how I fell in love ... with a motorcycle ~ part 5 the end of a long and winding road ~ 2016, 5.21

    I ached with desire. An unseasonably warm, open winter exacerbated my thirst to ride. Seeing motorcycles rolling by my farmhouse in January was surreal. But I knew the bike was going to look better than I had ever known it to. So I waited. It would run well, even without the recommended top-end rebuild. So I waited. For our adventures, it would be just fine; this thought was the plot of many winter night dreams. So I waited... that and... I. Love. This. Bike.

   The year-end holidays came and went without comment. Somewhere in those frosty temp weeks of boredom,  the unremarkable winter day came; the stink bomb was dropped; he declared his wishes and we went our separate ways in Feb 2016. The bike was still in pieces on the wrench's table 3miles away. I had passed the snow-less winter looking forward to the first ride, to a new season pursuing my chosen escape from my limits, the mini furloughs from the complexities of my MS, and to enjoy the comfort of our shared passion for his motorcycle.

   Instead, a sudden redirection in expectations exploded un-gracefully. A six year riding relationship terminated like a RIF pink slip evoking a complex soup of emotions, that always simmered down to anger... adrift, disoriented, heart-broken.  That shovelhead facilitated freedom for me. While I didn't have a penny spent on the rehabbing of the bike, I did have lots of time and "foot work" finding the shops, the wrenching-wizard, the coveted decals for the finishing touch. It introduced me to the other ridding world of secret roads, lost places and the symbol of my generation's "counter-culture appetite". Loosing my ex-bikerman's friendship was bitter, loosing my connection to this bike was brutal.

   The winter continued to present mild weather; bikes continued to roll by on open roads. The giant snow plows had barely touched the lanes. As this was very unlikely this far north in Vermont, there was no urgency in the November scheduling of the bike's redo. Parts were waiting for paint but that shop was on winter hours with no rush to proceed. There were small parts on order to wrap up the works. While the roads had no snow or even chloride-laden-aggie anywhere, there were still too many frost heaves and pot holes too make riding pleasant. It was okay to wait; until, the end of March and the bikes were a daily sight past my dooryard.

   For me, seeing or even hearing motorcycles go by on a regular basis, is a painful tease. While  I cannot drive my own, I rode as a pillion on a vintage Harley. I would daydream ways that I could somehow, with custom accommodations, ride my own. Then the squarish scar on my leg, from an earnest effort to learn in '09, is a vivid reminder that I am not safe on two wheels at parking  lot speeds; I jog my mind back to reality at hand, the riding season ahead. Inching through the psuedo-winter days, I would pester the wrench followed by an e-pal choreography with ex-bikerman,  to arrange a final ride on the good-as-original '84 LowRide.

 The day finally came, May 21. The grass was brilliant green, trees were barely budding, some farm fields were getting attention and he zipped me a note that "...tomorrow he would pick up the bike and take me for a ride", a final ride. I stated "I'd like a long run, to Newport at least, to the little mom&pop place we had lunch for the first time..." He countered with his desire to goto a favorite lakeside pub and grill; the East Side. He arrived in my door yard as promised; it was a nice enough day to go open face with my favorite scarf and my usual retro Harley jacket. Gloves on, camera ready, mount up and good to go. Just like old times, only it was the last time.

   Heading out the door yard, we directed our journey east and north, east and south then finally west. Over familiar roads past memorable landmarks we would roll that shovelhead on and on. Catching farms shaking off winter and preparing for spring and a short VT growing season in most of the small towns. It felt good to be seated on this vintage ride; enjoying the newly upholstered seat with passenger pegs in perfect placement for my longish legs. If I let my mind wander to our past rides thru most seasons and all weather, I would feel the lump of sorrow rising in my throat. I will miss this bike and the adventures it took me on. While this bikerman preferred the less traveled lane, avoided group riding and busy places, he was the master of this machine, no poser here and that kind of competence would be hard to come by going forward.

   His fearless driving style took us on secret roads to lost places and even ancient cross-ways usually only available to snow machines and dirt bikes. This shovelhead, in its uncomplicated design, was not only allowed on barely-class-4 roads, it encouraged such exploration. I was playing to my fantasy of riding in the nostalgic postcards of dress-casual, smiling, 2Up couples enjoying a country outing on their steel horse. This not-fancy dyna class cruiser let me live my dreams as a retro biker chic behind a skilled motorcyclist. When we did troll a bike show, the trademark rumble of its hardened pipes would turn heads and embolden comments. Vintage was authentic; the real deal in the biker world and I got to be part of that.

  As the ride progressed, we took lunch at the East Side, we rolled along some favorite places in the North East Kingdom. The bike ran well, sputtering only once the way a shovelhead will. It was my first long ride for this year; almost five hours of riding,  leaving me fatigued and saddle sore. The usual vibration and basic suspension was not supporting my weakened muscles well; I knew that, as much as I loved this bike, I would not be able to endure its shortfalls in comfort for another season. Yet I beamed a smile at how very grateful and privileged I was to ride thousands of miles on it; to ride the way motrcycles were invented to be, before they became trophies at bike nights and rallies. The miles this day, were coming to an end and the joy of the ride was eclipsed by frustration and futility as my neighborhood came into view.

   My enthusiasm for motorcycling and for vintage models is largely due to this shiny cruizer. Shovelheads were the last engine model that embodied that original spirit of adventure, on and off the paved lane. These bikes were "the last wild horses" out there, symbolic of our rebellious era of fight or flight. The visceral biker paintings by David Mann were often of shovelheads. Sometime along, in those riding seasons, I fell deeply in love with this quirky Harley V-Twin, the way I would love a plain but faithful brown horse. Standing at my gate as I watched it fade into the sweeping distance, I would feel the same weight of death toll grief as if it were a favorite horse laid to rest. I was ride weary, numb with loss and overwhelmed with the feeling of being left behind. That kind of adventure and freedom would be a hard act to follow, if I could manage to find rides and then I remembered.

   If that shovelhead taught me anything, it taught me how to carry on with no worries about limits; to carry on with the best you've got in the places no one would expect you to go.

peace ~ resa

Turning Heads on a Unicorn ~ 2016, 7.3

   "Take a look at the July calendar. I have four days off." says he.  I'm thinking, that is a bonus. "Cooleo, let's ride some miles!" When I know a ride is in the works, I walk lighter and smile brighter. My kids are likely relieved when they see my biker chic avatar emerges, leaving little room for the mean mommie main-stay that dominates their home front. Running the roads on a long weekend is good medicine for all of us. The only decision is whether to ride downstate in his neighborhood or for him to come north to my neck of the woods. Considering I've been doing the 4th for most of 29 years here on the fringe of the NEK, it was an easy choice to invite myself to his stomping grounds.

   We cyphered the times, days and vague plans; now was my chance to slip a sensitive question into the works. I'm keenly aware of the protective affinity bikermen have for their bikes. It's a relationship that ranks with God-like reverence. We've been riding a few times, I was a happy pillion on his bike, but could I dare ask him to modify it... somewhat, "...being the 4th and all, how would you feel about taking the flag for a ride?" He doesn't rush his answers to any questions, so I was, sort of, hopeful, "... I have a big flag, on a wooden pole, tapered to fit on the backside of a motorcycle....", I gently offered.  "Send me a picture." says he. Picking one of my older photos that showed the scale of the flag and the way it was adapted to fit that shovelhead's vintage sissy bar, I pushed a button and sent it his way. After studying it, he gently said "...not this time" His Victory has a stunning paint job with starry glitter in the stripe across the tank, and its embellished with Americana around the engine block. Our helmuts have stars and stripes graphics so, "... besides, there is a bunch of patriotic bling on this bike that was completely made in America... and I'd have to figure how to mount it; there's no sissy bar frame to work from..." No giant flag; no parade of one.

  I wasn't terribly disappointed, its way easier to get on and off without the flag pole to trouble me and it was a head-turning bike. I was filling up with passion to be riding new roads on a stunning bike with a good bikerman up front. The day arrived to pack up my car and drive the three scenic hours south to his address. I try to be accurate when I pack for a riding trip. I make lists of biker chic gear, lists of personal gear, lists of food to share, check the weather for that zip code. It all looked good;I loaded up and left my fallow farm behind, along with the lists. Somewhere about two hours in, I recalled I had forgotten my ride jacket, brand new too. Dayum, well if its warm, my hoodie will suffice.

   Enjoying the sites as I trolled along the old roads through the old towns, I was entertained by the 4th of July spirit. Becoming fully aware of our national roots and the shared  glee of the national event. I was getting hyper enthused about riding on that spectacular motorcycle with him. Making good time, I rolled into his humble dooryard with a gleaming smile. Long awaited hugs given with bundles of gear, as we lugged bulky totes into his porch. No thought of what was missing until it was time to ride the next day. It won't be awful, beautiful weather and all. Reliable motorcycle operated by an excellent driver. I had my lid, my gloves and biker boots. Chaps and a hoodie would be just fine. That's when he said we'd be riding to NH, to find some fireworks, to cover some miles on the east side of the Connecticut river.

  Every ride out deserves ATGATT; all the gear all the time. A day-long run demands it. Dress for the slide, not the ride... all the ride-isms scrolled through my head as I pawed through my gear bag. Dump the contents, shuffle the goods and discover that I had forgotten my jacket And my chaps. Huh, , , I may as well ride nekid. I sheepishly fessed up as he was going over his bike in his dooryard. Not to be dissuaded from his ride plans, he disappeared into his house. Moments later he offered me his retired jacket of yesteryear and some dusty chaps from a dark closet.

   The jacket was a road-worn drifter cut with tattered triumph patches and some girlie bling pinned to the lapel.  Most importantly, it fit. Beautifully. Feeling the weight of real horsehide, softened by wind and weather,  on my arms was immediately soothing; the scent of many ride seasons was therapeutic to me. For a moment, I was lost in the imagination of every mile it traveled. My biker chic avatar was shaping up. The chaps came next. Old skool design, made of thick cow hide fashioned in shotgun style.  They fit too. Wowza. Zipped in, leathered up, lucky road scarf secured, ride shades properly set, gauntlet gloves properly fitted. Like a clothing designer, he was pleased with his pillion turn out, as was I. We were ready to ride.

   His abode is centrally located in VT making it ideal for accessing the southern corners of our Green Mtn state. It took only moments to make our way south and east on country roads through small towns, enjoying their celebrations for our nation's birthday. By luck or by plan, we missed the congested parades yet indulged in the simple pleasures of big towns and small cities.

   My driver strategically led us downstate into the village of Jamaica VT where we paused for a stretch break. Spying the signs of the uncluttered main drag, we opted to park in front of the Hot Glass studio with the colorful open flag. An almost graceful dismount allowed for lids and gloves to adorn the bike with a little more patriotic bling. Up the walk and to the door where we staled long enough to read the various signs proclaiming the virtues of art and the rules of photography inside. "Ask before snapping photos" Fair enough. Inside we were dazzled with orbs and flat swirls of embedded glass works as large as windows or as small as tree ornaments. It was like entering a Kaleidoscope; only it came with a guide and her dog. The grandmotherly docent was generous in her detailed explanation of her son's art of hot glass. The history, the inspiration, the aficionado of his vast career of works. It was a delight to occupy the studio with such grandeur of light and color and prose. As daylight and remaining miles called us away, we did snap some pictures with her permission and share a few here.

   Our journey rolled onward through the main drag of Brattleboro and I was reminded, in a most reassuring way, that almost all of Vermont remains unchanged from its more vibrant past. Canyons of straight brick fronts and light gathering windows still compose the centers of livelihood. They are the architectural triumphs of their nineteenth century pasts. Still straight and strong and charming. Steeped with nostalgia and bustling with ghosts of those busy days. Traffic was slow moving allowing for window shopping and sign gazing by this enchanted pillion. I didn't want to stay, but I enjoyed the historical speculation rampant in my thoughts.  I love this old state; to wander through it on a motorcycle with no restriction to sights, sounds or smells was like a tonic for me.

   But the road continued, leaving the small city behind us as southeasterly lanes lured us to the state line, somewhere in the Connecticut River's channel. It is the Independence Day weekend and lines of cars were queing up for the bridges crossing the waterway. Old iron lattice bridges connecting the twin states

for commerce and humanity. On this day, everyone and his brother was trolling for fireworks; legal in NH but not in VT. We were on a mission to bring some back for an evening display. It didn't take long to find a store; it took a while to sort through the neatly packaged inventory. Thank gawd for the overhead video screens to demonstrate the fireworks in action. We settled on a modest bundle, waited behind a serious shopper who accumulated hundreds of dollars of fireworks; then we learned while the stores in NH can sell volumes of displays, they can not sell fusing cord. So he left with the directions to that purchase place. Our singular order was a quick ring up and we were off to pack it in the side bags. But our adventure wasn't over yet.

   The day was too brilliant to end the journey now. The roads in NH had recently been resurfaced. They were empty, velvety and allowed for a different way to divine our way homeward. Cruising through tunnels of green under sapphire skies we rolled up to Stewart Sugar House and Farm.

All but empty this time of the day. We could dip into cool hard ice cream and stroll about the immaculate grounds that were home to a magnificent family held farm. I was immersed in its beauty, pondering the vast skyline that embraced both VT and NH. A reminder that we all belong to the same planet.

   The keepers of this farm were playful in their affection for John Deere equipment as the single file, hillside parade was on display. A painted boulder welcomed all comers as I occupied the only shade in sight.

Bikerman leaned on his Victory as it punctuated the sea of green. Was he studying the scene, considering the departure route, or merely ensuring the safety of his ride? 

   As the afternoon wore on, my ice cream devoured, it was time to remount and follow the sun westerly. He trolled the steal pony over to my spot of shade so I could make my way to the passenger seat. As I buckled my lid and sorted out gloves, a women pulled up in her black SUV and caught our attention. Before I could swing my leg over the back rest, she remarked "you two are a good looking couple on that bike." He paused before he replied, "...thanks, she's my pillion." I had to add,"...and he's my bikerman". With those thoughtful words, I held on a little tighter and he roiled the throttle a little louder. Nothing but blue skies and warm feelings as we headed for home. Some bikers call a Victory a unicorn, because they are a rare sight. This one is indeed, a beautiful machine to behold, attracting admirers  where ever he stops it. No massive flag is needed to turn heads here...

  Blue bird skies sporting harmless clouds blanket our travels in summertime comfort. We were on a mission for fireworks, but the journey was the real story. Any traffic on the secret roads was light whilst villages and main streets were thick with busy travelers. Sweepers and crossroads that open my small world into vast expanses of imagination. These rides mean more to me than accumulating miles, or discovering unseen places. More than escaping responsibilities or hard truths. While on the back of a spectacular motorcycle fitted to a worthy bikerman in front of me, I am free. These rides compose the story that eludes my dis-coordination and evolving weakness. They are the facilitator of my inclusion in a world that is swaggering boldly out of reach, out of site. On this Unicorn, over these roads I am free to participate in the dimensions of life, to be filled with the narrative of living larger than my limits. And that is why I ride like a biker chic.

peace ~resa

how i fell in love.....with a motorcycle parts 3 & 4 continued from May 2016 pts 1 & 2

winter 2015, on the table at the shovelhead wizard's shop

part 3   WAIT ~ the other four letter word

  On a Shovelhead, one can be bold, brash, fearless for sure; but one had better be patient. In the time line of breakdowns ('09 failed generator, '10 loose jugs, '12 low side, '13 the stator, '13 blown head gasket, '15 battery cover, '16 final recovery from the low side), the bike had to be set aside or strapped on the tabletop at the shop. Diagnosis was only the beginning of solving the presenting problem. Once that was identified the parts had to be located and acquired; skilled craftsmen had to be discovered and schedules had to be aligned. That could take months; the work, weeks, days, hours; but in all cases it meant we had to wait. Precious riding weather in Vermont's short biking season passed by. Leaving me to suffer a bench warmer's sorrow as I watched lucky riders who would roll by my farm on those long days.  I've decided there is no zen in waiting.

   I would justify this time taking pictures of various stages of tear down, I would learn more and appreciate still more the fabrication and mechanics of the machine. I would research topics, shops and specialties for the project at hand. We met some outstanding people in unlikely places and were often rescued by the all knowing Google.

original decals sourced by a caring friend's vigilant attention to parts no. 

   Parts and accessories came from around the nation and our state to remake the glory of this vintage ride. I will include a few here... but the effort exceeded our contemporary culture's instant/disposable norms. The shops were often small and cluttered with salvaged parts from decades of living the motorcycling scene. A question "there" would lead to a name "here" or a shop "yonderway". It became a journey all its own, with places, people and adventures unique to themselves.


 

the last year to offer a kick start

the wrenching-wizard pondering the next move; or puzzling for a misplaced tool 

part 4      old skool

  The un-puzzled pieces in various conditions of disfunction lead to my feelings of overwhelming ignorance. I thusly arranged to interview the Shovelhead's wrenching-wizard. We met up and lounged on a comfortable patio with a down slope view of his modest shop. We didn't cover many details about Shovelheads. He did validate my one-word observation of the strong allegiance of this HD engine's followers: Nostalgia. The model era of the trademark bikes was '66 to '84; the time of civil discord that tore America apart. They were the motorcycles that Vietnam vets came home to; the bikes that would get them away from public disdain and their own embattled reckoning. The rides that were, and still remain, easy to chop and customize to personal taste. It was the last model that allowed owners to get into the gritty works of daily care and keeping and get lost in an intimate relationship with the order of operations. A simple yet powerful V-twin engine with the classic sound of Harley fame. It had become an American symbol; and perhaps the sport's turning point from motorcycle enthusiasts to bad-boy bikers.

http://www.vintagesteele.com/

  Dealers were loosing capacity to service them through parts or repair departments. The older bikers in sales and service were aging out and the younger staff lacked that vocational knowledge of the way a Shovelhead worked. I witnessed this experience first hand. The local franchises couldn't even source a replacement clutch handle for the '84 lo. Thankfully, the internet saved us in our searching, even the original decals were located in Oregon in a google search. Thankfully, a network of vintage shops, web sites, artisans, enthusiasts and mechanics were found. Piece by piece, the job of rehabing his beloved bike was accomplished. New paint and upholstery was delegated to a shop  155 miles away, at Vintage Steele. Exact detailing on the refurbished tanks and new fenders (made of lighter metal, they had to be built up to fit the '84 frame before painting) was recreated with perfection. The leather work was stitched with scrupulous attention to the original stamped on pattern only on a stronger cut of cowhide.

 

our Shovelhead wizard wrench on his '74 Glide

   By amazing luck our wizard wrench was only 3 miles away making it easy to lurk in his shop, snapping pictures and pretending to understand what he was saying about the bike. I sat perched on a corner stool and listened intently as I fathomed the precision of the work at hand. I would ponder the dream that in another life I could have enjoyed a vocation with motorcycles; but it is a man's world in most ways with not a lot of room for women 35 years ago.

   In our pseudo interview, he did allude to a trend in HD corporate practices. The Shovelhead's open works made it accessible to maintain but prone to aberrations in function. It's an engine series that has been retired; the motorcycle engineers evolving newer engines and rider ergonomics to keep the less mechanically inclined of the market buying into the motorcycle mystique. But with those creature comforts, Harley Davidson has proprioritized  parts, maintenance and service. A local, private practice wrench or shop can no longer order case loads of HD oils, lubes or common parts. Only dealerships can order in bulk and benefit from that wholesale price break. Now a self-employed biker-fixer has to pay retail and pass that expense onto the customer. For many on tight budgets, that will send them to the franchises and at the mercy of said service crew. He fears this will change the MC community, pricing out the average person and put too many wanna-be's and posers on the roads. The Shovelhead is the last of the good ol' days; affectionately known as "Old Skool" with an aristocracy of its own breed.

better than new, good as old 

   The wrench tweaked a few more small gizmos and gadgets. The fuel off/on pet cock, some tattered cables and levers from the 2012 low side and put it all together with no box of left over mystery parts, either. When all was done and reassembled, the look was tremendous. It was then I realized how much the few patches of scuffed chrome and paint vexed my outlaw bikerman. It was ready for its road test and the wizard wrench was gonna have that honor. When he started her up, the sound of our people filled the air. With a simple nod, he trolled his ragged driveway to the main road below. The video I collected was sent in the click of a button to the anxious bikerman 79 miles away, and my fingers were crossed in hopes of a longrun for my final ride.
https://youtu.be/xegxbz4EOVg

peace ~ Resa

coming soon

part 5 my final ride & epilogue

Pillion Up Front ~ 2016, 7.5

at the access of Glenn Lake

   "I have a canoe..." was all he had to say. After two days on his motorcycle rolling over silky roads in VT and NH, spending a day on cool waters was an alluring invitation indeed. When he sweetened the offer with his claim of "...knowing a secret lake with only paddle craft and wilderness along the shoreline..." made me pull my head away from VT road maps. "...and its a short car ride from here." Now he had my full attention, "I can't paddle much, the sunshine will wilt me...in fact, I don't think I can be of much help, in the boat, at all." He declared, "you won't need to, you'd be my pillion up front..." "Well then, let's make it so" punctuated with my smile.

   In short order, he produced his canoe and lay it by his car. A 14' Lincoln of Kevlar with hard wood  seat frames laced with caned seat decks. Neat, clean and in mint condition like his bike. Then came the belongings for our voyage to be stowed in the back of his car. In one well-practiced move he hoisted the red shell onto his roof lamenting the need for roof racks.

secured for the drive

I joked that "... a canoe trailer to tow behind the bike might better serve his two passions." When all was secure atop the car and most all was packed inside, he asked if I "remembered my pfd?" "...so this is why I needed one, ah ha." and into the car it went. I recalled the discussion, about needing one and my sheepish response about swimming should we come across a good spot on a ride..."no, I don't mind cooling off, I just....can't swim....any more...In my youth I could swim a mile, red-cross certified and all. But now, my legs are so weak, I can't tread water, or kick in any way. I would drown without a life jacket" "Try to get one, or I can find one somewhere..." On his craft, I would need one if.... just if.

  After everything was accounted for, we loaded ourselves and drove over state roads and back lanes to a not so secret, but little used lake a crow's glide from Bomoseen. Glenn Lake, a quiet, serene body of water surrounded by ledges, trees and shoreline interrupted by only one building in one corner of the lake, very near the access on our left. In barely a few minutes, he had his  boat down and loaded with our gear filling the middle span perfectly.  He placed the fully stuffed dry bag behind my wicker seat at near level with with my waistband. A paddle for me and his own slid tight to the gunwales for an easy grab once we were in. He inched it into the shallow water, crystal clear over a sandy bottom that didn't shift under my water shoes. I carried my cane to hold me up, but didn't have his shoulder to lean on as I shifted my weight from my feet to my knees beside the top line. A moment of sifting through memories as to how I should get into the slender vessel; I didn't want to tip it over or fall out before I got in. Then recollection guided me to put my butt on the forward seat, feet dangling over the side then haul my legs into the narrow space behind the tapered bow in one swinging motion. I fit as I should and cracked a smile; my road worthy camera  in hand to snap some pics.

Glenn Lake under a blue bird sky

pillion up front

   It had been about 20 years since my last canoe outing in a dirty, hot aluminum craft memorably longer than this one. This was an overdo reunion with a nature-scape on water. Though I was intending to help paddle, the brilliant sun shine was already wearing me down. Even the graceful paddle stroking was too strenuous for me, inducing numb hands and wobbling balance in my perch. Per his instruction, I stopped trying and became his pillion; up front.
I opted  instead, to be the photo journalist of the day, enjoying the awe of vivid greenery and smooth, clear waters blurring at the reflective edges. As on a motorcycle, there is no frame to constrict the scenery, no filters to dull sound or scents. We were in the moment, I was a  witness to the composition around us. Our cathedral was a limitless blue bird sky reaching into infinity, punctuated with over-fluffed clouds drifting casually across our upward gaze.

feet up, dry bag makes a nice recliner

a shoreline respite

green lilies to float through

ledges

  No loud pipes to lull me on these waters, only the faint sound of his paddle skillfully dipping into the lake as he pulled our craft gently forward. We'd skinny up to the edges and spy birds in the water and resting on branches; we'd cut through clusters of pond lilies and startle fish bellow the waterline. When I finally succumbed to the warm air and blazing sun,

my kryptonyte, the sun

I fell back on the dry bag and gave into my illness. For that place and time, it felt sort of good to just lay as a weakened heap on my back, stretching my legs out with feet on the bow in a simple luxury. It's not often that I can indulge in this rest, feet up higher than my heart, contemplating clouds for art forms as someone else was in charge. Restive and pensive, time idled by as we toured the lake; his reminiscings of other times on or around this oasis.

blue heron wading 

baltimore oriole

still waters

  We are fortunate in Vermont, to have such places reserved for paddle craft only. To preserve silence and the wildlife that prefers it. I was reminded that its good to be a pillion, when its a comfortable ride with good company. If I could have gotten back into the boat, I would have rolled out of the disabling  heat and cooled down in the clear waters. But, experience advised otherwise and we meandered back to our starting point. As we climbed out from the simple canoe, several people remarked about the style and ease of its handling by one person. Like motorcycling, water worshipers have their own community and will admire and compliment a good design when they see it.
With my feet firmly on solid ground, I took great satisfaction that I didn't fall out, didn't pass out and we didn't capsize. A grand day out as a pillion up front, only thing missing was a reach around for my bikerman. After all, riding pillion has its privileges.

peace ~ resa