|10-02-2006, 10:50 PM||#1|
Joined: Apr 2006
Location: Cincinnati, OH
A dark foreign onramp...
...is not the ideal place to hone one’s cornering skills, but I found myself with a death grip on the bars, in third gear, throttle opened wide getting onto I-81 south in western
What’s wrong with me?
I am normally cautious to a fault, but there is a knot of frustration and tension in my stomach that is building and making me act out in an irrational manner.
Disclaimer: There are no pictures of breath-taking scenery in this ride report. This is more like a stream of consciousness style brain-spill of some thoughts I had while traveling from
After my morning classes on Friday I got on the bike and rode the 60 miles home to
I got on the road around 1:30pm. If this had been a pleasure trip I would have cruised my way across
I made it to the east side of
Riding on the interstate at night is like walking through the woods at night with a low powered flashlight: if there’s something lurking out there, intent on your demise, you won’t know about it until it’s too late to do anything.
I’m scanning the ever-changing shadows on the sides of the road praying that the wildlife have fulfilled their suicidal bloodlust for the evening. I’m a little tenser than I care to be and I’m paranoid; like grabbing a fistful of brake lever and sphincter-full of Sargent seat cover would actually change the outcome of a direct assault on my vertical stasis. I got up at 4:45 Friday morning and rolled into
Fast forward through the weekend and we’re back to the start: Shift into fourth, wide open, shift into fifth, wide open. The knot in my stomach has climbed into my throat and it’s choking me. Soon big alligator tears are welling up in my eyes and I start to sob like a mama’s boy whose mama has just stepped out of the room.
I’ve cried one other time in the past 7 years. That other time was in the heat of an argument with my wife when she told me that she sometimes thought that her life would be easier if we were not together. I bawled. Not because she hurt my feelings, but because I had at times apparently been an ass of such epic proportions as to make her feel that way; for shame.
I’d known Charlie Geoffrion since I was cognizant of my surroundings. He was the community grandfather; a man with the unabashed heart of a child and the strength of an ox. He had the character of a time that has all but disappeared. I fear the world will not again see men of his caliber.
I sat stoically through his memorial service. I have traditionally viewed my stoic disposition as a virtue, but am beginning to see it as a vice with which I stifle and crush my feelings. It’s not wrong to have feelings. It’s not wrong to express emotion.
I do not mourn for Charlie. I know he is at peace. I mourn for the world and for myself. I fly down the interstate trying to clear my vision; only 600 miles to home; lots of time to think.
What caliber of men ought we to be? Is that even a question even asked any more or is it instead a notion to be mocked and chortled at? Who mourns the death of a man of honor; the man who seeks to be what’s right? I heard a man who had lived through the decades speak with reason; deliberate and profound his voice rang with dignity, grace, humility, and respect for all of those around. I heard him tell of a life born of labor and of obedience to propriety. He allowed his will to flounder and his integrity gave him liberty.
It struck me like a freight train that we’ve never sought to be anything more than a generation of hedonistic complainers bent toward the path of least resistance to hell and depravity. And it cut me like a bullet when I thought how far we’d come. Instead of evolving; devolution; rancid decay; never even knew it or cared to question our brainwashing.
Now we’re always on some journey to a “higher ground,” but running like pigs possessed of demons to that downward spiral, beginning to drown.
What would it be like to be truly honest? What would it be like to love only one wife, one husband? What could we be if we didn’t fear sacrifice? In what kind of world would we live if we held wisdom aloft and understood love in its most real of senses, and were guided by truths that were flawlessly true and not our inventions? Haven’t we proven we’re fallen? Haven’t we shown that we’re foolish? Haven’t we made solid how futile we are by shunning all logic, concern or compassion and becoming so backward and bestial that we have been swallowed up in a very small world where nothing exists but one’s self? Self to the exclusion of others; self to the exclusion of reason; self to the exclusion of the cold, hard facts that would prove our moments are smothered in vanity.
I, for one, want to make it my ambition to shed this dead skin of lies and deceit. I must endeavor to try to be righteous even if its result is the end of my “self.” What caliber of man should I attempt to be? One who says “yes,” only when I mean it, and one who won’t shrink when I must become less; one who has courage to test all the clamoring thoughts that are raging and apply the one which conforms to truth. To even wash out the most cherished decay that lives deep within me.
1500 miles in a weekend is no big feat; maybe thinking straight is?
Have fun in heaven, Charlie. I’ll see you there one day.
If this is inappropriate for this forum then please delete it.
Simpleton wit. Cookie cutter delivery.
|10-02-2006, 10:59 PM||#2|
Joined: Feb 2006
Location: wheelie in purgatory, Calgary
this is great stuff...I'm glad you shared it. My sympathies to all who knew your friend.
|10-02-2006, 11:10 PM||#3|
Let's be friends.
Joined: Dec 2005
Location: Fremont, CA
Reminds me of Funeral Blues, by Auden.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
|10-03-2006, 06:43 AM||#4|
Joined: Aug 2002
Location: Toronto, ON
A very nice description of your ride.. and yes, this is considered a ride report, so it will stay in this forum..
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