As Long As I Can Remember Them

Three of my four grandparents lived the last couple years of their lives in rest homes. My grandpa (my mother's dad) was the only one that passed away outside the often bondage-like care of rest homes. Ironically, he lived the longest of them all.

I miss my grandparents, but I saw the crippling effects advanced age had on them. Death isn't always a bad thing, and I propose that my grandparents' deaths were definitely beneficial to each of them. Alzheimer's, arthritis, heart attacks and high blood pressure were increasingly overcoming them. I recognize now better than before how good death was for them.

My grandparents were hard workers, born and raised on farms. My parents grew up on these farms, learning the importance of dedicated, hard work. I've seen how their dedication has influenced many lives, one of which has been my own. They learned from their parents, and so on throughout the generations. My only hope is that I can continue the tradition of learning dedicated, hard work and teaching it to my future children.

In no way do I wish to belittle my beloved grandparents and their lives by comparing the last few years of their lives to my motorcycle, my 2004 Honda CR250R. They mean the world to me, and I owe them a great deal. My only purpose is to make a comparison, one to which you can hopefully relate.

Not completely unlike my grandparents were, my bike is just sitting - motionless, cold, cramped, somewhat neglected. It hasn't seen daylight since mid-November (2009). I haven't touched it since then. And I know for a fact that it doesn't get any visitors out there in the garage. For one thing, I'm not even in the same state as my bike right now. I recognize it has no feelings, no thoughts, no emotions. But I do, and my connection to that bike goes much deeper than the dollars I've gladly spent on it.

I have fond memories of riding my bike with my two younger brothers, my friends and my cousins. We've ridden in Idaho (Shelley and Ammon) and Utah (Salt Lake City, Centerville, Bountiful, Farmington and Ephraim).With my bike I witnessed my youngest brother rapidly improve his riding skills on a 2000 Honda CR125R. I've taken my wife on multiple rides with my bike. I even gave my mother-in-law a short lift back to the truck on my bike.

Not quite two years ago I broke my arm flying off my bike, which was the same day I had rebuilt the top-end and replaced the front brake pads. I had my first ride at a track on my trusty two-stroke. I broke up with a girlfriend shortly after taking her for a ride on my bike. I learned countless tips, tricks and tactics on my bike. My friend and I got chewed out and cussed at while on a short exploring trip on our bikes.

In a sense, my bike has made me a better man, and my wife makes me the best man. My bike is just a bike - a mass of aluminum, steel, plastic and rubber. It'll eventually deteriorate and fade away, but the countless memories I've made with my bike should transcend time . . . as long as I can remember them, I mean.