to the battlefield, Hubberton 2017, 6.4

  "I think we can squeeze in a ride, if we head out soon...", he offered, as we finished  the last bites of our excellent breakfast beside the window to his gladed yard.  "... have you ever heard of the Hubbardton Battlefield?" "nope, is it far?" my curious reply. I love the history of our Green Mountain State, of becoming Vermont and the cost to the early settlers determined to make it viable. My consideration interrupted by a cotton tailed rabbit on his lawn. A regular guest during bikerman's breakfast hour; a pensive diner as we prepared to get our "ride-ready" on.

on a gentle road west of Rutland VT

 This Sunday morning was an improvement in weather with dry skies and favorable temps, not too hot for me, nor too cold for him. As I prepared in my ritual fashion of ride boots with heel-enough to hook the pegs, fleece vest to layer for warmth, textile jacket with high collar keeping wind-chill  at bay, silken scarf to keep the sun off my farmer's tan neck, gauntlet gloves to keep the wind out of my jacket, goggles to keep the bits of crud out of my eyes. Hair in a pony tail to hold said goggles; the open face lid to go on last. My uniform for riding. No chapps for me this day, I can't walk in them anyways as my legs have weakened so.

  Loading my pockets with gum and a small portion of meds, realizing then I forgot my shoulder bag with folding cane and water bottle. I always seem to forget something. Upon checking my ride camera, I realized its battery was dead, and I have no spare...  shite.  Dayum, I need to get another, if I could just remember that, before I need it... My cell phone camera will have to do, I just don't like to roll with it in my hand for fear it would be blown to the pavement. Stepping outside, good to go as he rolled up the workshop door and walked  his sparkling bike out. I never tire of looking at it, of seeing the graceful top line inviting our lanky bodies to join in for a ride. Humans are an awkward creation of torso balanced with long-boned limbs that kind of flail about in bipedal motion to get us where we want to go. This motorcycle, makes us look graceful as we glide along the roads. When I'm on it, I feel like a bird in flight. Effortless, gliding, soaring, living a dream.

  Mounted up, no camera in my hand, I could hold his waist with both hands and enjoy the rhythm of the ride. A swift jaunt through his burg to the main north-south way of Rte 7 roiling the machine to a smooth 85mph on the straight 4-lane highway. Under a bright sky, on  a nearly empty road as we eased to the stop-line for our jct with Rte 4 westerly bound. The light held red long enough to let seven Harleys roll up on our off side, with solo riders and their usual fashionably   loud pipes. When their bikes were stopped and their feet were down, I caught them looking our way, at the sexy Victory and its graceful top line. There was no comparison in style; classic Harley boxed-out chaises looking nostalgically blunt,  beside this jaguar-esk Unicorn. I was suddenly struck with the image of Beauty and the Beast(s).

sunshine, fast roads, a battlefield, good friends, a race with the rain

 I smiled at the thought as the left arrow flashed green and we commenced an effortless arcing left onto rte 4 pursuing the west side of Rutland. A noticeably calm mechanical transition. No clunk of a chain drive, no sputter, no delay so often present with the Harleys. The gear drive system in the Victory's works engaged in flawless perfection, seemingly gliding into our next road, empty and vast and smooth; a ripe runway for the Beauty's 106 Freedom engine. I smiled larger still. Arms around my bikerman, catching glimpses of his beard curled back by the wind as I peered over his shoulder. Admiring the views of the more bucolic landscape of West Rutland. Cruising along the wide empty lanes, the land softened into the broader valleys of the Lake Champlain basin. The mountains blended into softer hills, more fertile for farming then and now.

  The battlefield road was easy to spot with an easy right hand turn onto the quiet two-lane black top zigging and zagging through freshly tilled fields, punctuated by the occasional barn. Some still standing in current use, and other older relics succumbing to gravity. Forgotten VT, fallow farms overcome with tangles of weeds; it was always a sad scene to me. The timber, the skill, the sweat to build such storehouses of time... falling prey to differed maintenance and then to neglect and finally to gravity. I wish I had my worthy camera to capture the despair.

   About a fat hour of wind therapy, we passed through the rick-racked-split-rail fence and took our place in the powdered stone parking area. I made an acceptable dismount from the sparkling motorcycle and secured my balance with my floral cane. Lids, jackets and gloves left on the bike, we had no fear of thieves in this remote place. I quick scan of the rising meadow, revealed a mowed path, dotted with interpretive signs, a 2 mile walking tour of the battle that unfolded on this soil over 200 years ago, before VT was the first republic, before our nation emancipated itself. Enough of a grade to climb up and down, I opted out of that feature of the battle field exhibits.

see how they wave

the monument to the fallen

where there is war, there is money

the intriguing diorama that lite with the battle groups of the conflick

   Once indoors, we were greeted by an enthusiastic docent who gave the rundown on this only Revolutionary War battle fought in VT; belaying stories of the annual re-enactment coming up in July with pride as he declared he'd "... died on this battlefield many times..." Viewing the walls displaying battle artifacts with journal entries and historic relevance surrounding the battle scene diorama, it wasn't difficult to phase back in my imagination and consider the women and men who stepped up to this wilderness conflict. At this place the British regulars  and Hessian mercenaries were introduced to the tenacious and persistent Green Mountain Boys. The casualties were heavy for the patriots, with he memorial standing in testament to those losses. The museum curator, continued to share that the region on both sides of this Lake Champlain basin still host the forts of Ticonderoga, Mt. Independence and Crown Point. If only our current political elected could be here, could feel the embattled ghosts, could witness their heroics in the name of freedom, would they smarten up and show some reverence for the cost of this Revolution.

  I get weepy at places like this; I think of the risks, their sacrifices, those that survived to carry on. I hoped they'd be pleased with our brave little state and impressed with bikerman's Americana accouterments on his glorious machine. The wrought iron fencing wrapping the monument made it undoable to pose the bike beside it; but my sentiment was there.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Hubbardton  
http://www.crazycrow.com/site/event/battle-of-hubbardton-revolutionary-war-encampment-weekend/

  Mounting up, ready to ride out and make way to some folks a short twirl away; there was time to glide thru more sweeping lanes to the small town of Fair Haven and surprise some friends before the skies leaked rain.  Trolling on some narrow rural lanes, zigging and zagging long enough to appreciate our arrival to warm greetings, cold beer and a handsome blue Staffordshire. Where ever we go, stop and visit, this gleaming Victory is admired; people gather 'round and talk drifts to the machine. The skies were brooding now, ever darker and heavy with rain. Time to go and race the rain on the last miles to his home. Thankfully fast as they were wide, smooth and empty, encouraging a top speed of 100mph somewhere on Rte 4. The bike gave the slightest wiggle as my pillion weight made the front end a bit too light for that speed, cooling it down, we transitioned to Rte 7 and then easterly on 103 to barely beat the heavy drops as we stepped off his bike.  The summer weather was proving unpredictable allowing only short runs to interesting places filling our need for wind and adventurous miles. Live your dreams, how ever they may be offered...

peace ~ resa

poaching roads ~ 2015, 4.30

   It's been a long winter; plenty of snow but the roads were cleaning up with seasonal rain to wash away the winter grit and loose aggie so treacherous to motorcycles.  Our infamous Smugglers Notch mtn road remained closed, keeping us off that granite canyon run. He wrestled the dusty winter cover off  the LowRide,  scheming for a worthy ride out. "Dress warm," the only clue to our outing this day. Back to my coat closet, pulling my cold weather jacket out, adding a fleece vest under it and gauntlet gloves were the riding kit for sure. That said, I opted for my open-face lid and silk scarf for cover if I needed it. I was jonesing for the wind on my face and I could easily duck behind his shoulder if I needed a break from the cool air. Chapps for my legs, wool socks in my boots and I was ready.

  The shovelhead roared to life and the sound of our people filled the barn.  I smiled large as he trolled it onto rte 109 and took a quick spin to sound it out; returning to my dooryard with a nod to mount up. It's still very much stick-season, patches of snow along the wooded roadsides with plenty of white-stuff and skiers up on the higher elevations. For me, winter was done, spring was overdue and wind therapy was the answer to our cabin fever. I ride better in the cooler temps; sitting up straighter with more stamina for the miles out and more grace for the dismounts when I'm not wilted by hot weather. Today promised to be a grand day out as he indulged my pre-season riding whims. Beside him, my right leg swung over the sissybar easily; I'm on the bike, boots on the pegs, camera ready, I am good to go.

Mt Mansfield ski trails from the Stagecoach Rd 

big dollar equipment

   Right, left, the roundabout and east, we'd have to get around the mountain today; but I knew the locally traveled short cuts to the Stowe side of the gateway of the notch road. Secret roads with lite travel and no straggling tourists to dodge. The lifts were closed on the ski ways, but devoted skiers were free to climb up and schuss their way down over the forgiving spring snows. Twenty years ago, I would have been among them; flash forward to this day and they can admire our early ride out as we roll up their access road, VT rte 108 north.

I can remember climbing ski ways to carve  spring snow

its merely a suggestion for this driver, aptly nicknamed Outlaw

 why the notch road remains closed, trees across the lane up ahead as well

thwarted in our poaching plans,  back to the gate; at least there were no cops waiting

   The day was barely in progress and there was still gas in the tank evoking my driver to visit a favorite bike shop in Jonesville; a pleasant twirl from Stowe. We didn't see many other bikes out yet and the roads were still heavey from winter frost lifting from the ground. I was grateful these passenger pegs allowed me to rise up a bit, when I saw the bumps coming, easing the jolt as they were met by the wheels. Gliding down the mountain road, we diverted to the scant boro of Moscow to avoid the bustle of Stowe village. "Troll this one at 25mph" I warned, "the town constable takes her job pretty seriously... ready to pounce on errant speeders." Onto rte100S,  navigating the season openers of road construction; we were detoured at almost every junction. Nice to see them get these crossings upgraded...

   Feeling the chill, we stopped at a favorite eatery in Waterbury, barely accessible via a roundabout in mid construction. Seems Vermont is placing these exchanges throughout our state. It's amusing to observe how many locals lack the understanding of how they work. The vehicle on the circle has the right-of-way, but slow merging is encouraged. If you know how. I prefer these traffic directors as they allow visibility of a smallish profile like our motorcycle. Everybody is going slow enough to avoid unwanted contact. As bikers, we don't like contact and appreciate the hi-vis junction. Complicated intersections with long stop lights are an invitation to get clipped by left turning motorists not looking for a lone headlight at the stop line. I don't drive the bike, but I am acutely aware of our vulnerabilities on the traveled lane. A second trip around the circle and he found the obscure opening to the cafe's entrance.

warm enough to keep the doors open

Walking into an empty dinning room, we took a window seat that overlooked the shovelhead. Our waitress cracked a light smile when we ordered hot cocoa with extra whipped cream. I often wonder what people think we should order when out riding. Stereotypes precede us no matter where we stop, for better or worse.
 

mountains of whipped cream for the chilled bikers

 

    The lunch was completed with their house BLT x 2 and we were ready to roll southward to Rat's down rte 2. This is a place beyond franchises, brand loyalty and newish anything. Vintage Harbor is a collection of barns, filled 3 stories high, with all things old skool. Really Old Skool. It's worth it to stop in just to see the inventory, chat with Rat himself, and get the low down on franchise rip-offs. The place is like a working museum with ample curiosities for a pillion like me.
 

the worn sign is an indication of the era within

recently acquired, I think this Outlaw's '84 shovelhead is too young for this wrench

gleaming after all these years

a flat head rebuilt, ready for a frame

   We stopped to stretch our legs and inquire about a nut or such and some decals for the tank. The originals have been ruined by leaking gas, escaping the pitted fill hole. Owner and operator, the old-skool biker wore a grizzled white beard, loose button-down shirt and stood behind the front counter always with a can of lite beer in his hand. Yet I don't recall ever seeing him take a draw from that can."No decals." according to Rat; "...a greedy bastard from PA bought all the old Harley decals...let me look for that nut..." as he pulled out massive parts catalogs to search for the item in question.


























   As this tuff-talking-Harley-driving-old-schooler, swapped tales with Rat, I strolled about the "lobby", admiring all things motorcycle. Everything had a price, but negotiation was expected while any stories accompanying said item were shared freely, if Rat was encouraged. I could spend hours sifting through the barns; he knew where everything could be, if it existed in his piles of stuff.

  An hour later, sufficiently warmed up, empty-handed of the desired nut (it really was a unique design for a unique purpose), he recommended a shop not too far from my address. Our day was growing short as we saddled up, ready for the final leg going home. Back through Stowe and Morristown too, until we picked up another less traveled lane back to my neighborhood. Enjoying the quiet road home, he took a soft left turn to poach one more route, closed to the winter plows, with wide enough gap to sneak the bike onto the covered bridge lying a fat tenth of a mile from my farm. An apropos way to end a rule-bending day.

 This day's lesson: rules will bend a lot before they break...providing one doesn't get caught.

peace ~ resa

Taking him to the Rock 2016, 7.18

always sit where you can see your bike

   It was his last day of a weekend furlough in my neck of the woods, Cambridge Jct. Named so from a time gone by when the Burlington&Lamoille RR connected with the St. Johnsbury RR, history has it that the train would stop for passengers, freight, and water. Sometimes the locomotive would change direction on the massive turntable powered by local school boys pushing the great lever that moved it. An old cross-roads and special place in my heart.

Cambridge Jct Trolley House, my farm in way back right of frame 1920's

   It is a vintage main-street, home to all manner of local needs  and still feels that way.  A mile and a half away, across the river, my side-hill farmstead is situated on the southwestern fringe of the North East Kingdom where life is pretty slow on a Sunday morning. There would be time enough to enjoy a proper breakfast at a local eatery.

  No need for leathers in this prime July weather; we dressed lightly to eat at 158 Main from the 7Dayzes fame in a pop-culture newsy. It was a treat for him as he'd never been. The server appeared on the porch, ready to scribe our order: crab cakes Benedict for me, farmers breakfast with french toasted baguette wedges, that took a steak knife to cut, for him. They make their own bread here; a legendary feature on their menu. While we waited for our meals, I pondered out loud, "do you have time for a short run, 90min or so, to a special place with an extraordinary view..." I proposed a trip to the rock.

   "It's off a local road, just resurfaced, along the river, near the end we'll take a left and go up... it's doable on a motorcycle... it's been a while for me, I used to take my kids up there from the bottom trail... but a bike can make it up to the trail-head... we walk in from there... I'll need my poles though..." He gave it some thought, then he agreed to fasten my trekking sticks under the saddlebag top flap.

  Post-breakfast, we made for my house to grab said poles and then mounted up for the short roll to our low altitude, summit views. It's a mere eight miles to that wilderness turn off. Eight miles of winders, sweepers, and twisties along the ribbon of water called Lamoille River...Abanaki for "the marrow of the bone....life". It is a motorcycle enthusiast's delight and perfect for a Sunday morning quickie. Empty accept for us, gliding effortlessly, 2Up past rolling pastures and long-lived farms.

the Hogback Road along the Lamoille River

  A casual 40mph brought us to our up-hill lane; a left hand departure from the velvety  Hogback Road joining my town with nearby Johnson VT. This morning, it was traveled by only us as I basked in reverent solitude and appreciation for his indulgence this pristine morning.  Anxious to navigate his way, with his confidence in GPS more so than my faded recollection; it was validating to find Prospect Rock Road right where it should be.

  I smiled with anticipation as we entered the modest paved lane before eased onto well maintained dirt; sparsely settled with residential houses, then camps, then tent sites among the dense hardwood forest.  At each transition in road surface, he would stop his bike, turn to me and ask; "how much farther?" "A few hundred yards, maybe?" my too casual reply.

a maintained mtn road - ish

  Onward still, to the next downgrade in road-top, "how much farther?" Now I was feeling his concern too, if not for a different reason.  We hadn't been riding together for very long; we were still learning how to trust each other's strengths and talents, our expectations and limits. I was acutely aware that this was a powerful but gorgeous bike. It cost a pretty penny and it was his pride and joy. Not exactly the kind of ride one would take on this worn down, gritty road. Was I pushing my luck with increasingly inaccurate replies? the view would be worth it... "just a 100 yds or so; it's been a long while since I came up here... in my car..." Now his cruiser was bouldering on a class 4 dirt road, trolling past a sugar house set back on a grassy drive. Our only way forward disappearing into the forest, with no level landing in sight. His concentration redoubled, his focus was on balance and the perfect blend of throttle and clutch control. I was certain of the progress of our ascent, that we were near-ish of the landing, grateful it was dry, no mud. At least we had that going for us; then we hit the water bar. The lane had become a logging road as I was shuffling through memories of better road conditions here in my past experiences, not that it mattered now. He could not find comfort in my visual memories.

  His impatience was palpable, "how far?"  "100 yds maybe." my standard answer to his valid request; each time halting any forward momentum as he leaned over his shoulder to inquire. His conviction to conquer this ride was certain as we always resumed the climb. Hill climbing on a Victory Vegas, now that's a story to tell... Nothing but washed out road ahead,  "how far?" "...couple hundred yards" I noted to myself better stretch the measure now, I don't gage distance very well; I depend on landmarks, fat miles or thin tenths;  I don't think he believes me anymore... while he pushed on with his shiny red, candy cane bike.  Fourteen thousand dollars of chromed-out cruiser going up a road made for an ATV; barely fit for this sexy motorcycle. Imagined by Victory's lead designer, Michael Song https://vimeo.com/19880822, it has a graceful top line that evokes silky roads of smooth tarmac not a back-country wood road.  He persevered; in 30 yds the level landing emerged,  lodging some parked cars and the rough-rock  trail-gate; we made it.

the only bike in the cramped landing, beautiful against the woodlands

   He mastered the wilderness road to trust my promise of a good walk to an extraordinary view. He galvanized my confidence in his driving skills. I most likely maxed out his trust in my divined directions. But we both breathed easily facing the comparatively level trail in front of us. "How far..."  he asked, "to the view?" I smiled.  "Not sure" says I, "...a fat quarter mile maybe, good trail, doable..."  It would test my walking strength, but no way I was gonna give up after that ride up. Grabbing my hiking poles, I began the steady march around rocks, over stones, through water bars; thinking it's a rough enough foot path that I shouldn't even consider getting his motorcycle out here... view or no view... even though it would make a stunning picture...

the rock looking westerly toward the Sterling Range

following the Lamoille River west and south

looking south-easterly

a worthy view

  It did take more than 90min, just barely. Vermont harbors many secret roads and splendid views requiring fearless travel and skilled technique. In this short quest, I affirmed my desire for those places and found the fine line in our riding styles.... I divine directions, he maps out destinations. Blending the two will take some thoughtful braiding of philosophies.


peace ~ resa 

Easter Bound on a Unicorn ~ 2017, 4.30

no lightening struck; I'm pretty sure Jesus rides a motorcycle, yup

  The weekend weather forecast looked promising, "it's gonna be nice this weekend, Sunday should be good for riding..." says he. A brief moment for me to process the lure, "It's Easter. My plans have been scuttled; I'd love to ride... just one thing though.... I'd like to go to Easter services. Anywhere near by you...do you know of any small town churches down your way?" my hopeful response. "Nope, haven't been to church in ages..." was his somber reply. He was not digging this idea. A silent while later he countered with a query, "are biker jackets ok?" "they should be, I'll send you the link of a small United Church of Christ that's near you. Seems like a nice little church..." So a plan was made; I un-winterized my riding gear and headed down his way.

  At his breakfast table, I pondered to myself,  this would be the first ride out in 2017 season for me. My thoughts were mixed with delight for riding so very early in VT,  and trepidation laced with uncertainty. This was a difficult winter for me; usually the cool temperatures of these darker months aid my movement and function. But not so this time around, it was the toughest winter since my Dx of MS in '07. My legs are feeling weaker than previous seasons, more like a hot August day when I wilt more than I walk. This day was a balmy 70 degrees out, warm enough to addle my brain  when I'm not rolling. I talked him into this; inventorying my jacket, fleece vest over my tee shirt (navy mom version), boots, scarf, open face lid, gloves camera, and cane accounted for. I was as prepared as I could be and moving toward the door before he had a change in heart.

 Stepping into sunshine and warm air, carefully walking across the short lumpy distance to his bike, I was glad I opted out of wearing my chapps.
They hinder my walking and today was too balmy, making that worse for me. He was mostly ready, waiting for me to mount up. I got on okay, not too clumsy; but I must tone-up, loose my winter-baker's-belly and get back to riding weight. I was processing a jumble of thoughts; this was early to get out; 4/16 a real ride, not just a quickie...Noticing my lesser muscle tone...thinking how to tone up, get stronger, strong enough to ride well...We have plans this summer, Loring ME for time trials, some day runs with purpose, maybe to Canada with friends. This weakness won't do. This can't be the 'new normal' for me. How to adapt and ride on..."

 As we prepared to leave, a popular biker credo fell from his lips, " I'd rather be out riding thinking about church; than be in church thinking about riding..."

 http://www.unitedchurch.us/

Truth is, if it wasn't a brown-gray-muddy-pre-spring day, I'd be in agreement. But it's Easter Sunday, the most sacred day for me. While I'm not a classic congregationalist, I am a Jesus-loving, Buddhist-leaning, Quaker-wannabe, generic Christian. I love Jesus, he's a kewl dude. period. This meant a lot to me; riding partner knew that and agreed to drive me, on his Vic. Our chosen church was a short twirl away over clean roads, in pleasant riding weather and past the temptation to keep rolling. We arrived in the small ski town, in unceremonious style, to an empty parking area. It felt like a ghost town as we trolled the side streets; twice. The church was a magnificent architectural design; like none I've ever seen in VT, for a church.

a ski town, Ludlow VT

  The unicorn neatly backed into the curb and shut down, we made our way in and up the stairs to the sanctuary. A three story vaulted space, revealing exposed massive Norse beams in a creamy white lacquer  framing an ochre room glowing with filtered sunlight. Three rows of gracefully curved pews filled the space, like a wave of sound from raised pulpit, I was struck how it echoed the sweepers we long for as bikers. We left our lids on the bike, but wore our jackets in, expecting scant heat inside but were met with warmth and comfort in the voluminous space.

  Looking around we noticed,  among this congregation, we were the youngest attendants and the only ones in leather. I chose the second row, center group,  of antique pews in front of the floral stage,  so I could see and hear the service. We were graciously welcomed by all, offered cushions for our smooth hardwood seats, which we declined we're bikers after all, and settled in for some Easter love. I enjoyed a pleasant sermon including the "passing of the peace" where most of the attendees came to us and invited us to stay for fellowship and coffee post service, and that's when I saw my stoic biker-chauffeur crack a smile. It would be a reasonable trade for precious riding time; we descended the stairs to the community room, the moment bikerman had waited for and my chance to meet new friends. The long, immaculate table was filled with pastries and fruit, but the giant coffee urn was not ready to yield hot coffee, palpable disappointment between us both,  we partook of the gleaming restrooms and made our exit with a dozen invitations to return anytime.

  I felt fully churched-up and ready for the day's ride. Out of doors, traversing the lawn, I had to admit,  he was kind of right, as clouds and wind had moved in while we sat inside. Rolling away from the landmark, he chose a familiar road that looked naked in the tunnels of bare trees. Ice remained on ponds with Canadian geese huddled on any open water. Cruising along, we saw very few cars and fewer bikes out. Each store we stopped at to get some hot coffee was closed for the holiday, leaving us to suffer onward without.  I reminded myself it was Easter after all, the day to remember sacrifice. I'm not sure my under-caffinated bikerman valued that lesson as willingly as I.

ice on the ponds was holding firm

   It was a short ride by our standards, but it felt so good to get out, go over the roads and quench that first-ride-for-me thirst. As weak as I felt, it was a good tune-up for me. Gliding into his dooryard, the final time I'd get off this day, I had made good use of my cane in my right hand. It gave me something to reach for and lean onto as I coaxed my left leg over the backrest. It was an ok dismount, but needed improvement in grace and style. I do after all, wish to look good on his bike, and getting off it. All the while, puzzling my options for adapting and adapting some more if it'll keep me riding, taking pictures and telling stories. As always grateful for his indulging my passion to ride.


peace ~ resa

To Mt. Ascutney and Beyond ~ 2016, 7.4

sporting his vintage jacket, I noticed this tag - not something you see in the newer jackets

 Transitions are hard for me. Getting up, moving around, making my way, eventually to the bike. All the transitions leading up to ride-time will challenge my balance and coordination. If they go smoothly, without teetering, falling or vertigo; it's a good indication of my day's abilities for riding. I'll smile and tie my hair back. As I leather-up, I'll smell the jacket and my gloves as I fit them to my form; I'll archive that aroma of miles and memories and rehearse my thoughts for more. My sunglasses, my lid and I'm ready to roll.

 Ambling out to the parked Vegas, I tuck my cane into the offside side bag stepping back to study the scene.  My bikerman readies his gleaming ride, deftly turns the key on, checks for neutral with his left boot and cracks the throttle with his right hand. The button is pushed and it starts. In less than 3 seconds, the co-ordination of years of riding flows into one fluent start up ritual. The engine roils to life, purring a rhythmic beat as clear as the sunshine. No sputters, spits or glitches; just easy running engine sounds, like a purring cat. I admire the sound, like a spell cast upon me.

  He arranges the bike with a closed clutch, short radius steering and some walking until he has it lined up for launch. He gives me a nod inviting me to get on. That takes me a moment. To hear him, organize my brain and body to do the order of operations to mount up. I didn't used to have think about it. I used to be able to stand flat footed at the driver's near side, my left hand on his left shoulder and gracefully swing my right leg over the sissy bar and slide into the pillion seat. One pivoting move, like a dancer on the ball of my left foot, like I knew how and looked good doing it.

  These days, I'll brace on his left shoulder, facing his back, my left foot placed on to the left passenger peg. One, two up and my right leg over the backrest, ease myself down onto the seat and hope my right boot finds that peg. Usually, I miss. Lifting my right leg with my hand under my knee, I find the peg. Squirm my butt to the center of my saddle and signal, "...good to go." at last I'm thinking... A ten second marathon for my wonky brain. But I made it.

  I'm comfortable here, the bike balances me, the camera comes out of its pocket and the digital record of our ride begins. It's a warm July day, but the air is cool at 40mph. I feel strong in my body and delighted I am along for the ride to the Ascutney mountain road. I had never been and looked forward to the approach, the ascent, the adventure. This is where I feel centered in my body and know exactly where I am in space and time. The bike's sleek momentum keeps me there, my bikerman directs us onward.  My brain is free of the gazillion organic calculations required to stand me up and make me move intentionally. I am free. Liberated from the riggers of accurate-ish movement negotiated with my MS brain. Relaxed in my mind, I have the mental space to be creative. To see the composition of pictures, the narrative of the story, to feel the grace of the ride. I am free.

our favorite kinda road

  A left turn heading out his gravel road, past familiar landmarks surrounding his home, due east on VT rte103. Time to let the bike stretch out on this long level state highway... smooth and wide, before the junction with 100 to Ludlow, and changing direction again at Echo Lake Inn. Here the lane would become a tunnel of green, meandering through small towns and villages known only on a map; locally known as the Dublin Rd. We would troll through Main Streets hosting their parade preparations, reminding us that this is a big day in our brave little state. We continued, breaking away from stuffy village traffic; I was grateful to be heading to the mountains, for a cooler summit and light travel while most all of everyone else took up parade-viewing spots on sidewalks along the way.

in Brownsville (i think), an enchanting road

  Onto rte 44 and then the Tyson Road from the tiny burg of the same name. In excellent black top with sweepers and twisties that carved gently through the green scape above and around in an East-West way. This is heavenly, and mostly all ours. The Victory glides through like a warm wind easing up gently to the T-stop in Brownsville. I've been riding around Vermont for a slim decade, and never heard of this delightful road. I reminisce that so many east-west lanes are equally enchanting in my adopted state. This is one for the record book, mine at least.

ride angel on board, our summit awaits

miles of velvet on graceful roads

  We continued north-ish on the Brownsville Road until we saw the summit of our intended journey. Ascutney Mtn lay ahead, beyond more velvety roads and brilliant sunshine. Not quite in the Green Mountain National Forest, it was a kinder, gentler part of Vermont. Softer elevations and broader meadows for the farmers who worked them. It's all new to me; every mile beholding a fresh scene for my senses. As a passenger, I can day dream through all of it. Imagining the earliest settlers, the wilderness of then and how two centuries later, it remains much the same. Well, it maintains itself as mostly open land, uncluttered by development as made roads overlay many original by-ways of old. There are fewer boros, corners, crossings that were predominant in the gilded era of this Green Mtn State. But those notations remain on the paper maps for seekers of lost places, like me.

  As his gps predicted, we arrived at the turn off for Ascutney Mtn State Park, and again the forest became our canopy  and the shade cast welcome relief for me.

the way to the top

a state park, gotta pay

a lovely start

I noticed the decal, he's had some practice

tunnels of green

looking south-ish, our Green Mountain State

top lot, her Suzuki Bandit

 Once at our top lot, the glittering bike stopped, I almost resembled a coordinated dismount as I struggled to get off. Note to self, I need something to grab with my right hand, to balance me as I lift my left leg over the back seat. We stretched out, walked around and met some other riders, enjoying the day and shared a picnic table as we swapped  tales of other "green tunnels", vocational paths, and motorcycle lore. Where ever we go, there are riding enthusiasts  in passing that become allies in the moment; the constellation  of motorcycling and the ventures past and present are generously offered.

her riding partner on his vintage Honda Magna

 We'll likely never see them again; but it doesn't matter. The wind is not partial and there is always something to be remembered. A couple, out on vintage rides, they have to know their stuff, know what it's about to get the best out of their machines. It makes for interesting discussion when a classic rider shares their lessons with ease and knowing. The intersections of humanity make motorcycling authentic in "willing and being" in the mitigation of risk shared by every one who rides.

 The mountain road was a gentle descent letting us loose on rte 5 north along and over the Connecticut river via one of Vermont's oldest and longest covered bridges. It's always a nostalgic thrill to me, riding a motorcycle over a bridge that carried horses and buggies and more before combustion engines ever motored a machine across the planked floor. The generations of souls who safely traveled the worthy span are countless in my imaginings. Would their ghosts startle to see this stylish, two wheeled steel pony glide across, sounding some-different than hoof beats?

from the NH side, a story of Yankee initiative

the grand old bridge

kinda rattley for 2 wheels

our adventure



 

 Crossing the landmark bridge we landed in NH picking Up 12A northward on newly resurfaced road; gliding through bucolic countryside, surrounded by expanses of greening farm fields. We both craved food and found a worthy deli to replenish our energy; sporting a clean and neat dooryard with fuel for the bike. Inside the menu was all goodness with sandwiches, soups, salads made to order. Delicious. While I ordered, he returned to his bike, claiming the bench close by. "...always sit where you can see your bike..." Then, it happened. The realities of riding a unicorn, reared up. Walking out the door, paper cartons loaded with food in both hands, my biker-cane dangling precariously from my pinky finger, ambling toward the scene. "This" was in plain sight, less than an arm's reach from him. A barely clad female, crouched toward the block,  her scant-cleavage-bearing-string-strapped-tank-top, not quiet covering the top of her too-short shorts, with a camera in hand, trying to photograph the unicorn's engine block. Seriously? She was apologizing weakly as I appeared, bikerman blushing, she claiming "to take a picture...for her nephew's collection...of motorcycle engines....he doesn't have a Vic...." Seriously? If my hands weren't full, I'd school your biker-groupie *$$ with my cane...move away from that bike...move away from my man...do it now... He cracked a smile; maybe even read my mind. "I can't leave you alone for a minute." "its not me..." says he, its the bike. People don't see many Victories..." Then and there, that's when I learned about "VDF" and the risks of riding a unicorn... Victory Delay Factor: people notice, they approach, they ask questions, they take pictures... This takes time and patience. Fine. Just don't get into my space, the bubble I fashion around my bikerman and our ride. Do not cross that line. Savvy?

the man and his bike

lots of good stuff and good prices

the "motorcycle groupie" left - finally

cruising under bluebird skies on a Unicorn

smooth running all the way home

Refreshed, refueled, remounted; it was time to turn for home. A little north then crossing left, heading west over the CT river once more to feel the familiar air of VT. The parades had all gone by, firework displays setting up for the evening shows in the small towns. Along these final miles, I remembered why I ride 2Up; the fraternity of bikes rolling by, the day's adventure affirmed all of that and a little more. I could not deny, I had become smitten with this bike and the man at the dash. Going forward, in style,  is the best way to travel. Going onward over miles and journeys where the wind has no preference.

the acquired fireworks seal the sentiment

live your dreams ~ resa