Love is the General

“Real love is what enables you to accomplish anything. Not will, not discipline, not work ethic. If you love it those other things come in behind. They’re the troops behind it. Love is the general.”

July 18th 2008, Laguna Seca, California — “Welcome to Laguna Seca!” The racers were completing their warmup laps. The announcer continued over the loudspeakers, “you’re in for a treat ladies and gentlemen. The men in the first three positions are responsible for the last six World Championships. Stoner, on pole with his Ducati, is known for riding any machine to its limits. Rossi, the Doctor mounted a Yamaha, in second position. Nikki Hayden, the Kentucky Kid, sits ready at the third spot on his Honda.”

Marc “Gunny” Lasry, in 15th position, was far back from the three wise men. Under his aquamarine leathers, his ebony skin was sleek with sweat. His stomach was in knots. He tried to control his breath and instead his breath became jagged. He adjusted his hands around the handle bars trying to get a grip.

October 5th 1966, Quảng Trị Province, Vietnam— Ashes to Ashes. The firefight was finished for now. Smoke wafted up from the jungle and blackened the sky. Marine Gunnery Sgt. Jeremiah Lasry leaned against the remains of a mangled tree stump. His head was ringing and he couldn’t find his helmet. His breathing and heart rate were slowing down, the pain in his right ankle was growing. He rotated his right foot clockwise, then counterclockwise to get the blood to circulate. He had to get back on his feet. He knew his troops were depending on him.

GySgt Jeremiah Lasry, now standing, took in the decimated landscape. The few trees still standing seemed amiss among the multitude of stumps hearkening to what once was. Steadying himself on the slippery muddy terrain, he placed the majority of his weight on his left leg and used his M14 as a crutch. Troops, caked in mud and baptized in blood, surrounded him. A pair of infantry men carried a Staff Sergeant with a bandaged stump for a right leg towards the medic’s tent. Another four marines carried a deceased company-man, one by each arm and leg, from an unseemly burial in the Vietnamese mud.

“GySgt Lasry? Lasry!”

Lasry seemed surprised to have Private First Class Daniel Kingsley approaching him with bandages.

“GySgt Lasry, we’ve got to get you to the medic. You’re bleeding from the head” PFC Kingsley, continued, “I think you’ve been shot.”

2008 Laguna Seca — And off they go for the US Grand Prix. The riders accelerated off the starting line and their bikes buzzed like a hoard of bumble bees. The announcer and most of the crowd focused on the competition between the three wise men.

Gunny focused on his own race. He gripped the handlebars firmly not desperately. He grazed the seat as he pushed forward on the footpegs leaning into the bike. Coming into the first turn he decelerated sharply shifting his body weight to the left. The bike danced with him leaning beautifully into the curve as his knee nearly kissed the asphalt. He accelerated aggressively out of the turn just as he saw an opportunity to overtake the rider in front of him before the next turn. Leaning right this time, his bike seemed hesitant to join. Gunny adjusted his weight further and his bike rejected his advances and flung him into the air.

Gunny was airborne, upside down watching his ghost bike careen off into the sand pit. He seemed to float forever as he watched his competition fly by without him. He landed head first like a rag doll. Then he bounced several times as if he were being dragged by an angry child from the asphalt into the sand pit. When he came to a halt, time seemed to freeze. He felt a throbbing in his left leg, an aching in his sides and a ringing in his head. Lying there, his ebony cheeks were sleek with saltwater of a different kind.

1982 Sacramento, California — “You’re hurting my feet.”

“Ma’am, if you could just have your son sit still.”

The mother, through pursed lips, pleaded with her son, “Come on now Sammy, sit still so he can tie them up. Behave and we’ll stop and get some ice cream on the way back.”

District Mgr. Jeremiah Lasry removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. It had been fourteen years since he had been a Gunnery Sgt. He missed it, but this was his life now — Department Store Sales. He excelled at the logistics of business just like he excelled at the logistics of war. But, Nike Blazers and thigh high boots didn’t inspire the same passion in him. The mundane chaos of suburbia threatened to overwhelm him.

“Daddy! Daddy!”

“Gunny!” He caught the boy in an embrace “Is it lunch time already?”

Gunny and Jeremiah had lunch at a park near the store everyday during the summer. Jeremiah would tell Gunny stories about Korea and Vietnam — the strange worlds he saw and the strange lives he led. Gunny would tell Jeremiah stories about his six-speed — his new record times and how he beat all the other kids.

Still chewing his peanut butter sandwich, Gunny asked “Dad why didn’t you just stay in the Marines.”

“I was over there in Vietnam three times, Gunny. And I won three Purple Hearts, so they had to take me out,” He took a sip of his beer, “that’s the law — three Purple Hearts and you’re out.”

“Sounds like a dumb rule to me. If you love something you should do it until your dead.”

August 29th 2010, Indiana — The ambulance was racing away from Indianapolis Motor Speedway. Jeremiah Lasry was rocking back and forth and muttering prayers for his motionless son lying on the gurney.

Today was supposed to be Gunny’s big return to Motogp after the accident at Laguna Seca. Doctors had told them Gunny wouldn’t ride again much less compete at a world class level. Yet, Gunny had made it to this stage again — proving that he deserved to ride with the best. This come back was ending as a sequel to Laguna Seca.

The gaps between the undulating waves of the ECG started to widen. The paramedics grabbed the defibrillator and jumped to action. Jeremiah watched as they shocked Gunny and they pressed on his chest — one, two, three pumps. Then shock again.

As they were fighting for his boys life. Jeremiah’s mind went back to Gunny’s words to the press before the race: “Of course it’s risky to be riding again. That’s the nature of the beast. But you can’t be scared. The bigger risk is I don’t ride and I’m never fully myself or fully who I’m meant to be.”

RIP Joi Harris: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joi_Harris