Get Over Here Dude

Dear Blog Reader.

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. The third of three 100 mile plus rides are in the bag for this year. Now it is time to coast for the final 1,300 miles to get to my 4,500 mile annual goal. Of course, I am showing off. I am bragging. Pride goeth before the fall but I am wearing a helmet. I’m wearing a helmet.  Na, na, na na na. I have been riding long enough that friends are sending me news articles about people who share my passion. I received one last week that caused me to pause; 25,000 miles in 5 years. I’m like that is crazy. 25,000 in 5 years, that is 5,000 miles a year. That is crazy nuts. Then I went and logged my daily 20 mile ride and realized that I am riding 4,500 miles a year. So it will take me 5.5 years to log my miles. Just goes to show you that a ride here and a ride there will add up to some serious mileage after a little while.

I know the question on the tip of your tongue this week. In answer, yes, the skunks are still out in force. These s(c)entinals of the evil assassin deer have been scoping all of my rides around 5:00 a.m. Mostly, they have making their way down the side ditch. I have just had to be careful not to crowd the side of the road. I make my way down the road, and they arch their backs and waive their tails at me threateningly.

That is until last Tuesday. One of the watchers sprung a trap. I had slowed and was rounding the corner of 800S onto 650W. I come racing around the corner and look up and there was one of the assassin deer minions making its way across the road. Why did the skunk cross the road? To file a Roger report. It was about 1/3 of the way across the road. The arc of my turn was going to put me right on top of him. I could see the flash of its beady black eyes as it looked into my headlight. Its back was quickly arching. Its tail was rising. I slammed on the brakes. I thought about zigging left but decided to zag right trying to pass to its front away from his business end. In the end, everything turned out okay. He missed and I made it on home unscathed.

Every time that I see a skunk, I think of Steve Kosmicky and a little stupid dog called Freddie. One evening Steve, Freddie, and I were making our way to the pasture field to get the 60 cows up for the the evening milking. I was idling walking down a dusty cow path; lazily swinging a 4ft ironweed back and forth. Suddenly, Steve, who was 10 feet in front of me, looked back to answer some question that was on the tip of my tongue. What was the question? I have no idea. I am sure that it came from the list of important questions that all seven year olds carry in their hip pocket to ask any high school boy who takes the time to treat him with respect.

Steve had stopped; turned around, and was listening to my question, when he quietly whispered “stand very still Roger. Do not move. There is a skunk just off to your right and he is getting ready to spray you.” Steve loved to tease. He blew a considerable amount of “smoke up my skirt.” He was the one that convinced me  that underwater gnomes moved wheelbarrows of gravel around the gravel pit. If I were to go swimming in the pit, they would come up and grab me and drag me under. Looking back on it 40 years later, I am sure that he was under orders from my parents to scare the crap out of me so that I wouldn’t go sneaking off swimming unattended. It worked. To this day, I have never dipped even a big toe in a perfectly good swimming hole.

Even though he had teased me about all manner of things, I knew that he was telling me the truth that day. There was an edge in his voice. The ring of truth; I’m not messing around this time Roger, was in his voice. So I stood still. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the contrasting white on black. The tail was rising. The back was arching. I was a dead, stinky boy. To make matters worse, Freddie was growling getting ready to enter the fray. I don’t know how it happened. I can’t remember if Freddie was propelled by hand or foot, but propelled he was. As the snarling dog was on his arc to destiny, Steve yelled "run away", and I turned to run. The skunk faced with one incoming snarling target and one fleeing screaming target made the only choice he could. He turned and sprayed Freddie.

Freddie suddenly faced with the embarrassment of being the smelly fellow for the next six weeks, scampered to the house, yelping. I finally stopped 50 yards down the cow path. And Steve was laughing until tears came to his eyes.

What is it about those childhood heroes; older boys or young men who accept you? They don’t accept you as equals because that would be inappropriate. We were in two different worlds. He was 18, getting ready to graduate. I was seven, getting ready for what; little league. But I was accepted. I was good enough company for a walk to the woods. There were questions that I wanted answered and he was willing to answer. We were in different worlds but he could see that I was on a trajectory to enter his world in time. I was grateful for that vision.

I don’t know how much of that happens today. We are so suspicious; maybe rightfully so, maybe not. I believe that the young and older boys are ill served by lack of contact. The young boys lose an example of maturity; a sign post. Steve was not as mature as my father but he was on the arc. I could imagine that he was as mature as my father at 18 and dad turned out alright. I felt like I could never be as mature as my father, as hard working, as serious. However, I could feel a reachable connection to Steve, and he was a mile post to my dad’s maturity. Through Steve, I could experience the connection to dad.

The older boys suffer because they have no purpose, no example, no way to practice maturity. They should be able to bridge the gap between parents and children. They can step in. Young boys will listen to them and old men need them. I think that the lovely Miss Beverly and I were fortunate in that regard. When we were organic farmers, we and our children were surrounded by young adults. They bridged that gap. They helped show our children the way. They were a release valve. They did a great job in helping mold our children.

This lesson was brought home in a picture posted by Ben our 25 year old son. His path took him to the skate boarding community. That community has provided him with family, love, respect, and people to be with. During the past few years, he had gotten a group of skateboarders together to go on a skating weekend in some city in the Midwest.

This picture was taken outside of St. Louis a week or so ago. These are Ben’s people. See that kid way down in the corner on the right side. He wasn’t part of the group that traveled to St. Louis. He was a kid that showed up. Being treated with respect, he latched on to this group of 20 somethings. And as he told Ben when the Hoosiers were leaving, “That was the best weekend of my life.” As it should be. As it would be when you have a good strong bridge like that.

Take care

Roger