I’m back in Seattle after 2 weeks in Denver.
Daisy was in the shop for two weeks before that.
Wheels down at Sea-Tac at 9:45. Cat and bags dropped off at home, helmet and gear picked up, and at Aurora Suzuki at 10:57.
I meant to take a picture of us out somewhere; but, I didn’t want to stop, so I didn’t.
But this song, and video, was playing in my head most of the way.
Between a couple of weeks spent with my closest friends, family, and plenty of self time, getting Daisy back was the last piece of the lesson that everything that matters will keep up and everything that doesn’t matter will fall to the wayside.
We’ve also turned the corner of winter, back to more daylight. I think I need to be a redhead again in 2012.
Had to stop by on my way from Forbidden Planet to work. I would have gotten a pic of me hugging it, but I was alone. (except for the cube) I bust out the new video function on the 3DS for the occasion though.
Goddamn i love this city.
In celebration of Charles Schulz…
Truth. This is why the moto needs to be running at all times.
My key weighs one-half ounce. It is hung on a loop of green parachute cord, put there by a friend. It fits perfectly in the palm of my hand. The weight of the key is a silent promise that everything is about to be okay.
My gloves weigh 11.2 ounces. They are black.
Boots: 3 pounds. They are black and show signs of wear.
Jacket: 6.2 pounds. It is black and armored.
Pants: 4.1 pounds. They are black, with armored knees and padded hips.
Helmet: 3.8 pounds. It is white and covered in stickers. It protects my head from wind and rain, flying rocks, potential impact and harmful thoughts.
Me: 193 lbs. 1982. 6’ 1”. Brunette.
Daisy: 425lbs. 2002. SVS650. Flat Black.
Together, we total roughly 635 pounds.
635 pounds, screaming weightless down a dark highway, speckled lights turning to streaks. Cold wind felt on each side of my neck, the only skin that is exposed. The air feels like fingers floating just on the surface of my skin, a constant flow of silk. The increasing rumbling hum of my engine creates a moody soundtrack to a dark and cold night.
Sprinting up the side of a mountain in the middle of summer. Chasing friends ahead of me, outrunning the cars behind me. It is nearly 100 degrees. Heat bleeds off the road, it pours out of the sky. I don’t have air conditioning, if I were in a car without air conditioning, I’d be hot and sticky and miserable. As it were, I don’t feel the heat. I can’t feel the heat as long as I keep moving.
Once I stop though, it hits me. All at once, like the heat was chasing me just like the cars are, and envelops me the second I slow down.
Sitting in traffic. The fingers of my left hand stuck in pattern of: flex, release. Flex. Flex. Flex. Release. Flex. Rele..no. Flex. I am neither hot or cold, wet or dry. Just impatient. Fighting the urge to dive through the canyon to get to work. To home. To the bar. To my friends. I fight the urge, and I wait. Wait until there is enough room to start weaving my path, faster and more agile than those I share the road with. Careful to remember that I am not stronger.
On a twisty road through my favorite valley. My eyes have a hard time focusing because of the dappling created by the sun shining through the trees that form a canopy over the road. There is a lot of throttle here. A quiet voice tells me to slow down. A louder voice tells me to focus, to plot my course, find my line and look to where I want to be, and roll on the throttle. Another voice tells me to not be scared of the curves. I try to never be scared of the curves.
Parked in the garage. She sits quietly and patiently while I replace the dirt and rocks and grime she’s picked up in her travels with clean lube. Filling her tires. Checking her oil. Making sure all her vital components are taken care of, clean and ready for use.
“When you’re moving fast, you’re not a target, he says. You’re invincible and invisible”
There have been three times that my bike, inexplicably, wouldn’t start.
Inexplicably is a bit of a misnomer: there was always a definite and specific reason why it wouldn’t start, there just had not been any traumatic event to cause the non-starting. Each time, the last time I had ridden the bike, it had been running fine, was parked in my garage, and when I went to ride it a day or a few days later, it wouldn’t start.
Each of these times, the failure to start was immediately preceded by having my heart kicked by a guy I had been dating. The first time it happened, I thought “oh really? FML” and wrote it off as bad luck. The second time it happened, I thought “again? Seriously? All I want to is ride my bike and clear my head”. The third time it happened, this morning, I began to sense a pattern.
