Civil War: Events of September 1862

Union General John Pope, apparently broken by his defeat at Second Manassas, planned to retreat to the defenses of Washington.  But  General Halleck instead ordered Pope to attack Lee’s forces at Manassas. But Lee had already begun to move.  He sent Stonewall Jackson’s corps around the Union right flank while Longstreet stayed in place to deceive Pope.  Jackson marched north and east and near the intersection of modern-day US 50 and US 29.  Union cavalry sighted Jackson’s forces and alerted Pope, who canceled the attack and began the retreat from Centreville.  On the morning of September 1^st, Pope sent two brigades under Isaac Stevens to block Jackson’s march.  Phillip Kearny’s division followed in the afternoon.  Jackson’s men, exhausted, made camp on Ox Hill.  About 3 p.m., Stevens’ Union brigades arrived at Ox Hill.  Despite being outnumbered, Stevens immediately attacked across a field towards the Confederate center.  The attack was initially successful, but a counter-attack by Jubal Early drove them back.  General Stevens died during this fight.  Kearny arrived about 5 p.m., along with a raging thunderstorm that soaked ammunition and eliminated visibility so much that at one point, Kearny rode into the Confederate line.  He realized his mistake and turned back but was shot and killed.  The Union troops then withdrew from the field.  Although tactically inconclusive, it is counted a southern victory because the battle neutralized any threat from the Union Army and allowed Lee to begin his Maryland campaign.  Pope was fired by Lincoln and replaced by Ambrose Burnside.

 

Also on September 1^st, in Madison County, Tennessee, Union and Confederate cavalry clashed at Britton’s Lane.  The fight resulted in a southern victory and helped the larger strategy of trying to keep Grant from reinforcing Buell in Tennessee.

 

On September 2^nd, southern forces under Kirby Smith began their invasion of Kentucky.  Two days later, they captured the state capital Frankfurt.

 

Robert E. Lee led the Army of Northern Virginia into Maryland on September 5^th, taking Frederick on the 6^th.  As they moved north, the southern troops destroyed the Baltimore and Ohio railroad bridge over the Monocacy River.

 

On September 9^th, Lee drafted Special Order 191, which described how he would divide the army, and what routes they would take into Maryland.  That same day Samuel Heintzelman takes command of the defenses on the south side of Washington.

 

The Battle of Harpers Ferry was fought from September 12-15.  Jackson attacked the town, location of the Federal Arsenal, from three sides.  The Union commander, Dixon Miles, although knowing of Jackson’s approach, declined to post troops to the strategically important heights surrounding the town.  When Jackson’s forces arrived, they set up artillery on the heights and began a systematic bombardment of the town.  Miles realized that his situation was hopeless and surrendered, making more than 12,000 Union soldiers prisoners.

 

Paradigm Shifts in Personal Transportation

Delivery, Korean style

Copyright 2012 © by Ralph F. Couey

 

This summer has seemed interminable.  Record-breaking heat, coupled with some violent storms and drought that hasn’t been seen since the Dust Bowl days of the thirties.  The weather has dealt a direct blow to an already-creaky economy, driving up utility usage, damaging infrastructure, and with a slim harvest approaching, food prices will likely spike and stay high through the winter. 

For a while, gas prices were headed in the right direction.  But in the last few weeks, the gains have been lost to an uncertain supply situation in a market where fuel usage continues to rise.

For motorcyclists, this has been a dangerous season.  Most states are reporting increases in crash-related injuries and fatalities.  In addition, there have been many accidents that involved the motorcycle simply driving off the road for unknown reasons in broad daylight.  You have to wonder if extended exposure to the triple-digit heat and high humidity is not taking a hidden toll.

But the increases in crashes has been readily apparent to anyone who has followed the news.  For a few years I carried an updated post on my motorcycle blog, Soul of a Motorcyclist, in which I posted brief summaries of motorcycle accidents culled from the news courtesy of Google news alerts.  Normally, updating the blog involved an hour or so a couple times per week, but this summer the accidents were coming so quick and fast that I finally abandoned the task. 

A large majority of the accidents involved the rider being the victim of a failure to yield by a car or truck driver.  The second-most often cause involved riders losing control of the bike for various reasons.  But drunk riders really made the news this summer, in crashes that more often than not involved very high speeds. 

This Vacant Room*

Photo by Michelle Perich

*Johnstown, PA Tribune-Democrat, August 12, 2012
as "NDIC: Memories permeate the silence"
 

Copyright © 2012 by Ralph F. Couey

The room is empty, and somehow seems much larger.  The lights are off and the only illumination is the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows.  But the most profound impression is the lifeless silence that permeates the space.

There was once life here, the noise of machinery and the hum of electronics.  Mostly, though, it was the sound of voices.  In this now-silent space, the delightful sound of laughter was heard.  There were low voices engaged in earnest discussion, louder ones raised in passionate debate.  It was the orchestra of dedicated people engaged in work that was important and vital. 

A building is…just a building.  It is an amalgamation of concrete and steel, plastic and fabric, wiring and piping.  Some are grand and glorious designs, others decidedly pedestrian.  But the building itself is never as important as what goes on inside.  

People give it life.

The floors bear the constant tread of footsteps, hurrying to and fro.  Walls echo with the vibrant sounds of human activity.  The building now has an identity; a name that presents to the world the nature of the work that goes on inside.  

But it wasn’t just the work.

Life went on here as well.  People came, some from far away and became part of a larger family.  Friendships were forged, love was found.  People married, had children, and shared the drama of their lives together.

And for some, this building was the last place before they passed on to another more glorious life.

The Will to Win

Gabby Douglass, Olympic Champion

Photo by Dylan Martinez/Reuters

Copyright © 2012 by Ralph F. Couey 

America now has a new crop of heroes. Gabby, Michael, Missy, and others have performed their way into our national heart. This is not the first time this has happened. Remember Mary Lou in 1984? And who can forget Kerri Strug in ’96? That sprint down the runway, slamming into the catapult, soaring into the air , and sticking the landing, all on a leg with two torn ligaments. There was the “miracle” U.S. hockey team who, against all odds, beat the Soviets in 1980.

And we will never forget Jesse Owens running through Hitler’s delusional wall of  Aryan supremacy in 1936.

Over the years, we have watched, utterly enthralled as our Olympians inspired us through their efforts, and their victories. They honored our country, and made us all proud to be Americans.

And yet, there is a curious myopia at work. We cheer them lustily when they win, and groan when they fall short. But in reality, we only see them during this two-week window.

An Olympic athlete is a rare human. Of course, they’re gifted with extraordinary ability. But the most impressive thing about them is the one invisible element that sets them apart from the rest of us.

Will.

The path to the games is long and tortuous. It is an endless procession of years in a gym, on a track, or in a fieldhouse. It is enduring the frustration of trying to get muscles to precisely obey the demands of the mind. It is working through injuries, fighting fatigue. It is pushing aside their anger at the end of a very long day, muscles burning with utter exhaustion, facing a hard-nosed coach who demands, “It’s not good enough. Do it again.” We never see that part of their life, and why we will never really comprehend the tears on the medal stand, and also the more private tears of the defeated. This is something we can never understand because most of the rest of us don’t live a life of excellence. We are mired instead in a culture of “good enough.”

Civil War: Events of August 1862

On August 1^st, Brazil formally recognized the Confederate States of America.

Looking to fund the war effort, the U.S. Congress on August 2, passed the first federal income tax.  There was only one rate, 3% on earnings greater than $800.

On August 3^rd, a federal fleet bombarded Galveston, TX.

On August 4^th, the Confederates launched an attack aimed at recapturing Baton Rouge, LA.  Rebels under John C. Breckinridge approached the city under the cover of darkness, but lost the element of surprise when his troops were detected by Union sentries.  However, the main body of defending troops had been out of training camp less than two weeks and the Rebels pushed the Union line back all the way through town.  The Union commander, Thomas Williams, was killed and his relief, Col Thomas Cahill led a retreat back to prepared defensive positions south of town under the protection of the Yankee fleet.  The Confederate ironclad CSS Arkansas suffered engine failure north of the city, so her guns were not available to support Breckinridge, so he withdrew.  Union troops, concerned for the safety of New Orleans, evacuated Baton Rouge, but returned in the autumn.

On August 5^th, Union troops under Hooker retook Malvern Hill, but withdrew then next day.  Also on the 5^th, USS Vincennes in a naval engagement at Fernandina, FL ended the Rebel blockade of that area.

On August 8^th, one of the ugliest battles of the war was fought in Kirksville, MO.  Union cavalry troops under John McNeill had been pursuing a Confederate force under Joseph Porter, who had been recruiting in the area.  He had put together a brigade-size force, but the troops were raw and ill-equipped.  McNeill attacked the town, where the enemy soldiers were hiding in various buildings and within the crop-laden fields.  A detachment of cavalry courageously rode around the square trying to draw fire and thus reveal the Rebel positions, which cost the lives of two Union troopers.  Having sited the positions, McNeill deployed his artillery and began a march in line of battle through the town.  The cannon fire demoralized the southerners.  Despite returning heavy and accurate fire, the Rebels were forced to retreat.  Union troops secured the town.  Then things turned ugly.  A 60-yo farmer with two sons fighting for the north was shot down in cold blood.  15 captured Rebel soldiers were discovered to have violated their parole and were court-martialed and executed.  A rebel officer, Frisby McCullogh, despite wearing a regular uniform and carrying papers authorizing him to recruit for the south, was nonetheless convicted of being a “bushwacker,” or renegade, and was executed.

Summer Nights and Memories

Copyright © 2012 by Ralph Couey 

I have always enjoyed, nay, reveled in the changing seasons.  The progressions of nature are very much the rhythms that move inside of us.  My favorites are the temperate weeks of spring and autumn.  Spring is a time of rebirth, when the trees and grass rebound from winter’s sleep in an explosion of life.  Trees bud, then leaf out as their limbs dance in unison to the warm breezes.  This is a time when grass grows green again, and flowers dazzle the landscape.  Birds, silent and absent for so long, fill the air with their joyous songs.  After huddling indoors from winter’s cold and storms, it is exhilarating to go outdoors and feel the warm sun on faces and arms that have for too long been covered in coats.

Autumn is my favorite time of year.  The heat and humidity of summer has finally released its grip.  The air is cool, dry, comfortable.  The sky has shed its milky summer haze for a blue that is vivid beyond words.  And as time glides through the season, the trees withdraw chlorophyll from their leaves, leaving their natural tones, bright yellows, vibrant reds and oranges.  In those areas fortunate to still have forest land, the landscape fluoresces especially when lit by that butter-colored sun as its light beams among the trees.  Life has become more intense.  The kids are back in school, and the clock-driven tension of football moves to center stage.  The days are ever shorter, but that only pushes us to higher activity levels in the knowledge that we have less daylight to finish what we started.  Fall has an aroma, a musty scent all its own as the leaves begin to fall and cover the ground.  You can smell it in the forest, and even walking through the neighborhood.  Kick up a pile of leaves, and there you have it:  Eau de October.

Winter has its own form of excitement as we witness the first flakes of snow, and the beauty that a heavy snowfall gives to the land.  But the romance is short, and soon, the damp cold, the continual shoveling, and what snowfall does to traffic around here, combine to make life miserable.  One of the biggest reasons that spring is so gloriously welcomed is the reprieve from the assault of Old Man Winter.

Aurora and the Unknown of Tomorrow

Copyright © 2012 by Ralph Couey 

It was a festive occasion, the first showing of a long-awaited motion picture.  People had gathered, some waiting in line for several hours.  Part of the crowd had donned costumes in honor of the event.  When the doors opened, they filed into the theater, probably talking and laughing in that giddy atmosphere of friendship and anticipation of good times shared.  But within minutes, everything changed.  In an act of unspeakable and unimaginable violence, lives were ended; others changed forever.

The impact of that event spread well beyond the walls of that particular theater auditorium.  The hell that sprung into being for the victims was shared within minutes by their families.  

The evening didn’t start that way.  I’m certain there were many who were swept up in the routine of life that evening, having no idea that their parting would turn out to be their final goodbye.

To lose a loved one to an act of violence has to be one of the most painful experiences a human can endure.  There never seems to be a satisfactory answer to the question: “why?”  There is only the overwhelming feeling of loss. 

We share their heartache. But I don’t think any one of us can fully comprehend the depth of their loss.  Grief is a journey; a difficult, yet cathartic path strewn with rocks and potholes.  But it is a journey that must be taken.  There are no shortcuts or bypasses on the route to healing.  Sadly, there is nothing we can do to assuage their sorrow; nothing except accompany them on their walk, and help them to know that they do not walk alone.

Ticking

Copyright © 2012 by Ralph Couey

Information for this column came from various media reports,

including the Denver Post, the London Telegraph, AP, Reuters, and others.

A little time has passed since we all heard about the tragedy in Aurora, Colorado.  The initial numbing shock has started to fade, and the question on everyone’s mind has begun to shift from “what happened?” to “why?”

Unfortunately, this question is much harder to answer.

Details about the life of James Eagan Holmes have begun to emerge, but it is hard to detect the trigger that drove him to kill. 

By all accounts, his life until recently was a solid string of personal success.  A pretty good soccer player, he quit the high school team in order to concentrate on his studies.  That dedication apparently paid off.  Four years at Cal-Riverside produced a degree in the demanding field of neuroscience, receiving the highest academic honors. He was active in the Presbyterian Church.  People who knew him used words like shy, quiet, pleasant, and really smart. 

In other words, normal.

But they also used other words, like recluse, introvert; a loner.  Fellow students have said, “No one knew him.  No one.”

Independence Day and the Train Ride from Hell

Copyright © 2012 by Ralph Couey
Words and image

The Fourth of July is, and should be, a day of celebration for all Americans. It is one of those rare days when we can lay aside our partisan bickering and revel in that unifying thread of national pride. The template is familiar to most, friends and family gather for grilling and good times, then retire to the nearest fireworks display before going back home and the welcome relief of air conditioning and a shower.

This year, we went to the National Mall in Washington DC, that rectangular strip of abused grass and bare dirt that lies between the capitol and the tall, spare obelisk of the Washington Monument. We waited until mid-afternoon to leave Virginia, riding the metro into The District. We met up with our son and his family under a shady tree and from there, we went in to the Natural History museum. Our son’s wife had family in from Korea and they were anxious to view the Hope Diamond in all its glittering 56-carat glory. While the unprecedented heat beat down mercilessly upon the Nation’s Capital, we whiled away the hours in the relative comfort inside.

As the afternoon waned into early evening, we claimed a small patch of real estate from which we could watch the fireworks. Those patches get harder to find each year as the mall fills up with tents and pavilions. I took some moments to look closely at the faces of the million or so of our closest friends who had gathered for the show. There was ample evidence that we are truly an immigrant nation. I don’t care what ethnicity you claim, you’re still an immigrant. Even those we call “Native Americans” are descendants of people from Asia who traipsed across the Bering Land Bridge beginning some 16,000 years ago. Americans, along with visitors who may harbor a desire to become one, were all gathered in communal purpose and singular meaning. For anyone with even a shred of appreciation for the patchwork story that is America, it was certainly a moment of note.

It was still very hot, close to 100 degrees, but some evening thunderstorms to the west provided a welcome curtain from the direct blast of the setting sun, and a very welcome breeze began to make itself apparent.

Civil War: Events of July 1862

On July 1st, Union Naval forces began an assault on Fort McAllister in Bryan County, GA.

Also on the 1st, Robert E. Lee's forces launced a series of uncoordinated assaults on a strong Union position at Malvern Hill in Henrico County, VA.  The attacks failed, but despite the victroy, Union commander McClellan withdrew to Harrison's Landing on the James River where his forces could be protected by Union gunboats.  This was the last day of the Seven Days Battles, and the end of the Union's Peninsula Campaign.

It was a busy day in Washington as well as President Lincoln signed into law the Pacific Railroad Act, which incorporated the Union Pacific Railroad and subsidizing it with federal money.

And in South Carolina, General David Hunter organized the first all-black infantry regiment, which became the legendary 33rd U.S. Colored Infantry Regiment.

On July 2nd, President Lincoln issued a call for 300,000 3-year enlistments.

From July 4th until August 1st, Confederates under John Hunt Morgan raided Kentucky.

Requiem for a Sojourner

Picture credit:  Washington Post

Copyright © 2012 by Ralph F. Couey, written content only

All rights reserved



Requiem enim Peregrinus

Requiem for a Sojourner

Life is a journey and like every other journey, it has a beginning and an end. It is an existence bound by the limits of time and space.

 

Today you left home on your motorcycle. And somewhere out on the road, the journey of your life came to an end.

 

To a rider, a motorcycle is not just a machine. It is the ticket to adventure; a way of leaving the mundane and passing through the musty wardrobe into a world where the possibilities are as limitless as the universe that surrounds us.

 

To ride is an experience and an expression of joy that, like love, can never be explained, but only felt.

 

It was in that moment when you felt most alive that you were taken away.

 

We who knew you, who loved you, who shared the joy of your life now feel an empty ache, one that will never completely heal.

 

But in the midst of our sorrows, we take comfort that your last moments were ones imbued with that singular joy of a motorcyclist in a world without horizons.

 

As we shared the road and the ride, we also shared the joy, and thus we were bound together.

 

We will think of you when we are on the road. We will think of you when we feel the urge to ride,

seeking places we’ve never been, things we’ve never seen, experiences we’ve never had.

 

When the horizon calls to us, it will be your voice that we hear.

 

You now are a Sojourner on a ride without limits on a journey of indescribable beauty. You have nowhere to be and all the time in the world to get there.

 

Joy trails in your wake. Peace lies ahead.

 

The sun is warm, the day is perfect, the road is wide open.

 

Ride on, Brother;

 

Ride on.

Motorcycles and the Summer Heat

Copyright © 2012 by Ralph Couey

It was going to happen, whether I wanted it to or not.  After becoming accustomed to the mild summers in the mountains of Western Pennsylvania for the last seven years, I now find myself in Northern Virginia, where they have REAL summers.

It’s been a pleasant spring.  But today, on the first day of summer, temperatures vaulted from the delightful upper 70’s to near 100 degrees.  With dew points in the 65 to 70 degree range, “sweltering” was the word of the day.

Days like this create something of a moral dilemma for this motorcyclist.  Up north, winters run from mid-October to mid-May, so one is loath to surrender a riding day for any reason.  Here, the warmer climes make a 10-month riding season possible, “warmer” of course being a term of some subjectivity.  But in the same way I had to surrender to mountain winters, here I need to re-think my standards with regards to heat.  I work in a shirt-and-tie environment and arriving for duty sopping and smelly doesn’t sit well with my co-workers.  Thus, the hottest days find me in the air-conditioned comfort of a car with the bike in silent, but reproachful repose in the garage.

Some years ago, I did a trip to the southwest.  Mid-July found me in Phoenix, Arizona, the land of triple-digit summers.  I fully expected dry heat, but unbeknownst to me, July is monsoon season for the desert.  That means the usual bone-dry air mass is replaced by a soupier tropical pattern.  So not only was I faced with 114-degree heat, I also had to deal with Florida-like humidity levels.  I learned a lot that day, not the least of which was the addition of Gatorade to my diet.  That saved the trip, and quite possibly, my life.

Now faced with similar conditions, I thought it might be prudent to dust off some advice on riding in the heat.

Civil War: Events of June 1862

On June 1, what was undoubtedly the most important personnel moves in history occurred when Jefferson Davis appointed Robert E. Lee to command of the Army of Northern Virginia.


The next day, James Andrews, the Union special ops warrior who commanded what became known as the Great Locomotive Chase, briefly regained his freedom, escaping from Swims Jail in Chattanooga, Tennessee.  He was recaptured the next day.

Confederates, outflanked and outmanned, evacuated Fort Pillow in Northern Tennessee on June 4^th.  Ft. Pillow was the last Rebel garrison on that part of the Mississippi River.

June 5^th saw President Lincoln establish diplomatic relations with the “Negro nations” of Haiti and Liberia.

The city of Memphis, TN was surrendered to the Union on June 6^th.

On June 6^th, a short skirmish was fought on Good’s Farm near Harrisonburg, VA.  Stonewall Jackson’s forces had given way before the superior numbers of John C. Fremont.  Fremont advanced from Harrisonburg toward Port Republic.  A Rebel unit under newly-promoted Brigadier General Turner Ashby formed the rear guard, covering Jackson.  The 1^st New Jersey Cavalry attacked Ashby’s forces, but Ashby defeated the attack.  In a subsequent infantry fight, Ashby’s horse was shot from underneath him.  Not hesitating, Ashby continued to charge on foot and was killed. 

We Can Stop the Madness

Image from Dr. Seuss

Copyright © 2012 by Ralph Couey

There was a time when I was passionate about politics.  I lived it, I breathed it.  I drank deep from the cup of partisanship.  The world, in my mind, was divvied up into two factions:  Us and Them. 

Anything said by “my” side had to be the unvarnished truth.  Conversely, every word rendered by the “other” side was assumed to be skewed and distorted, if not an outright lie.

It was about this time that I attended a course entitled “Critical Thinking.”  Critical thinking is actually a process; a learned and practiced skill.  And a vital element of any deliberative research endeavor.

Critical thinkers probe patiently and deeply for the truth, challenging equally the “facts” of both sides.    The real revelation comes when those methods are applied to the wares of the political marketplace.  What shocked me was the sheer amount of deliberate deception.  Leaders venerated as honest were in truth world-class manipulators.

It’s easy to be critical of those with whom we disagree.  It’s hard, however, to demand of someone we do agree with, and even respect and admire, “cite your evidence,” and then to follow up with research.  Most people are reluctant to do that because it risks popping that delusional bubble that surrounds our comfort zone.  For still others, seeking the truth is simply too much work.

Birthday

Copyright © 2012 by Ralph Couey

I awoke on Wednesday morning, and my mind, as it usually does, was accessing the list of “have-to-dos” for that particular day when my wife rolled over and said sweetly, “Happy Birthday, Honey!”

A birthday can be many things.  A day of celebration, a day of reflection, or just another day.  It is a magical thing in a way, for it’s the one day of the year when a person celebrates…themselves.  We are free to be self-indulgent and our family, friends, and loved ones are free to spoil us, even just a little.  We look around and realize that no one can pass through this life without leaving some traces of evidence of our time here on this planet.  It could be something as substantial as a granite monument, or something as ephemeral as a fading memory.  Our family loves us, our friends cherish us, even acquaintances will carry a piece of us inside.  We have touched, and been touched along this journey we call “life.”

For me, this was number 57.  An incipient collection of aches and pains reminded me that this was a number that will only increase.  But in that reflective moment between sleep and full wakefulness, a curious sense of happiness enveloped me.  It was a warm kind of feeling, different from the burning desire for wild celebration of other years.  Maybe the 6-month-long hullabaloo of relocating has left me needing a normal kind of day.

I like this shift I work.  I go in around noontime and return home around midnight.  I get a break from the big-city traffic going both ways, and the ride home in the protective cloak of darkness gives me time to think and ponder.  And every writer worth their salt needs time and space to think and ponder. 

Splitting Hairs Over Splitting Lanes

Copyright © 2012 by Ralph Couey

Several years ago, California enacted a law that legalized the motorcycle practice called “lane splitting.”  This involves the rider easing through heavy traffic by utilizing the space between the lanes, riding along the painted lane divider.  There are several very good reasons for this.  First off, it’s a way to get at least some of the traffic moving during those legendary Southern California traffic jams.  Secondly, the stop and go ooze is hard enough on a car.  A motorcycle is far more prone to things like overheating engines and burned-out clutches.  And nobody needs yet another disabled vehicle on the roadway.  It’s safer for the rider, avoiding the very real possibility of becoming the meat in a tractor-trailer sandwich.  It thins out the traffic herd and is better on the environment since there are fewer things dirtier than an idling engine.

But Southern Californians, normally a pretty laid-back group, decidedly don’t like lane splitting.

A recent survey conducted by the California Department of Transportation (CalTrans) turned up some disturbing results. 

Though lane splitting has been legal for some time, that’s news to some 53% of California drivers who thought the practice against the law.  But even among drivers who do know the law, it’s still highly unpopular. Motorcyclists, though, thoroughly love it.

But buried in the statistics was a disturbing number.  7% of drivers admit to cutting off riders and even opening their doors to try to block them.  This isn’t news to the two-wheeled set, all of whom have their private stock of horror stories to relate.

Now, 7% doesn’t sound like much until you consider the larger picture.

The Motorcycling Month of May

Copyright © 2012 by Ralph Couey

“While riding down the street one day
In the motorcycle month of May
I was taken by surprise
By a minivan of size
And a soccer mom who ruined my day”

--Lyrics twisted by Ralph Couey

With abject apologies to Edward Haley

May has been proclaimed National Motorcycle Safety Month, and across the country states are launching public information campaigns urging the driving public to increase their awareness of motorcycles with which they share our national roadways.  But it’s not only to remind motorists, it’s also for reminding the riders themselves to learn and employ safe riding habits.

Motorcycle accident deaths have been trending downward for the last few years.  That’s really good news, even though in the context of human tragedy, a single death is one death too many.  The issue is still being studied, so nobody has yet pinpointed the reasons for the reduction.  But like many others, I have my opinion.

1.      Better training.  In nearly all states a prospective rider can avail themselves of rider training courses offered through the Motorcycle Safety Foundation (MSF).  In most cases, passing the course earns you that coveted “M” endorsement on your license.  The course is dynamic, updated every year to reflect the growing body of knowledge.  As a result, new riders hit the street much better prepared than in decades past. 

2.      Better riding habits.  Though squids still abound, most riders are, in my observation, riding much safer and more defensively of late.  Much of that may have to do with the increasing mean age of riders, which has changed from the mid-20’s to the mid-40’s, a much more mature, responsible age group, well aware of the limits of mortality.  Although as comedienne Caroline Rhea is fond of pointing out, “Men don’t mature.  They just get old.”

3.      Better machines.  Technology is racing forward at breakneck speed.  Today’s bikes are engineered far better, and are therefore easier to handle than those sold even 10 years ago.  In addition, handling improvements like ABS and linked braking systems are far more common.  Tires get better each year as well.  Even the technology of road building has improved.  Any highway worker will tell you that it’s not just the same old asphalt.

4.      Better drivers.  I’m admittedly on shaky ground here, since the advent of cell phones has added a whole new level of hazard to the roads.  All I have to support my point is my own experience.  I’ve been riding for 20 years (anniversary last month, thank you very much).  When I first began, I knew how to properly execute an emergency evasion and a panic stop.  Why?  Because I had to do them both several times each month.  But in the last several years, I’ve noticed that I haven’t had to do that nearly as often.  In fact, I find I have to take time in a parking lot to practice those maneuvers in order to keep sharp.  Of course, I’ve learned several things, like don’t hang out in the other car’s blind spot, looking ahead and planning my way around hazards before they become hazards.  My instincts are far more acute.  Now when I ride towards someone waiting to turn onto, or across my traffic lane, I can look in their eyes and “know” when they aren’t actually seeing me, even though looking in my direction.  Mostly, I’ve learned to leave them room to be stupid, because they will rarely disappoint the expectation.

Civil War: Events of May 1862

On May 1st, Union troops under Benjamin Butler began entering the strategically vital city of New Orleans.

On May 3rd, Confederate General Joseph E. Johnston suddenly withdrew from the Warwick Line in the Battle of Yorktown.  The sudden retreat ceded the battle to Union forces under McClellan.

The Battle of Williamsburg was fought on May 5th.  This was the first major clash of the Peninsula Campaign, involving around 41,000 Federals and some 32,000 Confederates.  Joseph Hooker's Union division encountered the rear guard of Joseph Johnston's Rebel troops fleeing the Battle of Yorktown.  This rear guard, Jeb Stuart's cavalry, skirmished with Stoneman's Union horse troopers who had been sent by McClellan after their unexpected withdrawal from Yorktown.   Johnston, trying to buy time for his retreat, detached troops to man a large earthen fortification called Fort Magruder, straddling the Yorktown-Williamsburg road.  Hooker assaulted the fort, but was repulsed by counterattacks by Confederate General James Longstreet.  Hooker was expecting help from William "Baldy" Smith, but Smith, fearing a Confederate attack on his position, held up a little over a mile away.  Longstreet's attacks pushed Hooker's troops back.  A Union brass band playing "Yankee Doodle" managed to slow the retreat until General Phil Kearny came up with his division.  Kearny displayed characteristic dash and daring, riding out in front of the line and urging the Union troops to the attack with a wave of his sword.  The Union troops pushed the Confederates back.  Winfield Hancock's Union division began an artillery bombardment of Longstreet's left flank, disobeying orders to fall back.  After a failed attack by Jubal Early, Hancock's men executed a superb bayonet charge, rolling up the Confederate line.  The battle was trumpeted as a major victory by the Northern press, but in reality, Johnston's fight proved to be a delaying action which allowed the bulk of the Confederate army to retreat to Richmond.

On May 7th, they clashed again in the Battle of Eltham's Landing.  This time Union troops under William Franklin tried to attack the Barhamsville Road, attempting to disrupt the Confederate retreate from Williamsburg.  The Rebels successfully resisted the attack and continued their retreat.

May 8th saw the Battle of McDowell in the Shenandoah.  Stonewall Jackson pushed Union troops under Schenk and Milroy off of a strategic ridge after a fierce and bloody fight, setting the stage for Jackson's successful Valley Campaign.

Union General David Hunter freed the slaves in South Carolina, Florida, and Georgia on May 9th.  On that same day, Confederate troops destroyed military facilities at Norfolk before continuing their retreat down the peninsula.

On May 10th, Confederate ships clashed with a Union squadron consisting of several ironclads and mortar boats.  The Confederate ships defeated the Union force, actually sinking two of the ironclads, but were unable to prevent the Union navy from proceeding down river towards Memphis, Tennessee.

The New Allstate Motorcycle Insurance Ad

Copyright © 2012 by Ralph Couey

In the process of relocating, one can expect some disruptions to the even tenor of our lives, the mail being one of them.  As a result, I just recently received my June RoadRunner magazine.  For me, this has been the perfect motorcycle periodical.  I am a “go-far” rider, more content with long rides, the chief characteristic being a Zen-like communion with the world around. RR’s presentation of road trips allow me to live those journeys vicariously through the vivid photography and expressive prose.  There are bike reviews, but they are almost exclusively the kind of machines that are built for doing three states per day, rather than three-digit speeds down the local freeways.  

The issue was great, as usual. But it was the ad on the back cover that really got my attention and my dander all aflutter.

Since the day I threw a leg over my first bike, I’ve been very focused on riding safe and sane, a philosophy reinforced by three accidents over the last 20 years.  I took the Beginning Riders Course back in 1992, and to this day I can remember the instructors steady pounding of the mantra, “Use the FRONT brake!”  It was hard at first to remember.  After all, that’s how I brought my trusty Schwin 1-speed to a halt.  But as they repeatedly pointed out, there are physical forces involved in stopping a 600-plus-pound motorcycle that just don’t apply to their non-motored kin.  For example, when a rider executes an emergency stop, the weight shifts to the front wheel.  The rear tire now has far less weight, causing a corresponding reduction in frictional coefficient. Since the rear tire now has less grip on the pavement, it's going to take a lot more distance to bring the bike to a safe halt.  In addition, a likely outcome of a rear-wheel skid is a catastrophic loss of control as the the rear of the bike slides out from underneath the rider. 

The Motorcycle Safety Foundation (MSF) maintains that the front brake provides, according to recent testing, 90% of a motorcycle’s stopping capability.  With the weight shifted forward, the frictional coefficient of the front tire is increased dramatically.  This means that, properly done, a front wheel emergency stop does not have to end up as a long skid.  The increased grip can slow the bike much quicker, while still keeping the bike under control. 

Let That Be Your Last Battlefield

Copyright © 2012 by Ralph Couey

As I write this, the University of Kansas men’s basketball team is poised to begin their participation in the Final Four of the NCAA Men’s National Basketball Tournament.  As a native Midwesterner, I am delighted.  As a Big Twelve supporter, I am happy.  As a Missouri fan, I am haunted by the dream of what might have been.

Missouri had a great season, one for the books.  Under the inspired leadership of a new coach, Frank Haith, the Tigers learned the meaning of “team”; the importance of playing together with one shared vision, the prize at the end of the road. 

Mizzou wasn’t on anybody’s poll as the season began.  Having lost their “big man” before the season even started, they were forced into a guard-oriented offense that only promised difficulty against taller teams.  However, the Tigers surprised everyone,  except perhaps themselves.  As the victories mounted, Missouri crept into the top 25, then the top 10, and against all possible odds, finished in the top 5 in all the polls.  Although they lost the conference championship to the Jayhawks, Missouri roared back in the Big 12 Tournament and took home the trophy with a big win over Baylor in the final.

Fate (and Baylor) robbed the Tigers and Jayhawks of one last brawl in the conference tournament.  But thanks to an unknown scheduler, the NCAA brackets were set up so that if both teams survived, they would meet in the final game, the one for all the marbles, the NCAA final.

But fate intervened once more.  In the first round, Missouri ran into a Norfolk State team that played simply the best game of their entire lives, snuffing out the Tiger’s candle, and ending their season.

It was a heartbreaking loss, especially since Norfolk State was crushed in their next game.  I’m sure I was not the only Mizzou fan who watched those ensuing games, convinced that the Tigers could have taken both Florida and Marquette.  Louisville would have been the toughest opponent, but with luck and that inimitable will that marked their play, Missouri would have had a good chance at them as well.

That would have set up an NCAA Final for the ages.

Rebirth

Copyright 2012 © by Ralph Couey

Spring, like all the seasons, comes upon us gradually.  Wrapped in the cloak of our busy lives, we scarcely notice the change.  But on that one day that we stop and take time to actually look around, we discover the miracle.  On that day we exit our home to find that, instead of being assaulted by the cold, we are welcomed by the gentle warmth of the sun.  The brown bare limbs of the trees have exploded with life and leaves.  Flowers have begun to bloom adding their bright and cheery colors to earth’s palette.  The breeze now blows gently across the skin that was for too long hidden under protective layers. 

In the spring, earth touches us in a personal way with an intimacy found at no other time of the year.  We are eager to leave the confining walls of winter behind to embrace, and be embraced by the rebirth that is spring.

What I welcome the most is the chorus of birdsong.  Winter is a silent time, disturbed only by the raucous cry of the crow.  Now, however, the orchestra has returned and all those small voices join together in a symphony of joyous sound that fills the soul.

It’s Saturday and people are out and about.  Strolling down the sidewalk, a couple of teenage girls eat ice cream.  Bicycles and skate boards glide past.  The comforting smell of fresh-cut grass is in the air and everywhere, men dressed in their Saturday worst are mowing, edging, trimming, and planting, turning a simple lawn into a living work of art.  Others are busy with paint and tools, repairing the damage that the ravages of winter visited upon their homes.  Windows are open, freshly washed curtains swaying gently in the breeze.  The fresh, new air of spring is spreading through those rooms, taking away the last stagnant air of winter. 

Drive Into the Danger Zone

Copyright © 2012 by Ralph Couey

There was a time in America when there were no traffic laws, mainly because encountering a fellow traveler in the great trackless wilderness was actually an event of some note.  As time went on, the population, and its density, increased.  Roads evolved from forest trails to dirt paths and from there to gravel, brick, and stone.  Eventually the advent of the motor vehicle made necessary the paving of roads.  To avoid collisions, carelessness, and needless bloodshed, laws were enacted governing our behaviors on the roads and highways.  We sometimes chafe over the restrictions of speed limits and ill-timed traffic signals, but by and large we recognize that those laws are there to keep us safe, and so we heed them.

Unfortunately, there are areas where people seem to think traffic laws don’t exist.  One of those areas is the parking lot.

American frontiersman used to say “There ain’t no law west of St. Louie, and there ain’t no God west of Ft. Smith.”  It was a fairly accurate statement describing the relatively lawless nature of the west in those years.  We have come far since those days, but there are times when the “frontier” of the mall parking lot is as dangerous a place as Allen Street was in Old Tombstone, Arizona.

Parking lots are areas of high density, both vehicles and people.  And yet there are those of us who drive through them as if they were the only ones within miles.  We’ve all seen the daredevil who cuts perpendicularly across the parking lanes, and those who roar through those lots at dangerous speeds.  It doesn’t help that parking lots are generally considered private property and therefore not the purview of the local gendarmerie.  Lots have rules, but the only ones around to enforce them are the Mall Cops, and I’ve never seen them give anyone a ticket.  Not that such a ticket would be taken seriously.  I’ve never seen a galleria traffic court.  But the thing that most puzzles me are the actions of pedestrians.

Civil War: Events of April 1862

On April 4^th, as part of the peninsula campaign, Federal troops under General George McClellan began to move from Fort Monroe towards the Confederate capitol of Richmond, Virginia.  The next day, McClellan invested Yorktown, but refused to attack remaining in place until the Confederate forces under Joseph Johnston completed their withdrawal on May 4^th.

April 6^th and 7^th saw one of the bloodiest battles of the war when Union General Grant attacked Confederate General Albert Sidney Johnston at Shiloh.  Grant had utilized the Federal Navy to move his forces deep into Tennessee via the Tennessee River, camping at Pittsburg Landing.  Rather than wait for Grant to attack, Confederate forces took the initiative and attacked the Federal camp, aiming to push the Yankees into Owl Creek Swamp to the west.  But during the fighting, the Rebel lines became tangled and confused and the Yankees fell back to the northeast instead.  The Federals made their stand at a sunken road, which became known as the Hornet’s Nest.  General Johnston was killed that day and General Beauregard assume command of the Southern troops.  During the night, Federal reinforcements arrived in the person of General Don Carlos Buell’s Army of the Ohio.  On the morning of the 7^th, the combined Union troops counterattacked, forcing the Confederates to retreat.  The battle, the costliest in U.S. history up to that time, ended Confederate hopes that they could keep the Union out of Northern Mississippi  Grant was vilified by the press for the loss of Union troops, and actually lost his command to General Henry Halleck for a time.

Also on April 7^th, Union forces in south Missouri captured Island No. 10 in the vital Mississippi River downstream from New Madrid.  More than 5,000 Rebels were taken prisoner.

April 8^th saw Confederate survivors of Shiloh fall back to Corinth, Mississippi.

As part of the strategic plan to blockade southern ports, Union gunners began firing on Ft. Pulaski on April 10^th.  The fort, built in 1830 by, among others, a young Army engineer named Robert E. Lee, formed a barrier at the mouth of the Savannah River, protecting the port of Savannah.  It was thought at the time that cannons alone could not reduce such a structure, but for the first time, the Union was using a Parrott Gun, a cannon with a rifled barrel that was more powerful and accurate than smooth bores.  Over two days, the Union pounded the fort until the Confederate’s powder supply was threatened.  The Rebel commander surrendered April 11th, making unnecessary what would have been a very bloody fight.

April 11^th saw a close call for Union General Fitz-John Porter.  The new observation balloon, invented by Thaddeus Lowe, was supposed to go up, but Lowe had become ill overnight and was unable to make the flight.  Porter, instead, made the ascent.  But the balloon’s tether snapped and the balloon with the General aboard began to drift towards the Confederate lines.  A last-minute shift in the winds blew the balloon back into friendly territory.

How Much More Can We Ask?

Copyright © 2012 by Ralph Couey

World War II was a watershed event in American history.  16.5 million American troops served in theaters across the globe, from the bitter cold and snow at Bastogne to the heat-blasted coral island of Peleliu in the Pacific.  416,837 died, 683,846 were wounded.  But for those who survived physically, the specter of war remained.  What was then called “combat fatigue” is now widely known as Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, or PTSD became the silent ghost that haunted veterans decades after the war ended.  A study in 1992 estimated that as many as 56% of combat soldiers who came home carried with them the effects of too many bombs and bullets, and too many memories of good friends torn to pieces on the battlefield. 

The American participation in the war, from Pearl Harbor in December 1941 to Tokyo Bay in September 1945, lasted 3 years and 9 months.

Our modern-day soldiers fought in Iraq from March 2003 until December 2011, 8 years and 9 months.  They have been fighting in Afghanistan for over 10 years.  With the Army seemingly running out of soldiers, some veterans have been ordered back for their fourth year-long deployment.

Staff Sergeant Robert Bales was one such soldier.  By all accounts, he was a great guy, a devoted family man, and the quintessential “Sgt. Rock” to the soldiers he led.    We may never know what prompted his alleged act.  But one thing is certain.  The good man, the loving father and husband, the superb leader he was will now be forgotten.

He will be remembered instead as a killer who took the lives of 16 Afghani civilians.

I ache for those who died and for their families.  But I also ache for SSGT Bales and his family.  He should never have been there.

Humans are not perfect, and soldiers are not invulnerable.  There is only so much violence and stress someone can endure before their mind fails them.

After 9/11, we went to war in the Middle East.  Since then, Iraq’s government has changed and while the road ahead still looks rocky and strewn with potholes, it would appear that their future is a good deal brighter.  Afghanistan, though, is harder to quantify.

The Taliban were almost defeated, but seem to have mounted a bit of a comeback.  Now that the withdrawal of U.S. and coalition forces has a firm date, the Jihadists can now await our departure before resuming their drive towards victory.  Nobody seems to know whether the government of Hamid Karzai will be able to resist the inevitable attacks.

America has, to date, sacrificed some 1,800 dead and 10,000 wounded in Afghanistan in the hopes that the Afghani people could hold their own destiny firmly in hand.  If the Karzai government loses that fight, then that cost will have been paid in vain.

While combat may end next year, for those who suffer from PTSD, the war will go on for the rest of their lives.  Yes, we’ve expended billions of dollars in that conflict.  But the value of our soldiers goes beyond mere currency.  We sent them, and they have been used up.  Because of that cost, it’s time for us, We The People, to begin to ask the hard questions. 

Old Virginia

Copyright 2012 by Ralph Couey

Change is a concept that is at the same time glorious opportunity and seemingly endless adversity.  It rarely goes smoothly, not unlike a drive down a pitted and rocky backroad.  You know the eventual destination, but around each  curve and behind every hill a hundred different predators lie in wait, crouched and ready to spring. 

Change can be brought on by either choice or necessity.  In our case, it was the latter.  Because of downsizing, my day job in was eliminated and I was transferred from a small town in the mountains of Pennsylvania to the crowded and bustling suburban nexus of Northern Virginia.

I’ve lived in a lot of places in my life, both big cities and small towns.  In fact, I’ve moved so often that when people ask me where home is, I reply, “Wherever the motorcycle’s parked.”  To which my wife often grumbles, “What am I?  Chopped liver?”

But that’s me.  I’ve always been fascinated by the possibilities of what lay beyond the horizon.  My chronically itchy foot has taken me to 49 states and 28 other countries in my lifetime.  I do understand the emotional need of some to put down roots in a place where the story of their family lies on the landscape like an autumn fog.  But I don't do well with roots.  I am the proverbial rolling stone, quick to throw off even the smallest strand of moss.

Each state, each region has its own collection of qualities that take possession of the human heart and create that unique sense of belonging we call “home.”  Californians have their ocean, Coloradans their mountains.  Midwesterners look to their mighty rivers, the highways of another age.  Even Kansans are inspired by the simple beauty of the endless prairie.

I’ve always known of the affection that bonds native Virginians to their commonwealth.  But it wasn’t until I read the Civil War epic “Gods and Generals” that I really began to understand the depth of that emotion.  Now, I know that the ante-bellum Virginia of the Civil War years no longer exists.  But for those born and raised here, that passion still lives.  For them, Virginia is home.

Virginia has always been something to fight for, from the struggling settlement at Jamestown, through the stormy colonial era, the revolution, and the difficult birth of the United States, the final arguments of which were not settled until the end of the Civil War. In fact, it seems that nearly every vital story about America carries Virginia as its byline.

Last fall, I took a ride out US 50 to the Shenandoah Valley.  It was a sparkling autumn day, the leaves just past peak.  As my motorcycle glided along, I was embraced by the rolling hills, the mountains, and the still-verdant valley of the Shenandoah.  As the landscape rolled past, I finally understood what it was that drove the Virginians of that day and time to so vigorously defend this beautiful land. 

Around here, native Virginians seem to be rare. This has become a gathering place, drawing people from across the country and the world. They are a transient people, having stopped here for a time before moving on, riding other dreams to other places.

Times have certainly changed.  Once upon a time, Robert E. Lee's Army of Northern Virginia rolled like a juggernaut through the countryside. Today, the only “Army of Northern Virginia” is the hundreds of thousands who daily invade and take possession of the nation’s capital, only to surrender it again each afternoon.  None march in formation, dine on hardtack, or carry muskets.  But they all come from places which still bear the names Lee, Jackson, and Mosby.  The Potomac is no longer the barrier between two warring nations, merely just another river to cross on the way to work. 

I don’t know how long I will live here. But my strong sense of history will send me in search of those places that reflect the proud history of a great nation.  It is here that I know I will re-discover the dreams that carried them to these shores, brought them defiantly to their feet in independence, and healed a people torn by war.  The history of the Commonwealth of Virginia is inextricably intertwined with that of the United States.  You can’t tell the story of one without the other.  That, by itself, makes this a pretty special place.