Wheels Through Time
As I look into the future and review how
much has changed in my life for the better, I remain open minded about all
options. Last autumn, on an exploratory mission through the Carolinas,
while entertaining the idea of finding a friendly place to set up shop, perhaps
for extended periods of time, I found myself drawn to the Smoky
Mountains. After all, the mountains are
a destination for bikers. Among the places discovered was a museum in Maggie
Valley called Wheels through Time. I had written the owner several years ago in
regard to donating my dad’s WWII motorcycle kidney belt and a great photo of
him on his Harley, but had never heard anything back. Not knowing what kind of
reception to expect, I parked the rig up the street in a quiet place and walked
down the road and over the bridge to the motorcycle museum.
Next to a
loud, flowing mountain stream, built against a tree covered mountainside that
goes straight up, is a large metal building the size of a football field with a
glass foyer attached, filled with motorcycles, artifacts and souvenirs. After
paying the admission price, and entering the museum proper, I was immediately
impressed with the first ancient two wheeled relic in perfect condition on
display. The machine was from the era before mass production when teams of
talented craftsmen built them one at a time.
The nickel plated components, spoked wheels, brass fittings, braided
wires, delicate pinlines and gold leaf décor on this specimen was just the
beginning of an optical feast for the senses.
Aisle after
aisle was packed with many other unusual antique motorcycles stacked almost as
tight as cordwood. Unusual automobiles, service cars, boxes of related
ancillary items, piles of parts for future projects filled all the rest of the
available space. Display cases had stunning
collections of memorabilia and the walls were plastered with period advertising
that is the result of an obvious love for the genre and years of seeking,
restoring, researching and collecting.
After
several hours of marveling at the sights, I took a venture and inquired how I
might meet the owner of this museum. Directed to the midst of a clump of
admirers, I was delighted to find him very personable. Dale Walksler was in the
middle of a group of people that expressed fascination for a particular machine
and was acting as a walking library, volunteering anything major or superfluous
about motorcycles. Dale would respond to any query with an abundance of
specific information and often times climb on the machine to demonstrate the
start up sequence, tell a story about motorcycling in the good old days, and
get the old motor running so everyone can actually hear it, to establish
credibility, usability and functionality with his machines.
During a
lull in the activity, I introduced myself as a pinstripe artist.
He then said, “Let me show you
something” and lead me down an aisle of old motorcycles to a very old gray bike
with new paint.
“This is a
1916 Harley that we partially restored” he began in true docent manner, “and
the builders’ photos show pinstriping on the frame, the top of the tank and the
wheels as being how it was originally decorated.” He then asked me if I was available to do
some work. Delighted with this turn of events, I returned to my rig up the
street and brought back the VW bus with my kit inside and pulled up to the
service door on the west end of the building.
The next
thing I knew, the bike had been wheeled outside into the light. I cleaned the residual oil off the entire
frame, tank and rims as he retreated to dig through his archives. Soon
thereafter, He found the original builders pictures, and returned to where I
had set up shop outside to show them to me. After studying the photos and
mixing the exact colors of paint and after sketching helpful markings on all
the components to guide and insure accuracy, I began the fussy business of
making precise lines on the tubes of the frame with plenty of parallel lines,
right angles and the box end design elements utilized during that era, and
began to duplicate the multiple color design on the top of the tank. Later,
spinning the wheel and laying a thin line on either side of both rims proved to
be the biggest challenge. While striping, I discovered that the line wanted to
wander away from being parallel to the edge of the rim so I had to wipe off
several of my attempts.
The rim
project took the greatest part of the rest of the day. I finally recruited a
helper to slowly turn the wheel as I painted but was not happy with the
results. I finally realized that the wheel was no longer exactly round. That
was when I also realized the function of the pinline; to establish and show off
the wheel wright’s skill of making an accurate wheel. Being as careful and as
appropriate as possible with the out- of-round wheels, finally I had some presentable
stripes on these ancient rims.
As the sun was going down, and the
crowd had gone away, Dale invited me to bring my rig on the property and plug
in for the night. With the crowd gone, the core group that had manned the
ticket and souvenir booth, the friendly docents on the floor, the office
workers all gathered, in family fashion, around a campfire. This close knit
group not only shared his passion for old motorcycles but enjoyed the laid back
atmosphere, the easy life, and the leisure each evening after the museum
closed. I was also invited to share the
salmon that was roasting. In a rare time of sitting still, Dale sat down and we
enjoyed getting to know each other.
The conversation with Dale quickly
moved into a heart to heart conversation involving myriad frustrations with
family, the political stresses here in this tourist mecca and the community, in
which he also disclosed having an anger problem, a topic I have plenty to share
about. As he shared his story, I recalled the behavior coming from my family
years ago, and how I responded to their less than courteous behavior with
anger, something that I regret and have outgrown now.
Among those regrets is my response to
the sabotage inflicted by my brother in law for the get-together at my house,
orchestrated by my sister. After buying my home near Tampa
two decades ago Paula wanted to bring her family of four children and husband
to visit prior to an excursion to a baseball game. Their trip from Pensacola
would take all day and staying at my home would place them in proximity for the
visit to the winter training camp nearby. In order to facilitate their
ambition, I had to change my plans, make arrangements to sleep six in my home
(also requiring me to move out and sleep in the RV), thaw the yellow tail
caught in the Keys for dinner, and leave the painting workshop I was attending
in Sarasota early enough to be home in time to greet them when they arrived. At
the conclusion of this whirlwind of activity, at the approximate time, I was
standing, waiting in the driveway for them. An hour passed. Always thinking of
something else to do, I got out the leaf blower to fine tune the appearance of
the garden pathways in the front yard. Two hours passed and I began to worry.
In an effort to find out what had happened, I finally called my nephew to
inquire where they were, and why they were delayed.
“Where are you?” I asked
“We are still at home,” he sheepishly
said, “here talk to my dad”
The new voice came on the phone, “We
changed our plans,” my brother in law confided.
He then added something worthless,
which was typical of his unfeeling, self centeredness; “I meant to call”
This behavior coming from my brother
in law was characteristic. He had never been taught courtesy, or to have regard
for others and had an insatiable need to be in control all the time. He had
never spoken to his wife about what he had told me about their arriving today,
so Paula was in the dark. His wife’s
desire to see my place was destroyed and the compromise in my schedule to fit
them in was disregarded with his passive aggression.
That family never slept in my house.
I didn’t sleep that night either, I was so mad. Instead, I paced the floor
filled with rage, ranted and raved like a mad man, insane with a blood vessel
popping hatred for his disregard and I cussed like a sailor. All the Key
West yellow tail that was thawed out was thrown out. I never received an apology from anyone. The
episode was added to the lengthy tally of discourteous behavior coming from
him, and added to the experiences endured as a child, as I watched mean
children pick on my older disabled brother and vowed to have as little as
possible to do with anyone. I got the message that I was insignificant. The anger came to the surface again and again
every time I thought of him. When a Christmas gift came from my sister, it was
thrown into a corner and ignored. My response to her efforts at being friendly
was silence. This angry response to someone else’s behavior remained as a major
resentment that ate away at my soul until I entered into recovery and
healing.
My experience with unhealthy anger in
this realm, and having gone through an “anger management” workshop twice,
placed me in a position to be helpful to my new friend. I began to share with him what I discovered
were the underlying causes of being a quick-tempered hothead with a short fuse,
and once those discoveries were made, and the dynamic understood - I discovered
I had a choice. It was found that my tainted decisions, delusional beliefs,
selfish behaviors and inabilities to form a true partnership with another human
being all contributed to the angry frustration that had gained a stronghold in
my life.
What I learned in anger management
was that I kept alive the shame, regret, resentment of the events that had
taken place in childhood, and this perverted worship had created a corrosive
thread that ran through the tapestry of my life. Discovering my responsibility
in keeping anger alive and the self inflicted, contemptuous decision making
that took place as a child was the beginning of my emergence from this
quagmire.
Somewhere along the line, I had begun
to attach importance to being right. With the help of a mentor, one by one, the
events that had occurred along the way were looked at, the belief I had associated
with it was revealed, a new response was considered and the truth, often times
a new concept, built upon something I could not see due to my contempt, was
uncovered providing relief, freeing me to discard the old belief, forgive
myself and my offender, and embrace the beauty of the gift of this relational
transaction with the built in lesson for my growth.
Thank goodness, instead of a knee
jerk reaction to life as it occurs, built on unresolved frustrations, I
discovered I can stop midstride and compose a new response. The process has
been a long one and I am not successful every time (automated business phone
portals still make me mad) but today I radiate much more peace when in the
proximity of the dysfunction I am related to.
I discovered
that erroneous beliefs compounded by my defiant, self reliance and the
inability to allow a new concept to guide me to a more accurate way of thinking
had kept me stuck in corrosive beliefs that qualified as pure contempt.
In recovery.
I found others. The willingness to see joy in another, consider what that
person had found that brought about the radiance in their persona, the
integration of these findings and by responding with an open mind, I began to
let something new inside me, and that brought about a new perspective.
As we
talked, I began to relate to how similar we were; that the energy invested in this enterprise
and the focus on acquiring more that resulted in this massive collection was
perhaps, just like me; a way to avoid the quandary that was family and the
frustrating relationships with others that left me wanting in their wake.
“Hey, before
you go, “he perked up, “there is another bike I want you to look at”
Without
pressing demands on my time, I had the ability to work on another bike. The next
day, I wheeled my kit indoors up to the old motordrome Indian on display,
paired with its old shipping road crate. The Indian logo on the tank was
decrepit and Dale asked me to fix its appearance.
Sitting
there on a bucket, I hand lettered the color mixed to best replicate the
ancient gold. Then with the first color complete, the logo received a thin
outline of black. Sitting in the midst of the show business memorabilia, a
sense of admiration grew for the many personalities, machinery and artifacts used
in those productions that had a reverent place to receive honor. The rigors of
the specialty, the bally-hoo, noise, thrills and excitement all have a place to
be remembered here.
Bob, on the museum board, showed up
briefly for a meeting with Dale, and was delighted that I was here. He showed
me his shovelhead, recently restored, and asked me to letter his road name
“quail,” and put a single color pinstripe design in green on the back fender.
Back in the workshop, an area not open to the public, where the restorations
take place, I moved my portable pinstriping operation into place and handled
this creative task.
I disclosed my ambition to these men,
of being here in the smokies to possibly find a place to set up for extended
periods between events. Dale immediately invited me to set up my booth out
front. The next morning as the guests arrived, they saw my pinstriping booth
underneath the trees adjacent to the entrance. Soon the parking lot was full
again. As usual, I sat in my booth, answered questions and worked on my
projects and waited patiently for someone that wanted some decorative work on
their bike.
During the
day, Dale was a dynamo, talking to the many guests about the old motorcycles,
taking his dog for a demonstration ride in the old side car machine parked out
front, and multitasking with his TV show fans, souvenir hounds and visitors
from all over the world.
In passing,
between the many chores and queries that commanded his attention, he mentioned
that he wanted to make sure I got paid. As I sat in my booth, I worked on a
couple of creative writing tasks, keeping myself busy in between handling
queries from curious tourists. The second day of watching throngs arrive and go
into the museum, witness the antiques that Dale fires up and rides around the
parking lot and enjoying the meditative rhythm of mountain time going through
it’s cycle, brought about a realization I already knew on some level, that a
tourist area is tough to compete with and thrive in. I began with plans to get
closer to my next event and at the end of the day, tore down and made final
preparations to begin my trip north in the morning.
The final
night I was there, a big fancy RV rig from St Louis
pulled in to park in the back corner and hang out. This man shared a love for
old machines and participated with Dale in cross country rides involving old
motorcycles several times. I was invited to accompany the entire entourage and
this special guest to a local restaurant that night. The interior of the bar
and grill got even louder as tales of what happened on those cross country
rides were exchanged between these boisterous men.
The big group at our table was
especially fascinated with stories about filming the high speed ride of the
antique road rally through all kinds of weather. We heard stories about the
documentary filmmakers on special bikes with platforms for high speed camera
men, and the maneuvering with daredevil behavior that resulted in incredible
close-up footage of rain pelting the goggles of these riders as they rode at
the highest speed these old bikes were capable of and the capturing on film of
patterns of droplets coming off the wheels and fenders as they rode. The viewer
could see the interesting pattern of the spray affected by the ancient aero dynamics
and the picturesque scenery of the lengthy ride through several states as these
determined old bikers on their even older machines proved their tenacity for
truly rigorous riding. The stories finally quieted down and we dispersed from
this place to our individual abodes to allow the excitement of the evening to
settle down enough to allow sleep to arrive.
The morning
time found me ready to go. Dale was already a dynamo, in the midst of preparing
his machinery and people for the new day.
“Dale,” I beckoned, “I’d like to get
paid”
“Sure thing,” he responded, stopping
mid stride. “How much do I owe you?”
Recognizing him as being a busy man,
instead of recounting all the work I had done on the three bikes, I just
blurted out the figure.
“Jesus Christ!” his demeanor
transformed in an instant.
“You must be fucking crazy,” he
shouted out loud; as he moved away from me.
He continued his high-speed pace,
adding loud evidence of rage. He directed his voice across the parking lot
toward his guest from St Louis coming
out of his RV.
“I can’t believe it,” he shouted,
“this guy wants several hundred dollars for pinstriping that old bike”
My heart sunk. I was immediately
reunited with the emotion of helplessness, feelings of shame, aloneness and
frustration originally encountered on the playground as a child as I witnessed
the bullies at school picking on my helpless disabled older brother. Instead of interacting with me about what is
appropriate with compensation for my specialty and what was now complete on his
fleet, Dale’s temper erupted further and he spouted off to everyone in his
employ about my being fucking crazy.
With my hat in my hand, I watched him
rant and rave with the same focused tendency that made him great with old
motorbikes. With a deep sorrow that expanded to consume my peripheral, I
retreated to coil up my electric cord and get ready to go.
I cranked up the truck, sad but
knowing on one hand that this emotional turbulence had nothing to do with me or
the services rendered. I guessed the looming marriage of his son, the political
stresses of the local business environment, and the inevitable turbulence with
his family and other unresolved and unaccepted consequences of his behavior
provided the real frustration and I was just the conduit for an eruption. My
rig threaded its way across the bridge and onto the highway that left Maggie
Valley and as I left that situation and
my host of confusing extremes – warm reception and cold angry rejection – I saw
myself. I had a sudden and clear realization: I saw how I must have appeared to
my sister years ago in my anger at her husband’s behavior.
I hadn’t communicated to my sister in
years, ever since the display of inconsideration and no follow-up from my
brother in law. As I recall my response - my anger to the hurtful behavior I
had received - and then followed by becoming silent, I realize the message I
sent to my sister. My silence announced; “I do not care,” “I do not love you,”
“my plans are more important than you,” and
“You are not important.”
Working with my mentor with these
revelations, when he asked about the love I have for my sister, I broke into
tears. Of course I love my sister, she was my first friend. I allowed someone
else’s behavior to interfere with the regard I have. As the truth about what I
learned expands to replace the devastation of the recent rejection coming from
Dale, I began to look at this man with compassion, honor what he does right and
begin to hope that somehow, I can arrive at peace with the rest.
What I must do is clear to me now.
Instead of having to be “right,” I can choose to be happy. Inconsistent treatment coming from others is
certainly revealing, and an inappropriate focus on this quirk is sure to
interfere with true happiness. Priority for me is to go find a place to be
happy and productive where I also receive honorable treatment from others.
Turning away from resentment for the disregard received will give me a chance
to be restored to a healthy frame of mind and appreciation for what I have.
Sometimes it‘s a mystery, why
particular events occur in our lives with no good reason for the upheaval and
the chapter closes. Left in the void of not reacting with anger, I remain open
to consider my value and how this episode may prepare me for another aspect of
my life. Even the end can qualify as a new beginning.
The spark of divine is within us all.
The excursion of discovery did not provide what I was originally seeking but I
discovered something regardless. My response to your behavior is an indication
of my spiritual condition.
Deeply moved, I enter into an
intentional attempt at healing the damage I have done in response to the
hurtful behavior coming from my family, with the right timing too.
“Dear Paula…”