imagine

I've spent the last months of the summer motorcycle season riding with an "outlaw" Harley biker dude who has often made me smile so broadly that I have forgotten how to frown. We've had adventures and misadventures and our friendship is growing strong. He is not afraid of my oddly-abled movement, or my random quirks owed to my broken brain. He is good medicine for my ailing self image and doubt filled future. He lives the day seeing possibilities where I see limits. It's inspiring; inspiration begets hope and hope is good medicine. He phoned me a while ago, on a day when I was struggling with impaired balance, gaits and movement in all that I attempted. It was a bad day; a vivid image of one possible future constrained by dysfunction and little could be done to dissuade such an outcome. Hearing the blues in my voice he asked the reason. It's not my nature to be down on myself. Choking back prideful tears, I revealed that I was having an "off-day" and feared that it would become my norm eventually. "I don't want to live the rest of my life watching the world go by, sometimes on motorcycles. I can give up horses very easily after 43 years of my life with them. But the thought of not being able to ride on a motorcycle with a good friend is terrifying for me. . ." His confident response; "I've got that all figured out for you. I will get a side car so you can ride with me. If you are in a wheel chair, I'll modify the side car so you could roll right in, like a chariot. Then off we'd go; it'll be awesome. . ." I was elated, with all of this. Not just that there was a solution to my "worst-case-scenario"; but that this humble, green mountain man, imagined an exceptional solution so that I, and other differently abled persons, could feel the wind in their face and hear the thunder of Harley loud pipes. His spirit of "all things are possible and most of them doable" lifted my spirits and painted my future hopes and dreams the color of indigo ~ the color of imagination, the color of hope. When we said good bye and I drifted cheerfully into a sidecar day-dream, it was then I remembered that his eyes are a very warm blue as well. . . then thought, what other genius he might imagine for a differently-abled biker chick like me.
luv, ride, love ~ ell
this one is for them that can imagine genius. . .

heart smart

The Green Mountain State of Vermont is a very interesting biosphere of humanity and culture. It has a so very small populace woven from so very diverse life experiences. At least, that is my view of the changing face of Vermont demographics. I myself came to claim Vermont as my home in 1985. An over-eager college graduate from Connecticut, I came to begin my adult life beside my fiance in pursuit of "our American dream". In those days, I was a transplant snob of sorts; guffawing at the pseudo urbanites in Chittenden county as we beat feet to get out of that artificial replica of contemporary Vermont.
We settled in the Lamoille Valley in 1987 with youthful vigor in our quest to harness the Vermont hill farming life that we dreamed of. We started several business, began a family and crashed our dream in divorce court seventeen years later. Fortunately, time carries on and I've rooted myself perennially here at this old farmstead, defending the Vermont life of past generations and shunning the steady sowing of "flatlanders" bent on reforming these hills. In this, I have met the most wonderful people, inlanders and outlanders alike, and become part of this town in its ritual and rhythm year round. The balance is often razor thin as old standards are cast off for the "new and improved" version of community building. I escape this tide of "more is better" running Vermont roads on motorcycles; a culture that has afforded me the most genuine friendships and adventures that I could hope for. This day, I was on the phone with a favored biker buddy when he pondered why. Why would some one with all my over-educated, comfortable, suburban roots want to hang out with some one like him? He doesn't see himself as smart or worldly. 'Not so', I think to myself. He's a contractor, a Vermonter born-and-bred, living on a road on a mountain that was named for his family. He's been here awhile. His stories of hunting, fishing, camping, living are spell binding to a 23 year plus flatlander like me. As he puzzled his value in my life, I drifted back to an endearing story he shared on one of our outings. He qualified the tale as his favorite story about being a single dad raising his son alone. In this daily challenge, we had much in common. As a single mom, I listened intently to his recollection of how he acquired a small, tattered key chain clip buried in the bowels of his work truck. "Don't ever clean out my truck. In the side wall, I have the first present my son ever gave me. He was just a little feller when he gave me this plastic key ring. It's just a little thing, but it meant so much to me. . . still does. Don't ever clean out my truck. . ." as he swallowed a father's tear. I smiled softly and leaned into him in agreement. The recollection melted as I interrupted the present phone conversation with a weak interjection: "you are one of the smartest people I have ever known. Someday, I'll tell you why I think so. . ." my thoughts now fading into a long ago afternoon. I have a similar story, but it took me months to grasp the value back then. We said our good-byes and I lay across my bed unfolding a precious memory of my first born child giving me a tender gift on a hot July day when I was disenchanted with the world and my seemingly futile place in it. I had ridden a horse in the small town parade that day, struggling with the crowd, the truck horns and a powerful horse impatient with the baby-step pace of it all. After getting the big mare home, I returned to the town party hot, sweaty, agitated. It didn't go the way I wanted; it was not my best presentation of a magnificent horse. My daughter was perhaps 6 years old and having a grand time at the small carnival. When she saw my unhappiness, she persuaded her father to let her buy a ring from a jewelry tent. She presented it to me with an earnest smile and kind offering. "this will help you feel better, mommy. . ." I looked at the over sized gypsy like ring and gave a dismissive sigh. "oh, you shouldn't have spent your money on me. . . it's too big, can you take it back. . ." her face fell and I scolded myself for not saying thank you. "I'll wear it on my thumb. It'll be fine. . ." as she strolled off with dad for more fun. I sat there, still guiling over my poor performance, and the odd ring. I put it in my pocket and forgot about it till laundry needed doing. I put it in a cup, then a drawer, then a box. Weeks later, I would hold it and ponder a child's heart. I began to wear it on my right thumb every day, trying to live up to the sincerity of the gift. Some months later, I lost the humble symbol but recall the value of it vividly. Hearing my biker buddy's story made me tearfully long for that toy-like ring gone missing years ago. The answer to his minutes-old question: why I think he is just about the smartest man I've met. Not just because he can solve any functional problem; it is because this very competent, able, thoughtful, woodsman with a Harley Low Rider sees with his heart first. As time goes by, the value of my college education(s) become less and less relevant and the "university of life" has become the institution of higher learning. The lessons bestowed me during my days and months and years in Vermont have interwoven like an organic tapestry of living, learning, doing ~ better than I could have youthfully imagined. Ever the student, must be I belong here; always seeking knowledge, must be I needed to know him. . . some day, I'll have to tell him why and I promise; I'll never clean out his truck. . .
peace ~ ell

this one is for them that see with their hearts first . . .

golden rules: number three

This summer has been an enigma of hazy ambitions restrained by un-yielding realities. It began with three clear goals set forth with leather clad vigor. I would go for my motorcycle license, I would get a small starter bike, I would expand my circle of motoriding friends riding 2up with them. In June, I failed the BRC with a spectacular scar and incredulous story from the muffler burn. Now that I'm once again convinced of my motorcycle potential, I am looking at small bikes to learn on and even acquired the "Ride Like a Pro" DVD to give it the 110% that it may take to become an accomplished lady-driver. In the last goal, I had the pleasure and privilege to ride along with some wonderful guys on some exceptional bikes adding wonderful friends to my short list of people to commune with. But then weather got too wet to ride, injuries took their toll sidelining moto riding, and even work schedules became obstructive for connecting with motodrivers. This is all painfully relevant because our summers are so very short in Vermont. We had excessive rainfall in June into July subtracting 6 weeks from our riding season. We did, however successfully grow weeds bigger than my horses. Looks like next year, I'll be getting a DR trimmer to beat back the understory... the warm weather of August left me housebound as I have sharply limited mobility in warm, muggy weather so I can't safely play with horses, can't even weed flower beds. I can surf the Internet and lust for beautiful motorcycles and the fantasy of driving my own someday. As I could not coordinate rides with my regular buddy, I tried for one or two other outings, only to be underwhelmed by the bike or the person. So then its back to the notion of driving my own. More than a few friends suggested that I get a small off road bike that I can play with at the farm to see if I can or can not achieve competence when I can take my time and figure it out. After all, this is a sport and an art of its own and it will require a learning curve. As I watch the bikers go by my farm on a glorious day, I renewed my commitment to really try this out, at my own pace, on a bike that isn't too heavy if I drop it and without all the breakable bling that street bikes have. If I can master a small bike in my pasture, then I could get a smallish street bike and take the next step. In any case, my kids would "inherit" the dirt bike for their youthful indulgence... having this dream helps to pass the hot, sunny days when I am heavy with frustration at my mobility challenges and begin to sink into blunted anger with my injury-mandated inabilities. The the brain rot becomes detrimental in my life and precious time is lost perserverating on unchangeable facts in my situation. It takes a small success to revive my optimism and perception of what I can do, if only differently, but it is what I can do. I become acutely aware of my window of opportunities and the choices I need to make to maximize the impact. I am more focused now on the journey, the process, the people passionate for their interests. The success is not in obtaining the end goal so much as it is about finding a way around the obstruction, discovering an alternate path that turns out to be more interesting and joy filled than the traditional paradigm. The motorcycle culture is particularly attuned to this as is the horse driving culture. In these environments, the success is in the clever accommodation for my engagement there. It is heartening to be among people who live the life and walk the walk of "what can be done. . ." The natural expectation is not that I will fit the mold, but that a new mold will be made to fit me... I sleep and breathe their boundless enthusiasm for my dreams; it gets me through the hard days and inspires me to try, just try, to live my dreams. Golden rule # 3? You can always make more money but you can never make more time... dream it then live it...
peace ~ ell

tear down

It wasn't long after this break down, when the owner of said Low Rider, called and invited me to come for the "tear down" of his vintage bike to ferret out the cause of its failure. He knew of my interest in "the way things work"; it didn't matter that I know nothing of motorcycle mechanics; but still I said "yes", happily so. Very motivated to see the inner works of this pre-fuel-injection Harley Davidson, I drove the 65 miles to the immaculate shop with my camera in hand. The scene felt very somber as the emaciated frame stood stripped of its trademark Vtwin engine with its vital parts exposed for diagnosis. The break down was caused by a couple of bad acting systems. There was air in the fuel line likely caused by a bad head gasket or a warped head... but why the power failure? A bad generator, most likely, sucked the new battery dry of power. Without electricity, the cylinders could not perform thus leaving us stranded with the disabled machine. As this bike has 33,000 miles on her, the owner opted to do a total tear down and re-tool all the original systems. I find it fascinating as it is so very simple a design and it all goes together so perfectly. No metric here so wrenching was easily accomplished with Craftsman tools for obvious fitting with a place for everything and everything in its place. To see it taken down to its "bones", it was hard to believe that this was once, and would again be, a powerful machine over the road. Watching the veteran mechanic, I marveled at his fluent knowledge of this classic chrome pony. He did his best to indulge my pre-novice questions with patient replies and showing the working details in each system. The machining of the metal parts was more precise than I could have imagined as components perform with surgical perfection. Hearing his presentation, my thoughts would drift to the 30 years-ago machinists and assemblers who worked with the same degree of accuracy as any brain surgeon would exhibit to save the patient. A witness to a rebirth of sorts as each component was taken off and cleaned and assigned to its own waiting place for reassembly, it was more interesting than the best picture puzzle one could ever hope to construct. I kept getting lost in the meditative ritual and found it nearly spiritual to participate in such an intimate process. I can see now, why so many Harley owners become emotionally engaged with their bikes. When it was time to leave, it felt like we were abandoning the once glorious ride. The owner, lugging the gas tank and a few other frame parts home for waxing, seeming to offer some mutual comfort for his trusty, iron friend by plying a little luv and shine for the trademark silhouette. With any luck, I'll be able to see the bike come back together in all her new gleam and glory... maybe get invited for a ride. peace ~ ell
this one is for the minds who could imagine such genius

the other adventure...

This weekend, I was invited for a long ride on a 1984 HD low ride, shovel head by a gentleman biker I met quite accidentally. He offered to take me for a spin on the other side of "the lake"... Lake Champlain, the NY neighborhood. It was a spectacular day so we made a plan of sorts to pick me up and then head for the islands, catch the ferry and then follow the other west coast down to the southern point ferry and back home. I've lived in VT for 24 years and never made such an outing. So"yes, seems like a grand idea" was my sincere reply. The weather was exceptional as he arrived on time and ready to load and go. His bike seemed smallish compared to the Ultra Classic I had been treated to in earlier outings. It lacked any kind of storage for coat or water so I strapped on my shoulder pack with all that I needed for a day trip. I was not expecting a smooth ride, but when I settled in, I found it was a good fit. The passenger seat is soft and very close to the driver so we were both in the center of the bike and that made for very comfortable 2 up travel, much to my delight. Off we went, stopping to fuel up at the local gas station. The bike refused to restart electrically, so being a vintage ride, he pushed it away from the pump and used the kick starter. Kewl, it fired up and off we went, loud pipes rumbling... We followed the black top through Lamoille and then Franklin counties, up to his childhood family fishing camp taking a break and stretching our legs. We covered all the single parent topics around the special sensitivities that children of divorce must contend with in their childhoods. He shared many tender family values and revealed his kindness in those stories... it was a pleasure to listen and to confirm those complex challenges that we try to balance for our kids. A family man with a passion for wind and loud pipes. This culture of biking harbors so many interesting and passionate people. I felt very privileged to be invited. Once fed and refreshed, we readied to mount the trusty pony... it resisted the electric start once again and I stood aside while he coaxed it with the kick starter into its rhythmic roar. He was a bit concerned as to the bike's contrary behavior... after all, he put in new plugs, new battery, detailed the block... but the iron horse rolled out and he was confident enough to go for the bridge over the lake. We cleared the span easily and I wished that I hadn't buried my camera under our jackets lashed to the back of the little sissy bar. Over on the NY shore now, we puttered through Plattsburg and recognized the bike was very ill indeed. We just wanted a gas station to refuel and evaluate the cause of the misfires, the gasping engine... I'm no expert, but it sounded as if it were starving for fuel, but there was plenty in the tank... a few more miles south, no gas station in sight. It gave up and stopped all efforts in its silence. My driver power walked it off the traveled lane, past the fog line. Where were we? A 360 degree scan revealed we were very near a golf course: Bluff Point. As he pushed the bike into an access road, I pulled the helmets, and water bottle off the bike and watched him check list the situation hoping he would have some idea and maybe he could "McGiver" a solution. He revealed that he volunteered on a pit crew for stock car racing once upon a time and knew a little bit but couldn't see the real problem. Some how, the engine was not getting fuel; gas in the tank, the fuel valve was releasing petrol, yet there was air in the line... not good, not normal, not working.... I wandered over to a foursome teeing off. They in their golfing wardrobe, I in my leather chaps and sleeveless blouse, mirror sun glasses... "excuse me, is this a public course or a private club?" my query as spoke my best etiquette (I remembered my last encounter in a family place when attired in leathers and a wet shirt... we needed some help, and I didn't want to scare them off). "No, its public; why?" his Montreal accent replied. "we're broke down and need a place to sit and wait for our rescue ride. Is there a club house near by?" I sheepishly answered. "yeah, somewhere, maybe up that road by the sign" as he pointed south about a quarter mile. I returned to my frustrated biker friend and shared the news. He looked across the way, and began pushing his bike along the flat road, all 660 lbs of it. At least it was flat on this side of the lake and he was a fit tradesman... if it had been me, I could not have done that and in VT, there would have been hills to fight. We found the golf club entrance and began to enter, spotting a gazebo in the shaded median just ahead. We stopped and saw that it was a good climb, a heafty push to the club house and neither one of us wished to try farther. We have shade, a place to sit, a good spot for the bike. In silent agreement, we parked and ciphered the situation. He called his best friend, who by God's grace was there and began the trip to rescue us; a two hour drive for him and his truck with ramps for the bike...I'm thinking that its not all bad, as we are comfortable, safe and help is coming... I'm good with it. We talked and joked and watched the golfers. They would stop and ask of our situation: "bummer man, have a beer..." was the theme. Seems like every golf cart that went by, had a stock of Labatt's beer. A sweet relief in the 90+ heat of afternoon. After two beers, I was dizzy, drunk and hungry but too wary of walking to the club house in the heat and my driver was not going to leave his bike alone with golf club wielding strangers. I retreated to the grass and lay down for a nap and idled away the time swapping stories. It was to our mutual surprise discovering how much we had in common... it had become a great afternoon, with good company and free beer. I began smiling, beaming when he asked, "what are you so happy about?" "I was just thinking about why I took up motorcycle riding as a passenger. Today, I have met every objective of my pursuit. I have made a new friend, ridden a bike new to me, gone down a new road..." He was puzzled, "but we broke down..." "yeah, but what a place to get stuck, nice seat in the shade, free beer and good stories. This is awesome... I love adventures and this is a good one..." now he was smiling too as he kept a sharp eye for his buddy's white truck. I felt no worries as it was all taken care of and I felt at ease with the current situation. His calm concern was all I needed to enjoy myself in the company of this new friend; the gifts of cold beer from sympathetic golfers was a bonus... It was a grand day out as we watched the sun dropping and the dew rising. The white pick-up arrived and I stood in awe as the two buddies pushed the heavy bike into the back of the truck. We all piled into the cab and thanked our humble rescuer for abandoning his life these hours and making the trek out. As we pointed for home, it was agreed: all's well that ends well and new friends are always worth the detour in the journey...
peace ~ ell
this one is for the immeasurable value of friendship

good to go...

Eldest offspring shot this picture for her portfolio. Maybe it can get me a ride...the jacket is my upgrade from straight black I had been touring in. I had been riding in her jacket as she never cared to wear it. It was a bit too big for me; I caught this one in a good sale. The red and white help with conspicuity I hope, a little more visible with a splash of style...now maybe, I can catch a ride. (I don't really stand on the road and hitch, but lately just can't get my schedule in sync with my biker buddy...) You would think that it would be easy enough to get a ride but that's not been my experience... I see dozens, even hundreds of bikes go by my door, many without a passenger. But guys will say they want the freedom, or they aren't comfortable with someone on the back, or they are out with the boyz and not into any tag-alongs that ride...
oh well, check out the custom chopper trike that OCC build in 2004...maybe that will get me where I wanna go... It was created for a young man who was paralyzed in a car wreck. It uses only hand controls. Might be just what an oddly-abled middle-ager like me needs. It is a stylish ride with all the chrome a girl could want...keen indeed... live your dreams
peace ~ ell

pillion project...

84 Low Ride

Pillion:(Wikipedia) A pillion is a secondary pad, cushion, or seat behind the main seat or saddle on a horse, motorcycle, or moped. A passenger in this seat is said to "ride pillion" or may themselves be referred to as a "pillion." The word is derived from the Gaelic for "little rug," pillean, which is itself from the Latin pellis for "animal skin." One or more pelts would often have been the form a secondary seat took on horseback, and the usage was carried over to motorcycles... [how I came to ride pillion, now that's another story]

Honda Shadow

Despite the marvelous sunshine this weekend, I could not catch a ride with my biker buddy. Oh well, an unfortunate peril of failing the BRC and not having my own wheels and endorsement to roll over our roads. Reminiscent of "the ride", I did manage to sift through old ride pics from summers past and noticed I've had the privilege to ride on several different bikes. Each picture evoked fond memories or shivers of their follies recalled. I might finally have enough valid experience for a viable comparison of the second seat that each steel horse offered. I'm thinking about the more savvy perspectives from where I was sitting for the ride. I'm no technical expert and a quick study of the choices in custom seats that are available for motorcycles was overwhelming. I can speak though, from the perspective of a petite passenger, weighing in at 128 pounds with not much extra padding over my seat bones. Each bike has its merits and one in particular is plush. So the story will unfold from the least comfortable to the most. A couple of disclaimers though: 1) most of the roads in VT suck, plain and simple. The damaged road tops range from small cracks to huge holes and even missing road (rte 105 in Richford). I can't always see what's coming and so I take the lump in full force ~ ouch as the impact resonates up my spine. 2) some of the bikes are undersized for a comfortable ride as a passenger; meaning they lack the horse power and smooth gearing to accommodate even my little bit of ballast. This can mean fatigue for a pillion who is "dragged" through the ride. These bikes also seemed to lack the shock absorption in the back wheel to take the extra load resulting in a harsh jarring over any irregular pavement. 3) the driver's savvy and consideration for the 2up rider is an acquired talent. While I never felt unsafe, I did notice a difference in the quality of ride when a driver was off with his clutching, slow speed moves, stops and start-offs. Interestingly, like airboarding, driving a motorcycle with a passenger is more comfortable when the man at the dash has a little mass. A well centered bike is happy over the road and that makes a nicer glide for the person in the second seat.

Valkyrie

Sportster

Ultra Classic

The story goes a little like this; it was great fun to ride these bikes with these good guys who invited me and so all observations are with the highest respect for their skills in driving and maintenance of their bikes. It's hard to learn to drive a bike requiring exceptional vigilance and responsive skills; I know this first hand. It's a bit harder to feel comfortable with a passenger... a few years ago, a good friend offered me a ride on his Kawasaki touring bike. It was made for a pillion rider with built in luggage stowage and an easy-chair backrest. The shocks weren't mint and the power was a little light given the hills our roads navigate; this made the ride a bit tiresome. The driver was a veteran biker and very considerate of my comfort. 4 stars for this one. Later that summer, my older brother brought his Honda Shadow up to NH and gave me a short spin over the back roads(former cart paths) near the lake. The bike was quiet, nimble and had a sissy bar. The seat was not supper bad, nor supper good. For a short ride, up to 90 minutes, the Shadow was a fun run. I give it 3 stars. By this time, I'm feeling hooked on riding in the wind. The following summer, I scored a riding buddy on a Harley Davidson Sportster. It had a well padded second seat with sissy bar though it's taller center made me feel more secure riding up close to the driver. ahh, now my favorite way to travel... The foot pegs were perfect for hooking the heel of my cowboy boots making for a spirited posture for me as pillion. The bike is made for the more narrow NEK roads with lots of twisties as it is very nimble and has power o' plenty for hills or speed on the flats, even 2up. Without a windscreen, its a thrashing to go down an interstate at sustained high speeds. A fun ride but 90 minutes, then stopping, was about all I enjoyed before a stretch was needed. I give it 3 1/2 stars. At the end of my second summer of 2up, I was treated to a ride on a Valkyrie. This bike was low and heavy and powerful. It had a sissy bar but no hand grips, so up close was the way to travel. It did have foot boards which are nice for the longer rides but a boot with a low heel is a better fit for the boards. The bike was keen, the driver was careless and that matters. Chose your chauffeur carefully, it can make or muddle the experience. I give the bike 31/2 stars. This summer, I've been out on a Yamaha V Star a couple times. It's a nimble bike with plenty of heft making ride feel secure. It was fatiguing though as the second seat was narrow and underpadded, making it tiring to ride any length of time. The first time out, the driver polished up the vinyl and that made it like riding a slippery fence rail at 60 mph... it had foot boards for my Milwaukee boots but they seemed a bit too short for my long legs adding to the fatigue. No way to let them down, but a change to a taller, plusher seat could make it a sweet enough afternoon twirl. I give it 3 stars. The driver was pretty good, just sparing with the rest-breaks which comes from riding alone allot and not reading a pillion's body language. I need to learn to speak up when I need a stretch. The final, and most appreciated ride for me was the luxury of the Harley Davidson Ultra Classic and its pillion "throne". This bike is made for long runs over any paved road. The second seat is so comfortable that I have dozed off and bumped my driver's helmet when he had to suddenly change gears for road conditions. He's good natured about it but still it's startling. Appointed with a generous seat hosting built in stereo and ample footboards for any boots I wore. The one very minor oddity was that the tailwind went up over my back sending my silk scarf forward into his field of vision. A little wardrobe adjustment solved that. One more notable feature as the pillion rider, the Ultra Classic purred in its effortless glide over the road. A powerful bike with grace and elegance for the pair on board...it never strained, never lurched...just a gentle glide as it is aptly named. I give it 5 stars...though the owner tells me a Honda Goldwing is ultimate passenger ride, if I am ever invited...we'll see. I am a fan of those HD loud pipes...
So for me, the summer of riding is about half over. Hopefully my notations may inspire others to ride 2up with an understanding that the comfort of the pillion fixings, the power and balance of the bike, a wind screen to deflect that force and most importantly the savvy and courtesy of the driver can make or break the quality of the experience. If I had had a rugged ride first time out several years ago, I would have never gone back. I'm so glad for the quality of that first ride over the road; thanks Rene for illuminating my summers...
peace ~ ell


update in the Pillion Project:
I now ride 2Up regularly on my bikerman's 84 LowRide. I have to say for a smallish, pillowed seat with a padded sissybar, it's pretty comfortable. Though it's a good thing I love this man as it puts me close up to him for the ride. It is a nimble bike with plenty of giddy-up when we need it. Taking twisties on this chrome pnoy is way fun as he scrapes pegs leaning deeply into the corners. I can go about 100 miles on VT's chunky roads before a break is needed. Again, the pegs are set at a place that let's me hook my boot heels and my knees are lower than my hips. That seems to matter for me. Fun for a day run but the dressers are the best for the multi-day, high mileage adventures.

could, can't, can ~ just wishin'

Sunny, warm and breezy this July day... dozens of motorcycles rolling by... couldn't connect with my biker buddy for a ride so then the blues crept in. I can not get around very well in the high sun and warm air; an unfortunate reality resulting from the brain rot I live with. So down to the neglected basement, after some time pumping water from the relentless rains, I could stack firewood. As the stack took form, I got to thinking about making a list. I enjoy listing out stuff of all topics; its how I work the problem, try to see all sides before acting... This list started out as an exercise to encourage myself for the summer... it evolved into a "bucket list" of sorts; a list of can't do ~ can do kind of mantras. On a very warm, dull day like this, the can't do tasks are vivid, even cruel reminders of what abilities I've lost. But with a little out of the box thinking, for every can't do it, there is a viable, equally worthy can do it on the punch list. It was a fun process and will continue to evolve...

my bucket list:
what I can do ~ if only differently...
can't set a horse ~ can drive 'em
can't drive a motorcycle ~ can ride 2Up
can't run with my kids ~ can teach them how to play baseball
can't handle a horse ~ can teach others how to
can't paddle a boat ~ can float in a tube down river
can't do the tango ~ can slow dance with a good man
can't ski so well ~ can airboard like the wind
can't hike in the warm months ~ can ride an all terrain segway
can't cure my son's autism ~ can build him a blue berry farm
can't be an activist ~ can be an advocate
can't love forever ~ can love passionately
.
.
.
you get the idea, it's not wright, it's not wrong, it's just different...
luv and peace ~ ell

the Ides of Summer

...beware the ides of summer. Those middle times when we are past the freshness and possibilities of a new season but not yet at the mellowing conclusion of a weathered season. We're not ready to reflect on our lists of do it/done that...these middle weeks and days of month and season seem so beguiling to me. Today was a test of treading water when the shore of my departure is too far gone to return to yet the shore I'm striving for is too far to be seen. All that means is, its easy to give up hope when treading water in the middle of the ocean. July has been a test of fortitude as I try to manage a serious legal battle for my maternal rights for my boyz. It has been a struggle for sustainable vocation given the poor weather and the fragile economy. I have been fumbling with a precious friendship and this morning I was met with an horrific wound on an exceptional horse. When collecting the horses for their morning meal and rehab program, the lovely Shood Ari ambled up to me from the south pasture only to reveal a bloodied chest. This strapping young gelding had somehow torn his hide from his front left pectoral region. He was gingerly walking toward me, head down with anxious pained brown eyes. He was oozing blood and dangling a web of flesh the size and shape of printer paper. 'Christ have mercy' my words to self. We had to start by moving horses, making a safe paddock...my young student put out some grain to calm the herd. I moved Shoodi up front and began the gauntlet of phone calls to vets. Who could come ASAP...by fortune, we would be attended by Dr. Steve from Large Animal Medical Associates. He arrived in good time and set to work. We cleared out a spot in the front of the barn and backed in the 16.2 h youngster so the natural light would illuminate the delicate task. We no sooner got the brown beauty in his spot that the skies began to erupt with thunder, lightening and more rain adding a sense of drama to our scene. With a little tranquilizer (ok, a lot). The horse became a perfect and passive gentleman. I was grateful that my young student volunteered to head the horse so I could sit out of the field of vision of this mess. I am a useless veterinary assistant for the bloody rehabs as the size and scale of this type of wound triggers an instant visceral reaction in me. One good look, and I am down for the count. It doesn't help the situation when I am on the floor passed out. It's always been this way with me and mangled horses. That said, young Felicia was the hero assistant while the talented vet worked his magic. It is spellbinding to watch a skilled vet perform flawless restoration such as this. Starting with ripped flesh and tissues, strategizing closure sequences, bringing together the seemingly destroyed live materials, first the big sutures placed large and wide, then the smaller refined stitches to close the gaps... when done its a normal looking body part with an excellent chance to survive and even thrive. All of this in a less than clean barn, in less than ideal light, with the simplest of materials. The wound was closed up in about 50 minutes. Intensive antibiotics to stay ahead of infection (the real danger in this type of wound), pain killers to ease his afternoon and the rest is up to his constitution and God's grace. This horse is ideal to be a carriage horse with his long graceful legs and powerful top line. I believe he'll recover fully and have that chance. The bill paid at $510 with treatment and meds (3 weeks of antibiotics), I graciously thanked the vet and marveled at his humble talent. At age 19, I so wanted to be a vet like him. At age 20 I had my first experience with massive equine trauma such as this. It dropped me on that barn floor and eliminated that career choice for me. . . probably worked out for the best. . . but still it would have been amazing to possess such a skill. The awesome brown horse is sore but eating well and enjoying massive amounts of TLC... all's well that ends well. Now if I could only get the rest of my mid-summer days moving in a restorative direction...if the doc can mend the horse's terrible mess and make him whole again... is it possible that maybe there is a chance that I can be a mom to my sons, that I can make a living and I can mend a precious friendship? I believe with some TLC, some good sewing, some strong medicine that its possible. I'll keep you posted on Shood Ari, you'll hear about my other follies and foibles too. It's all good, if I survive. Peace ~ ell
this one is for doctor Steve and his talent in healing...

Resilience...

I was completing a personal profile for one of those match making outfits to pass the time and inventory what kind of person I like to think I am. They are great measurements for self evaluation because it is a private self exploration that can be very illuminating if done with honest introspection. It was the usual queries of disposition, personality, quirks and peeves.... It posited one really thoughtful question for me, that has kept my full attention through the day. "Other than your parents, who was the most influential person in your childhood?" What a kewl question. It instantly evoked fond memories of youthful exploits and adolescent striving, swerving and survival. All those awkward growing pains that would shape and sharpen the character of our core person. In my case, I answered my high school women's athletic coach, without hesitation. This may seem odd to those who know me, as I am opposed to organized athletics before middle school. I loath insider and outsider dynamics and secondary school sports can amplify that teenage misery of not belonging. But in my memory, I knew my coach as a mentor and respectful friend who made everyone feel talented and welcome to her teams. As long as they gave a 100% on any given day, strove for personal excellence and lived every day with integrity and perseverance. She was not a physically big person at 5'0", but she had a larger than life zest that was contagious to all who knew her. I was fortunate to spend four years, 3 seasons of sports in each, under her mentoring. Her tireless encouragement and gentle, loving critiques were instrumental in shaping my stubborn commitment to survival and never, never giving up. To give 100%, even in defeat so that we could walk away with our heads held high and no regrets. There was no such thing as a mistake under her tutelage but rather physical errors which were teachable moments and mental errors which induced laps, lots of laps...She made it possible to learn in that very indelible way of learning through natural consequences. It was the most empowering experience that a gangley, un-pretty, wanna-be success story could ever hope for. On her practice plain, there was no such word as "can't". There was no such thing as giving up. Failed attempts only meant there must be another way to succeed. If you fell, get up and try another way. It was she who would sift through our clumsy imitation of skills to discover and nurture our talents with her brilliant observation bolstered in her loudest voice to us: "...babies don't give up! you know why they fall when learning to walk? so they can learn how to get back up and try again!...so, get back up and try again!" Her words are resonating in my mind lately as it has been a particularly challenging time for me these past weeks...it has been a time when, giving 100% seems to fall short of the mark...but then as I sit with a glass of wine, a smile emerges as I hear her follow-up mantra for success: "...then give 110!..." I wish she was here right now; I could use a hug and maybe a lap or two...I miss her inspirations.
We all have someone who inspired us, encouraged us and made us strong...honor those memories and live their legacy...share the same with the next person who needs to live it...
peace and luv ~ ell

Free Hot Chocolate. . .green mountain economics

There is something to be learned in every story. When persons of different worlds, cultures and expectations collide with ideology and reality on a snow bound mountain road, a story unfolds. As a winter hiking guide for Smugglers Notch Resort, I was charged with the morning ventures into our mystical winter wonderlands. I would gather a group of guests for the daily quest "into the wilds" of the Mt. Mansfield region localized to the less traveled back country of the resort's expansive terrain. This is an invigorating experience; at least when I'm out front leading the more metropolitan brethren who sign up for these off slope excursions. Having lived here for 23 years exploring much of these hills and dales on my horses, I became a little familiar and very comfortable trekking through the forests of our great mountainside. Three years ago, I answered a job posting to guide these winter walks thinking it would be pedestrian employment but better than joining a gym and it gets me out in the winter. It has been a grand experience for me, and for many of the guests who partake in the journeys. They are very much like expeditions for these folks. Coming from all ranges of cities, suburbs and foreign places they perceive our woodlands as a privileged place of untamed wildness and personal challenge. At least, when I fill their heads with local lore, real or nearly real. Working the season, spinning the yarns, casting the possibilities of the wild things...seeing them drop their mask of material surplus and open their minds to the organic rhythm of this natural world is food for my soul. Like bringing water to a thirsty traveler, they are quenched and then primed for more. The winter walking, wiking and hiking program was designed for off slope guests who sought something to do with the mornings. Fitness was the first framework. The stats make it clear: (winter walking expends 22% higher caloric expenditure, 16% higher heart rate, 20% increase in oxygen uptake...it is 46% more efficient that regular walking) To some that means calories burned, butt firmed, thighs toned, waist trimmed; to me that means we can eat 46% more chocolate cake to break even...This winter of walking was an exercise in mental fitness as well. People's minds were heavy with fear and discontent due to the struggling economy. Some would not have any other vacation. Some would have to give up their second homes. . . from early in the season, a pattern of disconnect was emerging. I get to hear a lot of conversations whether they are directed at me or not. Some are very memorable and we solve many world crises on our three mile tours. Politicians and policy makers should walk with us; they would learn volumes of concerns and solutions, could potentially solve problems. One of my most memorable wikes (walking up hill in snow) was late in the season with a multi-generation family from New Jersey. The first day out, we were joined by an older woman who placed herself in the back of the group. As we ascended the reservoir hill, she kept a steady pace with no break in stride. It's a short but steep hill; a challenge for those not used to that kind of push. She made it easily, the rest of the group, younger but less fit, gasped at the crest as I monitored their breathing. No heart attacks on my treks please, breathe in ~ breathe out. "It's all down hill from here, only a fat mile back. If you can handle today, you will enjoy the week..." , my usual pep talk for the introductory group. It's mostly true; the walks get longer, deeper into the woods, Friday is up the mountain road for a steady mile, going up and up still more...As we caught our wind, I noticed that our senior guest was grinning and breathing easily. So I asked how she felt, "Great!, this is perfect!" I was curious about her age and so I politely inquired, "may I ask your age?" knowing this is hallowed ground for women. As I leaned on my trek poles, I nearly tipped over when she beamed; "you may, I am 82 years old. I'm here with my son and his family for the first time ever..." I walked to her and asked for a hug. "You are an inspiration to me; I hope by God's grace, I can hike the woods in winter when I am 82...", a genuine pact from me. She walked with us every day, never faltered enjoying the pensive journeys of the forest. On Friday, she persuaded her middle-aged son to join us. He began the outing by conducting a business call on his cell phone as we loaded the shuttle with 24 guests for the mountain road ascension. I threw a few glares his way. Still he talked, voraciously negotiating some deal...I finally interrupted him with earnest jest and strident body language... "Do I have to take that away from you? The group is here for the peace and quiet of the mountain. There are no business calls on my hikes. Give it to me, do it now,,," His wife smiled, one guest applauded. He relented and closed the conversation;"...I have to get back to you later, the guide is going to kick my ass..." He pocketed the device and we settled in for the fifteen minute ride up to the barricade. A few fast facts for the mountain road and what we might see... Dismounting the shuttle, it was a glorious day with sunlight filling the winter lane and glistening off ice bound boulders and mountain faces. A wirery stretch to prep our bodies and off to the top of the Notch. As a closed road, there is no way for anyone to get lost so the pace is leisurely. I get to chat with everyone on the walk and learn of other places and communities. The man left his mother to her own pace and strided up with me. In a few steps, he had me trapped next to the guardrails emerging from the thawing snow banks. Must be his cell phone didn't get signal up there because he began by introducing himself, drifted through the who, what, where and why he was there. Announced his professional status in marketing, salary plus perks and wanted to know why, "why did Smuggs discontinue the free hot chocolate at the end of every ski day at the base of Morse Mountain?" His was not a casual question. He posited the query with an indignant tone and hand on my shoulder. My first thought was my assessment of our distance from the 2240 foot summit. We were not even half way up and he is already probing for answeres that are beyond my scope of company knowledge. He would not yield and asked again. So we stopped, and I took the perspective of a local citizen and tried to explain. "Management crunches a lot of numbers. They recognized the light attendance for the season. They processed many possibilities for tightening the expenses. They made a commitment for the hourly staff like me, to keep positions filled, to not cut jobs. They froze payroll, RIF'ed some management and then reshaped some of the free programs. The hot chocolate hour was reduced to weds and Saturdays to save jobs. As a single mom, I am grateful to have this job." It sounded credible to me, pretty close to the actual reasoning behind the program changes and hoped it would appease him. It didn't. He followed his first jab with a blunt reproach regarding the free fireworks and torch-light parade of Thursday nights. This year only four such events were to be held. "Why did they cut those out?" he persisted. "Well, they are costly to host but no fee is charged to the guests. The fifty or so skiers, instructors and patrollers, have to be paid overtime to do that. Then there are the pyrotechnics license, insurance, payroll and product. They are doing it four times this year. This week was the last show. Did you see it? It was for Canadian week..." He stopped in front of me this time. Vividly annoyed in his response, "what!? I am offended! Why for the Canadian week but not for next week? Don't they know that next week is the spring break for every private school in America? Why wouldn't they target that week for a show?...I run focus groups for my marketing firm; it sounds like Smuggs needs some focus groups to make these choices. Why weren't the home owners consulted..." He was on a tare now, increasingly agitated and invested in his perspective. I felt defensive and obligated to defend the company and my meager paying job..."I am a farmer, there is not a lot of farming in winter up here. I have this job so I can maintain my house in the winter, heat it, light it. . . so my kids can learn to ski; for me and many families like mine, this is the only job that we can fit into our patchwork of income...the median income in Lamoille county is like $28K...a winter job means paying our property taxes or not...keeping our only home or not, , ," He interrupted and declared, "they should have fired 10% of staff and kept the hot chocolate! My kids loved that daily ritual, its how they make friends..." My thoughts focused inward at that point. I was startled at his words. 'this man is over employed, over paid and over privileged...his disconnect is huge... and inhumane...he's worried about free hot chocolate and I'm defending heat and groceries...' With nothing to say, I hustled up to the summit station and avoided him all the way down. He's a guest, I'm a wage slave, can't get mad or even attempt to justify my reasoning to this man of luxuries. Half way down, I summoned some courage and re-ignited the conversation. Rehearsing the guest relations mantra: L>A>S>T listen, apologize, solve and thank... " so I've been thinking about your question. Maybe if Smuggs got a sponsor for the hot cocoa they could do it. Like Nestle with a banner and enough money to cover the staff and the bonfire...they could keep the free stuff going. I could keep my job, and your mom would have something to do while you ski when she comes up here..." He seemed brightened by this idea. "who owns this resort? I want to talk to him about this, set up a focus group..." was his tact. My cheerful reply, after all someone else could take the heat, "Bill Stritzler, top floor of the Admin Building, up the stairs, go right, left and corner office is his. His car is here, so he is here, he'd love to talk I'm sure..." By then we were loading the shuttle. The accomplished man mounted the stairs with confidence in his new mission; he left his 82 year old mother to her own resources at the foot of the stairs. Standing at the door, I stretched my hand to guide her up and smile in the high sun of noon. She turned her twinkled eye to me and lavished my palm with a fifty dollar bill softly praising, "Bless your heart, this was the best winter week ever..." "thank you and you have a groovy day; it's been a pleasure to be your guide..." my genuine gratitude. 'the disconnect this man has is bigger than this mountain...he didn't even help his own mother here...' my self speak as I entered the shuttle hearing him share his discord with is captive wife. The experience still resonates with me. How even disappointment is a relative experience. Employment vs free hot chocolate, that was the contest; thanks be to God that the directors at Smuggs see the value in local employment...it's all good and winter is not so very far away from this cool summer day to imagine the people and the stories and the mountain that brings us all together in our Green Mountain economics...
peace ~ ell

best~guess~mud and other weather science

You can't get through a day in Vermont without commenting on the weather. It has been a lottery of forecasting. I don't have television so I surf the weather links on the Internet. I monitor weather channel, WCAX tv 3, NOAA (http://www.nws.noaa.gov/), and underground weather (http://www.wunderground.com/)....I like Underground weather the best as it has an easy interface with hourly guesses for a seven day span. Between all of the sites, none of them have been more than 50% accurate up here in the Lamoille Valley where my farmstead sits at the northern foot of Mt. Mansfield. Less than 50% of correct forecasts for this summer; I'd like to have a job where I can get paid whether I am wright or wrong. It makes outdoor work difficult to pursue never mind enjoying it. The rain has been so persistent and poorly calculated that motorcycling has been an armchair day dream for most of June. Riding in a light rain is kind of fun, a change of pace; but when the rain impairs visibility for the driver, and for the cagers sharing the road, then it is discomfort of the stressful type. Seeing and being seen is the golden rule of outliving the ride. With the best-guess-mud of Vermont forecasting being what it is, more than a couple of my friends will give me a jingle on my cell and ask: "Terry, I'm thinking of riding, hiking, biking today; do you smell rain?" It's always a bit of a tickle to hear this query. I can be conducting a clinic or a class and surrounded by horses and eager students in the middle of my pasture, only to stop all activity, look skyward, take a deep breath, smell the ozone thickened air, feel the barometric pressure level upon me and know what will come. I have been 100% accurate all season long. Often I can even make a good guess at how many minutes or hours until the rain will fall upon me. Amazing. No mystery at all. My science is primitive at best. The one limiting condition is that I can only forecast for my immediate location and only if I am outside. So if you're headed for my neck of the woods, and you need to know the status for precipitation, give me a jingle and ask me what I smell; might be I'm more wright than the overpaid, blue screen, broadcasters... oh, and this works for winter and snow as well...
today, I smell rain ~ we'll be on the bike tomorrow taking a long run. Smile! it'll make the rain go away...
peace ~ ell

what is that brite ball in the sky?!

Jumping for joy...a tribute to that brite ball in the sky. After a month of steady rain and wind, brilliant sunshine made an appearance in our back yard. The posse mounted a celebration on their trampoline breaking the bounds of gravity. What goodness to roar with laughter. We are all due, cabin fever was mounting and even the happiest among us was dulled by the endless precipitation. Summer is so very short in VT. The rain has kept us off of horses, trails and gleaming motorcycles. Even a few days of soulful sun will feel glorious. Pack it full with fun and frollic and remember to thank God for the good health to enjoy it and for making it so... it begs the question: is good weather so rare in Vermont, only to teach us the value of a fine day so we won't take it for granted...
peace ~ ell

17 miles: me and the BRC ~ part 3

Finally, it is day three; it began with me feeling strong. I had no ill effects of my previous day's battle with physics and the indomitable law of gravity. The arnica worked its magic and my sprains were a faint memory while my bruises, which should have been extensive, were coin sized and not bike sized. The muffler burn looked scary, but felt manageable and not distracting. This day, and all days in the future, I will wear chaps. Note to all: if ever you get a second degree burn, tend to it sooner than asap. They get worse with each day and I didn't deal with it until day 4...it's that stubborn streak in me, again. I felt confident; I knew where the controls were, what the "right touch" was for clutch, breaking and shifting. But balancing at slow speeds would continue to challenge me. The pics are my fellow lady student, Margarette, a awesome single woman from NH who had her own bike but no "real experience" with it. She asked the best questions as she had enough experience to know what was hard to do; all of it! The other pic is most of my class ready to mount up for an exercise. All of these patterns were designed to teach the multi-task skills of managing a motorcycle safely for any unexpected road condition. We started with weaves again; a slalom through the all orange, cup size cones. Left was easy, right was still very hard. I fought to get my body in the right place on the bike and negotiate the turns in a higher gear. The speed was great, second gear is so forgiving compared to first. This went well and then the instructors were grinning. Next we had to do the "box turn"; a small 20' circle at one end of a 40' by 20' box, it required a very slow speed. I could do counter clock wise easily. But to do clock wise, I went so off course that Jay was startled. No matter how hard I focused, heard their encouragement, I only succeeded once of eight attempts. Not good. But I could advance to the next exercise. Big high speed (third gear) arches and turns. I discovered, I was good at speed and did well both ways. But then the entry control for sharp turns. Left was hard but successful, right was undoable. I couldn't stay even close to the course. In the real world, I would have hit guardrails, or trees or little kids on the sidewalk. Frank was the one who approached me. I was vexxed and couldn't make my body do my brain's will. I could not execute his directions, safely. He stood in front then to the side. Spoke quietly when he said, "you're not meeting the objective...." I didn't get it; I'm not good at reading between the lines. I looked exhausted and puzzled. He said it again, more carefully: "you're not meeting these objectives; its not safe to continue." "I can see that, I just can't find the right place to put my balance for the turn..." I tried to explain, but I knew what was coming. "I want you to shut it down, put the side stand down, and dismount...you can not continue in this class..." His considerate instructions. When I performed the shut down, my last shut down: 'Thumb: kill switch off, Key: turned to off, Valve: fuel valve set to off', I dismounted, glanced at the odometer to see it read: 17 miles, it seemed like a hundred. I pushed my visor up and asked if I could give him a hug. Swallowing hard the failed dream, "thank you, for keeping me safe" as I hugged his shoulder. "that's my job", his confident reply...he said I could stay and watch all I wanted, take the written test for my permit...I was wilting like a flower as he spoke. I ambled to my car, peeled off helmet, chaps and gloves. Called my sweet biker man and left a message that I'm excused and will be home earlier. Maybe, if he was up for it, we could catch dinner, go for a twilight ride and a creeme. He had programed his phone to answer me with a love song. I smiled and leaked tears ~ sad to lose the dream, happy to feel so cared about. I pulled out my soccer mom chair and watched the group tweak their skills before the lunch break. Fast stops, road hazards, brake-straighten up and sudden stop in the curves. I would have dropped it, probably, in this one. I was tired and felt defeated by a brain injury that cannot process the precise cues that riding safely, requires. I pondered how much of my poor performance was due to coming with zero experience and having to learn every thing from step one in a fast paced, intensive program. . . how much was because my brain is broken, more than I can fathom. When the group broke for lunch, Margarette came over and gave me a kind, sincere hug. "We were all routing for you," Brushing away tears, I said that "at least I learned here and no one got hurt. You all look really sharp out there. I called my sweetie and hopefully, I catch a ride with him tonight..." She graciously reminded me how fortunate I was to have a sweetie, she had no one, just endless bad boyfriends...that's why she opted to ride for herself... On that note, I opted to depart, and not stay on to watch the class test. I just wanted to go home and begin the next day when I might feel better. I had my family, my farm, and my honey-what-loves-me. I'll ride with him often and savor the view over his shoulder while my arms hug his waist. The BRC was a challenge for me: could I, or could I not do it. In a safe place, with wonderful people and awesome instructors, I could not. I wanted to pass the test; but I had no intention of owning or riding my own bike. I started riding so I could make friends and discover places. I have gotten all of that and more. I have a precious friendship with a sweet man on his gleaming bike. I think, maybe, that's right where God wants me. I "Monday morning" analyze the whole experience every time I hear a bike thunder by, but I know this was the "best-for-me" outcome... its hard to be stubborn, if love kills slowly then I hope that is a really long time for me, in the company of very precious friends...
low wave and peace to all ~ ell

17 miles. . .me and the BRC part 2

Day two started unceremoniously after a restless night of non-sleep, I woke up an hour late. There would be no time for a proper breakfast. No time for an early arrival to the range to check out bikes and ask the pre-ride questions that I had. Our instructors, Frank and Jay, had the selection of bikes out idling to get the batteries fit for duty as they casually downed their coffee. Like a sophomore late for exams, I arrived buttoning my shirt, adjusting my boots and trying to catch up. They shut down the motors as I listened to the range rules: no mounting a bike until the instructor said so. No starting engines until the signal was given. Stand next to the bike that seems right.... They were all smaller than the HOGs I had ridden as a passenger on, but still just a turn of the handlebars gave an indication of their weight. I sidled up to a red Suzuki 125. It had a little chrome and I liked that. I straddled the seat, and was told to get off until instructed to mount up. "I was checking for size to see if I could be flat footed on it...." My instructor commanded my dismount, "not yet, we have stuff to go over first, by the way, it looks good for you..." on with his instructions. My internal speak: 'I am not off to the best start, not how I wanted to commence this adventure...underfed, sleep deprived and very challenged for directions in this class of 13 students' After opening instructions, we were allowed to mount, with no power and just to feel our bikes in our hands. Turn the handlebars left, turn 'em right, find neutral, rock the bike, "power-walk" in first gear... I got this much pretty well. Now I can breathe a little better. It felt doable as I sat and fiddled with my new helmet. A 3/4 face with a nice shield. It fit great, was light weight and didn't smother me like the full face I tried months ago. Everyone's helmet choices were interesting. Only one other lady had a 3/4 face, the other girls had massive full face lids in variety of pink graphics. The men mostly had open face with a couple of shielded lids, but all of them black. We had to wear long sleeves, over the ankle boots/shoes and minimum jeans. As we were on small bikes, I could stop with both feet flat on the ground, we were going no more than 15 mph, on flatish parking lot with no hazards...I opted to leave my chaps in the car and go in jeans, that was a poor choice. With the start up protocol: FINE C (fuel on/ignition on/neutral gear/engine switch on/clutch engaged) we were introduced to the shift pattern. So easy on a bike! From neutral: first is one click down, 2,3,4,5 is one click up once the engine is putting power on the back wheel. I got that, most of the time, though it seemed like my clutch handle was a bit loose and had a wide "friction zone". I should have said so; that was another error. We practiced big slow circles left and then right using the whole parking lot. Going left was easy, really easy for me smiling broadly, the coach mentioned that he saw me light up. 'I can do this!' When it was time to circle right, the throttle is on the right hand grip, now I was showing my rookie side. Every time I tried to negotiate to the right, I'd hit the throttle, panic and close the clutch loosing power and direction. "It's just noise, I'm not worried about it, you shouldn't..." my coach would say every time. It worried me as I couldn't separate the task. After an hour of this, I over steered the bike trying to stay in the clockwise pattern, and dropped the bike. . . on me. It happened so fast, I couldn't get my right foot down to try and correct; so down to the pavement with no chaps and stuck under a 250 lb motorcycle with no crash bars. The iron bike was hard, the ground was harder. I managed to hit the kill switch but couldn't wiggle out, so the coach had to come over and lift it off. I twisted my right knee and ankle thoroughly well. But I was so irritated with myself, I lied about the sprain and got back on. I was shaking and hoped they didn't see that I was addled. I put it in gear and rode back into the staging area as directed, trying to regain some confidence. We all dismounted and walked over to our next exercise review. I was trying to walk straight and not limp or trip...too stubborn to admit that I was bent all the wrongways...My coach asked if I was ok; I lied; "yeah, just a little scuffed" As soon as I could, I found my Arnica and started pumping 4 tablets every 15 minutes, for the rest of the day. In an hour, I felt better. Swinging my leg over the bike was an exercise in soreness, but I was not quitting. I did well enough until mid afternoon when I dropped it a second time. I merely got distracted and lost the balance of the bike. Again to the right. This time, out of pure grit, I picked it up my self and restarted it. I remounted and continued with the exercise. 'I'm not giving up...' this would become my hourly mantra. We were weaving cones, the orange ones I could see and usually do well. The green ones, I couldn't see until there was no time to correct for the assigned pattern. ugh...I'm getting tired and all I could find for lunch was a berry yogurt at the gas station up the road. I'm thinking more seriously about giving up as each exercise is more difficult, more fatiguing, more discouraging. Going to the right is nearly impossible for me and again, I dropped the bike on me. This time, I tried to wriggle out but found the muffler as I tried. As the coaches pulled the bike off, I felt a twinge of heat on my calf. 'I'm not quitting, now I'm mad and I will finish this day' I got back on, visibly exhausted as the coach asked if I was tired. "yes, I am tired" I admitted this. "We're almost done on the range today, we'll go back to the class and cool off, do the last questions and see some videos...you gonna make it?"he encouraged. "Yes, I believe I will." I was the only student who dropped a bike, but 3x was 2 times to many...At some point, I phoned my biker buddy, and confessed: "I bow down to you, I bow down, I bow down,,,you make this look so easy..."as I choked back tears. In the class room, the questions went well, I knew them all. My roller coaster of defeat and exasperation had leveled off and I promised myself to sleep well and see what the morning would bring...I made it this far, I couldn't give up. I'm always telling my kids to stick with it; give it 100% so there will be no regrets, even in defeat...The coach asked what I was thinking. "I wanted to finish the day, wake up in the morning and see how I feel. I'm pretty sore and a little frustrated..." was my humble answer. He smiled, "I was curious what you would say; that's a good plan." I continued:"I'm very stubborn, I could break my leg and I would try to continue...you guys will have to draw the line for me. If I am unsafe to myself or the others, you'll need to stop me...I don't know how to quit anything..." He quietly responded, "that's our job." I walked to my car thinking: 'all's well that ends well, any day you can walk away from is a good day..." What readers need to remember: love~kills~slowly. . .more to come
this is ell

17 Miles. . . me and the BRC part I

I've been riding two-up for three summers now. Last fall, I got the notion that I should get my motorcycle endorsement and be able to ride my own bike when and where I wanted to. Join a club, start a group with some local riders. It's such a keen culture. So having missed all the '08 Basic Rider Courses, I targeted the first course I could fit into in spring '09. I counted the days, read books and awesome moto-riding blogs (Better Motorcycling is the best for accurate skills development the address: http://bettermotorcycling.wordpress.com/). I was primed. That was probably my first error; there would be many more in this 3 part story. It's always a set up for divergent outcomes when one sets their hopes so high, outcomes begin to feel dream-like (that should be read: fantasy). The BRC is a 20 hour, intensive course presented by highly experienced instructors in the artful skill of riding a motorcycle, successfully (with the rubber side down, walking away from every ride). The goal is to teach the student everything one needs to know to pass the DMV driver test for motorcycles in VT. Back in April, I went to a 4 hour classroom training to get my permit. I passed the written exam with only one error. I was convinced I could take the BRC and pass the test. On Friday, June 19, I walked into the classroom at 6:15 pm ( last and late because I couldn't understand the directions they sent me). I was asked to introduce myself, why I was taking the class, and what was my experience, what kind of bike did I have. I quickly gave my name and town, my interest in pursuing driving after riding with several men "who would like to see me on my own bike, I think they're just tired of hauling me around..." Folks chuckled as was my hope, but when I stated that I did not have my own bike, and I have never driven a motorcycle, the room went silent. My instructor actually hung his head and managed to say something like "that will make things interesting..." I came into the class thinking it would be suitable for a "never-ever" like me. After all, it is the BRC, not the Advanced Rider's course... With that expectation and the self confidence that I am a good athlete, a quick learner and my brain rot seemed very stable this spring, I settled into my chair and opened my book. Filling out my name card, I noticed our table of 3 women and one man had chosen the name: the UpRights as our "study gang" At the first break, we shared stories about rides. They all had bikes, all had some experience riding. In fact, I soon learned that the other nine students all had bikes, all had "seat time". That was the first clue that I was in over my head. During the break, I phoned my biker-chauffeur-honey and choked out the words: "I feel stupid... There is a lot of technical stuff, I don't know any of it..." But I didn't feel like quitting; I committed to the class to learn: "can I ride or can I not." That was my objective. I thought I didn't care about the endorsement, that I really just wanted to learn in the safety of BRC, with excellent coaches and somebody else's bike... At 9pm, we had gotten through the first 4o questions. There were 126 in the 50 page manual. I knew all the definitions, all the jargon, all the pre-ride TCLOCS checklists, the start up and shut down protocols, the ever essential riding strategy: SEE (Search Evaluate Execute...). I had read the MSF (motorcycle safety foundation) training manual twice, highlighted all the important stuff. I found their training videos on line. I was well versed and sounded like I could do it, the instructor was feeling more confident in me. I disclosed my brain injury to him. He stated that he would make sure I understood the exercises, that we got rest breaks. I was concerned about my stamina and my gaiting/balance when I get tired. At the end of the class, I went to my hotel room hoping to sleep well and wake ready for the range...the second error in my seemingly well planned weekend. It was a warm night, no fresh air, a noisy heat pump out side, I didn't bring my coveted pillows and my sweet man couldn't join me. I went to sleep promising myself to make it to the range early, get a feel for the bikes, breathe in ~ breathe out and take the first steps to live a dream... Just be aware in this story, if there is one thing to know about me, it is how stubborn I am; remember, "love~kills~slowly". . . more to come
peace ~ ell