riding WA

Today, things turned out alright. Needless to say, this marked a change from Tuesday, when I experienced a nearly exact repeat of Alexander’s Terrible Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.

It all started back in December, when the family chose the coldest week of the year to take a motorcycle training class. They walked stiffly through the door two evenings in a row, as nearly frostbitten as is possible in this coastal state. Meanwhile, I remained inside to read and write words for an independent study course necessary for graduation in May. I also drank tea and made soup to thaw out the family on their arrival.

Well, I graduated alright and came home to this state of endless hills, green trees, and rivers. I spent my first several weeks hiking, washing dishes, feeding the cat, learning Portuguese, and editing a book—all of which will likely remain ongoing activities till I leave again in July. This rather too idyllic state of affairs was interrupted earlier this week when I began the same two-day motorcycle class my family had taken.

I realize I ought not to complain a great deal, so after stating the plain facts I will proceed no further. The effects of the 90-degree day were amplified by a bleak and formidable expanse of black pavement. My sister’s helmet is at least one size too small for my head, which painfully compressed all the information on Socinianism and double imputation and a lot of other important things recently filed away, and left approximately .000000000000000001% of the remaining space for incoming knowledge. My motor skills have never been superb, and for those who have not taken the Evergreen Safety Council-approved class on motorcycle handling, motorcycles do indeed involve motors. One more thing before proceeding, I do solemnly swear that the kickstand of my dirt bike melted into the asphalt at one point in the day.

Now that those facts are established, I’m not sure it’s worth proceeding much further. Suffice it to say, I came home that evening feeling as much like a distraught five-year-old as a girl cares to feel in any given decade of her life.

The turning point came in the form of a brother who patiently coached me up and down the driveway the next day, and the weather, which far more faithfully represented this cloudy, drizzly part of the country. Also, if any neighbors are reading this, I sincerely apologize for waking you up at approximately 7am this morning to practice my clutch control and gear shifting.

I returned home that second evening after a day of tests and drills, bearing a card that authorized me to endanger myself and everyone around me by driving a real live motorcycle on a real live road.

After celebrating with the siblings over coffee, kombucha waffles, and an episode of the Andy Griffith show, we decided to take our bikes out on the road (me behind the brother, for lack of a proper license as yet). Except, the parents had gone out with friends to dinner, carrying off the requisite gear in the back of their car. We rode over to the restaurant, annoying at least one retired couple who looked askance at us, and an employee of said restaurant who inquired if we were acquainted with the owners of the car we appeared to be rifling. Then, at last, we hit the open road, and oh, what a ride we had!

Right off, we broke several rules I’d diligently learned just a few hours before, and  turned right and left on nothing more than our whims and fancies. Then, all in a moment, the Snohomish valley lay spread out below us—a carpet of green fields punctuated by maple trees and bridges, a horizon of blue hills, and a host of grey clouds lowering over all the proceedings. We descended into the valley, then out along it on a road that twisted past farmhouses, fences, and brown furrows of earth.

The smells alone were a story worth telling: honeysuckle, wood smoke, cut grass, sheep, cows, pine, damp asphalt.  All the while, an orange and yellow swatch of sunset spilled out into the otherwise-bleak sky, and everything seemed prematurely settled for the night. We pulled out on a little dock by an anonymous river in the gathering dusk, drank in the thrill of the moment, and waved to other bikers like we were all one big happy family. Things were getting rather festive. And just then, Washington threw a party. How, one might ask, does this state throw a party?

It rains, of course.

The drenching water, the chill of the air, and the darkness all around did nothing to dampen our spirits as we discovered our way home till a very late hour. We rode back on a long, straight stretch, past the closed up roadside fruit stands that began to bloom at intervals ever since the sun came out in earnest a month ago, as well as the half dozen marijuana shops that have sprung up like green weeds along Highway 9.

And all the while, way up there in a royal blue sky, the moon hung like a sliver of silver.

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And that, ladies and gentleman, is a faithful account of how this girl became a motorcycle chick and joined the Spear biking gang.

Perhaps that is not quite what I meant to write.

In any case, I believe my father would prefer I not pursue such an interest in Brazil. I hear insurance is rather tricky down there, and my Portuguese remains slightly limited.