riding in stick season ~ how it became my favorite season to ride

trolling the road less traveled, its hard to focus the camera through tears

early October 2013

 The summer has come and gone; rides have taken us far and wide with captivating vistas, provocative crossroads, serene town greens. Every remembered journey fuels the dreams of "...the next ride out..." Yet inevitably, by the time autumn unfolds, I'm actually a little road weary and some-bit saddle sore as we high-lite our official ride map of our traveled lanes. If weather allows, we continue to ride with a few extra layers of warmth, no electric gear here, for the brisk solstice air.

  Its a time to archive the warm memories and record the adventures still fresh in our minds. Its also a time of year that I like to surrender any of my beloved horses to the high-away sky, when I don't want them to manage another difficult winter at our worn out farm. This day was such a day. It takes a lot of my personal resolve to plan for their deaths. In this case, three horses that I had rescued back in the day. It was easy to justify putting the old and toothless gelding down, and even the giant, big boned cripple who was an endless prankster here. But to say farewell to my beloved Fable, to let her go to the high winds after 20yrs of living and learning life together, was harsh. It still fills my eyes with tears today. After dutifully arranging their good-deaths and the equipment to bury them. (everything depends on that key piece)...the day had come with perfect, pristine weather. Crisp October air, some color left on the trees, the quaking aspens gently waving their songful leaves. It was a good day to die.

   And bikerman was there, to hold me up through it all; completing the deed and ending the day with a ceremonial escape on his vintage chrome pony. To drive away, leaving the hydraulic  droan of the back hoe to its necessary work, to roll into the colors of autumn, was a soothing relief. The roads were near empty in the mid morning of a work week. The pavement was still clear of sand or ice and the trees, the golden-leaved beeches and popals were our avenue of honor guards waving us onward.  Just the rhythm   of that shovelhead motor,  at a slow speed, in third gear to coax that trademark Harley sound, as we glided along was all the good medicine I needed, a respite from the realities of loving something so big and dear to me.
  He kept us rolling until he could feel that my sorrow had lifted, his leather jacket would no longer dry my tears and my broken heart could beat more easily. Every horsemen has a story of that one

Uno, me, Fable in the summer '13

exceptional horse, the one  our dying selves will relive,  as we imagine our last memories. My Fable is that one; her final lesson:  "...broken hearts have more room to love..."

 This gentle ride in stick season, adorned with blue bird skies and bug-less wind, was the tonic I needed to ease my grief. In years to come, it will always be a memorial ride for me; to troll the less traveled roads of autumn in humble tribute to lost loves and the bigger heart they've left me with.

peace ~ resa

http://el-moveyourfeet.blogspot.com/2013/10/for-fable.html

a full tank of gas, and then some ~ 2016, 4.5

after 300miles, it feels good to stretch out with my feet up to rest and reset my brain

  This is a disclaimer about having MS and why motorcycles are good medicine for me. So a little back story: I describe my MS in many terms, none of them flattering; but my personal favorite is that it's like "death by a thousand cuts." No single or even a few cuts, will wreck you; but add them all up and it's gonna set you back, knock you down, or ruin your day. So this is a little something about one of the lesser known symptoms or little deep cuts of MS; it is depression sometimes accompanied by anxiety.

  This is not a passing sadness or gulp of fear, but more like a weighted wet blanket  embroidered with random episodes of paralyzing panic and they have clingy little barbs like burdock pods. Before I experienced either phenomena, I thought they were figments of imagined weakness triggered by moments of emotional crisis in people not like me; drama queens who thrive on attention. Then one random evening in 2007,  when my house was suddenly empty as grandmom drove my children away to movies and shopping, I was educated about how devious my own brain could be.

   Blatantly , my heart went from normal to pounding and my brain screamed "...I'm gonna die, here and now and they won't be here to help me...." I couldn't breathe, I couldn't stop  my hands from shaking, I couldn't speak coherently. I stumbled to a phone, feeling my heart throb in my temples, it felt like it wanted to leap into SVT (super ventricular tachycardia, my heart would jump from 62 to 215bpm back in the day); but they fixed that in 2003, I tried to reason.  I'm not in an impossible relationship anymore....why am I feeling this way? I hadn't learned about PTSD from toxic relationships yet. I stumbled to a chair, found my cell phone and dialed a friend, "Linda, I'm not feeling well, can you come and just sit with me?"...she listened to the panic in my voice, stated she was not able but would send a mutual friend. Just hearing her voice and words;  relief washed over me. What is going on in my head? Minutes later, Cindy and Brittany arrived. We had tea for a while, and finally I felt safe. The next day, I surfed the internet MS web sites to sort out the why's and what-for's. This is a common issue for many on the MS spectrum (if you ask, I'll explain that, but not here).

  That was a full blown panic attack, anxiety at Large. Now I know how it feels and how to reset my thinking to quell it. Depression, on the other hand, is not so easily pacified. It feels like a heavy, cold, wet blanket; a claustrophobic garment that I can not remove easily. Fatigue and frustration are the triggers, so that means dozens of episodes throughout any given day. Living this way is not an option, so what to do? I don't want talk therapy, our health system makes enough money off of my illness. I tried anti-depressants; the weight loss was kewl, but the extinction of libido was unacceptable(learned that 15 years earlier in my first marriage). Exercise and fresh air were limited to brief outings filled with tripping, staggering and falling (leaving me pretty spent for the day, thus more fatigue). So no talk, no pills, no walks. What then?

 

 Motorcycles. Encouraged by a dear friend  http://el-moveyourfeet.blogspot.com/2008/08/wind-therapy.html?spref=bl , I began to pursue riding a motorcycle. I read, I watched, I studied. Just dreaming of riding was relief in those moments of depression. Time stumbled on; I rode 2Up http://el-moveyourfeet.blogspot.com/2009/05/power-of-persuasion.html?spref=bl ; tried and failed the BRC, committed to riding Pillion with passion.

  I could write pages of clinical discussion on why riding brings relief to my depression: a furlough from the intensities in my life, the liberation from my emerging limits. None of that matters as much as the smile it brings me in the wind, the gleam in my eye as I look over his shoulder, the feeling of "better than normal" as we roll over the roads. What I do know is we'll need a full tank of gas, money for more and all the miles it takes to make that happen. In my life, riding 2Up is good medicine, the only side effect are some bugs in my teeth and an exhausted lust for more miles. God bless the bikerman(s) that makes that happen. (that's another story)

What ever it takes, treat your depression, read that out-loud to yourself...

peace ~resa

ps  This is not the story I intended to scribe, but my stories can wander off like that...

the Elusive Enhanced Drivers License or how to Not make your point at the DMV

the view from the Newport state building

 It was May 2014 and younger daughter needed her learner's permit for driving; and my license was 5 months expired. That made it worth it to travel the hour plus on lumpy spring roads to visit the DMV. After careful consideration of the options relevant to parking, waiting lines and un-scenic interstate views, we opted to take the afternoon and go the longer route  to Newport VT, where the office is never crowded, the waiting room looks over Lake Memphremagog  and there's a nifty deli at ground level entrance.

  That morning, I spent a few moments on the DMV web site as bikerman and I had conspired to get Enhanced Drivers Licenses so we could partake in riding some Quebec roads. As a border state, we could opt for the less expensive and much faster issue of this Border approved ID. I surfed the cite to be certain of the 5 pieces of documentation I'd need to acquire the simple photo ID. State photo ID, ck. Two utility bills showing physical address, ck. Property Tax statement with same address, ck. Social Security Card, ck. My birth certificate, newly minted and acquired from my place of birth (16$ fee) A written statement as to why I was seeking the enhanced ID, ck (well just to be safe). I read the check list twice, secured all gathered documents in neat new folder.

  Collected daughter at her school and proceeded to drive my newly washed Honda Element,  aka the breadbox, to the beautiful Newport State Office Building on this pristine day. Though daughter was born and raised in this Green Mountain State, she had never been to "the Kingdom", never seen the passage of VT history as can only be seen while navigating the forgotten small towns in this North East Kingdom, or corner of her home state.

  A leisurely drive brought us to our destination inspired by the vivid spring green landscape and refreshed with optimism for our afternoon of paperwork. Empty parking spots were plentiful letting me park up front for the short walk up the granite steps into the polished halls of the barely new building. I filled the empty halls with the tourist speech to daughter, " that my friend had designed this building only a few years earlier... it was the prettiest state building VT could offer and we wouldn't have a long wait here."

 Entering the small DMV suite, we were attended to promptly. In fact, my daughter took the window next to mine, and we both pulled out our documentation and fees. She answered her prompts politely and accurately, I delighted in knowing I raised a competent child; and I filled out my forms. I presented my documents, giddy with anticipation for a new picture and the endorsement for enhanced id. I even wore my red biker fleece under my leather jacket with hair set in a  riding braid. I was good to go.

 Time ticked by, daughter was finished so she stood next to me. That is when, it went wrong, totally wrong. A very polite DMV agent spoke,"ma'am, I can't issue an enhanced id for you...." "What." "I can not process this application, you don't have the proper documents..." "What!" "The name on your birth certificate does not match the name on your Social Security card...." "ohhhh, that's because I got married in 1988, and I took his name...traditional you know..." She smiled politely and then stuck a knife in my feminist avatar when she said, "yes, but you need to have proof of that name change; do you have your marriage license?...." At this point, I'm feeling flushed, my skin is hot and I'm seeing red....."No. I. Don't. I divorced him in 1998, 6mos after his daughter here, was born..." Now daughter is wilting, squirming, whispering "mom, keep it down.." "I do not have a copy of that wedding license." Now everyone in the place is listening in silent awe. "ma'am do you have a divorce decree?" "NO. I. DO. NOT." "I can't process an enhanced id without proper doc....." "Where. On. That. Web. Site. did it say any such thing?" After some rustling of papers, she showed me where. In tiny 7 point font at the bottom of the online check list, it said exactly that.

  Without consideration for my location, my young daughter, the polite agent, the armed security dude at the door...I became louder. "This. Sucks!" I turned to my daughter, she after all, could not arrest me, and bellowed:

 "I have been divorced for 16 years... effing ex has been married(me),
then divorced, married again, then divorced, now married again....he will Never have to 'show his papers' to prove his identity. Why? because this is a man's world and he has a Dick!" As daughter steps away from me, I confront her, "...don't you Ever take your spouse's name if you get married! effing Don't!"

  Turning back to the astonished agent I rant, "So here we are, 2014 in USA and since 2003, we have to prove our identity beyond a doubt so we can visit Canada  and return without hassle at a port of entry. When just 11 years ago, I could visit Canada at will with my photo VT drivers license and a birth cert for the kids. How many criminals and terrorists has this policy entrapped? How many tourists does it discourage and how many divorced women are annoyed? Who benefits?"

  I know it's about proof of legal change of name; but here we are, 21st century and we still accept patriarchal sir name, then if that changes, all the woman's paperwork must reflect that.... The agent did offer that I should renew my expired license. Insult to injury, as I sat in the chair for the photo, they made me remove my leather jacket, my Harley cap and my sunglasses. Fine.

 As we returned to the car, we paused to enjoy the view of that massive lake. Disgruntled that I would not be able to ride across the boarder, I found some solace in reminding myself, that only in VT, could a raging middle-aged woman in biker leathers get her picture taken for a driver's license. Anywhere else, I'd have been arrested and the picture would not be so gracious. With that daughter drove home in our silent car, with out incident. I'll be better prepared, next time.

peace ~ resa

just little ol' me

killing bugs

 Big bugs, little bugs, stinging bugs, stinky bugs...makes a windscreen worth having. yup.

 "MythBusters Tory Belleci, Grant Imahara and Kari Byron found out from a trauma specialist that the collision could, in fact, be fatal. The tracheal thyroid area on the throat is especially vulnerable to impact, and putting 76 pounds (34 kilograms) of pressure — the kind of weight a flying bug could wield — on it could potentially kill you once post-collision swelling sets in.

But is fatally crashing into an insect a likely scenario? To find out, Grant made a force sensor the MythBusters strapped to a mannequin. And since a mannequin can't steer a motorcycle, it sat in the sidecar while Tory steered the bike toward a series of bugs. A common fly registered 10 pounds of pressure on the force plate, and a cicada dealt a 37-pound (17-kilogram) blow — neither of which would be fatal.

Next, Tory ran headlong into a Goliath beetle, a 4-ounce (100-gram) African insect and one of the largest six-legged crawlers on Earth. That bulky bug tipped the scales at more than 100 pounds (45 kilograms) of force, exceeding the fatal limit.

However, since this species of beetle doesn't venture outside Africa, and it would have to hit you at such a precise spot, the team couldn't coax this myth beyond a plausible finding. If the insects aligned perfectly, in other words, a motorcyclist could potentially die - but it's highly unlikely."

august night ride, why he wears a full face helmut

"...where is the seat belt on that thing..."

   In the motoring season, we'll ride the shovelhead  to my folk's home in southern NH. Its a fun route over secondary roads that appear only on the map. Avoiding interstate, limited-access through-ways for the most of it. It takes longer that way; trolling through small towns and some timeless roads composed of twisties and sweepers with little traffic to negotiate with. A motorcyclist's delight.  Some five hours later, we'll arrive at their home with sunburned cheeks and raccoon-eyes where our goggles set upon our faces.

   My conservative parents will shake their heads, marvel at our stubborn affection for that "old skool outlaw bike" and ponder out loud how we can we possibly enjoy such a spartan machine. My father will ask, "how rough does it ride....looks like its time to trade up to a more plush motorcycle..." My mother will join in with an astonished tone in her words and wonder out loud, "...why can't you just take the car..". We'll crack smiles and stretch our legs as we pull the saddle bags off. 

  We'll visit some, ride around the lake on their luxurious pontoon boat and watch the glorious sun set at the west end of the shoreline. We'll share food, swap stories and pontificate  the why for's of the world. A nice visit, as always. The morning will come and it's time to pack the bike and travel some other way, north and westerly,  home. To be honest, it's all the bike can do to carry us, a modest tail bag and some overstuffed throw-over side bags, with my legs squarely fitted around them as I reach for the pegs. But I'm smiling, beaming in fact, as I adjust my scarf, tighten my chin strap and set my goggles just so. 

  On this bike, I sit tight to my driver; good thing we ride well together. I feel every breath he takes, every flinch he makes when he spots a hazard or takes a bug in his cheek, big or small. On the low ride, we sit "in the bike", not far removed from the heat of the engine, the rumble of the loud pipes or the bumps in the road. It's just me and him and some physics in action, keeping us on the bike. I very much like it like that.

  When my mom circled the vintage cycle and surveyed the scene on this 2Up ride, she asked sincerely, "...where is the seat belt on that thing!?" I paused only a second, "...right here.." and I placed my hands on his hips. "I lean how he leans; I go where he goes..." all with a wink. She smiled. I didn't want to tell her, I am totally helpless if he is not in front of me, I don't have handlebars to grip, only him...but that's another story. Biker wisdom will espouse , "it takes more love to share the saddle than it does to share a bed"; I agree, and that's another story. It's an intimate thing to ride 2Up, but it may not be what others would think....and that is a lot of other stories.

 a little humor from the people at Sturgis....

peace ~ resa

Riding Pillion

   There is rarely a destination, barely a plan. He simply will ask; "...anywhere you wanna go?" "...to water," I'll ponder, "or maybe the mountains." Sometimes, he'll give a nod when he wants me to mount the vintage bike; then he puts the '84 Shovelhead in gear with some negotiation of man verses machine.

  The direction he takes is my only clue; the bike's loud pipes, hardened by decades of riding, drown out any spoken words. I can tap his shoulder for left or right, but that's the only control I'll have on our "flight."  Like an escape pod launched from my dusty door yard, where we'll drift depends on the road we roll onto and the miles of fuel in the tank. The sun to our back and the wind in our faces, the trademark Harley rumble,  will be the only constants in our day. 

  For the length of the ride, I'll be out on furlough, enjoying my liberty in this space and time. There is a saying among motorcycle enthusiasts: "a young rider picks a destination - an old rider picks a direction".  Pick your potion. . . peace ~ resa