Editor’s Note: The following is a re-edited version of a column I wrote for the Antelope Valley Press, published Sept. 9, 2006. It inspired a series of blogs for RedFence rising from my experiences in two-wheeled wandering.
Riding the Line
by Titus Gee
If I put my foot down, I’ll break my leg.
The thought whispered through my mind as the speedometer cleared 70.
The asphalt zipped past in a streaky blur and the hot wind shoved as though trying to dislodge me from the saddle.
The corners of my mouth twitched.
I leaned in, tipped the throttle back a little more, and blew a short-lived film of steam onto the inside of my visor. By the time it cleared I was grinning — the full out, wall-to-wall, my-cheeks-are-starting-to-hurt-but-I-can’t-help-it kind of grin that you remember from childhood; the kind of grin you forget about halfway through high school.
I’ve heard that the feeling never fades for motorcycle riders. Maybe it’s connected somehow with that whisper of a thought — a realization of motion and momentum that cannot be replicated with four wheels and a windscreen.
It’s what kept Ewan and Charley in their saddles all the way round the globe.
It’s what prompted Burt Munro to go on setting records at the Utah salt flats with his 1920 Indian Scout until he was almost 70 years old.
The old speed demon summed it up like this:
“You live more in five minutes in one of these events that I been in, than some people live in a whole lifetime.”
The rush is still new to me. My ‘84 Honda Nighthawk 650 came to me less than a year ago.
But I’m hooked.
I rode 280 miles one Friday. Took me 12 hours with stops at a couple biker bars and cafes.
A patch of sand in Spunky Canyon set my back tire fish-tailing in the middle of blind curve above a sheer drop-off. Disaster grazed by as my newborn reflexes righted the bike and slowed on the next straight away. My arms started to feel a bit shaky as I replayed the moment in my mind.
Almost bought the farm back there.
Then the grin returned — rising in a rush from the center of my chest.
But I beat the curve. Literally. Ha ha!
I took it a little easier through the next set of curves and kept a sharp eye for sand.
But soon I was back up to speed, back in the rhythm with the Nighthawk pouring around curve after curve.
The risk is part of it, I think — not the only reason for the grin, but definitely part.
The next night, I let my buddy take the motorcycle for a ride.
He came in an hour later covered in gravel dust and bruises.
Some loose rocks had put him on his side at 40 mph.
He wasn’t grinning, but that’s probably because the bike was in rather worse shape than the rider. (My leather jacket had done its job.)
As he told the story, I recognized the remnants of exhilaration behind my friend’s eyes.
He is a newer rider than I, but in this he had surpassed me. He was the first of us to lay it down and walk away.
He marveled at my calm, but the damage to the bike wasn’t so bad, and he seemed to be all right.
What could I say? This was part of it, too.
Every ride, every curve, every patch of gravel bears the question – the potential for perfection or disaster.
To ride that line is to live a moment of transcendence.
Shall I accept good at the hand of God, but not trouble?
There’s nothing to do now but to get that Nighthawk back on the road as soon as possible.
See, I’ve got five minutes to spare and a lifetime of living to do.
::grin::
