During the following week, I had a couple of opportunities to practice and by the weekend I was ready to try a dry run on the route I had chosen to commute to work. I could wind through several lakeside neighborhoods and past farms and fields in the twenty mile trip to work. There were a couple of spots with a 55 mph speed limit and those were my biggest trouble spots. I made it up to 45 on those dry runs. I was a little scared when I was passed in one segment, then hugely embarrassed when the vehicle didn’t complete the pass, just kept up with me in the left lane. I looked over at the passenger to see what was up and when I noted the direction of his gaze toward my bosom, was horrified to see that without a bra I might as well have been wearing a wet T shirt. I made a mental note to wear more than that forever after.
The route was beautiful and curvy with great scenery I’d missed out on commuting by freeway. All I saw though was asphalt. I don’t think I moved my head from straight forward. I know every bump and rut in that asphalt, but don’t ask me what’s on either side. I think it’s a myth that motorcyclists have a better view, all I ever saw was the road as I concentrated on avoiding what ever was out to kill me next.
Monday morning I was on the bike an hour before the office opened. The air was liquid summer, shimmering, golden and heart stopping with possibility. I pushed the bike to the end of the driveway and started up. Concentrating hard, I wobbled down the driveway apron and into the street. I made it down the street to the stop sign and as I put my left foot down to balance the bike to stop, my pantleg caught the foot peg and stopped my foot about an inch shy of road. I kicked free and kept the bike upright. After that I tied my pantlegs with shoelaces. By the time I made it to work, my hands were cramped from hanging on for dear life, and my legs were exhausted from clamping my thighs to the gas tank.
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