thoroughfare, but now was a friendly 2-lane country highway, with light traffic, pretty countryside, and enough curves to be interesting.

I rode through Independence, picking up 24 near the Truman Library. I headed east, eeling through the traffic in town before finally clearing the mess near Buckner. Relaxing a bit, I opened the throttle a little more as the road unwound before me.

It was a warm day, and the humidity seemed to grow heavier with every passing moment. I began to glance over my right shoulder from time to time towards the southwest and sure enough, I saw the tell-tale signs of thunderstorms.

I've been a storm spotter for several years, and a certified weather nut for many more. Living in the midwest, you learn to read the clouds, particularly on those summer days when the air turns both sultry and electric.

I increased my speed somewhat, although with a healthy respect for the Missouri Highway Patrol in mind. As time went on, the clouds grew rapidly and soon I began to hear rumbles of thunder. At Waverly, I abandoned my original route and picked up US 65, heading through the river towns of Grand Pass and Malta Bend. Just outside the latter, the rains started. As is normal, the inital raindrops were huge and stung, even through my armored jacket. With me heading southeast and the storms pushing northwest, we met in the town of Marshall.

My sense of timing has never been the best, but this time it was superb. At the edge of town, I pulled off to a gas station. As I exited the highway, hail began to fall. It was relatively small, perhaps quarter-size, but it REALLY hurt. The noise inside my helmet as the stones pelted the top was deafening. Fortunately, I was only in the hail for a few seconds as I found shelter under the roof by the gas pumps. I sat there for a time, waiting for the hail shaft to pass to the northwest. Eventually it did, and I pulled out and pushed on. I thought I was passed the worst of it, and in fact, the rain had slacked off and the winds had slowed. I should have known better.

I rode carefully out of Marshall on Missouri 41, with Boonville 30 miles ahead. I knew that if I got that far, I could go to the factory where I worked and at least pull the bike inside the building. Passing Arrow Rock, however, the air grew very still. Electricity seemed to building in the air. Suddenly, I sat bolt upright in the seat. The hair-raising sound of sirens began to spool up all around me. I knew I was in deep trouble and real danger. Although I was south of the main line of thunderstorms, I took no real comfort from that. I pushed on, my mouth dry, my heart beating a tattoo inside my chest.

I reached I-70 at Pilot Grove, feeling a little relief, knowing I could now go much faster. But as I made the turn onto the bridge over the Interstate, I glanced back to the north. There, hanging in the sky, was the recognizable shape of a wall cloud. Fascinated, I stopped. Despite it's proximity, I felt reasonably safe. I was south of that particular cell and it was moving away. As I watched, a funnel dipped out of the wall cloud, reaching for the ground. The inflow winds began to make themselves felt, climbing rapidly in speed and power. I turned the bike around, keeping the wind-borne rocks, dust, and debris to my back. The funnel touched the ground, becoming an official tornado. I watched, fascinated, as it tore through a field for a couple hundred yards before roping out and dissipating.

At this point, my common sense frantically pushed aside my fascination and urged my continued travel. I roared down the ramp and sped towards home. The heavy rains returned, but I could hear the all-clear being sounded.

I eventually did make it home, wet, bedraggled, but excited. I had survived a severe storm and seen a tornado close-up. Despite the danger, discomfort, and moments of terror, it had been a fine ride.

It's a weather-nut thing. You wouldn't understand

Over the years, I've ridden in a lot of bad weather, all of it unwillingly. (See? I AM sane, after all!) I guess you could say it's those few bad weather days that make the good ones that much more special.

And truthfully, while I may have had some rough rides, it's never really a bad day when you're on a motorcycle.

What??? You Bought ANOTHER Motorcycle???

My passion for motorcycles has been well-documented on this blog and through the pages of the Johnstown (PA) Tribune-Democrat. Through many posts and columns, I've tried to verbalize the emotions that this activity has stirred in me through the years.

(A partial list, for those who care in indulge...)
"Eternity and the Road"
"Let's Be Careful Out There"
"The Journey"
"Why Do We Ride?"
"Moto-Macho"
"Males, Middle Age, and Motorcycles"
"Thinking About a Motorcycle?"
"Deals Gap"
"The Honda PC800 Pacific Coast"
"Snow Day"
"Saying Goodbye..."
"My Lake Superior Adventure"
"A Wild West Ride on a Wyatt Earp Pilgrimage"
"Bikes and Big Ben"

In May, I had an accident on a bike I had owned about a month. While the injuries were painful, they weren't serious enough to dissuade me from buying another one, a purchase completed June 25th.

The reaction among my family and co-workers was universal dismay. Suddenly, I found that all the sympathy and concern accumulated during my recovery evaporated into an orgy of head-shaking befuddlement. One colleague, who had sent me flowers after the accident, declared, "You only get one bunch of flowers from me, kiddo!"

Intellectually, I can well understand their reaction. After all, why would any reasonable human being go back to an activity or situation that resulted in pain and injury?

(To be honest, I experience the same reaction when I hear or read about women who go back to abusive husbands and boyfriends, but I digress...)

There are actually two things going on here inside my head and heart.

First of all, I've learned how important it is to face fears, instead of fleeing from them. I threw away a lot of my years simply because I didn't want to take risks; playing it safe, always. Life without risk is, in reality, no life at all. It is in taking reasonable chances and calculated risks that we improve ourselves. And while we fail from time to time, failure is not an end in and of itself. It is a learning experience that, when carefully explored and evaluated, leaves us that much smarter for the next attempt.

Secondly, my passion for life on two wheels remains undiminished. In those two years I was bikeless, just the sound of a motorcycle heading down the highway was enough to set me to daydreaming. My poor wife yammered constantly at me to keep my eyes on the road and not look at every bike that went by.

My brief foray in April and May convinced me that I was not yet done with this phase of my life.

So, when I healed up sufficiently, I was back on the market, looking for its replacement. Luckily, I found one very close to the one I wrecked close by and over about a week, I was able to complete the purchase. That first day, I put 90 miles on the machine, reveling once again in the glorious feeling of freedom and adventure. Cheryl rode with me for a little bit, complaining that the seat was too hard (a common complaint with all motorcycle passenger seats, it seems). But at one point, as we rode through the gathering dusk, she sighed and leaning forward she leaned forward and yelled in my ear, "This is just about perfect."

I knew exactly how she felt. the sun was down, hidden behind a line of summer thunderstorms on the horizon. The air, as it blew past, was soft and comforting, as June in the mountains always is. The busy day was almost over. The quiet of the evening had settled in, bringing with it a welcome sense of peace and tranquility. As a Cheyenne warrior might have described it, I was at the center of my world.

I am manifestly unwilling to let go of those times, of the almost magical catharsis I experience on an evening ride. To walk away from that would be to allow a piece of myself to die.

For those who haven't, or won't experience such a moment, or those who gave it up after an accident or terrifying close call, there's no way I could never articulate the "why" of motorcycling in a way that your heart would be touched the way mine has.

Having briefly experienced death once already, I no longer consider it unknown territory. Simply stated, I don't fear it anymore. But in losing my fear of death, I also lost my fear of life. I embrace all that life has to offer, joy and sadness, triumph and tragedy, accomplishment and adversity. There is, I've discovered, benefit to everything that happens to us, if we but understand that these events, whether good or bad, are merely the mileposts we must pass as we continue on the journey.

I know there will come a day when physically, I'll no longer be able to ride. It is inevitable, as I can do nothing to slow or divert the march of time. Knowing that day is coming only makes each ride that much more meaningful.

Because in the end, the winner is not who has the most toys.

It's who has the fewest regrets.

R.I.P, M. Jackson

Like many others, I was brought up short by the news yesterday that Michael Jackson had died. The suddenness of his passing was surprising, leading me to initially suspect that the bulletin was false, especially since it was passed to the public, not by his family or staff, but by some unnamed internet source. But, within minutes, the news was confirmed.

Tributes began flowing in almost immediately. It seemed that people from all walks of life were touched by his death.

It is almost impossible to overstate Michael Jackson's impact on the music business. Early on, he gained fame as the lead singer for the Jackson Five, the group of singing brothers formed by his hard-driving father. Later on, he went out on his own with his first solo album "Against the Wall." But it was the mega-hit album "Thriller" that elevated him to mythic status. "Thriller" remains today the biggest seller in the history of popular music.

But it wasn't just his music. He was an incredible dancer, astonishing all who watched with his grace and inventiveness. He didn't just use existing moves; he created a whole new genre, patterns which, at times, seemed to make him weightless.

He was also an entreprenuer. I still remember the day it was announced that he had bought the entire Beatles library, before the Fab Four themselves apparently knew it was on the market.

As he grew older, he began to change. His personality turned a corner and wandered off in an unsettling direction. He had repeated plastic surgeries, attempting to re-shape his face into a mirror of his idol, Diana Ross. For a while, he slept in a hyperbaric chamber. And then there were the allegations of child abuse. He was acquitted by a Los Angeles jury of those charges, but as usually happens, even the declaration of innocence failed to remove the shroud of suspicion. It is perhaps a statement of our societal attitude toward that particular crime. For many, the accusation itself was enough to convict him.

In the last 10 years or so, he ceased to become the respected artist and more the caricature of strangeness. Wild accusations about his lifestyle were made in the press, and we seemed to be ready and willing to believe anything put in front of us. The fact remains that, at least in the legal arena, he was never convicted of anything; all we have are the loose accusations, which may have been merely the product of those looking to win the lawsuit lottery.

The story of Michael Jackson is one of great success, fame, and wealth. It is also a tragedy. And a warning to parents.

There are a lot of parents and grandparents out there who, not having achieved anything resembling fame or fortune on their own, pursue those selfish goals vicariously through their children or grandchildren. It starts out as toddler beauty contests, possibly one of the most exploitative exercises ever created. It moves into talent shows, auditions, competitions, perhaps TV or print ads...it goes on and on. I've seen these grown-ups. The pressure they put on those kids can only be described as abusive. And it's not just the entertainment field. Other parents who see a smidgeon of talent in gymnastics, ice skating, or other sports force on the young ones a schedule and pressure that would be considered unhealthy in a 30-year-old, having convinced themselves that "this is what my child wants."

Michael was thrust into the limelight at a very young age. Because of the fame and the incredible schedule and performance pressure, he was never allowed time to be a child. The seeds that sprang into his odd behavior later in life were sown early and deep.

The same conditions that created Michael Jackson, the King of Pop, also destroyed Michael Jackson, the human being.

If you are one of those parents that rousts your child from their warm bed at 4:00 a.m. in order to catch an available practice time at the ice rink; or spend hundreds or thousands of dollars dressing your toddler up in ridiculous and sexualized constumes and then parade them in front of crowds of strangers; or force your kid into acting classes, singing classes, and music lessons and then drag them to every audition, talent show, or screen test within 500 miles...

You need to take a step back; think about Michael Jackson, and ask yourself seriously what destructive seeds you may be planting.

Stop being your child's agent.

Be parents.

Eternity and The Road

Jornada del Muerto, New Mexico

I’ve been a motorcyclist for almost 18 years. I still remember with great clarity the first ride I took on my ’82 Suzuki GS550T. I was nervous and not very smooth, but the sensation of gliding down the road, the wind blowing past my head, the sky open and glorious above, seized my soul with a powerful embrace, a grip that hasn’t loosened in almost two decades.

Most of the miles that lie in my past were expended on commuting. For some odd reason, we’ve always lived at least 30 miles away from whatever job I’ve had. I’m not sure why that has happened, but it did provide the opportunity to turn a mundane act into a little adventure every day. Looking at my fuel logs, I estimate that I’ve put down in excess of 280,000 miles in that span.

Of course, there were the weekend rides, undertaken after I was freed from my chore list. Also, I took a lot of short trips, less than 500 miles, each time stretching the envelope of my experience. Twice, I embarked on even longer trips, a 6-day jaunt to Lake Superior, and the other a 9-day trek through the U.S. southwest, easily one of the most important times of my entire life.

I still peruse maps from time to time, contemplating other journeys. Time is passing and I know that the physical ability to endure such trips will not be with me much longer. So while I ponder the future, I also allow myself to dream.

An open road under a clear sky, on the horizon the blue peaks of distant mountains. On either side, grasslands bending before prairie zephyrs; seemingly endless deserts, each rock, draw, and tumbleweed starkly defined in the clear air. And as the road climbs into the mountains, it begins to bend, twist, and dodge, seemingly almost alive as it bisects fragrant pine forests. This is where I am truly alive, my spirit responding to the wide-open spaces, so perfectly defining the ideal of freedom. I have nowhere to be, and all the time in the world to get there.

Where would I go?

One trip would be to “Ride the Divide.” I would start at Glacier National Park and ride south, conforming the route as much as possible to the Continental Divide, passing through Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, and New Mexico.

Another long ride in my mind is to circle all five of the Great Lakes, starting with Erie, following the southern shores of Huron, Michigan, Superior, the north shores of Huron, Erie, Ontario, returning to the starting point of Erie, PA.

I would like to ride the Pacific Coast, sharing the route between the Pacific Coast Highway and US 101 from San Diego all the way to Canada.

And finally, the grand tour, encircling the entire United States.

Will I take all of these trips? Will I take any of them? Perhaps time will catch up to me and I will have to be content to journey through my mind’s eye.

This is my dream, my goal. I do not know why I am happiest on the road. It is one of the mysteries that will remain forever unsolved.

But I am a faithful man. I believe in Heaven; that it is a place where that which brings us the most joy exists in abundance. If that is true, then what awaits me is a road, a motorcycle…and God.

The New Frontier

Image from History.com

My life long, I’ve been a huge devotee of space travel. I grew up during the runs of projects Mercury, Gemini, and Apollo, and at one point, I could have recited the crews of every single manned flight the U.S. had undertaken. While there are times I can’t remember the location of my motorcycle key, the night that Armstrong and Aldrin stepped out onto the lunar surface is as sharp and clear as if it had happened last night.

To my young mind, it seemed natural that now that the moon had been reached, Mars would follow soon. But to my sorrow, I watched our space program shrink, put to the torch by narrow-minded political opportunists who seemed to think that cancelling a program largely responsible for a 3.7% unemployment rate and 8.5% economic growth would somehow help poor people. A space program not only needs rocket scientists, it also needs secretaries, welders, and janitors, most of whom lost their jobs with contractors like North American Rockwell and Boeing. Of course, we know what happened next. When the space program effectively departed the marketplace, the economy tanked, unemployment exploded, and the stage was set for the moribund Carter years.

Sorry about that. Even after all these years, it still upsets me.

Several years ago, President Bush announced that the United States intended to go back to the moon, and eventually Mars. I was elated, and reports from teachers across the country spoke of students energized about the study of space.

Now, finally, NASA has laid down a timetable for an ambitious program of exploration, including a permanent base on the Moon, and an eventual manned mission to Mars.

But since the halcyon days of Apollo, we earthlings have learned a lot about the environment we call space. Back then, we thought going to Mars would be no different from going to the Moon, just a longer journey. We also assumed that the climate of Mars would be far more congenial than the Moon, perhaps requiring far less protection for the explorers. Now, we know how difficult and dangerous this journey will be.

Earth is protected by a powerful magnetic field, possibly the result of the rotation of our molten iron core. This field protects us from the harmful spectra of solar radiation and some cosmic rays as well. Like the mythical shields that protected the Starship Enterprise, these fields deflect these potentially dangerous emissions away from the planet, and from us. Mars has no such magnetic field. Hence, all the solar radiation from the spectra that is harmful to organic matter (us) floods the Martian surface unabated. Therefore, if explorers are going to survive on the surface of the red planet, they will have to be well-shielded.

Even the trip out to Mars poses new hazards. Beyond the protective envelope of the Earth’s magnetic fields, open space will expose astronauts to hard radiation. The sheer length of that journey, six months or longer out and six months back, means the astronauts will be dangerously vulnerable. Also, while gravity has cleared out most of the rocky debris between the planets, there is still enough gravel out there to pose a very real threat to the spacecraft.

These were hazards that, frankly, the man (or in my case, the boy) on the street were ignorant of 40 years ago. Clearly, any further exploration of the solar system will require a substantial amount of preparation and planning.

This renewal of human exploration will be dangerous, perhaps the most hazardous effort in the history of the human race. But that is precisely why we must do it. President Kennedy’s historic words that launched us on the path to the Moon are as relevant now as they were on that hot, steamy September day in Houston, 47 years ago:

We set sail on this new sea because there is new knowledge to be gained, and new rights to be won, and they must be won and used for the progress of all people. For space science, like nuclear science and all technology, has no conscience of its own.

There is no strife, no prejudice, no national conflict in outer space as yet. Its hazards are hostile to us all. Its conquest deserves the best of all mankind, and its opportunity for peaceful cooperation many never come again. But why, some say, the moon? Why choose this as our goal?

We choose to go to the moon. We choose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard. Because that goal will serve to organize and measure the best of our energies and skills, because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, one we are unwilling to postpone, and one which we intend to win.

Many years ago the great British explorer George Mallory, who was to die on Mount Everest, was asked why did he want to climb it. He said, "Because it is there."
Well, space is there, and we're going to climb it. And the moon and the planets are there, and new hopes for knowledge and peace are there. And, therefore, as we set sail we ask God's blessing on the most hazardous and dangerous and greatest adventure on which man has ever embarked.

Humanity cannot grow by standing still. We can only grow by moving forward and out, to the planets and beyond. We humans have always been explorers. Let us rise up and together seek our destiny.

Simon Says: Understanding The Abrasive Mr. Cowell

Simon Cowell; Image from People Magazine

I’ve never been a fan of the talent shows that have proliferated across television. American Idol, So You Think You Can Dance, Britain’s Got Talent, and its Yankee spinoff, America’s Got Talent have all brought home to viewers the process of identifying and testing those with the talent to succeed in the entertainment business. I watched a couple of episodes of Idol before tuning out in disgust. While I understood the aim of the contest, the process, I felt was inordinately cruel to those who presented themselves and failed. It was hard to watch people whose dream had not only crumbled, but then had to endure the harsh words of the judges, in particular a seemingly contemptuous Englishman named Simon Cowell.

(The following information comes largely from the Wikipedia article on Mr. Cowell [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Simon_Cowell]. In deference to my previous posting on research papers, bear in mind that this is not a research paper, but merely a blog entry and the biographical information is offered as background only.)

Cowell was born into an entertainment family, his father a real estate developer and music industry executive with the legendary EMI, his mother a professional dancer. After leaving Dover College, he had a few menial jobs – including a runner on Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining – but had difficulty getting along with colleagues and bosses. His father got him a job in the EMI mailroom. Eventually, his father’s connections got him a position as an assistant to an A&R man, the person in a record company responsible for finding new talent. A year later, he went to work for an independent label, Fanfare Records. Here he achieved his first real success in the industry, becoming a partner and pushing Fanfare into a very successful indie label. But in 1989, Fanfare’s parent company began to struggle. Fanfare was folded into another music giant BMG. With his Fanfare success behind him, Cowell became an A&R consultant for BMG. In 2002, he was hired as a judge on a new show that would help to re-shape the landscape of American television: American Idol.

In his previous careers, he had stayed behind the scenes, largely unknown to audiences. But his appearance on Idol created an instant reaction. Of all the judges, he was by far the most blunt, harsh, and in the minds of Idol audiences, inordinately cruel. The Times of London journalist Minette Marrin classified him as representing the “heartless, thoughtless, and superficial – the flotsam and jetsam of the polluted seas of celebrity that is likely to sink without trace into toxic foam.” Cowell himself acknowleged his negative impact in an interview with a reporter from The Mirror. “There has to come a point when I will step down from being on camera and remain behind the scenes because you can’t keep doing this forever…I think by [the end of my contract] that the public will be sick to death of me anyway, and it will be time to go.”

Okay, enough background.

Compassion comes easy to me. I’ve always felt that people who had dreams should be encouraged in those dreams. Dreams is where success usually starts, and as long as those dreams were based in some sort of realistic appraisal of one’s talents, they should go forward. When those dreams crashed face-first into reality, I felt that they should be let down easily. Crushing someone’s dream harshly could only result in crushing that person’s spirit as well. Idol, and it’s clones, seemed to me to be a stage for destroying people. I turned away.

As time went on, I was amazed and a bit troubled by the extent that which audiences embraced the show. People developed identities with the contestants, perhaps living out their own secret dreams vicariously through the Idol stars. Central to that whole process was Simon Cowell, his cutting remarks and at times hostile attitude painting the lurid scenery of each episode.

But it wasn’t until the trials of Susan Boyle, the plain-faced Scotswoman with the marvelous voice, that I really began to understand Mr. Cowell.

The story of Ms. Boyle is well-known to anyone with a TV or a internet account, so I won’t belabor readers with the details here. But in considering the events surrounding her rise and collapse, I have to admit to an epiphany.

I’ve read enough about the music industry to understand what a difficult field it is. Those who work the business have the job of identifying those with the talent to succeed (read: sell CDs) with an audience that a Roman Emperor might have charitably described as “fickle.” Behind the glitz and glamour, it is pragmatically a business. Any time a label signs an artist, the company commits tens or hundreds of thousands of dollars (and pounds) to develop that talent and “sell” them to the public. If the artist fails to catch the ear and imagination of the public, a huge amount of money has been wasted. Therefore the criteria for assessing talent are, by requirement, harsh and unyielding. The people who do that judging have to tell the truth, even when the truth hurts.

And yet, it goes beyond just talent. The music business is one which inflicts enormous pressures on its artists. When we, the general public, think about the life of a pop star, we usually only think about the parts of that life we are allowed to see. Few humans are able to resist the allure of standing on a stage, receiving the unbridled love of thousands gathered, literally at one’s feet. We see the big houses, the fancy cars, the beautiful clothes, and the wealth, all the accoutrements of the life of a star. Compared to the comparatively mundane nature of our own lives, it seems like heaven on earth.

But we never seem to want to consider the down side. When performing, you can never have an “off” day. While you’re doing a 6-city tour, doing shows several times a week performing the same repertoire, your audience is only there for one night, and if you sell them short because you’re bored or tired, you will disappoint them.

And disappointed concert goers tend to demand their money back. So do the promoters who got you the gig in the first place.

And then there are the fans. Most fans are okay people. But every “star” has had to deal with the obsessed fans, the stalkers. Not only are they unpleasant, they can prove to be dangerous.

The pressure is unyielding. Your life is no longer your own. Even when you try to hide inside your home, or travel somewhere to get away and recharge your batteries, you are pursued by the papparazi, those whose sole means of living is to capture your image, usually in the most embarrassing moments, and publish them far and wide. The number of artists who have fallen victim to all those pressures are legendary. Marilyn Monroe, Britney Spears, Judy Garland, Lana Turner, Owen Wilson, to name a few. And when they collapse, rather than easing off, the media-generated pressure only gets worse.

Therefore, in order to be a successful pop star, you not only need to have the chops on stage, you have to be tough enough to survive the pressures offstage.

Watching Ms. Boyle’s tragic collapse, I finally understood why Simon Cowell does what he does, and says what he says. He has to defend the integrity of his industry. He has to deliver to the public talent that will sell CDs and concert tickets. The risks of failure are huge. He is tough on the talent, because the talent has to be tough. And knowing that the public will not buy the music of marginal talent, it is his job to weed out those who just don’t have it.

For the marginally talented, I now understand how important it is that they be brought face-to-face with the harsh truth of their limitations. It is better to abandon an unrealistic dream early, rather than waste one’s life in the pursuit of the unattainable. Those pitiable people who leave the Idol stage in tears, crushed by the judge’s decree, need to turn their lives to other pursuits; to discover inside themselves that special talent that everyone has buried deep within. In the short term, it seems cruel. But I think in the long run, such an experience helps to focus one’s goals.

I want to be clear. I’m not a fan of Simon Cowell. I’d never invite him to my home, and the possession of his picture or autograph is nowhere on my list of priorities. But at last, I see the reasons behind his seemingly casual cruelties and his harsh, abrasive nature. It is his unyielding commitment to the highest show business standards that ensures that when I plunk down cash for a CD or a concert, it’ll be money well spent.

I now understand. And understanding is the beginning of wisdom.

Biker Down!!!

Requiescat in Pace

Kawasaki Vulcan VN900LT

Despite the picture that television and the movies paint, rarely does anyone sense any anticipatory moments before serious events occur. That’s certainly been the pattern in my life. One moment you’re sailing along, immersed in the mundane things that seem to carry us through the day. Then instantly, it all goes sideways. Usually it is some kind of accident that happens, whether in or out of a vehicle. The suddenness and violence by which the event is thrust upon us leaves us dazed and confused.

I’ve certainly had my share of these events in my life and even when recalling them in their lurid detail, I still find myself wondering why I couldn’t get that anticipatory tap on the shoulder.

It was a new motorcycle, well, new to me anyway. I had been bike-less for the better part of two years, as we sorted through some tight financial times. And it was a thing of beauty. Long, low, sleek, just the right amount of chrome, it joined the long line of dream chariots which have shared my garage over the past 17 years. I remember the day we closed the sale and I joyfully rode the bike home from the dealership – taking the long way, of course. The throttle responded to my hand and the bike leaped ahead down the highway, flitting among the sun-dappled shadows. Consciously, I held back. I had never owned a cruiser-type before and I had yet to learn is traits and balance points. Nevertheless, my spirit soared as I rode, the bike’s voice, that guttural roar echoed back from the rocks and trees and spread in my wake, like a noisy contrail. After a couple of hours, I returned home, backing the machine into the garage. Almost reluctantly, I shut the engine down. In the resulting silence, I contemplated with quiet joy a new relationship begun.

For about a month, I rode often on open roads at high speeds and inching along city streets in heavy traffic. I was getting comfortable with the bike, although I would still have an occasional awkward moment. As far as I was concerned, it was the start of a beautiful friendship.

It was a Monday. It had rained most of the weekend and, as happens here in the mountains, when the storms cleared out, they left an atmosphere cool and bracing. It would warm up in the afternoon, but as I stood in the garage that morning, I wavered between my summer and winter jackets. Both had armor inserts, but the summer one was made of a very breathable mesh. Shrugging, I decided on the winter coat, figuring that if it turned too warm, I could simply remove the liner. The ride into work was utterly uneventful. I parked the bike in my assigned space, removed my gear, packed it in my duffel bag and headed into work.

The day passed quickly and as the clocked ticked onto quitting time, I grabbed my gear and headed up the street towards the parking lot. Approaching my parking spot, I could see the bike from a distance, the chrome catching the sun’s rays just right. I began to feel that familiar quiet joy, the anticipation of the ride home. As is my custom, I took my time donning the gear. I put on my chaps, zipping up the legs. I had owned them almost since the beginning. They were cut from a very thick piece of leather, a thickness I had not seen in any set since. They were old and faded, but comfortable. I had left my boots at home that day. They were very heavy and carting them between the parking lot and the four blocks to work got to be just too much with everything else I was carrying. The jacket came next, going over a sweatshirt. Then came the helmet and the gloves. Finally, I swung my leg over, turned the key on and punched the starter. The fuel injected V-twin responded instantly with a gratifying rumble. Engaging the clutch, I rolled out of the lot into the street.

Johnstown is laid out in sympathy to the rivers that flow through its valley, so navigation can be confusing. I had the choice of taking the expressway out to US 219, a four-lane divided highway running south to Somerset. While it was a safe ride, it was a bit, well, boring. A better more invigorating option was Pennsylvania 985, a road that followed twisting valleys, among steep tree-covered hills and picturesque streams. While not Deal’s Gap, it was curvy enough to be interesting. I opted for that route home. I headed east out of downtown, turning onto Franklin Street. Now, I had a choice here. I could turn onto Valley Pike and head out through Ferndale, or I could stay on Franklin, passing through Roxbury. The problem with this choice was a stretch of Franklin that passed in front of the hospital.

Memorial Hospital, like so many other structures in Johnstown, is stuck to the side of a hill. Franklin snakes through a narrow gap with the Hospital on one side and a plethora of Medical buildings and banks on the other. As a result, the traffic is always heavy and slow, spiced by the additional challenge of pedestrians sprinting across the street, threading themselves between the cars. But it was late, almost 6:30 p.m. and I figured the traffic would be thinned out by now. So I made the fateful decision, gliding through the Valley Pike intersection and heading up the gentle hill. I was going slow, perhaps 30 miles per hour. To my left, I could see a car exiting a parking garage. It had stopped, but as I got closer, it lurched forward, as if it was going to try to get into the narrow space between me and the vehicle in front.

Now, in all safety courses, they drill into you the necessity of continually scanning, especially in traffic. If you lock your eyes in one direction too long, you can miss a dangerous development in another. In warily eyeing the threat to my left, I waited too long to look to the front. When I finally did, I saw immediately that the vehicle had rolled to a stop. He apparently had used gravity to stop and the engine to hold the vehicle on the grade, because his taillights were not lit. I applied the front brake, while my right foot searched in vain for the rear brake pedal. The front wheel locked up and the bike began to skid. After about a second and a half, I realized that (1) the bike wasn’t slowing down, and (2) I was about to eat some tailgate. I knew that I had to lay it down. As we started to go down, I realized I had misjudged the bike’s center of balance. As a result, instead of a controlled slide, I slammed down hard on my left side. Acting on instinct, I kicked clear of the bike. In the next moment, I was on my hands and knees, my breath thoroughly knocked out of me, and my ribs in serious pain.

One of the few nice things about this incident was the location. Within seconds, I had two doctors by my side. They gently laid me down and I began to take stock of things. I had good sensation in all my extremities, and I didn’t feel pain anywhere else besides my ribs. My ability to breathe was returning and I felt like I was in pretty good shape, all things considered. Eventually, the first responders arrived and despite the proximity to the ER entrance, they insisted on moving me in an ambulance, a 200-foot ride that would cost close to $600. Once inside, treatment was immediate and professional. After the spinal assessment (which seemed to take an unconscionable amount of time), they finally with great care removed my helmet, chaps and jacket. I was relieved (it was VERY warm in there). Eventually, I was able to get word to my wife who made the 30-mile drive up from Somerset to join me in the ER. I could tell she was upset, but she hid it pretty well, favoring me with that classic look wives save for the husbands for those times when we do something extremely stupid.

Eventually, we left the hospital and went home, a very painful journey for me. The diagnosis was two cracked ribs and a severely sprained right hand (I guess I forgot to let go of the handgrip). The good news is that my gear functioned as advertised. Road Rash, the dreaded bane of bikers, had been warded off by the rugged design of jacket and chaps. The leathers were shredded, however, as was the jacket sleeves and gloves. My helmet had a sizeable rash on the left side. I contemplated with relief the damage I would have had if I hadn’t worn the gear.

Progressive, as always, was prompt and fair in their response. I heard from the adjuster the day after the accident. The bike was severely damaged. Among the items, bent forks, broken steering stops, dented gas tank, dented headlight, missing mirrors and turn signals, cracked windshield, bent highway bars, broken clutch lever, rashed-up saddlebags...of course, he had to total the bike. Fortunately, the settlement was enough to pay off the loan.

I stayed home for four days. The doctor had given me hydrocodone for the pain, but having a healthy respect for the dangers of opiates, I used Aleve and ibuprophen to hold the line. It was a hard four days. I couldn’t lay flat, so we piled up every pillow we could find, leaving me in a semi-reclined position. Getting in and out of bed was a 10- to 15-minute ordeal, so trips to the bathroom had to be planned with great care. But gradually, the pain began to ease and after a week and a half, my mobility was returning. I would still endure pain for a month, but that too began to fade and life began slowly returning to normal.

Cheryl endured this with the stoicism learned in 31 years of marriage, and once again I learned the value of a wife’s love. I will always remember that moment when she arrived at the hospital and slid through the curtain of the treatment room. Despite the look on her face, the fear I had been feeling vanished when she appeared. My kids were somewhat less sanguine. This was my third accident in 17 years and they all thought I should re-think this whole riding thing. But I know that I could no more quit riding than I could quit breathing. Plus, as I told them, I’d been in 6 car accidents in that same span of time and I still drove.

After a week or so of reviewing the events of that evening through my mind, I was bothered. In 17 years, I had executed numerous emergency stops, all without incident. Even given my unfamiliarity with that bike, I should have been able to bring the bike to a controlled stop from 30 mph without having to dump it. On my first day back to work, I drove down that stretch of Franklin, looking carefully for my skid marks. I found my answer.

Running down the middle of a traffic lane is a strip I call “the grease pit.” Especially on a stretch of road where traffic is heavy and slow, oils and other fluids drip from engines and transmissions, coating that center part of the lane. Bikers always need to be aware of that. My skid mark started right smack dab in the middle of the lane. This was why the front wheel had locked up and why the bike had skidded as long as it had. Had I been in my normal position, in the left-hand wheel rut, I could have stopped the bike safely.

We can all learn from adversity, and the lessons from this particular incident are clear:

• If there is an alternative to a heavy traffic area, take it.


• Keep the bike out of the grease pit part of the traffic lane.


• And don’t ever let your vision get locked in one quadrant at the expense of all the others.
  

I’m healing up nicely these days, and I’m already combing the ads for my next ride. As I mount up and once again hit the road, it will be as a smarter rider and a much wiser man.

As it should always be.

Research Papers: Taming the Beast

Research paper, term paper, thesis, dissertation, whatever term is used, it still describes the universal nightmare of just about everyone who ever sat in a classroom. The idea of this drawn-out, tortuous, labor intensive monster lurking on the academic doorstep is enough to provide a host of sleepless nights.

It gets worse when the teachers impose an arbitrary minimum length, anywhere from 10 to 20 pages. At this point the fear becomes panic, as the student frantically racks their brain, trying to imagine how to fill such a voluminous document.

But it doesn’t have to be that way. There is a way to approach such an assignment that makes it far less arduous, and perhaps, even fun.

Yes, I said “fun.”

Research papers can be assigned as a general topic, or a very narrow specific issue. In a general topic, you can choose the topics or issues you want to discuss. The narrower the topic, however, the fewer your options for discussion will be.

The first step in approaching a topic is to identify the issues that exist. Let’s say your social studies teacher has assigned you to do a research paper on the nation of Haiti. Haiti is the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere and struggles with a plethora of seemingly insurmountable problems. A quick tour of Google should give you at least 10 to 15 different topics, such as poverty, corruption, HIV/AIDS, drug trafficking, other diseases, an absolutely moribund economy, political upheavals…I could go on for quite awhile. Depending on your motivations, you could choose one topic, say hunger for instance, or you might tackle two or three connected issues such as governmental corruption, the bad economy, and the growth of drug trafficking.

Once you’ve picked a topic, begin the process of research by asking questions. Let’s say you decide to explore the issue of poverty. Some questions you might pose could be:

• Has Haiti always been poor? (Explore the history of this island nation a bit)
• What are the causes of the poverty?
• How good is the education provided by the government?
• Why aren’t there any jobs? Why do international companies shy away from investing in Haiti?

Once you explored those questions, then think about solutions:

• What conditions need to be corrected to make Haiti attractive for businesses?
• How can the education system be improved to better equip Haitians for economic survival?
• What help can the international community provide?

Then, look ahead:

• What are the prospects for Haiti 5 years, 10 years, 20 years down the road?
• How can it improve? What happens if it continues to fail?

This process provides two things. It gives you a roadmap for your paper, and it also narrows the focus of your research.

At the risk of sounding glib, I can tell you from my own experience that research, properly and comprehensively done, will make the writing part of your paper a lot easier. Obviously, the more you know, the more you can say. Have you ever eavesdropped on a maniacal sports fan? You know they can go on for hours about their favorite sport. Know why? Because they’ve done their research.

Nowadays with the worldwide resources of the Internet at your disposal, the process of researching has become much easier. Back in the dinosaur days of my youth, I had to spend many hours in libraries, digging through card catalogs and wandering through musty stacks of academic journals, looking for the specific articles I needed. Now, most of those resources are cataloged on line, so you can spend an hour or two searching on your computer and already have a list of those publications and articles you need to access. That saves a tremendous amount of time.

But the internet, while rich in resources, also has a lot of deadly traps. Anyone with a computer can go on line and write at great length on any number of subjects. Unfortunately, there are a lot of bloggers out there that deliberately write false and misleading things, hoping to create controversy that will drive visitors to their sites. A careful blogger will list their sources and that can give you some additional sources. But beware the beartrap of context. A writer can very easily, by careful editing, lift a sentence out of a source and make it sound completely opposite of what the originator intended. Therefore, follow up the sources and read the whole thing!

Wikipedia, despite its entertainment value, is not a proper source for a serious research paper. Too many times, "W" has been found to be using imposters posing as experts, writing information that is at best misleading, and at worse, completely fictional.

Journalists used to be reliable sources, but again, on too many occasions reporters have been caught committing any number of sins. Inventing stories, cherry-picking quotes to ensure the support of an agenda, ignoring or minimizing the opposing arguments, and de-contextualizing statements are just a few of the tricks that have been turned.

A couple of years ago, a BBC reporter (who here shall go unnamed) broke a story to the world that the Colombian drug cartels had developed a “Super Coca Plant.” In a breathless manner, he described how these plants grew much taller with greater leaf density, and a higher concentration of cocaine alkaloids. Coca, as you may know, is the plant from which cocaine is produced. The entire process is complicated and requires several chemicals, specialized equipment, and the exploitation of peasants. Now, the news that a more dangerous source of cocaine was being grown was picked up and reported globally, from Harrisburg to Hong Kong. People panicked. Government leaders were hounded by the public demanding stringent measures to combat this new menace. And as it turned out, it was all much ado about nothing.

I called the expert on cocaine at DEA Headquarters in Washington to get the facts. When I finally got him on the phone, he was exasperated beyond belief. His phone had been ringing off the hook that day, thanks to the BBC report. He explained the truth.

• Coca plants will grow very tall if left unattended and unharvested. These particular plants had been abandoned by the drug trafficking group who owned them. Hence, they grew up.
• The strength and purity of cocaine hydrochloride, the powdered form of this drug, is determined, not by the amount of alkaloids in the leaf, but in the manufacturing process itself. It actually has much more to do with the quality of the chemicals used, and how tightly controlled the process is.

The reporter had been “rolled” by a local Colombian police type, who as a joke fed this disinformation to the reporter. Apparently he figured that the reporter either knew better, or would at least check the veracity of the story before publishing. The reporter did neither, and as a result, thoroughly embarrassed himself in front of the entire world.

Now this was an example of carelessness. But there are many other instances where a reporter has deliberately falsified information in a story. At least twice in the last six or seven years, a reporter has been forced to return a Pulitzer when it was discovered that they had…well…lied. So be very careful when quoting news sources. Follow up on any quotes and citations listed. You can email the reporter if you need help. If they refuse to help you verify the story, that should be all the answer you need.

By far the best source you can use are academic journals. While they are enormously dry and difficult to read (I had to have a Thesaurus with me), they are nonetheless of immense value. Articles for these publications are written by experts in that field, and peer-reviewed by other experts in that field, before being published. This ensures that the information contained is accurate. That doesn’t mean there won’t be disagreements.

I did a 30-page paper on the effect of economic sanctions as a tool for forcing governments to comply with international law. In digging through the journals, (Political Science Quarterly, Foreign Affairs, etc.) I found I could “follow the argument.” One academic would publish an article in the Spring edition, espousing a particular point of view. In the Summer edition, another professor took issue with those conclusions, offering her own take on what the data represented. In the Fall edition, another PhD. took yet another stance, and so on. Following these “conversations” is helpful in that it ensures that all sides of the discussion are being covered, elements that can add value to your paper. Again, this saves you a lot of time.

I should discuss the issue of plagiarism. Plagiarism is defined as the act of “stealing (yes, stealing) the ideas or writings of another; to take passages or ideas from and use them as one’s own.” (Webster’s II New College Dictionary, 1995) To be caught doing this has destroyed entire careers, and in many cases, has resulted in civil and criminal actions. This is no joke. The people who will read and grade your paper take this very seriously, and in the college community, can land you in a very bad place.

What constitutes plagiarism? According to the APA guide…

“Plagiarism is the taking of someone else's words, work, or ideas, and passing them off as a product of your own efforts. Plagiarism may occur when a person fails to place quotation marks around someone else's exact words, directly rephrasing or paraphrasing someone else's words while still following the general form of the original, and/or failing to issue the proper citation to one's source material.

In student papers, plagiarism is often due to...

• turning in someone else's paper as one's own
• using another person's data or ideas without acknowledgment
• failing to cite a written source (printed or internet) of information that you used to collect data or ideas
• copying an author's exact words and putting htem in the paper without quotation marks
• rephrasing an author's words and failing to cite the source
• copying, rephrasing, or quoting an author's exact words and citing a source other than where the material was obtained. (For example, using a secondary source which cites the original material, but citing only the primary material. This misrepresents the nature of the scholarship involved in creating the paper. If you have not read an original publication, do not cite it in your references as if you have!)
• using wording that is very similar to that of the original source, but passing it off as one's own.

The last item is probably the most common problem in student writing. It is still plagiarism if the student uses an author's key phrases or sentences in a way that implies they are his/her own, even if s/he cites the source.” (APA Guide CCJ 5606 “Instructions for citations and references” http://www.criminology.fsu.edu/crimtheory/apa.htm).

Read the preceding section very carefully. One of the common tricks used by lazy students is to lift a paragraph out of a published source, changing the words around, and plugging it into their own paper, passing it off as their own. Let’s be clear on this. The whole reason for writing a paper is to publish your own thoughts on a subject. The whole process of researching, and then writing builds knowledge, from which you can draw your own conclusions. And that’s the whole reason for school: To learn facts and draw conclusions.

In class, the people who are most tempted to steal are those who didn’t do their research. And as the Internet has made resources available to the researching student, it has also made it ridiculously easy for teachers to spot plagiarism. Teachers and professors now have software which “reads” papers and then searches the ‘Net for identical or similar text, including sites that sell term papers. If you’ve used someone else’s work without giving due credit, you will be caught. Guaranteed.

Also, teachers are very sensitive to "style." Every individual writes differently, using phrases, sentences, and words in a way that is uniquely theirs. Also, there is the issue of quality. If you've spent the entire semester writing like...well, like a kid, and all of a sudden you come off sounding like a Master's Degree candidate, even the densest educator is going to sit up and opine, "Egad! Something evil is afoot!"

In the academic world, intellectual property is given the same weight as any other kind of property. To them, theft of ideas is just as serious as the theft of a car. Think about it.

The best way to avoid such a situation is simply to do the research, and then take the time to learn what you’ve uncovered. If you know your subject, and the basis of that knowledge, your paper will almost write itself.

In my job, I write reports, which means I also do research. Tons of research. Hours of research. Days of research. Weeks of…well, you get the idea. As a result, I have learned a lot about the particular subjects I’m responsible for. Consequently, when I’m asked a question, most times I have a good answer. And when asked for an opinion, I can render one based on the most current information available. So, when I sit down to write a report, more often than not, I find I have to shorten it to fit the length desired by my bosses.

For example, I once did a report on the methamphetamine market in Hawaii. My research draft (the first draft once the research is done) was 43 pages long. The final version that “went to press” was five pages. That pattern has repeated itself numerous times. Because my research was carefully and thoroughly done, I wrote way more than was actually needed. Now, as a teenager, I hated writing with a purple passion, mainly because my teachers taught only writing, not research. That’s the missing link, because if you really know your subject, you don’t need to steal from others. You’ll have enough ideas of your own.

Language is the means by which humans convey messages and ideas. In every culture, the basic language gets altered (some would say “polluted”) by the use of slang. The e-culture we find ourselves in today has rendered that distortion even further with the introduction of abbreviations arising out of instant messaging, and cell phone texting. When you write a paper, you need to leave slang alone. Slang, while colorful and fun, is inexact and certain words can have regional variations, the use of which can leave your audience completely baffled. I have a friend who is the editorial page editor of a newspaper. He moans often about the state of writing contained in the “letters to the editor” that end up in his inbox. Often, he says, “I have to send the letter or email back and ask for the writer to translate.”

As you do your research, spend some time studying the style of academic writing. Look at how sentences are constructed; how words are used. See how paragraphs are organized into ideas and how the paragraphs are knit together to craft the writer’s point of view. Yes, academic writing can be very boring to read, but that’s done on purpose. The ideas brought forth have to stand on their own merits, and not given false fronts by using emotional or excessively superlative words, which do more to obscure the meaning. If you can’t make those ideas stand on the strength of your research, then you either need more research, or a different set of ideas. If you are able to write seriously, you will be taken seriously. If you don’t, you’ll be laughed at.

Formulate questions. Do your research. Learn what you’ve found. Tell the world what you think. If you follow this simple process, you can tame the beast. And your research project will be as a well-trained dog on a leash, responding to your every command.

Every research project is an opportunity to learn something you didn’t know before.

The more you learn, the more respect you’ll earn.

Now, previously I mentioned the word "fun" in relation to this whole process. Part of that comes from the realization that as you work your way through this process, you realize that you're learning things. As your knowledge expands, your confidence and assuredness grows as well. Then one night, your parents drag you to a meeting of some kind. It may be PTA, or the neighborhood watch, or something at church. At one point, you find yourself with a bunch of adults who are, as adults sometimes do, trying to solve all the world's problems. They talk about poor countries close to the U.S. and how the wealth of the U.S. never seems to rub off on it's island neighbors. One adult remarks, "I heard they're having problems in Haiti again. Do any of you know what's going on?" Now, they've been ignoring you, because, well, they think you're just a dumb kid. Then, on the strength of your new-found knowledge, you say...

"Actually, things are getting a bit better. The political situation seems to have stabilized with the last round of elections. Inflation dropped from over 40% to less than 8%. Haiti is still the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere, with over 80% of its people in poverty. Foreign investment is still slow to return, since companies still seem reluctant to trust in long-term stability. Adding to those challenges, the country has become a major trans-shipment point for drugs flowing between South America and the U.S., which only adds to the corruption problem. Just a few years ago, Haiti's future was all bad news. Now, however, the country is hanging in the balance. Over the long term things could go either way."

As you look around, you see in their eyes first surprise, then growing respect. They respond with questions, which you discover you are able to answer with confidence. Suddenly, you're not a dumb kid anymore. You're one of them; an equal.

Take it from personal experience. That, my friends, is fun.

To My Shipmates: Remarks on the Occasion of a Reunion

I’ve been looking forward to this weekend for some time. I think one of the most memorable events for anyone is that occasion when we have the opportunity to meet with people with whom we’ve shared a special and crucial part of our lives. This is especially true of those who have served the people of the United States as members of the armed forces. Service in the military is a life-changing event. Whether one wears the uniform for one hitch or an entire career, the discipline, the camaraderie, and sense of duty forever marks those who served.

Wearing the uniform took us across the globe, forever altering our perspective. You can read volumes about other lands, other cultures, and the vastly different lives that circumstance forces some humans to lead. But the personal perspective; the eyewitness experience dwarfs whatever knowledge one could glean from a text. That experience provides an education in reality no university could ever provide. When we listen to some Americans complain about being poor after seeing places like Thailand, the Philippines, Kenya, Oman, Somalia, Pakistan, and rural Mexico, we know those Americans don’t have a clue what real poverty is.

The Navy life is a hard one. The days are long and arduous. The separations from loved ones are difficult and all-too frequent. While that kind of life is hard enough on the sailor, it is even more difficult for the wives and children left behind. For them, the challenges of life must be faced alone, from the mundane logistics of getting the kids where they need to be, to that long, terrifying—and lonely--night in the emergency room. We are awed by the strength and dedication they showed. And we also know that whatever we have accomplished in our lives, we could not have done it without their unfaltering support. Being a Navy Wife requires a special kind of courage; and a love that knows no bounds.


Every day in uniform is an exercise in being pushed to the limits, only to discover that we had far more capability than we ever imagined. In meeting those challenges head-on, a person grows in ways that takes years to fully appreciate.

The relationships born in such a crucible are in many ways the most valuable and enduring. Like steel, the most durable friendships are those formed in the hottest fire. That shared sense of adventure and adversity forges links that endure across the decades. Regardless of the divergent paths our lives may have taken since; we remain bonded by that shared experience. We recall with great glee the fun we had. And we remember with quiet pride the service we rendered. Remarkably, even though decades have separated our last encounters, we’ve picked up right where we left off, as effortlessly and comfortably as sliding into an old pair of jeans. We’ve discovered the value of real friendship; that it is utterly unaffected by time or distance.

This reunion of veterans is not just a renewal of friendships or an exercise in remembrance. It is the all-too-brief re-visitation with our past. The memories come flooding back; stories are told and re-told, admittedly with a somewhat carefree application of the truth. We tell tales like The Great Cookie Caper, OI Division’s Tijuana Massacre, The Big Fish, The Wachter Whale Encounter, Bob Zambone’s Midnight Swim, and the Steel Beach Picnic, cooking steaks while the crew of a Soviet AGI watched and drooled from 300 yards…downwind. And, of course, the object lesson provided by OS2 Kevin Andre Perkins of why it is so important to hit the head BEFORE General Quarters. DC Central will not break watertight integrity, even when you’re about to break yours.


Serving in uniform also tends to change one’s view of that which most people take utterly for granted: Our own very remarkable country.

It is a sad reality that freedom and liberty will always be taken for granted by those who have never experienced anything less, nor have ever had to defend it. Yet we who have served have seen firsthand what happens when a nation of people lose control over their government. July 4th will never be just a summer holiday to us. Veteran’s Day, Memorial Day, Flag Day all mean more to us than to others, for we know personally the price that was paid; the cost that was exacted.

Throughout the history of the world, the blood of soldiers and sailors has been expended for all the wrong reasons. Yet, the history of the United States is unique. Yes, we’ve had to defend our own soil from time to time. But what is surprising is the number of times we have spent our blood defending, not our soil, but someone else’s. According to the American Battle Monuments Commission, there are 24 cemeteries in 10 different countries overseas, containing the graves of almost 125,000 American soldiers, sailors, marines, airmen and guardsman. In addition, there are memorials for some 94,000 service members who remain officially missing. And we must add to those totals at least 100,000 American sailors who found their final rest in the depths of the sea, some who were formally buried with full honors, others who share the sea floor with the remains of their ships, submarines, and planes. No other nation in history has shed so much blood in defense of others.



Civil War hero Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain in a speech to some mutinous soldiers prior to the Battle of Gettysburg is said to have observed,

“This is a different kind of army. If you look at history,
you'll see men fight for pay, for women, or some other kind of loot.
They fight for land, or because a king makes them,
or just because they like killing.
But we're here for something new.
This hasn't happened much in the history of the world.
We are an army out to set other men free.”

That goal, to set others free, has defined the roles played by America’s military, especially the Navy. It is an ideal, not ordered by the U.S. government, but one willed by the American people. Those who have worn this nation’s uniform have, by choice, embraced that mandate. America fights for freedom; everyone’s freedom.

We wore the uniform of our country; we carried the flag to the far reaches of the world. In so doing, we brought the light of possibility and hope to those who had neither. Even to this day, I cannot imagine a higher calling.


One thing common to all who served was the clear understanding of honor. We learned it; we lived it; we breathed it. We judged each other, and more importantly, ourselves by that unyielding standard. Over the years, we came to understand that of everything we value, honor is the most important. Life may take from us our wealth, our position, and our possessions. But as long as we retain our honor, we are rich beyond measure.

It is therefore fitting that we served aboard a ship named for a sailor whose last act on this earth was one of the highest honor and the greatest courage. Reading the citation that went along with David Ouellet’s Medal of Honor, I find myself wondering if there was no higher award he could have received. It was his alertness and dedication to duty that allowed his vessel to close and engage the enemy. And during that fight, when he saw a grenade arcing their way, he left a secure position, warned his shipmates, pushed the Boat Captain out of danger, and saved his crew by absorbing the blast with his own body. David Ouellet was 23 years old, the story of his life barely written. I’m certain that he had dreams and hopes; plans for the future. But in that moment of penultimate choice, seeing his shipmates in danger, he laid aside his entire future without hesitation in order to save lives.

“Greater love hath no man than this; that he lay down his life for his friends.”

I think most of us, at one time, have remembered ourselves at 23 years old and wondered if we could have been so courageous; been capable of that much love. David G. Ouellet was, to us, more than just a name of our ship. He was the ideal of service and commitment towards which we all strove. It was his example that inspired us all.


We gathered here this weekend for a variety of reasons. The renewal of friendships, the recollection of some very special experiences, some sideways glances to see if everyone else got as old as we did. Perhaps what we found here was the all-too-brief visit with the memory of our youth. For a few brief, precious hours, we became young again; full of piss ‘n’ vinegar. And although we honor the perspective of years as a gift of wisdom, together, we look back on our time in uniform and our service aboard the finest frigate in the Pacific Fleet, knowing that of the countless days of our life’s journey, those were our finest hours.


“But if it be a sin to covet honor,
I am the most offending soul alive.
I would not lose so great an honor
As one man more would share from me
We few, we happy few…
We band of brothers.”

Commencement Address: "Dare to Dream!"

Dr. Brouder, Dean Smith, Dean Randerson, Dean Burchard, Coach Burchard, Director Sheehan, Faculty, students, graduates, alumni, parents, families, and friends. It is an honor and a pleasure to share with you on one of the most important and life-altering days in the lives of the men and women who sit before you. In December of 2000, I, too, sat here, feeling the powerful emotions that all graduates feel on such a day, linked by the common desire for the commencement speaker to stand up, finish up, and sit down.

It may be helpful for you if I share a bit of my educational background. I got my first degree from Regent’s College in Albany, New York. I got my second degree from here, from Columbia College. The third degree I get from my wife on a frequent basis.

It is good to be back in Columbia and I am honored and humbled by the invitation to share this wonderful day with all of you.

I am an Intelligence Analyst, working in the counter-drug community. It is a difficult job, one that challenges me on a daily basis. I study organizations that consist of the most ruthless, amoral, and violent people in human history. I have reviewed volumes of material containing the tragic accounts of human destruction wrought by drug abuse; young lives cut tragically short, not only by the substances themselves, but also by the associated violence.

A few years ago, after a two-year dance with the devil known as crystal methamphetamine, a nephew of mine took his own life. The memory of T.J. is a constant companion; a daily source of inspiration for me. But it’s not just T.J. It’s also the millions of others who are enslaved by addiction, brutally exploited by drug traffickers and dealers, who are the new slave masters. But today, I can, for a time, set aside the grim nature of my work. Today, I can revel in the promise of the future; the promise of hope.

Earlier, I spent some time walking among these graduates. I saw many people with big smiles, glowing faces, and bright, twinkling eyes. I saw people who have decided to have a future, rather than surrendering to the situational prison of the past or the present. Their success should be a beacon for the rest of us. Each one of us has the ability to pursue success; all that is required is the courage to step up. So many of the problems that confront us as individuals, as a community, a culture, a country, could be solved if we would face the mirror, look ourselves dead in the eye and say, “My biggest problem is me; Me, I can fix.”

In a conversation between a DEA Special Agent and a member of the DAS, Colombia’s version of the FBI, the Colombian remarked, “In our lifetimes we only have a few chances to be a hero, but everyday we have a chance to NOT be a coward.”

It is easy to give up when the circumstances of life turn against you. When traveling uphill, sometimes the hardest decision is simply to keep walking. Adversity is never easy. However, we need that challenge. Challenge forces us to reach a little higher, push a little further, and work a little harder. President Kennedy, when speaking about going to the moon, said that we need challenges, “…not because they are easy, but because they are hard; because that goal will serve to organize and measure the best of our energies and skills.”

One can be a coward and run from challenge; or face it squarely, and be a hero. These graduates have done that courageous thing; they have faced this challenge, and they have prevailed. For that, they deserve our deepest respect and highest admiration.

There are many who look at the coming years with an understandable level of skepticism, cynicism, even fear. But looking at you, I don’t feel skeptical; I don’t feel cynical; I don’t feel afraid. I do feel the one great thing that each one of you can give to the rest of us. And that is hope. As long as Columbia College continues to give to the world people as intelligent, accomplished and magnificent as these, Hope will never die.

During the hot, humid summer of 1997, I felt my life had come to a standstill. I had a job that consisted of work that was dull and repetitive, and to be completely honest, I wasn’t very good at it. I needed that job to support my family, but the work was, I felt, very far removed from what I knew to be my personal strengths and interests. I felt trapped by circumstance, and exceedingly unhappy. Worst of all, as I watched the clock tick and the calendar turn, I feared that time was slipping from my grasp.

After one particularly trying day, I arrived home, exhausted and despondent. I remember staring at my face in the mirror and repeating over and over, “You are more than this.” Some refer to that as a “click” moment, an instant when some unknown switch is thrown in your head, or your heart. After that moment, everything changes. The way you look at your job, the way you look at your life, the way you look at yourself is altered forever.

In my case, I began to do a dangerous thing for a middle-aged man; I began to dream. Up to that point, my dreams had been smothered by the mundane drudgery of life. I had ceased to look ahead, resigned to shuffle aimlessly from day to day. However, on that day, for the first time in a long time, my dreams saw the light of day.

I knew of Columbia’s evening college, in fact John Fields, one of my co-workers and my closest friend, was already attending classes. He encouraged me to apply. My wife, who, for some utterly incomprehensible reason, never stopped believing in me, gave me her unqualified and enthusiastic support. We scraped together the money, made room in our schedule, and I started classes.

I knew that school was going to be hard work, but I was surprised to discover how much fun I was having. I actually looked forward to class. It wasn’t just the courses but also the instructors and professors who taught them. Knowing that my ultimate destination was the Intelligence Community, I was thrilled to discover that two of my teachers had spent their first careers there. The knowledge they imparted was leavened by the rich tapestry of their experiences. Some of the most effective teachers we will ever have are those who have “been there, done that.”

There were also teachers like Professor David Roebuck. Dr. Roebuck is the academic version of a Marine Corps Drill Instructor. By that, I don't mean that his class was like: "Wrong answer. Drop and give me 50! What I mean is that he has that innate sense of what each student is capable of, and the dynamic gifts to pull it out of us. In our class, he set high standards and motivated us to achieve them through the uncomplicated act of refusing to accept mediocrity. One of the pieces of wisdom I took from that experience is that whatever level we perceive to be the upper limits of our capability, that level is, in reality, only two-thirds of what we actually can achieve. In the life-long quest to achieve our full potential, we all need a little Dr. Roebuck in our lives.

I was also stimulated by the active intellects of my classmates. The evening college, I discovered was populated by people like me; working men and women who were powerfully motivated by the desire to succeed. Knowing that education was the key to that success, they treated the academic process with the respect and seriousness it deserved. The inputs they provided were exciting, even intoxicating. There were many nights that I would come home and find it difficult to sleep because my mind was so energized by what had transpired in class. I had limited contact with the students from the day college, but I was nonetheless impressed with them as well. I was 40 years old before I decided what I wanted to do when I grew up. So, for them to have identified their goals and harnessed their dreams at such a young age was, to me, remarkable. To successfully navigate four years of higher education requires dedication, maturity, and discipline. To see those qualities in the members of this generation demonstrates to me that the future is manifestly in good hands.

Meanwhile back at the shop, I received a goodly amount of support from many of my coworkers, during this time. However, I was still subjected to the negativity of a few. I heard comments like, “Wasted effort;” “What in the world are you thinking?;” “You’re too old for this.” And even after receiving my federal appointment, the parting shot, “Six months. Six months and you’ll be back, begging for your old job.”

Finally, after three years of late nights, lost weekends and hard work, I found myself on that December day in 2000 sitting in this room in cap and gown waiting with barely repressed impatience for that moment when I would walk across this stage and receive that precious symbol of academic achievement.

From the moment I graduated, my life changed, more than I could ever have thought possible. Over the next three years, I went through the long, slow process of landing a job with the Intelligence Community, the time involved driven by the testing and background investigations involved in earning a Top Secret clearance, waiting out the hiring freeze related to the 9/11 attacks, and taking time for my son’s wedding in Korea. But finally, in April of 2004, I walked through the doors of my new life, a month shy of my 49th birthday. I’m happy to report to you that since that day, I have been happier and more fulfilled than I ever thought possible. I show up early, stay late, volunteer for every extra job that comes along. Every day is a good day. "So," you’re probably saying to yourselves, "this guy’s either found the greatest job in the universe, or he’s seriously in need of professional help." The truth is I have found my niche, a job that is a perfect fit for my skills, abilities, and interests; a job I thoroughly enjoy, a career with a superb future. There’s a popular saying that’s been attributed to several people, most notably the Chinese philosopher Confucius: “Find a task that you love to do, and you will never work a day in your life.” Well, by that measure, I’ve been on vacation for the last five years. Without Columbia College, none of this would have happened.

I could have stayed at my old job until I retired. Perhaps that would have been the safe choice; after all, I was pushing 50 years of age. There was a risk that no one would be interested in hiring such an elderly entry-level analyst. Nevertheless, I chose to take the risk, a risk that paid off.

I have to tell you that, despite my joy and anticipation over this new opportunity, on the day when I walked out of that factory for the last time, with the heartfelt encouragement and congratulations of most of my colleagues, I felt a little fear. I was leaving behind safety, certitude, and job security for something utterly unknown 800 miles away. But deep in my heart, I knew that this was the right choice. So I turned my back on the bitter cynics; I walked away from the whining doubters, my footsteps guided by the words of Robert Kennedy:

“The future does not belong to those who are satisfied with today.”

Star Trek Creator Gene Roddenberry once wrote:

“Our prime obligation to ourselves is to make the unknown known.

We are on a journey to keep an appointment with whatever we will become.”

You are about to embark on this journey. The course is not clearly charted, and there is only the vaguest hint of your ultimate destination. But as you travel, there are a couple of things I’d like you to remember. (You really didn’t think you were going to get out of here without a little grandfatherly wisdom, did you?)

First of all, you are college graduates; but know that your real education has just started. I remember a small sign that sat on one of my professor’s desk:

“The graduate cried, “Look world! I have a BA!”
The world replied, “Sit down, my child,
and I’ll teach you the rest of the alphabet.”

Education is a permanent part of our lives; we are always learning things. That will happen in a very limited way even if we just sit still and watch the world whiz by. Imagine how much more we can accumulate by actively pursuing education. The more you know, the better you will be. Always be a seeker of knowledge. Know also that the most important things you can learn aren’t found in any book. Knowing the right thing to do in a given situation is, more often than not, an exercise, not in knowledge, but in wisdom. There’s not a college or university on the planet that grants degrees in wisdom. That can only come from you.

Secondly, the possession of this degree will ensure that doors of opportunity, previously closed to you, will now be open. Know that success depends so much on not just the presence of opportunity, but what you choose to do with it. Columbia College has provided us the tools to build that grand, beautiful allegorical mansion that represents the manifestation of our dreams. It is now up to you to pick up those tools, and go to work. To be honest, I can’t promise that the first position you land will be your professional nirvana. However, I can promise that if you employ this equation of life, preparation plus opportunity times effort, I’m convinced that you will find your success.

And if you walk from this hall today with your eye firmly fixed on your goal and with the promise on your heart that you will not give up, the future with all of its unwritten promises and possibilities will be yours to command. Your past may have shaped your present. But never let that past determine your future. Whatever went on before, whatever bad days you had are behind you. On this day, at this hour, begins your new life. Grab the wheel; take control, and no longer will you be a victim of circumstance. From now on, you are the master of your destiny.

We represent a wide diversity of humanity, yet I cannot help but feel a strong emotional kinship with all of you. Despite the differences in our heritages, our backgrounds, our generations, our points of view, there is one great unifying vision that binds us all together. It’s the same thread that runs through every class of every year going back to the very beginning:

We came to Columbia College because we dared to dream!

Each one of you dared to dream! And you are here today because you proved that you had the drive, the determination, and the dedication to make this dream real. Vos Carpe Diem! YOU have seized the day!

We will soon be entering the part of the ceremony that I heard one professor wryly describe as “decorum takes a holiday.” In a few moments, you will rise from your seats and line up. Your name will be called, and you will cross the stage, shake a few hands, and receive your degrees. Some of you will walk; some will glide or roll, some will march; some will strut; some may even dance. However, whatever forms of locomotion you choose to employ, do it proudly. For if there was ever a moment when you have truly earned the right to be proud, today is that day.

And tomorrow, when you wake up, and after you’ve treated that pounding headache from celebrating perhaps not wisely but too well, pick up your degree, tuck it under your arm, and go do something with it. Less than seven percent of the world’s population has earned a college degree, and that other 93 percent will now be looking to you for answers to their questions, and solutions to their problems. Earning a degree is a great honor; it is also a grave responsibility. As Edward Everett Hale once wrote,

"I am only one, but I am one.
I cannot do everything, but I can do something.
And because I cannot do everything,
I will not refuse to do the something that I can do.
What I can do, I should do.
And what I should do, by the grace of God, I will do."

We live in a world rife with difficulties, populated by humans, governments, and institutions who have surrendered to circumstance, apathy and jaded cynicism. This world needs your inventive genius, your boundless energy, and your unquenchable optimism. There is not a single one of us who alone can save the whole world. But together, we can each carve out a corner of that same world and make a difference.

Graduates of Columbia College, this is your world; this is your time.

Step up…
…and rock your world!

Speech: "Freedom: America's Greatest Strength"

It is an honor and a privilege to stand before you today. In recent years, we have all seen the negativity and outright hatred directed at our fair republic and perhaps, just perhaps we have felt a little lonely. Today, my spirit is buoyed, as I’m sure yours is, to discover that we are most emphatically NOT alone. Here, we have chosen to stand together; to stand together in our love of this great country; to stand together in our appreciation for the singular gifts of freedom; and to stand together in our unqualified support for those brave souls who have freely chosen to stand guard on the wall between tyranny and liberty.

The fact that we have the right to gather here and speak our minds and hearts is a positive affirmation that here in this land, the heartbeat of democracy beats and beats strongly.

The experiences that have shaped my life have been many and varied. As a child, I traveled extensively throughout this country. Through those journeys, I gained a deep appreciation not only for the awesome physical beauty of this land, but in the tremendous strength of will and character in her people. Later on in life, I spent ten years in uniform with the United States Navy. In that decade of service, my feet touched the soil of some 22 foreign countries. Unlike some others, I didn’t spend that time at the beaches or hotels. I spent the time walking the back roads and barrios of those far-flung places, talking to people and learning first-hand of their lives and their challenges. Through those experiences, I gained a new appreciation for America. For I have seen what happens in places where the people have no voice in government; where the politics of exclusion protected the powerful and victimized the weak.

Everywhere I went, I was always asked the same question: “What is it like to live in America?” I tried very hard to be realistic. It’s not as if I wasn’t proud of my country, but I felt it important that people understand the sometimes harsh realities of life, even in America. I talked about the problems that we had faced in the past and continue to face daily. I spoke of how expensive life in this country is and how hard it was for some of us to make ends meet. I also talked about the inherent opportunities that exist; that anyone with an idea, the desire to dream, and the willingness to work hard could succeed. But regardless of the bleakness of my portrayal, the reaction was universally the same: “I dream of someday living in America.”

On a particularly brutal hot day in Berbera, Somalia, I encountered an older man on the dusty streets. He asked me to take his picture; after which he charged me five bucks. Capitalism is truly a universal language! He then asked me about America. I told him the same story I had related to others, and he told me that he also dreamed about some day going to America. Slightly perplexed, I asked him why, after hearing all my bad news he still wanted to go. He replied:

“Here in my country, I was born ordinary; I have lived ordinary; I will die ordinary.

In America, all things are possible.

In America, an ordinary man can become a great man.

In America, I could never be ordinary.”

Such is the magic of this great nation.

Comedian Yakov Smirnov, an émigré from the former Soviet Union, came here with his parents carrying only a small suitcase of possessions and a very large dream. His experience mirrors the success of many who have come here and achieved. He notes often that in the middle of the word “American” are two other words: “I Can.” It is this determination that marks us as Americans; it is this unbreakable faith in ourselves and our courage to risk that truly sets us apart from the rest of humanity.

We are the leaders in information technology because two guys decided to build computers and create software in their garages, businesses which became Apple and Microsoft. We are the leaders in aviation because two bicycle shop owners looked up into the skies over Dayton, Ohio and asked, “Why not?” We are the unchallenged leaders in food production and bushels per acre yield because our brilliant hard-working farmers don’t know the meaning of the word “quit.” Nobody tops us in the quality and quantity of our manufactured goods because to our stalwart and principled blue-collar workforce, pride in craftsmanship is job number one. We enjoy the broadest freedoms and the greatest access to opportunity of any country that has ever existed on this planet, because in a nation of laws where government is of the people, by the people, and for the people, We the People will accept nothing less.

We are a nation of immigrants. Even those we call Native Americans actually descend from people who crossed the ancient land bridge from Asia over 12,000 years ago. The one characteristic that is common among all who came here, no matter from what other place, no matter at what point in time, is that they all had dreams and they wanted desperately for those dreams to come true. People came to America because they dared to Dream! Despite desperate flights from oppressive governments, failed economies, and fractured, polarized societies; despite long perilous journeys across broad oceans, over steep mountains, down wild rivers, and through trackless deserts, they chose to come here. Why? Because they understood that it was here that those dreams could become real.

Unfortunately, what some of us don’t understand, and what is increasingly ignored in schools and colleges, is that there ARE opportunities in America! What has been lost is the truth that opportunity does NOT come looking for you. If you want to achieve; if you have a dream to fulfill; if you have a goal to reach, you have to GO GET IT!

If we spend our day lounging on the couch with General Hospital and Judge Judy, unwilling to forgo the monthly ration of booze, bongs, and blow, we will accomplish NOTHING! But if we go forth from our homes, seek out those opportunities and make the most of them, we can succeed. Ronald Reagan once said,

“We have every right to dream heroic dreams.

Those who say that we are in a time when there are no heroes just don’t know where to look. You can see heroes every day going in and out of factory gates.

Others, a handful in number, produce enough food to feed all of us, and then the world beyond. Their patriotism is quiet, but deep. Their values sustain our national life.”

We must face life with courage, we must make the necessary sacrifices, and we must accept the occasional failure as a learning experience and not as the end of the world. If we do these things, then we will find life in this country a wonderfully fulfilling and joyful experience. The one thing, the only real thing that holds us back is in that epiphanal moment when we look in the mirror and say to that face we see there, “YOU are my biggest problem. YOU I can fix.”

The American system guarantees the opportunity. Success is up to us. I am not a wealthy person, but I know many who are. And there’s not a one of them that works less than 60 hours per week. There’s not a one of them that doesn’t have at least three major failure in their past. What has made them successful is their willingness to get up off the floor and make one more try. Our history is chock-full of stories of people who started out with nothing and achieved greatness. These are the examples and inspirations we should turn to when we feel our own will begin to sag. These are the examples we should point out to our children. For it is that pioneering spirit; that never-say-die attitude; that absolute fearlessness in the face of challenge and adversity that truly makes us a great people. We are Americans! We do not surrender! We do not surrender to failure! We do not surrender to adversity! And we will NEVER surrender to fear!

These are difficult and perilous times, times that require from the citizens of this country great strength, commitment, and courage. These are times when we need to understand the lessons of history and to remember the prescient words of Theodore Roosevelt:

“It is far better to dare mighty things,

than to take rank with those timid spirits

who know neither victory nor defeat.”

And let us not forget the stirring call to our destiny by President Kennedy:

“Let every nation know whether it wishes us well or ill,

that we shall pay any price,

bear any burden,

meet any hardship,

support any friend,

and oppose any foe

in order to assure the survival and success of liberty.”

This is who and what we are! We do not fight for oil! We do not fight for conquest! We do not fight for power! But we WILL fight for freedom! We will fight for justice! And we will fight for those who cannot fight for themselves!

President Reagan understood what Americans are capable of:

“I believe we, the Americans of today, are ready to act worthy of ourselves,

ready to do what must be done to ensure happiness and liberty

for ourselves, our children, and our children’s children.

And as we renew ourselves here in our own land,

we will be seen as having greater strength throughout the world.

We will again be the exemplar of freedom and a beacon of hope

for those who do not now have freedom.

As for the enemies of freedom, they will be reminded

that peace is the highest aspiration of the American people.

We will negotiate for it, sacrifice for it,

but we will never surrender for it – now or ever.”

America is not only a place. It is a set of ideas. It is a culture steeped in freedom and justice. It is a nation of people who courageously risked all they had in order to come here. It is a place where people of a thousand different heritages and backgrounds can live peacefully with one another. It is a nation slow to anger, but swift and sure in actions. It is a land where dreams still come true for those with the desire and the discipline to pursue them. Once again, I turn to the words of the Great Communicator:

“We’re entering our third century now,

but its wrong to judge our nation by its years.

The calendar can’t measure America

because we were meant to be an endless experiment in freedom

with no limit to our reaches, no boundaries to what we can do,

no end point to our hopes.

The United States Constitution is the impassioned and inspired vehicle

by which we travel through history.

It grew out of the most fundamental inspiration of our existence:

that we are here to serve Him by living free –

that living free releases in us the noblest of impulses and the best of our abilities.

That we would use these gifts for good and generous purposes

and would secure them not just for ourselves, and for our children, but for all mankind.

Why is the Constitution of the United States so exceptional?

Well, the difference is so small that it almost escapes you –

but it’s so great it tells you the whole story in just three words:

We the People.”

Today I stand with you in courage. Today, I pray with you in hope. Today I live with you in freedom. Today, we all say with pride: “WE ARE AMERICANS.”

Dumber Than a Smart Phone

My new...thingy.

We are fortunate (or cursed) to live in a time where technology is rapidly forging ahead. What was cutting-edge in January is hopelessly antiquated by June. Our kids, steeped in this exploding environment since birth, swing with the changes with what seems painless facility. We adults, particularly the boomers, find ourselves struggling to understand even the simple stuff. Rare is the parent that hasn’t been rescued from computer hell by a 9-year-old.

For a long time, it was easy to discover the technologically challenged among us, the scarlet letter being the steady blinking of "12:00" on the face of their VCR's. But as the future becomes today, we all risk being left in the dust.

Nowhere has this accelerating complexity manifested itself more than in the cell phone universe.

My wife and I were relative newcomers to the cell revolution, not getting our first phones until 2002. We floated along, safe in the knowledge that our phones didn’t exceed our comprehension.

However, since last fall, we'd been talking off and on about our phones. We could upgrade again with our provider. But frankly, we were ready for a change. Still, we procrastinated until a series of events forced the issue. Cheryl inadvertently left her phone out in the rain, and the phone belonging to Tigger, our youngest daughter, had suffered some kind of blunt force trauma (no explanation offered or sought). Since we would be all together over Memorial Day Weekend, it seemed the best time to make the switch, using my birthday as the excuse.

“Tigger,” (fully recovered from her hit-and-run accident, thanks for asking) went with us, ostensibly to “advise” us on the purchase. I had already decided on a model with a full keyboard, since texting with a regular keypad had become decidedly too slow. Cheryl was ambivalent about any particular model, but with Tigger, the consummate techno-booster at her side, she never really stood a chance.

To make a long story short, we all left the store with identical versions of the Blackberry with touch screen menus, a full keyboard, and a host of features.

Like most men, I attacked the user’s manual. I was amazed to discover all the things I could do with this phone. Web access, GPS, video and music capabilities. I could use this phone as a modem. I had instant access to all my email accounts. I even had an application (or “app”) for Microsoft Word. I squealed in delight at this discovery, since as a writer, I’ve learned that most of my good ideas happen away from home. I spent hours exploring and testing.

Late into the evening, I surrendered to fatigue and laid it aside. Suddenly, a loud ringing sound sprang forth from the device. Somebody was calling! My excitement at getting the first call on my new phone was quickly replaced by a growing consternation. In all my explorations, experimentations, and testing, I had neglected to learn one important task.

How to answer a telephone call.

Frantically, I pawed through the user’s manual trying to find the correct page as the phone continued to ring. Cheryl woke up and irritably demanded that I answer it. I mumbled in reply, unwilling to admit that I while wanted to answer in the worst way, I didn’t know how.

She grabbed the phone and punched the correct button, handing it back with a deadly expression.

“Hello?” I spoke hesitantly.

The voice on the other end seemed very distant, which puzzled me until I realized that I was holding the phone upside down.

“Hello?” I said again, this time with more confidence.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” said the disembodied voice from the phone. Frowning, I pulled the phone from my ear and intently studied the display. After several moments, I figured that I had accidently pushed the mute button. Eventually, I found the correct button and made contact.

After all that folderol, it turned out to be a wrong number. Despite that, I was relieved by the knowledge that my technological ineptitude remained safely anonymous from anyone I knew. My masculinity was, I felt, fully intact.

Familiarity breeds contempt and I know over time I will become comfortably familiar with this device, flipping through applications (and successfully answering calls) with the speed of a veteran. But it is still a humbling experience to face one’s technological limitations.

I can only hope I'll do better with my first ray gun.

Love and Marriage

Cheryl and Ralph Couey

June 17, 1978. It was a brutally hot and humid Missouri day as a couple of hundred people gathered for a wedding. Inside the church, which we belatedly discovered lacked air conditioning, the decorations began to wilt in the heat. Of course, there was the usual last-minute folderol typical of most weddings. The best man’s tuxedo coat had to be flown in from Omaha; there was a mighty struggle to locate enough large fans to cool the sluggishly oppressive atmosphere. Oh yes, and the last minute scramble to locate the marriage license (it was in the glove compartment). However, despite the ado, the ceremony went off without a hitch and after my Dad pronounced us husband and wife, Cheryl and I gleefully strode down the aisle and into our new life together. I was on top of the world. I was now a husband. I was convinced I had arrived as a man, and there was nothing else the world could teach me.

Now, 31 years later, I reflect back on that day with great bemusement. How foolishly naïve I was! I thought I knew it all. In fact, I knew nothing.

The decision of two people to wed is a definitive point of arrival after a long, careful, and introspective journey of two hearts and minds (when done correctly, that is). Through the process called courtship, the couple learns about each other, strengths and weaknesses, likes and dislikes, what brings joy, what triggers anger, and the extent of that anger. They make decisions and commitments about things as seemingly mundane as where to live, expectations about the household division of labor, and more importantly, children. I’m amazed at the number of troubled couples who show up in counseling never having decided, or even discussed these issues. These are the things that shape the path of a family. And while life, at times, can make a complete hash of even the most carefully laid plans, the failure of any couple to face these decisions squarely prior to saying “I do” is like taking off in a car with a gas pedal and no steering wheel.

Young people consumed with love are often afraid to ask each other the tough questions, fearing that the resulting truth will risk popping their bubble of romantic fantasy. But the most important qualification of adulthood is having the courage to seek that reality.

Being married changes what was into what will become. And both parties are changed in that process. There is an old adage which states: “Men marry women for what they are. Women marry men for what they can make out of them.” There is enough truth there to sting a little. But in the example of my own marriage, I can see the changes that took place.

In many ways, we’re still the same two people we were. She’s a driven type “A” with a penchant for drama. I’m far more laid-back, possessing a more relaxed view of life. In the early years, these polar-opposite perspectives were the source of a lot of friction. But over time, we grew to value these differences. I’ve been able to teach her patience, convincing her that there are times she needs to step back and take a breath. And that it’s okay to be wrong sometimes. On the other hand, she’s taught me to be more proactive, jumping on opportunities and situations immediately instead of laying back and waiting for Karma to work its magic.

We share a lot of interests, but each has different gifts. We learned that those differing talents could be turned to advantage, especially when it came to the kids’ homework. She is the scientist, the mathematician, a logician of the first order, and the linguist. I’m humanities; history, social and cultural studies, writing, and political science. A classic left-brain/right-brain pairing. Once we learned to harness those different talents, our kids benefitted enormously from that team approach.

We were, and still are, vastly different people. But instead of allowing those oppositions to divide and destroy, we turned them into strengths, and in the process, we were both changed.

“All You Need Is Love,” the Beatles once sang. That works in the realm of fantasy, but not in reality. Marriage can be a source of joy and strength; a structure where love can flourish. It is also, at times, painfully hard, sweaty work. But for any two people who go into matrimony with their minds and eyes wide open, with all the hard questions asked and answered, and with a shared and tested commitment to the marriage and each other, will get through the tough times.

In a larger sense, marriage and family are necessary bedrocks to the survival of any culture. It is our connection to the present and the past, and a path to the future.

On a personal level, it is two people on a shared voyage to the same port of call.

"Let's Be Careful Out There!"

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, April 28, 2009

Riding season is upon us. As the weather warms, motorcycles will once again populate the roadways. The responsibility of survival in traffic rests upon the shoulders of both riders and drivers. For the sake of everyone, please read and heed these prudent reminders:

DRIVERS: Motorcycles are small and easily lost in the background of other traffic. Take that extra moment to look carefully before pulling into traffic, particularly when turning left.

RIDERS: Remember the first rule of inattentional blindness: Even if they look directly at you, they may not actually see you. When approaching a possible situation where a driver could pull out in front of you, plan an escape route, if possible. Watch the driver’s eyes and flash your high-beam if there’s any doubt.

DRIVERS: When merging onto a highway or changing lanes, please make the effort to actually turn and look over your shoulder. Don’t rely on that glance in the rearview mirrors. They are small and leave blind spots around your vehicle.

RIDERS: Like you, drivers are human. They have the same propensity for mistakes as you do. In traffic, leave room for the unexpected and you will lessen the risk.

DRIVERS: Don’t tailgate. A fender-bender between cars is an annoyance. The same impact could maim or kill a rider.

RIDERS: Don’t tailgate. Your headlamp could blind a driver by reflecting that light from their rear-view mirror into their eyes. Also, your proximity could unnerve or distract the driver, making the likelihood of a panic stop more likely.

DRIVERS: When you pass a bike, make sure you’re well clear of its front end before moving back into the lane. And when you do, maintain your speed; don’t slow down.

RIDERS: Cars are not as maneuverable as bikes are. Most drivers’ reflexes aren’t as good as yours. Don’t cut them off. When passing, leave room.

DRIVERS: If you must communicate while driving, at least use a hands-free device. Don’t let the conversation distract you from your primary responsibility, the safe operation of your motor vehicle. And if you absolutely, positively must send a text, PULL OVER!!!

RIDERS: Don’t stunt-ride in traffic. Stay safe and sober. Traffic is dangerous enough without adding the risks of riding stupid.

DRIVERS: Yes, you will on occasion see a rider doing stupid human tricks, showing off, or otherwise riding stupid. Don’t use that rider’s behavior as a reason to broad-brush the rest of us.

RIDERS: These are stressful times. A lot of people are dealing with issues of survival, and some are not handling those pressures all that well. Arrogant riding, such as pulling wheelies, speeding, tailgating, or zigging through traffic could be enough to push someone over the edge, even if only momentarily. And while they may miss you, the poor schmuck behind you may pay the price for your stupidity.

DRIVERS AND RIDERS: Don’t de-humanize. No matter how much someone’s appearance or apparent behavior may offend your sensibilities, please remember that on that bike and in that car is someone else’s father or mother, brother or sister, son or daughter. Treat them with the same care and courtesy you would a member of your own family.

After all, we’re sharing the road and just trying to get home.

Parents, Kids, and the Nest

L to R: Niki, Jamie, Robbie, Crystal


Robbie is on the far left, Crystal is the bride, and on the right end, Jamie and Niki

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, May 8, 2009

Adults fill an abundance of roles throughout our lives, but none more exhausting, exasperating, or more rewarding than being “Dad and Mom.”

My wife and I both wanted children, sharing that naïve dream of how easy it would be. Watching our parents, it seemed so easy. They always knew the right answer, always made the correct decision. There was nothing they hands couldn’t create or fix. They came to our games and concerts, making us feel special. And they were always that emotional safe harbor for scraped knees and bruised feelings.

The illusion that we could do as well didn’t last long. Kids are complicated little beings. They are always changing and growing. Being parents means working hard just to keep up. And it was always hard. I was barely an adult myself, trying to be a good example when I wasn’t completely sure what that was. I remember feeling confused and overwhelmed.

And worried. Always worried.

The hardest thing as a parent, is remembering that you’re always under observation. Everything you do, everything you say is recorded in the minds and hearts of your kids. In their eyes, if you do it or say it, then it must be okay for them as well.

Time is an investment. Every minute you spend with your children, teaching, guiding…and loving them pays long-term dividends. It's common knowledge that girls who don't have good relationships with their father will try to replace that with other males. That desperation often leads to abuse, unplanned pregnancies, endless heartache.

I was in the Navy and absent a lot. My long-suffering wife did most of the heavy lifting of raising them when I was gone. When I was home, I tried to do as much as I could, although I can guiltily admit that I could have done more. Now that they’re adults, I can proudly see their accomplishments and independence, although a lot of that success had more to do with them making their own good decisions.

Their independence was our goal. We felt that if we couldn’t give to the world a fully functional self-sustaining 18-year-old adult, then, as their parents, we had failed them and society as well.

Now, part of us is terribly proud of our four adults, but the other part wishes they still needed us, even just a little bit.

It’s a paradox, perhaps a cruel one. But parenting is like that, a nexus of joy and pain. The hardest pain is letting go. Some parents can’t tolerate that pain, and have 20-something children still in the home with no job, no future, and no inclination to seek either. The parents are fearful of pushing their kids out of the nest with no safety net to fend for themselves. And yet, the example of our own lives amply shows that the best way to learn survival, is by being forced to survive. Our job is producing adults. If we haven’t done that, we’ve crippled them.

I do understand the fear. You’ve invested your life in them. Now, as they establish their own independent lives, you’re afraid they won’t need you anymore. And your sole meaning and purpose in life vanishes.

That fear has a clinical identity: Empty-Nest Syndrome. It’s not only the children who have to learn to live alone. The parents as well have to face the emotional fallout of an empty and all-too-silent house.

My wife and I sought out activities and hobbies that would fill those many hours formerly devoted to our kids. For the most part, we were successful. Still, there were those evenings when the silence got to us, and our hearts ached for that telephone to ring. We do call them, but out of respect for their privacy and the freedom to grow their own families, we try to keep those intrusions to a minimum.

Being a parent is, as the oft-quoted phrase goes, “the hardest job you’ll ever love.” From the moment you first hold that squalling, red-faced newborn through graduation, marriage, careers, and children of their own, that sense of responsibility and worry knows no end. When they're out of sight, you have no influence over the conditions of their lives. And you feel even worse.

There was a man, still single at 40, who contracted a serious illness. His mother, in her late 60’s, at her own expense traveled cross-country to care for him. In his passing moments of lucidity, he expressed embarrassment at putting her in the position of taking care of him, yet again. Her reply:

“It’ll never matter how old you are, or how old I am. You will always be my baby boy.”

I believe that’s what they call “love.”

And the love of a real "Dad and Mom," never lets go.

The Journey

There’s a horizon out there. On the far side are things I’ve never seen, places I’ve never been, people I’ve never met, experiences I’ve never had. To seek the horizon and all that lies beyond is to free the spirit and uncage the soul. To some, a horizon is a boundary, a barrier separating the risky and unknown from the safe and familiar. For me, the horizon is a gateway; the inviting door through which awaits adventure and discovery.

Indulging my inner explorer, I sought the horizon and all that lay beyond. I have stood in wonder before the multitudinous works of man; I have knelt in awe before the creative majesty of God, finding peace in a thousand moments from the beauty of a desert sunset, to the quiet joy of a grandchild's embrace.

We humans are explorers. We are marked by our curiosity; the irrepressible desire for knowledge drives us to make the unknown known, whether scaling a mountain, or a simple stroll around a new neighborhood.

The desire to travel springs from the restlessness I feel. To stay in one place is to put down roots. I have no desire for roots, for I yearn to roam. In the open road and the perfect sky, hear the siren song of freedom.

I also hear the ticking of the clock.

Being human, I am conscious of the rapid passage of time. The tick of the clock and the turn of the calendar haunt me; the urgent reminders that each day is a precious resource, not to be wasted. When I was young, the future stretched out before me, as limitless as the universe itself. But as the clock ticked and the calendar turned, the infinite became finite; out of the limitless, walls appeared. I discovered, to my lasting regret, that life has an end. Sadly, I realize how I squandered my youth and vitality, allowing all my tomorrows to become yesterdays.

But time is not yet passed. I still have the ability to climb on my motorcycle and launch myself towards the sunset. There I can find that eternal moment, between yesterday and tomorrow where all things are possible. Where there is no past, no future, only that perfect moment of life; to breathe the sweet air of freedom under a limitless blue sky. I believe if I possessed the courage, I would become such a vagabond, freeing myself of the weight of obligations and possessions. To be rich in material goods leads only to a deeper emptiness. To be rich in experience and knowledge is to fill the heart to overflowing.

I would seek high mountains and broad plains; trackless deserts and cathedral-like forests. I would explore great cities, ancient and modern. I would ride along country lanes through meadow and moor, and stand on the shores of great oceans and humble ponds. Every dawn is filled with opportunity; every sunset satiated with fulfillment.

And every morning there is a new horizon out there…

…calling to me…

My spirit answers; another journey is begun.

Decide to be Happy

Smilin' Al Lovin' the Sun

“Most folks are about as happy as they make up their minds to be.” --Abraham Lincoln.

It was a beautiful spring day. The sun bright in a clear blue sky, the breeze was soft and almost warm. The hillsides were still brown and bare, but days like this one were a solemn promise that better days were coming.

I took the occasion to leave the office and take a stroll around downtown. I reveled in the novel sounds of birdsong, so welcome after those long, cold silent winter months. People were full of smiles and laughter. Friends were talking animatedly, and even complete strangers exchanged warm greetings. I stopped several times to speak to friends, our conversations staying light and joyful. One friend said, “You know, I feel so much better today than last night. I watched the news for awhile, but everything was so negative, that I finally turned it off.” She paused for a moment, as a brief shadow dimmed her features. “I know the news needs to be reported, but why can’t we hear about the good stuff more often?”

Good Question.

Everyone’s heard the oft-spoken stone cold criteria for news: “If it bleeds, it leads.” The interesting thing is that, despite our protests to the contrary, we are naturally drawn to the bad news. Nobody stops along the road to take in the beauty of Mountain Laurel in the spring, but come across a car accident and everyone wants to stop and stare. Everyone decries negative political ads, but study after study done by Political Scientists proves that those are the only ads that stick with us. Even our own conversations reveal this fascination. Good news, accomplishments, and successes get a brief mention, but conversation about the scandalous, the disreputable, and the morally repugnant lasts for hours, if not days.

These days, there seems to be nothing but bad news. The economy, war, rumors of war, corruption and greed, and the steady parade of accounts of humanity’s inhumanity to each other parade through our minds like the big electronic news ticker in Times Square. But even with all that, there is still good news to be found.

Several times each week, this paper runs a positive, upbeat story, usually spread across the back of the “A” section. Every day, in our own lives, we encounter someone who does a kind act, or someone, even a complete stranger, whose unsolicited kindness lifts our day. Nothing prevents us from writing that up and emailing it to the paper or the television stations. Yes, we can write letters to the editor that aren’t filled with anger, judgment and vindictiveness.

So, try this. When you see a kind act, write it up and email it. In the subject line, call it “Today’s Kindness,” or something similar. Post it on one of the paper’s forums, or send to one of the editors. Maybe, if enough of these are generated, the paper can periodically run a small column describing the good that people do to each other. And maybe, just maybe reading those snippets will help to counter-balance the perception we all seem to share that our civilization is circling the drain.

To decide to be happy is to decide to live life richly. Let’s share the wealth, shall we?

Honor and The Uniform

Cryptologic Technician Network Chief Robert T. Couey;
Third generation Navy
Second Generation Chief Petty Officer

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, May 25, 2009

Service in the military is a life-changing event. Whether one wears the uniform for one hitch or an entire career, the discipline, and sense of duty forever marks those who served. The veteran’s perspective is broadened, forever altered through the experience of having seen first-hand the unpolished areas of the world. That experience provided an education in reality no university could ever provide.

The military life is a hard one. Every day is an exercise in being pushed to the limits, only to discover far more capability than previously imagined. In meeting those challenges head-on, a person grows in ways that takes years to fully appreciate.

The relationships formed in such a crucible are in many ways the most valuable and enduring. Like steel, the most durable friendships are those formed in the hottest fire. That shared adversity forges links that endure across the decades.

The sign on the door announces a “reunion.” Coming down the hall, an old man, wrinkled and grey, walks with difficulty into a room filled with similarly old, gray, and wrinkled men. Then, their eyes meet. Suddenly, the years fall away. The backs straighten; the faces light up, perhaps there is a tear or two. Instantly, they are all in their 20’s again.

A reunion of veterans is not just a renewal of friendships. It is the all-too-brief visitation of youth. As the memories come flooding back, stories are told and re-told, admittedly with a somewhat carefree application of the truth. Remarkably, even though decades separate their last encounters, they pick up right where they left off, as effortlessly and comfortably as sliding into an old pair of jeans. It is good to see them, their backs straight, their heads held high; glowing with the pride borne out of service and sacrifice.

Over the weekend, there will be those poignant moments, especially for those who shared combat, when recalled are those comrades whose young lives ended on the battlefield. It is here that raw emotions, long suppressed but never truly forgotten, rise to the surface in an act of long-overdue mourning. Men normally resist such public displays. But not here, not now. For they are among friends, the only ones who will ever really understand.

One thing common to all who served was the clear understanding of honor. We learned it; we lived it; we breathed it. It was the unyielding standard by which we judged each other, and, more importantly, ourselves. And over the years, we came to understand that of everything we value, honor is the most important. Life may take from us our wealth, our position, and our possessions. But as long as we retain our honor, we are rich beyond measure.

“But if it be a sin to covet honor,
I am the most offending soul alive.
I would not lose so great an honor
As one man more would share from me

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
“For he today that sheds his blood with me
Shall forever be my brother.

--Portions of the St. Crispin’s Day Speech from “Henry V”
By William Shakespeare

We wore the uniform; we carried the flag. We served the cause of freedom and brought that vision to those immersed in darkness who yearned for that light. Rather than hiding from adversity, rather than running from challenge, together we rose and shoulder-to-shoulder, stood our ground. On this Memorial Day weekend, we will pause and remember those who once occupied the now-empty spaces in the ranks. We will whisper the words of Lincoln…

“That from these honored dead, we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the final measure of devotion.”

We will renew that most sacred promise:

“That we, here, highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain.”

The perspective of years is a gift of wisdom. Together, veterans look back, realizing that of the countless days of our life’s journey, those were our finest hours.

Circles and Echoes

Mother and daughter

"Even if we never meet or ever see each other again,
we have left our thumbprints in the thick, moist clay of each other's lives."
--Hugh Elliott

We often think about life in terms of a circle. Within that circle are the collection of experiences and those characteristics that define the “we” others see in us. As we move along through time, our circle crosses the boundaries of other circles, which represents the interactions we have with others.

Some of our circles travel together for mere moments before moving on; never touching again. Others stay with us for decades. Those are the relationships most precious to us, for they are our trusted friends and those others with whom we share love. They become not only a part of our lives, but also a part of ourselves. When their circle leaves ours, they take a part of us with them. And we are left empty and sad.

Life is a fluid state; change is, in fact, its only stable component. The number of other circles sharing space with ours changes. When we make physical changes, such as changing schools, jobs, or moving, we often get a whole new collection of circles. We also make emotional changes, the loss of a friendship or the death of a romance. In those cases, the separation of circles is difficult and painful, especially when we have to see them every day, knowing that they are no longer a part of us. Yet, even as people leave our circles, they often leave an echo of themselves behind. That echo takes up residence in the hope chest of our most treasured memories.

I’ve lived in a lot of places, and worked many jobs in my life. The string of acquaintances and friendships experienced along the way is, like yours, quite extensive. Some date back to childhood and adolescence; others have only recently crossed into my circle. At times, I encounter people from my past and I’m often amazed at how seamlessly their circle rejoins my own. Despite the years and the distance, we seem to take up right where we left off. And, beyond the wrinkles and gray hair, we’re amazed at how little has actually changed. People who were loud and rambunctious still carry that amazing energy. The quiet ones still don’t say much. What does reveal itself is that comfort and peace that says to the world, “I’ve found myself.”

I guess the amazing thing is how much of our lives contains definitive bits and pieces of the people we’ve known throughout the years. Like a bread mix, every ingredient regardless of the amount, changes the loaf a little bit. A pinch too much flour, and it’s too dry. A smidgeon too little yeast and it won’t rise. The path of our lives, the way we look at the world, how we view ourselves are all steered, bumped, or nudged in different directions by our encounters with others. Likewise, we will probably never know how our influence may have altered the life of someone else.

When I was young, still learning to drive, I remember pulling up to a stop sign. I stopped, looked both ways, and headed into the intersection. Suddenly, my senses were assaulted by a blaring horn, the sound of squealing rubber, and some extremely colorful well-chosen phrases. Another car, frankly speeding, had almost taken my front end off, its approach shielded by a tree and a line of parked cars. It was a small moment, albeit a scary moment. But even today, when I come to that intersection, I take a few extra cautious looks before pulling out. I didn’t know the speeder who I almost hit and I never saw him again. Nevertheless, he changed my driving habits forever.

For good or bad, well or ill, we change each other in ways both dramatic and subtle. Even a chance encounter can mean a lot. Which begs the question, can we help to create a better corner of the world by simply being more aware when our circles intersect each other?

How about we just treat each other a little nicer?

"The Future...The Undiscovered Country"

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, March 15, 2009

I’ve been intrigued how the concept of “the future” is perceived. For some in Johnstown, it seems that the best future would be a return to the past; when the mills were roaring, downtown was buzzing, and everyone was flush. But the world has changed. Johnstown must change along with it.

In 1970, sociologist and futurist Alvin Toffler published a book entitled “Future Shock.” Toffler discussed how the effect of “too much change in too short of a time” leaves a populace suffering from “shattering stress and disorientation.” Humans are resilient to a point, but when the world turns upside down overnight, even the most prepared find themselves reeling.

Johnstown is suffering from a type of Future Shock. The city is historically a blue-collar town. If you didn’t work iron, steel or coal, then your business income depended on those who did. The collapse of those industries left a gaping wound that to this day has not fully healed. The loss of Johnstown’s signature industry has forced the city and its people to redefine themselves.

Through the efforts of Congressman John Murtha, several firms have arrived, bringing much-needed jobs. But, prolific he may be, but immortal he is not. Already there are worried whispers about the fate of the area’s economy after he is gone. One local man told me, “Losing Mr. Murtha would be worse than losing the steel mills.”

It is time to think seriously about the future. If Johnstown wants to be a magnet for economic development, then it must be able to target those businesses that fit in the economy of the 21st century.

We have a disciplined and ethical workforce. However, manufacturing still drives the mindset. Labor-intensive smokestack industries are on the wane, as technology replaces human labor. Information, or “data,” has become the new coin of the realm, and the movement of megabytes is the new production line. The world has gone digital, and if you don’t know how to use a computer and standard business software, you need to learn. Nearly every company uses them in some fashion and those who remain unskilled in their use will be left behind.

Micro-municipalities litter the greater Johnstown area, each with their own expensive police, fire, and public works departments, along with entrenched politicians and bureaucracy. Few out-of-town business owners in their right minds would attempt to navigate the dizzying array of municipal laws and regulations in order to come here. For the sake of its citizens, and to attract outside businesses, a city needs to run efficiently. After all, Santa’s sleigh would never get off the ground if the reindeer pulled in eight different directions. In a previous column from May 2007, I pointed out that consolidating all the communities from the West End to Windber would instantly elevate Johnstown from the 34th largest city in Pennsylvania all the way to number 4. That would increase the city’s political influence in Harrisburg immeasurably.

While the effort to raze empty and abandoned buildings has increased, there are still far too many of these structures. Empty and abandoned houses, some of them burned-out shells, are not only structural hazards, but also provide nesting places for disease-carrying vermin. Landlords, some of whom don’t live within 200 miles, have artfully used the bureaucratic process to keep the city away from their crumbling properties, while failing to make repairs. Eminent Domain laws should be aggressively applied for the sake of those who live in those neighborhoods. Private property rights form one of the vital foundations of our Republic. However, those rights include a share of the responsibility for the safety of the community.

The Johnstown area does have a lot to offer:

• This is an area of incredible natural beauty. The hills and mountains, the lush forests and abundant wildlife. Mild summers, winters that would have inspired Norman Rockwell, and a spring and autumn pallet of breathtaking beauty.

• Johnstown is still a safer place to raise a family than many others. Houses are affordable; the cost of living is more than manageable. Traffic is tolerable and commutes are relatively short.

• The best part? The people who live here. Warm, friendly, generous almost to a fault; committed to a family-centered community.

The city stands at a crossroads. One fork leads to decline and decay. It is the easier path, because it requires people to do nothing. The other path leads to a bright, prosperous future. It is a difficult path, strewn with rocks and potholes and lined by naysayers mired in the status quo. But this path, however arduous, leads to a bright future, the glittering success of a resurrected Johnstown.

A Battle Won

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, February 25, 2009

At long last, the final hurdle remaining for the construction of the permanent memorial to the crew and passengers of United Airlines Flight 93 has been cleared. Agreements have been reached regarding the purchase of the final parcels of land, including the impact site itself, and on Friday, February 20, a public commitment was made to break ground and have the facility completed by the 10th anniversary of the attacks.

Although the announcement was attended by such luminaries as Governor Rendell, and the two United States Senators, the credit for this lies solely and completely with the tireless and dedicated volunteers of the Flight 93 Advisory Commission, the Flight 93 Memorial Task Force, the Families of Flight 93, Joanne Hanley of the National Park Service, and the tough weather-hardened members of the Flight 93 Ambassadors, who have performed magnificently as the faces and voices for the fallen to the hundreds of thousands of visitors to the site.

I have to admit that for awhile, I was worried. The dispute over the land purchase seemed to be hopelessly mired in mutual intransigence. The gap over a fair price per acre remained wide, as neither side budged an inch. Politicians in Washington would toss in a rhetorical bone from time to time, but in their actions seemed to be keeping the issue at an arms length.

Mostly though, I was concerned about the passage of time and the tendency of some Americans toward selective amnesia. Would this thing drag on until public apathy buried the whole idea of a memorial?

As it turned out, my fears were largely groundless. The settlement of the land sale demonstrates that in that case, even seemingly hopeless intransigence can be eventually bridged. Once that gap was bridged, the politicians stepped up and publically stated their commitment. But where I was really wrong was in my assessment of the American memory.

At the quarterly meeting of the Task Force in Somerset last month, a presentation was given by Ranger Adam Shaffer. Probably no one, outside those who were there, are aware that December, as cold as it was, was the second best December for the temporary memorial: 2,595 visitors. In addition, we all remember the arctic weather that descended on the Laurel Highlands during January. The National Weather Service says we received around 30 inches of snow and two ice storms. There wasn’t a day of relief from the icy knife of those incessant winds. Most of us had to deal with those conditions just walking between the house, the car, and the workplace, and the curious visit to pick over the corpse of Circuit City.

But out at the Field of Honor, the Ambassadors were there every day, gutting out the effects of the elements. And in spite of the awful weather, 1,423 visitors still came to the memorial.

On what was indisputably the worst day of this winter, the day of the Big Ice Storm, with every piece of the memorial’s spartan architecture encased and frozen, visitors still showed up.

I’ve been a husband for some thirty years, so I’m familiar with the state of “being wrong.” Usually, it’s not a pleasant state. But in this case, I’m pleased to be there. I will cheerfully admit that I vastly underestimated the depth of the American heart.

As the sky darkened and the sun set on September 11th, 2001, Americans across the country looked to that horizon and made a silent promise; the promise that We Will Never Forget. With the double victory of the land deals and the public commitment made this past week, we can be assured that the memory of the singular courage of our 40 heroes will never fade. Years hence, “…Reverent men and women from afar, and generations that know us not shall come to this field to ponder and to dream.

“And the power of that vision will pass into their souls.”

Love Is...

Unknown source from Google Images

“Marriage is dead.” Surprised, I looked up from my lunch in response to my acquaintance’s bald statement. “As an institution,” he quickly added.

Swallowing the forkful of salad I had been chewing, I asked, “How so?”

“I think folks realize that for two people who truly love each other, a piece of government paper is worthless. Besides, you know that half of all marriages end in divorce anyway.” He had been going on for some time about the joys of living with his girlfriend and went on to explain how much in love they were and that they were in that somehow magical zone known as a “committed relationship.”

That conversation stayed with me for quite some time. I lost track of them for a few years before meeting again in the aisles of a local Wal-Mart. They were now married, happily so, and I asked them how they were doing. He admitted “it was an adjustment.” Curious, I asked, “How is being married different from living together?”

She replied, “Before we were just roommates. Now, we belong to each other.”

Marriage and divorce statistics are something of a hodge-podge. Some studies state that as much as 67% of marriages end up in divorce. Others peg that number much lower, around 40%. The reasons for these failed unions have been a frequent topic of discussion in venues ranging from the Ivy Tower to the backyard fence. As a minister, I have some limited experience talking with young folks looking to spend their lives together. Through those conversations, I have come to a few conclusions myself.

Love is perhaps the one thing in the shared human experience most impossible to define. We know how it feels; we know what it looks like; but even on the strength of hundreds of years of poems, sonnets, and songs, and billions of humans’ experiences, we still can’t verbalize exactly what it is. Those who are single may commit a sizeable portion of waking hours in pursuit of that nebulous and indefinable ideal.

Part of the philosophy driving the 60’s counter-culture movement involved the rejection of traditional rules and structures, especially those concerning human pair bonding. Crosby, Stills, and Nash sang, “If you can’t be with the one you love, then love the one you’re with.” In a sense, it went along with the era. We had disposable cans and disposable diapers, why not disposable people? The whole concept of “love” changed, moving from a state of the heart to a hormonal response. Concurrently, divorce became far more common, surging to record highs in the 70’s and 80’s. But things have changed. According to the latest data set available, divorce is now at the lowest rate since those halcyon days of Sergeant Pepper.

One thing I’ve noticed over the years is how relationships have changed. At one time, people started with an acquaintance. Over time, they explored and discovered common interests and shared ideals. As mutual trust became established, a friendship developed, growing in depth and intensity over time. At some point, there was a subtle shift, and friendship became something far deeper. Fate asserted itself, and commitments were made, a wedding took place, and on that night, all the elements that had been building were consummated in a physical act of complete intimacy and trust. What has changed is that physical component is now often introduced in the beginning of a relationship, rather than at the end. The danger in the inversion of those events lies in the temporary intensity of a physical relationship. Lust is a powerful influence. It can obscure truth and distort feelings. It is also short-lived. While love may be impossible to define, it does have component parts: Friendship, respect, shared interests, common goals and desires, patience, trust, and the ability to forgive. Lust has none of those, merely existing long enough for the novelty to wear off. For two people who are truly in love, there is no higher priority than each other. These elements are important, because any old married couple will tell you that there will be those times when sex gets a bit stale. When that happens, couples really need all those other components present while they work together to reinvigorate their intimacy.

Going slow also provides time for both parties to really get to know one another. What one might initially see as touching devotion may actually be revealed to be an obsessive desire to control and manipulate. Spirit and passion might also be revealed over time to be a quick temper and the tendency towards acts of physical violence. That youthful joie de vivre that some women find so attractive and exciting might be revealed as chronic immaturity; a boy who has no interest in being a man.

Over time, I’ve developed the opinion that some people get married simply because they’re having great sex. When they get bored, they divorce because there’s nothing else to the relationship. There are others who are so terrified of living alone, they will give themselves up to the first possibility that comes along, regardless of the consequences. Women who thus refuse to leave abusive boyfriends become victims twice. Once by him, and again by the bondage of their own fears.

The decision to cohabitate manifests itself in the unspoken choice that each partner has to pull up stakes and move on without working to salvage the relationship. What is lost is growth. Commitment forces us to grow up; to deal with and eliminate the childish habits of irresponsibility and narcissism; moving us to think outside our personal box by placing the needs of someone else above our own. By approaching relationships carefully, establishing the important things first before giving in to the frantic demands of lust, something lasting can be built.

There are also legal implications. If your live-in is injured or becomes ill and decisions have to be made about medical treatments, up to and including sugery, you will quickly find out that you have no standing. Treatment may be delayed while the hospital desperately searches for a blood relative to give authorization. And if your roommate should not survive, unless a will exists specifically spelling out your rights, you will be left with nothing. The entire estate, house, money, cars, etc., will pass to the nearest blood relative. And if that person turns out to be someone who "didn't approve" of you...

These complications become even more convoluted if you've had children together. Some of these issues can be alleviated with Powers of Attorney, both medical and general, partnership agreements, wills, etc. But most co-habitants don't bother with those because...well...they're just living together. And if they should break up, it's too much of a hassle to go back and nullify those documents.

How can you know what kind of relationship you have? Try going celibate for two months.

Yes, that’s exactly what I said.

If after two months your relationship is still alive and well, then it is based on solid fundamentals. On the other hand, if you end up spending your evenings in long, brittle silences, or one of you suddenly finds reasons to be away, then maybe it's time to face the cold reality that perhaps sex is all you ever had.

Yes, it’s a harsh test. It’s also a demanding one. But if you’re really interested in knowing for sure that what you have together is good for the long haul, it’s worth the effort to find out now.

It’s the adult thing to do.

Oh, and by the way, Happy Valentine’s Day!

Kansas City, Tony Gonzalez...And Fairness

Making a living the hard way. Photo by Julie Jacobson, Associated Press

Independence, MO Examiner, February 21, 2009

In the last year, Tony Gonzalez has become a figure of some controversy. For him, it has been an unusual role, to say the least. For his entire career, the Kansas City Chief’s number 88 has been the NFL version of the good soldier; the battlefield hero. He took to the field in 190 NFL games, turning his competitive fire into a blowtorch, leaving behind the smoking ruins of many a defensive secondary. In nearly all that time, his behavior on and off the field has been beyond reproach. There are several dominant receivers in the league, but when you compare the unmatched professionalism of Gonzalez to characters like Terrell Owens, Randy Moss and Ocho Cinco you cannot help but respect the man.

It’s not just the stats he’s put up, although they are considerable. Consider this:

• In 12 seasons of stellar blocking and catching passes in that allegorical mine field we all know as “across the middle,” he’s missed two games. Two.

• He fumbled three times in his second year, twice in his third, but only once in the last nine seasons.

• Four times he’s topped the 1,000-yard mark. Four additional times, he was within 100 yards of that benchmark. Across a 16-game season, that’s less than 7 additional yards per game.

• His public comments over the years have always been marked by maturity; supportive of his teammates, his coaches, and the Chiefs Nation, and until lately, remarkably free of the whining and discontent we’ve almost come to expect from star professional athletes.

All this while NFL officials stood by and watched him get mugged mercilessly by defenders who knew of no other way to stop him.

While he has achieved greatness and earned the respect of all, there is one brass ring that has eluded him: a Super Bowl.

To the average fan, that particular desire seems unimportant. After all, he's famous, has millions in the bank and lives a lifestyle most of us can only dream about. What’s not to like? But the average fan will never understand the competitive fire that burns inside professional athletes. If that fire, that desire for greatness burned as intensely inside the rest of us, this country would not have a drug problem, or a welfare problem, or a jobs problem. The average fan--in fact the average person--utterly fails to realize that greatness in any endeavor requires the same quality of effort and dedication…and personal discipline, exhibited by people like Tony Gonzalez. He could have had a nice career being competent and average. But he chose excellence instead.

This month, Tony will turn 33, approaching physical senescence for a professional football player, even one as cut and conditioned as this one. Now, with his team obviously in a rebuilding mode and the days passing rapidly, he wants a shot at that last brass ring. Reading the blogs, some of us look at this as the ultimate betrayal, leaving the city that has grown used to looking to him as a pillar of excellence in a sea of mediocrity; the one diamond on a table full of worthless quartz. After all, we reason, without Tony, who’s left to watch? Who’s left to give us those few moments of excitement out of the 60-minute snooze that Chiefs games have become lately? And is there anybody else whose effort in those 60 minutes can be utterly unquestioned?

Tony Gonzalez has preserved a measure of fame and dignity for a franchise that has fallen on hard times. And because we fans live our lives vicariously through our teams, we fear the loss of such an icon. We fear that without him, those hard times will now be reflected back upon us. The escape that this football team has provided us in these difficult days of economic stress may now simply become a dark reflection of our own hard-scrabble lives.

From a practical standpoint, it’s unlikely that the Chiefs will reach the playoffs in the next two or three years, and the odds of a Super Bowl in that span are cosmically remote. Whether he stays or goes will not change those odds. In fact, with players like Missouri’s Chase Coffman entering the draft, it may make more sense to start over with a younger player. It would give that young guy a chance to develop as the Chiefs work their way back to competitiveness.

I, for one, respect Tony Gonzalez. He was, and still is one of the few real class acts in the public arena. Because of that respect and my appreciation of his accomplishments, I am of the opinion that Tony should be freed to pursue this last dream, while he still possesses the ability to do so. For us to take any other attitude is the height of selfishness. He has earned this. And if we truly respect him; if we truly honor his accomplishments and class, then we, as fans, as a city, must let him go. Will it be difficult? You bet. But it is also eminently fair. As we have followed rocky road of Derrick Thomas into Canton, we know that not having that championship can affect a player’s standing among those voters. Derrick didn’t deserve that treatment. Neither does Tony.

In 12 seasons, Tony Gonzalez has left an indelible imprint on the history of Kansas City sports, and in the hearts of her fans. Regardless of where he goes, what uniform he wears, he will always be a Chief in our hearts.

As long as he doesn’t end up in Denver.

Remembering '69

The General at Work in Super Bowl IV. (Photo Kansas City Star, 1970)

“20 seconds…19…18…the game is going to be over. Mike Livingston doesn’t want to play anymore, neither do the Chiefs. They’ve had enough. They want the football. They’re going to blow the clock out. THAT’S IT! CHIEFS ARE THE WORLD CHAMPIONS OF PROFESSIONAL FOOTBALL!”

As historic moments go, it was a spine-tingler. Bill Grigsby, a monument of professional broadcasting in Mid-America, had the honor of counting down the waning seconds of Kansas City’s only Super Bowl victory. And as the seconds ticked away, Chiefs fans in bars, homes, parties, and those lucky enough to be in Tulane Stadium that day unleashed their joy in a tsunami of celebration.

Reflecting back on 1969, it’s amazing how much the game has changed. The offensive line that opened the holes for Garret, Holmes, McVea, and Hayes, enabling that quartet to amass over 2,000 yards of rushing, was considered one of the biggest in professional football. Yet today, they would only be the size of an average linebacker. Our quarterback, at 6-1 and 180 lbs, was considered average in size. Today, a skinny runt like that would likely get the tar beat out of him. Witness the fate of Brodie Croyle.

But despite the vast differences in size and speed between then and now, one thing has never changed.

Moments before Grigsby began his victory chant, Len Dawson left the field to a standing ovation. For Chiefs fans, and especially the Chiefs family, it was a poignant moment. Dawson was more than The Quarterback. He was a man who in that year had survived devastating personal tragedies and a serious injury. In so doing, he had defined the personal qualities of courage and leadership. Really, his stats for that season weren’t all that spectacular. In fact, his quarterback rating for 1969 was only 69.9. His stand-in, Mike Livingston managed only a rating of 67.4. But in the end, as Dawson left the field that day, it was abundantly clear that championships are not won with statistics. They’re won with courage and leadership.

Leaders were abundant on that team. Along with Dawson were veterans like E. J. Holub, Willie Lanier, Johnny Robinson, Jerry Mays, and Bobby Bell. They wore a banner of pride and professionalism, and a complete commitment to winning. They demonstrated that commitment on and off the field. Nobody got into trouble in clubs and bars, or driving drunk, or getting involved in criminal activities because the risk of bringing shame to the team was too great. To quote Star Trek, for those Chiefs, “The good of the many outweighed the needs of the few…or the one.” They were the very definition of “Team.”

To look at the 2008 version of this team, with the shining exceptions of Tony Gonzalez and Brian Waters, it’s hard to find that kind of character. A team with leadership tends not to lose close games; they minimize mistakes; they protect leads. They don't give up.

Make no mistake; whoever Scott Pioli brings to this team will need to be the kind of guy who is willing to risk being that leader. What the Chiefs will need are people who never lose sight of the brass ring, and who are utterly unafraid of getting in the grill of teammates who may just be going through the motions. Men who are motivated by adversity; Players and coaches who have but one goal: Victory.

This year will mark the 40th anniversary of Super Bowl IV. Fans and players alike have suffered through years of mediocrity and sheer disaster, seasoned with all too few heart-breaking brushes with greatness. The fans that make up the allegorical Chief’s Nation have made it abundantly clear that they will no longer be satisfied with merely being competitive. It’s been four decades since the Chiefs stood in football’s ultimate winners circle. And that’s long enough. In this anniversary year, Chiefs fans now wait with guarded anticipation as the team embarks on a new path. Scott Pioli, the new General Manager, arrives in his office under the shadow of a grim mandate from the Chiefs Nation: Build Us a Winner.

For us fans, perhaps we can help to carry that message by embracing this anniversary. We should go to our closets and musty attics and break out those treasured t-shirts and hats, emblazoned with the triumphant cry “1970 World Champions.” I don’t know who has the master tapes from the LP “Hail to the Chiefs,” the recorded recounting of that championship year, but perhaps it’s time to re-release a CD, or even a DVD version, so we can relive the excitement of those games, and recall the shared personal qualities that made them champions.

And, most importantly, we must publicly embrace those aging warriors who expended their vitality and shed their blood on the battle-torn turf of those fields. Their battered bodies are now aging into their 60s and 70s and may not be with us much longer.

Perhaps by reliving the glory of the past, those championship qualities will rub off on the current team.

And maybe, just maybe we will hear once again the echo of Bill Grigsby’s triumphant cry:

“CHIEFS ARE THE WORLD CHAMPIONS OF PROFESSIONAL FOOTBALL!!!”

"A Galaxy Far, Far Away"

M-31 Andromeda from Astronomy Picture of the Day 1/24/2008



Like many others, I have a short list of websites that I visit daily. One of my favorites is a site called Astronomy Picture of the Day,” or APOD for short. This site, a joint venture between NASA’s Goddard Space Flight Center and Michigan Technical University (located in the Arctic regions of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula) has, since June 20, 1995, daily offered up awe-inspiring imagery of the universe, with an accompanying explanation written by either Dr. Robert Nemiroff of MTU or Dr. Jerry Bonnell of the University Space Research Association. It is a resource that feeds our very human curiosity.

It’s a rare human who doesn’t experience awe and wonder in looking at the stars. Even a passing contemplation of the sheer size of the known universe is humbling. On January 24, 2008, APOD posted a beautiful composite image of the Andromeda Galaxy, also known as M-31. This giant spiral storm of stars, about twice the size of our Milky Way, lies two-and-a-half million light years distant. That means that the light that hits our eyes today left M-31 2.5 million years ago. We really do see the stars of Andromeda from the perspective of “A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away.”

I’ve been a space buff as long as I can remember. One of the earliest memories I have is listening to Alan Shepherd’s suborbital flight on the radio with my parents. The events of July 20, 1969 are as sharp in my memory today as if they had just happened, as Neil Armstrong stepped off the lunar module’s foot pad and planted humanity’s first footprint on another world. Even after Apollo faded into history, my interest remained strong. I remember my Dad giving me, for Christmas, an extensive set of pictures from the Voyager spacecraft. I would sit for hours poring over those pictures, seeing up close for the first time the magnificence of the planets and moons in our little corner of the universe.

Like millions of others, I often look to the night sky. I will admit to a fascination with what lies out there in terms of stars, galaxies, and nebulae. However, at times I find myself idly wondering if there might be someone else standing on another planet some impossibly long distance away looking back.

A few decades of Star Trek and Star Wars got me to thinking that someday humans would be able to reach out to the other civilizations that were almost certainly out there…somewhere. After all, I reasoned, the latest estimate for the size of the known universe is around 150 billion light years across, a mammoth “space” containing somewhere between 100 billion and 500 billion galaxies, each probably containing between 200 billion to 400 billion stars. Certainly amongst that blizzard of zeroes, there had to be at least one other intelligent technological civilization. But the more I discover about physics, the firmer my belief becomes that we will never meet another species.

In short, do I believe there are other intelligent technological species in the universe? Yes.

Do I think we’re being visited by aliens in flying saucers? No.

The physical laws that run the universe, as we know them, make interstellar journeys impossible, impractical, and perhaps even pointless. The speed of light, warp drive notwithstanding is a barrier impossible to cross, because any physical object, be it human or molecule, converts to pure energy at the speed of light. Not a bad way to travel, all things considered. But understand that there’s no way to reassemble yourself at the end of that journey.

Now, we could travel very close to the speed of light, but the immutable laws of physics make interstellar travel pointless.

Scientists, studying the behavior of subatomic particles in an accelerator, discovered that as they approached the speed of light, their rate of decay slowed tremendously. That remarkable find led to an understanding called “time dilation.” What that means, essentially, is that if you were on a starship that was traveling at, say, 90% of the speed of light, time for you would slow down enormously, while back home, clocks would continue to tick along at their normal rate. Dr. Carl Sagan in his ground-breaking program “Cosmos” put it this way.

If you had a ship that would accelerate at the rate of 1G, the force of earth’s gravity (or 32 feet per second, squared) and you set off on a long journey, time dilation could make the trip doable within a human lifetime. For example, such a ship could make a round trip to the center of the Milky Way Galaxy, a distance of about 50,000 light years, in about 42 years, ship-time. That’s assuming the crew would survive the hard radiation, the million-degree clouds of gas that exist close to the galactic center, and each other. Unfortunately, because of time dilation, for those of us left behind, about 60,000 years would have passed, equal to the span of evolutionary time which separates modern humans from Neanderthals. Thus, the return to earth of such a mission would not be the triumphant welcoming home of intrepid explorers, but an encounter between two alien cultures. And knowing our capacity for xenophobia, it’s highly likely that meeting would turn violent.

Of course, there’s no guarantee that humans would even still be around. There are a host of hazards to our long-term existence. Asteroids, comets, black holes, rogue stars, gamma-ray bursts, super volcanoes, mega-thrust earthquakes, climate change, and what we could do to each other…take your pick. Despite our pride in our accomplishments, Homo Sapiens were not the first dominant species on this planet, and almost certainly won’t be the last.

I don't necessarily think that restricting humanity to the local neighborhood a bad thing. Until we humans learn to get along peacefully with each other, we have no business bothering anybody else.

Our own solar system holds enough unsolved questions to keep us enthralled for centuries. For example, six times, humans have walked on the moon. But the place remains largely an enigmatic mystery. That kind of effort lies within our technological capabilities and doesn't necessarily require the global cessation of human conflict.

However, romantic dreams die the hardest deaths and despite the inescapably hard facts of science, the romantic dream of “first contact” will linger on

We will probably never know for sure if anyone else is out there. But that uncertainty is part of the romance. It is a part of what drives some of us out on a cold but crystal clear winter’s night to contemplate the universe.

And for that, all we really need is our eyes, the night sky, and a willingness to dream.

Surviving Winter's Doldrums

“We are made to persist. That’s how we find out who we are.”
--Tobias Wolff

The holidays have passed. The lights, color, and giddy excitement are behind us, having joined the substantial collection within the memory vault. Life returns to that state of being we so flippantly describe as “normal.”

Now we face the deepest part of winter. January and February, described as one long 60-day month, is a stretch I’ve come to call “the long, dark tunnel.” The days are short, and the weather’s bad. After the light, color, beauty, and emotional highs of Thanksgiving-Christmas-New Years have faded, it is a time of unimaginative routine; of sheer mundane drudgery unbroken by celebration. Snow has lost its brief romance, and what was once magic and beauty now has us grimly reaching for a shovel. The days shuffle past like a bent old man. The restless energy that had kept us charging at a breakneck pace for two solid months has vanished. We feel drained, flat, devoid of interest.

The hardest moment is taking down the Christmas decorations. For weeks, our homes and lives were brightened by lights and elegant beauty. Now, with the tree down, the draping garlands and the Nativity boxed up and stored away, the house feels curiously empty, as if the movers had come, leaving nothing but blank walls and vacant floors.

The New Year is a time that should be marked by anticipation; the promise of a future as yet unwritten; the chance to start over. However, the excitement of that promise dims quickly in these dark days. I think that’s why most people experience failure in their New Year’s Resolutions. It’s just too hard to keep the momentum going in January and February. Actually, the time for resolutions should be spring. The returning sun, the soft warmth of the air, and the re-emergence of things green and growing lift the spirit and infuse the energy. Under those lively influences, we are flooded by the desire to flee the self-imposed winter cave, feeling the urgent compulsion to do things. So rather than see my goals die on the rocks and ice of winter, I save my new year’s resolutions for spring, when I actually feel like doing something about it.

But those warm days are still months away. Now, we need to work to come up with activities that will get us through these cabin fever months with our psyche and relationships intact. Here are some suggestions:

1. Make Something. Get involved in something creative. Making something new adds a sparkle to these dreary days. Crafts, hobbies, all those things you didn’t have time for during the rest of the year. Bake a couple dozen cookies (from scratch, mind you! No cheating!). Put them in little bags with festive ribbons and bows and take them around to your neighbors. You’d be surprised how much the act of lifting their spirits will lift yours as well.

2. Teach Something. Teach your kids something new. Teenagers can be tough, but with some dedicated motivation, they can join the pre-teens and find fun in learning how to bake cookies, or sew. Dads can spend these days teaching how to fix things around the house. Make it look and sound like fun, and they’ll be interested.

3. Learn Something. Take a class. Doesn’t have to be a brain-buster. Could be a few weeks of square dancing, computer stuff, or some lessons on home improvement that will help you plan for that burst of springtime energy. It should be something new, an activity with a measure of novelty to it.

4. Celebrate Something. Did you know that January 10th is “Positively Penguins Day? Or that January 16th is “Appreciate a Dragon Day? This website, http://www.brownielocks.com, gives you a list of “holidays” both serious and humorous to celebrate. On one of the pulldown menus, you’ll find listings for almost every day of the year. Plan a party, or just have some friends over for an evening for a potluck, so that nobody gets stuck with all the work. One family we know has what they call “The Souper Bowl,” an event in early February where people bring their homemade soups to share and to be judged. The winner leaves with a goofy door prize, something that Monty Hall might have hidden behind Door Number Four. Part of the depression of this time of year is due to the tendency we have to “cave”; to isolate ourselves.

5. Go See Something. Get out of the house. Take the kids down to the local firehouse for a tour (call ahead first). Maybe call the Steelers and see if they’ll do a tour of the Heinz Field locker rooms. Museums are always a good choice on a winter’s day. Relatively warm weather can at times be found within a day’s drive. Take advantage of those opportunities.

6. Romance Your Someone. Guys, make the time to plan something really over-the-top for Valentine’s Day. Trust me, there’s no such thing as “too much” on that day. And ladies, please, please, please remember to reciprocate. We like to feel loved, too.

7. Play…Just Play. Plan a few “Winterfest” type Saturdays with the kids. Take them sledding, or skiing. Build a snowman, or have a snowball fight. If you don’t live near snow, then go find some. Believe me, those memories of togetherness and fun will stick with them for a lifetime. Maybe spend an evening with the family around a board game.

The post-holiday blues happen to most of us in some fashion. It’s a part of being human. However, we don’t have to give in to that particular vulture by slouching alone in a dark house. Get up; turn on the lights; get moving!

Take back Life!

From Behind the Beard

For about 17 years, I've been privileged to have been a Santa. What started out as a favor to a friend has become a fun and unforgettable part of the Christmas season.

It is, I believe, safe to say that there is no more recognizable symbol anywhere in America, perhaps the world, than the bearded jolly old elf clad in red and white. From the youngest toddler, to the oldest centenarian, all recognize Santa Clause for who he is and what he represents. For kids, he is unconditional love, and perhaps a bit of a moral and ethical rudder. His universal greeting, that hearty "Ho! Ho! Ho!" never fails to lift the spirit and bring a smile. He always brings gifts. You never know what it'll be, but like the Wells Fargo Wagon from "The Music Man," you know "..it could be somethin' special just for me!"

One of the special memories for me of Being Santa occurred, oddly enough, in the middle of summer.

It was a brutally hot, humid miserable Missouri July afternoon and I had gone to Target to pick up a few things. The air conditioning was struggling mightily, but the constant opening of the doors kept the humidity inside at an almost uncomfortable level. I cruised the aisles, searching for my intended purchases when I heard it. A young girl, perhaps 5 or 6, in desperate need of a nap, was howling and crying while trying to extricate herself from the shopping basket. The mom, who also needed a nap, was obviously trying to finish her errands. Both of them were nearing the end of their ropes. Having helped raised four kids, the Mom's mounting desperation sparked my compassion. I walked past the cart, and catching Mom's eye, I smiled and winked. I then skirted around the end of the aisle and let loose with a booming "Ho! Ho! Ho!" The girl went dead silent and the Mom, right on top of things, responded, "See? He's ALWAYS watching!" I meandered back into the aisle to see the girl, now wide-eyed and her head on a swivel, looking for Santa. The Mom smiled her weary thanks, and in short order, she finished her shopping and headed for the checkout, the girl ever vigilant.

On another occasion, I was enroute to a company Christmas Party. Because of the timing, I was in costume as I drove the Interstate. I don't know if you've noticed, but when we're driving, we seem to be in somthing of a trance, our eyes fixed in what Marines call "the thousand-yard stare." As I would pass other cars, the drivers in that state, they would on impulse look over. Upon recognizing the suit and beard, they would undergo a marvelous transformation. Their faces would light up, underlined by the most joyous of smiles. Somehow, just the sight of Santa made their day. Even the stern Highway Patrolmen would crack a small grin.

There have been many such experiences, mostly with children. One of the most meaningful can be read here. Kids are the best part, because they know instinctively about giving, and about joy. My times as Santa have become necessary for me, because spending time with the young, with their bright eyes full of wonder brings the spirit of the season right back, dissolving the cynical, the jaundiced, and the jaded feelings that accumulate during the normal course of a year. And you don't have to wear the suit to re-discover this; all you need to do is pay attention to them.

I can't deny the joy this portrayal brings to me. Putting on the suit, the beard,and the hat, more and more, I find myself putting on the character of Santa. And that's important. Because once I'm behind the beard, I can't be "Ralph" anymore. I have to be the jolly old elf that everyone expects. I remember reading an interview with an actor. He had been talking about "the integrity of the character" in his roles. The interviewer asked what he felt the toughest role was. He thought for a moment, and said, "Santa Claus, because he holds in his hands the frail human heart." Likewise, I've come to regard this, not so much as a gig, but a sacred trust, simply because people are so invested in the character.

Kids love Santa, not just because they know that love is given back, but because he listens to them, and cares for them, and makes them feel special. Every kid knows they have a personal relationship with St. Nick.

I was manning a Santa Hut in downtown Fulton, Missouri on a cold, icy night. Traffic was slow due to the weather, and the assigned time for my shift was rapidly coming to a close. I saw a car pull in ahead of the hut. As I leaned forward, I could see a small figure in the passenger seat, literally bouncing off the roof. The Mom barely got the vehicle parked, when the door opened and the child, a boy about 8 or so, shot out of the car like a dolphin out of the sea. At a dead sprint, he made for the hut, leapt up the stairs, and skidded to a stop in front of me, he face flushed, and his little chest heaving from the effort. A bit non-plussed by this display, I found myself momentarily at a loss for words. He supplied them:

"Well? Was I good???"

And you know, it doesn't matter how young or how old we are, we're still asking that question. And from behind the beard, the answer is always "YES!"

Merry Christmas!

The Myth of the Perfect Gift

Well, here it is. December 23rd and I still haven't bought my wife's Christmas present. And yes, I'm in deep trouble. Buying for a female, any female, is quite possible the severest challenge that faces the male of the species. Men usually view the world in absolutes, black and white, if you will and that makes us predictable. Women, on the other hand, view the world through eyes that see an infinity of subtle shadings, the recognition of which men are usually dispairingly color-blind. This is one of the things that gets us guys into the doghouse with depressing regularity.

Men, on the average, are heavily into technology, which makes us pretty easy to buy for. Whatever it is, just get the latest version with the most options. That line of reasoning plays for items ranging from iPods to pickup trucks. Although we occasionally need clothes, usually that's not high on the list, unless a demonstratable need exists. Last year, for example, the lining of my suitcoat began to detach itself. So, it must be time to buy a new suit. I didn't remember that I had used, reused, and often abused that particular outfit for the better part of 8 years. My wife did, and found a store with a BOGO (buy one, get one) sale and we got two suits. Both will likely serve me through much of the next decade as long as I don't grow a third arm and disco stays dead and buried.

Now, clueless I may be, but even I know that any woman who continually wears the same outfit for 8 years will be held up to ridicule and insult by those who consider themselves to be the local version of the fashion police. In short, other women. So, when I propose to buy a fashion item, be it clothes, shoes, or jewelry, I must possess the instincts to nail not only what she considers fashionable, but what her fellow females (is that an oxymoron?) find acceptable, or even worthy of envy.

A few years ago, I suffered a case of temporary insanity and actually shopped in a jewelry store by myself. For a man, this is tantamount to heading into the jungle unarmed and naked. After agonizing over the choices for a long period of time, and I suspect severely testing the patience of the sales person, I settled on what was called a "Mother's Pendant." This was a stylized design of a woman embracing four gemstones, each the birthstone of our four children.

On Christmas morning, she opened the box and, even though she tried hard to appear appreciative, it was plain to me that for some reason, she didn't like it. It sat in her jewelbox for a few weeks, occasionally making an appearance on Sunday morning. Then, one day for reasons that still mystify me, she wore it to work. According to her later account, the pendant was the hit of the day. Not only did the other women ooh and aah, the pendant actually reached the acme of jewelry valuation, sincere expressed envy. Predictably, after that day, it became her favorite piece.

Go figure.

Lest the reader misunderstand me, let me hasten to say that she was, is, and always will be the woman of my dreams. Everything I've ever accomplished can be traced directly back to her support and belief in me. So while I may engage in a bit of whininess here, it is done out of the deepest love.

What I wanted to convey here is the incredible difficulty that men face in picking the right gift. There are a few of us who do get it right, who do possess the preternatural abilities to divine that secret wish and the wherewithall to afford it. I know they exist, because they are always (1) Someone else's husband, and (2) the guy I should have been. Oh yeah, and always the fictional muscle-packed, wealthy, yet sensitive loveable rogue in the romance novels. Whoever you are out there, and you know who you are, please write a book, or start a website and help out us fellow guys, we clumsy lugs.

But these are the shortcomings I must deal with, for they are what God gifted me with when I came into the world. While I have failed at the gift game many times, I am relieved to report that she hasn't left me, so maybe I'm not a complete disaster as a husband. Because in the end, what I can give her, what is always received with appreciation and gratitude, are those perfect gifts; the things that have the highest value:

My respect, my devotion, and my love.

How Did You Name Your Blog?

A friend of mine asked me today how I came up with the name "Race the Sunset" for my blog. I think for most of us blog folk there was that moment when we were registering our foray into the electronic universe when we had to assign a name to the undertaking. It's a telling moment. A blog is a reflection of ourselves, our electronic coming-out party and we want to make the right impression. Not too braggy, not too subtle, something people can understand quickly, and more importantly, enjoy. We want our blog to be liked in the same way that we want to be liked.

I had toured some blogs, looking for ideas. The names I read ran the gamut from the silly to the sublime and every shade in between. Some, I suspected, had to be pretty easy. These were the subject specific blogs, focusing on things like cooking, crafts, photography and other hobbies. Some were extensions of a person's professional life, offering insights on the ins-and-outs of their particular vocation, or avocation. For some, the blog title reflected a particular view on any one of a million different issues from all parts and angles of the political spectrum.

My problem was that I wasn't sure exactly what my blog was going to be. I have a few passions, motorcycling being a major one, along with freelance writing. In the end, I decided to start with motorcycles and just see where my heart would take me.

In the summer of 2002, I climbed aboard my trusty bike for an epic journey (for me, anyway) of what ended up as about 5,000 miles through the American southwest. The journal of that trip can be read here.

It was on the first day, the leg from Columbia, Missouri to Liberal, Kansas, a distance of roughly 600 miles. The sun was sinking towards dusk, casting ever longer shadows. The amber-colored wheat fields I'd been riding through most of the afternoon caught the dying light, reflecting a marvelous palette of subtle shades, shifting constantly as the stalks bent in unison to the whim of the prairie zephyrs. As I closed on Liberal, I watched as the sun slid towards the horizon. I was headed in the same direction, and I suddenly realized that as the sun was going to its allegorical rest, so was I. It was a singular moment of beauty and peace, magnified by the presence of an enormous sky, a dome of azure marked here and there by clouds now becoming tinged with gold. On a motorcycle, there are no doors or roof in the way; there is only you, the bike...and God.

There on that lonely road through the Kansas prairie, I raced the sunset towards evening. It was an unmatched feeling of beauty, peace, and freedom; a moment I have since stored in the vault of my most treasured memories, to be taken out from time to time and gently, carefully held in my hands.

As I sat there in front of the computer, that memory came flooding back. And in that moment, I knew my blog could have no other name.

While I still write motorcycle pieces, my blog has become so much more. I have written about books I have enjoyed, my fascination with tornadoes (sparked by my duties as a storm spotter), baseball, football, family, 9/11, geneaology...the list goes on and on. It has become my outlet, my release...and my place of refuge. I've learned that the secret to this blogging thing is to pay attention to the world around me, and take note what thoughts occur as a result of my interaction with this all-too-often confusing and tumultuous thing we call "life."

When my heart is touched and that often stubborn door that holds the secret store of eloquence swings open, those thoughts and feelings pour forth. And it is here that I bring them, not only to free them, but to share them with others who know how important, precious, and deceptively fragile they truly are.

For it is here that I open my heart and soul.

And it is here where I find my peace.

Christmas From Within

Linus -- Frame grab from "A Charlie Brown Christmas"

Christmas time is here
Happiness and cheer
Fun for all that children call
Their favorite time of the year

--Vince Guaraldi, from "A Charlie Brown Christmas"

In 1965, an animated program debuted on CBS. It was a Christmas-themed show starring the characters of Charles Shulz’s wildly popular and generationally-defining comic strip “Peanuts.” The story was, on the surface, a familiar allegory about how the true spirit of Christmas had been hijacked by greed and materialism. The animation, while colorful, was relatively primitive and to the younger generation of today probably resembles the hit show “South Park.” And yet, 43 years later, the show continues to touch hearts and enlighten spirits. The obvious reason for its effect is that nearly all of us will readily acknowledge the incipient air of greed that has inculcated itself in the season, an observation usually voiced while standing in line at Circuit City at Oh-Dark-Thirty on Black Friday.

“A Charlie Brown Christmas” is a call to the conscience; a reminder that we must at some point in the head-long rush between Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve stop, take a breath, and seriously consider the true motivation for the celebration: the birth of Jesus Christ. Really, the season is not about material gain. It’s about hope. Salvation, redemption, forgiveness, generosity, and love are the ideas that reflect not only Christmas, but also the deepest needs inside us all, especially the search for meaning. The philosophy taught by Jesus gave us that sense of meaning; that regardless of our station or circumstances in life, we are valued – and loved.

Charlie Brown longs for a Christmas with meaning, instead of the glitz and gimme he sees. He takes control of the Christmas play, hoping to produce a meaningful experience for cast and audience. But instead, he sees his dreams hijacked by those of shallow mind and vacant spirit.

At the climactic part of this drama, the everyman Charlie Brown, drowning in the insincerity of those around him, cries out in anguish, “Isn’t there anyone out there who can tell me what Christmas is all about?”

In the breathless silence that follows, Linus responds:

“ Sure, Charlie Brown, I can tell you. Lights, please.”

With that, the world’s smallest and arguably most famous philosopher and theologian, security blanket in hand, walks to the center of the stage and faces the empty auditorium. And in a voice that still resonates deep inside the hearts of millions, he speaks:

“And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the fields, keeping watch over their flocks by night. And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the lord shone round about them, and they were sore afraid.

"And the angel said unto them, Fear not, for behold, I bring unto you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you this day is born in the City of David, a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; you shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger.

"And suddenly there was with the angel, a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God, and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on Earth peace; good will toward men.’”

As the echoes of his words fade, Linus turns to his friend and in a voice soft with compassion and understanding, says:

“That’s what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.”

We all need that moment. We all need that reminder that we could have a mansion full of material goods and still feel empty inside. It is, after all, love that fulfills us, not video games, or big-screen televisions, jewelry, or cashmere socks. Technology breaks or becomes obsolete. Clothes wear out, jewelry becomes tarnished. The love of God, as expressed through the gift of the life of His son, Jesus never diminishes, never breaks down, never wears thin or goes out of style. It is given freely and without limits or conditions and will always be there waiting for us, no matter how long we’ve been away.

Receive that love, and share it with others. Make the decision to celebrate Christmas the way it was meant to be honored.

With your heart.

The Terrors of Modern Dentistry

Root Canal.

Nowhere in the extensive American lexicon can be found words that strike a deeper or colder terror in the heart and mind. “IRS Audit” is a distant second place by comparison. The expression has become so closely associated with excruciating pain that its use has leaked into common colloquial expression:

“Can you give a speech next week?”
“I’d rather have a root canal.”

(From the girlfriend) “My parents want to meet you.”
(From the boyfriend) “I’d rather have a root canal.”

(From the wife) “My mother’s coming to visit.”
(From the Husband) “Let me schedule a root canal.”

As a class, ortho- or endo-dontic procedures of any kind are far from being the favored activity of any sane person. Let’s face it. A trip to the Dentist can only be a break-even proposition. You either walk out with clean teeth, or a mouth full of hardware and exotic polymers. Truthfully, any visit is fraught with apprehension. But in the realm of pain, a root canal occupies a special place on the tree of terror.

I was having lunch, deep into Tennyson and minding my own business, when my jaws closed on a meatball. An audible crunch was immediately followed by a stab of pain that seemed to lance right through my eyeball. I immediately grabbed my water bottle and flushed my mouth. Big mistake. The now-exposed nerve root shot back with a pain so intense that it actually caused my eyes to cross.

For all intents and purposes, lunch was now over. I picked up the phone, called my dentist’s office, and got an appointment for the next workday. Fortunately, as the day wore on, the pain seemed to ebb to the level of annoyance, rather than outright distraction. I passed the evening in relative comfort, as long as I remembered to chew, drink, and swallow only from the left side of my mouth. I began to hope that what I had wasn’t as big a deal as I had initially feared.

Somewhere in “The Man Code” is the codicil that states “Whatever the injury or level of pain, The Man must act with complete imperturbability, lest he allow a dent to show in his armor of macho.” Wives, when confronted by this somewhat aberrant behavior tend to respond with an exaggerated display of eye-rolling and head-shaking.

The next morning, full of confidence, I strode into the Dentist’s office. Let me say this. I like the way he runs his practice. If your appointment is at 10:30, that’s when you’re ushered into the chair. By comparison, the trips to my cardiologist invariably mean a 3-and-a-half-hour ordeal of waiting, climaxed by the 3 or 4 minutes I actually spend with the Doctor. My Dentist has a waiting room containing the most unused chairs in town. Furniture store stock gets more use. Anyway, once I was ensconced in the chair, he comes in, all business as usual, and probes the source of my complaint. His first reaction, “Oh, you’ve just lost a small hunk off the side. We can fix that easy.” Cue the deep sigh of relief. Then the X-Rays came back. That’s when I heard the absolute last thing anyone wants to have uttered by someone whose name begins with D-R-period:

“This is worse than I thought.”

As he indicated on the film, the tooth in question had a nice neat line running straight through the center. Cracked in half. He said he would refer me to a specialist who would make a decision on how to proceed. “What are the choices?” I asked, trying to keep my voice from trembling (remembering the Code). “Well, he’ll either send you back here for a simple filling…or he’ll do a root canal.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. Verbally, the best I could manage was a whispered, “Ouch.” Seeing my reaction, he hastily added, “Not any more. The new techniques make the whole thing completely painless. You won’t feel a thing.” “Yeah!” the Hygienist added, “I just had one and I didn’t have any problems at all.”

Well, to quote Donald Sutherland from the movie “Kelly’s Heroes,” with all these positive waves, how could I lose? I returned to my office and called the specialist, an endodontist. His receptionist was similarly upbeat. “You won’t even feel the Novocain injection.”

Buoyed by optimism, I faced the coming event with a sort of pragmatic peace.

Then, I talked to some of my colleagues. This is the one thing you should never do. First of all, most of the stories they tell are second, third, or fourth-hand accounts and suffer varying departures from the truth. Secondly, there are those who will wax authoritatively upon subjects about which they are neither qualified nor trained. However, because we know them, we tend to give these accounts great weight. I mean, think about it; how could someone with a degree in accounting know so much about brain surgery, anyhow?

As I recounted my hopeful tale to one of my friends, he started to grin and silent laughter began to convulse his body. Defensively, almost defiantly, I declared, “They told me it wouldn’t hurt at all.”

He shook his head. “Or they could have told you the truth. ‘Mr. Couey, you’ll be subjected to two hours of unshirted hell that would test the limits of Jack Bauer, during which you’ll scream for mercy and beg for the blessed release of death. If you survive the procedure, the ensuing weeks will be marked by severe pain, sleepless nights, and malnutrition from your mouth being too sore to chew. The good thing is that at the end of this ordeal, your experience will have prepared you to endure any conceivable method of torture and interrogation. You’ll be a better American for it.’ He shook his head. “You see, once they get you strapped into the chair, it’s too late to say no. And in a Dentist’s office, no one can hear you scream.”

Then, he patted me gently on the shoulder, and in an outrageously lame attempt to be comforting, said, “Seriously though, I’m sure you’ll be just fine.”

So, having heard two wildly different sides of the story, I find myself hard-pressed to decide which one is the most factual. Nevertheless, in compliance with “The Code,” I am determined to face this upcoming trial with the same stoic courage that sustained Nathan Hale during the ultimate test of his valor and patriotism.

Even though I’ll probably be a weepy little girlie-man inside.

"Time Flies"
A Custom Wood Carving from
www.beauhavenwoodworking.com

A couple of months ago, I penned a sentence in another essay about the passage of time:

“As children, we rush along, impatient to grow up. We them spend our adulthood sadly wondering why we didn’t take our time.”

That sentence has been bouncing around inside my brain since, teasing and tormenting me in the way that elusive ideas sometimes do. We humans have an uncertain relationship with the passage of time. Scientifically speaking, time is always the same. Whether seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, or decades, they all pass at the same rate. The last five minutes of a timed test, or five minutes of a root canal is the same five minutes. What changes is our perception of that time.

It’s a universal part of the human experience that when times are good, the minutes tick by like posts beside a speeding car. In bad times, those same minutes seem to crawl by at a speed that would make a glacier look like Jamaican Gold Medalist Usain Bolt. Also, as we grow older, the passage of days seems to accelerate. But science aside, perception is what governs our view of time.

My wife and I recently spent a week in the Yucatan Peninsula of Mexico, along with one of our daughters and her husband. It was a busy time. We golfed, shopped, toured, snorkeled, and boated our way through those seven days, spending very little time actually enjoying what I call “perfect indolence.” Among the blizzard of memories of flying golf balls, endless shops and cantinas, and Mayan ruins, the clearest recollection was, for me, the 2 or 3 hours I spent just floating in the pool under the hot Caribbean sun. As a writer, I have a very busy brain. It’s always engaged in dreaming up new ideas, crafting new essays, or editing what I’ve already penned. This activity is both exhilarating and exasperating, but tremendously fulfilling. But every brain needs down time, when a person can lie still for a time, the head completely empty and idle. Some folks don’t seem to understand that concept. Their idea of a vacation is to squeeze as much activity into that period of time as they possibly can. Or, as I overheard one vacationer grump, “We paid good money for this vacation, and we’re not going to waste a minute of it lying around in the pool.”

I can understand that. In 2002, my motorcycle and I took off for nine glorious days in the American southwest. Each day consisted of endless hours on the road, with occasional stops to marvel at nature at its grandest. Those long days recalled the family trips of my youth the goals of which were governed not by a destination, but by the experience of the trip itself. In both cases, the days flew by. And at the end of both trips, I was left with the distinct feeling that those days hadn’t really been 24 hours long; that somehow, I had been cheated by the clock. And yet, I remember the end of my 6th grade year. The final three days, the teachers had pretty much given up trying to impart any more knowledge to their impatient and increasingly unruly students. So, after an obligatory hour of attempted academics, we were turned loose onto the playground for the rest of the day. For a while, it was fun. But, by the afternoon of the second day, I was beginning to feel some boredom. And the clock ground to a halt. That last day in particular, as I recall it lasted at least 18 hours, rather than the six-and-a-half that it actually was. At one point, I even asked the teacher if I could go inside for awhile.

I remember a similar situation in the Navy. We were in the Indian Ocean, off Australia when I received the Red Cross message that my mother, who was suffering from terminal cancer, was near death. My ship sent me over to the aircraft carrier USS Ranger, where I was supposed to catch a flight to shore. But, because of the large number of emergency leave cases, Ranger’s command made the decision to keep us aboard until the ship made port in Perth, two days later. For a sailor on a deployed ship, there’s very little downtime. Most workdays last between 14 and 18 hours, longer for watchstanders. When you’re not on watch, you’re working, so the days pass relatively quickly. However, being temporarily assigned, I had no work to do; nothing to pass the hours. I thought those two days would never end.

A clock, despite how we might perceive it, lives in its own world. It ticks relentlessly, inexorably along, taking no notice of the human events swirling around it. In and of itself, it has no intrinsic value. But for us, time can be either be an asset or a liability depending solely on what we choose to do with it.

And in the end, the only real way to determine the value of time past is not in the number of a clock’s revolutions, but in the accumulation of regrets.

The First Snow

The days that populate the time between the last of the fall leaves and that first snow are bland and colorless. Bare-limbed trees stand watch over fields of grass, dead and browned; no flowers bloom. The wind, delightfully cool during October, now blow cold, every breath containing sharp edges. Even on the sunniest of those ever-shortening days, it is a monochrome landscape; a world cast in sepia tones. But, the arrival of that first blanket of snow softens and brightens the world. Dull brown is covered by brilliant white and the earth becomes beautiful.

There’s something marvelously magical and exciting about the first snowfall of the season. You see it first as an occasional white streak on an otherwise dreary day. Then, a few more flutter down, and eventually, the very air becomes alive. The ground turns white and the world is transformed.

Snowfall is curiously hypnotic. Rarely do the flakes fall straight down. They flutter and dance in response to the unseen winds, even moving upwards close to buildings. They seem to reflect the moods of the storms that create them. When the winds are high, the flakes move in urgent angles, seemingly in a hurry to reach some unknown destination. Yet, on calm nights, they drift down softly, even dreamily to land soundlessly on the blanket of white that waits to receive them. Even though they share paths and directions en masse, each individual flake still possesses an independence of movement, unlike their warmer cousins the raindrops which always fall drone-like in straight lines. But, whatever the mood, whatever the pace, I am ever drawn to the window to watch, lost in fascination. It is grace and artistry as only Nature can produce.

The excitement of this event touches us all. For children, the sight of snowfall brings bright anticipation of sledding, snowmen, snowball fights, and the possibility of a precious day of freedom from school. Even adults feel changed. As jaded as we would like to pretend to be, the arrival of snow breaks up the daily routine in the most delightful ways. Our daily commute, having been Xeroxed into dull routine, becomes a challenge, even an adventure. Upon our arrival at work, the very air seems alive with talk of the weather. Everyone has a story to tell. Throughout the day, we sneak glances out the window, gauging the accumulation and wondering silently, perhaps hopefully, if The Boss might cut us loose early. Most times, when the storm ends relatively early, we all feel a bit let down by the return to normality. But once in a while, the snow keeps coming and we are left with a world transformed.

Once the clouds pass and the sun returns, the world becomes a different place. The landscape, once dull and lifeless, now wears a blanket that flawlessly covers the land. As you walk or ride along, the sunlight catches the angles of millions of crystalline flakes, turning the surface into a glittering quilt of diamonds. The winter sky, a dome of startlingly vivid blue arcs overhead and the air, free of haze or fog, gives distant objects a sharp clarity: Nature in HD. Despite the cold, the spirit soars, eyes light up, and smiles come easy. We are moved by a sense of playful urgency, knowing that the day will be short and we have but a few precious hours in which to enjoy it. Almost before we realize it, the shadows grow long as the sun races for the horizon. We feel the touch of that deeper chill; the approach of the night.

We trudge for home, knowing that a warm meal waits. After dinner, we settle in front of a fireplace and watch as the flames curl hungrily, sensuously around the logs, accompanied by the snap of sparks and the comforting smell of woodsmoke. As time passes, our diurnal natures take hold and the eyes become heavy. In July, to retire this early would have been a senseless waste of daylight. But now, the ancient instincts for hibernation take over, and we stumble to our feet and retire.

Just before crawling under the covers, though, we go to the window for one more look. The full moon hangs above, the gentle light reflecting off the snow. The world glows in the soft, silvery luminescence, painting a scene so beautiful and so peaceful that even the most jaded among us feel a stirring of emotion.

The winter is long, and eventually snow will lose is lovely appeal. There is, we discover, no romance in wielding a shovel. We will become grim to its arrival and numb to its presence. And by April, may actually feel some frustration as we yearn for the warmth of spring.

But that is months away. At this moment, there is nothing more magical or beautiful than that first snow of winter.

Roots...and Rootlessness

An Autumn sunset over Lake Somerset in Pennsylvania

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, November 27, 2008
“Where are you from?”

This is a question that usually sparks an immediate response. For most of us, there is that one piece of geography from which we sprung, where family resides and memories lie thickly upon the land, like an autumn fog. It’s the place that when we think of it, brings a sense of joy; of belonging; of identity. This slightly abridged quote from George Eliot which appeared at the beginning of the Civil War epic “Gods and Generals” helps define the idea:

A human life, I think, should be well-rooted in some area of native land where it may get the love of tender kinship, for the sounds and accents that haunt it, for whatever will give that early home a familiar unmistakable difference. The best introduction to astronomy is to think of the nightly heavens as a little lot of stars belonging to one's own homestead.
- George Eliot

For Pennsylvanians, especially those around here, the crenellated terrain of the Laurel Highlands is home. Many who live around here can trace their familial lineage back several generations without leaving Cambria or Somerset Counties. For them, the old Mexican adage rings true: "Mis raíces estan aquí." Which roughly translates as, “My roots are buried here.”

But home is not just a place on a map; its not just where you happen to be. It’s where you’re from, the place that brings a smile and a sense of belonging when you go there. It is a place of love and warmth, a shelter from the storms of life. There, we can drop the mask we are so often forced to wear. There, we can unshoulder the burdens we’ve had to bear. There, we know we are safe. It is truly defined as a place of the heart.

We’re now moving into the time of year when thoughts of “home” drift to the forefront of our consciousness. Thanksgiving and Christmas are traditionally when families gather, whether from just down the road, or from across the globe. In fact, one might make the case that for many devoted families, the literal meaning behind those holidays is not as important as is "The Gathering." For a few precious days, we rekindle the love and connections; we laugh, play and break bread. We share our separate lives with each other. And when we part, we take with us a treasured collection of happy memories.

My family has always had a sense of rootlessness. Even before I was married, I had already lived in Tennessee, California, and Missouri, three distinctly different areas. Since my wife and I were wed, we’ve lived in Missouri twice, Hawaii, California, Virginia, and now Pennsylvania. When people ask me “Where’s home?” I usually reply, “Wherever the motorcycle’s parked,” to which my wife readily responds, “What am I? Chopped liver?”

I’ve spent most of my life in Missouri. But when I go there, I don’t feel any particular sense of belonging or connection. Since both of my parents passed away, that sense of disconnect has deepened.

I’m not trolling for sympathy here, because I’ve always had a fascination for the possibilities of what lies beyond the horizon. I get restless if I’m in one place for too long, which partially explains my fascination (or obsession, if you prefer) with motorcycles. My wife, in sharp contrast, is from Hawaii and has a very deep spiritual connection to the islands. Her very large family still lives there and gathers frequently, an experience she misses more than she’s willing to admit. She goes back at least once every year or two around New Years and spends a couple of weeks basking in the love of her family, much the same way others bask in the warm tropical sun. We don’t let that apparent contradiction divide us. I understand her need for roots, as she understands my lack of concern for them.

For me, "home" is not so much a place as a state of mind. As the holidays approach and our family begins to gather from their own far-flung homes, I know I will feel that sense of belonging, that quiet feeling of peace and joy I get when I look around the room and see the glowing faces of our family reunited.

My roots are not buried here; in fact, they're not buried anywhere. My roots, such as they are, are interwoven with the unassailable bonds of family. Wherever we gather, there lies my home.

9/11: The Legacy of Sacrifice

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, September 7, 2008
Rushville (IN) Republican, September 11, 2008

Seven years ago this week, in the space of two hours, the world was changed. Our nation was changed. We were changed.

We were suddenly and brutally taken from a world of the familiar and plunged into another world. A world of dark uncertainty. A world dominated by shock, pain and horror.

At first, our senses refused to accept the reality of the images transmitted to us. Desperately, we were hoping that the disaster unfolding before our eyes was some Hollywood concoction, or perhaps just a bad dream.

But as time passed, we had to accept the fact that our worst nightmare had become reality.

This week, we remember.

We remember the shock, the sorrow and, yes, the anger we felt that morning.

We remember the horror we felt as we watched the deaths of innocent people.

But we also remember those moments on that terrible day when we reached out to each other and found comfort, discovering that for those linked by the common experience of a terrible tragedy, there is no such word as “stranger.”

For Pennsylvanians, like New Yorkers and the folks at the Pentagon, 9/11 is a personal memory, although it certainly could be said that, for Americans, everything that happened that day was personal. Because the clearest memories are personal memories.

This week, we especially remember the passengers and crew of Flight 93; people, who when confronted with the face of terror and the threat of death, set aside their fears, and acted with extraordinary courage and unity.

Their united act was a bright ray of light on what was one of the darkest days in America’s history.

They embodied the words of President Reagan, when he said, “They counted on America to be passive. They counted wrong.”

They have been continually described as “ordinary Americans.” But to their loved ones, they were far from ordinary.

They were husbands and wives, loved and adored by their spouses.

They were sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, cherished by their families.

And they were fathers and mothers, loved and idolized by their children.

Before they were heroes to us, they were already heroes to them.

The heroes of Flight 93 have taught us the importance of standing up when our fear tells us to sit down; to step forward when our fear urges us to stand still; to be strong when our fear compels us to be weak.

We must take that sense of purpose and make it part of what we are so that the memory of those who fell on Sept. 11 will live on through us all.

Their loss will continue to have meaning only as long as we are willing to remember the circumstances and character of their passing.

On Sept. 11, 2001, America suffered a great tragedy. But as the smoke cleared on that terrible day, we learned that although we had been badly wounded, we were not defeated. We were bowed, but never broken.

On this week of remembrance, we walk in the footsteps of those whose memory we honor by choosing action over inaction; choosing courage over fear; and choosing to look past our differences and stand united.

This is their legacy to us.

A Peaceful Interlude

Adieu, la Saison de L'ete; Adieu, Doux Jours de la Jeunesse

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, September 21, 2008

Farewell, the season of Summer;
Farewell, the Sweet Days of Youth

Youth is like a summer’s day. Seemingly endless in its passage, it is a curious mix of living in the moment and racing to the next. There are times of manic energy, and others of perfect indolence. Time has no meaning, for tomorrow is just another version of today. The only measuring stick is the number of days left until the clanging school bell once again makes the clock and calendar relevant and meaningful.

Youth, like summer, is a time for games. The rules are made up on the spot, and any infraction can be whisked away by the liberating words “do-over!” Interest in one game will wane, only to be quickly replaced with another. Alliances among friends shift constantly as the teams change. And in-between, the restful moments in the shade, sipping lemonade from glasses also sweating in the heat.

There is never a schedule, never a plan. The dawn of each day heralds a new adventure, one to be explored to its fullest. Maybe today it’s swimming, or ball, or fishing. We’ll play with our toys, and live for a few hours in a pretend world of our own making. Or just race aimlessly around the yard, if for no other reason than we’re young and we can.

Our imagination runs wild and free. An empty box becomes a fort on some lonely frontier, an airplane soaring among the clouds, or a starship on a mission to distant planets. A bicycle gives us wings, the wind streaming past our ears with a sense of speed. Maybe today we’ll clothes-pin a couple of cards on the rear wheel and become a lone warrior on a Harley, roaring across the limitless expanse of the Great Plains, racing the sunset towards the horizon.

The long, glorious days are broken only by special interludes. The family vacation, loading up the car, and cresting the distant horizon to marvel at worlds unknown. Trips to the zoo, the amusement park, or the county fair. The ballpark also clings to memory. The warm, humid nights sitting in bleachers while far above, bugs of infinite variety orbit hypnotically around the bright lights.

Popsicles and ice cream; movies and popcorn. Dad firing up the grill on Saturday evening, sending the delicious smell of hamburgers wafting across a yard already aromatic with fresh-cut grass. Those long, purple twilights, when even the sun seems reluctant to go indoors as we relentlessly squeeze every last remaining moment from the day.

Once the sun is gone, perhaps there is still time to lie in the grass, look up, and wonder at the stars while sharing deep secrets with your best friend. Maybe Mom will help set up the tent in the back yard, and for one special night, what was familiar territory becomes as exotic as the wild Serengeti.

Youth, like Summer, is meant to be savored and treasured; lingered over until the last vestiges are gone. As children, we rush along, impatient to grow up. We then spend our adulthood sadly wondering why we didn’t take our time. And as the years inexorably pass, those wonderful, golden memories become dreamily indistinct, like the view through the sides of a frosted glass.

Because when the sun finally sets on this most special of seasons; when carefree youth gives way to careworn age; when the endless hours finally do end, it is a day, and a time, that is gone forever.

Lead, Follow, Or Get Out of the Way

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, July 27, 2008
Over the past several months, a controversy has developed over the sale of the last piece of land required for the construction of the permanent memorial to the passengers and crew of Flight 93 on 9/11. As the parties involved have squabbled back and forth, public exasperation has grown. This essay was an attempt to give voice to that exasperation.

Many of us have watched, with no small amount of disgust, as the drama over the Flight 93 Memorial has played out on the airwaves and front pages of the region. What should have been a simple land purchase has taken on the drama of a soap opera. Both sides in the dispute have made pious proclamations to the rest of us through the media blaming each other for the apparent impasse. I'll not waste valuable column inches rehashing the issues here, except to voice my impression that nobody's being completely honest.

This is not terribly unique. We all remember the charges and counter-charges sailing through the air as New York City tried to reach a consensus on the design and execution of the memorial planned for Ground Zero. For some reason, these memorials have become focal points for clashing political views. The problem with that, of course, is through that process, the meaning and the point that lies behind the existence of such memorials becomes obscured, even tarnished.

The memories of that day are beginning to fade from the collective consciousness. The shock, outrage, and sorrow that almost all of us felt are being replaced, it seems, by a regrettable amount of cynicism. This cynicism has been brought on by the use of the attacks, by both parties, as political brickbats on an electoral battlefield that is rapidly devolving into a conflict with all the elegance of a classic Five Points brawl.

A lot happened on September 11, 2001. Four airliners were hijacked. Three were deliberately crashed into landmarks symbolic of American economic and military power. The first three happened in comparatively rapid succession and the evidence suggests that the passengers aboard those ill-fated jets were probably only dimly aware of the magnitude of the disaster unfolding that morning. Consequently, there was no time for passengers to mount any resistance, or for the people in the targeted structures to evacuate.

Flight 93 was different. Heavy traffic delayed their departure, which meant that when the aircraft left the runway at 8:42 a.m., Flights 11, 175, and 77 were already airborne. In fact, the terrorists had already assumed control of the first two aircraft and were in that process on Flight 77. For reasons that remain murky, the takeover of Flight 93 didn't occur until 9:28, 46 minutes into the flight. Within 4 minutes, passengers began calling people on the ground, and in that process, hearing for the first time about the terrible events occurring in New York and Virginia. The passengers, according to conversations with family on the ground, decided to fight back. At 9:57, the counter-attack began. Six minutes later, as they finally broke into the cockpit, Flight 93 rocketed into the ground in a reclaimed strip mine near Shanksville. (Timetable from the 9/11 Commission Report)

Many, many words have been written and spoken about the courage of those passengers and crew. The quote that really sums it up for me actually comes from Ronald Reagan: "They counted on America to be passive. They counted wrong." Their actions were so quintessentially American in nature; refusing to be victims, disdaining surrender, disregarding the odds and the danger, they stood up and fought back. Their grim determination to resist expressed in the words of Todd Beamer: "Let's Roll."

That's what makes a memorial so important, so vitally necessary. The memory of their valor must not be allowed to fade.

I don't know the issues that stand between the parties and closing this deal, and frankly I don't really care. It's time for both sides to step back and remember why this memorial exists in the first place. As Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain once said of Gettysburg,

"Heroism is latent in every human soul, however humble or unknown. In great deeds, something abides. On great fields, something stays. Spirits linger to consecrate the ground. And generations that know us not, shall come to this field to ponder and dream; and the power of the vision will pass into their souls."

Please. Do whatever it takes to make it happen. Summon up the same kind of selfless courage displayed by those the memorial will honor.

Or if that doesn't work for you, just get out of the way.

The Measure of a Man

The Vitruvian Man, from the Da Vinci Code Research Guide

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, Sunday October 12, 2008

What is the measure of a man?

A man is measured by his integrity. He tells the truth, even when the truth is painful. His word is his bond. When he makes a promise, there is never any doubt his promise is good. To quote Mahatma Ghandi, “I hold that a man, who deliberately and intelligently takes a pledge and breaks it, forfeits his manhood.”

A man is measured by his strength. Yes, he is strong, physically. But he is measured more by that strength that lies within. It is his resolution and courage, as Theodore Roosevelt said, “…of power to do without shrinking the rough work that must always be done.” In times of crisis and danger, when no one else dares to step forward and act, the man does this without hesitation. Especially when this act places his own safety in jeopardy.

A man is measured by his commitment. He takes his friendships seriously. He will support the good things, and not be afraid to call someone out who is doing wrong, even when he knows it may cost him that friendship. He treats women with respect and honor, but not obeisance. His love is not given cheaply, but must be earned. Once earned, that love will always be there, a rock to cling to no matter how terrible the storms of life. A man understands that fatherhood is the ultimate experience of manhood. He knows instinctively that he must lead, and be the unbending moral and ethical rudder for his offspring. And the clearest of all examples of what it means to be an adult. Mario Cuomo once said of his father, “I watched a small man with thick calluses on both hands work fifteen and sixteen hours a day. I saw him once literally bleed from the bottoms of his feet, a man who came here uneducated, alone, unable to speak the language, who taught me all I needed to know about faith and hard work by the simple eloquence of his example.”

A man is measured by the company he keeps, therefore he chooses his real friends with care. If he associates with men of strong character, high morals and ethics, and unbreakable determination, then he will also be known by these attributes. If he associates with those of dishonest, dishonorable, or even criminal character, then he will be tarred with that same brush. His honor is his most treasured possession and he knows that as his children see the behaviors that he honors in the quality of his associations, they will instinctively strive to emulate those qualities in their relationships. As Thomas Carlyle said, “Show me the man you honor, and I will know what kind of man you are, for it shows me what your ideal of manhood is and what kind of man you long to be.”

A man is measured by his discipline. He knows fully the terrible power of his anger and physical strength, and that there is no honor or justification in unleashing such power on the small and the weak. He knows that his anger, like a wild stallion, must be kept corralled and under control at all times. He knows that doing wrong is easy, and that doing right is, at times, terribly difficult, even painful. Yet, he makes these choices without hesitation, for he knows that the choices he makes not only reflect on him, but understands that his children are always watching.

A man is measured by his compassion. When he sees those in need, he steps forward. He understands the limitations of a growing child, and acts with firm patience when they stray. He will not walk away from people in difficulty, but will lend a hand whenever and wherever needed. He will always stand up for the weak, and will not tolerate abuse anytime he witnesses it. When he is asked to give of his time, talents, energies, and skills in the cause of service to others, he accepts with a willing heart and ready hands. What is the measure of a man? That which lies in the heart and soul of a man. That is the measure of a man.

A man is measured by his humility. He knows that no one, least of all him, is right all the time. He knows that being human means being capable of mistakes. When he makes a mistake, he owns up. When he does wrong, he steps up. He knows that an apology is not mere words, but a true commitment to change. When he is praised, he accepts it with modesty and gratitude. He does not blow his own horn because he knows the truth in the old Japanese adage, “A man should not speak of his deeds; his deeds should speak for him.”

As men, we will always be held to a high standard. We must choose to rise to that level and live up to those expectations. None of us live in a vacuum; there are too many others who depend upon us and look up to us and we must earn that trust and that respect.

And perhaps, when we reach the end of our days, we will be measured by the highest honor of all. That those we leave behind, whether family, friend, or foe, will say of us:

“He was a Good Man.”

Today, as History

Four Immortals: Gehrig, Speaker, Cobb, and Ruth.
(Unable to locate original attribution, probably the New York Times.)

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, July 6, 2008

One of the limitations of perspective is our inability to recognized the passage of history. Over the weekend, my wife and I made a trip up to the Poconos to celebrate our 30th anniversary. This, of course, included the de rigueur trip to a casino for her, in this case the Mt. Airy facility near Mt. Pocono. While she was performing her usual brilliantly instinctive outwittery of the slot machines, I wandered around. I don’t gamble. The last lucky moment I had was the day I met her. As far is I’m concerned, she IS the jackpot. I’ll never be that lucky again.

In my wanderings, I happened across a spritely old man in a Yankees cap. I struck up a conversation with him about (what else?) baseball, although it wasn’t really much of a conversation. He yarned; I listened. Anyway, at one point, he talked about a magical day when his father took him to Yankee Stadium. He thinks it was 1927. He spoke of the thrill of watching his heroes, particularly Ruth and Gehrig, as they thoroughly thrashed their opponents, the Philadelphia A’s. On that magical day, he saw both men crank out enormous home runs and he talked about how he leapt from his seat, cheering lustily. He said, “I don’t have a really good memory for many things anymore (I’m 91, y’know) but I remember that day, and those home runs like it was 15 minutes ago.” He turned towards me, his eyes lighting up. “Y’know, Ty Cobb was in that game as well. He’d come over from Detroit. He was at the end of his career, but he was still a gladiator on the diamond.”

Ruth, Gehrig, Cobb.

Today, those names are mythic legends. For any baseball fan, the thought of being in the stands and seeing three players of that caliber on the same field on the same day enters the realm of daydreams.

After we parted, a snippet of memory forced its way out of the fog of my yesterdays. It was a hot, humid summer night in Kansas City and my Mom had taken me to old Municipal Stadium to watch a game between the beyond-forlorn A’s and the Yankees. Knowing what a big fan that I was, she sprung for box seats (at a ridiculously exorbitant $3.50 a pop). We walked into the venerable old stadium and, leaving her behind, I sprinted down the chipped concrete steps to the railing. To my left, a big fella in Yankee road gray was talking to some folks in the seats. He finished the conversation and turned to go back to his warmups. As he turned, his eye fell upon me. He smiled briefly, and in an Oklahoma drawl asked, “How ya doin’, kid?” I was speechless as he jogged back to the field. On his retreating back was that singular, magical number 7.

I had just been face-to-face with Mickey Mantle.

During that sometimes misspent youth, I watched other players who would become legends, mostly on television. Koufax, Drysdale, Killebrew, Gibson, the Robinsons of Baltimore, Mays, McCovey, and yes, Mazeroski, Clemente, and Stargell. At the time, I never thought about history. I simply watched them play. But my Dad, always the deep thinker, brought me face-to-face with history on the evening of July 20, 1969. As we waited breathlessly for Armstrong’s first steps on the moon, he leaned over and putting his hand on my shoulder, said, “Remember this moment. This is history.”

Since then, I’ve tried to be more aware of the passage of singular moments in time, and the singular people who inhabit them, trying to recognize and remember them. These moments are still happening around us. A few weeks ago, my wife and I watched a crippled Tiger Woods not only make a late charge to tie a major tournament, but win the thing in sudden death. As anyone with even a nodding acquaintance with the game of golf knows, Tiger is writing history almost every time he steps on a course. He is one of those singular athletes that come along perhaps once in a century, whose greatness and dominance of the game simply outshines everyone else. In the 30’s, a runty, malformed horse named Seabiscuit dominated racetracks across the country, mainly out of sheer grit and determination, still winning races at the impossible age of 7 (senescence for a racehorse). In the 80’s, the NBA gave us Magic Johnson and Larry Bird, following with Michael Jordan. These people captured our imagination, giving us performances that were simply astonishing.

In this day and age, I wonder sometimes. Who are the immortals we watch now? Who will be the ones about which our grandchildren will breathlessly ask, “Did you ever see him play?”

I think at times, we spend too much time ruing the past and fretting the future. There are remarkable moments filled with remarkable people who are happening right now. Take the time to watch and form some precious memories.

Embrace your todays.

Why Do We Ride?

Hull Canyon, south of Jerome, Arizona

Motorcycling is difficult to explain to the uninitiated. In fact, it’s difficult to explain to the initiated, a conversation that usually starts and ends with,

“You know.”
“Oh, yeah.”

Somehow the quest to capture the essence of that experience defies articulation. Oh, we can talk endlessly about sunny spring days gliding along country lanes, the air rich with the scents of new flowers and freshly turned earth.

Or ripping through winding mountain roads, balancing the centripetal against the centrifugal on a knife-edge of lunacy.

Or roaring across the limitless expanse of the Great Plains at the end of a long summer’s day, racing the sunset towards the horizon.

But, to someone who has never actually done these things, the full understanding will remain forever elusive, hovering just beyond the bounds of their conscious awareness.

However, once you climb aboard the machine and take to the roads, that knowledge will become clear. Not like a bolt from the blue, but gently and subtly, like the soft breeze of a June afternoon. As with love, it is a sense more easily felt than described. But in that moment when the Zen-like transformation is complete, the experience of the ride becomes elevated to a higher plane of existence. The burdens and distractions of mortal life fade into irrelevancy to be replaced by a symphony of life where all five senses are engaged and working with the precision and beauty of a Brandenburg Concerto.

To those of us who ride, a motorcycle will never be just a machine. It will always be that ticket to adventure, a way of leaving the mundane and passing through the musty wardrobe into a world of beauty and adventure; a place where possibilities are as limitless as the universe that surrounds us. A couple of hours spent in this way clears the mind and recharges the soul. More importantly, your soul, however bruised and battered, is made whole again. Once again, you become the master of your destiny, instead of a victim of circumstance.

Treasure every ride; take from each a small piece of joy and tuck it away in a secret place in your soul. There you will build a small spiritual Eden, the memories of which will forever free you from the prison of life’s routine.

Don’t bother trying to explain all this to anyone; they will never understand.

But your heart will.

Moto-Macho

Moto-Macho

Two years ago, I sold my motorcycle. For those who don’t ride, I’m not sure I can clearly convey the emotional trauma of such an event. The years and miles that unroll ‘neath man and machine really aren’t “ownership” as much as “relationship.” As riders know full well, you may own the machine, but the machine possesses you.

So, you ask, why sell? Well, the bike had 95,000 miles and, truthfully, I was ready for a new machine. The plan was to wait until winter had subsided, then “spring” for a new ride. Unfortunately, some high-priority expenses laid claim to the meager resources allocated for the bike.

The realization that I would be bike-less for the summer hit hard. For me, riding is not an exercise in transportation. It is an experience of the heart and soul; a spirit freed from the mundane to fly free from horizon to horizon. The roar of an engine is the siren song of the open road, the call of freedom…

Yeah, I know. Blah, blah, blah….

So I did what most men in my situation do: I moped. I became a skilled professional moper. If there had been an Olympic Moping team going to Beijing, I would have been its captain. Predictably, this drove my poor wife bananas. Last June, she took pity on me, and in one of her extremely rare moments of rash decision-making, she suggested that we rent a motorcycle and take a trip together.

What followed was a marvelous 6-day adventure on a Honda Goldwing (bells and whistles included) through the mountains and seashores New England. We had a great time, although I learned that it was far better to have the world’s most vociferous driving critic at an arm’s length, rather than draped across my back. (That helmet slap really gets your attention.) I was ecstatic, thinking this was the thing to put the bike purchase over the top.

Last August, however, we realized that her car would have to be replaced. Her ride, a once-elegant 1992 Park Avenue Ultra has run the gauntlet of four teen drivers and now looks like a good candidate for a Demolition Derby. Bowing to the inevitable squeeze between needs and resources, I glumly surrendered to the necessity of putting off the bike purchase for yet another year.

Hoping to forestall another outbreak of the mopes, she brightly suggested, “If you want to ride that badly, just take my bike.” I blanched in horror. Her bike is a 22-year-old Honda Helix scooter. I protested that it needed repairs before I could entrust it to my 60-mile round trip commute. Usually, this works, since she hates to see me spend money. But I had underestimated her resolve. Affixing a steady gaze, she intoned, “Go ahead.” The Clint Eastwood tag line “Make my day” went unsaid, being perfectly superfluous in this case.

I took the bike to my trusted wrench, Jake, the magician of Cernic’s. He accepted the machine with his thin face wearing the grim look of a surgeon who knows that the odds are against this particular patient. He seemed to understand perfectly when I whispered, “Take your time – please.” But although Jake is a fellow “guy” he is a complete professional and all too soon, I received the slightly apologetic call that the bike was ready.

A few days later, I stood in the garage staring morosely at the Helix. Finally, with one last longing glance at my manly, hairy-chested (but gas-guzzling) 4-wheel drive SUV, I climbed aboard. The engine, nursed expertly by Jake’s skilled hands, turned over instantly. Instead of the accustomed throaty rumble of a powerful V-twin, I heard the scooter’s wimpy-by-comparison lawn mower “putt-putt”. I rolled on the throttle and slowly headed north.

Despite the struggle in climbing hills, it really wasn’t too bad. Once again, I enjoyed the wide-open feeling of life on two wheels. And after only a few miles, I discovered that, doggone it, I was actually enjoying myself.

My dilemma now was how to hide this rediscovered joy from my wife, lest she conclude that I’d be permanently happy with the Helix.

Returning to Somerset, I passed a gas station, the parking lot filled with a crowd of iron and chrome, out for an afternoon ride. I caught the eye of one of the do-ragged, black-leathered riders. Raising my chin in the time-honored male challenge, I blipped the throttle of my mighty scooter. He responded, first with a look of incredulity, then a laugh, starting deep within his ample belly and spreading throughout his large frame. We all shared that laugh, and I pulled away to a chorus of waves. Yeah, I decided, this might not be so bad after all. Curiously, I felt I hadn’t surrendered my macho manliness. After all, two wheels are two wheels.

And besides, with the volatility of gas prices these days, 65 miles per gallon is pretty hairy-chested stuff.

Update: A few months after writing this essay, I was riding home after work when I noticed that the engine was laboring. Fortunately, I was less than a mile from home, so I continued to limp in that direction. Once in the garage and out of the bright sunshine, I saw the garish red light marked "OIL" glowing in the instrument cluster. I pulled the dipstick immediately only to discover that it was bone dry. Leaning down, I saw the cause of this disaster. The drain plug for the oil pan had somehow worked loose, allowing the oil to leak out. The engine was completely and totally fried. This turn of events puzzled me, for I had checked the oil that morning before leaving, and the weekend before I had performed my monthly bolt-and-screw-tightening maintenance. After I had considered all the possibilities, the scooter's advanced age, and it's apparent growing disgust at hauling my not-inconsiderable mass up and down the highway, I came to what could only be the final conclusion:

My Honda Helix had committed Scootercide.

Males, Middle Age, and Motorcycles

Livin' Large! The Author at Deal's Gap. Photo by Darryl Cannon, Powerhead Productions

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat April 29, 2008

Spring is a wonderful time of year. The snow has finally gone, the sun is shining warm, and from the budding trees, we can hear the glorious sound of birds, the sounds of their songs reminding us how much they have been missed. If you listen carefully, you’ll also hear another sound of spring. The sound of a husband trying to convince his wife how much he needs a motorcycle.

There are obvious reasons. Economy, price, fun…but make no mistake; for the average middle aged American male, there is another motivation, the roots of which are buried deep within.

Middle-aged men are fighting a losing battle these days. In a society where feminists rage about equality and strength, we’re still called upon to deal with spiders, rodents, and strange noises in the night. We try to treat them with fairness and equality, only to get our heads torn off when we fail to open doors for them. Society denigrates the successful among us, then summarily equates our character with our job descriptions. (Think I’m exaggerating? Eavesdrop on a group of women sometime. When talking about men, one of the first two questions is always: “What does he do?”) Our culture, also obsessed with youth and the appearance of vitality, is ruthless in the effort to push us aside, out of sight. Even our points of view, borne out of decades of facing and defeating adversity, are dismissed as being out of step with the times.

Mainly though, it’s the age thing. We blossomed during the Woodstock era, when it was okay to lead with your glands and a sense of adventure. But then something terrible happened. We grew up. We had children. We acquired mortgages and responsibilities. We lost our hair. Now we find ourselves in our 50’s, squeezed out of the “wanna do’s” of life by the “have to do’s.” Everything hurts, especially in the morning. We find ourselves athletically outdone by the youngsters we used to “school” on the courts or in the fields. We begin to hear ourselves described as “that older guy.”

We feel trapped.

Trapped by the passage of time, and the four walls of circumstance. And the sudden realization that, as Captain Picard once said, “there are fewer days ahead than there are behind.” This has been difficult for us. In the 60’s, we swore we would never get old, or if we did get old, we wouldn’t act our advanced age. So now, we find ourselves reaching for that last bit of freedom; of excitement, before the light irrevocably dims forever.

Out of that set of experiences has arisen the visceral desire to reclaim a piece of that youth, by reaching for that magical time machine known as a motorcycle.

Motorcycle ownership demographics have demonstrated an interesting shift over the past 10 years. The median age for a motorcycle owner is now 44. That’s years. For the Harley-Davidson crowd it’s even worse. The median age for them is over 50. Why is it that at the point in our lives when our reflexes have slowed, our eyes have dimmed, and our prostates have….whatever prostates do…have we turned to motorcycles?

Because in those magical moments when we are alone with the road and an unexplored horizon, the years fall away. The burdens and responsibilities are lifted and for a few fleeting moments, we are once again free….and young. We’re no longer victims of circumstance; we are masters of our destiny. We have nowhere to be and all the time in the world to get there.

The timing has become critical as well. From age 55 on, there are a host of medical problems that we will have to face. Arthritis, diabetes, joint problems…cancer. Because of that, we feel the urgency of now! We have to ride today because tomorrow we may no longer be able to.

Yes, there are risks involved. We could be injured. We could even die. But at this point in our lives, death is no longer a far-off possibility. It has become a very real certainty, one we will face in the relative near-term. And deep within the American Male is that desire to face that moment on our own terms. Riding, even if only for a few years, will give us that last piece of self-determination. And freedom.

And that’s well worth whatever risk we could face.

Thinking About a Motorcycle?

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat 3/27/2006

Thinking About a Motorcycle?

Gas prices have fallen, but consumers are still nervous about the volatility of the past, and seem to know instinctively that they could zoom once again, as dramatically as a climbing fighter jet. With that in mind, people are looking at two-wheeled conveyances with a far more speculative eye.

It’s tempting. Even big motorcycles can average better than 30 miles per gallon, while scooters can average better than 60 mpg. Practicality aside, motorcycles are just plain fun to ride.

I’ve ridden the better part of 15 years and well over 250,000 miles, the memories of which still bring a smile. I encourage people to entertain the possibility of riding. However, it’s important that folks go into this purchase with their eyes wide open.

If you are a new rider, and even if you have some past experience, the rider safety courses offered by the Motorcycle Safety Foundation are extremely valuable. Over the space of a few days, you will learn skills that would otherwise take years to acquire on the road.

I will never forget the reaction of one veteran biker. At the end of the course, when he was called up to accept his certificate and card, he said, “I thought this would be a waste of my time. In fact, I learned things here this weekend that the school of experience couldn't teach me in 25 years of riding.”

MSF has two levels, the beginning Rider Safety Course, and the Experienced Rider Course, designed for those who have at least two years of riding experience. All insurance companies convey discounts to MSF card holders. To find the schedule and location of courses, contact the local riding association or any motorcycle shop.

PART 2: WHICH BIKE TO BUY?

Deciding which bike to purchase should be a carefully thought-out process. There are several factors to consider, such as budget, how the bike is going to be used, and the experience and skill of the prospective rider. Motorcycles come in several different liveries and price ranges ranging from $4,000 to $30,000. For reference, here’s some basic information on types of street-legal bikes:

Scooters: Usually small to medium displacement (less than 250cc). They have automatic transmissions, small wheels and a “step-through” type frame. Gas mileage is usually excellent, 50 to 80 mpg, and maintenance requirements are minimal. They are mostly intended to be in-town bikes. Although the larger ones will go 70 mph plus, on the interstate, their light weight makes them vulnerable to the wind gusts created by large vehicles. In the developing world, particularly Asia, scooters, along with their cousins the mopeds, are the primary means of personal transportation.

Examples are the Honda Silverwing, Suzuki Burgman (which comes in 250, 400 and 650 cc engines, respectively), and the classic Italian lines of Vespa and Piaggio.

Dual-Sport/Adventure Tourer: This is a type that combines off-road capability with street riding. They are built “tall” and can be identified by the combination of the high fenders and ground clearance characteristic of the off-road bikes, along with the equipment required by law for on-road operation. Examples include the BMW R1200GS, Triumph Tiger, and the Kawasaki KLR-650

Standards: Also referred to as “naked” bikes because of the lack of body panels. These bikes cover the entire power spectra, ranging from entry level machines, such as the Honda Nighthawk 250 all the way up to the “hooligan” machines such as the legendary Yamaha V-Max, and the Ducati Monster. The mid-range of these machines (around 500-750cc) is a good place to start, if you’re a new rider. They are among the least expensive of the street bikes and are also very affordable to maintain.

Cruisers: This quintessential American design has become the most popular model in the world. They are characterized by a naked appearance, with long, low frames, a lot of chrome, large, fat tires, and heavily padded seats. They are usually powered by a V-twin engine with long, chrome exhaust pipes emitting a low, rumbling sound. These bikes can be heavy, some weighing in at 700 pounds. Also, their long wheelbase makes them somewhat less than nimbly maneuverable. Engine size can range from Honda’s 250cc Rebel all the way up to Triumph’s mastodonic 2300cc Rocket III. Other examples of this type would be most of the Harley line, Honda’s Shadows and VTX models, Kawasaki Vulcan, Yamaha Star, and the Suzuki Boulevards.

Sport Bikes: These machines, patterned after professional racing bikes, can be readily identified by their sleek profiles, bright, vivid colors, the bent-forward position of the rider (the handgrips will be lower than the top of the gas tank) and the characteristic moan of their high-revving engines. These are dangerous machines for the novice rider because of their tremendous acceleration and high-speed capabilities. They are exhilarating machines for experienced riders for those very same reasons. Some examples would be the Honda CBR’s, the Ducati 1098, and the two fastest production bikes, the Suzuki GSX-1300 Hayabusa and the Kawasaki ZX-14, both capable of 189 mph.

Touring: This class is split into two types, full-dress and sport tourers. Full-dressers typically have full fairings and saddle bags. Some have top boxes and come equipped with all the comforts of home, including radios and CD players, GPS navigation consoles, plush heated seats and handgrips, and large windshields. Honda’s Gold Wing even comes with an airbag. These bikes are very heavy, starting at about 750 lbs and can be a handful for an inexperienced rider, especially at low speeds. They are also among the most expensive. Along with the Gold Wing are the BMW K1200LT, the Harley Road King, and the Yamaha Royal Star Venture.

The sportier halves of the touring family are the Sport-Tourers. These bikes are smaller, lighter, quicker, and more maneuverable than their full-dress cousins. They still carry saddle bags and some have top boxes, but their milieu is winding, twisty roads where their quick acceleration and high ground clearance allows their maneuverability to shine. Their power is closer to that of the sport bikes, but provide a more upright riding position, increasing visibility of, and for, the rider. Examples would be the BMW R1200RT, Honda ST1300, Yamaha FJR1300, and Kawasaki’s Concours.

Customs: Art on two wheels is the best way to describe these bikes, which are also known as “choppers.” They are long, low, and garishly painted and decorated, usually with a specific theme in mind. The bikes are powered by off-the-shelf V-twin engines and belt drives and come with very long wheel bases and enormously wide rear tires. These bikes are usually intended to be show pieces, and not really intended for actual street use. Today, these bikes are hand-built by builders like the legendary Arlen Ness, Jesse James of West Coast Choppers, and the Teutul family of Orange County Choppers. They are expensive, ranging between $40,000 and $150,000.

PART 3: DRESSING FOR THE RIDE There's no minimizing the fact that riding a motorcycle is a hazardous undertaking. For that reason, it behooves riders to do what they can to protect themselves.

Start with a good-quality jacket, made of either leather or any of the rugged nylon materials out there. Look for one with armor inserts in the shoulders, elbows, and lumbar spine. You can also add a set of pants, again either leather or nylon, also with armor inserts. Gloves will provide a layer of protection for your hands. (Think of it; if you fall over, what's the first thing you throw in front of you?) In cold weather, they will also help keep your fingers relatively warm and useable.

Helmet laws are very controversial these days. Thus, the only thing I’ll say is that new riders, until they develop their skills, probably should wear a helmet. you can choose from a shortie (think of it as a sort of armored yarmulke), partial- and full-face designs. Some, like the Nolan brand, give you a nice compromise, a full-face model with a swing-up chin piece.

Protect your hearing and your vision with ear plugs, and face shields or goggles. Wind noise at high speeds can lead to hearing problems, especially for the prevalent older group that rides today. You should have a good pair of strapped or lace-up boots that cover your ankles (pull-on boots can fly off in an accident); leather chaps or motorcycle pants, jackets with pieces of body armor, and gloves (especially those with Kevlar inserts).

Motorcycle engines and their associated exhaust pipes generate a great deal of heat, which emanates between knees and ankles. Part of the reason for wearing at least long pants is to protect your skin from that heat.

It can be easy, especially during the hot summer months, to forego the gear when going riding. Experts strongly recommend the use of safety gear and manufacturers do offer protective clothing that is meshed and vented, while still containing some body armor. Even a minor spill can produce those painful abrasions known as “road rash.” Getting that road rash debrided in a hospital emergency room is exquisitely painful.

PART 4: SAFETY DURING THE RIDE Operating a motorcycle requires a level of awareness and attention well beyond what has become customary in driving a car. You can’t daydream, brood about the bad day at work, or plan your menus for the next week. You have to be completely aware of where you are, what you are doing, and what is going on around you.

Several years ago, a group of researchers showed a video clip to a group of people. Each one of them was given specific things to look for, i.e. birds, children, pets, etc. In the middle of the clip, an actor in a gorilla suit sauntered through the scene. Afterwards, the researchers were astonished to discover that many of the subjects never saw the gorilla in the video, because they were concentrating on something else. This condition, known as “inattentional blindness,” is very important to a rider. Even if a driver looks directly at you, they may not actually see you. Not surprisingly, the leading cause of car-bike accidents is the failure of the car’s driver to see, and therefore yield to the bike and then pulling out in front of them.

Many states have become increasingly concerned about the growing number of motorcycle accidents and fatalities. Most of those accidents do involve the car’s failure to yield. But rider inexperience also plays a role. If you are purchasing your first bike this year, please consider buying something smaller and easier to handle until your skills improve to the point of making that dream bike purchase worthwhile.

Another major hazard is that multitude of sins I like to call “riding stupid.” While speed and wheelies may be exhilarating, there are simply too many things that can go wrong. No matter how skilled a rider you may think you are, that won’t help you when you find a coal truck in your lane, or a patch of pea gravel on a blind curve. If you want to race, look for a track day. Race tracks are always a better surface than a county road. And you won’t lose your license, or your life doing it.

Studies show that motorcycle riders are older now than at any other time in history. An article in the October 29, 2006 New York Times Magazine noted that in the last twenty years, the median age for motorcyclists has gone from 24 to 41, with 25% of those riders over 50. Within the Harley-Davidson community, that median age is now 50. There are two factors at work here. Baby Boomers have embraced motorcycles as an expression of our refusal to “act our age.” The level of income we enjoy has enabled folks to purchase bikes that may be too big and fast for a beginner. The other factor is age. Our vision and reflexes are worse and slower than they were when we were younger. This means keeping very alert and maintaining space between the bike and the cars around you. It also means the ability to respond quickly to a crisis is going to be diminished. Catastrophic loss of control is a major factor in solo accidents and in many of those cases, the rider was over 40.

Motorcycles require close attention to maintenance in order to continue to function safely. For example, even something as mundane as tire inflation pressure has to be monitored closely. Low pressure is an annoyance in a car; it can kill you on a bike. A flat front tire makes the bike almost impossible to steer, which can only lead to disaster at highway speeds.

Weather conditions can drastically change a bike’s ability to stay upright. As a bike travels down a dry road, the friction between the tires and the road causes the tires to heat up. That heat helps the rubber to grip the road surface better. Rain does two things. First, it puts a layer of lubricant between the tires and the road. Secondly, it also cools your tires, making them less “sticky.” In addition, if it’s a busy road, the first 10 minutes of rain will bring up the oils and grease that have accumulated from cars. As a result, the road becomes very “slippy” until those oils are washed away.

Heat has a dangerous effect on the rider. Because of the constant breeze while moving, riders may not realize the dangers of heat exhaustion until it’s too late. Stay hydrated, using sport drinks because they will also replenish electrolytes. Sunscreen on your exposed skin will save you in the short term from painful sunburn.

In the fall and winter, cold air can be just as dangerous. A temperature in the mid-40’s might feel moderate when standing still. But at 70 mph, the induced wind chill is dangerous.

Wildlife is its own category of hazard. Deer, dogs, even bears have been known to disrupt a rider’s afternoon by suddenly appearing out of the trees and brush along the roadway, especially at dusk. Some people have turned to deer whistles to ease that hazard, but since deer ears have the same frequency range as ours, the whistles actual utility is suspect.

Riding impaired, whether from illegal drugs, alcohol, lack of sleep, or even cold medicine is just plain stupid, and a recipe for disaster. Be aware of what your limitations are, and look out for each other. When it’s apparent that a fellow or sister rider is in a condition that is beyond safe, don’t be afraid to take their keys and call a cab. It’s far better to be cussed at by an impaired friend than attend a funeral.

Motorcycling can be a real source of joy and release, especially for those new to the sport. It will open your senses and emotions to a world you never knew existed. And can be a practical way to reduce the cost of commuting, as well as wear and tear on your other vehicle. Approach riding with the proper mindset, and you too will come to know and love the freedom of the open road.

Deal's Gap

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat 7/30/2006

One of the best known (and most notorious) motorcycle destinations in this country is Deal’s Gap, North Carolina, more specifically, the 11-mile stretch of U.S. Highway 129 known as “The Dragon.” This road traces the southwest border of The Great Smoky Mountains National Park and consists of 318 curves in its tightly twisted length. It is considered by many to be the ultimate test of a street rider’s skill.

The Smoky Mountains, America’s most visited National Park, according to the National Park Service, is a scenic gem. Part of the central Appalachian chain, the Smokies stun the senses with beautiful mountains, dramatic overlooks, and dense cathedral-like forests. If you’ve ever seen the movie “Last of the Mohicans” with Daniel Day-Lewis, parts of which were filmed in the Park, than you know already about the abundant natural beauty to be found here. There aren’t a lot of resort or amusement park type properties in the region, but you can hike, bike, drive, canoe, raft, kayak, or indulge photographic passions to your heart’s content. The roads, although twisty to the extreme, are very well-cared for.

You can enter The Dragon at either end, but the “official” kickoff point is at the intersection of 129 and North Carolina route 28, the location of the Deal’s Gap Motorcycle Resort. This is not a luxury hotel, but simply a bare-bones place for the rider to sleep at night. The rooms are Spartan, but spacious, clean, and the owners have designed and developed services that cater to the motorcycle rider. For a more comfortable stay, there is the Fontana Village Resort, which is 11 miles away on NC Route 28.

The road itself is truly a challenge. Most of the 318 curves are of the hairpin and switchback variety, along with a few decreasing-radius turns that will take you by surprise. Although hundreds of riders navigate this road successfully, accidents do occur. The most common spill happens when a rider enters a curve too fast, or has their mind somewhere else. This is particularly bad for some cruisers, touring bikes and full-dressers, since their low profile severely limits the available lean angle. There are no shoulders to speak of, although there are a few gravel-covered pull-outs. If you find yourself in crisis corner, your options are usually limited to a sheer rock wall, or an unplanned tumble down a long, steep rock-and-tree-covered slope. At the Motorcycle resort is a monument to those who have been “bit by The Dragon” called “The Tree of Shame,” an otherwise unassuming Sycamore that has been liberally decorated with parts of motorcycles that failed to complete the route. You can always find a group of riders silently regarding the tree, a stark reminder that this is a serious road for serious riders.

The good news is the sense of accomplishment gleaned from successful passes, which will likely be forever enshrined photographically at Killboy.com and Zeefoto.com. A ride on The Dragon will teach you things about your bike and riding skills that you can learn nowhere else, and if you survive, you will come away a smarter and more skilled rider, the proud owner of the distinctive Dragon decal on your bike.

Of course, The Dragon is not the only road. Among the other spectacular routes are the Blue Ridge and Foothills Parkways, The Cherohala Skyway, Newfound Gap Road along the Oconaluftee River, and Laurel Creek Road are just a few of the magnificent rides to be found in the Park.

This is a place that satiates the senses and is a magnificent way to spend a two-wheeled vacation.

Internet Remedies -- and One That Actually Worked

The Internet can be a tremendous resource, placing at our fingertips a flood of information from all types of authoritative sources. When I compare what I had to go through to research a term paper in the '70's to the ease of that same task today, I shake my head in wonder.

Of course, there's a lot of junk in with the gold, and you have to be very careful when assessing the accuracy of a potential source.

One of the common things you can find are alternatives to chemical-based cleaners, weeders, feeders, and many of the other common household and garden products we use. Which is where I found myself this past weekend deep in ponder.

The previous owners of our home performed a miracle of landscaping with the back yard. They put in a flower garden that circled the yard, along with a very attractive (and long) winding path made of paving stones. It was one of the major selling points for us, even when contemplating the enormous amount of work require to maintain it's zen-like qualities.

One of the labors required is to periodically remove the grass, weeds, and wildflowers that grow in the gaps between the stones. Up to now, that remedy has been applied through the use of a thin saw blade attached to a pole. The blade fits in the narrow spaces and is able to drill down deep enough to pull the offending plant up by the roots. Of course, this is a very time-consuming task, often taking an entire Saturday to accomplish. We've had a very wet and cool spring this year, followed by an oppressive period of hot and humid weather, with temps reaching close to the 90-degree range. (Please, no snickers from you Arizonans!) The combination of those two events brought an explosion of weed growth, the sheer ugliness of which I could ignore no longer.

Friday night, I was glumly anticipating my day in the heat and humidity. I thought briefly about using Roundup or some other commercially available weed-and-grass killer, but concern for my pets' health made that choice unacceptable.

Now, between my wife and I, I consider myself to be the more tech-savvy, so I was surprised when she suggested the obvious "check the internet" for alternatives.

So, Google and I went on a hunt. I found a lot of interesting information. For example, if you have a problem with squirrels or chipmunks, take a 5-gallon bucket, fill it 2/3 full of water, then cover the water in sunflower seeds (they will float). The varmints, finding an apparent treasure trove of goodies, will plunge through the layer of snacks into the water and drown. Gruesome, yes. But probably preferable to getting wires, cables, and plants from getting gnawed on. Continuing my search, I found several alternative remedies for my weed problem, such as salt water, boiling water, straight vinegar, and one site that growled, "Man up, get on your knees, and start pulling!"

Eventually, I decided on one mixture that seemed to have the most numerous adherents. A gallon of white vinegar, 1 cup of table salt, and 1 teaspoon of liquid dish soap. I puzzled over that last item, until reading that the soap gave the mixture enough viscosity to stick to the leaves of the offending foliage. The websites indicated that this mixture would kill most all of the weeds and grass (so be careful where you spray!) over a time period of 2-3 days.

So, I went to the grocery store for the salt and vinegar, then to the hardware store for a two gallon sprayer. Upon returning home, I mixed everything together, assembled the spray wand and sallied forth into battle.

The sprayer worked well, even given that fact that I had chosen the cheapest one. I started at one end of the walk and moved steadily along, spraying every plant I saw. Having a little bit left, I expended the rest on the short driveway, also made of those same bricks. This task took the better part of two hours to complete. I cleaned up the equipment, stowed it away in the garage and turned to some other tasks.

When early evening came around and the heat finally eased off, I ventured outside to walk the dog. Out of curiosity, I ventured down the alley and glanced ever so casually, over the fence into the back yard. What I saw brought me to halt, mouth agape. Instead of the forest of weeds I had seen earlier, I saw a host of shriveled-up plants curling into their death postures. The homemade remedy had done a thorough job, taking not the advertised 2-3 days, but merely a matter of hours. Unfortunately, I also saw a few of my flowering plants where I had obviously been a little careless with the spray. I don't know if there's any residual effect that would keep the weeds from coming back, but even if they do, I now have a weapon of mass defoliation that works well and won't harm the valuable parts of my environment.

My experience with the Internet is that you have to shovel several tons of dirt in order to find a few diamonds, but this was obviously a 3-carat find. I can now sigh in relief, knowing that my annual Battle of the Back Yard just became winnable.

The Oil Emergency: Hard Times, Hard Choices

Over the years, I’ve come to understand a fundamental truth. People’s political attitudes are formed in the events and experiences that make up the chronology of their lives. These days, the foundations of those attitudes are, more often than not, based on deeply held emotions rather than critically evaluated information. Thus, there is no longer a widely held consensus of right and wrong. Everything is filtered through the prism of each individual's personal experiences. What seems incontrovertible truth to one is complete nonsense to another. This reality is a big part of the reason why politics is a subject considered verboten in polite conversation.

Our political attitudes have become tightly interwoven with our sense of self-identity and esteem. Consequently, when someone disagrees with us, we feel defensive, which then triggers emotional responses. And when emotion, by its nature an irrational state, enters into a debate, all hope of a calm, rational discussion is lost. My high school debate teacher once said, “You can debate conclusions; you can debate positions; you can debate policy. But you cannot debate emotion. Emotion listens only to its own version of truth, and refuses to entertain anything else.”

For that reason, I’ve mostly avoided hot-button issues in my columns, knowing that no matter what the indisputable facts are, they will make no headway with those who are emotionally wedded to opposing views. But the debate on energy in general and gasoline in particular has become so fraught with irrationality, I decided, at no small risk, to wade in.

The world has changed drastically and rapidly over the last two decades, of that there can be no debate. From the geopolitical bipolar stability of the Cold War, we have morphed into an age where for the first time in human history, conflict does not require a state sponsor. Zealots distort religion in order to justify hate, murder, and the acquisition of power. The economy is becoming globalized; Europe has, at least on the surface, begun to discard centuries of conflict in favor of continental unity. Those and many other changes have rippled across the lives of everyone in this country, indeed, the world.

India and China have become the two largest economies on the planet. As a result, their consumption of energy has drastically increased. The glut of oil on world markets that helped depress prices in the 90’s exists no longer. This is a fundamental change which has introduced the law of scarcity into the oil market. The laws of supply and demand are immutable and unchangeable, so with the supply pinched, the price goes up. At present, the only immediate mitigating factor available to consumers is to cut back on demand, a difficult thing to do when driving is critical to our ability to earn a living. Small business is the largest single element of the U.S. economy and the ability of those small businesses to use their vehicles is crucial to their success, and even their survival. For the rest of us, our vehicles represent a fundamental freedom to go where we want, when we want without fear of consequence. Given our history and traditions, that's the hardest thing to surrender.

The response of government to this current crisis has been exasperatingly political and largely useless. The effort to switch to alternative fuels, mainly E85 ethanol, has seen the price of corn, as well as other grains, skyrocket. Hunger, some starvation, and violent food riots have erupted in the developing world.

Hydrogen fuel cells are a good answer, but critics moan that technology required upon which to base our economy is 50 years in the future. Personally, I doubt that time frame, since it’s spouted by those who oppose hydrogen. Besides, I never put anything beyond the reach of a truly motivated scientist. But that journey is just like any other. If you’re not actually traveling towards the destination, the distance never changes. If we don’t expend a major effort on hydrogen now, that goal will forever remain out of reach.

In the shorter term, we will have to face some unpleasant facts. When you tally up untapped reserves under the outer continental shelf, under North Dakota, Montana, and Colorado, and yes, under the one-tenth of one percent of the two million acres that make up the Arctic National Wildlife Reserve, the U.S. has more oil reserves then the entire Middle East. Enviromental policy, driven mostly by the political stranglehold the radical environmentalists have over Democrats, has restricted our ability to drill for that oil. But, because that oil belongs to us, we would no longer be chained to the arrogant pricing policies of OPEC.

We also lack refining capacity. We haven’t built a new refinery in at least 30 years and those we do have are running at 95% to 98% capacity. One of the scarier scenarios is what could happen if Hizb’allah, HAMAS, or al-Qa’ida glommed onto that little fact and decided to drive truck bombs into a few of those refineries. If they could do enough damage to take three facilities off-line for three to six months, the resulting squeeze could cripple our economy, damage that might take a decade to repair.

Now, the Democrats in congress say they will sue Saudi Arabia for, in their words, “conspiring to limit the production of oil.” As the prescient talker Quinn pointed out, isn’t that precisely what the Democrats have done themselves?

It’s easy to point political fingers in these situations, and in this situation, most of those fingers are directed to the right. But, let’s look at some numbers.

In the first 6 years of the Bush administration, with the Republicans holding a nominal majority in congress, the average price of gas, according to the Department of Energy, rose from $1.51 per gallon to $2.21 per gallon. That’s an increase of 70 cents over 72 months, or less than one penny per gallon per month of increase. In 2006, Democrats campaigned for control of congress, promising among other things, to reduce the price of gasoline at the pumps. We took them at their word, giving them control. On their first day in office, January 21, 2007, the average price of gas was $2.21 per gallon. As of the day I write this, that price is $3.90 per gallon. That’s an increase of $1.69 per gallon over a period of 16 months, or an increase of more than 10 cents per gallon per month. And that’s after their solemn campaign promise to reduce those prices.

The Republicans have taken the lion’s share of the blame, but based on these numbers, which party has been better at controlling gas prices? The Democrats, at more than ten cents per month, or the Republicans at less than one penny per month?

There's another, far more sinister possibility. Politicians make their careers on problems. As long as one exists, then the politicians relevance is maintained. I wonder sometimes if anyone in Washington, both parties, are more interested in perpetuating problems, rather than crafting solutions. After all, if they solve these problems, wouldn't they then become irrelevant? What if there are people who are bent on inflicting critical damage to the economy for the sole purpose of winning an election?

I know I’m going to get a lot of flack for this. But, these are hard numbers, and hard facts. And these are hard times. If we’re going to survive, we have to make the hard choices. Now.

The Honda PC800 Pacific Coast

My '95 On Skyline Drive in Shenandoah National Park, Virginia

Riding a Honda Pacific Coast makes you a lightning rod for all kinds of questions and comments. Over the years, I’ve gotten used to the worst of them, realizing that any motorcyclist who utilizes the term “rolling porta-potty” has issues of their own.

The Pacific Coast, or PC800, was introduced by Honda in the 1989 model year. It was a revolutionary look back then, the bike completely sheathed in plastic body panels, and a spacious clamshell trunk in the place of traditional saddlebags. The appearance was pure Starfleet, sans phasers and warp drive. Had it arrived in ET's UFO, it could not have been more striking. The futuristic shape caught the eye of filmmakers, appearing in movies such as “Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man,” “Back to the Future,” and “The Bourne Identity.”

Honda wanted the bike to appeal to the suit-and-tie set; a bike one could ride to work without the risk of soiling the Armani. With that in mind, they purposely modeled the rear end after the very popular Honda Accord, the Yuppie flavor of the month for that era. Honda produced the bike for two years, the ’89 in an ethereal Pacific Pearl White, and the ’90 in a magnificent Candy Glory Red. However, the marketing folks at Honda, choosing a soft, jazzy, avant-garde approach for their ads (a technique also used initially by Infinity), rolled consecutive gutter balls. The popular image of the motorcycle, all leather, do-rags, and sweaty biceps, completely clashed with this approach. Bikers snickered, and Yuppies remained confused. The price point was too high, and the flood of execu-commuters never materialized. With a ton of surplus machines on hand, Honda halted production.

1989 PC800

1990 PC800

The company tried again in 1994, while still selling the bike in Europe and Japan from '91 to '93 (identified by a silver-blue paint job). Inflation made the price of the bike much more palatable. Success was moderate and overall, Honda produced some 11,000 units through the 1998 model year before the guillotine fell, this time for good.

The Euro/Japanese model

Since then, the bike has attracted a sizeable international cult following, identified by the characteristic “Body by Tupperware” decals. A truly eclectic group of people, home base for whom is the IPCRC (Internet Pacific Coast Riders Club). The group numbers about 4,000 members from 18 different countries, a total that climbs at a rate of 20 to 30 per week. A recent poll showed that the majority of them work in the engineering and IT fields, which is a strong statement in itself. Clearly, folks for whom precision is a way of life find this bike attractive. The group sponsors many rides throughout the year, always easily identified. A parking lot full of brightly colored PC800s resembles not so much a covey of bikes as a spilled bag of Skittles.

The PC800 is possibly the most misunderstood motorcycle in industry history. The bike was designed as a sport-tourer, yes; but its primary intended function was commuting. Hence, its capacious carrying capacity, low-maintenance, upright riding position, and balance between a bike heavy enough for stability, yet nimble enough to maneuver through heavy traffic. As long as you understand this basic fact, then the bike becomes comprehensible.

--It was never intended to be a CBR in drag. If eyeball-squishing acceleration is what you want, look somewhere else.

--It was never intended to be Just Another Harley Clone. If that's what you're after, check the sheep pens across the road.

--And while it is a perfectly capable long distance tourer, it won't ever grow into a two-wheeled RV, like the Goldwing. It's kinda like a country doctor: it does a lot of things well, it’s just not a specialist.

These days, the volatile nature of gas prices has many commuters looking at motorcycles in an entirely new light; from the standpoint of practicality. Along with the exalted MPG, maintenance issues are usually high on the list. Commuters don't like to tinker. They want something that's easy to take care of. One of the Pacific Coast’s strengths is that it’s about as close to “fill and forget” as you’ll ever get with a motorcycle. Noteworthy are the hydraulic valves, which eliminate the need for valve adjustments. Digital ignition, hydraulic clutch, and automatic cam chain tensioners add to the easy care. The exterior skin also means that clean-up is an absolute breeze. 15 minutes, and this baby shines as it did on the showroom floor.

These enhancements, combined with the bike's tremendous reliability combine to make it one of the most economical rides on the road. Over the nearly 8 years that I owned my PC, the operating costs (including gas, oil, tires, batteries, maintenance, and the very occasional repair), consistently stayed below 7 cents per mile. By comparison, my 4-cylinder Toyota Camry averaged a hedonistic 13 cents per mile.

The design has some nice well-thought-out features. At the four corners are crash bars, covered in plastic and seamlessly integrated into the skin. If the bike does lay over, these bars keep the main body from contacting the pavement. (An important tip, when the footpegs contact the pavement, you have also reached the absolute edge of the tire tread. An inch more, and you're riding on sidewalls.) The rear views are the breakaway type with integrated turn signals. If they snap off, they can be reattached with patience and an Allen wrench. Another nice touch is the Torque-Reaction Anti-Dive Control, quite the nifty piece of handling tech. Self-canceling turn signals were available through the 1995 edition.

The car-like instrument cluster is large, easily readable at any speed and logically laid out. It includes a speedo, tach, fuel gauge, water temp gauge, and warning lights for oil pressure, high beam, and sidestand. Strangely, on a bike where the engine noise is so hard to hear, there's no gear indicator, except for the nominal neutral light. It also lacks a clock, but as one rhapsodic PC owner soliloquized, "Riding is a timeless exercise in freeing the human spirit. Who the hell needs a clock for that?"

The seat is wide and comfortable, which is fine for long-distance, but a little awkward for the back-and-forth slide of the dedicated knee-dragger. Seat height is a comfortable 30.1 inches, which fits perfectly for a rider between 5'6" and 5'11". For the long-legged, the forward crash bars are perfectly placed and configured to mount a set of after-market highway pegs. The rider position is almost upright with just a slight forward lean, and the knees at a relaxed angle of 100 degrees; very comfortable, especially for those long days.

On a machine known for it's unabashed individuality, it's most singular characteristic is the sound it makes, somewhat reminiscent of something owned by George Jetson, or a very large industrial fan. This was a key to the marketing of the bike. Honda figured that for the PC's targeted demographic (the urban professional), or the novice rider, noise is intimidating. This bike is beyond quiet. It's almost stealthy. Many PC owners have yarned about idling along close behind pedestrians ignorant of the bike's presence. Usually such a story ends with details of air horns and sudden bladder control problems. Underway, once you get past 60 mph, mostly what you hear is the wind. And its silky smoothness almost makes you forget that you're sitting astride a V-twin.

(By the way, if you're a member of the "Loud Pipes Save Lives" crowd, allow me to point out that accident statistics collected by the insurance industry and NHTSA show no correlation between the presence of loud pipes and lower "failure to yield" accident rates.)

Of course, there's the trunk. Even people who hate the bike love the trunk. Somewhere in the neighborhood of 40 to 50 liters, the space opens vertically, which means that you could lay a neatly folded suit coat in that space and have it arrive at your destination neat and unwrinkled. Because the seams are overlapped and parallel to the ground, the space is completely waterproof. And when you open it, your possessions won’t fall into the mud, as they are wont to do with side-opening bags. As a commuter, I can tell you what a great sense of freedom it is to be able to park the bike, stow your chaps, jacket, boots, and helmet in a locked space and walk away, rather than carting all that gear into work with you.

This cavernous space can carry up to five paper bags of groceries (2.5 bags per side), enough clothes for a three-week trip with no laundry days, and a host of other loads that would frustrate lesser machines. More than one PC owner has been accused of using their bike like a pickup truck. Many times I've been followed from checkout stand to parking lot by people who were frankly curious how I was going to pack all that stuff home. Should the Wesson Oil spring a leak on the ride home, removing a couple of rubber drain plugs in the bottom of the trunk makes cleanup a snap. Adding the Givi top box, either the 46-, 52-, or 55-liter, actually gives the bike as much or more capacity than its big brother, the opulent Gold Wing. The bike is so well-balanced that unless you insist on carrying barbells or bowling balls up there, you won't notice the extra mass.

The PC's beauty goes beyond skin-deep.

The engine, the slightly re-worked mill from the 750 Shadow, is an 800cc 64 bhp 45-degree V-twin with two spark plugs per cylinder. It is smooth, durable, and efficient, but hardly dramatic. It will go 120 mph with an almost eerie calm (um...or so I've heard), but you might want to take a good book along for the acceleration part of the ride. It has proven over time to be a virtually bulletproof power plant. In the long memory of the IPCRC, the only PC engines known to have gone bad were both victims of owners forgetting that last important step to an oil change: replacing the oil. Even so, they both managed to get over 30 miles down the road before the pistons seized, apparently so enraptured as to completely miss the blazing bright red oil light.

Like all Honda motors, it is quality through-and-through. It's not unusual to find owners who have racked up in excess of 150,000 miles without any major repairs. The current record is 300,000 miles, a PC done in by an inattentive mini-van driver.

And it’s perfectly happy sipping 87 octane at a rate of 40 to 50 miles per gallon, depending on speed and aggressiveness.

The engine is paired with a robust radiator cooling system that keeps things within limits even on the hottest days. The radiator fan, like a car's, works off a switch connected to the engine thermostat. It almost seems counter-intuitive that a clothed bike could keep the engine cool, but the sensuous skin hides a sophisticated and efficient cooling air path.

The 5-speed gearbox can be a bit clunky at times, but still does its thing with little fanfare. A virtually indestructible shaft drive completes the drive train ensemble.

The standard shoes were Dunlop K-177's (which became K-555's), but many owners have shifted to Metzelers, preferring the much longer tread life and greater load capacity of the Teutonic tires. The appeal of the Dunlop is that brand's slightly softer compound, which makes it (by narrow comparison) a better rain tire; albeit with a shorter tread life. This is important, since most PCers are dedicated all-weather riders. The drawback is that the Dunlop tread pattern meets in the middle of the tire, so when you ride over longitudinally grooved pavement, or an open-grate bridge, the bike has a nerve-wracking tendency to dance, as the tires try to follow the not-so-nuanced directions of the road surface. On the other hand, Metzeler's tread pattern overlaps the center, so grooves and grates are mostly ignored. However, when you lean hard into a twisty, the Metzeler's will moan at you. I never let the sound bother me, but others find it unnerving. There are PC's out there also wearing Michelin, Avon, Pirelli, and Cheng Shin. But there's no more passionate debate among owners than the one between respective fans of Dancing Dunlops and Moaning Metzelers.

The stock size for the rear tire is 140/80-15. But except for the '89, there's room enough to actually run a 90-series tire, if you so choose.

Easy rideablility is one of the best characteristics of the Pacific Coast. The bike has a very low center of gravity, (helped by the 4.2-gallon internally mounted fuel tank) which makes it a very friendly machine to operate, even at parking lot speeds. At around 620 pounds wet, it is a bit heavy, but nothing you feel once underway.

The full fairing and tall windshield provide a comfortable bubble for the rider. At high speeds, however, the bubble tends to collapse between the rider and the passenger, making the backseater feel buffeted, especially around the helmet. The occasional appearance of bugs coming at you from behind attests to the odd aerodynamics at work. For new riders, the PC is very friendly and forgiving, despite its apparent girth. For experienced veterans, the bike gives you reliability out the wazoo, which means far more time riding than fixing, perfectly filling the commuting bill.

This machine is equally at home eeling through rush-hour traffic, trekking along the Superslab with the trunk stuffed to the gills, or rippin’ through Killboy Corner at Deal’s Gap. The flexible nature of the PC’s design was also revolutionary. Back then, you had to choose between “go hard” motorcycles and “go far” motorcycles. The PC melded the two together quite nicely.

Photo by Darryl Cannon, Powerhead Productions

"This one shoulda made the highlights, Killboy!"

The real joy of owning a PC comes when you take this Starship into the twisties. It's relatively high underclearance and low center of gravity allows the rider to...not "flick" really...perhaps "fling" would be the better term. Once you get into the rhythm, you can't help but smile. It is oh, so stable, which gives the rider an absolutely intoxicating feeling of confidence.

On the straightaways, the PC is pure pleasure. The seating is comfortably upright, which allows the rider great 360-degree visibility without undue neck strain. On hot days, the body panels keep the engine heat from roasting your legs, a nice touch I discovered on a hot July afternoon in Phoenix, Arizona. And since the engine is so smooth at all speeds, you can easily rack up an 700-mile day and not feel like the bike spent the time pummeling your pelvic saddle.

Of course, no bike is completely perfect. Pacific Coast owners yearn for the 1100cc powerplant from the big Shadow. The tranny feels like it's a gear short, and the stator has very little excess capacity, so loading up aftermarket electronics requires the accurate computation of wattage. Over 100,000 miles, the top end of the engine will sometimes develop oil seepage. In a rare "why did they do this?" Honda used goop instead of gasket to seal the marriage between those two engine pieces. This seepage has absolutely no effect on the engine performance whatsoever, but it does leave embarrassing Harley-like oil spots on the garage floor. It's an easy fix, in and of itself, but the amount of disassembly and reassembly required is both time-consuming and expensive.

(Let me step in here and offer a reality check. On what other motorcycle have you ever gotten a maintenance advisory about a problem at 100,000 miles? How many other motorcycles would you expect to even still be on the road at 100,000 miles? Don't think too long; the list is very short.)

The gas tank needs to be bigger. PC riders complain that 180 miles is too short a distance to have to pull over and fuel up. The bike is that comfortable. In addition, the float in the gas tank has to be adjusted, since the default factory setting has the gage reading "E" when you actually have about half a tank left. A common complaint is an incipient odor of gasoline that tends to develop in most of these bikes. The culprit is the vacuum petcock, easily replaceable. The ’89 model is notorious for the trunk rubbing on the rear tire and a stator that can’t seem to last more than 30,000 miles. (Both issues were fixed for the 1990 model and beyond.)

The skin consists of a series of interconnected panels assembled in a sort of Rubik-like sequence attached by pin-and-boss and Allen screws. Over the years, some older models have begun to experience a few problems with the mounting systems, the plastic becoming somewhat brittle with age. When you introduce a PC to your wrench, it is important to make sure he or she knows the ins-and-outs of the off-and-on. This, of course, adds unwanted labor dollars to any repair bill. Some PC owners remove the panels themselves, and then ride the naked bike to the dealer.

Available to all owners is the legendary WOTL, or "Wisdom of the List," the accumulated hard-won knowledge acquired by IPCRC members. This includes some short-cuts and work-arounds regarding maintenance access to the bike's innards. For example, a wrench may tell you he has to remove the entire trunk to change the rear tire. Actually, just taking out the rear tail light bar gives just enough room. Other mechanics may state that up to seven panels have to be removed to replace the battery. The IPCRC has devised a method that requires the removal of only one panel. It pays to ask the experts.

Some of the most common owner additions and modifications include, radio/CD/CB (speaker cutouts flank the instrument cluster), voltmeter, auxiliary lighting, suspension upgrades, stiffer clutch springs, trunk liners, Givi top box, custom seating, air horns, and GPS. (For a comprehensive list, see the IPCRC website.) One owner grafted a larger 5.5-gallon fuel tank onto the bike, which required some design ingenuity. Another owner, a welder by trade who opted for a more authoritative exhaust note, adapted the 2-into-2 exhaust system from the Shadow.

Unfortunately, no one yet makes a performance-enhancing jet kit for the PC. But there was one guy who added a nitrous injection system. According to legend, he removed it after the first test, which launched him into a wild eye-bulging, sinus-clearing, butt-puckering wheelie from 70 miles per hour. Apparently, the decision to uninstall was heavily influenced by his wife, who was occupying the pillion seat at the time.

All the model years are almost identical, so parts are still very available. You can ID a PC's vintage by its paint job. '94 and '95 models were black over silver. '96 models were red over black. For '97 and '98, the bike lost it's front wheel shroud in favor of short fender, while retaining the same red over black paint.

1994/1995 PC800

1996 PC800

1997 PC800

1998 PC800

A good-condition Pacific Coast with low miles can be had for less than 5 large, which makes for a very reasonable investment. Purchasers be warned, however! Figures given in Kelly Blue Book and the ADA Guide are hopelessly out of date. Over the past two years, market values (what people have been actually willing to pay) have boomed. Final figures from Ebay auctions reflect the actual values of PC800's anywhere from $800 to $1,500 higher than the "price bibles" peg them. Since banks and credit unions rely on them to decide loan values, be prepared to contribute some of your personal jack to complete the purchase.

The good news, is that these values are accurate as to the quality and longevity of these bikes. With proper care, the Pacific Coast will last you well into the 6 figure range of your odometer.

The PC was unlike any other bike on the road. It's looks, versatility, performance, and easy upkeep simply had no contemporary match. There were bikes that were faster, larger, trail-rated, or more flickable; but none that did, and still do as many things as well as the Pacific Coast.

This machine gets attention from the white collar crowd, those who are individualistic enough to eschew a Milwaukee product or any of their dozens of clones, and mature enough to know their own limitations as far as speed and power are concerned. For them, a bike is more “tool” than “toy.” They know what a jewel of a bike this is.

And quite frankly they don't care what anyone else thinks.

The very definition of a rebel.

If you’re tempted to ask, “So What?” bear in mind that this is what Honda’s target demographic was when the bike was introduced 20 years ago. For these wise pragmatists, functionality rules; and the Pacific Coast is eminently functional.

This is what owning a PC is like:

A few years ago, I rode to a company picnic hosted by my wife’s employer. I rolled up to a parking area already full of chrome and iron. From a distance, I could see the sarcastic smiles already starting. I parked the bike, enduring the semi-drunken ribbing, which continued until I swung open the trunk lid to reveal both sides filled with ice, beer, and soda.

Reverent silence followed.

Functionality wins again.

A Day of Remembrance

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, May 13, 2008

If you were to ask a stranger, particularly a younger one, the question “What is Memorial Day?” its likely you receive the answer, “The official beginning of summer.” It’s a natural answer, borne out of the timing of the holiday, since it coincides with the end of the school year in most parts of the country. The real meaning of Memorial Day has been somewhat lost in the shuffle, a victim of cultural amnesia, or perhaps just neglect.

In 1868, General John Logan, commander of the Grand Army of the Republic, a fraternal organization of Union Civil War Veterans, proclaimed May 30th as the day “…designated for the purpose of strewing with flowers or otherwise decorating the graves of comrades who died in defense of their country during the late rebellion, and whose bodies now lie in almost every city, village, and hamlet church-yard in the land.” Initially, it was known as “Decoration Day.” The first state to officially recognize the commemoration was New York in 1873, and by 1890 it was so recognized by all of the former Union states. The south, not surprisingly, refused to acknowledge the day, keeping to their own schedule for honoring the Confederate war dead, a tradition that continues to this day.

However, after World War I, the meaning of the day was changed to honor Americans who died fighting in all wars. Memorial Day was made official in 1971 by congress, adjusting the day to the last Monday in May.

On Memorial Day, we remember the fallen. For far too many families, there was no joyous homecoming; only the memories of the loved and the lost. There are no possible words, no magic phrases that could possibly ease their pain. For the husband or wife looking at a wedding ring through a veil of tears; for the parents who stood in the doorway of a silent, empty bedroom; for the child who struggled to understand why Daddy or Mommy didn’t come home; for the friends, the co-workers, the neighbors who have felt that aching void in their lives; for all of them, we as a nation have shared their grief. For some 4,000 very special reasons, this Memorial Day should be cherished by all.

We all mourn their loss. However, we must also celebrate their lives. For in the too-short time they were here, they touched and honored us all. That is a gift worth celebrating. All over this country there are memorials of granite and marble to those who have given their lives for freedom. But I’ve always felt that the best memorial to those who went before is the sense of purpose in the lives of those who continue on. If we take the best of what they were and make it the best of what we can be, then a part of those who sacrificed will continue to live on through us. That memorial is not only important to us as individuals; it is absolutely vital to us as a nation.

To say that much of the original intent of Memorial Day has become neglected is to engage in understatement. Starting with Vietnam, war became solely a political issue instead of an act in defense of freedom or an element of national survival. And with that fundamental change, even the simple act of honoring those who, in the words of Abraham Lincoln, “…gave their lives so that this nation might live” became soiled with the stain of partisan politics.

While most of us will revel in recreational activities this weekend, others will go about the duty of remembrance, quietly and without fanfare or publicity. They do this not for themselves, but to honor those whose sacrifice has honored America. If you look hard enough, you will see the fruit of those selfless labors; the beauty of fresh flowers, and a small forest of American flags. It is a renewal of the solemn promise made to those who were lost:

We will never forget.

Go to the cemeteries and memorials; walk among the graves and read the names. And whisper these words from Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain:

"Heroism is latent in every human soul, however humble or unknown. In great deeds something abides. On great fields something stays. Spirits linger, to consecrate the ground. And reverent men and women from afar, and generations that know us not, shall come to this field to ponder and dream; and the power of the vision will pass into their souls."

The issues that divide the people of the United States have become wounds that are deep and continue to fester. Many despair that we have turned a corner in our history; that we may never again truly be one nation, indivisible. Only time will tell. But whatever views one has on war in general, and the Global War on Terror in particular, we should still take the time this weekend to honor those who served, and who paid the ultimate price in the service of freedom. For if we forget the reasons they served, and the price they paid, rest assured America will almost certainly pay that price again. To paraphrase W.J. Cameron, on this Memorial Day:

“Perform, then, this one act of commemoration before this Day passes:
Remember.”

The Future of Motorcycles

Motorcycles are one of my passions, I will readily admit, although at times, my wife has suggested the “O” word (obsession). I have written uncounted words about the emotions bikes have awakened in me, and while I am respectful of tradition, I am always looking for those designs that not only push the envelope, but change the paradigm altogether.

Engineers continue to push the limits with engine designs and suspension setups to enhance performance. But with gas prices continuing to climb, and environmental issues impacting transportation, the future will, by necessity, bring fundamental changes to the sport and the vehicles themselves.

New propulsion systems are being considered, but since many are still in their big-boned clunky stone-age era of development, their utility on a two-wheeled conveyance is still in the future. There are some prototype all-electric bikes, and hybrids can't be far behind. Ultimately, manufacturers will be forced to abandon oil altogether, which means the rise of the hydrogen fuel cell. A British firm has built such a bike, called the ENV, but it is small, short of range, and wouldn't work in the wide-open environment of American roads.


The ENV, from the Intelligent Energy website

Lately, there have been some intriguing developments that not only involve pushing development, but changing the basic machine as well.

Trikes (3-wheeled motorcycles) have been around for quite some time. Up until recently, they were modified versions of existing full-dress tourers, with two drive wheels in the back. The biggest complaint about those three-wheeled motorcycle conversions has been their restricted capability on curvy roads. Most of them have higher profiles, so they can be prone to tip-overs if forced into a steep enough twistie. I’ll try to explain this in as uncomplicated manner as I can.

Basically, a vehicle running through a curved portion of road has three forces acting on it. Centrifugal force is what you feel pushing you against the door in the direction away from the turn. Centripetal is the force applied by your wheels turning towards the curve. Angular momentum is that force that tries to keep your vehicle moving in a straight line. The reason that two-wheeled vehicles (motorcycles and bicycles) have to lean into curves is to alter the angle at which those forces act on the rider. It’s a real balancing act. Too much centrifugal, and your bike ends up falling off towards the outside of the curve (known as a “high-sider”), dumping you in the process. Too much centripetal, and the bike falls towards the inside of the curve (“low-sider”). Too much angular momentum, and the bike misses the curve altogether and ends up face-first into a rock wall, an oncoming vehicle, or at the bottom of a ravine. Leaning the bike correctly keeps the rider firmly planted on the seat and in control of the bike.

In recent years, independent designers have altered the paradigm with regards to motorcycles in general and three-wheelers in particular, by shifting the two parallel wheels to the front, opening the door to an entire class of exciting designs that hold great promise in the marketplace.

The Can-Am Spyder, manufactured by Bombardier, the maker of the legendary Ski-Doo, is the only 3-wheeler in mass production. It is a low-profile vehicle with the steering wheels in front and the drive wheel in the back. What this does for twisties is allow the rider to induce a little slide to the rear wheel, powering through turns much like a motard or dirt bike. While the frame doesn’t lean, the seat arrangement allows the rider to slide his body towards the inside of the turn, countering the centripetal force.


The Spyder from the Spyder Ryder website.

Another intriguing entry is the British-made Carver. Carver is an enclosed 3-wheeler with a traditional motorcycle engine. The arrangement here is the more traditional one of having two wheels in the back. The difference is the automatic gimbal system that allows the operator to lean the machine through turns like a traditional bike. The cockpit is small, however, which the gravity-challenged among us might find to be too tight of a fit. The Carver is not mass-produced, so it is, at this point, very expensive and sold only in Europe.


The Carver, from the Carver Company Website


A three-wheeler with great promise is a new one on the market called Aptera. This ride, like the Spyder, has the steerage in front and shares the same low profile. The difference is that the Aptera has an enclosed cockpit which seats two comfortably and comes equipped with creature comforts such as stereo, heat and a/c. One of the interesting features is the strip of solar panel in the roof. This innovation actually powers the environmental controls when the Aptera is parked. So if you return to your vehicle on a hot summer day or a cold winter night, the vehicle interior will already be at a comfortable temperature. The other neat thing about the Aptera is the powertrain. The initial version is all-electric and boasts a top speed of 100 mph and a range of 120 miles. The follow-on version, due sometime next year, will be a hybrid with a small gasoline engine augmenting the electrics. Understand that this version is still in the early stages, but the Aptera folks are claiming that this hybrid three-wheeler can achieve up to 300 miles per gallon of gas.

Whoa.

The Aptera is far from a gimmick. The passenger compartment has been carefully designed and actually exceeds existing Federal safety standards for collision and roll-over. The interior is wider than the Carver and looks large enough to accommodate the big boys.


The Aptera from the Aptera Company website

Aptera, with its swoopy composite bodies and the choice of recycled materials throughout, are hand-made and are pricey at about $30,000. However, other ATV manufacturers, watching the sales of the Spyder, might be willing to undertake the mass-production of the hybrid version, which would lower the sticker price by at least half. At 15 large and 200-300 mpg, you couldn’t keep them in the showroom long enough to smudge the floor. I don’t know if Aptera would be comfortable enough to go on a cross-country trip, but it would fill the bill for commuting and errand-running, provided you didn’t have to haul very much.


The biggest advantage to an enclosed three-wheeler is the ability to operate in less-than-optimum weather conditions. In parts of the country where the riding season is relatively short, these new vehicles would enable those owners to use them well beyond the time of year when motorcycles are usually retired to garage hibernation. And with the development of all-weather tires, you could even drive it through the winter.

Aptera and Carver lack the mass-production capability of Bombardier, but I have to think that someone at the Big 4 (Honda, Suzuki, Kawasaki, Yamaha) could see the immense advantage of at least manufacturing them under license.

Innovation usually arrives on its own, but with the paradigm of our lives shifting the way that it is, conditions seem to have driven a more aggressive forward-thinking view.

And who knows what tomorrow will bring?

Intel Geek

Chloe O'Brian. Frame capture from the Season 7 trailer of "24."

Working in the Intelligence profession is a challenge. We joined this happy community out of some well-placed motivations, such as patriotism, being an unknown soldier in a largely invisible war, or just having a Jack Ryan fixation. Or just enjoying the high pay and good benefits.

Yeah. Right.

An Intelligence Analyst, in most cases, works in an office, although we almost never call it that. In an attempt to sound cool and hip, we refer to it as “the shop.” “Yeah, I work the Intel Shop.” It sounds cool because it implies that (1) we have explainable skills, and (2) we can actually fix things. It makes us sound tool savvy as well, although I don’t ever remember asking any of my colleagues for a 3/8-inch hydraulic regression analyzer.

It is one of those rare jobs that you can’t brag about. Part of this has to do with constantly working with classified information, and the natural reticence resulting from being at war with an enemy that has a demonstrated predilection for sawing people’s heads off. The other reason has to do with practicality. For some reason, the public thinks that if we work intel, and have a high clearance, then we must be wired in to all the mysterious stuff that they’re convinced the government is hiding. In my earlier days, I actually got a kick out of telling people that I was an Intelligence Analyst. Then, I wised up. I wish I could tell you how many times I was asked about who killed Kennedy, or what was really going on up at Groom Lake. Now, older and wiser, when people ask me what I do, I simply say, “I work for the government.” For most, that’s total snooze material and the inquiries stop there. For the persistent ones, I explain, “I read reports, then write a report about the reports I read. Then, I pass my report to someone else, who writes a report about my report.” That works. By the time I get through the first sentence, they’re off looking for the Jell-O shots.

Most people don’t understand the necessarily narrow focus of our individual jobs. Asking a counter-drug analyst about cyber crime is kinda like asking a dermatologist about kidney disease. But still, the child-like faith the public displays is touching, nonetheless. The reality of being an Intelligence Analyst, for most of us, is nothing like the public perception. Primarily because of Hollywood, we’re slotted into two categories: Gun-toting adventurers, and research geeks.

In the late 80’s and through the 90’s, an erstwhile insurance salesman gave the world a hefty series of novels about the intel community, starring the inestimable Jack Ryan. Jack’s career path was, shall we say, strongly upwardly mobile. He started out in a cubicle at CIA, and ended up running the Free World from the Oval Office. (I’m betting he never had to sweat out a within-grade step increase, but I digress…) On the way, he faced down corrupt politicians, had shootouts with IRA gunmen (eventually being knighted), made a fortune in the stock market, became a history professor, helped a Russian navy crew defect with a brand-new boomer, stopped a potential war between the U.S. and U.S.S.R., ended another war with Japan, and fought a cartel army in the jungles of Colombia. That most of us will likely spend our careers at a desk in front of a computer, doing nothing more dangerous than the endless reboots of Microsoft products, doesn’t stop us from thinking, “Yeah…that could happen…”

The other model the public sees is the Research Geek. In a guy, this is the whip-thin introvert with the pencil neck and a protruding Adam’s apple. His voice, never seeming to have escaped puberty, is squeaky and annoying. He has no skills with people or sports, and is happiest in that small world that exists between keyboard and monitor. We find him annoying because he is always able, with just a few keystrokes, to pull up all kinds of interesting and obscure data which helps the hero to save the planet. (Oh, how we wish it were that easy…) As the culture has evolved, this role has been expanded to include women like the ubiquitous Chloe from “24,” the Swiss Army knife of intelligence research. While she is neither whip-thin, nor pencil-necked, she’s still…kinda...geeky. “24” even gave us a fat white guy (Edgar) as a sort-of puppy dog hero.

Of course, we all know that the real members of the analyst community are far more diverse. Collectively, we look like the normal swath of humanity. (Yes, folks: We Walk Among You. BWA-HA-HA-HA!!!) We are possessed of individual personality quirks, which I suspect are de rigueur in order to function in this arena. For example, I have a friendly colleague who regularly uses binary decision matrices in order to decide his family’s vacation destinations. There’s another one who likes to use HUMINT interrogation techniques on telemarketers. We need those quirks because of the way we have to view the world. That slightly off-center perspective gives us the ability to see things otherwise invisible to others.

I have friends who have spent their lives in construction, and they look the part, with rippling muscles, and rugged, tanned good looks. Doing hard, physical labor makes big muscles. It’s almost unfair that the “muscle” we use sits between our ears and stays the same size, no matter how many hours or days we’ve spent in complex analysis tasks. I suppose in a perfect world, those of us engaged in the pursuits of things cognitive would grow skulls that would resemble inverted pears, evidencing our superior intellects, although with such a presentation, it’s highly unlikely that we’d ever have the opportunity to reproduce.

Don’t get me wrong; what we do is important. In an increasingly complex world, someone has to be able to take it all in, think about it, and come up with a reasonably cogent explanation of where this all might be headed. In a sense, it is the complete opposite of a criminal investigator. A cop most times is concerned with the reconstruction of an event that has already happened; an intelligence analyst has to construct events that have not, or may not happen. When a cop succeeds, there’s a big, splashy trial, tons of media coverage, and a bad guy goes to jail. On the other hand, when an analyst predicts a possible outcome, and that outcome either occurs or is thwarted, no one finds out. The analyst ends up with nice, warm feeling, perhaps the appreciation of a few of his or her more prescient colleagues, and an obscure line in a personnel evaluation. But for most of us, that much is enough.

The public will never know the identity of the analysts who helped in thwarting the 19 major terror attacks attempted in the U.S. since 9/11. In fact, most of us in The Community will never know who those gifted individuals were. One of our collective strengths is our willingness to toil in obscurity and anonymity. There will never be a reality show called “American Intel Idol,” and we won’t see 80,000 screaming fans filing into a stadium to watch one of us construct a link chart or a relational database. We don’t pursue notoriety because we know that in this business fame can be fatal. That doesn’t, however, change the value of our impact. Sound, thoughtful analysis of information about enemies, both current and potential, is vital to national survival. Sun Tzu wrote,

“The means by which enlightened rulers and sagacious generals moved and conquered others…was advance knowledge. Advance knowledge cannot be gained from ghosts and spirits, inferred from phenomena, or projected from the measures of Heaven, but must be gained from men, for it is the knowledge of the enemy’s true situation. If you know (the enemy) and know yourself, your victory will not be imperiled. If you know Heaven and know Earth, your victory can be complete.” --The Art of War, Chapter 3: “Planning Offensives”

In a culture overcome by an obsession with fame, and filled with tireless self-promoters, we labor in the shadows. The only attention we get is when something goes wrong. The author of this legendary ditty certainly understood:

“They don’t let me drive the train,
Or even ring the bell;
But let this sucker jump the track,
And see who catches Hell.”

Hollywood will never do a movie about real Intelligence Analysts, unless it was to be used as a therapy device for insomniacs. Truth be told, very few people are cut out to do what we do. Despite the naïveté of the public, and the comical distortions of Hollywood, we remain proud. It’s a silent, almost invisible pride, borne out of the mission, and the certainty that without us, the whole train comes to a halt.

It is the quiet link that binds us together, and creates the essence of community.

The Johnstown Flood: An Open Letter to Hollywood

Photos from the Johnstown Heritage Society Collection

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, March 26, 2008

May 31, 1889 had been a long, dreary day. For several days, rain had been falling, at times incomprehensibly heavy. The streets of Johnstown, Pennsylvania were flooded, with up to 3 feet of water. In some homes, families grimly abandoned the first floor, carrying their belongings up the stairs to safety. Flooded streets were not all that unusual, especially in the spring. You moved what you could, waited for the water to recede, and then you cleaned up. But shortly after 4 p.m., the people of this sodden southwestern Pennsylvania town heard a roar from the north. A forty-foot high wall of debris, followed by 20 million tons of water thundered out of the mountains and exploded on the unsuspecting city. The wave spread across the valley and in a matter of 10 minutes, a city of 20,000 people ceased to exist.

The story of the Johnstown Flood has been told numerous times in print, most notably by historian David McCullough. Within those words are tales of tragedy and destruction that wound the heart, but there also are accounts of courage, heroism, and the character of a community that, to this day, doesn’t know the meaning of the word “quit.”

As you have shown over the years, a filmmaker is a storyteller. While the story of the Johnstown Flood has been told in print, it has never been portrayed on the screen. Part of the reason for this would have to be the lack of special effects technology to accurately represent the magnitude of the disaster. With the advance in CGI technology, that is no longer the limiting factor.

This is a tale aching to be told. The mounting drama of the long afternoon as the dam weakened; the terrible moment when the earth yielded and the water exploded into the narrow gorge; the heroic efforts of those who did everything possible to alert people in the path of the deluge; the terror of those caught in the flood waters; the uncomprehending horror of those whose lives were spared by happenstance, only to watch helplessly the deaths of their families and neighbors. There were the heroic efforts to organize by the surviving townsfolk, attempting rescue after rescue through that long, dark first night in a cold plain of mud, debris, and death, completely cut off from the outside world.

People died in the narrow valleys as the water and debris cascaded down from the mountaintop. People died as town after town was swept clear. People died in the city, crushed by debris, and drowned in the swirling waters. And when a mountain of debris piled up against a stone railroad bridge caught fire, people trapped in the rubble burned to death, their terrified screams echoing through the darkness across a cold sea of mud.

1,600 homes and 4 square miles of Johnstown were destroyed. 2,209 people died, including 99 entire families and almost 400 children. Remains of victims were recovered downstream as far away as Cincinnati, Ohio as late as 22 years later. But some researchers think the toll was much higher. Johnstown was a city of immigrants, those who fled the squalor of Europe hoping for a better life in the steel mills and coal mines. Some of them were never entered on anyone’s list of residents. They came, lived almost invisibly, and vanished, leaving no one to mourn or even note their passing.

The Johnstown Flood is not just about water, debris, and destruction. It’s a human story, a story about people who were confronted by the worst kind of terror, and yet still tried to reach out to others, even when those acts sealed their own fate. It’s about the collective character of a community, who in the complete absence of outside help, pulled together instead of apart, setting aside their private grief long enough to reach out to each other in unity.

In a time when the passions of politics threaten to destroy us as a nation, this is a story of unity that needs to be told. Please come to Johnstown and walk the streets; talk to us, and in your conversations you’ll find not only warmth and welcome, but also toughness and resolution, the still-strong echoes of those who stood united on that terrible, terrible day.

And in that experience, the story teller will find an epic tale to weave.

When God Goes Out of Business

The iconic twin spires of St. Stephen's

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, March 15, 2008

Note: Recently the Catholic Arch Diocese of Johnstown, PA announced the imminent closure of four parishes in the historic Cambria City section of Johnstown. This was written in response to the announcement.

The Allegheny region is not an area prone to earthquakes, but the recent announcement of the Arch Diocese certainly carried the same impact. Four churches in Johnstown’s most iconic neighborhood, Cambria City, are due to be closed. Although in close proximity, the churches served their parishes for over 100 years, each one a reflection of Cambria City’s rich ethnic past. According to the “Explore PA History” website, as people streamed into the area from Europe to work in the coal mines and steel mills, parishes were established representing a variety of ethnic groups. Among them was the Irish (St. Columba’s), Hungarians (St. Emerich’s), Polish (St. Casimir’s), Slovakian (St. Stephen’s), Croatian (St. Rochus’), and German (Immaculate Conception). Each parish provided the anchor for immigrants making a home in a strange, new land; and giving a sense of community to what would become known as the Ellis Island of Johnstown.

But, times change. Johnstown, and America, has become more diverse, and ethnic enclaves don’t exist in the way they did a century ago. Since those enclaves were the element that gave those parishes life, the churches have, for several years now, been dying a slow death.

When I see a failed business, I feel a bit saddened. For me, a business represents someone’s dream and when that dream fails, I can’t help but feel empathy towards the person who rolled the dice and took that entrepreneurial chance. Businesses go under for a variety of reasons. Misreading the market, saturation of that good or service in a particular area, price structure, competition, or just plain poor management. Seeing a church close its doors is also disquieting, for altogether different reasons.

In recent years, many people have grown away from God. For some, there is the desire to free themselves from standards of behavior and judgment imposed from outside, preferring the independence of their own helm and rudder. They have found a measure of comfort in a sense of cynicism towards organized religion in general and God in particular. For them, the simplified justification that “if there was a God, there wouldn’t be any suffering in the world” gives them a sort of moral liberation from the perceived behavioral and ethical shackles and chains represented by, for example, the Ten Commandments.

Others may still believe in God, but feel strongly that organized religion has done more to get in the way of worship, rather than enhance it. News reports of ministers skimming cash, clergy involved in immoral activities with children, and cults enhance that impression.

And then there are those who are simply too lazy to get out of bed on Sunday morning.

Whatever the reasons, as people have stopped coming, congregations and parishes have waned dormant and empty, eventually closing their doors. Four large churches in a 10-by-3-block area might seem, from a business perspective, to be an example of market saturation. If Sheetz were to open three additional stations in the same area, it’s not likely they’d survive long, although I would venture to guess that more people cycle through a Sheetz on a typical morning than regularly attend many of the churches in Johnstown. But, the spiritual needs of humans are many and continuous, and certainly can’t be quenched by a mocha latte. A church is a sanctuary, a place where people may seek shelter from the storms of life, and strength from others who also suffer. In that sense, it is a market that can never be saturated.

Over the years, as I have talked with those who have left religion their personal rear view mirror, I have discovered a common misconception. A belief in God, or committed discipleship, will not keep bad things from happening. What it will do is to provide the support and strength to get through the bad times. Also, if we pay attention, there are inherent life lessons we can learn that will guide us in making choices which would help keep us out of trouble to begin with.

But, regardless of the heritage represented by these churches, there is the necessary, and at times, distasteful, business side of things. Utilities still must be paid, supplies must be purchased, maintenance of the buildings must still go on, and that requires money. For the arch diocese, this is necessarily a business decision. For those whose personal and family history is bound up in those buildings, my heart aches. I sincerely hope that those who will come to participate in the new consolidated parish will rediscover that sense of community, embracing each other in mutual hope. And that that hope would spread beyond the walls and doors to the homes that line the streets, and the families within; to restore the vibrancy which will bring the life back to Cambria City.

Choosing Not to Play

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, February 14, 2008

“I love mankind! Its people I can’t stand!” This line from one of the many philosophical discussions from the “Peanuts” comic strip illustrates a common burden felt by just about all of us. It doesn’t really matter what we do with our day, whether spent at a job, at home, or school. At some point, we will encounter another human whose sole purpose in life seems to be spreading frustration and infuriation wherever they go. They might be a boss or co-worker, a teacher or fellow student, a stranger on the street, or that disembodied voice emanating from the fourth dimensional hell known universally as “customer service.” Whoever they are, whatever they do, or whatever they say leaves us shaking and red-faced, reduced to a state of primal rage more common to Neanderthal than human.

I became convinced that these are the people who just enjoy being difficult. They have a sadistic streak in them that creates a dark sort of joy when they’ve reduced one of us to a puddle of twitching protoplasm. Their evil is magnified by our apparent willingness to participate. They are perpetually unhappy, and will do everything they can to make sure everyone else is as unhappy as they are. They love to pick a fight and will raise the roof over the most insignificant of issues just so they can eventually walk away from the argument they created with the comfortable feeling that they are no longer alone in their self-imposed misery.

When we give in to people like this, we empower them. When we allow their misery to become our misery, we give them control. We become emotional slaves.

A few years ago, after one particularly trying day, I arrived home in state of frustration. Of course, I did the human thing and vented my feelings on the members of my family. Yeah, it was stupid. At one point, my wife asked me what my problem was. I summed up the last of what had been a string of bad incidents. She heard me out, then asked pointedly, “So, why are you blaming us? We weren’t even there.” As she has done so many times, she lit the lamp of truth and in that light, I saw what had happened. Of course, I apologized to everyone.

The legendary motivational speaker Zig Ziglar once related a story about a boss. As Jar-Jar Binks would say, “It’s a long-o tell-o” and I won’t reproduce the whole thing here. Essentially, the boss, covering up a mistake of his, unloaded the anger on his manager, who then passed that grief onto his secretary, who in turn dumped the whole thing on the receptionist. The receptionist went home and yelled at her son, who in his anger kicked the family cat. Zig then asked the question, “Wouldn’t it have been much easier on everyone if the boss had simply gone to the receptionist’s house and kicked that cat?”

Anger and frustration will spread as long as we choose to participate in it. This is one infectious disease that has an easy cure.

I made a fundamental decision. I was no longer going to allow others to control my mood or my outlook. If making me angry and frustrated gave them power and control, then the best way to fight back was simply to not grant that control. The key, I discovered, is learning how to step back emotionally; unplug myself from the heat and taking on the role of a dispassionate observer. Not only does this frustrate the power gamer, but it also keeps my mind clear and my thought processes rational. Once the gamer sees that they have no control, they usually back off. The few that don’t, earn my genteel response, “Tell you what. I’ll come back later when you’re back on your meds.” And then I walk away.

If it’s my mistake, of course I own up to it. But if the whole encounter is just an exercise in spreading misery, I choose to not participate. I’ve applied this approach in my job, on the street, and in my car. The results have been amazing. I’m not nearly as stressed as I was before. I discovered a sense of freedom, the result of liberating myself from the tyranny of someone else’s bad mood.

We can’t stop people from getting angry. But we can keep them from controlling us. It is, after all, their game; and we don’t have to play if we don’t want to.

Standing On the Edge: A Near Death Experience

Through the latter part of April of 2003, I had to admit to myself that I wasn’t feeling well. I was tired all the time and was experiencing some twinges of pain in my chest. Like so many others, I lived in a bubble of self-denial. I kept silent, even from my wife, Cheryl. The chest pains became even more acute, to the point where it was difficult to walk any distance at all.

I was working at Caterpillar, doing a job that regularly involved mixing chemicals. Two days after one such mix, I was struck by a really intense bout of pain, which essentially immobilized me. I finally had to acknowledge that something was very wrong. I was driven to Boone Hospital in Columbia, about 30 miles away.

At the Hospital, they did some tests, which turned up negative for chemical exposure. They gave me some steroids and sent me home. The next day, on my way to the company occupational health doctor, the short walk into his office from the parking lot left me collapsed in the waiting area, gasping that my lungs were on fire. I was taken back to the ER. This time, they contacted my regular Doctor, who ordered a CAT scan. The results revealed the presence of six blood clots in my left lung. I was immediately admitted.

After six very long days in the hospital, the medication broke up the clots and I was released We came home on a picture perfect spring afternoon. I remember sitting in a lawn chair in the back yard, while Cheryl puttered around caring for her flowers. The sky was blue, the sun was warm, the breeze soft and fragrant. I sat in the sun-dappled shadows of familiar trees feeling very lucky and thankful to be alive.

Over the next three weeks, however, the chest pain got worse. I suggested to the doctor that perhaps the pleura, the lining of the lung had become inflamed, but he wasn’t buying it. Growing more concerned, he scheduled me for a cardiac stress test.

I remember going into the lab and telling myself that the test results would be negative and everything would be all right. I had to take the test sitting down, because it was too painful to walk. Big mistake. That drug they give you to simulate the right kind of heart activity was absolutely the scariest thing that’s ever been put in my body. I felt like somebody had opened me up and poured in 10,000 fire ants. My entire body thrummed with a fight-or-flight urgency that flooded me with a mindless panic. My brain refused to function and all I wanted to do was jump out of the chair and run as far and as fast as I could. The test only lasted four minutes. It felt like four days.

I got the call about three days later. The cardiologist told me that the test had revealed two blocked arteries, and that I would require a heart catheterization. This sent chills of fear down my spine and for the several days, I peppered my poor wife with hundreds of anxious questions, most of which started with the words, “What if….”

I need to explain something here. I am absolutely the biggest wimp when it comes to pain. I was in fact less afraid of having a serious heart problem than I was of experiencing pain during the procedure. I requested a drug called Versed, which takes away memories of whatever you’re going through. As a result, the memory of the actual procedure is a jumble of disconnected images and sensations. I do remember the Doctor telling me about the two arteries that were almost completely blocked. He went in to inject the dye, but the artery was so badly clogged that the entrance of the dye into the blocked area caused my heart to go into an arrhythmia. I remember seeing the heart monitor begin to show a lot of zigzags. I called out that I was feeling light-headed, and then I faded out.

The Doctor had to shock me twice to get my heartbeat back into its proper rhythm. After taking a minute or so to get things calmed back down, he called Cheryl down to the Cath Lab. He told her what had happened and gave her the option of either taking me directly to surgery for a full-blown bypass operation or allowing him to go back and try to place the stents again. He told her that the risk of the latter choice was that if my heart stopped again, there was a chance that he wouldn’t be able to bring me back.

Cheryl already knew, having spent 25 years working in surgery, that cardiac bypasses have to be re-done about every ten years or so. I was only 48, so she was reluctant to take that drastic course of action. She chose the stents and, as she told me later, prayed as she had never prayed before that she had not made the wrong decision. Apparently, the Lord was listening. When the Doctor went back in, he was able to successfully place both stents.

Now this would have been a remarkable story in and of itself, but it was in that never-never land between this life and the next where the real miracle occurred.

We have all heard stories from people who have returned from the brink of death. The common thread of these testimonies involves descriptions of tunnels and white lights. Some say these visions are the result of the frantic activity of a brain desperately trying to stay alive. But others have come to believe that these visions are actually glimpses of that existence we have come to call “Heaven.” For me, it was an astounding and life-changing experience.

Once the sights of the Cath Lab had faded from view, I found myself standing on a balcony in a large, high-domed very ornate-looking room. It had the look of a set from Lord of the Rings. As far as I could tell, I was alone, for I couldn’t see anyone else around. Down on the floor I saw a tunnel leading in from the wall, ending about halfway across the room. Emanating from the entrance to the tunnel was the glow of a beautiful white light. An instant later, I was on the floor standing at the entrance to the tunnel. Standing there, bathed in that white light I experienced an epiphany. I realized that what I was seeing wasn’t a light at all. It was instead the physical manifestation of the love of God, a love so pure and so powerful that it was actually visible.

A few years ago, I was at the wedding of a couple of friends from college. I remember that particular moment when the congregation rose and the bride began coming up the aisle. I looked at the groom and saw that his eyes had filled with tears at the sight of his lovely bride. The remarkable thing, and why I bring this experience up, was that the love that flowed up and down that aisle between those two was not merely an emotion; it was an actual physical presence, as if you could reach out and touch it. Standing at the entrance to that tunnel, I felt and saw the love of God as a physical presence, shining on me, enveloping me, inundating me. At that moment, I felt a sense of peace, tranquility, and joy beyond anything I thought possible to experience. It was a supreme moment of spiritual affirmation.

Central to the structure of my faith is the belief concerning eternal life. I have long believed that for a disciple of Jesus Christ, death does not exist; it has no power. Our mortal remains will cease to function at some point. However, that essence of life which is truly us, our soul, lives on forever. In that moment, I knew God had shown me that what I had come to believe was the truth.

I also believe that I was shown that this was the nature of Heaven. The insight that I was granted enabled me to realize that Heaven is not a place, per se, but a state of being where we are surrounded, penetrated, and inundated with the power and purity of God’s love.

I also realized that Hell was the antithesis of this. The scriptures define Hell in many ways, but most compellingly as a separation from God. I knew in that moment that separation from the light of His love leaves one in the darkness of isolation and separation, a state of lonely desolation beyond any possible comprehension.

Another sense manifested itself. I can relate it to the experience of having an appointment on Thursday afternoon, but showing up on Tuesday morning. I heard no voices that I could identify, but the feeling was strong that I was there too early. The common accounts of near-death experiences at that point indicate that people are given a choice of whether to go on into the light or go back. I was given no such choice. I knew that I had to go back, that my task whatever it was, remained unfinished.

An instant later, I opened my eyes to a room that had undergone a marked change in atmosphere. The crew, who had been laughing, happy, and jovial at the start of things, was laughing, happy, and jovial no longer. There was a tension in the air that puzzled me. Still under the effects of the Versed, it took awhile before my brain began to process the earthly reality. Later, after the events were explained, and I had a little time to process elements of my own experience, I began to understand.

I knew in my heart that I had been shown a great truth. But, despite that experience, I found that in the days that followed, I still had some things to discover.

When we stand in front of a minister or Justice of the Peace with the person we have chosen to share our lives with, we repeat the vows of marriage to each other. Throughout our lives together, Cheryl and I have certainly had good times and bad; we’ve had times when we were richer and poorer, and had sickness and health. But it was in that moment of seeing her smile and the light in her eyes as I was wheeled out of the elevator and in her tremendous efforts over the next few months that I really discovered what a wonderful, precious thing a marriage is. I can’t imagine having to go through a sequence of events like that alone. She has been an absolute rock.

I’m not an easy person to live with, even in the best of times. But despite the extra work entailed in taking care of me, and the extra work she had to put in at the hospital to make up for the loss of 40% of my income while on disability, she shouldered these extra burdens with stoicism, never allowing me to see how over-extended she was during this time. In my moments of self-pity, I would ask her why she did all this, why she would wear herself out over me. She would turn, gently smile, and whack me over the head and say, “Because you’re my husband, you numbskull.”

This experience has made our marriage much richer, our love infinitely deeper and sustaining. We now know how unpredictable life can be and consequently we make a much stronger effort to treasure and cherish the times we now have together.

In the weeks after these events, I encountered some things that really set me to thinking. A friend at work lost an uncle to a blood clot in the lung. Another friend lost his mother to a heart attack. I was depressed about these events because of the sorrow they caused in the lives of the families involved. But, I began to ask questions. The uncle had only one embolus. I had six. The mother had only one blocked artery. I had two. By any reasonable calculation, I should have died twice within a month. I had a hard time understanding why others could fall victim to things I had survived. My question to God was, “Why me? Why am I so special? Why did I deserve to go with this life when others could not?” I was also very worried. If I had been spared for something, it had to be something pretty big and probably very difficult. The source of my insecurity lay in this question: When that moment presented itself, would I be able to deliver? Or would God have wasted a perfectly good miracle on someone who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, get the job done?

Many of us fear the idea of death, mainly because we’re a little afraid to trust our faith. Before this event, I had gradually begun to lose my fear of death because of what I had come to believe about the promise of eternal life. That day on the Cath Lab table finally closed the door on the last of that fear.

In losing my fear of death, I discovered I had also lost my fear of life.

The biggest fear about life that humans have, after all, is the fear of losing it. But once I had given myself completely to the belief in God’s gift of eternal life, I found that all those things I had been reluctant to do, all those activities I had been afraid to try, and all those choices I had avoided for all those years suddenly became doable. And that is really the secret, I think, to our time here.

We all have a work to do in this lifetime. Some of us know already what that work is, some of us don’t yet know. But when that moment of knowledge is upon us, we must not give in to the fear of life. And if we act upon our faith in the gift of eternal life, death will never hold the power of fear over us. Since death is the root of fear, fear is thus conquered as well. This was the supreme gift of knowledge I received.

For in that moment when I stood on the precipice of transition from this life to the next, I felt many things, but the one thing I NEVER felt was fear.

A Blessing for a Cherokee Wedding

The flag of the Cherokee Nation from Cherokee.org

Now you will feel no rain
For each of you will be shelter to the other

Now you will feel no cold
For each of you will be warmth to the other

Now there is no loneliness for you
For each of you will be a companion to the other.

You are two persons
But there is only one life before you

Enter now into the day of your togetherness
And may your days be good and long together.

This Family Named "Couey"

A few years ago, I began to take some interest in my family’s history. It began as idle curiosity, keyed by an argument between my sister and I as to whether we were French or Irish. She preferred France, I preferred Ireland. This idle interest eventually became a fascination. I think it’s perhaps a symptom of upper middle age, since this was about the same time my father began to do research. I guess the fascination lies in discovery, finding mentions of the family name in the oddest places, and reading about individuals interacting with some of the larger events of history.

Another reason lies with the wondrous appearance of grandchildren. While they are very young still, I have come to recognized the responsibility I have to pass along to them some information about their past. For me, discovering the past has help to provide context to my present, and meaning to some of the urges that have driven me through the years.

I realize that there’s nothing more boring than someone else’s family history, but I’ve noticed lately that this blog is getting hits from France and Ireland, where my family has a strong history. So in the interests of providing some information to them…

The earliest mention of my family was out of an obscure French history text written in the early 19th century. The brief item described someone named “de Couey” in what would become the Normandy area of France around 946 A.D. (or C.E., if you prefer). The clan apparently rose to prominence because there are other mentions of various “de Couey’s” and “de Coucy’s” as Knights who led military actions in the 11th and 12th centuries. One of them, a youngster named Raoul de Couey, who also was known as “Chatelain” (perhaps a title of some kind), was a troubadour who also volunteered to fight with Richard the Lion Heart in the Third Crusade. He met a violent end in 1190 at the hands of Saracens during the Siege of Acre (what is now the port of Haifa, Israel). One of those interesting snippets of history comes from, of all places, a book entitled, “What We Hear in Music” A course of study in Music History, by Vic