secret gardens...

Finishing up an evening ride, he turned and asked me, "Where would you like to go?" as he scanned the Vermont road map in his hands. "Have you ever been to the Weston Priory, downstate?" was my gentle prompt. "Nope,what's that?" says he. "It is the most special place I know...I spent 5 days with the Benedictine monks who live there back in August '07," was my happy reply. "What, did you wear a robe and all that?" he was puzzled. A female with a bunch of monks, how could this be so? "No, it's a priory. An open monastery where people can come and visit for a while. They eat really good(those boys can cook), raise their own food, pray five times a day...everyone is welcome. It's very Quaker like as the prayer service is in the old barn. It's the rule of Benedict...hospitality." He studied his map more closely; I wondered, 'did he see my longing to revisit that secret garden...?' He confirmed it, "we'll take rte 100 down to it; it will be an adventure." He picked me up Monday at 9am(his day off of work) and we set out on our 280 mile tour, we dodged a Memorial Day parade and headed for the old stagecoach route that traveled the north-south way in VT. Wind in our face, we cruized through a dozen small towns, tiny towns, following the ribbon of canyon and valley bottoms surrounded in vivid spring greens. In places the road was carved into ancient granite tracing sparkling streams and unfolding ferns. We spotted a few waterfalls, some soothing wetlands and always great scapes of rocky hill tops. Few if any cars, random groups of motorcycles, but mostly all ours. Just cool enough to discourage the bugs until afternoon. We found a fabulous eatery in a tiny town near Okemo I think. The Back Behind Restaurant and Saloon ~ Bikers Welcome the hand painted sign said, "must be good" he affirmed. He treated me to the best Bar-B-Q I've ever had in VT, done up southern style and complemented with roasted corn...more than I can eat as is often the case. But always, there is room for something chocolate. My standard query for the waitstaff: "whatta you got that's chocolate?" They offered a decadent fudge brownie Sunday with chocolate ice cream (his excellent idea) and the works on top. This is heaven...good road, great ride, luscious eats, exceptional company...well fed we mounted up and headed for the priory. Rumbling over a few more miles, trolling for the hand blocked sign: Weston Priory...finding it we entered the private road rolling up, as quiet as one can make a HD purr, and embraced the bliss. Stepping off his Custom Classic, I felt like a prodigal child returning home "...come on, I'll give you the nickel tour" It was really the penny tour as we skipped the chapel and barn church crossing the court yard to the gallery where I divined another amulet from the collection of simple hand-formed ceramic medallions. Blue this time; the color of eternity. I love the weight of it next to my heart. He spotted some music he liked and we settled up. Taking my hand into his, we strolled to the pond and settled into some chairs by the waterside. With bull frogs rippling their throaty tones across the pond, I dispensed a little history, a little reverence, a passing chat with Brother Daniel (the bee keeper I knew from last visit)...peace was all around us. We talked some, smiled lots, mellowed to the scenery...a restive, soulful place. I probably talked too much of this secrete garden; "...people come here to heal; they ask the brothers who gently refuse but all the healing comes from within..." I think my friend enjoyed this visit; he looked relaxed and happy...it takes terrific focus to ride motorcycles on roads with cars, critters, boulders and even bugs...the concentration is intense; in the spell bound quiet, I watched him soften, if only a bit. It is an enchanted place, it made for a lovely adventure, we will find it again...but for now we had to saddle up and head north and ease into home... for those who'd like to know, I have listed the link for the priory, and the Rule of Benedict chapter 53... http://www.westonpriory.org/
the rule of Benedict:
"Let all who come be received as Christ himself,
for he will say: 'I was a stranger and you welcomed me.'"
It was a grand day out and it's only May...gentle thoughts go out to you.
luv and peace ~ ell
this one is for "my big man" who brought me back to this secret garden~ xox

Chrome in the Twilight Zone

Yesterday, was an unusually stressful day, aggravation galore, addled plans...."fear not" (it says that 365 times in the Bible ~ coincident? but that's another story),in the green mountains the twilight zone awaits. A portal to another place and time. A sensational experience to sooth the soul...if, you know a good man with an awesome Harley Davidson. Just so happens, I know such a man. I called him: "please, if you don't have a better offer, can you take me for a twirl...I've no curfew tonight...we can ride in the dark, I've never been out after dark..." The kind man appeared, HD tee-shirt, shiny bike, big smile, bigger hug. It was 90 degrees, warm enough to ride sleeveless but I'll not give up my chaps. He picks on me for that, I harp back at him; "gotta keep something between me and the road if we ditch and you don't catch me..." We mounted up, rolled away from the grazing horses and headed up hill. "Where we going?" I asked. "Do you need to know everything? It's the driver's choice...to a mountain you don't work on." He cranked her up and over the Notch. I leaned up on his shoulder and lamented; "burrrr...'ride in a tee-shirt', you said, 'there's nothing like the wind in your shirt', you said...I know your game..." He laughed; asked "do you want your jacket?" "no, I'm good...for now..." I lasted another 5 minutes. He felt me shiver, pulled off and broke out my jacket for me. We watched a sport bike ascend for the third time, cranking the twisties as fast as he could grind them. I noticed he was riding alone and fiercely. "He needs a girlfriend; only an angry, lonely man would be so frantic for speed..." I said this out loud. My driver laughed; we mounted up and rolled gently down into Moscow, through Waterbury and then where I no longer knew the roads we were on. The sun was dropping and reminding me how much I needed glacier glasses for the brightest days. Easing into the Mad River Valley, I finally knew where we were. Another placid, pastoral Vermont burg. The birds gave up for the day and the peepers amplified their chorus in the night air as we stopped for a stretch. Even over the loud pipes their rhythm was in perfect time with the bike. All of the day's flack peeled away as I squeezed up close to my biker friend in a vain effort to stay warmer than the night air. Stopping for a rest and some chocolate it was time to turn her around. He had an early morning, it was getting past my bed time. Following a different road back, beautiful white pines with arching green canopies cloaking the road. The massive HD head lamp lit up a perfect halo leading our way. A rare window light could be seen. Only us and the occasional car on the blacktop. It was the most peaceful part of the day, this twilight. At our last stop this big man lit up the gleaming engine in blue twinkle lights. The reflection off the chrome was celestial. Like some ethereal spirit we rolled across the miles. Looking west, the sun was below the ridge line back lighting the height of land in pristine silhouette. "ohhhh, it's so beautiful..." I whispered as he pointed to the spectacular scene while we cruised along, the road all to ourselves. He put her in a low gear evoking the soft purr of his machine; his warmth in my face,,,I was blissed-out, perfectly content, meditative in my thoughts. Time slowed down, Vermont revealed her glory, Harley Davidson earned a fan, and I fell in love...
peace out ~ ell

this is in praise of God and a life worth living,,,

Will Ride: Wet or Dry

Last Saturday was promised to be an exceptional day. Sunny and warm, clear skies, open roads (its the off season for tourists). Ideal for a spring ride. I had an invitation from a very kind H.O.G. on a very keen custom glide. (that's Harley Owners Group). I met him at the creeme stand and we mounted his gorgeous bike, I noting his burly frame. We departed in classic Harley style. His was a big chromed out, fully dressed touring bike with a plush second seat complete with passenger foot boards. Spotless in immaculate black and gold finish with the full complement of bling... and a stereo on board. By far the best ride I've ever been on. We took the Mountain Road up and over Smugglers Notch. It looked so ominous without snow in the pass to soften the massive granite heights. The boulders were so close to us in the twisties that I could touch them. I did. Like a worshiper seeking the face of God, I reached out to the ancient power of granite, melded with the intimate power of clutch and chrome...We glided down, down, down, 1900 vertical feet to the Stowe valley and then onto the interstate. The bike never wavered; the driver never faultered. A mountain of a man, younger than I usually ride with, but seasoned, skilled, smiling broadly with his legs stretched out on the forward highway pegs . A modest helmet sticker on the back of his glossy black lid: "size does matter"... At highway speeds, tunes busting out, each one roiling with the throttle, the bike and man were flawless in performance...and by his grace, I was along for the ride. As loud as it was; this was peace. South we went, south to Woodstock and then Quechee. Gearing the throaty bike down when he spotted the pull off he sought at the Quechee gorge over pass. The sun was brilliant, the sky pristine, the view was enormous. We dismounted and walked about on the bridge. He shared the history, the geology; this mountain of a man saw minute beauty and massive fortitude of the landscape. He had my full attention; a gracious surprise. Remounting, we cruised farther along the road and swapped a few stories over a genteel meal. In a generous leather vest adorned with logos, ride patches, a massive American Flag spanning his shoulders, framing arms that could swallow me whole, he would flash a broad smile and wink his eye in hearing my tales. He is the "big easy" I would think to myself. Well fed and remounting his gleaming bike, we glided onward to the west picking up route 4 to Rutland, the mid point of Vermont. More stunning views on an open road with a rare count of cars. The skies began to darken so we amended our plan a bit and drifted more easterly, toward home. Coming into Rutland, I experienced the complexities of motoriding among cagers and developed a vivid appreciation for the skills at hand. The number and frequency of hazards was tremendous. There was an intersection littered with gravel and sand on the paved thruway. We needed to make a left from a stop at this light. I swallowed hard remembering the MSF warnings on left turn sight lines, road conditions that can bring a bike down, being seen in heavy urban traffic. We were in the middle of the worse case scenario. The man up front showed no such concern. He patiently waited, put her in gear, glided over the debris and into our lane. "I think we need more crud in the road..." I joked in his ear. He laughed easily. A ways up the road, he wasn't laughing when we were missed by inches as a car pulled into our lane from a parking lot. Inches, only inches prevented her broadside collision with us despite my bright gold jacket, the reflecting chrome and my waving hand. Only inches spared us as she never saw us right in front of her car. I held my breath, he shook his head and patted my knee. It happens too often, drivers looking without seeing. I bow down to his mastery of his bike, and our fate. Thankfully, we cleared the traffic and picked up 22A north. It was another empty piece of blacktop all the way to Middlebury. Vermont never disappoints in her scenery. I never tire of engaging it. The westerly skies were nearly black now, our lake Champlain excursion would be put off to another day. Two hours between us and home, we headed north and east, into the light...In downtown Middlebury it began to drizzle. The big man up front was a worthy weather break for me in my open face helmet. By Ferrisburg, the rain would sting my cheeks when I peeked over his shoulder to catch a glimpse. Still it was warm and wonderful with my arms around him, winding over the narrow roads of farm country. We rolled into Starksboro and the skies opened, rain fell, then poured. Neither one of us in rain gear, neither one of us cared. It was an early ride out, after a long winter of no such twirl through the country. Even the rain couldn't deter our hunger for a long awaited ride. By Hinesburg we had to stop; the rain too heavy in his face to push on, lightening ripping the skies. He found a nice dinner and parked the cruiser while I stepped through the door. Warm and dry and empty seats for us in this full house. I must have looked very foreboding in my sopping jacket, dripping helmet and limp pony tail with soggy black chaps. All eyes were on me, then my none-too-small, drenched motodriver stepped in behind me. Silence in the dinner as we were directed to a table in the back. Draping my wet jacket over a chair back, I could hear the mumbbles, giggles and low gasps. I was soaked, to the bone, and apparently, through my little white blouse....this wasn't a wet t-shirt kind of joint; wives and moms did not appreciate my new brazier, I would not win a free beer here... my shy friend cleared his throat and offered me the seat by the heater as he ordered up something hot to drink. When the mugs of hot cocoas arrived, complete with whipped cream, I smiled large. A neatly dressed man by the door chuckled and whispered: "they ordered hot chocolate!" to his spouse. "What did they imagine of us?", I thought to myself as I scooped up the cream and marveled at the "cats 'n' dogs" bouncing off the car hood out the window. I love the smell of fresh rain, of lilacs and apple blossoms; but my driver didn't know this and was concerned I was displeased. "no, its the first ride out...it's all good. Besides, I was dry until your jacket hit saturation point and then drenched my lap. That's why I shrieked a ways back. If I'm wet, you're wetter. You make a pretty good weather screen, don't you know..." He smiled, got a little warmer and waited a bit. When the rain eased up, he went out and got my leather coat from his "boot". It was thankfully dry. Final sip of cocoa and time to brace for the last leg home. He went out and turned the bike around, tried to dry my seat; I paid for the cocoa and started zipping up my damp layers. A curious patron asked "how far did we have to go?" I turned and smiled big: "about 40 miles I think, but my scarf is still dry so I got that going for me..." He laughed, I put on my lid and headed out. The last leg was getting colder with air temps dropping and water rising in the rivers. The closer we got to the Mt Mansfield region, the farther north we traveled, the wetter it got. But the bike handled easily, no slipping or sliding, none of the forewarned traction dangers in the MSF manual. A heavy bike with good rubber, a strong driver and his respectful skills over the road. As we glided down the Boyden Farm Hill in Cambridge, we hit a fast, wide and deep rivulet over the road. It never fazed me, I was secure in my driver's obvious competence in all we faced this ride. But he startled me when he gasped. "Never saw that!" he exclaimed. The bike did the work that time; we eased over the last 3 miles and pulled up to my waiting car. I was glowing, a fabulous ride, the dry, the wet, the edge of it all... We laughed; it was over for me but another 30 miles for him. He felt bad for me, I felt bad for him and then I smiled. "Ahhh, you just wanted to see me in a wet shirt...I know your game..." He blushed and smiled brightly, "we'll get it right next time..." and off he went winding out that HD throttle. Music to my ears. I love these guys, their bikes, their savvy... I have ridden many times since with this gentleman; we'll practice until we get it right...it's all good.
peace ~ ell

Awesome Brown Horses

I love underdogs. I bow down to their perseverance, their devotion to their vision. In these frantic times in America, where bad news dominates the day and light struggles to illuminate the overwhelmed foot soldiers of the American dream, we need underdogs who make it work. Just a glimpse of a "minor player's" triumph lifts us up and inspires us to believe in our own potentials.(He was a longshot at 50 to 1) This year's Kentucky Derby was just what the Dr. ordered. Proof that trying does matter, seizing opportunity when it reveals itself, pursuing that chance with total gusto...there are no regrets in doing the right thing, no "shoulda - coulda" "or if onlys". An amazing race, a talented, wizened jockey, a well made horse with a heart of pure gold. May they live long and prosper. Please enjoy this clip of one of the best horse races ever run. Be inspired, move your feet and live like a horse... peace ~ell
The Awesome Brown Horse: Mine that Bird
The talented Jockey: Calvin Borel

the power of persuasion

The weather is becoming increasingly balmy. The hillsides are popping as leaves unfold and pollen drifts upon the wind. There are more bikes out everyday. I've decided that I am hooked if not obsessed with moto-riding. I perseverate on rides of the past and the chromed out bikes that thunder by. I can tell you the make of the bike by the sound of its exhaust. I can tell you the horsepower by the size of its block. I am hooked; its fun to have a beginner's mind in the art and science of motorcycles. And the bling! Like a Raven attracted to a shiny treasure for its nest, nothing stops the direction of my feet and snaps my head around faster than loud pipes and gleaming chrome. Resolved to meet more riders and go more often in my quest to satiate this addiction to wind and bling, I've tried several postings on CL (because its instant, its free, it allows pictures); I failed in the first 3 attempts over one month. I was waxing poetic, trying to veil my lust for the wind in my face. So last night, in the quiet darkness of my study; I crafted what appears to be a masterpiece. Drawing on years of horse training, dog handling, and even training a cat to fetch milk jug lids, I posted a persuasive note; systematically pleading my case and never disclosing my weakness of my addiction to wind therapy. Successfully scoring rides on beautiful bikes with nice men is like herding cats. What ever you want, you have to make them think "it was their idea and boy, what a good one." The random 2up pic at the top of this post was at the bottom of the CL post. I've received 14 responses in 24 hours (safe response protocols are implemented) Because I believe in sharing the better won tricks to life, I am posting it here that anyone who can benefit from this marvelous example of persuasive tacting may finally be lead to their salvation (or their obsession). This is an open source template; feel free to customize it to fit your needs:

vermont craigslist > strictly platonic
Please report suspected exploitation of minors to the appropriate authorities

It's good to share - w4m - 47 (all points north)
Date: 2009-05-01, 5:12PM EDT

For moto riding gentlemen with guest pegs, second seat and a passion for wind.
These are the top 10 Reasons you should invite me for a ride on your MOTORCYCLE:

Aesthetics
1) You need some feminine bling on the back of your shiny cruizer
2) I look good in hats
3) I look better in leathers (5'6", 130)

Comfort
4) I'll buy us lunch
5) You won't need electrics with my arms around you

Enhanced Skills/Performance
6) Cornering is enhanced as I lean how you lean
7) Your bike will brake more effectively
8) I'll help you refine your clutching

Patriotic
9) It would be an admirable effort in conserving petroleum products

Mentoring
10) I would listen attentively to your moto-wisdom (I am taking my BRC this summer)

and one more:
Vermont is too beautiful a place to cruize it all alone...

If you are a gentleman who wishes to share the ride, please send me a note
let's ride, LKS

location: all points north

I hope you smile while you read this, inspired to live your dreams...
peace ~ ell