A 20 Year Journey, Part 1.

It’s cold and dreary.  Winter storm warnings bear down on us and own the news.  It’s wearing me out, this winter is.  I miss green.  I miss my motorcycle.  I miss the road.  But that’s not all that’s on my mind, not by a long shot.

I’ve mentioned “another blog for another day”.  Maybe today is that day.  Maybe it’s time.  Maybe it isn’t.  

I love the emergence of spring.  The first warm breezes, the feeling of the sun against my skin.  The problem is, with the onset of spring also comes March the 3^rd.  I’ve been trying to outrun it for 20 years but to no avail.  It always seems to catch me.  I hate March the 3^rd.  My life crashed down on my head on March 3^rd.  I think I’ve been trying to deal with it for the last 20 years, but if I’m truly honest with myself, I don’t think I’ve even begun.  Maybe I’ll start. 

It’s been said that in one’s lifetime, we will all have that one great friend who will stand above all others.  God, I hope that’s not the case, because if it is, mine has come and gone.  I had Eric Jones in my life for 4 short years, but they encompassed more time than I can fathom.  A lifetime of memories, experiences, laughs, tears, dreams, miles….  Eric Jones was my playmate, my confidant, my brother, my comrade, my wingman, my council, and the best friend I’ve ever had.  He was my barometer, my compass, and my motivator.  We shared the same backgrounds and interests.  We loved the same things.  We envisioned each other’s futures and couldn’t wait to see wait lay in store for the other.

It all ended on March 3^rd, 1994 when I, his family, our friends and the rest of the world lost Eric Jones.

I hate you, March 3^rd and I’m sick of being owned by you.  It stops with this anniversary, this 20^th anniversary.  No more death, only life from here on out.  Memories of good times and good things.  Memories of great roads and blazing chili.  Memories of Moosehead Beer and cheap cigars.  Prime Rib and 1979 Sportsters.  Crew cuts, Marine ditties, late night dad stories, “Presidential” Halloween rides, and the big blue party bus.  You were always there whenever I needed you.  Roadie, actor, mechanic, driver, set of ears, proofreader, go between, stand in, editor, you name it. 

I see you in every Marine.  I see you every time I ride Hwy 127.  I see you in bonfires and contrails.  You’re always smiling.  And you’re always young.  You’ll always be young.  That’s your final joke on me, and a good one too, asshole.

It’s time to start dealing with it.  I’ve got plans on how to go about doing that very thing.  Join me on this journey, if you wish.  This is Part 1.  I’ll come back to it soon enough.  In the meantime, there’s a big Harley that’s waiting to be packed up and pointed towards Redfield, South Dakota.

I’ll talk to all of you soon, in the meantime, love your friends.  They won’t always be there.

Eric Scott Jones

October 28, 1971-March 3, 1994

Remember him.

Ride Safe, and with Purpose.

SMB