Two Up

Originally Published in On the Level, the magazine of the BMW Riders Association. Not long ago I was perusing my gear closet, that great archaeological site where an amalgamation of Cordura, leather, and sundry rotting fabrics go to die. As I attempted to once again clean and organize this Superfund site, I realized something: a significant portion of it belongs to my wife. How did this happen?

It was never Meredith’s intention to ride motorcycles. In fact, she resisted for quite a while, particularly when we had a young daughter in the house. But somewhere along the way, she crumbled. And then, she decided she liked it—at least, riding on the back. When I first asked her to go on a trip in Europe many years ago, I figured it was a proposition that carried the likelihood of me hitting golf balls on the moon or occupying the White House. But I’ll be damned if she didn’t agree to go. Maybe I will be president! (But who would want to? So there’s that.) Since then we’ve traveled in many parts of the U.S., Canada, Europe, New Zealand, Tasmania, and mainland Australia. Just as important, we’ve enjoyed exactly one gazillion hamburgers at Alice’s Restaurant, which is 50 miles from our house in Northern California.

Things have now reached the stage where she will actually ask to go riding. Every time this happens, I look around to see if she might be talking to someone else. And then I fairly levitate with joy.

Not-so-Rugged Individual

There are those who prefer a solitary experience, and I have been one of them. On occasion. I like to sleep on the ground, in the absence of a tent, far from other humans, where I can indulge my best (worst?) self. At these times I eschew bathing, use the facilities as nature intended them, go to bed at 8 pm (or not at all), and drink whiskey from a small flask unadulterated by things like water or ice cubes. This is a primal version of Geoff that my wife is happy to not know in too much detail. I can’t blame her.

This is not to say that I disdain my wife’s preferred mode of travel. You will not find me complaining too strenuously when sleeping in a soft bed at an expensive B&B in the Vermont countryside, or a pensione nestled in the Italian Dolomites. I might put up token resistance as a nod to my rugged individual self, but if I’m honest, I really do like mixed drinks, heated swimming pools, and a choice of espresso drinks with all those confounding milk options. I’ve even been known to pad around happily in the terry cloth, white slippers they leave at the foot of the bed. Just don’t let my riding buddies know this, as it will eviscerate my reputation as a tough and ascetic traveler. I have a reputation to uphold, after all.

Meredith rides pillion with panache. One time, in the Alps, we came around the corner to discover that the rest of our group had gathered at a café up a small, dirt driveway. They were waving for us to pull over, at which point I executed a perfect turn, climbed the dirt double track, came to a stop in front of the café—and promptly fell over. The classic zero-mph crash. Meanwhile Meredith, to the astonishment of all assembled, levitated off the rear pegs like a piece of toast out of a toaster, landing squarely on her feet in a perfect gymnastic maneuver. She may have added in a double axel, I can’t remember. Ten-point-zero from the Romanian judge! People were actually clapping.

I like to travel places and rent bikes, which enables me to try machines I might never own otherwise—like a Honda Goldwing. I disdained these gargantuan machines for years: you know, “It’s not a motorcycle, it’s a car!” Yadda yadda. Well, I discovered something: I still don’t think I’ll ever own a Goldwing, but it’s a damn fun motorcycle, propelled forward with locomotive intensity by god’s own engine. But the best part was watching my thin wife sitting atop that regal pillion seat, with the armrests and cup holders, looking like Queen Nefertiti. I could have sworn people started to genuflect as we entered each small New England town.

Still Yakking after All These Years

I’m lucky that Meredith enjoys relentlessly twisting second-gear roads in the mountains, which happens to be my preferred habitat as well. Triple-digit sweepers…not so much. In these situations, I get scolded like a school child, and have the requisite bruises between the shoulder blades to prove it. It’s kind of like riding while being subjected to a continuous Heimlich maneuver.

Our rides are punctuated with constant, senseless chatter through the intercom. I have riding buddies who cannot conscience the idea of their partners talking to them from the back. They prefer to ride in silence and communicate through an arcane series of grunts and hand signals. I am not one of them. Meredith and I are in a near constant state of conversation that can drone on for hours. After being together for 44 years you would think we would have solved all the great mysteries, finally groked quantum physics and gotten to the bottom a few of the more problematic Zen koans. Or just be plain tired of one another. But no. We chatter on, and on, and on, solving nothing at all, our conversations charting a circuitous path from triviality to utter ridiculousness. If someone found a way to tunnel into our Bluetooth and eavesdrop, they’d wonder what we’d been smoking or perhaps refer us to the authorities. But it sure does make the time go.

There have been major miscalculations. A few years ago we did an off-road tour in Tuscany, which I presumed would enable us to explore the unending network of “white roads” (easy dirt thoroughfares through the vineyards) that permeate the area. Wrong. The ride ended up being a lot of rocky and rutted singletrack—not ideal for a two-up ride on a 500-pound BMW GS 1200. Faced with such situations, the mild-mannered Meredith suddenly becomes quite resolute. Let me restate that: she’s kind of a bad-ass. “I’m off,” she’d say at the start of a particularly gnarly section. “See you on the other side.” The problem was, sometimes she wouldn’t get back on when I reached the other side. Pasta puttanesca and good chianti were particularly important at the end of such days.

Ride to Eat, Eat to Ride

My wife may be thin and athletic, but she has an abiding love of good food and pastries. And I love to get jacked up on strong coffee. You can see where this is going. Lots of rides end up at cafes. And we know some good ones. When I open the top case, smells waft outward, and people wonder if a food truck just pulled in. Nope, it’s just the Drakes, throwin’ it down the ol’ pie holes again!

Though we’ve traveled to numerous countries, many of the best rides begin and end in our driveway. One such route we call “The Cup Cake Run.” Between our house in Santa Cruz, and a favorite bakery in Los Gatos, there are a delicious variety of mountain roads through the Redwoods, which I pick from in the same way someone else would plot their way through a wine list at their favorite restaurant. I never tire of the riding. Or the cupcakes.

Sometimes on these outings, we ride my 1978 BMW R100/7, which is fitting since that is the year we met. I was 19. She didn’t know what she was getting into. Thousands of miles later, she still doesn’t.

And yet, mystifyingly, she still tolerates me. Every time I put the rear footpegs down, it feels like a gift.