Live With It

I just walked back into the house from my garage a few moments ago. What I saw was something that's been laying heavy on my thoughts of late. I have too many bikes.

I hold to an older school of thought. The school which teaches that you own a thing and use it. You don't keep stacking another similar thing on top of what you already have for reasons of absolutely having to have it. You either replace the one with the other or you keep what you already have.

How many times does it need to break before I replace the thing?

This is an age old question. One that really takes on relevance to this age of automobiles and motorcycles. Years ago people kept what they had instead of constantly eyeing next year's new models. We used to believe the differences were too small to justify the time, money and effort to go through getting the "next big thing". We also spent time working on our own equipment. Things were built more simply in years past. Computer aided fuel and exhaust mapping has changed this for almost all of us, for example.

Life expectancy for many of the vehicles we own may never be realized under our own ownership of them. In some ways progress is indeed good. We even have the good fortune of car and bike manufacturers creating "retro" versions of the bikes we rode or remember. All the looks, none of the functionality issues of generations past. Sometimes though, that new model's design easily surpasses what the repair shops could reasonably be expected to be know about its new and improved design. Changes happen almost over night. Its the price of exclusivity. We become the test mules so to speak.

I did the same thing back in 1987 when I bought the first year Yamaha Virago 535. Granted its a bike from a reputable motorcycle manufacturer but I could easily have been struck down under the test mule premise. Luckily (or not) it was then that I started hoarding when I should have been a little smarter. I bought the bike I wanted when I was but a wee lad. A brand spankin' new Harley Davidson Sportster. In '93 they moved up to belt final drive and an actual overdrive gear. And they had a newfound reliability! I was sold when I realized I could fulfill a kid's dream.

I took to riding that Sportster more than the Yamaha. Even though the Virago was smoother. Oh, and it has better acceleration and brakes. And a better seat. Its lighter too. I can take my hands off the bars and negotiate sweeping turns the bike is that well balanced. Still, nostalgia kept me riding that HD. It was our honeymoon vehicle of choice. Who says an 883 Sportster can't take a couple from central Minnesota to Sturgis and back? Ok, my speedometer broke on the way down. But that's it!

Another time the vibration ate its way through the wiring harness under the seat. Fix and reroute. I learned to use a little felt between the zip ties and the wiring in the hidden places. The bike has had little... ideosynchrasies. Not-so-new Harleys tend to shake themselves apart.

So why ride that one when I've got a better machine?

The answer is in the right riding accessories. I bought a king/queen saddle. A tall sissy bar. Highway pegs. An unbelievable choice of bags and a very strong dealer network was available to me. If you add in the aftermarket parts and accessories network you can easily change your bike into as many different variations as you could possibly imagine. I'm thinking I'll morph it into an XLCH next time around. Yeah. That'd be bi... never mind. Quirks? Sure, but the possibilities made it easier to live with.

New bikes develop age and use related problems. You either trade up or fix them and live with it. As has happened to our friend, dealerships also have a heavy hand in weighing that decision.

I looked at the six bikes in my garage. I thought about how I've been trying to justify selling a few off in order to make room for the "next big thing". A thing I really don't need. You see, I've always wanted to pile the miles onto just one machine. Since I was young, I dreamt of that one bike with a tome's worth of chapters in it. Like the use-worn spine of a book worth reading, I mean to wear that bike into a road earned patina.

The others collecting dust have to go. I'll miss em, but I have to break free.

That one though, if it's got minor issues in its future, well... I've resigned myself to just live with it.

Harv

Autumn Tribute

Labor day is now past us. Every morning I see children waiting for the bus at the corner as my own kids prepare themselves for preschool. In a few short days we recieved a reminder of the autumn weather now upon us. Some of the best riding of the year.

The air gets brisk and takes on a new scent. I can't describe it very well except to guess that it might be the lower humidity combined with the cooler winds which makes it so.. vibrant. You really wake up on these Fall rides.

The roads are less travelled between now and the beginning of the snows. Although those have been fewer in the recent past, making for some interesting looks from people I know who will have put their motorcycles away while I'm still out there on that midnight blue Vespa scooter. Same thing happened last year. Guys alone in big trucks with HD stickers and wearing leather jackets have the most startled looks. If they would just ride a little longer, even another month, they would know what they've been missing. How can you fault riding a big twin in the Fall when it throws so much heat across you?

Then there are the decorations of the season. It begins with All Hallow's Eve and continues with Thanksgiving. You start seeing strange things like witches appearing to have ridden their brooms right into trees. Jackolanterns in neat rows on porches. It used to be that counting pumpkins on the front steps told you how many kids lived in the house. I've always loved baking the seeds and eating them while watching the Packers take it right to the very edge. Autumn Sunday afternoon traditions.

Thanksgiving plans and dinner with the family. A weekend which begins with a hunting rifle, has a gut busting highlight feast of the traditional birds and ends in another hunt. Usually the following day because that stuff inside turkeys causes you to fall asleep in a recliner whether you meant to or not. Thinking back I realize I always take a long ride a day or so before we go to Grandma's. I guess I have my own traditions.

Best of all is the smell of the burning leaves. The air is crisp. You're riding along looking at the trees adorned in all their color and drift into the blueish cloud of someone's toasting leaf pile. You can't help but wave to the good folks as you pass. You're smiling but they'll never see it inside that full face you're wearing. Still, you know that they know.

Six years ago this morning there were no smiles. There was fear and grief. A nation with revenge on its mind. A subculture which uses religion as its vehicle tried to take away our joy. Emotionally, it was the coldest winter most of us have have ever lived through. That day we all changed whether we wanted to or not.

But we lived on. A resolve to do so seems to be in the spirit of the people of this great nation. I count it a blessing. We remember but we also move forward. Men and women of steel courage take on the fights for us in lands far away. Just so we can hold our heads high in spite of an enemy most of us have never faced. We can lift our faces to the east and know there are those who would give their lives that our and their traditions would continue to be observed.

So I will ride today. I will ride with resolve that I support those men and women in some small way. That my freedom bought so many times over by too often unheralded acts of will and determination over these generations is not forgotten. I write these words with tears in my eyes. For the traditions of our people and this freedom. For those who earned more than enough of it for us all. The dying of autumn, the numb cold of that winter six years ago. But always, always comes the Spring and rebirth.

This nation shall not be broken.

Roadbum

Opening the Medicine Cabinet At 10:00 PM

Its not that often I get headaches. Less often that I take anything for them. If a headache can mysteriously appear then it can just as mysteriously vanish. They fade away and you suddenly realize you can think clearly again. Whether it takes a day or a couple days, the one thing to be careful of is one's demeanor during the episode. Some people suffer migraines which could literally wipe them out physically. You can see it on their skin, the expressions of their faces. My mother, rest her soul, rode out more of those than I can remember.

While headaches are physical and painful maladies, there are other conditions which can leave us in similarly lethargic states. The absence of an addiction for instance. The loss of an opportunity to do something you really looked forward to is another. The only medicine seems to be to get back in the game. You won't feel "right" until you do.

It was in this state of mind that I found myself thinking about what ails and cures a person. I hadn't had a headache in a while but something somewhere must've triggered the thought. The house is near completion, the yard is passable and family is taken care of. My wife suggested it was time to take care of me.

I walked into the bathroom and looked at the guy staring back at me. A tired face. Not overworked but drained. The face of the guy I know morphed into the one who seven years ago fought cancer. I remember that face all too well. In those days I kept on breathing and staggering and puking and not giving up for the the people around me. My own fault I never take my own life seriously. Or of some special value. What kept me going in those days was that people wanted me around. They believed they needed me.

Something from the past fired into the present like a shot. Like a blazing bullet and it stung the image in the mirror right between the eyes. What is the worth of life if one does not relish in the living of it?

I'd made a promise somewhere in the suffering dying days of treatment. That if I were to live for a few months or past this, or to a full life beyond, that I was going to live dammit. That I wasn't going to be just another ant willingly subserviant to a groupthink hegemony.

I took that woman's advice at ten pm that night and got myself seriously lost on a scooter in central Minnesota. I headed west to start and had to head west to get home again once I regained my bearings. I rode with abandon. Not wild as a young kid with a need for speed, but as one whose mind is purposefully unencumbered. I regained myself in stages. The stars seem closer on nights like these.

I met a guy on a fly green chopper with Eddie from the metal band Iron Maiden airbrushed ripping through the paint. We talked about life for while. Then we rode on. The clock read three thirty when I finally brought the garage door down.

For whatever reason a ride brings me back to center. I'm a better person when I take the necessary time to be who I am. More useful to the people around me. Keith, riding his Vegas built chopper said he was glad to have met me. The depth of what we spoke about and the smile on his face, the weight which appeared to be sloughed off his shoulders, means I did something more than just ride that night. I helped someone who happened to need someone like me. I guess that's all that's really important.

If you have the right medecine, share it.

Roadbum

80% Rule Revisited

When you ride a motorcycle or scooter you learn you can operate the machine a few different ways. You can barrel through the turns at the edge of your capability with sweat popping out of your forehead and tingles running up and down your spine, or you can take another pace which puts you near the edge with options.

When I was younger I thought I was in high gear. I leaned her hard. My footpegs were sprung and I tapped them to the tarmac regularly. Sometimes I held the edge, playing with my life. The sparks I knew were rooster tailing on the dropped side a cool visual shower between the front and rear lights of the bike. People following my line told me so.

But every now and then that spooky moment would occur. Just a few pebbles in the path and the shimmy of death began. In that moment you either ham fisted it into the ditch or you instinctively relaxed and rode it out like a good dirt tracker. My parents insisted my first bike be an enduro and I learned it well. Still, I played too close to the edge for street use and bravado.

Over time I began experimenting with how I rode these wonderful beasts. Holding lines and pitching into the turns. How much countersteer seemed best when combined with different lean angles. I became smoother. I certainly felt more in control.

Then one day a man I knew, a collector of Nortons and Triumphs, spoke of something he called the 80% rule. Simply put, he said there was no reason for a street rider to flirt with disaster by riding to the limit of that rider's capabilities. He also spoke of the bikes breaking down less below eighty percent throttle and tach. He said you could hear a bike's preference if you just listened to the machine run.

In order for music to be played well, a musician adjusts against what the musician hears.

Somewhere above eighty percent throttle the natural pattern of engine sounds becomes jumbled. The notes in the engine's song as you ride seem as though the various sections of the orchestra are playing different rhythms. When the drums outpace the horns and the woodwinds can't suck enough air to keep up something's about to give.

If you're lucky, instruments in the mechanical band beneath you simply stop playing. There's a minor flash, an epiphany in the rhythm section as the bike dies a quick death and you roll to a stop. But what if the players articulate the tune and your own skill in conducting puts you two measures behind?

Allergando

You slow the tempo down. A more deliberate pace, a broader potential. Should a car cross the center line in a right hand sweeper you can flop the bike and move from the left third of the lane to the right third because you've given yourself at least twenty percent to work with in a dire moment. Its knowing a shortcut but not living by it.

In a world where all forms of inattentive driving can be encountered we have to take every advantage we can. Eighty percent throttle (or rpm's) lets our bikes run the way their designers meant them to. That remaining twenty percent usable throttle can make the difference in squirting out of a jam if need be. But we can only use that twenty percent if we leave ourselves the room to make it available.


A bene placido



Roadbum

The Eighty Percent Rule

In this day and age you find a lot of people concerned about their bikes and scooters breaking down on long rides. Day trips to extended tours. The reasons for asking how (or whether) the bikes will hold up comes from a great sea change in the attitude of what one needs to know to be a rider.

The early days of my riding experience still carried a measure of personal responsibility. It was expected that a rider knew a few things about his or her bike and carried a few essential tools to get out of a jam. The least you could get away with was a basic diagnostic understanding of what happened. Knowing that much, the average rider could keep derision at bay if another rider stopped to help at the side of the road.

But things have changed. The cell phone makes your favorite mechanic easily accessible. The bikes have changed. Even a good set of tools won't solve a problem in this age of computer controlled motorcycles. Your mechanic will simply plug his computer into another on your bike. A readout will explain just about everything he needs to know and the bike will more than likely be hauled off to a "repair center". You just can't fix em at the side of the road like they used to.

Granted the routine maintenance schedule is stretched so far that riders from thirty years ago would not believe it. Never mind the "walk around" most of us were taught to perform before we even kicked those old machines over.

At the heart of every motorcycle is an engine. It might be tuned with the aid of microprocessors but its still a spark, combustion and a mess of hard parts all working together which make these wonderfull steeds propel us in ways no other type of machine could.

But we must be mindfull how we ride. Failure of the rider or the bike spells disaster.

A greybeard passed his wisdom to me and its about time I did the same. Its kept me and several bikes alive for over twenty years.

"When you ride, don't ride at your limit. Whattayagonna do if you need a little extra an it ain't there? Keep it under 80% kid, and you'll live.

"When you ride that bike, you hear where it starts to sound different? It ain't meant to run at those rpm's for long, kid. Ride em too hard too long and you best have tools and spare parts with ya. Cause its gonna happen."

Advice from a sage. It applies now as it did then. Mechanical things which fail often give warning about being stressed. Knowing how a particular bike runs and listening to what its telling you, how its talking to you in its mechanical voice, can be a better conversation than the small talk at any social function.


The Eighty Percent Rule.



Harv

Past Meets Present

The early days of my riding experience involved people who were in social and emotional transition. From a youthful unencumbered outlook on life to an adult perspective. Often times those periods involved a great deal of uncertainty. Experimentation and far too often, failure.

We were connected by our love of motorcycles and the rides we took on them. The bikes were anything a rider could afford. The rides often began with a basic idea (head west) but no real destination. As much as we weren't sure where our rides might take us, most of us had no idea where our lives were headed.

You think you're special when you're young. That what you do is unique to your group of friends.

Gradually our lives found direction. Our rides became fewer as getting ahead in this world took precedence over wallowing in self contemplation. We were growing up. A few faded from the group while others stayed on. Occasionally a new rider would appear but never stay with us for long. Familiar faces long absent from the rides would return and it seemed that while life had changed us the rides were our constant. Sometimes someone's old girlfriend would return.

That could create a mess but that's all I'm going to say about that.

So we went on to school, got real jobs and moved all over the country. We found enduring relationships and still laugh about how damn lucky we are to have found her when we talk over the phone.

The past is gone, the memories remain.

Each year those memories get a little sweeter. Seem a little better than they really might have been. Try hopping on the same bike you did twenty years ago and you'll see what I mean. Walk down the same street you cruised in your youth. Its not the same. We inhabited that time in our lives. We can only visit those places and hope to see the old landmarks still in place.

But you can't talk to a building.

Its hard not to gravitate to the same kinds of folks you grew up with. You know where you fit in the mix. If you're lucky you meet someone who understands much of your own past on a level of personal experience. You find out that this guy rides and another connection is formed. So you go for a few rides. And then it happens. That... synchronized riding thing... I don't know what to call it. It just happens. You look over at your buddy and he's turning to you at the same moment and that freakin' grin is on his face. The same stupid one you know you're wearing. Its like the old days all over again.

The clincher is this isn't just about riding with someone you got to know and like. Its about riding with someone you feel safe riding with. Someone whose habits and style are like people you're familiar with. This friend of mine is great to ride with because most importantly I feel safe around this guy. Even when he's having a little fun I know how to react. Know what to expect.

The freedom to relax a little on the rides is what I remember from years past. To ride with someone else and be free to think about whatever crosses one's mind. Because I knew what to expect in the other's riding style. Its a freedom in itself to be able to predict the other's moves.

Maybe that's all the past I'll ever need in the present.

Harv

Rides and Friends

For years I've always thought about those guys with whom I've ridden in the past. We all seemed to live a harder lifestyle back then. It might have been what life foisted upon our shoulders, it could have been circumstances which left us thinking there were only so many choices. We all had our demons. Some survive, some are just memories now.

The Ride itself was an escape. Not unlike a drug, but better. We ran from ourselves, met one another on the road and kept on going. Without much needing to be said, we knew the basic plot lines of each man's book. The storylines ran similarly for every one of us. How we handled those demons was each rider's own problem. But when we were on the road we were together and yet completely alone.

It didn't matter what you rode, just that you rode. Each hour on the bike meant precious time to mull over a day or week's transgressions. Both your own and others' toward you. For some the miles seemed endless. Tortured souls trying to get it right, I suppose. Maybe I was one of them.

Others cleared their minds much quicker. Loose ends tied neatly without much fuss. They stayed with us on those rides. Maybe by their sheer presence they willed us to untie the knots which frustrated the rest of us in our own personal lives. Simple questions, simple answers. But to get from here to there, the place where the answer lies is one thing. To use that answer wisely is entirely another.

So the rides continued.

Gradually we rode away from our problems. We let them die. And when we did we were able to return. Not just from a day on the bikes, but to our emotionally more balanced selves. Because no matter how far away you go there is a place where you should park the bike and stay. Whether it be the old homestead you choose to see in a new light, or a new home you've never seen before. The ride itself was the way to get here from there.

I think about how those rides saved us. The way they let us run from ourselves and gave us the opportunity to return. If you've ever felt the anxiety of just... getting... on with the ride, the Let's get going already(!) and returned as one who found relief, you know what I'm talking about.

While I no longer suffer those states of mind and spirit, tonight's ride with a good friend over longer than the usual distances (of late) reminded me that I can still savor what those rides once were. This time without the tumultuous baggage I meant to sort through on them years ago.

Part one

Harv

On the Way To Eden Valley

There is a road which leads out of a small town just west of where I live. The name of the town is Avon and the road is a numbered highway. Highway 9. It leads to nowhere and everywhere. As far as I can tell it won't lead you to any place that would be considered a destination but wherever you're headed, this road is its own reward. These horses were eyeing me with suspicion. I don't think they'd ever seen Vespa before.



This photo is actually from the first set I took today. Its a poor composition (and lighting) but it gives an idea of the beauty of the areas I'm priveledged to ride. You can see that here in the central part of Minnesota we have vast tracts of open farmland. In the distance you see the forests.

There are sections of this trip (which I should have captured for you) where you ride through forests hanging over the road. Gnarled giants hold their arthritic limbs high overhead while you ride underneath, feeling like you want to scrunch down in your seat because there's an ominous feeling about them. They remind you of the kind of foreboding you felt reading good fairy tales as a child. And its hard to shake a Brothers Grimm fairytales feeling. Their whispers of apprehension in the middle of the story. On long stretches beneath a tattered tent of dark leaves and thick branches you can't help envisioning the memories casading over your "adult" thoughts. The slight tickle of fear that ran up and down your spine the first time reading them.

The road is dark and dropping away in steep decline. Sun behind angry clouds. There, on the right. If that crazy girl from the Grimm tales was ever to step out from the shadows it would be from behind those monstrous trees. But the canopy breaks up and you emerge near the bottom of the slope to open fields. More twists and turns and the memories of the fears of children is long gone.

The road rose and fell. It banked a lot harder than most of the roads I've been on around this area. Must be the lakes. The map show this region to be more blue than any other color. A sign the road would bend to nature's dictum. Glorious.

Suddenly, without any fanfare I'd found a back door to Eden Valley. It didn't look like much, but sometimes that's the beauty of these sleepy little places. Or it could be I simply arrived on the wrong side of town. I won't know until I ride back there again. Maybe tomorrow.

I saw a man on a scooter go by. But this thing was not like any I'd seen so I tracked him a little and we stopped. It turns out he bought a few Chinese models to sell and this was his last. It was interesting looking to say the least. But we spent time talking about history and the military. People of his generation have a wonderful way of weaving stories within stories. While the scenic beauty of the road to get here was incredible, it doesn't hold a candle to the people I meet on these rides.

I don't know what an Adley is, but its definitely one of the most unique looking scooters I've seen. I know what you're thinking. There are moments when you can bring up safety gear to a rider you just met, but this wasn't one of those times. And I'm pretty sure someone has given him that advice before. With greater freedom comes more choices. And more responsibility. It also demands a level of tolerance and respect in order to be true liberty. People know the gear is out there if they want it. Let them choose what they will and be who they are.

The ride back was just like the ride down, only in reverse. Maybe little faster paced ....

Roadbum

So What Do Motorists Really Think of Us?

Those of us who take riding seriously on any level wear our helmets. Some of us choose to wear them but not all the time. Helmets can and do save lives. More importantly, helmets in combination with the rest of the protective riding gear help to save lives and lessen serious injuries and recovery time.

But what do those folks in cars and trucks think when they see a person riding a two wheeler? How do they react to a rider wearing a helmet? How about riders not wearing helmets?

This question has plagued me for years. You see, I'm one of those riders whose attitude is focussed on being aware of your surroundings first and foremost. I rode for twenty years without a helmet. Never got into a scrape. I rode Milwaukee, Chicago and outlying areas in all kinds of weather. I firmly believed as I do now that anticipation and riding within one's ability is paramount. I'd seen generations of families who rode sans helmet. Rarely was there ever a crash. I can only think of one which involved a head injury and that person was drunk. Most often people wore leathers neck to feet and while you heard the occasional stories about people going down, a broken limb was about the worst of it.

I can hear people's teeth grinding as they read this.

STOP!

This is not about the usefulness of wearing helmets. This is about how we are percieved by non riding motorists we share the road with.

Not too long ago I decided to ride without my helmet. I did it for about a week or so. I discovered something truly odd. Something which stuck with me and made me ask all sorts of questions.

Why are people in cars and trucks behaving like this? Am I reading something into what I seem to be experiencing or not?

I told a few people what I'd been doing. Non riders acted like they had a say in the matter. Some riders really got mad at me for not wearing a helmet. Others considered what I said and actually made the connection I'm trying to make here. For you. I feel the last group of respondants were the most objective. Looking at this from the perspective of the average motorist, you start to get an idea of the safety risk catagories they choose to put us in by their perception of the situation.

In other words, when they see safety gear on a rider, their perception is more likely to be that the rider is safer to drive in closer proximity to. When they see a rider without safety gear they recognize, such as the ubiquitous helmet, they might think that rider is crazy and give the person more road space.

Think I'm the one whose crazy? Here's an honest to goodness study done bearing out the average perception of the non motorcycle riding motorist. These road tests were done in traffic. In situations with and without helmets. While the study was done with bicyclists in mind, I think this correlates perfectly to motorcyclists. Again, I'm not questioning the benefit of wearing helmets. I'm interested in how we are percieved and treated by non riding motorists we share the road with.

http://www.drianwalker.com/overtaking/overtakingprobrief.pdf

The above study was done to collect data about drivers who actually see the bicyclists they share the road with. Anticipating hazards and riding accordingly is still our, the riders' full responsibility.

One of the most potentially harmful situations we face while riding has more to do with whether we're seen by other motorists and how we're percieved by those motorists.

If they see you, will they "respect" your position on the road?

Does the gear you wear give them any reasons to choose whether or not to give you more riding space?

If they don't, are you prepared for it?

In general it seems people in cars and trucks think we don't belong on their roads. That we're crazy to be riding our motorcycles and scooters alongside them. And for some reason, they're willing to believe a mere helmet must mean that guy on the bike is safer than the one they saw earlier without a helmet. My experience seems to be in line with the above study. It would appear motorists equate a helmeted motorcyclist having enough protection that they (motorists) can drive into our legal space without worry. After all, that rider's helmet means they're safe and we can use a little of their space if we want to.

Scary.



Roadbum

If you ride a scooter, you might imagine your father having been like this guy above. If he rode, it must've been something. I mean he's your dad, right? We all try to see life being larger than it might have actually been for that wonderous generation before us.

Maybe your dad was a little more like this guy. A little edgy... maybe the type of father you're... more likely to be careful about what you say to him. It could be he's a nice and generous fellow but you question his choice of friends. The one with the glass eye the others seem to protect. The one who likes futuristic cars, a stiff drink and the hourglass figure.

Your dad and his friends might like to sing. Sort of like a barbershop quartet, but not. A barbershop quartet with taste. And "protection". You always wonder but you'll never ask. Truth be known, you don't want to know.

If your dad seems like a wiseguy sometimes, maybe you could say he is. Or was. But its better not to know. Don't follow the rumors. Trust me.

He's a lot older now. Slowed down. But that laugh. How can you stand there with a straight face when the old man cracks one off. His sense of humor is definitely intact. Even if his joints sometimes ache and he's more careful than he used to be. He's still got guts though. At seventy he took up riding motorcycles. The last time he did that, he was in Germany over fifty years ago.

My father arrived here on Valentine's Day 1957. Like millions of immigrants before and after, his first sight was of that fair lady holding the torch by whose light and words the invitation rang out across the world. Just as it does today. He settled in Chicago on the south east side. As was the custom you blend into the society you join. The stories abound although he himself will not give me details. There are some things he might say but they're not connected to anything... if you know what I mean.

So now he's a retired widower with enough to keep himself busy. Volunteer work at the same hospital my wife works at. He likes to make himself little wood and metal projects. A journeyman blacksmith by trade (Grampa ran a very successful horse operation the war had great effect upon) my dad can make things in ways that are hard to describe. I wish he did more of it.

But he seems to be spending time riding. (I wonder where he got that idea from?) Here he is with his '07 Genuine Buddy 125.

Its taken him a long time to learn/come to grips with, some of the basics in riding. Vast improvements have come within the last month or so. Lots of miles and a change in attitude about riding overall. He sees it as fun but I now sense the same seriousness about it in him that I have. A good balance.

My dad is more like the guy in the second picture. How much more I don't want to know. Chicago is far away except for the family get togethers. Most of the guys he knew are moving on, so to speak. I think my father has a kind of freedom they don't. Or didn't...

Its fun to ride with yer old man now and again. Just don't ask... certain questions.

Roadbum

Midnight Rider

You know its late when the truck stops are quiet. Its the type of ride I'm famous for. Getting out there when everyone else has gone to bed. The roads are more peaceful and I spend more of it watching out for the nocturnal animals. Its the ride I genuinely prefer.

Its especially nice on clear nights. The stars are bright and the breeze has a little bite to it. You tend to feel more awake on these types of midnight rides. The humidity settles on things at rest. After a warm day its refreshing.

When my wife and I first met we took long rides after band rehersal (yes, I met my wife while in a band) which would sometimes last all night. We rode the Milwaukee area and one of our favorite things to do was watch the sunrise over Lake Michigan at the McKinley Marina.

Predawn and the lake is still as glass. The sky takes on mottled blue and pink hues. The air remains calm until the sun breaks through a distant wall of thick clouds which always settle on the eastern horizon, just above the quiet waters. Then, the sunrise.

When it happens its a brilliant display of hot rays of color spraying up over the cloudbank. They break through the edges of billowy vapor in streams but the water remains calm. Once our personal star comes into view in vivid reds and yellows its a matter of time until that first wave of air moves across the Lake's surface to greet us. A breeze that feels like the sun itself has released its first deep breath of the morning. I miss it. Granted I now live in the land of ten thousand little lakes but its not the same. I guess I can vist but as they say, you can never go back.

I still have the need to ride in the dark hours. Not as much as in my youth but every once in a while. I make no pretense about choosing to never completely grow up.

So it is that The Night and I still know each other. An old acquaintance. While the hustle of daylight sparks sleepyheads to clog their lives with getting places en masse, these hours are for the contemplative few. And the occasional drunk, lost and contemplating something else to himself.

The hours past bar closing and dawn are for the few of us who don't need the banter of talk on the am dial. Or music of any era or style. The sound of an engine. Wind trying to find its way under a helmet are enough... Medication.

Not so much as in my youth when my only responsibilityies were the rent and insurance, but enough not to lose myself. These midnight rides bring me back to center. My quiet time.

Its the lake house for some. A day at the ballpark for others. The hunt or a well written tome. It could be a garden or a visit to the museum, we all need to have it. A thing we engage in which somehow seems to settle our spirits.

For some its the unwinding slipstream after work. Others dissappear off into the hillside, the drone of their motorcycles leaving that fading sinking hum until even that note evaporates from our senses.

Its what we do. We don't ride to become something, we already are. We merely choose the vehicle and the hour.

Midnight rider

Roadbum

When It All Comes Together

This picture could not have happened were it not for the vision of one man. The leader of our pack of two wheeled gypsies, St Cloud Scoots. Even though its out of order chronologically, it just seems to belong at the beginning.

Lucky (Jeramiah Pearce) was looking for ways to get involved in the community through the club. He had the idea that we could do something to benefit those in need. I believe this thought had been fomenting in his mind for a while before he commented that he and Chauncy (Tom Fritz) had been tossing ideas of benefit scooter runs around.

Some time last year the three of us were talking about directions the club might go. We knew we could grow, even in this little college town. The price of gas could almost insure people buying scooters. And looking for reasons to ride with other scooterists is why Lucky started the club in the first place.

I think we really started bantering about charity rides sometime in the fall. We were planning our Double Dog Dare Ya ride for the the first weekend in January and naturally the ride plans for the summer season came up. Were we going to set up in town and countryside rides or have a bigger vision for the club.

I'll be honest with you, I thought the basic idea of riding with other scooterists would be a pretty big deal in itself. Especially as an actual club. But Lucky, bless 'im, had bigger and better ideas.

Before long Chauncy was talking with Lucky. Then Lucky was talking to me. Quite often our schedules meant we were relating earlier conversations with one or the other, with the third. Lucky pushed us along to get things accomplished and before long things started taking shape.

Everyone getting ready to ride.

It all came together today. An ad in the local paper and support from Scooterville of Minneapolis, Corazzo scooter clothiers, St Cloud Suzuki and The Meeting Grounds coffee shop and all around scooter trash hangout joint. You are the folks who made our club and guests feel welcome by the gifts you gave us that we passed on to them. If you coulda seen the smiles at the raffle...

Oh wait! Yes you can! haha

The ride was about forty five miles. Through some beautiful hilly and just lush with shades of green, midwestern countryside. A few came on 50's so we kept the pace at about thirty two mph. Boy did people stare as our scooter caravan went by. Some waved, some smiled and other did the obligatory double take.

We couldn't thank people enough for the donations to the food shelf. The ride, well, icing on the cake. Scoot for a cause, eh?

The Roadbum

Something different

So the weather got a little strange up here in the northern central Midwest. Then a few calls trickled in. Duties I enjoy are calling when the seasons are ripe for them. You see, I'm very much into the sport of shooting. Its a discipline like any other but in its own right more of a matter of achieving as close to a perfect stillness in a very small moment of time.

So you pull the trigger and the "gun" goes boom. Bigger gun equals bigger boom equals more fun, right? Wrong.

The shooting sports, no matter what aspect of the discipline you choose to be involved in, is only about one thing: Accuracy. It applies to paper targets, silhouettes, field target, ten meter, hunting and culling. If your reason for picking up any rifle, pistol or shotgun isn't becoming more a more accurate shooter then firearms aren't what you ought to be involved in.

Some folks like the big boom firearms make. The bigger the boom the more they feel like the alpha. What they always seem to forget (maybe they never knew because they really aren't alphas) is what makes the alpha the alpha is equally about power as it is about control. What's the point of the first without the second?

Some people would like others to believe power and control are the same thing, but the discipline of shooting firearms [well] neatly separates the two concepts to their rightful designations. The firearm has the power, the shooter learns to control that power.

There is a certain elegance in using the least amount of energy to accomplish a given task. We call it conservation. Its actually a lot of fun to find the best way to do things with the least amount of expended effort, whether it be by machine or human activity.

Its this thought process that led me in a new direction from shooting firearms to shooting precision airguns. I found the difficulty of training to be equal and yet much more enjoyable and available to my circumstances. Well okay, I can shoot what I want any time I want because I own a farm, have public ranges nearby and have many thousands of acres at my disposal throughout the year. So what made me choose precision airguns if I can target shoot, hunt or cull when I feel like it?

Air rifles and pistols like the ones I own are fine European designs. They have match grade barrels and multi adjustable triggers. I have a rifle I once rested which produced a five shot group that fit under the diameter of half a dime at thirty yards. I've come close to that many times but that's the best I've done with my HW77K. When you can shoot a rifle not louder than clapping one's hands, takes high grade pellets at under ten dollars for five hundred pellets, doesn't send an errant shot a mile and a half towards the horizon and takes critters up to gophers with the same pinpoint accuracy as firearms, its a lesson in the elegance of the conservation of energy. Accuracy reigns supreme. Control should always have the utmost influence over raw power.

Does that mean I gave up shooting my 7.5x55 Swiss made K31? The offspring of the venerable and insanely accurate Schmidt Rubin? Hardly. By the training these airguns allow me I can tell you that straight pull bolt and honest to goodness Swiss watch predictable two stage trigger are that much sweeter because of the ability to transfer what I learned from the massive amount of time I could spend shooting the air rifles as in a sense, preparation for the larger arms I use.

To be honest the big boom is just not that exiting compared to the sublime experience of shooting a precision air rifle. Its somewhat a matter of scale. Once a shooter understands [that] then the limited range and scaled down hunting experience of .177-.25 caliber air rifles becomes the better experience. Of course there are air rifles in the 308, 50 and 20mm calibers also, if you still need that big boom to satisfy your tastes.

In case there are some doubters about the accuracy and capability of air rifles these days, here's a little link to confirm that Daisys and Wally World Gamos are not the only airguns in town. If you go about half way down the replies to Cecil you'll see my friend Gunny Ric Douglas posts a video of yours truly taking one of the first shots of this rifle when it was still a prototype. Bob Dean is the creator and the barrel is off an F-16. Watch closely as the recoil ripples across me and literally draws me off my stance. This rifle has more recoil than my K31, which incidentally, has a steel butt plate.

http://www.network54.com/Forum/79537/thread/1180402822/20+mm+canon--kicked+in+face

I can say I've fired some pretty wild stuff. Both in firearms and airguns. By far the fun ( for me)resides in the conservation of energy attributed to the air powered arms. I've taken English sparrows out to ninety yards with a Paul Watts ADV tuned R11 in the "lowly' airgun caliber of .177. That's one morning I won't soon forget. Kind of a zen situation. Most often the ranges are between thirty and fifty yards. Sometimes more but not less as I prefer a little distance betwixt me and the targets.

So how does this correlate to anything having to do with scooters? When you develop a broad experience in a certain area you tend to gravitate toward "poles" even though the thing for all intents and purposes seems benign and pretty basic. Like riding two wheels with an engine driving them. We sometimes divide ourselves based upon the images of power versus what we truly want. If we seek the image of being powerful its most likely someone else is setting the ground rules for what is accepted as powerful. And some will seek to have that which gives them that appearance.

On the other hand those of us who prefer to determine our own standards possess something we never sought. Ironically, if you're looking for it you may never find it.

Roadbum

For Cody

Today, Sunday, turned out to be a bust for Gary and I to ride. My wife was on call at the hospital this weekend and had a boatload of patients. By the time she was able to get home the hour was already much later than we had anticipated. So this very short post is for my friend Cody whose heroic career is firefighting. Its rare enough to see the boats Gary and I had the chance to find but even more rare is the sight of this vintage fire engine.

When you ride up to the lot the first thing you see are the boats. Some small and others enormous. They take in your attention immediately. Its not often one can find a shop dedicated to the wood finishing of historic sea going vessels. Even less so to find a company handling the complete restoration of them. The shop itself is dwarfed by the size of of quite a few in the yard. What's amazing is these boats are located quite a distance from any water capable of supporting their size. I would love to see how they got there in the first place. You would have to use semis for many of them. I can't think of another way.

You're thinking of all these huge wooden boats. That's where your focus is until you realize the only thing on the lot is partially hidden by a fairly young tree and a very modern aluminum fishing boat up for sale.

There at the center of the small plot of grass centered in the front of everything is an incredible machine. I couldn't date it. I'll estimate thirties to forties (how's that for a broad guess?). As far as I could tell this engine still has about everything it came with when it was in use. What caught my eye about this old workhorse is the fact is a ragtop. A convertible. If you look closely you'll see it. Just click on the picture and enjoy.

Cody, this one's for you, bud.

Roadbum

Its Just a Wooden Boat

Gary and I had been thinking about riding together. Some way or another we were going to meet, ride and talk scooters. The thing that held us back was the fact Gar' was having trouble getting lined up with his Vespa. Then he pulled the trigger. If you haven't seen one of these bad boy GTS's in the vintage red, All I can say is the color works. The damn thing looks alive.

We set out on the east river road toward the shop which restores the larger wooden boats I wrote about in a previous blog.

You roll along beside the river. A row of homes between you and the slow moving waters. The two lane snakes under overhanging trees and past hobby farms. There's a stable of some wealth along the way. Some day I'm going to stop there and see what there is to see there. The place seems just right nestled in between homes lounging beside the Mississippi on their outstretched lots. In a few places they were closely knit, like small seaside towns. Little buildings jostling for a few more feet of space. Everyone likes to be on The River.

But we were here for the ride and a destination. The wooden boat restoration shop.

When we got there Gary was surprised. Just as I was the first time I'd seen it. A half moon of incredible pieces of floating history, beached for now, with restoration in their futures and a chance to sail again someday.

I was still taking in the view when Gary motioned me to guide my bike into a certain angle. From there it was all about looking for the framework to catch the big boats in their glory. To find glimpses of the ghosts still aboard these vessels.

You see, when you look at pieces of history, tools of another era, you sometimes tend to imagine the people of the time, around them. You can picture what someone might be doing, or the kinds of people who might have been sightseeing aboard these boats so long ago. You wonder about the people who built the boats and the ones who were on them.

The last set of pictures Gary snapped were of an almost overlooked fire engine from the thirties or forties. A beautiful original condition machine with an honest to goodness ragtop. A convertible fire truck!

It was time to move on. We rode back down the east river road from the boat restoration shop on the outskirts of the town of Rice to St. Joseph where we finally had a bit to eat. I'll let Gary cover that for you. Its his specialty.

But the ride. To me its what its all about. The weaving lanes beside the river or past Minnesota lakes. Through farmland and pastures and little towns whose church steeples break up the green skyline horizon. Its always been the ride.

Roadbum

I know its blurry but I had to get something up here to see if I could finally get this to work. The plate says BKOFF and the sticker (for Bill) says "Don't Hold Strong Opinions About Things You Don't Understand".

I've actually got two of those plates from good ol' Wisconsin and have applied for the same here in Minnesota. You could say its the final piece of the puzzle set in place to make this place home to me.

The plate resided on the Virago and the sticker is on the Sportster. This year marks twenty years of owning the Yamaha and fourteen for the Sporty.

I'm telling you now, my pictures will never be of the quality of any other blogs you might read. But they may, to some degree, help get an idea across. I guess we'll just have to see.

Roadbum

Two Sides of the Same Coin, Vespa's the Edge

Heads (Part two)

There are few situations in life that can't change in an instant. Its a matter of creativity and resolve not to accept defeat in order to make some things happen. Most of all its a matter of being prepared to change course in mid stream. One has to set in mind beforehand that there are more options than might seem apparent at first glance. Creative people persevere in order to succeed.

A bit of rest and good time with my family set my mind at ease after the trek to Minneapolis. A call the next day filled the cup of cheer to the brim.

I put the word out per our club's website that I was interested in a local ride. A jaunt into the hills surrounding St. Cloud. No sooner had I put up the post than a call came from a friend. A member of our local scooter club, St. Cloud Scoots. He mentioned taking a spin out to Rice.

Now Rice is your average nondescript country town. Its got all the local color one would expect, but its also got a few surprises. The first surprise was a new way to get there.

I'd always taken the west river road. A meandering path along the Mississippi with some calm switchbacks but nothing outstanding for the average rider. This is the route I thought my friend had planned for that evening. I was off by slightly more than the width of a river.

Chauncy was in the lead but he wasn't going where I thought he would. We crossed the river by the paper mill and turned left. I'd been down this road a long time ago. I still thought I knew what old Chaunc' had in mind.

Its good to be wrong sometimes.

Suddenly his left directional started blinking. Where was he going? We crossed the tracks and almost immediately leaned into a sweeping bend. The speed limit was thirty five miles per hour. Better yet, I couldn't see far ahead for all the twists this road was presenting me. This was already better than the west side river road. How long would this kind of fun last?

The road went on and on this way. I never looked at my odometer because one tends to forget about those sorts of things when one is having fun. The road drew us along with ancient trees hanging over it. There were classic river homes on either side, well cared for with deep yards and too many scenic views to take in all at once. Late afternoon sun shimmering on water's surface. You kept seeing the Old Man behind the homes to the left, his waters lazily sauntering south. No hurry.

These were the moments when I would risk a glance on a path I'd never been before. One eye on the scooter ahead and the other trying to capture the images around me.

The first time you travel such roads, your passage takes on a timeless effect. You're so deeply in the moment it could take minutes or an hour but it doesn't matter. You're here. Now.

We hit some straighter stretches where the speed limit opened up to fifty five. Perfect timing to uncoil the body and the bikes. Then around a sharp left ending in a sloping bridge back over the Mississippi. We climbed again and the turns took on the same pattern they had at the beginning of this adventure. One last long straightaway took us into the town of Rice. At the (only?) stop sign Chauncy said he wanted to show me something. All I could respond with was "Lead the way." We crossed the tracks which were now beside us and he pulled into a strange lot.

Have you ever seen a place where they restore old, wooden boats? I mean the types of boats which live their lives on a Great Lake? These were of ocean worthy size. Huge dark mammoths whose hulls were stripped of color. Only the long planks of wood were seen on all but a few. One especially long seafarer reminded me of Kipling's Captains Courageous. Who knows, it could have been there. The whole lot, several acres worth, was lined with landlocked travellers waiting their turn at the hands of master woodworkers. Rows of them.

After being awestruck by the eastern river road and then blown away by the boat restoration company, we stopped for coffee and a little break off the bikes. Then it was time to turn back for one more pass down that lane again.

Had to watch that speedometer a little more closely now. I guess you could say I got a little too enthusiastic at times, a little accelerbratory.

Roadbum

Two Sides of the Same Coin, Vespa's the Edge

Tails (part one)

Like the distance the east is from the west, the only separation lies in the perspective of the individual staring at the sky. Its only the human element, standing on terra firma, who can look to the horizons and say one direction is east and one direction is west. Then it can only be what we ourselves call something which determines its value.

Plans that had gone awry as they sometimes do, gave me a reason to become creative with the use of my time. The LX has a small issue which could potentially become a large one. I've been thinking about when I would be able to get the bike down to Motoprimo to have it looked at and evaluated. I thought about riding to the twin cities from the sleepy little town I live in.

The direct route is I94. An hour and a half by car. I wasn't going by car, I was taking the bike. Mapquest for a start, then on to the good old fashioned Atlas of Enormous Size. This thing equates in size to an adult the way laying the family Bible on the lap of a two year old for that oh so cute photo to go in the family album. Huge.

I found a circuitous route and told my wife my plans. I hugged and kissed the family and headed out. A chilly morning but bright and inviting. It felt good to know I'd be riding some distance for a change.

I crossed a few small towns along the way. The freeway always beside me, never straying from view for very long. Finally the path bent south. Highway 101 at last. A long stretch but from what I'd remembered, a higher speed loping along kind of road.

Not so this time. 101 was under construction. Miles and miles of switchback arrow signs. More traffic than I ever remembered. To top it off, twenty to thirty mph winds were from the east and they were raising this country main thoroughfare higher than the rest of the landscape. The speed limit signs said 50 mph and were summarily disregarded by everyone. Mack trucks hauled stuff and the wind whipped some of it over everyone behind them. This leg of the trip couldn't be over soon enough.

A left on highway 81 made things much better. About a fifth of the mount of road construction here and very little traffic. Here again they seemed to be raising the roadway on places for some reason.

In Robbinsdale I found a little solace. I lived in north Minneapolis not that long ago. The Vespa followed the parkway to the little home I had on 44Th and Morgan. The area looks the same. Quieter than the reputation this side of town carries. Briefly onto Lyndale, a swoop over the River and the freeway, through the industrial area and into the city proper. I caught another parkway to the heart of Minneapolis and dodged my way south and east until I hit my destination.

I love the folks at Motoprimo. They'll remember you even if you've only been there once. And they'll do what they can to take care of you. The guys took pics of the transmission (CVT belt) cover and told me they'd do their best. I know they will.

I made one more stop at an old friend's store. He just laughed when he saw how I'd come down from St. Cloud. I turned Kythera toward home.

I've lived in or on the edge of metropolitan areas all my life but the street pattern of the twin cities befuddles me. I grew up riding Milwaukee and a bit of south Chicago (Calumet Park area). These are no small towns but I could navigate them even with a few wrong turns and still get back with a smile on my face. I have never been able to relax on Minneapolis streets.

The way out of town was nothing but stop and go traffic. I caught rush hour. More traffic, more people jockeying for lane position and more of everything that gets on the nerves of every commuter. By the time I made it out to 101, the five o'clock surge was pressing everyone even tighter together. Two lanes in both directions stuffed to the gills with people racing to get anywhere but here.

I was tense. Not that the actual riding conditions presented any issues, but I'm not fond of riding in so much blessed traffic.

I hit 39 and things eased a little. Once I was back on 75, things were almost quiet again. The tension released a little but not enough. I had to finish this ride in order to refresh my senses. A cooling down period.

When you don't do it often, riding through a city the size of Minneapolis and its western suburbs during rush hour can feel like some demented autobahn wannabe blitzkrieg. You would think by watching the cars that everyone hits the gas and brakes with the same voracity.

I would have been a wreck had I been in a car for that trip. For as much of a nerve wracking ride the return became, I was glad to be riding that Vespa. The coin may flip tails, but you still have to play the game to win.

Roadbum

Motoprimo

Just a quick note to anyone in the twin cities area. I'll be heading from here in Sartell to Motoprimo in Minneapolis in just a few minutes. I don't really have a clear route in mind but I'll get there. I have a little "issue" with a crack which has developed at an unusual place on the tranny cover. No, not from kick starting but further back. The bike is still under warrantee so...

I'll get back and reply to stuff and check all the new inspiring blogs when I return. This could be a short distance all day-er.

Be well, ride hard and ride happy.

If I could get the Vespa on the Harley this trip could be done alot quicker haha.

Roadbum

Three Quarters to Happy (addendum at bottom and noted)

Things have been busy around here. Opportunities to ride have been few. I spend a lot of time thinking about the rides. Places to go, my neighbor's new Moto Guzzi Grizo (sp?). On a whim my wife bought me one of those ultra cheap tire changers from Harbor Freight or something. The Vespa needs a new rear skin.

Following Vanslam's excellent video I got the tire off the bike and off the rim. Half the job right there. I even managed to use the tool to get one side of the new tire under the rim again. Now we're at three quarters. But bless it, I cannot for the life of me get the last bead inside the rim.

OK, its Sunday so I should be able to play with it, right?

My wife's birthday is tax day. That's right, today is her birthday. I have the time to write this because she's at the hospital and won't be here until sometime around noon. That's the plan anyway.

So here I sit. Vespa resting on its front tire waiting for the rear. I suppose I could take the Harley out but I really don't feel like riding that one today. Annette enjoys hanging out behind me but I really was hoping to take a spin with both of us on separate machines.

I have to say I got further than I thought I would with that tire changer from the catalogue. But I didn't finish the job and that really bugs me. I may try again this evening. If I can't get it by tomorrow morning I'll take it to a local shop.

Tube tires were much easier.

(addendum)

I took a nap yesterday afternoon. The in laws came over and they all went for a little stroll in the neighborhood. My wife woke me to tell me my father in law had seen where I was on the tire and decided to help. He got the thing on pretty much the way I was working it but the guy is easily twice my size. Suffice it to be said Al won that battle haha.

Annette and I celebrated her birthday with a little trip to the mall and then to a restaurant called the Stone House tavern and eatery in a little town named St. Joseph. The waitress handed us a card which read... Scooter Wednesdays along with the dates 6/13, 7/11, 8/8 and 9/12.

I know what you're thinking. Could there be so many scooterists in the St. Cloud Minnesota area that a restaurant would hold a night of discount food and live music for them? Some of you already know the answer. Naturally its for motorcyclists but I've had good reception with the bikers met on the road in that area. And I do own a Harley if I really felt the need. Still, its a prospect which deserves further inquest.

After the good food we caught the film Wild Hogs (or is it Hog Wild?). This is a truly funny movie. It does a fine job defining what real enthusiasts are looking for and the words come from the cameo appearance by the biker's film godfather himself, Peter Fonda. It made me laugh for the truisms that define a part of our riding culture. There's a satisfaction in how the movie wraps up. Hard not to like this picture.

Home fairly late I decided to wait until this morning to finish up. The tire was inflated at the local Shell station and reassembly was completed about thirty minutes ago. I am very happy with how things turned out. Although I'm the kind of guy whose first attempts warrant concern because I usually manage to botch something, I think I did pretty well.

But the best part came just after discovering my father in law had helped me out. That made my day. Just as incredible was the phone call not minutes later. It was our own Gary Charpentier calling to see where I was at and if I needed help.

What's so amazing is that Gary was ready to come up to my place all the way from St Paul! Just to help a fellow rider see his way to getting back on the road. How incredible is that! Scooterists and riding enthusiasts in general seem to have their own code. We will do what we can to help each other out. This time it was my turn to receive and I did, in a very big way. From the unexpected help from Al all the way to Gary's offer. From a call just a bit ago from our local scooter club's own Chauncy. From Combat Scoot John and some good ideas from my dear old dad.

I owe you all thanks and you have my gratitude. Let's all hope I jiggled this thing together right haha.

Roadbum