A lovely noise

I went to celebrate Thanksgiving with my sister, and returned that afternoon: 125 miles on Scarlett each way, temps in the 50's Fahrenheit.

What a lovely noise the 750 Breva makes! A kind of barking growl, not a scream, not a cough, not a vibration. No thumps, no bumps, no shrieks, no whines. Just a constant reminder that the motor is waiting under you, ready to go faster than you want or need, yawning at 55, mildly pleased at 65, pleased at 75, happy at 85. Going, and going, and going, like the road has no end and you have no destination, and you are on this magical thing, riding forever, like Sleipnir, the tireless, eight-legged horse of Odin, who ran on 4 legs until those tired, then ran on the other 4. And you are borne up, like a knight or a demigod, untiring through the chill and the fog and the dark.

So you leave it, to go indoors, while it sleeps, waiting--dreaming perhaps, of places you have never gone, to which it wishes to bear you away.

What I am thankful for

In the back of drawers, or stacked in closets or old footlockers, there are some old boxes. Inside these boxes lie corroding shapes of metal, and moldy strips of varicolored ribbons--the emblems of heroism forgotten or overlooked.

These boxes lie hidden, mostly forgotten, in the homes of people we meet every day: postmen, teachers, doctors, salespeople, workers and, too often, the unemployed or homeless. Men and women who seem no different from those around them. They work, and play, and laugh, and go to ball games like everyone else. And they seldom or never mention the boxes hidden among their belongings.

But all of them, and many others, have this one great and glorious secret: somewhere, in a time of desperation and danger, they faced a momentous choice. The world said to them, "Will you go into a place of danger and do a desperate or dangerous thing for the sake of your nation?" And they said, "Yes."

We overuse the word "hero" in these days. A pitcher on a baseball team who strikes out that last batter is a hero. A football player who makes a winning score is a hero. A singer who sings a new and interesting song is a hero. A politician who says something in a new and interesting way is a hero.

The ancients had a sterner definition. The hero was the one who faced death, and did not falter. Hector, fighting for his doomed city and knowing his death was certain, was a hero. Aeneas, who halted in his flight to save his aged father, was a hero. The 500 from Sparta under Leonidas who died rather than retreat from a doomed struggle were heroes. Paris, who abandoned all to save his own life and died outside the cave of the nymph he had betrayed, was not.

And we should not forget either. A hero is not a Superman. A hero is an ordinary policeman, who knows the bullets will not bounce off his chest, but confronts the gunman anyway. Or an ordinary firefighter who goes into a burning house to rescue a bedbound old person. Or a nurse who does not shrink from treating the infectious. Or a warrior who goes to Iraq or Afghanistan to help a people with who he or she shares neither religion, nor culture, nor ideals, but goes anyway, because he or she does share a common humanity--and it is his or her duty.

Our choice is to honor them, with their modesty and their hidden medals, or to surrender the idea of hero to the media, who judge only by what is popular and salable.

But be warned: when we have emptied the idea of hero of all that requires courage and commitment, we also empty our civilization. The Roman Empire did not die out from the world because there were no Romans of ability. They died out because the idea of Roman virtue had become, even among the Romans, a joke. The able Romans pursued their own personal advancement, even at the expense of their own city and civilization. The ideals that had led Junius Brutus to slay even his own son because that son had betrayed his city had become a comic cliche. To do well for yourself, even if it meant making a profitable deal with the Lombard invaders, was the obvious, honorable course--even though your city died as a result.

So, this day, while enjoying my friends and relatives, and stuffing myself with good things, I have taken a moment aside. I have said, in silence, a word of thanks to the men and women who have the boxes with medals in their boxes and closets. I do not know all their names. I do not know all their deeds. And I do not even agree always with their causes.

But this I do know: when the time came to stand for the freedom they believed in, they stood. And when danger threatened that freedom, they endured. And some of them paid for that endurance with life, or health, or sanity, or wholeness.

Thank you. Whoever you are, wherever you are, you have my deepest and profoundest gratitude. Always, and everywhere, I thank you.

The best TV program

I think the best program on TV is Top Gear, a car program on the BBC. It has three hosts: Jeremy Clarkson, Richard Hammond, and James May. The chemistry between them is excellent. They occasionally pretend that they are about ordinary cars, but it takes little time to discover that they are really interested in fast, exotic cars.

One of their greatest features is their races. They have had a race between an airplane and an Bugatti Veyron, the world's fastest car. Then they raced a Mercedes against a boat, a race between a bike, a car, a motorboat, and public transport across London. Two of their epic races that I best enjoy were the race between a car and a marathon runner around London during rush hour, and a race between a car, a bike, and a steam train set in 1949.

I just wish there was such a program about motorcycles.

Long, wet day

James Micheal Harris II's funeral was today and I rode with the PGR to honor him.

Left Jacksonville at 9:10 in the rain for Washington, NC. Then helped transfer the casket from the funeral home to the hearse. Then we escorted the hearse to the family home, where the family joined us, and we went to the cemetery, near Pantego--about 45 miles away. At the cemetery, the rain finally stopped, so I took off my Frog Togs rainsuit. The funeral was fairly long, and the ride there and back was longer, so I was running behind.

I left the cemetery and started back to Washington, then Jacksonville. It started to sprinkle, but I decided to ignore it and press on--big mistake. By the time I hit highway 17 back to Jacksonville, it was coming down in buckets and I was soaked. So I kept on.

By the time I got back home, I headed straight for the Presbyterian Men meeting. Delicious dinner.

250 plus miles on the bike, most of it in the rain.

My Frog Togs rainsuit did very well, but no rainsuit will keep you dry when it is in your saddlebag.

Mary Travers has died of leukemia

Cam Rahn Bay airfield, Vietnam, November, 1970:

The rainy season had begun, with a constant drizzle when the rain did not fall full force. The temp was in the low 80's, but we were wet, and used to much more heat, so we felt chilly in our thin tropical fatigues. The "barracks" were full of rats that fought over anything edible, living or dead. So we sat on the wet sand dunes, around makeshift fires, and in every circle was a guy with a guitar who played, "Leaving on a jet plane" by PP&M and "Early morning rain" by Ian and Sylvia.

And we dreamed of Mary, with her soft, long, blond hair, ample
figure, and intelligent, alive face. And waited.

I will not remember her as she later became, bloated by the drugs she took to combat her leukemia, (though her voice never changed), but as she was then; beautiful, alive, aware, with that voice with the faint rasp, as of passion.

Goodbye, Mary. One of those who will never forget you wishes you well on your long final journey.

Why we must honor veterans

In small boxes, hidden in closets, in the back of drawers, or in attics, little pieces of metal and colored cloth lay quiet, the medals given to men and women who, once, placed their lives on the line so that we may live in freedom. Save for a few, most of those men and women will never make headlines, be featured on the news, or invited to talk shows. They will live and work among us, seldom very different from everyone else. Most of them will not be in any sports Hall of Fame, or have their handprints immortalized on any Walk of Fame. The rich and famous, whose lives so often disappoint, are called heroes, but these people are called simply neighbors.

Yet they are the true heroes.

If we forget them, we will have as heroes only those who seek fame for self-gratification, or for talents only a few can ever share. It will be the possession of the media, a title bestowed to encourage viewers or listeners or readers, no longer based on the real achievement of heroes: willingness to face danger and endure pain for the sake of a cause greater than themselves. The highest regard of our culture will be given to people who either we cannot emulate, since we lack their special skills, or who are not worth emulation, as they are motivated only by selfishness or egotism.

Labor Day weekend, 2009

Over Labor Day, I rode my motorcycle to Lake Waccamaw, NC. My sister Martha and her husband Walter lent me their lake house for the weekend. It is the house my mother and father lived in after they retired. Here are some pictures of my weekend.


This is a picture of Lake Waccamaw taken from my sister's pier. The lake is 5 miles by 7 miles, but very shallow.


MacNeil House is the main building of the Boys and Girls Homes of North Carolina campus at Lake Waccamaw. Once primarily an orphanage, today it mainly serves children whose parents have abandoned them or are unable to take care of them.


The old railroad depot at the lake has been converted into a museum, with many artifacts about the history and industries of the area. A retired caboose contains artifacts and exhibits about the railroad that once ran through the Town of Lake Waccamaw. My motorcycle, Scarlett O'Guzzi is parked in front.


A "Jesus Loves Bikers" motorcycle rally was being held at the exhibition hall of the Boys and Girls Home. It was the first year for the rally, and the publicity ran late, so it was sparsely attended. I believe next year will be better.


My parents' graves, at the Hillside Cemetery at Lake Waccamaw.


Pierce and Company is an old-fashioned general store located in Hallsboro, NC, about 8 miles from Lake Waccamaw. It is a really interesting place to visit. It offers everything from food to clothing to furniture to building supplies and hardware. Every year, they make and sell some delicious homemade sausage.


The Columbus County Courthouse in Whiteville, NC. It is built in a traffic circle. Several years ago, there was a movement to tear it down, but the local people rallied and raised money to repair it, so it is still in use.


Scarlett is parked in front of the General Howe Oak. According to local tradition, British General Howe camped his men near the oak to protect Wilmington from the Patriots. After the British Pyrrhic victory at Guilford Courthouse, he marched his men northwards on a route known as General Howe Road, now NC-11. His forces served as the right flank guard for General Cornwallis on his march to Yorktown--and defeat. Although the tree is very near the roadway, it has been preserved for its historical significance.


The bridge over the Cape Fear River on NC-11 (General Howe Road). It looks very rusty.


The Cape Fear River from the bridge on NC-11. You are looking downstream, toward Wilmington, about 40 miles away. The Cape Fear is the longest river which lies entirely within North Carolina.