the learning curve ~ 2016, 6.19

 This would be our third ride together. It was ceremonious to us by our own designs. He would ride his Victory Vegas 99 miles, 3 hours, north to my home, to see my river valley, my mountains, my neighborhood; the NEK. It was all planned-ish. Arriving Saturday evening in time for a twilight ride to enjoy a Martell burger at the Red Fox up the mountain road from my place.

   In this new riding relationship for us both, we were still in the "honeymoon" stage of gleeful riding 2Up and lost in the imagined vision of our steel horse adventures. For this ride, I had been enthused to show him some of my roads; some velvety, others lumpy while still more were little better than third world lanes. Our vistas were stunning, and nearly infinite in number, making it difficult to choose where to go first. My memories were braiding with the possibilities, filling my head with a scrolling slideshow of a grand ride up here, in this mostly rural, wild part of VT.

  He couldn't see the splendid  picture show in my mind. He saw the map laying itself out on the screen of his smart phone as he programmed unfamiliar state roads into its GPS app. He was from downstate, where the east west state-lines draw in like a tightened belt, narrower and more congested with travelers. While eager to roll over these byways, he was barely used to my riding behind him and new to these ribbons of blacktop around us. As my first two rides with him I was comfortable with his skills, I didn't give the credit that was due to the additional concentration required when driving over new lanes,  thru unfamiliar intersections, past remarkable landmarks and sourcing unknown rest stops. I didn't really grasp his effort to give a great ride with these mildly mitigating circumstances until we rolled out of my dusty dooryard the next morning.

  Pushing away from delicious breakfast food and conversation crafted by my son-in-law took longer than it should have.

The air was already heavy with heat and humidity, even for this northern farmstead on the fringe of the NEK. To commence the journey, he wanted to drive to and thru the Notch only 10 miles up-south from my dusty dooryard. With thick summer air over the distant summits, I opted to ride in my white summer shirt and trademark satin scarf to keep the sun off my neck. A lesson well learned in my horse training days of past summers. We stowed our jackets in his side bags and mounted his gleaming  candy-cane red bike ready for the day. This motorcycle is more contemporary than I was used to. It sported an assortment of gauges and dials on the dash, behind a clear windsheild not yet splattered with bug kills. It started easily, and purred in its idle waking the engine up with a modest rumble. A few moments to let the fluids get flowing and the small green lite to glow. Good to go.

  His bike fit me tight to him; I smiled inside and out as this is my preference in riding. I want to feel him work the bike thru the sweepers and twisties of our roads. As we navigated the obligatory right, left, then straight 2 miles into my little burg, we observed it was cluttered with cars and pedestrians bustling east and west across the Main St as the Fathers Day celebrations began. Trolling to the small jct with little effort, the bike made the up-south mountain road ascent to the renowned Notch. Commencing its 6 mile scenic byway, we entered a tunnel of green wrapping the paved sweepers. In a short climb of time, we reached the elevation 2240' parking area to stop and gaze upward. The remaining 2000' loomed straight up, on either side. Cliffs of blue granite and then bluer sky. The Notch, between the mountains of Sterling and Mansfield seemed other-worldly. Trees were wickedly bent and gnarled, water falls lept from random ledges and occasionally falcons soared. A few more moments to gaze at the height of land ~ face of God and fill our memories. I had hiked it every winter Friday for six years, I never tired of it in any season. For him this was the first time to lay his eyes upon it.

  Saddled up for the tight twisties on the downward side, the switchbacks that would be shared with tourists and locals traveling up the steep grade against our downward roll. Trolling intentionally slow, we could hear each other talk so I pointed out a couple blind corners squeezing past massive boulders interrupting any thought of a straight road. On a motorcycle with a competent driver, it was a humbling rush. The giant stone relics of a long past earth quake stood as silent, unmovable witnesses to centuries of travelers. Close enough to touch and so I reached out, brushing them for luck in our day travel. Downward still out of the Mt. Mansfield State Forest and farther down rte108 and down further into the retail district of Stowe. Tedious with wandering tourists, it was an exercise in throttle control and forgiveness. To save time and patience, I knew the Mayo farm  short-cut to rte 100 north, the second portion of our ride.

  Around the mountain, thru timeless Hyde Park, across a new round-about and northward bound on route 100, the old north-south road of VT. Not yet feeling the weight of the heat, a new MS med was working well, we were enjoying the journey. A decent surface gliding past farms, cross-roads and vast expanses as we approached the Lamoille county line at Eden. We were riding together easily, sharing simple instructions to navigate the north country roads. Trapped behind a column of cagers following a posse of bikers, it was all moving too slow to suit me as I choked on their fumes. I requested a break at the Eden Country store. "I don't like the slow pace here, nor the fumes...I'm not used to seeing any traffic on this road." He looked confused, "you don't like this?" "...not the traffic; I like riding with you very much," He was perhaps used to sharing the traveled lane down his neck of the woods. But I seldom had to compose pictures around cars on the road; not up here in the NEK.

  This pause in riding did give a chance to determine the next direction, destination, and a plan for lunch. I suggested Newport, a deli in the state building on the shores of Memphremagog . "A fat 30 minutes from here" I declared based on multiple visits in the past. He consulted his device, "Yup 30 minutes, ok" By then the stream of cars had gone out of sight and our motoring was unobstructed. This was the way I lived to ride. A gleaming bike, a skilled operator, open roads with stunning views all in a pensive passage of time. He programmed the device with the most direct route, but I didn't notice that effort. I was confident in my directional experience. I travel with acuity to landmarks, directions and the shadow of the sun. Old school divining with an unfolded map for back up.

  For the previous half decade, I rode with a biker on an '84 shovelhead and a tattered map as a resource. We picked directions, summit profiles and valley views to guide our travel. That was the normal that I learned. In this emerging partnership in riding, I would marvel at the technology of his GPS as it would illustrate the features of the road we currently traveled. Where the curves, junctions, even the grade of the road as we rolled over it. All were displayed in vivid contrast on his smart phone screen, mounted to the windsheild above the dash. I could see it, but couldn't really comprehend it and I didn't recognize his preference for it until the end of our day's journey. In truth, this would become an important consideration as we developed our 2Up riding style. He is a man with an engineer's mind and gadgets are a key piece in his thinking and doing.

  Onward to Newport, an ambitious goal for our half day ride. Round trip was doable, if there were no delays in travel. The roads northerly were pleasantly free of motorists until we got closer to Newport. I imagined he'd enjoy a view from St Mary's parking lot, overseeing the long lake views, but the green under-story of scrub was overgrown and obstructed the views. It was at least, a stretch break with some clarification in communications. Onward into the lakeside town's Main Street and the handsome state building. The parking lot was empty; it was Sunday and as such the deli was closed. Its a peaceful place to sit under a boardwalk gazebo and watch the sailboats glide over the waters. Without food to share here, it was put aside for another day. Around the corner of the bay, a comfortable bar and grill awaited. He asked for specific directions to get to the door; no second guesses in traffic with multiple junctions.

  Fathers Day weekend, a packed parking lot at the East Side Bar & Grill, a 20 minute wait for seating but it was the only option in this part of the NEK. It was too late to redirect to a more southerly village tavern 18 miles back toward my home. This was it; with patience we waited for our table in a nearly empty dinning room. We each wondered why such a delay when a dozen tables stood empty. Finally, we were served our ample luncheon salads. Idling the time gazing over the lake as sailboats of all size and description cut the waters. Lulled into the relaxing moment before it was time to mount up and roll back over a different set of roads. West on 105 to the jct of 118, barely longer than the road we followed in,  but over different roads thru different scenery.

  It's a pleasure to travel in a great loop, and explore the long views of the Kingdom. I had hoped he would enjoy the venture,  but I had not noticed the time, had not given enough importance to his schedule to keep. I was lost in the glaze of my desires, the heat of the day baring down on us, my inclination to detour to landmarks was not equal to his inclination to get home safely, all the way home. When I offered an 11 mile detour to a local peak, he responded with a firm no. While I knew it was fewer miles, perhaps 15min closer, he did not. Over the wind and loud pipes, it was not possible to convey this without more confusion. At the 101 jct we veered left on my advice and back onto 100 South over roads that were familiar to him. I could feel his relief, but also his tension for the end of the ride. The heat was wearing us both down. While my posture wilted,  I was pleased that my MS was stable, a mental note of that in my book of triumphs.

  Seeing our next jct westerly, I mis-qued a turn and he vented some discord at that. He was fatigued and frustrated; I was debating any further interruption of his GPS mapping. Sorry was all that could be said. This backseat driver will shut up now, was on my mind. I need to trust the technology that he is confident in. Eighteen miles to home, silent, green, smooth, comfortable...rolling through my neighborhood. I would intermittently ponder why I wanted to ride motorcycles as a pillion. I wanted to escape from my responsible adulting world, to leave the driving and complex operation of the bike to a worthy man, to sit back in admiration of the bikerman, the motorcycle, the country side. To slip into my avatar of biker chic. I really needed to let go of control, and trust others, to yield leadership for the length of the ride and enjoy the furlough.

  By the end of the journey, we were both overwhelmed. The excessive heat, humidity and longer than expected tour took its toll. I'm not as resilient as I once was, tears began to leak through a fog of exhaustion, mentally and physically. I think we found our limits on this ride; needing to pay closer attention to climate, distance, navigational preferences, terms of communication and curfews. This bikerman is a strategic planner with an engineer's precision. I'm a diviner, leaning on intuition and experience. It's going to be an interesting partnership on his bike with a fair amount of give and take. Its gonna be a breath holding, breath taking long and winding road. When it throws you a curve, lean into it.
Hoping we won't give up, we're just getting started.

the Take Away ~
    -a one-niter ride-plan should be a short list, ie one item meeting leisurely goals
    -riding a route that is familiar to me can be vexing for him
    -navigational communication for an engineer minded man needs to be short, accurate and in                    perfect time for the maneuver
    -mutual consideration for the mitigating circumstances like climate, heat stress, traffic, detours,                curfews, health limits
    -styles of traveling with my divining via landmarks and he with precision mapping via GPS
    -the older we get the more vulnerable we become to limits that even a year ago were not                           constrictive.

  What I have learned  as a pillion, each driver has a style of knowing and being informed ~ What they need to hear from me and what they don't want to hear. It's not personal, its preference for safe operations. Navigation and communication needs to be reviewed before the ride; some drivers are less stressed with this, some are more concerned so set that expectation before hand. Consideration for road conditions, time constraints, physical and emotional comfort over roads and under weather conditions, triggers and affirmations.

 After all, "it takes more love to share the saddle than it does to share a bed"


peace, resa

dreams of grandeur, the rookie driver ~ 2016, 5.19

 

After some e-paling, this Vietnam Vet pursueded me to ride pillion on his 2014 Dyna Switchback with 10,000 miles that he put on it. He had an endorsement, insurance and a sissy bar. Though he'd only been riding for 4 years, this was his second bike. He takes the rider courses, is a member of H.O.G. and has the ride patches to prove it. I was reluctant, even when he stated that he rides his bike to work every day, regardless of weather. He had never had a passenger before and he was set up for riding 2Up in hopes of finding a ride partner. He was convinced he was ready to take a pillion along. After a couple of coffee shop meet ups, seeing pics of his bike,  I agreed to join him and go for a ride on the lesser traveled roads in northern Vermont. To give him a chance and to get a long awaited, first ride of the season.

  He arrived promptly that afternoon, and looked still taller than his slim 6'2" in his all Harley apparel. A new H.O.G. patch on his textile jacket with reflective Harley emblem across his shoulders were literally gleaming. He was  leathered-up in all black jacket, chapps, gloves, lid and boots. I noted these elements of his "uniform"  as I'd not ridden with such a brand-loyal enthusiast ever before. Still, he maneuvered casually in my dirt drive way, getting the bike ready to roll out. I wore all the gear as I just didn't know his skill set. But he was not careless with the bike so I felt good to go.

  Getting on was a challenge as the sissy bar was taller and wider than I was used to. Even as I mounted from the pillion peg, it was difficult to swing my off-side leg over the obstacle. My MS has weakened my right leg especially to make reaching over the high back rest tough. I placed my left hand on his left shoulder to get steady but he just folded to his tank assuming that's what I wanted when I leaned my self forward to perform the barely graceful mount. That's when I remembered, I would be his first passenger. I would be teaching him how to accommodate a 2Up ride. I would help him live his dream of riding a Harley with a passenger behind him. Seemed doable and within the spectrum of my patience.  So I showed him how to hold the bike, the bars, and sit steady, for me to mount. After a second try, I settled into the comfortable pillion seat; we were ready to roll out onto the traveled lane.

  We opted to go  right out the dooryard  and then right again at the junction to head north on 108. Recently resurfaced, not much traffic and no stops until rte 105, it was eighteen miles of scenic, uneventful riding. He was living his dream and I was taking pictures, as always. He often checked back to ask how I was doing... "he couldn't feel me moving, am I ok." Answering in an encouraging voice, "...I'm good, you're fine, you shouldn't feel me move..." At the northern junction, just a few miles from the Canadian border,  we rolled onto the burg's main street. And I do mean we rolled. He never really stopped at the sign to go right. Slow and wide, barely in his lane, he throttled the silver bagger onto the main drag.

  In fact, he did not stop completely at any traffic light or sign, anywhere on the journey. He would just creep through them. On one portion of road, we were behind a school bus making multiple stops. He would nearly touch his tire to the bumper each time the giant yellow transport would halt to let a student off. "Dude, if you can't see his mirrors, he can't see you. If he starts backing  up for a K-turn at the town line, you - WE have no where to go." Next stop was a hard front wheel stoppy; the only thing keeping the back wheel on the ground was my 148 lbs of pillion. "Dayum dude, you need to start breaking sooner with a passenger on." spoken in my patient voice. This stopping style would repeat itself at every hard stop. These were not playful boob jams, they were abrupt halts. Even after a couple stop lines, he couldn't improve the technique. Maybe if I had let my lid smack the back of his, he would figure things out. But I opted not to addle him; I want him to improve not panic.

  When we did finally stop and park for a moment, he dismounted to stretch and get our bearings. He thoughtfully claimed to "not want to throw you off the bike..." I emphasized that would not happen. Getting hit would throw me off the bike, not driving normal like. "ride your ride, passenger will adjust." He was astonished, "how do you hold on? the seat strap?" "no" "the sissy bar?" "no" "how do you stay on?" "inertia... my hands are on my camera, or on you if you're stopping , you feel my hand on your back so I don't slam you, right?" He was "afraid of going too fast, that I'd fall off...." "...I'm good up to 80mph if its a good road for it. Momentum  keeps me on, physics hold me there...I lean how you lean."

  Remounted, he struggled to back the bike out, paused the awkward effort then pondered driving across lawn and over the curb. Please don't! He struggled to find neutral and then he couldn't find the gear he wanted to drive off, and he said so. I wanted to say, "one down, everything else is up..." but the pillion doesn't tell the driver how to drive. It was clear, he had avoided the more challenging, low speed  skills, essential in motorcycling, throughout all his years and miles. I recalled my failures in the BRC, fast and straight was easy but the slow, throttle control, parking lot speeds would end with me dropping the bike. The ride was becoming worrisome for me; an unfamiliar feeling building inside my core. I need to feel safe on the bike and off it when depending on my driver's skills.

   To myself I ponder, how is it that someone with 4 years and 10K miles doesn't know how to stop? Later I would find out, he rides to work every day on the same roads, the same turns, no new routes. It's hard to develop deft reflexes when there are no surprises, nothing to sharpen one's spontaneous skills on. Like a skier taking the same downhill trail every time, their abilities get stuck in that rut of same-old, same-old.

 We chose a quieter road home and he reveled in the scenes and my company. He was living a dream, although with unpolished, marginally unsafe skills. Turning right onto the final 15 miles of country road to my farm house,  he took the easy right hand turn so wide and slow he was in the oncoming lane. Dayum, I won't fall off unless an oncoming vehicle hits us! I shook my head saying a quick prayer to get home; its all direct, just sweepers and zero stop signs or intersections. While I accept that we could get hit by space junk, or an errant driver, I do not accept that my biker chauffeur's inexperience could cause us to go down or die.  I spent the remainder of the ride puzzling how to convey to him that he needs practice, way more practice before carrying a passenger.

  Rolling along steadily to my drive way, he opted to blow past the right angle turn into my door yard. He didn't turn at the small sandpit parking lot a short way ahead either. He motored to the end of my bucolic byway,  where he should have stopped for the north-south thru traffic of that state road. But he didn't. He slowed, put his feet down and power walked to the southbound lane, in front of a northbound tractor trailer. Shite! WTF! While the trucker slowed to allow him to pass, I felt a red fury rise in my face. He throttled the half mile to the round-a-bout and made the necessary right turns to get back to my driveway so he could enter with a smooth-ish left hand turn.

   I realized with a shudder, he doesn't know how to make a slow right hand turn up a dirt drive way. He doesn't know how to execute a proper, smooth stop with extra weight behind him. He doesn't know how to take a right hand sweeper without leaving his lane and crossing the center line.

 I'm not an expert, I don't drive, so I feel that only suggestions can be offered; its the silent rule for a pillion. It was obvious to me, that turns were problematic  because he didn't look far enough ahead, his field of vision was too close so he tried to steer his bike rather than lean into the curve of the turn. He was not a master of his machine. And maybe worse, he doesn't know that.

 I want to encourage him to get the polish he needs; to master every skill he will need on the traveled lane; to ride as a passenger with a skilled friend so he can feel the ease of the ride....when its a practiced driver. Motorcycling was a gift to himself for quitting cigarettes and  surviving cancer; he wants to be part of that life, he wants a passenger to share that dream. But I don't want to risk myself in his learning curve.

  This is where I realized, I do not wish to teach someone how to ride with a pillion.  I don't want to suffer from their mistakes. Just because someone is a good guy doesn't mean they are a good driver. Since 2008,  I have been privileged to ride with very skilled operators. They make driving a motorcycle look effortless.  To them I bow down. And to this rookie, I must back away, with a low wave and good wishes for his dreams of grandeur.

peace ~ resa