Art News It Rained Again Christine Rebet
The yellowish paint of the old, 1920s-era bascule bridge popped confronting the stormy skies of the Sacramento River Delta. As I turned left onto the ii-lane bridge, a woman preparing to make a right onto the levee highway saw me, spooked herself, and momentarily stood on her brakes. She was in no danger of hitting me, just her abruptness paired with my own heightened feet caused me to wait over—but as I was crossing the wet oncoming lane'due south oil slick. My hands followed my gaze, and the quick jerk on the bars was enough to suspension my forepart tire'due south tenuous concord on the road. The Guzzi came downwards on its left side and slid abroad from me. I hit the tarmac on my left arm, taking a Gordie Howe–grade elbow to the ribs in the process.
"Oh my Gawwwwwd! Are you lot o-KAY?" If I disliked her for jarring me, I disliked her even more for the mode her grating reaction to my fall cut through the tranquillity, moisture-thick air.
What was shaping up to be a fiasco had started out every bit a meditation on simplicity. A motorcycle. The Sonoma Coast campground where I'd spent a clamper of my youth. A trailer stashed where in that location were no utility hookups. Nature and physics cared not i whit virtually my story pitch.
I picked up the bicycle and pushed it out of the road, looked at her for a second and waved her off with a "Yep, yeah, I'm fine." I only wanted her gone, wanted to survey the damage and nurse my embarrassment in peace. The ignition push had popped loose. I snapped information technology back into place. The left-hand mirror had twisted itself gratis, and I'd neglected to bring a wrench. Everything else seemed shipshape. Only 40 miles into the trip, I considered turning effectually and heading domicile.
The central question was, is the pleasure worth information technology? Practice I surrender right here, meaning that Airstream had their single-axle Sport model towed all the way out to Bodega Bay for nobody to slumber in? Do I just requite the bike back to Piaggio? Or do I deport on? I could purchase a wrench at the hardware store in Rio Vista and clench the mirror back downwards. The wheel started right upward; the longitudinal 5-twin's cylinder caput hadn't touched the footing due to the crash bars I'd installed. The left-hand pipe was mildly scratched. I stuffed the mirror in my backpack, turned the cycle around, and headed for Highway 12.
Littered with blind crests equally information technology crosses the Montezuma Hills at the edge of Suisun Bay, this particular stretch of 12 was historically known as Blood Alley. After enough head-on accidents, Caltrans finally installed flexible reflective poles downwardly the centerline of the road. I didn't have to worry about oncoming drivers, I just had to keep the bike pointed straight. Pelting was streaming off the tank and under the front of my bulky Dainese Teren jacket, which was otherwise admirably waterproof. I'd been taking my gloves off and on; I couldn't ever put them onto completely dry easily considering every part of my outside—helmet to boots—was dripping wet.
With the temperature hovering at 50 degrees and me running at 55–60 mph, hypothermia was becoming a legitimate worry. My ribs were killing me. My hands were freezing in my Gore-Tex gloves. Mesmerized by the moving pattern of wet reflectors topping the Bailiwick of jersey barrier aslope me, I establish the bike suddenly drifting dangerously close to the concrete divider. I forced myself to look down the road, knowing that if I could make it to Suisun Metropolis, where 12 crosses I-80, I could make it to Bodega Bay. Suisun was an arbitrary marker, but it at least had a Starbucks where I could alter my wet shirt and go some warmth into my body.
"
With the temperature hovering at 50 degrees and me running at 55–threescore mph, hypothermia was becoming a legitimate worry.
"
Napa County passed without incident. Dark fell with intermittent precipitation as I hit Sebastopol, west of Santa Rosa. Intent on managing the elements, I'd lost all sense of location. The familiar greenish sign denoting that I'd striking Highway 1 appeared as a surprise. Moisture eucalyptus and salty air suddenly filled my lungs. I puttered due north on the empty highway at 45 mph, the Guzzi doing its fiddling burble-purr matter, having seemingly forgiven me for the day's before unceremonious jolt.
The mist spat similar a herd of camels as I rode out of Bodega Bay and toward the campground. Finally, my headlight shone on the silver sheathing where I'd bed down for the next couple of nights. My phone had no reception. I turned on the gas heat, took the opportunity to practice a bit of writing sans internet, and slept the deep sleep of the survivor.
The adjacent forenoon, I grabbed an omelette at the Tides, where my begetter and I used to fish for perch off the dock. I remember a little kid watching us. Whenever we'd reel one in, he'd telephone call out to his own male parent, "A fersh, daddy! A fersh!" "Fersh" has been part of my ain internal lexicon ever since. Only my father is 83 now. He doesn't bulldoze anymore. He forgets a lot. He doesn't remember "fersh." I'm not looking forrard to the day he forgets me.
When I embarked on this projection, anti-motorbike friends—genuinely and rightly concerned for my own well-existence—might accept causeless that I had some sort of death wish, which couldn't be further from reality. Facing parental mortality means facing ane'south own. And aging seems to speed fourth dimension with a terrifying quickness. I am doing the things I accept the wherewithal to do considering life all of a sudden seems remarkably brusque.
While my mother will grit her teeth and behave the fact that her but child is out in that location playing in traffic on two wheels, suggesting that maybe we don't talk nigh motorcycles, I can share all of this with my father. And I can share information technology with him two hours later. And two more hours after that. And he volition heed. He will take my indicate. And it volition be newly fresh if I tell him the whole matter again in some other two hours. The human devoted his life to the pursuit of knowledge, and at the end, it's all beingness stripped away. There's no sense getting bent almost information technology; it'southward just the class of things. I still sometimes go bent about it.
They say to spend your coin on experiences in lieu of the accumulation of the physical. But sometimes, even the most vibrant adventures fade. We have no guarantees, and then why not ride n to Goat Rock? Why not turn effectually and bomb southward to Bespeak Reyes for coffee? Why not ride over Mount Tamalpais and so support to Petaluma, scene of some wonderful punk rock shows; locale of so many killer fin de siecle parties? Why not experience these well-worn places anew, astride a clacking, roaring, whining affair built past some guys on the shore of a pretty lake in Italy?
Despite the fact that I grew up with trailers, I wasn't a very practiced trailer tester. I didn't carp trying to cook in it, so I tin't tell y'all about the quality of the range. I'm unable to inform you what it's similar in tow. But I slept too in information technology the 2d night as I had the commencement. In the forenoon, I lit out for Valley Ford and broke my fast at a little joint I discovered on a Subaru launch. The rains and high tide had conspired to close Route 1, sending me back the style I came.
Every bit I struggled over the tight, technical Oakville Course between the Sonoma and Napa valleys, a trio of guys on big BMW chance bikes tore past me heading the other way. I marveled at their conviction from my vulnerable petty perch. The mount road'due south drizzle-moist switchbacks tested my belief, just the bias-ply Pirellis never lost grip.
The sun finally emerged every bit I skirted the shore of Lake Berryessa, nestled in the mountains that split the Napa and Primal valleys. Grateful for dry pavement, I gave the Goose everything I had to stay ahead of a pack of guys on Batwing-faired Harley FLs. I was a novice. A neophyte. Only I knew enough to know that I was the problem, that the Guzzi had enough more than speed in it than I was capable of wringing out. The Harley guys weren't even trying. I pulled off and let the pack of Route Kings pass once I hit Winters, a twoscore-mile straight shot from home.
I painted over the scrapes on the crash bars and replaced the parts that needed replacing. My piddling moment of tension, distraction, and fright had cost me close to a thousand bucks. It took two months for my ribs to fully return to normal.
The incident too cost me a practiced month's worth of riderly confidence. But I did non give upwards. I don't accept any particular pride in that, and information technology doesn't feel similar the effect of sheer bullheadedness. It's a quieter and more than malleable course of resolve, an oddly unerring sense—no matter how shaken it gets at times—that there is value in doing this. That despite the peril, motorcycling is good for me. And for now, knowing that is reason plenty to behave on with it.
What I learned: Tension and uncertainty are the bane of the motorcyclist. But if you are confident that confidence will come, confidence will come.
Don't practice what I did: Avoid holding the bars in a death grip. The most valuable piece of advice I've heard related to this is to hold onto the grips as if they were babe birds.
Previously: Educational Feet and Rattlesnake Bar
Upwards Side by side: Acquisition anxiety via flat-track therapy!
Twelvemonth of the Goose is W Coast editor Davey G. Johnson'southward dive into the two-wheeled world. Spending a year on a Moto Guzzi V7 Stone, he'south exploring life with a bike as a new passenger, talking motorcycles and culture with figures large and small, and ultimately figuring out how riding can assist you be faster in a car.
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Source: https://www.caranddriver.com/news/a15351586/year-of-the-goose-part-3-the-graceless-art-of-crashing-in-the-rain/
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