Call me Ishmael

I’m still here.

January has been an exercise in trying to remain occupied with various tasks around the house. Tasks that take my mind off of the inevitable fact that it is still winter, as a result, this is one of the first times that I’ve approached my computer since my last post.

There have been changes that Charlie and I have made to my KLR, changes that I’ll post in the future. Most of my time for the past month, my two wheeled activities have involved planning things that I would like to do this year on the bike.

Here are some of the things that I have been scheming.

1. Never been to Moab, I’d like to say that I have.........we’ll see.
2.More camping this year, considering that I didn’t do any last year.
I live at the doorstep of the Rocky Mountains, it shouldn’t be that hard. Anywhere from Priest lake to the Seven devils will do just fine.
3.After writing my previous post, I think that a trip back to the Jefferson valley and a very special time in my childhood is in order. I feel that I will fail to describe in words what is like there, pictures are in order.
4.Aftermarket pipe, possibly. Nothing too loud though.

I’ve been stealing away on the occasional weekend ride here and there. The weather has been too dramatic to brave commuting to work just yet. Weekend rides help, but honestly, they are not enough. I’m getting moody.

The other night, I was reading some Herman Melville before bed, I read this passage that I felt accurately reflected my mood, I’d like to share it here; perhaps it’ll strike a chord with you as well.

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago-never mind how long precisely-having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul, whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street and methodically knocking people’s hats off, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.

Lines from Moby Dick.

I think that pretty much sums it up for me............hold onto your hats when you see me approaching; you’ve been warned.

The other evening, on my commute home, I noticed a lone bare spot in a wheat field that was predominately covered with snow, in that spot, was a patch of green. The first evidence of the approach of spring! The next morning on my return to work, I searched for this small patch of early wheat, but found it covered with a dusting of snow that had fallen over night. That’s alright, I can’t see it, but I know it's there.

Riding season 2009 is getting near. I can almost taste it!

For those of you who have been able to cast off from the depressing “Shores of winter” and return to the sea, Ride Well, I envy you.

As for me, my ship is just about ready to raise her sails once again!

E.T.

Merry Christmas

We took a walk, my dog and I, early in the morning Christmas Eve. The last few weeks, we have been overwhelmed with record snowfall and today looked as though it was going to be the only day with weather calm enough to let my German shepherd stretch her legs with a brief walk. Flicka’s leash in one hand, my camera in the other, we set a casual pace down a narrow lane in the first blue light of the morning; searching for a subject suitable for a holiday theme that I could post here.

This was the calm between two storms, the next arriving this afternoon, and hitting us hard on Christmas day. We will most certainly have a white Christmas this year.

There was no wind yet, not even a whisper of a breeze up in the snow covered pines that stood alongside the narrow path. I say path, it is actually a road out in the country, plowed wide enough to allow only a single vehicle at a time, a farmers access to something, most likely. The only sound, other than the crunching of the snow beneath my feet was a chittering squirrel up in the trees. An obese looking little creature with his winter fur and round belly, his athleticism was still respectable as he soared from limb to limb, dislodging the snow from the boughs with every landing. Too far away to photo, but his aerobatics were entertaining nonetheless.

As we walked, searching for a subject with a Christmas oriented theme, I thought back on the past year; of beginning this online journal with a focus towards motorcycles. I knew very little of blogging or of what to expect, therefore, I expected nothing; the only difference in respect to what I have always done with my journaling is that now I post some of my stuff here. What I discovered was a diverse community of people with similar interests from everywhere, sharing their experiences where ever they ride. What a concept.

I have enjoyed reading about new riders like Cecilie Hoffman early on when she first began her blog years ago and continued reading as she progressed in her skills and travels. I have found myself beholden to the instruction and counsel that Irondad has offered in his posts through the years, I’m always learning something there. Steve Williams and Alessandro Melillo for their writing and photography; I could go on, and I did in my thoughts as Flicka and I navigated the narrow country lane, down the side of a hill onto the valley floor below.

By now the sun had risen and as we rounded a curve in the road, we came upon a lone barn nestled up along the forest’s edge at the south end of the valley. It was here that the plowed road ended, a few hundred feet from the barn. For whatever reason, whoever plowed the way here to this valley floor had stopped, we did too. We stood there for a few minutes and watched the sunrise in this snow covered valley, at some point, a breeze developed and began to gently push on the back of my hooded jacket, I took this picture.

Lone Barn on the valley floor

We stayed a little while longer and then we turned our faces into the crisp breathe of winter and followed our tracks home.

Merry Christmas from the Palouse country to all of the new friends that I have made here in the past year, from the Turkish Coast to Canada and all points in between, God to you all.

E.T.

Meán Gheimhridh

This time of the year has been celebrated worldwide for thousands of years, so I know that it’s not just me.

The Celts recognized it as Meán Geimhridh, the Scots called it Hogmanay, a festival that was “imported” by the raiding and occupying Norse and embraced by the Scots, a variation of this festival is still referred to as “the Yules” on the Scottish Shetland Islands; 7th century Japan recognized it as Amaterasu, in Peru, Inti Raymi.

Whatever the culture and however it has been known, it has been recognized all around the world throughout the centuries. Most English speaking cultures recognize it currently by the Latin form of the words Sol- meaning “the sun” and Sistere- “to stand still”. The Solstice, which, in the winter represents the ebbing of the Suns lowest point on the horizon and marks the beginning of its ascent back into the sky and to longer and warmer days!

Noonday solstice sun on the Palouse

For those of us up here in the more northern parts of the world, the suns low position and shorter days are rather apparent, and every year that I grow older, seems to affect my mood a little more.

As of now, I can watch the weather forecast on the evening news every night with a little more enthusiasm and observe the daylight hours grow longer minute by minute and day by day, all the while, restlessly squirming in my lazy boy like a little kid in the pews during Sunday service making revving noises under my breath, shifting gears as I steal away down a quiet country road, warm wind on my neck and the scent of forest pine in my helmet.

Palouse sunset during the Winter Solstice

Every culture has a different name, and a different celebration for this specific time of the year. I don’t know what the motorcycle culture would call this time of the year but I do know how we’ll celebrate once the snow melts off of the roads.

Ride Well (At least in spirit)

E.T.