Evolution

Evolution

After Scooter took a beating, here comes Trooper.  A white plastic ride that resembled a group of warrior soldiers from a famous movie.  The cloth panniers were upgraded to aluminum.  Unfortunate, for this picture, I left my rain pants in Phoenix, Arizona.  This trash bag was blowing in the wind and I nabbed it to keep my legs some what dry and a little bit warmer.
Gone is the extra fuel tank, gone is the pile behind my back.  With the new panniers, I've had no fires from the hot exhaust pipes.  Lol

The Egg Lesson

The burner was set just above a medium heat.  A dollop of butter was melting in his favorite two egg pan at a slow rate so it wouldn’t brown the egg, which would be my trademark egg. Earl cracked a couple eggs into the pan and patiently watched them go from clear and jelly to white and with a slightly firmer yoke, then he did it.

“How do you do that?” We’d always ask him.  

“Confidence, you can’t be afraid.”

With the next egg, one of his onlookers volunteered and grasped the pan handle then hesitated.

“Can’t do that, you have to go for it.”  Earl takes over the pan and, again, expertly flips the eggs.

Perfect.  “It’s in the commitment.  Once you start the pull back of the pan, and you see the egg slide forward, you have to keep the speed. Stay with it.  Finish it through.”

Another valuable lesson taught by Earl.  The beauty was, he never saw anything he did as a lesson.  Earl would just do something, know the opponent, find a strategy and see it to fruition.

Earl was my teacher. My mentor.  My husband and the love of my life. I’m still learning from him.

None of us watching him flip eggs, succeeded.  We just couldn’t break the fear of an egg landing on the floor.

That’s the wall that keeps anyone from succeeding. Fear, such a barrier will keep you standing at the stove with an egg in your pan.  You’ll never eat!  You’ll starve if you don’t believe in yourself and dare the flip.

God wants us to succeed and He is with us should we fail and need encouragement to try again.

He’s got this. 

When we failed at the garden of Eden, that perfect place He intended for us to be in fellowship with Him, He was there with the next plan, forgiveness.  He forgives us of our faults, when we ask. His plan has always been for us to fellowship with Him, to trust Him with our future.

He wants us to succeed. Jeremiah 29:11 “ I know the plans I have for you, plans to prosperThe you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

Sounds good to me, now I just need to live it. First step, go to the stove and flip an egg.

That idea you have had running around in your head and have been hesitant about trying, go do it.  Do it with confidence. Do it with commitment. Do it with God on your side.  Do it with prayer and trust.  Do it to fruition.

Devotional

Dictionary

Magazines aren't good enough, on the back of my toilet is a dictionary.  A cloth covered hard back dictionary with  faded fabric and worn edges, a composition notebook lay with it, a pen clipped on its cover, they go together, for when I sit for a spell, the heavy book is balanced on my bare legs and I read, if something of interest is found, it is penned into the composition notebook, so when I can't remember what I had just read, I can look in the notebook and find that crazy work that would fit so perfectly in a sentence.
Dictionaries were introduced to me at a young age.  Eight, in third grade, for disciplinary purposes, I was told to copy pages of the dictionary when I could no longer sit still in class. I loved reading the clues to the history of a word.  The single letter for it's place in the English language.  Italicized was to describe its origin.  Clues.  
A road map holds the same interest for me, though it does not sit on the tank of the toilet,  it sits on the table my husband and I read the daily news and emails, and paper mail.  Rarely is a map closed and put into it's cabinet with my back pack gear.  It's all there.  Things to take road tripping when time can afford the urge.  Small things that can be stuffed quickly into a back pack and taken traveling, bungee-ed to the back of Trooper.  My latest BMW duel sport, with it's white plastic design it looks like a Storm trooper from a famous movie, origin for it's name.  Clues.   A map has a legend and I like to find those little logos on a map and check it out physically on Trooper.  My favorite is the little green tent, especially if it is printed next to a blue body of water. Before a trip, I'll google each green tent that is in the direction I am going and camp at the best of them.
Except for last June.  That wasn't the case.  As an avid road tripper, I thought this time I would just wing it.  I've a smart phone with great service coverage, shouldn't be a problem. Till it was dark,  dark is early when your riding the Gulf of Mexico and not Great Lakes of Canada.  Far north travel, I never worried about beating the dark to a camp ground.  But southern rides becoming dark becomes part of the elements you account for when your riding.  Rain being the other element.  Rain and dark and a dead phone and not to a camp ground yet in this east bound journey to visit my son in Florida.   None of those logos appear on a road map.  On the weather map yes, but it doesn't matter what the weather map says if your under a bridge waiting out a down pour.
It's all good.  It's all part of the adventure.  Knowing the clues on a weather map or a road map,  read the clues and you still won't be ready for the day, things change that quickly.  A change of mind to the route taken, a change of weather in the route, a change of activity you want to partake it along the way like zip lining in Arkansas. The clues on a map give you hope to your journey.
Life has clues.  The Bible gives warnings and highlights as to how to live exciting and healthy lives.  Healthy as in relationships.  Give it a read.  Ten commandments; how to get along with God and other people (don't lie!).  It's all there.  Take an adventure.

Orange Shoes

I was comfortable in the armored shoulders and elbows of my red motorcycle jacket, the neon glow green tennis ball-like helmet snug on my head, it was warm inside the new coat that I hadn’t worn much, but now, extremely glad that I chose to put it on this foggy morning. I didn’t want to move from this spot, I had already tried to roll onto all fours, and gave a eventful push to rise, a strain to stand up right, and couldn’t.  The pain in my thighs hollered to stay down till I could get my breath back. An inhale, rising my diaphragm, closing my eyes, using the concentration learned from Lamaze and practiced many times with the birth of each child, a breathe to relax selective parts of my body, namely the parts in highest pain.  Warm and comfortable in this quiet helmet world lying on asphalt in a residential area I was passing through on my way to work.

“Are you alright?  Are you alive?”

Exhaling, I opened my eyes to an orange pair of shoes.  Bright orange running shoes. 

The quiet bubble broke as the situation rolled over me.

“Yes, I’m alright.” I answered, not able to see a face.

“Are you a female?” the shoes wanted to know.

“Yes.” I then pulled myself up on one arm and sat side saddle, like a lady, looking down at my bare leg, when my knee hit the pavement, a tear in my cotton seersucker pants, from pocket to hem, bared my leg, I was glad to have some what of a tan this early in spring. 

March 27, that dreaded, inevitable left hand turn caused me not to go to work today, some one in the office needed to know that. I wanted my phone.

I looked around for my motorcycle.  Scooter was on its side 20 feet from me. Rigamortis must have sat in, for the panniers and a frame rod were sticky out as if grasping for some hand to help them up. Like troopers, they took the brunt of the impact, dented and torn from the bike; they very well could have saved my legs.

A white car had pulled out in front of me, I knew I couldn’t miss it, and turned to get around the car, it’s right headlight hit the back pannier. Flying over the handlebars, I saw my hands in front of me and thought, if I land like this I will break an arm. Subconsciously, I must have rolled.

My first motorcycle accident, but according to the tow truck driver, it should be my last. There are two types of people, he philosophized.

Those are going down and those that have been down. He reasoned, I should not go down again.
I think that is based on an average.  My friends that have gone down, have pins in their calves, or missing calves, broken collar bones or broken legs, or loss of life. I had bruised thighs, pulled groin muscles and shear thankfulness that I didn't hurt more.
Ameliorating of my lower body was quick.  Within the week I was back on my horse;  real four legged creature, not the other wise known Iron Horse motorcycle; riding in the local gymkhana club.  Nobody knew I walked away from a motorcycle accident just a week prior.

As my sister-in-law walked with me from the ER to my husband's truck waiting curbside, she reminded me of something I had told her many years before when she and her 3 daughters were in a car accident, a verse I had read in Proverbs.
"You can prepare a horse for battle, but safety is of the Lord."
For her, she was glad everyone had seat belts on when she rolled her pick up in the fast lane on the freeway.  For me, it was the heavy jacket and helmet for protection, but ultimately, it was the grace of God telling me, He had more for me to do. More for me to experience.  
I would have enjoyed a quick trip to heaven, but there are people that would have been greatly hurt if I went missing.
So, I am still around, still pestering the lives of those in my family.

The Inevitable Left Hand Turn

Down But Not Broken

We all know it to happen at some point when riding two wheels and being physically exposed to mishaps, misjudgments and the inevitable left hand turn in front of you.

On my way to work one morning, and turning right on a surface street into a residential area to avoid traffic and people rushing to work or to drop off their children at school and every one is in their way, I bounced to a stop as a white car turned left in front of me, he didn't stop, I had to ride the tank when I stopped.  Moving up the street, the white car in front of me, another white car pulled out behind him, a left turn in front of me.  Do they not see me? I am in a red jacket, the head lights of the bike are on, my helmet resembles a glow green tennis ball but much bigger. I knew I could not swerve far enough left to avoid a crash this time, the windows were dark tinted, I couldn't see the driver, who didn't see me, because they did not stop. Flying over the handlebars, I hear the crunch of my panniers, it happened quickly, not slow motion, and I rolled from my right thigh to my left and moved to my knees and elbows only to groan and lay back down.  I'm not getting up. I can see my bike 20 feet in front of me, her headlight looking at me for help, the pannier on the right was ripped and contorted, she was broken more then me. Groaning I closed my eyes, breathing deeply to relieve the pain that was in my legs, opening my eyes, from the comfort of my full faced helmet, were a pair of bright orange running shoes.  

"Are you alive?" the shoes asked.

I groaned. 

"Are you a female?"

It's not obvious from the cotton slacks and dress shoes I have on?  Or did.  A shoe was missing, a siren was heard, the ambulance was just on the other side of the freeway less then a 1/2 mile away, I tried to sit up.  My pants were ripped from the crotch to the ankle. I slowly took my helmet off.

"Ma'am, please stay down, leave your helmet on."  The orange shoes had called 911 he assured me, a young girl of 20 looked on me and asked if she could help.

She fetched my wallet from the one pannier still attached to the bike. The lotion, I carry for dry places and left in the pannier from my last road trip, the 2 month one around the nation with out incident, exploded over the wallet as I smoothed it aside to fetch my phone.  The orange shoes, saw my struggle and volunteered to make the call. 

I gave him my husband's number.  He was in Riverside and would be there as soon as possible.  I was not bleeding. I was not broken. I was bruised on both my thighs.

I could hear the woman driver that hit me lament it was her fault, she had ran into me. 

But she never came up to me.  The officer was taking the report. I was to see him later in ER.  Then my daughters came. One, the organizer, taking charge over X-rays and officer reports.  And my other daughter, with tears, "Mom you scared us!"

"I know, I'm sorry. I tried to avoid it."

A week after the accident I was back on my horse, thankful I could walk. I'm stiff and bruised.  But I can walk. I don't have to have physical therapy, I don't have to wait for a prosthetic limb, my ribs are not broken, I'm not in a comma on a respirator.  I'm not the main attraction at a funeral, as has happened to my motorcycle riding friends over the years. I am extremely thankful.

My sister-in-law met me at the hospital.  I was there when she was in a car accident and she reminded of what I had told her for comfort. A verse in Psalm that I had forgotten.

"You can prepare a horse for battle but safety is of the Lord."   

She reminded me I had on the right gear, except for my insulated pants, the road rash was minimal for wearing cotton pants, the bruising would of happened even through the motorcycle pants. 

I thanked the Lord for life.  Now, I wonder why I was spared, but I know I must be worth something if I am still here. I must have more to learn, or more to share if I am writing this now.  No one has read my blog, but maybe some one will and they will know that they are special, too.  We all have a purpose. A simple reason to live.  And that is to give praise to God.

If you are looking for Truth, He is true.  If you are looking for life after death or purpose to this life, He is Life.  If you are wanting a way to Heaven, He is the Way. 

Wednesday off

My student was absent this Wednesday, and I made a lazy bottom decision to take the day off. A reasonable thing to do. Jesse was due home from Afghanistan today and when I got his text, off went my reply of what I was doing, "Riding BMW on forestry road. I will call back when I get home." Sadly, I forgot to include Earl in that text. He hadn't a clue where I was.

And where did I decide to go this beautiful Feb 22? After a ride on Love, first thing in the morning, I strapped the snowshoes on the BMW and headed to Angeles Crest Highway, hoping for a place to use them. My favorite place to ride, but getting there isn't something I want to highlight.

None of the weekend riders were on hwy 2 and snow was just as scarce. The forestry roads were unlocked with gates wide open. They were all closed last summer when I first discovered this ride. Not a lot of snow this year, except in the shade. So, I started off on a dirt road which was only 6 miles to the small village of Lone Pine. It was warm and dry, then the road wrapped around the hill to the north side and a patch of snow was in front of me. 100 yards, shouldn't be a problem. For any one else maybe, within 40 feet the back tire slipped on the icy slush and the bike went down, cracking my ankle on the aluminum panniers. Sliding out from under I switch the key off and stood up. Shaky and weak, I tried to lift the bike, it was not budging. There was a banana in my back pack, a little bit of brain food as I looked at all the possibilities. I lifted the bike once before so I was pretty sure I could get it back up. Wasn't happening. Scooting the scooter to face up hill, since it was decided, there would probably be more patches between here and the final mile, up hill would be better for me to drive, no brake required. Again I tried to upright the bike, with the right footing, it popped up, threw my leg over the seat and started it, released the clutch and the rear tire spun. Off the bike, more situation look over, moving the snow from in front of the back tire and slipping myself on the slushed over ice, since the snow was only on the road, pine needles were gathered and a path made to the end of the dirt...the whole situation was rectified in less then 30 minutes. Nicely done, if it wasn't corrected on my own, it was a mile walk to the highway and wait for a traffic car that might be able to help me. And probably a lecture from a stranger that I shouldn't be on a dirt road in the first place.

It was a great ride. New roads discovered and new lessons learned.

Even at 52.

Some of the In Between

After the initial restructuring of all my "necessary" gear on the Cajon Pass, I veered off the freeway to highway 395 and my first fuel up. Heating up too. 104 degrees @ 10 am. Voting against the larger fueling station, I found a single pump a top the rise, and not disappointingly, the old man sitting out front with a fly swatter across his lap. Drooping, red eyes, thin as a pretzel and legs knotted just as tight, he watched me fuel up, check my bungees, which I later traded for tie downs you crank to get your load secure, and in his all-the-time-in-the world drawl asked me how long I'd been on the road.

Today. I told him. He took a big breathe, (a sign of the beginning to his adventure)

"Wife and I use to ride." He flipped the swatter on his knee and told me the story of when they were riding and got into an accident. He had always told her to wrap her arms around his shoulders and get her feet up into his crotch, if it looked like they were going down. It did. She followed his instructions, got her feet up into his crotch and wrapped her arms around his head, blocking his view. He chuckled, it was a few months before we were able to get up, but we made. Didn't ride after that.

We were about ready to part ways when he motioned with his swatter to an object I had been fixing in the bungee cords earlier.

I pointed to the pair of flat iron pieces under the spare fuel can. "These are the wind breakers my husband made me for the highway bars if it gets too cold." He nodded his head and waved me on. Never asked where I was going, never told him.

I never used the wind breakers. They were just too warm when attached to the highway bars. They were left at Collin's on the way home, in Seattle. Abbey made a sticker for one of them. With her highway prayer on it.

"Lord, keep my mama safe on the roads as she travels her dream. In Jesus Name."

Just the Beginning

Such is life. One day, you realize, you're done being a mom. The 5 kids are self-supportive, meaning they are out of college and pushing 30 something. You've always been well taken care of (spoilt) but not taken advantage of the position of a non-working wife. You've tried the ceramic classes and art classes at the local college, you've coached enough kids sports to write a book of positive coaching and drills, then a blog is googled, an idea is presented; "I can do that and I better do it now."

I am going to Alaska. The state turns 50. I turn 50. I was born in Fairbanks and have never been. It is time to go. Cheapest means of transportation? Since I don't work, abuse of my sponsor is always at the back of my mind, being frugal is in the front. How can I get to Alaska with out punishing my husband's savings account? There's a 2006 Honda Shadow in the garage. But it's a 600cc and 100 miles to it's 2 gallon fuel tank means a lot of stopping and fuel stations to Alaska can be lacking. It wouldn't work.

Scanning craigslist, I found an inexpensive similar bike, with accessories. It's 10 years old, mileage is low, and it runs like a champ. Let the road trip begin!

Everything to do with Alaska motorcycle road trip was googled. I joined a group from Florida going to Alaska. The coordinator was deaf and taught sign language at a Florida university. He sets up a group, every year, to raise money for deaf families.

I did my own mapping, as I was to meet the group in Canada. I'm from SoCal and was aiming for my parents in North Idaho. Campgrounds were selected and some reserved. The Alaskan State Ferry was booked, opting for a tent on deck, I cancelled the stateroom. Fuel stations were calculated for a days ride of approx 350 miles. Hikes, waterfalls, lakes, attractions were marked on my map. Remember, I'm traveling on a budget. I didn't use a GPS, roads to Alaska are few, so you're not going to get lost. My husband made a map dash for me that actually was a 99 cent cookie tray attached to the inside of the windscreen with a clear plastic cover over the top, secured by magnet strips. My maps were folded to the area I was driving in and kept under the plastic cover. A desert dust devil lead me into the first Walmart for a new map book and clamps to keep the cover down, the magnets weren't enough muscle to do the job. Desert heat in July was uninviting. Why am I doing this? I learned to stop at McD's for a sweet iced tea and a wet T shirt; that brought cool for about 30 miles. Even though we have a road trip rule: no chain restaurants. McD's had what I needed.

There was so much stuff on my bike, within the first hundred miles of leaving home things were falling off. The spare fuel I had bungeed to the rear seat, jumped off and was bouncing behind the license plate. I thought the driver next to me was hitting on me, but, in fact, he wanted me to catch the gas can before it blew up! My daughter dubbed me the vagabond, as pictures declare all too colorfully. The neon vest was to be a signature cover of my backpack for all my trips. Not desiring to be a speed bump, the idea was to be seen.

I gave myself 4 weeks, more or less, and my parents the opportunity to go with me. They didn't like the idea of riding with a motorcycle group. "But,Dad, they're your age." Still, he didn't agree, so the journey wasn't mentioned again. Until June. End of July was the date set for the road trip of my life.

"You still planning that trip to Alaska?" a call came from my dad, late in June. I was. "Can we go along?"

The objective for the trip materialized. I had hoped they would join me, to fill me in on the details of the first 2 years of my life and their situations and hardships of being based in Alaska in 1959. Not set in concrete, they actually didn't decide to do the full trip till Banff, Canada. They were to follow me for the first day, to see if they physically could handle driving. Didn't really matter, the sheer adventure of the road compels my parents. My mom secretively had 2 days of clothing packed and of course, a ton of food for sandwiches and snacks. Which was perfect, we stopped at lakes and creeks, bridges and waterfalls for a half a sandwich. End of trip: we lost 10 pounds each.

They followed me from North Idaho to Haines, Alaska, where we parted ferries, they drove home and I ferried for 4 long, foggy, slow moving days. If I could of gotten off and rode inland I would have, but every stop was an island. And part of the adventure. There were many bikes on board and I talked with some. Some were too classy to associate with a vagabond older lady, I noticed their bikes and gear. I spent less on the trip and my gear then they had invested in just the rider pants and jacket. I found a friend in Sheila, my age, with her dog, Trixie. "Come up from Kansas on my '09." She said, as she puffed away on her cigarette. Very comical lady, with the drawl of a mid west accent and the toughness you'd expect from a biker chick. But she talked to me. For that I was thankful. So did Matt, from Minnesota. He rode a laden down Harley, laden with clothing he never changed into. He had the hots for the ranger that kept the ferry passengers entertained with history and fauna of the inside passage. He asked me if he would be out of his league to invite her to dinner one night. She accepted. With a great chance of sitting next to each other, they were seated behind me and I overhead the rough conversation he carried with her. Why he asked her first off if she planned on getting married, did not seem to be the attractive catch phrase I would have started with. "Do you like motorcycle road trips?" would of been my Litmus test. Could be the beginning or ending of a conversation.

We met bikers all along the trip. I noticed the gear they carried and the machine of choice some rode. All this I mentally filed for my next road trip. There would be many, I hoped.

But calls to my pathetic husband cut the drive down the California coast to the inland highway. He missed me and I could always ride the coast when ever for a short trip.