Sierra

S

It's like waking from a dream, a sweet one.
Hard to grasp, hold, process.

Powerful themes. Players loving. Boldly.
Colliding worlds, moving words,
emotions tossed about.

Control, out of reach, abandoned.
It swept me away, like a leaf on a beautiful current.

Too good, too sweet, too much, too hard.
And I was doomed from the start.
For it was only a dream.

C

Riding The Waves

Honda NC700X

When you're new to motorcycling you quickly learn the art of not crashing said motorcycle. Also, clutch shifting, hand/foot braking, off-the-leash-dog avoidance, bugs, balance, and iced-nipple realization that your pathetic, freshly pulled-from-the-closet attire repels weather like a high quality fishnet stocking.

Unless you're riding like a drunk lumberjack, fellow riders can't tell you're noob sauce on two wheels.  So they wave at you, because they believe you're one of them, and because you're a picture of calm.

Road etiquette figures in somewhere down the road, but for the beginner "don't wreck" is foremost on the brain.

First Wave

I wasn't ready when the other rider waved. His left hand slid off the handlebar fluidly, relaxed. And I left him hanging, like a douchebag. He was coming down Southway as I was headed up. I nodded in reflex, upwardly, but only slightly. Shit, maybe it was enough.

My helmet has a pretty healthy beak, so I'm hoping it caught wind and shot up like a hand. Meh. I blew  it. Just let it go, I say. He was me once. Perhaps we'll lay eyes on each other again, on some secluded stretch of road, our sweet rides glistening in the sunshine, and we'll get it right. At least I will, dammit.

Second Nod

Shortly after the failure on Southway I humped up on a hog by Albertson's on 11th Avenue. Shit, Chris, just breathe. He can't hear my spirited, cutesy Jap bike, a Honda NC700x, over his thundering American muscle. Hell, I could barely hear myself think inside the helmet. He sees me, eyeballing me through one of his side mirrors. I nod again, like an idiot. He figures I'm headed to Starbucks. His doo-rag covered head shakes dismissively. Laughing at me, I figure. He guns the throttle a few quick blasts.

WOP-WOP-WOP-WOP... VROOOMM!! WOP-WOP-WOP-WOP... VROOOMM!! VROOOMM!! WOP-WOP-WOP-WOP.

The red light lingered. I felt small, alone. My fragile motorcycle psyche was on the ropes — beat down, listless — courtesy of Harley-Davidson, the King of the Ring. And it's not just the hog. This guy looked like a bad ass, too. Faded plaid shirt under some faded leather vest, with a million miles on each. The back of the biker's vest displayed a hideous moniker of social belonging, "Satan's Farts," or some other damned thing. Sons of Anarchy came to mind, though I've never seen it.

Finally green. I happily rolled into the busiest intersection in town. Like it was nothing. The devil and I parted ways, him a choosing a day long kicking of ass on the road, and me puttering off to Starbucks.

Charmed by three

Free wi-fi and a few Americano's bolstered my confidence to get back out there. I had to get home at any rate. I took the long way 'round back to my house (link to Ewan McGregor's and Charley Boorman's round the world motorcycle documentary), out towards Lindsey Creek Road.

The other rider approached on a BMW street bike, newish and sleek.

Oh, it's on, dude. His hand came off as mine did, two peace signs pointed down, the proper 45º angle to the road. Exhilarating!

"Damn right," I recalled, just after. It felt great.

Smiling the whole time, I curved up Lindsey Creek Road to the eastern edge of the Orchards, and dropped down to Tammany Road in front of the Roundup Grounds. Now heading down Tammany Creek, I enjoyed some more curves behind the Lewiston Orchards and off towards Hells Gate State Park and the Snake River. Almost home.

Good ride.

Random things I learn from my dog, Fletch. Part III: Take a Walk

Take a walk, friend. Change it up. Move your paws, nose the ground. Run it 'round and 'round, like a Hoover vacuum, over and over and back again. Secrets dangle from the blades of grass, like shimmering drops of morning dew. Stop. Sniff out the stories. Draw in the odiferous. Write your own story in the prickly green. Share it. Life is not a journey to somewhere else. Wag instead in the wideness of now.

Hard Knocks

Knock-knock-knock on the door. Fast knocks. Hard knocks. I'm busy, dammit. Was busy. Knock-knock-knock, heavier, faster. Coming. I'm coming, little shit. Eyes press against the narrow glass next to the door, framed by little hands, like the inside of my house some kind of show, or worse a circus. I see him. He sees me. Busted. He slides out of view, waits.

I open the door. I know how it goes. His little eyes rise up to meet mine, hopeful. "Can Owen play?"

"Owen isn't here," I tell him,"at his mom's house this week."

"Oh. Okay." He's sad because Owen can't play, isn't here.

"He'll be home Sunday, though, okay?" I reassure him.

"Yeah, alright." Sunday is still several days away. He doesn't understand where Owen is. At his mom's? Where's that? What's a Sunday? Owen isn't there, that's all he heard. He turns for his bike, peddles out of the driveway. He'll be back tomorrow.

My return to peace is brief. Knock-knock-knock on the door. Shit. Ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong. The hell! I head for the door again. Dammit. The eyes again, watching me watch them again. The eyes hide again.

I open the door, preparing my speech. It's the first boy's little brother, shirtless like their dad. I refer to their dad as "Gun Show," wonder if their dad owns a single shirt.

"Is Owen here?" the boy asks.

"No, Owen's at his mom's house, be back Sunday."

The boy stands there wincing, pinching himself.  I ask him if he needs to pee.

"No," he says, defiant. He lifts his bike and rides off fast, shirtless. Balanced, too, with one hand gripping the handlebars and the other gripping his crotch just as tight. I'm somewhat in awe, and certain that I'd be unable to do the same under similar circumstances. He'll be back tomorrow.

Knock-knock, Owen isn't here. Knock-knock, Owen's not home. He's at his mom's house this week. Be back Sunday. They are young; Owen's friends don't understand. They just want to play. They don't know about divorce. Their parents are normal; Owen's parents are not. Each knock a reminder of why Owen isn't here.

Knock-knock. Heavy knocks. Hard knocks.

Rashful Reminder

A rashful reminder remains from my stroke. The drug that saved my life (the me inside of me), tPA (tissue plasminogen activator, fancy for heavy duty clot-buster), didn't take the first time. They shot it into my arm and they missed; the drug stayed there, though, festered under the skin and soggy like spilled milk under a newspaper. The trauma team eventually found purchase in a vein with another dose, though, sparing my brain. The bruising was hideous.

Now the rash, itchy. Irritating. And I'm thankful, really. It feels good to feel good, afterward. I'm reminded of that every day now, thanks to a little blight on my arm that itches in fits. My nails rake over it, and I go back in time with each scratch. The experience altered my perspective. Life changed in an instant on June 10, 2012.

A stroke occurs when blood flow gets cut off to a part of the brain. Blood clots are often the cause. Read about strokes here.

I don't even know what to say about the stroke itself. I fear my story can be told only so many times before it dries up and fades forever. I was lucky. Many stroke victims are not.

Though I don't know my story yet, or how it should be told, at least there's this...

Practical:

1. Get your blood pressure checked today. Do it now. Know what it is, where it should be and how life impacts it. It matters. You should know why it matters.
2. Watch what goes in your mouth. Diet plays a huge part in all of this.
3. Get active. I'm not a fitness freak, but my philosophy is to do just a little bit more than you're doing. Ease into any major changes. However, it's vital to buy into the idea that a healthy change will be good for your health.
4. Know the signs of a stroke, for you or someone you love.
1. SUDDEN numbness or weakness of face, arm or leg - especially on one side of the body.
2. SUDDEN confusion, trouble speaking or understanding.
3. SUDDEN trouble seeing in one or both eyes.
4. SUDDEN trouble walking, dizziness, loss of balance or coordination.
5. SUDDEN severe headache with no known cause.
   Call 9-1-1 immediately if you have any of these symptoms. DON'T HESITATE!
   www.stroke.org

Intangible:

Life is fragile — your life and the lives of people you love and care about. You only think you have time to say the things you want to say, or feel the things you want to feel, before something happens to erase all that time you treat like a blank check.

Say it today. Feel it today. 

Random stuff I learn from my dog, Fletch. Part II: Marking

Fletch.

Dogs pee on things. A lot. And they like peeing on things, a lot. Fresh patches of grass and wall to wall carpeting present perfect places to piss. Add to that: street corners, bushes, pathways, sidewalks, fire hydrants, trees, park benches, swingsets, car tires, mailboxes, flagpoles, and flowers. Nothing on the ground is safe from a raised leg and urine to spare.

It's much more than just a birthright. They're programmed to mark territory, claim it as their own. It's a greeting, statement, or a warning.

People say dogs can't speak; well, I disagree. They use their bladders to talk and their noses to hear.

I suppose Fletch really thinks the world is his to piss all over. He certainly acts like it, and marks accordingly. He's just doing what comes naturally to him.

Peeing on everything is not something I should try to emulate, literally. But the model intrigues me. Treat the world a little bit like it's yours. Let others know you're there, that you exist, and that you care. Tell the world that you're present, that you're around, that you've left your mark.

"Occupy the space you occupy." — Adrienne Rich

Random stuff I learn from my dog, Fletch. Part I: Kids

This is Fletch, my yellow lab.

Like all divorces, mine was hard on the family, especially my kids. We spent Christmas Eve together, then they were gone. Gone like Christmas. Nobody was ready for it, certainly not me. 

Fletch picked a spot at the top of the stairs, overlooking the front door and entryway. He waited for days, head lowered, ears peeled. It was everything a picture of vigilance. Cars passed by the house, sending his head up off the floor. He'd strain to hear the slam of car doors, small voices, and footsteps hitting the porch. But the cars just went by.

They went by, went on, to other homes, where other dogs reunited their human families. Deflated, his head drooped to the floor, again and again, beleaguered, and punctuated with sighs. Up and down. Up and down. Sigh. Sigh. Sigh.

A car stopped one day and he stood, ramrod straight like a Marine. Car doors slammed, small feet approached, sending the tip of Fletch's tail whipping with controlled anticipation. The front door flew open and his family had returned.

They came home, eventually, and they were fine. Fletch's heart was never in question; who could say where his mind was? I missed them too, worried of course. My kids were away from home, settling into a new one. Adjusting. But he doesn't wait by the door anymore, the times they leave. He knows. We both know. The kids will be fine. 

The sting of divorce still strums angry chords in this new song, the one I write with my kids. But we are singing, growing.