Easter Bound on a Unicorn ~ 2017, 4.30

no lightening struck; I'm pretty sure Jesus rides a motorcycle, yup

  The weekend weather forecast looked promising, "it's gonna be nice this weekend, Sunday should be good for riding..." says he. A brief moment for me to process the lure, "It's Easter. My plans have been scuttled; I'd love to ride... just one thing though.... I'd like to go to Easter services. Anywhere near by you...do you know of any small town churches down your way?" my hopeful response. "Nope, haven't been to church in ages..." was his somber reply. He was not digging this idea. A silent while later he countered with a query, "are biker jackets ok?" "they should be, I'll send you the link of a small United Church of Christ that's near you. Seems like a nice little church..." So a plan was made; I un-winterized my riding gear and headed down his way.

  At his breakfast table, I pondered to myself,  this would be the first ride out in 2017 season for me. My thoughts were mixed with delight for riding so very early in VT,  and trepidation laced with uncertainty. This was a difficult winter for me; usually the cool temperatures of these darker months aid my movement and function. But not so this time around, it was the toughest winter since my Dx of MS in '07. My legs are feeling weaker than previous seasons, more like a hot August day when I wilt more than I walk. This day was a balmy 70 degrees out, warm enough to addle my brain  when I'm not rolling. I talked him into this; inventorying my jacket, fleece vest over my tee shirt (navy mom version), boots, scarf, open face lid, gloves camera, and cane accounted for. I was as prepared as I could be and moving toward the door before he had a change in heart.

 Stepping into sunshine and warm air, carefully walking across the short lumpy distance to his bike, I was glad I opted out of wearing my chapps.
They hinder my walking and today was too balmy, making that worse for me. He was mostly ready, waiting for me to mount up. I got on okay, not too clumsy; but I must tone-up, loose my winter-baker's-belly and get back to riding weight. I was processing a jumble of thoughts; this was early to get out; 4/16 a real ride, not just a quickie...Noticing my lesser muscle tone...thinking how to tone up, get stronger, strong enough to ride well...We have plans this summer, Loring ME for time trials, some day runs with purpose, maybe to Canada with friends. This weakness won't do. This can't be the 'new normal' for me. How to adapt and ride on..."

 As we prepared to leave, a popular biker credo fell from his lips, " I'd rather be out riding thinking about church; than be in church thinking about riding..."

 http://www.unitedchurch.us/

Truth is, if it wasn't a brown-gray-muddy-pre-spring day, I'd be in agreement. But it's Easter Sunday, the most sacred day for me. While I'm not a classic congregationalist, I am a Jesus-loving, Buddhist-leaning, Quaker-wannabe, generic Christian. I love Jesus, he's a kewl dude. period. This meant a lot to me; riding partner knew that and agreed to drive me, on his Vic. Our chosen church was a short twirl away over clean roads, in pleasant riding weather and past the temptation to keep rolling. We arrived in the small ski town, in unceremonious style, to an empty parking area. It felt like a ghost town as we trolled the side streets; twice. The church was a magnificent architectural design; like none I've ever seen in VT, for a church.

a ski town, Ludlow VT

  The unicorn neatly backed into the curb and shut down, we made our way in and up the stairs to the sanctuary. A three story vaulted space, revealing exposed massive Norse beams in a creamy white lacquer  framing an ochre room glowing with filtered sunlight. Three rows of gracefully curved pews filled the space, like a wave of sound from raised pulpit, I was struck how it echoed the sweepers we long for as bikers. We left our lids on the bike, but wore our jackets in, expecting scant heat inside but were met with warmth and comfort in the voluminous space.

  Looking around we noticed,  among this congregation, we were the youngest attendants and the only ones in leather. I chose the second row, center group,  of antique pews in front of the floral stage,  so I could see and hear the service. We were graciously welcomed by all, offered cushions for our smooth hardwood seats, which we declined we're bikers after all, and settled in for some Easter love. I enjoyed a pleasant sermon including the "passing of the peace" where most of the attendees came to us and invited us to stay for fellowship and coffee post service, and that's when I saw my stoic biker-chauffeur crack a smile. It would be a reasonable trade for precious riding time; we descended the stairs to the community room, the moment bikerman had waited for and my chance to meet new friends. The long, immaculate table was filled with pastries and fruit, but the giant coffee urn was not ready to yield hot coffee, palpable disappointment between us both,  we partook of the gleaming restrooms and made our exit with a dozen invitations to return anytime.

  I felt fully churched-up and ready for the day's ride. Out of doors, traversing the lawn, I had to admit,  he was kind of right, as clouds and wind had moved in while we sat inside. Rolling away from the landmark, he chose a familiar road that looked naked in the tunnels of bare trees. Ice remained on ponds with Canadian geese huddled on any open water. Cruising along, we saw very few cars and fewer bikes out. Each store we stopped at to get some hot coffee was closed for the holiday, leaving us to suffer onward without.  I reminded myself it was Easter after all, the day to remember sacrifice. I'm not sure my under-caffinated bikerman valued that lesson as willingly as I.

ice on the ponds was holding firm

   It was a short ride by our standards, but it felt so good to get out, go over the roads and quench that first-ride-for-me thirst. As weak as I felt, it was a good tune-up for me. Gliding into his dooryard, the final time I'd get off this day, I had made good use of my cane in my right hand. It gave me something to reach for and lean onto as I coaxed my left leg over the backrest. It was an ok dismount, but needed improvement in grace and style. I do after all, wish to look good on his bike, and getting off it. All the while, puzzling my options for adapting and adapting some more if it'll keep me riding, taking pictures and telling stories. As always grateful for his indulging my passion to ride.


peace ~ resa

To Mt. Ascutney and Beyond ~ 2016, 7.4

sporting his vintage jacket, I noticed this tag - not something you see in the newer jackets

 Transitions are hard for me. Getting up, moving around, making my way, eventually to the bike. All the transitions leading up to ride-time will challenge my balance and coordination. If they go smoothly, without teetering, falling or vertigo; it's a good indication of my day's abilities for riding. I'll smile and tie my hair back. As I leather-up, I'll smell the jacket and my gloves as I fit them to my form; I'll archive that aroma of miles and memories and rehearse my thoughts for more. My sunglasses, my lid and I'm ready to roll.

 Ambling out to the parked Vegas, I tuck my cane into the offside side bag stepping back to study the scene.  My bikerman readies his gleaming ride, deftly turns the key on, checks for neutral with his left boot and cracks the throttle with his right hand. The button is pushed and it starts. In less than 3 seconds, the co-ordination of years of riding flows into one fluent start up ritual. The engine roils to life, purring a rhythmic beat as clear as the sunshine. No sputters, spits or glitches; just easy running engine sounds, like a purring cat. I admire the sound, like a spell cast upon me.

  He arranges the bike with a closed clutch, short radius steering and some walking until he has it lined up for launch. He gives me a nod inviting me to get on. That takes me a moment. To hear him, organize my brain and body to do the order of operations to mount up. I didn't used to have think about it. I used to be able to stand flat footed at the driver's near side, my left hand on his left shoulder and gracefully swing my right leg over the sissy bar and slide into the pillion seat. One pivoting move, like a dancer on the ball of my left foot, like I knew how and looked good doing it.

  These days, I'll brace on his left shoulder, facing his back, my left foot placed on to the left passenger peg. One, two up and my right leg over the backrest, ease myself down onto the seat and hope my right boot finds that peg. Usually, I miss. Lifting my right leg with my hand under my knee, I find the peg. Squirm my butt to the center of my saddle and signal, "...good to go." at last I'm thinking... A ten second marathon for my wonky brain. But I made it.

  I'm comfortable here, the bike balances me, the camera comes out of its pocket and the digital record of our ride begins. It's a warm July day, but the air is cool at 40mph. I feel strong in my body and delighted I am along for the ride to the Ascutney mountain road. I had never been and looked forward to the approach, the ascent, the adventure. This is where I feel centered in my body and know exactly where I am in space and time. The bike's sleek momentum keeps me there, my bikerman directs us onward.  My brain is free of the gazillion organic calculations required to stand me up and make me move intentionally. I am free. Liberated from the riggers of accurate-ish movement negotiated with my MS brain. Relaxed in my mind, I have the mental space to be creative. To see the composition of pictures, the narrative of the story, to feel the grace of the ride. I am free.

our favorite kinda road

  A left turn heading out his gravel road, past familiar landmarks surrounding his home, due east on VT rte103. Time to let the bike stretch out on this long level state highway... smooth and wide, before the junction with 100 to Ludlow, and changing direction again at Echo Lake Inn. Here the lane would become a tunnel of green, meandering through small towns and villages known only on a map; locally known as the Dublin Rd. We would troll through Main Streets hosting their parade preparations, reminding us that this is a big day in our brave little state. We continued, breaking away from stuffy village traffic; I was grateful to be heading to the mountains, for a cooler summit and light travel while most all of everyone else took up parade-viewing spots on sidewalks along the way.

in Brownsville (i think), an enchanting road

  Onto rte 44 and then the Tyson Road from the tiny burg of the same name. In excellent black top with sweepers and twisties that carved gently through the green scape above and around in an East-West way. This is heavenly, and mostly all ours. The Victory glides through like a warm wind easing up gently to the T-stop in Brownsville. I've been riding around Vermont for a slim decade, and never heard of this delightful road. I reminisce that so many east-west lanes are equally enchanting in my adopted state. This is one for the record book, mine at least.

ride angel on board, our summit awaits

miles of velvet on graceful roads

  We continued north-ish on the Brownsville Road until we saw the summit of our intended journey. Ascutney Mtn lay ahead, beyond more velvety roads and brilliant sunshine. Not quite in the Green Mountain National Forest, it was a kinder, gentler part of Vermont. Softer elevations and broader meadows for the farmers who worked them. It's all new to me; every mile beholding a fresh scene for my senses. As a passenger, I can day dream through all of it. Imagining the earliest settlers, the wilderness of then and how two centuries later, it remains much the same. Well, it maintains itself as mostly open land, uncluttered by development as made roads overlay many original by-ways of old. There are fewer boros, corners, crossings that were predominant in the gilded era of this Green Mtn State. But those notations remain on the paper maps for seekers of lost places, like me.

  As his gps predicted, we arrived at the turn off for Ascutney Mtn State Park, and again the forest became our canopy  and the shade cast welcome relief for me.

the way to the top

a state park, gotta pay

a lovely start

I noticed the decal, he's had some practice

tunnels of green

looking south-ish, our Green Mountain State

top lot, her Suzuki Bandit

 Once at our top lot, the glittering bike stopped, I almost resembled a coordinated dismount as I struggled to get off. Note to self, I need something to grab with my right hand, to balance me as I lift my left leg over the back seat. We stretched out, walked around and met some other riders, enjoying the day and shared a picnic table as we swapped  tales of other "green tunnels", vocational paths, and motorcycle lore. Where ever we go, there are riding enthusiasts  in passing that become allies in the moment; the constellation  of motorcycling and the ventures past and present are generously offered.

her riding partner on his vintage Honda Magna

 We'll likely never see them again; but it doesn't matter. The wind is not partial and there is always something to be remembered. A couple, out on vintage rides, they have to know their stuff, know what it's about to get the best out of their machines. It makes for interesting discussion when a classic rider shares their lessons with ease and knowing. The intersections of humanity make motorcycling authentic in "willing and being" in the mitigation of risk shared by every one who rides.

 The mountain road was a gentle descent letting us loose on rte 5 north along and over the Connecticut river via one of Vermont's oldest and longest covered bridges. It's always a nostalgic thrill to me, riding a motorcycle over a bridge that carried horses and buggies and more before combustion engines ever motored a machine across the planked floor. The generations of souls who safely traveled the worthy span are countless in my imaginings. Would their ghosts startle to see this stylish, two wheeled steel pony glide across, sounding some-different than hoof beats?

from the NH side, a story of Yankee initiative

the grand old bridge

kinda rattley for 2 wheels

our adventure



 

 Crossing the landmark bridge we landed in NH picking Up 12A northward on newly resurfaced road; gliding through bucolic countryside, surrounded by expanses of greening farm fields. We both craved food and found a worthy deli to replenish our energy; sporting a clean and neat dooryard with fuel for the bike. Inside the menu was all goodness with sandwiches, soups, salads made to order. Delicious. While I ordered, he returned to his bike, claiming the bench close by. "...always sit where you can see your bike..." Then, it happened. The realities of riding a unicorn, reared up. Walking out the door, paper cartons loaded with food in both hands, my biker-cane dangling precariously from my pinky finger, ambling toward the scene. "This" was in plain sight, less than an arm's reach from him. A barely clad female, crouched toward the block,  her scant-cleavage-bearing-string-strapped-tank-top, not quiet covering the top of her too-short shorts, with a camera in hand, trying to photograph the unicorn's engine block. Seriously? She was apologizing weakly as I appeared, bikerman blushing, she claiming "to take a picture...for her nephew's collection...of motorcycle engines....he doesn't have a Vic...." Seriously? If my hands weren't full, I'd school your biker-groupie *$$ with my cane...move away from that bike...move away from my man...do it now... He cracked a smile; maybe even read my mind. "I can't leave you alone for a minute." "its not me..." says he, its the bike. People don't see many Victories..." Then and there, that's when I learned about "VDF" and the risks of riding a unicorn... Victory Delay Factor: people notice, they approach, they ask questions, they take pictures... This takes time and patience. Fine. Just don't get into my space, the bubble I fashion around my bikerman and our ride. Do not cross that line. Savvy?

the man and his bike

lots of good stuff and good prices

the "motorcycle groupie" left - finally

cruising under bluebird skies on a Unicorn

smooth running all the way home

Refreshed, refueled, remounted; it was time to turn for home. A little north then crossing left, heading west over the CT river once more to feel the familiar air of VT. The parades had all gone by, firework displays setting up for the evening shows in the small towns. Along these final miles, I remembered why I ride 2Up; the fraternity of bikes rolling by, the day's adventure affirmed all of that and a little more. I could not deny, I had become smitten with this bike and the man at the dash. Going forward, in style,  is the best way to travel. Going onward over miles and journeys where the wind has no preference.

the acquired fireworks seal the sentiment

live your dreams ~ resa