black chevrolet

If, in any relationship, I lose sight of the other person, for whatever reason, after a period of time I will begin to worry. Worry and become upset and irrational. Small things begin to take on massive proportions; a neglected mailbox or late arrival at the supper line somehow begin to provoke intense anxiety where none ought to be. And this goes as well for the kind of relationship I have with a hunk of aluminum and steel tubing called Suzi. In the last two weeks, the motorcycle has been sitting in the parking lot, leaking oil and gathering dust. I replace and straighten the cover over her periodically, thumb a drop of oil off the engine, and frown at my thumb. And the ill feeling never goes away. I fiddle with the windshield. I centerstand the motorcycle several different directions and get a different oil level reading each time. I kick the tires. And because none of this fooling around tells me anything at all about the motorcycle, I then kick myself for obsessing and go away and ... continue to worry.

The machines in my life, like the people in my life, are subject to constant breakage and destruction. Nothing is reliable, and there is nothing I hate worse than broken parts I can't see breaking. So I watch everything all the time to ward off impending doom.

So for my own sanity and peace of mind, I have to have a good sit down and communing with whoever or whatever I'm losing track of. I did that today with the motorcycle.

I woke up around 8:00 am (late), and over my dish of oatmeal, trying to plan out my day, I hit upon a crazy idea. Why not, since I have nothing in particular to do, see HOW far I can get north in one day on PCH?

No sooner thought than put into action. By 9:30 I was on 126 West. I kept going and going and going all day, the cliffs in the distance unfolding one after another, luring me on. I stopped at Morro Bay to eat something, and finally turned tail at Lucia. I hadn't quite made Big Sur, I was about 50 miles short.

I arrived back on campus at 9:30 pm. Twelve hours on a motorcycle. My throttle wrist was stone, my shoulders and back were a mass of shooting nerves, and the derriere wasn't feeling much. Nonetheless, tired as I was, I was happy. Because the motorcycle ran so smoothly (while soaking my shinguards with oil) that I almost forgot it was there. hmmmmmmmmm. it was nice. It was reassuring. I can take this thing across the country and it won't break down on me. That thought was very reassuring. There are no clonks or thuds or stiffnesses to mar the flying on the freeway; it's all liquid smooth and it's all good. It's all good. When one concentrates on all the little stuff that's breaking one loses sight of the big picture, which is that this big old bike runs really damn well...