Rubber Hooves

As Andy's Uncle Norm once wrote, himself an experienced motorcycle man: ¨(Everyone else) may as well be watching the Travel Channel.¨ Riding a motorcycle for the inexperienced (me) takes a squinting concentration. It takes all four limbs to crank the throttle, press the brakes, toggle the signals, and shift the gears -- to say nothing of keeping your head on straight to steer the thing past a truck. Given time, the whole process soon melts down to a liquid parallel of your instinct with this loud machine and the road. In short, I got the hang of it. Andy had it already. But, still, none of that excavates into the trove of senses being redlined: You discover a smooth crease among the Bolivian gravel, everything ceases from the washboard chattering to a smooth glide. Someone´s cooking with a wood fire, you smell the wood smolder. A semi-truck grinds by going the opposite way, there´s a flicker of calm air right before -- hold on tight! -- the trailing storm presses your chest lifting your body up. But the sounds. Oh the sounds, those are my most prized, bar none. The sounds are one of two types; neither are ever, ever quiet. On an open straightaway, two twin bikes side by side drifting in and out of twin speeds . . . harmonize. A combustible chorus at 55 mph.

And the other sound? Just wind. The hefty breeze of wind. There´s a particular, lone silence to having only a gale of wind to keep you company. Perpetually smothering your ears, it´s not long before your mind starts off on it´s own into some deep reaches. The closest cousin to this effect, I think, is sailing or listening to the air on a blustery day. When you hear the wind equally in both ears, you know you´re faced straight into it; headed up, as sailors say. Like that, only all day and borne on the back of rubber hooves. . . . And all that, even still, doesn´t quite compare to being able to pull over anywhere whenever to fry up some tasty sausages.