A Left Leaning Ride Report.
**WARNING** This is a different kind of ride report and not everyone's cup o' tea. No pictures and more introspective than many would like. So an Old Michael gem of a ride report it is not. I’m warning you so you can save your two minutes of life before wasting it reading this.
For various reasons I have not ridden a motorcycle since September 16, 2010. I hadn’t gone more than a week or ten days without riding in years. By Christmas I decided my New Year resolution was to get on the bike again. But I just fiddled and found excuses not to. Then in early January I had a serious posterior dislocation of my left shoulder which set my riding plans back a bit. Luckily my orthopedist is a motorcyclist of 40 years and understood it when I told him later I had to ride 10 days after the accident. Riding was dumb, short-sighted and special.
That Sunday I decided to ride my KLR650 since it was a bit smaller and more nimble than the FJR. My biggest worry was not being able to control it and crashing with more damage done to the shoulder. Posterior dislocations are rare and not likely to re-occur, but the doc had said something about taking it easy for 2-3 months. My other worry was not being able to pick it up if I dropped the bug-eyed pig. I figured staying on pavement would minimize the former and renewing my lapsed towing insurance would help with the latter.
I was able to fire up the beast with no real problem, even after months on the battery tender. Easing the bike out of the garage went smoothly. I felt somehow uncomfortable and strange gearing up. I fumbled with gloves and buckles that normally go on without conscious thought. But I started her up, waved to the neighbors and putted down the street. First lesson – right hand turns hurt like a bitch. So I reconfigured my mental route to take advantage of some well-loved back country roads Dudewado, Beemerdons and Gregory would recognize. I formed the route to minimize hard right turns and maximize sweepers and left turns.
I was motoring along beside the Umpqua River and I found myself with unusually heightened senses. I smelled the silage from a field being prepared for Spring planting. The Osprey nesting platforms at the top of telephone poles were empty, awaiting tenants. The sprinkling of bald deciduous trees among the ubiquitous Douglasfir trees allowed more of a view to my left. The river in the late morning was a kaki brown color, swollen high with recent rains draining to the Pacific. The sky was gray with clouds but more and more blue was fighting through. The air was chill and I was glad I put my jacket liner in before leaving. I had the roads seemingly to myself. My shoulder reminded me it was there with a dull ache, but was counterbalanced with the satisfying feel of the shifter pressing against my boot on up-shifts, and the hard feel of the throttle grip through my glove.
Light spackled through the trees lighting my way through shaded back-country lanes. A squirrel couldn’t decide whether to live or die as it crossed my path, so I slowed and chose life for her. The slight lockup of the rear tire and my correct reaction to the situation calmed my residual concerns. My worries of controlling the armored thumper subsided.
After an hour the sunlight was pushing back the clouds and my spirits were getting lighter as well. My eyes were drawn to the boulders along a section of road and the lichen on them clinging for dear life. The lichen was gray-green with centers of a darker hue – I saw this somehow as I went by at 40 mph. Or I imagined it. The river had changed to a dull Galaxy Blue color with the clearing skies.
I have never done this before, but I found myself writing poetry in my head; not very good poetry, more of a haiku, but poetry nonetheless. I was enjoying being in the moment, without a care. I reached the end of Tyee road and faced the usual dilemma: right towards Green Valley and eventually home, or left towards the coast. I decided to push the throbbing shoulder a little and go to a favorite little restaurant in Elkton with good pastries. I chose the left way and quickly enjoyed the swaying two-laned tarmac of route 138.
I have ridden this section of road well over 100 times. I was engrossed in the feel of the throbbing bike while watching fishermen on the banks of the South Umpqua River trying their hand at catching a steelhead or salmon. I noticed the cars and tractors by the side of the road with FOR SALE signs on them. Grass was getting long in places. No motor homes or tourists this time of year – so the air was clean and brisk with my steady 60 mph pace maintained. The cobwebs in my mind were being blown free even as the cold was seeping into my hands and the pain was getting sharper in my shoulder. I passed the Big K dude ranch I had spent a night at with the kids; were they really only 5 or 6 then? Big K was the location two years ago where the AMA dirt bike race “The Funky Chicken” was held and my son and daughter were enthralled with the bikes flying over berms and bouncing over logs. Good times. Good memories. Were they really teenagers by then? Memories flew by with the entrance sign as I swept left and the road stole my attention.
As I said, I have traveled this road many times. It was a shock then that I got to the bridge entering Elkton. Where did the time go? The bridge is new. The pylons are decorated with reliefs of eagles and salmon designed by local high school students and rendered by the ODOT for decoration. The town is small, with a winery, a smattering of houses, a couple restaurants and a gas station selling overpriced gasoline. I stopped at the “Cash only” general store next to Tomaselli’s Pastry Mill and Café. I bought four Ibuprofen for $1.50 and walked to Tomaselli’s to warm up and get a pastry.
There was no seating available at the smaller tables, other than the communal slab table with benches inside the door. I hadn’t seen any bikes and only a few cars, so the throng surprised me. I bought a cinnamon twist to take home for the wife, and a (real) cream-filled pastry with some chocolate icing. A cup of coffee and brunch was mine. I was not up for company but had to sit opposite a man who looked a little like Old Michael. Except this gentleman was clean shaven, clear of eye and sat with a straight posture; come to think of it he was handsome in a rugged way, so I guess he wasn’t much like old Michael, except for the age.
He offered me a piece of his paper and introduced himself. We started chatting and he started telling me about his Viet Nam combat experiences, loss of marriage, losing touch with his “worthless” children and other information I really didn’t want to know. I guess I have one of those faces that encourage others to share their secrets. When the conversation turned philosophical about whether those that died young in combat were better off than those that survived, I said at least the survivors have a chance to wonder. Probably not my best moment, but I was starting to feel polluted with negativity. Then a gentleman farmer sat down beside me and joined in. He started talking about sheep, market prices, how to find a good butcher, and how it was difficult making a profit on a small ranch. I thought about Bustanut and Dolly and smiled. But it was time to move on and get my shoulder home to rest.
Outside across the street there were dozens of sparkly Harleys lined up rear-wheel to curb at precise angles like a Shriner’s convention. Some of the riders looked at my ugly beast of a bike. I thought about taking a left and thumping by them but chose the high road and turned right -- for one of the few times that day.
On the ride backtracking my route east on 138, the sun had come through strongly and the river sparkled silver in the afternoon light. A whimsical thought came up of the river looking like the sparkling underbelly of some great fish. The KLR was running without a burp and my ass after 50-60 miles was pain free.
I got to the Green Valley turnoff and impulsively took the left. It is a rolling short road through farms that lead to I-5 and an overpass bridging more country road to the Rice Hill truck stop. I started thinking of my buddy Mike who died of cancer last year, not quite 50 years old. Mike and I used to ride this route to Rice Hill for a piece of pie at a mom-and-pop coffee house, and then ride back. He would putter like an old woman on his aged Honda 100 V-Twin with stretched forks (who stretches a Honda?). I would get bored and zip ahead at ahem, quick speeds. Then I’d park and wait for him like (I later learned)Richard “Fairlaner” is wont to do. After Mike caught up we would ride together until I got the itch to zip through some sweepers again. I hadn’t ridden that route in almost three years, ever since Mike got too sick to ride. But I didn’t feel melancholy about Mike, rather another piece of my grieving felt completed. It was turning into a special ride.
As I hit I-5 for a run home to rest my screaming left shoulder. My sturdy 650 carried me past cars and felt solid on the knobbies. At Sutherlin I couldn’t resist one more detour and I got off the highway. Passing the Dairy Queen brought memories of Gregory, his buddy, and his buddy’s nephew had shared some good conversation together two summers ago. Was it really two summers ago? It seems like yesterday. It seems like yesterday I rode with Mike, too. I ran down Fort McKinley Road to Garden Valley Blvd. to head home. I went past the spot I totaled my Yamaha V-Star 1100 five years ago. I didn’t wince this time. The sun was starting to get lower in the sky, and shadows and dappled sunlight were beginning to bother the cataracts that have gotten the best of my aging eyes. I picked a circuitous route with more left turns and right sweepers. I avoided right turns to save the old shoulder, and a few minutes later I pulled into the open garage and shut off the engine.
The gear came off gingerly but without thinking this time as I listened to the cylinder ping as it cooled. After 110 miles of fun my butt didn’t hurt, which surprised me after not riding for months. My mind was calm and I had a smile that didn’t go away for the rest of the day. I paid a price of extra left shoulder pain for a couple days, but it was worth the reminder of life pleasures, fun friends and senses fully alive.
**WARNING** This is a different kind of ride report and not everyone's cup o' tea. No pictures and more introspective than many would like. So an Old Michael gem of a ride report it is not. I’m warning you so you can save your two minutes of life before wasting it reading this.
For various reasons I have not ridden a motorcycle since September 16, 2010. I hadn’t gone more than a week or ten days without riding in years. By Christmas I decided my New Year resolution was to get on the bike again. But I just fiddled and found excuses not to. Then in early January I had a serious posterior dislocation of my left shoulder which set my riding plans back a bit. Luckily my orthopedist is a motorcyclist of 40 years and understood it when I told him later I had to ride 10 days after the accident. Riding was dumb, short-sighted and special.
That Sunday I decided to ride my KLR650 since it was a bit smaller and more nimble than the FJR. My biggest worry was not being able to control it and crashing with more damage done to the shoulder. Posterior dislocations are rare and not likely to re-occur, but the doc had said something about taking it easy for 2-3 months. My other worry was not being able to pick it up if I dropped the bug-eyed pig. I figured staying on pavement would minimize the former and renewing my lapsed towing insurance would help with the latter.
I was able to fire up the beast with no real problem, even after months on the battery tender. Easing the bike out of the garage went smoothly. I felt somehow uncomfortable and strange gearing up. I fumbled with gloves and buckles that normally go on without conscious thought. But I started her up, waved to the neighbors and putted down the street. First lesson – right hand turns hurt like a bitch. So I reconfigured my mental route to take advantage of some well-loved back country roads Dudewado, Beemerdons and Gregory would recognize. I formed the route to minimize hard right turns and maximize sweepers and left turns.
I was motoring along beside the Umpqua River and I found myself with unusually heightened senses. I smelled the silage from a field being prepared for Spring planting. The Osprey nesting platforms at the top of telephone poles were empty, awaiting tenants. The sprinkling of bald deciduous trees among the ubiquitous Douglasfir trees allowed more of a view to my left. The river in the late morning was a kaki brown color, swollen high with recent rains draining to the Pacific. The sky was gray with clouds but more and more blue was fighting through. The air was chill and I was glad I put my jacket liner in before leaving. I had the roads seemingly to myself. My shoulder reminded me it was there with a dull ache, but was counterbalanced with the satisfying feel of the shifter pressing against my boot on up-shifts, and the hard feel of the throttle grip through my glove.
Light spackled through the trees lighting my way through shaded back-country lanes. A squirrel couldn’t decide whether to live or die as it crossed my path, so I slowed and chose life for her. The slight lockup of the rear tire and my correct reaction to the situation calmed my residual concerns. My worries of controlling the armored thumper subsided.
After an hour the sunlight was pushing back the clouds and my spirits were getting lighter as well. My eyes were drawn to the boulders along a section of road and the lichen on them clinging for dear life. The lichen was gray-green with centers of a darker hue – I saw this somehow as I went by at 40 mph. Or I imagined it. The river had changed to a dull Galaxy Blue color with the clearing skies.
I have never done this before, but I found myself writing poetry in my head; not very good poetry, more of a haiku, but poetry nonetheless. I was enjoying being in the moment, without a care. I reached the end of Tyee road and faced the usual dilemma: right towards Green Valley and eventually home, or left towards the coast. I decided to push the throbbing shoulder a little and go to a favorite little restaurant in Elkton with good pastries. I chose the left way and quickly enjoyed the swaying two-laned tarmac of route 138.
I have ridden this section of road well over 100 times. I was engrossed in the feel of the throbbing bike while watching fishermen on the banks of the South Umpqua River trying their hand at catching a steelhead or salmon. I noticed the cars and tractors by the side of the road with FOR SALE signs on them. Grass was getting long in places. No motor homes or tourists this time of year – so the air was clean and brisk with my steady 60 mph pace maintained. The cobwebs in my mind were being blown free even as the cold was seeping into my hands and the pain was getting sharper in my shoulder. I passed the Big K dude ranch I had spent a night at with the kids; were they really only 5 or 6 then? Big K was the location two years ago where the AMA dirt bike race “The Funky Chicken” was held and my son and daughter were enthralled with the bikes flying over berms and bouncing over logs. Good times. Good memories. Were they really teenagers by then? Memories flew by with the entrance sign as I swept left and the road stole my attention.
As I said, I have traveled this road many times. It was a shock then that I got to the bridge entering Elkton. Where did the time go? The bridge is new. The pylons are decorated with reliefs of eagles and salmon designed by local high school students and rendered by the ODOT for decoration. The town is small, with a winery, a smattering of houses, a couple restaurants and a gas station selling overpriced gasoline. I stopped at the “Cash only” general store next to Tomaselli’s Pastry Mill and Café. I bought four Ibuprofen for $1.50 and walked to Tomaselli’s to warm up and get a pastry.
There was no seating available at the smaller tables, other than the communal slab table with benches inside the door. I hadn’t seen any bikes and only a few cars, so the throng surprised me. I bought a cinnamon twist to take home for the wife, and a (real) cream-filled pastry with some chocolate icing. A cup of coffee and brunch was mine. I was not up for company but had to sit opposite a man who looked a little like Old Michael. Except this gentleman was clean shaven, clear of eye and sat with a straight posture; come to think of it he was handsome in a rugged way, so I guess he wasn’t much like old Michael, except for the age.
He offered me a piece of his paper and introduced himself. We started chatting and he started telling me about his Viet Nam combat experiences, loss of marriage, losing touch with his “worthless” children and other information I really didn’t want to know. I guess I have one of those faces that encourage others to share their secrets. When the conversation turned philosophical about whether those that died young in combat were better off than those that survived, I said at least the survivors have a chance to wonder. Probably not my best moment, but I was starting to feel polluted with negativity. Then a gentleman farmer sat down beside me and joined in. He started talking about sheep, market prices, how to find a good butcher, and how it was difficult making a profit on a small ranch. I thought about Bustanut and Dolly and smiled. But it was time to move on and get my shoulder home to rest.
Outside across the street there were dozens of sparkly Harleys lined up rear-wheel to curb at precise angles like a Shriner’s convention. Some of the riders looked at my ugly beast of a bike. I thought about taking a left and thumping by them but chose the high road and turned right -- for one of the few times that day.
On the ride backtracking my route east on 138, the sun had come through strongly and the river sparkled silver in the afternoon light. A whimsical thought came up of the river looking like the sparkling underbelly of some great fish. The KLR was running without a burp and my ass after 50-60 miles was pain free.
I got to the Green Valley turnoff and impulsively took the left. It is a rolling short road through farms that lead to I-5 and an overpass bridging more country road to the Rice Hill truck stop. I started thinking of my buddy Mike who died of cancer last year, not quite 50 years old. Mike and I used to ride this route to Rice Hill for a piece of pie at a mom-and-pop coffee house, and then ride back. He would putter like an old woman on his aged Honda 100 V-Twin with stretched forks (who stretches a Honda?). I would get bored and zip ahead at ahem, quick speeds. Then I’d park and wait for him like (I later learned)Richard “Fairlaner” is wont to do. After Mike caught up we would ride together until I got the itch to zip through some sweepers again. I hadn’t ridden that route in almost three years, ever since Mike got too sick to ride. But I didn’t feel melancholy about Mike, rather another piece of my grieving felt completed. It was turning into a special ride.
As I hit I-5 for a run home to rest my screaming left shoulder. My sturdy 650 carried me past cars and felt solid on the knobbies. At Sutherlin I couldn’t resist one more detour and I got off the highway. Passing the Dairy Queen brought memories of Gregory, his buddy, and his buddy’s nephew had shared some good conversation together two summers ago. Was it really two summers ago? It seems like yesterday. It seems like yesterday I rode with Mike, too. I ran down Fort McKinley Road to Garden Valley Blvd. to head home. I went past the spot I totaled my Yamaha V-Star 1100 five years ago. I didn’t wince this time. The sun was starting to get lower in the sky, and shadows and dappled sunlight were beginning to bother the cataracts that have gotten the best of my aging eyes. I picked a circuitous route with more left turns and right sweepers. I avoided right turns to save the old shoulder, and a few minutes later I pulled into the open garage and shut off the engine.
The gear came off gingerly but without thinking this time as I listened to the cylinder ping as it cooled. After 110 miles of fun my butt didn’t hurt, which surprised me after not riding for months. My mind was calm and I had a smile that didn’t go away for the rest of the day. I paid a price of extra left shoulder pain for a couple days, but it was worth the reminder of life pleasures, fun friends and senses fully alive.
