 |
| Jason and I on his 2004 Victory Kingpin after a ride to Kimberly, Idaho. (May 2012) |
Yesterday it was hot. It was so hot that we left the house
to eat out for lunch, just so we could be somewhere that had air conditioning.
And yet, in the heat of the afternoon, Jason and I pulled on socks, pants, snug
black boots, and leather jackets to hop on the motorcycle for a ride up to
Silver Creek Falls.
My grandpa calls motorcycles “murdercycles,” and there is a
part of me that wholeheartedly agrees with his opinion of them. As a doctor, seeing countless people brought
into the hospital after motorcycle accidents, a logical person like my grandpa
would start to develop an adverse reaction to the activity. I can’t blame him. My freshman year of college, I came home unexpectedly
for a funeral of a high school friend who died when learning to ride a
motorcycle. She loved sunflowers, and
her funeral was engulfed with them, and to this day I can’t see one without
thinking about the clash of metal and road and the tragedy of a young talented
life cut short. The first time I got on
the back of Jason’s Victory Kingpin I was terrified. Motorcycles are dangerous,
but there is a reason people still get on them every day.
I don’t know if I could ever drive my own motorcycle, and I
still have a healthy fearful respect for the power of the bike, but in counter
of their dangerous potential I can see their value. There is the benefit of better gas mileage
and car vs. bike space-saving opportunities, but what I really love about riding
on the back of my husband’s bike, is the way it brings a whole new experience
to travel, to the open road.
The drive up to Silver Creek Falls from Salem is a gorgeous
drive. It has always been and will be a
gorgeous drive whether you are going by car, bicycle, motorcycle, or any other
method of transportation. You cross
rolling farmland of wheat and flowers, tree-farms, sheep-fields, and then you
elevate into the mountains where the conifers grow into giants, moss covers
ever thing like a fairy-land, and ferns spear out across the forest floor along
the road and deeper. But it’s a completely
different experience when you are on a motorcycle than in a car.
On the motorcycle you have a more realistic relationship
with the road. Each dip in the pavement
or spread of railroad tracks that you cross travels up from the road through
the motorcycle and vibrates in your bones.
When the road curves, your body has to move with the curve. Smoother rides are overrated. The push and pull of muscle and metal and
pavement is a strange plane of existence.
It takes concentration that you don’t need in the car. It takes an awareness of your body that you
don’t need in a car. It’s almost like
meditation. When you are on a motorcycle
you are on the road, feel the road, become part of the road.
When you are on a motorcycle, there is no glass separating
you from the wind and the air. There is
no window tint altering your view of the surroundings. The wild grass and dusty white plates of
Queen Anne’s Lace blossoms on the roadside look clearer than when in a
car. When riding, you feel that you
could put your hand out and brush it across the plant palate that follows the
line of pavement; you can smell the pollen in the air. Yesterday, we passed a field that had been
burned by a farmer in a controlled fire.
I noticed the black stubble of leftover burnt plant-base. The soil itself was darkened, covered in fine
charcoal. We rounded a corner along the
field and the lingering smell of it hit me.
Not fire, not smoke, but the smell of the aftermath: burnt earth, mixing
air, ash and cremated plant bodies. This
is not something I would have been able to experience in the car with the
windows separating me from portions of reality.
And then, as soon as I sense the smell, recognize the smell, we are on
to greener pastures, the wind whipping my ponytail that sticks out of the
helmet, running over my hands and face like I am a yoke being separated from
the egg white, slipping me through time and space, making me feel distinct and
also part of something whole at the same time.
It is a pleasure that is difficult to put into words, and better felt.
Riding a motorcycle with someone, the arena where your
relationship happens on a day-to-day basis changes. Suddenly, instead of sitting side-by-side, you
are sitting in closer quarters and must learn new things: to mold to one another’s bodies, to learn to
move with the other person, calculate their next moves. Suddenly, instead of being able to just ask a
question or make a statement, the rules of communication are different with the
inability to read one another’s mouths under helmets, to hear words over the
throaty issuance of the bike. You learn
a new way to communicate, which reminds you about what you know about the other
person. Yesterday, on the road, Jason
pointed to something across the landscape.
There was a hill that rose up in planted lines of 3-foot conifers. At the top of the Christmas tree-farm was a
house. I know that Jason was saying, or
would have said if we were in a car together, “Look at that huge house!” If we were in a car, I would counter with
something like, “It’s too huge.” And he
would say something like, “But what a view they have.” I might mention that I
love the green color they’ve chosen for the exterior. Instead, his finger pointed out, knuckles
sticking out of his fingerless motorcycle gloves, and it was something amazing
to realize that I knew what this meant, even when no words were spoken. I’ve learned that he uses the thumbs up to
ask me if I am doing alright, a quick reach-back calf squeeze to let me know he
is happy I’m with him. I communicate
with shoulder rubs, helmet bumps, and waist squeezes. This is a gift only the motorcycle could give.
A motorcycle ride is an adventure, a fear, a meditation, a
transportation. It can be a new
communication or a nature inspiration. A motorcycle ride is a wind-whipping-the-hair
sensation. It is a pleasure that is
difficult to put into words, and better felt.
 |
| Jason and I with his 2004 Victory Kingpin after a ride to Kimberly, Idaho. (May 2012) |
No comments:
Post a Comment