The Road That Waited: Willamette Falls, 1955–2025

The Trip I Didn’t Take

He picked me up early, the Iowa morning still undecided about the day. The red Cadillac—top down, white interior bright as fresh cream—sat idling at the curb in Red Oak. Ray X Williams behind the wheel.

Just the letter... Not Xavier. Not Xander... Just X.

Even at twelve, I knew that made him special. A man confident enough to carry a single letter and let the rest of the world wonder.

Hat on. Cigar already lit. The smell of leather, gasoline, and tobacco mixed with the July air.

“Well,” he said, glancing over his sunglasses, “you ready for Tulsa?”

I nodded like a boy who didn’t yet understand how few times life asks a question like that.

As we rolled south, cornfields slipping by in long, patient rows, I thought of Mazie—the great-grandmother I knew. Not Mamie, who had passed a couple years before I was born, but Mazie, who carried herself with quiet authority and kept the house running like a well-tuned engine. I wondered, not for the first time, if Gramps had a theme when choosing wives—strong women with names that sounded like they belonged to another era and yet somehow fit perfectly.

Ray drove with one hand, the other holding his cigar out the window so the ash wouldn’t land on the seat Mazie had warned him about more than once. He smiled when I brought it up.

“She’s right, you know,” he said. “A man can love his car, but he’d better love his wife more.”

The road hummed beneath us. After a while he said, “You ever notice how people always ask what the X stands for?”

I shook my head.

“Good,” he said. “Means you’re not wasting time on the wrong questions.”

We stopped late morning for breakfast—though for Ray, any good day of travel started with something warm and familiar. He ordered coffee and talked about food the way farmers do, like it’s part of the calendar.

“August comes around,” he said, “and there’s only one thing that tastes right.”

I already knew the answer.

Oyster stew.

Every August... Every birthday... A ritual as steady as the seasons.

“I love it,” I said.

He grinned. “Good. Means you’ve got good sense.”

We talked about farming—how patience isn’t passive, how waiting is work. About being mayor in Griswold, how listening mattered more than speaking. About knowing when to act and when to let things unfold.

Somewhere near the Kansas line, he laughed quietly and said, “A cigar doesn’t make a man important. It just reminds him to slow down.”

By the time we crossed into Oklahoma, the land had opened wide. The sky felt bigger. Tulsa rose out of the horizon with a promise that smelled faintly of dust and oil and adventure.

The rodeo lights came on like a second sunset.

Horses burst from gates. Riders fought gravity and fear in equal measure. Dust hung in the air like memory. Ray leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes bright.

“That right there,” he said as a bronc twisted free, “is courage mixed with foolishness. World runs on that combination.”

We cheered. We winced. We laughed together. He explained the rules, the risks, the reasons men keep getting back on after they’ve been thrown.

Later, walking back to the Cadillac, he rested a hand on my shoulder—steady, sure.

“Remember this,” he said. “If you think you should do something—really think it—then you do it. Don’t second-guess yourself. Life doesn’t give rain checks.”

On the drive home, under a sky stitched with stars, he hummed an old tune. I didn’t ask its name. Some things are meant to remain just as they are—unexplained, but true.

---

The Truth

The story above is imagined.

The drive never happened. The rodeo... it happened, but... We never made it to the World Championship Rodeo. And the conversations...  They live only in longing of faded memories.

In 1971, less than a year before his death, my great-grandfather Ray X Williams invited me—his great-grandson—to attend the World Championship Rodeo in Tulsa, Oklahoma. I was twelve. I chose instead to stay in Red Oak, Iowa, to play with my cousins.

We had fun. I’m sure of it. But I have carried the regret of that decision ever since.

Ray X Williams—born December 10, 1890—was a farmer most of his life, later the mayor of Griswold, Iowa. He is buried in Oakland Cemetery in Oakland, Iowa. I remember the Red Cadillac, the White interior, the joy of a cigar, the ritual of oyster stew every August and on his birthday. I remember Mazie, my great-grandmother, and the quiet strength that filled their home.

Only months after that missed invitation, Ray X would suffer a stroke. Then, on June 22, 1972, my great-grandfather died. I never again had the chance to join him in such a grand adventure.

~ Four Generations -- Dec 10, 1970 ~

Forty-one years later—to the very day—I would hug Ronnie Williams one final time. I eased out of the driveway on my Yamaha and waved, just as I had decades earlier. Ronnie, like Gramps, was someone deeply precious to me. June 22nd is a date etched in time—one that refuses to fade.

Time indeed has a way of circling back on itself.

One of my favorite sayings comes from that regret, shaped by the trip I didn’t take:

“If you think you should do something, you have to do it.”

Don’t second-guess yourself... Don’t postpone what matters... Some invitations never come again.

This is my story... This is my regret. And this—finally—is my remembering.

Epigraph for the Willamette Falls Photograph

Some journeys are taken by road. Others are taken by memory. And a few—if we are paying attention—are taken across generations.

Willamette Falls
March 1955 – March 2025

Accompanying Reflection

Just a few days before June 22, 2013—the last day I would hug my Uncle Ronnie and say goodbye—we took one more drive together. Aunt Barb, Ronnie, and I headed to Harlan, Iowa, to visit cousins and to spend time with Aunt Irma, then in her early nineties. There were snacks and drinks, but mostly there were stories. Stories about my dad. Stories about cousins. Stories about two good-looking brothers—Richard and his kid brother, Ronnie.

We looked through hundreds of old photographs, nearly finished, when Aunt Irma reached for one last handful... “I’m sure I have your dad and great-grandfather in here somewhere.”

She did.

As the photos passed through my hands, a sudden recognition stopped me cold.
“I know this place.”

I had driven past it a thousand times.

Willamette Falls.

There they were—my great-grandfather Ray X Williams and my father—standing at the very spot, frozen in black and white. Like so many old photographs, the corner was stamped simply: March 1955. Spring break. My father’s sophomore year. A westward journey I’d never known about until that moment.

A few days later, on June 22, 2013, I said goodbye to Ronnie for the last time. He would pass that December—one hundred and three years and three days after the birth of Ray X. Time, once again, quietly closing a loop.

In March of 2025—exactly seventy years after their travels west—I drove thirty minutes from my home. I wore a blazer. A hat. Held a cigar. Simple props for a quiet reenactment. Standing where they once stood, I took the photograph you see now.

The images are blended... The years are bridged.

I never made it to the World Championship Rodeo with Ray X. That regret remains. But the memories I do carry of him—the farmer, the mayor, the man with the single-letter name, the red Cadillac, the August oyster stew—those are precious beyond measure.

Some journeys we miss.
Others, we find later—waiting patiently for us to notice.

 

 

This song is in tribute to Lane Frost 10-12-1963 ~ 7-30-1989

 

 

The Bend in the River... Perhaps There Can be 'Peace on Earth'

~ Recapturing the Art of Conversation ~

The Pacific was in one of its gentler moods that afternoon, the kind that disguises its strength. The water rolled in slow, patient breaths, and the sun lingered low enough to soften everything it touched. Puerto Vallarta has a way of doing that—inviting you to slow down, to wait, to notice. As December approached, even the air felt expectant, as if the world itself were holding something back.

We were standing near the water when he said it.

“I won’t be visiting the United States for the next four years.”

The words were delivered casually, like a travel preference or a dietary choice. No invitation followed. No question. It was not a conversation starter; it was a declaration. I nodded, the way one does when a statement is meant to land and remain.

What made the moment curious—almost tender, in retrospect—was that only minutes earlier we had been talking about travel. Not politics. Not elections. Travel.

I had been describing places I loved. Long drives where the land opens wide and quiet. The way light rests differently on stone at the end of the day. I told one woman about southern Utah—how in a single day you can move from towering red cliffs to narrow stone corridors, from vast open basins to formations so delicate they look hand-carved. Each place entirely different, as if the earth itself were practicing patience, shaping beauty slowly, without hurry.

“You’d love it,” I said simply. “The variety alone is astonishing.”

She smiled politely. Then, without pause, came the verdict.

“I won’t be visiting the United States for the next four years.”

Later that week, another voice said the same thing. Then another. By the end of our two-week stay, I counted five. One was Mexican. Four were Canadian. Each repetition carried a slightly different tone—some dismissive, some self-satisfied, two unmistakably vile. Certainty, when left unexamined, tends to harden as it waits.

None of them knew how I voted. None of them asked. And I did not volunteer the information.

Not because I was afraid. I have lived through far worse than disapproval from strangers. But I have learned something over the years about silence. Sometimes it is not retreat. Sometimes it is waiting—the disciplined kind that refuses to speak before something worth saying can be received.

There would have been no dialogue, only heat. No listening, only verdicts. And, of course, the inevitable conclusion: How could you be so stupid?

So I listened.

What struck me most was not their decision to avoid the United States. People have always come and gone from places in cycles of affection and disdain. What struck me was the vileness—how easily contempt replaced curiosity, even when moments earlier the conversation had been nothing more controversial than landscapes, light, and wonder.

Where was the civility?
Where was the dialogue?
Where was the grace?

This, I was told for years, was the party of tolerance. The broad tent. The negotiators. Yet here I stood, hearing words that left no room for waiting, for listening, or for being surprised. Tolerance, it seemed, had become conditional. Dialogue was welcome—so long as one arrived already in agreement.

At one point, someone asked me why I was in Mexico at all.

It was a fair question, asked without irony. I smiled and gave a polite answer about rest, beauty, the kindness of the people. All of it true. But another question formed quietly within me, unspoken:

And you are in Mexico, because?

Did they realize where they were? That this country—so warm, so generous, so layered—was governed in many regions not by peace but by fear? That criminal powers ruled stretches of land with an authority as brutal as any they claimed to despise elsewhere? Puerto Vallarta was a bend in the river, calm and reassuring. But upstream, where most people lived, the waters churned unseen.

Safety, I thought, is often mistaken for virtue.

That night, lying awake with the balcony doors open, the ocean moved steadily below, its rhythm almost prayer-like. Christmas was drawing near. You could sense it in small ways—lights strung loosely across doorways, music softened by distance, conversations beginning to turn toward hope and wishes.

Peace.
Joy.
Goodwill.

These words would soon be spoken freely.

As I lay there, the story of the village returned to me—the one beside the river. Whether memory or imagination, I could no longer tell.

In that village, people had once traveled freely. They asked questions. They argued, sometimes fiercely, but they waited for one another to finish speaking. Over time, something shifted. News arrived faster than neighbors. Stories replaced journeys. Opinions hardened as waiting disappeared.

Eventually, the people stopped traveling altogether. They spoke confidently of places they had not seen in years. Maps were replaced with headlines. Fear, clothed in certainty, took root.

The village sat beside a wide river. At the bend, the water was gentle—clear enough to reflect the sky, calm enough to invite rest. The villagers gathered there often, pointing across the river toward places they no longer wished to know.

Upstream, however, the river was broken. Narrow. Violent. Those who lived there navigated danger daily, unseen by those at the bend. But no one wanted to walk inland. Waiting requires humility. And humility had grown scarce.

As the ocean breathed below me, the story widened.

Because there is, after all, an older story beneath every story of rejection.

Long before declarations were made with confidence and contempt, angels once spoke into a waiting world. Not to the powerful. Not to the certain. But to shepherds—men accustomed to darkness, to vigilance, to watching through the night.

“Peace on earth,” they sang.
“Good will to men.”

The promise arrived not with force, but with fragility. Not in certainty, but in trust. The One sent to save the world came quietly, born into the lowliest of places, asking only for room.

And the world—busy, confident, convinced—did what it so often does.

It rejected Him.

Not because He was violent.
Not because He was cruel.
But because He did not match the expectations people had waited for incorrectly.

The rejection grew—measured at first, then sharpened, then vile. Until the Prince of Peace was placed upon a cross by those convinced they were defending truth.

Lying there, I felt the irony settle gently, like candlelight in a dark room.

In the coming days, many of the people I had met would wish one another peace and joy. They would speak ancient words without considering how demanding they are. Peace, after all, is not declared. It is received. And often, it arrives quietly enough to be missed.

The question was no longer about countries or politics.

It was personal.

Might I be—might I become—a vessel of peace on earth?

Not by arguing louder.
Not by correcting every falsehood.
But by waiting well. By listening deeply. By refusing to return contempt for contempt.

The ocean continued its patient rhythm.

The world had not lost its capacity for beauty. I had seen too much of it—stone shaped slowly by time, light resting where it pleased—to believe otherwise. What it was losing, in some places, was its willingness to wait for peace when it did not arrive shouting.

The next day, when someone else spoke with certainty and dismissal, I nodded again. I listened again. I spoke once more of beauty—of landscapes formed patiently, without urgency, without regard for outrage.

And I let the river remain calm.

Not because truth does not matter.

But because peace—real peace—has always entered the world the same way.

Quietly.
Humbly.
Through those willing to carry it.

A Thanksgiving Reflection: When the Light Shines Through

 Of all of our National Holidays... Thanksgiving has been my favorite throughout my adult years. So on this Thanksgiving Day, one quarter through the Twenty-First Century... I leave you with this short story. 

...

For quite some time, a devoted Sunday School teacher carried out a small but meaningful tradition. Each week, she gathered her class of bright-eyed children and guided them on a quiet walk through the church auditorium. Tiny footsteps echoed softly as the children looked up in wonder, marveling at the beauty around them.

Their favorite part of the journey was always the stained-glass windows—towering panels of vibrant, carved glass that portrayed the ancient apostles, those we often call saints. There stood Saint John, Saint Matthew, Saint Paul, and others whose lives helped shape the early church. When sunlight streamed through the sanctuary, those windows glowed like heavenly jewels—deep blues, warm reds, shimmering golds—casting brilliant colors across the pews.

Week after week, the teacher paused before each window, offering simple stories about these men of faith. Though the walk lasted only a few minutes, their lessons lingered like light in the children’s hearts.

Then one Sunday, the teacher stopped midway down the aisle. Looking at her little class, she asked a question.

“Children, can you tell me what the word saint means?”

Silence swept over the group as they thought. Then, with the joy of discovery dancing in her eyes, one little girl raised her hand. With a proud smile she answered:

“A saint is a person whom the light shines through.”

The teacher stood still, letting the beauty of that simple truth wash over her. And perhaps today—on this Thanksgiving Day—that truth reaches us as well.

---

Letting the Light Shine Through in Troubled Times

We do not need reminding that our world is unsettled. Troubles swirl in distant nations and in our own cities. Families feel strain. Hearts carry hidden burdens. Even our thoughts, at times, face storms of their own.

Yet in the midst of it all, one calling remains:

To be people through whom the Light shines.

Not flawless people.
Not people untouched by sorrow or struggle.
But people who—despite cracks, wear, and weakness—allow the light of Christ to shine through them.

It is often through our very broken places that His brightness is seen most clearly.

---

A Thanksgiving Invitation

As we gather this Thanksgiving—around busy tables, quiet tables, or even in moments of solitude—we are invited to more than gratitude for a meal.

We are invited to reflect the Light.

A gentle word.
A forgiving spirit.
A listening ear.
A generous act.
A prayer whispered for someone unknown to us.
A willingness to bring warmth into a cold moment.

These are the ways saints—ordinary saints—shine.

And maybe that little girl’s answer was more than a definition. Maybe it was a calling:

A saint is someone who lets the Light shine through.

---

Grateful, Hopeful, Steady

On this Thanksgiving Day, may gratitude fill your heart, may peace steady your steps, and may the Light that no darkness can overcome shine beautifully through your life.

And in a world longing for hope, may others see that Light—through you.

Happy Thanksgiving. 

 

Such beauty... Indeed, our Creator... The fount of many blessings!

 

 

Remembering Curt Frink ~ The Journey… the Joy… the “JUVYZ”

 

Let me ask a question… Take a few moments and think. Who are the people in your life who made a difference?
For some, that list might be long. For others… maybe just one or two. But now, focus on a particular aspect — a certain season of life. Sometimes all it takes is a time frame… a song… a fragrance… a picture… or simply, a memory.

If I said “Childhood” or “College.” Maybe “Career” or “Vacation.”… What person immediately comes to mind?

For me — when it comes to Motorcycle Rides — second only to my “Bucket List” rides, that person is Curt Frink.

I had only returned to the “Two-Wheeled Obsession” a couple of years earlier, after a twenty-year hiatus. Picture this: I’m walking through the checkout at Silverton’s Roth’s IGA, helmet in hand, when Jan, with her ever so brilliant smile, asks, “You ride motorcycles?” – Before I could even answer, she handed me a brochure she had tucked beside her register. The rest… is history.

That day, I became an Oregon ABCity Tour rookie. It was 2014 — the letter was B. Now, twelve years later, this two-time Tour Champion has ventured several times through the most gorgeous corners of Oregon… one letter (sometimes more) at a time.

From JUVYZ to K & N, then S, M, D/E, followed by W and R. In 2022, we chased G and I; in 2023, it was L; 2024 brought P, and 2025 — the letter H. For another Happy year!

And you know… it seems only fitting that the first full year without Curt among us… 2026… the remaining letters are C and T — CurT! Oh baby, tell me that’s not divine timing.

About the Ride

Though the riders on this Tour have never been grand in number… those who ride… we make it grand. Some are all about the destination — get the checkpoint, grab the photo, move to the next. –Others — well, we are more about the journey:.. the people along the way, the quirky cafés, the stunning vistas, and those “you’ve-got-to-see-it-to-believe-it” signs. And let’s not forget… those twisty, breathtaking Oregon roads that made getting there half the fun.

Three Stories ~ that Curt left me…

1. ~ The year was 2015 — the letters were JUVYZ. The destination: Vinson. “Vinson?” you say. ABCitiers might nod — “Been there, done that.” But truth be told, otherwise… not one person has ever been able to describe the location of this place called Vinson.

One Saturday… July of 2015… I set out to find it myself. Upon arrival — I discovered a one sign, one house, one unnamed cemetery… along the Butter Creek Road. ~ As my Roadstar crested the hill, lo and behold — a yellow school bus appeared from the west! Out stepped thirty folks from the Oregon Historical Society, complete with two old-timers telling stories and a five-piece old-time band.

And I thought: “Except for Curt, I would never have been here. No… never!”

2. Sulphur Springs — 2017: “The Case of the Missing Sign”

Fast forward to 2017 — the letter was S. Only a few coastal towns remained on the Tours list. Before returning home from a six-day ride, I stopped by Curt and Jan’s to swap stories. I mentioned my one miss — Sulphur Springs. Curt gave me that look. You know the one. I asked, “No way — Sulphur Springs has a sign?” Not a word! Solely… that Frink smile. A few weeks later, a ten-hour ride… and wala… I discovered a sign of a Sulphur Springs, Oregon! Victory indeed! Curt 1, Me 0… Ha!

---

3. Outriding the Ride Master

Whenever I rode with Curt, indeed the joy was in the journey — and in the camaraderie. But the real payoff? Hearing him say afterwards… “I’ve never been on a couple of those roads.” To have Curt — the man who knew Oregon like the back of his throttle hand — say that? Oh, I was strutting like I’d just won the MotoGP!

---

The Legacy Rolls On

There are so many more stories — and I know those who knew Curt could share dozens more. So, as each new year rolls in… as each new letter is chosen… as every road unfolds beneath our wheels — may we remember and appreciate the simple gift Curt left us: The Oregon ABCity Tour.

Because in the end, it’s not about the miles. It’s about the memories — and the man who helped us make them.

Thank you dear friend… Rick

p.s. In the Hall of Fame of the Oregon ABCity Tour… Consider ‘00’ retired!

 

“Not Showy—Just Shoei”

A Childhood Favorite

... From backyard garages to big-league grace — how one humble superstar rekindled a boyhood love of
baseball.

At nearly seventy years of age, I’ve learned there are few pastimes that can still make my heart race like a nine-year-old’s. Well—other than God’s own pastime of creation, of course. But somehow, baseball seems to have preceded even that.

My love affair with America’s pastime began fifty-eight years ago, on a dusty little alley behind our home in Hawthorne, California. Today there’s a Target on Rosecrans Avenue. Back then, I had a target—a garage door that served faithfully as my catcher. There I stood, sweat trickling down my nine-year-old brow, squinting in for the sign from Johnny Roseboro. Every pitch was the potential third strike of a World Series dream. And who was I? None other than Sandy Koufax himself.

I’d go on to become a Pirate, then—be still, my heart—a Dodger. Number 12, first base for this southpaw (left-handed) kid. I loved scooping those low throws, or stretching for the wild throw from my third-baseman. But... oh baby... those diving catches in centerfield... they were something special! My teenage years took me through the ranks: a Colt, a Cardinal, and even a Cowboy. Later, as an adult, I wore the uniforms of the Warrior, the Senator, the Angel, and—yes—the Red Sox, with whom we won the Oregon State Men’s Senior League title in 1993. I was thirty-seven then; they called it “Senior League.” I laugh—Now thirty years later... indeed, I'm a "Senior".

~ 1993 Silverton Red Sox ~

What drew me in? The smell of the leather glove. The pop of the ball. The sweet perfume of freshly mown grass on a California spring day. The beauty of a perfectly turned double play. I dreamt baseball. I lived baseball. I knew the players, the rules, and the unspoken poetry that made the game so deeply American.

More than anything, baseball taught me confidence—and sportsmanship. Over the years, I summed up my approach to every sport with an acronym I created:

 SPORT – Say it Best, Play it Best, Offer the Best, Respond the Best, Teach the Best. And for my Spanish-speaking friends: MEJOR – Muestra tu Mejor, Enseña tu Mejor, Juega tu Mejor, Ofrece tu Mejor, Responde tu Mejor.

Then, as with most good things, life—and the world—changed. Somewhere along the way, the game lost a bit of its soul to politics, posturing, and pageantry. For nearly fifteen years, my connection to baseball dwindled to a few college games—mainly my 3x College World Series Champs... the Oregon State Beavers—just enough to keep the spark alive.

But lately, that spark is back. A handful of players have reminded me of what baseball can be—grace, grit, humility, and joy all wrapped in a 95 (or 100)-mph fastball. And the splitters... Yikes! So thank you, Clayton Kershaw, Freddie Freeman, Mike Trout, Cal Raleigh, and especially Shohei Ohtani—perhaps indeed... the GOAT... the greatest of all time.

Thank you, Shohei, for not being Showy. For reminding us that greatness can still walk hand-in-hand with grace. And that’s exactly what we teach our Xolos ballplayers: play with heart, play with honor, and always—play your best. 

 The only thing better for this video... Vin Scully making the call. Just saying! :)

 

And... Please feel free to leave a comment :) 

Freedom Ride: Dreams, Dignity, and a Dose of Horsepower

 Most of us—if not all—have dreams. Some big, some small. Some are born in childhood treehouses and others over a cup of strong coffee during midlife. But here’s the real question: How many of us actually pursue those dreams?

Of those, how many give up halfway? And for those who reach the mountaintop, how many find the view a bit... underwhelming?

So—are dreams even worth it?

Or maybe we should all just settle into the comfy recliner of routine: job, bills, decent coffee, and reruns of NCIS. Most people do. And honestly—there’s nothing wrong with that. Stability has its perks. Like warm socks.

But let me throw another question at you like a wrench in the spokes: What’s the difference between a dream and a goal?

Maybe goals come with checklists, calendars, and deadlines. Dreams? They often show up without an appointment and whisper, “What if…”

---

Got Dreams? Then Let’s Talk

If you’re still reading this (bless your heart), take a minute. Think about your own dreams. I’m guessing you’ve got at least one or two tucked away.

Did you ever go after them? If so, how’d that turn out? If not… what stopped you? (Be honest—it was fear, wasn’t it? Or was it Netflix?)

---

Back in the Day…

Let’s rewind to September 1977.

I was one of the first “post-draft” volunteers to join the U.S. military. I walked into the Air Force recruitment office and signed that all-too-famous dotted line. (Yes, it really exists. It’s just... not as intimidating as the movies make it look.)

I chose a delayed enlistment, arriving at Lackland Air Force Base in June of 1978. A guaranteed assignment as a Firefighter was more than I could have imagined.

Those four years weren’t flawless—there were bumps, bruises, and the occasional personality clash—but they brought immense satisfaction. Oh, and a wife. (Fun fact: no one tells you a spouse might be part of your GI benefits. I got lucky. Thanks, Air Force!)

Before the Air Force, a stint with the Forest Service had already planted the seed: I wanted to be a firefighter. The cherry on top? Becoming a Paramedic.

Firefighting and emergency medicine weren’t just careers. They were callings. Now, almost five decades later, another dream has started revving its engine.

---

The Dream: Freedom, Wind, and Wheels

I'm not exactly sure when this new dream took shape. Somewhere in the last five or ten years, it rolled into my heart—quietly at first, like a motorcycle idling at a red light.

Fast forward to July 2023, and I had the honor of volunteering at the Paralyzed Veterans of America (PVA) Wheelchair Games. The experience lit a fire.

Two years later, the dream has a name, a mission, and—miraculously—not just sticky notes, but actual plans. The vision? To build a motorcycle with a sidecar adapted for wheelchairs—a ride for veterans who can no longer ride themselves due to injury or age.

We call it:

Freedom Ride
"Offering a two-wheeled experience of wind, motion, and memory—through a specially designed sidecar. A small gift of joy and dignity for those who gave so much."

Simple. Beautiful. Meaningful.

---

Mission: Possible

Our mission statement says it all:

“Providing a Two-Wheeled Experience of Honor and Healing for Our Veterans.”

This bike won’t just be a mechanical marvel—it’ll be a rolling tribute. It will show up in parades, events, or even just sunny Saturdays, offering free rides to veterans who thought their riding days were behind them.

---

Reality Check… and Hope

Right now, I’ve got:

• A few brilliant engineer friends

• A willing builder and painter

• Some rough design ideas

• And even some self-funding

But will it actually happen? Will we find the right designer? Will funding shift from hopeful to helpful? Will I follow through when it gets hard? Will this idea get out of the garage and into the hearts of veterans?

That’s where you come in.

---

So, What’s Next?

This blog might just be the next step toward reality. You—yes, you, reading this with your second cup of coffee—might be the connection, supporter, encourager, or mechanic we didn’t know we needed.

So I ask again: What are your dreams? And maybe… just maybe… how might you become a part of Freedom Ride?

Let’s give some heroes the wind in their hair again—even if it’s just a breeze on the back of a bald head.

Because freedom should ride.

 

 

This very morning (July 25, 2025) I came across the 'Gary Sinise Foundation', that states, "We serve our nation by honoring our defenders, veterans, first responders, their families, and those in need. This song, 'Arctic Circles' was composed by Gary's son Mac & Oliver Schnee. I can hear Mac's album called 'Resurrection & Revival' playing through the speakers of the motorcycle & sidecar as it rolls down the highway. Simply beautiful!

My 'Nancy Davis' ... Still, Saying Yes!

 Was it the plaid short-sleeve shirt? The five-foot-two frame? Those lovely blue eyes? Or maybe that sweet, mischievous smile tossed across the gymnasium like a paper airplane of hope?

Honestly… I’m not quite sure what first drew me to her.

The next morning, I walked into church — one of those big services with more than a thousand in attendance — thinking only about the message or maybe where I’d sit. Not a single neuron in my brain fired off the thought: “Hey, maybe that cute girl from last night will be here too.”

And then... as if scripted by divine providence, I lifted my eyes — and there she was.

Brunette hair, curled beautifully atop her head like whipped cream on a sundae (you know, the fancy kind with the cherry on top). A full-length yellow dress — bright as the Alaskan summer sun — draped over her slender frame, catching not just the light ... but my attention.

I couldn’t tell you what the sermon was about that day. Just that somewhere between the opening hymn and the benediction, I found myself captivated by the girl in the yellow dress. Would I talk to her? Ask her name? See her again? All great questions. Zero answers.

Three months later — yes, just three months — her mother and baby brothers were visiting Alaska from New England, and watched her two young children. We went for a walk. Not just any walk — up Bodenburg Butte, just a short climb from her home in Palmer.

Had I considered asking her to marry me?

I think I had. But come on — three months? That’s either romance or a head injury. The more I thought about it, the faster my heart pounded. Did she even feel the same way? Would this be the last time I’d see her? Was she thinking what I was thinking?

Three months. Two kids. One wild idea.

The snowcapped Chugiak Mountains gave us a backdrop worthy of a postcard or proposal — or both. I doubt anyone had ever used that exact spot to pop the question... but I did:

“Will you marry me?”

Her answer came faster than I expected—no dramatic pause, no deep breath.

“Yes. Yes, I will marry you.”

Three months after that — September 29, 1979 — Brandi, Josh, my mother, and a few witnesses celebrated a wedding most would have called “whirlwind.”

Now, nearly forty-six years later, I still find myself deeply attracted to Karen Yvonne.

Struggles? Oh, yes. Many. But as I sit here once again at 35,000 feet — somewhere over the 300,000-miles of travel — I marvel at how blessed I am.

It took both a departure from Querétaro and a layover in Dallas to finally finish watching Dennis Quaid's excellent portrayal of President Ronald Reagan. And yes — tears welled up. Because somewhere between the Oval Office scenes and the private moments, I realized:

Karen is my Nancy Davis Reagan.

As Nancy was unwaveringly supportive of "Ronnie" — his anchor and encourager — so Karen has been to me. From that first missions trip to San Luis, Sonora, in 1998, to now over forty adventures across the U.S. and around the globe, Karen has consistently said yes.

Yes to the call.

Yes to the chaos.

Yes to the crazy man she married.

We could never have foreseen what would unfold — over thirty years of firehouse life intertwined with nearly three decades of goodbyes, airports, and separate weeks.

These past couple of years — age, circumstance, and creaky knees — have made each new trip a little more complex. And yet, it’s as if Karen says yes before I even ask the question.

I don’t know if this trip will be the last. Maybe we’ll have one more. Maybe ten. But I do know this:

Karen Yvonne Williams has been, and still is, my 'Nancy Davis'. My constant. My calm in the whirlwind.

Still five-foot-two.
Still eyes of blue.
Still that sweet smile.

The brunette curls have gracefully shifted to beautiful white waves. And though life has brought challenges — some deep — the support and love Karen has poured into my life has always run deeper.

For that … I am forever thankful.

 

 With all my love, and the deepest appreciation —
Her still-crazy, still-grateful husband,

Rick

 

 Forty-Six years in June ... I popped the question. Obviously ... She said, "Yes"!