Things Fall Apart And Come Together

 This is a post-script to my last post, about riding in the rain. Like I said, if you don't have to, don't. I had to. I had to make a journey of twenty-five minutes or so, and the only means of transport I had was either my bike, or a phone call to ask somebody to pick me up. I am a proud woman, a strong woman, a competent woman, so I chose the bike. I had been sitting being mansplained at for about two hours by a family member as I watched the sky grow ever darker behind his condescension, and wondered why I hadn't thought to check the weather forecast before putting myself in this position. I hadn't, because the sky had been blue and while I am proud, strong and competent, I am also kinda dumb. Not dumb enough to have forgotten to bring my rain gear with me, but dumb enough to believe that the raingear itself holds mysterious talismanic properties that keep rain at bay as long as I have it. It doesn't, and now I know that.  By the time I chased the family member a...

It's not the motorcycles that need to use caution. They are highly engineered mechanical tools designed to carry a person from A to B in an agreeable manner, with neither mind nor soul. They read no road signs. It is the rider that must use caution. I prepared for this solo road trip. I studied maps, virtual and physical. I made sure that my bike was working. It had not been working, because I had killed the battery stone cold dead. My Triumph has many design wonders. It offers a sleek combination of chrome and burgundy paint, a capacious heart-shaped tank, a reassuring lack of complicated electronics, and an ergonomic miracle of a saddle, as comfortable at the end of a five hour ride as it is at the beginning. It is easy to wield, light on its feet in spite of its heft, and purrs throatily, like a mighty shiny lion. Nevertheless, it has flaws, as do we all. The dipstick is buried in a valley of plastic, a repository for road dust, dead leaves and insects. In order to check the oi...