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
10987654321
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
Note to Reader
Prologue
SECTION I
LOOK
Chapter One • Staring into the Eyes of the Beast
Chapter Two • Izzy, My Love
Chapter Three • Death Is Certain, the Hour Is Not
Chapter Four • The Bitch Is Back
Chapter Five • If You’re Happy and You Know It
Chapter Six • Male Approval and Sexual Power
Chapter Seven • Totally Hosed
SECTION II
LEAN
Chapter Eight • Leaving Home
Chapter Nine • Matchy-Matchy
Chapter Ten • Right on Time
Chapter Eleven • On to the Promised Land
Chapter Twelve • The Uglies
Chapter Thirteen • Benediction
Chapter Fourteen • Coming Home
SECTION III
ROLL
Chapter Fifteen • Cardiology
Chapter Sixteen • The Human Race
Chapter Seventeen • Yes
Chapter Eighteen • Evolve or Die
Chapter Nineteen • Eight Days in Paradise
Chapter Twenty • Failing (and Falling) Better
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Bibliography/References
NOTE TO READER
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 don’t 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 direction—even when you’re 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 you’re 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 is—it must be something you cannot possibly do.
—HENRY MOORE
•PROLOGUE•
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. I’ve 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 I’m hungry. The air is hot, even hotter inside the road armor I’m 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 we’d 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. “You’re packing heat?” asked Levi, one of the salesmen at Harley-Davidson of Glendale, more a statement than a question.
No, we aren’t packing heat. We are packing Lärabars, ibuprofen, lip balm, and hair scrunchies. We’re two women eager to see the country on motorcycles, aware that we don’t know jack about what we’re doing and that we might need to depend on others along the way. Still, we’re tentatively confident we can navigate what lies ahead.
Day two seems interminable. How could it not yet be nighttime when we’ve 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, we’ve 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 haven’t 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 doesn’t 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 what’s 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 cro
uched 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 doesn’t sound so bad. A call to the Auto Club and we’ll 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.
The situation begins to take on new clarity. Unlike a car, Rebecca explains, a motorcycle flat is not an easy roadside fix. We obviously aren’t carrying spares, and a tow truck driver will not be carrying one either. Besides, changing a motorcycle tire is like surgery. If repairing a car flat is an outpatient procedure, with a motorcycle, we’re talking organ transplant. There’s no question: Edna’s bike will have to be flatbedded to a town.
That is, if we can get a cell phone signal to call for help.
George carries a Harley road guide and asks Rebecca to look for the nearest dealer that can provide motorcycle service while he continues trying to connect with the Auto Club. Soon, she’s shaking her head. There isn’t a single Harley service department within a hundred-mile radius.
Rebecca, George, Edna, and I sit on the soft, raised shoulder, sharing trail mix. A fence runs parallel to the road, tilting and collapsing in places, breaking down from neglect. It’s obvious no cattle have grazed this plain in ages. The motorcycle pipes and cylinder heads tick as they cool. Shadows from the cotton-white clouds mottle the landscape. Scanning the 360-degree-countryside, it’s all sky and grasslands, everything vast beyond comprehension. Not a car or another soul in sight. I’ve been backpacking to remote peaks in the High Sierra out of reach of cell phone service and any human convenience. But that was by intent. This was not part of the plan.
We consider our options. Rebecca and I can ride until we get a cell phone signal. Or we can all stay together and hope one of our phones will pick up a signal soon. Meanwhile, the inky clouds to the southeast tumble in our direction; a curtain of rain pelts the low hills in the distance. We all carry rain suits but are not anxious to try them out.
As we debate possibilities, a loud crack splits the silence. It sounds more like the compact, ballistic report of a rifle than the rolling clap of thunder.
We look to George. Was that a gun?
“Could be hunting season,” he speculates, eyebrows lifted. “Or maybe there’s a shooting range nearby.”
The sharp cracks come more frequently. Multiple shooters. Whoever they are, they seem to be moving closer.
We all go by certain assumptions that we live in a largely civil, law-abiding society. Still, it’s hard not to flash back on the final scenes of Easy Rider with its denouement of casual, explosive violence against the free-spirited, live-and-let-live cross-country riders. But that was only a movie, right?
Right?
I glance at Rebecca for an assuring look that will confirm I’m overreacting. But her widened eyes and the taut set of her jaw tell me she’s frightened, too.
It comes back to me how casually I dismissed Levi at the dealership and his earnest assumption that we were “packing heat.” Did he understand something about the open road we’ve blithely dismissed?
I again turn to Rebecca. We had agreed we do this trip together. Now what?
The exhaustion has so drained my reserves that I no longer trust my judgment. I am hungry, sore, and running well past empty. Am I crazy to be here in the first place? Sitting on the side of a road in the middle of nowhere, we watch the storm on a direct path toward us, while each volley of gunshots gets closer and louder. How in the world did I get to this place? And why?
SECTION I
LOOK
•CHAPTER 1•
STARING INTO THE EYES OF THE BEAST
In life, it’s rarely about getting a chance, but about taking one.
—ANONYMOUS
For some, it starts with a smile from a gorgeous stranger across a room, eyes hooded and enticing, an attraction that cannot be denied. Think Anna Karenina or Madame Bovary. For others, a website for a mountain-climbing expedition keeps calling you back, baiting, tempting you, a thrum underneath daily life that won’t go away. This is crazy! you think, but continue returning to the web page or the stranger’s eyes, staring, daydreaming.
The desire for excitement is sometimes little more than a whisper. You can’t explain it, but you’ve always wanted to swim with dolphins, or learn to speak Mandarin. Thelma and Louise started out on a simple road trip, a weekend getaway. Maybe you’ll begin to awaken when you finally sign up for that oil painting class. Or take those singing lessons. Or buy those ballet slippers.
Or maybe, you just get so damn tired of being scared by life that you decide to stare down the beast and challenge it.
For me, the beast is a motorcycle.
• • •
“So, there’s an opening for the Rider’s Edge class that starts tomorrow night,” my close friend and running partner Rebecca says one hot Wednesday in August.
I have only mentioned in passing my very slight interest in taking the motorcycle safety class Rebecca’s dealership offers. It’s a complete fluke she even remembers. Rebecca has recently taken over ownership of the Harley dealership her father founded thirty-five years earlier. On our regular runs, we discuss everything: our kids, stubborn issues involving parents or siblings, our troubled marriages, our careers, our dreams and desires. We have bonded by a need to experience life more fully, to step out of our roles as mothers, wives, and women to pursue a future for ourselves unburdened by stereotypes and preconceptions.
During one of our runs, I mention I’m doing research for a novel. Wouldn’t it be fun to write a female character who rides a motorcycle? I can pump Rebecca for information about bikes. But if I also take the class, I’ll be able to describe the experience with more authority.
I have no idea that saying yes to this course will completely upend my life.
The next evening, I find myself in the Harley-Davidson Rider’s Edge class: three nights in the classroom and two full days in the saddle of an actual motorcycle. I figure I’ll learn how to do this one quirky thing, have a funny little anecdote to share at cocktail parties, and have enough information to write my character. For one weekend, I will live a tiny bit on the edge. After that, I can pull back into my safe zone.
In the midst of the second Rider’s Edge class, my cell phone vibrates. I ignore it. The group of eleven students and I are standing around a large sheet of paper taped to the wall with a stick-figure sketch of a motorcycle. We draw slips of paper from a helmet with words like throttle, rear brake, speedometer, and clutch on them, taking turns identifying where those components are located. I correctly identify the turn signal cancel switch and feel a little jolt of excitement—I’m starting to get it—when the phone vibrates again. I pull it from my back pocket to check who’s calling so insistently.
It’s my brother, Brendan. I excuse myself to step into the hallway and take the call.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Dad’s worse,” Brendan says, “and I can’t take this much longer. I was here last night and I’ll be here again tonight, but I’m at the end of my rope. We’ll need someone to stay with him Saturday night and Sunday, too. Can you set up something?”
We’ve all been taking turns visiting and staying with Dad, who’s in home hospice care. He’s ninety, has bile duct cancer, and lives an hour away from any of us. My stepmother, Jean, eighty-two, has been getting no sleep. Since Dad needs to be physically lifted during the night to use the bathroom, the men from the family have been staying over with him, while my sister and I are out there regularly, helping however we can.
I make calls for the next ten minutes, st
anding in the hallway, missing class, arranging for family members to take turns staying the night with Dad.
I return to the class and try to pick up the lesson. I force myself to concentrate, but one question repeats: What the hell am I doing in a class to learn how to ride a motorcycle while my father is dying?
After class, I call my friend Kitty.
“This is insane, isn’t it? I should just drop everything and get out to Dad’s house.”
“You’ve been out there every chance you can,” she says. Maybe you need a distraction.”
“Maybe . . .”
“There’s no knowing how this will unfold,” she continues. “When you get quiet inside, what do you feel you need to do?” “I don’t know. I haven’t felt quiet inside lately.”
“That’s your first job, then. Let everything settle inside and see how you feel.”
• • •
It won’t be until later, when I immerse myself into the brain chemistry of risk taking and examine the changes that happen at midlife—in our brains, in our bodies, in our psyches—that any of this will start to make sense. At first, I will think I’m crazy. Because on the face of it, I have been making some pretty harebrained choices lately, acting as if I’m someone other than whom I know myself to be. Which is, simply put, a chickenshit.
I grew up in a household where chaos could erupt at any minute, turning all my plans head over heels before breakfast time. As an adult, I developed a serious obsession for routine and order. Everything had to be planned out in advance. Before any trip, my suitcase was ready at least a day ahead of time; I packed a house a week before the movers arrived. I had contingency plans for contingency plans. I hated to do things if I don’t know I’d be good at them. I’m totally averse to meeting new people or venturing outside of what is comfortable. Heights, especially, freak me out. I am the woman who, as a young mother, became so terrified of exposed elevations that I crawled on hands and knees backward down the four hundred steps of Moro Rock in Sequoia National Park; I kept imagining my children, who had dashed ahead with their father, plunging down that one-thousand-foot rock face. I avoid any situation where I cannot be in complete control.
Harley and Me Page 1