Wednesday, October 19, 2016

This Life Will Be the Death of Me

The evening before Mitch and I were to embark on a two week journey down the coast to Northern California we received a message that our friend Tori Drew had just gotten into a bad motorcycle accident in L.A. Over the next 24 hours details would unravel triggering a cacophony of emotions that would make for a somber and introspective first few days. It didn’t help that shortly after we left, it began to rain which prompted us to re-route the first couple days of our trip and would continue to rain for half of our ride on that first low-spirited day. My head was clouded and my heart heavy especially upon finding out the news that Tori’s boyfriend, Rich, whom she was doubling with during the accident, didn’t make it. This last minute detour to Portland ended up being a blessing in disguise because it allowed us to catch up with our good friend and talented Tattoo Artist, Cody Zeek, one last time before he was to move back to Honolulu. Cody being the vivid and comedic person that he is, was a much needed distraction from the emotional weight of the day. 
 After Portland we aimed for the coast and eventually broke away from the rain. The leafy, glowing green walls of Highway 126 to Florence sparked the first real feelings of excitement since leaving Vancouver. 
  Coos Bay, Bandon, Gold Beach, Trinidad. Ride, freedom, camp, repeat. Other worldly sand-hills tall and sun swept sitting juxtaposed next to the ocean’s deep blue; red cedar giants standing firm in their wisdom; fields of long flowing grass, elk with heads bowed and grazing in the twilight. Ride, freedom, camp, repeat. 

  From Leggett we shifted from the 101 to the beginning of the legendary Pacific Coast Highway, its entrance a treacherously narrow, winding and seemingly endless road through continuous mountain side forests. After what felt like an eternity in purgatory, the air developed a crisp bite and a soft haze materialized amidst the tree tops. A giddiness sparked knowing that at any moment the trees would open up to present to us the epic sea-scape views of the Northern California coast that I had been dreaming of the months before. And then, like an arrow from a bow we came shooting out of the woods into the vast tremendousness of the coastal cliff edge. Ocean and waves so big and far it almost looked small if that were even possible, its continuum hard to fathom. The quaint little towns along the beginning of Highway 1 though thoroughly visited looked almost forgotten with old character buildings resting quietly below the fog. The landscape appeared mostly muted by haze aside from the pops of pastel colour bursts of wild flowers and crops that speckled the terrain creating a surreal stop-motion-like visual as if we were journeying through a Wes Anderson dreamscape. 
 That night for our four year wedding anniversary we stayed in what was probably my favourite of small California towns along the coast, Mendocino, where we fine dined and hunkered down for the night at the Agate Cove Inn, a cozy B & B that was a heavenly break from the more physically demanding camp-out routine of the days before. Returning to our parked bikes after our anniversary dinner, Mitch found the newest volume of Sideburn Magazine that a kind stranger had left on his bike as a gift of appreciation. Later that evening that Mendocino stranger would find Mitch on Instagram, an extraordinary realization of the connectivity of our modern day world thanks to the technological advances of social media which in moments like this make it seem more a blessing than a curse.
  Because of the initial detour at the start of our trip we were a couple of days ahead of schedule and decided to continue past our most southern goal of San Francisco, down to Big Sur. During our rides through rain, fog and sun we saw many motorcycles, most set up with the works: windshields, fairings, large gas tanks and highway pegs, big cozy sofas on wheels. Bikes very different from our own, understandably so considering it is only because we are young and clearly mad that we were able to ride as long and far as we had ridden on bratty little bikes like ours. But even that like everything in life won’t last. Riding through Bodega, Mitch spots a chopper approaching up ahead, a rare sight on this highway and in a moment he goes from a thumbs-up to flailing his arms at the realization that on the chopper are two Vancouverites, Byron and Anya, serendipitously riding past us on this road so very far away from home.

  A fire had consumed much of Big Sur the days before we arrived, closing down most of the campgrounds and businesses aside from a select few which re-opened the day we rolled in. Because the area was almost deserted we were able to get a beautiful river-side campsite that we likely wouldn’t have had a chance at seizing so last minute otherwise. There were roads we had wanted to explore in Big Sur that we couldn’t because of the fire but we were grateful to be there never-the-less as its majestic views live up to the hype.

  San Francisco in Fogust (Foggy August, it’s a thing) was a bitter-sweet experience. Getting around was such a hassle on motorbikes and the moment to moment dramatic shift in temperature made it difficult to ease in but we were graced with the hospitality of locals Isaac and Holly from Idle Hands tattoo shop and Isaac’s wife Solange who showed us a good time. One of the highlights was a San Francisco Hardcore show where Isaac’s band, Fatigue, played and ignited a nostalgic and energetic excitement that modern hardcore has not been able to do for me in a long time.
Photo by Mitch Kirilo

  We headed northbound on long, straight stretches of road into high heat. It was on those roads, reflecting on the trip thus far and thinking about Tori and Rich, that I thought a lot about life and death, what my life used to be and how far I have come in this Odyssey. Death is a very real possibility when you ride a motorcycle, its presence never very far away. I know this because of the constant and unnecessary (but understandable) reminders of the risk from my loved ones. Death has always been a poignant and borderline obsessive fear of mine. I remember the vivid moment when at age six, I discovered the very concerning and complex reality that everyone will someday die. I also remember the agonizing tenth year of my life when I developed an almost OCD like obsession with death where nearly every single day that year I would sit in long, silent moments of nearly crippling fear, working out in my head how many years I thought that I might have, my parents might have, my grandparents might have, my dog might have left, trying desperately to find comfort in the many decades still to come for us. It was never that easy to console myself, the wheels in my head spinning anxiously with the ideas of probability and the perception of time, trying to analyze and measure every moment. Even now at almost 30 years old I still have instances where those all consuming thoughts sneak in and sometimes I can’t help but let it take me for a moment, but I have gotten better at quickly snuffing them out. If you had asked me 5 years ago if I would ever ride a motorcycle I would have said “No way.” I didn’t see the point in it, especially considering the fear formerly stated. I was raised with the mind-set that motorcycles are dangerous and impractical death machines. Their practicality becomes more apparent when you ride and now I can tell you that I can not imagine a life without a motorcycle. In the three years since I first began to ride I feel like I have already lived a lifetime of excitement and joy, so much so that I often forget just how afraid of death I am. At times I have moments where I think that I may not be afraid of it at all anymore. I know that is easier for me to say more than that may be true, especially considering that in the event of my premature death it would be my loved ones that would suffer more than I… Which is why I hope that if that unfortunate scenario were to occur, they could find solace in knowing that I’ve already lived a life far richer in adventure and happiness than I ever expected. It is a solace that I hope the families of riders who’ve passed have been able to find along their path of mourning.
Photo by Mitch Kirilo
  Crater Lake delivered the funnest of riding roads and most spectacular of sunsets that we were so incredibly lucky to witness on cliff-edge, with no one else around, overlooking peaceful forest covered terrain leading up to the silhouetted layers of mountains that engulfed the sun. 
  Our last stop was back in Portland where we would spend three days in the company of the finest group of wrench wielding, rubber burning hooligans I have ever met. I initially met Courtney, founder of the women’s motorcycle social group, Torque Wenches, at last year’s Dream Roll and I knew by her warm and up-beat spirit that she was someone I wanted to re-connect with again in the future so I reached out to her in hopes of doing so on the way back home through Portland. Riding and dining and swimming and laughing all weekend with Courtney, her lovely husband Max and their hilarious and seriously talented group of friends made us feel right at home. From there we left with hearts very full. (Check out Dirty Hands Garage, Cvrst, Farrow Co. and Columbia Custom for some Portland motorcycle lovin’)



  Two bikes, 4544 kilometres of freedom through rain and shine, hot and cold, the grandest heights and lowest lows, past chamomile patches and basil blooms perfuming the air with the scent of distant lands yet to be ridden. The adventure has no end.
  A snap-shot memory: a group of motorcyclists approaching up ahead. Senior riders on laid-back baggers throw their peace sign fingers up in passing and I wave, smiling brightly back at my future.

Photo by Courtney VanBriesen