From: chrisp@amadeus.wr.tek.com (Chris Perez)
Newsgroups: rec.motorcycles
Subject: Run to JigglesII - another view
Date: 16 Apr 92 19:52:47 GMT
Organization: Tektronix, Inc., Beaverton,  OR.

After the Great Crash of '84, I've been a much more careful, slower rider.
Playing God with one's body at 80pmh proved to be falsehood as I slid my
mint '78 RD400E under the rear axel of an oncoming 3/4 ton.  Damage to him;
$1500.  Damage to me; $15000 and four months of employment lost.  I cried
at the loss of a wonderful conveyor of joy and merth.  Never again would
I chase a 900Super Sport without knowing my own limits and the limits of
my steed.

Seven years later, I layed my wife to rest and lost myself to grief in so
doing.  Where was the passion of life?  Some things hurt more than the Great
Crash.  Where to begin?  What to rebuild?  What to build anew?  Ah, wretched
life!

Italian Opera for me took on new meaning.  The great tenors and lilting
bird-like voices of this century found an open and willing place in my heart.
The scented ruddy wines of Northern Italy flavored meals in new ways.  Glorious
Ducati sound returned to memory after seven years of slumbering in the moldy
recesses of my mind.  Something to ponder later, perhaps.  Latin countries
and passion.  I had been missing a great many things.

As if by a siren's call, a few Ducatis found new homes within my garage.  Was
this passion?  Was this life?  In the cold, hard metal forms before me it
was hard to believe.  Surely it was easy to taste in the wines.  And easy to
hear in the music.  But of what casks are Ducatis poured?  Did it matter?
Was I making too much of all this by viewing the world through rose tinted
glasses?

Regaling newfound friends of the DoD with dinner, wine and micro-brew seemed
a passionate thing to do.  Everyone from Dave on his gorgous HOG to Bill on
his barely broken-in GP/PD, to Tim with his lovely wife riding two-up on an
ancient, wonderful JPNorton added to the event.  Breakfast the next morning
proved that 26 motorcyclists doth not a rabble, hate-ridden gang make.
Quite the contrary.

The beginnings of a good time. Indeed.  More than 20 of us headed out of
town on a beautiful clear morning.  What a good place to rediscover the joys
of time well spent in the comany of persons of like sport.  Looking in my
rearview mirror, there sat a happy hord.  Banners flying, pillions smiling, and
hills ringing with glorious sound.

The first curves are inviting.  The traffic an annoyance.  With a twist of
the right grip, I bend around the first few cars.  The hord follows.  Good.
Then comes a real slow moving land-barge.  On the throttle again.  This time
I carry good speed into a sharp 35mph left.  Smooth.  Ever so smooth, I
heal my Ducati way over.  Stability.  Time to think.  Time to observe the
motion and to plan the next.  Magic.

A few corners in rapid succession and the hord no longer appears in my
mirror.  They'll catch up.  Thinking back to rides on my friend's 900SS,
my little 500cc mount holds up very well.  Every bit as stable.  Every bit
as fun.  And on a day made glorious by the brightness of sun, the multitude
of curves, and the promise of unseen country, I begin to feel alive.

I'd been searching for a way to rebuild my life.  But I was unsure of what
the bedrock would be.  To build upon a life of experiencing things from a
motorcycle caused some of my wife's friends to shiver at the risk.  And
they couldn't understand when they were told that this life was mine
and they had their own life to fret and worry over.  I pondered how lives can
become so intertwined.  I rested upon the fact that if I didn't live the
way I felt, bitterness and paucity of experience would set in.  I couldn't
live that way just to please the interested entities.  They'd just have
to get over it.

Eventually, I pull over and wait.  Only three bikes show up in the next 10
minutes.  Someone says they think the rest of the group took a different
road and headed for the coast earlier than expected.  I fire up the Duke
and am asked to lead again.  OK.

I'm interested in researching the upper limits, to define my boundaries, and
to show the three others a good time.  Ed honks and waves at the fields of
sheep as they scatter before the resounding blast from my Duke.  Phil plays
Rock n Roll loud from his Brown Turd.  Jim "gets some air" off a rise in the
road in an attempt to keep with the pace.  I lead them around seemingly
stationary Gold Wings heading in a similar direction.  The traffic seems
planted in another time.  In another space.  Our place is with the fresh air,
green hills and twisting roads.

Bending the scenery feels wonderful.  Rides to Daytona Beach in 3.25 days.
Blasts up the Ortega Hwy at 135mph.  High speed runs into Death Valley.
These memories sometimes fight to occupy my mind.

I rapidly approach a very slow corner.  It's marked 30mph.  At well over
100mph, the sign is but a shakey blur.  On the binders, poping up out of
the protective shield that is the fairing, and into the hard, turbulent
air, I haul the Duke down to 70mph.  Heal over.  A little more.  And still
a little more.  Stable.  Time to think.  Time to experience.  Time to live.

That corner probably could have been taken at 85mph.  Easy.  But I've never
been on this road.  And, besides, there's no reason to really rush.  There's
plenty to enjoy on our run to JigglesII.  This was one of the best rides of
my life.  Wringing the sponge of life dry.  On a day made for riding.

Good bedrock, I'd say.  I'm hoping to dip that sponge in the well of life
again soon.

 =====\\ ||    || //======  //====\\ ========  || Christopher Perez, owner
      || ||    || ||        ||    ||    ||     || Groucho's Desmodrome -
      || ||    || ||        ||====||    ||     || chrisp@amadeus.WR.TEK.COM
      || ||    || ||        ||    ||    ||     || <- 500SL Pantah, (2) 860GT 
 =====// \\====// \\======  ||    ||    ||     || VroommbbBOOOOOOOMMMM (he he)
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