on Wednesday.
I have been so spoiled by riding in the high desert of southern California and the Baja Peninsula. Oh well.
Tag Archives: roaming
Waiting…
For the rain to end.
I have time.
And now, back to regularly scheduled programming…
My feet have been itchy for months now as I’ve watched the summer riding season north of 49 hurry past me like closing time at one of my favorite bars in a past life. Now the rush is on to pick up something, anything, before the lights dim for one last time and I am swept out into the street like dirt.
Hell, I haven’t even gone for a ride yet, busy as I have been with other events in my life. Now that’s done, and I’m ready for a little adventure, a little dirt of my very own, that special odor that adheres to me from the road dust and grime that accumulates after hundreds of miles.
Asphalt perfume, I call it.
Wind. Sun. Pavement. Dust. Dirt. Gas. Oil.
It has its own special smell, hard to describe if someone asks.
All I know is, you can’t get it in a car or a truck with the windows open; you can’t get it in a convertible with the top down; and, desperate now, you can’t get it by rolling around on the ground on your favorite stretch of highway.
You’ve got to get out there and ride it.
Lights and siren behind you?
It’s winter up here, and although we’ve been in the midst of chinook weather for weeks now, it’s still not rideable, and won’t be for the foreseeable future. Thus I am inclined to be riding the web in search of diversions. I came across this article in Car and Driver:
What to do during a traffic stop:
- Pull to the right at the first safe opportunity, then turn off your engine.
- Stay in your car with your seat belt fastened. Roll down your window. Turn off the radio. Don’t even think about touching your cell phone.
- Place your hands on top of the steering wheel and sit quietly. Ask passengers to remain silent.
- Retrieve license, registration, and proof of insurance only when asked to do so.
- Answer questions succinctly. Avoid arguing, cursing, or interrupting when the officer speaks to you.
That all sounds about right to me.
Dumbing down
I must admit that I’ve been pulled over numerous times, but I’ve (almost) never received a ticket*.
Lucky? Perhaps. But smart too. (I hope.)
I keep my hands in plain view. I talk nice. I act nice.
When the officer asks for my license, I tell him where I’m going to put my hands to retrieve it.
If my wallet is in my saddle bag, I tell him, thus giving him an opportunity to place himself where he can see what I’m doing.
If I’ve been in the saddle for the better part of the day when the stop occurs, I try to treat it as a break from riding, and after the business is done, I attempt to engage the officer in conversation removed from his job. I call that de-stressing — for both of us. I’ll ask him about a decent place to eat or an inexpensive place to stay down the road. Usually he’ll take the time to engage in the banter, sometimes not.
By then, of course, it doesn’t matter.
I can get back on the road with no ticket.
—————–
*Except for that one time north of Valentine, Nebraska back in ’72 while on my way to Vegas. I talked myself into that one. Story to follow.
Fresh paint
Somewhere on the road
Something rotten
Today’s ride took me south to Del Bonita and the Whiskey Gap region. To the north, it’s gently rolling plains, but the plateau finally arrives and it flattens out substantially. Here wheat is the main crop, but there are plenty of oil wells in the area too and the rotten egg smell permeates.
The Whiskey Gap was an old trade route with America, primarily used to provide alcohol to the natives in exchange for goods. During Prohibition, the Gap provided a route for Canadians to ship illegal alcohol into the United States.