My Motorcycle Haven

My motorcycle seemed to understand.

His words cut deep.

I'm sure he didn't know that his article would hurt me. He would never have written it if he had known. And loving him as a man and respecting him as a writer, I never want to impede his freedom of expression. But as I sat on the couch trying to suppress my agony, the tears wouldn't stop flowing. Eventually he saw me weeping and I knew I had to escape. I couldn't bear to tell him he had hurt me. I couldn't tell him what he wrote was killing me inside for fear he would now censor himself. But I couldn't stop weeping. . .

I kept my mouth shut and got dressed. Texting one friend after another to ask where they were, could I come and see them, I got no answers. It was just one of those times no one was available. Certainly, any of them would want to help if they could see my plea, but no one did.

Strapping up my boots I walked out to my steadfast motorcycle. As the garage door opened, there she stood, ready for me and my pain. I stowed my crap and started her up. Gracie roared to life, pleased to comfort me and heal my broken heart.

Moments later we careened along the nearly empty Interstate 5 owning our lane. The tears continued to flow, but my focus was now on the road. No music, no distractions, just riding.

Gracie has never let me down. Today she was my therapist, my best friend, my comforter and my haven.

The sun was shining and the weather warm enough to ride without a jacket. Typical San Diego 70 degrees and sunny in November, we chewed up asphalt and together we ran. I'm not sure if I'm running away from feelings or running into them headlong. Most rides I feel the emotions even greater and sink into the comfort of my collision course with reality. The wind tears away the lies, suppositions, fears and curses that plague my daily thinking. Only when I ride do I feel real and true to myself.

There's nowhere to hide on my V*Star. My heart is as exposed as my body to the elements. Danger lurks with every merging car and at any moment the scene can change. I must focus on what is before me and forget about the things that don't matter right here, right now, impacting my survival.

Just over an hour passed and I had ridden 40 miles of Interstate, city streets, boulevards and tiny neighborhood lanes to clear away the corrupted thinking. I felt solid and whole again. Now I could head back.

As I rolled into the garage again and parked Gracie, I patted her tank to thank her for being there for me. Serene, she was happy to rest a bit, catch her breath, and cool her fiery engine. I had ridden her hard and for that, she was grateful.

Now I could face reality again and deal with my sadness with a clearer mind and take ownership of my own feelings without imposing blame or assigning guilt. Intellectually, I know the article wasn't about me but try telling my heart that. That machine waiting patiently for our next ride is often times the only one who speaks the language of my broken heart.