Men plan, God laughs.

In motorcycling, as in life, it can sometimes be hard to tell whether your god is protecting you, or simply reminding you that joy is a mirage. 

That hill would be my white whale. Praying for a long dry fall, I realized nothing awesome was going to happen until I mastered the art of gravel road surfaces. It was an odd and joyless place to start motorcycling, but the options were ridiculous (I never seriously considered a trailer. Not for long, anyway).  “All idealism is mendacity in the face of what is necessary,” wrote Nietzsche. So, never getting out of second gear, I burbled up and down our laneway and ventured out on to the road, an hour here, an hour there, every chance I got, praying the neighbours weren’t paying attention. I played with rear wheel braking on the gravel hill, letting the engine help and feathering the clutch to keep the wheels turning. But mostly, I spent those first few hours trying to erase anxiety.  Three kilometers away, there is a small town with quiet, leafy streets where I can practice in earnest, but first I have to get there. Finally, by early November, I was growing confident enough to make a run for town and finally feel pavement under my wheels. “Next weekend,” I said to the little Suzuki as its warm engine ticked itself to sleep.

And then it snowed.