It’s been a while.

Not only has it been a while since I’ve written a blog post, but since I’ve donned a jacket and helmet and gone for a ride. Maybe that’s what’s been wrong with me lately. Today, I set out to find out.

First I had to round up all my gear. My tankbag was well hidden under some Christmas stuff. My helmet visor needed a good dusting – never an encouraging sign. Slithering into my riding pants, the zipper of the fly bursts off, which is absolutely not a good sign. Rain Cloud Follows, my trusty and faithful Yamaha FJR, sat dejected under its dust cover, still dirty from the last ride – which was so long ago I can’t even remember what it was.

(I exaggerate. I remember it well. The last long ride Fiona and I took on Rain Cloud Follows was to Napa and Oregon – which means the last real ride report I’ve done – a long, long time ago – can be found here.)

I double and triple check everything, tire pressure, oil level, iPod playlist – all the important stuff. I duct taped my fly closed, to save Mr. Johnson from the impending frigid winter mountain air. Today’s playlist is a nice collection lovingly titled ‘Angry White Man Music’ – a nice collection of loud, obnoxious and aggressive tunes that might, if I’m not careful, get me a ticket, or worse . Rain Cloud is game for this adventure, and fires up without a hitch. My beautiful, neglected friend purrs softly, waiting to go. With a tiny, almost apprehensive snick, I toe the shifter into first gear, and just like old times we’re out of the driveway and off on a little adventure.

Trying to remember how it’s done, I attempt a nice ‘hanging-off-the-bike’ shot that I used to be pretty good at as I head to the familiar roads of the Milk Run. Here is what I came up with:

Err… guess I’m just a little rusty.

As I lean into the curves of the Milk Run, timidly at first, I feel that old confidence starting to ooze back. Angry music pounds away inside my helmet, my taped fly remains closed, Mr. Johnson remains warm, and I feel that old, long-lost smile crossing my face again. I turn up the wick a bit, and pretty soon I’m flying through the corners, with ideas of faraway places I want to ride, places I need to commit to a brand new pre-ride Map-kin coming fast and furious.

Then, lost in my reverie, every motorcyclist’s worst nightmare happens to me. No, not a crash, not gravel, oil slick or even a deer. No, what happened up there on those desolate mountain roads was something much, much worse.

I’m stuck behind the short bus. Yes, I suppose stuck behind the short bus is  better than being stuck inside the short bus, but still… This is my road. It’s the middle of the week, and the middle of the day too. Nobody but us motorcyclists should be on this road. As soon as the short bus driver notices me taking his picture, he pulls over to let me pass. Maybe he’s a frustrated rider out for a joy ride, who knows? I don’t give it a second thought as I stuff my camera deep in my pocket and gladly accelerate away.

That acceleration comes to a sudden halt as I get caught up in some mud clearing. Seems that the fires from last summer burned up all the grass and weeds that holds the many tons of mountain dirt in place. With no roots to anchor the dirt, when it rains (and thanks to a very grumpy El Niño, the rain has been insane lately) all that mountain dirt turns to soupy mountain mud and happily slides its way on to the roads.

I tried my off-bike photography technique once again:

Just like my blog writing technique, my competition water-skiing finesse and of course my secret ballet talent, it appears that by not  using my previously razor sharp, expertly honed off-bike photography skills enough, those abilities have withered and died. How sad. I refuse to  believe that my advancing age (already FORTY for crying out loud!) has anything to do with these declining  skills. Stubbornly, I march on. My second photographic attempt yields a little better result:

Still nothing stellar, but at least this time I got the sign. The third time is a charm.

With this award winning dump truck picture safely recorded on the camera, I put it back in my jacket pocket, and tuck in to simply enjoy the road. Rain Cloud Follows and I weave through an endless succession of curves, and except for the odd mud-moving crew and of course that dreaded rolling roadblock of a short bus, RCF and I have the Milk Run to ourselves, as it should be. All is right with the world.

I stop in the middle of the deserted road, and set up for a picture that I know I remember how to take:

The second part of the Milk Run, Glendora Mountain Road, climbs to an elevation of 3500 feet. At this elevated elevation I start to see clumps of snow on the sides of the road.

There isn’t enough snow to require tire chains, which is a good thing because I didn’t bring my tire chains along anyway. Since I am stopped for this magnificent photo-op, I spend a few minutes absorbing the beautiful mountain scenery of my adopted California home.

The mountain air is brisk, and I feel completely refreshed and much better about things. Maybe by flogging Rain Cloud Follows a bit in the mountains, some sense of internal balance has been restored. Winding my way down Glendora Mountain Road, words start popping into my head, words that I feel like remembering, words I feel like sharing, another thing that I have neglected far too much of late. As I turn back into the driveway, safely completing another little adventure, a familiar refrain ends my ride – this day is the Best Day Ever.