going forward, defining his ride ~ 2016, 6.4

 

"...just leave your stick there and hop on..."

There was no "what-if", no doubts, no hesitation. I was jazzed to ride again with this bikerman on his Victory. A weekend was set, time and place negotiated, and time to load "momma's orange bread box" and head south. The drive to his neighborhood, 99 miles south and west was over beautiful country roads, the old north - south ways in Verrrmont before interstates paved express ways of haste through our Green Mountains. In a car they were lovely; on the motorcycle they would be stunning.

   It had been many years since I had last been to this center point of VT. I had placed several rescued horses in adoptive homes down this way and recalled the long trek with a loaded horse trailer in those times. These roads were velvety, threading green canopies and historic burgs noted only on our state map. Rolling along with the cool of AC and the music in tune with the curves, I was getting very excited to roll on these roads new to me.

   Getting very near to his address nestled in the spine of the Greens, at 1000' elevation, the air was lite and clear as I motored through the high valley made famous by skiing in the last 60 years. This is a very old part of VT where the industry of alpine sports eclipsed the once plentiful quarries, farms and mills. Still in daily use was the train shuffling by twice a day with its whistle alerting at every crossing. It was a step back in history and I was an eager student.

    Idling into his dooryard, it was a comfortable reunion as plans were made for a weekend of riding on the voluminous roads that he knew thoroughly well, yet would delight my imagination.  His Victory was ready and waiting in the graveled drive-way where I could approach it with ease enough for my wonky stride.

  With his invitation, I left my cane at his shop door, dropped my shoulder tote in the side bag and mounted the gleaming machine from the left passenger peg, settling into the pillion seat with some confidence laced with grace. Its an odd sight, I'm sure; just getting to his bike, I stagger more than I walk, with arms out to offer the illusion of steady, upright movement. Yet on a motorcycle I can sit up straight and balance effortlessly in the saddle, until I have to move my legs. Adjusting my boot on the peg is a comical effort requiring both hands to flex and lift each knee. Its best if I get it right the first time if I want a comfortable ride. When I'm all settled, I give him the "let's ride kiss" and a "good to go" squeeze of his shoulder. Tom Tom gps wired up, he gave a nod and we were rolling onto the lane with smooth transitions through every gear he would engage while the rhythm of the loud pipes rumbled in time.

old iron RR bridge mail ordered and installed in the way back days

   Aware of my passion for secret roads and lost places, my driver planned a route over some conservation lanes built by the CCC back in the Roosevelt era. A short ride through residential streets and we were entering the Coolidge State Forest surrounded by a canopy of green along graded hardscrabble road. In this forest, I notice the soils are dryer, lighter than the heavy clays of my region. I notice the air is less dense and the sun feels brighter. I wonder how can that be when we are still in the Green Mountain State of Vermont. Our second ride out, this time in his neighborhood, over the roads that he knows intimately. His deft confidence was palpable rolling over familiar routes and intersections where he knew the possibilities in sight lines. As his pillion, it was like having a tour guide fluent in the native language of motorcycling.

  It wasn't long before we entered the Coolidge State Forest with silent lanes with blazing new tree scapes. VT is full of smallish state forests often memorializing accomplished people and places. We came upon an abandoned chimney standing testimonial to Verrrmont's first gathering lodge for skiing. The dense brambles and bees kept us from a closer inspection but a sign detailed the origins of the small lodge. Not much of a hill was near by, but enough of a rise to promise early side-stepping skiers a good glide once they packed their trail to the top.

ccc road

a vividly green place

Back on his bike, we rolled over the simple road leaving the forest with his gps showing the terrain ahead. Over his shoulder I would marvel at the display showing the arch  of its curve and grade of descent as we enjoyed trolling through the peaceful forest. He opted for a shared lane to travel to our next views and scout out  some lunch. Diverting onto rte 11, heading into the Chester thoroughfare, where I got a lesson in his brand of conspicuity or the art of being seen riding a motorcycle on the traveled lane. While I was scanning for a place to eat, he was navigating a busy main street with a lot of slow moving but distracted vehicles. Coming up on an intersection, he put his bike into a serpentine rhythm, not to show off his nimble motorcycle but instead to attract the attention of the cagers who were visibly inching into our oncoming lane. It was a well timed visual tact to catch their gaze and to prevent an ill-timed pullout in front of us. Again I became aware of the vigilance required to operate a bike safely in mixed traffic. 

  The lesson wasn't over yet. As we spotted the parking area for our lunch destination, the Fullerton Inn, we pulled in downstreet from where we needed to be. He popped an easy U-turn and trolled toward a viable parking spot ahead  on our left. I was watching diners on the porch, debating inside or outside to eat when he roiled the throttle with a closed clutch. Instantly, a very loud rumble in such a confined space; I noticed the annoyed lady on the upper porch and thought he was just showing off. But then I saw the SUV backing out of the slot in front of us, bikerman got loud to startle them in  their obstructed field of vision, to stop the good motorist in their tracks as they determined the whereabouts of the noise. A motorist is more aware of loud pipes than a horn, it seems so maybe "loud pipes do save lives". I was humbled by these subtle but effective skills in making us more visible. I was reminding myself of how many bikers go down because the other driver "didn't see them." My driver never panicked; his actions  were as fluid and effortless as breathing. One can take all the safety courses they want, and they should; but there is no substitute for experience. And I was a wiser and more grateful passenger for it.

   After a filling lunch and a real restroom, we saddled up to commence the journey home. Joining onto rte 100 north we swept and swooped the old northway road into the burg of Weston where he spotted an interesting pull off for a break.  A foodie joint with good creemees and a piece of shade for my heat sensitive brain. Mildred's Dairy Bar on Main Street, where you can still get a TAB if you desire. So here it was, on our second ride, the creemee stand test question in my biker chauffeur quiz... I got a twist of chocolate and vanilla, and he chose strawberry. I have no analysis for strawberry ice cream choice by a driver, but in this case I'll determine it to mean worthy, out-of-the-box thinker and doer. An interesting person to ride with and never over a dull mile.

peace ~ resa