I was told once that hummingbirds never rest. That they beat their wings constantly and that’s why they need so much sugar for energy. This was when I was a little kid. I probably misunderstood what I was told. I had never seen a hummingbird in person. So, I grew up thinking that those poor little birds never got to rest until they died. I felt bad for them. I wondered how hard it is to be constantly flying, always moving. How did their little shoulders not get tired? I assumed they didn’t have feet. I wondered how they could sleep.

Unlike other flying animals, hummingbirds don’t “flap” their wings at all. They move them real fast in a figure eight-pattern. That’s why they can perform maneuvers like alien space craft. The figure eight motion is the secret to their incredible maneuverability. That soft fluttering sound that you can hear when a hummingbird flies past you is the sound a fast figure eight makes.

Even if I could make my arms both do a figure eight at the same time and even if my legs were very, very light and even if I had feathers to lift me up in the air, you wouldn’t hear a soft fluttering sound when I flew by. You would only hear me breathing heavy, coughing and panting as I moved slowly along looking for a place to rest and a fountain of Red Bull.

I have observed with my own eyes and to my relief that hummingbirds can and do rest. They have little legs and feet which they use to perch. But that’s all their feet can do. Grab something and hold it while the little bird catches his or her breath.

I tried to make both of my arms do a figure eight at the same time. I couldn’t do it. Whichever arm I was not concentrating on just made a wobbly oval. I can only make one figure eight at a time. The best I could have done as a hummingbird would have been to skitter around in a circle until something came along and ate me just to stop the annoying one-wing fluttering, and the screaming.

Hummingbirds probably have the best (but possibly the quickest) sex life of any creature on Earth because they have no limitations on position. They practically have total immunity to gravity because the figure eight is a motion that works in any position.

I’m so glad they get to rest.

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Ruminating calms me and pulls my mind far enough from reality to enable me to process something that has left me uneasy. Sometimes I have conversations with people who aren’t there, like it’s a rehearsal for a conflict that I expect to have with someone. Or I want to have answers ready for a conversation that will likely never happen. for instance when I want to tell a person what I think about what she or he did or said. Other times, I try to redo a conversation to come up with a better answer than “Oh, Yeah?” I also ruminate to try to explain things I’ve seen, like an old lady with a pierced tongue. I spoke with a woman recently who could have passed for Mrs. Claus. Her tongue was pierced. That isn’t a bad thing necessarily, but it was unexpected.

As she spoke to me, the sixty-something seemed to carefully choose her words to enhance my viewing experience, as if she knew I was staring at it. Which I was. I watched for it as her lips parted and her language made it appear and disappear like a marble on a Mobius strip.

I realize now that, after the first glimpse of it, I didn’t hear a word she said. It was like when your wife comes home after a girls’ night out and you ask her how it went and, as she’s telling you about what Kathy did with some guy she met at the bar, you see her reflection in the dining room mirror as she pulls her wedding ring out of her purse and slips it back on her finger before she turns around to face you and you lost track of everything but that.

After I walked away, the image of  the bobbing black bean riding her tongue lingered and looped in my memory, the same way watching someone covertly replace her wedding ring might be the only lasting impression of that moment.

I vaguely remember the conversation. I think the conversation went like this:

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but is — here today?” She licked her lower lip with the bottom of her tongue as if she had to think about my question for a few seconds then said she,

“Oh, I’m sorry, she is working from home today. Can I help you with thomething?”

“No thanks,” I said, “I’ll thee her later.”



The Bell

This guy  has a motorcycle, a twenty-nine-year-old Kawasaki. He’s not a biker. He’s just a guy who rides his motorcycle on nice days to get his rebel on. He bought it cheap and for years it ran great. He rode it to work and all-around town on weekends when the wife and kids didn’t need him around.

He started to have intermittent problems. Mysterious problems. He told me about them: “It ran okay until I went over forty, then it started to miss or something, the next day it ran okay up to thirty-five, then it seemed to run out of gas and it wouldn’t idle, the next day it ran great, but I had to jump start it, then it just cut out.” He did his best to figure out what the problem was and he tried to fix it. Sea Foam in the fuel, new spark plugs. bigger spark plug gap. smaller spark plug gap, racing fuel. Leave the gas cap off. Put a new gas cap on. Bypass some fuses. He replaced the battery twice. He YouTubed the shit out of the problem for months and read and reread every Kawasaki forum he could find, but nothing worked.

He gave me updates during the course of the summer on what he had done most recently to fix the bike and what the results were. His problems persisted through the summer. He wasn’t able to find a shop that would work on it. They were all too busy or didn’t want to work on that particular bike–too old. I finally finished a large project I had been working on and offered to see if I could find and fix the problems for him.

He got half-way to my garage before the bike died.

“It’s dead, man. It won’t even turn over!”

I told him I would come get it with my trailer. As we began to load the bike, light rain began to fall. I didn’t pay much attention to it. Then just as I was holding the bike up with one arm and trying to attach the strap to the handlebars with the other, it poured. Iwas the torrent was perfectly timed. As if God said, “Hey Pete! Hold my beer. Watch this!” All of my Jeep’s windows were down. My phone was face up on the hood. I wasn’t wearing underwear beneath my white athletic shorts. I looked up to the sky and asked, “Are you enjoying this?” Lightening flashed and thunder rolled and the sound undulated. The rain stopped as we got the bike into my garage.

I began to check for electrical faults and tested for voltage here and there. I realized what the root problem was when I followed the wiring harness under the motorcycle. He had no bell. My but tightened and the hair on my neck stood at attention. This Kawasaki was in the clutches of a gremlin.

According to the Oxford Living Dictionary, a gremlin is “An imaginary mischievous sprite regarded as responsible for an unexplained mechanical or electronic problem or fault.” Obviously, whoever wrote that definition has never owned a motorcycle or flown a World War II military airplane, which is when gremlins were first identified and given a name.

Gremlins are known by other names: “petite tête de merde,” in France or “kleiner Scheißkopf,“ in Germany both of which translate to “little dick heads” in English. The most compelling proof of gremlins is in the absence of their mischief when the proper measure is taken to keep them away. which is a bell. All of my bikes have bells and my problems are all strictly wear and tear. There’s the proof.

The Bell is not a symbol of guardianship like a Crucifix tattooed over the heart or a necklace made of garlic. The Bell is as necessary to a motorcycle’s reliability as clean gasoline and leather handlebar streamers. It doesn’t need to be made of silver. It doesn’t need to be blessed or subjected to any kind of ritual to be activated. It only needs to hang from the bottom of a motorcycle in such a way that it can ring. The ringing keeps the gremlins away from the bike.

Like a newly erected scarecrow can’t put corn back on the stalks, a bell installed on a broken motorcycle doesn’t fix problems that were preexisting. I still had to figure out what was wrong with the bike and fix it. Eventually I found what the gremlins did. They burnt a wire, slowly so it didn’t completely fail right away, deep inside a connector where it couldn’t be seen. That’s was the original problem. I repaired the wire, then followed the trail of symptoms and resolved the rest of the problems one-at-a-time, a screw missing here, a nicked O-ring there, a little slobber from the float bowls drooling on a vacuum hose. Some of it was age related. Some of it wasn’t.

I got it running. Not like new. It still has a few problems, but it moves under its own power with both cylinders firing most of the time, which is the equivalent of going from a walker to a cane  for someone who broke both legs.

An argument could be made that the bike was just old. It had run it’s race. It was pooped. It’s kickstand was on a banana peel. I fixed everything I could find. Then I installed a Bell to keep the fucking gremlins away.

My Way


I felt listless and unaccomplished when I woke this morning. Dominated by a vague sense of failure, I felt like I had not achieved my life goals, like I hadn’t even clearly defined them. I must have had dull dreams. I was struck, as I drank my first cup of coffee, by my ordinariness. No matter what came before this day, I was still an ordinary person in an ordinary house with an ordinary dog in an ordinary little city.

I felt disappointed. “Are these thoughts triggered by the feeling I woke with, or do I feel this way because my life is mundane and boring?” I wondered. I finished my plain black coffee and decided to take my ordinary dog for a walk through my ordinary neighborhood.

As the dog and I approached a pond, I saw three beautiful birds with only their feet and ankles in the water, waiting motionless for something to happen. “What a tedious life,” I thought, “Standing around all day, only part way into the pond, waiting for a meal to appear. Every day must be the same as every other day.” Right then, those birds represented every missed opportunity, every unremarkeable moment of my life.

My past rushed forward so quickly it took me by surprise. The scene before me combined with the warmth of the sunshine, the feel of soft wet grass underfoot, the songs of the Birds and the smell of warm earth to trigger Deja vu. I tried to process the feeling. I searched my memory to put this moment in perspective. My mind searched through thousands of similar sensory events.

I’ve experienced many sunny September mornings. The days flashed like a blurred side show of time snippets. An engagement broken in a park near a library, a funeral with military honors, a wedding, a car crash, a wrong turn into a beautiful garden, lost innocence.

That compression of experience came as I looked and felt and smelled and listened. I realized I have come a long way to get to this moment in this place. I have seen many beautiful things in many beautiful places.

“I’m not ordinary,” I thought, “I’ve lived a life that’s full and I’ve traveled every highway.” But there’s so much more to my life than that. “Much more than this,” I thought, looking at the pond and the birds. Sure, I let a few fish get away. Everyone has. That’s what these birds represented to me, missed opportunities. But missed opportunities are only a part of the picture.

Egrets, I’ve had a few. But then again, too few to mention. I did what I had to do. I paved my roads with good intention.



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Truth Endures

There’s a framed quote on a wall in my doctor’s business office that says “If it has Tits or Wheels it will give you Problems.” I saw it as I looked through his open door on my way to the exam room. I thought of my ex-wife, then my Triumph 750 Bonneville. They were both wired badly.

She, the wife, couldn’t live in a stable environment. There must have been bare wires rubbing and sparking inside her head, Tesla’s nightmare. And mine. She could be wonderful in the morning. And something quite unpleasant and impossible to please or reason with in the afternoon. There was no way to account for the change. Some hidden defect, a swollen neuron rubbing against its neighbor, a faulty synapse here, an extra chemical receptor there. Or, was it my fault? I’ll never know.

One morning we made love first thing. It was beautiful. I went to work feeling great, knowing that I had married her for good reasons. That afternoon, just after lunch, she called me at work and screamed at me over the phone. She listed a catalog of unfounded character defects which, if they were true, would have surely prevented the activities that made that morning seem like a gift from heaven. I left her shortly after that.

The Bonneville was like that too. On a good day, when I started it in the morning, it loped and thumped at idle with an encouraging rhythm: OK-OK-OK-OK-OK. It was beautiful, responsive, smooth running through the gears, a pleasure to put my hands on and ride.

But its issues, like the wife’s, were buried deep and mysterious. The positive-grounded, six-volt wiring harness and the various Lucas electrical components functioned and failed like it had its own set of secret physical laws. The fuel system was such that when there were problems with the carburetors the symptoms mimicked faulty ignition components.

The Bonneville was prone to flat tires, but there were no leaks in the inner tubes.  There was always something that needed attention. Low air pressure, a stuck float here, a clogged jet there, shorted points. I couldn’t find a pattern to the failures. What is my fault? I’ll never know.

On a bad day, by noon or by the time I was halfway to wherever I wanted to be, a cylinder would stop firing then start firing again for no obvious reason. On a trip from New Jersey back to Chicago on Interstate 80 in Ohio at twelve thirty in the morning, it began to spit and sputter. I found that if I closed the petcock at the fuel tank the engine smoothed out until it starved. I rode the last four hundred miles working that petcock to keep it running. Eventually, it got me home.

I took the whole bike apart after that, stripped it to the frame in the living room of my ground-floor apartment. I carried the parts around from one storage locker to the next like the bones of a sacred ancestor. I had plans for it. Years later, after being taunted by the smell of oily, dirty, oxidizing parts in the attic of my garage, I started to bring it back to life piece by piece. Until I fell in love with another woman for a while. I sold the Bonneville as a collection of parts.

For a long time I was without either a woman or a motorcycle. I still had problems. Now I have three bikes. I was at the doctor’s office to have stitches removed after the newest member of the family started to fall off the lift. I caught it with the top of my head. That was close.

As the doc worked the stitches out of my scalp I asked him if he rode a motorcycle and told him I read the little framed statement on the wall in his office. It turned out that the doctor’s ex-wife is an ornithologist. The couple were in the Himalayas attempting to reintroduce a pair of rufous-vented tits, “very small birds like chickadees” he said, to their native habitat. But the Land Rover he rented, which was also powered by Lucas electrics and had bad tires, kept breaking down.

They had to let the delicate little birds go free in the wrong area because they couldn’t get far enough up the mountain. The wife blamed him. He blamed the Rover. She told him he was a worthless shit. He left her after that. He didn’t want to forget what he had learned on that trip. So, he had that reminder printed and framed.