I was recently asked "how can you work here and ride a motorcycle?" I suppose for that question to make sense, the context may be helpful. The person who asked was most familiar with the fact that I work with people who are recovering from a Traumatic Brain Injury. I also specialize in helping people cope with persistent pain. This, of course, is not the first time this question has come my way, in some fashion or another. And it left me thinking...
First, let me ask you, what do you love to do. Do you love your job? (Cheers! Me too. We are among the lucky minority it would seem.) Do you love caring for your children? Do you love to ride a bicycle? How about hiking? Do you like road trips? Driving to visit family? Skiing, snowboarding, skateboarding, surfing? What is it that you love to do? What makes your life interesting, meaningful, and fun?
Stop for a minute, and see if you can remember ever hearing about someone being injured doing these activities. Because I have. Almost everything I do in the course of the day before getting on and after getting off of my motorcycle, I have seen people endure pain or brain injury from. What sort of life would it be if we asked people to stop caring for their homes because they might get hurt? To stop spending time with their family? To stop working? That's preposterous, you might say. But in every activity there is risk. And if we let that risk stop us, we are living a life based in fear.
What if instead, we ask what makes you come alive? How will you know that you have lived a life worth living? What is your passion? How do you know your life is in balance? What if I asked you those questions, and helped you to build a life based on their answers? What if we respected other peoples answers to those questions, even as they are different from our own?
Like all of you, I am a complex person. I love my partner beyond belief. I love my kids in ways I cannot describe. I can spend an evening chatting with friends and have no idea where the hours went. I like to smile at babies in the grocery store, and pet other peoples dogs on hikes. I love to talk with people, to understand what is meaningful to them, and to help them figure out how to pursue their best life. I like going for walks and catching a surprise scent of roses, or discovering I am suddenly in the middle of a bog. I love to snuggle into the couch with soft blankets, and fall asleep while my family watches TV, my puppy's curled behind my knees. I love to camp, sitting around the campfire at night, drifting off to sleep unplugged from civilization, waking to the sun and the birds. And I love to ride motorcycles.
On this list, are motorcycles statistically more risky than the other activities? Sure. But the joy from each of those activities makes the others even more fulfilling. Each of the passions I describe above shine a light of joy on the others, making the other activities that much better. Take one out, the others shine less bright. Fear is also exponential. If we remove an activity we want to do because of fear, we will also have more fear in the other activities we love. Take out riding motorcycles, and suddenly we wonder if we are safe driving in a car to visit with friends. And we notice the number of hikers that have fallen from trails this year. And walking alone becomes riskier, because we may fall or be attacked. Airplanes? Statistically safer than driving, but hard to fathom. Oh, that brings us to driving; one of the most dangerous activities most of us do on a daily basis. Nixed from the list. Suddenly, the risks are in focus, and nothing is safe.
Our brain tends to follow a path. A path of self confidence, curiousity, and optimism or of fear, distrust, and pessimism. (or pick any path between these two extremes...) We practice this neural pathway over and over and over. And I choose to practice joy, optimism, freedom, and wonder. Which leads me to anser the question "how can you ride a motorcycle?" with "How can I not?"
Monday, July 6, 2015
Why I loved Inside Out
Inside Out.... While it's a rare movie I can't wait to see, from the moment I saw the preview for Inside Out, I couldn't wait for its release. I was not disappointed; I laughed and cried and laughed and cried. My therapist heart sang.... Finally! As a society, we can talk about feelings! And in a fairly intelligent way! Our personality being made of distinct islands (tendencys) formed and colored by core memories? I'm on board with that. That memories are changed by the current context? Neurobiology says yes. While we sleep, our brain is discarding unused information to become more effecient? Excellent personification of a process we don't completely understand yet.
So what happens in this movie? I've seen an occassional review that complains 'nothing.' I suppose at its most basic level, the plot line is that a girl moves to San Francisco when her dad gets a job transfer. But rather than the plot, I see that as the setting in which the real story unfolds.
The real plot asks us 'what makes us human? What are our feelings? How do we develop emotionally? What is the meaning of family? Of struggle? Of change? What is the difference between saddness and depression? What are the protective factors and risk factors for an emotion shifting into something beyond our coping skills?'
I suppose if you are looking for Hollywood's epic adventures with sex, violence, and explosions, this may not be the movie for you. And if you are expecting the movie industry to have resolved its gender, racial, and class biases all in one movie, it's not quite there.
However, Inside Out gives us all a way to conceptualize our sense of self in a way that is more complex than our standard conversations about self. "What do you do for work? What do you do for fun? Weather, politics, sports talk, blah, blah, blah..." These fall back topics are not who we are. This movie tackles how our memories affect both our current feeling, our mood, and our overarching sense of self. This movie gives us a picture of how our that process is recripocal; whichever feeling is at the control panel can influence our perception of that memory. And this movie challenges the platitude 'don't be sad. You have so much to be happy about.' This movie shows us that our saddness (and the complexity of our emotional experience) is what lets us experience empathy, lets us sit alongside those who are struggling and to wittness their pain, and through that experience, gives them the ability to manage their emotions and continue moving forward.
And the movie captures all of this and more in scene after relatable scene. This movie connects us to our process of maturing, moving away from pure simplistic emotions, and to our understanding that most situations present mixed emotions, and that we have power over which parts of those experiences we focus on. This movie tackles expectations, and how they can get us into trouble. This movie tackles resiliance, and how in our early years, our family helps us form our resilience. And this movie tackles how it is the challenges in life that help us to grow into more fully developed individuals. This movie even lets parents off the hook to a healthy degree. The good foundation built by loving parents leaves a lot of room for missteps and mistakes, and those mistakes leave space to deepen the parent child bond.
Do I understand the critics frusturated with the lack of social progress displayed in our media? Sure. But to have a movie that gives us a language to talk about our feelings, memories, depression, family, core experiences, subconscious, dreams, empathy, and the formation of self being dependent on both our experiences and our perception and interpretation of those experiences for me overshadows the pieces Pixar missed the mark on. I hope that in the discussions I have, those other cultural elements will figure in and help me to better understand other people's experiences. But that will only add to the wonder that is Inside Out.
This blog will now return to your previously identified topic of motorcycles. Please forgive this interruption.
Tuesday, October 28, 2014
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.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
changes, attachments, and goodbyes
I keep writing and deleting this post. Perhaps because I haven't learned the lesson from what is currently going on in my life, I am unable to coherently communicate my thoughts.
It is a season of change. My daughter, (I was going to call her my baby girl, but she is such a stunning young lady, I can't call her that) is going off to college. My role in her life, that has been steadily and gradually changing, will suddenly will change completely, in ways yet to be seen.
As this change is happening, we have made a decision to move closer to my hubby's daughter, and settle down in Oregon for a while. Yet I remain skeptical of the idea of settling down and growing attached. We have been nomads for three years, spending every other weekend in homes 250 miles apart. The idea of living in one place, making friends with neighbors, and starting high school support over again is exciting and somewhat surreal.
Three years ago, I made a decision to buy a town house, feeling as though that was a permanent settling and I could get attached, here I am, leaving again. Even in the midst of that purchase, my life was starting to change. A new and permanent relationship was forming, and has profoundly changed me in ways I could never have imagined at the time.
Through this relationship we have kept and made friends in two places. How do you say goodbye while you are still profoundly connected? We're not actually going far enough not to see people again, we are just going far enough to change the faces in our day to day, week to week contact. I have always made friends that while we might fall out of touch for a while, put the close ones back in a room together, and we are bonded as if we talked yesterday. This will be a telling time; who are those friends? Who will fade away, cared about from a distance, and who will remain connected? This will depend on an area where I have worked to do some personal growth. The area of the healthy goodbye. I have, in the past, let people drift away as life has changed. In reality, a healthier goodbye would reclarify the relationship, would honor what has been, and would be realistic about moving forward. It would force me to look at my own wants and needs in a realistic manner, and share them with those important to me. My best practice at this has come from my therapeutic relationships, where I have forced myself to communicate clearly and intentionally about the reality of those relationships. My worst has been with friends, where I don't want to acknowledge that things are changing, and let myself believe I will find a way to help them continue.
As I write this, I am reminded of something I have said before. I attach to people, not things. And I think I protect myself from fully feeling the changes in these attachments by not participating in healthy goodbyes. Which brings me to the next part of the changes and goodbyes. I have made a decision to buy a dual sport motorcycle. This, in itself, has me over the moon excited. Not only will I ride on dirt, not only will I ride on street, but I can ride on both WITH THE SAME BIKE! Imagine the adventure opportunity this opens up! Yet, one girl cannot own three (plus the geriatric one that hasn't yet been fixed) motorcycles. One girls husband bears too much responsibility for motorcycle trouble shooting and maintenance because this girls learning curve is steep. And this girl is a practical one, who doesn't want to leave a bike sitting in her garage when someone could be canyon carving or commuting on this delightful little machine. So this girl must say goodbye to her first street bike.
It is much like parting with a first love. I remember the first day I sat on this motorcycle, given to me by my dear husband. I am tearing up thinking about it. I rode it around the apartment complex at 8 miles an hour, terrified of hurting it. This is not a machine; this is a relationship. The motorcycle cannot stay separate from you, it must become a part of you. I remember the second day, going from my morning "top speed" of 17 miles per hour to riding down Maple Valley Highway at 55. What a feeling! I remember naming her Angel, due to her white and sparkling beauty. I remember coming home with my daily confessional of the mistakes I made riding every day. The only ones who really knew were my baby ninja and me. I remember passing my motorcycle test with my baby ninja. I remember riding every day, no matter the weather, to get myself ready for whatever may come on my honeymoon. I remember my first experience with hypothermia, my brain slowed, my motor skills slowed, and I didn't really even realize I was in danger. The baby ninja was so forgiving of all of these mistakes.
Then there was our honeymoon ride. Traveling 3500 miles on the baby ninja, riding on what Nathan called the best roads I will ever experience on my life. I remember taking her to the Lost Coast, where she proved her nearly off road capabilities and I went from being afraid of transitioning from gravel to pavement, to cornering on a road that was falling apart, uneven, sometimes gravel, and unpredictable. I remember the baby ninja zipping through the Mohave Desert, 105 degrees, 30 mile an hour cross wind, hot hot hot. The baby ninja is so willing, so ready, so excited to have fun all the time.
I tested my new motorcycle last night. OMG was it fun. I felt like I was being naughty, and might get caught; I was riding a dirt bike on the street... But it's legal! And, I was a little awkward; I rode a long time to find a space I felt safe to turn around. I slowed down too much on curves, and felt a little top heavy. The gearing was all different, and the turn signal is small and a little sticky. All things I will adjust to over time. Or fix. Then I got back on the baby ninja to go home, and OMG, was it fun! I have bonded with that bike, I know it. We work together to figure things out. I don't have to think, my body and the baby ninja are connected. It's a flow experience. I know I have not pushed the baby ninja to the fullest of her abilities, because I haven't reached the fullest of mine.
Yet, I have peace with my decision to part with the baby ninja and start a relationship with my new bike. I'm already planning the mods, the care, the possible changes of color. I'm daydreaming of adventures the ninja couldn't go on. I'm ready for the ninja to continue being loved and adored by someone who wants to love and adore that beautiful beloved little bike, while I start over with a new friend.
Farewell baby ninja. Have many more adventures, teach more people to ride, be wonderful and reliable. I will be grateful for the lessons you have taught me. And hello new yet to be named and nicknamed bike... Oh the fun we are going to have!
It is a season of change. My daughter, (I was going to call her my baby girl, but she is such a stunning young lady, I can't call her that) is going off to college. My role in her life, that has been steadily and gradually changing, will suddenly will change completely, in ways yet to be seen.
As this change is happening, we have made a decision to move closer to my hubby's daughter, and settle down in Oregon for a while. Yet I remain skeptical of the idea of settling down and growing attached. We have been nomads for three years, spending every other weekend in homes 250 miles apart. The idea of living in one place, making friends with neighbors, and starting high school support over again is exciting and somewhat surreal.
Three years ago, I made a decision to buy a town house, feeling as though that was a permanent settling and I could get attached, here I am, leaving again. Even in the midst of that purchase, my life was starting to change. A new and permanent relationship was forming, and has profoundly changed me in ways I could never have imagined at the time.
Through this relationship we have kept and made friends in two places. How do you say goodbye while you are still profoundly connected? We're not actually going far enough not to see people again, we are just going far enough to change the faces in our day to day, week to week contact. I have always made friends that while we might fall out of touch for a while, put the close ones back in a room together, and we are bonded as if we talked yesterday. This will be a telling time; who are those friends? Who will fade away, cared about from a distance, and who will remain connected? This will depend on an area where I have worked to do some personal growth. The area of the healthy goodbye. I have, in the past, let people drift away as life has changed. In reality, a healthier goodbye would reclarify the relationship, would honor what has been, and would be realistic about moving forward. It would force me to look at my own wants and needs in a realistic manner, and share them with those important to me. My best practice at this has come from my therapeutic relationships, where I have forced myself to communicate clearly and intentionally about the reality of those relationships. My worst has been with friends, where I don't want to acknowledge that things are changing, and let myself believe I will find a way to help them continue.
As I write this, I am reminded of something I have said before. I attach to people, not things. And I think I protect myself from fully feeling the changes in these attachments by not participating in healthy goodbyes. Which brings me to the next part of the changes and goodbyes. I have made a decision to buy a dual sport motorcycle. This, in itself, has me over the moon excited. Not only will I ride on dirt, not only will I ride on street, but I can ride on both WITH THE SAME BIKE! Imagine the adventure opportunity this opens up! Yet, one girl cannot own three (plus the geriatric one that hasn't yet been fixed) motorcycles. One girls husband bears too much responsibility for motorcycle trouble shooting and maintenance because this girls learning curve is steep. And this girl is a practical one, who doesn't want to leave a bike sitting in her garage when someone could be canyon carving or commuting on this delightful little machine. So this girl must say goodbye to her first street bike.
It is much like parting with a first love. I remember the first day I sat on this motorcycle, given to me by my dear husband. I am tearing up thinking about it. I rode it around the apartment complex at 8 miles an hour, terrified of hurting it. This is not a machine; this is a relationship. The motorcycle cannot stay separate from you, it must become a part of you. I remember the second day, going from my morning "top speed" of 17 miles per hour to riding down Maple Valley Highway at 55. What a feeling! I remember naming her Angel, due to her white and sparkling beauty. I remember coming home with my daily confessional of the mistakes I made riding every day. The only ones who really knew were my baby ninja and me. I remember passing my motorcycle test with my baby ninja. I remember riding every day, no matter the weather, to get myself ready for whatever may come on my honeymoon. I remember my first experience with hypothermia, my brain slowed, my motor skills slowed, and I didn't really even realize I was in danger. The baby ninja was so forgiving of all of these mistakes.
Then there was our honeymoon ride. Traveling 3500 miles on the baby ninja, riding on what Nathan called the best roads I will ever experience on my life. I remember taking her to the Lost Coast, where she proved her nearly off road capabilities and I went from being afraid of transitioning from gravel to pavement, to cornering on a road that was falling apart, uneven, sometimes gravel, and unpredictable. I remember the baby ninja zipping through the Mohave Desert, 105 degrees, 30 mile an hour cross wind, hot hot hot. The baby ninja is so willing, so ready, so excited to have fun all the time.
I tested my new motorcycle last night. OMG was it fun. I felt like I was being naughty, and might get caught; I was riding a dirt bike on the street... But it's legal! And, I was a little awkward; I rode a long time to find a space I felt safe to turn around. I slowed down too much on curves, and felt a little top heavy. The gearing was all different, and the turn signal is small and a little sticky. All things I will adjust to over time. Or fix. Then I got back on the baby ninja to go home, and OMG, was it fun! I have bonded with that bike, I know it. We work together to figure things out. I don't have to think, my body and the baby ninja are connected. It's a flow experience. I know I have not pushed the baby ninja to the fullest of her abilities, because I haven't reached the fullest of mine.
Yet, I have peace with my decision to part with the baby ninja and start a relationship with my new bike. I'm already planning the mods, the care, the possible changes of color. I'm daydreaming of adventures the ninja couldn't go on. I'm ready for the ninja to continue being loved and adored by someone who wants to love and adore that beautiful beloved little bike, while I start over with a new friend.
Farewell baby ninja. Have many more adventures, teach more people to ride, be wonderful and reliable. I will be grateful for the lessons you have taught me. And hello new yet to be named and nicknamed bike... Oh the fun we are going to have!
Sunday, May 4, 2014
The Hill Climb...
A cool thing happened yesterday. Besides being on a dirt bike all day, that is. We found a really fun (read muddy, steep, rocky, v-notch) hill climb in the woods. The guys went up, one by one; some with more success than others, some with better form than others. The first time I tried, I fell half way up, laughed, had help turning my bike around, and coasted back down. Which gave me an appreciation for how steep the thing really was! With all the guys at the top, betting against me I heard later, I tried it again... First gear, wheels spinning, pushing my bike over the top with my boots, victory was mine! Much cheering ensued, pointing at my slick mud packed back tire, and a high five with my fiancée; I felt on top of the world.
It's no small feat to look at a mountain and think "I can get up that." I reflect on times in my life that I just put it in gear and got through it... Baby in college, kiddo with cancer, grad school, divorce... Life changes give you the option of getting through or falling apart. Even with the guys betting against me yesterday, there's not a one that wouldn't help get me out of the woods injured or ride my bike up something I couldn't handle. Knowing this gave me the courage to try. Life is the same way; because I've always had people in my corner ready to lend a hand if I fall and cheer when I succeed, I look at opportunity and say yes. Want to try something new? Yes. Want to meet someone new? Yes. How about a life style change? Yes. Oh that didn't work out? It's ok, you'll figure it out. We're here when you need us. (Which yesterday, I totally did later, but that's another story.) I may not tackle things with style and fineness, but you know if you ask, I'll say yes, and I'll give it 100% of my effort, I'll laugh when I fall, I won't blame anyone else when things go wrong, and I'll be grateful every moment for the love and support of those around me.
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