55 MPH Photography

So we jumped on the bike Saturday morning and met up with some friends.






It was a simple plan. Just five people, four bikes and no particular destination. Our only criteria for the day was to play follow the leader. See, everyone has their "spot". There's a leader and he determines which route we take. Next in line (staggered for safety) is the one I keep my eye on. His/her illustrious job is to point out potholes, large debris, and roadkill. Glamourous it ain't. The man and I always ride in the back. He likes the back. I tell myself that he likes riding back there so that he can appreciate the bikes in front of him, the way they lean and glide in synchronized movement with the road. Truth is, I have no flippin' idea why he wants to be in the back. The others don't mind, mostly because they don't have to see the blinding whitewalls on his tires.




This was not a scenic route. It's pretty much typical of every other county highway in this state. But sometimes, blue skies, good friends and some wind in your hair makes everything...better.









The first small town we came to was holding some kind of ummmm.... reunion/festival/tribute to Lotus Dickey. Who's Lotus Dickey you ask? I have no friggin' idea, but I have the mentality of a 12 year old boy, so the large name on the large sign had me giggling on my passenger seat. Also check out the big gold roof section (cupola? turrent? thingy?). It was an awesome over-statement of fabulous in a simple small town.



The festivities were to be held in the courtyard. From the amount of chairs, Mr. Dickey was well loved. (*still snickering*)



Past fields and barns, towns and places too small to be called towns, we made our way south until we ran out of Indiana and right up to the river.



There's a diner/bar that we have visited before and that's where we stopped for lunch. We sit outside on a deck at picnic tables surrounded by others, most of which are doing the same thing we are doing. They too have ridden down. The parking lot is full of bikes (as it has been everytime we've been there)and you can hear tales of trips and discussions about bike parts and gear.


We joke about being bike snobs. But I know that for all their joking, my friends are not snobs. They're simply opinionated. And mouthy. And slightly snarky.

After teasing the waitress and eating our lunch (hello new waitress that shouldn't have admitted that she was new and we were only her second table)we made our way back out. The plan (as if there ever really IS a plan) was to take a different route back and wander our way home. Sounds like a goood plan, right?


Mother nature had different plans. First it got less sunny. Then it got grayish. Then wet stuff fell out of the sky. The end. (just kidding)





There is no such thing as a gentle spring rain when you're on a motorcycle. Twenty miles an hours feels like you're being pelted by a swarm of hard-shelled bugs. Fifty-five feels like a shitstorm of angry bees all jacked up on testerone and Red Bull. In other words, it hurts like hell. Since we are opposed to hurting, we headed for sanctuary. Better known as an abandoned carwash.



There was much discussion and cloud studying. There were mild profanities directed at tv weathermen.




It was a small shower, so as soon as it stopped we headed out again. Tempting fate. And the weatherman.



Ten miles or so down the road (it seriously could have been 500 yards or 300 miles, I have no sense of distance) the big rain came. It was like a giant tattoo needle of rain. Quick! Find another place to pull over.



Alas, our heroes made it home safely and mostly dry. And a good time was had by all.




I really need to learn to focus my camera while sitting on the back of a bike while zipping down the road. I'll work on that.