Motorcycle Commute
Sharing the experience of riding a motorcycle using words is going to fall short of the actual event. There is nothing like it, and it’s different for everyone. It is difficult to recall every detail that take place because there are so many of them. And it’s not like I can jot them down or make a quick audio note that I can pull up later. Both hands and both feet are making me go, stop, turn, use signals, or change gears. Every sense is focused on the ride: the speed I’m going, the speed I’d rather be going, where I’m at in the lane, what does the next turn look like, my position from vehicles before and behind me, and countless other minutia that gets used and lost from moment to moment. My ride mantra is constantly looping through my head as I cruise down the road, “They can’t see me, and they’re all out to kill me.” And somehow this is enjoyable and relaxing.
Most of my riding takes place during my commute to work and back, and thankfully the route I take to work is all “back roads” instead of being on any part of I-5. The bonus is that it’s actually quicker that way anyway. I couldn’t ask for a better commute route than 507 going through McKenna and Roy, and then finally entering base through East Gate Road and Transmission Gate; 17 miles of therapy and decompression humming along on 885cc’s of inline-triple with heated hand grips. Because even the warmer days out here tend to have chilly mornings more often than not. That’s not to say that it doesn’t get sunny and extremely warm here because it sure does, but Washington has a bounty of cooler days.
The scenery surrounding my commute is very picturesque and welcoming, with green trees and fields dawdling on either side of the two-lane road dispersed with cozy-looking homes and yards. A few of the yards along this way are mowed, but most are covered in the greenery that grows naturally here in the Pacific Northwest. As is common in these parts, there are a smattering of camper trailers that have become part of the scenery that are parked in the side and back areas of landowners’ vast yards. Some of them are in fairly accelerated states of disrepair, while others possibly might still contain a current tenant. I sometimes imagine myself sitting inside some of these wheeled era-tributes wearing a flannel shirt and ball cap while drinking coffee.
Once I pass the Walmart that indicates the end of Yelm, I rumble through McKenna which takes only a minute. I pass Walt’s Place and then Stewart’s Meats which is easily the world’s best meat market. I zip by one of the zillion drive-thru coffee shops that practically infest this area of the world and pass an old church which is now a gun & ammo store (oh, the beautiful irony). I see the dueling gas stations (two 76 stations that are literally across the street and a frisbee throw from one another) and a single Chevy dealership at the only stoplight right past the country restaurant.
There are only smidgens of sidewalks along this route, and most of that is only for the half mile that it takes to enter, and then exit, the tiny town of Roy. Idling down the straight strip heading north into “downtown” you inch by the Wilcox grain silos and the one gas station, and cruise past the Fire Station, Police Station, and Town Hall. If you blink you’ll miss half of the town, no joke. Often during the morning and evening commute times, near the drive-thru coffee shop on the north end of town where the road carries a ninety-degree turn, you can witness a local gentleman who likes to stand and wave to the drivers as they amble by. Sometimes he wears a fluorescent-colored safety vest over his jacket, sometimes he wears a hat or a sweatshirt. But more often than not he will be out there with his hand in the air making sure everyone receives a comforting wave on behalf of the town of Roy. I make sure to wave to him every single time I see him, because one day he won’t be there anymore and I know in the cockles of my heart (even in the sub-cockle region) that the universe will miss that wave when it’s gone. It always brightens my day and I hope my return wave brightens his.
After leaving Roy, there is pretty much nothing but a series of tree corridors all the way to work. On the sunny days there are speckles of sunlight and shadows, which add to an illusion that I’m traveling faster than I really am.
It’s easy to judge when the amount of humidity and sunlight hit the perfect levels by the increased amount of bugs splattered across the motorcycle windshield. I carry a small rag in the back case just for the purpose of cleaning off all the insect shrapnel. Even if the rest of Trinity’s exterior (yes, I named my Triumph) is less than pristine, having a clean windshield and headlights makes her look much happier. Kind of like when you see old pictures of pilots or drivers who have removed their goggles to expose the contrast of the clean skin around their eyes against their dirty faces, but still manage to have clean teeth.
For those of you who have never ridden on a motorcycle, there is one detail that to me was an epiphany when I started riding: you can smell everything. When you’re riding down the road and you pass a cow pasture or a bush covered in flowers, the smell will catch your attention. There is nothing like it. The same roads that you drive on in a car will suddenly gather new life and exude an entirely new set of sensory inputs that will become added depth to your travel experience. I know now why dogs seem so excited to have their heads sticking out of a car window with the wind in their faces and noses pointed up slightly… it’s to get all of those smells. They’re everywhere, those smells.
And I don’t care if you drive a truck (I do), a two-seater-beater, a convertible, a sensible car or a minivan – if you’re on four wheels you are only watching full-screen. Once you put on a helmet and start riding you are now watching widescreen-high-definition-wide-angle-Blu-ray-phasers-set-to-stun. Whether you are the driver or the passenger, it will change your life. It makes you want to tip your head back and throw your arms out Titanic-style and embrace the awesome around you (passengers only, please). Riding makes me want to explore roads and ride in groups of others who enjoy it like I do. It makes me want to share it with everyone, even people who don’t ride or are afraid to ride, or those who don’t understand how it feels. Because I want everyone to feel this feeling. So when I’m inclined, I’ll write about it and hope I can help those folks to understand why we riders do what we do.
Are motorcycles for everyone? No, they’re not.
Are they for me? Yes, they most assuredly are. I’m pretty sure I was made for it.
Most of my riding takes place during my commute to work and back, and thankfully the route I take to work is all “back roads” instead of being on any part of I-5. The bonus is that it’s actually quicker that way anyway. I couldn’t ask for a better commute route than 507 going through McKenna and Roy, and then finally entering base through East Gate Road and Transmission Gate; 17 miles of therapy and decompression humming along on 885cc’s of inline-triple with heated hand grips. Because even the warmer days out here tend to have chilly mornings more often than not. That’s not to say that it doesn’t get sunny and extremely warm here because it sure does, but Washington has a bounty of cooler days.
The scenery surrounding my commute is very picturesque and welcoming, with green trees and fields dawdling on either side of the two-lane road dispersed with cozy-looking homes and yards. A few of the yards along this way are mowed, but most are covered in the greenery that grows naturally here in the Pacific Northwest. As is common in these parts, there are a smattering of camper trailers that have become part of the scenery that are parked in the side and back areas of landowners’ vast yards. Some of them are in fairly accelerated states of disrepair, while others possibly might still contain a current tenant. I sometimes imagine myself sitting inside some of these wheeled era-tributes wearing a flannel shirt and ball cap while drinking coffee.
Once I pass the Walmart that indicates the end of Yelm, I rumble through McKenna which takes only a minute. I pass Walt’s Place and then Stewart’s Meats which is easily the world’s best meat market. I zip by one of the zillion drive-thru coffee shops that practically infest this area of the world and pass an old church which is now a gun & ammo store (oh, the beautiful irony). I see the dueling gas stations (two 76 stations that are literally across the street and a frisbee throw from one another) and a single Chevy dealership at the only stoplight right past the country restaurant.
There are only smidgens of sidewalks along this route, and most of that is only for the half mile that it takes to enter, and then exit, the tiny town of Roy. Idling down the straight strip heading north into “downtown” you inch by the Wilcox grain silos and the one gas station, and cruise past the Fire Station, Police Station, and Town Hall. If you blink you’ll miss half of the town, no joke. Often during the morning and evening commute times, near the drive-thru coffee shop on the north end of town where the road carries a ninety-degree turn, you can witness a local gentleman who likes to stand and wave to the drivers as they amble by. Sometimes he wears a fluorescent-colored safety vest over his jacket, sometimes he wears a hat or a sweatshirt. But more often than not he will be out there with his hand in the air making sure everyone receives a comforting wave on behalf of the town of Roy. I make sure to wave to him every single time I see him, because one day he won’t be there anymore and I know in the cockles of my heart (even in the sub-cockle region) that the universe will miss that wave when it’s gone. It always brightens my day and I hope my return wave brightens his.
After leaving Roy, there is pretty much nothing but a series of tree corridors all the way to work. On the sunny days there are speckles of sunlight and shadows, which add to an illusion that I’m traveling faster than I really am.
It’s easy to judge when the amount of humidity and sunlight hit the perfect levels by the increased amount of bugs splattered across the motorcycle windshield. I carry a small rag in the back case just for the purpose of cleaning off all the insect shrapnel. Even if the rest of Trinity’s exterior (yes, I named my Triumph) is less than pristine, having a clean windshield and headlights makes her look much happier. Kind of like when you see old pictures of pilots or drivers who have removed their goggles to expose the contrast of the clean skin around their eyes against their dirty faces, but still manage to have clean teeth.
For those of you who have never ridden on a motorcycle, there is one detail that to me was an epiphany when I started riding: you can smell everything. When you’re riding down the road and you pass a cow pasture or a bush covered in flowers, the smell will catch your attention. There is nothing like it. The same roads that you drive on in a car will suddenly gather new life and exude an entirely new set of sensory inputs that will become added depth to your travel experience. I know now why dogs seem so excited to have their heads sticking out of a car window with the wind in their faces and noses pointed up slightly… it’s to get all of those smells. They’re everywhere, those smells.
And I don’t care if you drive a truck (I do), a two-seater-beater, a convertible, a sensible car or a minivan – if you’re on four wheels you are only watching full-screen. Once you put on a helmet and start riding you are now watching widescreen-high-definition-wide-angle-Blu-ray-phasers-set-to-stun. Whether you are the driver or the passenger, it will change your life. It makes you want to tip your head back and throw your arms out Titanic-style and embrace the awesome around you (passengers only, please). Riding makes me want to explore roads and ride in groups of others who enjoy it like I do. It makes me want to share it with everyone, even people who don’t ride or are afraid to ride, or those who don’t understand how it feels. Because I want everyone to feel this feeling. So when I’m inclined, I’ll write about it and hope I can help those folks to understand why we riders do what we do.
Are motorcycles for everyone? No, they’re not.
Are they for me? Yes, they most assuredly are. I’m pretty sure I was made for it.
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