Insurance woes and my next moto trip

(Note to the reader: Given that my insurance case is pending and that there may be some nasty action taken, I have decided not to post the name of the insurance company here--yet--although I mention it on a certain forum I frequent. My claim should be paid--that's my goal. Nothing more, nothing less).

If my insurance issues are not resolved soon, I am going to be one rabid woman--including foaming at the mouth!

I've written about this on one forum so I'll try to be brief. My mishap was October 4th. My insurance company was notified immediately and they released a claim/case number and promised to dispatch an adjuster soon.

I received a call from Morton BMW telling me that when they called to get an okay to order the parts, my insurance company told them "we" had canceled the policy on Sept. 29th; therefore, they are not responsible for the claim.

We did no such thing.

I called the insurance company. They insisted that my husband had called and had canceled the "policy." Now, we've been with this company for years. At one time, they had both cars, the house, and the two bikes. I sold my car and made that one policy change in May '08. Dave did indeed call them on Sept. 29. He did so to cancel the house and the remaining auto. We would never ride motorcycles without insurance! Thus, we left that policy untouched--or so we thought.

Yet they contend that we canceled. We know that we didn't. Although we did received two reimbursement checks in the mail, we assumed it was for the house and auto since no letter of explanation accompaned the checks.

The company said they would launch an internal investigation. Investigation result: They will not cover the bike because "we" canceled the insurance according to the notes in our file. This went on for a few days.

Finally, Dave called. He was told by someone--the first time we've ever heard this, that the company does not ordinarily cover motorcycles. They will, however, if one has other policies with the company. This person stated that when we canceled the auto and house, the bikes would be automatically dropped. When asked why wouldn't we be alerted to that very important detail, we received a non-response response.

Dave finally reached the person with whom he canceled the house and auto. By the way, we canceled only because we found a better deal. This individual expressed surprise that we were having difficulties. He recalled taking the cancellation request for the house and auto. He claimed to have canceled only that. He knew nothing about the motorcycles being dropped. After all, they are separate policies with separate numbers, which he claims he didn't touch. He seemed ignorant of the drop-bike policy that his co-worker mentioned. Regarding the canceled motorcycle policy, he apologized and said he would immediately reinstate us to show no lapse in coverage and will send paperwork to that end.

I have contacted the state's insurance fraud and abuse department and they've dispatched their paperwork. Given that three superior's of the helpful customer service rep have already denied the claim, I feel for this guy's job. We've yet to receive any paper work detailing this drop bike policy for not having other policies with the company.

Some insurance companies get a bad rap for doing whatever they can to avoid paying a claim. A riding pal told me that some people are still waiting for hurricane relief from several years ago because the insurance companies keep requesting additional proof of lost. I've heard my share of insurance horror stories too--just never figured I'd have my own.

We're now waiting to see if the insurance company will do the right thing.

***

Still, I'm checking my calendar to see if I can work out a nice winter trip to VA. Hopefully, Claye, Sylvia and I can take a little trip somewhere. I'll need to still leave the bike in VA and return again in the spring to finally ride my much missed bike home.

My answer to the $65,000 question

I wondered how long it would take before well-meaning family and friends asked the inevitable question: “So are you going to stop riding a motorcycle now?” Sometimes someone will add, “…before you get killed?” It’s not always posed like that, but the meaning is the same. Yesterday a friend called it “The $65,000 question.” He asked, “So what does riding a motorcycle tell you?” It has taken less than four weeks for the inquisition to begin.

Those who know me best know my answer. Those who don’t, this space will set the record straight. My accident/mishap/“get off,” doesn’t change—in any way—how I choose to live. Accidents happen. Thank goodness I can continue on as before. I have always done all I could to ride smart and ride safe. Hindsight can color and influence one’s perceptions. I’ve had plenty of time to sit and cogitate about my misadventure. Are there things I would have done differently? Sure. I should have been fed and hydrated. Being better skilled is never a bad thing, which is why I take advanced classes each year. Some of the most skilled riders have had accidents. Stuff happens.

What I find interesting is that I’ve fallen off my bicycle before and really hurt myself. Five years ago I fell while jogging and shattered my wrist, which now has a 6 inch titanium implant holding my wrist together. I was laid up for a long time. No one and I mean no one asked me in either of my previous accidents if I were going to stop the offending activity that led to my injuries. No one questioned whether I’d mount my bicycle again. I’d continue jogging without anyone doubting my sanity—thought the knees were taking a serious beating each day! Yet, both accidents resulted in temporarily crippling injury and either could have been deadly.

Recently, a friend told me of a woman who stepped off a curb and broke her ankle so badly that it had to be pinned together; it took her out of commission for months. I personally know of a couple of people who have died as a result of bicycle accidents. It is not unheard of to hear about fit runners dropping dead of a heart attack while jogging.

So why the questions about my future motorcycle riding?

It has to do, I think, with a mythology circumscribing motorcycles and motorcyclists. For many people ‘cycles are inherently dangerous and the people who ride them constitutionally flawed. Simply put, they must be “nuts.” Many refer to motorcycles as “donor cycles” to capture what happens to the organs of those fatally injured. Motorcyclists are too often reduced to the tiny minority of bikers who ride with total abandon, blasting about on two wheel without regard to their or others’ safety, weaving through highway traffic, performing wheelies on the interstate—all of which takes place sans a helmet or proper gear. Fixated in the myopic minds of many, despite what they may see to the contrary, are that small percent of bikers who fit this “badass” stereotype. That’s the problem with stereotypes. People tend to see what fits the label and ignore and discount that which doesn’t fit the stereotype. The “badass” biker doesn’t represent the majority of motorcyclists any more than Sarah Palin represents all women. The majority of motorcyclists are like me, we do not have a death wish. We do all we can to enjoy our sport safely. Given our chosen sport, we might be slightly more of a risk-taker than the average Joe or Jane, but I would guess that we don’t differ that much from the general population. You’ll find motorcyclists running the gamut of the bell curve with the majority of us hovering in the middle, looking vastly different than that small, extreme tails at opposing ends of the bell curve.

So when people ask if I’ve now had enough of this “dangerous” activity and if am going to stop before I “kill myself,” I’ve told them, “Thanks for your concern. But I see no reason to give up now or later what brings me pleasure. It is true that not riding my motorcycle guarantees that I won’t be killed riding a motorcycle. Why stop there? Why not live my life eliminating all the things that could potentially kill me? The implications of this are far reaching—including not watching television in my living room or sleeping in my own bed for fear that a bullet shot through the window might kills me. Both of these have happened in real life! Grant this is unlikely to happen, but it could! Why not give up eating some of the healthy foods I love that have had E-coli related recalls that have killed some people. Riding public transportation might have to go too as shooting and stabbings happen. Heaven forbid if I needed a blood transfusion many years ago, I might be among those who have perished because of tainted blood. I could still die from a staph infection while in the hospital! No one can tell me that driving a car in downtown Chicago is not dangerous so I guess I should avoid that too.One can live a life avoiding things deemed harmful according to others’ definitions of what’s dangerous. In all that we do, we take risks. Some people really do manage an existence based on fear of what might happen. I’m not one of them. That doesn’t sound like a life worth living to me. I don’t know if I’ll pass this way again, but for the time I’m privileged to be here, I choose to live fully. That includes transcending my own fears and not allowing others’ fears to inhibit me. It means being a good person no matter how many awful ones I meet. It means being kind and a good citizen. It means always walking gently upon the earth, doing my utmost to do no harm to others. It means seeing in the faces of others the faces of my own loved ones.

There is indeed a lot to be afraid of out there. At times the world seems malignant and so menacing that I’d just as soon put my head under the covers than venture out. But I’ve learned that is the precise time I must go out. I need then reconnect and rediscover the goodness in others and to reestablish my faith in humankind.

I’m of an age where I realize I have fewer years ahead of me than are behind me. This isn’t the time to put the brakes on living. Now is the time to look the future square in the eyes and march forward with arms open, body erect, and a mind unfettered by others’ labels and stereotypes of what is dangerous.

Friday the weather in Chicago was nearly 70 degrees! I ached for my blue Beemer and a nice long ride. A day like this would have me disappearing for a 200 or so miles ride for lunch somewhere downstate.

Instead, I am sitting here nursing still afflicted ribs and a collar bone that smarts every time I forget and lift something with my left hand. But I am also smiling as I recall the years of safe riding memories I’ve created for myself. Like my ride to Wawa, Ontario and marveling at the mammoth Wawa Canadian Goose. Or, when I spent a sizzling day on Whitefish Point in the UP of Michigan... Or, that time I rode to Copper Harbor and enjoy the views from Brockway Mountains. Or, taking a fully loaded bike through the narrow and twisty “Tunnel of Trees” from Harbor Springs to Cross Village... Even getting lost in Duluth, MN while looking for Aerostitch/Riderwearhouse and nearly running out of gas on an isolated stretch of the Ontario-Trans-Canada Highway 17. I can’t forget my time near Taqumenon Falls and Kakabeka Falls and the time I located and photographed from afar the sleeping giant in Sleeping Giant Provincial Park in Ontario. All of these memories sustain me now and easily bring a smile to my heart.

I have some regrets in life but none about riding a motorcycle and enjoying that experience I’ve had. I will continue to ride. When I’m old and forced to put away my two wheels, I will not only wear purple, I will remember and retell my riding tales. But that is a long way off.

To all those well-intentioned askers of the “$65,000 question…” the answer is: unequivocally, absolutely, and emphatically “NO.” I am not retiring the ‘cycle. As long as I am alive and able, I will live unencumbered by fears—yours or mine.
***

Upcoming post...my much delayed amazing trip to Ohio!

UPDATE: What a difference a day makes!

As of now, the road to recovery is palpable! Wednesday night, however, I felt death lurking nearby. Ok, I exaggerate. But I had such trouble breathing much of the day that I worried about asphyxating while sleeping. Every deep breath felt explosive, like I'd taken a sledge hammer whack to my chest. I dismissed it as part of the aches and pain of a broken collar bone. By Thursday morning, I realized that breathing shouldn't hurt so badly, that coughing and turning my head shouldn't feel like my ribs were about to pierce through my skin at any moment. And, a strange greenish blotch had appeared on my chest.

The doctor's advice? Get thee to the ER. We were serviced almost immediately. After tests that included an EKG, and way too many x-rays, I learned that there is a good reason for my breathing problems. I have five broken ribs--five different ones in front, back and along my left side that were missed by the ER in Bedford, VA. In their defense, I only complained about my collar bone so they didn't x-ray anything else.

Broken ribs explain so much like why negotiating stairs hurt, why sitting on the couch or in a chair makes me moan all the way down; and, why getting up reminds me of giving birth. Like the collar bone, there isn't much doctors can do about rib fractures. Rest, move around as much as one can tolerate movement, and take drugs for pain management.

By Friday--after more than 10 hours of sleep, I felt strong or so loopy, I just didn't give a hoot about my discomfort. I think it's the former, however. In any case, 24 hours has made a huge difference!

Thanks to a friend who is telepathically sending me Reiki energy.

On being housebound, floods, memory and travel quotes to live by...

The rain started Friday afternoon and continued a slow, soft and steady beat for the rest of the day. It rained heavier and all day on Saturday. Sunday morning opened with fog and still heavier rain. My "Plan A" trip to Ohio was off. "Plan B" didn’t work out either, again because of weather. Housebound, I had to face the ugliness of incomplete work. So I settled in for the weekend, read some newspapers, listened to CNN, switched to BookTV when CNN began repeating its stories. And, in-between all that, I managed to get some real work done.Sunday night, the rain slowed and eventually stopped altogether. Even with the ground wet and some areas reporting as much as 10 inches of water, I couldn’t stand it any longer--I had to get out. I geared up and went for a short ride. I passed by the Chicago River, it looked swollen and angry as it whirled toward the east, angry perhaps that its natural flow was being influenced by the city opening the floodgates to push some of the river’s overflow into Lake Michigan. It reminded me of something novelist Toni Morrison wrote about floods and memory.“You know, they straightened out the Mississippi River in places, to make room for houses and livable acreage. Occasionally the river floods these places. ‘Floods’ is the word they use, but in fact it is not flooding; it is remembering. Remembering where it used to be. All water has a perfect memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was.”Now, millions are without electrical power. One man (there are many others) had recently finished remodeling his basement, which now holds about four feet of water. I am grateful this isn’t Haiti or Galveston, TX.As I turned from Wacker Drive onto Michigan Avenue, I could feel a slight slide of the rear tire, which I had anticipated by the wet street. I slowly straightened up the bike as I eased on a little more throttle. The ride was short but just what I needed to air out my head. I opened my visor to smell the wet air and the fish as I road across the bridge over the river. Michigan Avenue is beautiful any time of the day. But its quiet beauty at night, when all the Magnificent Mile strollers have thinned out, is unmatched. It is too late in the season to be summer but too early to accept that fall is really here. Yet, its scent is hard to ignore.

While riding, thoughts of riding far, far away filled my head and I smiled at the thought that in a few weeks I’ll be heading south for the first time alone on two wheels. The South is a place I go when I have a reason to and I’ve only had reason about five times in my life. Friends are the reason that beckon me now. I am heading to Knoxville, TN then onto Durham, NC. In addition, I will attend the first annual Eastern BMW F800 riders rally in Buchanan, VA. As I prepare for the mental part of the ride, I thought I’d share some of my favorite travel quotes.


“Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.” Helen Keller

“It is not down in any map; true places never are. Herman Melville”

“One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things.” Henry Miller

“The journey, not the arrival matters.” T.S. Eliot

“A traveler without observation is a bird without wings.” Moslih Eddin Saadi

“The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page.” St. Augustine

“When you are traveling, you are what you are right there and then. People don’t have your past to hold against you. No yesterdays on the road.” William Least Heat Moon

“The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one’s own country as a foreign land.” G.K. Chesterton

“I soon realized that no journey carries one far unless…it goes an equal distance into the world within.” Lillian Smith

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” Mark Twain

May the roads be kind to you...

A quiet weekend of small journeys

Rarely do I allow a weekend to pass without a day trip or an overnighter. This was a weekend for doing some of those "must-do" things that pile up when the call of the outdoors is defeating. We suffer here in most winters. So I respond eagerly to those calls! Thus, my avoidance has caught up with me. So rather than a long ride or a weekend getaway, I rode up north, along the lake shore and enjoyed the mid-seventies temps and the captivating scenes from the lake. There's been some road patching done on Lake Shore Drive but it's still an obstacle course in spots. I don't mind that too much because I know this road. I love living in a place where I know the nooks and crannies of the streets, intersections and neighborhood. I value the familiarity of being able to visualize what's around the bend before getting there. On Lake Shore Drive, I know which lane has a huge crater in the road, I know where the most popular exit ramp is and when to move to the best lane to avoid the inevitable backups there.

"How do you ride in downtown Chicago?" I've been hearing that a lot lately. "It's dangerous," people tell me. But Chicago is my backyard. If you're smart, you learn your environment. Survival depends on it! Knowing how to get through the often crazy streets is no different, to me, than knowing how to deal with any of the challenges that any environment throws at you. When I was in Vermont recently, I recall thinking how those early morning fogs would made me reconsider my preference for early morning starts and how streets not on the Chicago grid pattern would really force me to hone my map skills or render me totally dependent on the GPS. And, night riding, forget it. There is no blackness more absolute than those country back roads--and I do enjoy an occasional night ride. I suspect, however, I'd learn to adapt to my environment if I lived in Vermont; I'd learn that shedding the outsider's perspective and just getting out there and living like a native Vermonter would accelerate the adaptation process. It's all a matter of perspective. My house in the suburbs puts me within 10 minutes of country roads and when there, I feel the new sensory challenge that it demands and the excitement of not knowing what's around the corner fills me with wonder.This morning, I was out for a walk around 5:15am and the traffic on Lake Shore Drive already was brisk, ample and robust. The sky was dark and in the horizon I could see evidence of the sun preparing its glorious rise. I took my gym rope on the walk and a little camera too. I took the rope because I want to reconnect with jumping rope, something I used to be very good at, including hand crossing the rope, fancy foot work and double-jumps in one turn of the rope--those were the days. My supposed bone condition probably prohibits this shake up to my skeleton, but I wanted to feel a little flight--get my feet off the ground for a change. It went well but I tired long before I could do any damage, I'm sure. I took the camera because I always have one on me, just in case I want to capture a memory. The long walk did me well. Tomorrow, if my body must pay a price, I'll be ready.It's the beginning of a new week and my mind is already thinking of where I'll ride to the coming weekend. The days are getting shorter and the mornings are darker and cooler. Fall hovers. No doubt about it, every day brings me closer to the inevitable: winter storage. This year, I will ride as long as the ground is clear and i can bundle against the cold. I will ride without regard to a calendar date. With still-to-be-purchased winter gear, I don't plan to go to that inaccessible motorcycle winter camp quickly or quietly.

Hope your week changes you in some interesting way. Get your feet off the ground some, if you can.

Ride smart.

State Capital, Underground RR and a dollop of Mark Twain

Notes from a two-wheeled historian wannabe...

I haven't visited my state's capital in years. So after scrapping my plan to circle Lake Erie this weekend, I headed south for central IL. My plan was to ride around Springfield, IL do a bit of sightseeing and head west for Jacksonville, IL, about 38 miles west of Springfield, where I would learn more about its role in the Underground Railroad history. Jacksonville is important for many reasons not the least of which is its close proximity to MO, a former slave state. Jacksonville is home also of Illinois College, whose first president happened to be Henry Beecher (brother of Harriet Beecher Stowe, author of Uncle Tom's Cabin) and brother to theologian Henry Ward Beecher. The Congregational Church, founded in 1833, preached anti-slavery sermons and filled the church with like-minded parishioners. Eventually, The Congregational Church became known as "the Abolition
Church."

For much of the ride, the temperature was around 78 degrees. Everywhere the roads were lightly traveled--a perk of leaving early in the morning. Once beyond the Aurora area, the roads were downright desolate! I arrived in Springfield nine minutes shy of my estimated arrival time. My last visit to Springfield occurred on a weekday. It reminded me of a bustling, mini version of downtown Chicago, with traffic congestion, people rushing around and evidence of Illinois' rich history everywhere. But on this Saturday, much to my utter amazement, Springfield was dead. I felt as if I were riding through a ghost town! The GPS led me to two Thai restaurants, both were closed for the day. I parked and walked along a main street only to find that the overwhelming majority of restaurants were closed. The one or two I found open were the kind of places I'd eat at only if I were famished--and I'd still have to be forced. The occupants insde cars looked like tourists as they slowed down and peered blankly from the windows. People were on the street, but most of them looked like tourists too. I expected far more action from Springfield. After stopping at a train depot visitor's center, I head west.Well, Jacksonville wasn't much better. However, I was on a mission there so the desolate streets worked for me--some of the underground stations were difficult to find and I roamed up and down some streets repeatedly. Earlier this season, I had visited Princeton, IL to see the Homestead of Owen P. Lovejoy. His brother, Elijah Lovejoy, a minister and abolitionist had lived in Jacksonnville, IL and was affiliated with the Congregational Church. During slavery's reign, many in Jacksonville blindly followed prevailing notions about slavery. The Lovejoys and other local abolitionists tirelessly tried to spread their humanitarian, anti-slavery gospel. They encountered considerable resistance and I'm sure their close proximity to slave state Missouri made their preaching particularly dangerous. Jacksonville was literally surrounded by slavery sympathizers and slave owners who did not hesitate to cross state lines in pursuit of their runaway "property" and to deal brutally with those they believed wanted to destroy their human chattel investments. High on the hit list were abolitionists like Lovejoy, and a host of religious leaders and institution that dared advocated the abolition of slavery.Jacksonville has seven house I wanted to see and is home to Illinois College, whose first President, Edward Beecher, was the brother of Harriet Beecher Stowe, author of Uncle Tom's Cabin, and Henry Ward Beecher, famous abolitionist and renowned theologian. Some of the homes have historical landmark designation that document their UGRR station status, while others have what they feel is unequivocal evidence of being an UGRR stop, but lack landmark status. Like Woodlawn Farm. Tucked far back off a narrow road on gravel that requires careful navigation. The road is narrow and shoulderless. It is easy to envision a horse and buggy traveling this old farm road. The path is gently rolling and winding in spots that make seeing what is coming at you impossible. I looked for animals, animal droppings, and cars that might want to use this road as practice for the Indy 500. At one point, I thought of turning around, but the road was so narrow that a u-turn was impossible. It was downright scary in parts. I cut my speed to navigate the sometimes wet, freshly mowed grasses that covered huge sections of the road. Relieved that I had finally reached Woodlawn Farm, I pulled into the small gravel filled lot and parked.A personal opinion here about landmark designation for recognition as a "true" underground railroad station (UGRR). I get why it is important to acknowledge the real deal and disallow any old house to claim UGRR status. Still, the requirements to meet certification is a Catch 22. On paper, it makes sense that the process remain a careful one. But it's a little paradoxical too. By definition, the stations were highly secret locales and involved in intricate webs of clandestine networks around the nation and Canada. These were dangerous endeavors for both runaway slaves and the families who sheltered them. People were killed for housing slaves and slaves were killed in failed attempts to recapture them. Thus, it makes sense to me at least that some of these houses would not have the tangible documentation to prove they were part of this secret society to combat slavery. Getting these runaways to Canada or places outside of the slave South depended on people keeping secrets. Word of mouth, messages embedded in quilts and human memory was often all anyone had to pass down. Stories passed on with some tangible evidence found in homes are often all that now remains. Still, the committees that confer the UGRR stamp require far more hard evidence than stories, crawl spaces and secret underground passageways in old houses.

I arrived at the Woodlawn Farm just in time to be greeted by a small boy, who looked to be around 6 years old, with a basket of apples and pears. He kindly showed me where to sign the book and invited me inside the house where the final tour of the day was just beginning. This is one house that has no confirmed designation of being a UGRR. In fact, they've been turned down twice. The UGRR evidence seems convincing, to me. The oral history handed down by the family is gripping and some written documentation exists. The farm was settled in 1824 by the Huffaker family and never suspected then of being a "safe house for 'freedom seekers'" It is now under the ownership of Illinois College and is used as a service project. The highlight of the Woodlawn Farm tour was the mention of the Lovejoys. In Princeton, on the Owen P. Lovejoy Homestead tour, there is considerable mention of his brother, Elijah Lovejoy, minister and abolitionist who was murdered for his anti-slavery beliefs in Alton, IL.Now, in Jacksonville, I'm listening to the story of Elijah Lovejoy. Later, I visited the Congregational Church in which he preached. The little boy who acted as a tour guide assistant was another trip highlight. He assisted the elderly tour guide who appeared to be any one's doting grandmother. She donned period clothes and reminded me of Mrs. Claus, Santa's wife. I swear, I felt this way before I saw that her license plate read, "M. Claus"!! (Dang, I should have taken a picture!). Her little helper was black. He called her "Grandma." He's must be adopted. He couldn't have been a better helper. I wanted to take him home with me. He was professional, articulate and gave a heck of a demonstration of one of the dolls reminiscent of the past. Cute, patient, and clearly a sharp kid. He'll understand more when he matures how valuable his experience was hanging out with Grandma and absorbing all the rich history stored in her brain and poignantly shared with those lucky enough to visit Woodlawn Farm.

I spent the next hour or so riding around Jacksonville looking for the other underground railroad stations. Some are now private residences, others have been turned into museums or organizations (all of which were closed). I looked for two important places on the grounds of Illinois College but never got close enough to the interior campus to see the building and plaque. When finished, it was nearly 7pm, which meant I had been on the bike for 10 clock hours but probably only 8 of it was actual riding. Still, I was nearing exhaustion but it took another 30 minutes to find the hotel when it should have taken 10. I slept soundly with the bike right below my second floor window.Sunday, I was on the road by 8 a.m. U.S. Highway 36/Interstate 72 was devoid of traffic! I mean NONE! This on a holiday weekend?! I went miles without seeing another vehicle heading west--and this was true too for the eastbound lanes. It was actually rather spooky. In the 70 or so miles it took to get to Hannibal, I probably saw a dozen cars MAX. The closer I got to MO and the nearer to the Mississippi River, the more beautiful the terrain. Deep verdant trees and grasses, sandy and iron colored cliffs and increasingly winding roads made the journey pleasant.Hannibal, MO is Mark Twainville! His essence is everywhere! That's both good and well, bad. I loved feeling transported to the past but only for about two hours. After that it became too much. In high school, I hated Mark Twain but admired his writing and story telling. I now realized I just hated reading Mark Twain in my classroom and in the school I attended. I'll leave it at that. This town's love for Twain is in your face obvious and they maximize all things Twain. Like, Mark Twain fried chicken? Mark Twain vending machine? American capitalism hard at work. My two hour stay in Hannibal didn't do it justice and I will return some day.I headed back to IL and traveled U.S. highway 36/Interstate 75 East--again, no traffic to speak of. The sparsely traveled roads encouraged me to try out the Throttlemeister--I love it and used it a few times. It's far easier than all the forum discussions I've read on how to activate it. In a few spots, I also tried out Jesse's speed. The bike flies! I'll leave it at that! Didn't see many policemen out but I did see one totally cool looking motorcycle police office--now that's a job to have! Traffic picked up on I-55 North and I was on heightened alert by the time I reached the Aurora area. It got crazier and crazier the closer to the city I came. A few trip highlights: I met up with some elderly women (on separate occasions), who looked to be in their mid-80s. Their eyes twinkled as they eyed the bike. One said, "You're lucky to know how to ride that thing," Another commented that she was happy to see women having fun. A third gave me a huge smile and a thumbs up. It made me think of how restricted some women must have felt about their lives in 1920s--then again it was the "Roaring Twenties"--hopefully, a few were flappers and in their day and in bold acts of independence they wore "slacks" and marched to their own drummers.

Mileage: 650
Fun factor: 8/10

Oh, Happy Sunday

I hemmed and hawed so much last Sunday before finally getting out of the door to ride that I exhausted myself. A ton of overdue work has been dragging me down and in response, I have been stubbornly, silently rebelling and wasting far too much time daydreaming about the next ride. I’ve accepted that riding for me is not only a focusing outlet, it is also an excellent excuse for avoidance behavior of all sorts! On Sunday, I was done with denying myself! Sitting glued to the computer, resisting the halloo of the road requires super human strength that I lack. The day was magnificent! Clear and perfect for riding. In my humble opinion, to resist such ideal conditions, puts one at serious risk of an aneurysm! So, to protect my health, I geared up and prepared to leave. Destination, unplanned. By the time I stepped in my boots, I decided on a compromise. Take a quick ride, keep it to 200 miles max and return, hopefully recharged and renewed and ready to work. I decided on Woodstock and the nearby Rockford, IL area. Woodstock is a familiar ride. It’s an old town with an interesting history of its own. It probably, however, is known more for its Hollywood connection. It is also the site on which the movie, “Ground Hog Day” was filmed and the town, judging from the plaques marking certain locations, is clearly proud of that fame. In the center of downtown is Woodstock Square, an attractive space with two gazebos, a beautiful lawn, and ample benches for taking it all in. The morning started off cool, around 67 degrees F and gradually warmed to the low 80s—just gorgeous—with prodigious puffy clouds dotting a robin’s egg blue sky. I arrived feeling exhilarated. I parked on the old brick street with the bike pointing slightly down (later I had to struggle to back the bike out, which required me to dog paddle backward and uphill—ugh!)
I walked along the periphery of the square and snapped a few pictures. I was tempted to stop for lunch but decided to take a Starbuck’s break—they make a mean strawberry cream frozen thingy. While sitting there and flipping through a couple of the books I bought at Read Between the Lynes (that’s not a typo) bookstore, a woman approached me. She introduced herself and looking at my helmet asked me if the bike outside belonged to me. A candy-apple red cruiser sat in front of the store window. I said “No” and pointed in the direction of my bike. She told me that her sister rode a HD, had locks (hair) like mine, and resembled me. Her sister is also a photographer and we are around the same age. Similarities continued until it got downright eerie—like, their mother’s maiden name is Hicks—my surname. Her young teenage son was with her and confirmed that I did indeed look like his aunt. \We exchanged info and promised to “be in touch.”When I left, I saw a couple near my bike. As I got closer, the man turned and asked me if it was mine. I answered and he asked me how I liked the bike. We talked bikes for some time and he told me he rode a BMW K1200GT, which just before I was leaving, he and his wife road the bike to my spot and presented it. It’s an attractive dark blue with impressive features. Actually, the bike resembles my ST but it is bigger and replete with creature comforts missing on the ST. It, for example, has an automatic suspension. He demonstrated how it works—amazing! The bike doesn’t look mammoth—I mean it looks a machine even I could handle. The windshield is automatic and its height can be altered significantly. Cruise control is built into the bike and the final drive is shaft. His wife said the Beemer is comfortable and judging from their long distance trips, it must be. Oh, and the pillion has her own bun warmer control! And, I thought heated handle bar grips reigned supreme—imagine being able to ride with a heated seat! We continued easy conversation about helmets, roads, and rides. They reside in the Barrington area so they know the insider roads well. Another nice encounter where we did not part until we exchanged emails. This doesn’t come about glued to the computer, feeling guilty about work I’ve yet to complete. Outside is where life happens in the oddest places, when least expected.That’s part of the fun of riding. Even though I ride solo—or maybe even because I ride solo, I meet the nicest people (and some of the worst). I do think and have been told by others who do not ride solo, that solo riders are easier to approach. People may feel that they don’t want to interfere if you are a couple or with a group. Had I not gone out, had I sat in my small office space on Sunday, grumbling and whining and feeling sorry for myself, I would have missed out on a little living. I can expend huge amounts of time reclining with a book and surrounded by magazines. But the chance to ride is a chance to step foot outside my cocoon. I safely navigated the many tree lined roads to Woodstock and back. I came upon a car show and stopped there as well. Yes, I’m now paying for it because I’m even farther behind in my work than before. But it is a small price to pay. It was a good and necessary adventure, a chance to honor the beauty of the day, the hour, and all those small moments that can only be appreciated and felt, an honor of those times when one meets and greets good people, to not only smell the roses but to walk or ride among the fields. Even though I ride solo, I know that no “[wo]man is an island” and on any given ride I might be privileged to connect to others in affirming ways. I need huge doses of such to counter the dark side. I felt full and rejuvenated.I stuck to the mileage and returned with a ton of desire but skimpy will. I didn’t fight it. I did some reading and called it a happy day.

Vermont--"Green before it was cool"--and "Don't Trash" it!

Note to the reader: (Unfortunately this is not a motorcycle report on riding the sweeping, twisting, rolling roads in Vermont. I was caged for six days, wishing each mile that I was on my bike. Lessons learned: 1) three hours in a car feels like nine hours on a motorcycle; 2) I possess a high threshold for multiple levels of discomfort; 3) I still love Vermont; 4) come hell or high water I'm riding to Vermont next season.)

I first visited Vermont in the late seventies. It was somewhat of a delayed honeymoon trip to Ludlow, Vermont. We stayed in a wilderness community that consisted of trekking our gear along a footpath to climb a lofty tree to our three-sided tree house. I fell in love again--despite the fact that there is relatively little racial diversity in Vermont. Still, I ended up loving the place. I then devised other reasons to visit Vermont, like the time I participated in Professor Charles T. Morrissey's Oral History workshop--one of the best workshops ever offered anywhere. It met in Montpelier, the state capitol. Although there were many workshop highlights, the side trip to Hope Cemetery in Barre, VT was among the most memorable.

On my first trip to Vermont, we bicycled along hilly roads and to this day I can recall my labored breathing and thundering heart from ascending endlessly rolling hills and studying the grandiose Green Mountains. I remember inhaling deeply as if for the first time and the air filling body parts never before filled with such clean air. I remember thinking that inner city children needed this kind of sensory experience to feel just how alive one can be sans the supersensory drain that living in some urban areas exact from their souls.

I recall too not seeing any people who looked like me for many days and when I did eye one, I had to restrain myself from waving and smiling like an idiot. Judging from the double takes I too received, those feelings of relieved recognition were mutual. I remember most Vermont's unequivocal love, respect, and protection of the earth, which was obvious almost everywhere I looked. And today, signs like, "Do not Trash Vermont," still profess that same passionate stance and esteem for the earth we inhabit and too often neglect.

For those who might wonder why diversity matters and what possible relationship it has to motorcycling, my quick response reminds me of the adage: "If I have to explain it, you probably won't understand." But allow me to try to explain. A little experiment might help. Here is a favorite thought experiment to try as it might yield an insight or two into what I'm talking about. (As I write this, I think I have written about this before here. Well, forgive me. It's on my mind again given my trip).

Imagine traveling, not to some foreign land but somewhere in your own country. Now imagine that almost every place you venture--and it must be alone, by the way--every restaurant you enter, every hotel, every fuel station, and 98% of the rest stops, you are the only person who looks like you. If you are a woman, imagine that everywhere you go you are the lone woman--cute and fun for a while--but I'm talking about all the time. Seeing only raised toilet seats and wet spots--from sloppy aim, I guess--on the floor around the base of every toilet. If you are male, imagine that your terrain exists almost exclusively--putting aside some male fantasies--within a female milieu, nary a reflection of you or what is important to you and your kind in sight.

It is easy to respond with, "Such things wouldn't matter to me at all." I'll even concede that this might not matter one or two, perhaps even a dozen times that one finds him or herself in a situation in which they are the only one. Slumming for sport and adventure doesn't count. You might even have convinced yourself that you're above such matters. Up the experiment for a minute. Reduce things down to the issue of race and race alone while recognizing that such reductionism isn't ever fully possible. Still, imagine yourself traveling in circles where you are the one and only. Time and time again. I'm not referring either to the time you were in college or the time you visited that church where they sang the best gospel music and you drank lemonade and talked about broadening the circle, yada, yada.

I'm talking about a deliberate and conscious insertion of one's self in situations where he or she is the visibly distinct one. Sorry, but for this experiment it doesn't count if you're the only German American, for example, among the Irish or the only Irish American among the Polish American--not that those experience aren't relevant. I'm talking about reducing things to visible distinctions. Blending is fine if you can get away with it. If you're the only Asian among the Irish--it counts. I can hear the protest that "We're all American and thinking of ourselves as hyphenated is the problem." I wish it were that simple. I see myself as fully American; it's other people who seem to want to call my otherness to attention.

After you've executed your experiment tell me the results. Is the movement of your feet along this earth as certain? Tell me if your dinner on the restaurant's patio feels as carefree or if your hike through the deep, dense thicket of a secluded woods is the worry and stress-free respite you've saved your hard earn dollars to enjoy. If you're honest, you'll admit that your striking appearance in a sea of others presents some interesting multi-level challenges for your travels, which by the way, should never prevent one from going where s/he pleases. After all, it is adventure we ultimately seek, right?

As I traveled through Vermont this past week, I was reminded of what it takes me to get mentally ready to go, to just get on my motorcycle and go. I don't want to make it sound like some loathsome process each time I leave. Still, there is an intense mental, physical, and mechanical preparation that is requisite and each must be in place before I feel the call of the road, so to speak. This may also be why I ride alone. For me, the answer to "When is it time to go?," evolves over time and is rarely instant. What group wants to wait around until the feeling is right for one of its members? Weirdness in any one of those prep areas is evidence that I need to reconsider my plans and deal with the inner stuff before heading out. I envy those who do the normal planning and then leave. I need to take the time to disentangle what is pressing on me. Is it the normal nerves that one can encounter before any trip? Or, given my history and daily realities, is there something deeper lurking beneath the norm preps? What do I ignore/silence and what do I pay close attention to? Most often I prefer to ignore or silence the clues I mysteriously receive through my antenna (that I am convinced stem from centuries of lived realities now etched on my DNA, or so it seems). These hints can scream at me to "DO NOT GO THERE!." When I distrust that, I always regret it.

I've only received good vibes from Vermont. So, no matter who is or is not in Vermont, it is a place I feel as whole as one can. In some ways, Vermont reminds me of how I feel whenever I visit Canada. I'm not naive. I know that neither place is perfect. I would be foolish if I didn't prepare along those same multiple dimensions I mentioned for every trip no matter the destination. Still, my trips to Vermont--so far--are journeys where I feel almost home, that place they say folks are supposed to always take you in.

Thus, despite being caged for nearly a week and envying every motorcyclists I spotted, I had a great re-visit to Vermont. Had I the time, I would add a two wheel fall trip to Vermont to see the colors that are already showing evidence of change. Sadly, I'll need to wait until next season.

After being told about the sign, I finally saw it in a store window: "Vermont was Green long before it was cool." It's really true. I swear, I think they invented recycling! Vermont isn't just a haven for artists, flower-children, environmentalists and nature lovers, it is an all-around great place for anyone wanting to inhale and exhale deeply. Sorry if it sounds like too much romanticizing of a place. This is my outsider's experience, admittedly myopic and filtered through the lens of gender, race, age, experience and SES, etc. Still, I love Vermont.

Perspective is everything. When I returned into Illinois, I rode my motorcycle in from the south suburbs. A man seeing my gear said, "You're brave to ride a motorcycle in Chicago." I've heard that before. It doesn't take bravery to ride in Chicago. This is home and for me and as such, it is the most normal thing to do. A while back, another man told me that he got rid of his motorcycle when he moved to Chicago. That made me sad for him. But I understood it from his perspective. He didn't grow up here. That was his outsider's viewpoint. I did grow up here. It's my comfort zone and reference point. It's when I stretch beyond the narrow confines of my universe that I grow. That's where motorcycling enters and that is what motorcycling allows me to experience.

For me to go where I'm not naturally inclined to venture, is probably the only brave thing that I do. Next season on that definite trip to Nova Scotia is now added a definite side trip to Vermont. Or, should I say, on my trip to Vermont, I'm making a side trip to Nova Scotia. Either way. I'm going!