The Race

Many years ago when I was an Army Sgt, I competed in a Triathlon. As the gun went off all of these huge, strong swimmers jumped over the top of me to surge to the lead. So I pulled back to let them by.

Meanwhile, I noticed a struggling soldier swimming way off course. The Lake was covered in a thick layer of fog. The only way to navigate was to follow the sound of the horn at the marked buoy. Calmly I had him swim with me back on course.

With this diversion there was no way I could win the Race. But to my surprise I received the Ft Devens Open Women Champion award. How did that happen?

Apparently the bike route was poorly marked so all of the cyclists ahead of me got lost. By the time I started riding the route markings were corrected and I took the lead.

In slowing down and guiding another triathlete, God moved me from the back to the front.

Chasing Euphoria

The plan was risky. It would be a “Deer in the headlights moment” if caught. But the drive to satisfy her craving drowned out any remaining speck of good judgment. She was all in. Oh how she loved a thrill ride. Knowing what was to come released a Manic surge of energy.

The next day, unable to return to sane thinking, she bought the ticket to her train wreck. She met two North Siders and boldly shared her plans. They listened. Colfax recruits are persuadable, if money and white are guaranteed. Now with her partner and foot soldiers riding along she felt invincible.

The recruits flirted with the Clerk at the counter of the Shell Station, and asked her to show them some of the pot pipes displayed in the glass case. That distraction gave her the chance to complete the boost. The target was the victim’s purse because Dealers tend to carry cash and dope. She reached under the counter behind the clerk’s back. There was no purse. Like a gambler reaching into his pocket to make his last desperate bet, she noticed a set of keys on the counter. On impulse she dropped them into her large boost bag and left the store.

Too bad she didn’t listen to her team begging her to cut and run. Nope, too late. She stole a Meth Dealer’s pickup truck.

The next day she was so freaked over what she had done, she made another mistake.

She confessed and wrote a three page report on herself.

Loading Bullets

There was nothing more enjoyable than riding with Dad in his Datsun on Logging Roads in the Pacific Northwest.

He rolled up to the old Rock Quarry. With a Marlboro and a Beer, he silently studied the ground around him.

“Yes.” He thought to himself. “Plenty of Target Practice Here.”

The evidence in an abundant supply. The ground glistening with Shells. Dad meticulously sorted through the bounty, and collected the Shells of interest.

Dad recognized the signature of each Shell. He knew it’s source, it’s purpose, he loved and respected the Shells. He thanked his Father for the Gift.

When my Dad was home but missing, I knew where to find him.

In the Basement. Reloading Shells.

It was the Craft of Bullet Building. It was Art, it was Science and Mathmatics. He had to stay calm and pay attention. Powder dispersed in precise gram measurements. Topped off just so, the tip firmly inserted. It took Focus and Discipline.

Thank you Father for your gift of rebuilding Shells and transforming them into Bullets.