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My good friend Deborah is holding my feet to the fire.

“OK,” she writes. “You’ve had your fun, making cool pages about the ride on the Ducati. But describe how you felt deep inside as you grabbed hold of the handle bars, mounted the bike, and felt your behind touch the seat. Then as you started the engine, took off, and rode . . . and when you were done? After all, this was your lifelong dream . . . how did it feel in your heart and soul to be living it?!”

(Hmm. Maybe she should be writing this blog.)

All, right. I accept the mandate.

I was a reactor operator on nuclear submarines. (Those who know of my total ineptitude with math and science will be disbelieving.) Though I can summon up lots of sea stories, do you know what is always the most immediate recollection of seven years in the submarine navy?

What it was like to surface at the end of patrol.

Imagine sixty-five days of not seeing the outdoors. More than two months of living beneath feeble artificial lighting. Not being able to step outside. Having no change in climate for two months . . . no gust of wind, no moist earth. Having no opportunity even to relish weather you would usually complain about.

No clouds, no stars, no moon.

Whenever the submarine came back to the surface and I stepped up through the hatch, I was blinded. It really took a moment to be able to see again, in white-out sunlight.

I heard sounds as if for the first time. Birds (now undifferentiable, and oh so noisy!), lapping water, insect songs and bites, leaves in enchanting full rustle, hums other than electric motors, vehicles growling on squishy tires, tinny broadcasts heard in the distance.

Outrageous colors, everywhere!

A world SO green.

And wind. Is there a sound of wind other than its scraping across some surface? Surely. Though it’s pleasure enough just to feel the tiptoeing of air across ears newly sensitive to being tickled.

The first time I walked down the gangplank and onto the pier, I dashed immediately over to where I spotted grass. It was sublime to feel something beneath the feet that had give!

A bit later, I finally saw Christine.

(Um, how much time have I got?)

I took her in my arms, and smelled every one of the many fragrances that adorned her. I felt her body as I’d never felt it before, as if this were our first embrace. My submariner’s (temporary) beard returned the favor of novelty on her cheek. She was a feast for weakened eyes, and for dulled appetites.

This blog isn’t big enough for a rhapsody on love, sex, sated longing, renewed romance, the joy of being in the presence of a soul mate, and seemingly all the time in the world for us.

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That’s what it was like, starting up and rolling off on a motorcycle, after three decades away from the impassioning sport.

More about the mechanical Ducati riding experience in the next installment of part 696.

For now, this is your homework assignment:

Identify something for which you have a huge passion.

Now, put it away.

For thirty-three years.

Come back to it, in a big, deeply anticipated way.

What will that feel like?

(photo by John Narewski? http://www.ctf74.navy.mil/imagery/2009/05/090515-N-8467N-002.jpg)