The spirit of riding - share your tales!

[canarlee]

more.........



Rivers and bikes....

In the unsettled American West, the first roads were rivers. Explorers, trappers, mountain men, soldiers, and the early entrepreneurs were more likely to ply canoe and paddle, rather than horse or moccasin. Lewis and Clark, Fremont, Frazier, Carson, Bridger, and Powell – boatmen all.

And the American West was blessed with great rivers: The Mississippi, the Missouri, the Platte, the Colorado, The Columbia, the Snake, The Clearwater, the Yellowstone.....great foaming highways, on either side of the great mountain divide, storied in both fact and legend.

Those rivers are still there, and, as the American West became more inhabited, the early settlers built roads alongside them; and, by and large, the roads are still there.... just as convoluted and twisted as the rivers they parallel.

In the latter half of my life, my great joy has been to run these roads on my motorcycle. With the bike, I can compress miles, years, even centuries into hours and days; and, if I am careful, I can see what they did see. I can almost experience their romantic, mystery-shrouded lives, where every day was a lottery.... survival being the main prize, freedom from starvation and Indian attack the consolation awards... this I sense through the hum of the bike’s power, the blur of it’s speed......

Some of the rivers are dammed now, and controlled, but enough survive for my needs. Highway 35 along the Mississippi (The Great River Road); Highway 12 along the Lohtse (LoLo Pass, Idaho), Highway 14 along the Columbia River, Highway 1804 along the Missouri, I-90 along the Yellowstone and crossing the Little Bighorn, Highway 299 alongside the Trinity, Highway 50 alongside the Arkansas ........

Ride these early roads, these ancient rivers, just once, and you will be changed forever. Your bike will merge your soaring blood with those who have come before... and you will be blessed, blessed by the rivers and blessed by the roads......

[canarlee]

last one for now, i will find some more later............




oncers.....
Sometimes, when Red and I are out on the prairie, we'll stop at some greasy spoon and walk in, helmets dangling from frozen gloves, rain still running from our jackets, and most of the people inside will look away, and will try not to notice us.......will try to get back to where they were before we arrived.... before we came, all free and wet and alive......


But, also, sometimes... I'll look across the tense dining room, and an old boy will slowly raise his head from his Senior Special bowl of soup. He'll look out the foggy window at our loaded bike, at my smiling partner, and the fire will begin to rise again in his rheumy eyes, and he will begin to nod to us.... At first barely perceptively, and then with increasing vigor, and we can see him sitting straighter, and breathing faster... calling on us to talk to him, to notice him and this joy rising in him like something long dead but rediscovered...... and so we do.


"G'day, Sir!" I'll say, sitting as close to him as possible. "Kinda wet out there!"


And then he and another one or two old boys, will come and talk to us. Really talk to us. They will speak of the bikes they had after the war, the Harleys, the Indians, the BSA Goldstars....the saddlebags of Mexican tooled leather, the shaved and ported heads, the Great Hillclimbs....


"I loved that damned BSA! Loved it so much I was always afraid of it!"


And they will talk of touring from sea to sea, from border to border, when the roads were all lumpy and nearly impassable, and when the sleeping bags were always wet and cold, their girls' mothers so terrified of them and their bikes. They speak of great bonfires on prairies and woodland, and of the beer, and of the joy of being young and free, free from war and alive .... and the misery now of having lost it all. And I listen to them with all my heart, for I am them, and they me.


And when we finally leave, waving to those who still have the fire, those with eyes still gleaming, we feel alive and reborn......and blessed. And the prairie calls to us anew....


"Ride, ride, my children. It will not be forever, ride, ride.... my laughing children. Ride!"

[vifferman]

Presumably the topic isn't so threatening that you can't post a serious response to it.

?
What's that all about? :spudwhat:
I love it that wherever you go, there you are, and if you meet a fellow motorcyclist, it's really special.
Like last year, when as part of the continuation of wanting to do more pillioneering, the vifferbabe arranged a 5-day trip around The Far North for us at Easter. It was a fantastic time, but one of the standout moments was meeting a guy from Glenfield on a Yamaha at the Rawene ferry, getting chatting to him, and running into him again at Ahipara, Cape Reinga, and a few other places. Another was calling into the chocolate factory at Kerikeri and being delayed for ages, happily chatting to the manager (owner?) who was a motorcycling immigrant from the UK.
Or having to stop for a rest on the Helena Bay to Kaimamaku road, because my arms were so tired from an overabundance of corners!

But one of the things I like most when riding two-up, is when the vifferbabe gives me a great big hug, just because she's so happy to be sharing the experience with me!

[banditrider]

Rusty rides are the ones that bring out a bunch of pretty like-minded riders. Everyone is keen as to put on the miles and always have time for a gidday at stops etc. The Southern Cross in particular is good for this is there is a bit more time waiting around at check points etc. Everyone has a yarn to tell.

But this years GC really brought it out. Truly crap weather and still everyone smiling and having a laugh, keeping an eye out for each other etc. Can't wait for The Mini's Return...

[Griff]

Presumably the topic isn't so threatening that you can't post a serious response to it.

Dude you are right. It's time to get back in touch with my sensitive side.



Riding a Bike is like playing with a cat.
------------------------------------
If you stroke your throttle, like you would stroke a cat's paw, then the engine purrs and all is sweet and mellow.

But if you wrench open the throttle, then it is like violently twisting a cat's paw. It isn't nice and you may come off worse.

I tried this on a stray cat as a "MythBusting Experiment" and I did in fact come off worse.

[Machiavelli]

What's that all about? :spudwhat:

Mostly about a post that doesn't seem to be there now, edited perhaps?

It's cool, though, I know you guys are all crazy anyway

one of the standout moments was meeting a guy from Glenfield on a Yamaha at the Rawene ferry, getting chatting to him, and running into him again at Ahipara, Cape Reinga, and a few other places. Another was calling into the chocolate factory at Kerikeri and being delayed for ages, happily chatting to the manager (owner?) who was a motorcycling immigrant from the UK.

Yeah, that's what I'm talking about - that's the cool thing about bikers. Take CHCH, for example. There are really not that many of us here, so it nice to be able to think that perhaps you can spot a bike and realise that it's somebody you know and maybe have a little chat with them. It's different with cars, it's not like you could get to know everyone in the city that drives one!

I put the importance of the biking community down to the fact that it's more dangerous, so it's good to keep an eye out for each other.

[vifferman]

I put the importance of the biking community down to the fact that it's more dangerous, so it's good to keep an eye out for each other.

I think it's more that most bikers realise they're doing something special. Bikes are usually more than just transport, due to the viscera nature of riding them: you feel and sense more than a car driver does, and you're much more connected to your machine: every little input you make effects a response in the machine. And when it all comes together to work perfectly, it's very much a right-hemisphere activity, and gives you an amazing zen-like "in the zone" experience.
That's all very addictive.