Reflections......
I've discovered that motorcycling men are of the same breed; each has a
spirit of adventure and the compulsion to conquer, and there is a
special comraudery between them. Their women companions, on the other
hand, don't fit into a like mold, each is uniquely different. I've been
fascinated by the WOMEN OF THE ROAD I've met on this journey...
We were waiting our turn at a road construction delay when a Gold
Wing trike pulled up next to us, and a little lady jumped off, removed
her helmet, revealing a mane of shocking red hair, and asked the flag
person if she could use the construction outhouse! When she returned we
began talking. Lottie was stylishly dressed in black riding gear and her
bright yellow trike had a bee painted on the rear fender and scrolled
beneath it was "the bumble bee." She explained that long ago she told
her husband she was tired of looking at the back of his helmet and
wanted her own motorcycle, so for the last seven years they've toured
together, he on two wheel, she on three, and they camp at four star
hotels along the way. This gutsy lady was 73, and a joyful Woman of the
Road.
The two of them pulled into the campground behind the motel we'd
just checked into. When she took her helmet off, with a shake of her
head she unleashed a bounty of short curls that fell into place. It was
amazing; those thick locks had spent the day compressed under a helmet
and you'd never know it. Two days later we boarded the same ferry and
she recognized me and we exchanged tour tales, but all the while I was
envying her brown hair gently laced with gray. Nancy and her husband
had traveled from Oklahoma on dual sport bikes (motorcycles made for
street and dirt use) to Alaska, without even the protection of a
windshield! Her travel necessities were divided between a canvas bag
strapped to the back of her bike and a backpack she wore. They stayed at
hostiles or camped along the way. Extreme weather conditions had
hampered their adventure, but not her spirit. Nancy had stepped into her
man's world and was a happy Woman of the Road.
We first encountered Sharon and her husband on the road to the
Salmon Glacier. Next we ran across them in a gas station, then we found
them at the same hotel we'd booked in Hanes and we spent the evening
together. They've motorcycled together for 30 years and he told some
fascinating stories of past adventures and of their current jaunt from
New Hampshire to Alaska. Sharon seemed shy, reserved, and rarely
uttered a word. Her demeanor changed when her husband detailed his plan
for their next venture, motorcycling through Mexico to South America.
Suddenly Sharon found her voice. "You won't be doing that with me," she
boldly proclaimed, "I'm hanging up my helmet." Then she looked at me
and said, "You don't look the type to be doing this!" I'd just
experienced three great days and thought I was adapting well. Little did
I know that the following two days would be cold, wet, foggy---and full
of potholes. Sharon is a profoundly intuitive Woman of the Road.
We'd passed the duo on the red trike days earlier, but on this day
we found them stopped in a scenic turnout. They were rather conspicuous
looking, towing a homemade 13 foot trailer carrying a boat and all their
camping gear, and on the rear was a large ice chest from where the
robust woman was preparing breakfast for her road warrior; peanut butter
and jelly sandwiches and hard boiled eggs. It was a cold, wet morning
and although they were clad in rain suits, she had old, well-worn tennis
shoes on. My feet were cold with two pairs of socks and my water proof
motorcycle boots--surely she had a pair of boots somewhere in all that
loot. She continued peeling eggs and he'd plop another in his mouth.
Chuck was surveying the load and asked, "Do you have brakes on the
trailer?" "Nope, don't need 'em," he replied. "Harley blood runs through
my veins, but this here Gold Wing serves us well. It has good breaks."
They'd been on the road for a month and didn't need to be home, in
Wisconsin, until the end of August. I couldn't even imagine living like
that for three months! We bid them farewell. Awaiting, just a few miles
down the road were the steepest downgrades we'd encountered yet. I
feared this long-suffering Woman of the Road would soon be having the
surprise roller coaster ride of her life, ending in the runaway truck
ramp, where, once she recovered, she'd dutifully prepare lunch for her
biker man.
Having been on motorcycling vacations with Scott and Shawn for many
years, I see Shawn as the model Woman of the Road. She packs everything
she needs and knows exactly where to find it. The only glitch in their
trip has been the momentary misplacement of a rain cover for one of
their canvas bags. (We didn't misplace ours, we left it at home!) Shawn
is also the perfect passenger--quiet, trusting Scott's judgement in
wind, rain, hail, snow, heat, speed, and passing monstrous vehicles; so
trusting, that while I'm fearing we're in peril, she's counting the bald
eagles soaring overhead! Twenty minutes after arriving at a destination
Shawn metamorphoses from the black clad caterpillar into the beautiful
butterfly with her hair done, make-up refreshed and wearing feminine
attire. Without the disguise of riding gear, one would never guess that
Shawn is a perfectly content Woman of the Road.
She captured my attention when she rode into the belly of the ferry
as a passenger on a motorcycle. The rear seat was piled high with
camping equipment so she was seated on the tank and the attendant guided
them into the space immediately behind motorcycle. She dismounted
gracefully and stood patiently next to the bike while he secured it,
then, together they headed to the stairway leading to the passenger
seating area. "Stop," the attendant yelled. After directing them back to
their motorcycle, he slid a crate across the floor. "She has to ride in
this," he said. She whimpered, he rubbed her neck and then fetched a
soiled, tattered towel from his backpack and with it, coaxed her into
the crate, promising her he'd return in an hour. I never learned her
name but she was the most loyal, faithful Female of the Road I've
observed.
On the back of her helmet were the words "Along for the Ride," but
in her wildest dream she would never have imagined "the ride" to be over
6000 miles. She's a far cry from the other Women of the Road. She's not
full of gusto like Lottie; unlike Nancy, when she removes her helmet,
her hair looks like it's glued to her head; and at this stage in her
life she won't be enduring 30 years of motorcycle travel like Sharon.
Unlike the triking trailer toting twosome, you will never find her out
in the woods playing Holly Homemaker. She has none of the qualities of
Shawn. Try as she may, she can't keep her lips zipped when her man lays
the bike so low around the curves that the foot peg scrape the road. She
cranes her neck to view the speedometer, reminding him that 100
kilometers does not equal 100 miles per hour, and warning him of the
possibility of tangling with a bear or moose around the next bend. He
refers to her as his "Early Warning System." She's not the least bit
happy riding in the rain, it turns her into a cranky pest. She packed
most everything needed for the trip but trying to find it is often a
treasure hunt. She and her man leave dropping behind in places they've
stayed; stuff like shoes, a cell phone charger and a half read book are
now memories. Her curling iron and their ample supply of vitamins have
been missing for long periods, then magically reappeared. In a final
blow to her fractured pride, she's consumed way too much yummy stuff and
the zipper on her riding pants broke and she has to wear borrowed
suspenders to keep them up.....She's a pathetic Woman of the Road, but
she's a survivor.
Scott spent countless hours over the past year planning every
detail of this adventure that, when over, will have taken us through
eight of the lower 48 states, Canada and Alaska by way of the long,
winding roads least traveled that motorcyclists love--many that confuse
the Woman of the Road we cannot see, but is always telling us what to
do. I hear her through the ears of my talkie and know its impossible to
reason with her. When Scott and Chuck refuse to do things her way, she
becomes verbally abusive, assaulting them with ugly words like, "Off
route. Recalculating. Recalculating. Recalculating." She's the most
stubborn, Woman of the Road I've encountered, but I may need her help to
get me home.
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