Hesitation Kills!

By Jeffry L’H. Tank

Ok so you read the title and thought Oh God, he’s going to start the new year with some damn safety related article. No? Didn’t fool you huh? Oh well, maybe next month! In fact it has nothing to do with safety issues, rather it's about how hesitation can kill an opportunity to ride.

When I saw the weather reports for the weekend after Christmas this year I knew I had to get out at least once for a nice long ride. When Saturday rolled around and the temps started climbing I figured “today’s the day”. Seems easy enough, right? Just throw on my cold weather riding gear, give the cats breakfast, make my excuses to the family staying over for the holidays, give my SO a Big Kiss and head for the hills. Ah, if only life was so simple!

Now you might think that getting away from family for the day would be hardest part, or maybe getting my Significant Other’s permission to fly the coup for the day with family in town, but if you did, you’d be wrong on both counts. That, in fact, was the easy part. Since my SO, Jeanne, also rides she totally understands the need to ride, heck I had two bikes when we met and she knows full well there may well be others in my stable, time, space and finances willing. Nor was making my excuses to family members staying over for the holidays the hard part. They too, know I ride any chance I get and we certainly have family gatherings often enough during the year that my taking off for day was no big deal.

The big problem that day was not the getting away part, but rather the deciding where to go part! Should I head south down Rt. 1 toward Richmond to explore some back roads as yet untraveled, or maybe a ride east to the northern neck of VA would be the way to go today? Perhaps a ride across the 301 bridge into MD and on to Solomon’s Island or Point Lookout with a stop for a nice seafood lunch at some waterfront eatery? Then again it had been a while since I’d been north along Rt. 15 or 17 into Maryland and up through the Maryland pan handle. Of course there was always the call of Blue Ridge Mountains a little over an hours ride through some lovely farmland, followed by a brisk ride along Skyline or down one of the valleys that follow either of the branches of the Shenandoah River. Decisions, decisions, four compass points to choose from and none seemed willing to jump up and shout “Try me!” or “Head this way”. Instead I just wandered around the house, first looking out the front window at the clear blue sky overhead, then staring out the back at the sun sparkling off the water in the small bay that is part of the wetland sanctuary a few hundred meters beyond my backyard. Then I’d head back down to the garage to pour over maps of Maryland’s eastern seaboard and Virginia’s northern neck or maps of the Blue Ridge area. Every place had its attractions but still I found myself trapped in a state of flux. Nothing seemed to grab me or provide the right motivational spark. Thinking back on it now I’m not even sure why having a specific destination was so important that morning. Certainly there have been numerous times when I’ve just gotten up early, downed a quick cup of coffee and headed out without any particular destination in mind, but that Saturday certainly didn’t seem to be one of those days.

9 AM melted into 10 AM, yet I still found myself wandering around the house. Each time Jeanne saw me she’d ask if I was getting ready to head out yet, each time I could only mumble something intelligible under my breath, indicating I couldn’t decide between a seashore or mountain destination. She tried to help by suggesting that going west or south would most likely be a bit warmer, but I was too busy grumbling and mumbling to pay much attention. As 10 AM started rolling toward 11 yet still without any destination in mind, I knew if I didn’t get out soon the opportunity to get in any sort of decent riding would soon fade. With that realization settling in I decided I’d start out with a short ride down a nice quiet twisty 2-lane road that runs along the south side of Quantico Marine Base. At least that way I’d get in a hour or so of riding and perhaps I’d find some inspiration along the way. Knowing it was now or never, I suited up and headed south down 95 to Joplin road.

The first 20 minutes down 95 was a bit windy but once off the slab and into the wooded area that Joplin road runs though the wind was hardly noticeable. By now it was near 50 and after all the early AM commutes to work at 5:30 with temperatures in the upper 20’s, it felt downright warm. The next 20 minutes along Joplin road was whisper quiet with no traffic to speak of, but all too soon I found myself at the end of the road and facing yet another decision. Having been out for only a little over 40 minutes, I hardly felt ready to head back toward home, but now the dilemma of having to choose between heading east toward the bay or west toward the mountains confronted me. Then again there was still that southern route toward Culpeper that I had contemplated earlier when looking over my maps before leaving. 40 minutes out and I still hadn’t managed to settle into the ride, not a good omen and so far things were not going as well as I could have hoped for. I was starting to think that maybe this just wasn’t the day for a long ride after all. Not ready yet to abandon all hope I decided to choose a road at random which took me in a northwest direction.

I spent the next hour choosing routes at random as I came to each intersection since most crossroads I came to were not on any of my maps. Still that point of transition where time and distance fade into unimportance and the ride just “is” eluded me. Where was that magical point of departure from the outside world, where the ride becomes the day, the day becomes the ride and each mile leads to the next without thought or planning? That wonderful feeling of machine and rider becoming one entity, one soul on a mission to explore, to run the asphalt and blacktop ribbon of highway that stretches ever onward into the distance. Where each turn, each rise, brings a fresh new moment into view that passes in an instant and is gone, yet remains, forever remembered somewhere deep within.

Thinking back it seems strange how on that particular Saturday, that point of transition seemed to be purposely hovering just out of reach, as though hiding just down the road simply to tease me for its own amusement. Most days that moment comes almost as soon as I’m out the garage door, or within an hour or so at most. Then there are those much rarer days, like that Saturday, when the transition to that sense of “oneness” with the machine can be so elusive and the more I look, the more I try to encourage it, the more intangible it becomes.

At some point in my meanderings down those small, rural one and a half lane roads, I came across Rt. 28 and decided to take a left and head south toward Culpeper. After the quiet of the small farming roads, Rt. 28 had the appearance of a noisy, congested highway filled with cars and trucks, more befitting an interstate than a two lane county road. Every few miles I’d see a route heading off to my right toward Warrington and points west which would tempt me with it promises of quiet, congestion free rural byways. Yet each time I’d decide to stick it out for a few more miles south. West meant a shorter circuit back home and I still needed to find that point of transition from simply “going” to “riding”. A little while later I arrived at the intersection of 28 and Rt. 15/29 south, where traffic thinned a bit and the pace picked up some. With the sun now directly overhead, the ride and my spirits started to improve. By the time I’d gotten to Culpeper I realized that at some point in those 12 miles after turning onto Rt. 15, the moment I’d been anticipating had slipped in unnoticed, mostly probably because I had stopped looking for it.

After wandering around Culpeper for a while I headed out Rt. 522 toward Sperryville. For the rest of the day everything starting falling into place, at each crossroad the decision on the next route to take resolved itself without worry and the ride just kept getting better and everything was again right with the world. The road sang its song and drew me along, running though the zebra striped shadows cast across the road by the barren trees, a strobe like flashing of sunrays on my face and visor as the sun sank slowly to the west. The roads were now again devoid of traffic ahead so there was nothing to hinder my progress, limit my speed or infringe on the solitude of a pleasant winters ride. Half frozen ponds and fields covered with thin films of snow in the northern most shadows cast by stands of trees flashed by, intermixed with views of whitened mountain slopes and rushing streams flowing down through miniature valleys half hidden in the brown trees, in their silent wait for spring to arrive while the road continued its sirens call.

After crossing over the first ridge of the Blue Ridge Mountains I headed up Rt. 340 for Front Royal and stopped in for a quick bite at a friendly corner dive called the Village Idiot, right at the intersection of Rt. 340 and 55 in the center of town. After my late lunch even the last leg of the ride down the super slab of Interstate 66 seemed to fit right in with the rest of the days ride and by the time I arrived back in Woodbridge I had gotten in a good 6 hours on the road.

When I arrived home in the late afternoon the sun was saying its day’s farewell by painting upon the thin wisps of clouds hovering over the western horizon with a pallet of its most brilliant reds and gold’s. After parking the bike I thought about the day’s adventure and realized how close I had come to missing it all.

The lesson learned that day was just this: should you ever find yourself in a state of hesitation on the next nice day when the road calls you, take this story to heart and don’t fall into the same trap I almost did. Rather than expend too much energy trying to plan it out or fret about the “where” or “when”, just saddle up and go or you might possibly miss the best ride of the season. Remember, Hesitation Kills!

A Moment Lost

I packed my bags,
But didn’t leave.
The Winter Sun
Shone through the trees.

I sat inside.
Yet yearned to go.
To chase the wind,
Through frosty snow.

The road it called.
I heard its cry.
Yet still I sat.
It passed me by.

To hesitate’s
A mortal shame.
A moment lost
Can’t be reclaimed.

So here I sit
As if of wood.
A golden passage
Gone for good.

© Jeffry L’H. Tank

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