I was sitting in the parking lot at 7/11 this Sunday morning. I was on my motorcycle, kickstand down, drinking a cup of black coffee and completely relaxed. I have my longstanding rituals when it comes to my Sunday ride. I wake up the same time as every other day, except today I take a break from some of my daily routines. Speaking of ritual, motorcycle riding is filled with em, like the weird shit athletes go through before every game.
I do my morning Zen sit and give myself a break from my yoga practice and stationary bike workout. Up until a handful of months ago, when my compromised left leg called a timeout, it forced me to give up a forty plus years habit of running, a classic love/hate relationship if ever there was one. I spend some extra time on the computer, going through the news and reading an extraordinary literary site, called Brain Pickings. I drink several glasses of water and then have a bowl of yogurt, blueberries and granola. Following my everyday breakfast, I swallow around a dozen pills, guaranteed to deliver immortality. This ridiculousness takes a couple of hours and I periodically go outside to check the sky, looking for even a hint of any ominous dark grey clouds.
Music serenades my morning and actually each morning of my life. Every now and then, one of the too many special tunes I live for will slip out of the speakers and I think I am the luckiest guy in the world, a motorcycle ride my first place finish in the happiness race. In the heat of summer, my uniform is very simple. I select a t shirt with the appropriate symbology for the day. I slip into a week worn pair of jeans, stretched out, tolerating any moves I make throughout the day. I slip on a vintage, black leather vest, with some Sons of Kauai patches. I have a sheriff’s badge on the upper left corner of the vest. I have a large patch on the back, which is my logo for Mind and the Motorcycle. Over the course of time, I have gone through far too many hats, each one lost to the wind and the road.
When I am finally ready, always a little before nine AM, I throw the sheet off my bike, Flaming Lips. I secure my lid, which these days is something like a nylon bathing cap, guaranteed to hug my head. I put on my shades. I take my phone out of my pocket and select a song from my Pandora list that I want to start my biking day with. I throw my right leg over my steel steed, kick up the stand and start the bike, which causes the music to blast through my handlebar, mounted speakers. I back out of the garage and turn the bike, facing toward the morning sun. I sit there for a minute or two, eyes closed, looking up at the sun, occasionally bouncing up and down, letting the music flood my mind.
I ride to the Chevron, now a Texaco, in Lihue. I fill up with high test and then go inside. I come here every Sunday morning, because I love the coffee. I wrestle a cup free, which often ends up being an ordeal, because the material is a bitch to separate one cup from the other. I fill up with the container behind the first one, because it is never used until the first runs out and I know it is going to be really hot. I put the lid on, which I sometimes screw up, spilling several red hot sips on myself. I carefully place the cup in the lower right pocket of my vest and pay the $1.35 at the counter.
This is precisely how I got to be sitting in the parking lot this morning. I was all alone, waiting for some of the others to arrive. I remembered when I first started riding on Kauai, only several months after I got here. I definitely was not a hard core rider at the time, even though I owned several bikes, one when I lived on the lower east side of Manhattan in the Sixties and the other in Santa Fe, NM for a brief period. When I left the high desert country for my looming adventure on Kauai, I promised myself a tattoo, a kayak and a motorcycle. They were each part of my dream about coming here. I got here in late May, 2003 and by September I had scored the trifecta.
From the moment I saw this place from the sky, I knew I belonged here and felt her embrace. I bought an orange Honda with yellow pinstripes, instantly feeling it would be my signature bike, standing apart from all the black Harleys. I rode alone for a few months, getting acclimated to the cycle and the island roads.
One Sunday, I was on yet another solo ride and I happened to ride into the Nawiliwili Harbor area and came upon this wild looking Hawaiian guy, whose white hair put Einstein’s to shame. Harry flagged me down and started talking in a language that was vaguely familiar, but sounded like a long, run on sentence, with many of words folding into each other. It had something to do with some “bruddahs” riding motorcycles and I think hanging out at a location that could have been on the moon.
I chalked up my experience with Harry as just an isolated instance, until I saw him several hours later, waving wildly at me to pull over and join him. He was with these serious looking guys, surrounded by their Harleys, sitting on park bench, under a shade tree. What was I going to do? I had to pull over and greet these sinister characters. Man, they welcomed me like I was their long lost cousin. Within seconds, I was offered a beer and felt completely at home. Before I left, they invited me to join them the following Sunday at the 7/11 in Lihue.
In spite of being a haole and riding a Honda, replaced by a larger one with time, I am now a senior member of the Sons of Kauai, riding with them only months after the group’s inception sixteen years ago. Over the years, spending time with my friends, I came to understand the truth of aloha, not the commercialized bullshit. While I will always be a permanent guest, I have become one with Kauai and it never would have happened without meeting Harry.
Sitting all by myself this Sunday, I realized my motorcycle and I belong here and I no longer rely on a group to make me feel welcome. While I was hoping some others would show up, I smiled, sipping my coffee. I was looking forward to my ride.