A Motorcycle Ride Through
The Mountains and Rain
White Chedda
This is a story about one of the Top 3
most stupidest days of my life
I started the day in Sacramento at Zach's.
For understandable reasons we call it Zacramento.
My tatted little brother and I had just finished laying down
a much-rehearsed and well-refined version of
My iPhone is Killing Me on the mic
and then, I had to go.
10:30
Fire up Sonrisa, say goodbyes.
10:35
Merging onto I-80W toward the 5 south
10:39
Major rush of rain. Highway, motorcycle.
I stopped under a bridge to take shelter, like the great LogiLeBerry of Yore. this was a deluge. As I waited for my inevitable encounter with the police, or a death by semi, I realized I couldn't stay there so I re-motored up & ventured the 1/2 mile to the next exit.
That 2-minute stretch:
The rain pounding us. Sonrisa, tracking; keeping steady on a road flooded. Me, fighting to keep at least 28% visibility, while turning an over-abundance of adrenaline into a pathetically weak form of courage.
These were just an appetizer to a day full of hearty courses in boldness, correction, idiocy.
I pulled off, Zach & Pepo came by and we breakfasted the rain out. A great re-enforcement of the life motto I attempt: Ride Slow.
It took until 3pm to truly believe the roads were ready for a re-address. They were not...
1-5 South of Stockton had stretches of rain but not with the same ferocity as before. Cousin Wind, was now making a bid in the category of, Things To Make You Nervous.
The wind can be, and often is, the scariest part about a motorcycle ride. It's because of the unpredictability. Imagine getting hit suddenly by a sideways blast while traveling on two-wheels at 74mph. It is not ideal to be in a place of high gust.
Whoops.
I have walked Oklahoma, I've driven a small motorcycle from LA to Vegas*. I am no stranger to wind. But there is some special element to her when running along the spine of a great mountain range. This stretch did just that.
In the vast space of California, this area is Neptunal; Out There. To the left of me, miles of flat land. Farms or nothing. To my right, the rising peaks of the Sierra Nevadas. The foothills are prominent: in the foreground of my ride, scattered, not smattered, with what I assume to be really happy cows. These are green and grass-filled Hobbit-like hills where the terrain is winding and the valleys always catch the sun pleasantly. The caverns through the hills do, however, make a dangerous path for freshly mountain-maddened wind to wind her way to the great flatness of the east. I was in the way.
Que Sera Sera is any determined motorcyclists view of the wind. I kept on. At one point I reached a junction between the way my maps told me to go and a road that I knew would also get me back. This wasn't the only distinction of these two directions. The suggested route showed signs of a storm but the other way would presumably be longer and wasn't exactly the picture of calm itself. I kept towards the clouded mass, following my digital instruction. My phone was actually dead but I had memorized the path and trusted it's trueness. 41-S.
I was about 12 miles away from that exit when the sky opened up. This was worse than before. In the morning, I was in a metropolis. Any exit could be a safe haven. Now, I found myself in those slivers of our country where people and places are at a special scarcity. I was lucky to find another underpass but again was uncomfortable staying. I still had to cut across many mountains and, while I would inevitably be doing a portion at night, I wanted to limit my time on the road in the darkness.
I was soaking wet when a pickup truck pulled up to me under the bridge. I'd only been there for about 3 minutes. The young homie said he had seen me on the road for quite some distance. He offered me a ride to Los Angeles. I probably exhibited a second of misunderstanding before realizing he was offering to put my bike in the back and ride me down. It looked like he might have even had a rig for towing bikes. This was an interesting proposition, truly. But since I really wasn't intending to go to LA I declined his offer and decided to ride those few miles to the junction with 41. I had optimism that the new road would offer me a brighter chance at riding enjoyably. The skies were still gray but I they looked to promise reprieve. As I merged on westward to traverse those mountain passes, Sonrisa steadily humming through a thicket of water, I began to realize that not only would I be denied comfort on this road but my life could truly end. Wrong place. Wrong time. Wrong activity.
Some of the roads in California are monuments to the vision of great men and women of yesteryear. I'm awed by the curvaceousness of this land and thrilled that man even dared to pave some of it. 41 is a beautiful road...
And I hate it.
I truly began to question my own sanity & intelligence as a small river now rose from the asphalt and ran passed my boots. I had stopped again. This time, under the bough of a giant tree.
As I contemplated my next move, I realized that, in the stillness, the rain could be tolerated. It was driving that made it exponentially worse. In motion I am affected differently with my helmet visor up versus down. If it is down, there is a great accumulation of water on my visor and the fog of my breath in the helmet, in the coldness of the mountains, reduces my ability to have a consistent and clear line of sight. The problem is that I sometimes have to wear it that way because if the visor is up, I am barraged by rain pellets punching me with the velocity equal to my own speed. It's like a thousand fairy needles stabbing you every second on or around the eyes.
I run a well choreographed but seemingly futile routine that cycles every 42 seconds. the visor is closed and I'm wiping the mask like a windshield wiper with my gloved left hand to keep it clear. It's not an A+ solution. Then, a large exhale brings mouth steam into the equation.
My breathing is not as controlled as I would like. I'm on edge because my limbs and life are on the line. The intensity of each breath is equal to my circumstance. I can't see. I lift the visor.
Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!
Whooooooooooooosh....(100x)
Generally, helmet on, visor up is my favorite way to ride. Today, not so much. I could only tolerate the incoming water daggers in short bursts before retreating back under the protection of the visor.
Since there was still opportunity for some light, I decided to re-engage my homeward forge but at a much slower and more cautious pace that would allow me to decrease rain pain on my eyes while riding with the visor up.
Riding slowly, I took charge as the pacebike for this two-lane mountain curver. Perhaps at the frustration of those behind me, I led us whimpily in the vicinity of 40-50 mph while passing cars, both the ones oncoming and the ones moving around me, sprayed their evil road water over my path and my mask.
I was 35 miles to Paso Robles, cold and scared. Sonrisa had been faithful & steadfast. I was grateful for her eloquence in this mighty shower. As I slowed and downshifted to the yield of 41 south & 46 west, I thought, 'I'd like to get her out of this mess'
The sky was pink ahead. Had I really just done what I'd done? Grateful to be alive, I foolishly found an optimism that I'd lived the worst of it. Ha! The sky is fickle.
The water on the road when riding a rainstorm presents an even more paramount concern than those instigated by the helmet. In a car, you are generally convinced that, even if you were to slide, you would have enough stability and traction to regain control and cruise on. A bad slip on a motorcycle could equal a topple: death, or worse, in my opinion, life-altering injury.
When the rain starts to grow on itself and create waterways that course down the road, you have to navigate the most optimal route by listening to the water. Focus and concentrate on its motion. It's all around you, affecting the future condition of your path. Man is not one step ahead of a raindrop. Instead, the raindrop is a step ahead of the man. On lucky occasion you might find enough harmony together to dance in step. That is the goal of a successful ride in the rain.
Adapt.
My most ideal path is in the tire tracks of the previous rider. I find there to be a bit of extra predictability away from the center of the lane. It's the shallows. Sometimes you must create your own trail through the depths of the unadventured puddles.
Hydroplaning is naturally a great concern on the bike. Can you imagine even just a second with no traction on a motorcycle. It feels like a glide and a slip. The worst is on those patches of road that have been repaired with that gooey & stretchy tar crack filling. You know that stuff? It's consistency is fascinating to me when contemplating it at stillness but on Sonrisa, it becomes a slippery villain.
That pink sky turned into about a 27 minute period of contentment. It was a clearing. and route 46 had me convinced that my home stretch might have some pleasantness. Even patches of the road seemed hardly damp.
I suppose this was the time at which I had brought a greater illumination to an idea I had been scratching at surface level some 100 miles before. See, I tend to try & look at the world as if it is already heaven. When you catch a nice patch of road on a motorcycle in a pretty country, it's hard not to feel blessed to be alive. And in this time. This era.
I started to picture Sonrisa as a horse with just amazing resilience & thrust. A cowboy of even just the century passed, would find her to be inexplicable. A looming jealousy would be an inevitability.
This is our epoch; the coveted jewel of all past ages cumulatively. All of humanity has been and will be required to live in the present by natural law but the yearning for the boundless opportunity of future is also innate. Right now, to be a healthy, American with a transport with such power, creativity & class is like being chosen on high to splendor the greatness of the Earth. Live like this is heaven. Be angelic each day & ride until your heart's content.
Nightfall came and enforced the reality of my danger. The rain re-arrived in droves with 15 miles left to Paso Robles. Quite literally a dark outlook. And yet, all the while I'm playing with this bright and evolving perspective in my mind about the protection of God.
If this is heaven, how can we teach ourselves to understand that Her protection and mercy are abundant, consistent and thorough? For me, the temptation to veer away from that trust was immediate and present with each passing second in wetness, darkness & fear.
I struggled.
Truly.
How is it that we doubt God so often when there are so many reoccurring evidences of grace in our lives? We're 93 million miles from the sun for starters. For seconders, I should not be able to have a two-wheeled rocket underneath me that has the capacity of going 100 miles per hour. The survival coincidence is too strong to be anything other than that blatant gift from above.
Also, you have to remember that on the other side of these organized English letters is a man who just walked 1300 miles across country when many were declaring it a foolish danger. What story did we tell other than that of the blessings that God can bestow upon us, especially through one another?
The truest challenge: Maintain that outlook through your great adversities.
Man, I was trying; squinting through a real challenge and praying for that distant light of civilization to pierce the California sky ahead.
I was shivering.
Joy came as a flood when I saw that round orange 76 station sign
There was compassion in the eyes of the gas station clerk who I must have forced to look upon me motherly. I wasn't trying to solicit her empathy, it just came natural when she saw me soaked from head to toe and convulsing from cold. I enjoyed her great and welcoming smile after truly being confident I might never see another. She was warm.
People can be fire. All lit up. Providing heat & comfort or ruthlessly destructing every semblance of order in their path. We both are a madness. We both can be graceful.
I suppose there is a steadiness of the flame that we long for when we are human. We want the fire to rage just so. Your flame is your essence & your individuality is in the way you dance.
But sometimes,
Like on this particular day,
I fear The Great Smoldering.
It's the actual closeness with death that is causing this sensation. My mind has just prevailed a 70-minute torture, in which, despite my best attempts to find that pure and whole trust in God, I feared for my life.
I'm ashamed that I have yet to find that same pink-sky-kinda-peace on this voyage when in storm. I still don't fully believe that I am going to be ok.
Why? I curse myself for this doubt when I am so truly aware that each passing & present mile is an exuberant shout heavenward to the glory of God. 'What joy to be living!' Each successful breath of each living thing indicates the involvement of Divinity.
One of the reasons is because I see my present adversity as self-inflicted. There's pride and stubbornness at play. I could sit here at this gas station for 4 hours same as the underpasses or the bough. but I won't. Kirk won't. I will ride because I want to get home today. I'm in a period of life where I am especially sensitive to being far beyond the reaches of a populous and, particularly in this moment, just truly long for blankets, couches & multi-jet hot tubs
Paso Robles sits at the junction of route 46 and the notorious US 101, one of America's most gorgeous highways. I kicked Sonrisa back to life and set to merge onto this Californian behemoth, moving south once more. The road had additional width.
Generally, when I think 101, I think, oceanside highway. Not in these parts. I was still squarely pegged in the mountains. Here, the highway dances and bops from hilltop to valleylow. If 46 curves, 101 dips. At this point, I'd prefer to be a wallflower at this dance instead of the lead.
Going down a falling hill is a fascinating glide on a motorcycle. It's flying, truly. On a major highway in the prevailing conditions, however, it was shear terror.
The reason it can be so scary is that you have an increased likelihood of needing to brake, to lower your speed, or worse, down-shift to really lower your speed. I actually just shuddered. Any woman or man who has ever done either in the heavy rain has felt a millisecond hyper-rush toward the light at the end of their life.
The worst, by far, is needing to use the clutch, which is what you have to do in a downshift. Here, with the mountainous terrain, this could happen quite often as you drift downward towards a curve and need to slow. You have to remain in the gear that correctly matches your engines rotations per minute (RPM), otherwise you are riding poorly & the bike will sputter to a death. When the RPM is too low for the present gear, it requires a down-shift.
Engage the clutch with your left hand and shift the gear from 5 to 4 with your left foot. An experienced rider does this in a split second. Regardless, anytime you pull the clutch, the bike's gears disengage and you are essentially riding in neutral. It's fun to free ride it when the road is dry with no traffic; To just coast on a quiet engine. It's like not wearing underwear. But what makes it scary is the split second of reengage, in which the tire is basically re-establishing a relationship with the gear, and thusly, the road. In the rain, this is your greatest recipe for slippage. Clutch, shift, cringe, clutch.
There was something so foreboding about being still 90 miles from home. The elements of dark & wet were waring me to a shell. I was reminded to pray again; the 276th time in as many miles. To draw strength. Sonrisa was holding up her end of the bargain.
You are in a more face to face conversation with God when moving dangerously on a motorcycle. It's like, 'hey God, here I am on the doorstep of your Great Unknown Passage moving at roughly 5,000 feet a minute with an 800cc wildebeest of human design strapped between my legs...How are ya? How's the son? Please protect me.
God's grace is in the continuance of our existence, which hangs more fragile than we have convinced ourselves.
We live on.
And our purpose on this Earth is divine & good in nature, because how could it not be? The statistical odds of our existence in the universe are so astronomically poor that we must be purposed, loved & protected. The furtherance of our life, each mile, is a magnificent testament to the 'it's all good'-edness of the universe. Therefore, ride slow. Enjoy the time.
Sidebar with the devoted audience who has read the fullness of this text thus far:
Here we are, deep in the foliage of digital leaves that it took to write this piece. We are hidden in the fort of a story that we've built by journeying here together. Thusly, it is time to reveal the gemheart of the whole passage...
See, as I rode, even from the first miles early in the day, it dawned on me that I was passing through a kingdom that God is very much involved in. She micro manages more than we think and then presents order so effortlessly. There is wonderful and natural regulation to the systems of the Earth.
I am not bigger than the storm in the kingdom. I will, however, dare to ride it with my creator as my fortitude. I'm taking confidence in my protection because I take confidence in my purpose. Because we live, we are angels. Because we are angels, God showers us with blessings that supersede the limitations of the finite. Our imagination cannot venture to fabricate the true harmony and balance that has been constructed in the universe that we may have a sunrise or a heartbeat. And yet, we are privileged to bear witness as these miracles renew and unfold again and again.
What is the RPM of your heart? In what gear do you ride? Does your mind run ahead to the paradise of the horizon or do you cherish the heavenly element of your present reality?
Breathe.
Smile.
You have inherited your position, your physical presence on Earth in this time, from an unspeakably complex lineage that has been at odds with cosmic & Earthly survival for millennia. Pay this the respect it deserves with your vigor and vision.
As Sonrisa rolled me to a stop out front of my mom's house in Lompoc, I took a type of breath that had not previously been available to me. I had made it back to the comfort of home. It was a pitiful conquest, not worthy of braggadocio or fondness, but my sense of relief was unparalleled. I patted the black leather seat with my gloved hand, 'Good job girl'.
My body was in a state of convulsion as I poured into the dark entryway. Mom was asleep so I had this time & space to break down. I began to shed the soak, tossing drenched pants to the right & damp undershirts diagonally. I was making sounds but they weren't linguistic. They were the belabored grunts of disrobing wet clothes.
Two priorities prevailed: warm up & chill out. I rolled a blunt & went to reflect in the hot tub. Ready made warmth. I was gracious for the new stillness of the sky. Patched clouds were the remnants of a storm forgotten by the dark but canonized in my soul.
Strange that water can so fluidly flow from enemy to ally. I submersed myself completely and floated. Like an unborn child, I let the subtle currents rock me into a state of cerebral comatose. How could it be that I still hold my life? How precious it is. How easy to forget the preciousness.
The rain in the mountains was purposed as reminder. It had stretched my willingness to re-discover the truest form of faith and thusly, the truest truth: my own magnificence in the eye of God. I am apparently worthy of the defiance of odds. Set free to wander. Modernity is my playground on the most cosmically well-positioned rock.
I cannot answer why we find this highest faith when the mind is at the most drastic edge of its despair. When the wind thrashes and the rain pummels and the road curves into the dip of a low valley, we are forced to forge a courage that extends mightier and more longevous than our Earthly existence. But the advancing line of a dark unknown threatens immediately to take you from a place you are just now realizing might have been designed with your glory as the founding aspiration.
Ride, therefore. Ride without fear. For you have been woven out of the great nothing so that you might share purity with the rain and sing a strong and bellowing praise alongside the mountain.
K.S.
THIS ORIGINAL CONTENT IS WRITTEN, OWNED & PUBLISHED BY WHITE CHEDDA. PLEASE DON’T USE IN NON-CHILL WAY.