Retirement and Motorcycle Madness

“Brian!” came my dad’s quivering voice over the phone. He sounded shaken and even disturbed, like a nut had come loose in his brain … or he had just joined a cult. “How come you’ve NEVER bought me a retirement gift like your brother did — one that is all-consuming and a total bottomless pit?” His voice wasn’t accusatory. In fact, I think it was his way of saying thank you. My answer: “Because I’m the good son and I think you should enjoy your retirement.” A year or so back, my brother bought my father a vintage British motorcycle frame along with a greasy bucket of assorted parts. My brother — thoughtful lad that he is — figured the old gentleman needed something to fill his time. Every waking minute, to be exact, and even some of the sleeping ones. A project that would require endless, mind-numbing, nerve-racking, never-ending tinkering, wiring, assembling, cursing and mad scratching of the head with greasy fingers while mumbling things like, “Why doesn’t the (bleep) (bleepin’) (bleep) fit in there?”

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The Kid is Growing Up Fast

Man, the signs are all there that my little kid is growing up. She’s 3 ½ and filling out her first college application. Actually, she’s not 3 ½ anymore. That’s the crazy part. She’s like 3 ¾, and well on her way to 4. FOUR! That’s a big kid number, and eons away from being a baby. I think at 4 they start going to cocktail parties and saying things like, “Yes, I did move my money before the recession hit, but unfortunately I put it all in Lincoln Logs. And you know how that market did.” Clothing sizes that used to fit her don’t anymore, and the other night she actually leaned over her plate as she stuffed a spoonful of couscous into her mouth. Nothing — NOTHING! — fell on the floor. “Oh my God, Amelie,” I shouted, startling everyone. “That’s amazing!” She got excited, too … because she thought Santa Claus was behind her.

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24 Hours in Tampa … Drive! … Drive! … Sleep

Man, you realize how much you take a small town for granted when you drive in a big one. A congested one. One where the highways are clogged like the arteries of a man who spent too many years of his life drinking bacon-fat cocktails. Here in St. Augustine I put up more miles on the bike than I ever do in the car. I live a half-mile from work and most weeks the farthest journey I make is to the grocery store — a grueling, excruciating 3 miles from the house. I pack an extra pair of underwear and check the weather before I go. Never can tell what might await you out in the suburban wilds. I don’t know traffic. I don’t know commutes. I don’t know road rage or backups, and I certainly have never had a callus on my buttocks from sitting in a car too long. Count me lucky.

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