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| "ready when you are..." |
After six years of riding with the same biker up front on his vintage Harley, an unexpected turn of events put me in the market of seeking out some new drivers. I wasn't too comfortable this time around with the task of locating good motorcycle operators; after-all, I'm neck deep in older, weaker, less agile limits but I am ever so much wiser than the first time I posted an open call on CL. This time around, I had an intriguing collection of pillion pictures, and experience enough to know I was looking for motorcycle enthusiasts who like to share miles on the secret roads. A thoughtfully crafted profile garnered some interesting responses. Through further e-paling one man offered an NSA ride, Seven weeks later we arranged to meet up; to secure the deal he emailed me a map of his proposed route"...to make me feel safer about our 'virgin' ride". Throughout this contemplative process, we didn't really swap pictures of his current bike, I only knew that it was a Victory Vegas and wished to see it person.
He arrived after a fat 2 hour commute from his downstate home 99 miles away. His bike was outfitted in stunning red candy cane paint with a reflective swipe of sparkling off-white on all arched features; a flash of glitter punctuating the deep red base coat. It boasted a graceful top line that embraced a powerful V-twin engine block with no visible works, adorned with patriotic splashes of old glory on the chromed gear box. He patiently explained the oil cooled, overhead cam with 106 cubic inch power with four valves in each cylinder, forward controls and shotgun pipes with baffles that ran loud enough as he rolled in.
The windshield was not huge, sporting a crystal clear view of our traveled lane, no bugs splattered on the acrylic this early in the season. The handlebars were a simple Ness Fly Bar version connecting the driver to the bike. As I stood back, I was struck with the feminine form of the machine's top line, a sinuous scribe from the yoke, tracing the ample gas tank, seamlessly cupping the smooth black leather of the mustang seat as it progressed to the arch of the rear fender interrupted only with the modest second seat and tail light. "Beautiful like a woman" he would declare.
Most appreciated, was the custom pillion seat he fabricated for me at my request. His bike was set up solo for the four years he cruized alone. I will not ride a motorcycle without a sissy bar. Not finding a factory model that suited him, he fabricated one, including the leather upholstery of the seat. I was honored by that effort. As a pillion, I don't usually get to direct the comfort of the accommodations, but he crafted with careful accuracy, a safe, supportive, and elegant second seat with back rest for moi. American made side bags were mounted, quick release style, to house our water, wearable layers and other useful extras. It was luxury compared to the spartan shovelhead I'd grown to enjoy over the past years. With a few adjustments to his GPS mounted on the interior windscreen, he revealed that we would be riding to "the islands" Grand Isle County of Lake Champlain, he had never been, but this day he would travel a route that was different than any I had known.
Riding together for the first time, with someone I barely knew, is always an act of faith. But there is a unscientific process I follow to determine my safety on and off the bike; observation, interrogation with intuition as the largest factor before committing to a ride. I had seen many pictures of the bikes of his youth and his tales of riding with few limits. It appears to make difference in the way a driver will operate their ride going forward. Novice errors were made and survived before they rolled on the traveled lane. As a pillion, I notice the confidence and deft mastery these riders have when compared to them that learned to ride in their more conservative adult years. That is a palpable characteristic to me when I join them for the ride. Watching this man prep his 2012 Victory for our outing, his attention to detail was obvious and reassuring. I know enough about riding on the shared road to know that operations must be in peak order to roll out safely. Its one thing to have an unforeseen issue overtake a grand day out, but its not acceptable to be on the side of the road due to a ride prep oversight. Dropping my travel ready shoulder tote loaded with folding cane, extra meds, sunscreen, lipstick, water and trail mix into the ample side bag, it was time to mount up.
The moment of truth, could I swing my right leg over the back rest and land my booted foot on the passenger peg? Could I do it with something like grace and not rock the motorcycle nor alarm the driver? The bikerman assumed a post-straight posture keeping the steel pony steady, the coolish day made it easy to maintain some muscle control in my wonky leg. In one move, I was on and ready to roll out. My smile was big and I hoped he could see that in his mirror. I was easily on and slipping comfortably onto my pillion seat. Fitting neatly behind him, I noticed this bike held us both in its center, my favorite way to ride. I could barely see over this taller driver, and the pegs kept my knees higher than my hips. But still, it felt liberating to be there.
Headed right, out the door yard and then right again on the resurfaced rte 108 north to Bakersfield and left onto rte 36 westerly to St Albans. I suggested this as its a scenic road to travel by expansive farms and wetland sanctuaries. The road didn't winter well and gave an opportunity to experience the newer and more generous suspension of the Victory. I would peek around the side of his arm, as the passenger seat didn't sit me high enough over his shoulder to get a straight sight-line. With my foot pegs framing my knees higher than my hips, I couldn't lift up off the pegs for each ripple in the tarmac. Thankfully, the newer bike's innate comfort compensated. Sometime along that stretch of road, we took a bump hard enough, that I chipped a tooth, setting my mind into ways to lower the pegs or raise the seat so I could use my legs as shock absorbers.
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| looking back at you |
Finally we junctioned with 104 north and enjoyed some smoother pavement as we navigated to the islands. We entered the cluster from the northern route past the Sand Dunes State Park where I nearly misdirected him to Isle LaMotte. A favorite place of mine, but not on his designated route for this outing. It would be my first introduction to the gospel of his GPS. We did manage to navigate our way to North Hero, landing safely at the famed general store: Heroes Welcome for a much needed break and luscious lunch. Like so many Vermont country stores, "if they don't have it, you don't need it" including the community's post office as well.
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| scissors for every occasion...don't see any beard trimmers |
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| island time for the county of four |
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| Trolling rte 2 to perv-ea the island under blue bird skies and traveling clouds we came across a road hazard of agricultural proportions. |
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| Vermont is an old place with historical markers throughout... |
Traveling homeward, maxing out his allotted time for our grand day out, he opted to hop on the interstate to expedite the ride north then east. I almost redirected him onto a backcountry short cut, but it wouldn't have saved many minutes and I was curious how this bike would handle on highway. Going fast was flawless; so comfortable in fact I peeked at the speedo thinking he was babying it and it was indeed cruizing easily at 65mph.
Exiting onto 104A and finally the road taking us home; our blissful ride was interrupted with a close call: a westbound biker crossing the double yellow lines, passing up hill, coming boldly into our glide path as we crested the downward side heading east. My driver gave him the left tire track as he deftly moved over toward the fog line to give him room. The middle of the lane is not usually preferred for motorcycles as there is often a slick strip from leaky cager engines along the way. I held my breathe as our full throttle bikes passed by one another with only a few feet to spare. It startled both of us as I blurt out "that was bold"; he trumped my words with "that was STUPID". That bike had no sight-line passing 50' shy of the crest of that hill. If we had been a milk truck, that biker would have been killed. or more accurately killed himself slamming into the grill of an oncoming vehicle. Shaking the near miss off, the bikerman never missed a gear as he clearly demonstrated the vigilance and experience essential for motorcycling. It highlighted the point that "....you can do everything right and some selfish asshat can still ruin your ride..."
The encounter clarified many thoughts swirling in my head. I was deeply impressed by this Victory Vegas and the way this driver handled it. The stylish cruzier was error-less in function and the man at the dash was flawless in operating it. Smooth transitions in speed, braking, cornering exhibiting agile performance of both driver and machine. I was pleased with my choice to ride with him on a bike I knew nothing about. My faith was restored in the possibility of finding a riding partner on a shiny cruizer; as a bonus I felt reborn as a pillion brimming with riding plans and stories to tell. On this late model bike, stocked with modern suspension, 6 speed transmission, fuel injection and silky smooth clutch, I was not weary at the end of the two hour tour; I felt exuberant. I was becoming enamored of this polished motorcycle and grateful to the driver for inviting me along. I can see why Polaris claims that Victory is America's New Motorcycle. For a first impression, it was a good one.
I smiled to myself as I felt the lost feeling of hope rising inside me; giddy with the knowledge that riding was still doable. I needn't quit that fantasy after all. Rolling home, gliding past familiar landmarks, the spell lifting, preparing for the conclusion of our maiden voyage as riding partners; it was the only sadness of the day but even that paled when compared to the future going forward. As we gently motored into my door yard, retreating to the shaded lawn chairs, I couldn't deny my joy. We were a good match on this bike; it felt good to ride with him. As he dismissed himself to commence his long journey home, I could not withhold a soft kiss of gratitude. In an abstract kinda way, he had given me permission to go forward. As a survivor of so many setbacks, physically and emotionally, that was a tremendous liberation. Here's looking forward to a long and winding road together.
peace, resa
Beautiful! Has me in tears.
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