Skip to main content

"This is Why I Ride"

'All I Wanna do is have some fun....until the sun comes up on the Santa Monica Boulevard'


April 1, 2013

I rode Bessie2 to school today; Teacher Work Day - no students, which means I didn’t have to be there at oh-dark-thirty OR have the hassle of changing from ‘Biker Chick’ to ‘Teacher Chick’ with my apparel.

Me; along Rt. 66 in New Mexico
Once again, I was reminded of why I ride. I love hitting the road about an hour before sunrise; the air is crisp (even in sultry Florida), a couple of layers of clothing are required, the morning smells fresh, aromatic, and the sunrise from the seat of my Harley Davidson is always a special gift. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen some fantastic sunsets, but I’m a morning person, and I’ll take a front row seat for a sunrise over a sunset any day! 

My first cross country trip on my bike alerted me to the sensory experience of riding; I was pleasantly surprised at how alert the olfactory glands are on the open road. The orange blossoms in Florida, the salty smell along the coastline, the fetid smell through swampland, the parched, dry smell of the Mojave, and the pecan groves in West Texas. Yes, and even the visceral smell of fresh road kill on hot asphalt is alarming. This morning, along a 13 mile stretch of backroad through a nature preserve in Osceola County, I rode through the orange groves, inhaling that flavored oxygen, then I hit a strip of pine trees and it smelled like someone just sprinkled Christmas along that sandy strip of asphalt in Central Florida. The Christmas smell reminded me of my trip along the north shore of Lake Superior in Canada; air so fresh it was antiseptic, the wind so clean and sharp, yet unable to penetrate good leather and an additional layer of Under Armour. I inhale it all, greedily, as if I’ve been starved of air and only recently been allowed to breathe. This is why I ride.

Vintage Biker Chick
I travel North for most of my commute to school; this morning, just as I make the turn East, the sun was scattering it’s first pinkish hues along the horizon, outlining the low lying clouds with a silver lining.  As a photographer, I’m fascinated with light, especially natural light. Photographers call the first hour of sunlight - from twilight to light - ‘magic hour,’ for good reason. To be one with the elements while the day is being introduced is pure magic; to be on a lonely strip of asphalt where its just you and a few unseen critters watching the light show unfold before your eyes is a gift. My first solo road trip was up the East coast - from Florida to New Brunswick Canada - just to ‘get my feet wet’ on the open road. I got to the D.C. area and timed the trip so I would be able to cruise around New York City, early on a Sunday morning. I hit I95 North just before sunup, cruised towards the Big Apple - scared to death of riding around Gotham City itself - and as the skyline of lower Manhattan came into view, the sun had broke through the haze and positioned itself directly over that beautiful skyline. The sight was beguiling; luckily there wasn’t much traffic, because I couldn’t take my eyes off of the ‘bedazzled’ skyline.  And no, I didn’t stop for a picture, but in hindsight, a photo could never have done that scene justice, it is just forever etched in my memory. This morning I remembered: my trip out West with my friend Bill (Ride Free Billy, ILY). We were fascinated with the colors of New Mexico; it was like riding through a rainbow, or riding through a box of 64 count Crayola crayons. The color was mesmerizing; it surrounded you on the asphalt, the heat shimmering up from the road was awash in color, the hot, dry air swirling around you was vibrant with color, and even the rain - sharp, stinging, violent, and quick - was like crystalline drops of every hue. And the sunsets; like sitting in a prism as the light source slices through to the other side, exploding colors onto the horizon. This is why I ride.

It’s not about Bike Week, Sturgis, Rolling Thunder, countless bike nights, and poker runs. Its about the ride; the sensory ride. Its about the journey....and the journey makes the memories. 

“If I don’t ride, I won’t live long.” 
Bessie Stringfield - My Hero
Bessie Stringfield

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The Waning Light

  There are times I dread the waning light of day, That golden hour which precedes the night. The night brings sad memories. The night brings old terrors. The night brings lonely hours, Sleepless hours, Blackness filled with sorrow. The darkness carries the quiet, the quiet commands the truth. The night accentuates my aloneness; it echoes my fears. The darkness makes me yearn for my children and for my loved ones long gone. The night plays a melancholy tune in my head. The night makes me yearn for the light of day when everything is new once again.                                                                                                     ~ Author: Debi Tolbert Duggar   As a...

#Scattered_TheBox

     Bree sat silent in the passenger seat of Della’s Range Rover as they drove away from the city towards Bree’s farmhouse. Della respected her friends silence, glancing furtively towards Bree, checking for what? Della didn’t know; was there a protocol for ‘how to act when your friend is told she has a few months to live?’ Della wasn’t sure and at this moment her heart hurt as if it were being squeezed by a giant hand intent on crushing the organ in her chest.       Della met Bree Maxwell at the registrar’s office in 1974 at the University of Chicago. Just two long-haired hippie chicks in bell bottom denims and crop tops among thousands, struggling to look cool while simultaneously overwhelmed by the process of registering for classes. The two became fast friends and shortly thereafter they met Tish and Ann, also freshman. The foursome became inseparable and forged a bond that has endured four decades.         Bree is the...

Summer Road Trip_The Warehousians

June 16, 2012 In the summer of 1969, when everyone old enough and hip enough was flocking to Yasgar's Farm in upstate New York for a music festival called Woodstock, I and most of my friends were looking forward to starting high school. The tidal wave of rock n roll, free love, tye-dye, psychedelics, and peace was just beginning to roll across the country from the west coast; it would find willing participants in the sleepy little mid-western town I grew up in. It was music that brought us together in the early '70's at a seemingly abandoned building in downtown Marion Indiana (righteously name The 7th Street Warehouse), and it was music that brought us together Saturday night in a building once occupied by Freel and Mason drugstore in downtown Marion some 40 years later for a first attempt at a 'reunion' of sorts. Our 'Prophet,' Duke, started a Facebook Page about a year ago, called the '7th Street Warehouse People,' which mushroomed (no pun intend...