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Tag: Washington State

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Fall Rain

Fall came today like always does in the Northwest, like a light switch flicked by the finger of God.
Yesterday, smoke from forest fires hung in the air perverting the sky sour and sunsets blood red, lingering in the air with depressing tenacity, draining spirits and permeating pores until residents could scarcely remember a day without the smoky blanket of depression draped over them.  Then today, the unofficial first day of fall up here in the PNW, God cried “Hold. Enough.”

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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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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.

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My Soul Said Go

This is for you, mister random Yosemite Valley stranger who spun on your heels and approached me while I dismounted my bike that sweltering July day, who stopped your walk along God’s Country to ridicule my exhausted frame as I peeled sweaty gear off my back, who halted gazing at El Capitan so you could critique me.  You pulled your focus from where it should have been to where it had no business being, aiming your spiteful arrows at me to offer a cutting remark to this travel weary vagabond.
“Is it worth it?” you inquired rather sarcastically.  Then before I could respond, you turned and walked away.

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The Zombie Ninja, Pt. 1

Motorcycle parked in my driveway, I walked up the stairs to my front door as a dead man walking, dead man walking, I was a dead man walking. A 3-day, 900-mile tour of Canada complete, I was returning home without my 16 year old son. I had no idea where he was. Inside waited my wife whose blissful world was about to be ripped apart by the news, and I would deliver the blow that would drop her to her knees.

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