Often, I think of my youth. I was always able to find a way to get what I wanted done, as long as it only required physical effort. I was small for the first fifteen years of my life, small but spry. I was capable of almost anything physical that I set my mind to.

Once I turned 16 I began to grow and was no longer small. By the time I graduated from High School, I was an inch taller than the norm. I played a lot of contact sports and unfortunately broke a bone every year playing football, from 13 through 18. Fortunately, even though I had by then suffered two skull fractures, I seemed to have no permanent disabilities.

I joined the Fire Service when I was 21 and my injury history continued. I fell four stories in a fire when a structure collapsed, was blown off the roof of a building, and then through a wall of a building in a smoke explosion. Broken neck, broken back, herniated disks, dislocated shoulders, etc., etc., etc.

I assumed most of this was normal in some odd way, not reflecting on my luck, or lack of it, always healing and moving on. What I didn’t take into consideration was the cumulative effect of twenty accidents. It’s not that you aren’t aware, it’s that you have a job, a vocation, a position, an expectation, and a reputation to uphold. You are a character, known by some as Black Cloud, or Lucky Mac. Being Irish, you take it all in stride.

You finish your career, rise to be the Chief Officer, listen to the stories and anecdotes, receive your gold watch and plaque, and then walk out the door.

One morning you look around and realize it’s time to do something. If you’re ever going to do it, it has to be now. So you look through travel magazines, hobby books, and avocation publications. Nothing seems important, and nothing seems overtly interesting. One day you’re walking down a street and see something that does spark your interest, again. You had forgotten all the times you enjoyed doing what it was that this item enabled you to do.

You’re not ready to, heaven forbid, ‘retire’, so you consult and continue for a total of 43 years, finally appreciating that enough is enough. None of the men you worked with are around anymore. They’re living in Hawaii or Mesa, Arizona, still with the ‘old gang’ in spirit if not reality.

You take a few pictures with your iPhone, and keep walking. Along the way something inside you says, “I remember. It was fun, and I think I’d like to do that again.” So you make a point of going home and opening your laptop, searching for that one true thing. The joy you had when you were young. No responsibilities, no expectations of being the solid, hard-working civil servant or bureaucrat.

The next morning, I awoke, jumped in the car, and headed down to a dealership. There was one completely red, bright cherry motorcycle sitting on the floor. A 2002 Honda VFR800 VTEC. It was already fifteen years old, but it was pristine, sleek, beautiful, and apparently, fast. Not only was it fast, but it only had 11,000 kilometers on it. Not even broken in. Without a second thought, I said, “I’ll take it.” I rode it over to the insurance company across the street with a borrowed helmet and a temporary sticker. I registered it, insured it, and put the plates on with zip ties from the dealership.

I was a motorcyclist, again. Over the next week or so, I acquired everything I needed to be safe. The obvious ‘kit’ was procured and I began my adventure, again. The world would be my oyster.

When riding, nothing seemed to bother me, not weather, not discomfort, not pain. And then a major accident almost cost me my life after another six years of riding. One more inch of compression in the vehicle and I would have amputated my leg. Four more inches and I would have been decapitated. The surgery went well, and I was plated and screwed back together. Seven months later, I was riding again.

But one thing remained. Pain. Whether from the accumulation of my life’s idiocy or misfortune, I somewhat suddenly encountered pain, which although I had experienced a lot of it, had always subsided. Well, not this time. A year on from my accident, pain is my constant companion. I don’t believe in painkillers, so we have an agreement. I’ll continue to ride until my physical ability to do so isn’t possible, and pain will remind me that the time ahead is a lot less than the time behind.

I still solo camp in the mountains, but have to train to remain capable of climbing. I have several long trips planned this year into the mountains at altitude. I’ve made some concessions about making myself as comfortable as possible, but carrying an Everest pack and 70 pounds of gear isn’t as easy as it once was. Thirty miles in the mountains seems like a daunting task.

So, if you’re up in the Rockies and walk past a green Kawasaki Ninja 1000sx at a trailhead, covered up and locked up, I’ll be somewhere up ahead, camera in hand photographing the beauty that only can be found at altitude in the mountains. Say hi, share a cup of coffee, and tell me your story. I have all the time in the world. At least that’s what I tell myself.

Thanks for the company. Thanks for the experience and the memories.

youtu.be/F4F_K95ol8c

Ciao…