Dancing lessons
"Peculiar travel suggestions are dancing lessons from God"
- Kurt Vonnegut, from "Cat's Cradle"
The week before last was more of the same: stressed, tired, overdue work stuff, blah blah blah. As I plowed my bitter way through the tail end of a ten-hour workday that Friday, I could think of no better thing to look forward to than getting some badly-needed rest. That's about when my old friend Moppy called out of the blue to ask if I wanted to come out to the Catskills that very weekend to help cut trees and split firewood.
At that point in my day and week, I was physically exhausted, emotionally spent, and possibly coming down with a cold. Going to the Catskills would mean waking up early the next morning, packing my things, putting on many layers of clothes and riding a motorcycle 100 miles each way through temperatures in the 30s and 40s. Everything about the idea sounded ill-advised, questionable, and trending toward absurd.
Damn straight I wanted to do it.
I slept poorly that night, woke up early-ish and went to the Quaker diner for a properly hearty breakfast. I chatted with a man in his 70's at the counter who saw my helmet and started talking bikes. He had ridden for many years, including old BMWs. We finished eating at the same time and he came out to see and hear the old BMW this crazy kid was about to ride to New York State in mid -November. Nice guy. I stopped back at the house, lashed my bags to the R80 and headed off. I had to stop a few times for wardrobe adjustments, but I managed to keep everything but my thumbs toasty warm as I rode. Every 30 or 40 miles or so, I stopped at some cafe to nurse a hot mug of cider or a bowl of soup cradled between my hands. Damn, that's cozy.
The Ponderosa, as Mops calls it, is an old quarry in the Catskills with two cabins and several vintage travel trailers scattered about. The owners are NY arts & theater types who have some sort of vague adopted family member/caretaker/handyman relationship with Moppy, who is an enigmatic force of nature all his own. I arrived mid-afternoon to find the lot of them clearing a space for their latest acquisition, a huge early 60's travel trailer they had picked up that afternoon for a few hundred bucks. Four adults, two chainsaws, two preschoolers, two dogs, one Chevy Suburban, a 1979 International Scout II with no brakes and a logging chain had the trailer in place by nightfall. I dozed off briefly before dinner by the warmth of the cabin's wood stove listening to Hot Tuna on the stereo, all cozy and dreamy-like.
I awoke to a home-cooked week-before-Thanksgiving dinner that couldn't be beat, then went off to see a local production of "The Odd Couple".The performance itself was no worse than expected, and the building was great. It was a 1950's or 60's time capsule, with dark wood paneling, an amazing bar, diamond-shaped windows in the doors (including the swinging door to the gents room at the very end of the bar.) It was like stumbling into the Rat Pack's summer camp. Seeing as the Rat Pack compound was only a mile or so away, we drove the electric golf cart. The Ponderosa-keepers inherited an old EZ-Go a few years back, and have since used it for purposes better suited to a Jeep or ATV of some sort. On this sub-freezing Saturday night, we could have chosen one of many far better ways to drive 2 miles on public roads than a battered golf cart with weak batteries and no lights, but why? We made it there and back, each holding a flashlight in our hands as a headlamp while a third flashlight with a red lense in the rear basket served taillight duty. We slowed to a crawl up the hills, careened down the other sides and made the last quarter mile on equal parts momentum, stray amps and pure absurdity. Grinning ensued.
Back at the Ponderosa, I retired to the Snake House and fell asleep in a comfy bed by the warmth of another wood stove, one tired and happy camper. That's a hat trick for Cozy right there.
Sunday consisted of the aforementioned personnel and tools (minus the dogs) plus their prepneck (like a preppy redneck) state trooper neighbor and his deer-hunting crew felling trees. I loaded logs while the five-year-old operated the log splitter. Pizza was served at the statie's brand new McCabin. I said my goodbyes, loaded up the bike and pointed it eastward.
The US 44/route 199 corridor from Connecticut to the Catskills has long been a favorite drive of mine. It curves and swoops its way through farms, fields, villages and forests with just the right mix of cafes, biker bars, antique stores, book shops and ethnic restaurants along the way. I have driven it in several different cars and trucks in all kinds of weather and I have long been jonesing to do it on a bike. I have driven it enough times to know which curves can be taken at double the posted speed and which ones require a more prudent approach. This was the ride I wanted to do for my birthday before matters beyond my control made that plan impossible. It was everything I wanted and needed it to be and more.
This was most likely my last real ride of the season. 40 degrees is about as low as I think I can go for a long ride without a fairing (which is in the works) or heated handgrips (which I really want now and will look into.) Once I have more than a half-dozen layers on, flexibility begins to suffer and the road-dance gets a bit more wooden. Imagine the Soul Train dancers in down coats and mukluks (actually, I would probably love that...)
I saw fewer than ten other bikes on the road over the weekend, one Ducati and the remainder a roughly 60/40 split between BMWs and Harleys. We all exchanged the biker wave knowingly as we throttled and carved our respective ways through the blacktop capillaries of the proverbial deep end. Anyone else you see on a bike when temps are in the high 30's is a special kind of crazy. Your paths may never cross again, but you are most definitely linked in some way.
I paid for that weekend all last week and through this long weekend. Chemo side-effects that had been less noticeable came back in full effect. Long hours and a double shift on Tuesday made matters worse. I'm tired, sore, and even more convinced I'm coming down with something.
In short, it was the best decision I've made in weeks.
Thank you, God. You dance divinely.
- Kurt Vonnegut, from "Cat's Cradle"
The week before last was more of the same: stressed, tired, overdue work stuff, blah blah blah. As I plowed my bitter way through the tail end of a ten-hour workday that Friday, I could think of no better thing to look forward to than getting some badly-needed rest. That's about when my old friend Moppy called out of the blue to ask if I wanted to come out to the Catskills that very weekend to help cut trees and split firewood.
At that point in my day and week, I was physically exhausted, emotionally spent, and possibly coming down with a cold. Going to the Catskills would mean waking up early the next morning, packing my things, putting on many layers of clothes and riding a motorcycle 100 miles each way through temperatures in the 30s and 40s. Everything about the idea sounded ill-advised, questionable, and trending toward absurd.
Damn straight I wanted to do it.
I slept poorly that night, woke up early-ish and went to the Quaker diner for a properly hearty breakfast. I chatted with a man in his 70's at the counter who saw my helmet and started talking bikes. He had ridden for many years, including old BMWs. We finished eating at the same time and he came out to see and hear the old BMW this crazy kid was about to ride to New York State in mid -November. Nice guy. I stopped back at the house, lashed my bags to the R80 and headed off. I had to stop a few times for wardrobe adjustments, but I managed to keep everything but my thumbs toasty warm as I rode. Every 30 or 40 miles or so, I stopped at some cafe to nurse a hot mug of cider or a bowl of soup cradled between my hands. Damn, that's cozy.
The Ponderosa, as Mops calls it, is an old quarry in the Catskills with two cabins and several vintage travel trailers scattered about. The owners are NY arts & theater types who have some sort of vague adopted family member/caretaker/handyman relationship with Moppy, who is an enigmatic force of nature all his own. I arrived mid-afternoon to find the lot of them clearing a space for their latest acquisition, a huge early 60's travel trailer they had picked up that afternoon for a few hundred bucks. Four adults, two chainsaws, two preschoolers, two dogs, one Chevy Suburban, a 1979 International Scout II with no brakes and a logging chain had the trailer in place by nightfall. I dozed off briefly before dinner by the warmth of the cabin's wood stove listening to Hot Tuna on the stereo, all cozy and dreamy-like.
I awoke to a home-cooked week-before-Thanksgiving dinner that couldn't be beat, then went off to see a local production of "The Odd Couple".The performance itself was no worse than expected, and the building was great. It was a 1950's or 60's time capsule, with dark wood paneling, an amazing bar, diamond-shaped windows in the doors (including the swinging door to the gents room at the very end of the bar.) It was like stumbling into the Rat Pack's summer camp. Seeing as the Rat Pack compound was only a mile or so away, we drove the electric golf cart. The Ponderosa-keepers inherited an old EZ-Go a few years back, and have since used it for purposes better suited to a Jeep or ATV of some sort. On this sub-freezing Saturday night, we could have chosen one of many far better ways to drive 2 miles on public roads than a battered golf cart with weak batteries and no lights, but why? We made it there and back, each holding a flashlight in our hands as a headlamp while a third flashlight with a red lense in the rear basket served taillight duty. We slowed to a crawl up the hills, careened down the other sides and made the last quarter mile on equal parts momentum, stray amps and pure absurdity. Grinning ensued.
Back at the Ponderosa, I retired to the Snake House and fell asleep in a comfy bed by the warmth of another wood stove, one tired and happy camper. That's a hat trick for Cozy right there.
Sunday consisted of the aforementioned personnel and tools (minus the dogs) plus their prepneck (like a preppy redneck) state trooper neighbor and his deer-hunting crew felling trees. I loaded logs while the five-year-old operated the log splitter. Pizza was served at the statie's brand new McCabin. I said my goodbyes, loaded up the bike and pointed it eastward.
The US 44/route 199 corridor from Connecticut to the Catskills has long been a favorite drive of mine. It curves and swoops its way through farms, fields, villages and forests with just the right mix of cafes, biker bars, antique stores, book shops and ethnic restaurants along the way. I have driven it in several different cars and trucks in all kinds of weather and I have long been jonesing to do it on a bike. I have driven it enough times to know which curves can be taken at double the posted speed and which ones require a more prudent approach. This was the ride I wanted to do for my birthday before matters beyond my control made that plan impossible. It was everything I wanted and needed it to be and more.
This was most likely my last real ride of the season. 40 degrees is about as low as I think I can go for a long ride without a fairing (which is in the works) or heated handgrips (which I really want now and will look into.) Once I have more than a half-dozen layers on, flexibility begins to suffer and the road-dance gets a bit more wooden. Imagine the Soul Train dancers in down coats and mukluks (actually, I would probably love that...)
I saw fewer than ten other bikes on the road over the weekend, one Ducati and the remainder a roughly 60/40 split between BMWs and Harleys. We all exchanged the biker wave knowingly as we throttled and carved our respective ways through the blacktop capillaries of the proverbial deep end. Anyone else you see on a bike when temps are in the high 30's is a special kind of crazy. Your paths may never cross again, but you are most definitely linked in some way.
I paid for that weekend all last week and through this long weekend. Chemo side-effects that had been less noticeable came back in full effect. Long hours and a double shift on Tuesday made matters worse. I'm tired, sore, and even more convinced I'm coming down with something.
In short, it was the best decision I've made in weeks.
Thank you, God. You dance divinely.