My First Column for US Rider News!

I've started writing a monthly column for US Rider News. Here's the first installment (as seen in the September edition):

As is the tradition in enthusiast rags I’ll first thank the El Jefé and his team, for this space to spout my views of motorcycles, motorcyclists, and the motorcycling life.

It’s been over a year since I’ve coughed up moto witticisms on a regular basis. Ya see, I too used to be the publisher of a motorcycle tabloid only mine had a distinct Yankee flavor.

For nearly a decade life was great. I’d earned enough respect to be invited on press introductions and get free goodies to test. I’d also reached the point where I had to pay the government, and get a check back at the end of the year.

Then came the explosion of free moto-rags and I felt the sting of competition. Not in content or quality, as the El Jefe will agree, but in the fact that to stay in business I had to kiss the butt of every dip wad, dork and dimwit inhabiting a motorcycle shop, few of whom even read. And if anyone out there thinks I’m talking about you; You’re wrong! (Unless someone is reading this to you.)

Not that the experience of publishing a moto-rag makes me an expert on motorcycles, I’m just another schmo who spent too much time in the saddle as a rally-rat cum traveler instead of going to work, lavishing my wife with attention or stashing money for retirement.

I do lay claim to having earned my saddle sores with real mileage and I have the proof. On my wall is an award, emblazoned with the logo of a certain brand and a number-300,000 miles-to be precise, which was awarded to me for riding those miles on that brand of motorcycle. Though not specifically mentioned on the aforementioned certificate, I would include; Supporting the service department of their dealers along with a consortium of oil companies, diners, donut shops and the like. What is not mentioned in the adoring calligraphy is the resulting rotator-cuff tendonitis, advanced arthritis in my neck and a cholesterol count that rivals the top end of most speedometers.

Along the way to being a mega-mileage rider I’ve been employed as a certified MSF instructor, which makes me personally responsible for keeping some of the clowns off two wheels and in cages. I’ve volunteered on the Safety Crew of more than one racetrack.

To prove that life does get better as you age - the best gig I’ve had recently was as a Sports Reporter for the New York Times covering the United States MotoGP.

The story began with an email from my buddy in Venice that he’d scored two extra tickets to Laguna Seca Raceway for the MotoGP and assorted other racing events.

This little package wasn’t the only offer to appear. My buddy Lee Parks had rented a booth on Vendor Row at the track to hawk his book, Total Control and all his self-designed trinkets like gloves and helmets refresher spray. Lee had borrowed a fleet of super-scooters for the ride and all I had to do was fly to Cali and help him schlep in exchange for camping and a ride.

I starred in that movie two years ago and ended up on the side of Pacific Coast Highway with a totaled Ultra Glide watching Lee and overload gang blow by like a freight train on crystal meth oblivious to my fate.

While tickets to the races were quite the lure remember that I’ve been suffering from mid-life-outta-work syndrome and unless someone was going to spring for the airfare I was not going to the races.

Meanwhile, in another corner of the Golden State my buddy Mike who suffers from a similar income situation offered a trove of frequent flyer miles in exchange for helping him organize his photo portfolio.

With an airfare “in the bag” I figured that earning a few shekels to cover expenses wouldn’t hurt so I fired an email inquiry to the New York Times and they bit! Journalist friends all inquired as to the pay rate and I replied, “for my first byline in the Times; I’d pay them!”

Now back in the days of my moto-publishing I’d send a three-inch thick “This is what we’ve done for you lately” package overnight to Spain begging for credentials. Last year, they decided no credentials would be issued to free magazines.

The New York Times got me full access and the name got me 10 minutes one-on-one with both Valentino Rossi and Nicky Hayden!

Meanwhile Mike waffled on booking my airfare as the Times confirmed the assignment so my wife dusted off the emergency plastic and I got on the Net.

You can read about the races elsewhere in this issue.

Oh, and that’s how I got here. See ya next month.

Ride well, ride far and ride fast!

MK…………………=o&o>

Possibly the End of the Line

A few years ago I was standing in a bike shop on Long Island while the owner whined. “There’s no brotherhood among bikers anymore,” he spouted, comparing the new days of yuppie piloted Harleys versus the old honor among thieves culture. Thinking about the shops that owed me money long past any chance of collecting, supposed writers that promised articles never delivered and the other daily mundane disappointments of being in this business, I agreed. Both of us were wrong, only I learned the hard way.

On Saturday night the 17th of January I was having difficulty breathing. My asthma was acting up. A couple of puffs on my inhaler didn’t help, I could feel my lungs continue to tighten. By midnight I was feeling worse. Asthma is unique disease, it tortures you in your childhood, leaves you alone in your twenties and thirties then comes back with a vengeance in your forties.

Not realizing how sick I really was we called a cab. My wife and I headed for Nyack Hospital. During the ride I was getting exponentially worse. The cab driver flew down the street. He blew through the first stop sign at twice the legal speed, took the first right on two wheels and went completely airborne at the crest of the hill. His speed was a major factor in saving my life.

A block from the hospital I couldn’t breathe at all. Terror gripped my chest. I fought for air. At the entrance to the emergency room my body surrendered. Complete respiratory failure. Then cardiac arrest.

There was no white light, no out of body experience. No floating in a canoe down the river to oblivion. Just nothing. Now I view that as proof that my time on this earth was not up.

The emergency room scene was the reality that mirrors those television doctor shows. Respirator, defibrillator a lot of staff working very fast. They restarted my heart. A respirator pumped oxygen into my lungs.

My wife called my parents and they headed for the hospital. My family practice doctor arrived. He called in a Pulmonary Specialist that drove up from New York City at three o’clock in the morning.

It took ‘till 6:30am for the team of doctors and nurses to stabilize me enough to be moved to the critical care unit. My parents went home. They had aged a lifetime in one night seeing their first born near death. The hospital promised to call if there was any change but the staff was not very optimistic. Five thousand people a year die from similar asthma attacks.

Not that I remember anything after the cab arrived at the hospital, nor do I remember any of the following ten days that I spent in a coma. I pieced the story together from what my wife told me.

Business-wise the timing was pretty poor. Not that spending ten days in a coma was ever on the list of things I wanted to do in my lifetime. The edition of CC Motorcycle Newsmagazine we were working on was our largest of the year. The plan was to distribute 10,000 copies at the Cycle World/International Motorcycle Show. It didn’t look like I was going to be in any shape to pull that off.

My wife stepped in and cracked the whip with the staff. She wrote a column to fill the page where my column usually appeared. She assembled the notes on my European Adventure story finishing the first installment. She organized all the boards and computer discs, delivered them to our printer and had 10,000 copies delivered to our booth at the Jacob Javits Convention Center. Additionally she supervised our staff for the entire show then came to the hospital every night to see me and talk to me. Many have told me since, “your wife’s a rock, she’s definitely a keeper.” I truly love my Roberta, I knew she was special from the first day we met.

At the motorcycle show word of my illness started to spread. As members of our staff wandered about each was asked about my prognosis. The Christian Motorcyclists Association held a prayer vigil at our booth. When conversations turned toward my fate all went quiet.

Meanwhile the story had reached the motorcycle community on the internet. Calls came to the critical care unit from across the country and around the world. Riders that I’ve communicated with but never met had called to check on my progress. They all sent their prayers.

At the request of my neighbors, a group of believers in ancient Indian ways sequestered themselves in a teepee on the Arizona desert. They built a ritual fire and began a “sweat”. As they chanted and prayed perspiration poured down their bodies soaking the desert floor. That day I woke from the coma.

Every day since my vision is more clear. I’ve contacted most of my friends, among them I include those of you that advertise with us. Unanimously I’ve been informed, “we prayed for you.” Everyone asked if there was anything they could do. Was there anything that I needed?

One of my nurses reminded me of the proverb, “if you can count your true friends on one hand, you are a lucky man.” I am much more lucky, I have many more true friends than digits and limbs. I now believe that so many guardian angels were called to hover over me that there must have been a shortage everywhere else.

I count those blessings with each activity of daily life. I remember moments that others may take for granted as milestones of my recovery. The day I was able to feed myself, the day I tied the laces of my sneakers. The day I was able to prepare my own breakfast. The day I was strong enough to pull my Super Sunday T-shirt over my head without help. I look forward to the day I can ride. You see, ten days in a coma can turn a marathon runners muscles to mush.

John Haymond, an Attorney whose name you probably recognize from ads on these pages said to me. “In my business I deal with a lot personal tragedies and the families that survive are those with spirituality.”

John was absolutely correct. Whether you believe in Moses, Mohammed, Jesus, Buddha or Sun, Fire, Earth and Water, it’s your spirituality that counts. Spirituality is the bond of brotherhood.

There definitely is a Brotherhood and it goes beyond bikers.

Thanks to all of you for sending your prayers and caring so much.