Bernadette Murphy - Harley and Me: Embracing Risk On the Road to a More Authentic Life

Copyright 2016 Bernadette Murphy

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Murphy, Bernadette M. (Bernadette Mary), 1963-

Title: Harley and me: embracing risk on the road to a more authentic life / Bernadette Murphy.

Description: Berkeley, CA: Counterpoint Press, 2016. | Includes bibliographical references.

Identifiers: LCCN 2015046428

Subjects: LCSH: Murphy, Bernadette M. (Bernadette Mary), 1963---Travel--United States. | Middle-aged women--Travel--United States. | Women motorcyclists--United States--Biography. | Middle-aged women--United States--Biography. | Motorcycling--United States--Psychological aspects. | Middle-aged women--Psychology. | Risk-taking (Psychology) | Self-actualization (Psychology) | Authenticity (Philosophy) | United States--Description and travel. | BISAC: BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Personal Memoirs.

Classification: LCC CT275.M778 A3 2016 | DDC 305.244/2--dc23

LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015046428ISBN

Cover design by Gerilyn Attebery

Interior design by Neuwirth & Associates

Counterpoint

2560 Ninth Street, Suite 318

Berkeley, CA 94710

www.counterpointpress.com

Distributed by Publishers Group West

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

e-book ISBN 978-1-61902-799-2

For Jarrod, Neil, and Hope.

Though parents are supposed to raise their children, in this case, you three have raised me.

And for Emily Shokouh, my sister in crime.

CONTENTS

The phrase look, lean, roll originates in a motorcycle safety class. When making a turn on a motorcycle, the whole process goes against every natural instinct. You dont turn the handlebars in the direction you want to go; rather you first look in the direction you wish to move, then lean your body mightily in that directioneven when youre sure that such a lean will cause you to fall over. Finally, you roll the throttle to give the bike more gas to recover from the turn. In the midst of the most difficult parts, it feels as if something is horribly wrong, yet leaning hard into the turn is the only way to go. If you try to be conservative and commit only halfway, you will fail to complete the turn. The riskier the turn feels, and the more youre certain you cannot possibly make it, the more you have to fully tilt into it.

Then turn on the gas.

The secret of life is to have a task, something you devote your entire life to, something you bring everything to, every minute of the day for your whole life. And the most important thing isit must be something you cannot possibly do.

HENRY MOORE

Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.

T. S. ELIOT

The day is finally starting to soften with the onset of evening as a storm assembles to the southeast. The sun has been scorching my retinas all day and is just now starting to dim. Ive been riding my motorcycle more than eight hours today, winding first through the stunning canyons of Utah, veering into Idaho for a bit, and now entering the spectacular open range of western Wyoming. My forearms are leaden; my shoulders sag. I vaguely remember the tasteless lunch I ate hours ago, but now Im hungry. The air is hot, even hotter inside the road armor Im wearing. I am saddlesore and this is only day two.

Rebecca and I are trekking by motorcycle from Los Angeles to Milwaukee and back, a sixteen-day, five-thousand-mile adventure, the first extended road trip for either of us. We originally met in the mommy realm, room parents together at the small, parochial grade school our kids attended. Now, our children are mostly grown and both of us have only recently left long-term marriages. Having fled the cocoon of the suburban world wed long inhabited, we find ourselves at midlife, crossing the country on motorcycles, unsure of the road ahead but determined to move forward anyhow.

Before we left, we faced questions to our sanity and the opposition of loved ones. Youre packing heat? asked Levi, one of the salesmen at Harley-Davidson of Glendale, more a statement than a question.

No, we arent packing heat. We are packing Lrabars, ibuprofen, lip balm, and hair scrunchies. Were two women eager to see the country on motorcycles, aware that we dont know jack about what were doing and that we might need to depend on others along the way. Still, were tentatively confident we can navigate what lies ahead.

Day two seems interminable. How could it not yet be nighttime when weve been going and going for so long that we are well past all reserves of endurance we thought we possessed? For this early leg of the journey, weve joined up with a couple we know from home. Edna and George, both seasoned cross-country riders, take the lead. Their presence emboldened us to leave the main highway earlier today east of Salt Lake and take a more scenic but lightly traveled route to Jackson Hole. We filled our gas tanks thirty minutes ago in a tiny town, a cluster of thickset, adobe buildings that seemed to be holdovers from the late 1800s. Since then, we havent encountered a soul.

We are still an hour and a half out of Jackson. My body gives off a pungent tang of sweat and my hands have lost feeling from grasping the clutch and brake levers all day. I dream of pulling off my stiff road pants, stripping the layers of salt-glazed shirts and underthings, then treating myself to the soothing comfort of a bath. That will be followed by a meal, a real sit-down meal not ordered from a takeout window. We will rest our tired bodies while crunching chips with salsa and waiting for our tamales to be served. Or spoon up spicy Thai goodness. Or chow down on veggie burgers and sweet potato fries. The type of food doesnt matter, only its promise.

The monotony of the road has become so hypnotic it takes me a moment to realize that Edna has pulled off to the shoulder. Rebecca slows behind her. George and I turn our bikes and head back to see whats up. A fringe of prairie June grass forms wispy boundaries on either shoulder of the empty highway. Crows call out and the wind sighs. The magnificent nowhere of Wyoming takes away my breath.

Getting off the motorcycle, little explosions of pain detonate in my hips and back. My joints feel fused by so many hours crouched on the frame of the bike. Twisting the full-faced helmet from my sweat-drenched head is an amazing relief, as is the abrupt lack of vibration and the now-silenced roar of the pipes. Riding all day and then stopping is like stepping off a boat and being instantly aware that the swell of the waves has ceased. I locate my supply of trail mix from the pack strapped to my sissy bar before I go over to investigate.

Rebecca edges next to me. Edna has a flat, she says. The front tire.

That doesnt sound so bad. A call to the Auto Club and well be on our way again. But George is already dialing his cell phone and unable to get service. Rebecca tries hers but the screen shows zero bars.