A Road Story - Part 1

It had been a tough winter and a tougher spring. My marriage officially ended in April. The reality is; my marriage had been over long before. Divorce is such an ugly thing. Divorce is even uglier when someone you loved turns on you with a vindictive rage.

I needed to get my head together. I needed to travel and I needed to think. There’s no better place for both than on the seat of a motorcycle.

With all of the crud I’ve been through behind me, and with nothing holding me back; I decide to take a motorcycle road trip. A trip with no plans, no ‘destination’, and no time limit.

It is a chilly thirty degrees at 6 am as I walk from my apartment to the ganged garages across the parking lot. It is cold enough to be wearing my gloves along with a poly-fleece pull-over, but the sky is clear and the local weather forecast calls for a sunny day. Today is as good a day as any for starting this journey.

Ducking under the corner of the stairs, I walk up to the garage door. I fumble in my pocket for the remote opener and curse silently under my breath as my gloves make it nearly impossible to pull the remote from the recesses of my pants pocket. Ah, success. With a grinding noise the door opens and my old traveling companion comes into view.

Pulling my gloves off, I stand next to my motorcycle and with a glance take in silver paint that has dulled after nearly 20 years of exposure to the sun. There’s formerly polished alloy that no longer glimmers on the wheels. A set of scuffed black luggage hangs off the sides of the seat. The luggage mounts are just slightly askew. I’ll want to fix that some day. The windscreen has yellowed a bit and carries a slight haze of scratches from hundreds of cleanings. The long black seat has a polished look from thousands of hours of my butt sitting on it. This old bike is getting, well…old.

None of that cosmetic stuff matters, as I flick the key to ‘on’, check that the neutral light is shining at me and pull the choke lever to that familiar sweet spot. My thumb presses the starter button, there’s a brief whirring of the starter quickly drowned out by a bark from the exhaust as 1000cc of inline four lights off. A guttural rumble fills the confines of the garage while the bike settles into a slightly loping idle.

Once when I was messing around in the garage, I pulled the mufflers off and started the bike. The walls shook with what sounded like a big-block V8. My neighbors were less than impressed. Who knew that beneath the slick Japanese skin of my sport-touring motorcycle lurked the heart and soul of a ’67 Chevy Malibu SS?

My reluctantly old bike runs like new. I trust its mechanical condition with my life, because I’m the mechanic. I trust the handling, because I’ve ridden this motorcycle almost a hundred thousand miles. I know how hard I can corner, I know how hard I can brake and perhaps most importantly, I know just how fast this aged sport-touring bike can run. We’ve bonded, this old Kawasaki and I.

These are the final preparations for a trip with no plans. While the bike warms, I pull the camping gear off the shelf and strap it across the seat and luggage rack. I packed my clothing into the drooping side cases last night. Carefully, I clip the garage remote onto the tank-bag so that I can reach it. After a quick check of the tire pressures, I do a walk around to make sure all the lights are functional. I spy no leaks, nothing hangs loose. I’m good to go.

Pausing for the briefest of moments, I wonder when I’ll need to use the remote again.

It’s time to gear up and hit the road. I pull my riding pants on over my jeans, and shrug into my warm textile jacket. I do the earplug dance to screw a pair of earplugs into my head and tug my helmet over my ears.

Throwing a leg over the bike I remember too late that my gloves are over on the bench. I un-throw the leg, and stomp, slightly disgusted with myself over to the bench to grab the gloves, stomp back, and remount.

I pull my gloves on, settle into the seat, and now…I’m ready.

With a familiar ‘clunk’ I push the bike off the center-stand then heave back on the bars to paddle backwards out of the garage.

The garage door closes but I can’t hear it due to my ear protection. I double check that it stays closed. Months ago, I’d come home from a week long ride to find the garage door wide open. Nothing was missing, but my neighbor said it was open all week. He told me he’d wondered if I meant to leave it open. I wondered why he hadn’t closed it.

The first few miles of a ride always seem to take the longest. I pull up to the first major intersection at the edge of my residential area and I’m confronted with a decision. The main road goes two ways. One way takes you to the coast, one takes you inland. Which way? It doesn’t matter.

I turn right and I’m surrounded by commuters in their cages, busily sipping on their decaf skinny lattes and talking on their cell phones as they hurtle their two ton weapons down the road. My senses are buzzing with danger signals from the hazards surrounding me. I do some deep breathing, and regain my familiarity with the task at hand as I begin to settle in. I remain aware of the flock, but now I’m the wolf, not the lamb.

An hour goes by along with fifty or so miles. I’m away from the city now, with fewer cars and trucks around. Those that I do encounter are quickly dispatched with a twist of the wrist. I’m not quite out of civilization but I can see the edge. The road narrows, and now I casually toss my bike through sweeping curves along the river. Sunlight flickers through the branches, reflects off the water of the bay and splatters across my face shield. This is good. This is very good.

I don’t eat right. I’ve been told that numerous times. I usually skip breakfast, I almost always skip lunch. I drink too much coffee and I love foods that are loaded with fat and sugar and all those other nasty yummy contents. I think as I ride, “I’ll have barbeque for dinner”. The trick will be to see if I can find a BBQ joint along this road. After a moment, I realize that it doesn’t matter. I’ll eat what I can find, when I find it.

Two hundred miles have gone beneath my rolling wheels. I’m starting to get into the rhythm of riding. I’m comfortable, the bike beneath me responds exactly as I expect. Mechanical noises are normal, all systems are showing nominal on the instruments, there’s nothing to disturb my thoughts.

I simply think. I think about what I could have done differently in my failed marriage. What I could have done differently in all of my relationships. My thoughts aren’t distracted by a radio, a ringing cell phone or the jabbering of a passenger. I’m completely alone inside my helmet. Just me, and my thoughts. I realize with a flash of inspiration that, what has passed is the past, and the future is all that lies ahead. “Heavy man.” I think some more.

I never did find that BBQ joint. Three tanks of gas later and it’s starting to get dark. I’ve ridden almost a thousand miles so far today. I’m not home anymore. I’m not even in my home state. I’ve traversed Oregon from north to south and I’ve not set a wheel on the interstate except for the last seventy five miles.

It’s dark now. Riding motorcycles in the dark is two things. First, it’s incredibly challenging. Second, it’s terribly dangerous. Deer and motorcycles don’t mix. Evening brings the deer out along the road to graze on the nice fresh grass that tends to grow there. A wise motorcyclist finds safe shelter when darkness falls.

Nobody ever said I was wise. I decide to press on down CA3 from Yreka for one more tank of gas. That will see me three hundred miles further down the road. I’ll be another three hundred miles from home. I’ll have another five or six hours of thinking time. To me, on this day, the risk is worth the reward. I press on, tossing this rumbling friend of mine through the corners and accelerating hard down the straights. The rhythm of riding continues long into the night.