Author: Fuzzygalore

Rider, adventurer, traveler, weirdo, lover of love, and all around curious person. Trying to squeeze the fun-juice out of each and every day.
Be an Evangelist for the Church of the Motorcycle

Be an Evangelist for the Church of the Motorcycle

And on the seventh day he rested. The Lord spent the day with his feet up, belly full of pizza, alternating between catching the game and snoring himself awake. Arising on the 8th day, the Lord felt well-rested. Cracking his knuckles in a bridge then smoothing his beard, so sayeth the Lord, “Man, I think I’m gonna do som’m awesome, today. I’ve got to make good on that whole platypus thing.”

On the 8th day, the Lord created the motorcycle. And it was good.

All across the land from the 8th day to this day, the Sunday Ride evangelists went forth to spread the good word to the people.

And the evangelists say, “Hear me, dear friends. This is the motorcycle, the bringer of joy. Between these two wheels lies the Kingdom of Heaven and it can be yours. Hold tight to these bars and open your heart to the wind. Fly on the wings of angels.”

Spread the good word, my friends. Sow the seeds of happiness to those who have yet to discover this divine love in their hearts.

You Never See A Motorcycle Parked Outside of a Psychiatrist’s Office and Other Tall Tales

You Never See A Motorcycle Parked Outside of a Psychiatrist’s Office and Other Tall Tales

You’ve probably come across the popular adage, “you never see a motorcycle parked outside of a psychiatrist’s office.” Well, in my cases? Not so much.

It is true that motorcycling is like a form of therapy for many people. The nature of it forces you to be in the moment, which can be a relief for people who obsessively dwell on the past or feel anxious about the future. When you are only focused on now, your perspective shifts.

My struggles with mental health are something I choose not to be secretive about. For reasons unknown to me, it took me far too long to be willing to help myself. My hope is that someone out there who feels like they might need help too but are scared, embarrassed, or any of the millions of other feelings that keep us from being good to ourselves, sees that there is nothing wrong with getting help with your brain. Nothing.

When I first started working with my therapist, he zeroed in right away on the passion I feel for motorcycles and traveling. It is often used as a discussion tool for examining the positive aspects of my life and the attainment of goals. Though not a rider himself, he seems curious about it and what it does for me.

We have what I would call a good rapport. I feel very comfortable talking with him. He seems at ease with me, too. Though that’s his job, I guess. This is my first experience with talk therapy so I don’t really know, I’m just going with my gut.

Occasionally he will breezily offer some anecdote or detail about his own existence. It might be something innocuous such as a quip about a movie he likes that relates to what we’re discussing. Or, when talking about how my eyesight changed seemingly overnight, he mentioned he had a similar abrupt onset experience with Crohn’s disease.

My appointments are usually in the evenings. It isn’t uncommon for me to see my therapist who sits across from me, struggle to stifle a yawn or two behind a clenched fist covering his mouth. He excuses himself each time it happens.

Over time this yawn suppression has become rather funny to me. You know how screwed up a face looks when trying to stop a yawn. You’re not actually hiding it, you’re calling attention to the struggle to keep it from happening. Might as well let ‘er rip.

The fantasy that I’m putting this guy to sleep with my talking amuses me to no end. The story I write in my mind is one of a poor, tired therapist who had a long day of listening to crackpots on the couch talking about their anxieties. His inner monologue is filled with sarcasm, thoughts about stuff he needs to pickup at Target on the way home, and a lot of Jesus Christ, shut up, alreadies.

This week we shared a new experience. Forty five minutes into my session, my therapist gets an uncomfortable look on his face and stands up. He apologetically excuses himself and walks down the hall to the restroom. Apparently I’ve graduated from putting him to sleep to giving him diarrhea.

Now that, my friends is what you call progress!

Will Ride for Donuts

Will Ride for Donuts

My love of donuts is known far and wide amongst my friends. Perhaps you’ve even noticed the pink donut sticker on the BonBon.

I don’t know when the love affair began, really. But I do have many childhood memories of sitting at the counter on a swivel stool with my dad at our local Dunkin Donuts. Spin, spin, spin.

Nearly every time I pass Maple Donuts on Route 30 in York, Pa. I find my wheels turning in to the parking lot automatically. Perhaps donuts have a particularly strong gravitational pull. After all, some people believe Earth is shaped like a donut.

Sometimes I even bring some home to share. Topboxes are great for this.

Have you ever seen a more glorious mailbox than this sprinkley dough hoop? I’ll save you the trouble – you haven’t.

Donuts for dayyyyyys.

One for now, one for later. Even after being squished in a tankbag, the mighty donut delivers.

After pulling in to Huntington, West Virginia this October, I opened my hotel app and found a place to stay. For some, the view from my room window might seem a little lackluster. But to a donut lover? Well… you know.

My holy grail donut stop was definitely Randy’s Donuts in Inglewood, California. Deliciousness and roadside royalty wrapped up in one neat package.

What could possibly surpass the scrumdiddlyumptiousness of eating a donut in a filthy parking lot, under the watchful gaze of that giant rooftop beast? Nothin’, that’s what.


Water Rises to it’s Own Level

Water Rises to it’s Own Level

Water rises to it’s own level. I used to hear my dad say that. He felt that people gravitate to other people like themselves. Trouble finds trouble, kindness finds kindness. But is it true?

Being little more than a speck in sprawling universe of the internet makes it unlikely that we’d find each other. We’re each just one of gazillions of stars. How is it that we reduce such an immense population of internet users to find each other?

Even if you said that people who share common interests like motorcycling don’t have to look very hard. Is that true? I mean, click the hashtag motorcycles on Instagram. There are 100s of thousands of potential connections. What is it that makes another anonymous person catch your eye enough for you to follow them? And then once you do, do you often strike up a friendship or develop a deep interest in that person? For me, that would be an exception.

With blogging, you don’t really even have the same hashtag-ability to cluster everyone together. Blogs are a bit more passive with their reach. They often have to piggyback on your other social connections to get them in front of people. And yet, we find each other.

Given the instant gratification that something like Instagram can provide, why do some people want to take it further and keep a blog? And who are the people that are seeking something more than just a photo that read them?

Some blog authors become “friends” in my mind. The flow of their language, the depth of their introspection, their vulnerability, and their triumphs become something… personal? to me, too. I become invested in what they’re up to. In my mind some blog authors become perfect people and I admire them. I miss them when they go quiet or wonder about them at unusual times. For example, riding along I’ll see a scene and think – that looks like something X would photograph.

But, I suppose that is just an impression of what I think they’re like filtered through the prism of my own thoughts. But the fact that this person I’ve never met crosses my mind while I’m moving through the world says they are important to me.

How can you be friends with someone you’ve never met? But, it seems to happen.

So, You Come Here Often?

So, You Come Here Often?

Hello.

When you stop by for a read you learn something (or not) about me. But, how about the flip-side? I’d like to know a little something about you.

Even if you think that I already know or know that I already know about you, why don’t you leave a little hello or a note about yourself and a link to your blog, or Instagram, or whatever in a comment below? Maybe some of the other folks who come ’round would like to learn about you, too.

Thanks!

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