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Patriot Act My first Patriot Guard Mission a year or two ago March : Working at a retail Auto operation I don’t get much time off these days, so when my buddy suggested that we take that Friday and travel to Westminster Maryland, and it was going to be over 70 degrees – I was in! Tony a former Marine, and myself are avid motorcyclists, and we both own V Star motorcycles. When I asked why Maryland? – Tony went on to explain that we would join up with the Patriot Guard Riders Motorcycle Organization and that we would be attending the funeral of a twenty-year-old Lance Cpl. Matthew Snyder who died while on duty in Iraq this week. Tony went on to explain that we would be needed to stand guard for the family of the deceased, because militant protestors were planning to disrupt the funeral ceremonies. I was a member of the Viet Nam Era, and vivid images of protests of the past began to crowd my memory. Although not a veteran myself I always had the utmost respect for those who sacrificed their lives so that the rest of us could live in peace. I couldn’t reconcile why anyone would bring further misery to a family of someone who had paid the supreme sacrifice. So I immediately agreed to the 150-mile journey from Doylestown Pa. to Westminster Maryland, on the morning of March 10, 2004. It was relatively warm and there was only a slight drizzle when we shoved off that morning at 5am. Tony took the lead and we headed down rte 611 to the Pa Turnpike and 476 South. After sunrise we pulled over and I switched from glasses to goggles for better protection from the sun and we proceeded on. Tony rides a full dress machine with a windshield and had two large American Flags strapped to the back of his bike. My machine is an 1100 Custom, which is chopped and has little in the way of extras, and no windshield. This caused some distress that day because I was being buffeted by 50 mph wind gusts and had to crouch low and forward to duck the airflow as we zipped along at 80 mph. In Delaware we met up with two more riders at a truck stop. After introductions the four of us headed down 95 in staggered formation, then took 695 West to 795 North and arrived at the staging area in Westminster at about 8:30 am. Initially we encountered about thirty bikers, but within an hour our group grew substantially. We were joined by a couple of trikes sporting large American flags, and a jeep or two. Soon a cotillion of State police bikers arrived and it was off to St. John’s Church a few miles away. We were about a hundred strong as we rode up to the church past the protesters. As we rounded the bend, I caught a glimpse of a poster that read “Faggot”, and wondered what type of misfits were protesting. We assembled in the church lot and parked our bikes. The group leader called us together and explained the mission. We were present to honor the family of the deceased soldier, and to form a barrier between the protestors and the church where the service was being held. It was to be a non-violent and silent action on our part, in order to send a message to both the protesters and family alike. It was an eerie feeling as I stepped out onto that field and joined ranks with the veterans. I felt proud of what we were about to do. We then proceeded to march military fashion and formed a human wall between the protesters and the nearby catholic school. Many of us were carrying large American flags and faced down the protesting group. Then we were commanded to do an about face and turned our backs on the protesters and saluted the family before us. The leader of our group explained that he wasn’t a preacher but would state our purpose that day. He went on to say that hundreds of years ago free men came together to set up a nation based on certain human rights and principles for “We the People” – you and me. And that “We the people”, set up a militia to protect our form of government for “WE the people”, you and me. That the family inside made up of members of “We the people”, sent their son to fight for “We the people” in the war Iraq. That young man paid the ultimate sacrifice for “We the people”- you and me. That this young man and his family deserved our respect and our thanks and that we would honor him today by blocking out the view of those behind us. I was very moved by his speech. The protesters began singing a shameful parody of “God Hates America”. In turn someone shouted out that we could sing better than that, and we responded with God Bless America. We then brought around several Harleys and let them idle to block out any further distractions. As this was going on members of the family came out to the grounds and expressed their appreciation for what we were doing. A teacher from the school addressed us to say that the sixth graders looking out their windows gave us a standing ovation. Once the protesters were disbanded (their permit ran out) we proceed to the church and formed an honor guard of American flags at either side of the entrance. The children from the school filed out in their plaid uniforms and lined the sidewalk across from the church and stood in perfect attention for about forty minutes until the Marine honor guard carried the soldier to the awaiting hearse. We all mounted at that point and escorted the hearse the twenty miles to the cemetery, where he was buried with full military honors. All along the route the intersections were blocked and we proceeded nonstop as people stood outside their businesses and watch and even saluted as we passed by. Whether you agree with this war or not, whether you are Republican or Democrat, hawk or dove; basic human dignity dictates that you respect the fallen soldier. For it is by his action that your very right to agreement or dissent is guaranteed. Most of the cameras and reporters hovered around the protesters that day. Not much attention was focused on our group. I was very proud of those I joined with, and shed a few tears that day. When I got home I did some research on the people that were protesting. Take a good look at what they stand for. I have included a news tape in the link, which accompanies this email. www.wjz.com/video/?id=16051@wjz.dayport.com

Tags: Riding With The Patriot Guard

Stealth Rider, I don't remember exactly when it was I decided to slip my factory pipes back onto my V Star 1100. My friends on their Harleys didn't like the quiet sound of my bike. It offended their macho sensibilities, which equate loud noise with masculinity. Next to theirs, it barely whispered. So I gave in to the macho vroom-vroom for a couple of years slapping on a set of loud pipes until I noticed my hearing wasn't so good on the cell phone anymore. Then one day out of the blue I switched back. Its on days like this that I really appreciate that move I made. Gliding along at a moderate speed between the glimmers of light, which cut laser-like through the trees. As I wind my way quietly along another country road, the cool wind wrapping my body in a refreshing jacket of peaceful crispness. I float like a butterfly and zip like an arrow which builds up a stream of air resistance around it. The only detectable noise is the rush of the wind. I am invisible and inaudible. Yet I pierce reality like a dart. I offend no one, neither animal, nature nor man. I feel like a paintbrush on a soft canvas. Fully integrated with the reality I appear in. Huge white wings unfurl behind me, as my bike morphs first into a gallant steed and then into a soaring glider. Along the Delaware, and through open fields, meadows, and winding roads, to the crest of a hill to catch the sunset I glide alone. Amid the creatures of the forest that barely notice me; amid the tranquil waters and mountaintops I sail. Sometimes like a bullet from a silenced barrel, at others like a spear hurled accurately toward its target. The noble horseman, angel of light, the unobserved observer. Kick it down a few notches coast undetected at forty. Breathing in the aromas of the forest as shades of light and dark dance before me. Birds cross in front and play tag with my helmet. I am upon a carpet, a magical and powerful instrument of propulsion whose deep rhythmic thud is like the heart of a long-distance runner. We are one, man and machine indivisible. We are spirit, we are pure thought, and we are alive. I like the solitude my bike affords, the opportunity to meditate as I drift along. I often pray when out on the road. I feel close to God and fellow man, transfixed upon this icon of unfettered freedom. The quiet makes it all possible. One does not need to be loud to be powerful. I move mountains of thought, and create peaceful harmony in the process. When I am quiet, I am in Him and he is in me, and together we are one. In quiet I hear the voices of angels. I hear my own heart speak to me. I feel the exhilaration of being in the here and now. I am a stealth rider upon a wave of beauty, a ripple in the stream of life. Christopher Cole view all images

Tags: Quiet Zen Riding

I came to Woodstock to Die in 1969 - an angel saved my life.... I knew it would happen. Its 3:00 am in the morning and I can't sleep. I'm thinking about the trip I made Saturday back to Bethel NY, the site of the original Woodstock Festival. I had arrived here once before in 1969, now 39 years later I embraced the woman then a girl who had saved my life. I had arrived upon the shores of White Lake way back then, on an old junker motorcycle, a suicide machine as battered and beat up as my own mind and body. The fact that either the bike or I made the hundred-mile trip the first time was quite remarkable in itself. I was a broken young man. One who set out to save the world only to become overcome by the waves of evil and despair, which pervaded the reality I found myself in, in 1960's America. I was deaf to the phrase "I love you" from those that mattered most, I was dumb to the ways of the world as I emerged from an autistic mind set, and blinded to any possibility of overcoming the deep feelings of angst and alienation which weighed down heavily upon me. It was upon that very bike, stoned and unable to see clearly through darkened sun- glasses I hurled myself at incredible speeds towards wooden telephone poles at night both on the winding road that ran through my mind and where I actually travelled in the real world. Knowing that a centimeter closer and it would be all over. I was a seminarian who had faltered, ill equipped to battle the existential windmills of grief placed before me. I carried the hopes and aspirations of my monsignor, my parish, and the small Village of Irvington NY upon my shoulders: and I was losing the battle. Unable to fathom the chaos before me (civil unrest, assassinations, war) I drugged and drank myself into oblivion falling backwards into locked church doors-ways in the middle of the night. And as I look at this picture I am brought to tears. There in front of me stands a woman, now a grandmother. Behind her looms the Bethel Woods Museum, on the very spot we spent three days in the mud together so many years ago. She is checking in on the grandkids - our grandkids! The irony is quite profound. Stuck in traffic on my bike off 17b in August of 1969 a young seventeen girl opened the door and exited the car in front of me. As she walked shoeless toward me, her waist-long hair blowing gently in the breeze, little did I know my life would be changed forever? She asked if I would take her down the side of the road on my bike, to wait for the traffic to clear. I agreed and rode toward the Woodstock festival site with a shoeless Maria. We waited for hours, the car never made it. After several attempts to locate the car, we embraced each other, and rode together into the concert. The rest is history. Christopher Cole August 10, 2008

Tags: Woodstock

Woodstock Ronins - a Call to Arms!

As I am swept through the lush overgrown farmland surrounding New Hope Pennsylvania, I can't help but reflect upon Woodstock New York where I spent a great part of my youth. Indeed I am one of the 500,000 who attended the Woodstock Festival held in Bethel in the summer of 1969. That event literally changed my life. I had a motorcycle back then also.  I rode it to the festival where I got stuck in traffic. A girl hopped onto the back of my machine. She has remained my wife for thirty-eight years.

 As a grandfather, it truly amazes me how many people young and old identify with this event, which took place nearly forty years ago. I believe it is because Woodstock has become the cultural and spiritual icon in the collective consciousness of America. Sitting in the mud way back then I had no idea that life would have taken me this far, and I would be living in this current reality.

 The picture of my current V Star is the wallpaper on my computer at work. It often evokes comments, and the subject of the sixties and Woodstock often arises as a result of it. I marvel as the eyes of the young and old sparkle when I mention I was there. Most people get a sense of wonder and awe and feel in some remote way a connection, which is spiritual and uplifting. People often tell me that they knew someone that was there, or that they wanted to go and couldn't, or that their parents would have killed them if they did. Others apologize that they didn't make it. Sadly the young often time lament that they were born at the wrong time.

Why this intense longing to belong and identify with this event? I believe it is because Woodstock represents the moral conscience of America, a cultural psychological and spiritual focal point, and a vortex. As an icon of America's unyielding youthful exuberance, fierce independent expression, and social and political justice, it serves to transport us into a moral realm where we are able to take an objective look at all that was wrong and right with our society and nation then and now.

The Woodstock experience helps us to rise above the political chaos and confusion of present day domestic and international realities, and to get in touch with our collective conscience and moral fiber. Since the institutions, which have risen out of the ashes of the sixties, yet fall short of their moral imperatives, we as Americans turn inward to rekindle the spirit, which Woodstock instills in our hearts. We have raised the epic event to the stature of myth and embraced the positive values, which it has come to represent.

Many of us who came into direct contact with the light of Woodstock were galvanized in the mud together, and carried the light with us in our hearts as we rejoined the masses. We took our divergent and respective paths as we integrated with society. Yet sadly, many of us have let the embers cool. We have become disillusioned with the political and social economic realties of modern living and in may cases have actually embraced much of what we had once despised.

Yet all is not lost. It's not too late. It's time to wake up! The social ills of present day America need to be challenged as never before. What kind of world will we leave our great grandchildren if we do nothing and mire in our lethargy? Pressing environmental issues threaten our very existence as a species. Internal domestic inequalities, misplaced values, and excesses threaten our stability as a viable culture. We need to get back in touch with our core values, which made us cry out in protest, and we need to take action! Woodstock veterans - we need to lead the way! We have the potential to once more become the leaven of our society. We need to ignite the spark to once again blow the lid off this nation!

The present situation calls to mind a book written some time ago by Beverly Potter entitled "The Way of The Ronin". In her book Professor Potter likens the social upheaval in feudal Japan after the arrival of Marco Polo and the introduction of Western culture to modern times.

Up to Marco's arrival  there was a feudal system and a structured social hierarchy in Japan (much like pre - sixties America). One of these classes in that society adversely affected by the changing social order was the Samurai warrior, who defended the royal chieftains. They were also skilled in science, art and the marital arts. With the advance of western ideas this entire segment of society suddenly found them selves displaced. Only two choices remained: one was ritual disembowelment (not very appealing) or the other was to become Ronin or outlaw. As Ronin, many thousands of these displaced knights, infiltrated the countryside and became doctors, artists, farmers, philosophers and the like. Yet they never lost their special powers, which they practiced in secret. Whenever the need arose (because the established institutions became corrupt or otherwise could not defend the common man), they came out of seclusion, practiced their ancient art and saved the day. That same day is dawning in America. There is resurgence, and there is a cry for the return of the Woodstock Ronin, Who can lead us out of the mess we are in! If you are anything like myself, the mud of Woodstock still squishes between your toes.

  The young should not be saddened that they were not at Woodstock. If anything they should realize the tremendous power they possess in numbers. They should connect with the goals, aspirations and hope of all generations. They should organize, and they should demand a better world, which they and their children could inherit. It is within their grasp, but time is running out. Today they would have the advantage of the cooperation of an older generation, which we didn't have forty years ago. United we can form a political and socioeconomic force never before seen in America. Young and old could work together for the common good. First we must once more come together as brothers and sisters on the local level. On the world stage it is imperative that we stop alienating fellow nations, and become a participant in the inevitable one world society necessary for preservation of the planet.

 It is up to the Woodstock Ronins to rise up, come out of seclusion, and lead the way. Everything is in place. Carpe diem!

Christopher Cole

Author of

The Closer's Song

Tags: Woodstock Action Hope

 I write for the Woodstock Preservation site during the year. I received this gift in the form of an email at the beginning of the New Year from the director, Joanne. Her words were so inpsiring that I have left it on my mail list and have read it every day since. I can't bring myself to delete it.          I thought I would share it's wisdom.

Boom!

Bam! The sixties, Woodstock, I was smack dab in the middle of it all!

Woodstock a Survivors Story
by Christopher Cole


I was twenty years old and a seminary student, questioning his vocation in the summer of 1969. I was a loner, a peripheral man on the fringes of both the counterculture and society at large.

It was a turbulent time in America with wars raging on both the foreign and domestic fronts. With assassinations of our liberal leaders, civil unrest, discrimination and the questioning of all authority, The institutions of this country were being rocked to their very foundations. In this environment the counterculture took on added appeal. My favorite group was The Doors. I had a record player that played single records. The only record I owned was "Riders on The Storm" which I played over and over. I also liked the later Beatles, Temptations, Dylan, Lovin Spoonful, Rascals, Kinks etc. Aside from the Temps and Four Tops, which were, feel good groups; the other music acknowledged our underlying feelings of alienation and angst.

The Hippie movement was more than bell bottom pants and long hair. It was a state of mind. A world view. A philosophy and lifestyle. It was so pervasive that it crept into and finally overran the mainstream culture. We were all part of it to some degree. We shared common values such as basic human rights for all people, the sanctity of life, the search for truth and a better world, the power of change, a distrust of those in power.

Civil unrest was the first wave of change to sweep the country. Demonstrations quickly turned violent. Hatred and division ran rampant. Then came women rights and the counterrevolution. The "hard hats" (Middle America) and government were terrified and struck back. Black people were beaten and hosed in the streets. Mayor Daley's police at the 68 Democratic Convention savagely beat student protesters. Our fellow young men were being brought home from Viet Nam in body bags by the thousands. Daily bombings of Vietnam and Cambodia. Assassinations of Presidents and Civil Rights leaders, all of the above brought to us in living color each night on the 6 o'clock news.

We viewed the Vietnam War was an evil war. Perpetrated on a foreign people by industrialists and government determined to advance their capitalistic and political agendas, with total disregard for human life.

The drug scene was a way out (not a real good one) of the day to day oblivion and despair many of us felt. I began riding motorcycles, studying philosophy, visiting a friend in the town of Woodstock regularly, riding the subways of Manhattan alone late at night and spending time in Greenwich Village.

I had my motorcycle against the curb on Beekman Avenue in Tarrytown that fateful day in  August of 69 when a pretty girl pulled up in a new Mustang. She noticed me admiring her car and asked me if I wanted a ride. I said yes if I could keep my helmet on because I didn't trust female drivers. We drove around Tarrytown for two hours and became friendly. She invited me to follow her and her girlfriend up to Woodstock the following week. I met her and her girlfriend and two guys at the foot of the Tappan Zee Bridge that Friday, and we headed up the New York Thruway. When we got within 15 miles the traffic began to back up. The girl jumped out of the car up ahead wearing only jeans, a top, and no shoes. She made me throw my gear in the trunk of the car and we rode along the edge of the highway into the festival site and waited for the car to catch up. It never did. All the cars came to a stop and we realized we would not connect with our friends. She had $60, which was a fortune in 1969! I told her that the rules of the road dictated I watch out for her the entire weekend but she would have to split the dough. She agreed, and jumped back on the bike and we got a bottle of wine and rode into the Festival. She was barely seventeen. So there I stood on the edge of the grassy oval looking down upon the stage, with this pretty girl with hair down to her waist (she looked like the girl on the Mod Squad TV show), a bottle of wine and my bike, surrounded by 400,000 soul mates. It doesn't get any better! Then we watched as a tractor drove along a cleared portion of earth (all the grass was trampled and the mud and 500 years of cow manure were coming to the surface). I watched as the tractor ran over what appeared to be a mound of earth, as a human hand flung out. It became evident that a person had been inside a mummy sleeping bag and had been run over. I ran to the trailers and banged on a door until a doctor apppeared. I told him he had to come and help because someone had been run over! "What do you want me to DO!" he said, explaining that thousands of people were overdosing, having babies etc. "Are you kidding?" I said "I'll knock you out, damn it!" "

I'm sorry," he said "but I will call a medi-vac unit." The helicopter flew in and removed the young man already dead. It was like a replay of the 6 o'clock news. Then the rain came. We were cold and wet and found refuge in other people's tents was we slept briefly an hour at a time. We sloshed around together the entire weekend, listening to the music and taking in the scene. My friend stepped on glass and cut her foot. She got help in on of the medical tents. In between the music played and everyone got along- no assaults or murders. People loving each other. Saturday night Sly and The Family Stone came on stage and sung "Gotta Get Higher" and 500,000 young people working out to the beat on car rooftops, shouted the lyrics at the top of their lungs.

By Sunday I was sick and thought I had pneumonia. So I decided not to wait for Hendrix and took my friend home. Riding down the Thruway in torrential rain I had a premonition of a crash. Just then the memory of my roommate from the seminary, entered my mind to remind me he worked in a camp somewhere in the Catskills. I turned off the road and stopped at a store and asked if they ever heard of St. Vincent's camp. It was just down the road! I pulled in to the camp with a full beard and leather jacket, a big knife strapped to my waist on my black bike. The young girl on the back was literally in tatters. The old Irish Catholic nun at the gate was mortified when I told her I was seminarian. My roommate identified me and was let in. I collapsed under ten covers in a big log bed while news reports about the disaster area we had just come from, blared over the TV.

The next day it was sunny and clear as I drove down the NY Thruway. I dropped my new friend of on a corner in Tarrytown. Tears welled up in her eyes as I explained I was headed back to the seminary. Once back at school in my vestments, I opened my prayer books and the picture of that sweet girl with tears in her eyes would appear. I put up with it for three months before I cranked up the bike and rode back over the Throggs Neck Bridge to tell her I just maybe I might be able to see her, once in a while. PS: Thirty seven years later we are still married!

There was no police harassment at Woodstock that I observed. Just the opposite. They left everyone alone and were friendly.

I felt a camaraderie with the downtrodden and oppressed. I was poor, strong willed, and a fiercely independent thinker. I was a philosopher and an existentialist. When I ultimately decided to leave the seminary (I had studied since age 13 for the priesthood) I underwent a religious and moral crisis. It was a time of deep emotion and psychological soul searching.

Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would ever be selling automobiles for a living! I had become a highly successful salesperson, manager, and trainor through the years. But that's a story for another time.

I think a lot of us became disillusioned back then just after Woodstock, with Altamont and Kent State. We all went on with our lives and buried our ideals. We became jaded and cynical. We pursued wealth and power. We ultimately matured (how horrible!). But there is a reawakening, a resurgence beginning to sweep the country, I feel. A lot of us including myself are beginning to look back to those times and question the paths we have taken. We are trying to recapture the magic and the light we left behind.

The experiences of the past were both liberating and debilitating. Many of us who experimented with mind altering substances for instance, may have actually changed who we were, the very makeup of our own brains and personalities. There is something sad in that I think. Maybe that explains the comical situation I put myself in at the twenty-fifth reunion at Woodstock in Bethel were I walked around at night telling young people smoking pot that "you really shouldn't be doing that". Being a parent now myself; I wished I had taken it a little easier on my own parents.

To borrow a phrase, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times." To be fair I have enjoyed the fruits of my labors to some extent in my adult life. I bought my first house at age 25, and drove fancy cars most of my life, but I never became a slave to money. I did become a slave to the retail business, however. A workaholic, putting in 12 hour days for thirty plus years. I took few too many vacations, and smelled few too many flowers. Yet for what reason, I now as others ask myself.


Christopher Cole
author of
The Closer's Song

...a Wooodstock novel

THE POETRY OF FEAR - CHAPTER 8 Not exactly poetry-not exactly prose- perhaps the poetry of fear
Chapter 8

The common denominator in all that I have related thus far is-RAGE. YET before there was rage there was GUILT. And before there was guilt there was -FEAR!

Gerald once described his situation to me in the following manner. As A ten year old boy:
"It's Sunday morning, Mom's in the kitchen. He's in the dinning room sitting at the head of the table. Cautiously I enter the room. Carefully I pull the center chair out from under the table. I sit gently, my breath short and controlled. Trying not to draw my father's glance, I act as if invisible. Very careful not to bang the spoon against the plate, I eat quietly, making little sound. He won't tolerate a slurp or a crunch. Don't want to spill anything, or knock anything over. The sugar had best make it to the plate without hitting the table, only to bang like bowling balls dropping from the rack onto the floor.

I don't dare look in his direction! I must remember to chew, swallow, and breathe gently. Even better if I don't breathe. Perhaps this time I will be able to escape, finish quickly, stand and excuse myself. Then I can retire into my room and into safety. But it won't be! It can't be.
It's going to happen all over again. I know it. He knows it. It cannot be stopped. It's already set in motion. I steal a glance. He's in a white tee shirt and unshaven. Tremendous arms protrude from the short sleeves that restrain his bulging muscles. His tremendous neck holds his balding head erect. His cereal is almost consumed. I note how he always leaves enough milk in the bottom of the bowl to pour into his coffee cup. Strange habit I think. Must not have had much as a kid. The last bit of cereal carefully removed, he ceremoniously tilts the bowl over his coffee cup and adds the milk.

Here it comes! He looks my way. I feel the static in the air. The mirror on the wall seems to crack. His methodical, yet restrained voice booms out:
"Moe Moe, did you clean up the yard like I asked you to do."
A frigid wind whistles through my spine, hardly able to breathe I anticipate what's to come. Barely able to open my mouth the word
"No" dribbles out.
My father's face begins to contort. His eyes bulge out of his head. The throbbing veins in his neck turn dark purple. His complexion is fire red. His fists clench tightly. His arm throb like liquid iron. Out of his bowels, a roar like a thousand-headed tormented beast is emitted
"Aaaaaaahhhhhrrrrrrrrrr!"
Erupting, his arm smashes against the coffeepot and sends it exploding against the wall! Hot coffee splashes everywhere. The Beast has come!
I let out a silent scream as the madman lunges at me. Petrified with fear, I can hardly move. I slide back into the corner like a trapped rat. I feel the first blows begin to land.

"Stop!" my mother screams from the kitchen as I am slammed against the wall. I try to slide into the hallway towards my room. The maniac slams me again. He's obsessed.
"He's going to kill me this time!" I think to myself.
Mom can't pull him off. He's too strong.
"I feel dizzy. Got to escape. He's kicking the shit out of my body. I feel numb!"
"I am going to die. That's got to be a better alternative. I can't feel the blows anymore. He's a madman out of control."
"It's my fault," I think as I sink to the floor. "I should have done as he asked. I provoked him. I should be killed. I deserve to die!"
As I succumb to the onslaught these weird thoughts continue.
"If I die I will go straight to Hell! Honor thy Father and thy Mother! Could Hell be worse?" I wonder.
"I sinned by disobeying my father, therefore I will be punished for all eternity in hell!" At this point I slump into the corner semi-consciously.
"My lungs feel frozen. My body numb. I'M THERE! I am outside my body looking in. I’m beyond fear and pain. He can't hurt me anymore.”
“Am I dead?"

"It's been too many times. It must stop. I must defend myself from The Beast. I will slay the Beast!"

These were the final thoughts I had as I lapsed into unconsciousness. The very first time I raised my hands in self-defense, I felt sickened. Yet the very first blow I flung in retaliation slew him. The Beast just for a moment turned human, whimpered and walked away. He would be back no doubt, but some how the ground rules had changed!”

Christopher Cole

"The Closer's Song" http://geocities.com/closerssong/homepage.html
  PEACE.

Many of us are plagued by addictions of one form or another. Most are very hurtful and destructive. With spiritual help and resolve even the most insidious can be overcome. There is triumph and exultation when we summon the courage and the strength to do so...

Tags: New Year's Resolution

"It was one of those rare moments in time when I was overwhelmed by beauty and grace intertwined with raw reality. When she walked my way my heart just stopped."

 The Piercing

Her beauty was such it blew me away
As she stood before me on that fateful day.
Tall and well proportioned and in her prime
So knock down perfect I wanted to rhyme.
My eyes misted over my heart did ache,
My whole body quivered and I began to shake.
I looked at her face and beheld perfection,
My total attention focused in her direction.
She smiled and as she began to speak
In her luscious mouth I did get a peek,
At a stainless rod thrust through her tongue,
Painfully endured by such a young one.
A pearl encased in lips and teeth and gum.
I wanted her more intrigued by her courage
To suck on that ball and not get discouraged.
I pondered its meaning and realized that day,
Twas all that prevented her spirit from floating away.
A note from the gods about beauty and grace,
Pinned to the blotter of life right through her lovely face!

Christopher Cole

One Sunday last Autumn I decided to take a ride on my Yamaha 1100 VSar custom North along the Delaware River just outside of Philadelphia. Once on the road I followed the old canal which hugs the river and decided to go all the way up to The Delaware Water Gap. A distance of 150 miles roundtrip. I sometimes take these trips with friends but they become special when done alone. It is an extraordinary way to meditate as you ride along totally immersed in the landscape. The climate was crisp this morning and the machine sipped the cool air eagerly. We are just post height of the season change and the colors were magnificent. The detonation of the exhaust lulled me into a transfixed state. I imagined for a moment what it was like to be an Indian sultan riding upon a magic carpet. That's what it is like sometimes when man and machine become one intricate organism. I zipped past endless rivertowns like New Hope, Riegelsville, Knitnersville, Portland, and cities like Easton, and more river towns like Point Pleasant, and Riverton and on and on. I viewed meadows and hills and mountains, farms and barns and silos all painted with a magnificent dispaly of bright golds and oranges and red foliage. I thought of a close friend now deceased who introduced me to nature years ago and viewed the panarama as if through his eyes. I thought of Francis and all who have past before me and offered up prayers for their souls. I said the Lord's prayer out loud so I could hear myself speak it over the roar of the pipes. It takes on a certain dimension when I pray it that way. Then I returned to the comfort of my continual prayer "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner", which I have prayed without ceasing day and night for the past year or two. But that's a story for another time. I like the solitude of the single ride as I mentioned. It clears my head and helps me to connect to a deeper reality. The bike is like an icon for me in that it transports me through space and time in a intra-dimensional state. Yet there are joys of riding in a group when you ride with seasoned pros who know how to stagger and space themselves. And I was fortunate enough to join a group of riders on the return trip who were just that caliber. Sunday late in the season last year a group of us (about seven thousand) rode to Children's Hospital in Philly to distribute Toys to the kids. When I arrived at the Water Gap (a place where a cayon has been cut through the rock of converging mountains)the site was breathtaking. My bike and I cut through the cayon roadway like a knife through butter. In the small town of Water Gap I parked off the roadway and had breakfast at the Trails End Cafe. As the sunlight filled the plate galss window I noticed The Appalachian trail passed nearby. Something within urged me to travel further toward Stroudsburg after breakfast. That's when I viewed the sign for Holy Cross Greeek Orthodox Church. I worked my way through the small town steets and found the chapel. The door was unlocked and I found the priest sitting to the left in an office. I asked his permission to enter his church and he granted it. He lit a candel for me and made two crosses in the sand which contained the holy water font and the candel. The interior of the church was richly adorned with beautiful religious icons. The setting was indescribable! Profuse tears of joy welled up in my eyes, as I realized I was in a very holy place. I receieved the priests blessing as is the custom by couping my right hand over my left and kissing his extended hand which he placed in mine. With his blessing I began my return trip. I met the group I mentioned and rode back home which was facilitated by the continual drop in altitude. In the last leg of the journey I split of from the group and refueled. A few minutes later and miles up the road traffic had stopped. I noticed that one of the  motorcycles I had been riding wioth previously was lying in the road. I saw glass and parts everywhere. Then I noticed the rider picked it up and moved it to the side of the road. He was only slightly injured. I offered him my phone and assistance. The lady who's car he collided with had already alerted the police. After ascertaining his safety and well being I continued on and returned to my prayer. "Lord Jesus Christ Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner". I have had many narrow escapes and near misses while riding the last forty years. On Thanksgiving Day I got the terrible news that my cousin was struck and killed while riding his bike in New York. Please pray for him. For the last few days I have been pondering my wife's wishes for me to hang up my helmet, once and for all .

Christopher Cole

author of

The Closer's Song -a novel

Tags: Patriot Guard Patriot Act Motorcycle Experiences The Ride