Wednesday 20 October 2021

John Ryan, Super-Rider 14 October 2013

 I didn't write the following text, but I love it. So it's copied here with deep affection.

John Ryan was not just a great motorcycle rider, he was extraordinary like Davo Jones (or the very-much-alive-and-riding Dan Simmonds). What these guys achieve on a motorcycle goes waaaaay beyond the ordinary. So here goes:

"The Promised Land"

“John Ryan died today in a motorcycle crash.”
What? This can’t possibly be true. John Ryan, the guy who was one of the best long distance motorcyclists ever, and a friend of mine, is dead? And he died on the freeway near his house, not at the tail end of some monstrous ride. It doesn’t make sense, yet it’s true.
After the initial shock and grief, the next thing I thought, probably what everyone thought who knew John, was, “If it can happen to him, it sure as shit can happen to me. I better re-think some things.” I had to tell Sally the news about John. It was not a happy day in our house with regard to my motorcycling career.
Then Bob Mutchler put a different spin on it. He said, “I’m changing my riding habits because of John’s death. I’m increasing my riding. I’m riding today and tomorrow and the next day.” Bob’s older and wiser than I am (much, much older) and he has outlived his doctor’s death sentence by decades. Maybe he’s on to something.
This also happens to be the time of year for the IBA Memorial Ride – a couple weeks in the fall where people are encouraged to do a certificate ride in honor of someone who has passed on. On Wednesday I said, “Maybe I’ll do one for John. It’ll help me heal.” On Thursday I fooled around with some maps. On Friday I rode. (One of the LDRiders is making some memorial stickers that say JWJR – John Would Just Ride. No need for detailed prep and months of planning. Just ride.)
John was remembered for frequently saying, “Cars suck.” How ironic that he was killed by one. He didn’t own one, though, and hadn’t for years. This is pretty hardcore when you consider that he lives in New Jersey, which has a thing called winter. I planned a route that featured many small roads between nowhere and nowhere else, to avoid cars. It did have some interstate at the beginning and end, which is a necessary evil unless you want your Saddlesore to take all 24 hours. I didn’t. I’m not as hardcore as he was.
Friday morning, as I rode along, I intermittently talked to John. It was as though I was taking him for a ride and showing him what I saw. “Hey John, check out this cool road. Woah, what a view over there!” I mostly avoided stopping for photos because JWJR. We really dug the small highway between Delano and Wofford Heights – also known as nowhere and nowhere else. It was many miles of lightly traveled mountain roads. A bit hairy in spots because Caltrans lays down a lot of sand during the snow season. We were careful and it was fun.
In Kernville I had a nice visit with Wendy Crockett. She is one of the most real, down to earth people I know. Also she runs her own motorcycle shop. She’s a very skilled mechanic, and has worked on my FJR (which is now Derek Dickson’s FJR, and you know how that worked out for him.) Oh, and the wall of fame in her shop includes her THIRD PLACE TROPHY from this year’s IBR. No biggie, just THE FRICKIN’ PODIUM! Highest finishing woman since Fran Crane. You go, girl. And I love your dogs. (2019 update: Wendy has updated her garage bling considerably.)
From Wendy’s place I took John to Death Valley. I thought he might appreciate the solitude and grandeur. The eastbound road from Highway 395 crosses two mountain ranges before hitting the valley floor. That highway was perfect! Brand new pavement, smooth and perfectly banked. Sharp drop-offs (with guard rails) that gave way to dramatic vistas. I peeked at the views but mostly watched where I was going, and talked to John. “Wow, dude, isn’t this road awesome?!”
We had gone from over 6000 feet in the lower Sierras outside Kernville, to -21 feet on my GPS in DV. The temps had changed from high 40s when we left to 85 on the valley floor. We had seen the fall colors and the harsh desert rock. It was a great palette of motorcycling to enjoy. I was happy and I think he was too.
On the Nevada side of Death Valley we visited Beatty (where I left a geocache for Mitch Palmer and Del Brand, who are doing a JR memorial ride the day after mine.) Then we took Lida Pass and Westgard Pass back into California. These two passes were more endless miles of whoop-de-do’s and mountain twisties. It was a ball. We saw five cars the whole time.
We went north on US 395 toward Carson City. That’s one of my favorite California roads because it’s beautiful, fast, and lightly traveled. Sensing a theme here? We started seeing signs for 7000 and 8000 foot summits. The desert changed to pine forest. It got chilly again. We smelled hay, skunk, and cow turds. More variety for my riding partner.
At dusk I looked to the east and saw a gorgeous full moon rising into the sunset colors. It was so pretty I had to stop for a quick photo. Right after I took the photo and resumed riding, we came upon Mono Lake. After Lake Tahoe, this is the prettiest lake in California. And it’s right by the highway, how convenient. Mono has these distinctive salt towers sticking up out of the water, called tufa. The moon was behind the lake, reflecting in the still water. The sunset colors made the tufa look magical. It was one of the most gorgeous sights I’ve ever seen while motorcycling, like I was living inside a postcard. These words are not doing it justice. It was magnificent, and I was moved. I make it a habit to never stop and photograph sights like this because it spoils the moment for me, and the photos don’t ever capture the sights. So I kept riding. I marveled to John, “Look at that. Wow! Just wow!” Then out of the blue I said, angrily, “But you’re not here to see it, you A-hole! You’re dead! Can you even see this?!”
Then it got interesting. John said back to me, “It doesn’t matter if I see it. You see it. You are in the world. You saw everything today. You smelled everything, you felt the warmth and coolness. You leaned the bike, you hit the gas. Enjoy it!”
Wow. I finally understood what Bob meant when he said he was riding more instead of less. Life is here to be lived! Whatever a person’s passion is, they should follow it and enjoy it. Life on this Earth is our gift, not to be frittered away by worrying about this and that, or wasted on fluff and negativity. Make every minute count. It seems so simple, yet I am somehow blown away by this epiphany.
I named this story The Promised Land after a Springsteen song. The chorus goes:
"The dogs on Main Street howl ‘cause they understand
If I can take one moment into my hand
Mister I ain’t a boy, no I’m a man
And I believe in the promised land."
In the Bible, God gave Canaan to the Israelites as their promised land. They took it and they lived in it. It was their “now.” The promised land that Bruce is singing about is our life right now, today. Take it, live in it. And howl like a dog, who has no pretense but lives in the moment. Take this moment into your hand, ride your motorcycle, and howl, baby, howl. It’s just what John would do.
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