Venting. Forgive the implied language...
Aug 18, 2005 21:38:16 GMT -5
Post by desmo2 on Aug 18, 2005 21:38:16 GMT -5
What a f***ing sh***y year. I hate to see summer go, but can't wait to kick '05 in the f***ing a$$ and hope for the best in '06.
Marital problems explode. Comes to a head on July 30, details not forthcoming. Emotional struggles dominate thoughts. As if that was not enough:
3/20/05: Sgt. C. D. Graham, MSHP, shot to death by a f***ing coward as he got out of his patrol car, at his home, after his shift. Shot in the back at range with a rifle, then shot twice in the head at close range with a shotgun.
4/20/05: Tpr. R. C. Tatoian, MSHP and Troop C S.E.R.T. team member, killed in a car crash while responding to a S.E.R.T. callout for a fugitive who had shot a municipal officer. I had been relieved from the scene of the manhunt when the Troop C team began arriving.
8/17/05: Cpl. J. A. Sampietro, MSHP, killed while directing traffic at a fatality accident reconstruction scene by a motorist who lost control of his vehicle while driving with his head up his a$$.
All three were fine family men who strived to make their communities a better place.
Today the emotions of the year began to overtake me. I found the opportunity to take the motorcycle for a backroad stretch and seized it.
I stop for gas at a C-store and notice a carved memorial standing by the door. An Army PFC, probably 18 years old judging by his picture, killed in action in Sh***y RagTown, Iraq. Another brave soul, still hopeful, jubilant and naive, craving only to serve his country. Most do not even know the sacrifice he has made. I didn't know him, but I took a moment of silence and mentally saluted him none the less. Back to the road. As thoughts hurricaned through my brain, the bike urged me to relax and feel the road. As frustrations peaked and I began to get irrational, the handlebars and seat transferred the bike's warnings...Chill out, my man. This is not the time or place. Feel the ride. Relax. Ease off a bit.
Fair enough. I complied.
I find myself in the driveway of an old buddy, who I have lost contact with a bit since moving a town away, and since he traded the Superhawk for a Victory. A little sane conversation with someone who understands can do wonders.
As I make the ride back home, I avoid straight highways and take the curviest, least direct route possible. I pass one young man in a Honda Fast-N-Furious Delux model, with an aftermarket wing and pipe, blaring stereo, crooked ballcap, and an attitude. He and his wanna-be Vanilla Ice/Eminem passenger glare at me with their 'don't know nuthin bout no sacrifices' stares. Did I mention the unmistakeable odor of burning weed my helmet transfers to my nostrils as I pass? F***ing $***heads. They do not deserve the sacrifices these four MEN have made, nor do they appreciate them. I have no doubt they would cheer the passing of heroes like Graham, Tatoian and Sampietro.
The motor beneath me growls on.
They have nothing to do with this. Despite the contraband, they are still the 'PUBLIC.' This is not the time or place. Ride on. Focus.
Fair enough. I complied.
I returned to the driveway and felt a bit more at peace. I don't know if any of you will understand my day.
...but the Ducati understood. And she provided a great shoulder to cry on.
Marital problems explode. Comes to a head on July 30, details not forthcoming. Emotional struggles dominate thoughts. As if that was not enough:
3/20/05: Sgt. C. D. Graham, MSHP, shot to death by a f***ing coward as he got out of his patrol car, at his home, after his shift. Shot in the back at range with a rifle, then shot twice in the head at close range with a shotgun.
4/20/05: Tpr. R. C. Tatoian, MSHP and Troop C S.E.R.T. team member, killed in a car crash while responding to a S.E.R.T. callout for a fugitive who had shot a municipal officer. I had been relieved from the scene of the manhunt when the Troop C team began arriving.
8/17/05: Cpl. J. A. Sampietro, MSHP, killed while directing traffic at a fatality accident reconstruction scene by a motorist who lost control of his vehicle while driving with his head up his a$$.
All three were fine family men who strived to make their communities a better place.
Today the emotions of the year began to overtake me. I found the opportunity to take the motorcycle for a backroad stretch and seized it.
I stop for gas at a C-store and notice a carved memorial standing by the door. An Army PFC, probably 18 years old judging by his picture, killed in action in Sh***y RagTown, Iraq. Another brave soul, still hopeful, jubilant and naive, craving only to serve his country. Most do not even know the sacrifice he has made. I didn't know him, but I took a moment of silence and mentally saluted him none the less. Back to the road. As thoughts hurricaned through my brain, the bike urged me to relax and feel the road. As frustrations peaked and I began to get irrational, the handlebars and seat transferred the bike's warnings...Chill out, my man. This is not the time or place. Feel the ride. Relax. Ease off a bit.
Fair enough. I complied.
I find myself in the driveway of an old buddy, who I have lost contact with a bit since moving a town away, and since he traded the Superhawk for a Victory. A little sane conversation with someone who understands can do wonders.
As I make the ride back home, I avoid straight highways and take the curviest, least direct route possible. I pass one young man in a Honda Fast-N-Furious Delux model, with an aftermarket wing and pipe, blaring stereo, crooked ballcap, and an attitude. He and his wanna-be Vanilla Ice/Eminem passenger glare at me with their 'don't know nuthin bout no sacrifices' stares. Did I mention the unmistakeable odor of burning weed my helmet transfers to my nostrils as I pass? F***ing $***heads. They do not deserve the sacrifices these four MEN have made, nor do they appreciate them. I have no doubt they would cheer the passing of heroes like Graham, Tatoian and Sampietro.
The motor beneath me growls on.
They have nothing to do with this. Despite the contraband, they are still the 'PUBLIC.' This is not the time or place. Ride on. Focus.
Fair enough. I complied.
I returned to the driveway and felt a bit more at peace. I don't know if any of you will understand my day.
...but the Ducati understood. And she provided a great shoulder to cry on.
