Now if I could write like this,
http://mausersandmuffins.blogspot.com/2009/01/takeoffs-are-optional-landings-are.html
You’d have a really good story following this sentence.
Reading Brigid’s article titled, “Takeoffs are optional, landings are mandatory“, I somehow felt a connection with this long time pilot, even though I’ve never flown, (in a plane that is).
“it’s got more horsepower than you’ll know what to do with and feeling the rush of air coming back,,exhilarating” ,
“This isn’t some plane that you occupy, this is a plane that becomes part of you,”,
“the choreography of brain and hands, wood and metal, that drive you towards the horizon”
These are just a few of the lines that bring back thoughts of my glory days of Enduro bike racing. After reading the comments on the article, (even before), I realize that most all of the readers, associated airplanes with the article. The mechanic’s, the comaraderie, the one-ness with the machine, even the spirituality, are all part of it.
For me, it was a 90 horse power, 217 pound, two wheeled, knobby tired, two stroked, woods machine. Be it Yamaha, or Kawasaki, it was always a hot-rod dirtbike and a few like minded friends and family members.
Horsepower? For sure, more than any sane person knew what to do with.
Melding with the machine? Yes, becoming “one” with the machine, you rocket through close packed giant trees, thick underbrush, thorns, wet knarly roots, mud, and sand, at speeds that the average mortal would not understand, or even believe. (Occasionally, getting reminded of your speed, by a grazing thud of your shoulder against the rock solid surface of a tree.)
Choreography of mind, and full body? After a long day’s ride, you discover hundreds of muscles that you never knew you had. Some sort of strain/pain, in every part of your body that there is a muscle, because every muscle in your body is used and abused repeatly every half-second or so. The faster you go, the farther ahead you focus your attention. You plan your route and technique, through the foward trail well before you reach it, because if you don’t, your reflexes aren’t nearly fast enough to make everything happen correctly.
After an hour or so out, possibly after a crash or two, it all starts to come together. The throttle, the shifter, the brakes. The feel of the individual knobb’s on the tires, as they grab that most important bit of soil that, that makes the difference between T-boning a tree, and flying through a pair of tree’s 20 inchs apart, with a quick wag of the handlebars.
Speed is alway’s at the forefront. Not, raging, blinding speed, but smooth, confident speed. You might have your fastest run ever through a particularly nasty piece of territory, just before breaking into a long smooth clearing, where you idle along in top gear, enjoying the scenery, and wildlife. Averaging 24 miles per hour for up to 16 hours, (the basiss for a Michigan Enduro) through the woods, swamps, sand pits, etc, may sound somewhat tame, but I can assure you, it entails often pulling 75 mph through stuff that most people wouldn’t try to walk through.
The crazy long weekends, followed by the hours of cleaning and disassembling the bike. Looking for wear or stress cracks. Then lubrication and reassembling it with loving care, after all, this machine, is going to be your lifeline, in the next run.
And of course after the man/machine thing, (or girl-machine thing), there was usually the campground. Often no-where’s near a real campground, but in the true, wild country of northern Michigan. Family , friends, and food, around the campfires. Stories of the day, stories of past days, lubricated by an occasional beer, pot of coffee, or other form of liquid refreshment.
Thanks Brigid, for bringing back some of these memorys. It’s not quite flying, but it’s darn close. 