Out on Sunshine this morning, though the cloudy early morning sky and biting 40-degree weather would have the heart of me this morning. I have not been riding enough the past few weeks, getting all of the house-related responsibilities done and riding trucks and pulling trailers back and forth to get the new place ready for us and winter.
Sunshine growled this morning as she realized that she also wanted the riding season to continue. We breathed in the early morning sky and empty Sunday morning roads and pushed ourselves a little aggressively to a nearby stop to write this.
Winter comes too soon - I want more sun and sky and warmth.
Sunday, September 30, 2018
Tuesday, September 11, 2018
A Different Kind of Movement
I had the opportunity recently to learn from a different kind of medium than I have been writing about thus far: a canoe in the Boundary Waters of northern Minnesota.
On several mornings and some evenings for the past two weeks, I have remained about 280 miles from my garage and my bikes, and so my quest for solitude and movement have been fulfilled instead by a paddle and canoe rather than the powerful steel and rubber of a motorcycle.
I traded the frenetic sounds and chaotic traffic scenes of the city streets for those of an incredibly serene lake, the softening morning and evening calls of loons, the nearby warning splashes of beavers as they busily prepare for the fall and winter months, and ... well, you get the idea. Just lovely.
In movement there is truth, and the paddle and canoe had no less to teach me than the throttle and bars, it seems.
At first, there were the practical lessons of balance while moving a solo canoe across the lake. The immediate and obvious imbalance (of a single person in the back of a canoe) I quickly resolved with a stuff sack full of river rocks pushed far up the bow. The rocks kept the full keel line mostly in the water from bow to stern, and gave my canoe the ability to track straight lines with every stroke. The other lessons, however, only came with some effort.
I next learned appreciate how movement across a windy lake is really a dance with four things:
the wind itself,
the 'sail' that the large broadside of the canoe presents to the wind,
the paddle stroke, and
the bow point or tip direction of the canoe.
Although I am powerful enough to stroke through a strong crosswind and keep the canoe generally swinging across upwind and downwind vectors in my desired direction of travel, all the wild swinging left and right was wasting a lot of energy and seemed pointless. A much better strategy turned out to be to just let the wind have its way, and keep the tip of the canoe pointed directly INTO the oncoming wind blast. With the wind traveling evenly across both left and right sides of the canoe, moving forward directly into the wind was mostly the same on a windy day as on a still weather day. Progress forward was easy, even if the direction wasn't perfect.
Only once I reached a convenient wind shadow cast by an upwind cliff or hill or grove of trees would turning crosswind likewise be effortless, and then I would just let the crosswind push me to my final destination. Once you're upwind, you have the advantage over both wind and position, and you can use both to your advantage.
Then came the less obvious lessons that only several hours of paddling would teach a novice: how to use a bent paddle to its fullest advantage. At first I thought the bend in the paddle was simply to keep the paddle more vertical and facing the mass of water as I pulled through each stroke on either side of the canoe. Without knowing more about this, and because I was going alone, even on a windless day the canoe was still constantly swinging its bow left and right, left and right, as I struggled to keep it generally tracking in any given direction by paddling from both left and right sides as evenly as possible.
But then something awesome happened: I finally got tired of paddling!
As the muscles powering my paddle stroke weakened, a few of these strokes just plain ran out of steam before I reached the full length aft. As more of my strokes got sloppy and stopped short, I started noticing the bent paddle itself acting as a kind of 'rudder', one that applied a small sideways force vector to the canoe (mostly depending on how sloppy my power stroke turned out to be).
The next morning, I decided to try to apply this sideways force vector to the paddle intentionally, and well, voila! I was now able to paddle from either side of the canoe and keep the bow moving perfectly straight through the water. I could simply paddle and control the canoe perfectly from either side with a simple twist of the wrist near the end of my stroke. My paddle was now acting as both motor and rudder simultaneously as I moved it through the full length of each stroke, and this meant I was suddenly MUCH more efficient at moving the canoe forward, regardless of prevailing weather.
Awesome!
So, these were the practical lessons - but what of the bigger meaning of all this? That is what I asked myself as I cast a rod into the crystal clear blue lake and drifted along on many mornings.
Well, we all get pushed around by the 'winds' of life - all of us, without exception.
If we try to steer away from the eye of the storm, either left or right, even just a little bit, we just end up creating more work for us as we try to move in any such direction and get pushed even further off-track by powerful forces. The fastest and surest way through any difficult wind is to charge directly into it. I really think that's true for life in and out of the canoe.
As to the tool I already had in my hand, the paddle itself, I think we often underestimate how life's experiences teach us to use the tools we have at our disposal differently and, in particular, much more effectively. That's the real benefit to any substantial experience, I think - experience teaches us to be better and do better with what we already have.
The other lesson I learned, on a personal level, is that the movement is more important to me than the environment. I am learning that movement facilitates the lessons I need to learn, regardless of the medium I am immersed within.
So... I frankly learned a lot (just as much?) from a simple canoe and a wooden paddle on a quiet lake, as much as if I had just put to ponder a couple hundred miles on Sunshine or Burt across crowded cityscapes and countless rural bends.
Movement really *is* the thing.
On several mornings and some evenings for the past two weeks, I have remained about 280 miles from my garage and my bikes, and so my quest for solitude and movement have been fulfilled instead by a paddle and canoe rather than the powerful steel and rubber of a motorcycle.
I traded the frenetic sounds and chaotic traffic scenes of the city streets for those of an incredibly serene lake, the softening morning and evening calls of loons, the nearby warning splashes of beavers as they busily prepare for the fall and winter months, and ... well, you get the idea. Just lovely.
In movement there is truth, and the paddle and canoe had no less to teach me than the throttle and bars, it seems.
At first, there were the practical lessons of balance while moving a solo canoe across the lake. The immediate and obvious imbalance (of a single person in the back of a canoe) I quickly resolved with a stuff sack full of river rocks pushed far up the bow. The rocks kept the full keel line mostly in the water from bow to stern, and gave my canoe the ability to track straight lines with every stroke. The other lessons, however, only came with some effort.
I next learned appreciate how movement across a windy lake is really a dance with four things:
the wind itself,
the 'sail' that the large broadside of the canoe presents to the wind,
the paddle stroke, and
the bow point or tip direction of the canoe.
Although I am powerful enough to stroke through a strong crosswind and keep the canoe generally swinging across upwind and downwind vectors in my desired direction of travel, all the wild swinging left and right was wasting a lot of energy and seemed pointless. A much better strategy turned out to be to just let the wind have its way, and keep the tip of the canoe pointed directly INTO the oncoming wind blast. With the wind traveling evenly across both left and right sides of the canoe, moving forward directly into the wind was mostly the same on a windy day as on a still weather day. Progress forward was easy, even if the direction wasn't perfect.
Only once I reached a convenient wind shadow cast by an upwind cliff or hill or grove of trees would turning crosswind likewise be effortless, and then I would just let the crosswind push me to my final destination. Once you're upwind, you have the advantage over both wind and position, and you can use both to your advantage.
Then came the less obvious lessons that only several hours of paddling would teach a novice: how to use a bent paddle to its fullest advantage. At first I thought the bend in the paddle was simply to keep the paddle more vertical and facing the mass of water as I pulled through each stroke on either side of the canoe. Without knowing more about this, and because I was going alone, even on a windless day the canoe was still constantly swinging its bow left and right, left and right, as I struggled to keep it generally tracking in any given direction by paddling from both left and right sides as evenly as possible.
But then something awesome happened: I finally got tired of paddling!
As the muscles powering my paddle stroke weakened, a few of these strokes just plain ran out of steam before I reached the full length aft. As more of my strokes got sloppy and stopped short, I started noticing the bent paddle itself acting as a kind of 'rudder', one that applied a small sideways force vector to the canoe (mostly depending on how sloppy my power stroke turned out to be).
The next morning, I decided to try to apply this sideways force vector to the paddle intentionally, and well, voila! I was now able to paddle from either side of the canoe and keep the bow moving perfectly straight through the water. I could simply paddle and control the canoe perfectly from either side with a simple twist of the wrist near the end of my stroke. My paddle was now acting as both motor and rudder simultaneously as I moved it through the full length of each stroke, and this meant I was suddenly MUCH more efficient at moving the canoe forward, regardless of prevailing weather.
Awesome!
So, these were the practical lessons - but what of the bigger meaning of all this? That is what I asked myself as I cast a rod into the crystal clear blue lake and drifted along on many mornings.
Well, we all get pushed around by the 'winds' of life - all of us, without exception.
If we try to steer away from the eye of the storm, either left or right, even just a little bit, we just end up creating more work for us as we try to move in any such direction and get pushed even further off-track by powerful forces. The fastest and surest way through any difficult wind is to charge directly into it. I really think that's true for life in and out of the canoe.
As to the tool I already had in my hand, the paddle itself, I think we often underestimate how life's experiences teach us to use the tools we have at our disposal differently and, in particular, much more effectively. That's the real benefit to any substantial experience, I think - experience teaches us to be better and do better with what we already have.
The other lesson I learned, on a personal level, is that the movement is more important to me than the environment. I am learning that movement facilitates the lessons I need to learn, regardless of the medium I am immersed within.
So... I frankly learned a lot (just as much?) from a simple canoe and a wooden paddle on a quiet lake, as much as if I had just put to ponder a couple hundred miles on Sunshine or Burt across crowded cityscapes and countless rural bends.
Movement really *is* the thing.
Friday, August 24, 2018
Confidence & lessons
I left at what appeared to be dawn today, in the fading days of summer here in Minneapolis. The mirky sky and wet sidewalk as I moved to the backyard told part of the story, a long overdue rain of some kind (probably not enough to matter) had finally spent a little time overhead last night.
There were some tiny driveway puddles, but not standing water to enough to worry about, I think to myself. The sky remains thick with low-hanging scud and this drizzle that feels insufficient enough to wet anything. Maybe we'll get more rain later.
I decide to ride north east towards Taylor's Falls on the river and start my work day there. The cityscape and throng of the impending rush-hour millions quickly give way to a more sedate scene as I skirt around and avoid the highways and bi-ways in favor of backroads and residential drags to stay pointed where I'm headed.
Handling slick streets and wet seems to have etched its lessons into my brain and reflexes, and mostly, I don't even think of the concerns in this kind of weather. Slick streets from floating oil and debris. Limited visibility from a continuously speckled or fogged or both helmet visor. Making myself extra-visible to traffic, that completely disregards motorcycle traffic on days like these. And then there's the wet paint.... well, I almost had that figured out. :-)
As I'm pulling out of an intersection that I waited too long at, I was a bit aggressive on the throttle in first gear. Sure enough, as I'm urging the bike forward, I fail to notice the effect this will have on my rear tire as it passes over the slick wet painted crosswalk directly underneath my front tire.
True to form, the Bandit 1250s pulls hard out of first, like a tractor firing hard on all cylinders, and yet the second my rear wheel hits that 2 foot patch of wet paint, I'm suddenly gliding along and my rear wheel is spinning up a storm. The surge-surge feeling had me grabbing for clutch and easing off the throttle instantly until we past the painted walkway, and then all was well again with the world and we pull away, lesson learned.
I guess I had a lot of confidence at my ability to handle rain-slicked roads, but obviously I still have lessons to learn - experience is really still the best teacher.
It's chilly for August - I'm gonna grab a coffee... :-)
There were some tiny driveway puddles, but not standing water to enough to worry about, I think to myself. The sky remains thick with low-hanging scud and this drizzle that feels insufficient enough to wet anything. Maybe we'll get more rain later.
I decide to ride north east towards Taylor's Falls on the river and start my work day there. The cityscape and throng of the impending rush-hour millions quickly give way to a more sedate scene as I skirt around and avoid the highways and bi-ways in favor of backroads and residential drags to stay pointed where I'm headed.
Handling slick streets and wet seems to have etched its lessons into my brain and reflexes, and mostly, I don't even think of the concerns in this kind of weather. Slick streets from floating oil and debris. Limited visibility from a continuously speckled or fogged or both helmet visor. Making myself extra-visible to traffic, that completely disregards motorcycle traffic on days like these. And then there's the wet paint.... well, I almost had that figured out. :-)
As I'm pulling out of an intersection that I waited too long at, I was a bit aggressive on the throttle in first gear. Sure enough, as I'm urging the bike forward, I fail to notice the effect this will have on my rear tire as it passes over the slick wet painted crosswalk directly underneath my front tire.
True to form, the Bandit 1250s pulls hard out of first, like a tractor firing hard on all cylinders, and yet the second my rear wheel hits that 2 foot patch of wet paint, I'm suddenly gliding along and my rear wheel is spinning up a storm. The surge-surge feeling had me grabbing for clutch and easing off the throttle instantly until we past the painted walkway, and then all was well again with the world and we pull away, lesson learned.
I guess I had a lot of confidence at my ability to handle rain-slicked roads, but obviously I still have lessons to learn - experience is really still the best teacher.
It's chilly for August - I'm gonna grab a coffee... :-)
Sunday, July 29, 2018
Life's Ups and Downs (Mostly Ups)
It's been a while since I've been in the headspace to write about anything. My life swelled into my creative free time and this blog also occupies that space.
These writings are supposed to be about how I've been learning through movement, and even though I haven't been writing about it, I sure have been moving... a lot! Sunshine (my 2008 Suzuki Bandit 1250s) and I have clocked over 5500 miles of riding since April, and Burt (the 2003 Shadow Spirit 750dc) and I continue to take my wife and me for two-up spins around the hood and to short shopping trips, clocking up not nearly as many miles, but all of them fun.
These writings are supposed to be about how I've been learning through movement, and even though I haven't been writing about it, I sure have been moving... a lot! Sunshine (my 2008 Suzuki Bandit 1250s) and I have clocked over 5500 miles of riding since April, and Burt (the 2003 Shadow Spirit 750dc) and I continue to take my wife and me for two-up spins around the hood and to short shopping trips, clocking up not nearly as many miles, but all of them fun.
Both bikes bring me a lot of fun, but Sunshine, though, has become a special kind of 'extension' of who I am as a human being. That bike really holds a special place in my life. When I'm riding her, everything just feels natural and 'right', and when she's parked in the garage, my mind occasionally drifts there, knowing she's sitting quietly, and I find myself really looking forward to the next ride.
I've also been to Colorado a couple times since I last wrote to spend time with my mom and handle her medical needs, and I've also tripped to southern California to spend time with my dad.
In all those tens of thousands of miles this year, both on bike and car, I have really just spent a lot of time reflecting.
Sitting still, in a pretty quiet room or space, is for sure one way of meditating, and I know it works for a lot of folks. But my form of meditation has always involved movement of some kind or another. Moving across the land, on foot and by vehicle, across rocks and cliffs, moving in and across water, moving through the sky, in free-fall or in some kind of vehicle, ... you get the idea.
Movement allows me to focus all my attention and to also lose myself in the experience. Not all movement does this to the same degree, obviously, but all movement seems capable of helping me achieve that state of "being-non-being" that clarifies and distills and makes me feel whole again when I'm done.
When I was last returning from my trip to California, about a month ago, I got a call that brought me to tears. My friend and neighbor, Ron, was in a very bad motorcycle accident and was on his 4th surgery to help screw and staple him back together again. Fast-forward to today, and it appears he's going to be fine, thankfully. But he won't be walking for several months and won't have the use of his arms for most of that recovery time as well. He was lucky.
I've spent a lot of my free time the past several weeks visiting with Ron. I listen to his stories, his adventures of places I have never seen, and may never see the way he's seen them. Every few days, I try to bring him coffee from an exotic new destination, a coffee shop he may or may not have visited in the past. I always send him a picture of the coffee headed his way from my "coffee adventure ride", so he has something to look forward to, and when I get it back to him we talk about what I saw and the ride out there and back.
I really enjoy my coffee time with Ron, and the stories... all the stories. I know we're both looking forward to the day he gets back on his bike.
A few folks have asked me if Ron's crash makes me want to stop riding... "of course not", I reply, "life is for the living," and some are obviously confused. But then again, most folks who ride passionately or live passionately already know better than to ask that question. It's the armchair folks that ask, mostly.
Life *is* for the living. Each day *is* a gift. It sounds like so much cliche, but it's all true. Nothing is guaranteed, no outcome, no "tomorrow" that people all around me seem to live for.
And so I ride each day and take in each moment now like it's going to be my last. When I skydive, I'm 100% present. When I fly small airplanes, the same. Running or walking or climbing or ... same. I'm not "racing towards death", or really "racing" towards any particular outcome. I'm just maximizing the moment - living ... really LIVING ... in the now.
I wish you all a life full of peace and adventure, a life well-lived and worthy of your own stories worth telling.
Sunday, June 24, 2018
Movement
Took Burtie out for an early morning spin while the world still slept. We encircled the city in a grand miles-wide loop for a couple hours as the sun creeps into the sky and, eventually, we wind back into our own neighborhood and familiar territory again, just in time for a couple nearby coffeeshops to finally open. Sunday mornings in the cities make for nice riding.
Why does movement feel so good? So essential? When did sitting still become anathema to my being? I feel the urge to sit, but I am compelled to stay in motion. I feel the urge to quiet my mind, and yet the myriad responsibilities and demands that have been laid upon me, and those that I put on myself, all come calling every waking second of the day.
Stillness is what I sorely need and can little afford at the moment. At least that's how it seems.
Why does movement feel so good? So essential? When did sitting still become anathema to my being? I feel the urge to sit, but I am compelled to stay in motion. I feel the urge to quiet my mind, and yet the myriad responsibilities and demands that have been laid upon me, and those that I put on myself, all come calling every waking second of the day.
Stillness is what I sorely need and can little afford at the moment. At least that's how it seems.
Saturday, June 23, 2018
This Life
Since I got back yesterday at midnight in the truck, I've been riding Burt around town trying to finalize plans for a trip out west. Work was brutal yesterday, a long 11 hours of crazy - and more demanded of me this weekend.
I called my father this morning after riding the cityscape for an early couple hours, trying to reset my brain and think a bit. The morning air is perfect, the sky perfect, the roads perfect. And the early morning weekend traffic seems more calm than usual. Quite excellent riding.
My dad sounds better; he says he is feeling much better. I'm trying to get him to come back with me and promise him I'll return him back to California whenever he likes, but he wants more time. He says it's going to take him a few weeks to get ready for a road trip, to feel 100% up to it. I reluctantly understand.
It can't be easy at his age, although I'm only 35 years from being there myself. That time will fly by... it already has been flying by.
Everybody chooses how they go.
My mom, however, is torn between the life she used to have (when she actually felt alive and joyful) and this life of obsoleteness that she is living now, stagnating her days away as my brother's live-in bank account. Her purpose, her reason for living, is and was always outside of her, external to her, her whole life. Even now she clings to any outside purpose she can, and my brother gives her purpose by having her pay for everything. With the years she has left, she could make changes. She could re-invent herself. But mom is vehemently refusing to invest in herself that way, to develop a new purpose - a real *inside* reason to exist and feel alive again. Again, I understand. It's tough to make changes when your life's patterns have been cut so deep.
Everybody chooses how they go.
Seeing the two of them, both my parents and both from the same start and being the same age, yet so different in their outlooks and outcomes... it really fuels me to live each day to the absolute fullest, to maximize my friendships and my partnership with my wife... to really just live this life in the most positive way possible.
Really live it.
Friday, June 22, 2018
Exploring
It was a beautiful week this week for exploring.
Every morning, either Burt (my Honda Shadow Spirit 750dc) or Sunshine (my Suzuki Bandit 1250s) would launch into the pre-dawn gloaming. Usually it's Sunshine and me, and also usually, we point our noses east so that we catch full view of the delicate hues in the lightening sky as the sun crests higher. The show starts around 4AM these days, and every morning saw us on a different route, purposely launching into unfamiliar territory, just seeing what's out there for the sake of being out there.
By the time we leave the big city in our rearview and find ourselves immersed in countryside along twisting river-hugging or hill-hugging views, the "oranges" start. A faint burnt umber glow emphasizes the underbellies of any cloud, the striking contrast complements of the sky's big, blazing brush as it comes into view on our side of the planet again. Winding through turns on a bike and watching it all, it feels like a privilege to see the world wake up like this, as the experience wakes up my mind and body along with it.
On all days, slowly, the throng of traffic starts. Other vehicles begin merging into the flow, headed every-which-way. The sky puts away the morning show and drapes itself in blues and whites, and the day is officially "started" again.
On Tuesday, I used the morning to ride into Wisconsin and check out the flooded river valley. They just had a dam break and most of the other dams in the area are flooded over. The dam at Taylor's Falls had floodwaters moving right over top of it, at least a couple feet over it. The entire St. Croix river valley I rode across was flooded.
Trees living on the low-lying lands that pepper this part of the river were completely underwater along with their grassy island homes. Interstate and Wild River parks were flooded as well, and parking lots and buildings were partly or fully submerged.
And the waters are supposed to keep going *up* for a while, yet.
I take in the beauty and the crush of too much water and marvel at the power of nature to do what it's going to do. I start that work day in Taylor's Falls, MN and finished it in Osceola, WI, and ride back with thoughts of floods in my head.
Yesterday, however, I spent the morning hours from pre-dawn to the start of my work day riding due north. I was headed to our farm in northern Minnesota and planned to spend my work day in Ely, a charming northern town on the border of BWCA.
Although I wanted to make it a slow-and-lazy 250 mile trip and come back the following day, there was an urgency to my ride. My father, 85 years old, who lives alone in California, has been sick, and my instincts are telling me I need to go check on him.
Although I could take Sunshine west and south to Los Angeles, from where I live about 2000 miles distant, I'm just afraid it would take too long and I'd need a lot of days to get there on bike. And so the morning ride up north was to a purpose: fetch my reliable old truck from the farm, park the bike, and continue west in a vehicle that I can sleep and work in.
I wrap up my work day in Ely, park the bike at the farm, and drive the truck back in the middle of the night. It's going to be a long trip to California, but worth it to spend time with my dad again while he's still around.
Every morning, either Burt (my Honda Shadow Spirit 750dc) or Sunshine (my Suzuki Bandit 1250s) would launch into the pre-dawn gloaming. Usually it's Sunshine and me, and also usually, we point our noses east so that we catch full view of the delicate hues in the lightening sky as the sun crests higher. The show starts around 4AM these days, and every morning saw us on a different route, purposely launching into unfamiliar territory, just seeing what's out there for the sake of being out there.
By the time we leave the big city in our rearview and find ourselves immersed in countryside along twisting river-hugging or hill-hugging views, the "oranges" start. A faint burnt umber glow emphasizes the underbellies of any cloud, the striking contrast complements of the sky's big, blazing brush as it comes into view on our side of the planet again. Winding through turns on a bike and watching it all, it feels like a privilege to see the world wake up like this, as the experience wakes up my mind and body along with it.
On all days, slowly, the throng of traffic starts. Other vehicles begin merging into the flow, headed every-which-way. The sky puts away the morning show and drapes itself in blues and whites, and the day is officially "started" again.
On Tuesday, I used the morning to ride into Wisconsin and check out the flooded river valley. They just had a dam break and most of the other dams in the area are flooded over. The dam at Taylor's Falls had floodwaters moving right over top of it, at least a couple feet over it. The entire St. Croix river valley I rode across was flooded.
Trees living on the low-lying lands that pepper this part of the river were completely underwater along with their grassy island homes. Interstate and Wild River parks were flooded as well, and parking lots and buildings were partly or fully submerged.
I take in the beauty and the crush of too much water and marvel at the power of nature to do what it's going to do. I start that work day in Taylor's Falls, MN and finished it in Osceola, WI, and ride back with thoughts of floods in my head.
Yesterday, however, I spent the morning hours from pre-dawn to the start of my work day riding due north. I was headed to our farm in northern Minnesota and planned to spend my work day in Ely, a charming northern town on the border of BWCA.
Although I wanted to make it a slow-and-lazy 250 mile trip and come back the following day, there was an urgency to my ride. My father, 85 years old, who lives alone in California, has been sick, and my instincts are telling me I need to go check on him.
Although I could take Sunshine west and south to Los Angeles, from where I live about 2000 miles distant, I'm just afraid it would take too long and I'd need a lot of days to get there on bike. And so the morning ride up north was to a purpose: fetch my reliable old truck from the farm, park the bike, and continue west in a vehicle that I can sleep and work in.
I wrap up my work day in Ely, park the bike at the farm, and drive the truck back in the middle of the night. It's going to be a long trip to California, but worth it to spend time with my dad again while he's still around.
Sunday, June 17, 2018
Rain
Minnesota has seen a lot of it. Every day this week I've encountered it on the bike. Morning, evening, daytime. Every day.
It's ok - I really don't mind a warm rain, the soak feels kinda good actually. The bike gets cleaned off (well, not really, but the muddy dirt is concentrated to a few spots where the water tends to accumulate as opposed to a fine dirt laying all over the bike) and the wetness cuts the heat of driving around in summer with full gear on. Most of my gear sheds water fine, but I have to come up with a way not to end up with inches of standing water in my leather boots by the end of a long rain ride. Haven't figured that out yet.
The actual challenge of riding in and through lightening, hail, rain, downpours, etc. seems pretty straightforward now, known actors and all that. It's also pretty sweet that the streets (wet as they are) are usually empty during the thick of a storm. People seem to slow down and stay sheltered, and that's just fine by me. I don't mind being the only bike and one of the few vehicles 'braving' the road. It's really no big deal.
I'm sure some of my confidence comes from these new Pilot Road 5s - they are outstanding wet weather tires, even driving through several-inch deep 'hydroplaning puddles', the bike stays pretty firmly in place most of the time. Still, I try to avoid the deeper water (or steer through the water's periphery if can't avoid it entirely) because I don't know what obstacles lay hidden in any of those rainwater washes.
During the last thunderstorm ride, I drowned my cheap-o ($50) Amazon Bluetooth headset receiver, so now I'm looking for a wired setup to replace it. Even if it was still working perfectly, my rides these days are taking me longer than the battery life of most of these devices, and so I'm faced with either carrying around multiple charged wireless devices so I can stay dialed in, or just eliminating the wireless factor altogether and just going wired with my phone-to-helmet setup.
The weather has been charged these days. Very changeable and erratic/unpredictable. A lot like my life these days. So much in flux, so many storms all around, but I'm navigating through those, too.
The bike and the freedom to ride helps a lot with keeping all that in check.
It's ok - I really don't mind a warm rain, the soak feels kinda good actually. The bike gets cleaned off (well, not really, but the muddy dirt is concentrated to a few spots where the water tends to accumulate as opposed to a fine dirt laying all over the bike) and the wetness cuts the heat of driving around in summer with full gear on. Most of my gear sheds water fine, but I have to come up with a way not to end up with inches of standing water in my leather boots by the end of a long rain ride. Haven't figured that out yet.
The actual challenge of riding in and through lightening, hail, rain, downpours, etc. seems pretty straightforward now, known actors and all that. It's also pretty sweet that the streets (wet as they are) are usually empty during the thick of a storm. People seem to slow down and stay sheltered, and that's just fine by me. I don't mind being the only bike and one of the few vehicles 'braving' the road. It's really no big deal.
I'm sure some of my confidence comes from these new Pilot Road 5s - they are outstanding wet weather tires, even driving through several-inch deep 'hydroplaning puddles', the bike stays pretty firmly in place most of the time. Still, I try to avoid the deeper water (or steer through the water's periphery if can't avoid it entirely) because I don't know what obstacles lay hidden in any of those rainwater washes.
During the last thunderstorm ride, I drowned my cheap-o ($50) Amazon Bluetooth headset receiver, so now I'm looking for a wired setup to replace it. Even if it was still working perfectly, my rides these days are taking me longer than the battery life of most of these devices, and so I'm faced with either carrying around multiple charged wireless devices so I can stay dialed in, or just eliminating the wireless factor altogether and just going wired with my phone-to-helmet setup.
The weather has been charged these days. Very changeable and erratic/unpredictable. A lot like my life these days. So much in flux, so many storms all around, but I'm navigating through those, too.
The bike and the freedom to ride helps a lot with keeping all that in check.
Friday, June 15, 2018
Living Life
I had a nice talk with my dad the other day, and he reminded me how important it is to really *live* your life. Face challenges head-on, take on bad actors with confidence and honesty, and always just go-for-it to your purpose, whatever that may be.
And so, it's been a while and I had an "itch" that I needed to explore. In short, I miss the sky.
I used to skydive every weekend and fly small planes as well. There is something about being vertical and having vertical freedom. It's been said many different ways by many more eloquent than me, about breaking the shackles and rising against gravity and all that... but still, there is *something* to being in the sky like the birds that really has no comparison.
And so on that note, I left pre-dawn. It's nice now that the morning and evening sun grants me plenty of time for distance travel before I have to work my day job. I decided to skip the interstate and head north to a drop zone I was only vaguely aware of, Skydive Superior, on the shores of Lake Superior in Superior, Wisconsin, just south of Duluth. The sky was calm and the early morning roads perfect as I carved endlessly through backcountry Minnesota out towards the river valley, then up the scenic river valley route for an hour through a green-saturated countryside road that follows the river north. I reached my cross-over point at St Croix Falls. There we dive into Wisconsin's highway 35, a more or less northbound backcountry road that itself took me past seemingly-endless barns and silos and farms and through charming towns in rural Wisconsin. "Population: 125" kind of towns.
The final push up from a comfortable coffee shop in Webster, Wisconsin (Fresh Start Coffee Roasters) into Superior lead me straight to the airport terminal and a CLOSED hangar. "Skydive Superior", it seems, is no more. Instead, there is now Skydive Duluth in its stead, a brand new drop zone started by one of the die-hard locals who wanted to keep skydiving alive in the Duluth area. As the story goes, this all happened after a very unfortunate Skydive Superior airplane crash involving skydivers. It had a happy outcome. Luckily, when airplanes go 'bonk', skydivers and their pilots are all wearing parachutes. :-)
I chat for a long while with one of the FBO (terminal operator) folks, who fills me in on the back story. Then, one of the flight instructors there comes in and we get to talking. I reminisce about my old days of flying and, before long, I am signing up to come fly with him in the coming week. What? Am I really ready for this? My heart says yes, willingly, gratefully "yes!", to the idea of flying again. I guess I'm going to be airborne again soon, one way or another (or both), as a pilot and as a skydiver.
I thank him and find a Superior-based coffee shop in which to finish my work day. I close out the place and head home, through another long windy Minnesota road, across old railroad bridges and down along the Veteran's Memorial Highway. It is an hour of stunning (STUNNING) and curvy countryside with massive evergreens and maples towering on both sides of the road. Loved every minute of it.
But, as with all good things, I was forced to call it and head for the interstate when I saw huge thunderstorms brewing to the south of me. The wind started howling, gusting 30-50 mph due west and the cutting crosswind made my speedy interstate ride southbound into the looming storm a bit challenging. Still, we make it just in time to avoid the bulk of the rain I see washing down from an angry looking sky just to the southwest.
As I tuck Sunshine, my Bandit 1250, into the garage and connect up her charging station, I think about the day we just had. After a nearly 400-mile roundtrip and all that we saw and did, I pat her seat and remember Dad's words.
A day well-lived, that's what today feels like.
And so, it's been a while and I had an "itch" that I needed to explore. In short, I miss the sky.
I used to skydive every weekend and fly small planes as well. There is something about being vertical and having vertical freedom. It's been said many different ways by many more eloquent than me, about breaking the shackles and rising against gravity and all that... but still, there is *something* to being in the sky like the birds that really has no comparison.
And so on that note, I left pre-dawn. It's nice now that the morning and evening sun grants me plenty of time for distance travel before I have to work my day job. I decided to skip the interstate and head north to a drop zone I was only vaguely aware of, Skydive Superior, on the shores of Lake Superior in Superior, Wisconsin, just south of Duluth. The sky was calm and the early morning roads perfect as I carved endlessly through backcountry Minnesota out towards the river valley, then up the scenic river valley route for an hour through a green-saturated countryside road that follows the river north. I reached my cross-over point at St Croix Falls. There we dive into Wisconsin's highway 35, a more or less northbound backcountry road that itself took me past seemingly-endless barns and silos and farms and through charming towns in rural Wisconsin. "Population: 125" kind of towns.
The final push up from a comfortable coffee shop in Webster, Wisconsin (Fresh Start Coffee Roasters) into Superior lead me straight to the airport terminal and a CLOSED hangar. "Skydive Superior", it seems, is no more. Instead, there is now Skydive Duluth in its stead, a brand new drop zone started by one of the die-hard locals who wanted to keep skydiving alive in the Duluth area. As the story goes, this all happened after a very unfortunate Skydive Superior airplane crash involving skydivers. It had a happy outcome. Luckily, when airplanes go 'bonk', skydivers and their pilots are all wearing parachutes. :-)
I chat for a long while with one of the FBO (terminal operator) folks, who fills me in on the back story. Then, one of the flight instructors there comes in and we get to talking. I reminisce about my old days of flying and, before long, I am signing up to come fly with him in the coming week. What? Am I really ready for this? My heart says yes, willingly, gratefully "yes!", to the idea of flying again. I guess I'm going to be airborne again soon, one way or another (or both), as a pilot and as a skydiver.
I thank him and find a Superior-based coffee shop in which to finish my work day. I close out the place and head home, through another long windy Minnesota road, across old railroad bridges and down along the Veteran's Memorial Highway. It is an hour of stunning (STUNNING) and curvy countryside with massive evergreens and maples towering on both sides of the road. Loved every minute of it.
But, as with all good things, I was forced to call it and head for the interstate when I saw huge thunderstorms brewing to the south of me. The wind started howling, gusting 30-50 mph due west and the cutting crosswind made my speedy interstate ride southbound into the looming storm a bit challenging. Still, we make it just in time to avoid the bulk of the rain I see washing down from an angry looking sky just to the southwest.
As I tuck Sunshine, my Bandit 1250, into the garage and connect up her charging station, I think about the day we just had. After a nearly 400-mile roundtrip and all that we saw and did, I pat her seat and remember Dad's words.
A day well-lived, that's what today feels like.
Tuesday, June 12, 2018
Engine & Sudden Stops
Rode out at dawn this morning, packed for a 250 mile ride up north but something didn't feel "right" about the bike or the ride. I couldn't shake or ignore that nagging feeling. The interstate was empty and I was moving fast and would make good time and get there before 9am, but... I turned east about 50 miles north of the city and decided I'd ride the Minnesota-Wisconsin river basin back south towards the city in a grand loop. Ending up back home today felt "more right" than continuing northbound.
Staying close seemed/felt like a smart move, but I still couldn't put my finger on it. Sunshine, my Suzuki Bandit 1250s, is riding fine. I lubed her chain and did my morning checks but something still felt 'off' as I was headed down the long country road. The hairs on the back of my head were standing up. Something was definitely off.
The ride was nonetheless beautiful, the sun slowly warming up the world as it started to blaze higher in the sky. I got to the river valley and found a small cafe I've been to before near a local rock climbing hotspot and pulled to the right to let a car that was behind me pass. I intended to do a sharp left u-turn and park in front of the cafe.
The blue car that was tailing me passed and I started a sharp left turn with plenty of room to spare and ... Sunshine just quit without any warning. Her engine stopped dead.
I was mid-turn at the time, the bike was leaned over and I was stand-up steering her left when the engine quit. I was moving forward about 3 miles per hour, so really I had no momentum to work with. I threw my left leg down and tried to keep her upright and we did the 'hop-drop-hop-drop' dance a few more feet until she just fell over onto her left side soft bags. It was all I could do to set her down gently. I immediately cleared the area for dangers and put her hazards on and flagged the oncoming traffic to slow down. There were cars and a dump truck now in my lane and heading my way. They all slowed and gawked and moved on by, and when I had a free moment and a blank space on the road, I lifted her up and walked her over to the side of the road and parked her.
I tried a couple times to start her up in the street, but she was not interested in turning over. No starter noises or relay clicks. Nothing. I was in neutral, and checked the kill switches and kick stand, ignition was on, clutch was in, but twice I tried and twice she ignored my 'start' key entirely. I parked and got off the bike, frustrated that this is the second time she's quit unexpectedly in the middle of a turn.
I look for loose wires, check the EFI harness and look for 'check' engine warnings on the dash with the ignition turned 'on' - nothing wrong. Since it had been a few minutes since my last attempt, I try one last time to start her up and ... she lights right up. Engine revs fine, I try and she pulls in first gear, she revs in neutral, all as though nothing happened. I put her on the center stand and make sure her wheel spins in first, neutral is neutral, etc. All fine. So I decide to give her about 45 minutes to cool down while I have a coffee and consider my options.
I'm a long way away from home and my garage and tools, so I decide to head cautiously back in that direction, the slow way, using sparsely-used back roads the entire way. Now I have to fit the ride back into my work day, but Sunshine and I will get there eventually. And it's a pretty way to get home, so why not.
In all, I'm very glad I trusted my instincts again. Glad she didn't quit while I was passing a semi at 90 mph on the interstate. I can handle a controlled set-down onto her soft bags. Everything worked out ok because I am used to listening to and trusting my gut.
Yeah... it is frustrating when life doesn't give you a problem you can readily solve. But I'll get to the bottom of it. Just a matter of time.
Staying close seemed/felt like a smart move, but I still couldn't put my finger on it. Sunshine, my Suzuki Bandit 1250s, is riding fine. I lubed her chain and did my morning checks but something still felt 'off' as I was headed down the long country road. The hairs on the back of my head were standing up. Something was definitely off.
The ride was nonetheless beautiful, the sun slowly warming up the world as it started to blaze higher in the sky. I got to the river valley and found a small cafe I've been to before near a local rock climbing hotspot and pulled to the right to let a car that was behind me pass. I intended to do a sharp left u-turn and park in front of the cafe.
The blue car that was tailing me passed and I started a sharp left turn with plenty of room to spare and ... Sunshine just quit without any warning. Her engine stopped dead.
I was mid-turn at the time, the bike was leaned over and I was stand-up steering her left when the engine quit. I was moving forward about 3 miles per hour, so really I had no momentum to work with. I threw my left leg down and tried to keep her upright and we did the 'hop-drop-hop-drop' dance a few more feet until she just fell over onto her left side soft bags. It was all I could do to set her down gently. I immediately cleared the area for dangers and put her hazards on and flagged the oncoming traffic to slow down. There were cars and a dump truck now in my lane and heading my way. They all slowed and gawked and moved on by, and when I had a free moment and a blank space on the road, I lifted her up and walked her over to the side of the road and parked her.
I tried a couple times to start her up in the street, but she was not interested in turning over. No starter noises or relay clicks. Nothing. I was in neutral, and checked the kill switches and kick stand, ignition was on, clutch was in, but twice I tried and twice she ignored my 'start' key entirely. I parked and got off the bike, frustrated that this is the second time she's quit unexpectedly in the middle of a turn.
I look for loose wires, check the EFI harness and look for 'check' engine warnings on the dash with the ignition turned 'on' - nothing wrong. Since it had been a few minutes since my last attempt, I try one last time to start her up and ... she lights right up. Engine revs fine, I try and she pulls in first gear, she revs in neutral, all as though nothing happened. I put her on the center stand and make sure her wheel spins in first, neutral is neutral, etc. All fine. So I decide to give her about 45 minutes to cool down while I have a coffee and consider my options.
I'm a long way away from home and my garage and tools, so I decide to head cautiously back in that direction, the slow way, using sparsely-used back roads the entire way. Now I have to fit the ride back into my work day, but Sunshine and I will get there eventually. And it's a pretty way to get home, so why not.
In all, I'm very glad I trusted my instincts again. Glad she didn't quit while I was passing a semi at 90 mph on the interstate. I can handle a controlled set-down onto her soft bags. Everything worked out ok because I am used to listening to and trusting my gut.
Yeah... it is frustrating when life doesn't give you a problem you can readily solve. But I'll get to the bottom of it. Just a matter of time.
Friday, June 8, 2018
The Riding Life
I no longer drive my Xterra as a means of getting from A to B. My truck is parked about 225 miles north of here and serves as a 'haul equipment and tools and trailers' vehicle for the farm.
I just ride. Every day, in all conditions, on the cruiser or on my sportbike, I just ride.
The riding life is really addictive. It feels like with every ride I'm learning, getting better, getting smarter, more dialed into both the bike and the ride. Every mile makes a difference. Every minute on the bike counts for something.
And it's very zen, a very meditative place for me to be. Even when I'm just circling the city or riding to a coffee shop, the bike instantly calms and focusses me on the task at hand.
There really is nothing like it. None that I've experienced anyway, and I've done a lot of things.
Sunday, June 3, 2018
Challenging Weather
I parked my Xterra up at the farm I'm rehabbing over a week ago, and have been riding a motorcycle since. I need the truck up north to help move around sheets of drywall and roofing materials, etc, but for the rest of my travel needs, I've been on two wheels literally every ridable day this year.
I had planned to work on the farm again this weekend, so Friday morning pre-dawn I left on Sunshine, the Bandit 1250s, to make the 225 mile trip to our northwoods farm. I would spend the morning riding up, the work day on my computer, and then I would be positioned to work the evening and rest of the weekend on the roof and house.
Although the trip went fine, the weather had shifted and it became bitterly cold (down into the 40's) once I was about 50 miles north of the city. At the 100 mile mark, it started to drizzle and by the time I was 150 miles into the trip north, the drizzle had turned into an icy rain that just zapped all the heat away from my layers and hands faster than my body could replace it. I finally stopped at a McDonalds, with about 90 minutes of rainy, cold, backcountry travel ahead, because I could no longer legitimately feel my fingertips and my fingers were unbearably stiff. Even preparing for the stopping and clutching at that stop was challenging, and it took a lot of aggressive hand shaking and fist squeezing to get enough blood going to manage fine motor control of the bike again. At least the rain had stopped a few miles back.
But we parked and I ordered coffee and considered my options. After nursing all the heat out of that large McD's coffee and guzzling what remained for future inner warmth, I set out again for the final stretch of treelined country roads. It was challenging but, eventually, both Sunshine and I pulled into the tall grass of the farm. I set a flat board under her kickstand so she wouldn't sink into the now-muddy stuff and I set about warming myself back up and getting on with work and house business.
Fast forward to yesterday, and although there was a brief period on Friday evening where the rain had let up, the clouds were now back-building again - another storm was brewing. The ominous forecast for yesterday said a morning of cloud building would lead to even more cold and howling winds and thunderstorms and rain for at least 24 more hours. A storm front that had produced tornados further south was now headed directly this way.
No way I would be on the roof or doing anything productive in this weather, and so I called it and decided to ride back. Unfortunately, it took a while to get things settled at the farmstead yesterday, consuming most of the morning. By the time I was heading out, the wind was literally roaring through the trees and dark clouds and lightening were massing up on this huge north-south front some distance to the west. Confident, or really more 'hopeful' than confident, that I could outrun the storm by heading straight south, Sunshine and I launched towards home again.
We made it exactly 30 minutes into our trip before the sky just opened up and let us have it. The gust front that proceeded that weather actually lightened up her tires and started to pick her up and away from the wet asphalt as we were taking the merging bend onto Highway 53 southbound. That is a very unnerving feeling in a wet curve at 65 mph.
I finally found and pulled under a nearby small-town gas station awning to regroup and put rain covers onto my soft bags and rearrange my backpack with laptop to try to keep the contents dry. Water was in everything. My phone was wet and my outer soft-bag pockets already had a couple inches of standing water in them, so I decided that's it, I'm gonna wait until the building storm starts to subside and make a break for it back to the farm.
Well, the weather never did say 'uncle', and even more storm cells came through and the rain keep saturating the ground and the wind kept howling out of all directions. I sat and ate a slow breakfast burrito and talked with the locals at a nearby food co-op, and watched and waited. Bummer. The forecast weather, according to the weather radar, was just gonna get worse as the day turned to night. So much for waiting, I'm heading back to the farm NOW.
The folks in the co-op couldn't believe it when I finally got up and started to gear up again.
"You're going to ride out there in that?!", the cashier called to me when she saw me zipping up my jacket.
"No time like the present to do something stupid," I called back to her with a smile. I was on the bike and headed back to my farm a few minutes later. What proceeded was some of the most challenging and technical wet weather riding I've ever been through.
Although I was well-used to being able to clear raindrops off my helmet at speed by simply looking left and right quickly to get the water to bead up and roll off the visor, the rain was so constant now and the wind so violent that that technique did nothing, the visor was instantly speckled up with moving water after every attempt to clear it. So I gave up trying, and I found my brain instead picking up familiar shapes through the downpour and random moving blotches of wet and indistinct clarity available through rain-blasted view through my helmet.
Woah, there's the yellow midline. Brake lights ahead? Is that a deer? Is that road debris or standing water? Headlights coming. Stay in your lane. Avoid standing water on the bends. Stay loose, stay relaxed.
But we charged ahead, Sunshine and I, unwise as it may have been, in the earnest desire to just get to familiar ground once more. It took all of my learned skill and experience on the bike thus far to keep myself safe and upright, and, strangely, through all the chaos of the stormy ride, my inside voice was actually silent and still.
I was 100% present in that moment. There was nowhere else to be. Nowhere else to think about. Nothing else to occupy any portion of my brain because my brain was saturated by everything - every tiny bit of stimulus from the outside world and all the feedback from my senses - in order to keep me upright and moving forward and safe. And through it all, I actually felt strangely relaxed and calm.
Pulling into the tall grass again was a relief.
Even as prepared as I was for the wet weather, my leather boots had a couple inches of standing water in them and my pelvis had a strange "ice cream headache" from the inches-deep puddle of icy rainwater that I'd been sitting in on the ride back.
It was a wild ride through challenging weather - and it was really good. The ride made me touch something, reach someplace, that I'm not sure how to describe, even through I've been there a few different times before.
Saturday, May 26, 2018
Dad
My father and I just had a really long talk (helmet-enabled) as I rode out through city and country scenes today. I took routes I've really never been on before, some that I have been, and we spoke about the nature of life, spirituality and human nature. We spoke of joy and peace, of partnership and friendship, and he spoke clearly and from the heart, of his mistakes and his wins and failures.
He is old - now mid-80's - and his health is questionable, but with every conversation I feel more connected and put together, as a man, as a human. More whole, if that makes sense.
And it's not really what he says or doesn't say, what we talk about - it's more like how folks say you have two conversations going on at the same time, the conversation going on in words, and the conversation going on without words. I've heard different percentages of each, and I'm sure each conversation and its participants vary these amounts, but with my dad, there seems to be a whole lot that he isn't saying that's really important for me to receive and understand, and somehow I do. This wordless exchange of ideas and thoughts and wishes and hopes. It's worth the call a thousand times over.
Another beautiful spring/early-summer day. It's gonna be a hot one, but nestled in the curvy twisty country landscape between mammoth oaks and elms covered in ivy, my helmet fills with green as the chill in the air cuts into my open riding jacket and catches me by surprise.
It's lovely beyond measure, and I spend the rest of the ride in a moving meditation, listening to the purr of the engine as the bike and I open up under old railroad bridges and lazily unwind through countless tree-lined curves.
He is old - now mid-80's - and his health is questionable, but with every conversation I feel more connected and put together, as a man, as a human. More whole, if that makes sense.
And it's not really what he says or doesn't say, what we talk about - it's more like how folks say you have two conversations going on at the same time, the conversation going on in words, and the conversation going on without words. I've heard different percentages of each, and I'm sure each conversation and its participants vary these amounts, but with my dad, there seems to be a whole lot that he isn't saying that's really important for me to receive and understand, and somehow I do. This wordless exchange of ideas and thoughts and wishes and hopes. It's worth the call a thousand times over.
Another beautiful spring/early-summer day. It's gonna be a hot one, but nestled in the curvy twisty country landscape between mammoth oaks and elms covered in ivy, my helmet fills with green as the chill in the air cuts into my open riding jacket and catches me by surprise.
It's lovely beyond measure, and I spend the rest of the ride in a moving meditation, listening to the purr of the engine as the bike and I open up under old railroad bridges and lazily unwind through countless tree-lined curves.
Friday, May 25, 2018
Mindfully Present
You hear that a lot these days - about the importance of being 'mindful', being where you are and nowhere else. I agree.
Ladies and gentlemen, I have the answer - ride.
Riding a motorcycle makes it very difficult to be anyplace else. Riding is freedom and when you've got freedom and the machine you're on expresses your every thought in effortless fluidity, you've got nowhere else to be. Everywhere you are, however fast you're going, however much the wind is pushing back, however sticky or loose the gravel or asphalt or dirt, ... that's exactly where you are, when you are. Time and space collapse into the single expressive motion of you on the bike. It's beautiful.
Rode Burt a lot yesterday (my Honda Shadow Spirit 750dc cruiser) and even rode him out in a full hail and rain thunderstorm. Not on purpose, mind you, I thought I could outrun the storm so we could have a couple pints of ice cream in the house to enjoy our favorite shows, but I got caught in a big way regardless.
I just smiled and laughed the whole ride. The whole ride.
Don't get me wrong - I got soaked to the bones by the sticky warm evening downpour and blinded by the lightning crashing all around, got pelted in the face by tiny hail pellets that stung with every bite, but I still laughed and laughed. I was just thinking how Burt really needed a wash and polish, and so nature provided the perfect wash.
But I also laughed because everybody around me thought I was nuts, all of them driving around in their trucks and cars and SUVs and hiding under storefronts and awnings and bus stops hoping for a dry moment to "run for it". They looked and me riding by and I caught several of them taking phone pictures and shaking their heads or looking at me with blank stares.
No matter. I didn't hide. I charged into the fray. I didn't run to a car, either. I just rode and took it all in, all of it, raw and exposed, swimming slowly through flash-water puddles as high as my chain and countless other riding challenges. And I loved every minute of it.
Today, Sunshine (the Suzuki Bandit 1250s) and were on the move at sunrise, and the sky is cloudy white and clearing from the storms, which lasted all night. I'm sitting at a new-to-me cafe in a small Wisconsin border town typing this and getting ready to switch gears to my day job. The couple hour ride out here was perfect.
It's a good life. A very good life.
Ladies and gentlemen, I have the answer - ride.
Riding a motorcycle makes it very difficult to be anyplace else. Riding is freedom and when you've got freedom and the machine you're on expresses your every thought in effortless fluidity, you've got nowhere else to be. Everywhere you are, however fast you're going, however much the wind is pushing back, however sticky or loose the gravel or asphalt or dirt, ... that's exactly where you are, when you are. Time and space collapse into the single expressive motion of you on the bike. It's beautiful.
Rode Burt a lot yesterday (my Honda Shadow Spirit 750dc cruiser) and even rode him out in a full hail and rain thunderstorm. Not on purpose, mind you, I thought I could outrun the storm so we could have a couple pints of ice cream in the house to enjoy our favorite shows, but I got caught in a big way regardless.
I just smiled and laughed the whole ride. The whole ride.
Don't get me wrong - I got soaked to the bones by the sticky warm evening downpour and blinded by the lightning crashing all around, got pelted in the face by tiny hail pellets that stung with every bite, but I still laughed and laughed. I was just thinking how Burt really needed a wash and polish, and so nature provided the perfect wash.
But I also laughed because everybody around me thought I was nuts, all of them driving around in their trucks and cars and SUVs and hiding under storefronts and awnings and bus stops hoping for a dry moment to "run for it". They looked and me riding by and I caught several of them taking phone pictures and shaking their heads or looking at me with blank stares.
No matter. I didn't hide. I charged into the fray. I didn't run to a car, either. I just rode and took it all in, all of it, raw and exposed, swimming slowly through flash-water puddles as high as my chain and countless other riding challenges. And I loved every minute of it.
Today, Sunshine (the Suzuki Bandit 1250s) and were on the move at sunrise, and the sky is cloudy white and clearing from the storms, which lasted all night. I'm sitting at a new-to-me cafe in a small Wisconsin border town typing this and getting ready to switch gears to my day job. The couple hour ride out here was perfect.
It's a good life. A very good life.
Saturday, May 19, 2018
Reaching and Riding
Riding is reaching for something I cannot quite grasp. It enables the reach, supports it, but doesn't really give me a clue as to the full extent of it. The ride melds math, physics, body, mind and spirit into a singular expression in motion. It delivers truth in a way I am unable to put into better words than these.
Out at sunrise exploring the world today. The clouds seem to be breaking up from the wetting rain of the night before. I decide to take in the city scape before heading into the country. My favorite coffee shop and first stop with the bike is now closed until 7am (they used to open a half-hour earlier), so I ride out again through the varied city landscape, taking in the university district and moving into the low-rent neighborhoods and out again towards the tracks and river, where massive tarp-covered barges dominate the river on both sides.
By the time I reach the Mississippi river basin southeast of Saint Paul and start crawling the farmland backroads first south, then east, then north again, the sky changes its mind and begins to darken again. The warm wind I had been cruising through turned sharply cold and the clouds threaten and thicken again the further north I ride. I cough a couple times in my helmet as my unprotected neck takes the brunt of the bitter bite.
I decide to take the first road west and head south and back towards home again. The sun is high enough in the sky that my wife should be awake and I want to make a day of it with her somewhere fun. Still the cold wind bites hard, and I am ready for a break. It's been a couple of hours of solid riding on the bike and the ride is taking an unusual toll today. I see a passing "cafe" I've never tried before and ride back and park in front.
It's an out and out breakfast spot, but I tell the waitress I'm just looking for coffee and to sit outside if possible. She says "sure, I'll bring you a coffee outside" without much affect and so I make my way out to a plastic table to write this. I must have looked pretty worn, since she brings me a cup of plain water and a mug with an entire thermos of the hot stuff, leaving the thermos on my table.
I said "thank you" and, later, I catch her passing eye again and say "I really appreciate it, the coffee is good." I can see and feel how she catches herself genuinely smiling back at me - how that smile surprises that small but still-unjaded part of her that once believed in human beings to be generally kind and decent folks. No doubt serving thousands of impolite strangers over the years has taken it's toll. That is written very plainly on her prematurely-aged face.
I pour some more hot coffee from the thermos, take a sip, and type this... and contemplate all this stuff as I do.
Out at sunrise exploring the world today. The clouds seem to be breaking up from the wetting rain of the night before. I decide to take in the city scape before heading into the country. My favorite coffee shop and first stop with the bike is now closed until 7am (they used to open a half-hour earlier), so I ride out again through the varied city landscape, taking in the university district and moving into the low-rent neighborhoods and out again towards the tracks and river, where massive tarp-covered barges dominate the river on both sides.
By the time I reach the Mississippi river basin southeast of Saint Paul and start crawling the farmland backroads first south, then east, then north again, the sky changes its mind and begins to darken again. The warm wind I had been cruising through turned sharply cold and the clouds threaten and thicken again the further north I ride. I cough a couple times in my helmet as my unprotected neck takes the brunt of the bitter bite.
I decide to take the first road west and head south and back towards home again. The sun is high enough in the sky that my wife should be awake and I want to make a day of it with her somewhere fun. Still the cold wind bites hard, and I am ready for a break. It's been a couple of hours of solid riding on the bike and the ride is taking an unusual toll today. I see a passing "cafe" I've never tried before and ride back and park in front.
It's an out and out breakfast spot, but I tell the waitress I'm just looking for coffee and to sit outside if possible. She says "sure, I'll bring you a coffee outside" without much affect and so I make my way out to a plastic table to write this. I must have looked pretty worn, since she brings me a cup of plain water and a mug with an entire thermos of the hot stuff, leaving the thermos on my table.
I said "thank you" and, later, I catch her passing eye again and say "I really appreciate it, the coffee is good." I can see and feel how she catches herself genuinely smiling back at me - how that smile surprises that small but still-unjaded part of her that once believed in human beings to be generally kind and decent folks. No doubt serving thousands of impolite strangers over the years has taken it's toll. That is written very plainly on her prematurely-aged face.
I pour some more hot coffee from the thermos, take a sip, and type this... and contemplate all this stuff as I do.
Wednesday, May 9, 2018
Life Behind Glass
More rain is coming as I ride into the brightening eastern sky. It's spring in full swing here.
The ride this morning in the brisk early air is responsive despite the wet streets from an evening and night full of rain showers. Sunshine and I are really loving these new Pilot Road 5 tires, very solid wet performance. The Road 4's they replaced tended to slop around on wet paint and tar snakes, but the Road 5's have "some" hold on even these nasty surfaces. I park and find a quiet spot to kick off my work day.
Sunshine looks good, even behind glass. But life behind glass ain't all that - life is about living, not watching. Sunshine was designed to integrate with her rider and move through challenges. She was definitely not meant to sit still!
I want to say something meaningful here, something about living versus watching life go by, but I really am forced to check myself after the long dinner and post-dinner conversation we had with friends/neighbors of ours last night.
Life is what you make of it - and what you think of it.
Each and every person gets to decide for themselves what makes them happy or sad, how they live or how they don't. That amazing freedom of thought and expression are privileges which this great country of ours exemplifies and promotes. It's something no other place in the world really has or promotes anywhere near as much as us Americans! Nowhere else, really, not like here.
But even so, most people choose a limited view of themselves, and then go on selecting reason after reason why that limited view is valid. "I'm afraid" or "sick" or "allergic", "too old" or "too young", "too weak" or "too strong", "too big" or "too small", "too pretty" or "not pretty enough", ... "I'm too important for THAT" or "I'm not important enough for THAT", ... "I'm too rich", "I'm too poor", "too classy" or "not classy enough", .... On and on.
On and on the people all around me (a) give themselves limitations and then (b) spend the rest of their waking hours in an ever-steady effort to justify them. It's like some horrible feedback loop of limitation and justification, of wound and wound-speak, of disfunction and validation. Everywhere I turn, people are boxing themselves up into countless labeled boxes, and then complaining about while also being comforted by their self-critical cardboard cages.
For a guy with (a) no fear and (b) no limitations, it's absolutely maddening to see the world around me and the people in it spending their waking hours this way. What a waste of human potential.
But I'm just a guy on a bike, not a wizard and not a fortuneteller. I don't know how people's lives are 'meant' to work out, or even if they are 'meant' for anything at all. And nobody knows best for me either, that goes without saying.
I just need to check into my and only my life and let others sort themselves out ... or not ... I guess I just have to learn to step back a bit.
The ride this morning in the brisk early air is responsive despite the wet streets from an evening and night full of rain showers. Sunshine and I are really loving these new Pilot Road 5 tires, very solid wet performance. The Road 4's they replaced tended to slop around on wet paint and tar snakes, but the Road 5's have "some" hold on even these nasty surfaces. I park and find a quiet spot to kick off my work day.
Sunshine looks good, even behind glass. But life behind glass ain't all that - life is about living, not watching. Sunshine was designed to integrate with her rider and move through challenges. She was definitely not meant to sit still!
I want to say something meaningful here, something about living versus watching life go by, but I really am forced to check myself after the long dinner and post-dinner conversation we had with friends/neighbors of ours last night.
Life is what you make of it - and what you think of it.
Each and every person gets to decide for themselves what makes them happy or sad, how they live or how they don't. That amazing freedom of thought and expression are privileges which this great country of ours exemplifies and promotes. It's something no other place in the world really has or promotes anywhere near as much as us Americans! Nowhere else, really, not like here.
But even so, most people choose a limited view of themselves, and then go on selecting reason after reason why that limited view is valid. "I'm afraid" or "sick" or "allergic", "too old" or "too young", "too weak" or "too strong", "too big" or "too small", "too pretty" or "not pretty enough", ... "I'm too important for THAT" or "I'm not important enough for THAT", ... "I'm too rich", "I'm too poor", "too classy" or "not classy enough", .... On and on.
On and on the people all around me (a) give themselves limitations and then (b) spend the rest of their waking hours in an ever-steady effort to justify them. It's like some horrible feedback loop of limitation and justification, of wound and wound-speak, of disfunction and validation. Everywhere I turn, people are boxing themselves up into countless labeled boxes, and then complaining about while also being comforted by their self-critical cardboard cages.
For a guy with (a) no fear and (b) no limitations, it's absolutely maddening to see the world around me and the people in it spending their waking hours this way. What a waste of human potential.
But I'm just a guy on a bike, not a wizard and not a fortuneteller. I don't know how people's lives are 'meant' to work out, or even if they are 'meant' for anything at all. And nobody knows best for me either, that goes without saying.
I just need to check into my and only my life and let others sort themselves out ... or not ... I guess I just have to learn to step back a bit.
Friday, May 4, 2018
Lovely Finish
Spent the evening hours carving seemingly endless turns on various country roads through the eastern border towns. Amazing riding, and an awesome finish to a long day and even longer work week.
Happy Friday to all.
Happy Friday to all.
Knowing When
Beautiful orange sunrise this morning but chilly again. I wore just a t-shirt beneath my gear and I instantly regretted it as Sunshine's speedometer indicated 60 mph and beyond. The cold actively siphoned away heat from my hands and core quicker than my body could replenish it, and so I aborted my 50 mile ride out to a new coffee shop in favor of a near-city favorite and called it.
Time enough for the rest of that ride later today, I thought to myself. The coffee warming me back up as I write this tells me I was right to call it for now.
Yesterday, I faced a similar decision but for a different reason - exhaustion.
Every muscle in my body ached from having been up north doing demolition work on an old farmstead home and barn. From sunrise to well past sunset for the 2 days I was up there, outside of working hours as a software developer, I was moving or ripping out or hauling the entire first floor (furniture, appliances, built-ins, ...) of the home out to the barn and, there, organizing and sorting a lifetime of leftovers from the previous owner(s).
Although the sun was shining yesterday and the sky blue, my riding felt "off". Sloppy clutching, twitchy steering, missing traffic cues, ... I put myself on the bike for a ride to a coffee shop and change of pace in the afternoon, especially as it had been 2 days without riding. But everything about riding failed to "click" yesterday, and so ... I called it, filled up her tank and headed for home, even though there was plenty more riding to be had.
So knowing when to call it - glad I have that instinct. It's good to be bold, but only the smart get to be both bold and old. :-)
Time enough for the rest of that ride later today, I thought to myself. The coffee warming me back up as I write this tells me I was right to call it for now.
Yesterday, I faced a similar decision but for a different reason - exhaustion.
Every muscle in my body ached from having been up north doing demolition work on an old farmstead home and barn. From sunrise to well past sunset for the 2 days I was up there, outside of working hours as a software developer, I was moving or ripping out or hauling the entire first floor (furniture, appliances, built-ins, ...) of the home out to the barn and, there, organizing and sorting a lifetime of leftovers from the previous owner(s).
Although the sun was shining yesterday and the sky blue, my riding felt "off". Sloppy clutching, twitchy steering, missing traffic cues, ... I put myself on the bike for a ride to a coffee shop and change of pace in the afternoon, especially as it had been 2 days without riding. But everything about riding failed to "click" yesterday, and so ... I called it, filled up her tank and headed for home, even though there was plenty more riding to be had.
So knowing when to call it - glad I have that instinct. It's good to be bold, but only the smart get to be both bold and old. :-)
Monday, April 30, 2018
Sundays and Sunrises
To be sure, yesterday was a perfect spring day. Windy, warm, sunny, and perfect. Everybody in the entire state, it seemed, was outside doing "something", and we were no exception.
Sunshine and I were out early amongst the morning bustle. Sunrise to sunset, I was on bike and loving it, putting on nearly 265 miles before calling it a day. We left the big city and Minnesota behind and rode well into Wisconsin before turning north and making a great counterclockwise loop back into Minnesota and then back towards home.
In Wisconsin, we found unending stretches of windy and open roads, and the road got close to her pegs on more than a few occasions. :-)
Rural Wisconsin is beautiful. Old barns, silos, churches, and family farms. It's really the definition of "a picturesque countryside", very Norman Rockwell.
On the loop back into Minnesota, I found myself at a cafe surrounded by other bikes and bikers. I ate one great egg sandwich with literally half of an onion sliced onto it when I asked for "some onions". Love it, thanks Chef Jeff.
We also passed a ton of bikes on the ride down the Minnesota side south and west back towards the city. I honestly got tired of doing the "biker wave" back to folks, but hell, we can't give up biker-to-biker respect, and I made sure I waved every time I got waved at.
In the evening, I took my wife two-up on a local run on Burt, my Honda Shadow Spirit 750dc. In all, I rode the heck out of yesterday, it was great.
This Monday morning, however, the cold wind bites hard and a storm is coming.
We launch into the open and empty road in the gloaming pre-dawn hours. The neighborhood is silent, too early for school buses and morning commuters, and everybody is still nursing coffees and sore muscles from all the "Spring-Is-Finally-Here!" activities that took place on Sunday.
Sunshine and I were out early amongst the morning bustle. Sunrise to sunset, I was on bike and loving it, putting on nearly 265 miles before calling it a day. We left the big city and Minnesota behind and rode well into Wisconsin before turning north and making a great counterclockwise loop back into Minnesota and then back towards home.
In Wisconsin, we found unending stretches of windy and open roads, and the road got close to her pegs on more than a few occasions. :-)
Rural Wisconsin is beautiful. Old barns, silos, churches, and family farms. It's really the definition of "a picturesque countryside", very Norman Rockwell.
On the loop back into Minnesota, I found myself at a cafe surrounded by other bikes and bikers. I ate one great egg sandwich with literally half of an onion sliced onto it when I asked for "some onions". Love it, thanks Chef Jeff.
We also passed a ton of bikes on the ride down the Minnesota side south and west back towards the city. I honestly got tired of doing the "biker wave" back to folks, but hell, we can't give up biker-to-biker respect, and I made sure I waved every time I got waved at.
In the evening, I took my wife two-up on a local run on Burt, my Honda Shadow Spirit 750dc. In all, I rode the heck out of yesterday, it was great.
This Monday morning, however, the cold wind bites hard and a storm is coming.
We launch into the open and empty road in the gloaming pre-dawn hours. The neighborhood is silent, too early for school buses and morning commuters, and everybody is still nursing coffees and sore muscles from all the "Spring-Is-Finally-Here!" activities that took place on Sunday.
The ride is fast out of the city on the big empty highway that leads into the glowing early morning sky. I keep Sunshine close to triple digit speeds as we head east, and she purrs and feels really good opened up for a bit. We reach the river's edge just as the sun starts to glow through the clouds now obscuring the eastern horizon.
A short while later, we take in the river boats and head into a local coffee shop to write this and reflect on yesterday's riding. The sky above continues to darken, now thick with the approaching storm. It's going to rain on me on the ride back, but I'm strangely looking forward to that, too.
A short while later, we take in the river boats and head into a local coffee shop to write this and reflect on yesterday's riding. The sky above continues to darken, now thick with the approaching storm. It's going to rain on me on the ride back, but I'm strangely looking forward to that, too.
These are the kinds of days that you always hope for... and that I hope I'll always remember.
Sunday, April 29, 2018
Riding Life
Rode the sunrise yesterday, the world was icy and calm, a cold winter chill had bitten the northern reaches again. No snow like the day before, but cold nonetheless.
I slept yesterday under the full moon, with stars and planets all around - last thing I saw before I fell asleep.
This morning I'm riding again, out for a coffee with my lady.
Riding has become an ingrained part of who I am - how I am.
It is awesome.
I slept yesterday under the full moon, with stars and planets all around - last thing I saw before I fell asleep.
This morning I'm riding again, out for a coffee with my lady.
Riding has become an ingrained part of who I am - how I am.
It is awesome.
Thursday, April 26, 2018
Life on the Road
Seems like my life has been measured in miles the past week or two - up north, back down, relocating trailers and equipment.
I still manage to ride every day, but work and life are taking priority over riding exclusively, and so I've been limited to local rides to coffee shops to get plugged in for work or at night to get some fresh air. On the weekends, I a pulling a trailer and shuffling tools and equipment back and forth or doing demolition and construction work for most of the waking hours.
Still, the days are (slowly) warming up and although the streets are still quite sandy and debris-ridden and city traffic is as crazy as ever, I'm making the most of every ride... and enjoying the hell out of it.
I still manage to ride every day, but work and life are taking priority over riding exclusively, and so I've been limited to local rides to coffee shops to get plugged in for work or at night to get some fresh air. On the weekends, I a pulling a trailer and shuffling tools and equipment back and forth or doing demolition and construction work for most of the waking hours.
Friday, April 20, 2018
Remembering the Sun
It was early morning, and Sunshine and I left home as soon as I could see water running down the alleyway. It was in the low 30's outside but the sun had already started to punish the remaining ice and snow.
I pushed her out and carefully walked her backwards pushed our way over the packed snow tracks running lengthwise across our driveway entrance, and gently and with legs out for balance, we rode down and out to the street.
Easing her into motion, and taking great care to warm her tires up thoroughly before attempting any kind of more 'sporty' maneuvers, we made our way to a marine-side cafe near the Wisconsin border where I intended to finish out my work day, 4 hours in, 4 hours to go. Avoiding the highways entirely and maneuvering from one "Trail" road to another, we wound through immeasurably beautiful sunlit and snow lined S-curves and deep bends and expansive views and hills and more...
The twisties today had their challenges, though. It was generally outstanding riding, but still a bit dodgy where the shade kept the road from fully de-icing and/or where salt and sand piles still dominated the centerline - Sunshine lost her backend in a couple of spots, but quickly regained traction as she passed beyond the yucky bits.
We found our parking spot next to a huge pile of leftover snow. It's colder down in the river valley that borders Minnesota and Wisconsin, and so even with the bright sunshine, there are still piles all around here that may take a few more days or so to fully melt away.
Jeff, the proprietor of the awesome Marine Cafe, cooked up a special batch of his chili (vegetarian with corn chutney and a strong dash of heat + red pepper) to warm up my chilled bones and I ate, grateful at this opportunity and full enjoying the day.
Jeff and I talked about motorcycles and barn finds and I remembered what a good life and genuine warmth and rural hospitality felt like again.
Awesome day.
I pushed her out and carefully walked her backwards pushed our way over the packed snow tracks running lengthwise across our driveway entrance, and gently and with legs out for balance, we rode down and out to the street.
Easing her into motion, and taking great care to warm her tires up thoroughly before attempting any kind of more 'sporty' maneuvers, we made our way to a marine-side cafe near the Wisconsin border where I intended to finish out my work day, 4 hours in, 4 hours to go. Avoiding the highways entirely and maneuvering from one "Trail" road to another, we wound through immeasurably beautiful sunlit and snow lined S-curves and deep bends and expansive views and hills and more...
The twisties today had their challenges, though. It was generally outstanding riding, but still a bit dodgy where the shade kept the road from fully de-icing and/or where salt and sand piles still dominated the centerline - Sunshine lost her backend in a couple of spots, but quickly regained traction as she passed beyond the yucky bits.
We found our parking spot next to a huge pile of leftover snow. It's colder down in the river valley that borders Minnesota and Wisconsin, and so even with the bright sunshine, there are still piles all around here that may take a few more days or so to fully melt away.
Jeff, the proprietor of the awesome Marine Cafe, cooked up a special batch of his chili (vegetarian with corn chutney and a strong dash of heat + red pepper) to warm up my chilled bones and I ate, grateful at this opportunity and full enjoying the day.
Jeff and I talked about motorcycles and barn finds and I remembered what a good life and genuine warmth and rural hospitality felt like again.
Awesome day.
Thursday, April 19, 2018
Spring Thaw (and the Elated Many)
... at long last, got back from a ten day visit to see my mom in Colorado (drove there) and no sooner was I back than the entire southeastern portion of Minnesota got hammered with nearly 2 feet of fresh snow in 48 hours! I got exactly one ride in hours before the snow started flying. Ugh.
It was winter overreaching its welcome and stay, and it sucked in every way for a guy who was looking forward to riding a lot when he got back from a long, cage-bound road trip.
So... we started digging out again and I started my countdown clock before I could ride again.
That was six days ago.
Thankfully though, as I write this, Burt is parked out squeezed in between a bunch of cars at a music cafe. The sun is shining, the snow and ice are giving way, and there was just enough asphalt for me to make it to the street. In truth, I was forced to chop away at the ice-covered alleyway enough to fishtail the Shadow out past and over and through all the wintry junk. Still, worth it.
Once I got to the actual edge of the road, I tucked in, pulled the throttle hard, and never looked back. Phew... it feels so good to be on a motorcycle again!
Still slick out, still icy and sandy and what-not but I know enough to be careful about those things. We point north and west and south again, and make our way, long way around, to a coffee shop on the other side of the cities that I really like.
I know it seems trivial, but the coffee shop is at least twice as packed as I've seen it, especially for mid-afternoon on a Thursday. But after all the snow and depression (around having to shovel tons of snow and ice in the middle of April) gave way to the 40's-degree sunshine of today, I am surrounded by the happy sounds of "nothing-in-particular".
People are talking about random bits of triviality. Laughing at aimless jokes. Smiling at blank walls. It's the kind of real relief you can only experience if you've been through a challenging time and, judging by the expressions and discussions going on all around me as I type this, this damn winter has been challenging for all... probably in many more ways than just the weather.
I take the long way home, stop by a lake, and ponder when all this white stuff will melt away, and I'll really be able to sink into corners again...
: - )
It was winter overreaching its welcome and stay, and it sucked in every way for a guy who was looking forward to riding a lot when he got back from a long, cage-bound road trip.
So... we started digging out again and I started my countdown clock before I could ride again.
That was six days ago.
Thankfully though, as I write this, Burt is parked out squeezed in between a bunch of cars at a music cafe. The sun is shining, the snow and ice are giving way, and there was just enough asphalt for me to make it to the street. In truth, I was forced to chop away at the ice-covered alleyway enough to fishtail the Shadow out past and over and through all the wintry junk. Still, worth it.
Once I got to the actual edge of the road, I tucked in, pulled the throttle hard, and never looked back. Phew... it feels so good to be on a motorcycle again!
Still slick out, still icy and sandy and what-not but I know enough to be careful about those things. We point north and west and south again, and make our way, long way around, to a coffee shop on the other side of the cities that I really like.
I know it seems trivial, but the coffee shop is at least twice as packed as I've seen it, especially for mid-afternoon on a Thursday. But after all the snow and depression (around having to shovel tons of snow and ice in the middle of April) gave way to the 40's-degree sunshine of today, I am surrounded by the happy sounds of "nothing-in-particular".
People are talking about random bits of triviality. Laughing at aimless jokes. Smiling at blank walls. It's the kind of real relief you can only experience if you've been through a challenging time and, judging by the expressions and discussions going on all around me as I type this, this damn winter has been challenging for all... probably in many more ways than just the weather.
I take the long way home, stop by a lake, and ponder when all this white stuff will melt away, and I'll really be able to sink into corners again...
: - )
Saturday, March 31, 2018
Glad I Was Out (aka Winter Marches On...)
... and I do mean winter ... woke up to this crazy white landscape again, with a thick crust of compacted ice and slush beneath and 3 inches of the fresh stuff on top.
I am really glad I got so many March riding days in - rode every day this past week, even did a short WI border run.
Ah well. All this snow will be done & done soon enough. For right now, it's time to enjoy the snow with a warm cup of something by a crackling fire.
I am really glad I got so many March riding days in - rode every day this past week, even did a short WI border run.
Ah well. All this snow will be done & done soon enough. For right now, it's time to enjoy the snow with a warm cup of something by a crackling fire.
Wishing a Happy Easter to all.
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