Adventures in Consciousness on the Back of a Bike

Packing for a weeklong, autumn journey by motorcycle takes a lot more effort than packing a suitcase to toss in the car or on a plane. We meticulously use every spare space on our Kawasaki Vulcan 1600, making good use of our ballistic nylon strap-on trunk into which we painstakingly place our minimal belongings. I’ve got my wardrobe down to a science: three tank tops, three long sleeve layers, a pair of yoga pants, a pair of jeans, and warm socks. Once the containers are filled, we load up the studded side saddle bags with toiletries, sneakers, glasses, wallets, water bottles, and a yoga mat. Then I strap on my leather chaps and step into my Frye boots, as he laces up his steel-tipped ones. We zip ourselves into our armored jackets, tug on our reinforced gloves, pull on our full-face modular helmets outfitted with mic, speakers, and Bluetooth capabilities so we can talk to each other or listen to music on the road, and we’re ready to go. As I stand by, my boyfriend, Mitch, turns on bike and revs it up. My body vibrates from the throaty rumble of the engine, a call of the wild. Only when he turns, looks me in the eye and nods, do I know it is safe for me to step up on the foot peg, swing my leg around, and settle in.

“Ready?” he says into the Bluetooth mic nestled into his helmet.

“Ready.”

And off we go.

I love my responsibilities as co-pilot. Not just manning the GPS, choosing where to stop, making sure our Bluetooth system is working, and selecting music for the ride, but keeping my eyes peeled. I’m not some backseat slacker, I’m a full-on participant. Mitch schooled me well in the art of being a passenger: stay alert when we’re driving and stay still when we stop, minimize shifting when we are cruising less than 30 mph, and notice everything, from highway signs to deer. I love the freedom of the ride, but safety is a priority - so much as turning my head when we are slowing down or stopped can throw our weight off and be dangerous for the two of us astride our 850-pound machine. I am here now: eyes-wide-open alert, and part of the whole experience.

We ride to Pennsylvania to rent another bike for a journey to Niagara Falls. While our cruiser is perfect for tooling around town, going to the beach, driving up to the mountains for an overnight, we want a touring bike for this longer excursion, one that can handle an epic 900-mile trip with ease. We choose to rent a Goldwing.

I once thought that Honda meant Accords and mom vans. But last year we went to Lake George for Americade, a motorcycle rally where we could test ride all different brands of bikes, including the Goldwing. Mitch had been raving about this bike. He espoused her exquisite power and incredible balance, and how easy she is to ride. And he rhapsodized her smooth running, 1800cc flat 6-cylinder boxer engine set low in her frame to give her very concise weight distribution that makes for easy maneuvering. I was soon to discover that in her plush seat, you could ride her for hours. And we did.

On a sunny Sunday morning in October it’s a crisp 45 degrees, but on the back of the motorcycle it feels like half that. We are doing 80mph on Highway 81 from Tully, NY to Ontario, Canada, enroute from Washington Crossing, PA where we picked up the shiny black Goldwing. I am bundled into five layers underneath my gear, thigh high wool socks over my skinny jeans, and a thin cashmere beanie inside my helmet. Cocooned in the deluxe heated backseat complete with armrests, I’m warm and cozy, yet I feel the force of the wind so I’m chilled and exhilarated at the same time. I sink my weight into the cush of the seat and ground my feet into the heavy metal floorboards, as the smooth suspension glides over bumps and I float with the wind.

“Look at the clouds,” Mitch breathes into the Bluetooth.

The ethereal white puffs hang right in front of us and I catch my breath as we drive straight into them. Streaming light illuminates the walls of trees in Crayola shades: Raw Sienna, Sunglow, Burnt Orange, and Scarlet. I feel the color like it’s being painted on my skin and I become as natural as the landscape. It’s astonishing to witness this from the inside of a car, like you are looking at a work of art. But from a bike, you are one with that masterpiece. We float in and out and back again into the cirrus clouds. I’ve never been this close to clouds, although I’ve flown through them in a plane and driven through them in a car. But speeding through these cotton candy tendrils with just a jacket as my shield is very different then piloting through cumulus at 30,000 feet in an aluminum drum or steering through the low-lying vapor of dank, heavy stratus in the confines of an automobile. With my face shield lifted, I inhale the dewy wisps. Leaning back in my seat, the rushing air smooths itself over me. Holding on and letting go seems like a dichotomy everywhere else but here. The road speeds by beneath us as we burst through the clouds towards the international border.