outlaw bike and old ladies

photo by Harley-Davidson Indian World

Whoa, this photo triggered an instant flash back. Some years ago, bikerman and I stopped at Onion Flats in Bethel VT. A warm summer evening, the foodie house was filled with people young and old. Our vintage Harley was the only bike in the crowed lot. Roiling the hard-pipes thunder before shutting the shovelhead down, everyone turned their heads to the rumble. In front of the bike, a little boy, clasping his grandma's hand,  stood wide-eyed at the shiney bike and leathered-up riders. When he removed his helmut, bikerman asked the small child, "if he'd like to sit on the motorcycle..." To which the child shrieked, shaking his head NO! and ran behind his Grandma. She on the other hand, was smiling large and took a step toward the bike. . . I think she must have wanted a ride on that old skool, outlaw bike..... gotta watch out for them old ladies, they're bold.

bikerman on his old skool '84 lo ride

the day I forgot my camera, riding naked

my little Pentax in action

Disoriented and a little lost, I missed the lens and looking for good subject matter to memorialise our motorcycle escape of the day. As the pillion, it's what I do. Pillion's expected duties:  look good on the bike, buy lunch, take pictures.....and most recently, don't start any fights.

 When it was proven in a 2008 BRC motorcycle class,  I couldn't and shouldn't drive a 2-wheeled cycle on my own, I searched for and rode with many kind motorcycle enthusiasts who offered a second seat and shared the ride. Making a record of the outing was a subtle way to insert myself into the motorcycling community. It has evolved into a psuedo-elite assignment that validates my thirst for this culture of  challenge, resilience and  the other adventures. But  then a day came when I didn't have my trusty, tiny Pentax adventure camera; left behind in my son's back pack, it would not be back in my hands nor on a ride for a week.

Nonplussed at first, my empty pocket was  merely a brief distraction; until he started the engine and the bike rumbled to life. The first few feet of rolling out the door yard felt oddly unfamiliar to me. Then refreshingly intimate as  my attention was more focused on my bikerman chauffeur, now held with both of my hands, the lo ride motor-sickle steady and sure beneath us, my heightened senses of riding 'naked' (at least visually naked) filled my internal moment of re-adjustment. One layer , my small camera, removed and I was flying through the vast surround of green, and wind, breathing wholly  the familiar smells of engine heat, biker leathers and sweat-stink helmets. I, boots hooked on the chrome pegs, grooving with my driver's every lean and list of his vintage bike as we threaded potholed lanes, rounded sweeping corners, and brushed arching trees pushing into our lane, without the distraction of composing a picture, was filled with a rush of gratitude.

 Riding on a motorcycle bathes your senses in the all of it. Keeping my little camera in my hand or up to my eye was as dense a filter as a suit of armor. While it taught me to view the scene from the perspective of a framed and finite image, which in time,  honed my mind's eye for that capture, it often left me deeply disappointed that the vast enormity of the sky or the expanse of mountain or meadow scapes, the depth of color and weight of the air,  was left out of the captured picture. My photos are meant to stimulate imagination of voyeurs or to evoke a latent, complex memory within our ride; both of which seem to elicit the dimension  of time and space that we travelled  through.

 Riding naked, visually naked, was a rebirth into the censorial infinity of motorcycle riding. Travellers through time and space, awakened to every fragile element of living...that's why we ride and why I some times won't take pictures.
                                                    ~ luv, peace and love ~ el

special thanks to the biker chauffeurs who shared the ride, sparking a romance for motorcycling and with deepest gratitude for my bikerman who rolls the sentimental journeys with the one he calls, Pillion Resa (my biker name) 

smarter than a horse, the zen of autism

   He is my horse-loving-child. With his blue eyes and rosy face, he smiles large when he's around our horses. There is one horse that is especially tolerant of his random sounds and awkward body language; Cam's Best Two, or just Cam to our family. He seemingly enjoys his solo time on the lawn, without our small herd bossing his every move,  for the grass. His only competition for peaceful grazing is Graham exerting his unique style of horsemanship upon him as clips the tender spring greens across the lawn, soaking up the boy's persistent attention.
   When the boy wants to "play" with the horse, he'll bring me the lead rope and say "h--ppp" [help] cueing me to hook the line to Cam's halter so he can be coerced  into Graham's world. This is a world that hosts common ground for both boy and horse. Graham's classic autism is a lot like a horse in the way they both navigate life around them. They are both creatures of fight or flight. Both are bound to their rules governed by sensory processing that defines their sense of safety, sense of trust where no speech is required to communicate. Horses learn by doing, its how they survive and so does my autist son.
   Stepping into the sunny glow of the spring day, stepping through hundreds of blooming dandelions, I step to the red bay horse  who is so mellow he doesn't  waiver as I clip the hasp to the loose chin-ring of his halter. Graham is delighted, jumping in place as he utters his trademark "deddle-deddle-deddle..." "Calm body and quiet voice Graham, gotta be calm around horses...", I soothe to them both.
   I hand him  the rope and tell him to go ahead, "take Cam for a walk." and I retreat to a chair nearby where I watch the pair begin their negotiation for a walk about.

let's go for a walk

wishing for a walk-about

Graham tries to blow him forward

he tries a nudge with his elbow

next a nudge with the knotted rope

a bit of modelling with a finger walk

more negotiation

a final elbow nudge

Graham in all his desire is competing with the sweet succulent  grasses and dandelions all bright with the promise that spring unfolds; Cam wants to eat, not walk and so the conversation begins.

   Graham tries to cue the horse of his desired jaunt,  beginning with wishful thinking and the power of intention. No sale, the horse is not impressed with the secret missives of the boy. He offers a puff of air to the horse's barrel, as if to move him the way he can move a bubble drifting in the air. Not a single hoof moves, in any direction. More giggles and big smiles and Graham moves a step back to the horse's flank and offers a very gentle elbow into the warm freshly scrubbed hide. The dappled red bay, a blood bay to the color enthusiasts of the horse world, does not yield a single step. The young horseman glides back toward the front of the horse and tries a nudge with the butt-end of the knotted lead rope; still no movement in the horse's stance.
  But the boy doesn't give up, nor show discord with his horse. No impatient threats nor harsh words are commanded. Instead he resumes the negotiation with gesticulating hands that appear to convey walking-fingers as a demonstration to motivate the horse. No luck, the lush grass is to provocative for the horse. Even though a generous 20 minutes have lapsed, Graham is not discouraged. So he repeats some nudging cues and finally Cam lifts his head to nip a fly and the boy steps forward cueing one step by the horse.
   This continues for much of an hour but no one is in a rush, the birdsong in the trees above the yard is melodic and cheerful to pass the time with. Graham is seemingly happy to be with his horse, holding the very end of the candy-cane twist of the soft cotton lead. I gaze at the bucolic scene and marvel at the restive nature of this time casually spent. A boy and his horse negotiating a walk-about on very gentle terms. It's very good medicine in our world spinning at a  run-away pace and I drink it up wholly. I love when I am allowed into Graham's world where there is no haste.
   Quietly, I lift out of the chair, and over to the back of the horse and give a light tap on his croop sending him into a lazy walk. Graham is delighted and steps up to the front of his horse and they walk a few steps toward the back yard. Only 10 steps perhaps but that was enough to inspire the horse to follow the boy and take a short walk-about. In this place, Graham is the leader, the horse follows him and he is in charge. Someone is playing with him, following his ideas. A moment in time where its all figured out and Graham has a friend. In this world where our family lives autism, this is something so very precious to witness. I thank God that horses live long lives, and I snap some more videos of the young horseman with his steed.
https://youtu.be/Dgk0E3Qo1ok

 at the end of the day perseverance wins making for  a very happy boy.
 luv, peace, love ~ ell

 “It’s not that I’m so smart, it’s just that I stay with problems longer.”~ Albert Einstein

there is zen in autism when its paired with a horse