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The Outhouse, Happiness and the Iron Horse of Valhalla
by Bruno
28 July 2005
Because of losing a job or loved one, multitudes prefer the safety of
celibacy. To find happiness, more than a few go so far as to join a
monastery or seek seclusion in a laboratory/office. Many, inundated with
bills, have lost themselves in meaningless chores. Regrettably, a sea of
mankind has gone astray and can only see a flicker of hope. Swimming in
misfortune and having reached their suffering ceiling, these people have
become divorced from reality. Due to deceptive clues, they are not sweetening
their lives.
They think that they have the answers for joy. The fact is, they are
preoccupied; they don't notice the potential that could flood the heart with
joy. Their genuine kamikaze behavior is ghastly. Running on overload they
can't see that life means more than any economic rat race from birth to
death. The crux of the matter is that life is a miracle. Life should give
you a legal celestial high ride. It should be fun to be alive.
Years ago our ancestors sailed out of their lordships' misery into a new
world of adventure. The American progeny of these valiant men and women
often rode their horses out of speculator quagmires into a sunset of hope.
Many don't realize that, for modern man, there's still an escape hatch. Let
me tell you about a way of riding into freedom.
The raison d'etre for this paper is not simply to provide entertainment.
This pen's goal is to share and put you on a learning track for enhancing
happiness. There's a desire to put your factual fleeting lifetime into
proper perspective. This work is woven from many strands. Unlike other ink
journeys, there is more than descriptions of scenery. You'll be given an
actual correlation of an American biker's journey into the old Soviet
Empire. With a little imagination, you'll be able to see that happiness can
be achieved without large pieces of bread. Your own loose interpretation
will allow you to see that there is more than the happiness of yesterday.
As a youngster, this writer purchased a Honda Touring Dream motorcycle
(1960s). A friend took his iron BMW horse and we filled our hearts with joy;
we leisurely rode from the old colonies of New England to Vancouver, Canada.
Continuing, we drove to Washington to a sunny California, back to the
Commonwealth of Massachusetts. In those days people were not afraid of one
another. We slept in the homes of Ukrainian, German and Irish émigrés.
My friend eventually reglued to a chubby biker gal in British Columbia.
This author would resettle in Michigan and then spend several years in
Europe. The next time this writer mounted an iron horse was in 1970s
Belarussia. The beauty, peace and stillness of the Belarusian green can
still be seen. The historic quaint city settings of Grodnoszczyzna were
absorbed and after parking my Polish made motorcycle, I ambulated in
Nowogrodek's huge Catholic Cathedral. For some strange -- mysterious -- reason,
vampire Stalinists spared the magnificent huge edifice. Of course, countless
residents who had been born near the parish -- as had their ancestors -- were
removed. Some of the parishioners were relocated for arduous labor in the
White Bear's Siberian habitat; others were coerced into rebuilding a Soviet
Warsaw. Those who resisted were tortured and/or executed.
As I drove along and around the ancient city of Grodno, eyes told the story
of Soviet freedoms; Christian churches served non-religious functions. I sat
at the site where renowned Adam Mickiewicz is alleged to have written his
popular books. Kids emphasized, in Russian, that they were Polish. One
wondered what such implied. Soviet citizens, having been brought up under
bushwhacked culture, were often red flag wavers. Today, as I sit composing
this note, redbait reminds me of their Afghanistan political conflict and
Soviet support-the-troops message stickers.
Recently, as I journeyed by Floridian lakes, there were reflections
pertaining to the similarities analogous to European and American societies.
Saddle bags of the 1960s-1970s had local newspaper diatribe about kids
dying for political agendas; some youth were fighting for philosophies of
proletariat equality. On the other side, bike radio broadcasted that kids
were dying to give democracy to foreign masses. Here, it can be mentioned,
that even the phenotype of Central Europeans reminded one of Floridians.
One didn't need a degree in visual communication to comprehend the regions
of societies under socialism and her sisters of capitalism and globalism.
Political, communistic or capitalistic programming could be seen as one's
bike passed material structures of concrete jungles. Satellite cities were
dreary. Capitalistic municipalities had tall colourful buildings. In
Socialistic environments of the 1970s there was also less traffic. It was
sort of like my youthful bike tours of America and our 165 million
population. Captive Satellite societies didn't have -- as we did -- one car per
household!
The fortunate biker riding Europe and America could think he/she had the
privilege of seeing a kaleidoscope of society. Reality attests that even
parking and food were poles apart. In the United States my Honda Touring
Dream disappeared. Under oppressive Communism, no one would dare steal my
bike. Fact: I occasionally night-parked my motorcycle in the center of
Warsaw. Open-air parking was in a lot at the Palace of Culture.
Now, emerging from the saddle of a Floridian's biker frame, it's easy to see
how saddlebags of Europe or America could not match the kitchen of my woman,
Celeste. But, the freedom experience of the biker is not about a belly's
growl or parking in the Mountains of New Hampshire or Europe's Carpathians.
It's more.
Today, as back then, most never think of the Iron Horse and her symbol of
freedom. The exuberance of wind-in-your-face is theoretical to the suffering
office slave. It's abstract to the busy struggling
two-checks-away-from-bankruptcy citizen. Economic slaves have to survive for
children, wives, husbands and homes. Moreover, there are multitudes who fear
the glistening motorcycle.
Then, there are the bikers themselves. A trivial percentage are simply low
lives. Often one can spot them by their attire and vernacular. According to
stats, they drink and drive and are responsible for about half of all bike
accidents. In other words, they are not only a danger to themselves, but to
others. Thankfully, most motorcycle riders are respectable citizens. Yes,
there are the degenerates: Drunks, whores, morally challenged, lawyers, the
unscrupulous. However, the decent are the vast majority. They consist of
clean-cut teens, students, husbands and wives, thinkers, engineers,
physicians. Overall, today's bikers are a class of hard working men and
women, the salt of our mother earth.
Yet, although bikers are representatives of society, they do not signify
what the population means. Bikers have a special character. For example,
this writer has never made a pact with the devil. I've loved and lived life;
seen the heart rate go sky high, visited much of the world, caught big fish,
won road races. Unfortunately, as an adrenaline junkie I can no longer
skydive or do a ten-mile run. Bypass surgery x6 no longer allows the
395-pound bench press or long swim. That's where the Iron Horse comes it.
He allows the spirit to continue beyond mere dreaming. He puts the soul
above any melting before feminine beauty. Indulging in a thoroughbred Harley
or BMW does more than give your inner being the thrust of additional
horsepower.
The motorcycle rider not only sees various segments of society, lakes,
meadows, streams, forests, mountains and cities. For those unable to
continue bungee jumping or get their heart rates high, the steel propelled
Honda, Ducati, Triumph, Kawasaki or Yamaha iron horse can provide needed
desserts of life. While it's true that the scooter and motorcycle population
is miniscule, the Beuelli, Aprile, Ducanti and Vespa can give today's gal
more than meaningless degradation of plastic one-night stands or one-week
relations.
The shared relationship with other riders can provide solid spiritual food
(without any false trinkets of capitalistic 'diamonds are forever'). Even
riders sitting out soakers love their peaceful yet accelerating iron horses.
The bike has gone beyond the flesh and blood of an animal and (2) it's more
than a machine. Most don't
know that the biking world has dating associations for singles, discussion
groups or that many scholars use them to ascend into the happiness of
another universe.
This writer has driven American, Japanese, English, German, Polish and Czech
iron horses. I've seen the wonderful high-tech improvements of the BMW and
Japanese bikes. And everyone knows that Harley riders have developed their
own astonishing Amerykanski cult. Some infer that we American and Western
materialistic consumers have truly reached what the makers of the Workers'
Paradise could never have imagined.
Contemporary man is so lucky. We have so many opportunities for enhancing
happiness. How does one even choose a bike from the various markets? This is
especially true now that American ingenuity has opened up innovative
business opportunities. US firms are creating new exotic high-tech
motorcycles, such as the Texan's V-Thunder.
As indicated, a large number of us might not be able to run competitively
and/or skydive. Nonetheless, some of today's ransacked young adults have the
opportunity to temporarily go beyond the suffering of outsourcing. Many have
come to comprehend that there is no lifetime job security. Employment is
ever-changing and insecure. What they don't grasp is that, the impoverished
can have nearly unlimited no-money fun. Every week mainstream papers sell
used cycles. The little old lady from Pasadena needs you. She's giving away
her diseased husband's toy for peanuts. You can legally help her by stealing
her hubby's treasure.
Those guys and gals of middle age can give up many of the plastic
possessions that own them. The healthy can add to their spiritual well being
with a Yamaha, Honda, BMW, Harley, Suzuki, Kawasaki...
Those between jobs, wives or husbands, can become occupied with the trill of
the wind in their face on an American, Italian, German or British bike. The
world of the retired can add more worth and quality times by saddling up on
a touring or dirt bike. The gal can save a small fortune with an
around-the-town scooter. She can gain more than a satisfaction with basic
needs and go above lukewarm emotions and joy.
Perhaps Lenin was wrong when he indicated that possessions can bar the way
to happiness. The Harley-Davidson crowd may have known more about happiness.
They have a saying of 'You come into the world with nothing. You leave the
world with nothing. While you're here, you should have something real cool.'
There's no need to remain in usury's juggling despair or retreat into the
selfish indifference of economic misery. Make no mistake about it, the bike
is more than your machine. The iron horse becomes part of you while at the
same time being a vessel for happiness. It's a fact that the iron horse is a
miracle of life. Because moods adapt, her energy high will lift your sprits
with the acceleration of speed. Your comfort/delight while riding along the
forest -- or mile-long meadows -- can prompt a smile, resulting in a mood
change of joyfulness. Indeed, the motorcycle is a ship of happiness and
ecstasy.
You only go this way once and each man and woman dies alone. Because of the
bike, there is more goodness available to you. One hopes that you realize
there's more to living than the pain of a lost job or spouse. The iron horse
can add to and enrich the adventure that is your life.
If you give yourself a chance, you'll discover that the iron horse provides
more to life than economic or spiritual slavery...
BRUNO
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