Emergence

Just as our winter seemed to observe the first of December, so our spring arrived with April.

Milder temps have been with us since Friday, rising into and through the 60s. Yesterday we had two weeks' worth of rain in a few hours. Right now the preceding season's chill is making a brief return, but we've turned the corner, I think.

The songbirds are back, our lawn is greening and the neighbor's forsythia is in bloom. Hyacinths are up by the front steps and daffodils glow at the edge of the woods. An insistent breeze, missing its icy edge, carries a train's horn and hymn tunes. (If you ask me, everyone should live within earshot of a carillon and railroad tracks.)

Springtime isn't a spectator sport, of course. Our vegetable garden-to-be begs to be tilled and planted. Shrubbery and flower beds must be weeded and mulched. If we want our crabapple tree to survive another year, it should be pruned before it blooms.

Over the winter, weighty ice and snow brought down a fair number of branches, which I piled behind the garage -- those need to be bucked and added to our humble woodpile.

I'll sharpen shovels and hoes and cutting tools, and I'll give our walk-behind mower a once-over in anticipation of seven months' duty. The work will begin this weekend.

All work and no play? Hardly. A few days ago I liberated my motorcycle from its winter storage. Battery freshly charged, it started on the first try -- no drama whatsoever.

I haven't yet completed the annual ritual by taking the bike out for the first ride of the season, but that'll happen soon. I'm thinkin' Saturday.

[The image above is from ABC of Victory Gardens, published in 1943 by the USDA.]

Urban Resources: Ranger Bands

I'll admit to being hesitant about this installment of Urban Resources. I mean, just about every outdoorsman, farmer, biker, cop and firefighter I know is familiar with Ranger Bands. I figure most KintlaLake Blog readers are, too, and the subject has been covered extensively on the Web.

Then last week I saw an online retailer selling a pack of ten for $9.95, and it occurred to me that this post might be worthwhile after all.

My Scoutmaster, while prepping a group of us for a trip to Philmont Scout Ranch, introduced me to making industrial-strength rubber bands by cutting up inner tubes. On our trek through the Sangre de Cristo range, the bands were indispensable for securing all kinds of gear.

I've been using them ever since. It wasn't until years later that I learned that they're commonly called "Ranger Bands."

Depending on the type of inner tube -- mountain bike, road bicycle, truck, tractor, motorcycle, etc. -- and the width of section cut, it's possible to make custom bands for specific tasks. Some folks use a utility knife; I prefer scissors. Either way, it's ridiculously easy.

So there's no need to spend money on pre-packaged "official" Ranger Bands. And although it may be forgivable (and less expensive) to buy new inner tubes for the purpose, that's not necessary, either.

Last evening, for example, the younger spawn needed professional help lacing a BMX wheel, so we paid a visit to a local bicycle shop. As the shop owner patiently wove spokes onto the rim, I asked him if he had any huffed tubes laying around.

"We've got tons of 'em," he said, gesturing toward a large cardboard box in the corner. "Help yourself."

I rummaged through the castoffs, picking out a couple of skinny road-bike tubes that should yield about a hundred small bands -- and they were absolutely free.

Over the years I've done the same thing at tire installers, motorcycle shops and tractor-supply stores. All I had to do was ask.

There's truly no limit to the ways that Ranger Bands can be used. In the photo, there's a band around my motorcycle's tool roll and another securing the optics wrench supplied with my new Leatherman MUT. Lengths of bicycle tube make the Bic lighters grippier. Each of the Altoids tins holds a fire kit -- Ranger Bands keep the lids shut and the rubber can come in handy as a firestarter.

The band shown on my Bravo Necker's sheath gives me a place to stow a whistle, a compass, fatwood sticks or other small items. My modified Mora 640 no longer fits securely in its plastic sheath, but adding a wide mountain-bike band fixed the retention problem.

Beyond what's pictured, I'm always using Ranger Bands around the garage -- to clamp wood or leather, to suspend brake calipers while I have the wheels off my motorcycle, and more. Also, long strips of inner tube make dandy tie-downs.

I could go on, but I won't. Use your imagination -- just don't spend any money.

Cold day in the yard

Beyond chronicling a steady wind and the fine, crystalline snow that pelted us in dense squalls from mid-morning 'til well past nightfall, it's hard for me to describe today's scene out in the salvage yard. A couple of photos will have to suffice.

I'm dreaming of a...

It snowed here last night. It snowed this morning. It snowed all day long -- sort of, anyway.

Unlike areas to the south and east of here, namely the Appalachians and mid-Atlantic states, we got more of a dollop than a wallop, more wet than white. Temps danced around freezing, perfect for gloom and slush.

My morning commute to the shop was entertaining nevertheless -- for me, entertainment goes hand-in-hand with the season's first drive in wintry conditions. Business was slow today, though, and trudging out to the sloppy yard brought the promise of wet boots and chapped, aching hands.

But it's work, after all, and today was payday.

Regular income is good. Today's mail brought something better.

In April, I wrote about getting a badly needed win -- convincing the bankruptcy trustee to accept my offer to buy back the non-exempt equity in my TrailBlazer and motorcycle over 12 months. And if that was the victory, today was the trophy presentation.

This morning, with trembling hands, I tore into an envelope from the trustee. Inside were the titles to the two vehicles -- mine again, free and clear, liens lifted.

Making that happen four months ahead of schedule was no mean feat, considering. Scrimp and save, scratch and claw. The job helped, sure, as did my share of our garage sale proceeds. An unexpected end-of-year bonus from a client and friend put me over the top.

Mrs. KintlaLake's trust, support and love kept me believing.

Today isn't a material triumph -- it's far more personal than that. I'm reminded of the closing lines of Robert M. Pirsig's Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance:

"...there is a feeling now, that was not here before, and is not just on the surface of things, but penetrates all the way through: We've won it. It's going to get better now. You can sort of tell these things."

Legal and financial matters have been discharged. I'm working again. My family and I are together, safe and well.

Yes, it’s going to get better now. You can sort of tell these things.

Heavy heart

Eddie's gone.

Once my co-worker, always a friend to me and eventually to my family, Eddie flashed into my life and thousands of others -- a gentle, funny, gifted soul, an incomparable human treasure to those of us who knew him.

Eddie lost his life last night, in a motorcycle crash on I-75 in Atlanta. Mrs. KintlaLake, the saddest of messengers, brought me the news this afternoon.

I am...we are...all of us are profoundly heartbroken.

Ride on, Rev. Eddie -- ride on!

Honest labor, musical perspective

A little over two weeks into my new "regular job," I now have a sense of whether or not it works for my family and me.

It does.

The work itself is mean but satisfying. For this long-time desk jockey, there's a certain appeal to digging through 40 years of road grime, hoping to uncover rare parts sought by those bent on keeping their machines running or restoring them to original condition.

What's more, because my mechanical education to this point has been of the shade-tree variety, I'm learning -- big-time. My head is overflowing with the kind of practical information I've been craving for years.

So it's a good thing. I'm walking my talk -- but that's not what's on my mind right now.

This evening we ventured out to see our friend John Schwab, who was playing solo at a restaurant a mile or so from where we're living. Toward the end of his first set he covered a Billy Currington song written by Bobby Braddock and Troy Jones. I'll close this post simply with the lyrics.

This old man and me, were at the bar and we
Were having us some beers and swapping I-don't-cares,
Talking politics, blonde and red-head chicks,
Old dogs and new tricks and habits we ain't kicked.

We talked about God's grace and all the hell we raised.
Then I heard the ol' man say,
"God is great, beer is good and people are crazy."

He said, "I fought two wars, been married and divorced."
What brings you to Ohio?
He said, "Damned if I know."
We talked an hour or two about every girl we knew,
What all we put them through
(Like two old boys will do).

We pondered life and death. He lights a cigarette.
He said, "These damn things will kill me yet;
But God is great, beer is good and people are crazy."

Last call, it's 2am. I said goodbye to him.
I never talked to him again.
Then one sunny day I saw the old man's face,
Front-page obituary -- he was a millionaire.
He left his fortune to some guy he barely knew.
His kids were mad as hell.
But me, I'm doing well.

And I dropped by today, to just say thanks and pray.
I left a six-pack right there on his grave and I said,
"God is great, beer is good and people are crazy."

One for 'The Bucket List'

Someday before I leave this earth, I'll attend the world's greatest motorsports event -- the Isle of Man TT.

Chances are you've never heard of the Isle or the motorcycle races held there each year. And in this age of energy-absorbing barriers, head-and-neck restraints and restrictor plates, maybe that's a good thing, because the IOM TT isn't about safety.

It's all about speed, endurance and, most of all, courage.

Perhaps the coolest thing about the IOM TT is the circuit itself: in a single lap, a rider must negotiate an estimated 200 corners over 37.75 miles of public roads that wind through towns and snake over mountains.

Winning is the goal, but simply surviving the Isle is an achievement.

I may not make it to the IOM TT next May, but I will get there one of these days. Take a look at this video and tell me that you don't want to go, too.

Win

Over the last year or so, often I've turned to Mrs. KintlaLake and said, "I just need a win."

Yesterday, I got one.

The legal sacrament of bankruptcy is about losing, mostly, with our house being the biggest material loss. I knew that I'd be able to keep my four-year-old Chevy TrailBlazer if I could raise the difference between its agreed-on value and the statutory motor-vehicle exemption -- but my motorcycles, despite having been free-and-clear for years, would be surrendered to the trustee and sold at auction.

Last week, my attorney and I settled on what we'd offer the trustee for the TrailBlazer. I then suggested that we make a second offer that'd include one of the bikes -- admittedly low-ball, definitely a shot in the dark, payable over 12 months.

Fingers crossed, we submitted the offers on Monday. Late Tuesday afternoon, my attorney e-mailed me to say that the trustee had accepted our truck-and-bike proposal -- score!

Motorcycles have taken me to incredible places, introduced me to special people, put food on my table and sustained my soul. In recent months I'd come to accept the probability of life without a bike for the first time in nearly 30 years, but I really couldn't imagine it.

Now I don't have to -- I got my win.

My wife, by the way, is as ecstatic as I am. Her parents? Not so much.

This morning I went out to the barn and hooked up the battery charger to the bike I'm keeping, a 12-year-old Teutonic twin I've had since it was new. I'll liberate our helmets and riding gear from storage tomorrow, air-up the tires and then, dammit, the missus and I are goin' for a ride!

Following the path of Robert E. Lee's retreat near Farmville, Virginia (2000)

Chilled

Down in the basement, our furnace is working overtime.

Overnight, still-air temps fell to zero. With 20mph winds gusting to 35mph, the chill dipped below -20°F.

At the moment, the prospect of moving to Montana has lost its appeal.

We don't have to deal with this kind of deep freeze often, really, or for very long. Actually, according to the forecast, we'll see the mid-50s on Christmas Eve. It's just another whipsaw winter here in central Ohio.

Whenever it gets stupid-cold, the west side of our hilltop home takes the brunt of the blast. The upstairs plumbing is prone to freezing, so last night we left a thread of water running in each sink and set the washing machine to run during the wee hours. As usual, the frigid wind exposed some previously undiscovered thermal leaks and a few windows that don't quite seal. We plugged the gaps temporarily with caulk and covered the cracks with duct tape.

Pretty is as pretty does. We can make it beautiful later.

About an hour after sunset yesterday, we ventured out to a local restaurant to celebrate a birthday in the family. It was snowing, just tiny dry crystals, and the winds were at their peak -- not a good time to be outdoors for more than a few minutes.

I said recently that waiting for the school bus taught me how to dress for cold weather, but while traipsing back to the truck after dinner last night it occurred to me that my bus-stop experience was only a primer -- I didn't truly "go to school" until I started riding motorcycles.

On a moving motorcycle, wind is a fact of life. The blessed breeze that refreshes during summer months, however, becomes a poorly dressed rider's cursed critic when the temperature drops.

Think about it -- in still air, 60°F is comfortable, but at 60mph the wind chill approaches 30°F. Most bikers stop riding when the weather gets "cool." A few of us figure out how to dress for it and keep riding.

I'm not discouraged when autumn brings the 40s, and I get excited when early-spring temps finally rise into the 30s. Once, in a fit of bravado, I did a 25-mile freeway jaunt when it was 7°F. (Never again, by the way.) The principles I've learned are both invaluable and simple, and they apply directly to other relatively sedentary cold-weather pursuits (like life, for example).

Dress in loose layers, with a wind-blocking layer on top. Gear up right before going out. Cotton kills; fleece is a friend. Cover exposed skin, including the face. If it's too cold to keep riding, stop, get off the bike and warm up.

The enemy isn't frostbite, it's hypothermia. Cold hands, cold feet and uncontrollable shivering are signs that the body's core temperature has dropped too low. That's the time to stop, add another insulating layer and try again -- or just stop.

Staying reasonably comfortable in everyday cold weather isn't rocket science. And living with sub-zero wind chill is something we do around here every winter, if not necessarily every day.

As I finish this post, I see that the mercury has climbed to 4°F. Maybe I'll gear up, fire up and go for a quick motorcycle ride.

When frozen pigs fly.

Saving my hide

From shoes and boots to car seats and motorcycle jackets, I seem to have a lot of leather to take care of. I've learned, mostly through trial and error, that no single potion or paste works on every hide.

The shine on my dress shoes still comes from those same little tins of Kiwi polish I've used since I was a kid. I've cleaned and treated my biker gear -- jackets, chaps, saddlebags and seats -- with Lexol products, and I've become loyal to Griot's Garage Leather Care for auto upholstery. My favorite knock-around boots have gotten regular applications of Doc Bailey's. Over the years, I've used Sno-Seal on my hikers and saddle soap on just about everything.

Just when I thought I had leather care down to a personal science, I stumbled across something that threatens to retire almost everything else in my inventory.

The entire Montana Pitch-Blend line comprises just three basic compounds -- an oil soap, a conditioning oil and a dressing -- which are formulated using simple, natural ingredients: pine pitch, mink oil, beeswax and plant oils. None of these products contains silicone or petroleum.

I've been using Montana Pitch-Blend Products for almost two years now, starting with my Wesco boots and experimenting over time on other hides. According to directions, I've confined their use to what the company calls "rugged leather" -- they're not intended for lightweight "fashion" leather, suede or nubuck.

I'll leave it to the Montana Pitch-Blend people to explain how and why their products do what they do. All I know is that this leather-care system works better and lasts longer than anything else I've tried. And thanks to the all-natural ingredients, it's also a pleasure to use.

I'm not in the recommendations business. When I say good things about sharps, boots or gizmos, rest assured that I'm not paid to do so. I offer only my experience, giving praise where I believe it's due, and I don't chafe knowing that others make different choices.

With that in mind, then, I highly recommend Montana Pitch-Blend Products.

Continuum

Despite the central role that organized religion played in my upbringing, and even though I earned a sheepskin proclaiming that I have a bachelor's degree in religion, I walked away from that phase of my life nearly three decades ago. I prefer to live a present life in a present world.

If I still own a Bible, it's packed away in an attic box. I still do, however, devote time to my personal "old testament" (Walden, by Henry David Thoreau) and my "new testament" (Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, by Robert M. Pirsig). I'm particularly fond of the latter, finding new wisdom and insights at each reading.

Pirsig spends much of the book grappling with quality -- pretty heady stuff, especially in light of his personal struggles. His intellectual wrestling can present a challenge, but the persistent reader will be rewarded with intriguing discussion and enlightening conclusions. One of my favorite passages:

"The sun of quality...does not revolve around the subjects and objects of our existence. It does not just passively illuminate them. It is not subordinate to them in any way. It has created them. They are subordinate to it!"

What I get from Pirsig (besides chills) is as much about continuity as it is about quality. All those things that we perceive as separate and distinct -- actions and beliefs, rational thoughts and irrational emotions -- are one, a continuum that's both intensely personal and undeniably universal.

In The Prophet, Kahlil Gibran wrote of Almustafa's return to the village of his birth, and of the villagers seeking his wisdom on a variety of subjects -- love, commerce, law, freedom, good and evil, pleasure and other temporal concerns. Near the end of the book, the chapter "On Religion" begins:

"And an old priest said, 'Speak to us of Religion.'

"And he said: 'Have I spoken this day of aught else?'"

The priest, like many of us, had relegated his faith to its own sacred compartment. Almustafa reminded him that all those separate matters the villagers had been inquiring about, taken together, were, in fact, their religion.

Pirsig echoes this truth in discussing the ritual of motorcycle maintenance:

"The real cycle you’re working on is a cycle called yourself. The machine that appears to be 'out there' and the person that appears to be 'in here' are not two separate things. They grow toward Quality or fall away from Quality together."

Woven into that gem are two phrases -- "working on" and "grow toward" -- that bridge any perceived gap between the intellectual and the practical. It's more than the knowing; it's the living. Here's part of what precedes the passage above:

"It’s the way you live that predisposes you to avoid the traps and see the right facts. The...fixing of a motorcycle isn't separate from the rest of your existence. If you’re a sloppy thinker the six days of the week you aren't working on your machine, what trap avoidances, what gimmicks, can make you all of a sudden sharp on the seventh? It all goes together."

The continuum, then, is a given. Living in harmony with it is, practically speaking, a matter of intent -- it's the working and growing Pirsig is talking about, and that's where discipline comes into play.

A lack of self-discipline can manifest itself as a compartmentalized existence, the illusion that one's life can be separated into parcels. Think about the professional athlete who takes care of his body and trains obsessively, and yet recreates in a world of substance abuse and crime. Or the politician who's known for advocating "family values," but ultimately is discovered to have been living a secret, seemingly contradictory life. Or the model soldier who's dedicated to perfecting his tactical skills, but who runs his mouth with considerably less discipline than he applies to his warrior mindset.

Self-discipline isn't automatic, of course, and it's not a steady state -- it's learned and re-learned, lost and regained, maintained and reinforced with every experience. The principle, which can be tough enough for adults to grasp, is especially difficult to impart to children, those ever-changing creatures who still are accumulating experiences and defining their own personal continuum. Even our best efforts won't prevent them from living their lives like they're clicking a TV tuner, and that's that.

Still, there comes an age at which we need to stop making excuses for our kids and start cultivating an attitude of self-discipline. That's what's happening at the KintlaLake household these days -- and (at my peril) I'm going to use our older spawn as an example.

On opening the door to this 17-year-old's room, one's first impression is that of a rummage sale after considerable rummaging. I have no idea how he (or anyone else) can tell clean clothes from dirty -- everything is on the floor, every garment is wadded into a ball. Dirty dishes and half-eaten snacks have been known to linger in the room for weeks, giving rise to disturbing life forms that I, for one, don't recognize.

In an earlier post, I mentioned that this spawn had earned himself a speeding ticket. Recently he added a rear-end collision to his brief résumé -- he wasn't hurt, but his crunched car, though not a total loss, is out-of-commission until it's been repaired.

The car now sits in our barn, just as it has for the last eight days. Our spawn has spent the weekend and his after-school hours removing dozens of bent pieces and broken parts -- thus creating a pile of bent pieces and broken parts next to a car that still needs fixing. There's been activity, but there's not been much progress.

What's missing isn't skill -- it's self-discipline.

Step one, it seems to me, would be to recognize that without a car he's lost his mobility and can't hold a paying job, followed by deciding that the goal is to do what's necessary to fix the car. Assess the situation, define the task, execute the task, drive away.

The wrecked car itself is neither the problem, really, nor is it the point -- with apologies to Pirsig, the real car he's working on is a car called himself.

The most valuable lesson our spawn can learn from this experience is that he can benefit from adopting an attitude of self-discipline -- from the way he keeps his room to the quality of his schoolwork to the choices he makes in his social life. Ideally, he'll see that the absence of that attitude is directly related to why, over a week later, he's still no closer to having a road-worthy car.

I'm not saying that he has to clean up his room before he fixes his car -- if you ask me, he should start with the project in the barn. As Pirsig asserts:

"...if you’re a sloppy thinker six days a week and you really try to be sharp on the seventh, then maybe the next six days aren't going to be quite as sloppy as the preceding six."

It's a process. When we dispense with our artificial compartments and embrace the continuum, it can be quite an enjoyable process.

I hope that's so for our spawn.

Through artists' eyes

"I may not know art," as the saying goes, "but I know what I like."

The KintlaLake home never will be mistaken for a fine-art gallery. When my wife and I blended our households a few years ago, however, the work of a few bona fide artists did make the cut.

While visiting friends in Vermont in 1999, I was given a personally signed Cynthia Price lithograph as a birthday present. The artist herself, whom I'd never met, was there to share in the impromptu celebration, which included a champagne hayride (only in Vermont) and other surprises.

These days, Cynthia's work hangs just off our kitchen, where it daily rekindles warm memories of cool rides through the New England countryside.

Michael Lichter has combined his love of motorcycling with his immense artistic talent -- so not only do I admire his photography, I'm also insanely jealous of the man. I had the privilege of working with him on an exhibition of his work several years ago, we became friends, and we still connect occasionally at motorcycle shows.

A large print of "After the Storm," arguably Michael's signature image, adorns a wall in our living room, and it remains one of the most evocative and inspiring photographs I've ever seen.

Each summer, the city of Columbus hosts a giant outdoor arts-and-crafts show, and it was there that I met Massachusetts-based artist Bruce Peeso. Having moved back to my native Ohio a year before, I found that Bruce's work captured perfectly the joy I felt in being home again.

Many of Bruce's paintings reflect what I'd call a "pillbox perspective," and I recall telling him so at the show that day. He smiled and told me that he preferred what a woman once said about the unusual format: "It looks like you're trapped inside a Coke machine, and you paint while looking out through the coin slot."

After much debate -- all of it between my head and my heart -- I ended up taking home one of Bruce's originals, and dear as it was, I've never regretted the decision. Each time I gaze through the artist's eyes across that rural landscape, it reminds me why I'm glad to be here in the heartland, my home.

A week, at random

The past week has been plenty eventful, but after last Monday's mad dash to the ER I haven't put together a train of thought that might, in my judgment, be worthy of a post.

Life is composed of small bits. Here are a few.

Politics
Ever since the major parties' presumptive nominees were decided, I've taken a purposeful break from this subject. I remain aware, just disinterested and more than a little fatigued.

That's bound to change as November approaches.

I'm still wary of Sen. Obama's reliance on entitlements and the threat he poses to our Second Amendment rights. Sen. McCain, preferable by comparison, concerns me -- I'm not convinced that his political résumé is much more than a paper trail, and I've noticed that his personality has a bad habit of trumping his judgment.

Don't talk to me about no-shot minor-party candidates, however righteous they may be, or the prospect of my abstaining on Election Day. Either approach would be akin to taking a principled drill to a lifeboat that's already leaking.

Canaries
The prices of crude oil and gasoline continue their climbs, setting new records almost every day, and the equity markets can't seem to stop sliding in the opposite direction. Ordinary working Americans will tell you that nearly everything costs a lot more than it did a year ago.

As if increasing home foreclosures and the so-called "mortgage crisis" weren't disturbing enough, last week IndyMac Bancorp collapsed, one of the largest bank failures in U.S. history, and promptly was bailed out by the feds. Now Treasury Secretary Henry Paulson is expected to ask Congress for the ok to buy unlimited stakes in the two biggest mortgage-finance companies, Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac -- a pre-emptive bailout, ostensibly to help restore confidence in the American financial system.

Let's be clear about what's happening here: The U.S. government, itself crippled by self-inflicted deficits, presumes to buttress an economy that's spiraling out of control. As taxpayers and consumers, you and I will both foot that bill and pay an inestimable price.

Thud. Did you hear that?

Thud. Something smells funny in here.

Thud-thud.

I think it might be time to leave the mine.

Bounty
Our garden is thriving. It's early, considering how late we planted, so I can't yet boast about harvesting bushels of tomatoes, peppers and cucumbers. Still, the small plot has yielded more than satisfaction and therapy.

This year's crop of raspberries is a tart and tasty memory, but our blackberries are starting to produce. Sprigs of fresh spearmint have garnished glasses of homemade lemonade, and various young herbs have seasoned our meals.

While awaiting this year's bounty, we're already planning next year's garden -- a much larger plot in another area of our property. This fall we'll need to till and prepare the soil, and it'll require considerably more work than our current "kitchen garden." Ideally, we'll keep seeds from the produce we consume and start them indoors in the spring.

I predict that it'll be worth the effort.

Gadgetry
My appreciation of simple things is no secret -- not in this blog, and certainly not in our household -- but last week I actually spoke these words to my wife:

"Don't worry about me going overboard on the whole primitive-skills thing, honey. Not until I finish programming my new cell-phone, anyway..."

I've been using Palm PDAs for ten years and mobile phones even longer. When my carrier contract came up for renewal last Sunday, I upgraded to a Palm Centro. Until now I'd resisted Treo-temptation, but having my familiar PDA and my phone in one nifty little package is, well, damned convenient.

I may burn in hell for saying this, but I'm really diggin' it.

Smaller bits
On Wednesday a neurosurgeon told our younger spawn, who'd expected to spend only a month convalescing from his bicycle accident, that he's sentenced to another two months in his corset brace. For a 13-year-old, I discovered, there's a fine line between disappointment and utter devastation. We're engaged in acquainting him with the difference.

We hosted a gathering of out-of-town relatives and friends on Saturday -- a typical Middle American cookout, nothing fancy. My kettle of beer-soaked bratwursts and August-vintage refrigerator pickles joined an array of meats, salads, beans and confections on a groaning buffet table. Sweet corn supplied by a local farmer, too. Fresh food, good company, great music and relaxed conversation made for a near-perfect day.

My wife and I went for a motorcycle ride yesterday, regrettably one of the few times we've ridden together this season. I won't try to explain either the logic or the joy of a meandering, stream-of-consciousness ride along rural roads on an oppressively muggy morning, never straying farther than ten miles from home, but it was as liberating as anything we've done in months.

Present ambition

"Mountains should be climbed with as little effort as possible and without desire. The reality of your own nature should determine the speed. If you become restless, speed up. If you become winded, slow down. You climb the mountain in an equilibrium between restlessness and exhaustion. Then, when you're no longer thinking ahead, each footstep isn't just a means to an end but a unique event in itself. This leaf has jagged edges. This rock looks loose. From this place the snow is less visible, even though closer. These are things you should notice anyway. To live only for some future goal is shallow. It's the sides of the mountain which sustain life, not the top. Here's where things grow."

(from Zen & The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, by Robert M. Pirsig)

Springtime ritual

This time last week, I was pushing 20-plus inches of heavy, wet snow off my driveway. The storm set an all-time record in this part of the country, closing schools, making travel a challenge and reminding us that Nature remains in charge.

Thanks to six days of moderate temps and a good bit of rain, my homemade snow drifts are all but gone. Stepping outside with my morning coffee, I close my eyes and feel the sun on my face, tempted to welcome spring.

And then I remember that the previous snowfall record was produced 21 years ago by an April storm.

Still, March 15th marks the first day of spring, my spring, the day when I liberate my motorcycles from winter storage. It's a familiar annual ritual.

Brew a pot of coffee. Gather wallet, keys, helmet, jacket, gloves and boots. Trundle out to the garage. Turn on the radio. Pull the covers off the bikes. Check tire pressures. Roll each machine to the door, switch the fuel petcock to ON, turn the key -- a silent prayer is optional at this point -- and press the starter button.

If I've done my November pre-storage ritual just right and charged the batteries periodically throughout the winter months, the next sound I'll hear will be the satisfying (if hesitant) sound of internal combustion.

Yesterday was a perfectly satisfying day.

Each bike got a brief ride, long enough to bring the machine's fluids up to operating temperature (and the rider to the brink of hypothermia). With the mercury just shy of 40 degrees yesterday, the former took longer than the latter.

Despite the chill, it was exhilarating. Like waking after a long nap.