update on choosing a martial arts school

Posted on August 24, 2011 by

I  wanted to clarify something from the last post about choosing a martial arts instructor.  I mentioned that an instructor could not rank someone less then two belt ranks below them.  That still holds( at least in Karate)  Ideally, the dojo or school that you choose should have  a head instructor or Sensei who holds at a minimum a fourth degree black belt. He or she would be able to then rank his or her students to black belt , up to second degree.  If they don’t, then they should have their Sensei come to their dojo to rank their students who are ready to test for  black belt or upper belt ranks.  Too often I have seen “Dojos”, started by students who are only a first or second degree black belt ranking students.  This might be okay ( I have severe doubts about this), if they still train with their Sensei and if their  Sensei is welcome to come to their classes and observe their students progress and thus be able to rank their students.  Too often this is not the case.  If a black belt is ranking students  and does not have the approval of their Sensei then the ranking that they give their students is worthless.  The student, when researching a school should ask themselves several questions.  First, how long has the Sensei been studying Martial Arts? What is his or her rank?  Who are their instructors?  Where do they train? Do they continue training and training hard to be better?  You get what you pay for.  Just because a ” School” is less per month then another does not make it better. Or, for that matter, if a school is more, it doesn’t mean that it is better. The Sensei or Teacher determines who is ready for advancement, not the student.  Too many times have I heard students ask when they can test for their next belt rank. They may think they are ready, but just asking shows that they are not.  The study of Martial Arts, any Martial Arts  takes time to master, a life time.  Obtaining your Black Belt is just the first step, as if you just graduated from high school.  Would you want someone who just graduated from high school teaching high school classes and giving diplomas? Of course not.  You want someone who has gone to college. The same hold true to Martial Arts Schools.  Find out who your instructor is and what their rank is.  Can they really rank you as they say?  Beware of the instructor who talks the talk, but can not demonstrate the moves.  Can they do a break fall,  role out of a break fall, do the katas, etc.?  I feel saddened and almost angry when I hear “teachers” say  that they love karate, but don’t care anything about protocol or respect for their teachers or for the history of their martial arts. When they teach  Kata (Forms) and they teach them wrong; they are showing disrespect for the very Art that they profess to “love”.   Also, a martial arts school should teach their students how to fight and defend themselves. It is a “Martial Art” after all.  A true martial artist knows that physical violence is only ever used as a last resort. But a student will not know how to act if attacked if they have never been attacked. What I mean is, in many schools they do not have contact when sparing . I understand this, but it is not realistic .  Think back to the first time you were ever hit. I mean really hit. It knocked the wind out of you, basically shocked your system.  How did you respond?  I remember how I responded. I was in 7th grade  or junior high and I got hit  hard in the stomach. The person who hit me said she wanted to see if I could take it.  I remember how nauseated I felt how out of sorts I felt. How could another person, another young girl hit me like that?  But, I did not throw up, I did not pass out. I pulled it together and I remember asking her “was that all she had?”  Turns out that I didn’t know that she pulled this stunt on a lot of the “New kids”.  My reaction surprised her, as it did me.  I guess my point is, you really don’t know how you will react to getting hit, unless you, well, get hit.  That does not mean that a martial arts school has people hitting each other so hard as to hurt each other. But you do need to understand how you respond to the shock of being hit.  Even if it is just a light slap.  Learning to deal and respond with conflict is so important.  A martial artist needs to control their emotions and be calm, even in the heat of battle, so to speak.  You can not let your emotions control how you react to an assault, be in verbal or physical.  So, choose a martial arts school or teacher who will help you grow as a martial artist and a person.  You will find that your martial arts will help you in all aspects of your life.

(  There is a book – IAIDO – THE WAY OF THE SWORD BY MICHAEL FINN  that I encourage you to read.  He nailed it when he described  how some people approach  the Martial Arts  when he said in his book ” In the western world money, they say, speaks.  Most people think that if a man is good, it is measured by how much they pay for his services.  If they pay, then they expect the teacher to come across with the goods, without themselves having to work hard.” He also added in a later part of the same chapter ” Most people in the west are used to the Let’s do something at the evening institute attitude.  They expect entertainment and enjoyment. “  )  I think a lot of potential students pick a dojo because it’s close, their kid’s friends are going their , etc., that is fine,but if you want to study martial arts , real martial arts be careful. My point in this is that if you want to study martial arts and are serious about it, choose your teacher carefully.  Don’t just assume because they say they are teaching a certain style of martial arts that they are teaching that style as it should be taught.  Find out who their teachers were, and check with those teachers.  Too many times I have known or heard of someone claiming to teach a certain style or have trained under a certain teacher and they have not.  If you are serious about the martial arts and want to really understand and train, then do the research.  An instructor who is legitimate will have no problem with your questions. They will welcome them.

The study of martial arts is hard at times, but like the blade in the forge you will grow and be stronger by undergoing your own personal test of fire.  Your choice will be important , choose wisely. There are a lot of different schools out there, some good, some great, some bad , some just down right awful.  Take the time to do the research and you will be a wiser and more educated martial artist. PB

 

 

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PARIS IN THE SPRING

Posted on April 17, 2011 by

PARIS IN THE SPRING

I spent most of my life without ANY interest in seeing Europe, especially Paris. I’m not sure why. Maybe because I thought it was the center of all that is bourgeois, elitist, and pretentious. Boy, was I wrong.
All her life Pat had always wanted to see Paris. She felt that it was the center of all that was artistic, rich in cultural history, and culinary delights. Boy, was she right!

So, when the subject of taking a vacation came up, we spent months planning and arranging for it. We were giving ourselves 30 days to see as much of Europe as possible. The only time available to Pat was the month of April. Hmmm, relying on good weather in Europe in April was tenuous at best. I mean, it’s a given that ANY and ALL kinds of weather would be available. It sure was! We saw torrential rains in Ireland ( geogh fhigghur), beautiful sunny days in Paris, snow in Annecy, France, hail and pouring rain in Rome (all the locals would tell us, “Piove a Roma”-”It NEVER rains in Rome!”), and scorching sun in Spain.

I was completely unprepared for the charm, elegance, and beauty that is Paris in the Spring. We arrived in Paris after spending a glorious week in Galway, Ireland watching the driving rain blow sideways across our hotel window. We stepped out of the Metro station into the warm sun and stood awestruck amid the throngs of other travelers and locals. My Gawd! It was warm! People were happy! It smelled great! Now, the real vacation began. We spent a little time piling down some protein bars and getting our bearings. I was amused at the looks we were getting as the two Americans with massive backpacks pulled out map and compass to figure out where to go from there. One older gentleman actually smiled and nodded at us, as if he could have appreciated that what we were doing was…the smart thing to do.

Then we began our first walk through Paris. The worst thing that happened was we got a few blank stares, other than that we were having the time of our lives saying “Bonjour” to everyone, and “Ou est le Louvre?” It was wonderful. The smells of Springtime in Paris are indescribable, yet magical. And we didn’t run into a “rude Frenchman” anywhere! We made it a point to walk everywhere, every day. And every day was a new adventure. From strolling along the Champs Elysees watching the shoppers, to the darkest back alleys where we found the BEST whole roasted chicken and hummus I’ve ever had.

One night, on a forced march to the Eiffel Tower, we were rewarded with the sparkling light show on the Eiffel and having the tourist trinket hawkers leave us alone. On the way home to the hotel that night our pace had relaxed and we had a nice break watching the 15,000 or so inline skaters rip through the streets of Paris with a police escort. I guess this goes on every Friday night. It reminded me of Portland, OR’s infamous “Zoo-bomb”, except, in Portland, the cops are out to bust the bikers, not escort them.

One fine day our journeys took us, again, along the Seine River. To a beautiful bridge known as the Pont du Alexandre III. Now, I had been at peace all week, had enjoyed the best chocolate, coffee, cheese, bread and wine (my favorite 5 food groups) in my life, admired fine art and historic architecture and did all this with the finest woman I have ever known. With all that, AND feeling the twitterpation of Spring-time, it was written in the Stars that I, at that moment should drop to one knee and after expressing my deepest love for her, I asked Patricia to marry me. She gave me the answer I was looking for before I finished the question. I found out later that French girls dream of being proposed to on the Pont du Alexandre III. I can see why. It is the most romantic place I’ve ever been to.

It’s been a year now since that week in Paris. Pat and I are to be married in September. A lot has happened in the world this last year, and more changes are to come. But one thing holds true, the Seasons return, as do my thoughts, to Paris. The one city in the world that inspires the greatest Human emotion of all…Love. No matter what happens in this world, we will always have Paris in the Spring.

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Choosing a Martial Arts School

Posted on February 11, 2011 by

I was talking to some friends last week  and they mentioned that their kids had just started in a new martial arts school.  They stated ” Well, it was close to home and our child has friends who go there.”  Okay  fine, that is one way to choose a martial arts school. But it depends on what you or your child hopes to get out of the training.  Are you looking for a place to take your child to that occupies their time and they get some exercise? Then great, it really won’t matter much where you take them.  If you are looking for a place to have your child learn discipline and REALLY learn to defend themselves, then it gets a little bit more difficult.  Beware of schools that promise to make your child a Black Belt or have special fees or programs that you have to pay for in order for your child to become a black belt.  You should not have to pay more to get a black belt in any school and your child has to earn a black belt.  It should not be a given that they will get it in so many years or months.

Be cautious about contracts.  If a school demands that you have a contract  think carefully. Your child or you  ( if you are the one taking classes) may or may not want to continue.  If you sign a contract, you will have to pay whether  your child or you attend classes.  Think Carefully.  If they demand that you have a contract, see if they  have a one month contract, or look else where. Unfortunately there are a lot of  “martial arts” centers that are really only interested in your money. They could care less about what you or your family learns as long as they get paid.  It is your money, be cautious.

Find out what their background is. Where did the instructors receive their training? Who were  their instructors? What is their lineage, or can they trace who their instructor’s teachers were, and so on, etc.  Are they teaching a weapon that they took a one or three hour seminar in and now are ” certified” to teach?  Are they calling themselves Karate  but are really something else?   You get the picture. There are a huge amount of instructors out there that call themselves martial arts instructors, but who have no business teaching.  Do they rely on videos to teach their students?  (not videos they they have made, but ones they have found on the internet.) Can they actually do the moves and not just describe them to their students and more importantly do they know the Bunkai  or applications of a move.  If they don’t, move on.

Also, are they ranking students, but don’t have more then a second degree black belt.  I don’t know about other styles, but at least in traditional karate,  you can only rank someone to within two belt ranks of your own belt rank. What I mean is; if you are a first degree black belt or Shodan, you can only rank students up to Brown Belt with one stripe ( in our style, our belt ranks are white belt, then up to three green stripes, green belt, then up to three brown stripes, brown belt, then up to two black stripes, then black belt. After black belt we don’t add any more stripes, just ranking.)  If you are a Nidan or second degree black belt, you can only rank students up to a brown belt with two stripes.  So, if you have a ” teacher “who insists on ranking their students, but they themselves don’t have a high enough belt rank, they are misleading their students and should not be teaching.  It is not fair to give your students the false sense that they can receive a black belt, but not be able to rank them as such.  Be careful of instructors who only tell you that they are a black belt or worse just wear one.  I have even seen instructors who’s obi ( or belt) has been washed to make it look more worn and ” old”.  What you see is not always what you get.

Any legitimate school will be okay with you and your child watching a class or two and most will give you a free class or free week to see if you like it.  If you don’t like what you see, move on. Even if you can’t put your finger on what is making you uncomfortable, that is okay, trust your instincts.  Does the school seem only interested in trophies?  If that is what you or your child is looking for, okay; but tournament sparing is not real world fighting or self defense. Think about what you or your child wants to get out of the school.

Another area that I wanted to cover are the park and recreation or continuing education classes. While there are qualified instructors out there, there are a lot who are not. If the instructor does not have someplace to refer you to ( to further your training)  or will not tell you their lineage , think carefully about signing up.  There are students who are not qualified to teach , but think they are and leave their school and set up a “School” on their own. Typically these ” teachers” are usually only first or second degree black belts.  The sad thing is, they don’t continue to train at their home dojo or school, so they tend to forget over time the correct forms or kata and slowly start to change the actual style of what they are teaching. They call it one thing, but it is not what they are teaching.  Even teachers need review. The legitimate instructors will gladly tell you who their instructors were and refer their students to their home dojo or school for further training. The park and rec or continuing education classes are not meant to be a dojo or school into themselves. If you find yourself in that situation, leave as quickly as you can.

The bottom line is this. Do your research.  You will be glad that you did.

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Conflict With Your Kids

Posted on January 28, 2011 by

I am going to quickly move past dealing with conflict with your children. After all, if they are throwing a fit about …anything, you first tell them calmly what exactly is the TRUTH for you. For example, your “truth” might be, “I am not going to argue with you any more about this.” Or, “I am tired of hearing you scream.”

Then, you give them a choice. Here’s where you can get creative. The choices you give them should always include, One) Starting with an “I” statement, say what YOU want out of the situation, and Two) give a much less desirable choice than the one they want.

“I want you to stop screaming, or we will leave this place.” It doesn’t matter if your shopping cart is full of food. You’d best be prepared to back what you say with the appropriate action, ie,  LEAVE!

Notice I said “appropriate” action. If your child doesn’t want to come with you, pick them up and calmly carry them out, kicking and screaming, but don’t under any circumstances threaten them with bodily harm! You may decide to compromise with them, “I’m not going to buy you the-little-box-of- “Sugary Crappypops”, but, if you quit screaming, I WILL GET YOU THIS GIANT BOX OF STRAWBERRY GRANOLA. YUM-MY!

Something is better than nothing. Most likely they will follow because you are walking away from them, and they have no clue as to what to do with the cart of groceries. If you give in to the child’s demands, you will have lost and the child will have learned that they can get what they want by “acting out”. Remember, the reason for the child’s behavior is to get attention from you. Just don’t give into it. The kind of attention you give them can make it easier, or harder for you.

Adults make the decisions, hopefully good ones, Kids LEARN how to make good or bad, decisions from the parent(s). You get the idea. If the kid just isn’t getting the discipline he or she needs, sign them up for a karate class.

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WAYS TO PREVENT HOME INVASION

Posted on January 3, 2011 by

Scenario #1- You’ve dropped your son off at his Karate class then came home from the grocery store. You are tired from negotiating the rush hour traffic and as you put the groceries away you hear the doorbell. Thinking that it is one of those Hippie-types who are looking to get something put on the ballot; you go to the door to politely, yet with a hint of guilt to  send them on their way. No, it’s a guy, standing there holding the storm door open with a tale of woe. It might be that his car broke down, or his girlfriend is sick or having a baby, or that his Aunt used to live here and could he use your cellphone to call…somebody. That person will attempt to bring some kind of drama to your home  in the hopes that you will be alone; naïve enough to believe him and turn your back to him in order to get the phone. He wants in.  Hopefully, the only thing taken would be… what?… a laptop… Gramma’s jewelry…your husbands birthday present, a 52” Plasma Screen TV. Oh, and maybe you were only pushed into the hall closet and told to shut up.
Wow, that was your LUCKY day.

Scenario #2- You just came home from Junior High. It’s dark outside and your parents aren’t home yet. You are headed to the kitchen after dropping your books off in your room when you hear a loud crash at the front door. You see silhouettes in the narrow window by the door and you freeze! There’s another crash and the door is nearly torn loose from the hinges, but the dead-bolt held like a champ. That’s when you move to turn on the nearest light; run to get your cell phone and dial 911 as you make it out the back door to the neighbor’s house.

Scenario #3- You’re home, safe in the warm comfort of the living room and the doorbell rings. Satiated from dinner but curious as to who might be at the door;  you hoist your self out of the chair and wallow over to the front door. You never latch the deadbolt, so, as you unlock and turn the doorknob, the door is suddenly kicked in with an explosion of sound and wood splinters. The door smashes in to your forehead and face in a blindingly painful attack that knocks you back and off your feet.
The rest of the family is shocked by the sudden noise but too engrossed in CSI: Mytown, USA to even get off the sofa, besides, Dad will take care of it. Actually, Dad’s already been “taken care of” and as he lies there unconscious and bleeding. The reason for the disturbance makes itself rapidly and viciously apparent. Hello! The evening’s entertainment is over gang, and the wolves have just forced themselves in to maybe rob, rape, kidnap, or even kill you. Yeah, it’s pretty scary.
There are too many scenarios to cover them all, so let’s just start with some simple basic precautions.

Prevention IS worth a pound of cure.
Let’s look at some of the options you may have.
Security systems: Any where from a real dog to a motion-activated recording of a really big dog. Decals to put on the front and back of the house  stating that you have a security system installed.  Actually putting in a security system.  A high tech satellite laser guided systems that can detect changes in heat and humidity, seal the room that the intruder is in, AND then release the pack of attack trained Mastiffs.  I would recommend a more reasonably priced system, one that gives you all the necessary “bells and whistles”, so to speak, that will make your home security as fool proof for you as possible. Really, if you can afford an alarm system, go for it. It will be your best bet in preventing any loss of, your “stuff” or your life.  Most insurance companies will even give you a discount if you have a system.  You can even go as far as putting bars on the windows and doors.

Alarm system decals to put on the window in the front and rear of the house, are a reasonable deterrent. I always liked the presence of a BIG dog dish by the back door. Put a name on it, like “Sarge” or “Chewbacca”, not “Skippy” or “Binky”. Leave a little food in it, like a beef tongue with ketchup on it and a couple of really big bones. Nothing will deter a thief like the evidence of large canine induced carnage lying around.
I have to recommend Baldwin locksets over any others. You can FEEL the difference in the weight compared to other locksets, and they are designed to be “bump” proof. “Bumping” is a method of lock picking. Oh, and USE them, even when you are home, day or night. The locks aren’t any good if you don’t latch them.

When you are gone from home for an extended period of time, let the Post Office know to cancel mail delivery or have someone pick up your mail. Get a couple of automatic timers for your lights so they will go on and off at your usual times.
Don’t give someone who may be watching you or your house  a place to hide. Either prune the shrubs so no one can hide behind them, or request that the landlord does it. If they balk about it, tell them that you wouldn’t be able to pay the rent if you were robbed or hurt in any way because the landlord failed to keep you safe. I have even heard of landlords being the ones watching their tenants and they really didn’t want to cut back the very shrubs they were hiding behind. Plant some Barberry’s next to the house, the thorns will keep most people at bay.

Understand that a thief has most likely been watching your house and the occupants within to find out your schedule, and when you may be the most vulnerable to being robbed. Keep your eyes open as to who is walking or driving through your neighborhood. I have watched innocent-looking families strolling through the neighborhood.  The kids laughing and playing; the mom’s pushing a stroller, but if there was a baby in it, it was buried under…stuff. I saw a basketball, a sprinkler, and some shoes, but no baby. She then walked onto our yard and proceeded to strip the Asian Pear tree of its fruit. The Dad was walking in front of everyone, on the cell phone, telling the person on the other end our address and exactly what was in our garage. I was pruning some shrubs and they didn’t see me, but when I stood up and yelled “Hey!”, the whole family took off like a shot. The Dad, still on the phone, and the Mom dropped all the Asian Pears as they sprinted down the street.
Yes, times are tough and money’s tight. There are a lot of desperate people out there, and I guess it’s come to the point where anything that is NOT nailed down is fair game to take. I just think it sucks that there are people who are teaching their kids that stealing is OK. This, Us vs. Them, the Haves and Have Not’s mentality doesn’t work for me. We are all in this economic mess together. If they had the self-respect and courtesy to ask me, I would be happy to share what I have. But that’s just my opinion.

So, let’s suppose you have your home “buttoned up”, and you feel reasonably safe. Let’s just make sure all the bases are covered. I am of the belief that we all have the right and responsibility to protect ourselves and our family from bodily harm. So with that in mind, are you really prepared for a physical assault into your house?
Create a plan of action for all the members of the household. Who’s going to call 911? Who gets out of the house? Do you have an exit strategy? How many ways can you slow down or eliminate a home invasion? Do you have defensive tools strategically placed around the house, like Pepper foam, baseball bat, a cane, a knife, a sword, a stick, that chunk of Obsidian you found hiking all those years back, a tennis racquet, a golf club, the “bathroom blowtorch” (hairspray or other aerosol can and a lighter, careful with this…a 2-3 second burst is all you want, so the can doesn’t ignite in your hand), or anything you can pick up in your hand can be used as a defensive tool. Personally, I really miss the old rotary phones. You could dial for help AND knock the daylights out of an attacker. Then tie them up with the “pig-tail” phone cord!

Discuss these topics with the family. If the teens “dis” you, put them “in charge” of a particular part of the strategy, give them the responsibility of making sure “something” gets done. Whether it’s just turning on some lights, or calling 911 or getting OUT of the house and to the neighbors or getting the younger sibling(s) up and out. Now, here’s the hard part, but it’s also a very important part. Practice it, or at least talk about it, more than once. It’s about dealing with the element of surprise, and not being frozen in fear by it. Oh, and if you do feel fear…Breathe…keep breathing.

When I first brought up this topic at home, my daughter was only 5. When I asked her what she would do if someone was trying to force their way into the house and I was trying to stop them;  she said without pausing that she would come to help me. Well, I’ll tell you, it really softened my heart to know that my 5 year old loved me enough to want to come to my rescue. It also really scared me! If a situation like that arose, I absolutely did NOT want my 5 year old daughter dressed in pink pajamas and bunny slippers to be coming up close behind me if I’m in a physical struggle with someone. I admired her courage, but feared for her safety if I were to run into her. Knocking her down, by accident, in the course of a struggle, I then would have had two things to deal with. Having your attention divided can cause problems, sometimes serious ones.

So, consider what different things you can do to deter thieves,  put them into place and practice with them, either physically or even thinking about how to do it. Play with it until you don’t feel such a sense of dread, then you will be less likely to be “taken” by surprise.

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BARCELONA, SPAIN or “How Many Pockets Could a Pickpocket Pick, if a Pickpocket Could Pick Pockets?”

Posted on December 28, 2010 by

In the months of planning and research before we left to backpack around Europe, we came across repeated warnings of pickpockets, scam artists, and thieves, Oh my. It happened anyway, but not by street thieves. No, we got taken by respectable people like train conductors, restaurant owners, and hotel managers. Of all the places we were to visit, Barcelona had the most warnings about street theft and how smoothly they operated. You won’t feel a thing, they said. All of a sudden you will realize that your wallet is gone or your watch is missing.  Those Euros folded up in your front pocket are now gone. I made a personal vow to NOT get taken by thieves. It became a mindset. Not an obsession or a paranoia, but a way of being as natural as strolling down the Las Ramblas ; holding hands and enjoying the Sun, the sea air and the gellato.

We would stroll along and every now and then stop and turn to look behind us. Now we wouldn’t suddenly whip around and glare at everyone.  Nor would we  cluster together in anguish like a couple of rabbits quaking in fear , looking for the hawk that would swoop down upon us. Worse yet, the typical American response to trouble, instilled in us through Hollywood’s Westerns, “Circle the wagons!!”. No, you stop and make a casual turn. We would do this for two reasons. First and foremost was to get our bearings. When you are on vacation…expect to lose your bearings. Breathe, stay calm and smile. Smiling will ease the tensions of those who are forced to go around you. If you are being watched;  smiling may just make the guy think that you are on to them.  It will make YOU feel better, anyway.

Look around for landmarks, by this time you should have figured out that there are NO street signs like there are back in Podunk, USA. Look closely at the sides of corner buildings… look into the distance, recognize anything?… anyone?… are there any guys by themselves hanging out?… or on cellphones, are they REALLY talking to someone or faking it? Are they describing you to someone else who will take over following you? Don’t you wish you could understand Spanish about now?

Look into the crowds. How far into the crowd can you see? Chances are, if someone is following/targeting you, they will be at the edge of that “line of obscurity”, behind some tourists, sort of “in the crowd” but with a direct line of sight on you. Look for them. If you stop to get money from an ATM, you will see them.*

It got to the point where we started “playing” with them. We’d spot a pickpocket and if they were targeting someone else, we’d watch them, follow them until they got away from us. If they were targeting us, we would window shop where we could see the guy in the reflection of the glass and wait for him to either get closer or leave. These guys had an uncanny ability to just disappear into the crowd if they felt like trouble was near. We either looked like cops or we looked like trouble.  It was kind of refreshing to challenge the thieves paradigm and watch their responses.

Being a pickpocket is a high energy career. These people have to be on constantly, looking for a mark or victim. Working the mark, acutely aware of the critical timing involved in the successful act of stealing. They are so smooth. Even though their minds must be racing, they act like they are doing absolutely NOTHING wrong! I witnessed more street crime done with an alarming and unnerving degree of “indiferencia”.

Near the end of our stay in Barcelona, I decided to test my self and the local pickpockets. I had to break several “rules” to do this:
One) Don’t dress/act like a tourist.
Two) Don’t carry a fanny pack (call it a hip pack as it is rude to say “fanny” in the UK)
Three) Don’t carry anything in your hands or arms.
Four) Don’t walk in a straight line or at a steady pace.
So, we went out for a stroll one afternoon, I was dressed in khaki shorts with black socks and running shoes on, carrying a grocery bag with a smelly t-shirt in it, a hip pack on backwards with the top zipper half open.  Inside was a cheap wallet with a couple of fake credit cards, the ones you get in the mail, “Your Business Name Here”- please-start-another-credit-card-account-so-the-bank-can-rip-you-off-some-more kind of thing, and a couple of Euros in it. Nothing I couldn’t afford to lose.

Maybe it was the fact that my senses were in a heightened state and that “sphere of energy”… that “aura of Being”… that “personal space”, was a little bigger and a little more sensitive to any “disturbance in the Force” kind of thing. Or maybe it was that my partner had walked ahead about 10 meters. Anyway, as I walked along, not really conscious of what may be going on behind me and certainly didn’t feel anything going on in the pack, I suddenly got the idea to check the hip pack.

I moved my left hand behind me into the now, wide open hip pack and, to my surprise, bumped and then grabbed the wrist of this 20-something guy who had his hand wrist-deep into the pack. I honestly don’t know who was more surprised by that. My initial response was one of subdued anger at this guy, his response, even when I had his wrist and started to twist it ever so slightly, was to ignore me and act like there was absolutely nothing going on! There was no tension in his limp arm so I let go of him. He instantly moved to walk right up against the buildings on the sidewalk and I followed right next to him, staring at him with the meanest look I could muster. I stopped after 10 steps or so.

There was no sub-conscious current of victim/prey mentality going on.  No need to run after or away from the guy. I felt nothing from this guy other than the presence of his hand in my pack. His response was like some slow motion amoebic ballet. Unencumbered with any attachments to the moment; with no emotion or acknowledgment. He passed into the crowd, around the corner without breaking stride or looking back and was gone. Leaving behind him a sour sense of violation not unlike the fleeting aromatic imprint of the NE corner of the Placa de la Universitat.

These guys were highly trained and disciplined thieves. You have to respect them, but you don’t have to like them. I could have just let him steal the worthless stuff, but that would have gone against all the training and vowing I’d done earlier. Besides, part of playing together IS having fun, and I was having fun making the thieves, I encountered, as nervous as possible.

We had even more fun with the “shell-game” con-artists. We would just hang back on the outside of the ring of people that would gather to watch, like sheep to the slaughter. We would keep an eye out for the scammer’s partner. We would  try to figure out their code, and watch the pickpockets circle the crowds like sharks circling the bloated carcass of a whale. Usually the games broke up real fast, with the guy who just dropped a 20 Euro bill on the sidewalk, confident in his half-drunken bravado that he will win. He would be left standing there with his hands in his pockets.  A semi slack-jawed look on his face not sure where his bill or the con artist went in the blink of an eye!

These scam artists live with a lot of drama and I think they use that drama as a ruse to confound their “marks” and suddenly disappear…with the money, of course! Almost every time we witnessed a shell game come to a rapid end, there was someone about 10 meters away in the dark who started yelling something and that’s when the scammers would make their exit.

These excursions into the criminal underbelly of Barcelona would just happen spontaneously as they presented themselves to us. We weren’t relentless hunters of the unjust, unwashed “Artful Dodger’s” of Barcelona, ha-ha, no way. We would just push ourselves out of our own “comfort zone” and add a little intrigue now and again. It kind of brought us closer together.

Keep your vacation experiences fun by agreeing ahead of time to only bring things you can afford to lose. (you would be amazed how much that frees your Mind, there’s a lot less to worry about) try to use ALL your senses when out and about in a strange place. That includes trying to learn some of the local language, and look for the lesson or the positive side to any experience you have. You will ENJOY telling the stories, time after time.
* Stay tuned for another blog on ATM safety, at home and abroad.

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Saved From the South Prologue

Posted on December 27, 2010 by

I ended up in a Seventh Day Adventist Hospital (perfect, I was vegetarian too) and spent a week there over Thanksgiving. I saw a news report about the truck accident, complete with footage of people running off with hams spilling out of their arms.

Now, I want to ask you, after all these things that occured in this very short period of time, is THIS  what it finally took to get me off the roads!? All this gobblety-gook about “Guardian Angels”. Picture, if you will, an etherical Angel that chose to protect me, and in order to do so the Angel had to beat its wings so fiercely as to knock the truck over. Thus preventing me from entering Georgia and saving me from a terrible fate. I didn’t know what fate that would be until I continued to watch TV (not a lot of anything else to do). Yea-haa, that’s “out there.” What do you expect after being half brain-dead and knocked around like that? Hmmm?

I watched in disbelief every day the reports of a massive local cops and FBI manhunt for the man responsible for the Atlanta Child Murders. How would THAT have worked into my Master Plan? Me, a longhair, being stuck in Georgia while they’re looking for…someone…to persecute… in some sundry fashion, perhaps with short lengths of garden hose and rubber gloves.. No, it’s not some persecution complex, the whole illustrious State of Georgia was on the hunt for a child killer!
“Oh, Yoo-hoo officer?! Pick me, pick me. Please take me away from this Gawd-forsaken truckstop and get me out of the cold and rain PUH-LEEZ? I’ll do anything…anything but THAT! I’ll sign anything, just let me sleep!” Not an easy thing to have fun with.

The trucking company settled, I got “room and board” for a week in Chattanooga and pocket change which I used to take a bus to Florida. The truckers are a really superstitious bunch and when they started hearing that the Hippy who had been in a truck accident the week before had returned, well my fate was sealed and I was now a demon Pariah to be avoided by all who ride on 18 wheels.
Fine. I was after all, still alive. I healed quite well, wintered out in sunny southern Florida, made it back to Oregon before Summer was over. And, because of the old wound on my left elbow, I now have a really dandy “Cold Weather Monitor” in my elbow.

Take chances, be passionate, live Life, and always remember that it’s not OK to laugh at others… so laugh at your self, long and often.

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Saved From the South Chapter 3

Posted on December 27, 2010 by

I sat in the truck stop diner drinking really bad coffee, listening to equally as bad Country music, talking with the truckers that came in for dinner.  I asked them if they knew where I might catch a ride to Florida. I was hanging around… for a long time; watching the rain, sucking down coffee and pancakes until way into the next shift. Once I got on the good side of the new waitress, she was more willing to vouch for me being “a good boy”.  Then it didn’t take too long to get a ride, this time, going all the way to Chattanooga, Tennessee.

By then it was 4AM. The trucker told me that I was going to have to work for my ride and that my job was to keep his coffee cup full from the 6 thermos bottles he carried out to his rig. I thought, “I could do that.”
I followed him through the labyrinthine parking lot with rows and rows of  big rigs  to a brand new, beautiful silver-gray Volvo with purple pinstriping. Definitely NOT your standard, run-of-the-mill 18-wheeler.  There were 6 chrome stacks coming up out of the hood!  He told me that his truck could break away from the trailer if he popped the clutch, so he had to go easy taking off.  It was the only truck in the lot that could  burn rubber. This guy was REALLY into his rig, and I could see why. It was one-of-a-kind, and the power and sound of the engine was incredible. He had some SERIOUS money in this puppy.  I had to wonder what he hauled that he could afford to drive this…this…locomotive and needed to be able to outrun the cops? Hmmm. I kept that to myself, thank you!

I had been up since dawn the day before and was feeling  a might bit wearisome. I looked like death warmed over. I stayed as vigilant and dutiful in keeping his coffee cup full as I could but I hadn’t slept or showered in two days and was rapidly crashing from exhaustion. When I told the trucker that, he said, ”Don’t say crash, it’s bad luck!” The trucker said he thought I was sick and then let me lay down in his sleeper the last hour and a half of the two-hour drive East. Into the night and the now pouring rain. It was fitful sleep, if I slept at all. It was just before daybreak when we arrived at Chattanooga. I was dropped off at yet another truckstop in Rossville near the merging of Interstate 24 and Interstate 75.

My sleep-deprived brain was starting to feel like it was on fire, dull and reptilian. The next 11 hours were pure screaming hell for this ol’ boy. Between the cigarette smoke, the Gawd-awful Twangy-Gutbucket-Country-Western music and all the stink-eye I could handle for a lifetime; I was surprised I didn’t perpetrate some heinous crime just to get out of there…upright or not. I day-dreamed of “going postal” and taking out the entire diner, starting with that @#$%^&* jukebox!, and letting the violence escalate to it’s own rhythm, culminating in a successful getaway. Letting it play out slow and ballet-like… like…some Sam Pekinpah movie.

Instead, I drank gallons of coffee, politely asked every trucker that came into the place for a ride South, went outside in the cold and rain to do jumping jacks, tried to make myself presentable by cleaning up (bathing) in the Men’s Room.It was about 3pm by this time.
About 5:30 PM a young truck driver came in very talkative and upbeat. His sense of humor caught my attention and when I asked him for a ride, he agreed to take me as far as Atlanta, Georgia.  There he was to deliver 19,000 pounds of Christmas Hams to a warehouse in Atlanta but he wanted to settle for a while; have some coffee and wait to meet a friend. His “friend” turned out to be someone he got “speed” from and then he was ready-and-rarin’-to-go-and-boy-that-guy-talked-a-mile-a-minute-which-was-almost-as-fast-as-he-was-driving-and-he-missed-the-exit-to-Freeway-75-and-not-even-pausing-to-take-a-breath-he-proceeded-into-a-tale-of-truckers-and-“speed”-at-a-rate-of-verbal-velocity-equal-to-our-own-relative-velocity.

As we sped into the slick curve of the freeway entrance at East Brainerd road in the driving rain, the dozen truck tires that had ANY traction at all suddenly gave that up to go along with the 6 “donuts” which began to merrily slide sideways causing the driver to compensate. He  was masterfully cranking the wheel in one direction, then the other…in other words…completely out of control! But I gotta give him an A for Effort, that boy was DRIVIN’!

Everything seemed to stop and was deathly quiet for a moment. In that moment two things happened. One, I was wide awake all of a sudden. Two, I remembered a letter I had written to my Mom 3 months earlier. In the letter* I told  her of my plans.  I jokingly detailed, with a four-frame cartoon, an imagined accident involving me, a dark rainy night, and a truck, loaded with pigs. The truck flips over, sending a huge shower of sparks flyin’ in the night. Some pigs were running loose, the ones with little X’s in their eyes weren’t. Chaos reined.

In the next instant,  the truck abruptly flipped over onto its left side, slamming me into the driver. My left elbow was torn  open, severing the Triceps ligament completely.  The upper portion of my arm rolled back up towards the shoulder and began to bleed quite a bit. The windshield exploded outward and was gone. Glass from the right-side window rained down on us. We slid for a ways, I’m not sure how far; but it was long enough for me to take notice that we were sliding for a ways. When it stopped sliding, we got out by standing up and walking right out through the space where the windshield used to be. Which seemed SO weird. Then the driver collapsed I went back into the truck to get my pack and to shut off the engine; but I couldn’t find the ignition.

The driver was lying on his side not moving . I asked him how to shut off the engine. I could see a sheen of fuel on the rainy road in the headlights of the passing cars, and I could smell it!! He said, ”Let the sucker burn, it’s insured.” Then, I thought he died. I firmly believe that there is nothing like a near-death experience to really sharpen ones attention to a razor’s edge. Even though my left arm was useless and bleeding all down the front of me; I directed a trucker, who stopped to help, in shutting off the truck’s engine ( he seemed to know about a secret Brother Trucker “kill switch” under the dash). I stopped some passing motorists and managed to get a small blanket for the driver as it was 39 degrees and pouring down rain. One big fat guy rolled down his window releasing a thick cloud of cigar smoke. And flicking the cigar ash onto the road asked me, “What happened?”
Appalled at the stupidity of this guy flicking his cigar onto the road where it was obvious, I thought, that there was diesel fuel all over. Jeez the smell was thick in the air, but this Bozo couldn’t smell ANYTHING over that putrid cigar. I pitied the three little fat kids barely visible in the dark smoky recesses of the station wagons back seat.

I said, ” Du-uuh ya think there was an ACCIDENT?! Get out of here with that cigar, there’s gas all over the road you idiot!” What do you think? Too much? I WAS a little edgy about then. And then, the EMT’s showed up and that’s when I sat down next to the driver. I was done and resigned myself to the care and questions of the professionals. As they were assessing our respective injuries (thankfully, the driver was very much alive, just badly injured) I could see silhouetted in the lights of rush hour traffic that there were Christmas hams scattered all over the road. People were getting out of their cars and grabbing as many hams as they could. It was going to be a pretty good Thanksgiving for a lot of people there that year!

The EMT’s were getting ready to take us to the hospital ER when I asked them to please retrieve my pack. I heard some grunting, heaving, and exclamations from two of them as they could barely lift my pack. Without thinking, I laughed out loud as I jumped out of the ambulance, lifted the pack with just my right arm and jumped back in the ambulance and sat down. The two EMT guys looked at each other and one of them asked, “How did you DO that?” It surprised us all I think. On the way, they told me that I was lucky the accident happened in Tennessee, because Georgia was only 2 miles away, and the EMT’s in Georgia would have just left you there. They hate longhairs. Swell.

…*( yeah I wrote it to her to sort of make fun of what I thought was her needless worry about my welfare. After all I was a trained martial artist, or so I thought and thinking about it now, how cruel it must have been for me to enflame her fears, and with a ½ page cartoon graphic as well) OK, now in your thickest Scottish brogue say, “Aye Laddie, yer gooin sdraight tuhell. Yuh shouldda noh doon thah to yer sweet ol’ Muuther. Mayye roh in Pairgahtordree!”

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Saved From the South Chapter 2

Posted on December 27, 2010 by

The next day I started out at daybreak to a chilly day with a high overcast and had much better luck with the rides. Three short, quick rides went by uneventfully and then got a ride from a really nice guy who was continuing on Hwy 63 through Memphis, Tennessee which seemed to go on and on, but I didn’t really pay a whole lot of attention to it because the driver of the pickup truck and I were having a great conversation. We finally spilled out onto Hwy 72, which runs East along the Northern border of Mississippi where he dropped me off in a little town called Walnut, Mississippi where his girlfriend lived. This guy was so cool, he even gave me the phone number of his brother-in-law who was the foreman on an oil rig outside of Norman, Oklahoma. If I wanted a job, I should look him up. I thanked him. He was home for the Thanksgiving Holiday.

It seemed to be early enough in the day that I decided to keep going, so I started walking East out of town. I walked…and walked…and walked some more (probably 5 miles or so) until I got too tired of carrying the 70lb. pack (I weighed it back at the neighbors house), and ceremoniously dropped the pack on the side of the road. I will never forget this spot. I was still elated from the long ride, the camaraderie, and the fact that I was in a place that epitomized rural Mississippi (a place I NEVER thought I’d be) on a warm dry day on the 22nd of November.

I had a lot of time to ponder my surroundings. On the North side of this LONG, straight stretch of road, there was a blackwater swamp, “Probably full of cottonmouth moccasins.” I thought. On the other side were cotton fields as far as I could see. “Well, boll mah weevil, boy. Y’all heeyah in ol’ Mississippi. Y’all watch out fer the cottonmouths and rednecks now ya heeyah?”
Maybe it was paranoia from watching “Easy Rider” too many times, maybe it was the martial artist in me, or just maybe, deep down, I knew something was coming. You know what? I never mentioned that at that time of my Life, I had long blond hair down to the middle of my back and a thick blond mustache. I had 11 years growth of thick, wavy blond hair that middle-aged women would kill for. That might have been the reason for the fearful stares from the occupants of the 5 cars that went by in a 3 hour period of time. The children’s cherubic faces pressed against the snot-smeared windows, slack-jawed in disbelief…

As the day progressed, and I didn’t, I was becoming more and more of an “Uneasy Rider”. Was I EVER going to get a ride? Was I EVER going to get to Florida? Is THIS the place I was going to die? There were no houses in sight and no shelter against inclement weather or inclement rednecks. I remembered the big trees of the Oregon forests and how comfortable I felt in that environment, it was no problem there to find food, shelter, and any number of makeshift weapons. But here, there were damn few trees at all and certainly NO trees over 40 feet tall.
I envisioned myself shackled to Sidney Poitier as one of “The Defiant Ones”, running through the blackwater swamp, Bloodhounds, with names like Bubba and Jethro, coming up behind us, baying in the closing distance. Then me sprinting through the cotton fields, ducking, zigging and zagging while the cotton balls explode around me from the shotgun blasts. “Get ‘im Clem! Shoot that Hippy! Shoot ‘im goood!” Ha, ha, ha, what an imagination! Was it getting the best of me?

I started looking around for something that I might use for protection and/or an escape route through the cotton fields, but since the cotton only grew to about 5 feet high, it really didn’t afford any bullet-proof hiding place. What was I supposed to do if I was attacked by a pickup truck full of armed good-‘ol-boys, throw cotton balls at them? The only thing I found were about 10 rocks the size of small chicken eggs, but since I was REAL good at throwing rocks from years of experience of fighting off my older brother and the neighborhood bullies, I figured I now had a “fighting chance”.
Very soon after collecting the small pile of rocks and practicing on the Speed Limit sign, I heard a vehicle approaching, headed my way, and saw it appear over a small rise in the road. It was a pickup truck, an old, beat up faded black Ford with two guys in it. They started slowing down, but didn’t stop. As they rolled past me, I could see that they were NOT friendly, and there was a shotgun in the gun rack behind them as they drove on for about a mile, stopped and turned around to come back. They slowed down again and rolled past me, staring at me like Hyenas at a helpless lion cub. These guys were true Rednecks…ugly rednecks. I swear it, one of them was missing his two front teeth ( I know what he wanted for Christmas) They then sped up and drove on until they were almost out of sight. Then they stopped and turned around again. That was it. I knew then, without any doubt in my mind that I was going to have to defend my life.

I scooped up 5 of the rocks, keeping one in my right hand and prepared my self for action by moving out of the loose gravel on the side of the road. I didn’t want to slip in the gravel if I had to suddenly take off running, and hooked my left arm into the straps of my backpack to be pulled up as a shield if necessary, and slightly cocked my right hand back to be able to pitch that rock right between the eyes of the closest redneck. As they approached and slowed down, I could see the passenger take the shotgun out of the gun rack and I REALLY knew it was on…no, REALLY!
They slowed down to about 5 mph, I could see the barrel of the shotgun sticking out of the passenger side window about 12 inches, and as they got to within 100 feet of me, I heard the sound of a cars engine approaching from the same direction. There was something odd about the sound, it was wound up at a high RPM and as it crested the rise in the road, I could see that it was a white Cadillac convertible traveling at a very high rate of speed. I looked at the pickup and saw both occupants looking back in the side mirrors with a look of shock and dismay and when they were about 20 feet away, they sped up and left without incident. The Cadillac roared up and screeched to a halt in front of me. In the car were 4 very pissed off looking African-American guys.

Jeez, I didn’t know if I was going to die at the hands of white guys or black guys. Was this, suddenly a race to kill the only hippy in the State of Mississippi? The driver said, “We just saved your life, get in.” Were these guys my Guardian Angels wingin’ it down the road?
I dropped the rocks, hefted the pack and walked to the rear of the car where the driver had gotten out to open the trunk for me to put my pack in. I had never seen the trunk of a Cadillac before… it looked big enough to fit Wyoming in there Then he opened the rear door for me and I got in between the two guys in the back seat. They all proceeded to tell me how they had been on their way home to Huntsville, Alabama from the University of Memphis, and while getting gas in Walnut, those very same rednecks in the pickup truck had threatened them and now they were out to whup on some “Honky’s”.

We were haulin’ a** down the road after these guys and I asked the driver how fast he had been going to catch up to them. He said, “A little over a hundred.”
“Far out!” I said. They all looked at me, and the guy to my right said, “You’re not from around here are you?” I proceeded to tell them I was a hippy from Oregon, out of college, hitchhiking to Florida for the Winter, and that I was REALLY glad they came by, cuz I really didn’t want to die just yet. I said, “ When you drove up like that, I thought YOU guys were going to kill me instead of the Rednecks.” The passenger in the front turned around and said,
” No, you’re cool… we hate Rednecks.” Then he handed me a cold beer and we had a GREAT time just ripping down the 140 miles of road to Huntsville, talkin’ about college, music, Oregon, and women. Never did see the Rednecks.

These four Brothers had never met a hippy from Oregon before as I had never met anyone from Alabama, and it was a unbelievably fateful and thoroughly enjoyable experience. They kept me safe, and I kept them riveted with tales of Oregon’s mountains, trees, and rivers. They shared their music (great Mississippi blues) , beer and road food with me, and I shared tales of some of the landmarks of Oregon, whitewater rafting, and food for thought on confronting our pre-conceived cultural beliefs. To see through them as something indoctrinated into us, like believing in Santa Claus, and, like the Santa myth, getting dispelled when faced with a different reality than the one they have been holding onto. A reality that strikes a chord in your soul. (If they hadn’t been open-minded college students, who listened to Blues music, chances are that would have gone right over their heads)

The white Cadillac convertible was classic in its capacity to carry us comfortably and quickly. It didn’t once feel like we were going between 75-100 MPH! on a two-lane country road. We wheeled into Huntsville, Alabama in no time AND in style.
We briefly pondered the topic of how they came at precisely the right time to save me from being killed or worse (remember “Deliverance”? I do!). How I saw them as Guardian Angels and they just saw themselves as black guys from Alabama, lucky to be in college. I had a lot more time to ponder that topic a little later.
We shook hands and as I retrieved my pack from the trunk, the driver asked the other guys to pitch in 5 bucks each, whereupon he handed me the $20 and wished me a safe trip. The last I saw of them, they were all looking straight ahead with each one waving goodbye to me. They were all home for the Holiday. I was standing in front of the truckstop near the crossroads of Hwys. 72 and 231. Nowhere NEAR home for the Holiday, but still alive, and still hell-bent to continue thrusting my way into the South to Florida. I could swear that I heard wings flapping, barely audible, in the distance. Then it started to rain.

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Saved From the South Chapter 1

Posted on December 27, 2010 by

I have been hitchhiking up and down the West coast since I was 15 and was pretty comfortable with that being a viable albeit loose, unstructured form of transportation. But I was really “winging it” on this little episode. I started out from Alton, Missouri, the third week of November in 1981. I had been staying as steward on an 80 acre plot on the edge of the Ozarks and had made arrangements to have my closest neighbor, who lived half a mile away, to ship a trunk full of my stuff down to…Ft. Pierce, (or was it Port Fierce) Florida where I would be ending up.

I had everything else I thought I needed loaded into a backpack and strapped onto a 1975 Yamaha 500 I was planning on riding down there. I had never ridden more than 50 miles, at the most, at any one time and I was planning on going from Alton, MO to Fort Pierce, FL 1053 miles away and I didn’t even have a map. As a matter of fact, it WAS a grand recipe for disaster, thanks for asking, as there was a big storm moving in from the SE, and I generally had lost ANY ability for rational thought due mostly, well OK, completely to the fact that I was going down there to be with a woman. That’s it…plain and simple guys, pay attention. It gets lonely in the Ozarks.
I met her on the Umpqua River in the Summer, had a brief yet intensely
fun weekend and parted with her invitation to come stay with her in Florida. I HAD thinly disguised the reason for leaving Alton as needing a job and this woman I knew down in Florida had promised to set me up with a construction job if I ever got down there. I didn’t realize until it was too late that she NEVER expected me to show up!

Typical result when the male fantasy, which is totally predictable, slams up against the female reality, which is totally unpredictable. The truth of the matter was, that the Missouri Department of Employment told me that I would NEVER be hired, and one of the six people in Alton (population: less than 1000) who ever talked to me, told me that I was being watched and that the last hippy living in the area had up and disappeared, leaving behind everything they owned. So I had a choice… stay in Alton, Missouri, with no job, no money, no girlfriend, no firewood, and Winter rolling in fast…oh and a minor item like a DEATH THREAT!! Or, I could drop everything and head to sunny southern Florida with the promise of sun, surf, and a job. Hmmm, tough choice.

My neighbors questioned whether or not this might be a good time to leave and I nonchalantly brushed off their concerns, even ignoring their looks of worry and disbelief. The ol’ trusty steed fired up, just like it always had, and with a cavalier wave of my hand I rumbled down the ¼ mile long driveway and onto the main road, County Road 19 South towards Alton, and got about a ½ mile down the road when the old one-lunger begins to sputter for 10 seconds and then died. I tried for 5 minutes to kickstart that thing, but it had gone to that Big Motorcycle Rally in the Sky, and it wasn’t going to safely cradle my backside all the way to Florida, nay, it barely got me past the mailbox before it sucked its last breath through the cracked intake manifold.

Did a minor detail like that deter me from Plan A? Hmmm? Well, let me tell YOU!!
I had Plan B formulated, and successfully completed, in my mind, before I even got off the bike and began pushing it back to the neighbors house. My neighbor, who having heard the bike wheeze its last, piled the whole family in the station wagon and came out to meet me. He then helped me push the loaded bike up the hill to the house while the little woman drove the car home. A long story short, I gave the bike to my neighbor, repacked most everything into a backpack, and finagled a ride to Thayer, MO, 15 miles South on Hwy. 63 where my goal was to hitch hike to Florida. Yep, you’re right again. I AM either really gutsy, or really crazy, and was this really an “Act of God” that saved my life? I think it was one of many. Despite my intention to annihilate myself for the sake of female companionship, a guardian angel must have been “winging it” on my behalf.

The day ended, quite uneventfully, with me camping under a large oak tree somewhere between Walnut Ridge and Jonesboro, Arkansas on Hwy. 63. It had taken me four rides and 6 hours to get about 80 miles. It seemed like it was going to take me a little longer than the speed of thought to get to Florida.
The next day I started out at daybreak to a chilly day with a high overcast and had much better luck with the rides. Three short, quick rides went by uneventfully and then got a ride from a really nice guy who was continuing on Hwy 63 through Memphis, Tennessee which seemed to go on and on, but I didn’t really pay a whole lot of attention to it because the driver of the pickup truck and I were having a great conversation. We finally spilled out onto Hwy 72, which runs East along the Northern border of Mississippi where he dropped me off in a little town called Walnut, Mississippi where his girlfriend lived. This guy was so cool, he even gave me the phone number of his brother-in-law who was the foreman on an oil rig outside of Norman, Oklahoma. If I wanted a job, I should look him up. I thanked him. He was home for the Thanksgiving Holiday.

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