My Babies, My Babies

I`ve spoken many times of those little moments that stay forever in my mind.
What triggers the memory can be anything. What triggered this, I do not know.


Several years ago, on my way to Denver, I experienced one of the unforgettable moments that occur when I least expect them. Traveling on I-76 in western Colorado, that stretch of Interstate is very lightly traveled most of the time, and this day was no exception.
It was early morning, barely after sunrise. The sky coming alive with the rays of the rising sun.
Early sunlight splashed across the roadway, broken by the shadows cast by small hills.
In that part of Colorado, as in many western states, there are small dry washes that are crossed by short bridges with only a guardrail on each side.
I saw in the distance, a small motor home pulling a stock trailer coming towards me. A small motor home, not much bigger than a pickup with a camper on the back. I looked back at the road ahead of me, then let my eyes wander across the gauges, checking that all was well.
I looked again for the motor home, and saw a sparkling, ..light reflecting from metal,.. changing reflections. I looked harder and realized it was the stock trailer rolling over and over.
The trailer had come unhooked from the motor home and was rolling down the pavement.
Clouds of dust and sand scattered along its path as it rolled towards me. The trailer came to rest on it`s side, at an angle, one end atop the short guardrail of the bridge, the other on the bridge surface.
I had begun braking as soon as I saw the trailer rolling and tumbling. I pulled over to the shoulder, set the air brakes and ran across the highway to the little bridge.
As I ran, I looked back at the carnage left in the wake of the trailer. Saddles, gear, tack. In the median lay two horses, unmoving. A third in the roadway, also unmoving. The fourth lay next to the trailer on the bridge.

The motor home had stopped, a man was running to the bridge. We arrived at the scene on the bridge together. A short, stocky man. Wizened, dark brown skin, weathered, wrinkled. The face of a man who spent his lifetime out of doors working in the weather. He came upon the bridge, stopped, surveyed the horror that lay before him. Tears began streaming from his eyes. His attention drawn to the horse lying before him. The only words I heard from this man were, "My Babies, My Babies." almost a sob, yet a sound I`d never heard uttered before. As he said the words, the horse on the ground in front of us, moved his head, made a sound, tried to look at the man. The man dropped to his knees, held the horses head in his arms and lap and sobbed, saying over and over again, "my babies, my babies.
I had to look away. ...I choked up. ..I could scarcely take a breath, and fought back my own tears.
I looked at the scattered contents of the trailer. Saddles, blankets, bridles. Not show or hobby saddles, rather the gear of a working cowboy, a true Vaquero. And seeing that, knowing these horses were as vital to this man as nourishment, I understood the true scope of what had happened.
I was witness to a human tragedy.
A woman was running from the motor home. Not screaming, nor crying. It was a voice I cannot find a word for. If agony has a sound, it was coming from her,.... as she ran to us.

I felt within myself a deep sadness. These people had just suffered a loss almost as great as that of a child. I may be a city boy, but I understand the relationship of a working cowhand with his horse.
I stood there for an unknown amount of time. I finally could bear it no more. I turned and walked back to my truck
In all that time, not another vehicle had passed. As I walked to my truck, a car pulled in behind it. I know an unmarked state cruiser when I see one, so as I walked past the plain clothes patrolman climbing from the car, I asked if he had his weapon with him. He looked at me and nodded yes.
He surveyed the scene and I could see the look on his face and in his eyes, he had seen too many of these before.
He walked to them, I walked to my truck, put it in gear, and drove west.

I think of that day often.The one thing I will never forget, is the tear stained face of an old Mexican Vaquero, crying the words, over and over, "my babies, my babies.

I told you I liked pretty things

Yeah, thats me!
(not recent)

Fast pretty motorcycles and fast pretty women always make the heart beat a little faster.




I used to be into murals in a big way. I still am, just not on the present bike. These are a couple of different tanks I`ve had. I will round up the good photo of the Mermaid tank and post it here. I am not a photo guy, so I hunt and peck my way through the process.

An extremely talented woman in California painted these for me. She is a master of detail, the snakes on the Medusa are detailed down to the scales, and pupils in their eyes. The figure is done to details as small as eyelashes and fingernails. I wish I could get it down to those details so you could marvel at the quality of her work, as I have done for years. They are now just fond memories of those bikes, and the times that went with them















Lulu,............If I looked today, as I did then, I would be SO chasing your ass down and talkin some serious shit to you. I damm sure wouldn`t be afraid of hitting on ya.
Unfortunately, I checked E-Bay and no one has a time machine up for auction. DAMM! Back to that generational thing.
....................If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

A better day today.

Friday!!!! not that it makes much difference, I work half days on Saturday and this Sunday on call.

I am better today.

Omaha had sixty degrees yesterday. I took the afternoon off and rolled the Harley out of the garage, kicked it into life, and headed to the car wash to clean the dust off.
Headed across the river to Iowa and pulled the helmet off to feel the wind on my face and hair. I know, I know. Not the smartest thing, going without a helmet. I was, for that several hours, In Heaven. I haven`t ridden much these last couple of years, I had forgotten how good it felt to roll out onto a two lane back road and just roll it on. The heart quickens and the blood rushes. I only think of the road and the bike, nothing else. Well, it was cold, needless to say!

I had to amend this because tonight(Fri) I slipped out of the office right on the money, rushed home and rolled the scooter out again. Already clean, ready to go, rode out to the western edge of town to the Elkhorn river and back. Cold, but the bike ran cool and the cold moist air must have been the right mixture the carb needed, because she just ran strong, had that throaty sound and feel to it that makes the adrenaline run. I like riding at night in the city and on the urban interstate highways. A little faster than traffic, in order to better feel the flow. Better to be passing than being passed. The chrome sparkles in the reflection of the myriad lights. The exhaust reverberating from the cars as you roar past.

Something about riding that focuses the mind. The rush when you twist the throttle and the bike leaps forward. At times the memories flow forth, The Runs, the Parties, the Drugs, the Women.
I do not miss, but do fondly remember the nights with a handful of reds, a bottle of Boones Farm, a couple two or three doobies, and a buddy who yells" lets go to (insert name)" and several fired them up and away we went. Ten, fifteen guys wasted to the hilt, riding wheel to wheel, hell bent for election, so to speak.If you didn`t have a sweetie, you went somewhere one could be found. How did I live through all that? I was always amazed at the ability to be so terribly whacked out and still be able to ride.

I have no idea who may ever read this, if anyone. I am here to vent and just put it down in writing. Some form of catharsis, I suppose.

I will, at some point, talk about the bike I ride now. Built from the ground up, the bike started as a pair of perfect 1951 EL motor cases that I lucked onto. So, I had the start of my new ride, the best scoot to date. I will get around to posting a shot of it here.

I am not one of those middle aged guys who have more money than brains who rush out to buy a ready built Harley and run around playing pretend biker. I may drive a BMW, but it came long after the bikes. I guess you would call me "Old School", I did my partying when I was young. When it was real!

Something new

I have arrived. What that means is, at this moment, not entirely clear to me.