The Retirement Present

The Retirement Present

It was a normal sort of day, one that wasn't displaying any remarkable ups or downs. I was driving to work in the afternoon of this unmemorable day, listening to a talking book as I often do and watching the landscape stream by on either side of the Honda. When I was about half-way to work on the state highway I usually traveled I saw a speck approaching way off in the distance. As I drove closer I saw it was a man proceeding down the highway toward me. At first I thought he was walking, but his motions were not those you'd associate with a walker. It was a little herky-jerky if you follow what I mean. Kind of a wobble as he proceeded down the road. And he seemed so doggone TALL! When I finally got even with him I could see it was a guy riding on a unicycle! And it was one with a wheel quite a bit larger than ones I'd seen in circus acts or on TV and that had accounted for the guy's apparent height. He was smiling and happily wobbling his way south. I marveled at his balance and also at the fact he was performing this incredible perambulation down a state highway. A little too fanciful on the one hand and more than a little dangerous on the other. I shook my head at the crazy things one sees when you least expect them.

And that got me to thinking...

How is it that we humans are able to perform such magnificent balancing acts? How many decisions per second was that unicyclist processing to allow him to remain on that unicycle? Not only was he having to keep himself from pitching forward or falling backward as he was proceeding down the road, he was also having to keep himself from tipping left or right at the same time! If one had never seen a sight such as that and someone was describing it, you might guess that it sounded impossible.

Or at least very improbable.

But it's not. It's apparently not very easy, but it is attainable and can be achieved without any superhuman ability.

And that led me to also muse about that particular unicycle's 2-wheeled brethren, the bicycle. When you examine the mechanics of riding one, you realize that riding a bike is almost as miraculous as sitting on that unicycle and making it go where you want it to. You understand that if you set a bike up on its two wheels and let go of it, it falls down. If you give it a push forward and let go, it also falls down albeit a little further down the road from where you gave the push. But if you get on the bicycle and know how to ride one, you can go forever and never fall down!

The trick is “knowing how to ride a bike.”

Everyone who knows how to ride a bike has had to learn how at one time or another. That obviously goes without saying. And the actual ability to ride arrives all at once, in a single moment of time. Think about it and you'll agree. One moment you are NOT a bicycle rider and the next moment you ARE! You have learned the trick.

I remember helping my son learn how. We'd gone the training wheel route, him “riding” a bike with the training wheels for some time, but one day it was time for him to do the real thing. I removed the outboard wheels and we went to a big empty parking lot at a school just a block from where we lived. He was apprehensive and a bit fearful, of course. I assured him that it was time to learn how to ride “like a big boy” and it wasn't that hard. I crossed my fingers at this fatherly simplification of a complex task. So for a while it was my job to hold the bike up while he pedaled and trot along with him. And then watching him tip over. Then repeating and repeating. I will say he was quite tenacious, getting back up after each fall and trying again. Then, when it was just about time to call it a day and try again later, he got it! I let him go that time and chug, chug, chug he was riding the bike around the parking lot like a seasoned rider! His mind/body/muscle memory had finally figured out the hard-to-describe process of bike riding and he, at last, had it.

I was so glad as I was getting exhausted chasing him around and around the parking lot.

For those of us who DO know how to ride, it's a skill that never goes away, and how cool is that! It's not like algebra where you learn how to do all those manipulations of a's and b's and x's and y's when you're in school and a decade later it ALL looks like Greek to ya.

But riding a bike sticks with you!

Yes, after years of not riding you will be a bit wobbly for the first minute or two, but the ability of moving along on two wheels is still there, still ingrained in your muscle memory.

You're still a rider and the miracle of that skill is still extant.

So, at last, this long-winded prelude has brought us to the actual subject of this blog.

I'm retiring in a little under 2 months and, doing so, have decided to reward myself with a little gift to commemorate the achievement. I bought myself a new motor scooter just the other day. It wasn't an impulse buy, I did think about doing it for a while, but it might be called a rather odd purchase for a mid-to-late sixties dude. And also not a real practical conveyance for this area of northern Ohio.

But I'll say to all the detractors and the poo-poo-ers – mind your own business! If I want to join nerd city and putt-putt my way around town in my flashy orange-and-black scoot with my neat-o silver helmet on, that's exactly what I'll be doing! Us cantankerous ol' fuddy-duddys need to be given some latitude in their later years. Right?

So, had I been a bicycle rider in the past? A motorcycle rider? Ever?

Sure. I learned to ride a bike, like perhaps ALL of my schoolmates, back in early grade school and owned a number of bicycles as a kid. In high school I owned a motor scooter which I rode all over the doggone place. Later, in the military I owned two motorcycles and enjoyed riding around the foreign country where I was stationed. So I wasn't a pure beginner.

But that was 45 years ago. And I was 22 when I was last on a motor-driven cycle. That, gentle reader, was a VERY long time ago.

So I had some concerns about making the plunge of buying a new bike. What should I get? What can I afford? And more importantly, did I still remember how to ride on two wheels without falling down?

Perhaps a little sleep was lost at my home while I pondered those questions before making the purchase. Perhaps my nervousness was noticeable to those around me. But I finally sucked it up, metaphorically girding my loins, and made the decision.

The purchase was made last Saturday and I was told the scoot would be ready on Monday. I bought a helmet, a riding jacket and riding gloves that day, returned home and counted the hours until Monday morning.

My son drove me out to the motorcycle shop that morning and I was at last going to face the answer to my most pressing question: could I still ride? The salesman had told me that it'd come back to me “no problem”. Of course he probably said that to all his prospective buyers in my situation. And it was even probably true.

At least that's what I hoped.

So there I was at last, sitting on the scoot in the bike shop's garage with the big door open in front of me. One of the shop's mechanics had gone over all the controls and how they worked. The motor was running and all I had to do was twist the right handle a little bit and I'd be off. So I took a deep breath, did the loin girding thing again and twisted.

(Are you ready for the big reveal? OK, here goes...)

And I remembered how to do it within five feet! The scoot stayed up and moved forward and mostly in the direction I was pointing! Hurrah! The shop had a very-lightly used paved road that adjoined their parking lot where I could practice riding and using the controls before venturing onto the highway. I took advantage of that lane for 15 minutes or so and finally felt that I was comfortable enough to head home.

And I got there without any problems. Yes I was a little hesitant in my starts and a bit jerky in my stops and perhaps a tiny bit wobbly when starting to move, but the incredible feeling of being on a bike again, wind in your face, moving on down the road like a low-flying bird was oh so very, very nice! I put 16 miles on the scoot that day before having to put it in the garage and heading off to work in the car.

Of course it rained the following day and I didn't take the scoot out. No need to take any chances on a wet road and I didn't want to get my pretty scoot dirty!

But tomorrow is forecast to be sunny and nice.

I'll bet you can guess what I'll be doing then!

Don't Worry Baby, Everything Will Turn Out Alright

Don't Worry Baby

Everything Will Turn Out Alright

Of course he'd pick that song, I thought. He seems to get into the zone and just wants to hear those particular three or four songs, but most especially that one. I sighed and smiled. It wasn't a bad song. In fact it was a pretty good one, all things considered. Good tune, easy to sing along with. Can't really gripe about it.

We were sitting in a restaurant, one that we frequented quite often, eating cherry pie and drinking cup after cup of hot coffee. It could have been sometime in the afternoon, but it was more likely late at night, maybe even after midnight. Since the time period was late Eisenhower or early Nixon, each of the booths in the joint had a juke box selector right there on the wall. Ya slid in yer quarters and ya punched in the buttons. Then yer song played. They were all mostly rock 'n roll, of course. This was actually before they dropped the “'n roll” to make it just rock. Definitely back in the early '60's.

The quarter was finally inserted and the appropriate buttons pushed. The first was good ol' Elvis singing “Crying in the Chapel”. Of course it was. It was OK, I thought. Not my fave – a little on the mournful ballad side, but... Bill surely liked it. But when it was over and the next song started I smiled. This was more like it. The Beach Boys and “Little Honda”. First gear, second gear – all those so, so familiar lyrics. Of course we sorta jiggled along with it and sang the lyrics around bites of the cherry pie and sips of hot coffee.

That was back when Honda in America meant a two-wheeled vehicle of lower power. I think. Like the song said, a groovy little motorbike. Cool! And more fun than a barrel of monkeys! Hot dog! Dunno if a barrel of monkeys would make my day now, but they sounded like so much fun back then. And the song was by the Beach Boys, doggone it! Those surfer dudes out there in California where the waves were (apparently) big, the cars were all woodies (what's a woodie?) and all the girls were blond surfer girls with hot bikinis (that part seemed alright!). The Beach Boys! Son of a gun. What would that era have been without their musical offerings? Probably all Elvis mooning about crying or something.

Or about his pore hound dog.

For an Ohio boy, California and surfing and lil' Hondas were pretty exotic. Dairy farming, homework, small-town doings, camping with the Scouts on weekends, dad working in the factory and mom staying home and keeping house were the norm, the invisible ocean of here-and-now that we, like fish, unconsciously swam through. With the occasional musical Cliff Note that another whole different world was out there.

Of course these are all jumbled recollections of the past. Sometimes all it takes is a smell to transport you somewhere or to retrieve a long-forgotten memory. Or a taste. For instance, the taste of root beer takes me immediately to a small diner in my hometown, the Dyn-a-Mite Cafe in the very early '60's. I am playing a pinball game and drinking Hires out of a long-neck bottle. It's vivid, too. I'm there, doggone it! Other times it's a scent that's the triggering element. White Shoulders was my mother's scent. It and my mother are virtually synonymous in my head. As is the same with Estee and my wife. I'm sure you can bring to mind similar ones.

But it's music that, at least for me and probably for you also, is the trigger for a lot of memories. Not all songs, but a lot of them will take you somewhere. Usually some place pleasant. With a particular girl, a particular place. Some songs won't bring about a single memory but a melange of connected images – a vacation to the beach, a hot date with your sweetheart of the moment, a close friend, your sixteenth birthday or a very special kiss. Maybe a juicy story about the singer you remember or a concert you attended? There are many, many memories that can be triggered by a song. Hell, maybe only a chord or two from the beginning of the song and voila, Sandy of the dancing blue eyes and honey-blond hair is back in front of your face, smiling at you and holding out her hands for you to dance with her.

Oh yeah...

Anyhow, a lot of these memories came floating back to me last night. My wife and I, along with four other friends, attended a concert at our local fairgrounds. In the infinite wisdom of the committee that picks the artists that perform at our annual fair, the selection comes usually from the ranks of country and western performers. I guess it's a pretty good bet for them as the cowboy hat wearing dudes usually draw a good crowd and that's more money for the committee to spend on improvements to the fairgrounds. I'm usually surprised at that as I'm not a fan of most mainstream country western music. I suppose I haven't been enlightened as of yet.

But, as I said, it's usually a few artists of the country western persuasion that work the grandstand at our fair.

However, this year I guess the available talent also included an old rock 'n roll band who's name was very familiar. And they picked it! Along with two other performers of the country/western ilk, of course, but the headliner this year was... Get ready for it!

The Beach Boys!

I ordered the tickets as soon as they were available for the six of us and began counting the days until “the day”. And that day was last night!

It had been very hot last week here at home and I was concerned that the concert would be a scorcher, a sweat box with music. Our part of Ohio can be a fickle bitch in early September. You can sweat your butt off one day and be shivering and wrapped up in a sweater the next one. Luckily for us the heat wave broke a day or two before the concert and the cooler weather appeared. It actually was very pleasant.

Our noble fairground's grandstand was constructed sometime around a hundred years ago, so you could say it's not really state-of-the-art. The seats do have backs to them, but the seats and backs are all made of wooden slats and they will make your backside feel really sore after a couple hours perching on them. And they're narrow, too! I'm sure that's a relic of our parents and grandparents day when their backsides were not as, ahem, wide as ours are now? Of course the seats could have shrunk over the years, but that's not very likely, is it?

Anyhow, there we were, sitting with the other bazillion (seemed like) folks all squeezed together watching the sun go down, watching our watches and watching the empty stage. Of course the curse of every concert on earth was once again the norm as the 8 o'clock start time was not to be. Should have figured, I guess. All those geezers around me took so darn long to haul their carcasses up the aisles that the performers had to wait on them. I suppose geezerhood would have to include me and my group also, but I hate to admit it. And boy I didn't really remember those grandstand steps being so doggone steep!

At about a quarter after eight the announcer finally came out to make the obligatory statements about not smoking, no photography, no sound recording, yadda, yadda, yadda. And then... it was time for the show!

Now you have to realize that the Beach Boys have gone through a LOT of transformations over the years. A death here, mental illness there, various substitutions and what have you. So the product that was before us last night carried the name Beach Boys, but they were definitely not THE Beach Boys of yore. But, you know... They still were GOOD! We were guessing that one or two or maybe even three of the performers may or may not have been somewhere close to being one of the originals, but by the second song it was pretty much immaterial. They were very, very good! Every gray-and-bald head (and that was a lot of us) was a-bobbin' and a-weavin' as the songs came out, most of the music and lyrics old friends. We sang along, we tapped our feet, we wiggled and danced a bit as the tunes came thick and fast. And there were a LOT of them! The Beach Boys had been so prolific. Barbara Ann, 409, Be True to Your School, California Girls, Don't Worry Baby, Fun-Fun-Fun, Good Vibrations, Help me Rhonda, I Get Around, Little Honda (of course!), Shut Down, and all the surfin' ones – Surfer Girl, Little Surfer Girl, Surfin', Surfin' Safari, Surfin' USA and many, many others.

They did about an hour and three quarters with no intermission. They joked around a bit, but it was almost all songs and almost all of them well, well remembered. Hell, even MY throat was sore from singing along, and I just don't normally do that. Guess the ol' boy got a bit carried away last night. Go figure...

Even with the cramped quarters and the sore butt, the time just flew by and before we knew it they were done. We got 'em back for a quick encore with Fun-fun-fun and her daddy's T-bird, but after that the stage was dark and it was time to go home. The thousands of us soon filed out to the vast parking lots and finally to our cars. Soon we were home and the magic was fading.

But the old songs were still alive in there today, buzzing around in my head and still surfacing from time to time. I find myself humming a tune or voicing a lyric or two as the day has gone on. And the visions of a younger me walking along a golden beach, watching the surfers and the surfer girls under a clear blue California sky, eatin' caramel corn and dancing to a rockin' band still echo and reverberate in the county fair grandstand of my mind.

It was a good time.

And yes baby, everything did turn out alright!