There's more to life

than sitting astride two wheels.

It must be me, although my BRW tells me that Mercury is in retrograde.

I'm part of the Oil Spill Emergency Response Team, and every so often the Feds call and say something like: "There's an (fake) oil spill at....... please deploy your team.", which means that yours truly, and others receive a phone call and hear something like: you're booked on the 6 AM flight to...... pack for about a week.  Good luck."

So, Thursday afternoon found me in beautiful downtown Galveston, Texas, aboard the "Texas  Responder".

By 4:00 PM Friday, we had saved the universe, having pumped zillions of nonexistent oil from the Gulf onto the ship and, halos brilliantly shining, (and the federal government happy), were rodding merrily to the Houston airport.

At 6:30 PM, we were told that our 7:35 flight was delayed until 8:20: At 8:15 our flight decided it wouldn't be much ready to boogie before 9:45.  Long and short of it, we got into our Philly hotel at 2:37 AM, put in our wake-up call order for 5:30 and crawled into bed.  Hi Mercury.

The shuttle bus got us to the airport at 6:20 this morning and by 6:40 we were ready to go through security.  Here comes Mercury...

Okay, so I have that Italian Mafioso look, which is why my BRW won't let me wear a fedora, (brim down low), and why I'm always pulled out for "special" checking, but, that's the price...  Id please.... hand over passport... a sure sign there's something wrong.  What? you don't have a driver's license?  Sir, will you kindly remove your sunglasses for a moment?  Okay, look 'em straight in the eye, don't smile.  Or maybe I should smile?  Your boots sir....  Sorry, age has it's privileges, not required to do so.  Step in sir, feet on yellow spots, hands up and crossed.  Thank you... Will you be kind enough to follow this lady sir, we need to check some items.  Thank you......  Yes, my boots have steel toes.  Yes, that is a medal around my neck.  Saint Anthony, my patron saint.  Yes, that is a ring, actually, it's a wedding band.  Sorry it glowed.

Ah, Mercury, are you keeping an eye on the clock?

Sir, your water bottle has liquid in it.

Yes, radiation, besides leaving me with a permanent Donald Duck voice, also destroyed my salivary glands.  I must constantly sip liquid or my mouth and throat dries and cracks.

Sir, your water bottle has liquid.. yes, water in it and you must leave it here.

Whoa, that's a $20 steel water bottle, it's not staying here....

Your only option is to take it back out and empty it in a garbage bin.... There's garbage bin right over there... Sorry sir, you must empty it in a garbage bin on the other side of security. I'll be glad to take you out.... Okay.  Then, after I dump the water into the garbage bag over there, do you take me back?

Sorry sir, but you'll need to go through security again...

What is this Retrograde stuff anyhow?  And what did I ever do to Mercury?

Walk 30-feet, dump water, present passport, remove sunglasses, keep boots firmly affixed, boots on yellow spots, hands up and crossed, yes that's a chain and a medal, and that's a wedding band, and it is now 9:17 and my flight leaves at 9:30.

Can you direct me to Terminal F?  I see, down these stairs, follow the two moving sidewalks, down one more level to the shuttle bus and bingo! I'm there.  Thanks.

Did I tell you what my BRW said about Mercury?  Yeah?  Good.

Got to the gate with about 4 gigantic minutes to spare.  Just enough to text my wife that I'm about to.........

During the process of moving me through the process, my pocket and belt-hanging stuff (read iPhone and standby water sprayer) were put through by one officer, while my change and other loose stuff was put through by a different officer, AND, never the twain shall meet.  I got my change and loose marbles, but my iPhone and spray bottle were somewhere safe and sound with security.

But, I'm made of firm jello and hardly quivered as I watched my flight depart, then headed for the shuttle that would take me to the terminal named "A", so that I could follow the two moving sidewalks back to my friends at security.

Go! Mercury! Go!

97.791% versus 69.391%

Okay.  I made the percentages and numbers up, but not the reality.  The reality is this:

I traveled over 3,000 miles, rode through 13 states - twice, and met and passed a whole herd of two-wheelers, both motorcyclists and scooterists, and found that motorcyclists, almost to a person, either initiated or returned a wave from me, a scooterist, while almost half the scooterists I met couldn't be bothered to acknowledge my existence.

Yesterday, my BRW and I traveled over 200 miles and met umpteen motorcyclists.  Only three didn't return a wave.  We met 7 scooters.... not one returned our wave.

Why?

Theories, anyone?

It didn't matter whether I was teaching SCUBA diving, or deep sea diving, or rock climbing, or winter mountaineering: at some point my students started calling me....

Mother T.

Now, I ask you, what kind of macho image is that?

Okay, so I'm "fussy" about safety.  But, you know, at eighteen below and ten-thousand feet, or three-hundred feet down on standard air, you really need to be fussy -  or you get hurt, or even worse too.  But, like I told my students, I'm still here and in one piece.

Okay, so I was bent once, but I did have a spastic student, eighty-feet down, who flailed and flailed and even got his spearhead stuck in my hood (now that was a funny scene), so I think I can say "extenuating circumstances".

But enough about me.... how do you like my suit?  Just kidding....

Here's the question: Why do so many scooterists ride with so little protection?

Like, helmets that will protect you - provided you only bounce along on your head.  And, little, if any leg protection, topped off with sneakers, or even Flip Flops. And finally, thin gloves.  I don't understand.

Think about this.....

At 30 mph (and who - even 50cc's doesn't travel at 30) you're doing 44 feet a second.  If you hit the pavement and skid for 3 little seconds, you've scraped along 132 feet of hard unyielding ground.

At 40 it's 177 feet.

Most of us haven't a clue about distances, so here's a help.  132 feet is a bit more than the distance between telephone polls; 177 feet is just a shade less than 1 1/2 times the distance between the two poles.

Next time you're out take a look at that space.... it's a looooong way.... especially long if you're contributing skin along the way.

Okay.  Done.  My question is: Why not be as protected as you can?

I Await your response.

Oh, a bit back someone posted a chart on head injuries, and someone else questioned the validity of the chart.... The report is entitled "The Hurt Report".  It is fantastic reading.  The original chart is on page 277, 278.  But, don't jump straight there.  Read the report.  It can't hurt, might help. (No pun intended.)

Download it.  It is good reading.  While you are at it, grab and download these two....

Motorcyclist
Traffic Fatalitiesby State Governors Highway Safety Association

Lower-Extremity Injuries in Motorcycle Crashes US DOT

Let me know what you think.  Until then, Hi Yo Piaggio, Away!

And now, for the final tally...

The statistics, if you will....

Round Trip Mileage Totals:  3,805.6 Statute Miles, or, 6,124.5 Kilometers.

If you run a map route via highways, you get 2,837 miles: 3,013 via no highways.  So, the backroad routes are not much longer, and are certainly more enjoyable.

My average daily mileage was 543.6 miles, 874.9 kilometers, which may have been a bit on the heavy side.

I averaged 53.8 miles to the gallon, and consumed 65.2 gallons, at a cost of $235.95, which breaks down to a per gallon cost of $3.62.

But these are just numbers.... figures that cannot convey the fun, excitement, fear, enjoyment an sheer fun of being on the road on two wheels.

 Gear Up!  It's Time To Go!

Mineral may only have 400 some-odd folks, but it sure has one killer of a Mexican Restaurant.

Tienes cerveza? No? Bueno, entonces por favor, tráeme agua y para la cena, voy a tener Pollo Con Mole De Jefe, gracias...

Neat. In the south, and not an y'all to be found.

Alla en el rancho grande, alla donde viva

Habia una rancherita, que allegre me decia

Que allegre me decia... 

Then, like everything under the Sun, time spent fails to equal time desired, and zoom! It was time to go.

 So, off we go - south to Georgia, via (grab your maps) 522, to Powhatan (due west of Richmond), onto 609, which runs and blends into 360, which, in turn, runs south and west almost to the North Carolina border, where you peal south onto 119, which gets you into North Carolina before dumping you onto 158 then 150 which slides you down to Gaffney, South Carolina - at which point I threw in the towel and got onto I-85, which screams South and West right to my next stop: 547 miles from Mineral.

There are good people, there are nice people, there are great people, there are wonderful people, then there is Lori and Chris.  They'd been following me via an app on my phone and when they saw I was headed for I-85, they called me, told me where to stop and said they would grab me at that stop.  So they rode their bikes 1 1/2 hours north, picked me up, shoveled energy in the form of a large Dairy Queen Sundae into my tired body, then sandwiched me between the two of them and led me to their house.  Can it get any nicer than that?

I call the two The Beemer Twins – although not to their face.  They both ride l a r g e BMWs (and very well too, thank you) and had ridden up to Maine last summer spending  some fun time with us.

This year I was in their territory and we had much fun chasing down BBQ places and eating about every two minutes.

Two days – much too short days later, Chris and Lori, took me out for a fantastic pancake breakfast, then, leading the way, they started me on my final leg: South to Florida.

It's not always fun and games in the Sun.  Sometimes it's doom and gloom, fear and uncertainty, worry and concern...

Mineral, Virginia.  One-hundred nineteen miles south.  It's 5:30 in the evening.  I've been on the road since 4:45 this morning, during which time I've gone from upstate New York, through Pennsylvania and into Maryland – about 262 tiring miles.  If I can hold 50 mph, I'm looking at an 11:00 PM arrival.

If.

Back roads are cute.  Okay, poor word choice. Nice.  Interesting.  Fun.  All of the above.  None of the above.  As my father always said, whenever I asked a particularly difficult question: It all depends.  At night they're dark. No, make that Black.  They have a penchant for making tight sweeping turns; right angle turns, and – in small towns, two "U" turns: one u-turn to get you going back from whence you came, then just fooling, one u-turn to once again head you in the right direction.

And there's nothing out there beyond the feeble beam of your brights.  Even less than nothing if you are foolish enough to lower your hi-beams: just two lanes, one in each direction with a painted line down the center.

When you're tired, hungry and chilled from lack of bodily fuel, the road becomes, if not hostile, at the very least, indifferent.  "If you make it, fine.  If you don't fine.  Makes no difference to me", bounces back at you from the glare of your lights.

So you stare into the lighted roadway, watch fearfully as the trees at the edge of your beams grow closer together until there exists nothing but a solid wall of thick menacing entities, whispering to you words that stop just short of your hearing them.  Are they words of encouragement, or portends of dangers yet to come, just ever so slightly, ahead.

Deers are nocturnal.  Well, really, they're Moon-turnal: up with the Moonrise.  Where is the Moon now?  Is it up, and thus, so are the deers? Or is it and its horned friends resting?

You stare even more diligently, waiting for that instant when you are not alone on the road, but hurtling at warp speed toward two red circles that hover at eye's height, just at the edge of your beams reach.

Suddenly, on the right side beyond the trees, in the middle of the woods, there appears a huge light. Big, round, brilliantly white.  And it's coming at you.

How can that be?  It's the forest.... Your tired hands scramble for those levers that read "Stop", and you frantically start squeezing, your body pitching forward violently, yet still the light moves toward you, faster and faster and then....

It's a train, running on tracks that parallel the road, separated only by the thick line of trees that decide which is road and which is track.  The eye swishes by, its body following madly behind, "ca clack, clackidy clack, clack, clack and clack.  And gone.

And so it goes, minute after minute, hour after hour.  At 12:20 AM, I turn the key, kill the engine, kick the kickstand down, and slowly unwind from the seat.

Mineral, VA.

There was no oasis....

I couldn't get there from here....

All I did was stop at a Dunkin' Donuts....

I twisted that right handle as visions of billowing tents, undulating slowly, embracing and sheltering me from the blazing sun, danced joyously in my mind, where I, languidly reclined, slowly sipped frothy Turkish coffee.

I was on my way to meet Denny at the Sheik's.

It's Sheetz, Not Sheik's!  And while they do have espresso, there are no tents, no soft rugs, no blazing Sun, and although their motto has a tinge of Arabia in it, still my dreams just "poof" disappeared.

"Sheetz is a mecca for people on the go. If you need to refuel your car or refresh your body, we have what you need to keep you moving on to whatever comes next."

There I stood, glazed-eyed in the center of a bustling convenience store, and probably would still be there had not Denny, understanding my dilemma, packed me up and brought me to his house, where his charming and gracious wife sat me down and served coffee in the most genteel manner.  It was a life-saver.

Renewed in body and spirit, I followed Denny through the wilds of Harrisburg and onto my next southbound road, where with a salute and well wishes, he headed back to his castle, while I stared at the road ahead.

Well Mike, I don't know how you did it.  Or, rather, I'm not sure how you made it happen,  but, straightforward and truthfully, Here's another nice mess you've gotten me into!

I said that to myself because from Harrisburg, PA to Mineral, VA, is supposed to be a snap.  Once Denny had me on Route 15, it's simply 15 all the way down to Culpeper, then 522 straight to Mineral.  A snap, I tell you.  A snap.  Now, riding 15 is not bad at all.  It's a mix of country road and no nonsense highway riding.  It's got some nice side road slip-offs, like "Old Route 15" and things like that which allow you to wander off yet stay more or less parallel with your road.  Neat.  And, for the most part it's a pretty ride.  What more could you want?  "However" as Professor Irwin Corey says, (If you don't know who he is, you should look him up.  There are some YouTube skits that are really funny.)  somewhere around Fredrick and Urbana, MD, the roads made funny turns, I got fershimmeled, and the next thing I knew I was on I-270 headed south, some 20 miles east of Route 15, heading straight for Bethesda, MD.  Not a good thing, so... when I saw the sign about what lay ahead, I perked up, peeled off and headed straight for Dunkin' Donuts.  Anyway, it was time for a stop.

I finished my coffee and coffeecake muffin, ambled out to the machine and cranked her over.  Nothing doing.  Cranking but not starting was the theme of the day, and after three attempts it smelled like she was flooded, so I sat for a while, watched the crowd wander in and out of the shops in the mall, then tried it again.... and again..... and again.  Nothing doing.

A rapid search on the web found a motorcycle place, and a frantic plea via phone got them to "Try to get you in if you get here within the hour." Called AAA begged for a quick arrival tow, then sat down and drowned my sorrow in another cup of DD coffee.

Have you ever had your machine towed?  It's a hilarious sight – even under a stressful situation: The Piaggio is what? Maybe six feet long?, and here comes this 30-some-odd-foot-long flatbed, ready to take you into its clutches and deliver you safe and sound.  A very funny sight.

Twenty minutes later, the Piaggio is safe on the ground at the dealer's, and I've off-loaded the ton of travel stuff.  We stand ready to be disassembled.

"Unfortunately," says the service manager, "it's too late for anyone to look at it, so you'll need to find a motel, spend the night and come on back in the morning.  In the meanwhile, please sign this service sheet".  So I stand poised, pen in hand, about to sign the service sheet, when I spot the numbers on the bottom of the page: $116.95.  It's going to cost me $117 just to have it looked at?

I stood there, ready to sign my life's savings away, when a mechanic walks over to us and says, "What's wrong with your bike?  It's running fine. I figured before I started to push it around the building to the service area, I'd give it a try.  It started right up and is running fine."

It took about 12-point-three-seconds for me to thank them all, repack my ton of luggage and zoom out of there: saved by someone's desire to find an easy way of doing something.  So, North on I-270; quickly onto North on I-70; now South on I-70, followed almost immediately by North onto Route 15 and finally, a quick turn South onto Route 15 – all these turns occurring within 30-seconds of each other.  Perhaps it wasn't quite my fault that I went the wrong way.

Now, it's hellbent for Mineral, VA, 119 miles away.

Are you still on Day Two?

For those of you who have never done so, let me tell you about driving in Pennsylvania.  The official minimum speed limit, irrespective of location, is 65 mph. If the posted speed limit is 65, then one is expected to do no less than 70 - and preferably 75 mph: a 70 posting gives you the option of no less than 80, and up to 85 mph. In addition, one is expected to stay no more than 20 feet from the vehicle in front of you.

Now, if you have not travelled on PA Route 209 from say, Milford, down through Dingman's Ferry and on passed Bushkill, then stop reading, jump on your ride and get going.  It is a fantastic road: Narrow, single lane in each direction, with a painted double yellow line down the center and no room to stop on the shoulder, not to mention any side roads.  Just you, and the forest and the sunlight filtering down, and the occasional opposite going traffic.  Ideal.

With a speed limit of 55 mph, it is the quintessential two-wheel go-way.  Of course, some folks clearly use 209 as a means of getting to work, and their rubbernecking days have long gone by the board, which resulted – as I did a swivel-necked 55 mph down the road, in my developing a convoy.  Indeed, at first it was just one car behind me - at the requisite 20-feet.  But, within 10 minutes I had me a convoy of at least 3,000 cars.  (Okay, maybe it was only 15 or so, but it sure FELT like there were 3,000 cars all strung-out behind and all looking for my scalp.  So, I cranked in the throttle and brought her up to 65 or so).

Now, I've always noticed that Pennsylvania has been blessed with an abundance of wild life.  Especially deer: dead deer, and that morning PA Route 209 seemed to be exceptionally blessed.

To paraphrase...  Dead deer to the right of me, Dead deer to the left, so into the jaws, and the mouth of, I rode at 65 – followed by at least 3,000 cars, all of whom are waiting to see who blinks first: me, or the deer.

Now, one could be forgiven if one was not quite at ease hurtling, wild-eyed and swivel-headed  down a no-shoulder, no-escape single-lane highway which is festooned with hoofed legs, here, and antlers there – along with enough body parts to make Macbeth's witches jump for joy.

Suddenly, up ahead there appeared a huge yellow sign, replete with big traffic-light size lights.  The sign read: Caution! Deer area!  I remembered reading about them.  Theoretically, they are geared to deer movement and are designed to help reduce animal strikes, which brought a very unsettling thought to mind: If the surrounding area was an indication of the light's success, then the lights weren't working very well.

Suddenly, the lights began to flash frantically, and with bulging eyes and swiveling head, I searched for the little beastie.  Nothing.  Ahead was another light, and I could see yet a third far ahead.  As I approached the second light, it too began flashing violently.  Again, I swiveled and scanned and again... nothing.  So now the thought occurred to me that perhaps the lights flashed when I approached, rather than if deer were encroaching upon my territory.  But that made no sense: Deer can't read signs, and surely they can't comprehend what flashing yellow lights mean.  On the other hand, why flash lights at me as I near?  I know there are deers in the area.  What I want to know is where in the area are they hiding out?  As I sat there muddling through this conundrum, the woodlands suddenly fell away, the road opened up, the threat of instant annihilation disappeared, and it was time to call my friend, Denny Madule.

Denny lives in PA and graciously offered to guide me through Harrisburg and onto the correct southbound road.  He answered the phone promptly, immediately knew where I was located, and gave me directions on how to reach our meeting place.  Now, one of the aftereffects of my Cancer Treatment is that I have a constant ringing in my ears, so sometimes I'm not sure if what I heard, is what I heard, so I asked Denny to repeat the name of the meeting place.  Which he did, and I felt a great weight lift off my chest.  I was not only out of the wilderness, I was heading to the top of the heap.

"I'll meet you at the Sheik's."  At the Sheik's?  How upscale can you get?  "You can't miss it.  It's right after the Harley-Davidson dealership."  After the what?  Wow!  Harley-Davidson and the Sheik's place right next door to each other.  How good can it get?

I twisted that right hand.  Can't wait to relax under a canopy at the Sheik's sipping some Turkish coffee while looking over at the H-D joint watching the wheels roll by.

Lions

and Tigers

and Deers

Oh, My.

Rules For Prospective (and current) Gas Station Owners:

ONE: Under no circumstances are you to consider hiring anyone with even the slightest knowledge of Geography, or any concept of direction, distance or spacial relationships.

Rules For Town, City and County Employees:

ONE: Any street, road or highway that crosses a single route-intersection and that continues straight ahead, shall have a route designation sign on BOTH sides of the intersection, AND shall have an additional route sign placed at least 45-feet after the intersection.

TWO: Any street, road or highway that crosses a multiple-route-intersection, shall have no more than one route designation sign no less than 45-feet before the intersection, regardless of the direction the street, road or highway shall take after the intersection.

Day Two:

Departed 4:35 AM.  Went to main road, turned right and continued until my southerly route intersected.  "You can't miss it."

5:15 AM.  Still wandering around city, following various gas station attendants directions.

5:45 AM.  Locate 211, which quickly became 17M, which almost instantly became 11 before finally settling in and becoming route 24 - oops, it became 35 then crossed under I-84 and then...... became route 6, made a U-turn and crossed under I-84 until we were almost in Port Jervis at which point my road turned left, became 521, sending me into New York as well as hurtling along River Road.  Confused?  Me too.  Onward.

The last bit of craziness was when 521 made a hard right turn, became 206 and tossed me over the Delaware River into Pennsylvania.  Over the Delaware into Pennsylvania?  Why isn't it Delaware?

Craziness aside, at least the ride is beautiful.  Surprisingly, there was so much green, and the land just goes up and up and up.  Quickly.

To be continued...... the deer are coming, the deer are coming.....

So.  Let me tell you about the trucks.

No.  Let me tell you about how dark it is on a country road at midnight.

Naw.  How about how many Italians does it take to change a burned-out brake light bulb?

Wait! Wait! How about first the machine goes, then it stops running, then it starts up and roars away, then it stops, no!, it's running, no!, it's stopped again.  60 MPH, 45, 62, 27, 55.  Will this never end?

I know, how about "Just how hot can a muffler get and what can it do to a camera case?"

Or, perhaps I should do what the King told the White Rabbit: Begin at the beginning, and go on till you come to the end: then stop.

I was born in New York City in Nineteen Thirty..... perhaps this is too much of a beginning.

I ride a Piaggio BV 250, that gets off the mark like a screaming banshee and doesn't flatten out until about 72: topping off at 82 to 87 depending upon how she feels (since I have no other explanation for the five-mile-an-hour difference).  Not that I normally go much over 40, but there are times when necessity is the driving force.

The aim of my trip was 1) to visit my family - scattered all over the lot (as the expression goes), and 2) to do it by riding the backroads of our wonderful country.

My first day ended in Montgomery, NY which I reached via Route One, Nine and Four in Maine into Rollinsford, NH and the Black Bean Cafe.  (I never pass up an opportunity to eat at this wonderful small jewel).

From there is was 202 and Nine through NH into Brattleboro, VT.  Riding Nine through Vermont along the rivers and through the National Forest was worth the trip all by its self.

From there it was 22 south, sliding over to Nine again and crossing into NY at Kingston.  Once in New York, it was 32 down to 208 and on to Montgomery: and a well deserved rest (along with a fabulous Easter Dinner).

End Day One, and other than me dropping my machine by slipping on sand while making a U-turn, it was a bee-yout-tea-full ride.

I Don't Like Why?

Why? except for those few exceptions when it converts to an invitation, is a term of criticism. Why, did you do that?…. Why are you going?…Why did (or did you not) do that?

I Don't like Why?

However… What I like, and what answers the question is...

Existence.

Observation.

Inhalation. Exhalation.

Sun. Rain. Wind.

Life.

Am I getting through?

Visiting with the oldest sister (still younger than I), and my Godchild, who in turn now has children, who themselves have children whom I have never seen, and having Easter Sunday dinner, "Grand Ma's way Uncle Mike, (my mother's) just like Grand Ma used to make."

The State Trooper I asked directions of…. "I'm totally lost, officer…"  "Okay, sir, but tell me, how much have you been drinking?"  "Drinking? I've not been drinking."  "Well then, are you diabetic?"  "No, not to my knowledge.  Why?"  "Where you coming from?"  "Uh, Maine. Portland, Maine."  "Maine?  That's about 16-hours north."  "Indeed, officer, indeed."  "So, that's why your pupils are like saucers."

Well, what do you know?

Easter Dinner, Italian style.  All home made….

So what if it took me 14-hours, and got me saucer-eyes.

The air begins to warm somewhere in Pennsylvania, and by the time you reach Maryland, there's not only a different feel to the air, there's a different smell, something you can't experience while encased in a car.  The air rushing by the open window is too intrusive - too noisy; the earth's smell doesn't make it passed the air conditioner… With visor up and helmet vents open, the freshness, the newness, the very essence of new life pours in, surrounds and permeates your very being.  Then…

Mineral, VA, population 452, but home of great food and beautiful surroundings… And friends you haven't seen in 20-years, but who act as if you had stopped by yesterday.

As you travel through life, you meet many people.  Some of them have the correct polarity and you and they stick together and, distances and time-passed notwithstanding, when you next meet it's as if you had only separated to go to lunch.  My friends, (and you should be so lucky as to have friends like these) Lori and Chris….

Helped me unload,

Got my machine to the repair shop for a check,

And, got me to the local church's BBQ.  Can you beat that?

Yep.  The next day they rode with me half way down the state of Georgia, finally stopping at a Subway to get and stuff a foot-long into my bag, open up the maps and made sure that my addled brain could repeat the route I was to continue upon.  Can't beat that with a stick.

2,005.8 miles….. My youngest sister's house: my brother-in-law and my only surviving brother.  Tired, saddle sore, right wrist sore, just plain everything-hurts-sore – except for my mind.  That's vibrant and alive with

Existence.

Observation.

Inhalation. Exhalation.

Sun. Rain. Wind.

Life.

Am I getting through?

Well, stand by….. There remains the trip home.