We wound our way to Vermont over land routes taking us through some premium agricultural land. I was jealous as the the soils seemed well suited for hay crops and the farmers were mowing, tetting or baling as fast as they could flog their tractors. Many tending road side acres would wave heartily at the scene of our vintage bike with flag in full glory. My biker man would perk up and flash a "hi wave" back at them. He was enjoying their appreciation for the display and would often remark about this being "the best way he has ever spent the 4th". Following rte 4 into Fair Haven, we took a shade and water break at the awesome Vermont Information center there. It was mid-day and only two hours on the roads and I was parched. The cool tap water was sweet relief. He filled my quart water bottle twice; first to drink and next to cool me off. Getting off the bike, he squeezed the clear bottle over my shoulders drenching the back of my shirt. "Whoot! that actually feels really good." as I smiled and unbuckled my chaps. On lookers must have thought I was just another wild biker chic...but with a wet shirt, the evaporation at 50 mph would cool my core body temperature to a comfortable level. I could ride feeling strong and attentive. Though a peculiar sight, I loved it and repeated the survival tactic at every chance.
Refreshed and regrouped we spied the large map on the wall inside and began to consider our northbound route home. I sat comfortably in a beautiful handmade rocking chair made from carefully woven battens of clear cherry hardwood. It felt divine to sit without moving, if just for a while. This was his 'neck o the woods' so I listened to his narrative of the preferred route home. He always asked me at such times, "...if its ok with you..." "As long as there are not too many stop and wait lights...surprise me." My driver paused, asked in his quiet voice, "...why no stop lights? I'm not worried about traffic; it doesn't bother me; I'm totally confident in city driving..." I gazed into his confusion and clarified my requirement; "I trust you everywhere, it's sitting still in this hot sun at a traffic light that bothers my brain. It's just too hot, and Rutland is too ugly for today..." With that he smiled and promised there would be stop signs but no lights to get stuck at. He plotted a little more and then showed me his plan.
We would begin due north on rte 30 along the shores of lake Bomoseen then up to the junction at 73 east, through Brandon Gap at 2170' and twisting through the Green Mountain National Forest. We would randomly observe the celebratory spirit of tiny towns like Talcville, Rochester, Bethel and junction northward on rte 12. He hoped our timing would put our arrival there after the big Randolph celebration and give us near-empty, Sunday roads to cruise on. "Sounds good; I guess I'm ready enough, let's ride." as my ready-to-ride grin stretched my sunburned cheeks. I'd never been on these roads and the novelty inspired my enthusiasm to ride on.
Better at mounting my pillion seat by now, I slipped my right leg over the bags and past the flag poll with relative grace compared to my earliest attempts only yesterday. My black chaps were sticky with the humid air and would bind my knees when I found the pegs. I took to standing on the pegs to stretch my legs and tweaking the supple leather that protected them from the road grit and scalding exhaust pipes. This always startled my driver as he would grab the bars and plant both feet firmly on the ground. He reminded me to tell him when I would do that so I don't tip us both over with this 660 lb bike. "...just tell me first..." I am so lucky to ride with him as he never says 'don't'; he only reminds me gently, what the 'Rules' are as a passenger. He started her flawlessly, found first gear, turned on the headlight and we pulled away banking hard left into the switchback driveway taking us to the open road. This machine purred this year, after an entire spring of mechanical struggles and doubtful adjustments. It was the third carburetor from a totaled '77 Sportster that made her start with ease and hum that HD melody over the endless roads. He was pleased; I was delighted.
Rolling past the lake shore, into the small towns, through the village centers, people would stop, stare and wave or give a thumbs up at the brilliant image of our holiday tribute. At stop signs or the rare light, cagers would beep or rev their motors. A few sport bikes would close their clutch and race their engines in approval of our scene. While we never rode in a single parade that day, it was still a patriotic image that left most folks smiling. We hadn't thought of the pleasure it might evoke in others who saw it waving. It was purely my selfish wish to comfort my own desires in affirming my American devotions. It was a humbling experience to stir such appreciation, happiness and even reverence for our striking national symbol. My biker man noted more than once, "it's great to see people so interested in this flag; I never thought much about it before... now I'll probably pay more attention to it..." I smiled over his shoulder and thought how 'it matters so much; I must remember to thank my friends who 'serve', for making it possible to be out here going anywhere we pleased with this beauty, waving so boldly...'
Past the lake shore, rte 30 showed the graceful curves that make it a perfect motorcycle route. There was little to no traffic for miles; even the center of Castleton stood quiet on this Sunday morning. Likely most folks were sleeping in or perhaps at Sunday services. The road was all ours, so he cranked her up and we were often cruising at 70mph when the road allowed. I like fast but today I wanted to see everything in this piece of our journey. I was never disappointed this weekend. In Vermont, our roads are made for motorcycles. In the tiny place of Sudbury, we junctioned with 73 east and entered the traverse of the Green Mtn National Forest. Only one vehicle passed us on this stunning route. At the top of Brandon Gap, we stopped at a pull-out and gazed at the ancient stone walls abandoned long ago by weary hill farmers seeking a more viable life. In the stillness of the stones, I sought a refuge to relieve bladder careful to be discrete and not disrupt the wilderness. He, on the other hand, demonstrated one of the more un-fair advantages of maleness. It just didn't matter to him, as he turned his back in the very unlikely event, that anyone may drive by. I had to laugh as he did not pay close attention to his locale when answered his call, but he was 'mostly compliant'. I do after all, call him outlaw for good reasons.
The rest of that road was downhill into Bethel and the twisties were steep enough that I would hold my breath on the tighter curves as he would lean hard into the gravity of it all. Leaning with him, my self-speak recalled the Basic Rider Course manual, the paragraph about "...contact area of the tire patch on a tight curve...be aware of this influence on stopping strategies..." At that thought, I glanced at my chaps, strong and sturdy to my relief, as it was the right hand turns that would cause me to drop the bike 3x in that class, resulting in my life time memento of that long ago lesson. My chauffeur, though, was peaking in his groove. He reveled in testing his bike and had no fear of maxing out her limits. I must say, it was thrilling...the loud pipes, the engine's determined peel of power as she surged to meet his demand was exceptional. It made me giddy for I knew, even if I could drive my own bike, I would never be so bold. He takes me to limits that I would have never ventured with my own endorsement and brings us back safely with seasoned temperance and deft co-ordination of the brakes. We drifted in to his 'neighborhood', the main street of Randolph VT just in time for the parade to have finished up, leaving the crowds with foodies and spectators on one commercial lane. We parked and dismounted to stretch our legs and meet and greet the townies. He parked his bike in a back alley, beside a rusting Yamaha cruiser of the 70's era. "...why park this beautiful bike and gorgeous flag back here?" I was a bit baffled and disappointed not to show her off. "...well it's not all legal; the inspection is kinda old." he murmured, walking toward food. I took a peek on the front frame and saw it; wrong color, wrong year; a four year old sticker, in fact...yup, a low profile is a good idea.' After a stretch, some mingling and really good hand-scooped lemon ice I-talian style, we backed out our 'outlaw' bike and headed for his house on the back hills of Brookfield.
It was a sweet respite before we motored onward. My thoughts rambled over the back roads '...how many miles have we gone since yesterday? ...it seemed like a week had gone by but only hours measured by miles and state signs... we were half way on our adventure and I'm having the best 4th ever...' We would need a rest before continuing, the sound of silence at his man-world homestead... this story will continue, just one more last run to make it home... see ya ~ ell
Refreshed and regrouped we spied the large map on the wall inside and began to consider our northbound route home. I sat comfortably in a beautiful handmade rocking chair made from carefully woven battens of clear cherry hardwood. It felt divine to sit without moving, if just for a while. This was his 'neck o the woods' so I listened to his narrative of the preferred route home. He always asked me at such times, "...if its ok with you..." "As long as there are not too many stop and wait lights...surprise me." My driver paused, asked in his quiet voice, "...why no stop lights? I'm not worried about traffic; it doesn't bother me; I'm totally confident in city driving..." I gazed into his confusion and clarified my requirement; "I trust you everywhere, it's sitting still in this hot sun at a traffic light that bothers my brain. It's just too hot, and Rutland is too ugly for today..." With that he smiled and promised there would be stop signs but no lights to get stuck at. He plotted a little more and then showed me his plan.
We would begin due north on rte 30 along the shores of lake Bomoseen then up to the junction at 73 east, through Brandon Gap at 2170' and twisting through the Green Mountain National Forest. We would randomly observe the celebratory spirit of tiny towns like Talcville, Rochester, Bethel and junction northward on rte 12. He hoped our timing would put our arrival there after the big Randolph celebration and give us near-empty, Sunday roads to cruise on. "Sounds good; I guess I'm ready enough, let's ride." as my ready-to-ride grin stretched my sunburned cheeks. I'd never been on these roads and the novelty inspired my enthusiasm to ride on.
It was a sweet respite before we motored onward. My thoughts rambled over the back roads '...how many miles have we gone since yesterday? ...it seemed like a week had gone by but only hours measured by miles and state signs... we were half way on our adventure and I'm having the best 4th ever...' We would need a rest before continuing, the sound of silence at his man-world homestead... this story will continue, just one more last run to make it home... see ya ~ ell
No comments:
Post a Comment