A couple more rides to Berkeley and I'll be out of the land of short-shift frustration.

I don't have much to say about riding this bike right now other than I'm cautiously enjoying it. It's pretty clear that I've got a huge "seat time" dues to pay off. At 150 miles a week, that's twenty weeks to rack up the 3,000 recommended "settle in the bike" miles, which interestingly enough, is just a month shy of the standard six months generally recommended for a rider to get used to a new bike. In theory, I'll be ready to try this bike out on the track after March, 2006. (grin)

I'm reading the blog of a fellow who is riding the Alaska Canada highway right now. From his World Rider website:

On July 4, 2005 Allan Karl left his home in Southern California on a Journey & Adventure to travel around the world -- from top to bottom, then all the way around -- alone on a motorcycle.

Without a support team and carrying only what will fit on his 2005 BMW F650GS Dakar single cylinder dual-sport motorcycle he will travel 50,000 miles through 50 countries and attempt to reach all 7 continents.

His mission is not only to endure the rigors of overland travel solo on a motorcycle, but to help us all rediscover our world's cultural heritage and the importance of helping and supporting the humanitarian needs of our World Neighbors to make the world a safer place to live and travel.

He writes well, takes good photographs, and posts regularly. If you want to be notified when he has posted, you can subscribe. If you want to contribute to his effort, the website tells you how. The site is well-laid out, but not all of the links work.

The bike has about 650 miles on it so we drank the champagne tonight. Each time I ride it I feel more comfortable on it. I'm starting to exercise the rpm range between 4,000 and 8,000. Ever mindful of the cost at the pump, running the bike at freeway speeds in third gear feels like pouring gasoline into the void but sacrifices must be made to properly "run in" the bike.

The gas tank is pretty high, every time I gas up I feel like a kid who can barely see the over the kitchen counter trying to get the top off the cookie jar. I tried standing on the island next to the gas pump but that was too awkward. The nozzle type makes a big difference - at the Chevron station the hand that squeezes the gas release is about chest height. At a 76 station in Berkeley it seemed that the squeeze hand was nearly level with the top of my head.

Everyone is on their way in to San Francisco for Fleet Week, the Blue Angels will be flying under the Golden Gate Bridge. Knowing this, I still rode home over the Bay Bridge to test lane-sharing my side-box draped bike with a more mellow herd of cars than I would find on a week day. With traffic backed up to the 880 split, there were plenty of "can I fit?" moments. I figured if I had to ask myself, I would wait until I didn't need to ask. Got home unscathed.

I do miss the Sprint's fairing - there's a section of 101 a bit north of the airport where the winds blow so steadily that the local trees are all bent in one direction. The GS handles it just fine, I just felt the impact more than I expected.

My mental health is returning to normal. It is as if just riding the bike acts as a selective serotonin uptake inhibitor (SSRI). Sure, St. John's Wort is cheaper, but you can't go cross-country on those little gelatin capsules.

Went to a friend's housewarming in Emeryville yesterday. She rides a Suzuki SV 650 - it is her sole transportation. I hadn't seen her in a while, and she hadn't seen the GS. When Peter and I arrived, he immediately got a hug. I was standing next to my bike waiting my turn, but her gaze traveled quickly from me to the GS. She swung a leg over it just as the last syllable of an invitation to do so left my lips. Astride the bike, feet flat on the ground, she straightened up the bike and scooted her butt around on the seat. Her body intently registered the sensation of sitting in this beast, her eyes took in the console and scanned the horizon, her hands tested the clutch and throttle. Once settled, the sensing complete, she raised her eyes to mine and said with just a trace of embarrassment, "I probably should have given you a hug before sitting on your new bike."

Months ago, when Dennis got his new Triumph Daytona, I did the same thing. Pulled up in the driveway, got out of the car, "Hi Dennis, can I sit on your new bike? Oh, sorry, you want a hug?"

October 18th is the anniversary of Peter's brother's unexpected death. Paul was healthy, but he did smoke cigarettes. Normally a punctual fellow, we were surprised when he wasn't waiting for us at the restaurant for a birthday dinner. We hadn't heard from him in a while, but that wasn't anything unusual. Not showing up for a birthday was unheard of, so we drove quickly to his home. Paul had been dead for several days from a brain hemorrhage. Months later, Peter hiked up Mt. Whitney with Paul's ashes, only to receive a strong sensation that after taking a look around the peak, Paul preferred to be distributed closer to home, on Windy Hill, a place he used to hike. On a day when the sun's rays glinted through the tree canopy, Peter cast the ash into several secluded areas where Paul would be comfortable and have a good view. Paul acknowledged his freedom from the brass urn with a series of hawk calls that echoed in the canyon.

* * *

This weekend I found the Sprint's spare ignition key, and re-experienced the anguish of realizing that I would never ride that bike again. The pain over the loss of that bike is a manifestation of one of my greatest fears - failure due my own incompetence. There's that old saying that if you don't fail every now and then, you aren't trying hard enough. True, but I haven't quite forgiven myself even though I've moved on to another bike.

* * *

As I begin making sure that everything is ready for this year's winter nine-day meditation retreat, I'm reminded of the year 2000 winter week-long sit that brought peace of mind five years after my father's death. Here's an excerpt from an article I wrote:

On Day 4, as soon as the bell rang, I noticed that my sitting posture was better than it had been all week. My spine felt like a lightening rod conducting a huge amount of energy. I also felt this incredible sadness overtaking me, tears began to pour down my face. My nose started running too. All that liquid ran down my neck, and began to soak my undershirt. The mucous from my nose made my lip itch, but something bigger than that itch was happening, so I sat as still as I could.

Wondering why the heck was I crying like a faucet with a broken washer, I felt a beckoning from outside the zendo. At the same time I was thinking, "I can't leave the zendo" I became aware that I was already outside, and my father was standing on the water, waiting for me. Five years ago, my father died from cancer. I'm the oldest child, and as is typical of oldest children, I was the "rock" for grieving family members. Soon after my father's death, a friend was diagnosed with a different type of cancer. I spent several months assisting with looking after her until she died. My grandmother never quite got over the fact that her son died before she did; her health deteriorated rapidly. There must have been a convergence of sorts, Peter's father died about year later. In five years I had not had allowed myself the emotional freedom to grieve for my father. We walked on the water together until the bell sounded the end of the sit.

During the short break, I quickly dried my face, and figured that was it, and felt immense gratitude and relief. The bell rang for the next sit. Boom! I was back in that perfect posture again, without trying. And the tears started again. Dad was outside again, waiting. This happened three sits in a row. Dad did not talk much, but I conveyed to him what I had not been able to before he died. He had not told his children that he had cancer, let alone how far it had progressed. When his wife called me to the hospital, he was already in a coma.

He came out of the coma twice, once to tell me that he hoped I would have a better relationship with my estranged sister, and to ask his wife to tell the doctors to let him die. Thanks to the morphine, and a cooperative medical staff, he died peacefully. The fourth sit of the set was a quiet sit. I remember that I was fully present and there were no more tears to cry.

I understand that this experience was an illusion. I know that having hallucinations is a distraction from just sitting and being fully present. Reflecting back on my walk with my father, I needed to work through my grief and move on.