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