From Day 0 - Part Eight

As much as I loved softball, it was simply not in my genes to be very athletic. After leaving sixth grade and the grade school for the Junior High in a different town, I didn't participate in any athletic capacity in organized athletic events, save the required PE class.

As a matter of fact, my sixth grade class was the last in Eliza Grade school. In an effort to minimize expenses, the school district relocated the students to New Boston Grade School. Luckily, the school building is still used as a community center.

It was no secret that my maternal grandmother did not like my Dad. Rather than speak my mind, keeping quiet seemed the best course of action. After all, she was my elder, and not one to be disrespected by her grandson, regardless of how disrespectful and incorrect her statements were.

And, so I learned a valuable mis-lesson that coincided with my inherent shyness; stay quiet.

That old rifle and I would bask in the raw sounds of nature. There was no right or wrong; nature has no morals; nature survives. Days spent among the glacier carved valleys and streams communing with raw nature is a sublime experience everyone should have the opportunity to partake.
And here is another picture, courtesy Google Maps. The farm, all 60 acres are highlighted by the yellow rectangle. The farm building are indicated by the red circle, and believe it or not, when I was twelve, the area highlighted in blue were my basic boarders.

It was quiet, there was no one else during my wanderings to confuse my explorations. It was simple nature, physics, chemistry, biology, geology; all things that I could grasp, minimally at any rate. People; on the other hand, there was no grasping.

So, I wandered and thought and explored; this 'pre-teen' and his Dad's .22.

Even as a thirteen year old, my dad trusted me to guide his friends on mini-hunting trips. One winter night, the type where the world seems to have stopped and the stars and Milky Way seems to be only an arm's length away, my Dad was sick and could not guide his friend on a raccoon hunt.

"Now, listen to Kenny, he knows his way around out there, OK?" my Dad cautioned his friend.

It was bone chilling cold when we departed the warmth of the wood heated house; in the teens if I remember correctly. My brother, only eleven years old, placed in my care, came along for the hunt.

I do not mean to disrespect those who have passed, but this fellow should have just stayed back at the house and played cards. Only two things defined him as partaking in a raccoon hunt: his raccoon dog; and his gun.

We walked to the northeast, into the woods. At the first creek, we turned south to follow it. Knowing where we were at that point was not an issue. Roughly an hour later my landmarks ended. "Stan, we really should turn right here and go up over the field."

"Oh, nah. Just a little further." Well, I still knew roughly where we were but said nothing. Then we saw the 'No Trespassing' sign. That was no good. One neighbor was very strict keeping trespassers out.

I spoke up, "Stan, Eliza Creek is right ahead. We really need to turn around."

"We can't leave the dog out here alone!"

I wanted to tell him that my cats had more raccoon hunting ability than his dog, but I just followed.

Ten minutes later we were on the banks of frozen Eliza Creek. "OK, Stan... Lem and I are freezing. We NEED to turn around and go up that ridge and go home."

With numb feet I followed as he turned and followed Eliza Creek; not the way I indicated. Lem was doing fine but a little chilly. I was becoming hypothermic. This place was new and honestly, I recognized nothing.

About 15 minutes later, he wanted me to get him back to the farm. Telling him I was not certain of the best way, he became pissed off, grabbed my brother's hand and walked quickly down the shore of the now partially frozen creek.

My boot broke through ice. Pulling up, I continued walking. Three, four, five, six steps. Something was wrong. I was walking in a patch of wild raspberry bushes without a boot. There was no pain from the thorns. The other two were far ahead when I ran back and grabbed my now water filled boot out of the stream.

My foot sloshed, numb to the world. Ahead, some other hunters had met Stan and Lem, and put then in their pickup. I got in and they took us home. My feet were white and wet and cold and numb. The pain experienced as they came back to life with lukewarm water and the wood stove was something I could have done without. My dad had the foresight to wash out the punctures in the soles of my foot with alcohol while still numb.

Not happy with Stan, my dad asked, "Where the hell were you?"

"I don't know, some stream somewhere."

My dad turned to me, without his asking, while still shivering I answered in a truly not happy tone, "Eliza Creek."

What my Dad said to Stan at that point is unknown. They went out for a smoke and my Mom brought us steaming hot cocoa. Later, I was told that my Dad chewed his ass out for not listening to me.

Ya, a 13 year old pwned his ass.

From Day 0 - Part Seven

Just about the same time I was discovering girls, my Dad was instructing me in something far less complex; firearms.

Pictured here is a Winchester Model 67, single shot, bolt action rifle chambered for .22 short, long and long rifle. My dad purchased his for a mere six dollars in the late 1930's through a Sears and Roebuck catalog.

This was the gun I first learned to shoot, and admittedly I was pretty good. Taking a squirrel at 100 yards was not unheard of. Considering all it had were the old iron sights, that was pretty good.

Even today I have an old 67 being restored.

Search as I might, a certain posting has been lost. I would have bet anyone there was a posting about this next event in my life. Apparently not.

If you look back to this post, there is a picture of my grade school. To the lower left is a ball diamond, complete with lights, bleachers, refreshment stand and even an outhouse. In fourth grade it was little more than a backstop overgrown with vines and brush.

Toward the end of my fourth or fifth grade there was a favor burning in my soul. A desire beyond anything else. OK, it was just a thought, but all the same, I wanted to play baseball. It is a relatively quiet sport; nothing like the basketball I failed at.

My Grandfather, pictured here with my brother and myself on his farm, was the prime target. He loved baseball and was a fan of the Chicago Cubs. So, long story short, in 1977 or so, I asked him to start a baseball team.

Within a year we were playing softball on a manicured field, lights were installed, the backstop rebuilt and bleachers cobbled together. We played softball. Starting as a short stop, the catcher didn't like the position so I took it. We had one pitcher, and one catcher. That made for some very long summer games.

In another year there were outhouses and a refreshment stand on the site. We were not the only team playing on the diamond. Now there were several adult softball teams sharing our field.

I last saw the field in 2005 and nearly 30 years after a simple request of a fifth grader to his grandfather, it was still in use.

During the second season I arrived home after hunting or walking the woods or some other activity, to find my Mom on the phone sobbing and speaking to someone in barely understandable words. There was little I could do to calm her, she just rubbed my head.

Something bad had happened, someone or something had died; it was all quite unclear. After she hung up the phone and composed herself, she asked to speak to me. The numbness started but from where, I was uncertain. "Kenny, Mike is gone," she said, tears still welling in her eyes.

"Gone where?"

"There was an accident, Kenny, in front of your Uncle Milo's house. Mike was riding his dirt bike and a truck hit him."

Mike Butler was our pitcher and a close grade school friend of mine. This plaque is on the refreshment stand at that ballpark.

From Day 0 - Part Six

Not long after meeting my lover for the first time, and just before discovering girls, my inner geek started showing himself. Many recess periods were spent browsing the little school library. Then there was the mysterious object in the corner. The front door was thick glass with a switch for some sort of blower on the top. Inside was a sink and bottle upon bottle of things like this.

I had singularly discovered a hidden gem. This little school had a fully stocked chemistry lab, including something I believe is called a fume, or exhaust hood.

My first experiment, at the age of eight, was the effects of extremely weak solutions of Thorium Nitrate on petunia plants. Result: they don't grow so well.

After that, a solution to my shyness was discovered; reading and science. I still remember the look of my fourth grade substitute teacher when I asked her to explain the Lorentz Contraction.

Ah, the Musser Public Library in Muscatine, Iowa (pictured here). About once every month we went into town to buy groceries and other necessities. While my Mom and Grandma, shadowed by my brothers and sisters shopped for freezy-pops and milk and other necessities, I was here.
My shyness mattered not in this place of knowledge. Here I discovered ham radio and computers and electronics and physics; and Isaac Asimov.

My reputation as an oddball had begun.

As the other boys were trying to get girlfriends or take up sports, I was reading Asimov and Bradbury and Sagan.

Shy, non-athletic oddballs with penchants towards science do not tend to be 'chick magnets.' At the time, I was good with that.

From Day 0 - Part Five

Yes, before I discovered the fairer sex, before my first girlfriend, unknown to my seven year old self, we met. It was a tempestuous first encounter, and all subsequent meetings are as such. She raises something deep and visceral and primal in my soul.

Alas, we have not seen each other in about ten years. I look forward to our next encounter.

Ah, the fairer sex; girls; women. It was a basketball practice at the little Eliza Grade School when I felt the gentle nudge of hormones. Not being terribly athletic, anytime I managed to accomplish a save or score a few points was cause for celebration. We were skins. The ball went wild; a mob of ten boys all around me scrambled to control the sphere. I jumped with all I had through the mob. With one swift flash of my hand, the ball was smacked directly toward our team captain. He went up... SCORE!

Tammy screamed, "Way to go, Ken!"

After practice, I seem to remember a hug or two from her and a few other girls. She asked me to the Sadie Hawkins picnic the following year. We spent a little time together and perhaps held hands; typical grade school behavior for the time. I was awkward, and still am in the romantic arts. After fifth grade, we were merely friends.

In 1984 or 1985 my fiance and I were driving home from college for a few days of R&R. We round an S-curve not far from our destination and we meet my first girlfriend, my friend, driving the opposite direction. We all wave.

Arriving at our destination a minute later, we get out and start chatting with my fiance's friend. In the distance rose a tall shaft of black smoke near the road we had just been driving.

A grain truck had swerved, out of control on the S-curve. My grade school friend had no where to go; no escape route. They collided head-on. They identified her body by a small tattoo on her foot. May you rest in peace, Tammy.

From Day 0 - Part Four

Ah, but I am getting ahead of myself yet again.

Sometime just before my first sister was born, I was treating my Dad's John Deere Model A tractor as if it were a jungle-gym. Oh, the glories I could sing of; balancing on those huge tires; bouncing on the seat; sitting on the very front top of the radiator; swinging upside down from the steering wheel... Well, maybe not that last one. While attempting this trick, my leg slipped and gravity had its way with me. While plummeting to the ground, my head had a chance encounter with the flywheel cover.

Some people believe this is one of the primary causes I am the way I am. Honestly, I believe a more probable cause would the head trauma suffered from running full-steam into a very stationary cottonwood tree. But, again, getting ahead of myself.

The man you see on the right caused a great deal of trauma in my childhood. Living in a rural area does not lend itself to a plethora of television stations, especially in the early 70's. Our black & white television could receive channels 4, 6, 8 and 12; CBS, NBC, ABC and PBS respectfully.

Mornings when there was no school were spent doing early morning chores, watching Sesame Street at 8, Captain Kangaroo at 9, and then off to some tomfoolery out of the house.

What to my horror when Captain Kangaroo... The CAPTAIN!!!! How??? Why????!?!?! The Captain was preempted for the Watergate hearings!!! OK, I am over it...

My kindergarten through sixth grade was spent at this little school in rural Illinois, just west of Eliza, Illinois.

Since my kindergarten class was only a half day, the dozen or so five year old bundles of energy were driven home on a short little panel van, alternatively in a little yellow bus.

Yes, I rode the short bus.

This is where I discovered girls.
This is where I discovered that I was not cut from the normal skein of cloth most others are.
This is where I discovered that I was a budding geek.
This is where I met my first girlfriend.
This is where I met a very good friend that died in a motorcycle accident.
This is where I changed a thousand lives.
This is where I met my lover.

Nice cliff-hanger, eh?

From Day 0 - Part Three

Here is a great photo of my Dad, myself and my Mom. Taken in 1967, the background shows what I believe is Weed Park in Muscatine, Iowa. If you look carefully in the background, there is the Mississippi River.

Weed Park was a fantastic place of wonderment, adventure, freedom and pure terror. Back in the days when less attention was paid to what the kids were doing, we would roam the park from North to South, East to West. Sometimes we would sneak away to a small spillway and play "Fort."

The "Barrel of Fun" ride was not really a barrel and really never much fun. It was a large wooden cylinder made of 2-by-4s, in this 'house,' constructed so people (and some very unhappy kids) could walk into this cylinder and spin it. Even at the time, all I could think was, "How much fun could one have running in a human-sized hamster wheel?"

Then there was an item of pure terror; four corrugated pipes, intersecting at 90 degrees in the center, in an "X" shape. On top of this was a large mound of dirt. This contraption, obviously constructed by the devil himself, cause unimaginable nightmares. Inside the pipes, constructed so the hapless children could crawl through, never to be seen again, the atmosphere was cool and dank and smelled of a cacophony of biologic and bodily fluids. Even at the manly age of eleven, I would run away when one of my older playmates would try forcing me in one of those gateways to the netherworld.

Of course, it was a relatively harmless contraption for the day. I still firmly believe the devil himself constructed it, and will discuss it no further. :-D

As an adult I truly try living without regrets. The mistakes made are learning tools. The mistake is recognized, precursors and causes identified and analyzed, apologies given where necessary, and I move on.

It was 1982 in Weed Park. On this sunny summer afternoon my girlfriend and I were out enjoying the day while most of my family were under a shelter, visiting and catching up with everyone's news.

We came back to the shelter for some tea after a long walk, when my Dad (picturedabove) made a snide comment about my long hair. Mind you, my "long" hair did not even cover my ears. What the comment was, I do not recall. For all that matters, it could have been a relatively minor jab, not really intent on injury.

I left the house within a few weeks.

Here in Weed Park, a decision was made, a mistake. Two years later the mistake was recognized, the precursors and causes identified and analyzed. There could be no apology given. The farm was gone, and my father as well. The family farm was sold just weeks before he passed in 1983. Dad, may you rest in peace. I will always be your "Lil Slugger."

From Day 0 - Part Two

At a very early age I acquired a skill that would serve me well. Even at a year and a half, I could stir and bake and cook with the best of the pre-schoolers.

In this picture, a batch of home made bread is being prepared for baking. To this day, I still enjoy baking bread. As a matter of fact, currently my little apartment was filled with the sweet scent of cinnamon apple oatmeal bread; my own recipe.

Yes. Yes, indeed I was a farm boy














On the left is a pic of me on a path that I learned well. To the left is a pond that my dad built. To the right was the house and farm buildings.

On the right is a picture of me holding tight to my brother, making sure he doesn't fall off. The pony we were on was named Windmill. He and I have history. I learned to saddle and bridle and ride on old Windmill. Then on one fateful spring day, he and I were out surveying my domain, or as much domain an eight year old can have. A neighbor horse runs up in her pasture and commences whinnying and making a horse version of a challenge. Windmill bucked me off and charged over to the horse.

Within a week, Dad traded Windmill for a cow.

Heavy equipment and farm machinery were as common to me as a video games are to modern kids. At ten or so I could drive a John Deere Model A and Model B tractor, and reasonably, for a ten year old, drive a Caterpillar D-21 bulldozer. Well, I think it was a D-21, maybe a D-25. It has indeed been a while.

The smell of burning diesel and fresh soil and fresh air, the sound of the birds singing and a chugging engine, the clear sky, the green trees and grass and underbrush; these things are embedded in my being. They are close friends; ones I hope to visit soon.

Razor, from Day 0

A few people, both on-line and off have asked me, "What's calling?" Well, the answer is quite simple but requires a bit of context. That being the case, I will bore you all with a photo history of yours truly, Razor. It will require several posts, so if you don't wait with baited breath for the answer, who could blame you?

Where am I? Physically, I mean? I live in Las Vegas. The mecca of gambling and nightlife of North America; bright and shining, with no closing time, is certainly not where I grew up.

This isn't always what Las Vegas looked like (believe it or not.)
This picture of the Las Vegas Strip, taken in 1951 (courtesy of photosfan.com) shows an early Las Vegas. The Dunes Hotel no longer exists; in it's place is the modern day Bellagio.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

My Mom and Dad met in 1964 and were married early in 1965. She was working at the little rural general store in Eliza,Illinois and he worked the small family farm a few miles away.

I was born in this little hospital on a chilly spring morning in 1966. I was the first born of two brothers and two sisters; five kids in all. (photo courtesy of CardCow)

Initially I was a sick baby. According to doctor's notes, it was something akin to measles and asthma. After a few weeks, as confusing as the illness was to my parents and the doctors, it was gone. Throughout the next five years or so, the asthma would still be a problem. Luckily I grew out of it.

After being medically cleared to go home, my Mom and Dad brought me home, where I would spend the next 17 years of my life.

This 60 acres of rural Illinois fields and woods and streams had been in the family since around 1870. It was my home in all senses of the word.

This aerial photo from 1955 does not do it justice. (Photo from American Aerial County History Series No. 22 by John Drury, published by The Loree Company, Chicago, IL)

I was a typical farm baby. Here I am at my first family reunion, obviously sleeping off whatever home-brew is in the jug next to me.

The outdoors was my friend, showing a natural affinity for the farm and nature. The house was old and not terribly modern. While there was plumbing supplied with water from the well, toilet facilities were out back in a small building. Yes, we had an outhouse and took baths in the back porch. Generally this was not an issue, but Illinois winters proved a bit challenging.

In 1968 the family increased by one; my brother Lem was born. His real name was Charles Lemuel but this was never really accepted. As a matter of fact, to this day he will not even answer to Charles or Charlie or any version of the name.

First memories vary for many people. Mine is of the Apollo 11 moon landing on July 16, 1969. The old black and white television crackled with static as it displayed the astronauts exploring the lunar environment. It fascinated this three year old beyond words, and placed a firm fascination of science and exploration into my mind.

Remembering the LEM clawing and screaming against the lunar gravity, bound for home, is a memory I hope will never fade.

New Experiences...

New experiences are not always enjoyable.

Early last week my ex asked me to come over and help her with the cat. He is getting a bit old and has a cone around his head so he doesn't lick a nasty raw spot on his tail. She just needed someone to hold him while she dressed the raw spot. No problems.

I go over and help. With the cat now roaming around the apartment all pissed-off, I walk into the bathroom to use the facilities before leaving.

When I walked out to leave, this is what I saw. Well, rather similar anyway. Imagine the left side of this prism only, in your far left peripheral field of vision. The shimmering colors seem to radiate from a point equidistant from the ends, where it resembles a bright flashlight being shown through a fan.

Officially this was something called an Optical Migraine. Generally it is the presentation of symptoms related to a migraine, without the severe pain. Since then, there has been a dragging, dull, 'dry' headache in the back of my skull, difficulty sleeping and a bit of depression. Nothing to worry about right now, as allergy season is starting to kick off here.

If this headache is still going on in a week, I am to go back and see my Dr. again. Where did I put that Ibuprofen?.....

Ride out to Hoover Dam

There was simply no resisting.

My last attempt to ride Hoover Dam resulted in Bikus-Interruptus due to Christmas Day traffic. With the new camera and temps in the low 60F range, there was only one thing to do. Ride and video it.

While there was more traffic than I like, it was a nice ride down the canyon, across the dam and into Arizona. The cause of the lighting issue with the camera became apparent this afternoon while looking at, and editing the video. With the camera mounted 90 degrees, it's aspect ratio is taller than wide. Thus, it is receiving more light from the sky than if it were mounted horizontally. The electronic shutter closes just a bit and makes the landscape look dark in many places.

The program I use to edit and render, Microsoft Movie Maker, adds to the problem and darkens it more, with each reduction in quality.

So, next week I will order the proper mounts from GoPro to mount it horizontally to my helmet.

The windscreen mount experiment failed. The video from the camera while attached there was so shaky as to be pretty much worthless. However, it was horizontally mounted and the lighting was fine.

At any rate, here it VLOG 5 - My ride to Boulder Dam.


Oh, about 1 minute in, and at the end, note the nifty new bridge being built over the dam! When it is complete and traffic is flowing, the dam will likely be cut off from all traffic except tourists.

P.S. The song is Blue Sky Blond by Thieves and Villains.

GoPro Hero Wide 5MP - Initial Results

So, I like to video my rides. Unfortunately stuffing my big-ish camera into my helmet and taking mediocre videos is a bit disheartening. Several months ago there was a sale here, on the GoPro Hero 5MP camera set for $165. Cool, but not $165 cool.

As luck would have it, one came up for sale for only $120 on CraigsList. So, to me, it IS $120 cool. (I would have rather had the previous owner's custom Aprilia for $120, but, hey...)

It is a rather small camera, with no fancy color display; just a mechanical viewfinder, LCD mode and status indicator on the front and two buttons. The one on the front is power and mode. The button on the top is for shutter and options.

The camera comes with a plethora of mounting options and a water tight case. The image above shows the camera in it's water tight cast. According to the manual it can be submerged by up to 30 feet of water and continue to record. GoPro Hero Wide Web

At any rate, here is a sample video I took this morning. This version of the Hero has a wide angle lens that presents a different perspective, for me anyway.

What, Where? (or Craziness on the Interweb)

In life, WTF moments happen along from time to time. For some reason riding a motorcycle regularly seems to bring these out of the woodwork. Seemingly everywhere a rider looks is a potential WTF moment. As an example, there used to be a giant billboard on the strip near the Circus Circus Casino that read, "Vasectomy!!! It's easier than you think!"

Seriously... Is the Las Vegas Strip a prime spot to advertise cheap Vasectomies???

Well, today, according to the World Wide Weird, I discovered some fantastic things about some towns in Illinois. According to Google, these services or things are available:

• Private Investigators
• Foreclosures
• Travel Deals
• Open Houses
• Employment Opportunities
• Concerts and Shows
• Home Rentals
• Middle Eastern Singles & Dating
• Native American Singles & Dating
• T1 and even DS3 Telecom Services
• Taxi Services
• etc... ad absurdum...

What are these towns? Arpee, Illinois is one of them. Never really a town, it was a railroad stop and junction in the mid and latter 1800's. The other really was a village; Sunbeam, Illinois. This place was populated by only a few people in the mid 1800's. By the early 1900's it was a prarie ghost town.

This sort of internet junk could easily throw off someone trying to do research. Imagine what a less than ardent high school student could write about these two places if their only research tool was the internet.

"Was founded in the mid 1800's and now has a flourishing mixture of Middle Eastern and Native American cultures..."

Welcome to the internet... Could this really be the wasteland of the 21st century?

Coincidences

What are coincidences?

Seriously?

Are they simply juxtapositions of two or more things or events that show a commonality? If event A never occurred, would event B be noticed? Does A cause B? B cause A? Is there some unseen string tying the two together, only to be observed by a single person?

If I dream of a black Harley Street Glide with a four leaf clover painted on its tank, and then see that same bike on the commute home from work, that would seem odd, yes? Perhaps viewing the bike would shape the memory of the dream so as to engineer a false commonality. Maybe it was really a Triumph Bonneville with a fig leaf on it's tank riding around in my dream. Memories, especially of dreams, are fluid and fleeting, many times coming into false focus based on similar physical stimuli.

Any more, I will be damned if I know how some of these unseen things in the universe work.

This morning I wrote a little piece about Hearing a Call. The Call is unique and can mean different things to different people. Some calls are internal; some exhibit external presentations. Mine is a private call at the moment. No, I am not giving up motorcycling. No, I am not "switching teams." An, no, I am not entering the priesthood. When the time is right; timing is everything... or nothing at all.

At any rate, this morning I wrote what I wrote. This evening after leaving work, on my way to run a lengthy errand, an advertising truck caught me eye. If you are not familiar with these vehicles of questionable quantitative value, they are typically flat-bed trucks with large signs mounted to the bed. Some of them have signs that change. Others' signs are static.

This particular one was static. It was in oncoming traffic, waiting to turn left, across my path of travel. Needless to say, vehicles in this position throw imaginary red flags while I am riding. As I pass, the sign was obvious. The ware or service being advertised was unimportant. The huge words in yellow on blue, once read, would have caused my chin to drop if not for my helmet's strap.

I swear... This is what it read.

"Something is calling, Answer It!"

This stuff is just too odd for fiction.

Picture, "End of Confusion" by Wim Grooten.

There's a call for you, Razor...

Omnipresent as the universe is the call. Persistant and ubiquitous as water tumbling gently in ageless streams, it is there for those to hear.

As children, all are capable of hearing the gentle bell heralding the call. Over time deafness is beaten in by others or by ourselves. We are all capable of hearing again, however not knowing what to listen for, or when the call will come, makes this task of hearing no less difficult.

Some fear it. Some factor it away in cold logical equations such that the remainder is considered rounding error. Some feel it is not within them to answer. Some are told it is better not to answer. Some apathetic souls simply sit and watch television as the bell patiently asks for attention.

I understand there is a call for me... Be back soon.

Socialy Inept & A Choice of Good -vs- Good

I ride a motorcycle. To me its physics are simple; throttle and brake and gyroscopic effect and fuel and road condition and speed and weight. When I can afford it, I fly. Here, the physics are pretty simple as well; thrust and drag and gravity and lift.

This is my public announcement to the world... I am socially inept. Nuances that others see and understand, fly tall red banners for all to see, yet for me they are nothing but tattered rags ruffling in the breeze. They serve no purpose but to place tiny markers in my mind, and I move on.

Decisions... Here is something I posted on my Facebook status: "What path doth one take when both are of the righteous and just?"

Please tell me. My choice was made before the situation, with it's logic that I could not argue. It was there, the irrefutable logic presented as flags; nuances that hold no comprehension in my mind. It required an interpreter.

Perhaps I will get my ass kicked for not seeing the nuances. In the proverbial sense, it has happened before.

Valentine's Day Ride

As fate or luck or the universe would have it, Valentine's Day this year is a solitary 24 hours in a calendar of 8,760 hours. Nothing new. There are less attractive alternatives to a solitary Valentine's Day. So, this day when so many celebrate being with someone special, I do as well.

What did I do? Ride, of course! Originally the plan was to spend the day in my garage, working on my project bike. By 10AM, the weather was in the low 60s and the bright blue sky perfect for riding.

This No Trespassing sign was a little unsettling. A Laser Shock???

This one made me giggle a bit.

This is the time of year when the desert starts to turn green. Couldn't resist taking a few pictures while doing a bit of hiking.

ROTFLMAO!!! These ranchers certainly have a sense of humor!

The long lonely road. How apropos.

And finally, a little video of the ride. Hope it doesn't bore all who decide to watch. :-P

Television - Just Shoot It!

Six months ago, my daughter, her boyfriend and I moved into an apartment. Since the cost of moving and getting the appropriate things set up was coming out of my bank account, a bold decision was made.

No cable TV. No digital converter, either. If my daughter or her boyfriend wanted it, they could pay for it. And, I am here to say, people CAN survive without it.

Well, more than survive; thrive.

Since being deprived of this mind-sucker, my daughter has acquired a job and loves it. Sure, it's Burger King, but complaints are minimal. Her grades went up an entire letter grade in ALL classes. YES! And, she now has a pet snake that SHE paid for and SHE takes care of.

Her attitude toward life and money and responsibility has entirely changed for the better.

Her boyfriend has acquired a job he likes and is doing well.

And what of I? Well, my project motorcycle is slowly moving along; I have finished four fiction books; started reading and researching the history of the county where I grew up (Mercer County, IL); taking classes in preparation of helping at a local domestic violence center; have a few websites that are in the process of being built; taught my daughter's boyfriend how to change the oil in his car; ridden across the country; started to write a few short stories; started creating videos of my rides and while I work on my VX800; and a few things that are certainly forgotten.

So, my suggestion, if at all possible, leave that television off. Or if you like, dispose of it like the person in the above video.

If I could only get my two room mates do clean the apartment and do the dishes...

Liars, Damned Liars and Statisticians

Over the past week, statistics have been raining down on my head. While I do not purport to be an expert in the field of statistics, I do know enough to be dangerous; where and what to question.

Recently a Child Abuse study was released by the US Department of Health And Human Services. Using reports from CPS, LEO (Law Enforcement Organizations), school officials and other 'sentinals', the study estimates there were 743,200 incidences of abuse in 1993 and 553,300 in 2005/06. Further, there were 879,000 estimated incidences of child neglect in 1993, and only 771,700 in 2005/06.

Keep in mind that the source of this data is not strictly from child abuse professionals. This provides a wider and deeper investigation into this social ill. However, including data from individuals provides a bit of variability in the reported data. Some of this variability was filtered through a more or less standardized reporting criteria, but that latitude of variability still exists.

Further, the reporting data was sampled over two, three week periods and then annualized. Two third of the sampled counties were studied from the first week in September through the first week of December. The other one third of the counties were studied from the first week of February through the first week of May. This left, for the most part, these months unreported: December; January; May; June; July; and August.

One of the first things taught in statistics class is to ensure a random, representative sample. Anecdotal evidence as relayed to your's truly, indicate a sharp but brief rise in reports immediately after Christmas and New Years. Neither of these peaks are included in the sample periods.

Further, using the 2008 Quarterly Domestic Violence Report from the Nevada Department of Public Safety, the peak months of reported DV is April, May, June, July, August and September. National monthly or quarterly statistics were not readily available, so, this will need to suffice.

See any issue? The federal report missed several months of high reported abuse.

Further, other government studies show different numbers. According to the CDC, there were 905,000 childhood victims of maltreatment from October, 2005 through September, 2006 as reported by state and local child protective services. According to the Health and Human Services report, a total estimated of 1,256,600 occurred. This latter number included an estimation of official and unofficial reports. So, if there were 905,000 official reports, unofficial reports would constitute 351,600. Sort of low, in my opinion.

To make things just a little stranger, the US Census Bureau reported there was a total of 1,860,259 reports of child abuse and neglect that were investigated in 2007. This number blows the Health and Human Services report out of the water.

Either way, if that number is greater than one, it is too many.

Cave

It can be so easy to slip back into our own caves. The warmth and gentle humid breeze welcomes one back with dark open arms. The world, so confusing and different and startlingly sharp prod the weak back home to the well worn lonely stone prison.

And many are happy to go.

With others, apathy and weakness alters the escape velocity ever so subtly. Over time many find their trajectories aimed back to where they started with such force it may seem impossible to halt the slide. And they impact, and feel the warm safety of their old cave, and stay.

The boulder at its mouth placed there for the previous resident's protection. This infinite grotto sobs and cries out for the person's return. In the heavy air an unearthly scream peels out to the universe, vibrating in resonance.

Standing there unwavering, armor stained and dented from battles won and lost. Brown, tarnished shield held firm in a black leather gauntlet clad scarred hand. Spear, mirror polished, razor sharp with the marks of many battles, ready as its master, without a moment's pause.

This cave shall never be inhabited again.

Motorcycle Vlogging - Premier

Yes, I have now entered the wonderful world of motorcycle vlogging. Borrowing AtlasRider's method for taking videos while riding, this was an interesting experience. Placing my camera inside my helmet, just in front of my nose, almost no peripheral vision was compromised.

And so, with no further delay, my premier motorcycle vlog post.

Song is "Nina Straight" by Stasola; used here under A Creative Commons license. A better, larger format version can be downloaded here: www.radstream.com/vlog/ridetowork2_0003High.wmv If it is not there, well... There is only so much space available on my hosting account.

There are a few modifications that need to be made before much more video is shot. First and foremost, my helmet needs to be adjusted to allow for my camera. There is a small piece of plastic near my chin on my helmet that needs to be removed. It is only there to support the poofy soft padding, is not structural and is not necessary for the integrity of the helmet design.

Additionaly, the small piece of plastic causes the camera to look down slightly.

AND, I have a habbit. When a small battery goes bad, I do not throw it away. It is tossed in a saddle bag or drawer or pocket. Well, about 1/3 of the way to work my camera batteries give out. I pull over, get two batteries from my saddle bag, start the camera and take off. About 2/3 of the way to work, the same thing happened again!

The batteries just put in the camera must have been nearly dead in the first place! After a bit more digging, Fresh Duracells were locate and put in the camera. That's the stuff!

Another reason to ride, as if I NEED another one; to make videos. Wonder if this is something I could mention on a first date...

"I ride motorcycles, read science fiction, enjoy camping, love watching thunderstorms, oh..." voice lowered to a whisper, "I also vlog."

Christmas Ride, 2009.

For one reason or another, I did not post a word, a peep or a picture from my 2009 Christmas ride. My daughter and her boyfriend went to Sedona to be with his parents for the holidays. So, with the cookies and treats all baked and delivered, no Christmas meal to prepare, no hustle to make the place presentable to guests.

What should I do??? Hmmm... Free day, $10 for gas. I am going for a ride.

Pardon the quality of this video. I may be a computer professional and all, but this is the first time attempting to create a video while riding. Be sure to turn the audio down before watching. The wind noise can be a bit too much.

The video was taken while approaching the little "B" place marker below.


View Larger Map

My initial idea was to ride to the Hoover dam, snap a few pictures, check out the new bridge being built and ride into Arizona for a bit. NO luck. After passing through Boulder City, cars and trucks on their way over the dam were bumper to bumper. And, I was there as well, putting along. The heat from the engine after about 30 minutes of this clutch slipping headache told me it was time to stop, let my bike cool off and turn around.

Which I did.

The day was beautiful. There was no way a beautiful riding day like this should be wasted, so I turned south and rode through a tiny little mining town called Nelson, past several abandoned mines, past the infamous Techatticup Mine, on to the Colorado River.

Pictures coming up. Must sleep...

October, 2008

October, 2008. Colorado, interstate 36 eastbound, ten miles or so from the Kansas state line.

It was quiet. The air was clean, with a slight breeze from the West. Red winged blackbirds flitted and played in the light skies, pausing only a few moments to land in a fence row or on the ground.

Hundreds of miles of solitude on two wheels. There are times and places where the road and life become one. I'm good with that.

Breaking the Habit

The amount of time and attention spent on simple, online social interaction was a true surprise. Rather than the typical 45 minutes of work and 15 minutes of checking e-mail and Face Book and news groups and forums, these multiple 15 minute breaks were consolidated into one 30 minute lunchtime escape.

And, that is not all. Yesterday evening was spent making a slow barbecue chicken dish, brownies, spending time with my daughter and reading. There was no running upstairs to check e-mail or Face Book. It was quiet and productive and relaxing.

Regardless of the relaxing nature of last night, frustration did peek it's head into the living room. Money is at a negative level; this is honestly an interesting experimental week in thriftiness and minimalism. There is money for gas, and that's about it.

Then there is the desire to be out in the garage, wrenching on Vixen. It is chilly outside, dark when I get home after work and for me, that environment is simply not conducive to wrenching.

Perhaps that is a good thing; lessons in patience are always welcome. It will be warm in the evenings soon enough.

Then there is the post sinus drip, the nausea, the difficulty sleeping, the restlessness, the scratchy throat. But, this is a good thing. Details later.

Dr. Oz Wants Me to Have More Sex

That's right. In a recent article by Dr. Mehmet Oz, M.D., there are three suggested New Years resolutions for 2010. These are, in no particular order: get more sleep; never let yourself feel hungry; and have more sex.

Item number one? Check. For the past several months, effort has been extended to get seven to eight hours of pillow time. Honestly, I feel SO much better getting more sleep.

Item number two has never been an issue. MY issue is in the method of not feeling hungry. Instead of grabbing a bag of corn chips or licorice out of the vending machine at work, I need to keep fresh fruits and vegetables available. And, not the crappy ones, but the ones I like.

Now the tough one... more sex. According to the good doctor, "Sex is an indicator of many things, and if you aren't having it at least once (and ideally more) a week for 30 minutes, it could mean something is dangerously wrong."

Once a week, eh? If I factor in arrears, that's... well... I am at least 250 sessions behind. Ideally more? I am so screwed.

OOoo.... Please pardon the pun. Read the whole Dr. Oz article here.

Why One Needs GOOD Tools

Today was a wrenching day. The clutch has been dragging on my Harley Sportster, so out comes the manual and tools.
First things first. I prop my sporty up so that she is leaning slightly to the right and pop out the kickstand just in case she tips toward me. Once 500 pounds start coming down, a kickstand will stop it; my arm will not.

Following the service manual, I loosen the clutch cable adjustment.
And then start to remove the "derby cover" with a Torx socket. It happens. This socket has been used about six times to remove and torque this cover. Apparently today was the day to fail. Before complete malfunction, I was able to torque the bolt, so the cover is still secure.
It may not be terribly obvious here, but the Torx socket is quite chewed up and quite completely useless at this point.

After this little failure, readjusting the clutch cable, I see this.
Great, a nice little 3mm finish crater in the left front of the tank, likely due to a rock.

So, what do I do? continue wrenching on my VX800 project!

25,000 Miles in 2010

In the spirit of my 25,000 mile goal for 2010, here are my odometer readings. My first year of riding in 2008 netted a total of about 16,000 miles. 2009 came in at about 19,000. 25,000 miles in 2010 shouldn't be too tough.

26,969 on Vixen, my Suzuki VX800. Hopefully she will be running and operational by the end of 2010.

17,225 miles, all mine, on my Honda Rebel.
And, last, but certainly not least, 67,929 miles on Athena, my Harley Davidson XL1200C Sportster.