Frenchy750
Well-known member
- Joined
- Oct 30, 2006
- Messages
- 128
- Reaction score
- 6
Been a long time, both for writing and for riding, and to be honest, I'm not sure the reason. Since Rushing to Houston, I have ridden Rain Cloud Follows, my trusty Yamaha FJR motorcycle exactly zero miles. Maybe I needed a break, or, more frightening to contemplate, it could be possible I've come to the end of another hobby, like my brief stint as a competitive yodeler or that time I took up interpretive dance.
One thing is certain, I need to find out for sure, and there's no time like the present. With a burst of enthusiasm the previous evening, I set the alarm for Stupid Early, barely sleeping a wink. Sleeping Beauty is up with me before the alarm, concern evident in her eyes even in the pre-dawn gloom. As I climb aboard my ride, my new fiancée leans in close and says, "Be careful, ride safe."
"Good idea," I reply.
Trying to look cool, I go to thumb the starter and beep the horn instead.
Not a good sign. Has it really been that long?
When I finally find the start button, Rain Cloud Follows hesitates. Cherr-rurr-rurr-ruuuu-uurrrrrr - coughing and sputtering, mocking my neglect. I know the bike will start, once the point has been made. After a few more stabs at the starter, my old friend comes back to life.
Tentatively, I twist the throttle, and start rolling down the driveway. Here goes nothing! I make a wide, sloppy turn onto the street. Uh-oh. Riding a motorcycle is just like riding a bike, right? It'll come back... or, at least that's what I try and convince myself. Until it does, I'll admit I'm a bit rusty, and more than a bit nervous. After that first turn, my adrenalin pump kicks in, the old electric mixture of excitement and mild fear trickling through my veins once again.
My second turn is better, though before I have a chance to make a third, I am stopped dead in my tracks. The California Dept of Traffic Jams and General Cluster****ery is hard at work this early morning. The highway is closed and every early morning commuter is stuck on the surface roads, all jockeying for position. I'm nearly crushed by an enormous dump truck, then a stupid looking Scion takes a shot at the empty space immediately in front of me. As the oblivious driver tries to squash me, I can't help but think how her vehicle looks like the designers took an old shoebox, punched out a windshield and handed it to the Scion engineers with a shrug. I sputter through the impromptu logjam until I can safely squirt onto the highway, where I almost immediately run over a giant chunk of road debris; the sudden, unexpected jolt briefly makes me airborne.
Five minutes, and I've almost been killed four times. Why am I doing this again?
I've forgotten the feeling, the rush of the wind, the scent of the road; how sensitive to the temperature I am on this two wheeled vehicle, feeling every single degree change. Maybe that's why I'm doing this. To remember.
I turn off the highway onto Little Tujunga Canyon road, a windy little squiggle of a road who's real purpose is a mystery to me. Tentatively, I lean into the first curve. At first I'm using too much brake, picking the wrong entry points, missing the line. In a word, I am riding like ****. After a few harrowing minutes, I settle down and it slowly starts coming back to me. Yes, it is just like riding a bike. The sun starts to dapple the road. At some point on my fear-filled highway blast, the morning broke. I was too busy trying to stay shiny side up to notice the sunrise.
Sunrise on Little T
Slowly, the rust shakes off, and soon that involuntary smile is back. I hear a loud, awful noise in my helmet, confirming everything is OK.
I am singing.
From 'Little T', I snake my way over to Route 129, which leads me to Ojai (pronounced like Ohio - without the last O.) and the main attraction of my day - Route 33. I pull in for breakfast, and am immediately swarmed by a bike gang. Ten racing bikes with ten riders in full race leathers pull in and surround me. The smell of burning race gas fills my helmet. These guys are serious.
Rain Cloud Follows and Friends
"Been up the hill yet?" one young race pilot asks, pointing at the goodness that is Route 33. I think to myself that before this morning, I was starting to wonder if maybe I was over the hill, but right now, on my way to getting my belly stretched full of pancakes and with miles of early morning excellence ahead, I just feel good.
Why did I ever stop doing this?
I slink out of the restaurant before the racers finish their meal. I know they'll catch and pass me soon, but I don't care.
Separated at Birth?
At a nearby fuel stop, another FJR, Rain Cloud's exact twin pulls up next to me. After a conversation made awkward by helmets and earplugs, I understand one thing the passenger says to me, "We don't ride on weekends, too many idiots out killing themselves." With a wave we part, both of us intent on staying ahead of the racer/idiots.
Spanish Broom
In Full Bloom
Along the roadside the Spanish Broom is in full bloom, scenting the air with heady perfume. The curves sweep deep, and with renewed confidence, I dip into each and every one with a ever-broadening smile.
Highway to Heaven
I stop to check out a severely wrecked guardrail. A guy in a pickup truck that also stopped to survey the damage says he heard a motorcycle did this last weekend. I find it hard to believe anything on two wheels could do this much damage unless the motorcycle was doing 300 MPH.
Wrecked Rail
Weaving and winding through an endless succession of perfect curves, Rain Cloud Follows and I perform an impressive interpretive dance the entire length of Route 33. The racers never catch me, which for some reason feels like a small victory.
Onward!
One thing has become perfectly clear. Motorcycling is more than a hobby; it is me, it's what I do. With a loud, competitive yodel echoing in my helmet, I set my course for home, with renewed dreams of far-off rides and destinations swirling in my head.
The Road That Never Ends
One thing is certain, I need to find out for sure, and there's no time like the present. With a burst of enthusiasm the previous evening, I set the alarm for Stupid Early, barely sleeping a wink. Sleeping Beauty is up with me before the alarm, concern evident in her eyes even in the pre-dawn gloom. As I climb aboard my ride, my new fiancée leans in close and says, "Be careful, ride safe."
"Good idea," I reply.
Trying to look cool, I go to thumb the starter and beep the horn instead.
Not a good sign. Has it really been that long?
When I finally find the start button, Rain Cloud Follows hesitates. Cherr-rurr-rurr-ruuuu-uurrrrrr - coughing and sputtering, mocking my neglect. I know the bike will start, once the point has been made. After a few more stabs at the starter, my old friend comes back to life.
Tentatively, I twist the throttle, and start rolling down the driveway. Here goes nothing! I make a wide, sloppy turn onto the street. Uh-oh. Riding a motorcycle is just like riding a bike, right? It'll come back... or, at least that's what I try and convince myself. Until it does, I'll admit I'm a bit rusty, and more than a bit nervous. After that first turn, my adrenalin pump kicks in, the old electric mixture of excitement and mild fear trickling through my veins once again.
My second turn is better, though before I have a chance to make a third, I am stopped dead in my tracks. The California Dept of Traffic Jams and General Cluster****ery is hard at work this early morning. The highway is closed and every early morning commuter is stuck on the surface roads, all jockeying for position. I'm nearly crushed by an enormous dump truck, then a stupid looking Scion takes a shot at the empty space immediately in front of me. As the oblivious driver tries to squash me, I can't help but think how her vehicle looks like the designers took an old shoebox, punched out a windshield and handed it to the Scion engineers with a shrug. I sputter through the impromptu logjam until I can safely squirt onto the highway, where I almost immediately run over a giant chunk of road debris; the sudden, unexpected jolt briefly makes me airborne.
Five minutes, and I've almost been killed four times. Why am I doing this again?
I've forgotten the feeling, the rush of the wind, the scent of the road; how sensitive to the temperature I am on this two wheeled vehicle, feeling every single degree change. Maybe that's why I'm doing this. To remember.
I turn off the highway onto Little Tujunga Canyon road, a windy little squiggle of a road who's real purpose is a mystery to me. Tentatively, I lean into the first curve. At first I'm using too much brake, picking the wrong entry points, missing the line. In a word, I am riding like ****. After a few harrowing minutes, I settle down and it slowly starts coming back to me. Yes, it is just like riding a bike. The sun starts to dapple the road. At some point on my fear-filled highway blast, the morning broke. I was too busy trying to stay shiny side up to notice the sunrise.
Sunrise on Little T
Slowly, the rust shakes off, and soon that involuntary smile is back. I hear a loud, awful noise in my helmet, confirming everything is OK.
I am singing.
From 'Little T', I snake my way over to Route 129, which leads me to Ojai (pronounced like Ohio - without the last O.) and the main attraction of my day - Route 33. I pull in for breakfast, and am immediately swarmed by a bike gang. Ten racing bikes with ten riders in full race leathers pull in and surround me. The smell of burning race gas fills my helmet. These guys are serious.
Rain Cloud Follows and Friends
"Been up the hill yet?" one young race pilot asks, pointing at the goodness that is Route 33. I think to myself that before this morning, I was starting to wonder if maybe I was over the hill, but right now, on my way to getting my belly stretched full of pancakes and with miles of early morning excellence ahead, I just feel good.
Why did I ever stop doing this?
I slink out of the restaurant before the racers finish their meal. I know they'll catch and pass me soon, but I don't care.
Separated at Birth?
At a nearby fuel stop, another FJR, Rain Cloud's exact twin pulls up next to me. After a conversation made awkward by helmets and earplugs, I understand one thing the passenger says to me, "We don't ride on weekends, too many idiots out killing themselves." With a wave we part, both of us intent on staying ahead of the racer/idiots.
Spanish Broom
In Full Bloom
Along the roadside the Spanish Broom is in full bloom, scenting the air with heady perfume. The curves sweep deep, and with renewed confidence, I dip into each and every one with a ever-broadening smile.
Highway to Heaven
I stop to check out a severely wrecked guardrail. A guy in a pickup truck that also stopped to survey the damage says he heard a motorcycle did this last weekend. I find it hard to believe anything on two wheels could do this much damage unless the motorcycle was doing 300 MPH.
Wrecked Rail
Weaving and winding through an endless succession of perfect curves, Rain Cloud Follows and I perform an impressive interpretive dance the entire length of Route 33. The racers never catch me, which for some reason feels like a small victory.
Onward!
One thing has become perfectly clear. Motorcycling is more than a hobby; it is me, it's what I do. With a loud, competitive yodel echoing in my helmet, I set my course for home, with renewed dreams of far-off rides and destinations swirling in my head.
The Road That Never Ends
