A Dark Anniversary

In addition to being the day the world changed in 2001, today is the first anniversary of Steak's passing. For those of you who are new here, or who haven't visited in a while, take a look at the Godfather topic at the top of this section. There I wrote about Steve and the origins of the GRiSO Ghetto. As a small tribute to him and as my way of insuring the future of his legacy, I am doing the best I can to keep the forum humming along like a finely tuned GRiSO with a Beetle Map. And I want to give a huge thanks to Beetle for stepping up to help me in that endeavor - I'd be fooked without you, Mark!

It's a sad day here, I'm in a bit of a funk, but I'm trying to focus on all the good times we had together. Salud! to you, my brother.

Pete (Street)

What a sad, sad day.

Thank you very much, Pete and Mark, for keeping Steve's legacy alive & kicking.

To Steve, a man I truly wish I’d met. Salud!

I consider it an honour to help keep his legacy alive.

your efforts to keep it going are very much appreciated, Pete. And Steak's /Steve’s enthusiasm continues to benefit many and create a brotherhood. Small perhaps, but a legacy nonetheless. Would that we could all leave something like that.

To Steak.  

Hi Pete and other friends,
a terrible anniversary, the loss of Steve, Steak...
But he deserves it to be remembered and never forgotten.

I only had a few times briefly contact with him, Steve was always helpful.
Thank you to all, who are keeping the Ghetto and with that, Steak, alive.
I will try that too, although that are very minor things...
I'm not riding Guzzi or any motorbike anymore, but I don't want to forget that part of my life.

I'm here if I'm needed.
To Steak, keep him alive in our thoughts!

Thanks for your efforts to keep the Ghetto going Pete. We Guzzisti would be somewhat lost without it.

Thank you all for your efforts and hardwork

I think of Steak every time I go past Del Guzzi way…

Smoking on the Isle of Man
09 Sept. 2024

Last night I dreamt that Steve and I were on the Isle of Man. I'd just read a passage from Neil Peart, the late drummer of the Canadian rock band, Rush, about a visit there in the rainy off-season where he talked about exploring the route of the famous TT race.

Steve died one year and 363 days ago and I'm dreading the two-year anniversary of his passing, though I don't know why that day will be any different from any other as I think about him every day already.

In the dream, we stood at the edge of a gravel parking area behind the old white, two-story stucco house where we were staying, bored, with nothing to do but stare out over the village and smoke while we waited three days for our ride back to the mainland.

I was annoyed with myself for having started smoking again after so many years, having finally kicked the habit by a painful method I wouldn't recommend to anyone. I'd had a bad motorcycle crash in the remote Canadian Yukon, suffered a ruptured spleen and multiple rib fractures. I was in such agony and misery that I didn't even feel like smoking. Pretty soon I realized I hadn't had a cigarette in six weeks, then it was two months and eventually four months and six months and I decided, maybe I really had quit and I should never light another one or I'd be hooked all over again. Oh well, I promised myself I'd be able to quit again after this weekend, but right now there was nothing else to do but stand around in the gray weather soaking in the landscape, sucking in smoke.

In the dream, the cigarettes were unfiltered and I smoked them, one after the other, right down to the nub, the tips of my thumb and finger burned by the cherry red ember. I continued to drag on the smoldering leaf, determined to suck out the last vestiges of  tar and that wickedly addictive nicotine.

We hardly spoke, there was nothing left to say, though occasionally we found ourselves sitting around a dingy old living room listening and chatting with some local old men.  The subject was probably motorcycles, but that isn't clear in my memory. The only thing that mattered was being with Steve. And the smoke.

When I woke up, he was gone.

Cheers Street