From: pooder@rchland.vnet.ibm.com (Don Fearn)
Subject: Motorcycling ecstacy
Date: Fri, 14 Aug 1992 21:24:09 GMT
Reply-To: Pooder@vnet.ibm.com, but I can't receive e-mail, so forget it. 
Disclaimer: This posting represents the poster's views, not necessarily those of IBM
Organization: IBM Rochester




Most experiences of ecstacy I have had have been from motorcycle rides.
There is something about being in harmony with the motion and the
fluidity that brings this about.  Others find this feeling in other 
ways; mountain climbing, drugs, sailing, skiing, music.  What does
it most for me is motorcycling.
___

July, 1982.  I'm starting to feel comfortable on the KZ440 I got a while
ago.  I'm on my way to a nearby town to play my trumpet in the 1940's 
big band I'm in.  The river route is much more scenic, so I go quite a 
ways out of my way to take it.  As I travel south, I meet a cold front,
with rain, heading north.  "I'm ready for this," I say to myself, and 
stop and put on rain gear.  But I've never ridden in rain before and I 
don't know first-hand what the wet roads do to handling.  I'm shaking in 
fear as I set out again.  The rain is heavy and steady until I reach 
the town where the band is playing.  As I pull up beside the bandshell 
the sun is coming out.  The relief must be apparent on my face, as
another trumpeter says, "A little rough on the cycle, huh?"  I go onto
the stage and as I play my horn, everything clicks.

That evening as I rode back home on *dry* pavement I realized I had 
just played some of the best solos of my trumpeting career. 
___

April, 1988.  Gretchen is nearly new and we are on our first long ride
together circumnavigating Lake Superior.  Along the north shore I have 
been stopping at parks beside the lake and hiking up the paths along the
flumes that roar into the tranquility below.  After a day of riding,  
hiking, riding, hiking, and riding again, we stop at Judge C. R. Magney 
State Park to camp. 

Towards dusk, I hike up along the river to some waterfalls.  Below the 
falls, a point of land that juts out into the river is nearly obscured by
the spray.  I walk out onto the point and turn with my back to the 
setting sun.  In front of me is a round rainbow with the shadow of my
head as the center.  Like a halo.  Drawing on my immense vocabulary :-) 
I utter, "Oh!" and stand there with my mouth open and water running
through my hair and beard.  I am transfixed. 

After some time I realize that the aching in my belly is hunger and I 
turn, regretfully, to leave.  After that much hiking in boots better 
suited to gardening, my left heel is sore and I limp as I walk.  About 
halfway up the trail there's a couple walking toward the place I have 
just left.  I limp up to them and gasp, "You . . . you have to . . . you
*have* to see it.  The sun . . . waterfall . . . rainbow.  It's . . . it's
 . . WOW!"  They are sure my mind is gone and the stories they have heard
of crazy people in these woods are true.  They reply; patronizing me, "Oh, 
sure.  Well, OK, we'll be sure to look.  ("There, there," they're saying
under their breaths, "You're OK, just don't hurt us.")  

That night, all the worries I wanted to leave behind were gone from my
memory and my sleep was finally sound.
___

May, 1991.  Gretchen and I are old friends by now, comfortable and as one
while we ride out of Sheridan, Wyoming.  The dawn has brought more rain
and instead of 50's of the day before, the air is in the low 40's.  As we 
ride up the mountainside the temperature drops and the fog thickens. 
This is the third day of the trip, so my spirits are already low, and my 
mind is filled with thoughts like, "I'm not going to make it.  I better 
go back."  The trees are gone now, and so is the road, and . . . .  

As we somehow negotiate another curve, the road levels and we punch
through the fog.  On the far side is the sky.  Sky that matches the deep
blue of Gretchen's tank.  And sun.  And trees and a lake.  And the road;  
I see a black ribbon of swithcbacks snaking down the other side of the
mountain.  I have to stop; I'm in no state to ride.  After a rest to 
stop shaking and get control of myself we set out down the other side. 
"I am *alive*," I yell to no one in particular.  "I feel.  I am a full 
member of the human race!"  

The waffles at the Perkins in the next town were the best I have ever 
tasted.

-- 

   Pooder  -  Rochester, MN     DoD# 0591 - LotN (Loser of the Number) 
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  "What do *you* care what other people think?" -- Richard Feynman 
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   I share garage space with:   Gretchen - '86 K75   Harvey - '72 CB500  
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