Bishop - Riding with Rilke: reflections on motorcycles and books

Riding
with Rilke

REFLECTIONS ON MOTORCYCLES AND BOOKS

TED BISHOP

for H sing

W hen you cross from Canada into the United States you move into a realm where the temperatures almost triple and the distances shrink by a third (depending where you are on the scale): you shift from metric to imperial measurements, kilometers to miles, Celsius to Fahrenheit. To be consistent with the road signs and temperature readouts I encountered, I have usually used metric measurements while in Canada and imperial ones while in the United States. The problem is that Canada phased in metric measurements in the early 1980s and many Canadians, especially those of us of a certain age, think in both systems. Certain measurements have no resonance: six feet under or six feet tall means nothing as 1.89 or even 2 meters, and doing 160 kilometers an hour will never be the same benchmark, or rite of passage, as 100 miles an hour. Even my Ducati became confused at one point, but I trust the context will make things clear for the reader.

CONTENTS

I m riding the crest of the last morphine shot, lying here in the trauma ward. Yesterday they let me eat ice chips and helped me sit up in my clamshell, my new plastic body cast. Dont be impatient, they tell me. Tomorrow you get your last tube out. Its been only ten days since I laid the bike down. Youre making rapid progress.

T HE RAIN HIT as I swung west from Lake Okanagan up toward the mountains, and I hunched behind the windshield. I needed to make rapid progress. Hard droplets, already banging like frozen corn on my helmet, could turn to snow at the top of the pass. The engine settled into the climb, with that relaxed ticka-ticka-ticka old BMWs have. Its not a sound that makes you want to race; more seductive, it tempts you to quit your job and ride to South America. It makes going for groceries a romantic adventure. Thats why you seldom see Beemer riders without their saddlebags, even going to the corner storemight just buy that milk and keep on heading south.

The summit proved gusty, and the bike twitched in the crosswind. Thats the trouble with windshields: in exchange for a cozy pocket of warm air you get a jib sail. The motorcycle belonged to my girlfriend, Hsing, who was taking her turn in the car behind with all the camping equipment. Hsing had christened the bike Matilda, which didnt begin to do justice to her personality. I would have voted for Lola. Whenever I approached 130 kilometers an hour, Matilda began to waggle from side to side. Hsing liked it, this saucy little shimmy. Its like the samba, she said.

I had to admit it seemed benign. Not like old British bikes. My friend Robert once had an old Norton that used to go into speed wobbles, those strange tremors that occur somehow when the variables of engine vibration, road surface, and the position of the planets all come into cosmic disharmony. Dreaded by all motorcyclists, the speed wobble can never be predicted; all you can do is pull in the clutch and ride it out. One day on a straight Kansas highway Robert suddenly found himself speeding down the center line flipping from side to side, sparks spraying up from one footpeg then the other as he held his terrified boots up beside the gas tank, watching helplessly as the oncoming cars veered off to avoid him. He knew he was dead. It was just a matter of moments.

Yet somehow he managed to stop the bike. He waited till his own shaking had subsided, and rode on. At the time, I envied him. I had no romantic tales of hairs-breadth escapes. I was a cautious rider and knew I would be one of those who rides for thirty years without a scratch. I put the thought behind me as I came over the ridge and the road opened to the plains below, wide turns coasting down into the valley, then tighter loops through the B.C. ranchland into Merritt. I could already taste the coffee in that espresso bar on Main Street.

N ORTH OF KAMLOOPS the sky cleared and the road opened up. It was afternoon now, and all those motor homes had scurried off to get an early campsite. The towns rolled byLittle Fort, Clearwater, and on toward Avola. The sun warmed the pavement, and the road wound through narrow valleys no crosswind could reach. A perfect afternoon.

I hummed inside the helmet, sounding even to myself like an off-key kazoo, but happy. I could heel over into corners marked 60 kilometers an hour going over 100 and Matilda loved it. Where cars have to follow the line, bikes can use the whole width of the lane, shaping the road to their own design. Sometimes I would near the 130 mark and feel the dreaded wobble, but I would back off and it never became serious.

A good road has rhythm, and riding Highway 5 through British Columbia was like skiing a giant-slalom course; the bike dropped easily into one bend after another. The sun warmed the tarmac, and the trees gave off the hot pine smell that reminded me of the pion in the high passes of New Mexico. A clear summer day on a winding road in the mountains: this was one of those rides motorcyclists live for.

I was traveling a little faster than the tourists, but traffic was light and I passed them easily. Then I came up behind a big semi trailer. His tail lights were at my eye level and bits of grit kept flicking off his mud flaps. I wanted some open road in front of me instead of this wall of aluminum. A quick check and I pulled out. I felt a spasm of uneaseI had not realized this was a double trailer. I would need a lot of road to get by.

The buzz in the footpegs told me I was over 120. The shoulder-high wheels beside me were making me a little tense. The vibration switched to the handlebars, letting me know we were up to 125, and then I felt the first tremor in the frame. Nearing 130. I kept accelerating gently. I was only halfway up the truck. Still no one coming in my lane, but I had a long way to go.

The tremor grew to a wobble. Nothing serious, but I knew I couldnt go any faster. I glanced at the speedo: 130 exactly. I eased off just a bit and held steady. Then, as I neared the wheels of the front trailer, I could see a van rounding the bend toward me. What could I dogo on or drop back? I couldnt brake hard now in this wobble. The front of the truck was close. Better to keep going. Hope the van would slow up

I cant seem to get this next moment clear. I try to force the memory, to run back the mental videotapes frame by frame, but its as if my mind keeps slipping off to one side or the other as I get nearer the crash: like when you bring two magnets of the same polarity together and they dart this way and that, refusing to touch. I can feel it there, on the tip of memory, just out of reach.

I was beside the drivers door of the semi now, almost home but wobbling hard. And then the blast from the trucks front wheels caught my windshield. The wobble turned to a violent judder. The bars began to thrash from side to side. I had no fear, only the quick thought, Maybe this is going down. I never felt the fall. My helmet clunked once on the asphalt, and I was out.

H SING, WHO SAW IT ALL from inside the car, told me what happened. It was awful, she said. I could see you wiggling, and then flopping this way and that like something was shaking you, and all of a sudden it smashed you over. Strange. I only remember the road rising slowly to meet me, and then a giant hand suddenly slapping me on the back.