A young friend of mine invited me to his wedding, I said, “Sure, where is it?” His reply of Bozeman, Montana became a 10 day, 4,200 mile loop from the Black Hills of South Dakota, through the Tetons, Utah and Colorado. I am a committed friend after all. Who would do less?
Formal events are harder on a bike trip because your nice clothes and shoes take up room. Plus, you don’t want to show up on the wedding day looking like you slept in your clothes for 10 days in a cheap motel. Being careful, I arrive with no oil stains on my tie or a bad case of helmet hair. Montana is nice in the summer and it was a beautiful outdoor wedding with mountain peaks in the background. I’ve always wanted to feature a motorcycle in a church setting. You could come riding in stage right up onto the platform, deliver a sermon or perform a ceremony then exit with a smoking burnout and wheelie. But I digress.
After the wedding and other adventures, I made it down to red rock country near the entrance to Bryce Canyon, Utah. There are few experiences like sitting on Sunrise point at the edge of the canyon at dawn. The rising sun lights up the thin rock spires standing on the canyon floor. It’s fun to watch God paint these silent sentinels with colors that cannot be captured in a photograph. Some scenes are reserved only for the naked eye and seeing heart.
It was getting late. Thankfully, I found an available cabin among a group arrayed around a central outpost. Unpacking your bike after a long ride to do something like take a shower right away has its challenges. You forget where everything is packed and start taking short cuts. The bike was parked right outside the door so I only brought in what I thought I needed and laid it out on the bed. Ready for the shower, I stripped down and was about to step in when I noticed with a glance that something missing. It’s important to point out that while I notice a lot of things, this usually leads to an intense focus. I thought, “It’s dark outside, the bike is right there at the door and it will take just a second.”
Swiftly stepping outside to open the saddlebag with my back turned to the room, I hear a “thunk.” Hearing that sound was like the time I was staring down into the open frame of a Norton Commando with a shop light hanging by its cord overhead. These are the kind with older screw in light bulbs that heated up their metal case. Staring intently, I started wondering what that smell was? Electrical problem with the Norton wiring? Turned out that it was the metal case burning a spot into my forehead. First you smell it then you feel it. That’s intensity.
There I was, intensely buck naked outside, slowly realizing that the cabin door had a spring that shut it behind me. It was self locking and, of course, the key was inside. Our brains try to be helpful during these times by dumping everything they have in a pile to sort out. “Where’s the key to the bike?” “Are the bags locked?” “What kind of idiot am I?” Out of all this, three basic choices emerged. First, I could just walk back to the front desk clerk commando and act like this was what road warrior bikers do. Second, I could go dumpster diving for a used pizza box like a fig leaf cluster to cover my nether regions explaining that this is what idiot bikers do. Or, third I could put on whatever was left on the bike.
Selecting the longer and eye retina saving option for the clerk, I put on my wedding outfit with no available underwear. Thankfully, there were no turning cars with headlights in the gravel parking lot to “paint” me dressing for a wedding beside a motorcycle against the front of a perfectly suitable cabin. Since I came in alone, I felt obliged to explain to the clerk why I needed a second key now dressed in a suit. His reaction ranged from something like, “We see this all time,” to “Bikers are amusingly weird.” Thank God I didn’t have a hole in my pants as I walked out.
Moral: Intensity can be a good thing until it’s not. Don’t wait for the smell or the “thunk” to take a wider view of your situation. Most importantly, always have extra clothes on your bike.