Rides, ramblings and rants on a motorcycle.
- We are scientists, too!
11.07.2014,2:10 PM
Two Days Back in Time
On the way from Oregon to New Mexico, I spent two days back in time. A long time ago.
Traveling on the road can sometimes be as exhausting as it is often exhilarating. I needed a break. I've always wondered what was hiding in the northeast corner of Arizona. And one point of interest which may travelers often pass by without stopping is the Petrified Forest National Park, which also contains the Painted Desert. The latter is like eye candy for many, but there is so much more revealed there.
I spent almost two full days exploring both. And it wasn't enough. Like many places like this national park, a one-day, even two-day visit is more a superficial introduction. But it barely is enough time to immerse one's self into all the land and cultural features. Especially the hikes.
So I will return some time to spend more time. And it won't be many years down the road!
Traveling on the road can sometimes be as exhausting as it is often exhilarating. I needed a break. I've always wondered what was hiding in the northeast corner of Arizona. And one point of interest which may travelers often pass by without stopping is the Petrified Forest National Park, which also contains the Painted Desert. The latter is like eye candy for many, but there is so much more revealed there.
I spent almost two full days exploring both. And it wasn't enough. Like many places like this national park, a one-day, even two-day visit is more a superficial introduction. But it barely is enough time to immerse one's self into all the land and cultural features. Especially the hikes.
So I will return some time to spend more time. And it won't be many years down the road!
Labels: Adventures, meanderings
2.20.2011,11:36 AM
Fort Worth Nature Center/Wildlife Refuge
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| Marsh trail |
The day seemed like a good opportunity to visit the Fort Worth Nature Center and Wildlife Refuge; something I've been meaning to do for several years. I loaded the camera bag and a pair of hiking shoes, in the Whee-strom's aluminum panniers. Soon, I was geared up and heading down the gravel driveway; it's been a long time.
Once on the road the feeling of riding quickly returned, like getting back on the horse after a long time off. Indeed, the bike under me felt just like I was riding Shadow: let him have the reins and run. I took the long way to the Refuge and arrived to find many other people with a visit in mind on this Spring-like day. A parking spot for the bike was hard to find; parking is limited and all the spots, except for those for handicapped, are gravel. Big chunks of gravel. I finally found a solid spot on a corner of the sidewalk to the Visitor's Center.
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| Variegated yucca |
While riding the couple miles through the prairie area of the Refuge, no bison were to be seen. Upon inquiring at the Visitor's Center, I was informed that all the bison are on their winter pasture. Unfortunately, that is the northern-most pasture, and the animals are not visible from the road. They are returned to the four pastures close to the Refuge interior and the road during summer and where they can be seen by visitors. Distance from the road and visitors might be strategic for when the cows give birth. I'm not sure I would like dozens of humans watching me give birth, either.
Several trails traverse the Refuge, three radiating from behind the Visitor's Center. After pulling off my riding gear and exchanging riding for hiking boots, I snapped the camera bag on my hip and chose a trail. At the head of the trail and behind the Center's building are two large cages. Inside one was a napping barred owl sitting on a tree limb. In the other was a Great Horned Owl. I felt rather akin to this one because of the nesting pair near my house. Although this one was smaller than the pair I'm accustomed to, she was still impressive.
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| View of retreating armadillo. |
I wanted to sit by them and visit; just me and the owls. Maybe we could have struck up a conversation of a kind; I've been able to elicit responses from the Greats at home by mimicking their calls. But there were too many people, kids and dogs. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was at a zoo.
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| Yucca and oaks |
Rounding a corner on the trail down to the river I startled an armadillo digging for its meal. Not only was this the largest but the only live armadillo I have ever seen. People passing on the trail stopped and commented how large it was.
Continuing down the trail and closer to the riverside, the big oaks thin out, revealing grasses and smaller wild plums. The yuccas are more prevalent and larger. I could hear ducks in the distance and songbirds overhead. It was quite pleasant.
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| Marsh alongside the river. |
A dike traverses the marsh to the other side and next to a connecting channel. The red dirt was colorful and inviting, but the ground still quite muddy from the previous winter storms. I made it a few hundred feet before orange-red mud began bogging down my boots. I decided to save this walk for another day.
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| Red squirrel |
A few ducks were leisurely floating in the green water. All bodies of water in Texas are green or shades of brown. The blue waters I am used to in Oregon and Maine are nowhere to be found here. Likewise, no natural lakes can be found in Texas. All are man-made. Yet, we enjoy them while we can.
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| Ducks on the water |
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| Marsh boardwalk |
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| Moon over marsh |
I especially enjoyed the section of the boardwalk maze where it zig-zagged through the tall marsh grasses. The golden grass heads weaved and waved in the wind and angle of the sun. A soft chiming sound ebbed and flowed with the wind and I felt cocooned while standing on this wooden walkway. It reminded me a softly humming sea of grasses parting, as if they were inviting me to enter and explore their secret world. As they towered over me, I was reduced to a hobbit child adventuring into the unknown.
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| Sea of tall grasses in marsh |
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| Geese in flight |
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| Moon, moon! |
All considering, it was a good day. I vowed to split my weekends into a day of riding the bike somewhere new, and one day of errands and home-body jobs. Weekends are too short these days. But with improvements in the weather, time to take advantage of it and dedicate some time to relaxation. Now, where to next weekend?
Labels: meanderings, Texas
6.25.2010,10:15 PM
Routes are fun
Planning routes to ride on are like finger mapping. Well, virtually, that is. I just painstakingly made a route from Bend, OR, to Crater Lake on two separate maps. I do like the Ride With GPS, although I can't use it at home. Living in the middle of a cow pasture has its drawbacks.
Below is the first leg from Bend to Hwy 58, north of Crescent Lake. Granted, most of it is on pavement, with some diversion trips off-road, but the scenic byway winds around mountains and lakes. A pure delight for a old Oregonian!
The last leg for that day is to Crater Lake and a small tent campground. Awesome......
The last leg for that day is to Crater Lake and a small tent campground. Awesome......
Labels: meanderings
12.08.2008,7:59 PM
Shoot the Moon, December 12, 2008
I interrupt this travelogue to bring you big news. Moon. Big full moon. This Friday will be a grand full moon event.
Today, at 9:48 p.m. Universal Time, the moon will be closer to Earth than it’s been in the last 15 years. The moon will be less than 357,000 kilometers – or 222,000 miles – away. After today, the moon won’t come this close to Earth for another 8 years.
Today is also the full moon. And the next time the moon comes this close – on November 14, 2016 – it’ll be full again. - excerpt from EarthSky website.
If you all can find a high enough place, away from city/town light pollution, this would be a fantastic photographic opportunity. For some, it may be a lifetime opportunity.
Collect friends, stash the cameras and tripods in saddlebags, find a high spot and shoot the moon. Let's see how many moon shots appear on motorcycle blogs!
Psssttt.....pass the word......
Today, at 9:48 p.m. Universal Time, the moon will be closer to Earth than it’s been in the last 15 years. The moon will be less than 357,000 kilometers – or 222,000 miles – away. After today, the moon won’t come this close to Earth for another 8 years.
Today is also the full moon. And the next time the moon comes this close – on November 14, 2016 – it’ll be full again. - excerpt from EarthSky website.
If you all can find a high enough place, away from city/town light pollution, this would be a fantastic photographic opportunity. For some, it may be a lifetime opportunity.
Collect friends, stash the cameras and tripods in saddlebags, find a high spot and shoot the moon. Let's see how many moon shots appear on motorcycle blogs!
Psssttt.....pass the word......
Labels: meanderings
7.19.2008,1:19 PM
Meandering Sherpa
Anyone who has ridden a horse knows what it's like to resist giving the reins to the horse and letting it run on its own. Underneath you it wants to let loose and go; stretch its long front legs out in front and drive underneath itself with strong back legs, pushing off with that three-beat canter flying above the ground. And you want to feel it, too.
But circumstances usually prevent you both from flying. Perhaps its wisdom.
As I rolled out of my gravel driveway this morning onto the road I found my hand rolling the throttle of the Sherpa a bit too eager. The front end was nearly airborne in second gear. I remember the feeling when for a second Shadow's rear end pushed off underneath him and a front leg reached out in front. For that split second we were both airborn. It's an awesome feeling. And so it was when the front wheel nearly left the ground.
That second of euphoria was closely followed by the wizened 'Whoah, Nellie!' and the throttle was slowly backed off before shifting into third gear. Regardless, I let the pony run along the bumpy country road over creeks, whiz in between pastures and slow to a trot and walk at the intersection of the FM road into town. Time to behave.
Each time I ride the little bike on short jaunts into town I test my capabilities and limits. For each stop I practiced slowing down to nearly a stand-still before putting my left foot down on the tarmac and leaving my right on the peg. Balance was a bit awkward for awhile but it improved on the way home. Today was the first for backing the bike up; twice, actually. Again, a bit awkward and slow, but doable as long as the ground is level. Even better if we're parked on an incline; gravity is a blessing sometimes.
The 42-mile ride between 7 and 8 this morning was cool; a treat for a summer day in Texas when temperatures hover around 98-100 degrees F. The wind blew through my mesh gear and the helmet visor cracked open just enough to dose me with a welcome coolness. After exiting the interstate and riding down an empty FM road, I turned right onto the bumpy weed-encroached road to access the small airport. Stopping at the head of the single airstrip, I yielded to three small planes jockeying for take off and watched. The small airport was bustling this morning.
Pulling in front of the line of bikes at the tiny cafe alongside the strip, I had to find a spot quick before being decapitated by an approaching wing of the small plane taxing in for gas. We sandwiched ourselves between a blue Wee-strom and a likewise blue SV650. I chuckled at the incongruity of the two bikes: same manufacturer (Suzuki), same color (Suzuki blue), and almost same motors (detuned SV650 in the Wee-strom) but different purposes: sport bike and dualsport. Now in between them was a gaudy green naughty KLR250 pony with clunky knobby shoes and funny gray beak; a misfit.
The Sherpa was too close to the Wee-strom for me to disembark on the left, so the right foot and leg were tested this morning. Carefully putting my weight on the right leg and foot, I slowly lifted my left leg off and over the saddle and then froze: how am I going to put my leg down sandwiched between next to the SV? Carefully, oh so carefully. I learned I can't twist or hop on that right foot; not yet.
Pulling my sandals out of the tail bag, I limped over to a table outside in front of the cafe with greetings to several rider friends I hadn't seen in a long time, and one I'd seen the night before at Friday Night Ice Cream. Boots and socks were removed and shoved under my chair, feet squeezed into sandals with relief: Ahhh........
Nearly all who know me are familiar with my predilection for ice cream. A suggestion for breakfast was a new item menu: pancakes ala mode with sausage. Well, I just had to try it.
It was good. In fact, it was wonderful: cold ice cream on warm pancakes on a summer morning? How can anyone go wrong? Well, I was incapable of finishing it. The sausage went down quickly, but the pancakes were half eaten when I just couldn't fit any more into my stomach.
Spending some time chatting with fellow riders, lazily sitting at tables in the shade watching planes land and take off, sipping cups of coffee...... what a wonderful relaxing morning.
Little planes of many colors paraded down the airstrip. One really captured my attention. The paint job was truly magnificent: waving red stripes along side the body and white stars bedecking a blue nose. With matching slippers. It was a beauty.
Glancing at the line of bikes on my left, one caught my eye and held it. Finally I just grabbed the camera and narrowed in on the little nuances that pulled me to it. An absolutely pristine 2003 Yamaha Vmax stood like a black stallion amidst a herd of mustangs. This magnificent and powerful bike is in a class of its own; a fast bike and a work of mechanical art.
Another work of art nearby caught me. I've always liked Pat's helmet. And it's so.... unlike Pat.
Too soon it was time to don the gear and ride our separate ways. Feet were squeezed back into socks and boots, mesh gear zipped closed, helmet encasing head and..... I have to back up. With the left foot and leg pushing, the right foot serving only as a stabilizer, we managed to back out of our level spot. I would repeat this an hour or so later at the post office. It can be done, carefully, as long as gravity doesn't conspire against me.
I chose to ride home the long way round, down several FM back roads with little traffic, stopping at the post office in town. As I walked out with helmet and purchased stamps in hand, an older woman greeted me, "Ah, nice to see a helmet!!".
I smiled and nodded, "I wear it all the time; never leave home without it."
The ride home was delicious and fun. The pony was tired with an aching and slightly swollen ankle. Sitting on the couch with the entire foot wrapped in ice was a relief. Longer rides will require the pressure bandage, but next week's ride will be doable.
And so the Sherpa cantered and trotted today. Now safely home and tucked in; perhaps another little sprint tomorrow for coffee and phone calls to the family. A good day, I'd say.
But circumstances usually prevent you both from flying. Perhaps its wisdom.
As I rolled out of my gravel driveway this morning onto the road I found my hand rolling the throttle of the Sherpa a bit too eager. The front end was nearly airborne in second gear. I remember the feeling when for a second Shadow's rear end pushed off underneath him and a front leg reached out in front. For that split second we were both airborn. It's an awesome feeling. And so it was when the front wheel nearly left the ground.
That second of euphoria was closely followed by the wizened 'Whoah, Nellie!' and the throttle was slowly backed off before shifting into third gear. Regardless, I let the pony run along the bumpy country road over creeks, whiz in between pastures and slow to a trot and walk at the intersection of the FM road into town. Time to behave.
Each time I ride the little bike on short jaunts into town I test my capabilities and limits. For each stop I practiced slowing down to nearly a stand-still before putting my left foot down on the tarmac and leaving my right on the peg. Balance was a bit awkward for awhile but it improved on the way home. Today was the first for backing the bike up; twice, actually. Again, a bit awkward and slow, but doable as long as the ground is level. Even better if we're parked on an incline; gravity is a blessing sometimes.
The 42-mile ride between 7 and 8 this morning was cool; a treat for a summer day in Texas when temperatures hover around 98-100 degrees F. The wind blew through my mesh gear and the helmet visor cracked open just enough to dose me with a welcome coolness. After exiting the interstate and riding down an empty FM road, I turned right onto the bumpy weed-encroached road to access the small airport. Stopping at the head of the single airstrip, I yielded to three small planes jockeying for take off and watched. The small airport was bustling this morning.
Pulling in front of the line of bikes at the tiny cafe alongside the strip, I had to find a spot quick before being decapitated by an approaching wing of the small plane taxing in for gas. We sandwiched ourselves between a blue Wee-strom and a likewise blue SV650. I chuckled at the incongruity of the two bikes: same manufacturer (Suzuki), same color (Suzuki blue), and almost same motors (detuned SV650 in the Wee-strom) but different purposes: sport bike and dualsport. Now in between them was a gaudy green naughty KLR250 pony with clunky knobby shoes and funny gray beak; a misfit.
The Sherpa was too close to the Wee-strom for me to disembark on the left, so the right foot and leg were tested this morning. Carefully putting my weight on the right leg and foot, I slowly lifted my left leg off and over the saddle and then froze: how am I going to put my leg down sandwiched between next to the SV? Carefully, oh so carefully. I learned I can't twist or hop on that right foot; not yet.
Pulling my sandals out of the tail bag, I limped over to a table outside in front of the cafe with greetings to several rider friends I hadn't seen in a long time, and one I'd seen the night before at Friday Night Ice Cream. Boots and socks were removed and shoved under my chair, feet squeezed into sandals with relief: Ahhh........
Nearly all who know me are familiar with my predilection for ice cream. A suggestion for breakfast was a new item menu: pancakes ala mode with sausage. Well, I just had to try it.
It was good. In fact, it was wonderful: cold ice cream on warm pancakes on a summer morning? How can anyone go wrong? Well, I was incapable of finishing it. The sausage went down quickly, but the pancakes were half eaten when I just couldn't fit any more into my stomach.
Spending some time chatting with fellow riders, lazily sitting at tables in the shade watching planes land and take off, sipping cups of coffee...... what a wonderful relaxing morning.
Little planes of many colors paraded down the airstrip. One really captured my attention. The paint job was truly magnificent: waving red stripes along side the body and white stars bedecking a blue nose. With matching slippers. It was a beauty.
Glancing at the line of bikes on my left, one caught my eye and held it. Finally I just grabbed the camera and narrowed in on the little nuances that pulled me to it. An absolutely pristine 2003 Yamaha Vmax stood like a black stallion amidst a herd of mustangs. This magnificent and powerful bike is in a class of its own; a fast bike and a work of mechanical art.
Another work of art nearby caught me. I've always liked Pat's helmet. And it's so.... unlike Pat.
Too soon it was time to don the gear and ride our separate ways. Feet were squeezed back into socks and boots, mesh gear zipped closed, helmet encasing head and..... I have to back up. With the left foot and leg pushing, the right foot serving only as a stabilizer, we managed to back out of our level spot. I would repeat this an hour or so later at the post office. It can be done, carefully, as long as gravity doesn't conspire against me.
I chose to ride home the long way round, down several FM back roads with little traffic, stopping at the post office in town. As I walked out with helmet and purchased stamps in hand, an older woman greeted me, "Ah, nice to see a helmet!!".
I smiled and nodded, "I wear it all the time; never leave home without it."
The ride home was delicious and fun. The pony was tired with an aching and slightly swollen ankle. Sitting on the couch with the entire foot wrapped in ice was a relief. Longer rides will require the pressure bandage, but next week's ride will be doable.
And so the Sherpa cantered and trotted today. Now safely home and tucked in; perhaps another little sprint tomorrow for coffee and phone calls to the family. A good day, I'd say.
Labels: meanderings
2.25.2008,7:40 AM
Home
Home is where you hang your hat. Or, in our case, our helmets. 'Home' is where my heart hangs. In motion, silence, contemplation; beating, singing, howling, weeping. Home is where my heart is alive.
Late last night I returned from another journey into the Big Bend region. Only three days of riding, but it was 'home' in so many ways. After one full day of riding a grueling rocky, sandy, steep, pebbled, gravelly road that taxed me more than any other I have ridden in my life; where people have died from injuries or the heat; where dinosaurs stomped and time knows no unit of measurement but eternity..... I rode west on pavement into the dusk with shadows creeping across the mountains and desert floor, packs of javalinas waddling in search of food, coyotes romping across the sand, and owls hunched on rocks and poles waiting..... waiting for day to relent to night and the animals come out to play in the cool of the waning sun.
I grinned widely as the wind whipped my helmet and knobby clumps of rubber on my wheels grabbed the black and gray ribbons winding through the hills and desert floor. I felt as though I was a desert creature flying through my home territory, enjoying the luscious exhilaration of life and eternal time. I felt alone and alive.
It was wonderful.
Late last night I returned from another journey into the Big Bend region. Only three days of riding, but it was 'home' in so many ways. After one full day of riding a grueling rocky, sandy, steep, pebbled, gravelly road that taxed me more than any other I have ridden in my life; where people have died from injuries or the heat; where dinosaurs stomped and time knows no unit of measurement but eternity..... I rode west on pavement into the dusk with shadows creeping across the mountains and desert floor, packs of javalinas waddling in search of food, coyotes romping across the sand, and owls hunched on rocks and poles waiting..... waiting for day to relent to night and the animals come out to play in the cool of the waning sun.
I grinned widely as the wind whipped my helmet and knobby clumps of rubber on my wheels grabbed the black and gray ribbons winding through the hills and desert floor. I felt as though I was a desert creature flying through my home territory, enjoying the luscious exhilaration of life and eternal time. I felt alone and alive.
It was wonderful.
Labels: Big Bend, dirt, meanderings, Texas
1.28.2008,8:01 AM
Ninja Rider
This weekend was a strange mix of winter/spring weather. I woke up Saturday morning to dense fog and chilly temperatures. Because I was heading out to a TWT Pie Run on the Sherpa that morning I wore many many layers. I felt like the proverbial little kid in the snow suit with arms stuck out and waddling legs. I kept thinking about my heated grips and gear that I use on the Whee-strom the entire 53 miles to Ponder. And wishing I was on the Whee.
But the Whee was 'sick' and home under his cover so Sherpie was called into action that morning. I forewarned the rider following me on the ride that speeds would be conservative and to expect no one else to see us on the road in the fog. Having lived in Oregon for fourteen years I was used to dense fog. Texans here are not. It was rated the worst fog in fifty years. I just shrugged my shoulders and rode with extra caution.
The Sherpa took the rough winding curves of FM 407 like they were made for semi-knobby tires and a small bike. On the Whee, those curves elicit tank slappers at 10 mph less the speed I rode them on Saturday. The little bike flicks side to side so easily and grabs the road like it has big toes, I rarely shifted out of sixth gear. It was fun on the way, even more fun on the return trip when it was warmer.
Arriving at the Ranchman's Steakhouse in the tiny town of Ponder, Texas, I pulled in alongside other bikes in the middle of the street. The only place I know where parking is in the middle of the street. My fingertips were numb with cold and only hurt when the blood returned to them, pins and needles darting around under the skin and pouncing on pain receptors. I kept all my gear on except for the helmet until I entered the door before anyone else did. I knew the old gas stove would be on; warmth drew me in like a moth to a flame.
After lunch and a most delicious blackberry cobbler with ice cream, on with the gear again. The local riders have nicknamed me Miss Layers because I wear so many to stay warm. I lived in the North country long enough to develop a layer system: add for warmth, remove to cool as necessary. It works no matter where one lives.
Chuck caught me outside by the Sherpa geared up and ready to ride. The fog had recently lifted and the sun shone, but still not warm enough to remove any layers for riding. I am now 'Ninja Rider'.
Photo credit: Chuck Gilke
Ironically, the next day was warmer: in the 70's. For an urban trip in downtown Fort Worth, I rode the Sherpa again despite that the Whee was now repaired after yesterday's lunch. Riding the winding roads that hug Lake Worth, we found a network of single track! We plan to return and ride it on the little bikes another time.
Photo credit: Ed Hagarty
As well as being a Desert Rat, the Sherpa is a fantastic little Urban Assault bike. It wound in and through traffic and intersections like a wasp. It was a blast! In fact, it was so much fun we plan to do it again in the near future.
Of course, finding these large steeds prompted me to have the pony's photo taken with them. The ride home on a late Sunday afternoon was relatively devoid of traffic, warm, and, well, delicious.
Photo credit: Ed Hagarty
But the Whee was 'sick' and home under his cover so Sherpie was called into action that morning. I forewarned the rider following me on the ride that speeds would be conservative and to expect no one else to see us on the road in the fog. Having lived in Oregon for fourteen years I was used to dense fog. Texans here are not. It was rated the worst fog in fifty years. I just shrugged my shoulders and rode with extra caution.
The Sherpa took the rough winding curves of FM 407 like they were made for semi-knobby tires and a small bike. On the Whee, those curves elicit tank slappers at 10 mph less the speed I rode them on Saturday. The little bike flicks side to side so easily and grabs the road like it has big toes, I rarely shifted out of sixth gear. It was fun on the way, even more fun on the return trip when it was warmer.
Arriving at the Ranchman's Steakhouse in the tiny town of Ponder, Texas, I pulled in alongside other bikes in the middle of the street. The only place I know where parking is in the middle of the street. My fingertips were numb with cold and only hurt when the blood returned to them, pins and needles darting around under the skin and pouncing on pain receptors. I kept all my gear on except for the helmet until I entered the door before anyone else did. I knew the old gas stove would be on; warmth drew me in like a moth to a flame.
After lunch and a most delicious blackberry cobbler with ice cream, on with the gear again. The local riders have nicknamed me Miss Layers because I wear so many to stay warm. I lived in the North country long enough to develop a layer system: add for warmth, remove to cool as necessary. It works no matter where one lives.
Chuck caught me outside by the Sherpa geared up and ready to ride. The fog had recently lifted and the sun shone, but still not warm enough to remove any layers for riding. I am now 'Ninja Rider'.
Photo credit: Chuck Gilke
Ironically, the next day was warmer: in the 70's. For an urban trip in downtown Fort Worth, I rode the Sherpa again despite that the Whee was now repaired after yesterday's lunch. Riding the winding roads that hug Lake Worth, we found a network of single track! We plan to return and ride it on the little bikes another time.
Photo credit: Ed Hagarty
As well as being a Desert Rat, the Sherpa is a fantastic little Urban Assault bike. It wound in and through traffic and intersections like a wasp. It was a blast! In fact, it was so much fun we plan to do it again in the near future.
Of course, finding these large steeds prompted me to have the pony's photo taken with them. The ride home on a late Sunday afternoon was relatively devoid of traffic, warm, and, well, delicious.
Photo credit: Ed Hagarty
Labels: bikes, meanderings, Texas
12.20.2007,8:32 AM
Whose zoo is this?
"Wow.... what is that?" I thought as my bike's high beams bathed the gravel in front of me.
The muted gray driveway was spotted with dark leaves, a hint of moonlit color betraying their identities. Beige grass with only a hint of its former lively greenness nearly blended into the gravel, suggesting a border of a pathway lit only by bouncing light from my two headlights.
Ahead and around the corner was a tall form, ethereally standing still on the grass in front of the house and next to the gravel. Because of the light of the three-quarter moon filtering through the clouds, combined with the bike's lights, all I could barely discern was a light brown form, white chest and tall neck. A few seconds passed after I slowed, switched to low beams and realized that standing barely 50 feet ahead of me was a beautiful plump deer. As I slowly bled off speed and during one long breath, we looked at each other. I saw a rack of horns on a majestic head and wide black eyes in a long soft, light brown face. He held my eyes and I his as I slowly lowered both booted feet to the gravel and stopped.
With a quick glance to my right, he turned and lopped left off to the woods as the darkness swallowed him. I smiled and nodded. Then finished my ride around the house onto the gravel and anchored the sidestand, facing out toward the main road in the distance.
Over the three years I have lived here, the various creatures that live around me have sensed that I am not a creature to be feared. Fox, hawks, crows, egrets, frogs, toads, skunks, rabbit, turkeys, doves, raccoon, deer, coyotes, owls, even a stray bull, have found refuge on my little spot of solitude and sanctuary. I welcome them all. And like a protective caretaker, I feel angry when neighbors and others intrude on their habitat outside of my legal ground.
I live in a little zoo, a microcosm of natural life, as a guest. I live in a small humble cage and they roam free. But I shall work with my co-habitants to protect and preserve what we have here. Here, where I can be one of them to a small extent. It is this little spot of land and my zoo mates that restore and nurture the wild inside me and instill peace.
The muted gray driveway was spotted with dark leaves, a hint of moonlit color betraying their identities. Beige grass with only a hint of its former lively greenness nearly blended into the gravel, suggesting a border of a pathway lit only by bouncing light from my two headlights.
Ahead and around the corner was a tall form, ethereally standing still on the grass in front of the house and next to the gravel. Because of the light of the three-quarter moon filtering through the clouds, combined with the bike's lights, all I could barely discern was a light brown form, white chest and tall neck. A few seconds passed after I slowed, switched to low beams and realized that standing barely 50 feet ahead of me was a beautiful plump deer. As I slowly bled off speed and during one long breath, we looked at each other. I saw a rack of horns on a majestic head and wide black eyes in a long soft, light brown face. He held my eyes and I his as I slowly lowered both booted feet to the gravel and stopped.
With a quick glance to my right, he turned and lopped left off to the woods as the darkness swallowed him. I smiled and nodded. Then finished my ride around the house onto the gravel and anchored the sidestand, facing out toward the main road in the distance.
Over the three years I have lived here, the various creatures that live around me have sensed that I am not a creature to be feared. Fox, hawks, crows, egrets, frogs, toads, skunks, rabbit, turkeys, doves, raccoon, deer, coyotes, owls, even a stray bull, have found refuge on my little spot of solitude and sanctuary. I welcome them all. And like a protective caretaker, I feel angry when neighbors and others intrude on their habitat outside of my legal ground.
I live in a little zoo, a microcosm of natural life, as a guest. I live in a small humble cage and they roam free. But I shall work with my co-habitants to protect and preserve what we have here. Here, where I can be one of them to a small extent. It is this little spot of land and my zoo mates that restore and nurture the wild inside me and instill peace.
Labels: meanderings
11.30.2007,9:13 AM
Holy Buck!!
On the way home yesterday Whee and I almost had a four-point buck head adorning the bike. The many voices in my head saved the night.
Riding my Sweet Road home -the road with curves, dips, bridges and creeks, grazing horses, eerie trees overhanging the road, changes in temperatures, smells and scenes, bumps and crannies- while passing a horse pasture I saw in my headlights a buck. On the side of the road, my lane, front cloven hooves on the tarmac, looking at the other side of the road. Because he could. To see what he could see.
Instantly the adrenaline surged and the voices began calmly debating:
"Beep the horn?"
"No! The noise may startle him and he'll jump right on top of us."
"Swerve?"
"Not yet. Only as last resort. Considering our speed and trajectory point he'll be beside us, not in front of us."
"Hopefully."
"Brake; firmly but slowly, both wheels. Watch him for movement, then react accordingly. "
"Easy does it......"
Braking firmly but slowly, decreasing speed in the event of an impact, the crash would be less than if at higher speed. My heart pounding but head clear. I rode slowly by him while he stood still on the side of the road. If I had extended my arm and hand, I could have touched his head. As the rear wheel rode past the point of his head, he stepped back onto the shoulder.
And I breathed a sigh of relief. My heart still pounding.
Adrenaline.
Riding my Sweet Road home -the road with curves, dips, bridges and creeks, grazing horses, eerie trees overhanging the road, changes in temperatures, smells and scenes, bumps and crannies- while passing a horse pasture I saw in my headlights a buck. On the side of the road, my lane, front cloven hooves on the tarmac, looking at the other side of the road. Because he could. To see what he could see.
Instantly the adrenaline surged and the voices began calmly debating:
"Beep the horn?"
"No! The noise may startle him and he'll jump right on top of us."
"Swerve?"
"Not yet. Only as last resort. Considering our speed and trajectory point he'll be beside us, not in front of us."
"Hopefully."
"Brake; firmly but slowly, both wheels. Watch him for movement, then react accordingly. "
"Easy does it......"
Braking firmly but slowly, decreasing speed in the event of an impact, the crash would be less than if at higher speed. My heart pounding but head clear. I rode slowly by him while he stood still on the side of the road. If I had extended my arm and hand, I could have touched his head. As the rear wheel rode past the point of his head, he stepped back onto the shoulder.
And I breathed a sigh of relief. My heart still pounding.
Adrenaline.
Labels: commuting, meanderings
10.12.2007,9:12 AM
Bike Ballet to Tennessee
'What's that.... Oh shit! It's a giant raccoon right in my way!'
No conscious thought; reflexive swerve to the right, glance at wide-eyed, black-masked eyes staring at my front wheel as the raccoon pulls its tail away from my path. Despite the two-foot margin of error. Swerve back to the left and we're back on track.
One thing I love about my bike, my Whee-strom, is how it is so flickable. When the suspension is optimal, all I have to do is think about leaning or swerving and it flows like it was an extension of my body and mind. A lone road will often find me flicking side to side, even switching lanes on the highway, movement is fluid, side-to-side.
It's like ballet on a bike. It's almost sensual. Okay, it *is* sensual. Smooth fluid movement like a snake undulating along its snake path, my bike and I flick side-to-side, undulating down the road.
I found myself humming, almost skipping along the sidewalk from the train station to work this morning. The city still humbled under the barely lit sky, the noises didn't bother me.
"Why do you walk so fast?"
"I don't. You all move like slugs."
Zoom. I skip on by, smiling.
I'll be on the road again soon. Leave the lab in a few hours, drop the Whee off at the shop for a week, load Sherpie and gear, and I'm off to the mountains of eastern Tennessee. Stars, whispering wind, crisp air, rolling roads, dirt, water and dust. Silence. Big grins.
Y'all have a good weekend and week, ya hear?
And go for a ride.
No conscious thought; reflexive swerve to the right, glance at wide-eyed, black-masked eyes staring at my front wheel as the raccoon pulls its tail away from my path. Despite the two-foot margin of error. Swerve back to the left and we're back on track.
One thing I love about my bike, my Whee-strom, is how it is so flickable. When the suspension is optimal, all I have to do is think about leaning or swerving and it flows like it was an extension of my body and mind. A lone road will often find me flicking side to side, even switching lanes on the highway, movement is fluid, side-to-side.
It's like ballet on a bike. It's almost sensual. Okay, it *is* sensual. Smooth fluid movement like a snake undulating along its snake path, my bike and I flick side-to-side, undulating down the road.
I found myself humming, almost skipping along the sidewalk from the train station to work this morning. The city still humbled under the barely lit sky, the noises didn't bother me.
"Why do you walk so fast?"
"I don't. You all move like slugs."
Zoom. I skip on by, smiling.
I'll be on the road again soon. Leave the lab in a few hours, drop the Whee off at the shop for a week, load Sherpie and gear, and I'm off to the mountains of eastern Tennessee. Stars, whispering wind, crisp air, rolling roads, dirt, water and dust. Silence. Big grins.
Y'all have a good weekend and week, ya hear?
And go for a ride.
Labels: meanderings
9.26.2007,6:17 PM
Under a full moon
Couldn't sleep, got up, got ready and rode to the train station. Early (4:45 am).
Oh..... What a big full moon in the night sky, suspended like a large bright face lighting my way. The quiet language of the night, solitary roads with their lines rolling with me, the warmth of the growling engine on my legs, damp chill seeping in through the helmet and my sleeves, feeling the conversation between the road surface and my wheels. With that big bright ball bobbing in front of me, tantalizing me to keep going, feeding that spirited wildness inside as it meshes with the mechanical night beast between my legs and under my seat.
I love the full moon and it beckons me to ride through the darkness like a ghost on a gallant night steed. Searching for a place to rest as the light hearkens the day and the sun chases the moon away like hide-and-seek. Until it peeks over the horizon and rises again.
In a few days I'll be riding into the moon's path, bike carrying me and the few material things for shelter over the next several days. Back to the wild hills and the river. Where I can shed these ghosts that haunt me and return refreshed and renewed.
A ride-about.
Under the light of a full moon.
My best friends.
The moon.
And my bike.
Try it. Go for a ride under that full moon and let it guide your way, on the road and in your spirit.
Labels: meanderings
9.14.2007,7:40 AM
Wild things
Hoo-hooo.....hooo.....hooo....hoo
Outside my bedroom window was a duet of great horned owls. Their calls back and forth to each other were a lullaby gently waking me from sleep shortly after four this morning. One of the pair was close enough to my window I could hear its wings flutter. The other answered from the woods nearby.
Sliding my legs over the edge of the bed I softly walked to the window and heard the throaty hooting close enough that I wondered if it were perched on the roof or the grill outside the back door. By the time I lightly traversed the space between my bed and the back screen door, I saw the silhouette of the echoing owl land atop the utility pole about 150 feet from me. Against the barely lit sky, the owl fluttered its massive wings and settled on its perch to 'talk' to the owl nearest me. The deep throaty hoots of my feathered neighbor were answered with higher pitched hoots. I wondered if the perched owl atop the pole was a female, the mate to the obvious male nearly over my head.
I've seen one or both of this pair before in various places on my five acres. The first time was driving home one night and turning onto the private gravel road. Sometimes I shut my headlights off and let the parking lights light my way as I slowly drive to the house. To the right and front of the truck a massive pair of wings unfolded from a fence post and lifted a long thick body in front of me and up into the air. Without thinking, the words fell out of my mouth "Whoah! A dragon!", followed by a muffled giggle mixed with awe. Since then I've been told that owls with wingspans greater than five feet have been spotted in this area.
One evening after the sun had disappeared past the horizon I spotted the familiar silhouette of the same or similar owl atop one of the tall trees that border the pond. Sitting outside on the bench enjoying the transition from sunset to darkness, the large tufted ears revealed the big predator's identity. And with a fleeting lift of the heart I watched as it lifted its wings wide and gracefully slide off the branch to glide into the air and away. I could almost feel my arms and chest muscles expand and contract with its wings, somewhere inside me wishing I could do the same and fly.
Listening to the pair's conversation this morning I thought how nice it would be to hear only that and the noise of the other critters that inhabit the day and shuffle around in the night. Rather then the incessant and irritating gaggles and noises of humans on the train and in the cities with their load machines. It reminded me of the calling, the draw, the magnetic pull of the wild and natural places that I miss. Followed by the recalcitrant life I lead during most of the day, away from here, in the busy hive of human ants.
I smiled as I rode the foggy country roads this morning, parting the fog which engulfed me as if I were flying through clouds, enjoying the darkness of the houses and lack of life other than the owls, raccoons and their wild brethren. The wild world and fog eventually gave way to the warmer air and roads of the town and bustle of cars and trucks on their way to donate the better part of their day to have things that hold little interest to me anymore.
While the promise of some day being back amongst the wild things continues to motivate me through another day.
Outside my bedroom window was a duet of great horned owls. Their calls back and forth to each other were a lullaby gently waking me from sleep shortly after four this morning. One of the pair was close enough to my window I could hear its wings flutter. The other answered from the woods nearby.
Sliding my legs over the edge of the bed I softly walked to the window and heard the throaty hooting close enough that I wondered if it were perched on the roof or the grill outside the back door. By the time I lightly traversed the space between my bed and the back screen door, I saw the silhouette of the echoing owl land atop the utility pole about 150 feet from me. Against the barely lit sky, the owl fluttered its massive wings and settled on its perch to 'talk' to the owl nearest me. The deep throaty hoots of my feathered neighbor were answered with higher pitched hoots. I wondered if the perched owl atop the pole was a female, the mate to the obvious male nearly over my head.
I've seen one or both of this pair before in various places on my five acres. The first time was driving home one night and turning onto the private gravel road. Sometimes I shut my headlights off and let the parking lights light my way as I slowly drive to the house. To the right and front of the truck a massive pair of wings unfolded from a fence post and lifted a long thick body in front of me and up into the air. Without thinking, the words fell out of my mouth "Whoah! A dragon!", followed by a muffled giggle mixed with awe. Since then I've been told that owls with wingspans greater than five feet have been spotted in this area.
One evening after the sun had disappeared past the horizon I spotted the familiar silhouette of the same or similar owl atop one of the tall trees that border the pond. Sitting outside on the bench enjoying the transition from sunset to darkness, the large tufted ears revealed the big predator's identity. And with a fleeting lift of the heart I watched as it lifted its wings wide and gracefully slide off the branch to glide into the air and away. I could almost feel my arms and chest muscles expand and contract with its wings, somewhere inside me wishing I could do the same and fly.
Listening to the pair's conversation this morning I thought how nice it would be to hear only that and the noise of the other critters that inhabit the day and shuffle around in the night. Rather then the incessant and irritating gaggles and noises of humans on the train and in the cities with their load machines. It reminded me of the calling, the draw, the magnetic pull of the wild and natural places that I miss. Followed by the recalcitrant life I lead during most of the day, away from here, in the busy hive of human ants.
I smiled as I rode the foggy country roads this morning, parting the fog which engulfed me as if I were flying through clouds, enjoying the darkness of the houses and lack of life other than the owls, raccoons and their wild brethren. The wild world and fog eventually gave way to the warmer air and roads of the town and bustle of cars and trucks on their way to donate the better part of their day to have things that hold little interest to me anymore.
While the promise of some day being back amongst the wild things continues to motivate me through another day.
Labels: meanderings
9.11.2007,11:29 AM
Trans-America Trail on a Sherpa
Ever since I was a kid I had a dream of riding my horse across the country. Well, we're a hundred years too late and my horse is too old now. I know I can do it on the Whee (and already have ridden more than half way across) on pavement, but that's not really what I had envisioned. *This* is: Trans-America Trail.
Sam Correra suggests a bike no smaller than 400cc. But others have commented that the lighter the bike, the better. Other riders on bikes with displacement less than 400cc made it across and back. I think the Sherpa can make it, too.
I'm considering doing the trail from NM to Oregon next year, mostly camping. I won't have enough time off to do the entire trail, and I can ride TN to OK anytime since I live in TX. Besides, I'm a 'Go West!" person anyway.
Every once in awhile, you have to challenge yourself. Not track day, not Deal's Gap, not winning the lottery, not surviving a work week or marriage, not a Butt Run, not resisting buying the newest and latest techie toy.......but a challenge that tests your spirit, your faith, your trust, belief and reliance - in yourself.
I've tossed it around, mulled over it in my head for over a year. Bringing it closer to home as time passes. It becomes more real. Originally I had planned to do Alaska in '08, but this year's setbacks have postponed that until later. After making it through another Year from Hell, I need to do this. Everything and everyone else be damned. This is for me.
I've learned that there's only one person I can always depend on. Myself. So for a few weeks, I'll be leaving everything behind and going on the ultimate walk-about; a ride-about on two knobby wheels. This is the major reason I bought the Sherpie; to ride knobbies west on the roads less traveled.
I'm not leaving this life until I do.
Road Less Traveled
Trans-America Trail: Western section
Sam Correra suggests a bike no smaller than 400cc. But others have commented that the lighter the bike, the better. Other riders on bikes with displacement less than 400cc made it across and back. I think the Sherpa can make it, too.
I'm considering doing the trail from NM to Oregon next year, mostly camping. I won't have enough time off to do the entire trail, and I can ride TN to OK anytime since I live in TX. Besides, I'm a 'Go West!" person anyway.
Every once in awhile, you have to challenge yourself. Not track day, not Deal's Gap, not winning the lottery, not surviving a work week or marriage, not a Butt Run, not resisting buying the newest and latest techie toy.......but a challenge that tests your spirit, your faith, your trust, belief and reliance - in yourself.
I've tossed it around, mulled over it in my head for over a year. Bringing it closer to home as time passes. It becomes more real. Originally I had planned to do Alaska in '08, but this year's setbacks have postponed that until later. After making it through another Year from Hell, I need to do this. Everything and everyone else be damned. This is for me.
I've learned that there's only one person I can always depend on. Myself. So for a few weeks, I'll be leaving everything behind and going on the ultimate walk-about; a ride-about on two knobby wheels. This is the major reason I bought the Sherpie; to ride knobbies west on the roads less traveled.
I'm not leaving this life until I do.
Road Less Traveled
Trans-America Trail: Western section
Labels: meanderings
8.21.2007,7:45 AM
Froggy Morning
Did it rain frogs last night?
Opening the front door this morning to warm up the bike, there, square in the middle of the top step was ........ a large frog. I froze in mid-step and looked down at him, he up at me, unmoving.
"What do you want?"
No sooner did the last word leave my mouth and Mr. Frog leaped over the sill and into the house.
"Hey!!! What are you doing? I didn't invite you in!" The screen door slammed shut as I turned and started forward to catch Mr. Frog and return him to his own playground. He leaped again as I came near and what commenced was a jump and leap frog around the living room by both of us. A decaffeinated brain was slowly trying to comprehend and keep up with the faster moving bipedal body jumping after a leaping frog on the carpeted floor. A mixture of cussing and giggling emitted from my mouth as I followed it zigzagging around the room until I finally threw myself forward with one hand bracing my fall and the other outstretched and cupped to cover Mr. Frog before he could leap again.
Now cussing and sweaty in my gear and boots, Mr. Frog was cradled in both my hands and somehow with feet and elbows, I managed to open the door and step outside without it hitting me in the face. I set Mr. Frog down in the grass at the bottom of the steps and gave him a verbal scolding with a hearty laugh, then walked over to start the engine humming in the darkness.
After donning the remainder of my gear and packing the day's carried paraphernalia in the side bags, I settled myself on the wool-covered saddle and prepared to take off. Always performing a quick reconnaissance before take off, I noticed a rather oddly colored rock in front of the bike's wheel.
That wasn't a rock; it was a frog. And it was right in my front wheel's rolling path. A muffled voice in my helmet spoke, "No.... it can't be....."
The different shades of green and black, which could be discerned in the headlight glow, distinguished it from the former visitor (or shall we say 'intruder'?). Again, he or she looked up at me with little slitty black eyes as if it was either dumbfounded, blinded by the light, or trying to tell me something. I shook my helmeted head thinking I probably look like a giant alien from some weird waterless world. Or I'm seeing things. But I didn't want to run over it.
Honking my airhorns would have woken my neighbors and the dead within a mile, so that option was discarded. Get off the bike? No. My loud encouragements from the plastic round can over my head accomplished nothing. So I tried to back the bike on the gravel.
The bike now positioned at an angle to Mr. Frog No. 2 ("I'm not a number!!"), I slowly let the clutch out and inched forward and to the side of it. Just as the front wheel was about five inches from the frog, it leaped into the darkness and disappeared.
I giggled all the way out on gravel to the road to find sparse pockets of fog hovering over the roads until I wheeled into town eight miles away from home.
It was a froggy morning, indeed.
Rivet.....
Opening the front door this morning to warm up the bike, there, square in the middle of the top step was ........ a large frog. I froze in mid-step and looked down at him, he up at me, unmoving.
"What do you want?"
No sooner did the last word leave my mouth and Mr. Frog leaped over the sill and into the house.
"Hey!!! What are you doing? I didn't invite you in!" The screen door slammed shut as I turned and started forward to catch Mr. Frog and return him to his own playground. He leaped again as I came near and what commenced was a jump and leap frog around the living room by both of us. A decaffeinated brain was slowly trying to comprehend and keep up with the faster moving bipedal body jumping after a leaping frog on the carpeted floor. A mixture of cussing and giggling emitted from my mouth as I followed it zigzagging around the room until I finally threw myself forward with one hand bracing my fall and the other outstretched and cupped to cover Mr. Frog before he could leap again.
Now cussing and sweaty in my gear and boots, Mr. Frog was cradled in both my hands and somehow with feet and elbows, I managed to open the door and step outside without it hitting me in the face. I set Mr. Frog down in the grass at the bottom of the steps and gave him a verbal scolding with a hearty laugh, then walked over to start the engine humming in the darkness.
After donning the remainder of my gear and packing the day's carried paraphernalia in the side bags, I settled myself on the wool-covered saddle and prepared to take off. Always performing a quick reconnaissance before take off, I noticed a rather oddly colored rock in front of the bike's wheel.
That wasn't a rock; it was a frog. And it was right in my front wheel's rolling path. A muffled voice in my helmet spoke, "No.... it can't be....."
The different shades of green and black, which could be discerned in the headlight glow, distinguished it from the former visitor (or shall we say 'intruder'?). Again, he or she looked up at me with little slitty black eyes as if it was either dumbfounded, blinded by the light, or trying to tell me something. I shook my helmeted head thinking I probably look like a giant alien from some weird waterless world. Or I'm seeing things. But I didn't want to run over it.
Honking my airhorns would have woken my neighbors and the dead within a mile, so that option was discarded. Get off the bike? No. My loud encouragements from the plastic round can over my head accomplished nothing. So I tried to back the bike on the gravel.
The bike now positioned at an angle to Mr. Frog No. 2 ("I'm not a number!!"), I slowly let the clutch out and inched forward and to the side of it. Just as the front wheel was about five inches from the frog, it leaped into the darkness and disappeared.
I giggled all the way out on gravel to the road to find sparse pockets of fog hovering over the roads until I wheeled into town eight miles away from home.
It was a froggy morning, indeed.
Rivet.....
Labels: meanderings
8.12.2007,4:12 PM
Run for the Hills
Or Hill Country revisited.
Late one Friday night I decided I'm heading to the Hill Country again for a day ride.
I left at 7:15 am the next morning after gulping two cups of coffee and wolfing down four scrambled eggs. Ice and flavored water went into the Camelbac, stuffed the big Texas Atlas map in the side bag, and rode off.
Zigzagging down lonely narrow winding country roads, some with a double yellow line, others with no line, grass taller than I on the bike bending over the roadsides, horses and more horses of every color and size, goats, sheep, cows, turkeys, vultures feasting on roadkill, stately pecan groves full of mystique, big sky with sparse giant puffy clouds. Smells and odors of livestock, aromatic artemisias, wild sages, creosote bush and mesquite, freshly cut hay, running rivers and creeks, hawks and songbirds, turning windmills, the rugged hills and mesas of the Edward's Plateau, limestone shale, greens, yellows, blues, the silty brown of the Colorado and Perdenales Rivers, and the sun... it felt so good.
I stopped for lunch and ice cream in the small town of Cherokee, filled my camelbac with ice and tea when gassing up, waved to the bikes on the highways, but....... out on those country roads it was just me. Me running on two wheels and everything around me.
I was tempted to keep going south, getting a room somewhere and making it a weekend. The ride was so grand, I was vibrating within. I just wanted to keep going. But I had to return and tend to things requiring my attention.
During this ride, all the dust and lint blew out of my head. I didn't take any pictures; I didn't even set the trip meter. I didn't care. Several things were flung out and left behind. I felt lighter.
Riding home into the fading sun thirteen hours later, cold shower to wash off the dust, sweat and grime, full after stopping for bbq and cobbler on the way home.... and life is good.
It was my ride: for me, with me, and only me. And I loved it.
Late one Friday night I decided I'm heading to the Hill Country again for a day ride.
I left at 7:15 am the next morning after gulping two cups of coffee and wolfing down four scrambled eggs. Ice and flavored water went into the Camelbac, stuffed the big Texas Atlas map in the side bag, and rode off.
Zigzagging down lonely narrow winding country roads, some with a double yellow line, others with no line, grass taller than I on the bike bending over the roadsides, horses and more horses of every color and size, goats, sheep, cows, turkeys, vultures feasting on roadkill, stately pecan groves full of mystique, big sky with sparse giant puffy clouds. Smells and odors of livestock, aromatic artemisias, wild sages, creosote bush and mesquite, freshly cut hay, running rivers and creeks, hawks and songbirds, turning windmills, the rugged hills and mesas of the Edward's Plateau, limestone shale, greens, yellows, blues, the silty brown of the Colorado and Perdenales Rivers, and the sun... it felt so good.
I stopped for lunch and ice cream in the small town of Cherokee, filled my camelbac with ice and tea when gassing up, waved to the bikes on the highways, but....... out on those country roads it was just me. Me running on two wheels and everything around me.
I was tempted to keep going south, getting a room somewhere and making it a weekend. The ride was so grand, I was vibrating within. I just wanted to keep going. But I had to return and tend to things requiring my attention.
During this ride, all the dust and lint blew out of my head. I didn't take any pictures; I didn't even set the trip meter. I didn't care. Several things were flung out and left behind. I felt lighter.
Riding home into the fading sun thirteen hours later, cold shower to wash off the dust, sweat and grime, full after stopping for bbq and cobbler on the way home.... and life is good.
It was my ride: for me, with me, and only me. And I loved it.
Labels: meanderings
7.15.2007,9:41 PM
A Day in the Life
A normal Texas summer day: hot. The middle of July and finally summer arrives in Texas. I can shed my webbed toes and gills now.
Morning light and birds woke me this morning. After dragging myself out of bed and into the bathroom for morning duty, I savored an hour on the couch with coffee and enjoyed the cool 71 degree air while I could. The tall grass outside the living room windows glistened with dew in the morning sun. It was lovely. But I knew my pleasure would be short-lived.
Donning shorts, tank top, socks, work boots and a can of Off!, I mixed two gallons of Roundup in the sprayer and joyfully doused all the weeds in the gravel driveway and half of the private road. "Die, my Darlings!!" This was the third spray session this year, where normally only one is necessary. The unusually wet spring and summer have created jungles out of any ground that can support life.
Now wet with sweat, the boots came off to exchange for sandals; time to mow. Another battle with all the rain this year: keeping the grass manageable on five acres. After I returned from Arkansas, I finally gave up. I couldn't keep up with it all and decided to concentrate on the grass around the house, the septic system emitters, and along the driveway. This alone was daunting and has required I spend time after work and during weekends mowing.
I was over half-way done around the house when the rear tractor wheels sunk into a dip and lost traction. No going forward or back, just rear tires spinning. After several attempts with the old 'boards under the tires' method, I resorted to using the truck to tow it out of the rut.
Another hour or so and I had had enough. I was covered with grass chaff and dirt, mingled with bug repellent (which fire ants have no fear of), and sweat. After removing my clothes just inside the door, I headed for the shower and watched as a black watery stew of dirt and chaff ran streaks on the shower floor and down into the drain. The water was cool and felt good.
Barely dry, I pulled on thin cotton shorts and a clean tight tank top, then mesh gear over those with thin socks and the short vented riding boots. I pulled everything out of the bike's side bags, added a plastic bag with a book, map and computer printouts. Zipped up the side bags and made my way carefully along the gravel drive and road with tires pumped to the max with air. Once on the tarmac, I rolled the throttle open and down the road I rode like a fresh colt let out of a gate on a brisk morning.
Most of us that ride bikes have our favorite roads. They may be short, twisting, winding, a roller coaster, narrow, dirty, bumpy, wide and straight. They may be many things and sometimes nothing. I have several that I ride frequently and that I like for different reasons.
One that I ride nearly every week night is only a few miles long, but narrow, bumpy, twisty, dipping, over two creeks, canopied by great large oaks on one section and the other bordered by wide open pastures dotted with grazing horses. I like to ride this one at a moderately brisk pace, lean into the windings and hang body parts off the bike. Stand on the pegs when the bike falls into the dip and clanges over the edge of the bridge. Carefully gauge entry and exit around a turn with humps of asphalt that could throw wheels off their line, and shift down leaning hard to the left to make a left turn.
All stress and malice, sadness and frustration flies away as I ride my Sweet Road. I always find myself smiling barely a quarter of the way on the ride. When I stop and enter the highway with a hard lean and a knee out to the left side, the bike and I are like a musical note singing on the wind. And the remainder of the ride home is full of zen and a gentle spirit like a rocked baby.
Another favorite road is one I took today. Mostly a rolling straight ribbon of two-lane highway in rural Texas, discernibly meandering to the left and right between pastures and large empty spaces that typify the high open prairies of central northern Texas. The ride south imperceptibly climbs perhaps a hundred feet or so. But the return ride north reveals the elevation of the plateau I am on with wide expanses of the low prairies and thick oak forests below. Where the sky is greater than the land beneath it as if one could in a moment ride up and into the air like Mary Poppins on a bike.
Where my Sweet Road is cuddled by overhanging canopies of trees and with veins of creeks running underneath it, my High Road is a magical exciting ribbon up into the open sky where nothing will hold me down.
Turning off of my High Road and onto the highway, I ran with the four-wheeled greyhounds towards Fort Worth and an afternoon of self-indulgence. Carefully pulling into the parking lot, mindful of the many cars like playing a game of hopscotch, I pulled into an empty space under a tree and near the book store.
After removing my helmet, I proceeded my usual change of comfortable clothes right there next to the bike: pulled off the mesh jacket and pants, socks and boots, exposing the cooler shorts and tank top and shoving bare feet into sandals that I store in a side bag. I grabbed my book, maps and Army surplus pouch of highlighters and pens and walked into the bookstore cafe where I ordered an iced cafe mocha. I found a large table to spread map and printed information on routes and points of interest, mapped and listed a route for a three-day weekend in Oklahoma next month.
The trip is almost planned: numbered roads, towns, places to stop and explore, parks to camp at, other points of important interest to pay my respects and experience. And that old excitement sparks the fire and grows in anticipation. Another bike trip; alone. I've needed one all year. Albeit short compared to last year's adventure, I have to work within time and financial constraints. Yet, this one will be worthwhile, rewarding and special.
Me, the bike, the roads and the world that unfolds before me.
Feeling gentle nudges of hunger, but for nothing heavy, I wandered down to the Purple Cow for an ice cream. Nothing is better for the mind and the gullet on a hot Texas weekend day than a bowl of ice cream. Mmmm, mmmmm, mmm.
After ice cream, I stealthily made my way to Central Market for the week's groceries. Carrying a basket and a homing device, I muscled my way down the aisles around people like a quarterback with the ball in his arm running for home. I know what I want and have only one thing in mind: pick up and get out. God forbid those who get in my way.
Switching hands frequently with the heavily laden basket I put it on the counter and in a joking voice covering a hint of seriousness said: "Well, I made it to the counter and now I have to make it home on the bike with all of this before it all melts". I smiled as I answered the woman's question of where I lived and her look of shock; "Oh, twenty miles or so."
I assured her I do this all the time and I make it home before the cold and frozen items warm or thaw. I explained that I distribute the weight of everything evenly between the two side bags on my bike. The real test, of course, is making it home with not one egg broken in their cardboard container. She shook her head and I left the store.
Placing the bags of items on the grass in the shade I donned my gear, placed the bags in the side bags with the book and papers, strategically placed the eggs on top and under my cushy sandals, zipped the bags closed and started the bike.
Out of the parking lot and onto the highway towards home. Again I rode my High Road back, grinning and feeling like an astronaut as I watched the low prairies unfold below me and the sky rein over head in all its blue majesty. Somewhere down there was a five-acre plot of grass and pond that I call home.
After navigating the gravel and coming to a halt, the bags of food, books and papers were unloaded and taken inside. The bike was prepared for its weekly routine of commutes every day by replacing the tail bag for storing my helmet, sandals and bike cover. I watched the sunset in a blazing thin red line on the western horizon and now listen to the cicadas and crickets herald in the night, all of us caressed by a slight cool breeze.
A day in the life of a bike and its rider. Until the next day dawns.
Morning light and birds woke me this morning. After dragging myself out of bed and into the bathroom for morning duty, I savored an hour on the couch with coffee and enjoyed the cool 71 degree air while I could. The tall grass outside the living room windows glistened with dew in the morning sun. It was lovely. But I knew my pleasure would be short-lived.
Donning shorts, tank top, socks, work boots and a can of Off!, I mixed two gallons of Roundup in the sprayer and joyfully doused all the weeds in the gravel driveway and half of the private road. "Die, my Darlings!!" This was the third spray session this year, where normally only one is necessary. The unusually wet spring and summer have created jungles out of any ground that can support life.
Now wet with sweat, the boots came off to exchange for sandals; time to mow. Another battle with all the rain this year: keeping the grass manageable on five acres. After I returned from Arkansas, I finally gave up. I couldn't keep up with it all and decided to concentrate on the grass around the house, the septic system emitters, and along the driveway. This alone was daunting and has required I spend time after work and during weekends mowing.
I was over half-way done around the house when the rear tractor wheels sunk into a dip and lost traction. No going forward or back, just rear tires spinning. After several attempts with the old 'boards under the tires' method, I resorted to using the truck to tow it out of the rut.
Another hour or so and I had had enough. I was covered with grass chaff and dirt, mingled with bug repellent (which fire ants have no fear of), and sweat. After removing my clothes just inside the door, I headed for the shower and watched as a black watery stew of dirt and chaff ran streaks on the shower floor and down into the drain. The water was cool and felt good.
Barely dry, I pulled on thin cotton shorts and a clean tight tank top, then mesh gear over those with thin socks and the short vented riding boots. I pulled everything out of the bike's side bags, added a plastic bag with a book, map and computer printouts. Zipped up the side bags and made my way carefully along the gravel drive and road with tires pumped to the max with air. Once on the tarmac, I rolled the throttle open and down the road I rode like a fresh colt let out of a gate on a brisk morning.
Most of us that ride bikes have our favorite roads. They may be short, twisting, winding, a roller coaster, narrow, dirty, bumpy, wide and straight. They may be many things and sometimes nothing. I have several that I ride frequently and that I like for different reasons.
One that I ride nearly every week night is only a few miles long, but narrow, bumpy, twisty, dipping, over two creeks, canopied by great large oaks on one section and the other bordered by wide open pastures dotted with grazing horses. I like to ride this one at a moderately brisk pace, lean into the windings and hang body parts off the bike. Stand on the pegs when the bike falls into the dip and clanges over the edge of the bridge. Carefully gauge entry and exit around a turn with humps of asphalt that could throw wheels off their line, and shift down leaning hard to the left to make a left turn.
All stress and malice, sadness and frustration flies away as I ride my Sweet Road. I always find myself smiling barely a quarter of the way on the ride. When I stop and enter the highway with a hard lean and a knee out to the left side, the bike and I are like a musical note singing on the wind. And the remainder of the ride home is full of zen and a gentle spirit like a rocked baby.
Another favorite road is one I took today. Mostly a rolling straight ribbon of two-lane highway in rural Texas, discernibly meandering to the left and right between pastures and large empty spaces that typify the high open prairies of central northern Texas. The ride south imperceptibly climbs perhaps a hundred feet or so. But the return ride north reveals the elevation of the plateau I am on with wide expanses of the low prairies and thick oak forests below. Where the sky is greater than the land beneath it as if one could in a moment ride up and into the air like Mary Poppins on a bike.
Where my Sweet Road is cuddled by overhanging canopies of trees and with veins of creeks running underneath it, my High Road is a magical exciting ribbon up into the open sky where nothing will hold me down.
Turning off of my High Road and onto the highway, I ran with the four-wheeled greyhounds towards Fort Worth and an afternoon of self-indulgence. Carefully pulling into the parking lot, mindful of the many cars like playing a game of hopscotch, I pulled into an empty space under a tree and near the book store.
After removing my helmet, I proceeded my usual change of comfortable clothes right there next to the bike: pulled off the mesh jacket and pants, socks and boots, exposing the cooler shorts and tank top and shoving bare feet into sandals that I store in a side bag. I grabbed my book, maps and Army surplus pouch of highlighters and pens and walked into the bookstore cafe where I ordered an iced cafe mocha. I found a large table to spread map and printed information on routes and points of interest, mapped and listed a route for a three-day weekend in Oklahoma next month.
The trip is almost planned: numbered roads, towns, places to stop and explore, parks to camp at, other points of important interest to pay my respects and experience. And that old excitement sparks the fire and grows in anticipation. Another bike trip; alone. I've needed one all year. Albeit short compared to last year's adventure, I have to work within time and financial constraints. Yet, this one will be worthwhile, rewarding and special.
Me, the bike, the roads and the world that unfolds before me.
Feeling gentle nudges of hunger, but for nothing heavy, I wandered down to the Purple Cow for an ice cream. Nothing is better for the mind and the gullet on a hot Texas weekend day than a bowl of ice cream. Mmmm, mmmmm, mmm.
After ice cream, I stealthily made my way to Central Market for the week's groceries. Carrying a basket and a homing device, I muscled my way down the aisles around people like a quarterback with the ball in his arm running for home. I know what I want and have only one thing in mind: pick up and get out. God forbid those who get in my way.
Switching hands frequently with the heavily laden basket I put it on the counter and in a joking voice covering a hint of seriousness said: "Well, I made it to the counter and now I have to make it home on the bike with all of this before it all melts". I smiled as I answered the woman's question of where I lived and her look of shock; "Oh, twenty miles or so."
I assured her I do this all the time and I make it home before the cold and frozen items warm or thaw. I explained that I distribute the weight of everything evenly between the two side bags on my bike. The real test, of course, is making it home with not one egg broken in their cardboard container. She shook her head and I left the store.
Placing the bags of items on the grass in the shade I donned my gear, placed the bags in the side bags with the book and papers, strategically placed the eggs on top and under my cushy sandals, zipped the bags closed and started the bike.
Out of the parking lot and onto the highway towards home. Again I rode my High Road back, grinning and feeling like an astronaut as I watched the low prairies unfold below me and the sky rein over head in all its blue majesty. Somewhere down there was a five-acre plot of grass and pond that I call home.
After navigating the gravel and coming to a halt, the bags of food, books and papers were unloaded and taken inside. The bike was prepared for its weekly routine of commutes every day by replacing the tail bag for storing my helmet, sandals and bike cover. I watched the sunset in a blazing thin red line on the western horizon and now listen to the cicadas and crickets herald in the night, all of us caressed by a slight cool breeze.
A day in the life of a bike and its rider. Until the next day dawns.
Labels: meanderings
6.23.2007,8:37 PM
A Beautiful Day
Days like these make change for the big down payment of busy and doldrum life during the week.
A perfect day: scattered puffs of clouds in the ceiling expanse of blue sky, a breeze that flirts with your hair and teasingly brushes against your face, tickling your skin.
A good day for a ride.
Two riders prancing along the asphalt: sometimes bumpy and broken, straight stretches blending into gentle curves. Roads hug the edge of the lake, carving through expanses of open green pastures, over swollen creeks, roller coasters on the prairie. The thumps over railroad tracks, standing on pegs and letting the knees absorb the impact, gliding in between white pipe fencing guarding pastures with sleek horses grazing, tails lazily swishing flies, tractors mowing fields for hay.
I follow the rider ahead of me taking his cue as he leans into the curves and flicks side to side on long sweeps like a graceful gazelle on the savanna. I smile as I follow him, shifting my weight side to side, leaning forward and over into the insides of the curves........ I surprised myself how natural and smooth it feels, so 'right'.......it all flows: the bike, the road and me.
"Trust the bike," I tell myself. "Give yourself to it."
And I relax,
we mesh,
the curves,
the road,
the bike and I.
I eagerly look forward to the time I can match the pace and grace of the rider in front of me.
In time.
In time, it will come.
After lunch and ice cream we rode off our separate ways. On the way home, drawn by the irresistible round sign of the Green Coffee Goddess, I pulled in for a relaxing iced mocha, toe tapping music and friendly conversation with strangers. Others seem to be infused with the pleasant day and we all share the overlapping edges of each individual's enjoyment of their day.
I am reminded that no matter how often I find myself lurking on the edges of this busy buzzing hive of humanity, we're all bozos on this bus. We're all alike more than our differences.
Smile and they will smile back.
So I sit here in an overstuffed chair, socked feet and legs in mesh gear flung over its arm, writing this on a beige paper napkin with these thoughts flowing out of my head, down through my fingers to become black scribblings that may or may not have meaning to whomever reads them.
What a beautiful day.
A perfect day: scattered puffs of clouds in the ceiling expanse of blue sky, a breeze that flirts with your hair and teasingly brushes against your face, tickling your skin.
A good day for a ride.
Two riders prancing along the asphalt: sometimes bumpy and broken, straight stretches blending into gentle curves. Roads hug the edge of the lake, carving through expanses of open green pastures, over swollen creeks, roller coasters on the prairie. The thumps over railroad tracks, standing on pegs and letting the knees absorb the impact, gliding in between white pipe fencing guarding pastures with sleek horses grazing, tails lazily swishing flies, tractors mowing fields for hay.
I follow the rider ahead of me taking his cue as he leans into the curves and flicks side to side on long sweeps like a graceful gazelle on the savanna. I smile as I follow him, shifting my weight side to side, leaning forward and over into the insides of the curves........ I surprised myself how natural and smooth it feels, so 'right'.......it all flows: the bike, the road and me.
"Trust the bike," I tell myself. "Give yourself to it."
And I relax,
we mesh,
the curves,
the road,
the bike and I.
I eagerly look forward to the time I can match the pace and grace of the rider in front of me.
In time.
In time, it will come.
After lunch and ice cream we rode off our separate ways. On the way home, drawn by the irresistible round sign of the Green Coffee Goddess, I pulled in for a relaxing iced mocha, toe tapping music and friendly conversation with strangers. Others seem to be infused with the pleasant day and we all share the overlapping edges of each individual's enjoyment of their day.
I am reminded that no matter how often I find myself lurking on the edges of this busy buzzing hive of humanity, we're all bozos on this bus. We're all alike more than our differences.
Smile and they will smile back.
So I sit here in an overstuffed chair, socked feet and legs in mesh gear flung over its arm, writing this on a beige paper napkin with these thoughts flowing out of my head, down through my fingers to become black scribblings that may or may not have meaning to whomever reads them.
What a beautiful day.
Labels: meanderings
6.06.2007,11:04 AM
Orthopedist on a Motorcycle
"No, I will not stop riding my bike!"
That was my closing comment to the orthopedist during my first visit last week. After a lengthly diatribe on the merits of riding a motorcycle with an explanation of the ergonomics.
I've been told numerous times I "know enough to be dangerous". Au contraire, dear doctors. Because I'm a biologist and pro-active in my own health care, quite often I am either debating medical treatment or diagnoses, badgering MDs with questions, or educating them. Sometimes all of the former. I walk into their offices as an informed consumer with knowledge of anatomy/biology/physiology.
Some doctors don't like to be questioned. Others are receptive to inquiries and exchange.
Years of physical overuse and a weight lifting injury finally let me know enough was enough. Eleven years ago an early morning session in the gym lifting a bar with 275 pounds in pretty black plates for eight repetitions tore ligaments in my sacroilliac and lower lumbar. I remember feeling a tight sensation deep in my low back but not painful enough to hit my ego in the head and knock it unconscious, so I finished my set of ten reps and went into the shower room.
"Hmm.....I'm going to be sore tomorrow."
I continued on with my daily life working, running sheep and horses and light weight training thinking I had pulled a muscle.
"Pulled a muscle again; it'll be better in a few weeks."
Wrong.
Over several months the soreness had developed into a chronic ache and then debilitating pain. After two years of different doctors and treatment, x-rays revealed a collapsed and herniated disc at L4-L5, arthritis in the vertebrae, the iliac crests, the left acetabulum and femoral head (yes, folks; that is what the hip joint is - where the ball at the top of your leg bone rotates in a cup of bone). Many of the ligaments that hold the the two iliac crests to the sacrum (see image below) were torn. So the ilium in my pelvis flop around and move out of place all the time. Or as one of my weight lifting buddies commented, I have a broken ass.
Surgery to fuse the two discs together was recommended and the prognosis was I would never lift weights again. The first received an immediate "No!" and the latter was like keeping a duck from water. I continued to weight train, but my powerlifting training and career was severely curtailed. Although I went on to win two records in the bench press, I've struggled with squats and my dearly beloved deadlifts were relegated to weanie weights. And I had to learn to park my ego at the gym door and disable its homing device.
With the help of a very close friend who is a sports physiologist, and a chiropractor extraordinaire in Austin, Texas, I learned how to manage the chronic inflammation and pain, be pro-active in my own treatment, weight train for rehab, and avoid surgery. But it is now, and forever will be, a part of my daily and routine life.
Due to a recent flare-up of arthritis and pain in the sacroiliac area and the left hip joint, I had an appointment with a local orthopedist. After relating the long history and discussing treatments, he was astonished that I ride a motorcycle every day.
"Perhaps you should consider not riding a motorcycle."
"Absolutely not. In fact, it helps reduce the incidence of pain."
In response to the furrowed brow, questioning in the eyes and look of "this woman is nuts", I embarked on his route to enlightenment before the words spilled out of his open mouth.
I explained that while riding a bike *could* exacerbate the spinal and pelvic issues, that depends on the bike ridden and style of riding. I described and compared the ergonomics of riding the typical cruiser and other bikes:
I often practice tightening my abs which supports my low back and even shifts weight off my arms and hands. This makes for relaxed control of the handlebars and the controls. This way I can sense feedback from the road through the bike and my control of the levers is more responsive rather than grabbing and weighted.
I spent several minutes explaining this verbally and with gestures to demonstrate the ergonomics. And then concluded by explaining and demonstrating why driving my truck and sitting in chairs elicits discomfort with increased pain after a short time.
He sat there listening, watching, nodded, lifted his eyebrows, blinked his eyes, and finally conceded: "Interesting. I never knew all that about riding a motorcycle."
I walked out of his office with a prescription for pain meds and an appointment for x-rays. After all, it's been four years since imaging my skeleton. Time to see what's cooking in there again. He saw me to the door with a handshake, a 'thank you' for the riding lesson, and a "Be safe out there."
I caught him shaking his head and smiling as he watched me don my gear and mount my two wheeled mustang for my ride home down the road: a skeleton on two wheels.
That was my closing comment to the orthopedist during my first visit last week. After a lengthly diatribe on the merits of riding a motorcycle with an explanation of the ergonomics.
I've been told numerous times I "know enough to be dangerous". Au contraire, dear doctors. Because I'm a biologist and pro-active in my own health care, quite often I am either debating medical treatment or diagnoses, badgering MDs with questions, or educating them. Sometimes all of the former. I walk into their offices as an informed consumer with knowledge of anatomy/biology/physiology.
Some doctors don't like to be questioned. Others are receptive to inquiries and exchange.
Years of physical overuse and a weight lifting injury finally let me know enough was enough. Eleven years ago an early morning session in the gym lifting a bar with 275 pounds in pretty black plates for eight repetitions tore ligaments in my sacroilliac and lower lumbar. I remember feeling a tight sensation deep in my low back but not painful enough to hit my ego in the head and knock it unconscious, so I finished my set of ten reps and went into the shower room.
"Hmm.....I'm going to be sore tomorrow."
I continued on with my daily life working, running sheep and horses and light weight training thinking I had pulled a muscle.
"Pulled a muscle again; it'll be better in a few weeks."
Wrong.
Over several months the soreness had developed into a chronic ache and then debilitating pain. After two years of different doctors and treatment, x-rays revealed a collapsed and herniated disc at L4-L5, arthritis in the vertebrae, the iliac crests, the left acetabulum and femoral head (yes, folks; that is what the hip joint is - where the ball at the top of your leg bone rotates in a cup of bone). Many of the ligaments that hold the the two iliac crests to the sacrum (see image below) were torn. So the ilium in my pelvis flop around and move out of place all the time. Or as one of my weight lifting buddies commented, I have a broken ass.
Surgery to fuse the two discs together was recommended and the prognosis was I would never lift weights again. The first received an immediate "No!" and the latter was like keeping a duck from water. I continued to weight train, but my powerlifting training and career was severely curtailed. Although I went on to win two records in the bench press, I've struggled with squats and my dearly beloved deadlifts were relegated to weanie weights. And I had to learn to park my ego at the gym door and disable its homing device.
With the help of a very close friend who is a sports physiologist, and a chiropractor extraordinaire in Austin, Texas, I learned how to manage the chronic inflammation and pain, be pro-active in my own treatment, weight train for rehab, and avoid surgery. But it is now, and forever will be, a part of my daily and routine life.
Due to a recent flare-up of arthritis and pain in the sacroiliac area and the left hip joint, I had an appointment with a local orthopedist. After relating the long history and discussing treatments, he was astonished that I ride a motorcycle every day.
"Perhaps you should consider not riding a motorcycle."
"Absolutely not. In fact, it helps reduce the incidence of pain."
In response to the furrowed brow, questioning in the eyes and look of "this woman is nuts", I embarked on his route to enlightenment before the words spilled out of his open mouth.
I explained that while riding a bike *could* exacerbate the spinal and pelvic issues, that depends on the bike ridden and style of riding. I described and compared the ergonomics of riding the typical cruiser and other bikes:
- *on a cruiser, the rider is sitting upright, feet and legs forward, arms reaching forward to the controls resulting in the so called "flying C" posture. If you look at most cruiser riders from the side, their line of body forms a large open 'C'. Their spine is curved and all four limbs reaching forward. All weight is transferred down through the spine onto their butts. And all impact of the bike and rider on the road is transferred up the spine. It makes my back hurt just looking at them.
- *sport bike ergonomics are the opposite: extreme forward lean, sharp angle of the hip, knee and ankle joints, hugging the gas tank...what I refer to as the 'riding fetal position'. Most of the weight is borne through the hands, up the arms, into the neck and traps. And most sport bike riders, like most of the general public, have poor abdominal strength to support their low back. So often times sports bike riders complain about sore traps and low backs.
- *most dual sport bikes are a hybrid of the two above. One can sit upright, or ride with varying levels of forward lean. The bikes usually allow the rider to scoot forward or back whenever they choose. That ability to change position while riding is adventitious. Also, the pegs usually placed under the hips of the rider allows one to stand up on them, lifting the butt, and the spine, off the seat. Invaluable for riding on uneven, bumpy and often pot-holed terrain, the legs and knees then absorbing the shock and not the spine.
I often practice tightening my abs which supports my low back and even shifts weight off my arms and hands. This makes for relaxed control of the handlebars and the controls. This way I can sense feedback from the road through the bike and my control of the levers is more responsive rather than grabbing and weighted.
I spent several minutes explaining this verbally and with gestures to demonstrate the ergonomics. And then concluded by explaining and demonstrating why driving my truck and sitting in chairs elicits discomfort with increased pain after a short time.
He sat there listening, watching, nodded, lifted his eyebrows, blinked his eyes, and finally conceded: "Interesting. I never knew all that about riding a motorcycle."
I walked out of his office with a prescription for pain meds and an appointment for x-rays. After all, it's been four years since imaging my skeleton. Time to see what's cooking in there again. He saw me to the door with a handshake, a 'thank you' for the riding lesson, and a "Be safe out there."
I caught him shaking his head and smiling as he watched me don my gear and mount my two wheeled mustang for my ride home down the road: a skeleton on two wheels.
Labels: meanderings
5.09.2007,12:46 PM
Many Horses
My five acres of sanctuary, or my Castle Made of Sand, is like a jungle. The incessant rain here in north Texas has filled my pond for the first time in three years. But the grass is now over a foot high in places. Add water, stir and wallah! Grass.
My 24hp tractor could not be woken from its winter slumber. And it grew a beard of dust, cobwebs, mouse and bird droppings, you name it. Digging out the manual, I pretended to be 'mechanic' and try to get it up and running.
Somehow, I did. I have no idea what I did, but he fired up Monday night. Reluctantly. Letting it run and recharge the low battery, I planned an attack. How was my little 48" deck underneath the tractor going to handle this tall jungle grass?
No better way than to dig in and find out. First thing on the list was cut a swath around the house to ride the bike on. Lately I've been pulling out on the road and riding for several miles with grass stuck on my pegs and elsewhere. And I arrive at the train station with grass on my overpants. I get odd looks.........
Then mow close to the house, especially the walkway. I get wet up to my knees when I go to or leave the house. After that, maybe I'll cut a trail around the five acres for a bike path; practice my offroad, prairie-grass riding skills. But not in the pond. I don't have pontoons on the bike.
Every evening after work, I ride a different four-wheeled loud pig: the tractor called 'Many Horses'. In some ways, its relaxing. I watched the clouds in the sky play with the setting sun last night as I went around in giant circles.
All in a day's work.
My 24hp tractor could not be woken from its winter slumber. And it grew a beard of dust, cobwebs, mouse and bird droppings, you name it. Digging out the manual, I pretended to be 'mechanic' and try to get it up and running.
Somehow, I did. I have no idea what I did, but he fired up Monday night. Reluctantly. Letting it run and recharge the low battery, I planned an attack. How was my little 48" deck underneath the tractor going to handle this tall jungle grass?
No better way than to dig in and find out. First thing on the list was cut a swath around the house to ride the bike on. Lately I've been pulling out on the road and riding for several miles with grass stuck on my pegs and elsewhere. And I arrive at the train station with grass on my overpants. I get odd looks.........
Then mow close to the house, especially the walkway. I get wet up to my knees when I go to or leave the house. After that, maybe I'll cut a trail around the five acres for a bike path; practice my offroad, prairie-grass riding skills. But not in the pond. I don't have pontoons on the bike.
Every evening after work, I ride a different four-wheeled loud pig: the tractor called 'Many Horses'. In some ways, its relaxing. I watched the clouds in the sky play with the setting sun last night as I went around in giant circles.
All in a day's work.
Labels: meanderings
5.05.2007,2:35 AM
Plugs and Ponderings
This is a report from the midnight trenches of windy Texas.
Or put simply, I can't sleep again. My nights the past two weeks have been......restless. I wake, can't turn the head off, and can't go back to sleep.
So here I sit on the couch, enjoying the breeze whispering though the windows, the night sounds of insects and frogs, the squeak of the windmill near by (I do wish they would oil that thing), and the solitude of the darkness.
Earlier I learned how to change the plugs in the Whee. Two other Strommers arrived here in the drizzle; we sat and shared iced tea and stories waiting for a reprieve from the warm drizzle to work on the bikes. Our luck rewarded us eventually and we proceeded to remove the fairings and cowlings from the two bikes.
In anticipation of removing the gas tanks, Fred and I had nearly empty tanks. They came off the bikes easily enough. The plug for one cylinder is easily accessible under the tank. Removing the plug wire, we removed the plug for scrutiny. It didn't look too worse for wear after 17,000 miles of firing and the gap was still within range. It was replaced with the new double pin plug after gaping at 7mm. Plop the baby back in its metal bassinet and it was good to go.
The other plug was more troublesome to access: behind the radiator. Fred was able to merely loosen his radiator and pivot it forward to get at the plug. Because the engine guards impeded pivoting the radiator on Whee, we had to loosen the guard on the left and push it out of the way. We finally removed the plug from the other cylinder and it was comparable to the other with a bit more particulate matter on the electrode. With the new plug in place, we tightened everything.
I removed the top of the airbox to find moths, flies, dust, road debris, etc embedded in the filter. Hooking up the small air compressor, I blew out all the debris and wiped it all down making sure the gasket was also free of dust. The inside of the airbox was cleaned of a slight oil film with a paper towel and the cleaned filter was reassembled inside the airbox.
Chuck showed me where the throttle bodies are located and explained the procedure to synch those, adjust the throttle sensor and all the minor details involved with that. I'm going to wait until I have the valves checked to have that done. The valve inspection will be handed off to Cliff at Piper Performance; I trust his work and he takes the time to show me how he does it. An ex-racer himself, he 'knows' bikes intimately and takes pride in his work. As Persig call's it, his work has 'quality'. Besides, I love to listen to his stories from his racing days.
At 17,000 miles....... in nine months. I wonder sometimes where I've ridden these past nine months. The places I've gone and all that I've seen. All the experiences to which are added to monthly, even weekly.
I love my bike. I can't think of another bike that would have given me so much pleasure, so much of an opportunity to live and learn. Each ride seems to have it's own experiences, adding to the expanding file of memories; most good, some bad. Sometimes they've really tested my mettle, and I've learned more of what I'm made of. Such as last Wednesday, two weeks ago, last September, last July. I've traveled widely in many four-wheeled vehicles over my life and never have I had such rewarding adventures as I have had on this bike. And met so many others that share a similar adventure spirit.
"Four wheels carry the body, two wheels move the soul"
After our brief and rewarding wrenching session, we rode to the Ranchman's Steakhouse in Ponder. A 44-mile ride, the short way. Because the day was fastly disappearing, I suggested a route that was more direct than my usual 'Long Way' there. After gearing up and filling the tanks, we were off through the small towns of Azle, Boyd, Rhome, Justin and arriving at the even smaller town of Ponder. The ride was a test of stoppings; we hit nearly every red light (literally; we hit one green light), and then a train. I threw up my hands at the train and laughed along with Fred. It seemed our Karma today was Stop Practice, including some quick stops.
The wind was strongly gusting and trying to push us into a continuous lean to the north and challenge us on the bends of FM407. Normally those curves are fun to ride, but with the wind and the ruts in the road we took them slower than normal. The gray day allowed us to ride comfortably with moderate temperatures despite the humidity.
And it was refreshing to just go for a ride; two V-stroms on a ride to Ponder.
It's soothing for a restless head.
The blackberry cobbler with ice cream was absolutely delicious.
Sipping the last drop of my warm milk, perhaps I can now sleep.
Oh that wonderful tryptophan.............
Or put simply, I can't sleep again. My nights the past two weeks have been......restless. I wake, can't turn the head off, and can't go back to sleep.
So here I sit on the couch, enjoying the breeze whispering though the windows, the night sounds of insects and frogs, the squeak of the windmill near by (I do wish they would oil that thing), and the solitude of the darkness.
Earlier I learned how to change the plugs in the Whee. Two other Strommers arrived here in the drizzle; we sat and shared iced tea and stories waiting for a reprieve from the warm drizzle to work on the bikes. Our luck rewarded us eventually and we proceeded to remove the fairings and cowlings from the two bikes.
In anticipation of removing the gas tanks, Fred and I had nearly empty tanks. They came off the bikes easily enough. The plug for one cylinder is easily accessible under the tank. Removing the plug wire, we removed the plug for scrutiny. It didn't look too worse for wear after 17,000 miles of firing and the gap was still within range. It was replaced with the new double pin plug after gaping at 7mm. Plop the baby back in its metal bassinet and it was good to go.
The other plug was more troublesome to access: behind the radiator. Fred was able to merely loosen his radiator and pivot it forward to get at the plug. Because the engine guards impeded pivoting the radiator on Whee, we had to loosen the guard on the left and push it out of the way. We finally removed the plug from the other cylinder and it was comparable to the other with a bit more particulate matter on the electrode. With the new plug in place, we tightened everything.
I removed the top of the airbox to find moths, flies, dust, road debris, etc embedded in the filter. Hooking up the small air compressor, I blew out all the debris and wiped it all down making sure the gasket was also free of dust. The inside of the airbox was cleaned of a slight oil film with a paper towel and the cleaned filter was reassembled inside the airbox.
Chuck showed me where the throttle bodies are located and explained the procedure to synch those, adjust the throttle sensor and all the minor details involved with that. I'm going to wait until I have the valves checked to have that done. The valve inspection will be handed off to Cliff at Piper Performance; I trust his work and he takes the time to show me how he does it. An ex-racer himself, he 'knows' bikes intimately and takes pride in his work. As Persig call's it, his work has 'quality'. Besides, I love to listen to his stories from his racing days.
At 17,000 miles....... in nine months. I wonder sometimes where I've ridden these past nine months. The places I've gone and all that I've seen. All the experiences to which are added to monthly, even weekly.
I love my bike. I can't think of another bike that would have given me so much pleasure, so much of an opportunity to live and learn. Each ride seems to have it's own experiences, adding to the expanding file of memories; most good, some bad. Sometimes they've really tested my mettle, and I've learned more of what I'm made of. Such as last Wednesday, two weeks ago, last September, last July. I've traveled widely in many four-wheeled vehicles over my life and never have I had such rewarding adventures as I have had on this bike. And met so many others that share a similar adventure spirit.
"Four wheels carry the body, two wheels move the soul"
After our brief and rewarding wrenching session, we rode to the Ranchman's Steakhouse in Ponder. A 44-mile ride, the short way. Because the day was fastly disappearing, I suggested a route that was more direct than my usual 'Long Way' there. After gearing up and filling the tanks, we were off through the small towns of Azle, Boyd, Rhome, Justin and arriving at the even smaller town of Ponder. The ride was a test of stoppings; we hit nearly every red light (literally; we hit one green light), and then a train. I threw up my hands at the train and laughed along with Fred. It seemed our Karma today was Stop Practice, including some quick stops.
The wind was strongly gusting and trying to push us into a continuous lean to the north and challenge us on the bends of FM407. Normally those curves are fun to ride, but with the wind and the ruts in the road we took them slower than normal. The gray day allowed us to ride comfortably with moderate temperatures despite the humidity.
And it was refreshing to just go for a ride; two V-stroms on a ride to Ponder.
It's soothing for a restless head.
The blackberry cobbler with ice cream was absolutely delicious.
Sipping the last drop of my warm milk, perhaps I can now sleep.
Oh that wonderful tryptophan.............
Labels: bikes, meanderings