“Danger is out tonight. Danger she walks the streets alone.” So begins the first song on JJ Cale and Eric Clapton’s latest collaborative album, “The Road to Escondido” – a lovely song and an even better album of slow hand blues ballads.
What is it about smooth guitar players like Clapton and Cale that endures them even now to a fourth generation of fans?
My personal opinion is that these two are quite human. They remain approachable and humble despite fantastic wealth and hordes of sycophantic hangers on. They have both worked hard to cure addiction and to improve the lot of the less fortunate. I admire their talents and their love of humanity.
And this brings me back to motorcycling. This past weekend I was blessed to ride around the hills and coasts of New England with a group of friends, including a dear friend, Alex, from Toronto. He arrived wanting to see “the twisties” I had promised when we last rode together in Ontario. He did not leave disappointed.
After one particularly exhilarating ride up the wild coastlines of New Hampshire and Maine, he beamed out a smile and asked, “So how the hell am I supposed to enjoy riding in Ontario now?”
Ontario, to be sure, has wonderful riding roads. Heck, the coast road along Lake Ontario is a wonder in itself, as are some of the back roads through the onion fields just north of the GTA. And riding in the northern Ontario Parks is as good as fabulous.
But much of Ontario was laid out on a grid system that was unknown when New England’s paths and byways were carved along streambeds and mountain passes. So the comparison is unfair and unnecessary. Each has its own charm and beauty.
Back to the point, however, is a ride we took this weekend across farms and hills in Maine. We rode from Ogunquit, Maine to Wolfeboro, New Hampshire. I don’t recall a single road with a straight section longer than 100 yards. And the vistas were breathtaking.
We breezed by a working farm, “Windswept Farm,” atop a hill with a view that seemed to go from here to eternity. I recall smelling the fields and farm critters with pleasure. Rolls of hay filled the fields. Cows grazed. Horses pranced about. The weather was gorgeous and mild. Spring-like is how we felt.
In Wolfeboro we lunched at an Inn nearly 200 years old. We just rode and rode with abandon. A rhythm developed in the turns and hills. It was as if our machines were playing slow hand blues with the pavement. It was a slow dance, and it was seductive.
Hours passed without notice.
When we ended the day back on the seacoast we dined to the sound of surf crashing on the shore. It was just about perfect. Good friends, great roads, and just slow hand blues riding all day till the sun goes down. Nice.
Next time I take those roads I hope you are there to just let it be. That, after all, is nowness defined – a slow hand guitar melody as easy as pie.
What is it about smooth guitar players like Clapton and Cale that endures them even now to a fourth generation of fans?
My personal opinion is that these two are quite human. They remain approachable and humble despite fantastic wealth and hordes of sycophantic hangers on. They have both worked hard to cure addiction and to improve the lot of the less fortunate. I admire their talents and their love of humanity.
And this brings me back to motorcycling. This past weekend I was blessed to ride around the hills and coasts of New England with a group of friends, including a dear friend, Alex, from Toronto. He arrived wanting to see “the twisties” I had promised when we last rode together in Ontario. He did not leave disappointed.
After one particularly exhilarating ride up the wild coastlines of New Hampshire and Maine, he beamed out a smile and asked, “So how the hell am I supposed to enjoy riding in Ontario now?”
Ontario, to be sure, has wonderful riding roads. Heck, the coast road along Lake Ontario is a wonder in itself, as are some of the back roads through the onion fields just north of the GTA. And riding in the northern Ontario Parks is as good as fabulous.
But much of Ontario was laid out on a grid system that was unknown when New England’s paths and byways were carved along streambeds and mountain passes. So the comparison is unfair and unnecessary. Each has its own charm and beauty.
Back to the point, however, is a ride we took this weekend across farms and hills in Maine. We rode from Ogunquit, Maine to Wolfeboro, New Hampshire. I don’t recall a single road with a straight section longer than 100 yards. And the vistas were breathtaking.
We breezed by a working farm, “Windswept Farm,” atop a hill with a view that seemed to go from here to eternity. I recall smelling the fields and farm critters with pleasure. Rolls of hay filled the fields. Cows grazed. Horses pranced about. The weather was gorgeous and mild. Spring-like is how we felt.
In Wolfeboro we lunched at an Inn nearly 200 years old. We just rode and rode with abandon. A rhythm developed in the turns and hills. It was as if our machines were playing slow hand blues with the pavement. It was a slow dance, and it was seductive.
Hours passed without notice.
When we ended the day back on the seacoast we dined to the sound of surf crashing on the shore. It was just about perfect. Good friends, great roads, and just slow hand blues riding all day till the sun goes down. Nice.
Next time I take those roads I hope you are there to just let it be. That, after all, is nowness defined – a slow hand guitar melody as easy as pie.
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