Tales from the Sidecar…

So a while back, Greg gave up on trying to get me on the back of his motorcycle.  I just don’t want to do it.  It would have to be the direst of circumstances to make me climb up on one of his bikes. 

  I mean dire as in this scenario:

Say, Godzilla has escaped from the local high security prison say, Azkaban, for example, and has knocked over the nearest nuclear power plant.  Then he decides to come after us with a radio-active rod in each hand and he is turning onto our street and the only thought in his mind is to kill all the people whose last names start with the letter “H” because he hates the letter “H” and all it stands for and the only way for us to escape is on the back of one of Greg’s motorcycles…I mean THAT dire.   Even as this is happening and the evil lizard is bearing down on us, I would probably still try to talk Greg into taking my Prius to make our escape as it is a more practical and much less frightening ride.

But the wheels in Greg head are constantly turning.  And I mean that both literally and figuratively.  He came up with a solution.  If I wouldn’t get on the back of his bike, maybe I would ride along side in a sidecar.  Thus, Irena, the Ural, came into our garage and family.  I have taken a couple of rides to date and I am okay with it.  It’s much less scary than being on the back of a bike even if it does put one a little up close and personal with roadkill. 

Here our friend Ed and his son Conor demonstrate the proper attitude to adopt when dealing with a Ural:

Greg took our friend Maria for a ride.  Note the look on Maria’s face…priceless:

This is what the road looks like from the sidecar.  See what I mean about being up close and personal with roadkill?

But I managed to get a couple of nice shots as we tooled along:

Crazy!

Autumn was creeping into southern New Hampshire when I was there last week.  I said good bye to my sister and left Tilton to go back to Massachusetts bypassing the Interstate for the country road.  Riding along I noticed a sign indicating the birthplace of DanielWebster and decided to check it out.  After that, my GPS took me in a different direction than it had originally plotted and I got to ride down miles and miles of back roads where the only indications of humankind were the utility poles tucked into the trees on the side of the road and, of course, the road itself.

The trees were just beginning to change and, as usual, the most color was seen near the swamps, streams and ponds.  But now and then, an over achieving maple stood out amidst the green, all colorful and proud.  As I passed one by, pretty sure I was away from human earshot; I rolled down my window and shouted, “Showoff!” to it.  I could almost hear the maple chuckle at this plain, drab human.   To another, I yelled, “Looking good!” and gave it the thumbs up.

I got it out of my system before I got to another group of houses.

  I don’t want people thinking I’m certifiable.

But the truth is that, yes, folks, I am crazy…crazy about fall!

The Daniel Webster Birthplace & The Sawyer House, Circa 1791, Franklin, New Hampshire.  Ready for renovation.

Along the Contoocook River, New Hamshire.

Along the Contoocook River, New Hampshire.