Wish I had a nickel for every time I've heard that. Heard it so often that I have a ready-made smartass answer: [deadpan]"Well, yeah..... I've found that to be much easier than pushing it....[/deadpan]"
Why is that so inconceivable? It's only seven friggin' miles! We're not talking the Tour de France here! Thirty five to forty minutes. (Twenty eight-ish if I'm really kicking ass, like last Friday morning - gloat, gloat ). They think I'm some kind of god because I rode my bike seven miles down the Erie Canal Towpath???? (Think about what that says about them.... )
I like telling them " I saw deer, and rabbits and herons this morning.... what did YOU see; the back bumper of the car in front of you?" Or, "I actually enjoyed my commute this morning and am looking forward to riding home... How 'bout you"?
What makes it sadder is that many of the incredulous people live only a couple of miles from the hellhole where I work. For the record, it only takes me about fifteen minutes longer to ride than it does to DRIVE. For most of the people who live in the village, the "time savings" would be almost nil, yet they can't even conceive of riding a bike or - doG forbid - WALKING to work.....
In a very similar vein, when I ride either my motorcycle or bike and the weather is sketchy I must get told a hundred times a day "You're gonna' get WET!". Why is that so terrible? Because I don't have dry clothes and a shower at home? (Never mind that the fairing on the GoldWing diverts about 99% of the water around you....). When you were kids, getting wet and dirty was FUN! Why is it when we get older everything has to be easy, clean, dry and climate-controlled????
Pull up a glass and a chair on the screened porch and hang out a while.
This is my home.
Yeah, I know, there's another place where I spend most of my time, and it's my official mailing address, but this is my home. I'm not sure that it's possible for an innate love of a place to be passed down genetically, but since the early 1800's this land has been in my family and it just feels like I belong here. This was always referred to my grandparents as "The Old Place". I'm not sure they meant it in the Celtic sense, but to me, that fits too. My grandmother grew up here. Her childhood home burned in 1935 and the hole where the foundation was is still visible near the southeast corner of the property.
The cabin itself was built in 1929 by a gentleman named Vann R. Law. Mr. Law wasn't a relative but he obtained part of the fifty acres after one of my deadbeat ancestors lost it for taxes. The property was important enough to my grandparents that my grandfather made a standing offer to Vann Law that, should he ever want to sell, he wanted right of first refusal. The property was made whole again, sometime in the 60's.
The cabin consists of three rooms, all stuck in the 1930's.
The living room (which was actually the entire cabin, before the addition of the bedroom and kitchen):
The bedroom:
and the kitchen:
You notice that I said "living room" "bedroom" and "kitchen" but not "bathroom". Ok so it's a bit rustic... It has electricity (though it's quite possible to get by very nicely without it ) and a hand pump. (A bathroom is on the short list of the improvements to be done, since it's the biggest hindrance to us spending more time there. In the meantime, the ladies room is a camp toilet and the men's room is fifty acres in size).
As charming as it may be indoors, that's only half the story. This is what it looks like out the back door....and for at least a half mile straight back:
People often ask what body of water my camp is on, because, apparently there's some sort of mandate that camps be on water. When I say "none" they look rather nonplussed. " Well what do you do?" is the usual reaction... So what DOES one do with three rooms and a crapload of trees? NOTHING, if you don't want to. Sit and read, talk or just listen to the wind and watch the birds. Listen to the rain on the roof. Basking in the timelessness of the place and sloughing off all the "go-go-go" we all subject ourselves to every day can be a little disconcerting at first, but eye-opening and relaxing in the long run. A conscious decision has been made to exclude modern technology as much as possible. No TV, no radio, no computer, no phone and no clock. You get up when you feel like it, eat when you're hungry and go to bed when you're tired. It can be jarring but enlightening to reset ourselves like that, considering that music is my constant companion and my entire working day is dictated by a clock.
When the relaxation gets too much for even me, there's woods to be walked in, trails to be cleared or ridden on the bike, firewood to be cut - funny how when I'm up there, what would be "work" at home isn't. In the winter, there's snowshoeing and skiing.
I was telling a friend about how when I'm up there, I can go out in the woods and work for most of the morning but usually, when I stop for lunch about 2 o'clock, that's it, I'm usually done for the day. I said "It's kind of like when you're at the dentist and they put that lead thing on your chest to take X-rays; I find it hard to move". He said "It's probably all that "stuff" you let go of and leave behind".
My life has been busy, busy, busy lately. Rushing from putting out one fire to putting out another left me little to no time to reconnect with the natural world around me - the world I am of ; not just exist in.
Last Friday night, the rain put the brakes on whatever earth-shattering task I felt it was necessary that I accomplish next. I was "forced" by the weather to pull up a chair at my patio door and watch the rain and the birds still coming to the feeder.
After about ten minutes of this, I felt a strange calm wash over me. I was soothed by the slanting rain and began to really see the world outside my window. I realized just how far I'd drifted from my "connection" with the earth and the natural rhythms around me and how much I need that connection.
I noticed the row of raindrops hanging from the phone wire that goes over to the garage. I realized that, while I am most assuredly NOT a jewelry person, I would wear a necklace with jewels like that.
I'm thinking a visit to my camp is in order.... (thus allowing me to segue to my next post - coming soon).
My son has no frame of reference for the days when all service stations did was sell gas and fix cars... when they actually gave you little "bribes" like steak knives or Green Stamps to get you to buy their gas... the "click click click" of the gas pump as the numbers ticked off the dollars and gallons (and the "gallons" went faster than the "dollars").... when the different grades of gasoline had names, like Sky Chief, Fire Chief....
DING! DING! DING! DING! You know what that is? That's the sound the bell used to make when someone pulled into the gas station and ran over the rubber hose. (Ok, or - "some little bastard kids jumped up and down on it"). Those of you who are old enough to remember such things know exactly the sound I'm talking about - you can even hear it in your head.
That was the sound that brought out the guy (and it was always a guy) who not only pumped your gas, but checked your oil and cleaned your windshield.
I actually was that guy for a while when I was in high school.
I got a very vivid lesson in life during my brief tenure as a pump jockey: there are all kinds of people in the world; there are some real jerks, but there are also honest, decent folks.
I had a customer come in and ask for five dollars worth of gas (hey, back then, that was a half tank or so), which I dutifully dispensed. He handed me three dollars. I said:
"Uh, Sir, it was five dollars"
"No, I only said three..."
His word against mine - what was I going to do; take two bucks worth back out? Guess where the other two bucks would be coming from? My pay. He left me pretty disgusted and angry.
Only a few minutes later, another customer came in - out of state plates- and asked for a fill-up. I topped off his tank and it came to ten dollars. I rang his gas card through and he went on his way. A couple of minutes later, he stopped back in.
"Are you sure it was only ten dollars?", he asked.
"Yeah, look, see? The pump still says $10.00" (No one had been in since he left).
He pointed to the other side of the pump that read "$14.00".
"Are you sure it wasn't fourteen?"
"No, no, I'm sure I pumped your gas from this side..."
He scribbled on the gas card receipt, stuffed it in my shirt pocket and said:
"There's my name and address - if you come up short, let me know and I'll send you the four bucks".
Where is it written that humans must surround themselves with noise and babble? Why must we be constantly "entertained"? Why are people so afraid of silence? Why do we need to surround ourselves with TVs playing to no one, talk radio that no one's really listening to? Why would we want to surround ourselves with so many things vying for our attention and more often than not, trying to sell us something?
I know, I know, a guy with a surgically attached iPod should be the last one to throw stones at his own glass house, but the omnipresent, constant din of TVs and other mindless babble has started to push me over the edge. I sat in my camp in the woods one day and just listened to nothing. Yeah, it was a bit unnerving - at one point, I thought to myself: "This is what the inside of a tomb must sound like... for eternity"- but it was also soothing.
I went into a warehouse area at work the other day, and the quiet enveloped me like a warm blanket. The calm that came over me surprised me. Sometimes you get so inured to the cacophony that you don't realize the presence of the noise...until it's missing. Yeah, I work in a factory, it's noisy - DUH- but it's more than that. It's inane chatter among co-workers, it's other people's phone calls - mindless and otherwise and it's not one, but TWO TVs in the lunchroom - often on different stations. Some days even a microwave isn't fast enough to get me out of there.
All that's bad enough, but what made me borderline Postal was a trip to the dentist. I wasn't in the waiting room long enough to be driven mad by the drivel spewing from the TV in there, but when I got to the hygienist's chair, I was surprised to see TV's at each station, tuned in to a talk show.
Now, since I don't watch TV, I may be more sensitive than most, but is it just me, or are talk shows the absolute epitome of mindless crap? The host breezed through about four guests in a half hour, asking the most inane questions of absolutely no substance. As if that weren't enough, this was punctuated by obviously artificial applause and peppered with commercials, it seems like every 30 seconds. It was so disjointed and rapid fire, it was almost disorienting. It bordered on the "Ludovico Technique" used to punish Alex in "A Clockwork Orange". He had no choice but to watch, yet millions of people subject themselves to this willingly every day? Maybe it was aversion therapy for me, so that I'll take such good care of my teeth I'll spend the absolute minimum time in the chair? I think it worked! Most people dislike the dentist for other reasons...
There was but one antidote. The following day, I took the dogs and the snowshoes and headed for the woods. About a half mile in, I stopped and stood still. Off in the distance, I could still hear the sounds of the highway, but they were muted and barely audible. I could actually hear small clumps of snow falling off the tree branches with a soft "plop". I could hear a Downy woodpecker chipping away bark, way over my head in a dead maple; rap-rap-rap. The fresh snow even muffled the noises of nature and I felt something just meting away from me, like a heavy coating. I stood and listened for a few minutes and then continued on my way, smiling, for the first time in days.
....I go without a motorcycle? Every year, since 1983, I've ridden many, many miles on one of the four bikes I've owned. Twenty three different states, two provinces of Canada and over 150,000 miles have passed under my wheels. Now, for the first time, in some sort of reverse midlife crisis, I'm seriously considering selling, and not replacing, my bike.
When most guys hit my age, they run out, buy a V-Twin Compensator, start dressing like one of the Village People and hanging out in front of the rib joint thinking: "We bad....we bad....". Guess I'm not most guys. Does this mean I need a Corvette and a 20-something blonde named Bambi instead? Gold chains? A Rolex?
For over twenty years, my life pretty much revolved around my bikes. Vacations were planned around rallies, my friends were other bikers, my social life was deeply intertwined with the bike club. Weekends were spent on the road. The first ride of spring was almost a religious experience. It wasn't just something I did, it was a big part of who I was. (Indicative of my struggle with this was whether to use the word "was" or "am" in that sentence...).
So what the hell is my problem? What happened?
Is it because I've "been there, done that"?
After 20+ years riding, it's a valid question. I never, ever thought I'd get tired of riding. I saw people drift away from the sport and thought: "How sad - I'll never do that", but there are very few places within a day's ride that I haven't been at least once. So what's a bike without a place to ride it? (Unless of course it's just a "prop" for you to pose on, which leads us to....)
Is it because "it used to be about motorcycling, now it's a ^%@!# fashion show"?
I attended the Americade motorcycle rally in Lake George every year from 1984 right on up through 2005, when I finally gave up. It's become a textbook example of the turn toward "image" that the sport has taken. It used to be about the ride. It's gotten so bad that we were threatening to go there wearing shirts that said "Trailercade" in mockery of the fact that more and more people don't even ride there. Phony anything leaves a bad taste in my mouth, so yeah, that's probably got something to do with it.
Is it because of the one time I went pavement surfing?
I think this is probably the biggest reason - my mileage took a major nosedive after my minor accident. Still, that was ten years ago, and I've continued to ride - admittedly not with the confidence I once had, though. I no longer throw sparks off both sides of my GoldWing. Felt like someone sucked all the joy out of riding for me.
Is it because I no longer need that "escape pod"?
I think this is the second biggest factor. One of my favorite things to do was to get on the bike and just wander. ("I think I'll take the third left I come to..."). I would lose myself, both literally and figuratively. Hours and hours were passed that way. The further my marriage sank under it's own weight, the more miles I put on. I was running....just to run, I guess. These words from Steve Earle hit me right between the eyes when I first heard them:
You see it used to be I was really free
I didn't need no gasoline to run
Before you could say "Jack Kerouac" you'd turn your back and I'd be gone
Yeah nowadays I got me two good wheels and I seek refuge in aluminum and steel
Aw, it takes me out there for just a little while
And the years fall away with every mile
(The Other Kind - Steve Earle)
Mile after mile was devoured in an attempt to dislodge the clouds around me. Sometimes I succeeded, at least for a little while.
Those days are behind me now, so I no longer need that "refuge in aluminum and steel". I still enjoy riding far more than driving, but for the most part now, a motor vehicle has become just another appliance, another tool, to do a job with the least fuss possible.
On and off, I've toyed with selling it or selling it and buying something different. A sport bike? A sport touring bike? A new 'Wing? Last year, I half-heartedly tried to sell the bike - I told a couple of people I knew were interested what I wanted for it, but I never pursued it (and neither did they) - so I rode it. The slight boost in gas mileage was probably as much a reason as any.
Still, it's paid for....and I don't have to make my mind up until April or so when the insurance is due....
My earliest experiences with listening to music, were, of course, the stuff my parents listened to - mostly my dad. My earliest influences were apparently the most profound: 40+ years later their love of folk music, like Peter Paul and Mary still colors my musical taste. All I need to hear is an acoustic guitar, and it gets my immediate attention. Many of my current favorites are the musical descendants of those 60's folk groups. James McMurtry is a prime example, right down to the message:
Their love of Irish music - stuff like the Clancy Brothers- still resonates with me today, apparent in my love of bands like Flogging Molly and The Pogues: THEN:
"NOW":
I was fortunate in my earliest musical explorations to have an older sister. She helped save me from the clutches of the soulless crap that passed for the pop music of the day - Cheez Whiz like The Partridge Family, Bobby Sherman, The Osmonds and The Jackson Five. She led me astray with the stuff she was listening to - Grand Funk Railroad, Humble Pie, Black Sabbath and Savoy Brown. This led me to an epiphany in fifth grade... Our class was having a party, so I ran home to get some music. (I lived close enough to the school and this was before schools were locked down like Alcatraz). I brought in some of my sister's stuff and was very, very disappointed when it just sat there, and the OTHER crap got played. What was WRONG with people? This was great stuff! Why were they ignoring it? I realized that there was some great stuff out there that wasn't getting listened to- because people were just friggin' SHEEP! The stuff on the radio wasn't necessarily the best stuff out there. If I wanted "the good stuff" I was going to have to dig a little.
My mom, of course hated all of it, (Ok - The Moody Blues and Crosby Stills and Nash she could tolerate) so the only time we could really listen was when she wasn't home. Any time my parents went out or my mom was at work, we had the record player out and the music blasting. (Well, whatever it was that passed for "blasting", back when dinosaurs roamed the earth).
About the time I was 12 or 13 my sister began dating a guy who had -hold your breath- an 8 track player in his car! I used to sit in his car for hours on end listening to "Demons & Wizards" by Uriah Heep, "Diamond Dogs" by David Bowie and, most frequently and importantly, "Dark Side of the Moon" by Pink Floyd. I must have listened to those bass notes at the beginning of "Time" a billion times. (I'm sure "little brother" hanging around was a pain in the ass, but dammit, I was hooked...)
Eventually, my sister moved out and took her music collection with her - a blow, but not fatal, because I had my own embryonic collection by then. I also had a few of my own "sources" by then, inlcuding my friend Alvin from New York City. When he came up to visit, he brought fireworks, but also -more importantly- "fresh" music.
Some kids memorized sports teams and stats - me I pored over album liner notes and memorized who was in the bands, who wrote what, who played what.... Often, it paid off - when a band split up or someone was off on a solo project, I was all over it.
We had a "cool" music teacher in 7th grade. He strayed from his classical roots a little and listened to stuff like Emerson Lake and Palmer. One day, when he was finished with his lesson for the day, he showed us a bunch of new albums he'd just bought and asked us if there was anything anyone would like to hear. The rest of the class was mute but I said "THAT one..." and pointed to "Dark Side of the Moon". We listened to what we had time for, then went to our next class. (In my senior year of high school - six years later !-, a girl came up to me and said "Do you remember when you had Mr. Wright play that album back in Jr. High? You were right about that!" YYYEEES! )
I had a portable reel-to-reel tape player that I hooked onto the sissy bar on my bike so I could take my music with me. (I smile today when I think of that 12"x 8"x 2" behemoth versus my iPod....)
About this time, my dad bought a car that had FM RADIO! I had no idea what it was all about, but was surfing up and down the dial (there were about three FM stations back then) and all of a sudden, I heard it - "Snowblind" by Black Sabbath. HOLY CRAP! There are radio stations that PLAY THIS STUFF???? I was stunned. W.O.U.R, a fledgling station on the "new" FM band actually played "album rock" - not the same tripe the AM stations were playing, not the "edited down to three minute" versions of songs and not just the "singles". The DJ's actually got to pick their own stuff and were very, very good at it. They would play three songs and then tell you who they were. My catalog grew exponentially. (Sadly, W.O.U.R eventually became Clear Channel Corporate Whores).
My deep involvement with music became apparent in my appearance, as well. My standard "uniform" was jeans or cutoff jeans and t-shirts with rock bands on them. Now, I realize that doesn't sound all that radical, but at the time I was the only one in my small town who did such things. I had to mail order the shirts from some outfit I found in the back of Hit Parader. My hair got longer and longer. Headphones offered the means to listen at home without annoying my mother. Friends began asking me to recommend music to them, and DJ their parties.
Over the years, I went through my Heavy Metal phase, my Southern Rock phase, my blues phase, my "New Wave" phase, my "Progressive" phase, but music remained very much in the forefront of my life. I was always on the lookout for new music. When I started driving, a stereo was of prime importance. When the Walkman made it's debut, I was an early adopter. When I started motorcycling, a stereo was a much desired accessory. I started exchanging "mix" tapes with friends via the Postal service. (I didn't get into the music video scene very much, because "back in the day" they charged extra for MTV, and after watching the same three videos over and over when they let you have it for free sampling I decided it wasn't worth it).
To this day I'm always still on the hunt for new music. Despite the virtual smörgåsbord of music available on the Internet, it's still a challenge to separate the wheat from the chaff, especially since I've gotten a little jaded. It's out there, and when I find something really special, it moves me every bit as much as it did back in the days of 8-tracks.
Like the name says - as white bread and average as it gets! Blue collar job, ranch house, 1 dog, ....politically midde of the road (leaning to the left) - you get the picture: If you compiled every demographic statistic and charted them - my picture would be smack dab in the middle of Boring Land
