The gift of patience
05/08/15 04:38
I started off yesterday’s blog with an observation about common sense. I’m not sure that you should trust a source such as me for any information about common sense because apparently I lack even the smallest amount of that particular commodity. At least thats how it seems. I can’t come up for any other reason why a normally healthy, apparently sane human being would do what I did yesterday. After a morning appointment and a couple of trips to the church to catch up with some last minute details, we got into our pickup and headed off on our vacation. Without much thought, I took a route that I often take, heading into town, past Baken Park to Omaha and then out Deadwood Avenue to the Interstate.
I knew about the rally. I know where Black Hills Harley Davidson is located. I knew about what they are calling “The Rally at Exit 55.” I just wasn’t thinking about that. I was just thinking about heading west to see our grandchildren.
As a reward for my momentary thoughtlessness, I was given the gift of an opportunity to practice the spiritual art of patience. Patience is, after all, a virtue. There were semi trucks trying to make left turns out of the Windmill truck stop towards the Interstate. There were hundreds of motorcycles at the Windmill. There were thousands of motorcycles trying to get to or from Black Hills Harley Davidson. The Interstate off ramps were backed up onto the main lanes of the highway. Some people were losing patience, and some motorcycles were pushing the limits of the lights (that is going through red lights to squeeze into the line of bikes heading towards the rally venue). There was plenty of cutting into lines and weaving in and out of the very dense traffic. At one point an entire lane of traffic was blocked by a semi that got stranded in the middle of the street trying to make a left turn. The area became totally gridlocked.
It took a half hour to get from the Windmill Truck Stop to the westbound on ramp of the highway. All the while, I was thinking of the many alternative routes I could have taken.
I might have thought, but didn’t say out loud, some of the words we commonly use in prayers. I entertained a few less than kind thoughts about some of the people who were displaying less than polite behaviors. In exchange, I was given the gift of an exercise in patience. I am, after all, on vacation. I do, after all, have time. I wasn’t, after all, in any danger.
And, after we got through that traffic mess, the general flow of traffic at about 60 mph on the Interstate heading west seemed like real speed. I was ready for the bikes that cut us off by passing and then pulling into our lane too close to our truck. I was ready for the thousands of bikes exiting at Spearfish. I was ready for the stream of bikes through Belle Fourche.
I was even driving under the 45 mph speed limit when we got to Colony, WY, where the patrol was waiting to pull over the 5 motorcycles who where speeding up behind me.
OK, I was impressed and surprised by more than a thousand bikes at the bar in Alzada, MT. I don’t remember ever seeing more than three or four vehicles at that bar. And I drive by the Alzada bar quite a bit. Normally they don’t need three volunteers to direct traffic in Alzada. Normally the sheriff doesn’t need two deputies with him to do traffic control in Alzada. It isn’t one of the really big towns.
Ah, but we are on vacation. The trip went smoothly and the route across the Northern Cheyenne and Crow Reservations was familiar and peaceful and beautiful. In a way that is common for that stretch of road, we had a bit of every kind of weather: bright sun and temperatures in the mid nineties; a bit of rain and a sudden cooling to the mid sixties; a stretch of bright sunlight and enough grasshoppers on the windshield to make washing it a chore when we stopped for gas at Hardin; and a glorious view of the Krazy Mountains as we came out of the Yellowstone River Crossing at Reed Point. The view of those mountains always brings me a world of emotions. I grew up in their shadow. Despite decades of living elsewhere they still say “home” whenever they come into sight. The sun growing low behind them and streaking the clouds with brilliant rays made them seem so close and so magnificent.
There were only a handful of motorcycles on main street in my home town and they appeared to be clustered at the Grand, a wonderful hotel for weary travelers. We had supper at the Timber, a bar with a more local flavor and lower prices - not to mention more local food. It is hard to get a good lamb burger in Rapid City, and that’s what I had.
I grew up with parents who didn’t drink and who didn’t even go into the bars. I didn’t know anything of bar culture even though I lived in a town with more bars than churches. There were a half dozen bars in a two block stretch of main street. Sheepmen and cattlemen don’t always mix well and they need their separate bars. The members of the Moose Lodge had to have their own place and a few of the old guys preferred a tiny hole in the wall with a single bartender. We simply didn’t go into any of them. I was an adult and had lived out of town for more than a decade before I discovered that the food was really pretty good at our town’s mainstream institution, the Timber. As I sipped my ice tea and chomped my burger I marveled that it took me so long to find out that you don’t have to drink alcohol to go to a bar.
And our vacation has begun. Time to relax a little. Time to head for those grandchildren whose attraction is so strong. Time to enjoy the rich and diverse culture of this great land. Time to practice patience. It is, after all, a virtue.
I knew about the rally. I know where Black Hills Harley Davidson is located. I knew about what they are calling “The Rally at Exit 55.” I just wasn’t thinking about that. I was just thinking about heading west to see our grandchildren.
As a reward for my momentary thoughtlessness, I was given the gift of an opportunity to practice the spiritual art of patience. Patience is, after all, a virtue. There were semi trucks trying to make left turns out of the Windmill truck stop towards the Interstate. There were hundreds of motorcycles at the Windmill. There were thousands of motorcycles trying to get to or from Black Hills Harley Davidson. The Interstate off ramps were backed up onto the main lanes of the highway. Some people were losing patience, and some motorcycles were pushing the limits of the lights (that is going through red lights to squeeze into the line of bikes heading towards the rally venue). There was plenty of cutting into lines and weaving in and out of the very dense traffic. At one point an entire lane of traffic was blocked by a semi that got stranded in the middle of the street trying to make a left turn. The area became totally gridlocked.
It took a half hour to get from the Windmill Truck Stop to the westbound on ramp of the highway. All the while, I was thinking of the many alternative routes I could have taken.
I might have thought, but didn’t say out loud, some of the words we commonly use in prayers. I entertained a few less than kind thoughts about some of the people who were displaying less than polite behaviors. In exchange, I was given the gift of an exercise in patience. I am, after all, on vacation. I do, after all, have time. I wasn’t, after all, in any danger.
And, after we got through that traffic mess, the general flow of traffic at about 60 mph on the Interstate heading west seemed like real speed. I was ready for the bikes that cut us off by passing and then pulling into our lane too close to our truck. I was ready for the thousands of bikes exiting at Spearfish. I was ready for the stream of bikes through Belle Fourche.
I was even driving under the 45 mph speed limit when we got to Colony, WY, where the patrol was waiting to pull over the 5 motorcycles who where speeding up behind me.
OK, I was impressed and surprised by more than a thousand bikes at the bar in Alzada, MT. I don’t remember ever seeing more than three or four vehicles at that bar. And I drive by the Alzada bar quite a bit. Normally they don’t need three volunteers to direct traffic in Alzada. Normally the sheriff doesn’t need two deputies with him to do traffic control in Alzada. It isn’t one of the really big towns.
Ah, but we are on vacation. The trip went smoothly and the route across the Northern Cheyenne and Crow Reservations was familiar and peaceful and beautiful. In a way that is common for that stretch of road, we had a bit of every kind of weather: bright sun and temperatures in the mid nineties; a bit of rain and a sudden cooling to the mid sixties; a stretch of bright sunlight and enough grasshoppers on the windshield to make washing it a chore when we stopped for gas at Hardin; and a glorious view of the Krazy Mountains as we came out of the Yellowstone River Crossing at Reed Point. The view of those mountains always brings me a world of emotions. I grew up in their shadow. Despite decades of living elsewhere they still say “home” whenever they come into sight. The sun growing low behind them and streaking the clouds with brilliant rays made them seem so close and so magnificent.
There were only a handful of motorcycles on main street in my home town and they appeared to be clustered at the Grand, a wonderful hotel for weary travelers. We had supper at the Timber, a bar with a more local flavor and lower prices - not to mention more local food. It is hard to get a good lamb burger in Rapid City, and that’s what I had.
I grew up with parents who didn’t drink and who didn’t even go into the bars. I didn’t know anything of bar culture even though I lived in a town with more bars than churches. There were a half dozen bars in a two block stretch of main street. Sheepmen and cattlemen don’t always mix well and they need their separate bars. The members of the Moose Lodge had to have their own place and a few of the old guys preferred a tiny hole in the wall with a single bartender. We simply didn’t go into any of them. I was an adult and had lived out of town for more than a decade before I discovered that the food was really pretty good at our town’s mainstream institution, the Timber. As I sipped my ice tea and chomped my burger I marveled that it took me so long to find out that you don’t have to drink alcohol to go to a bar.
And our vacation has begun. Time to relax a little. Time to head for those grandchildren whose attraction is so strong. Time to enjoy the rich and diverse culture of this great land. Time to practice patience. It is, after all, a virtue.