"Tempus Fugit" is Latin for 'time flies.' And last night that simple phrase really struck home.

I was pumped about watching the Packers game (we won in a really big way), so I took a nap after the gym and lunch, just in case the game ran late. Foolishly, I also brewed up a pot of strong coffee for latte'(s) just because I like the taste. I was keyed up after the game, full of food, wound from caffeine, physically tired and wandering around the house knowing I would toss and turn for hours. I flipped the computer back on and looked for something to read.

I hadn't been in my club's website for a while, and another member from my generation had just died. The notice was printed, and a fellow member informed me that his widow had barred the club from any wake or funeral. For some reason, this is happening more and more.

While in the website, I also pulled up pictures and read about the exploits of various members. It was like looking at someone else's club. I didn't recognize most of the faces, or the events, the bikes, or even the jargon. The few members I knew were old graybeards. This was no longer my club.

(In fact, a "prospect" I remember had been voted in as prez, served his tenure and then been voted out--all while my back was turned.)

I do see the old guard outside of the club. One of them now owns a restaurant/bar and I sharpen his kitchen knives. Our conversations center on the 1970s, as if they were current events. Fact is that I hated fudds like that when I was a young turk. The "present" was right before us and the geezers were more interested in ancient history.

My colors date back to the first fifty sets, handmade by a little old lady known to our founder and first president. I am told that many of these original sets--belonging to the fourteen members who have passed away--are often put on display or "preserved " in a safe. I only remember the angry young men who built the club.

Enjoy this time, guys. Savor every mile. Support your brothers as if it was a spiritual mandate. Forty one years have passed since I was awarded my colors. Despite the passage of time, I often think that if I rode to Joey's Anchor Inn right now I'd find "my club," yakking on barstools, chatting up women and highly inflating the tale of every act of bravado in their lives.

Yikes, I miss it so.