Thursday, August 7, 2025

The Story of Peach

 History: unlearned

.

.

The wind was hot and fast and immediate. It kicked up right after the flash. In that instant, Peach knew what was up. At 74 he’d read a lot, seen a lot.

     Eighty years ago, the Enola Gay dropped its payload and commenced ticking of something sinisterly ~ or maybe sincerely ~ called the doomsday clock, something that measured the metaphorical seconds between now and some presumed midnight oblivion. Twenty years later, two constructs became real, even common. One was a series of missile bases dubbed ‘Nike’ dotting every fifty or so miles across the American landscape. The other was the backyard-built fallout shelter, plans of which were readily available at the library or newsstand. Both John Hershey, who authored a book, and Slim Pickens, who starred in the final scene of an early Kubrick comedy, perhaps inadvertently reinforced the advisability of digging such a vault.

 

    When the Nike base was nearly completed just north of town, Peach’s father broke ground on a fallout shelter positioned near the water well in his five acres of peaches. (Peach, the son, never forgave fully Papa, the papa, his little nomenclature joke.) The hole was deep and square and, initially smelled like Vina loam, rich and dark. Cinder block and mortar changed the odor to a minerally musk that would infuse the cavity for years. Entry to the shelter was gained through a circular, hinged lid like you might see on the deck of a submarine: crank wheel one way on the outside to open and the other way on the inside to seal shut the underground space. A neoprene rubber ring prevented the inward seepage of radon in the event of... 

     The unspeakable was often spoken.

 

Finished, the rust tinted metal stairs echoed with each foot fall. The space was stocked with a month or more’s worth of freeze-dried backpacking food ~ Papa being a hiker ~ and gallon glass jugs of water should the line jury-rigged into the well fail. The provisions bill from the Ski Hut in Berkeley, where Papa got his back country supplies, almost equaled a month’s wages. Mom had been appalled and said so many times, shaking her head and gasping exasperated gasps, as they drove north in the Ford Fairlane with their boys in the back.

     Peach and his late brother, Charlie set up their S-gauge American Flyer electric train on the concrete floor, using one of the two duplex outlets to connect the transformer. The single pull chain light cast comic shadows that grew from foot to shoulder. Peach and Charlie’s neighborhood pals, the ones who didn’t make fun of Peach’s name in front of him, liked to trace their oblique shadows on the concrete floor with chalk and then laugh at their masterwork. Once, Peach started down the stairs to surprise Charlie as he attempted to move beyond first base with Yvette ~ secretly known by classmates in high school as Yvette the Corvette ~ and was told to knock, Goddammit, before coming into the shelter. Never mind that there was no place to knock on that heavy circular hatch door. Later, when Charlie shipped out to Vietnam ~ Charlie said he’d be the good Charlie over there shortly before he left ~ Peach plugged in an IBM Selectric, set it on a rickety desk made of two sawhorses and scrap of plywood and typed his college term papers. 

     There would be no Yvette for any kid named Peach. 

     Dammit, Papa!

 

Peach was standing next to the orchard pump house maybe forty feet from the submarine hatch when that wind blasted into being. He glanced at the opening which was now always open: too much a pain in the ass ~ and maybe too heavy ~ to push down and crank shut after each visit even though each visit had become less and less frequent. Besides, the neoprene had rotted off long ago so the place and all of its contents was always coated in a powdery film of loess. Peach faced the furious gale that was coming from just north of town.

     Not so long ago, there would have been children to shepherd in. Little ones. Ones that toyed with Barbies and GI Joes; ones that played both house and Rat Patrol; ones that practiced violin and brass tuba because they liked the acoustics even though they didn’t know the word.  Ones that needed the strong arms of Peach and the caring heart of Carah to find their way from time to time. How quickly those moments passed. And now: how well they were doing!


    Peach and Carah had taken ownership ~ there was no one else in line ~ after the accident. Some moron driving on a frigid pea-soup morning without his damned headlights on crossed a center line. He couldn’t make out Peach’s folk’s station wagon tiptoeing carefully through the tule fog heading somewhere, nowhere. Peach was amazed at how many townsfolks knew Papa or Mom or both. 

     Kids and trains and tubas and term papers now gone, the cool of the underground made a good place for storing peaches before market. Peach’s peaches ~ perhaps that was the punchline Papa was shootin’ for all along ~ were renowned for their sweetness, delicate skin, and ample dimension. A robust pie would need but four of them. Wearing one of Mom’s old handmade aprons, Carah discovered she could reduce any recipe’s sugar allotment and did so before filling crusts ~ crusts she’d perfected. It wasn’t simply the fruit that gave rise to renown.



Inheriting the place was never in the plan. Once Peach earned his credential, he and Carah immediately lit out for a different horizon, one less agricultural, maybe a bit more foresty. Jobs for history teachers were a dime a dozen especially if the candidate could coach, so Peach claimed he could coach wrestling and maybe volleyball. Thus, he spent three or four years prowling the sideline of the mountain town’s football field as an assistant never quite figuring out the difference in the roles of a defensive guard and a defensive tackle. Then, one late-October evening, they received the call. Taking leave, Peach never returned. With a bit of a resume, some experience under his belt, he figured he could venture home and substitute until something came up locally. 

     The dime a dozen adage held. Teaching history at his old high school, now ‘Mr. Peach’ hired boys and girls to tend the orchard paying each a little in cash along with firewood and in-season fruit. When asked about the submarine hatch, he simply responded “Rumpus room.” High School curriculum mentioned little about Hiroshima and most years, Peach didn’t get that far in US history, which, he rationalized, was a good thing recalling the terrifying nights when, as an eleven-year-old, he had to crawl into bed with Papa and Mom after reading pages from John Hershey’s account of the world’s first wartime atomic blast. 


     Standing in the orchard with dust pellets and grit peppering his eyes, Peach wondered how many other US history teachers had made a similar miscalculation, leaving how many now in charge to pass off history unlearned as simply fiction.


     Facing the wind and under a dust-cloaked sun, Peach struck out north toward the long abandoned Nike missile base and wondered who among the townsfolk would attend his memorial, knowing the answer would likely be none.

     It being midnight and all.

© 2025

Church of the Open Road Press

 

Monday, June 9, 2025

TESTIMONY OF A PEACEFUL PROTESTER

     I said, “You must do what your heart tells you to.”

     The Guardsman lifted his goggles and looked at me with warm, not angry, eyes and said, “Yes.”

     And that’s the last thing I remember.

 

© 2025

Church of the Open Road Press

 

Wednesday, May 28, 2025

ANOTHER RETURN TO SIMPSON CAMP

 …a Memorial Day Tradition…

 


On or about Memorial Day in good years, I’ll make the trek up to Simpson Camp (western edge Glenn County near Mendocino Pass) with a loved one or a few to reminisce about 1960s-era visits to that old sheep camp with the sheepherder who worked the area forty years before. [Details are recounted in “Eden Indeed: Tales Truths and Fabrications of a Small Town Boy” pages 186-203] Our family reveled and relaxed in the beauty and solitude of the cool evergreen forests, velvet soft glades and clear starry nights. 

     In 2020, we fulfilled one of Mom’s final wishes and held a memorial for her at Simpson Camp, leaving her beloved shillelagh tucked beneath a fallen timber. Within months, the devastating August Complex fire roared through searing the trees, wiping out any sign of the camp, and leaving only a trace of white ash where Mom’s stick had lain.  

 

Back in the sixties, a small cluster of oak trees grew at the top of the ridge, visible from camp. Dad said it looked like a Greek Chorus, whatever that was. On a clear day, standing near to those oaks, looking west, one could see the fogbank of the Pacific shore; looking east, Lassen Peak: the whole of my northern California growings-up. As we lunched after Mom’s memorial, I called a granddaughter and a nephew to visit that stand where they watched as I drove a wooden stake in the ground, observing the knowing nods of those from the next generation.

 

This recent visit found the old camp regenerating. Amid the blackened spires of standing deadwood, thickets of gooseberry and chemise were taking hold. The meadow was back and foresters were awork downing some of the standing deadwood and yarding it into piles for later care; all under the ever watchful gazes of a couple of circling red tails.

     Curiously, that copse of tiny oaks had somehow survived the great fire. My stake in the ground was still my stake in the ground, confirming that, at some time-point in the future, I’ll witness ~ and be one with ~ the rebirth of Simpson Camp.

 

Photo Album 2025

 

Stepping out of the car at the top of the ridge.

 

Life returns to the meadow.

 

Someone has replaced the Zibe’s sign lost in the fire. (I had hoped to do this.)

 

 Nail of particular importance (see page 201-02)

 

Jethro waits for Dad (me) who needed an 'alone-time' moment back at camp.

 

Final view of the road winding down the hill.

 

My stake in the ground.

© 2025

Church of the Open Road Press

Saturday, May 24, 2025

SOME BOOK MAGIC

 In praise of a good reference book…

…and a little kismet

 

For reasons I cannot recall, about a half century ago, I picked up a copy of Erwin Gudde’s California Place Names, the hardbound edition, at the used bookstore on Broadway in Chico…  



…Maybe because new it was listed at $15.95 but this one was marked down to $13.50… 



I’d probably picked it off the shelf and looked up Chico [page 62]… 



…then Paradise [page 238], then Butte Creek [page 44] and learning useful trivia about the origins of the names of the places near which I’d grown up.

 


The wisdom of that purchase was confirmed a few years later when I served as a Fourth Grade teacher in Durham [page 96]…



…and kept it on hand in the back of my classroom. At the conclusion of my reading Scott O’Dell’s classic Island of the Blue Dolphins to the class, one of my students asked if the island was real and what was it really called. Pulling Place Names from the back counter, the kids learned about San Nicolas Island… 

 


…and the Santa Barbara islands and a bunch of other one-thing-led-to-another- type stuff found in such a volume. After lunch recess, we always engaged in ten-minutes of silent reading. A little boy pulled the reference book from the back counter. He wanted to find out about the town where his grandparents lived. The next day another one picked it up.

 

Two or three years into my tenure as a fourth grade teacher, someone donated an aquarium to the class. (There’s a lesson here.) I gladly accepted it, and one Friday afternoon, set it up and filled it with water thinking that over the weekend the water would warm enough to be suitable for a goldfish or a guppy. Monday, I discovered not an aquarium filled with warm water, but a countertop backed with water-logged books. Including Place Names… 



…Tossing out some, having to pay for others, I kept Gudde’s volume knowing it was still serviceable once all the pages dried out. Yet, over the intervening fifty years, I’ve felt a pang of disappointment every time I leave through its crackly pages. So much so that I was always on the lookout for a replacement. I even purchased the 40th Anniversary edition (2004) in paper, but that fell short of relieving my angst.

 

During those Durham days, I was a regular attendee of the Bidwell [John Bidwell, page 28 (entry) and 376 (glossary)] Presbyterian Church in Chico. I even served on their Session ~ the elective body that oversees policy for the congregation. The session was comprised of long-time members, many upstanding members of the Chico community: doctors, lawyers, university types, educators. Not sure how I qualified.

 

John Nopel, decades my senior, was one of ‘em. He and his wife always sat a few pews in front of me and the family I’d married into during my first attempt at matrimony. In reviewing his lovingly prepared obituary, it became clear that Mr. Nopel garnered many claims to fame beyond being an elder in the Presbyterian Church. A life-long member of Scouting, in 1934, he worked on the construction crew building Camp Lassen, the Boy Scout Camp where 54 years later, I wed [See Eden Indeed: Tales, Truths and Fabrications of a Small Town Boy pages 210-15]. As a school principal, Mr. Nopel opened Chico’s Hooker Oak School in 1948 and later served as an associate superintendent for the school district before moving to the county office. Career coincidence found me a member of Chico’s Phi Delta Kappa educational fraternity with him, later employed opening two new schools (elsewhere) myself. But, perhaps, most significant, he was the heartbeat of the Butte County Historical Society maintaining files and photos of the earliest years of my old stompin’ grounds. His library of historic texts and references must have been exhaustive.

 

 

Why might I think this? A couple of weeks back, I engaged in another of those searches for a copy of my long-damaged book. To my surprise, AbeBooks so called ‘sellers of books, fine art and collectables’ had one listed. In excellent condition. Priced at  thirty-five bucks! (AbeBooks, it turns out, serves as a means for individuals to market their wares to an online audience. Note: I normally avoid shopping for books online.) Confirmation of my purchase came with a bit of information about the seller. Enough to tell me to whom this copy might have once belonged. The Chico address rang a bell.

 

The book arrived. The cover, sheathed in plastic perfect. The pages pristine. Side-by-side, it was an exact match for my waterlogged copy. I can’t say my throat didn’t constrict a bit.

 


That evening, I settled into a favorite chair with a thimbleful of favored scotch and began to thumb through. All the listings I’d referenced before were there as, of course, were entries about the new places I’ve explored…

 


…and before I knew it, an hour-and-a-half and fifty years magically dissolved.

 


Mr. John Nopel (1914 – 2006): Perhaps your greatest calling was that of teacher. Know that even now in 2025, you’re still in the business.

 

© 2025

Church of the Open Road Press

Thursday, May 15, 2025

My Beloved Spitfire

Ode to the Joys of First-Car Ownership

 

Commuting on a Honda Trail 90 wasn’t gonna get it anymore. Feeling like an adult at nineteen, I needed a car. I was drawn to British roadsters likely because one of my most memorable toys was the red Hubley MGTD Santa left when I was about four. My ninth grade English teacher, Mr. Reed, drove a baby blue Triumph TR3; the county sheriff’s kid, a year or two my senior, had an Austin Healy 3000. But I liked MGs: Midget or B. Either one. British Racing Green if possible.

     Life, I was continually discovering, is nothing if not a series of compromises. One day, motoring south on Park Avenue past Arnie’s Kwality Kars on my Honda 90, I spied a yellow Triumph Spitfire parked at the corner of the front row. Pasted on the windshield was the bargain price: $1299. I rode around the block and puttered by again. Working half time at the wholesale house and making about two-and-a-quarter an hour, I somehow amassed most of that, so on day two, I stopped in for a closer look.



     The sales guy was as nice as could be although his breath smelled like an ashtray that no measure of Hai Karate cologne could obscure. I wheeled down Park Avenue on a test drive with him. Although it was far from an MGB and yellow certainly wasn’t BRG, I was feeling a bit obligated because the sales professional ~ it may have been Arnie himself ~ told me he could make a good deal if I acted today. My experiential file in this regard contained only blank index cards and in less than an hour, $1200 lighter in savings, the ’67 Triumph Spitfire Mk3 was mine. So pleased was I with my coming-of-age purchase that the little cough or two it gave up leaving the lot would be of no concern.

     My plan had been to park the Trail 90 and use it only on weekends up in the national forest, but plans have a way of not going as planned. After the Spitty stalled out multiple times at stop lights and Mr. Cigarette Breath said, “Gee, son, that’s too bad,” I found a foreign car service that would give my baby a good once over. The ensuing tune-up wasn’t too expensive but more than I wanted to pay and the mechanic said he’d had “a hell of a time” trying to sync the carbs, but I nodded and paid and drove away. Two days later, I was back and the kind mechanic said he’d give the carbs another shot “free gratis.”

     Ultimately, I figured that a bit of sputtering must be the spit part of owning a Spitfire, so I decided I’d enjoy the ride in this sleek British marvel even if the ride wasn’t always so enjoyable.

 

 

A couple of months into ownership, I hooked up with Brother Beebo who was home on leave from the Army. Beebo knew more about cars than I did, which arguably still wasn’t much. “You just need to blow the carbon out,” he said.

     “Blow the carbon out?”

     “Yeah. Let’s hop in and take it out to Seven Mile Lane and just get ‘er going and blow the carbon out of the system.”

     “Ummm… Okay.”

     Seven Mile Lane is (or was) a straight stretch of country road bordered by acres and acres of corn. Rural, it proved a mecca for hot rodders on Friday or Saturday nights engaging in “run it for pink slips.” I never quite knew what that meant but it didn’t matter because this was a Thursday or a Wednesday afternoon.

     Top down on the little roadster, we turned off Dayton Road on to Seven Mile and Beebo said, “Hit it!”

     So I did. Within about 20 seconds we were going a good sixty miles an hour. Then sixty-five. Then seventy!  Seventy-five! The little four cylinder topped out at 82. I checked the rearview mirror to, indeed, see a cloud of black smoke gushing from the tailpipe.

     Over the roar of the engine, Beebo yelled, “Let’s find out what the brakes will do!” So I crammed on the pedal.

     God or someone who’d engineered Seven Mile Lane made sure the shoulders of the road were wide. There must have been a good fifty feet between the pavement and the concrete irrigation ditches that lay parallel on either side.  Across that expanse, gravel would give way to dirt then to weeds then to that water. 

     As it would turn out this day, half of the brakes worked just as commanded. I think they were on the passenger side of the car because as soon as I crushed the pedal, my little Spitfire’s ass end swung around in front of me, off the far side of the road, spit up some gravel and dough-nutted in a cloud of dust that took a good two or three minutes to clear. In those initial moments, I wasn’t sure how I hadn’t flipped the damned thing and, as Mom would often aver about young people who died doing stupid things, “Become a statistic.” 

     I killed the engine, waited for my pulse to subside and crawled out to tiptoe along the edge of the irrigation ditch and assess what, if any, damage, might have occurred to my Spitty. Beebo, by this time, was at the back of the car, sort of laughing. He had endured this near-death experience from the passenger seat. Although perhaps thinking active duty was somehow safer, he was gracious enough to drive the thing back home for me.

 

 

North Valley Volkswagen was at the north end of town. A week after the ‘incident,’ I dropped by. In 1971, VW had just come out with the Super Beetle, a marginally larger version of the car that so many Americans had grown to love. An orange one had just rolled off the transport truck, and after accepting $300 as a trade in, I found myself comfortably tooling around in a vehicle that was much more my style.

     A week into ownership, I cruised down Park Avenue, and sitting at the prime corner position at Arnie’s Kwality Kars was a yellow Triumph Spitfire Mk3. Attached to the windshield was the bargain price: $1299.

 

© 2025

Church of the Open Road Press

Sunday, April 13, 2025

MY CULT MEMBERSHIP

…Hooked by my Himalayan…

 

From the outside looking in, a cult seems to embody some sort of collective allegiance to a concept, product or a leader that is patently false. History is full of cults. Contemporary societies, too. Examples?

 

1.    False Products: Fizzies (remember those?), Beanie Babies, Coors Light. 

2.    False Leadership: [fill in the blank]

3.    False Prophets: Jim Jones, David Koresh and others.

 

     Typically, I’m thinking, cult membership is a response to a need for comfort, answers to tough questions or maybe simply a desire to belong. Sadly, the result of cult membership can often to lead to lost dreams, lost potential, lost savings and sometimes, loss of life itself. (See item 3, above)

     But not always.

 


Membership in the cult to which I belong began innocuously enough. The plan was to accompany a buddy on his first motorcycle trip over the vaunted Beartooth Pass between Montana and Wyoming.

 


However, the one-week timeframe I’d set aside for the round trip wouldn’t allow for the 2400 mile round trip on my Yamaha Super Tenere. Perhaps I could find an alternative. A little internet search and I found a gentleman outside of Red Lodge who owned a small fleet of Royal Enfield Himalayan dual sport single cylinder machines. He rented them out to folks who,  like me, wanted to explore the impressive Absarokas, but lacked the time to ride to and from. Rugged looking thumpers, stats showed they pumped – well, squeezed – out 22 horsepower, about a fifth of my big Yamaha’s grunt. I wondered if the little machine could haul my ample rear end up and around the winding Beartooth Highway to 11,000+ feet in elevation. 

 

My first motorcycle was actually referred to as a “motor-driven cycle.” Purchased new from the Honda shop a half mile from my home in Chico, the Trail 90 banged out seven horses, requiring me to ride on the shoulder of any state highway that might lead me to a Lassen or Plumas National Forest road. 



But the thing got 100 miles to the gallon and with that 1.1 gallon tank, I could go… well… about a hundred miles on 26 cents worth of gas. I bought the little Honda after obtaining a loan from Laurentide Finance and, for a while it being my only vehicle, put ten thousand miles on it in less than three years. The adventures on that yellow step-through remain a half-century later. Cheap transportation, Cheap explorations. Cheap adventures. Cheap fun. (And no, Mom, I wasn’t likely to kill myself on the damned thing; or even get too banged up.)

         My view of the Himalayan was that it was a throwback to my Trail 90. 



Cheap, rugged, light and it would take great effort for me to kill myself on one. The only question was, as stated above, would it haul my 220+ pound carcass up the Beartooth Highway from Red Lodge to Cooke City without holding up my buddy on his big Triumph? The posted speed limit of 35 for the bulk of the 68-mile trek would help and, the day before the big adventure, I test-ran the bike and found it could cart me around at 60-plus miles per hour so long as those miles weren’t particularly uphill.

         

After orienting myself to the quirks of the little 411cc powerplant, I was ready to join my pal and head up and over Beartooth. 



He, on his Triumph Triple, soon left me with nothing but his fading exhaust note. 

         Everybody else in the world who enjoyed two wheels must have been on the Beartooth Highway that day. Nobody was traveling too fast. The scenery was simply too spectacular to race through. Wide spots and scenic viewpoints dotted the route and I found myself stopping at damned-near every one, along with hordes of others that day, including the boys on the big bad American Iron. Pulling into one, I parked next to a beautiful blue bagger just as the rider and his mate were about to saddle up. 



        “What the hell is that thing?” he asked stepping forward for a look.

         “Royal Enfield,” I said. “Comes from India, of all places.”

         “Sounds British.”

         “It once was,” I said and I related a little bit of history I’d learned while researching the brand and model.

         A couple of other riders joined in. “How long you had it?”

         “Three days.”

         “New?”

         “Nope. A rental. I’m on a bit of a short timeframe. I live in California and left my FLNCH (I guessed at the Harley designation) home,” I lied. (Forgive me, Lord.) “A guy rents ‘em out of Red Lodge.” 

         We chatted a bit and soon the big boys were off. But it wouldn’t be our last conversation of the day. With almost every viewpoint would come the question, “What do you think of it now?”

         What I thought about it was this: The Himi could accomplish highway-esque speeds, but I didn’t think that was the point. Roomy for my 34-inch inseam, upright seating that meant taking the wind head on, light and flickable even with the semi-knobby tires, it hadn’t taken me long to begin to enjoy the alpine environs and not think about the little burro that was hauling me along. Primarily, it reminded me of the simple pleasures I’d enjoyed on that Honda 90 so many years before. 



 

The day’s journey was more than fine; and I had something to compare it to. Years before, returning from South Dakota on a BMW GSA, I took a wrong turn while searching for the road to Cody and found myself on the Beartooth Highway. That day, too, was spectacular, but this day was its equal. And I think this was when I got sucked into the cult.

         Over the years since that second ride on the Beartooth Highway, I’ve traded one bike for another, finding myself more than enamored with Italy’s Moto Guzzi marque. Established a year before BMW and still manufactured in the same factory on Lake Como, Guzzi may be another two-wheeled cult to which I belong. I’m on my third sample.



         As fate would have it, my current Guzzi, under warranty, somehow developed a crack in the fuel bladder and the part had to be shipped from Europe. There was a new model just like mine on the showroom floor, and had the shop been an enthusiast’s shop they’da pulled the bladder out of the floor model and sent me on my way. But unlike A&S in Roseville or Dave Richardson’s shop in the Seattle area or AF-1 in Austin, this was not an enthusiast’s shop. It was simply a dealership. One that carries, Guzzi, Aprilia, BMW, Zero (electric), Vespa and… wait for it… Royal Enfields. An unsold, year old Himi with a striking red and black tank was drawing me near. 

         I was eyeballing it and about to swing a leg over to try out the seat when: “Do you want to kill some time and take it for a spin?” the sales guy asked.

         A wiser me would have said, “No thanks.”

 

The Guzzi and the Himi live side-by-side in my garage. The former great for 150-mile packed-side-case runs to Chico to see family or multi-day tours into Oregon or across the Sierra or down the coast. Powerful. Comfortable. Head turning Italian flair. Sweet!



         The Himalayan is utilitarian, suited for simpler tasks. Basically I use for those thirty-minute errands to the neighboring town to buy a book, or hit the hardware store, or pick up a cigar or a reputable bottle of scotch. Curiously, those little jaunts never only last a half hour. With redwoods and riverbanks and vineyards and cresting hills, it’s easy to lull myself into a mini-tour – the Mendocino National Forest with its miles of unpaved roads isn’t all that far away – and find, again, the simple pleasures of the basic bike. The Honda 90 stuff I grew up with, upgraded with just enough juice to cart me around and not hold up other traffic.

         

But age 73 is rearing up to slap me in the face. A-fib, or something like it, is reminding me of how few chapters – or miles – might remain. Mom’s voice echoes, do you want to kill yourself on that damned thing? and I find myself admitting that longer-distance touring may be safer in the Subaru than on the Guzzi. With that in mind, I’ve been giving serious consideration to admitting my place in life and selling both bikes.



         But my heart of hearts – occasionally aching though this one might be – tells me I probably won’t. I’ll keep the little red Royal Enfield.

         Why? 

         Because I’m a member of the cult.

© 2025

Church of the Open Road Press