camera56
Well-known member
Going There. Those words go together nicely. You get on a motorcycle and you Go There. So why is it that all I think about is the going part?
I can't speak for everyone who rides long distances, but my sense is that for the true Long Distance Rider, the going is more important than the there. There is the place you turn around and head home from. There is the place you finally turn off the motor and sleep. There is a waypoint on the GPS. There is incidental to the fine art of going. In this case, the going only appears to be the means, and the there only appears to be the end. It's actually the other way around. Going is the whole point. It's the means and the end. At least that's how it works out for me.
Some years ago, when spending five hours chasing a little ball around a golf course still seemed like a good idea, I had the opportunity to play a round at Pebble Beach, the Valhalla of American golf (this is about motorcycle riding, so save your protestations). It's a stunning track laid out along the headlands near Monterey.
The signature hole is arguably the 8th which plays with the Pacific Ocean along the entire right side. The approach shot is a blind up-hill to a landing area that unfolds one of the most spectacular views you'll ever care to see. I remember standing next to my ball thinking, "What am I supposed to do? Hit the ball or gawk at the scenery?" Given the price of admission, I did the first, hitting the finest golf shot of my life and just missing the put for birdie. By rights the Gods' should have struck me down for not lingering over the view. Two-putting for par hardly seemed like penance enough.
I've thought about that moment may times since. Hit the ball or notice the view? Later, when inhaling long distances on my motorcycle became my diversion of choice, I revisited the same dilemma. It happened first on a spring ride somewhere on the road between Fallon and Walker Lake in Nevada. I was head down with the big FJR in full gallop. The road was clear, the day was fine, and I was in the mood for speed.
It came to me not with the force of revelation. It was more like an epiphany lightly clearing its throat. "Ahem. Notice anything? Like the heart-achingly beautiful scenery? No? Think you might want to take a look?"
I remember backing off the throttle and sitting up. "Whoa. Where did this come from?"
For the next hour or so I played this one back and forth like it was a zen koan: "You're in a place of unlimited beauty and unlimited speeds. What do you do? Go slow for the scenery or go fast for the thrill? Is it about the going, or the there?"
For those of you who are groaning at the obviousness of the answer, I humbly submit you're either far more evolved than I, or seriously kidding yourself. Perfect road and perfect scenery? You could stop every ten feet and take it in, but in doing so, you would upset the rhythm and flow of exquisitely linked turns and the uninterrupted stillness of arrowing down an endless straight from, through, and to an endless vista.
Perhaps the right answer is there isn't a right answer. Either is fine and be happy with your choice. The last and dumbest thing is to do the one and kick yourself the entire time for not doing the other. Or kick yourself after or at all.
This self-inflicted tangle came to view yet again last week: When faced with a free day and fine weather, I couldn't figure out where to ride. The puzzle came down to this: I had to be home (there) by a certain time which put the ride I wanted to do (going) out of reach. Everything else I could come up with seemed deficient for one simple reason: The ride wasn't hard enough.
The attraction of my first choice ride, a route called the Four Pass ride through the Cascades, is hard in two dimensions: Big stretches of the road are tight and technical; it's also well over 400 miles which, while not epic, is long enough to get your attention. Other rides I had in mind either didn't seem long enough or technical enough or both/neither.
The question, and the one I finally put to myself was this: "Why does it have to be hard to be worth doing?" In coming to the answer, recall the context: I'm wired for the going, not the there; I like the feeling of riding (vs. sitting on top of the bike while it goes down the slab). So the idea of taking an easy, or relatively less-hard ride where the there was the point, was not an immediately obvious alternative. But it's the one I finally took.
The ride from Seattle out to Leavenworth is pleasant and scenic. I've done it so many times that I've stopped noticing all there is to see, smell, hear and feel along the way. It hasn't gotten less fetching over the past couple of years. It's me that changed. So that was to be my new sense of going. Rather than tasking myself to ride with technical precision, I challenged myself to simply notice. Notice everything. Notice myself along the way: my hands, feet, back, arms, legs, neck, and back. What were they saying? How did they feel. Just notice. Notice everything around me: The sounds of the traffic, the slight differences in temperature, the big differences in temperature, the scents and smells, the shades of green, the color of the mountain fed river . . .
What a different ride it was. I remember almost nothing about the road and almost everything about the day. What was even more revealing was the precision of my riding. Crisp turn-ins, perfect apexes, and precise exit points: I never put a wrong foot the entire time. In the process of paying so much attention to the entire constellation of the day, picking good lines became an effortless point to point activity.
Midway through the ride I decided to stop at a local fruit stand for some lunch. Usually when I do this ride I stop long enough for gas and a Cliff bar and I'm off. This time I pulled off my gear, bought some food, and took out my nearly finished copy of Travels with Charlie by John Steinbeck. The priest of going was finally going to linger there for a time, watching the world stop in or go by, and read a book.
I didn't stay forever. At some point I geared up and made the return ride across the Blewit Pass to Highway 90 and then over the Cascades for home. In the process, I didn't shrink to three feet tall and turn green like Yoda. It was a small set of connected gestures, not a life changing event (at least not that I can tell), but those small gestures took hold. Today, faced with the same set of choices, I rode to a favorite pub not far from here, parked my bike, and ordered fish and chips. I've never understood why anyone would do such a thing given the alternative of apex clipping and back road silliness, but today I got it.
I've got a 2500 mile ride laid on with best riding pal Ron in a couple of weeks and I can assure you, we will be all about the going. But it's good to know that it can also be about the there.
I can't speak for everyone who rides long distances, but my sense is that for the true Long Distance Rider, the going is more important than the there. There is the place you turn around and head home from. There is the place you finally turn off the motor and sleep. There is a waypoint on the GPS. There is incidental to the fine art of going. In this case, the going only appears to be the means, and the there only appears to be the end. It's actually the other way around. Going is the whole point. It's the means and the end. At least that's how it works out for me.
Some years ago, when spending five hours chasing a little ball around a golf course still seemed like a good idea, I had the opportunity to play a round at Pebble Beach, the Valhalla of American golf (this is about motorcycle riding, so save your protestations). It's a stunning track laid out along the headlands near Monterey.
The signature hole is arguably the 8th which plays with the Pacific Ocean along the entire right side. The approach shot is a blind up-hill to a landing area that unfolds one of the most spectacular views you'll ever care to see. I remember standing next to my ball thinking, "What am I supposed to do? Hit the ball or gawk at the scenery?" Given the price of admission, I did the first, hitting the finest golf shot of my life and just missing the put for birdie. By rights the Gods' should have struck me down for not lingering over the view. Two-putting for par hardly seemed like penance enough.
I've thought about that moment may times since. Hit the ball or notice the view? Later, when inhaling long distances on my motorcycle became my diversion of choice, I revisited the same dilemma. It happened first on a spring ride somewhere on the road between Fallon and Walker Lake in Nevada. I was head down with the big FJR in full gallop. The road was clear, the day was fine, and I was in the mood for speed.
It came to me not with the force of revelation. It was more like an epiphany lightly clearing its throat. "Ahem. Notice anything? Like the heart-achingly beautiful scenery? No? Think you might want to take a look?"
I remember backing off the throttle and sitting up. "Whoa. Where did this come from?"
For the next hour or so I played this one back and forth like it was a zen koan: "You're in a place of unlimited beauty and unlimited speeds. What do you do? Go slow for the scenery or go fast for the thrill? Is it about the going, or the there?"
For those of you who are groaning at the obviousness of the answer, I humbly submit you're either far more evolved than I, or seriously kidding yourself. Perfect road and perfect scenery? You could stop every ten feet and take it in, but in doing so, you would upset the rhythm and flow of exquisitely linked turns and the uninterrupted stillness of arrowing down an endless straight from, through, and to an endless vista.
Perhaps the right answer is there isn't a right answer. Either is fine and be happy with your choice. The last and dumbest thing is to do the one and kick yourself the entire time for not doing the other. Or kick yourself after or at all.
This self-inflicted tangle came to view yet again last week: When faced with a free day and fine weather, I couldn't figure out where to ride. The puzzle came down to this: I had to be home (there) by a certain time which put the ride I wanted to do (going) out of reach. Everything else I could come up with seemed deficient for one simple reason: The ride wasn't hard enough.
The attraction of my first choice ride, a route called the Four Pass ride through the Cascades, is hard in two dimensions: Big stretches of the road are tight and technical; it's also well over 400 miles which, while not epic, is long enough to get your attention. Other rides I had in mind either didn't seem long enough or technical enough or both/neither.
The question, and the one I finally put to myself was this: "Why does it have to be hard to be worth doing?" In coming to the answer, recall the context: I'm wired for the going, not the there; I like the feeling of riding (vs. sitting on top of the bike while it goes down the slab). So the idea of taking an easy, or relatively less-hard ride where the there was the point, was not an immediately obvious alternative. But it's the one I finally took.
The ride from Seattle out to Leavenworth is pleasant and scenic. I've done it so many times that I've stopped noticing all there is to see, smell, hear and feel along the way. It hasn't gotten less fetching over the past couple of years. It's me that changed. So that was to be my new sense of going. Rather than tasking myself to ride with technical precision, I challenged myself to simply notice. Notice everything. Notice myself along the way: my hands, feet, back, arms, legs, neck, and back. What were they saying? How did they feel. Just notice. Notice everything around me: The sounds of the traffic, the slight differences in temperature, the big differences in temperature, the scents and smells, the shades of green, the color of the mountain fed river . . .
What a different ride it was. I remember almost nothing about the road and almost everything about the day. What was even more revealing was the precision of my riding. Crisp turn-ins, perfect apexes, and precise exit points: I never put a wrong foot the entire time. In the process of paying so much attention to the entire constellation of the day, picking good lines became an effortless point to point activity.
Midway through the ride I decided to stop at a local fruit stand for some lunch. Usually when I do this ride I stop long enough for gas and a Cliff bar and I'm off. This time I pulled off my gear, bought some food, and took out my nearly finished copy of Travels with Charlie by John Steinbeck. The priest of going was finally going to linger there for a time, watching the world stop in or go by, and read a book.
I didn't stay forever. At some point I geared up and made the return ride across the Blewit Pass to Highway 90 and then over the Cascades for home. In the process, I didn't shrink to three feet tall and turn green like Yoda. It was a small set of connected gestures, not a life changing event (at least not that I can tell), but those small gestures took hold. Today, faced with the same set of choices, I rode to a favorite pub not far from here, parked my bike, and ordered fish and chips. I've never understood why anyone would do such a thing given the alternative of apex clipping and back road silliness, but today I got it.
I've got a 2500 mile ride laid on with best riding pal Ron in a couple of weeks and I can assure you, we will be all about the going. But it's good to know that it can also be about the there.
