Choosing the Lens

I can’t believe I just landed again. The summer absolutely flew by. September 11 marked six months after the layoff, reduction in force, made redundant, life change, or role impacted — whatever flavor of HR speak is in vogue these days. I’m halfway through the year of change and back in the rocking chairs that marked the first fundamental shift my life has seen in a very long time.

The real question, though, was whether the motorcycle would start again. I left him seven weeks ago sitting in a garage. I did everything right: full tank of gas, added fuel stabilizer, tires pumped to spec pressure, and the battery is on a tender. By any reasonable measure, starting it today should have been a non-event. And I’m happy to report, it was. The GS started right up, no issues beyond each tire dropping about 7 pounds of pressure.

The internet and AI seem to think a pound a week is too much. My buddy Steve out west runs an auto shop program and rides himself; he says not to worry about it. For once, I’m trusting Steve over AI. The bike has TPMS, so if it becomes a real issue, I’ll know quickly enough. I carry a pump as well. Charlotte has both a good friend and a solid BMW dealer should action be needed. But before I get ahead of myself, it was time to be in Savannah.

I got a lot of questions from friends and acquaintances out west about my time in Savannah. To the motorcyclists, I always gave the same answer: it’s like Kansas, with heat, humidity, trees, and bugs. I’d laugh and add that I can deal with the first three, but the fourth is the dealbreaker.

The reality is Savannah is fantastic in the winter — it’s the summer that gets problematic for me. I’ve got that skin and blood type bugs love, and in the heat of summer I look like I have chickenpox, scratch marks included at no additional charge. What I miss, though, is the genteel nature of the whole community. Motorcycling here is an entirely different experience. Having been here, gone home, ridden all over the west, and come back — what was foreign at first is now familiar again. The stark change in perspective gives me the ability to appreciate what’s here.

Cruising along Victory Drive at the speed limit, you take in the overhanging trees dripping with Spanish moss. You notice small details in the buildings that don’t exist out west — shutters, porches, old brick, all there for the looking if you’re going slowly enough to see them. I’m reminded that our view of the world is always colored by the lens we look through it with. If I look at Savannah through an athletic California riding lens, it’s never going to measure up. It wasn’t meant to be California. It’s a totally different experience here.

Over the spring, I’ve really come to appreciate the community at Kickstart Vintage Motorcycle Club — eclectic in its bikes as much as its riders. They meet ta Foxy Loxy, and on any given Sunday it’s a mix of Harleys, sport bikes, and a few truly vintage machines as old as I am, with me as the token adventure bike. I found them through Facebook and just decided to show up back in the spring. It’s a community I didn’t expect to find, and one I feel lucky to be part of. As soon as I pulled in, Mark — the guy who runs the group — walked over with a big grin. “Yo! So good to have you back!” I laughed and told him if only for this Sunday — I’m headed up to Vermont, but I’ll be back with everyone in a few weeks.

I parked next to a 2002 Sportster that had just been redone. Mark introduced me to Trevor, the guy who did the work. He laughed and said he’d learned more about Harley-Davidsons than he ever thought possible — fuel system, electrical system, every mechanical piece of it — rebuilding that bike from the ground up. We talked about riding through the winter, how crossing the Savannah River gets you into South Carolina, easy day rides out to Beaufort and Hilton Head Island and the rest of the local coast outside the city as easy day rides.

I think I just didn’t expect to find this kind of community here. Motorcycling has always been a me thing, a California thing. Savannah was about coming to see family. I didn’t expect those two worlds to blend here this well.

My sister hosted a family dinner with all of us together. As we’ve gotten older, one of the things I’ve come to appreciate about her is that she’s really come into her own as a cook. She’s one of those cooks who makes something intentional and flavorful look deceptively simple — a little of this, a little of that, a stir here, a pat there. I’ve known photographers like that, the ones who just artfully pull a photo together. I’m not one of those. I’m the guy who turns the oven to 382°, weighs out my ingredients, and sometimes over-engineers every detail to make sure everything is just right. I take photos the same way.

There’s a freedom and confidence in my sister’s cooking that always brings out the flavor in each meal in her kitchen. It’s always a pleasure to enjoy her creations with an evening glass of wine.

With everything, there’s always change. My niece and nephew are away at school. My sister, brother-in-law, and the family dog are up there for parents weekend. The family cat has never been so friendly in the seven years I’ve known her to be in the house. I guess from the cat’s perspective, beggars can’t be choosers — when you’re the only option for company, even the cat steps out to say hello.