Remembering Brian Johnson

In Brian Johnson, the world lost a dear person on September 23, 2014. You can learn more about Brian, his mission, and his impact on the world at CF Riders

I was fortunate and honored to be asked by his wife Christie to deliver one of his eulogies.  Below is the text of that message. 

     I’ve been asked by Christie to come and talk to you people about Brian Johnson first and foremost and also about the disease, cystic fibrosis.  Let me give you a little bit of background as I tell you “my Brian story”.  My name is Scott Bumpus and I’m a Harley-Davidson dealer in Jackson Tennessee.  I am also a husband, and a father of three beautiful children.  My youngest child is Brandon, and he and my wife Angie are here in Birmingham with me today.  Brandon is 14 years old and, like Brian, he also has cystic fibrosis.  CF is not something they acquired, but rather, they were born with it.  A child has cf from the moment of conception, a chance meeting of two rogue mutant genes, one carried by the father, and one by the mother.  We knew there was a problem in Brandon the moment he was born.  Others, like Brian, are not diagnosed until later on.  I’ll talk more of cf later.   

     As I said, I am a Harley-Davidson dealer.  I make my living in a fun business.  I’m in the dream business.  The act of riding a motorcycle, especially a Harley-Davidson invokes feelings and images of freedom, of escape.  That’s why we ride them.  We are living life.  What I am not, is a doctor, or a scientist.  I’m just a dad.  When Brian was diagnosed, his parents, Ms. Mary and Mr. Paul, and by the way (my most deep condolences to you, from one CF parent to another).  Mary and Paul were faced with the prospect that their son probably would not live to graduate from High school.  At the time Brandon came along, we were faced with similar life expectancies in the early 20’s.  These are things that motivate parents, not to find cures, but to activism.  Doing the little things that we can do to fight the fight and lessen the suffering.  So now, besides being a parent/caregiver, I became a fighter in the struggle to raise money and I would do so through my business, and the motorcycling community.  And I’d like to add, this activism augmenting science has taken those mortality rates and shoved them higher and higher, to the point where now, we even have light at the end of the tunnel, as Brandon is currently taking a trial drug that could for all intents and purposes be the closest thing to a cure for CF that we’ll ever see.  Activism works.

     Anyway, several years ago, another cf parent in west Tennessee sent me a link to a website called CF Riders.  She told me that I might find this interesting in that it was run by a guy in his 30’s that not only was he into Harleys, but he also had CF.  That was interesting.  I lightly perused the sight, and before long, we had made contact via Facebook.  It was in the very early months of 2011 that I first talked to Brian on the phone.  He introduced himself and told me that he’d heard about a Tennessee Harley dealer that had a CF connection and that he’d like to set an appointment with me to discuss what he was calling his Nationwide Ride for Life.  Now, keep in mind, I had scanned over his website, but hadn’t delved too deeply into it.  I’d seen the link for the ride, but had assumed it was like the dozen or so cf poker runs that I’d done over the years.  We agreed to a meeting date and before you knew it, my wife and I sat in my office across the table from Brian and Christie Johnson, and a completely disinterested Hayden… I should say, disinterested in our conversations, but totally enamored with everything else around us.  We talked and talked for what must have been hours that day.  We talked about CF, we talked about the miracle that Hayden was in their lives.  We talked about CF riders.  Brian told me of his drive home from Atlanta one night.  He told me of his conversation with God, the challenge he received from God, that put up or shut up moment.  He told me of coming home, setting Christie down in the floor and telling her that God had given him a direction. He explained to her that God had told him the time had come for him to learn to ride a motorcycle, that God had told him he was to buy a motorcycle, and his mission would be to use that motorcycle as a conduit, to ride, to spread the message, to bring awareness to the disease and to help people who were fighting the fight.  Now, keep in mind, I’m listening to this.  Keep in mind, I sell Harley-Davidson motorcycles for a living.  I’m quite good at talking wives into nodding that head in the affirmative direction and finally agreeing to allow their husbands to buy that Harley, or at least to not kick him to the curb.  I thought to myself, this guy is either telling me the truth, or this is the finest job I’ve ever seen on selling the wife….  Well, it didn’t take knowing Brian Johnson long to know he was telling it as it was.  Now, I can try all I want to deliver that testimonial the way Brian could, and I’ll always come up short.  If you’ve never heard him tell it, I suggest you go check out that video on the CF Riders website.   

     

     Well, he’d done it.  He’d learned to ride and thanks to the good folks here at Heart of Dixie, he found the bike and started riding.  CF Riders was born.  He then started telling me about what this nationwide ride was all about.  It was not a poker run.  No, this was Brian Johnson channeling Forrest Gump.  This was Brian, fighting the good fight, and riding his Harley to all four corners of our nation.  He told me every detail that he had planned.  He would start in Birmingham, and head for Jackson TN, he then had a path that would drag him through Louisiana, Texas, the southwest, up through California and the west coast, across the Rockies, the northern plains, through the Midwest, the rustbelt, into new England, down the eastern corridor, Appalachia, back into our southland and culminating in a great homecoming in Valdosta.  Along the way were events, press conferences, public speaking dates, guest sermons…… 14,000 miles and he would do it in 10 weeks.  I repeat, 14,000 miles in 10 weeks.

     Now, there are two things that I felt I was good at.  One was road tripping on a motorcycle.  I have hundreds of thousands of miles of riding experience under my belt.  I’m here to tell you that the trip that Brian had planned was going to be grueling at best, and at worst, dangerous to the unseasoned rider, perhaps even deadly.  This was not going to be like a ride from Birmingham to Panama City, or even to Nashville.  This was a ride across the American west.  Deserts, mountains, frigid cold and scorching heat.  Weather that pops up out of nowhere, altitude and seemingly never-ending stretches of highway.  I’m also good at being a dad and caring for a kid with CF, and knowing what the regimen was, and what could be considered risky behavior.  I put my “dad hat” on and began to question Brian, “Are you sure this is a good idea?  This is a titanic order for a veteran rider who doesn’t have to think about breathing treatments, chest therapy, respiratory distress, and malabsorption.  Are you sure this is what you want to do?”  Brian’s answer?  He’d never been more sure in his life, in fact, it wasn’t even a choice, it was his calling.  Well, if Brian was in, I was too.   

     

     On April 15 of 2011, Brian launched out of Birmingham on the Nationwide ride for life, spreading the news that CF was real and big, but those who suffered from it were bigger, and God even bigger than that.  Brandon and I also hopped on our bike and spent 4 precious days on the road with Brian.  It was a life changing event for all of us. Four of the best days of my life, memories of riding with my son, and with my friend, and his family and our merry band, doing God’s work.

     Now, Brian did not achieve what he’d set out to do.  He made it deep into the northwest before his health caught up to him and he had to be hustled back to Birmingham and checked into UAB.  He was worried that he’d failed, but the truth was far from that.  He’d made it far enough.  He’d proven himself faithful, and he’d proven that CFRiders was real, a force to be reckoned with.  Though it didn’t have the outcome he’d originally sought, his trip was perfect. CF Riders was not on the same mission of the CF Foundation.  The foundation has but one goal, find a cure.  Period.  Brian’s vision for CFRiders was not about cures, but about care.  Helping those in need.  You’ve heard it out of Brian’s mouth.  CFRiders was to be there for the mother who was having to choose between buying food, or buying medicine.  CF Riders was there for the family little Dalton Wallace.  When Dalton finally succumbed to the disease at the obscene age of 11, CFRiders and Brian Johnson was there, to not only stand at the podium to give comfort to a grieving family, but to also hand over a sizable amount of the money it was going to take to bury him. (See Doing Something For Dalton )

     CF Riders would be a source of scholarship money for people with CF to learn a trade, or go to school, or receive assistance in job placement in a world that might not be too kind to someone with a chronic illness.  CF Riders was about others. 

     

     I witnessed something else happening on that ride, in just those few days Brandon and I were with him.  Part of CF, is what is known as pancreatic insufficiency.  You see, CF creates a thick, sticky slime that clogs the respiratory organs, the reproductive system, and the digestive tract.  When the pancreas is clogged, the necessary enzymes for digestion can’t make it to the stomach.  In order to absorb food, CF’rs must take supplemental enzymes when they eat, at least they are supposed to, every time.  We were out to eat in Memphis on our first night of the trip.  We’d met up with Briana Caldwell, a young lady with CF in her 20’s and were all enjoying each others company, talking about CFRiders and  Brian’s vision, and the days of traveling to come.  

Brandon pulled his little bottle of enzymes from his pocket and took his 4 or 5 pills, prior to eating.  Brian watched him, and said something to me to the tune of, “Uh oh, I’d better go and take mine”, or something like that.  Brandon and I had our bike loaded down, not only with our clothes and riding gear, but also an air compressor for breathing treatments, a medicine bag packed with pills, antibiotics, anti inflamitories, steroids, antihistamines, antacids, and vitamins, tools for loosening the crap that builds up in the lungs, and all other implements of destruction.  We’d do his treatments early in the morning before we left, and late at night before bed.  On the last evening before Brandon and I departed the group, the two of us and Brian sat in my hotel room, offering toasts to each other, and frankly dreading the next day when we had to part company.  Brian talked with Brandon as he blew into his flutter.  Brian told us that having Brandon on the trip made him far more cognizant of keeping up his own treatment regimen.  He said that talking the talk was not enough, he also had to walk the walk.  If he was going to talk of CF and its effects on the body, he’d well better be sure he was leading by example.  He knew people would be looking to him.  He was a leader and if he was to inspire others, he had to do it by example.  He couldn’t let Brandon and other youngsters with CF see him not doing the right thing.  He thanked Brandon that night. 

     That’s the thing about Brian Johnson.  Nothing was ever about him.  It was always about others, and most importantly, about Him.  Brian never sought credit.  The welfare of others was always first and foremost in his heart.

      Like all of you, I’ve quietly monitored Brian and Christie’s journey as lung transplant became an option, and eventually, the only option.  That sticky mess that causes inflammation of the lungs is the choice weapon of CF.  Once lung tissue is damaged, it can never be repaired.  Brian’s lung functions continued to dip, finally down to where his system was functioning at less than 20% of that of a normal adult.  If you’re trying to imagine what that would be like, just stop.  You can’t, nor can I.  Unless you’ve been the victim of a near drowning, you can’t know.  As we all know, Brian was hospitalized for the final time on July the 4^th.  He fought and fought and fought to get himself to the level of health to where transplant could be a viable option. 

     This past Monday morning, I dropped Brandon at school and left west Tennessee for Birmingham.  I walked into Brian’s room, all quiet but the soft sounds of his vent, the occasional beep of a monitor, and sports center playing on the TV.  His eyes were closed.  I embraced Christie and asked her if he could hear me.  She said yes, and I turned to my friend and said, “Hey buddy”.  Brian opened his eyes, still crystal, beautiful blue, and sharp.  He said he was glad to see me, and then said, “Don’t let Brandon end up like this.  Don’t let it get this far”.  Here is this warrior.  I’ll say it again, Warrior. The strongest man I’ve ever met, tougher than nails, grappling in a death match with the monster, and pinned to his back…..  And what does he do?  Does he complain?  Is there any sign of woe is me?  No.  Not even. His thoughts are with Brandon, and all of the others he has been fighting for.  

     That afternoon with Brian was precious.  That night, Brian decided that he’d done all he could do.  He was ready for what was next.  I returned to see him Tuesday morning.  We again talked.  We reminisced about the ride.  We talked of those days being among the best of our lives.  I told Brian how he’d changed me.  Brian stared death down.  Brian was not afraid to die, he had no need to be afraid.  Brian’s only fear was that he had to leave behind the two most important people in the world, and that someone might think he had given up. 

     Given up?  Are you kidding me?  Given up?  No, sir.  Brian Johnson never gave up on anything.  As I’d said, he didn’t give up on his trip when it finally came to a halt up in the northwest.  He’d traveled as far on that bike as his body would allow.  And Brian did not give up on this life.  He did not give up on you or me.  He did not give up on his loving wife, nor his beautiful child.  He just traveled as far as his body would allow.  You see, the real Brian Johnson did not have cystic fibrosis.  His body did.   

     A beautiful rose living in a broken vase.

      It lived in his cellular structure, in his DNA, not in his soul.  CF didn’t beat him.  It did not beat him back in 2010, when he and God pulled a fast one on the monster, shifted gears, changed direction, and he headed down the CF Riders path, with me and a lot of us here in tow.  And it damn sure didn’t beat him this past Tuesday afternoon.  Once again, Brian called the shots.  Brian was in charge, and Brian proved that he was bigger than the disease.  In May of 2011, Brian climbed off the bike, conceded that his body was broken and took his fight to another arena.  He did the same thing on Tuesday September 23^rd of 2014.  He again, conceded his broken body and took his fight to another arena. 

     You see, Brian knew something that CF didn’t know.  And though his body is no more, Brian Johnson is alive.  Alive and well.  There are no vents, no needles and tubes.  No pills and treatments.  The air is clean and his breathing is easy.  The wind is at his back, the skies are fair, and the roads are smooth.  Happiness abounds. 

     When it came time for me to leave, I kissed my friend on the forehead and told him goodbye.  He thanked me for everything I had done.  Once again, are you kidding me?  No sir, thank you.  As a left, I looked at him and he said, we’ll ride again.

     Indeed we will, my brother.

     Remember this:
1.  Listen and obey His voice when He tells you to do something. 
2. Walk the walk, for you never know who’s watching.   
3. Put others before yourself. 

And

4. Don’t wait till it’s too late.   

Do these things and you’ll have taken a small step towards being more like Brian Johnson and God knows, we need all the Brian Johnson like people in this world that we can get.  

     Christie, you were his rock.  You loved him deeply and he never spoke of anything with more passion than he did when talking about you and Hayden.  And Hayden, you sweet little miracle child.  We all love you more than you may ever know.  It is the job of all of us here to stand in the gap for these two, and stand in that gap we shall.

 

     Always remember Brian K Johnson, and always Dream Big, Ride Free, and Breathe Easy

Ride Safe and with Purpose

A 20 Year Journey, The Final Chapter

For reference, please read A 20 Year Journey, Part 1

June 16,  2014
          After breakfast with Angie, Blake and I were on the road by 9am.  412 to Dyersburg.  Saw a bald eagle between Dburg and the river.  Rode to Sikeston and 60 across MO.  Hot and windy.  Blake is getting used to his Limited and riding on my schedule!  His ass isn't as tough as it used to be!  Road lunch in Mt View, MO.  Bologna and hot sauce.  I love road lunch.  The only way to go.  Getting GoPro dialed in.  Tried to make it to Pittsburg Kansas but closed roads and fatigue had their way with us.  Made it to Joplin MO.  Still lots of tornado damage.  Rode Rt 66 for a while.  Still want to ride the whole thing.  Steaks and whiskey for Blake's birthday.  Big tornadoes in Nebraska today.  We'll stay south.  Total day=494 miles.

     Blake Stabenow, Eric Jones and I were the best of friends in college.  We were brothers, riders, playmates.  We ran together, played together, talked together, traveled together, dreamed together.  After Eric's death and graduation, Blake and I went our separate ways.  I went on to marriage, the family motorcycle business and fatherhood and Blake on to his successful career in commercial construction in New Orleans eventually marrying and becoming a father himself.  We would still talk on the phone from time to time and enjoy an occasional dinner and drinks whenever Angie and I would travel to NOLA.  Other than a small refugee stint Blake pulled at my house after hurricane Katrina, we really haven't been able to spend that much time together.  But then, a few weeks ago, after reading the above linked blog, Blake called me.  He'd been up to Redfield many years back, but wanted to go again.  I'd planned for this journey to be a solo trip, but Blake would be a natural addition and I was excited to have him along.

June 17, 2014
          I just thought yesterday was hot and windy.....  Perfect morning.  On the road at 7:30.  We got to Fort Scott and turned west.  That's where the wind kicked in.  Blew like hell.  The sun is really baking the hell out of us too.  Kansas is a lot bigger than it looks on the map.  Went to the Harley Store in Junction City for Blake to get gloves.  His hands look like lobsters.  We turned west on 24 at Ft Riley Kansas.  Crossing the lake, the wind nearly blew us off the road.  West=suck.  North=Good!  Once on 24, the temp started to climb.  That little piece of shade I was looking for to have road lunch was elusive.  Had big plans early today to make North Platte.  Nope.  Made it to Kearney Neb.  Pop and I stayed here on our 1990 trip.  Whiskey in the pool and more great conversation with Blake.  We truly "embraced the suck" today!  Good Mexican food at the Irish-Mexican joint next door...  Total miles today= 575  1069 total trip.

     As I've said before, this trip has been on my radar for years.  I had no idea what I wanted to do, yet I knew exactly how I wanted to do it.  I wanted to be fluid.  I didn't want stringent plans and GPS processed routes.  I didn't want to have hotel reservations made in advance (though my sweet wife was a godsend back in civilization for handling my travel agent legwork once I knew where we'd end up).  I wanted to ride, and reflect, and think.  Blake was turning out to be a great travel companion.  Road trips are complex things and can be stressful, but Blake was so agreeable to all of my "lack of plans".  We talked and talked.  Mostly about Eric.  And about our lives when he was still here.  We talked about what we'd missed over the years without him.  We talked about how much he'd have loved to sit there and be bullshitting right along with us.  The next morning, before departure, I stuck Jones's pic in my windshield. 

June 18, 2014
          Out of Kearney at 7am.  Nebraska is so much better than Kansas.  Up through the Sand Hills.  I do not know where all the coal trains are coming from but the coal business must be good!  Made great time.  Decided to skip Wyoming today and go to Deadwood.  Rode Needles Highway.  Road lunch at Sylvan.  Left a couple of pictures of Jones along the way.  

Stayed at the Hickok Hotel.  Steaks and conversation with Blake were great.  Made a few bucks off of Kevin Costner at his casino...  Miles today=502, total=1572

     I'd brought along about a dozen pictures of Eric.  When I printed them, I had no idea what I wanted to do with them, but on this third day, it became obvious.  I planted the first one up on the Needles, and the second by the beautiful lake Sylvan.  The trip was starting to take shape.  Meanings were coming out of the fog.


 June 19, 2014
          Last nights Jack Daniel's left my brain cloudy this morning, so an early start was not to be.  Got off slow out of Deadwood and on the road at 10:30 after breakfast at the Bullock Hotel.  Rode Spearfish Canyon.  That has to be one of the most beautiful rides I've ever taken.  Got to bring Angie here.  Quite cold.  In the low 60's.  Almost got run over by a cowboy and his trailer in Belle Fourche.  I was better than he, though.  Up 212 into Montana for pictures and then south towards Devil's Tower.  

Wyoming is spectacular.  Typical western road construction.  They just tear the road up and put you in the dirt.  It was really bad coming back through Custer though.  Muddy switchbacks and crazed dumptrucks.  In for the night at the Adoba "Eco" Hotel in Rapid City.  I don't know what that means either but they have good laundry machines and bison oso buco.... Left some pictures of Jones in some great places today....  Badlands tomorrow!!!  Odometer=294, total =1864.

     At this point of the trip, it seems that we'd been on the road for months.  Not that I was tiring of it, hell no, but it was almost like I could hardly remember us not being out there.  I don't know how someone can own a motorcycle and not ride it in the western United States.  WHY would someone have one and not ride it in the western US?  Blake and I hadn't missed a beat.  We were now older and wiser, but at heart, we were still the same 20 year old kids that we'd once been.  We laughed at the same things, tried to remember old times and made up fabulous fabrications when gaps found their way into our recollections.  We cut up and laughed and opened our mouths and souls and let the last 20 years of long distance camaraderie find their way out and into the open air of the Black Hills and Great Plains.  In the coming days, we'd need that wisdom and insight into the world that those two 20 year olds couldn't have mustered.


June 20, 2014
          Today might be my favorite day so far.  The Badlands were simply spectacular.  Rode up from Interior.  Got some really good stuff on the GoPro.  Took a hike up on one of the mesas and left Jones in a perfect spot overlooking the kind of canyon that he'd spend hours in.  (Jones's Canyon)   I'd sure like to think that the pictures I'm leaving will last.  Got some rear facing shots of Blake with the suction cup mount.  BUT, while riding with the camera mounted on the fairing, it flew off!!  Running!!!  The footage was awesome though.... (Suction Cup Failure...)  Couldn't have scripted it better!  Out of the Badlands and into Wall.  Wall sucks.  Tourist hell.  Good Buffalo burger and a cold beer at the Red Rock.  Rode up north through the Cheyenne River Reservation.....

     Websters defines the word "epiphany" as: a moment in which you suddenly see or understand something in a new or very clear way.  I don't know what the catalyst was, but there on that highway through the land of the Oglala........ mine arrived.  That night, in my little Gettysburg SD motel room, I would continue to write...

.....Spent the better part of the last of today's leg thinking on Eric and the real reasons for this ride.  When I left home, I really had little idea of what I was going to do with it.  I've started to get it though.  My conversations with Blake have revealed to me that he too has very little recollection of Eric's funeral.  We were so young and so ill prepared to deal with what was going on around us.  It all happened so fast.  He was there and then he was gone.  Just like that.  Eric died.  I hate that.  I'm pissed about it.  Parents should never have to bury their children, but also, children should never have to bury their playmates.  Though our birth dates made us adults, the truth is, We were CHILDREN!!

I hate that he died.  I hate that his parents lost their son and his siblings lost their brother.  I hate that he never got to meet my children.  I hate that he never knew Angie.  I hate that I was never able to meet the beautiful girl that would've become his wife, nor his sweet children.  I hate that I never got to witness his surely remarkable career unfold and regale in his stories of being a Marine Pilot.  And what a Marine he'd have turned out to be...  I hate that we missed all of these trips.  I hate all of it and I've realized that hate is all I've had for 20 years.  I never got to say goodbye and experience the closure that a funeral is supposed to bring.  I couldn't.  I was there, but only in body.  

So here is this ride.  My LIFE CELEBRATION for Eric Jones.  An 8 day funeral and wake.  I've drug that kid all over the country and delivered eulogy after eulogy all over God's creation.  I've no ashes to spread, as they were placed in that Redfield SD grave, but I've spread his life, memory and photo likeness....  Tomorrow, we go to Redfield.  Tomorrow, Blake and I will bury the dead Eric Jones.  I'm leaving the dead one there.  I'm leaving the darkness there.  I'm leaving the visions of March 3 there.  I'm leaving all that hate there too.

I'm thankful for this level of clarity, as I didn't know what in the hell I was going to do when I got there.  I feel better.  It's amazing what a 10 mile cry can do...  Odometer=331, total=2195.

     Sleep that night would be sparse, at best.

June 21, 2014
          The wind is howling outside as a storm is starting to roll in.  The bikes are secure, however, and we are safely out of the weather an one of my favorite places on Earth for the healing of the mind and soul.  I'm in the Greatroom of the Southfork Lodge in Dallas, SD.  I'm so thankful for my friendship with Tommy Walsh and Rick Lutt and I'm grateful for them allowing us to stay here tonight.  It's quite different today than during the pheasant season!

Well.... We made it to Redfield today at about 10am and spent a few hours at the grave of our old and greatest pal.  Spent a lot of time talking to Blake about the same thoughts I'd written on previous pages last night.  The day was more beneficial than I could've planned for in my wildest dreams.  Unbeknownst to me really, Blake was dealing with the same demons as I.  He too had made the Redfield trek in years past but, like me, it hadn't changed a thing for him.  As I'd said, we were both too young and didn't deal with it.  Eric died while we were in school, in the house I was calling 'home'.  It happened, and the multitude of families swooped in, planned and executed a funeral, packed him and his things and they were off.  We were left there with nothing.  We'd spent the last 20 years as characters in God's tragic Theater of the Absurd-The Death of a Child....  And we didn't even know it.  

But now, it is done.  The 20 year old funeral for our old dear friend is done.  I finally buried Eric Jones today.  With him, I buried the legacy of sorrow and death.  Of sadness, anger, tragedy, and hatred.  All that remains is life and smiles.

Tomorrow, we ride hard... Southward, hoping to get deep into and perhaps even out of Kansas.

But tonight, we shall drink and laugh, and remember our friend.

Odometer= 287
Total=2483

     Eric's parents were native South Dakotan's that found themselves living on opposite ends of the country at the time of his passing.  They laid his remains to rest in a cemetery in their hometown, surrounded by family.  I find it amusing and not ironic that Eric is in the farthest plot in the farthest northwest corner of the cemetery.  Off to himself one last time.  Blake and I came.  We cried, and walked, and laughed, and drank, and reminisced, and held each other.  I sang, played guitar, yelled, and rested.  We left a picture of a young man in his prime, a copy of an unrealized 5-Year Plan, pierced and held to the ground by a small USMC flag.

     And when I left, I left with plans to never return.  If I feel the need to 'visit' Eric again, I'll visit him in all those other places I left him.... The Black Hills, Devil's Tower, The Badlands, Frank Day's, and the 3,576 miles of highway across this beautiful country where he now rests.  It's where he'd rather me meet him anyway.

     Thank you Angie Bumpus for the understanding and support you showed by letting me jet out into the unknown with very little regard to your worries.  Thank you Blake Stabenow for being with me, and for Lacy Stabenow for making sure you were aware of my plans.

     Healing is sweet.  Release is sweet.  It didn't require anything but time.  My therapist was a blacktop highway and a machine.  My doctors office was the great expanse of our beautiful nation.

     I love you, Eric Scott Jones.  This was the trip we didn't get to take.  It was a celebration of you and "us" and all things that we loved.  Rest in Peace, my brother.  I'll see you again.

1971-1994

Ride Safe, and With Purpose.

SMB

The Ride and The Gift

I've been spending the last day or so in preparation for my upcoming road trip.  I'm doing my best to not "over-plan" as far as my route goes, as I want to remain as fluid as possible, only planning basic directions and rough areas I intend to be in on a given day.  I am securing all of the "things" I'll want to have with me.  Riding gear, Go-Pro Camera (this will be a new one for me, hopefully letting me capture some great images), guitar (of course), cooler and cutting board (road meals are the best meals), journal, Mad-Maps, etc.

As I plan, I can't help bet let my mind hearken back to my first real distance road trip.  24 years ago this month, my Dad rewarded me with the best High School gift a kid could ever receive, a bike trip out west with his Dad.  I'd been riding a couple years and had cut my road trip teeth on a Springfield Mile trip the autumn before on an old 4-speed, chain drive, '87 model 1100cc Sportster.  This time, I'd be getting my first big bike distance experience.  My ride would be on an '88 model FLHS Electra Glide Sport, the predecessor to the Road King.  The trip was epic, 16 states, mountains, plains, deserts....  More memories than I can count.

That trip also instilled something else in me.  The value of the written record.  I saw him doing it, but it would be years before its importance would really effect me.  My Dad kept a journal of that trip.

Nothing fancy, just a small spiral notebook of words describing things he wanted me to remember written with my Father's beautiful calligraphy-like handwriting, a style like no other I've ever seen.  He'd done this on his trip with my brother Dan back in '84 on what would have been, unbeknownst to us, Dan's last bike trip out west.  I remember the two of them reading it in later years, recalling the experiences they shared.  These moments of having the power to travel through time and reminisce.....those are what make me write.  This blog is just a little part of that, but my dogeared  journal holds mountains of past experiences, roads long since traveled, smiles and tears, and moments that I can revisit anytime I wish. And thank you Jeremy and Josh McCormick for the beautiful journal you gave me.

Basic words, capturing images of many years ago, making them come alive to me once again.  Precious few pages, with a wealth of memories.  While they may come off as a "you had to be there to know what I'm talking about", I hope you are able to see an 18 year old boy about to move away from home.  I hope you can see his dad, wondering if he's truly ready for a ride as grueling as what the American West has to offer.  I hope you can see the anticipation, wonder, and fear in both of their eyes.  I hope you can choke on the dust, and swelter in the heat.  I hope you can see the lines in the skin of wind dried and sun baked faces.   I hope you can feel the love and witness the majesty.  I hope you enjoy.

Wed June 20, 1990
     Left Memphis at 6:10 am, mileage 00030.  North to Chicago.  Rain from Cairo.  Arrived 5:00 pm.  530 miles.  Dinner with Dennis, Linda, Katie, and Scott's friend Matt.

Thurs June 21, 1990
Odometer 00560-860=300
     Got check-up on the bike.  Rode route 80.  Rain drove us in at Grinnell, Iowa.  We'll leave early in the morning.

     PS.... Don't eat the turkey at the Country Inn.

Friday June 22, 1990
Odometer 860-1269=409
     Left in rain at 8:00am, over within 60 miles but cold.  Visited SAC Museum at Omaha and my old base at Lincoln.  The base, and I, have both changed drastically.  So much for nostalgia.  We had a good time.  Spent the night at Kearney, Budget Inn.  Pizza in the room.  Tomorrow the Sand Hills and Rapid City.

Saturday June 23
Odometer 1269-1696=427
     Slept late 8:00am, beautiful day.  Up through the Sand Hills, to Valentine, Neb.  When we crossed into S Dakota, suddenly the radio had only Indian music.  Very eerie.  Only, the chanting was "Happy Birthday".  These are the people who killed Custer?  West toward Wounded Knee, ran into 14 miles of dirt and gravel.  Scott rode great.  Then through The Badlands.  Found Rattler in the middle of the road.  We each left the other alone.  Stopped for the night in Rapid City.  Holiday Inn.  Nice.

Sunday June 24th
Odometer 1696-1893=197
     Rode to Mt Rushmore, Crazy Horse, Sylvan, & now everything has happened, hail as big as marbles.  Didn't last long luckily.  Visited Deadwood, Ft Meade, Sturgis, Belle Fourche.  Motel full, stayed at Myers Motel.  Not good, but dry.

Monday June 25th
Odometer 1893-2375=482
     On the road at 7:00am, had breakfast at Broadus, Montana.  Their menu said lunch would be Chicken Gorilla. Fortunately we won't be staying.  Rode through Cheyenne and Crow Reservations en route to Custer Battlefield.  Scott rides better each day.
      Strange, when we arrived at Battlefield, there was no charge.  Then I realized it was the anniversary of the Battle.  Something brought us here on this day, we had no plan.  Strange!
     Later we rode south to Douglas, Wyo. for the night.  Long ride very windy.  Scott did fine.

Tuesday June 26th
Odometer 2375-2779=405
     Rode to Ft Laramie.  Beautiful old restored Fort.  Bought gifts for Lee.  Planned to ride to Alamosa Colo for the night but wind and Denver traffic and finally rain forced us in at Pueblo.  We donned our rain gear 10 miles from Pueblo but successfully avoided the storm.  Our luck holding, we were wet down by the sprinkler system as we were getting off the expressway.

 Wed June 27th
Odometer 2779-3379=600
     Out early with ambitious plans to ride to Monument Valley.  Over the mountains to Alamosa was beautiful.  Visited the Harley shop there.  Disappointment!  No wonder we sell bikes.  Took pictures at Continental Divide, through Durango, out on the desert.  Hottest day in history.  121 in Phoenix.  More at Monument Valley.  We rode through small "dust devil" sand storm.  Hot, had to turn back at Kayenta.  Rode through "Many Farms".  Beautiful ride.  At Chinle, we rode into a huge dust storm.  We put handkerchiefs over our noses and kept riding.  Sheep were in the street, in the middle of town.  We rode through them trying to get out of the "Dust Devil"/  My hat was ripped from my head and blown away. I mean AWAY!  When we were clear you could look back and see the entire storm.  Camera wouldn't work.  Awesome sight.  Arrived Gallup at 10:00pm, dirty, tired, pizza in the room.  No beer.  Oh yes, we visited 4 Corners and bought gifts.

Thurs June 28th
Odometer 3379-3903=524
     We're in the home stretch to get back by Sat.  Left Gallup around 8:00am, Hot.  We can only go 50 or 60 miles without stopping.  We're using more Gatorade than gas.  We wet down our shirts, packed ice in our pockets, and made it to Shamrock Tex.  Windy difficult ride.  Dangerously hot, Scott handled it well.

Friday June 29th
Odometer 3903-
     On the road at 7:30am, nice morning, much cooler.  Breakfast at Cherokee Trading Post.  I was as much Cherokee as anyone else.  Arrived Okeemah at 1:00pm.  Marie drove us to Grandpa Renfro's grave.  It is at Okfuskee in a free Cemetery given to the community by Marie's father, Bud Collins.  It is on the corner of the property where Marie was raised.  Interesting to hear her talk of him.  We only know him by the stories.  It made me feel closer.  He chewed "tobacky" as he called it, and smoked a pipe.  He was in good health until 2 years before he died.  He had "Dropsy".  
     Stayed in Russelville Ark for the night.  Our last night.  It has been a good trip.  I enjoyed his company.
     It started as a gift to him, but instead turned into a gift for me.

     Thanks!

     Dad

Pop, the trip might've turned into a gift for you, but your short notes that you took the time to lay on an empty page and then give to me years later..... well, I think the gift has become mine again.

Memories die in your brain.  Put them on paper and they'll live. 

The road truly will go on forever.

Ride Safe and with Purpose.

SMB

He Was a Trooper.... In So Many Ways

  
This is my cousin Jackie Lynn Miller and I, the right photograph taken just about a year ago. Jackie was an Army man, Troop A, 9th Regiment, 1st Cavalry Division. Between 1969 and 1975, Jackie participated in over 200 missions in Vietnam and Cambodia. He was the recipient of two Purple Hearts, three Bronze Stars, eight Air Medals, three Army Commendation Medals, Vietnam Service Medal, Vietnam Campaign Medal, US Defense Medal, and Combat Infantry Badge. 

Jackie came home to a job with International Harvester and a country largely indifferent to his service. He also brought back a body that had been liberally sprayed time after time with Agent Orange. It took a long time for the US Government and the VA to recognize that fact, far longer than it took the cancer to take its hold. 

Jackie spent his recent days in his quiet den on my Aunts place along side Horseshoe Lake in Olive Branch Illinois with his television, his DVD's, his "Big Dog" and his memories. He also carried that wound that didn't heal. Jackie's fight and the war ended late Saturday night, surrounded by his loving family. 

I'll be making my way up to Tamms, IL to accompany my mother to Jackie's funeral.  He will be interred with full military honors alongside his father Jack at the Mound City National Cemetery. 

Remember my cousin Jackie Miller and the sacrifices he made. Remember my Aunt Lucille as she begins this new chapter of life without her son. Remember his sons, Billy and Richie.  Remember our veterans who never came home, and remember the ones who did, but left so much over there.

Learn more about the effects of Agent Orange at 
Project Agent Orange
Aspen Institute Agent Orange in Vietnam Program
http://www.vietnow.com/agent-orange-veterans-health-issues/

Learn more about the effects of PTSD at  
Effects of PTSD on Vietnam Veterans
National Institutes of Health Study of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

If you know a Vietnam Veteran who needs help, please learn more at
VA Benefits available for Vietnam Veterans

Halfway down the trail to Hell,

In a shady meadow green

Are the Souls of all dead troopers camped,

Near a good old-time canteen.

And this eternal resting place

Is known as Fiddlers' Green.

Marching past, straight through to Hell

The Infantry are seen.

Accompanied by the Engineers,

Artillery and Marines,

For none but the shades of Cavalrymen

Dismount at Fiddlers' Green.

Though some go curving down the trail

To seek a warmer scene.

No trooper ever gets to Hell

Ere he's emptied his canteen.

And so rides back to drink again

With friends at Fiddlers' Green.

And so when man and horse go down

Beneath a saber keen,

Or in a roaring charge of fierce melee

You stop a bullet clean,

And the hostiles come to get your scalp,

Just empty your canteen,

And put your pistol to your head

And go to Fiddlers' Green.

 

Ride Safe and With Purpose....

SMB