The first thing you notice is the smells. The fragrances of spring are everywhere, like the honeysuckle of my youth, drenching the lush valley air of citrus groves in full blossom, saturating mountains in the aroma of pine, high desert with the scent of sage.
The next thing you notice is the bugs. Gnats, fruit flies, mosquitoes, moths, bees, butterflies, dragonflies, black flies, June bugs and nearly every other buzzing critter with two wings and six legs are smeared across your face shield, swatted from the sky and splattered on your headlights and faring like grenade shrapnel.
Finally, there is the wind. Always, the wind.
After a decade-long hiatus, I recently re-entered the world of motorcycling. Not dirt-bike riding, mind you, but genuine touring on a 900cc machine that falls into a burgeoning class of cycles known as “dual sport” or “adventure touring.” The idea is to design a motorcycle worthy of the freeway that allows the rider to cruise dirt or gravel off the exit ramp just as easily. So far, the British-built Triumph Tiger seems up to the challenge.
The bigger question is, am I?
I figure a sign of a good motorcycle is one that no one wants to sell. And finding a used Tiger in a convenient nearby location proved difficult to the point that I deemed the bike a champion before ever test riding it. If I wanted one this spring, I would have to head to Los Angeles. What I failed to factor into its price was that getting it out of the City of Angels just might cost me my life.
After signing the dotted line and making a quick call to my insurance agent, I hopped on the bike with a temporary instructional permit in my back pocket and immediately merged into the 10-lane river of moving steel that is Los Angeles at rush hour. The permit allowed me to operate the bike “in the vicinity” of a licensed rider, and I looked up to see the only licensed rider nearby blend into the current of cars using a legal California technique known as “lane sharing.” It’s no problem riding the dotted line between a Hummer and a Corvette doing 65 mph in the Golden State, as long as you’re wearing a helmet.
Wedged between two gridlocked trucks, I repeated the unconvincing mantra “motorcycles are fun” until my concentration was shattered by the shrill whine of a crotch rocket deliberately revved as its owner crept up and passed on the inside. “Dude,” I thought once the panic subsided, “I just got served.”
I dropped the visor of my helmet and took my place in the lineup of motorcycles dodging side-view mirrors on the right side of the carpool lane. I followed the Ninja through the cloud of exhaust and began to trust my instincts. Beyond the immediate impulse to leave this frightful place and never return, those instincts told me to relax and feel the flow. Look for the openings, like skiing the trees. Before long, I came to think of the narrow slot between SUVs as a fluid stream, the bike a nimble kayak deftly slicing between hazards. Just keep it upright, I told myself. Rolling is not an option.
Eventually, we escaped the coastal chaos and made our way north and east to ride the bike as it was meant to be ridden. Motorcycling really is fun, I began to believe on the twisting roads of the Sierra Nevada. The secret is to ride at the bike’s pace. Even with a speedometer ranging to 150 mph, the reality is that motorcycles are the ideal way to slow yourself down and experience every inch of a journey.
Eventually the ribbon of road before me opened up like a gift being unwrapped as forgotten skills returned over the course of some 2,000 miles. I peeled south at St. George, Utah, to sample Zion National Park, dived deeper into canyon country at Lee’s Ferry and north across the Navajo Nation through Monument Valley before puttering past Moab and savoring the river road along the Colorado. I rolled through Glenwood Canyon with expert confidence, navigating the final freeway miles at dangerously willing speeds until, once again, I was served notice of my rookie status, this time by a low-riding chopper.
Wearing leather chaps and a bandana tied around his forehead, the driver blew by on the inside of my lane, flashing a low peace sign before gunning it over the horizon with a passenger draped over his shoulders like a monkey on a tree. This time, I made no effort to keep pace. This time, I loosened my grip on the throttle, lifted the bug-splattered visor, took a slow, deep breath and felt the fresh wind in my face. The journey, after all, had only just begun.
