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

animal medicine

It was an ordinary day in ordinary time at an ordinary place. The sun was so bright it glistened across the ridge line, piercing the mellow clouds that drifted along. The first day of summer vacation for my kids as my younger daughter danced through the day, filling time with horses, ice cream and her beloved bike. Oh to have the freedom to pedal the days away. On such a jaunt, she came across one of life's rare memories. As she cycled westerly, she spotted something precious in the rain well aside our summer pasture. In her unhurried journey, she spotted a baby deer, nestled in the shelter of the roadside ditch. Bursting through the door, she struggled to share the frantic news; "over in the thingy, next to our road, a little deer....it's still alive, but it can't move...." earnest concern in her eyes. "How far? - let's go see.." A short walk from our door yard toward the afternoon sun revealed a beautiful work of God. A days old baby boy deer, head up, ears alert and eyes bright. His back appeared to be broken. His momma was long gone, saving herself and leaving her precious, perfect babe behind. So many thoughts collide in a time like this. All of my EMS training, animal welfare, who do I call, how to resolve this with peace and dignity for all. I explained to my daughter, "his back is broken,,, there is no saving him. If he can't be a deer and live a deer's life of joy, then we must end his suffering..." She has grown up on this farm; she has seen birth and death through all of her life. She didn't argue, she stood guard while a passing bicycler called 911. They'd send a game warden to get him. Meanwhile, I was recalling the recent passage I found about Deer as an animal guide in Native American animal medicine when my biker buddy had crossed paths with a deer a little while back. As I sat near this little fellow, admiring God's perfection in his creation, my thoughts drifted to that passage. Deer ~ gentleness ,,, the shaman value. When a deer comes into your path it is an "embrace from afar"... if the deer is leaving your path, it is the message that gentleness is the way to solve a present conflict. "Deer teaches us to use the power of gentleness to touch the hearts and minds of wounded beings who are trying to keep us from our sacred paths... Like the dappling of the fawn's coat, both the light and the dark may be loved to create gentleness and safety for those who are seeking peace. If Deer comes to you, you are being asked to find the gentleness of spirit that heals all wounds... apply gentleness to your present situation and become warm and caring...this is your tool for solving a present dilemma. When Deer is in the contrary (away from your path), it is a message to lean into your fears, love your fears as fear cannot exist in the same place that love and gentleness abide ." Strong and ancient wisdom in animal medicine. After 20 minutes, a state trooper came to dispatch the suffering babe. I saw, briefly, a flinch in his eye before he humanely ended the misery. This little fellow, baby boy deer, came to my farm by accident. Literally so; but the brief time I sat with him, hearing him bleat for his momma, taught me the power of gentle in love and life. His desire to survive, to be understood and know a safe place. The animal medicine came to me at the end of a day that was fraught with mother-daughter conflict, and struggles over duty and commitment. He was here so briefly, brave when I touched his broken back, beautiful when he looked back at me. Here for a moment in my lifetime; an excellent teacher in that moment. Fly high and away baby deer. I believe I understand, I'll try to honor your message and your memory...
thank you for this peek experience. ~ peace ~ ell

a manic miracle monday

Mondays are often a rough start after the leisure and liberty of the weekend. This Monday was guaranteed to be a corker. The moon was nearly full, the weather had been schizophrenic over the weekend and I over slept by an hour. If not for the jingle on my cel with the gregarious "rize and shine!" from my big hearted friend, I'd have been climbing out of a deeper hole to start the day. I had field trip duty for my twin boyz and if Graham is to enjoy the event, a parent must be along. So the morning prune and prep ritual for me with a fast and furious feeding for the horses and I was bolting to the school to assume my place among the parent chaperon club...with 15 minutes to spare. Awesome, not pretty but awesome. With my grinning escort in hand, we trooped out to the bus and took our reserved seat at the front. Graham likes to see where we are going. I like to chat with the driver, a long time neighbor and friend. Probably, they shouldn't let me sit there. When approaching the fork in the road on our day's journey, I persuaded him to take the "road less traveled".... back roads meandering the countryside of five towns, bisecting farms and villages unfamiliar to our teachers, fellow parents and the driver. It took us a bit out of the way, 2o minutes longer and revealed the nature of the captive grown ups along for the ride. It's always a study of humanity to observe people who have no choice about their circumstance nor the direction they are being taken. For me, it was a chance for a scenic adventure through Vermont's famed wonderland. Like Alice in a world of green velveteen, I was enchanted by the Vermont vernacular. Small towns unscathed by strip malls and box stores. While I was happily navigating the country-way to town, fellow adults were filling with angst, venting their disquieted thoughts and busily counting their perception of wasted minutes in this frivolous route of travel and not in lines at the destination. Blame me, I'm a type Z personality, barely on the scale of measure for predictability. In my world, its all about the journey, not so much the destination. The rest of the 46 passengers seemed to be type A. After a few barbed jokes, quips and quirks, we arrived only 15 minutes behind schedule to the beautiful Shelburne Farms in Shelburne Vermont. A spectacular farm of the Victorian Era which is now open to the public for survival sake. It is magnificent in architecture, both man and God's. We all got on the tractor driven wagon with barely an inch of bench space to spare. Graham loved the windy ride. Spanning the easterly shores of Lake Champlain, this farm offered wind and lots of it. This is Graham's favorite element. He played with chickens and even a draft horse with an ample blond mane and then it was time to remount the bus. Upon arriving at the fork in the return journey, the driver was directed with a chorus of "LEFT!" leaving me a meek "no comment" for the return venture home. It was faster, but heavy traffic and too many unkind drivers to suit me. Time being of the essence, we had to make hast to the end of school day for children's return to their homes. My quiet remark to the driver, "at least they saw some real farms on the way in, real herds of cows and real mud and manure..."Dismounting the yellow field trip bus, Graham was directed into school only to remount another bus home; this time with out me. He was devastated, not his expectation and inconsolable in his disappointment he spiraled into an aggressive meltdown. I've seen this all too frequently this school year. As a non-verbal child, he cannot speak his thoughts. He can only act on his purest impulses. As I watched four staff people surround him, I watched my precious boy in crisis. Tears, screams, self injuries. I entered the school meeting awaiting me and asked, "now will you come and see this! He is in crisis, it happens almost daily, he needs help, we need a plan... don't say that you haven't seen it because you see it now...." Not one of the premium priced "professionals" left their comfortable chairs to even observe my child in crisis. Any respect I had for them, evaporated in that moment. A child in crisis, a parent pleading for help, and a room full of unresponsive experts. God sees everything, by His grace, they will be gone by next school year. After trudging through that hour long meeting of their self lauding and blaming of the victim, I headed home to hug my boy and face my neglected chores of the day. Just to make the Monday more manic, my round bale hay supplier phoned to say he had no way to deliver as he was stuck in Canada. No hay, eleven hungry, bickering horses and the end of a stressful afternoon. Breathe in ~ Breath out... I'll make some calls, grab some small square bales for the night... Wishing for the day to simply end, the farm phone rang; my neighbor "had some hay to hot to put in his mow...could I take it..." yes! Some hay was 100 bales of premium first cut, delivered and stacked in front of my barn. Hungry horses calling for their portion and five adults to stack the hefty bales. My Monday started lovely, ran a bit off course with me and ended beautifully. God is good; He has surrounded me with loving, caring and giving people. It makes the rough days doable; it reminds me to visit the same kindness unto those in need of such... "only the poor understand the luxury of giving..." ~ George Elliot. I will do as I can to help... God showed me the difference between those who see by His glory and those who see by their own... "to live every day in the service of Jesus Christ..." that is my mission... it was a manic, miracle Monday, perfect in every way.
luv and peace ~ ell

churchin' up the Harley way...

We spent all day Saturday working on the farm, deconstructing the horse training arena. I plan to put the flat four acres into a soft fruit plantation. The old riding ring is the only sand I own on that piece of land. It will make a perfect spot for the raspberries. So then, the 80 x 120 foot three rail arena must come down. Last year, oldest daughter and I started that process and gave up with three quarters of the circumference to go. So there it stood, waiting for decommissioning. I say we worked; really I watched a very strong friend work, when I wasn't napping in the shade. He is so good to me. We stuffed the back of the mini van full of the salvaged wood for future barn projects and drove the sagging car to the hen house. Mission accomplished, I stole a kiss from each and sent them on their way, the day well spent. The sun easing behind the hills left me looking ahead to Sunday services at my beloved "Jeff Church~ the little church with a big heart..." a quiet day of rest and reflection...the usual small town day of comfort. That all changed when a brilliant beam of morning sun awoke me, with my little blue-eyed wonder boy jumping on my bed. No sleeping-in that morning. It's all good as I was wide awake when my riding partner beeped me on my cell. "So I was thinking of going for a ride today, wondering if you'd maybe wanna skip church and join me?...? his thoughtful lure. It took me less than the time to click his number in my call list to reply: "yes!" I love my church community, loving and giving people all of them...but I reasoned that God would allow if I got a little "churchin' up" on the back of a gleaming Harley behind a very good friend. My ride arrived on schedule; younger daughter tended the horses; older daughter tended the boyz. I leathered up and we poached a Sunday twirl. (poaching is taking a ride when maybe we should have been more dedicated to our responsibilities). "have you had breakfast?" he queried. "nope, I am hungry though," my earnest answer. "let's get breakfast up by Jay Peak then..." his solution. We headed east and north over the ragged back roads of Lamoille county. I zipping my jacket against the morning chill and closing up a little tighter to his broad, shoulders, holding tight over the broken black top. Seems like they pave our roads after all of everywhere else gets done, or so it seems. Early enough on a Sunday morning, we did not see a soul on this road. And quiet, not even a barking dog in a yard nor any lawn mower worshipers clipping grass. Only the rhythm of the loud pipes to lull us in the morning light. We rolled into our destination, a small home cooking kind of place in a tiny town. We grabbed a deuce in the middle of the crowded room and studied the menu. We were the only breakfast couple in riding gear; all others in their Sunday shirts...we stuck out just a little. With the order placed, we warmed up and plotted our ride. North to Newport, east and south to Lake Willoughby, down to St. J. and circle back home... its the nickel tour of the North East Kingdom. I never tire of riding up here, expanses of time and space that lift your troubles away. A brief chat with a patron and we were ready to ride, wet or dry. This day, we would head for the sun as we cheated the looming storm front. Skylines that looked ominous, storm fronts that promised mean weather. Bursts of sun streaking through darkening clouds, we followed their light. We journeyed up to Newport, counting more churches than I think Vermonters could fill at any given time. Another reminder of this day of rest. Amazing Grace would linger in my mind as the breath taking views would emerge. Rolling into main street Newport, our northern most "city" on the shores of Lake Memphremegog spanning the US/Canadian border, it is one of my favorite burgs in Vermont. We parked the bike in a generous lot at the lakeside boardwalk. The sun dazzled across the water as the wind snapped the flags at full mast in the court yard. We pulled up a bench and I leaned  my head on my abductor's shoulder pondering the "then and now" of this once thriving railroad town... The storm front was gaining on us, we had out run it so far, but we needed to head south and east if we had any hope of staying dry... a challenge in the Vermont spring time if one is any where near the mountains. Snapping a few pics before remounting, he grabbed a happy shot of our twosome, evidence of our day of "hooky"; I won't be able to fib my way out of this one...we were only half way in our day's venture. On the further journeying, still no traffic, the road and the vistas all ours. Looking westerly, the storm was coming and my belly was groaning..."I need to grab some pepto..." He spotted a small market, in Lyndonville, I think. He elected to stay with the bike while I procured the blessed pink tablets. In and out, we'd be off and out running the rain. Not today, everyone in town must do their grocery shopping on Sunday, no blue laws here, and no express line either. I found the shortest wait, I thought. I thought wrong. Though they had only a small inventory to purchase, the couple in front had coupons, lots of 'em. My tummy was aching, in my chaps and road jacket, I caught the eye of a beefy biker who slid in behind me and started the usual "what, where, how" chat. I learned that he "hated Harley's, what was I on?" I didn't answer, I was in no mood to defend my favorite ride, mustering small talk as I counted minutes, too many minutes. I finally got to pay, my cell jingled, I didn't hear the clerk's cost for the pink medicine rightly, "sorry, it's a loud pipes thing..." as I fumbled for bills, tried to answer my phone and get out the door. While I was nursing a belly ache, my driver was getting soaked. The rain found us, or more accurately, him. But still, he was smiling and that alone was worth the price of ditching church. I dried my seat and saddled up behind my soggy chauffeur resuming our course for St. Johnsbury and homeward...It all rolled gently by, a few more cars, the occasional bike, Sunday bliss. Meandering on rte 15 westerly homeward through the tiny towns left behind by time, the familiar landmarks more abundant now as we glided into Lamoille county. I'm 19 days from my BRC moto class, it was here in East Johnson, just 12 miles from my farm, I witnessed the stopping proficiency of the front brake. In a small line of traffic, we were cruizing nicely until the lead car stopped and turned left without warning. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! what the f_ _ k" I gasped as we decelerated from 50 mph to a near stop, running out of road and shoulder with another sedan in front of us. My driver's wits, calm and experience bought us the inches we needed to escape a ruined day. I was shaking, he was not. "sorry I cuss like a carpenter and swear like a sailor...that was close," my weak remark. "ahh, you said it for me" as he reached back to assure me, "it was all under control..." the moment crystallized a sobering note: three motorcyclists died on Vermont roads last weekend...its by God's grace and the biker's savvy that all's well that ends well. Breathing more lightly, holding on more easily, enjoying the view over this big man's shoulder, I mused the reassuring words Pastor Peggy opens every service with: "this is a day that God has made, let us rejoice in it..." Amen ~ let it be so...
luv and peace ~ ell

this one is for my "big man" who brings us home safely every time...