Deep dark and tired from a day on the range observing a BRC for new riders. Getting trained up to teach it. Class ends at dark, have been standing in the driving rain all afternoon. Seattle rain. Nothing impressive at any one moment. Not a Rocky thunderstorm, not a New England deluge. Just constant penetrating 43 degree water.
Mount up my Connie and start the 90 minute ride home. Roads have standing water in every depression, raining, spray, splash. Splash Splash Splash. Headlight glare off the face shield, splash, is that a pothole right there? Does that lady on her phone next to me see me through the rain and fogged up window? Hell no! Dart, pause, avoid.
It's a form of battle, really. Your life is certainly on the line. Right there on the line. You feel the line. You see the line. Not nervous, not unfamiliar, not strange. Just a friendly familiar line. You realize how thin the margin of error lies between you getting up to hug your family or being in a trauma center hoping to walk again.
Splash, driving rain, cars changing lane abruptly without signaling. Is that my exit? Is it? Damn it! A detour?
You think about just grabbing a room somewhere, that maybe that is the sane thing to do. It's just time and money. But you are so close to home.
That detour takes you through a city you don't know, with roads you don't know. And potholes and edge traps and oil slicks you don't know. And your visibility is maybe, what?, 50% of that on a good sunny day? Is that too generous? 30% maybe? Dark, road black with water in all spots, face shield sheds water but still covered in wetness.
Finally on the freeway home, cruising along in lighter traffic doing 70, able to space yourself as you would, protect your zone. Starting to settle into the mold of your tired, wet ride. Holding tightly onto your situational awareness. Gripping like the best friend you've ever had.
Among the vehicles passing by or getting passed...I hear a BEEP, BEEP! Not a car horn, but what sounds like a bike horn. What the hell? NO way I'm seeing someone else on this night, in these conditions, right here? Haven't seen another rider in the last hour through Tacoma city and freeways. But sure enough, a fellow rider on what looked to be a Vstrom came up next to me, gave me a couple more BEEP, BEEP's, and pulled off the next exit.
You will think I'm silly or too sentimental. But that little act of brotherhood, or sisterhood, meant way more to me than it should. That feeling that you are not in battle alone. That there are fellow warriors braving the conditions to get home to families, beer or work. That moment when you do a gut check and realize you've done this thousands of times before, and are doing it again, and you're fine, and actually, truly, you do it because it is an adventure that puts you closer to the edge of existence instead of in comfortable decrepitude.
Mr. or Ms. Vstrom: Hope you had a safe and nice ride too.
Get home, hug the wife and kids. Take a shower to wash off the adrenaline and warm up the few places that were cool despite all the heated gear and winter clothing. Settle in. Get ready for doing it again today.
Mount up my Connie and start the 90 minute ride home. Roads have standing water in every depression, raining, spray, splash. Splash Splash Splash. Headlight glare off the face shield, splash, is that a pothole right there? Does that lady on her phone next to me see me through the rain and fogged up window? Hell no! Dart, pause, avoid.
It's a form of battle, really. Your life is certainly on the line. Right there on the line. You feel the line. You see the line. Not nervous, not unfamiliar, not strange. Just a friendly familiar line. You realize how thin the margin of error lies between you getting up to hug your family or being in a trauma center hoping to walk again.
Splash, driving rain, cars changing lane abruptly without signaling. Is that my exit? Is it? Damn it! A detour?
You think about just grabbing a room somewhere, that maybe that is the sane thing to do. It's just time and money. But you are so close to home.
That detour takes you through a city you don't know, with roads you don't know. And potholes and edge traps and oil slicks you don't know. And your visibility is maybe, what?, 50% of that on a good sunny day? Is that too generous? 30% maybe? Dark, road black with water in all spots, face shield sheds water but still covered in wetness.
Finally on the freeway home, cruising along in lighter traffic doing 70, able to space yourself as you would, protect your zone. Starting to settle into the mold of your tired, wet ride. Holding tightly onto your situational awareness. Gripping like the best friend you've ever had.
Among the vehicles passing by or getting passed...I hear a BEEP, BEEP! Not a car horn, but what sounds like a bike horn. What the hell? NO way I'm seeing someone else on this night, in these conditions, right here? Haven't seen another rider in the last hour through Tacoma city and freeways. But sure enough, a fellow rider on what looked to be a Vstrom came up next to me, gave me a couple more BEEP, BEEP's, and pulled off the next exit.
You will think I'm silly or too sentimental. But that little act of brotherhood, or sisterhood, meant way more to me than it should. That feeling that you are not in battle alone. That there are fellow warriors braving the conditions to get home to families, beer or work. That moment when you do a gut check and realize you've done this thousands of times before, and are doing it again, and you're fine, and actually, truly, you do it because it is an adventure that puts you closer to the edge of existence instead of in comfortable decrepitude.
Mr. or Ms. Vstrom: Hope you had a safe and nice ride too.
Get home, hug the wife and kids. Take a shower to wash off the adrenaline and warm up the few places that were cool despite all the heated gear and winter clothing. Settle in. Get ready for doing it again today.
