The value of life and all that it holds is what separates us from the animals, or so I’m told. I am here to say that once the human mind has descended into the abyss of hell, human life take on a new value. In many cases, for many people would say that a higher value could be assigned to each innocent life. I’ve watched tons of media driven bullshit and experienced “real life” situation when an innocent is standing on the threshold. Teetering on a decision to end another life or not, we find those who have not made the trip to hell, unable to take the next step, and it’s only when seriously pushed can they engage.

As I think back to the overwhelmingly dark past portions of my life from the comfort of my lazy-boy I am amazed at how resilient the spirit and human body can be. The drugs, the violence, the women and a lifestyle that promoted freedom was, to say the least, chaotic and destructive. For those of you who have braved the chapters before this one, you have probably noticed that the fire is beginning to subside. For so many years I have carried the guilt for what I had done, it blended into my psyche so deeply that I couldn’t separate it from whom I’ve become, blaming parents and other events for these feelings of shame.

In some ways I am ashamed of my past; in others I am proud for having survived it. I wear a “1%” patch for me, not others. It is my way of remembering the survival. I can say with certainty that a person’s mind “shifts” when he/she takes another life. It is the nature of the mind to attempt to mask these things from our consciousness, to forget pieces, let leave that wound unprotected. We hide the actual deed, but the guilt and shame manifest in us associated with current events. It is this method of “shifting” that has me interested in the psychology behind this type of behavior.

I’ve said that in-deed there is a moment when the innocence is lost, when the value of things that society holds dear, fails away. This is where this section of the Madman Diary begins. When one has lost all hope of ever getting back to normalcy, ever returning to the person one was. I’m here to say, it’s gone, you can never go back to where you were, however, the hope is that when you come back into the folds of society, you are a better, much deeper person with a set of values unlike any other. Although others have turned from hate, the key knowledge is that they are a completely different person “on the other side”. Understanding that the mind has “shifted” in this individual and now willpower is all that prevents him/her from falling back into that behavior pattern.

A friend with the local police department explained it “you can always tell when a suspect has killed before, they are different”. He goes on to say “wannabees” simply give their victim every opportunity to get out alive, while the others don’t”. The ability to navigate the guilt, shame and others has already been done, so they don’t have to go through the uncharted waters the “wannabees” do.

So what makes someone feel they have right to take away the life of another? What drives us to the point of no return? Power. Power is what drives us all. Power through fear, terrorism and Intimidation. It is the Control. If you examine all the different types of crimes against mankind, you will find the basic need for power is behind each of them. Rape is power over another person; murder, assault, manslaughter or any charge where there is human to human interaction, you will find the quest for power.

So, how do I ensure that my kids do not have this “overwhelming” drive to acquire power. You can’t. It is human nature to seek out and dominate the surrounding environment, it’s what man has always done. Your children (predominantly males) will be no different; the skill in which you will need to seek out is compromise. I know right! Compromise! Why in God’s name do I want them to compromise? Believe it or not, but many parents teach this skill to their young effortlessly and have done so for generations. It’s not backing down from a fight… It’s more like knowing which fight to take up arms in. The word compromise is not defined as “quitting” or “being a doormat”, it is the ability to find middle ground in which to work harmoniously with others. Being able to coexist with others is what allows the child to grow up and learn social interaction. Being able to walk-away from people who demand power in every situation is where our children can grow beyond us. Yes, they still need to be able to fight against what they feel is injustice, but knowing which fights to take on and which ones to let go is the greatest gift we can give them.

Violence and hate stems from this position of requiring power, once the necessity of power is removed, you will find that man no longer needs violence to force his hand. It is this removal of this requirement that will begin to grow the human race as a whole. Yea, it’s that important.

The requirement for power comes in two forms: power for self, power to impress others. This need for power is what drives many to commit horrible crimes against their fellow man. So now, I’m talking about the need to impress others and this comes from our need to “fit in” socially. The problem with this is that our children will always be able to find people they need to impress. The overwhelming pressure to be included in their social circles in school, at play, everywhere they go. They don’t understand the greatness that is themselves. They don’t understand the raw power in being themselves and not needing to impress others. It is our job to educate them in just being themselves. How do we do that you ask?

Lead by example. The way children will see that it’s OK to be different; it is by watching you being accepted by your social circle. The more they witness this behavior; it cements these behaviors into your child. This is important for them to see, raising your child in a vacuum is dangerous. It demonstrates these skills to your child. This is what they learn.

As parents, we need to be very aware of the power struggles that exist around us; it is this lack of recognition that hampers the growth of our children. We need to be more aware of the power struggles that exist between our spouse and ourselves, between you and your spouse’s parents; aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, you name it. Being aware of these situations can put us more on “alert” status when dealing with them. This is how we roll.

The next big issue that faces our youth is the “yellow journalism” that pollutes our airwaves and written fodder. The media is the embodiment of this quest for power, irrelevant of the correctness of the garbage they spew out to those who would listen. Teaching our youth that the media is wrong and show your children the ways in which they are demonstrating this attempt to horde the power for themselves. In television shows, take time to explain the power struggles within the show, how the draw for power affects the individual characters. Yes the competitive nature of individuals is demonstrated time and time again, however, this is not a quest for power, and it should be trying to do the very best. Very different!

As I look now at my young sons, I am encouraged by the understanding that I can demonstrate the lack of desire for power. I don’t need to win every discussion with my spouse, or my neighbor, I need to know what discussions need to be elevated and which ones I can simply step away from. By teaching them the power of compromise, I give them the ultimate gift, I am terrified that I may be too late to help my daughter, but I will try. Having this tool in the social toolbox can make them far more successful in their social interactions than anything else I could ever do.

Alright, so I’ve gotten to the battle plans. What each television show with one eye on the action and the other on power struggles that exist through the characters. Discuss these struggles with the boys after we finish watching the show. Teach by example; work with my spouse to discuss openly (which we already do) those topics that affect any desire for power between us. Maintain open discussions with outside family members, paying attention to what could be perceived as a power struggle and talk to the boys about it. Again, teach by example, make sure I clearly demonstrate compromise; both wins and surrenders, making sure the boys see that it’s OK to surrender things. Discuss the important ones, so as they understand those things that I will stand up and fight for. Let them know that their “friends” at school are not the “be all, end all” within their lives and that it’s OK to not fit in. Make sure as they grow into more social interactions, I am there to guide them on their path. Alright, I think I’m now ready to be a parent… Are you?

I remember the first, long road trip of my life on a motorcycle. We had left Arizona on our way to the annual Sturgis rally. I had recently been accepted as a prospect to the motorcycle club and was excited to be invited along. My mind was moving at twice the speed of the bike as I desperately wanted the ride to be over and the social interaction to begin. I remember being surrounded by fifty brothers and sisters, yet still feeling alone and isolated as we rode for hours without stopping. Not being able to talk and interact was like being confined to a jail cell with no sound, whereas even in a normal jail cell you could listen to yourself.

All I really remember thinking to myself during that trip was, that the prize was at the end, the end justified the means. Thinking about it now, I could not see that it was the journey; that wonderful journey was the beauty of that moment. The wonder of what laid out there on the blacktop ahead of me. We passed through town after city, interrupted by miles and hours of nothing. The trip took five days, but to me it seemed like a lifetime. I remember each stop; I would park the scooter and seek out company immediately. On more than one occasion I was so busy trying to talk to everyone that I forgot to relieve myself and wound up damn near wetting myself before the next stop.

I didn’t understand then, that the greater wisdom I needed was understanding and living, the ride. It is the countless miles where you are able to rationalize the events of the day and make sense of it all. The realization that those rides allow you to transcend normal thought into the higher powers of the universal intelligence. It really is like isolating Zen through meditation. But I was young then, I wanted to experience life, I wanted it all, and I wanted it then.

Now thirty years later, with the vision and understanding of what the ride really is; a true and thorough understanding of life. I’ve learned that the ride duplicates life, and like life you are either a driver or a passenger, you either pass it, or embrace it. There are those who only fixate on the road ahead, never seeing the beauty surrounding them to the left and right, too focused on the arrival, they are the ones who pass life. As I have found, there is beauty all around us, we simply have to look around; To seek it. These are the people who embrace life, these are my people.

My first road trip was void of any beauty; I just wanted to be at the end. I really think that I was way too much in a hurry, and missed the sanity exit. Several of my friends argue with me about the idea behind the journey, saying that the only reason the journey exists is to get to someplace else. I would challenge that by saying, why do you have to be someplace else? The journey you and I are on has no reward at the end, and the riches you amass in this life don’t go with you, but what you do take are the memories, those moments you dared to look off to the left or right. Those brief moments when the beauty of life is delicately etched into your memory. Those are your reward. That is what you keep forever.

Since that long road trip, so long ago, I have put hundreds of thousands of miles on many a cycles, and I have come to understand the balance that exists in the universe. It’s really not that complicated, like your word or your honor, they can never take your memories, you get to keep them forever. What will you remember?

This is what defines a “biker”. After all, they are people who ride bikes. The other portion of this is the lifestyle who some would deem as socially outcast. I would argue that these people are not watching life through a window; they are part of what life is, they engage life. The biker lifestyle does not have to mean that you are a legal outlaw; it really means that you live your life “head-on”. Bikers do not really care if they fit in society; they don’t want to keep up with the Jones’s, unless of course they are riding together. This is what the term biker really means… to live your life the way you want to live it. What gives us this understanding? What makes us think the way we do? Act the way we do? The Road…

How do men (and women) get caught up in the ideology behind being an outlaw? More importantly, how does a clean cut, social/economically stable, young kid get caught up in the evil that lurks behind what we fear most of these notorious gangs.
The road to outlaw starts with definition c of the word: to be rebellious or unconventional. This spawns a downward spiral that leads to a dark tunnel from which there is no escape. For me, this road started when I was about thirteen years old. It started innocently enough, by a self-proclaimed need to rebel against my “old man”. Understand here, that we are not talking about the stereo-typical drunk Irish, German whose immediate reaction was violence. Although there was violence and beatings, it was not out of the ordinary for the late sixties, early seventies in which we are talking about here. However, the recognition of power by force was certainly understood by all members of our family. If you need to, you can twist that into anything you want, but for me, it was quite insignificant. This rebellion erupted into full-scale visibility just after my fourteenth birthday when the old man met me at the door. Suffice to say, a fist fight erupted between us, which (as I’ve later learned) was the spark which set me on a course of self-destruction and hatred.
At this point, I had been hanging around with a local friend Mike (not his real name) whose father was part of a motorcycle club. Their lifestyle, so different from my own, compelled me to stay at his house more and more. I stayed not because of the booze or drugs (there was always plenty of that), or the girls (lots of them too), but because his dad treated me like family. Not the “Ozzy and Harriett” family I had, but more like the mob family of stereotypes I had read about. I was able to make decisions for my own well being, he treated me like an adult. The women who hung out there, treated me like their own, making sure I was eating, between drinking and other things. I was like their kid brother.
This relationship began to mature in ways I never expected. Soon, I would deliver “packages” on my BMX bicycle to different places throughout the city. These packages, I knew, were drugs. Mostly cocaine, the packages I knew were worth money, lots of money, yet I delivered them alone. Finally, on a Wednesday afternoon, Mike and I were shoplifting “Hot Wheels” from a local grocery store, when we were caught. My introduction to the County correctional institute was eye-opening, to say the least.
The Officer who brought me into the jail cell searched me and asked if he could get me a soda-pop or anything, to which I declined. Asked me if I wanted my phone call, to which I declined. I had heard stories, hanging around at Mike’s place, of not saying anything. So I didn’t say one word, would simply shake my head to his requests. Finally, he began asking questions about my friend Mike and his dad… “Had I ever been in the house?”, or “had I ever spent the night?” and “did I really know what was going on?” to which I held my silence. The officer seemed disappointed… he let out one of those long exaggerated sighs. It was at that moment that sealed my fate within the system, I hated him and everything that he represented… he was my dad.
So, I was introduced to the “juvie” commons, where most of the other kids there were of Mexican-Americans who decided to give me some space at first. The second day, right after breakfast, the biggest of them decided that my space was now his because of the “might is right” theory and he outweighed me by probably 80 – 100 pounds. He got right in my face and decided to push that last nerve I had, I exploded. I had never felt that much rage toward another human being. His first punch landed solidly on my left shoulder and hurt, I drove my knee as hard as I could beneath his big belly landing hard on his gear. I watched him fall to his knees, grabbed his head with both of my hands and drove the same knee into his face. I could feel the flesh crush against the skin of my leg, I felt the bone stab into my knee, I had broken something in his face. God it felt good! Liberating!! The feeling of power was intoxicating!!! This big tub of shit crumbled to the floor at my feet, blood everywhere. It was at this point that the sheriff’s office deputies rushed in to separate us, but not before I delivered three or four quick kicks with my slipper laden feet to his face. The fight was over, but the taste for human blood was now planted solidly in my mouth. I liked it… I liked this kind of power! Everyone in that common cell block, now gave me all the space I needed. With viciousness I had not seen before, I was transformed into something ugly, something evil, but I liked it.
As I think back, it is this single incident that led me to “turn the corner” in my life. To become another definition of the word outlaw, I had now moved to a point of no return. I had become the first definition; which is to be “above the law” or outside of it and not allowing it to interfere with the mental processing of doing something or not.
Upon my release from jail, I made a direct run to my mom’s place at the time to which I told her I had just spent a couple of days with another long-term friend that she knew was clean and “good”. It was summer, so I really didn’t have anywhere to be, so back to my friend Mike’s I went.
What surprised me about arriving at Mike’s place was that the news of how I had acted inside the jail had beaten me there. I was hailed as a hero and Mike’s Dad, Tramp (not real name) treated me like I had just won the prize fight in Vegas. That night, as we celebrated, Tramp approached me with three other men (I knew two of them from the club, the other was new to me), they semi-circled around me next to the bon-fire. The stranger threw the first punch, I never saw it coming, I had thought I was on his good side… The ten or so minute of beatings that followed was completely unexpected… It hurt, God damn did it hurt!!! But I’ll be goddamned if I would give these son-of-a-bitches the satisfaction of seeing me cry. I fought back the best I could, I landed a few, each time I heard one of the curse, I smiled inside, I knew I had hit the mark. As quickly as the beatings started, they stopped… the guy I didn’t recognize reached down and grabbed me by the scruff of my collar. My jaw was set, I was ready for the next round, when Tramp began to laugh and yelled “WE HAVE A NEW PROSPECT!!” He bear hugged me with the strength which strangely comforted me, it let me know that there were men around me that were stronger than I, but more importantly, I felt like I was accepted as a warrior. Each man, in turn, kissed and hugged me, patting me on my shoulders, all the women who treated me like a kid brother, now looked at me with different eyes.
The pride swelled to an intoxicating level, my small time transports became “go-alongs” where I went with on drug buys and sales. It was at this point that I was given a “firearm”, a loaded gun that I was told I would carry with me at all times in all circumstances. I clearly remember being “educated” by several women of the club as to protocol. When I could talk, when I should be quiet, when I could attend “church”, and when I couldn’t. I was now property of Tiger (not his real name). He was the “member” that I went through when dealing “officially” with the club. We still hung out with the whole group… for the first time in my life, I felt like I belonged.
The power!! There were several other “hang-arounds” much older than I was who had not been given this supreme gift. I could see the envy in their eyes; however, now that I had been accepted, they wouldn’t dare touch me; I was club property and now had the full protection of the club.
It was expected that I would be violent, so violent I was! All my frustrations and disappointments disappeared beneath the brutality that I could freely give now without repercussion. Payment runs became the bane of my existence. I lived for it!!! I openly volunteered for them, Tiger knew that he only had to release me and I could handle myself. Car wheels, cinder blocks, bats, pipes, whatever was laying close by was my weapon and I always had a knife sewn into the back of my vest in case. I was hatred, I hated anyone who disrespected the club, and they were vile and needed to be eradicated.
It was during one of these collection runs where things went terribly wrong… I say wrong now, because I know both the psychological and emotional damage it did. Back then, it was the right thing to do, we had to take care of business. During a collection run, a gang of wet-backs raided while we were collecting. It was me and Tiger and another brother against fifteen or so Mexican gang members. We squared off in the middle of the street, it was dark and a light drizzle fell. The first shot was fired by the other guy, not Tiger, striking a Mexican directly in the right eye; it was as if the whole world fell into slow motion. I dove to my left, scrambling up behind a burned-out hulk of a car as a pulled the 45 auto from my waistband. I heard screaming and cursing… as I stood up, the first shot I fired pulled high left, I was too expectant of the recoil. Adjusting his aim, the lead Mexican, turned the gun on me… I heard a bullet hit the car beside me and bounce away. The second shot, I watched it impact in the throat of one of the Mexican gang members, as his body jerked with the spray of blood, I watched in fascination as most of his neck disintegrated. The next shot found its mark in the upper torso of a young gang member trying to make his way around to my side of the wreckage I was poised behind. The impact of the round spun him around almost 360 degrees before throwing him against the wall… I was in combat!! In the back of my mind, I remember thinking that I needed to act bravely or Tiger might kill me anyway, because I was a coward.
The gunfight lasted about five minutes in reality; I had made all my bullets except one count. When the shooting ended, I found both my patched members, minor injuries but no worse for the wear. As we were heading back to the van to get out of there, the shot rang out. The shot struck Tiger in the upper left shoulder from the back. The other member caught him and nodded to me… “Take care of that prospect!” he muttered through clenched teeth. I turned to face the shooter, he fired again…. No shot… he was out of ammo. I slowly walked up to him; he clawed his surroundings for anything he could use as a weapon, nothing there. I knelt beside, grabbed him by the jacket he wore, jerked him to his feet, I could now feel his weight. His gaping wound pouring blood down the front of his jacket and onto my hands… my hands slipped from the jacket to his throat. I began to squeeze… he struck me hard with what strength he had left, however, I could see the terror in his eyes, frantically the arm (barely attached) struck me three more times, before it made a desperate attempt to grasp at my hands. His body began to convulse, limbs frantic, until I felt is total weight. With my bloody hands, and the new weight, I couldn’t hold on and dropped him. By now, I could hear the sirens…
“Get in Prospect!” I heard the familiar voice from the van that had pulled up behind me. I quickly got into the van and we left the scene. I was changed… I would never look at human life the same way. From regret, to remorse, to denial, to justification, I went through them all that night. When we got back to the clubhouse, we were told to disperse, go home. So I started walking from Mike’s house to mine, several blocks away. It was now I realized that I was hurt. The inside portion of my right ankle had swollen to the size of a grapefruit, red and filled with puss, I had been hit in all the shooting, I had been shot! That would have to be worth something to the club! I knew however, that it would be Tiger’s representation of the shooting that I would be judged by; I prayed he saw what I did. I limped all the way home to my mom’s apartment where I told her I’d accidently done it with a baseball bat. To this day, she has never told me if she pulled anything out and now-a-days, all you see is the entry wound, scarred over from years of forgetting.
This glimpse into the metamorphosis of the slide into the abyss we call hate and violence, it is the hunger for power… Power over life and death… Power over other’s freedom… I only suppose that to any who haven’t gone down this road, it seems surreal, maybe even fabricated… to those who have lived it, it is a constant nightmare that keeps us ever vigilant, as we watch our children transition between boys to men. A constant fear that we too, one day, will be judged heavily for what we’ve done.
As I have travelled down this road, for me, it has been an awakening… and awakening for all that is good in humans, to seek out and find people who know that power corrupts… ultimate power, corrupts ultimately…

• Overall motor vehicle occupant fatalities declined by 3.9 percent for 2007 versus 2006.
• Motorcycle fatalities have increased from 4,837 (2006) to 5,154 (2007) up 317 fatalities or 6.6 percent
o Accounted for 13 percent of total motor vehicle fatalities versus 11 percent in 2006.
• Motorcycle injuries have increased from 88,000 (2006) to 103,000 (2007) up 15,000 or 17 percent.
o You probably think the increase in fatalities is because motorcycle registrations have increased by approximately 7 percent from 2005 to 2006. NHSTA data indicates that in most years, fatality rates outpace registration rates. FARS data indicates that from 2005 to 2006, motorcycle registrations actually decreased by 1.6 percent, while fatality rates for motorcyclists increased by 5.7 percent.
• Over one-fourth of motorcycle riders in fatal accidents in 2006 had invalid licenses.
o This leads one to believe that these motorcyclists may not be as skilled or well trained as motorcyclists with a valid license, therefore, more likely to be in an accident.
• In 2007, motorcyclist fatalities increased from 2006 for all age groups with the largest increase in the age 50 and above group, increasing by as much as 16 percent. However, ages 20-29 still have the most fatalities with 1,325 in 2007 versus ages 50-59 with 931 fatalities.
• In 2007, 41 percent of motorcyclists who died in single vehicle crashes had blood alcohol content levels of .08 g/dl or higher. The age groups with the highest percentage of fatal injuries were 35-39 (41 percent) and 40-44 (39%).
• In 2006, vehicle operators with the highest percentage of fatal crashes with blood alcohol content levels of .08 g/dl or more were motorcyclists with 27 percent, passenger cars with 23 percent, light trucks with 24 percent, and larger trucks with one percent.
o The alcohol related fatal crashes data suggests that riding a motorcycle requires more concentration and skill when drinking than driving an automobile. Know your limits and use caution when riding your motorcycle.
• When motorcycles are involved in fatal crashes with another type of vehicle, in 40 percent of the cases, the other vehicle was turning left while the motorcycle was going straight. This is a clear indicator that when approaching intersections, motorcyclists should be extra vigilant and be proactive by searching for possible obstacles or situations.
• In 2006, 37 percent of all motorcyclists involved in fatal crashes were speeding compared to 23 percent for passenger vehicles.

To me, the numbers break down the following directions — first, by breaking out the sober from the intoxicated. Then we break out trained (or seasoned) riders versus the rookies, and finally those who think they are better than they really are. One of the factors I have come to have with regards to traveling the state on my motorcycle is that I am nervous when in traffic. This nervousness makes me more aware of my exits and the the other drivers. By maintaining my exits, I allow myself the opportunity to get out of a bad situation.

Reality says the riding and drinking is never a good choice, but then again neither is it a good idea to drive and drink, nor skydive, duh! A little common sense goes a long way here…

This passage struck me stupid when I first read it. This was it! This was why I enjoyed riding my motorcycle so much. In my own little way it was, to me anyway, my little way of being in the driver’s seat. Of being a part of the surrounding, being “out there”. I have had many people ask me why I am so strong a supported of being on motorcycles even though each year, many people are killed on them. I repeat my mantra, “motorcycles don’t kill anyone, people do”. I own dogs, even though dogs are blamed for killing people each year? I own firearms, and guns are blamed for killing people each year? My favorite, my house runs on electricity and electricity kills people every year. These are some of the arguments that I use. By being afraid of everything that kills others each year, we would find ourselves painted into a very small corner. People never cease to amaze me in their ability to use common parts of modern civilization in which to inflict harm or death.

People always tell me that “my friend died on a bike” as if to prevent me from riding anymore. I simply inform them that I haven’t made that mistake (whichever one it was that got them killed). However, I have a friend who drowned in a teaspoon of water… so does that mean I should prevent everyone from drinking? Of course not…

Motorcycling is not for everyone, and that’s great because it means that I can get better deals on the bikes I want. For those of you who feel that the elimination of all motorcyclists is your personal mission in life, let me advise you of your chances here – None! So whether you wear colors or not, ride a Harley-Davidson ®™ or not, absolutely regardless of color, creed, sex or religion, or even social class, ALL are welcome.

Once the group was all assembled, we numbered about 30 or so bikes ready to head down the highway to Seward. All of the bikes present for the ride south were Harley-Davidsons, ranging between the sportsters all the way through the Dynas and Softtails and into the big touring bikes.

As we took to the highway, we formed up in parade columns which meant riding side by side, for just about a quarter mile we stretched out over the roadway. The winds were ferocious as we made our way south of Rabbit Creek road out onto the Potter marsh. By the time we cleared the marsh the rain began. Slowly at first, like being “misted” but slowly, ever so slowly becoming a downpour of epic proportions. Off and on it rained all the way to Seward and the winds beat me to death as the rushed in on our columns from every side (sometimes all at the same time).

We arrived in Seward to a very overcast (but not raining) sky and found the location along the beach where the ceremony would be held. The PA system was set up and the officers of the Vets group assembled for the ceremony. The Sergent of Arms read the script and the officers executed the small drill to place the memorial items in position:

1) The rifle (which replaces the sword) as the weapon.
2) The helmet (which represents armor)
3) The boots and dogtags (which represent the individual)
4) The rose, which blooms with hope…

At the conclusion of the officer’s drill, the group of wet, ragged bikers in the middle of a small town, USA came to attention and saluted the newly created memorial for their fallen comrade. A bagpipes officer was on hand to play “Amazing Graze” for a single verse, then several individuals including the fallen soldier’s daughter sang the next two verses. At the conclusion of the singing, the group returned to a ready position and the officers marched off the make-shift ceremonial pedestal.

Following the small ceremony, the family, and chosen members of the Vet’s club made ready as they boarded a larger charter boat, hired to take them out to sea. This exercise was to place the fallen soldier’s ashes in the sea, welcoming him home forever. Very touching moments throughout as some of the toughened bikers became teary eyed as they watched the procession.

After the group returned from the boat trip, we all gathered again and rode out to the deceased soldier’s families residence where there was a big BBQ and live music (provided by Hobo Jim). One of the probational members was accosted and his vest containing his colors pulled from his body. As the group watched, he was presented with his full “patched” colors vest. For this, it means that his days as a probie are done. Congrats Paul.

As the afternoon passed us by, several of us decided to head back into Anchorage. We saddled up and made our way back up the long highway toward the “big city”. The weather decided to cooperate on the return trip by keeping us guessing with the wind but without any rain. With a stop just past the Hope junction and one in Girdwood so that Bulldog could buy the grand-kids some ice cream, it was an awesome ride back.

There are many times I am proud to own an American motorcycle and honored to ride with the people I do. Whether it be the local 81 of Arizona and/or Washington, the Vet’s of Alaska, or the local Harley Owner’s Group (HOG), I seem to meet the greatest people in America, and have come to know what this country is all about. It’s not about the success, or the money, or the land, or even the lovers, it’s about all of it. Every piece of everything is here in America, the land of the Free, and the home of the Brave!

Peace
Ak Outlaw

Stage 1
The first was my high school sweet-heart. I was young and restless and so was she, we had passion, but neither of us really knew what to do with it. I loved her with every fiber of my being, with the mind of a teenager, my main interest was to get into her pants, while hers; I am yet to know. What I learned from her was how much room there is in the heart to love someone, it equaled the room in which to hate easily but it provided a calming effect that cannot be explained. At this point in my life, love was a word I used to describe cars. Every time she was near, or was with me, my heart would skip beats, my breath a little shorter. I have very vivid memories of her as she completely filled my heart, mind and dominated my soul, I was so hooked, I was so much in love with her. As things reached a fervor pitch, I found myself staring at eight years in a local county facility. The judge decided to be lenient and allowed me to enlist in the military of which I chose to spend the next four years being away from home courtesy of Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children. I dreamed about her and imagined her growing older with me, kept two pictures of her for a very long time. I think the most painful part of this relationship is there was never a clear-cut termination point. Her memories splattered across my mind like an internal part of me.

It took me many years to get over Stage 1, although in some respect, I may not be completely over her yet, the embers of those feelings became the foundation of my relationship with every woman since. There was passion, like I’ve never experienced before that point. I was young and had no idea that the heart could be that filled by one person, and the mind could be so distracted. Just being with her made my body physically different, my heart, my lungs, my blood, my brain; it all seemed to know when she was nearby. It was almost like I could feel her halfway down a crowded hallway. That sense of passion and power never faded, even through other women, between stage 1 and stage 2. Stage 1 did not possess the skills to keep me from my own self-destruction.

Stage 2
During my tour with the USMC, I was stationed in Kaneohe Bay, Hawaii where I met the next stage of my life which resulted in becoming engaged. She was incredibly sweet and reserved; it was an opposite attract kind of thing. To me, she represented the “upper crust” of society, beautiful, intelligent, warm and caring. Absolutely one of the most wonderful people I’ve had the pleasure of interacting with throughout my life. Although I’ll admit, timing and all the other events going on, I did not experience that fiery passion with her, not the fire that I had had with the first stage. Although there was a breadth to this affection, it was a much lower-key, but more stable love affair.  Although the fiery passion wasn’t as hot, the “more proper” gentle, kind love was as deep, if not deeper than the passionate had been. As my tour with the Corps came to an end, I was left to my own devices of which I quickly slipped back into the hate that I had preoccupied my earlier life with, I technically broke off our engagement by again winding up in the four “greybar” hotel.

The loss of Stage 2 caused me to drink heavily knowing that I had let her slip away. Hindsight however, has shown me that the universe had a plan; it knew that I would have destroyed her. We were from different worlds and I was not done with being self-destructive yet. The warm love that this stage ignited, kept me from ending it all, but was not solid enough to keep me from destroying what was my life then… The women that I was with between Stage 2 and Stage 3, were mere replacements for the two at this point, however, they were physical objects used to satisfy needs for both themselves and me.

Stage 3
Moving to Washington brought new hope for me, although I was simply escaping the real issues that plagued me in Arizona and quickly found myself running with the same crowd in Washington. Then I met her. My current wife for just about years came into my life like a freight train. She is amazing. My wife brought with her the passion from Stage 1, yet was able to adapt and adjust to my ever changing needs/wants to make the long-term relationship form like Stage 2, however, it took time. This time the passion overwhelmed my thinking process and all I could think about was hitch-hiking thirty miles to be with her. For the first time, I had found someone who could finish my sentences, and was able to keep me in check, which is by no means an easy task. The most caring and wonderful person sacrificed her sanity in the early years as I fought against the system, being a rebel without a clue. I damn near threw her under the bus on many occasions getting to where we are today. I will say that little of that fiery passion exists today as we are both too busy and tired to get it together, however, the warm embers of true love heat the night of the coldest days, to me, this is more satisfying.

Some days you look back and say, damn there was a plan! Neither stage 1 or 2 could have prevented me from my self-destructive ways; it was the universe saying that I needed to have “my wife” control the path long enough for me to see my way clear. Knowing what I know now, Stage 1 would have probably wound up getting seriously hurt or killed as her path led down a similiar semi-destructive path, combined with mine, both of us would have wound up dead or wounded for life. Stage 2 (at the time) did not have the internal fortitude to have survived too long in the environment that I quickly found myself in after leaving Arizona.

As I looked back (writing this article) at the growth of me as a person, and the loves of my life, I quickly identified three factors: Firstly, each stage escalated in society a little more and brought me out of the depth of the self-made hell that I lived in, Secondly, they provided different pieces to the whole that I’ve become, and finally, they all began at low points of my life. When I met stage 1, I had just moved to Arizona from Louisiana and was still the new guy. When I met stage 2, servicemen life was beginning to press down on me and drug usage was pretty excessive. When I met stage 3, I had just moved to Washington and was still using drugs pretty regularly. Each time, the universe seemed to sense that I could easily slip back to the hatred that I had grown up with… so it filled the gap with a warm caring person.

I have communicated with all the stages in my life recently and have discovered that many things have changed, while the primal ones have not. The love and passion may have not faded, but they are tempered by the new feelings of “one-ness” and completeness brought about by the creation of a family unit and history now created. If I had to do it all over again, I would skip all the tank time and spend more time with each of these stages. It was a growing process and as I’ve recently connected with all three stages, I realize what a gift my wife is, a true gift of life. I am absolutely sure that I would not be here to write this had she decided it was too much for her to handle.