Easy riding trip along the T2 (Turquoise Trail), up Sandia (Spanish for watermelon since it looks reddish with dark seed spots) Ridge for photos and back to Santa Fe via other great roads and scenes. The Ridge ride was full of challenging twistiness, switchbacks, no traffic to a 10,700 foot vista. A Steel Forest of communications antennas. Limber pines and lichens are the sole things that can survive up there. Along the way desert wildflowers were a blooming riot among the infrequent cacti. I’m struck by the various shades of green in the brush out here. The light greens reminded me of the aquas I’d only seen previously in the tropical waters of the Caribbean, the Med, and the Pacific.

At least twice during Day 4 and 5 riding, Steve asked me “how do you like my state? (His emphasis not mine.) It’s evident he’s come to love this place as a childhood home that his parents State Department employment provided vagabond traveler upbringing and childhood doesn’t seem to square with. Maybe he’s seeing this with his real inner eyes, those of his ancestors, whose blood he shares and whose presence he may keenly feel.

Roots ain’t available at the various, servant-plentiful, party and workload full, State Department postings in Asia, the Middle East, South America and the beltway. They’re found in surviving extended family members and the written and oral histories and tales over the centuries of Southwest Territory, Kingdom of Mexico, the initial Spaniard arrival, colonization, and frontier life.

Met Steve’s last surviving uncle, Gilbert or as everyone else calls him, Gilly. A WW II navigator/bombardier/pilot in B17s, B24s, B25s, which meant he and his crew flew many more missions than required. He and his entire original crew survived unscathed all these missions. They loved and trusted him from the plaques and keepsakes on his house’s walls and bookshelves. Not displayed was the fact that he rose to the rank of General in the New Mexico Air National Guard.

Now a bedridden, speech impaired, 1998 stroke survivor, he can still speak with prompting. Fully alert and oriented to his surroundings. His airframe is FUBAR but he’s still Fully Combat Ready. He gets around with the assistance of a long-term care insurance provided, care-giving RN — a goateed, custom Harley Shovelhead riding, father of two — making Gilly’s wife’s life bearable and Gilly’s dignified, honorable, graceful, loving and blessed.

We visited Steve’s parents’ graves — somber and meaningful as this was his first visit since his dad Ray’s early 2000 passing.

Met Alice, surviving wife of another Sena brother. One smart tough businesswoman. Watched her charm a local customer buying fiesta dresses. Saw her deal with a silk covered steel fist a begging Chamber of Commerce female type looking for freebies at Alice’s expense. A true brain of her generation who achieved much through a life of hard work. Created and still owns the school bus system for Santa Fe. Her success came at a price. One son died in a motorcycle accident after some long-term illicit substance abuse. She trotted out her usual story that she’ll retire later this year after the end of the upcoming tourist season. She’ll likely die in that store or on her way into work one morning in her late 90s. She loves the hunt too much to give it up for a life of indolence and visiting grandchildren.

Drinks & Dinner with Debbie

Leo, his construction business acquaintance and mentoree, Debbie and Leo’s wife, Barbi, had been having a biweekly cocktail hour (two double olive very dry martinis each) for the past six months to unwind and trade construction stories and talk about their sons. Steve’s and my presence was accommodated by having us prepare and serve deli counter prepared entrees plus a large salad Steve ginned up.

Before supper. Steve and I got an advanced lesson in Leo’s much ballyhooed (by Barbi) culinary skill set. His cheffing consisted of construction site foreman mode issuing Steve, Debbie and me encouragement and observations after eliciting from our unsuspecting mouths words that volunteered ourselves for certain dinner preparation duties. Barbi was at her monthly quilting meeting.

Debbie was a 54-year-old, independent, free speaking, three-year divorcee with two boys in college. An avid and engaging outdoorsperson (Lord forgive me for the foregoing PC neologism but it was freely used during the meal). After her divorce, she became a General Contractor (GC) on her own and supervised Habitat for Humanity (H2) building projects for the local working poor. Both Leo and she have issues with the process of H2 owner selection and volunteer hours monitoring. She, less so than Leo, since she’s new to this, has seen less chiseling. She’s currently the GC for a custom, million-dollar home. Used the term “self-image” way too many times which triggered my new age psycho-babble alert klaxon “whoop whoop whoop . . . .”

We boys were well down the path with paper plates and plastic silverware settings placed on the counter with kitchen stools arranged for seating. The prospect of eating dinner with three engaging dudes proved too much for Debbie. So, she set the table with cloth napkins and made us replace the paper plates and plasticware with stoneware and silver utensils. Leo intervened and saved us from a lace doily moment when she raced off searching for candles for the supper table when he barked, “Okay, Debbie, STOP IT.” She settled for rheostat lowered lighting levels from the dining room’s southwestern styled chandelier.

Our dinner conversation was filled with more construction tales and H2 grousing. But quite suddenly, a new thread began. With both boys now away in college, Debbie admitted that she had recently commenced looking anew for a replacement mate. In view of her interests, it seemed Debbie wouldn’t want any slackers or whiners. She then shared with us her new method to suitability test prospective boyfriends for similar interests. After a successful neutral site demo dinner date, she would invite the unsuspecting leveled up candidate for dinner at her place. Upon his arrival, she would spring her surprise pet trick for the joker to perform before moving his candidacy onward and upward to the promised repast — he had to go out with her on a three mile hike which involved scaling a 3-400 foot high rocky hill out behind her property.

If they can’t hack this or they complain afterwards, she “wouldn’t want to be with them.” Her most recent testee was a mid 40ish lawyer. He wore more acceptable hiking boots upon being informed that they’d be advisable. He failed. She then bemoaned the lack of viable and eligible guys.

To which I playfully retorted: Well, we’ve come a long way from the 1970s. Back then, it was “Debbie Does Dallas.” Now it’s “Debbie Does DeathMarch.” Then the “Dating Game.” Now “First Base After Boot Camp.” We all laughed, but I’m not sure if she got it.

In this new millennium, the post-feminist world has moved well beyond its old Darwinist roots. Looks more and more like a mix of MTV’s Celebrity 2000 & CBS’s Survivor.

Pass me the chips, dip, and another tall cool frosty, my single 40s and 50s male friends. The bar scene is passe. Let’s watch ESPN Classic.

Day 4 miscellany and counts:

Daily Windshield Bug Smash Bingo Game winners: DNP. No qualifying bugs.

Query count for Day 5 remained the same as for days 3 and 4 due to total lack of interested interactions after our first gas stop at an empty station:

Where’re you going? – 5
What’s that? (Steve’s Valkyrie) – 3
Damsels in distress? – 4