In search of VT Thunder 2015 ~ our parade of one ~ 2015, 5.24

getting ready to take the flag for a rid

 It's Memorial Day Weekend, bringing back fond memories and evoking new ones. In my youth, I rode my creamella dun mare in many parades, leading our equine drill team with a very large flag holstered to the saddle horn. It was grand. People would remove their caps, salute or wave. I loved that we filled their hearts and teary eyes with pride. In all the parades we rode in, I have not one single picture, only memories of that spectacle.  Flash forward to this weekend, this day to celebrate our fallen veterans and lost loved ones.  That means parades, flags, ceremonies and motorcycles. I've often day dreamed about riding the vintage low ride, with our 3' x 5' American flag mounted  on the back trolling through parades with the glint of chrome dazzling the crowds. It seemed a feasible task as I ride pillion on an '84 Harley Davidson low ride, and we often would take that flag for a ride on our outings.

  VT Thunder was queing up for their annual ride event from the VT Verteran's memorial in Sharon up to Enosburg VT, rolling north over interstate 89 and thru small towns along the route. When I posed the idea to bikerman, that we could join the well organized ride in Richmond, he spoke in quiet tones, but crystal clear, an answer I seldom would hear. No.  When I asked why, he was short and sweet. "It's not fun...not for me."

 He would explain, "...group rides are not fun for him or even how we like to roll. They are slow moving formations with not a lot of room for error or to recover from any mistake made by anyone." He drives an '84 shovelhead; it's fussy and fickle when it can't run long and fast. "...it would be ok on the open parts of the ride, but would be fatiguing for me in the slow sections..." It would aggravate my heat sensitive MS. But even more of an issue, he doesn't get to be casual at the dash. "...as a driver he is on hyper alert for the whole time. Riding in formation means if anyone makes a mistake, it can cause a problem for everyone near them . Like dominoes, bikes can go down if there is a catastrophic lane-changing event. He has to raise his usual intentional focus to hyper intentional focus, so no."

 He did happily agree to bolt our large flag to the bike and parallel the ride route up to the finish place in Enosburg. There we could park his low ride, get a snack and be part of the spectators and really enjoy the show. It was a plan. I smiled large; a parade of one on Memorial Day, riding the way we like to roll; a worthy compromise. Yup.

  We did our best divining of the parade route that we perceived the large 1000 bike event would take, and we miss-guessed or miss-timed the scene repeatedly.Trolling the velvety roads linking Lamoille and Franklin county for two hours, we nearly gave up. But finally, we did get a glimpse, or more accurately heard it, as we were shade-hoping around St Albans. Bikerman became enthused and we broke onto the road that it would take to Enosburg.

  Route 105 would meander thru the gentle sweepers east of St. Albans and blend into the Main Street of the proposed ceremony soon to come. Our legs needed stretching and our palettes needed  refreshment. As non-residents,  of this small burg, the street-scape was mowed neatly with occasional ugly box buildings punctuating the centennial architecture dominating the lane. It was a classic Vermont town and some where there had to be a creemee stand. Through my polarized goggles, I was scanning the assembling crowds.

 Finally, beyond the waving throngs of ruminating parade goers, adjacent to the park decorated for the somber presentation, I spotted it. A tiny block of a building with tidy flower baskets and a compelling sign posted in the broad gable. Enosburg Delights. We idled the vintage bike closer half an hour ahead of the great parade of 'cycles. Our flag streaming in the light breeze as he stopped to let me off at the front curb. It took some one-legged, backward hopping and shimmying to dismount with the flag pole firmly attached to the sissy bar, but at last I could stand up and stretch.

  A modest voice asked from the waiting line, "...you the first of the parade?" Turning toward her voice, I saw dainty old women sporting epic huarache  sandals  waiting politely on the hot pavement before the ordering window. In moments, I was reminded of my leather riding boots, how hot they are, even hotter on the black tarmac; I wanted cool relief badly. "...no ma'am, we came to watch the end..."

  I considered the line, not long but not moving quickly enough to please me. I imagined solutions; I could be a crass biker chic and scare a kid out of line. I could just cut in front of a patron shuddering at my leathers and road weary body odor. But he beat me to it when he stepped from his bike toward the creemee shack window; a young boy yielded for the leather clad bikerman with the outlaw bike parked on the sidewalk a couple steps a way. They probably didn't notice, but I did with a smile, that he pulled off the lane so the thunderous bikes could stay in formation, so the flag would not slap any patron seated at the painted snack tables, so we could make a smooth get-away when it was time to go. To them, he looked menacing, but I knew he was showing biker courtesy.

  As he placed our orders for the frosty soft serve, a young female rider joined us. Heavily tattooed, with body piercing punctuating her face, she "looked tuff" but spoke with respectful tones to us. She spilled a dozen questions ,"about his shovelhead, about his miles on the road, about her riding the small Honda Rebel, she was gonna get a Harley soon...because real bikers ride Harleys..." I noted, she was trying so hard to impress us, but she didn't need to. We passed the short time waiting, eating our creemees and chatting with the customers who elected to sit on the benches the thoughtful store provided.

  Before we saw them, we could hear them. In all manner of brand and models, the bikes, trikes, can-ams and scooters, nearly 1000 of them, rolled neatly onto Main Street. Happy faces, American flags with the occasional black satin POW/MIA bannar, all waving in full glory. The noise was deafening but the crowds cheered, blasting air horns and hailing praises. It took nearly an hour for the entire ensemble to crowd into the town's cool-green-shady center. We could barely hear the loud speakers, but we bowed our heads to the sounds of a bugle.

 Our ice cream was finished, our thirst quenched with the free water provided by the storekeeper and we prepared to slip out as we heard some motorcycles starting up. That was our que. Until, a deputy parked his cruiser and stepped up to the window. Our escape route was to be down the sidewalk for the half block to a not too far away driveway. The long row of cars parked along the curb would have kept us there longer than we wished. Bikerman, showed little concern when he approached the uniformed man, enjoying his chocolate swirl of ice-cream. Negotiations were made, fines avoided,  smiles all around as I was prompted to mount up, quickly before he changed his mind. The crowds were thinning out and room was made for us to pass on the sidewalk to our departure eased onto the traveled lane to roll home in the evening air.

  He was right; it was a lot of fun to watch the show from the sidelines. The ride home was pensive, soothing, silent reverence. Only the melody of the loud pipes to fill the air...

peace ~ resa

how i fell in luv......with a motorcycle

from my very first ride on the '84 lo...

prequel
 This is a 5 part storey regarding the affection between human and machine. The unwritten pledge of dedication to one another.

 I never thought a motorcycle could break my heart the way a dying horse could; but its nearly equal in grief. Both share miles through seasons recalled with the nostalgia of  steadfast service on challenging rides. Both have lifted my spirits when my brain and body defied me. Both have filled my mind and soul with the food of wonder.

 part1    first sight...

 It was August 2009 and I had ridden on a couple Harleys with some good guys. One a candy apple red Sportster and the other a black and gold Ultra Glide. They were later models, not Shovelheads, not vintage, not as prone to the fussy adjustments that the older bikes demand.   "Why not" he answered to my self indulgent email to ride on his Harley sometime. That's where my affection began.

  When he showed up for that first ride, he was wearing a faded Harley satin jacket and a broad smile, reaching out to shake my hand.  I noted that was uncharacteristic body language for a biker, but my attention was on the bike. Road-weary, it was dusty, dirty and lean looking. It had an outlaw feel about it with black leather seat and sissybar pad mounted on a gleaming  chrome frame. Left and right indicators mounted in chrome hubs bolted on either side of the small VT license plate. A slim profile windscreen on chromed elk horn handle bars with smooth black rollers for hand grips.  A modest tool bag of rolled, weathered leather was strapped firmly to the forks under the smallish head lamp.

a modest headlamp for the slimmer
framed low ride

The classic tear drop tank was pure black with a gold fine-line and a red lettered decal prominent on each side. The left one faded and ragged from fuel leaking from the chromed gas cap over his decades of riding. A simple, black "dashboard" spanning the split tanks, with the speedo and tach aligned to the yoke ,completed the spartan styling. The pegs were substantial, chromed and adorned symmetrically with black rubber rings to enhance their stout appearance and boot grip. I noticed occasional elements of custom HD graphics and features throughout the bike, all mounted on chrome. Smitten with the bling, I was quickly seduced by the chrome.

 An '84 LowRide, from the dyna class, a cruizer for rolling over the roads. Later I would learn the story of how he acquired it; had been the only owner, the adventures he took with it; the miles of precarious travels and the precious respite it gave him in his youth. All were confirmed by the stone chips, rust blisters,  smudged clear cote and dull scrapes pocking the bodywork of this bike. All evidence that it survived close calls, near misses and tougher miles. These were better than tatts, club patches, or brand-name leather apparel in defining competence; they were the badges of rugged ridding and a testament to this bikerman. He knew how to ride, really ride, and that mattered to me.

  This was the first ride out in six years, the expired inspection sticker confirmed that. A rule bender and backroad rider...I would later nickname him "Outlaw". Throughout six years of riding as his pillion, I would discover how this bike lived up to that moniker as well. A little lighter and more nimble than the bigger bikes, it could carry us places that one didn't usually navigate with thi 668 lb cruizer. The shovelhead was made to endure, to be bold, to be indomitable in its element.

  He broke into my forensic haze as I was welcomed to mount the smallish pillion seat, sitting tight behind him, close enough to feel him breath. We rolled north to Newport VT, over hill and dale through sweepers and straights that revealed captivating views. I was comfortable with his command of his trusted bike. It could bend deeply in the corners and thread the better part of rubbled roads with ease. We were "in the bike", riding at a near perfect center for agile performance with the sound of hard pipes filling my head with an indelible melody. I was falling in love...with this bike.

 At our lunch break he apologized for the age of his motorcycle, "...it was 25 yrs old.... it was a Shovelhead and he hoped to take it cross-country when his son graduated high school..." Shovelhead, what was that? I thought to myself; I would search it on google later to learn that there was a historical time line depicting the evolution of Harley Davidson Motorcycle engines from 1901 to present.

'84 LowRide,  Shovelhead V-twin block with kick starter

 The more I learned about the art and machinery of these engines, the more enamored I became. Over the next six riding seasons,  I would learn that Shovelheads, the powerful V-twin engine blocks, with few electronic amenities, were the last series made that bore the accessible basic features that allowed for owner maintenance. It was this design that would position them to become the famed Chopped Bikes of custom builds for iconic films and bike show center pieces. This '84 LowRide was factory built in that last model-production year; the last year with a kick starter to back up the power switch. The last year that it took strength and resolve to crank a motorcycle to life.

  This bikerman would espouse his love of getting his hands dirty completing the pre-ride check list;

a spark plug for each cylinder, one rich and one lean

his passion for the active physical attention its driving required. There were eccentric operational quirks like palpable heat from the block, a fine spray of oil from the jugs splattering the black leather chaps wrapping my right shin, a constant vibration that would take his hand off the throttle and sometimes tease  a little foreplay in the seat. It was a fickle machine, but never boring. As a passenger, I learned a lot from the dialogue this motorcycle evoked. All love affairs begin with a conversation and this was little different.

  He would take this fearless machine over grass fields, on dirt lanes and ancient roads etching the irregular terrain that only an off-road bike would desire. But it never failed us. In part, the driver's skills made it look easy, but this slender bike would take it in stride. It lived up to the mission set forth by the earlier days of motorcycling, as a recreational sport for other-road adventures where pavement was scarce, if there was any at all.



part 2    the bike....

 It broke down once in 2009, stranding us in NY with a failed generator; but it was rebuilt, if not badly, and carried us on until the next failure caused by loose jugs that were not bolted down properly. This was the time when I learned that not all motorcycle mechanics, fondly referred to as "a wrench", were created equal. After some searching we found a skilled mechanic and the network of vintage bike shops. Harley dealerships were not interested in rebuilding a vintage ride; they would shame and cajole us into trading up. The pressure was intense at some franchises, but the high prices and nostalgic loyalty steeled his conviction to restore and ride and restore again.

  It became more than an intimate partner; it became a teacher in preparation, physics, limits, expectations and the value of simplicity. It had great strengths and tender chinks, like any living soul. Yet it was made of metal and machining, with narrow rubber traction to haul our visions of grandeur  over and under and through all matter of space and time.  It coaxed me into the world of the way things work as I found myself interested, for the first time in my life, in the order of operations for an engine. It allowed me to lurk in the shadows of the minds who could imagine such a thing as a combustion engine. I would find myself surprised at my interest and embrace of these principles; and startled in my perception of their beauty as the engine came to life. When the starter engaged, the engine roared to life and he would let it idle on choke for a warm up. That trade mark, V-twin Harley sound was music to my ears. Like a Pavlovian trigger, it became the song of my longing.

  As summers came and went, we would visit motorcycle shows and notice heads turning at the sound of its loud pipes. Hardened by time and a hot running motor, they made an awesome sound that was both foreboding and intriguing. People, the bikers that worshiped the old makes of rides, would stop, turn and watch in silence. Them that knew that distinctive Shovelhead sound, would ask "what year is that?...shovelhead?" and their stories would unfold almost always ending with tones of regret. Regret that they "let theirs go".

  My outlaw bikerman would beam, walk a little taller and counter with stories of our travels. Pride in his ride; the mark of a respected biker, no poser here. It included me, the dedicated pillion, clad in leathers and Americana lid.  Our sun burns, oil stained boots and dirty finger nails were like badges of the real deal. It became clear to me, Shovelheads were the real deal.

  That notion sat secure in my mind, worn well on my heart; it gave me a distinguished seat at the motorcycling table. It is my most prized avatar, setting me free of my limits for the time we rode. Dark, handsome, like a rebel soldier never to be discounted, this Shovelhead was my chrome pony, sweeping me off my weary legs as we rolled to our "anywhere" of the day. It gave me a real-ness that escaped my differently-abled self. As long as the wheels rolled, the pipes rumbled and the wind refreshed us, I was whole. Like a lover, it nurtured my being.

coming soon, the rest of the story .......

peace ~ resa