Perils of Dusk

So it seems that the biggest problem with riding through the country at dusk is that by the time you get home, your helmet looks like a frog threw up on it:

I pull the cage into the garage. "Cage" is motorcycle slang for enclosed motor vehicles, and it certainly felt like one today. Even though I needed the truck to haul things, I still wanted to not be driving it. I followed another biker all the way home, which just compounded the claustrophobia. I watch biker after biker greet the man in front of me, and I feel left out.

I change my clothes and fasten my helmet. I fill up my tank and head out the same way I just came from. It's like I need to cleanse that route of the memory of that drive home. I'm no longer claustrophobic. I'm out on the road, the wind whipping around my body and the engine humming beneath me. It's a beautiful day.

I pass my original destination and turn up another highway I've never driven before. In the cage, I look for the shortest route to get me where I'm going, but today I'm out for the pleasure of being out, and it doesn't matter where I'm headed. There are a lot of bikes out today, and I greet each one. I'm part of the camaraderie of the road again and they greet me in return.

The day cools and it's time to head home. The claustrophobia of the trip earlier in the day is gone, and in it's place is the peace of the road.