return from the fall
I started the engine to let it warm up a bit before my excursion. I was still a bit nervous about riding after all the dark "crashing" imagery that had disturbed my rest from the night before. The image of my body on the side of the road in a mangled heap was still very fresh in my thoughts. I could tell that I wasn't the same rider from earlier in the week as I began to pull out into traffic.
The second I got the pony up to 30 miles an hour, I started to hear weird noises coming from what seemed like everywhere. Every noise sounded like the bolt that was holding the pony together and if it shook free, it would mean a horrible and painful end. I was pretty sure that every vibration was new and every noise was a warning. There were PINGS and PANGS and SQUEAAERKS and SCREEAKKS. There was a weird CRUNK - like sound the sounded like bones being broken and ground up. But the worst noise was a constant irregular TAP. It was sensory hell and I was almost ready to walk away for ever.
I pulled over and checked out the bike. Nothing. All was well and it was quiet and running smoothly. Nothing was out of whack and nothing was missing or loose.
It's just cold, I thought. I checked my mirrors and that's when I noticed that my helmet wasn't even strapped on. The tapping noise was the flap rapping against the side of my helmet near my ear. Problem solved.
It's the little things that get you.
Discipline isn't meant to be punishment. Discipline is meant to be control. More specifically - self control. It's taking the time to remember to pay attention to DETAILS. If you can remember to control yourself and the little things, then you won't have to worry about the little things bringing down the "whole". Smart decisions that are easily overlooked.
Turn off the bike. Take off the backpack. Recheck the bag. Recheck the zippers, the straps and the locks. Resnap all buttons. Check the cables. Check the fuel. Check the tires. Strap on the helmet. Strap on the bag. Check the flow of traffic...
...And get moving.
The former fears started to wane the further down the road I traveled. With each hundred yards, the sounds of a motorcyle puttering down the road became more normal and my fears subsided. The joy that is riding, returned.
I arrived in the forgottens to find that the valley was filled with vintage cars, their owners and their fans. People love to show off their stuff and people love to look at other people's stuff, so these little pow wows work out pretty well. For every great passion there is some kind of meet and greet. It's there that you'll find people that share your passion and it should give you an idea of what kind of person you are. This is why I avoid going to a meet and greet of the things I enjoy. A typewriter meet and greet would be a lot of fun, but I can't imagine that I would get on with most of the people there and I don't want to find out that I'm some kind of freak. Of the four kinds of typewriter enthusiasts, two drive me nuts and sadly they make up the majority of enthusiasts. These are the interior designers that think that a typewriter makes a great accent piece for a den or AppleBee's restaurant and the other group are the ones that rip apart typewriters and make them into jewelry. These people should be shot. My group would be the casual group that just enjoys the art of the machine and I also modestly fit into the group that collects them. This group is really made up of just a hundred or so souls around the world and I doubt they would make much of an appearance at a meet and greet.
It took some time to get through all the traffic in the tiny Hamlet and I thought it would be best to just keep on riding for a while before I came back. This way I could let the crowds dwindle down.
I rode on to Pullman about an hour and a half up the Palouse and then headed east into Idaho. I pulled into Moscow and then I headed south to Lewiston and the Snake river valley. From there it was a quick ride back to the forgottens. I had dreamed of this ride since before I owned the pony and it was everything I wanted it to be. The wheat fields danced around me in the wind and they called to me to drive off the road and join them. The great snake river cut a huge gash into the prairie and showed off the volcanic rock that made up the earth just below the beautiful wheat. It's easy to find yourself crawling along at 30 miles an hour to take it all in and to insure that you don't miss a moment of the ride.
A brief visit with the local denizens of my former home, a brief visit to my former home, some minor tweeks on the bike in the shop and I am back out on the road and headed back to the shows in Pasco.
I got back to my hotel and just rode the bike straight into my room. I was on the bike for six hours but it was enough to make me aggravate my cold and again, I am in need of rest. Perhaps I was never really better in the first place, but oh well, I fulfilled a dream and if the illness takes me, then I die smiling (and coughing).
A few hours of sleep and off to the show. The shows that night... Sucked. I was happy to get back to my hotel room after the shows and get back into bed. It's surprising to think that not too many years ago comedy was the dream. To think that I am now more excited to get back to my desolate and uncomfortable hotel room than to be on stage is curious. I guess the thrill of a ride is just that powerful; it can wipe away old dreams and give you new ones. Scary, thrilling and ultimately more rewarding. I guess riding a motorcycle is a lot like taking a stage in front of a room full of strangers - You're naked and exposed and the only thing keeping you from becoming an oily stain on the ground is your wits, your preparation and your ability to control your fear. If you can do it, the reward is beyond your imagination.
Even after two bad shows, an stubborn cold, a cronic case of monkey butt and the spectre of my pony again, lingering at the end of my bed, I slept like a man in a coma. My dreams - all moving at less than 30 miles an hour.
The second I got the pony up to 30 miles an hour, I started to hear weird noises coming from what seemed like everywhere. Every noise sounded like the bolt that was holding the pony together and if it shook free, it would mean a horrible and painful end. I was pretty sure that every vibration was new and every noise was a warning. There were PINGS and PANGS and SQUEAAERKS and SCREEAKKS. There was a weird CRUNK - like sound the sounded like bones being broken and ground up. But the worst noise was a constant irregular TAP. It was sensory hell and I was almost ready to walk away for ever.
I pulled over and checked out the bike. Nothing. All was well and it was quiet and running smoothly. Nothing was out of whack and nothing was missing or loose.
It's just cold, I thought. I checked my mirrors and that's when I noticed that my helmet wasn't even strapped on. The tapping noise was the flap rapping against the side of my helmet near my ear. Problem solved.
It's the little things that get you.
Discipline isn't meant to be punishment. Discipline is meant to be control. More specifically - self control. It's taking the time to remember to pay attention to DETAILS. If you can remember to control yourself and the little things, then you won't have to worry about the little things bringing down the "whole". Smart decisions that are easily overlooked.
Turn off the bike. Take off the backpack. Recheck the bag. Recheck the zippers, the straps and the locks. Resnap all buttons. Check the cables. Check the fuel. Check the tires. Strap on the helmet. Strap on the bag. Check the flow of traffic...
...And get moving.
The former fears started to wane the further down the road I traveled. With each hundred yards, the sounds of a motorcyle puttering down the road became more normal and my fears subsided. The joy that is riding, returned.
I arrived in the forgottens to find that the valley was filled with vintage cars, their owners and their fans. People love to show off their stuff and people love to look at other people's stuff, so these little pow wows work out pretty well. For every great passion there is some kind of meet and greet. It's there that you'll find people that share your passion and it should give you an idea of what kind of person you are. This is why I avoid going to a meet and greet of the things I enjoy. A typewriter meet and greet would be a lot of fun, but I can't imagine that I would get on with most of the people there and I don't want to find out that I'm some kind of freak. Of the four kinds of typewriter enthusiasts, two drive me nuts and sadly they make up the majority of enthusiasts. These are the interior designers that think that a typewriter makes a great accent piece for a den or AppleBee's restaurant and the other group are the ones that rip apart typewriters and make them into jewelry. These people should be shot. My group would be the casual group that just enjoys the art of the machine and I also modestly fit into the group that collects them. This group is really made up of just a hundred or so souls around the world and I doubt they would make much of an appearance at a meet and greet.
It took some time to get through all the traffic in the tiny Hamlet and I thought it would be best to just keep on riding for a while before I came back. This way I could let the crowds dwindle down.
I rode on to Pullman about an hour and a half up the Palouse and then headed east into Idaho. I pulled into Moscow and then I headed south to Lewiston and the Snake river valley. From there it was a quick ride back to the forgottens. I had dreamed of this ride since before I owned the pony and it was everything I wanted it to be. The wheat fields danced around me in the wind and they called to me to drive off the road and join them. The great snake river cut a huge gash into the prairie and showed off the volcanic rock that made up the earth just below the beautiful wheat. It's easy to find yourself crawling along at 30 miles an hour to take it all in and to insure that you don't miss a moment of the ride.
A brief visit with the local denizens of my former home, a brief visit to my former home, some minor tweeks on the bike in the shop and I am back out on the road and headed back to the shows in Pasco.
I got back to my hotel and just rode the bike straight into my room. I was on the bike for six hours but it was enough to make me aggravate my cold and again, I am in need of rest. Perhaps I was never really better in the first place, but oh well, I fulfilled a dream and if the illness takes me, then I die smiling (and coughing).
A few hours of sleep and off to the show. The shows that night... Sucked. I was happy to get back to my hotel room after the shows and get back into bed. It's surprising to think that not too many years ago comedy was the dream. To think that I am now more excited to get back to my desolate and uncomfortable hotel room than to be on stage is curious. I guess the thrill of a ride is just that powerful; it can wipe away old dreams and give you new ones. Scary, thrilling and ultimately more rewarding. I guess riding a motorcycle is a lot like taking a stage in front of a room full of strangers - You're naked and exposed and the only thing keeping you from becoming an oily stain on the ground is your wits, your preparation and your ability to control your fear. If you can do it, the reward is beyond your imagination.
Even after two bad shows, an stubborn cold, a cronic case of monkey butt and the spectre of my pony again, lingering at the end of my bed, I slept like a man in a coma. My dreams - all moving at less than 30 miles an hour.
posted by Daniel Loomis | 1:24 PM
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