A speedy downhill finish, ducking under a fractured limb of Water Oak, a full tug on the rear brake as I approach the trailhead where I am parked at its entrance. The rear tire locks and the bike slides across a mixture of damp leaves, sand, and gravel and into the front bumper of my Jeep.

I catch my breath and laugh. No one hears. No one is near. My outdoor companion of twenty-one years greets me with a big red smile. I can almost see his headlights roll as if to say, “Whatever, Hot Dog.”

Pulling the water bottle from its holder on the frame, I climb onto the battered and scarred hood of “Rangler” (short for Red Wrangler…clever, eh?). I thought of how many places this old Jeep has been with me. My Jeep and me. As I reflected, the moment turned from nostalgic to metaphorical. My Jeep…is me.

Despite its age, still has a great sense of adventure. Happiest when off the beaten path and far away from the highway. Prefers the open air to closed-in spaces. Runs a little hot now and then and needs hydration and a rest for the tempering. A little harder to see through the cracks in the glass.

An empty space where the radio once was. Ripped right out and stolen. Never replaced. A reminder of when my song was lost and a nudge to listen to the sounds of the waves, the woods, the wind. None of the locks are working. No need. Trusting nature and assuming the best in others. Manual five-speed stick. Old and quirky original clutch. Getting where he’s going requires push and pull, shifting and timing. Things no longer run automatically :-).

He carries the reminders of times past and things cared about. Tickets, notes, maps, stickers, pebbles and sand, weather-worn cards, Tybee’s collar and his chewed-up Frisbee, a glove compartment with keys to locks unknown or forgotten, flip flops from beaches gone by. Mementos bought, found, dragged in, or fallen. Pelted and dented by a hail storm in ’17. No insurance claim — not one to worry much about cosmetics. Scratched and torn from the journeys. A little rust here and there, but not enough to get him down. The ghost of Tybee still sitting shotgun and waiting for me to invite him to run alongside.

Plenty of signs of wear; no signs of slowing down.

As is, no warranty

The call began without a “Hello, it’s been too long, “ or “Happy New Year, how have you been?”

No, my ultra-conservative and life-long Republican friend simply greeted me with,

“How’s it feel to be right?”

He was referring to my long held mistrust (for 25+ years) of and complete lack of belief in the moral or ethical character of my Nation’s elected leader in the highest office. He offered a nostalgic homily of how he felt this guy was to be the “savior” (yes, that word was actually used) of the conservative movement. My response…

“Other than his own histrionic spiels, what EVER made you think he represented any form of conservative principle, AND, what qualities of a ‘savior’ did you see?”

He shifted the conversation to our times playing baseball and how he feels 80’s music is the best ever.

I couldn’t let it go.

I don’t know that I’m right at all. I know how I felt then and now about the person and his capacity to lead from a place of humanity or policy or principle. I never wanted our elected leader to fail. I take no satisfaction in watching a necessary and long-overdue exit. I simply breathe better and hope those stepping in will have the necessary character and resilience to lead a country whose diversity can and should coexist and heal from this political apartheid. I do have a competitive streak; those who know me well know that I love to compete. But winning always meant someone was losing. And, for whatever reason, I don’t like that as much. Yes, I was actually one of those parents who supported “participation trophies.” I hated little kids feeling like they lost the joy of play when others gloated in their victory. I wonder if that was the beginning of my move to left-of-center :).

“You see, I don’t want to be ‘right’ about this or about him.”

I love this country. I so love the theory of democracy. And like all theories, they are meant to be proven. In these last months, and I would suggest that over the last several years, the theories of both a Republic and a Democracy have gone through social scientific method rigor and have been failing. And, for some…for many… the dogmas of autocracy and socialism and other forms have been uttered as preference through actions and rhetoric. The reality, at least to me, is that conservatives do not prefer nor do they want to entertain the thought of an autocracy. They are just led by one who sees that as a sanctioned and destined position and have been more afraid of him than tethered to principle. And very few liberals want socialism. There are simply those whose concept of public ownership (a Republic) fights with our other treasured feature of capitalism. It is a worthy tension. And, if dialogue is good and hearts are less about self than about the whole, then we can collectively be a better society—through democracy.

Whew! I just wore my own damn self out with all of that. Crazy what happens with the ink flows and the paper is blank and the heart and the mind are going through a contemplative Ninja Bullet. I digress.

What has happened over the late days of the last year and during these first days of the new year has made me sick. Truly sick. In this last year we have seen the ravages of a pandemic; we’ve seen social injustice at its most transparent (and necessary) exposure; we have seen movements celebrated or excoriated based on their fit with one’s own sense of morality or value systems; we’ve seen the muted prejudices and bigotry of a large (sadly) base flamed and encouraged in rhetoric or inaction; and we’ve seen division like never before along fictitious lines with titles that have lost a bit (or a lot) of their original franchises of Democrat or Republican.

And with all of that, we are still here. We will grow from this if we are capable of listening and talking and learning from sources other than Twitter or talking heads with personal or ad-based agendas. Our system of government and our purer intentions for society over self may be truly resurrected. Our media will remain biased and, as long as we know that, we will seek many sources for what is our truth and our better path. We will love our families and our friends. We will defend against evil—after trying to understand and face what “evil” means (within and outside). We will hopefully find that prospering as a country and as individuals does not have to come at the sacrifice of decency, integrity, honesty, and humanity. And there will be wine. And music — including the 80’s.

Yes, I am advocating for the proverbial, and elusive, Win-Win.

Sean

You see, or, perhaps not, the Golden Gate Bridge is still just as brilliant even when obscured by the perpetual fog that squats over the strait in summer. Or is it?

If beauty and brilliance is there, but left blurred or altogether eclipsed by the upwelling of busy-ness and what ultimately matters little, is the beauty really there if not seen?

The vaporous mass of 2020 has held transformational change, a horde of emotions, division, life milestones, and more. It has left so much beauty obscured. Then again, other exquisite things have opened and become treasured.

The year began with a collision of personal loss of what was most dear paralleled by the slow and steady swarm of microscopic invaders whose indiscriminate and random attacks led to an overthrow of the human condition. Further and forever tainted by ideological division, conspiracy theories, social injustices, character vacuums at a time when we needed moral clarity the most, and a lack of dialogue.

The wounds remain fresh and unexpectedly raw. Their sting revealed in the late hours of the night and at first wake; in the artifacts and pictures and memories that cannot and should not be erased. Sometimes in dreams. Signs of healing are there, too. Stitches come in the form of new little lives, new love, the return of friendships seemingly lost or diluted, and inspiring ventures and adventures. The emotional rehab reveals new strengths and capabilities. Families and loved ones found intimacy and the proverbial “quality time” driven by an unwelcome quarantine whose ironic effect was to bring us…closer.

I will not try and forget 2020. I will work to embrace its lessons. I pray that its fury and toxic layer be appreciated but not welcome for a return. I will hope strongly that some things disappear forever; and I hope others will return and allow me to hold close their beauty and never let the fog steal its most permanent place.

I was leaving the pristine mountains of the Pisgah National Forest after 3 exhilarating mountain bike rides. After a perfect weekend with friends I stayed in Asheville one more day in order to get a few more miles of crazy exciting trails and to say Thank You to nature and her wonder.

As I left Bent Creek and headed for the interstate taking me back into Asheville, I was struck by the number of State Trooper vehicles speeding past me in both directions. I counted 17. Then, the colors and the banners and the lawn chairs and the people in ball caps and camouflage pants and shirts started to appear. American flags and confederate flags and MAGA hats were everywhere. With each mile there were more and more and more. It was like the lining of the boulevard for a parade. I was reminded that is was the first day of the RNC and perhaps POTUS was going to have a motorcade detour to this wonderful region of North Carolina. I prayed for an exit.

The crowds grew thicker by the mile. Folks with smiles and some with scowls waving their posters and banners. It looked like the 4th of July, but had more the feel of a Slender Man convention.

I had to stop for gas. I slowed and pulled in to a station along Brevard Highway, my 3 bikes loaded on my orange Subaru filled with bags and wine coolers, a guitar, and all manner of what is required to sustain life in the woods or with nutty friends at an Airbnb.

I had no sooner opened my driver-side door when a friendly-enough guy walked up and reached out to hand me a bumper sticker and a pamphlet. The organization: The Silent Majority. He wore jeans and work boots. His hands leathery and dirty from what I am certain is an honest job and one that adds value. His voice gritty from the combination of a lifetime of smoking and a couple of hours yelling at orange Subarus.

This is a close transcript of the conversation that ensued between me (ME) and the Silent Majority Guy (TSMGUY).

ME:
Hi. I’ll take the pamphlet, but keep the number sticker for someone else.

TSMGUY:
Why don’t you want the sticker? You’re not one of those Obama-loving socialists, are you?

ME:
Well, I am not a socialist and I was and am a fan of President Obama.

TSMGUY:
Well, seems to us that if you liked that muslim guy then you must be a socialist.

ME:
Another two-parter here. First of all, President Obama is not a muslim, although that would not change my support of him in the least as a man or as a politician. And, once again, I am not a socialist; I am a capitalist with a conscience.

“And once again, my new friend, I am not a socialist; I am a capitalist with a conscience.“

Roadside chat Me and TSMGUY

TSMGUY:
What the hell does that mean? Capitalist…communist…same thing.

ME (looking very confused):
Do you have any idea what you just said?

TSMGUY (walking away to next target):
You have a good day, man. Make America Great Again.

ME:
You do the same. Truer words never spoken. But not with this guy.

I offered a peace sign as he slowly jogged away. He returned a hand gesture of his own, minus one finger.

All I could do was invoke the southern phrase that is usually mixed with a touch of well-intended concern and disingenuous affection, “Bless his heart.”

This morning’s news was dark. More and more illness and death from a pandemic. More protests from non-violent and peace-seeking people bewildered and oppressed during their lifetime and representing the generations before them, blended with others who stand with and for them. More violent protests and violent response from those perhaps misguided, misjudged, and misled — who am I to say? I am not them, the protesters or the law enforcers. Angry weather breaking and entering the southern coast. And the stories of the rich and powerful having their way; or losing their way.

And then, fifth in line, the news of the celebration of the life of John Lewis and his final crossing of the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama. A metaphorical tapestry masterpiece. A bridge. A casket. A flag. A body of honor was on its way to rest in the Nation’s capital, but first crossing the very place it was beaten, just under the name of a man who was a grand dragon of the Ku Klux Klan. A sweltering summer day in the south where the images of toil and suffering are not as distant as some would like to believe but where the hope and promise John Lewis labored for still shines as brightly as the July sun.

It would be easy to resign the day to everything that is dark. Easy to let cynicism overcome idealism in these days and in these moments. Easy to blame or subscribe to conspiracy theories in lieu of truth because the truth is less animate. Easy to just turn it off and pivot to social media to escape with dances and pictures of cats and memes of all kinds that serve as Teflon for the hard reality around us.

Today, I choose to focus on story #5. I choose to remember words that have the potential to unite humanity. A person who led with conviction and empathy, and kindness but did so with a strong will and a relentless quest of justice. I will bring my book with me to the woods and read some of my favorite passages from Walking With The Wind. I’ll be glad the rest of this day that despite the dark that so anxiously seeks to consume and divide and crush the spirit of good, we are…I am…seeking and appreciating what is beautiful in this life. My family. My friends. My love. My pursuits and passions. Nature. My opportunity, privilege, and burden to contribute to a better society and a better evolution of self.

“You are a light. You are the light. Never let anyone – any person or any force – dampen, dim or diminish your light. Study the path of others to make your way easier and more abundant.” ~ John Lewis

It was late night. We were headed back from uptown when we saw a woman walking down Johnston Road. She was tugging a luggage cart with what appeared to be a suitcase and other items in strapped on. She wore a reflective vest. Vera said–in her emphatic and empathic voice–“We have to see if she needs help!” I was already headed for the next U-turn. As we pulled over near the Ballantyne Country Club, I got out of the car and approached the traveler. She didn’t appear too concerned or at threatened by my approach.

I introduced my self and she said, “Hello, my name is May.”

May is homeless—by choice. She said she was in North Carolina for a time and eventually headed for Baltimore. Vee got out of the car once she knew it was safe. We chatted with May for a few moments. As I observed her broken down cart I asked if she would allow me to give her one that I had stored in my garage that might be easier to tow. She was immediately grateful and said, “Why, yes. Are you sure?” We agreed to meet in a few moments as she journeyed further north toward Harris Teeter or the even further to i485. I raced home and got the beach wagon/cart and headed back to Johnston Road.

We saw her tugging her cargo of belongings just under the 485 overpass. We made the turn and pulled over on the shoulder just ahead of her. Our new friend was a little surprised at our return. I pulled the cart out of the Subaru and we started re-packing her belongings in it. May and Vee moved some things around and tested it for ergonomics and road readiness. It was an instant hit. We chatted a bit longer about her plans to stay in a local mission and eventually head for Maryland. We wished her well, gave her some money for meals and whatever else she might need, exchanged hugs, and got in the car and drove away. We worried about her, but we were grateful to have perhaps done something nice for someone in need.

Fast forward two weeks and our trip to Oak Island. We were driving on Interstate 74 on the outskirts east of Monroe, NC. We were actually talking about May and wondering how she was doing. Not five minutes later, Vee yelled (and I do mean, YELLED), “Look, look. It’s her. It’s May!” We couldn’t believe it. There she was, almost 80 miles from where we first met her, on the opposite side of the highway, pulling her green wagon toward the city.

I made an immediate U-turn and found a parking lot in front of an appliance store just ahead of her trek. We both jumped out and approached her. She looked a little surprised until I enthusiastically said, “Maaaay…It’s Sean and Vera…your friends from a couple of weeks ago that gave you the cart.” Her face lit up with the most delightful smile.

We gleefully expressed our joy in the serendipity. She said she was on her way to the library and working on getting some of her belongings shipped to Baltimore ahead of her upcoming quest. A few more moments of chat, another offering of some spending money, another embrace, a photo, and we went our separate ways.

We got back in the car and exchanged smiles mixed with joy and hope. This was a special moment. A reminder that we may not be able to save the world (today), but we can add something good to it from time to time. We can make new friends in the most unlikely of circumstances and we can find them again.

Godspeed, May. I hope you get home soon. Otherwise, we might find you again another day.

I looked in my son’s eyes at this reunion. Images flood as I retire to journal after the first day of time again. I see Lincoln Logs and Lego. Ninja Turtle moves and chasing a butterfly as goalkeeper while other 5-6 year olds mold around a soccer ball and move like tug-o-war somewhere at midfield. Laser Tag birthday parties and Pop Tarts after school. Later, at 15, walking in the den as I played and asking, “Dad, will you teach me that song on guitar?” One of my favorite moments. School plays where this peaceful teen transformed into animation and song. Baseball, football, wrestling and all things athletic while the arts tugged alongside. Books filled with the fantasies of Tolkien and C.S. Lewis and of a boy named Harry. Flying in to Nashville just in time to hear him play his first gig and his first (and perfect) original. Pranks and bonfires and time with friends who stay friends. All boy. Always kind. Playful and pensive. Destined for something great

Then, the middle years. Somewhere between 11th grade, through college, and to this day. The years when when hobby and interests turn to passion and mission. When values and ideologies and philosophies are tested and changed. Or affirmed. A love. Vows, to a mate of a lifetime and vows to his country. And there are the dogs. Oh, the dogs that always seem to find a home in a Keyser pad. The decision to be a healer and a soldier. A leader of men and women. Between the studies, the weddings, the funerals, the contracts, the moves from base to base, the training, city to city, and hospital to hospital, we find ourselves here.

In these few days we did what we do. We talked about being human, being an American, a citizen. Politics and fast cars. Healthcare from the perspective of healers and administrators and advocates. We journeyed through the broken years and the moments and the days that have healed along the way. We laughed at the stories and how they are colorfully garnished with time. Watched a movie, and then another, and then another. Shared time in worship and song. We visited wineries and tasting rooms that line the hills and valleys of this pristine state. We offered our own tasting notes and made fun of the ones penned by others whose taste is something of another planet or palate (“graphite?). We placed targets along a pulley at a gun range and tested our skills and then watched my own Bonnie and Clyde at work. We went to the woods and gathered and chopped wood and built a fire and watched it light up the cool Washington night while the dogs chased and tirelessly played. Cheese and fruit and a bottle of Syrah. We walked through the personalities and the eccentricities of those we love and those we acquaint. We rested.

Then came time to leave. Breakfast and coffee. Small talk. A ride into the city and to the airport. A nervous look around the car for things forgotten just to add seconds or minutes. They never knew. An embrace and parting words like those as if returning in days. I walked into to a terminal full of hurried bodies. A glance back and the little Honda was gone. The tears find their release and the deep breaths keeps them at bay.

I don’t know if I have ever actually said those indelible parent’s words, “All grown up now.” But today, of all days, I find myself quietly offering them as my attention is fixed on the pictures on my phone while ignoring the TSA agent patiently motioning me through PreCheck, as if she knew.

To our beautiful Jenny—I love you. And I love the way you are.

Logan—I love you with a full heart and thank God every day for the treasure that is you.

“Godspeed, Little Man.”

Dad

Personal best? The weekend’s rides were a series of little ones—not one overall. Getting to the best part of me as a son, a father, a partner, a businessman, a citizen, a musician, a writer, a paddler, a friend, or a rider, takes training and practice and a little gutsy resolve.

The trails are Nature’s mentor in many ways. Learning where the lines are cleanest and where the roots and jumps can be most treacherous. Constant attention and familiarity reduces risk and offers up a predictably better finish. But taking the familiar and continuously improving on the same path lures one into staying on that path because we know it. Living life, I mean living it, has much to do with trying, and failing, at the proverbial “less traveled.” I am drawn to the unknown. I love it best when the woods are quiet and deep and absent of other humanity, but full of an audience of wildlife whose bleachers are the trees and the creeks and under the logs and around the fallen things.

I rode various trails over the two days. For whatever reason, with each approach to the places that offered the safer (bypass) or Expert options, I chose only
the more challenging path. There are times I want to glide and enjoy the maturing of a faster outcome for the whole. But these two days were more about getting a little better at the edges, the hazards, the precarious. It was an attitude. I wanted to explore both new terrain and new potential.

So I pushed. I never clocked my overall time. I did find that my turns were sharper, some of my landings more solid, my acceleration out of the turns faster, and a little more air was under the frame.

At the top of Whitewater’s Goat Hill, I smiled. The burn in my thighs was matched by a rapid pulse and mild gasps for the Spring air. I tried, and succeeded at single-gearing it all the way.

The next day, on the ramp at Beatty I did what I thought I would never do. I jumped off the down ramp instead of carefully leaning back and sliding through the descent. I landed hard but never lost stride. There is this adrenaline that is rooted in fear at the pull of the bars heading into the jump, then, an equal amount that turns to a rush of “Holy Shit, I just did that.” This chemistry of opposing highs mixed with the familiar racing through clean lines and the known paths made for a day to remember.

A blueprint for life.

Sean