"Back in the Saddle Again..." Getting the Motorcycle (and the Rider) Ready*

YEEEEEEEEE HAWWWWWWW!!!!!!

(Deals Gap Photo by Darryl Cannon, Powerhead Productions)

*Johnstown, PA Tribune-Democrat, March 24, 2010

as "Yee Haw, It's Springtime and a Man's Fancy Turns to Motorcycles"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

Ahhh! Sunshine, warm days, soft breezes, clear roads…all welcome signs that winter is finally behind us and another motorcycle riding season beckons.

Most of us have watched our bikes sit idle in the garage since October or November. It’s likely that the engine hasn’t been started but once or twice, if at all, during that time frame. Before you give in to Spring’s seductive caress, there are some things that you should do first.

Clean it up good. Not only will it look better, but getting the winter’s accumulation of dust and…whatever…off the machine will make it far easier to spot any problems.

Charge the battery. And if your battery is more than three years old, replace it. While original batteries may last five or six years, most mechanics recommend replacing aftermarket units after three years, regardless of how good they may seem to be. Unlike a car, battery failure will kill an engine, even in mid-ride. This has happened to me twice (yeah, I’m a slow learner), both times far from civilization.

Change the fluids. Oil changes are no brainers, but don’t forget the other fluids, such as brake, clutch, any other hydraulic fluid, as well as radiator and final drive, if applicable. Most bike manufacturers recommend this be done every two years or 20,000 miles. If you decide to do this yourself, make sure you bleed the air completely out of those systems, especially the brakes. Air in the lines will keep your brakes from operating. Not a good thing to happen when you’re approaching a stop sign.

If your bike is chain-driven, check the chain for condition, lubrication (if required), and proper tension.

My Favorite Songs (Some of them, anyway)

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

I was asked the other day what my favorite songs were. That took some thought. A tour of my iPod reveals a cornucopia of styles and genres, from classical to country and just about everything in between. So to try to narrow down some 800 songs to a few proved to be a challenging effort. Nevertheless, I persisted and came up with these, in no particular order.

Mahler’s “Resurrection” (the last 8 minutes).

This massive piece, written for orchestra and choir, is long (the 5th movement alone is 37 minutes long) but dramatic. Mahler’s pieces require augmented orchestras and choirs, but in this case it’s definitely not overkill. In the final movement, the conversation between the orchestra, the soloists, and the choir build to a climax that will put goosebumps on a person. It is a heroic affirmation of the Christian principle of eternal life, given voice by these words:

“What was created
Must perish,
What perished, rise again!

Cease from trembling!
Prepare yourself to live!

O Pain, You piercer of all things,
From you, I have been wrested!
O Death, You masterer of all things,
Now, are you conquered!

With wings which I have won for myself,
In love’s fierce striving,
I shall soar upwards
To the light which no eye has penetrated!


Its wing that I won is expanded,
and I fly up.
Die shall I in order to live.


Rise again, yes, rise again,
Will you, my heart, in an instant!
That for which you suffered,”

And with a tear-producing emotion, the choir cries triumphantly:

My Father's Hat*

*Johnstown, PA Tribune-Democrat

June 20, 2010
as "Tip Your Hat to Dad On His Special Day"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

The relationship between fathers and sons is a complicated one. For most of us, our Dad was a towering figure; the source of unquestioned wisdom and authority. We loved him, and yet feared him, or rather, feared that we would be measured and found lacking in his eyes. The good ones taught us how to be men, stressing the importance of integrity, honesty, fidelity, and inner strength. We learned from them how to treat our wives, with respect and dignity.

They made it look easy, but it wasn’t until we became fathers ourselves that we discovered how hard it was to be “Dad.”

My father died in the spring of 2004 from a host of ailments. He was a man of immense dignity and intelligence; a minister who had taken the Word to remote jungles in Africa, the hinterlands of a dozen Asian countries, and across the Iron Curtain during a time when people of faith were being imprisoned and even executed. And this after serving in the Navy on U-boat patrol in the North Atlantic. He lived a full life, touching the lives of thousands. My sister and I still feel his loss deeply, but at the same time we recognized his passing as a healing. He was in Heaven, released from his pain, and reunited with my mother and step-mother, both of whom had died of cancer.

In the days following the funeral, it was our sad duty to collect his belongings. One afternoon, as I was going through his clothes, I found his hat. Dad wasn’t much of a hat man after the popular Fedora of the ‘50s and ‘60s faded from fashion, but in his final years, he had often worn this one. And as I gently ran my hands across the surface, I knew I had to keep it.

What I Did Next Summer

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

Outside my window, the snow is still flying thick and heavy, born by powerful winds.  There's a fire in the fireplace, and the room is filled by the ticking of the mantle clock.  Yet, my thoughts are not on the storm outside.  A road atlas lies opened in my lap, my eyes carefully following the colorful lines as they meander across the land.  I am confident that this winter will end, and spring will arrive, with warm sunshine, soft breezes, and the call of the open road.

My health has not been good this winter, but I am feeling better.  But it has been a reminder that time is passing, and the years are piling up.  I sense that there may not be many more motorcycle seasons remaining.

So, here I sit, perusing the maps and planning my trips for the summer.

In years past, such sojourns have involved pretty long distances, at least 4 to 5 thousand miles.  But this year, I'm thinking  a few shorter trips instead.

Random Thoughts, the Sequel

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

More random thoughts from inside a blizzard...

One of the frustrating things about this winter is that it doesn't seem to be ending.  By this time of the year, I would've expected more 40-degree days, perhaps even a brief surge into the 50s.  But instead, we remain in the 20s and for the third time this month a blizzard is raging outside my windows.  I'm glad now that I put my motorcycle in storage.  If I had to look at it everytime I went to the garage, I think I'd truly be insane by now.

Despite the weather, the folks around here are bearing up quite nicely.  There are a few grumps here and there, but mostly people remain upbeat.  We all have a deep and abiding faith that spring will come.  Some day.

The day before yesterday, the skies cleared and the winds died down.  That day, I wore street shoes into work instead of snow boots.  I have to admit that it was kind of a nice thing to feel fresh air on my ankles again.  Sort of liberating, in a black sock kind of way.

I'm in my third week of cardiac rehab.  Every day, I'm told to slow down and take it easy, but I'm feeling very impatient with the pace of things.  Which is strange, because on those days that I've really pushed it, I end up with some very uncomfortable consequences, like palpitations and some chest pain.  I'm old enough to know better, but there seems to be within me a sense that time has become a thing of essence, that I can't afford to slow down and pace myself.  I  have no idea where this feeling comes from.  And I have to admit to some disquiet as to it's possible source.

Last night, Tweeter jumped up on the couch and laid down, with his head resting on my leg.  I was almost overcome by a feeling of peace and contentment through his simple act of pure companionship.

Next Blog...And The Next...And The Next...

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

A Blog is a wonderful thing.  I think it may go down as one of the most impactful inventions of the information age.  This is, after all, where we  bloggers regularly expose our innermost thoughts and whims, our joys and sorrows; where we "talk" about the things that ignite our passions.  Even when immersed in crafting my next post, I found myself wondering what other people were doing with their pages.  Lately, I've been making use of the "Next Blog" link that appears at the very top of my page, a neat little squib provided us by the good folks at Blogger. 

I've written quite a bit about the journey of life that I find myself on.  I find that I deal with life's upsets a little better if I imagine these things to be mere mile posts along the road I travel.  And like any trip up or down the Pennsylvania Turnpike, if I can put these posts in my rear view mirror, I can keep everything in perspective.  Once a thing is done, it is done.  Nothing can change what happened; you have only the future with which to craft and shape your path.

So, on several occasions, I've gone to that link and taken another kind of journey.  However, this is not a journey about me, but rather about the people and families I meet as I skip through all these blogs.

Courageous Canines and Fearful Felines*

Morley's Dog

*Somerset, PA Daily American, May 8, 2010

as "Dogs: The Noble Species"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

In the middle of a mini-park along Market Street in Johnstown, Pennsylvania is the memorial to Morley's Dog.  This bronzed life-sized statue of a French Bloodhound has been the source of a host of tales, from the heroic to the mundane.  In the movie "Slap Shot" the dog was credited with having saved his master, or several people during the Great Flood of 1889.  The urban legends that surround this iconic statue have seemed to multiply over the years, but the current definitive "truth" is that the dog was never real to begin with. 

It seems that a Johnstown resident named James Morley, a Bethlehem Steel executive, purchased the original statue and had it placed in his yard.  During the flood, the statue was washed from it's resting place, ending up in the massive pile of debris at the stone railroad bridge, where it was retrieved and put back.  The hero legend gets confused with a true hero dog, a Newfoundland named Romey.  During the flood, the Kress family was trying to climb to the roof of their home to escape the roiling waters.  Mrs. Kress and one of their children, along with one of their servants, were all swept from the roof.  Romey dived into the water and saved all three of them.

This is a common story.  Over the centuries, there have been hundreds, perhaps thousands of stories of dogs risking and even losing their lives in defense of their owners.  I found a website, http://www.dogguide.net/25-hero-dogs.php that contains the stories of 25 such hero dogs.  I won't steal the site's thunder by copying those stories here.  You have the link, I encourage you to follow it.

Dogs have always seemed to have a streak of nobility.  Even in fiction, dogs are regularly portrayed heroically.  Argos, the faithful companion of Odysseus, Jack London's Buck from "Call of the Wild," Laura Ingalls Wilder's protective Bulldog, Jack, and of course, the legendary Lassie and Rin-Tin-Tin. 

In our house, we are "protected" by a scrappy little terrier of uncertain parentage whom we call Tweeter.  He is enormously affectionate and (to use that overexposed descripter) disarmingly cute.  He is usually friendly and regularly charms the socks off of everyone he meets.

But even in his abundant good nature, he seems to be convinced that he is the first line of defense of our household.  We live on an alley, and people who walk or drive by are notified by his ferocious and persistant bark that he is on duty.  The mail carrier has given him his own name:  The Carnivore.  I don't know what the source of the enmity is that dogs seem to have for these harmless blue-suited public servants, but Tweeter goes absolutely bazonkers when he hears the mail slot open by the front door.

Top Ten Ways to Know You've Had It With Winter*

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, February 21, 2010

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

Top Ten ways to know you’re done with winter.

10. You had to Google “Sunlight.”

9. In your nightmares, you’re being chased by evil snow plows.

8. Your wife caught you sitting on your motorcycle and saying “Vroom! Vrooom!”

7. You’ve given up getting mad at the borough plows for blocking the driveway.

6. You’ve developed a latent hostility towards Florida and California.

5. 30 degrees feels warm.

4. You think snowflakes are actually space invaders.

3. You dug through 58 inches of snow to remind yourself what grass looks like.

2. You went out to the garage and fired up the lawn mower “just for old time’s sake.”

And the number one way you know you're done with winter...

Your new name for the WJAC-TV Severe Weather Team is...

(Drum Roll)

The Three Horsemen of the Snowpocalypse.

The Great Wall of White

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

As I look out the window, I see that the hillside a quarter-mile away has once again gone opaque. 

Snow.  Again.

The Laurel Highlands normally gets a lot of snow, anywhere from 60 to 120 inches per winter season.  But this year has been something special.  After a fairly normal fall (first snow fell from the sky around mid-October), late January and February have become a monster.  We've had three major snowstorms which have left a total of 58 inches in my front yard, and if the forecast holds, we'll pick up another 12 inches over the next two days.  The long-range trends into mid-to-late March don't look pretty.  In fact, as the ice melts on the Great Lakes, we'll probably see quite a bit more before it finally ends.

(For a quick look, go to http://galerie-de-couey.blogspot.com/)

I like snow (or at least I used to), but even I have to admit to the massive inconveniences we face this year.  The plows have been very efficient, but there's no place left to put what they plow.  Dump truck drivers have enjoyed a bit of a bonanza as they have been pressed into service hauling snow out of the boroughs and into the countryside, and into the miriad of rivers in this area.

Destiny and the Wheel of Choice*

*Johnstown, PA Tribune-Democrat April 18, 2010
as "Destiny and Wheel of Choice"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

All kids at some point dream about what they’d like to do when they grow up. I remember running through the normal male choices of astronaut, football/baseball, cop, fireman, helicopter pilot, etc. For girls, according to a study done by CNN in 2005 (the latest study I could locate on the Internet) their top three choices were teacher, lawyer, and doctor, along with nurse, fashion designer, scientist, writer, veterinarian, and artist. These choices flashed through our adolescent heads as we tried them on to see how they’d fit. At that time, we didn’t have to choose; time was on our side, so we were free to audition a lot of options. But at some point in our lives, it becomes necessary to make that choice.

The great thing about deciding on a career is that we are free to change it, and we often do. Multiple times, according to some researchers.

I’ve had three separate careers. Ten years in the Navy, 11 years with Caterpillar, and now with the Intelligence Community. In many ways, this path typified the path of many of my contemporary Boomers. The days when your career was tantamount to a marriage, staying with a single company for 30 or 40 years are past. Mobility is the new byword.

Random Thoughts from a Midwinter's Eve

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

I wonder who’s going to be the first to mass-produce a hybrid (gas-electric) motorcycle? The time would seem to be right, and frankly, I’m getting tired of seeing electric motorcycles that are only the size of trail bikes. How about something for the real world? Like a hybrid Gold Wing. Honda, are you listening?

A fire in a fireplace can be hypnotic. There’s something so soothing about watching the flames dance over and amongst the logs while the cold winds blow against the windows.

When I first climb in bed, our cat jumps up and curls up on my chest, staring at me from inches away. I’m curious whether it’s because she really likes me, or because I’m just warm furniture on a cold night.

The Newest Good Old Days

"Book 'em, Danno!"

Publicity Still

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

Written content only

Every generation can identify something that defines them. It could be an event, or an historical benchmark, or the shift of a cultural paradigm that has shaped the environment in which they lived. The Civil War, The Gay ‘90s, The Roaring Twenties, The Great Depression, both World Wars, the Cold War, the list goes on and on.

The generation called the Baby Boomers occupies a unique niche in American cultural history. The Boomers bridged the gap from the post-war 1950’s, through the Space Age and civil rights movement of the 60’s, Viet Nam, and the explosion of the information age. But the one thing that has dominated our lives was the technological development of Television.

Our generation became the beneficiary of what I have come to call “The Instant Age.” For the first time, people had near-instantaneous access to events around the world. Images of coups in small, remote countries flowed to us as easily as did the local weather report. And as antennas gave way to cable and satellite, news became even more accessible. The knowledge about events around the world was just a remote click away.

But television was, at it’s genesis, an entertainment medium. The previous generation, confined to radio, had to use their imagination to invent the images suggested by the programs they heard. But with this new gadget, sound and images flashed in front of us, requiring very little brain work. Yet, the programs provided to us were interesting, even fun. Variety shows, evolved from Vaudeville, were the first successful shows. Then came situation comedies, such as the iconic “I Love Lucy” and hour-long dramas like “Ben Casey” and “Highway Patrol.” As audiences became more sophisticated, the shows evolved in content, color, and special effects. Over the decades, the shows we watched as children have stayed with us, providing the storylines and catchphrases that became the soundtracks and screenplays of our lives.

Scribophile: Learning How to Swim with the Sharks

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

Freelance writing can be a universe of contradictions. You want a paying gig, but you want to retain your independence. You want a steady stream of projects, but you’d like to work at your pace and schedule. You want people to read your stuff, but you’re terrified of critics. And while you always work to refine your art, you still consider yourself to be the second coming of Hemingway.

It’s a crowded marketplace. There are tens of thousands of freelance opportunities out there, but there are tens of millions of competing hopefuls as well. In a perfect world, our doorsteps would be the battleground as reps from Random House, Harper Collins, and Simon & Schuster engage in fisticuffs over our book rights. But let’s be honest. This is not a perfect world; if it were, there would be no need for writers.

The Hell of Haiti

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

On January 12, 2010, a massive 7.0 earthquake hit the nation of Haiti. As is usually the case in a country with widespread poverty, irresponsible government, and no construction codes, the devastation was widespread, the death toll could be as high as 100,000. The government, barely functional in the best of times, has collapsed, emergency services nonexistent. People were left buried in collapsed buildings with no one but their neighbors to help them. Violence has begun as criminal gangs fight for control over scarce resources. It is, in a word, a mess, one that won’t be cleaned up for months, perhaps years. And the repercussions for Haiti and the rest of the Western Hemisphere will resonate for decades.

But the harsh reality is that the people of Haiti have been living with disaster on a daily basis for decades.

For a very long time, Haiti has been the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere. The economy has forever been a basket case. The government, with a history of coups and counter-coups, has been infected with corruption and staffed by people for whom the welfare of their countrymen is an alien concept. There is no health care, except what can be offered by NGOs with very limited resources. HIV has been rampant in the country for as long as anyone can remember. Food is scarce, water always suspect. And if that weren’t bad enough, drug traffickers are using Haiti and the neighboring Dominican Republic as a waypoint for drug shipments between South and North America. The introduction of drug money into this penniless nation has made the corruption problem even worse.

Complacency...And The Choice*

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat

February 28, 2010
as "Not Going to Waste Third Chance at Life"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

It started as an ordinary day. I woke up, got ready for work, ate some breakfast, and headed out for my 30-minute commute to Johnstown. I was looking forward to the weekend and the big motorcycle show in DC.

As I walked up Market Street, I began to feel a dull ache in my chest. I paused briefly at the Vine Street intersection, and the pain faded a bit. I was trying to hold onto the shreds of denialism, but it was becoming difficult. I had to stop twice more, once at Main, and in front of Gallina’s as the pain spread into my shoulders and arms. By then, I had to finally admit to myself that this was no passing malady. The pain was familiar, having experienced it once before.

In the Spring of 2003, I ended up in the hospital with similar chest pains. A heart catheterization opened up and stented two blocked arteries. During the procedure, though, my heart quit and while the team worked feverishly to bring me back, I paid a brief visit to a land of tunnels and white lights.

Now, feeling that familiar sensation again, my discomfort began to turn to fear.

Our "Normal" Winter

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

It’s a well-known fact of human interaction that if one brings up the weather, a conversation will almost always ensue. Since it is the one element of life we all share equally, it is the perfect icebreaker.

This winter, especially so far, has been the inspiration for a lot of conversations. There have been famous individual storms in history (The Blizzard of ’93, for example) but the bad weather that has rolled across most of the U.S. this time around has been steady and relentless. Literally thousands of low temperature and snowfall records had been set even before the New Year. In the southeast, the entire citrus crop is at risk from temperatures that have plummeted as far as the mid-twenties, sometimes for several days in a row. Colorado Springs, Colorado announced in December that they would no longer be plowing suburbs because they had already run through almost the entire snow removal budget. In the Northern Plains, incessant snow, high winds, and temperatures going as low as 30 below zero Fahrenheit has resulted in a winter that’s beginning to sound like one of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s books.

Weather is not climate. Weather happens over a period of days, while climate is measured across hundreds of thousands of years, so to say that this harsh season is proof that the planet is cooling is premature. We did have a very comfortable summer, at times even distinctly chilly. Weather is also cyclical. Here in Pennsylvania’s Laurel Highlands, we’ve enjoyed at least 5 relatively mild winters in a row. Normally, Johnstown receives around 55 inches of snow while Somerset, 30 miles south and 500 feet further up, averages around 100 inches per season, “season” being the operative word. Winter snowfall is measured from December 21 through March 21. But those totals don’t count the snow that, around here, can fall as early as mid-October and as late as mid-May. So even “official” totals can be a bit misleading. The National Weather Service warned us early on that this year we would be enjoying a “normal” winter for the mountains.

Hero*

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

(Photo on hundreds of websites without attribution)

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, January 18, 2010

as "America is Strongest When it Stands United"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

Written content only

America in 1954 was a segregated nation, and nowhere more oppressive than the south. Years of systematic and institutionalized racism had fueled the anger and frustration among black Americans. The brutal murder of 14-year-old Emmet Till, followed by the astonishing acquittal of the two murderers (who later admitted their guilt), pushed that rage to the breaking point. The Civil Rights Movement in America had begun. All that was required was the right person to provide its unifying national voice.

In 1955, a young charismatic Baptist Pastor in Montgomery, Alabama with a brand-new PhD, led a boycott of that city’s bus system after a courageous woman named Rosa Parks was arrested for refusing to give up her seat to a white man. Through his gift of powerful oratory and his genius for organization, he united blacks and kept them faithfully holding the line for almost a year. With the bus system on the brink of bankruptcy, the city then admitted defeat, vacating the segregation laws.

This was Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s first successful action in the struggle to come. Following the bus boycott, he organized the Southern Christian Leadership Council, providing him a strong organization in the south, and through the power of the new medium of television, access to a national audience as well. Over the next 12 years, he became the face and voice for racial justice. No one, either before or since, has galvanized social and political forces in the way he did. In so doing, he forever altered the American cultural, economic, and political landscape.

Things That Make You Go "Hmmm..."

Graph by Dr. J. Storrs Hall, Foresight Institute

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey
Written content only

I've stayed (mostly) clear of the climate debate on this blog, mainly because opinion on the issue is so politically polarized.  People are yelling at each other, but nobody's listening.  And what's worse, people are utterly unwilling to critically examine the conclusions they spew. 

The release of emails from the CRU and the refusal of other researchers to allow public access to the research and methods underlying their work seems to have revealed a science bureaucracy and a compliant press intent on solely political motives, ignoring the voices of the 31,000 scientists who disagree.  Also, the revelation that the IPCC's findings on global warming came not from the scientific method, but an undergraduate's research paper.  This whole mishmash has, in my mind, called into question the entire basis for the conclusion of Anthropogenically-caused Global Warming (AGW), and its adherents who seem far more intent on destroying the economies of western nations. 

I've looked at data from both sides, but this chart, based on NOAA ice core data showing the temperature history going back some 425,000 years, is too compelling to ignore. 

The Battle of Gettysburg

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey


Between July 1 and July 3, 1863, the town of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania was the scene of what many historians call the pivotal battle, and the turning point of the Civil War. On this ground, the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia under the command of the legendary Robert E. Lee and the Union Army of the Potomac, under the command of General George Meade, met in a bloody fight, the result of which changed history. After three days of unremitting bloodshed, the two armies quit the field, having lost some 57,000 of their comrades dead, wounded, and missing. It was a battle characterized by bad strategy and stubborn leadership at the top, indescribable heroism in the ranks, and unbelievable luck and timing.

The battle was framed by events in the spring of that year. In May, Union and Confederate forces clashed at Chancellorsville, Virginia. The Confederates, as always, were outnumbered. Nevertheless, Lee divided his smaller force, sending Stonewall Jackson against the Union right flank. The Union 11th Corps under General Oliver Howard had been poorly deployed and were unprepared to meet an attack. The shocking appearance of the large Rebel force resulted in shock that quickly turned to widespread panic. They broke and ran. This attack sealed the victory for Lee. Unfortunately, even though they won the battle, the South lost General Jackson to friendly fire, as he was returning to his lines after reconnoitering the Union position. His eventual death from those wounds deprived Lee of a brilliantly aggressive battlefield commander, a loss that would prove pivotal at Gettysburg two months later.  In a surprising move, Lee appointed J.E.B. Stuart, his brilliant and colorful cavalry commander to take command of Jackson's troops.  Stuart proved his abilities as a professional soldier, performing brilliantly.

In June, Lee embarked on an invasion of the North. The Army of Northern Virginia marched through the Shenandoah Valley, using the Blue Ridge Mountains and Stuart's cavalry to shield their movements. Up to that point, the Union Army had proven to be slow to react and even slower to move. Lee counted on that temporary paralysis to allow him to advance unchallenged. By June 28, Lee’s forces were stretched out on a 55-mile arc from Chambersburg, PA to the outskirts of Harrisburg, the Pennsylvania state capital, a line that roughly follows the modern route of I-81. On that day, however, Lee and his “Old Warhorse” James Longstreet, received information that not only was the Union Army on the move, but were perilously close. Considering his options, Lee looks at a map, and seeing a farm town with a large network of roads, issues orders for his Army to concentrate there. The town was Gettysburg.

The Day of Dilemma

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

In the weeks prior to last Sunday, I experienced the growing realization that I faced a dilemma of major proportions, trapped between two competing loyalties.

I grew up in the Kansas City area, becoming a Chiefs fan when the team arrived in 1963 from Dallas. I was passionate in my support of the team, remaining loyal even during the crushing poverty the team experienced in the ‘80’s. The Chiefs began winning in the ‘90’s, but it was still annual exasperation and heartbreak as they never made it past the AFC Championship game.

In 2004, I moved to Pennsylvania, where I found myself unable to resist the Pittsburgh Steelers. I suppose it was natural. The Steelers and the Chiefs share some common attributes. Both are family-owned, The Rooneys and the Hunts beloved in their respective communities and supported by a fan base whose passion approaches religiosity at times. Both have a rich history and tradition. But the Steelers have won the Super Bowl twice in the last four years. The Chiefs haven’t even been to the Big Game in forty years. And the last three years have been exquisite agony.

So I am a guy who sports both Black and Gold, and Red and Gold with a clear conscience; you could call me ambi-teamdrous. Up until Sunday, it wasn’t a problem. The two don’t play in the same division, and due to the vagaries of the schedule, there never seemed to be time when I had to root for one against the other. But Sunday changed all that.

Meteorologist Jokes

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

 And now for something completely eclectic...

How come it never rains inside a barn?
It's a stable atmosphere.

What did the Irish meteorologist name the stream behind his house?
The Mary O'Donnell Flow

What's the wierdest kind of snow?
Lake effect.  Because it can be Erie.

What kind of atmosphere exists in a theater during a chick flick?
A cry-osphere.

What does a meteorologist call the "Man Space" in his house?
The Him-osphere

What do you call a divorce lawyer's office?
The Exosphere.

What do you get if you're too slow in changing a diaper?
The jet stream.

What do meteorologists get after a long night of tacos and bad tequila?
Rear flank downdrafts and backing winds.

What do you call a kid's room?
Mess-o-sphere

Why did the meteorologist paint a big blue "L" on his house?
He wanted it to be an area of low pressure.

When is the monsoon?
Before the mon-later.

The First Snow*

*Somerset, PA Daily America, November 30, 2009

Copyright © 2008 by Ralph Couey

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.

Lunch and the Lunch Thief*

*Waterbury, CT Republican-American, November 18, 2009

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

Written content only

Like most workplaces, we have a breakroom, within which resides two refrigerators. They are placed there for the benefit of employees who bring lunches that might prove inedible after four hours in a desk drawer. In normal terms, the ‘fridge is one of the last refuges of safety and security. One can breeze through in the morning, drop the plastic discount store bag in an open spot, and proceed to the workstation with that confident feeling that your food is safe and secure.

A bag lunch is, naturally, an investment. You have to get up early enough (or stay up late enough) to make the sandwich, or package the leftovers, adding the bonus apple or thing of yogurt. (If you have a better name for those concave foil-topped plastic contraptions, let me know.)

The point being, time was taken; effort was expended. And when the noon hour arrives, there is a certain level of anticipation, even satisfaction in retrieving and consuming our custom-built repast.

But lurking among us are the lowlifes; the scum of the workplace; those whose own needs trump all others. They usually strike on bad weather days. They had planned to go out, but when visiting the window and seeing the driving rain, the blistering heat, or the biting wind, chose to be cowards to the elements.

These are the lazy; the slovenly; the careless individuals who went to bed too late, blithely assuming they’d have time to make lunch in the morning, only to sleep in just a little too long. This is the person you picture sprinting out the door, tie in one hand, electric razor in the other while doing the hop-along-tie-the-shoe-on-the-run thing, and turns a routine commute into something more suitable for Daytona or Indianapolis.

Flight 93: The Power of Unity*

November 7, 2009: The Dream Becomes Reality

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, and National Park Service website (www.nps.gov/flni)

November 12, 2009

as "People Bound By a Cause Can Achieve Great Things"

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

It was a beautiful day, in many ways reminiscent of another perfect day, an early September morning in 2001. An impromptu speaker’s platform was set up in front of a line of flags, standing stiffly upright in the brisk wind, a familiar feature of this sacred valley. A singular group of people had gathered on this sunny day. It was a crowd whose members numbered among the famous and the mostly incognito. But every person there, despite their evident diversity, shared a common link.

Saturday, November 7, 2009, was a day when a dream ended, and reality began. Construction of the Flight 93 Memorial has officially begun.

For most of the past 8 years, a highly dedicated coalition of people have worked tirelessly, sweating blood as they surmounted innumerable hurdles. Working together, they survived unending frustration and celebrated each hard-won victory. It is an interesting collection of people. A task force and a commission made up of those with political power and personal influence; who possessed the "juice" to get things done. It also included stalwart members of the National Park Service, a few helpful volunteers, and a corps of dedicated Ambassadors, proudly wearing those sky-blue shirts. And at the heart of it all, a collection of families, all linked by a terrible personal tragedy experienced on the canvas of a larger day of Infamy. Together these remarkable people shared a dream; a dream to build a lasting memorial to 40 ordinary people who, in the face of terror and violence, stood together and fought back. On a dark day, they provided a ray of light; the light of unity, of courage, and of sacrifice.

"On My Honor;" Reflections on a Boy Scout's Life*

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, January 31, 2010
as "Boy Scout's Lives Shaped in Honor and Courage"

*Waterbury, CT Republican-American, February 20, 2010

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

Written content only

In 1909, a publisher from Chicago, W. D. Boyce, on a visit to England, encountered a Boy Scout. As they spoke, the American was deeply impressed by the philosophy which had guided the youngster’s development. Upon his return to America, he incorporated the Boy Scouts of America. It was Deputy Chief Scout Executive George J. Fisher in 1937 who articulated their goal:

"Each generation as it comes to maturity has no more important duty than that of teaching high ideals and proper behavior to the generation which follows."

The BSA’s current mission is "to prepare young people to make ethical and moral choices over their lifetimes by instilling in them the values of the Scout Oath and Law.”
I was a Boy Scout, an Eagle, and a proud one. I remember with great clarity the moment that medal was bestowed. It was the first meaningful thing I‘d done in my life.

Though that moment lies almost 40 years in my past, the important things Scouting taught live within me still.

A Good Time In Vegas Doesn't Have To Be A Gamble

Vegas!

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

 

As the plane banked into it's final turn, the wing dipped and revealed below a glittering carpet of lights. Unlike the airborne views of other cities, these lights didn't merely glow; they danced, making the cityscape come alive. A few minutes later, the wheels galumphed onto the runway and the overhead speakers announced: "Welcome to Las Vegas!"

Variously called "Sin City" or "America's Playground," Las Vegas has always seemed to exist in its own continuum. Regardless of events occurring in other places, boom or bust, war or peace, this oasis of neon in the middle of a very dark desert glittered without pause. I suspect that other-worldly quality is one of the reasons Vegas remains today a favored tourist destination. Yet even Vegas has felt the pinch, although you have to look hard to find the signs. Unemployment has soared to over 13%, due mainly to the suspension of the construction of several large developments. Even the entertainment industry has seen jobs dribble away. And yet, even when facing these difficult times, Vegas still manages to flash it's trademark diamond-studded smile.

The Gift of Life

Big, Big Grampa, Little Bitty Baby

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

For the last seven months or so, we've been caught up in the anticipation attendant to the birth of a grandchild. Our oldest daughter announced the coming event, not with a phone call, but in true 21st century style, via Facebook.

Through the intervening months, she's kept us up to date with her progress. Her husband was medically discharged from the Army and they left North Carolina for California with their car and a U-Haul truck stuffed with their worldly belongings. The pittance the Army advanced them for the trip ran out in Albuquerque, New Mexico, prompting a frantic phone call and some hurried negotiations with Western Union. Despite the hiccup, they eventually reached the Golden State and into the welcoming arms of his family. She made contact with her new doctor, and things looked good.

She went into labor on a Saturday, 10 days early. About 8 hours later, she gave birth to a girl, 4 lbs 9 ozs tiny. Zoe, as she was named, had eating problems initially and spent her first two weeks in the Neonatal ICU. At one point, the doctors called in a geneticist. She ran tests and a week later, dropped a bomb on this young family.

Hibernation and the Motorcycle

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

 
The wind blows stiff and cold. The skies are leaden, casting the world in a sort of gloomy semi-darkness. The warm days of summer, and even the sparkling days of fall seem distant. I, like millions of other motorcyclists, stand mute and sad in the garage, having come face to face with that depressing reality. It’s time to put the bike away.

I’ve lived in many places, the last one in Missouri. Winters there mimic the ones here in Pennsylvania temperature-wise, but get far less snowfall. But around here, that first accumulating snow can come as early as mid-October. And once the road crews lay that thick layer of sand, salt, and cinders on the roadways, riding season is officially done. Even on those rare days when the sun shines and the temperatures flirt with the upper 40’s, all that stuff on the pavement renders riding a hazardous undertaking. One of the worst feelings for a rider is to be leaned into a curve and hear that tell-tale zetz as the back wheel slides out from underneath, sending you and the bike skidding wildly across the oncoming lane and into a culvert.

With those dangers in mind, the prudent ones among us go through this annual ritual of hibernating the bike, and the first taste of separation anxiety.

Tool Time*

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, March 21, 2010
as "Handy Man in Need of Repair Man"

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

There are certain expectations that go along with being a man. Most I fulfill with ease. However, where home improvement is concerned, I definitely fall short of the mark.

Most men yearn to build, or at least remodel. There’s something about tools that awakens the primal urges buried deep within our DNA. All of us have experienced the sensuous power of the drill, or the circular saw. For men, standing in front of a fully stocked tool chest is like standing before the gates of Heaven. “I am Man; Watch me Build.”

Traditionally, sons learn from their fathers. This is accomplished by the father hijacking a perfectly good Saturday, and putting the son to work. I was raised by a father who hired repairmen. About the only thing I ever did that even qualified as home improvement was change the furnace filter. So while my contemporaries labored and learned alongside their fathers, I coasted blithely through my life, content to watch my Dad hire contractors and service people.

The Culture of Fear*

Sometimes, you're better off not knowing.

Photo by Thomas P. Peschak.

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, May 16, 2010
as "Sane Days and Peaceful Nights"

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

Last summer over Labor Day, our family went to Washington D.C. to take in the sites. It was warm and humid and we eagerly sought the cool air inside the Smithsonian Natural History Museum. The Smithsonian, or “America’s Attic,” is home to a seemingly infinite number of items, ranging from the historical to the merely curious. In one side gallery dedicated to diamonds, is a heavily fortified clear display case holding the legendary Hope Diamond. This huge 45.5-carat blue gem draws thousands daily, sparkling smugly and seductively behind the thick bullet-proof glass. As people cluster around the case, usually you can hear a woman say wistfully, “Honey, if you really loved me…”

This day was no different. The room was crowded, but despite the close atmosphere, no one seemed to mind. The conversations were muted, the atmosphere was calm.

Then, someone sneezed.

9/11 Anniversary Speech: “Today, We Remember”

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey




“Time is passing. Yet, for the United States of America, there will be no forgetting September the 11th. We will remember every rescuer who died in honor. We will remember every family that lives in grief. We will remember the fire and ash, the last phone calls, the funerals of the children. “

“Now, we have inscribed a new memory alongside those others. It’s a memory of tragedy and shock, of loss and mourning. It’s also a memory of bravery and self-sacrifice, and the love that lays down its life for a friend–even a friend whose name it never knew. “

- President George W. Bush, December 11, 2001

These words, spoken by President Bush, will be echoed by many this day. Nine years ago, in the space of 2 hours, the world was changed; our nation was changed; we were changed. 9/11 has become a watershed event in history, defining two separate worlds – the one before, and the one after. On that day, we were ripped from a world of the safe and familiar and plunged into another world; a world of dark uncertainty; a world dominated by shock, pain, horror…and fear. Our senses at first refused to accept the reality of the images transmitted to us, desperately hoping that the disaster unfolding before our eyes was a Hollywood concoction, or perhaps just a bad dream.

For Americans, the attacks were more than the sum total of damage and loss of life. Collectively, our myth of invincibility, our illusion of invulnerability, our delusion of safety was shattered.

But in the midst of that tragic day, a great light emerged. The darkness was dispelled, illuminating this nation from border to border and sea to sea. We, the people of the United States found our unity. For a few brief, precious moments in time, we stood shoulder to shoulder; arm in arm. We spoke with one voice. We felt with one heart.

And the world stood back in awe.

Today, we remember.

Our Journey; Our Story*

Sunset
The ending of day, the beginning of night;
A moment in time;
A moment of life.

--R. F. Couey

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, October 11, 2009
as"Everyone Has a Story to Tell"

*Ada, OK Evening News, October 11, 2009

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

Recently, a legend of television journalism passed from this life. In 1968, Don Hewitt created the first “news magazine” for television, calling it “60 Minutes,” forever identified by the iconic image of a ticking pocket watch. 60 Minutes birthed the usual retinue of copycat programs, but none achieved the hard-hitting quality as the original, a power that remains undiminished today, in its 42nd remarkable season.

The stories were often complex and guaranteed to incite the righteous anger of the viewer. But however intricate the tale, Hewitt’s instruction to the producers and the reporters was deceptively simple:

“Tell me a story.”

The history of humanity is a vast collection of tapestries, upon which is recorded the journey we have all traveled, and shared. Some of these tapestries glitter with the light of notoriety and fame. Others hang muted and silent. But no matter how famous or obscure, each human has a story to tell. All these stories have in common triumph and tragedy, events that scale the heights of elation, and plumb the depths of sorrow.

Laura Ingalls and the Lotos Eaters

Laura Ingalls

Photo from her estate collection

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey
Written content only

I grew up a devoted fan of Laura Ingalls Wilder, she of the famous “Little House” books. Those cherished tomes chronicled the nomadic life of her pioneer family in the 1870s and 1880s.

The most remarkable element is the recounting of how hard their life was. Everyone worked, even the children; and not for wages, but for the sake of survival. They endured unbelievable privations, all without the safety net we take for granted.

The work was exhausting; their pleasures simple and few. And yet the family was bound by respect, honor, and love. Parents taught solid lessons of right and wrong, which the children took to heart. They learned from them the honor-bound promise to stand on their own two feet, never living off the hard work of others.

Their life provides a sobering comparison to the standards by which we live. Even the poorest among us live in houses that would have seemed palatial to the Ingalls family. A trip to our local grocery store or food pantry in the middle of winter would have left that pioneer family goggle-eyed. Electricity is delivered to our doorstep, as is water, the freshness and purity guaranteed. And despite our whining about health care, we no longer die from those diseases that ravaged entire towns back then..

Charles worked 160 acres with two horses and a plow. Up before dawn, he broke the ground, plowed the soil, and planted the seeds. He harvested by hand all that he could before the winter closed in. He cut and stacked acres of hay, fed and watered the livestock, and took odd jobs in the nearby towns as they came available, working until it was too dark to see. All by himself.

The Ingalls’ knew the value of education, sending the girls to school, and insisting on their studying hard each night by lamplight.

The Ingalls’ would be shocked at how comparatively easy our lives are. Today, we live in houses and apartments. While they’re not as grand as we would like, they’re mansions compared to anything the Ingalls’ lived in. We don’t have to hunt to survive. We don’t have to chop wood; just turn up the thermostat. We think 8 hours is a long workday, and we complain about working weekends.

But the one thing about our modern life that would likely shock Charles and Caroline Ingalls right down to their toes is our laziness.

Boycott Illegal Drugs!!!

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey


Over the years, people attempting to change things they deem destructive have resorted to the practice known as the boycott.

The most well-known was the boycott of the Birmingham, Alabama bus system after Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat to a white man. It became the focal point for civil rights activists, including Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. After a year of nearly-empty busses, the bus company changed the seating policy.

Other examples of successful boycotts include:
• Companies that did business with South Africa during apartheid
• Wal-Mart and Target for allegedly selling the products of sweat shops
• Tuna fisherman for failing to protect dolphins from seining nets
• Agricultural interests for exploiting immigrant labor.

Yet, there exists today an ongoing source of human misery which has been largely ignored.

Motorcycles and the Death Wish

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey


Around my day job, I’ve become a highly-visible practitioner of the motorcycle arts. Hence, when an issue comes up concerning the sport, I become the recipient of many questions. But nothing generates conversation like an accident.

We humans are seemingly riveted by death and destruction. I think a big part of that is our fascination with the amount of destructive potential that exists in the simple act of driving down the road. Also, there is that sense of compassion for those victims who lives have been turned upside down. A motorcycle accident, however, is particularly horrifying.

In July, a motorcyclist was leaving town on a trip to Tennessee. He didn't get very far. As he approached the entrance to a shopping center, a driver turned left in front of him. The pictures in the paper were horrifying. The bike, a big cruiser, had essentially disintegrated; the rider, killed instantly. Over the next week or so, several concerned colleagues, some who had known the deceased, wanted to talk about that tragedy. Dependably, at some point, those conversations would wind around to the question, "Do you ever worry about accidents?"

I do think about accidents; all responsible riders do. In fact, one of the ways to avoid them is to think through the possibilities and plan for those situations. I don't, however, dwell on death. People burdened with that particular obsession have far more serious issues than traffic.With forethought, planning, and a lot of practice, the average motorcyclist can avoid accidents most of the time. Mostly it's the simple things, like...

The Love of a Dog

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

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.

Train Travel*

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat August 9, 2009
as "A Journey of the Soul"

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

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.

Top Ten Reasons Why a Newspaper is Better Than a Laptop*

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, July 7, 2009

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

Being a child of the Alvin Toffler generation, I'm the first person in line 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 $1,500 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

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

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?"

What??? You Bought ANOTHER Motorcycle???

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

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?

R.I.P, M. Jackson

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey


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.

Eternity and The Road

Jornada del Muerto, New Mexico

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

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 wherever I’ve worked. 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.

Simon Says: Understanding The Abrasive Mr. Cowell

Simon Cowell; Image from People Magazine

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey
Written content only

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.

LLLLLLLLET'S GET READY TO THUNDER!!!!!!!*

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, June 21,2008
as "Thunder Becoming Landmark Event in Motorcycling"

Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, June 24, 2010
as "Pittsburgh Rides: Lets Get Ready to Thunder"

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

If boxing announcer Michael Buffer were going to be in Johnstown, PA on the third weekend in June, he might just use this version of his trademark opening. The expression certainly catches the excitement and anticipation of this annual summer rite and what is rapidly becoming a landmark event in the world of motorcycling. The 2006 version Thunder In The Valley is expected to be the biggest ever, with event organizers anticipating that as many as 200,000 riders will somehow squeeze themselves into the Valley of the Little Conemaugh for four days of sun, fun, chrome, and iron.

200,000 people! Let me try to put that in perspective for you. Imagine if every living soul residing in Orlando, Florida came here for a visit. That’s the kind of numbers we’re talking about. Every hotel room within 40 miles is booked, and has been for a year. Area restaurants, bars, drug stores, gas stations, and retailers are gearing up for this version of the Johnstown Flood— a deluge not of water, but of customers and cash. And the associated sales and use taxes make for a very healthy payday for local city, boro, township, and county governments.

The most remarkable thing about this rally is the smoothly uneventful way it glides through the weekend. There are other places hosting rallies of this type that are compelled to put out a call for assistance to every badge-carrying agency who will listen to deploy uniformed officers in an often vain hope of keeping order and preventing riots. From what I have been able to find out, the local PDs have always handled this crowd with their own resources, not even calling on the State Police for assistance. Part of this is, of course, the efficient way the local gendarmes go about their business. Mainly, however, it is the characteristic of the Thunder faithful, a largely responsible, peaceful, and “adult” crowd whose primary preoccupation is to have a good time within the bounds of good taste and the law. Don’t get me wrong, there are occasional “incidents.” You simply can’t put that many people together without at least some problems. But for a rally of this size, you couldn’t ask for a better-behaved crowd; unless you had the Quakers in for a weekend.

Biker Down!!!

In Pace Requiescat

Kawasaki Vulcan VN900LT

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

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.

To My Shipmates: Remarks on the Occasion of a Reunion

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

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 you wear the uniform for one hitch or an entire career, the discipline, the camaraderie, and sense of duty forever marks those who served.

The Navy took us across the globe and in the process, opening our eyes and forever altering our perspective. You can read volumes about other lands, and other cultures. But the personal perspective; the eyewitness experience dwarfs whatever knowledge you could glean from a text. It provides an education in reality no university could ever provide. After an experience like that, nothing looks the same; not even home.

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.

It is often said that the hardest job in the Navy is that of a Navy Wife. For them, the challenges of life must be faced alone, often for months at a time, from the mundane logistics of getting the kids where they need to be, to that long, terrifying—and lonely-night in the emergency room, the pressure is unrelenting. There is never a day off. Ladies, we are awed by your strength and dedication. And we also know that whatever we have accomplished in our lives, we could not have done it without your unfaltering faith and support. Being a Navy Wife requires a special kind of courage; and a love that knows no bounds.

Commencement Address: "Dare to Dream!"

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

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.”

Speech: "Freedom: America's Greatest Strength"

Copyright © 2007 by Ralph Couey

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.”