Nineteen years ago in Germany...

It was the year 1992.  On a small Army base in Ludwisburg, Germany called Krabbenloch Kaserne.  The month was February and the grounds were covered with snow.  Rowe, known in the Army by her last name 'Lorenzo', was sitting on the window sill of her barracks room.  Although her window was wide open, she didn't feel cold.  Feeling melancholy instead, she was smoking a cigarette and listening to The Smiths.  Deep in thought, she looked down forlornly at some Army buddies meandering towards the mess hall for lunch.  "I just wish I knew where he'll be stationed," she pondered.  It had been a week since she last received a phone call from Abe, known in the Army by his last name 'Hernandez'.  And it had been two weeks since she received his last letter.  She imagined Abe was Morrissey singing to her as he once had, and she felt even more sad.  She glanced longingly at the picture she had of him the last night they went dancing...

Abe and Rowe fell in love while they were in Advanced Individual Training at Fort Gordon, Georgia.  Rowe was in the class ahead of Abe's.  So when Rowe received orders to go to Germany, they said their goodbyes and promised to write often.  But they did not know when they would ever see each other again.  Rumors had been that Abe's class could be sent anywhere.  The couple hoped his orders would at least be in Germany...

"Lorenzo!" Rowe's buddy yelled from outside her barracks room, "I'm starving!  Let's go get some chow at the mess hall!"  Shaken back to reality from her thoughts, Rowe dragged herself off the window sill and trudged outside with her buddy.  Walking down the sidewalk, Rowe noticed a taxi dropping someone off in the distance.  A guy with a standard issue green duffel bag hopped out.  "Hey, doesn't that guy look like Hernandez?" she asked, nudging her buddy.  Rowe peered closer.  "It is Hernandez!"  Abe heard her call and turned.  As if in slow motion, he drops his duffel bag, and the two run towards one another.  Hugging, laughing and kissing, it was a joyful reunion of two soldiers in love...

That November 8th in 1992, we were married.  Nineteen years with my beloved Abe...and I love him now more than ever.  Our marriage could accurately be described as an adventurous motorcycle ride.  Magnificent and glorious, with sunny skies, bright sun and smooth roads.  But there have also been countless rocky patches, numerous thunderstorms, and we've nearly run each other off the highway many times.  But I would do the whole ride over again, as long as we're riding together.  Abe and Rowe, on His ride for at least another nineteen years, as the wheels are spinning... 

Wheels aren't spinning

Cold...wet...rainy...

the wheels will spin tomorrow...

Beloved dance

"Grant me wings that I may fly...my restless soul is longing.  No pain remains, no feeling...eternity awaits...", the Beloved track from VNV Nation echoes in the air.  Their harmony amidst deep bass resonates throughout the club.  On a dark, spanish-tiled dance floor, lasers intermittentlly flood the area with light.  Through the misty cloud of the fog machine, a wave of bodies dressed all in black could be seen.  Each dancer has their own unique style of movement: bizarre, exotic, subdued or brooding.  In unity, the dance floor appears beautifully choreographed. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N939-xgTBrM&feature=related

Ever since Abe and I have met, we have been drawn to dancing, especially to goth-industrial music.  When the right song plays, it speaks to our soul.  We're caught up in the moment, expressing the harmony through a melodious synchronization of dance.  Tonight we're headed to our local goth club, Skandal!  Dancing with my beloved while the wheels (and DJ's) are spinning...

Conspicuous cacophony

Rowe's bike is a Harley Davidson Sportster Iron 883.  Its pipes are stock.  They aren't loud, they don't grumble.  Perhaps the bike was manufactured to be silent and stealthy.  On this particular day, though, something was different.  The day begins as usual before work:  Abe rolls Rowe's bike down from the garage.  Rowe meanders outside, late as usual, but prepared for her usual morning ride.  She hops on the bike, turns it on, and it growls.   It never growled before.  BRmppp...pa..pop..pa..pa..BRmppp.  "Hmm, that's weird," Rowe muses, "engine must be cold".  With her growling engine, she takes off.  At a red light, she stops between two cars, and her pipes continue their conspicuous cacophony.  The drivers in the cars rudely look over at the raucous cause of their early morning awakening.  "No idea why the pipes are acting up, but I think I like this sound of some real pipes!" Rowe ruminates.

Abe later explains that when he had last ridden the bike, he hit some sort of pothole, and probably loosened the pipes somehow.  Not sure whether the bike needs to be fixed and the pipes return to their stock sound.

For just one month, writing for the November Blog Fest is like having new pipes...something different that allows me to collectively gather my thoughts, adding a new view to my daily life.  A fellow blogger in his blog Simple but Significant appropriately describes it, "When you’re trying to create and post a coherent blog everyday, the world looks a little different...Conversations become inspirations, the rough surface of the day is mined for its precious metals, thoughts become words..."

I'm an accountant, not a writer, and as I write this, I'm trying not to over-analyze words, paragraphs, or grammar.  Just jotting down my thoughts through simple stories, sometimes metaphorically using my love of motorcycling.  Oh, and I love using thesaurus.com.  Blogging is an opportunity to utilize vocabulary I otherwise wouldn't use in daily life.  So...beneath the conspicuous cacophony of grumbling pipes, the wheels are spinning...

Roomie spray paint night

Pawn Stars..Diner, Drive-ins and Dives...The Office...the monotonous images of syndication flickered on the television.  Stretched out languidly in front of the mind-numbing set sit Abe and Rowe, completely bored.  "I'm bored, " Rowe laments to Abe.  "Me too," Abe replies half-awake, "whatcha wanna do?"  Couple of moments later, a spark of inspiration hits Rowe.  "Let's tag the fence!" she exclaims, now wide awake.  Abe's head instantly jolts up.  In moments, he is texting Kev:  Come home, time to spray paint...

After dragging about twenty bottles of spray paint from the garage and ensuring adequate music was blaring from the iPod, the threesome furiously get to work.  The smell of spray paint wafted in the air.  On what was once a dreary brown fence, art was created:  psychedelic, mind-altering, hallucinogenic depictions by Kev, aHbe Racer retro vintage bobber with a Live Free metaphor by Abe, and a pictorial message to a friend in Kihei, Maui that Abe and Rowe would like to visit again soon, tagged Mahalo brah by Rowe.

The Abode is home to five of us: Kevin, Abe, Jacqui, Justin, and Rowe.  We have different occupations, come from diverse backgrounds, and we all have distinct personalities.  Our schedules are busy, so it's rare to catch all five of us at home, at the same time.  But I cherish living in community.  Acts 2:42-47 talks about a fellowship of believers.  Although we aren't all believers, I think He put us all under the same roof for a reason.  Maybe just to share life together.  I'm not sure how the fence will look like in the end.  Many more tagging evenings await.  But collectively it should be a work of art, as the wheels are spinning...

Piece

Late night.  All was dark and ominous.  "Would you like a piece??" the guy with the goatee asked Rowe.

Long day working the aHbe Racer booth at a vintage car and moto show in Old Town San Diego.  Abe and Rowe were exhausted.  With the last of their booth stuff packed onto the truck, the duo are approached by two guys who were working the booth next to theirs.  Resembling greasers from the 1950s and sporting chains from their belts, they asked, "Want some refreshments?".  After an hour, the foursome were seen, still on the streets of Old Town, drinking their beers and cajoling. 

Deciding it was time to eat, the foursome make their way to a funky taco shop called Lucha Libre.  Parking could only be found down a dimly lit adjoining street.  Rowe was the first to find a spot to park her bike, while Abe had to continue quite aways up the hill.  Since there was a long line at the taco shop, the two greasers rushed to get in line.  Rowe stood all alone on the sidewalk, still waiting for Abe to park.  The guy with the goatee ran back to Rowe and asked, in a rather serious tone, "Would you like a piece??"  Unsure as to whether the guy meant a piece of gum or candy, Rowe replied, "Nah, that's ok.  We're going to eat right now."  Quizzically, the guy looked at her and said, "No, here...take my switchblade instead."

"Babes, a "piece" is a gun", Abe explained later, gently consoling Rowe for her naivety.  In retrospect, I felt a little embarrassed by my reply, but was grateful that I had comrades ensuring my protection from menacing San Diegans.  A fine night in the lives of aHbe Racer:  refreshing beer, scrumptious tacos, engaging convo, and new friends...piece and all, while the wheels are spinning...

Butterflies

Butterflies.  Deep in the pit of her stomach.  Not overwhelming apprehension, just a mild case of the jitters.  Although Rowe has been riding a motorcycle for five years now, there are moments when anxiety strikes.  Such was the case this morning on her daily commute to work.  As she does every morning, she leisurely makes her way towards the freeway onramp.  Happy as can be, the air was crisp and cool.  On the freeway overpass, waiting for the light to turn green, she glances down at freeway conditions.  Freeflowing, perfect.  The light turns green.  Engine reverberating beneath her, Rowe quickly accelerates onto the freeway.  She manuevers her bike to the carpool lane and speeds at eighty-five miles per hour.

After not too long though, the brake lights from the cars ahead of her start blinking red, one after another.  Red...red...red.  "Oh great," Rowe moans, "not traffic!"  As she draws closer, though, she sees it isn't traffic, but an accident.  Two cars smashed up against the freeway median.  Rowe gulps and the butterflies begin, "What if I was there??  How would I react??  Would I be quick enough??"  Slowly passing the collision, she revs her engine and takes off.  A bit spooked, she only goes sixty mph at first.  Mile after mile, she returns to eight-five mph, the butterflies slowly dissipating...

Not having blogged in over three months, the butterflies now loom.  With each passing month, it just seemed harder and harder to make myself post anything.  Just when I was beginning to think my blogging days were over, my dear sister, Cristin, mentions the November Blog Fest.  One post a day.  A seemingly insurmountable task.  Butterflies loom, but the wheels haven't stopped spinning...