The Biker Life part 6

About 30 miles east of Wall I ran out of gas. Just me, my bike and the prairie. I wheeled off the road and parked the bike, facing east so that the warmth of the morning sun would hit me. We talk of the Badlands, the carvings on Mt. Rushmore, trips to Sturgis but words cannot describe the Badlands. Much like trying to explain what it means to ride is what it is like trying to describe the Badlands. The year I rode through was a locust year, these bugs were larger than my thumb and at night were flying about everywhere. I can see how other cultures use them for a protein source. I was hungry but not enough to cross that 1st world bias. I did sleep some and woke as the sun rose over the buttes. The colors effused through the rock was as if a giant box of Crayolas had been melted across the strata. Colors I had never imagined to exist, blending and swirling in a finger painting of the gods. This was the crowning moment of awareness that there was something bigger, more complex, more in tune… nature, God, the ether, Chi it was all here consuming and giving forth, and there it was: the most spiritual moment in my life and I was out of gas – living the Biker Life.

See you further on up the road...

The Biker Life part 5

One problem with mounting a bike and heading east, especially before electronic payments and phones is that there really needs to be some planning. I entered the Badlands as the sun was setting and in my youth just assumed that there would be gas stations along the way. For cagers this is often not a problem but when you only average 100 miles to the tank you need to plan things more carefully. Needless to say I did not. I passed by town and crossroads and watched my gas gauge steadily drop. Every station I came across and there were not many, was closed for the evening. I took to the old strategy of stopping and draining anything that was still left in the hoses. That was a common occurrence back then, before the emissions and evaporation controls were put into place. But it was a means of survival. I rode through Wall, South Dakota and not a station was open. I pondered parking my bike and spending the night until a station opened and weighed the risk of foraging the distance to the next town and possibly an open station. I was impetuous and young so I aimed the forks east and experienced the Badlands. Throwing caution to the wind - this is the Biker Life.

See you further on up the road...

The Biker Life part 4

The best thing about riding without a map is the discovery of places, roads, people and experiences. Somewhere in Wyoming I was traveling along a two lane highway cut into the mountain. The north side went up a rock cliff the south side dropped hundreds of feet down. It was a beautiful sunshine day cruising along the curves no other traffic except for a moose. It is refreshing and yet interesting to be on a road where for an hour or so there is no other traffic one way or the other. We think about how complex and populated our world is and yet for stretches of miles one can be seemingly alone or at least by themselves in this universe. I came about a bend in the road and there standing perpendicular to the highway was a moose. A moose is a majestic creature and all creatures are even more spectacular when you encounter them in the wild. However encountering a 7 foot 1,000 pound animal while on a 200 pound motorcycle is more petrifying than spectacular. There was no way to go around it without possibly spooking the animal. The moose had me outgunned in size and I had to just wait until it decided to move on before I could travel on. It is often difficult to relate this story to others, trying to explain the majestic presence of a moose straddling the highway. We do not think of nature in these terms: we the humans on top of the food chain. We are so used to going to the market and purchasing nature in neatly packaged parcels we forget how foreboding and imposing nature can be. A car is a formidable adversary but a motorcycle is a mere curiosity to a moose. These are things we get to encounter while living the Biker Life.

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The Biker Life part 3

History books are filled with names and places and events and they fill a space within our heads like so much clutter stored in the attics of our homes. Every now and again we rifle through the boxes, albums and folders left behind by others and marvel at the moment. It is this backdrop of historical memorabilia that I arrived into Montana on what I thought was a frontage road following the interstate. Dawn was breaking and the dew was thick like fog but the heat of the summer sun was already forming steam rising from the asphalt. I was riding the ebbs and curves of the Montana hillside only to come across Little Bighorn. The last stand of Colonel Custer. What history prepares us for and what the reality is are two completely different experiences. We are given the American-centric view of a battle at close quarters but to walk through the headstones all 4 miles of them stretching out long and far upon the tapestry of rolling grasses, one can nearly feel the hoof beats reverberating through the soil, smell the cordite floating on the wind, hear the clash of metal and whoop of war cries. All that are left are the names forgotten to the history books, names that were left as a list on the battleground. This is history and this two hour excursion imprinted more than several years of schooling. As I wheeled back onto the road, aimed east, the markers signaling my departure I thought that this is how history should be taught: by experiencing it. By our experiences we live the Biker Life.

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The Biker Life part 2

My first cross country ride was much like everything else: unplanned. This was simplicity: I got my leave notice, cashed my paycheck, packed my bag with essentials and wheeled onto the road. No fanfare, no parade, no teary eyed lover calling me back, just rubber, asphalt and wind. I aimed East. It would take riding to Montana to realize the need for electrical tape on my throttle. Cruise control was still a thing of the future or for Goldwings. I discovered I could tape open my throttle and if need be could easily break the tape bond to slow down, and then simply squish it back into position once I achieved my desire speed. Youth has a way of scaring the hell out of an old man as I soon discovered I could sit back against my backpack, put my feet up in the crux of the handlebars and cruise effortlessly at 80 mph. Envision that for a moment. Driving along on the highway and along comes this kid leaning back, feet up hands free cruising by. The only sight I ever saw that would marvel that (and by the way I saw many bikers in my day do the same thing) was one time I came along a two up Goldwing with a trailer, keep in mind this was the 1980s, the driver was leaning back arms across his chest, mounted in the fairing was a television set and his passenger was leaning forward to watch the screen. It was also in Montana that I had to pull off for some sleep and discovered other bikers huddled under their exhaust and engines. I sat in my customary position on top of the bike but my blanket was cool in effect and definitely not warm in practice. So I did the same, laid the blanket on the ground, snuggled under my exhaust end engine and found an incredible warmth from the residual heat of the engine. This is the Biker Life.

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The Biker Life part 1

Many visions are conjured up when one hears the term biker: grizzled, tattooed, whiskey swilling… ok I guess I am the stereotype. But the essence of the Biker Life is more than the stereotypes. There exists within a formidable strength of culture one that is hard to describe to anyone who has not experienced it. I was waiting in an office and was staring at a highway map of the United States. I began to mentally trace a trip I took when I was 18 and on leave from the Navy. I had ridden my first major bike a 1977 Yamaha 650 Special from the naval yard just west of Seattle to Milwaukee. Staring at that map with my present presence of mind kind of gave me pause. I realize others have done this trip and much much more but reflecting back today, looking at the distance and mileage, the terrain and manmade obstacles made me stop and dissect the awesomeness of that endeavor. I loved my Yamaha, it was economically primitive in its design. There were no computerized mods, fuel injectors, digital timing, I could take it apart, rebuild it, fix it, jerry-rig it, embellish it - you name it. I had outfitted it with a high sissy bar (a nod to my Easy Rider dreaming) and the best part was I could put it up on the wheel stand lean back on the sissy bar, put my feet on the crux of the handlebars and go to sleep. Which being an 18 year old in the Navy I did quite a bit. I set out on my trip with a blanket roll under the headlight, a backpack filled with clothes against the sissy bar, $100 and knowing I needed to drive east. That was the motorcycle lover in me. Two wheels unencumbered in the wind: that essence, that feeling, that visceral pathos… that is the defining moment of the Biker Life.

See you further on up the road...

Favorite Roads

My Favorite Roads are ashen
a chalky white of patched
and cracked arthritic asphalt
aged and bleached
There is no centerline
no paint no makeup just
raw flesh under a midday sun
No defined lines limiting access
but rather following the collective
observable rules
of good conduct and neighborly
jurisprudence
specifically for the polite travelers
the vagabonds trespassing moments
These are not the shiny black roads
the glistening stars light on a sable curtain
These are lifelines like varicose veins
warped and stoic and telling
The Braille staccato of farm implements
and tractors of horses and bikes and
children skipping couples walking
over the sticky tar patches
plastered like gum or pine sap in
the crease of wounded trees
These roads tell stories
experienced and weathered of time
and life of legacy and inheritance
of history whispered through the wind


Khristian E. Kay