​Many years ago, my wife and I made a fairly significant decision to buy books. Less and less books were being sold at the time, and that is even more true today. We did it as a “purposefully purchase.” I felt it was important to support authors and she agreed, so we made an extra effort to buy books to support authors.

It seems to me that effort is important then and now for multiple reasons. As almost everyone faces a limited budget in their lives, you have to decide where you want to put any side money. Do you want to plan for vacations and save for years to take a long, exotic get-away? Do you decide to explore a nice new restaurant once a month?
 
You can save your money to put into fun ventures. Or you can save your money and put it into a purposeful purchase to support something you believe in.

Many of us contribute to a cause. It might be supporting land restoration or preventing a historic national landmark from being torn down. You could decide to help others by giving money to a food bank or local charity to rescue animals.
 
Purposeful purchasing is a bit of a different animal. You believe in the product or what stands behind the product. In the case for my wife and I, we believe writers, as an increasingly endangered species due to the lack of reading and low pay, can use additional support.

No, we are not changing the world. Authors aren’t going to survive because we bought 73 books between the two of us last year. They’ll still be slogging away working as waitresses and waiters, bartenders and ski lift operators so that in their spare time they can tickle the keyboard with an idea that may germinate into something bigger to entertain and enlighten those who flip the pages, whether the book is on paper or an electronic version.
 
You’ll send a message – we believe the effort you’ve invested in becoming a writer deserves some reward in terms of a reasonable living wage. And even with our contributions, that will not be realized by the huge majority of writers. They will continue to toil, with a small audience at best, writing in their spare time because it is an act of love.
 
As a creative endeavor, writing requires not only an idea generation mode, but also a LOT of hard work and discipline to bring a novel, collection of essays, nonfiction book, or an assortment of poems to the finish line. You start with a concept, write thoughts down, do an outline, dig into research, interview others, as necessary. You write and edit. You have others look at your work provide comments and insights. And you revise and revise before any semblance of a final product arrives.
 
There are a lot of people who think they are writers today who are not. They slam a few words down and click a button and think they’ve emitted something profound, when generally speaking the more profound statements come after tediously working through a process to come to a conclusion worth sharing.
 
It’s important to support writers. They are a unique breed, humans who take extra time to think through how the world turns. We need them now more than ever.

​
CYCLING NOMAD 1982
Chapter 5
Chased

One of the scary issues about bicycling across the country is the uncertainty. You don’t know the upcoming terrain. You don’t know what the weather holds. You don’t know who or what you’ll encounter while riding or setting up your camp at the end of the day.
So far, I’ve been lucky. Everyone I’ve met has been wonderful, kind, helpful. That can’t hold, and it doesn’t.
​
After another long day (I’m averaging 60-100 miles per day at this point in the trip), I again pedal into a small town with no place to stay. There’s no city park, no camp grounds anywhere nearby.

I can use a shower and a roof overhead for protection against more impending spring storms, so I seek out the local Salvation Army. They’re supposed to be accepting.

It’s clear when I arrive that I’m breaking in to a clique. The guy who runs the building has several local buddies hanging out with him and I’m intruding. Brad (we’ll call the guy running the show) doesn’t want me there as he shoots me dirty looks and talks down to me. I don’t know what I’ve walked into, but don’t want to look for another place, so I keep up the dialogue.
His grumpiness recedes ever-so-slightly after we talk more, but he’s still frowning, yacking with his buddies and doing his best to ignore me in hopes that I’ll go away. After a bit, we sit down for dinner, say our prayers and dig in. It’s typical dorm-type, industrial strength chow, but hits the spot. The two other guys staying in the shelter for the night start asking me questions. Slowly we bond. They see I’m not a bad guy.

When you bike long distances, you become the permanent stranger, hat in hand, the vagabond those you encounter have no way of knowing whether to trust, help or attack. Because you’re frequently in positions where people could take advantage of you, it’s important to show you aren’t a threat. The more real threat comes from those whose actions are directed at a bicyclist. There’s nothing to stop something bad from happening to me. I’m alone. I have no witnesses defending me. I must rely on wits and good will. The good ‘ol boy network is alive and well at this Salvation Army.

I have my book to read. Brad takes my bike and stores it out back. It’s lights out early.
Morning comes and Brad seems more approachable. He greets me with a smile to start the morning. He’s firing up grits and eggs on the griddle. It’s filling. All three men pepper me with questions, wanting to know what Milwaukee is like, why I decided on the journey, where the physically most difficult days were.

The conversation transforms Brad. He opens up, smiles, asks questions. Whether he just had a good night sleep or the grits and coffee hit him right, he’s a new man this morning. It does appear that he’s come to some form of consideration over night to accept me into the fold. How will he look back on this encounter? I hope it is with openness.
​
Brad heads out and brings my bike back, shaking my hand, smiling, wishing me well. Another brief positive connection created. It’s a good feeling as I pedal off.
+++
I haven’t met many other bicyclists out touring. That surprises me a bit. It might be that I’ve headed south and there aren’t as many riders in this part of the country. Or it might be that I’ve taken a route in the middle of nowhere, through the Arkansas Ozarks.

That’s about to change in an unexpected way. As I’m heading through another small town, a young man charges out in the road, waving his arms at me to stop. I pull over. He asks where I’m headed and I respond, “Down to Dallas to see my brother and sister-in-law, then up to Kansas, out to Colorado, over to Washington state, then into British Columbia and back through the southern section of Canada to Minnesota and Wisconsin. He’s wide-eyed. He wants to know if we can grab dinner so he can quiz me on the trip. I readily agree.

When he gets off work, I meet him and another buddy and we get food and head to his place for a few beers and to eat. He wants to do exactly what I’m doing. Tony (could be his real name) recently graduated from high school and is working at the local hardware store. He’s tall, rangy, with long blond hair. He’s enthusiastic about the trip and wants to join me, but doesn’t have the gear at this point.

My initial impressions are this is a great guy open to the world and its possibilities. He’s been nowhere in his life. He’s lived in a small town and never traveled beyond a state or two around his home. But he wants to. He wants to explore. A bicycle for him is a natural way to do this, meeting others, seeing the United States, expanding his horizons. I sense his need for this, to do more with his life, maybe answer some questions we all have during those teenage and early adult of years of, “What else is out there?”

My advice to him: “If you want to do it, go for it. You need a bike, tent and sleeping bag, some minimal clothes and money for the length of your trip.” I repeatedly encourage him to do it if he’s passionate about exploring the country. We finish eating and I head off as there is still enough daylight left to get a few more miles down the road. It’s not the last I’ll hear of Tony.
+++

Finding a place to sleep is a daily challenge. As I reach the western edge of Arkansas, I stop in a local supermarket and strike up a conversation with a young assistant manager in the dairy section. He’s intrigued with my trip and offers his church’s bus as an overnight place to sleep. More big thunderstorms loom for the area, and I readily accept the offer.

I wait for him to get off his shift, toss my bike in the back of his small white Ford Ranger pickup and we’re off to Oklahoma. It’s a huge historical lesson as Will goes on and on and on about the paper mill we pass, the logging operation up the road. He tells me about the closed businesses, the challenge of finding a halfway decent job in the area, and his church’s preacher.

“Father Jeb likes to preach.”

“How long is his normal sermon?”

“Aww, he’ll be talkin’ for two or two-and-a-half hours.”

My jaw drops, “Uh, you mean he’ll still be preaching when we get there?”

“Yeah, he’s only about half hour in right now. When we get there, he’ll be about half done, so we’ll be able to hear him for about another hour or so.”

I’ve never heard of a sermon that long. It’s a Pentecostal church, Will explains. All that means to me is they speak in tongues and handle snakes. In other words, I know nothing about Pentecostal services. I’m looking forward to the experience though.

The preacher is in full swing as we walk down the aisle and slide in next to Will’s wife and two young children. The “AMENS” are flying, the preacher is ranting about wicked Oklahoma politicians taking $100 and $200 bribes and how they’ll rot in hell. Spit is flying from his mouth. His face looks like a ripe tomato. I swivel around and watch as you hear from various parts of the congregation, “That’s right Jesus. Shame on them. PRAISE THE LORD. Preach it brother!”
The preacher’s cadence picks up as the wailing and support from the congregation increases. He plays his audience like a fine fiddle. Will’s kids are playing in the pew, punching each other and laughing, as Will and his wife nod and chant with the others.

Will is correct, and the preaching lasts a good while longer. When he is exhausted, I am brought out for display like a newly minted android. “I met this here young guy back at the supermarket and thought I’d bring him along to the service. He seemed like a nice man and I told him he could sleep in our church bus for the night.”

Everyone steps up to the newcomer, eyes wide, shaking my hand, “Glad to have you. Thank you for attending. Pleasure to meet you. God bless.” It’s a bit intense, but I hold my own. A prayer session follows and attendees are encouraged to find their comfortable place to pray. I kneel and give thanks for the kindness given to me on the trip, the help so many have provided, and for my personal safety.

As I’m silently sending my prayers, I hear wailing and crying. I open one eye. Will is rocking on his knees and very loudly chanting, “I want to thank you Jesus for everything you’ve done for me,” then he totally breaks down in tears. I’m flummoxed about what to do.

I open my other eye to look around. People have scurried off to different corners of the church, almost like bugs and are leaning, rocking, wailing, crying, screaming and chanting their message to Christ. I’m fascinated. Will’s kids continue punching each other playfully, hopping up and down and climbing on the pews like kids everywhere.

When the prayer session ends, I’m surrounded by well wishers as we walk to the front of the church to get some food and locate the bus. In the back, there is a man in convulsions, legs and arms flailing. This concerns me. Two people appear to be subduing him. “What’s going on?,” I ask.

“Oh, he’s getting the holy spirit,” Will explains.

“What do you mean?”

“They’re laying hands on him to bring the Holy Spirit into him and heal him.”

After some homemade peanut brittle, I’m escorted out to the yellow school bus. It smells like every yellow school bus you’ve ever ridden in. I leave my bike up front, unpack my sleeping bag, and thank Will for his kindness. It promises to be another booming night.

Sure enough, massive storms rock the bus and I say some more prayers of thanks for Will, these kind people and the yellow school bus that protects me for another day.
+++

​There needs to be a new rule for the NBA playoffs: the team that whines the most loses. That might eliminate some of the incessant playoff gamesmanship and complaining.

I have not been a big NBA fan for many years. Come playoff time, I watch a bit of a game here, five minutes there, but almost never a full game.
 
One of the big turnoffs is the constant whining to the officials, shoulder shrugging, arms extended out with the expression, “WHO, ME?” YES, YOU! You committed the foul. Now run back down to the other end of the court and play defense.
 
The Golden State Warriors have taken their peevish behavior to new heights this year, bordering on several players contending for WWE (World Wrestling Entertainment) status. Notice how the word “entertainment” is in that title, not “sport.” That’s where the acting is going in the NBA if you watched any snippets of James Harden of the Houston Rockets, and Kevin Durant, Stephen Curry, Draymond Green and Andre Iguodala, the petulant and irritable foursome of the Warriors.

Iguodala, has, if you watch closely, NEVER COMMITTED A FOUL IN HIS PROFESSIONAL LIFE. Just ask him. He’ll plead his case, shake his head, wave his hand at the official, give his “big-eyed” look like he’s the most innocent player on the planet.

“Hey Andre, you know what? That WAS a foul. And YOU committed it.” Now shut up and go play.
 
Harden and Curry love to act. Beyond the fact that they tried out for WWE this past playoff series, egging on the fans, looking for their encouragement, like the fans get to make the calls (NOT!), you’d think they might want to go to Hollywood or Broadway with their brilliant acting skills, repeatedly attempting to snow the officials through tricks, facial expressions and cheap moves they make on the court.

They’ve forgotten how to play basketball, and the NBA is worse off because of it. I’m astounded at how many pure basketball fans I know who’ve come up to me this year and said the NBA is in deep trouble based on the belligerence of the players.
 
There are solutions. Fines can be increased. The league can crack down through its officials on bad behavior of players.

Maybe they could even consider keeping a “whine” count throughout the game and create some form of penalty for chronic crankiness. Grouch a certain amount and the opposing team is granted extra points. Exceed a certain level of grouchiness and you are banned to your bedroom or you have to stand at attention facing the crowd, with no expression on your face while the crowd is allowed to boo you for 60 seconds.
 
You’ll see that it’s the elite players who snap the most. The young guys, the up-and-comers who are hungry, fight through the picks, absorb contact, push the ball, want to get reps. They’re sharing the ball, playing through contact, seeking the win through their actions, not by trying the manipulate the officials into making a call.
 
It will be interesting to see if the NBA even cares about this. Do they want to stop the crabbiness, arguing and finger pointing?
 
Sadly, it seems to more of our culture these days as people look to blame others for any little thing that happens instead of taking responsibility, picking yourself up and moving on. It’s time we all root for the team that whines the least.

​It’s safe to say we live in an over-hyped world. Snake oil abounds.
 
“Try DEF oil and you’ll never have another ache or pain again. AND you’ll sleep like a baby.”


“Our new air fryer crisps up frozen French fries just like you get them at Burger King. And there’s no grease, so no calories. AND, they taste delicious.”
 
“Hank Honkiteer can’t miss in this year’s NFL draft. Guaranteed he’s a first rounder and expect to see him in the Hall of Fame 20 years from now.”
 
Unless in some unfathomable remarkable way (please tell us how you do it), messages like those above reach your eyes and ears at least occasionally, but more likely on a regular basis. You hear the hype so much that you may turn off the TV, not read any newspapers or online news, or maybe, GASP, stop glancing at your social media accounts.
 
But, I would reckon most people continue to mosey on their way without changing their behavior. So, if you happened to be bored a week-a-half ago, and happen to be an NFL fan or sports fan in general, it’s possible you tuned into the over-hyped NFL draft day routine.  The travesty that now is called an “event drawing 600,000 fans over several days.” Hard to believe. Next year is in Vegas and they expect a bigger spectacle.
 
Anyway…… I had a mild curiosity to see if Kyler Murray, a quarterback from Oklahoma University, would be taken as the first pick in the draft by the Arizona Cardinals. There were several reasons for my curiosity.
 

1. He would be the shortest quarterback in the NFL.
2. He’d been drafted and signed to play major league baseball, but gave it up to enter the NFL draft.
3. He is one of the quickest, headiest quarterbacks I’ve ever watched in college football and I’m not a young guy.
4. He has high level pro sports pedigree through his dad.

 
There was intrigue. It was pretty clear from all sports analysts that Murray would go number one, so there wasn’t much tension about the pick.
 
Until you got to the draft. OMG.
 
You’d have thought we were waiting for the next nuclear strike. Kyler Murray this. “Does Kyler Murray wear boxers or briefs? Will Kyler Murray celebrate with a steak dinner or hamburger? What’s Kyler Murray’s favorite color?” Kyler Murray this, Kyler Murray that.

I actually felt bad for the guy. GET THE DAMN DRAFT STARTED. WE ALL KNOW WHAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN.

BUT NO! The powers that be must continue to hype for 15 minutes before the Cardinals can announce (or perhaps it’s “do” announce, since they might have milked that 15 minutes for their own hyped purposes) that Kyler Murray is indeed the number one pick in the NFL draft.

I had thought about watching more of the draft. But since it had been the most boring 15 minutes of my life leading up to the announcement of his selection, I thought, “Do I want to listen to more hype?” Nope.
 
Turned the TV off. Read a book. Went to bed. The sun rose again the next day. I could read about the results and analyses in the newspaper if I cared to.
 
And the draft went on. And on. And on. Fans cheered, went nuts. I went to work, ate and slept. I am happy with my decision.