Tales of Ordinary Madness

Over the last few days, I have been in touch with a woman that I worked with during the Internet boom days. It was nice to hear from someone who I thought had disappeared into oblivion (isn’t the Internet great!).

Her and her husband own a full service motorcycle and repair shop in Bloomsburg, PA (just Northeast of Harrisburg) called American Cycle Fabrication. They came to this country from South Africa and told me some great stories and taught me some great South African slang.

They even had a write up about them and their motorcycles in the South African Playboy – from what I recall Paul was an expert craftsman and specialized in vintage motorcycles (probably not the proper term – but when we were still in Harrisburg I saw some of his handy work and I couldn’t call him anything else).

Well that’s pretty cool you say – well guess what – it doesn’t stop there – Barbara just informed me that they had one of their motors run in Speed Week in Bonneville. 18 of the 40 records where set at Bonneville by motorcycles and of those 18, 3 were set by the bike sporting their engine. I’ve included a picture of the bike below.

Today is September 11, 2005. Four years since the world changed for many Americans, myself included. As my wife would remind me the world didn’t actually change, we just had our rose colored glasses ripped violently from our faces and we were left staring dumbfound, directly into the harsh sun.

For the last two years, I have made the trip to Shanksville, PA in Somerset county which is the final resting place of United Flight 93. I had initially planned to visit the Pentagon this year, until I learned that the memorial had been turned into a walk to support the troops. I do support the troops, I want everyone of them return home safe and sound right now, but I don’t believe that what they are doing in Iraq has much to do with terrorism or 9/11. I suggested to Jess that this year I would go to the Pentagon, next year the World Trade Center and then I would tie this all into a nice little bow and send it on it’s way. After all it’s been four years, isn’t it time that I get over it.

The reality is that I’m not over it. The memories of standing alone in the dark of the burnt out hull of the Pentagon with the water dripping from the ceiling and the smell of jet fuel overpowering the underlying smell of mold are as real today as they were four years ago. The images from Gary’s stories of those who were rescued and those who couldn’t be rescued are as real to me as if I’d been there. The flashlights dancing through the burnt out wreckage of the Starbucks on the corner by our office still dance in my head.
The fear of my final month at the Pentagon is so tangible – when planes first began to move again at Reagan National as we crossed 110 to get back to the office from the POAC – turning and seeing a plane that appeared to be heading directly for us. Those things are still with me.

So for the last two years, I haven’t wanted to go to Shanksville, I have felt compelled to go to Shanksville. My sister, Emily, accompanied me this year to Shanksville and I tried to explain to her this compulsion. In the end, I couldn’t. I just said, “Maybe it’s part of my own sickness”. Maybe it is a part of my sickness, maybe it’s something I will never get over – something I will never understand. I think it is however, something I will continue to do.