Bill Along The Way

For a few years now, I've had an ancient steel mountain bike stashed at the crew dorm in Mechanicsburg Pa. where I spend way too much of my time. It's cabled to the rack outside but I try to keep a cover over it so it doesn't rust into oblivion. It's a story in itself that'll wait for another post.

I took it out for a short hop the other day and ended up on one of my go-to loops. On this one, I head south from the hotel to get out of the worst of the traffic, cross a ridge and drop down to McCormick Road, east a ways to a tee and then back over the hill to the bike rack. It's about 14 miles and ends with a downhill so I can coast most of the way in. McCormick Road is a bonus.

McCormick is a slow-moving two lane that follows Yellow Breeches Creek. It must be on a lot of loops because I almost always encounter other bikes when I'm on it. There's some beautiful old homes and farms set back off the road and the shade is nice on a hot day. I took some pics earlier this spring on a much cooler afternoon...

Lots of people use the creek for tube-floats and kayaking too and there's a narrow roadside park that I've found requires extra care lest you get doored by somebody jumping out of a pickup. The scenery is worth it though so I ride it whenever I can.

This day, I had just started down McCormick from the west end when I met an older-looking guy riding the other way on a hybrid. We waved as riders of any civility should when passing and he said something I barely heard about it being easier going the other direction. Just a casual nod and a comment to each other and then off on our opposite ways.

A bit further down, I stopped for a minute to catch a pic with my phone and there he was again, now going the same way as me. After he passed, I caught up with him on an uphill where he was slogging a little and sort of startled him when I called 'on your left'. I pulled up beside him and asked if he was a local, which he turned out to be and just like that...we started chatting. He was very thin but chugging along at a pretty good clip. We rode together all the way to the end of the road till we hit the tee where I would turn left and he would turn around. He said he was doing three laps of McCormick to get in shape and suddenly there we were, sitting at the end of a country road in the shade, talking like we'd known each other for years.

He told me about the annual ride he was going to make with his brothers which was why he was working on his legs. He said they had ridden rail-trails from the C&O to the Pennsylvania Grand Canyon even though he was the oldest of them at 72. They've been doing it quite a while with a skip last year due to pandemic but are back at it again this season.

Turns out the group ride began after he was diagnosed with colon cancer years ago and took some bad advice to hold off on treatment. Surgery and a biopsy eventually discovered it had metastasized into his lymph system and suddenly it was stage 4 and the surgeons allowed he had maybe one or two years to live. His prognosis was slightly off however since two years had turned into almost ten and here he was, riding a bike and planning an overnight trip of more miles than a lot of younger, healthier people I know would even attempt. He listed off all the things he'd done for therapy since his surgery and what it had done to him but still hadn't told me his name. He talked about how so many people give up when something awful like his diagnosis happens to them and suddenly they just fade away until they die. He decided he wasn't going to do that and got on a bike for the first time since he was a kid...and that became the annual ride with his brothers.

He laughed when he told me he felt like a menopausal woman these days because he's taking testosterone suppressants as part of his treatment and now has hot flashes and takes bone density supplements. The drugs make it hard to hold muscle mass too so he faithfully does his laps. The blood thinners he takes give him purple splotches under his skin and made a scratch on his leg bleed till it filled his sock but he just shrugged. He and his docs are tinkering with doses and meds to keep him on an even keel and the pedals turning. 

Eventually he mentioned that his name was Bill and the conversation went on. He said he was hoping to hold his illness off, make it to 80 or 90 (which I think he just might) and stay on the bike as long as he could. We talked about battles with depression and failed marriages and work but it never felt maudlin. It was just life. 

He told me of adventures and people he'd met along the way...the paraplegic that rode a hand-bike and the writer for 'Railroading' and 'Trains' and he talked about the brother who couldn't ride because of Alzheimer's and so many more. We shared ride stories and family stories and waved at the passing pickups loaded with kids, tubes and coolers now packed up and headed for home.

I think we sat there for most of an hour until I realized I still had a ways to go to get back for some dinner and a couple hours of sleep before the phone rang and he said he needed another lap before he called it a day. We shook hands and wished each other well. Like the oldsters we are, it never occurred to us to swap emails or platforms or even last names. It was just Bill and Harold once in a lifetime and that was enough. 

As we got our bikes hitched around and aimed in opposite directions, he turned and said that even though we'd almost surely never cross paths again, he was glad we'd met and he'd remember me. He said he believes chance meetings with people you come across makes life worth the trouble. We shook hands one more time and with another wave, pedaled off our separate ways.

On reflection, I don't know why this one little event among so many in two completely different lives seems so important...but it does. I wonder at the way everything lined up for it to happen at all. It just felt good and somehow felt right.

So Bill...wherever we go and however it all ends up, I too have a memory from a hot day in July on the corner of McCormick and Lisburn that I will keep...an hour of friendship with a stranger on the road that will last a lifetime.

 I guess that makes it feel a lot like hope.

Nobody Wants Your Miserable Job

I've seen a ton of posts on unsocial media of late claiming "Nobody wants to work anymore", presumably put up by self declared superior beings who actually are working or just feeling like busting on someone else because it's trending.

My take on such idiocy is that the pandemic just might have given people a chance to get off the hamster-wheel for a while and rethink the capitalist nightmare.

Maybe working at minimum wage jobs or less-than-minimum-plus-tips with little or no benefits, juggling child care and transportation...or maybe even making out ok but still not doing well made them realize that living paycheck to paycheck and crisis to crisis for ungrateful business owners and detached corporate 'human resources' departments might not be all there is to a working life. Even for those who did keep working through the pandemic, the outpouring of praise was only sporadically matched by anything of substance. 'Essential" and "Heroic" didn't exactly translate into grateful very often. 

Maybe people looked around at the pandemic landscape and realized that to much of the business world, they were absolutely expendable. When commerce fell off the cliff during shutdowns and quarantines, many (notice I didn't say all) businesses and industries cut their losses by cutting people first and now they're crying because the first to go aren't lining up to be the first to come back to do it all again next time.

Many companies of all sizes lobbied hard against raising minimum wages for those that were left and others are fighting tooth and nail against unionization, better healthcare, better working conditions and meaningful retirement plans. All this is 'socialism' and anyone who wants it at their workplace is looking for 'something for nothing'. Does anyone blame a big chunk of the workforce for not being exactly overjoyed to jump back in?

The list of businesses that got CV19 taxpayer-funded relief is long and distinguished and the money they received is hardly mentioned but "nobody wants to work" is the hashtag. "People are looking for a handout instead of a job" is the narrative but corporate America happily took far more in government bailouts than individuals and I haven't seen one post harping on the business world. Why is that? Why is the vaunted 'free market economy' not able to adapt to a new reality that people are less willing to be used and abused by their employer? Why is it going to be catastrophic if the minimum wage increases? I thought that was how capitalism is supposed to work? If you can't make it in the marketplace as it is, your enterprise fails and someone who does it better takes the cake. Labor is going to cost you more these days. Evolve or go under. That's what you've told your workforce for years. 

I know small businesses got crushed by the pandemic and many companies large and small went belly up but that's not the issue I'm talking about. I also know that lots of businesses did bend over backwards to help their people and that shouldn't be forgotten either but that's not what makes me so angry.

My point is that the trend to point fingers at working people and let employers off the hook is wrong. This is when we'd be better off demanding a paradigm shift in how business treats it's workers. Maybe when they're not seen as just 'headcount' they'll come back. Maybe when there's something to come back to that isn't the same old same old. Maybe when they don't need a job-and-a-half or two plus public assistance to live above the poverty line (are you listening Walmart?) or a future that goes beyond next week or the next stockholder meeting, they'd be a little more enthusiastic. Maybe "You're just lucky you have this job..." isn't enough anymore. Maybe if they thought they could make a little more than a fraction of a percentage point of what the CEO makes they'd feel more like diving back in. Maybe...

Here's some thoughts for the titans of commerce...pay your people a wage they can live on and treat them with a little dignity. Worry about the things they have to worry about...housing, childcare, transportation, healthcare, retirement...things your upper echelons take for granted. These aren't 'something for nothing', they're value for services rendered. You pay CEOs exorbitant packages to allegedly attract the best (and pay bonuses even when they fail both the company and the stockholders) and yet can't fathom why your lowest paid employees deserve anything less. You want the best? Pay fairly for it. You want to retain them? Give them reasons to stay instead of reasons to leave. Ponder for a bit why your working people are unwilling to take yet another increase in their healthcare premium or a wage freeze while you require they also take on the workload of the people you figured you didn't need anymore. Demand from yourselves what you demand from them. And stop blaming your failure to adapt to a changed reality on those you've already bled white.

"Nobody wants to work" is putting the blame on an awful lot of people who aren't lazy...they're just tired of living and dying for a wage they can't survive on for people who just don't care.

I Know Your Name

Is it strange to sometimes weep? 

I mean...after all, we're supposed to be manly-men right? Nothing as foolish as songs or books would ever faze us in the stereotypical world. Memories of people long gone and hurts from only an hour ago just sail on by without a nod from real men...right? That's what the hard-man, boomers are supposed to be like isn't it? Raised by the Greatest Generation to stare at hardship with steely eyes, unquivering lip and a heart that fears only fear itself. I've heard that over and over for most of my life...

And yet...sometimes...for no good or apparent reason...I find myself choking over lyrics. Or having a hard time blinking back tears because a memory of some old pain suddenly took hold and wouldn't let go. Maybe I've been staring out the window for an hour and I don't know how I got there. Or the mirror looks back at me with eyes I don't recognize. Then some nights are long with dreams that only end when I wake up crying out and can't remember why.

I know the name of this thing. It runs in my family. It has led me to some strange places. 

The Chopper

 I've waited almost all my life. It's a little strange I guess because most people I know wouldn't have. They'd have stalled off something else or borrowed the money or worked more or something...anything...but I never did. Something else always came first. Call it a failing of mine...doing something that was only for me has always been a tough one. Something was always more pressing than something I just wanted.

But that's not the story. I guess it all started with my older brother. He's 'First Family' and so was considerably further along in age and rebellion than I was when I first started to have real memories of him. He was a biker at the time and a trial to my parents and so of course I followed along.

It's a little hazy but I remember a purple panhead chopper with lace paint on a peanut tank parked in the yard. It might have had upswept pipes and a glide front end or that may be a conglomerate memory of more than one bike. There was quite a few of them. I do know there was a legendary Sportster that got its controls switched because he was left-handed that ended up vertical against the wall of the garage when the throttle stuck and the clutch was on the wrong side. I can still hear the crash.

There were frames being raked and fenders being sawed all the time. The neighbor kid had a V-Twin torn apart in his bedroom that leaked oil down through the ceiling into the kitchen...to his mother's dismay. I knew what 'Frisco pegs' and springers were in grade school. I copied all the biker stuff I saw on my brother's jacket onto my brown-bag book covers even though I had no idea what it all meant. My teachers probably thought I was on my way to prison by 6th grade. I'd been front to back through A.E.E. Choppers catalogs and 'Easyriders' magazines from my brother's stash a thousand times when Mom wasn't looking. She likely would have killed us both if she'd known...

It goes back so far that I have a vivid memory from the playground of Caroline Elementary of a comic book ad for a mini-bike chopper that I absolutely had to have. I dreamed of riding it to school (all of about 6 miles) one way or another before I even knew what a license was. If I could just come up with whatever it cost to buy it back then...shipping was free. Somehow my lawn mowing money never added up to quite enough.

In substitute, there were sissy bars on bicycles and hours tinkering to get a 24 inch wheel on the front of a 26 inch bike because everybody knew the front wheel had to be smaller. I hummed 'Steppenwolf' and 'Iron Butterfly' while I stripped the flats off seat and axle nuts with a 12" Crescent wrench. In summer, the garage was littered with Dads tools, scrounged up bicycle carcasses and a pack of kids trying to put the pieces back together. Tires were an endless challenge but pliers and hacksaws abounded. Some of the results were probably as dangerous as they were epic to us.

 I know I built a catastrophically poor-riding thing out of a Schwinn spider-bike with abandoned Z bars found on a shelf and silver-spray-painted electrical conduit hammered over the forks to make them longer. The front end refused to stay on the ground it was so off-balance. I know the front wheel wobbled about an inch all the time because truing spokes was sort of like black magic to us and the axle nuts were usually loose anyway. It had almost nothing for brakes and I believe I was on that quivery creation when I went down in loose gravel coming off a hill and scoured most of the skin off my front from collar bones to navel.  Didn't matter. I rode it till it fell apart.

It went a little sideways when I finally got my first actual motorcycle. Harley was the only thing officially allowed for choppers but Honda was what I could afford. All 100cc's of it. I sawed off the muffler (when I got out of the hospital after the first ride...but that's another story) and another Honda dirt bike followed. I loved riding in the woods and trails and eventually got a real license to ride on the road (legally for once) between trails. The worries of trooper cars and tickets subsided and again, I rode the thing to destruction but the chopper didn't materialize.

There came a very used blue Yamaha 650 twin with a Kerker exhaust for the first street-only bike. It was loud and sort of looked like a Triumph if you squinted right. Then the first actual Harley...an '80 Roadster that I financed and bought brand spanking new from a dealer in Syracuse.

 That was as close as I ever got to customizing when those same old Z bars ended up on it, a shorty exhaust got hung and 4 inch extension tubes went in the front end. I rode it to Florida twice that way and had my longest single-day mileage on it. I loved that bike but eventually traded up for a Super Glide and finally had a big-inch. That's the one I still have 39 years later. It's had a few changes but after so long, it still wouldn't take too much to put it back to stock. It's got a whole lot of miles and history on it and I would never let it go after all this time. We've been through too much together.

But it still isn't a chopper.

Somewhere in there was a short flirt with a Kawasaki Z1 with an 1100cc kit in it. That was in fact a true custom but it really wasn't what I was looking for and besides, it was probably going to kill me. It was insanely fast in a straight line but with about a 10 over girder front end, rigid frame, no front brakes and that engine...it reminded me of the Schwinn all grown up and overdosed on steroids. It was even green like the pedal bike. I sold it before the inevitable.

Through it all, the years of being a road captain for ABATE of NY, the MSF Rider Course instructing, poker runs, MDA rides, the miles and miles of road...assorted other bikes and adventures...all of it...there's always been that dream of a bike built the way I want it. I always have a picture of it in my head...the way I did when I thought of the one with the Briggs & Stratton engine so long ago...and by now it's a very 'old school' vision. 

It must be black of course, shovelhead motor, drag bars, not-too-radical glide front end, 2 into 1 turnout pipe, a touch of chrome on the engine, sprung frame because I'm old, open belt primary, possibly a suicide shifter just to keep it interesting and a fuel tank with range to go more than around the block. Just enough sass. It sorta looks like this but not really...this one isn't mine.

Nothing like the excessively excess look in style of late with the stupidly fat back tires, almost no seat, miles long front ends, ridiculously big engines and pipes that dump straight down. Extreme everything. Or the other one I see all the time...ape-hangers on a bagger with dub wheels. Everybody wants to be either the 'Mayans' or 'OCC' because they saw it on cable. It all went sort of mainstream somewhere while I wasn't looking. 'Sons of Anarchy' became a thing...I'm not sure what but it was a thing. Showpiece choppers of obscene price got 'commissioned' by sports stars who may or may not ever ride them from a couple of loudmouth drama queens because Discovery Channel. It's come a long, long ways from 'Easy Rider'.

Even Harley got in the game with 'factory customs'. They're selling corporate designed and approved bikes that start at up to $44,000...just add a few grand more in accessories and you've got your sorta-kinda-chopper. The good news is that most of the parts will fit and they might even throw in a tee shirt or a belt buckle. I'm glad they're making it work but I'm old enough to remember getting run out of the dealerships when they were only looking for dentists and lawyers to buy 'Glides. It wasn't always so cheerful.

In truth though, the new stuff is probably not much different than exhaust stacks, metalflake paint and 6 foot sissy bars were in another time. But I just can't. Trendy never was part of it and that was the point.

Anyway, back to where I started...I've been the strangest kind of biker. I've owned motorcycles non-stop since I was 16 but never the chopper I was after. I'm in my sixties now, kids are grown and gone and I'm sneaking up on retirement but the long, low bike in my head stays only there. After all this time, there's still a mortgage to pay, a furnace to replace, a roof that needs shingles, payments to make and all the etcetera etcetera's that have kept that dream out of my garage for about 50 years. I guess you always need a goal to work towards but time is getting a little shorter as the years go along.

I don't know if I'll ever realize that dream I dreamed when I heard a kick-start Panhead through fishtails for the first time...but hey...someday.

The Buck Stops Where?

"The Buck Stops Here"

When someone claims to be the leader of a movement, he must accept responsibility for the actions of his followers. The captain of every ship that ever sailed knows that they are ultimately responsible for the actions of that vessel and everyone on it. Command comes at a price.

Everyone who has ever carried the mantle of leadership and authority or who has others in their care in any capacity understands that there is a cost to be borne for that privilege.

Power without accountability is tyranny. Power without consequence is criminal. Power without compassion is tragedy.

A man who accepts the trappings of power that go with an office of such import as the Presidency and who will not also accept the ultimate responsibility of command...is unworthy of the title.

He is responsible for what happened at the Capitol. Whataboutthats don't change it. Deflection and comparisons don't excuse it. He called his 'base' to action and they obeyed. He knew exactly what was going to happen. He led and others followed...the blame is his. That's the true cost of sitting behind the big desk.
Make no mistake...the man at the bully pulpit preached insurrection and revolt because he didn't get what he wanted. He used the awesome power of his office to corrupt and deceive.

True to form, he didn't even bother to head the march to the Capitol himself as did better men such as Dr. King when their belief and cause led them to risk all. He stood behind bulletproof glass and sent the believers on their way. He didn't link arms and stride proudly with them into history. His face isn't going to be in the photos of what he did because he wasn't there. He didn't risk anything. He calculated correctly that he could get others to do it for him. He let his faithful be on the point of the charge. As he so often has, he thought of them as useful but ultimately expendable. He let them do the dirty work while he watched it all on television from the house he doesn't even own. He led from behind.

Ultimately, the future will judge. Millions of words will tell thousands of stories of what happened. Hundreds of historians will defend their theses and pundits will analyze for a generation. How it all unfolds from here remains to be seen and I am probably the least qualified to even remotely predict what the next few years will bring. But what I do know is that one man abdicated his right to lead and undid any good he may have done. His inability to react with grace or dignity when it really, truly counted will be his legacy.

Year End and Down

Here we are again. 2020 is going into the history books almost universally described as the worst year in pretty much everyone's memory...mine included.

It's been a tough one. The pandemic is on top of the list of course. Navigating the crisis is exhausting. Masks, rules, statistics, misinformation and the seemingly inevitable conspiracy lunacy over the whole thing takes more energy than I seem to have most days. It seems like most people either don't believe it or are dying of it and it wears me out.

I miss people. I miss my Dad who I haven't seen since March for fear of bringing him a life-threatening illness that I've likely been exposed to. I'm sad that my son couldn't visit this year. I'm tired of not seeing either of my kids. I'm angry that people still don't care enough about anyone but themselves and their 'personal liberty' to even try to slow the virus down. Just call it fake and have a party.

Work has kept me off balance since the spring when they officially stopped being a railroad and embarked on a new mission to do nothing but generate money for hedge funds. People have left in droves or gotten fired or caught the virus and the few who have too much time in it to get out are miserable...that would include me. There's not enough people, locomotives or hours. Arbitrary deadlines abound and it feels like some overlord in Atlanta is watching every move waiting for you to make a mistake so they can fire you. This too is exhausting.

Even time home isn't really time. I can't sleep while my mind races with too much input and I wind up waking up early and just spinning. My Mom used to say I was like a duck...calm and collected on the surface but paddling like crazy underneath. I've been paddling a lot these days. I know some of it is the dark and the season but the pond seems especially choppy of late.

I miss so much. Skating. Skating is probably out until the vaccine trickles down from Washington and Hollywood and Wall Street to those of us 'essentials' who've been expendable through the whole thing. I need to skate and feel music again.

I miss biking. I saw so much of the world from a bike saddle but now there just never seems to be time or energy. I used to ride in the winter, in the dark, in the rain but somehow it just seems like I can't ever find the pedals. My old friend the blue Trek has hung in the garage for almost two years without turning a wheel. I feel a little empty every time I think about it. I've gained 20 pounds and lost my legs and I can't seem to do anything to fix it.

Even the old SuperGlide sits mostly dusty and unused. I pulled it out a few times last summer but never got very far. I think I burned about 3 gallons of gas. 

I guess I'm like so many in the world these days...somehow lost, a little bitter, a lot worried, sometimes scared, often angry, always on edge. I'm on a circus wire with the wind blowing and the lions are loose in the ring below. There are times when it's paralyzing. I'm jumpy and short-tempered and I know it. A song came on when I was driving home last week and I found myself wiping away big tears for no apparent reason. The world just seems so broken. Sometimes I seem broken.

I know I should thank my lucky stars that I'm where I am. I have a wonderful woman to be my best friend, I have a home, I'm still working when so many are not, there's food in the fridge and so far at least...I haven't caught the virus. I'm wildly fortunate and I know that too but this time of year and particularly this year...I'm struggling.

Someday maybe this thing will leave me alone. Sunny days and a vaccination would probably help. I have some time off coming in May so there's that to at least look forward to. In the meantime...I'll do like I always have...dig in and do the best I can. Check a couple things off my to-do list and take a good day whenever I can get it.

If I can just make it through to spring...

The Black Revisits

The holidays are here again. I hate this time of year so much and I doubt that'll ever change. It's just the way I'm wired I guess. It's my old dark place. So dark I know it as The Black.

I've said it many times here on these pages that I just can't stand the expected and required happiness for a month over something that is basically a commercial enterprise. This year will be more of the same.

As a bonus, this time around we have a pandemic where everyone is either (hopefully) staying home and thinking about others or (for some) ignoring all warnings and having big family gatherings to share in the Covid-19. 

The railroad is keeping me exhausted and off balance which doesn't help. I'm working relentlessly as the virus and quarantines makes the rounds of the terminal 

It always manages to make me sad...sometimes more than others.

I struggle every year. I miss my sons. I miss sunny days. I don't laugh much and when I do, it feels like I'm faking. It catches me off guard...when I'm driving or almost asleep. Or a memory sets it off or a stray thought leads down the wrong road. I find myself listening to unhappy songs again...angry music or sad. Somehow it appeals to me when nights are so long and days are so dark.

I know that I will get over it and through it like I always do but someday...I hope it isn't so hard. 

And maybe when spring is somewhere near and 'the holidays' are behind once again, The Black will slink back into the places where it hides and leave me alone for a while so I can smile.