Oh, me-oh-my-oh! Look at Ohio!

I was on a phone call with my Grandmother this summer and she said something that disturbed me. I had mentioned the day's plans to go golfing with my cousin, Mike, and she said, "So you'd rather go golfing than come see your old Grandma!" I think it was supposed to be a joke, but it hit hard, and it occurred to me that since moving away to college nine years ago I've only ever gone to see her and Grandpa for family reunions. There's something special about making a trip specifically to see someone, and as an adult (i think?) I now have the means and time to make this happen. So Lori, Dane, and I drove ten hours through mountains, rolling hills, and suburban sprawl to snow-covered Cleveland to stay for the night with cousin Mike and Other Lori (long story) before heading to church Sunday morning with G'ma and G'pa. The East Chippewa Church of the Brethren welcomed us with typical farmville charm. We were introduced to the congregation by my Uncle Dave, who sings in the choir with his wife, Cresanne. I felt proud to be there with my brother and to be introduced to people that knew who I was despite my never having met them. But most of all I was proud to have brought such joy to my Grandparents, who had obviously been looking forward to our visit. Back to the farmville charm; a ragtag horn section played Amazing Grace, the choir had two microphones quite fittingly positioned in front of the two loudest ladies in the choir, so it was nice when just the men sang, and the smell of casseroles wafted through the pews. The sermon was about money. A good portion of the New Testament deals with money, and the minister took us through his interpretation of what God thinks about wealth, money, power, and greed. Obviously much of the rhetoric focuses on how the human desire for money and wealth is one of the premiere weaknesses of the flesh, but he ended the sermon with a recollection of how good it could feel to give money to God in the form of a tithing. He told of a moment in his life when he felt like he had lost his connection with God, and that just reaching into his pocket to pull out a check had reminded him of his commitment to worship despite hardship and doubt. After the service the seven of us went out to eat and had a blast, Cresanne grilling Lori on her dreams and intentions as a new part of our family, me asking Grandpa religious questions that took way too long to answer but were fascinating just the same. And Grandma and Grandpa paid for our meal. This completely blew me away. Throughout their entire working lives, they never collectively made more than 18,000 dollars a year, and somehow they were able to raise six boys, providing love and support in non-financial ways. They have no savings and live off their social security, yet they made a point to show us how proud they are of us for our volunteer service and how thankful they were that we had come to see them. And they said it all with a twenty-dollar bill. I used to have a problem accepting money from family and friends, thinking that somehow there was strength in being able to pay for things and pay for other people. Don't get me wrong, I still took the money! But I felt guilt surrounding a seeming inability to fend for myself in the big, bad, world. I realize now that having family and friends is a blessing, and if they feel compelled to help me on my journey I should be thankful for their kindness rather than having angst about my own financial woes. So as we made the beautiful drive back down to North Carolina in a car that was gifted to us, filling up with a credit card that my parents agreed to pay, eating food that was bought on the CooperRiis dime, it suddenly occurred to me that nothing in this life is mine. Even my life is not my own. Sure, I'm in control most of the time, but no matter how much money, power, talent, or love I have it can all be taken away in an instant, and what will I have then? Just God.

One Hand, One Heart

This week's visit with the Almighty did not take place on a Sunday, or in a church, but it was a religious service just the same. Two friends from the CooperRiis community were joined in holy matrimony this past Saturday on a sunny, autumn afternoon with the Blue Ridge Mountains serving as a backdrop. The couple met as lodge advisors for CooperRiis, the healing farm for which I am currently working. Though they each moved on to other positions on the farm, their allegiance to the lodge advisor crew has not changed, and they were, in fact, the first people to take me out on the town when I arrived in North Carolina. I remember Jeannine asking me about religion and being confused at my answer. "So you're serving as a volunteer for the Brethren Volunteer Service but you're not Brethren, and you grew up Unitarian but you're not Unitarian?" "Exactly!" This is understandably hard to follow. How could someone grow up in a religion that is accepting of anyone's understanding of spirituality and choose to abandon it to pursue his own understanding of spirituality? This is a question I continue to ask myself. Why do I not consider myself Unitarian even though my morals and values align themselves so well with those put forth by Unitarians? It's because I have an innate desire to connect directly with God and I never found that opportunity within the Unitarian faith. Unitarians, in my opinion, are more interested in connecting with their community than connecting directly with God. Since the beginning of my current relationship, I've felt more connected to God and more in touch with my true self than I ever had before. I attribute this to meeting this amazing person that is a true believer in Christ and has the simultaneous ability to look outside of her religion to find different forms of spirituality. I guess I've never really connected with such an open-minded Christian before, and I've certainly never been in love with one. In fact, my travels to CooperRiis have opened my eyes to the well of faith that is present in this part of the country and doesn't necessarily result in close-mindedness. Which brings me back to the wedding. There were multiple prayers, a few Bible verses read, and the entire service was dedicated to a union that would be made in the eyes of God. In short, it was a little too religious for my taste. When I think of what I want my wedding to be, the word that comes to mind is celebration. I want the service itself to be the kickoff to a rockin' good time, a celebration of how beautiful love can be, not just a reminder that God is with us in life and beyond. If God wasn't already on my side, I never would have found the girl I want to marry.

The Road to Life

After a few straight weeks of taking the car to church I thought it was time this Sunday to get back on the bike and decided I would take a trip up the infamous Blue Ridge Parkway. No riding companion this week, so it was just me, a granola bar, and my thoughts (and about a thousand other autumn enthusiasts). Started by Franklin D. Roosevelt and originally named the Appalachian Scenic Highway, the 469-mile project took over 52 years to complete and runs from Cherokee, North Carolina to Rockfish Gap, Virginia where it eventually becomes Shenandoah National Park's Skyline Drive. I filled up my 3.5-gallon tank before I left Tryon, so by the time I'd made it 40 miles through Hendersonville and 20 miles North on the Parkway, it was time to turn around and head back down the mountain to avoid running out of gas. I have experience running out of gas in remote areas, and it's not a good time. The weather was perfect and the autumn leaves were exceptionally beautiful, reminding me that I live in a pretty amazing part of the country. I wrote a song while I was riding, a favorite pastime of mine, that spoke to the endless possibility that exists in this wealthy nation of ours. When you're living down among the houses, freeways, and concrete buildings, it's easy to get lost in the desire for material objects, man-made comforts, and societal success, but when you're at the top of a mountain the sky's the limit and you want nothing more than the ability to fly! Sitting here reflecting, I am reminded of Jesus' Sermon on the Mount, quite literally the bedrock of Christian teachings. The Beatitudes, the Lord's Prayer, and the Golden Rule are all part of this famous sermon, as well as Jesus' interpretation of the Ten Commandments. Different denominations have chosen to interpret this sermon in a variety of different ways, some believing that these tenets should be taken quite literally, and others choosing to divide them as either attainable or unattainable, believing that certain precepts were intended to be ways of approaching life, rather than specific instructions for how to achieve salvation. The lines that jumped out at me come just after the Golden Rule: "The gate is wide and the road is easy that leads to destruction, and there are many who take it...The gate is narrow and the road is hard that leads to life, and there are few who find it." Jesus must have ridden a motorcycle, because this passage speaks to me more than any I have read. Quite literally, you can ride on the interstate for thousands of miles and the beauty is always off in the distance, obstructed by concrete walls and smog and fear and speed limits. Or you can ride 20 miles on the Blue Ridge Parkway, where beauty is all around you and the curves ahead keep you from going fast enough to miss the miracle that is each Golden-colored leaf.

Get Me to the Church on Time

Installment #2 of my attempt to attend a service at Duke Chapel in Durham, North Carolina: If you remember, Lori and I were unsuccessful in our first attempt, due to a wrong turn and a broken foot peg, so this time we drove a reliable automobile to ensure that we would not be late. Inevitably, there was limited parking and even with our borrowed handicap-parking stickers, the service had already begun by the time we arrived. Not to worry, we found an empty pew (sp?) and did not miss much. The Chapel, much like the rest of the buildings on Duke's campus, was built from local stone and is impressive both in size and interior design. The English Gothic architecture, as explained to me by Lori's Dad, Bob, gives it a stoic, European feel both inside and out. Dane and I came up for the weekend to see Lori, now living in Durham, and her family. We also planned to attend a women's arm wrestling tournament on Saturday night and go to the North Carolina State Fair on Sunday after church. Duke was originally a Methodist school and the service followed suit, though it did its best to incorporate a variety of different Christian traditions. The Minister who gave the sermon was fun to listen to as he did a fantastic job of making the parable of the stubborn widow and the unjust judge colorful and culturally up-to-date. He recounted the story as if it had happened yesterday, complete with modern-day reporters covering each day's events and an anecdote involving T-shirts with printed slogans saying "Grant me Justice!" What a great way to engage the listener. The message: Never give up, never lose faith in what you know is right, and God will grant you justice. This is a hard pill to swallow with so much tragedy in our world. A man beats cancer and is told he will eventually die of AIDS. A woman in an abusive relationship decides to leave her husband and she and her two children are killed in a car crash on the way to her sister's house. Where is the justice in that? It is so easy to give up, to give in to cynicism and hopelessness. To believe that you do not deserve a healthy, happy existence in this life or the next. And yet we wake up each morning and continue on, jumping the hurdles that stand in our way and giving thanks for the blessings that have been bestowed upon us. "What blessings?" you ask. Life, love, purpose, understanding, family, friends, beauty, laughter, food, good health, and the ability to keep on fighting, one day at a time. And music! As the voices of the choir filled the chapel, urged on by the majestic organ drone, the only thing that seemed amiss was that we were being asked to dig into our pockets to fill the church coffers instead of truly reveling in the beauty of the moment. Luckily, the choir redeemed itself by singing an a cappella hymn to close out the service, a truly beautiful moment that reminded me what we humans are capable of when we come together to give thanks for the things that we can never understand.

Let the Spirit Move You...Or Not

I decided this Sunday to attend a non-demoninational service in Landrum, South Carolina, of the New Testament Christian Fellowship with my brother Dane, and Lori. We were informally invited by a member of the congregation who worked with us on the farm, and the promise of seeing her got Dane out of bed abnormally early for a Sunday morning. I drove the used Toyota 4-Runner, recently purchased for zero dollars from our employers (deal of the century!), ten minutes down the road across the North/South Carolina border and we entered into a world of Christianity that I had not previously experienced. I want to say, first off, that my goal each week is to go in with an open mind and an open heart and celebrate spirituality in whatever way I am asked to. Unfortunately, in addition to a no-show from our work friend, the waving of flags and the very demonstrative nature of their worship--lots of crying as well as walking up to the altar to pray and tithe--made it hard for me to find true beauty in their communion with God. It was as if prayer must be done in front of the congregation in order for it to be heard. Though I could tell both Dane and Lori were also having a hard time getting into the spirit, we remained in our seats as one of the deacons (I think) did a spiritual improvisation during the Holy communion. It took me a while to realize he was improvising because the lyrics rolled off his tongue as if he had said them a thousand times before, but there's no way anyone would have written a song that lasts ten minutes and doesn't rhyme. So it had to be a spur-of-the-moment conversation with God, which begs the question, "Does he do this every week?" And if so, "Wow!" It was then time for a female minister (I think) to call upon those in the congregation who needed the Holy Spirit to come up to the front and stand in a semi-circle. She started at one end and placed her hand upon the forehead of each individual while she prayed for the Spirit to come into their bodies and wash away their sin. There were burly ushers who stood behind each person just in case they were so moved by the Spirit that they could no longer hold their own weight. I considered, for a moment, the possibility of heading up to the front to join the circle, but fear got in my way. I am barely comfortable taking communion, because it feels false to me to imagine that I am ingesting the blood and body of Christ. The thought of letting some woman touch my head to purge my sins, quite honestly, gives me the heebie-jeebies. So we left. The service was not quite over, but I had told myself before heading in that if I started thinking about the Ryder Cup, which was being aired at the same time as the church service, it was time to leave. I took a gulp of fresh air as we walked out of the Church, stretched, and breathed a huge sigh of relief, realizing that I had made the right decision. Ultimately, I don't believe I need my sins to be purged by some woman who holds the almighty power of God in her (left) hand. Rather, it is my task as a human being to recognize the error of my ways and accept them as part of who I am as a flawed member of a flawed society that is constantly working to improve the life of the people around him. That's enough for me.

Closed Fist, Open Arms

This weekend we rode up to Asheville to attend a service at Missio Dei, the church that Lori attended while she was studying at UNC Asheville. There was a laid-back atmosphere that made me feel very comfortable and welcome, and the band was a whole lot better than the one last week, complete with drums, bass, and electric guitar. I was not surprised by the eclectic mix of people of all ages and backgrounds, seeing as that is an accurate cross-section of the city itself. At one point a small child mimicked her mother by raising her hands in the air to God. It was ridiculous and beautiful at the same time, one too young to understand the concept of God but smiling and enjoying the presence of something greater than herself nonetheless. It made me want to be young and pure again, open to anything that came my way without getting caught up in the complexities of God, religion, and metaphysics. When I talk to people that have been "saved" the conversation ultimately comes to a dead end because my line of questioning is based on a logical understanding of the world around me, and their faith exists outside the plane of logic. So I turn to questions of philosophy and still don't understand how one man could be responsible for the salvation of the entirety of humanity. It just doesn't make sense...to me. The sermon was an exploration of Unity, and we were asked to think of Unity not as universal tolerance or conformity, but as a united front of believers of redemption through Christ. "The trinity," we were told, "is not up for debate." I tried to feel what it's like to believe. I really did. I cleared my mind and heart and took Communion, but I got bogged down by what the damn cracker tasted like and whether Jesus' blood was a Merlot or a Cabernet. Then I just felt stupid. How do I not get this? And what is it that makes me want to get it? Is it possible for me to understand Faith through someone or something other than Jesus Christ? It must be, considering there are like 4 billion people out there that have never even heard of Jesus and seem to be doing alright. I am forever trying to grab a hold of something I don't believe to be tangible, only to have it slip through my fingers when I try to close my fist. So, unlike last week, I tried to keep my focus on the positive aspects of welcoming and community, chatting with old friends of Lori's as she got caught up on their lives and looking forward to a healthy lunch and the motorcycle ride home. We drove through Pisgah National Forest on the way home and it was the second most beautiful thing I have ever seen; mountain-sized Chia Pets as far as the eye could see! We took some fantastic pictures and really let the bike loose for the first time since we've been riding together. I can't explain the smile that ripped across my face as we zipped through those wooded turns...just as I can't explain God.

How to Interpret the Bible: 101

Step 1: Decide first what your beliefs are, then flip through the pages until you find something that vaguely supports your opinion and flaunt it like patent leather shoes on your confirmation day.
Step 2: Rinse and repeat! Of course I'm kidding, but I hope it illustrates the point that too many people use the Bible to bolster political and moral decisions that could be better made by listening to their hearts. After taking a week off to relax and reflect in the suburbs of Chicago and the Finger Lakes region of New York, I returned to the South to begin a new volunteer position about 15 minutes down the road from Mill Spring in the town of Tryon, North Carolina. Lori and I walked to church this Sunday and were greeted with smiles, coffee, and an interpretation of Ecclesiastes that really made me think outside the box. The Grace Foothills church has been meeting in the Tryon movie theater for about three years now, and it features a live band playing new age Christian music as well as television and movie clips that put a modern spin on the traditional Sunday sermon. I have to admit that other than a revamped version of Amazing Grace, I prefer singing older hymns as I feel they offer a certain reverence that is missing (for me) in the new age stuff. The sermon spoke to our cynicism as Americans about government and the people in power. The pastor asked us to "give to Caesar what is due Caesar and give to God what is due God." I was on board for a while, but was thrown off when he mentioned serving in the military as a necessary function of American citizenship. I think anyone would be hard-pressed to find a passage in the Gospel where Jesus wanted us to kill other human beings in His name, and I immediately succumbed to the same cynicism that he was trying so hard to dispel. After talking to Lori about her thoughts on the sermon, I realized that focusing on that one sentence had blinded me to many of the other valid points that were made about being a good member of society. After hearing the military comment I wanted to disagree with him on principle and chose to focus on the negative rather than the positive. We as Americans have a unique opportunity to express ourselves because our government tries (though often fails) to protect the basic human rights that so many people in so many other countries do not have. After my discussion with Lori I remembered a letter the Pastor read about early Christianity and how despite constant persecution by the Romans, those first Christians managed to be model citizens while subscribing to a higher form of order, that of goodness and brotherhood to all mankind. I only wish he had started with that anecdote and focused his sermon around the difficulty of upholding Truth and Humility in the face of hardship. So...my updated version of How to Interpret the Bible: 101...Step 1: Think for yourself. Step 2: Read each passage with an open and honest heart. Step 3: Carry out the message of peace, love, and kindness in every way possible.

The Perfect Sermon

I wasn't actually planning on making it to church this Sunday. I spent the weekend at an eco-community called Earthhaven working on a play and intended to spend Sunday morning helping take down the set and clean up. Earthhaven is about 45 minutes from Mill Spring if you're headed toward Black Mountain on Route 9 and is completely off the grid. They have solar power for heat, electricity, and hot water, use composting toilets instead of connecting to the sewer system, and require consensus of community membership to make any and all decisions. I had invited myself there once before to give feedback and be peripherally involved with an earlier performance. My hosts, Mike and Finn, who asked me to get involved with this second performance, live at Earthhaven without being members and are both interested in fostering the creative spirit within their community. Mike and I got together Friday afternoon to build the set and plan the skits that would be inserted between each of the acts the following night. We worked until delirium began to set in and after a Saturday full of last-minute changes and necessary improvisation, we put on a great show for a grateful audience that included my brother Dane, Lori, and her sister Melody. I felt especially thankful that the three of them were able to come share the experience with me and enjoy the fire-dancing, drumming, and other celebrations that followed. Sunday morning I was enticed by the opportunity to spend more quality time with Dane to attend a non-denominational church called Jubilee in Asheville. The sermons are interspersed with music and drumming, and it felt like a natural progression from the festivities of the night before. The minister reminded us that we are all servants to God and to each other, and that we are asked to decide each day "whom we will serve". On a morning where I had planned to help take down sets but was no longer needed for that task, it felt great to have spent that time with my brother, the person responsible for teaching me what it means to live a life of service to others. We leave this week for our mid-year retreat with the Brethren Volunteer Service, where I'm sure we will spend time talking about what our service has taught us these last six months. I hope Dane has learned that I am far from perfect, and that he will nonetheless aspire to be just like me.

A Peg to Stand On

Lori and I woke up just before sunrise on Sunday with Durham, North Carolina, as our spiritual destination, a total trip of about 215 miles. The plan was to eat breakfast along the way and make it to Duke University Chapel for the 11:00 service. As we departed Mill Spring, the sun decided to peek over the horizon. I have seen my share of beautiful sunsets, but for me, sunrises are a bit harder to come by. The morning mist hanging in the air appeared like a veil, allowing us to stare directly at the blinding beacon leading us East. By the time the sun had taken its rightful position among the patchy clouds, we were closing in on Greensboro. It was ten o'clock, which would have given us just enough time to make it to Duke, park, and seat ourselves in the back rows of the church had I stayed the course on I-85. But I misremembered the directions and before we knew it we were twenty miles north of anywhere on Highway 29 with signs telling us that Virginia was just up the road. So I broke out the Blackberry and re-charted our course through light rain and back toward civilization. We would be late and a little wet, but perhaps still make it for the closing hymn. I was mad at myself for the misstep and needed to stand up on the bike and stretch out my legs. As I did, something gave way and my right boot bounced on the pavement, throwing me off balance for a split second. I looked down and there was no foot peg...just a brake pedal! I tried to find an alternate place to rest my foot but to no avail, and about a mile down the road we pulled over at a service station. I determined that the one remaining passenger peg (I broke the other one off on a chain-link fence when I was living in LA) could be removed and substituted for the right front peg. Alas, I did not bring all my tools. It was then that good-samaritanism, not rain, came pouring down upon us. Matt, who lived nearby, came to the gas station to buy cigarettes and, realizing it was closed, offered to run back to his house and return with a socket wrench. I was able to get the rear peg off, but needed a different tool to remove the chain plate, so he ran back to the house again. In the meantime, a woman stopped and offered the services of her son, Scott, who was just getting out of church and liked to work on bikes in his spare time. When Matt returned, Lori did the Christian thing and bought him a 12-pack of Bud Light for his troubles. Scott then arrived and, after a brief trip home to pick up his tools, helped me remove the plate, screw in the peg, and replace the rear peg with a bolt that would allow Lori to rest her feet for the remainder of the ride. An hour later we were eating lunch with Lori's family and laughing about the whole debacle. No less than five people asked if we needed help or tools while we sat outside the service station, and though we never made it for the closing hymn, I felt as though we had been blessed by the kindness and generosity of the good-hearted people of the South.

Go Ahead, Jump...!

The possibility of rain made this Sunday's decision to ride ten minutes to the Mill Creek Church of the Brethren a no-brainer. Not only was it geographically close, but my parents, grandparents, and their grandparents before them were all raised in the Church of the Brethren so the spiritual roots run deep, and this visit was close to my heart. Both of my Dad's parents spent time in Puerto Rico serving as church volunteers in their early twenties, and their service inspired my brother and me to serve a year as part of the Brethren Volunteer Service (BVS) here in Mill Spring, NC. My grandfather also went to divinity school in Elgin, Illinois, to become a Brethren minister, and when I go to any Brethren service I always envision Pastor Donald Sollenberger delivering the sermon in the humble, thoughtful, methodical way that is so unique to his interactions in the time that I've been around. I would have liked to have seen him in his prime, when I imagine those qualities were accompanied by a focused energy and a wealth of knowledge unencumbered by the fuzziness of old age. Pastor Abe's delivery on Sunday was thoughtful and energetic, and his sermon was a call to arms, to keep working to bring Faith to those who do not believe in the divine ministry of Jesus. A vivid picture was painted of the empty churches and dark hearts in the present day United States, and we were told that not believing in Hell is like not believing in gravity; "Go ahead, jump off the roof and see what happens!" Here is where my understanding of religion takes a left turn. If I jump off the roof, I will surely die. If I do not believe in Hell, Satan, and pure Evil as the combatants of Divine Love I will still die, and not believing won't make me any worse off during my time on Earth. I am deeply touched by stories of Jesus' sacrifice and perfect Love, and these stories move me to make sacrifices of my own and to try to love in as pure a way as I know how. Why do I need the other stuff? The fire and brimstone? The fear of God? Those elements of religion pull me away from the potential for Goodness that I believe exists in all humankind. Call it empathy, call it Love, or call it the Holy Spirit, but that humble Goodness is the spiritual gift passed down to me from my Grandfather and the only call to arms I need to live a fulfilling, meaningful life. You, Sir, can jump. I'll stay here on the ground.

One Nation Under (One) God

I was awakened this Sunday morning by a phone call from my girlfriend, Lori, who reminded me that we were supposed to be leaving for church in a half-hour (I had slept through my alarm). The idea to visit different churches around the area on my motorcycle was born from a desire to explore southern religious beliefs (the Father), my own spirituality (the Son), and the beautiful countryside of Western Carolina (the Holy Spirit)--a Trinitarian sociology experiment of sorts. Fitting, then, that the first church on the docket was the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship of Hendersonville. We took 176 through Tryon and up the Saluda Grade (site of the steepest railway climb in the country), then continued on past Flat Rock to the town of Hendersonville. Growing up I attended the First Unitarian Universalist Church in Rochester, NY, from age 6 until some point in High School when smoking weed on Sunday mornings seemed like a better option than going to youth group. Maybe it was the teenage short term memory loss, but I learned more in one hour about the origin of the Unitarian Universalist faith this Sunday morning than I did in ten years of attending church as a kid. The term Unitarian originates from the Biblical interpretations of a man named Michael Servetus, a "heretic" who managed to piss off both the Protestants and Catholics during the Reformation with his penchant for exercising freedom of conscience. He was ultimately burned at the stake for his belief that there was one God, not three separate manifestations of God as put forth by the overwhelming Trinitarian majority of the time. Based on language alone, I like thinking of God as "unity" rather than "trinity". The congregation did not disappoint. Though we were two of only four individuals who weren't invited to Waffle House for the Senior Special after the service, we were welcomed with open arms and invited for coffee in the Fellowship Hall. One of the other younger attendees, Zach, is a theater teacher at East Henderson High, and we talked about theater around the area and the local professional theater in Flat Rock, where they are currently doing a production of Rent. Who knew the South had so many open-minded Christians! We stopped for brunch at Patty Cakes, a cute little cottage-style restaurant recommended to us by Don the Motorcycle-Riding Minister from Montana. I had the Shit on a Shingle (look it up!) and Lori ate a salad. Our return trip took us back through Saluda and down the BEAUTIFUL Greenville Watershed, where the overhanging trees and suicidal butterflies conjured up images of Peter Pan's Neverland. We continued through South Carolina on 11 West (sticking to the speed limit of course!) until we hit Route 9 and took it back up to Mill Spring where the bike, Lori, and I all rest our heads.