On my tombstone they will carve, “It never got fast enough for me.” Hunter S. Thompson
Don’t you find that the only way something gets your attention is if it malfunctions, or goes wrong in some way or other? Of course, it is impossible for things to be terrific all the time. Why do I bring this up now and what does it have to do with Flaming Lips, my motorcycle?
I’m so glad you asked and I am going to tell you. Now, if this was just going to be a story about a part that needed to be replaced on the bike, I’d be the first to tell you to find something else to do right now.
Every single time I get on my bike, I am a knight of the road, seeing and feeling with ungodly, two-wheel intensity. In Zen, you often bump into this idea that words of explanation don’t exist, especially for those things you really want to know. I suppose you could say all art is an effort to convey meaning, where there isn’t any, beyond what each person meets it with, because that’s the vocabulary of art.
Experience doesn’t have an easy parlance either, because the language is internal and no one else can hear it. That is how I feel when I ride. I just go inside on my custom, soul transport. I don’t particularly care to write about it with any frequency, because there’s something intensely private about it and shining too much light can spoil the view.
There can be some theatrics associated with the bike persona. I am willing to bet serious money that a lot of guys, who ride, always look in the mirror at some point, while getting into the uniform of the urban, cave dweller. I like the Neanderthal look myself.
The bike is on my mind way more than usual, because of an electrical issue and if it is resolved before I post, I’ll let you know. Frankly, I didn’t want to wait until I found out if the smart fix worked, primarily because it really doesn’t change my story about how much riding has added to the emotional and spiritual palette of my life colors.
Even if I could, I would never want to be the one to think he could write the definitive dictionary of all the experiences possible on these machines, a gliding pastiche of gravity defying, mental acrobatics.
My bucket list, road trip in 2015, found my ass on a dinosaur-like, Harley Street Glide, at least 350 lbs. heavier than my ever demure and svelte Flaming Lips.
Man, before I had a chance to adjust to this wild behemoth, I was on an eight lane highway, leaving San Francisco, in the middle of their rush-hour crush. I went from the trauma of rolling along at a death defying 80 mph to the sudden, stuttering of traffic choking itself to an extended stop. It was a tough baptism. The end of this first day, found me twisting and turning on a winding mountain road, feeling really cold in the blackness of the night forest. A huge RV trundled up the road right in front of me and I was nervous as a heart attack.
I wish I could write about that two-week trip right now, but neither of us have the time. I only bring it up, because it was really one of the most unbelievable things I have ever done. It’s funny, I can connect with so many of the feelings from that time. To be on a bike is to be present, no matter how any rider wants to paint it for himself.
Oh my, what I got to experience back then! Honestly, I never stop to think what a big deal it was for me. I was celebrating 70 years of life, by taking a first-of-its-kind, solo ride through northern California, up into Oregon and then down along the coast, back to SanFrancisco. My only experience before this 2,000 mile odyssey was riding my nimble Honda around this almost circle of heaven, going by the name of Kauai.
Like all experiences, they become part of your empiric DNA, circles on your very own tree of life. Right now, my mind is back on the road, fighting the breath-sucking turns on Hwy. 1, or shitting in my pants, because a gargantuan truck, with a huge trailer load of amputated tree carcasses, is chewing up the road right behind me.
I know I have mentioned it before, but I would never post a story I have written in one sitting. I really like the idea of hanging out with what I am trying to say for a day or two. Assuming I am doing this to be read, the least I could do is spend some trying to make it worth your time.
True to my word, I have news about Flaming Lips and it could be better. I will not be riding on Sunday, my seriously constipated ritual with a history nearly as long as my 19 years here. Turns out, she needs a new rectifier, after replacing the stator first, just days ago. I know, I know, you’re thinking that’s a lot to deal with, but I am going to make it through this, I promise.
Routines are meant to be kind of numbing and when they are suddenly disrupted, we get a chance to see ourselves, these mindless patterns seizing up, revealing us to our own selves.
I have enjoyed filling some of the space with memories and stories of my motorcycle affair. Thanks for coming along for the ride.