Mountain bikers

 As a young boy growing up in upstate New York, I dreamed of someday riding in competition alongside older kids as they raced down mountain paths where one mistake could send you flying off the edge. Like most sports, mountain biking took a lot of practice and just as many spills to conquer the rough terrain around every curve. The danger was real, and the adrenaline was always present as we challenged every foot of the way, pushing to the finish line and victory.

Most of my friends were about my age, and we all had bikes designed to teach us the skills we'd need to ride with the big boys. Our course was much shorter and had very few dangers, but it was still challenging for beginners. We spent most of our summer vacation on the course, learning from our mistakes and earning scars to prove it. I think the worst thing that happened early on was that Billy lost control when his front tire blew, throwing him into a patch of poison ivy. It seemed like a lifetime, but we managed to master the course and believed we were ready to challenge the older kids. We all had new, mountain-ready bikes with knobby tires and front suspension to absorb the bumps. They were our mighty steeds, and we were ready to ride them to victory.
On the day of the race, people lined the course, mostly family and friends, and even a news crew was on hand to capture the madness for the six o'clock news. After all, it was quite the event for our small town. The older kids taunted us, saying things like You're about to see what winners are made of, and you ain't them. They also made other remarks meant to make us uneasy. But little did they know we were more than ready; all our practice on the smaller course prepped us for victory, and we wanted it badly. Twenty bikes were registered and numbered, and mine was the lucky seven. Then, when everybody was in the starting position, the signal gun was fired, and forty wheels took off. As the race wore on and a biker or two dropped out because of mechanical issues, the field shrank, and others seemed sure they would win.
The hills were brutal, making my legs throb and my breathing hard, unlike the smaller course. But one by one, I passed another bike, with the rider pumping faster as I left him behind in my pursuit of winning the race. The crowd cheered as I fought the steep hills, never losing my stride, flying past every biker except last year's winner, who just happened to be my older brother. He had maybe fifteen feet on me as he struggled to widen the gap, but my determination and desire to beat him far outweighed the pain in my legs as I gained on him and finished first. I went to shake his hand for a race well done, but he just sneered something and walked away—sore loser. The following year we raced again, and my brother won that one while I placed third. We became much closer and eventually taught each other things to improve our races.
I go home as often as possible, but I try to go on race day, when my brother and I cheer from the side of the racecourse as kids who looked so young tackled the hills and the rough terrain just as we did a long time ago. Our old bikes sat in the garage, and on the morning we headed home, we'd dust them off, oil the chains, and pump up the tires for a two-person race on the hills we were born to conquer. True, we didn't give it our all for fear our hearts would burst, or we'd pump our legs too hard and never walk again—just a half-speed competition with no winner, just a bond between two brothers and a love for mountain bikes.  

Mike 2926                                                        

Mike 2026

Chivalry isn't dead

 He was a dapper-looking gentleman with shiny shoes and a fedora hat worn close to the brow at a slight angle. His pocket kerchief matched his tie, one of several sets he owned. He wore a double-breasted navy blue suit, trousers cuffed to touch the top of his shoes, and a Hart-Schnafer and Marks topcoat as the cold winds blew on this otherwise perfect day to be alive. He walked the way he was taught: shoulders back and eyes ahead, scanning the city streets for damsels in distress who might need his assistance. Mind you, he was in no way a pervert, just a gentleman wanting to let people know chivalry was in no way dead. He spotted a young woman nearing her due date, holding on for dear life as strangers' hands brushed against her in a way she tried to block out. He immediately stood and motioned for her to take his seat, which she gladly did, all the while thinking there were still some gentlemen in the world.

As he got off at his stop, he noticed a lady at the newsstand fumbling with her purse to get the money for her favorite magazine, which she bought every week. He noticed a line forming behind her, with people getting loud and telling her to move, but she couldn't find her change purse; she thought she'd put it in her purse that morning. He gently worked his way to the front of the line, smiling at the angry group as he handed the stand worker a crisp dollar bill for the magazine and another dollar as a tip for the inconvenience. Then, with a tip of his hat, he disappeared back into the crowd, leaving the lady behind him and telling herself chivalry was alive and well.
The rain began to fall as people ran for cover, holding newspapers over their heads and running into each other with little concern for anything else, like the older man shuffling along at the speed of a turtle, getting bumped and bumped some more until he ducked into a diner to dry off and have a cup of coffee to warm his bones. The gentleman watched from a distance as the waitress went right past the older man once, twice, three times before he noticed his worn clothes and shoes, the toe area cut off so he'd get more use out of them, at least for a little while. And a dirty coat with missing buttons, a sure sign the older man had no money for a meal. On the waitress's fifth pass without stopping, the gentleman cleared his throat to get her attention. She stopped with a smile and her order pad ready to write up his order. “ What will it be??" she asked. "Funny you should ask," he replied. “ Let's start with your so-called big breakfast." I'd like five of those, with coffee and some orange juice. One is for the gentleman down on his luck that you passed on by five times. The others will be for the four children in the booth, sitting with their mother, drinking water and wishing it could be more, but their well-worn clothes told him they had no money for anything and just hoped they could get out of the rain until it stopped. He paid the bill at the register, leaving the waitress a single quarter as her tip. On his way out, the mom grabbed his coat and, with tears in her eyes, said Chivarly was indeed alive and well.
Back out in the rain, he walked along the edge of the street to shield others from the spray of a passing car. He tipped his fedora, now looking like a waterfall as the rain ran off it, but he didn't mind. He walked straight up like he was taught, meeting eyes with eyes and always on the job to help where he could. In his mind, Chivalry isn't dead; it's just playing possum until another gentleman steps out, rain or shine, to offer his assistance.

Mike 2026                                                                      

One final ride

 He still wore his old engineer boots and Wrangler jeans, a black leather vest and a red bandana around his neck. Tattoos covered both arms, once vibrant, now just drooping ink on gunless arms. His beard was white, and his hair long, which he always tied back when he rode. Today was the day he'd been planning for some time now, the day he'd uncover his bike that had been in the garage for a lot of years now. Today he turned seventy-six, and his gift to himself was to take one more ride on the Harley he bought decades ago, before he couldn't ride anymore. His wife of fifty years watched him finish his cup of coffee, then made his way to the garage, turning toward the kitchen window where he knew she'd be watching. She smiled at him and waved, praying he'd come home safe.

He had prepped his bike the day before, checking fluids and giving it a good cleaning so the chrome shined and the paint was so polished he could see his wrinkled face. Tomorrow arrived, and he started it up; the roar of a Harley was music to his ears as he climbed aboard the leather saddle and gripped the throttle, gave it a few twists, then heard the familiar sound of gears smashing into place as he slowly moved forward, heading for the open road ahead. It didn't take long to go through the gears and find himself riding again. Other bikers passed him, giving the universal two fingers down, a symbol of mutual respect that meant keeping two tires on the road.
He rode through mountain roads, each curve a challenge for even the most seasoned rider, but for him, just another mile traveled like the thousands before. The roar of his bike was like music to him, with no onboard radios blasting Steppenwolf or other rock music just the red-hot pipes of a perfectly tuned Harley. He rode into the late afternoon running low on fuel, so he stopped to fill up, drawing attention from some weekend riders who asked him about his classic bike and praised him for riding at his age. He sat there for a minute or two, letting the youngsters ride off the sound of their rice burners like a swarm of bees. He put out the Camel non-filtered cigarette and dropped into gear, riding towards nowhere but an open road where he could open it up one more time as the speedometer buried itself and had no more to give. It was the feeling he desired so badly as his eyes teared through his goggles and the wind blew his face back. One hundred eighteen mph was all it could give, but that was all he could ask for as he throttled down to a safe speed.
She was at the window as he pulled into the drive, giving her a thumbs up and a smile she hadn't seen in a long while. She prayed and thanked god all in one breath, knowing he had done what he wanted to do, and those pipes would be quiet forever. She went to the garage, a cup of coffee in her hand, which he accepted as he climbed off the saddle for the last time. Tomorrow, a man who answered the ad he ran would be coming to look at the old Harley, a true classic anyone would be proud to own. He felt like he was losing his best friend as the new owner loaded it on a trailer and drove away. With the money, he bought a four-wheeler to ride around his property, and when he felt adventurous, he'd take it to the hills where other riders stared death in the eye to conquer the trails. He still wore his engineer boots and Wrangler jeans with his leather vest and red bandana, chasing the wind once again.

                                                                                   Mike 2026

              

 
Mike 2026

The Christmas tree Santa

 I remember the Christmas tree man who drove through the neighborhood a week before Christmas Day. He had a very old truck that sounded like it might explode, but it never did. People said he lived alone on a farm where he grew corn, pumpkins, potatoes, and watermelons, but tucked away on ten acres of his land, he grew what he truly loved: Christmas trees. His great-grandfather planted them decades ago as saplings, and he told his grandson they would grow and flourish as the years passed by leaving them alone. True to his word, the trees grew up, and he'd thin them out, taking some of them to town in the bed of his truck to sell. People loved his perfectly shaped trees, so he sold out in just a couple of hours, telling folks he'd be back tomorrow with more. Little did he know a great depression was coming, and people couldn't buy a Christmas tree when so many were starving and out of work. He decided he would continue going into town with trees in the bed of his aging truck, but not to sell, but to give away to families who had nothing to give their children come Christmas morning. But he had no idea how many were in need.

So rather than taking them to town, he drove through the poorest parts of the city and gave a tree to anyone who swallowed their pride, asking for one their kids could decorate with paper ornaments and give their shacks a feeling of Christmas. He became known as the Christmas Tree Santa. Year after year, he'd drive slowly down the streets, his old truck rumbling and blowing some smoke but always reliable. After the Depression ended and people got back on their feet, he kept roaming the city streets, his truck on its last legs, giving away trees to anyone who held out their hands. When he was too old to tend his farm and deliver trees, his son, my dad, took over and, with my help, filled the back of Dad's newer truck, which held twenty trees when full. Town folk remembered my granddad and his kindness when things were tough, and repaid him by purchasing every tree we brought to town. When my dad grew older and couldn't work the farm, I took the reins and continued where he left off; by then our economy was flourishing, and I started a nonprofit that gave away free trees to the less fortunate. We had three trucks, each carrying fifty trees, that drove through streets where poverty was the way of life, then stopped and opened the truck's doors, the smell of pine a reminder of Christmas, filling the air. My son runs the business now, with trucks numbering in the dozens that leave the tree farm every year, taking only the trees ready to be cut and replacing them with saplings left to grow alongside their ancestors, who patiently awaited their trip to town and into the hands of a grateful family. Great-granddad's old truck went through a major restoration and now participates in the Christmas parade, waving to the people he once gave a tree so their kids could have a Christmas morning. It still smokes a little, and we half-accept it to explode, but it never has and never will.

Mike 2026

                                                                                          

                                                            

Mike 2026

Awards for kindergarten kids

 Sitting in a school cafeteria where the seats are not intended for adults, the kindergarten class walks into the room, and the claps of hands from parents and grandparents- many electing to be late for work, as these moments are fleeting and you want to hold onto every one you can. The three,- or four-foot-tall little darlings, dressed in their finest clothes, wait for their name to be called so they can come up and get their awards. As each name is called, a parent shouts the kid's name, and for a brief moment, eyes meet, and we smile, finding each other across the room. Imagine being six years old, and people are clapping and yelling your name, and it's all you can do not to cry. You get to say goodbye as the kids head off to their classroom with a quick hug goodbye and a kiss blown in the wind. On the drive back home, you remember your own kids and the countless award ceremonies, Christmas plays and concerts, not to forget dress-up days and theme parties. You help with homework you barely understand, mulling through it to the best of your ability.

Then you wake up one day, and your kid is shaving, dating, and hopefully graduating. You have to deal with grades being acceptable or privileges being taken away until your attitude adjusts and you know your 'parents' word is law. You get caught sneaking out the window in your room, meeting up with your first crush who knew in her heart you would be caught, but love prevailed, and the punishment didn't seem to bother either of you. You earned your high school diploma after two years of summer school and countless weeks of being grounded. And once again you sat in the auditorium and waited for your kid to walk up on stage and receive his diploma. You shouted his name when it was called, your eyes meeting for a second, pride filling your heart as you realized his next step would be leaving the nest.
That's why now you sit on chairs that weren't meant for grandparents, but the memories they brought when it was your six-year-old giggling and talking to their friends in a language of their own are beyond priceless. I wouldn't miss one minute of kids and grandkids gathered to be honored by their teachers, who should all be saints. I believe it's the little things they will remember as they grow up with kids of their own and may be lucky to see an older man clapping with hands of age and love.

Mike 2026

                                                                                 

                                                                                  

         

                                                                        

Family values 1950s

 Reaching back to my earliest memories, I find myself touching my mother's face and looking into her smiling eyes as she held me in her arms, softly singing a song that, to this day, makes tears flow down my face when I hear it. I remember her teaching me to tie my shoes and comb my hair, reminding me how important it was to clean up after myself and always use my manners. I can close my eyes and see her in the kitchen, her dress of many colors and her hair and makeup perfect. Women in those days looked like women getting the latest fashion tips from the moms on television, like Leave It to Beaver, My Three Sons, and The Donna Reed Show, all of whom dressed more like the moms I pictured.

In the 1950s, life was simple: you went to bed early on school nights, woke up to the smell of brewing coffee and sizzling bacon, and left your lunchbox and books on the counter. Dad was up and dressed, his tie tucked into his shirt as Mom told him she wasn't about to hear from the ladies at the beauty parlor that she sent her husband off to work with egg on his tie. My siblings and I rushed down the stairs and sat at the table, where pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon, and orange juice filled the room with the smell of breakfast. We never knew what kind of lunch Mom made; some days it was peanut butter and grape jam my grandma made, plus a piece of tin foil holding a couple of carrots and celery, an apple or pear, and a cookie or two. Another lunch would be an egg salad sandwich with sweet relish and cut-up green olives that was my favorite sandwich ever. Another foil-wrapped package meant more carrots and celery and, of course, an apple, peach or pear depending on what was in season. Sometimes, as a special treat, we'd find a store-bought package of cupcakes or Twinkies every kid wanted to trade for two cookies or a lunch-size carton of chocolate milk. Did they think we were crazy?
We got off the school bus a few blocks from home, passing by the corner store owned and operated by Mr. Sweeney, a jolly man who always asked how our family was doing, and he had just seen our mom the other day when she stopped in for some milk. He had the largest assortment of penny candies in glass containers that made choosing one a major decision for a kid. I had been careful not to waste my nickel on extra chocolate milk, but saved it until Friday. Neither of my siblings did that, so all they could do was stare into the jars filled with fireballs, licorice sticks, and wax bottles with juice inside. There were suckers and jawbreakers, candy cigarettes, and chocolate mothballs all sitting side by side as decisions were made. I'd pick out three things and give my siblings one piece of their choosing, being the good brother mom would be proud of. Sometimes, after seeing that, Mr. Sweeney told all of us to pick out two more each with a smile on his kind face.
We made it a point to eat all our treats before arriving home and telling Mom we were starved, and she replied that we wouldn't starve and supper wouldn't be much longer. We did our homework until Dad got home and supper was ready, when each of us told them about our day, good or bad but always truthful. Saturday meant no school, and we had chores to finish before we could even think about playing outside. My sisters helped Mom with the laundry and folded clothes like an army recruit. All of us had to clean our rooms and vacuum every room in the house. As for me, well, it meant helping Dad wash his car inside and out, then cutting the grass with a lawnmower that had no engine, just kid power. When we were done, and Mom and Dad checked that our work was done properly, Mom called us for lunch, which we sometimes had at the picnic table like an unexpected picnic in our backyard.
After lunch, we were told the rest of the day belonged to us as the girls called over the fence, yelling to see if their friends wanted to play with their dolls. At the same time, I jumped on my bicycle and headed down the driveway to my best friend's house, where I found him lifting his leg over the handlebars, ready to explore whatever we could before daylight gave way to dusk. We headed home, pedaling as fast as we could to run up the porch and announce my presence just as Dad shouted not to slam the door. Saturday dinner was what Mom called a light meal, since tomorrow, Sunday, meant a feast one might mistake for Thanksgiving dinner—Saturday evening we'd gather in the living room to watch a show on the television that, mind you, only had three stations to choose from. But every Saturday at eight o'clock a movie like The Wizard of Oz would play as the smell of popcorn popping gave you that movie theater feeling, only smaller than the big screen at the downtown movie house. It had been a good Saturday, and sleep came easy as church clothes were laid out, shoes were polished, and Mom looked more and more like the beaver's mom. 

                                                                                        Mike  2026

Mike  2026

Thumbs up

 He watched his grandkids run from one row of pumpkins to another, their eyes moving faster than their legs as they searched for the perfect one. He kept an eye on them as, one after another, they pointed to a pumpkin and waited for his thumbs-up, but he didn't act too soon, because once he did, the hunt was over and he wanted the moment to last. The eldest had hunted pumpkins for a dozen years, carefully scanning the rows and choosing the first one he saw. The youngest, six years old, asked for her brother's help, and he willingly gave it, remembering how difficult it was for him at her age. She would point to one that had a broken stem or a flat side, and he'd point those things out to her, but she was already rows ahead, her little legs moving through all the shapes and sizes, a real dilemma for a young child whose memories of past hunts were somewhat blurry. Then he heard her yelling for him to look as she held up her favorite, and he gave her the thumbs up. It was small, but then so was she. It had a long stem and was as perfectly round as any pumpkin he had ever seen. I'm going to make it have a big smile," she told him. "And why is that?" he asked her. "Aren't pumpkin faces supposed to be scary?" Some are, she said, but this one is happy. I chose it so I want it to smile. He looked in the rearview mirror at her, smiling and holding her pumpkin in her lap, and he smiled back with a big thumbs up.

Mike  2026