Titanic Post

It was on a Tuesday when I picked up my new DL650 from Southwest Suzuki in Alamogordo. Riding away from the dealership, I already had the impression that we just might be a good match. The bike, for which there is yet no name, went where I looked, accelerated at the thought of speed, and slowed at the appearance of necessity. Not traits I would look for in a woman, yet at my age of 65, perfect for a motorcycle.

I topped off the tank and headed up Hwy 54 for Tularosa. From there I rode east on highway 70 into the Sacramento Mountains. Still subject to the break-in redline of 5000 rpms which translated into an indicated 70 mph, there was no buffeting and little wind noise. Very pleasant! I began to smile. (more…)

There are many reasons why people ride motorcycles. Some ride for the rush of excitement from the speed and danger. Others ride for the fellowship of being in a group of like minded people. Many riders talk about the freedom they feel when on the road.  Some, like myself, enjoy the solitude when they ride alone.

I hadn’t thought much about it one way or the other until a week or so ago when a hiking buddy asked me why I rode. I hesitated for a second or two before mumbling, “I like to be in the wind.” I thought to myself, “what a stupid answer!” However, it was as true an answer as any, had I had more time to think about it.

Most people think it’s a mid-life crises, but I’ve gone through several of those and believe me, motorcycling is no crises.  I prefer to ride alone or with a like-minded unintrusive friend.  There is a greater sense of peace than freedom.  Motorcycles are dangerous and there is a sense of a possible death.  Even with full protective gear a rider can die.

I am acutely attached to the road, the wind, and the process of riding. The process is a flow of intentions which immediately translate into movement whereby I become lost in what I am doing and disappear into the environment, confident that my actions will turn out well. It is a form of ecstasy, even a spiritual event.  As I write these words, I realize how futile and meaningless my reasoning appears to be.  I like to ride because I like to ride. Basta!

One does learn, however, that riding a bike is full of metaphors that apply to other aspects of my life. I learned to use power sparingly and to move gently through the curves. And, it makes me laugh.

In a few minutes I will take possession of a new Suzuki V-Strom 650. There is also a larger engined one liter V-Strom, so I suppose that the 650 could be called the Wee-Strom. I see no reason for the larger machine. Now I will have two motorcycles.

This all started about a month ago while recovering from surgery to staighten out a contractured little finger. I had more time to think about things than usual and to savor things coming my way. One thing coming my way was an invitation from a friend to attend a reunion of four or five expatriates in the Riviera du Loupe area of Quebec. If everything comes together, we will enjoy the sunsets and frolicking Beluga whales along the St. Lawrence Seaway. There will be food and drink and stimulating conversations from these extremely enlightened and articulate folks.

To get to Quebec from New Mexico, I will have to go through Rochester, NY, where, it just so happens, my daughter Aretha lives with her family. What an opportunity! It must be obvious to all by now that I desperately needed another motorcycle. I knew you would understand!

I named my motorcycle Jelal (sometimes spelled Jalal), because it is the name of Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi, the famous and much honored Persian poet. In earlier posts on this site, I mumbled something about my motorcycle having this big hump of a fuel tank that was really quite ugly and reminded me of a camel. While this harsh judgment was true then, it is not true now, because the experience of riding this motorcycle over the past months has given me new insights and has brought much joy into my life. Riding this motorcycle through the mountains brings up honest to goodness belly laughs and childlike giggles that just burble up from somewhere deep inside. What indescribable joy! The name “Jalal” does not convey this motorcycle experience as well as it honors a truly great man. (more…)

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. (more…)

Everywhere I look, I see metaphors. The sunrise becomes a rebirth, a chance to start all over again, forgetting the sins of yesterday for the promise of today. That’s why it’s my favorite hour - also my most productive - being freed from the past. The sunset is a reminder of my time on earth passing.

Yesterday, I rode for about six hours on my motorcycle. I call the motorcycle Jelaluddin or Jelal for short. I suppose that was because it reminds me of a camel. Jelal, I’m sure, is not a proper name for a camel, or even a motorcycle for that matter. Jelaluddin Rumi (1207-73) was the author, whose poetry I sent you that, in turn, started all this talk about metaphors. The camel is a very odd looking, but magnificent creature, that came to mind as I sat out to give the motorcycle a name. From the side, the motorcycle’s fuel tank makes a hump that reminds me of a camel. I sit behind that hump when I ride, and in front of another bumpy looking case on the back that stores my helmet and other things when I leave the bike somewhere. You get the idea. Being between a hump and a bump could also be a metaphor for something.

Yesterday, I rode the sixty or so miles up to Carrizozo. After having tacos at Paul’s Restaurant (open from eleven to one-thirty) and talking to the UPS driver about the water level in Bonito Lake, I continued on to Capitan and behind the Capitan mountains and back. The muse took me on to Highway 48, climbing to Ruidoso, descending to Mescalero, Highway 244 up to Cloudroft, then down the mountain to Alamogordo, then home. There was no particular reason for taking this particular route. It was the getting there that seemed to matter, which gives rise to another metaphor or two.

At the end of the day, I was tired, but exhilarated. Along the way my face shield broke and I almost froze my nose off. I came very close to a good case of “monkey butt,” because of my poor choice of underwear that day. I also talked to several people who were friendly and kind, I found that the food at Paul’s was better than ever, and that Texas tourists still drive like maniacs. The mountain air tasted fresh and clean.

Isn’t life great! I’m grateful that I could experience the day as I did. What a day! What metaphors! Thank you, Thank you!