It’s Mother’s Day, and I’ve left my family to be with strangers in the former parking lot of a flight school. A sea can is emptied, leaving a line-up of motorcycles outside to choose from. Although they’re mostly identical, we race to stand beside the special
Never buy one of anything,” says Jim. Sage advice as we tow an empty trailer behind us. It’s autumn: yellow, rust, and red leaves cling to the trees like a loose tooth. Backlit by sun they flood the landscape; lanterns warning of winter before dropping their leaves to the
Six hours of exploring every crack in this concrete slab and I’m running out of games. ‘Come along,’ I tell the ants; and nudge their marching line to bend at my command. I reward their hard work with crumbs and watch them weightlift their way toward better tomorrows. On
Blowing exhaust to rouse the winter air and shaking under restrain of its orange tie down, my R75/6 is alive on the first try. Backed by a cacophony of neighborhood dogs yipping to my success, the garage door remains cracked. Slowly the dust settles as the engine is shut
Under the cover of snow, familiar bike routes remain frozen and lie in wait for Spring. Further reassurance that tearing apart my motorbike for maintenance this winter is the proper thing. Forced into neutral, future trips take form based on past runs and wish lists. 2023 was the year I
It is Fall. The chipmunks are working overtime hording food. Our first attempt at supper has been thwarted by their thieving bravado. Campsite inventory is now minus one baguette. The salad remains. Since it's too late in the season to set up tent, we've booked an