Azaleas Not the Only Things Blooming
by Kurt Epps—The PubScout 4.5.22
The time has come to confess. I have procrastinated far too long.
I am an addict.
Oh, I’m not addicted to a chemical substance, although those who know me could (rightly) claim that I am somewhat enamored of a chemical called lupulin.
Which can be found in hops.
And in beer.
But I am certainly addicted to a drug, and have been for fifty-five years. I can’t quit on my own. And only old age, infirmity and probably death itself can stop the addiction.
Since the age of nineteen, I have been ineffably drawn to motorcycles. And since I just turned seventy-four, that’s a hell of a long time to be addicted.
And a hell of a long time to have enjoyed everything about the ride, except maybe the rain. If you’re a biker, you’ll understand. If not, no amount of explaining will suffice.
Shoot, I love my addiction so much, I moved to Southeastern NC just so I could enjoy the longer riding season—practically 12 months of the year. That’s not to say that I didn’t love riding in Jersey. I did, despite its generally bad weather from November/December to March, more dangerous, more crowded and horribly deteriorated roads. Weather extremes will do that to road surfaces.
My missus calls it my drug, my therapy, and it is. Though I have the capability of playing the radio or CD player on my bike, I opt for nothing more than the rumble, the rush of the wind and the road. And I’m not a Hell’s Angel. Guys like me are just “Heck’s Angels.” We ain’t that bad.
It’s where I let my mind dictate the playlist. Sometimes it will be a constant repetition of Johnny Cash’s “A Boy Named Sue” which plays in my brain, complete with the guys in the prison cheering. Other times, it’s Jimmy Dean’s “Big Bad John” or “P.T. 109.” Or some music from “Phantom of the Opera.” Having been an entertainer for forty years will do that to you.
Sometimes, it’s even my mind reciting Poe’s “The Raven” and Coleridge’s “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” from memory, which to be candid, skips a stanza or five here and there.
Sometimes it’s John Wycliffe’s Old/Middle English version of the Lord’s Prayer: “The Lord gouerneth me, and no thing schal faile to me; in the place of pasture there he hath set me. He nurschide me on the watir of refreischyng; he conuertide my soule….”
And with the blaze of azaleas at this time of the year, Robert Frost’s famous poem “Nothing Gold Can Stay” frequently comes to mind, because, like the gold leaves of fall, those beautiful, colorful azaleas will soon yield to simple summer green.
Having been an English teacher for thirty-seven years will do that to you.
Also like those azaleas, motorcyclists will be in greater profusion on the roads. And that requires extra care and attention from those in cars.
There’s great sense in the annual appeal to “Look Twice—Save a Life…Watch for Motorcycles” message. With their smaller mass, they can sometimes be hard to see from far away—even with their headlights on in the daytime. And many drivers still don’t think motorcycles move as fast as their cars do, so jumping out into traffic or making a left hand turn in front of a bike can result in tragedy--and not usually for the guy in the car.
Of course, human drivers being what they are, I sometimes address a choice expletive or two to those who make boneheaded moves, or to those who are texting rather than paying attention to the road. But, for the most part, my policy of seeing everyone else on the road as a person who wants to kill me has kept me safe for Lo, these many years.
But to be honest, motorcycle riding in and of itself is not inherently dangerous, despite the general perception. It is, however quite unforgiving of recklessness, carelessness or inattention. You must constantly look around and ahead, anticipate what might happen (even the unexpected) and keep one thought in mind: My goal is to get where I’m going and back home safely.
And though I sometimes will take a break after 100 miles or so to “dehydrate” and “rehydrate,”(if you catch my drift) it’s never more than one beer while on two wheels.
The scenery can, at times, be distracting, especially down here in southeastern NC.
The beauty of the wisteria in one season and now, the azaleas in bloom will attract the eye, but the savvy rider knows just how long to gaze at Nature’s beauty while riding through it. The smart biker will stop at Dale’s Seafood in Lake Waccamaw to take in that gorgeous body of water, and not just try to enjoy it by catching glimpses through the trees at 35 mph.
(And Dale’s also has a nice restroom. If you’ve been riding for fifty-five years, that knowledge is critical.)
The smart biker stops and takes in any view that’s exceptionally majestic.
Perhaps that’s why bikers, more than many folks, understand the phrase, “It’s not the destination; it’s the journey.” And why my addiction is one I will not give up until God says I have to.
