I’ve never been mistaken for cool. And social interactions at the coolest level have always eluded me.
But, when Andy puts on his leather and fires up his motorcycle, hands me my full-face incognito helmet, and I hop on- I am instantly someone else who harkens to the description of cool.
We don’t often get to adventure like this, me on the back of the bike, music buzzing through my aftershockz headphones under my helmet, the vast road in front of us. Life is busy, and I’m more of a homebody than a bike chic. But I have a man who needs the open road, the hum of the engine, and something a little more connected to the earth than an enclosed vehicle. I have someone who doesn’t think that driving on the freeway at fast speeds over bridges and rolling terrain is unnatural. I have someone who craves the control of the bike underneath him, and the unknown. So me, quiet and proper, with a book in my hand, will do this something daring for me; I join. I expand myself into living life, not just reading about it.
The first time, I was terrified. Especially on the highway. The jarring vibrations, the loud noises, the lack of protection and safety belts. I felt like a frayed nerve ending when we arrived to our destination. Ironically, my favorite thing to do is simply sit and look out the window on a roadtrip. The motorcycle affords me hours of that, but with all the sensory overwhelm of a semi-truck barreling adjacent the entire time.
Now, I know what to expect. And I have come to look forward to it, that unique experience of living adventurously in a way I never will by myself without someone else making it possible. I’ve come to feel safe on the back of that bike, trusting the rider, the experience, enjoying the longer route.
Today, we vistited Curwood Castle in Owosso, Mi. My mother in law speaks love with the gifts that she gives, and for a present she gave me the day-trip adventure of discovering a world-famous author that I’d never heard of. James Oliver Curwood was a world-famous adventure author, film producer, and naturalist. It astounds me that I’ve not read any of his works until this past year when my mother in law brought him to my attention. And the beautfiul home that he built, and his castle writing studio, both still reside in Owosso. Here he happily built his life, and created a legendary legacy for small-town America.
James Curwood knew what he wanted to do when he was a young lad, and his father turned a sewing machine table into a writing station for his typewriter. He traveled, he wrote, he created ways of bringng his first works into silent film and movies. He wrote about the wild becasue he loved the wild. The untamed natural world was his playground, his inspiration, and his solace. He wrote about what he knew, what he loved, and he made a life from it.
That might be the biggest adventure of all–living confidently on the path that feels in the most allignment with who you are.
I think that’s the epitome of real coolness.
