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I do not think it is mere coincidence that we are embarking on a new venture with a new platform around the same time of our 7th Anniversary. We have grown not only in numbers, but in positive exposure and credibility. Our community-focused mandate is reflected in our continued involvement with many charitable organizations such as the Children's Wish Foundation. But beyond that, we have become nationally recognized as a group of individuals who exemplify compassion and a genuine willingness to make a difference to the disenfranchised across our country. This forum is your home. This is where you will be regenerated as you participate in the give and take of social interaction with CMC members all across the country. Each region has its own flavour and distinctiveness and that has transformed our riding club into a representative microcosm of Canada. No where else in Canadian mortorcycling, is there such a diverse group of individuals who have come together, not just for the fun of riding, but building community. Some of you will recall my original post 5 years ago, (see attached) on my experience in meeting for the first time, the “black leather crowd” that was CMC, and how in a matter of minutes, all preconceived notions were dispelled through the act of a hug from a leather-clad female stranger. I was safe because my wife was also with me, and she received the same from an equally leather-bound male stranger. The point is, we are different, but one notable and defining characteristic of our club is that we celebrate those differences with compassion, inclusiveness and respect. Irma, Mike and I thoroughly enjoyed taking the last three months to prepare this online platform for all of you. Please use it to the fullest. We did not set it up to compete with other social media sites; you are free to use those. We worked hard at setting this forum up to compete for your hearts; the hearts that make up CMC. cmc036_2008.pdf

A few days ago, I was listening to a CBC television newscast showcasing a young Quebec filmmaker by the name of Xavier Dolan. This admittedly young, brash, yet gifted filmmaker, has been dubbed The Québécois L'Enfant Terrible. After all, where does a fresh-faced 25-year-old, get off winning the prestigious Jury Prize at the Cannes Film Festival for his just released film Mommy? Decades-old, entrenched filmmakers of his genre, have continually looked down their noses at such young up and coming unorthodox filmmakers. Breaking stereotypes, and shattering molds, seems to be the new normal; as far as new, talented Quebec filmmakers are concerned anyway. So what does this have to do with bikers? Well, in my opinion, everything. A stereotype, once dissected and laid bare, usually verifies its own definition. A descriptive aberration of the oversimplification of a partial truth. The unfortunate and widely held mystique of the "biker" promotes the image of a 'rebel without a cause'; individuals with apparent dysfunctional, untrustworthy attitudes, borne out of seemingly rebellious natures, replete with a radical death wish predisposition. While there are unsavoury, immature individuals who utilize motorcycles, that does not necessarily translate into all participants of this two-wheeled genre being poster children for the Hells Angels. An unfortunate side effect of all this is that the culture becomes inundated with misinterpretation and preconceived notions from within and without. These attitudes are also pervasive within the subculture itself. If you ride a cruiser you may not necessarily look on with favour, those who do not ride that type of motorcycle. Or if you do not subscribe to the "Sons of Anarchy" mentality, even in pretense (which has its own inherent and dangerous traps) then you are catalogued and classified as an outsider; or a biker 'wannabe'. If you missed the irony in that last statement, that would be akin to you not seeing a screaming naked person running in circles around you as you tried to order coffee in a Tim Hortons check out line. Just saying :). I know of which I speak, because I have been on the receiving end of that kind of short-sighted thinking several times over. Let's be honest, we all unfortunately maintain some level of prejudice or bias based upon our preconceived notions of how things should or should not be, along with our likes and dislikes. These preconceptions have come about through our upbringing, our environment, and from things that have made an impact on us, whether for good or for ill. What we do about that type of thinking and how we comport ourselves (as individuals first; bikers second) moving forward, is the question we should be asking ourselves. With that said, I have a confession to make. When dealing with idiotic twits (are there any other kinds?), there have been times when I have said to myself, why bother? Why wrestle with those whose thought processes are intractable, narrow-minded, or self-serving? Why acknowledge them? Why give them the time of day? Then I am reminded that I too am a part of this whole global culture. I make up a part of the human race. No matter what or how I think, I cannot extract myself from the people of this planet. Yes, I will disagree with some of their ideas, or ways of doing things, but I am a part of the whole. That in itself is not necessarily a bad thing. In fact I believe it has great intrinsic value. It means I not only have the opportunity, but the right to offer something of value back to the community. Why should I be robbed of the opportunity to promote something good or worthwhile, because of someone else's insecurities? The Canadian Motorcycle Cruisers Social Riding Club effectively stretches between Canada's east and west coasts. It consists of individuals in different provinces and cities with different types of motorcycles from different walks of life with different ways of thinking. Some look as if they eat nails for breakfast and dress the part accordingly, but in truth are the most gentle, kind, grandparents, doctors, teachers, pharmacists, mechanics, electricians among others, you could ever meet; while others look as if they have just stepped off the covers of GQ or Cosmopolitan magazines, but may not seem immediately warm and friendly. The point is if you judge a book by its cover, you risk losing the opportunity of discovering the value of the content within. The CMC has an underlying and refreshingly realistic mandate; you may not be able to make friends with everyone, but at a minimum show respect to everyone and hopefully you should expect the same in return. Essentially we are a microcosm of humanity who just happen to have a thing for motorcycles. My association with the CMC began in July 2008, with a small chapter, in a small town, in a rural county in Southwest Ontario. Through that initial association I volunteered to become one of the maintainers and official coordinator of our national online forum. So I've had some time to witness the evolution of our riding club as it has progressed over the years I have been a part of it. Attitudes change, people come and go and yes, there been times when I thought about not being a part of CMC. The encouraging thing is that you're allowed to think that way. You're not mandated to be here permanently. You're free to come and go. If it is not enjoyable anymore you are not constrained to stay. You prioritize what is of value for you. Your family comes first. Your health comes first. Your job comes first. Your lifestyle comes first. Something that was of great assistance in helping me during a period when I was feeling a bit disillusioned about my role or value in CMC, (only as far as I was concerned), was when I met George. George is one of the friendliest, most unassuming, jovial, characters you will ever meet. George unfortunately had to have one of his legs amputated a few years ago, but that is not stopped him from participating in rides and meet ups as a new member in our local chapter. George's best friend and confidant, also joined our chapter recently and the two are inseparable. You see George rides in his friend's sidecar which his friend built just for him. Also George happens to be an English Bulldog. Seriously. I cannot quite put my finger on it but, Sir George and his friend/master brought something unique and special to our meetings and rides. Yes he is quite the 'Babe Magnet', (George that is) but beyond that, both of them have engendered a new sense of cohesiveness to our small chapter. They, as well as recent new members to our chapter, have demolished myths and reestablished a fresh camaraderie among the chapter members. It's little things like this that help when we need to reevaluate our own lives, not just as bikers, but individuals who have to face life with it's inherent struggles on a daily basis. We may ride motorcycles and maybe even look as if we just stepped off of some 14th-century Viking ship with body parts studded with metal, or wear strange helmets reminiscent of some post apocalyptic era, but beneath the leather and iron-mongering, we all have dreams and desires for our lives just like anyone else. Image Source - Reddit - https://www.reddit.com/r/motorcycles/comments/2x27xj/bought_a_gopro_this_week_never_going_back/

This morning as I was sitting in my office looking out my window at the park across the street, I received a text message from my youngest son. A simple word with so much meaning – FREEDOM! For most of us, freedom means to get on our scoots and cruise to wherever the front wheel points. No timeframe, no destination, no one to bother us. For others, it may mean to live in a land where you are free to say what comes to mind, to eat when you want to eat or live where you want to live. But for my son, it meant that he was finished with his five year obligation in the Royal Canadian Air Force. As a flyer, he flew in some of the rattiest aircraft in the RCAF’s fleet, a miracle that he landed safely some days. He was involved in a couple of incidents where things that go boom flew by him, so close a baseball bat would have taken them out of the sky. He saw some things that I know he would like to forget, but never will. FREEDOM. Freedom can mean so much to so many, yet means so little to just as many. Freedom is taken for granted. Freedom is unrecognized. You have heard the expression that freedom is not free. The truth is, it is not and never will be. But what grabs my goat is watch these people on the steps of the Legislative Buildings and say, “Free us from Russia <or substitute a country here>” just gets to me. You are now living is Canada, you ARE free from Russia <or substitute a country here>, and for you to fly any flag other than the Canadian flag is a disgrace, and may the gods above help you if you burn my flag! You live in Canada – MY CANADA. This is your home, and if it is not – move on. You are here today because of my son, our sons and daughters, our mothers and fathers, our grandparents. If you cannot accept their sacrifices, then you do not deserve the right to stand on those steps. FREEDOM. A simple word with such a strong meaning. As a father to a son who served, the two of the proudest days of my life where the day he entered the RCAF and today, the day he exited. I am just thankful that he is coming home. My heart falls heavy when I read about our sons and daughters that do not make it home. They made that ultimate sacrifice in the name of FREEDOM. FREEDOM. What it means to have men and women who are willing to put their lives on hold so we can say that word. To all those in uniform – Thank you for your service.

Nervously, I watched him stride with grim intent towards me; a huge holstered firearm fastened to his right hip and a look of pure disgust and indignation written on his face. As he came up to me, any preconceived notions of me owning personal space was totally obliterated! 24 hours earlier…. Excitement started to build once I found out I would be introduced to cross-border flight procedures. My flight instructor at the university I attended at the time, was going to take a couple of his students from Langley, British Columbia into Washington State, in order to teach not only advanced flight navigation, but the differences between U.S. & Canadian flight and ground operations. The main intent was to acquire the skills and knowledge required to safely traverse from Canadian to U.S. Airspace and land there; ostensibly without initiating a cross-border war. We had flown many times into U.S. Airspace, but had never before landed an aircraft on U.S. soil, since we always returned to a Canadian airport. So we began to prepare for the upcoming flight. This was back in the days when passports were optional, so a federally issued commercial pilots licence sufficed. Preparing for any flight requires a significant level of commitment and attention to detail. Planning a flight into what was effectively a foreign country, even more so. You had to let them know you were coming at a minimum 24-48 hours in advance; in what type of aircraft; along with a complete passenger manifest. All aircraft airworthiness logs and of course your pilot’s licence had to be up to date. On top of that, you had to compile a flight plan detailing your proposed route, and that was dictated by a thorough review and dissemination of meteorological data along your intended route of flight. After all that, you had to file your flight plan in advance in order to get it into the Air Traffic Control system. Then on the actual day of the flight, you are required to complete a full pre-flight inspection of your aircraft, checking for leaks, anomalies, or other things that could physically impede or affect your aircraft, on the ground or in flight. So on that day when all pre-flight forms, transmissions, checks and the weather cooperated to actually allow me to fling myself skyward, we ventured south into the U.S. and hopped throughout the San Juan islands into airports with exotic names such as Anacortes, Samish, Guemes, Sandovi and Fidalgo. Names that sounded more at home in Puerto Rico than the State of Washington. We then looped back into Canada via Victoria to clear Canadian customs before heading back to home base in Langley in the Lower Mainland. 24 hours later…. With the previous day’s flight still fresh in my mind, as part of my training, I was required to complete the same flight solo. I was permitted one passenger who was not a pilot. So I asked one of my friends and she agreed to go along for the day’s adventure. With flight prep out of the way and round trip flight plan already filed I once again headed south. Things started to get interesting after being handed off to Washington’s Air Traffic Control. My initial visual flight planned altitude was for 5500ft, but given the penchant for inclement weather to rapidly form on the west coast, while enroute I was forced to request a lower altitude below the 3000 foot cloud deck that I swear was not there a minute before. Our first destination was Bellingham International to clear customs. We were vectored toward the airport and once given clearance we landed and taxied to the area where itinerant pilots clear customs. Because of the requirement to file a flight plan and set up customs notification ahead of time, a U.S Customs Agent will normally be aware of any foreign private aircraft arriving at a U.S. airport. So when I parked in the designated spot, I did not expect a long wait. After 15 minutes we started to get antsy. 35 minutes after putting the parking brakes on, worry began to set in. When 50 minutes ticked over, I decided to venture forth from the aircraft to the Customs building approximately 100 metres from the plane. I had not taken two steps toward the Customs building when an agent emerged and started towards my plane. Nervously, I watched him stride with grim intent towards me; a huge holstered firearm fastened to his right hip and a look of pure disgust and indignation written on his face. As he came up to me, any preconceived notions of me owning personal space was totally obliterated! To say this guy was angry would be the ultimate understatement; and initially somewhat puzzling. He wasted no time in getting all up in my face; then proceeded to climb up one side of me and then down the other; excavating and then demolishing any sense of well-being that I may have had. After he shouted at me for what seemed like 10 minutes, he asked to see my flight documents as well as my passenger’s. Unfortunately, I also made the mistake of forgetting to ensure that my passenger’s birthdate was filled in the proper place on the form. This then provided another opportunity for the agent to initiate a rain dance; possibly in the hopes that it hid his power-tripping insecurities. Here is the deal. Back then, pilots of arriving private aircraft were required to remain in the aircraft. The Customs Agent comes out to meet them. Given that I had landed an hour earlier and had not been met by anyone, I assumed that Customs had not received notification of my arrival for whatever reason. Yes, I knew the rules stated I should not have left the aircraft, but hey, what happened, happened. Now for the real kicker. This was the same Customs Agent that had cleared my aircraft not less than 24 hours earlier, along with my flight instructor, myself and two other students. He most certainly knew who I was. He was well aware of the fact that I was a student in training. He most certainly know the aircraft registration. Needless to say, his demeanour was polar opposite from the previous day I was 24 years old at the time, and I was no fool. It did not take much to ascertain that he had an issue with anyone with a naturally deep tan being allowed to operate an aircraft, much less having the audacity of landing it in his back yard. It would not be the last time that I encountered such a scenario. Well after being thoroughly put through an emotional wringer, I still had several stops to make throughout the State, before safely returning my passenger to Canadian airspace. When we finally landed in Victoria to clear Canadian customs, having been sufficiently chastened, I was determined to stay put; no matter how long the agent took. But as I taxied up to my designated parking spot, I noticed someone leaning out of the terminal building’s doorway leading to the Customs area. He was waving me to come inside. I am now thinking, fool me once….but he persisted and after shutting down the aircraft, both my friend and I stepped out of the plane fully expecting to be shot on sight. When we did get inside and produced our documents, we got this: A Customs Agent in a T-shirt and not so much as a pea shooter in sight! Customs Agent: "Howzit goin’ eh?” Me: “Fine.” I lied Customs Agent: "Been hoppin’ the islands again?" Me: Yes sir. Customs Agent: "Anything to declare?" Me: (Thinking: Yes…there be whack jobs south of the border) "Ah..no sir." Customs Agent: "Alrighty then…have yer’selves a safe flight back to the mainland!" Oh how I love Canada!

Grizzz brought up a very important topic in one of his recent Blog posts - New Blood - http://www.cmcnational.ca/index.php?/blog/10/entry-29-new-blood/ - pertaining to the issue of waning membership in the CMC. I would like to submit a few thoughts of my own on his insightful piece. I am sure it is the general perception (in and out of the CMC), that I ride a “Crotch Rocket”. Maybe I am just slightly oversensitive, as I tend to lean towards the politically correct left, by refuting the aforementioned notion in saying that I ride a "Sport Touring" bike. My ride does not force me into a position that looks as if I am humping it in order to make it go faster. Granted, the lines of my bike at first glance, (ok, and maybe the second), may convince one otherwise, but my handlebars are positioned upright; thereby saving me the indignity of looking as if I am taking a high velocity crap. Tongue-in-cheekiness aside, (my true Crotch Rocket friends know I jest), one of our stated Club mandates, vociferously argues that ALL makes and models of bikes are welcome; and I will continually and ardently defend that CMC position. But we are all a product of our environment and the associated influences in said environs will lend itself to how we make choices in life. Whether we like to admit it or not, individual style preference does (and should) matter to us on some level. So back to the underlying question raised by Grizzz. How do we attract new and younger riders? Well, for myself, prior to joining CMC, I had never owned a motorcycle. I was not particularly “young” when I first got my bike after joining CMC, and that was 6 years ago. I am now 52. But what attracted me was not the prevalent types of bikes (Cruisers) that were in attendance, but the people that rode them. They shared their passion not only for riding, but the community that it fostered. They did not care that I never owned a bike or what type I would eventually get; but were willing to welcome me into their family anyway. So then, are we willing to get (and yes even feel) awkward by stepping outside of our comfort zones in attempting to demonstrate inclusiveness to those types who we think may not fit with the CMC? Yes, even the reckless, inconsiderate individuals who give a bad name to all riders? In my estimation, they are the ones who most need “mature” experienced riders to set an example; first by totally freaking them out by actually talking with them, rather than down to them; and then offering the hand of friendship through invitation to come and see what we are all about. All of this in the hope that they may learn from our combined experience and in turn, give something positive back to the motorcycling community. Not all will respond, but never forget, all of us at one time were inexperienced and had lower maturity levels. We all have latent preconceived notions that are overdue for a Spring cleaning. That truth alone dictates that we need to strive for a continual blood transfusion to eradicate "old blood" thought processes.

Oh my, it has been a long time since I was last on to make a post - it seems work has a way in getting the way of having fun these days. Anyway.... We are going to have another contest!!!! A member approached me last week and said that we need to have a bumper sticker in the store. So here is the contest: The bumper sticker needs to be 11.5" x 3" Contain the CMC logo Contain "www.cmcnational.ca" Theme must be centred around Watch for Motorcycles, Motorcycles are on the road too, etc (similar to Motorcycle Awareness). CANNOT contain individual chapter information Must NOT contain copywrite material. Post your completed works here for judging. Contest ends July 31st Winner will recieve a $50 CMC Gear credit and full bragging rights!! Good luck all!!

The rains outside my window today should be cleansing the roads from salt and gravel, but when is it going to end and let us have our normal weather back? A wish I am sure so many of us have these days. But these days seem to be bringing more than doldrums of weather… Recently we lost another CMC sister to that damn ‘C’ word. Tina was one of our Charter Members, starting with the Club when we formed in 2006. Always the life of the gatherings and wisdom for the younger crowd. I met Weener in Guelph when I went out to Ontario for the 1st CMC Rally. Her big grin and warm welcome will never be forgot. Rest in Peace sister and protect your fellow members as we ride.

Ever since that Tower of Babel inci­dent way back in his­tory, we of the human race have been engaged in diverse forms of racial, religious and socio-economic one-upmanship. Some sub­tle, some overt. The peren­nial ques­tion: why is race is such a light­n­ing rod? In the USA, it has been debated ad-infinitum and unfor­tu­nately may not be answered for yet another gen­er­a­tion. One would expect more mature, rea­soned think­ing and accep­tance of this unavoid­able and patently obvi­ous fact; we are all inter­wo­ven with DNA strands that dis­tin­guish (all of) us as being from the same human race. Apparently some individuals beg to differ. One notable case in point. Nina Davuluri was crowned Miss America in 2014. Her plan was to follow her family tradition in medicine and become a cardiologist. She also happens to be of East Indian descent. Interestingly there are those who have chosen to denigrate her based on culture, but somehow adroitly miss the substantive fact that she is highly intelligent and was born in the USA. One online writer (The Thinking Housewife) even stated that because of Ms. Davulri’s appreciation and promotion of diversity in the pageant, that must mean “…she is proud that she is not a white American.” In a word….."Wow!" In North Amer­ica, certain "official" elements of authority, admit to profiling whole people groups, mainly because they “look the part”. All this in an inane attempt at fostering public security. This unfor­tu­nate response has been adopted by hate-filled, ide­o­log­i­cally stunted indi­vid­u­als; arguably, those with less officious mindsets. They cat­e­go­rize peo­ple out of fear, and by doing so, cul­tur­ally cas­ti­gate them out of igno­rance. This not only diminishes a person's humanity; it strips us all of human dignity. Here in Canada, racial issues are no less real and can appear to be less in-your-face; at least in con­trast to our neigh­bours south of the 49th par­al­lel. Yes, I am aware many in Canada have been, and con­tinue to be, on the receiv­ing end of overt expres­sions of racism. While that may be an uncomfortable truth to digest, at ­times I wonder if sub­tler forms of racial intol­er­ance are more insid­i­ous than those that usually motivate a person to go eye­ball to eye­ball with iden­ti­fi­able, intractable narrow-mindedness. February has been set aside as Black History month. Ostensibly to celebrate and honour the achievements of those past and present who have an African ancestral line. While I applaud the intent of the accorded honour, there are those who wonder if it really accomplishes what it sets out to do. Some argue that it is just a method to assuage any latent colonial guilt of the majority who oversaw unfortunate things like the early African Slave Trade, or legal segregation, (schools, public transport etc). There will always be those who look with disdain, suspicion, or outright hostility on certain indigenous, cultural, or religious groups, without having one lick of understanding about who they are, or what their life is like. This year will mark my 37th year in Canada after emigrating from Jamaica in the West Indies. I left a country where I was in the majority. Arriving in Canada, I attained minority status. I was still the same 16 year old who left Jamaica, wide-eyed and fascinated; eager to embrace a new culture, but a 3.5 hour flight adjusted my geolocation sufficiently to render me "different" in the eyes of some. Thankfully I had parents who had grounded me in the realities of life. I was taught that not everyone would accept, or in some cases even acknowledge me. Solely based on the fact that I did not have to pay exorbitant amounts of money to travel to destinations to acquire a tan, which would eventually fade 2 weeks after returning. But if truth be told, I have had way more good than bad happen while living in Canada. While I am grateful for the country of my birth, proud and not ashamed of my heritage, Canada, of which I am a citizen, is my home. My French Cana­dian wife and I have taught our (now adult) chil­dren that char­ac­ter traits such as integrity, com­pas­sion, for­give­ness, courage, among oth­ers, go a long way in defin­ing who they are. Exter­nal dif­fer­ences such as skin colour, hair type; the shape of your nose or lips, among other read­ily rec­og­nized phys­i­cal fea­tures that dif­fer­en­ti­ate the global pop­u­lace, also affirms and pro­motes what I like to refer to as the “unique cohe­sive­ness of diversity”. I pray that February is not a once-a-year crutch for some to appease guilt; or others to foster guilt, by always throwing the racial horrors of the past into our faces. While I will always advocate the need to remember history, let us seriously try to learn from it; by not staying in the past, but embracing the future with all people groups, so that our next gen­er­a­tion will take up the man­tle of inclu­sive­ness and accep­tance with more under­stand­ing and aware­ness than their predecessors. Arabian & Jewish Children - Image sourced from zazzle.com. Images of Nina Davuluri sourced from her Twitter Page & PageantProfessors.com Family image - mine

Hi Everyone! Well, hopefully spring is here for most of us. I have had my bike out twice, and it snowed the next day both times. I am going to risk it again today and go for a short ride with my friends. Like most riders, I waited patiently for that first ride, and with the winter that seemed to drag on forever, I was beginning to feel a bit caged! The first ride out was tentative, as the roads were covered with sand and grit, but it felt SO AWESOME! I read grizzz's Blob Post about enjoying the small things in life. I also read through the tributes to Tina (from 089) and although I didn't know her, the tributes really tell the story of a courageous lady. I had an idea. There is a challenge on the Internet called the 100 Happy Days Challenge http://100happydays.com - challenges people to focus on things that make them happy, even for a little while. As the site says - We live in times when super-busy schedules have become something to boast about. While the speed of life increases, there is less and less time to enjoy the moment that you are in. The ability to appreciate the moment, the environment and yourself in it, is the base for the bridge towards long term happiness of any human being. 71% of people tried to complete this challenge, but failed quoting lack of time as the main reason.These people simply did not have time to be happy. Do you? If you are up to the challenge, you post a picture every day for 100 days of things that make you happy. You can change the privacy settings to whatever you want, or you can just keep the challenge to yourself. My idea is this - is anyone interested in doing a CMC 100 Happy Day challenge? We could use the hashtag #100HappyDaysCMC or create a forum here for folks to post. What a great way to promote our love of riding, our friendship and the beauty of belonging to CMC!

So on Thursday March27th “I was looking out my window” (cheers Grizz) and although the temperature was less than ideal the roads looked very dry. I must admit there was a large amount of sandy areas, and was very determined to avoid these. With that said I rolled my bike out of my garage and started it up. I let the bike warm up about 10 minutes or so, the bike itself was pleading it was ready, it responded with nice crisp throttle rolls. I used the time while the bike was warming up to GEAR UP, I must admit I was a little nervous, not about getting hurt, but rather possibly dropping my bike and being upset at myself for being an idiot So for the first 20 minutes or so I just rode around a 2 block radius of my house, just getting the feel, The only bike I had ridden really was the little Honda CBR125 used at the Humber course. So my Honda Shadow 500 was a very new and different experience compared to the other. After I was comfortable with the handling and controls I ventured a little further from home, This is when I realized that @ 60 kph the wind is stronger than I had anticipated, so back home I went. I thought to myself that was F U N ….. Hmmm. So I went upstairs and put on a pair of sweatpants on underneath my jeans. Don’t get me wrong I’m not suggesting track pants & jeans are a good alternative to proper weather riding gear, but I just had to get a few more klicks in before putting my bike back in the garage. Thinking about it some more I thought “Oh, I know, I have to go order a new set of contact lenses.” So I planned my route to try avoiding the higher traffic areas, It was going to be about 15 km each way One of my first observations upon arriving at the plaza was how BIG the parking spaces were, backing my bike into a spot I thought to myself “this bike is a lot easier to park than my SUV”. I took a much larger street for my ride home and @ 4 pm it was quite busy. Shortly after getting underway it began to SNOW!, luckily it was just some light flurries and was not enough to even change the colour of the road; I felt much better being on DRY roads. The ride home was very straight, but some good practice in heavier traffic. So all in all I put just over 50 kms for my first ride ever on public roads. It felt AWESOME getting that monkey off my back Cheers Aces N Eights Stay tuned for my next post: My First Ride - Things I did well, and things I need to work on

Hi and welcome to my CMC Blog My goal is to consistently provide my readers with an informative, and entertaining perspective on motorcycles & motorcycle riding. Let me start off with a little background about myself. I was born and raised in Toronto Ontario, and I now reside in Brampton Ontario with my wife and two children. Prior to taking the Motorcycle Safety Course, my only experience riding a motorcycle was when I was 13. Two weekends one summer I rode my cousins Kawasaki KE100 Enduro at a small dirt track just outside of Acton Ontario. I was so unskilled at the time that whenever it was my turn to ride my cousins bike, I had him meet me at a low hill 2 feet high with a flat spot, reason being I wasn’t able to use the clutch properly and needed a rolling start to prevent stalling the bike, pathetic I know. But hey I grew up in downtown Toronto, and there really wasn’t much in the way of places to ride a motorbike for a 13 year old. Jump ahead to July 27th 2013, the day before my 45th birthday I decided to go take my M1 written test. I passed the written test and now had 90 days to prove myself and procure my M2 license. I enrolled in the Gearing Up Motorcycle Safety course offered at Humber College. Unlike most of the people there I didn’t even own a motorcycle, but everyone was going to be riding the same bikes regardless. It was a Honda CBR125 with a whopping 13 HP engine, ok you can stop laughing now. Anyway the course and test were pretty difficult for a “first time rider”. I’m proud to say that out of 26 people that enrolled in the course only 7 people passed, and knock on wood, I was one of them. Then the issue became … how and where am I going to get a motorcycle to ride. I started scouring the local AutoTrader.ca and Kijiji.ca looking for a cheap first ride. I didn’t want a sport bike like the one I had used for the safety course, I was drawn to the Cruiser style of motorcycles, lets face it I’m 45 and have no interest in wheelies or stoppies or burn outs or any of that silly stuff (don't get me wrong watching some of that stuff on Youtube is cool), I just want to get out on the road and cruise. So with a very limited budget in mind I set out looking for an older Japanese Motorcycle, either a standard or cruiser style. I looked over a few used bikes at various Dealerships, and a few private sales. I finally pulled the trigger and purchased my first motorcycle January 31st 2014. I’m now the proud owner of a 1985 Honda Shadow VT500C, the reason I picked up this particular bike was due to it’s condition. For a 29 year old bike this thing is in great shape, wish I could say the same So here it is March 7, 2014 and Old Man Winter is playing a nasty game of “lets see how long before Aces goes nuts”. I really only have myself to blame for all the snow, seeing as how I sold my snowblower back in October. You know, Karma has a way of biting you in the ass. Anyway My readers are being offered something unique here. The opportunity to ride with me on a journey as I go from virtually zero experience to a confident safe and defensive rider. As the riding season progresses I will concentrate on 5 key factors to ensure that you are not wasting your time here. I will post new blogs at least 1 per week to keep the content fresh. 1. Interesting Topics related to riding Motorcycles 2. Scenic Rides throughout southern Ontario 3. Fun Stories & Anecdotes 4. Product Reviews and some “how-to” & DIY type stuff 5. Helpful hints & tips, as well as answer any & all questions as best I can. So feel free to "follow" my Blog, If you dare . Cheers Aces out

Those who know me well, are all too aware of the fact that I have a thing for all things aeronautical. In times past and in another era when I was flush with testosterone, and with little guidance as to what to do with such a virulent chemical coursing through my veins, I somehow convinced the Government of Canada to legally certify me to slip the surly bonds of earth and dance the skies on laughter-silvered wings. The fact that I was officially sanctioned to strap on thousands of pounds of metal, rubber and aviation gasoline at will and then bodaciously launch said contraption skyward in defiance of gravity, still amazes me today. It all started at conception. Mine that is. Well, that is how I have come to romanticize it. Apparently I entered life's centre stage during a time when my mother worked in the Air Traffic Control system in Jamaica. That in itself I find more than interesting, as I too ended up working in the Canadian Air Traffic Control system in my later years. I have no idea if it had anything to do with latent avgas fumes, or if the principles of jet propulsion, suck - squeeze - bang - blow (intake - compression - ignition - exhaust) had anything to do with it. I have had some interesting adventures during my initial flight training days; some thrilling and some scary. My training took place on the west coast of Canada all throughout the mountains of British Columbia. There is nothing like waking up to a bright sunlit morning, heading down to the local airport to preflight your aircraft for a jaunt up the coast, or a hop over the channel to land on the beach in Tofino on Vancouver Island’s Pacific-facing coast.…something that will probably get me arrested should I attempt that now. I have adjusted somewhat, my adventurous spirit to now accommodate motorcycles. While I may not find myself airborne as much as I once did, (an admittedly life-limiting move if hanging on to a motorcycle), I nonetheless still relish the opportunity of being out in nature’s element. Some of my riding compatriots favour headgear that allows for the steady pitter-patter of insects against their grinning facade. Me? I am allergic to all forms of pain-inducing stimuli and therefore tenaciously hide behind a full-face helmet. Riding a motorcycle for me is akin to controlling an aircraft in many ways. One aspect of these two modes of transportation that always registers with me is the freedom I experience. On the one hand, one provides the opportunity to actually take a machine and manipulate all associated parts working in concert to enable it to leave terra firma and then facilitate its return to earth. Hopefully with the ability to walk away with a smile. Or in the colloquial vernacular of anyone living west of Manitoba, a sh*t eatin’ grin! On a motorcycle, the same hormonal responses are initialized. To a non-rider, anyone who voluntarily straddles a piece of equipment with sufficient power to weight ratio to threaten dislocation of arms from shoulders, needs to have their cerebrum analyzed. But there is an element that is too often missed with that sort of thinking. The assumption is made that those who ride are reckless thrill seekers without a modicum of sense about what they are doing. There is another name for that. Profiling. A motorcyclist needs to be acutely aware of his or her surroundings, at all times, given that we are more exposed than those sheltered in 4-wheeled vehicles. The freedom of being able to control this type of vehicle while absorbing the enjoyable sensory perceptions of the environment at any given moment, requires our level of responsibility to be directly proportional to the power band at our disposal. It is not something to be trifled with. So, whether I am intercepting high altitude jet airways over Wyoming's Crazy Woman navigational beacon, or navigating twisty mountain roads at ground level through Spuzzum British Columbia, the focus is always freedom and fun tempered (nay, mandated) by safety. The passion of freedom that battles life’s drudgery, never fades on a motorcycle.

Yesterday was so cold, dreary, and windy, it hardly felt like spring. Looking at the big piles of dirty snow on the lawn and lane way also take away the feeling that summer is near! John (jayhawkr) and I have been pondering our Chapter, and what works best. Like most of the Officers before me, we sent emails out asking for advice (no response), encouraged Forum postings (very little use) and tried Facebook (the people on the Forum are also the ones on Facebook, so no improvement there). We are in a rural Community with no larger urban centres, so our membership will always be smaller. There are other riding groups, such as ABATE, Steelhorse Riders and a few others - but their riders are not likely to join CMC for a variety of reasons. Sometimes there are periods of self-doubt. Perhaps people who can ride more than a Mom with young kids should be part of this group, someone who can ride more. But this assumes that the people in our Chapter want to ride more - I don't really know what they want. The ROMEO rides are always well-attended by a few of our members, but this excludes the ones who work on Fridays. John has posted some weekend lunch events to bring out the others. The Freeze King and Willies Burger Stop just opened, so we will be doing some after-work ice cream rides when it warms up. We will restart our weekly Meet and Greets at the end of the month and hopefully the weather is better! We are also going to try more picnic lunches - this will allow for more riding in a short ride, and less sitting. Its easy to blow off 1.5 hours going to a restaurant with a group - if we only plan a 5 hour ride, we've lost most of our day. I'd rather sit outside in the sun anyway. For me, and probably John, the social aspect of CMC is as important as the riding. We will be planning to meet up more often with the other local groups and join in their fun! Its much harder to develop the camaraderie in a smaller group that doesn't meet up as often. I know Bob and Rob also put a lot of thought into planning different rides and thinking of the same challenges - wondering if there are officers from other rural chapters with new ideas too?

December 31st - The last day of 2013, signalling the end of another year. Some of us have just had their electricity turned back on after almost a full week of weather related outages in the GTA and Southern Ontario region. It sucks being cold. I am not just saying this because I hail from a tropical island (ok, maybe a little), but having chosen to live in Canada, it is incumbent on me not to give into complaining. After all, Canada is a fantastic place to live and get connected on all sorts of levels! Our country offers freedoms and opportunities that all of us have taken for granted at one time or another. But I want to focus on one aspect of Canadian priviledge that we seldom seem to consider. Just being Canadian. Sure, many have tried to qualify and quantify what it means to be Canadian, but have we taken the time to realize that it's the sum of the parts of who we are; where we live; what we do; that make up the whole of our identity? I had mentioned in a previous post that the CMC is a microcosm of Canada; sort of a two-wheeled diorama of leather-clad individuals, that somehow lends itself to defining who we are collectively and individually. These are just my impressions of course, and in no way should be construed as representing the majority of the collective CMC thinking. Here are a just few elements of individuality that makes CMC so unique; and I daresay, so Canadian: Shoe’s (Glenn) trucking photos of his cross-border travels. Canadiana at its finest. CenCom’s (Mary) faithful birthday greetings. CMC’s Loving Grandma for sure Trixie’s (Amanda) courageous discourse on Aspergers Syndrome and how it affects her family. Also her penchant for jumping on the Choo Shoe train with stops at Louboutin, Vuitton and Blahnik Baby Jack’s (Jacqui) skillful care and passionate commitment to our environment and food sources. Grizzz (Mike) - one of CMC’s west coast Regional Officers who single-mindedly juggles work and home life, while at the same time demonstrating unique cheerleading characteristics of leadership on the forum. Fireden (Dennis) - our National Officer who brings balance to the force of personalities that make up the living CMC organism. Irma - our Membership Coordinator who is the first contact and introduction to CMC for all new members. She would probably say otherwise, but look up CMC in the dictionary and you will see a picture of Irma. Ron’s (Morissette) excellent representation via video and radio on what CMC is all about. There are many more like those mentioned above. All of you, yes even those with differing opinions, share in the common values that make us CMC Members. Whether we ride or just have a passion for motorcycles; what is important are the people who make up our Trans-Canadian community. My prayer for 2014 is that we learn from our mistakes; we become stronger in spite of our differences and we demonstrate what it means to unconditionally accept each other; yes, with imperfections, idiosyncrasies and all. Isn't that what family is all about?

Today as I look out my window, I no longer see the green of the park or the flag fluttering in the breeze, but I see the mountains and the sea from my chair in the living room. The mountains have a "cloud halo" where the clouds ring the middle portion of the mountains. The sea is calm as the single freighter makes its way to the harbours in Seattle. But today, I think the halo has a special meaning. You see, today we send one of our brothers home. He will take that one last ride and those clouds will be there to steady him as he travels and when he gets to those pearly gates, he will be greeted by his brother who left us several years go and his other brothers from across the land. It is not a time to morn, a time to cry or a time to be sad, rather a time to smile at all of the crazy things Recycle said and did. A time to remember that ear-to-ear grin when he was on his Red Steed. His wave to everyone on two wheels - yes, even scooters. A time to share that smile and remember times like when he looked into his empty beer bottle and swore there was someone drinking it because it emptied too soon, or when he bit into his hotdog and it shot out the other end like a cartoon clip. Ron was a man like no other, he is Recycle, CMC65092 If you would like to donate to Ron's Memorial Fund, please go to: http://cmc-victoria.com/donate.html Thank you. Safe journey home brother Ron. We are going to miss you. RIP

In a few days, according to the societal predisposition of my awesome country Canada, I will be classified as a Senior. Now, there are variations on a theme as it pertains to what qualifies someone to enter this auspicious stage of life. Some Federal, Provincial and private entities bestow the title on those who have attained the silver-lined age of 55. (That would be me by the way). Others require an individual to be 60 or 65 years old. That then affords me a minimum of 5 to 10 years to potentially nurture an unqualified state of denial. I figure if it takes that long to wrestle with the reality of turning 55, then by the time I actually am permitted to graciously scale the misty heights of 60 or 65, then all arguments to the contrary will be null and void. If truth be told, as much as I am looking forward to this stage of my life, my level of introspection on what has transpired thus far to get me to this point, has taken a quantifiable turn. I presume the older one gets, the more one takes stock of one’s life. It is natural to weigh in the balance what you thought of, desired, or planned for your life as a young man, with where you presently find yourself. Borrowing an analogy from the sporting world, what has been uppermost on my mind is the identification of my life’s Sweet Spot. In simple terms, a sweet spot is a place where a combination of factors results in a maximum response for a given amount of effort. Now given that I fall on the side of being genetically masculine, my tendencies lean toward rating myself through performance or accomplishments. While these are not inherently bad indicators of a person’s worth, more importantly, they are not the most healthy of litmus tests to gauge one’s equilibrium and value. Our society intensively advocates and promotes the successful; the strong; the popular; the beautiful. Again traits and positions that are not in themselves improper, but when you are forced to measure yourself against such demanding, or in some cases, unforgiving standards, your inner man; your psyche; your spirit, becomes weighted down and diminished when unhealthy expectations prove impossible to live up to. For me it has been difficult to identify if I even have a sweet spot, compared to even living out of one. To that end, I figured why not work backwards with what I know. I am a husband of almost 27 years to a woman who I am learning daily has more value and love to offer than I have sufficiently acknowledged. I am a father of the most awesome adult children a man could ask for. I have now transcended from Fatherhood to Grandparent with the arrival of our first Grandson. I have had the opportunity to taste the sweetness of a dream fulfilled in having the opportunity to pilot aircraft in the mountains of British Columbia and Northwestern USA. I have been blessed with a rich ancestral heritage that spans not only generations, but continents, countries and islands around the world. These are just a few things that aid in answering questions of significance on my part. I still fail and make mistakes at times, but I am reminded that growing older and having your once black follicles turn grey (those that remain anyway), is more a badge of honour, than a banner stigmatizing who you are as a person. After all, wisdom and knowledge come through experience. Experience takes time and effort, and yes even self-doubt and failure are valuable commodities that are indispensable to the repository of knowledge one gains in a lifetime. Proverbs: 20 vs:29 – The glory of young men is their strength, but the splendour of old men is their grey hair.

As I look out my window today, the flag is fluttering in front of a partially blue sky and the mighty Gary Oak trees are shedding their golden leaves. The Parks personnel are diligently blowing the leaves away from the Cenotaph and the military members are pacing off the positions where everyone will be tomorrow. In one day the park will be full of poppies, wreaths and vets as we commemorate another Remembrance Day. This year there will be fewer vets from the World Wars, fewer from Korea but more from our recent scrimmages. As parents, it is our jobs to tell the story of those who served and how they fought for our freedoms and the freedoms of others. Tell your children to talk to the veteran and find out their stories. Click on the link and think about the words. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2kX_3y3u5Uo

A strange thing happened this morning, one that has not happened in over 25 years – I forgot to set my alarm clock last night and I slept in this morning. Normally I am up at 05:30, grab my first cup of joe, do some Club business and some work stuff, take a shower, get dressed and off to the office I go. Not today however. I looked at the clock, my heart started to pound, the adrenaline kicked in, jumped into the shower, threw on my clothes, grabbed a cuppa and downed it, filled it back up, jumped on the bike and flew up the driveway. I turned on the tunes and headed down the lane and then…. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. The cool morning air caressed my face as the clock hit 80 – nothing worried me anymore. I looked at the time – ya I was late, but would rushing make me any earlier? After all, where I work – late is late. Five minutes or an hour – it doesn’t matter. So what to do? I think of this as falling from a skyscraper. Hey, there is nothing you can do. All the screaming in the world will not save you. You may as well turn on your back and enjoy the ride! I have noticed that as I get older, the sense of freedom when I get on my bike gets greater. When I turn the engine over and hear her growl, I stop and think about the first shaky experiences I had learning to ride and how far I have come. I think about the days of riding with my first Club and how it compares to the CMC. I think about the fact that I never knew what chaps were let alone electrics. About how we rode with one thing in mind – where the next fuel stop would be. Then all of a sudden I am brought back to life when I hear this loud obnoxious noise behind me. It is some jerry wad wanker who thinks he is right out of Sons of Anarchy (ya, don’t get me started on that one!). Reving and reving and just making a royal fool out of himself. As he gets closer – I notice he is on a Shadow with Vance and Hines (knock-offs) slash cuts, 12" apes, slit fender and forward controls. I have nothing against Shadows – they are great bikes, but come on, really!!! Now the good part – he is wearing a SOA vest!!! Oh Lordy!! A royal wanna be. I guess he thinks if he puts on a wanna be vest, he is actually part of something?? Oh ya, the "wanna be" club. So the question now becomes – do I hand him my card and ask him if he would like to belong to a REAL club? That answer came faster than the thought – NOPE! Yes membership is in the decline, but – there are some people that are just not a good fit and this is one of them. As he hit the throttle and sped by me and did a quick lane split, I knew that I had made the right decision. For my luck, he would wear the Madison and ride like that. When I jump on my ride, I put on my Madison 80% of the time. Not that it is protective gear, but because I am proud of it. It symbolizes Canada, freedom, choice, strength and fellowship. It tells all that see that I am a member of the best motorcycle group in Canada. I ride with pride.

The past few weeks, jayhawkr and I have been dealing with family "stuff". It will all work itself out in the end, and as I repeatedly tell myself, every time I feel like I have Life under control, He/She kicks me in the rear just to remind me I don't. I read with envy all you folks who go on long rides and travel the country. While I certainly don't wish my life away, I wonder if I will EVER have the freedom that many of you enjoy. Maybe its choices? Realistically, this is what I am facing: - I'm 42, and I have at least 20 more years of work life left. The retirement ages creep up - by the time I'm ready, it will probably be 75! - My sons are 16 and 13, so I have a few more years left as Mom Taxi, taking them to sports and managing the teenage years. Lets count that as 8 more years til the youngest ones are out of the house. - My parents are 65, and in pretty good health, all things considered. My Mom will be storming the Grand Bend countryside for years to come! Lets count 20 more years for them, at which point, it will be necessary for me and my siblings to help them out a lot more. I owe them - they did a lot for me, and I wouldn't have it any other way. - My youngest brother has a lot of health challenges, and at 30, he still lives with my parents. When they get to an age when they can't look after him anymore, it will be up to my brothers and I. He certainly didn't ask for the hand he got dealt by Life - what the next 20 years brings for him, is anyone's guess. So, if we do some simple subtraction - realistically, I have 20 - 8 years = 12 years before family responsibilities keeps me at home once again. I have a lot of riding planned for those 12 years!!!! Jayhawkr and I talk about the challenges for the "Sandwich generation" - Generation Xers predominantly, who are balancing care for children and senior parents at the same time. I attend retirement parties for my colleagues who have had the same job for 30 years, and are retiring at 60. I feel like I'm whining, because I am sure that there have been generations before me with these same responsibilities. Is it a misplaced sense of entitlement that permits me to think that I should be any different? Some of my colleagues are reluctantly retiring. They love their job, love the people they work with, and only financial incentives are coaxing them out the door. Me? I LOVE my job and the people I work with, but I have 1000 other things I would love to do then spend my days at WORK. Maybe that's naive of me - maybe I will feel differently about it when my time comes (but I really really doubt it). I worry about the availability of the social safety net for people like my brother - although my parents have done their best to save money for his long-term care, it is also based on the availability of social health benefit programs. His medication alone costs a fortune - if those programs are not available in the future, or even if I have to contribute a greater percentage, it may mean working for much longer to afford it. I read a lot about the economy, and work, and I wonder if my children will ever be able to afford the things we have. Maybe they will be living with us longer, moving back in after post-secondary, or after a job loss, or whatever Life Challenge they face. (That will be fine provided they don't turn into Couch Turds - at which point, I WILL be on my motorcycle so I don't hurt anyone). I think of how hard it might be for them - and I realize how lucky I really am.

My eyes go directly to the Cenotaph as I look out my window today. You see, my office faces Memorial Park – a great green area in the heart of this little Municipality; so it is hard for me not to get off into “day dream world” every now and then, especially on days like today when the sun is in its full glory and the temperature just begs me to leave this office and jump on my trusty stead and head off to wherever the front tire points. But as I look at the Cenotaph, I can’t but think of all those that served our country so proudly and lost their lives for the freedoms that we have today. A very dear friend of mine – Hairy (yes, spelled correctly), was a bike messenger in WW2. His job was to move messages between commands on his WLC – a 45 cubic inch Harley that was designed for the military. He did this for three years, catching chunks of lead in his shoulder, his back, his leg and his arm and not to mention breaking his leg not once but twice. The life expectancy of the biker messenger was only 6 months, a year if you were lucky. Old Hairy did his time, going through eight WLC’s, several Royal Enfields and a handful of captured BMWs. When he returned home, he opened Harry’s Bar and Grill on Mission Bay in San Diego. Over the years, the bar took its toll, but the clientele remained true to Hairy. If you’d bring in your stein and he would proudly display it on the back of the bar. If you were a biker, it would go to the right, military would go to the left and if you were both – it would be proudly displayed front and center. Each stein had its story and old Hairy knew them all as well as the people that would drink from them. It would be about 20 years since I saw the old geezer, but when I eventually made it back to San Diego, I made sure that I stopped in. The place was still as dingy as ever. Peanut shells all over the floor and duct tape holding the bar stools together and as I made my way to my old spot at the end of the bar, Hairy so nonchalantly grabbed my stein, blew off the dust, filled it up and slung it down the bar like he had done so many times before. With a raspy grunt, he just said “It is about f’ing time you show your f’ing mug! I was getting ready to sell that F’ing stein of yours. Thought you was either f’ing dead or in the pen.” and the conversation carried on like I had never left. Every other word was that old f bomb and his voice got raspier as he spoke and chewed that old fatty (which I am sure it was the same one he put in his mouth 35 years ago!). His stories were the same, a little more colour and took a bit longer to tell, but it was Hairy that was telling it. When I returned a couple of years ago, I learned that old Hairy passed and the bar was sold and torn down. My heart was ripped from my chest. Why do I tell you all of this? Well, because as I look out the window at that Cenotaph, I realize that none of us are getting any younger and we do not tell the people around us just how much they mean to us. Hairy meant a lot to this ex-military biker. His stories, his wit and just him being there with his long grey hair and ZZ-Top beard. He was a character, a friend, a confidant, a biker and a brother. He would always yell as we departed “Vita initum iam”. “Your adventure starts now (actually translated - life starts now, but he always meant it to be adventure and who was going to argue with him?)”. Because for him, there was never a good bye and life was always an adventure. He took the time to know you, something we don’t do enough today. So as we jump on our rides and head out – Vita initum iam!

As I sit here, staring out of my office window, staring at the wet roads and the rain soaked gardens, my mind slowly drifts to the simpler times in my life when I could throw open the door, grab my vest and jump on my trusty old ’52 Hyrda glide and cruise from Phoenix to San Diego. Gas was at thirty-five cents a gallon and Happy Hour at Fred’s was 10 fer a buck. My mind slowly moves to the 2015 CMC065 ride to Sturgis…. Oh yes, this could be a chance to relive those days. A group of close friends, the thunder of the bikes and long open roads ahead before we make our way to the Chip and the activities that are laid before us. This will be number 19 for me, and probably my last kick at the cat before I make my final exit. I look forward to sharing my stories, experience and knowledge with the members of my riding family and to enjoy this ride as one of those “simpler days”. Jump on the new breed of Glides and ride to Devil’s Tower or to Wall. Take in the sounds of ZZ or just the calm before the storm. Not real sure where this is taking me, but I do know one thing for sure….. this dream is far nicer than the work sitting on my desk that needs attention. Damn, reality just kicked back in, guess I had better get back to the budgets, spreadsheets and numbers. Where did that simple life just go?

Hi there and welcome to ‘Wheelspin’ A new blog documenting rides, events and the motorcycling lifestyle. For those of you that don’t know I’ll be embarking on a 6 week x-Canada ride starting at the end of June with stops at ‘Freedom Machine’ a vintage, custom and antique bike show in Durham Ontario, held at this really cool fake ghost town on private property with lots of space for camping. www.freedommachineshow.com Also on the list, Port Dover for Friday the 13th, Magnetic Hill in New Brunswick, Riding the Confederation Bridge into P.E.I. the Bay of Fundy and of course the one on everyones bucket list, The Cabot Trail and since I’m already on that side of the country, the CMC National Rally (Yes I’m already registered for the National) on my way back west. The idea of this blog is to share information on things like road conditions, those must do rides, tips and tricks on camping, packing the bike, gear reviews, places to eat, where to find service or parts, places to avoid as well as documenting some good times, because as we all know… It’s not the destination it’s the ride. A well traveled route that has some notoriety around here is the Duffy Loop as it’s known locally by the riding community, depending on which direction you travel it’s the #1 Trans Canada from Vancouver to Hope, up the Fraser Canyon to Cache Creek, then onto highway 99 south from Lillooet and down through Pemberton, Whistler, Squamish and back into Vancouver. Another option riding out to Hope is highway #7 but this adds another hour, hour and a half to the total loop ride but is far more scenic and twisty. Dr.Mucker, first officer from the 056 and myself did our 1st loop ride of 2018 last week, you can watch a video of that ride here The last few years I’ve been averaging 3 loop rides a season as it’s one of my favourite local rides. Last year I stretched it out into an overnighter and more kilometres by adding the loop of highways 97C and 8 taking you through Logan Lake, Mamatte Lake and Lower Nicola, some of BC’s old copper mining country and into ranch lands before joining back up with the #1 Trans Canada at Spences Bridge back in the Fraser Canyon. Some stunning country and views along 97C. A few of us have the extended loop ride scheduled for next weekend, I’ll bring you up to speed on that here after the 15th of May. A few other rides I’ve got down on my calendar in spray paint… May 26th is the first flat track races of 2018 in these parts, Pemberton Raceway and a few of us from the 056 are going. May 27th I’m a registered rider in the 'Ride To Live' charity ride to raise awareness and money to fight prostate cancer. There’s a BBQ, a poker run (I love poker runs) and entertainment, looks like I might be a tad sore for that one but that never stopped me before. to learn more www.ridetolive.ca Come early June I’m registered for flat track school hosted by Go Flat Track and I’m looking forward to writing about that experience. If you check their website they have links to some good video, note that it’s not recorded at Pemberton, I think it’s in Ontario somewhere. www.goflattrack.com That covers the start of the 2018 riding season, I have a few other rides and events to see when I get back but I think I’ll leave that for later. **A Final Note on the Duffy: We saw some fresh slides in the chutes along the highway as well there is rock and debris coming down right now, please check road conditions and ride it with extreme caution. The road had been swept of winter gravel and was in pretty good shape overall. We didn’t do the Cache Creek run we did the shortened Lytton to Lillooet route, highway #12. Check www.drivebc.com for all BC road travel updates and camera views. 3 days after our ride Cache Creek was flooding.

So, here in Ontario, we are just 5 degrees away from breaching the 0C temperature threshold. It has been what, 4 to 5 weeks since we were above that level? While I will say most anything to massage my state of denial, it’s way past the time when a man’s (or woman’s) heart turns to that old standby…envisioning being on the open road on two wheels. There are only so many winter-encased bike shows (approximately 2 per year in Toronto & Ottawa) wherein you can fawn and drool over machines that stir the soul. Even more sad is after carting home bags full of new bike brochures from dealers along with pamphlets from motorcycle tour companies, after the bike show ends, you rush home and lock yourself in a dark room, watching videos on YouTube about the bikes you just sat on, less than 2 hours prior; like some deviant outcast of society. I am embarrassed to say that I seem to be developing a love-hate relationship with the purveyors of online motorcycle video reviews; those who post video exposés of their seemingly always-new motorcycles. These individuals always seem to live and ride in such exotic places as Tahiti or Hawaii; or at a minimum, someplace with an annual mean temperature that would allow for palm trees to grow in Canada on a year-round basis. I assuage my guilt by blaming Winter. Another thing; where on earth do they find the time and means to go galavanting on 4 week Adventure Rides, touring Europe, or blasting along some Amazonian trail seemingly at will? You would need to be either independently wealthy, or single, or devoid of offspring. Most likely all of the above. I have a mortgage and have to pay bills. In order to accommodate these pseudo-involuntary wallet-leeching endeavours, I have to work! Ahh...if truth be told, I am submitting (slightly) to envy. I even have friends and associates who actually tour the world's continents on their motorcycles for a living. (Ok, maybe I am more than slighty envious) I am thankful about one thing though...the current ride is paid off. So, until Summer tells Spring to grow a pair and dethrone Winter’s insolence, I will have to live (and ride) vicariously through YouTube. Oh the shame of it all!

This has got to be the worst day on record!! Ok, I will rephrase this – this has to be the worst day on record!!! Yes Stafford, this is just for you and all the rest of you. I am looking out the window and what do I see? People running around sleeveless and in shorts. The bikes outnumber the cars – well not really, but there are so many out! My ride is sitting all covered up, plugged into the charger and crying. Yes, crying. She wants to be out on the road so bad and the only excuse I have for her not being out is that I have no excuse. At 11° it is so hard being penned up in this cage like the other wild animals. To make matters even worse, I just checked the forecast for the weekend - it is supposed to be rain, rain and more rain. I hate Fridays. But seeing the sunshine and all the scoots tearing up the road, I can only start to think that spring and summer are around the corner. May is coming and that means Motorcycle Awareness Month. As with any tradition, the Law Enforcement Crews will be out in full force to make their statements, the bikers will be out in full force stating that loud pipes saves lives (I am really getting tired of hearing that one) and there will the cagers who don’t give a rat’s a$$ about the biker and will be hell-bent to take us out no matter what. So at this point, I would like to put out a challenge to all CMC Chapters to come up with a poster for Motorcycle Awareness Month and post the link to it here. That is the easy part. I will attempt to get the Provincial Officer’s Board to spring up bragging rights for the Chapter that makes the best poster and see if we can do a National Campaign. You might end up with only the bragging rights, but the truth is, you will also be helping the motorcycling community as a whole. So who’s up for the challenge?

In a previous post, I mentioned about getting off the beaten path and onto the gravel roads to go places you have never seen. If I placed ten bikers in a room and asked how many would prefer gravel over highway, chances are I would get 100% saying highway. And if asked “why”, the most common response is “I don’t like it.” Looking out my window I begin to reminisce a trip from Phoenix to Las Vegas. I stopped short of the Grand Canyon to marvel the mountains and a waterfall that saw off in the distance. I checked the maps and there were no highways that lead over that way, however there was a gravel road that looked like it might go there. I usually don't spend much time stopping to think about which way I should go when I'm riding motorcycles, but this time was different. I really, really wanted to go to that waterfall. It looked like it was one of those rides that you'd talk about with your buddies for a few weeks afterwards. The reason for my moment of consideration was that this road was gravel, and I was riding my eight hundred pound Harley Davidson. It was a tedious ride and took the better part of two hours, but when I got to the base of the water fall, there was not a car in sight and the view was beyond words. One of those Kodak moments that should be the cover shot of some tourist magazine. Something I would never have witnessed if I was not afraid to get off of that blacktop. If you tend to shy away from gravel roads when riding, you are missing a whole new world of possibilities. Some of the most incredible places that I've found have been off some old gravel road that rarely sees a car, much less a motorcycle. So why is it that we do not like riding on gravel roads? The answer is the same answer as to why we do not like riding in the rain. We will if and only if we have to, but if we don’t, we won’t. It comes down to skill, practice and feeling comfortable riding your machine and riding on the gravel. If you are afraid of your motorcycle, you will have a white knuckle experience at best and no experience on gravel whatsoever. The key to riding on gravel is moderate your speed and go easy on everything. The motorcycle knows best. Don't jerk the handlebars to make a sudden turn. Don't "panic jam" the brakes to slow down. Your rear brakes are your friend. Don't roll your throttle back like your blasting off the line (unless you're trying to throw gravel out from behind you and hit your buddy in the head). Keep your speed under control. "Reading the Road" is the single best thing you can do to raise your confidence on gravel, BUT, "Realizing that your motorcycle knows best" is the single best way to increase your enjoyment of riding a gravel road. Your motorcycle is going to wiggle on a gravel road. It's going to feel like its sliding all over the place. Your front tire is going to jerk about. Let it. Your bike knows best. This awareness of what your motorcycle is going to do will help you form the appropriate behavior. The natural tendency for most riders is to try and control every movement on gravel - don't. Just relax, keep a firm but not tight grip on the handlebars, and a light touch when controlling the motorcycle. Don't try to control every movement of the bike, allow the bike to move under you. The law of science that a body in motion tends to stay in motion definitely applies in this instance. Remember, with good tire tread you can ride over oil puddles as long as you don’t panic and grab a handful of brake or throttle - the same holds true here. Smoothness is the secret. Some riders nervously take both feet off of the pegs and dangle them near the ground when riding on gravel, especially when cornering. That is crazy! If the bike does tip over, the rider may try and hold it up causing ankle, leg or groin injuries. Also, if your right foot is off the peg then the only brake you have left is the front. Yikes! Keep your head up and your focus on where you are trying to go, the bike will wiggle its way there. This rule probably takes the most getting used to, especially for those with heavier bikes. In Summary: Tips for Riding on Gravel Don't do any quick braking or swerving. Get used to some wheel wobbling. Relax your grip on the handlebars but keep it firm. Keep BOTH feet on the pegs. Slow and steady is the key. Try to maintain some speed - it is safer and more stable to be moving. Find the part of the road where the gravel is less dense. Keep your distance from other vehicles. If you have to brake, avoid the front brake, and do it gently. Remember, there is good road ahead! I still don't enjoy motorcycling on gravel roads, but I have learned not to dread it. The reason I have learned not to cringe at the sight of those pesky little stones is that there are some pretty wonderful sights and places found at the end of the gravel; and best of all - I'm not climbing the road on foot! Be confident in yourself and your motorcycle and you'll be fine. You will be able to enjoy the sights, sounds and smells of places that you will talk about for years to come. As motorcyclists, we don’t tell the stories of cloudless skies and straight, flat roads - beautiful though they may have been. We tell the stories about dropped bikes, torrential downpours, wrong turns, mechanical failures or the first time we experienced reaching for the fuel reserve switch as we panicked in traffic. But now that you are ready to conquer your first gravel road that takes to you to somewhere totally unexpected, you will have that new story to tell. You are going to be “That guy”.

I am not usually classified as a jealous man. Well...if truth be told, I am slightly envious of the West Coast BC chapters with their unquestionably scenic mountains. Having once resided there in a time when testosterone was both legal, and NOT politically incorrect, I know of which I speak. There is now another contender for my 2-wheeled yearning: Europe. I have visited different parts of Europe in years past, but have never had the opportunity to actually ride motorcycles during my visits. Something I desperately hope to address while I still retain the capacity to balance on two wheels. To that end, I will begin preparations to address a portion of that particular itch, by planning a cross country ride to British Columbia. To give credence to that goal, and to augment my incentive to actually make it happen, I plan on attending the 2017 CMC National Rally, scheduled to take place in the Coombs/Nanaimo area on Vancouver Island. I have convinced myself that it is actually preparation for riding throughout Europe. Below is one reason why, instead of going to bed at a reasonably decent hour, I am staying up in the wee hours of the night researching (ok...binging) on YouTube videos made by European motorcyclists, who seem to have more leisure time (and by the looks of their bikes), apparently more liquid assets than I currently have. I now have just over a year to plan, save, and acquire a larger, more comfortable long distance touring bike, to venture out west. Who is up for some transcontinental 2-wheelin'?

How it all began... Circa A.D. 1979 / Canadian Olympic Track & Field Trials Winnipeg Manitoba 10.15 seconds. Personal Best Time - 100m sprint 20.9 seconds. Personal Best Time - 200m sprint 48 seconds. Personal Best Time - 400m sprint 63 seconds. Time taken to get back to a resting heart rate after running 3.5 km Circa A.D. 2008 - Canadian National Shito Ryu Itosi Kai (Japanese) Karate Championships - 2nd Place Back in the Post Ice Age era of 1979, I was 17 years old. Bolstered by a high metabolism and ridiculously low body fat, Track & Field was inherently one of the best ways I legally acquired a true high. In 2008 I chronologically gained 30 years; along with a few squatters of added poundage. In order to evict said squatters from my personal domicile, I decided to take up Shito Ryu Itosu Kai Karate with my then 17 year old daughter. It’s funny, but when I was 17 years old, coordinated, concentrated, physical exertion seemed to come more naturally than when you are in your 40’s. That was proven when my daughter won the National title for her age and rank in her first ever Karate tournament. We had only been training for 12 weeks before our Sensei, in his dry, inimitable matter-of-fact style, informed us that we were to be competing in the Canadian National Karate Championships. This is not something normally told to people who have never even tried Karate before. Especially if you have witnessed the Mini-Me Bruce Lees going at it in your Dojo. I guess it was a testament to the training received that allowed us to comport ourselves well enough to rank well. But not without the requisite bruising, beatings (what happens when you do not block properly), and blood (skin breaks on contact even when pulling your kicks and punches). That was eight years ago. Now it begins again. This time however I will not be competing against an opponent who is shorter than I, has reflexes faster than the speed of light, and who is less than half my age. No Siree. This time I am going to go up against someone even more daunting….Myself. Circa A.D. 2016 - Learning how to beat my own body into submission - hopefully in a good way. This year marks 8 years since I purchased my first motorcycle; the same year I started training in Karate. I did not realize it at the time, but that rigorous training regimen prepared me to handle a type of machine I had never utilized before. I have always half-jokenly stated I am glad I started riding motorcycles after most of my testosterone took an early sabbatical. If I had started riding motorcycles during my muscle-tuned, teen years of Track and Field, I may not have had the opportunity to be publicly upstaged by some pimply-faced Karate Kid wannabe. So what exactly am I beginning again after all these years, that involves competing with myself? A healthy balance of mind and body, for a Road Trip! Specifically a Cross-Canada motorcycle trip, slated for Summer 2017. I am giving myself one year to get my mind, soul and body in the best possible shape; not only to make the trip, but to enjoy it to the fullest extent possible. It is going to involve draft notices being sent out to unused muscles, compelling them to report for active duty; along with Cease & Desist orders served to other itinerant body parts that, well, are just not welcome anymore. Oh, and throughout this whole process, I will be documenting my efforts (or lack thereof) for public consumption on my Personal Blog - http://www.swedwards.com. There will be great potential for whining; feeble excuses; moments of self-recrimination; heck, even flat out states of denial. In short, it is not going to be pretty. The process of physically preparing for this adventure is only one aspect of the plan. One element of incentive will be my research into acquiring a newer and larger motorcycle for the trip. I will be articulating that part of the equation along side my efforts at regaining balance, energy and strength to my mental, musculature and skeletal carbon-based unit. So if you have any tips, or advice pertaining to long distance, trans-continental type motorcycling, (expectations; warnings; planning etc), please feel to share them. Just as in times past, before I had ever ridden a motorcycle or tried Karate, I am very eager to see what the outcome of this Bucket List endeavour will be.

The other day, I received an email at work about inclusion and diversity. I think I work in great place where morale (overall) is pretty good, and where the majority of people are really friendly and supportive. However, the email reminded me of conversations I've had in the past month with my colleagues and with my husband, jayhawkr. The context of the conversations with the staff revolved around an important part of my life - riding motorcycles. While I'm a huge fan of Sons of Anarchy, there is a huge difference between those who "love to ride" and true "bikers". There was a relatively quick link drawn between those who ride motorcycles and tattoos. Almost everyone I know has some tattoos, although that is not specific to those that ride and those that don't. I have.......some. My colleague and I discussed why people get tattoos. He admitted that it wasn't something he would ever do, and that he really wasn't clear why anyone else did. The key here was that he wanted to understand. Another colleague, who was extensively tattooed laughed when asked what he would think of them when he was old. His response - that is an assumption that his old age would be the same as old age today. Tattoos are just one of hundreds of differences between our grandparents generation and ours. Different studies have indicated that there are two generations in particular that embracing a tattoo culture - folks 25 and younger, and those between 40 and 50. The flip side for a workplace culture are negative tattoos. Negativity can be literal or implied, blatant or inadvertent, and for that reason, I put a great deal of thought into mine. To a biologist, a tattoo of a snake portrays their love of their work. In certain religions, a snake can carry negative connotations. Very popular tattoos incorporate messages from other cultures and languages - but it takes alot of trust in the tattoo artist to get the subtlties of a foreign language accurate! I researched First Nation's perspectives and symbolism when designing mine because I find it very relevant to the meaning behind them. Workplaces are struggling with tattoos and what policies to adopt. I equate tattoo acceptance to a job interview - while the person might be entirely capable and professional, the etiquette of job interviewing requires a professional dress code. No formal written "code" is in place. There are no formal policies, but those of us with them feel a subtle "pressure" to cover them up. An intern I spoke with was genuinely shocked and dismayed to hear that tattoos were generally not considered "appropriate" in our professional setting (which triggered an instinctual tug on her shirt sleeve - she had a beautiful , delicate script tattoo on her inner arm). The unspoken "pressure" also exists in the private sector. My husband recently got a tattoo on his forearm, and while he works in a manufacturing sector where tattoos are the norm, his position as a manager compels him cover them up. Here is a newsstory entitled "So why do "normal" people get tattoos?" from the BBC (http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/7034500.stm). The comments below the story actually describe this "pressure" quite accurately. At no time, has anyone in my workplace ever made negative remarks to me personally, but I have to admit - I have been relatively silent about my tattoos. I don't think that my work performance has anything to do with having tattoos or not, but I understand the risks of openly displaying them. Truthfully, they can be a distraction to an audience I am presenting to, so to minimize this, I cover them. I believe there are two reasons people get tattoos - the first is to tell a story in some graphic ways, and the second is to celebrate a form of art. In the same way my wrinkles, stretch marks and c-section scars tell a story about my life experiences, tattoos can add to the story. Tattoos can span many artistic genres - from comic to tribal, portraits to abstract watercolours, realistic to symbolic. I've decided to brave and open myself to questions you may have - I have tattoos. I have quite a few of them to be honest, and they are more than dainty ankle butterflies and flowers. While I appreciate the artistic expression of both the person and the artist, that doesn't alway mean that I like every tattoo I see. To each their own - just because I wouldn't put a particular tattoo on myself, doesn't mean I care that someone else did (I don't). I don't like skulls, broken hearts, cartoon-like images, or anything that implies negativity, and I wouldn't put such things on myself. I prefer graphic demonstration of my stories, rather than literal, although I love the script tattoos that my husband and my stepdaughters have. A good artist can help find an appropriate design. I had an idea for another tattoo that was very different than my usual choices. It was beautiful, but held no real meaning for me. When I decided on a second choice, the artist agreed that it was much more appropriate for my "style". All of mine use symbols from our environment to tell my story. Location is as important as the design - I personally would not put a tattoo in places where medical procedures are common - like the wrist/hand for an IV, elbow for bloodwork. Maybe I'm a worrywart, but I think of it as being practical. People often describe them as "addictive" because once the hurdle of fear of getting the first one is passed, the desire to "tell" the rest of the story opens future possibilities. People ask me what I would say if my kids wanted a tattoo. Both my stepdaughters have beautiful, delicate tattoos that are thoughtful, not "cutesy". I caution them not to get carried away with tattoos as teenagers - what is important at 18 may not be at 50. Because I think the tattoos tell part of a life story, I tell them that they have decades of life left to choose the experiences to display on their bodies. You may have seen a peak of my most favourite tattoo - the bottom of it is barely visible if I wear a skirt. I'd like to take the opportunity to tell the story - for interest sake, and perhaps to challenge your perception of tattoos in general. I got it during a particularly tumultuous time in my life. The plan I had for my life was in shambles, I was desperately trying to do the best for my children, and I was terrified of the "unknown" path I was forced on. The nest represents my home, my family and my comfort zone. You can't always stay in the comfort zone - life goes on. The turtles represent my boys and I, and their paths toward the water is our Life Journey. The journey is not always straight, and there are obstacles to overcome along the way. Turtles represent the vulnerability I felt and the courage I needed - regardless of the dangers and challenges, baby turtles know they must continue their journey towards the water. Water has always been a source of comfort and peace to me, and while I didn't feel either one at the time, I had to have faith that it existed somewhere in my future. My other tattoos hold similar meaning to me. If you are interested in hearing the stories behind them, just ask. If you see someone else with tattoos, don't make a judgement about them or their ink because the story or the art just might teach you something. If you have a tattoo and feel comfortable sharing your experience, then feel free to comment on my blog post!!!

Once again looking out the window I am greeted with the dark grey skies filled with moisture, while I listen to my people out east (anything east of Vancouver is ‘out east’) complaining of snow and the northerners complain of ice. I guess in the light of things we are fortunate here that we have the rain. There is an old saying that spring is not here until you can have nine daisies under one foot. Yet, I heard on the news last night that Victoria is boasting over 1 BILLION flowers already this year!! So I guess I have to place the question – is spring here or not? And if the other saying – April showers brings May flowers is true…. OMG my allergies will being going every which way. How can we have MORE than a billion flowers? Ok, enough dreary talk…. I read a very funny article in the LA Times this morning that I just have to share. A study was conducted by Vouchercloud.net, a coupons website, to determine how knowledgeable Americans are when it comes to tech terms. Here are some of the results: 11% saying that they thought HTML — a language that is used to create websites — was a sexually transmitted disease. 77% of respondents could not identify what SEO means. SEO stands for "Search-Engine Optimization" 27% identified "gigabyte" as an insect commonly found in South America. A gigabyte is a measurement unit for the storage capacity of an electronic device. 42% said they believed a "motherboard" was "the deck of a cruise ship." A motherboard is usually a circuit board that holds many of the key components of a computer. 23% thought an "MP3" was a "Star Wars" robot. It is actually an audio file. 18% identified "Blu-ray" as a marine animal. It is a disc format typically used to store high-definition videos. 15% said they believed "software" is comfortable clothing. Software is a general term for computer programs. 12% said "USB" is the acronym for a European country. In fact, USB is a type of connector. OK, granted some of these are a bit on the “techie” side of things, but MP3 being a Star Wars robot? Come on. Keep smiling all and remember – spring will spring and we will soon be able to put rubber to road.

Today as I look out the window at that beautiful park, I notice that something is missing. The park was home to two old WWI German guns. They have been moved earlier yesterday to an off-site facility so that they can be restored to their original condition. The restoration project will involve replacing missing parts, repairing damaged and rusted components, and cleaning, coating, and re-painting the guns using the original German colours and pattern. Once refurbished, the guns will be re-mounted in the park with recessed lighting this summer. The two field guns are German 77 mm Feldkanone 99 Neuer Art Field Guns, both captured by the 2nd Canadian Mounted Rifles, a BC regiment, in 1917 – one at Vimy Ridge and the other at the Battle of Cambria. They came in to Township’s possession in 1920 after a request to the federal Commission of War Records and Trophies by the Township Council of the day. Properly caring for and maintaining the guns – which together comprise two of only three known guns of this type in the province – is the responsibility of the Township and is the condition of taking custody of them. Every now and then you will see a school class in the park with a member of the Legion who will tell them stories of the two Great Wars. Then throughout the year, the classes will do projects and end with the Remembrance Day Ceremonies where the children lay a wreath. This passing on of history is so important to all of us. It makes us remember why we are speaking English and French and not German or Japanese. A simple old gun in a park, captured from a country hell bent on destroying the world, has so many stories to tell. Without the folks at the Legion to pass these on, they would be nothing but a chunk of rusty old metal taking up space. As our members are still battling the world’s Mephistopheles, let’s give them a “thank you” for their service, and when we see a member of the Legion, don’t think of them as an aging old person, but a historian and the keeper of wisdom. Take a moment to think where we would be without them and make sure you thank them for their service both past and present.

It is a crazy morning today. I had a totally different column to post this morning, but when I looked out the window I saw it was snowing and on the way into the office I came across two situations that I thought would be a great way to start the day. You see, here in sunny (or rainy depending on the day) Victoria, we get little snow, hence the reason for all of you easterners (anyone east of Vancouver is an easterner) like to move here. So the obvious joke of the day is, “How can you tell if someone is a native of Victoria?”. “By the way they drive when it snows.” Oh yes folks. We have the “OMG OMG OMG the sky is falling syndrome” out here. People go into a mass panic; they run to the stores looking for survival gear, they stock up on food, candles, sterno and salt. They jump in their cars are travel at a break neck speed of 10 km/h. If they have a 4x4, it automatically goes into 4L! The phones start ringing with people calling in saying they cannot make it to work (they are the smart ones as their tires are probably bald). It is mass panic. You wait to hear if the Emergency Operations Centres are going to open and if they have room at the shelters. How many schools are going to close today? Are the busses running? Do I need to call a cab to get to work? (why would you call a cab when there is too much snow for you to drive yourself?) My journey to the office takes about 45 minutes during the week and 20 minutes during the weekend due to the amount of traffic on this poorly planned infrastructure. This is a normal day for me, and today the roads for the most part are very clear because of all the brine they put down, it is snowing very large flakes and they are sticking, but here comes the first encounter…. A van going 30km/h in a 60. I am looking for the slow moving vehicle sign, but there is none so it cannot be a farm vehicle. We soon come to the double lane so I can get around it and discovered that it was a young person, holding tightly to the wheel and focused straight ahead – I mean straight ahead with that OMG OMG OMG look in her face. The shear panic on her face would have been worthy of a $144 ticket for using my cell phone to take a picture. No sooner did I get around her, I was greeted by a young guy on a motorcycle. It was an old two cylinder, two stroker that looked like it had been around the block more than once. He too was travelling slower than molasses on cold winter’s night, dragging both feet as he went. When we stopped, I saw why – I have more wrinkles on my a$$ than he had tread on his rear tire. There is one born every day they say and he was the one that was dropped on his head as he popped out of the chute. The only reason I bring this up is that today is Friday and it is a long weekend coming up for us here in BC and we all need a good laugh once in a while. Happy long weekend folks. See you Tuesday. Drive safely and don't forget - - if it is snowing, try to find something to laugh at. You won't have to look far - they often come to you.

It is time to break away from the ever present budget preparation and look out the window and ponder at the New Year. Even though we are now 30 days into it, I am finding that the old paycheque is smaller. It is going to be another tough year. So, as I watch the birds feeding merrily on their catch of the day I got to thinking…. Every time our group rides, we find ourselves ending up at a pub or restaurant for a meal. Now I get to thinking (yes that can be dangerous)… it is one of the prime differences between old school and new school, or frugality and frivolity. New school throws down cash at the first inkling of an appetite; old school can’t waste time pulling over to satisfy a hunger pang when a home-cooked meal is only six hours away. When I was a boy, the notion of eating out meant that dad got a raise (and this was one of those things that just did not happen!) Normally we would have to go to the lake or head out to the woods with our .22’s and bring home dinner. This, my dad would say, toughened you up, built character, and made you appreciate the value of a dollar. At the time, I would have traded that all in for a simple sandwich, but now I see the stingy coot was right. Even though we've become a nation of softies, you can still find economical compromise. For one, you can pack your saddlebag with a picnic. Include beverages, hearty sandwiches, maybe even a piece of fruit for once. Pick a spot along one of your favorite scenic roads, pull over at some piney place, and teach yourself to relax and enjoy the view. Best of all, it's cheap. If you are not with the group, bring a date and you’ve got a damn romantic getaway package. Variations on the saddlebag picnic include the backpack breakfast and the Tour-Pak dinner (candlelight and iPod optional). If you munch your lunch by a secluded little swimming hole, clothes become optional too. I'm sure there's a little-known amendment to the Charter of Rights guaranteeing the biker's right to get naked somewhere. (Look it up and let us know.) Ok, you want MEAT? I mean MEAT!!!! Here is a trick I learned from an old timer years ago while riding in the Kentucky foot hills. No, it wasn’t all about ‘shine or road kill, but then that would work too . Carefully wrap whatever raw meat you've got in two overlapping layers of heavy-duty foil, and clamp that to your exhaust pipe. The higher up the pipe you locate the meat (closer to the jugs) the more well-done the meat. Make sure that the foil does not have any holes or you might have a mess on the pipes. Don't use ground anything as this really makes a mess. Figuring out cook times takes a bit of trial and error, but soon you’ll get it and be enjoying many a hot mobile meal, which, legend has it, is where the term, "piping hot" comes from. I found that 100 miles at highway speeds will give you a medium steak. I just hate it when my mind starts to wonder like this. Makes me wish I was on the road again and not in this office – staring at computer screens and listening to that black thing ringing all day. But this also reminds me of something else…. Not to get all religious on you or anything, but remember the bible telling us about how Christ turned water into wine? When I think about that, I realize there was a miracle that makes that look like child’s play. Two men (Harley and Davidson) turned liquid (gasoline) into music. OK, back to work…..

I came across this interesting looking trailer last week.

Entry January 25, 2019 So in my search for parts, I came across Jan Willem Boom 7963 RV Ruinen The Netherlands. jw@jwboon.nl. Lots of items for me but the only thing was that he didn't ship outside of Europe any longer. However, on his comments section of the site, I came across a request from someone in the US for information on parts for his Harley. There had been no response, so I decided reach out to let him know that they didn't ship to the States or Canada. Well thanks to this gentleman, Dusty Booker of Meridian Mississippi, I found another contact. As I said earlier, Dusty is a Harley owner and the owner of Booker Electric HVAC, LLC. Dusty suggested that I contact Tom's NOS Parts in Columbia Station Ohio. Apparently Tom has an agreement with Jan in the Netherlands. The deal was that Jan would only ship parts to Tom. So, I took Dusty's advise and reached out to Tom. He responded and told m to let him know what I needed off of Jan's site in the Netherlands. All I had to give him was descriptions and the part numbers and he would get them for me. I ordered a couple of switches, another flasher and some other wiring harnesses. Tom said that when they came in he would email me and let me know the price. Sure enough the parts arrived and Tom emailed me. I paid him through PayPal and the rest is history. The parts arrived by mail as promised. As most of you would likely know, searching for parts can be challenging and costly, but it's also satisfying when the parts arrive and you get them in your hands. Dusty and I exchange the odd message on Facebook from time-to-time and while we aren't obviously close friends, and we have never met, I consider him a friend. Ok, the next search for a part was not necessary but was something I thought would be neat. I found two Harley Davidson Police decals in Erlanger Kentucky in the US. $17.76 US dollars later, including shipping they arrive via mail. What I have to say about my journey so far is that everyone I have met or contacted during my quest for information and or parts has been genuinely interested in helping me with this project. I'm sure all of you have had similar experiences. Don't have a lot more to say at this time except that my bike is in my mechanic's shop ready for spring. Stay tuned for my first look at my bike on delivery day. Thanks for reading everyone....Mike

Growing up I had an interest in motorcycles. My first bike was a Honda trail bike. It was street legal and I rode it to and from the trails near my cousin's house off of Islington avenue near Woodbridge. The odd time we use to get chased by the police because I think some of it was private property. Lots of people went there but it seemed they were after the bikes. I next moved up to a Honda CB 750. Too much power for me I think but when you are 17 or 18 you don't care. Then life happened. Sold the bike and got married, had kids and grew up. LOL. However, I always told myself that one day I would get a police bike. Move forward 40 years and here we are. I have included a picture as it looked when I got it. I bought it sight unseen a couple of years ago from a Windsor dealership. Not the wisest thing to do but that's another story.

East coast girls are stylishly hip. Southern girls apparently have weaponized bootys. Mid-Western girls seem to have an inherent valium-induced calming effect, while northern girls seem to be very effective at warming their male companions with nothing but their lips. It goes without saying that American Pop Culture of the early to mid-sixties infused (some would say irrevocably established), the sexually charged, female-objectification that flourishes to this day. The seemingly unpretentious and fun-filled rallying anthem of that time was the iconic, Beach Boys hit title, California Girls. In defence of those who grew up in that transformative era, how current 21st century men view and treat the opposite sex has not improved. The argument can be made that there has actually been an exponential regression in respectful attitudes toward women. A stereotype in its most basic form is made up of two entities; the initiator and the initiate. Derived from the Greek words στερεός (stereos), “firm, solid” and τύπος (typos), “impression; thereby creating a “firm impression”. To create an impression, something of substance, an initiating object or force, has to be applied to a receiving surface or receptor. The surface tension, molecular structure, maturity level or mental capacity of the receiver of said impression, will dictate the acceptance or longevity of the force applied. So how or why did this stereotypical assault on women begin? This particular Eve archetype, is a woman who happens to ride motorcycles. But let me first step back in time and set the stage. Eve first came on the scene in the Garden of Eden. Now ongoing debate and postulation continues as to where the exact location of Eden is purported to have been. General consensus places it somewhere near the confluence of the Tigris and Euphrates rivers. Regardless of where the exact location was, it is fair to say it was someplace in the Middle East. When Eve first enters earth’s physical plane, she is naked. Not ‘nekkid’, which is how the North American urban culture has redacted a woman’s true physical attributes of beauty. The familiar narrative relates that Eve was tempted with an apple. Without going into any ecumenical or doctrinal posturing, one critical and defining issue about this event not only relates to what Eve did, but more importantly, what Adam failed to do. He too was naked, when he willingly partook of the fruit offered to him by Eve. Later when questioned about it by his Creator, Adam passed the buck. He lied in an effort to save his own literal and figurative skin. By not manning up, his failure had a greater impact than anything Eve did. Eve’s motorcycle is loud. The rumbling exhaust note at idle hints of unbridled power waiting to be unleashed. I am in awe and fascination as I watch Eve control a machine with a questionably legal power-to-weight ratio at her disposal. When she revs her bike into higher RPM ranges, those in possession of Y chromosomes who happen to be in her vicinity, quickly determine how secure they feel; or not. Some men find women who ride motorcycles unattractive, butch-like, or too manly. That may have more to do with the natural levels of confidence these women wield, as compared to the layers of insecurity some men harbour. There are non-riding women who think that way as well. But this again reveals an innate misconception that I believe is a result of our cultural indoctrination as to how women are generally perceived. Some outside of the riding culture, tend to have a subconscious belief that a leather-bound female rider has more testosterone than the average man; or less oestrogen than the average woman. The Photoshopped portrayal of a pouty-lipped bikini-clad model on the cover of Maxim magazine degenerates and objectifies with no less offensiveness than some motorcycle magazines do. Just initiate a Google search with two simple words; “Motorcycle Magazines”, and you will get the essence of which I speak. Regardless of whether she rides a motorcycle or not, I do not want to take away Eve’s right to be feminine or proud of her sexuality. While it is impractical to be on a motorcycle as a rider (or passenger) dressed as if you just came from a Victoria’s Secret photo shoot (Daytona Bike Rallies notwithstanding), a woman is no less feminine or appealing for not dressing in ridiculously expensive lingerie. While this may sound contradictory to some women, I as a man, am no fool. The female body is a beautiful work of Divine Art; and being like most men, I tend to be visually cued. But if the full extent of a woman’s qualification for being appreciated is limited to her having an ample bust or hypnotic derriere, then like Adam, we have missed the mark and abdicated our responsibility as men. It is high time men change not only the tone, but the context of conversation Eve has been longing to have with us. Article image source (complied): http://goo.gl/IoLvGU

The one thing I know for certain is that for every one idea there are 900 people that think they have the answer. Of those 900 people, you can write off half of them as being 100% undeniable whack jobs. This leaves 450 that think they have the answer. Of those 450, half of them plus one only think they know the answer because they are pretty sure that that answer is correct. This leaves 224 that think they know they answer. Of those 224, half of them have never really been right about anything, so they are throwing the dice about the answer – yup, drop ‘em. Now the remaining 112 people…. 60 forgot their spouses’ birthday, 41 went to church last Saturday thinking it was Sunday, 10 take mind altering drugs. So that just leaves me, and I have no freekin’ clue. Ok, now I forgot where this was taking me. Darn it. Stafford – bail me out will ya??? No seriously folks, where this was really taking me was down a long trip on Highway 66. Two of our members went a few years ago. They went with a group of people that departed from Chicago. As they told their story, I got to thinking – this is one trip that is on my bucket list, but I don’t want to do it like they did. They may have had the time of their lives and that is great for them. But for me…. Well, I have never been one to follow the crowd. This is where the 900 people come in. Everyone has their story to tell. But it is just that – theirs. They can offer ideas, but it is up to you to separate what is for you and what isn’t. I want to take a full 30 days. More or less – who cares? No hurry. I thought about leaving from Chicago just so I could watch and ride into the sunset every night. I thought about leaving from California so I could get through the heat in the morning and ease off in the evening (ya, that really did not make any sense to me either). So, I kinda made up my mind to ride through the Rockies (in Canada), spend some time in Jasper, etc. and just enjoy some of our country first. Then skirt down the Rockie foothills to Salt Lake and then bee-line it to Chicago, taking a break in Iowa to take in the Victory factory at Polaris and then another one in Green Bay to take in the Harley Museum (visiting family along the way for cheap accomodations) and then once in Chicago, re-kit and ready for the 30 day journey to the Santa Monica pier. During the Route 66 trip, I want to take the real roads. Yes, some are now dead ends and others are grassed over. But that is going to be half of the fun. Rely on the old timers and not those that “have done that” (they lie anyway ). Once at the pier - - Hang the Madison for all to see Now the million dollar question - when?

As I sit here working on the FY2014 budget, I hear a rumble outside my window and when I look out, I see a motorcycle that looks like it has been left outside for a decade to be raped by Mother Nature. Here in the Pacific Northwest, it does not take much for an unattended bike to turn into a pile of flaking red metal. You see, with any inkling of frost, the brine trucks are out in full force. The roads are covered with the watery goo that soon turns to an ultrafine white powder that will find its way into any micrometer hole or crack and begin its metallic dinner. There is no metal sacred and chrome begins to masticate before the rider’s eyes. Upon further inspection, I noticed the bike, as chewed up from rust as it appeared, had a beautiful clear coat applied and the upkeep was beyond what most of us perform. It was designed to look that way. It was a rat! My mind flutters back to 1966 when I started to build my first bike. There was this little old house on the corner of Payne Street and 8th Street North. The yard was cluttered with old engine parts, tins, wood and just about anything else most people would have thrown out long ago. The house was in need of paint and the yard - what you could see of it - could use a good manicure. There was a ramp that leads to the front door. All of us kids were afraid to go to the door because the old man who lived there would put little kids in a wheel barrow, wheel them into the house and eat them – hence the ramp. He had a vicious dog named Stinky – who in their right mind would name a dog “Stinky”? Those rumours had to be true. One day I gathered the courage to knock on the door and see if this old “kid eater” would like to become one of my newspaper customers - I needed one more to make a quota. The fall night was cold and the damp air easily penetrated the old clothes I wore. The outside of the house was very dark. As I slowly walked down the path to the front door, I could feel my knees starting to tremble as the old oak tree let out a blood curdling ka-reeeek . “Did I really need new customers this bad?” I thought to myself. “What if he gets me? No one will know that I was even here!” I cautiously approached the front door and with all the courage I could muster, I softly knocked on it. I thought that if I knocked too loud it would really piss off the kid eater, and if I knocked quiet enough, he might not hear it and I could then say “Oh well, I tried, but no one answered.” and take the easy way out. Stinky started to bark. Shoot, I forgot about the vicious dog! My legs really started to tremble harder now. I felt like I was going to pee my pants. I wanted to run away as fast as I could, and as I turned to run, the door flung open. Oh my God, this is it! I am going to die! The old man cursed as the door opened with a loud bang. Stinky was barking, but wait a minute, this was a yapping kind of bark. Just how vicious could this animal be? He jumped up on the door. His tail going so fast I thought he might take flight like a helicopter. Yeah right – vicious my a$$. The old, short man now appeared at the door. I am sure he heard me gasp. It was true. He was an old man – but then I was only twelve and everyone older than twenty five was old. But there was something really odd about this. He was in a wheelchair. How could he eat people? Surely any one could out run him, and even if he sicced his dog on you, one swift kick and the dog would be well on its way to the moon. I had never seen anyone in a wheelchair before, so I stood there like someone who had just seen a Martian or something. Finally, the old man growled, “Well?”, and with that I went into my sales pitch, my voice shaking as badly as I. The old man laughed when I was finished. Looking me square in the eye he said “Took you long enough. Afraid I would eat you or something?” Right. That was it. Kids would hear those remarks and run away at this point. After all, this was the old man that ate kids. “I have been waiting a long time for a paperboy to come here.” he said. “Not many people have the guts to come up this god damn ramp.” After talking for a short while, he signed the contract and took not only the weekend paper, but the morning paper as well. WOW! I made my quota plus one!! It was not long and old Charlie and I soon became good friends and on one summer’s afternoon while we were sitting under that scary old oak tree that let out the blood curding ka-reeeek, I looked over at the heap of cast iron carcasses and saw something I did not think belonged there. I went over and picked up an old engine and asked Charlie what it was. He told me it was an old Westinghouse wash machine motor. “Yeah, right!” I said. “Since when did wash machines run on gas motors?”. Charlie very proudly began to educate me like he would be doing from this day on. It turns out in “the old days” wash machines were outside and since there was no electricity on most of the farms, the wash machines ran on these old motors. It was a single cylinder, pedal start motor with more rust on it than moss on the old oak tree. I tried to turn it over and it was seized as tight as a bass drum. Charlie just laughed. “That old thing has not run since the war!”. “Charlie, the war is still on, or haven’t you been reading the papers I have been delivering?”, I retorted, thinking that everyone knew about Vietnam by now! Again the old man let out one of his many his belly laughs. “Talking about the ‘War of Wars’ – the 2nd War”. Days went by and I would look over at that silly looking engine and try to imagine it working and running a wash machine. Finally, I got the nerve to ask the old man if he would help me get it running. Again with a belly laugh, Charlie said “If you can get that god dammed thing running, you can have it!”. I took the engine and placed it on an old tin five gallon pail and attempted to tear down the engine. The bolts were all seized with age and years sitting out in the weather. Charlie began to introduce me to required tools of the trade – penetrating oil, WD40 and a BFH – a Big Freekin’ Hammer. Gradually the bolts came loose and parts were thrown into an old coffee can filled with a concoction of kerosene, vanilla extract and Coca Cola. He said this will eat away all of the rust and lubricate the parts at the same time – “an old farmer’s trick” he would say. After few days of beating on stuck parts, the old engine was finally apart. Charlie would be testing me along every step by asking what the name of that part was or what its function was. He told me that unless I knew what it did, it did no good to know the name. We took inventory of the good parts and another of the parts that needed to be replaced. I took the “replace inventory” down to General Trading and had them price up the parts and how long it would take to come in. The man behind the counter started to laugh when I told him the model number of the engine. “They have not made that thing in over 30 years!” But sure enough, Briggs still had lots of parts for the beast. A week and twenty-five bucks later, I had all the parts that we needed to put that old engine back together. We headed over to the old oak tree and pulled back the musty smelling canvas and exposed a naked hulk of cast iron and steel. That old Briggs was a simple engine – the case, crank, piston, cam, valves, magneto, plug, points and carb. It was not long and the engine was back together and all nice and clean complete with a new paint job that made it look factory fresh. We fabricated a gas tank out of an old brake fluid can by making a hole in the bottom of it and screwing in a petcock from an old lawn tractor that had also been sitting out in the yard. I tied a piece of old leather around it and tied it to the tree. Charlie found some old surgical tubing that he used on his stumps which we used for the gas line – hey it was only temporary and according to the ‘master’, it should work! I filled the can with gas and put a few drops of fuel into the carburetor, turn on the petcock and kicked the engine over. Charlie’s face was beaming like a lighthouse beacon as he saw me fire up that old engine. There was a large cloud of smoke as the putt-putt-putt of that three quarter horsepower Briggs and Stratton wash machine motor came to life. He knew something about the future that no one had a clue about.

I cannot teach anyone how to survive in a short blog post, however I can give you the tools in which to survive. Because most of us will be travelling on the highways or the byways, chances are we will never get into the boonies where we will need many of survival tools that people would use while backpacking or hiking in the wilderness. In fact, the majority of our “survival issues” would be solved with a simple cell phone call to 911. However, there might be those times when the highways and byways just don’t cut it and we want a REAL adventure. We will go off the beaten path and take a few gravel roads (heck why not? It is time people learn there is another world out there – this is a post for another day however). So in this case, you might want to be prepared for no cell signal and not another vehicle in site for some time. Make sure you have a paper map of the area that you are going into however, because chances are, it is not going to be a road on your GPS! Remember one thing here – the items below are tools, but the best tool you have is your mind. You can overcome almost everything if you think things through. You need to stay calm and don’t panic – easier said than done I know, but this is the key to survival. If you stay calm, you will be thinking rationally and not making rash and quick decisions which can turn out to be the wrong ones. Don’t forget, you will be packing other “survival tools” with you as well. Your cell phone, your first aid kit, tools for bike repairs, maybe some rope or extra bungees, oil, gas and water. Do you have food or snacks already packed? Your mirrors on your bike work as signals to aircraft or ground crew if required. If needed, your battery can be used to start a fire or connect a single light as a light source. Use your head light to signal help. The stuffing in your seat can be used to keep warm. If needed, an inner tube can be used to carry water or used as a sling. Here is a small survival kit I carry when going off the beaten path: A large clean empty tomato sauce (680ml) (or any large) tin Large pocket knife A fire starter. A survival blanket A large plastic lawn bag A small plastic garbage bag A travel bottle of Imodium A travel bottle of Tylenol A Multi-tool – the one with a pliers. 2 pairs of knee high nylon stockings (out of their packaging) 4 thick rubber bands A Micro-fiber towel Some band aids Two feminine napkins (the thin unscented kind) Small roll of electrical tape Pkg of steri-strips 2 bungee cords 2 large key rings 2 Kem lights, small With a nail and a hammer, make a hole near the top of the can large enough to feed the key ring through. Then directly across from that hole, make another for the other key ring. Make sure that you tap the holes on inside of the can so there are no sharps that might cut you or anything you put inside the can. These key rings will give you something to hold onto when using or suspending the can. The can is going to be large enough to put all of the above items into. When you have everything inside EXCEPT the Micro-fiber towel and the rubber bands, use the towel as a cover and secure it with the rubber bands. Now I know you are going to question some of the items. Starting with the can itself. The can is used not only to hold everything in one place but to heat water or cook food. To carry coals or hot rocks in. To transport burning embers. You get the point. The Micro-fibre towel is multi-purpose and goes pretty much without explanation, as does the Band-Aids, bungee cords, Tylenol, Imodium and steri-strips. The large lawn bag can be used as a rain cover, to lay on or as an under layer when riding in cold or wet weather. Garbage bag is used to carry water, food stuffs you gather, you name it. Now for the really questionable ones: The two feminine napkins – used as gauze to dress a wound, they are much more absorbent than surgical gauges or sponges. Use as pot holders, shoe inserts to cover blisters, etc. The knee high nylon stockings – used to strain water, tie things up, used along with the feminine napkins to dress a wound, a tourniquet or sling, add a few rocks and you have a weapon. The survival blanket is used to wrap yourself up in at night to stay warm or during the day to stay cool. Use it as a shelter cover or a signal device. You will be carrying rags for checking oil and to clean the bike anyway. Use these as toilet paper (you can wash them out in a river or stream so you can re-use them – I know – Yuck, but it works in a pinch). If you need to “hibernate” until you can either get on your way or until help comes, find a spot where you can be seen but still have shelter. Try to find a place where water is close and easy to get to. Remember, the key to survival is keeping calm and keep your wits about you. Those are your best tools and if you think clearly, everything else will fall into place. This of course is not the most complete list and you may need to adjust it for your riding area and weather, but in most cases this will be a good starter kit without taking up a lot of space.

Consider this. What do we most lend our strength to? To what cause do we bear arms. Are we so bound by the current mores of a society that attempts to define us on terms we have not voluntarily acquiesced to? Some would say we have choice in all things; others would beg to differ. At what point does one decide to stand for or against something? Or someone? What standard of forbearance has to be breached, before we say enough! I protest! I have to do something about this; even if it means your demise over mine. War. Battles. Conflict. The trifecta of dynamic global tension. It has ever been thus since the dawn of time. From Cain and Able, all the way down through time to Saddam Hussein & George Bush; Osama Bin Laden and Barack Obama. Today it is terrorism vs western ideology. Or is it? Ideas once given a voice and a receptive ear, become ideologies. We sometimes forget that these are a result of hearts that have been radically affected in some dramatic way; whether for good or ill. Nov 11th is the day that Canada pauses to remember. Remember what exactly? Most Commonwealth countries (and some that are not) will pause on that day to remember those who have given the ultimate sacrifice in service to their countries during a time of war. Why would any individual take it upon his or herself to voluntarily leave hearth and home to travel to a place that in all likelihood not only despises them, but is fully bent on ensuring their allotted time on earth is shortened as expeditiously as possible? Courage? Honour? Commitment? Duty? Yes, but I am sure there is more to it. There are those who argue that all wars are wrong. These are logical, intelligent, reasoned individuals, who have every right to their opinions. I would counter with this; while all wars leave deep scars (some visible, most not); separate loved ones, (physically, emotionally and some permanently); create global economic crises and divide countries, not all are wrong. A previous article headline in the Nov 10th 2011 Globe & Mail by columnist Judith Timson, was titled: I wear a poppy for its victims, but don't support war. Let's be honest here; yes, war is messy, vicious, and quite easily brings to the forefront some of humanity's baser predilections, but there are times when it is necessary and therefore should be supported. There are those who are quite vociferous about how Canada is wasting the best of its youth and by extension its future, by sending soldiers to engage in what many construe as unnecessary. I say the sacrifices that have been made since World War I and prior, risk becoming null and void with that stream of thinking. It is true that many of those precious lives lost in past conflicts, could have (should have) been avoided; but the greater overarching view of history shows that we have a long way yet to go before wars are eradicated altogether, much less man's penchant for it. I am not a soldier. I have never been to war. I know that I cannot even begin to comprehend what kind of terrible toll is thrust upon our young men and women serving in far flung locales. I am quite certain that what they experience is far outside even their highly trained, disciplined and equipped comfort zones. Certainly light years beyond mine. Yet they serve willingly. It is an honour to even live in the same country that birthed these individuals, whose sacrifice affords me the privileges I enjoy. I am not for one moment romanticizing or encouraging war; but there is a time and a place where it is required. Oh how I wish it could be otherwise. We are a Global Village. Like it or not, you share Terra Firma with fundamentalists of all stripes; corrupt dictators, drug addicts, self-serving politicians (please note that not all politicians have given up on their higher ideals of actually serving their constituents), just to name a few. The fact that they are conflicts simmering at any given time, about to erupt into some sort of conflagration is almost inevitable. Lest we lose all hope, we have also had individuals of moral fortitude, who in the face of conflict, have stood tall, even risking and in some cases succumbing to death because of that risk. Here are a few such individuals, in no particular order and irrespective of their individual belief systems, who have left a lasting impact on our world. Martin Luther King; Mother Theresa; Benazir Bhutto; Abraham Lincoln; Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi. As you take part in the humanitarian, economic and social privileges accessible to us today, regardless of your viewpoint on war, why not take a risk. Remember those who risked all for us over the past decades. Most of these freedoms have been borne through the crucible of conflict; both domestic and global. Never forget.

This year I decided to try my hand at flat track racing and I signed up for the half day of instruction offered by www.goflattrack.com Sunday June 10th was the day and Pemberton Speedway was the place, all I needed to do was show up, the school supplies everything from all of the safety equipment you need plus a Honda 450 motorcycle in flat track configuration. http://flattrackbc.com/racing-info/pemberton-speedway/ Since I’m leaving on my cross Canada trip in two weeks I thought a fully loaded trip to Pemberton would be a good test ride to see how the fit and handling was going to work out on my Vulcan with everything I planned to bring and decided to head up on Saturday and camp overnight and come home Sunday night after race school. Saturday turned out to be very cold with rain showers but I wasn’t going to let that stop me and I managed to avoid the on and off rain up to Pemberton, often missing it by a few minutes in places judging by how wet the roads were. Arriving in the early afternoon at the speedway Saturday’s race class was getting underway so I went and found a place to set up my tent and have some lunch. Pretty soon the weather took a real turn for the worse with gusty winds and turning very cold raining off and on, blustery weather that had me taking shelter in my tent to read. The weather did clear enough around dinner time so I was able to cook up a quick camp meal before turning in early. Sunday morning The weather was looking a bit more promising, the sun was trying to stay out and it was a bit warmer, after making breakfast and my 2nd coffee was kicking in I took a wander over to the track area to look around and taking the opportunity to walk the track and have a good look at it. It may seem flat and compacted when your in the stands but up close and personal is another thing, you start to see the ruts, the heaves and the bumps, I also noticed how turns 1 and 2 were slick with clay on the inside and dryer, looser dirt higher up, corners 3 and 4 were dry, well rutted down low and loose sandy soil higher up in the turn towards the wall. I was scheduled for the afternoon class so spent the morning packing up camp and doing some stretching and limbering up for what was soon to come. Class Time After signing a waiver and paying for the course I was given knee and elbow pads, motocross pants and boots, a motocross jersey as well as a chest/back/shoulder pad combo and of course a full face helmet and goggles. I opted to use my own gloves. Once I was fitted up it was time to find a ‘hot shoe’ that fit the boot I had on, I say boot as you only need one for the left foot. A steel plate in the shape of a boot print with a small edge to hold your boot in and a steel strap to slide the toe under with what looks like a dog collar thru a ring at the heel that is tightened over the arch of the foot to hold it on…. and this is why everyone starts walking with a limp as soon as you get it strapped on, it’s kind of comical. The class was taught by Aaron Hesmer, Canadian Speedway Champion and a guy who knows his stuff, we got the basics of sitting position and why, he covered the bikes and how they handle and what has been done to them that makes them flat trackers such as no front brakes and we were given the heads up on track safety. Once everyone had that down we could grab whatever bike we wanted and head out on the track to feel it all out. By my second lap I was pretty comfortable sliding around the corner with my left foot firmly planted on the ground and began to spin the rear wheel more letting the bike drift through the turns….for about 6 laps. It’s amazing how quickly I tired, I had to come in for a rest and pretty soon so did everyone else. After we all had a chance to catch our breath there was another class session while Aaron explained the finer points of flat tracking, one reason my arms were burning out so fast was due to the death grip I had on the bars and I had to keep reminding myself to loosen my grip, and it worked but this was just one small thing on the long list of things to think about all while going as fast as you can on a rough surface and very quickly you begin to see the scope of what it takes to be a professional racer. Fighting the bike around the track like I was is not the way to do it. And so the afternoon went, we would go out to try different skills and Aaron would coach us from the sidelines or from his bike on the track while we were able to pull off and on again as we needed. I didn’t take long to see how everyone was improving and letting the bikes open up a bit more on the straights and levels of confidence increasing in the corners. All to soon I realized the afternoon was drawing to an end as were my physical limits so I stopped before I was going to hurt myself or someone else. Peeling off the motocross gear and getting back into my leathers I was soon back on the road home and I don’t think I stopped smiling the whole way. If you’ve ever thought of giving flat track racing a try or just want to brush up on your riding skills this is a great course to take, a ton of fun and Aaron is a great guy who explains the concepts of flat track in a way that’s easy to understand and in a casual setting, check the link at the top for dates and places. **Next week I leave on a 6 week X-Canada trip… follow that on my instagram @Opus710WheelspinAdventures.

Looking out the window this morning, I am trying to find a topic to write on, then it hits me. It hits me hard. In yesterday’s UPS shipments, I received our Chapter’s new recruiting cards. They are business cards, very generic, that tells people where we meet, what time we meet and who to contact. All of our members will carry a few to pass out and hopefully boost our membership. This is what I am having a hard time understanding…. Why is our membership dropping on a National level? Why are we having problems getting new, young blood into the Club? Maybe the answer lays here: My office not only overlooks a beautiful park, but there is a motorcycle dealer next to the park. It is the busiest metric shop in town. They sell Yamaha, Suzuki, Honda and now Victory. Their repair shop always seems to be busy as you cannot book an appointment for months and they have now restricted their repairs to injected machines – if you have a carb, you are out of luck. I can always tell when the ship comes in from an extended deployment. It seems that all the young sailors have a pocket full of cash, so off they go to the dealership and buy - - - - a crotch rocket! Crotch rockets out sell cruisers 12 to 1 in that shop and most of the cruisers are sold to the more “mature” crowd. So the question I have is “Do these young crotch rocket crowds not want to mix with the cruiser type crowd?” I think yes. They are in it for the speed and the “daredevil” aspect. You know, stoppies, standies, hoppies and all the other “p-pees” there are. The young people will be the ones that keep the club going so I would like your opinions on how we can booster the membership and get some young blood into the club.

As I look out my window… I want to apologize for the lack of writing. Creative energy block, a magical force-field, a black hole – who knows. I just could not “get it going” for a while, then all of a sudden, it was like Popeye eating his spinach – BAM! But this has me worried, as I could only think of the word of the day as given to me by a staff member…. Constipation - <his words> “a high level of constraint or restriction; a pronounced lack of ease; your boss when he is full of crap (properly said, use the sh word).” OMG, then I got thinking, has anyone ever died from constipation? Will they explode? Will their lack of knowledge and crap be strewn everywhere? What if it gets on me? Will I then too become all dumbed down and wreak like that idiot who wears different coloured socks and forgets to zip their fly and uses the public swimming pool as their personal bath tub? That reminds me a boss I had back in 1999/2000. Those of you that remember the Y2K hoopla will appreciate this. Since I am in the Information Technology field, my task for the Y2K adventure was to plant my butt in a chair out at our local damn. The damn provides Greater Victoria with our drinking water. My job – to ensure that water continued to flow downhill. Yes, you read that correctly. Like the entire world was going to change the direction it spun or something. Maybe the aliens were going to come and flip our axis, I don’t know. But then, as I look out my window, I see the entry walkway into our little park across the street. It is red brick and just before you come to the cenotaph, there is a large poppy in grey brick. Now, while the thought is beautiful, I can only think that the designer was constipated. Why aren’t the entry bricks grey and the poppy red? Oh well, this and many other things in this world don’t make sense. One of our other staff members was complaining of a headache. He went to the doctor and was told to loosen his pants as this was causing the headache. Huh???? But this has to be the best – this young lady saw the low oil light come on, so she drove to the gas station, bought a gallon of oil and…. Oh this world we live in… but I can’t think of a better place to live.

So, the seasonal cold weather threatens to hang around longer than your body's core temperature would like. Depending on where you reside in Canada, the evil Ninja twins, Win & Min (Winter and Motorcycle Insurance) conspire to settle in for their usual six-month, in-your-face mockery of all that is decent and warm. Well, if I cannot ride my bike due to my seasonally challenged, geographic location north of the 49th parallel, then maybe I can offset some of the sub-zero doldrums by practicing how to rise above the weather; literally, figuratively and well....virtually.Take a gander at the video clip below. Disclaimer & Statement of Accountability: Any and all incorrectly described procedures or phraseology contained in this video, are my responsibility alone, and should not be construed as currently authentic in the real world. It has been a while since I actually flew as a Commercial pilot, (over 25 years), so rules and regulations have likely changed....not to mention any degradation in my actual knowledge, aptitude and skill level. Just sayin'.

Ever have one of those days when you weren’t sure if you were coming or going, came and went or were just plain confused about everything and thought the best solution was to go back to bed and get back up? Looking out my window today that is exactly how I feel. It is a beautiful day with the sun shining, but there is a horribly cold wind blowing and even though the thermometer says 7°, it feels more like -7° and the thought of climbing back into that warm bed is more than a temptation. That is an easy thing to say when you are sitting in an office, but what do you do when you feel like this and you are on the road? You are really not in any shape to be riding. Your head is not in the game and that is how accidents occur. So what should you do? The best thing to do is sit it out and rest. It is hard not to be the macho man and carry on, but that is the worst thing you can do for yourself and your fellow riders. If you are feeling ill, don’t be afraid to ask for help and seek medical attention (make sure you have your medical card with you when your travel). It may be a simple case of food poisoning or it could be something worse. I was on a ride with several others one summer. We left for we were calling the South Ocean trip. Well everyone knows there is no ocean between California and New Mexico and the Gulf of Mexico starts in Texas, so we headed south into Mexico. You all have heard the stories about not drinking the water, well what are you supposed to drink to keep hydrated if you are not going to drink the water? Yup, you guessed it – Montezuma’s revenge struck half of us while the other half managed to get Bali Belly. Now the trick was to carry on with our trip and still be safe and not make a mess as we went. The trip started to become stupid. We were stopping every 15 minutes with someone having to void. We were not making any headway and the Imodium and Pepto was not helping anyone. Since we were bed rolling it, we did not have any tents so campgrounds (which were almost non-existent) were not in the cards. Hotels were not an option (only one head for all of us). So, time to break out survival training and put it to use. We found a semi-shady spot along a running river, isolated from any humans that we knew of. There was wood to use as fuel and as supports to create a lean-to. We found a large log to use as a “hang-over” latrine. The river allowed us to clean up and cool off as well as to fill our cooking pot to boil and have liquid to re-hydrate. We used a couple of the blankets and created a cover to keep the sun and weather off of us as we crashed on the remaining blankets laid across the warm sand, and since no one felt like eating, that was not a problem. I guess to anyone that might have seen us, we looked like the walking dead and were a real sight - a bunch of hard-core bikers, bent over like a bunch a babies. Oh well, what can you say when Mother Nature takes over your body – you do what you have to do. The key here was to get healthy before we carried on, or at least as healthy as we could get. After two days of roughing it – oh yes, it was rough – we headed home to recover and to plan our next trip. This time, some place we would not get sick. We learned a lot from this trip, like how to put survival skill to work when nothing else does. This is one thing that I think everyone should learn – at least the basic skills like how to create shelter and survive in your element for at least three days. Tomorrow I will present the survival kit that everyone should have with them when they travel. It may save your life.

I looked out the window before I left home for the office this morning to see a light dusting of that white stuff they call snow. My first reaction was “Snow day!” but that would hardly go over very well – after all, it was the day after the Super Bowl and I surely would get pegged as “That guy with the big hangover”. The thermometer read a crispy 1° C, so on goes the cold weather gear and said a quick prayer that Old Blue would start this morning. Open the garage door, unplug the trickle charger and plug the ‘lectrics in and with a push of the button, Old Blue comes to life with a loud roar. Oh, the music to my ears. But now forward the clock three hours later and I am here in the office day dreaming about my little journey of September 2006. Trouble was brewing in the home front, the woman I was living with turned more and sourer, so I did what any good man would do – I bought a bike. Not just any bike, but a project bike. I figured that if I had something to keep me busy and out of her way, everything would turn better. You see, there was a common trend in my life with women - it seems it was always "the bike or me" and you know who always won that battle. So now that I have decided this is no longer going to be the case, I sat before this project as she rested on her new, albeit temporary, perch in the garage. Soon I was reminded that it was a “Purple bike” by that mindless woman. That did not matter to me, it was just noise in one ear and out the other as my mind started to crank out blueprints and drawings on what this project was going to transform herself into. But not long into my visions, my partner screams out “Aren’t you going to work today?” I guess she saw the confusion on my face because she very gruffly told me it was seven o’clock – IN THE MORNING!! Yes, I sat there all night dreaming what ‘Bear’ was to become. Months pass and my garage soon begins to look more like a fabrication shop than a residential addition to one’s home. Bike parts scattered all over and an engine’s blood dripping to the floor as its heart lay exposed. The skeleton is bare, welding smoke and paint vapours fill the air as the new parts slowly start to arrive. Weeks pass and the beast now had a new heart, new bones, new shoes and a new fur! A total rebuild, repaint and, well – a new life. Not only did I start a project which would breathe new life into a dying motorcycle, but I brought life to a new family – CMC065 was created. The stress in my life was gone as the woman that was holding me back was no longer part of my world. Don’t get me wrong here folks, if it were not for her, the Bear would not have been created nor would the Chapter have been formed and many other relationships kindled, including the marriage to my Gazelle. I owe that woman a lot! So you see, great thing come from the bad – like the Phoenix which rises from the ashes. My new found family stretched across the nation and soon I found myself on a road trip to the first National CMC Rally which was held in Midland, Ontario. The bear belching life into this old biker as we tore up the highways from the west coast to the Great Lakes and along the way, both to and from, more relationships were made and more lessons learned. The biggest lesson learned was a simple one that we rarely really think about. No matter how bad one has it, someone else has it worse. Get on your machine, let your hair flow free and your attitude will change. Nothing seems to matter anymore. I hate to use the old jingle from Honda, but you meet the nicest people on a Honda motorcycle. Thank god Gazelle rides, now I will no longer have to make that nasty decision

I am often amazed at the quality of rendered custom motorcycle artwork showcased by talented artists. I also find it equally intriguing that the majority of representative themes created, for the most part tend toward the dark or macabre. Dead Heads, skeletons, and copious amounts of unusual creatures from the underworld, all seem to have principal sway in their portfolios. Granted while these depictions are usually extremely detailed and in a lot of cases, quite lifelike, I have often wondered about the influential sources of inspiration for designing them in the first place. I do not mean to disparage the obvious talents of the aforementioned creative individuals, but the ingrained societal stereotypes that are attributed to motorcyclists and their rides, only get more entrenched when an unsuspecting, non-riding person, comes face to face with something that could easily have followed Meatloaf's iconic Bat Out of Hell. Conversely, any self-respecting bat-loving biker would probably argue that creating a Tinkerbell-themed airbrush rendering, does not lend itself to showcasing a bad-ass looking bike. I guess the fear may be that it would take away from any real or perceived mystique. At the risk of sounding too philosophical, the fabric of passion that is motorcycling, can in some small part, weave itself into the canvas of life. Tastes will differ, since all of us have our preferences. Whether you ride a cruiser or a sport bike; wear chaps or a full leather body suit, our individual differences and choices, can either enhance or detract from (your own, or any) person's perceptual experience as it pertains to this chosen two-wheeled culture. For me, I enjoy diversity. While I may not share your particular preference or predilection for a certain style of bike or riding attire, I thoroughly enjoy the fact that I get to engage with you, and learn about something that gives you a sense of motivating identity. If it were up to me (meaning if I could afford it), I would have a cruiser for the laid back riding style; a sport bike for aggressively leaning into curves, and a dual purpose/adventure bike, for those days when I feel like taking the road less travelled. The thing is, the older I get, the more I am learning to appreciate the differences that give meaning to life's adventure. Especially those things that challenge established preconceived notions and the perpetual creep of the status quo.

Well I have somehow deluded myself into thinking that I can write a novel. Time will tell I guess. Below is an excerpt from a chapter in my manuscript (historical fiction no less - whatever was I thinking?) that I have been plodding along with for over a year. Have a read, but go easy on the newbie writer! He stood a short distance from the cross where a young man hung dying. He did not know his name, but knew that he had been found guilty of treason and therefore was summarily sentenced to death. It was all too easy to be charged with treason in Roman occupied territory. Ridiculously easy; and Judea was no less so than in Rome itself. As First Javelin Designate, Darius Vitus Tacitus was the Chief Centurion under the banner of Caesar Agustus’ 1st Imperial Calvary; arguably the most battle hardened Legion in all of the Roman Empire. Initially Darius thought the deployment of an entire compliment of 6000 seasoned troops to this backwoods piece of land was overkill; but time spent here had proven otherwise. Almost three years ago, he had received orders from Rome to march from Caesarea, their headquarters on the Mediterranean coast, to Judea; ostensibly to maintain law and order, due to rampant insurrections within the Judean borders. The additional responsibility for carrying out the decrees of punishment for convicted criminals also rested with his detachment. It was unpleasant business; not that he was in any way squeamish. He had risen through the ranks of the Legionnaires as a lowly foot soldier, surviving countless brutal and bloody campaigns on diverse fronts to get to his current position as an Imperial Roman Officer. No, the distaste he felt was borne out of the fact that he was trained as a warrior. His skills were wasted as an executioner. Where was the honour in that? He had lost count a long time ago of how many crucifixions he had overseen. Since being assigned to the Garrison at Jerusalem these past three years, Pontius Pilate had kept them busy by greasing his unchecked lust for power and dominance with the blood of these people. He had just given permission for the convicted man’s family, consisting of an older woman, and one young man, to stand close by for his last moments. He looked up at the man on the cross, more of a boy than a man, thought Darius, and felt a mixture of sorrow, and no small amount of anger. Sorrow at the loss of another wasted young life. Anger because for the life of him, he could not see how he could make a lasting difference in this wretched land. A land whose people, against all reason, he had grudgingly begun to love. As he gazed up at the dying boy, Darius came to a decision. Later in retrospect, he would likely consider his action rash, but watching the grieving family members suffering while a loved one died in such a horrible manner before them, prompted him to act. He walked over to the man and woman, gesturing for them to follow him a few paces beyond the hearing of the guards he had stationed around the cross. They followed him tentatively. The look of misery etched on their faces, compounded by the constant undercurrent of fear most of the local population had for the occupying Romans. He easily read the questioning suspicion on their faces as he turned to face them. “I know you will not like what I am about to say,” Darius said bluntly, getting straight to the point. He was not one to quibble. “But I feel compelled to at least offer an option to you. The boy may die shortly, or linger for hours. I know it will soon be the start of your people’s Sabbath, but I would rather not order his legs broken to hasten his death. You do not want to witness what he will go through if it comes to that.” He paused, and continued in a softer tone; “If you wish, I can offer him a quick end to his suffering, but I would prefer you not be a witness to that either.” Their haunted expressions spoke volumes and he did not think their faces could become any more stricken. He looked up and noticed his men furtively watching him from where they stood. Why am I doing this? This may not have been one of my better ideas. “You are a Roman soldier,” responded the old woman with tears streaming down her face. “What prompted you to suggest such a thing to us? What profit is there in this for you?” Darius blinked in surprise at the old woman’s quiet directness. Truthfully, he was not altogether sure himself what moved him to make such an offer. He had seen numerous scenarios of families watching loved ones executed. Looking into her face, he uncharacteristically felt only heightened respect for her; even more unexpectedly, he thought he felt the same, from her in return; albeit in a limited fashion. He glanced at the younger man beside her; who although obviously nervous, summoned enough fire in his eyes to radiate hatred at him. Despite the circumstances, Darius appreciated the man’s courage. He had known very few with the fortitude to attempt to stare down a Roman Centurion. Looking back at the old woman, he saw no such acrimony in her expression; just unbearable heartache. “I am a soldier, yes, but my offer was not for any ulterior gain, although I understand why you would feel that way. I have no way of proving this to you, and in as much as I am able to, my goal was to lessen the boy's suffering and in doing so, hopefully offer some semblance of the same for yourselves.” The old woman’s eye’s grew wide at this last remark. The younger man momentarily exchanged a look with her; his body posture still emanating suspicion. Darius, was not only a veteran of military campaigns; he had also been forced to become adept at navigating the tortuous roads of political intrigues and nuances that went along with his position as a high ranking Roman officer. He had caught the brief look between them, and recognized unspoken communication when he saw it. The countenance of the woman subtly changed and in spite of the tears, her eyes took on an even more intense shine. “Are you of the Way?” she asked simply. The Way? “I am afraid I am not familiar with that term.” Darius replied with a puzzled expression. The old woman looked searchingly at the Centurion’s face for few moments longer. Darius was about to ask her to explain what she meant, when one of his sub-lieutenants started walking toward them. He turned to face the approaching soldier and immediately surmised the reason why. He looked beyond the soldier to the boy on the cross and noted that he was now too weak and in too much pain to push up on his nailed feet to facilitate breathing properly. It will not be long now. Part of him was relieved that he did not have to carry out what he had offered the family. Dying by crucifixion is as much about suffocation as it was about pain, blood loss and trauma. Surely his method would have spared the boy the lingering, excruciating pain. He was not particularly proud of the fact that Rome had always been creative in the production and implementation of instruments of torture and death. He wondered if things would be so different if soldiers made the rules instead of politicians. He heard the woman’s sharp intake of breath behind him and turned to see the young man supporting her. She had collapsed into his arms when she caught sight of the boy’s condition on the cross. There was not really anything left for him to say, so he turned to the soldier who had by now stopped in front of him with salute. “Commander, the criminal should be expiring soon,” reported the soldier in a clipped tone. Knowing that the boy’s family could hear him clearly, the sub-lieutenant demonstrated no hint of remorse in his voice. Darius shook his head slightly. The old woman behind him began to sob uncontrollably. Darius turned again and glanced at the duo in time to see the eyes of the young man lock onto his with a slightly puzzled look, but still projecting wariness. He turned back to the soldier and said to him; “Prepare your men and ensure he is dead before you take him down; but whatever you do, do not break his legs!”. The soldier seemed surprised at this last remark. “But… ?” the soldier began with uncertainty. “That is an order sub-lieutenant! I am not accustomed to repeating myself; and when you take the body down, handle it with respect when you hand it over to the family. Is that understood?” “Yes Commander!” responded the soldier standing rigidly at attention. “Good! I am leaving you in charge of the take down and clean up. You and your men report back to me at the Garrison when you are finished.” I have had enough senseless bloodletting for one day. Darius turned, not waiting for a response, confident his orders would be carried out to the letter. He started in the direction of his tethered horse when he heard a faint, hoarse whisper from the old woman; “Thank-you.” That momentarily brought him up short in mid-stride, but he did not turn towards her. He continued walking again, thinking about the twenty years of slogging through foreign fields of battle which he had survived through hard training, cunning and no small measure of good fortune. In all that time he had never been as unsure of himself as now. What was it about this place that pulls a man inside out? What makes this patch of arid land so different? I am hated for who and what I am. By Diana, I probably would hate me as well if I were a subjugated people. Yet I am falling in love with this hellish place and Caesar help me, I am starting to care for the people as well! What is going on? I must be going soft, or getting old...or both! He reached his horse, grabbed the reins and climbed into the saddle and took one last look at the scene before him. The man and woman were now at the foot of the cross and his sub-lieutenant and another soldier were already up on ladders leaning against the cross, preparing to remove the retraining ropes and the nails from the boys hands and feet. By normal standards the boy had passed on quickly. It had been just over four hours. These things sometimes took too long for his taste. I hope you found peace with whoever your God is lad. Peace seems to be in short supply for those of us that remain alive in this desolate place. Darius looked away and let his horse have the reins. His horse, also intimately familiar with blood and death through war, seemed just as eager to leave this place behind. ****************