In the groove

Last Mother's Day, when I got my new motorcycle helmet, the man behind the counter said something about riding in the groove.

I replied, "The what?"

"You'll know. When the bike becomes a part of you, and you are a part of the bike."

I didn't think it would be possible. For me, then, the Suzuki was a tool. A way to get around cheaply. A vehicle that a middle-aged momma didn't really require. And for most of the summer, Old Suzi, sat in the garage as I shuttled children, groceries, friends, about the United States in the Big Rig. And life was good, until somewhere between Illinois and Colorado.

There I saw motorcyclists everywhere. Individuals, groups riding huge touring bikes as well as fast little sportsters. And as they would accelerate past our beloved behemoth, I would feel my right hand slowly grip as if accelerating, and my left foot desparate to flick in a shifting manner. For hundreds, if not thousands of miles, the words "I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride my bike" ran endlessly through my head. Until we landed home, and there was Old Suzi, still patiently waiting.

Some evenings, we head out for a church meeting, other nights it's to meet for a walk. And then there are those nights, with no place to go, and no one to meet that we head out for a quick spin that turns into a ride in the groove.

My head focused on the road conditions, the traffic, and nothing else. My hands and feet working the controls while the rest of me exists only for the pleasure of feeling the wind.