"You see, I don't know how to ride a motorcycle, actually." --Henry Winkler
|Looks fun, right?|
For twenty years my motorcycle enthusiast husband dreamed of getting me out on the open road. I never shared that dream. Sounded more like a nightmare to me. But sometimes circumstances lead us to do things we thought we’d never do.
So we flew to Vegas and picked up a bike. I got up at five Wednesday morning and we rode into the red sunrise, wind on my face, arms wrapped around the happiest man alive. Over the next seven hours I experienced the pungent smells of the Arizona desert while taking in the familiar sights through rose-colored goggles. I never knew you could taste the air at 75 mph.
The southwest is having an unusually powerful monsoon season, so while I enjoyed the scenery, I kept a weary eye on the massive white puffs building in the dark blue skies. Would we make it to the New Mexico border before those clouds burst open?
Seventeen miles outside of Springerville with no shelter in sight, droplets began to pelt my face like sharp rocks. I ducked my head and gritted my teeth. Then the fuel light came on and the battery on the GPS died. We’d come all this way to be drenched at the finish line. . . if we made it to the finish line. How cruel!
But then the rain stopped and the skies brightened. The gas fumes got us into town and the time I’d spent on google street view got us to my father-in-law's summer retreat. Sore butts aside, we’d made it in one piece, well, two pieces. Two of us. And it wasn't horrible.
Now I’m up early and wrestling with the revision of my historical again. It feels a lot like those last seventeen miles. Close to the end, loads of trouble. So I’m ducking my head and gritting my teeth and hoping for the best.
Ever dream of taking a motorcycle road trip? Ever experience obstacles at the novel-writing finish line?