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nyone who knows me well knows that the thought of riding in sand sends cold shivers down my spine. Thinking of sand penetrates every cell and seems to scatter molecules beyond the boundaries of my skin. In the depths of my mind, I wanted to believe my days dealing with sand were safely behind me, buried like nuclear waste in airtight containers. "Why, pray tell, can’t I stay in first gear?” I enquired en route to the Misión San Francisco de Borja, a Spanish mission located in Baja California. “I like first gear, and I feel a lot more in control,” I continued, conscious of concealing any “princess tendencies” from my argument. Jason’s expression told me he wasn’t buying what I was selling. “Second gear is a tad too fast for me, and I can't give it handfuls of gas in first," I persevered, instantly regretting not having voiced such thoughts in the safety of my head first. Jason had countered with his razor-sharp rationale tens of times already, yet did so again by reminding me that over-revving the engine in “snatchy” first gear prevented me from going a notch faster on the sand when I needed to regain balance. Of course he was right, and the subsequent silence hung in space. Just then, an idea struck me that was so
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far out I had to repeat it to myself, and after I had, it seemed even more outrageous. The idea stemmed from a Zen story originating from the villages of Khun Yuam, a small district in northern Thailand, where the locals occasionally ensnare monkeys (Presumably for an entertaining distraction rather than dinner). The story describes how villagers chain a “ewer,” a bulbous-bottomed pitcher with a wide spout, to the base of a tree. Then, they fill the container's bottom with nuts and other food appealing to primates. Overnight, a monkey will invariably venture over and slip his hand down the narrow neck, grab the loot while making a fist. With his fist now too big to pull it out of the vessel, he's trapped. The point of the story is that if you want to be free, all you have to do is let go. For me, this story struck a chord partially because when I ride rough terrain, I tend to over-clench my grip on my handlebars. So much so, that my clutch grip has worn smooth. It was now time to practice my new mantra, and if I could stay enlightened, it might just lead to “slowly, slowly, catchee monkey.” I threw my leg over Pearl, my trusted BMW F 650 GS, and got going. The sun was a crimson ball as it rose over the eastern horizon. Streamers of orange light fanned out across the clear blue sky