The Miracle (Part II)

If Jocelyn had been aware of how anxious everyone was to meet her, she may have chosen to enter our world somewhat earlier.

She's here now though, and everything in the world is right.

Several months ago, probably around nine or so, my daughter called me to tell me the news -- "Dad... Manny and I are going to have a baby."
I was happy for her, and I tried to make that evident during our phone conversation. Though I tried my best to sound thrilled with her news, I know that she could detect a slight amount of insincerity. I'll admit once again, that I'm not really growing old gracefully, and the title of "grandfather, grandpa" or the like, initially didn't set very well with me.

But that was then, and now is now.

Almost two weeks overdue, little Jocelyn finally left behind her dark and warm fortress of solitude, and made her grand entrance into the world that we all know. The delivery had its complications, but the end result was perfect, wonderful, and extremely emotional for everyone involved.

I'm almost embarrassed to admit that I did have those feelings initially. Understand though, that I've always been somewhat vain, but I think being a grandfather now has helped me to grow emotionally. There, I said that word..."grandfather" and it actually makes me feel happy.

Thus ends the (written) story --The Miracle Part I and Part II, but it's really just the beginning.

I'm thinking that "grandpa" will be a frequent flyer to the state of California. For now though, I'll just pack my bags and hop a plane back to Florida. It's been a wonderful month Kristin and Manny. I enjoyed the visit --the San Diego Zoo, Gaslamp Quarter, the tour of the U.S.S. Midway, tour of Stone Brewery (what I remember of it- thanks Eric) and all of the walking we did to help Jocelyn along her journey.

Jocelyn Mae Laguna
Born 10/28/11 - 7:01 p.m.
8lbs 3oz
21" and Well Done.


~Safe Riding~

-The Chief

The Miracle (Part 1)

2100 hours... Okay, for those who can't convert, that's nine o'clock p.m.

That was our arrival time at Navy Medical last night, here in San Diego. My daughter, son in-law, and I reported here after what has seemed like an eternity of waiting for their daughter, and my first grandchild to arrive. We are twelve days overdue.

So, like any good father would do, I sit here and wait patiently. In my dark corner of the room I watch and listen intently as nurses come and go throughout the night. I'll say one thing about this place --the service to my daughter has been top notch! There have been complications, but nothing extreme or alarming, at least to me. However, I do realize that it's easy for a man to feel this way --it's not my body that's involved.

As is usual for me, anytime that I am placed in an environment where I have thinking time, I do in-fact think.  Things that are typically relevant to my immediate situation are what generally flood my mind.

Wasn't it just yesterday that my only daughter --the one whom will soon have the title of "mother"--sat patiently in my kitchen sink for her daily bath?  Is this the same little girl who would sing to me each morning, the "acorn" song? Where did the time go?

My next "On the Road" tale will surely be about the newest member of our family, but for now...I sit and wait. It has been a long night.

Hang in there Kristin. The pain will soon be gone and forgotten as you bask in an unbelievable feeling of love and joy for a new human being that you and Manny have brought into this world.

0500 hours and waiting patiently...


~Safe Riding~

-The Chief

And the Angels Sing

If man pays close enough attention to certain events in his life, he will realize that some of those events hold hidden lessons --life lessons.

It was about a year ago that I met Josephine. The day was a typical autumn day in New Jersey. After picking Patti up at the elementary school where she was teaching, she asked me if I would take her to see Josephine. I was somewhat familiar with Jo, having had a few conversations with Patti about her. Patti was her tutor.

Josephine was like any other six year old, and because I have always liked kids, we had a fun visit. Although the visit was short, it gave me time to learn a lot about this special young lady. An infectious smile coupled with bright and beautiful eyes, spoke volumes about this young and struggling for life, tot. Josephine, just a short time ago, had been diagnosed with a rare form of cancer.

That night, as Patti and I enjoyed some quiet time together, I remember speaking about our visit with Josephine. I thought about, and spoke of my own existence, and how I felt that I had no right at all to complain about any of my own ailments. Although not typically one to complain, I realized that I often mentioned the minor aches and pains I was experiencing, associated with my recently diagnosed arthritis. "I don't even know what pain is", I remember telling Patti, as I thought about the pain that little Josephine had surely endured during the past year or so.

A few months later, Patti and I attended a benefit dinner and auction which was being held for Josephine and her family --the profits of which were being utilized to help defer the tremendous medical costs which were continuously growing. Josephine was there and I felt fortunate that I had the chance once again to visit with her, although only for a brief period. The love and caring atmosphere that was felt at this event was somewhat overwhelming to me. The thoughts I had felt from my previous visit with her, were rekindled that evening.

Patti was Josephine's tutor.

The reality however, is that little Josephine was really Patti's tutor. There was a deeper relationship than Patti teaching Josephine those types of things that teachers teach children. Patti didn't tell me this, in-fact we haven't really even discussed my thinking here or the fact that I'm writing this story, but I will state again --Josephine was really Patti's tutor, for Josephine helped to teach Patti about life. I know this, because I was also a recipient of this life lesson. It was a hard hitting lesson Josephine, and as I silently weep --know that it was a good lesson for me.

Last night, Patti received the call. Little Josephine had succumbed to the cancer. An innocent and beautiful little child was now an angel. I have no better way to say it, as my thoughts during this writing are clouded.

May you truly rest now --free of pain-- in peace.

In memory of the littlest of angels - 

Josephine   2005 - 2011

My Little World

I'm just not ready, and that's that. No one may understand, but the fact is --I like it here in my warm and comfortable fortress of dark security. I'm sure that life on the outside is probably okay, but for now I'll just remain here a little longer, and learn and grow in the comfort of my surroundings.

The muffled sounds outside are interesting to me. I don't quite understand the voices but they seem to be fairly constant, although there is a short break from the sounds every so often, and the silence seems to be on a schedule. There also seems to be a lot of activity, a certain type of movement somewhat regularly. Sometimes the movement I speak of tends to make me feel like I'm falling --head first, but overall I feel secure.

Wait, there's that strange feeling again --as if something very cold is trying to permeate my fortress. Usually when I get this sensation of  cold (kind of like ice cream cold, although I'm not really sure what that is) but not uncomfortable change in my secure environment, the feeling lasts for just a short time. Gradually, the warm and gentle surroundings that I am so used to, return and I am once again at peace. I love my environment as I grow each day.

I have been here for a very long time, although I don't yet really understand time --in-fact, I don't really understand too much at this point in my life. I am alive however and I have many thoughts. Thoughts are forming each day but for now, I'll just stay here and enjoy this warm and comfortable fortress that I have grown to love.

There will be plenty of time to learn about life, and plenty of time to learn about the world. These are all of the things that everyone else knows about except me.

I am alive you see, but I haven't yet been born into your world. I am on the way however, so relax and enjoy each day until I decide to make my grand entrance into our world.

*Relayed to me from my soon to be born granddaughter, Jocelyn.


~Safe Riding~

-The Chief

The Road Less Traveled

I think thoughts. I think about things that everyone else thinks about but I feel unfulfilled unless I write about them.

I'm now approaching a milestone with my newest life --a life of Florida living. It's hard to believe that it has been almost one year since I packed up my belongings and headed south from the Empire State. I've learned a lot about Florida in just this one year and I want to share some of my thoughts. Some good, some not so good.

First and probably the most joyous of reasons that I chose Florida to be my new stomping grounds was weather based. The weather here, simply stated is marvelous. Of course, I realize at this point in my life that no matter where you go, people --as a general rule, aren't happy unless they're complaining about something. So as much as I like the climate here and love the heat, I hear pretty much daily that "it's too hot". Excuse me sir, "why the hell did you move to Florida if you don't like heat?"

The people here are people. I've made a recent decision to stay away from the local news on television. In a nutshell, it's just plain scary. I thought that New York harbored some of the weirdest thugs and back-woods rednecks in the land. I was wrong... so wrong.

I won't mention motorists in the state of Florida. Uh, I guess I just did. Truthfully however, it doesn't matter what state you travel or reside in --bad drivers outweigh good drivers at least ten to one. Most of them were born in New Jersey and then apparently moved to all points around the nation. The only difference is that those whom relocated to Florida are also legally blind. End of story.

Finally, I'll discuss the choice I made last year as far as the exact area of Florida I chose to reside in. In-fact, there's a previous "On the Road" story about it. 

The Villages are located in north central Florida and are considered the optimum of retirement communities -- a sort of Utopia if you will. There are probably more golf carts here than automobiles. There are also more older folks than I've ever seen in my entire life. Don't get me wrong, I don't dislike the older generation. I'm heading in that direction as we speak. It's entirely possible that I'm having a fairly hard time accepting the fact that I'm aging, and not gracefully.

The Villages are unique.  A couple of weeks ago, I took a walk around my neighborhood. It was around 9:00 p.m. and a gorgeous evening. Within minutes of my walk, I felt like Rod Serling had come back to life and was writing another Twilight Zone episode about a ghost town. This place was eerily dead. I mean, after all... it was early evening and there was absolutely no sign of life --house after house after dark and quiet house. I wondered, has everyone retired for the evening already, or is everyone out partying in the town square. My guess is the latter of the two because one thing I have discovered that is certain --Village residents tend to live like there is no tomorrow.

The Villages boasts many great reasons to live here  --the convenience of all types of stores and restaurants, live entertainment nightly and probably most importantly, inexpensive beer. I was told prior to my move here, that the Villages are considered the adult Disney World. This is an accurate description.

I was wise to move into a rental home first, to get an overall view of the area prior to purchasing a home in Florida. I think another year of renting will complete my investigation. My second year however will be spent looking at the Villages from the outside, rather than from within --as I head up the road just a piece.

"Hello, UHaul... I need to rent a truck."

~Safe Riding~

-The Chief

Blowing My Own Horn

I was speaking with an old friend of mine recently, catching up on each others lives. We hadn't been in contact with each other for a few years, so there was much to discuss. Toward the end of the conversation, I asked if he had read any of my "On the Road" tales. He replied somewhat sarcastically that my stories were about all of the great places I've been and great things I've done, and so he hadn't.

Our conversation made me realize that in-fact he was right. My stories are pretty much about me and my travels, hence the name --On the Road with the Chief. It kind of makes sense to me that "my" stories are about "my" travels and things that "I've" done. I do know "me" best and it's easiest to talk about me. I guess it could be said that I like to "blow my own horn".

Speaking of which, let me tell you about my most recent endeavor. 

When I was around eleven or twelve years old, I decided that I wanted to learn to play the trumpet. I remember approaching the music teacher, and without a doubt awkwardly spewed out the fact that I wanted to begin an affair with a trumpet --an affair that unbeknown to me at the time, would last all through my school years. After a short conversation about playing a brass instrument, I was handed a mouthpiece, and told to practice with it for about a week. I followed the music teacher's directions --which following directions for me was fairly rare.

I was raised in a small town in upstate New York, and the local school was rather small. Available funds for the music department were probably scarce. When I was handed my new --to me-- brass instrument, I remember being quite disappointed. The horn that I was about to take possession of was a little brother to the trumpet --a cornet-- and had more dents and dings than the bumper-cars at the local amusement park. The silver "matte" finish probably boasted a shiny new surface decades before, but not that my eyes would ever see. It did resemble a horn though, and I was able to bring it to life.

I learned to play the trumpet, and enjoyed every part of the music scene. All through high-school I was in the concert band, and the marching band. I played solos at events, many in churches around the local area. I was passionate about music.

A Christmas or two after I was loaned my badly abused dull and ugly cornet, I received as a gift, a brand new two-tone brass and silver trumpet. I had the nicest trumpet in school and I remember being very proud of that horn. Thanks mom and dad! But like they say, "all good things must end someday", and upon graduation from high school, I sold my trumpet and ventured out seeking other interests.

A couple of months ago, I realized that I still had an interest in the trumpet --an interest that I had put to bed for 37 years. I tried on a couple of occasions to play my son's trumpet, which he had from his high school days, and found that although obviously pretty rusty, I still had a fairly natural ability to play. I ordered a new trumpet that week.

I'm about six weeks into practicing now, and I find that I am as passionate as ever about becoming a really good musician. The passion that I have for music tends to mirror that of which I have for the sport of running. I have considered joining or starting a band if I become as good on the horn as I plan to. I think running for the past two decades has probably increased my lung capacity and my new trumpet feels at home in my somewhat older hands.

So on the subject of blowing my own horn --yes I do-- and I'm happy to say that I'm proud of it. Will blowing my own horn make me rich and famous? I'm thinking that it probably won't, but two things are certain. First, I am having a lot of fun playing again, and second... it gave me something new to write about.

~Safe Riding~

-The Chief

Cat's in the Cradle

Harry Chapin probably said it best, and as I was on my daily run today, his song was lodged in my brain, repeating the lyrics over and over.  "When you coming home dad, I don't know when, but we'll get together then son, you know we'll have a good time then."

If there is one single song that speaks to the way I have felt for the past two months of my life, this one surely is it. So let me take a minute or two and explain myself. It's deep, really deep --at least to me.

First, let me acknowledge the fact that I am in a much different place in my life today, being mostly retired. I say "mostly" because although I am no longer gainfully employed, I still tend to work many hours each week, but now it's for myself and no one else. Because I have a much more relaxed lifestyle today, I have learned to truly enjoy life and all of the little things that didn't use to matter to me. The fact is however, that they do matter.

As the words of Harry's song kept repeating themselves in my mind, I thought about my current lifestyle, and about those who are most dear to me. I watch and listen daily, to the many varied events and activities taking place within my family. The song lyrics reminded me of how fast my own life has flashed by, from childhood to the retired adult body that I currently occupy.

The "Cat's In the Cradle" probably best describes my life with my sons. I've had many conversations with them over the past few years. Although they may not realize it now, nor would they admit it if they did, I see two young men who have put their lives on hold, while they work tirelessly to reap the benefits of their dreams. Being business owners, they both work an excessive number of hours each week, as if there is an extreme urgency to succeed, and to do it now.

My fear is that someday they'll look back and have regrets. Regrets that they didn't take time for themselves or more importantly, that they didn't take the time to enjoy life. I wonder at times if they know that they can never get this time back, or when they do realize it, that it will be too late. That is my fear.

My sons are not the only people in my life that I have those thoughts about. I guess I really think about this with each of my family members --those working and those who are still in school. Racing around daily, hardly ever taking the time to relax and enjoy those things that truly matter in life. Is it just me who sees this? Is it because I have experienced both sides of the spectrum, and now have the time to think about this and more clearly recognize the daily chaos that surrounds us?

There was a time in my life that I too was guilty of living life in the fast lane. At one time, early in my career, I held five positions all in separate police agencies. Working a 70-hour week was not uncommon. Today I regret the time missed while my children were young. "He learned to walk while I was away" really hits home with me now. I don't want those whom I love and care about today, to harbor these same regrets later on in their lives.

What in life is truly important? Other than Maslow's list of basic needs --food, clothing and shelter-- is anything else really that important? I've truly realized just recently that things are just that...things. Nothing more. Looking at the big picture  --other than those basic needs-- everything else is of little importance. Everything that is, except for time. Our time here on earth is paramount over all else.

I've spoken about "time" in previous stories, and now once again, time rears its ugly head. But time truly is the enemy here --or so it seems to me anyway. Even though time in and of itself can't be slowed down or stopped, we can effectively manage it. It is possible to mask the onward marching of time to give your personal stopwatch the appearance that it ran somewhat slower than it really did.

On any given day, I hear the phrase, "I don't have time", both from friends and family alike. You hear it too, and without a doubt you have uttered those same words. How many times do you say that very thing? In most instances, not having the time really isn't the issue. The issue is more accurately; that you won't take the time and also that you may not be a good time manager.

A few summers ago, I was working with my sons at their company in New York. Often times, at the end of the workday --usually around five o'clock, some of us would head out for a ride on our motorcycles.  Typically there was no destination in mind; we would just ride to unwind for the day. One of my sons generally would not join us, "sorry, I can't go...I've still got work to do", he would counter, day after day when we would attempt to get him to join us. After our ride, he would still be at his desk and on most occasions, work late into the night. This was a common scenario for more than one summer and it always bothered me that he wouldn't take the time to join us. "Life's too short", I would often say --but my insignificant comments would just drift off into space.

Looking back now, and thinking about this same son who has moved forward taking on a completely new adventure, I am sure he realizes --as I do, that nothing would have changed, had he taken the time to enjoy some of those rides. The end result with that company would have been the same. He was still destined to move into a new phase of his professional life. He certainly gained some business knowledge working those late hours night after night, but the trade off --at least in my mind-- wasn't worth the time lost had he chosen to enjoy a little bit of life... time that he can't recoup.

I would like to think that I have always been the type of person who takes the time to really enjoy the simple things in life. The sad reality however, is that I wasn't. But it's not too late for me and I've learned how to totally enjoy life now. I recognize that which is important --truly important, and those things in life, which are just insignificant things. What can I do to help others --those I care most about, to see life the way that I see it now? Are written words about my life and my experiences capable of changing another man's thoughts regarding how he lives his life?

I have to wonder now --as I sit here in my more calm and enjoyable world, if I am partially responsible for the hectic and often chaotic world around me. Have I created this lifestyle for my family, or is this just the way that the world has changed? Perhaps this is the way that life is supposed to be. Maybe my viewpoint about life is obscured. When it comes to life and living, is there really a best or worst category or perhaps a right or wrong way to go through life?

I don't profess to have the answers, but the words of your song, Harry, really hit me hard today. "And as I hung up the phone it occurred to me --he'd grown up just like me. My boy was just like me."

~Safe Riding~

-The Chief

Little Feet

Running and kids... they go together. Think about it. Think about your life when you were a young child. Once having learned to walk, you started to run. If you can't remember back to those days, think of some other child that you may know. Running is a natural thing to children. Sadly enough however, we seem to leave the running behind as we age.

I had the pleasure of running a 5k race at the Dorchester Elementary School in Woodcliff Lake, New Jersey this weekend. Being a runner and having run races for a couple of decades now, I have learned to size up the crowd before a race. I also am very observant of many other "race" details, having directed my own five and ten kilometer races in my hometown many years ago.

This particular race was like most others in many respects, but there were a couple of differences that I observed, that I felt were worthy of today's story.

First, I noticed as soon as I arrived and made my way around the crowd of runners and spectators, that there were many children present. Many of the youngsters I observed were donning their race bib numbers in preparation for a race that would probably seem like twice the 5k distance to their pint-sized legs and feet. I love it when young people run races. It's very inspiring. I don't necessarily love it however, when a ten year old outruns me, but I still like to see them compete because --hey, I'm a good sport!

Once completing this well laid out flat and fast three-and-one-tenth mile course, I sat and watched as the other runners made it across the finish line. The number of young runners --I'm talking about those under ten years old, was unbelievable to me. What I mostly observed was the fact that they all came across the finish line smiling. They were having fun and it showed. Some of the adults were smiling too, as they finished, but all of the kids were smiling.

The other thing that I noticed about this race was just how well it was coordinated. From the registration desks and packet pick-up, to the placement of water stations and finally, the rapid posting of race results after the first runners crossed the finish line. With some humor thrown in, the announcer at the finish line did a bang-up job, calling out the runner's names over the loudspeaker, as she also encouraged everyone to give it their best for the last hundred feet or so of the race.

It's always refreshing to compete in a well organized race, and having a field of young runners helps to keep the kid in me alive and well. Running and kids... they go together.

Thank you Woodcliff Lake Education Foundation for putting on a great event!

~Safe Running~

-The Chief

The Old Pump

My heart --that's what this story is about. I have a heart and it's large. I mean big, really big. Several Cardiologists and I are aware of this.

One morning in 2002 --if my memory serves correctly-- I was on my way home from working the mid-night shift in Rochester. I had decided to stop in my village for breakfast, before going home to bed.

I was sitting at the counter in the local diner, conversing with a neighbor and waiting for my order.  While we were talking, a series of sharp chest pains stopped by for a visit. As the pain increased, I stood up and walked toward the door of the restaurant. Not wanting to make a scene, I walked around a little and then returned to my seat as the pain had subsided.

While I ate, I was concerned about what I had just experienced. The symptoms included pain and tightening of the chest and also a slight numbness in my arm. It was obvious to me, these were the classic signs of a heart attack. After enjoying my pancakes with lots of syrup, I went home and went to bed.

Within the next few weeks after seeing my doctor, and then the cardiologist that had been recommended, I was scheduled for a cardiac catheterization. That's the procedure where they put a nice little slit in the area of your groin, and then send this nifty little camera --attached to the end of a roto-rooter type snake-- up to your heart to kind of snoop around and see what they can see. As fun and good times go, it wasn't. Having a six foot five linebacker type of guy with a razor and shaving cream wasn't my idea of a good time either, but he trimmed me up nicely for the doctor.

My cardiologist reported back to me, as I was patiently (pun intended) waiting in the recovery room, that my arteries were really clear. He stated that I had the arteries of a man half my age. "It must be the running", he stated.  But then he went on to tell me more. He told me that I had had a heart attack and that there was "universal damage" all around my heart muscle. He also stated that my heart was enlarged. Of course, I already knew that because, well... I love everyone.

In discussing my condition with the doctor, I reminded him several times that I was a runner and that I had been running for many years. I told him about my belief that runner's hearts are different than most others. After all, it's a muscle and when you exercise muscles, they tend to enlarge. He didn't buy my story and stood firm in his belief about my condition. He prescribed a host of medications that he wanted me to begin taking. He also recommended that I slow down with the running and suggested that I put on some weight. Weird.

A year or so later, I made an appointment to re-visit my doctor for a check-up. I was told that my cardiologist was no longer with the medical firm, and that he had returned to his native country. I was assigned a new cardiologist. It's interesting --when I met with my new cardiologist, she told me that after looking at my files and lab results, she didn't believe that I had had a heart attack. She somewhat agreed with my theory about running and hearts. She wasn't upset with me when I told her that I hadn't taken the prescribed medication either. I explained that I am not one to take pills and that although I had initially followed the doctor's orders for a month or two, the pills ended up being flushed soon there after. My new cardiologist gave me a clean bill of health that day.

Fast forward now if you will, to the winter of 2008. I had just returned from a RoadLoK event in El Paso with my son Eric. It was mid-week around noon, and I was driving myself to lunch. While stopped at a traffic light, an all too familiar pain returned for a visit.  Again this time, I had similar feelings of tightness in the chest and a slight numbness in my left arm. The pain was so intense at one point that I stopped my Jeep in traffic, and started to exit the vehicle. Within seconds, the pain subsided and I continued on my way.  Time once again to make an appointment with a cardiologist.

Having moved to the Hudson Valley from Upstate New York, I had to find a new cardiologist to try and solve the mystery of the old pump. After many appointments, which included a long series of tests, the results came in. The tests included blood work, stress tests, CT scans and more.  I wondered, "Would my diagnosis be accurate this time?"

Upon entering the examination room, the doctor greeted me and quite bluntly stated, "Mr. Xavier, you have the same thing that killed John Ritter". "Thank you", was my reply.  He went on to explain to me that I had an aortic aneurysm --a weakening of the aortic wall, causing a bulge-- and that it would require surgery. He told me that there was no immediate urgency, as it was not at a dangerous level yet. "You have a few years before it will need to be fixed", he stated to me. "Don't run as much in the meantime and stop racing", were his words of advice. Once again, I found myself to be questioning a professional's expertise because of my running background. "Don't you think that because I run, my aorta would naturally be larger than someone not as athletic?" His reply was simply, "no".

It was explained to me that the aneurysm would enlarge each year. Typically, according to the doctor, it would increase approximately one half centimeter each year. He stated that the only way to correct this medical issue was through surgery. "There is no medication that can fix this", he stated to me. He stated that "we" would monitor my aorta annually and watch it grow. Actually, I don't think he quite worded it that way, but that's what he meant.

Almost two years later, while seeing another doctor for an unrelated issue, we discussed my past heart history. Among other things, we had a lengthy discussion about hearts and running. Finally, I was conversing with a doctor who had an open mind about my theories on this subject! Understand that my theories are based on a lot of reading and research I have done over the past twenty years --about runners and health.

During our conversation, the good doctor offered to run the same tests for me as had been previously completed to check my aorta. I should note here, that I hadn't been back to the first cardiologist after the diagnosis of the aneurysm. Yes, I know what you're thinking. Regarding that, let me just say that it's a long story about a stubborn man.

A couple of weeks after these tests were completed; I met again with the doctor. When he came into the examining room, he spoke without hesitation, like the previous doctor who had stated that I had "the same thing that killed John Ritter". Only this time, the words I heard were, "you don't have an aneurysm, in-fact there is nothing wrong with your heart or aorta", as he handed me the lab report which confirmed his statement. He then reaffirmed to me the fact that I am a big guy with a vast running history, and having a somewhat larger heart and aorta seems to make sense. He too, gave me a clean bill of health.

I went to the gym that evening and had a great carefree workout. This truly was my first "carefree" workout in almost two years. Even though I had continued to run and race, I will admit here that my mind often thought about the possible serious consequences I was flirting with while running and competing. Normally, when an aorta ruptures, it's checkout time for the victim, or so I'm told.

The old pump has done well the past couple of years. I continue to run and I typically push myself most days while I pound the pavement. Many days, I feel like a well-oiled machine as I cruise along the pavement, mostly paying attention to time, pace and distance. It's not very often now, that I think about my heart when I run, or the fact that I had several professionals attempt to void its warranty.

I think this old pump has a lot of life left in it.

~Safe Riding and Running!~

-The Chief

My Haunted House

Let me state right up front, that all of my "On the Road" tales are true stories about my life. Although I've considered experimenting with fictional stories, all past reports, including this one that I am about to write, are real accounts of events in my life.

In the early '90s, I was in the market for a new home. Having found a house that was desirable to me, both in size and price, I made an offer on a bank-repossessed home, situated on a busy highway in my hometown. The house had been vacant for more than two years, and needed some work. Being a "do it yourself" kind of guy, that was of little concern to me. The price was more than appealing.

My three children and I had been staying at my mother's home, while I worked to make our new house habitable. After a month or more of preparing the new house for occupancy, it was time to move in. I moved in first, as I was anxious to start making the house a home. There were still a few minor jobs that needed addressing, before the home would be comfortable for my family.

As long as I live, I'll never forget the first night that I stayed in my new house. I had partially furnished the house and was thrilled about spending my first night there... alone. Or was I? As best as possible, I will attempt now to describe the chain of events that took place, once in my bed in my second floor bedroom.

It was around one o'clock in the morning, when I had finally retired for the night. Within minutes of getting comfortable, and just starting to fall asleep, a strange feeling came over me. I opened my eyes to see the image of a man slowly walk across my bedroom from the far corner to the doorway, and then exit the room. I was startled.

Being the reasonable man that I am, I discounted the event as having been a dream. Although somewhat shaken, I turned over and fell asleep.

A short time later, I awoke to an indescribable feeling of someone or something pulling me out of my bed. The force was real and it was scary as hell. I felt like I had to hang on to something for fear that I would be pulled out of the bed. The feeling was so intense that I not only felt it externally --as if something was pulling on my physical body-- but also inside of me, as if an energy of some sort was attempting to completely overtake me.  I spent the remainder of the night on the sofa in the living room.

The next day, the recollection of that event was still vivid. I spent the next few nights on the sofa.

Once my children joined me in our new home, the strange events, although different, continued. One morning, after a peaceful night's sleep, and upon entering the kitchen, all of the cupboards and drawers were wide open. Another event which took place during the middle of the night, involved a conversation between two people in the den.  Although you couldn't see anyone or anything, the muffled sounds were obviously voices of people talking.

Even though there were many occasions where abnormal activities were witnessed in my home, the events were typically small, insignificant anomalies that I dismissed as being coincidental. Hallway lights were found to be on in the morning, which had been off during the night. Many nights, there were sounds of someone walking on the first floor, when all of us were upstairs in bed. These oddities were common, and somewhat frequent.

My children were aware that our home was "different", but we never really talked much about it. One son used to come into my bedroom fairly frequently during the night, to report that there were strange noises in his bedroom --mostly centered around his closet. My daughter mentioned on more than one occasion, that she had seen an old woman in a rocking chair, in the upstairs hallway. I think that she may have been joking about that, however.

Because none of the occurrences seemed to be threatening in anyway, I wasn't concerned about anyone's safety and I didn't feel as though we needed to vacate the home. I had my own theories about the events taking place, as I was familiar with some of the home's past history --the knowledge that my home had been built in the late 1800s-- and the realization that probably more than one person had died in the house.

In the Fall of 2000, we moved out of the house, having purchased a new home closer to my job. While my haunted house was on the market and once again vacant, two final occurrences took place that helped to confirm what I had already known.

The first event which occurred a month or so after we moved, involved one of my adult sons. He had left some of his personal belongings behind, when we first moved.  He went back to the vacant house on a Thursday evening to sort through his belongings, which were in his bedroom closet. While in the bedroom bagging up his belongings, a strange presence came over him. Consequently, he left the bags in the center of the room, and left earlier than he had planned.  On Friday, he returned to collect the bags and was surprised at what he found. All of his belongings had been removed from the bags, and were lined up around the perimeter of the room against the walls. Everything, that is, except for a wooden plaque bearing the image of a crucifix. The plaque was in the center of the room, apparently untouched. He gathered his belongings and quickly left the house.

A few months later that winter, I received a phone call late one evening from a friend of mine, the Police Chief from the town where my haunted house was located. He stated that he was sitting in my driveway, and a light was on in an upstairs bedroom. He was concerned, because he hadn't noticed any lights on, prior to this evening. He further stated that he had checked all of the doors, and everything was secure. He had been watching the property for me, as it was vacant. While we were talking, he told me that the light had just gone out. In describing the location of the lighted room, I was not surprised that it was in the room that my son had occupied while we lived there. I explained to the Chief that I had put a light on a timer at the house...but truthfully, I hadn't.

Did our home have intruders, or were we the intruders? Our house sold the next year.

Fact or fiction? You decide. I'm interested in your feedback!

~Safe Riding~


-The Chief

The Day I Saved Chip

The day started out just like any other ordinary day. Once out of bed --a quick shower, dress and breakfast-- then out the door to enjoy a day off.  I've never been one to sit inside and be idle. I don't remember what I had planned for the day, but I'm sure I had a list of "to do's" neatly packed inside of my pea sized brain.

I went out to the patio to check the pool, which was a daily routine for me. Within minutes, I was to become a hero. Yes, me...just a simple, ordinary, everyday kind of small town guy --soon to be a hero!

Chip must have fallen in the pool just moments before my arrival. It was obvious to me that he had been swimming frantically for a short period of time and was struggling to keep his head above water. It's times like this, that all of those hours of classroom training seem to pay off. I can't recall how many times I've taken CPR and First Aid classes during my career, but the numbers surely must be in the millions.

Without any further thought about my own safety, I sprang into action! Quickly, without delay, I grabbed the skimmer net and ran to the edge of the pool. Chip was in the deep end of the pool and it was now evident that his energy was waning. Time was of the essence!

Within seconds, I extended the long pole out to Chip's flailing arms. With the last bit of energy that he could muster, he grabbed onto the net and I pulled him to safety.

As he collapsed onto the concrete patio --his heart pumping like a young man's heart on his first date-- I carefully helped to dry him off while reassuring him that he would be fine. A few easy compressions on his stomach proved to expel any remaining water from his lungs. It was obvious that he was extremely grateful for my quick action to rescue him.

It took about twenty minutes before Chip was able to get up on his feet and slowly walk away. A feeling of satisfaction came over me, as he stumbled away, glancing back at me with obvious gratitude. I was thankful for being in the right place at the right time, and also for all of the training that I had taken over the years.

On this otherwise ordinary day, I became an instant hero to the chipmunk community --a sort of God, if you will. To honor my bravery and quick action, Chip and his friends filled my workbenches in the garage with gifts of nuts and twigs.

Thank you Chip!

~Safe Riding~

-The Chief

My New Honda

The year was 1972, and I remember the day as if it was yesterday. I was a high school freshman, and I wasn't really into the whole "education" thing. To me, life was more about making money and having fun. Little did I know.

The day I reached my sixteenth birthday, I was camped out at the local motor vehicle department ready to take my learner's permit test. Within a few short months, I found myself with a driver's license --having passed my road test-- and my first 200 dollar car, a Chevrolet. It was an ugly car, pale yellow with a torn black vinyl roof. Painting a black stripe down either side, and adding a flame at the end didn't help to disguise its ugliness, but the radio worked!

The day that I remember as if it was yesterday, however, was the day that I bought my first motorcycle. My love for two wheels started long before that day. As a young boy, probably around the age of twelve or thirteen, I was thrilled with motors and vehicles --or practically any thing that was capable of moving from point A to point B under its own power. Someday, I'll probably write about my first motorized contraption, but not now.

Prior to the purchase of my new Honda, I had built a couple of mini-bikes, by swapping and bartering different possessions of mine        
--including, but not limited to my pet raccoon that I had trained as a family pest. The mini-bikes were fun for a young and adventurous boy such as I, and they also helped to teach me about traffic laws and other rules and regulations about life and living in peaceful neighborhoods. I was well known in my town.

Many times during the winter of '72, I visited the Honda dealership in Ithaca, New York. That Spring, I went with my father to pick up my new bike, with sixteen hundred hard-earned dollars in hand.  Times were different back in the seventies, and I was a young man extremely uneducated about motorcycles, driving and well, life in general. Dad and I took a two by six wood plank --you know, a motorcycle ramp-- along with us in his van to pick up my newest treasure. Tie downs? I didn't know what they were, and I didn't give any thought as to how to secure the bike for its trip home. "I guess I'll have to sit on the bike so it doesn't tip over", I said to dad, hoping no one at the dealership heard me.

Once home and unloaded, I remember rejoicing in the fact that I finally owned something new. My car, when I purchased it, was six years old and ugly. It ran and did its job, but it was ugly. My Honda was shiny and new. Uh, I need to be honest here though...it was ugly too. Apparently I didn't have very good taste in colors, when I was a much younger man. My new scoot was brown... plain ugly brown. To make matters worse, I let one of my older brothers give my new bike a test ride in our backyard, and he discovered quite quickly that front brakes and grassy surfaces don't quite go together. After his maiden voyage around our yard, my plain ugly brown Honda became a plain ugly brown Honda with a bent front turn signal.  I kept my first motorcycle for a couple of years, and then traded it for a bigger, faster and not quite as ugly bike.

My ugly Honda served me well. It helped teach me the rules of the road, and also some safe driving habits. I had just one mishap on the bike, and it involved a collision with a dog. I won, but didn't feel as though I had. Actually I was fortunate, in that I kept the bike upright and I was only slightly injured. The dog didn't fair so well.

I've watched the motorcycle industry come a long way. I've learned volumes about motorcycles, riding and safety on the road. From mini-bikes, to Hondas, to Harleys --I've enjoyed them all. Times were good back then. It's been a long, fun journey, and my days of bartering with raccoons are a thing of the past.


~Safe Riding~

-The Chief

A Chip Off the Old Block

When I was a young lad growing up, I was fortunate enough to have parents who believed in a strong work ethic. Their philosophy about getting things done, revolved around the fact that doing things for yourself was most often the best route to take.

Dad was a self-made man and was handy at pretty much everything. A lot of what I learned growing up came from his willingness to be a mentor to me. Probably the greatest gift however, must have been passed down genetically, even though remaining somewhat dormant for the first couple of decades of my life.

Thinking back over the years, and remembering all of the projects I have taken on and completed, is a testament to the skills that I began learning as a young adult. Throughout my life, I generally felt that if something needed to be built, rebuilt, or fixed, who better to do it than me? Thank you dad, for instilling that in me.

Recently, I decided that a new patio constructed of concrete building pavers, would be a fun and worthwhile project. The thought of laying more than 200 heavy cement blocks on top of the ground, to create the illusion of a well-designed patio, typically wouldn't pique my interest. My initial design plans revealed a wooden deck, built over an existing concrete slab. The change in plans and driving force however, was the fact that there was an obstacle --cleverly disguised as a building permit-- lurking in the shadows of my, "I want to build it now" disposition. When I make up my mind to take on a project, I'm not the type who is willing to wait. Similar to heading out the door for a run; when I'm ready to go, I'm ready to go. Simply stated, it's best not to stand in my way. Thankfully, permits are not required for those wishing to strategically place chunks of cement on the ground. Not yet anyway.

If you've never taken on a project that involved clearing and leveling 200 square feet of earth, and preparing it as a bed for cement blocks, my advice is... don't. Okay, as home improvement projects go, maybe it wasn't that difficult of a task. If nothing else, I think that I was trying to prove something to my aging self and besides, I had the best equipment that money can buy. My state of the art shovel and garden rake are second to none.

During my "do it yourself" career, I have come to realize that all of my projects normally have a happy ending. Regardless of whether or not there are issues or roadblocks during the building stage, the end result always seems to please me. By no means am I an expert on building or fixing anything, and believe me I have made many mistakes along the way. Thankfully, to the "untrained eye", small blunders that I have made while constructing my --soon to be enjoyed creations-- seem to go undetected. The life expectancy of my projects has never really concerned me either, as I have made it a habit to frequently relocate --along with keeping an unlisted phone number.

Once completed, I was pleasantly surprised with this new concrete concoction of a patio. The surprise was not about the end result being aesthetically pleasing and somewhat level, because as I stated earlier, my projects typically seem to have a happy ending. The surprise to me this time, had to do with how quickly everything seemed to come together. Within just a few days of semi-hard --I guess I'm not retired anymore-- labor, what was once just a typical backyard was now transformed into a patio paradise complete with accent lighting, mulch and shrubs.

A chip off the old block? Perhaps.

Did I chip any of the blocks? The untrained eye may never detect that. Only this DIY-er knows for sure.


~Safe Riding~

-Chief

I Never Knew

I never knew when I was a child, just how hard it was to raise a family. I took a lot for granted, as children often do.

I never knew, mom, that when you bought me a new pair of sneakers, someone else in the family went without something. This was a common thing in our family because there were eight of us children, and dad --who was self-employed-- was the family's sole means of support.

I never knew that all of those times when you took me shopping, and I was a pain in the ass and cried, making a scene to get that certain toy that I had to have, that I was adding to your stress and gray hair. I didn't need those toys, and I remember that sometimes I didn't even want them.

I never knew as I was growing up and stumbling through my final years of school  --not really having a direction in life-- that you would always want the best for me and never give up on me, although there were times that you surely could have.

I never knew just how proud you were of me, as I became an adult and began my career. As I started my family and my life became more jumbled,  from the daily stresses of life, I chose --selfishly-- to work many hours and pay little attention to you or your needs. I have learned now, to slow down and enjoy life while also embracing those who are closest to me.

I never knew how hard it must have been for you, when dad died just days before your 50th wedding anniversary. The emptiness and feelings of loneliness that you surely harbored for many years thereafter,  I will never know.

I never knew, mom, just how much you suffered in pain as you aged the last few years of your life. You were the strongest person I ever knew. I have no right to complain about minor aches and pains as I often do.

And Mom, I never knew, the last time that I took you to the hospital, that you wouldn't be coming home. You knew it and you told me, but I didn't really listen.  I didn't know just how much you hurt or how sad you were, as that tear ran down your face when you asked me to take you home.

I never knew how painful those last two weeks of your life were. I didn't realize how much suffering and agony you had to endure.

I never knew, mom,  how great the void would be --after you were gone-- not being able to call you or stop in for a visit, just to let you know how the kids were doing or to ask about your day.

I never knew, mom, or totally understood - but now I think I know.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

You were the best mother anyone could have ever wished for.

Sadly missed...

Old Dogs and Children...

I've always liked kids. Some people are dog people and there are cat people too. I've never really been a fan of pets, although recently I have learned to enjoy the company of an older dog. Probably because we have a lot in common, and it has to do with aging and arthritis. We mostly connect in that way, because we understand each other.

This story is really more about children, and not about animals though. It's about the enjoyment that I get from teaching and being around people. Children are especially fun to teach. Many times during my career, I felt that I had missed my calling. I realized --sometime back in the 80s-- that I really enjoyed being a training instructor, even though there was a time during my early police career that the thought of addressing a group of trainees seemed to transform me into a trembling bundle of nerves.

I have done my share of training seminars and in-service lessons over the years. Looking back now, I think that the most enjoyable times that I had, involved training young people. Bicycle safety classes with young scouting groups bring back many fond memories.

I was recently asked by a local Kindergarten teacher to be the Mystery Reader at her school.  Once I agreed, she cleverly upped the ante, and made arrangements for my reading to extend into all four Kindergarten classes. The book chosen for me to read --A Day in the Life of a Police Officer-- somehow seemed to fit.  Patti was the teacher, who so cleverly planned this in-service session, that would involve  77 young and very inquisitive minds, and a man passionate about his life and recent past career.

Upon arriving at the elementary school main office, I was greeted by two young faces that provided a giggly escort --through a maze of hallways to the classroom where I would enter and make my acquaintance-- to a roomful of five year olds bubbling with energy and excitement.  Shy? Not this group! "Chief, you look younger in your picture", was just one of many comments I heard, referring to a photo of me on the teacher's desk, neatly propped where perhaps an apple should be.

Sitting in front of a group of very well behaved students, I shared the author's story along with bits and pieces of my own story of a lifestyle from days gone by. I'm sure that the fun and enthusiasm I had, while addressing my classroom of intrigued learners, was readily noticeable. Once the story ended, I opened the session to questions and comments, and there were many.

"Do policeman ride cheetahs? Why do police cars make that funny loud sound? Did you ever get hurt when you were a policeman? Did you bleed?" Question after thought provoking question. Responding to questions asked by such young and innocent minds takes a lot of extra thought. The innocence of the young is one thing that I truly enjoy.  Kindergarten teachers have a great job.

This in-service training did have a purposeful goal, or as I would refer to in a lesson plan, an objective. The objective of this session was to help the students learn and remember their home street addresses and the importance of knowing that information. My visit with the class also helped to show this classroom of young  --learning about life-- students, that police officers are ordinary everyday moms and dads who have chosen a profession that serves the community.

After the reading and question portion of my visit, I spent some time with the class to observe their projects, which included an invitation to sit on the floor and check out a hotel constructed of building blocks, admire some art work, and view a computer work station. The visit ended all too soon, but only after I assisted in retrieving a toy phone that mysteriously ended up in a ceiling light fixture.

Kids are fun, often funny and generally possess a certain innocence that tends to slip away much too soon.

Among the many other interests that I have, I enjoy addressing groups of people and sharing my thoughts and life's experiences. Now I'm learning to share my life with my new friend "Buddy" --you know, the previously mentioned aging pooch-- who is also a good listener and knows his address too!


~Safe Riding~

-The Chief

The Meet

The offer to attend a high school track meet was inviting. Considering that I hadn't been to a high school sports event in ten or more years had a certain appeal to me that I openly welcomed.

Asking that I accompany her, Patti had decided to attend the meet even though the weather was somewhat cold and rainy, which is typical for early Spring in New Jersey. The track event was being held several school districts away and her daughter Carly --a Senior and member of the team-- would be competing in several field events.

My first observation once there, was that the event was much larger than those that I had been involved in during my coaching years. There seemed to be more schools, more competitors and a larger spectator crowd. The coffee we purchased upon arrival, although it didn't deserve that label, served a much more important role which involved the transferring of heat from the cup to my already chilled to the bone fingers. A dollar well spent.

After a couple of introductions to a few of Patti's friends, I found my own small section of earth to plant my feet on, where I could observe the Shot Put, Javelin and Discus throwers, and slowly chill the rest of my normally warm Florida body.

As I stand and observe, I feel the coldness gradually working its way through my body, soul and mind -

"This is one part of the job that I really don't care for", I thought to myself as I looked around at all of the other officers. "There must be fifty departments represented here. This scene seems somehow all too familiar to me", the thoughts continued.

As the officers lined up, one row and then another, there was an ever present sense of sadness, although this was coupled with a feeling of camaraderie.  As much as I truly enjoy my profession, I am aware on a daily basis, of just how disposable I am. Now, once again as I watch as a fellow officer is laid to rest, I am reminded of this fact.

My fingers and toes are so cold that they hurt. They haven't reached the point of no feeling yet, they just hurt. The late afternoon chill in the air is different than the chill that runs down my spine as the Marksmen fire their rifles in a final tribute to an officer who paid the ultimate price. But still, I stand at attention like all of the other men and women in blue. Standing at attention as the bagpipers play. Standing at attention as the rifles crack the silence. Standing at attention as the Minister speaks, and finally, as the casket is lowered below our playing field where mankind lives, where track team members compete, and where Police Officers strive daily to survive.

"Chief, get the camera ready, Carly's going to throw", Patti says, which brings me back from a time and lifestyle of years gone by. "Are you okay?" she asks, noticing my far away gaze.  "Fine", is my reply --as I stand there still numb from the coldness lurking throughout my body.

Leaving the meet --as warmth and feelings begin their journey back into my extremities-- I sense a familiar calm as I thank an officer who has just stopped traffic for us to cross the street.

"Let's stop for a good cup of coffee on the way home", I offer.


~Safe Riding~

-The Chief

The Truth about Aging

When I think about how fast it has all happened, it sometimes takes my breath away. No, not really. That's actually not a true statement. Let me start again.

When I think about how fast it has all happened, it makes me somewhat melancholy. There, that seems to be a more accurate statement.

 Life, Living and Aging

That's what I'm talking about. Every single person reading this dissertation, has heard it before - "Enjoy life, it goes too fast" or something similar like, "enjoy your kids while they're young because they grow up so fast."  We all know it, but I want to talk about it.

I think that I think too much. I think about aging. I think about my existence on this earth, and I think about the relationship of time and how it affects everyone's life. Sometimes I think that most people don't normally have these thoughts, but rather go on day after day just existing. Eating, sleeping, breathing...living. Perhaps my move to a retirement community has made me think more about it. I suppose that being around people much older than myself has somehow made me more aware of the aging process and all of those things that accompany it, both good and bad.

My son Eric and I had a lengthy conversation recently about time. He brought it up. We talk frequently about such topics because, like me, he too is a pretty deep thinker. I'm not really sure how we got on that particular topic, but we did. Even though Eric is a much younger man than I, he gets it. I believe that he realizes just how fast time goes by, and also that time seems to speed up as man slows down during the aging process.

When I was much younger, I remember hearing my parents talk about age and aging. But like many young adults, I didn't really give their words much thought. I think that a person has to experience the aging process for many years, before it all really seems to make sense. Or maybe more accurately, it makes no sense. At times to me, it just seems to be sad. We are born. We live. We die.

Don't misunderstand me. I'm not a sad individual or unhappy with life or anything that life has thrown my way.  In fact, I tend to be happy most all of the time. I've been this way for many years. I've been fortunate in my life to enjoy things that matter most, but it seems that there was a lengthy learning curve to get to that point. I was the guilty party who wished many times that my children would grow up so that I could recapture my life. What was I thinking then?

Sometimes I wonder if the very essence of how I lived my life, basically searching for the perfect partner and ideal living arrangements, has somehow provoked these thoughts that now flood my mind on a fairly frequent basis. The song lyrics, "I teased at life as if it were a foolish game - I ran so fast that time and youth at last ran out" were written about me.

My lesson about life took me years to learn. I like the man that I have become, even though I am not rejoicing in the fact that it took me so many years. I like that I now take the time to appreciate the little things in life that years ago had little meaning to me. I like that I am content. I like that I have a tendency to like people. I like the calm that I now possess, even when my surroundings could easily dictate otherwise.

If I were to be given the opportunity to rewind my life and start over, I would only make a serious attempt to slow it all down. The content of my life was and still is satisfactory to me. The speed however, was much too fast. Life has been more than kind to me, and aging...well, I'm definitely aging.

I think that I think too much.

~Safe Riding~

-The Chief

Daytona Bike Week - 2011

It did seem a little strange this time, heading over to Daytona Beach to take an abbreviated look at this year's event. My journey, along some winding rural central Florida back roads, meandering along the Ocala National Forest was very scenic and the weather was ideal for riding. A little chill was in the air that morning which equates to perfect temps for keeping the 96 cubic inch air cooled mill running at its finest.

On a personal side, there were two major differences at this year's Bike Week. The first I just mentioned –the fact that I rode to the event rather than flying here from 1200 miles away. Second is the point that for once, I was able to check out the scene as a spectator rather than working the event as a vendor for RoadLoK. I know that my feet appreciated the difference.

My first stop was in Ormond Beach, to pick up Eric and Jim. Good guys those two. Eric is my son so of course he's a good chap, and Jim...well, Jim is friends with Eric so that makes him a good person too. Besides, Jim knows Harleys well and he loves to ride. That makes him more than okay in the Chief's book.

So there the three of us are, cruising around Daytona Beach – I'm aboard old reliable, my 07 Street Glide – while Eric is piloting a slightly older Fat Boy. Jim – I'm still not really sure what he was riding except that I do know it was a Harley and it didn't have a front fender. I never professed to be an expert on model recognition. To me, if it looks and sounds like a Harley, chances are it's a Harley. 

Our first stop was at the Daytona Speedway. Heavy traffic, bike after bike after.."wave to the nice officer!".

Looking back now, it's really ironic that I had Eric snap a quick photo of me standing by a new brightly painted Street Glide glistening in the Florida sun, at the Harley tent. I'll explain this comment later, so remember it. 

We spent some time walking around the different vendor's tents and as I had stated that I would do, I checked out some of the newest motorcycle accessories to hit today's market. RoadLoKs on bikes? I saw them too, which supported my thoughts that there are some smart and security minded bikers among us.The crowd seemed about normal to me, as far as size goes, although I heard later that attendance was down.  I just know that there was an abundance of bikers and besides, they say that size doesn't matter anyway.

Leaving the racetrack, we headed out for a short ride to meet up with three of the boy's friends. Lady friends. Lady biker friends. Local lady biker friends with their own motorbikes. After a quick informal introduction, the six of us enjoyed a nice lunch and some small talk after which we decided to take a ride around the loop. The loop is fun, and if you've never ridden the loop, you may want to add that to your bucket list. Where exactly it is, I can't say because I'm not that familiar with the area, but take my word, it's called the loop and it's in Florida.

Once the bikes were neatly parked, the day ended with some typical fireside chat complete with beer. That's a common scene among bikers during bike events. The chilled night air was reason enough for me to stay in Ormond Beach and cruise back home the next day. Father Time has done that to me.

A couple of days after my tour at Bike Week, I decided to pay a visit to an old friend of mine. Larry has been in the Harley business for many years. He's a great guy and fun to be friends with. He also enjoys his chosen profession and it shows. New Smyrna Beach Harley-Davidson is fortunate to have him leading the pack there. He's a good enough friend that I decided to let him have my two prized possessions – my 07 Street Glide, you know...old reliable, and my 09 Cross Bones. In exchange, he gave me a brand new Street Glide. Thanks Larry!

About that ironic photo shoot next to the Street Glide --That iron horse was posing nicely in front of the Harley tent and something about it caught my eye. In a somewhat excited state, I asked Eric to take a photo of me by the bike because well, I liked it. I'm not sure if it was the color that drew me in, or the fact that it was sporting a 103 cubic inch powerhouse but the fact was, I wanted my photo by it. When we left there, I didn't give that bike a second thought. At bike events, you see such a variety of vivid colors and fancy bikes that it's easy to forget them once you move on. It wasn't until I was riding my new Harley home, that I realized I had purchased the same model and color bike that I captured in a photo that day.  Funny.

Thank you Bike Week for showing me a good time, and Larry, thanks for keeping me on the road in style!

For all of you Florida riders looking for a great deal on a new ride, stop in and see Larry at New Smyrna Harley-Davidson and tell him the Chief sent ya!
 
~Safe Riding~

-The Chief

Bike Week - Florida Style

This year I'll be making my rounds during bike week aboard old reliable - my 07 Street Glide.

Hello biker friends, the Chief is back and once again –like so long ago– you'll be reading a road report involving bikes and a bike event!

Daytona Bike week this year is in full swing and I'll be cruising through the crowds and scoping out the scene. The main difference this year however, is the fact that I'll be riding to Daytona, rather than flying and then either borrowing or buying a new scoot. I won't be trailering a bike from New York with RoadLoK (and company) or O.C.C. either, which I've been known to do in the past.

I've enjoyed traveling to Florida for bike events over the years and the Sunshine State has done its part to capture my interest. Enough so that I decided to move here last winter, from the frozen Empire State.

That being said, I'll be heading over to the coast to enjoy some time cruising the streets, checking out the newest and coolest bikes and accessories. I'll be taking a visual count of properly secured –RoadLoK'd– motorbikes too!

Stay tuned for my report –Daytona 2011– which will hit the headlines next week!

In the meantime, as always...

~Safe Riding

The Chief

Twenty Years - The Story

Unlike my typical "On the Road" stories, this will be a little more in depth. This month I celebrate twenty years of running and I would like to share my adventure with those of you interested. Enjoy!

One Spring day in the middle of March 1991, I headed out of my upstairs apartment to run one mile. I remember the day as if it were last week. My life was different then—and in many ways. I was in the ascent of my career, while my personal life reflected a world of chaos and turmoil as I had recently ended the marriage to my children's mother. Running, however, was not an attempt on my part to help me deal with that daily battle or drama—because, quite frankly, I didn't even know at that time just how beneficial running and mental wellbeing intertwined.

About a month before this day that I speak of I had purchased an exercise tape, which was being marketed as "a great way to reduce stomach fat". The VHS tape, if my memory serves correctly, was titled: Seven Minutes to a Flatter Stomach. "Hell, anyone can do a seven minute workout", I thought to myself as I left the store toting my ten-dollar miracle fix. Although I had always carried my weight fairly well, it was common for any excess baggage to neatly (or maybe not so neatly) attach itself to my waistline. I wanted it gone, and I was willing at that time to invest anything to help it along its journey on a disappearing act.

The next morning found me perched in front of my television, on the living room floor, donning my newly purchased K-Mart sneakers, sweatpants, and tee shirt. I was ready for some serious business and nothing would stop me. Remote control in hand, I started the reels spinning. As my new training partner made her introduction to me I couldn't help but notice how attractive and fit that she was. I especially liked her choice of gym clothes. "Video Trainer Lady, I'll gladly do this seven-minute workout with you." And so began our relationship—crunch after crunch after excruciating crunch. I did great! Now if I can just make it through the last six minutes", I remember thinking as I crawled to the couch for a nap.

My affair with my VTL (video trainer lady) lasted about one month. That's how long it took me to finally get through the complete seven-minute ass kicking that she attempted to give me daily. This was truly a love-hate relationship—and I mostly hated her. It was on that historic day that I decided—after the workout—to go out and run one mile, and see how long it would take—and also to see how I felt after the fact.

My feeble attempt to run just one single mile was a real eyeopener for me. That, above and beyond anything else, is probably the main reason that I have stayed with it. I remember the walk back home from my first attempt at that silly mile. The walk, although very short as I had only traversed about two village blocks, found me with my head down, muttering obscenities all the way. I couldn't believe that I was not healthy or strong enough to run one mile, plain and simple. It had been just ten years prior that I was running two miles daily in the police academy. What the hell happened to me?

I'm a determined man. I was then, and I am now. Daily, I found myself lacing up those high-tech K-Mart sneakers and heading out the door. With each and every attempt, I tried to make it just a little farther down the road to my measured mile mark. Eleven days, in answer to your question "how long did it take to run one mile non-stop?". Daily, after those first eleven days, I would run to the mile point and then walk home. Shortly after, I started running back toward home until I could run two miles. There is no secret formula—that's how it began.

About three weeks in, when I realized that I was going to make running a daily part of my life, I knew that it was time to upgrade my running shoes. Knowing very little about the sport of running, I once again went back to K-Mart. When I saw a really neat pair of basketball shoes, I made the purchase. I thought that the high-tops would give me added ankle support, and be a great running shoe. Besides, these shoes were close to $30, so they must be good. I wore them once. The day I threw them out was the same day that I threw out my bloodied socks. The high-tops wore the skin off of my ankles during my inaugural run with them. I had a lot to learn about the sport of running.

Walking into The Foot Locker at the local mall the next day, I was greeted by a young man asking if he could be of assistance. Chest puffed out and proud as could be, I declared, "I am a runner! What's the best running shoe for me?". "Asics makes a good running shoe. Let me get you a pair and see if you like them", was his reply. Thus began my second love affair in the running arena—with the shoes, not the salesman. I've worn nothing but Asics ever since.

So here I am twenty years later, still running the roads. As I was running my usual five miler this morning, in the hot Florida sun, I was thinking about my years on the road and about this story. Running has been extremely good to me. It has helped me through: two failed marriages, raising three children, my law enforcement career, a diagnosis of rheumatoid arthritis, and a misdiagnosis of an aortic aneurysm—on top of all the bad things that life tends to throw our way.

I have logged thousands of miles running the roads. One year alone in the early nineties, I logged-in over 1,500 miles. I lost 45 pounds the first three months of running. This I remember well, because at the time my daughter weighed 45 pounds—and I remember thinking that I basically had lost enough weight to equal a human being. I lost so much weight at one point that some of my friends worried about my health and my certain demise if I kept running. Now looking back at photos from that time, I understand their concern.

I have run hundreds of races—everything from one-mile distances, to the grueling 26.2-mile marathon. I've managed to break the ribbon at seven local races, and took the gold in my age group at hundreds more. One year I received the Runner of the Year award from the Greater Rochester Track Club. I believe that one of my very best performances, however, was achieved at the annual Utica Boilermaker 15k Road Race. That year I was determined to traverse those nine-and-three-tenths miles in under one hour; I did just that. I beat the clock by four seconds, which placed me in the top 300 runners—out of a field of 9,000.

I share this information not to boast of my performance—but rather as a testament of what one average man can accomplish when he puts his heart and soul into something he believes in. Understand: I was a late bloomer, having started running when I was 34 years old.

I was fortunate enough to coach the cross-country team at my own high school in the late nineties. For four years I not only enjoyed the time spent with many high school students—both on the track and on the road during our daily runs—but I was also able to share stories with the teens regarding my professional career. Instilling in young adults that making good choices and doing what is best are key ingredients for a great lifestyle. This was just one small segment of coaching that I truly enjoyed.

In honor of my twenty years on the road, I ask that each of you take part in my celebration this month. Help celebrate me by celebrating you. Take just one day during March and go outside for a walk, slow jog, or run. Pay no attention to distance or time—but rather, observe your surroundings. The world truly is a beautiful place when you take the time to notice it. Running is a great way to be at one with nature! When you have finished this assignment raise a glass to good health, good friends, and a new beginning!

Oh... by the way, remember the main reason I started to exercise? You know—the excess baggage residing in my mid region... Let me just say that—although he's substantially smaller—he has bummed a ride with me for these past twenty years, enjoying each and every mile and every race. We've decided to be friends.


-Safe Riding, err... Safe Running-

~The Chief