Third Monday Random

Thoughts from behind the (handle) bars

By motomynd

Why is that idiot tailgating me? That is what I think about too much of the time while riding a motorcycle. How many cagers [Editor’s note: drivers of four-wheel vehicles] know that the reason motorcyclists are usually in the left lane and accelerating is we all operate on the basic premise that if cagers can’t catch us, they can’t kill us? Almost 100% of my riding is done in areas with strict “no texting while driving” laws. Yet half the vehicles I pass seem to have someone behind the wheel texting while driving.
    Why do my Ivy League bicycle racing associates make fun of NASCAR and its trappings, and why do my Southeast NASCAR contacts make fun of bicycle racers? If you had them swap rides you could barely tell them apart. Both are enamored of bright, garish colors, and both plaster brand logos and advertising information all over their clothing and their rides. And both, frankly, tend to be obnoxious, hyper-aggressive, overly sensitive jerks who seem to live by the slogan “if you aren’t cheating you aren’t racing.”
    Speaking of bicyclists, are they the biggest jerks and worst whiners in sports? Or do they lose out to golfers, or maybe tennis players? And let’s give a nod to weekend warrior 5K runners too. In a younger day I quit all four sports because I couldn’t stand the people I had to spend time with. If you want to hang with cool cyclists, be a mountain biker. If you prefer pompous pricks, be a roadie. Suffer through watching a 20-handicap golfer have a tantrum and throw clubs into a pond because they hit a tree instead of the fairway, and see how much more golf you want to play. Ditto for club tennis players who just know, just absolutely know, that if they can perfect that topspin backhand they can win Wimbledon next year. There is a reason people have 20 handicaps and are club players: Just have fun and be glad you aren’t in a wheelchair.

It is a wonderful day to be riding! The summer heat has eased, it isn’t raining, and there is no other traffic on this tight, twisty back road. I can drag a knee in the tightest curves without even breaking the speed limit: the curves are that sharp. It isn’t “canyon riding” like out West, but it is a blast! As long as I don’t go off the edge and drop into a ravine, or hit a deer. Hmmm…child on the way…guess I better back off. Wait, there is a Harley-Davidson up ahead. The rider just saw me and realized I’m closing the gap: Fabulous! Don’t you just love to hear those big Harleys moan when they try to rev out? That is truly the sound of America, as it was once-upon-a-time anyway: Big and overwhelmingly powerful. This one sounds like a low-flying jet: Thumbs up dude! There he goes, shrinking in my mirror. Damn, that was fun! It is terrifying to think just about everyone—even the Italians—make bikes that are far better than Harleys. Sadly, that is America today: Big but living a lie.
    I hate getting off the backroads and onto four-lane. Absolutely hate it. Would that fat b..ch right behind me in the big SUV, the one with the perfect hair and nails with her cell phone clamped to her fat, jowly face and her knuckles white on the wheel, drop back a polite two seconds if she knew I had in my handlebar bag a real two-pound, War of 1812 cannon ball, that I could toss over my shoulder and smash right through her windshield? Someday I will make that toss to rid myself of a tailgater. And I will ride away while everyone else surrounds the wrecked vehicle, alternating looking at the broken glass and the sky as they ask “where in the hell do you think a cannon ball came from?” Too bad Twilight Zone isn’t still around; they could make an episode out of that.
    Back on two-lane, slicing up the road that runs the broad valley, watching sunlight glint off the small stream to the left. Beautiful, just beautiful. No houses, no dogs running loose, no trees for deer to jump out from behind. Let the little bike roll a bit. Amazing how smooth this thing is, even though we stripped nearly 100 pounds off its stock weight. That Harley guy will make up a bunch of lies instead of telling his buddies he was dusted by a bike with a motor one-fourth the size of his. Of course, he doesn’t know what has been done to this motor. Smile. Great day. Relax.
    Squirrel in the road! Oh shit! Squirrel in the road! Downshift! Brake! Lean! Go left, squirrel, go left! Okay, crap, go right then. Keep going right, squirrel, keep going. No! Don’t go back left! Squirrels are the bane of two-wheelers, nearly as dangerous as tailgaters. Back in my college bicycle racing days I was riding in a tightly packed peloton and a squirrel took out half of us. It was really embarrassing for us, and probably for him. I think he planned to get us all, but he bowled a spare instead of a strike: Bummer. No motorcyclist down today, squirrel, no high-fiving your buddy like in the old insurance commercial. What was that chick’s name I dated back then? Wonder what happened to her? Wonder if she is still hot? Wait a minute. She would be 60 years old now, probably not still hot. Sigh.

So should I do the track day tomorrow or not? That email this morning said discount, even for late sign-up, so the track shouldn’t be crowded. But it is a corners clinic. I don’t like how we have to do corners now. Dragging your knee at 130 is bad enough, but this braking hard and sliding through the corners stuff is almost too much. If we can perfect sliding through the corners we’re going to be riding MotoGP next year? Really? How about just accepting we are club riders and being really damn glad we aren’t in wheelchairs?
    It really hurt that day I flew over the handlebars and hit those hay bales at about 60. Like a dying carp flopping on a red clay bank in the hot sun. Was almost blue by the time I could finally breathe again. But if I go out there and don’t slide through corners, I’m a wimp. So do I want to be a wimp, or maybe just dead? Tough choice.
    How would it work out for my son to hear that speech when he is old enough to understand?

“What happened to your dad, your real dad?”
    “Well, he was sliding a motorcycle through Turn 7 at 130 miles per hour and he hit one little spot of oil dropped by another bike. Or maybe it was a squirrel, or a mouse. Or maybe just a big bug. Maybe it was just a little leaf, a dogwood leaf. There are a lot of dogwoods near Turn 7, and the wind was blowing, so one could have made it to the track. No one really knows. Anyway, his front tire skated and when his bike hit the guardrail he went airborne and went flipping through the trees like a…what is it those Australian people throw…yeah, that’s it, you are so smart, just like he was. Yeah, he went flipping through the trees like a boomerang. It was sad. Real sad.”
    “But I love you and your mom, and we’re all happy, so it’s all good now...How old was he?”
    “He was 58.”
    “Was in great shape too, still did 40,000 push-ups every year. All that muscle kept him together when he hit the trees. Really amazing to be that fit at that age. At the wake he looked great. We kept waiting for him to pop up and scare hell out of us. He did crazy jokes like that. And he was really smart too, that’s where you got it from. You would think he would have been old enough to know better. But it's okay, it all worked out. I hope you’re maybe not quite so smart. His brain ticked like a machine gun. I hope yours is more like a clock. Maybe an old clock. We’re all still sort of catching our breath, don’t need you to pick up where he left off.”

    Well that storyline really sucks. My 20-years-younger best friend ends up with my young wife, and plays father to my son? He’s a great friend, but enough is enough. Okay, I will forego the corners clinic and just do the next performance riding day. That way I can wimp my way through the corners and no one will notice.

It is really nice to stop at this little pond at sunset. The sunsets in this area are pitiful, worst of anyplace I have ever lived, but it is a nice place to just chill and think. Priorities, life is all about priorities. That’s probably a good thing to be thinking about. Little one is only three months away. Maybe better not do track days at all for a while. Maybe wait until little guy can go with me. Wouldn’t it be really cool to do that Alaska ride together that I didn’t get to do this year because he jumped the start by a few months? He would be 16; I would be 75. It would be nice to have a young guy along to do the heavy lifting.
    Really have to ramp up business. Online retail, who would have thought it? Especially for me? But I love it compared to having to put up with jerks—excuse me—valued customers, in person. Actually have to rev all three businesses. And the writing career. It has been okay being sort of semi-retired; now it is back to the old days and mercenary ways.
    “He who writes for free is a fool.” Lived by that rule for 20 years, will have to live by it the next 20, if I have that many. Will miss the gang on the blog, especially Ed, but at least we can email on occasion. And that William Silveira, what a mind: Wish he had posted more. So I guess this is my last post, for the next 20 years or so. Wonder if they will read this and realize I’m serious? Sometimes I wonder how many people bothered to read much of anything. I will miss the ones who did.

Only four miles from here to the house, and that last little set of really tight curves. Hopefully no deer this time. Sliding down that bank was a close call: good thing I stopped before I hit those rocks in the creek. This little bike really hums, no wonder it is the fastest in its class. Remember the gravel that spills out of Tapp’s driveway, don’t hit that curve too hard. Okay, last hard left, lean, keep the chin up, drop the knee. It is crazy fun to watch sparks fly off your knee puck in the dark! Probably hard on the pavement, but too much fun to quit! [Editor’s note: A knee puck is a hard slider device that covers the knee area of a motorcyclist’s pants so they can slide their knee on pavement without injury to rider or protective gear.] This bike is too good not to be ridden hard, wonder who would like to keep sliding it through the corners?
    It has been one heck of a retirement: Now it is time—at age 58—to finally get to work. Drove to 49 states, flew to the 50th. Made it to four continents and published work in more than 400 magazines, and more newspapers, blogs and websites than I can even attempt to remember. Along the way I met four presidents, and two of them were definitely worth knowing. Nearly died two times, can’t remember how many times I was almost killed. Not many people get 37 years doing only the work they choose, hardly putting up with any crap from anyone, always able to walk away anytime they wish. Idealism definitely won the first round, now let’s see about the next.
    If I hadn’t put half my life and money into causes I could be rich. I've always been a “halver” to support my causes, not a chintzy tither, like most people support theirs. Rescued and “rehomed” lots of dogs, and a lot of cats too. And quite a few people. My great-grandfather Archibald had his most prosperous years, and all his children, past age 55—and that was in the 1800s. If I can’t manage the same, 140 years later, what’s my excuse?
    Why do we remember best the people, and the animals, there was no saving? Hunter, Keith, Alex, Ned, Dipa, Cawa, Jan, Connie: and that’s just the beginning of the list. And Chesdel’s Lil Surf’n Star, the champion-to-be Chesapeake Bay Retriever who died at only four years old: How does the death of a dog cut so deeply when we are mature, logical adults? It is such a strange feeling, getting used to the idea someone will always be there, and then they’re not.
    Wonder how my buddies in Africa really feel? Do they understand we may never see each other again? They are so stoic. Brothers in arms form a special bond, especially when none of them ever planned to be warriors in the first place. What a damn mess to just be thrown into. War is a tough game to learn on the fly, no margin of error. What a cool motto we had: “Genocide stops when machetes meet our bullets.” Gotta love that. Pity the bunch of fools who brought knives to that gunfight. I never knew such long odds could get so short so quickly. We didn’t know what we couldn’t do, so we did it. Looking back, how did we?
    Watch the gravel. Would be really embarrassing to drop the little bike when I’m parking it. Again. Seriously, that was so freaking humiliating. Do 130 in a corner: No problem. Park the bike: smash! Thank goodness it was too dark for video; I would be all over YouTube. What an idiot. Put it in neutral. Remember to put the damn kickstand down this time. Kill the light. Someone will love track days on this little beast. Could keep it for the little one, but it will be an old heap by then. Better for it to go to Valhalla with someone else aboard.
    Times change. Life is all about priorities. Time to turn the page.
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Copyright © 2013 by motomynd

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