Author: Ted Edwards

Time The Gods Do Not Count

Such is the passage of time, the dreadful metronome plowing forward keeping its pace, measuring out our remaining days toward our end. Time is uniform for every soul; a day, is a day, is a ticking away day. God tracks our days, life’s invisible odometer set from the beginning to expire at a mileage unknown to us. Who is able to stop the meter of time? There is no ceasing it, no killing the march, no rolling back of life’s odometer avoiding our conclusion.
But there is a way to pause it, to ever so briefly suspend the turning of life’s odometer. God cannot be tricked, but there is a part of time He does not count against us. It came to me in a river.

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5 Questions With Jake Gagne

Jake Gagne has won every race he has finished in the 2021 MotoAmerica Superbike championship, in dominating fashion. His string of seven consecutive victories astride his Fresh N Lean Attack Performance Yamaha R1 has him standing firmly atop the Superbike points race. He’s drawing comparisons to five-time MotoAmerica Superbike champ Cameron Beaubier, even as Jake smashes lap records set by his predecessor. Man and machine are truly dialed in with each other, as evidenced by Jake’s mastery so far this season. He’s riding like we’ve never seen him ride before.

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The Kindness of Strangers

Yosemite Valley stranger’s interaction stood out since it was rare, a blip on my travel radar because overwhelmingly I find the American spirit of kindness to strangers permeates every place I visit. I could write stories ad infinitum (kind of my job here at Road Dirt) about total strangers who have waved hello, offered a kind word, given me food, welcomed me into their homes, granted access to their garage to repair my bike, given me shelter in a storm, let me spend the night on their couch, became close friends or even adopted me into their family as their own son. This is the rule. Yosemite Valley man, you are the exception.

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My Soul Said Go

This is for you, mister random Yosemite Valley stranger who spun on your heels and approached me while I dismounted my bike that sweltering July day, who stopped your walk along God’s Country to ridicule my exhausted frame as I peeled sweaty gear off my back, who halted gazing at El Capitan so you could critique me.  You pulled your focus from where it should have been to where it had no business being, aiming your spiteful arrows at me to offer a cutting remark to this travel weary vagabond.
“Is it worth it?” you inquired rather sarcastically.  Then before I could respond, you turned and walked away.

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The Zombie Ninja, Pt. 2

Joining our squad of swift, veteran riders was my 16-year old son Matt, who earned his driver’s license and motorcycle endorsement simultaneously little more than a month before.  A motorcycle I nicknamed the Zombie Ninja was his mount, a Kawasaki Ninja 500R that absorbed parts and money like a giant, sucking black hole of bottomless misery until it roared to life just days before departure.  Before us lay the 30 miles of Canada’s 31A, technical tarmac where beauty reigns, crashes are frequent and speed is a punishable commodity.

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The Zombie Ninja, Pt. 1

Motorcycle parked in my driveway, I walked up the stairs to my front door as a dead man walking, dead man walking, I was a dead man walking. A 3-day, 900-mile tour of Canada complete, I was returning home without my 16 year old son. I had no idea where he was. Inside waited my wife whose blissful world was about to be ripped apart by the news, and I would deliver the blow that would drop her to her knees.

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GPI Pro Series Motorcycle Stands

I ordered the GP Pro Series stands from GPI Industries which set me back $249.99. GP Pro Series stands are mandrel bent from one piece of 1 3/8″ tubular carbon steel meaning no joints, no wobbly bolts holding them together and no major assembly, just attach the wheels and they are ready to use. A lifetime guarantee accompanies every stand but after looking over their one piece construction I can’t imagine where they would fail.

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Crows For Eagles

My engine thrummed while birds circled overhead, teasing the Columbia River air with their wingtips.  Expert manipulators of space they moved with unconscious subtle gestures, altering their trajectory in anticipation of the next wind shift.  Like a road racer making minute course changes with a lowering of the head to the inside of a corner, these birds were masters of instinctual flight.  I assumed they were eagles.

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Clouds of Doubt

The picture was a metaphor, an allegory that burrowed deep into spaces in my mind I pretend don’t exist, things about the sport of motorcycling I bury beneath the temporal joy of the next corner.

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