“YOU DON’T SEE THAT EVERYDAY”

Every day, if you’re paying attention,

you’ll see something you don’t see every day.

Me
 – demonstrating the depth of my wisdom –

to Mom.

Years ago, I hiked with a group of friends along the north rim of Chico’s (CA) Upper Bidwell Park.  Among that group was a biology professor, Rayburn we called him, from the local state college.  About 10:00 AM this middle-of-March morning, someone spied a small dot, high in the sky, a mile or two away, traveling west to east, over the creek that had formed the canyon.  As the thing got closer, it revealed itself as a large raptor.

            “Well lookee there, boys,” Rayburn said, pointing.  “That’s a golden eagle.” 

            He quickly explained about how the wing shape and the tail differed from a hawk.  As we watched, the bird abruptly dived straight toward the canyon bottom spreading its wings like a parachute as it neared the grassy veldt.  Touching down with a tiny hop, the thing churned its great, feathered limbs and rose.  A wriggling little something was snared in its clutches.

            “Wow by golly!” Rayburn exclaimed.  “You just don’t see that every day.”

            This, I figured, is why we hike, bicycle, paddle, sail or simply hang out outdoors.

The other day, out on some numbered county road in rural Yolo County, I followed a farmer’s white Chevy pickup at a reasonable distance and at a reasonable speed.  The greening hills of the Coast Range captured a series of my westward glances.  The old barns and derelict farm equipment also interested me and there were plenty out this way.

           At a particular moment, at the end of one of those glances, a movement caught my eye.  A low-flying doglike creature was racing toward the roadway ahead of the truck.  He shot onto the pavement not seconds before the Chevy would cross its path.  Clearing the highway at breakneck speed, he continued about 100 yards into a freshly plowed field.  There, he stopped, as if coming to some mark visible only to him.  Craning his head he eyed both the truck and me on the BMW as we headed north on the paved route.

            I’ve never seen a road-kill coyote and I wouldn’t today.  But, then again, in my neck of the ‘burbs, I don’t see coyote that often.

The very next time out on a bike, while waiting at a stoplight on the fringe of suburban El Dorado County, a Norton Commando 850(?), black, restored to near showroom, pulled past in the adjacent lane.  The rider wore all the Norton logo apparel: jacket and helmet emblazoned with the classic script.  A neighbor kid, serving in the navy during Vietnam had purchased one of these babies, only yellow.  I remember distinctly his inability to kick the damned thing over using every ounce of his 148-pound frame.

            The light changed and I was expecting the Brit to roar away, but instead, I heard a mellow purr from the vintage conical pipes.  I followed on the Breva, hoping to catch up and engage in a little bike talk.  But up the road a short distance, our routes diverged.  He waited in a turn pocket to explore Salmon Falls Road and I was seeking Rescue (the town) up Green Valley.  I slipped by offering a wave to the rider and his rare and beautiful bird.

            I wish I had the skills to restore and maintain such a thing.

Living on the shoals of Sacramento’s urban sprawl, I don’t often see bald eagles, so spotting three of them on consecutive fence posts along a Sierra County route outside of Loyalton was a thrill.  The words I retrieved when I arrived home fell short of impressing folks.

            Likewise the deer in our valley stream courses tend to be scrawny little beasts teetering on spindly legs.  Thus, my breath halted when, upon rounding a corner outside of Pope Valley (Napa County), a massive buck with about two dozen points stood in the middle of the narrow lane checking his GPS.

The Austin Healy 3000 occupies a spot on the long list of things I covet but shall never possess.  Skills to maintain, again?  Growing up, a high school peer, the son of the county sheriff, raced about town in a souped up model with a Ford 289 that would have earned him no end of traffic citations had he not been the son of the county sheriff.

            On route 70, just south of Marysville, an early 60s example, pristine white, appeared in my mirrors, having just entered the highway at Olivehurst.  I slowed in order to take in the rarity.  (I used to engage in this clandestine spying upon spotting a pretty young maid.  But no more.)  The driver was older than I.  To fend off the 52-degree temps with its resultant wind-chill and yet still enjoy the top-down experience, he had a hoody tied tightly over a snap-brim cap and under his gray chin.  He sat on oxblood leather seats.  His right hand rested on the shifter.  A grin told me he was living a charmed life. 

            My jet black Guzzi, an ’07, is a bit of a rare machine and I keep it really clean.  I wondered if, in passing, the Austin pilot gave any thought to the rider of it. 

            Nah.  He was drivin’ his Healy.  What could be better?

My ninety-one year-old mother often expresses her displeasure with the fact that I drive motorcycles.  “Why do you do such a thing?” she asks using other, more direct and disdainful motherly terms and has since I was about aged 15.

            “Every day,” I say to her, “if you’re paying attention, you see something you don’t see every day.”

            This statement always only earns a dismissive sweep of her hand.

© 2013

Church of the Open Road Press