- Today I was treated to one of the most satisfying lunches I've had in ages. And I'm not talking about the Chinese chicken salad. No, when you're on a motorcycle, it's all about the journey, not the destination.
These days, I don’t ride nearly often enough. With a full-time job, travel, my husband (who doesn't ride), my son (who's too young), I’ve allowed myself to slip into an unintended motorcycle riding hiatus, brought about by circumstances rather than any sort of overt choice. So I'm slightly embarrassed to admit that for more than 10 years, riding has been a once-in-a-while thing, usually at a work-related press function, or when I’ve been lucky enough to snag a new model from one of the manufacturers for a test ride, which was how today's lunch came about.
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- Or cruising the clubs of SoMa, San Francisco's now well-established South of Market district, in leather pants and dark sunglasses. But few girls at that time were carrying a helmet instead of a handbag. Not so anymore, of course. Women make up almost 10% of the motorcycle riding population, according to the latest reports issued by the Motorcycle Industry Council, a number that’s been climbing slowly and steadily for the past few decades. When you take into account the sensational growth enjoyed by the motorcycle industry these past 12 years, that becomes a formidable percentage.
One club-crawling night (mind you, this was decades ago), I rode home, though I didn’t realize it at the time, with a fractured metatarsal, the result of a severely miscalculated step on the edge of the dance floor. I awoke the next morning, my foot the size of a football, and hobbled around for a week before going to the hospital, refusing to believe I could possibly have been so stupid as to break it dancing to Duran Duran.
And those Bay Area weekends. There was of course Northern California’s most legendary Sunday Morning Ride, still going today in its fifth decade, which starts in Marin at the Arco station in San Rafael just off the 101. Really early, really fast, and really scary. And I was just trying to go fast enough to keep the riders at the back of the pack in sight while I brought up the rear and hoped I wouldn't get passed by a car, the most humiliating of insults. Stinson Beach, Highway 1, Sir Francis Drake Boulevard – it was all pretty much a blur until you stop for breakfast and do the mandatory check of the other bikes in the parking lot (OK, and the riders). Decide which route to take back, and before you know it, you're once again marveling at the view of the City skyline through the Golden Gate Bridge as you ride over its grated surface, stop at the toll booth, fumble for money in your jacket, and pray that you won't slip on all that grease.
Or on another day you might head south of the City via 280 to Skyline Boulevard, and twist and turn on gloriously tree-shaded roads until you pull into Alice’s Restaurant in Woodside, another quintessential motorcycle hangout.
Then you would unzip your jacket, take off your helmet, put on some lipstick, pull your hair back in a ponytail and sit outside at picnic tables, drinking weak coffee. It didn’t matter. What great roads. Stand up. Stretch. Head west on La Honda until you get to San Gregorio State Beach, then up through Half Moon Bay, sometimes staying on Highway 1 all the way to Ocean Beach with a stop at the Cliff House for expresso; other times cutting through Golden Gate Park and the Presidio.
In fact, it was on one of those roads near Alice’s Restaurant, riding then as a passenger with some guy I was dating – probably because he had a bike – that I had The Epiphany. The blinding realization that this was something I could do. Ride a motorcycle. All by myself. I didn’t have to just sit on the back and hang on. Besides, he seemed to manage alright, so how hard could it be?
I was going to get a motorcycle. That was all there was to it. I remember picking up a Cycle World magazine at a newsstand that very evening and scanning the classified ads for companies that offered motorcycle training. Within weeks, I was taking the Motorcycle Safety Foundation’s beginner RiderCourse at Chrissy Fields in the Marina, with the stunning Golden Gate Bridge as a backdrop. Six months later, I used my Graduate Student Loan money to buy my first bike, a used 1983 Honda VT500 Ascot. It looked black, but was actually a deep midnight blue. What a beauty. A comfortable, standard streetbike style. Light enough not to be too intimidating. It was perfect.
What I couldn't possibly have imagined back then was that this new and exciting sport would lead me to a communications career spanning nearly 15 years in the motorcycle industry.
Which brings me back to lunch. Today.
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- Now that we had a loan bike at our office, it was time to get out of my non-riding hiatus. If I needed motivation, this was definitely it. So yesterday, I arranged the lunch ride with a couple of my colleagues.
This morning, instead of donning my customary suit, I pulled on jeans, heavy boots, and retrieved my gear out of the garage, throwing it in the backseat next to my nine-year-old son, whom I would be dropping off at school, like I do everyday, before going on to the office.
"Mom, next time you're going to ride a motorcycle," he said, "will you please let me know so I can schedule you for show and tell?"
12:30 p.m.: the appointed time. Putting on my helmet, gloves, and leather jacket, key in hand, the transformation starts immediately. Swinging a leg over the Honda 599, I'm ready to hit the road and leave the office behind.
The high revs startle me when I shift into first gear, barely relax my grip on the clutch, and give the bike just a little throttle, searching for that perfect juncture of clutch release and forward motion. It felt jumpy, but I thought I was just rusty. Turns out the clutch had virtually no play in it, which got adjusted later when we stopped. But at least I didn’t stall out, and easily negotiated the bike out of the parking lot and onto the streets of Irvine. After tentatively handling the curving freeway onramp, I accelerated through the gears as quickly as I could, sped onto the 133 Highway South towards Laguna Beach, and, now in sixth gear, smoothly changed lanes, easing around traffic.
Glancing down, I smile at the speedometer, then reluctantly roll off on the throttle, feeling the machine rev down to a more appropriate (not to mention legal) cruising speed.
By now I’m completely focused and aware. My hands and feet react instinctively, remembering techniques honed years before. Mind and body fuse with the machine; the effect is subtly euphoric. Better even than when I found my Dolce et Gabbana boots on sale.
I’m tensed, legs lightly gripping, aligned with the bike and the slight bends in the road. Normally, in my Volvo, I do this commute twice daily and practically by route, juggling coffee, cellphone, and cigarette (though not all at the same time). But on the 599, it becomes a visceral, primal passage. The wind lashes my hair under the helmet and whistles through the face shield, which I push up to feel the blast of hot air, the sun, and to smell the earth churned up by construction vehicles.
Exhilaration is matched by an acute awareness that unknown forces surround you – you’re exposed and vulnerable. Staying alert is critical. A pulsating readiness only adds to the physicality of the journey. You’re totally on your own, but glancing in the rear-view mirror, it’s comforting to see your colleagues in formation. The day is record-setting hot, but the ocean breeze cools, noticeably, as we approach the coast.
Downshifting towards a red light, I challenge myself to come to as smooth and controlled a stop as possible, taking my right foot off the rear brake lever and putting it on the ground at the very last moment, right hand applying even and steadily increasing pressure to the front brake, left hand managing the clutch, left foot eventually clicking down to first gear, where all remains until the light turns green.
Or, if the light changes and traffic has started moving before you come to a complete stop, you may have the delicious opportunity to move ever so slowly and gracefully through the intersection, without ever putting your feet down, barely giving it any gas, working the delicate balance of clutch and throttle. Little mental and physical tests, the results apparent perhaps only to you.
All this thinking and coordination, just to slow down for a light? Actually, to be fully engaged in something so inherently fun yet challenging is a major part of the attraction. I remember reading, years ago, a book that best described this elusive phenomenon called, Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience, by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi. In it he notes that, "The best moments usually occur when a person’s body or mind is stretched to its limits in a voluntary effort to accomplish something difficult and worthwhile."
On a motorcycle, you stretch both body and mind, not to mention faith. There's a level of awareness, a heightened sense of immediacy that forces you to put aside extraneous thoughts and stay fully focused on the task at hand, and as far down the road as you can see. These are moments we never experience from the confines of our cars. Well, maybe a Boxster S. Maybe. Certainly not my Volvo.
Leaving Laguna on Pacific Coast Highway, the water at El Morro Beach is the most stunning aqua blue I’ve ever seen, with unusually large waves, the result of a huge south swell. Just a few more miles down PCH, we pull into the Crystal Cove shopping center parking lot and go inside for salads and pizza.
An hour later, the ride, however brief, has rocketed my day into a new dimension. Back in the office, sitting here in front of my monitor, I still feel mildly intoxicated, invigorated. And I drank nothing stronger than Diet Coke.
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