I set out into the night. In the hour since I'd gotten home from the office, full darkness had fallen, and there were tendrils of fog floating here and there. This would be my first trip since my crash. I worried that I might not have repaired something correctly, and I listened anxiously for new sounds.
Over the course of the winter, I had replaced Spring Wind's damaged parts with pieces from Cordelia. Spring Wind was using Cordelia's clutch cover, brake pedal, handlebars, brake lever, grips, right side mirror, and radiator cover. All these parts had been damaged in the accident. Cordelia had been wearing new, high quality tires at the time of her spark plug nibbling act. Spring Wind was now wearing those tires. I fear the tires Spring Wind came to me with, and I will not ride them again.
My Aerostich suite was still sitting at Riderwearhouse waiting for alterations. On Tuesday, when the first weather reports for the weekend had started coming in, I had called them to see if they could get the suit out for me by the weekend, but they'd told me there was no chance. So I was wearing my leather jacket and the evil chaps. I was hyper-aware of the fact that the chaps were nowhere near as protective as the 'Stich.
I rode the short stretch of Michigan Avenue to US-23. I felt a bit queasy. I contemplated turning around and going back, but it seemed to me that if I did so, I would be an ex-motorcyclist. I was alone on this stretch of road. I took it easy, at 2/3 of the speed limit. I tested each brake, both were good.
I made the turn onto US-23 south and accelerated to freeway speed. The speed limit on this stretch of freeway is 70mph. I approached that speed slowly, cautiously. At about 65mph, I thought I felt a faint shimmy. I backed down to 60 and thought about it.
Was it the road surface? I sped back up to 65, again the shimmy became noticeable. Back down to 60, and it stopped. It was obviously speed dependant; the road surface was fine.
Had I somehow put the wheels on incorrectly? Was there anything I repaired that could be the source of this problem? I thought back over the process, and the short ride I had taken to test my repair work. I decided I was confident in my work.
My throwover saddlebags had been destroyed in the crash, and I had packed all my gear in the KG top case. Could the handling be thrown off by the extra weight high up? I thought about this for a little while, and decided it should not be a problem. There was no significant cross wind; the wisps of fog were barely moving. I had carried the top case before, with even more weight, and had never had a problem like this.
Was it just my own fear? Was I imagining it? I was certainly feeling a bit nervous. I eased back up to 65 and once again I felt it. Slowed back down to 60, and it smoothed out. I didn't think it was nerves; it seemed too well defined to be caused by my own emotional demons.
I kept my speed at 60 and thought about it. Suddenly I realized what it had to be! It occurred to me that I had not checked my tire pressure before leaving, and in fact, I had not checked the tire pressure in these particular tires since I parked Cordelia in Mike's garage last October. Dumbass = Katherine!
I maintained my slower speed for the next few miles, and pulled off the freeway in Milan. I pulled into the first gas station there, and rolled around back. Good! The air hose was out. I parked the bike and dug out my tire pressure gauge. Sure enough, the front tire was about ten pounds low. I inflated it to just over the recommended cold pressure, since the tire was warm. The rear only needed about five pounds.
Onward through the fog! Once again, I briefly considered going home. I was still feeling a bit nervous. I settled for putting on some music. The music did help, and I felt my spirits lifting as I rode south out of Milan and back onto the freeway. Once again, I accelerated slowly, carefully. 60mph...65...70...75... The shimmy was gone, the bike handled just fine. I settled in at a pace just below the speed limit. There was very little traffic on the road. The music supported me, and I felt a bit more comfortable.
Suddenly I felt something hit my shin! What was that??? Had it fallen off my bike? I felt the tank bag in the darkness, checking the zippered compartments; all were zipped. I felt for the highway pegs, they were still there. What else could have fallen from the front of the bike? I couldn't think of anything. It wasn't a sharp hit like a rock; this object had been less dense and somewhat larger. Could it have been a small animal of some sort? A bat? A rabbit? Maybe whatever it was already dead; maybe I'd run over a small chunk of road kill without noticing it, and it had been thrown up against my leg by the front tire. Maybe it was some other piece of trash from the road, a stick, something like that. Maybe a small critter had dashed out into the road and hit me from the side. I made a mental note to check the leg for any remnants of whatever hit it, next time I stopped.
As I crossed the state line into Ohio, the fog seemed to thicken. I don't think it actually was thicker; it just seemed like it because this section of the freeway has streetlights, and there are more other light sources near the freeway, which made the fog more noticeable.
US-23 merged with I-475. A car up ahead signaled and moved into my lane. Suddenly the bottom dropped out of my stomach; I could feel my tires slipping ever so slightly on the tar strips in the November rain. This was the section where I had first noticed the slippery nature of the tires Spring Wind came to me with. Calm, calm, take a deep breath... it's not raining, just foggy... these are not those tires, they're the tires you've ridden this stretch on without incident, many times before, even in the rain... they are not slipping at all. I managed to stay calm, but the night still seemed to be full of hidden dangers.
Onward. As I crossed over the Maumee River, my mind was racing furiously. I thought of the ramp to I-75 that I would soon be taking. The events of my last ride through this stretch of US-23 were etched on my mind...
... taking it easy, rolling along at 60 in the right lane, doing a mirror check and noting that there was only one other vehicle in sight - the little car that overtook me on the left as I signaled and moved right onto ramp that led to I-75 south. They passed me, and then their turn signal came on, then their brake lights, and they started moving over into my lane. Then they were in front of me, moving considerably slower, I was gaining on them too fast, I had to get on the brakes. Wham! Horrible grinding noise, sliding on my right side, watching my bike slide away up ahead, the incredible display of sparks as it scraped on the pavement. Stray thoughts I had as I slid for what seemed like hours. The spring campfire conversation where ??michael described a similar situation and said all he could think of was "wow, it doesn't hurt!" My relief as I watched the little car's brake light come on, that they weren't just making their getaway, they were stopping on the shoulder up ahead. The slide went on and on. Idly wondering if my riding suit would wear through on the butt (it didn't). Sliding to a stop, rolling out of the traffic lane before leaping to my feet. Looking at the crumpled bike where it had come to rest on the left shoulder, and realizing my trip was over. The anger that I expressed by howling "Nice bit of driving, lady!!!" and shaking my fist at the woman who had been driving the little car, as she ran back to me yelling, "Are you OK???" The desire to hurt her, to grab her by the shoulders and shake her, followed by the realization that she'd been just as frightened as I was...
I shook my head and pushed the scene out of my mind. Focus. Must focus on the here and now. I reminded myself that it's normal to be a little gun-shy, but that I would get over it, that I had taken this particular route many times without incident. I wondered if I would feel a sudden sense of relief once I'd passed the spot? I hoped I wouldn't freeze up. I considered taking the exit just before this ramp, taking Route 25 south through Bowling Green to where it meets I-75 south, but I decided that caving in to fear would be a bad precedent to set. I felt another twinge as I passed the off-ramp to Route 25; I now had no choice. Suddenly I was there at the scene. I could see the ghost of Spring Wind lying on his side in a puddle of oil. I forcibly hauled my eyes away from that spot and focused them up the road.
Suddenly I was past it, riding down the ramp and merging onto I-75 south. I waited for the relief, for the tension to subside, but my heart was still pounding loudly.
Resolutely, I turned my thoughts to other things. I wiggled my fingers, shrugged my shoulders. I thought of other trips through this area. Walking through the streets of Bowling Green with a man I once loved, the way I felt wearing his heavy leather motorcycle jacket, ten years before I would ever climb on a motorcycle. The agony of seeing him cry when I came to Bowling Green to say goodbye to him forever, and the confusion I felt the last time I saw him, later that year, when he crossed the street in Ann Arbor, as I sat in my car waiting for the light to change. More recently, sitting in the spring sunshine on the shoulder of this very stretch of freeway, looking at the cars stopped dead in the traffic lanes, letting the bike cool and chatting with two chance-met Goldwing riders who were doing the same thing. The day last summer when snowmobiles were doing grass drags in a field by the freeway as I passed.
The fog lifted, and gradually I realized that I was no longer frightened. I looked up and saw Orion, and felt this incredible joy to be exactly where I was, doing exactly what I was doing.
As I rounded the cloverleaf by the Pioneer Sugar towers, I realized that I really, really, really needed to pee. I counted the miles to the rest area near Upper Sandusky, where I dismounted, struggled out of my layers, and scurried into the ladies room. I came back outside and was putting my chaps back on when I remembered the object that had hit my leg, back in Michigan. I looked at the leg of my chaps. There was nothing but the usual array of bug guts. I looked at the bike, and realized what the object had been. The right side radiator cover that I had moved over from Cordelia to replace the one which was destroyed in my accident, was gone. And here I'd hoped I wouldn't have to buy any more parts for a long time.
Just after I turned onto US-30, I passed a motorcycle coming the other way, the first one I'd seen all evening. I don't know if the rider saw me waving, or if they waved back; it was too dark to tell. I loved that unknown rider either way; their very presence was a boon to my spirits. I bounced up and down on the seat and sang to myself as I rode east along US-30, and the trucks hardly fazed me at all.
Soon I arrived in Bucyrus, my destination for the night. I passed a bank with a sign that said that it was 10:25 pm, and that the temp was 63 degrees. Amazing! Such weather at the end of February! The streets were dotted with little groups of people, enjoying this balmy weather. Ray Campbell's directions were good, and I arrived at his house only a little bit late.
I was starving. I hoped that Ray would feed me, and my prayers were answered; he told me he'd ordered a pizza and it should arrive any minute. We stood by the bikes in the balmy night air, and watched the pizza driver fail to find the house. Finally I walked down to the street and waved at the car, and he pulled up to the house.
Inside, Ray's daughters were bouncing off the walls. The five year old, Vosh, was thrilled to see me. She ran around chanting "She's here, she's here!" I was a little startled that she would be so excited to see an adult that hadn't brought any additional children, but it's hard to resist liking someone who is so unabashedly pleased to see you. Ray has since told me Vosh has been asking about me; she's fascinated by the "lady biker" and she wants to know when I'll come over and see them again. I will look forward to it.
Ray's wife came home a little later, and we sat at the kitchen table and talked of bikes, trips we'd taken or would like to take, riders we knew. The phone rang as we were eating, it was Phil Ross. He wanted to talk us into changing the morning's plans, and I referred him to David, who had come up with those plans. I gave him David's number, but his blandishments were in vain; David didn't want to change plans, and Phil called us back to let us know he would not be joining us. After supper we took a trip out to the garage to look at Ray's projects. I'm told that the projects are top secret so I won't describe them here, except to say that Ray does extremely fine work.
We took a ride back into downtown Bucyrus and filled the tanks at the all-night Speedway station. The streets were still dotted with people. It was a good night for teenagers to lurk on street corners and they were out in force. I don't blame them; on a night like this after a long winter of being cooped up indoors; I didn't want to go inside either.
The next morning, I waved goodbye to Ray and family and rode off to meet David and Janine in New Philadelphia. It was a gorgeous day. My fears of the night before were a million miles away, as I rode past the farm fields and through the small towns. Since I'd gotten a late start, I picked as direct a route as I could over to the freeway, which I intersected just north of New Philadelphia. The map showed a couple of exits for New Philadelphia, and I looked down at the post-it note I'd stuck in my tank bag and read "77". The mile marker said 82. OK, five miles, I shouldn't be very late at all. I passed exit 81. Just after that, I passed one of those little freeway shields, it said "I-77". Exit 77 on I-77, isn't that funny, 77 squared... waitaminute... Looked at my post-it more carefully. "I-77, exit 81." Argh! That was my turn!
I finally got back to exit 181, and found the Texas Roadhouse. Janine's Concours and David's ST were the only vehicles in the lot. There was a note on David's bike that this place wasn't serving breakfast, and they were in the Denny's across the street. I walked over and found them. They had already ordered, and I hurried to order something myself. We exclaimed over the lovely weather, and discussed our rides to the meeting point. I told them of my nervousness the night before, and warned them that I wasn't going to be up to any major twisty-strafing. We discussed routes. David and Janine needed to be home by 6. So we decided to head southeast into northern West Virginia. I dug out my map of West Virginia and turned it over to David, since he was going to lead. We picked some likely roads and set out.
High points of the remainder of this trip include a certain amount of chaos, a road that disappeared and was replaced by goat tracks, a very nice lady, Vernice Church, who happened to live in the middle of nowhere and was willing to give us directions, an evening watching squid vids with David and Janine, and a ride home on the tollway in the rain. Too bad I never finished the write-up.