Sunday, May 15, 2016

Warren Pieces

Builders of custom homes: 

Mad River, Warren VT

When riding with the Hermit it is always important to say yes to adventure.  The heat of the day had subsided.  He rode the manufactured rock crushed sharp and loose refusing to get pressed into the softness of an April back road.  What could only be described as broken marbles found us east of the Lincoln Gap.  We were in search of the German Flats road.  a paved twisty vacant of Escalade driving snow bunnies.  Up a hill over the next and past the unfinished concrete mansion.  The kind a schizophrenic architect would build and not finish so no one would find him.  We found it.  Our downward sweeping twists that hit pay dirt after miles of loose aggregates.  And soon,  we swooned.  Slowly, rhythmically with the evening sun at our backs the oilhead at the front with the airhead following the warm rush of the spring air rising off the sun baked asphalt.  Lefties,  righties... the curves sweetened as we descended.  Off the mountain at a T to route 100.   South to Warren on the road to nowhere.  Driving wrinkles in circles, the round headlight of the Hermits R100 stayed in my mirror.  
      After stretching things out a bit an acute left turn took us down left now leaving 100 for the prize seen above.  Just another covered bridge- just another cool mountain stream breathing hushed tones of moist air resisting the heat of the day.  At the other end of town we rolled past the Warren Pieces home base.  Builders of luxury custom houses and skateboards.   Only in the VT.  Right at the stop sign and we climbed.   Waves of warmth buffeted my chest.  70 degrees.  It melted the ice of my chest, the crushing weight that held me anchored.  Absent of two wheels.  And now, as I surged forward leaning at the waist,  anticipating the next gear shift, ready to roll throttle on, the roadside streams frigid whisper became a frozen chorus.   Mixing in my helmet with the heat of the day as we rolled on and peaked out with a round sweeping left hand turn.  Top of Warren.  Home of the hippie farm.  Home of the glider rides.  Millionaire ally.   Riding now north the back way to Waitsfield with the setting sun to the west,  watching the row of million dollar houses on the east side of the road.  There was so much fence crisscrossing the hill above the road it would take all summer long to paint just one property.  Yes they must have stock in Sherman Williams.  The mansions punched tickets for entry into their own place in the club.  We slowed and I put on my 4 ways,  pointing out to the Hermit: Warren Pieces most recent creation.  A hilltop paradise,  custom in and out.  If you have to ask how much, you couldn't afford it.   Warren ridge dropped out beneath us with sweeping splendor.  Rolling hills glowed with fresh dense green.  And on to the Waitsfield covered bridge- over the Mad river once again.       Now the Hermit was thirsty.  We headed 17 west leaving 100 for the night and bellied up to the polyurethaned planks at the Hideaway.  To say that our server smiled is short of fact.  She glowed.  Radiated.  Her unmanaged curls draped down near her elbows at their longest.  Big curls.  Big loose curls of rich brown hair.  She left quite an impression on the Hermit.  Though we were spared much snow it still was a long winter.  At times in the cabin he just tended the fires.  And now with him in her hands and a second cold switchback on the way he knew tonight he would not sleep.  After the night said good by to our headlights he would be haunted by her smile.  The smile that glowed like the moon in rainbow halo's.  It must be spring making him think this way.  This was just the beginning of our year motorcycling.  Just the first trip out.  When we split in front of Lincoln General he said: "Just think,  there is someone out there that is sick of making sweet love to that woman".   Tonight the Hermit would not sleep.