Wind-Rider

Oh, how I love riding in the wind.  I am addicted to visceral experiences.  Things that light a fire of sensation in my body.  And riding in the wind moves me deeply.

I have a long relationship with wind.  As a kid, I grew up windsurfing.  When wind is your 'power', you quickly come to appreciate everything beyond a gentle breeze.  I remember the sensation of being on the board, the wind picking up, and leaning back to catch it as it filled my sail.  Whisking across the water, the mist spraying me and keeping me cool.

When I started riding a motorcycle, I was warned about the wind.  I remember a woman who told me about a gust of wind knocking her off of her bike as she passed a semi.  I came home and asked Nathan "what do you do about that?"  His answer started with "when you feel wind, your natural balance system will kick in...."  I don't remember the rest of his answer, because my response, in complete and utter seriousness was "I don't think I have one of those."  "What?" "A natural balance system."

I remember our honeymoon to California, with all of the semis, and all of the wind. I became perplexed as to why people experienced challenges with passing semis; once I got over the fear that it would be an issue, I enjoyed it.  And, riding 400 miles through the Mojave Desert with a 45 mph hot cross wind (with technique I'd now consider wrong) made me love the wind and it's intensity even more.
                                      

For me, there is something magical about being caught up in a gust of wind.  My whole body relaxes, and my hips lean my bike into the wind, just enough to keep my course.  So often, I am just dancing with my motorcycle, but when there is wind, I have a third dance partner, and the love multiplies.

a funny thing happened...

In the last couple week, something happened.  I can pinpoint the exact ride when I realized it, even though it's been a journey, not a destination.  Two weeks ago, when I was be bopping around Portland, I realized that I had gotten bored with being scared.  For months, since I had gotten the BMW, every time I took it off road, or looked at a narrow u-turn on the street, I could feel the pit in my stomach, my hands would shake, and I'd get fuzzy in the brain.... somewhere between mild panic and terror.  But, that day, I was on my own. I ended up in some awkward needing to turn around situations (ie, I must get a picture of my bike in front of that awesome brick wall, or oops I turned down a dead end road.)  I followed street signs that indicated worse and worse roads in Portland, and rode through rutted mud.  I didn't turn on my GPS to find my way, but instead explored based on whichever way struck my fancy.  And, I realized that spot in my stomach where the fear started was hollow.  I had the urge to drive up on a sidewalk and take a picture, so I did.  Then I realized I was on my own and in a predicament, so I just had to get down off that sidewalk, no other choice.

I came home wanting to write about it, but (ironically) was scared that the fear wasn't really gone.  So I waited.  Did some more riding, playing, challenging myself.  We took our bikes to Millican Valley last weekend, with the intention of getting me some off road practice (without pouring rain was the perk to driving that far.)  Nathan fully expected to spend the weekend on gravel roads.  We did ride gravel roads.  It was so much fun!  Way more fun than riding while managing a pit of anxiety in my stomach and shaking hands.  We found a large hill.  No problem.  We found a puddle... Ok, that didn't go so smoothly, but at least it was a soft mud landing. We did the same gravel road over and over, my confidence building each time.  We did that gravel road at night!  That was a feat... I can't see well at night, but my awesome headlight kept me on track.

The next day we started on gravel roads, but I was up for the next challenge.  How about green trails?  So we were of.  The trails out there are sandy dirt, firmed up by the moisture, with gentle, wide bermed turns.  We did that, and at each intersection, Nathan would check in with the group.  We all wanted to keep going, so we did.  The trail, though still rated a green, took a turn for the more extreme... a patch of rocks to pick my way through, a larger patch of larger rocks to pick my way through... Slightly deeper sand.  It was fascinating... Evidently, the boredom with being scared stuck, but there were some well rehearsed pathways in my brain doubting my ability.  I stopped, decided that my only option was to actually ride it, and then I picked a speed, picked a line, and found my way through more complex rocky sections.  The sand tried taking me out, but a slip of the clutch and a roll of the throttle kept me going.  Even the major rocky section Nathan stopped to warn me about was not a problem... steady speed, lean back, ignore the fact that it sounded like the rocks were trying to remove my skidplate, and go!   Fist pump and a F*** yeah as after that one.

I can't say for sure the fear is gone, but it's at least on an extended vacation.  Meanwhile, I'm building positive experiences and seat time.

After this weekend, on a seemingly unrelated note, I had some time in my expressive arts therapy group to do some creating on the theme peace, love, and serenity.

My art is simply self expression; I love sending it to Nathan, just to share.  He texted back "they both have holes."  Hm.... very much how I felt when I had been looking for that unfamiliar pit of anxiety over the last couple weeks.  Like everything around it is there, where it is supposed to be, but something is missing.  How funny the subconscious can be....

Deeper reflection...

Sometimes, it seems people are apprehensive about hanging out with a therapist. Sometimes, I wonder if anyone really knows what I do.  I also find that people wonder what the outside perspective of a therapist can bring to the table. Today, I was struck with a parallel I just had to write about.

In reading responses to yesterday's blog, my hubby came up with a theory:

Nathan Fant If I were to guess, you probably got going too slowly and the back tire slid down the camber of the turn. In order for momentum to overcome the tiny amount of friction available to keep your wheels in line you have to go fast enough for friction to overcome the pull of gravity. In this case, gravity pulled your back tire downhill more than the front due to the differences in friction between the two tires.

Nathan Fant To summarize, if you don't remember hitting the brakes, you probably didn't. It's more likely you were going slow enough for the back tire to lose grip on the ice and cause the front and rear tires to be rapidly out of alignment. More practice sliding the back tire and steering into the skid as well as looking down the trail/road and going a little faster are needed.What it brings to mind is the difference, for me, between self help and therapy. I don't hold that one is better than the other, just that the process can be quite different.

Using this for my example, I have read a lot about riding a motorcycle. And taken classes. And watched videos. I watch and analyze good riding, hoping to increase my skills, and sometimes I analyze crashes, to figure out what went wrong. Most of this falls into the 'self help' category. Incredibly useful for my growth.

But in this process, I am only working within the limits of my learning. This is where a trained and somewhat objective observer can be helpful. In this scenario, it was my husband, but in therapy, it's the therapist who is outside of the situation, offering a fresh perspective to help you grow.

(The example below is entirely fictional.) 

In self help, a person may discover that as a middle child, they often tried to keep peace in the family. Post holidays, this adult child may come into therapy, disappointed in how their holiday unfolded; despite their best efforts, they couldn't get everyone together at the same time, and their older and younger sister ended up angry at each other. This well informed person may have examined their peace keeping patterns, and drawn the conclusion that this pattern again inflicted their holiday happiness. This person may gloss over the details in therapy, wanting to get to the heart of the issue 'how do I stop trying to make everyone happy, and enjoy my holiday?' This is the logical conclusion... The lasting discontent could very well be frusturation at recognizing this long standing pattern. Yet the therapist is curious; this discontent doesn't have the same flavor they have explored in the past. What else is going on? When did the discontent start? As the client talks, they hold their stomach. The therapist asks them to stop, breathe, and focus mindfully on what is going on in the clients body. The client bursts into tears. She and her husband had been trying to have a baby, and in the middle of all of the holiday prep, found out their recent try was unsuccessful. They chose not to tell the family, and barely had time to comfort each other in the hub bub. Once the tears have subsided the therapist can reflect the situation back to the client. The client can clarify and make sure they are seeing the situation in the same way, perhaps probing other details coming to play in the bigger feelings. Once shared, the therapist may ask the client the underlying need, how she can ask her partner or family for something different, or how she'd like to continue to process her grief. There's no one way to proceed, it's the process of building the shared experience that provides the guidance.

Self help and self teaching can be wonderful tools, but sometimes an outside perspective can provide a different lens. With that different lens, a deeper knowledge of self can be reached, and perhaps new behaviors are chosen.

In reading my husband's response to my blog, I was struck by the usefulness of the perspective of the person not on the motorcycle. I often get hung up on the fact that I want my felt experience to be understood, and in his comments he showed me that he heard me; and offered a fresh lens to view my experience through, hopefully leading to a productive new behavior in the future. Not only is he my partner, best friend, co parent, and  mechanic, he's also my Moto-therapist.  ;-)

Good night everybody... Another blog post is already percolating...

Racing

I've never thought of myself as a racer. I'm not very competitive; if I'm playing a game and the other team is losing, I'll help them out.

So when when good intentions and circumstances and stuff landed me in the 24 hour race at Starvation Ridge, I didn't know what to expect from myself. I'd finally gained some traction with getting faster on a dirt bike; rather than taking 4 times as long as Nathan for everything, I'd done a poker run in only double his time. I'd gotten a little experience on a Motorcross track under my belt. And when I volunteered, I made sure to offer the info that I'm a dependable rider, I love to ride, but I'm slow. 

Come race time... I wasn't nervous, per se, until Nathan came back injured on his first lap. First there was getting him off to the hospital, then there was waiting for the next rider to get back... Our second rider came back with a broken bike. 

Nerves were on the ride at this point. Nathan had been sabotaged and advised me to let people pass... Our next rider had the most bent handlebars I'd ever seen and lost his shifter. Still waiting for number three to come back, I wondered what I'd gotten myself into.

It's time. I get onto the track, and it's ok. Not easy, not hard, just manageable. For about 20 feet. After a couple turns on dryish ground, there's deep rutted mud next to a pond... The middle was a mess..  My brain screamed right or left, slowing me down, and I went right... Slower and slower and stopped. My bike, even with me off of it, is standing upright in the mud. Hm. I try to bulldog it forward. Nothing. I try sitting all the way back. Nothing. All the way forward? Nothing. It came down to lifting one tire at a time out of the sticky mud, while I

sunk and slid. No one said this would be easy.

I'm less than a half a mile in, and I'm wiped. Onward I press to a side hill by yet another pond. Brain overload... What are the rules for side hills? Don't stop? Too late... Time for another energy drainer as my back tire tries to pull me into the pond, and I lean off the trail to let other riders pass. Kicking the bike precariously perched on a hill, lifting, pulling, and after much time, finally getting it over the next mound used beyond my energy reserves. 

Thoroughly exhausted at this point, I ride forward, to see the one mile marker. I think I've been on this course an hour and gone a mile. What should I do? What is there to do except keep going?

So I did. After a few more miles of just poking along my energy came back. I was stopping to let other riders pass me, not wanting to spoil their fun (remember the not competitive part?) and especially not wanting the same fate that befell Nathan to come upon me. My fear radar is what gets me into trouble. Eventually, I picked up speed. It was a good thing too; the obstacles needed speed.  And eventually I got tired of just letting riders around me. I'm a racer, I have as much right to be on this course as anyone; I'll leave space, but j don't have to stop and make space for every other racer. 

I got to the old farm house; score! I've got a mini bike and my handle bars fit through the doors! A hill, a crest, and a downhill with rocks at the bottom... I've been warned of this hill... I gulp, and go for it... A little target fixation and a tap on the front brakes, and wham! A face plant into the rocks is my first fall. Pull the bike up and go. So many hills, so much mud... I hit the mud a little too slow... And my bike fishtails me into my second fall. Ok. Faster! I go faster and my bike tosses me over the handlebars. Ok. Got it. Medium speed. 

I remember the first check point, but I don't know where it goes in this story. It was about 9 miles in... Almost half way... I think I can do this. There's eventually a second check point... 

There's a stretch of flat gravel... Flicking up gears... 3rd, 4th, 5th... What's that structure over the path... Oh, it's a turn! Slam on the brakes, downshift a couple gears, pitch the bike into a lean, roll on the gas... It worked! See, I have been listening when Nathan is talking... I just lack the balls to do these crazy moves on purpose!

The miles are growing... 18... The course is only 20 miles... I'm going to actually finish! Before the race, we were told that the easier (though longer) paths, were to the right of any intersection. I see Nathan on a bank, waving me right, so I don't miss the turn and have to go through the flooded underwater mud whoops! I'm almost there! Woo hoo!

Back at the pit, the next rider takes off. I'm so relieved; I'm not hurt, my bikes in one piece. I say apologetically that I don't think I could do this ride at night; I feel a bit like I'm letting the team down. I get my time; three hours and twenty minutes. Well, that's almost triple Nathan's time with an injured shoulder, but that's ok.

I wanted to go back out in the morning, but the storm the night before had drowned the course; one of our night riders bikes broke down, and the other was stuck for hours. I didn't wake camp at sunrise to see if someone else wanted to ride or to give it a go myself, and our team did not finish.

I think this is where I'm learning what racing means to me. It goes beyond the fun of challenging yourself on a trail. It goes beyond only pushing yourself to do better than your last ride. It means pushing yourself to do things you don't think you can because you are on a team. It means learning to care about the numbers; not just your time or number of laps, but how you compare to others. Are you contributing or holding the team back? And if it's not a team event, how do your skills measure up to others? It also means reexamanimg decisions; I won't do the race again without a little more structure and a plan of what to do; a planned team meeting to decide how to end the race with enough time to execute that plan.  Because I learned something about myself. I'll forever wonder if I could have done one more lap, helped our team finish. This wonder will be assuaged by someday finishing the 24 hour on a team, but it will never go away. 

I was not ready to race in the 24 hour, but the only way to find that out was racing in the 24 hour. If I do it again, I go in eyes wide open, knowing it will test me, and preparing myself to meet that challenge. 

on 'taking myself' places

I've noticed an interesting phenomenon in myself.  When we were on our honeymoon, and I arrived at Yosemite, I felt an amazing sense of accomplishment.  I had "taken myself" to Yosemite.  You spend your life having people take you places.  This is a good thing; let me take you to the movies, to my favorite resturaunt, on a hike.  But, as my husband will surely attest, I am a very independent person.  And taking myself to Yosemite for the first time was meaningful.  The honeymoon continued, and this phrase forgotten, life went on.

A few months later, we moved about 300 miles away.  The day we moved all of our belongings, it became obvious that me riding my motorcycle down rather than trailering it was a practical option due to space.  Always excited to ride, I definitely put up no argument to this idea.  As I rode south behind two trailers full of our possessions, I had a lot of time for reflection.  This idea of "taking myself to our new home" was front and center.

Riding a motorcycle is the ultimate in independence.  You can have people teach you, it's always nice to have people to ride with, but ultimately, you are the one watching the road or the trail, you are watching the cars as they move themselves obliviously around the tarmac, you are watching for people's eyes, subtle shifts in tire position, erratic behavior, oncoming vehicles, animals, pedestrians, and debris.  Additionally, for a verbal processor like me, there is the conversation going on between different parts of myself.  There is the watchful part, ever careful of the drivers around me.  There is the excited gleeful part, that seems to almost always be present on a motorcycle.  There is the mindful part, checking in with my physical being - am I hungry? thirsty? tired? sore? anything that may dull my senses?  And there is this other part.  I can only describe it as feeling completely connected to my sensory experience.  The sights, sounds, smells, feelings, and sometimes tastes are so vibrant when riding. And it's just me.  No one is having the experience I am having in that moment, and it's nearly impossible to share moment to moment experience as I am encapsulated in the bubble of my helmet.

At times, especially off road, I become faced with my inner monsters; the fear monster, the anxiety monster, the embarrassment monster, and the I don't know how to do that monster.  Again and again, I face these monsters, again drawing upon my independent spirit to take myself back to the truck; often, there is little other option.  And recently, starting to ride a dual sport, not only do I get to face these trail monsters, but I get to take myself to the trail, and back home.

I find myself needing to feed my independence.  I don't want to be an island; I love people and connection.  I adore my partner who celebrates my independence and takes it in stride.  I have found two big things that feed this independence: being a therapist and riding my motorcycle.  I have learned that there is an interconnectedness that intermingles with independence.  On my bike, I am still part of a larger riding community, evidenced by the waves of fellow motorcyclists.  I am part of the societal contract that gives us rules for the road.  I am always part of a family, whether or not they are with me at the time.  As a therapist, I am always only a small part of someone's life.  They too, brought themselves to my office in some fashion.  I am always part of a team, and part of the larger helping community.  Yet in both of these instances, it is my compass that guides my decisions, helps me to decide when to reach out for help, and guides me toward fulfilling my dreams.  I take myself to unexplored territory, confident, independent, and always connected.

How it all began...

As a kid, I had two views of motorcycles. On the one hand, there was the desire to be free, go fast, and fly through the air.  On the other, there were the many stories of family and friends who had fallen.  It became a 'let's think about that later' desire.  Fast forward to college, relationships, and child rearing, and motorcycles were a daydream, a song lyric, and a 'when the kiddo is 18, I'll look into that' desire. 

And then there was a boy.  A boy who came to visit on a motorcycle.  A boy who took me for a ride on the back of his motorcycle.  An invitation into the club...  Would I walk through the door?

This blog will outline highlights and stories of the journey into riding, along side of being a partner, a mother, a friend, and a therapist.  Stories from each of these identities may appear at any point, because riding a motorcycle isn't something you do, isolated from your life.  It's part of who you become, every minute of every day.  I want to write to express the joys, the challenges, the ups and the downs of this journey.  Perhaps someone will stumble upon this blog when they are considering giving up on their desire to ride and find hope, perhaps someone will get to relive their newbie mistakes, perhaps no one will ever read this, and it will be my little online journal.  Nothing about riding a motorcycle has come naturally to me, but I knew the moment I sat on my first Honda CRF 80 (at the age of 36) that this was something I would want to do forever.