The Smell of Freedom
The memory of all that. No, no – they can’t take that away from me
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I recently purchased a motorcycle. There is a long story as to why now, at my age, I felt compelled to buy the bike. It is not a midlife crisis; I conquered that demon years ago. It's not because I think I look cool on a bike or have some burning desire to wear leather. The short answer regarding the timing is, my youngest child completed university, is gainfully employed, and I am personally celebrating economic freedom from financial support. But the real reason for buying a motorcycle now is to celebrate a distant memory of freedom.
I have had a long relationship with the combustion engine. Ever since I was a boy, the combustion engine meant freedom. Early on, in the Northern woods and lakes of Minnesota, we had motorboats. To start with, little fishing boats with 9.5 Mercury outboard motors. As young lads, we were free to take those boats out on the water and go as far as the lakes and streams would allow. As I got older, the little fishing boats gave way to speedboats, vessels powerful enough to pull a young man waterskiing and barefooting. There is something about the smell of gasoline mixed with oil wafting across the water that brings me back to those carefree youthful days of summer.
My connection to the combustion engine includes my first business. My best friend and I purchased gas-powered lawn mowers when we were 11 years old and started a neighborhood lawn mowing service. At that young age, we become familiar with our engines. We learned the proper mix of oil to gasoline ratios and how to care for and maintain our piston-driven investments. To this day, the smell of spent gasoline with freshly cut grass strikes memories of my first foray into economic freedom through entrepreneurship.
As I got older, we added dirt bikes into the motorboats and lawnmowers mix. Then we were suited up with jeans, T-shirts, and helmets for daylong excursions on minimum maintenance fire trails that intersected the vast wooded areas of near my hometown. We would leave early in the morning, clean shirts and jeans and return at the end of the day, head to toe and wheel to wheel in mud. The smell of dirt bike exhaust with pine trees and autumn leaves spurs memories of youthful freedom and adventure. (Freedom mostly from the watchful eyes of our adult supervisors.)
Not to be outdone by the summer months, we did the same thing in wintertime on snowmobiles. Instead of jeans and T-shirts, we wore thermal snowmobile suits with thick padded gloves. Riding the same trails as summertime, the smell of gasoline mixed with the cool crisp air of winter seemed to always to affix to our outer clothing and lingered, even as we reentered warm places of respite. That smell brings memories of satisfying freedom, the sensation that we conquered the harsh climate verses succumbing to the cold.
Then came sweet sixteen and obtaining the privilege of a driver’s license. My first four-wheeled gas-powered vehicle of freedom was a 1971 Oldsmobile. She was a brown beauty with eight cylinders and worn O-rings, a condition that consumed about a quart of oil for every 500 miles of travel. That smell of gasoline mixed with burnt oil that shot out of her tailpipe with each turn of the ignition switch permeated every inch of that vehicle's cloth interior. Where motorbikes, snowmobiles and boats were restricted to their usual zones of operation, the freedom of that first automobile seemed endless. It not only provided transportation to school, work, and various after-school activities; it was my vehicle of exploration. For hours, my friends and I would drive around town, to neighboring bergs, into the woods, and to secret hideaways. Younger generations today may hear the lyrics from "Paradise by the Dashboard Light,” and have some inkling of what the song may have represented. But only those of us that possessed a car with a front bench seat truly knows what it felt like when Meatloaf sang,
“Thought it's cold and lonely in the deep dark night.
I can see paradise by the dashboard light.”
My love affair with the combustion engine continued throughout my adult life. I have had so many cars and trucks that I'm not sure I could accurately recount the names, years, and models of them all. To this day, I am still happiest when I am behind the wheel. In the history of humankind, there has never been anything like the beautiful automobile, the magnificent combustion machine that allows for people such vast and enjoyable freedom of travel.
The nostalgia for the automobile is not just mine, there is an entire film genre dedicated to America’s love affair with the freedom giving open road. Easy Rider (1969) set the stage for that era’s counterculture with a rock anthem soundtrack and was shot in the majesty of America’s Southwestern backdrop. Thelma and Louise (1991) hit the open road to escape their husbands and ultimately the law in a 1966 Ford Thunderbird. Little Miss Sunshine (2006) took to the road in a jumped-started VW bus with misfit characters rediscovering what it means to be a family. To this day, with Hollywood action films, the combustion engine is at center stage and gives thrills from the famous “Rockford Slide” to the newest installment of Mission Impossible. Audiences enjoy the depiction of heroes conquering their foe with mastery of piston-driven vehicles.
My love affair with the gas-burning engine is unstoppable and yet, that is precisely what the forces of evil are trying to do. There is an all-out war against the combustion engine by a faction of bureaucrats - control freaks who believe that the burning of gasoline is an existential threat to humanity. These evil forces are pushing dense urban development with restrictive infrastructures aligned so that people can walk, scooter or bicycle to their various occupations and procurement centers versus getting into their automobile and freely driving across town to taste the best hamburger or craft cocktail.
In the whole of recorded history, most individuals lived, traveled, and died within a few miles of their birth. Historically, only the wealthy had the means to travel more broadly. Today, in the United States, the average annual mileage driven is approaching 15,000 miles (41 miles per day.) Add to that air, rail and bus travel approaching 600 billion miles annually, the United States is a society in love with the freedom and affordability of travel. Instead of using ingenuity to conquer our renewable petroleum resource production and emissions concerns, our green overlords seek to return humans to the dark ages of limited travel.
Although the timing of my motorcycle purchase can be tied to the end of tuition payments, the real reason for the acquisition now is freedom. When I fire up those 1500 ccs and feel the rumble of power beneath the seat, my heart springs to life. Tapping the bike into first gear, applying the throttle while releasing the clutch, puts me and the bike in motion and on the road to freedom. As fresh air wisps past my face, I catch a waft of spent gasoline along with asphalt streets. To ride within the elements, smelling all of nature, feeling the heat of the day mixed with the heat from the engine is pure exhilaration.
In my younger years, I utilized the gas-powered engine to escape the confines of parental supervision – drabby adults who always assumed that if I was having fun, I was doing something wrong. We now live under a government apparatus that operates the same way. They assume that if a citizen is enjoying the freedom of travel, especially utilizing petro-consuming engines, they are doing something wrong, and as such, the behavior must be curtailed. This sensation of a government out to restrict fun is not an unwarranted feeling, as the green movement is merely camouflage for the overall arc of socialism permeation Western governments. As all who have honestly studied the effects of socialism conclude, the Marx-inspired ideology does not evenly spread prosperity and joy, it is the heinous method for the equal distribution of misery.
As long as I draw breath, and the production and sales of petroleum continues, I will be enjoying the smell of freedom in as many liquid-fueled vehicles as possible. No matter how much anti-combustion propaganda the eco-socialists hurl in my direction in their attempt to convince me that “green is the new gasoline,” I shall not waiver. There is no altruism in the green movement, only control. As one with two feet permanently planted in today’s counterculture, I will ride my gas burning freedom machines in open defiance to the menacing eco-power structure. Like the Covid power overreach of 2020-21, the greenies are overreaching now, and individual pursuit of happiness must supersede blind and unscientific compliance to this new state-sponsored religion.
For the practical and versatile combustion engine enthusiasts, there is adventure to be had, lands to explore, and memories to be made on our open roads, lakes, and streams. And it comes with the spirit lifting smell of freedom. Speaking of freedom and adventure, this I do know for sure; no one will ever write a song titled, “Paradise by the Vespa Light.”
I will leave my readers with the song by Frank Sinatra that inspired my subtitle. Have a wonderful, freedom-inspired week!
The memory of all that. No, no – they can’t take that away from me