Motorcyclist's Championship Bout

The wind sucked.  We rode our relatively heavy Triumph Adventurer 900 sideways.  Monique and I felt like rolling back-slashes.  I mean, begin with this "\", then mentally draw a motorcycle and two freaked people on the seats.  That's us.

We left on Saturday morning to Omaha; a little cool maybe, but we own the gear.  We rode well and besides my somewhat chilled and pickled fingers, the world turned and we rolled.

Sunday.  Went to church on a relatively calm morning, excited about God and the prospect of riding home on a perfect day.  Leaving church however felt more like the disciple's big day on the sea of Galilee.

"This could be interesting," I said.

"Uh-huh," replied Monique, obviously working her Zen.

Hunger.  The prospect of a big family meal held our aversions at bay.

We'd had eggs, biscuits and gravy and all kinds of good coffee for breakfast.  Dinner...King Tut might've enjoyed dinner.  Ham, potatoes, cheesy broccoli, soft baked bread and coleslaw filled our stomachs, and that was before a delicious birthday cake slid gracefully down.

Couldn't ignore it anymore.  Monique geared up looks a bit like the Michelin man.  But the bike goes down and she slides across the pavement like she's on a magic carpet ride and lives to tell the story.  I love my Michelin wife.  Her jacket is actually red and black and her helmet, gray.  The rest of her is back alley black and I find that totally hot.

"This could be interesting."

"Uh Huh".

I like the back roads but interstate 80 is really a lovely ride filled with rolling hills, beautiful flats and on the best days lots of sunshine.

Sunday though... back-slash bikers, "\", ...that's us.  The wind sucked.  The gusts were even more amazing.  War-like.  I'd say it was like the entire Senior High football team testing their metal on the pip squeak.  You ever been sucker punched by a prize fighter?  Me neither, but take a ride at thirty degrees ("\") and there ya go.  Except God was the prize fighter, Rocky freakin Balboa, and I was the librarian who thought nothing of peeing in his ever lovin' shorts.

Forty-five miles.  We rode toward an exit replete with Kum-N-Go and a BP or something like that.  Monique's hand pops into view and points toward the exit.

I get that.  I wanted off.

"Holy Moly," I said.

"My body is stiff from freaking out!" is what Monique said.  "Every time I felt like I was going to be ok another titanic gust hit the bike and I'd rush back to oblivion again."

"This is soooo not my favorite ride."

We stopped every 50 miles or so tell ya the truth.  Stops are good ways to get to know the area.  You look around, breath the air, kiss the road.

Frequent stops provided much needed relief.  Even the hardened need relief.  And still...only took ten minutes to stop the shaking before we were on the road again.

Mind numbing fear doesn't hold a candle to the spirit of the contumacious adventurer.  Believe that.  We were out there.  A lot of people wouldn't be.  Still, our bodies felt more like adventuresome noodles the first 90 miles.

Tell ya something else though...we got used to it.  Sort of tells you how numb our minds were doesn't it?  Besides the interstate 80's Sunday afternoon semi-fleet, and besides the nutty college kids trying to get back to college, and besides our angled ride and the championship bout with God's windy left hook, the ride home wasn't so bad.

The trees and prairie were bending over the rolling hills.  Flocks of geese flew overhead.  The road was straight enough and I can handle the college kids.  The earth turned and the our wheels rolled.

So we tacked another motorcycle adventure underneath our belts.  There were quite a few bikes out there actually and the lot of us waved our way through.  One dude passed us riding his Harley Fatboy.  His cheeks stretched and flapped in combination with strong winds and eighty miles per hour.  I'm sure it took some effort to keep his mouth closed.  He might've easily been in the gravity machine they use to test the resilience of your average astronaut.  He wasn't though.  He and his bike leaned into a steady road and a mighty gale.  Stretched cheeks were nothing compared to the biker's smile reaching both ears.

The adventurous giants we are...some would call us adventurous jack-asses and they might be right.

But we were out there, 'nuf said.

And we were really, really....really glad to be home.