SIMPLE PLEASURES

Colorado is expecting 2 feet of snow this weekend. We are expecting rain and wind but not snow. I am awash in mixed emotion.

On the one hand I want it to stay Summer forever. I can ride and ride and ride.

On the other hand I love the change of seasons. I look forward to the snow, that magical blanket on which we ski and play.

I think I am feeling a call back to the mountains of my youth, back to Franconia Notch and the White Mountains of New Hampshire. I recall spending most every weekend there in my youthful Winters. The air was so cold it hurt to breath. It was great. I skied and snowshoed till exhausted. I need to do that again.

Somewhere along the road I forgot how lovely that simple life was. I forgot the muscular pleasure of splitting wood, the beauty of frosted windows, the magic of snowshoeing across open fields beneath a bright moon, exhaling steam like an Iron Horse locomotive. I need to do that again.

There are many simple pleasures that we forget in our busy lives. The joy of cooking on a Saturday morning, the warmth of a fully stoked fireplace, the smile one brings by playing guitar for another. Simple. Zen. Comfort.

I need to do that again.

LET THE COLORS BEGIN

Let The Colors Begin
Originally uploaded by photoholic1.

I awoke this morning to a chilled air. The tall Sugar Maples outside my window have begun their annual morph. I hum Willie Nelson's song, "Autum Leaves." I smile., have my coffee, and head off to work.

Mist on the Lake

Reeds #9
Originally uploaded by peter bowers.

Between mist and mountain lies a lake. It is a lovely spot of water. Deer, moose, ducks and geese are drawn to this pool on a hill.

Proud pines, multi-hued maples, and brilliantly white birches line the shore. A canoe glides silently across the still waters that brighten with the dawn.

The paddler is skilled; her strokes make narry a sound.

Soon day will break and the mist will vaporize. The reeds stand tall: they have watched over this lake all season.

Educated by their ancient lineage the reeds know they'll sleep soon beneath a protective blanket of ice. They know equally well that Spring is just around the corner. They will again grow strong to guard their watery kingdom, their lake.

JAZZ IN A SOFT RAIN

A soft rain falls tonight in New England. Softer still is the velvety voice of Sophie Milman playing on the stereo. Her inaugural album, aptly named "Sophie Milman," is a strong statement from this Russian-born Canadian phenom.

I'm known to adore good jazz. Many of my favorite rides are accompanied by the best tunes of Ray Charles, Diana Krall, Mose Allison, Sarah Vaughn, Frank Sinatra, and Stan Getz. I'm so pleased that a dear friend has enlightened me to Sophie, however. She will be added to my Mp3 playlist for the next big ride for sure.

It's true that a perfect ride stands on its own and requires no assistance from crooners and such. But not all rides are of that ilk. Many times we are forced by time pressures or other considerations to ride long stretches of passionless highway tar. On such rides the joy of great music is a welcome companion.

So I give my thanks, first to the artists who create these fine works, and second to the good friends who tell me about new artists like Sophie Milman. Like a rising tide my spirits are lifted by this kindness.

SHADOWFAX WANTS TO RIDE

Long ago, in the time of Aladdin and Sinbad, voyagers journeyed for years to find the Magic Carpets of lore. I liken such carpets to my trusty Beemer.

Whenever Shadowfax (named of course for Gandalph's swift and indefatigable stead) and I head out on a journey neither of us know what awaits.

We ride most usually toward only a direction. "Today," I say, "we ride Northwest." The next day I might declare, "we ride South." We ride toward whatever is calling us that day.

That freedom of travel, that freedom of vision, is nothing short of magical. Shadowfax is my magic carpet. He goes wherever I ask him. He is a trusted and valued traveling companion.

There are times when I forget that he is just a machine. I've noticed little things about him that seem to make him more mortal than mechanical.

He was recently parked next to another lovely Beemer and I swear I saw him inching closer to it. I'm not sure whose bike it was, but it appeared more feminine than he. I blinked to look again: he was defnintely flirting with the other bike. "Good boy," I rather predictably thought to myself. (It's a guy thing.)

Aladdin had his genie -- Ali Babba had his Thieves. I have a magic carpet that I call Shadowfax.

I sit alone tonight. I feel as if he is calling to me from the garage. He wants to ride again. I wonder if he is thinking about that Beemer he met?

Adirondack Cruising

Saranac Lake 030
Originally uploaded by Pauls Travel Photos.

Just back from a long ride in the Adirondacks, and I am so happy I went.

Some thought me a bit crazy as I headed off in the rain last Thursday.
Not so.

As expected from a perusal of the weather maps, the rain lifted early in the Park, leaving me and so many other bikers with perfect late summer riding. The Adirondack Foliage is already blushing out all shades of red and yellow.

Late summer flowers are beside just about every road, if one merely takes a moment to observe. A rather large number of slightly confused and still magnificent Monarchs flutter about, not yet sure of their migration instinct.

With peak summer tourism ended the plentiful lakes glisten with a serenity seen only this time of year. Gatherings of birds, not boats, are afloat.

Winter will no doubt come soon to these mountains and lakes. Snow will pile deep, water will freeze. Skiers will fill the cabins now empty of summer tourists. All will be well.

For me it was a stunning ride and a magical weekend. I shall return to the Adirondacks as soon as I can. Who knows, perhaps there's one more such cruise before frost and snow end my most favorite of all seasons -- Riding Season.

INTO THE RAIN AND BEYOND

*after the rain, dream away...*
Originally uploaded by kumo36.

What a perfect photograph this is.

THE ZEN OF JOURNEY PLANNING

Tour planning comes in two flavors: Vanilla--for those long-planned special trips, and Spicy Sangria Especial--for those more immediate journeys of the now.

One's anticipation of a journey, whether Vanilla or Sangria E, should be nothing short of exhilarating. I find myself aquake with anticipation of an unknown I am about to encounter. It is a good feeling. If I were a map, I'd liken it to the intersection of Adventure Ave. and Wonderment Way.


People like me adore anticipations before a ride. Expectations we raise not, only enthusiasm for the "what might be."

I ask this: Without enthusiasm what kind of a world would it be? Is it not the dreamers who move others to seek a better world tomorrow? I salute such dreamers.

Time to ride!

Moondance

Bad Moon Rising
Originally uploaded by LyndaC.

I ride toward the moon.

CLEOPATRA HIGHBOURNE UNDERSTOOD

Motorcycling is oftentimes a solitary gestalt. One rides off on an adventure for sure. But in the end one goes and returns alone. That aloneness is both wonderful and, in a way, sad.

I never used to see it as sad in the least. It was more a liberating sense of freedom.

Tonight I was re-reading the end of Jimmy Buffett's "A Salty Piece of Land." I sat alone listening to some old John Mclaughlin jazz.

I was struck with Cleopatra Highbourne's dying advice to Tully Mars, her de facto adopted son. This fascinating woman had sailed the world, she had seen everything there was to see; and she had done it always alone. She did not regret her choice. She was determined, however, to instruct Tully not to follow in her lonely footsteps.

"We are all survivors...[she said], But the trouble with being a survivor is that you find youself dancing alone a lot. It is a tricky seesaw on which the survivor has to sit. On the one side is your ability to be comfortable in a world inhabited only by yourself. And on the other side is your desire to share your time with others....Being a survivor is not a bad thing, but you do run the risk of being the last one at the party when the punch bowl is empty and the confetti has turned to dust--like me."

All these many years I have lived with others, played with others and yet my motorcycle adventures have all been on my own. My travels have so many times been like those of Cleopatra Highbourne. I have found myself dancing alone. And like her, I don't regret it in the least.

Still, I wonder if we travelers are not all a bit like Cleopatra. Our inner selves have so many passions, each so different from everyone else's. How can one even know all this until they've achieved a maturity beyond the early years? They cannot.

Perhaps self discovery takes an entire lifetime. We must ride the seesaw. We must find our own way. Dancing alone is not the worst thing. But dancing with a partner is surely a preferable way to live.