Mother's Day: Joy in a simple ride

My rides have consisted of riding to work a few days a week and daily errands—if I'm lucky. No long trips yet and I'm being gentle with myself and mindful to let it go. Comparison to where and how much I had done at this time last year are silly, meaningless ruminations. That I can ride is the point.

My babysitting for the F650GS is over *sigh*. Dave's shoulder has healed enough that he's been cleared to ride his bike!

I will do what I can to steal some rides on the GS, especially since I've registered it as a second bike for the 2010 BMW mileage contest. He is thrilled to be back on two wheels and I'm hoping his new membership in the Chicago BMW club (I'm not a member) will expand his options for riding with others. He recently donned his gear and headed out. It was not a good day for me and I reluctantly declined his invitation and encouraged him to go out alone.

I lounged around all Saturday storing up energy for a Sunday, Mother's Day ride. I was asked what I wanted to do. The day promised to be cool and clear. In other words, ride-perfect. I wanted to ride but with me, myself and I. Our child, who used to, with Dad's help, bring me breakfast in bed on MD, is in graduate school in California. She called in her daughterly Mother's Day wishes; and, I called in mine. I felt free.

Sometimes, before a big ride, I won't sleep well (I should say, I sleep less than usual). I call it “trip anticipation syndrome” or TAS for short. Ordinarily, I prefer early starts, to be on the road by 6:30ish. Instead, I woke up at 2am and four hours later, I looked and felt like a zombie! Didn't leave the house until after 1pm. This letting go of things is a real challenge.

My plans were to head to the Great Blue Heron Rookery & Wetland Wildlife Sanctuary, part of the Almond Marsh Lake County Forest Preserve in Grayslake, IL. The sanctuary has been in the news lately for its innovative method of building man-made tree structures to attract the herons back to this once favorite heron habitat. I took the long way there and enjoyed the azure sky, the 50+ degree temps. The sweet and acrid mix of earthly smells of city, suburban and rural living made me quite happy and I cracked my lid to inhale deeply.

I did encounter some crazy traffic for the first hour but eventually exited the Interstate and took lesser roads the rest of the way. The video camera would have been great on this trip—oh well... Something strange happened when I got to Almond Marsh. I couldn't find the entrance. I rode around a huge area and ended up back where I thought an entrance would be. A man and his young daughter were there looking through their binoculars at the spot I recognized from a news report. I squinted at the spot but didn't see any herons. A metal gate blocked the entrance and the fine print stated on the gate stated that the marsh was closed. How and why would a forest preserve be closed on Mother's Day?! The father said it was indeed closed for the day. Wow! I almost felt like, “What a waste.” I caught myself for the ride out was joyous.

Plan B was that if time allowed, after my Rookery visit I would spend some time in Fort Sheridan, IL. The fort was a US Army military post after the Civil War, named after Philip Sheridan, a Civil War Calvary General. When the Department of Defense closed the fort in 1993, they sold the land to developers for commercial land use. Developers refurbished the land and resold it.

The now residential land use has a unique appearance of homes and condominiums. Part of town edges the lakeshore of Lake Michigan, much of the woodsy space is preserved. The town has an air of affluence with a military twist for the military ambience is obvious. I mean, it looks like a fort—just a fort for rich soldiers. The winding streets, the functional looking buildings and the spacious greens made this stop a great visit. (Please take a moment to read a bit about Fort Sheridan).

I also made a stop at The Fort Sheridan Cemetery, which sits right outside the town.

I arrived there with only about five minutes to spare before the cemetery closed. I noticed that among the ancient, uniformed Civil War headstones were some with more recent dates of births and deaths, suggesting that after the transformation of Fort Sheridan to a residential area, the cemetery has become the final resting place for nonmilitary personnel. I watched a woman sitting in front of a headstone for all the time I was there. I wanted to take a picture of her as she looked so serene and focused. Her back was to me and it would have made a nice photo op but it didn't seem the respectful thing to do. So I took a few obligatory photos of the area and left. Funny thing is, I pass the town whenever I ride along the northern part of the Lake Michigan Circle Tour, a favorite leg I often ride when I take the long way to Wisconsin.

By my own standards, this was a short ride just over 100 miles, one I'd generally brush off (last year) as paltry. I can't, however, articulate the meaningfulness this ride held for me. It felt great moving along, leaning into wide sweeping curves, passing through wooded areas—even navigating through the congested traffic felt healing--even if temporarily. I welcomed, even embraced the challenge to be sharply attentive, alert and vigilant of vehicles around me. In the faster lanes, I remember sneaking peeks at the ground as it move swiftly underneath me and peppered throughout the ride were moments when everything seemed well with the world and me in it. Two wheel travel always demands focus, which in turn requires prioritizing the mind's worries.

This day was the official start of my ride season and although the weather has since has turned cold and rainy again, it really doesn't matter. On this Mother's Day, I needed this simply joy. I needed to feel flight and unburdened. Riding two wheels, at least for me, are always potential opportunities to connect with myself. I am on my own. Making my way in both familiar and unfamiliar places. No negotiating (other than the traffic). It is all about me.

And, sometimes the best form of self care is saying “No” others and “Yes” to self.

This was indeed a wonderful Mother's Day.

Two (rides) a day--keeps the doctors away!

Recently, I received some sobering news about which I will blog about in the near future. I wrote it up and then just didn't feel like making it real just yet. Now that the weather had “broken” I am on the bike as often as physically possible. Like Chris, in Everyday Riding, I'm aiming to ride each day; it's a great goal but when it doesn't happen, I'm learning to let it go. So far, I'm able to ride to work two days a week. The only reason I can't on the other three days is that my place of work on those days is only four blocks away. I've decided that on those mornings, I will get up hours before needing to prepare for work and take a ride somewhere to watch the sun rise, which is always a grand way to begin any day.

Now, when I say the weather has “broken,” let me be clear. The snow has vacated! The cold remains much of the time. *Sigh.* Thus, my mornings begin in the cold but depending on when I return, the day usually has warmed to the mid 50s—perfect riding weather in my opinion. Last Thursday was a perfect riding day—at least it ended that way. It started off cold enough to use my heated hand grips on “high” and by the time I reached the campus, where I teach a couple of days a week, my hands were definitely a bit cold. But four hours later the weather couldn't have been more perfect with an azure sky that dotted heavens with small puffs of clouds.

As I've mentioned before, I'm charged with babysitting Dave's '09 BMW F650GS. He's only has about 4900 miles on it and a chunk of those miles I claim. Last summer, when his knee surgery prevented him from riding I stepped in to help ;-). This year, it's his shoulder that will keep him off the bike until June; I'm encouraging him to take as long as he needs to heal—his bike is in good hands! Yesterday, I rode my bike to work and back downtown, unloaded bike and rode off to the suburbs. I superslabbed it most of the way but it was great just to be moving along on two wheels. I was able to get in a good 50 miles even before I decided to take the F650 on a spin.

The F650GS is definitely an easy bike to love. The one thing I usually need to adjust to is the the distance from the ground to the pegs. Compared to my ST, it is a short, lift of the feet that requires only a minuscule tuck of the legs. I am always missing that and tucking up my legs way too high before lowering them to the pegs. I left our winding suburbs and headed toward the back roads. While riding, I thought of how much easier it might be to do a SaddleSore on the F650 because the legs and seating position are quite relaxed. I will probably never get to take it on a SaddleSore given Dave's belief that such long distances are “dangerous.” Of course, as one who has done two SaddleSore rides, I totally disagree. But it is his bike and therefore, his call. I think his attitude may be changing. I've been a BMW owner longer than he has and I have yet to get the urge to job the club. He has and he's hearing a lot of LD riding adventures and that notion of such rides being “dangerous” may be shifting.

I only did about 65 miles on the bike but each mile was fun and it made me think about how a bike's set up can help or hurt one's skill development. Those little Honda Rebels in the training classes are confidence building little bikes. I love them. One doesn't have to worry about weight of the bike too much and when you sit on one, it just feels friendly. That's how I felt while on the GS. It makes for easy maneuverability. For reasons I don't understand, doing a u-turn on the GS is easy. Think about it. And it happens! Part of this may be that it is a relatively light bike? U-turns on my bike are easy only because I practice them and I'm very used to the bike. But each execution on my bike takes a bit more thought IMHO. The friction zone is also different on the GS. It seems to have a wider tolerance for silly mistakes. Like pulling off in second gear—it does so without hesitation.

The one yucky thing about the bike is no longer an issues because Dave has installed a Sergeant seat that is not only more comfortable (anything would be) it is taller, which means I no longer can get my heels on the ground. When the new seat is broken in, I don't anticipate this being an issue. It's also, I think, the lightness of this bike compared to mine that I makes the GS a breeze to push around as in back peddling it out of the driveway.

I took the back roads to Kankakee River State Park. It made me think about how I need to get the helmet camera mounted as it has collected dust since I bought it two ride seasons ago. I'm even thinking of selling it and getting something newer. The problem has been not being able to find a screw long enough to mount the thing and the one that came with it doesn't fit around the thingy that goes circles the handlebar. I should have returned it but who would have thought that finding a screw would be difficult. Yes, I've been to hardware stores that specialize in European screws and a little elderly man from Poland, I think, who owns a great little neighborhood hardware store, searched old bins and couldn't find anything that would fit either.

The roads leading to the park are lined with farms and tall prairie grasses and the occasional subdivision tucked in. The smell of manure is overwhelming in places. Mostly, however, there is old, small town life. My route took me through Manteno, IL., a place I thought, as a child, was where insane people were sent to live out their days. I remember overhearing adults say things like, “If he keeps acting out, he's going to get himself sent to Manteno.” It was always described as a snake pit of sorts. Yet, I glance at the few people on the Manteno streets. They look like you and me. Still, I wonder about their mental state. It's a perfectly good looking, quaint town, in spite of the labels that adhere to it.

Time on the GS flew by. The bike sang with a pleasing engine hum marred only by a slight, but unmistakable. rattling of the newly installed V-Stream windshield.

Kankakee River State Park was virtually empty, which is in stark contrast to lazy summer days when the place is packed with visitors.

By the time I arrived it was early evening, the Kankakee river that runs through the park moved swiftly and the bright setting sun shone brilliantly on the darkening water. I parked the bike several times and looked around and stared at the foliage. Finally, I stood along the river's edge and daydreamed into the water.

I wished I had come earlier; I wished I had brought a book and a blanket and one of those Kashi Honey Almond Flax bars that I've developed a slight addiction to. I wished it was warmer to spread a blanket and rest on the grasses and read and lose myself even if just for an hour so I could shelve all the world's problems and all the personal little dramas that make up a life, my life.

I left the park reluctantly. But not before dismounting at the gate one last time and looking back at the ground I had traveled. A mirror image captures a bit of the tree-lined winding road. Only when I left the park did I realize just how cold it was turning.

The warmth of the setting sun strained against swiftly moving clouds that made it dark one minute and light the next. The ride home was uneventful. For miles nary a car was behind me. I passed through Manteno again and thought perhaps I ought to visit that State Hospital on the next outing that brings me this way.

F800ST = 55 miles

F650GS = 65 miles

Ride total: 122 miles o' smiles!

Bringing Jesse Owens home, notes on the SV650 and F650GS, and dogs I love...

Wednesday: Another soul-sucking day at job#1. My panacea? I took off early and headed for Motoworks Chicago to retrieve my gal pal! I've said this before and I'll say it again, few things bust stress like a nice long moto ride where one's attention must focus precisely on the task at hand. To ride safely, all the other troubles of the world must be shelved. Period.

While at Motoworks I spotted an old friend, Queenie, my beautiful blue 2001 Suzuki SV650. It sat on the showroom floor, shining and looking sad at me (forgive my anthropomorphisizing). It seemed forlorn. The day before, I had photographed a six week old baby boy who couldn't possibly be cuter and met the energetic Jack Russell Terrier the baby's parents were dog sitting. As a breed, JRTs often are hi-energy, smart, totally wired, air-leaping, ready to bolt right out of the gate kinda dogs. Tireless little buggers. When I spotted Queenie, I thought of the Jack Russell I had met the day before.

My BMW F800ST is no Jack Russell terrier. I do not hold that against it. It reminds me more of a beloved dog I had in my youth. Sheba was a stray who followed me home. Although she became the family dog, Sheba seemed to know she belonged to me. She slept in my room; I never ate pizza I didn't share with her. We were inseparable. On school days everyone had to be careful about opening and closing the door because Sheba's goal was to sneak out and follow me to school. I would yell at her to go home and eventually she would turn around and appear to comply. But on more than a few occasions I was called to the office to "either take my dog home or call someone to come and get her." I'd scold her but Sheba didn't care. We resorted to locking her in the basement while preparing for school. She'd do a wolf howl the whole time. Except for those times, Sheba was sensible and obedient.

Sheba was obviously German Shepherd but it looked like a bit of Husky was in her too. She took orders directly from my father and me. She obeyed the other siblings only if we were not present. She was loyal, smart, fit, and just about the coolest dog ever. If she were in the backyard and saw me pass by, that dog would cry until I was out of sight. Fence jumping was her hobby. Back then, I rarely if ever put that huge dog on a lease. She just seemed to know not to automatically chase people or things or leave my side. When neighborhood boys would tease me (a seemingly favorite activity), she would charge them and they would beg me to call her.

One time she chased a boy atop a mailbox and everyone laughed. Sheba never bit a soul; never held a grudge for long. Her size and carriage made that unnecessary. In the end, it became almost a status symbol among the boys to have Sheba chase them. But even those she repeatedly had to chase, she would let pet her and scratch her head.

One time a man, obviously not from my neighborhood, slowed his car and pretended to need directions. I walked on the curb side of some hedges with Sheba was on the other side, invisible to the man. His passenger window, which was on my side, was down. When he stopped the car he made a lewd gesture. I gasped. I don't remember what happened next. But in a blink, half of Sheba's body flew inside the man's car! Sheba released a deep guttural growl-snarl that I'd never heard before or anytime after that. I remember how it frightened me and how snow white the man's face became. Sheba was trying to get inside his car. It threw me into a panic and I started screaming at my dog to "get down." The man froze! I remember that Sheba's hair was high and stiff and she sounded like a dog gone mad, as in mental! When the man got his wit about him, he took off with Sheba running behind the car--despite my please for her to stop. That event circulated the neighborhood because people watched my dog chasing a car and me running after my dog. Eventually people knew not to bother Sharon and her "crazy" dog. When I was without her, neighbors asked where and how she was. When Sheba died, Chicago's Mike Royko, Pulitizer Prize winning columnist, wrote an article about her. (Note to self: hunt down that article).

I know this sounds strange, but my ST is a lot like Sheba. It doesn't expend energy for the heck of it. It's mature and doesn't show off needlessly. It has mucho kick--more than this rider will ever maximize-- but on those rare occasions when I summons it (e.g., on early morning rides along old country rodes devoid of traffic), the power is there, eager to answer the call. True to his name, Jesse Owens pulls out silky-smooth--smooth as baby's skin. Its sheer ease at acceleration, the way it kerplunks into gear, the sound of the engine, all works together fluidly. It doesn't snatch the breath away; still, it's gone before know it. A palpable difference between the SV and ST is in how speed feels, which is perhaps the biggest adjustment I had to make transitioning from the Suzuki to the BMW. What was 65 mph on the SV650 was about 80mph on the ST. Too often I would think I was doing the speed limit (I'm no speed demon) only to glance at the speedometer and surprise myself at traveling nearly 20 miles over. It felt easier to do the speed limit on the SV--despite it being an incredibly fast bike. I'm not technical and don't know how to explain better how it feels/felt to me.

Both the SV650 and my ST have huge fun factors but show it in different ways. I remember the SV, no matter how long I rode it, skillful throttle control was mandatory. I credit my SV650 for teaching me, if i say so myself, excellent throttle use. I can inch my motorcycle so slow it appears to be barely moving. Practicing slow maneuvers is one of my favorite skills to keep sharp. I'm convinced that slow practice sharpens one's motorcycle skills for better overall technique. On the SV650, one careless blip or lazy twist could immediately increase the heart rate because the bike is instantly responsive. It often felt like a wheelie-waiting-to-happen. I love the friskiness of that bike and remain distressed that I sold it to my husband who now has decided, after a season of riding her, to sale Queenie to focus on his '09 BMW F650GS.

Perhaps it is because last summer I failed miserably at trying to keep three bikes in running shape while he adjusted to his new knee. I don't know how folks with multiple bikes do it. Thing is, I love my ST way too much to want to ride anything else. When I did ride the other two bikes, I would think of how that same trip would be on my bike. I know it's probably more a matter of just making up one's mind to rotate their riding to keep each bike in shape. Once I would actually get on the SV, for example, I couldn't contain my glee and I'd realize how much I missed that bike. Just on the bike would send endorphins coursing through my body. And, I would always ask myself: "Why did I ever give up Queenie?" I'd have to remind myself again that while a thrill to ride, after a 600 miles day on her, my legs cramped badly and my lower back would complain and nag me the next day. Still, I'd ride her and take a tight twisty curve, which the SV650 carves like no other (IMHO) and convince myself that the painful, crampy legs and backache weren't really that bad. I'd wonder why I never lowered the pegs and added handle bar risers. My SV650 was the indefatigable Jack Russell terrier, a dog I' like to own one day--no offense to present and faithful dog, Noel.

My other task last summer was riding the BMW F650GS. It too is a fun bike. Overly practical and functional. It is efficient and eager to tick of miles on varied pavement with nary a complaint. I enjoyed every mile I put on that bike. But it's no Jack Russell or Sheba. No offense to GS650 riders, it simply doesn't have the charisma and irresistible appeal of the SV or the ST. Others have said it and it bears repeating, the F650GS is the Swiss army knife of bikes--and there's nothing wrong with that. It gets the job done. Like last summer, this summer I will keep the GS running as Dave recovers from rotator cuff surgery (he's going bionic and clearly planning to get all new parts). I'm looking forward to some GS fun.

When I mount Jesse Owens, my F800ST, the grin is immediate. The bike fits me; everything about it works for me. I've added farkles to make it distinctly mine but even in its raw state, I knew the moment I sat on it that it was made for my extra long legs and aging back. It can be a Jack Russell if I want it to be. It plays smooth; it too is efficient. It hides its wild streak until called. Another huge difference I experienced between the SV605 and my ST800 is that the former is ready to snatch your attention from the moment you twist the throttle. It can behave rather bat-out-of-hellish right from the "git-go." The ST, at the start, is tamer, its pull has never bolted me to attention. It promises to stay in the ground even if I happen to start a wee throttle sloppy.

So, when I retrieved my bike from winter camp, my heart swelled at the reunion. I took the long way home; still, it was too short. Despite an exhausting and soul draining day at work, I felt alive by the time I parked the bike in the garage. Before going inside, I stood there and stared lovingly at Jesse Owens.

I vowed to rise early the next morning and find a quiet spot to watch the sun rise--a great way to start any day.

My gal pal is back and since then the weather has cooperated with temperatures in the mid-60sF.

That is, until today, Saturday. It is snowing--a wet, blowing, cold snow. After all, it is Chicago. And like many of the politicians here, the weather always has a few tricks up its sleeves. But, "this too shall pass."

We are ready to ride!

Joy.