Thursday, January 9, 2014

An evening of reflection...   the last few days I have run across articles on Native American Indians...  the mystic power in their long hair.   Free experiential learning.  Letting the spirit of the child discover what to explore and what to become skilled at.

Today I worked further on the travel post before this one on the blog.   I read back and the details are there... right here, left there...   but the messages are in the videos and images.   I worry that I don't write enough dialog... but it's not about the dialog...   It's about the experience.

Mid summer more than a year ago I was headed to Bloomsburg on the bike.   A destination day...   take the bike out and enjoy getting to a destination.   Until I came upon that side road away from the Catawissa Creek.   Somewhere south of Mainville.  No destination posted at the intersection...  just a road into the woods.   

My mind asked right out loud... "Where Does That Road Go?"   

The motorcycle experience isn't just about the destination... it's about the travel.  What houses are along that road?  How old is that barn?   Why is there a grove of trees in the corner of that big field?  Who settled there?  Why did they pick this valley to build a town?

And more...   Feel the sunlight warm your face, jacket and pants when you come down off that mountain pass.  Watch the next series of turns come into view over a rise... set up and develop your rhythm.   Watch as you pull up behind that Amish buggy...  listen to the hooves, wheels scraping the mcadam, smell the people and the horses.   Pass knowing that they are one more rung down the vehicle ladder than your two wheels with power.

I don't always write these sensations into my posts... Hopefully you will find them in the images and videos.

Travel safe, my friend... and often,


Added 1/10:   My most comfortable rides are back roads running 45 or so mph and listening to the purr of taust ahe exhause and the wind across my face.  Turns come and go without even consciously  making any effort to guide the bike.  Out on an interstate the throttle creeps up to 80 and the sensation is just as casual at 35 around town.   Even working our way up rutted fire roads in GA,  after a few miles the bike and body english take on anything that comes our way.  Strange to thtink of a one-with-the-bike concept, but that's pretty much what it becomes.

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