Just Another Sunday Ride

I normally get up at dawn for our rides, but not today. I like to get out before the cars pollute the roads, and on any other Sunday it would be an issue. Today is different. I'm practically guaranteed empty pavement due to the big game that will air in a few hours. I never learned football and most of the time I'm embarrassed to say that. Touchdowns and quarterbacks--that's about all I can figure out in three hours of staring at the TV. My male friends roll their eyes. My female friends roll their eyes, too. My ignorance of the sport affords me a certain freedom today, and I sleep in knowing that for once time is not of the essence for a weekend ride.

It only takes us 30 minutes...brush teeth, put hair back in pony-tail. Long johns, a t-shirt, nice thick socks and I'm dressed enough to grab a bowl of cereal and eat it by the old gas floor heater before slipping into my leathers. The Dainese feel a little stiff and cool as I put them on. I haven't been in them much now that it's winter. The Aerostich is my suit of choice for my commute which comprises most of my riding in the colder, darker months. But cold and dark is not what I see outside my window---quite the opposite.

I head out to the detached garage where the bike waits. The old red Duc still looks pretty sharp. 54,000 miles and she shows it. Dirty, scraped, rusted, bent...but she still turns heads as we rumble through the quiet streets in the late morning. Unhappily it chugs along at slow speed when it's not up to temperature. My riding partner and I head out onto the freeway and the big twin comes alive. 3rd, 4th, 5th, aaaaand 6th....I'm 6K on the tach and that tells me that I shouldn't look at the speedo. With my earplugs in and the visor down I hear almost nothing but the wind. The looks on the faces of the drivers I pass tell me their ears hear my exhaust.

We pass roads with names like Skyline and Pinehurst. The source of their monikers is obvious. We ride Redwood on our way out to 580. This is my backyard, and when I want to show off, this is where I go. I've been riding the road long enough to respect the cliffs that drop their rocks into my path--it can be clear one minute and the next you find yourself eye to eye with a grapefruit-sized chunk of mountain. This happens more in winter and there haven't been enough cars to grind down the big stuff yet this morning. We take it slow.

We cruise 580 into Livermore and onto Vasco. The plan is to do Mines and Mt. Hamilton, and we're not alone. Three bikes approach from behind us as we make our way up Tesla. They keep a respectable distance and a mellow pace until we turn onto Mines and hit a few mild turns. The three pass us, obviously much more comfortable with the dirt and gravel they're kicking up than I am. The pace I'm doing is brisk, and I feel the rear wheel slide once or twice. This will be my limit for today.

Mines is beautiful this time of year. Stark and barren even during the height of spring, it's even more so now with all the leaves from the trees gone. Wild turkeys cross our path. My riding partner and I ride through small streams that cross the road that I seem to remember flowing even in summer. We pass several other riders who have come out to take advantage of the day--two brightly painted cruisers who wave us past, a lone rider with a jacket that's exactly like mine, a couple riding two-up goes the other direction.

We arrive at the greasy spoon known as The Junction. It's East Bay's answer to Alice's. We're greeted by a boisterous crowd of well over a dozen other riders. BMW's, cruisers, and Japanese brands of every kind are lined up. We bump into a man that used to live across the street from my husband. The waitress calls me "honey" and it reminds me of the small town where I grew up, where literally everybody did know your name. I eavesdrop on the conversations around me--crash stories, bike mod's, football, ex-girlfriends. The man with the jacket that's just like mine walks in to order a few minutes after me. His jacket is new and shockingly clean in comparison. I'm not sure whether to be ashamed or proud of the scars and stains that my encounters with the asphalt and weather have left on my leathers. I decide to be a little ashamed and move away from him.

We leave The Junction and continue up to Lick Observatory at the top of Mt. Hamilton. The ride up makes me wonder if I really want to ride back down the same way. Cattle guards, sand, gravel...it was hairy and the effort to stay upright has left me a little shaky. My bladder can't figure out if it's full or if I've just got a case of the jitters. It's the jitters. All that effort to get out of the leathers for nothing.

We decide to head back down the way we came up after all. I lead this time. My confidence has returned, but so has the urge to use the loo. Damn. I pick up the pace, making sure to keep an eye on the guy behind me. He's not only my riding buddy today, but he's another Duc rider, and I just happened to marry this guy a few months ago. I can't help but be protective. We've both watched each other fall and it's not an experience we care to repeat.

Conscious of my speed, I try to remember landmarks that I'd taken note of on the way in. The bent tree tells me that the corner where I saw those rocks is coming up. The streams mean that the sand left over from a big storm's washout is up ahead. The sun is going down and riding through the shadows doesn't only become darker, it becomes a lot colder, too. The damp grabs me and I stiffen up a little, fighting off the urge to shiver. The landscape becomes almost surreal with a chiaroscuro of golds against deep greens. A bobcat crosses the road right in front of me in the late afternoon--she stops, looks back at me and continues down the hill. I can't stop thinking of her and can't wait to talk about it when I get off the bike.

My husband and I stop in at a Starbucks off Tesla. There are two m/c cops patrolling Vasco near the gas station where we've just filled up. We decide not to tempt fate and instead grab some caffeine and put our feet up. Three guys that we'd seen up at The Junction are there, too. I read the name off the side of a couple of their bikes. They're two of the smallest street-legal motorcycles I've ever seen: CBR150. We admire them and ask some questions which they happily answer. They take off before we come back outside. We note that one has a BARF license plate frame as he pulls away. (Hi guys!)

I return home just as the sun is setting. I had planned on arriving earlier but decided to do Redwood again, and then take on part of Skyline. The bike is even more dirty, scraped, rusted, and bent than it started out this morning over 200 miles ago. She wears the abuse well. Wish I could say the same for me. It takes a shower, a stiff drink, and a couple of aspirin to get the feeling back in my knees and feet again. I'm pleasantly exhausted....and already planning next weekend's outing.