My Life... As A Biker

I’ve heard it said, that a woman becomes a mother the moment she feels the baby move inside her, and a man becomes a father the moment he sees his child. I think it goes something like that. Anyway, now that I have been through the experience twice I can testify of its truthfulness. Long before I felt any connection to the little bag-o-guts, my wife was already loving, thinking, and planning; forming a bond that was months ahead of the one I would one day begin.

There is a little less known saying that goes, a man becomes a biker the first time he hears the roar of a hog motoring down the street, but a woman becomes a biker's wife only after her husband secretly withdraws money out of their joint account, sneaks out, and buys a motorbike. I think it goes like that. I am happy to say that that day has finally arrived, and we are now the proud new parents of a Shadow Aero 750.


My life as a biker is everything I dreamed it would be; freedom, adventure, power, women, bar fights, hell raising, rock ‘n’ roll, wheelies, rumbles, petty crime, superior gas mileage, and the amazing feeling of wind in my short hair. Well, the gas mileage and the part about the wind are true. Everything else is stifled by my strong sense of civic and family responsibility. But for the most part, it’s everything I dreamed it would be.

To those who know me, it may seem that I remain mostly unchanged. They’re probably saying, “Sure he rides a kick-A hog, but it’s still the same old Ben. He still baths and everything.” But I have changed. For those who don’t own a motorbike this may be hard to understand, but I am a brother who comes from a vast fraternity of brothers. No, I’m not black. (Not 100% anyway.) I am the newest member of the family of bikers. To the layperson it may be hard to see the bond of friendship and love we share. (This bond doesn’t include bullet bikers. Nobody likes bullet bikers. Not even themselves.) The idea of such a bond is completely foreign to car drivers, but that is because car drivers hate each other. When you are in a car, the only thing that can make you angrier than social injustice and child abuse is a stupid driver. And when you’re in a hurry, everybody is stupid, except you. But such is not the case among bikers. We live by a higher law. And although you may not see the bond and higher law, it’s there. Don’t believe me? Next time you're driving behind a biker on the highway, watch what he does when he passes another biker. If he thinks you’re not looking he’ll take his left hand and point at the ground at a 45 degree angle.

I quickly learned that this was called the “Signal of Brotherhood” (S.O.B.). At first, I was certain everybody was pulling the “made you look” joke on me. But I figured this wasn’t the case when they never came back to punch me in the arm. Later, I determined they were pointing at Hell, as in, “See you in Hell, bro.” Again, I was mistaken. Finally, I learned that it was a signal of recognition and acceptance, as in, “Hello there brother. I see you, and you see me. We see each other and therefore we are not alone. I do not know you personally, but I love you and am loved of you. If you are ever in trouble, just perform the scream of the Norse god, Kerfluggon, and your brothers will be there, in all their raging furry, to fight on your behalf.”

Upon further research I learned that the S.O.B. was not always performed the way we see it now. Up until 1973 the S.O.B. was a low five. You actually slapped hands with oncoming bikers. You’re probably thinking an actual five is way awesomer than a non-five, and you’d be right. It was way awesomer. But the original S.O.B. was wrought with peril. S.O.B. deaths were not uncommon. But it wasn’t until Sonny “Bones” Wilcox, leader of the Southeast chapter of Hells Angels, S.O.B.’d a passing biker, swerved into an oncoming semi, folded like an accordian on impact sending his butt through the back of his face, and killing him instantly, that the biker community decided to change the way the S.O.B. was performed. Needless to say, the language is changing but the feeling and intent remain the same.

Despite my new adoption into the larger family of bikers, I am convinced that true arrival as a biker does not occur until one is part of a "gang." But rather and join and conform to the rigid traditions of an existing gang, I’ve decided to form my own. That way, I make the rules by which I live. Since the names, “Hells Angels” and “BACA” ,(which turned out to be an acronym about some sissy child advocates group), were already taken I decided to name my gang “The Pillow Fighters.” Right now I am the sole member of the Pillow Fighters, but we’ve got a lot of spirit and I see us doing great things. That said, we are now taking applications for membership and would be happy to consider anyone. So, if you own a hog and would enjoy the association, camaraderie, and fun-loving good times of the Pillow Fighters, then please leave your info and I’ll be in contact.

(All applicants should leave their age, sex, bike type, and a short explanation of why they think they would be a good addition to The Pillow Fighters. Please allow 3 to 5 working days to get back to you.)

BORN TO RIDE! RIDE TO BORN!

Death Of A Friend

I never was one of those guys who enjoyed attaching an undue amount of personification to his car. It never got a nickname like Gertrude, or The Beast, and I never referred to it like someone I was intimately or physically involved with. Nevertheless, I did have a certain fondness for my ’95 Geo Prizm. Partly because it was a gift from my father and partly because it was the means by which I saw so much of this beautiful world. So allow me, for a moment, to suspend my unwillingness to see machines as our equals, because, to be perfectly honest, my car was a truer friend than… well… all my other friends. Shame on them for being outdone by a car.

Gertrude the Beast was born June 27th 1995. I was not her original companion but became so in September 1998 after her original companion ran out on her like a coward. She was maroon, had four wheels, four doors, a great rack, which I liked to attach stuff too, and a trunk big enough for one medium sized body or two small bodies. We seemed to hit it off immediately and were surprised at how closely our interests aligned. We both liked music, air-conditioning, and driving places. We were like peas and carrots.

Within her lifetime she drove exactly 1,605, 250 miles, which is equivalent to driving to the sun and back. She visited every state in the nation, every country in North and South America, drove to Europe twice, Asia once, and is the only four wheeled vehicle to drive on the Great Wall of China.

She was also born with a surprisingly competitive spirit. Before she passed, Gertrude the Beast won three Formula One titles, two NASCAR titles, a motor-cross championship, and an aerial freestyle competition. Other notable accomplishments include the trafficking of displaced African refugees, assisting in the initial invasion of Iraq, personally capturing Sadam Hussein, and hosting Saturday Night Live. Sadly, her competing came to an abrupt end when she was convicted of vehicular dogslaughter in 2002. She pled guilty, paid a heavy fine, but was relieved the court never learned of the vehicular catslaughter, deerslaughter, and minorityslaughter she had also participated in.

Gertrude the Beast was there to see me through college, marriage, the election, the surgery, and the birth of my first two children. I had hoped she would be there for many more years but on the morning of April 14th, 2008, while driving to work she suffered major internal damage due to old age. After I cursed her and kicked her in the side I was immediately filled with regret because a man could not have asked for a better companion or truer friend. She was loved in life and will be missed in death.

Tomorrow she will be taken to the scrap yard, sold for the handsome sum of $100, and crushed. Goodbye old girl.

Valentine To Self

My brother, Tom, and I decided we're tired of being lower-middle class. So, we decided to just go ahead and get rich in the movie industry. But since you have to start somewhere, we've decided to start with short movies that we intend to post here at theunmighty.com at least twice a month. Or, at least as often as possible... but no less than once a year... I hope.

I like to leave a little wiggle room in my goals so it's easier to feel some sense of accomplishment.



Our good friend, Garrett Batty from Three Coin Productions, did all the filming, directing, and editing.

To find this on YouTube type in "Valentine to self." It should be near the top.

All You Need Is...

I’d like to kick this month off right by dedicating my first post to a subject very close to my heart. So close, in fact, that it’s right inside my heart, and I’m not talking about blood… or cholesterol. I’m talking about love. Love, the topic of countless stories, movies, books, poems, and songs, is at the epicenter of fundamental humanity; so important in fact that I dare say The Beatles hit the proverbial nail on the head when they said, “All you need is love.” I mean, think about it. If all we really had were love we’d be just fine. Our days would be filled with purpose, meaning, and happiness. Peace would envelop the world in a warm cocoon of loving squishiness, and we’d never take up arms against our fellow man again. I’ve decided to make that my life’s mantra.

All you need is love.

Well, unless you’re homeless. Then all you need is love, and someplace to sleep where you won’t freeze to death. Other than that, I guess, all you need is love.

Now that I think about it, what about hitchhikers? Forget love. I’ll bet they’d just settle for a ride. Also, I would say amputees’ need more than love. They probably need some kind of major surgery, physical therapy, and then some prosthesis. And as long as I’m brain storming here, what about diabetics? Are you trying to tell me that when their blood sugar plummets that a shot of love is going to save their butts? H no! Best case scenario; their feet get the axe, then they need prosthesis too. Worst case; a fat shot of insulin fast or they're tits up in an hour. And what about drowning victims? Do you think any of them are under water struggling for love? OXYGEN, PEOPLE! That’s all they need! And what about the obese? Don’t try and tell me it’s the lack of love that’s fueling their gluttony. I think they’ve received too much love, and not enough tough-love. What they need is a taskmaster to crack the whip, and knock the Twinkies from their chubby fingered grip when they succumb to temptation, and to push them outdoors and then have them chased through a park by wild, starving dogs. After that, then maybe we’ll talk about some normal love. And don’t get me started on Asian child sweatshop laborers. Do you think any of them are thinking, “Now that all my needs are being met, I could use some love.”? Answer; NO, THEY'RE NOT! They’re going to need a butt-load more than love to make it to adulthood. As their collective legal representative I demand that they receive, 1) Regular workplace safety inspections, 2) A minimum wage equal to that in the U.S., 3) Clothes appropriate for the weather and working conditions, 4) Regular meals where all the four food groups are represented, 5) Dessert, sometimes. 6) Bi-weekly employee socials and mixers where they can meet and mingle and possibly spark a romantic relationship. When these needs are met, the Asian Child Sweatshop Laborers Civil Liberties Union will drop it’s case.

You know what, now that I think about it, The Beatles were naïve, mindless nincompoops. The world needs a lot more than love. My new mantra is as follows; All you need is a warm bed, a ride, exercise, prosthesis, oxygen, minimum wage, and insulin. Love is for the birds.

Born With a Greasy Spoon in His Mouth

If the Burger King married the Dairy Queen and they had a child together, do you think that child would grow up and go into the food service industry or do you think he would pick another field of expertise? Personally, I don't think it's fair to pigeon hole a person into any one area but I also think that he or she would just be wasting the huge resource of knowledge that are his parents. But whatever.

5 Years of Chess

My wife and I are one of those couples of which you hear people say, “If they can make it, anybody can.” Like magnets of a similar polarity our being together defies the laws of nature itself. I used to be jealous of couples who have everything in common and an easy go of marriage; passing the time without contention as all their moments together are filled with an air of pleasant ease. I would ask myself, what are they doing that we are not, to make it seem so easy? My conclusion, nothing; they were just born that way. Some combinations just have to work harder than others. And my feelings about that fact are ambiguous because I have also concluded that our relationship is a great benefit to all contrasting personalities that become entwined in the bonds of matrimony. An observation of our lives provides the observer with an opportunity for growth and education that just can’t be gleaned from those “perfect” couples.

My wife’s sister and her husband, whom we occasionally tease because of how easy AND cheesy their relationship sometimes seems, do not know contention or difficulty and if they did ever have an argument it would sound something like this:

Him: “I love you.”
Her: “I love you more.”
Him: “No, I love you more.”
Her: “No, I love you more.”
Him: “Nuh-uh. I do.”
Her: (affectionately) “Oh honey, I’m sorry for arguing.”
Him: (passionately) “By golly, your peace-making gets me hot.”
(kiss kiss kiss hug hug kiss kiss)
Him: “Go sit down right now! I’m rubbing your feet.”
Her: “Not before I rub yours.”

Not that my wife and I haven’t enjoyed similar exchanges, but ours sounded more like this:

Her: “I love you.”
Me: “I love you more.”
Her: “Yeah, you’re probably right. Now rub my feet!”

Allow me to explain why I’ve been thinking about this.
Before marriage I was one of those idealistic romantics that thought marriage came as a packaged challenge, like a video game, and all people experienced that game at the same level of difficultly. It was supposed to be like Super Mario Brothers on Nintendo. (My choice of metaphor should illustrate how long it’s been since I’ve played video games.) Everyone would have to advance through the same levels to progress to the end and save the princess, which, in this analogy, would represent mastering the art of marriage and never experiencing a hint of trouble again. However, after a few years of marriage and a large amount of interaction with other married couples I learned this is not the case. It is more like playing chess against your computer, but instead of being able to pick which level you wish to begin (beginner, intermediate, or advanced), the computer chooses the level for you.

Let’s stick with this analogy a moment. Once I entered adolescence I began to notice that I liked computers. I knew I liked them but at the same time was fully aware of my incompetence when it came to their inner workings (both hardware and software). I did not understand them and visa versa. Still, I enjoyed being with computers; it felt good. By my mid-twenties I had some limited experience with computers. I used them to type papers for school, checked the occasional email, and searched the net on a very shallow basis. Beyond that I was pretty much computer illiterate. Also, I had always been aware that there were some men out there who were quite well versed in the binary language and some of these men were so familiar with computers that they started playing a game called chess with them. From what they described, chess was a difficult game, but one well worth playing. As it turned out, the levels of success and happiness these men were having at playing their various computers at chess were varied and irregular. Some of them loved the game vowing to never play any other games with any other computers ever again, while some of them didn’t take to the game of chess as well as they thought they might and they gave up and went back to using computers on a limited basis. Some men attempted to trade in their old computers hoping to secure a newer model while they, the men, were still young enough to understand and use new technology. And still some men got angry with their computers claiming their computers were cheating at the game and that it was too hard. “I’ll never play chess again. It costs too much both monetarily and emotionally,” they would say. Some of these men even threw their computers out, and then screamed at them from the window while throwing the computer’s belongings into the street. That said, I was always intrigued with the prospect of one day playing chess with some special computer. And then one day that opportunity presented itself. I had been working with a certain computer for about six months, felt comfortable with it and decided to become a chess player. When I began my game I naïvely thought the computer would start out easy, helping me understand what to do along the way. I told the computer that I wanted to start at the beginner level but to my surprise it said “No. I only play advanced.”
“But I don’t want to play at the advanced level yet. I’m just a beginner.” I explained.
“Well too bad. It’s your own damn fault for asking me to play with you.” It said with finality. And that was that. I was now stuck in a game I barely understood for what was supposed to be forever.

After hearing this analogy some people might say that the energy we’ve had to expend to stay happily married could have been saved had we chosen people more compatible to ourselves in the first place. And to them I say, that it is a moot point since my wife is the girl I fell head-over-heels in love with and when it comes to these types of dilemmas the mind is ill equipped to do battle with the heart. I think our relationship is that much better AND stronger due to the energy we've put into it. Somethings are worth fighting for, and the love of your life should be one of them.

We just celebrated our five-year anniversary this past Friday (Oct. 12th). Wars have been fought, educational degrees have been declared and completed, and hundreds of Hollywood relationships have been born and expired in less time, but it is only the beginning. There will be plenty of time for other young, struggling, passionate couples to look to us and say - “If they can make it, we can too.”

The Delayed Sting of Cupid's Arrow

In this season of love I am compelled to contemplate the nature of romance – compelled by our society, commercialism, and my wife who insists all household upkeep will cease if I fail to contemplate it to the tune of flowers, candy, and gaudy jewelry. I say gaudy not because of my wife’s taste but because I call anything made of precious metal or jewels that you wear “gaudy.” I’m a simple man with a thin wallet.
This is my first multi-kid Valentine’s Day and as I look back I realize how much our relationship has changed since our first Valentine’s together. And not just because all trips outside the house take military-like preparation, but the very nature of our love changes. It is inevitable. Some would say the change is natural and if embraced will lead to a richer, deeper connection with your spouse. Others (me) say, bull crap. This is a rip-off. Allow me to illustrate with one of many examples. No matter what the occasion, Valentine’s included, when I go to bed I can expect that within one to thirty minutes one or both of my children will be lying between my wife and I doing one or more of the following: crying, coughing, moaning, sucking, sneezing, tossing, turning, flailing, or Maggie’s personal favorite – lulling herself to sleep by kneading our neck skin between her fingers. (That one may sound weird but it’s true. It’s like we’re being strangled by an injured, but determined, Chucky.)
As I lay there sleepless with my daughter’s hands on my neck or feet on my face I think how ironic this is. The very product of our love is now lying between us working to dismantle that love. It is as if by some primal instinct they know what they’re doing. Subconsciously they’ve teamed up and are preventing us from bringing competition for resources into this world – a twisted “survival of the fittest” if you will. And they are winning. Lately, most nights, I’m forced by sheer exhaustion into the guest room in hopes of getting enough sleep to sustain me through the next workday, but just as I get comfortable morning comes and there’s Maggie on top of me whining “Food food” while putting her fingers to her mouth (learned from her sign language video) just in case my ears aren’t fully awake yet. I climb out of bed still half asleep and on the way to the kitchen she throws me a knowing smile, this time unaccompanied by a sign only because the video hasn’t yet taught her how to sign “Maggie: 660, Dad:0 – Only 25 more years to go and Mom’s eggs will be all dried up. Now make me some Cheerios sucka!” I accept my defeat the same way every morning. In a blurry stupor I go the kitchen to make Maggie some breakfast while my wife lays in bed on her side to feed Cash like a farm animal who roots until he hits the mother-load. (I think that’s where that word comes from). I pour the cereal and watch Maggie grip and work her spoon with all the coordination of an epileptic in full seizure and as she flings more food than she eats I can’t help but think how these mornings are so un-reminiscent of past childless mornings when my wife and I would wake up late, she would rest her head on my arm, and we would talk about the night’s dreams and whatever else might drift into our minds. Then I stop myself lest I be accused of being married to the past, and softly say - Deeper and richer. Our love is growing deeper and richer.


This is my bed Valentine's night. This picture was not staged.
Now that's Amore!