CONSCIENCE

We are jealous of our freedoms -- as we should be -- and it may be difficult to draw a clear line between freedom and the rules that restrict it. Consider this photo...

This dude is obviously free! Apparently he is enjoying himself and as far as can be seen, harming no one. So can you say that he is in the Land of Freedom, or has he ridden past the Border of Responsibility? There seems to be no other nearby traffic (if you discount the photographer's vehicle) and a lack of visible damage to the Harley is testimony to the rider's skill -- or luck. Assume with me that he has no relatives or companions who would feel loss were he killed, or have to bear the burden of his care were he injured. If he is talking to someone on the Cell-phone (how can anyone hear with the wind noise?) it might be no one who has any relationship with him. Assume that the bike is paid for and not insured. Would you say that the worst thing he is possibly doing is setting a bad example for juveniles or the weak-minded who see him riding like this? So --- where is the border between what you want and what you should? And, equally important, how can you tell you have crossed that boundary? Can you build, buy, or invent a mechanism that can be calibrated to set off an alarm as you approach the border? What this misguided individual is doing -- regardless of the presence of absence of witnesses or the lack of any physical damage -- is diminishing his own value. His reckless disregard for his own safety and security wears away and decreases the justifiable concern he must have for himself. Without that he cannot have any sense of the real value of others. The amount of loss "per event" may be so small as to be difficult to perceive; but nonetheless there is some erosion. Eventually a person who habitually demeans himself in this manner will also demean everyone else. The "alarm system" that warns us when approaching the fogbound border of Responsibility is called conscience. If you want to make an exhaustive study of the concept, go here; http://www.newadvent.org/cathen/04268a.htm otherwise use the short form from my Unabridged Dictionary

Conscience: Knowledge or feeling of right or wrong; the facility, power, or principle of a person which decides on the lawfulness or unlawfulness of his actions, with a compulsion to do right; moral judgment that prohibits or opposes the violation of a previously recognized ethical principle.

The problem? A conscience is not something you can run to the corner mini-mart and buy; it is the product of time and effort. You have to build your own! It is safe to say that the relaxed dude on the Harley has failed the rest of humanity by neglecting to form a fully-functioning conscience, and in the failure, he demeans himself and all of us

TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS

Twas the night before Christmas,
And not until Spring
Would a motor be running,
not even a Wing.

The bikes are all sleeping,
they're covered and warm,
Batteries are tended,
nylon covers their form.

My Bros were all nestled down snug in their beds,
While visions of new chrome danced in their heads.
And I in my do-rag, bike jacket and boots
Out shoveling snow, and dreaming of scoots.

Then from the horizon there came such a clatter
My shovel I dropped, what could be the matter?
Away up the hill, I slogged through the snow
Looked up at the sky; where'd all that noise go?

Then a throb from the heavens,
like straight pipes so hearty
Gave Summers' good thoughts,
a loud bikers' party.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear
But a Hog Ultra Classic, Red trailer in rear!
With a little old rider, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than a V-Rod his Ultra came on,
And he whistled, and shouted, and sang out this song;
"Now, Springer! Now, Dyna! On Ultra and Softail!
Now Vulcan! Now Injun! On Vict'ry and Triumph!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now RIDE away! RIDE away! RIDE away all!"
As small bikes that from the semis do fly,
When they meet with the air blast, mount to the sky,

So up to the house-top that Ultra it flew
With a trailer of goodies, and ole' St. Nick too
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The rumble and thunder of pipes that gave proof.

I ran in the house, boots thumping around,
And in came St. Nick all bearded and round
Dressed all in black leather, from do-rag to boot
His chaps were all tarnished with road grime and soot;

A T-bag of goodies he'd flung on his back
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack
His shades -- how they twinkled! his do-rag how scary!
With chains intertwined, through skulls that were cherry!

His droll little mouth had done many a row,
So the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
The smoke had a strange smell; it gave him relief.

He had a broad face and a large fat beer belly
That shook when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly
He was tattooed and plump, a right jolly old rider,
So I offered a cold brew, thought what could be righter?

A wink of his eye as he downed that cold beer,
Gave me to know I had nothing to fear
He spoke not a word, but went straight to my ride
And fixed it with Chrome, Horsepower and Pride

And giving the peace sign with bikers' good cheer
Strode off to his Ultra rumbling near
He sprang on the saddle, his gloves on the bars
A wheelie he threw; then off towards the stars

I heard him exclaim, as my chest swelled with pride
"Merry CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD RIDE!"