"Asphalt Therapy" and my stolen bike of yore...

"Asphalt Therapy." I owe this blog title to a dear friend, who identified in an email message to me precisely what the doctor ordered. He should know; he needs some asphalt therapy too. Lucas is a highly skilled motorcyclist who rides a gorgeous--and tall--Kawasaki Versys, a bike I contend is a close relative of the Suzuki SV650! But I digress...

I needed a fix.

Each winter I reluctantly have stored my bikes, first Queenie (the wonderful Suzuki SV650) and now Jesse Owens (the sweet mile gobbler, BMW F800ST). This winter, the shop where I store my bike even offered, with a day or so notice, to allow me to reclaim my bike over the winter sans charge if and when the withdrawal became unbearable and a ride was the only panacea to save me, the patient.

Well, I've got the heebee-geebees something awful! I'm also exhausted and short of everything, including time. If my bike were in my garage, I could stumble my way out to sit on the bike, start it up and ride, if possible.

'Cause there's a monkey on my back . The incessant itch of withdrawal will surely leave visible scars...Something has to give soon.

I'm lucky that I have several outlets that can work in a pinch: reading, photography, bicycling, rollerblading, and mapping. But two wheel whizzing quells my soul like no other; perhaps, because it combines the best of my activities. On a weekend of bicycling I can go only so far--and only at a comparatively snail's pace. No matter how hard I peddle I can't get to Amherstburg, Ontario and back in a weekend and have energy left to call it fun. Inline skating, a activity that sports the most wheels, restricts me the most too. I am confined to a small geographic area unless I ride my bicycle or motorcycle to my skating destination. I can do long distance inline skating--many former runners, like myself, have turned this into a distance sport-- but I can skate all day and never get close to leaving Illinois. Reading and photography--I can do both for endless hours and each is good for my replenishing my spirit.

Still, something about getting on my motocycle that blends the "feel good" activities and offers the best therapy I can access without a prescription. Riding requires continuous reading of words and behavior (my own and everyone around me--in and out of vehicles!). Wanting to "shoot" something I've read about that is tucked inside a small town is reason enough to go for a ride.

Motorcycling is so much like my wanderings on my Schwinn bicycle with the "S" on the seat that I told everyone really stood for Sharon. I went everywhere, fast, on that entirely manual bike even though I was told, no warned, to remain within a tightly circumscribed, microscopic area near my home. My family told me about the evil that lurks and awaits those who stray too far from home. The Boogeyman was everywhere and nowhere at the same time. In addition to not straying far, always, always take someone with you.

Yet, ninety-nine percent of the places I ventured back then, I did so alone. My family also told me that "God takes care of children and fools" so I figured I was covered--and I always tried to remember to say a prayer before I went off into supposedly dangerous neighborhood. Sure, I'd ride around with my neighborhood friends whom I was always itching to ditch so I could explore the places that their fear kept them from sampling.

It was on one of those forbidden voyages that my beloved Schwinn with the "S" on the seat was stolen. Right from in front of the Walker Branch Public library no less, which is where I spent a huge chunk of my childhood. On that fateful day, I learned what it meant to "cry a river." I cried myself dry! The worst part was I had to do all that crying before I got home where I knew my childish behavior and stolen bike would be seen as justice for disobedience. I cried all that summer when alone whenever my mind wandered to another girl, somewhere, riding my bike with my initial on the seat.

In my family, you don't bite off more than you can chew, which can lead to hesitancy and tentativeness I found stifling to a traveler at heart. I received little sympathy about my bicycle. I asked for a new one often and heard variations of this whenever I did: "Yes, you can get another bike," [LONG pause, long enough to get my hopes up and my heart beating with joyous anticipation] "...just as soon as you buy one for yourself."} I thought, "How could I be related to these heartless people?! "

In reality, they were not heartless. They were folks who felt that when you don't listen, the best sense, is bought sense! Not only did I disobey, I foolishly left my bike unprotected--and that wasn't the first time. I went through serious two wheel withdrawal that summer and the entire next summer too. I did eventually get another bike, a five speed, oddly name bike from Montgomery Wards that my parents bought. It had no "S" on the seat. It lacked the smoothness and quality of my Schwinn. Regardless, I was thrilled to be on two wheels once again.

The next Schwinn I owned came many years later. And I did buy it myself--a ten speed that came with a killer racing seat that not big enough for an "S" or most butts! I rode it everywhere. It is now over 30 years old, still in my possession and somewhere in the recesses of a garden shed. Days of riding it from the southside of Chicago to downtown or to Harvey, IL to my college job at the YMCA, remain fresh in my memories.

Two-wheel riding for the adult soul

Motorcycling makes get aways easy and fun. I can experience great distances from home in car-time. Without sweating, I can travel joyously from home to Amherstburg, Ontario and back in a weekend and still show up for work on Monday refreshed and relaxed. I lunch in Indianapolis and am back home before dark. Motorcycling combines all that I enjoy: strategy, skills, athleticism, fitness, planning/goal-setting, travel, photography, solitude and plenty of Zen moments to reconnect with others. And most of all, just plain fun. It's an update to the Schwinn in all the best ways.

So, it makes perfect sense that since my last ride on a cold December day, the need for asphalt therapy is acute. "Doctor, we're losing the patient!... Wait, I think I'm getting a pulse."

"She has pulled through yet again..".

This weekend I agreed to get away with Dave who will be basically home bound for a few weeks following surgery on Tuesday. We didn't venture far and it was via four wheels. But the distance was enough to reap the benefits from the flow of endorphins that travel promises.

Despite unequivocal evidence everywhere one looks of dwelling in the depths of winter, we answered the screams of the beach and wound up at Illinois Beach State Park, spending good, cold time hiking. The pictures here are some of the cold wintry scenes I'll remember.

Not quite asphalt therapy.

But a nice second.

The Healing power of the sun...

Been dodging some curve balls lately. I won't complain. I guess if we don't get some occasional challenges we'll get out of shape and not be prepared for the really big stuff that inevitably comes along. 

Another sleepless night (well, I did get three hours). Woke up early and peered at the blackness outside. In the distance I could see a new day dawning. I dressed as fast as I could. Got my camera ready, geared up and left the house.     At 5:30 a.m., the road was whizzing by. 

As I rode northbound, high on LSD,* I peered to the east, my right side, and watched the sky transform from dark blue to soft reds and golden hues. Lake Michigan is east of the city. Any place along it, is a great setting to watch a new beginning each day.  (Click photo for better view)

My latest favorite spots to watch the sun present itself are near Wilson Avenue or Montrose Harbor. Wilson is best because the parking is readily available. When I arrived it was 5:47 a.m. According to the sunrise and sunset almanac, the sun would perform it miracle soon after 6:oo a.m. To catch the kaleidoscope of colors one needs to be on site early.

(Click photo for better view)

I found my favorite spot and prepared the Nikon D80. I waited while looking out on the lake, which still looks like an ocean to me.

I took picture after picture and in between I felt new energy as I watched the sun rise and the gulls' incessant racket overhead. By the time I left, I felt renewed. I had let go of the disappointment of having to cancel my weekend trip; I permitted myself to embrace whatever waited ahead today, tomorrow, next week.  Every where I wanted to ride, will still be there...waiting. 

*LSD=Lake Shore Drive

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!

SaddleSore 1000 Report--Rough Draft

Last week I toyed with the notion of doing a SaddleSore., a sort of baby Iron Butt Rally Association ride of at least 1000 miles in less than 24 hours. I needed something to restore my confidence after receiving some medical news that I prefer not to detail here. I felt myself allowing it to constrain me and detract from doing the things I want to do. Seriously long distance riding, starting with a SaddleSore has been on my mind from the beginning of my re-entry to motorcycle riding.

Each day, for the past week I watched the weather in IL, IA and NE as these were the states I'd travel through. Things were looking good for a straight west trip to Lincoln, NE, about 522 miles west. I thought of a hundred reasons not to do the ride and none of the excuses made sense. Then on Thursday I saw the moto-documentary Long Way Down, the second adventure ride of Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman. This time they were riding from Scotland to Cape Town, South Africa. I left that movie feeling inspired.

On Friday, the weekend weather report looked great—I had run out of excuses and if nothing else, it would get me out of the house dwelling on my dis-ease. Sometimes I use childbirth as my litmus test on the relative difficulty of something. If it's harder than that, I take pause before acting. If it isn't, I am not intimidated in the least by the challenge. Surely doing 1000 miles in less than 24 hours can't be more difficult than pushing out from your uterus what feels like a bowling ball for 14 hours, some of which is gut wrenching pushing.

By Friday night I had decided to take on this personal challenge. First, I retrieved my owner's manual and read about the oils and things I needed to check on the bike before leaving. On Tuesday, I had had a Throttlemeister installed on the bike just in case my right wrist bothered me on future long rides. On the SaddleSore, it never did and I never had reason to use it. When I shattered my wrist five years ago, according to the doctors it will “always” be weaker than it was before. Five years later, the injured wrist (non-motorcycle related injury), is fine and extremely strong thanks to many wrist curls and hand exercises. The bike checked out. Now the excuses were completely gone.

Second, I printed out the forms I would need to document my start and finish time. I was in my Chicago apartment, so I could use the concierge as my start and finish witness. Then, I packed my goodies: Odwalla bars, water and GORP. I've thought of this ride for a couple of years. So preparing myself to leave didn't take long. Stupid things took me a long time, like which jacket and pants to wear. For someone who doesn't like shopping or spending money on clothes, I must say, I have a pretty nice motorcycle wardrobe! Mesh or textile? Rain gear or textile with rain proof material? Color to match the bike, or colors for maximum visibility? One thing I know is that what bothers you a little at the start of a long ride, will make you insane after 400 miles. The pants I wanted to wear have a little scratchy part at the knee where the knee pad inserts into the pants. The Velcro's edge is scratchy there. They don't bother me on errands but after a 1000 miles, I'd be nuts. After way too long trying on tops and bottoms, I decided on mesh and textile pants and my FirstGear short jacket that is proven water proof. I then gathered up several very important pieces: the BMW Anonymous book, listing all those who have graciously given their numbers should a fellow rider need assistance and the towing service number, which I didn't feel I'd need but it reminded me of an Arab saying, “Trust in God, but tie your camel to the fence”--or something like that.

By 11:00 p.m., the bike was inspected and packed, forms printed and my witness selected. If I waited longer than 9 a.m. to leave, this would be a difficult journey for me. As an early riser, a 4:30a.m. departure sounded great. I wanted the bulk of the riding to be done in the daylight and the dark times to be done on familiar ground. I woke up at 3a.m. ready to leave. It was pitch black out and I felt I needed to wait a bit before leaving. By 4, I couldn't contain my readiness any longer. I reviewed my goals: stop every 90 minutes. Never go over 120 minutes without stopping. At each stop of 10-15 minutes in length, walk around, drink and drink some more and munch on something healthy (although I did stop for a 30 minute lunch/rest where I consumed french fries and a milkshake). This was the only “long” stop I would allow myself. Any stop longer should be explained and documented.

The IBR folks don't seem as strict on the SaddleSore in terms of the documentation they require. The most important items are some sort of electronic/paper of your official start time (and finish) and a witness. My witness was curious about the ride, which I had explained to him long ago. I made sure we talked this time BEFORE he signed his name and noted the time. I ended up not leaving until 5:01a.m. First requirement: get a gas receipt with the time and location stamped on it. I also stopped at a nearby ATM machine for money and for a second, optional “start” paper documentation.

My beginning route was going to be a little unorthodox as I planned to ride out of my way to avoid I-88 to reach I-80. Leaving downtown Chicago I took the free and longer route to avoid the tollway. I detest paying tolls and avoid them when I can. I would add about 40ish total miles to the trip by taking the long way: Lake Shore Drive to I-94 to I-57 south to I-80 west. I travel these roads frequently and it was nice to be on familiar ground for the start of my journey.

The morning weather was surprisingly cool but promised to warm up with the hottest weather in Nebraska. Within the first 20 miles I began to doubt that I'd selected the best clothes. I was cold and aware of the wind on my neck. A brief insignificant drizzle started. I turned on the heated grips and hugged the tank of the bike and felt a little of its warmth.

Leaving early always means having the roads almost to yourself. It also means that deer might be out searching for breakfast. Early on, I embraced the practice of scanning with full head turns to each shoulder. It's a great exercise to keep the neck flexible and a great way to be watchful or critters. To those around me I must look like I have some sort of Tourette's tick. Oh well...

One has considerable time to think of everything when on a long ride. Once I settled in, I started thinking about the ride and what was before me. I thought, this time tomorrow, I will be done and can think of myself as a successful long distance (LD) rider. With many long trips under my belt, I wanted this designation, that of being able to go safely for many miles. Any frequent reader of this blog knows that I love and admire Ardys Kellerman, a great- grandmother who has been a LD rider long before she was a great grandmother. A couple of years ago, she won BMW's distance award for amassing over 70,000 miles in one year!! She has completed more of the mother of all IBR rides--the 11,000 miles in 11 days--than most (at least four). Her last one occurred when she was in her seventies! I thought, surely, you can handle 1000 miles in 24 hours. I accept the IRB's definition of safety, that is, a time that has nothing to do with speed, a ride that is managed safely to the very end.  I told very few people about my attempt. I wanted the freedom to try it and end it on my terms. But I know me well. If I announce that I'm going to do it. I will die trying. That's a residual of the old competitive part of me that I have long since buried but it only takes a little external pressure to unearth it. I promised myself that if at any point of the ride, I had had enough, I would suspend the ride and try another time. With that mindset, I felt absolutely no pressure.

One of the reasons I selected the Chicago to Nebraska route had to do with the sun. This would allow me to have the sun rising at my back (cutting out glare) and the sun setting at my back as I headed home east along I-80. This was a smart decision, if I say so myself. I was thinking of something else when I caught a glimpse of something bright, red and purple and entirely brilliant in my mirrors. Ordinarily when I see the sun rise or set, I am looking at it—face-to-face. Looking at it from behind me in the mirrors created an new sensory experience. I couldn't help staring at it. Thank goodness the road was devoid of traffic! I think it ignited the Star Wars theme in my head too. It was beautiful and made me feel as if I had just received a special gift to launch my ride.

Once the sun came up, the day warmed, I forgot about being cold. Other than farms, silos and more farms, there's not much to see along I-80. I enjoyed it nonetheless. The bike just hummed, like it was finally in its element, finally allowed to blow its nose. The speed limit ranges from 55 to 70 along I-80. I stayed within 10 of the limit but there were a few times when Jesse hit 90. I was forced to do this to pass the plethora of trucks that dominate this road to haul stuff across the nation. Truck were ubiquitous and sometime they looked to be all traveling together, in closely knit packs. At times I took it personally that they seemed to delight in boxing me in. I always steer clear of trucks. I make sure I can see them in their side mirror but I don't always think that works. One time I had my eyes on a trucker, I could see him in his mirror. I saw him look in that mirror and he still came over into my lane. I was just in the process of passing him. I swear that move seemed deliberate to me. I backed off with ample space to let him have that left lane. That was the closest call I had and it really wasn't that close as he had plenty of room to make this abrupt lane switch.

My first stop hardly seemed necessary as I was feeling great, but I stuck to the plan. I drank some apple juice, stretched my legs, munched half an Odwalla bar and hopped back on the bike. Took about 10 minutes—the program was working.

By the time I reached Davenport, I was determined to do another trip to this area. I've ridden here before but I've never given the Great River Road a try. I made a mental note to upgrade it to my short list. On the Great River Road trip, I would travel west to Dubuque, IA and follow the river south.
I stopped at the visitors center in Le Claire, IA. It was a neat little place but I spent about 20 minutes there—too much time! Stops at such places would eventually eat up more than an hour total, It took me three such stop before finally realizing I couldn't afford this time. It dawned on me: this is not one of my tours. Get busy riding!

As motorcyclists know, riding ignites all the senses. I wore ear plugs that didn't block all the sounds around me. I could hear the trucks bellow and boats blast their horn as they moved down the Mississippi. Iowa's farms ranged from deep verdant to pale greens. So many times I wanted to stop to snap a picture of an interesting silo or a decrepit old barn. And smells, oh the smells. On a bike you just can't get away from being reminded of living and dead things. At one point, I wondered why women couldn't have the skunk's ability to emit a really noxious odor when they feel threatened. Wouldn't that be amazing?! Women would never need to worry about being out and about alone. I imagined someone getting fresh with a woman, and she gets really funky--literally-- with them. And the scent would stay on the guy (it's usually a guy) for a week. Everyone would know that he had recently, seriously crossed the line with a woman. No matter what he did, it would last seven days. The world would either reek or men who bother women would get a clue.

To create the least amount of wear on my aging form, I decided to monitor my body during the ride and at every stop. Major goals for the ride: safety and fun. Riding is also a focusing experience. With this ride, I had ample time to focus on the road and my body. Even with all the focusing required to ride safely, once my head is in it, I can relax and enjoy the pleasure riding creates. It was amazing how many problems I solved along the way. By the time I had reached Davenport, IA, I had solved the nation's economic woes; figured out my motorcycle route to Nova Scotia; started two new businesses; and decided how I'd spend my money should reparations ever become a reality.
When I saw signs to Iowa City I resisted the urge to stop. It is a place I like to visit. Park of the campus suffered serious water damage during the spring floods and I wanted to ride around the downtown and along the main streets and hope for no visible evidence of the damage. After my Visitor's Center stop in Le Claire, I made a stop 128 miles later in Grinnell. I once had a job offer from Grinnell College, a strong liberal arts college where the center of social life outside of campus—at that time—was the new Wal-Mart. At the rest stop in Grinnell, Jesse (the bike) attracted a lot of male attention, from an 8 years old to some great-grand Dads. When people admire the bike, I must remember to just say, “Thank you.” Instead, I too often say, “Yes, it is beautiful, isn't.” I can't help myself.

In route to Des Moines, I couldn't help notice all the towns that began with the letter “A” and wondered: coincidence or deliberate? I later checked the map and yes, there were a lot of “A” towns bunched nearby: Adel, Anita, Atlantic, Avoca and Audobon. I made a mental not to do some research on these places. Des Moines came and went quickly. It was Council Bluffs that I had my mind set to. I started playing with the name. Councils Bluff, Council Bluff, Councils Bluff and Councils Bluffs. In any case, Council Bluffs is a stone's throw—approximately 5 miles—from entering Nebraska. By this time, I had already been on the road well over six hours. This was all feeling too easy.

A key stop for me before leaving IA was the small town, Walnut, IA. I have no special reason for selecting that place, it was simply time for me to stop. A huge BP gas sign loomed in the air and next to it is a McDonald's. As I pulled in I saw at least a hundred motorcycles. All cruisers with a bunch of riders in similar uniforms, if you get my drift. I looked for one, just one non-cruiser motorcycle and the only I spotted was the iron horse I rode in on. The lot is massive. I see a parking spot near by on the edge of the other bikes. I don't want to invade their space. When I pull in it was like watching dominos fall. Heads all turned toward me. When I remove my helmet, I suspect more heads will turn. This sort of thing can make me nervous. It always leaves me with more respect for zoo animals. This is also when I try my hardest not to make one single mistake because I know I am being watched and any mistake is likely to be attributed to either my gender, race or both. I pull in safely, find that dang side stand in one reach (its location is tricky!).

The McDonald's was replete with tourists and bikers. When I entered, I felt like a tourist attraction. For many reasons I stuck out. I guess people just don't get out much. I tried to make eye contact with a some of the motorcyclists nearby but they seemed embarrassed and would turn away-they had eyes only for each other, I guess. I ordered my french fries and milkshake and settled for a back table and ate surrounded by doo-rags wearing riders who stole glances at me every now and again. When I'd see them out of my peripheral vision, I'd look around and their heads would snap in the other direction—that part was fun. As I was leaving, a man and his SO were eating at a table facing me. When I passed he said, “So is that white motorcycle out there yours?” He was motioning to a bike. He had to be kidding, I thought. That thing looked like a truck on wheel! It was a massive cruiser with a more massive fairing,, with streamers and chrome and baubles and bangles. I politely said, “No” and left it at that. I wanted to school him on how my dress clashed with that bike but decided against it as the owner just might be at one of the nearby tables. Then the man says, “I was just kidding, I saw your keys so I figured you ride a BMW.” Now, I liked him and wished I'd had time to chat. I talked briefly about the bike, the color and my love for it and left the restaurant a positive note.

When I aimed toward the bike, it looked like another hundred riders had pulled in. Still not a single sport bike among them! The lot was filled, eating tents were assembled along the grassy periphery. More domino reactions as I walked to the bike. I admit to being nervous. I had to not only back out the bike, I had to maneuver around some closely parked HDs. I envisioned them killing me if I touched one. I also had to either paddle the bike around or make a U-turn. I yelled silently at myself for parking this way! This was my one long stop. I had to eat and be out within 30 minutes or I'd have to document this stop. Still I took my time preparing to leave. I was hoping they'd get bored blatantly staring in my direction. Stall tactics: I checked stuff and opened my bags enough to hush my nerves. It could be that folks were just admiring the bike, but it felt way deeper than that. My built-in antenna picks up on these things. The bike fired up and its throaty sound turned the remaining heads in my direction. I peddled the bike back and carefully around the glistening—no, the blinding—chrome bikes.

Next the u-turn. Remember, turn your head and use the back break. Ok...but there was a fancy luxury car near the curve of the outer curve of the U. Briefly, I thought of hitting that car and falling and having all those people staring at the dumb, no-riding black city woman. I definitely have issues! Literally, I shook myself of this foolishness. I execute U-turns all the time. With the weight of Black America resting on my shoulders, with every woman who rides a motorcycle donning full gear and a non-cruiser, with every solo riders sitting perched on my back, I revved my engine, made my U-turn and smiled at the Lexus sitting on the outside curve as I passed it. And, I must say, I did a nice lean during the U-turn and the head turn would make my instructors at Ride Chicago proud. I did a primal scream in my helmet as I left the BP/McDonald's lot. It's not easy being a minority!When I saw the big sign for Nebraska I did a hoot and holler in my helmet. I felt downright gleeful! From Walnut, IA to Lincoln is approximately 105 miles. I made my last stop to a Visitor's Center at 1212 Bob Gibson Blvd., where I talked to the clerk and hung around too long collecting travel brochures. I reached Waverly, the outer edge of Lincoln in no time. The odometer showed roughly 550 miles. The only significant traffic I'd seen so far was in Omaha through Lincoln. None of it compares to Chicago traffic, however. I had reached the half way point feeling absolutely pumped and I just couldn't image the turn around to feel any differently. I found a gas station (the return gas receipt is important) and filled up. I inspected it and it wasn't obvious that there was a time stamp among the numbers on it. I asked the clerk to note the time and initial it. He did and figured out I was in some sort of “ride competition.”

Approximately 2 hours later, I was back at the same BP/McDonald's stop. Believe me, had I bombed that U-turn, I would not stop there! It must be a popular meeting place for 'cyclists because the group of riders had grew larger with bikers constantly flowing in and out. This time I parked behind the McDonald's, where the big campers parked—far away from the bikers. I didn't go inside the restaurant; instead, I drank water, stretched, snapped a picture of some old farm equipment and left. It was 4pm when I left Lincoln. I felt late, two hours behind my estimate to be exact. All that stopping at visitor's center had eaten up nearly two hours! Still, there was plenty of daylight left to do some serious riding.

I continued to ride and stop every 90-120 minutes. One thing I noticed and it sort of warmed my heart was the huge numbers of motorcyclists who waved across the highway. I'm talking from way across I-80! At first it caught me off guard and I didn't think they were waving to me. When I got it, I was impressed that so many were so faithful to the wave. I tried to wave back to many of them but I'm afraid I missed most. I just wasn't focused on what was transpiring on the other side of the highway. I would often just forget until I'd catch someone's arm swing out as they zipped by. “Dang, missed another on...” I sure hope they understand and all is forgiven. I like to wave!

Around the 650ish mile point, I checked all body parts. Nothing seemed bothersome. My butt must be made of iron because the stock seat was treating me kindly. I had a Throttlemeister (TM) installed the previous Tuesday and so far felt no need to use it. I wanted to note the point at which my right wrist might need some relief. It's a damaged wrist that has a 6 inch titanium implant holding it together. I've been told to expect all kinds of “issues” with it but five years later, it has not been a bother. Of course, I do lots of wrist curls and ball squeezes with it. The injury, btw, is non-motorcycle related. Still, I'm glad I have the TM on the bike just in case.

Again, not much scenic along I-80. I made my stops and each one was strictly 10 minutes or less. I experienced no leg cramping (something I've been bothered by before). I continued to feel alert, sharp and eager. As the sun began to set, and the sky darkened I realized that I'd do at least five hours in darkness. The setting of the sun occupied my mind until it was entirely tucked away. The colors in my mirror were deep red, purple with splashes of orange, yellow and gold. Watching the sun rise and sun set in my mirrors--definitely among the highlights of this adventure. After the sun disappeared, I felt like I had witnessed something rare when the only rare part was that I was seeing the transformation from a different perspective. Challenges to one's perspective is good thing to experience and even deliberately create now and again.

At 800ish miles it had already been dark for a while and although I wasn't fatigued by any measure, I was feeling the need for some greater mental stimulation. The roads were sane and manageable and the billboards held little interest. I did see two places that excited me. One was Cabela's an outdoor, sport equipment place I saw back in NE. My friend, Brent Miller, of Sojourn Chronicles, ordered a bag from there, told me about it and I ordered one too. I wished I'd had time to stop, the place looked massive. Then I saw PayPal. I have an account but I've often imagined them as some small operation in some secluded place with no real address. Well, they have a an impressive building and look seriously legit—at least from the outside.

Around 900 or so miles, I felt the need to listen to music. At my next stop I hooked up my ipod and put it on shuffle. I have nearly 600 song, poems and speeches in there and felt that it would entertain me the rest of the way. Upon reaching Davenport I had what could only be described as a spiritual experience. Although I was far from the end, I had only 175 miles before reaching home. This was also the most challenging part of the ride.

At night, things look differently than they do at any other time. Every risks is heightened. Moto Lights are my next purchase for Jesse. Both me and the bike are highly visible at night (I'm told) but I can do more and will. Some trucks literally glow at night, no only is their size phenomenal, their lights impressed me. Trucks at night posed a particular concerned. I felt downright miniscule next to them but I didn't feel that way during the day. I hope they weren't offended but I used my bright lights to get by and away from them. Their presence at night seemed more threatening than it did during the day. Then there was the strange mental challenges. When there were no vehicles behind me, looking into the mirror and seeing nothing but blackness has never bothered me. But with less than 200 miles to go I think I was beginning to imagine things and some of it could have spooked me if I allowed it. Like the white lines, they looked to be moving sideways and some of the large bushes along the road appeared to be buffalo waiting to leap in front of me. These things felt like I was loosing focus. It didn't last long but still it was weird.

Thanks to Aretha Franklin, Eva Cassidy and Jackson Browne, I got me through. I sang badly with them. For most of the day, I had seen, perhaps two police cars but their presence was ample Saturday night. I stayed around 5 -10 miles above the limit and over that only to get away from trucks—a difficult thing to do as they seem to own I-80.

The sign welcoming me to Illinois never looked so inviting! I still had many miles to go before reaching home, but these are roads that I travel frequently. I know the turns and lane shifts and the rest stops and I used it all to my advantage. I was still feeling fine but definitely bored. Still, I was almost home.

My Garmin Zumo GPS estimated my arrival time as 1:29 a.m. Before pulling into the garage, I would stop at my final gas station on 12th and Roosevelt Road.

When I reached I-57 I got emotional. I can get like that over the smallest things. But to me this was big. I've been told to consider giving up motorcycling by doctors who don't mind speaking from a point of ignorance. They would never tell someone to stop riding in cars. I've sold my car; this bike is my sole—and preferred mode transportation and I'm not giving it up. Psychologically, riding has made me feel better than the narcotics these drug pushers have prescribed for chronic spine pain (to be honest, I did ask for something to ease the pain...STILL). I have a bone disease, which I now know can, in some cases, be improved, maybe even reversed—supposedly not in my case. To me, however, I'm the case in which it will be reversed! And, the first thing for me to do is NOT to automatically and blindly follow the advice of physicians. I need and want someone who will work with me and understand my wishes and not feel threatened when I question every single procedure or demand absolute involvement in my own treatment. Ok, that's way TMI. But you know, this ride taught me a few things about myself that I needed to experience again. It's not like I don't know these things about me. Sometimes I just need to remember who I am, to pause and exhale.

As I left Lake Shore Drive toward the gas station, the bike felt wobbly. Really wobbly. I even thought I'd lost the rear breaks? Breaking was soft and weak. I was momentarily freaked. When I got to the gas station, I checked the bike. Everything seemed fine. I was less than a mile from home. I then remembered Ewan McGregor's admonition in Long Way Down, that the final leg, those last few miles of a journey are the “most dangerous” because you know you're home, you let your guard down and you are likely to have an accident. What I was feeling about the bike was really about me. I was clearly letting my focus and fortitude wane. I was home. I was tired. I filled up the bike and the machine said to get a receipt from inside. Only the station wasn't admitting people inside. The guy at the window said he couldn't give me a receipt because their “system” was “down.”

I was no longer tired. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck salute. I said, “Look, just write it out.” He said, “I can't, I don't have anything to write it with.” I moved closer to the window. “You don't have a piece of paper and a pen to write with?” He said, “No.” I narrowed my eyes. “Look, I need a receipt for money I just spent—it is the law, you know.” He seemed befuddled. I imagined the headline, “Successful SaddleSore Rider Breaks into Gas Station and kills clerk.”

“I'll get you some paper but you need to write a receipt for the gas I just bought!” He started searching and came up with a scrap of paper and wrote the amount. He handed it underneath the window through a metal slot. I looked at it and put it back. “You need to write the time on it.” He looked more befuddled. I've been to this gas station before and it is always a dramatic or traumatic experience, which is why I never use. I made a mental note to write to the manager. Their machine are always out of paper! So paying at the pump is a joke! What is the freaking point if you still have to go inside. Once when I asked an inside female clerk this very question, but the way she looked at me told me that I didn't want to hear her answer. It was something like, “If it's broke, it's broke, I'll report it to the manager NEXT! She could have taught the Seinfeld character, the Soup Nazi a thing or two about customer service. I left the station quick, fast and in a hurry—as we say on the south side of Chicago. On this early Sunday morning, I left the gas station feeling I'd made myself clear.When I mounted the bike, this time I paid extra attention to everything I did. The bike still felt strange but I knew it was me. When I pulled up, to the building, my witness was at his station. He looked out, saw me, smiled broadly and waved. He's a nice man and I made a mental note to get him a nice gift. When I entered the building, he congratulated me and said, “Well done, you've returned.” I gave him the sheet and he filled out the end report. It was exactly 1:42 a.m. A few hours later than I estimated but who cares?! It was under 24 hours. And, I had a lot of fun spending the day with Jesse. Just like that, I became energized. When I walked into the apartment, I couldn't stop smiling. And, I didn't settle down to go to sleep until a wee bit after 4a.m. When I opened my eyes again, it was 8a.m. and I asked myself, “Did you really do a SaddleSore or was that a dream?” But when I got out of bed, I felt, for the first time, evidence of my ride in my stinging butt—so much for being made of Iron. Still, it felt rather good.

Ride total: 1,076.5 miles

Sleepless in Seattle...

I just returned from a business trip to Seattle, WA, my second trip there in recent months. This time I didn't rent a car, which encouraged me to walk and rely on public transportation. One afternoon, I spent what felt like one week using Seattle's Metro Transit after being given incorrect information by two bus drivers and let off by another one more than a mile from my destination. Another bus driver became a little agitated when I asked her where I should exit to get to Pacific Place, a popular downtown spot. She said, "I'm only familiar with my route--I don't know the best stop." Thus, I became lost at least once. But it really is the best way to see a city.

I overheard a number of people talk about how "cold" it was in Seattle. The temps stayed in the mid-forties the nearly four days I spent there. At the time in Chicago the temps were in the low double digits, like 10 degrees. One day I checked in on Chicago and it was 8 degrees with a wind chill that felt like minus 11 degrees! Comparatively speaking, Seattle was downright balmy. True to its reputation, the skies were mostly gray and cloudy with billowing cloud formation with the sun trying its best to peek through. It made for dramatic sunrises and sunsets that were nothing short of glorious.

While there I noticed that two wheel travel is the mode of preferred transportation, particularly around the University of Washington. Seattle seemed way ahead of other cities in "living green." Everywhere I looked multiple waste containers clearly marked what could be deposited inside. People diligently and patiently disposed of their waste according to the posted rules. Similar multiple receptacles can be spotted here in Chicago but not to the same magnitude IMHO--but we are a serious bicycling town too. Although I didn't make any resolutions to start this new year, I vowed to live far more consciously greener. I've always done some environmentally friendly things but like many people, I need to do more.

Motorcycling has led me to have a different relationship with my car. Living in a place where I could ride year 'round would help me eliminate the need to own one altogether. I haven't driven it in months. Seven months has been my longest stretch of not driving. I went the whole summer without touching it and last winter I rarely drove it either. And, I like driving because I drive stick shifts only. I can almost convince myself driving a stick shift is similar to riding a motorcycle--almost. In the city, I find that I don't need a car. It's suburban living that demands a car to go just about anywhere. Ultimately, I'd like to do without owning a car altogether. I can rent if I really need one. Or, join one of those share a car deals, where you pay a fee, requisition a car online, and you're directed to a nearby pick up spot. Problem is, manual transmission are virtually impossible to rent these days. I've been told that not enough people drive them to motivate a rental service to carry such cost efficient, less complicated vehicles.

My last trip to Seattle had me slapping the floor of the rental car feeling for the clutch and waving my right hand between the front seats searching for the stick. It took me half a day to keep my hands on the steering wheel and to stop driving with two feet--it was distracting. After getting the hang of it, I realized how completely sleep inducing it is to drive an automatic! It bored me silly, left me wondering if mind numbing tedium is part of the reason folks drive while reading newspapers, applying make up, eating Big Macs, and talking on cell phones. They've got way too many limbs free!

To see so many people in Seattle on two wheels, well, it was refreshing. I'm sure part of that stems from being in a college town. Still, Seattle seems a more environmentally friendly place judging from all the organic, green- and environmentally- friendly signs and establishments broadcasting their organic nature and eco-friendliness. Even my hotel was 100% smoke free. I had to sign a statement saying I agreed not to light up in my room or I would be charged an outrageous price for the cleaning and fumigating the place after my departure. I liked that.

When I travel, I always ask myself if I can live in that place. I feel I can now answer that question with a resounding "Sort of." The limo driver told me that Seattle is devoid of the weather extremes we have in Chicago. That's a good thing. Seattle also doesn't get much snow. Hmmm...I like snow. For me, winters would be difficult there because one hardly sees a blue sky for very long. Both trips, albeit they were less than a week each, transpired under cloudy gray skies. On the first trip, it rained each day, steady sometimes brief and light drizzles that didn't seem to phase the two-wheelers at all.

Yet, those cloudy skies produce some amazing sunrises and sunsets that look beautiful in a distance and over mountaintops. Great food is expected in Seattle. Seafood--they love it and claim the best fish chowder around. I never made it to the signature chowder place but I take their word for it. I ran into many eateries that rival the food dished up in Chicago--and we know food here is serious business. If you don't drink coffee--I do not--it might not impress you that Seattle is home of the original Starbucks. Coffee shops are ubiquitous. Tully's is another coffee shop that seems to give Starbucks a run for its money--not sure which came first. Woodland Zoo is just amazing! Seattle also has a downtown waterfront along Elliott Bay and, of course, there's Puget Sound. Both waters could lessen my certain pain at missing Lake Michigan. It's being able to ride nearly year 'round that appeals to me most...yes, I could live in Seattle. Purchase some winter riding clothes--I'd be set. Well...sort of.

The "sorta" part results from not having any extended kin there. The older I get the more I want to be near these people I spent the greater part of my life trying to escape. I want to be close enough to get to them when I want to or when they need me yet far enough away that I feel free to be me and feel unfettered by their proximity. In addition, I love residing in a place where I can anticipate the boundaries of a space, where I can visualize what's around a corner. In my mind's eye I can see just about any place in Chicago just by looking at an address. Such familiarity creates comfort. When I rented the car for my first trip to Seattle every street was new, every curve on the Interstate was novel, none of which I minded but it created a sense of discombobulation, a feeling of general uncertainty. I was often caught in lanes that went where I didn't want to go and I had to work my way quickly to another lane. Funny thing is, this excites me and adds to any adventure on a motorcycle. In a car, I felt stressed and it could have been the result of driving the automatic more than anything else.

In Chicago, long before a rode dips or dives or merges this or that way, I am prepared, I can anticipate ( and compensate for) every curve on the various interstate routes that intersect Chicago. To me that's something, something that has taken decades to master.

Seattle, I'm sure, is a nice place to reside. For me, it will have to do as a nice place to visit. I'd love to ride my bike out there and head to Vancouver, which is only a few hours away from Seattle. To rub shoulders with MT. Rainier, MT. St. Helens, and Olympic Mountains to mention a few is a huge draw. Traveling allows movement outside one's comfort zone.

Perhaps the question isn't, "Can I live here?" But rather, "Is this a great place to visit, or what?" Seattle is on my return visit list! Gotta figure out a motorcycle ride there. That limo driver said, August is the best time to come...

Atlanta, GA and welcomed whiplash!

Recently I returned from a work-related trip to Atlanta, GA. I have issues with the South--let me get that out there up-front. Before anyone tells me that's an irrational, prejudicial position to hold, let me say that my issues are highly rational--in my view--and deeply rooted in historical fact and unfortunately reinforced by some past ventures to the South. I admit to falling short here. So, as part of learning to "let go" and not sweating small stuff, I openly looked forward to the trip.

The change from the Midwestern snow and cold was much welcomed! I expected a sweltering Atlanta; instead, it was just pleasantly mild. Walking around the city was light jacket weather the entire time. Four days is not a lot of time but on the day I left, temps were inching up to the 70s.

Work, however, prevented me from any deep city explorations. I was so near the Margaret Mitchell house but because I've never seen the movie Gone with the Wind nor have I read the book (a boycott and ban on both that I launched in high school remains in effect) it didn't make sense to go there. I had hoped for the Martin Luther King National Historical Site, a CNN tour, the Zoo, and the Atlanta Botanical Gardens. If I could, I thought I'd try to get to the Carter Center, and Stone Mountain, GA, which made me curious given its historical symbolism and reference in one of King's most famous speeches. Unfortunately, I managed only the Martin Luther King site and the neighborhood surrounding King's childhood home. Additionally, I did a lot of walking and admired the Downtown and Midtown architecture.

The Interstate system in the Chicago area trains us well. I-75/I-85, were easy to navigate and I imagined riding along these fast roads to quickly ride beyond Atlanta's business district and the shopping malls. I spotted many snaky arteries and backroads that both excited and frightened me. Backroads in the Midwest also pose a challenge but it's more familiar territory even if the same dangers lurk. Backroads in the South, however, are unfamiliar and tainted with a nightmarish history I can't shake easily. While driving, images of Bull Connor, "strange fruit" dangling from trees, and Emmett Till crossed my mind. Yes, I have issues with the South, and I guess a degree in American History fuels my regional psychosis.

Yet, every time I heard a motorcycle, my head would whip around and watch the rider zoom by and I'd think of living in a place like Atlanta where the riding season doesn't end. While out walking, I met up at the same corner at the same time with a guy riding a Kawasaki Ninja. He waited for me to cross the street and I waited for him to make his right hand turn. I wanted to watch him ride off. I wanted ogle until he was a dot in the distance. We both waited for the other. I stood there looking at his bike, which was navy-blue with silver "Ninja" written on the side. He finally tired of me hugging the curb and cautiously maneuvered his turn. He wore head to toe gear. He, his bike, and the modular helmet were color coordinated. I wanted to tell him that I rode too and talk motorcycles with him. I was close enough to reach out and touch him. Feeling I'd appear nutty, I kept quite and stood there staring at his bike, balancing on the curb, ignoring the "Walk" signal.

Riders in the South get to ride their steers throughout most of the year so not needing to store one's bike engenders considerable envy. What a bunch of lucky folks! City life at one's finger tips, boonies not far away, and the really great roads tucked within easy reach to provide unlimited opportunities for amazing day and weekend trips--what more can one ask? On many levels, the South has come a long way. Perhaps, I have too.

Atlanta is a place I'd
revisit and face my southern backroad fears to freely enjoy the roads. I'd try not to drag the entire suitcase of history along with me.









Light, after all, is the best way to travel.

More Atlanta pics here!

The Queen has returned!

I've not had a ride--good or bad--in close to three weeks. Being off the saddle that length of time can feel strange. Perhaps it's just in my head but I felt a bit rusty for those first few minutes. A thread on the Motorcycle.About.com forum addresses how long people have stayed off the bike and what experiences they have when they ride again. It's not as automatic a reunion as one might think. While those early Spring rides may be awkward, it only lasts a short time.

In this part of the country, the riding season is determined solely by weather. Last season, I rode until December 2nd, getting Queenie in storage one day before the predicted December 3rd blizzard dumped its first significant snow. Because I rode so late into the season, I didn't fret too much about retiring the bike--although some my differ on the amount of my bellyaching.

Saturday, while waiting for the Queen to appear, I roamed the showroom. I had brought with me my "new" 30 year old + medium format TLR (twin lens reflex) camera. I thought it might be cool to take a couple of pics of some of the many vintage bikes at the shop, some with odd names like Dragonfly. I saw an old Beemer sitting in tight quarters with bikes on each side. Something about the way the light was hitting it that made me stare. The room was not the brightest for taking an easy indoor picture but there was light seeping in from the ancient glass windows that looks like it could have been butcher block 100 years ago. Today, it's old and opaque and discolored in spots; yet, I've seen spectacular light streaming into the showroom many times before. Saturday's light lacked the dramatic highlights and shadows but the old glass beamed bright on the Beemers. So, while Queenie was being "detailed," I took the two black and white pictures. Mind you, I just received the camera and I'm still learning to use it, particularly hold it properly. I'm enjoying this camera so much, it has me developing my own b&w a couple of times a week just to see what this camera reveals. In spite of the new lens hood I bought for it, it still seems to suffer from flare--but I don't care. It has enough charm to make up for this shortcoming.

Back to riding...when I fired up my gal pal and pulled off, I noticed right away the feel of the throttle. Queenie in flesh and blood form easily would be a bucking bronco--she is frisky! Apply a thoughtless touch and you're off! Too much of a flick of the wrist and whiplash can ensue. Fortunately, my memory found that sweet spot of friction zone and we took off. As I road, the familiar became automatic. I love this motorcycle. It fits me, it has personality, and in spite of her recent electrical issue, she remains a most reliable companion. I never understood people who anthropomorphized the cars they owned and spoke of them as if talking about lovers. I understand that now.

We are heading out today to places unknown. Had I gone to bed like a normal person rather than staying up until 4 a.m. reading, I would have left hours ago and watched the sun rise while on the road. It's okay that I didn't. Today, there is no rush. I will go where I want, when I want. Me and my bike and my new "old" camera.

It's all about perspective, isn't it?

The Chicago area experienced the most gorgeous weather this past weekend, the kind that anyone who loves the outdoors appreciates. Temps in the mid-seventies, a gentle caressing breeze, a beaconing lakefront, and a city holding tightly to the waning days of festivals, food feasts and ethnic parades.

It might be somewhat early, but I think this is Indian Summer.

This weather deserves engagement. Before the motorcycle, I'd probably power walk along the lakefront or hike through a forest preserve or take a long bicycle ride. Since the motorcycle, the weather produced the kind of weekend that would have me on the road by 5:30 a.m. heading out for a weekend trip. It would also have made a perfect Saddle Sore weekend.

Ideal conditions for sure. But I have a sick motorcycle. About a week ago Queenie was towed away. I should have taken pics of her being hoisted on the truck but my heart was heavy and just not interested. That day, I was determined to get down to why the turn signals worked intermittently, why the instrument panel remained inactive and dark. I put on the choke, turned the key and Queenie fired up immediately. Like me, she wanted to ride. I jiggled some wires in her tail compartment and the left turn signal flickered a little but I could never get any life from the right signal or the brake lights. I debated if I should ride her to the shop. It was early morning and I figured I could make it without too much trouble. Then I realized that I was fooling myself with desperation talk. Even with the lights functioning it's a challenge to navigate downtown Chicago traffic. Without a speed odometer, turn signals and brake lights it would be crazy to ride with only a working headlight.

But if I were caught out on the road and the lights went out, I'd have to ride it, right? It's easy to rationalize one's desires. I came to my senses and accepted that while I could definitely ride the bike, that wasn't the important question. Whether it was safe to ride it, whether I wanted to accept that increased level of risk was the real question. And, I didn't, really. I just wanted to ride the 5.5 miles that is, at best, a 30 minute ride through traffic.

Queenie's week away was tough even with the the roller coaster, make that, schizophrenic weather we've had. Just last week, we enjoyed balmy, summer-like temps. Then came coat weather. Sudden changes in the climate made it difficult to anticipate what to wear in the morning. Just last week, I was pelted with cherry sized hail that hurt like heck as I ran for cover from a nasty brief storm! Then came magnificent weather this past weekend.

I learned that Queenie needs a "combo kit," which is the device that controls the turn signals, the brake lights and the instrument panel. I'm guessing that the glitch in the extant one was causing the blown fuses? Or, perhaps it wasn't a fuse at all, just this faulty device screwing up things. Overall, it sounds like a minor matter but the "kit" must be ordered, which means hospitalization for the bike until it arrives.

Motorcycles were ubiquitous.

I had company this weekend and that helped take the edge off. Yet, I literally gave myself whiplash at all my snappy head turns trying to catch a glimpse of a passing bike. My visiting friend, who is pregnant, came in from North Carolina. It was the first time we've seen her in pregnant form. Everywhere we went, she and her little bowling ball served to remind me of matters far more important in life than yearning for and whining about my bike. Her family and friends eagerly await the birth of this new member of the tribe. That's big stuff!

Then came the fires and the Santa Ana Winds that roared at hurricane speeds. This was Sunday. I have close friends in La Jolla and in several San Diego counties. I learned that some relatives of close friends has surely lost their house. They were roused by a red and yellow glow shining through their window. They had enough time to grab a few personal items, load the car and flee for their lives as falling embers trailed them. They've not been able to return to their canyon neighborhood but from all accounts, they have most likely lost every thing.


After contacting my friends and finding out that they are, for now, okay and busy housing other friends who are now homeless, thoughts of my precious bike seemed woefully self-centered. My friends reside near the ocean, away from the canyon and direct line of fires but they can smell the smoke, taste the fumes and now live under a smoke-filled sky. They remain on alert in case things worsen. It's the winds, they say, that are wrecking havoc, feeding the flames and building the walls of fire across southern California.

Right now 1000 homes have been destroyed and approximately 1 million people have been displaced. Eighteen fires are active and still being fought with only three fires contained thus far.

I've never experienced such devastating lost, never felt the Santa Ana winds but I recall reading a memorable essay by Joan Didion in her book, Slouching Toward Bethlehem, on the Santa Ana winds. Her vivid description is permanently etched in my memory...

Perspective...

"... without darkness
Nothing comes to birth,
As without light
Nothing flowers." -- May Sarton