Palouse Country

The Palouse area of Washington lies on the eastern edge of the state bordering Idaho; depending on who you talk to, it begins just south of Spokane and ends somewhere around the Walla Walla area. Although there are many parts of the United States and Canada that produce wheat, I can’t think of any that share the interesting topography of hills and buttes that cover this area, it is unique. If you’ve ever seen the film “Toys” starring Robin Williams, you will know exactly what I am talking about. The movie was filmed about halfway between where I live and the city of Spokane. Imagine that movie set covering an area roughly 100 miles from north to south, and 40 miles east to west. This is the Palouse.

This is wheat country, 4,000 square miles of it, and at this time of the year, the landscape is carpeted in various shades of greens, yellows, and blues. I recall a while back, reading a local photographers statement in the newspaper commenting on the Palouse. He likened it to “a giant abstract painting, a photographer’s playground.” I suppose that I can see his point of view; I believe that a lot of amateur and professional photographers view it that way too. It is not that uncommon to see a vehicle pulled off to the side of the road with a camera mounted on a tri-pod, a sunset or a butte or some other subject posing for the camera in the distance, all the while accompanied by various hues of amber and jade.

Riding the gently sweeping “Blue roads” in the Palouse country is much like riding through a painting, though it doesn’t always have to be abstract. A tree still looks like a tree, and a barn is of course a barn, and as I ride, I observe casually as the gentle breath of summer coaxes the waist high grass to dance over rolling fields and the leaves in the trees to tremble, shimmering in the sun. Anyone with an unquenchable passion for light will eventually find themselves intoxicated by the raking sunlight against the hills and various fields of depth in the shadows. As for the roads, this is not a technical ride out here, just a soothing one as the scenery of the ride passes through me; I can understand why photographers are so drawn to this place. As summer ages, the colors change from a dominant green to shades of gold. I believe Katharine Lee Bates said it best when she coined the term, “Amber waves of grain” in her poem “America the beautiful.” As with many forms of art, usually when viewing a painting or photograph, abstract or otherwise, it requires the viewer to pay attention, and when I think of “paying attention” my first thought would be of sitting still, clearing my mind of distractions and focusing on the art that is to be had. As a Motorcyclist however, those rules don’t apply; I revel in the experience of a passing landscape, the constant evolution of sights, sounds, and smells. This is not revolutionary thinking though; 135 years ago there was an artist who used to paint from perhaps a similar point of view that continues to inspire Motorcyclists everyday.

Studio Boat

Imagine for a moment, that you’re standing on the banks of the Seine, in a town just down-river from Paris called Argenteuil; the year is 1874. At that moment, a small boat slowly drifts past; in the boat a bearded man sits with a short three-legged easel holding a paint brush, painting the scenery as he drifts by. The man is Claude Monet who would later become known as the Father of Impressionism. Monet was doing something revolutionary, not only was he painting “En plein air” (painting outdoors) but he was also painting the scenery as it was passing by, capturing the effects of light, ‘from one twilight to the next’ as his close friend Eduard Manet once described it. Monet was on to something, gliding with the light rather than trying to conquer it.

As Motorcyclists, Bikers, and Scooterists, perhaps our machines are our own floating studios and though our scenery passes more quickly than Monet’s, our inspirations could possibly be quite similar.

Ever since man put an engine between two wheels, we have tried to express to the uninitiated, the experience, the passion, the raw inspiration that we feel while riding our machines. I’ve read many articles and posts on the subject; I imagine that I will read many more. This post is one of my own efforts at doing that same thing and I imagine that this blog will be filled with many additional attempts in the future.

So if you’ll excuse me, with what remains of the day, I plan to jump on my bike and take a ride through the work of art that is my Palouse Country. Over countless hills and through fertile green valleys, I’ll let the landscape inspire me as I visualize myself, in my minds eye, on the prow of a small boat; and if I clear my mind of life’s little distractions for just a moment, perhaps I will look over my shoulder and visualize a bearded man with his easel and brush, and together we can capture the light in our own unique ways, from one twilight to the next.

Ride well

E.T.

This whole blogging thing

At times I find myself a little surprised at how few people actually keep a personal journal for themselves. To a certain degree, I have always kept journals. Nothing too rigid or disciplined mind you; my entries are usually ramblings that I have experienced throughout my life. Some of them a simple sentence, others go on for thousands of words. The most rewarding aspect that I have learned about writing down my thoughts is going back and reading my journal entries from decades ago. A simple sentence can rekindle an experience in detail that I had twenty years ago; something that I would have long ago forgotten had I not written it down.

Blogging has brought forth a new aspect of journaling for me. While I still keep my various paper notebooks lying around for my own private posts, I’ve discovered that the experience of journaling online has introduced me to a group of people that I would have never had the privilege to communicate with otherwise. I keep my blog centered on motorcycles primarily because my life-long “Lone wolf” mentality towards riding naturally prevents me from sharing an experience that is so central to my being with other like minded individuals. This blogging experiment has been a positive experience and an enlightening one as well. I am grateful that I have this tool to meet with others who share similar passions, as diverse a group that we might otherwise be.

A friend of mine, after observing my little experiment with “moto-blogging”, expressed an interest in trying out blogging as well; mostly as an outlet for the day to day frustrations that he deals with in his career as a Law enforcement officer. I’ve listened to a number of his experiences and I believe that a lot of them would be an interesting read, especially for those of us who normally don’t have to deal with the type of critters that he works with around the clock.

In addition to writing about his job, I suggested that perhaps he should write about a number of his past experiences. Even though he wouldn’t necessarily admit it himself, he has led a pretty interesting life for a guy of only 34 years of age. From working on a Crab boat in the Bering Sea, to his experiences as the Crew Chief of an A-10 Warthog in the Air Force, one of those experiences involved crash landing in a C-130 in the Kuwaiti desert, literally bouncing off of the desert floor and then back into the air! I remember the night that he called to tell me that he was alright, while I watched the footage of it on CNN.

Also, he has taken an interest in Motorcycles; I suggested that perhaps he post his experiences about that as well . F.Y.I. he is the one who took the picture of me for my blog title.

He told me that he isn’t too concerned with whether or not folks read his posts, this is more of a journal for himself that others are welcomed to read, but I encourage you to check it out here, you might find some of this interesting, even if it isn’t always about motorcycles.

Ride Well
E.T.

People watching

A couple of weeks ago, while looking at my Drivers License, I observed an error. This was the year that I had to renew my license, which I did, but when I received the new one in the mail, I noticed that while the issue date was accurate, the expiration date was still July 2008. Back to the D.O.L. for another Saturday morning of taking numbers and waiting on uncomfortable plastic chairs with scads of teenagers and their parents; restless to get their drivers licenses and hit the road and hopefully nothing else. I’ll spare the jabs at the kids only because I was one once, and I could understand their excitement.

The last time that I was at the Department of Licensing, the ordeal took a couple of hours, I wasn’t looking forward to doing it again. This time before going in, I grabbed my little notebook from the KLR’s saddlebag to take notes of the various characters I saw while I waited; making the best of a dismal situation. This is what I observed.

Parents, lots of them, all of them as excited to be there as I was; except for one.

Obviously a Mother/Daughter team, Mom was as giggly and animated as the daughter. The daughter looked as if she must’ve spent most of her extracurricular time on the Cheerleading squad; she and Mom had an excessive amount of positive energy just sitting their waiting and whispering back and forth to each other with the verbal speed and efficiency of two auctioneers on NoDoz. They wore matching outfits, I’m not kidding.

Behind them sat two younger Asian men and an older gentleman. The two men, in their mid-20’s, had their faces buried in the study guides while the older fellow sat patiently. Occasionally one would whisper something to the other in a foreign language and then the two would bury their noses in the pages again.

There was a number of biker looking couples in the room, though I don’t know if they actually rode bikes or not, my Kawasaki was the only thing on two wheels out front at the time. A couple of leather vests, a lot of braided hair, one doo-rag, and five or six black t-shirts, one with the Hells Angels logo on the front, the wings behind the skull were colored yellow with a red outline. I couldn’t read the faded lettering on the top but I’m pretty sure that it didn’t have anything to do with the Hell’s Angels. My understanding is that the H.A. kind of “frown” on the unauthorized use of their logo’s; I wasn’t going to go ask the fellow wearing the t-shirt if he was aware of that. All of them seemed to have a problem with their wallets wandering off because they all appeared to be leashed to their belts.

The Marlboro Man even made a cameo. Big black Stetson, black leather vest over a denim shirt, a pair of Wranglers one size too small and pointed toe Cowboy boots that clopped against the tile floor wherever he walked; Mustache well groomed, he looked ready to have his picture taken. I wonder if he knows that he has to take the Stetson off for the photo.

My number was called and I approached the counter. I explained my situation to the lady behind the counter. She asked for $5.00, apparently the licensing fee increased June 1st. “But the mistake was made in May, and it was the Department of Licensing’s mistake.” I said.
She replied, “Yes, but now it’s June, $5.00.”
I inquired about the smaller number of people waiting this Saturday as opposed to the last time that I was here. She looked up and scanned the room and replied in a dry tone, “They aren’t done watching their Cartoons.” She gave me a piece of paper and told me to take a seat at the end of the counter until my name was called. On the wall behind her and just over her left shoulder a sign read, “Threatening a Government employee is a punishable offense.” Hmmm.

As I sat down, a Mother with her son was arguing with the balding man behind counter. From what information that I gathered, the son was 18 years old and wanted to take the written test so that he could get his permit. Trouble was that he hadn’t taken driver’s education, nor has he even read the Instruction Manual to prepare for the test. Careful Mom, read the sign.

Seated two chairs to my right was a teenage boy waiting with who I assume was his father. Dad looked like a Dad. Clean cut, shaven, nice clothes. The son, however, was a different story. He was your “average” Goth kid. Dressed head to toe in black; his limbs were gaunt and his skin ashen. It was rather apparent that this kid did not spend much time outside and definitely didn’t do anything too physical, I’m guessing 90-95 lbs. max. His crowning feature though was his hair; yes it was dyed jet black, but it’s length fell to his elbows and covered every part of his head, face included. The only noticeable feature on the front of his head was his nose peaking out. I don’t know how Dad felt about it, but to me, his son looked like physical proof that about sixteen years ago, “Cousin It” must've gotten laid at least once. That thought got stuck in my head, I couldn’t stop snickering.

Apparently the cheerleader had passed her written as she bounced from the testing area over to the counter giving a thumbs up to her teammate seated in the crowd, Mom clapped as she got up from her chair and made her way to her daughter’s side. Mom had the same bounce in her step.

While I waited, the room gradually began filling up with people. Some of them worth noting, while most just looked average. It was the few Odd ones in the group that seemed to give this otherwise dry government waiting room some color.

Growing up, Mom used to warn me that there was always one weirdo on the bus and to keep an eye out for him, I always kept a vigilant search, but never saw him............

My photo taken, I put my temporary license in my wallet, grabbed my helmet and walked out the door. While I left the place, riding to the motorcycle dealership to shop for a new helmet, I thought to myself, “I wonder, if the crowd at the D.O.L. noticed at all, the strange guy in the motorcycle jacket and pants at the front of the waiting room glancing back at the crowd, writing things in his notepad and then giggling like a stoner.”

“What a weirdo.”

Ride Well.
E.T.