There are motorcycle rides… and then there are rides with purpose.
Sometime around 2010, as I was toying with the idea of getting back into street riding, when I first heard about Run For The Wall (RFTW). At the time, I didn’t fully grasp what it was—I just knew it involved motorcycles, long distances, and a whole lot of meaning.
Fast forward to today, and here I am—five motorcycles later (because there is so little time... and so many motorcycles), including two Honda Goldwings—the Cadillacs of the motorcycle world. With those bikes, I’ve logged over 100,000 miles—crisscrossing Oregon more than a dozen times and riding across the United States twice.
And now… a third cross-country ride is on deck. This time—with RFTW.
So… What’s the Draw?
It’s simple.
Purpose.
Run For The Wall is not just about the ride—it’s about why we ride.
Their mission says it better than I ever could:
*“To promote healing among ALL veterans and their families and friends, to call for an accounting of all Prisoners of War and those Missing in Action (POW/MIA), to honor the memory of those Killed in Action (KIA) from all wars, and to support our military personnel all over the world."
A Cold War Air Force veteran myself, I have always been grateful for the opportunity to serve—and for those who served before me and continue to serve today. Military service runs deep in my family: grandfathers in the Army, my father in the Air Force, and a son and granddaughter in the Navy. I’ve long believed that service is a vital part of a meaningful life. And now, on this side of retirement—ReFirement, as I like to call it—service simply takes on new forms. The opportunities to live with purpose through service and volunteering are nearly endless. We need only follow that spark… the one that sets our soul on fire.
Only six weeks until KSU—Kick Stands Up! And just like that, the countdown has a heartbeat.
As an FNG—Fine New Generation—I’m stepping into something far bigger than a motorcycle ride. This isn’t just throttle and highway. This is purpose on two wheels.
What do I expect?
Highways that stretch like open invitations… Events that remind us why we ride…
New friendships formed somewhere between fuel stops and shared stories… And experiences that, if I’m honest, probably won’t fit neatly into words.
There will be laughter—no doubt about that... There will be miles—plenty of those.
And there will be moments… the kind that catch you off guard.
The quiet ones... The emotional ones... The ones where a flag waves a little differently… where a handshake lingers a little longer… where you realize this ride carries stories far heavier than the saddlebags we pack.
When my friend Brendan and I roll out on May 10th, heading south to Ontario, California, where RFTW begins, I’m not just chasing pavement—I’m chasing presence.
My goal? To soak it all in.
Every sunrise over the highway... Every conversation at a gas stop... Every veteran honored... Every child waving from an overpass... Every opportunity—to bless, and to be blessed.
Because somewhere between the rumble of engines and the rhythm of the road… something meaningful happens.
Something that reminds you why you ride in the first place.
So yes…
Is it May yet?
Not quite.
But it’s close enough now that you can almost hear the engines warming… almost feel the road calling... almost see the horizon waiting.
But then I pause. And if I’m honest with myself, I suspect there
are more than a few people who would also claim that title for him.
This man—this firefighter, this brother in Christ, this husband,
father, and grandfather—collected “best friends” the way some
collect challenge coins. So yes—he was my best, and certainly one
of my top three best friends of all time. And so I ask: What
makes a best friend?
I met Tom in 1986—forty years ago. I’ve known no other man
longer, nor done more adventures with any other man than with this
man. Maybe that’s one definition of a best friend: the one who says
“Yes” to life with you.
Among those adventures were two backpacking trips—one with his
sons, Ryan and Aaron, along with Jon & Nathaniel Parsons. It should
probably rank as one of the worst youth backpack trips ever
attempted. Jefferson Park in the rain. Mud everywhere. Adults
carrying gear for the youth. Youth carrying who-knows-what mentally.
The trip was a circus of wet socks, soggy Pop-Tarts, and questionable
decision making.
Now, memories are funny things. If I polled the boys, they might
remember it differently. But three of them were still youth—so we
can safely discount their testimony. (Kidding… mostly.)
What I remember is Tom handling that trip in classic Tom fashion:
calm, determined, and with a plan. And afterward—laughter. Lots of
it.
There were a couple of years when life pulled us in different
directions, but around 2010 something shifted. Bible studies. “Greek
Coffee.” A student of Scripture. A student of the Greek New
Testament. A brilliant mind. A pondering mind. A man who loved great
dialogue. We could talk. We could disagree (rarely). We could
challenge one another. We were “iron sharpening iron.” We each
took turns being the other’s Timothy.
~ Splangkna ~
Then came Mike Mellison, and later Jim Krieg. Suddenly I found
myself with Tolkien and Lewis while I was more like the silent hobbit
scribbling notes. Still, there were frequent times when Jim and I
would catch each other’s eyes and smile as Tom and Mike dove down
some Greek rabbit trail—sometimes tangent, always interesting,
never argumentative.
It was brotherhood. Brothers in Christ discussing Scripture the
way I believe Christ intended: humbly, curiously, joyfully. We
are not God. He is. What is He saying?—that was Greek Coffee.
When the news of Tom’s death came, we already had Greek Coffee
on the calendar. That day—and ever since—we’ve met in a Missing
Man Formation. We told stories. We laughed. We wept. We remembered.
And the only Greek we managed that morning was one word:
σπλάγχνον—deep affection.
Paul said Christ had σπλάγχνον in
Philippians 1:8. Colossians 3:12 says, “Put on
σπλάγχνον”—compassion, tender mercy, “bowels of
mercy” if you prefer the King James (Tom preferred this rendering). There are four other
virtues listed in that passage, but I suspect they all fit inside
that single word.
Luke 15:20 says the father of the prodigal had σπλάγχνον—and
ran to his son. 1 John 3:17 warns against shutting up the σπλάγχνον—closing
compassion when we have enough and see another in need. Tom never
shut off σπλάγχνον.
Catchers Gear for the Mayor
He saw need. He saw children. He saw brothers. He saw mission.
Nicaragua, Diriamba, Waspam, Krinkrin… and finally Ukraine—every
location soaked in σπλάγχνον.
When Karen and I traveled to Vallarta for three months, it was Tom
who drove down and served for two weeks—helping to build a women’s
shelter, helping launch Xolos Baseball. A couple years later, it was
my turn to travel to Nicaragua with Tom. Xolos Baseball, round two.
And though Nicaragua knows baseball—note the honor given to Roberto
Clemente—the Waspam and the Miskito Indians had never seen anything
quite like our camp. Tom’s σπλάγχνον once
again was revealed as he quietly served, supported, and encouraged... And in the years since, Tom and Julie have continued to be among
the greatest supporters of Xolos Baseball. Why? σπλάγχνον.
Kisalaya Swing Set ~ Kids LOVED it!
The ministry in Nicaragua went far beyond baseball. There were Legos for the
kids (thanks, Julie). Heavy-duty chain, hardware, seats, and finally
lumber to build an incredible swing set. The joy—oh the joy—of
watching children soar through the rain on those swings, refusing to
come down even as the heavens opened. That was σπλάγχνον
with a smile. Add to that a trip down the Rio Coco, a visit with the
Lees, and more σπλάγχνον for more children.
That was my friend Tom.
~ The art of Kidding Around ~
Around 2017, a different kind of adventure began. We took to the
highways of Oregon—often joined by Craig Ellison. Once joined by
Aaron. And yes, Julie—cover your ears—we may have tested the
land-speed record at a remote Oregon airfield. Someone’s Yamaha may
have won. Tom’s Bumblebee—well—let’s just say it brought up
the rear with dignity.
On one of those rides we became eight-year-old boys all over
again. It was Willowcreek, Oregon... we spent two hours touring an
automative dairy farm—smartphones out—no concern for cow
privacy—taking pictures like giddy schoolchildren. I’ll never
forget Tom laughing that day.
Another time, heading west on US-20 toward 395, Tom was leading.
Craig and I turned. Tom didn’t. A few moments
later—returning—slowing down—laughing—he said, “I was
focused on traffic!” There was no traffic for ten miles in any
direction. Just Oregon trying to hide its corners from us :)
Tom... on 'Tom Road' Ha!
During our second week-long trip, I heard him tell strangers at
least five times, “I’ve lived in Oregon sixty-two years, but with
this guy I’ve seen more in the last two years than in the first
sixty.” Thank you, brother, for saying yes. Even there—σπλάγχνον
rode with us.
We dreamed about Ukraine—youth camps, prisons,
discipleship—never made it there together, but the desire was
there. The σπλάγχνον was there. He was
simply a vessel ready to be poured out.
Julie… Aaron… Ryan… grandkids… family… Tom… Your
husband… your dad… your grandfather… he was a man of
σπλάγχνον.
Tom—my brother—I miss you. I hope the Father has prepared a
Bumblebee for you. I’ll show up on a Goldwing when my time comes.
Until then—thank you for being a real-life example of
σπλάγχνον. Wherever the road led, you
brought σπλάγχνον with you—and into our
world.
"Love fierce, love brave, love first, don't wait, love now" ... Yep... that was Tom :)
For those of you who knew Tom... If you wish, please leave any thoughts that you have of Tom in the comments.
Plus... If you would like to leave a donation for Mercy Projects, for which Tom was ministering along side, please so do with the following link: Mercy Projects
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
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.
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!
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 todescribe
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!
... 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! :)
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