I met Jim 30 years ago, when I was a college freshman. He had been living with one of my older sisters for five years by then- it was really a marriage in all but name- and at one point I roomed with them for a couple of months in one of those typical college rental houses in Athens- 50 years old at best, and can only be described as “quirky”. Jim was a few years older than my sister, and I wondered what sort of person matched so perfectly with her.
I found out quickly he was a highly intelligent, very well read; a man possessed of an extraordinary amount of talents and interests.
Jim would freely admit to being a hippie, growing up in Chattanooga in the ‘60s; and we talked a lot about the racial tension he grew up in as compared to our situation today. He loved music and, even though he truly lived modestly, would save for the best equipment he could get. And not just music, he was a cinephile as well; and sought out the best gear he could here, as well. (I inherited a laserdisc player from him at a time when rental stores still carried that format.) He was a firm believer in seeing movies in the theater, and we had many long discussions about movies we liked; with him recommending genres I’d never heard of. In this day of streaming series, we spent more hours divining out the plot of Westworld and giving critiques of Game of Thrones vs. the books. More than once I was glad of his encyclopedic knowledge of Marvel and DC comic books- he was the first to show me the Tank Girl comic- when it came to tying the myriad characters and storylines in the Marvel movies together. Many more hours were spent talking about philosophy and religion, world events, books…
It would seem to some reading this account that Jim was an aging hippie geek with a rather large DVD collection, but that would be vastly underestimating the man. He was a quite competent mechanic of cars and motorcycles and worked for a time as a mechanic and auto body repairman. He was fond of motorcycles and had owned a number of them, including a BMW R60/5 and a Ducati Monster. Not surprisingly, he loved to travel and thought nothing of 24 hour drives across the country.
And some of those trips were on a bicycle. He was a bicycle mechanic as well and worked for a time for a bike shop in Athens, who sponsored him in amateur races. He followed the Tour de France religiously and could talk knowledgeably on each racer and their bikes. At age 67, he rode an hour each way to work; not because he HAD to, but because he WANTED to. I hope I’m halfway as healthy as he was at that age.
But cycling wasn’t the only sport he enjoyed; in his younger years he was also an experienced caver. He loved the region around Blacksburg for the caving and became a cave rescue responder. That skill with ropes also lent itself to a love of rock and ice climbing that remained strong- he took a week vacation this January to drive to wherever the ice was so he could climb it. At 67.
At 6’5” tall and with a deep, radio announcer’s voice, he cut a pretty impressive figure despite his lean frame. But you wouldn’t want to try and taunt him about it; because if he didn’t take pity on you and only verbally eviscerated you, he knew plenty of ways to do it in other, less pleasant ways. He taught me a lot about shooting and was proficient in handguns, rifles… even bows. And, being a movie aficionado, martial arts and other weapons interested him, too… he held black belts in Aikido, Jiu-jitsu, and Kashima Shin-ryu- a primarily sword-based art. Pile that on top his intellect, mechanical skills, and education and this isn’t a man I’d want holding a grudge against me.
But if you hadn’t pissed him off past the point of no return, he was a genuinely warm character. I hired him to work for me- he also has, not surprisingly, had a lot of experience with armed security- and I can think of no greater testament to his character than the fact that not only did my employees come to him for advice, a number of the plant’s employees did too.
When it came to his own health, the only word I could use to explain it is “stoic”… and possibly “stubborn”. While he worked for me, he had a deer run into the front tire of his Ducati… as in, the deer came from the side of the road and headbutted his front tire, knocking him and the bike over. He came limping into work the next day with one knee swollen to the size of a basketball and relayed the story. Go to the hospital? What for? I was a paramedic, I’ve already done what needs to be done.
And indeed he had, because it wasn’t long before he was riding the bicycle to work again, just to keep in shape.
I could continue for pages and pages more… What about his time in Oman caring for horses? His participation in the Society for Creative Anachronism? Love of fine wine and whiskey, as well as food? The stories of hunting rats in the warehouse he was guarding? The harrowing car trips and cave rescues that very nearly ended in disaster? His love of sailboats and catamarans? The number of near-misses, angry shouts, thrown beer bottles he received while riding? How dedicated he was to the environment and his seething anger at how we’re ignoring the climate crisis?
I could. And I wish I could tell you about his future exploits.
On Friday, March 4th, 2022 at 1:03 am I received a gasping, plaintive call from my sister asking me to pick her up at the hospital.
James Vivean Jones was killed while riding home from work by a drunk driver.