Aliens In My Saddlebags

I just rode my Triumph Thunderbird SE from Phoenix to Pittsburgh. Adventures fly like sparks from the wheels under 1600cc and 800 lbs of British steel, enough for at least two blog entries worth. I start with the strangest adventure first.

Between Tucson, Arizona and San Antonio, Texas, 900 miles of godforsaken wilderness runs unleashed across a third of America, momentarily interrupted by El Paso The Rude. On I-10, there really is nothing out there. OK, almost nothing. I saw a cow.

I also saw something rather remarkable. At the point where the waterless sun-scorched wasteland collides with the waterless sun-scorched wasteland, there sat a... something. It kind of looked like a toll booth looming up out of the desert, partly because it spanned Interstate 10 and partly because all traffic was stopping for it.

As I closed on it, I began to notice some things were different about this toll booth:

• There weren't any signs saying "Pay Toll $.75" or special lanes for my E-Z Pass. 
• Strange devices bristled over and beside the road, looking like they'd been borrowed from NASA or the SETI program, pointing at the cars and trucks and motorcycles on the road.
• Lots of men (they all looked like men anyway) in uniforms with handcuffs and weapons were hanging out outside in the 98 degree heat.
• Some of the men were carrying mirrors on the end of poles and using them to look under the cars and trucks.
• A lot of nice doggies. The men must like having BIG doggies for pets out there in the middle of the sun-scorched wasteland. I hope they give them plenty of water.

As I slowed to a stop beneath the overhang spanning the road, I noticed the men were talking to every driver and some passengers. The roar of my engine and my earplugs kept me from hearing what it was they were talking about. A man with a pole mirror was looking under every car, and doggies were sniffing all the cars. Every now and then the men told a truck or car to go to a parking lot where there were lots more men in uniforms.

It got to be my turn. One of the nice men in uniform with his weapons and handcuffs asked me "You an American Citizen?" I said "Yep!" Evidently "Yep!" is the right thing to say if you want to be mistaken for an American citizen in Texas. Finally I got it: They were looking for aliens! He started to wave me on, then stopped me. One of the doggies wanted to sniff my right saddlebag. I knew I didn't have any aliens in the saddlebag, but the doggy wanted to make sure. The nice BIG doggy took one sniff and agreed with me. He also didn't show any interest in the beef jerky lurking in my saddlebag or any interest in my right leg, for which I was grateful. I rode on, pondering this checkpoint for a while.

Moral of the story: if you are going to ride a major interstate highway across America, be prepared to get checked because you could be hiding aliens on your motorcycle. Make sure you bring your passport. And just to be safe, hide all the aliens in your left saddlebag.

Osama Happy Dance

When the news broke, I was surprised to see people thronging the streets around the White House.

At first it didn't register why all those people were there. All I could see was a crowd, viewed from a hovering helicopter. Before President Obama said one word the crowd's size was snowballing courtesy of viral texts & tweets.

When CNN cut to street level, I heard the singing, the Olympic chants of "U-S-A!  U-S-A!" Dancing, fist-pumping, high-fiveing, hugging leaping jubilation boiled on the midnight asphalt there and at Ground Zero.

I felt relief at the news. I felt sadness. But I didn't feel what they were feeling, not even remotely.

Suddenly I realized that these young revelers had shivered in grade school or Jr. High school desks as the planes hit the World Trade Center and Pentagon. They'd grown up in a world where the Iron Curtain had been hauled away for scrap metal. But after 9/11, their childhoods and adolescence proceeded with caution under the shadow of a nameless fear. Boogeymen with scimitars and Sharia and tactical nukes lurked in hiding, waiting for the chance to destroy their world, their dreams, their lives. They came of age sharing a secret fear that tomorrow might never come and they'd never know doom was coming. It would creep up on them and strike without warning.

Tears rose in my eyes as I watched them dance into the night. Boogeyman Prime had been shot dead, and their tribe had tracked him down and killed him. They had to dance and chant and sing! Even the Grinch couldn't have stolen this from them.

But I couldn't share their jubilation. A man was dead. A heartless, smiling, murderous monster of a man. A man who Jesus had loved so much He died for him on the cross. A man who refused that Love and has now refused it forever.

I sympathize with the dancing young throngs, but I just can't join in their triumphal joy. I relish their moment of liberation from fear; yet I feel it in my spirit -- God doesn't rejoice in the death of the wicked: not now, not ever.