“SERIOUS AS A HEART ATTACK”

The correct – but incorrect – answer is “C”

Quick quiz:  When in a party of two or more, one person, experiencing chest discomfort, stops, sits and most likely says what?  Is it:

A)        “I’ve had enough for today.  I’ve got to turn around,” or

B)        “Whale.  Oil. Beef.  Hooked.  (For maximum impact, practice saying that really fast.)  I think I’m havin’ a coronary,” or

C)        “You guys go ahead.  I’ll wait here.  Maybe I’ll catch up in a minute.”

Conrad, Suzie and I had just left the parking area for our second little high-country hike of the day.  The first jaunt found us on a steep trail wading through foot-and-a-half deep snow remnants to a magnificent view of the High Sierra.  

Worsening trail conditions turned us back and after lunch-with-a-view and a short drive on a dirt road, we arrived at a second, slightly lower in elevation trailhead.

Just past a sign indicating we were entering a designated wilderness area, and after what seemed like a pretty easy uphill stretch, Conrad plopped down on a rock or a stump and while not exactly clutching his chest said, “I’m feeling some pain here,”

Conrad didn’t look his normal self, but I knew he wanted to see what was over the next rise or around the next bend.  It’s in his DNA.  So is heart trouble.  His father, at about the same age didn’t make it to church to preach one Sunday, rather he made it to the ER a few blocks away.

Our closest ER would be forty-plus forest road miles away and cell phone coverage?  What’s that?

“You go on,” Conrad said.

“Nope, I’m stayin’ here.”

Eighteen years before, while serving as a school principal, Mrs. Nelson, a teacher, was called upon to drag me from my office to a nearby building where staff was feting me with cake and ice cream for Bosses Day.  (Oh, how I hated Bosses Day!)  A few feet out the door, it felt as if someone had taken a swing at my chest with a sledge hammer.  Staggered a bit more than I’d like to admit, I diverted to the multipurpose room, across the breezeway, saying, “I need to sit down for a moment.  You go ahead.  I’ll catch up in a minute.”  Unfolding a chair, I sat in the dark.  Mrs. Nelson touched her palm to my clammy forehead and chose not to leave.

Suzie had trekked up the trail perhaps fifty yards, up and around a switchback to a point where she could look down upon us.  She held of the same Gotta-Explore DNA as her brother.  Conrad sat on the stump/rock.  Amidst some small talk, I ascertained that Conrad thought perhaps he’d eaten too much lunch; that a physical ten or twelve years ago uncovered a restricted artery; that this happens every once in a while; that he hadn’t had a comprehensive physical in he didn’t know how long; and that, at 59, he was about the same age as this father when Dad had had an incident.

Shadows across the trail somehow prevented my eye contact with Suzie.  Foolish discretion about not wanting Conrad to feel badly about truncating a hike kept me from saying anything to Suzie.  Ultimately, Conrad decided to soldier on, first at a very reserved pace, then at a much sloggier gate than his usual.  I followed, all the time thinking, “The further he goes, the further I’m going to have to carry his ass out.”

After about two-and-a-half miles – these with no stunning view – we turned back around.  Downhill was easier.

That night at the cabin, over some shared Knob Creek, we conversed.  He began, “I think it’s just part of getting older.  You know, like you and your bad knee.”

“If I blow a knee out on a trail, I suspect I’d survive.  I’ll whine like a baby, but I’ll probably survive.”  Then I asked, “When was the last time you had an EKG?”

“Ten, maybe twelve years ago,” he confirmed, adding what he’d found out with that exam.

“Maybe you should see about getting a fresh one.”

An eye was not batted as he said, “It’s just part of getting older.  Besides, with a $5,000.00 out-of-pocket insurance policy – silver level they call it – I can’t afford to go in for the test.”

So, there you have it, I thought.  Conrad could expire on the trail because he doesn’t feel he can afford the care needed to, perhaps, mitigate the problem.

“Well, pal,” I said, “You need to know that, in the future, if you have a heart attack out there on the trail, I’m probably not gonna drag your ass back to the car.”  I raised my whiskey glass.  “I’ve got a bad knee.”

o0o

Notes and a plea:  The incident at school proved not to be life-threatening.  It was a simple transient ischemic attack according to the folks at the hospital.  But Mrs. Nelson didn’t know that.  She just stayed with me.  To this day, I embarrass her by reminding her that she saved my life.  

Mrs. Nelson knew not to leave the victim because of Red Cross (or similar) CPR/first aid training she received every other year sponsored by our school district.

If you haven’t renewed your card, do so.  Please enter “CPR Training” or “First Aid Training” in your browser and sign up for a refresher near you.  I may be riding through your town and need your assistance.

Know that I’ll be renewing mine…

… in case you should ever need me. 

© 2018

Church of the Open Road Press

ELEGY

The driver must have been going really fast.  The passing lane on US 101 north of Hopland was about to end – it was a mile-and-a-half to the next one – and it wouldn’t be well to have to sidle in behind someone traveling slower, now would it? 

So this fellow just couldn’t be second; his now somehow more important than anything.  Anything!  Or, perhaps, as he raced along in his tiny red Civic or Corolla – by the time I happened along it was hard to tell – and because he’d gotten away with it before, he simply felt he was invincible.  He would live forever.  This thought would be proven irreversibly misguided in just moments.  And instantaneously.

Traffic had backed up only about a half mile from the scene, stopped first in one direction, then the other, choked down to one lane at the scene.  Damn!  Would I miss my appointment in Ukiah?  Approaching from the south, the rescue crew moved about their business in an incredibly slow and apparently deliberate manner.  They knew this: Why rush?

The battered car rested upright, doors shut tight but windshield violently punched out, beads of glass scattered into the open travel lane.  Almost blocked from view by a fire truck, the unfortunate lay, and except for his still-shoe-clad feet, fully covered by a yellow plastic tarp.  No ambulance was yet present, nor would there be any need for a Code 3.  Somberly, Highway Patrol, county sheriff, and first responder folks milled about above the covered carnage, writing notes and chatting.  Hushed voices, I assume.

Ninety minutes later, heading back down the highway, I find that the scene is clear except for a pair of wild, curving tire ruts and an arcing course of bowled over, dried weeds up and then down the embankment, and four spray-painted rectangles indicating where the sedan came to rest on its feet.

Antiseptic.

Passing by at speed, no one would know of the death of the invincible motorist.  It was all over in less than a heartbeat, and that last heartbeat was nearly two hours ago.

All over except for this: One of those peace officers would soon be knocking on a door or dialing up a telephone number, delivering a message no wife or husband, mother or father ever wants to receive.  For family that remains, time will stop.  A different definition of normal will descend on them waiting, sinisterly, to be embraced.

And after the paperwork, the officer will return to the beat and then home – likely not to sleep well this night.  Again.  Tomorrow?  He’ll be on patrol protecting us hoping that his yesterday does not repeat itself.

And by spring, the green grasses of winter will have covered up those ruts.

© 2016

Church of the Open Road Press

490 BUCKS LATER

…a tale of impatience and its resultant stupidity…

The US 101 freeway through Santa Rosa was an afterthought.  The city was built up and a nice, old downtown was bisected by the urge to build a north south four-lane thirty or forty years ago.  The result of this poor, but necessary, plan is streets that dead end and are reborn again, traffic patterns that aren’t really patterns, on and off ramps that send drivers careening into neighborhoods and business districts and a bottleneck of traffic through town during many times of day.

Belatedly, a few years back, a third lane was constructed to be a high occupancy vehicle (HOV) diamond lane.  Diamond lanes are a great idea.  While, years ago, a writer to the Sacramento Bee lamented that Sacramento’s HOV lanes limited one’s “freedom of choice,” in reality, they enhance one’s choice.  You can either choose to commute with a partner and use the lane or you can choose to commute by yourself and be stuck doing about 19 miles per hour in a 65 zone. 

I like diamond lanes and never abuse them.

Well, almost never.  Leaving Santa Rosa in the Subaru Forester after a frustrating forty-five minutes of trying to find an establishment that’d moved from one location to another on the other side of the freeway, at about 4:00 PM, I crept up the on-ramp to a clogged 101.  Once on the slab, I noted a big-rig negotiating a lane change so he could edge off the freeway at the next opportunity.  I flashed the Sube’s lights to give the trucker the traffic break needed.

Someone driving a car that could go much faster than 42 in the number 2 lane filled the semi’s gap and with traffic pulling ahead in front of him, putted along at about 23 miles per hour under the limit.  And he didn’t seem to have the desire to wick things up a notch.  I followed as the truck exited a mile or so on taking note that Johnny Slow didn’t pull to the right to occupy the now open space in the slow lane.  Still, I rested a safe distance behind and puttered along as the next off ramp / on ramp came and went.

Could I have passed this guy on the right?  As a credentialed Drivers Education and Training instructor, I make it a habit never to pass on the right unless the driver in front of me is signaling for and making a left turn.

At a slight rise with a gentle right turn in the freeway, a nice long gap had opened up in the HOV lane to my left.  I’ll just slip in there, goose it, and pull back into the lane, I thought to myself.  And I did.

CHP Officer Terry is a very nice individual.  He conducts his business with a high degree of professionalism and courtesy.  With a radar gun, he’d been standing on the shoulder next to a black and white Ford Explorer when I crested the rise.  In less than a minute, the big Explorer was in my rear-view mirror with its roof lit up like a Fourth of July parade.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?”

“Yep.  Using the diamond lane to pass that guy going about 40.”

“You do know you’re not supposed to do that, right?”

I handed him my license and fumbled for the registration.  Although I should have a very checkered driving career, this would be my first California citation in over 47 years of driving.

“The good news is that there are no points and no traffic school associated with this.”

“I used to teach traffic school,” I said.

“I’ll only be about five minutes and you’ll be on your way.”

I’ve met a number of CHP officers both as a school principal when introducing law enforcement to elementary students with the “Stop On a Dime” program where I got to drive an old Crown Victoria they used to use; and as a customer of the service department at BMW motorcycle dealerships when they were having their bikes serviced.  Nice folks.  Good talkers.  Always interested in whatever civilian they were engaging in the waiting area.  I like ‘em all.

And I like Officer Terry.  He returned my license and registration with a newly minted citation and explained the process.  “They take diamond lanes pretty seriously in Sonoma County.  I think this’ll be about 351 bucks.”

Then he asked if I had any questions.

“Why, yes,” I said.  “I do.”

“What is it?”

“Well, I noticed you’re in an Explorer.  How do you like it compared to the Crown Vics?”

Terry laughed.  “Honestly? I feel like a soccer mom.”

I laughed as he added a few words of lamentation about “not even having Eco-Boost in this unit.  The young guys get the hot rods.” 

Then he said, “Thank you for being so courteous.”

I replied, “You weren’t the one being stupid. I was.”

We shook hands.

“I’ll wait here until you’re safely back in the lane.  Use the shoulder to get up to speed, okay?  Be safe.”

“You too.”

o0o

The “bail” including “fees” came to $490.00.  The check was made payable to “Superior Court.”

© 2016

Church of the Open Road Press

SELECTING A CYCLE

 

“Don’t trust everything you read on the Internet.”

- Abraham Lincoln

Returning to my old office of employ, my former secretary said, “My son is thinking of getting back into motorcycling.”  I cringed a bit.  “He doesn’t quite know what he wants, but I told him to log into the Church of the Open Road and see what’s there.”  I cringed some more.  (See Lincoln’s quote, above.)

Most everybody’s initial foray into the sport of two-wheeled travel is a shot in the dark.  So many makes and models to choose from!  What to own?  My first bike was a 90cc Honda.  It was great for putting around town and knocking out some forest service roads up in the hills, but getting to those dirt roads was a bit more problematic.  As I raced up (and I do mean “up”) state highway 32 toward Forest Ranch at 27 miles per hour, even at seventeen years of age, I knew the bike wasn’t intended for the demands I was asking. 

My daughter’s experience is similar yet different.  Her soon-to-be husband had come home on a Triumph Bonneville Black – one of the Hinckley models.  Daughter went for a spin on the back and wondered why we hadn’t told her what a blast motorcycle riding could be.  She took the course, got her license and some gear and went shopping.  She fell in love with what would become her first – and only – bike: a 2007 Ducati Monster S2R.  No amount of counsel could convince her that something a bit more mild would be a better selection for the new rider.  One first-day spill and the thing was sold.

My secretary told me that her son’s first bike was one of those lean over motorcycles and this time he was looking for something he could sit up straight on.  He’ll have a fire-related job up in the mountains this summer and would like something to commute on.

I immediately thought of the KLR 650 I’d owned a while back.  The thing could clip along at highway speeds.  For sight seeing on back roads and forest service routes, the thing was terrific.  But, the handling wasn’t too precise and the brakes were anything but state of the art.  Still the upright-ness is good as long as her son’s inseam isn’t as short as my brother-in-law’s.  He’d straddled the Kawi once and could barely reach the garage floor using the tips of his toes. 

I reverted to son-in-law’s Bonneville Black, recently sold.  There’s a bike with some solid engineering, a moderate sit-up position, and cool retro looks - especially the McQueen signature Scrambler derivative.  Downsides might include the weight and the fact that in the mountains or far northern California, it might be tough to find a nearby dealership.

My two current rides are a BMW 1200 GSA – probably too big and undoubtedly too expensive for an I-wanna-save-money-on-my-commute livery – and my beloved and thus-far rock solid Guzzi Breva – see issues with dealer networks.

There are a ton of great bikes to choose from now.  Honda, Yamaha, Kawasaki and Suzuki are all producing some mid-weight bikes that are reliable and economical.  They come in a range of styles and seating positions and dealers are always close by.  Triumph has some 800cc Adventure triples and BMW some 800 Adventure twins that set butterflies loose in my tummy.  A Ducati Monster would be fabulous on the paved mountain roads where I know the young man will be stationed.  Not so hot off the tarmac.

What counsel I would offer this young man? 

Substance over style:  Determine where you’re going to ride, why, and on what surfaces.  Cross out anything on the list that doesn’t match.  Those bikes you check off will be there when your riding circumstance changes – and it will.

Dealer network:  If he lacks the mechanical skills I lack, having someone within shoutin’ distance who can keep the thing in top condition will only lengthen the life of the machine and greatly increase the enjoyment of ownership.

Fit:  Sit on several making sure your feet can rest firmly on terra firma at full stop.  Ensure the relationship between the handlebars, seat and pegs don’t cramp your style.  (After an hour on my old R65, I routinely had to stop, get off, and reestablish blood flow to my butt and joints associated with my hips.)  After you’ve narrowed it down, insist on as lengthy a test ride as the dealer will allow.  Sitting on it in the showroom and operating it on the highway are two completely different arenas.  Both need to be experienced, with the fit on the road being, by far, more important.

Research:  Read reviews from multiple sources and be prepared to eliminate that favorite bike that the press just can’t seem to get its arms around.  Look also for user reviews.  (I just eliminated the BSA 441 Victor from my wish list because circa 1969 reviews I found on line made the thing – new – seemed like it falling in love with a beautiful woman who had no intention of loving you in return.)

Gear:  Get good gear and wear it all the time while riding.  (Click the Church’s ATGATT label at the bottom of this post to link to some thoughts.)

Training and skill:  This is the most important consideration of all.  If you haven’t been riding in a while, take the MSF safety course.  Again.  The stuff you forget or the stuff you’re rusty on will be the stuff that gets you hurt.

I know the area where my secretary’s son will be summering. I used to live up that way myself.  I know the bike I’d want to have if I were blessed with the opportunity to ride those ranges.  But I’m not going to share that thought here, because what I’d choose bears no relationship with some other rider’s needs.  I hope my secretary’s son finds the perfect bike for him and that it will bring him great pleasure and very little pain.  I also hope he looks further than the Church of the Open Road for advice.  (See the quote from Abe Lincoln at the top of this piece.)

© 2012

Church of the Open Road Press

THE THINGS I FORGOT (about riding in the rain)

What are you, crazy?

Lady from down the street

Nope, just practicin’.

Me, returning from a ride in a downpour

What?  Bein' crazy???

Midway through the second good storm of the season, I get the urge to mount up and practice a little rainy day riding.  I figure the first storm will have washed away the grit and slick from the area’s roadways so in the second one, I’ll be more likely to deal simply with pavement and wet.  Why ride in the rain?  Two reasons.  One: If I ride around the nearby country roads for an hour or so and get chilled, there’ll be a nice hot shower awaiting me when I get home, and Two: practicing wet weather riding when you don’t have to do it prepares you for those times when you do.

Bundled in a turtleneck, flannel shirt, Gore-tex slicker all under my three-season jacket, I pack a camera and set off.  A few hundred feet up the street, I realize I’d forgotten how quickly the face shield on my Shoei fogs up, no matter how recently I sprayed it with anti-fog.  I crack the thing open and exhale more slowly.

I also forgot how quickly the storm drain gets clogged with the slick leaves from the neighborhood’s blue gum trees.  Wading through inches-deep water, I can only imagine how little friction exists between my new rear Metzeler and the cold, wet pavement.  All this, and I haven’t even left the development.

I choose a short loop that will employ county roads, state highways and even a few miles of gravel or dirt.  I want to take a few shots of some favorite scenes only this time scenes muted by a low gray ceiling and perhaps, sheets of rain.

Having been off the bike for six weeks, I drive particularly gingerly along the boulevard that leads me away from town.  A Cadillac SUV speeds past and sprays me pretty well.  I’d forgotten how the helmet’s visor sheds water to the right and left as I tootle along.

There’s a great old barn just north of Lincoln on old state route 65.  I’d taken pictures of it in early morning springtime low sun.  I stop by the side of the road, do not dismount, fumble with my little Panasonic and snap a photo.  A four-by-four post bisects my shot.  On it used to be an old campaign sign declaring “Integrity Does Count!” along with a picture of our Congressman who later earned the bum’s rush for cavorting with Jack Abramoff.  I laugh and my helmet refills with fog.

Two miles north, Chamberlain Road heads east.  After a brief skirt of pavement, the road turns to washboard gravel.  I adjust the suspension on the GS and jiggle forth.  A quarter mile on, the gravel has sunk into red mire.  The washboard is gone, but so is the traction.  I feel the rear wheel begin to explore its own path and, without touching the brakes, gently slow precipitously. 

I am beginning to get wet and I am beginning to think this is a really stupid idea.  Then I realize, “Nope, this is exactly what today’s ride is all about.”  I creep forward letting the rear wheel squirm only slightly, thankful that I’m not out in Idaho or Utah eight hundred miles from home experiencing this for the first time.

Only a bit further, past the home office of the spread through which Chamberlain Road runs, I tee into Montezuma Road.  Thankfully, it is paved.  My butt immediately relaxes on the seat a bit.  Out this way, tiny streams are filling.  In a day or so, they’ll surely overtop the narrow bridges on the route.  I stop for a couple of shots near the bucolic cemetery out that way.  I forgot how difficult it is to get wet gloves back onto wet hands.

Western Placer County is a web of secondary roads that right angle into one another, split pastures, tunnel through oaks and climb gentle rises.  It is a pleasant place to explore, even in the rain.

I seek out the old Fruitvale School, now a for-rent community center and stop for another rain shrouded photograph.  The parking area is gated off, but from the gate it appears to be just a pan of slick hardened dirt. 

I continue east on Fruitvale Road.  Within yards, a six-point buck (maybe eight point?  His rack was impressive) came charging toward a fence that parallels the road and startles me.  I’d forgotten about deer heading for the lowlands in winter.  I slow not so carefully.  Inside a brain about the size of a soft-shelled pecan, the critter has second thoughts about his own suicide and taking me out with him.  He stops just short of the fence.  As I pass, he reverses course, finds a tractor trail across the veldt and gallops south on it.  I take an immediate right on Fowler and soon I find myself pacing him about seventy-five yards to his east.  I can’t help but note the athletic build of this creature and the joyous and graceful way he bounds across the field. 

I realize that I am enjoying the sights through which I am riding while supremely aware of the conditions I am riding through.  Mission accomplished.

I head home and catch that shower.

The passing of the family patriarch, both the weeks leading up to it and the weeks following, changes the things we find important and how we spend our disposable time (that time not in pursuit of vocation or homebound chores).  We can’t help but wonder why such a loss prompts us to think of all we’ve gained.  In my case, the passing of my father-in-law took me off either of the bikes for five or six weeks and shut down the blog for that period of time.  Neither seemed important.  Neither really are.

© 2012

Church of the Open Road Press

ESSAY ON THAT WHICH IS NOT A LADDER

THAT WHICH SEPARATES MAN FROM THE LESSER FORMS is his ability to take common items in his environment and creatively utilize them as tools.

This, teacher-wife attempted, Tuesday afternoon, employing a student desk in her classroom as a ladder in order to reach the far, high corner of a bulletin board. Children off to PE, she reasoned, this would be an okay time to break the rule. At least that’s what she reported to the paramedics. Personally, I’da come up with a better story.

Catastrophic results were miraculously avoided. Fire personnel checked her out as I arrived at school. She was refusing to be tied to a backboard and a young man was gently probing her neck and back to assess tactilely for fractures, swelling or other signs of out-of-jointedness. There were none. The gurney came with an adjustable section, one that could be tilted up for the comfort of the passenger. Thus reclined, she enjoyed the fourteen-hundred-dollar, five-minute transit run to Kaiser.


PEOPLE SPEND A LOT OF TIME and energy bitching about health care. Kaiser (and, more than likely, most health care facilities) gets a black eye more often because, quite naturally, patient and family expectations exceed reason rather than for anything Kaiser personnel do or do not do. On this Tuesday afternoon, the ER was pretty quiet – not at all like the moments several years ago – also a Tuesday, as I recall – when I visited with chest pains while the older person in an open-curtained room down the way succumbed to a fatal coronary. “Better get next of kin in here,” someone said, as compressions were ceased and that curtain was drawn. I thought: I don’t know how these people muster the strength to show up every day.

No, yesterday’s emergency was only an emergency because it was necessary to ensure no structural damage occurred as teacher-wife cascaded to the floor of her classroom. X-rays proved such. Yesterday’s care was excellent: more than 90% of the folks in the world might expect under such or any circumstance. “Call if you need anything,” attending Dr. Lee said, extending a warm hand upon her discharge. Then he winked and assured us: “It’ll hurt more tomorrow than it does today.” Thanks, Doc.

PROPHESY FULFILLED: Today she rests at home, lying covered by a blanket on the davenport in the front room, taking prescription strength Motrin and rubbing a concerned and attentive black lab-mix’s ears. Both the drug and the dog (Edward) share equally in pain relief therapy. Bruised and scraped more than her backside – she has a doozey of a strawberry across her back – is her ego. “This can’t be a workers’ comp claim,” she claims – and she’d shake her head if it didn’t hurt so damned much – “it was my own stupid fault.”

I make it a practice never to disagree with my beloved. There is no point is starting now, when she’s so down and out. Besides, tomorrow will be a better day – the following day even more so. The injury was blessedly minor when the consequences rightfully could have been pretty dire.

Lesson learned.

Note:  The drawing herein represents an example used by former area schools assistant superintendent for incoming staff at “boot camp,” and does not depict the actual situation in this story.  But it’s a cute picture and it makes its point.

© 2012
Church of the Open Road Press

STICKER SHOCK - STATE ROUTE 12, NAPA COUNTY

A WINDOW STICKER. A pleasant one with a pleasant message. Two children, in white vinyl, praying under a white vinyl cross. Peace. Tranquility. Patience. Love: the unquestioned type.  All that Christ-like stuff.

The window sticker was affixed to the aft window of a late model Camry. Tinted. So the image looked white on black.

Pretty damned cut and dried, in my opinion. If existed both good and evil, this represented good.


CALIFORNIA STATE ROUTE 12 is a two lane affair heading west from Interstate 80 toward US 101 below Santa Rosa, through rolling hills and vineyards.  The road adequately bears the traffic that it is asked to. Everyone moves along at the legal limit and only curses blue when a semi, laden with cases of Carneros region wine struggles to make one of the hills.

I keep a safe distance and am generally well aware of how many seconds separate me from the fellow in front and how many seconds separate me from the motorist behind.

Where this lady came from to me is still a puzzle. A mystery. How she got there is not.

The first bit of road that had an inkling of straightness proved to be her opportunity to pass. I braked and pulled dangerously close to a gravelly shoulder as she rocketed by on the curving up-hill grade.  Mrs. Andretti? I presume.

Once the adrenaline cleared and my bearings were restored and I’d thanked BMW for putting anti-lock brakes on this motorcycle, I oriented myself toward this new situation, slowing, as necessary, to again achieve the two-second safety gap.

Ahead of me now, the Toyota’s rear window, was the cherubic window sticker. So pleasant. So docile. Saying so much without any words what so ever. Peace. Love. Brotherhood. All of those things her Lord and Savior might have preached. Yea, verily: did preach.


IN A MOMENT, the road shifted from two lanes to four. Shortly, there stood a stoplight and an option for motorists to head north to Napa or West to Sonoma. The Camry yielded at the light, detained by a vehicle or two in the lane ahead of her.

As she waited, I motored along side and gave the driver a meaningful (or a questioning) glance. Catching her eye, I motioned to her as she glanced at me while I lifted the shield of my helmet.

She lowered her window, although I could see the trepidation in her face, me being on a motorcyle and all.

“Nice window sticker,” I said, blipping my throttle.

“Huh?”

I cocked at thumb over my shoulder to the tinted rear window of her Camry. “Nice window sticker!”

She nodded. Smiled. “Oh. Thanks.”

“Say,” I began before the red light turned, “How would Jesus drive?”

“Huh?”

“I said, ‘How would Jesus drive?’”

Her face whiplashed from the smile of approval into something less. Something different. Her eyes narrowed and her lips tightened. Her trepidation regarding me was clearly founded. “How the hell should I know?”

The light toggled to green and she was gone.

Onward I continued, quite happy that she was far in front of me.

© 2006
Church of the Open Road Press

HAZARDS FOUND IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD - LOWELL HILL, NEVADA COUNTY

IT IS THE RARE CASE that I take a fellow rider with me while attending the Church of the Open Road. In solitude, I can hear the message, see the visions and worship more freely. On this day, however, I took neighbor Eric. Luckily.

The mission was to go to Grass Valley and retrieve three copies of a children’s book I’d ordered. The precursor-to-summer day called upon me to find a creative way to do that. Lowell Hill Road parallels the Bear River from below Lake Spaulding. I’d never taken it. That was good enough for me.

Exiting the pavement off highway 20 just below I-80, after 45 miles of freeway travel, it was clear that Lowell Hill was not a place frequented. While the surface was gravel for about 300 yards, it soon became a game of “Which Way Do We Go?” as dual tracks split hither and yon.

“We must be in the infamous Fugahwe Region of Nevada County,” Eric commented. I didn’t know he knew the area.

Conifer needles carpeted the dirt-only route. The mid-70s temperature had dried most of last week’s unseasonably late rain/snowfall. If the road rose or fell, there’d be no standing water. When our route bottomed out, in the lowest depressions, creamy brown puddles dared us to enter. I danced from one rut to the next avoiding these little hazards when they came about. But, at one point, it looked as if God had spilled His mocha into both tire tracks for a little section, and the only routes were through a puddle – pick one: left for Democrats, right for Republicans – or tracing the little ridge in between. I’m a middle-of-the-road kind of guy.


AN INTERESTING THING about the dual sport tires I’d selected for my prized and pristine GSA. Called “Tourances” by Mezeler (a division of Pirelli), they are engineered to handle the pavement quite well – where the bulk of one’s riding occurs – but also do an adequate job in gravel and dirt. They lack a chunky off-road, dirt bike tread. And they do not shed mud like those moto-whatever guys’ tires do. In fact, after a few feet in the soft gooey stuff, they become slicks. No tread. No traction. Just tragedy. I found this out as the front tire slid into the rut on the right while, simultaneously, the rear tire went left.

The BMW GS Adventure is engineered for a lot of things, but traveling sideways ain’t among ‘em. In one of those slow motion moments when you can see what is about to happen, but powerless to stop it, the road dissolved into the consistency of butter and the afternoon’s trip looked to become toast. First to slide into the muck was the right hand cylinder head, which on a Beemer, protrudes to the side of the machine. Next was the optional, Jesse “Odyssey” steel saddlebag. Indestructible, the ad had said. Keeping my foot on the peg, my right leg skittered across the surface of the puddle for the ten to twelve feet it took this whole parade to come to a halt. A light chocolate wave similar to one produced by a slalom water skier washed across the down side of my body. The cylinder head and the bag protected my fragile self from any injury.

Eric was off his KTM is seconds, checking my vitals. I was going to live. We righted the bike and took inventory. It was going to live as well, but the right side Jesse bag had sacrificed its ability to close in an effort to save my drumstick. I tied the “indestructible” closed with a bandana.

Cautiously we proceeded not more than a mile and a half. There, the surface became graded, nice-as-pie gravel. However, in that initial 2,000 yards west of my "ground zero," Eric later reported, the puddles at the side of the road looked as if they were taunting me. He was right. As I tiptoed by, I could feel the mud developing fingers that grabbed at my cuffs, shoelaces and the spokes of the big Beemer’s wheels. Magically, those evil fingers disappeared if I shot a glance at the rearview mirror. This is explained, I concluded, because, like all things evil, muddy puddles do not have a reflection.


TODAY’S MESSAGE FROM THE CHURCH was anything but abstract: When proceeding down a double track and both ruts are filled with slime, pick one. There has to be a bottom or the water wouldn’t be standing there. Go cautiously into it and gently accelerate out of it. This is the one time where being middle of the road is not an option. It is far more convenient to hose down the bike at home than to have to take it in to the neighborhood body shop for a couple of swift licks with a rubber hammer to reform the side case.

©2010
Church of the Open Road Press

Mosquito Ridge Road Fire

FIRE IN THE CANYON

THE ASSAULT HAD BEEN INTENSE. And effective. Fire engines, pumpers, tankers, the ambulance, a couple of green Forest Service pickups and some supervisory Cal Fire vehicles choked the road. Amidst the collection, positioned at an angle to block passers-by was the white Law Enforcement Ford Explorer. Now covered in an orange slime looking a bit like a layered birthday cake with twenty-minute old dollop of orange sherbet melting on its top.

A squat man, crew-cut hair, in a no-nonsense green uniform, and packing a no-nonsense side arm, looks beyond the two civilian pick ups that were in front of me in line and pointed.

I flash on him passing me as I snapped pictures from the wide point three miles back.

“You!” he yells above the equipment. “You’re next.” His left hand rests on the butt of his side arm. In his right hand he clutches a walkie-talkie with which he traces a line on the pavement for me to follow. Diagonally. Onto the shoulder. Between the upward cut bank and his frosted Ford.

“Go! Go! Go!” He yells swinging the hand-held in a giant circle.
I felt as if I should parachute over the edge.

I pass him and nod. Fifteen feet to the catty-cornered vehicle. I select my route.

“Wait!” he commands. “You…”

I looked over my shoulder.

“You! Wait.”

Oh great!

I thought of the pictures residing in the Leica. And of Joe Friday of the Forest Service spotting me snapping them as he raced toward the scene of the incident.

My blood ran cold, as if up-upslope wind had sliced not only through the Mesh Tex, but through my skin as well.

“Got a question for you.”

I pulled in the clutch lever, put a foot down and raised the visor on the Arai.

He crosses the pavement and puts a firm grip on the shoulder of the jacket.

“Armor, huh?” he asks.

“Huh?”

“The jacket,” he repeats. “It’s padded, right?”

“Ummm. Yeah.”

“Elbows, too?”

“What?”

“Elbows, too?” he asks. “This looks like a pretty neat thing. Is it cool?”

I’m flummoxed. “Ah, well, yeah.”

“You like it?”

I’m sure the gentlemen waiting in their pickups are none to happy that I got cuts.

“Well, yeah.”

“Where’d you get it?”

I can’t remember breakfast today, let alone where I bought this First Gear summer jacket two, maybe three years ago.

“Cycle Accessories? No. Cycle Barn. No, A&S. No… Heck, you can get them anywhere for about a hundred bucks.”

He squeezes the shoulder, then the elbow. “I gotta get me one.”

I look at him, full-face helmet covering most of the perplexity of my face.

“Just started riding about six months ago. Got me a GS, too. A 650.” he grins. “Well, have a nice day…”

Winking through the visor I throttle up. I catch Joe’s reflection looking at me in my rear view mirror.

Not like a cop. Like a brother.

I stop, put a foot down and motion him over.

“You take the motorcycle safety course yet, brother?” I ask.

He shrugs, “Nope.”

I point at the fire and its devastating aftermath. “And you think this stuff is dangerous?”

He grins like a sheep and off I ride.

(c) 2009
Church of the Open Road Press

Day Ride, Injury and Aftermath

THE BRICK PATH OUT BACK OF THE HOUSE

SOMEWHERE OUTSIDE OF PIKE CITY, (population about three – four if you consider the dog whose Sunday reverie I’d interrupted) Schoolhouse Road kinda disappears. There’s a sign at the intersection by the old red schoolhouse that reads “Schoolhouse Road.” And, referencing my Sierra County map, the road is listed. So I take it. It isn’t paved. And after a hundred yards or so, it isn’t graveled. And after a bit farther, I can’t even see tire tracks. To either side of whatever I am on are “No Trespassing” signs, so I know I’m on something. I am divining my route by the widest distance between the pines and oak trees and the levelest flank of land leading between ‘em. Sorta like playing croquet – aiming the big Beemer through the wickets. But that’s not the story.

Somewhere out here, all the bars go away from my cell phone. There’s no coverage – so in my mind, “nationwide coverage” is a slogan. A myth. I say to myself, “I hope I don’t get a flat tire out here because no one will find me until the thaw in the spring. If then.” Then I think: I hope I don’t fall off this thing and break a foot or something because no one will find me until the thaw in the spring. If then. Then I think: What if I’m lost? Then it really won’t matter that the phone doesn’t work because I won’t know where to tell ‘em I am.

As I’ve done so many times before, I find myself gently tiptoeing the bike over new-to-me, uncharted territory and wishing I’d given better direction to loved ones as to where I was planning to ride this day. That thought, of course, presupposed I had planned where I was going to ride this day. Which is never the story.

In about the amount of time I would have expected it to take, Schoolhouse Road tees into Pliocene Ridge Road, a paved thoroughfare that goes to points-known to me. Sigh of relief. Only at the intersection Schoolhouse Road is now called Anderson Ranch Road. So I was lost! But that’s not the story.

A pleasant day ride on both paved and unpaved roads, through tamed and untamed regions proved beautiful, if uneventful. No story here.


IT IS EVENING. Dusk. I am home, sharing the above non-story travelogue with wife and folks. Also grilling our weekly fare – this time teriyaki salmon – on the smoker out back. The fish is done. I ease the spatula between the grill and skin and gently slide the main course onto the serving dish. It is savory.

Stepping from the deck upon which the smoker is placed, my right foot twists atop a strategically placed red ball. A dog toy. Both pups were peeking around the corner of the shed. I’d seen the twinkles of anticipation and delight in their eyes that I was about to understand. I should have known something was up when I heard Jax the older, say to Edward the younger, “Shhhh! Watch this.”

My unbalanced course threw me from the brick path into the six-inch rock cobbles landscaping the area around our heritage oak. Momentum carried me into the tree and by this time, my right foot was throbbing. I am found leaning against the old oak, moaning, it was reported. The perfectly grilled teriyaki salmon slipped off the platter onto the rocks and was thoroughly enjoyed by my two “best friends.” But that’s not the story.

Over the phone, the advice nurse tells me to elevate, take ibuprofen, avoid Scotch and she’ll schedule an appointment for me with my primary care doc for the morning. I attend and a fracture is confirmed. The busted foot I deserved to get out in the woods somewhere, I’ve gotten in my own backyard! I am fitted for an e-boot and hobble to the car thinking, I used to work in Chester, now I walk like him. But even that’s not the story.


THAT EVENING, my betrothed is a bit later than usual coming home from work. I am concerned, but I do not call. I am assuming she is dropping by the local Rite-Aid and picking up some ibuprofen for the pain. Or aspirin. Or maybe even whisky.

Noooo…. My loving wife came home with three new dog toys. THAT’S the story.

© 2009
Church of the Open Road Press

On a Rural Road

The skidding stopped.

A mule deer lay dying some fifty yards back. Drawing feverish last gasps.

A two wheeled roadster crumpled halfway through a range-wire fence. Up against a silvered, split cedar post.

And a hapless rider splayed in shadows on the icy pavement – protective fabric melted – wondering why his left thigh felt so warm. And moist.


He took a quick inventory. All body parts attached. Motorcycle “over there.” No on-coming traffic. No sign of God. Or Saint Peter.

So he rested in the road. Laid his helmeted head on the pavement.

And waited.

A good day ruined.

Absolutely ruined.