Editor’s Note: Yes, it is Saint Patrick’s Day. And yes, I am half in the bag already and wearing the emerald sweater of solidarity with our hardy folk who crossed the gray ocean to bring us to this interesting and colorful continent. Better than getting chased around by Vikings, I would think, though I am not sure the Tennessee branch of our Irish line would share my views about the comparative value of being chased around by either Norwegians or Yankees.

And yes, I have been watching the amazing circus here in the Swamp. I dozed last night after dinner to to awake to the news that the deputy director of the FBI had been fired shortly before his retirement eligibility…..or was that a bridge collapse or a mass shooting thing in Florida? Or that other thing, whatever it it was. I get so confused. I always seek solace with Marlow, since his recollections of life on two wheels actually is connected to a sort of reality. And this is as real as it gets.

A pal in Australia wrote this morning to say that a 1968 Beetle had come into the family, and I was compelled to respond. I think my long departed 1968 Beetle (arrest me red, acquired after my first speeding ticket on Woodward Ave in a Charger 440 RT, don’t ask) is a tie with the Panzer- the 2010 Mercedes GLK350- as one of the two best cars I have ever owned. Both built by block-headed Deutchers, and I say that as A Detroit auto kid. Our iron was faster, but the Germans delivered on quality.

I also remember a long-ago night at the cabin in Northern Michigan. I did not have the money to buy a new Beetle battery. I had to start the car every few hours to keep it charged and went out in the pre-dawn chill to run it up the hill and head for Elmira, the village four miles away. I got to operating temperature and with no traffic on the state route, in white snow and sky black as ink, was just going to swing around and head back. “No,” I said to myself. “Pull over and look both ways.”

Dad was a Navy pilot and his unforgiving driving lessons stayed with me all these years.

Good thing. A school bus, pre-staging for the long-distance morning rural run, roared out of the snow and would have t-boned me fair dinkum. You don’t get many of those moments in a life. I sat shaking for a minute,realizing what might have just have happened, then pulled out and drove slowly back to the cabin, realizing that but for Dad’s teaching, I should have been dead.

Erin go Braugh!

– Vic.

Road Deer Hunters

I was long gone early the next morning on my day’s journey, speeding somewhere in the Wisconsin countryside en route northern Indiana. The scenery appeared motionless despite my rocketing speed, since it lacked any perceptible changes for the most part.

I was staring out beyond my handlebars which were angled twenty or more degrees down to the right — strong straight winds were blowing in from my right front quarter. Things were likely gonna change all of sudden I expected. So, I tensed up and tried to become hyper vigilant.

Farm flat road

Dust was blowing, swirling and then shooting across the roadway over the short cropped fields that lined this back country, two laner’s roadsides. I had no horizon — the sky and earth were now bound by a gusting windy dust storm. My joints creaked due to the frozen wind gusts from up north,

Suddenly the sun appeared on my horizon and the bike and I were flying straight and level again. We were moving easily, heading slightly uphill, following the contour of the slope. As we drew closer to the summit, I could see clearly the tracks of the predators that were threatening my in-law. I now was fully clear on how to proceed without violence.

The bike now wound its way over a sharply dropping fall-off through a valley grove of hemlocks. I downshifted twice and released the throttle when I spotted a group of multi-pointed bucks facing me on the road bed ahead. They would have been invisible, had the strong winds and dust still been swirling. They stared at me for a long time, as if they were unafraid as they tracked my forward progress.

The larger ones clocked in at close to 300 pounds on the hoof. Hitting one of the skittish ones would ruin the entire day.

They continued to watch my slow approach, then turned and vanished into the trees. I rolled on the throttle.

The wind picked up again and became much stronger and more insistent. I slowed down as the road was becoming twisty in the forest. The trees seemed to be crying in the rapidly freshening winds.

Another deer appeared, a real monster buck — bigger than any of the previous ones, moving at a very fast trot along the roadside up ahead. Suddenly it stopped. Was it listening or was it measuring my intended course as a hunter would to line up his shot? I saw the moment it snorted. It wheeled toward me and then bounded away.

The buck then reappeared, trotting out of the swirling dust and leaves. Reaching the roadside again, it paused, looking straight at me, and then turned sharply to its left and disappeared.

The bike finally exited the forest, the winds died down, and my heart finally dropped down from the back of my throat.

“Damn!” I softly exclaimed, “Still alive and well . . . ” I then cracked up laughing at the new meaning of the phrase “Open Deer Season,” rolled back on the throttle and became a black-leathered speck on the distant horizon. The bike’s taillight grew small, as the motorcycle dipped over a hill and disappeared.

I would be at my destination well before sunset.

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