Years ago, on the trailing edge of a failing marriage, and before the blessing of Red, my current wife, I sought solace in speed and became a "reentry" rider..... with a well-tuned 1978 Suzuki GS 750. Paid all of $600 for it...and the guy threw in a helmet.... which almost fit.
I was flat afraid of the damn thing, but I grew a pair and decided to ride it about 500 miles from Ellensburg, Washington, to Gowan Field, Boise, Idaho, to attend a two-week Tank Commander's course. I had also recently re-entered the Army on some sort of whim, or rather, in some sort of desperation... the Army National Guard, that is.... as a 42 year old corporal in the 1/303rd Armor, WANG. All kinds of things were changing for me, and not necessarily in the right direction.
The trip out has been blurred by the years, but it was a pretty good start, and I especially remember the sense of mastery I eventually achieved when the clutch coughed it up in Kennewick, Washington, 130 miles from home. I talked to a Suzuki "shop manager," who quoted me a let-me-help-you-out price of $275 for a new clutch... I sat on the curb for awhile, contemplating the ruin of my life, and then I remembered the old Clymer or Haynes manual with a taped-together cover which had come with the bike, and which at the last moment I had stuffed into the army duffle bag strapped sideways on the rear seat.... I pulled it out and looked up "Clutch." The instructions for adjusting the linkage didn't look too complicated, and so I adjusted it as best I could with an crescent wrench and a pair of pliers while the Suzuki guy glared out of the window at me. Finished, I started the bike up, stuffed the tools and manual back into my duffle bag, and wheeled out of the lot, my clutch working perfectly, my smile wide and growing wider, waving at that damn Suzuki "shop manager."
I don't remember much of the tank school either, just that I wanted it to be over so I could get back to the bike and ride it home through the Blue Mountains of Eastern Oregon. I almost "no-goed" the school because I was thinking of my bike and that siren of a road to come. But eventually, it was over, and my class celebrated in the usual Army style -- beer and party, party and beer, too much party and too much beer....
I woke up too hung over, almost, to function, and definitely not in shape for the ride home... I had been having trouble with alcohol for some time. Not a surprise, since I had come from generations of accomplished, practicing alcoholics; and there was no doubt that I was genetically predisposed to the disease. But that morning was different; for the first time, I was disgusted with my behavior, not for what I had done, but for the ride that it had ruined, for the potential it had robbed me of... for the degradation of what should have been an enriching experience. From that morning on, I knew that someday soon I would go clean and sober. I also knew, in a sub-cognitive way, that my first marriage was over, and that sooner or later, I'd again leave the army.
So I snuck away, parked the bike, and slept it off in an abandoned barracks for most of that day, and the following night. But when the morning of the following day dawned in a wash of glowing, striated clouds of blue and gold, the crisp air delicious in my lungs, my hands shaking with anticipation...the bike was ready .... and so was I. The ride home was an unqualified joy, ripping along the twisting, old, paved-over wagon roads, a shining corridor between silent pine forests and gurgling mountain waters, the constant, comforting hum of the smooth running old bike, the horizons changing before me almost as if some unseen hand worked a celestial control.... and for the first time that I could remember, pure and uncomplicated joy surged unchecked through my heart and soul and mind..... I could see nothing but high mountains and clear roads ahead..... I had awakened......
