CHANCE

It has been two and one half years since I last I last wrote here. I had just published my first book, The Riddle of Riddles, both on Kindle and in paperback, and I had vague plans for my next project when life suddenly got in the way. As John Lennon reminds us in his song Beautiful Boy, “Life is what happens to you while you are busy making other plans.” Ain’t that the truth.

A cascade of events that included a replacement, a renovation, and a relocation (joint,  kitchen, Dunedin, FL.) occupied my time, and that of my wife Donna. Anyone who has moved households understands the difficulties involved. We moved from a 5 bedroom, 2 bath long-line ranch on Long Island, NY, first to a 2 bedroom/1 bath condominium and then, within a month, to a 2/2 . Needless to say, downsizing was a major endeavor, and then the renovations required to bring a pepto-bismol-pink, 1975 unit up to today’s standards were major – but lots of fun too.

After pretty much settling in, I joined the Dunedin Writers Group, a gathering of about 15 to 25 writers who gather for meetings  Friday mornings. We read from our as yet unpublished works for others to critique. I read a few short stories I had written, and was so enthused by their honest criticism – both positive and negative – that I sat down and started writing a pot-boiler, a novel of dubious literary merit.

As a motorcycle maniac for over forty years (often with my two brothers – see previous posts) I had had run-ins with motorcycle gangs who sometimes monopolized the road. I did not appreciate being made to wait until they had passed before being allowed to proceed, so I invented a motorcycle superhero. My protagonist, who I named “Chance,” is a motocross champion, a karate expert, and a rich and handsome loner with some problems of his own. In real life I waited for the motorcycle gang to pass me by. In my novel my hero blasted by them on his supercharged motorcycle. The gang, of course, does not appreciate this and seeks retaliation. From there the story wrote itself. The book is titled “Chance.”

Indeed, the story did, kind of, write itself. I knew there would have to be a confrontation with the gang. I knew Chance would have to meet a beautiful girl and fall in love (of sorts), lose the girl and then find her again. From there I just let the story go – writing from the seat of my pants (a pantser as they say.) And, boy, was it fun! I allowed the story to just flow. One event led inevitably to the next, guided by my imagination. I even had dreams about certain aspects of the work that I used.

It took me about a year to finish the novel, get it proofread, edited and copyrighted. I ran into some formatting problems (more about that in a subsequent post) and I now face creating my book cover. The cover for The Riddle of Riddles came to me during one of my many musings. This cover is not being so easily realized, but I expect the book to be ready within a month. I know better than to give myself deadlines, but I have, and here we go.

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Adirondack Mountains

Motorcycles and rain do not go together. Unlike the comfort of a cage (car) in which you can employ your windshield wipers, turn on the defroster, turn up the radio, and stay dry and comfy, none of that is possible on a motorcycle in the rain.
Even with the best foul weather gear you are going to get wet. If you are not wearing a full-face helmet and gauntlet gloves each individual rain drop feels like a bee sting on the face and the back of your hands. The rain will find ways to whip around your helmet and down your neck, or seep in between your slicker pants and your boots to soak your socks (squishy socks are no fun.) I suppose that there are ways to prevent this (duct tape comes to mind), but for the most part getting wet is part of the price for getting caught in the rain.
While getting wet is merely an annoyance, wet pavement is out and out dangerous.
On a trip to find the Tennessee/Kentucky/Virginia tri-state marker some years back, we got caught on the top of a mountain during a vicious storm that blew out the lights in large sections of three states.

We had stayed in Marion, VA the night before and checked the weather before departing. A storm was supposed to pass through well to the north of us and later in the day. So we made sure to get an early start. We took this neat road, Route 16, north towards Tazewell, VA. That particular road is one of those thin-line, back roads I’ve been mentioning. It’s a great motorcycle road, a narrow lane with lots of twists and turns. If you MapQuest that route you will find that it takes over an hour to go just 30 miles, not because of any speed limits, but because of the contours of the road itself, and it’s so remote we needed to make sure there were gas stations along the way.
Unbeknownst to us at the time, a mere 4 miles in on rte. 16 we passed through Hungry Mother State Park. Legend has it that Native Americans had destroyed several settlements in the area, and taken Molly Marley and her small child captive. Molly and her child managed to escape, but Molly collapsed a short time later. Some locals came upon the child, and the only words the child uttered were “hungry mother.” A subsequent search found Molly but she was already dead. Today that area is called Hungry Mother State Park and the mountain is called Molly’s Knob (3270 ft). That’s not much of a mountain as mountains go, unless, of course, you get caught up on its top during a vicious storm.

Just like a woman, the storm changed her mind. She came in much earlier and farther to the south then forecast catching us unaware. The wind blew gale force, and its gusts came in swirls, stripping leaves from trees and sending branches crashing down onto the road in front of us and behind us. Exploding claps of thunder arrived simultaneously with numerous, vivid lightning strikes. Visibility was reduced to about 10 feet. There was no shelter, so we were forced to pick our way slowly, very slowly, down the mountain, carefully avoiding the slick, wet leaves that littered the roadway, dismounting to remove tree limbs where necessary.
We did come upon one cabin tucked into the woods just off the road. They had their lights on so we pulled over but when we knocked on their door to ask permission to park our bikes under their carport, we heard the doors lock and they turned off the lights. Since this was in the heart of red-neck country we thought it best to move on.
We continued down the mountain, picking up another rider along the way. He was huddled with his bike beneath a large tree, reluctant to ride on. When he saw us, he joined the caravan. Safety in numbers.
A couple of hours later we arrived in a two-horse town at the foot of the mountain. It was as welcome to us as Vegas would be to a cash-flush gambler. An abandoned store front with a wooden overhang provided shelter to wait out the rest of the storm, while our fellow rider regaled us with stories of his many bike trips. There is a camaraderie established between those with similar interests that makes for easy conversation. He thanked us for our company, and departed as soon as the rain passed. We executed a quick, partial change of clothes, wringing out those squishy socks. Luckily, the road was little traveled so no one caught us in our skivvies.
I mentioned that large portions of three states had lost power. That caused another problem. No electricity means no gas pumps would be working. We passed through a few small towns but all their pumps were out. At one stop a big fellow in blue overalls eyed us suspiciously at first, but warmed up quick enough as we related our dilemma. That’s not an uncommon experience with bikers. We are often mistrusted at first, but most folks seem genuinely interested in talking to you once you prove to be friendly. That big fellow now had a big grin, and he told us there was a town to the east that still had power, so we abandoned our planned route, but not our objective.
The sun came out and started drying our wet clothes and soggy boots as we started east. We found the open gas station with pumps running and were able to gas up.
Toward the end of that long day, we did find our tri-state marker, and added it to the list of our accomplishments. Then we hi-tailed it back to civilization by the quickest route possible. We were done with back roads for the rest of that day.

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Au Sable Chasm

Three grubby bikers wound up discussing forgiveness, of all things, after getting delayed by a rainstorm in upstate NY. Their original intent was to gas up, grab some chow, and continue their journey from Fort Ticonderoga up to Au Sable Chasm, but a violent rain storm changed all that.

Discussing forgiveness was not even on their radar. They were concerned with how long it was going to take for the front to pass through. When it became apparent from a smart phone weather app that it was probably going to be a lengthy wait (six hours as it turned out), they had no choice but to shelter their bikes, and then hunker down over some chili dogs and coffee.

The forgiveness discussion started after maps had been pored over exploring all possible avenues of escaping the rain, after the routes of previous trips had been reviewed, and after outlines for future trips had been recorded.

There was no direct spark that began the conversation, nor was there any unfinished business between the brothers that required more forgiveness then that they had already granted each other. Brothers are bound to butt heads over hurt feelings, women, or who Mom loved best, and those matters had been put to rest long ago. In fact, the brothers could talk about past problems between them, and shake their heads in disbelief that they could have been so selfish, so childish, and so ignorant.

But there was something about forgiveness that piqued their interest. Motorcycle joys mature with age and experience.

Forgiveness, they decided, is simple to understand, yet difficult to implement. There is the simple, superficial forgiveness of words spoken merely in the desire to just get along. Yet the mere act of saying “I forgive you,” doubles-down forgiveness. The heart of the one forgiven is eased and, at the same time, a sense of peace is granted to the forgiver the very moment the words are spoken. It’s palpable.

Forgiveness eliminates the desire for vengeance. Brother Brian described the futility of vengeance, that long, rainy afternoon, with the example of an individual who swallows poison expecting it to kill his adversary. Don’t swallow the poison. Forgive your enemies.

But forgiving is hard. I get all self-righteous, and stubborn about it. I am the one, after all, who has been wronged by that stupid mother-fucker and he doesn’t give a shit about how I feel. Fuck him! I’ll fix that bastard!

My mind goes off somewhere (close to hell), devising elaborate schemes for revenge, the nastier the better. Yeah…yeah, I know, vengeance is a dish best served cold and I will serve it cold – well…not icy-cold. There has to be some heat in it or I will not enjoy my vengeance as much as I want to, and I do, SO, want to bask in my vengeance!

Instead, the lesson is that I must forgive. As hard as this may be, its upside is that its rewards are immediate. Like a single tab of Tums, forgiveness neutralizes the cauldron of boiling bile in the pit of the stomach.

Additionally, there is a satisfaction available in realizing that our enemies are forever possessed by their demons. BUT we must not revel in that self-satisfaction because it only diminishes us. Evil-doers will remain caught in the traps of their own making until they learn to forgive themselves, and change their ways.

Forgiving one’s self can be the most difficult type of forgiveness of all.

Let’s take divinity out of Christ for a moment – just for purposes of this discussion. Christ, the philosopher, preached forgiveness. It was a central message of his ministry. He taught not only the forgiveness of others (“Let he who is without sin cast the first stone”), but he also taught forgiveness of self. Christ taught that we must admit to our own wrongdoings, our faults – our “sins”, and repent. The result is the elimination of the burden of that sin. We free ourselves to live our futures newborn, or, as some say, born again.

To brother Gregory, forgiving is two words – for giving him the freedom to let go and get on with his life. When we forgive we don’t change the past, we change our futures. Forgiving is a gift we give ourselves.

There is visible proof of the power of forgiveness. Pope John Paul II forgave the man who tried to assassinate him and the man converted to Christianity. We expect that of Popes but other examples can be taken from the news headlines. The so-called Green River Killer is a self-confessed serial killer of scores of female prostitutes. The man committed so many murders he could not even remember which victims were which. Throughout his incarceration, he showed no signs of remorse. He remained a stone-cold killer. At his sentencing, family members of his victims were allowed to speak. Most cursed him but the father of one of the victims forgave him. Only then did his stone-cold demeanor break. You can see it for yourself here.

The discussion about forgiveness made that long, rainy afternoon memorable.

After the storm passed, the brothers mounted their bikes and headed for Lake Saranac, a necessary change of plans due to the weather. The sky was still gray but the weatherman had assured them that the rain had passed.

Not so. A short run out of Ticonderoga it started to drizzle. They rode on hoping for a change for the better, but the drizzle turned into a cold, hard rain. They pushed on for another two hours, finally arriving at their lodging for the night with stiff, frozen fingers and cold, cramped legs.

They didn’t forget to forgive the weatherman.

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Maturity

Motorcycle joys mature with age and experience. Even though I was a fully grown adult when I start riding motorcycles I still had some growing up to do when it came to acting sensibly.

I had been interested in riding for years but no one I knew rode a motorcycle until the winter I got a job as a bartender down in Charlotte Amalie, St Thomas. My brother, Brian, was teaching school down there, riding his motorcycle to and from work. That was all the impetus I needed. My time had arrived.

At the age of 30, I purchased a 500cc Triumph Trophy. I taught myself the basics, with special emphasis on safety since I was scared to death of dying. Thus began my riding career. I have owned numerous motorcycles and I have been riding ever since.

Over the years, the joys I get from riding my motorcycle have matured. I still get a charge accelerating up steep hills. The roar of the engine is like that of a tiger just released from a cage expressing its need for freedom. But now when I get to the top of the hill I back off on the throttle a bit. Instead of continuing my hell-bent roar like I used to do early on, I look down the road ahead of me, the road I just crested, to see what lies beyond. If the road ahead is full of twists and turns and properly pitched pavement I might – no, I would – continue the roar. There is nothing like a good motorcycle road. Ahh! The Tail of the Dragon, Rte 129, down in Deals Gap, NC, 318 turns in 11miles. Whoo-whee! Now there’s a motorcycle road. OK…maybe I have not fully matured – yet.

I no longer take main highways either, unless absolutely necessary. I prefer the back roads as mentioned in the previous blog. First of all, you are not screaming down a four (six, eight) lane highway just to keep up with the chore-focused frenzy. Few folk are enjoying that drive. They have their eyes locked down the highway desperately looking for the off ramp. Where’s the off ramp… where’s the off ramp?

Highways are dangerous. Every road is dangerous but highways with their high speeds, wild-weaving traffic patterns, and wind-gusting monster trucks are particularly deadly. Yeah, a back road is a wiser choice.

For the most part I drive slower now too. I enjoy the ride more than the speed and it is a lot safer. Since the advent of cell phones/smart phones the dangers on the roads for all drivers have increased exponentially. This is especially true for motorcyclists. Drivers who text and drive are 23 times more likely to have an accident. And as if that isn’t scary enough, texting and driving is six times more dangerous than DRUNK DRIVING!

I live on Long Island, NY which is a densely populated area with way too much traffic. Except for extended trips with my brothers I seldom ride my bike anymore except for an occasional jaunt over the bay bridges to our barrier island where traffic is light and nature is near. Aside from the necessity for safety, slowing down also enhances sensory awareness. The Atlantic Ocean washes the shore there. You can see it, hear it, and smell it.

Roadside stream

On our latest trip through the Adirondacks that sensory awareness was most welcome. I was able to enjoy glimpses of a high, thin waterfall cascading down a heavily-forested cliff side. I could hear the joyous shrieks of children splashing in the icy waters of the boulder-strewn stream that meandered alongside the roadway. I could smell the green of freshly harvested corn fields. The pungent odors of horse manure and a pancaked skunk wrinkled my nose before being left quickly behind.

I have also learned not to ride in the rain. That sounds like a no-brainer but it is not always possible to anticipate when and where you might encounter inclement weather. On this latest trip, we had the modern convenience of smart phones with weather apps. We had heard on the news that a violent storm was to pass through the area so when we left Fort Ticonderoga to gas up, we checked the weather.

An interesting aside here. Fort Ticonderoga is not a state or national park. It is privately owned and presently run by a non-profit organization, funded by donations and park admission fees. It was purchased by the Pell family and restored after decades of neglect. They have done a great job and the fort is worth visiting for its vistas as well as for its history, including reenactments of the Revolutionary War era.

But back to the bad weather. A front with heavy rains and high winds extended from Canada down to Long Island, and was headed east. We were headed west towards Saranac Lake and there was no way to punch through that front without encountering the storm. So we just stayed put for six hours talking about forgiveness. Motorcycle joys mature with age and experience.

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Back roads lead everywhere

Take back roads whenever possible. I just got back from a five day, 1000 mile long motorcycle  trip with my two brothers through a bit of New York State’s Adirondack Mountains. Wherever possible we took back roads.

As mentioned in the first blog (The Journey is the Destination) on this website, both of my brothers enjoy motorcycling. Each of us took up the hobby at different times, and has had differing experiences, but because of our common interest we ride together whenever possible.

Our usual outings are to visit tri-state markers – just because they’re there – and because their locations are usually so far out in the boondocks they provide an excuse for us to go exploring. So far we have visited 18 of the 36 dry land markers.

Last week the three of us took a trip to the Adirondacks. This was our so-called “Lake” trip, because of all the lakes we visited: Lake George, Lake Champlain, Saranac Lake, Lake Placid, Mirror Lake, Great Sacandaga Lake and Colgate Lake. In addition we took a side trip to the summit of Whiteface Mountain, took in Au Sable Chasm, and visited with friends and family.

And we took back roads. Some pass through towns so small there isn’t even a cross street, where houses crowd right to the edge of the road, with old folks sitting on their porches who wave as you pass by. In some towns the road takes you passed paint-peeling buildings with sagging roofs that testify to a lack of work ethic. They are crumbling, dilapidated towns with barefoot children playing in the dirt too close to the road and dogs that chase you for a lap or so. Some roads circle through proud towns with meticulously mowed lawns, pots of bright flowers hung on parking meters, enormous American flags flopping lazily atop high flag poles in front of the volunteer fire departments and city halls. Each road has its own personality. Every road is unique.

Back roads take longer to traverse so you need to allow more time if you have a timetable to maintain. But that extra time is never wasted, even when you get delayed at a railroad crossing by a freight train pulling in excess of 100 cars. Depending on its speed you can be there a while. You turn off the bike, dismount, retrieve some water from your saddle bags, stretch your legs (that needed stretching though you had not yet noticed), lean back up against the bike, and watch the hawks circling unhurriedly overhead. Then, with one or two last deep knee bends, and a wave to the lone workman in the back of the caboose, you mount your bike and you’re on your way again. You never even consider checking your watch.

Some back roads become dirt roads. They are dangerous because of the loose gravel but they are the only roads that can take you to where the few choose to travel. You’ll need a good map, a gazetteer if you can find one, because dirt roads have a way of becoming narrow trails that just might turn into nearly impassable pathways. You know the ones; the ones leading to the abandoned quarry that’s now filled with water. There is always a tree by the water’s edge with a rope tied to one of its limbs for swinging out over its mirror-like waters.  Kids will be kids. Or the trail that leads to a long-ago-abandoned fire tower with its broken-slatted ladder climb to the top for vista views of hazy mountains in distant states. You’ll have to swing a leg off your bike and hike a bit to get to most of these destinations but the exercise is good for you and it’s fun.

I know. We cannot follow every dirt road wherever they all lead. There just isn’t time in a single life-time. But there is time to follow a few. Look for the thinnest lines you can find on your gazetteer. They are the roads that lead from where you are, to where you want to go, but do not yet know how to get there. Follow them. They will surprise you with the most revelations. They yield unsolicited knowledge. They are a bit edgy.

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