Healing hands, paint and tires
Yield. Watch out for cross traffic. Seems these words have had a greater affect on me than I thought. That intersection meeting has been in my dreams for Pete's sake. Its the incident which actually made me beg away from that weeklong ride. For the time being anyway.
I'm not done yet. I'll make that trek this summer, I just don't know how or when. I can't let go of the images of the state I grew up in, the way they build the roads there. Its like some kind of drug the way they snake you through forests and the distinctly European homesteads. Hypnotic.
The hands are much much better. The paint, well, that's another story. This bike earned its first scratch without me being on it when it happened. I picked up some matching touch-up from Vespa Kansas city (Thank you guys!) and proceeded to do a gum up job on an otherwise pristine scooter. In nearly twenty years this is the first observable mark on one of my bikes. Long scratches down the left cowl below the seat. My "temporary" fix didn't help the appearance other than to keep it from rusting. I bought a small can of clear coat. Honestly, I don't know if that will make it look better or worse.
Kythera's new front tire showed up yesterday. I had a hard time finding another Pirelli so I went with a brand recommended by a poster on Modern Vespa who goes by the name Dongoose. He spoke highly of them more than once. I had to give them a shot. Although the scooter won't need a new skin up front for a bit yet, this Heidenau K58 looks like a very aggressive rain tire. I'm looking forward to seeing how this one handles and wears.
So this is where I'm at. Itching to put miles of smiles between me and this suburban home life again. To pour myself into the concentration of the road ahead of me while basking under a late summer midwestern sky. For days at a time. It crawls up your spine, you know what I mean? It pulls at your stoic family man discriminations, making you think of ways to inject a different kind of life into your veins. One you used to know so well. One I used to know so well.
Hot rubber compound on a road far from home. A body which needs more stretch breaks at the end of each day than at the beginning. You stopped but you feel like you're still moving. Biker butt.
Summer doesn't last forever.
Harv
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Monday, July 07, 2008
Skin Reactions, Scooters That Fall Over, Window Pillars and Bad Omens
Have you ever fallen victim to not listening to that quiet voice whispering to you behind your thoughts?
It started roughly a week ago. I'd laid some fertilizer down. Scratch that, I laid a multitude of lawn care items down. My hands were in the granules as the spreader wasn't working as it should. Shortly after my skin started peeling. It didn't stop. Layers of flesh started drying revealing very pink and irritable skin underneath. Then they started to crack when I stretched my hands. I could stretch my fingers apart and watch the dried skin break open and bleed. From my hands to the base of my wrists. They hurt pretty bad and no ointment seemed to alleviate the constant itching. I wouldn't call it pain though. Pain is what I had when I went through testicular cancer. Now that was pain. They removed the "left one" by cutting a slit wide enough so it could pass through me in my lower abdomen. The slit went all the way to you know where and they pulled that sucker through from the inside where it popped out where the incision began. You know how you can stick your finger in your mouth and if you pull it out you get that popping sound. They told me that's the sound it made. Like popping a cork. That was pain. The three cycles of chemo afterward. Thinking death would be a relief if I had to go through a fourth. That was pain. This hand deal, pff...
Life went on. Then the Vespa fell on its side on a tar snake outside my dad's rented garage. I wasn't five feet from it when it sunk into the hot patch. I couldn't reach it. Plunk! On its side. The left rear panel has some nifty long vertical scratches now and the handlebar was a little off until just a few minutes ago. A little touch up paint to keep her from rusting for the time being. I'm also waiting on a new front tire. Eleven inch Pirelli's seem to be out of stock everywhere so I followed a little advice from a guy on the Modern Vespa site and ordered a brand I'd never heard of before. They're from a German comapny called Heidenau. I wanted a spare front along with me since I've just replace the ten inch rear tire. I tend to ride spirited and go through tires a little quicker than what seems to be the average. The trip I was going to take this week would have inspired some meandering through Wisconsin. From Lacrosse to Reedsburg then down to the southwest corner of the state to catch the Great River Road and take it up past Hudson.
How can a rider not veer off the path to explore in a state that nearly begs one to, what with its impressive sweeping country two-lanes?
Having the front spare would at the very least have been prudent if not necessary. I know that state. I know I can't resist those roads. Sirens of beauty and inspiration. Seldom straight or flat. I would wait for the tire.
But this weekend was the fourth. A time spend with family up at the lake. I was told to bring the boat.
Now you all know its harder to stop car or truck with a huge mass attached behind it. I came home on the back roads. At each intersection I let off the gas and coasted to the stop sign. From a speed of about fifty to a crawl.
Now here's where the caviat comes into play. And I can see this happening much more often now that I think I understand it.
Any other vehicle crossing that interstection would maintain the speed limit which is fifty five. They have the right of way. They need not slow as they have no stop sign. Only the people crossing my way or opposite of me have the stop sign.
So I come to a stop. There's no one that I can see in either direction. Remember that I've been rolling to a gentle stop with a sizeable boat hitched to my petard. Pick up truck, similar sized boat. I go slow, got it?
I'm about to go when I see this guy puttering across the intersection with his broad on the back. Some sad looking UJM turned cruiser and this idiot was matching me for speed to hide right out of my view by the truck's window pillar. I mean this fool had to be slowing down at exactly the same rate I was in order for me not to have seen him until the moment I took my foot off the brake.
Had I hit the man, it would have been my fault by the books. The reality is his lane placement and how he chose to enter the intersection had more to do with his nearly becoming the grease spot.
Had he ridden toward the intersection in such a way as to maintain a view of my upper body in that truck, guess what. I would not have thought about Depends undergarments as my foot stomped the brake back into the carpet.
So I learned a new lesson. I'll keep my compadres at the intersections in my fullest view so that they might see me better than the nutcork who almost became my hood ornament this weekend.
Three for three. I'm not leaving the state on two wheels this week. That's certain.
Harv
Have you ever fallen victim to not listening to that quiet voice whispering to you behind your thoughts?
It started roughly a week ago. I'd laid some fertilizer down. Scratch that, I laid a multitude of lawn care items down. My hands were in the granules as the spreader wasn't working as it should. Shortly after my skin started peeling. It didn't stop. Layers of flesh started drying revealing very pink and irritable skin underneath. Then they started to crack when I stretched my hands. I could stretch my fingers apart and watch the dried skin break open and bleed. From my hands to the base of my wrists. They hurt pretty bad and no ointment seemed to alleviate the constant itching. I wouldn't call it pain though. Pain is what I had when I went through testicular cancer. Now that was pain. They removed the "left one" by cutting a slit wide enough so it could pass through me in my lower abdomen. The slit went all the way to you know where and they pulled that sucker through from the inside where it popped out where the incision began. You know how you can stick your finger in your mouth and if you pull it out you get that popping sound. They told me that's the sound it made. Like popping a cork. That was pain. The three cycles of chemo afterward. Thinking death would be a relief if I had to go through a fourth. That was pain. This hand deal, pff...
Life went on. Then the Vespa fell on its side on a tar snake outside my dad's rented garage. I wasn't five feet from it when it sunk into the hot patch. I couldn't reach it. Plunk! On its side. The left rear panel has some nifty long vertical scratches now and the handlebar was a little off until just a few minutes ago. A little touch up paint to keep her from rusting for the time being. I'm also waiting on a new front tire. Eleven inch Pirelli's seem to be out of stock everywhere so I followed a little advice from a guy on the Modern Vespa site and ordered a brand I'd never heard of before. They're from a German comapny called Heidenau. I wanted a spare front along with me since I've just replace the ten inch rear tire. I tend to ride spirited and go through tires a little quicker than what seems to be the average. The trip I was going to take this week would have inspired some meandering through Wisconsin. From Lacrosse to Reedsburg then down to the southwest corner of the state to catch the Great River Road and take it up past Hudson.
How can a rider not veer off the path to explore in a state that nearly begs one to, what with its impressive sweeping country two-lanes?
Having the front spare would at the very least have been prudent if not necessary. I know that state. I know I can't resist those roads. Sirens of beauty and inspiration. Seldom straight or flat. I would wait for the tire.
But this weekend was the fourth. A time spend with family up at the lake. I was told to bring the boat.
Now you all know its harder to stop car or truck with a huge mass attached behind it. I came home on the back roads. At each intersection I let off the gas and coasted to the stop sign. From a speed of about fifty to a crawl.
Now here's where the caviat comes into play. And I can see this happening much more often now that I think I understand it.
Any other vehicle crossing that interstection would maintain the speed limit which is fifty five. They have the right of way. They need not slow as they have no stop sign. Only the people crossing my way or opposite of me have the stop sign.
So I come to a stop. There's no one that I can see in either direction. Remember that I've been rolling to a gentle stop with a sizeable boat hitched to my petard. Pick up truck, similar sized boat. I go slow, got it?
I'm about to go when I see this guy puttering across the intersection with his broad on the back. Some sad looking UJM turned cruiser and this idiot was matching me for speed to hide right out of my view by the truck's window pillar. I mean this fool had to be slowing down at exactly the same rate I was in order for me not to have seen him until the moment I took my foot off the brake.
Had I hit the man, it would have been my fault by the books. The reality is his lane placement and how he chose to enter the intersection had more to do with his nearly becoming the grease spot.
Had he ridden toward the intersection in such a way as to maintain a view of my upper body in that truck, guess what. I would not have thought about Depends undergarments as my foot stomped the brake back into the carpet.
So I learned a new lesson. I'll keep my compadres at the intersections in my fullest view so that they might see me better than the nutcork who almost became my hood ornament this weekend.
Three for three. I'm not leaving the state on two wheels this week. That's certain.
Harv
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Riding with the Old Man
Its been about two years since my father got into scooters. He's going to be 72 this year and a lot has happened in his life during that time. He started out with a TN'G Venice. A 50cc two stroke buzzer which could hit an amazing 45 mph. Since most 50cc scooters are regulated to go no more than 30 mph, I think that's pretty impressive.
More importantly, his health became a major issue a little over a year ago. He'd had bypass surgery. During last winter he underwent treatment and took the road to recovery.
I've spoken with people who'd had the surgery. They said their lives changed for the better after they healed. No different for my dear father. The fact that the heart is able to pump blood throughout the body more efficiently had far reaching effects. Before that surgery, he'd been forgetful. Lost his train of thought easily. Sometimes he did things which honestly, scared me.
After the surgery his doctor made it clear he needed to eat healthier. He listened. He's very careful about what he eats and when. The difference in his demeanor and cognitive skills have definitely increased. I can speak of this now because even he expresses the difference in how he looked at life then compared to now. He's calmer too. But there may be another aspect of his life now which influences his peace of mind. He's got a girlfriend. A sweet lady who very much reminds me of my deceased mother. A sweet woman with a spitfire attitude just below the surface. I think it keeps him on his toes.
Helen owns a little over twenty acres a good distance from our city. You take the road out of town and when you think you're pretty much in the sticks you take another right. About the time the woods on either side of the weathered two-lane begin to encroach the road, there's a house set back off the way a bit. A warm ranch home under ancient oaks. A sixties era Ford pickup off the side of the driveway, waiting for someone to restore it. Still runs, I'm told.
It was the other night that I called my dad to see if he was interested in riding on one of the first truly warm evenings we've experienced this year. When I called he was at Helen's. They were just finishing a late supper.
"Hi Dad, its me. Are ya busy?"
"Hi son, we're just finishing up here. Why? Were you thinking of going for a ride?"
"Well it sounds like you're busy. There'll be other times."
"No, no. That's fine if you want to ride a little later. We can go."
"No, I don't want to interrupt. In fact I already have. Sorry 'bout that... I'll talk to you later."
"Hang on a minute..."
(Dad talks it over with Helen. All I hear are muffled voices.)
"Tell you what; I'll come by and we decide what we want to do from there. How's that sound?"
"Oh my gosh, Dad, no that's fine we can do it another time."
"No no, son. Let's play it by ear, ok?"
"Ok, I'll see you when you get here then."
Soon enough I heard his Genuine Buddy rolling up my driveway. Big old smile on his face. We talk about where we want to go and he mentions I should see Helen's place. That set the plan. We were off and down the road, back to Helen's.
Now I've ridden shorter distances with my dad this season. But you really can't tell a person's skills as well as when they're on the road for longer periods of time. This ride would be a lot of different types of roads. From clogged city streets to a stretch of 55 mph state highway to worn out country asphalt.
We "packed it in and rode it hard" as they say. I led until we got to that right turn onto the This-Really-Leads-Nowhere road.
While he led, I thought about what a change its been riding with him this year. How I felt assured about his position in the lane. How his eyes looked forward. I could see him scanning oncoming intersections and watching his mirrors. It wasn't just experience in the saddle, although that has as much to do with it as anything. It was the first timemy dad really looked like he anticipated potential threats instead of me wondering if he would have enough time to react to them.
We arrived and I had the honor of seeing Helen's slice of heaven. Truly it is. A widow, a daughter of farmers, this lady has a garden the size of my front yard. She's got an orchard, two barns and whatever it is they call it when you plant grapes the way they're supposed to be planted. And that only comprises a bit more than the extent of most peoples' suburban yards.
We talked and laughed and simply enjoyed each other's company for a while. Then it was time to head on home. The skies had grown dark. Stars awoke to begin their twilight watch over us.
The ride up was as good as the ride down. Much as experience teaches us, I also know that health and nutrition play a part in being the consumate rider. So does getting enough sleep.
I need to remember these things. That plan fomenting inside my helmet about riding the shores of Lake Michigan and the Great River Road (Highway 35) next month, demands that I come home safely.
Forever the roadbum...
Harv
Its been about two years since my father got into scooters. He's going to be 72 this year and a lot has happened in his life during that time. He started out with a TN'G Venice. A 50cc two stroke buzzer which could hit an amazing 45 mph. Since most 50cc scooters are regulated to go no more than 30 mph, I think that's pretty impressive.
More importantly, his health became a major issue a little over a year ago. He'd had bypass surgery. During last winter he underwent treatment and took the road to recovery.
I've spoken with people who'd had the surgery. They said their lives changed for the better after they healed. No different for my dear father. The fact that the heart is able to pump blood throughout the body more efficiently had far reaching effects. Before that surgery, he'd been forgetful. Lost his train of thought easily. Sometimes he did things which honestly, scared me.
After the surgery his doctor made it clear he needed to eat healthier. He listened. He's very careful about what he eats and when. The difference in his demeanor and cognitive skills have definitely increased. I can speak of this now because even he expresses the difference in how he looked at life then compared to now. He's calmer too. But there may be another aspect of his life now which influences his peace of mind. He's got a girlfriend. A sweet lady who very much reminds me of my deceased mother. A sweet woman with a spitfire attitude just below the surface. I think it keeps him on his toes.
Helen owns a little over twenty acres a good distance from our city. You take the road out of town and when you think you're pretty much in the sticks you take another right. About the time the woods on either side of the weathered two-lane begin to encroach the road, there's a house set back off the way a bit. A warm ranch home under ancient oaks. A sixties era Ford pickup off the side of the driveway, waiting for someone to restore it. Still runs, I'm told.
It was the other night that I called my dad to see if he was interested in riding on one of the first truly warm evenings we've experienced this year. When I called he was at Helen's. They were just finishing a late supper.
"Hi Dad, its me. Are ya busy?"
"Hi son, we're just finishing up here. Why? Were you thinking of going for a ride?"
"Well it sounds like you're busy. There'll be other times."
"No, no. That's fine if you want to ride a little later. We can go."
"No, I don't want to interrupt. In fact I already have. Sorry 'bout that... I'll talk to you later."
"Hang on a minute..."
(Dad talks it over with Helen. All I hear are muffled voices.)
"Tell you what; I'll come by and we decide what we want to do from there. How's that sound?"
"Oh my gosh, Dad, no that's fine we can do it another time."
"No no, son. Let's play it by ear, ok?"
"Ok, I'll see you when you get here then."
Soon enough I heard his Genuine Buddy rolling up my driveway. Big old smile on his face. We talk about where we want to go and he mentions I should see Helen's place. That set the plan. We were off and down the road, back to Helen's.
Now I've ridden shorter distances with my dad this season. But you really can't tell a person's skills as well as when they're on the road for longer periods of time. This ride would be a lot of different types of roads. From clogged city streets to a stretch of 55 mph state highway to worn out country asphalt.
We "packed it in and rode it hard" as they say. I led until we got to that right turn onto the This-Really-Leads-Nowhere road.
While he led, I thought about what a change its been riding with him this year. How I felt assured about his position in the lane. How his eyes looked forward. I could see him scanning oncoming intersections and watching his mirrors. It wasn't just experience in the saddle, although that has as much to do with it as anything. It was the first timemy dad really looked like he anticipated potential threats instead of me wondering if he would have enough time to react to them.
We arrived and I had the honor of seeing Helen's slice of heaven. Truly it is. A widow, a daughter of farmers, this lady has a garden the size of my front yard. She's got an orchard, two barns and whatever it is they call it when you plant grapes the way they're supposed to be planted. And that only comprises a bit more than the extent of most peoples' suburban yards.
We talked and laughed and simply enjoyed each other's company for a while. Then it was time to head on home. The skies had grown dark. Stars awoke to begin their twilight watch over us.
The ride up was as good as the ride down. Much as experience teaches us, I also know that health and nutrition play a part in being the consumate rider. So does getting enough sleep.
I need to remember these things. That plan fomenting inside my helmet about riding the shores of Lake Michigan and the Great River Road (Highway 35) next month, demands that I come home safely.
Forever the roadbum...
Harv
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Frontage Road, Back Way, Charlie's Cafe
The weather Sunday did not look promising. The skies threatened to open up as clouds would break apart and reform within an hour. But I had that urge to ride.
The initial plan was the direct route to Eden Valley. Slip in the back door to the little town of Avon and head south on Highway 9. The roads on this route are broad and sweeping. Hills large enough to make a 150cc four stroke Vespa work to get up them. Between those roads and the final destination the road is flat and not exactly smooth. Near the end of the run, within a few miles of Eden Valley, you take a right turn off the direct way in. Suddenly you're on one of the greatest set of sweepers and minor hills I've yet found in this area.
I was past the first section of great riding and into the early stages of the flat stretch. Not fun. The bike hopped and jostled its way south. Filler patches and buckled tar. The skies were growing darker again. Sorry, but I'm not in the mood to do this kind of ride today.
Plan A was summarily ditched. At the next country interesection I turned around and humped it back toward Avon. There is no clear indication where the frontage road actually runs through that town so I stopped at the Shell to regain my bearings. The nice person at the counter told me where to catch a nice road north. It happens to be right where I turned south to head down Highway 9. Had I gone straight, I would find a new unexplored path.
Avon is a neat little exit off I-94. A quiet place with some great looking lakes to fish. From what I could tell a tight little community is built right off Mainstreet. There are a few turns which look interesting just at its outskirts. Future blogs...
Once outside Avon, the roads became straight. Naturally I hit another section of bumpy tarmac only this time I watched the side roads with more interest. This ride would be dedicated to getting "from here to there". Subsequent jaunts would explore the branches. The sights to see, as they say.
The drizzle found me. Somewhere along that stretch of bumpy asphalt. Just after the angry looking man in the pinkish purplish Dodge minivan passed me at a rate of speed I didn't think minivans were capable of moving. My speedometer read 62, 63 mph. He wasn't closing on me very quickly. When I could tell it was a minivan behind me, that's about the time the guy started to pick up velocity. Not much, certainly nothing that I thought seemed unusual.
In Minnesota farm country some people drive blindingly fast and others are blind and driving slowly. Probably the same thing you can observe no matter where you are. So I thought nothing of it.
He was a good ten car lengths behind me when I eyed the rearview. I swear the guy gunned it right at that moment. The sound of that minivan's engine was almost destructive. He must've flattened the carpet underneath his accelerator pedal just to stomp more miles per hour out of his testosternone free albeit logically brilliant Caravan.
That thing suddenly bore down upon me in a way that made me understand the Biblical account relating Jona's perspective of the fish that swallowed him whole. Only this time the fish which looked more like a giant lure, veered. Not too closely, but definitely making a statement.
As the angry man in the minivan/fish lure passed I saw that growly sideways stare. He made his point. Let him have it. I'm not the one stuck driving that thing everywhere I go. Not that it would be all that bad, minivans are supremely useful. Just not in that fish lure color...
I got to Charlie's cafe and thought about going in. As I parked in the lot across the road I saw a newly roiling sky. Ominous and dark. Building in intensity. Being the fool that I am, I tested nature's fury and stopped for a break anyway. The drips became steady. I heard the water sizzling on the chrome exhaust accent. Paper and embers got wet. Back on the bike and homeward bound.
A new path discovered and lots of potential rides to springboard from this trip. A Sunday ride I'm glad I took.
Roadbum
The weather Sunday did not look promising. The skies threatened to open up as clouds would break apart and reform within an hour. But I had that urge to ride.
The initial plan was the direct route to Eden Valley. Slip in the back door to the little town of Avon and head south on Highway 9. The roads on this route are broad and sweeping. Hills large enough to make a 150cc four stroke Vespa work to get up them. Between those roads and the final destination the road is flat and not exactly smooth. Near the end of the run, within a few miles of Eden Valley, you take a right turn off the direct way in. Suddenly you're on one of the greatest set of sweepers and minor hills I've yet found in this area.
I was past the first section of great riding and into the early stages of the flat stretch. Not fun. The bike hopped and jostled its way south. Filler patches and buckled tar. The skies were growing darker again. Sorry, but I'm not in the mood to do this kind of ride today.
Plan A was summarily ditched. At the next country interesection I turned around and humped it back toward Avon. There is no clear indication where the frontage road actually runs through that town so I stopped at the Shell to regain my bearings. The nice person at the counter told me where to catch a nice road north. It happens to be right where I turned south to head down Highway 9. Had I gone straight, I would find a new unexplored path.
Avon is a neat little exit off I-94. A quiet place with some great looking lakes to fish. From what I could tell a tight little community is built right off Mainstreet. There are a few turns which look interesting just at its outskirts. Future blogs...
Once outside Avon, the roads became straight. Naturally I hit another section of bumpy tarmac only this time I watched the side roads with more interest. This ride would be dedicated to getting "from here to there". Subsequent jaunts would explore the branches. The sights to see, as they say.
The drizzle found me. Somewhere along that stretch of bumpy asphalt. Just after the angry looking man in the pinkish purplish Dodge minivan passed me at a rate of speed I didn't think minivans were capable of moving. My speedometer read 62, 63 mph. He wasn't closing on me very quickly. When I could tell it was a minivan behind me, that's about the time the guy started to pick up velocity. Not much, certainly nothing that I thought seemed unusual.
In Minnesota farm country some people drive blindingly fast and others are blind and driving slowly. Probably the same thing you can observe no matter where you are. So I thought nothing of it.
He was a good ten car lengths behind me when I eyed the rearview. I swear the guy gunned it right at that moment. The sound of that minivan's engine was almost destructive. He must've flattened the carpet underneath his accelerator pedal just to stomp more miles per hour out of his testosternone free albeit logically brilliant Caravan.
That thing suddenly bore down upon me in a way that made me understand the Biblical account relating Jona's perspective of the fish that swallowed him whole. Only this time the fish which looked more like a giant lure, veered. Not too closely, but definitely making a statement.
As the angry man in the minivan/fish lure passed I saw that growly sideways stare. He made his point. Let him have it. I'm not the one stuck driving that thing everywhere I go. Not that it would be all that bad, minivans are supremely useful. Just not in that fish lure color...
I got to Charlie's cafe and thought about going in. As I parked in the lot across the road I saw a newly roiling sky. Ominous and dark. Building in intensity. Being the fool that I am, I tested nature's fury and stopped for a break anyway. The drips became steady. I heard the water sizzling on the chrome exhaust accent. Paper and embers got wet. Back on the bike and homeward bound.
A new path discovered and lots of potential rides to springboard from this trip. A Sunday ride I'm glad I took.
Roadbum
Saturday, June 07, 2008
Aprilia in June
Like the title? I couldn't help it. I was smitten by an Aprilia 50cc scooter which I witnessed cranking it up to over 50 mph today. A liquid cooled two stroke monster which looks like its moving even when its parked. Its master (if you saw this thing you would know such a bike cannot be owned) proved that looks are not always only skin deep. Sam rides one heck of a sweet machine.
Today's ride came about to help fill a need. St Cloud Scoots does a yearly run for the local food shelf in St. Cloud Minnesota. Our leader, Lucky, had the vision that our little group should do something to help the local community. He came up with the appropiate title, Scoot For Food.
We met up at a little cafe here in Sartell. A group of scooterists with money in hand so that others could feed those less fortunate. I don't know how much came in total, but I know these people need people like this group to help them. The cost of food isn't going down and the people who need that assistance is growing. Every little bit actually does help. A ride with a mission.
We talked for a bit and held a raffle. Then we prepared ourselves for another great ride. Before long we were on the road, heading out of the suburbs (can I really call Sartell that?) and into the farm fields of central Minnesota. The sun was high and the breeze warm A perfect day.
Choosing the sweeping leisure of less travelled tar, we found a back door to the town of Avon. Not much more than an exit off the freeway. There are a couple nice lakes I've fished outside that town but not much else except for the friendly people. Welcoming folks are the norm in this state, and they're memorable once you get lost outside the limits of the twin cities. In five minutes or less and we were across to the other side of the I-94 superslab. Two quick jogs and the busy highway traffic was gone from our rearview mirrors.
Sometimes it amazes me how quickly you can be in and out of small towns in the country. Snap your fingers and you've almost forgotten what you just saw.
We wove our way past quiet lakes and valleys. Up lightly travelled back ways and around winding bends. HecksAngel peeled off and headed for Spring Valley whence he came. We said "See ya later" and swung toward the college nestled in the woods. More tightly winding passages under canopies of oaks and maples. Past an orchard and climbed the hill.
We basked in the sun shining down on us. Reprieve from a week's worth of near record setting rains. It was more than we could express and Chauncy rode past me with his arms spread out wide to hug the air. A huge grin on face. I knew just how he felt. We all did.
The return ride is as good as getting out there. One of the advantages of living on the edge of civilization. You don't have that feeling like the ride is really done until you're virtually home. St. Cloud is large enough to have all one needs and small enough to escape its strip mall main roads before traffic on a Saturday can really make you grit your teeth. Usually anway.
We split our ways where we started. Some heading off to Mongo's Grill and me, I headed back home to see how my wife and kids were. Sam and his Aprilia stopped in for a bit and we talked bikes and motorcycles. Then it was time to say goodbye until the next ride. And to think about what to write here.
Year two of Scoot for Food is now in the history books. A great ride for a great cause. Its nice to be able to do something worthwhile for people you may never meet, now and then. A little humbling too.
Roadbum
Like the title? I couldn't help it. I was smitten by an Aprilia 50cc scooter which I witnessed cranking it up to over 50 mph today. A liquid cooled two stroke monster which looks like its moving even when its parked. Its master (if you saw this thing you would know such a bike cannot be owned) proved that looks are not always only skin deep. Sam rides one heck of a sweet machine.
Today's ride came about to help fill a need. St Cloud Scoots does a yearly run for the local food shelf in St. Cloud Minnesota. Our leader, Lucky, had the vision that our little group should do something to help the local community. He came up with the appropiate title, Scoot For Food.
We met up at a little cafe here in Sartell. A group of scooterists with money in hand so that others could feed those less fortunate. I don't know how much came in total, but I know these people need people like this group to help them. The cost of food isn't going down and the people who need that assistance is growing. Every little bit actually does help. A ride with a mission.
We talked for a bit and held a raffle. Then we prepared ourselves for another great ride. Before long we were on the road, heading out of the suburbs (can I really call Sartell that?) and into the farm fields of central Minnesota. The sun was high and the breeze warm A perfect day.
Choosing the sweeping leisure of less travelled tar, we found a back door to the town of Avon. Not much more than an exit off the freeway. There are a couple nice lakes I've fished outside that town but not much else except for the friendly people. Welcoming folks are the norm in this state, and they're memorable once you get lost outside the limits of the twin cities. In five minutes or less and we were across to the other side of the I-94 superslab. Two quick jogs and the busy highway traffic was gone from our rearview mirrors.
Sometimes it amazes me how quickly you can be in and out of small towns in the country. Snap your fingers and you've almost forgotten what you just saw.
We wove our way past quiet lakes and valleys. Up lightly travelled back ways and around winding bends. HecksAngel peeled off and headed for Spring Valley whence he came. We said "See ya later" and swung toward the college nestled in the woods. More tightly winding passages under canopies of oaks and maples. Past an orchard and climbed the hill.
We basked in the sun shining down on us. Reprieve from a week's worth of near record setting rains. It was more than we could express and Chauncy rode past me with his arms spread out wide to hug the air. A huge grin on face. I knew just how he felt. We all did.
The return ride is as good as getting out there. One of the advantages of living on the edge of civilization. You don't have that feeling like the ride is really done until you're virtually home. St. Cloud is large enough to have all one needs and small enough to escape its strip mall main roads before traffic on a Saturday can really make you grit your teeth. Usually anway.
We split our ways where we started. Some heading off to Mongo's Grill and me, I headed back home to see how my wife and kids were. Sam and his Aprilia stopped in for a bit and we talked bikes and motorcycles. Then it was time to say goodbye until the next ride. And to think about what to write here.
Year two of Scoot for Food is now in the history books. A great ride for a great cause. Its nice to be able to do something worthwhile for people you may never meet, now and then. A little humbling too.
Roadbum
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Taking the Express Home
Not by train. Not by boat or car. Not by any method which would get me there in record time unless you consider the slowest constant moving rate some kind of record.
After two years of puttering around the outskirts of my town it was time to return the little Honda Express scooter to the man from whom it came. The bike was sort of a gift to me. With fuel prices looming toward the stratosphere it was time to give back. My father in law had an interest in the little machine. What better way to take that last ride before the title switched back to him than to hop on and take her on one of her longest known excursions.
Saturday morning my wife and kids piled into the truck. I rolled the little green scooter out of the garage. We said our 'see ya laters' and they were off.
I checked the fluids, let the engine warm and prepared to head out on my quiet way. Something told me to put on a jacket. The hall closet is packed to its gills with riding apparel. That's what happens after all those years of riding. You accumulate... stuff.
The bike is of 1978 vintage so I grabbed a jacket which hadn't been worn in I can't remember how long. An old Levi's denim number of classic style. I reached into a pocket to find the obligatory buck and change I always leave myself in case of gas emergency. That alone should be a pretty strong indication how long its been since I've worn this thing. For any other bike I have, a buck and spare coin would be almost useless. A Honda Express can go a long way on a dollar and a half.
Back in the garage, I listened to the satisfying two stroke sound of that little motor. Grumbly little beast. Sounded nice. A cell phone, wallet, and multi-tool were all that went with me. Either I was going to make it on this fifty mile sojourn or I wasn't. Worrying about it would take the fun out of the whole experience.
I'm thankful my driveway has a slight grade to it. I puttered down its length and headed west. A few blocks later and I was in farm country. Other than some outcroppings of homes and passage through towns of a hundred or so people, it would be wide open cropland. People hearing the little 50cc working its darnedest, smiled and waved. You sometimes feel a certain vibe as you pass people or other motorists. Each person who acknowleged me made me a little happier.
There were some long slopes. High hills that tested the little Express. From a top speed of about 27mph this little engine proved that it could. It held enough torque to keep it chuffing up the inclines although the steepest brought it down to 19 or 20 mph. It didn't caugh or sputter either. With the throttle wide open that little banger pushed itself right along.
The wind was brisk Saturday morning, in the hinterlands beyond central Minnesota civilization. Pickups loaded with farm impliments gave wide berth but their gusts and the passing clouds made for a sometimes cold ride. Even at a constant 25-26 mph. I felt a little naked on what amounts to a stout bicycle frame with a little two stroke engine hung beneath it. At the same time it felt really good.
For a little more than two hours the Express chuffed along, carrying me to my family. While my feet buzzed on the hard rubber footpegs, that thickly padded oversized pear seat did me just fine. Instead of being in a hurry to get somewhere, I enjoyed the scenery at a pace few people want to go anymore.
It went too quick. Before I realized it I was closing in on the house on the hill. My inlaws' home. I rolled up the gravel drive feeling triumphant for finally having done this ride on the Express. I also felt a little sad. It would most likely be the only time I'd get the chance to ride that thirty year old scooter that kind of distance.
I can't explain it. To ride something of that limited speed for longer distances is a kind of experience you'd have to have had yourself to understand. It is absolutely its own kind of fun. And you really can't compare it to any other type of two wheeled riding. Going slow on something capable of going quicker isn't the same.
Harv
Not by train. Not by boat or car. Not by any method which would get me there in record time unless you consider the slowest constant moving rate some kind of record.
After two years of puttering around the outskirts of my town it was time to return the little Honda Express scooter to the man from whom it came. The bike was sort of a gift to me. With fuel prices looming toward the stratosphere it was time to give back. My father in law had an interest in the little machine. What better way to take that last ride before the title switched back to him than to hop on and take her on one of her longest known excursions.
Saturday morning my wife and kids piled into the truck. I rolled the little green scooter out of the garage. We said our 'see ya laters' and they were off.
I checked the fluids, let the engine warm and prepared to head out on my quiet way. Something told me to put on a jacket. The hall closet is packed to its gills with riding apparel. That's what happens after all those years of riding. You accumulate... stuff.
The bike is of 1978 vintage so I grabbed a jacket which hadn't been worn in I can't remember how long. An old Levi's denim number of classic style. I reached into a pocket to find the obligatory buck and change I always leave myself in case of gas emergency. That alone should be a pretty strong indication how long its been since I've worn this thing. For any other bike I have, a buck and spare coin would be almost useless. A Honda Express can go a long way on a dollar and a half.
Back in the garage, I listened to the satisfying two stroke sound of that little motor. Grumbly little beast. Sounded nice. A cell phone, wallet, and multi-tool were all that went with me. Either I was going to make it on this fifty mile sojourn or I wasn't. Worrying about it would take the fun out of the whole experience.
I'm thankful my driveway has a slight grade to it. I puttered down its length and headed west. A few blocks later and I was in farm country. Other than some outcroppings of homes and passage through towns of a hundred or so people, it would be wide open cropland. People hearing the little 50cc working its darnedest, smiled and waved. You sometimes feel a certain vibe as you pass people or other motorists. Each person who acknowleged me made me a little happier.
There were some long slopes. High hills that tested the little Express. From a top speed of about 27mph this little engine proved that it could. It held enough torque to keep it chuffing up the inclines although the steepest brought it down to 19 or 20 mph. It didn't caugh or sputter either. With the throttle wide open that little banger pushed itself right along.
The wind was brisk Saturday morning, in the hinterlands beyond central Minnesota civilization. Pickups loaded with farm impliments gave wide berth but their gusts and the passing clouds made for a sometimes cold ride. Even at a constant 25-26 mph. I felt a little naked on what amounts to a stout bicycle frame with a little two stroke engine hung beneath it. At the same time it felt really good.
For a little more than two hours the Express chuffed along, carrying me to my family. While my feet buzzed on the hard rubber footpegs, that thickly padded oversized pear seat did me just fine. Instead of being in a hurry to get somewhere, I enjoyed the scenery at a pace few people want to go anymore.
It went too quick. Before I realized it I was closing in on the house on the hill. My inlaws' home. I rolled up the gravel drive feeling triumphant for finally having done this ride on the Express. I also felt a little sad. It would most likely be the only time I'd get the chance to ride that thirty year old scooter that kind of distance.
I can't explain it. To ride something of that limited speed for longer distances is a kind of experience you'd have to have had yourself to understand. It is absolutely its own kind of fun. And you really can't compare it to any other type of two wheeled riding. Going slow on something capable of going quicker isn't the same.
Harv
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Wife Becoming a Rider?
Since the weather has been warming my wife has been talking about taking her bicycle to work. She's done it the last few years when the weather has been conducive. Any temps above fifty degrees and she'd leave early for the six mile "commute".
Once or twice she's taken my dad's scooters. She could've used mine but she also knew I had too much attachment to it yet. The kindness of the woman and her understanding is a blessing I cannot relate.
This year she took the bike once. After that she mentioned how early she had to get up just to spend the extra time on the bike getting there. In a round about sort of way she got around to the point without actually saying it. She wanted to take my Vespa.
Take my Vespa?
Annette let me simmer with the idea for a while. Let me get used to it. Logic tells me this ought to be a no brainer but I'm male. You just don't foist that kind of request on a guy without letting him come to terms with it.
A woman always has the upper hand. And half of another deck up her sleeve.
After a couple days of her using the scooter to go to work, she passed an ace from out of nowhere.
"You think I should get my own scooter?"
Somewhere deep inside me a caveman was hooting and hollering for joy. Dancing around like the fool he truly is.
"If you think its something you really want, let's see how well you like taking the scooter after a few weeks."
"Hon, if we had to, I don't see any reason we couldn't dip into our savings..."
Captain Caveman is now doing backflips. My head is reeling.
This morning she woke me to ask me one of the most important questions a wife could ask her dimwit lucky as hell somewhat biker husband. From what I can recall I awakened from my slumber to hear these comments in no particular order:
"The weather channel says its supposed to rain. Actually three channels say its supposed to rain but you know how right the weather is. They say most of its going to pass south of us so the chances of it raining here are slim. Should I take the bike? I'll bring my rain gear and I'm not made of suger. I won't melt. So do you think I should take it?"
So its raining lightly and she's got the Vespa. She also has a healthy respect for inclement weather. I know she's be safe, but I'll still worry. She's my best friend ya know.
You think this could be a sign? (wink)
Harv
Since the weather has been warming my wife has been talking about taking her bicycle to work. She's done it the last few years when the weather has been conducive. Any temps above fifty degrees and she'd leave early for the six mile "commute".
Once or twice she's taken my dad's scooters. She could've used mine but she also knew I had too much attachment to it yet. The kindness of the woman and her understanding is a blessing I cannot relate.
This year she took the bike once. After that she mentioned how early she had to get up just to spend the extra time on the bike getting there. In a round about sort of way she got around to the point without actually saying it. She wanted to take my Vespa.
Take my Vespa?
Annette let me simmer with the idea for a while. Let me get used to it. Logic tells me this ought to be a no brainer but I'm male. You just don't foist that kind of request on a guy without letting him come to terms with it.
A woman always has the upper hand. And half of another deck up her sleeve.
After a couple days of her using the scooter to go to work, she passed an ace from out of nowhere.
"You think I should get my own scooter?"
Somewhere deep inside me a caveman was hooting and hollering for joy. Dancing around like the fool he truly is.
"If you think its something you really want, let's see how well you like taking the scooter after a few weeks."
"Hon, if we had to, I don't see any reason we couldn't dip into our savings..."
Captain Caveman is now doing backflips. My head is reeling.
This morning she woke me to ask me one of the most important questions a wife could ask her dimwit lucky as hell somewhat biker husband. From what I can recall I awakened from my slumber to hear these comments in no particular order:
"The weather channel says its supposed to rain. Actually three channels say its supposed to rain but you know how right the weather is. They say most of its going to pass south of us so the chances of it raining here are slim. Should I take the bike? I'll bring my rain gear and I'm not made of suger. I won't melt. So do you think I should take it?"
So its raining lightly and she's got the Vespa. She also has a healthy respect for inclement weather. I know she's be safe, but I'll still worry. She's my best friend ya know.
You think this could be a sign? (wink)
Harv
Monday, May 19, 2008
Parking the story, Riding the Bike
I intended to keep the blog going with a tale about a young scooterist. It wasn't long after I thought about writing the fictional story that news came an old dear friend took his own life.
When someone close to you passes on it takes a strange toll on the things you do for enjoyment. I don't know why. You feel drained of your creative energy. The things which must be done are done, leaving little interest in much else. It was a cold winter in more ways than one.
But time never stops. Life leaves little opportunity to overthink these things. You have to put them aside. My friend made his choice and I have to live with it. The effect it took on a story which could have built on recovery seemed utterly contradictory to what I was living through. Knowing my friend took the easy way out.
Over the winter my life moved forward. While Mel is still on my mind he's chosen to move on. I suppose there's a convoluted lesson in there somewhere. A simple knowledge that you can only do so much in some cases and then you need to let go. So I have in my own way. Winter is not much of a time for thinking about riding anyway. There's a proper season for everything in life if we just stop and pay attention. So I'm back to the world of riding. Makes me happier, makes my dear wife happier and keeps this blog one of the things I truly enjoy giving you.
New rides on familiar roads.
Yesterday, Sunday, some friends of ours had a birthday party for their youngest daughter. Now I could have been with my wife and kids in the truck. But that's not the way of a rider is it. My wife offered me a way out.
"Hon, I have to stop at the mall to get a few things for the kids before I head to the party."
When you're married that's a Go! The equivalent to being told Take that ride. You remember the Get Out of Jail card in the game of Monopoly? That's the card she held in front of me.
They left and I settled in for prep to go. The first decent ride. A rambling frontage road trek of a little over forty miles. Man this was going to be great!
I hit the garage, raised the seat and took stock of what I might need. The heck with it. This Vespa is reliable enough. I don't need to pack anything but an extra sweatshirt. By evening the temps might drop to the high forties but with a legshield in front of you and a small wind screen to cut the draft, I would be just fine. The walk-around gave no indication of anything of concern. Rear tire needs to be replaced but I'm not past the wear marker. I readied the bike, dipped into my lawnmower gas to to her off and headed through the city of St. Cloud towards my friend's place in Monticello.
Have you ever reserved the use of certain back roads for your motorcycle or scooter? Its as though you would diminish them if you used them merely for passage. That's how I feel about this road, except I never really realized I'd made any such internal 'proclamation' about the routes I choose. There simply are roads for getting there and roads for being there.
That doesn't mean every part of the path is smooth and perfect. In fact a stretch on the Monticello side of this route can be downright jarring. You live with it because coming through that section seems almost heavenly. When the road is rough any improvement is huge. Better when that improvement involves some long sweeping bends and the sights of the freeway herds across the fields not a hundred fifty yards to the side. I watch their jumbled masses inchworm down the great concrete slab at seventy plus.
Cold and windy Sunday rides.
Harv
I intended to keep the blog going with a tale about a young scooterist. It wasn't long after I thought about writing the fictional story that news came an old dear friend took his own life.
When someone close to you passes on it takes a strange toll on the things you do for enjoyment. I don't know why. You feel drained of your creative energy. The things which must be done are done, leaving little interest in much else. It was a cold winter in more ways than one.
But time never stops. Life leaves little opportunity to overthink these things. You have to put them aside. My friend made his choice and I have to live with it. The effect it took on a story which could have built on recovery seemed utterly contradictory to what I was living through. Knowing my friend took the easy way out.
Over the winter my life moved forward. While Mel is still on my mind he's chosen to move on. I suppose there's a convoluted lesson in there somewhere. A simple knowledge that you can only do so much in some cases and then you need to let go. So I have in my own way. Winter is not much of a time for thinking about riding anyway. There's a proper season for everything in life if we just stop and pay attention. So I'm back to the world of riding. Makes me happier, makes my dear wife happier and keeps this blog one of the things I truly enjoy giving you.
New rides on familiar roads.
Yesterday, Sunday, some friends of ours had a birthday party for their youngest daughter. Now I could have been with my wife and kids in the truck. But that's not the way of a rider is it. My wife offered me a way out.
"Hon, I have to stop at the mall to get a few things for the kids before I head to the party."
When you're married that's a Go! The equivalent to being told Take that ride. You remember the Get Out of Jail card in the game of Monopoly? That's the card she held in front of me.
They left and I settled in for prep to go. The first decent ride. A rambling frontage road trek of a little over forty miles. Man this was going to be great!
I hit the garage, raised the seat and took stock of what I might need. The heck with it. This Vespa is reliable enough. I don't need to pack anything but an extra sweatshirt. By evening the temps might drop to the high forties but with a legshield in front of you and a small wind screen to cut the draft, I would be just fine. The walk-around gave no indication of anything of concern. Rear tire needs to be replaced but I'm not past the wear marker. I readied the bike, dipped into my lawnmower gas to to her off and headed through the city of St. Cloud towards my friend's place in Monticello.
Have you ever reserved the use of certain back roads for your motorcycle or scooter? Its as though you would diminish them if you used them merely for passage. That's how I feel about this road, except I never really realized I'd made any such internal 'proclamation' about the routes I choose. There simply are roads for getting there and roads for being there.
That doesn't mean every part of the path is smooth and perfect. In fact a stretch on the Monticello side of this route can be downright jarring. You live with it because coming through that section seems almost heavenly. When the road is rough any improvement is huge. Better when that improvement involves some long sweeping bends and the sights of the freeway herds across the fields not a hundred fifty yards to the side. I watch their jumbled masses inchworm down the great concrete slab at seventy plus.
Cold and windy Sunday rides.
Harv
Monday, March 10, 2008
Legshield Rider (3)
Bits and pieces of dreams came to memory as he stumbled out of the mental fog. The hospital bed reeled back and forth while his mind tried to hold onto something his eyes could focus on.
Oh god, not the TV. The box itself would have been fine had the machine been turned off. The flash of the commercials made his head ache. When the program came back on he knew his father was somewhere near. Alex Trebeck was answering another question someone had yet to ask. This was the type of show smart people really paid attention to.
There. He could latch onto the box but not the images inside it. Too blurry. He eased his head to look to his right and two shadows hovered against the blinding sun of mid afternoon. That glance hurt way too much. He recoiled, sun spots on the insides of his eyelids.
"He's awake!"
His father's relief and joy could barely be hushed. The boy was tough and withdrawn. You had to read him by small shifts in his movements. The ways he tilted his head.
A son who knew that at that very moment his father had an overly firm grasp on his mother's forearm and was shaking her out of joy. He could hear her weight shifting. Could hear her feet scuff the floor as she scolded Dad for being unintentionally rough. But it was alright. His father was the strength of a ten pound sledge. And his mother knew just how to swing such a hammer. The shared relief of Mom and Dad was enough to answer the important questions. No matter how this ultimately would turn out, he believed he was coming out of this fine. Just get through it. His parents' presence in the room virtually eminated those words. He cracked a smile and raised his eyebrows. Signs he knew they were there. It was all he could give at the moment.
For two more hours a mother and father sat in their son's hospital room. A quiet solace of knowing their son was still the same kid they knew more than a week before. Relieved and drained they went home in peace for the first time in eternity.
Harv
Bits and pieces of dreams came to memory as he stumbled out of the mental fog. The hospital bed reeled back and forth while his mind tried to hold onto something his eyes could focus on.
Oh god, not the TV. The box itself would have been fine had the machine been turned off. The flash of the commercials made his head ache. When the program came back on he knew his father was somewhere near. Alex Trebeck was answering another question someone had yet to ask. This was the type of show smart people really paid attention to.
There. He could latch onto the box but not the images inside it. Too blurry. He eased his head to look to his right and two shadows hovered against the blinding sun of mid afternoon. That glance hurt way too much. He recoiled, sun spots on the insides of his eyelids.
"He's awake!"
His father's relief and joy could barely be hushed. The boy was tough and withdrawn. You had to read him by small shifts in his movements. The ways he tilted his head.
A son who knew that at that very moment his father had an overly firm grasp on his mother's forearm and was shaking her out of joy. He could hear her weight shifting. Could hear her feet scuff the floor as she scolded Dad for being unintentionally rough. But it was alright. His father was the strength of a ten pound sledge. And his mother knew just how to swing such a hammer. The shared relief of Mom and Dad was enough to answer the important questions. No matter how this ultimately would turn out, he believed he was coming out of this fine. Just get through it. His parents' presence in the room virtually eminated those words. He cracked a smile and raised his eyebrows. Signs he knew they were there. It was all he could give at the moment.
For two more hours a mother and father sat in their son's hospital room. A quiet solace of knowing their son was still the same kid they knew more than a week before. Relieved and drained they went home in peace for the first time in eternity.
Harv
Monday, February 18, 2008
To the individual copying my work. I know who you are. I've been waiting patiently to see what you would do when I left you hanging.
Its one thing to give credit where its due. Another to take someone else's efforts and use them as your own. Especially for personal gain.
I've been watching you with interest.
Harv
Its one thing to give credit where its due. Another to take someone else's efforts and use them as your own. Especially for personal gain.
I've been watching you with interest.
Harv
Monday, December 10, 2007
Legshield Rider
(2)
Soft illumination passed from above his head to his feet like the dotted line seperating lanes on a highway. He heard the gurney's loose joints shift as a crew of specialists wheeled him through the halls of the hospital. Someone punched the automatic doors and a draft of air cooled his face.
He was aware of people prodding him with surgical tools but really didn't feel the needles. Someone asked him a question and he nodded a reply. For the life of him he could not pull the words to his forethoughts much less how he knew what to reply. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the computers quietly giving the doctors signals to define his condition. Then, a mask was placed over his mouth and nose. He drifted into induced sleep.
At some point he thought he could hear his angels talking in doctor-speak. Syllabic nonsense. Eyes fluttered open but the light was too bright to see anything. He flinched and sensed urgent movement by the team concentrating on his broken body. Before they managed to induce another round of sleep he believed he could feel tugs around what must have been his injuries. How strange, he thought, that one could feel the skin being pulled only from the points beyond where the actual work was being done. The areas where he imagined his injuries to be seemed not to be part of him. He meant to ask someone if he was going to die but before he could, a quiet cloud covered everything a second time.
Harv
(2)
Soft illumination passed from above his head to his feet like the dotted line seperating lanes on a highway. He heard the gurney's loose joints shift as a crew of specialists wheeled him through the halls of the hospital. Someone punched the automatic doors and a draft of air cooled his face.
He was aware of people prodding him with surgical tools but really didn't feel the needles. Someone asked him a question and he nodded a reply. For the life of him he could not pull the words to his forethoughts much less how he knew what to reply. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the computers quietly giving the doctors signals to define his condition. Then, a mask was placed over his mouth and nose. He drifted into induced sleep.
At some point he thought he could hear his angels talking in doctor-speak. Syllabic nonsense. Eyes fluttered open but the light was too bright to see anything. He flinched and sensed urgent movement by the team concentrating on his broken body. Before they managed to induce another round of sleep he believed he could feel tugs around what must have been his injuries. How strange, he thought, that one could feel the skin being pulled only from the points beyond where the actual work was being done. The areas where he imagined his injuries to be seemed not to be part of him. He meant to ask someone if he was going to die but before he could, a quiet cloud covered everything a second time.
Harv
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Legshield Rider
Sirens. Flashing lights and wet pavement. Feet kept crossing his view at wierd angles. He would see them and then things would go dark. Strange voices and unknown faces would rouse him from a slumber he so badly felt he needed, asking questions he couldn't answer.
Was it that he didn't know or that his mouth wouldn't cooperate? He tried to move and sharp pain shot up his left side. His bladder released when his body couldn't curl itself into a ball from the pain. It hurt so bad his mind shrieked in place of his lost voice. All his energy seemed to be wicking out of him.
Someone in a uniform shot something into his arm. He looked up in time to see men and women getting the stretcher in place. They didn't have high hopes. Everything in their actions looked too dour. They moved efficiently but he sensed they didn't believe he had much chance. Someone lost his footing and the stretcher tipped. His head rolled and he saw the residual effect of what was only a flash in his mind. The 150 Sprint was on its side against a light pole off the corner of the intersection, the cowls blown off both sides. The bike was totalled but his mind only registered the missing side panels.
The gurney was lifted and two figures climbed in the ambulance with him. More sirens as another needle pressed itself into his side. Everything went dark again.
Harv
Sirens. Flashing lights and wet pavement. Feet kept crossing his view at wierd angles. He would see them and then things would go dark. Strange voices and unknown faces would rouse him from a slumber he so badly felt he needed, asking questions he couldn't answer.
Was it that he didn't know or that his mouth wouldn't cooperate? He tried to move and sharp pain shot up his left side. His bladder released when his body couldn't curl itself into a ball from the pain. It hurt so bad his mind shrieked in place of his lost voice. All his energy seemed to be wicking out of him.
Someone in a uniform shot something into his arm. He looked up in time to see men and women getting the stretcher in place. They didn't have high hopes. Everything in their actions looked too dour. They moved efficiently but he sensed they didn't believe he had much chance. Someone lost his footing and the stretcher tipped. His head rolled and he saw the residual effect of what was only a flash in his mind. The 150 Sprint was on its side against a light pole off the corner of the intersection, the cowls blown off both sides. The bike was totalled but his mind only registered the missing side panels.
The gurney was lifted and two figures climbed in the ambulance with him. More sirens as another needle pressed itself into his side. Everything went dark again.
Harv
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Where Is This Going?
When the season gave opportunity I rode when I could. When family and home needed to take precedence I put them first. This blog suffered for it. But this little part of my life has to fit into its place. Doesn't mean I'm leaving, but it does mean I prioritize accordingly.
I have been riding. Don't get me wrong. But the rides written about here aren't helped with the beautiful photography that others can add to their blogs. I worked in private labs until I was thirty two and one thing I can tell you is that my camera work will never measure up to what I know is a better image. I write. Its as much a part of me as the music I play. Or the bikes I ride. Or the family I love so dearly.
Which brings me to a question. What direction should this site take over the winter months? I live in central Minnesota. When it snows they pour a mix of salt and sand on the roads. I will no longer ride in that stuff. Too many people in cars drive a little to obliviously even when the roads are iced or sanded over.
So what does a writer do when the subject matter is... drying up, so to speak?
First of all any decent writer knows good writing depends upon creativity. Lots of it. You're also obligated to pour yourself out onto the page and be able to critique your own words objectively. You have to be able to recognize when stuff just reads badly. Then you have to remove it. Nothing any writer ever puts on a page or screen is sacred. Good wordsmiths know the waste paper basket (and delete key) is a friend.
See how many mistakes I've made above?
(hang on, I just deleted two more paragraphs)
So I'm thinking of writing a juicy little story of no real importance other than it might be a nice way to keep this blog rolling and the creative juices flowing. These Minnesota winters can freeze a man's synapses in mid thought if he's not busy thinking of something.
Its got to be about some guy who rides scooters in the upper midwest. Let's call that guy Dave. Maybe Dave has a girlfriend, I haven't decided yet. But Dave rides and he's a bit of an outcast. Dave has issues. They could be his downfall if he's not careful. He's also a little manic. And he's willing to carry a grudge.
Let's see where this goes... shall we?
Harv
When the season gave opportunity I rode when I could. When family and home needed to take precedence I put them first. This blog suffered for it. But this little part of my life has to fit into its place. Doesn't mean I'm leaving, but it does mean I prioritize accordingly.
I have been riding. Don't get me wrong. But the rides written about here aren't helped with the beautiful photography that others can add to their blogs. I worked in private labs until I was thirty two and one thing I can tell you is that my camera work will never measure up to what I know is a better image. I write. Its as much a part of me as the music I play. Or the bikes I ride. Or the family I love so dearly.
Which brings me to a question. What direction should this site take over the winter months? I live in central Minnesota. When it snows they pour a mix of salt and sand on the roads. I will no longer ride in that stuff. Too many people in cars drive a little to obliviously even when the roads are iced or sanded over.
So what does a writer do when the subject matter is... drying up, so to speak?
First of all any decent writer knows good writing depends upon creativity. Lots of it. You're also obligated to pour yourself out onto the page and be able to critique your own words objectively. You have to be able to recognize when stuff just reads badly. Then you have to remove it. Nothing any writer ever puts on a page or screen is sacred. Good wordsmiths know the waste paper basket (and delete key) is a friend.
See how many mistakes I've made above?
(hang on, I just deleted two more paragraphs)
So I'm thinking of writing a juicy little story of no real importance other than it might be a nice way to keep this blog rolling and the creative juices flowing. These Minnesota winters can freeze a man's synapses in mid thought if he's not busy thinking of something.
Its got to be about some guy who rides scooters in the upper midwest. Let's call that guy Dave. Maybe Dave has a girlfriend, I haven't decided yet. But Dave rides and he's a bit of an outcast. Dave has issues. They could be his downfall if he's not careful. He's also a little manic. And he's willing to carry a grudge.
Let's see where this goes... shall we?
Harv
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
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
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
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
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
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
Friday, September 07, 2007
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
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
Monday, September 03, 2007
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
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
Friday, August 03, 2007
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
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
Friday, July 27, 2007
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
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
Saturday, June 30, 2007
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
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
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