Linda Crill - Blind Curves: A Woman, a Motorcycle, and a Journey to Reinvent Herself

Copyright 2014 by Linda Crill

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

Cover design by Brian Peterson

Print ISBN: 978-1-62914-570-9

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-62914-877-9

Printed in the United States of America

To Bill,

Who taught me to cherish the
magic of words, love, and life

Contents

Halston to Harley

A fter two difficult years I was tired of sympathetic voices, puppy-dog looks, and an environment filled with reminders to walk gently and pamper myself. Instead, I craved thundering noise, the thrill of speed. I wanted icy air whipping against my face, making me know I was alive. I wanted crescendo, vibrato, to drown my screams and tears behind the roar of a large powerful engine.

Opening the heavy glass door and stepping into the Harley dealership, I entered an unexplored worldhundreds of shiny motorcycles laden with chrome and leather, covered with colorful graphics and logos. I felt my courage falter. My light-hearted fantasy evaporated as the realities of my impulsive decision started to settle in.

Until a month ago I had never dreamed of riding a motorcycle. I didnt have a husband, family, or even friends who rode. At fifty-seven I was at the age when many of my friends were scaling down their physical activities as they edged toward retirement. There are many acceptable activities for a widow, but learning to ride a motorcycle wasnt on anyones listeven at the very bottom, if such a list exists.

Motorcycles are designed to appear fast, flashy, and intimidatingand it was working. My normally rapid gait slowed and then faltered as I surveyed row after row of gleaming bodies clustered around the showroom floor. Viewed from inside my Dodge Caravan, motorcycles had always seemed more like overgrown bicycles or toys. Now, up close, they looked huge, expensive, and complicated. The one elevated in the center of the floorpainted neon yellow with orange flames flaring from front to backwas loaded with a multitude of switches, indicators, dials, gears, buttons, lights, pedals, knobs, and levers.

My stomach muscles tightened as a panicked voice inside cried: How am I supposed to learn to ride this in just three days?

Wanting to divert my attention away from this emotional outburst, I glanced at my watch reminding myself class starts in three minutes, and I dont want to be late .

I had barely convinced myself to continue walking forward when I passed the clothing section stacked with helmets, boots, shirts, gloves, and racks of black leather. Nothing here looked like the Fonzs simple leather jacket from the 1960s TV show. Nothing here remotely resembled anything I had hanging in my closets.

I stared at a black T-shirt with a metallic skull laughing down at me. Another displayed the profile of a busty woman that would have made a Barbie doll blush.

What was I thinking? I could never wear a shirt mocking death and certainly I wasnt ready to be a sex object. And what about all of my 1960s feminist protesting? Am I supposed to violate all of my values for this?

My attempts to slow down my racing heart were futile as I processed the sounds of engines revving, tools clanking, and hollering coming from the service shop in the back. All mixed with frenetic hard-rock music blaring from the speakers overhead. My heart pounded even louder wanting to be heard.

In two minutes, my rebellious plana delicious fantasy that I could use to shock othersshattered. Now I was the person being shocked.

This motorcycle journey had been birthed a month ago during a routine Sunday evening phone call with my sister and brother-in-law. These weekly calls with Anita and Bruce were our way of staying in touch and their making sure I was moving forward with life. When we were ready to say goodbye, Bruce started into the ritual routine advice I had heard thousands of times. I called it The Survivors Trilogy because, although there were different versions, the same three directives ended our conversationseat well, exercise, get plenty of sleep. Up to this point I had always listened politely, but tonight I was too frustrated to remain silent any longer. I cut Bruce off.

Ive tried all of that. Im eating, exercising, and sleeping better than anyone I know. Ive over-achieved at following these recommendations. I keep waiting to feel better. Its not working... Im... Im miserable!

I was surprised to hear myself say these words out loud because, up to this point, I had not even admitted them to myself. This standard, often-repeated advice for surviving a major loss wasnt working.

Now that I had started to express myself, months of pent-up frustration emboldened me as I defiantly searched for the most contrary behaviors to these directives that I could think of.

My new plan is to go out and buy a jumbo-sized bag of lard-fried potato chips and eat them all in one sitting, and um... I paused, struggling for something even more absurd and rebellious. Finally, I blurted out,... and learn to ride a motorcycle!

Down a corridor off the showroom I found the classroom and surveyed its cramped interior. Sitting on folding chairs around two collapsible banquet tables were my fellow classmates, eleven in all. I had secured the last slot two days ago when I registered for their Riders Edge programa three-day motorcycling learn-to-ride course.

Two men stood at the front of the room. The one who was more than six feet tall with a ponytail, tattoos, and bulging muscles leaned against a chair as he talked to several seated classmates. Im retired from active duty now, but Ive served in three wars. I used to train tank units for combat.

I flinched. This guy is used to ordering soldiers around. What will he be like when I make mistakes?

He looked up and spotted me still standing in the hallway. I had no choice. I took a deep breath, headed into the room, and slipped into the last empty seat.

Most of my classmates were dressed in well-worn blue jeans, scuffed boots, and over-sized, faded T-shirts with Harley logos splashed across them. I thought I had dressed down for the class but I must have looked big-city chic in my designer jeans, fitted T-shirt, and brand new running shoes. I made a note to revisit the clothing shop at lunch to buy at least one Harley T-shirt and heavy boots so I would fit in better tomorrow.