Carbondale night ride 1
They say that on a motorcycle, everything blends together in one continuous image, like the world is a movie that keeps on going with you in the center, or like one of those old school moving pictures. Things become a blur of color, more so at night, or at least that's kind of my experience on the back of my motorcycle. When it's dark, the night leeches all the color from the surroundings, the street lights stain everything in a dim orange color, gas stations and stores become bright oases of light, and people.... Well, the people move in and out of the darkness like fish surfacing and disappearing under the waves.
So, it strikes me as odd the things that I notice when riding around Carbondale at night. As a motorcycle rider, you have to be constantly aware of your surroundings lest you paste yourself on some guy who doesn't signal when merging, or you slide right into the jay walkers... Anyway, the surroundings are constantly changing, only remaining still when you hit a red light. It's like the world suddenly comes into focus, you realize that at some points you're completely alone. Alone in a city of thousands, its an interesting concept.
I was stopped at the corner of wall and grand, near Don Taco and that strip mall with the tanning salon, when I happened to do something other than look out for the normal cycling hazards of carbondale, which are blessedly few in the later hours. So across the street I see five women, all identical from my position: tank tops of varying design, jean shorts, too tan, and lots of jewelry. I thought it might have been a trick of my motion addled brain that these women appeared to be identical, but no, i wasn't making things up.. These women had carefully planned their attire to be as identical as possible... Wierd, but it might guarantee that at least one of them got laid...
Anyway, the light changed after an eternity and then I was forced to stop: jaywalkers. At one in the morning, on a thursday, they emerge like leviathans from the sea, long strings of people who interrupt the non-existant flow of traffic in their migration from bar to bar. Either they're clumped together in one large pack, spilling over the confines of the cross walk, or they're simply moving in long stream... As the night wears on, the streams become more common than the packs: intoxication makes stragglers of even the most determined of partier.... Occasionally the stream will collapse mid crossing when one of the drunkards (usually a female) breaks a heel, stops to puke, or something else... Oblivious to the potential danger of cars, they will corral around the lone, wounded individual and obstruct traffic.
Trios of men are more dangerous than the streams for they will act with stupidity for no apparent reason... Usually this includes them throwing items at the rider, begging for wheelies, or jsut eying the rider as though they need to challenge my manhood. Revving the engine and jerking my head tends to get them moving in the right direction. I say dangerous because some of these creatures will leap, in a possibly suicidal move, in front of my bike and then draw away just as quickly.... I think it's a test to see if I will stop or swerve, I rarely do anymore.
Other denizens of the night include truckers, drivers, and other riders. We pass each other on our respective rides through the streets, acknowledging our shared desire to get to our destinations as quickly as possible. The drivers have a sort of admirable precision: changing lanes, accelerating, stopping all at breakneck speeds. Of course this makes them dangerous as they can suddenly appear and disappear without warning. the truckers move like whales, though infinitely louder: they're heard before their seen emerging from the darkness like some jurassic titan, bellowing it's presence through twin smoke stacks. Before their massive, orange illuminated presence, all of use night travellers scatter like insects. They are few and far between on the inner city roads of carbondale.
The normal comraderie between riders is reserved for the oases of light, the gas stations, not for the roads: our attention is too focused upon our surroundings, the other nightwalkers, to salute save at stoplights or stop signs. At the lights we huddle together as though for warmth, so that the combined weight of our machines triggers the lights, and then we part just as fast: we're bonded by our mutual necessity, but just as soon depart with a salute, a waggle of the bike, or a nod of the head.
So, it strikes me as odd the things that I notice when riding around Carbondale at night. As a motorcycle rider, you have to be constantly aware of your surroundings lest you paste yourself on some guy who doesn't signal when merging, or you slide right into the jay walkers... Anyway, the surroundings are constantly changing, only remaining still when you hit a red light. It's like the world suddenly comes into focus, you realize that at some points you're completely alone. Alone in a city of thousands, its an interesting concept.
I was stopped at the corner of wall and grand, near Don Taco and that strip mall with the tanning salon, when I happened to do something other than look out for the normal cycling hazards of carbondale, which are blessedly few in the later hours. So across the street I see five women, all identical from my position: tank tops of varying design, jean shorts, too tan, and lots of jewelry. I thought it might have been a trick of my motion addled brain that these women appeared to be identical, but no, i wasn't making things up.. These women had carefully planned their attire to be as identical as possible... Wierd, but it might guarantee that at least one of them got laid...
Anyway, the light changed after an eternity and then I was forced to stop: jaywalkers. At one in the morning, on a thursday, they emerge like leviathans from the sea, long strings of people who interrupt the non-existant flow of traffic in their migration from bar to bar. Either they're clumped together in one large pack, spilling over the confines of the cross walk, or they're simply moving in long stream... As the night wears on, the streams become more common than the packs: intoxication makes stragglers of even the most determined of partier.... Occasionally the stream will collapse mid crossing when one of the drunkards (usually a female) breaks a heel, stops to puke, or something else... Oblivious to the potential danger of cars, they will corral around the lone, wounded individual and obstruct traffic.
Trios of men are more dangerous than the streams for they will act with stupidity for no apparent reason... Usually this includes them throwing items at the rider, begging for wheelies, or jsut eying the rider as though they need to challenge my manhood. Revving the engine and jerking my head tends to get them moving in the right direction. I say dangerous because some of these creatures will leap, in a possibly suicidal move, in front of my bike and then draw away just as quickly.... I think it's a test to see if I will stop or swerve, I rarely do anymore.
Other denizens of the night include truckers, drivers, and other riders. We pass each other on our respective rides through the streets, acknowledging our shared desire to get to our destinations as quickly as possible. The drivers have a sort of admirable precision: changing lanes, accelerating, stopping all at breakneck speeds. Of course this makes them dangerous as they can suddenly appear and disappear without warning. the truckers move like whales, though infinitely louder: they're heard before their seen emerging from the darkness like some jurassic titan, bellowing it's presence through twin smoke stacks. Before their massive, orange illuminated presence, all of use night travellers scatter like insects. They are few and far between on the inner city roads of carbondale.
The normal comraderie between riders is reserved for the oases of light, the gas stations, not for the roads: our attention is too focused upon our surroundings, the other nightwalkers, to salute save at stoplights or stop signs. At the lights we huddle together as though for warmth, so that the combined weight of our machines triggers the lights, and then we part just as fast: we're bonded by our mutual necessity, but just as soon depart with a salute, a waggle of the bike, or a nod of the head.