Titanic Post

When I start out on a motorcycle ride, I usually have a vague idea about where I’m going and what I’m going to see and do. I do this because my friend, Bill, once took an unplanned detour with his new bride, Jean, on the pillion, in northern New Mexico on an old BMW 65 and they got lost in a very desolate area in a thunderstorm, slithering back and forth on muddy trails and were almost lost forever, or so he says. He blamed it on not making a route plan. I think it was the high strung German motorcycle at fault. Even though that story made a lasting impression on me, I rarely stick to any plan I make, nor do I see or do what I thought I would.

Today, I took a trip into the Sacramento Mountains of Southern New Mexico, of course with semi-planned way-points. I already forgot what they were. The first fifty miles or so, I was conscious of the joy of being: the joy of being on the motorcycle, the sensual pressure of the wind on my body, the noise of the wind and engine, the roadside passing in a blur, and the responsiveness of the machine. It feels good to ride and to ride fast. I’s fun!

I always want to share this experience with a loved one and I’m always amazed at who I would like to be there with me. For several miles, various dialogs about the beauty and the smell and the visual sensations flow in my thoughts. Of course my fantasy pillion always shares the excitement of what we are experiencing. Another kind of well-being overcomes me. This is interrupted by a guy who cuts in front of me after passing and I have to hit the brakes. I honk and the man waves at me. Poor fellow had only one finger on that hand. Lots of bugs riding out to the Capitan Gap.

That mood broken I stare at the instrument cowling configuration. Something is out of kilt, but I can’t tell if it’s the cowling or the instrument panel. This would explain the throttle cable housing chaffing on the windshield I had noticed earlier. Later, at my first nature stop, I would see that it was the cowling that needed adjustment. In the meantime I was thinking about little modifications here and there that would make the cycling experience more enjoyable. Maybe I could invent something and sell a million of them and wouldn’t have to worry about my retirement anymore.

There is a point in every ride where I notice little body parts that are experiencing discomfort. A toenail on my left foot, the toe next to the little toe, was somehow getting through to the pain receptors in my brain. It took some time to identify the correct toe, because there are a lot of toes and there is a lot going on down there: heat from the engine and gearbox and the vibration. In fact I decided after a minute or two that the whole foot was sending signals of complaint. So was my right foot. So were my hands.

Most motorcyclists complain mainly about “monkey butt,” as do I occasionally. This motorcycle, however, has only one cylinder and is called a thumper. I have named this thumper Jelal (sometimes spelled Jalal), because it looks like a camel, and like a camel, it can also cause misery to its rider and to everyone else. (I am happy to report that my Jelal does not spit at me). Thumpers vibrate and this vibration causes extremities to tingle, then to hurt, and finally to go to sleep. Other body parts start to hurt: my back, for which I wear a brace; my neck, because of the helmet I insist on wearing. If I could only stand up and walk around, none of this would ever happen.

All of these were passing thoughts and I still enjoyed the scenery and, of course, always watched where I was going. I would stop when I saw something pretty or when I had to seek out a bush, but all of the above subjects were also my companions on the ride. However, there was a point where all I could think about was the plight of the bugs flinging themselves into the puny little wind deflector Kawasaki calls a windshield. I was also accumulating a lot of them on my face shield: little yellow impact marks that only a few moments before had been a viable life form. I wondered what sort of selection takes place and causes some bugs to veer away and others to zero in on my faceplate—until one of them spread itself all over the nipple of my hydration tube. I had left the shield open a crack for ventilation and didn’t discover the collision until I took a long draw of water. It didn’t taste like chicken.

Life is funny in many ways. Some of us live, while others die. I decided that all the bugs who expired on my person or on Jelal’s little windscreen were victims of probability. Was I not following my bliss, my calling, by being on that road at that particular moment in time? Would it not have been premeditation on my part had I followed a deliberate plan for that day? I truly believe that bugs have their own destinies and blissful callings. As I dropped back down into the Tularosa Basin, where the air temperature around my bike was 110 degrees Fahrenheit and the bugs had sought out cooler environs, I decided that if I am ever reborn as a bug, I will certainly not live near a road and I’ll watch out for the bats.