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...


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