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I'm Very Passionate About My Passions

Sunday, July 31, 2016

The days, weeks, months, and possibly last several years, have been a blur of activity, some, great, some good, some not so good, and some down right horrible. The blur of time includes issues such as health problems, separation, divorce, therapy, learning, and then a wedding, and more health puzzles.

One of my passions, my motorcycle, has been on the back burner, and when I had been able to ride some they weren't the rides I love. The rides I love most are trips, not over night, not over a weekend, but fully packed bikes, little out of the way motels, rallies, pictures, and most of all, very limited technological access and total emotional connection with my fellow riders. 

Today, well today was different. My husband and I took off for a day, a long, full, day of riding, thinking, and taking in the incredible scenery of Oregon.

The second I geared up and threw my leg over my Harley I felt alive. I was incredibly overwhelmed anticipating what the day would hold. There's just something about being a woman that rides her own Harley that is more than empowering.

I love to ride, and as we rode through the National Forests of Oregon, I remembered why riding is a passion of mine. I can see more when I'm on my bike, like the hawk just above me at one point, that I could have never seen in a car. I see the blades of grass gently dancing in the wind, horses graze, and old men fish. I see the world as it was before technology took over.

On a motorcycle you pretty much have to notice more than you do in a car. There could be deer, wet leaves, loose gravel, and those pesky people enveloped in a cage that seem to like looking at their phones more than looking at the road. So with all of that in mind, you see everything.

 All of my senses are heightened when I ride. There's so much more I experience. The beautiful aromas of flowering fields, and freshly mown lawns, are only two of thousands that come to life. There's the "woodsy" smell of the forest, the intoxicating, to a biker, aroma of leather, gasoline, and sunscreen. 

As we rode along the beautiful Clackamas River I could feel the cool breeze drifting from the rushing water and wafting in the heat of the sun. Then there were the "micro climates" we have in the Northwest that amaze me. Hot, warm, cool, and cold, could all be felt in a matter of minutes while riding through the winding roads lined with towering trees.

The biggest rush I think is the feel of being on, and controlling, a machine nearly 8 times my weight, experiencing its power, feeling the bike lean as you push into the curves, the vibrations of the motorcycle itself, and knowing that I have to be in control of my motorcycle, my emotions, and my thoughts, at all times. With that comes clarity of mind.

That must sound a bit crazy to a person that doesn't ride, but with so much to be aware of, I'm then allowed to forget, for the time, the problems of daily life. I'm able to think through things I choose without the constant tones of texts, and other social media bombardment. I can see life through new eyes. I'm free, not only from the world as it presently is, but from troubles that can be pushed to another day.

Today, as every time I ride, I remember why I fell in love with riding, and I fall in love all over again each time.









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The Holder of Truths

Tuesday, July 26, 2016

It was a heavenly warmth that filled the Vegas air that July night. Comfortably warm evenings after the sun sets are something this native Texas girl living in the Great Northwest misses greatly. You know, the ones where only shorts and a tank top are all that’s needed. Where feet are always bare and the fireflies flight is heavy with pulsing flashes that entertain for hours

My husband and I were enjoying people watching on Fremont Street while relaxing atop the red and white leather lounges outside Bar 46. A beautiful young woman with smooth ebony skin and hair as black as the night’s sky and the texture of silk moved in close and asked us what we’d like to drink.

Neither of us are drinkers. We looked at one another for a moment before telepathically agreeing, “Tonight we will drink.” He ordered a whiskey with a beer back. I had no idea what I wanted so I turned my head, looked into her smoldering black eyes and said, “I’d like something fruity and girlie. You pick.”

I watched as she turned to place our order. She leaned in and whispered something to the man mixing drinks. They both looked back at me, he smiled, she giggled. She disappeared while he juggled several bottles of clear liquid, poured some of each into a plastic cup, topped the concoction with a cherry and a lime, and added a bright pink straw. He then reached for a bottle half full of whiskey. I was mesmerized with his fluid movements as he switched from mixing one drink to pouring the next.

The amber colored liquid flowed smoothly into the crystal shot glass. He twirled the bottle back and placed it in it’s space without even a look. He put both drinks onto a circular tray, quickly added a glass and filled it with beer. I saw him motion to the ebony beauty and she was soon in front of us with an all knowing smile and what would soon become the first of several return trips.

I don’t drink often, but when I do I tend to drink much more quickly than I should. The drink she had made for me was dangerous. It was refreshing, didn’t appear too strong, and was exactly the taste I was craving. My husband, who hasn’t had a drink in years, took the shot glass sitting before him, raised it, made a toast to us, looked at it again as if he wondered if he really wanted to ingest its contents, took a breath, and down it went. He quivered a bit, took a mouthful of beer, shook his head, and to my shock asked for another round.

When the second round appeared the effects of the first of my drinks had not yet set in, therein was the danger. We laughed, we talked, we took selfies and tagged them on Instagram to see them appear on the giant canopy above Fremont street. We felt free from the bondage of the chains that had held us captive during preceding months, and we celebrated,

The night was alive, the energy electric, and the drinks kept flowing. About the time my third drink was placed before me the first was beginning to make itself known. I looked into my new husband’s eyes and saw his was as well. It was then we switched to water, but the effects continued to intensify and levity surrounded us.

I noticed the beautiful girl that had served us had been watching. She seemed to enjoy us being free, having fun, and she seemed to know the potions she had placed in front of us were not only refreshments, but the elixir of truths untold.

With inhibitions thrown into the wind words, memories, and thoughts of times past, came forth. We came to know each other in ways not yet known. The bond we had before grew stronger that evening. The beautiful woman with the soft ebony skin seemed to know her trade better than most. That night she brought two souls together by allowing the tearing down of walls so carefully built throughout the decades.

We didn’t see her again during our stay. I now wonder if she was indeed a server, or perhaps someone sent from the heavens to seal a bond that had long before been appointed.

ciao,

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