Flying around a corner at roughly the speed of a startled cow, I grabbed the brakes in a sheer moment of panic...and the bike went down right with me. Laying there with a 250-300 pound bike pinning my ankle down (although not painfully), I was surprised at how quiet everything became. The other bikes shut down, and although we were next to a highway, there was no sound of passing trucks, no shouting, no panic, nothing. Just still air on a beautiful clear morning, me, the pavement, and the Suzuki 250. Waiting.

After 30 seconds or so (during which I humoredly wondered if I was supposed to lift the bike off of my ankle by myself, if this was my "test of strength" or something), Pete the instructor appeared in front of me, and, after lifting the bike off like it was a baby giraffe, kneeled in front of me. Waiting.

So I babblingly told him it's just a scratch, no I can move my ankle, no I'll clean up later, and watched him slowly nod and offer a hand up. (No tears, crying in front of a Vietnam vet just seemed stupid at the time, and I didn't feel like crying anyway)

And then he told me to get back on, and I love that.

The rest of the day, it was nonstop riding until 5pm, and every sunburned minute was wind whipping behind my sunglasses and revving the throttle and deep breaths and trust and feeling wildly fun.

I don't know when I'll get one of my own, but I do know that Kate and I ultimately will have a motorcycle pilgrimage that has been pinky-sworn into existence, and that there are a million new leaves falling every day, and it feels good to know that in some small measure, we're on our way already.