It's been eleven weeks since the accident. Three-and-a-half weeks in the hard cast; four weeks in the boot; a couple weeks in a brace. Full healing will take several more months, but I'm functionally good to go (and finishing up physical therapy the rest of this month).
It couldn't be a more gorgeous Saturday morning. The bikes are out of the garage. Helmets, jackets, gloves waiting to be donned. I'm ready. Nervous as anything, but excited. Labor Day weekend officially marks the end of summer. I've wasted so many warm-weather days waiting. And waiting. And waiting. Enough.
Here. We. Go!
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Icarus
It is said that there are two kinds of riders: those that have spilled/dropped their bikes, and those who will.
FLYING
It was Saturday morning, 19 June, sunny but not yet hot. I hadn't had my black Honda Shadow 24 hours yet - and was just beginning to really get the feel of her between my legs. We started the morning taking some safe laps along some quiet residential streets with gentle curves, hills, and speed bumps. Each mile getting more comfortable rolling more throttle, hugging the turns a little closer, and going a little farther.
And the first time we rode past a fellow biker and extended a hand in an exchange of mutual respect and acknowledgment of another "in the club"... what a moment of thrilling pride!
We expanded our riding to a loop that ran along an open space west along the foothills - and I felt like I was flying! Along that route, the name of my bike came to me - for I hadn't wanted to name her without getting a feel for who she was. On that road, I kept hearing Captain Jack Sparrow's monologue from the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie:
"Wherever we want to go, we'll go. That's what a ship is, you know. It's not just a keel and a hull and a deck and sails, that's what a ship needs but what a ship is... what the Black Pearl really is... is freedom."
We road south past the wonder of Garden of the Gods and into Old Colorado City, navigating through a farmer's market without issue, then heading east to stop in at APEX where we had acquired our bikes the previous evening. Our salesman, Lance, ran out to meet us in the parking lot and said we looked like seasoned riders already. There was confidence in our posture, a natural fluidity to our movements. The hours astride our bikes that now hot Saturday had been taken to heart.
FALLING
Brimming, beaming, we decided to make our way home for lunch. Riding north we opened up the throttle on the city highway and felt the bikes cruising easily at the highest speeds we'd gone yet (about 50mph when we opened up to pass a slower-moving van). The road veered left under the interstate and then offered a turn lane for a left onto the frontage road that would take us home. Stu was leading and swung into the turn through the green light. I slowed to second gear and quickly gauged the turn as I noted the car coming up from the other direction...
Reacting, not wanting to cut too close in front of the upcoming car, I leaned into the left turn but misjudged how much sharper than a normal 90 degrees it turned out to be. I panicked as I object-locked my gaze on the curb instead of forcing myself to look and press through the turn; my bike went exactly where I looked and struck the curb throwing me to the right.
Something had bashed into my torso and knocked the wind out of me as I was thrown; at that moment the pain and panic from suddenly deflated lungs hurt the worst. I ached all over as I slowly rolled onto my back, moaning. Someone was by my side asking if I was okay. Then there was a woman in biker chaps who identified herself as an RN. She asked me questions while applying slight pressure along certain points; my helmet and jacket were removed; I baked in the merciless sun, breathing dust and feeling completely battered. I had a bit of a bloody gash up my left shin, tender areas on both legs that would surely manifest into some nasty bruises, but my neck, spine, and hips seemed in order, so that was promising.
More help came. A firefighter. More bikers. A police officer. Stu had help lifting my bike up and back onto the shoulder. One mirror gone, the other skewed on the bars. Right hand break knocked underneath the throttle, right foot break and foot rest knocked up at an angle. A vent cover on the exhaust pipe ripped off, and one minor scrape, but otherwise no worse for the spill and drivable.
I was helped to my feet, and instantly felt pain in my right ankle. I didn't want them to call an ambulance, so I shrugged it off and swallowed the pain. My boots gave me enough support that I could gingerly walk around, and allowed me to climb back onto the Black Pearl to ride her home. I was grateful for the amazing morning I'd just had riding astride her - if not for that I wouldn't have had the courage to drive her home after that. One mirror gone, and the other skewed, I couldn't see behind me, and the front break handle was awkward at best to use, but I took the road slowly in third gear and made it home. I crawled into the house, peeled off my helmet, jacket, and gloves, and allowed myself to cry in the privacy of my home. there was an imprint of my jacket's zipper on my torso from whatever hit me. My legs were starting to turn colors from the bruising. When I took my boots off, I noted the metal hook for the lacing on my right boot was bent completely in, and when I gently removed my sock, my horribly swollen ankle was revealed.
Relieved to be home, I took a bath to clean myself from rolling in the sun-baked dirt, and convinced myself that it was just a bad sprain. A REALLY bad sprain. Stu went and got a wrap and crutches, and I took a handful of Ibuprofen to help with the pain. I even went to a friend's birthday party that night, and to lunch with my inlaws Sunday afternoon. That's right. I'm hardcore!! But by Sunday evening, with elevation, ice, and over-the-counter drugs not doing much, I admitted that it was likely more than just a sprain, and Stu drove me to the ER to have it looked at. Sure enough: lower fibular fracture.
Thankfully, it was a clean break that hadn't shifted, so didn't need pins, screws or anything more drastic than a cast. They gave me a shot of morphine when they set my ankle in the splint, and referred me to an orthopedic doctor to get me into a cast the next day. Oh and gave me a prescription for an oxycodone and acetaminophen blend, without which I wouldn't have been able to sleep.
So it's now been three weeks since breaking my ankle. I've been in a hard cast (now covered in the signatures and smart-ass comments from friends and family) for almost that long, and am hoping that my upcoming checkup with the doctor will see them cutting this thing off to replace with an aircast! And soon enough, I'll be back on Black Pearl picking up where I left off - only now a little wiser for the wear.
ps - We're calling her 'BP" for short: She's black, slick, and has already spilled. Too soon?
FLYING
It was Saturday morning, 19 June, sunny but not yet hot. I hadn't had my black Honda Shadow 24 hours yet - and was just beginning to really get the feel of her between my legs. We started the morning taking some safe laps along some quiet residential streets with gentle curves, hills, and speed bumps. Each mile getting more comfortable rolling more throttle, hugging the turns a little closer, and going a little farther.
And the first time we rode past a fellow biker and extended a hand in an exchange of mutual respect and acknowledgment of another "in the club"... what a moment of thrilling pride!
We expanded our riding to a loop that ran along an open space west along the foothills - and I felt like I was flying! Along that route, the name of my bike came to me - for I hadn't wanted to name her without getting a feel for who she was. On that road, I kept hearing Captain Jack Sparrow's monologue from the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie:
"Wherever we want to go, we'll go. That's what a ship is, you know. It's not just a keel and a hull and a deck and sails, that's what a ship needs but what a ship is... what the Black Pearl really is... is freedom."
We road south past the wonder of Garden of the Gods and into Old Colorado City, navigating through a farmer's market without issue, then heading east to stop in at APEX where we had acquired our bikes the previous evening. Our salesman, Lance, ran out to meet us in the parking lot and said we looked like seasoned riders already. There was confidence in our posture, a natural fluidity to our movements. The hours astride our bikes that now hot Saturday had been taken to heart.
FALLING
Brimming, beaming, we decided to make our way home for lunch. Riding north we opened up the throttle on the city highway and felt the bikes cruising easily at the highest speeds we'd gone yet (about 50mph when we opened up to pass a slower-moving van). The road veered left under the interstate and then offered a turn lane for a left onto the frontage road that would take us home. Stu was leading and swung into the turn through the green light. I slowed to second gear and quickly gauged the turn as I noted the car coming up from the other direction...
Reacting, not wanting to cut too close in front of the upcoming car, I leaned into the left turn but misjudged how much sharper than a normal 90 degrees it turned out to be. I panicked as I object-locked my gaze on the curb instead of forcing myself to look and press through the turn; my bike went exactly where I looked and struck the curb throwing me to the right.
Something had bashed into my torso and knocked the wind out of me as I was thrown; at that moment the pain and panic from suddenly deflated lungs hurt the worst. I ached all over as I slowly rolled onto my back, moaning. Someone was by my side asking if I was okay. Then there was a woman in biker chaps who identified herself as an RN. She asked me questions while applying slight pressure along certain points; my helmet and jacket were removed; I baked in the merciless sun, breathing dust and feeling completely battered. I had a bit of a bloody gash up my left shin, tender areas on both legs that would surely manifest into some nasty bruises, but my neck, spine, and hips seemed in order, so that was promising.
More help came. A firefighter. More bikers. A police officer. Stu had help lifting my bike up and back onto the shoulder. One mirror gone, the other skewed on the bars. Right hand break knocked underneath the throttle, right foot break and foot rest knocked up at an angle. A vent cover on the exhaust pipe ripped off, and one minor scrape, but otherwise no worse for the spill and drivable.
I was helped to my feet, and instantly felt pain in my right ankle. I didn't want them to call an ambulance, so I shrugged it off and swallowed the pain. My boots gave me enough support that I could gingerly walk around, and allowed me to climb back onto the Black Pearl to ride her home. I was grateful for the amazing morning I'd just had riding astride her - if not for that I wouldn't have had the courage to drive her home after that. One mirror gone, and the other skewed, I couldn't see behind me, and the front break handle was awkward at best to use, but I took the road slowly in third gear and made it home. I crawled into the house, peeled off my helmet, jacket, and gloves, and allowed myself to cry in the privacy of my home. there was an imprint of my jacket's zipper on my torso from whatever hit me. My legs were starting to turn colors from the bruising. When I took my boots off, I noted the metal hook for the lacing on my right boot was bent completely in, and when I gently removed my sock, my horribly swollen ankle was revealed.
Relieved to be home, I took a bath to clean myself from rolling in the sun-baked dirt, and convinced myself that it was just a bad sprain. A REALLY bad sprain. Stu went and got a wrap and crutches, and I took a handful of Ibuprofen to help with the pain. I even went to a friend's birthday party that night, and to lunch with my inlaws Sunday afternoon. That's right. I'm hardcore!! But by Sunday evening, with elevation, ice, and over-the-counter drugs not doing much, I admitted that it was likely more than just a sprain, and Stu drove me to the ER to have it looked at. Sure enough: lower fibular fracture.
Thankfully, it was a clean break that hadn't shifted, so didn't need pins, screws or anything more drastic than a cast. They gave me a shot of morphine when they set my ankle in the splint, and referred me to an orthopedic doctor to get me into a cast the next day. Oh and gave me a prescription for an oxycodone and acetaminophen blend, without which I wouldn't have been able to sleep.
So it's now been three weeks since breaking my ankle. I've been in a hard cast (now covered in the signatures and smart-ass comments from friends and family) for almost that long, and am hoping that my upcoming checkup with the doctor will see them cutting this thing off to replace with an aircast! And soon enough, I'll be back on Black Pearl picking up where I left off - only now a little wiser for the wear.
ps - We're calling her 'BP" for short: She's black, slick, and has already spilled. Too soon?
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
A Tale of Two Rides
It was the best of rides, it was the worst of rides.
We purchased our two bikes on Friday, June 18th: a white 2009 Yamaha V-Star Classic 650 and a black 2007 Honda Shadow Spirit 750. After delivery, we took a few pics and headed out for a small bit of riding in the neighborhood, just to get acclimated. The time was short: just a few trips up and down a pretty slow street. After feeling comfortable with that, we did what anyone would do: we headed down to Jack Quinn's Irish Pub! Great fun was had by all!
Saturday morning was a perfect morning to ride. Sunny and cool with light traffic...the perfect time to start entering the area streets. We took a couple laps in the Allegheny-Rockrimmon-Vindicator-Centennial circuit, stopping at lights and getting up to 35 MPH. After a few of those, we took a left on Centennial and made our way down to 30th, then taking a right on Flying W Ranch and returning to Centennial. There's a wonderful point on Flying W Ranch where you reach the top of the hill, and a good part of Colorado Springs opens up in front of you. If we were hooked on the idea of riding before, we were now fully addicted to the actuality of riding.
After making our third Flying W Ranch trip, we reversed course and headed south, then took a right on 30th...and kept on going to Old Colorado City. The route took us right by Garden of the Gods; the addiction just kept getting stronger.
As luck would have it, there was a farmers' market in Old Colorado City, giving us great opportunity to maneuver through some busy areas and really make use of our helmet-to-helmet comms. As we continued down Colorado, we decided to just keep going into downtown Colorado Springs for a stop at Apex Sports (our bike dealer). Before we could even get off our bikes, our salesman Lance was out the door, excited to see us riding around already. They did some free-of-charge adjustments to Shannon's bike (which had earned the name Black Pearl during our ride), and we putzed around in the store.
Then it was up Weber as far as we could go, then on to Nevada. We were cruising along at 45 MPH, fitting in with traffic, and coordinating an off-the-line pass of a slow green van (nice to know that, when necessary, our bikes can really open up!)
SHU was on cloud 9. We were feeling more comfortable than we had expected, and some of our dream trips felt a step or two closer to reality.
Then came The Turn.
As Nevada passes under I-25, we had to make a left turn onto a frontage road before turning back on to Rockrimmon. The turn seemed pretty straight-forward, but it was just a bit sharper than a standard 90 degrees. It caught me a little by surprise, so I was checking my mirrors for Shannon.
Not ready for the extra angle, and momentarily distracted by an on-coming car, Shannon fixated on the curb. Rule #1 in motorcycle turning: you will go where your nose points. Shannon's nose was now pointed at the curb, and that's exactly where The Black Pearl went.
On my list of things I've ever wanted to experience, these next two were very near the bottom. First was watching Shannon hit the curb and be thrown into the air. The second was to have a helmet-to-helmet comm system that let me hear everything Shannon said, which were some yells of panic then moaning in agony with a broken ankle. In the panic of trying to get to my wife, I ended up laying my bike down (which messed with my heel/toe shifter a bit...need to get it back into shape.)
By all forms of grace in the world, Shannon "only" has a broken angle and we both have an even greater appreciation of really utilizing the techniques from our MSF BasicRider Course. We weren't unsafe: we both had full gear, we took it slow getting going, and neither of us was reckless in speed. But there are fundamentals to riding that need to be followed, from emergency maneuvers to basic neighborhood cruises. We both plan to make many practice rides once Shannon is out of the cast.
In the meantime, Sleipnir (that would be my bike, named after Odin's 8-legged horse) and The Black Pearl await in the garage. I have a couple small tasks for both, then I'll most likely give them each the occasional trip in the neighborhood; gotta keep my skills up, and they both need gas after that first 24 hours.
And Shannon? Being the super-bad rockstar she is, she road the last couple miles back home post-accident (adrenaline helps), and is impatiently awaiting the removal of the cast and her first trip back out on the Pearl.
We purchased our two bikes on Friday, June 18th: a white 2009 Yamaha V-Star Classic 650 and a black 2007 Honda Shadow Spirit 750. After delivery, we took a few pics and headed out for a small bit of riding in the neighborhood, just to get acclimated. The time was short: just a few trips up and down a pretty slow street. After feeling comfortable with that, we did what anyone would do: we headed down to Jack Quinn's Irish Pub! Great fun was had by all!
Saturday morning was a perfect morning to ride. Sunny and cool with light traffic...the perfect time to start entering the area streets. We took a couple laps in the Allegheny-Rockrimmon-Vindicator-Centennial circuit, stopping at lights and getting up to 35 MPH. After a few of those, we took a left on Centennial and made our way down to 30th, then taking a right on Flying W Ranch and returning to Centennial. There's a wonderful point on Flying W Ranch where you reach the top of the hill, and a good part of Colorado Springs opens up in front of you. If we were hooked on the idea of riding before, we were now fully addicted to the actuality of riding.
After making our third Flying W Ranch trip, we reversed course and headed south, then took a right on 30th...and kept on going to Old Colorado City. The route took us right by Garden of the Gods; the addiction just kept getting stronger.
As luck would have it, there was a farmers' market in Old Colorado City, giving us great opportunity to maneuver through some busy areas and really make use of our helmet-to-helmet comms. As we continued down Colorado, we decided to just keep going into downtown Colorado Springs for a stop at Apex Sports (our bike dealer). Before we could even get off our bikes, our salesman Lance was out the door, excited to see us riding around already. They did some free-of-charge adjustments to Shannon's bike (which had earned the name Black Pearl during our ride), and we putzed around in the store.
Then it was up Weber as far as we could go, then on to Nevada. We were cruising along at 45 MPH, fitting in with traffic, and coordinating an off-the-line pass of a slow green van (nice to know that, when necessary, our bikes can really open up!)
SHU was on cloud 9. We were feeling more comfortable than we had expected, and some of our dream trips felt a step or two closer to reality.
Then came The Turn.
As Nevada passes under I-25, we had to make a left turn onto a frontage road before turning back on to Rockrimmon. The turn seemed pretty straight-forward, but it was just a bit sharper than a standard 90 degrees. It caught me a little by surprise, so I was checking my mirrors for Shannon.
Not ready for the extra angle, and momentarily distracted by an on-coming car, Shannon fixated on the curb. Rule #1 in motorcycle turning: you will go where your nose points. Shannon's nose was now pointed at the curb, and that's exactly where The Black Pearl went.
On my list of things I've ever wanted to experience, these next two were very near the bottom. First was watching Shannon hit the curb and be thrown into the air. The second was to have a helmet-to-helmet comm system that let me hear everything Shannon said, which were some yells of panic then moaning in agony with a broken ankle. In the panic of trying to get to my wife, I ended up laying my bike down (which messed with my heel/toe shifter a bit...need to get it back into shape.)
By all forms of grace in the world, Shannon "only" has a broken angle and we both have an even greater appreciation of really utilizing the techniques from our MSF BasicRider Course. We weren't unsafe: we both had full gear, we took it slow getting going, and neither of us was reckless in speed. But there are fundamentals to riding that need to be followed, from emergency maneuvers to basic neighborhood cruises. We both plan to make many practice rides once Shannon is out of the cast.
In the meantime, Sleipnir (that would be my bike, named after Odin's 8-legged horse) and The Black Pearl await in the garage. I have a couple small tasks for both, then I'll most likely give them each the occasional trip in the neighborhood; gotta keep my skills up, and they both need gas after that first 24 hours.
And Shannon? Being the super-bad rockstar she is, she road the last couple miles back home post-accident (adrenaline helps), and is impatiently awaiting the removal of the cast and her first trip back out on the Pearl.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
The Tool Chest
Warning: this post contains comments about tools, tool chests, cheerleaders, and general guy things. The author of this post is not responsible for any damage incurred via eye-rolling or frustrated sighs.
If you are still reading, you have accepted full responsibility for any damages that might occur. And if you were expecting lots of naked women...sorry to disappoint. Just use Google, you don't need an obscure blog for that.
Hokay, so...Shannon and I have stories. There is the whole BasicRider Course weekend, the discussions of what kind of bike to get, the excitement and nervousness of our path...but this post has nothing to do with any of that. Instead, this post is related to the "maintenance" part of my first post, Send Me On My Way.
Early in Long Way Round, Charley and Ewan receive monogrammed Snap-Tite tool chests and tool sets. There are orders of magnitude here. First is a guy having a few basic tools. Next is a decent assortment of tools in a basic chest/box. Then there's the respectable chest with a solid assortment of tools, plus a handful of quality power tools. Somewhere high on the spectrum, there's Snap-Tite giving you a personalized tool chest (and a big chest at that!) complete with tools. I can't say I wasn't jealous at that scene.
Fast-forward to this week. Shannon and I had a sacred pinky-swear that no bikes could be purchased until the garage A) could hold the bikes and B) was set up to allow general maintenance/crafts/mechanical storage. Amazing how a garage can remain a veritable dumping ground until it's cleanliness stands between a man and a bike...then receives a full make-over in a few days. :o)
And so, after a few days of work, I present the following:
My first full, rolling tool chest!
Moved Broncos Cheerleader calendar to the garage...seemed appropriate.
And there we go! Maybe a minor thing for some, but it feels great to have a clear space for bikes plus space for bike/car maintenance and general crafts. Honestly, it may be worth the cost of the BasicRider Course.
...
But really, it's all about getting the bikes, so scratch that last statement. Just need a few more cool posters and a good shop stool in the garage, and I'm ready to go!
If you are still reading, you have accepted full responsibility for any damages that might occur. And if you were expecting lots of naked women...sorry to disappoint. Just use Google, you don't need an obscure blog for that.
Hokay, so...Shannon and I have stories. There is the whole BasicRider Course weekend, the discussions of what kind of bike to get, the excitement and nervousness of our path...but this post has nothing to do with any of that. Instead, this post is related to the "maintenance" part of my first post, Send Me On My Way.
Early in Long Way Round, Charley and Ewan receive monogrammed Snap-Tite tool chests and tool sets. There are orders of magnitude here. First is a guy having a few basic tools. Next is a decent assortment of tools in a basic chest/box. Then there's the respectable chest with a solid assortment of tools, plus a handful of quality power tools. Somewhere high on the spectrum, there's Snap-Tite giving you a personalized tool chest (and a big chest at that!) complete with tools. I can't say I wasn't jealous at that scene.
Fast-forward to this week. Shannon and I had a sacred pinky-swear that no bikes could be purchased until the garage A) could hold the bikes and B) was set up to allow general maintenance/crafts/mechanical storage. Amazing how a garage can remain a veritable dumping ground until it's cleanliness stands between a man and a bike...then receives a full make-over in a few days. :o)
And so, after a few days of work, I present the following:
My first full, rolling tool chest!
Moved Broncos Cheerleader calendar to the garage...seemed appropriate.
And there we go! Maybe a minor thing for some, but it feels great to have a clear space for bikes plus space for bike/car maintenance and general crafts. Honestly, it may be worth the cost of the BasicRider Course.
...
But really, it's all about getting the bikes, so scratch that last statement. Just need a few more cool posters and a good shop stool in the garage, and I'm ready to go!
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Getting Back on the Horse
I passed my test to get my motorcycle license today, a joint pursuit my husband (Stu) and I did together this weekend through Motorcycle Safety Foundation's Basic Rider class. It represents the fulfillment of a promise I made to myself years ago to "get back on the horse" and finish what I wasn't able to back in my early twenties. Back then, I had purchased a '76 Yamaha 360 from an Italian tenor when we were both spending our summer at Central City's Opera House. He was selling that old blue bike for a couple hundred after using it for his time singing in Die Fledermaus; I had always wanted to learn to ride, and the price and time seemed right. But he only gave me the most basic of instructions in heavily-accented English, and on an old bike that had trouble enough starting, the dirt roads, curves, and hills where I started my journey proved to be difficult no matter the will of the young girl straddling the seat. I dropped and spilled, and each time I killed the engine was one more chip away at my exuberance. When the season ended and I came back home, I decided to take a rider's course. It didn't seem kind or forgiving for the virgin rider, and I felt quickly left behind. Discouraged, and with little support from loved ones who were concerned I was being foolish, I got rid of the bike. But I kept my helmet, for I always knew I would eventually come back and try again.
Someday.
It took a decade. A camping trip with family two summers ago to Yellowstone National Park reawakened the desire - for the beauty of that magnificent landscape seemed the ideal example of miles spent savoring the journey as much as the destination - a manifesto for riding if there ever was one. Stu and I talked about the our discovered mutual desire to ride, but we were trying to pay off our credit cars and cars, so it was dropped onto the pile of hopes for the future, along with children, a house, and travel dreams like kayaking in the Pacific Northwest or exploring Tuscany.
But earlier this year, we Netflixed the TV documentary series Long Way Round with Ewan McGregor and Charlie Boorman traveling from London to New York on BMW motorcycles. Our hunger was reawakened, and this time we didn't talk ourselves out of it. We'd met several of our financial goals as a couple, and summer in the Rocky Mountains called like a siren's seductive song. Someday had come.
...and I got back on the horse. First day on the range -a cold and rainy one for June -saw me spilling the Honda Rebel I was training on while making a right turn. My foot got pinned underneath, my knee skinned and leg bruised. And it was wet and cold on the asphalt waiting for the instructor to come lift the bike off of me. Time slowed, and memories of my failures from a decade ago fought for dominance against my stubborn determination not to be beaten again despite the discomfort of the situation.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes. I'm fine. Just...fine."
"Do you want to continue?"
"Yes...Yes of course."
I struggled with hesitation and fear throughout the weekend on those darn right turns, and dropped the Rebel again this morning attempting a tight right U-turn, but at least I stayed on my feet. And I only lost a few points on the skills test this afternoon (scored perfectly on the written). And I earned my 'M' on my driver's license -something I hope to get from the DMV this week. After that? We buy our bikes! For now, I'm sore all over and exhausted. But excited for the road ahead!
"Why think about that when all the golden land's ahead of you and all kinds of unforeseen events wait lurking to surprise you and make you glad you're alive to see?"
- Jack Kerouac, On the Road, Part 2, Ch. 6
Someday.
It took a decade. A camping trip with family two summers ago to Yellowstone National Park reawakened the desire - for the beauty of that magnificent landscape seemed the ideal example of miles spent savoring the journey as much as the destination - a manifesto for riding if there ever was one. Stu and I talked about the our discovered mutual desire to ride, but we were trying to pay off our credit cars and cars, so it was dropped onto the pile of hopes for the future, along with children, a house, and travel dreams like kayaking in the Pacific Northwest or exploring Tuscany.
But earlier this year, we Netflixed the TV documentary series Long Way Round with Ewan McGregor and Charlie Boorman traveling from London to New York on BMW motorcycles. Our hunger was reawakened, and this time we didn't talk ourselves out of it. We'd met several of our financial goals as a couple, and summer in the Rocky Mountains called like a siren's seductive song. Someday had come.
...and I got back on the horse. First day on the range -a cold and rainy one for June -saw me spilling the Honda Rebel I was training on while making a right turn. My foot got pinned underneath, my knee skinned and leg bruised. And it was wet and cold on the asphalt waiting for the instructor to come lift the bike off of me. Time slowed, and memories of my failures from a decade ago fought for dominance against my stubborn determination not to be beaten again despite the discomfort of the situation.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes. I'm fine. Just...fine."
"Do you want to continue?"
"Yes...Yes of course."
I struggled with hesitation and fear throughout the weekend on those darn right turns, and dropped the Rebel again this morning attempting a tight right U-turn, but at least I stayed on my feet. And I only lost a few points on the skills test this afternoon (scored perfectly on the written). And I earned my 'M' on my driver's license -something I hope to get from the DMV this week. After that? We buy our bikes! For now, I'm sore all over and exhausted. But excited for the road ahead!
"Why think about that when all the golden land's ahead of you and all kinds of unforeseen events wait lurking to surprise you and make you glad you're alive to see?"
- Jack Kerouac, On the Road, Part 2, Ch. 6
Send Me On My Way
For every response of "awesome!" I get when announcing my pursuit of the 'M' on my drivers license, I likewise get a tempering "sign your donor card" or "oh, my son was in a bad wreck..." Understood: there is a real risk to riding a motorcycle, which begs the question of "why do it?" To answer, we go back to my formative years in Salt Lake City, UT.
Growing up, my dad had a sales position that took him to many small towns within a days drive of SLC; by my elementary school years, he had it down to one out-of-town trip a week, done consistently on Monday nights. On special occasions, I would get to take one of these trips as well, traveling to such glamorous locations as Vernal, UT, St. George, UT, and Pocatello, ID. A few trips even took us to the resort town of Jackson, WY. All these trips had a few things in common: we would stop at many small towns along the way to check in with customers, we stayed in very inexpensive motels (my dad having long received great rates at local places due to consistent patronage)...and the rugged terrain of the American Mountain West. These trips were before the days of CD players, so forget about DVD players and head-rest displays. The amusement came from the bond between father and son, and watching the world flow by. There were no big tourist traps: the big sights were Fort Bridger, Dinosaur National Monument (heaven on earth for a young dinosaur geek!), the deep red rocks and Joshua Trees (Yucca brevifolia) of southern Utah, and pretending to be in some kind of Star Wars ship in the passenger seat (these things happen when your dad is a big Sci-Fi fan.) From these trips came the love of road trips, especially ones where the actual destination was (almost) irrelevant.
The years since haven't diminished that love. Driving through the Rocky Mountains, road trips with friends to Chicago and Las Vegas, weddings in Missouri, camping in Yellowstone, and even my college "commutes" across Kansas (and the cold beer waiting at the end) all connected back to those early times on the road. Time to think, time to talk and laugh, and time to see the West. The destinations and reasons changed, but what was important remained the same.
So here I am, many miles in cars under my belt. I've done Kansas solo and I've done long trips with a full car, and I've loved it all. So why go to a motorcycle? It's been a fascination for many years; the intimate connection to the road and elements, the open air, the freedom. But I can point to four "events" that moved that fascination from a curiosity to a drive.
The first was my wife Shannon; specifically here previous experiences on motorcycles and her desire to get back on the bike. Having a partner in crime always makes a new challenge a bit easier; we were already SCUBA buddies, so why not ride together as well?
Second was a trip to Yellowstone summer of 2008. It was, without a doubt, one of single greatest weeks I've ever had. Everyone should spend time in Yellowstone: it is simply one of the most incredible places on earth. But even as I drove around the park, I kept noticing the motorcycles. If my car-bound trip was this incredible, what are the open bikes experiencing? How much of a rush would it be to smell the park (sulphur included), to pass by bison and elk and even bears, to really be connected to those roads? A dream developed in my head: I wanted to ride Yellowstone. There were no time tables, no firm plans. Just a longing.
Second and third can be combined, as they were both TV shows. The first was the Feasting on Asphalt series by Alton Brown. In the show, Alton and a small group rode across the country (first east to west, then south to north following the Mississippi River), stopping to get that ultimate nature of a place: the food. Maybe it's silly to be inspired by such a show, but it connected with those old trips where the destination was secondary, but the trip itself was everything. The second show was Long Way Round, the documentary of Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman's 19,000 mile trip from London to New York...via Europe, Russian, Mongolia, over to Alaska, down through Canada, and across the US. While I'm not planning anything that ambitious (yet), it was a reminder that there are still great adventures out there. And again, the point of the trip was the trip, not the final destination (there are much easier ways to reach New York from London!)
It was at some point during Long Way Round that Shannon and I looked at each other and knew: the time was now. We were DINKs, we had paid off our cars and cards, we had no fixed plans for a house...this was the time. All it would take was a little will, a little conviction to live the dreams we'd been gathering for years.
Now, here we are. I'm sitting in my living room, Fat Tire close at had, most of my body sore (recently re-starting martial arts isn't helping the latter.) In a short few days, I've gone from an almost complete lack of motorcycle knowledge, to some good scores on the BasicRider Course and a voucher to get the M on my drivers license. I've spent nearly 10 hours on a bike, and feel like my previous dreams are not delusions: they are possible. I feel comfortable clearing space in the garage so that Shannon and I can get a couple bikes. We have a ways to go yet: much like driving a car with a manual transmission for the first time, there's a process of turning a knowledge of operation into a fluid comfort that requires little-to-no thought. But I know we can get there, and it won't take long.
Now, looking forward. Lots of practice await, along with maintenance. Ah yes, the maintenance...I'm looking forward to that. I've never been a great mechanic: I can do simple (very simple) repairs to a car, work around the house, but my strength has been in the digital world. I can do software, work with computers, even put together a pretty sweet media center, but motorcycle will be a new world, and it's a not-insignificant part of my excitement. Modern cars are a little intimidating, but a basic 250cc motorcycle is something I can grow with.
Then there are the roads. So many places, so many roads, so little time (and vacation hours!) We are blessed with a quick route down to US Route 24 through Manitou Springs and out into the Rocky Mountains...a road I can't wait to ride. It will take some time before we're ready to ride those, but we've started down the path.
I just need to practice, trust myself, trust the bike, and enjoy the ride.
Growing up, my dad had a sales position that took him to many small towns within a days drive of SLC; by my elementary school years, he had it down to one out-of-town trip a week, done consistently on Monday nights. On special occasions, I would get to take one of these trips as well, traveling to such glamorous locations as Vernal, UT, St. George, UT, and Pocatello, ID. A few trips even took us to the resort town of Jackson, WY. All these trips had a few things in common: we would stop at many small towns along the way to check in with customers, we stayed in very inexpensive motels (my dad having long received great rates at local places due to consistent patronage)...and the rugged terrain of the American Mountain West. These trips were before the days of CD players, so forget about DVD players and head-rest displays. The amusement came from the bond between father and son, and watching the world flow by. There were no big tourist traps: the big sights were Fort Bridger, Dinosaur National Monument (heaven on earth for a young dinosaur geek!), the deep red rocks and Joshua Trees (Yucca brevifolia) of southern Utah, and pretending to be in some kind of Star Wars ship in the passenger seat (these things happen when your dad is a big Sci-Fi fan.) From these trips came the love of road trips, especially ones where the actual destination was (almost) irrelevant.
The years since haven't diminished that love. Driving through the Rocky Mountains, road trips with friends to Chicago and Las Vegas, weddings in Missouri, camping in Yellowstone, and even my college "commutes" across Kansas (and the cold beer waiting at the end) all connected back to those early times on the road. Time to think, time to talk and laugh, and time to see the West. The destinations and reasons changed, but what was important remained the same.
So here I am, many miles in cars under my belt. I've done Kansas solo and I've done long trips with a full car, and I've loved it all. So why go to a motorcycle? It's been a fascination for many years; the intimate connection to the road and elements, the open air, the freedom. But I can point to four "events" that moved that fascination from a curiosity to a drive.
The first was my wife Shannon; specifically here previous experiences on motorcycles and her desire to get back on the bike. Having a partner in crime always makes a new challenge a bit easier; we were already SCUBA buddies, so why not ride together as well?
Second was a trip to Yellowstone summer of 2008. It was, without a doubt, one of single greatest weeks I've ever had. Everyone should spend time in Yellowstone: it is simply one of the most incredible places on earth. But even as I drove around the park, I kept noticing the motorcycles. If my car-bound trip was this incredible, what are the open bikes experiencing? How much of a rush would it be to smell the park (sulphur included), to pass by bison and elk and even bears, to really be connected to those roads? A dream developed in my head: I wanted to ride Yellowstone. There were no time tables, no firm plans. Just a longing.
Second and third can be combined, as they were both TV shows. The first was the Feasting on Asphalt series by Alton Brown. In the show, Alton and a small group rode across the country (first east to west, then south to north following the Mississippi River), stopping to get that ultimate nature of a place: the food. Maybe it's silly to be inspired by such a show, but it connected with those old trips where the destination was secondary, but the trip itself was everything. The second show was Long Way Round, the documentary of Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman's 19,000 mile trip from London to New York...via Europe, Russian, Mongolia, over to Alaska, down through Canada, and across the US. While I'm not planning anything that ambitious (yet), it was a reminder that there are still great adventures out there. And again, the point of the trip was the trip, not the final destination (there are much easier ways to reach New York from London!)
It was at some point during Long Way Round that Shannon and I looked at each other and knew: the time was now. We were DINKs, we had paid off our cars and cards, we had no fixed plans for a house...this was the time. All it would take was a little will, a little conviction to live the dreams we'd been gathering for years.
Now, here we are. I'm sitting in my living room, Fat Tire close at had, most of my body sore (recently re-starting martial arts isn't helping the latter.) In a short few days, I've gone from an almost complete lack of motorcycle knowledge, to some good scores on the BasicRider Course and a voucher to get the M on my drivers license. I've spent nearly 10 hours on a bike, and feel like my previous dreams are not delusions: they are possible. I feel comfortable clearing space in the garage so that Shannon and I can get a couple bikes. We have a ways to go yet: much like driving a car with a manual transmission for the first time, there's a process of turning a knowledge of operation into a fluid comfort that requires little-to-no thought. But I know we can get there, and it won't take long.
Now, looking forward. Lots of practice await, along with maintenance. Ah yes, the maintenance...I'm looking forward to that. I've never been a great mechanic: I can do simple (very simple) repairs to a car, work around the house, but my strength has been in the digital world. I can do software, work with computers, even put together a pretty sweet media center, but motorcycle will be a new world, and it's a not-insignificant part of my excitement. Modern cars are a little intimidating, but a basic 250cc motorcycle is something I can grow with.
Then there are the roads. So many places, so many roads, so little time (and vacation hours!) We are blessed with a quick route down to US Route 24 through Manitou Springs and out into the Rocky Mountains...a road I can't wait to ride. It will take some time before we're ready to ride those, but we've started down the path.
I just need to practice, trust myself, trust the bike, and enjoy the ride.
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