Monthly Archives: November 2021

Into the Darkness

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My wife is a dark beautiful healer. Renee knows of a place where mystical creatures frolic and dance in the moonlit shadows. She is the kindest, most gentle woman I have ever known. There is boundless compassion and selflessness in her heart. She refers to herself as a dark creature because she is of the night. She is a living Goddess in biological form, and it’s measurable. She is natural muse. She is both human and eternal meaning she has an intimate grasp of her personal Divinity. You would not have to take my word for it, everyone who really knows her agrees. She combines mystical wisdom with common sense. She is a gifted healer with a natural ability to reflect our emotions. She has a knack for revealing the love that lies dormant within every creature. As a result, my wife coaxes out beauty in every person she meets.

Ironically, most people tend to associate darkness with evil. I define evil as the act of inflicting intentional harm. My wife explained to me (as I came to grips with her true essence) that if you approach darkness assuming it’s evil, then you’ll be rewarded with fear. On the other hand, if you hold kindness in your heart, you will find it returned three-fold. She points out that, “Darkness only gives you what you ask of it.”

My wife is a healer and I’ll use myself as an example. I can recall a time when I was lost. I am a fire creature, and as such, I loathed the darkness! I was conditioned into believing that darkness was a representation of evil and nothing more. My wife intuitively asked me to join her in the calm darkness, but I vehemently refused. It was an unspoken invitation at first because I was so volatile. I have Bipolar Disorder and I was burning too bright! Upon realizing that She represents Darkness, I conjured the souls of legions in a kneejerk attempt to vanquish the perceived threat. In my mind it was incumbent upon me to rid the world of suffering. Metaphysically speaking, I attempted to destroy her because I incorrectly associated darkness with terror. My wife stood firm against the brunt of my onslaught, as I engaged in a one-man crusade to eradicate evil. I thought darkness was to be destroyed at all costs, but I failed to realize that it was me who perpetuated the carnage. I was the evil one in this equation. My wife, in her darkness, stood firm as she silently gave my reflection back to me. She explained that I unwittingly gave my power away by acting so foolish. “I don’t want your power.” She calmly told me. Eventually I came to know her as the darkness while simultaneously coming to grips with my own light. She taught me how to see her by showing me how to see myself.

Since then, I have learned to co-exist. Light cannot exist without the darkness, and there can be no darkness without a contrasting light. These are things I have learned from my wife. Today I realize safety exists in darkness because our days are spent in quiet solitude as we contemplate all of existence. I would not be the man I am today without my beautiful dark creature. Renee is my love and inspiration. She is the ultimate healer. She represents the beckoning hope flower that resides at the bottom of Pandora’s Box!

Nostalgia

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When I was growing up in the 1930’s, we didn’t have much technology to speak of. We lived in Slater, Missouri, and my uncle made his living by slopping hogs. Some folks had running water that came from out of a pitcher pump mounted onto the kitchen cabinetry. That was considered to be high tech. For us, the ‘bleeding edge’ was a radio or a phonograph. Motion pictures were also a huge craze! To stay informed, we relied on short wave radio, newspapers, and newsreels. During WWII, we would learn how the troops were doing on the front lines before viewing the feature film. Time moved along at a crawl back in those days. We had no internet or mp3 players. There was no Facebook or Twitter, and cell phones were still unimaginable.

In rural America, horse drawn wagons were a common sight. Of course, there were automobiles as well, but they were incredibly expensive. In my case, I had to piece together my own jalopy from spare parts that were acquired from wrecking yards. Speaking of technology, I was always fascinated with steam engines, because diesel locomotives were not online yet. Instead, the trains were coal fed. The old locomotives were fire breathing beasts, and they competed to be the fastest on the line! I miss the sound of the whistle that the old locomotives made. As a group, the local children chased the accelerating steam trains as they departed from the depot. As the train gained speed, they would sprint to keep up until they couldn’t run any more. I miss the conductors who rode in the caboose, while signaling the engineer with color coded lanterns. Speaking of lighting, lots of folks in rural America still relied upon candles and gas lanterns. It did not bother us too much however, because we were all tired from the day’s labor, so we went to sleep early. In the 1930’s times were hard.

As an old timer, I must say that I enjoy living in the 21st century. I really like all of the tech goodies and gadgets. Being from the 20th century myself, I can honestly say that present day existence is akin to living in the fabled city of Atlantis. For one thing, the machinery is absolutely phenomenal. Take automobiles for example. In my day we didn’t have electronic fuel injection. The cars all had carburetors, and they would be very temperamental on cold winter mornings. We didn’t have synthetic engine oil that maintains a thin viscosity in the severe cold. When the oil temperature fell to below freezing it would become as thick as stubborn molasses. The Model-T Fords had to be hand started with a crank, because electric starter motors were not affordable. Electric starters were invented by then, but they were new technology, and commanded a hefty price. Car batteries were crappy in those days as well. They didn’t have the same cold cranking ability as modern 12-volt systems, and they paled in comparison to what we have today. Half the time we would have to break out the jumper cables because the primitive systems just couldn’t cut it. On a cold morning we would have to choke the engine manually. It had to be ‘just right,’ or else you would get it flooded. Oftentimes, we would have to open up the hood and remove the air breather in an effort to pour liquid ether directly into the carburetor. If this helped it fire up then great; if not, then we would be stuck! If we could get our frigid equipment to run on cold days, we were lucky.

Life was different in my time. Technology was primitive, and unemployment was rampant. Shiftless hobos were commonly run out of town by local police. Homelessness was frowned upon by law enforcement. If you had a scruffy two-day beard, and raggedy clothes, you would be pigeonholed as a vagrant. Wayward men would polish their shoes and maintain a clean shave. They didn’t do this for fashion, they did it so they wouldn’t be mistaken for a vagabond. In my day, cops would bust you for vagrancy and slap your carcass in jail (especially if you were a stranger in town). Despite the depression, homelessness was intolerable.

In those days jail meant slave labor. We had what they called “chain-gangs.” Simply stated, a chain- gang is a group of convicts who are condemned to hard labor. They would be chained together at the ankles and armed with picks and hammers. These destitute convicts spread fear into the hearts of honest citizens as they toiled alongside the public roads. Fear of ending up on a chain-gang kept crime at bay because harsh justice was metered out and displayed for all good people to witness. This was a fear tactic. It made it so everyone toed the line and didn’t rock the boat. Simply put; we were scared of going to jail. Incarceration was a highly labor-intensive experience, and the shame was unbearable.

Christianity was a big deal when I was growing up, but there were only a few flavors to choose from. There were no atheists to speak of in our town. People were a lot more homogeneous then. Homosexuality was highly taboo as well, and no one would dare identify as LGBTQ. As a population, we were very intolerant of variation. The men dressed as men, and the women dressed as ladies. Women were slaves then, and there were no modern appliances. The ladies had to kneel down on their hands and knees while scrubbing soiled laundry with a washboard. There wasn’t a microwave oven; a wood burning cook stove is what we used. In the summertime ladies endured excessive heat while preparing meals, because the fire box would contribute to the cruelty. There were no refrigerators, only an ice box. 20th century life was grueling to say the least. We had little time for introspection or recreation, because we were busy working all the time.

Would I accept an opportunity to go back in time you ask? Absolutely not! We didn’t know how rough it was, because we had nothing to compare it to. In my opinion, modern life is far superior to what I had gotten used to in my youth. Often times old timers will reminisce about the simple old ways because we tend to have selective memories. Old timers sometimes get nostalgic for the ‘good ole days, but not me. I’m enjoying the present moment as best I can while setting a good example and being a proper role model.

The First Ride

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It all begins as you grasp the front brake while you throw your right leg over the seat. Keeping your hand on the front brake lever prevents the machine from rolling away as you saddle up. Once you’ve settled in, you support the bike with your right leg as you aggressively bang into the kick stand with your other foot. The machine now wants to fall over, but you won’t let it because you are its master. The machine must obey your commands. When It’s your first-time riding, you’ll feel a slight tinge of adrenaline. After months of planning and scheming the magic moment will arrive; the moment that you have been contemplating for years. You’ll realize that you’re not dreaming as you click the transmission into neutral and press the engine start button. As the engine springs to life, you’ll notice the tachometer needle hovering over the five hundred revs index. Twisting the throttle will make the needle move up and down accordingly, because the throttle controls engine speed. The apprehension is palpable as you feel the monster rumble between your legs like a bridled dragon! This is the moment you have been waiting for. The moment where all of the training and tutorials are put into practical application. This is the day you ride your motorcycle for the first time! There is no co-pilot on this mission because you are the master and commander. Think of it as your first solo flight.

You’ve seen plenty of YouTube tutorials, and you’ve gotten familiar with the fundamentals. You have a summary knowledge of the mechanics, and now it’s time for the rubber to hit the road. You understand that you use your left toe to shift gears. You use your right foot to apply the rear brake. Left hand works the clutch and your right hand cracks the throttle. No problem. It’s a simple matter of person vs. machinery. As you sit upon the glistening beast you remember your training. “First things first,” you may say to yourself. The first thing is to get the engine started. Before you do that, you have to pop the gearbox into neutral. The second step is to pull in the clutch. Step three involves engaging first gear. You say these things to yourself as you struggle with anxiety. Fully knowing the risks, you make up your mind to put your fears at bay. Your rational mind screams out as you contemplate the next move in an endless sequence of steps! Realizing that the machine has a capacity to launch like a rocket, you take one last deep breath. Now is the last chance to abort! It all begins once you release the clutch.

So, there you sit on an idling motorcycle, with an elevated heart rate and sweaty palms. Suddenly you get reacquainted with your confidence because you have located the elusive friction zone! This is the moment when the engine’s torque begins to spin the gearbox cogs. With a trembling hand, you slowly let the clutch lever all the way out, while simultaneously applying an ever so modest amount of throttle. Now the fun begins. Your first solo voyage has commenced, and the waiting is finally over. You are actually riding your motorcycle! Your adrenaline surges as you manage to get both feet squarely up onto the pegs for the first time! As you trundle down the road in first gear you immediately realize that this is nothing like you expected. It’s not like riding a bicycle. It’s easier. You don’t have to pedal. All you have to do is twist the throttle with the right hand. But you’re not a motorcyclist yet, because you are still in first gear. You’ll be reminded of this fact as the engine winds up, and the tachometer creeps higher and higher towards its redline! Some new riders freak out at this point, and forget what’s the next step? The next step is to pull in the clutch and apply some brakes! Mastering the friction zone is one thing, but once you get rolling you need to concentrate on stopping. This is accomplished by pulling in the clutch while braking. At this level in training, new riders oftentimes lose their minds; forgetting that they have brakes! Don’t beat yourself up if this happens to you. Commanding a motorcycle is intimidating at first. If you panic, just pop your reserve shoot (pull in the clutch) and you’ll fall safely back down to zero miles per hour. Practice makes perfect. Do this repeatedly until you gain confidence. Run some drills by starting from a dead stop. Accelerate at a sensible rate, and then stop utilizing the brakes and clutch. Repeat the drills incessantly until you get the feel for it. Once you get bored with straight lines, you’ll feel the need to execute some low-speed maneuvers! This brings us to the next stage of training, which involves pointing the machine in the proper direction.

When negotiating turns it is fundamental to look where you are going! As a new rider this concept may seem trivial at first. However, rookies tend to have tunnel vision. This usually means that their gaze is fixed upon whatever is directly in front of them. This phenomenon is known as object fixation. When our eyes are trained onto an obstacle, we tend to bump into it; instead of swerving around it. Maneuvering a cycle through a turn requires you to physically turn your head. This technique forces you to aim your nose into the direction of intended travel. Although this may sound simple, it’s common for new riders to fixate on something such as a tree, which inevitably puts your motorcycle into a crash course with the obstacle. Always point your head into the direction you intend to go, and the machine will follow. To begin, just putter around in a circle. Go to the left for a while, and then switch it up and go right. Remember to have some fun with it as you follow up with a few figure 8’s.

After training for an hour or two your fingers will go numb, and your mind will be reduced to mush. This means it’s time to wrap it up. You’ve learned several skills so far, and by now you’ll be very tired. Now is a good time to shut the engine down and have yourself a victory snack! As stated earlier, it’s not uncommon to experience an adrenaline jolt after riding a motorcycle for the first time. This puts your body into overdrive, and it will wear you out quickly. Give yourself some time to come down as you mentally review the day’s events. Put the bike back under its tarp and give yourself a hearty pat on the back! Today was a big day for you.

The Next Day

As you can readily ascertain, several factors must converge to successfully operate a motorcycle. It’s natural to become overwhelmed in the beginning, but as you hone your basic skills, you’ll see noticeable improvement. After your first day of riding, it’s wise to review key events from your first time out. You’ve learned to look where you are going and can stop with modest proficiency. You’ve executed monotonous drills and practiced until your hands cramped up! All the while you gained absolute control of the machine. Your confidence grew exponentially as you kept at it, which gave you needed courage to operate at higher speeds. Going faster requires a skill that we call up-shifting. But first, let’s talk some more about the brakes.

Braking on a motorcycle is different than in a car because each wheel has an individual actuator. The front wheel has its own brake control independent from the rear. As you know, the front brake controller is located on the handlebars, while the rear brake lever is controlled with your right foot. You’re familiar with the basics so It’s time to safely perform a panic stop. A panic stop can be practiced by first reaching a speed of 20 mph, and then braking aggressively. Panic stopping involves pulling in the clutch while applying a smooth and steadily increasing pressure to the front brake. As far as the rear brake is concerned, the objective is to apply as much pressure as possible without skidding. Keep in mind that the front brake gives you roughly 70% of total braking effect. In other words, the front brake is your friend. The proper method for applying the front brake is to squeeze it, slowly at first, until you feel the compression of the forks. As the front suspension reacts to the initial squeeze, the vehicle’s weight gets transferred to the front wheel. This provides optimal traction at the front tire. At this time, it is safe to apply increasing pressure to the front brake. In the Marine Corps, riflemen are trained to squeeze the trigger as opposed to jerking it. On the firing range, a projectile will swing wide if the trigger is jerked abruptly. This is because the muzzle of the firearm is disturbed when the Marine gets too aggressive with the trigger finger. If a Marine jerks on the trigger instead of squeezing it, the bullet will inevitably miss the target. In a similar fashion, if you jerk on the front brake, the front wheel tends to skid. Proper braking requires finesse. Make a conscious effort and employ gentle inputs when braking. When it comes to the front brake, don’t grab at it. Learn from the Marines and gently squeeze the lever instead. You will slowly gain confidence as you perform more training drills.

Now that we have explored proper braking we can graduate to higher speeds. As stated earlier, this requires up-shifting. You will never forget the sensation derived from the thrill of shifting out of first gear, past neutral, and up into second on a motorcycle. The first time you will be amazed at how effortless shifting a bike really is. Like everything else, shifting is a skill that you must cultivate by doing. To shift correctly, your toe should be underneath the shifter so you can click it up one notch at a time. It’s wise to keep slight pressure on the shifter peg with the toe of your left boot. In this way, your foot is perfectly positioned to “lift” the transmission out of first gear and into second. This will become automatic muscle memory over time, but for now you will have to mentally go over the process in a step-by-step linear fashion. Step one is to release the throttle, so the engine slows down. The second step is to pull in the clutch lever with your left hand. Step three is when you physically lift the shifter with the toe of your left boot. The final step requires you to release the clutch and accelerate using the throttle. Once you’ve mastered shifting out of first gear and up into second, you’ll be tempted to accelerate and upshift yet again! As a new rider it is wise to avoid this temptation until you’ve mastered downshifting. Instead of clicking up into third gear, it is better for a beginner to stay in second. As a new rider you’ll be very pleased to realize that downshifting is even easier than upshifting was. The steps for downshifting are the same as for upshifting. The only difference is that you keep the sole of your left boot on top of the shifter, instead of under it. When executing a downshift, simply rest your foot on top of the shifter with a gentle pressure after you pull in the clutch lever. Proper shifting requires a bit of finesse. In no time flat you will find yourself shifting with ease. It’s not a very steep learning curve. Practice makes perfect. Allow yourself all the time you need for practice. Begin by starting from a dead stop. Then accelerate and upshift. Now downshift, stop, and repeat.

Once you’ve mastered panic stopping and basic shifting, you can move on to negotiating higher speed curves. This involves getting the motorcycle to lean over towards the direction of the curve. As stated earlier, rule number one is to physically move your head into the direction of the curve. In this way you will avoid object fixation which is the phenomenon in which your motorcycle will travel in the exact direction that your head (and eyes) are aiming at. As a beginning motorcyclist, you must avoid tunnel-vision, which is akin to object fixation. Tunnel vision can kill a motorcyclist quicker than a depth charge! There is a simple antidote to tunnel vision however, and it’s simple. All you must remember is to turn your head. When you negotiate a corner, it is imperative to rotate your head into the direction in which you want the machine to travel. Novice riders tend to keep their focus straight ahead, with eyes glued to whatever is directly in front of them. This is especially problematic when negotiating a turn. Keep your attention focused on where you want the bike to end up. This is to say that if you’re turning, your head better be pointed in the direction of the exit point. In a curve, you will go wide if you don’t rotate your head. You must also tilt your head in a way as to keep your eyes parallel with the road. Keep your head on a swivel as they say in the Navy. Like magic, the machine will always travel in the direction of your gaze.

Once you’ve turned your head it’s time to start counter-steering, which induces a lean. This technique occurs as the rider applies forward pressure to the handlebar in accordance with the intended direction of travel. Counter-steering is what we mean by push right and go right. It puts the motorcycle into a lean without excessive inputs from the rider. The reason for this is that when you counter-steer, the motorcycle does the leaning for you. As a rider, you lean with the machine in unison as you initiate the counter-steer. This is the best method for inducing a lean. Simply stated, counter-steering is a must have skill for budding motorcyclists. We have two options. We can lean our body and hope the machine leans with us, or we can learn counter-steering. I like the second option because it requires less energy on my part. The act of counter-steering requires a very subtle input. It takes much less physical force to induce a lean by counter-steering then it does to lean with your body. Keep in mind that higher speeds require more forward pressure to get the machine leaned over. This is due to the gyroscopic effect produced by the spinning wheels. For some, banking a motorcycle into a lean is like flying without leaving the ground. Counter-steering allows you to twist and turn like a fighter pilot who aggressively banks from left to right. Push left on the handlebars to lean left and push right on the handlebar to lean right. Simple.

Head Out on the Highway

You now have proficient shifting and braking skills, and you know how to initiate a lean. It’s time to gear up and head out on the open road! Riding around on some quiet twisty country roads is very satisfying. The counter-steering technique helps to amplify this sensation. After a few weeks of practice, you’ll get more and more comfortable with the entire process. By this time, you and the machine will have morphed into a cohesive unit. It’s as if you were born for this. Your mind, body, and soul will converge as you become one with the machine. Riding in the peaceful countryside can be a surreal experience that only a motorcyclist can fully understand. Motorcycling, when done properly, is a mind-altering experience. In fact, riding is downright therapeutic. I say this because attentive riding requires your mind to be fixated firmly into the ‘present moment.’ Mystic gurus attain psychic transformation through meditation and deep breathing exercises. Bikers experience a similar sensation while riding because it forces us to be mindful. This means we actively block out all irrelevant mental noise. This mental silence is literally what spiritualists strive for during periods of intense meditation. Psychologists know that we can achieve self-actualization through years of self-study. Motorcyclists have an unfair advantage in this department because bikers must exercise extreme mental discipline. Motorcycling requires the same sort of mental fortitude that is employed by spiritualists and healers. Training your mind to become an enlightened thinker is like training your mind to operate a motorcycle. In other words, it takes the same kind of psychic discipline to ride a motorbike as it does to reach inner peace through meditation.Motorcyclists and mystic gurus have a lot in common. For one thing, both groups know what it means to be truly alive! Mystics seek enlightenment through silent meditation while bikers experience it as we thunder down the highway! Motorcycling requires us to transition into a state of extreme mindfulness. The intensity of the experience thrusts us into a metaphysical state of total amazement! It’s like magic. Bikers and spiritualists alike find themselves transcending time and space because both groups have ultimate control of their mental faculties. Take a ride one day and you’ll notice as your mind, body, and soul coalesce into a state of existential bliss. It’s as if you’ve suddenly gained access to a certain kind of mechanized divinity. Once you’ve experienced it for yourself, you’ll know. From that moment on you’ll be a biker!

It doesn’t matter what you ride, it only matters where you’re going.

Grace

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Zane was cruising back home from a trip to nine-mile hill. The small block Chevy was purring, as he sauntered down the interstate at a steady 70 miles per hour. He always took it easy on his machines during a test drive. The peculiar thing about Zane is that he already owned the car, It was bought and paid for. This however was the first test drive. The logic being the vehicle was only worth $200. He traded it for an engine block. As is custom for a lot of folks, people tend to name their cars as if they were children. He never anthropomorphized his vehicles however, because he was kind of peculiar in that regard. If the car did have a name however, her name was Grace! The car was dilapidated. It had four wheels and a steering wheel, but the tires didn’t match. Nevertheless, he was pleased with his acquisition so far, otherwise he never would have ventured out this far from home. Zane loved a road trip. He was known to ‘travel over to Texas, just to turn around and drive back again.’ He was loner, and automobiles were his sanctuary.

Zane was a statesman at heart, but he didn’t know it. He was identified with being a mechanic; he was only 17. He was a stateman because everyone genuinely loved him. This was not just because of his looks either. He had an inquisitive mind and an attractive soothing demeanor. The girls secretly dreamed they’d be his partner, but he was oblivious to the attention. All he wanted to do was escape. Zane was brought up poor, but the funny thing about him was that he didn’t even know it. What I mean to say is he was totally oblivious. He was oblivious of his good looks and charm, and he was oblivious of the poverty. He glided through life knowing somehow, he’d be okay. Zane didn’t care what people thought of him because he possessed an authentic self-confidence. He believed enough in Christianity to follow the Golden Rule; and it was already starting to pay off in dividends. His peers loved him as much as they hated him. They loved him because he was genuine and hated him for having it so easy. Being totally oblivious, he never realized that he was considered less than in the greater scheme of things. Those who knew him would say he always sold himself short, and he did. To earn money, he would sell used auto parts and bric-a-brac at the local flea-market. The idea of getting a proper job was foreign to him. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t find a job if he looked; he just never did. The concept of gainful employment was lost on him. He was considering the military as a post high school escape route, but that would be his last resort. He scored phenomenally high on the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery, and the recruiters swooned. He always believed there was more to life than what he had been offered, so he tended to daydream. He would daydream about cars, and travel, and the thrill of escaping New Mexico. On this particular evening, he was pondering his new red Chevy!

The car that should have been named Grace, was a 1966 Chevrolet Impala. Zane understood that she was optioned out with the Impala package because it said so on the glove compartment lid. There was a tiny rectangular badge with the word “Impala” stamped into what looked like actual walnut. “It couldn’t be real wood,” he whispered. Grace was by all accounts a rusting rolling hulk, but she once was beautiful lady. Once was a time when she could really turn heads, but now she was approaching her final days. Her lustrous burgundy lacquer had deteriorated over the years. Decades of not being garaged left her unshielded to the harsh burning sun. As a result, Grace’s paint had faded into what could only be described as ‘the color of dried blood.’ The seats were torn and unloved. The carpet was ratty looking and caked in dried muddy dirt; but the headliner was good. The interior smelled like the inside of a greasy low rent auto repair shop. The oily aroma was fused with the dusty smell of lingering age. “It was the scent of retreating dignity,” Zane thought. Grace was a four-door sedan which made her practically worthless in terms of resale value. The engine, on the other hand, held modest potential. Not only that, but Grace also possessed a PowerGlide transmission which meant she only had two speeds…low and drive. These gearboxes were coveted by the quarter mile drag racing crowd, and Zane knew he could recoup his $200 dollar investment with little effort. Motorheads opted for the SuperSport two door fastbacks, but Grace was built for carrying passengers. She sported 283 cubic inches, which was the next level up from the straight-six basic package. An optioned-out SuperSport would roll off the factory floor with a 427 cubic inch plant, which was the gearhead’s engine of choice. Having said that, the 283 was no slouch. Zane pondered these things as he drove aimlessly through the desert.

“I thought I saw a loose hubcap in the trunk…and some spare parts,” Zane thought. He let his mind wander some more as he fiddled around with the radio dial. He was intrigued with the AC Delco. The car was built before the time of F.M, but the illuminated tuning dial still emitted a calming glow which contrasted nicely against the early evening shadows. The radio had elegant chrome handles in lieu of knobs. They weren’t actually ‘handles;’ Instead they were elongated tapered cylinders that resembled tiny sculptures. The radio was elegant, but it couldn’t pick-up a signal. After fiddling with the radio some more, he concluded that the external antenna must have snapped off sometime during the car’s hard life. He eagerly suspected the radio itself worked fine independently of the broken antenna. He turned the volume down to avoid the crackling static, but he left it powered up so he could admire the soothing glow of the illuminated dial.

Zane knew better than to push the old girl too hard, so he didn’t. He cruised along in silence as the cool evening desert air calmed his nervous soul. These were the moments he lived for. Moments when time and space would coalesce in unison, creating a semblance of self-actualization in which he would often find himself in a self-induced trance. This was one of those times. He was driving down the interstate with his body, but his soul was flipping through the pages of the vehicle’s operating manual. Zane was emotionally drawn to the imagery. On the front cover was a lady donning fashionable 1960’s apparel. On her face was painted a portrait of sheer bliss! She was standing next to the car striking a pose, while a man with a pipe sat proudly behind the wheel. They came to life In this altered state, and the fashionable couple beckoned Zane to join them in the shadowy ethereal plane. It was if he had teleported into another dimension where madness and clarity dance around each other in an attempt to cement a more pleasing reality. The miles crept by as he fell deeper into a trance. “What would it be like to go back in time?” Zane pondered the question as Grace leisurely sailed on into the dusk. Prompted by a soothing existential serenity, the man with the pipe proudly announced, “I know the family who owned this car when it was new; I remember what they were like!”

In his mind’s eye, they were a wholesome church going family with two kids. A boy and a girl perhaps. Zane imagined a happy home; maybe they had a puppy…and a swing set? Maybe they also loved road trips! Zane intuitively believed the happy family did in fact exist; moreover, he felt a strange sort of communion as he drove. It was if the ghostly specters were tagging along for one last ride! “Never drive faster than your Angels can fly!” came a voice from the ethereal twilight. The cautious advice echoed within his perceptive mind. Zane believed in the afterlife, and he believed that such a family indeed owned the car, and more importantly, they shared a common love for her. Perhaps this metaphysical energy still lingered within the soul of the automobile? By channeling joyful moments from previous owners, he unwittingly invited positive energy intended to bring about safe journeys. By honoring the memories of the original owners, Zane invited good fortune upon himself. “This is a lucky car,” they agreed, as Grace rattled on down the road.

It was about this time that they noticed a hitchhiker thumbing alongside the interstate. Zane was still trapped somewhere between reality and magic as he tried to shake himself back awake. Before he knew what was happening, he had released his foot from the accelerator. As the Impala slowed, he fixed his gaze upon the wayward traveler. Their eyes locked, and the hitchhiker nodded his head aggressively up and down, while flashing his most harmless smile. Instinctively, Zane applied some heavy brake pressure as he eased the big Impala onto the shoulder. Upon coming to full stop, he grabbed the column shifter, and coaxed the old PowerGlide into reverse. He rotated his torso towards the rear window as he cradled his right arm upon the bench seat. By this time the grateful hitchhiker was sprinting towards Zane’s ride. No sooner than he could crack down the window, an excited and grateful stranger arrived at the passenger side door. “I need to get to Albuquerque fast!” he exclaimed in an eagerly respectful tone. The hitcher was on his way to an Alice Cooper concert at Tingley Coliseum. The young man would have been wagging his tale if he had one. This reminded Zane of the puppy he was daydreaming about just moments before. In the span of about three milliseconds, he realized the lad was harmless, so he nodded his head and motioned him to climb in. There was no formal introduction as the excited hiker slid into the passenger seat. “This is a nice car!” exclaimed the young Native American as he settled in for the upcoming 30-minute drive. The hitcher brushed an index finger across the small badge on the glove compartment lid. As he did this, the word ‘Impala’ slowly fell from his lips. Social norms being what they are, no one would claim that Grace was a nice car; but this man was being sincere. Like Zane, Navajo Indians are of extremely limited means; and in their minds, any car is a nice car just as long as it will start up and drive. Without a thought, Zane pulled back out onto the interstate. There was an uncomfortable silence as the hitcher slowly took stock of his situation. “What is up with this crazy white boy?” pondered the nameless traveler. The hiker silently sized up his benefactor as he rode. “What’s your name?” asked the hitcher as he extended his right arm in an effort to shake Zane’s hand. Zane was still struggling to snap back into the present moment, as his metaphysical experience slowly dissolved back into a semi-solid state of reality. He only noticed the offered handshake through the corner of his eye. “I’m Zane,” he said as he extended his arm in kind. “Bruno,” the hitchhiker quickly retorted as he motioned to himself with an extended thumb. Bruno was eager to stoke the burgeoning conversation, so he continued, “I have an extra ticket to the concert.” He explained that he was going to sell his extra ticket at the gate. “Isn’t scalping supposed to be illegal?” Zane asked almost by reflex. “Nothing’s illegal ‘til you get caught,” said the Native with a crooked grin. The hitchhiker was wearing a tattered jean jacket that concealed a T-shirt displaying a slogan that read, “Nugent Kicks Ass!” Zane assumed the young man was a rocker, and this soiled T-shirt was a souvenir from a concert long passed. “You like Ted Nugent?” Zane inquired. Bruno promptly declared that ‘The Great White Buffalo’ was his favorite song. This made sense to Zane because the lyrics centered around the plight of the Plains Indians. Zane made this assumption as his mind wandered. He pondered these things as he sized up his passenger who was talking about the concert or some such thing. Zane was a brilliant multi-tasker. He could hold an honest conversation with you while daydreaming about something totally off topic. That was the thing about Zane. He could tilt his head and give an affirming nod. He could raise an eyebrow in a certain way, and you’d think he answered your question without even speaking. Zane was soft-spoken because his facial expressions did his talking for him. To break the silence, Bruno asked, “How long have you had this car?” “About a day and a half,” Zane quickly responded. Bruno laughed as he pulled a hidden vintage flask from a worn-out boot. Without permission, the young Native took a large pull from the metal container. After taking a swig, the hitcher offered Zane a drink. Zane considered having a sip but opted to shake his head instead. Bruno raised the flask as if to say ‘cheers’ and downed another shot. It was at this time that Bruno’s attention focused back onto the Chevy. “Did you steal it or something?” “No.” Zane replied. “I got it off of a friend of mine.” Zane knew it was only a half-truth because he was not really friends with the previous owner. In fact, he had no real friends, only acquaintances. He mistakenly assumed that he lacked skills needed to properly socialize. Zane was a lonely soul, but he was oblivious to this fact as well. Zane went on to tell the tale of how he had come across the vehicle, and how he traded some engine parts for it. “That’s really cool,” nodded the passenger. “My dad used to have a car like this back on the Res!” This was local vernacular that meant ‘reservation.’ Zane correctly assumed that Bruno still lived out in the Badlands, which reminded him of his early childhood. Zane and his father would frequent the flea-market located at the demarcation line between America, and Native America. As a result, Zane spent much of his youth playing on the reservation. Because the flea-market was located adjacent to “Indian Land,” he assimilated nicely into the Navajo tradition. He even knew their language to a limited extent. Zane and his youthful associates would quite literally run wild in the unforgiving desert! Natives accepted him as one of their own. As a result, he never learned to socialize well within the white culture. In comparison, Zane felt that the Natives were much more amiable.

Because of his upbringing, Zane felt a certain comradery with Bruno, who had by this time slumped down into the passenger seat while bracing his weight against the dashboard with his shins. Zane went on to share his experience with Bruno as they motored down the interstate. In Bruno’s mind the pair had become fast friends. In fact, Bruno scribbled out an invitation with three different names and corresponding phone numbers. Bruno explained that he would be crashing with his friends after the show. “It’s going to be a party!” he informed Zane. “If I don’t answer the phone, call the other numbers until you find me!” Zane had no intentions of attending an Alice Cooper after party, but he accepted the crumpled note just the same. The pair talked as they traveled, but it was nearly time to part ways when Grace reached the Louisiana Boulevard exit ramp. “Could you drop me off at the Circle-K on San Mateo?” Bruno asked. “I’m meeting my cousin there.” He went on to explain that he was going to catch another ride. “I can do that,” Zane stated in a neutral tone.

At about half past six, the duo arrived at the convenience store. Bruno was greeted by his entourage as he cranked down his window. To Zane’s surprise, three attractive girls approached the passenger side of the rusty Chevy. “This is my new friend Zane,” He announced. “He gave me a ride from Nine Mile!” His female companions nodded in grateful appreciation. They were wannabe groupies Zane reckoned, based on their heavily laden make-up and spiked hair. They were dressed to kill with tight jeans and rhinestone jackets. “Are you coming to the concert with us?” one of the girls queried with an inviting smile. “Nope, not this time.” Zane stated. “You have to at least hang out with us after the show!” Bruno insisted. “I can’t make any promises.” Zane explained. The truth of the matter was that he couldn’t have been less interested. Besides, he already had plans to stop off at Mike’s Buy-Lo if he could make it there before closing time. Zane was thinking about new shocks earlier that evening. Instead of partying with his peers, Zane bought auto parts. That’s the kind of guy that he was. Zane would rather rebuild a carburetor than chase girls. At school, rumors persisted that he was gay, but Zane was just asexual by default. He put little stock into social norms, because he preferred the astral plane instead. Zane was a mystical being, but he was oblivious. Bruno knew it, and so did his crew.

By this time Bruno had exited the vehicle, while begging Zane to change his mind. Zane told Bruno that it was nice meeting him, but he had some place to be. “This is the end of the line for Bruno,” he told himself as he popped the PowerGlide into low. As Grace pulled out into the night, Zane offered a half-hearted head nod into the rear-view mirror, because he noticed Bruno waving goodbye in the reflection.

…To be continued.

November 28, 2021