I Am Real And My Stories Are True
We stand looking at each other, then a kiss and a fierce hug. A low "For gods sake, be careful." I grin, "Wouldn't have it any other way. I'll give you a call when I settle in tonight." I pull on the helmet, straps tight, raise the visor. Slide in the aviators, and hit the starter. The old Yam lights up, then settles into a slow lope.
She stands watching, a bit of concern mixed with happiness on her face. It was her doing I sat here on this old bike. She had seen the doubt in my soul when I had talked of riding again. I had sworn it off, justified by a long list of practical reasons. I'm too old, too slow, body's too beat up, would cost too much, and finally, I don't know if I can do it anymore. I think it was the last that concerned her.
She was a person who was either 'all in', or all out. It wasn't in her to leave the question unasked, or the challenge untried. And she wasn't about to put up with a husband who wouldn't rise to the challenge.
I had ridden when we had first met. Though she enjoyed riding with me, it was a take it or leave it with her. She told me (after the last bike was sold) that it was a relief not to worry about me becoming a hood ornament anymore. With the added inspiration of kids,house,and just plain growing up, riding faded slowly away. After 25 years, it should have been a distant (and somewhat painfull) memory.
Instead, it had lain dormant within me. A tiny bit of me that remembered the good, took the bad as the price of admission, and still needed to know if I could find that old joy. I considered myself a rider. Not a biker, not a club member. Just a rider. The connection between the bike and me was as much of the experience as anything else. All that "wind in my hair, sun on my face" stuff is fine. If you can do it every ride, more power to ya. But I got as much of a rush from 200 miles in the rain at 50 degrees, and I would get up the next day and do it again.
But some memories are best left untouched.
So on a late spring morning I sat there in the drive, my old bike warming up.
It was 25 years since "the ride" had been a part of life, and not an occasion.
She had seen my doubt, and acted. Bought the bike as a surprise, and basically told me to get on board and figure out if I still had it in me.
(And gently reminded me that if I didn't, she wanted the proceeds from the bike sale.)
We looked at each other.
I touched my hand to my eyes, my chest, then pointed at her.
Eye-Love-You
She smiled, returned the same to me.
I blipped the throttle, eased out the clutch. Stones crunched under the tires. A tap on the horn-Goodbye!
It was a bit before 7 in the morning, the sun slowly peeking over the hills. It was growing late, and I had miles to go....
If you haven't ridden long distance in 25 years, many things go through your thought process.
I'd packed and repacked the night before, trying to figure every possibility, and knowing I could not possibly pack for every eventuality. Finally, I settled on the basics. Small tool kit, bigger first aid kit, spare cell battery and charger went in the tank bag. Jeans, tee shirts, socks and underwear in a waterproof bag, stuffed into a saddlebag. A rainsuit and hoodie to balance the load. Now that is a ready for anything wardrobe!
Anyways, I spent the first half hour playing what if in my mind.
What if this was a huge mistake?
What if I wrecked?
What if What if What if
What if I just couldn't cut it?
As I rode, the temperature dropped. The sun was still on an early rise, the valley I was navigating still in shadow. The first 90 miles were paralel to a medium sized river. Light fog drifted from the water to the roadway, and within 20 miles I was wiping mist from the faceshield. My jacket protected my upper body, but by the 30 mile marker my jeans were definitely providing as much protection as a newspaper in a cloudburst. I was getting cold. Real cold. God I hate the cold. Add in a 60 mile per hour windchill and all kinds of doubt (remember that What if session?), starts to take hold. My thought process was definitely on a downward spiral. With barely 35 miles gone, I'm starting to think about turning around. The colder I got, the more excuses I made to myself. All the doubts I'd had before came back, plus some new ones. And each mile got a little colder.
I'm not sure what others do when they have put themselves in a stupid situation. Probably something smart. (Wish I could say the same.) Me, I turn on the analytical part of my brain. I've found if I concentrate on something other than the immediate effect of my stupidity, I can usually act instead of reacting. I started by taking stock of the here and now. I knew I had the skills to keep going, otherwise that Peterbilt a few miles back would have experienced an unexpected bump when he swerved over a bit too far changing lanes. "Honest, I never saw the motorcycle, officer!" And I would have experienced an unwelcome side excursion into a freshly fertilized field. Really hard on the paint job, and it takes a whole lot of soap to get rid of the smell. (Trucks are scary)
So I could move the "what if I wreck" item down the list to maybe number 5. (Ya got to figure, some things are truly in Gods hands, all others you wear leather for).
"What if this was a huge mistake?
Wrestled with that one. Slowly, I realized two things.
One, the worst that could happen was I wreck. (Ouch) I'd already covered that one with myself.
Two, if this was the biggest mistake I would make this decade, then I could live with it.
With that, the rest of the list faded to black.
There it was. A decision, literally, on the fly! Gut it out, or turn around, I could live with whatever I did.
I refocused on the physical. My legs felt like ice, little cactus sticking me, and my hands weren't too far behind. Not an ideal way to control your bike. The one saving grace was my jacket was keeping me dry, and surprisingly, warm to the waist. The bike was well balanced, so I could pull my left hand off the bars and clench it close to my belt, out of the wind. My right hand was on the throttle, so the best I could do was flex, and feel the needles.
And so it went. Alternating between cold and damned cold, but rolling on, desperate to get somewhere.
Truckstops can be a lot of things.
Mundane, boring, and depending on your familiarity, scary.
As my first scheduled stop came into view, my one word description would have been "magical".
All those neons lit the area like a football Friday night. Magical. 90 miles of "got to get there" was over.
Well, almost, but not quite.
I pulled into the parking lot, found a spot, and slowly rolled to a stop.
And came within 2 inches of dumping my bike! After nearly 2 hours of unaccustomed cold, my legs decided that maybe they didn't want to move so fast. Which would have been ok, except that a motorcycle deprived of the gyroscopic effect tends to respond to gravity.
So, unless your moving you will fall over.
Which behooves you to get your feet down.
Quickly.
It was a near thing. An awkward stop, to say the least. My boot hits the ground as the bike was leaning past 45 degrees, but I was able to keep it from going all the way down. Kickstand down, a slide-hop-fall dismount, and a fast look around to see if anyone had witnessed my embarassingly poor control. Empty lot-no harm no foul. Another "free" lesson in smarter riding. (Free lessons are the ones that don't cost you bruises, stitches, or towing fees.)
I staggered around the bike, twisting and turning, moving more like those "presumed innocent until decided on by a court of law" characters in a 'Cops' DUI video. Alternately clenching and stretching my hands, I was finally able to unstrap the helmet and drag it off my head. My legs weren't catching up with the rest of me nearly as fast as I thought they should, and more "Living Dead" Olympics around the lot didn't seem a good choice, so I planted my butt on the curb next to the bike.The heat coming off the cases was perfect to dry dry my gloves, and I held my bare fingers next to the motor like I was warming myself in front of a campfire. (Keep that in mind the next time you see some "saddletramp" contemplating his engine from the curb. Maybe he's just worn out...a little.)
So........
It took about 6 cups of coffee to warm up. My hands, that is. See, if you wrap your mitts around a standard issue diner cup, they will receive about 800 btu's of thermal energy. (go ahead, look it up) Normally, enough to give a mild 2nd degree burn. But! If you are still wearing those ratty assed gloves, not only is it tolerable, it is almost enjoyable. Trouble is, after the 3rd time you ask the waitress for another cup, and you haven't touched the coffee, they start to get a little...funny. And, most waitresses really aren't looking for a discussion of thermal transfer properties. However, a dollar tip with each cup can ensure an almost endless supply of hot mugs., filled to the rim, and a special smile to boot!
The diner was warm, and after a half hour, so was I. Paying the bill for the endless cup of coffee, time to move, one way or the other.
Outside the sun had finally made it's appearence, though the air was still wet with the residue of the early morning.
The old bike leaned onto her stand, a bit of condensation showing the hot/cold transition. Just looking at the grips made my hands ache. Once again, I did my walk around, checking for loose anythings. (Twins vibrate-a lot) Everything looked and felt right. Time for fuel, then a decision.
Topped it off-4 whole gallons of high test. With luck, and light traffic, that was 150 miles.
A nice conversation with the guy at the next aisle. "Nope, not a Harley...it don't leak.."
I pulled the helmet on, slid in the sunglasses, pulled the straps tight.
Snap the jacket up, double the collar, push the excess up into the helmet seal.
Gloves are tucked into the cuff of the jacket, again, cinched tight.
At this point, it became automatic. Pull the clutch, hit the starter, drop into first, ease the clutch and roll away.
I made a left, shifted up through the gears, and didn't look back. (Much) I mean, in a 500 mile day, you got to look back once in a while.........
Thanks for reading, I hope it was worth your time.
She stands watching, a bit of concern mixed with happiness on her face. It was her doing I sat here on this old bike. She had seen the doubt in my soul when I had talked of riding again. I had sworn it off, justified by a long list of practical reasons. I'm too old, too slow, body's too beat up, would cost too much, and finally, I don't know if I can do it anymore. I think it was the last that concerned her.
She was a person who was either 'all in', or all out. It wasn't in her to leave the question unasked, or the challenge untried. And she wasn't about to put up with a husband who wouldn't rise to the challenge.
I had ridden when we had first met. Though she enjoyed riding with me, it was a take it or leave it with her. She told me (after the last bike was sold) that it was a relief not to worry about me becoming a hood ornament anymore. With the added inspiration of kids,house,and just plain growing up, riding faded slowly away. After 25 years, it should have been a distant (and somewhat painfull) memory.
Instead, it had lain dormant within me. A tiny bit of me that remembered the good, took the bad as the price of admission, and still needed to know if I could find that old joy. I considered myself a rider. Not a biker, not a club member. Just a rider. The connection between the bike and me was as much of the experience as anything else. All that "wind in my hair, sun on my face" stuff is fine. If you can do it every ride, more power to ya. But I got as much of a rush from 200 miles in the rain at 50 degrees, and I would get up the next day and do it again.
But some memories are best left untouched.
So on a late spring morning I sat there in the drive, my old bike warming up.
It was 25 years since "the ride" had been a part of life, and not an occasion.
She had seen my doubt, and acted. Bought the bike as a surprise, and basically told me to get on board and figure out if I still had it in me.
(And gently reminded me that if I didn't, she wanted the proceeds from the bike sale.)
We looked at each other.
I touched my hand to my eyes, my chest, then pointed at her.
Eye-Love-You
She smiled, returned the same to me.
I blipped the throttle, eased out the clutch. Stones crunched under the tires. A tap on the horn-Goodbye!
It was a bit before 7 in the morning, the sun slowly peeking over the hills. It was growing late, and I had miles to go....
If you haven't ridden long distance in 25 years, many things go through your thought process.
I'd packed and repacked the night before, trying to figure every possibility, and knowing I could not possibly pack for every eventuality. Finally, I settled on the basics. Small tool kit, bigger first aid kit, spare cell battery and charger went in the tank bag. Jeans, tee shirts, socks and underwear in a waterproof bag, stuffed into a saddlebag. A rainsuit and hoodie to balance the load. Now that is a ready for anything wardrobe!
Anyways, I spent the first half hour playing what if in my mind.
What if this was a huge mistake?
What if I wrecked?
What if What if What if
What if I just couldn't cut it?
As I rode, the temperature dropped. The sun was still on an early rise, the valley I was navigating still in shadow. The first 90 miles were paralel to a medium sized river. Light fog drifted from the water to the roadway, and within 20 miles I was wiping mist from the faceshield. My jacket protected my upper body, but by the 30 mile marker my jeans were definitely providing as much protection as a newspaper in a cloudburst. I was getting cold. Real cold. God I hate the cold. Add in a 60 mile per hour windchill and all kinds of doubt (remember that What if session?), starts to take hold. My thought process was definitely on a downward spiral. With barely 35 miles gone, I'm starting to think about turning around. The colder I got, the more excuses I made to myself. All the doubts I'd had before came back, plus some new ones. And each mile got a little colder.
I'm not sure what others do when they have put themselves in a stupid situation. Probably something smart. (Wish I could say the same.) Me, I turn on the analytical part of my brain. I've found if I concentrate on something other than the immediate effect of my stupidity, I can usually act instead of reacting. I started by taking stock of the here and now. I knew I had the skills to keep going, otherwise that Peterbilt a few miles back would have experienced an unexpected bump when he swerved over a bit too far changing lanes. "Honest, I never saw the motorcycle, officer!" And I would have experienced an unwelcome side excursion into a freshly fertilized field. Really hard on the paint job, and it takes a whole lot of soap to get rid of the smell. (Trucks are scary)
So I could move the "what if I wreck" item down the list to maybe number 5. (Ya got to figure, some things are truly in Gods hands, all others you wear leather for).
"What if this was a huge mistake?
Wrestled with that one. Slowly, I realized two things.
One, the worst that could happen was I wreck. (Ouch) I'd already covered that one with myself.
Two, if this was the biggest mistake I would make this decade, then I could live with it.
With that, the rest of the list faded to black.
There it was. A decision, literally, on the fly! Gut it out, or turn around, I could live with whatever I did.
I refocused on the physical. My legs felt like ice, little cactus sticking me, and my hands weren't too far behind. Not an ideal way to control your bike. The one saving grace was my jacket was keeping me dry, and surprisingly, warm to the waist. The bike was well balanced, so I could pull my left hand off the bars and clench it close to my belt, out of the wind. My right hand was on the throttle, so the best I could do was flex, and feel the needles.
And so it went. Alternating between cold and damned cold, but rolling on, desperate to get somewhere.
Truckstops can be a lot of things.
Mundane, boring, and depending on your familiarity, scary.
As my first scheduled stop came into view, my one word desc
All those neons lit the area like a football Friday night. Magical. 90 miles of "got to get there" was over.
Well, almost, but not quite.
I pulled into the parking lot, found a spot, and slowly rolled to a stop.
And came within 2 inches of dumping my bike! After nearly 2 hours of unaccustomed cold, my legs decided that maybe they didn't want to move so fast. Which would have been ok, except that a motorcycle deprived of the gyroscopic effect tends to respond to gravity.
So, unless your moving you will fall over.
Which behooves you to get your feet down.
Quickly.
It was a near thing. An awkward stop, to say the least. My boot hits the ground as the bike was leaning past 45 degrees, but I was able to keep it from going all the way down. Kickstand down, a slide-hop-fall dismount, and a fast look around to see if anyone had witnessed my embarassingly poor control. Empty lot-no harm no foul. Another "free" lesson in smarter riding. (Free lessons are the ones that don't cost you bruises, stitches, or towing fees.)
I staggered around the bike, twisting and turning, moving more like those "presumed innocent until decided on by a court of law" characters in a 'Cops' DUI video. Alternately clenching and stretching my hands, I was finally able to unstrap the helmet and drag it off my head. My legs weren't catching up with the rest of me nearly as fast as I thought they should, and more "Living Dead" Olympics around the lot didn't seem a good choice, so I planted my butt on the curb next to the bike.The heat coming off the cases was perfect to dry dry my gloves, and I held my bare fingers next to the motor like I was warming myself in front of a campfire. (Keep that in mind the next time you see some "saddletramp" contemplating his engine from the curb. Maybe he's just worn out...a little.)
So........
It took about 6 cups of coffee to warm up. My hands, that is. See, if you wrap your mitts around a standard issue diner cup, they will receive about 800 btu's of thermal energy. (go ahead, look it up) Normally, enough to give a mild 2nd degree burn. But! If you are still wearing those ratty assed gloves, not only is it tolerable, it is almost enjoyable. Trouble is, after the 3rd time you ask the waitress for another cup, and you haven't touched the coffee, they start to get a little...funny. And, most waitresses really aren't looking for a discussion of thermal transfer properties. However, a dollar tip with each cup can ensure an almost endless supply of hot mugs., filled to the rim, and a special smile to boot!
The diner was warm, and after a half hour, so was I. Paying the bill for the endless cup of coffee, time to move, one way or the other.
Outside the sun had finally made it's appearence, though the air was still wet with the residue of the early morning.
The old bike leaned onto her stand, a bit of condensation showing the hot/cold transition. Just looking at the grips made my hands ache. Once again, I did my walk around, checking for loose anythings. (Twins vibrate-a lot) Everything looked and felt right. Time for fuel, then a decision.
Topped it off-4 whole gallons of high test. With luck, and light traffic, that was 150 miles.
A nice conversation with the guy at the next aisle. "Nope, not a Harley...it don't leak.."
I pulled the helmet on, slid in the sunglasses, pulled the straps tight.
Snap the jacket up, double the collar, push the excess up into the helmet seal.
Gloves are tucked into the cuff of the jacket, again, cinched tight.
At this point, it became automatic. Pull the clutch, hit the starter, drop into first, ease the clutch and roll away.
I made a left, shifted up through the gears, and didn't look back. (Much) I mean, in a 500 mile day, you got to look back once in a while.........
Thanks for reading, I hope it was worth your time.
By:
Lucysguy
Age:
51-55
