it's all about the ride..

 

It was a 423 mile excursion to bring my son to his boyscout reservation south of Tupper Lake NY. We took the Honda Element with all his camping gear, his twin brother and older sister to help with map reading. A skill she needed to practice and it was a great family day out. We traveled on the eastern fringe of the Adirondack Park enjoying old towns, thriving destination villages and serene woodlands. The roads were long, clean and barely traveled. They mostly wound around mountains and through gulfs in endless sweepers. On a motorcycle, it would be spectacular; in the car not so much. I phoned my bikerman from a rest stop on the Asable River and detailed the route from Tupper Village to the Champlain Bridge in Crown Pt, describing the beauty of it all. On a bike, the riders are engaged at a very organic level with every degree of detail; there are no filters to see or feel through. On a bike we would have been in rapture. In the car, we battled the radio for music, just to stay awake. The mess of wrappers, books and toys piled around our feet as we engaged the interior of the car more than the outdoors we piloted through. I really felt like we were in a viewing cage of sorts, like the motorcycle jargon touts. For this ride, we were "cagers" and I couldn't wait to be free, rolling on the Harley, holding my driver and shooting endless pictures on the fly. He agreed with me, whole heartedly; I could feel his smile even over the phone. In my heart I thank him for including me in his miles on the bike; it is the most earthly way to travel the world around us. Out loud, I encourage him to plan a ride in this 'neighborhood' sooner than later. Again, he smiles over the phone, and begins to plan the repairs of his bike while his injuries continue to make good progress in healing. In a car, we drive to arrive; being there is the priority. On a bike, we drive to look, linger and live an adventure. In a car its about the destination, on a bike its about the journey. Driving roads ripe for motorcycles, in a car... this was a glaring truth.

"... I never saw him..." ~ the making of a 'lowside'

 this is the story of what happened on June 21, 2012, it is offered in my words, my thoughts, his words, his thoughts. He asked that I write it up so it could be published in some places and readers would learn something; that bikers would learn, drivers would become aware and people would benefit from this experience. His recollection of events, actions and reactions is amazingly detailed. It's not meant to blame anyone, or to vent anger, or to shame anyone. It happened; it was the perfect storm; he (my tuff talking, soft spoken, Harley driving, back country gentleman) hopes that people will learn some things, that's all.

the phone call  ~ in my words

  June 21 at 7:45pm: It was a pleasant early summer evening, cooling down, clear air and mellow sun setting as daughter and I were feeding out hay and grain for the seven horses up in the summer pasture. With my arms full of fresh hay, I heard my phone ringing in my pocket. Putting out flakes of the green goodness for the gathering horses, I had to let the call go to voice mail. A few minutes later, hands free, I checked the missed call list and saw an incoming phone number I did not recognize. Ten minutes had lapsed from the initial ring. Daughter didn't know the number either; I almost deleted, but felt a stronger sense to respond so opted to call back. A strange voice answered and quickly handed the far away phone to my biker man. He: "Resa, I've wrecked the bike..." me interupting: "is this a joke, are you joking?" He: "I'm not joking, I had to lay the bike down, my leg is broken, going to the Berlin hospital..." I stood sill and concentrated (thinking, this isn't right, he's a seasoned rider, he's careful, the bike is in mint condition, he was on his way up here, this isn't right...)me: "...what do you need me to do?" He: "call my folks and Mike to get the bike with his trailer...I'm at Hospitality Ave in Berlin..." I was stunned, my thinking diverged, taking paralell tracks: he's spoofing me, getting the upside in our practical jokes, but still... he sounded genuine...I commenced calling his parents and friend, imagining that this was a ruse; expecting them to jab me with laughter and 'gotcha'.  My bikerman is extremely experienced, 35 road savy moto years and 44K miles on his vintage 84 Low Ride alone; this just can't happen, he's too good, too careful.  In both cases, I only got voice mail for his friend and for his folks. I tried to sound calm as I heard the hastily rehearsed words fall out of my mouth: "....Chuck wanted me to call you and let you know, he had a wreck with his bike... he has a broken ankle, that's all, he's lucid, he's talking... he's at Berlin hospital, his phone is smashed so call me back..." (I later gently learned,  that just hearing the word 'wreck' before the injury was a heart stopping experience for his mom, regardless of how calm I sounded. A lesson learned for me though I hope I never have to make such a call again) As I left the messages, I began to struggle with guilt and disbelief and fragile optimism. He was coming up to my place so we could ride for a day before he heads south for the week; he was on the road for me... on his bike to meet me... on his way to the store that I suggested, to save tomorrow for a long run with me...he's hurt because of me. Trying to shake off the gloom, I turned to younger daughter, "...I need to go to the hospital and I'd be gone till tomorrow; could you hold down the fort till tomorrow afternoon?" She was good with the assignment of running the small horse farm so I could drive the 90min to see him. Sometimes teen daughter can surprise me beyond my comprehension.  
    Once on the road heading south; I reasoned it had to be a joke. We are pranking each other always and I was convinced he crafted this complex ruse and his family and friends were in on it; at least I wanted to believe this. In my mind though, I would bounce from happily complementing his  clever gag to being very concerned for him. My self speak: "...how long will he let me drive before confessing all is a joke... he sounded so calm and assured but then I recalled the sirens in the back ground.... it's my fault he was on the road..." Entering route 89 south, I was 40min from the hospital; I felt more relaxed and grateful recanting the scenario  as he called me himself; his speech was lucid and calm. He wasn't maimed, or mangled or dead...he was a little bit broken... it wasn't a trooper who called me, it was my biker man on a borrowed phone, a witness's phone. The situation was looking better to me now, as I drove to the emergency room. Approaching the hospital entrance, I redialed the unfamiliar cell number just to see if this was for real. The unknown owner picked up and answered my feeble query as to my guy's whereabouts; "he should be at the hospital by now, good luck..." It was confirmed, this was no joke and I entered with a shaky smile. Directed to his curtained alcove in the ER, he was awake and sparing with the male nurse. Greeting him with a kiss and a gentle touch I began to hear the story. We would cypher the logistics later, solve the accommodations later, deal with the stuff after he was taken care of; everything could suddenly wait until later.

the wreck:
~ in my words
     before I learned the specific details of the wreck, he told me generally how it happened, how he sort of had to 'lay it down'. That he was grateful to the man who lifted the bike off his crushed ankle, saving him from the scalding oil purging from the crank case - the same man who induced the wreck; to the lady EMT who stopped and helped him crawl off the road with a shattered ankle and get as comfortable as he could; how another man called 9-1-1 and then let him call me on the borrowed cell phone as his was destroyed in the slide. So many strangers who stopped, helped and never left him alone; to them we are both grateful.

 ~ in his words:
    After securing the homestead, all was ready for me to roll away from my house. I'd planned and packed and prepared to go riding up north. To take my partner for a long day of cruising on VT's gorgeous roads before departing for GA in a week. The evening air was cool, clear and crisp, my favorite part of the day to ride. A quick tclocks showed my classic Harley needed a quart of oil; once added, the bike was ready. I was debating, should I wear my jacket or stow it; the pristine twilight convinced me to ride in t-shirt, jeans and sneakers as I usually do on a summer ride. I stuffed my jacket in the tail bag, pulling out my trusty gauntlet gloves in exchange. Worn and ragged, I felt compelled to wear them tonight in case the ugly bugs pelted my hands. Full face helmet strapped into place, visor up to enjoy the air, I mounted up, turned the key, hit the switch and then the lamp. Hearing the lowride clear her throat, sounding sweet and classic, CB (best shovelhead mechanic ever) did an awesome job getting her tuned tight for the season ahead. Down the drive and onto the town road, it was going to be a perfect nite for the 90min ride north to Resa's.

   Cruising north on rte 14, I mentally mapped out my options  for roads. I needed to grab some gear for my pending trip to Fort Benning GA to be at my son's graduation from BASIC; I was planning to be there, with all certanty, next week. At the 4-way in South Barre, I opted to stay off the interstate an pursue the quieter airport road in Berlin, a straight shot to the shopping center and then the highway to Mt. Mansfield and Resa's. Enjoying the smooth road, I was humored to spot a lone beer can on the center line and then startled by a low flying plane buzzing over me in its approach to the runway beside my lane. I was thinking what a great night to fly and a great night to ride.

    My thoughts shifted to the up coming intersection and how to best navigate the congested crossroad. It is a 6 lane 4-way with timed turn arrows and hasty drivers. I wanted to be in the center through lane to move onward to the store. The wind on my bare arms and open visor was refreshing as I crested the knoll. The intersection was waiting in the distance, and the on-coming pick up truck. My northbound lane was clear to the lights, only the truck approaching in his up-south lane. No concerns as there was no directional for a lane change. If had seen a turn signal, I would have made eye contact to read his intentions. No directional, no eye contact, no need of that; I continued on my way, without hesitation. I'm thinking, he's in his lane, I'm in mine...

    In a blink, he's turned across my lane, headed for a road I didn't even know was there, new since last summer. I'm thinking fast, really fast; I can't go right, I'll hit him broadside; I can't go left, there's on-coming traffic. I have to stop, with 60 feet between me and him, I have to stop; at 45mph, I have to stop. I'm hitting the front brake as hard as I dare, the back break harder, and still harder on the rear brake until I've locked it up. Skidding now, I'm trying to veer left to clear the bumper. The bike was locked up, swerving now; I didn't want to hit the truck and go over high. The bike was no longer controllable, I knew it was going down or hit the truck.

    Blink; I'm down, hitting my head first, helmet bouncing back like a ball. I'm thinking: I am so glad I have my helmet on... It was like a movie now, I can feel my arms skidding along the pavement; aware the sensation was so odd, to feel the abrasion happening but no pain (yet). I reasoned I need to roll away from the heavy bike; but I was trapped. 680 pounds of hot steel had my left leg trapped. I was swept along with the bike. I had to get off my arms; I need to jump up on my hands, on to my leather gloves. I managed to continue the slide in a bench press of sorts, letting my gloves take the brunt of the skid.

   Finally, everything stops on the yellow center line; I'm pinned under the left side of the downed bike. Still feeling no pain, I could not get free. The engine was purging 3 qts of hot oil, seeping toward me. I was thinking: 'this is bad, and then, so this is where all the oil goes when added to it... I wanted to be out of its way, but I was trapped. The driver who induced this situation appeared and asked, "...do you need help?" Me: "ya, get this bike off me..." He lifted it enough that I dragged my self away from the puddle of scalding oil, then on to my hands and knees to crawl off the road. Cars were trolling by my wrecked bike, I could see the wrong angle of my broken ankle. A woman who witnessed the whole thing stopped to help and a man asked if I wanted an ambulance. Peeling my gloves off, shedding helmet, plucking the shattered cell phone from the remains of my pant pocket, I answered, "yes". I pulled myself up to the new looking street sign and leaned against it. He called 9-1-1 and then my Resa for me. Now I could realize the gravity of it all. My bike was down, leg was smashed, arms burning.... I can't believe this was happening. I was thinking, 'I hope you have good insurance.. and then out loud: "you've ruined my plans, I have to get to GA and my son's graduation next week... how is that gonna happen now..." The sirens were approaching, I spoke with Resa on the borrowed cell phone and waited for things to happen as I was thinking: 'oh no, oh no, oh no... with the hospital in distant view, oh no, oh no, oh no... save my bike, put my leg right, get me home, get me to GA...I can't believe this happened...

sporting some road rash, but glad to be home

leathers would have helped for sure

Hindsight ~ in his words

    All my life, I have been riding bikes, many tens of thousands of miles on dirt bikes, sportsters and my beloved Lowride, what could I have done differently, done better? Did I brake too hard, or not hard enough? I spent the next 3 days in hospital replaying all of it, 1000 times in my head. This was my first wreck on the traveled lane. The driver said he never saw me, the cop said my headlight was on, road conditions were good, visibility excellent... the woulda's, the coulda's, the shoulda's nag at me. I'll for sure ride again, Resa won't let me quit. With leathers? you bet; over ankle boots? oh yeah; crash guards, maybe. My confidence in my driving is way high but I never will trust anyone else sharing the road.

amazingly little damage to the bike

the bike fared better than the biker

epilogue ~ in my words 
     Many thanks to my daughter for covering the farm for me, for the man who peeled the broken bike from my bikerman's leg, to the Samaritan  who let my guy use his cell phone to call me, to the Berlin Rescue squad for doing an excellent job getting him to the ER, to the  Central Vermont Medical Center staff for doing a first rate job from beginning to end, for the friends and family who brought food and good humor to him day and night, and for the Good Lord for protecting him from the worst case senerio.... He low sided on his precious bike to save himself from an errant pickup truck driver who turned left without seeing my bikerman 60' away. (driving that road, seeing the skid mark, the clear viewing...if the truck driver's eyes were where they belonged, he would have to have seen him coming, he would have yielded the right of way) In the end, a broken ankle, some road rash (Wear Leathers when you Ride), a terrific story to tell and the wellness to tell it.
  3 days later, he was home on his porch, surrounded by family and friends and alive to enjoy it... 

post script: 
he did make it to GA, and decorated his only son with the blue chord of an infantry soldier. 


PLEASE WATCH OUT FOR BIKERS!
 
luv - peace - love, resa

Taking the Flag for a Ride, Memorial Day Weekend 3

the nearest neighbors (from last November)

 day 3
     Waking up at 'man-land' in Brookfield is like emerging from a time-travel haze. Along a sparsely traveled dirt lane, on a hillside that is largely untouched, it is a small, simple, antique farm house with an un-complicated feel to it. The air is cool, clear and un-cluttered. The view sprawls across a sloping meadow and an opposing gulf framing the ancient town road that once traced along the creek at the bottom.The song birds will perch and linger, wild things will stroll through the fallow pastures and sometimes onto the small porch. Any sounds are seldom man-made, and distant if they are. There is no haste here. There was also no food in the cupboards to make breakfast with. Not even a cup of coffee. A quick call to his folks on the other side of the mountain, and it was decided to breakfast at the renowned EATON'S SUGAR HOUSE. The morning air was crisp in this back-country of Vermont, so leathers, gloves and scarves for the 20 minute sprint to the eatery. Our parade of one would be threading roads that run high and low and narrow along the Green Mountain range. The views are like postcards from a time gone by with an occasional resident tending a garden. Always, they would look up at the flag, some would wave and one youngster flashed a peace sign making it a prelude to the parades to come that day.

fast on Ferris road to rte 14

    Arriving ahead of our dinning companions, we parked the bike and began peeling off leather as they invited us to stow helmets in their truck. His dad opened the door taking my lid and put it up front,"...not because you're a lady or anything, just because I needed something from up front..." with a wink and smile (and returning with nothing in his hand). He being from a different era when chivalry was the norm, I'm sure it's gamble in etiquette in our times now for any thinking man or perhaps I look that formidable in my vintage Harley jacket. Still, it is always appreciated by me when anyone is kind. We four talked of Mustangs, the new models, the old models and their good and bad features as they owned some classics. It was an engaging, almost artsy, conversation about things that are realistically valued by this family of motor enthusiasts.  Good company, hearty breakfast of all the right stuff, and plenty of it, got us fired up for the day. Again, as so often, my biker chauffeur would ask me, "where do you wanna go?"
    I've been following a friend on fb, his blog posts are informative and inspiring, his wife and family are part of the autism community in VT and it is such a beautiful day...."Let's go to the Vermont Flower Farm!" was my enthusiastic reply. He reminded me quick enough, that I could not "possibly bring anything home on the bike..." Smiling, I promised no purchases and that he would enjoy these folks, the place and the ride to find it would be a fun way to roll northerly to my home and my curfew. I'm kidless this weekend but the next several weeks will be filled with parental duties as the school year ends. He was convinced so we saddled-up ready to begin the last stretch of roads with the flag. Rolling onto the town class 2 lane for a quick side trip to grab gear for the day's ride north. Spotting his neighbors at home, we popped in for a moment to say hi and show off the flag. Reaffirming his nickname 'outlaw', he left the driveway to run up the short hill onto their front lawn, flag waving in full glory. We couldn't leave without coffee and apple pie; a treat that was eaten with delicious vigor.

disappointed that the view was over-grown

   Beginning on the way back roads that lead into the eastern fringe of Barre, we slipped by the famed quarries where heaping piles of 'grout' or rejected granite retained the hillsides and steep banks of Graniteville. It was another crossroad in VT that was barely touched by modern times with house styles and town buildings looking much the same as the day they were built. At least early enough on this holiday, the narrow lanes free of traffic. Divining our way a little bit east and little bit north through Websterville; we started spotting signs for state roads and town line markers: rte 110 to 302. I sort of, barely knew where we were; the scenery was fresh and the landscape popping with the rituals of spring. In Groton, we cornered northerly onto 232 gliding over the smooth road top with not a soul insight. The sweepers on this forested lane are made for motorcycles, it seems. Spotting a scenic look-out, we stopped for a shade break and long view of Lake Groton, only to read a faded sign and view the trees obstructing the touted scene. Time to put the youth conservation corps to work in this state park.

    Recharged with water and trail mix, we mounted up and probed for the road that would take us to Marshfield and the place of our destination. After some miles of emerald clad lanes, we rolled onto it and enjoyed tracing the 'little Winooski river' on rte 2. Being on the bike, in my open face helmet I could saturate my senses with the green of it all. Not the new-age save the planet green, but the sights and smells of newly minted leaves, grass, flowers and un-festered sunshine that is only possible in the VT springtime. Anddd there were hardly any bugs yet. Our travels brought us out of another great, green forest of VT and into the more cultivated valley of this persistent waterway. Today it was a tame riverbed with gurgling water over polished stones, serene in its travels. But let there be too much rain and it becomes a torrent, blowing its banks and destroying anything in its way. But for us it was a landmark. We were getting closer to our target destination, the Vermont Flower Farm.

famous for Hostas, containers and a garden

found the VT Flower Farm

oddly, no other Harleys here

astillbees, daylillies and more

the westerly bedding fields

a golf cart tour by the gracious Gail

spoted by the native

VT hospitality at its best

hens and chicks

the iron horse from the chrome pony

   Spending a thin hour, we toured the nursery and conversed with the owners, soaking up the hard earned wisdom they shared. I want to install a 4 acre soft  fruit plantation on my farm and they were eager to point out the tricks that work and the follies that fail in such agronomic ventures. I enjoyed the all of it and staggered back to the waiting chrome pony to resume our ride. I needed to cool down, and the wind therapy on the bike was ideal. The roads we ride in VT seldom have delays or intersections to slow us down. On a stopped bike, the engine heat radiating off the tarmac will wilt me and melt my enthusiasm for the ride, today was warm enough for such a dilemma  so we sought out the low volume roads. From the flower farm, we were looking for country lanes, cool, shady and groovy; it was time to prospect for a creemee stand. A quick poll of the patrons at the farm and we headed north and easterly for Danville. Shortly along rte 2, we spotted another friend's place of business: Water Tower Farm, home of Rhythm of the Rein therapeutic riding center. Not wishing to stop in today, we would pause to photo the amazing steel sculpture at their entrance.

Joe's Pond the more southern shore

somewhere in Peachum or West Danville

   On every ride out, the only thing to really expect is the un-expected. On this ride we would roll into Peacham and poke around the town center, hoping to spot a roadside eatery. We were both hungry and weren't having any luck spotting such a place, so we startled an elderly woman race-walking along the roadside. She happily leaned into our biker space and directed us to the first left then out to the main road where we would surely see it. Not expecting the first left being in fifty feet, we cruised past our turning point and blasted blissfully on back roads that would roll through corn and hay fields left untended on this dry, holiday weekend. That's when we fell in behind a hay-bine and followed the very wide equipment for some miles. We could sigh and mumble all we wanted, but there were no other left turns and not many areas for safe passing. The loud drone of his equipment meant he didn't know of our pursuit and so we waited... and waited and finally came out along the unfamiliar side of Joe's Pond, not at all where we would find our coveted soft icecream. Our endless road took us 30minutes out of our way. So back to route 2 and still farther east; we went where we recognized St. Johnsbury. Maybe downtown we would find our relief, but the streets were empty and the storefronts closed up for the holiday. Navigating the vintage streets, we plodded back to rte 2 going west now and finally, spotted a biker's salvation. Abby's Ice Cream stop appeared on the right and we all but dove into the drive way.

great eats, great service

my kinda lites

whiskey, tango, foxtrot

   We stopped the bike and parked it a short walk from the window and an empty table to relax with our frozen libations. A maple creemee for him and a rhubarb sundae for me would sooth our dry pallets.  It wasn't long before more patrons stopped in choosing their spots in the ample parking lot. With spaces to spare, a mini van parked within 2 feet of our parked Harley as we watched with dismay as a not-at-all-skinny woman gingerly opened the passenger door to get out. It was almost amusing to watch her struggle by our bike and her car door. If she brushed the bike, would it roll on to the grass, or topple with her? My biker man was sure of his sidestand, but still a flailing grasp from a falling person could tip the scales from safe to not. Even at her heft, the bike still out-weighed her at 680 lbs. He was humored, I was annoyed; they had the whole lot yet they had to stop right next to the bike. I wasn't thinking charitable thoughts but it was too hot and we had ice cream to eat. By the time we finished our treats and prepared to remount the bike, the mini van clan had settled into their car to enjoy theirs. Her window was open when he started the bike, it got her full attention as she hastily closed her window. He let the bike choke a little longer than probably it needed and he roiled the throttle just to triple check his steel horse's disposition before he nodded for me to mount up and pull out. I know he was probably thinking she deserved the bike's attention. If she was concerned, she didn't show it, but he was pleased with the loud pipes, hardened by 44K miles, and I smiled at the grit the bike showed.

almost home on the Hog Back

   We would follow the sunset all the way home, gaining on landmarks and the sameness of the roads leading that way. It was a fantastic long run, 566 miles round trip. The bike was running slick and sweet with no real glitches. For our season opener, it would be hard to beat, the summer was just getting going and all the roads yet to be traveled, just waiting for us... the good Lord willing and the river don't rise.
peace to all, even the bike-dis-ing mini-van patron at the creemee stand...keep the shiny side up ~ ell

2 states, 3 days, 11 counties, 566 miles,  awesome sunburns... what a ride

this one's for the bikerman at the dash, who rolls with an easy manner and mastery of his bike so I may ride pillion and wonder at the all of it. . .

                         “I've got nothing to do today but smile.”
                                                                 ― Simon and Garfunkel

Taking the Flag for a Ride ~ Memorial Day Weekend 2

Day 2...
    I love mornings for so many reasons. The gentle commencement of the day ahead and the positive energy of the possibilities. I feel physically and mentally strong. I have ambition and graceful movement. The air is cool and I feel as if I can do anything, like I can live my dreams...I feel normal, at least normal enough. By 11 am on any given day,  things will be different. My walk will get wobbly, my legs will weaken, my mind begins to fatigue. I have learned to plan my days and set my goals accordingly (that's an other story all together). So this morning, I felt especially jazzed; it would be a day dedicated to riding; one of my most normal pastimes still.

   The docks were in, the early air was crisp and clear and breakfast was yet another feast of fresh fruit, chilled lobster and hot coffee. With the dishes cleared, the discussion emerged around the ride-route home. I for one, knew that I didn't want to go home the way we had come. This was an adventure and I wanted to see places I haven't seen. I dreamed large about going up the east side of NH and circling Mt Washington to then make for St Johnsbury. But my patient bikerman knew better.  I had struggled to set the bike comfortably on day one. My squirming and wincing was too obvious to my driver. It was an indication of my limits over long miles as days grow warmer and black top more or less unkept in its veneer. Plainly, most of our VT roads suck and they take their toll on my flimsy muscle-tone. So we would target a route that was forgiving. He vowed to take many more shade breaks where I could cool down and stretch my weary legs. With the map out, everyone laid out their preferred route. My mother selected a village-sampler route; too many stops to suit us. I picked a more easterly route; too many junctions in that. He spied the fastest way to the selected Lake Winnipesaukee. There would be a brief sprint on the Daniel Webster Hwy and then off at the Hooksett exit for quieter rte 28N.
     In the dooryard, the bike protested only slightly belching a small bit of darker smoke but my driver was confident the foul fuel was nearly gone and the fresh gas would energize the engine. In 3 miles, he was proven right. I bow down to his mastery over his chrome pony's innards. It seems the "real" bikers know their motorcycles as well as the dude who built it. He never doubted the machine's perseverance, even when the symptoms seemed so grave only one day before.

Pandora Mills in Manchester NH

Lowell Mill girls from

from Lowell mills archives

    He challenged the fresh petrol and recent engine up-grades with a bold twist of the throttle and a closed clutch. If any neighbors were sleeping, they were awake now. He lifted his visor and cautioned me to "hang on...we're gonna make up some time here..." The NH roads were velvety smooth with light traffic as we glided past the historic city of Manchester. The behemoth  textile mills lined the banks of the Merrimack River with their massive windows gathering the brilliant sun, while random others were boarded shut. I pondered those times for this town, these industrious places, their 'state-of-the-art-at-the-time' yet so completely dependent upon women and children labor. Workers who could not imagine a biker chic like me blasting past them with loud pipes throbbing as I balanced effortlessly in the pillion seat. Would they ever imagine their sacrifices would, in part, lead to my freedoms? We owe so much, I think, to the women who toiled before us. I turned away from the view and wished their ghosts well, throwing in a prayer for all their kin. If ever you want to learn of their story, visit Lowell Mass. and tour the mills and canals. http://faculty.uml.edu/sgallagher/Mill_girls.htm

won't see this in VT: Billboards

     Not long on the highway, we popped off onto rte 28 and enjoyed a flawless ride to north-central NH. My first time in these parts and I was intrigued by the smooth roads and persistent advertising. A sight you'll not see in VT, was apparent in any place that an entrepreneur could erect one: Billboards were out and about. It was actually startling  when ever I'd see one. Accustomed  to broad vistas and un-obstructed views along VT roadways, they would appear randomly and often be unrelated to their location in NH. Route 28 was a pleasing route leading us straight to the Lake without incident, a very appreciated experience for sure. In fact, the vintage motorcycle ran like a newly minted ride, never missing a stroke. Coming to the lake-district sooner than we expected, we were suddenly tasked with spotting signs among an over abundance of signs,  indicating our departure for rte 11. Even with both of us straining to catch a familiar state route indicator, we managed to miss our turn at Alton Bay. The road continued northeast like carpet, yet the traffic thinned out considerably. Finding a scenic pull off, we took a break and opened the map. While stretching my legs and gazing at the famed lake in the distance, I caught a glimpse of my bikerman in, a rare profile. He works hard and plays hard, but he dedicated this weekend adventure to me, and in this moment I caught him in total repose, when I clicked yet another picture. He makes my moto-dreams come true and this picture is a favorite of mine, so indulge my heart-felt appreciation for him, please.

its so close

      With the lake in view, confirming our re-direction, we made for Alton Bay and the jct for rte 11. We were seeking Weirs Beach and hoping for some of the lore of 'Laconia Bike Week' to be in the air when we found it.

the great road to Laconia

Gliding down an un-remarkable lane, we landed on rte 11, the mother road for the infamous Laconia Bike Week. The pavement was pristine, double-wide ample lanes in both directions. Not a blemish anywhere, each line vividly painted, all signs standing straight and tall. In minutes, we caught upto a small group of bikers where we fell in for a short while. After a time, their slower pace bored my driver and he roiled his throttle passing the newish machines with ease. I marveled at their choice to ride without lids and how cavalier it made them look. But then the cowboys of old rode horses without helmets and I imagine today's motorcycle enthusiasts placate that un-caged urge to ride long, ride far, and ride free.
      It wasn't long enough on these expansive lanes before we hooked into Weirs Beach, and the dense holiday crowds of thousands of people and too many bikes to count. In this motorcycle mecca, our parade of one was barely unique. Dodging the clueless pedestrians at every corner or near corner, was frustrating. And devinning our way to a diner was becoming tiresome. One-ways, wrong-ways and trolling patrol cars made finding a place to park and eat a dance of dodge, stop and squint. Finally, we found a quiet lot, with spots to spare and a good looking lunch menu nailed to the fence. Dismounting the bike, my leathers were heavy, hot and more than I wanted to wear in the mid-afternoon sun. I broke out my folding cane, shiny black with Rhine stone ring at the collar, it at least looked 'hard-core' if a walking stick can. We strolled to the door only to find that it closed 20 minutes ago. "Damn" was all I could spit out of my mouth in despair, "I'm stauvvven!" I leaned on the fence rail while biker man strolled down the walk toward a sandwich board. He returned with a smile and a hurry-up lope. "...come on, I found someplace good...you'll love it." In a short distance was the famed George's Diner with plenty of seating and a full serve menu inside the air conditioned cottage. At that moment, we were the only bikers inside and enjoyed  ample portions of fish and chips while we swapped stories with the RI couple across the tight isle. Chocolate pie for desert and a map check to head for VT got the waitress's attention. And while my driver looked like George, it did not get us a free lunch or even accurate directions; seems she's never been there. Bill paid, we were off to find our way back to the Green Mtn State and overnight at his home in Brookfield.

Finding rte 25c, we enjoyed still more smooth road, almost to the border between these twin states. New Hampshire hospitality may be thin, but their road conditions make up for it. The bike was purring over the miles and the air was feeling a bit heavier. We were riding 'into weather' and the cloudscape was looking menacing to the northwest. It would be a race for creature comforts and I smelled rain. By the time we reached the lattice bridge crossing the CT river, a few random drops of rain would tag our windshield. There was no time to stop for rain suits as we turned south and west from Fairlee VT. He knew we were less than an hour from his house, the sky was dark but not low, so we had a chance at staying dry. Over each mile and past each landmark I smiled and pondered the grand ride of this day. Plenty of breaks, velvety roads, new sites, a flawless bike, and a worthy driver made for a sparkling day.

 Winding homeward, the shadows were long and tunnels of darkness where trees gulfed the road embracing us with the cool and calm of VT. Once parked in the door yard, the the vast scene was wrapped in the soft glow of twilight setting over the distant ridge. Owls could be heard in a challenge of baritones. The air was lighter, no rain had fallen here. Walking to the porch, I reveled in the silence, its weight was soothing as my mind was still feeling the ride. Sitting on the bench, leaning on my partner's shoulder, I believe I drifted off thinking of one more day to ride.... in Vermont and to a special place I've wanted to see... stay tuned for day 3... peace ~ ell

"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I  ~  I took the one less traveled by,
                        And that has made all the difference."

                                                    Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken

Taking the Flag for a Ride... Memorial Day Weekend 1

Day 1...
This spring has been spotty when it comes to riding the motorcycle. A exceptionally warm March, muddy April and a rainy May made getting out an act of magic. Bikerman committed to putting a new carburetor on the 84 Low Ride in hopes of upgrading performance in low gears around town and maxed out speed on highways. The delays always seemed to overlap the best riding weather. Finally, after some shorties here and there to test run the bike and to build up some ride-ready tone, we hit a perfect weekend for Memorial Day 2012. I was peaked for this one and bikerman neglected his full schedule of work to indulge me.

     We made our plans a couple weeks ahead, but then all the other pieces and players had to be juggled and re-juggled to allow for three days away. My mind was cyphering like the classic TV sit-com of the good and responsible angel clad in white LL Bean slacks and tee on one shoulder, reminding me of my parental responsibilities while a rebellious, leathered-up angel taunted me on the other. In the end the Daughter helped to move the horses to the summer pasture on Friday night, spent the weekend with Dad and marched in parades on Monday in my absence.

    At 7pm,  bikerman showed up to get the bike fitted for a longrun, and he meant a Long Run, at least by our standards. Being the Memorial Day weekend, being that his son is in the Army now, we took the flag for a ride. A brand  new 3x5 foot, silk striped with embroidered stars, made-in-America beautiful flag.

   Next morning was brisk and bright, so we loaded the throw-over saddle bags making the lean looking Low Ride give its best impression of a touring bike. Between the unyielding flag pole and the fully stuffed bags stradling the bike, my pillion seat was a hard reach for my gimpy leg and wobbly balance. Several failed attempts later, he opted to let me mount first. Comical it was for me to slip onto his lower saddle and skinny up to my petite pillion seat. The saddle bags shaped my leg in only one precise angle to the pegs, where each foot would be tightly anchored by the heel of my moto boots. It was a snug fit, but comfortable. With a tap on his shoulder and my 'good to go' nod, he craned his head back so I could kiss his cheek. "Watch out for them cagers...", my good luck blessing as we rolled out the drive onto the traveled lane.

     Up south we were headed, over the Notch and the quickest way to I 89 south. the mission one was to head for Baboosic Lake NH and help my folks put their long dock and boats in for the summer season. Making good time on the highway, the bike was running tight with his legs stretched to the hiway pegs as the pipes purred that trade mark Harley rhythm. I don't always have my camera ready for the notable scenes and so I missed the shots for our flag's admirers. The SUV filled with family and fun gleefully waving as they passed us on the lane was amusing as the Mom was hanging out the window. We would exit in Bethel VT and cruise down rte14 into N. Hartford observing the recovery of last year's storm Irene in various stages of progress. Some homes were installing new foundations, others finishing with new siding and windows, while still others were wrapped in no trespassing tape. This badly damaged, river side community was making an  impressive come back, but still, the evidence lingered in the massive piles of flood ravaged trees and silt. Firewood for some, I suppose but the caked muck was daunting.

    Spotting an Irving gas station with a good price for fuel, he pulled in and tanked up with the 87 grade octane. I strolled into the tiny store trying to re-load my gum supply. Our Vermont roads are in poor repair and chewing gum keeps my jaws from grinding. Finding the gum rack was laborious enough and then to discover no stick gum, was the minor disappointment at this stop. Only chick-let type gums were displayed and they don't fit into the tidy little pocket on my chaps. Declining the inferior chew-ables, I meandered back to the bike now parked under a glade of the bluest spruce trees and listened as my biker chauffeur spoke to his son taking Basic Training in Ft Benning. He bragged about the flag and how perfect the day was to ride. And then we mounted up and resumed our journey back on I 89. The lane took us past a pick-up truck filled with very young spectators, waving their small hands frantically as they bounced on their seat to catch a better view. It's good to see our flag inspire such happiness.

brite white smoke from a tank of bad fuel

     Not ten minutes into the ride, the gleaming bike began to cough and sputter a tinney sounding rattle at high revs. He'd back off the throttle and it would purr a ways. With each passing mile marker, the sound would come back, persist longer and get louder. I could hear it all too well with my open-face lid, not so easily for him in his full face helmet. Some 30 minutes later he pulled off of I 89 in NH staggering the steel horse onto a secondary road. The noise would become so piercing, I'd cover my ears as it drowned out the melodic loud pipes of his vintage Harley. When even he could not ignore it, we pulled into a remote general store parking lot. It was hot out, I was hotter. When he tried to shut down the bike, it dieseled, coughed and bellowed thick white smoke. His best guess was that the recent tank of fuel was fouling his bike. Ethanol in our fuels is the norm today; usually there is no real performance issue. But this time it was a very annoying problem, indeed. Ethanol attracts water and if there was any water in the station's underground fuel tank, it would cling to the evil-E; put this diluted petrol in an engine and it would weaken the combustion.We'd have to run it till the tank was ready for a re-fuel. That would take the rest of the day and spoil the beautiful ride through south western NH. While he was nonplussed by the bike's complaining, I was silently frustrated. He had spent a pile of money on his beloved Low Ride this spring; a new larger carburetor, refitting all the seals in the crank case and transmission, all flawlessly engineered by a talented mechanic who restricted his wrenching to vintage Harleys. Until this tank of gas, the bike was running better than ever. Now this lame stretch of miles was cramping our style and giving me a headache. As we finally rolled into my parent's home on Baboosic Lake, he explained why the bike was ailing and he reassured me, new gas at the higher octane would cure the gagging machine and my gloomy spirit. Besides, it was time to park it, visit with family, put in the docs and feast on lobster as we overnighted at this cool and green and shady retreat. All's well that ends well on day one... more to come next post.    luv, peace, love ~ ell

"When I can't handle events, I let them handle themselves."

Henry Ford