Got word that a friend of mine is riding from Florida to Moonshine, IL for the Annual Moonshine Lunch Run. After eating at Moonshine he is headed back to Florida. Most are probably unfamiliar with Moonshine, IL. It is literally in the middle of nowhere and if you are not sure where it is then it is very difficult to find. It has a whopping population of 2 registered residents and a single building. In this building you can get the best burger of your life.
But Moonshine and the fact that you can get the best burger is not what I’m going to talk about—beyond what has already been mentioned.
Why would anyone ride over a thousand miles to eat a burger? Are there no burgers in Florida? Well, that’s not the point and if you fail to see the point, then much of what follows will be beyond your comprehension. It is not the destination, it’s the ride.
Writers have exhausted the thesaurus trying to find the right combinations of words to adequately describe why long distance riders do what they do. To be a long distance rider you must:
Enjoy solitude – Even when you ride in a group you ride solo.
Tolerate pain – Riding long distances, regardless of how comfortable you think your seat is, is painful.
Turn a blind eye to inclement weather – Any long distance ride will ultimately come in contact with intense heat, cold weather rain, hail, dust storms and/or high winds. Often times your ride will include many (if not all) of these climatic conditions in a single day. Ride through it and come out the other side.
Look danger in the eye – Riding is inherently dangerous. The longer you ride the higher the potential for an unwanted encounter. Live with this fact and do not let it dissuade you. You can hide in fear if you like, but by doing so you rob yourself of accomplishment.
Be not disturbed by the wrong turn – A wrong turn is nothing more than an opportunity to see something you would have otherwise missed.
Expect the unexpected – Every ride, whether short or long, often has unexpected events that may alter your plan, your day or your life. If you are not comfortable with the unexpected then long distance riding is not for you.
Enjoy the little things – I have yet to be on a ride when something did not happen that made me smile. Often it is a little thing—the look of a small child from the back seat of a car, the unexpected encounter with an old friend, the sunrise or the sunset… any of these can brighten your day and enhance the ride. The little things make it all worth it.
These and other attributes are required to be a long distance rider. If you are fearful of the unexpected, bow to intimidation, back away from discomfort then you will never understand the long distance rider. And we don’t expect you to. Words cannot define what we do and we have long since stopped trying to define what we do—we just do it.
To my fellow long distance riders. Enjoy the road, ride safe, and if you happen to pass through Moonshine on a Saturday morning, stop in and get the best burger of your life.
If you have been reading my blog you probably know I wrote a book. “Solitary – Without the Confinement.” The book went public on the 30th of January. According to the publisher (one I am quickly losing faith in—but that’s another story) the book will eventually find its way to the shelf’s of major book outlet stores like Barnes & Noble and Books-A-Million—as well as others. When I first approached the publisher about my book one of their questions was, “What type of book is it?” Meaning is it a documentary, adventure, fiction… I could not really answer their question.
They told me they would assign a “genre” when it got close to the publication date. Imagine my surprise when they categorized it as a “philosophy” book. If you know me personally then I am sure that makes you laugh as you know I am no philosopher. In fact I needed to let spell-check provide the correct spelling of philosopher.
I rolled with it in the beginning as I really didn’t think it mattered all that much, but now I think it may be a problem when it comes to book sales. I mainly wrote the book for the hard-core rider as I think only the hard-core rider will fully understand the premise of the intent. Therein lies my dilemma. First, no hard-core rider is going to go to the philosophy section of a book store to look for a book. That is not to say a rider lacks the ability to understand philosophy—I think a rider may understand it more than most. The difference is a rider (especially a hard-core rider) does not learn philosophy from a book—they learn it through life events while traveling the road less travelled. A true philosopher (by that I mean a book taught self-proclaimed philosophy guru) will buy a book and learn from reading; or rather think they learn from reading. A self-proclaimed philosopher cannot conceive of building a philosophical base from the saddle of an iron horse.
I submit building a philosophical base from the saddle of an iron horse is one of the best way to learn life’s lessons.
So, what does all that mean? I have no idea because I am not a philosopher. In fact, I’m not really sure what a philosopher is. What do they do? Is it a full time job, do they get a paycheck for their efforts?
Some will buy the book and enjoy what is between the first and last page and others will not understand. I think, I don’t know for sure, but I think if you read it and do not understand at least a little then maybe there is something missing—something you need to try and find. Of course there is the opinion that I’m a lousy writer and the thing missing is writing skill.
Not sure why I wrote this blog. It really has no point to it. If I were a philosopher I could write pages and pages on the purpose of a point and the lack thereof. But I’m not, so I won’t. When a philosopher speaks all stop to listen. When I speak people look at me funny and start to giggle. It’s true I can speak to a bunch of dogs and get their undivided attention… but that might have something to do with the bacon I carry around in my pocket.
I was going to add some quotes from famous philosophers but had no idea what they were talking about. I was afraid someone might ask me what their quotes meant which, if I tried to explain, would result in the suspicion of my lack of intelligence being removed and replaced with an assurance.
Not sure I can isolate my first memory of my grandparents. I can say all the memories I have of them bring a warmth to my heart that can only be described as… well, I’m not sure there is a word that can describe it. Any bad memory I have, that is associated with my grandparents, stem from my own actions; certainly not theirs. I am ashamed to admit I lost the opportunity to create memories with them on a regular basis. As I got older (by “older” I refer to the expanse of my teen years) I thought time spent with them was a waste and better spent doing childish things. It did not become clear to me how wrong I was until much later and sadly after they had left this life. There was so very much I could have learned from them had I been mature enough to realize what stood before me.
My Grandparents – Lilly & Dale Butt
As a child my Mother would take us to visit her parents on a regular basis—often times spending the whole weekend with them. Also, during the summer, each of us would stay a week alone with them. During all of those visits I do not remember my grandparents saying anything bad about anyone. My grandmother’s favorite saying (or at least I believe it was her favorite) was, “If you can’t say anything good about someone then don’t say anything at all.” I can remember only one time when my grandmother was angry with me and she had every right to be angry—maybe more on that. Or maybe not as I am still ashamed of what I did.
My grandparents were in constant motion. My grandmother had a small garden in the front yard and if she was not in the kitchen canning fruit or in the living room sewing she was in that garden. My grandfather was the same way. I do not recall how many acres he had, but he worked them all daily and did so with an old tractor. He had cows to milk and pigs to tend to and more chickens than one child could count—I tried a number of times but could never get them to line up properly.
I recall a batch of piglets my grandma had and assume they were a litter from one of the sows in the large pig pen behind the house. I do not recall how many there were but do recall at night they would wake me up as their tiny feet pattered across the wood floor to get closer to the heat stove in the living room—yes, she kept them in the house due to the harsh winter cold of the midwest.
This wood stove heated the majority of the house.
On one particular morning I walked from the living room toward the kitchen and saw grandma carrying one of the piglets out and it was obvious to me the pig had died during the night. I asked her, “Is it dead?” She nodded her head and said “yes.” I recall feeling bad for the little pig but do not recall it making me feel so bad that I cried—not sure how old I was, but I was quite young. The cold hard facts did not become clear to me until much later in life as I recalled that incident. The death of that little pig probably equated to a month’s worth of income. Certainly had that pig lived then life that year would have been at least a bit better. Life on that farm was hard I’m sure.
I think my grandfather tolerated me as I followed him around the farm—watching and wanting to help. I’m sure I was more trouble than I was worth. I recall helping him replace a corner post on the fence that surrounded my grandmother’s garden. I don’t recall who, but someone backed into it then sped off. Actually, I think I do remember, I just don’t want to throw anyone under the bus. I helped him set it up straight and recall pounding in the nails to get the pig fence back in an acceptably secure position. That memory stuck with me for a long time. All the while thinking I had been a big help that day. Many years later, perhaps in the late ‘90s I was driving down Route 121 between Sullivan and Bethany and decided to stop by the old property. Of course the house, shed and barns were long since gone. I walked around a bit and reminisced and envisioned where the shed was, how the house was angled on the property and where the barns were. I tried to find the fresh water spring that seeped from the side of the hill that was a perpetual supply of fresh water for the horse trough—but I never found it. I also plotted where grandma’s garden had been. It was then I spied the remnants of a broken down old pig fence and there, in the corner of that remembered piece of ground, was a post laying on its side. I walked over and picked it up and saw an assortment of old nails half pounded in and all crooked—so much for being a great help that day. With my mind’s eye I envisioned the look on my grandfather’s face as I pounded those nails in. I’m sure he was amused and in fact I was amused with what my mind conjured up as the expression on his face. I dislodged the post from the rusted remnants of the pig fence and threw it in the trunk of my car. That post still holds a prominent space at my house. As a continued to walk around the property I found an old rusted horse shoe—which resides today with that post.
I recall waking up early one morning and seeing my grandfather sitting in his chair—but will hold onto that memory for a bit. Perhaps I will divulge that memory later, but more likely than not if you want to hear this particular memory you’ll have to read my book, “Solitary—Without the Confinement.” I also recall the 6:00am train that woke us up almost every morning with the smell of coal. Even today when I smell coal burning I feel a sense of security and safe haven; as if nothing can harm me.
When privileged enough to spend the week with them during the summer I recall going with my grandmother to the market. Someone would come by and pick us up because grandma didn’t drive. We would hit the grocery store then the meat market and maybe one or two other shops—this was before the days of the Super-Wal-Mart. I knew, before we headed home, we would stop and she would buy me an ice-cream cone. Again, it did not dawn on me until much later that she could not afford to buy me an ice-cream cone, but she did anyway.
I recall two oval pictures hanging in the living room and I believe they were of my grandfather’s parents. I often wonder what happened to those pictures. I do have a picture that I believe is a portrait of either my grandmother’s parents or perhaps my grandfather’s; not sure which. Who we are, at least in part, is molded by those who pass before us. By their actions my grandparents tried to show me the right way to live my life. I thank them for that and one of my regrets is I did not thank them in person when I had the chance.
My grandfather with my oldest sister and not sure who the other baby is.
The more I think on this the more recollections break free of my obscured memory. Memories of my grandparents filter through my mind like a mist. Some memories are very clear and others are faint and hard to discern. I suspect some memories are patched together based on multiple memories mixed together. My grandparent’s farm was a perfect example of a menagerie and included pigs, horses, cows, dogs, cats, chickens and pretty much any other animal that might be associated with a farm.
As children we would go to the pasture and stand on the end of the wagon and wait. After a bit ol’ Red would wonder by and stop at the end of the wagon and let one of us climb on. Red would walk around the pasture once or twice then return to the corner of the wagon to let the next child ride. Red would continue to do this as long as there was a kid waiting on the corner of the wagon.
Anyone who knew my Grandparents knew who Ol’ Red was.
I recall a particularly rainy Saturday afternoon when grandpa led one of his ponies into the enclosed front entry of the house. Of course we kids were ecstatic about having a horse in the house but grandma was not amused. Exasperated or not grandma allowed it because it brought such joy to the grandkids. Grandma may have given grandpa an ear full after we left but I really doubt that happened. I think grandpa enjoyed the fact that he excited the grandkids and I suspect grandma felt the same way.
I tihnk there was a side to my Grandpa I was too young to understand. He apparently enjoyed the little things of life as seen by this picture when grandpa put a dog in the saddle.
As a very small child I was climbing around on an old rusted combine in the pasture. I suspect in my mind I was scaling a large mountain trying to reach the cold rigid peak. Being so enthralled with my adventure I did not see the multitude of cows who decided to congregate around the base of the combine. As a small child I was rather frightened of cows—I saw them as mean animals. Sometime prior to this I saw one of the cows in the barn step back and squash the head of a small feral cat … that head was squashed as flat as a penny. The cow could not have cared less about that poor little cat or the artistic design of a flattened kitty-cat head. If a cow could squash the head of a cat then go about eating as if nothing was wrong it made perfect sense to me that a cow would take great pleasure in squashing my little head. Long story short—I was afraid to come down from the combine. I’m not real sure, but I think I may have conjured up enough courage to pee on one of them from my secure position—I might have made that part up but my memory tells me it happened. I do not recall the exact amount of time but memory tells me I spent three or four days up on that combine waiting for those cows to leave. Perhaps my memory is not all that clear about this particular bit of the story—might have been up there for an hour or so before grandpa saw my predicament and climbed the great mountain to rescue me.
Pigs and chickens were a different story. We would chase the chickens and try to ride the pigs—emphasis on try. We would stand on the fence and wait for a pig to venture into our trap and once they were close enough we would jump off the fence, pounce onto the back of the unfortunate pig, and ride it for as long as we could. I do not think we ever reached the rumored eight second requirement prevalent in rodeos, but we tried many, many times. Grandpa would stand by the fence, gesture with his hand and shout, “you darn fool kids are gonna break your neck” but laugh out loud and pound on the fence as he watched the mayhem.
I recall grandpa hitching up the wagon to the horse and allow us to lead the horse around just like those cowboys on TV. I do not believe we ever got the talent of leading a horse to any level of efficiency. In fact I recall my youngest brother Tim being flipped out the right side of the wagon as the wagon wheel hit a large tractor tire at the edge of the lane. Not sure which one of us got a spanking over that one but I suspect someone did and it would be anyone’s guess if the recipient of the administered punishment was actually the one steering the wagon. I guess, if the truth were told, we all got a quick swat after which we all scurried off to enter into other forms of mischief.
My grandpa’s skill at ringing the neck of a chicken was legendary in the region. He would reach down, snatch up a chicken, and in less than two shakes of his hand the chicken was dancing headless on the ground—that chicken didn’t see it coming. On the flip side of that story we see me chasing a chicken for what seemed like hours and once I had one in my grip I would shake that poor chicken by the head like a mad man putting out a fire. The chicken would always get away and run off never knowing what it had done to deserve such treatment. I’m sure my attempts at imitating Colonel Sanders were an amusement to both grandma and grandpa.
My grandma or my mom would take the headless body of the chicken—the product of my grandfather’s execution—and dip it into boiling water. It was the job of any adolesent in the area to pluck all the feathers and get the convicted chicken ready for dismemberment. Execute a defenseless chicken, watch it dance headless until all the blood spurted out, dunk it in scalding water, pluck the poor thing of its feathers, hack and dismember it into pieces and … well, what better way to get ready for a nice Sunday afternoon family dinner.
A little ways down the road was a creek that winded its way east and west through their farm. I’m sure it has a name but it eludes me. It had on old rickety bridge that announced anyone approaching from the north. I would go there to skip stones and try my hand at cane pole fishing—I don’t think I ever caught anything. Back then a child could wander around the country side and not have to worry about that car approaching. The occupants of the car were likely gracious and wonderful people just like my grandparents.
On farther down the road and west a mile or so was an old cemetery—Mitchell Cemetery I think it was called. I found wonder in looking at the old stones and trying to make out the dates. Many of the stones marked the passing of people over a hundred years prior. I wondered who they were at the time but lacking the ability at that young age I did not ponder who they were. All those people buried there were sons, daughters, parents and probably grandparents as well. Perhaps in a hundred years or so some child will stumble across the Oak Grove Cemetery and wonder who those two were with the stone depicting a white and black horse pulling a plow. I’m here to tell you they were wonderful people who toiled through life to sustain their family. They suffered loss and basked in the joy of God’s grace. They felt the pride as well as the sorrow of sending a son to fight a war in Europe and thanked God for his return—a war hero in the eyes of many. Who raised their children during the depression of the ‘30s and lived the life of a grandparent—a grandparent any grandchild would be honored to love.
My Mom as a young girl stand in the center of her Brothers
For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty: Master Sergeant Woodrow W. Keeble distinguished himself by acts of gallantry and intrepidity above and beyond the call of duty in action with an armed enemy near Sangsan-ni, Korea, on October 20, 1951. On that day, Master Sergeant Keeble was an acting platoon leader for the support platoon in Company G, 19th Infantry, in the attack on Hill 765, a steep and rugged position that was well defended by the enemy. Leading the support platoon, Master Sergeant Keeble saw that the attacking elements had become pinned down on the slope by heavy enemy fire from three well-fortified and strategically placed enemy positions. With complete disregard for his personal safety, Master Sergeant Keeble dashed forward and joined the pinned-down platoon. Then, hugging the ground, Master Sergeant Keeble crawled forward alone until he was in close proximity to one of the hostile machine-gun emplacements. Ignoring the heavy fire that the crew trained on him, Master Sergeant Keeble activated a grenade and threw it with great accuracy, successfully destroying the position. Continuing his one-man assault, he moved to the second enemy position and destroyed it with another grenade. Despite the fact that the enemy troops were now directing their firepower against him and unleashing a shower of grenades in a frantic attempt to stop his advance, he moved forward against the third hostile emplacement, and skillfully neutralized the remaining enemy position. As his comrades moved forward to join him, Master Sergeant Keeble continued to direct accurate fire against nearby trenches, inflicting heavy casualties on the enemy. Inspired by his courage, Company G successfully moved forward and seized its important objective. The extraordinary courage, selfless service, and devotion to duty displayed that day by Master Sergeant Keeble was an inspiration to all around him and reflected great credit upon himself, his unit, and the United States Army.
That is how the Medal of Honor Citation read for Woodrow W. Keeble that was presented to his family 26 years after MSG Keeble’s death. During his service during WWII and the Korean War MSG Keeble was awarded two Silver Stars, four purple Hearts and two Bronze Stars (with “V” Device).
There is much that can be written about this man—his honor, his integrity and his selfless service. I think it can all be summed up by three things he said after returning home:
“Before I experienced the horror of that attack, I was quick to call coward or yellow anyone who showed fear under any circumstances. Nevermore. I don’t know these things, but they speak truth to one. I am not a psychologist, nor a statistician, and less of a philosopher; but the depth of emotion, the dreads of fear, the referees of horrors, and the concentration of self that led me to make this observation, the fear impulse, or perhaps, better said, the (impulses caused) by fear, are stronger, more demanding than either that of love or hunger…”
“Fear in my opinion is a state of drunkenness. And when men are in that state when the fear impulse takes a hold…he loses all reason, sense of values, and is not liable, or at least should not be held accountable for acts perpetrated when thus possessed.”
The aftermath of combat operations on Guadalcanal
“During the 13 months (in the) almost continual and sustained combat in which I have ever participated, there were moments, and rare ones, I am sure; but they lose none of their terror or horror for which fear laid a relentless and a powerful hold on me, that the pull of cowardice was almost more than I could ward off. There were terrible moments that encompassed a lifetime, an endlessness, when terror was so strong in me, that I could feel idiocy replace reason. (Yet,) I have never left my position, nor have I shirked hazardous duty. Fear did not make a coward out of me.”
Keeble returned to North Dakota after the Korean War and worked at the Wahpeton Indian School (later named Circle of Nations Wahpeton Indian School) located in Wahpeton, ND. Soon after, he was afflicted with tuberculosis, which required that he undergo long-term treatment in Minnesota. Surgeons ultimately removed one of his lungs, which triggered a series of strokes that rendered him speechless, partially paralyzed and unable to work for the remainder of his life.
Keeble fell on hard times and is said to have pawned his service medals. Nevertheless, and despite his disabilities, Keeble persevered. Those that knew him and members of his family proclaim he never lost the level of integrity, honor and selfless service that sustained him during vicious combat operations in WWII and Korea.
The Medal of Honor, well deserved on the day of the incident, was not given until 26 years after his death. Since then there have been many other honors bestowed on MSG Keeble—but not near enough. What can we, as individuals, do to honor his life—and for that matter—the lives of every other honorable person we know? The answer is easy. Imitate them. Live your life firmly grounded in honor, integrity, compassion and wisdom.
Woodrow W. Keeble died January 28th, 1982 and is buried in Sisseton, South Dakota. This short blog is but a small portion outlining the life led by MSG Keeble. His accomplishments and his demons are many.
When I started this blog I made a commitment to myself to blog at least once a week and preferably once a day. Well, the once-a-day thing fell to the wayside rather quickly for obvious reasons—who has time to blog daily? If you blog daily I will assume you do not have a day job that also interferes with the daily duties that come with other self-imposed projects. My self-imposed projects include my involvement with the Hoka Hey Motorcycle Challenge, work I bring home, reading and TV—as well as the ever-present “honey-do” list. I love watching TV. I used to tell myself I was not a TV addict, but I think I am. I love old movies and I thoroughly enjoy watching a good action movie and the suspenseful intrigue of a “who-done-it” crime show. To prove a point—if I were to take a week off from work and do nothing but watch every episode of every season of “24” I would not consider the time wasted.
I also have a 1946 Dodge pickup truck that I am restoring—but haven’t started that project yet so really can’t add that to the list of distracters; yet.
Most of the things I want to write about are the thoughts that roll through my head—especially those thoughts that fill my mind while I ride. But I can’t do that. I can’t do that because most of the more prevalent thoughts are outlined in my book “Solitary—Without the Confinement” and I do not want to put them here. At least not yet. I want to wait until the book is published then expound on those thoughts once the book has been in the public for a while. Who would want to buy the book if they can read it here for free?
I know I will never sell enough books to get rich (and that was never the intent) but I would like to sell enough to make my money back. As a side note, I plan to write a blog about my publishing experience as some of it was good and some of it was bad—and it was all expensive. If I “break even” on sales I will consider the project a stellar success. Actually, breaking even has never been my objective either, since I am not confident enough in my abilities to warrant a sale of over 4,000 copies—Stephen King I’m not. In fact, based on an educated guess, I will need to sell 10,000 copies to break even.
Please consider this particular narrative as a two-pronged plea. One—is to ask those select few who follow my blog to continue to do so because it will get better. Two—this is a plea to buy my book. I think you will be pleased with it and will not consider the money spent as wasted.
“Solitary” has completed the editing phase and is currently in the design phase. I anticipate the book hitting the streets before the 1st of February, but I’m guessing since this is my first published book I am really unsure of the time-line. If you like adventure, if you like facing insurmountable odds, if you take pleasure in facing an obstacle where failure is a distinct possibility, then you will love “Solitary—Without the Confinement.”
Ain’t but two things to do while riding. Think and look for State Troopers.
I would like to ask a favor. If you read my blog and find the narratives worthwhile please tell your friends and share on Facebook. I figure the more exposure this blog gets the better my odds are of selling books.
Not sure where I’m going with this so I guess you’ll have to read along while I write and see; we’ll both discover the end of this journey together.
Slavery and the results thereof are a continual topic of discussion. The tension it causes is often times best measured as off the charts and I must wonder sometimes what the value is. It’s not like we can change history. The race most associated with slavery is the African American. It is inadvertently suggested that the Africans were the only ones sold into slavery and there can be nothing farther from the truth. History states otherwise. And by history I mean true history, not the re-written version. Africans sold Africans into slavery, the English sold the Irish into slavery, Greeks sold the Turks, Turks sold the Greeks, Europeans sold the Africans, Africans sold Arabs, Arabs sold Africans, Africans sold Asians, Asians sold Asians, Vikings sold anyone they could get their hands on—the list can go on and on. You can start the phrase with any race or nationality and end the phrase with any race or nationality. If you have the courage to drill down you will discover it seldom had anything to do with race or nationality but everything to do with who was weak and who was strong. The real truth here is that human trafficking is still prevalent today but more emphasis is placed on ancient history than the plight of present day atrocities—how sad is that?
Short side note here: Little is mentioned about the slavery, herding and extermination of the Native American. In a very real sense that practice—or at least a portion thereof—is still practiced today. If you don’t believe that then go visit Pine Ridge.
Virtually every race has sold others into slavery and virtually every race has purchased and used slaves. This fact is irrefutable but not the topic of discussion. I believe the topic goes deeper.
It is good to know and understand history—both good and bad. If we ignore it, or as others attempt to do, re-write it, then we are doomed to relive it. What I see as a problem is when we let history, especially the bad history, define who we are. Our own personal history will define who we are but perhaps should not, unless we let it, define who we can be. If you had a horrible childhood then that history can make you an angry person but there is no requirement that states you must remain angry. Lingering anger is a personal choice. History that happened generations ago should have no quarter in defining who we are. If you fail at everything you do and you claim the fact that your ancestors 150 years ago were slaves then I would submit you would fail at everything regardless of what happened 150 years ago. You have failed yourself.
If we read the history of slavery and grow angry over it then I do not see that as a bad thing. If we read the history of slavery and feel that knowledge should empower us to be indigent then we are wrong and are perpetrating our own status in society—again, you failed yourself.
Some will take history and use it as a crutch. Others will acknowledge history and use that insight to make things better.
You are solely responsible for who you are and what you do. Whether you accept that fact or not is irrelevant. It’s still a fact.
I’ll let the reader decide if I made a point here.
Short note here: Every paragraph above can be elaborated on and go from a 100 word paragraph to a 5000 word article; but I didn’t go there. Why, because very few will read a 5000 word article that challenges them and requires a through process. See “Bumper Sticker Epidemic”
Ask any youth who their role model is and more often than not they will name a prominent sports figure. I’ll not delve into the world of steroids or doping or cheating. We can name hundreds of sports figures who were caught and convicted of these and other crimes. Sadly, even after the conviction many still hold these people in high regard-not sure why.
The question is why are even the honest sports figures claimed as a role model? They do not play this sport because of personal convictions nor do they participate to empower others. They do it for the money.
Let’s make a comparison to prove a point. For the past many years the media has focused on the 0.1 percent of police officers who do not “serve and protect.” They will even go so far as to generate a media lynching of police officers who are given no choice but to initiate lethal force in a confrontation. Seldom will you hear of a police officer held up as a role model. But I submit they are the perfect example. I will also submit, unless you have looked at death in the face, you have no business crucifying a police officer who was forced to make a split-second decision. Granted, there are times when, using hind-sight, lethal force was not required. However, there are more cases where a police officer, or innocent by-stander, lost their life because lethal force was not used. If a perpetrator places themselves, by their own actions, into a position where there is a potential for lethal force then they are the ones who must lay claim to the results. As a needed side comment, a gun in the hands of a bad-guy is not needed to constitute a need for deadly force.
A police officers do not patrol the streets or rush toward danger for the money. They do it because they have an inner desire to serve the public. When shots are fired everyone will run the other direction; everyone except a police officer. They will run towards the shooter and put their lives on the line to calm the hostilities. If lethal force is required to calm the hostilities then they have done their duty.
Would a prominent football player run a ball to the goal if there were even the slightest possibility they might get shot? Of course they wouldn’t. Why would they? Getting the ball to the goal is not a life or death situation. A police officer putting themselves in harm’s way is a life or death situation. You can replace the word police officer with solider, fireman, and these days you can add teacher to the list.
The police officer, the soldier, the fireman, and yes the teacher do their jobs not because of the money, but rather because of who they are.
So, I ask you again. Why are sports figures held up as role models while these others are not?
This week we celebrate Thanksgiving. We live in one of the richest and most prosperous countries in the world. However, there are some who do not understand just how well they have it. A few years ago I was in Iraq and I was talking with a man who was born and raised in a little town on the western end of Iraq not far from the Syrian border. He had never traveled more than 20 miles from his place of birth. In fact during this conversation he was only a few blocks from the house he was born in.
This conversation took place around Thanksgiving of 2005. I was explaining to him our concept of the Thanksgiving Holiday. He found it odd that we would isolate a date to be thankful each year and wondered if we were not thankful at other times of the year. Contrary to popular believe “Thanksgiving” is not a holiday celebrated around the world. I tried to explain the concept to him and told him it was just not this single day that we were thankful. He laughed at my explanation and said from what he had seen most Americans were the most unthankful people he had ever met.
I found his actions odd and asked him to explain them to me. This is a paraphrased rendition of what he said.
“Americans expect things to be given to them and if they are not given then they feel violated. Americans make a thousand dollars a week and still consider themselves as poor. Their arrogance blinds them to what they have because they are never satisfied with what they have; they always deserve more.” This man made the equivalent of about $1000 a year; he could not image making $1000 a week.
His explanation was much more elaborate than what I just put here, but virtually everything he said was true. We do “expect” things and often feel no need to work for it; if we want it then obviously we deserve it.
If you make $10K a year you make more than 84% of the world’s population. If you make $50K a year you make from than 99% of the world’s population. I know the first thing someone out there is thinking is, “Yea, I make money but things here cost way more than other places.” Sorry, not true. Some things are more expensive for sure, but most items are not in other developed (or for that matter un-developed) countries. I could make comparison to some of these items, but I suspect if you are the type of person who has read this bit to this point then you probably already have a web-link open to make your own comparison; you can start with the price of gas if you like.
This Iraq man I was talking to was the same man who believed the pictures he saw of grocery stores in the US were nothing more than propaganda. There is no conceivable way there could be that much food in one location, let alone in several locations in a single town. And if it were true then truly Americans were the richest people in the world. From his perspective of life that is something that is just not possible. Most of you will never be able to see things from his perspective.
I’ve been fortunate enough to see with my own eyes what poor is. No social programs to pay you money if you refuse to work. In many countries, if you do not work, your only recourse is to be a beggar on the streets.
Be thankful this Thanksgiving Holiday. And be thankful for something more than just a day off from work. Put your outlook in perspective and you will see we have so very much to be thankful for. Try to imagine you existence from the perspective of someone who is really poor, but I suspect you will not be able to do that because we cannot imagine what poor really is. If you are thankful for the “things” you have then you have missed the point. It’s not about possession of things, but rather a possession of an understanding of just how things are in other places and an appreciation for how things are here when compared.
We all associate ourselves with something. Call it a need to belong, a need for recognition, a self assurance, or just because we like the people in that particular arena. Some wear some type of indicator on their clothing or tattoo their body, or adorn their automobiles with emblems, symbols or decals portraying these associations. You see it at every turn; T-Shirts for Vietnam Vets, jackets for Ford Motor Company enthusiasts, baseball and football teams, a specific sports figure, your employer’s company logo or the local volunteer fire department. Many of us in the iron horse community wear a Shield and/or Banner that displays our association. The number of motorcycle clubs, associations, chapters, and groups grow daily. Some are local and never stray far from home whereas others are national and have multiple Chapters.
For the purpose of this narrative we will use the term “club” when a reference is needed. Granted there is a difference between a Motorcycle Club (MC), a Motorcycle Association (MA) and/or Riding Club (RC) but that difference is not pertinent to this discussion. So, when I say “club” I am referring to all three; take no offense.
The focus or objective and the level of dedication within these clubs and individuals within these clubs can be found on both ends of the spectrum. From the “outlaw” biker attitude (aka 1%er) to the individual whose focus is based solely on charitable and selfless accomplishments. (Now, short disclaimer here, do not read into this that 1%ers have no use for charitable efforts. I think 1%ers, or any riding club, have been labeled as undesirables when, in many cases, nothing could be farther from the truth.) Within these clubs you will find riders whose entire existence focuses around the club whereas others are hit and miss; sometimes there, sometimes not. Some join, are on fire for the club, then fade away and are never heard from again; flash in the pan scenario.
For the purpose of simplicity and to narrow the focus of my audience I am going to drill down and talk about riders who wear a Shield and Banner. I do not want to insult anyone’s intelligence here, but a Shield, when used in this context, is the large patch worn on the back of a jacket or vest. The Banner is the scroll below or above the Shield that identifies a specific Chapter or Region within the Club. The Banner and Shield go by many names; Cut, Vest, Chit, Patch or Colors to name a few. For the sake of simplicity we will refer to them as a “Cut.” Some believe the Cut was first displayed by an Outlaw Biker gang. I don’t know who the first one was and to be honest that fact has nothing to do with this topic.
What I want to talk about is the level of dedication and the level of commitment one has to the Cut, whether that Cut be the Hells’ Angels, Harley Owners Group, or a Christian rider’s club or group. In a very real sense the dedication is not really to the Cut, it is to the cause or idea the Cut represents; much like the Flag of the United States. The Flag is not the cause or the force that drives the cause; it represents the force, the people and the attitude that perpetuate the cause. The Cut worn by a rider is the same. The rider wears the Cut so all who see it will know what the rider stands for.
Regardless of your Cut you proclaim allegiance to that organization; why else would you display the Cut if you were not dedicated to the cause. The question is, “What is your level of dedication?”
Let’s take a side road here real quick so you can gain a little insight into where I’m coming from. Years ago an English Teacher told me, “…with everything you write you should strive to leave your personal opinion out of it…” I thought that was a dumb statement and had no qualms about telling him that. My out-spoken nature may have had something to do with the less than desired grade received, but that is a different story. Everything we do, everything we say, our every response is governed by our opinion, our past choices, lessons learned and life experiences. When writing your thoughts down on paper how can you keep your opinion out of it? In my way of thinking, or, if you will allow me the pun, in my opinion, it can’t be done. So, what follows is my opinion, take it for what it’s worth.
In 1972, when I reported to Fort Leonardwood for US Army Basic Combat Training, over half of the “company” was draftees. Their level of dedication is not hard to imagine. They were thrust into a military environment and had no say-so in the matter. Most did their time and got out as quickly as they could while staying under the radar as best they could. To say their level of commitment was less than desired is an understatement. This should not be the case with your affiliation with your club or association; nobody made you join. One can only assume it was your opinion that joining this organization was a good thing to do, something you wanted to be a part of. Now what?
Depending on your organization and the correlating philosophy of that organization the level of accomplishment enjoyed by that club is entirely up to you. Everything you do and say, both good and bad, reflects on you and the association you advertise by wearing your Cut. Some clubs require an annual payment of “dues” that help facilitate the operational needs of the club, but the actual cost is greater. I’m talking about the cost of commitment.
The club or event you willingly associate yourself with is dependent on the commitment you made when you joined. If you joined your club and verbally committed yourself to that club, but do not really commit yourself to the cause then you are disrespecting your club and yourself; you are wasting your time and theirs.
Dedication and commitment are the prices you will pay to be associated with this group. Are you a valuable part of your club or are you a “poser?”
Perception is reality. If you display your Cut then you need to respect your Cut. If you do not respect it, then how can you expect others to? The stereotype of the rider has improved over the years. Think back to the staged photograph in Hollister back in 1947.
The posed picture was taken after bottles were gathered into a single location around a bike. The man on the bike didn’t even own the bike; he was prompted to sit on it by the photographer. Rumor has it he wasn’t even a rider at all; just a local resident walking down the street admiring all the iron. From this and other events that were blown out of proportion, we got “The 1947 Hollister Motorcycle Riot” that never was. Subsequently Hollywood took this false picture and the false tails from it and produced “The Wild Bunch.” The perception from that single picture and a single movie took us years to overcome.
Do you wear your Cut on your jacket, vest or shirt? If you do, then wear it with pride and wear it knowing people are watching you. They will measure your worth and the worth of your club by what you do; or what you do not do.
If you have taken the time to read between the lines you know this attitude does not limit itself to the iron horse community. If you are not willing to commit yourself to your efforts then why bother?
Whatever you do, do it well; find something worth dying for and live for that.
Wait, that’s not right. I can say anything, but if my actions do not bear witness to my words then my words mean nothing. Sadly, sometimes our words paint us into a corner and we fail. Our words out-maneuver our intent. Other times we accept the words of others as truth without first verifying their intent and we fall prey to foolishness.
Let’s talk about a few words and see how they play out:
Integrity – Does not mean you never make a mistake. But what it does mean is if you make a mistake you claim responsibility for that mistake and act proportionality to correct it.
Endurance – Many claim to possess it, very few actually do and even fewer still put it to the test.
Honor – Has nothing to do with words. But has everything to do with actions.
Wisdom – Has nothing to do with how many big words you know. But has everything to do with how you act in a difficult situation that words have created.
Compassion – Has very little to do with how you think, but that’s where it starts. Compassion with no action is pity.
Strength – Has nothing to do with holding 100 pounds over your head for long periods. But what it does mean is an ability and desire to help a friend hold that 100 pounds.
Kindness – Has everything to do with a kind and charitable act… so long as you don’t expect anything in return.
Purity – None can claim it, but many do.
Courage – Is not being fearless, but acting even though you are scared to death.
Leadership – The ability to win the trust of people around you to such an extent that they want to follow you. Forced leadership is not leadership; it’s tyranny.
Verbally claiming these traits is contrary to the trait being claimed. These traits are assigned to us by those who know us best.
