An American Newcomer Racing on the Isle of Man: Hopes, Dreams, and Riding Out COVID-19

 

   I shouldn't be at the cross-roads of the Americas. I should be making my way back to the Isle of Man to prepare for the Manx Grand Prix. After returning stateside for racing and business I find myself in an unusual predicament; Stuck! Having secured good results last season, including an overall race win, it was all but assured that I'd be racing on the world's fastest, and most complicated, road course come August, needing only two decent results in 2020 to make the cut. Sadly, taking part in those qualifying races, along with packing a European bound shipping container, has yet to happen. Three days prior to departing for Roebling Road Raceway, and a long race weekend, the event was cancelled. My return flight to Munich had been cancelled as well, therefore indefinitely delaying my shipping container's departure for Rotterdam. Everything I've worked for and invested in over the past few years is either hung up in dry-dock, or hanging in limbo just out of reach.


 An Uncertain Path Forward

   Any depression I was feeling over difficulties presented by race and flight cancellations were compounded by my financial situation. I had some money set aside for my races, but my income potential was limited. I could sell some of my bikes tagged for export, but now is a terrible time to do so, and I'd undoubtedly take a sizable loss. One friend of mine was in the process of buying a house in the mountains of East Tennessee, and had offered me a job helping with renovations, but the apparent severity of the pandemic had put a hold on the project. There was only one other option. My friend, Arie, had informed me that his sister had purchases a piece of property in rural Washington State. The main house is in need of work, including building two decks, and I'd been offered a job. Unfortunately SeaTac airport has been one of the main hubs for COVID-19 in the US, and I needed to make other arrangements if I were to reach the worksite.


 The Trans America Trail

   Though my main goal in life at the moment is to race on the Isle of Man, I've had more experience as an adventurer than a racer, thus far setting foot in 49 States, and 56 countries along roughly two million miles of overland travels. I never ask myself, can I do this? Rather, I simply figure out how to get where I want to be, oftentimes using questionable means. I'm of the opinion that going where we want is our right as humans. Had God wanted us to stay in one place, we'd have not been born with legs, and most certainly would never have thrown legs over motorcycles. COVID-19, though serious, is nowhere near as serious as my belief in our Inalienable Rights. I decided that I was going to get to the Pacific Northwest by whatever means necessary. The best option, in my mind, was to utilize the Trans America Trail. The TAT is a series of rural paths connnecting east and west coast, spanning in excess of 5,000 miles of what is about 90% dirt and gravel. What better way is there for someone like me to ride out this crisis? I hit the road and not looked back.

 A Special Bike and Good Company

   A couple of years back I came across a bright yellow Suzuki DR650 for sale in Midland, Texas with all the bells and whistles. It had a 790cc big bore kit, an eight gallon fuel tank, upside forks, a custom fairing and a host of other mods to transform the DR from capable mid sized dual sport all-rounder to long range adventure bike. Whilst I had no need for it, I bought it anyway, and took to calling it Big Bird. It sat in my childhood home's basement since, with only the occasional start and quick ride to keep it ready.

 Though I've briefly mentioned my furry border collie companion Dandy in the current series of blogs, this particular chapter finds him playing a much more significant role, and therefore in need of a more formal introduction. Dan had the misfortune of following in the paw-prints of Daisy, the best friend I have ever had. A fearlessly faithful companion for 49 states, 34 countries, and a million miles, she'd treated me better than I deserved. Her sudden passing in rural Romania left a hole in my life. After several months I was contacted by Tammy Davis, an administrator at the Washington County, Johnson City, Animal Shelter, the same place Daisy had come from, to invite me to visit a stray. I obliged, and came across a smart, skittish, attention starved border collie that I worried was too fearful to be my side-kick. Nonetheless, I gave him a shot, tossing him into the pannier of another DR650 the first day I had him. He showed real skill on the bike. We've been working on his other aversions including, water, fire, and drones since then, and we've made headway, especially the drone portion. However, as an admittedly biased observer, Dan is now developing into a great hound, and, in my opinion, the finest motorcycle dog on the planet. He's just FAST. I'm fortunate to have found him.


 No Set Plans

  Admittedly, I've always been more capricious than calculative, and struggle with structure.  This has ensured winding paths to my desired destinations. Though often sited as a detriment, given the current state of the world, I figure it's a feather in my cap. I've learned to be supremely durable. Besides, at this point what do I have to lose? So, on a day with a forgotten date in late March, Dan and I set off from Northeast Tennessee, on a God awful yellow Dr 790, in driving rain, bound for the West Coast, come what may.

  There are several set routes for the TAT but the one I was primarily following runs from Cape Hatteras, North Carolina to Port Orford, Oregon. I'd decided to skip backtracking to the Outer Banks, a decision made easier since local authorities had access blocked to non-residents. Starting in the Appalachian Mountains seemed appropriate enough. I began my life, in and around, those old green hills, and always seem to be leaving them behind. As I snaked between the gravel access roads heading southwest along the Tennessee North Carolina border I thought frequently of my first cross-country trip at 18 years old. Believe it or not, it was taken under far more trying circumstances. I got through that trip, and this one is going to be a piece of cake.


A Large Load and Difficult Parking


   Though only a single cylinder machine, the Suzuki DR650 isn't particularly lithe in stock form. And though the many modifications help improve the suspension and handling characteristics, they also bolster weight, and quite a lot of it. Add panniers, a handsome border collie, an offsetting load of tools, camping gear, a couple of sets of underwear, and an extra 170 pounds has been gained over the stock curb weight of the already portly Bush Pig. The side stand had been cut down to accommodate additional load, however, attention was still required when parking. It stands erect when fully loaded and parked on completely flat surfaces. Just a few hundred miles into our journey this issue complicated the trip.

  Somewhere in northern Alabama we abruptly lost power and pulled to the side of the road. A quick appraisal of the situation found the engine still running, and the gearbox engaging. I took a deep sigh of relief after looking down to find no chain. I parked up and Dan hopped out to help locate the wayward chain. As our search got underway a nice guy on a four wheeler nearby pulled up alongside the bike, dismounted, and approached us asking if he could help. Just as I began explaining our predicament a forceful gust of wind blew Big Bird from its perch to the ground. I ran to my fallen steed, and looked on in horror to find that the bike's custom windscreen had tangled with the parked four wheeler and lost badly. It wasn't the sort of thing that could be easily replaced. I let out a yawp and a few curses as I hoisted the stricken Suzuki upright. The windscreen was now in several pieces of varying shapes and sizes. So there we stood with a broken chain and busted windscreen in rural Alabama, around 3,500 miles from our destination.

  Though less distressing than the windscreen, I focused my attention on the chain. Surprisingly, it was a nice Japanese made X-ring chain, and these rarely snap. Happily, in my scrutiny I found the chain had failed at the master link, and oddly there had been two of them on the chain. I could only surmise that when installing the chain the former owner had broken it too short, and added an additional, inferior, master link to lengthen it. The Good Samaritan asked if he could be of any help. I asked for a cordless drill and bits. He set off to procure said items, and I took to adjusting my axle as far forward as possible.

  Following an extended, greezy, struggle, I managed to reinstall the chain. It was far too tight, but it was on there. Having been provided with a drill, I dug Krazy Glue and zip-ties from my luggage, and set about drilling 60 holes in the various pieces of my broken windscreen. The resulting Monster of Frankenstein meets Big Bird front fairing seemed plenty sturdy, and its character seemed appropriate to the trip. Following the two hour fix, I repacked, thanked the Good Samaritan, and we gingerly set off in search of a replacement chain. Riding into the sunset I felt rather satisfied for the first time in months.

Crossing the Mighty Mississippi, and an Unfortunate Encounter


  Following two days' respite at our friend, Jon's farm in Northern Mississippi, we picked up the TAT once more, and rode the levee road dodging a variety of livestock for fifty miles to reach the Helena Bridge. There had been some question as to whether states would close their borders due to the pandemic. I had seen some signs along the Tennessee / North Carolina border asserting such a thing, but was generally confident that the Interstate Commerce Clause prevented states from doing so without federal help. However, these are strange times, and it was difficult to know what to expect. If you wanted to prevent ingress to Arkansas a narrow bridge over a wide river would be a great place to do so. As it turned out our thoroughfare was bureaucrat-free, and open for business. I took a sigh of relief, and we rolled through Helena and set camp along the banks of the Mississippi River.

  The following morning brought with it a red sky followed by a drizzle which had me packing camp quickly. By the time we were mobile the rainfall had grown in strength, and I searched out the nearest refuge. In this case it happened to be a well used gas station in downtown Helena that catered to the minority community. I bought an energy drink and stood in the parking lot alongside my over-loaded motorcycle and wet dog watching the doppler radar on my phone. An hour or so passed and the rain was subsiding as I finished my second energy drink, and a faded blue e100 ford ice-cream van arrived. Out slid a grizzled hippy of roughly, and I mean roughly, 60 years of age. He took an interest in our presence, and came over to pet Dan and talk about motorcycles. He continued on into the shop, and I set about arranging for our westward departure. After strapping on my helmet, but before pulling on my gloves, the leathery tramp again approached, and explained that he had some property in town with a small house and trailer. He continued on to say that he lived alone and was tired of not having anyone to drink a beer with, and invited me to come and stay for as long as I liked. I thanked him, but declined, citing my Manifest Destiny. The grizzled man said he understood, wished us a good trip, and stretched his hand out in my direction. I stared at it like Howard Hughes in an OCD fit, and lifted my gaze to the friendly stranger's faded blue eyes. They expressed a flicker of pain and he balled up a fist which I quickly bumped. I looked on as the old man crawled into his retired ice-cream truck. Its rough exterior echoing vestiges of happier times. I left feeling empty and ashamed.

To be continued...

 

 

An American Newcomer Racing on the Isle of Man: A Bump in the Road

  After crossing the finish line I peered over my right shoulder towards Barber Motorsports Park's massive scoring tower. At the very top there was a large 22! Had I won? I must have. My first overall expert class race win was aided by mid-race rain, but I won it easily, and a win is a win. It was the best race weekend I've ever had. My three races netted a first, third, and sixth. It was a much needed morale boost following a week of bad news for my racing dreams on the Isle of Man, and some strife back in Tennessee. I'd been so despondent that I almost hadn't attended. Fortunately, that was not the case.

Racing in the rain on slicks with Blake Davis (I won!)

  I thought my dream of racing on the Isle of Man was pretty well secured. I mean, I'd submitted my race results, been invited to, and attended, the Newcomers Weekend. However, somewhat inexplicably, from my view, I was excluded from being offered a start number for the Manx Grand Prix. All of my race results prior to October 2018, which had been used to qualify me to race the Manx in 2019, were discounted due to my classification as a novice. It's worth pointing out that all my races, national events included, were run with expert class riders, and my results relative to the race winners met the criteria of a qualifying race result. I'd been fast enough, but what was done was done. I set my sights on 2020, and promptly won my next race. Onward and Upward!

                                                                 
A Persistant Man

  If I've learned anything from my travels through life, it's this; No matter how little or big you dream, how much you plan, or how hard you work, forces, both seen and unseen, conspire against even the noblest endeavors, best laid plans, and most diligent laborers. Flexibility and ingenuity help overcome such opposition, but nothing works like willpower and perseverance.

  After contemplating the circumstances surrounding my exclusion from racing at the Manx GP this year, I came to the conclusion that even though I wasn't to be competing I should attend anyway. I offered my assistance to fellow Newcomers and friends, Michael Mace (English, Triumph Daytona 675), and Kenneth Karnov (Danish, Moto 3 Honda). Both offered me pit passes, and I set about planning my trip to the Isle.

  As I mentioned before, things rarely go to plan, and this trip was no different. Due to inescapable circumstances I'd been forced to leave my four legged, furry, buddy, Dandy, in Romania following the newcomers weekend I'd attended in March, in order to take part in races back in the States which I thought would cement my inclusion in this year's Manx Grand Prix. Upon returning to Europe I purchased a Yamaha XT660z Tenere in England and rode to a Romanian farm in a nostalgic nod to my first transcontinental motorcycle trip back in 2010. The trip east went down easily enough, and the reunification with my buddy Dan offered a breath of relief along my twisted path to the Isle of Man. I'd missed his company.

  This is where things get complicated. I had the good fortune of obtaining a fancy carpentry job in Vienna which necessitated loading my Yamaha into my Sprinter van along with my tools and a healthy portion of North American Red Oak for the trip West. Though the drive back to the border went down without a hitch, when I went to retrieve the van's documents while lined up at the Hungarian border, they were nowhere to be found. They insisted I pay a fine, which I did, and still they refused me entry. As the sun rose above the distant trees I parked my van in the shade alongside the checkpoint, extracted an inflatable mattress from the back, and went to sleep. It had been a long night.

  Mercifully, sometime in the early afternoon I was awakened by a very clean smelling middle-aged Hungarian official. He handed me a paper to sign, and invited me into the Schengen Zone. I said thank you, to which he replied, with a smile, "You are welcome".  The entire ordeal took about 12 hours. Whether I prevailed out of sympathy from the proper person, concern over the image generated by my little American refugee camp, or the realization that I was going to be far more trouble than I was worth I cannot say. However, regardless the impetus Dan and I were allowed continued on our way.
                                       
European Work, Hungarian Heat, and Viennese Parking

  The particulars of how an East Tennesseean that studied economics and trades in motorcycles managed to get a carpentry job in Vienna is worthy of its own story. However, in an effort to expedite this tale, I'll just say it involves beer, a coffeeshop, a kindergarten, the world's largest brick manufacturer, and a friend named Bruno. The project got underway well enough, but in the midst of work I needed to reach the Isle of Man for the Manx Grand Prix. The plan was for Dan and I to ride to Calais, France, hit the Chunnel, continue on to Liverpool, England, and catch the ferry to Douglas, on the Isle. First, however, I needed to link up with my friend Susan in Budapest to retrieve my Nomex racing suit which was a compulsory item for working in the pits during the races. It was kind of her to have carried it from Tennessee to Eastern Europe to help benefit me in an endeavor that most folks just didn't understand. Though backtracking into Hungary through mid-August heat was unappealing, it was nice to see my friend prior to her departure to her own adventure in Antartica.

  Upon returning to Vienna I set about packing for the long ride west. It was to be Dan's longest trip to date, and we were running short on time. I made one last run to my van to collect a few items before departing. Things were, once again, about to get difficult. Though I'd parked around Vienna's periphery, in "free parking", an oxymoron if ever there has been, I reached my van's spot to collect my Thermarest mattress and sleeping bag only to find a Five series BMW and the feeling that my trip's funds were about to disappear.

  1000 Euros and two days is about what it took to retrieve my van from impound. As frustrating a loss as it had been, I had no time to be bothered. I ditched the motorcycle trip, and opted to fly to the Isle. Unfortunately, last minute direct flights to the UK were expensive, and the only sub-500 Euro option involved flying to Warsaw and enduring an eight hour layover. Fortunately I have motorcycle friends in Poland, and the layover was spent in a garage drinking beers, talking motorcycles and the Isle of Man.
                                 
Manannan's Cloak

  Later that day, after the transfer in London, as we began our decent towards the Isle, I mused to myself that the low level cloud cover could be problematic. I was correct. Just as I gained visibility from my window to see fog turn to rapidly passing saltwater, in extraordinarily close proximity, the pilot immediately throttled to the max and swiftly pulled us up. It was close, far too close. We circled for half an hour and made another less committed attempt to land to no avail. We returned to London, and long cab rides to Liverpool.

  The early morning flight from Liverpool to the Isle was no more fruitful, and after an hour and a half sat on the runway the captain announced that the flight was cancelled. I'd had enough flying and was ready to vacate planes in favor of boats. In my haste to escape the airport I made my way back to security, leaving the rest of the passengers waiting at the gate. There was only one other guy taking my proactive approach. After security returned us from whence we came, John Ingram, a fellow carpenter, racer, and a mighty fast man round the TT course, graciously offered to give me a ride to the ferry terminal.

Fleet airport taxi service

Though it took a motorcycle, a car, a bus, two vans, four planes, a ferry, lots of effort and help, I made it to the pits on the Isle of Man.
           
Here to Learn

  To be quite honest, as a guy that mostly flies solo at the track (regards to my furry buddy Dan),  I always find myself struggling to keep on top of things at race meetings. Some competitors manage without help in the pits while making it look easy, but I find it overwhelming running round to my tire guy, buying fuel, swapping wheels, passing through technical inspection, and getting suited up in time for my practice sessions, which oftentimes follow long nights driving to the track. So, although I was disheartened over my exclusion from the racing this year, I was eager to learn the Ins and outs of the ManxGP paddock. It was a very busy place, and there was plenty to absorb. If I'm to race in 2020, preparation will be key to my success.

My Fellow Newcomers

  The two Newcomer buddies offering me pit passes were experiencing drastically different luck during what had been a mostly rained out practice week. When they finally hit the course for their first timed practice Kenneth Kørnov's fancy Moto 3 bike blew itself to bits, and Michael Mace had been second quickest amongst all Newcomers aboard his aging Triumph. The Newcomers race, held the day following my arrival on the Isle, found Kenneth spectating as Michael was preparing to take his secondary starting position between Professional French Racer, Pierre Bian, aboard his new R6, and the extremely rapid, Yamaha mounted, University of Wales senior, Sam Mousley. Throughout practice week Pierre had a couple of miles per hour in hand over Michael, and as practice sessions came and went each seemed to grow faster by like amounts. This had not been the case for the always smiling Mousley. His early practice sessions had been plagued with technical issues. Fortunately for Sam he'd managed to impressively overcome this cavernous deficit in no small part due to his superior track knowledge. In the months between our Newcomers weekend and the race meeting he had toured the course approximately 120 laps. In the final couple of practice sessions he found lots of speed, and by race time he was right on Michael's heels.

  There are three separate classes of machines simultaneously competing in the Newcomers race. Group A is the fastest, and consists of primarily four cylinder, four stroke, bikes with a maximum displacement of 750cc. Pierre, Michael, and Sam were contesting this class. Group C is made up of the smallest machines. Moto 3 bikes, older 125cc two strokes, and early 90s 400cc fours are popular in this class. Poor Kenneth would have been racing in this group had his Honda's engine held together. Instead he cheered on two other nice guys from our Newcomers class back in March, Adrian Skaife, and the enthusiastic William Piquet. Group B slots into the middle power wise, and is the class in which I would have competed in had my plans not run awry. It's composed of twin cylinder motorcycles capped at 650cc, with the occasional 250cc two stroke bike tossed into the mix. Though I was primarily focused on assisting Michael in the pits and paddock, I had a keen eye on the guys at the front of this class, both of which had been in my Newcomers class. Andrea Majola is a jovial Italian fellow with good reason to be happy, the Ducati test rider, and IRRC racer, was not only blisteringly fast in practice (and in general), he was also on an ex-factory Paton, the fanciest machine in the class. As such, he started the Newcomers race fourth overall with a qualifying time in excess of 110 miles per hour. The second fastest man in Newcomers B qualifying was a big fellow by the name of Mark Kirkby. Mark was the first fellow Newcomer I'd met upon reaching the Island back in March for orientation. He'd been waiting in his aging race van for the Manx Motorcycle Club's offices to open. We had introduced ourselves and exchanged pleasantries as we waited. Mark is a construction worker that loves motorcycles and racing. Like Michael, he was taking on the Mountain Course with a slim budget and lots of determination. I'd identified with him immediately, and was glad to see him solidly in second following qualifying for Newcomers B.

Time to Race

  The unique starting procedure for the Manx GP races is a long, climactic, affair. Unlike short course races where your bike only passes through technical inspection once at the beginning of the meeting, with quick practices and races thereafter, at the Manx your bike is sent through scrutineering prior to every time on track. On race day the bikes are then taken directly from inspection to Parc Ferme to await the call for teams to que the motorcycles in start order up on Glencruchery Road. As a team member I felt a few nerves as I wrapped Michael's tires in warmers for 20 minuets of waiting, I could only imagine what the competitors were experiencing. All the time, money, and effort spent on preparing for this. Where does the mind race in the moments prior to finally throwing leg over machine, inching forward to the start line to take the wave of a flag and a tap on the shoulder?

Liam, Michael, Izzy, and Lee

  The ten-seconds that transpired between watching Pierre's slick R6 rocket off the line, and starting his own race must have felt like an eternity for Michael. Though I imagine once underway the business at hand quickly quelled any nervousness, that first drop from the precipice of Brey Hill under race conditions, taken in excess of 145 mph aboard Michael's 675 Triumph, must have still made his stomach spin.

  After hustling the gear from the grid for the start, our motley crew, Lee, Liam, and myself, took to watching the timing and preparing for Michael's pitstop at the end of the second lap. An eventful first lap saw Pierre Bian create a comfortable cushion, Sam Mousley catch and overtake Michael, and Andrea Majola's lovely Paton sputter to a halt rounding the Gooseneck. Leaving Mark Kirkby in the lead of class B.

  Though Sam had passed Michael for second on the road he could create no gap, and the two passed down the pit straight line astern to end the first 37.7 mile lap. The second lap found the pace of the top three equalize, with Bian maintaining his cushion while Mousley and Michael remained tethered to one another right up until entering pit lane. Pierre's crew was just finishing up his stop as Sam and Michael reached the pits. My job was to clean Michael's helmet and give him a push out once refueled. Though we managed to spill fuel in the process we had the second fastest stop in the entire field. It was just over three-seconds faster than Mousley's and put Michael back into second on the road. With two laps to go, the gap between the top three was about thirty-seconds, not a huge amount over the course of 75 miles. There was still everything to play for.

This Mortal (Triumph) Coil

   Michael held second on the road up to the famous, ultra fast, righthand corner of Ballagarey. He'd turned in a touch early and been forced to roll off, ruining his drive from the corner down the long straight, allowing Mousley to whistle by with plenty of speed in hand. By the time they'd reached Greeba Bridge Michael had caught back up though, and the two continued to put daylight between themselves and fourth place.

  Towards the end of the third lap something had clearly happened to Michael, and he'd dropped off the Yamaha's tail. When Sam made his appearance along the pit straight to start the final lap Michael was nowhere to be seen. Ten or 15 seconds later his Orange Triumph came by with a clear miss. He had a failing coil, which incidentally had also brought an early end to the fleet Italian, Andrea Majola's race. It was hard to watch the scoring along with Lee and Liam as the Gap to fourth place runner Brooks dwindled. Upon seeing the Sulby Straight trap speed of only 120 mph, we knew the podium was lost, and began hoping that Michael would make it home.

  The 110 mph flying lap put in by Michael aboard a bike so hampered by lack of top end power is a testament to his skill and perseverance. Though he missed what had appeared to be a sure podium finish, he'd placed fourth of a field of 24 finishers. It was impressive, and I was a touch jealous.
Speaking of jealousy, big Mark Kirkby ended up winning Newcomers B by over six minutes, having turned a high 105 mph best lap. I was happy to see him take the win, if a bit frustrated that I'd not been able to compete. Though I'm uncertain that I would have been able to run with him, I feel as though I would have made things closer in the Twins class.

Mark Kirkby's win produced a special ride

2019 is History

  That's the tale of the 2019 Manx GP Newcomers Race, and my place in it. It wasn't what I'd hoped for, but I took what I could get. I'm certainly in a better position for next year because of it. Let the preparation commence. Kenneth and I are ready, and patiently awaiting our crack at the Manx Grand Prix Newcomers Race 2020. Stay tuned.....

Michael graciously lent me his road bike for a lap before departing.

       

 



                                             

An American Newcomer Racing on the Isle of Man: A Perilous Dream Within Reach

A Perilous Dream

It's much steeper than it appears.

Peering up Bray Hill from the point where my little SV650 should be turning hard right in excess of 130 miles per hour (if I'm to be competitive), I was somewhat awestruck by the precipitous grade before me. Even the old turn 12 at Road Atlanta, mercifully no longer used by motorcycles, paled in comparison to this corner and its precipitous drop in terms of sheer ominousness. Harvey, a former Isle of Man sidecar racer, generally nice guy, and president of the Manx Motorcycle Club, who had collected me from the airport to bring me to Douglas for my Manx GP Newcomers training, having perhaps seen a glint of uncertainty in my eye, made mention of a pair of young Frenchman that upon viewing the sight as they arrived for their newcomers training, misplaced their smiles, and their jovial attitudes turned dead serious. Having been here four times previously as a motorcycle equipped spectator, and sporting the demeanor of a crusty adventurer, my countenance remained more or less even. I simply mused to my new friend that it didn't look so severe from the saddle traveling in the proper direction. Inwardly though, I was murmuring, Wow...
                                         
 A Long Road To the Paddock 

The Bolivian Death Road is safer than the Mountain Course I figure

My infatuation with the Isle of Man stretches back over twenty years when we in the States began getting race recaps from the TT on cable tv. My healthy craving for speed grew exponentially as I watched the likes of Joey Dunlop, Dave Jefferies, and a young John McGuinness tame the 37.73 miles of public road known as the Mountain Course. Having been smitten, I took to American tracks shortly thereafter aboard my ZX6R Ninja, but I was relatively new to riding, and my skill at that point placed me mid-pack in the novice class. I was far faster on four wheels, and turned my attention, insofar as racing was concerned, to karting and Formula Fords. However, I always kept a motorcycle, or twenty, around and an eye on racing

Getting up to speed at the WERA/AMA finals at BMP

the Mountain Course. Since I got my first bike at sixteen, I've ridden at least half a million miles, covering 54 countries and 49 of the United States. Having never lost the desire to compete on the Isle of Man, a couple of years ago I decided that it was time to get busy preparing to do so, or spend the rest of my life in regret. I pulled my leathers out of the closet, and headed to Roebling Road Raceway to see if I had the speed I needed to be competitive. I was pleasantly surprised to find that I was faster in my late thirties than I had been in my early twenties. It was nice to be racing at the front of the novice class, and fighting my way to mid-pack among the experts as I returned to motorcycle racing in order to qualify to race on the Isle of Man. Fortunately, my recent race results were good enough to score me an invite to the Manx GP.

Learning the Course

Though there is some debate, according to Wikipedia the Mountain Course is comprised of 219 turns; The vast majority of which are taken in excess of 100 miles per hour. Even for riders endowed with outstanding skill and motorcycle control, obtaining course knowledge is of paramount importance. That's what the newcomers weekend is mostly about, taking part in as many guided laps as you can fit

The best way to arrive on the IoM

into two and a half days to begin wrapping your mind round such a long, and unforgiving ribbon of asphalt. I arrived bright eyed and bushy tailed Friday morning at the Manx Motorcycle Club offices to find, Heather Fox, the kind Club administrator I'd been corresponding with over the previous months, and one other newcomer, a big fellow from the northeast of England by the name of Mark Kirkby, waiting for the first instructor to appear. Mark had been there for hours, having hit the island early morning in his van via the ferry. He had a motorcycle and a crude bunk in the back. My kind of lifestyle! Fortuitously for Mark and I, a lanky, steely eyed Brit by the name of Dave Madsen-Mygdal arrived to guide our first laps. Having compiled roughly 30,000 competitive miles on the Snaefell Mountain Course, Dave is the most experienced racer in its history. Though a 120 mph man in the TT that's won round here in the Manx GP, riding legendary machinery such as RC30s and RC45s, he was affably approachable and shared his encyclopedia-like knowledge with pleasant ease. What a badass! As it turned out, all the instructors to guide my laps were pretty awesome.

I took seven laps that counted, and another four that didn't

Colin Croft has been racing the Isle going on seven years. He is, and forgive the expression, a cheeky bugger, and I mean that in the most complementary way possible. We are of similar age I figure, and I could identify with his blunt and often irreverent way of putting things. In addition to offering terrific insight, he has a 114 mile per hour lap to his credit, which proves without a doubt that he knows what he's doing. Carolynn Sells is a young mother that, if I'm not mistaken, walked away from racing after becoming the only woman to win an event on the Mountain Course back in 2009. Her interaction was very hands on, and we stopped to get out of the car several times to closely examine particularly dangerous points along the 37.7 miles of tarmac. Her instruction was clear, and her evident concern embodied that of a caring, super fast, mother. Jim Barnett's concise instruction was fluid and engineer-like. His familiar voice inspired confidence. After about four miles I knew why. I'd already ridden round the Isle for a 112 mph instructional lap of his on YouTube around forty times. Preparation has been the key for Jim, and he's a smart man. His first ever practice lap of the Isle demonstrated the effectiveness of his methodic approach. It was a most impressive 101 mph. Rhys Hardisty is young and fast. He is currently running in the 120 mph range at the TT, and his instruction was more on the practical side of things. "Bring a bike to race that you are accustomed to; Don't worry about suspension setup too much; When you return to the Isle to practice on your own, you'll likely find a car more useful than a bike." Occasionally he'd throw in a "no brakes here....maybe a downshift". I'm anxious to see what he does at this year's TT. He certainly put in the laps over the weekend, day and night. I suspect if weather cooperates in a couple months time he'll be a few miles per hour quicker this year than last.

                                                       
 Fellow Newcomers

In my extensive travels I've found unique places attract unique people. This is very much true of the Isle of Man. It's been called a Siren, however, I think it's more a magnet. A siren seduces the unwitting, while a magnet attracts particular qualities and compositions. Racers on the Isle are hardly naive, but simultaneously unsure of exactly what it is we hope to achieve, we simply know that we are on our way to compete. Our newcomers class was comprised of no fewer than eight nationalities; And though we hail from different points around the globe, and embrace our individuality, there is something common among us, though I cannot quite articulate what it is. Is it fear of mediocrity? A need for speed? A quest to obtain the elusive? Whatever it is, each and every one of us has made peace with the fact that we will engage in an extraordinarily risky endeavor in order to achieve it. We're a band of brothers fighting battles I'm unsure any of us fully understand.


                                                 

                                                   
Back to the Real World

Our Newcomers Weekend officially concluded for lunch at the Sulby Glen Hotel along one of the three fastest parts of the course (I need my little SV to hit 145 mph through here come August).

Following hastily finishing my meal I ventured alongside the road to collect my thoughts in solitude. Aptly enough, about six years ago I got my very first taste of racing on the Isle at this very spot, with riders blasting by approaching warp speed. Quite a lot has transpired in my life since that day, but every trial, every encounter, and every long winding road followed has led me here. As I parted ways with the Isle once more I was already preparing for my return.

                                                     
To be continued....

Twilight, a Second Chance, and The Road East

  My father and I have shared a tumultuous relationship. We've never quite seen eye to eye. Though I can't quite pinpoint the impetus of our conflict, I can say that our strife has been somewhat ironic. We are two peas in a pod. To offer an illustration, my father was fired from his job as a history teacher at Washington College Academy 16 years before I was expelled there as a student. We have never followed easy paths. After restarting my grandfather's cabinet shop in Jonesborough, dad grew it into a flooring factory. I spent much of my youth following dad as he drove forklifts around the lumber yard, or tailing a variety of machines used in the production of hardwood flooring and custom moldings. I must confess to having resented the hard work, but it made me strong. By the time I reached my teens I could have run the business if I'd needed to. However, with that assertiveness came a willingness to contravene my fathers directives. By the time he left the family business to start a farm in Romania we were constantly at odds with one another. People always thought it was strange that dad left. When they regularly asked why he was there, I'd simply reply "He's growing potatoes for Jesus", but I always knew, deep down, that he was there because of me.

  Though my father was gone most of the time by my mid-teens my struggle against authority continued on. It seemingly made the American Dream practically unobtainable. I was a failure as a student, and assembled a criminal record. As a consequence, relationships were somewhat difficult to maintain. I'd become a loner, but even Han Solo had Chewbacca. So, during the summer of 2002, as I visited a former girlfriend of mine to collect my walking papers, I played with twin border collie/lab pups she'd brought home from the animal shelter. Though they were both great dogs, one was particularly bright, happy, and wild. I scooped her into my arms and named her on the spot. I didn't so much as ask Annaka as I did inform her that Daisy was going with me.

  Daisy traveled with me almost everywhere, and saw me eventually graduate from the University of Tennessee Chattanooga. Following University I founded a business that required lots of travel. Though I had a 20 country head start on my old girl, she still accompanied this convicted felon to 49 states and 34 countries on four continents. She never required much, just the occasional beer, a bit of brie, and a few bbq ribs.

Whether we were motorcycling across the Atlas Mountains of Morocco, camped in a German forest, or surviving the late December chill of Yukon Territory along the ALCAN highway, Daisy was always happy to be along for the ride. She was my best, and most loyal, friend.

  My motorcycle transport business, through equal parts hard work and social deprivation, was somewhat successful, and upon the Brexit vote pulverizing the Pound I was well positioned to import collectors bike from England to the U.S.. The first container load sold fairly well, and as I bought more this past Spring for the second, my father expressed interest in joining Daisy and I in England for my trip to Northern Romania. So, we met my father in London and we drove down towards Southampton to load the container with 27 motorcycles. It was just like the old days; dad operating the forklift while I did everything else. You couldn't have fit a pack of rolling papers in that 40 foot container by the time we had finished, much less another bike. We celebrated by visiting a patch of nearby Redwoods in New Forest National Park for a walk.
Old Daisy had a great afternoon among the giant trees. She investigated the multitudes of wandering horses, and even snatched a couple of Frisbee's to show off for a marginally terrified group of well heeled Arab teenagers. She didn't appear to be 15 years old. On that afternoon she was bright and youthful. A
marvelous hound that connected my troubled past with a successful present. On that afternoon she was a peacemaker.

  We continued on to catch a ferry bound for Normandy. My father is a history buff, and I enjoyed hearing his telling the story of the parlous raid of the cliffs of Pointe du Hoc as he, Daisy and I walked the crater riddled grounds there

in solitude. That night between Poine du Hoc and Omaha Beach we stopped for the evening and grilled out in typical Israel and Daisy fashion. Sausage, ribs, toast and brie. No beer for dad, but
Daisy and I managed drinking them without his help. Though we took hotels and stayed with friends of mine a few times, we camped out of the van at least five nights along the road east. It was nice to share my lifestyle with dad.

   After departing France we visited Henri Chapelle American cemetery in northern Belgium where my father visited his uncle's burial plot fulfilling a wish of his mother's that he pay his respects. We continued on to Zundert, Holland, birthplace of Vincent Van Gogh, to see where his Uncle John, working as a messenger for the 104th Timberwolves, met his end courtesy of a German sniper. After a bit of research I located a nearby museum dedicated to the Fighting Timberwolves and our trio of misfits went off in search of WWII relics and a better understanding of how John R Garland spent his final days. 

  The Military History Museum, in Achtmaal, Netherlands, was curated by a friendly fellow

named Charles. In addition to keeping a stunningly complete collection of European theater WWII hardware, of which made my father practically giddy, he also had a little guest shed, complete with grill, shower, and German Luftwaffe training aircraft, in which he invited us to stay. We managed to bridge the language barrier with a certain ease, and as a warm afternoon culminated in a crimson sunset we shared a crude, smile filled, dinner of brie, bread, chops, and kababs with our generous Dutch host and the ghosts of Uncle John, and other young men from the 104th Infantry Division Fighting Timberwolves. It was the happiest I'd seen my father in a long time, maybe ever. The red sky of mid-evening gave way to a still, but cool, night. I finished my last beer and pulled my bedding out to the grass, Daisy in tow, and slept beneath the stars. It was the happiest I'd been in a long time too.

  The sun awoke me early and Charles greeted me with a strong cup of coffee. After the old man showered, we said our goodbyes, loaded the van, and set our course for Berlin. The early start allowed us to arrive in Die Hauptstadt that same evening. It was Dad's first, Daisy's fourth, and my sixth trip to Berlin.

Krausnickstrasse is round the corner from the Jewish synagogue, about half a mile from the Brandenburg Gates as the Hooded Crow flies. It was one of the better preserved parts of East Germany during the GDR's tenure of control, and these days it takes a keen eye to spot evidence that this had ever been an oppressed area. However, there is something profoundly unique about those that call Knausnickstrasse home. Back in late winter of 2014, on my second visit to Berlin, I pulled my laden Yamaha through Berlin's high streets onto Oranienburgerstrasse in search of reasonably priced food and beer following a depressing trip to Kiev. I eventually found my way to Krausnickstrasse, and the Anne Koschke gastropub. After devouring a bowl of soup and a sandwich I visited the corner shop and bought a couple of beers to drink as I tried to find a place to stay. I was in the midst of

Gudrun, Brigit, and old Daisy enjoying Krausnickstrasse

guzzling my first .5 liter Erdinger while scanning my Romanian smart phone to find the night's accommodations when I heard, "Hey, motorcycle man, where do you go?" Brigit and her friend Gudrun were perched upon the steps leading up to their building across the street drinking beers of their own. I joined them and we quickly became friends. On every subsequent trip to Berlin I have made my way back to Krausnickstrasse. It is a special place in a special town. So, in addition to having dragged my old girl Daisy and my buddy, Arie, to Brigit's place to clean clothes, regroup, and have a central hub of German operation, on this trip I had my father. We were treated like family.

 After resting, eating, and cleaning we said our goodbyes, and pushed out of Berlin headed on to Poland. On our way out of town we attempted to visit Checkpoint Charlie, only to find a police blockade. A parade of fascist assholes had just passed through the heart of Berlin, and ended at the Checkpoint. Every policeman in town must have been on duty to prevent altercations. I'm all for free speech, but I cannot deny having felt the desire to see Nazis on the ground bleeding. My father said, "let's go son, there's nothing good to see here", and we turned from the spot of history that he and I had shared in the Fall of 1989, watching on from East Tennessee, as freedom came to Eastern Europe. I found it perverse that we were there in person to see a portion of its departure. God help us.

  Poland came and went with a night in an Orthodox Church's parking lot, and we then attempted to choose the least used Ukrainian border crossing. No such thing really exists these days, and both we visited were backed up for miles, so we joined in the waiting.

 Eastern European border crossings, particularly those on the very periphery of the EU, are not unlike backroom Asian Fight Clubs. They are rude, crude, and comprised almost entirely of shady characters with dastardly motives. If one hopes to make it through, it's best to leave any sense of decency behind. The meek will be pushed, pulled, shuffled, leaped over, and generally disregarded. It's an environment that incubates the worst human impulses and actions. I've had my share of difficult border experiences, from being beaten by Israeli military, to shaken down by crooked Hondurans, and shot at by extraordinarily difficult Argentines. However, this attempt to cross from Poland into Ukraine proved to be the most frustrating of the lot.

   To be continued.....

   

   

Fascists, Communists, and the Road to Hell

In the winter of 2014, as I traversed the United States entangled in work, I was religiously tethered to National Public Radio listening for updates from Independence Square in Kiev. After Ukrainian president, Viktor Yanukovych, rejected a European Union association agreement in November of 2013, in favor of closer Russian ties and money, shit had quickly hit the fan. Clearly, Vladimir Putin, who, it is believed, had a former Ukrainian presidential candidate poisoned, and rigged what would be a recall election in 2004, had been hard at work attempting to do with Rubles what poison could not; return Ukraine to the Motherland. Young Ukrainians that wished for future inclusion to the European community were not fooled, and completely opposed this corrupt direction of governance. They took to the streets in protest, and I was with them in spirit as I rushed to finish my work in the States so I could return to my motorcycle stored at a farm in Northern Romania, five miles from the Ukrainian border.

 
  Though protests had taken place throughout winter, between the 18th and 21st of February Independence Square was a fiery, smoke

filled, Hell. The reports I was listening to were incomplete at best. Information was often

inconsistent, and there seemed to be no hard proof of what was transpiring. At the inception it had been clear that the protesters were poorly equipped, brandishing clubs, and hurling Molotov cocktails in the clashes with riot police. However, what they lacked in equipment, they made up for in numbers. Reportedly, somewhere between 10 and 20 thousand demonstrators were at battle with the government forces. It didn't take the rag-tag army long to overpower the police, and government anti-terrorist snipers were positioned at strategic positions overlooking the Square. The opposition's body-count quickly rose. In an effort to thwart the snipers thousands of tires were set fire to black out the sky. A frigid snow storm blew snow into the mix as the fighting continued. I hung on

on the words of every new report as if my freedom depended upon this skirmish's outcome. I wanted to be there. The Clashes came to an end on the 21st, and Viktor Yanukovych fled Ukraine for Russia, claiming that terrorists had overtaken the government. 

    By the end of February I'd finished my work and scurried to depart the US for Romania. I would collect my motorcycle and head directly for Kiev. However, just before boarding my flight East there was a disturbing development in the Ukrainian saga. Vladimir Putin had taken Crimea. What were his intentions? How far would he go? After my plane touched down in Bucharest I was met by a good friend, and Romanian diplomat, Vlad. We had plenty to talk about over lunch and the trip to the train station. He was of the opinion that closer ties to Europe would be an uphill battle for Ukraine due to broad corruption, but that the revolution as a whole was a good thing for Europe, given that it presented resistance to Russia. He wasn't quite sure about the Russian annexation of Eastern Ukraine, nor did he possess insight confirming or denying reports of fascist groups involved in the revolution. Following an insufferably long ride on an old communist era train I reached Suceava, Romania, were I was met by Maurin, the farm's mechanic, and given a ride to Dersca, a village near the Ukrainian frontier. I arranged the supplies for my trip North and gave my Yamaha some basic maintenance. After packing my steed I took the remainder of the day to rest. My father called that evening to inquire about the trip to the farm. As it was big news back in the States, conversation drifted to the conflict in Ukraine. I address both the issue in Crimea and the Russia Today reports of Nazi involvement in the ousting of the Ukrainian president. National Public Radio had't given any reports about fascist elements within the revolution, but their coverage, though pervasive, seemed to be missing lots of details. I was apprehensive about accepting Russia Today news at face value. It had once been a good source of news, but at this point it was entirely State sponsored. My father was unsure about the situation in Eastern Ukraine, but as to the question of whether or not unsavory elements were involved with the opposition in Kiev, there was no hesitation. "I guarantee it", he said. "It's the communists vs. the fascists. It's been that way up there for a long time. There ain't a nickel's worth of difference between them. You aren't going to Ukraine are you? Tell me you won't go to Ukraine." I lied and said I wouldn't.

                     
                 
                 "This ain't no Upwardly Mobile Freeway.... This is the Road to Hell"  -Chris Rea

  I've never spoken much about my trip to Kiev in March of 2014. It's not that it wasn't a story worthy of telling, rather it was an experience that stole my words along with a portion of my humanity. I didn't want to think about what I saw, much less struggle finding the means of expressing my understanding of what had transpired. It would still be trapped within my mind were it not for a recent event in the United States that sadistically rousted my dormant memories of that night exploring a disorganized, burned out, practically post-apocalyptic Independence Square, and those suspicious stares of apprehension and mistrust. I'd have never imagined that any social problem in the United States would unravel to the extent that the madness in Kiev would look like a possibility. However, Stateside, desperation has supplanted sanity in the years succeeding the Sub-Prime Mortgage Crisis. After several banks plunged into insolvency, casting global markets into peril, the richest were the first to receive help generating easy wealth with generous loans from the FED. They flourished, and though the economy improved those at the bottom never really benefited. As unemployment rates descended to levels that would have raised incomes of the poorest Americans, monetary accommodations were lifted. The economy slowed and income inequality continued to widen. People awoke each day to find their plight had become more desperate. Regardless of political affiliation, or belief systems, desperate people do desperate things. They haphazardly trust when they no longer believe in themselves. The American Dream is a distant memory for some, and nothing but an apparition for others. I wasn't all that surprised seeing political divisions deepen, however, I can't say I was prepared to see Fascists fighting Communists on the streets of Virginia.

Wondering if I should apply both

  I departed the friendly confines of the farm in Dersca, Romania for the 350 mile trip to Kiev a
couple of weeks after the fighting had ended. I figured the journey would be safe enough as long as I avoided the contested Eastern portion of the country. Engaging folks frequently along my path North, a few things became clear; The people that could be bothered to talk politics seemed very critical of the "kids" in Kiev, they had a soft spot for Putin, and Ukrainian girls quite liked me (must have been the beard). The roads in Ukraine are of the bone jarring variety. Rarely is anything smooth. Bikes deal with rough surfaces better than cars, but the going was still relatively slow. I rode well into the evening, but the late night winter temperatures had me searching for a good place to climb into my sleeping bag. A John Deere dealership with a gap in its fence provided just the sort of accommodations I was looking for. I slept soundly and didn't emerge from my tent till the mercury had risen well into my morning time comfort zone. I slugged down some sort of diabolical Ukrainian energy drink, packed up, and parted the company of my guardian tractors. It was a beautiful, bright, and cool Sunday for the remainder of the ride to Kiev. I grinned every time I passed old communist war memorials, and sighed in relief each occasion I was waved through a police checkpoint. This day the sparsely occupied roads weren't quite as rutted, and I covered the final 130 miles in about two hours, leaving plenty of daylight to make my way to the heart of town.

  The Dnieper river led me north into the city. On the outskirts there was a large group of police profiling passers by, but apparently they were doing nothing aside from observing. The multi-lane highways leading into the city were almost entirely devoid of traffic, and I didn't see another cop the entire time in was in Kiev. As I drew closer to the downtown, I was overtaken by two Porsche suvs leading and tailing a Maybach Mercedes in very close formation. They were traveling somewhere in the vicinity of 110 miles per hour, and the convoy's mighty jet wash blew my well loaded bike to the shoulder. Those were clearly not the guys anyone wanted to mess with. They were no doubt as well armed as they were corrupt. I crept into downtown and was troubled to see a litany of well dressed, youthful Ukrainians wrapped around the block serving the passport office. Weren't these the protesters? Hadn't they prevailed? I assumed their flight was due to Russia's invasion of Crimea. I couldn't say that I blamed them, but, but in hindsight, perhaps they knew more than I.

  After a minimal amount of wandering I found my way to Independence Square. Though other parts of town had seemed abandoned and quiet, the Square was anything but. A vibrant crowd filed around the encampments, barriers, burned out buildings, and disabled government vehicles. I pulled my motorcycle next to a broken police riot truck for a photo op and was intercepted by a fellow biker named Oleg. He tied a Ukrainian flag ribbon around my handlebar, and then asked the usual battery of questions. I had a list of questions my own. Oleg gave me a daylight tour of the Square, and had answers to all my queries. "The police snipers were up there, and there". "The tire tires were for fires which helped to stifle the snipers". "Here is the memorial to the 120 protesters killed". "These guys are singing a song belittling Communists". "Yes, there are Neo Nazis among the opposition". Not that I really had needed confirmation of that last bit. They stuck out, even in the crowd. In the daylight stern confirmation of Nazi presence within the ranks of the government opposition, though disheartening, somehow seemed justified. I mean, most of the people here weren't fascists, they were fighting against a corrupt government that was dragging them back to the USSR. I tried to overlook the skin-heads as a case of the enemy of my enemy being my friend. However, these goons never have been, and never will be, my friends. I decided to leave Kiev without digging further into the Maidan Revolution. After finishing up my tour of the Square, I left town in a state of ambivalence.

   I turned my thoughts towards reaching the exclusion zone of Chernobyl. Oleg advised me to ride North and cross the Dnieper river into Belarus and then return to Ukraine near Chernobyl. I should have done some homework before leaving town. In my haste to depart from Kiev, I neglected to check if it was even possible for me to enter Belarus. It was not. Fortunately, after wandering around the sandy banks of the Dnieper river (and a troubling encounter with a drunk, ex-con, boxer, also named Oleg, that wanted to trade shoes), I abandoned my plan to utilized a railroad trestle to enter Belarus after getting my bike stuck on the tracks. I was lucky a passerby saw my plight and came to help unhinge my Yamaha's skid-plate from the rail's lip (I saw a train crossing the bridge within 30 minutes after being freed). Eventually I came to a legitimate border crossing and was informed by the Ukrainian authorities that if I attempted to enter Belarus without a visa I would be arrested. Even I occasionally listen to reason. So, I rode through the cold night back to Kiev.

A barrel fire at the International Center for Culture and the Arts

   Somewhat impulsively, as I reached the outskirts of the city, I decided I would return to Independence Square. All of the the turns I made on my way to the center of town seemed to be the correct ones, and I quickly found myself at the barriers surrounding the outskirts of the square. The mishmash of used tires, bricks, and Czech hedgehogs (armored vehicle impediments) blocking the entrance to the encampments was under the guard of walkie talkie equipped university students. At first they were very skeptical of my appearance. My yellow riding gear had the likeness of a HAZMAT suit, and I'd not shaven in six months. Nothing about me looked ordinary. Upon realizing that I was an American, they lowered their guard and the one that was apparently in charge briefly spoke into his radio and told me that I could enter on foot.

 The high pressure sodium lights' gloomy orange glow did little to overcome the darkness shrouding the square. The bright light of the day before had been kind to the makeshift camp. Even the Nazis
seemed somewhat innocuous, if not comical. The murkiness of a new moon had very much the opposite effect. The piles of tires, bottles, and general rubble complemented random barrel fires in an ominous, pit of Hell, fashion. Still, I was an imposing looking American, and I felt, perhaps foolishly, impervious to harm. I strode up the hill where so many of the opposition had been struck down by police sniper fire only a couple of weeks earlier. As I climbed the hill toward the arched trellis bridge connecting the International Center for Culture and Arts to the Music Conservatory I peered towards the buildings overlooking the street where the final strongholds' of the ousted government had been. Following comprehensive defeat in street clashes the police had requested assistance from the military. They were denied. "Anti Terrorist" snipers were then placed in strategic positions around the high ground of the northeast portion of the square. At first they made quick work work of the protesters. It had been like shooting fish in a barrel. The opposition fire bombed the building housing snipers closest to their encampment, and lit tire fires around the square to obscure the sight from less accessible positions. That was the status quo for the

days leading up to president Viktor Yanukovych's flight to Russia. So, there I trod, snapping pictures, attempting to assess my shifting opinion of what had transpired and what the outcome would be.

  Upon taking to the bridge, with a commanding view of the soot covered, and blood stained, street below, I was alerted to large group of camouflage clad pseudo military types chanting in unison as they passed the encampment and made their way up the hill in my direction. Their chants were brief. I suspect they were intended to announce their undertakings to those in camp. What were they doing?  As the group drew closer, I could see that they were being led by someone wearing a nicer, more form fitting, uniform and a beret. There were also two guys in non-military dress. The one towards the front was just a kid. He was clearly in distress, he could barely walk and was gripped by the two soldiers marching at his sides. The other civilian looking fellow, I've determined after examining the photos, was equipped with a camera and looks to be free. The cavalcade made their way to the top of the hill, past the Hotel Ukraine, and out of sight. Approximately one minute passed before a gunshot pierced the night. It's a memory that I will take to my grave. If I'd felt secure in myself on my way to the bridge, that courage was shaken and I found myself looking over my shoulder regularly on my way back down to the encampment. At

one point I nearly leaped from my boots when a couple of curious, camouflaged, commandos approached me behind as I was taking a photo. They spoke no English but the they understood the word American, and the inquisitively critical looks faded from their continence. After calming myself I snapped the duo's picture and continued on my way to the main camp. A memorial had been erected on the outer wall of a large prominent tent on the corner of the largest encampment. Just as I was about to photograph the many pictures of the deceased my attention was diverted to the growing sound of an

office chair rolling on asphalt. Two under-aged smokers came rushing by engaged in cheap thrill seeking. I snapped my favorite photo of the night. Kids will be kids, I thought to myself, even when the skinheads in the camp next door are executing people. Still, their youthful exuberance was infectious. After returning to survey my picture the duo invited me into camp to make a copy for them. As I came to find out, there was clear division among the various sects of the opposition, from their attire to their encampments. My two new friends were part of the plebeian camp. The contengent here had no uniforms and, from what I could tell, consisted primarily of poor kids and the working class. As I was led into the camp I was offered a rather warm reception. Though I was on the receiving end of an awkward glance or two, I didn't feel as though the people here were all that bad, certainly they weren't evil. These folks simply wanted more from life than what their corrupt government would allow them to have. They could see the prosperity growing in Poland and Romania, and wanted nothing to do with Putin and Russia. If the revolution had consisted entirely of these guys I'd have been more at peace. They simply wanted the freedom to work without having to compete with corruption.
  Unfortunately, as my young friends gave me a nocturnal tour of the square we came across the skinhead camp. There were several different sects of ultra-nationalist, skin-head, Nazi, motherfuckers encamped adjacent to the square. All fell under the directives of Svoboda (loosely translated "freedom" (freedom, my ass. they hijacked that term)), the largest, best known, opposition to the government, though they already held a voice in parliament. Svoboda was formed in the mid 90's as an anti communist organization. Given the failure of communism in Ukraine, one could understand
the desire to oppose it. However, rather than expanding freedom for the Ukrainian people by safeguarding against corruption, this organization simply wanted all the powers of oppression for themselves. They were feared by their own supporters, and when I critically spoke of the Nazis in our midst, my English speaking tour guide quickly quieted me and whispered that this encampment acted as the police for the movement. Clearly these turds were not to be crossed. I was struck by ambivalent feelings of both pity for my young friends and hatred for their leaders. These assholes were the ones that had marched the poor doomed kid under the bridge earlier. They wore ruthless countenances, and embraced terror. The vestige of their misdeeds enveloped the square with a malevolent stench. These were evil men. As I directed our group away from the monsters, a trio of well groomed officers passed us in conversation. One of them, a physically attractive, and no doubt wealthy, young lady in a well tailored uniform stared at me as they passed. She smiled broadly, and giggled a little. I gazed blankly in return, and thought of the gunshot earlier. What a dirty fucking bitch.
  I had seen enough. My stomach was churning, and I was ready to hastily depart Kiev. I led my new friends to my motorcycle for a photo op and said my goodbyes. Though their names are now lost to me, I will always remember their faces. Unlucky kids without an escape. I sped out of Kiev and didn't look back. I was nearly to Poland as the sun rose, and I bedded down in a forest looking for sleep that refused to come. Though I'd left the demons of Independence Square behind, their evil pervaded my thoughts, and stained my memories. How duped I'd been. The Ukrainian revolution of 2014 was a farce. It hadn't brought peace or prosperity, or freedom. It wasn't a path forward. It was simply a marker along the road to Hell.

 

  

    

Another Brick in the Wall

                                                                 DIE MAUER
Government constructed barriers are silly. This sentiment is clearly shared by Berlin's distinctly youthful population. While on a cruise around the city teenagers and twentyish year old plebeians were seen littering the river banks regardless of high grass, fences, or even perilous drops. They all had beer or wine and

I'm unsure of what this means but I think I like it. 

Reminders of the past decorate a diverse Berlin.

smiles on their faces. Waves and happy exclamations came freely and often. I couldn't help but think that back in Johnson City, Tennessee cops would be cracking down on this sort of behavior and business at juvenile hall would be at a record high. They wouldn't be smiling then would they?! Fortunately, the police in Berlin have priorities that are more in line with legitimate security than generating buisness and I thoroughly enjoyed the kids' simple, if inebriated, celebrations. The city's rough edges weren't at all threatening. In fact, I found them refreshing. There weren't any serious attempts to circumvent reality and the glittering often shared scenery with the demure. Though purely conjecture, I'd like to think that this is due, in part, to a mutual understanding between classes. Ultimately, their goals aren't all that different. Although freedom hasn't brought a Mercedes to every driveway, destruction of the wall made everyone's lives more fruitful.

                Interesting  Timing

 Just before our arrival in Berlin, The Guardian, a UK newspaper, after receiving classified material from a intelligence whistle-blower (Snowden), revealed to the world that the U.S. government has been illegally collecting the private information of its citizens (in addition to others, inclucding the German government). Oh, the irony! The state funded Stasi museum was housed next door to our hotel. The collection of once classified GDR documents and archaic spy tools it housed made me laugh. What the Stasi wouldn't have given to have the U.S. government's current spy

Cheeky Berlin artists project their views onto the American Embassy

technology? They'd have been in authoritarian heaven. It seems that our nation is suffering from acute amnesia. I remember well the celebrations of freedom at 10 years old. Watching walls crumble as oppressive governments passed into history. These moments shaped my life and world view. Free thought, free speech, free assembly, free trade, and most importantly, free movement. The U.S. was helping to lead the way to a new level of international civil independence. Alas, my understanding has proven dated, if not outright misguided, and as I write this a wall is under construction along the southern border of the U.S. and the Government there continues tightening its grip on citizens' lives.

                                            Scattered Reminders of Oppressed Lives

There is much to see in Berlin, however, this is its best time machine.

 In addition to portions of the wall left along the river, and the admission-free Stasi Museum, there was also a terrific, semi permanent, exhibition close to the hotel which helps document past oppession. From the exterior, Die Mauer appears as a 40 foot tall cylinder in the heart of town. However, the interior uses a collection of old photographs and artistic renderings to recreate a full scale point perspective panorama of what it would have looked like at the location 25 years ago.
 

It has been said that "Those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it".  Fortunately, if somewhat perversely, wounds from the past are still fresh in Berlin and distrust of the powers that be are pervasive. It is no small coincidence that I felt more freedom here than anywhere in the United States.  My, how the tables have turned. We've grown so complacent, we've lost touch with our freedom. I reiterate the words of JFK spoken in support of those trapped on the wrong side of The Wall, almost exactly fifty years ago, "All free men, wherever they may live, are citizens of Berlin, and therefore, as a free man, I take pride in the words, 'Ich bin ein Berliner".
                                                            Ich bin ein Berliner !
                                               

Who's Watching You?