Year of the Goose, Part 3: The Graceless Art of Crashing in the Rain

The yellow paint of the old, 1920s-era bascule bridge popped against the stormy skies of the Sacramento River Delta. As I turned left onto the two-lane span, a woman preparing to make a right onto the levee highway saw me, spooked herself, and momentarily stood on her brakes. She was in no danger of hitting me, but her abruptness paired with my own heightened anxiety caused me to look over—just as I was crossing the wet oncoming lane's oil slick. My hands followed my gaze, and the quick jerk on the bars was enough to break my front tire's tenuous hold on the road. The Guzzi came down on its left side and slid away from me. I hit the tarmac on my left arm, taking a Gordie Howe–grade elbow to the ribs in the process.

"Oh my Gawwwwwd! Are you o-KAY?" If I disliked her for jarring me, I disliked her even more for the way her grating reaction to my fall cut through the quiet, moisture-thick air.

What was shaping up to be a fiasco had started out as a meditation on simplicity. A motorcycle. The Sonoma Coast campground where I'd spent a chunk of my youth. A trailer stashed where there were no utility hookups. Nature and physics cared not one whit about my story pitch.

I picked up the bike and pushed it out of the road, looked at her for a second and waved her off with a "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." I just wanted her gone, wanted to survey the damage and nurse my embarrassment in peace. The ignition button had popped loose. I snapped it back into place. The left-hand mirror had twisted itself free, and I'd neglected to bring a wrench. Everything else seemed shipshape. Only 40 miles into the trip, I considered turning around and heading home.

The fundamental question was, is the pleasure worth it? Do I give up right here, meaning that Airstream had their single-axle Sport model towed all the way out to Bodega Bay for nobody to sleep in? Do I just give the bike back to Piaggio? Or do I carry on? I could buy a wrench at the hardware store in Rio Vista and clamp the mirror back down. The bike started right up; the longitudinal V-twin's cylinder head hadn't touched the ground due to the crash bars I'd installed. The left-hand pipe was mildly scratched. I stuffed the mirror in my backpack, turned the bike around and headed for Highway 12.

Littered with blind crests as it crosses the Montezuma Hills at the edge of Suisun Bay, this particular stretch of 12 was historically known as Blood Alley. After enough head-on accidents, Caltrans finally installed flexible reflective poles down the centerline of the road. I didn't have to worry about oncoming drivers, I just had keep the bike pointed straight. Rain was streaming off the tank and under the front of my bulky Dainese Teren jacket, which was otherwise admirably waterproof. I'd been taking my gloves off and on; I couldn't ever put them onto completely dry hands because every part of my exterior—helmet to boots—was dripping wet.

With the temperature hovering at 50 degrees and me running at 55–60 mph, hypothermia was becoming a legitimate worry. My ribs were killing me. My hands were freezing in my Gore-Tex gloves. Mesmerized by the moving pattern of wet reflectors topping the Jersey barrier alongside me, I found the bike suddenly drifting dangerously close to the concrete divider. I forced myself to look down the road, knowing that if I could make it to Suisun City, where 12 crosses I-80, I could make it to Bodega Bay. Suisun was an arbitrary marker, but it at least had a Starbucks where I could change my wet shirt and get some warmth into my body.

With the temperature hovering at 50 degrees and me running at 55–60 mph, hypothermia was becoming a legitimate worry.

Napa County passed without incident. Night fell with intermittent precipitation as I hit Sebastopol, west of Santa Rosa. Intent on managing the elements, I'd lost all sense of location. The familiar green sign denoting that I'd hit Highway 1 appeared as a surprise. Wet eucalyptus and salty air suddenly filled my lungs. I puttered north on the empty highway at 45 mph, the Guzzi doing its little burble-purr thing, having seemingly forgiven me for the day's earlier unceremonious jolt.

The mist spat like a herd of camels as I rode out of Bodega Bay and toward the campground. Finally, my headlight shone on the silver capsule where I'd bed down for the next couple of nights. My phone had no reception. I turned on the gas heat, took the opportunity to do a bit of writing sans internet, and slept the deep sleep of the survivor.

The next morning, I grabbed an omelette at the Tides, where my father and I used to fish for perch off the dock. I remember a little kid watching us. Whenever we'd reel one in, he'd call out to his own father, "A fersh, daddy! A fersh!" "Fersh" has been part of my own internal lexicon ever since. But my father is 83 now. He doesn't drive anymore. He forgets a lot. He doesn't remember "fersh." I'm not looking forward to the day he forgets me.

When I embarked on this project, anti-motorcycle friends—genuinely and rightly concerned for my own well-being—might have assumed that I had some sort of death wish, which couldn't be further from reality. Facing parental mortality means facing one's own. And aging seems to speed time with a terrifying quickness. I am doing the things I have the wherewithal to do because life suddenly seems remarkably short.

While my mother will grit her teeth and bear the fact that her only child is out there playing in traffic on two wheels, suggesting that maybe we don't talk about motorcycles, I can share all of this with my father. And I can share it with him two hours later. And two more hours after that. And he will listen. He will take my point. And it will be fresh again if I tell him the whole thing again in another two hours. The man devoted his life to the pursuit of knowledge, and at the end, it's all being stripped away. There's no sense getting bent about it; it's just the course of things. I still sometimes get bent about it.

They say to spend your money on experiences in lieu of the accumulation of the physical. But sometimes, even the most vibrant adventures fade. We have no guarantees, so why not ride north to Goat Rock? Why not turn around and bomb south to Point Reyes for coffee? Why not ride over Mount Tamalpais and then back up to Petaluma, scene of some wonderful punk rock shows; locale of so many killer fin de siecle parties? Why not experience these well-worn places anew, astride a clacking, roaring, whining thing built by some guys on the shore of a pretty lake in Italy?

Despite the fact that I grew up with trailers, I wasn't a very good trailer tester. I didn't bother trying to cook in it, so I can't tell you about the quality of the range. I'm unable inform you what it's like in tow. But I slept as well in it the second night as I had the first. In the morning, I lit out for Valley Ford and broke my fast at a little joint I discovered on a Subaru launch. The rains and high tide had conspired to close 1, sending me back the way I came.

As I struggled over the tight, technical Oakville Grade between the Sonoma and Napa valleys, a trio of guys on big BMW adventure bikes tore past me heading the other way. I marveled at their confidence from my vulnerable little perch. The mountain road's drizzle-moist switchbacks tested my belief, but the bias-ply Pirellis never lost grip.

The sun finally emerged as I skirted the shore of Lake Berryessa, nestled in the mountains that split the Napa and Central valleys. Grateful for dry pavement, I gave the Goose everything I had to stay ahead of a pack of guys on Batwing-faired Harley FLs. I was a novice. A neophyte. But I knew enough to know that I was the problem, that the Guzzi had plenty more speed in it than I was capable of wringing out. The Harley guys weren't even trying. I pulled off and let the pack of Road Kings pass once I hit Winters, a 40-mile straight shot from home.

I painted over the scrapes on the crash bars and replaced the parts that needed replacing. My little moment of tension, distraction, and fright had cost me close to a thousand bucks. It took two months for my ribs to fully return to normal.

The incident also cost me a good month's worth of riderly confidence. But I did not give up. I don't take any particular pride in that, and it doesn't feel like the result of sheer bullheadedness. It's a quieter and more malleable form of resolve, an oddly unerring sense—no matter how shaken it gets at times—that there is value in doing this. That despite the peril, motorcycling is good for me. And for now, knowing that is reason enough to carry on with it.

What I learned: Tension and uncertainty are the bane of the motorcyclist. But if you are confident that confidence will come, confidence will come.

Don't do what I did: Avoid holding the bars in a death grip. The most valuable piece of advice I've heard related to this is to hold onto the grips as if they were baby birds.

Previously: Educational Anxiety and Rattlesnake Bar

Up Next: Conquering anxiety via flat-track therapy!

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