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The Writing On The Wall
Our life is but a blip in the expanse of time and tomorrow is guaranteed to no one. Money, fame, and millions of Facebook or Instagram followers will not buy anyone an extra day. God decides that. It made me reflect on how I would end the sentence on the board. If I had the chalk, what would I write? Years after taking the picture, I know the answer.
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Confessions of an Old Hooligan, pt. 2
An Aging Father Shares More Tales From His Early Riding Years *Here’s a few fun tales...
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The Shocking Demise of IMS Outdoors
I got the call while driving out to the Scull Shoals ADV/Dual Sport Ride, a call I’d been expecting but with different content and purpose. Leah with the International Motorcycle Shows Outdoors dialed me up, not to discuss details of our 2nd year partnership with them, but to inform me the shows were all abruptly being cancelled. “We’ve made the difficult decision to suspend all of the 2022 shows,” she informed me, “we just made the decision today.”
Searching For America- It’s Not About The Roads
I had a new mission. My crusade was to seek the American ideal of love for our fellow countrymen everywhere I rode. The quest took me three weeks, covered eight states and over 4,000 miles. What I found brought joy, pain, and changed how I ride and write forever. All because of a quilt show in the small hamlet of High Plains.
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Time The Gods Do Not Count
Such is the passage of time, the dreadful metronome plowing forward keeping its pace, measuring out our remaining days toward our end. Time is uniform for every soul; a day, is a day, is a ticking away day. God tracks our days, life’s invisible odometer set from the beginning to expire at a mileage unknown to us. Who is able to stop the meter of time? There is no ceasing it, no killing the march, no rolling back of life’s odometer avoiding our conclusion.
But there is a way to pause it, to ever so briefly suspend the turning of life’s odometer. God cannot be tricked, but there is a part of time He does not count against us. It came to me in a river.
Slow Bike Fast
Deposited like an ambulance delivering two terminally ill patients, a pair of ancient Honda Trial 90s were dropped off in front of my house silently; no fanfare, no excitement, no hurry or joy, unloaded quietly, then slowly rolled into my garage, their future operating room. Last licensed and running when President Clinton was entangled with Monica Lewinsky they languished outside for dozens of years worth of northwest sub-zero temps and triple digit heat. Decrepit and decaying, my job was to get them running. I promised their owner I could. I opened my mouth again.
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All The Things I Shouldn’t Do
Standing at my workbench beneath the glow of my shop lights I washed the lingering taste of stale taco out of my mouth with another pull of moonshine from the mason jar, a solitary thought ricocheting around my head like the last, lonely ball on a pool table. As I fumbled for the drill that sole thought was that what I was about to do was wrong, way wrong, so wrong that it could either be the best thing I had ever done, or the worst.
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The Passing Of A Motocross Legend
If you grew up in the 1950s-1970s and rode motorcycles, you doubtless were familiar with the names Rickman and Metisse. These bikes and frames were highly prized, and quite popular here in the United States. Their dirt racing prowess was unmatched in their time, and set a new standard for off-road motocross competition.
And two Brit brothers were behind it all, Derek and Don Rickman.
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