Pitchers and catchers reported yesterday.

That’s right, boys and girls, spring training is here.  For those of us who are jonesing to sit in the cheap seats, dining on tubed mystery meat in a bun and washing it down with a tepid cup of flattening corporate brew, exhorting the efforts, successful or not, of “our boys,” this is our early warning that the balance of life will soon be restored.  The baseball season is just around the corner.

Lest you think that I am one of those mindless sheep that will be slavering over the overpaid superstars of the MLB, investing copious quantities of my disposable income in fan paraphernalia, nothing could be further from the truth.  While I will be tracking the Mariners, with all of the anguish incumbent therein, my heart belongs to the minor leagues and local clubs.  Martha and I have already plunked down the money for our (partial) season tickets to the Tacoma Rainiers, 18 games of looking over the catcher’s right shoulder, staring down the pitcher.  When the Kitsap Blue Jackets, our local college league team, starts up play we will be there.

For all the glitz and glamour of the majors, nothing beats the magic of those smaller parks, the young men who play there, and the fans that populate the stands.  Here you find the people who are brought together by a love of baseball, to watch it, to talk about it, and enjoy the true essence of the sport, without the trappings of fame, fortune, and “must do” trendiness.  People do not get enticed to the minor league parks by peer pressure; there is no social glory to be garnered by attending a minor league game.  The converse could actually be more accurate.  Many of my friends, normally adorned with MLB regalia, look upon my passion with askance, as an aberration that flies in the face of the accepted “norm.”

The naysayers do not understand the pure fun involved in being amongst kindred spirits, sitting so close to the field as to actually make some sort of connection with the players.  Neither do they understand the allure of watching these young men play their hearts out, understanding that it can be a long shot to ever become the big league star, soldiering on in spite of that and playing for the enjoyment of the sport.  Most of these guys understand that they will never be signing the multi-million dollar contracts or be wined and dined by the Hollywood set, nor do they seem to expect that.  I will never forget the look on one player’s face when I leaned over the rail and handed him my battered old Rainiers cap, covered with years of scribbles, asking him to honor me with his autograph.  He was genuinely amazed that someone would want to capture the autograph of a relatively unknown minor league player.  I lost track of him as he moved about through the minor league system, never really hitting it big, but staying at it always, but I will never forget him.

Try that in a major league park and see what happens.

Well, the usual group of permanently engaged riders, a select few, have collaborated to set up the annual “Black Thursday” event in the State Capitol.  The only thing out of their control was Mother Nature.  Nobody could plan for 13″ of snow in Olympia, but then I guess you have to play the hand you’re dealt.

I wonder how many of these “concerned” people will manage to get off of their precious posteriors and make the trip to guard their rights.  It is a bit problematic, but what price do you place on control of your own life?

I don’t know about anyone else, but on January 19th I will be on the ground in Olympia doing what needs to be done.

I may be just a bit old fashioned, but there seems to be something seriously askew here.  Whatever happened to the concept of thoughtful giving, tailoring presents to the individual as a reflection of the personal relationship involved?  Conversely, whatever happened to true gratitude and appreciation of the individual effort involved is selecting a gift?  Back in the day people did not just give a plethora of folks impersonal gifts out some dubious sense of obligation.  Each gift was chosen only after careful consideration, a reflection on the relationship between the giver and the recipient, not chosen as an act of desperation to satisfy some sort of social imperative.

Consequently, the concept of trooping down to the store to replace a gift with something more desired was so foreign as to be seriously anomalous behavior, an indulgence of the arrogantly indifferent individual.  More simply put, it was considered rude.  When someone took the time to give you something you did not dismiss it out of hand as something inferior to your standards or unacceptable.  It is not a hard and fast rule, but I can think of very few instances where a gift is unacceptable; unexpected or unusual, yes, but not unacceptable.  I can remember quite a few unusual presents, received in dignified incredulity, that became family heirlooms, pleasantly quaint reminders of someone special or a special occasion.

If you absolutely cannot abide some gift, I would recommend two actions.  First, in lieu of taking the item to your local store and trading it in, donate it to your local Goodwill or other suitable charity.  The eventual end user will definitely be more appreciative.  (If it’s a tie, let me know which Goodwill store you donated it to.  I am an unabashed collector.)  Second, offer people the option to donate to charity in your name instead of investing time and capital in the pursuit of material goods.  Your friends and relations might appreciate the relief.

Finally, perhaps we all should revisit O Henry’s classic, The Gift of the Magi.

Really……Can anyone tell me what is so life and death that it warrants such franticly violent behavior? Is it some major life saving medical breakthrough that is in sorely limited supply, making the difference between a foreshortened life of agonizing pain and a long and productive life? Oh, if it were only that simple, perhaps my ridiculously optimistic outlook on life would find some sort of justification.

But unfortunately we know what the actual story is. These people are bludgeoning each other over electronic geegaws, video games, and “must have” consumer products, all in the name of “Christmas cheer.” Do we really need more “stuff” so desperately that we see fit to commit mayhem in the pursuit? I may be dense, but I am not seeing any real benefit, unless you are with the media or are in retail. The retail industry and the media are in a collaboration, whether intentional or situational, to stir up a sense of immediacy, convincing the shopping public there is a huge imperative to get out there early while the good “stuff” is gone. The net result is an atmosphere wherein all personal fiscal restraint is trumped by the competition to capture the artificially limited spoils meted out by the merchants.

Before you blast me for being some sort of Scrooge railing against the season, nothing could be farther from the truth. I am a strong advocate of giving, but more accurately for giving to the less fortunate as a means to aid and comfort them. What I do not advocate is our national penchant for expending vast amounts of capital on material things to give to friends and family, most of whom can well afford to get those things if they so desire, all in the name of showing that we were “thinking of them” this time of year. I have heard the pundits and retail analysts predict that the average American will spend $646 on Christmas gifts.

I am going to offer up an alternative. In stead of spending all that money on friends and family, scale back on the scope of that type of giving and support local charities with the remainder. As you are munching on yet another turkey sandwich in your toasty warm house, take some time to think about your local food bank or homeless shelter. In these adverse economic times the programs that offer this type of support are, right or wrong, definitely going to be under the fiscal axe.

Don’t cheat the little tykes out of Santa, but I’m sure that Aunt Tuddy can forego the newest electronic turnip twaddler.  

Yes, I do have a personal connection to this issue; Martha has to deal with Rheumatoid Arthritis on a daily basis.

Anyway, I’m hoofin’ it through the streets of Port Orchard and asking for your sponsorship.  All you have to do is poke this button, follow the links, and crack open the wallet.

There is also no rule against passing this along to anyone else you know.

No, I’m talking about the mental sloth of refusing to own your own destiny.  Any time you find yourself not pursuing some course of action or goal merely because conventional wisdom says the mythical “powers that be” will not allow it you are just being lazy.

Pure and simple

Lazy

Got it?

It’s classic passive aggressive behavior, taking no action or, worse yet stonewalling, passing off the blame on some implied third party resistance or regulation.  Have you ever heard this, either from yourself or a colleague?  “It’s a great proposal, but you know the Project Manager will never green light it.”

Really?  It sounds more like a cheap excuse to sit on the sidelines and do nothing.

What brings on this particular pontification?  It’s election day, gateway to the legislative session, one in which there are numerous motorcycling related issues on the table.

Are you going to warm the bench or get into the game?

Nationally and locally the “news” outlets have been trying to one up each other in an effort to give everyone some sort of excuse to have a personal connection to the September 11^th attacks.  “Let me introduce you to someone who knew someone who was related to somebody who almost went to New York that day.”  Whilst everyone in the country old enough to understand the events was affected in some sort of way, if you were not there you cannot comprehend the horrors of being trapped behind the wall of flame, the unbelievable bravery of the first responders running towards the horror with no thought of their own well being, or the life changing personal losses suffered by the families that lost loved ones that day.  In my highly personal opinion, the efforts to let everyone get a piece of the primary grief only serves to diminish the sacrifices made and losses incurred.

What the nation should be mourning is the loss of our national identity, free people, willing to eschew comfort and safety to advance our knowledge, without fear of the unknown.  While we may have been guilty of a national arrogance, one that it could be argued fostered the atmosphere for splinter groups to want to bring us down; we have traded that for a national paranoia.  People become suspect merely for how they look or act.  A person following one of the world’s major religions is deemed guilty by association, contrary to the founding principles of this nation and the basis of the First Amendment.  Think of the erosions of our civil liberties on the misguided and erroneous theory that we need to sacrifice some of our liberty so that we can be safer.

Most heart wrenching is that we have fostered a complete generation that has never seen an airport without pervasive security in paramilitary gear, felt the least bit secure in their rights to privacy or free association, or been free to travel their own country without having to prove their innocence.  They will not mourn the loss of freedoms they never enjoyed, nor can many of them understand my lamentations.  Two generations after we put men on the moon our heirs are happily removing their shoes and belts and getting x-rayed so that they can get on an airplane.  Our nation is rapidly becoming an armed camp, with military style police and video surveillance cameras watching our every move.

Do you really feel any safer tonight?

So why was I sitting at the fuel depot at the intersection of SR 113 and US 101 about 12:15 PM?  To steal the tag line from and old joke, I was coming back.

It all started just before 07:30 when I rolled into the parking lot of Kitsap Mall in response to yet another of those infamous calls for a meet up and group ride.  Yes, against everything that my dear mother used to tell me, I was once again going out to play with strangers.  The difference between this time and the previous play dates was that there were only two other bikes in the parking lot, and three people milling about.  These were some serious looking folks too.  High tech two piece leather racing suits, with the high tech bikes to go with the suits.  I could almost hear my mother giving me a great big “I told you so,” but as we have already learned, there are days when the well developed sense of adventure trumps commons sense and sanity on my planet.  After all, what’s the worst that can happen?  It would not be the first time that I had been left in the dust looking like a little kid on a bicycle by superior riders, and I bet it will happen again.  I’m well beyond that old “mines bigger” syndrome.

Instead of just asking directions to the nearest Tully’s Coffee, or going over to kibitz at the rider training course that was gearing up to get going I just asked where we were heading.  ”Neah Bay, just like the post said” I was informed.

“Mind if an old fart tags along in the rear?  If I start to hold you back just hit it.  I know more or less where we are going.”

“Nothing to worry about on the ride up to Port Angeles.  We keep it nice and legal on that stretch, and if there is any passing it will be safe and legal.  No stupid stuff.”

With that settled, we waited around a bit more for any stragglers, and coming to the conclusion that there are a lot of riders who do not realize that 7:30 comes twice on any Sunday, we headed on out.  These folks were true to their word on the keeping it legal.  We would not have attracted the attention of a small town Alabama Sheriff on a slow business day.

After fueling up on the west side of Port Angeles we grabbed some snacks and kicked back.  Apparently this was a potential secondary meeting site, along with a park and ride up the road where we were to collect Pete.  They gave me the news about Pete as if it were common knowledge, and I did not have the heart to tell them that I wouldn’t know Pete if he bit me on the butt.  Anyway, I was going to get to meet him soon enough, and hopefully he would not bite me anywhere.

As we were cooling our heels a rider on a nice looking SV650 came in and fueled up.  When she was done she rolled by and asked “PNW Riders?  I’m CandyBlue.”

“Welcome, CandyBlue.  Pete’s up at the park and ride, so let’s go.”  ( I guess that I am the only one around who does not know Pete.)

Here is where things got a bit weird.  Before we pulled out they gave me a quick briefing on what to expect on one section of the road: downhill, 20 mph, a bit bumpy, and decreasing radius.  ”Just keep your head in the game and you’ll do fine.”  That was the first time I have had that sort of detailed briefing about a section of road, and believe me, it did the trick.  I was ready for anything shy of a loop the loop.

With that bit of business done we headed out to collect Pete, or as I was beginning to feel, “The Fabulous Pete.”  We found him about three minutes later, cooling his heels at the park and ride.  He was not 10 feet tall and wearing a cape, just a normal guy sitting on a drop dead gorgeous black ZX-10R (look it up) wearing some more of those two piece racing leathers.  We exchanged pleasantries and headed out.

CandyBlue had announced that she would take the rear (sweep) position as she would be the rider coming in 10-15 minutes behind everyone else.  I told her that she should go ahead of me and I would bring up the rear while the big kids went ahead and played.  The excuse was that it was only polite for someone to keep her company in the event that something happened, etc.  Truth be told, I was not that interested in getting too enthusiastic about bombing down a road I had never seen, especially after receiving my detailed instructions, but don’t tell CandyBlue.

The Rocketeers were off in a flash, with CandyBlue and your faithful reporter following at a respectful, and increasing, distance.

I won’t bore you with the details of the road out to Neah Bay.  Very few of those long straight stretches that we all live for (cough), just a 65 mile long model of a mutant malaria germ, punctuated with a couple of stops for the Rocketeers to take bets on when the kids would catch up.  The most amazing thing about that road is that people see no problem dragging boat trailers down that road.  (And people think that motorcycle riders are a few bricks shy of a load.)  Using this method we soon found ourselves in beautiful Neah Bay.  Now the only items left on the agenda were grabbing some food and heading back home.

FOOD!!?  Does anyone else remember that this started out as a trip to the store for something I could incinerate for Admiral Martha’s dinner?  So, while everyone else pulled in to the Breakwater Restaurant I headed on back to the home area, which brings us back to the intersection of SR 113 and US 101.

The ride home was fairly uneventful, just me and the random things that run through my head to keep me company.  Anyway, this is mainly an homage to the great folks who let me come along and play with them.  A great big thanks for being polite enough to not seriously ridicule the geriatric fur ball on the Italian ride.  I had a blast, and look forward to our next adventure together.

BTW: Since I hate to back track, the trip back home was routed through Elma.  I told you, direct routes are for delivery trucks.

Next up: Tuesday Rides and Congress

That was never more apparent than when I answered the invite to join a group on a Tuesday afternoon local group ride, intended to last about an hour and a half, culminating at some sort of dining establishment.  When I arrived at the meeting point I found a mixed bag of GSXRs, R-1s, Ninjas, CBRs, one Hayabusa, one 1300 S, and finally, an 848 Ducati.  In this crowd Luigi looked like a tractor, a hot looking tractor, but a tractor, none the less.

The conversations were almost a foreign language to me.  I say almost, because after a bit of study I discerned that most of the bike talk was merely a shorthand slang for “I did these mods to the bike so that it got even faster, got a better launch from the starting line, or snapped a corner tighter.”  The remainder of the conversation swirled about food, how the job sucks but it does pay the bills, what roads are best for diving into the twisties, and the traditional jargon of youthful male camaraderie, which cannot be explained to anyone who does not understand the language.  Let it suffice to say that the statement “that’s sick bitch, I hate you” is highly complimentary, not a prelude to a fight.

Lesser mortals would have made their excuses and hightailed it to the nearest safe haven and cowered.  I volunteered to ride sweep.

Fourteen bikes rolled out in a tight formation, not unlike a bunch of cruisers heading out for a poker run, but as we got out of town and into the more sparsely populated areas of the county things began to change.  Where the cruiser crowd has a tendency to stay in a tightly packed staggered formation, even in the corners, this group stretched out the formation and everyone gave each other enough room to use the entire lane and pick their lines through the corners.  Definitely a better riding style for a group ride, especially amongst a group of relative strangers.

There was one other major difference between this ride and any poker run I have ever been on.  The speed of the pack.  Definitely no grass growing under these people.  Not saying that there was a lot of reckless riding, although to be frank, there was a bit of that, but the riders who did it owned up to the error of their ways, telling some of the more junior riders not to follow their examples.  To quote one of them, “I ride like a ****.”  By and far the riders were good riders, aggressive riders yes, but not prone to taking silly risks.  There were some double yellow passes, a practice I neither condone nor approve of, but even those were done fairly prudently, utilizing the power of the bike and the superior vantage point to clear a slower vehicle.  I had a front row seat for the show, and I must admit it was impressive.  The more high speed riding was reserved for lightly populated roads with fairly good sight lines.  ( I cannot confirm nor deny whether I now know the handling characteristics of a Moto Guzzi in the high 80′s and mid 90′s.)

Bottom line?  No real near misses or scary incidents, just a bunch of kids of all ages out playing nicely together and having fun.  At the end of the day some just headed home, some hit the local grease joint for some fine dining, and everyone had a great time.  I definitely don’t wanna grow up.

Eireannach Rothai, a riding club in the Snohomish County vicinity with a preference for sport bikes was hosting a skills day at the Aqua Sox parking lot.  The concept of a sport bike club hosting a “skills” day gave rise to visions of a how to session on stoppies, wheelies, and unnecessary knee dragging.  My overly cautious and rational side (yes, I have one) was screaming at me to stay away from this potential disaster.

Fortunately the “yeeeee hawwwww” side of my brain took over, telling the rational sector that if it needed to fret about something just come up with a good exit strategy if the prophetic visions were accurate.  With a well developed sense of adventure and curiosity I headed out to meet my fate.  Ninety miles later I arrived at the site, fully prepared to fake a cell phone emergency and take my leave.  As expected, there were quite a few young men standing around some very serious sport machines, but there were also some people around my age too.  There was also a cruiser and a Gold Wing.

I dare you to do a stoppie or a wheelie on one of those.

One of the members of the Eireannach Rothai club greeted me and briefed me on the course they had laid out, since I had missed the drivers meeting.  Range rules, protocols, credentials, and things of that ilk.  I was looking at some seriously professional behavior, aimed at having a lot of fun while letting a bunch of riders hone their slalom and cornering skills.  The idea was to let people go beyond the lessons learned in the WMSP classes and expose them to the more advanced concepts of effective cornering.  With offset weaves, a big sweeper, and circles of 20 ft, 30 ft. and 12 ft, there was challenge enough for everyone.  There was also lots of feedback and suggestions on tricks of the trade, not to mention the conversations on the best roads to “scrub in” new tires.

All I can say is “Wooo Hooo” and thanks.  I had a blast, along with a great opportunity to hone the skills learned in previous training classes.  The club intends to run these sessions the third Sunday of the month through October, and I plan on being there each time.  (09:00 in the Everett Aqua Sox parking lot.)

I just wish more organizations would try something like this.