Travelling Into the Patagonian Wind

September 2016 The narrow strip of asphalt I’d followed so trustingly transformed unexpectedly at the crest of a hill. The incline seemed to draw the road skyward, giving me the unnerving feeling that soon, my motorcycle and I would be airborne. Reflexively, my rational, pre-Patagonia riding mindset counselled me to kick my foot onto the brake and proceed slowly, cautiously. No! Instead, I revved the throttle, and with nerves steadied and senses heightened, I raced upward at full speed, facing head-on the unknown lying beyond the crest. An electrifying sensation of weightlessness enveloped me for a fleeting second before I descended. Directly ahead, I saw a corner that appeared to make the road vanish, giving me the feeling that I’d soon be carving a path through a golden field of ripe oats. Adrenaline fuelled my spirit as I leaned into the curve, trusting in the black arrow on the yellow sign, curious about where the road might transport me. A curve is merely a series of straight lines. The first week after returning from my six months in Patagonia, my friends in Gospel Riders had asked me to join them for a ride to Whidbey Island, Washington. The group had reassured me that the route’s corners and hills were Ruth-manageable, emphasizing that I could proceed slowly but they would wait for me to catch up. Their reservations about my abilities sprang from my former timid self’s fear of riding. My companions exchanged surprised glances when I told them I wanted to take the hilliest, curviest roads—at full speed. Somewhere in northwestern Washington, the staggered string of eight riders—with the only other woman and me in the middle—snaked around one corner another as one living being. Eye-catching red letters on the building to my right, boldly spelling out “River of Life Church,” briefly diverted my attention, but only when the church vanished behind me did the revelation arrive. Living water is flowing through my veins! As my leather-protected thighs tightened—gripping the tank like a parachuting student grips her instructor—my bike and I leaned confidently as one unit to the left. In the hollow of the hills, the chill in the sharp, frigid air stung my neck and wrists, but it soon became a comforting warmth as I ascended. Each contrasting sensation, each twist of the throttle, each rhythmic turn played into the exquisitely choreographed dance between woman and machine—fusing power and grace, control and surrender. The invigorating, resinous scent of pine that had lingered after the recent early fall rains filled my nostrils and awakened my senses to the landscape’s soul-dazzling beauty. I glanced confidently at the distant mountains and spotted a bald eagle soaring above the peaks. Once, I slammed my black boot on the brake when a doe and a fawn darted across the road metres in front of our group, but I recovered quickly. Leaning sharply into another left turn, then switching into a right turn, racing up over hills, and speeding down into valleys we flew. I felt high on life. This is the most exhilarating scoot I’ve ever had in ten years. After we had ridden for a glorious hour, our lead rider, Crawford, pulled into a gas station. Even as my spirit yearned to keep riding, I submitted with a reluctant nod, and maneuvered with careful precision up to the pump. Six months ago, I would have slowed in the curves, missed all the sensations, dropped my bike while attempting to avoid hitting the deer, and scraped the curb by the pump. Only six months ago? As the roar of my motorcycle engine cut to silence, I saw the parallels between the twisting road and the twists and turns of my solo journey. I’d conquered that road just as I conquered every challenge I had faced during my Patagonian adventure. I’m not the only who is noticing that travelling solo has changed me—restored my voice—rekindled my joy. Crawford pulled off his helmet, walked over to me, thumped me on the back, and said, “Welcome home. You’ll always be one of the boys. I see you overcame your fears. Fear is what keeps people in their rocking chairs.” What had transformed me during those six months?