WHATCHATHINKIN’

Shira Kamil

Almost 30 years. I know, to many of you that is a drop in the bucket, but to me it is the length of time I have called myself a motorcyclist.

I didn’t have the opportunity to experience this great thrill growing up. My youth was spent on our dead-end street in Cliffside Park riding bicycles and playing on the cliffs of Edgewater. The only person in my family I ever knew who sort-of, kinda had any linking to a motorcycle was my Uncle Jesse, who told a story of driving up the Boston Post Road late one night and seeing a motorcycle stuck in a tree, no rider in sight. And, honestly, everyone in the family questions the accuracy and truth of this tale. A boyfriend in high school who rode a Triumph was my first experience on a motorcycle and then a vast wasteland of nothing two-wheeled.

Brian was my introduction to this wonderful world and life. Our first date was on his Suzuki 550 to see the Mets playing the Dodgers. After a rain delay, the Mets won and, after that date, so did I. We went through many motorcycles together, travelling two-up, camping and exploring. We discovered Americade for our honeymoon on a Ninja 600, opting to luxuriate in a Vermont B&B instead of camping. Not too long after that, I plunged into it for myself and have never looked back.

Interestingly, from the beginning, I was usually in second position while riding. Long before GPS, when we would print our routes on index cards sitting in the map section of the tank bag, we would pour over the maps – Michelin if we could get them – laid across the living room floor to get the ‘big picture’. With the advent of bike-to-bike communication, we could debate which way the route actually went. No matter, really, as we were enjoying the ride and there was no ‘purple line’ to dictate exactly where we had to go.

Backroads sort of pushed me to the front of the line. Once we started doing our own rallies, we had several rides going out and I felt if I put the route together perhaps, I should take charge and own up to the mistakes I might have made. The inevitable gravel/dirt roads didn’t show up for some time but were almost always credited to ‘Shira’s Routes’. More than once I asked for assistance in getting my bike out of those predicaments. In the beginning, I truly enjoyed leading a ride. Not having a bike in front of me was as if I were riding by myself. Not following someone else’s lines, making their mistakes, always seeing the back of their bike was liberating. And then, somehow, it changed. I began to worry that I was going too fast, too slow, not stopping enough, stopping too much. I began not enjoying my riding when with others. At the end of the ride, instead of feeling invigorated and happy, I was stressed and just plain tired. Friends would ask, ‘Shira, ride with us. You set a wonderful pace and your routes are fun.’ Outwardly, I would be happy as a clam and gratefully accept. But on the inside, the storm clouds would

begin to set in.

Just recently, I decided I wanted to head up to New England. We had a few places that I wanted to visit as well as just get the hell out of Dodge for a few days while the weather was just about perfect. I put together two routes – 500 miles up and 500 miles back – trying to hit some of the favorite roads as well as throwing in some that looked more than interesting. When we were pulling out of the driveway, Brian said, ‘It’s your route, you lead.’ (Con’t Page 7)