Punxsutawney or punxsutanied

“It’s raining, Matt.” Dave greeted me with that statement this morning.

That was about as exciting as a rumor in a knitting circle.  Nonetheless, I packed, suited up and marched on.  I made it to an interstate bound for the Flight 93 crash site in Pennsylvania.  I left the madness of playing tag with 12,000 pound trucks for the sweeping turns of the country side somewhere near Altoona.  It was about thirty miles to the crash site, a location I had to engage the assistance of Siri.  I ate a southwest chicken salad at McDonalds, all the while having this conversation with the computer.

“Nine-eleven plane crash in Pennsylvania?”

“Plane crash in Pennsylvania, terrorist attack?”

“Terrorist hijack plane, crashes in Pennsylvania?”

“Computers suck, find me the *#$%ing plane crash in Pennsylvania?”

“Siri, you’re a sexy vixen that should know where the plane crash happened in Pennsylvania on nine-eleven terrorist attack?”

I finally resign to the fact I probably won’t be able to find the site; out of desperation, I ask the seventeen year old behind the counter.

“It’s down thirty.”

“Route thirty?” she nods.  “How far?”

She shrugs.

Therefore, I go down route thirty, about thirty miles.  It was a great ride, like I said, nothing too challenging but thoroughly enjoyable.  It gave me some time to reflect on what those citizen-soldiers on Flight 93 accomplished.  They thwarted an additional attack on, what is presumed, the Capital Building, in which Congress was in session at the time.  I know one could make a joke here, but I feel it is entirely inappropriate.  Those passengers did not go gentle into that good night.  They demonstrated the courage we most often associate with men-at-arms, and they made the same significant sacrifice that those at Normandy, Antietam, Valley Forge, and any of the battles that Americans died to protect our great country.

I have to give credit to the Park Service for constructing a worthy memorial to those people on Flight 93, except for the *@#&ing terrorist.

I raise a glass, smoke a cigar in honor, and salute to you that made the courageous sacrifice.

After that sobering experience I continued on the backroads to Punxsutawney,  PA.  What the heck is, are a punxsutawney anyway?  Its it a verb, noun, adverb, or adjective?  By time I got to the famous ground hog celebratory city, it was 98 degrees.  I had my full gear on.  I stopped at a fuel station to wet my cooling scarf and drink some aqua.  I was hot and probably dehydrated.  I got back on the bike, almost tipped it over, muscling it back upright with muscle that I don’t have, and took off.  I got about a mile down the road and realized I didn’t have my cooling scarf, dang it!  So, I can say I was in Punxsutawney, only because my GPS indicates so.  I was too far gone to know it, I think I was suffering from a little punxsutawney.  Or maybe, I strained my punxsutawney trying to level the bike.  Or, it was hotter than a punxsutawney.

I made it to Chris Bray’s house in Brookfield, OH.  This chap and I did the following together: 1983, went to ST school in San Diego, CA; 1984, went to USCGC DALLAS in NYC; 1987, went to YSU together; 1987, pledged Alpha Phi Delta fraternity, where we got punxsutawneied; and now, 2016, I’m breaking into his house to get some punxsutawney.  Did I mention I might be suffering from heat stroke or maybe punxsutawney!

I’m half punxsutawneied with hard cider and whiskey!