It's All About Age

"One Hundred and Nine Years Old"

What a great ice breaker, no? 
That's the line I drop whenever anyone asks me how old I am.

When I was in my teens, I looked 30, when I was in my 30's I looked like I was in my twenties. Now as I hover around the 1/2 century mark, I am still acting like a 20 something and having recently shaved my head, have become sort of ageless. 

I feel ageless, and some people I have worked with for years don't know my real age. Put an age next to something and it immediately becomes categorized, labeled and pigeon-holed.
Well, that ain't me.

I am childish…no wait, I’m child-like.

I love having fun with everything I can. 

I sing in the kitchen.

I run with scissors. 

I fear heights, so I jumped out of plane and learned to pilot a glider, 

I can’t get enough of speed, so I ride my motorcycles really fast on the highway and split lanes when I can; 

I couldn’t hammer a nail straight, so I took a job as a carpenter. 

I was frightfully shy, so I learned to be a bartender. 

If I put down I was 21, there’s an ‘image’ that is created....well, that ain't me.
If I put down I was 31, there’s an ‘image’ that is created...well, that ain’t me.
If I put down I was 61, …well you get the point.
 

Me is me.
I work hard at being true to me, (it ain’t easy in this world.)
 

Age is just a measuring stick used by others.

I felt that when I was 11, when I was 21, when I was….well, you get the point. 

I think about our parent’s generation….not that we would ever really know what they were like when they were the age we are now…

I just can’t picture my Dad (who I totally love and respect) living as hard as I do now…..

I ride with a Brother who is 64. 

Shit, you should see this guy. 
He will out play a lot of 22 year old kids I know. 

That’s ageless. 

That’s what I want to be when I grow up.

It’s just that I am not going to grow up…..ever.
 

How old do you want to be when you die?
I want to be just the right age.



Read more: 
One Light Coming: A Biker's Story (Book 3 in a series published by Blockhead City Press released in October 2011)
The Moon Upstairs: A Bikers Story (Book 4 in a series published by Blockhead City Press; released in December 2012
Available through bookstores everywhere, and Amazon.com and B&N.com

LARPing Or Lifestyle?

Little Jimmie picked up his patch from the back of the lawn chair

he was sitting on. Treating the vest as if it were a religious icon, he showed

the fire-breathing wolf on the back to Jake.

“This may look like a rag to the walking dead out there, but to us

it’s our flag, the reason we live. It represents our church, our home, and it is

the glue that holds us all together. We’re Skuldmen, we’re one percenters,

outlaws, and we still don’t give the jerk-offs who don’t pull their own

weight the time of day.”

In a rare moment usually reserved only for close associates, Jimmie

proceeded to explain to Jake that the Skuldmen patch was originally

inspired by Viking mythology, and that the Vikings were the greatest warriors

of all time—warriors who took no prisoners.

“The word skuld is a sacred word based in the hidden lore of the

holy runes of the Norsemen. The Skuldmen were the spiritual advisors of

the Viking kings and noblemen. The center patch is the Fenris, which is the

legendary fire-breathing wolf of Norse mythology,” Jimmie explained, as

he respectfully hung his patch on the back of the lawn chair.

“Is this all of you? I mean, are there others?”

“How many members we have is really not any of your business,”

Jimmie retorted.

Although the question seemed innocent enough, Jake had stepped

across the line. You don’t get up close and personal with one percenters

unless you’re one yourself.

“Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to prod. The reason I asked, well, this

may sound weird, but I think I ran into a couple of your guys yesterday in

Virginia.”

“Virginia?You get around, don’t you?” Little Jimmie stared at Jake

for a few seconds as if to size him up, then grinned when he noticed Jake

didn’t flinch and wasn’t getting defensive.

“That’s very possible. There are Skuldmen chapters all across the

country and overseas. But we don’t exactly hand out patches like candy at

Halloween like some clubs do. Like the Viking warriors of old, we understand

and respect the meaning of brotherhood, and not one Skuldmen has

ever turned on one of his brothers.”

Jake nodded to let Jimmie know he understood.

Chapter 17 / Page 154  One Light Coming: A Biker's Story (Book 3 in a series published by Blockhead City Press released on 1Oct2011.
Available through bookstores everywhere, and Amazon.com and B&N.com)

It’s been quite a while since my last posting and there’s been a lot on my mind.

About life, and about this world we call “Lifestyle”.

Part of it comes from the fact that my boy has grown up.

He’s not a toddler anymore; hell, he isn’t even in High School anymore.

And in the time since the beginning until now, something’s happened.

He’s discovered a world that suits him.

He’s always been a voracious reader. And as his tastes have evolved, he’s found a community in the science fiction/fantasy writings of Terry Pratchett, James Patterson and Jim Butcher.

When he got to college, he discovered that there were others like him.

He wasn’t the only one who enjoyed that fiction.

He found a community of people who like to dress up in garb from another era and do battle.

There were Nations, and Quests, and Feasts and Celebrations.

Everyone had a new name; a name that came from the personality of a character they created.

LARPing is what it’s called: Live Action Role Playing.

He spends weekends at campgrounds with scores of others, wearing their costumes, Feasting, Battling with foam covered weapons, referring to each other only by their in-character names.

He was a Newbie for a year before he was completely accepted into his Nation.

I listen to stories about The King of this nation, the Shamen of that nation, the Magi who is his sponsor, of how this other nation wants to take over their Realm and how they need to protect and defend their territory.

There are newsletters and websites devoted to the strategy and communication.

And he goes on about it, I get lost trying to follow the names, the nations, the rules, the battles…

At first, I thought it was all a bit weird.

And then, the other day, I realized, his world is no different from our world.

Sort of.

Think about it.

There are those who live for the HD brand. They talk about it like it was the Holy Grail. They revere the name.

There is the uniform of leather and denim.

There are the patches of clubs.

There’s a process to be accepted.

There are the rules of respect.

There’s a hierarchy; within each group and within the community.

There are road names (sometimes you never really learn the legal name of some of the people you ride with, right?)
We have Rally's and Church

We all refer to our path as “the lifestyle”.

We take it seriously.

Perhaps too much.

But for a lot of people, they don’t.
The don't take their bikes out in the rain.

They spend more time polishing than they do riding.

They wear suits during the week.

They ride only on Sundays.

But when they do….they are all decked out....

So I have to ask myself these days:

Isn’t that LARPing?

I'm not into that.
I’d like to think I live the lifestyle.

Ride Hard
Ride Safe
Ride Often

Love & Respect.

Where's the Brotherhood these days?

Brotherhood.

Cameraderie, Group, Club, Gang, MC,

From time to time we toss those phrases around to describe some of the reasons we ride.

We join up to be with others who are supposed to be like us.

We ride because we think differently than the rest of society.

At least that is what we tell ourselves.

Brotherhood?

I’m beginning to think not.

I just  came back from  a week on the road to Canada and Northern Vermont.

Along the way there were tons of riders.

I don’t want to call them Bikers because I don’t know them and I don’t want to reward them with that mantle.

Granted during this trip, I was in a cage.

Granted during this trip, I didn’t look like I do when I ride.

Sneakers and shorts, not boots and jeans were the uniform of the day.

And when I approached riders as I normally would, with the question: “So, how are the  roads?”, my question was met with either silence (take that as being ignored) or just a single word of “fine”.

At some point, I figured that if I was wearing the whole boots, jeans and leather thing, I would have gotten a whole different reply.

Then I tried it the other way.

And you know what?
Nothing changed.

I still got the silent treatment or a one word answer.

That’s when I started to really consider this concept of Biker community, and thought more about if it’s  real or not.

I know a dozen or so people who live on bikes 95% of the time.

And that seems to have been good for two decades or so now. But as I reach out more and more to other Bikers to introduce them to my work, it is meant with a stone wall.

I wonder if they are just shy and don’t want to be bothered.

But then when talking to them at a bar or event or party, there is also this whole issue about what type of bike someone  rides. It used to be Harley or nothing. If you rode a import crusier, or even a Victory, you were looked down on.

Now, it’s come down to what kind of Harley you ride. 

What kind? 

What the fuck do you mean what kind?

Oh, now to be anointed as acceptable, someone has to ride a certain kind of Harley or they are not part of the brotherhood.

This does come from the years and years of posers buying the bikes that Milwaukee presents  to them, dressing like us, going to corporate sponsored and vendored “rallys” around the country, created solely for the purpose of selling them more shit that makes them look like  us.

They are not us.

But now, I’m finding we’re not us either.

And that’s distressing.

I’m getting disenchanted with this notion of Brotherhood.

I fear it’s doesn’t exist anymore.

It did once, but I don’t feel it out on the road anymore.

Riding a Harley once meant that you were part of a sub-section of society.

Now, there are sub-sections within the sub-section and it’s getting tougher and tougher to experience that feeling of belonging.

In Canada, there is high reverence paid to the HD brand. I don’t  think I’ve ever seen more people wearing the words Harley Davisdson emblazoned on nearly every and any article of clothing.

Their bikes were bigger and shinier than any I’ve ever seen in the lower 48. Big Baggers, these were.

Definitely posers. Probably got off their jobs as Nurses, Dentists, Lawyers, Accountants, Media Salespeople and ran home to pull on their HD branded underwear and pull the cover off their 2011 Heritage Softail and head down to the local four star restaurant for dinner.

They are not Bikers.
They are consumers.

They do not get the concept of brotherhood; that is, unless Milwaukee can brand it HD.

Of course, which they do with dealer centered HOGs.

I don’t belong to a HOG.

I never will.

That’s not brotherhood; that’s  manufacturer manipulated behavior under the  guise of brotherhood.

That’s a corporation working to insure future growth selling the concept of being different.

But not too different, otherwise you won’t buy HD brand embossed toilet paper.

And if you do buy it, well that’s  great, because then you belong.

                                                

It’s time to focus on being real again.

It’s time to be the identity that you want to be again.

Is it part of the brotherhood?
I’m not so sure.

Ride Hard

Ride Safe

Ride Often

A Birthday Gift : On the Road

A Birthday Gift : On the Road

Fifteen minutes later the Skuldmen were ready to roll out of the Texaco station; both man and machine were now full, ready to hit the road again.

“When we hit New York, we’ll stop for gas,” Jimmie said, over the rumble of the engine, just before they left the gas station to get back on the highway, “There’s a Mobil station in the median just inside the state line. I’ll call Lola from there.”

The small pack pulled out and hit the Wilbur Cross Parkway again. Ten minutes later they blasted through the Heroes tunnel, which was lit solely using low pressure sodium vapor lamps. Between the eerie orange glow the lamps gave off and the sound of the Harleys reverberating off the walls, the nearly quarter mile ride through the tunnel from end to end was exhilarating. 

After an hour of riding a road well known for its scenic layout, uniquely styled signage, and architecturally elaborate overpasses, shifting and throttle control became a very familiar game that helped to pass the time. As they sped past the Welcome to New York State sign on the Hutchinson River Parkway at seventy miles per hour, Big Keith motioned to Jimmie, indicating their next stop was just ahead. Raising his left hand and pointing to the left side of the road as the exit lane appeared, the motorcycles slowed down together and pulled off into the service area in the middle of the road.

Chapter 32 Page 223 : One Light Coming: A Biker's Story (Book 3 in a series).

Published by Blockhead City Press © 2011

Available through Amazon.com, Barnes &Noble.com, iTunes or through your favorite local bookstore. 

For my daughter in law's birthday this year she didn't want material goods of any kind. She wanted something different from each and every friend and family member: She wanted people to share something of themselves; a story, a picture...something that spoke to that person, something that was important.

To a Biker, nothing is more important than the road.
It's why we do what we do, why we are who we are, it's how we get to where we are going...and I don't just mean in the geographic sense either.

Ever notice that when talking to others who live life on two wheels, when you mention an event, talk invariably comes around to: "How was the ride to get there?"

Like everything else in life, paths are chosen for different reasons.

Sometimes it's the scenery,

Sometimes it's expediency

Sometimes it's the right way to do something.

But it's always a conscious choice.

When you ride and make it part of your life, it's all about the road traveled.

And like Robert Frost once said: I took the road less traveled.

He knew that it was all about seeing and experiencing something that few other's have.

Riding is like that.

Such a small percentage of people ride the road less traveled.

And like my daughter in law, in her infinte wisdom,

She wanted us to take the road less traveled.

She wanted us to skip the retail excessses at the time of celebration and give something more important.

She wanted us to give a little of ourselves.

True Biker's do that all the time. 

True and good people do that all the time.

For Sarah:



I live for...

Long, Smooth, Safe, Roads…

The rumble of the motor beneath me,

The vibration of the handlebars,

The wind at my back,

The sun on my face.

Mountain views in the fall,

The smell of a horse farm as I ride by,

The warmth of the air as I go past a lake in summertime,

The aroma of the sea as I ride along the coast.

Riding 150 miles just to sit at the counter of a small town diner.

Hot coffee, maybe a piece of banana cream pie.

Chat with the cook, make faces with the 6 year old boy who’s never seen a guy clad in leather before.

Being surrounded by the world, the solitude is comforting.

Long, Smooth, Safe, Roads…



Ride Hard

Ride Safe

Ride Often.

 

Role Model

Role Model

“Our reality is right here, being real people, doing real things. We can’t be bought, sold, or traded like a commodity. We like to be free, not slaves to the system. There’s nothing like being out on the road, where we can spend days riding just to be someplace we haven’t been or seen before.”

Little Jimmie picked up his patch from the back of the lawn chair he was sitting on. Treating the vest as if it were a religious icon, he showed the fire-breathing wolf on the back to Jake.

“This may look like a rag to the walking dead out there, but to us, it’s our flag, the reason we live. It represents our church, our home, and it is the glue that holds us all together. We’re Skuldmen, we’re one percenters, outlaws, and we still don’t give the jerk-offs who don’t pull their own weight the time of day. We’re Brothers and Sisters for each other, we’re each other’s family. By choice, not by birth and that’s the difference. Some folks have brothers and sisters ‘cause that’s what was given to them. We’re here, for each other, because we chose to be. There’s a difference.”

From Draft #3 of the manuscript:

Chapter 17 Page 155 : One Light Coming: A Biker's Story (Book 3 in a series).

Published by Blockhead City Press © 2011

Available through Amazon.com, Barnes &Noble.com, iTunes or through your favorite local bookstore. 

Who am I?

There are many mantels I wear.

Like most of us, we often wear different hats:

Son, Brother, Father, Important Friend, Spouse, Employer, Employee, Leader, Follower….like many of us, the list goes on.

In the past week or so, I have been reminded all too well of these titles that could be used to describe me. I have had to juggle many of these roles as events that have occurred in each of these realms have forced me to make decisions about which hat is more required than another at any given time in the day, week or month.

And when this choice is made, when that hat is put on, to be the best person I can be in that role at that time, the other roles that are important parts of my life end up getting the short end of the stick.

And some people get let down.

It’s impossible to be in three places at one time.

That’s a fact; a reality.

But choices are made. For better or worse.

Years ago, my son gave me a new patch for my riding vest.

It simply said: Role Model.

I put in on my chest, proudly, in the same place where others would display: “President”, or “Sergeant-At-Arms”.  And I wear it, not only because he gave it to me. I wear it because for years I told him not to do what I have done. My path is not his path. He needed to choose his own way, not follow mine.

“I am not a role model” was the phrase repeated over and over in the kitchen, sitting on the stoop, walking to the mailbox…..over and over.

So, when He gave me the patch and he said: “Yes Dad, you are…in your own way” , I was touched.

I wear this patch with pride.

And so, these past week or so,  I made choices that brought tears to those who are the important people in my life, all for different reasons; some because I was ‘there’ , and some because I wasn’t, some because I reminded them of their role of responsibility, some because I reminded them of this mantel of Role Model.

I hope that when I lay on the pavement, lying up at the sky above, about to take my last breath in this world, I can honestly say that my actions gave honor to the words: Role Model; as a Son, Father, Brother, Friend, of being someone who was Important to others in this world.

Who are You?

Ride Hard,

Ride Safe,

Ride Often.

Weather or Not

Weather or Not to Ride

“And everything would have been fine…if the rain didn’t start coming down. It’s not that it was coming down hard, I mean we’ve all ridden in rain before. No one likes it, but we’ve all done it. And we know how to do in while riding in a pack; spacing is key, staying far enough behind from the brother in front of you and switch to a staggered formation. But it was the trucks that screwed us up. They don’t slow down for anything. They hydroplane like there is no tomorrow. While no one would ever admit, but it was just a matter of time before something went wrong. At a gas up just outside of Mount Laurel, Prez suggested that we not try to make Gettysburg and just get to the other side of Philly and hang it up for the night. It was about another hour of riding and we’d pull in. Mike the MapMan and Bucky huddled and found us a place. It was decided that Pennsville NJ was going to be about as far as we’d go that day. So, after filling up, off we went. And sure as god made little green apples it happened. Jonesy was last in line and I guess that the spray was just too much for him and as we were pulling out of the gas stop, his rear wheel lost traction and the bike just slid out from underneath him. Larry was just a bit surprised to see Jonesy pulling ahead of him, not because he was pulling ahead, but because he was doing it  lying down on his back as his scooter was sliding too! When the front wheel of Jonesy’s ride tapped the back of Irishman’s bike, he nearly went down too. Don’t ask me how Moose, and Little Jimmie in the front knew it, but they pulled us all over to the side and we jumped off our machines and ran to help pull Jonesy and his sled off to the side of the road. A guy in a pickup truck pulled off to help too. And within 15 mins, there was an ambulance, a fire truck and NJ State cop to keep us company. The side of Jonesy’s tanks was pushed in, he was missing his left rearview mirror and the clutch lever was bent up. His gear lever was destroyed and his front fender was history. We all decided that the hydroplaning is what saved the bike from going head over heels and sustaining more damage. The same can be said of Jonesy. His leather jacket was scuffed up and he had a fat lip. We thought that was all; until he tried to stand. The paramedics confirmed that his right ankle wasn’t broken, but had a hairline fracture. Of course being the tough guy, Jonesy wasn’t going to the hospital. “I’ll heal just fine” says he. In the meantime, we’re all getting soaked. Prez tells Big Keith and Larry to take the pack to the motel that Mike and Buck have secured and he, Little Jimmie and I stayed with Jonesy and would catch up in a couple of hours.

When I Grow Up, I Want To Be A Weatherman –

Pages 34 – 38  “Ride To The Wall”

Unpublished manuscript © 2009 Marc Teatum

It snowed today.

They said it would.

But I stopped believing ‘them’ a lifetime ago.

I learned to trust only in myself.

Maybe I should check myself every once in a while.

When I woke this morning, I looked at weather.com; checked wind direction, temps to the west, water temp to the east, tracked the storm coming, but after yesterday and seeing two or three other riders out on the pavement, I couldn’t take it anymore.

I went to the garage, and holy shit, the beast started.

It rumbled a bit, (maybe I should have put stabilizer in) before it settled into that familiar throaty sound all Bikers recognize.

And yes it was a bit chilly, but what the hell, I hadn’t been on two wheels in nearly 60 days. It was killing me.

No one at work would believe me, so I never said a word about riding. But they sure as hell saw the stupid-ass grin I wore all day. I was a happy camper.

Around 2:30, I looked up and saw it starting to come down.

Little puffy white flakes.

Floating, lightly falling; it’s not like there was a blanket of white out there.

Weather.com here I come.

The winds had picked up, the barometer was falling as was the temps, but dew points were rising.

Not a good sign.

I didn’t panic and run for the door thinking that I would beat it the hell back to the town where I lived.

Looking at the time, I knew that every school bus and Mommy-Mobile would be clogging the roads in the three towns between here and there anyway, so what’s the point?

So I worked on and on and on. Not really ignoring the precipitation from my fourth floor window, but not sweating it either. It was what it was.

I opted to wait. The snow wasn’t sticking to the pavement yet. Thank god for asphalt holding heat and being within 2 miles of the warming effect of the Atlantic Ocean. (Did I really just say that? Since when has anyone referred to the Atlantic and the words ‘warming’ in the same sentence?)

I waited until 6:30 or so to let whatever commuter traffic there might be, was done, before I shut down and headed to the machine.

I’ve ridden in the rain before and it’s not fun, but it’s doable.
I’ve ridden in the dark before and it’s certainly doable

I’ve ridden in the dark and the rain before and it sucks.

But tonight……tonight was magical.

The air wasn’t too cold, nor too damp.

Riding while snow is falling is not like riding when rain is falling.

Rain pelts you and it’s sort of like having sewing needles thrown at your face.

It stings.

Snow melts when it hits you and you just get wet.

I can handle wet.
In fact, there are times when I love wet.

Riding in the dark when it’s snowing is like living in a Star Wars movie.

When Han Solo says they are going to make the jump to hyperspace and all those stars turn into little streaks of light is exactly what it’s like to ride on a country road at night when it’s snowing.

The single beam of light that is thrown in front of a bike and the pool of illumination that is created makes this little world all your own.

It’s amazing. And for the next 17 miles, I was Han Solo.

As my eyes adjusted to the semi dark around me, I caught glimpses of large houses, the warm glow of inside lights illuminating the snow that sat ever gently on the lawns nearby.

The larger farm fields were covered in a thin blanket of white, the trees and rock walls looked like someone had come by with powdered sugar and sprinkled them.

Then I hit my town.

I had to deal with cagers who couldn’t really see beyond the streaks that their wipers made across their windshields. The metal wire surface of the bridge leading into town was a lot more slick as was the brick crosswalks in downtown. Add brick crosswalks at intersections to right hand turns and the back wheel felt like it really did want to catch up to my handlebars.  

When I pulled the machine into the garage, the lady who owns the house came out on the back steps and even though we’ve known each other for come on twenty years now, she couldn’t resist; “Are you fucking crazy?”

Maybe.

But today I’m also happy.

Ride Hard,

Ride Safe,

Ride Often.