6.11.99

Finally, a sunny day with warmth. In the afternoon I was driving home from work in congested Friday traffic. I noticed people out on their motorcycles in short sleeves and jeans. I felt envious; couldn't keep my neck from swiveling to observe the riders' clothing, the style of bike they rode. When I got home I called Clark to see if he would be willing to take me for a ride on his bike. He was. So we went. Into the softening light of evening, north toward Woodinville. For a little while there was thick traffic, lots of stopping and going just barely. Somewhere toward Monroe we turned off onto a two-lane road -- Paradise Lake road, I think -- that was mostly vacant and whose gentle curves were sheltered by trees wearing their thick summer wardrobes. His bike is a bit uncomfortable: the foot pegs higher than the VFR, the posture inclined far forward. My back aches between my shoulder blades and my legs tend to stiffen from the bent position. My triceps strain from pushing against the braking momentum. I cannot see around his helmet, and only just the reflection of my eyes and nose in the back of it. I like to see where we are going but that requires shifting my body to one side or the other, which is tiring too. Now I am starting to relax into passivity: not looking forward, not needing to know it. I try to crouch into the eddy behind his helmet, turn my head slightly one way or the other to the blur of passing scenery. Let it hypnotize me into very present images. At times it feels better closing my eyes to listen and feel the propulsion. Air whistling through the fibers of my clothing and around the smooth round surface of the helmet, tearing at everything. The bike pulling our weight at every whimsical turn. We intermittently descend and ascend through pockets of warmth and coolness, comfort and shivers. A cacophony of sensual experience. The body tenses against the force of it, resisting a push off the back. Helmet a protective vessel for the brain: a windless warm space, a sound room for recording thoughts. Head at rest, body mobilized. We rode on by Duvall and Carnation. Stopped for a little while at Snoqualmie Falls where another motorcyclist pulled up for conversation. We ate dinner at a Mexican restaurant in Issaquah. I ate a cheese enchilada, heavy on the cheese. It was twilight when we started home. The air uniformly cool and everything a little bluer. I thought of all the times I've traveled this stretch of I-90 between Issaquah and Seattle, the curve to I-5 just below Beacon Hill. I've ridden my bike across the bridge, which is a rush of exhilaration each and every time. As it is this time on a motorcycle. Same light, same road. Know every turn and bump of this stretch, but experiencing it in yet a new way. I think the sky looked different, though the colors and patterns seem familiar. Certainly the tunnels and the bridge echoed at a new pitch. Ahh, it does not get any better than this - living, I mean - recognizing the multiplicity of singular experience; fresh delight in the everyday. Body shaking with it, mind meditating in plastic shrouded solitude.

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