Ride Report - Operation: Destination Conclusion

I made one last pit stop in Santa Maria to top off and throw my hoodie on for the long ride home.  It was significantly cooler in Santa Maria than it had been anywhere else on the trip so I needed to break out an extra layer.  Plus, I knew that the sun would set well before I made it through the last leg of the ride, and it would probably cool off.

$4.55 later, I was back on the 101 and then I hit 166.  Highway 166 is relatively boring if you're on two wheels, unless you have a liter bike.  The road itself is a two lane highway that cuts through the lower mountain areas in a series of broad sweepers and then straightens out into the Cuyama Valley.  It's actually one of the more scenic "slab" rides but I couldn't help but think about what a tremendous waste of rubber it was given the lack of technical twisties.  It was pretty barren so I settled into a modest pace and rode out the first stretch of sweepers until I caught up to a couple of vehicles. A big rig was up ahead and an older Mercedes was behind him.  If not for the fact that we were all approaching a blind section of the pass, I probably would have gone by them but I eased off the pace and settled in behind them.  The Mercedes was chomping at the bit to get around the truck.  Just as both of us were going to sieze the opportunity, the big rig swerved over into the oncoming lane, and continued weaving back and forth.  His long trailer swayed between to the two lanes that were protected by guard-rails on either side, and I held my breath as my immediate thought was that it was possible I might soon see a very serious accident if he overturned or hit an oncoming car.  I eased off the throttle and put some space between us all.  The Mercedes did the same, and just as the road curved into a blind corner, the big-rig settled back into his lane.

Once the road opened up again we made our way by.  I was reluctant, feeling a little like I was in that scene from The Matrix where Trinity has to maneuver the bike around the diesel truck as it closes in to smash her, but the big rig stayed in his lane and didn't show any signs of repeating his bizarre, erratic behavior. The front of the R6 shimmied modestly as her front-end traction was broken by the centerline reflector plates, but it dissipated quickly and we continued on our way on a mostly open road. The Mercedes was holding a decent pace so I settled in behind him and we carved our way along until we slowed for another, slower motorist ahead.  As we made our way through a blind sweeper he made his move to pass as the road opened up to another long straightaway and I gave it an extra second before I cracked the throttle and followed suit.  I came up next to the slower car and prepared for the Mercedes to merge back into the lane with plenty of space for me, but I was unpleasantly surprised.

Out of the corner of my eye to the right, I could see the front end of a patrol car sticking out from the bushes.  I rolled off the throttle gently but the guy in the Mercedes slammed on his brakes in an effort to downplay his maneuver. I was approaching quickly, applying the brakes now and a car was approaching in the oncoming lane.  I looked at the car next to me, the Mercedes was in front of us, but not quite far enough to merge back into the lane. I debated falling back and getting in behind the car, or pulling the pass on both cars with whatever distance I had to spare. 

Within another second the Mercedes had eased into the lane at a much slower pace.  I accepted the fact that I would probably be getting a ticket as I downshifted and charged forward, settling in front of both of them. I chuckled a little in my helmet at the thought of the CHP witnessing the whole ordeal, and probably hearing me yell at the guy in the car ahead. Once the CHP had disappeared in my rear-view as I entered another sweeping curve, I picked up the pace and left all of them behind.

The skies were a brilliant purple and pink, which made a beautiful backdrop for the yellow dusted mountains and rolling hills.  I contemplated stopping to take a picture while there was still daylight but I didn't want to put forth the effort. I was alone, but I was in good company.  Even though I had music playing in my earbuds, I tuned it out and listened to the hum of the R6 as she carried us through this empty part of the world. It was as though this piece of the planet had been long forgotten to civilization and we were there to enjoy it as our own sacred place. My wrist was cramping, my back was sore, and I was pretty sure that I had pinched a nerve in my inner leg from having very little meat on my bones and a flat, hard seat to sit on all day.  My thighs, butt, and hamstrings were sore and I was feeling fatigued, but it was here that I finally found some peace.  It all finally came together as the sun was setting and the roads became dark.  Lit only by my headlight I made my way through 40 miles of dark, desolate road. 

In life we all make choices.  We make choices that are fueled by our beliefs, our emotions, our desires, and our reasoning.  What we believe of ourselves, and of our world has a huge impact on guiding our decisions and conributions in life and at some point we all find ourselves staring in a mirror, demanding accountability for why we have ended up where we have.  For some, this reflection can be a positive reflection; relishing in one's luck, or prosperity, or happiness.  For others... for too many... this reflection is in shame, sadness, or bitterness.  Some people go their entire lives living unhappily, but never finding the courage or the willpower to look inward and ask of themselves what their true purpose is.  When people have no purpose they have no direction.  And when they have no direction, they become lost and angry. Angry people who are lost will grab onto whatever they can for some sense of power, to feel as though they are in control of the variables and when it doesn't work, they reach out for an excuse, for something or someone to blame. Seldom is there love there as often as there is fear; fear of being alone. I know this pattern all too well.  I've lived with angry people for most of my life and at some point I've had to let them all go.

As much as I loved him, the truth was that I had felt for a while that pieces of myself were slowly being chipped away from the inside out; leaving a shell of the person I once was. This ride was necessary for me to accept what I truly was in his life and to let go of what I always hoped and believed could be - to let go of it all really.  It was necessary for me to liberate myself from the hurt, the anger, and the hope that kept me holding on time and time again in great moments of emptiness, of deafening silence after the roar of uncontrollable emotion that had him storming out for days on end. It was necessary for me to remember that I've always had a sense of purpose beyond what I might be able to conform to as an accessory in one person's life; no matter how much I might want to. There is a world beyond it and that world can be anything that we choose to make it if we just think beyond our struggles and give from our hearts. It was necessary for me to be alone with myself, my motorcycle and an open road with infinite possibilities.  I needed to let my soul wander and my heart breathe and as the R6 hummed along beneath me I made amends with this one small injustice in what I hope will be a long and meaningful life.

Ride Report - Operation: Destination Part IV

I seated myself in the restaurant and plopped my backpack, helmet, and jacket down next to me in the booth.  I was lucky enough to notice an open outlet that I promptly seized the opportunity to plug my phone into. A few people in the bar stared awkwardly and I briefly considered that perhaps there was something smeared across my face.  I looked in the mirror behind me and saw nothing but helmet hair.  I've grown used to helmet hair, so I fluffed it a little with my fingers and thought to myself, what the hell is the deal with these people, this is a motorcycle friendly community... they even have a motorcycle museum! Surely it's not that big of a deal to see a chick-on-a-bike.

My server finally approached and I couldn't help but remark on how beautiful he was.  My GOD man, I don't even look that pretty when I'm wearing a push-up bra and an airbrushed face! He was so pretty that I felt like having sex with him would make me a lesbian and I was instantly dissuaded from objectifying him. He acknowledged my helmet, asked me what I rode, and before I could fully answer, erupted into a story about how he crashed his R1, with a passenger on the back who was wearing "Really short shorts!" and they both walked away unscathed.  Any other day, within the last couple of years I would have pitched forth a lecture.  Today, however, I was on an adventure... and I didn't care aside from the fact that he had learned his lesson and praised God for the luck of his passenger.

I ordered a cheeseburger and realized that, at 4:45 in the afternoon, it was the first real meal I had in the day aside from the two bites I took of a slice of cold pizza, and the strips of beef jerky I had munched on intermittently throughout my stops.  I scarfed down half of it, and ordered a growler of the Odin Stout to go; figuring that it would make a lovely homecoming reward when I finally made it back home.

Once I left the place, I was greeted by a couple who had been admiring my bike.  He wanted a bike, she didn't want him to get a bike, and he solicited my professional opinion in consoling her concerns. This happens to me a lot. I'm not sure why.  It's as if somehow, the opinions of a female sportbike rider are that much more supportive than those of some dude.  Okay. Now that I think about it, there is actually probably might be some merit in that.

They were polite and grateful for my feedback as they wandered off.  I made my way back onto the highway with a slightly readjusted backpack that was now a few pounds heavier, but I didn't mind.  I topped off at the gas station and decided to head for home.  I knew it was gonna be a long  ride but this stretch of road is mostly sweepers and some straights and while I knew I'd be riding it at night, I really didn't mind the thought of it that much.

While riding up the 101 to catch 166 the thoughts came back in a rushing wave.  I felt better this time, my heart was lighter.  I had accepted that I need to let go.  I had accepted that I needed to stop making an us issue out of what is clearly now my life from this point forward.  This whole trip had been a re-introduction to my own life as me living without someone who may or may not have ever been up to the task of sharing a life with me in the first place. All of it was speculative though, and I had to let it go.  I had to let it all go and start re-defining the terms by which I plan to live the rest of my life.

At that very moment, Florence and the Machine came on in my ear, erupting into a soulful howl of beautiful desperation and angst.  In the foreground of a crescendo of thundering drums, dramatic deep violins and singing words that seemed to reach into my soul and bring my feelings to life:

You want a revelation

You wanna get it right

But it's a conversation

I just can't have tonight

You want a revelation

Some kind of resolution

You want a revelation

 

No light, no light in your bright blue eyes

I never new daylight could be so violent

A revelation in the light of day

You can't choose what stays and what fades away

 

I'd do anything... to make you stay

No light, no light...

 

Everyone goes through this. It is one of the more unfair aspects of life.  There are at least a million songs written in every genre of music by people who process their heartbreak through their creativity.  Using their instruments; be it the pen, the guitar, or the piano as a medium for cathartic release.  We are all human and we live our lives on loosely defined terms, buying into social norms and unfounded, unrealistic expectations; winging it as we go and finding reasons to regret when we should be finding reasons to grow.  When we find ourselves rigidly clinging to those terms even in light of new developments of truth is when we find ourselves in trouble; at risk of becoming stagnant ghosts of our own past.

For this reason, we owe it to ourselves to pursue the truth even when it hurts.  To accept reality, even when it no longer benefits us; and to let go when the purpose has been served or the cause has been lost.

The truth may not always feel great, but it will certainly set you free.







Ride Report - Operation Destination Part III

I rolled into Ojai with quite a bit of fuel to spare.  I was pretty impressed, usually the sportbikes get crap for gas mileage but for some reason the R6 was running at about 40 mpg. I attributed it to the 'pansy pace' and pulled into a gas station to top off anyway. I really didn't know where I was going to go from this point so I erred on the side of caution and pulled out with a full tank. At the gas station, a gal on a ninja was waiting to lead some friends who were on cruisers in the direction of 33.  We exchanged cordial nods and I yanked my stiff knee over the seat of the bike with more unnecessary groaning before filling up and chatting with an old guy who compliment how pretty the bike was.  I followed some roads around until I landed somewhere near the 101 within range of Highway 1.  I decided to pop down there for a breath of cool ocean air and I cruised along on what seemed more like an access road than a major California Highway. I flipped up my visor and took a deep breath.  The sadness in my heart was stifled by the cold moist ocean air and it was rejuvenating after the long ride I had just taken. I glanced down at the temperature gauge on the bike and noted that it was reading significantly lower than it had been the entire trip.  Apparently the ocean air was a reprieve for both of us.

I popped back on the freeway and rode up the 101 briefly before entering into Santa Barbara.  I thought I might stop there and grab some lunch, but then I forgot that I remember very little about navigating around there since most of my friends have left.  I felt too exhausted and dingy to hit any of the places on State Street so I stopped for a minute to drink some water and consider my next move before I hit the road again and made my way north.  At this point my objective was to explore the logistics of overnight sleeping at a camp ground.  I didn't bring my sleeping bag.  I didn't bring much at all but I didn't really care.  I had a backpack for a pillow and two layers to throw on if I needed it.

Most people would think this was stupid.  Some ill effect of improper planning but I had thought out my necessities well ahead with the consideration that I wasn't opposed to sleeping on the ground next to my bike somewhere.  Hotels on the central coast are easily upwards of 100 dollars a night and I just couldn't reconcile the idea of spending that much money for something that wasn't really 100 dollars worth of reward; at least not on this adventure. Yeah, it could get pretty chilly here at night, I thought, but whatever happens, however bad it sucks, I know it's only going to be temporary and I'll live through it.  If I decide I hate it, I'll just get on the bike and ride to a Denny's somewhere. Homeless people make it work, and I can too.  I don't know why people feel like they need to bring bagloads of shit for a sleepover in a dirt patch.  Although, if I did somehow manage to finagle my way into a campground, I was most certainly going back to town for some beer, pretzels, and a roll of toilet paper. 

Priorities, man.

There were a few state beaches and coastal areas but the campgrounds were all full and I was turned away by park rangers who said that I could pay for day parking, but that was it. I didn't care that much and I wasn't that interested in just randomly picking a place in the middle of nowhere. So I rode... North... exiting at various locations and exploring the roads.

 

 

 

Once I had given up my quest for natural sleeping accommodations, I continued on toward Solvang.  Solvang is a little Danish community that is nestled a few miles up off of the 101 between Santa Barbara and Santa Maria.  There is a motorcycle museum there and a lot of really good eats.  I decided this would be as good of a place as any to stop in for some food while I decided whether or not I was going to try and hunt down a hotel room (and subsequently continue my ride on Sunday) or if I was going to make the daunting trek back in the evening.

 

It was about 4:30 when I arrived at the brewery and I pulled into the parking lot behind a guy on a chopper that had the trade-mark overzealous exhaust pipe.  He got off of his bike and did a double-take as I assume he realized I was a chick. I nodded politely, let my backpack fall of my shoulders and made my way into the restaurant where I was greeted with awkward stares.

 

 

 



Ride Report - Operation: Destination Part II

After the little wake-up call, I had re-focused.  I rode the last few corners of the course with unsurpassed concentration until the road opened up into a long straight line that lead through the valley, over a dry creek-bed that is prone to flooding (as I was informed by the sign alerting me to Cross at your own risk!) and eventually to Highway 33.

Prone to flooding: Cross at your own risk

 

These trees were absolutely stunning

 

Once I hit 33 I thought I might find a place to pull over, snack on some jerky, drink some water and take a break.  However, I really didn't want to stop in the sun so I just kept riding.  As I went by a rest area, I waved at a gaggle of sportbikers who apparently had the same idea, but more initiative.  I felt a little self-conscious riding in my jeans with my armor, but I had planned to take it easy and I didn't want to have to sleep in my leathers should I decide to find a campground. 

 

I moved along at a decent pace, the bike was running extremely well but the suspension in the front felt a little stiff.  It wasn't a big deal though since most of this road is nice and smooth.  I hardly noticed with the exception of a few times where the bike protested some unexpected speed bumps.  At one point the handlebars started to wobble but nothing remotely close to what I had experienced in the past on this bike and I brushed it off with a little more throttle.  Because a little more throttle never hurts, right?

 

As I wove my way through the mountains and foothills along Highway 33 I lamented that I hadn't ridden it more often.  It's quite a stretch for me to get to and it usually means some degree of long, straight line riding. The R6 glided along smoothly with almost no effort.  Opening up the throttle and leaning into corners was substantially less frightening than doing so with the throttle pinned on the DRZ (which I had done recently) and coming around every corner with the handlebars shimmying feverishly.  It certainly added character but that was by no means a graceful ride.

 

A few miles up the road I pulled off in a paved turnout.  There were a couple of people on mini-bikes preparing to blast up a nearby trail that was clearly marked: No Trespassing.  I smiled as one of the riders blasted off and up the side of the mountain, kicking up a cloud of dust behind him.  As I dismounted the bike, my hips and knees cracked and I carefully stretched them with a faint groan.  The other rider was still trying to kick start the bike while looking at me with an embarrassed smile. I nodded politely and after a couple more exhausted kicks, the bike sputtered to life and he blasted off up the same trail where his partner had disappeared minutes before.

 

I pulled out my jerky and drank some water as a group of adventure bikes went by.  At the end of the pack, trailing behind by a few seconds was a rider on what looked like a KLR 650.  It sputtered by as I gave a polite wave and he responded with a long awkward stare as he rode by. 



I wandered around for a few minutes, stretching my legs before I got tired of standing around and pressed on. I had actually anticipated that at any given moment the sportbikes would come buzzing up behind me but I never saw them.  I was alone for almost the entire leg of the journey, and I found myself getting lost in the zone more and more as I realized how alone I really was. The R6 hummed a healthy tune as I worked the throttle in and out of the corners in a dance that carried us further out of the valley and further up into the mountains.

If you've never ridden Highway 33, I suggest doing it at least once in your life.  Of all of the majestic roads to experience in California, it truly holds its own.  Once in the mountains, there are views abound and a little wind to keep things interesting in certain spots, which was particularly fun on the DRZ, but not so much noticeable on the mighty Red Raven as she sliced her way along the asphalt ribbon and carried us out to the CA coast.

Ride Report - Operation: Destination Part I

I awoke from an otherwise restful sleep with the usual burn of anxiety that accompanies the grieving process.  I knew I was tired but my brain immediately kicked on, spouting fragmented thoughts and adding fuel to the fire of the anxiety that was brewing. My room was still dark, but I could tell by the faint purple glow creeping in from the crevices between blinds that it must be around six or so.  I hadn't opened my eyes yet.  I was still desperately clinging to the idea that this might pass and I might be able to fall back asleep.  Finally I gave in, opened my eyes and looked at the clock; it was 6:15.  On a Saturday!  I thought, I only wake up this early for track days!  I let my head fall back into the pillows with an exasperated sigh. I tossed and turned for another hour or so, tormented by the frustration of wanting to sleep but wanting to shut my brain off. Well... I guess I'm gonna go riding. I thought, as I threw back the blankets.

As I showered, I laid out some possible ideas for the day's agenda. I didn't know where I was gonna go, I just thought of a general direction: West. I hadn't really even planned on coming back any time soon.   I needed to mail my PCIII to a fellow forum member, and go to the bank.  The post office didn't open until 9:30 so I waited, impatiently, checking tire pressures, charging devices, packing a backpack, finding things to do.  Everything except mapping out a trip. I wasn't preparing and I really didn't care. I knew the area and the climate well enough to know that if worse came to worse I'd be fine. I grabbed a hoodie, a change of clothes, my toothbrush, and deodorant and threw it in a backpack along with the cargo net in the event that my back got too tired.

By 9:45 I was ready to rock. I knew that daylight would be limited given my delay in departure but I didn't have any real destination and I figured if worse came to worse I could always grab a spot at a campground and sleep in my hoodie and my jacket. 

I hit the road.  I slabbed it south for a few miles after deciding I would do Highway 33 out to Santa Barbara and go from there.  There are several different routes you can take to get to 33, and I was torn between doing Lockwood Valley Road, or Cerro Noroeste.  I've only ridden those roads once, on a loop and I wasn't entirely sure that I would remember the course but I didn't care. I made my way to Frazier Park after what felt like an eternity on the freeway with my thoughts running in every direction as music blared in the background through my earbuds. 

Once in Frazier Park I gassed up in Lake of the Woods, a tiny subdivision, if you will of an already small Mountain community.  I bought some jerky and a bottle of water and added it to the backpack. Once back on the main drag it wasn't long before I had made my decision to take Lockwood Valley Road. 

LVR isn't one of those roads that's in the best of condition, after all: it's a mountain road.  But it's not as bad as most roads.  There are some bumps, breaks in the pavement and I found quite a bit of dirt this time around.  As most of us know, you really never know what you're going to encounter when you ride a mountain road as some sections are prone to being washed out from flooding, damaged from rock/landslides, or torn apart for reconstruction.  It really came as no surprise to me when I approached this section of a 20 mph corner.

 

 

I coasted over the moat of gravel and kept on.  It was quiet, peaceful, and the weather was just about perfect; sunny and in the 70s. The bike was running beautifully, although as I hit a few bumps I remembered that I had put it on the agenda to service the forks.

 

Lockwood Valley Road is only about a 30 mile stretch of road that runs straight through a valley and then up through the mountains in tighter ribbons that shift in elevation and radius.  It's a narrower road with some pretty steep drop-offs once you get to the higher portions. Once at the higher elevations, the mountains on one side fall away, exposing a majestic view that seems limitless.  It really is a remarkable place, one of the millions of remarkable places that comprise the California landscape.

 

Somewhere out there is HWY 33



 

The descent begins almost as quickly as the whole ride began.  A couple of steep downhill hairpins (if you're riding in a westerly direction) and another 6 miles or so of tight corners before it opens up into a straight shot that ends at Highway 33.  The last time I had ridden this road, we were going in the opposite direction and I was riding the DRZ.  The R6 felt quite a bit heavier in comparison (especially going downhill) but it held up well. Which isn't saying much since I pretty much pansied it down the hill. It was during this portion of the ride that I realized how disgustingly out of shape I am. The R6 was a good sport about it, even tolerating my multiple stops for pictures by starting right up for me every time.  I counted each successful start as a blessing given how isolated I was from civilization and I was pretty sure my phone would have no signal should I need to use it. 

 

 

 



 

Depending on your attitude, this can be a lonely ride for one person to embark upon.  Most of the mountain rides around here are like that though and I used to do them a lot more often when all of the bikes were running tip-top.  Over the last couple of years my solo adventuring had taken quite the hiatus and it was good for me to be alone again with the bike and my thoughts.

 

There is something incredible about being in a relationship with someone who shares your interests; especially if those interests are huge passions of your own; such as riding.  But even then your interests in riding can be different and, depending on your personalities or philosophies on life, can add unnecessary pressure or stress to a ride.  I missed him, I wished he was there. Even in my clarity there was a lot of hurt, a lot of frustration, a lot of constantly going back and forth in my mind as to whether or not it was even worth being this hurt. Not that it mattered, nothing would change the fact that I was... that I am  literally sick with sadness but also looking forward to what's next. The last time we had ridden this road it was during arguably better times, but we had still always found a way to bicker and it inevitably always made me feel like I was holding him back.  In fact, towards the end of things, I felt like I just wasn't running the pace he was looking for... in anything. And yet in other ways I felt like I was miles ahead of him.

 

I anticipated that I would have these feelings.  It was why I chose the route, as some confrontation to get it out of my system and lay some new memories onto that sacred ground that I was sure to ride again. It was my goal to create a new chapter in a book we never got to write; to reconcile the hurt and the meaning and to lay it to rest like I feel that it should have been.  It was my goal to detox my mind and soul from all of the impurities of anger, frustration, hurt, shame, guilt, and everything else that comes along with processing a major loss.  All of these things were eating at me, weighing me down and getting the best of me.   

 

I've had a lot of opportunities to experience and process loss over the last few years and it had only just now, in this moment,  occurred to me that I never truly learned how to let go... of anything; of my friends who died, of myself - what I could have done to prevent the losses, my failed accomplishments, the disappointments, my hopes, my frustration and stifled anger - my fears, and now of him and what we had or didn't have. It is true that he may have always had one foot in the door.  It is true that he probably always wanted to leave, and I should have let him go the first time he vanished for a week without a word.  But there is nothing to be done aside from what can be done right now.  I need to let go.  I need to let go of the brake I muttered abruptly in my helmet, as quickly as the realization manifested in my mind like some answer retrieved from the depths. What?  The brake?  My attention returned to the ride, I was looking through the corner of a hairpin and in the corner of my eye I could see and feel the bike running wide as I thoughtlessly lingered with just the slightest bit of pressure still on the front brake.

 

Let it go...

The Gypsy Heart & The Motorcycle that Carries It

I wish I was fortunate enough to be one of those people who started motorcycling earlier in life.  But alas, it came to me relatively late.  I mean, sure my dad rode when we were kids.  Our family vehicle was this Yamaha enduro that we would ride around on; my brother on the gas tank, and me on the back - both of us wearing slightly oversized helmets that smelled of stale foam and sat on our heads heavily with just the slightest bit of lopsidedness. I remember sitting at a traffic light, in the fall weather on the way home from the babysitter after dad would pick us up when he got home from work.  The damp air was heavy with the smell of exhaust and I occasionally glanced down at my feet, which barely reached the pegs. I'd look around me at the faces of the people in their cars. It didn't seem odd to me at all, yet all of the expressions that I saw from within the car bubbles were strange and judgmental. I never really cared.  They reminded me of the faces of the other kids in my class, all bitter and bullying because we went to a rich school that was out of our district, but in the district of the person who watched us after school.   

I loved riding around on the bike, but I never really thought of it as meaningfully as I do now.  I guess maybe that's because it was always just expected to be a part of my life; part of our disadvantage as a lower-socioeconomic level family.  It was necessary to get us from Point A to Point B and we didn't have the money for a lot of things so we didn't really do it recreationally. Only now, 20+ years later have I been fully reunited with motorcycles of my own, and I don't think I've ever felt more at home anywhere else.

There is somewhat of a gypsy in my soul; an aimless wanderer who is always wanting to see more, do more, love more, laugh more, experience more that life has to offer.  There are a lot of really long drawn out reasons why I never developed a sense of permanence or stability in anywhere I lived, but I think I'm all the better for it.  I think there is something to be appreciated of knowing that wherever you are isn't where you have to be.  And lately I've been feeling restless.

On the way home from work today I found myself taking the long way home.  I missed an exit and didn't mind it.  Then I almost missed the other exit, which would have put me 20 or 30 miles out of my way.  I know what happened, I was riding along and saw the freeway mileage markers and I thought: I'm gonna just keep riding... I could just keep riding and land somewhere and come back.  I've ridden enough of these backroads to be able to find my way back home... even if it gets dark.

Seconds later I came to, and I was less than a quarter mile from my exit, in the furthest lane, and I was gradually rolling on the throttle to keep going. I stifled the impulse and made the exit, but from there I took the longer way home, stopping at the lake to take in a sunset.  I made it just in time:

 

 



I don't expect anyone to understand it.  I guess there are parts of my life that even the people closest to me aren't entirely familiar with, but that are pivotal in how I view things, why I become restless, why I do what I do and why I'm who I am. I was, very much a gypsy in my earlier years after high school, sleeping on couches, staying in a camper and not really minding much about it because I knew that it wasn't going to be permanent.  I knew that I wanted more, and that I always will.  But it never seems important because when I get on the bike, that's all that matters. It's all I really need (with the exception of maybe a sidecar for Piper Dog) but those things are easily attainable.  They are much more attainable than what people expect of themselves to achieve in a world where motorcycles are seen more as recreational vehicles than they are practical transportation.

It may not have meant that much to me back then, but because of those days I think it's safe to say that while I may not have been born to be a motorcyclist, I was most certainly raised to be one... and one day it isn't going to be a surprise when I just keep going.

I've always found it funny that all of the most inspiring stories have come from people who have followed their wandering hearts; people who have just kept going... not to run away from themselves but to find themselves.