Blog
A Scary Time, Photo by Danziger
Snick. With the push of a button, the garage door descended. Snick. With another button, my new acquisition, a 2005 Honda ST1300, purred into life. By day’s end, we rode 340 miles through the mountains and valleys and beaches, the ranches and farms and cities of Ventura and Kern Counties. But now all of us lay face down, kissing concrete, with multiple pistols pointed at our heads, with tense faces behind them.
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Worship image by patheos.com
I can ignore
your whispers
that convict me of my sins
in the busyness of daily life
doing what I “must”
I allow you
(the apex of my life)
to slip into the shadows
unseen, unheard
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More Jewel Than Tool-foto by Rich Klinsky
Two stories, seemingly unrelated, except that they both deal with bikes and Glacier National Park. Oh yeah, somewhere there’s a point that should connect them.
Story #1: Somewhere on the Road to the Sun in Glacier lies an otherwise nondescript patch of dirt. No monument marks it, tourists don’t drive by to gawk at a historical site, and honestly, few would care to see it even after this story. But dirt can teach a lesson.
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A Playground for Bighorn Sheep
Once
under two minutes
I ate an entire berry pie
Thereby
proving my gluttony
winning the blue ribbon
losing my love for berries for years
But today...
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McDonald Creek
On a late June morning we fired up the bikes and rode out of Kalispell, Montana about 7:00 AM. It soon hit me that the day was a microcosm of life. I expected great things about Glacier National Park, but early indications didn’t encourage me. The chill of 51 degrees cut deep, even through our leathers and layers of clothing, and we had to endure 30 miles of mostly urban traffic before approaching the park. So far, the shivers from cold and the frustrations from traffic seemed like a typical day. Nothing awesome, just unpleasant conditions.
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Glacier National Park
I don’t know how many others suffer from this malady, but I seem to see the world through a six foot perspective. That’s the average height of most men, although I came up just a little short on that one. Now, the years have dropped me further from that exalted status of two yards. Even so, in a standing crowd I often judge if I’m taller than most, or shorter. I often come out ahead (pardon that bad pun).
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Photo courtesy of JimMcDermott
Five of us, self-named the “The Gray Hogs,” rode to Yellowstone National Park and the Black Hills of South Dakota in late June, 2011. The hair color of Jerry, Mick, Brad, Dave and I certainly had earned the term gray, and a photo taken later Aspen caused my wife to remark that we’d all been hogs more than once in our lives.
Photo courtesy of WakingPhotoLife