Lightning.....

I hate lightning... hate it beyond reason and logic. Lightning is like a mortar barrage: malevolent and impersonal and yet deeply and horribly intimate when it builds and strikes, when it seems to threaten you personally, when it seems to threaten you above all other living things on earth-- and it seems that that every road that Red and I ride in lightning weather will lead directly toward the area of most danger, the area of the darkest and dirtiest cloud and storm. The road never seems to lead away from the storm, but instead leads right toward it.

And the threat is real. Unlike auto drivers, motorcyclists are not protected by a comforting cocoon of metal running on rubber tires to redirect and harmlessly channel that terrible violence around you. No sir! Get hit by lightning while riding your bike and you are dead, dead, dead....a bolt through your face shield and out the heel of your favorite riding boot leaves no room for argument, no question unanswered, no appeal... you are simply deep-fried and cooked at your handlebars... ticket punched... time expired... dead.

Once, early in our riding career, Red and I were in Greybull, Wyoming, and trying to leave it (not an uncommon impulse in Greybull); we were trying to get out of town and go east over the beautiful Big Horn Mountains. Often in the U.S., the summer jet stream will dip down and stake out a parabolic line clear across the country, a line of battle where cold fronts and warm fronts square off, where the great towering anvil-shaped storm clouds gather, where the deadly lightning lurks.... They call such events “Summers of Fire.” It was during one of these “Summers of Fire” when we tried to leave Greybull one afternoon.

“It doesn’t look too bad,” said Red. “Does it?”

Red is by nature much braver than I.

I looked at the Big Horn mountains, at the masses of vapor and the gathering, boiling, angry energy above them. “Uuuuuhhhhhhh,” I said.

I hate to say no to Red.

“Why don’t we give it a try?” Red was patient, cajoling. “If it gets bad, we can always turn back!”

“Uuuuuuhhhhh,” I said again. “Well, uuuhhh, okay..........I guess.....!”

I started our old Wing and we pulled out on Highway 14, a beautiful two lane road heading almost directly into the heart of the developing monster. Everything went well...for about 45 seconds ...and then...

KaaChuunk!

A bright blue bolt of incredible beauty, as straight as a ruler, full of energy and horror, came ripping down from the heavens, ripping straight down on Highway 14, straight down right on the center line! No more than 300 meters ahead of us! The centerline! 300 meters!

I immediately wheeled the Wing into a tight, 180 degree turn -- one of the tightest I have ever made, by the way -- and we headed straight back to Greybull and to the nearest cheap motel.

“That’s it, “ I yelled. “I get the message! That’s my Higher Power’s way of saying, ‘This road closed until further notice!’ Not even a night in Greybull could be more threatening than this!”

Red hung on tightly and said nothing......

The next morning we rode over the wonderful Big Horns in bright, calm sunshine, and at the summit, we could see The Great Plains of America spreading before us, an immense patchwork quilt of farms and prairies... stretching east as far as human eyes can see.

You deal with lightning on nature's terms, not yours.

On another trip, again during another “Summer of Fire,” we were returning home through Montana and wanted to ride Highway 43 along the Wisdom River. It’s a ride of haunting beauty, along a penultimate Rocky mountain river, complete with the sad historical site of the Big Hole Battlefield, where the U.S. Army attacked an unsuspecting camp of the Nez Perce Indians. Firing at first light through buffalo skin lodges and killing many women and children, the Army initially drove the Nez Perce to flight, but the warriors quickly regrouped and one by one and two by two, fighting from bush to bush, pushed the U.S. troops back to the top of a high knoll, where the soldiers hung on for their lives. It was definitely not one of the Army’s finest moments. The last stand trenches scraped out by the frantic troopers with mess tins, cups, and bayonets are still there -- silent, overgrown hollows in the ground, still filled with a faint aura of desperation and horror.

Highway 43 at it’s eastern terminus near Dillon runs between the high walls of a deep canyon. And that’s where Red and I found ourselves when the first bolts rained down several years ago.... I could actually see the strikes hitting on the ridge tops, the impact areas marked by great balls of orange fire. It was the most dramatic electrical storm I had ever witnessed with strikes coming 2, 3, and even 4 times per minute. The wind was also screaming, with rain and hail flying sideways.

I stopped the bike and turned and yelled at Red. “Should I turn around?”

“And do what, go where” yelled Red back. “It’s as bad behind us as it is in front!”

And so we went on, our hearts in our throats and in genuine fear for our lives, although we were actually in little danger since the strikes seemed confined to the ridge tops. Eventually we stumbled across a five-star restaurant catering to rich fly fishermen and took refuge in it, dawdling over an expansive and expensive meal that we couldn’t afford, while the storm played itself out among the ridges and the sun broke through again.

You deal with lightning on nature’s terms, not yours.

This year was another of the “Summer of Fires” with storms plaguing us throughout the season. In September, Red and I rode to Colorado and back for an international motorcycle rally. We rolled out of Utah on Highway 40, and then took Highway 139 south toward Montrose, Colorado, our ultimate destination. Highway 139! Occasionally, the motorcyclist will get very lucky and stumble upon a road like 139. Deserted, well-paved, winding through lovely, interesting country – Highway 139 was our discovery of the year. We were absolutely loving it; roads like these are the reason we ride; but the hour was growing late, and in the west, over our right shoulders, still miles away but coming our way, towered one of those building, rising, anvil-shaped clouds. And in the back of my throat I felt that old metallic taste, the taste I remember from the Vietnam of my youth and of all the other thunderstorms I’ve ever seen.

“Damn,” I muttered to Red. “I hope we get in before that sucker gets here....looks ugly!”

“We will,” smiled Red. “Don’t worry, we’ll be alright.....!”

Red is by nature more optimistic than I. Much.

But the storm marched down upon us steadily, and great bolts of powerful lightning were beginning to streak down from it’s ugly, roiling mass. I kept stealing anxious looks over my shoulder, and it was getting dark now, getting dark fast. And we had sixty miles to go...

Suddenly, my whole cockpit lit up in a blinding flash.

“Holy Crap,” I yelled to Red. “How close was that thing?!!?”

“How close was what,” she yelled back.

“The lightning bolt! It was close, didn’t you see it?”

“No,” she replied. “I didn’t see anything!”

We rode a little more, and, suddenly, another blinding flash reflected off of my windscreen, instrument panel, and mirrors.

“Holy Damn,” I screamed. “How close was that one?”

“How close was what,” asked Red. “I’m not seeing anything!”

“You have to be!” I yelled at Red, exasperated beyond measure. “I have to know how close they are, which way they’re coming from.....!”

“I’m not seeing them,” said Red, equally exasperated.

Another blinding flash.... And I was by this time absolutely terrified...

“Jesus!” I yelled “Look for a building, a barn, something! We gotta get under cover!”

“I don’t understand it, “ muttered Red. “I’m just not seeing anything.......!”

And then I got a glimpse of her moving around in my mirror.

“Hey,” I yelled. “What are you doing back there?”

“Nothing...taking a few pictures is all.......”

“And is the camera flash going off,” I asked.

There was a moment of silence from the rear seat, and then we both burst into wild laughter. Red often takes photos off the rear seat, and the lightning flashes that were terrifying me so were coming from her camera.

We barreled into Montrose minutes ahead of the powerful storm, still safe, still minutes ahead of the real lightning. Laughing like demons, we quickly unloaded the bike and tumbled into the warmth and security of our cheap motel, where we ordered up delivery pizza, and ate it sitting on the bed while enjoying the flashes outside our motel window.

You have to deal with even non-existent lightning on nature’s terms, not yours!