“I have kicked myself mentally a hundred times for that stupidity and don’t think I’ll ever really, finally get over it.”

— Robert Pirsig, “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance”

Aug. 31 | Day 1: It isn’t easy to admit¹, or even remember, but here it is: We ended up not doing a motorcycle ride this year — the motorcycle ride, the thing I long for the most, every year.

Ah, it was my fault. All that work — getting the bike in perfect shape, installing a new saddle, bolting on highway pegs for me, fitting a passenger backrest & longer footpegs for Linda, extending the luggage plate — all for naught.

The cause was simple: I did not allow enough time to pack the bike.

In a series of events too tiresome to list here, we weren’t able to leave until literally 1:30 a.m.

And then, when I finally get everything aboard, and Linda climbs on, Terra Nova is way too heavy. We take a couple of turns around the block and she handles like the Exxon Valdez.

In the dark, I shut down the Yamaha, stare at it, and force myself to rationally consider the options:

1) Full abort, no ride at all;

2) Delay another day and try and make it work;

3) Take the bike solo, and leave Linda home;

4) Take the bike myself, with Linda following in her car;

5) Leave the bike and take her car to Colorado.

The first is right out, as the Monty Pythoners say. This trip is essential, I’m carrying the memory of an old friend who has died, and Colorado was special to him.

The second is tempting but carries no guarantee. We’re already running late and we have a mission itinerary in which the first few days depend on us being somewhere. Each miss puts us farther behind.

The third is a complete no-go because I love my wife and we do these things together. It wouldn’t be fun without her.

The fourth is ridiculously, sinfully, wasteful.

The fifth reluctantly wins the day. We have to unsuit — I even had the Camelbak on, filled with two liters of icewater — dock Terra Nova in back of the house, throw the bags (sans motorcycle-related gear) in the back of Linda’s Honda Fit, and drive off.

I seethe for the first few days, until we cross Kansas and get into Colorado and the mountains rise up in front of us. We have places to visit and people to see.

Still, for the entire trip, I can’t help but notice lots and lots of motorcycles on the road. And not one of them is mine.

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1 — Which explains why it took me so long to write this.

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