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| on a gentle road west of Rutland VT |
This Sunday morning was an improvement in weather with dry skies and favorable temps, not too hot for me, nor too cold for him. As I prepared in my ritual fashion of ride boots with heel-enough to hook the pegs, fleece vest to layer for warmth, textile jacket with high collar keeping wind-chill at bay, silken scarf to keep the sun off my farmer's tan neck, gauntlet gloves to keep the wind out of my jacket, goggles to keep the bits of crud out of my eyes. Hair in a pony tail to hold said goggles; the open face lid to go on last. My uniform for riding. No chapps for me this day, I can't walk in them anyways as my legs have weakened so.
Loading my pockets with gum and a small portion of meds, realizing then I forgot my shoulder bag with folding cane and water bottle. I always seem to forget something. Upon checking my ride camera, I realized its battery was dead, and I have no spare... shite. Dayum, I need to get another, if I could just remember that, before I need it... My cell phone camera will have to do, I just don't like to roll with it in my hand for fear it would be blown to the pavement. Stepping outside, good to go as he rolled up the workshop door and walked his sparkling bike out. I never tire of looking at it, of seeing the graceful top line inviting our lanky bodies to join in for a ride. Humans are an awkward creation of torso balanced with long-boned limbs that kind of flail about in bipedal motion to get us where we want to go. This motorcycle, makes us look graceful as we glide along the roads. When I'm on it, I feel like a bird in flight. Effortless, gliding, soaring, living a dream.
Mounted up, no camera in my hand, I could hold his waist with both hands and enjoy the rhythm of the ride. A swift jaunt through his burg to the main north-south way of Rte 7 roiling the machine to a smooth 85mph on the straight 4-lane highway. Under a bright sky, on a nearly empty road as we eased to the stop-line for our jct with Rte 4 westerly bound. The light held red long enough to let seven Harleys roll up on our off side, with solo riders and their usual fashionably loud pipes. When their bikes were stopped and their feet were down, I caught them looking our way, at the sexy Victory and its graceful top line. There was no comparison in style; classic Harley boxed-out chaises looking nostalgically blunt, beside this jaguar-esk Unicorn. I was suddenly struck with the image of Beauty and the Beast(s).
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| sunshine, fast roads, a battlefield, good friends, a race with the rain |
I smiled at the thought as the left arrow flashed green and we commenced an effortless arcing left onto rte 4 pursuing the west side of Rutland. A noticeably calm mechanical transition. No clunk of a chain drive, no sputter, no delay so often present with the Harleys. The gear drive system in the Victory's works engaged in flawless perfection, seemingly gliding into our next road, empty and vast and smooth; a ripe runway for the Beauty's 106 Freedom engine. I smiled larger still. Arms around my bikerman, catching glimpses of his beard curled back by the wind as I peered over his shoulder. Admiring the views of the more bucolic landscape of West Rutland. Cruising along the wide empty lanes, the land softened into the broader valleys of the Lake Champlain basin. The mountains blended into softer hills, more fertile for farming then and now.
The battlefield road was easy to spot with an easy right hand turn onto the quiet two-lane black top zigging and zagging through freshly tilled fields, punctuated by the occasional barn. Some still standing in current use, and other older relics succumbing to gravity. Forgotten VT, fallow farms overcome with tangles of weeds; it was always a sad scene to me. The timber, the skill, the sweat to build such storehouses of time... falling prey to differed maintenance and then to neglect and finally to gravity. I wish I had my worthy camera to capture the despair.
About a fat hour of wind therapy, we passed through the rick-racked-split-rail fence and took our place in the powdered stone parking area. I made an acceptable dismount from the sparkling motorcycle and secured my balance with my floral cane. Lids, jackets and gloves left on the bike, we had no fear of thieves in this remote place. I quick scan of the rising meadow, revealed a mowed path, dotted with interpretive signs, a 2 mile walking tour of the battle that unfolded on this soil over 200 years ago, before VT was the first republic, before our nation emancipated itself. Enough of a grade to climb up and down, I opted out of that feature of the battle field exhibits.
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| see how they wave |
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| the monument to the fallen |
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| where there is war, there is money |
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| the intriguing diorama that lite with the battle groups of the conflick |
Once indoors, we were greeted by an enthusiastic docent who gave the rundown on this only Revolutionary War battle fought in VT; belaying stories of the annual re-enactment coming up in July with pride as he declared he'd "... died on this battlefield many times..." Viewing the walls displaying battle artifacts with journal entries and historic relevance surrounding the battle scene diorama, it wasn't difficult to phase back in my imagination and consider the women and men who stepped up to this wilderness conflict. At this place the British regulars and Hessian mercenaries were introduced to the tenacious and persistent Green Mountain Boys. The casualties were heavy for the patriots, with he memorial standing in testament to those losses. The museum curator, continued to share that the region on both sides of this Lake Champlain basin still host the forts of Ticonderoga, Mt. Independence and Crown Point. If only our current political elected could be here, could feel the embattled ghosts, could witness their heroics in the name of freedom, would they smarten up and show some reverence for the cost of this Revolution.
I get weepy at places like this; I think of the risks, their sacrifices, those that survived to carry on. I hoped they'd be pleased with our brave little state and impressed with bikerman's Americana accouterments on his glorious machine. The wrought iron fencing wrapping the monument made it undoable to pose the bike beside it; but my sentiment was there.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Hubbardton
http://www.crazycrow.com/site/event/battle-of-hubbardton-revolutionary-war-encampment-weekend/
Mounting up, ready to ride out and make way to some folks a short twirl away; there was time to glide thru more sweeping lanes to the small town of Fair Haven and surprise some friends before the skies leaked rain. Trolling on some narrow rural lanes, zigging and zagging long enough to appreciate our arrival to warm greetings, cold beer and a handsome blue Staffordshire. Where ever we go, stop and visit, this gleaming Victory is admired; people gather 'round and talk drifts to the machine. The skies were brooding now, ever darker and heavy with rain. Time to go and race the rain on the last miles to his home. Thankfully fast as they were wide, smooth and empty, encouraging a top speed of 100mph somewhere on Rte 4. The bike gave the slightest wiggle as my pillion weight made the front end a bit too light for that speed, cooling it down, we transitioned to Rte 7 and then easterly on 103 to barely beat the heavy drops as we stepped off his bike. The summer weather was proving unpredictable allowing only short runs to interesting places filling our need for wind and adventurous miles. Live your dreams, how ever they may be offered...
peace ~ resa
