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By Ginny Hill • GWRRA #265220-01 • Tucson,ArizonaFree at last and blowing town.The warm sun shone on our faces, the playful wind caressed our backsand soothed jangled nerves from the hectic week. Sprung from traditional cage travel, no mass of steeland glass hindered our view of the southwestern Arizona desert.We buzzed along the route to L.A. thatI used to call boring, on our hot-rod yellow Gold Wing. Comfort and performance to the max!think, darlin’, we’resoon to be grandparents.”“JustIt’s not a good idea to startlethe pilot, so I whispered intomy helmet microphone. “I’m soexcited—can’t wait to see howcute Jo looks eight months pregnant.Don’t we have a lot to bethankful for this Thanksgiving? Lifeis transforming for all of us.”Smiley, my husband and bestfriend, reached back and pattedmy knee with his gloved hand. Hepeeled off I-10 at Casa Grandetoward Gila Bend on I-8 to avoidPhoenix holiday traffic. We travelednorth on out-of-the-way Hwy85 to Buckeye and then rejoined I-10 toward L.A.“Hey, you’re not going to be myMotorcycle Mama anymore—soon to be my MotorcycleGrandma.” He chuckled.“That’ll take some getting used to…”We stopped in Blythe for the night, tiredbut not ‘bleached’. I popped my tight-fittinghelmet, skull cap and gloves off the instant thebike came to a stop at the motel and scratchedmy head vigorously. The heavy, yellow jacketwith protective armor came off next.The next morning, refreshed, I dressed insilk underwear, jeans, shirt, boots and jacket.Order of assembly is very important! My woolneck scarf, leather chaps, and extra-heavygloves came next and were going to feel goodthat morning. Helmets and gloves tuckedunder our arms, we headed out the door.I’m always delighted with my engineer husband’sskill at packing an incredible amount ofstuff into the Wing’s small saddlebags and compartments.Slow and sleepy mornings, however,tend to throw our sequences out of order.“Hey darlin’, where’s my lip gloss and sunscreen?”“It’s packed!”He pointed at the bottom of the overfullsaddlebag and gave me the ‘don’t even thinkabout it’ look.“Hmmm, I suppose you would just as soonI pick some up at a rest stop down the road a-ways?”“Ya think?”“Hey, works for me. By theway, thanks for the great packingjob.”He grinned.We flew along the freeway asfreely as the hawks that soaredabove us, leaning into the turns,enjoying the 360-degree view, andluxuriating in the freedom andpower to go as far as our heartsdesired. People often ask me if Iride my own bike. My answer isalways the same. How can I revelin the amber sunset shadows ondarkening hills, imagine shapes inwhite, fluffy clouds, or backseatdrive if I’m the pilot? No, co-rideris the place for me.A couple hours into the morning’sride, my let’s-get-to-our-destination-in-a-hurry-husbandpulled off theinterstate for a rest stop.“They probably have lip gloss here,” he said.“You’re awesome!” I impulsively tried tokiss him on the cheek, but bounced off whenour helmet face shields clanked together. “It’samazing how often we take breaks on thebike—just you and me on a carefree adventurewith all the time in the world.” My arms barelyreached around his padded jacket as Ihugged him.“We’re gonna lose position, ya know, Iworked hard to pass all those cars.”Back on the road, my pilot focused on re-52 Wing World