For Thursday, March 23, 2000 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 692 words

Sunday drive

I took a spin on my motorcycle over the weekend. I hadn't had her out all winter. It was our first cruise of the new millennium. I figured I'd take her on the Barn Run.

First I rode out East 2^nd Street to the Industrial Park, puttering along in middle gears, the visor flipped up on my helmet, whiffing the sunny green breezes rich with oxygen that blew down off the bufferlands. At last, a sunny weekend has turned up the lights. Several cars whizzed past me doing the speed limit, their drivers turning to give me a direct stare.

For two seconds I thought about how often I have scowled at slowpokes when I was headed somewhere, and how often I have muttered at hot rods who zipped by me when I was headed nowhere. The two subjectives created inside of me an objective state. I amalgamated myself with the azure blue of the Sunday sky and let the lush, fecund green covering of the moist earth be my training wheels. I was one with the Industrial Park.

I turned right on Industrial Way, down the hill, across the tracks. I drove along that large parking lot on the left where the truckers fill up. A man in a faded blue car was giving his young son driving lessons. The boy sat low, peering over the steering wheel, holding on with both hands. Dad looked relaxed, his window down, his elbow jutting out akimbo. They were navigating a large circle around the circumference of the rectangle. No tricky maneuvers. Dad's fingers were tapping against the roof. He must have the radio on. He must be working on easing the boy's nerves.

A guy on another motorcycle passed me coming the other way. His face was tucked away from the wind behind round shades and a beard. It had been so long since my last ride, I wasn't sure if bikers still waved at each other. I figured I'd just lift the fingers of my left hand subtly from the handlebars as a casual compromise. This guy, however, who looked as if he'd just exited from I-680, raised his left hand up like a pledge and gave me the fist of brotherhood. "Right on, man," I thought. "Just do it." I tried to raise my hand to a fist in reciprocation, but by then he had passed, his Harley rumbling into Doppler, and I ended up waving at nobody.

"Whatever." I put my arm down, and opened her up a little. Took her through the gears. Wound her out. We sailed for a ways. Then I geared down hard for the stop sign at the intersection with Park Road. I let my torque slow me down, saving my brakes for the complete stop.

I turned right on Park Road and rolled easy down the stretch past the storage rental and over the bridge to the last stop sign. I say last because the next stretch of Park Road is one of the longest uninterrupted drives in town. It’s a place where I can get my cruising rhythm and do some daydreaming. I pulled slowly up the hill along the yellow pipes, past the titanic yellow holding tanks like secret boosters for Rocket Earth. I took it easy, third gear, and unzipped my leather jacket to let in the cool air. I slid back, put my feet up, and escaped the matrix. Eucalyptus trees offered up scents. The Camel Barn offered up memories. The winding-down slope through the trees on the other side offered a closing coast, down into president's gulch, past Jefferson, Adams, and Polk Streets, past Jackson and Lincoln.

I turned right onto Military East and rode my camel back into town. My camel, by the way, is a 1976 CB750 Honda. It's heavy as a cow falling off a bridge, but it's got plenty of horsepower. I got her all dolled up last fall -- new seat and tires, new front brakes and taillight. She's my hog.

I took a drive down First Street and turned around at the loop before going home, but that's a whole other story.