Colder now, I’ve climbed above 3000 ft. The roadsides are rock strewn with patches of ice encrusted snow. It seems darker. I know I’m riding further away from safety. My mind gently probes the idea of being lost, hurt, my broken body hidden down a hill or beneath a cover of branches. I contemplate facing death on this road. With a headshake, I reject those thoughts and refocus on being smooth.
A bull, barbed wire and a fast bike.
The final installment of Michael Pierce’s journey of healing.
I’m not five miles outside of Quincy when I see a flash out of the corner of my eye. Instinct takes over and I swerve away from the source of the flash. There’s a sharp thwack and the bike bobbles. “Cheese!” I’m still upright but my direction of travel is now directly into oncoming traffic. “Son of a B….!” escapes my lips…
Let the gremlins free! I feel the sputter rather than hear it. It goes away in an instant. Wait! What was that? Another sputter, this time it’s not only felt but it’s heard and it doesn’t go away. I’m an hour east of Chico in the Feather River Canyon. That makes me roughly halfway to my friend’s house outside Quincy. The bike is running on three cylinders with stretches where it’s popping and banging along on two. This for a motorcycle traveler is bad news.
