LoveUbecause … you are my refuge, my moment

LoveUbecause … you are my refuge, my moment

 My caveat – I am not a wildlife expert – so don’t take this as any kind of sound advice. It is a bit confusing – there are a lot of instructions, “ifs” and “buts” –  but my understanding is that it is not advisable and very hard, though in extreme circumstances not impossible, to win, or try to win a fight with a bear. Most of all, everyone seems to agree – if you come upon a bear, unless it is in a cage at the zoo – wait a minute, there are exceptions – remember that silly lady who jumped into the polar bear enclosure at the Berlin zoo not so long ago - Don’t run! Best, in the right circumstances, to climb a tree – remembering that dangling legs can be a tempting appetizer, so you had best find one at least with 12 to 30 feet of climbing height - unless it is what kind of bear? That is where I become confused again! Less optimally, in some situations drop to the ground, lay still, play dead hope he goes away! I shudder at the thought, but he may nose you around a little, take a nibble. Wait it out, things will get better - let’s not antagonize him, or things may get a whole lot worse! But if they do anyway, this might be the time to get up and fight? Gosh I have trouble following recipes, never mind all these instructions - I’ll let you read the article, or Google it yourself, I am just a writer.

In any event, the last year or so has not been kind to many of us, as we have watched “the bear” frighten our hard earned retirement plans, RRSP and 401K investments into virtual oblivion. There are about as many “ifs”, “buts” and “in these circumstances” attached to what we should do in this bear market as there are to advice about meeting a real bear in the wild, with even the conventional wisdom of “wait it out, don’t run” being questioned by some financial experts. Time will tell, but as in the wild, I have decided to “wait it out”. However stressful that can be, hopefully patience shall eventually win out over flight! 

Financial crash, stress and depleted savings, or not, there is a notable time in the spring when other more important special things fall into place and a motorcycle ride from the barn where I board my horses, back to my home, several miles away, just hits a sweet spot – makes me forget all about that other stuff. 

Owning a side-car equipped, motorcycle allows me to negotiate gravelled, potholed roads that most bikers won’t dare to contemplate. 

These minor arterial thoroughfares that provide the life’s blood of supply and transportation to and from myriad rural destinations – the dusty back roads where the crunch of the gravel making way for the rolling tires becomes music to the ears, the feel of the cool air, warmed just slightly to a few degrees above zero by the sinking evening sun, feels fresh on my face and my senses heighten slightly, as I scan the fields and shoulders of the road for deer migrating from their day habitat to that of the evening. It all brings me to a special space - my own special space, where little other than the immediate is contemplated, worried about or missed. It is a refuge - my refuge, my moment. 

I am not quite sure why it struck me so consequential the other day, as I consider myself fortunate – riding my bike is really just one of a few “special places” I am lucky to be able to go and “get a way from it all”. 

I won’t go so far as to call it a ritual, or habit, but it would be fair to say that it would not be uncommon to find me strolling the back few acres of our property on many a Sunday evening - especially from early spring to late fall, often with a crystal glass in hand, filled with some kind of “spirits of fortitude” poured over the requisite seven or eight cubes of ice. This too is a wonderful space – a relaxing space - a spacious cedar grove in particular, where the trees seem to reach almost endlessly to the sky, trilliums rise and form a mottled, cream coloured, blanket in the spring, leaves crunch crisply beneath every step in the fall. A cacophony of excited squawking often fills the air as hundreds of crows, disturbed by only what is known to them as disturbing, take flight, swooping above and between the trees in a sudden frenzy and where, in the serenity of the sudden silence that follows, I often lament that the day is coming to a close.

But as the road commands my attention with its twists and turns, the crows with their din, so does the excitement of a gallop about the fields on my equine friend. A different place of refuge where the activity, the rhythm of the stride and gallop, the snort of his breath, the beating of my heart, the speed that tears my eyes from the the sting of the cool wind, collectively peak to exhilaration. Attention focused on balance - what lies ahead, what lies beside . Nimbly “listening” to my legs, he moves slightly right, or left, as we avoid small stones pushed to the surface of the path by the past winter’s frost. I momentarily live the fantasy of the race – he, remembering fondly, when with the blossoming of the wild apple trees, the race track beckoned and the real races were run, won and lost. 

These are simple moments – complex in their simplicity. Sought out moments, that nonetheless evolve naturally. They are relaxing moments, exciting moments ,when “it” is not about the stress of life, the next job, the decks that should be painted, bills that should be paid. 

And so it was, the other evening I rode my bike home, I hit the “sweet spot”, put any thought of “the bear” in the woods out of my mind, and whatever that is inside us, or around us, that speaks to us with common sense, revelation and comfort said, “you’re happy”. And I couldn’t help but smile and know that it didn’t matter how much money I had in the bank, or my RRSP, whether it was going to be a good week or a challenging week, what may be demanded of me kindly, or unkindly – I had “the moment”, my moment - my place of refuge and “yes”, I was happy.

 

“A” the “O” in LVE!

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Posted in About Love and Life, Country Living, Motorcycles, Pets, Sports, horses
Tags: animal, bears, bull, Country Living, equine, finance, fun, horses, life, love, money, relaxation, retirement, stock market, stress, wild

LoveUbecause … you are my motorbike!

LoveUbecause …  you are my motorbike!

Call me a narcissist, or perhaps delusional. Put it down to being born at home. Gracing this world’s stage, not to be greeted by a crowd of cheering medical staff, or blinding, bright hospital lights left me a little wanting.

I prefer to think it stems from being cast in the role of an “auxiliary angel” in the school nativity play. Some kid called Ronald got to portray Joseph, the “headliner”. I didn’t get to say anything – just look awe struck when Jesus, played by a plastic doll, arrived – even he got more applause than me! There were no spotlights aimed in my direction, no curtain calls, or kudos for looking just plain angelic!

Consequently, I admit, spending much of my life looking for just that – a comfortable place in the glow of the spotlight, with a few cheers thrown in for good measure! What can I say – I shall just have to admit to being, at times, a bit of an insecure fellow.

Childhood shyness and innate nervousness didn’t really help. Neither did an upbringing, where acting up in school, bringing attention to myself in anything but a scholarly, or “within the confines of the rules” sort of way, was frowned upon. This hopeful extrovert,  wanna-be-class-clown, would have to wait.

Timing, as they say, is everything.  At age five, I watched Jimmy Stewart, fuddle and muddle to stardom as trombonist, Glen Miller in The Glen Miller Story. Miller struggled hard to create an original, big band sound, valiantly trying to make ends meet - winning the girl - almost losing the girl - winning the girl - so romantic. Well, perhaps not the part where he dies in a plane crash!

Nonetheless, for a time, destiny smiled and Miller’s band was wildly popular. In my child’s mind, what better way to blast myself into the hearts and minds of the public than to play the trombone?

Forward several years. After a good music test, some insufferable whining and a familial appreciation of the note, as my mother is one mean accordion player, it was agreed. At age eleven, I could have that shiny, brass horn! Blast I did – though elementary school, high school, university and beyond. I played lots of good notes and my share of bad. At one time, some agreed I was relatively accomplished. Whatever the review, timing had the ultimate say. Newsflash! The mass popularity of big bands faded, pretty much, thirty years ago! Duh! Go find something else to do, “Glen”!

I moved on. I wrote songs, recorded some tunes – ok, that country record was stretching it a bit. Finally that wanna-be-class-clown was released as I earned a living acting for a time portraying a demented scientist in a rather silly play. For years I also played doctors, lawyers, soldiers, policemen and a host of other characters, flashing by in the background as an extra in television shows, movies and commercials. Oh, the glamour of Hollywood North! Begrudgingly, I admit it went nowhere! Forever waiting for the “Über-audition”, the “big break” – sadly, there were no Tony, or Grammy nominations in the cards – Oscar, well that’s just the name of one of my cats - though Catherine O’Hara did once tell me she really liked the sweater I was wearing. What more could a fellow ask for?

Finally - the art! Discovering a flair for the application of paint to canvas, I found several reputable galleries willing to display and sell my work over the past sixteen years. The possibility in centuries forth, of discovering an “Olscher”, dusty and long forgotten, somewhere in an attic in a number of different countries, is actually there – the value of which - to be determined!  What more can a fellow intent on gaining a certain measure of notability hope for?  I even “Google” well!

Now it may be naïve to think that one can ever top the applause that a plastic Jesus gets in a school play, but I am definitely happy being an artist! Especially with some reassurance that once I take my easel and tumble off this mortal coil, hopefully into the froth of painterly heaven, at least I will be able to say I once had some practice at being an angel – albeit, not well lit!

But here’s the kicker! Ironically, recognition, or perhaps call it “fleeting, mobile, anonymous celebrity”, has shown itself in an unexpected and oddly satisfying way. 

Several summers ago I walked into a local motorcycle shop. There sat a gleaming, classically designed, sidecar equipped motorbike. Was I nostalgically jarred by memories of such machines in old films I habitually watched as a child with my grandparents on Sunday afternoons? Was it the spectacle of similar vehicles that trundled by as an addendum to the London to Brighton, antique, automobile race my father once took me too?  I don’t know, but I had to have it!

With promises of summer, afternoon jaunts through the lush, green, countryside and romantic weekends spent winding down the road from one B and B to the next, my wife was an easy sell.

As a neophyte rider, I took a safety course and a little nervously, the possession of our bike. Prepared for the reaction? Not! A vehicular oddity, for sure!

People stopped, stared, pointed and waved. I was flagged down, thinking something wrong, only to be questioned whether I was driving a BMW - an antique? No – it’s a Russian Ural of the 2003 vintage, actually!

Once, a van pulled up beside us on the wrong side of the highway and just stayed there! Were they trying to pass and just ran out of steam? No, the passenger was taking a picture. My goodness, Paparazzi – at last!

It is like being the only float in the parade. My wife has perfected her queenly wave and I, the expected manly nod, for occasions unsafe to remove my hands from the grips to return a salute from another passing biker. Little children, smile and jump up and down in delight. Grown men, in pickup trucks, break into broad grins as we pass. School bus loads of kids jovially jostle at the windows to get their glimpse and

give us a thumbs up.  I have been followed by mothers, with youngsters, who want to see the bike up close when I stop. “Just like in that Dalmatians movie!” they exclaim. Donut shop and mall parking lots are a haven for the curious and old men wishing to recount and briefly relive there memories of driving similar machines in younger days. A conversation piece?  An understatement!

This three wheeled chariot can be driven, using a little common sense, year round. We don’t expect to win any races, but flipped into two wheel drive we have negotiated back roads that have turned into streams, mud and snow.  Nothing like the 85 km ride we took one New Years Day! Talk about curious onlookers!

Admittedly there have been a few ups and downs with some rather quirky, old style technology, but our dealership has given us good service when required. It would be hard to outweigh the sheer pleasure of driving this machine.

Waving, cheering, we don’t even have to try! There is nothing better than finding pleasure in the unexpected and apparently bringing joy by being the unexpected. And strangely in our anonymity, what better way to spend a Sunday afternoon. What better way to enjoy life!

Enjoying the ride …

“A” the “O” in LVE!

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Posted in About Love and Life, Art, Country Living, Motorcycles, Music, Sports
Tags: Art, bikers, celebrity, childhood, dreams, fame, film, life, love, motorbikes, motorcycles, movies, Music, transportation

LoveUbecause … you were my first real bicycle!

Bygone Biking Times … 

It is not that uncommon for me to come across seriously minded cyclists while driving the back roads out here in the country. They travel singularly, in pairs and less often in large packs. I am more than a little awe-struck by the gleaming, silver bicycle frames, perhaps drawn from some complex alloy of metals once reserved for the space program. There are a seemingly, infinite number of different coloured, aerodynamically, streamlined shapes for helmets - the sometimes bug-like impression, enhanced by intense silver, black or gold reflective eyewear. Variations of cleated shoes, the similar next-of-kin once only seen on the football field, are in abundance. Spandex and Lycra stretched perilously tight over bulging thighs and buttocks, sometimes due to too much exercise and alas, sometimes due to not enough.  The number of gears, sprockets, well lubricated chains and possible permutations and combinations of this complex equipment - I couldn’t even hazard a guess! Arguably this is just an impression, not a judgment, but the thing is, as an onlooker, a non-enthusiast, I just can’t help but think these futuristic road warriors look a little out of sync with the natural surroundings. More importantly, for the most part, the impression is one of being a bit driven.  I am not actually convinced that they are enjoying the journey. It is the destination that counts and just how fast one can arrive. I just can’t help but think back to simpler times when cycling was just that - simple.

I remember as a young boy straddling my bright orange Super Cycle and pedaling about the neighbourhood on hot summer’s days.  I liked to think of myself as a bit of a maverick as other children scooted here and there on more traditional coloured bikes - generally red, racing green or perhaps even midnight blue. But it was a time before there was much disposable this and disposable that – it was a time when there was less of a need for Reduce, Reuse, Recycle, because in great measure many people did it anyway – they could not afford to do otherwise. So, in tune with the times, I purchased secondhand, what I considered my “metal steed”, on which I would ultimately endlessly charge about the neighbourhood, from a friend of my best friend’s brother.

I paid the handsome sum of ten dollars which had been painstakingly accumulated from allowances, birthday and Christmas gifts. To me, the freedom was well worth every hard earned penny. I went to view the bike, which originally was fire engine red and leant rather forlornly with a punctured tire against the wall of the seller’s dimly lit, front porch. It didn’t look like much, but it was affordable and I had imagination – a new version would definitely cost three, four or more times the amount. I was assured it was in good working condition and that the tire would be repaired. I excitedly made the deal on the spot.

The repair was delayed a few days due to an emergency in the seller’s family, so with heightened anticipation I arrived to pick up the bicycle.

I remember, quite cautiously making the journey, only a few blocks, home. I dutifully stopped at every stop sign, hand signaled every turn, whether there were other vehicles there to see me or not – a habit which for the most part I still maintain. But it was the travel between those stops and turns that quickly changed into sheer joy. The wind blowing through my hair, the warmth of the sun on my face, my pale, spindly, little legs strengthening as having only one gear – “go” –  they were challenged by hills, the ups and downs to the shopping centre, the long trips I made with my best friend clear across the city and back.

We explored back streets, bought candy at newly discovered corner stores, ventured upon and intimately became familiar with the twisting trails of a huge city bush lot that was known only to the local boys as “the swamp”. Daredevils - we mastered “sweet jumps” that would have put Napoleon Dynamite to shame and escaped “swamp bullies” who sometimes ferociously chased us when we unsuspectingly encroached on “their” territory. It was never about the destination - always the journey – the adventure.

They were carefree spring, summer and fall days when video games, DVDs, personal computers, Lycra, helmets and deraillers either hadn’t been invented, or were still unfamiliar to most. We were the knights of our neighbourhood, madly pedaling by the lurking dragons – loose dogs that roamed menacingly about, sometimes in small packs, waiting to chase a boy on his bike. We dismantled, lubricated, patched and repaired and when the failing red paint became too unsightly, I boldly spray painted my frame bright orange!

It all went on for several years. But as is the nature of childhood, time and life, things changed. Coming home from school one day, I discovered a visiting aunt and uncle had left me a bulging envelop generously stuffed with cash for a new bicycle. A brand new, metallic, blue, ten speed racer was purchased.  My orange road companion was eventually left to deteriorate and rust at the side of the garage, but the spirit was never lost. So still today – yes, I wear a helmet – but it is the feel of the wind and sun on my face that makes my ride – the smell of cut grass, fields of daisies and the occasional fox peering cautiously from the forest. The Spandex – sorry, I shall have to leave that to the road warriors!
Anticipating the coming spring and summer seasons …

“A” the “O” in LVE!

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Posted in Cycling, Sports, Uncategorized
Tags: bicycle, bike, childhood, stories, youth