Never Take Anything for Granted

Yellow Helmet

We left the East Bay in the early afternoon of the Friday before Amanda’s wedding. Looking confident and strong with her new friend, a 1996 BMW R1150, Amanda led us to the highway. Both of our motorcycles were in a wide-body configuration, our panniers were loaded in anticipation of the festive weekend.

Although the wedding was to take place in a rustic environment, Amanda had requested that I wear my midnight blue velvet opera gown for my costume as Best Person. Mutual friends Maura and Mark had offered to carry the gown to Mar Vista in their car but I demurred, if I was going to wear the gown, I’d get it there on my motorcycle. Having just returned from Alaska, the red dry bag looked like the best way to transport the gown. If it could handle a tent and our sleeping mats, it could protect a velvet dress, right?

The real question was, did I still fit in the dress? I hadn’t worn it in many years; the dress had been custom-made just before the dot com bubble burst to replace its ten-year old predecessor. After the dot bomb, there was barely enough money for the mortgage let alone the occasional splurge on the opera. And now, discretionary money was going towards motorcycles, not opera tickets, so the dress languished in my closet. With some doubt, I wriggled into the dress and zipped it closed. There’s “a tight fit” and there’s “it’s fine if you don’t breathe”. The dress was designed to add the wearer to operatic ambiance, not as athletic wear for coordinating wedding preparation activities. I couldn’t even raise my arms over my head. I selected another dress, not quite as spectacular, but appropriate for the job at hand.

But I have gotten ahead of myself.

We were heading to Mar Vista on the northern California coast, the last hour of the ride would be along the scenic Highway 1. The road ahead of us was jammed with typical Marin county congestion. Amanda started lane splitting. To my great chagrin, I could not keep up with her. I tracked her bright yellow helmet until after the toll booth, then lost sight of it. After a few minutes of scouting for yellow helmets in all lanes, I saw her up ahead, and made a concerted effort to catch up.

To my great surprise, every time I got close, she would tear off again. “Julie (the bride) must have asked her to get there early.” I told myself. Setting myself to the challenge, I cranked up the throttle. Before we left, we had agreed that we didn’t need to burn up the road, we wanted to get Amanda to her wedding in one piece, and this was supposed to be a relaxing ride up the coast. I changed lanes to slide in a couple of cars behind her, only to watch her dive between lanes again. “So much for taking it easy. That bike has completely changed her riding.” I followed as best I could, and was quite relieved when I saw her heading for an exit. There was a Shell station on the corner, but she didn’t stop, she kept on going. And that’s when I realized that, yes, yellow helmet. Yes, black jacket. But that was not her bike. The person I had been following was not Amanda, just some other rider wearing a yellow Arai helmet and a black cordura jacket.

Deeply embarrassed and now wondering just how separated we had become, I called her cell phone and sheepishly told her of my mistake. She had pulled over right after the first time we had become separated and had been waiting for me, becoming more and more concerned that something had happened to me after the toll plaza. She rode up to where I was, we continued to Mar Vista without further incident.

Well, that’s not entirely true. Before I left for Alaska I put an engine guard rail on my bike to protect the cylinder heads in case of mishap. The engine guard returned with only glacial dirt and road grime marring its silver surface. Arriving at the Mar Vista cottages, Amanda and I rode up the gravel drive way and were quickly surrounded by her friends. Somehow I had parked my bike a little too close to hers, so I decided to dismount the bike on the right side. Never do that. The bike “dismounted” from its kick stand and we both fell to the ground. The engine guard glanced off a split log and ground into the grass, sparing the bike from damage. I tripped over the log, fell backwards with my helmet still on, and woke up the next morning with a mildly sprained neck from the whiplash. I rode to Alaska, I rode the Top of the World Highway, and where do I fall off my bike? From a standstill at the Mar Vista guest cottages. Nothing could spare my ego this shame.

Julie and Amanda’s wedding was a great weekend of community, family and celebration. I've heard it said that time spent away from family and friends can never be recovered. Speaking as a person who loves solitude, this weekend spent in genial company was like riding in cold weather with a heater vest on the perfect warmth setting.

Of course the groom would ride to her own wedding. Anne and Hillary, Karolyn and me, guests from the bride and groom's, added our rides to celebration. We fussed to get the bikes lined up just so for Rachel Balunsat, the photographer. Notice that one bike is not like the rest – Karolyn’s Yamaha was alone among the Beemers. The bikes seemed happy to have each other’s company.

As the Aikido people assembled for our group photo Amanda decided to test my zanshin and caught me slacking. Her koshinage (over the back throw) is effortless. One moment I'm standing there smiling for the camera, then next moment I've become airborne. Amanda's mischief inspired Susan to start a flash randori. The five black-belt level women threw decorum to the winds and attacked the groom. Maura and I shot each other a look – we were both wearing dresses, and figured, “what the heck”, and joined the fray. Amanda dispatched us all neatly, and then we walked to the garden for dinner.

Being socially awkward, the role of Best Person gave me the perfect cover for my lack of social skills. I carried my shield everywhere – on my clipboard was everyone’s name, whether they were groom’s side or bride side, the weekend plan and schedule and the photographer’s instructions. The clipboard even came in handy as a platform to carry a praying mantis from the coat of the bride's father to the nearby organic garden. I happily ran myself out of gas moving events along, checking off activities instead of making eye contact. At dinner, I toasted the Ukrainian ancestors with Ukrainian vodka both out of respect and gratitude for a moment to relax. By Sunday morning when I was to ride back to the south bay area with Karolyn, I was about to have a new experience, riding with a throbbing hangover.

Karolyn set a leisurely pace for the ride south on Highway 1 – we took our time and enjoyed the breathtaking view of the coast and the cliffs. But when we reached Marin county, she started lane splitting. Damn. Her side bags were no where near as wide as mine. She was slipping between lanes like a shadow. Once again, I could not keep up. And, this time, I wasn’t going to try – my brain was pickled in vodka, my spatial judgmental wouldn’t have helped me stay between the surface of the earth and the surface of the moon.

I felt so bad about holding Karolyn back, she probably could have been home an hour earlier if I hadn’t been holding her back. I was still feeling bad about this a few days later recounting the wedding to a friend. “Why are you beating yourself up about not being able to keep up with her?” he asked. “Why do you even think that you should be able to keep up with her? She’s been riding over twenty five years, you’ve got, what, six years of experience? She’s at the track nearly every weekend, she’s paid to teach people how to improve their speed – she’s a professional rider. Her business card may say “UI Designer” but that’s just her day job.”

Well gosh, when he put it that way, I didn’t feel so bad. That doesn’t mean that I’m not slow, I am, but now that my hangover is gone, I’m feeling okay again.