Say, “hello,” to my ride for the next few days. She’s a sister to my FZ07 back home.
This MT is a nice girl. She hasn’t had someone give her all the bells and whistles. That’s okay, nice girls are still fun.
My FZ feels and sounds like a brat in comparison.
This bone stock bike immediately showed its cards as being “easy.” Everything about it feels effortlessly soft. And it is so quiet, with my earplugs in I can barely hear that it’s running.
The Akrapovic can on my bike at home is so loud and sounds so yum-yum. I’ll admit I miss that familiar racket.
Riding along in the sunshine yesterday, this quiet, unassuming little lady felt zippy, small and fun. It’s such a great platform for an everyday rider.
Throwing my Kreiga 30 on the rear seat I can carry enough stuff to bum around for a pretty long while.
All in all, having this bike is a nice dose of familiarity. Plus, it’s at the bottom of the rental cost tier: $49 a day. A great deal.
Look at me, makin’ good choices!
It’s January 29, 2020. I’ve swiped this post from Instagram, where I originally made it. For this trip I’m on, I’ve only got my phone with me so my posts might be lacking some polish!
After two years of being drugged into an unrecognizable version of myself on antidepressant, anti-anxiety and sleep medications, I’ve been med-free for a little over a month now. The truth is, I couldn’t stand being a ghost anymore.
In the beginning, I wouldn’t have survived without the drugs. But, much to my disappointment, they aren’t magic.
Right now, it feels like I don’t know myself anymore. I went from being hypersensitive to a numbed out shell. So I am, trying to relearn how to feel things while not being completely devastated by those feelings.
Unwisely, I skipped a dosage step-down and just went cold turkey. As a result, I had vertigo for a couple weeks which was miserable. I felt like I had the flu and on top of that, feeling things was… different.
There were moments when the withdrawal symptoms were really discouraging. The vertigo in particular was maddening. And there was also a feeling like a concussive noise like wind buffeting inside my head for a split second. This happened especially when I was tired. I hated being on the drugs, and I hated coming off the drugs.
I find it disturbing how much those pills fucked with my brain. And in hindsight, I can’t tell if they made certain behaviors worse or not. They really messed with my sleep, that I am certain of. I’ve been tired for two years. It makes me sad when I see photos of myself now, because I look it.
Since stopping the meds, I’ve been able to sleep without drugging myself for the first time in two years. If you’ve ever been on the hamster wheel of insomnia/sleep drugs, you know what a sweet relief this is.
Right now, in short – EVERYTHING HURTS. Every word, every look, every text, everything unsaid. I feel very “fuck everything, what’s the point?”
But,.. the little voice that keeps my feet moving forward is still in there somewhere prodding me along. So here I am. It hurts, but it isn’t unbearable. I’ve made it through worse.
One step forward…
It’s January 28, 2020. I’m writing this post on my phone while on a road trip in California. I’ve decided to forgo bringing my MacBook along on the last few rambles. It works out much better convenience-wise. But you also don’t get a great view of what you’re writing.
You’ll have to allow me a little leeway on polish and formatting, okay? Okay.
Things I could use:
(In no particular order)
+ A lint roller
+ Jack Daniels
+ A hug
After a bit of a rocky start this morning, I finally got underway on a road trip.
It isn’t uncommon for me to kind of burn the first day getting my sea legs.
I left home with ZERO plan. I reserved the bike yesterday right before I flew out and put no thought into what to do with my time.
So, I just sorta winged it today and landed in Palm Springs for the night. Not sure what tomorrow will bring. Hopefully more sunshine and nice, warm weather.
The gorgeous crochet-covered tree is on the grounds of the Long Island Museum in Stony Brook. It joins several other yarn-bombed trees on the campus.
While I encourage supporting the museum, it is visible without entering.
Between the pattern, the coverage, and the vibrancy of the colors, this tree is a real showstopper!
“We’re very excited to announce that artist Carol Hummel, designer of the crocheted trees is returning to the museum this year to freshen up some of the existing trees and create a whole new design for an additional tree!”
Looking back through the darkest moments of adulthood – moments of loss, hopelessness, fear, loneliness… the motorcycle, in one way or another was there to help me find my way to the light.
And, in the cases where it wasn’t the motorcycle that helped me directly, it was the people I’ve met as a result of riding motorcycles.
My Motorcycle, My Healing Machine
In 2013, my dad shuffled off his mortal coil and returned to stardust. It was the first time I experienced such a tremendous loss.
Growing up, this kooky guy shaped my mind as a stay-at-home dad in my youngest years. I don’t think anyone that knew him would argue with me when I say my dad was a total weirdo. He taught me things that I could never have learned from my mom. I’ll always be grateful for that experience.
As he deteriorated over the last decade of his life, the man I knew growing up wasn’t there anymore. But ridiculous stories and memories of how he followed his whims stayed in my heart.
Though his passing was not unexpected, when it finally happened there was a strange feeling of being rudderless. One of the constants in my life was gone. Nothing prepares you for that type of finality.
Following the death of my pop, riding my motorcycle was one way that I could feel normal. It forced me to stay in the moment, to see life as it was happening. I couldn’t deny or ignore the enjoyable sensations I was experiencing.
I was able to ride through some of my grief.
My Motorcycle, My Therapist
In the autumn of 2018, my grasp on sanity was tenuous. During the summer months of that year, my existence was rocked by a psychotic episode. The event thrusted me into swirl of confusion, fear, pain, and despair.
When your only goal is making it through the next hour without losing your mind, life seems futile and hopeless.
During that crazy summer, I was something of a shut-in. But after a few months of pills, endless hours of tv, crying, and therapy – motorcycle-related activities enticed me to start voluntarily leaving the house again.
I didn’t know how to live. But, I knew how to ride a motorcycle. And that was something good.
During that volatile period, it was the common thread of motorcycling that pushed me to connect; to try to rediscover myself. And as a result of those connections, I wholeheartedly credit the people who propped me up without asking too many questions and didn’t try to fix me, with saving my life.
Each of the people who ran quietly behind me until I didn’t need training wheels anymore were motorcycle people.
My Motorcycle, My Lifesaver
Motorcycles saved my life by being my lifeline to the outside world. When the devil on my shoulder told me that I should withdraw from life, my motorcycle was the angel that gave me wings.
