Residents of the Pacific Northwest live in a blissful stupor, either unaware of or ignoring the alluring assassins surrounding them. Going directly down the heart of Washington State like a slashing knife wound bleeding lava is a line of volcanoes, part of the Pacific Ring Of Fire called the Cascade Volcanic Arc.
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It’s Independence Day, a Saturday, and students are in school. But the four students attending summer school were not lackluster performers or behavior problems, nor are they being forced to attend against their will.
Quite the opposite. They paid to come here, some traveling thousands of miles to attend. Even more unusual, the curriculum at this school involves clutch control, lofting the front wheel and monkey lifts. All of them, including the instructor and her support staff, are female.
Welcome to Skool of Moto.
The devil on one shoulder muttered lies into my ear, telling me to squander my paycheck on a 1993 VFR750 which Honda had painted an angelic pearl white that year. I felt my paycheck slipping away.
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Recently, Road Dirt’s owner, senior editor, chief cook and bottle washer Rob Brooks flew 3,000 miles from his Georgia home to Wenatchee, Washington to join me and eight others on our annual seven day, 1,500+ mile tour of the upper left. I promised him blue Pacific Northwest skies, great food and a memorable experience. One out of three isn’t bad.
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Disclaimer: I am not my father.
It was inevitable that one day I would end up on a motorcycle like my brother, our father, and his father before him. We’ve always been more comfortable on wheels than in houses. Structures are fixed, and they eliminate the possibility that something exhilarating lies just beyond the next hill crest. Fate works in funny ways; from it you may run, but you can never hide.
Close your eyes and visualize Oregon. What does your mind see? Picturesque lighthouses standing watch on jagged coastlines? Liberal urbanites of Portland? Westward expansion along the Oregon Trail? Tall timber forests full of battling loggers and protesters?No matter what your mind’s eye sees, you are both right and wrong. True, Oregon is all of those things but there is, as Paul Harvey used to say, the rest of the story.
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The world has morphed into a strange place. A few weeks ago, I could take an after-work ride on my Honda SuperHawk, park at my local cafe, tip the barista, drink coffee on the sidewalk, do some caffeine fueled writing, shake hands with the regulars and even hug a few close friends. Now I can do none of those things.
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Awake with the morning sunrise blush
The road my canvas, my bike the brush
My opus begins as I depart
I am the painter, riding my art.
Proper spring trip planning begins with a dream, visions of lands unexplored, of mountains never seen, roads never ridden, fantasies about different places, different climates, different people.
Where does your motorcycle mind go when it dreams? What unexplored lands haunt your imagination? When your mind wanders, what uncharted lands does it see? When you know the answer to these questions, start planning. There is a science and an art to trip planning that makes the process as pleasurable as the trip. Here is how.
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