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ridingfar
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« Reply #7 on: September 29, 2010, 12:16:19 PM » |
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While I enjoyed this expression of the emotions stirred from operating our unique vehicles, I am troubled but the stereotyping of other groups in the apparent interest of feeling “special”. There would seem to be a universal desire among people to see themselves as unique, when in reality people are far more alike than they are different.
So, while the expressions of how it feels to operate a Mini are eloquently written by Mr. Horner, the characterization of “bikers” was exceedingly narrow. True, some motorcycle enthusiasts are of the pirate and poser ilk, their focus more on conveying an image than of the enjoyment of riding. But many “bikers” are truly riders whose experiences and feelings are very, very similar to those we share as Mini motoring enthusiasts. One is not better, or worse, as they do have differences, but their similarities are much greater than has been characterized here.
Illustratively, I offer an excerpt from a trip taken nearly a decade ago; you decide how closely the experience and sentiments capture those of our Mini experiences. Different machines, kindred spirits…
Why We Ride: Remembrance
Terry was a tough, wiry guy, short in stature, lean, strong willed, and a big heart under that tough exterior. He was passionate about life, and compassionate, but demanding, of others. He lived hard, pushing himself, and those around him, both in his personal and professional life.
Terry was a classic Type “A” personality, a Driver Driver. It earned him the respect and admiration of those who knew him, it occasionally irritated the hell out of you, sometimes it elicited your sympathy….and, at the ripe old age of 41, it killed him.
I’d known Terry on and off for a couple of years, and he’d worked for me for about six months when he died. We’d clashed many times; two strong willed men passionate about their work in turbulent times. Our exchanges were fiery, occasionally humorous, and always animated. Yet we both liked and respected one another, and we each recognized the strength and talent in the other. We made a good team, and both the business and the employees were better from our being there together.
Terry was an early riser; that is, he didn’t sleep much, driven as he was by whatever demons that compelled him to push to find some sanity in the chaos of life. Even with the two hour time zone advantage he usually beat me to work, greeting me with a “Good morning boss” instant message as I logged onto the company network. His reliability was comforting, and sometimes irritating that early in the morning. I chastise myself when I think about occasionally being less than personable in my pre-caffeine hours of the morning.
Terry and I were caught up in the throws of corporate madness that all too typically accompanies big changes done too late, then too fast. In another scenario we’d have been heroes; this time we were just pawns in a power shift that drug out, and then demanded too much from too few. I believe it broke his spirit, and his heart soon followed.
You always think you have more time than you do, whether it’s at work or in personal relationships. I thought I had more time to know Terry. But we were not strangers to one another, and had occasionally talked of passions past and present.
Terry was a motorcyclist, and clearly longed to ride again when I spoke of adventures experienced or future expeditions. We talked of riding together, and places he could show me when I rode out and he had gotten a bike again.
Shortly after hearing that Terry had died the thought of riding to California from Dallas for his services occurred to me. The circumstance created the opportunity, and it felt like the right thing to do. There was a certainty about making the trip by motorcycle that endured, and I acted by making plans for the trip.
It was late October, and a good time to travel the Southwest before the winter rains began. The night before I was to depart an early cold front had sailed down the east side of the Rockies, spilling across the Texas panhandle and onto the southern plains. I would have to cut across it on the dreaded first day’s run out of Texas to Mew Mexico.
It was warm in my driveway the morning I left, but I stopped within 10 miles to put on more layers. I stopped again at a friend’s house after another 70 miles and borrowed his long johns and another pair of wool sox. It was a silly oversight to an otherwise well packed trip, and I recovered just in time as the rain started within a mile of leaving. I was otherwise well equipped however, and having filled the chinks in my armor I zipped things shut, dialed up my electric gear, and rode into the dropping temperatures and rain.
I had chosen to blast down the Interstate thinking that it would minimize the trip out of Texas and exposure to the initially poor weather. I know better than this. Interstates by and large are filled with big trucks and aggressive drivers. And while riding in the rain is not my first choice, it is quite tolerable with the right gear and attitude. But riding in the rain on Interstates is the worst of both worlds. The traffic flies past hosing you with dirty spray while you try to avoid the water filled “ruts” in the asphalt caused by the passage of heavy trucks.
It never rained hard, just enough to keep water accumulated on the roadway and hydroplaning a real possibility. Just past Abilene I’d had enough of this particular brand of torment, and ducked off the super slab to a paralleling two lane state highway. It was as if someone had thrown a switch as traffic was virtually nonexistent. I shook my head as I scolded myself for the second time that day about over-thinking lessons already learned.
The rain eased, and with the roads only damp and the competing traffic gone I faced only a strong north wind and the solitude that is west Texas. The temperatures continued to fall into the 40’s, and I stopped again to add another layer. This time I broke out my secret weapon against the cold wind: a cotton sweater with a silk lining that works amazingly well at trapping heat. When pulled over my electric jacket liner, and with my jacket zipped tightly over both, it keeps me comfortable to well below freezing.
Six hours out of Dallas I had finally stabilized and was settling into the groove of traveling by motorcycle. I’d questioned my reasons and judgment for making the trip several times in the previous hour’s discomfort and anxiety, each time pressing on. And while questions about the scale of the trip and potential risks I might face continued to plague me throughout that first day, I’d found comfort in following this narrow ribbon of asphalt through the barren landscape.
Being alive and free, traveling to new places on a fine motorcycle, is something you have to experience to understand the satisfaction and peace it can bring. It’s the certainty that all the meaning you need in life at that moment is to be there, riding your motorcycle down the road, with the world unfolding before you. It’s living in the present, and that being all you require. It happens occasionally in most people’s lives, but is usually limited to only those “special” moments that pull us to the present by their intensity. When traveling by motorcycle it can go on for days, a lucky handful of people have learned this and chosen to live their lives this way.
Small towns in west Texas are gritty, hard-edged places where ranchers and gas field roughnecks scratch out an existence under a cruel sun. The damp grayness of the cold front muted the scene, and took some of the edge off that harshness. I was hungry when I stopped for gas and lunch in Seminole, Texas, and chose to eat at a KFC, the least worst choice from several franchise chains on what passed for a main street. I usually seek out where the locals congregate, but it was not obvious and I didn’t track it down, although I know there was a little diner somewhere in the area.
KFC offered a hot chicken breast and two sides for just under 4 bucks, with water and a biscuit thrown in. I needed to take a break and eat, and they acted to revive my spirits and energy level. The kids looked at me openly, and smiled back; their parents glanced curiously at me and my bike, but there was no hostility on this grey blustery Saturday afternoon. Outside folks pulled their jackets closed against the wind and went about their business, quickly moving to and from the relative comfort of their car or a building. The hard cases in the area were still at work, or holed up in front of a TV or in a bar somewhere; there was surely a few in a town like this. There always are.
Arriving at Hobbs means I’d reached New Mexico, and just west of there the land gains elevation more quickly. The road rose into the low ceiling of clouds, and soon I was traveling in fog dense enough that I could only see a hundred feet ahead. It was getting darker even though it was only late afternoon, the product of the shrinking late fall daylight hours and dense clouds and fog. Slowing to a prudent speed would have me traveling at 30 miles an hour, or less. Besides slowing my progress, I deemed the risk of being run over by a speeding vehicle equal to my potentially striking a vehicle or animal. A bad set of options for a bad situation. I rode on at an indicated 60 mph, trusting my life and well being to fate.
An hour later I arrived at Artesia, thoroughly worn out from the day’s travel and the stress of being on the edge of anticipation while riding in the dense fog. Artesia is another in a seemingly endless string of gritty small towns in the west. The land, though often stunningly beautify, is harsh, and surrenders an existence to those that live here begrudgingly. This hardness is evident in the buildings, the vehicles, and the faces of the people. Man may have scratched out a place for himself here, but the grip is not deep in this rocky ground, and is maintained only through much effort and perseverance.
I cruised the main drag, checking out lodging options, and stopped on the edge of town for gas and a pint of bourbon. My fatigue was confirmed when, after pumping my gas, I scanned the store for booze and then turned to a man sitting in a booth by the window and asked if there was a liquor store nearby. He said there was one on the other end of town, if I didn’t like what they sold from behind the counter. I turned, and sure enough there was a whole wall of bottles behind the cashier. I turned to the man again; he sat looking at me with a smile on his lips, and his eyes held no malice. I thanked him and went to the counter to make my purchase.
Retracing my route back into town I pulled into one of the newer looking cheap motels. All the better, this one also had a small Mexican restaurant in front of it. I’ve noticed on previous trips that the rural motels across the US are managed by immigrants from the Indian subcontinent. Whether Indian or Pakistani I do not know, but they offer inexpensive lodging wherever you go. This was no exception, and I was quickly offered a ground floor room behind a stairwell to block the view of it from the road and permission to park my bike on the sidewalk by the door.
I quickly unloaded, secured, and covered the bike to keep it from casually prying eyes. A quick call to the home front confirmed the world as my wife and I knew it had not ceased to exist, and after expressing our affections and commitments to be careful I walked across the parking lot to have dinner. Dinner was satisfying, but totally unremarkable. The business was principally take out, so I shared the place with a parade of patrons stopping by to pick up their order.
The fog persisted, and a light drizzle was falling as I walked back to the room. I watched the weather channel for the next day’s forecast and, hopefully, an improvement. My drinking habits are not sophisticated; red wine, or booze in diet coke. My drink preparations consisted of taking a swallow from the can, and then pouring in some bourbon. I had not thought a lot about Terry today, save the occasional “what the hell have I gotten myself into”. I raised my can and toasted him, thanking him aloud for getting me here. The forecast said go west for better weather, and I said ok. I started to nod off on the second drink, so I shut things off and went to bed. Sleep lingered only a few minutes before finding me, and the night passed with few interruptions to a sound sleep.
Day Two
The next morning arrived to the same gray world I’d experienced the whole day before. I rose early, and after a cup of coffee and was riding up into the mountains to Cloudcroft, and then down to the valley floor at Alamogordo. It’s a good road that was only just damp, and the curves and scenery, even in the muted grayness of heavy overcast, was inspiring after the flat plains of Texas. I rode with a sensible enthusiasm that matched my mood.
I was through Alamogordo, past White Sands, and on the way to Las Cruces before I saw the sky for the first time this trip. I’d been riding in a gray world virtually devoid of color for over 700 miles and well into the second day, and the sight of that blue patch in the sky stunned me with its intensity and vibrancy. Not the washed out white-blue from summer’s heat; this was a deep, cool hue that drew my eyes to it like a thirsty man is drawn to water. The patch grew as the cloud cover broke and scattered, and I was awestruck at how such a simple change could make such a difference to the appearance of the world, or impact my psyche so strongly.
The horizon opened, and I was now traveling through the vast panorama that is the American Southwest. It’s as if God turned the “Big” dial all the way up when he created this place. I rode between mountain ranges that stretched to the north and south horizons and even at a brisk speed the scene changed ever so slowly. A young man in a Jetta passed at a good clip, and I settled in behind him showing 85 on the speedometer. For the second time I thanked Terry for bringing me here, and the uncertainty of the previous day was left behind like the road passing beneath my spinning wheels.
The day was filled with new places and roads not yet traveled. My pace was spirited, but not so much so that it attracted the attention of the state troopers I regularly came across as I passed through vast areas of open country. The American Southwest is a land of stark contrasts. Gone are the fertile green valleys of the east, filled with lush vegetation, crops, and tall trees. Gone too are the grasslands and wheat fields of the plains. What remains is scrubby vegetation, huge open expanses of the high desert, abrupt rocky formations, and tall mountains. It’s a hard land, too daunting for most to even venture through on the way to greener pastures. So gone too are the people; no towns every five miles, roads busy with vehicles, and restrictive speed limits.
I’ve flown over this land for years, looking down at the barren red earth and rocks from seven miles up, wondering why people choose to wrestle an existence in such a hostile environment. Like most of us, I suspect fate, circumstance, and inertia are the likely suspects. But the land reveals a haunting beauty when traveled by motorcycle; you’re enveloped in its presence, and the road rushes by in a blur inches below your boots. Traveling alone through this place is not the social experience of traveling east of the Mississippi; rather it lends itself to reflection and introspection, if one is given to such tendencies, and an overarching awareness of being a very small part of a very large universe. Humility is within easy reach here, a virtue often visited by the wise to help remind our center-of-the-universe self appreciating egos that life is indeed short, and helping others provides the only true meaning in this passage from dust back to dust.
As the afternoon came and went I chased a few widely scattered thunderstorms across southeast Arizona, winding around, behind, and ahead of them as I moved west and north towards Phoenix. Only once did our paths cross, and then only peripherally as I rode through a half mile of drops the size of watermelons. Well, they were so big they seemed so at the time.
I was often reminded by my machine’s power to weight ratio, and why traveling through hills and mountains by motorcycle is the only way to go. Maintaining legal headway, and better, up steep grades and in winding curves is a big motorcycle’s bread and butter. Passing slower traffic is effortless, and infinitely safer than trying to do the same with any other vehicle. I left many drivers possibly aggravated by my acceleration advantage far behind, not out of spite, but rather as a result making this journey west as I best knew how: riding a little further, and a little faster. Ok…sometimes, a lot faster. My luck held, and there were no judgments I would wish I hadn’t made, either then, or later.
Descending into the valley Phoenix shares brought a return to warm temperatures, and a stop to shed several layers of clothing. I poked through the stop and go of Phoenix rush hour traffic, and made Sun City on the North West side of town about dusk. Finding a clean but not too cheap room next to a restaurant I refueled my body, checked in with the home front, and called it a day.
Day 3
“Up with the sun, gone with the wind…” It was a brisk morning, and became more so as I ascended onto the high desert heading up to Kingman, Hover Dam, and Las Vegas. There was frost in the shadows as I stopped for coffee an hour out of Phoenix. I tend to not eat much when I’m traveling, and today was not an exception. Coffee, fruit, maybe a breakfast sandwich late in the morning. Live to ride. Up into the mountains and Hover Dam. Talk about stark contrasts; all that water collected in one place surrounded by a geezilliom miles of dryness. Pretty impressive. Picked up an hour on the Nevada side, and headed on to Lost Wages.
So I gotta tell you, I don’t get Las Vegas. Cruised the strip in the early afternoon and WTF are all these people doing!?! Throngs of people shuffling up and down the street in a near stupor, moving from one casino to another. They say the casino’s know who their “best” customers are – the ones that bet, and therefore lose, the most. They’re granted special privileges and perks. I say why not just buy them outright – you’d al least know what they’re charging you for what you’re getting. Guess I’m just not a big risk/reward kind of guy when the deck is literally stacked against you. As my Grandmother once told me “they didn’t build that place from the money people took home with them”.
Stopped at the Venetian and tipped the valet to park next to their booth and keep an eye on my bike while I visited the Guggenheim “Art of the Motorcycle” exhibit. What an awesome display of two wheeled form and function. I was also taken back by the non-riders who marveled at these machines. Truly awesome. If you haven’t seen this exhibit and can again sometime don’t pass it up.
Off to Death Valley at high speed down open roads lightly trafficked. Came into the valley from the south and made my way north to Bad Water. What a hellish place; not even vegetation here, just barren sand and rock under a blazing sun. I was glad it was October as the temperature “only” made it up to 86 in this inferno that afternoon.
I had a near-death experience two or three miles south of Bad Water. I had gotten impatient with Death Valley, and the afternoon was slipping by with many miles yet to travel. I’d lulled into a rhythm of straights and sweepers, and even with the poor road surface and nearly invisible sand the same color of the roadway blown onto the road by the wind in spots, I was managing 60 mph. That proved to be just a little too fast for a right hand sweeper that was tighter than I’d been experiencing, requiring me to push the bar and lean hard into the corner. The ST obliged, but as I rounded the corner I drifted from the right hand tire track into the center of the lane. And onto a dusting of sand collected there.
The ST slipped sideways to the left several feet uniformly front and back until it drifted into the left hand tire track of my lane. The sideways drift stopped, but as it did it stood the bike up enough that I was now not rounding the corner tightly, and I crossed over the center line into the oncoming lane. Just in time to see a “Mini-Winnie” RV crest a rise in the road no more than a few hundred feet ahead.
I remember glancing to the left and seeing the sand and boulder strewn landscape, a fleeting thought that I’d crash if I took that way out, and then a “fliml that!” as I pushed hard on the bars again betting on enough traction to get back over the center line. It was close. I remember seeing the front of the RV dip as the driver braked, and his eyes go wide as I passed just to the side of him. I had the traction I needed with just the slightest of wiggle as I crossed the center of the roadway. Good thing too; a lowside would have put me under that motor home.
I gently eased on to Bad Water, and took a few minutes and picture to settle back down. I reflected that that you tend to think you have more time than you wind up having. This seems to be true in your career, with relationships, for your family, and all other parts of life. Including riding. Something changes, and the time for one thing passes while the time for another begins. I was grateful it had not been time for some things to change yet. I rode on towards Lone Pine and the Owens valley with more awareness and attention to my passage.
The rise from Death Valley over the ridges separating it from the Owens Valley goes from 283 feet below sea level to thousands of feet above it. A stretch that must run 20 miles essentially strait as an arrow is marked continuously with signs advising cars to turn off their air conditioners, and water tanks to replace coolant boiled over from the heat of the transmission’s straining up the continuous incline. What a good awful place to travel in the hot weather!
The ST handled the grade with aplomb, and I soon found myself in the switchbacks elevating me up and over the ridgeline and into the Owens Valley. At this point the Sierras from an impenetrable wall to the west over 200 miles long, stretching from Mojave in the south to Yosemite to the north. The Owens Valley runs some 300 miles north and south on the eastern side of the Sierras, and was drop dead beautiful with the sun settling behind the running peaks to the west. I angled north west across the wide valley to Big Pine, nestled at the eastern foot of the mountains.
Big Pine’s claim to fame is it’s unique geography; it has provided the setting for literally hundreds of western films. The hills, mountains, canyons, and trademark rounded boulders are recognizable the world over in stagecoach, Indian uprising and High Noon scenes. There’s not much else in Big Pine, save as a haven for hikers, cyclists, and hunters, a California collection of disparate interests if there ever was one. The gas station down the street had a decent deli, so I dined in my room and went to bed shortly after arriving.
Day 4
I saw the dawn illuminate the snow covered peaks of Mt. Whitney looming just to the west this morning 40 minutes before it worked it’s way down the mountain. The only picture that even begins to fully capture the beauty is the one etched in my memory. I enjoyed the hotel’s complementary coffee and fruit for breakfast as the sun made it’s way to the valley. The dry air had cooled in the night, and there was frost on my bike cover. I didn’t mind lingering until I’d be riding in the crisp fall sunlight.
The road rose higher in elevation and the land became expanses of evergreen forests, providing two hours of exquisite scenery before I reached Mono Lake and the turn west to Yosemite. The road rose like a rocket to Tioga Pass and then flattened to cross alpine meadows. The pass had been closed a week or so earlier, but the snow was gone along with the traffic and visitors. I enjoyed the backside of Half Dome, and then rode into the Village on the west side of the park. One of the world’s busiest parks, and I had but a few dozen others to share it with me that day. Life is good!
The ride out of the Sierras was a blast (Did I mention I really love to ride in the mountains? A real treat for a flatlander Texas boy), and I wound down towards the Central Valley of California....
Thanks for your consideration of my perspectives,
Courtney
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