The Almost Grand Canyon Trip

amboy

Our first Harley road trip to Arizona was full of storms. When the trip was planned for May, we weren’t expecting any rain. It was unfortunate we couldn’t have made arrangements to test new motorcycle gear, since we experienced every possible weather condition, short of a tornado. In spite of extreme weather, it was an adventure that built friendships and trust.

At 6:00 a.m., things are not as easy as later in the day. Frank and I were layered up with thermals, sweaters, leather chaps and jackets, with rain gear over it all. We never rode with rain gear before, which became immediately apparent when I tried to get on the bike behind Frank. My leg, which never had the range of a dancer to begin with, would not go over the bike. My husband, who has terminal anxiety about being late, looked over his shoulder to see why I was taking so much time. Finally with his help, I was seated, perhaps permanently.

We met up with the brave riders who ignored the weather reports, and Frank removed me from the bike. Feeling like a scarecrow, I peeled off the rain gear. The other riders assured us that rain would hold off so we didn’t need to worry about it until after the Mojave Desert portion of our ride. The ride captain had checked the weather reports for the towns we were passing through, and he was somewhat confident that we could make it through the day.

The first leg of our journey was a blur, not due to excessive speed but the blasting wind as we fought through to Yucca. But my head did not fall off, and we finally reached Twenty-Nine Palms and the desert.

The real kind with sand and no vegetation. Nothing but sand and asphalt.

The old Route 66 went through here, and I tried to imagine cars with no air conditioning crossing the massive emptiness. Then I thought about horses and wagons coming out to California for the gold rush. Were we as crazy as them?

After nothing for miles, we stopped at an antique gas station in Amboy. Two pumps and some restrooms. A motel from the 60s era with a huge sign that said Roy’s welcomed us, but it didn’t look like anyone stayed there. We took a break in the bright sunshine, peeling off leather jackets and chaps.

Time that day was measured by gas station stops, the next one in Needles. The clouds that were threatening all day stretched above us like water balloons. The road captain consulted his phone for weather updates. We traveled a little while longer until we stopped underneath a freeway overpass. Leather and rain gear came back out, for we were headed up in altitude, towards Williams, Arizona.

Instead of taking the freeway, we continued to follow old Route 66 through wind-swept Native American reservations. Miles of scraggly bushes and cows stretched out in all directions. The mountains ahead were obscured by clouds. Bitter cold cross winds came up under our helmets and made our eyes water. Then the rain arrived as mist on our windshield.

As the line of bikes snaked its way across the rolling hills, rain caressed us gently, often mistaken as wind. Cold air pressed down on us as we rode directly through a low pressure cell. In the distance, I could see slivers of blue sky, but I couldn’t tell if our capricious road would loop away or toward the hanging clouds.

Onward we traveled down an endless road littered with the ruins of motels, gas stations, restaurants, and car repair shops that had closed up after the freeway had been built. Route 66 was a road through ghost towns, everything frozen in time.

Finally our road connected with the freeway which had killed it, and we stretched out on the wide, separated interstate that would lead us to our hotel in Williams. The mist continued to fall, but our rain gear did its job, and we stayed dry. The road captain threw up his arm to turn off, and we headed for the hotel. The rain had stopped when we arrived, and we went inside to check in.

Again Frank and I proved to be newbees as we tried to check in, and found our credit card cancelled. After a phone call, we found out that our frequent small purchases at gas stations along the way had created a fraud alert, which blocked our card. After we got that straightened out, we went outside to unload our luggage when it began to hail.

Huge gumball size ice balls pelted us as we grabbed our bags and headed for our room. However, by the time we were ready to walk down the street for dinner, the storm had stopped.

Our range of weather continued the next day as we rode to Flagstaff for breakfast. Instead of the relentless pelting of rain, we could barely feel the gentle caress of flakes. Our warm breath clouded the visors of our helmets and our fingers felt stiff. When we reached the restaurant, I realized I’d been holding my breath the whole time, praying that no one would skid out on the slippery road. But we made it to Cracker Barrel safely, and our troubles were forgotten with the help of coffee and pancakes.

During breakfast, the ride captain studied maps and conferred with his phone, weather again a concern. The Grand Canyon was at a higher elevation that included snow in the forecast.

After much deliberation and a vote from the group, we decided to take a scenic loop outside of Flagstaff that would head back toward Williams instead of proceeding to the Grand Canyon. As much as it was a disappointment, I was relieved that we were going to stay lower where we would face rain but not snow.

Our group rode into Flagstaff past the university and back out to the wilderness. The narrow two-lane road led us through woods and meadows, past ranches and houses that seemed like freckles on the huge expanse of land. Rarely did a vehicle pass us, and when it did, it was a Jeep or a four-wheel drive truck.

But the clouds had not forgotten us. A massive black one loomed to our right, a grey curtain of rain extended from its bottom. Would we make back to Williams before getting hit by a deluge?

On we rode and the road took us where it wanted us to go. The sky became more dramatic as sunshine hit us on our left. and the cold storm front pushed us from the other side. I felt like we were storm chasers, only without the protection of a van. Even if we stopped, there was nowhere to find shelter in the barren rolling land.

Suddenly, I felt a bucket of water dumped over my head. The storm had caught us! The ride captain slowed down as we were lost in a wall of rain. Only the yellow center line reassured us that we still followed the road. I shut my eyes for there was nothing to see. Surely we would stop somewhere and wait for the storm to pass.

But the road saved us as it turned to the left, away from the storm’s fury. We kept following it until it led us back to the freeway. Two short exits and we were back at the hotel, taking hot showers, and getting ready for dinner.

We all shared our stories that night. Some of us knew each other before the trip, but others, including us, were new. Some of it was more personal than the lunch conversations of a day trip. But riding through wind, heat, rain, sleet, and snow had changed our group. After surviving the storms together, we were ready to share the other storms of our lives as well.

June 27, 2016 0

Review of “The First Monday in May”

FMM

When I first saw the trailer for this documentary, I thought it would be just another reality T.V. show, with people tearing out their hair and swearing at each other. I had no idea that it was a love story.

“The First Monday in May,” directed by Andrew Rossi is a series of interviews and behind the scenes negotiations leading up to the 2015 New York Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Gala. The viewer gets to ride along with Andrew Bolton and Anna Wintour as they navigate the numerous decisions that will result in the Costume Institute’s exhibit “China Through the Looking Glass.” Anna Wintour is the dragon lady of this story, the real life inspiration for the book and movie The Devil Wears Prada. If the movie would have focused on her harsh decision-making character, it would have been difficult to watch. Instead, her infamous public image was downplayed, keeping the focus on the Gala.

As the movie unfolded, I was drawn into the romance between Andrew Bolton and his exhibit. As he interviews the designers who contributed costumes for the show, I could feel how captivated he was by his project. He hangs on every word from designers from Dior, Yves St. Laurent, and Chanel, gasping with delight as they display their creations. We follow the courtship between Andrew and his exhibit from Paris to Beijing. Chinese officials he meets show stone faces like overprotective fathers. But his words were passionate and pleading, ensuring their support.

As designers send their creations to the museum, every outfit is handled gently by workers with paper lab coats and latex gloves. Costumes were hung in sterile white closets like precious pieces of art. One of the most beautiful pieces was a long gold sequin dress with a train longer than any wedding dress I have seen. As the clothes were mounted onto abstract, faceless mannequins, they became alive.

The preparations for the Gala dinner seemed no different than wedding planning, as Anne’s assistants labored over the seating arrangements for celebrities and fashion industry giants. As the time grows closer, unforeseen problems with the lighting set the installation schedule back. In a reality series, this would have been the place where we saw the main character with his head in his hands, walking out the door, or screaming at the workers.

But this is the Met, and it is a love story. Andrew was willing to do whatever it takes to win his bride without complaint. His staff, the brides-maids and best men, work long hours to make Andrew’s vision come into reality.

At the unveiling of the show, the viewer gets to see some of the 50,000 costumes that were included in the “China Through the Looking Glass” exhibit. It starts with the wedding guests arriving on a red carpet, humming with the opulence of celebrities in designer dresses and tuxes. Beautiful women preen themselves before the cameras and reporters on their way up the stairs to the museum. Everywhere there is chaos of people laughing, drinking, and fake-hugging each other.

But we are allowed a more intimate view with Andrew as he walks alone through the completed exhibit, romantic music in the background. As the gowns glisten in the spotlights and pose against ancient Buddha statues, we can’t help but believe that his exhibit, his work of art, loves him back.

May 24, 2016 0

The Day I Became a Writer

I became a writer one day in Ireland, standing on slime covered rocks squinting over at France. Actually I had written many stories during the course of my forty years, but that windy beach changed me.

My daughter, Kristin, and I were five days into an eleven day quest through Scotland and Ireland. I was collecting research on castles for a book, and I liked seeing them in person more than looking at pictures on the internet. Earlier that week, we had toured Edinburgh Castle, and were now driving through the back roads of Ireland on our way to Blarney Castle.

I had rented a car in Dublin with the encouragement of our travel agent who assured me I would quickly learn how to drive a left handed stick shift on the opposite side of the road. How lost could you really get on an island? The day I picked up the car, Kristin and I learned the answer for over two hours before accidently passing our hotel, thanks to the one way streets and tiny street signs that were tacked to the sixth floor of the brick buildings at every major intersection. After a moment’s embarrassment at the front desk when I learned they were about reading to send out the Gardai to find us, I consoled myself that driving in the country would be much easier.

With the July sun shining in our faces, we headed down the east coast toward Rosslare Harbor, where we had plans to stay at a dairy farm that was also a bed and breakfast inn. Still feeling the sting of yesterday’s mistake, I made Kristin official navigator. She carefully studied the map, which was twice as interesting since the town names were both in Gaelic and in English. We managed well until we reached the roundabout outside of town. Turning right into the circle of cars, it was the merry-go-round on the playground all over again. I merged into the spinning swirl of cars until we jumped out onto the road I thought would lead us to the dairy farm.

The other difficulty about driving in Ireland is that once you are on a road there are no road signs to reassure you that you are indeed on the correct road. Only when you arrive, an hour later, at the next medieval town do you realize that you should have stayed on the roundabout one spoke farther to the right. Since this was before phone navigation, we stopped at the only place you could ask directions – the pub.

Forty five minutes later, after we had shared stories with the old men who seemed to live at the pub, we were headed in the right direction. When we finally passed the old oak tree, turned right at the corner where the white cows stand, and turned left at the golf course, we ended up at our destination. A two story brick and wood house with a tall chimney, surrounded by barns and other buildings popped up between the hills.

After sipping tea with our hostess, Kristin and I decided to stretch our legs by walking to the beach. We followed the low stone wall all the way to the end, as instructed, passing black and white cows and sheep with pink spray painted on their rear legs. A narrow dirt path led us through waving tall grass, between randomly tossed chunks of rock, until we came out to a deserted beach.

Waves crashed over slippery black rocks, creating fountains of spray. We climbed out on the rocks as far as we dared, braving the icy spray carried in the breeze. Looking out to sea, we could see the outlines of cruise ships and cargo ships on their way to Europe.

“Ireland!” Kristin yelled over the crashing surf. Here we were, around the world from California, standing on the beach of the land that birthed many writers. They were my ancestors, and I had come home.

At this point in my life, my identity had been shaken. I was no longer a wife. My husband’s relatives and friends had faded away in grief. My career in retail buying had been swept away, and replaced by a career in teaching. My children were growing up and independent, leaving me with empty time. Time to write.

Standing there on that slippery rock, in the land of my ancestors, I suddenly knew that I was a writer.

May 1, 2016 0

Dancing with Mountains

Ortega

As our HOG chapter roared down the narrow road that paralleled Lake Matthews, the sky was bright with promises of cool spring weather. After previous days of thunderstorms, this blue sky only held wispy feather clouds, incapable of interfering with our ride. My husband and I were riding almost in the middle of the pack, with eight riders ahead of us and nine behind. Before we had left the dealership, the road captain had called for two sweeps, one that rode directly behind us and one at the back of the group, in case we were separated by traffic lights. He also reminded us that if we had difficulty and had to pull off, the sweep would stay with us until help arrived.

Such dire thoughts vanished from our minds as we followed the back roads down to Ortega Highway. As we turned onto the road, Lake Elsinore at our back, I looked up at the imposing ridge before us. I could see tiny cars moving in layers of road that switch backed on the desert side of the mountain. The pack spread out from its staggered formation to single, causing the group to stretch out past my line of vision.

That’s where the dance began. Through the twisted turns, our Harley obediently leaned to the left, straightened out, and then leaned to the right. The pattern had a rhythm that mesmerized me. The mountain had accepted our request for a dance, and he was leading us through the steps. On and on he led us to the beat of unheard music, over the top of the rugged mountains and into the shade of a small mountain community. We rode straight through a canopy of trees for a short time until we started down the other side of the pass.

Here the dancers dangled from the edge of a canyon, the road clinging to its side. Sometimes we were interrupted by an impatient sport bike that rushed past us, unwilling to join our dance down the mountain. Still we danced– riding the left turn, straightening out, and then riding the right turn. As the dance continued, I readjusted my position slightly, feeling like a human caught up in an endless faery reel.

Suddenly, the road shot out straight, and neighborhoods replaced rocky cliffs. We roared to a stop at the traffic light, shaking out shoulders, taking a deep breath. The group bunched back up into two across, sharing about the ride with smiles that peeked out under their helmets. I turned around and snapped a picture of the glistening white canyon behind us. Even though I felt like I had held my breath for the past forty minutes, I couldn’t help smiling with the rest. Good bye for now, and thank you for the dance.

April 7, 2016 0

Back Roads to Pioneertown

Pioneertown

(Photo by Kevin Austin)

When we rolled out of the Riverside dealership that morning, most of the HOGs were still yawning. Daylight Savings Time had just arrived, and we regretted that lost hour of sleep. The sky was gradually brightening with the promise of a sunny day. Two by two the Harleys lined up at the traffic light, their snarling engines ready to run. When the light turned, we poured onto the freeway, fitting ourselves into the jigsaw puzzle of traffic.

We rode in small clumps at first, eighteen bikes too many to stay together between cars. Eventually open space allowed us to line up in staggered formation as we endured the mindless repetition of on ramps and off ramps, merging traffic and slow trucks, road construction and reckless drivers. Cloud topped mountains drew closer, looking like brownies covered with whipped crème. Frozen whipped crème. Shivering, I zipped up my heavy leather jacket and pulled the collar of my layering jacket over my chin. Promised sunshine now hid away, and the threat of icy rain loomed over us.

Hand signals rippled down the line of bikes as we threaded through traffic toward our exit. At the end of the ramp we paused, free from the chaotic energy of the freeway. One by one the pack turned onto a narrow winding road that carved through the mountains toward the high desert valleys. The road hugged the sides of rippling hills like the zigzag stitch on a blanket. The long procession of bikes spread over the hills into the distance. To the north I could see layers of mountains like bookshelves, the next shelf up holding a slow moving freight train, and the top shelf the frantic vehicles on the freeway beyond our exit.

Our journey changed drastically. We fell into the rhythm of curves and dips as we traveled through land that was unconcerned about man’s ambitions. Water carved red rock hills covered with bristly bushes chased each other into the distance. A sheer rock wall watched us from the left with a lofty arrogance. These rocks existed when the Native American tribes roamed over them on horseback, and they would still stand after our passing. The twisty roads forced us to ride slowly, slowing our pulses, slowing down time. Bike following bike, the road leading us on.

Suddenly the road spit us out into a wide flat valley and straightened itself out. The Harleys gladly stretched their legs and gained speed. Gradually I grew aware that the ominous grey wall of mountains on our left was growing closer as we rode. As I looked behind and ahead of us, I could see no end to it. Yet our road seemed determined to connect with it. How would we get over it? Would the road lift us to the top of that wall or would man’s determination have tunneled through it?

Miles sped by in our race to the wall, and soon I could see the end. The wall sloped down before it merged with another ridge, and into this opening the road stretched through. The bikes climbed over it without strain, and dropped down into another flat valley. The mountain peaks on our right were dusted with snow, and I knew that on the other side, snow boarders were riding rails and practicing jumps in the fresh powder. However this side held dry cracked rocks and joshua trees reaching toward the bright blue sky. Water in this valley had to be trapped by high dams like the one we just passed.

The road passed through white fenced ranches that eventually led into small groups of houses and buildings, towns so small they seemed out of place in overpopulated southern California. A man in his electric wheelchair rumbled on the dirt shoulder. Where he was headed on a straight narrow road with no sidewalks I couldn’t guess, but I admired his perseverance. The line of bikes pulled into a gas station, and we stretched our legs and gulped some water. Although it was not hot, the air was so dry it crackled.

After a brief rest, we roared on our way toward our goal. After passing through miles and miles of caked dirt dotted with brush and more spiky joshua trees, the land surrounding us smoothed out into a huge flat area with no vegetation, a dry lake bed. I wondered what happened to the water—was it diverted for other purposes, or did it simply dry up over time? It felt like a lunar landscape had fallen into our path.

The road called us on, and we descended into another valley, this one much hotter and dryer than the last. Pink desert mountains lined the horizon on the left. A line of buildings in the distance slowly grew into our lunch stop. Wooden buildings, including a saloon front, saddle shop, and a jail, formed the skeleton of an old western movie set, now a tourist attraction and motorcycle destination. We pulled into the dirt parking lot and parked the bikes in a row, just like cowboys would have tied up their horses in front of the saloon. I carefully dismounted our Harley, stiff muscles protesting. We all took off our helmets and layers of jackets and leather chaps. Even though we had just ridden over twisting roads and through dry dusty towns, we were excited to share our journey together. It was time for food and drink, tales and jokes, friendships forged in adventure.

March 16, 2016 1

College of the Crones- Chp.3 Part Three

mask

The prince calmed himself as he composed his reply. Everything inside him wanted to scream in this insignificant worm’s face. He called upon his magic to quiet the storm, difficult as it was to do so in this iron-filled land. His face relaxed, and he released his grip on the arms of his chair. The silence was as weighty as the pause before a judge’s verdict.

“I…understand… your… concern,” replied the prince. He took a deep breath, letting it out completely before he continued. “I know that the men of Beautiful work hard for the glory of my land. I sincerely wish that I could give my beauty tonic freely to all who ask.” He chuckled a bit under his breath, its sound causing the dancers near him to stop in mid twirl. “But its ingredients are rare and growing more scarce by the year. And my men already travel long distances through dangerous lands to obtain what is needed. As the risk to my men increases, so must the price of the tonic.” He paused, the corners of his mouth twitching. “If men don’t wish to pay the price, they can simply choose not to buy it.” His jewel-like eyes glittered behind his feathered mask. The eavesdropping dancers hurried away to another part of the hall.

“Of course, Your Highness,” the scarecrow said. His face turned paler than his makeup as he considered the possible future with men married to ugly crones. No man would choose that. He shuddered at the thought. “Your generosity is well known in Beautiful. I am certain you are doing everything you can. I will disturb you no longer. Good evening, my prince.” He made a hasty bow and darted back into the noisy crowd. The guards and ladies nearest to him relaxed as the tension dissipated.

The prince exhaled and drained his cup with a shaking hand. How ungrateful these humans are! I give them perfect beauty to gaze upon for their entire lives, and they grumble about a little labor. Subjects. How they tried his patience! How they interrupted his pleasures! If he didn’t do something, they might become difficult to control. Back in Faerie, a mere gesture alone would accomplish his desires. But his power was weakened here, away from his magical homeland. If not for my potion-making talents, I might have had to actually work for a living.

Shaking his head free of unwanted thoughts, the prince beckoned to the guard nearby. The masked soldier hastened to his master’s side. The prince whispered into his ear, “Make sure that the mayor has a fatal carriage accident on his way home.” The soldier nodded his understanding and left the hall. With a contented sigh, the prince turned back to the festivities. Learning to delegate is not so difficult after all.

March 2, 2016 0

College of the Crones- Chp.3 Part Two

mask

“Of course, I would be pleased to have a word with the mayor,” the prince answered instead. He had to continue the charade if he was going to achieve his goals. Still, maybe he could appoint a royal advisor to address these trivial matters in the future. This interacting with the local simpletons is a waste of my abilities.

At the wave of the mouse, a tall scarecrow approached the prince’s table. His face was covered with white paint, his lips and eyes traced in black. He was wearing a rough burlap shirt, well-worn and patched pants, and a large straw hat. Straw was falling out of his hat, sleeves, and neckline. In spite of the playful disguise, his eyes looked worried. As he bowed low before the prince, a pile of straw formed on the floor.

“You may address me,” the prince said without enthusiasm.

“Your Highness,” he began as he stood up. “You look splendid this evening. May you live forever! Your masquerade is breathtaking. My wife and I are having a marvelous time.” The scarecrow took a breath. He seemed to consider his words. “However, there is a small matter that prevents my complete enjoyment. Earlier this week, some of the other mayors visited me, and we have discovered a common concern. I urgently bring that concern to Your Highness.” The scarecrow paused, waiting for his ruler’s acknowledgement. The prince graced him with a thin smile and nodded.

“The tonic price has gone up three times already this year, and your representatives have informed us that it will go up again before Yuletide. The price is already quite high. The men are working diligently from dawn to sunset every day. They can barely afford to buy bread. How much more can they work before they collapse? Of course, the potion is worth the price, but if the men’s strength fails, who will tend the fields and sell goods? Your Highness knows the crones and wives can’t do it.” The scarecrow reddened, shocked at frankness of the words that rushed out of his mouth. He waited tensely for the prince’s answer.

February 29, 2016 0

College of the Crones- Chp 3 Part One

mask

Interruption

As he descended the spiral staircase into the great hall, the prince was pleased to see his servants, dressed as mice, standing quietly at their posts, ready to receive guests. Masked musicians had begun to play, filling the hall with feet-stirring melodies. Long linen draped tables ran the length of the far wall, piled high with every delicacy a royal or commoner could imagine. Roasted ducks, pheasants, and chickens were kept warm under silver covers. A large tree made of pears, apples, and plums decorated one of the tables as if in bloom. Huge bowls of potatoes, puddings, gravies, and stuffing sat hot and overflowing on some tables, while cakes, pies, and pastries were stacked sweet and high on others. Servants stood by with goblets of wine and beer, their jobs to ensure no one could walk a straight line home at the end of the night. The prince surveyed it with satisfaction. No lord in all the lands provided a feast this grand.

Guests began pouring through the main entrance, and the dance floor quickly filled up. A kaleidoscope of brilliant costumes, feathered masks, dramatic capes, and silk sashes spun in obedience to magical music. The prince sat down at his head table surrounded by his court ladies, who dressed as rabbits, complete with long fur ears. They filled his goblet, loaded his plate, and competed for his glance. He would smile at one lady, admire the face of another, and then turn back to survey the dancers. Those he addressed sighed with pleasure, under the glare of the slighted. When their attentions failed to distract the prince from studying the other party goers, they turned their attention there also, watching from their luxurious perch.

The prince entertained himself by evaluating the swirling women as they passed him. I certainly don’t want that swan woman with all the droopy feathers. She’s excessively tall, and her neck is too short. A red and yellow clown caught his eye. Maybe that one. I love fair hair, and hers is like spun gold. There is always room for another beautiful face in my court.

“Your Highness,” squeaked one of the prince’s mice. “If it pleases you, Sire, the Mayor of Oakbottom would like to have a word with you.” The twitchy mouse awaited his reply. Now what? The prince barely muffled a yawn. Not another problem with wolves? It took so much of his energy to feign compassion for any extended length of time. He needed to enjoy this ball. Didn’t these rude villagers realize it was after official business hours? I should have this annoyance thrown into the dungeon.

February 25, 2016 0

Why We Ride- Part Two

wwr 2

Completely exposed. That is your situation when you ride motorcycles, and you must accept it.

Safety is another reason my friends consider my husband and I crazy to spend half our weekends riding our Harley. There are many features built into our bike that contribute to our safety- LED lights, anti-lock brakes, and so many more that if I ever get a chance to read the Bible sized owner’s manual I could list them. Motorcycles built now are much safer than the ones your father rode. However when it actually comes down to it, there’s nothing between you and the pavement (or the other cars).

Everyone has to decide in their own heart where their comfort level is with safety. The decision to ride is accepting the fact that no matter how great a motorcycle rider you are, something might happen to you. Fear can be a deciding factor. You can spend your life striving to make everything in your life safe, never taking any chances. Afraid to drive your car because you might get in an accident, you could barricade yourself in your child-proofed home to watch sports on TV (going to a sports event is dangerous as well as actually playing sports yourself). However you could walk outside to take down your trash cans and a car might careen down your street, jump the curb and kill you. Nothing in life is totally safe, and there is a 100% chance that you will die someday. Motorcycle riders look at life as time to be fully experienced, not packed away to somehow save it.

In addition to your own risk, riding with a group takes on a deeper meaning when danger rides along. The ride captain plans the route in advance and is the first one to scout the road as we ride. In the rear, the sweep makes sure no one gets left behind. The group enters into an unspoken agreement that if the unspeakable happens, the rest will be there to lift both you and your bike (if possible) back up. Your riding group becomes your family, your squad, your protection.

So why do we ride? Hard to explain, as the answer is different for everyone. It could be the thrill, the adventure, the fellowship, the technical achievement, even romance. Riders come in all sizes and ages- young and reckless to old enough to know better. One thing is certain; it separates us from the ones who must be safe. Those who ride in air bag covered cages will never understand the huge smiles after a long twisty mountain road. They will never almost get tagged by a hawk or be blasted with sand on a lonely desert road. And they will never ride through pummeling wind and pouring rain to reach a tiny motel at the end of the day, eternally grateful for hot water.

In fact the more I talk about it, the more ridiculous it appears to non-riders. Yet since the passion of the open road burns in me, I will try to explain it so that they might have a glimpse of the excitement that waits outside their locked door.

February 19, 2016 1

Why We Ride- Part One

black pearl

When I got back to work on Monday, my eyes sparkled with the residual excitement from the weekend. Even though my neck and back protested, I smiled at my co-workers in the teacher’s lounge. One of my teacher friends squinted suspiciously at me and asked, “How was your weekend?”

“Frank and I rode with the HOGs through the mountains to Borrego Springs, around the edge of the Salton Sea, and back over the badlands. 300 miles! It was awesome!” I gushed, overwhelming her sleepiness with my pent up energy.

After taking another sip from her tall cup of coffee, she waited for my wave of conversation to pass. “Wow, isn’t that really dangerous? Just last week, I heard about a deadly motorcycle accident on the freeway.” She shook her head, and then saw that the copier was open, so she ran over to it with her stack of papers.

There it was. The great divide between those who love to ride Harleys and those who think we are crazy.

When Frank and I first married, he had ridden many different types of motorcycles over the course of his life. Not always safely. It was his release from all responsibility, and therefore in the stage of life in which we met, he didn’t own a bike. But as we grew to know each other’s dreams, I realized that one of his was to own a Harley.

At first he just wanted to find out whether or not I would enjoy riding behind him. My only experience on a motorcycle was as an eleven year old, hanging on behind my father on a vacation in the Bahama Islands. (More like an amusement park ride than a real motorcycle ride.) Therefore, we started with a scooter- fun but not very fast. Frank had grown into a responsible rider, and he made it easy for me to trust him. My skiing experience had already given me an appreciation for the wind rushing in my face, and I adapted well. Then we moved up to a small motorcycle, even more fun, but my bottom didn’t appreciate the skinny pad they called a seat. The full dresser motorcycles that rumbled by with their full seats and passenger backrest looked so comfortable.

Finally, we did it. We bought a Harley, and even my husband, with all his experience, wasn’t prepared for how our lives changed. For you see, buying a Harley doesn’t just gain you a mode of transportation. It initiates you into a club whose members live all over the world. Every Harley you pass on the street greets you with a solemn wave. With the purchase of our Road King, we were allowed to wear Harley Davidson jackets, hats, and tee shirts. The orange and black emblem started conversations with the most unlikely people we met. The dealership, not merely a place where we purchased and serviced our bike, became our club house, complete with donuts and coffee on the weekends and bike shows and other events.

As we rode, we saw groups of Harleys pass us with their patches on their jackets and their determined sense of purpose. Riding was fun, but riding with a bunch of snarling bikes sounded more fun. But we were cautious, as not all motorcycle groups were the same. We wanted to ride with other responsible people who wanted to have fun and live to get there. So we joined the HOGs, the Harley Owners Group. It’s a national as well as local riding group, with meetings and planned rides.

But the HOGs are more than that. We have found friends that share our love of braving the heat, cold, wind, and loose gravel to ride on forgotten roads. Roads that take us through avocado groves, vineyards, and boulder strewn sculptures. Roads that lead to famous road house diners and more of our kind. You know, the crazy people who love adventure and desire to face it on two wheels, just like us.

February 17, 2016 0