twelve months and the gift of injury

   It's June 22, 2010 twelve months since my dream to drive my own motorcycle ended with a second degree muffler burn and the dismissal from the BRC. I remember vividly the struggles of that weekend, the relentless, almost-but-not-quite, learning curve to attain my endorsement and join the fraternity of motorcycle riding. I remember the overwhelming crush of defeat as I stood exhausted, tearful and lost. Today I have a fabulous scar to remind me of that mis-guided effort, why it's worth it to wear chaps every time out,  and why I really should not attempt to drive a motorcycle on any traveled lane. I also have a short list of gentleman bikers who were generous enough to placate my quest and share the ride. One of them has earned my heart; we ride together on his vintage Harley, often. It's a whole new world on the roads now as I ride in his tender company, immersed in the eclectic scenery of this Green Mountain State.
  With each ride out, my respect for the skill and mastery of the driver is enhanced and my appreciation for my instructor's wizened decision to drop me, deepens. The close calls with cagers, the challenging road conditions on dirt or even paved roads, the mental stamina required of motorcycling; it's all brought into sharp reflection the risk for me as the operator. By God's grace, I am keenly aware that I am right where I should be, behind a capable, seasoned driver. It's the perfect solution as I have gained far more than I lost: the long sought freedom of the chrome pony and a dear friend to enjoy the open road.
   Riding in leathers, we seemingly appear a bit foreboding at every rest break; that and my driver looks to be a tough character to them that don't know his kindness. It enlightens me to the perception of others among the public. The power of stereotypes to jade others in their daily musings. I find it to be good and bad and I use it to my advantage accordingly. It will get us the best seat or sometimes the worst seat in a restaurant. It always gets us the best parking spot by the door. It's almost amusing how a mother will pull her child closer as we rumble down Main street, or roll into a creeme stand. It's an ongoing exercise in sociology of sorts. Hollywood has worked hard to perpetuate the myth of troublesome motorcyclists, rebels and mavericks is the media label. To a subtle extent, that is likely accurate but more to the core in personality of a motorcycle rider. Confident is the standard disposition of them that I ride with. It's engaging to spend time with that kind of certainty within a person.

   Still I fantasize about driving my own bike, though my random dysfunctional balance at the walk is clear warning of that unlikely reality; thus the discovery of the Sidecarist world. The nostalgia of driving a sidecar hack is inspiring my dreams these days. I've studied a few brands and while Harley Davidson makes couplings for side cars I am better intrigued of the URAL rig. Made in the Ural mountains of Russia, it has retained its vintage 1938 profile and can be factory ordered with a drive wheel on the car making it worthy of off-roading over winter muck, wood roads and farm lanes. I am enamored of the possibilities. The annual United SideCar Association rally http://www.sidecar.com/will be held here in Vermont in July. We'll be going with hopes of taking a trial in a URAL hack. If my abilities allow, I'll own one next year to ride my farm and tend the evolving transformation into  a soft fruit plantation.
   It's here and now that I enjoy the enchantment of running the roads with my gentleman biker, the view over his shoulder, the strength of his form where I am less strong and the wind in my face as we follow a winding road lulled by the throaty purr of a vintage Low Ride. Everything happens for a reason. I failed the BRC; I gained a dear friend to share this evolving dream. A dream that just gets better with every detour... luv, peace, ride ~ ell