Tales of the Road

Expressioist Riding

2012-01-11T18:48:00.000-08:00

You play by ear and despise the confines of sheet music.
I ride by instinct and have disdain for traffic signs.

You paint outside the lines dance interpretively because it feels right.
That's how I ride.

Commuter Joe

2012-01-10T19:34:00.000-08:00

Pile my grounds on the driveway in the predawn chill.
Pour me cold into the reservoir of the putt and sputter down the block.
Steam me with head heat filtering up at the long light at the end of the street.
Spit me through the flow of sleepy rushing urbanites gritting their teeth before lefting and righting at their designated signals.
Saturate me with the gaze from the panhandlers and cardboard Sharpie slogan slingers who reflect my rumbling pipes in their eyes.
Steep me with silhouettes of winter's naked trees brimming the pink tinged skyline along those old Victorian homes near the river's edge.
Splash me unceremoniously into the mug of bracing wind noise crossing the bridge and passing early cafe and donut shop patrons.
Swirl me around and savor my rich aroma leaning into the last turns toward the spot in the lot.
Drink me down warm and satisfying resting on the stand in the first shafts of true daylight.

Stumble In

2012-01-07T21:48:00.000-08:00

There is a bar nearby called the Stumble In. I've often mused at how appropriate that name could be for some of its regular patrons. Think about it. The name is Stumble In, not Stumble Out. Picture a down-on-his-luck salesman who should be heading home to his family instead stumbling in to yield to his drinking problem and handing over his money for a 100 proof dose of the very juice that may have contributed to his sad estate in the first place. Ironic.

This week I was off work and tying up loose ends made up the daily agenda. One loose end was the loose rear shifter pawl on my Ultra. This part has been quick-fixed by the service departments at Harley stealerships in Fort Collins, Colorado, Statesville, North Carolina, and this past March, right here in Riverside, California. I've had the work covered by the extended warranty in the last two instances. Anyway it's loose again and so Thursday down to the stealership I went. I dropped off the bike and rode home on another one of their rentals. This one was an Ultra Limited.

Not sure what makes it "limited", but is was a nice scoot with a 103 inch motor. It had only 4500 miles on it and so represents what my bike would be like brand new. I usually would take this opportunity to ride the dickens out of someone else's bike for a few days. This time, however, I was feeling a little vulnerable. Each time after putting a newer bike through the paces, it has taken me upwards of a week to regain an appropriate sense of contentment with my own bike. So this time I decided to spare myself the discomfort and just ride straight home, park it and not touch it until I rode it directly back to its rightful place.

Today I did just that. The service tech called to let me know I could pick up my bike and I rode the new one straight there. When I turned it in the rental agent noted that I'd only ridden the bike 11 miles! "Yup." I replied. The trouble is that's all it took to give me a whiff of the greater horse power, smoother suspension and six speed transmission this new model had to offer.

Further, I had to wait another hour to get my own bike. In that time I saw over fifty other bikes roll in and out, none (that I could detect, anyway) approaching the vintage and mileage of my own. The place was really hopping. People were walking past me in new biker garb and carrying huge bags of MoCo merchandise. To make things worse, I witnessed a gent discussing a trade-in deal with a salesman. "We'll give you fifty-three hundred for this one so the payments should be pretty manageable for you then."

Man, I'm glad that guy didn't sic one of his sale-mates on me right then. With my shades on and sitting there in my work clothes I must have masked my vulnerability pretty well. I'm really feeling the holiday financial pinch, and this before I've even paid all the related bills. Feeling spent always makes me hungry to spend. Ironic.

"Face it, Brian," I leveled with myself when those two had passed on, "you want a newer bike."

"True," I admitted. "It would be cool to have better performance and less maintenance,"

Providentially my musing was interrupted just then by the tech walking up my Ultra. "Just leave it right here." I said impatiently as I grabbed my helmet and fairly leapt into the saddle.

"Hey, Bro, sorry it took so long. We topped off the gas for you to make up for it."

"Thanks a bunch," I replied. "It's all good. I've just gotta git."

I felt like an alcoholic who'd had to meet someone in the parking lot of the Stumble In. All this "newness" was intoxicating. With one last glance at the big glass doors of the showroom I cinched up my helmet and headed off.

I ran an errand on my way home and there was just enough fresh air along the way to clear my head. I've got three years left on my warranty and just paid a mere fifty bucks on a $645 job while not missing a day of riding. My bike meets all my needs more than adequately. "Look what I'm doing right now," I reminded myself as I blasted through town in the cool evening light. And every month I make absolutely no payments on any vehicle. Even if I started with a brand new "Limited" I'd have to spent a pile of money for pipes and amenities I already have on this bike. There is no way I'd be as happy juiced up on that 103 proof new bike as I am not having to pay for one.

"Yup, I'm good." I smiled. "Maybe I'll stop and get some ice-cream for the family. I can afford it."

Ride-Sharing: Trafficking in Freedom or Fear?

2011-12-21T20:10:00.000-08:00

It's not often that I ride two-up. My wife isn't fond of traveling on the bikes, and I rarely have occasion to give anyone else a ride either. However, this past week I've had a pair of passengers. Honestly, I'm reluctant to do this in most cases, but not for the reasons you might think. My bikes are well-maintained and I'm confident we can have a safe ride. So it's not the risks to man or machine that douse my interest in ride-sharing. It's the reactions of the passengers. Riding is so fun, the bikes are so cool, the sensation of being outside flow is so solitary and important to my happiness that even if a passenger goes for a little spin and likes it, but doesn't love it, I feel jilted.

This week's first ride went to a co-worker. She had expressed real interest a few days prior and so this past Friday we agreed I'd bring an extra helmet. I like to give new passengers a choice: Biker Babe or Motorcycle Mamma. Biker Babes ride the Springer and dress appropriately. Motorcycle Mammas ride the Ultra and, well, dress appropriately too. This young lady, after hearing the disclaimers, still chose the Springer. So boots, jeans, coat, gloves and skimpy little novelty helmet all in place (What did you think "dress appropriately" meant?) we took a little spin. Just a few miles to see if riding suited her. We kept it under 100 and only split lanes once. After just about every mile I inquired as to her comfort and she declared she was having fun. But then many say that and not all really mean it. Later in the day, though, when I was preparing to head home she followed me out to the bike and started suiting up again. "What," she said astonished at my surprise, "Did you think I would settle for just one ride?" So off we went, again. This time I felt free to give her a better sample. We rode for another 40 minutes on a few surface streets, a couple of well cornered country roads and some freeway with a small dose of traffic-weaving and lane-splitting. At one point as we were riding along the shore of Lake Matthews she leaned forward and said, "I could do this all day. It's so freeing."

So two thumbs up from Biker Babe. (Click on the link below to see her perspective)

www.naturelvgchick.blogspot.com

By contrast, my wife and I had to do a little Christmas commerce for our grandson today. Lana is overtly supportive of my love of riding as long as she is not expected to participate. Oddly it was at her suggestion that we took the bike. Her motive for this choice of transport may have been as follows:

"I can't get that lunk in a car and I need him to go with me, so I'd better bite the bullet here and ride on the bike."

There is only one choice of bike for her when she rides. She's Motorcycle Mamma all the way. So boots, jeans, coat, gloves, and full-face helmet all in place we headed down the freeway. On the 25 mile ride out traffic was light and we cruised casually at 75. When we arrived there wasn't a word of comment about the ride one way or t'other. In this case I'll call that success. On the way home traffic was stop-and-go (at least for cars) for over ten miles. We split lanes for the entire time. Now in my head I was anticipating a complimentary comment referencing my riding skill (and possibly my rugged good looks) as I felt I negotiated the traffic deftly and chauffeured conservatively. Not to be, however.

"Well, that was certainly frightening." was what she said when we hopped off in the driveway. "I got a lot of praying done while you were splitting lanes."

Hmm, not exactly what I was expecting, but after thirty years of marriage I can honestly say it only momentarily surprised me that I missed my guess as to her thinking. I'm hoping, however, that she does find me ruggedly handsome.

Anyway, thumbs down from Motorcycle Mamma.

To the Biker Babe ride-sharing was trafficking in freedom, and to Motorcycle Mamma it was commerce in fear.

A Fall Uplift

2011-12-06T20:48:00.000-08:00

Every year, just after Thanksgiving I'm overcome with a sense of deep blessedness, combined with frisky rambunctiousness. I feel miles away from problems and drama. I feel like starting new house, auto, or moto projects. I feel like buying stuff. I feel like going to church seven days a week just to say "Thank you" to God. I feel like packing up my scooter and heading out for an interminable pub crawl and spending every evening around a fire with my friends.

This year the festive mood has returned as faithfully as the autumn colors. Lots of factors come into play here. A couple of paychecks have distanced me from the financially arid summer. I find myself out of the frying pan yet not quite into the fire at work. That's as good as work gets, I suppose. There is peace in the family. My grandson continues to add joy and humor to our lives and we two are thick as thieves. My son has steady work locally and progresses as an apprentice electrician while walking ever more closely with Jesus.

Yup, I find myself feeling deeply blessed, and frisky.

The stable of steeds also provides its customary portion of pleasant satisfaction. Since I ride a lot in the summer, by the time fall arrives I've got worn tires, old oil, and rattles. Somewhere between Thanksgiving and Christmas all that gets taken care of, and well-running tight machines with nice round tires under their fenders make me giddy. This summer I was busy with other needs, rode less, and so the bikes have required less care. For a Harley owner that's a financial boon equivalent to being able to skip a house payment.

The winter of 2011 finds me feeling even more blessed than usual. In August I bought a '31 Model A pickup from my brother. The vehicle has spent most of the last 20 years under a tarp at my Dad's place, and for some reason my brother decided to offer it to me at a reasonable price. This new addition to our stock of high maintenance vehicles has kept me happily tinkering in the garage for weeks now. I've rewired the entire car, replaced the whole exhaust system, rebuilt the carburetor. And just this past weekend I fired it up and ironed out a few more mechanical issues. My wife is in love with this car and has green-lighted every request to buy the parts to get it on the road. Hence, I've spent many happy hours in the garage sipping home brew and puzzling over my new pickup while my grandson plays endlessly nearby.

I know that life "under the sun" is filled with vanity. I know nothing I do with metal or wood will last much longer than I do, and altogether we'll return to dust. My bikes are getting more worn, faded, and dated. The cars I'm maintaining are already over 80 years old and show it. It's a losing proposition. Even the loving hours I'm spending with my family will be faded memories eclipsed by more current concerns in their minds as I myself grow old like my bikes and cars. All of which makes it the more striking to me that God grants me such pleasure in plainly temporal things. I guess His pleasure in making me happy isn't as pragmatic as all that. He's making me happy because that's what He loves to do. And I am . . happy.

Sidestepping Over the Line

2011-11-03T09:07:00.000-07:00

I don't know what your ride to work is like. Hope it's cool and something you look forward to each day. Mine is not too bad, a little short and only a couple of good curves, but I still like the commute.

There is one mile-long section that circumvents the main streets and signals through town. Daily I enjoy opening up my bike along the flat continuous curve. I can usually get the Ultra up to about 95 on this stretch. It feels great to be running fast along next to a ranch and a park. I like trying to ride smoothly at top speed without wobbling or drifting, just one long consistent lean at full throttle. These days the morning run is made in the dark.

As I was getting my morning jollies today I spotted a stakebed ahead and decided to pass him on the left along the outside. He drifted a bit toward the center line which forced me to use a left turn lane in the median. As it would happen this median was covered with sand. Suddenly everything got light. Together the bike and I just took a big slide step to the left. It was like a country line dance. "Step, and together! Well, done everyone."

As you probably know, theses things don't usually go that smoothly. Often the front tire slides first, the rider adjusts, the rear tire slides, and when you regain grip on the far side the bike is out of alignment which at high speed can result in a high side crash. That dance step is usually called the "Roadkill Spill." It was so unusual and fortunate to feel the whole bike shuffle left in perfect unison that on the far side when traction was restored I gave it a stab of throttle, scooted back into my lane, raised my arms, hooted and shouted, "Jesus saves!"

Minutes later when I pulled into the parking lot at work the boss was walking by. I guess the smile had not yet left my face because he asked me, "Is it really that great to be back at work today?"

"Guess so," I replied, sidestepping that issue too.

A Perfect Day

2011-10-30T18:29:00.000-07:00

Okay, time for a little audience participation. The question before us: What makes a perfect day of riding?

I just had one, so I know what the ingredients are for me. I decided to write it down before the warmth of the day's sun even fades from my face.

First, I ride out of the driveway with no regrets and roll back in the same way. Today's ride had the full support and approval of my family, and did not cause a moment's pause in my mind all day. I was invited to ride with a couple of good friends and great riders. I went over my bike the night before and knew that air pressure, oil and every other little thing was in order. Therefore, I was at perfect peace with both the machine, and the company. I came home happy, dirty, a little tired, and with a strong desire to do it again soon.

Second, the weather was marvelous. This morning hot air balloons were rising in the clear stillness as Jack and I sat on his front step waiting for Mike. The temp a perfect 70 degrees. While I'm sure things heated up in the lowlands we enjoyed comfortable cool air all day as we rode through the mountains.

The route was ideal as well. All familiar mountain tracks on clean roads with light traffic and only one stop in 300 miles. The type of ride and its length were a super match for the bike I was riding. The Springer is a sparky cruiser, but has no faring so a ride longer than 6 hours or which includes long stretches of fast freeway riding can be fatiguing. But today's ride was just long enough and consisted nearly entirely of twisties so the average speed was about 50 and the only work was riding the machine rather than wrestling the wind. The stop was great too; a light lunch at an outdoor spot with a great draft beer and enjoyable conversation.

Additionally, I was pleased with my own performance. Jack and Mike were riding 2010 BMW K1300 GT's and all I could do was remind them at the start of each run to wait for me at the end. And that's pretty much what happened, but the Springer and I weren't that far back and we even mixed it up a bit with those guys at times. It was great fun to ride well and be proud of my 16-year-old Harley.

Finally, and maybe to come full circle, I enjoyed being with my friends today. I don't know what made it so harmonious, but we seemed to all be in stride today. There was an absence of ego, tension, indecision, drama misfortune, or whatever other bullshit so often tags along when people get together. At the end of the day we stood under the Idyllwild oaks and genuinely declared how great it would be to have another perfect day of riding next week.

Here's a link my friend, Mike, made of one of our runs up the 243.

http://youtu.be/rb4fKaM2oSo

A Hankering That's Neither Fish nor Fowl

2011-10-25T18:53:00.000-07:00

After work today I was sitting on my bike in the parking lot talking beer and bikes with a co-worker. He had recently changed the exhaust on his bike. I guess he had been testing it out over lunch and wound up at a local brewery sampling their IPA. So we talked about the quality of each. He likes the exhaust (more throttle response, better sound) and loved the IPA (7.2% ABV and 80+ IBU).

By conversation's end I was hankering to ride off for a beer myself. A little chat about exhaust tones and I'd gotten a desire to ride which caused me to strap my helmet on while my friend was still yarning. I felt vaguely rude for this but, I don't know, I just wanted to mount up and listen to my own exhausts for a while. How do you explain something like that? What is it about riding bikes that makes it impossible to get enough? How do you categorize something like this in your life? Is it a hobby, an obsession, an addiction, a lifestyle or just what?

Hobby? I'm not playing at this like I play at my other hobbies. Hobbies can be neglected for months without notice. I don't need to golf, brew or work on a Model-A every day, every week or even every month. Not so with riding. I do ride every day, and I don't get enough. I'm never able to leave it alone and not miss it. I guess when you behave like that then riding isn't a "hobby," especially not after 35 years.

On the other hand, it's not a lifestyle either. That seems a little too organic to me. A man who lives by the sea, has a boat, makes a living from fishing, is a fisherman. That's his primary identity. Riding is not that for me. I know guys like that. They belong to MC's and live eat and breathe "the life". I know that's not me. So it's not my lifestyle.

Quickly I'm going to dismiss obsession. There's a lot of that OCD-like stuff buzzing about these days. I've seen a bit of it. When you're obsessed with something or someone you can't talk about anything else. All conversations lead directly to that subject and there is a kooky tendency to collect odd related objects. Hmm, while some of that sounds a bit close to home, I'd have to say I can, when forced to, talk interestedly about other topics. And while I have two bikes, a lot of parts, tools and gear, not all my things are bike things.

Addiction is still further from the mark, I think. Addicts will do anything to get their fix, even foul, dishonest or destructive things.

Like the drive for food or sex, the desire to go riding is more like an appetite. Yeah, that's what I'd call it. Something that can be aroused in me as it was this afternoon. I respond to stimuli. Sights, sounds, smells or racy conversations get me going. And when I've been deprived for a time the hunger grows and preoccupies my thinking.

Tonight, for example, I had a hard time passing the evening. I couldn't read. I found myself glossing over the words in my book while my mind was on riding, motorcycles and maps. I'd already eaten, and snacked on top of that. I was casting about but could not really satisfy a restless feeling inside. Next thing you know, I was out in the garage puttering with my bikes. Now, I can't or actually shouldn't just burn up fuel by going for a ride around town. Besides, that sometimes only makes things worse. Just a little taste, a tease like that and I'm liable to ride off on a work night and come back late and laced with fermented barley. My appetite is not really satiated by this costless puttering either. I don't have any parts right now so I'm just adjusting and tightening and checking. This too just inflames this appetite. By dark I was seated alone in the garage in a camp chair beside my bikes hankering for a riding thrill like some wistful school boy sitting next to a girl he desperately wants to kiss.

These Days

2011-10-11T11:28:00.000-07:00

These days most of us are feeling a little less financial freedom. To be honest I know a number of folks who are experiencing real economic set-backs. My own income has decreased and fixed expenses rose a bit as well. In better times I thought nothing of riding all day on three dollar gas and then spending $50 for food and beer nearly every weekend. In those days I actually purchased a second motorcycle with all it's maintenance expenses. In those days, it was okay to take off on my bike and ride clear across the country wearing out tires and burning gas like it was grass. In those days riding included pinching pennies while spending dimes. In those day I swapped gas for power and cash for chrome. Well, those days are gone, and we are here in these days.

These days I don't meander down to the Chopper Shop on a lazy Saturday just to find some little part I can tinker with on my bikes. Instead I find myself having to be content with cleaning bikes in the driveway rather than tearing them apart. These days I'm digging through the parts box to see if the old grips are more worn than the ones I'm using. I'm wearing an old helmet I don't really like instead of shopping for a replacement for one I preferred, these days. A friend asked if I'd go camping with him. "You'll take your bike, of course." He'd added. "Not these days," I replied. "I'll drive up with you and we'll split the gas." I find myself, these days, patting myself on the back when I don't add miles to my machines, rather than the opposite. These days, believe it or not, I'm attempting to ride a little more conservatively so I won't have to buy another tire before Christmas or pay another ticket.

So what is the bright side of being a rider in these days? Well, and I can't say I see the bright side every day, but a couple of shafts of light reach me relatively often. First, I'm appreciative of the two bikes I have in my garage. It seems amazing that I was ever able to purchase them in the first place. While a year or so ago I'd been looking around for possible upgrades or updates, now I'm just happy to have what I have. I'm still a blessed man, and I know it even if these days I find myself at home polishing as opposed to on the road exploring. Like a healthy diet, these days have made me say "no", or maybe just "yes" less often. Self denial is a manly quality I've admired in good husbands and fathers. Truth is, I made out a budget and expense record for our household this month for the first time in six years. In those days I could just generally keep a guiding hand on things. These days making ends meet requires a little planning, some accountability and some self-control.

Additionally, I don't regret any of those day rides, camping trips, and all the beers with friends. In fact, I look back at those memories with more appreciation, and I look forward to future freer days with greater anticipation.

Snake in the Garden

2011-10-04T19:31:00.000-07:00

There's an account in the Bible of the devil in the form of a serpent convincing Eve that there would be no significant ramifications to sampling the forbidden fruit she'd been staring at for some time. "You shall not surely die," said the snake to the already entranced woman, and thus the human race was doomed to a cursed life of (among more serious things) toil under the sun to produce fruit from the reluctant earth in order to acquire possessions that would one day return to dust.

Who would do such a thing? What kind of satanic maniac would lead someone into such a trap at such a vulnerable moment, and with so much at stake? Only Satan himself, well, not only him..

Actually, I've been guilty of a similar sinister scam lately. You see, the other day after work I invited a vulnerable young rider over to my house "for a beer." Where I knew he would run smack dab into my nasty looking springer.

After a potent pint, I offered innocently to let the lad take the seductress out for a lap dance around the block. I even fired her up for him. Now I knew he'd ridden over here on a 400 cc enduro. One twist of that throaty throttle and he'd be completely ruined. I knew it was pure evil. Yet I led him right into the maws of malcontent.

Oh, he hopped on alright and I heard the two of them slink down the street together. And after a few minutes I heard her leading him back by the nose. She pulled into the drive like a saucy woman in a torn dress, and he had that coming-of-age look on his face. His sunglasses were gone, and hair blown back, and his face wore that wowed look of lost innocence.

After a second pint, he had to climb back on his enduro and ride home. I just sat astride her slender saddle and watched him putt on down the way a deeply discontent individual. He won't think of anything else until he has one of his own. It's a curse.

I knew it would wreck him. It was wrong. I'm evil.

Hot Headed

2011-09-07T19:21:00.000-07:00

Just a note on this fire-hot day, musta been 105. Had stowed my beanie helmet in the tour pak this morning. As I saddled up to head home this afternoon I popped on the helmet and nearly scrambled my eggs. So I decided I didn't need to head home so fast after all. I headed into the employee lounge and tossed my helmet and gloves into the freezer while I read the sports page.

There was a slight crackle when I synched it down a while later, but I kept a cool head for quit some time on the way home.

I think I'll invent one of those frozen ice bags to insert in a helmet on days like this.

That's All She Rode

2011-08-30T16:01:00.000-07:00

Ever do something so stupid, maybe life-threateningly dangerous, that you just throw up your hands and say in finality, "That's all she wrote?"

I did, just this weekend.

It all began innocently enough. My neighbor bought a Honda Rebel 250, a bike so gutless it would take a half a mile to get up enough speed to dent the fender in a head on collision. But, ironically, a bike so classically cute that my wife fell in love with it as soon as she saw it. Now Lana doesn't ride, but she knows a great looking bike (or truck for that matter) when she sees one, and she fell hard for this one. She mentioned it several times over the last couple of weeks. In fact, my neighbor heard her comment about the bike so he brought it down and parked it in our garage. He then sent me a text message advising me to send Lana out to the garage. The cute little blue Rebel was conspicuously placed so as to attract attention. Lana was lured in and shortly suggested she might be willing to learn to ride that bike. It was perfect, Lana could easily sit flat-footed on a bike barely outweighing her bicycle.

So this past Saturday evening, after the triple-digit heat began to subside, we headed for the parking lot of the near-by school. Lana and Noah rode their bikes while I took the motorcycle. Once there I showed her the controls and how to start the bike. I advised her not to go too slowly as, like a bicycle, it would feel more stable with a little speed. She hit the starter button and the little machine started.

"I don't really like this," she said. But she gave it some gas and popped the clutch. The little bike lurched forward, bucked a couple of times and (thankfully) died. In that second and a half, as I saw the bike and Lana lurch forward I knew I'd made a mistake.

Ie'd made a bunch of assumptions I never should have made. Since she'd driven a car with a clutch I assumed she'd know how to slip the clutch for a smooth start. I assumed the controls at the end of each of her four limbs were sufficiently familiar or simple. In short, I assumed it would be much easier for her than it was. Thank God the bike had quit and that she hadn't hurt herself.

I remained calm, on the outside anyway, and so did she. Wow, what a bad way to start her off. Ironically, I'd never started a new rider out with so little experience as my own wife, the spouse of a life-long rider.

"Let's try it this way," I suggested as I straddled the passenger seat and placed my hands on the bars outside of hers. "I'll drive from the back and you can get a feel for how it's done by feeling how I move the clutch and throttle." I was just hoping she wouldn't hop off and run away.

We circled the parking lot a number of times and I was constantly amazed at how unintuitive this was for her. We worked a bit on throttle control and with the clutch and the foot brake. Even after ten minutes she still seemed unsure which hand or foot did what and was not ready to take the bike around the circuit solo. As a result it began to sink in to me just how profoundly stupid I'd been to put her on this thing by herself in the first place. It also did not seem to be enjoyable for her, but to her credit she stuck with it for about 15 minutes. For the leg home she went back to her bicycle, not on the motorcycle as I had envisioned.

To my surprise Lana was willing to give it another shot the next evening. Things went more smoothly and we basically repeated the lessons of the day before. But again, after about 15 minutes she was done.

"Okay, that was interesting," she said. "You can take the bike back to Jim now. I don't want to ride it any more."

And that's all she rode.

Burning Desire

2011-08-27T08:51:00.000-07:00

He had it bad, this young man I've gotten to know at work. Real bad. He'd met Naomi, so he called her, on the internet and she got her hooks into him deep. That kind of thing can happen these days, with all this on-line stuff, everybody facebooking their business, and their booty for anyone with a browser to browse. A young man filled with burning desire shouldn't be torturing himself surfing the net in the first place. "Focus on your goals, and don't get distracted, especially when you are so close," I cautioned him one afternoon.

"Yeah, you're right," he'd said staring at his feet. "This is not the time, I gotta finish school." He looked up, "Man, you sound just like my dad."

"I'll bet," I thought as I watched my words go in one ear and right out the other. It was like Mr. Badger scolding Mr. Toad. I knew it wouldn't stick. It was like spitting on a forest fire. This kid had it bad, and he was going to have to learn this lesson, like all young men, the hard way.

So when Friday afternoon rolled around, I wasn't surprised when he came by and with a suggestion that we go by and meet her. He'd been texting madly for some time and snapped his phone shut and said, "Come on. She's only ten minutes away. Look, if you're not impressed I'll walk away. I swear. But she's so beautiful."

"Okay," I agreed. "You got some money?"

"Right here," he smiled as he waved a very fat wallet.

Truth is, his fire had sparked me too. I mean, I'm old but not dead. I sucked in my gut just a bit. Maybe Naomi, or whoever she really was, would prefer an older more experienced man. Geez, look how I'm thinking. Men, we're all dogs, even the old ones.

We hopped on our bikes, fired up and headed for Eastside. I knew the place. It's on the industrial side of town. All the places out there are the same; one jammed right next to the other with potholed gravel parking areas and high chain link fences fitted with privacy slats. When we rolled up "Naomi" was outside apparently showing off her wares to someone else. Still I could see why the kid had been struck. She was older than I'd expected, but still alluring in a slinky sort of way.

She was a 2000 Victory. A big 92 on the side showed the size of her jugs. All blacked out, she was looking wicked all right. The owner of the tow yard stepped over to talk to us. The kid was pretty quiet. I couldn't tell what he was thinking. The bike was a repo with a clear title. If she checked out on my inspection and test ride, he'd be riding home on her the following morning.

A closer look, however, revealed that Naomi had been around the block a few times. There was evidence of a minor crash and there were quite a few tweeker fixes. The ignition switch, for example was an automobile switch wired in where the original had been. The brake line in front also seemed to have been tweekerized as well and hung loose between the forks like a bra strap. Still, she fired up well.

Maybe these were just cosmetic blemishes on an otherwise sound chassis. I rode carefully out of the yard testing the brakes and steering before even shifting out of first. Working my way up to third, the 92 inch motor sounded good, but I expected a little more power, and I detected a little miss. Two blocks later, however, she was acting like a tramp from the Eastside, a cough, and then nothin'. Just out of sight of the yard she went cold as death and left me by the side of the road. After checking for gas and fiddling with the tweekerized switch I called the yard and told them where me and their girl could be picked up.

"Weird," the owner said, "we've been riding her all week and having loads of fun."

"Maybe she's only good for short flings," I noted.

A little messing around and we found a broken wire near the front blinker that might have shorted out the fuse. But my young friend and I didn't stick around long enough to find out for sure.
Back at the yard I said, "I don't think she's the one for you," stating the obvious.

My young friend was true to his word. He'd kept his wallet in his pants and without looking back, he walked (rode) away toward whatever young men do on Friday nights. Maybe this guy will mature into a wise man sooner than I'd thought. When it counted, he'd mustered up the strength to walk away from a bad relationship. I rode off the other way feeling some of his disappointment. It would have been cool to have rescued that bike run around with that babe for a while. Yet I was feeling pretty good about things too.

It's Friday. Think I'll wash my bike and then flirt with my wife.

A No Hold Up.

2011-07-28T09:07:00.000-07:00

Most of us have had the unfortunate experience of being involved in or at least witnessing a "no-hold-up." My latest was right where you'd expect, the garage.
What? You thought "bank" or "convenience store?"
No, this is a no-hold-up. Which is the opposite, obviously, of a hold-up. Here's how it went down.

My grandson is running around wildly waving an automatic weapon of some sort, actually a pair of vise-grips that he has adopted from my tool cabinet. I see the potential for a big scratch on my Ultra so in order to dodge a bullet I step over and push the bike forward into the garage and lean it back onto it's.. Oops, There is no kick-stand. The behemoth easily pulls out of my hold. "Bam." Bike hits bench. Dead silence from both my son and grandson as all three of us stand and stare. No-hold-ups are shocking to witness.

"Noah, go in the house. Now! Papa, is going to swear," my son says sharply. The little red head clutches the vise-grips and scoots out of the garage.

In that little moment before really examining the damage, I prepare myself for what I think I'll see. Mostly, I realize, I dread buying and changing out yet another mirror. Oh well. Let's see. I heft the bike off the floor and roll it back out of the garage. Nope, this time the mirror is fine, but the windshield is smashed and there is a scuff on the fairing. I'm relieved.

A little while later, Noah comes back out to the garage as I'm sweeping up the plastic bits. "Papa, is you motorcycle broken."

"Only, the windshield. Will you help me fix it?"

"Yeah, I will. I'm a very good helper."

So the "no-hold-up" only cost me a hundred bucks (of course I had to get two windshields to replace the one I broke). Just a petty crime after all.

And I have a new recurved windshield, which I tested and approved yesterday.

Thirty Days for the Soul

2011-07-27T12:39:00.000-07:00

A week after my wife and I got back from our annual month-long car camping trip I was still digging through a box to find underwear in the morning and through my shaving kit to find my toothbrush. I was home but not settled. Hadn't even unpacked my clothes. Somehow I felt that I was still merely occupying another campsite. The entire summer has been one long drift. The trip was a thirty day tumble through Alice's rabbit hole and it had taken me a week of home surroundings just to process some of the events. In it all I've sensed that the Lord was simply continuing the character and faith lessons He'd been administering over the last couple of years. At the end of the school year God was clearly not finished with me. He appears to have tacked on at least another Thirty Days in the Hole, or rather "for the Soul" and I'm still marveling at the intensity and diversity of His training program.

Having just extricated myself from business in Colorado, a smarter man wouldn't have taken on a new project the day after he pulled into the driveway. But I did just that. It was on the list. There was one more person standing in line to be served, and I won't be free to leave until no one gives a damn whether I'm around or not.

It seems all summer I've been working to cross off projects and obligations as if they were locks on the door to my personal freedom and peace of mind. Perhaps it'll all be done by this coming weekend when I finish remodeling the master bedroom for my wife, conclude the process of refinancing our property in Fort Collins and settle in to my new job. Then I will have finished and can pack my bike and head back out for some solo riding time. It was just yesterday that I came to the realization that this is what I've been working toward for the past seven weeks: the freeing sense that I've taken care of all claims on my time and I can ride around for a while without the guilt of unfinished projects. adding wind resistance to the adventure. A few days of riding around in the mountains knowing that I'm not putting anyone else out has been the driving force the entire time.

The nights under the stars are only peaceful when I'm truly free to enjoy them.

Chop Talk

2011-07-23T10:19:00.000-07:00

This Thursday I'd run up against a delay in my work on the house. Clearly I can't put up molding and bead board if the walls aren't painted, so I'll have to wait on my wife to get them painted. Cool. I've had a hankering to hit one of my favorite time-wasting haunts, The Chopper Shop. This place is a business, and serious about the work, so I know better than to just ride in and take up space. I called ahead and asked Chopper if I could buy him lunch.
"Its still morning. I'm not hungry yet, but you can come in around noon if you want," Chopper grunted over the phone. So at noon, bearing a sack of sandwiches from Arby's I stood at the counter with Chopper and a couple of the other guys and ate, then stayed to enjoy some Chop talk.

Chop talk covers a lot of topics; the government and economy, people we know and the dumb things they've done lately, but mostly Harleys and how they are made, maintained, and improved. So over the next six hours I listened to stories and opinions on these issues from members of three different motorcycle clubs and several independent riders.

In case you didn't know: The government is run by a bunch of wealthy corrupt men who work hard to enslave the citizenry by taking away common sense freedoms and by stealing our hard earned money while selling the country to China. And the economy is in the toilet because these same officials tax hard working folk and give what they don't pocket to insiders and immigrants. Fresh evidence of this was reviewed during Chop talk today.

People we know continue to make their own lives hard by doing things that all of us gathered around our Arby's could clearly see were unwise. You can't hook up with women like that, ride like that, say stuff like that without making a mess of things. We could all see that, and think it's funny as hell.

After lunch the Chop talk continued as we worked on the bikes on the racks

This time of year most of the tales of the road relate to trips back and forth to Sturgis with the general consensus being: The ride there and back is what it's all about, and the crazier your companions, the crazier your adventures.

We also heard about who's crashed their bikes and how badly they got hurt. The Shop took on the feel of an old west saloon in which thirsty ranchers coming in to town for supplies were "newsed up" before heading out again. I'm sure the story of Andrew's broken shoulder, and Eddie's big crash had been told a number of times earlier in the week. But each time one of the "regulars" came in to get a part they were asked if they'd heard. And, if not, then the stories were retold. Butch came in to check on a bike he'd dropped off earlier. He paid a portion of the bill and looked at the bike a bit, but lingered at the shop for over an hour exchanging news and opining on his chances of getting out of his latest ticket. Harley John came in to get a carb diaphragm, an $18 part, and stayed to spin yarns of past trips to Sturgis for an hour as well.

Between the phone calls and conversations with regulars Chopper gave me pointers on bike mechanics and allowed me to assist him is small ways like changing fluids on a shovel head and re-tapping it's drain plug hole. I ground off a weld, balanced a tire and handed him tools while I listened to an explanation of the importance of properly shimming the rear brake shoes. He included me in his instruction to customers who came in to ask about what was the best way to fix various problems their bikes were having. Most arranged to bring the bikes in and have the shop do the work. That's the sales strategy, I guess. Explain something so thoroughly that the guy can only conclude you know ay more that he does and so he hires you for the job. Besides, it's hard to walk out of a place like the Chopper Shop with all it's Harley authenticity and not want to have a piece of it riding around with you.

So, I took home a bit of it with me too. I rolled in at around six smudged with grime and happy to have taken away some news, some lore, and maybe a little handy mechanical knowledge.

The Gravity of the Motorcycle

2011-05-26T21:05:00.000-07:00

In the universe whenever enough matter collects it begins to exert a force on the matter and energy around it. This force is known as gravity. It's, well, an attraction.

Being a rider seems to have a gravity too. People see other people riding bikes and looking like they are experiencing something cool and are attracted to it. This explains the "gravity" of biker rallies. There's an attraction about them that sucks in surrounding folks. A kind of black hole of biker mystique.

Today I was getting my hair cut. Something I admittedly don't enjoy nor do often. The young lady that was cutting my hair could see I didn't feel comfortable in the "salon" and kindly struck up a conversation about motorcycles. The conversation went very predictably.

"So I see you ride a motorcycle. What kind?"
"Harley"
"Oh, yeah? I want to ride one of those some day. I used to have a Vespa, but now I want to start riding a motorcycle."
"Ahh, are you set on Harleys or are you open to any type of motorcycle?
"Well I guess I really like Harleys. They seem cool. Do you go to Sturgis?"

I've had this conversation many times. Seems that just about everyone from the guy getting gas on the other side of the pump, to a new employee at work really gravitates toward the motorcycle thing.

I guess it's just one more force in the universe.

Junk Under the Trunk

2011-05-25T20:48:00.000-07:00

I've been going to get 'round to writing this down for some time now.

Lately I've been going out to the garage in the morning and staring at my two bikes and coming up with excuses to ride the Ultra it to work.

"Oh yeah, today I need to bring home, uhh, eggs. Yeah, eggs. That's it. I'd better take the Ultra today.

"Hey, don't I need to pick up some Diet Coke on my way to work this morning? Better take the Ultra."

"Hmm, isn't this my day to bring donuts?"

So what's going on? Why am I having so much fun riding that fat pig these days? Turns out it's the nice new round rear .. tire. Ever since I put round rubber back there I've been carvin' it up all over town. On my commute I can take various corners at speeds anywhere from 20 to 70 mph. Ever since replacing the rear tire I've felt much more comfortable adding throttle in the curves. It's fun to ride to work again. Baby's got junk under the trunk and Daddy likes it.

Matador or Ambassador

2011-05-25T18:49:00.000-07:00

Lane splitting, as I have many times mentioned, is one of my major motivations for riding a motorcycle. A pair of serendipitous events occurred this week to cause me to take a new read on how things have changed between the lanes over the years.

I recall splitting lanes on my way home from work just shortly after I got my springer in 2000. Looking back I remember how aggressively I felt riding in traffic like some sort matador taunting frustrated bulls. I had a loud bike, an attitude and an expectation that cars should make room for me. There were incidents of horn honking and finger flipping. Once a pickup had moved over to cut me off, so as I passed his door I slapped his mirror with my hand. I broke the mirror and also cut my hand. Even with the chip on my shoulder riding home lane splitting was less aggravating than sitting in traffic in my truck. Yet, it was far cry from the therapeutic experience I have these days.

A little more than a week ago this article appeared in our local paper.

10:57 PM PDT on Friday, May 6, 2011
By RICHARD BROOKS
The Press-Enterprise
A 56-year-old Beaumont man was behind bars Friday in connection with whatCalifornia Highway Patrol officers say was an attempt to ram a motorcyclist along I-215 near Highgrove.
James Winans Clarkson Jr. was arrested at 1:30 p.m. Wednesday at University Avenue and Redwood Street in Riverside and booked for investigation of attempted murder, assault with a deadly weapon, brandishing a gun, and possessing a gun while committing a felony, jail records show.
The freeway incident happened about 1:30 p.m. April 26 near Center Street in Highgrove.
The 22-year-old motorcyclist from San Bernardino escaped injury, CHP Officer Sylvia Lopez said in a written statement.
"Witnesses stated that the motorcyclist was safely splitting traffic and (was) actually thanking motorists that shared the lane," according to the statement.
"As the motorcyclist passed a 1998 Toyota pickup truck, the driver ... suddenly swerved towards the motorcyclist in a deliberate manner. For several miles, the driver ... made numerous attempts to strike and ram the rider."
The rider tried to race away, but both men eventually pulled over and stopped.
At that point, the statement says, the Toyota's driver displayed a revolver.
Before arresting Clarkson, officers served a search warrant and seized a gun and other unspecified evidence that they say links Clarkson to the incident.
Clarkson is being held on $1 million bail.

So I read this article wondering how I managed to survive those first couple of years of riding like a matador without getting myself shot.

Then this last week I had to ferry my wife back and forth to work on the bike as her car was in the shop. It meant extended time on the freeway riding from my work to hers and then on home. I had to pass through the narrow and crowded 91/215 interchange where lanes slim and traffic slows to a crawl for many miles. As time and miles have passed, I've mellowed. So this week when cars drifted closer to each other and cut me off, I perceived it as inattention rather than intention. I understand that a driver has more to do in their car than watch for bikes between the lanes. After all, cell phones weren't even invented when I started lane splitting.

Hopefully the incident above is a rarity. We will always meet the odd dickhead out there. As I said, I started out as one of that sort. It does seem that most drivers have become more aware and tolerant of motorcyclists. This week numerous vehicles courteously moved over to make room. Maybe they are just protecting their property, but more often than not I see some sign that they are just being polite. Perhaps because the number of bikes on the road has steadily increased. Or maybe, as gas heads toward five bucks a gallon, people look more understandingly at someone who chooses to ride a motorcycle. Now they see that being a badass isn't the only motivation someone might have for riding.
Either way this week it felt right to give off a wave of gratitude as I rode past. So even though it doesn't always make a difference, what we need between the lanes is a few less matadors and a few more ambassadors.

I Like it. I Love it. I Want Some More of It.

2011-05-16T16:05:00.000-07:00

Today Jim called and asked my opinion on the value of a Honda Rebel 250. It's a bike I'd be unlikely to want at any price. However, I felt responsible for being objective in responding to him. In the process of pricing the bike for him I read entries from a forum for Rebel owners. These were folks I probably wouldn't run across in my motorcycle circle. There were many beginning riders, not a few committed economical commuters, and a genuine Rebel affectionato (sp?) or two. They all seemed so pleased with their bikes and with how they ride them. It served to remind me of how many different reasons a person could have for liking to ride a motorcycle.

I think I've been a bit narrow minded about this. One of my co-workers really seems to get the most joy from his bike purely because it is so cheap. He never takes his bike on road trips, or even on joy rides. He just rides the same route back and forth to work day in and day out. Occasionally we'd arrive at work at the same time. He'd pull off his full-face helmet, loosen his riding pants and sport rider's jacket and smile broadly as he told me he'd just gotten 60 mpg from his Ninja 250. At the time I'd just toss back a nod. After all, I'd just set off half a dozen car alarms and topped 115 on a city boulevard in a denim vest, canvas shoes and a novelty helmet. I was still in my own head, feeling the buzz from the morning shot of my personal brand of Riding Joy. I guess I didn't recognize that he was having his too.

I'll bet Jim buys that thing, rides it for about 2500 miles over the next three years and loves every minute of it.

Marathon Mileage

2011-05-07T16:20:00.000-07:00

Today I replaced the rear tire on the Ultra after only five months and 4800 miles. The whole thing only cost me $120 and an hour and a half. Now I have matching Metzler ME880 Marathons on the front and rear. Who knows, maybe I'll try a little harder to get good mileage out of these tires. Unlikely. Probably just rip around like before and complain about it again in November.

A couple of good things, though. For instance, I'm much more pleased with the $75 (?) I spent on a tire stand from Harbor Freight a few years ago. When I changed my first couple of tires using it I was disappointed that it still took so much work to get the tires off and back on. But now that I've done it a half dozen more times I've picked up on the little things that make it easier. I'd say it only took me ten minutes to remove the old tire from the wheel and have the new one on. Also, I've learned to use duct tape on the bar so I left no marks on the wheel. Anyway, I'm sure I've recouped the cost of this tool by now. I enjoy the convenience of being able to shop for tires online and change them when it suits me instead of having to take the bike in to a shop. This makes it worth the space the tools take up in my garage.

One more note on tire mileage: I've come to believe that the real difference in the mileage I get on the Marathons on the two different bikes really is due to the significant weight difference in the two machines. After writing the last blog article on this topic I have been more aware of just how much harder it is to push the Ultra around than the Springer. Pushing back into a parking space, moving the bikes around on the driveway, and jacking them up in the garage it's hard not notice how heavy the Ultra seems compared to the Springer. I looked up the Ultra's weight as shipped in the owners manual, 788 lbs., which is only 80- 100 lbs. heavier than a new Cross Bones softail. There is no owners manual for the springer, but it sure feels more that 100 lbs lighter than the Ultra. In any case it takes a heck of a lot more muscle to move the Ultra around than the Springer, so it must also scrub off more rubber to get it moving, keep it going and slow it down.

Off to the Races

2011-05-01T15:16:00.000-07:00

At four years old, my grandson, Noah, is just a hoot. He's been around bikes since birth and thus, well, takes them for granted. Still, it's fun to see him incorporate bikes into his daily life. He's gone through a lot of phases with this. Bikes have been rocking horses, jungle gym's, pirate ships, detestable noisy anathemas, and lately thrill riding machines.

These days I save my last gas stop of the week for Noah. Somehow it always turns out that on Sunday we have to fill one or the other of the bikes with gas. He excitedly looks forward to the race to the gas station. My son takes the red bike and Noah and I take the black bike. "We're going to win him," Noah confidently announces as I lift him into the seat. He wears a full face helmet and insists that I wear one to match. "We're going to beat Daddy this time, aren't we, Papa." he asks and directs in the same breath?

Bikes are loud and powerful, and thus a little scary in a thrilling sort of way. So I always get my instructions has we mount up. "Don't go really fast, Papa. Just a little bit fast. Okay? To beat Daddy."

As we back out of the garage and cut across the lawn, Noah gets excited. "He's coming, Papa! He's coming! Let's win him!" And off we go down the street. Noah's helmet swivels back and forth as he looks to see where the springer is and whether Daddy is catching us. If Daddy gets closer I can feel the back of my shirt being grabbed like a mare's mane and the little Vans kicking at my sides like spurs. Aside from the helmet swiveling from side to side I can't really see him behind me, but I can hear excited orders being shouted at me from the rear seat. "Don't let him win us, Papa."

The mock race proceeds down the street revving high in first and second and making a raucous illusion of speed. We turn down a couple of residential streets and pop out just at the gas station. Somehow Daddy is ahead and Noah is over-excited. As if to straighten things out for the second leg, he directs me to get gas from the black handle, because our bike is black. The green handled diesel pump is apparently for green bikes. All others are out of luck.

The homeward stretch seems always to begin with Daddy in the lead. At one point Daddy goes one way around on the red bike and Noah and I take the other. This causes great excitement and much more spurring and mane pulling and some unintelligible shouting of instructions. Not surprisingly, it's a dead heat down the block to the s-turn where miraculously the bike directed by Noah edges out the evil Daddy bike and we win by a nose at the driveway.

Up Front

2011-04-26T20:13:00.000-07:00

Let's be up front. Not many of us are qualified to critique tire performance. I've mentioned this before. Riders are often passionate about the brand of tire they put on their bike. On the internet factory Dunlops get a lot of negative press as people change them out for Metzlers or Venoms, or whatever. But the truth is most of us never come close to testing the traction limits and handling sublties of our tires. Think about it. We don't throw on a new set of one brand of tires, run a few hot laps, change them for another new set of a different brand run the laps again and compare our corner speed and braking distances. Sorry, but we're not all Mat Mladin.

So why does nearly every article about tires include, "I just changed out my (fill in the tire) for a new set of (fill in the tire) and I can't believe how much better they perform?" I suspect the effect we see reflected in all those rave reviews is merely the amazing difference in performance between old tires and new tires. In fact it is that same effect that prompts this writing. I just recently ordered a new set of tires for my Ultra.. Being cheap and stupid it wasn't the fact that the tires were bald and cupped that prompted the purchase. It was that on many of my favorite corners my bike was handling poorly. On my favorite off-camber descending turn the rear end was wobbling like fat hips in a line dance. This is unacceptable since it interferes with imagining that I'm Mat Mladin.

When the tires came the rear tire was the wrong size so I could only put on the new front tire. Ah well, nothing's ever linear. I changed the front tire Sunday night. Monday and Tuesday I rode back and forth to work and couldn't believe the difference in the handling! I know that motorcycle tires perform dramatically differently as they wear. I expected the new tire to perform better in some way. There is no way, however, that I could possibly remember how my Dunlops performed on the same corner when they were new. I figured I'd notice a smoother ride, and maybe some better front braking traction. What shocks me is how changing my front tire caused the wobble in the fat lady's hip to cease. This is the effect I would have expected from replacing the rear tire. I'm back up to speed on my favorite corners. Watch out tomorrow, Ben Spies, Mat's back and I'll be sneakin' past you on the inside on my way up to the front.

Hot Wire

2011-04-25T21:58:00.000-07:00

Today when I got home the house was quiet. I puttered around with a few things, then, as usual, found myself in the garage. The springer has a couple of electrical problems, Namely, the tail light and brake light are out, the low beam doesn't work, and there are no blinkers. Now normally I avoid working on wiring, but as I say the house was empty and "idle hands do the devil's work." So I decided to start monkeying around with the bike and see what I could find.

With the music grooving in the background I started trying to figure out what wire was hot and what not. Ended up having to remove the tanks to trace the low beam wire along the harness, which led to the discovery not only of the bad connection but of a bad flasher unit as well. After each piece of the puzzle found its place, I sat in the doorway of the garage and enjoyed the pleasant evening air, munched on one or two of my grandson's left over Easter jelly beans and sipped my home brew. After each little break I considered heading in, but then decided instead to trace another hot wire.

I'm not sure if my wife came out to fetch me for dinner and I missed the summons, or if she just left me to my tinkering, but at around 9 0'clock I'd gotten as far as I could without new parts and saw that the evening had turned to night and the beer gone flat. I doubt that I could feel more relaxed and ready for bed. Turns out, after a long day at work, tracing a hot wire is a better therapy than a hot bath.

The Tires They Need a Changin"

2011-04-23T21:23:00.000-07:00

Cue harmonica, and acoustic guitar. Fire up the compressor and lay out the flat bars

Come gather 'round, riders wherever you roam

And admit that the cords around you are shown'

And accept it that soon you'll be thumbin' it home.

If your skin to you is worth savin'

Then you better start treading or you'll skid to the bone

Oh those tires they need a changin'

Come braggarts and cheapskates who stretch 'em so thin

And put thick tread on, the time's come again

And don't stretch it for the wheels start to spin.

And there's no tellin' when that it's deflatin'

For the miser now will pay for his waitin'

Oh, those tires they need a changin'

Come novice mechanics, please heed the call

Don't stand in the garage, don't lean on the wall

For he that tests this, will be he who is stalled

It's rainin' outside again

It'll soon take your traction and flat your white walls

Oh, the tires they need a changin'

The human equation never really balances. When I trace my own thoughts to their own logical conclusions they often lead to something with which I disagree.

For example my riding motto has been Ride like Hell, Live for Heaven. It's based on my faith in the sovereignty of God. I'm safe on my bike as long as God still wants me hangin' around on earth. And the day He decides it's over here for me, it wouldn't matter if I were in a Volvo. So by faith, I ride in peace. Yet when it comes to replacing my tires, I act as if I can't afford new tread. As if God can keep me safe on the road, but can't provide enough resources to keep me in tires. I have a long history of trying to get every last mile out of a tire. I recall a blowout of a bad tire back in '78 with a passenger on back. And riding through the rockies in the rain while checking every hundred miles of so to see if I had enough tread to make it to Fort Collins. I rode home from Arizona one year and asked my buddies to flag me down if they saw a white line appear on my tire because the cord had started to show.

God once told David, "I gave you everything, and if you'd asked for more, I'd have given it to you. So why did you dishonor me by stealing another man's wife?" (2 Samuel 12:7-10) So I too confess. I will stop riding on bald tires and borrowed tread as if God in His sovereignty hadn't provided the means for my safety. I'll heed the call.

Oh those tires, (and my ways) they need a changing

Never Say Never

2011-04-18T19:17:00.000-07:00

My story has always been, "I've never been pulled over by a cop while riding my bike and not gotten a ticket,"
Today, on the ride home my story changed. I was just two blocks from work, in a school zone. I rolled through a stop sign, but as I did I saw the cop car sitting back from the intersection about 50 feet. I knew I was busted. His car lurched forward, but before he even pulled in behind me to light me up, I'd pulled over. He never even hit the lights.
He walked up and said, "Have you got a valid M-1 license?" I showed it to him.
"Do you have valid insurance?"
"Yup, but I don't have the card on me."
"Whose your carrier?"
"Geico."
"Do you know why I pulled, uh, why you pulled yourself over?"
"Yup"
"Well, I ride too. I know you don't want to come to a full stop and put your boot down, but this is a school zone."
"Uh huh."
"Ok, have a nice day."
"You too. Thanks."

Tired of Tires

2011-04-12T16:51:00.000-07:00

According to the little do-hicky on my phone, I last changed my rear tire on December 5, 2010 at 57,600 miles. It's now April 11, 2011, and at 61,600 I can see the cords again. I've had to buy tires so frequently over the years that I bought my own tire stand and do the job myself. Looking back at my shoddy records I show tire changes at 35,000 43,000, 54,000 (surely missed one or two in there) 57,600, and now again at 61,600. I wish I could get to the bottom of the tire wear issue. How is it possible that I got only 4,000 miles on my ME 880 "Matathon". Maybe it should be renamed the "Sprint" instead. I mean I actually see the cord on one patch.

I've been running the same brand tire on my springer. I have no firm record of how many miles are on the current tire. But my guess is that it too has about 4,000. The springer's rear tire looks like new. Now, I ride the daylights out of that bike every time I fire it up. So, if the same fat guy is riding both bikes, and he likely has a similar riding style to uhh, himself, then the difference in tire wear must be attributed to the weight difference of the bikes.

However, when I search through the threads on the internet about Harley Tire Wear, I get loads of people commenting that they are getting twice the mileage out of their tires. When I weed out the ones that are riding lighter non-bagger models it still seems that the remaining riders are getting better mileage than I am by 75-100%. Check out these guys complaining about replacing tires at 10 and 12k! http://www.v-twinforum.com/forums/wheels-tires-brakes-suspension/159390-tire-wear-2009-a.html

One fellow in Britain said he only gets 3500 to 4000 miles per tire as well, and so do all his friends. He too was marveling at the high mileage riders are claiming to get from their tires. He attributed the difference to riding style, and road conditions. http://www.cyclespot.com/forums/archive/index.php/t-259.html Seems either he and I are the only ones who are telling the truth about our tire mileage, or we are the only two hard driving moto maniacs out there scrubbing off rubber.

It just seems nuts to me that my "riding style" could be that rough on tires. Yet I can't seem to trace a single other factor. There's a lot of anecdotal BS out there but no hard data with which to compare my experiece. Say your bike weighs 700 lbs and you weigh 230 (but are planning on loosing a couple of pounds soon). And say you run the OEM Dunlops, or Metz's, or Avons. You should be able to expect a certain mileage range from the tire. If you don't get that then you need to look for broken shocks, worn swingarm bearings, or maybe riding lessons.

That's Pretty Slick

2011-04-08T20:38:00.000-07:00

In the aftermath of my crash we made a number of changes to the springer. There were taller bars, new exhaust, and a slightly wider 160 rear tire. Ever since then I'd noticed what I thought was a bit more of a tendency to slip the rear tire especially in corners and on wet surfaces. Well, since we'd put new pipes and retuned the carb, I just figured I was getting more horsepower out of it. "Hey, that's pretty slick," I thought. "I'll just have to be careful with the throttle." In fact, I even wrote about the fun I was having attempting to powerslide the bike. Again, I attributed this to added power. Today, however, I've concluded that this was just a happy delusion.

Rain clouds couldn't keep me from riding the springer to work. After all, it's Friday and part of the way I appreciate the end of the workweek is to commute on my hotrod. On the way home I was feeling sparky and gave the bike a little extra gas leaving a couple of lights. Each time the rear tire easily broke loose from the wet pavement. I could spin the tire all the way through first gear. From light to light I messed around with this. Fortunately this discovery was occurring on a straight stretch of road. I carefully picked my way through the curvy streets that I usually enjoy taking at speed. Turns out it's not the extra power but the extra hard rubber in the Metzler Marathon tire we used. Thinking back there have been plenty of instances when I'd lost traction on damp pavement since putting the Marathon on the bike.

I've known there are different hardness ratings on the rubber in tires, but this is first hand experiential knowledge of how that affects traction. Pretty slick how things work out.

Some Flings Never Change

2011-04-03T20:47:00.000-07:00

I've had the hots for this "woman in red" for years now and despite the time and expense of keeping up the relationship and even how at times it seems to affect my family, I just don't think I can giver her up. This week I was consistently misfiring at work like a man with something else on his mind. You know how it is? People were beginning to wonder and one even dropped a hint saying, "Brian has other "affairs" on his mind lately." I was caught red faced and stunned at being so transparent. But true it is.

The sun broke out of the clouds this past week after one of the most drizzly winters on record here in California. The warmth just appeared out of nowhere. Flowers burst out in full bloom and suddenly I was feeling a little free and frisky. That must have ignited the old flame. My brain just kept fixating on the little fling I'd had long ago. Discreetly she will just be known as "the woman in red." Ample in all the right places and with a bit of sass in her ass, she seduced me the first time we met and we've been hot for each other since then. Not sure what she sees in me but from my side she has that husky almost raspy note in her voice that suggests naughtiness. I love the way she feels, the way she smells. The fact that she's not always there when I want her makes me all the more crazy for her when she is. After we spend a little quality time together I can't think straight for the longest time. It's intoxicating and hard to keep under wraps. In fact, as soon as the rest of the family settles in around the TV, I'll make and excuse to slip out to meet her. She'll be there. I'll just have to be careful about traces of her perfume and the smudges from her make-up on my clothing when I get slip back in to the house later tonight.

The Ring is in My Ears

2011-03-27T18:16:00.000-07:00

It's no secret that I don't hear so well. My wife has recently visited a local business that sells ear protection in order to preserve what hearing I do have. Fact is, I'm sometimes amused by what I think people might have said, knowing that they probably actually said something different. Anyway, currently my ears are ringing loudly with that white noise kind of sound that drowns out everything else. You might think I'd be complaining, but I'm not. I just got off my Springer, which is why my ears are ringing right now. I just finished a little moto-maintenance and of course had to take a check-ride. I rode up and down the street three or four times then took the bike up and down the avenue to test it's speed, none of which has to do with the problem I've been working on this afternoon (no low beam on the headlight).

Everyone needs something that gets their blood up, grabs your fancy, occupies your daydreams. Mine just happens to be the thrill of riding my bikes and working on them. Despite this one detrimental side effect, I have the support of my family. Guess they each realize I could be doing something different. Maybe something addictive, destructive, more expensive, or just plain stupid.

This comes up because I told my wife I was growing tired of owning, and more truly, paying for the repairs to Harleys. She really wasn't listening. She just continued browsing Facebook or something. "What would you get instead," she finally added.
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe a Honda or BMW. Something that has more performance and less maintenance."

"Can't really see you doing that," she monotoned while tapping a couple of keys.

Guess I was just beginning to feel trapped. I sometimes wonder if this whole Harley thing is a ring in the nose, something that has control of me. Or maybe it's a ring on my finger, something I'm committed to even after the passion is gone. But then I have a night like tonight. I sit in the garage troubleshoot something, tinker around, take a ride and come back with my hair blown back, a smile on my smudged face, and a ring in my ears.

Your thing may not be Harleys. But whatever it is, I hope the ring is in your ears too.

Almost Spring, Almost Camping Ride 2011 Part 2

2011-03-24T21:21:00.000-07:00

Wednesday morning, I woke up at 5:30 to what I imagined were the flashes of a traffic camera. But what would a traffic camera be doing in Eureka? I dressed and went outside the motel room to find myself staring at bolts of lightning flashing just off shore and hail falling from the darkness. It's all good, however, as Steve is a late riser and the weather began to clear by the time we were ready to depart later in the morning. It actually turned out that we rode through only scattered showers through our third day from Eureka to Fort Bragg.

It is no exaggeration to say that every day of this trip included some excellent riding for me. On this leg the really cool part was the 211 from Ferndale through Capetown, Petrolia, Honeydew, Briceland, and finally coming back to the 101 at Redway. From just outside of the quaint Ferndale we took this narrow, often rough, two lane road that wound through the steep coastal hills, along the shore and then back over the hills to the 101. There is something especially thrilling about exploring new roads, especially ones you're not so sure about. There was green hilly rangeland, open road right along the ocean, and dense narrow forest stretches that occasionally led to some tucked away little ranch or orchard such as you might find in the hollows of the Appalachians. And as I say, a time or two I wondered if the road I was taking was really going to lead anywhere at all. For instance, in Honeydew I decided to follow my nose and head further south instead of following the road signs pointing east to the 101. This lead to a steep section of unpaved road that included some sharp rutted turns. Then just as I began to contemplate turning around we hit some pavement again and pressed on into the hills through some truly beautiful woods.

When we emerged at Redway I discovered we'd missed the Avenue of the Giants, so we rode north for a few miles along the 101 to get the chance to gander at these ancient Entish evergreens. Then having had our ration of tree lined explorations, we rode south over a really great twisty section of Highway 1 and on in to Fort Bragg. Here again, just as we pulled into the pub across from North Coast Brewery the skies opened up and dumped hail on us. No problem, we just shed a layer and sat down at the bar to sample the brews.

Soon turned out though that we were non-plused by the atmosphere in this establishment and were directed to a more spirited location, namely Piaci's. Here local life was abundant and exuberant. We enjoyed many good beers and lots of colorful conversation. Again, I'd have to say that this trip was a terrific experience not only for the riding, but for the beer tasting and for the enjoyment I got from talking with folks at each of the breweries we visited. For example, in Piaci's I had a long philosophical talk with what could only be described as a dyed-in-the-wool hippie. Following that I had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of a fellow who has traveled the world as a meteorologist. Additionally, it was fun to converse with the barmaid and her husband.

Thursday morning dawned to partly cloudy skies, the clearest weather we'd had yet, and a long route ahead. The plan was to ride south past the Bay Area and camp the night at San Simeon along the 1. Having gathered some local intel about good roads to ride we took the 1 south to Elk and then took a small turn-off that led inland toward Philo. As previously, this little track turned out to be a gem. It wound around in the coastal hills and took us through forest, fog, and hillock until we connected with the 128 near Philo. Even the 128 south to Cloverdale proved to be a terrific ride, though the pavement was wet and caution ruled the road.

In Cloverdale we hit the slab again and headed south for a brief stop in Russian River Brewing Company for our lunch and a pint. These guys are really in to Belgian style beers which I don't really like, so there wasn't much to my liking here. So after leaving Santa Rosa, we maneuvered our way past the bay area through Oakland and on through Tracy to the 5 south where we were to pick up out next twisty adventure, a narrow road headed west out of Patterson. At the junction of the 5 and Patterson to the west is a road called Diablo Grande, but just off Diablo Grande is a still smaller road called Del Puerto Canyon. This twisty little bugger follows creek beds and hillside on one of the twistiest paths I've ever taken. And it does so all the way up to the Lick Observatory on Mt. Hamilton and then down through Joseph T. Grant Park and dumps you out near the 101 in San Jose. While I don't know how long we were on the cool piece of road, I do know that we were enjoying the first bit of dry pavement we'd had since Modesto on Monday. We chased each other along this road like a couple of escaped canaries and had an absolute blast.

By the time we'd emerged on the West side of San Jose it was getting to be late afternoon. Just near Marina we saw a sign saying the 1 was closed to all traffic just south of Carmel. This was to be our route to San Simeon. We pulled over and conferred. Seemed like the best plan at this late hour would be to backtrack to the 101 and head south to Paso Robles where we could get a motel and then visit the Firestone Walker Brewery the following day. Well there goes another night of camping.

Friday morning I took a little ride around the countryside while we waited for the brewery to open. Turns out it was worth the wait. Firestone, which as not brewed much to my taste previously, had two fantastic beers available. Their barley wine was terrific, and 13% to boot. And they had a very special IPA called Double Jack that smelled and tasted like fresh hops. I've never tasted anything like it.

From Firestone we headed directly east out of Santa Margarita on the 58. This road turned out to be as big a prize as the Double Jack. The countryside was beautiful and the twisties were a blast! For the rest of the day, Steve and I headed east and south across the high desert and toward home. The ride ended at the base of 138 after one last blast through the twisties on the familiar stretch between Valyermo and Wrightwood. I'd really envisioned this ride as a camping ride with one motel stay in the middle. With only one night spent in a campground it really didn't qualify as a camping ride. And since we were riding during the last blast of winter it didn't qualify as a spring ride either. But as Steve and I headed our separate ways I'd have to say the Almost Spring, Almost Camping Ride turned out to be a thrill-packed five day adventure that I wouldn't trade for anything.

The Almost Spring, Almost Camping Ride, 2011

2011-03-21T17:36:00.000-07:00

For the past several years, riding friends and I have taken a "Spring Camping Ride" together. This year my days off didn't coincide with spring exactly, so only my riding buddy, Steve, was available to go. As it turns out, this was fortuitous. This year's ride was filled with rough roads and raw weather. Not everyone would consider such an adventure worthy of five days of vacation time.

The original plan, and there always needs to be one of those, was to ride up to Eureka and back camping, and drinking beer around a campfire each night. All went according to plan: for exactly one day. On Monday, Steve and I set off at around 7:30 and we knew we'd be covering some miles. We took the high desert highways through Tehachapi and across to the 99 and rode on up past Bakersfield, Visalia, Fresno, and Merced. We stopped in Modesto at a brewery Steve had remembered from years ago. The St. Stans Brewery pretty much brews beer for local consumption, so you have to stop in at Hero's if you want to sample their wares. We did just that.

After critiquing a couple of their darker ales we stepped out and looked north at some fairly threatening clouds. The horizon was black with rain squalls, however, we didn't incur much more than light rain as we pushed on above Stockton and Sacramento branching off on the 70 to Marysville. From there onward and for the next four days we would ride lushly forested back roads through the rain and occasionally some hail. Out of Marysviille we headed a few miles further up into the Sierra foothills to camp for the evening. The rain came rolling in sometime during the night, but Steve and I were both buttoned up in our tents. On our first day out we'd only ridden about 20 twisty miles out of 500, but that was going to change.

Tuesday morning we broke camp in light rain and headed along some nice roads back to Marysville to rethink the day's route over coffee at Denny's. I conferred with a couple of local men who advised against riding up along the 162 to Quincy and across to Lake Almanor as I'd planned. "If it's raining here, it's snowing up there." they chimed. "Better to ride out into the river bottoms to the west." And that is what we did. However, it didn't take long before we'd had our fill of farmland and flat pavement. We shortly turned our headlights toward Chico and the Sierra Nevada Brewery.

This turned out to be a great visit at the brewery. While we couldn't hang around for the brewery tour, we certainly could spend a little time in the brewery restaurant where we sampled their stuff and again gleaned important route info from a couple of local gents. The Sierra Nevada 30th Anniversary barley wine, and one of their other beers really caught our fancy. I enjoyed discussing brewing with the folks at the bar and when we were ready to leave they cautioned us that the road ahead would be challenging in a rainstorm. "Might even run into some snow up at the top," one guy said.

It's amazing how the warm glow of a good barley wine in your belly can make riding off into unfamiliar territory in bad weather seem like fun. Soon, however, it wasn't the barley wine that kept me pumped, it was the beautiful country and the ever changing nature of the 36 between Red Bluff and Fortuna. I'm not sure how long it took us to make this traverse, but for the next 100 or so miles the 36 would be demanding my full attention. I was all tuned in to managing traction, and negotiating turns on wet pavement. This kind of riding is very engaging.

This track begins in rolling range land and then follows a creek bed and winds it way up some pine forested mountains, then plunges down again to meet the 3 toward Hayfork. The weather had altered our plans for this day as well. Originally, I'd planned to take the 3 up and over another pass and then ride down along 299 into Arcata then south along 101 and back up the 36 to a camp in the redwoods. But the pass was out due to possible snow at the top. Instead we continued west on the 36. The road winds around through river valleys and across ridges and under redwoods until it hooks up with the 101 just south of Fortuna. The campground I'd reserved along the Mad River seemed to be under about three inches of water, so Steve and I set our sites on a motel and the warm glow of beer in bar light at Lost Coast Brewery in Eureka.
We actually ended up in the brewery twice that evening. When we first rolled into town we stopped in and had a beer and a bite while Steve located a motel on the internet. We found one just down the street from Lost Coast and it turns out they had free limo service to anywhere in town until 10 PM. So after shedding some wet gear we hopped in a limo and went back to the brewery. Once again, it was only the barley wine that suited my tastes, and it was the conversation with the other patrons that made the evening fun. Here I talked with a local sport rider who recently purchased a Street Bob. We talked about bikes and cops and some about the importance of being a good dad. At 10 o'clock the front door pops open and the pretty young limo driver signals to us that our ride was here.

Thus ended the second day of the Almost Spring, Almost Camping Ride.

Ups and Downs,. and Ups

2011-02-28T20:35:00.000-08:00

I propose that when one has passions, one is subject to highs and lows. And it makes sense that the greater the passion the greater the extremes. Perhaps it's fair test of your motorcycle passion to observe how high you get when things go well, and how bummed you get when things don't. If this is so, then I needn't worry. My passion for motorcycling is strong.

Two weekends ago, the weather was predicted to be rainy so I'd made plans to ride down to the Chopper Place and hang out with Grant and no doubt soak in a little Harley handiness. I called Chopper on Wednesday to ask if I could bring my bike in on Saturday morning. Maybe we could figure out why the mileage was dropping, and what was causing it to run rough at times. He responded with the usual terse, "Sure." I was excited. My anticipation of the day was tremendous.

The "up" was short lived, however. On Friday the ignition switch went bad and I couldn't get the bike started. So I was low that evening. I had to settle for tearing the bike apart in my garage. Still, there was an up side, when the switch was successfully extracted without any collateral damage, a rare occurrence.

The "down" that followed resulted from the Stealership not anticipating the part's arrival until the next Thursday. So I rode back home with no part. I'd have to live with a bike in pieces in the garage for most of the week. This doesn't sit well with me. When something's broken, I've absolutely got to fix it. So while it was cool (literally) to ride the springer back and forth to work, I was down about the broken bike for a couple of days. Plus, I was bummed that the damn machine keeps breaking down. I kept asking myself, "What kind of idiot buys a Harley anyway?"

Up again on Wednesday though, as the part came in early. And again on Thursday night as I stayed up late putting everything back together. In fact, I had a party in my garage. Not really supposed to do that on a week night, but I was "up" and wanted to enjoy things. The door closed against the winter winds, the stereo blasting and a line-up of great homebrews sitting atop the bench, I started to re-assemble the bike.

Friday, I called Chopper and secured a place in the shop for Saturday again. Saturday dawned a perfect day for hanging out in the Chopper Place, pea-sized hail falling from the sky. The weather would keep the hang-arounds at bay. Sure enough I got to the shop just as the roll-up door opened and rode right on to one of the lifts. Grant and I spent all morning working on my bike. I got lesson after lesson; Fuel Pressure Testing, Exhaust Leak Detection, welding, Power Commander 101 and Diagnostic Computers for Dummies. Man, what a cool day. I rode home after lunch way up.

Sunday I just couldn't hang around the house knowing there were recent repairs on my bike to test. I called my buddy, Steve, who is always up for a ride. We messed around on a couple of back roads and hit two pubs on the way home. I was so stoked to be out riding and tasting great beers that we rode the slabs home at 90+, splitting lanes and flying through traffic like you are supposed to on a motorcycle. While I rolled in to the driveway at a conservative 7 PM, I couldn't sleep until 3AM! I stayed up reading my favorite bedtime stories from Peter Egan's book, Leanings 2. Ironically, one of the stories I read was titled "Famous Harley Myths". In it Egan shares that he disagrees with the idea that Harleys are unreliable. I closed the book on that note, and finally fell asleep.

Monday, however, I slogged out to the garage and started down the street on the Ultra only to be met by some disturbing noise coming from the engine area. At first it sounded like a loose piece of tin and the motor was running normally so I decided to press on toward work anyway. Along the way I kept trying to pinpoint the source of the sound. My latest up was heading down rapidly. At the pub last night, I now recalled, I gotten a message from Chopper warning me to take it easy until we'd installed a new fuel tuner. I'd completely forgotten by the time I left the bar and had ridden like a banshee all the way home. What an idiot I'd been. Now I've broken the motor.

When I pulled into my parking spot I knelt down by the bike and thought I heard the sound of chain on metal. Maybe a primary chain slapping against something? Further listening seemed to locate the sound closer to the top end. Serious downer! Throughout the morning I really kicked myself for riding so hard the day before. I'd broken the engine for sure, and now would be in for an even greater downer when I faced a really serious and expensive repair. After work, I nursed it home through the slow traffic still listening for clues as to the source of the noise and rehearsing scenarios in which I break the news to my poor wife.

After rolling in I immediately went in to the house and poured my distraught soul out to God. "Look," I pled, "I just can't tell Lana about a huge expense on this bike. She already hates the thing. I need your help here." I went back out to the garage steeled and ready to face the grim realities of Harley ownership again. I plucked my "sounding stick" off the tool chest and started the bike. I sounded the primary, the crankcase and the top end without hearing the racket I'd heard earlier. Just as I pulled my stick away I heard it again. Amazed, I touched the little chrome dress piece that covers the spark plug well. It rattled! That was it! No, primary chain chewing things up, no cam chain grinding away at a valve cover, just a loose screw on a fluff piece. Yes! I'm up again.

Fairy Tale Life

2011-02-21T21:30:00.000-08:00

In fairy tales problems only arise in order to develop the character of the hero and things always turn out perfectly in the end.

Lately, I've been feeling like I perpetually ride through a nightmare instead of a fairy tale.

A couple of weeks ago, I burnt the clutch in my springer. I wasn't completely sure I should be tackling the repair myself, but I had no way to get the bike to the shop so I went ahead and removed the clutch. What I'd seen Andrew at the Chopper Place do in fifteen minutes, took me hours. Admittedly, the majority of that time was spent zipping around trying to find just the right size impact socket, and then a little later trying to find just the right size deep socket. But I also spent a fair amount of time scratching my chin over which nut had the reverse threads, Was it the nut on the main shaft holding the balancer on, or the one holding the clutch on to the tranny shaft? In the end I did get the thing off and took it down to the shop where they showed me how to take the glaze off of the pressure plates and replace the friction plates. It was actually fun and the bike was back together that very evening.

Then just this week my Ultra started missing. I made arrangements for Chopper to look at it on Saturday morning. I was actually looking forward to a fairy tale day in the shop with Chopper. It was rainy, and I figured the day would be slow, and Andrew was going to be riding to Phoenix so I supposed Chopper would be short handed and might ask me to help out on a bike or two. Plus, when we did get to working on my bike, I pictured Chopper schooling me on fuel pressure problems and their remedies. A real fairy tale.

But, of course, this is the real world and it wasn't to be. That Friday morning I couldn't get the bike started at all. I figured I'd left the switch in accessory position all night or something so I quickly put it on the charger and went to work in the rain on the bike with no fairing or windshield. On Saturday I went out to start my bike up and discovered that the real problem was that ignition switch was probably bad. I ended up spending most of the day figuring out how to get the switch out. It involved removing the outer fairing, the radio and part of the dash, and discovering the secret little tab you must press to remove the lock from the switch. It also involved a few calls to the shop to get advice. Chopper kept saying, "Don't worry. It's not as tough as it looks."

So what about the fairy tale. Well, fairy tales are imaginary and idealized. And all this weekend, with Ultra parts scattered all over the garage, I found myself watching the rain with a beer in my hand wondering if I was living a motorcycle nightmare. Do trouble free motorcycles exist? I mean do my friends who have BMW's or Honda's have nearly this much trouble with their bikes? I sort of suspect that they don't. I think they are probably living the fair tale life. No need for tools, or parts, or calls to the shop. Just jump on and ride. No one at the shop knows their names. By the way, I don't think it rains at their places either. Always sunny riding weather for them.

Then it occurred to me, "Maybe I don't really want the fair tale life after all." Yes, I'm frustrated at the expense and inconvenience of owning a bike that is so unreliable at such low overall mileage (60,000). But I like working on my bike. I like the way I feel when I've made all the mistakes a man can possibly make on one simple little repair and then gotten the thing up and running again. Plus there are these peculiar little nuances I enjoy. For example, the parts clerks at the Stealership all know my name. In fact, this Saturday as I pulled in out of the rain under the overhang that the Stealership reserves for their outdoor display of bikes, the salesman apparently recognized me too and asked if I liked my Preferred Parking place. Then the parts guy greeted me by name and jokingly offered space for a cot in the back, since I'm there so often. And the parts manager offered to rush my order since he knew that my bike is my ride to work. As we were ordering the part, a service tech came by and asked how I knew it was the ignition switch that was the problem. It felt good to discuss the rationale intelligently with the guy. "Sounds right to me," he commented. The new part will be in on Thursday.

Come to think of it, I'll bet my friends with Hondas and BMW's don't get that kind of notoriety at their Stealerships. And I like the times at the Chopper Place when the mechanics pull me aside and take on the task of training me in Harley maintenance. Bet my buddies don't get that either. You know what, expense and inconvenience aside, maybe I'm the one riding the fair tale.

Chronic Cycle Fever

2011-02-18T20:43:00.000-08:00

I may have mentioned this somewhere before, but I can't remember where so I'll share it again. All through my life I've been susceptible to prolonged feverish fits that rob me of my usual health. It's not contagious, that I know of anyway. I think it was a birth defect. In any case, the malady from which I occasionally suffer is now know by the clinical term, Cycle Fever. Tonight, as I write this in fact, I'm in the early stages of what no doubt will shape up to be a horrible episode requiring intensive care. But, as I say, I've had it my whole life in it's various stages, and I know I'll make it through.

Before we get to the cure, or even the current symptoms, let me provide a little medical history. When I was a grade schooler I would periodically succumb to fits of melancholy distemper brought on by the lack of a substance know as "thrill" which apparently was constantly in short supply in my bloodstream. Others seemed able to either live without it, or were able to produce sufficient amounts of it from ordinary diversions such a reading, or listening to music, or playing games. I, however, lacked the necessary enzymes to produce "thrill" from these sources.

I recall my first bout was mild and easily cured. You see, we lived in a mountain town with many steep winding streets. Young boys my age seemed to be everywhere, like blue jays, flitting around on bicycles as making great racket. We all sped around recklessly, though not without wrecks, as I was hit by a car twice, jumping ditches and skidding our tires on sandy corners. One summer the tires on my bike were hopelessly worn, the tubes unpatchable, and the frame cracked clean through at the neck, the result of an extra thrilling jump followed by an extra hard landing. So without a bike the supply of "thrill" in my blood began to dwindle to unhealthfully low levels. The world seemed to cloud over and grow dim. I only experienced real happiness when I slept and dreamt of riding, skidding, and jumping my bike. My parents were in the midst of troubles of their own, so various symptom masking treatments were half-heartedly applied. A day of fishing, a root beer float at A&W, and even shipping me off to the family farm in Kansas. All these served as distractions, and at times appeared to allay the symptoms, but each only left me more sad. out of sorts and mischief prone.

The cure, it turns out, was simple, a skateboard. Now here was a real source of raw thrill that would keep my disease at bay for years. In a town with steep twisting roads like ours, a skateboard with "Roller Derby" ball bearing wheels was a thrill a minute. The board itself was just that, a board about sixteen inches long to which the wheels were attached with simple slotted screws. But this contraption would fly! In fact, I could push off from our driveway on MacDonald Drive and, provided I could stay on, ride all the way to the elementary school, at least a mile away, without needing much more that a dozen more pushes. (In the winters thrills were provided by skiing and sledding down these same roads.) On this board I learned the thrill of sliding in sand, and of slaloming down truly steep sections to reduce speed. I recall learning to lean into a turn until the wheels began to loose traction, a thrill I still seek today while riding my motorcycles. It was also on this simple contraption that I experienced my first speed-wobble (a now common thrill for everyone who rides an Ultra, along with my first concussion. You see, if you miss a "gate" while slaloming due to needing to avoid a vehicle, then you quickly gain so much speed that slowing turns can no longer be made. One must just hang on, ride out the wobble and hope for the best and perhaps occasionally being saved from severe road rash by running right into the back of that very same slow moving vehicle, another thrill.

My malady wasn't properly labeled "Cycle Fever," however, until I was in Jr. High. By that time summers were spent at Dad's single-wide on a rustic lot outside Reno. Out there, surrounded by miles of dirt roads and brushy hills I began to feel the need for motorized thrill. Years earlier a kid on our street had gotten a mini-bike. But it wasn't often available to me, so while I'd steal (literally) a ride once in a while, I never got enough to become dependent on it for my thrills. Then one day while living out at Lockwood an older boy from down the road, who also seemed to have contracted Cycle Fever, showed up with his dirt bike and asked if I'd like a ride on the back of it. Both of us helmetless and clad in canvas tennis shoes and cut-offs we headed out at full throttle. Immediately we climbed an embankment and jumped clean over the railroad tracks. That was a thrill like I'd never experienced, and and served to put in my bloodstream "the need for speed." From that first moment, I knew that nothing else would meet my need for thrill like two wheeled speed.

In fact, clearly identifying my condition and identifying a source of treatment actually plunged me into the heart of my battle with the disease. I now find it convenient to label all the tendencies toward juvenile delinquency that followed this experience as ill-fated attempts to find thrill from illegitimate sources. It was Cycle Fever that drove me to the foolish excesses that seemed to mark my teen years. I choose to recall that while it lasted, our little two and a half horse mini-bike, purchased by my poor cash strapped father after seeing both his boys come down with nearly fatal cases of the fever, I was the model of good behavior and contentment. A completely healthful young man with a sunny disposition and whose levels of thrill were at or above normal nearly all the time. Except, of course, when gas was in short supply.

And I choose to recall that in the intervening years between the mini-bike and the purchase of my first full motorcycle which was a Hodaka, again purchased as a "basket case" by my still cash strapped father and for the exact same reason, all my worst bouts of bad deportment are again traceable directly to the fact that I was ill with Cycle Fever. I was seeking a cure from inadequate sources of thrill. My personal recollection of history will forever reflect that from the moment the Super Rat was assembled and running I was again the picture of health and youthful strength. Let the record show that it was truly for health reasons, needing regular doses of two-wheeled-speed-thrill, that I was so frequently absent from school and was thus obliged to forge excuses. The notes rang true, "Please excuse Brian's absences this week. He was sick." though the signatures were facsimiles.

My relatively poor academic record will be remembered as the best efforts of a young man with an oft recurring disease the treatment for which must be administered frequently, in the form of thrill filled rides on mining roads and power line roads and whoop-dee-doos, and watery rock-hops up and down the Carson River. Oddly these treatments often needed to be taken during the week. Also, affecting my attendance at high school, was the fact that our little family could barely afford food, much less medical supplies like gasoline and two-stroke oil, piston rings, and throttle cables. And the Hodaka was roughly used while the Fever was most heavily upon me. So I was forced to go to work and sometimes be available for extra shifts that interfered with rising early enough for school since clearly the practical maintenance of the medical machinery is a priority above the largely theoretical pursuits of academia.

By graduation these fitful bouts of Fever had been properly diagnosed and a regular treatment regimen was in place. As I rode out of Carson City, Nevada on a reliable Honda CB450, leaving the completely exhausted Hodaka leaning against the house in Pinion Hills, I entered in to a long lasting period of productive stability that continues nearly uninterrupted to this day. I have had to adjust my medication somewhat over the years. There was the Honda CB750 a true speedster and now, of course the Harley's which have reliability issues and thus I require two. And like anyone with a chronic health issue I have to regulate my dosages. Too infrequent a dose and the Fever begins to rage. Occasionally I must be nearly "hospitalized" as it were, on long camping rides over twisty mountain roads. But I have an understanding and supportive family. After all, it was on the back of the CB450 that I brought home my most loving and supportive wife, who has been known on occasion to suggest a needed treatment. She might say, for example, "You're kind of an irritable butt lately. Why don't you get on your bike and ride to the Sierras for a few days."
So here I am, a man who for the past 35 years has lived with a congenital need for thrill which has at times made me feel dis-eased. But having learned to manage my condition, I'm not dis-abled. Fact is I plan on leaving for a week-long therapeutic ride next month.

Some of the Parts

2011-02-09T20:45:00.000-08:00

Tonight on the way home my throttle grip slid off the bar. This reminded me that when I was at the Stealership this past weekend I'd meant to get some of that grip goop but came home with a couple of spot lamps, which I didn't really need, instead. Therefore, when I'd gotten home, I'd replaced the passing lamps, but didn't restick the grip.

So after dinner tonight I went out to the garage to see if I had any of that grip goop in my parts bin. By the way, the stuff doesn't really hold grips on to the bars. The fact that it doesn't work is why I've used it all up and need some more, because the grips keep coming off. So I keep using it and then needing more. Make sense?

Anyway, I have a parts bin for all the old but still possibly usable things I've replace on my bikes. (There is also a whole shelf for stuff too big to fit in the bin, like cylinder heads, and stock seats.) The bin is just a big plastic tub of junk really. I've gone through it a couple of times and thrown out the "what's-this-thing" things, so now all I have are the "Oh-I've-got-one-those-things" things. There's a healthy collection of single mirrors and some miscellaneous electrical parts such as wire harnesses and a starter rebuild kit that I apparently never used.. What amazed me tonight, however, was how many of certain things I do have. Like I said, I've got a collection of mirrors, even after throwing away a bunch. I've also got, get this now, three head lamp bulbs. Better still, I've got three primary gaskets, for each bike, and a whole pile of inspection cover gaskets; must be ten of those. I also have two sets of brake pads for each bike. But topping the list are the seven oil filters. That's 24,500 miles worth!

While looking for a tube of goop I carefully wrapped the old, but still good, passing lamps in bubble wrap and added them to the bin. In the mean time I discovered my old horn, which sounds better than the still older horn I have on the springer. So I swapped those out and now the older, not so good horn is in the bin. With the seven oil filters.

No grip goop though. Damn stuff doesn't work.

One Toe Over the Edge

2011-02-07T20:43:00.000-08:00

Today, February 5, was a typical winter's day in SoCal which makes it a great day for a ride. The temps were in the 60's and 70's, skies clear, roads dry. When I awoke this morning I couldn't really remember what was on my list of chores. I'd had a few beers with Steve the night before and we sorta sketched out a spring break ride, so I guess bikes and riding were still occupying my thoughts. Anyway, everyone else in the household seemed to be diversely occupied so I quickly jumped into my riding boots and rolled the Ultra out of the garage. Steve had mentioned a ride into the mountains last night so I thought I'd just slip off and hook up with these guys for a day of twisties.

As I was about to throw a leg over a voice nearly startled me out of my skin. "Where are you headed off to?"
"Oh, morning Dear. Just going for a little scoot through the mountains."
"So not taking your grandson and me to the gun show today?" Lana had her hand on her hip, but I thought I detected a tiny twinge of a smile too.
"Gun show?" The idea rattled around in my head with a somewhat familiar feel.
"No problem," she said before I had the chance to engage in wrangling. "Noah's not feeling well and the show will be there tomorrow too. Have a nice ride."

Thus an hour later I found myself riding with friends up into the local mountains again. It's been a while since I got to ride the twisties and somehow I felt a little rusty. There was something akin to a rock in my shoe. It was a pebble of self-doubt. It poked when speeds got high. The speed wobble the Ultra gets in high speed corners was unsettling. I felt it a little again when I entered some downhill corners. There was just some discomfort.
I'd had this experience before so this time I just was a little less freaked. I knew that all I needed was to relax and focus on what little I know about good riding technique. In golf we'd call these "swing thoughts." Also in golf we know enough to know that the tips your buddies give you are garbage. If you want to get better, get professional instruction and the right equipment. However, I ride an Ultra Classic and I've never been able to afford professional riding instruction, so I'm back to what I've picked up at roadside rests with my buddies.

"Relax those arms."
"Steer by leaning."
"Stand the bike up a bit with the throttle to drag less metal."
"Eyes up, look way ahead."
"Roll off and back on the throttle smoothly"
"Trust that front brake."

By the top of Banner grade I was feeling a little better about hitting the right line, scraped a little but adjusted smoothly. On Engineer Road a little sand allowed the front to slide ever so slightly but no loss of control. On one descending corner the rear hopped a bit, but again I was good with it. Apparently, what was needed was to feel for the limit of traction with one tire at a time. Just sorta flop on toe over the rim of the canyon and pull it back safely so I could feel at ease standing near the edge.

After lunch we headed up Mesa Grande and then over Mount Palomar. Palomar road is short but very twisty. Sport bike riders run up and down it all day. It's great fun when you can carve it up on this little track. And by the time we'd gotten to the bottom I'd completely forgotten those mechanically rehearsed riding thoughts. I was riding by feel again, relaxed, nearly unconscious of technique. The edge was right there and I felt good riding near it without worrying about what would happen if I got close.

Mitty-ish Musings

2011-02-03T20:07:00.000-08:00

We all have Walter Mitty-like fantasies. Careers we'd like to have had, adventures we imagine we'd probably have experienced if "things had been different." I've had a few. I'd have liked to been an undersea explorer like Jacques Cousteau, that is until I stuck a toe in the ocean for the first time and found it to be frigid, also a boxer like Joe Frazier, until he failed to knock out George Foreman. With a student pilot license in hand I was on my way to being a world class aviator until I found out that Chuck Yeager had done it all already. And the list goes on: ski racer, motocross champion, mountain man, evangelist. As you get older, however, these fantasies become less wide ranging and more realistic; if fantasies can be realistic and still be fantasy. Anywho, these days I don't dream about being a super hero, I'd settle for relative competence in things I do on a regular basis. You know, teaching mathematics, home repair, auto repair, and of course motorcycle riding and mechanics. Which brings me right back to solid ground and the events of this past weekend.

On Friday I was feeling a pint low, so I called a couple of friends to ride over and sit around the patio chiminea, drink homebrews and talk bikes. This is where the Mitty-ish fantasies of being a pace-setting motorcycle rider comes in. You see, after the first round of beers we were all talking about riding. I mentioned that my wife had recently pointed out to me that our respective spring breaks were on completely separate weeks. The significance of which seemed to escape my fire-gazing friends. "That means I've got to find someplace to ride that week." So we talked about places a guy could ride in five or six days time in the early spring. And while ideas were bouncing around in the sparks I was imagining myself as a knee-dragging bike racer blasting up the Coast Highway, cars parting and pulling over as my headlight grew quickly large in their mirrors. Okay, that's it then, up the coast for spring break. Then, "pop" the dream bubble burst when Steve asked, "So then you going to plan a ride and post it?" Oh man, I suck at planning and leading rides. "Hey, my glass is empty," I said, "Lets head out to the street for the first of our riding challenges."

I'd been reading "Maximum Control" by Pat Hahn so I'd marked out some distances on the street in front of the house. The first challenge we'd all do was a "slow race". According to the book if a rider can take 30 seconds to cover 110 feet, he is riding 1.875 mph. The key to riding slow and maintaining control is to coordinate the throttle, rear brake, and clutch. Each of us took various runs at it. Steve on his Honda ST was most successful with a time over 40 seconds. I'll admit I'm a bit competitive, so when I failed to outdo Steve I figured it was because I was riding my Ultra. I hopped on the Springer and took a couple of runs on it. On the last pass a the clutch completely lost it's grip. I shut it down and walked the bike into the garage while it was still in gear and I didn't even notice (that coulda been the beer though).

Back around the fire and working out way up the scale of beers toward the darker brews we started talking about the summer riding season. Steve, and a couple of friends had ridden to Alaska last summer. Again as before, I related how my wife in a moment of sympathetic weakness over my misery at work had suggested that I take a month and go on a long solo ride again this summer. "I know you want to go to Alaska," she had said. So again, as I starred into the embers aglow both within and without I dreamt of being a sort of moto Jedidiah Smith. I'd pack my rig and sleep in the wide spots along the AlCan. Just a lone Rider in Black, out there on the road.. Occasionally I'd emerge from my visions to listen to Steve tell about the bugs, rain, and expensive gas. "Hmm, my beer's gone. Let's hit the street again."

This time it was figure eights around halved tennis balls 40 feet apart, 20 feet either side of center. Lib, Steve and I all did this with ease. In the end we were all riding follow-the-leader-like smoothly around the pattern. Time for more fireside inspiration. During the course of the evening we'd all been swapping bikes. When we were once again ensconced in our patio chairs the topic of conversation turned to motorcycles. Which ones had we owned and what would we like to own. Lib rides a BMW 1150RT, Steve a Honda ST, and I ride a couple of Harleys. We were all starring into the fire at this point and talking dreamy like as much to ourselves as to each other as we spoke with fondness about bikes we'd had or would like to have. As the embers got low I woke myself again. Beer's gone, time for the last challenge, sort of a parting sobriety test. Back out in the street we tightened the tennis balls to only 20 feet apart. It would be tough to get your bike to turn what amounts to two ten foot diameter circles back to back in opposite directions. If a guy could do this he was fit to drive home. The challenge proved too tough most of the time. Though I was able to pull it off with the BMW and the Honda, I could not get my Ultra to stay within both sides of the pattern on the same run. Somewhere in Maximum Control I remember reading that a really good rider could to the pattern at full lock in both directions. I just couldn't pull that off. So much for the dream of being an ex-motor officer training guru. Another dream crumbles to ash. Oh, I did manage get the front end of Steve's ST to wheelie a bit (That too mighta been the beer.)

New Thrill

2010-08-01T21:11:00.000-07:00

I just got back from a little cool off loop on my springer. It's a bit warm in the house. I've been running around with a three-year-old so I decided to take a little spin on my springer through the cool evening air. I realized before I left the neighborhood that what I was really seeking was another chance to experience my new favorite thrill, the power slide.

At least, that's what we used to call them back in my teen years on dirt roads with pick-ups and dirt bikes. The idea is to get the tail end of the vehicle a little outa shape in a corner using the vehicle's enertia and control the slide by applying power. Now, in trucks if things got out of hand well, no harm, you just spun right around in a cloud of dust. On dirt bikes one kept balanced by dragging a foot along the ground flat track style. Neither one of those things seemed like a good idea on a cruiser on pavement. Anyway, it's even more tricky on the springer, what with extended forward controls and apes. But it's still possible for very short distances. So I went zipping around looking for slow right and left hand turns. The bike has enough power to break traction around a corner using the throttle so a short power slide is easy to initiate, all I have to to is twist. Trouble is the turns never last too long and so neither does the slide and if things get out of shape and I chop the throttle too quickly the slide stops abruptly and I high-side. So my experiments with this were very cautious. Still, it's a fun distraction on a warm evening and any excuse to brap around on my scoot suits me. Just a harmless new thrill and I always like to have something new to enjoy on a motorcycle.

Where Can I go..

2010-07-30T23:43:00.000-07:00

Amazing, truly amazing!

This morning when I woke up I knew I couldn't start my camping trip without first tidying up a couple of loose ends for my wife. So I hung the new storm doors and called a mechanic friend about the EGR problem the Previa has developed. The mechanic made it clear that there was only one possible source of the trouble, a clogged passage in the intake. I figured it would take me an hour to clear that up and I could then pass the rest of the evening packing for Parts Unknown.

But it wasn't to be. I finished working on the car at 10:00 PM tonight and haven't gotten the passage cleared yet.
It all adds up to the fact that you can't out-flank God. If it's His will to have you in a certain place, then by gum that's where you'll be. Just ask Jonah. He spent three days inside a fish and was spat out on the shore of the very place God had intended he should go all along. This evening it became clear after crawling out from under the car that I too was meant to be here at home for a while longer.

Check out Psalm 139

O Lord, you have searched me and you know me.
You know when I sit and when I rise.
You perceive my thoughts from afar.
You discern my going out and my lying down.
You are familiar with all my ways.
Before a word is on my tongue you know it completely, O Lord.
You hem me in behind and before.
You have laid your hand upon me.
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, too lofty for me to attain.
Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence.

And while I feel a bit like a caged animal, the cool thing is knowing that God is sovereign and He is good. In other words, though I may never know exactly why, it's a good thing.

The Spirit is Willing..

2010-07-28T09:46:00.000-07:00

Earlier this summer it became clear to my wife and me that we were going to have to make adjustments to our much loved summer routine of going a on long (cheap) car camping trip together. Too, I volunteered to give up my long motorcycle ride and also the backpack trip. Yep, batten down the hatches all hands on deck for the economic storm is upon us.

That family economic summit meeting was four weeks ago. In the mean time, I've done the household projects my wife wanted, and knocked off a few little things on my personal list of To-Do's. I've been resigned to things, I really have. But maybe that's because the back-to-work deadline was still out there over the horizon.

As of today, my summer parole, is due to end in just over a week. I've had a change of heart. I just can't go through with it! I can't go back without first getting away. I haven't had enough mountain air and moto-exploration! If I start work in this frame of mind I'll go postal before Christmas!

Last night I worked on the car (troublesome EGR code) until about 9:00. After failing to fix the problem again. I sat down in my chair in the garage had a long look at the starry host, and came to a decision. I'm just not man enough for this.

I broke the news to my wife this morning. "Honey," I said, "I don't think I can live without a camping ride." I felt like and alcoholic begging for a drink. "I've gotta get outa here," I pleaded.

"I know." She said. "I've been wondering how long it would take you to crack. Okay, go. Have a good time!"

Yessss! Ahhh, Ha, ha, ha, I'm going! I'm going!!

There will be a tinge of guilt that I wasn't a better man, with more self-control and a greater willingness to sacrifice my own desires for the good of the family. But a few nights sleeping under the stars right beside my bike and I'll forget I ever had such lofty expectations of my poor weak flesh.

I plan to ride off for Parts Unknown early Friday morning.

Mixed Messages

2010-07-22T21:51:00.000-07:00

I just read an article, http://dalefranks.com/cycles/index.php/2010/07/good-news-from-and-for-the-moco/ that mentions that Harley Davidson is leading road bike sales for young buyers of new motorcycles, and has been since 2006. I'd always heard that Harley's were only selling to old buggers like myself. Oddly the survey jives with an experience I had this year at work. A young black guy wanted to get into riding. I directed him toward cheaper metrics, but he said, "No way. I want a Harley like yours." And he stuck with that opinion all this year.

Ironically, I was hangin' out at the Chopper Place and Chopper told me that he really wanted to replace his current Road Glide with a new one. Now, The Chopper Place only works on Harley's and always has. Chopper must work on ten bikes a week, and has been doing that since the early-eighties. You do the math (50 x 10 x 30). That's a lot of bikes, (a 15 and 3 zeroes) so his opinion carries a lot of weight with me. He told me that the new Harley's are such poorly made pieces of crap that he just wouldn't buy one.

So here's a 50 year old Harley mechanic who won't buy a new Harley and a young newbie who wouldn't buy anything else. Obviously, they are coming from two different places on this, but, man, what a switch.

No Flow for This Joe

2010-07-21T22:37:00.000-07:00

Even after all these years, when I have to go somewhere my wife will say, "You can take the car if you want."
I usually don't even answer. Shorts and flip-flops or boots and jeans, I'm takin' the bike.

So, what's the big deal? Why ride exposed to the heat and noise having to carry everything in a T-bag? Well, let me tell ya".

It's mostly about being outside the flow. Check it out. Today I had to run all around to area salvage yards finding a part for my ca.r It was fun and a whole lot easier than it would have been in a car. Because of the acceleration a motorcycle has, I pulled out into spaces in busy traffic that I wouldn't have if I were driving a car. When entering the freeway I only casually noted that there were a lot of cars on the road. I accelerated up to speed slid on through a gap in each of the first two lanes and was blasting down the road in the fast lane just seconds after hitting the ramp.

A glance across the divider showed that traffic on the other side was jammed. No need for an alternate route on a bike. That's what splitting lanes is for.

At the junk yard there was a narrow gated entrance. All the other customers were parked outside the fence and walking in. I just rode on up, turned into the footpath flipped out the kick-stand and walked right up to the office.

"What's that? Cash only?'

"Be right back."

I know how I would have felt about having to get back in the car and find and ATM in that heavily industrial area. But I just jumped back on the scoot, flipped a "U" right there and sped out the entrance again. No door, keys, seatbelt or backing out of a tight parking space.

At the convenience store where the ATM was located the tiny parking area was crowded with cars waiting to get gas and to jockey for parking. With the bike I was able to ride right around them and park on the sidewalk. Leaving was equally slick.

All this to say the freedom of riding a bike would make it fun and worthwhile even if it weren't so damn cool. I see drivers in their cars looking around for the fastest lane, and openings in traffic, or merging over miles ahead of an expected turn. Riding my bike I feel like I'm not even part of the same system. It's all just the flowing background of the slalom course I'm taking to where ever I gotta go.

She's Nasty

2010-07-20T16:39:00.000-07:00

When you're riding thoughts go rattling around in your head behind the sound of the wind and the pipes. A lot of times its the same thought rolling around in there like a lug nut in a hub cap. That thought just goes round and round, each time the same kernel, each time a little different riff. It's like composing lyrics to a song. When you're done you've captured that feeling, that idea or image and expressed it in different ways. For me, it's what I love about riding unplugged. No ipod, no bluetooth, no headset or whatever just the sound of the lug nut rattling to the riff of the pipes. Changing the tempo with the throttle and chorus with the scenery.

Today, the tune of "The Weight." by The Band, you know, "Take a load off Fanny, Take a load for free; Take a load off Fanny, and..; put the load right on me," is playing strong in my head. I pull up to a light and another rider pulls up and says, "That baby really sounds nasty."
"Yeah," I reply, "She's nasty alright."
Light changes, we head off.

Now I have the tune and the idea so new lyrics start poppin' into my head. I buzz around doing my business and singing my new song. I even stopped at one place and had a brief conversation, but the tune and the developing lyrics resumed as soon and I fired up the bike again. Down the road I roll, happily swaying in my lane singing,

I rode up to Kernville, a song playin' in my head,
Didn't hear no sirens, 'saw the flashin' lights instead..

Hey, copper can you warn me, my account is almost bled,
but as he took my papers, "Nasty!", was all he said.

Chorus:

Man that thang sounds nasty, nasty as can be,
Man that thang sounds nasty (nasty) (nasty), makes the heart beat hard in me

Hmm, mm (to missing lyrics).

The Cool Light of Day

2010-07-18T13:55:00.000-07:00

While "the heat of the night," is something we say to represent the passions and desires we carry out in the concealing shade of the dark, "the cool light of day," refers to the more reasoned actions we take in the full light of the facts or perhaps in the full view of others. In my case the cool light of day dawned during church this morning. The passions aroused this morning were powerful and full of light.

I knew the Lord was going to be speaking to me this morning when the opening song of the church service called us to join the moon and stars in declaring the glory of God. It immediately brought back images of the moon with Venus setting on the western horizon as I rode out for some fun the other night. At the time I just admired them for their beauty in the twilight sky. It had not occurred to me what their significance might be. This morning as I was singing (roughly speaking) I was reminded that those same heavenly bodies were placed in my view to remind me of the profoundly joyful truths that God has created this universe and ordained the very life I live with the good purpose that I should enjoy His glorious presence eternally.

The pastor introduced a guest speaker this morning, Dinesh D'souza, a Christian apologist. He discussed in brief arguments new atheists are making to attack a Christian world view. Isn't religion at the core of war and holocaust? Hasn't scientific knowledge made religion irrelevant? Hasn't Christianity proven to be morally ineffective? His point was that in the cool light of logic and reason, the facts we know from science and logic still support the Christian world view.
In one example from his debates on college campuses across the country, he reminded us that atheists claim that scientific knowledge is displacing outmoded religious based misconceptions about the nature of the universe. Atheists try to illustrate the trend by pointing to the opposition of the Roman Catholics to the ideas of Copernicus. The point being that Christianity would still have us believing the world is flat and by extension Christian belief in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus is equally as untenable. In the cool light of day, however, history tells us that even Aristotle, who predated Jesus by 500 years, knew the world was spherical by observing that the shadow of the earth on the moon was round. The example is bogus and, D'souza pointed out, in fact, for the last 150 years discoveries about the physics of the universe tend to lend more credence to an intentionally designed, fine tuned universe rather than the random universe of atheism. In the cool light of day, the evidence for the existence and nature of God is out there for all to see. Heck, it even presents itself, in the heat of the night.

In the Heat of the Night

2010-07-17T21:38:00.000-07:00

In the heat of the night you do things that maybe you wouldn't otherwise. It's a way of blowing off steam that builds during the heat of the day.

I've had to acquiesce to a touch of reality this summer which has meant staying home and working on house projects, suffering through the heat trapped inside when it gets too hot to work outside. As a result I'm not getting to ride around like I'm accustomed. It's been hovering around 100 degrees during the day here in SoCal. On an errand the other day, I had to wear gloves to protect my hands from the burning handle bars.. In short I'm getting a feeling of real confinement, a sort of summer version of cabin fever.

The Joan Jett song, In the Heat of the Night, put an idea in my head. So after sunset I called a couple of friends and asked if they would be willing to ride out and have a beer with me. It's a 40 mile ride to the bar we like to frequent, and at 8:30 PM the temp was still hovering around 90. It was sweaty business just putting on my Levi's and boots. By the time I'd gotten the bike out of the garage my shirt was damp. Shortly, however, I was on the road. The moon was out and Venus was leading it on a leash toward the dusky horizon. I set the throttle lock, laced my fingers behind my head and just gazed around at the emerging stars as I cruised south. "Man, I love this!", I said to myself.

Shortly after clearing town I started fooling around. I could tell I was just spoiling for some kicks. I rode up close to the cars I was passing and peered in at the drivers as if to say, "I'm out here riding my favorite bike with no hands and doing whatever I want." I'm sure the point was lost on them, however, since many of them were talking on their phones. A a pick-up hauling a hotrod on a trailer came into view ahead. I loosened the lock and took hold of the bars riding up for a close look at the rod. I buzzed around the rig like a humming bird, then hit the throttle and cruised up the road to find more fun. Eventually, I decided to ride through the night with my feet up through the bars dangling on either side of the headlight. My boots lit up on either side of the light amused me for a while. It wasn't too comfortable to hang so heavily on the bars with my legs up so high, sort of like a prolonged sit-up, but it was cool-looking and fun. I passed a few cars in this fashion, and even split lanes a bit. Again, I just wanted to have fun. I was out of the house on my bike and this was my way of shouting out loud.

Soon I was at B&H sipping beer, and talking bikes with my friends. We hung out 'till after mid-night, then rode home. Steve, pointed out that my tail light was out again so I had to cool it on the way home. He rode behind me so cars, patrol cars mostly, would not notice the infraction since I was not really sure how a sobriety test would go. After Steve dropped off I rode the remaining 20 miles in stealthy darkness. If I could have, I would have turned off the headlight and ridden in complete darkness, wrapped in the warm wind in the heat of the night.

You Might Not Be A Biker If..

2010-07-14T22:01:00.000-07:00

I've been reading a few biker blogs lately, and I've been particularly drawn to the endless yet, for me, still interesting discussions motorcyclists have about their quest to legitimately claim the moniker "biker." For some time now I've been itching to toss in my two cents. I'm not writing this because I have something profound to say on the subject, but just because I find it interesting.

Some motorcyclists are gazing at their own reflection to see if they fit the mold, the reflection they see in the eyes of bikers and non-bikers. It's how others see them that makes them feel secure regarding themselves a biker. They can walk in to a biker bar and not get tossed. or conversely sit at a picnic table in the park and watch the mothers gather their children and leave.

Some folks know they are bikers because they share a set of values with others they consider bikers, values like respect, or admiration for all things bike. You hear them proclaim, "I'd never leave another biker stranded.." and "Live to Ride, Ride to Live." (Did I get that backwards? :) )

For others it's a moniker they've earned via deeds and pilgrimages, sort of a cross between native american rites of passage such as killing your first buffalo or surviving alone while finding your spirit guide, and medieval quests. You know, 10,000 miles a year in driving rain storms and of course a trip to Sturgis.

For another it seems to be something of an evolution occurring over decades of life. Just sort of an eclectic lifestyle similar to the way old farm implements collect around an authentic farm house as opposed to a catalog country home filled with ceramic chickens. A distressed riding jacket covered with pins and patches and a back yard full of bike parts.

Here's one well-written example of just what I'm referring to:
http://dakotabiker.wordpress.com/2010/05/09/when-did-you-become-a-biker/

A few observations have come to mind as I've read these stories.

First, it's understandable that the discussion takes place. I mean, the term is nowhere defined, nor can it be, since there is no one Authority on the subject. Those early Booze Fighter types who laid down a pattern left no definitive list of qualifications, no litmus test. The ensuing MC's took different courses and became diverse communities of motorcycle enthusiasts, from 1%'ers to AMA clubs, to "You meet the nicest people on a Honda". Hollywood in cheap films and the Discovery Channel in commercial bike building shows only stereotyped bikers, but neither Sonny Barger nor Jesse James, Peter Fonda nor Charlie Hunnam can assure you that your name is recorded in the Biker's Book of Legends. All we can say is, "You might not be a biker if.." (I Googled that phase, by the way, and got pages of links.)

Second, I observe that this is a very widespread phenomenon. There are a lot of people in the motorcycle community searching desperately for a sense of identity. And from the content of the discussions on the internet about who's a biker and who's not, many seem to be trying to establish an identity as "bikers" by magnifying their biker qualities while jerking their thumbs toward those who are not bikers, say "cagers", or worse "posers and RUBs." I guess there are just a lot of lost folks out there in this post-modern society. I wonder if canoeists, and climbers, cyclists, and runners are also engaged in a similar identity crisis.

Also, I've flirted with this whole biker identity thing myself. No matter how I've come out I'm no more secure in my identity than those who are still engaged in this quest. Honestly, I wouldn't know if I were a biker or not. This might be one of those things in life that truly is relative.

I'm content to be an avid rider and a friend of riders and to be accepted by some who are so definitely bikers that they would never think to ask the question. Hey, perhaps if you really are a biker you never have to ask. It's just obvious. Now look what I've done. I added another line to that ridiculous list. "You might not be a biker if.. you have to ask if you are a biker."

Anyway, for myself, I'd better focus on more important questions, such as whether or not I'm a faithful disciple of the Lord Jesus. In the end, that's probably why I took the time to write out my thoughts on this subject. I've come to the place where I'm not going to pursue this any further for myself. Nothing necessarily wrong with those who take it further, but for me, no tattoos, no bike rallies, no patches or pins. I think I'll leave the whole biker thing on the sideboard so I don't get distracted from the quest for Christ-likeness. I haven't been overly successful at that one, but it's clearly the one thing I find worthwhile.

Recaptured Joy in Riding

2010-06-16T18:35:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago, I got an opportunity to camp near Yosemite with a group of runners who were running an ultra marathon trail run (apparently 33 miles through the forest). While I normally would not hang out with such crazies, these are really good people. Also, the opportunity coincided with a powerful need in me to clear my head as only a long ride can do. They offered their campsite and to bring my bicycle too, so I figured it was providential and jumped at the chance to ride my Ultra on another short camping ride.

The weekend as a whole was fun for many reasons, and full of adventures, but it is the reminders of the joys of riding that prompts this tale. A week prior I'd nearly talked myself out of going on the little trip. Looking back I see that the only way that could happen is that I'd forgotten the joys of riding and how they thrill my soul.

Within a twenty minutes of hitting the starter button I was already breathing thinner cooler mountain air as I wound my way out of the Inland Empire along the 138 and the 2 up past Wrightwood. That in itself would have made a ride out of town worthwhile. I need to remember that. Even a short blast into the mountains is worth it. Mountain air is refreshing and the city fading in the mirrors reminds me that I'm not a prisoner of the urban sprall.

On the back side of the mountain where the road heads down toward Pearblossom I really began to enjoy myself especially through the twisty upper section. One of the things I love about that road is that it has some banking and always seems to be clean of sand and debris. Consequently, every curve was a complete delight. I could count on good traction for braking and cornering. So the first set of twisties was a great warm-up to a day that was to be filled with great riding. This is the a part of the joy of riding that I don't have to remind myself about. In fact, nearly every excursion I take is motivated by the desire to recapture the thrill I feel when riding a twisty highway. Riding through tight turns as fast as I can muster raises my heart rate and I suppose releases those endorfins that adreneline junkies crave.

After working my way through Lancaster, and blowing on up the 14 to the 58 East and up through Tehachapi I was beginning the usual gas stop calculations. I have a Garmin 550 which will tell you how far to the next gas station, but it does it by calculating the distance using GPS, not by measuring the mileage along your route. Anyway, I knew better but I blasted past the station at the top of the pass because I thought I could get gas 12 miles further up the road. Turns out the bottom fourth of the tank went by much faster than I'd anticipated. I was staring at a bright yellow warning light, a needle on "E" and my odometer was reading in the upper 160's (I often have to refuel at 150). Additionally, the twelve GPS miles were much longer in actual route miles again. I took a gamble that there would be gas in Caliente, a "town" along my route that really is only a post office. Nope, no gas there, so back up the hill to the highway and pressing on to the closest gas stop downhill from where I caught the highway. This turned out to be in the little farm town of Arvin. Thank God there was a long hill heading in to Arvin. When I filled up the odometer read 175 and the bike took 5.0 gallons (in a 5.0 gal. tank). Why must I always do this? What in the world would be wrong with driving like a woman and filling up the tank at the first opportunity below a quarter tank? I swear it wouldn't matter if I was riding a bike that got 50 mpg with a range of 250 miles, I'd still push it to the last drop and sweat out the last 10 miles of every tank. If you read further you will see that I actually do this 2 more times before the weekend is out!

Now, I've got gas in the tank and a first-hand knowledge of Arvin, so I'm off to Caliente Bodfish Road. This little track is picturesque as it winds through oak dotted canyons and hillsides. It is a narrower and older road, so the pavement is uneven and the curves sharp and unbanked. There is usually sand in the corners, fallen rock on the slopes and prodigious bumps in random places. Still it is a peg-draggin' twisty and about 40 miles long with only sparse traffic. So it allows for a different kind of riding fun than the earlier road. Here I have to anticipate that there will be hazards and keep a little something back when entering corners. Further, there are no guardrails, so a mistake will launch you into oblivion on the one side or plant you firmly in the hillside on the other. Riding Caliente Bodfish Road means a lot of throttle changes, shifting and braking. It's very active riding for all but the one middle section through Walker Basin. I love how a road like this can eat up the better part of an hour and be so engaging that I never really know how long I've been riding it. Truth is I'm only guessing at the 40 miles and I have no idea what-so-ever how long it took me to reach the other end. All I know is that when I reached the overlook above Bodfish and looked out at Lake Isabella in the distance, I was grinning from ear to ear, and growing a bit hungry.

A quick turn through Bodfish, and Kernville without really stopping and I was headed up along the Kern River and cooler climates. Soon, however, the need for food caused me to pull over at that last little store and deli along the river. I picked up a roast beef sandwich and a diet coke and headed up river to find a shady spot to have a bite.

At one of the campgrounds I pulled in and occupied a picnic table overlooking the swirling river. Funny, though, I just couldn't sit still. Even though I had a great place to relax and enjoy my lunch, all I could think about was getting back on my bike and riding more twisties. Hence, my sandwich was still stuck in my throat when I saddled up. Even the two other bikers in camp who tried to engage me in conversation didn't detain me for long. I made excuses, washed down my last bite, and fired up.

Shortly I passed the cutoff that heads off east to Kennedy Meadows and was now on a track I'd never ridden before. This adds yet another joy to the riding. Now, I'm not just riding to take the turns well but exploring too. The country grew more and more beautiful as I climbed up toward the junction with the 190 above Johnsondale. Before long I was riding past the last vestiges of roadside snow banks. There was still the faint smell of ice in the air along with the piney scent of ponderosas. The temperature always drops significantly in the trees. I could feel really cold pockets of air in many places. It was as refreshing as an ice cold drink from a mountain stream. I felt myself being energized and started leaning in to more turns and adding throttle along the brief straightaways. Exploring ignites an insatiable craving to find out what's out there. Piecing together new parts of the map is a big part of this particular joy of riding. After traveling a new route and reconnecting with one I've ridden in the past, I feel like I've become a more knowledgable, more seasoned rider. I've fitted one more important piece in the giant puzzle that maps North America. It's vain, but it's cool.

Somewhere near a little wide spot in the road known as Ponderosa the 190 begins to decend toward Springville. What a fantastic stretch of twisties! The pavement is a little smooth and slick (presumably from the wear of snowplows) but the turns are tight and continuous. This piece of pavement was so fun to ride that I pulled over at one point just to make sure I didn't wolf down the whole thing too quickly. Besides, I'd been having to kick my right muffler back into place at every stop since this morning, so I just decided there'd be no cooler place than a mountain overlook to pull out the tools and tighten that clamp.

Back up the road a bit I'd caught a little car who let me pass, but then decided to try to stay with me on the way down the mountain. Now he was ahead of me and it was my turn to chase. It was a fun game. He used both lanes while I stuck to my side of the stripe. His four wheel disc brakes gave him the advantage heading into a corner, but I could take most of the corners faster and accelerated more easily on exits. I showed him more than a few times that I could hang with him as I placed my front fender less that three feet from his taillight through many corners. The road is so tight turned there are no real straightaways. I just slid my butt from one side of the saddle to the other, and leaned hard first one way then the other for what seemed like and interminable amount of time. I guess I must have eventually passed the little car or maybe he pulled over to let his passenger throw up, I don't really remember. Again, the road was so great, so enthralling, it was all I could think about.

Descending, the pines turned to oaks again and then to brush and my brakes began to fade. I think two things caused this. Heat, obviously, but also the descent had been so rapid that the vent in the reservoir could not equalize fast enough to keep up. (Neither, for that matter, could my eardrums). I had to chill a bit on the lower section before I regained my rear brake. Eventually the pedal came back up and I got a mile or two more of rockin' before reaching the North Middle Fork of the Tule River.

There is an eliment of imagination that plays a part in the joy of riding like this. I imagine overtaking other riders, or riding some circuit like Laguna Seca. The fantasy includes "being discovered" at the end of the road by some professional rider. He says he sees potential in my riding and invites me to stay at his palacial mansion overlooking a race track and ride superbikes under highly qualified tutalage. I guess this is one advantage to riding alone. If I were riding with someone esle, they may leave me in the dust which would not fit well in the best-rider-on-earth fantasy.

Emerging from the mountains I was once again on fumes. And once again I passed up the first two gas stations I saw. After sweating the last couple of miles, I filled up in Porterville and headed north on the 99, one of my least favorite freeways. I will note, though that it must look like I'm having more fun on these slabs than I'm actually having. Several times folks in other vehicles would give me the smiling nod, or thumbs up as I went past. You know, I think a lot of people want to put a sleeping bag on the back of a motorcycle and hit the road. In Fresno I followed the signs to the 41 and on up toward Yosemite. I was sort of expecting terrible traffic on a Friday afternoon heading into Yosemite, but traffic was light. I breezed on in to our campground between Fish Camp and the South Park Entrance arriving just a few minutes after the others.

The biggest adventure of the weekend, the bicycle ride from "heaven", would not likely interest many reading this blog. It was a planned thirty mile bicycle ride from the south entrance to the Valley and then an unplanned thirty mile ride back. What an adventure!

Sunday morning, after having run an ultra marathon, everyone in camp seemed anxious to head for home. That wasn't my feeling at all. I chose to jump on my scooter and ride back into Yosemite. This time, on the motorcycle, the long climbs were very pleasant.

I exited the Valley on 140 west. Again the road was terrific and the Merced River was raging! I used my Garmin to determine where the next gas stop would be. However, when I pulled up to the pump at El Portal the price, a cool $4.15/gallon, turned me off. I decided I'd try to make it to the next stop which was 12 GPS miles down river. But again I was already staring at a fuel warning light and a high odometer reading. The road miles seemed to stretch on and on and on. I drafted behind a trash truck for a while, all the time doing the mileage math in my head and listening for the first sputter that would signal the start of another phase of my adventure, searching for gas. At 176 on the odometer the road started climbing again. I'd already gone 5 miles further than I thought I'd get. I'd been playing out hitch-hiking scenarios in my head for some time now. I figured this hill is it, I was done for. Yet somehow I putted up to the top and rolled down the other side all the while scanning ahead for a gas price sign. Surely, not every little gas pump is registered with Garmin. With 5 GPS miles still to go the bike made its first hic-up . Amazingly, I rounded the next corner and saw a country store with a pump. The engine sputtered and died with just feet to go. Again, I say, this is just nuts.

After a refill, I headed through Mariposa, and took the picturesque 49 back to Oakhurst. (One more piece of the puzzle.) The scenery was beautiful and I really didn't want to leave the mountains for the heat in the central valley. But the next day is a work day, and showing up there tired is a recipe for disaster. I headed home along the 99, and 5 south, superslabbing it the whole way home. With the cruise control on and feet comfortably propped up on the lower fairings, one has a lot of time to reflect. I could even occasionally see my actual reflection in a car window. I kept counting my blessings, and calling out to God to help me carry some of this contentment into another work week. I've been riding since that first Christmas when Dad bought my brother and I a 2 1/2 hp mini-bike. And after nearly 40 years the joys of riding are still so easy to rekindle. I'm truly thankful that the Lord uses riding to bless my soul as He does.

Seeing Red

2010-05-21T18:55:00.000-07:00

As a result of workplace politics I was really wrestling with my thoughts as I cycled home from work yesterday, but by the time I'd peddled into the driveway all the force had disipated from the stormy tempest in my head.

This morning, however, I was again being blown about by my thoughts as I walked out to the garage to choose my mode of transport back to work. Now, I know I have it good. On days I don't peddle to work under my own steam, I can choose to motor peacefully to work in a '28 Model A, or cruise in comfort on a Harley Ultra Classic, or rip through the streets on a loud racey red '95 Springer Softail. This morning the choice was clear. I was seeing red.

I actually had cautioned myself while I was still in the house putting on my jacket that I should, "Take the Ultra." It would be less likely to provide an outlet for the pent up emotions I was aware were roiling inside. But I couldn't do it. I hopped on Red and blasted down my street.

I knew trouble was on the horizon when I blew through the stop sign at 50. (It's a stupid sign anyway, placed there by neighbors who don't like people blasting down the street at 50.) It was like the word "Stop" on the sign was a command. And this morning, I resented being told what to do. Then the next sign blasted by for the same reason, and the next and the next. Down the hill and around the corner (where I had crashed this same bike a while back). I felt the rear tire slide a bit as I poured on the gas rounding the top of the curve. On the next curve more of the same with a still more power. So by the time I came to the first intersection that I couldn't run through I knew this rush had to stop. For a few blocks I slowed down, (admittedly due to signals).

I thought the storm had passed. At least for a while there the thrill of riding had made workplace turbulence subside. Didn't last long, however. Just like a sudden squall the traffic that slowed in my path angered me and I twisted the throttle in answer. I started splitting lanes at break-neck speed. This time, though, the gust didn't last even two miles. On a stretch of open road I finally backed off the throttle and simmered down.

The morning's ride was like a parable in my head. The issues at work seemed as foolish as the way I'd been riding. Neither being angry about work problems nor riding like a maniac was going to do anything but make things worse. As I worked out that the rebellious riding had to give way to responsible riding, before my own stupidity ran headlong into misery, I was also working out that I needed a different approach to circumstances at work as well. The morning's meditation on the scriptures, prevailed in the end. A few minutes later I pulled into the parking lot and was as calm as sunrise.

So they got into a boat and set out. As they sailed, he fell asleep. A squall came down on the lake, so that the boat was being swamped, and they were in great danger. The disciples went and woke him, saying, "Master, Master, we're going to drown!" He got up and rebuked the wind and the raging waters; the storm subsided, and all was calm. "Where is your Faith?" he asked his disciples.

God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.
therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea, though its waters roar and foam and the mountains quake with their surging.

Beer and Peanuts

2010-05-08T21:38:00.000-07:00

The common explanation for why bartenders supply free peanuts or pretzels to patrons is that the salty snacks create a thirst for the profitable beverages being sold. The one enhances the desire and enjoyment of the other.

Lately, I've been commuting to work on a new set of wheels. A bicycle. The ride is approximately 25 miles round trip. I truly enjoy the exercise and the adventure. (I've had three flats this week and had to be picked up off the road twice.)

That 'd be the nuts.

On the days I'm not commuting on my bicycle, of course, I'm riding my motorcycle. The contrast is what makes the whole thing work so well. I get on my springer, twist that throttle and the acceleration feels so much more exhilarating for having had to supply my own horsepower the day before.

There's the beer.

Leanness of Soul

2010-05-07T20:09:00.000-07:00

It's hard to say whether I should publish the following thoughts or not. I'm not sure I really can bear facing the bald truth, myself.

It's unprofitable at best and down right sin most of the time to let future concerns rob the present of its joys. But lately I've been allowing the blustery winds of negativity about the future brew up storms that cloud a happy present. I have a few real loves, outside of my relationship with Jesus and my family. I love (again, among a few other things) backpacking, riding my motorcycle (obviously) and making really good beer.

I guess I've become accustomed to the good life. The past couple of years my family, after a period of crisis, has been enjoying each other, and we've been walking with God together. During this current economic downturn I've still been able to maintain my hobbies, riding, camping, playing a little golf, making beer. Yup, I've definitely enjoyed the good life lately.

There is, however, an apparently leaner future on the horizon, and I've been letting it concern me before it has even arrived. This summer will be a short one as school gets out late (June 25) and starts early (August 9). So, while last summer, I explored the country for 5 weeks on my motorcycle, and then went backpacking for another week, and all of that after car camping with my wife and some friends for about 2 weeks. This summer it appears I'll be tethered to smoggy SoCal. My wife and I may escape in the car for a little while in order to do some business in Fort Collins, but no motorcycle trip or backpack trip for me. And there's the rub.

The summer is typically a cleansing, healing time for my tired soul. It seems that over the past few years I've experienced a nearly tangible unburdening of the weight of the previous school year as I've ridden or hiked out away from the city. And when I've gone far enough that I can stand unbent, (this last year I had to go all the way to Maine to accomplish this), then on journey home I steel myself for the coming year. This school year has included some joy stealers and as it concludes I find myself with a deep desire to escape once more. At such times I should be hanging in there by keeping my eye on the prize, namely a twist of the throttle and some new territory. Quite honestly the healing and renewal of my soul does not come because I'm riding, but rather while I'm riding. The evening Bible readings remind me of life's real purpose, and the long stretches of highway often cause me to daydream and visualize life during the coming year as a time of personal growth and meaningful service.
But with no extended ride planned, I've got to find renewal other ways. This is, no doubt, by God's design. Lean times have their purpose in His plan. I hope I can embrace both this shorter break with it's limited solo time, and the leaner times ahead with the same joy I've had in the better years.

There are, after all, other things in life that can bring one joy.

I Wear What Eye-wear (Follow-up)

2010-04-11T09:02:00.000-07:00

Normally I would not consider a product or service review of much value on a blog. I generally skip such topics on the blogs I read, since what I'm after is great riding stories. Furthermore, all that commercial ad space I see on blogs these days tells me that the individual writing the blog is just out to make money and doesn't really care about honestly endorsing quality products. However, I think the great service I got from Riders Eyewear deserves mentioning.

https://www.riderseye.com/

After several consultations with eye doctors it was determined that Lasik surgery would not be the best choice for me. Instead I went with bifocals. Having tried transition lenses before I knew that for riding these would not be dark enough and the progressive lenses can be frustrating for a rider (especially when riding a bike without a windshield) because they wobble in the wind and thus change prescription causing the world to move in and out of focus as if riding through wavy sheets of water. I knew that I should get a pair of goggles for night and bad weather riding and a pair of dark lenses for riding in the day, and to use as sunglasses when not riding.

This brought me to Riders Eyewear on the web. I searched several sites and just decided to give these people a call. I talked with Cindy who was a tremendous help. I got the impression that she was a rider herself, or at least had a genuine interest in making sure that riders got good equipment. She patiently listened to my concerns as discussed above and agreed with my assessment of transitions and progressive lenses. She also suggested that I get the bifocal placed low on the lens so that most of the vision was for distance and the bifocal part could be used for reading maps and gauges. Interestingly, this turned out to be better advise than I got from the local optician from whom I purchased my regular glasses.

Now here's the amazing part. She asked if I'd tried out any of the styles of frames they offer. I said, "No." She offered to send me samples to try which I could send back for a full refund. After a few minutes more discussion she suggested six or seven different styles I might like and sent them to be priority mail. A few days later I tried them all out, riding around with each one. When have you ever been able to do that! Checking out things like comfort inside the helmet, fit on my face and appearance. The difference in fit and comfort was amazing. One style of glasses flopped around on my face as I rode and one of the goggles fit so closely around my eyes that no air could get in and they immediately fogged up. So after a very rewarding set of trial rides, I chose the right two. Cindy started my order while I sent the trial pairs back.

Additionally, I'd placed on her the burden of getting me the glasses before my Spring Break trip. She accomplished that by calling in my order immediately and sending it out priority mail. In the process I got several e-mails from her making sure the order was right. I tell you the whole experience was like dealing with a friendly local business.

I ended up getting two pair of prescription riding bifocals, both of which I used on my recent ride, for a total of $206.75.

Spring Break 2010 Club Ride: Another Crack at the Coronado Highway

2010-04-10T10:20:00.000-07:00

From Saturday, April 3, through Wednesday April 7 I accompanied a few guys from our club on our annual Spring Break Camping Ride. I believe this is the third year we've done this and each year we refine our camping technique, solidify our friendships, and share in great riding and exploration. This year's ride took us from SoCal to, well SoAZ, I guess. And then up the Coronado Highway (191) and west across central AZ and back home. We covered approximately 1800 miles in five days or riding.

To be honest, planning the route, picking out campsites and back-up campsites, and wondering about the loose understanding of how we would manage our food, and where to get firewood robbed me of a little sleep the nights before we left. Additionally, I'd gone back and forth at the eve of the trip about whether to put on a new rear tire. Whatever, I didn't get a good night's rest and was a little on edge the whole first day. We chose to meet up about 40 miles south of my house at 5:00 AM at a gas station we often use as a rendezvous. I showed up 10 minutes late. And again for about the hundredth time I underestimated how cold it would be riding as compared to standing next to the bike in the garage. I didn't put on my warmest clothes for the ride to the meeting place and was a little chilled when I got there. The guys, however, were standing around gassed up and ready to go.

We picked up our last rider along the freeway as we headed south on the 15 to hook up with the 8 East. Everyone knew the first day's ride would be a long stretch of uninteresting slab between San Diego and Tucson. I've covered this stretch a couple of times before most recently during last summer. I remember it being interminable. I also recall nearly getting heat stroke and again nearly running out of gas in the middle of the desert. But this time it went by much more quickly, and for most of the day was down right chilly. I did however run out of gas! Here I was supposed to be figuring out the gas stops and I ran out of gas a half mile from the next station. But this incident proved to be indicative of how things would go for the entire ride. Namely, things often didn't go as I'd planned, but the guys were all flexible and willing to work together to work things out. In this case, Paul, (yellow Wing) offered to give me some gas from his tank. Larry pulled a siphon out of his T-bag, and Mike and Steve mocked and took pictures. So everyone pitched in.

Later in the day, when we reached Tucson, Steve found a brewery we could try. While there he looked up the Kartchner Caverns State Park and discovered for us that campfires were not permitted. This meant we needed an alternate place to camp. My back-up site was Patagonia State Park just east of Nogales. Without a syllable of protest everyone rode an hour south to Patagonia SP only to find that the campground was full. The ranger politely but firmly turned us away and pointed toward the open country of the nearby Coronado National Forest. Again, though it was getting late in the day and we'd already ridden 500 miles, we changed plans on the fly and headed for a primitive camp site somewhere in the National Forest. We all anticipated having to ride into the hills along a dirt road searching for a spot, yet no one batted an eye. We just flipped a U and rode off.

Upon arriving in the town of Patagonia we did a little scouting of the facilities and then headed off for the open country. We weren't a mile out of town when I spotted a trailhead. There were fire rings and plenty of space to camp, and it was free. So in the end, we spent a pleasant evening around a ring of rocks and a fire eating bratwurst and drinking really good beer.

So my first day didn't go as planned, but turned out better that ever.

On the second day we arose early and headed northwest to Kartchner Caverns SP, where we truly enjoyed the Throne Room cavern tour. I'm moved each time I enter that pristine cavern with all those limestone formations.

From the Caverns we rode further east along the I-10 to the 191 and headed north through Safford and Clifton. Along the way we ran across vast hillsides aglow with bright yellow wildflowers interspersed with an accent of lavish purple blossoms. All along the highway there were people pulled off the road taking pictures and walking out on the yellow slopes.

By about 2:00 we were in Clifton and starting up the twisty mountainous section of the 191. According to weather and road reports we'd gotten before we left, there was a fair chance the road would be impassible to us some 40 miles ahead due to snow. We also knew that temps had been low and snow-melt may well have frozen to the highway. So we hoped for the best and rode on.

As it turned out, the road and the weather were terrific. The only hazards we encountered were loose cinders and rock on the road and the occasional obstinate longhorn. Some thirty miles in, we found a beautiful campground with abundant firewood and settled in for the evening. That night the temp dipped only to 32 rather than the 25 that had been forecast.

And at this point I want to say a little something about riding. Anyone can hop on a bike and ride the relatively flat straight tracks, but that's not what my buddies and I enjoy so much. We like the twisty mountainous roads that challenge us and require that we ride with more skill and which present a greater risk. On the stretch between Clifton and Sheep's Saddle campground I'd felt tentative and uneasy. Gravel felt like ice to me and I didn't handle several turns well. In our club we consider it a fault to cross the yellow line. That other lane is for oncoming traffic and should not be used by a rider who can't make a corner. I busted the yellow line several times on the ride up the mountain, and when I got to camp I was very unhappy with myself and my bike. I felt that something was wrong with the bike's suspension, more than just a worn rear tire would account for.

That night in camp I voiced this to the guys and Mike suggested I lean more and position my body more forward over the tank. So the following day we planned to ride the rest of the 191 up to Alpine and loop back around on the eastern side of the mountains in New Mexico and ride the twisties from Clifton back to camp. This time I was determined to ride to the limit. I worked on analyzing my technique and pushing myself to carry more speed through the turns and lean my body more so the bike would be more upright through the corners and less likely to scrape the pegs. On the early legs of the ride I was still not having much success, and in fact could feel the bike wobble in some of the faster sweepers, which spooked me a bit and made me even more convinced that there was something wrong in the suspension.

However, on the southern section while we were riding the 78 west back toward Clifton I figured some things out and everything changed at once. By relaxing my arms, leaning forward and using my weight to guide the bike around the corners I was able to significantly reduce the amount of countersteer needed to guide the bike through the corners and the bike handled properly in the turns again. I felt confident to brake later, carry more speed, and accelerate more through the corners. When I did feel either tire begin to bread traction, I was in position to adjust without panicking and bailing out. In short, all the problems I'd become convinced were in the suspension, were actually due to poor riding on my part.

Since my accident last year I've been a rider who's lost his edge. I'd developed some bad habits and lost a great deal of confidence. The asphalt looked like a cheese grater to me, and the thought of laying a bike down again really tensed me up and made me ride poorly. On that 25 mile southern section I made a major break-through and regained my confidence. I was able to hang in there with Mike and Paul to a much greater degree than the previous day, or even the entire previous year. That ride and the rest of the riding we did that day was a blast for me, including the cinder covered twisties at the lower section of the 191. For the remainder of the trip, I enjoyed every twisty mountainous patch we encountered. That day of riding was the highlight of the trip for me.

On Tuesday, day four of our ride we got to see miles and miles of new territory. This provided a different sort of enjoyment. A calmer more long lasting sense of accomplishment and wonder comes over me when I'm filling in cartoonish lines on the map with real texture. In general it impressed me that so much of eastern Arizona was mountainous and covered with pine forests. I found myself swiveling around in my saddle trying to take in all the scenery. The riding, however, was pretty straight stuff for the most part, and the temps were quite chilly. Some of the guys had heated grips and clothes, others layered heavily, (I've got blubber), and Steve just froze.

Tuesday night we camped along Oak Creek in the canyon above Sedona and actually had to pay for a campsite for the first time on the trip. Sedona and the surrounding area is pretty country, but I began to get that sinking feeling that our trip was drawing to a close. We all sort of did our own thing that evening, me joining other friends in town for dinner, Larry staying in camp by himself, and Steve, Paul, and Mike heading in the tear up the town. Back in camp that night we sat around the fire for a bit, but turned in relatively early as the cool canyon air seemed to make our sleeping bags more inviting.

Wednesday, our fifth and last day or riding actually included two really great sections of mountain highway to tackle. Above Jerome the 89A was really fun with lots or tight turns and changes in camber. I got lucky on this section and got past two cars and two bikes without slowing down much. I had a blast again, continuing to enjoy good control. Later, on the western side of Prescott we encountered more good highway with faster sweepers. On the last section of this road, just as it was descending down into the valley toward Yarnell, Mike decided to chase down a couple of riders who appeared to be carving it up in their sport touring bikes. Mike did us proud and ran up on 'em with his wing. I'd love to have heard their conversation as he filled their mirrors with his headlights while sipping from his Big Gulp perched in the cup holder between the handle bars.

The final leg of the trip, from Wickenburg along the 60 to the I-10 and on home, was uneventful. I was kept alert, however, by the fact that my rear tire had become completely bald and was due to start showing it's delicate undergarments any mile now. Mike and I messed a little with the range of our CB's and found their effective range to be only about a half mile. As we passed through Palm Springs along the I-10 and the guys prepared to peal off toward the 74, Mike pulled up behind me and assured me that no cords were yet showing. We all waved to one another and I rode solo for the last 60 miles of slab and on into my driveway.

Wise up!

2010-03-15T22:35:00.000-07:00

Geez, I've got to be the single slowest learner (or just maybe the most recalcitrant fool) on the planet. I have a huge collection of old mirror parts, and yesterday it grew by a few more useless pieces.

I love to split lanes, and the consequence of that is overconfidence and an unwillingness to be patient in traffic. Even when I suspect the space between two vehicles is too small for safe passage, I can't seem to keep from believing I'll get through. Trouble is 95% of the time I do. The other five percent of the time I knock my mirror off.

"It is not good to have zeal without knowledge, nor be hasty and miss the way."
Proverbs 19:2

Yesterday, after a very pleasant cruise around the Southland, I'm on my way home and decide to anticipate a light change while splitting lanes between cars stopped for the signal. When I get to the front two cars I'm still rolling at a good pace knowing that the light will change and I'll blast on through. The space between those front two cars wasn't wide enough and I clipped my mirror on the mirror of the car on the right. Knocked off another one.

On my way home I had to stop by the Stealership and offer my guilt offering. The new mirror will be in later this week.

"Of what use is money in the hand of a fool, since he has no desire to get wisdom?"
Proverbs 17:16

Today on my commute riding a bike with only one mirror seemed like walking around with a patch over one eye. I was reminded many times by that blind spot how foolish I'd been the day before. Trouble is later this week I'll pick up the part, have a home brew, pop off the fairing, replace the mirror and, if history informs, be none the wiser.

"Though you grind a fool in a mortar, grinding him like grain with a pestle, you will not remove his folly from him."

Proverbs 27:22

The Secret to a Good Marriage

2010-03-14T21:47:00.000-07:00

I'm 50 and have been married to my wonderful wife for 30 years. That relationship has lasted so long, and so well, for a lot of reasons that have nothing to do with riding and owning a motorcycle. But there is one principle of marriage which does seem to apply directly to remaining a satisfied rider. It's the principle of proper expectations.

Here's how it works. In the beginning of our marriage my wife and I knew that we didn't know the future. We knew that we found each other attractive and that what we really wanted was to grow in our love for Christ and for one another. That was enough. Through the years we discovered our actual strengths and limitations. As that knowledge grew we adjusted our expectations of each other to meet the facts. In many ways neither of us has turned out to be a whole lot like what the other expected in the beginning, but we continued (and still continue) to pursue love for God and love for one another so it has been just natural that we maintain a close loving relationship.

My relationship with my springer has had clear expectations from the get-go. I knew what I liked from the beginning. It was a loud, sweet-looking cruiser. That's what I'd wanted for decades before I bought it, and that's what I got. It's always been a high maintenance machine. For many years, whenever it would break down, I'd be content to fix it because I believed I was "fixing it right this time." I expected that eventually I'd get all the bugs worked out and, I supposed, it would run more or less perfectly indefinitely after I'd worked it over once. As things have panned out, however, the springer has needed a steady stream of minor repairs for as long as I've owned it. (Just replaced the speedo drive and cable this week.) I've now replaced some parts that I had replaced earlier. So I no longer expect flawless reliability out of the sweet little hot rod. Oh well, it's still loud, sleek and sexy. There are faster, better bikes out there now. When I compare my springer to the new bikes I can become dissatisfied. New Harleys have better wiring, electronic speedos, wider rear tires, bigger motors and six speed tranny's. So looking around at those newer bikes is like a middle-aged married man checking out younger women, in some cases, much enhanced younger women. My baby is older now, but she still turns heads, and the ride is every bit as good as the first time we hooked up. I know what she is willing to do, and she still gives me what I want.

But it wasn't the springer that inspired my thoughts today. It was the struggles I've had with being content with the Ultra. I wanted the Ultra because it was a Harley, and a touring model. I bought this bike to give me something the springer couldn't, the freedom to put the urban life days behind me. Shortly after buying it, though, I struggled with the performance differences between my two bikes. This was a high maintenance relationship from the start.

"This thing rides like a Winnebego," I once complained to Chopper.

"What'd you expect out of a 700 pound touring bike?" He shot back.

I've owned the Ultra for about three years now. But I haven't always expected it to be what it was clearly made to be; a tourer. I commute with it, and so it'd be more fun if it would accelerate from a stop quickly. I ride in the twisties often, so it would be great if it handled better, and again had more power. But how quickly I've forgotten how great it is to pack up all my camping stuff and go on long rides with my feet comfortably resting on the lower fairings while I lean back on the comfy backrest with the cruise control on. That's what this bike was made for! That's what it is. This bike has a CB for talking to other riders on road trips and a stereo. This bike shields me from hot wind and harsh rain with it's big fairing and windshield. It has two spot lights that light up the unfamiliar highway at night. It can carry my wife in supreme comfort on a day long outing together.

Perhaps my next bike will be a sport tourer, but that will be a long way off. In the real world a man can't always have what he wants, or should I say, a man can't have everything that comes along. For the time being, I'm in a place that prohibits making changes in the stable of bikes I own. I've got to be content with that if I'm going to retain the joy of riding. Which brings me, finally, to the inspiration for this article.

Saturday, I felt the need to get some air. I chose to ride my Ultra over the 243, a regular route for me which includes a 50 mile stretch of twisty mountain highway. As I cruised along the freeway and out through the badlands with my feet up and the cruise control on the ride was off to a soothingly pleasant start. When I headed up the mountain I decided to practice some riding techniques I'd been neglecting lately, but at the same time I wasn't ripping up the mountain and trying to ride my tourer like a sport bike, or even a sport tourer. Turns out it was fairly quick, but very relaxed and I had a lot of fun riding smoothly. Just to prove the point to myself, I even stopped at a lookout I must have passed a hundred times before. I paused to enjoy the view and the bike even got an approving nod from a man packing his family back into their minivan. The bike performed well. My head wasn't filled with schemes for improving acceleration. Nor were the brakes fading from heat as in previous rides.

I have two bikes each different than the other and neither one a sport bike. When I keep that in mind and have the proper expectations of the machine I'm with at the time, the relationship, like a good marriage, will remain a lasting source of joy.

The Cure for a Tough Day at Work

2010-03-12T19:25:00.000-08:00

My co-workers sometimes read this blog and share the things I write in unfavorable ways, so I can't really say why it was a tough day, (that's not the point anyway). But it was the kind of day you'd like to leave behind you when you get home. Sometimes, actually, just the ride home is enough to lift my spirits.

On this occasion, however, I had even more working for me. On the previous Tuesday while riding home my springer had started missing badly and quit altogether just as I pulled in to the driveway. I've had this happen several times before and have come to recognize the problem, a loose wire on the switch under the dash. The switch has a half a dozen poles with crimped connectors which are prone to come loose after 15 years of constant vibration. Tuesday evening I just parked the bike and told myself I'd get to it sometime when I felt like it.

Well, that day was Thursday. When I rolled up on my Ultra and hit the garage door opener I saw the springer just sitting there and I knew I was in the mood for a little therapy. I went in to the house, grabbed a cold homebrew, returned to the garage and cranked the stereo.

First I popped off the dash to reveal the wires, then I sat down on the running board of my Model A and sipped my brew. Slowly I began to poke around at the various connections. Before long I located what I thought might be the culprit and replaced it.

Nope

No problem. I poked around some more and discovered the true malefactor. Now that the problem was spotted and the solution was close at hand I relaxed on the Model A fender again and sipped some more ale before completing the repair and buttoning things up.

An hour or so after getting home I'd completely forgotten my rotten thoughts from work, and was testing my new repair down our street shod in flip-flops, my helmetless hair flying in the wind.

Later that night I slept well and literally dreamt of riding my springer.

Problem(s) cured.

I Wear What Eye-wear

2010-02-13T02:54:00.000-08:00

This may be a topic as suited to a blog on getting old, as it is to one related to riding, but I'm facing another decision that directly affects how much I enjoy each of those.

On the day I returned the rental bike and picked up my Ultra from the Stealership, I lost my riding glasses. My family quickly assigned the blame to the fact that I have "part-timers", a milder form of alzheimer's. After searching the usual flat spots, including the top of my head, we came to the conclusion they had just vanished. I'm pretty certain they made it home since I had to be wearing them while riding, although I have been known to ride a fair distance without a helmet an not even notice. Any-who this is what has precipitated my current dilemma: How best do I see?

At first I jumped on-line and shopped for prescription riding glasses just like the ones I'd been using these past six months. This has been a pretty satisfactory means of operation since the glasses were sophisticated enough to meet my needs. They were progressive lenses, changing prescription from bottom to top sort of like a bifocal. They were transition lenses so they adjusted to the light to a limited degree. And they were similar in style to sunglasses with a removable foam liner so I could wear them in other situations if need be. None of these features was perfect, mind you. The progressive lens was nice. I could see very well at distance. They were fine for the seeing the speedometer and for restaurant menus, but I couldn't read much with them. I still needed to carry reading glasses if I wanted to read a book or a map. The transition lenses didn't get dark enough to really work well in full sun as sunglasses. On my ride last summer my eyes water and were irritated after a full day of riding in the sun. And finally, with the foam liner they were fairly well suited for riding behind a windshield, but on my springer they let in far too much wind and dust. Also they buffeted about on my face at speeds over 80 mph and were useless in the rain. As regular sunglasses they looked a little funny too. I had to wear them at work one day, and on the golf course several times, and each was functional, but not stylish. My family complained that I looked like Bono.

Another option, is to have my lasik surgery retouched for distance. About ten years ago I had my very poor vision corrected with lasik surgery. It was fantastic! I went from blind to near perfect vision without glasses or contacts. And until just last year, I had completely forgotten what it was like to have to carry any eye-wear aside from cheap sunglasses. The meant, as a rider, I could own one set of riding goggles with interchangeable lens for all my riding needs, and pay less for them. Now, however, if I get my eyes corrected for distance, I'll be even more dependent on reading glasses for not just reading, but everything I do within arm's length. That is not ideal either.

I should mention that the eye-doctor had me try both bifocal contacts and wearing only one contact and neither of these arrangements was very satisfying.

So anyway, here I sit getting old trying to decide what eye-wear I wear.

Insurance Assurance

2010-02-03T21:01:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I've had a ticket (or two) in recent months, and of course, I had an accident in which my insurance company paid out roughly $9,000. Is that any reason to raise my rates?

Stupid question, I know.

So when my insurance bill showed up I decided to check around a bit before I mailed off the ransom. I went to Progressive to get an online quote. For (as nearly as I can tell) the exact same coverage I'm getting from Geico, Progressive wanted $1390.

I paid the gecko his ransom.

True Confession

2010-02-03T20:43:00.000-08:00

Picked up my Ultra at the Stealership tonight. They took the forks apart and found the springs to be intact but compressed. So they shimmed them and filled the tubes with heavy duty fork oil. I paid only the $50 extended warrantee deductible and all is feeling fine for now.

Well, almost. I hopped on my bike after several days on the Glide and immediately things felt different, and not in a good way. Now I know the two bikes are quite different, but my Ultra didn't have as comfortable a riding position as I'd gotten used to with the Glide. It's a bit upright by comparison. Also, I've gotten used to having that extra zip and pull from the Glide, so pulling away from the Stealership things felt a little sluggish. The Ultra rolled off the line at 780 lb. (dry) while the Glide is 770 lb. (dry) so the two bikes are surprisingly similar in weight. The motors should be comparable since the Ultra has a 95" big bore kit, and a bigger cam, and the Glide has a 96" motor. But a turn of the throttle as I got on the freeway and there was no strong pull as I've been feeling these last 200 miles. On the plus side, though, I do feel the Ultra to be more nimble in the corners. For whatever reason, I'm able to flip that beast around in the curves better that I did the Glide. And the Glide had two minor flaws I won't miss. First, the mirrors are too closely set to be much good for seeing directly behind you. I found myself looking back to see if a cop had possibly slipped in behind me since there is a blind spot directly behind the bike. (If you ride within the law I don't suppose this would matter, but it really drove me nuts.) Also, the glove boxes on the Glide are small with doors that open awkwardly and are easily entangled with the bars. I'll stick with my four pockets just behind the windshield. I'm not going to miss the throttle mechanism either.

All in all, I'd have to say that if I had the money I'd trade in the Ultra on a Glide without looking back. I have the Ultra for riding two-up, and for traveling. I'm pretty sure it's still the better choice for those two activities, and I'm not sure how I'd ever be able to get along without a trunk (tourpack). On the other hand, I was in the parking lot at work yesterday doing burn-outs on the Glide and smiling ear to ear. I confess, I'm truly going to miss that.

Glide to Ride

2010-02-01T19:43:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I could hardly wait to get home this evening to record some of my thoughts about this 2010 Road Glide Custom I've been loaned. I rode it to work today which allows me to compare it with other machines on a road I know very well. Ordinary guys like myself, the not-a-factory-test-rider types, don't get to do much head-to-head test riding, so this is a cool opportunity.
In no particular order, here are some observations.

In Suspense

The suspension on this bike is just what I'd want. It has a stiff sporty feel, but isn't too rough. I feel the firmness in corners and braking without feeling that traction is lost to bumps in the road or to dives in the suspension. I did hit a few bumps that I felt all the way up my spine, so I've had to be more careful than I do on either my Ultra or the Springer. But when I hit the brakes the front end doesn't dive, which allows me to brake later in corners and feel more control and confidence when braking straight ahead. On the way home today, a car turned in front of me not two blocks from where I crashed my springer. I had to brake a bit in the corner and felt an extra measure of control compared to my two other bikes. Some of this too, might have to do with the riding position being different. The springer has apes on it and I believe the Ultra has a slightly wider more pulled back position on the handle bars. The bars on the Glide are pretty narrow and cause me to lean forward a bit more, somewhat like drag bars.

Hit the Gas

The Glide accelerates quick and strong from 2400 rpm all the way to 5,000, with red-line at 5,500. So it's a blast to open that baby up and accelerate past cars and rip along trying to beat lights. Today I had to race across town in order to get my TB test before the clinic closed, then race back before my class was over. I was jammin' through town and having a blast doing it on this bike. There is one drawback though. The throttle is very free. It has very little resistance in either direction, so keeping it steady is a chore. I found myself blipping the throttle unintentionally as I rode along. Bumps in the road caused throttle changes. A little more resistance would help hold it steady. As it is I found that I needed to keep my fingers over the brake handle to keep the grip steady.

Nervy Curves

I haven't had much chance to test the cornering of the Glide aside from some of the corners I take in town on my commute. Also, I'm not really used to the way a Glide handles, with its frame mounted fairing as opposed to the batwing on the Ultra. It feels a little sluggish, requiring more steering than I'm used to. However, the lean angle is good. I've been unable to scrape the floorboard so far, but there's always tomorrow. Also, taking off from a slightly sandy corner today I maintained a long controlled power slide. It would be very interesting to take this thing up into the mountains and try it on some real nervy curves.

Silence of the Cams

This bike is very quiet with its stock single exhaust. At first I kinda liked that. My grandson didn't cover his ears when I started it up, and my wife liked the quieter ride. However, I've noticed that I am consistently running the bike at a higher RPM than I'd usually run either of my bikes under similar circumstances. The quiet exhaust makes it possible to hear the top end clattering way at a stop, but I can't hear the motor while I'm riding so I only judge shift timing by the pull of the motor. Hence, I've found myself shifting later, and keeping the motor in it's power range between 2500 and 4000 RPM more that I normally would. Another thing about the silent exhaust is that other drivers aren't automatically aware of my presence on the road. Today along the boulevard as I split lanes through the traffic backed up by construction, I had to stop or nearly stop several times until drivers made enough room for me to pass. That rarely happens on my other bikes, especially the springer. People hear me coming from way down the road, and a blip of the throttle gets them look up from their cell phones and move over. If they don't, I give them a blast from the Pythons as I pass by their windows. Today, I felt like a toothless tiger. I missed the respect those loud-ass pipes and big apes get me.

I may only have one more day with this bike, so who knows if there will be more to say on the subject. I have concluded though that this is the only Harley I've ridden that I like better than the ones I already own.

It's Forkin' Shocking.

2010-01-31T14:34:00.000-08:00

It is in fact, forkin' shocking how stuff just keeps falling apart on this bike of mine. Recently I had the rear shocks replaced on the Ultra because they had apparently frozen up. I believe this happened along the way across the US this past summer. I had the Stealership replace them because the service manager agreed to make sure that at the same time they would discover that my bike needed cam shoes and those would be covered under the extended warrantee.

At that time I had the front fork oil changed as part of a 40k service (a useless thing in an of itself. Perhaps I'll log that too some time.). Anyway, ever since then I've been feeling that the front end is different. It jars hard at sharp bumps while still cruising tolerably over more gradual dips in the road. At first I checked things like tire pressure. It really felt like I was riding on either a really over-inflated front tire, or a nearly flat one. Neither was the case. Finally, I took it in to my friend's shop to have Chopper take it for a spin. When I pulled in Drew looked out the roll-up door. "Comin' in kinda hot. What's a matter? Cops on your ass?"

"No, I'm just testing the front shocks," I replied.

Drew checked around anyway.

"Take it for a spin," I offered. "Tell me what you think. Feels like somethings not right in the front. Be sure to go over some sharp bumps."

Drew grabbed his helmet and headed off. A few minutes later he came back and said, "Feels alright to me, but if it's not the way it usually is you'd be the one to know.

Next, Chopper took it for a test ride. "Gotta broken fork spring in there. I'd say."

I love these guys for this. They drop what they are doing and without complaint, help me figure out what's going on. No Stealership is going to do that for you.

We worked up an estimate for rebuilding the forks stock ($575) and for upgrading them to 2010 specs ($825). Well, there's no way I've got that kinda scratch layin' about the place, so I did what I always do. I told Chopper I'd work the overtime and save the money. I'd give him a call when I had the cash. He warned me not to ride it too much or too hard since the jarring would ruin the neck bearings and that would be a more labor intensive job to fix. I really didn't want to confess to having ridden it at least a thousand miles already. So, duly warned I rode home at half the usual speed. When I got home I decided to call the Stealership and talk to the service manager again. Maybe a broken fork spring is covered under the extended warrantee I purchased there. It is. And I got assurance from the service manager that no matter what the problem actually entails, he'd make sure I was only out of pocket $50. Cool!!

So I dropped it off an hour later and picked up my rental bike (also covered by the warrantee), a brand new 2010 Road Glide custom. I gotta say I was happy to be enjoying the benefits of the extended warrantee. If you're going to ride a machine that vibrates itself to forkin' pieces, and breaks stuff all the time, you'd better have the coverage.

After signing agreements that I won't

Let anyone ride it
Nor take anyone for a ride
Obey all the traffic laws
Wear a DOT approved helmet at all times
Hold no one responsible if something happens.

I find myself tossing my stuff from bike to bike again I am headed off to 'fess up to Chopper. Chopper and Drew are my trusted mechanics and we've developed a rapport over the years. (A commentary on Harley's in itself) So I felt I'd better scoot on over there and buy lunch and tell Chopper face-to-face that I'd dropped my bike off at the Stealership.

The Glide sits high has a super short black windshield, a matt black paint job and looks really cool. I hadn't gone more that a couple of miles before I was liking the way it felt. It was quick to the redline in the first five gears and smooth on the bumps in the concrete freeway. The wind shield was completely useless and my eyes were watering so badly I could hardly see when I backed out of it at 115 mph in 6th to make my exit.

When I pulled up the shop was fairly quiet. Only one of the regulars was hangin' out. No one poked a head out the roll-up door because the stock Glide is so quiet. Chopper wasn't as disappointed as I'd expected. But he shocked me by saying, "You know, we do extended warrantee work too." I could have sworn he told me, "No warrantee work," many years ago. When I leaned over the frame of the bike he had on the rack and mentioned this he said, "No, I told you we don't do factory warrantee work. We do, however, do extended warrantee work." This is how Chopper is. You've got to ask exactly the right question to extract the information you need, or his answer may be useless. He's very precise and assumes everyone else is too.

"You do extended warrantee work, and never considered mentioning that to me." I felt like cursing, but I've resolved to cut that out.

"I've thought about putting up a big sign, but didn't," Chopper says.

Drew looks across to me as if to say, "He's a dumb one. Isn't he?"

"S@*%," I reply. That means (I'm thinking back over the years I've owned this bike) that I didn't have to have those clowns at the Stealership screw up the clutch cable replacement which wore through the brake line, which nearly killed me, after which they didn't put the muffler on properly which fell off on me miles out in the desert on a scorching hot summer day...

"So what are you ridin' now?" says Drew. Probably timed to break the my timing as I picked up a wrench to throw at Chopper. We all head out to the front to check out the new '10 Road Glide. We pour over the bike for a bit and then Chopper takes it for a spin. Then Drew hops on an does the same, but finishes of with a 30 foot burn out on the street. There's a big cloud of smoke an then out of it shoots Drew like a carrier jet on a steam catapult leaving a heavy black mark down the pavement.

After cruisin' home I decided to make sure I was thorough about breaking all the rental agreements and gave my wife a ride before putting the Glide away for the night.

Later in the week, when I get my own bike back, I'll share how the Glide rides, and what ended up being the problem with the forks. I'll add this to the "Cost of Ownership" figures I'm keeping track of too.

One Bun Rider

2010-01-17T20:53:00.000-08:00

Yesterday a friend who had been through the advanced riding course (pictured practicing tight turns on his Wing) agreed to show a couple of us some of what he had learned. The three of us met in the parking lot of a local JC and practiced leaning our bodies off the bikes on the inside of tight turns. The idea is to be able to take turns more speedily similar to sport-bike riders.

When I looked at the forty-foot circle Mike had set up it seemed huge to me. We would be riding around the outside of it! How hard could this be? Since I felt I already understood some of the leaning thing, I anticipated being very successful in a short time.
That wasn't to be the case, however. When Mike showed me just how far he wanted me to lean off the Ultra , just barely hanging on to the saddle with one bun and with my knee only a foot or so off the ground I knew it was going to take some practice. I went around the circle once and Mike said something kind, but I saw a funny smile on his face that said, "That the best you can do?" Unfortunately, neither of us could impress our ring-master as practice was cut short by a nothing-better-to-do cop who told us to leave the parking lot. We were actually practicing safe riding and never exceeded 20 mph, so naturally, we were breaking the law and had to be stopped. After telling us to leave, Crime Dog lurked in his car under a nearby tree to see that we actually left. I steamed about this for a while, but my anger faded as we took off for the mountains to ride the road to the top of Mt. Palomar. Soon I was concentrating on trying to apply my new lessons.

Riding out to Palomar, we took the short twisty Wilson Valley Road. I'd ridden this road many times before, but was still unable to feel comfortable pushing myself off the bike and using my weight to turn it around those tight corners. I felt that the change in body position makes it less automatic to brake properly and to shift. It only felt right on a couple of turns. Later, after a little lunch we ran up and down Palomar, and practiced some more. On the way up I started to get excited, thinking maybe I was finding a level of comfort with this technique. However, the comfort evaporated as we plunged ahead down the tighter turns of the west side. I'm not that familiar with this road so I never really felt I knew what each turn was going to be like. The Ultra felt like an elephant on a roller coaster. I found myself struggling to get 'er slowed sufficiently so I could roll on the throttle through the turn. If I was late on the brakes entering the next corner I couldn't lean to the inside quickly enough to gain extra clearance and ended up scrapping my pegs and loosing the line. If I did slow down and had time to set up for the turn, it seemed I should have been able to take the turn a little faster. There are a lot of tight turns on this grade so I had many opportunities to try things out. At one point I nearly lost it braking late into a turn and fishtailing the rear end. That shook me up a bit so when we got to the bottom I passed on the opportunity to race up and back another time. Mike suggested we go back past the guy taking pictures to get another shot in case we want to buy them off his web site, but I was feeling none too picturesque.

Anyway I enjoyed the beer afterward, (learned a little something about Belgian beers) and again enjoyed tucking my feet up behind the fairing and weaving through traffic on the way home. I often get the chance to mull things over on that part of a ride.

Probably shouldn't expect too much of a big guy on a touring bike with one day's practice, but I can't help but feel a little disappointed in myself. I guess in my mind I'm the hottest thing on two wheels and yesterday was a dose of unwelcome reality. I may get the hang of this someday, but for now I'm just an old guy on a hog.
The day was like the first tango lesson between two fat partners. Both want to dance like someone they aren't. Maybe someday I will toss that hog in and out of the corners with seeming effortless grace. And maybe the guy on the side of the road with the camera will want to take my picture as we whip around the hairpin instead of diving for cover behind a rock. In the mean time I'll enjoy the practice and I'll enjoy having something to shoot for.

I Stumble with Lust..

2010-01-09T20:18:00.000-08:00

Yeah, thats right. This is a deeply personal issue.
Jesus said, "You have heard that it was said, "Do not commit adultery." But I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart."
I saw her in passing this time. As only a man could do, I summed up her pleasing features. Ampleness, in the right places, slender in the right places, sleek, sultry, racy. Man, I was done for. I'd heard her throaty voice a number of times in the past and it awoke desire in my heart. But there was nothing I could do about it at the time. I was with my wife. So all I could do is walk by and get a good eye-full and savor the imagining for a bit. I swear I got a whiff of her scent as we passed each other. If she had any interest in me, she wasn't showing it. That just made me want to start something, take the initiative.
Anyway, outwardly I was stalwart. My wife had me in tow, and was in fact giving me directions at the time. Directions I was too distracted to fathom at first. I was standing in front of the house with a chainsaw in my hand with my wife staring at me with a baffled, slightly annoyed look when I came to my senses.
For a bit I was refocused and was operating in the present. But soon I lost focus again and found myself scheming to escape and fulfill my lust on her.
"Perhaps I could finish this before it gets too late and take her out to a bar. The fun would just start there."
Wasn't to be, however. By the time I'd finished my husbandly tasks, the sun had set and my wife was suggesting that we stay in and watch a movie. Lana had probably caught my lustful look toward the temptress. Somehow sensed that my distraction wasn't entirely due to absent-mindedness. Women are hyper-sensitive to the presence of competition for there attentions. My wife knows well how weak I am when faced with temptation.

"Ahh, well, she'll be in the garage waiting for me when I get home from church tomorrow."

Tripsy Stumblethumbs and Victory at Sea

2010-01-01T11:15:00.000-08:00

This entry has to do with the feeling you might get when you know you are headed for what is likely to shipwreck in the Sea of Domestic Tranquility.

The other day Steve, a fellow club member, and I headed out for a little ride. I guess we both just felt like taking a little informal putt on a day when neither of us had anything better to do, and the weather would keep our less hardy friends indoors. When we met at the rendezvous we decided that the rain would keep us out of the mountains so we headed south on freeways to MiraMar to check out a couple of micro-breweries. We stopped in at AleSmith (just looked around, no tastings or tours were offered until 2:00 pm), then went to Ballast Point where we sampled four of their special brews. Surprisingly they had a lighter IPA that I liked. Not surprisingly they had an Imperial Porter, "Victory at Sea", that I just loved. From there we headed off to Oceanside to hit up another micro-brewery called Breakwater. I had a half glass of a very tasty double bock which I enjoyed with my sandwich. Steve and I talked bikes and club biz for a bit and then headed back out into the rain for the ride home.

So if you're following along, I've hit three breweries in three hours. But the fact is I've only had 16 0z. of beer in that time. As we step out the door I drop my Garmin GPS and it hits the sidewalk and bounces along. When I switch it on the screen lights up (whew) but is unreadable (bummer).

Now I bought this expensive little toy over the mild protests of my wife just before leaving for my month long trip across the country. I forget exactly how much it costs, but $530 sticks in my head. Anyway, I attach it to the bike (where I should have left it in the first place) and on the ride home I turn it on and off several times until I'm pretty satisfied its been scuttled. We're splitting lanes on the slick freeway in the mist, but I'm more concerned about the problems my carelessness on the sidewalk have caused. Steve splits off at Murrieta and that leaves me with about 20 more miles to contemplate the inevitable domestic scene ahead. Now don't get me wrong, my wife is a marvelous and supportive woman. She's just a little raw from the constant stream of bike related expenses we've encountered this year.

As I'm splashing along through a brief shower, my thoughts turn as dark as the sky. While busting the GPS was just a careless accident, the truth (that I wasn't stumbling out of my third brewery with a buzz, nor staring at a 70 mile ride home through the rain in that condition), just didn't seem like it would to hold water.

I could just not say anything. However, my son asked if he could use the GPS on his trip to Nevada on New Year's day, so I'd have to 'fess up. I could just not mention that I dropped it outside a brewery. I could make up a lie about being attacked by... By what? Pirates at sea?

Whatever, by the time I'm on the final mile I've gotten victory over the self-protective temptations and now I'm praying I can find the receipt (that would be a serious long shot, hence the prayer), that it's covered by a warranty longer than 90 days. Or its wound is only temporary.

I slip the scooter into its berth in the garage and walk into the house. (Maybe the drenched forlorn look about me will garner sympathy.)

"Where'd you go?"

(Here we go.) "Oh Steve and I hit up a couple of micro-breweries in the San Diego area. Brought home a couple bottles of a really great beer. Man, sure is wet out there." (Pause) "Oh yeah, and I dropped my Garmin and broke it."

"Hmm."

(Jeez, did the fireplace just go out. It sure got frosty in here all of the sudden.)

"I'll look for the receipt and a copy of the warranty," I suggest with false cheerfulness.

("You did hear me back there, didn't you Lord?")

After an hour of looking I locate the box the GPS came in but no receipt and after checking the Garmin website they emphatically state that for all online purchases a receipt must accompany the product before there will be any consideration of making a repair. Arrghh. I search my credit card records and check card records and can't find the purchase anywhere so I can't get another copy of the receipt from the online retailer.

Next day, New Year's eve, I call up Garmin, navigate their phone system and am put on hold. "Wait times are longer than 35 minutes. We suggest you call back another time." No way. I hang in there for 43 minutes and finally get a human, named Terry. We chat about bikes (he rides his race bike on closed coures) while he looks up my serial number. Bingo!!

"No problem, Brian. You registered the product online less that a year ago. Just send us the unit. We'll replace it for free. Should take about three weeks. Keep on riding."

Yes! Tripsy Stumblethumbs and the brewery tour are off the hook! Victory at sea! Thank you, God. I'll be more careful in the future.

New Year? Perhaps so..

2009-12-29T15:56:00.000-08:00

I love the Christmas holiday. For one, I need a break from work. But also, Lana and I always do a fair bit of evaluative conversing during this time of year. We typically look back at where the money went and decide if we were wise and generous or not. Also we usually make our plans for the summer and for major home projects during this time. Then things get personal too. We are the greatest of friends and lifelong soul-mates. We help each other with the personal stuff.

If I've made New Year's resolutions in the past, I don't remember them. A true New Year's resolution, I suppose, would be something a fellow wholeheartedly resolves to accomplish. However, this year a few important things come to mind and I've resolved to make them happen.

First, I resolve to read through the entire Bible this year. I haven't done it in nearly ten years and it's time to re- acquaint myself with the habit of daily Bible reading as well and the full counsel of God.

Second, I plan to do more cycling. I will either join the group of cyclists that meets at the shop near my house, or I will begin riding my bicycle back and forth to work twice a week.

Third, I plan to eliminate profanity from my speech this year. I've always been a profane man. I'm heartily ashamed of this and want to be more gracious in my speech. This is the obvious first step. (And for me, a tough one.)

An Odd Enjoyment

2009-12-12T09:03:00.000-08:00

It's raining today, as it was yesterday. I woke this morning with the warm memory of an odd enjoyment rattling around in my sleepy head. I thought, "I've just got to write this down before the impression disappears like a snowflake on the warm tip of a finger.

These days it's dusky or even flat out dark when I get out of work. This seems to add to my fatigue at the end of each day, and especially so on Fridays. Or maybe this Friday I was just tired from leaving a week's worth of my blood, sweat, and tears on the altar of ignorance. Whatever, this Friday I was ready to leave work a full hour before my appointed release. I knew that I'd be heading south and sitting down at a bar that serves the absolute best beers a man can drink. I was anticipating that pleasure with a growing eagerness that even the gathering clouds and drizzle couldn't diminish.

As I gathered my moto-clothes and headed for the parking lot where that rental bike I've been riding all week awaits, the service department of the Stealership called to notify me that my bike was ready for pick up. At first I said I'd rather pick it up tomorrow, thinking I could ride the rental with its full windshield through the rain. But by the time I'd gotten to the bike I'd changed my mind. I just gotta have my own machine back. I'm pissed at having to spend so much to keep that thing on the road, but it's mine and I want to be riding my bike. So as the mist turned to drizzle I headed out for the Stealership on my way south. One last run through the gears and curves with the rental to try to confirm in my mind the impressions I've been forming about the new Ultra so I can compare them with my bike when I get back on it. (Another topic for discussion.)

A quick turn-around at the Stealership in which I nearly tossed the keys and loaner DoT helmet at them as I pass my stuff from their bike to mine and I'm gone. I'm on the road on my bike and heading south in the dark and rain.

Earlier in the day, one of my students asked me if I like the rain. I replied that since I ride a motorcycle, the rain is not my friend. We all know why. Rain is cold, blurs the vision, makes the road slick and dangerous. Yet as I pull out on to the sticky mist of the freeway I'm not feeling the chill and anxiety these conditions normally evoke. Traffic is stop and go, it's dark, brake lights flash on and off and refract with oncoming headlights to make visibility even poorer than usual, but I'm not tense. I'm riding along, splitting lanes cautiously and picking my way through traffic in a fairly steady drizzle with complete relaxation. As I pass through Sun City traffic thins the rain slows giving more time to think. I offer up a prayer of thanks to the Lord. He got me through another week of work. I don't like paying bills, but I can pay them. I'm blessed to be able to afford to go out. Cruising up the hill out of Sun City and on into Menifee, I realize that I have a strange warm feeling in my chest. No kidding! I"m actually warm inside. It feels good to me to be riding my bike, alone, on my way somewhere I want to go. I'm as warm and content as if I'd been wrapped in a quilt in front of a fire. For a few miles I feel like I did on my trip across the country. Totally free, content, detached and observing things as I ride past. I tuck my feet up inside the fairing, hit the cruise and actually let out a great big "Ha", of happiness. (Wouldn't be surprised if someone in a nearby vehicle might have thought I was a nut, you know, a little odd.)

The evening proceeds. We have beers, and food, and whatnot. The beer was every bit as tasty as I'd hoped. I really enjoy most of the discussion and have a good time with everyone. But it's the ride home I keep thinking about. At about midnight the scene breaks up and I'm back on my bike again heading north. There is very little rain, and only light traffic, but the warmth in my chest is still there. I hit the cruise and tuck up my feet again. In the dark I just hear my mufflers roaring and feel the cold air on my face. "Man, I love this," I think to myself. "You're so good to me Lord."

As I roll through MoVal and down into Riverside the skies open up again and pour rain. At one point I must not be paying attention because the vehicles in front of me slow suddenly and I have to brakes and use the parking lane to avoid an accident. The rear tire fishtails very slightly as I brake. It was just a brief reminder of the conditions, but even that brings a smile to my face. Man, I love riding.

A few minutes later, at nearly one in the morning, I'm pealing off my rain gear in the garage leaning with one hand on my bike and hopping around on one foot trying to get those rain pants off. I laugh again. Man, I love this stuff.

I woke up this morning with a slight hangover, but that smile was back on my face when I looked out at the damp roads and knew I'd be out riding again later today. So with my slippers on and a good rich cup of coffee I sit down to recapture that odd enjoyment I felt last night, and share it with you.

(Without mentioning names, I know a couple of guys who will read this. For the one who can't ride any longer, I'm thinking particularly of you this morning and hope you can relive a great riding moment of your own. Relive a little of that enjoyment the Lord granted you too.)

Cost of Ownership Part 2 Where Does it End

2009-12-08T18:59:00.000-08:00

It's now November. I've been back from my cross country trip for two months. After deciding I should stick with my Ultra, bite the bullet and purchase the extended warrantee, I'd hoped to put together a long string of expense-free months of riding. Sort of amortize out the recent expenses.

Not to be. (So far in 2009 I've spent $1200 in maintenance and repairs and ridden 18,000 miles) The warrantee requires that scheduled maintenance be done. I needed the 40K service (now actually 10K overdue) which costs about $700 at the dealership. Plus my temp. sensor doesn't work anymore, the aftermarket horn (mini-beast) has broken loose of its bracket and more importantly, both rear shocks have frozen up (replacement cost = $450). The other item that needs to be done is the replacement of the cam chain tensioner shoes. Fortunately, this will be covered by my extended warrantee, or that would have cost me about $1200 according to the Stealership service manager. On the plus side, as my bike is in the shop, I'm riding a rental bike, an '07 Ultra which the Stealership says would normally rent for $70/day and which is also covered by the extended warrantee. Anyway, I'm thinking I'll get stung for another $1500 by week's end. We'll see.

This is unbelievable and embarrassing. The cost of keeping this damn thing on the road is completely disproportionate to the value of the vehicle. I could see paying high maintenance costs in a vehicle that runs like a race car, or can leap tall mountains in a single bound, but not for a fairly run-of-the-mill touring bike. By way of illustration. Today I went to dinner after work with a friend who owns a BMW 1150. We took off from the light and accelerated as quickly as possible. After 150 yards all I could see were his tail lights. He paid $6500 for the bike, used. So I'm paying Ferrari maintenance bills and getting Chevy Vega performance.

Now I'm sure there are plusses to owning the Ultra as opposed to the BMW, but I am heartily tired of paying out hundreds of dollars at a time just to keep my bikes on the road. In the past eight months and 14,000 miles I've spent $1000 in repairs, and that doesn't include the cost of the extended warrantee.

The Ironic Life of an Outlaw

2009-12-07T20:15:00.000-08:00

Well, it came in the mail today. My hopes of completing a full year without a traffic ticket were dashed. I don't really know how I expected to make it. The law would catch up with me one of these days.

I counted once, how many times I break the law on my way to work and back. It was phenomenal. Truly. Four stop signs get dis'ed before I get even one mile from the house. It was bound to happen one day. I even knew exactly what I'd say to the cop who pulled me over. "What? Didn't you see me put my boot down back there at that last stop?" I take one of my favorite corners at 70+ and when I get past the bridge I take 'er up over 100 every single day.

What kinda fool would think he could ride around with such reckless disregard and not get popped a good one one day?

What I didn't expect was to get the ticket while poking along in my wife's minivan, and by a damn camera. I made a right turn on red without coming to a complete stop. Pop! The lights flashed three times and the whole family looked at me in shock. I didn't even get the satisfaction of watching the cop finger his holster as he approached the bike. No clever, smart-ass comment. Nothing. Just flash.

So I'll be writing a check to The Man this Christmas. I exceeded the speed limit by less than 5 mph! The citation itself came in the mail today. The fine for making a right on red, $452! What a way for a notorious outlaw to go down.

Different When It's Your Own

2009-11-24T17:42:00.000-08:00

Today I rode one of my favorite mountain roads (243 Banning to Idyllwild) with a couple of new guys. One I'd never met. He pulled up on his Fatboy ready to roll and I only glanced over the bike to see that the tires were good, and then never looked at the bike or rider again for the rest of the ride. The other, James, is my grandson's other grandpa. Neither of these guys apparently get to ride much and James cautioned me before we left not to leave him too far behind. I'd ridden with him a little bit while he was getting used to a sporty he had borrowed while his car was being repaired. A year ago, I loaned him my Ultra for a trip to Northern California and took him out for a little "get acquainted spin." He returned it all clean and waxed and I never gave it a thought. This time, however, I would be riding behind him as we took on a truly twisty mountain road in a 25 mph crosswind. I think I can honestly say that I've never been able to be patient enough with new riders to stay back with them for longer than it takes to shift into 3rd gear, but today I was glued to that Ultra for the entire ride up the mountain. I never relaxed for a moment. James is a very careful man, so somewhere down deep I knew he wouldn't be testing the limits of his skill nor the performance limits of my bike, but I just couldn't relax and enjoy the road. My nerves started as soon as he swung his leg over the saddle and took a bit to recall how to start the bike. I watched my mirrors more that I watched the road ahead of me as I led the way to the base of the 243.

While we rode up the hill today I watched James to see if he was leaning the bike appropriately in the turns, and I looked to see if he was using both brakes. In my head I kept thinking of things I might have reminded him of before we left. I knew this was unnecessary. James was enjoying himself. This is the reason we took the ride in the first place. I wanted the guy to have some fun. At breakfast at the top of the mountain I remembered how I felt when riders I'd known over the years had pulled up on cool bikes and didn't offer me a chance to ride them. Harley's are so expensive and those who own them are not usually very free with their babies. So as James was telling us how he felt riding up the mountain, I was glad I did this. I wasn't enjoying it, but I'm glad we did it anyway.

After leaving the diner, I told the guys I wanted to ride a little faster and I'd see them at the bottom of the hill. At least I'd be riding fast enough to keep my mind on my own safety for a while. Still, at each curve I kept thinking about how I hoped James would take that corner. He's the father of four. If anything happens to him on this little ride...

I still feel this way when my son, now twenty-six, takes my Springer for a spin up and down the street. I listen to every sound and can't find the strength to leave the porch until he's back within sight.

Riding can be dangerous. When you fall bad stuff usually happens. That's okay, it's part of the thrill of riding. But today I wasn't comfortable watching this particular man on that bike.

I was a bit relieved when we rolled in to the driveway. Nothing bad happened to either the man or the machine. There was something different about today's ride. It was our own family and our bike out there today. I felt responsible for both.

Cheers

2009-11-09T19:04:00.000-08:00

For years the TV show, Cheers, ran on the premise that funny things happen in the place "where everyone knows your name."

I suspect that having such a place is what keeps most of us looking forward to another day, and the lack of such leads many toward dark despair.

This week I made another trip to my favorite indy shop, The Chopper Place. For me, this has become one of those places where I feel known and welcome,( if also mildly abused). Now, make no mistake, everyone who comes there is a customer. (Once I suggested to Chopper that people needed to be paying customers. He retorted that the paying part was implied in the word customer. Chopper is precise like that.) And I've certainly shelled out my share of coin over that counter in the past 14 years.

But there is a regular crowd, so to speak, of guys who come there to get their fix. Each one is greeted warmly, invited to opine on whatever is being discussed. Stuff like "Is Obama the end of America as we know it?" Or, "Is government itself a conspiracy to enslave all of us?" Or how about, "Is the MoCo ever going to produce a quality motorcycle?" Each guy expresses their thoughts, purchases parts, comments on the bikes on the lift and the riders who own them, and moseys on out the door. And then each is subjected to behind-the-back sniping after they've left.

"Did you see those twisted chrome spokes that guy put on his bike?"

"Yeah, Lowrider bullshit! I told that f***er it was bullshit, but he wanted 'em."

This, by the way, is better treatment that they get when they just call. Then your ignorance of Harley mechanisms is lampooned before you can even hang up.

A visit to the Chopper Place often goes like this:

I enter the shop and Grant and Andrew are engaged in some sort of mutually abusive discussion about how to accomplish a certain repair. Perhaps they are cursing each other for misplacing a tool (everything, and I mean everything has a proper place in the shop). At any rate when I enter the shop they look up over the saddle of a bike on a lift or from around the wheel and acknowledge my presence with a nod or grunt, then resume their profane banter. Eventually, when I've been acclimated sufficiently I enter into the discussion by asking a question. Something inane like, "Do all these models have that type of clutch?"

The answer begins another discussion between the two mechanics and eventually Chopper will pull out a service manual or perhaps pick up a couple of parts and begin instructing his apprentice mechanic and the bumbling idiot (that's me). I've learned a ton of cool things this way, though not all of it can be found in the service manual.

For example: A bike that belongs to a drug addict is called a tweeker bike. (Try to find that in the service manual!) And when tweekers work on their bikes themselves (and consequently f*** things up), the bike has been tweekerized. Some bikes I've seen in the shop are highly tweekerized, and thus require a lot of otherwise unneeded work.

You see? This is valuable stuff. Once I brought my bike in with what appeared to be a tweekerization. I was subjected to much verbal abuse. I quickly explained that it was a "road fix" and was excused. However, I do suspect that it is my perpetual state of being a novice that endears me to these guys so much. They both seem to enjoy pontificating on some point of Harley maintenance while I meekly sit on the mechanics cart and receive holy communion.

So back to this week. My blinker hadn't been working on one side of the bike. I had described the situation to a service tech at the Stealership. His diagnosis was, "Burnt bulb or else bad signal controller." After eliminating the first, I priced the controller at $149, and then headed down to the Chopper Place. After the profane banter and holy communion, (the sermon was on the new multifunction digital dipstick Harley has produced to tell you whether your oil is low, or cold or whatever), Drew said, "And what did you break this time?"

"Nothing", I replied, "I just can't figure out how the right side blinkers can work on flasher mode and not on blinker mode."

"Brown wire," Chopper called out from behind a bike on a lift.

"Huh?" Drew and I answered in unison.

"Brown and Right both have five letters." You could tell Chopper liked the fact that he had stumped us both on his little riddle. He was wearing a playful smirk on his face. "The brown wire from the load equalizer unit probably has a bad connection. The brown wire is the one that controls the right blinkers. Check the brown wire. The kit comes with cheap quick connectors that splice into the wire and aren't worth a shit. We don't use them for that very reason." And on went the second lesson on various connectors and their relative uses.

"But you put that unit in," I tossed back.

"That's how we figured out not to use them," he replied calmly. "Stopped using them after your bike."

Sure enough after popping off the seat, the brown wire had broken off from the unit. The unit had to be replaced (So it turned out not to be the connector after all).

"How much?"

"Thirty-five bucks. And here. Your passenger peg is missing. Found this one on the road this morning. Might be yours. Put it on with Lock-tight this time."

"Cool, thanks. You guys can start calling me an idiot now. I'm outa here."

"Yup, check you later, Brian."

As I ride away I know they're trashing me.,

"How many times have we told that stupid f***er to use lock-tight on every fastener?"

Yeah, what a lazy f***."

.. in the place where everyone knows your name.

Wild Hare

2009-11-01T20:59:00.000-08:00

You know, sometimes things happen and you don't see them coming. This is about something I saw coming, that didn't happen.

Saturday I went down to the Chopper Place, to get a gasket, some advice, and my weekly dose of abuse. It was a hoot. I'll have to write it up some day. On the way home, I wanted to stop by Sears and pick up a 36mm socket (I had just learned the size of the axle nut on my Ultra). I pulled up to the intersection catty-corner from Sears and a young woman who's sitting in the grass nearby calls out loudly, "Hey, gimme a ride!"

"I'm just going right there," I call back.

"Doesn't matter. Gimme a ride. Come on!"

We banter a little longer and finally I pull over a bit and flop down the passenger footboards. She hoots and shouts, "Bitchin' man, thanks. Woo Hoo." and climbs aboard. As soon as I flipped down the footboards I started asking myself, "What am I doing?"

The light turns green and I take off. I head on up the street and weave a little through traffic. She has no helmet. I'm speeding and passing cars. She's shouting and waving her arms as she declares how much she loves to ride. We're a huge ticket waiting to happen. Plus, I don't know this chick.

I make a right down the longish stretch beside the railroad tracks. Here we can pick up some speed. She's even more amped and animated. She says, "I may be homeless, but I love to ride."

Great now I'm doing twice the legal limit with a helmet-less nut waving her arms on back. "When we do get pulled over," I'm thinking to myself, "that's when I'll learn she's a known prostitute. I'll have some job explaining to Lana why I was gone for two hours at the motorcycle shop to get a gasket and was caught speeding down the road with a prostitute."

At this point, I make another right and start planning a route along residential streets that might get us back where we started without being noticed by cops. And that's what we did. A few minutes later she hops off, says she had a great time, and her boyfriend shakes my hand and says, "Happy Halloween."

Boo Who?

2009-10-31T08:03:00.000-07:00

It's Halloween today. Yesterday the students wore costumes to class, as did many of the staff. I didn't and young Ms. Rodriguez wanted to know why.

"Well look at me, Molly," I said, "aren't I scary enough?"

"You're not scary. You're weird," she mocked as 13-year-olds do.

"But really," she insisted. "You've got all the stuff in the cabinet. I've seen you on your motorcycle."

"Yeah, true," I said. "But that's the real me. This (and I pointed to my Hawaiian shirt and shorts) is the costume."

Now I said that to get Molly and the gathering group of young teen critics off my case and into class. But it bothered me all day. You see, earlier in the office one of the teachers came to school dressed as a biker chick and everyone commented the she was my kinda girl today. And when another teacher showed up with a cool Clint Eastwood shirt on, I asked if it came in black. Just like that. Without a thought.

I've changed my appearance over the years. I've gradually become one of those black t-shirt, black jeans, studded belt kinda guys. Yikes! I'm only out just out of bed and I'm wearing an all black outfit! What's happened to me? Is it a bad thing? Is it real?

My friend, Steve, always rails against RUB's. (Rich Urban Bikers) who own the machines, but don't really ride them. And when they do they dress in Biker Drag. Sort of like the undead in halloween movies, who are mild manner dead people during the day, and only come out at night, always wearing "distressed" outfits. Holy Smokes, have I become one of them, the costumed zombies of cheap horror movies?

When I first started riding, back in the early '70's, I wore my work boots, t-shirts, and 501's. In fact, that's what I wore all through the '80's too, come to think of it. It wasn't until about 10 years ago that I could afford a leather jacket, actual riding gloves, riding glasses, and my now beloved riding boots (all black , by the way). In cold weather I'd always worn .., well, I don't remember. A parka, maybe? A Levi jacket I inherited from my father's closet at some point, seems to have come across my path. I don't remember ever thinking about what I was wearing while I was riding. I guess I just wore what I needed to wear for wherever I was heading. Riding wasn't "Riding" back then. It was just getting around in my bike.

It's still that way. I think. After all, I'm a rider, not just a dolled up B-movie "biker". Aren't I?

Hmm, scary.

Gotta Love It

2009-10-30T20:07:00.000-07:00

Often I arrive at work early and am engrossed in the tasks of the day when Schumacher, another teacher and fellow rider, rolls on in. After a few minutes he makes his way to the coffee pot and usually cuts through my room. I'll throw him a nod, and resume my work as he walks on through.

However, he is a rider. We do share, a certain love of riding. Schu. and I are different as riders. He rides a BMW and listens to Mark and Brian on the radio in the morning. And well, I can't see myself on one of those and couldn't hear a radio above my motor. Still, we both get a thrill from the morning scoot to school.

A couple of times this week he'd break out in a broad smile and declare, "Damn!" as he strode on through.

I know exactly what he's saying. Namely, "The ride to work this morning was bitchin'."

"What?" I reply.

"Sped along the 15 behind a CHP this morning," he says. "75 to 90 the whole way."

"They let you do that 'cause you are riding the same bike," and on we chat as we head for java.

Now, I love to tease Schu. about his quiet bike when we happen to saddle up at the same time at the end of the day. You can't tell if his bike is even running when it's sitting next to mine. But we share more than would first appear.

Warm or cold, sun and fog, open road or splitting lanes, we love it.

Leather Clad

2009-10-25T08:17:00.000-07:00

I don't exactly know when I crashed my Springer, but it's been a while now and as the weather here is cooling off I've decided to replace my riding jacket. For the past eight or ten years I've been wearing my Harley FXRG, but after it got skinned up and perforated in the wipe-out I've been considering replacing it. Several zippers no longer work , some snaps are missing, and it has a hole in the elbow from road rash. Also, I've lost some weight so it no longer fits well around the middle. All that to say, this foray into fashion has not been about my vanity, but rather about equipment. (That's my story and I'm stick'n to it.)

Since I'm at the Stealership every week buying parts anyway, naturally that's the first place I started shopping. Truth is, however, I don't feel very comfortable shopping in general and even less so when there are a couple of young twenty-something cuties showing me clothes. So it has taken me a while to actually scope out what's available. Harley has a bunch of cool looking clothes that, quite honestly, I'd love to wear. But for practicality sake I can't justify the purchase of a tough looking hoody riding jacket, nor a light weight leather jacket without armor even if the sleeves zip off and it doubles as a cool vest. Also, being 50 I just don't like calling attention to myself with flashy clothes that boast "Harley Davidson" across them. I figure the script across my gas tank says enough. Nor am I a bad ass who displays skulls etc. That has narrowed things down to just about one thing in the Harley line; the FXRG riding jacket. It's the new version of what I already have.

As it turned out there was one of the perforated models in my size. I have long arms (I can tie my shoes without bending over) so I need a "tall." Another customer had ordered one in my size and never came to purchase it so one of the cuties showed it to me and it fit well and looked good. They want $630 for it! Even after I use all my loyalty points toward the purchase I would have come up to $570 after taxes. I guffawed at this and replaced the coat on the rack. Still, to my everlasting shame, I coveted that jacket. (Plus, I've always had trouble saying no to cuties).

Later, during a particularly funny portion of Seinfeld, I brought the subject up to my wife, thinking the levity would encourage her generosity. But that didn't fly. She simply muted the show and asked when it was all going to end. (I'm pretty sure she was talking about money here.)

This has been about two-weeks ago now.

Since then I've been to Chaparral Motorsports and shopped for jackets that are more in my price range. It's hard to find any that come in a "tall". Also, most of their stuff is for sport riders and dirt bikers. But I've found a serviceable model made by Joe Rocket for about $310.

Yesterday, I went back to Harley to price a part (a shocking $140 for a signal flasher control unit) and the motor clothes sales girl spotted me. "Oh you've come back!" she said smiling. (I just love it when they say that. But I know they look at me and see dollar signs not Brad Pitt.) I commented that the jacket was too pricey for me. She said she'd see if she could take a little off for me. (Here too, I'm sure she was taking about money.) The manager offered me the jacket for 20% off. That's $537 after tax and about $460 with my loyalty points.

Home I went again, conflicted. And to make things even murkier, my wife has switched sides and now insists that I deserve anything my heart desires. (I love it when she says that too. Even though I know for certain she's talking about the money.)

When its all said and done, I'll probably go with the Joe Rocket. I'm not sure I could live with the guilt of wearing a $600 jacket, and every man my age should practice saying no to young cuties.

Daily Pleasures

2009-10-20T18:21:00.000-07:00

The other day I was leaving work for home. I had changed into my riding clothes and shuffled things around in my classroom to make my return the following day a little less intimidating, but I actually hadn't finished my day's work. Fact is, I'd straightened the piles on my desk a bit, but hadn't made a dent in the mountain of ungraded papers, and there were no carefully prepared plans for my classes the following day. It was simply time to go home. Despite the knowledge that I should stay and finish things off, I wanted to leave.

As I walked out to my bike in the parking lot I realized as well, that I didn't have anything drawing me toward home either. My son is working in another town for a while, my wife will get home a half hour after I do, and my grandson won't be there to greet me. So I asked myself, "Why leave the pile and head for the parking lot?"

That's easy. I just wanted to get on my bike. Even after nearly ten years of riding virtually the same route back and forth to work, I still like to ride. Often the same thing happens in the morning. I leave early only because I can't wait to get on my bike and ride. There are a few daily pleasures that don't diminish much over time, I guess. Strong coffee will always taste good to me even though it's the same kind every time. Riding my bikes every day still make me happy too even if it's the same route in and out of town.

At Odds with "The Odds"

2009-10-14T19:54:00.000-07:00

The other morning in the paper there was mention of a rider killed in our town on a road I often travel. He was riding a Suzuki when a 93-year-old man pulled out from a side street and hit him. Everyone knows how these things typically happen. No doubt the driver didn't see the rider. Had the rider been in a car he likely either would have been seen or would have at least survived the accident. So we can conclude that because the guy was riding a motorcycle he was killed that day.

A chilling thing to read in the morning paper before one hops on a bike, straps on a novelty helmet and heads off through the drizzle to work. It raises the question, "What the hell am I doing?" To enhance this feeling of apprehension recently I was in the Chopper Place and up on the lift was an Ultra somewhat similar to mine with abundant evidence of having skidded across the pavement for a considerable distance. As I ran my hands across the ground edges of the bike, Chopper, himself, began to narrate how the rider had experienced an unexplained blow-out of the rear tire while on the freeway. It was a gruesome tale. Chopper had been in to see the guy that week to deliver some personal effects that were on the bike when it came in to the shop. The guy has broken ribs, one of which had to be surgically removed from his lung, and many other broken and lacerated parts. If the accident report is accurate, there was no one at fault here. Again, if this were a car the worst that would have happened is a traffic jam while Triple A towed the vehicle off of the freeway. The guy is in the hospital because he was riding a motorcycle that day.

So, what the hell am I doing?

Well, the newspaper isn't the only thing I read in the morning. As I zipped along the damp roads on my way to work the thoughts that lingered longest in my mind were from Philippians 4, in the New Testament. I was struck by how the imprisoned apostle Paul had written to the Philippian Christians saying, "I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want." And later, "And my God will meet all your needs according to his glorious riches in Christ Jesus."

Clearly Paul had ended up in prison because he was a Christian evangelist in a pagan world. But just as clearly he continued to preach knowing with some certainty that this risky behavior would result in pain or death. What he also knew, and what I held on to this morning as well, is that all these things are in the hand of a God who controls every event in the universe, and who loves me enough to die in my place to insure my eternal redemption. Put simply, the same God who went to the cross for me controls the traffic and road conditions on my morning commute. When it is in my best interest He'll prevent me from experiencing harm, and when it is in my best interest, He'll allow tragedy or even death. And with either one, He'll supply the grace to handle it.

I know that riding a bike to work is a choice not a calling. But it's not the inherent nobility of my activities that motivates God to protect me and provide for me; it's His inherent love.

So while I acknowledge that risky behavior often bears tragic consequences, where would we all be if we avoided all risk? Do I really believe that the steel cage surrounding a Volvo, or the computer aided warning system in a new Cadillac will really prevent me from meeting my Maker when He decides my time is up?

Well, I don't.

My motto still stands.

Ride Like Hell,

But Live For Heaven.

Mr. Fixit

2009-10-10T19:17:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure where the term comes from, but a guy who was handy with tools used to be a "Mr. Fixit," and that's pretty much what you have to be to keep a Harley on the road.

I'm following up here on the theme of maintenance on my bikes. I wash one or the other of my bikes every weekend. After riding them each for a couple of weeks there'll be a little dirt on them. But as much as for keeping them clean, the weekly washing is for maintenance. It seems that just about every other time I've got one of them on the stand being washed I find something that needs to be fixed. To illustrate, (and its not just today but a regular occurrence) today while washing the Ultra I found that the spark plug wire had been rubbing against the gas line clamp and had nearly rubbed through the insulation. I'm not sure what would have happened if it had worn completely through, but a short between the plug wire and the gas tank wouldn't have been a good thing. Also today I noticed that the left muffler was loose. The nuts at the head flange had loosened and the header was resting on the primary case.

I wish I had started keeping track of these things years ago. The list of things I've found while washing my bike would be as long as my arm and some were things that had they gone untended would have been disastrous. While I am truly amazed at the number of maintenance issues these machines have, I also love to fix them, so long as it's cheap.

My father-n-law was hanging out with me this morning as I washed and inspected the bike and found these things. As it happens I had washed my bike at his house in North Carolina on my trip across the country and found a loose shifter lever. (This pic was taken just after we finished changing the oil at their place in NC) So today he asked the question I'd love to know the answer to, myself.

"How do all these other guys who don't inspect their bikes every other week keep these things on the road?"

Service Contract Heart Attack

2009-10-08T17:23:00.000-07:00

Okay, so after suffering a service contract heart attack (sort of a version of sticker shock) I was still faced with the decision about ponying up the cash in advance of trouble or hoping I'd not incur covered expenses that exceeded $1900 in the next 5 years.

First, I figure I'll ride more than 10k/yr. even with two running bikes. So over the life of the contract that'll be 50k or more. If the past 50k are any indication then I'll definitely have more expensive repairs in my future. But I was left with some nagging questions.

"Would the MoCo refuse to cover some expenses as the bike aged claiming that they were due to wear?"

"Had I already worked out the bugs so-to-speak?"

So I visited the local MoCo service department and talked with a manager (or someone behind a desk anyway). His response was clear and emphatic.

"I can guarantee you will have at least one primary leak. That'll cost you $750 to fix. There are loads of other things that will come up that you do not want to pay for. I would never let my contract expire and just before they say my bike is too old for a contract, I'd extend it to the limit."

This is a sad commentary, from one who presumably would know, on the quality of HD bikes. But unless I want to go in a completely different direction I just have to live with it. When I came down to it, I just didn't want to start a new quest. After riding and working on Harley's for all these years, I just couldn't see myself starting from scratch with a metric.

Heart attack not withstanding, I took the hit and bought the contract.

Cost of Ownership

2009-10-06T19:27:00.000-07:00

On TV ads for cars they often try tout low "cost of ownership". This got me thinking, "How expensive is the Harley thing I've been doing for the past 10+ years?" Well, I can't trace the whole thing, but since getting my iphone and a little app. called GasCubby, I've been tracking expenses a little better. In the previous entry I summarized the expenses involved in a cross country trip, and shared that the cost per mile of the trip was $0.17.

Well, it's now time to pony up for some big expenses on my '05 Ultra. I've been wondering whether the cost of ownership has become so expensive that it's no longer wise to own the bike at all.

According to the service manual a big scheduled maintenance is due at 20K intervals. My bike has 50k on it now, and I never did the 20k service. I asked my trusted indy shop owner to give me an estimate ($500 in labor + parts) and the discussion led to the conclusion that in addition to the items listed in the service manual, I probably need to replace my cam chain tensioner shoes. My mechanic, Chopper, said that he has never seen a pair of cam chain tensioner shoes that didn't need to be replaced after 30k. Stock replacement shoes could presumably be expected to last that long again. If I upgrade my bike with Harley's hydraulic tensioners (the $430 kit includes a new plate, with better cam bearing, and a new bigger oil pump, a new outer cam chain and gear as well as new hydraulic chain shoes) there would likely be no need to change them out for the life of the motor. So parts and labor for the service and upgrade to the cam shoes came to a whopping $1600.

A second big expense issue also presented itself this month. My extended warrantee expires in November. When I bought the bike from the pervious owner there were nearly 4 years left on the warrantee and it has certainly been used. I would estimate that over $1500 worth of repairs have been done on the bike through the warrantee in the past 3 years. To extend the warrantee for another 5 years Harley wants just a few bucks shy of $1900. This works out to about $380/yr. Now there is no mileage limit on the warrantee, so the more miles I put on the bike in the next 5 years the lower the cost/mile. However, the warrantee requires that I do all scheduled maintenance and keep records. I can do much of the work myself, or have it done by my indy shop. But none of the scheduled maintenance is covered.

When I came home and told my wife about the upcoming expense she was rather upset. She suggested I sell the bike rather than put out the $2500, and who could blame her. Since then I've gone down the the dealer and talked with a service manager about whether he thinks the extended warrantee is a necessity. His answer, backed by many examples, was an unequivocal yes.

So there's the dilemma. Do I keep this expensive machine? Do I sell it and try to get something metric in the hopes of reducing my costs over the next 5 years? If I switch to another bike would I end up shelling out even more money? In the end, I've decided to stick with the mess I'm in and make the best of it, but I'm not happy about it. As my wife pointed out, we haven't spent much more than that on our Toyota Previa and that car has 250,000 mile on it!

Cha-Ching and Other Meanderings

2009-09-02T13:56:00.000-07:00

So maybe you're thinking about making a big ride and would like to have a little data to help your planning. Or maybe you're just curious.

Lets talk about the cost of riding first:

Days = 30 August 3 through Sept 1

Miles 10,055 (ending mileage 48,056 - beginning mileage 38,001)

Average mpg = 37

Total fuel cost $702 roughly $0.07 per mile

Service and Repairs

Two tires and one rear brake pads installed $500

Two oil changes (done myself so no labor) $60

One other repair (shifter lever) $250 (though I have and extended warranty so I only out of pocket $50)

Total Service and repair $810 roughly $0.08 per mile

Total cost of running the bike over the 10,000 miles $0.15/mi. @ $2.70 per gallon and averaging 37 mpg

Now I did end up spending $250 on sort of elective bike related expenses.

Replace lost bike cover $110

Replace lost helmet visor $10

Install heat shields $130

Conclusion: Well the cost speaks for itself. I find it acceptable. My bike was well maintained to begin with and relatively low on miles. The roads were definitely rough at times. Both gravel roads and those rough concrete Interstates created a lot of opportunity for things to bust loose. When I got home I found a broken mount on the saddle bag which I fixed for $10. Again I think the bike held up fairly well. A big concern for me when I started was being broken down in an inconvenient place, so for this trip I purchased Roadside Assistance coverage through Motorcycle Riders Association. If you read the rest of the blog you know I used it once, but would have actually been on the road faster if I'd not used it (a fluke). So, thinking about taking your Hog out on the road? Relax, it'll likely be fine the whole way.

Now let's talk about traveling style.

No doubt there are very few who would want to do this the way I did, but it may help in your planning to know about this so here goes.

10,000 miles/ 30 days = 333 mi/day which included 4 days in which I didn't ride at all making the average ride 384 miles. (The longest was 530 miles and the shortest riding day was <100>

I ate out rarely (not a single fast food meal, unless Subway counts), and stayed in a motel only once and spent less than $200 on memorabilia and admission to attractions so my non-riding expenses came to $1400. This included all my food, campsite fees, and attraction admissions.. Works out to about $50/day.

Here's what you've been looking for: The Bottom Line.

I'm sure I've forgotten something but I estimate that the total trip at $3200, or about $110/day.

My original plan (If I recall it correctly) was to take only 20 days, and spent only $2200 and cover 8,000 miles. Well, add 10 days and 2,000 miles and you can see how naive I was being. My wife seems to be okay with it though. She's really wonderful.

Okay, so enough about money.

I have a number of observations regarding enjoying a long trip as well.

Dale Coyner's book "The Essential Guide to Motorcycle Travel" really nailed it from the get go. Know your purpose and plan accordingly. My purpose was to "go there" so-to-speak. I talked with people all across the country who had different kinds of journeys over much of the same ground I covered. For example, Colin, the Scotsman I met in NY, was taking a very similar path west, but we could never hook up. He hit the cities, stayed in downtown hotels and saw the sights in each one. If you plan a trip trying to please others, or out-do someone else's trip then you're lost from the start. I met many people who told me about great things they had done and terrific things (concerts, games, rallies, sites) they'd seen, which I did not include. This could steal the joy of traveling, if you get into a pissing contest with someone who's apparently got more time money or whatever, than you do. But I had a budget and a time frame and was really happy within my limitations. I will treasure what I did see, and the people I did meet. If I make another long trip it may have a different slant, or it may not. Also I hope I showed my genuine interest in the adventures of others while not bragging or selling my trip to them. I don't want to be robbing others of their joy either. So again, from the start, know what you want from your trip.

Secondly, in preparing I imagined what would be worthwhile to me before I left. I upgraded to an iPhone so I could write and communicate with my family. This added greatly to my enjoyment along the way. I totally loved writing a description of something each day. I also got a GPS navigation device. This made it possible for me to relax in big cities and find gas (usually) without worrying, and find stuff like campsites, and to more accurately estimate distance and riding time. I also took a good book and the proper clothes. It would have been cool to catch a major league baseball game in towns like NY, Boston, or Chicago, but those teams were in the west while I was in their towns so one of the worthwhile things on my list never came about. Oh well, next time.

Which brings me to my last bit: Don't over prepare. You've seen pics of my rig. Everything fits in the bags and trunk except the sleeping bag and ground pad. My wife and I have a rule that works for us. Buy what you need on the road. Turns out you don't need much even if you don't bring much. Overpacking can make handling you stuff a burden. That said, I saw people with tents, trailer, shelters, stoves, lawn chairs, hammocks, laptops, power inverters, generators, and tons of other stuff who were perfectly happy. They just weren't riding so much as camping. Anything that would have made my bike handle poorly would have robbed me of the joy of riding. Over preparing can also mean having too rigid a schedule or route. Since I was camping I really needed no reservations anywhere and thus could take any route and be flexible with time. When someone suggested a track that was cool, I was able to take it without feeling like I was in danger of not making a reservation. On the flip side, if I'd called ahead a few times I wouldn't have missed the brewery tour, and the factory tour. So there is a balance.

Post Script

2009-09-02T07:35:00.000-07:00

As soon as I get the "scoot" cleaned up and things put away, I'll post my final entry on this blog. I plan to share the bare facts. How much, how many, etc.

A few folks have commented about making trips of their own. While it's fresh in my mind, I'll share some practical things I learned. If there is something specific you'd like to know, contact me via e-mail using the "contact" link and be sure to include the return e-mail address. Comment posts apparently come up "anonymous" to which I cannot reply. And for all who did comment or e-mail through the blog, a big thanks for the support. It was truly fun to hear from you.

BoB 30 Personal Thoughts

2009-08-31T22:05:00.000-07:00

Today as I had my lunch beside this little creek just below Sonora
pass I was nearly shot through with heart-ache. The breeze at that
altitude made me chilly while the sun burned my skin. The only sound
was the wind in the trees and the trickle of water. I thought about
camping right there, but I knew I was only half way through the day's
planned route and it was just two o'clock.
Now don't get me wrong. There are loved ones I can't wait to see. But
as I finished the previous blog entry and crawled into the sack I
looked at the stars and found myself trying to capture them in memory
to preserve this serene circumstance.
Tomorrow it's down into Brown Town. In a few days I'll be back to the
grind and the gossip, the cliques and politics.
Oh why can't I breathe in this crisp clean air hold it in and take
it's cool clarity with me? Right now I'm under the very stars that
I'll long for through the rest of the year. But you can't take it with
you.
I wonder if this is what the Son of God felt on the eve of leaving
heaven to be born a man. If so He went anyway. And I'm one of those he
saved by setting His bliss aside. There's no real comparison, I know.
But perhaps some good will come to someone in Riverside this school
year because I'm there instead of here. And if so, I hope God chooses
to show it to me to make it seem worth it.

BoB 30 Tahoe to Kennedy Meadows

2009-08-31T21:15:00.000-07:00

I write this having just ridden for ten out of the last twelve hours.
I'd ride on too, if it weren't dark. As I sat here wolfing down my
soup tonight I kept saying, "Wow, that was cool."
Do you remember the movie "Endless Summer"? These guys were surfing
the world looking for the perfect wave.
Well I don't know if they found it or not, but after riding back and
forth across the country I think I found the best riding right in my
own back yard.
Yesterday afternoon when I got into the Tahoe Basin I said,"Wow!" I
lived there for many years and to my eye it's still the most breath-
taking sight I've seen on the entire trip. And riding back and forth
across the Sierras today I had 500 miles of the best riding on the
trip as well.
I took 89 to 4 over Ebbits Pass (pictured) into Sonora and back to the
eastern slope over Sonora Pass. Then rode along the hem of the eastern
Sierras on 395 and back up into the mountains at Kennedy Meadows.
Today's ride just had it all! The roads were challenging and varried.
Sometimes I was taking the curves at 70, and a few miles later I'd
drag a peg in first gear. The scenery was so beautiful sometimes I
couldn't ride at all. I took more pictures today than any single day
of my trip. At the end of it all I'm only 150 miles from home.

Bob 26- 28 Elko and Paradise

2009-08-30T19:23:00.000-07:00

I rolled in to Elko on Thursday afternoon after crossing through Salt
Lake and the salt flats along I-80.
Dad and I had a few beers at the golf course bar and then went to
dinner at my brother's house where the fare was tremendous. I met
Sheilagh, Brad's wife. What a gem!
Friday we did a little moto-maintenance and I got to take his two
Harleys for a shake-down ride out south of town. Both the springer and
the glide have 110" motors and six-speeds so it was cool to mess
around with those. He's very proud of both bikes and puts a lot of
miles on them.
Saturday Sheilagh, Brad, and I rode to Winnemucca where we picked up the
key to the Hotel from the Tietjens. Of course we showed up just in
time for Anita to whip up an early lunch. Paradise is a small ranching
town so Anita had to call ahead to let folks know we were coming. As
it turned out when we all collected in the bar in the evening for our
Peacan, we met local friends who (once they knew we were JD's sons)
were great company.
Throughout the afternoon Brad and I reminisced about hunting and
camping trips but the highlight for me was hearing from Sheilagh about
her upbringing in Vancouver, BC.
So then, after a cocktail in the bar we headed to the "pumkin house"
which is the Tietjen home in Paradise for dinner. And man what a
dinner it was! We had tastey tender venison, mashed potatos with gravy
and coleslaw with red wine followed by whiskey. Dinner was followed by
more story telling and general catching up. The stories were mostly
familiar and like the venison were simply told and their flavor only
slightly enhanced as with salt and pepper. What a perfect day!

Mile-marker 61

2009-08-30T15:40:00.000-07:00

Do the Math

2009-08-30T12:52:00.000-07:00

Since I have nothing else to do while waiting for Debbie from the
towing service to bring me some gas, I might as well note what I've
learned today.
First, do the math. When I rolled past Lovelock an hour ago I just
wagered I'd be getting good enough mileage to make it the 36 more miles to
Fernly to get gas. The only thing worse than bad math is no math at
all. I would have had to get 39.7 mpg to make it. I know this now
because I just did the math.
Second, never refuse help. After rolling slowly to a dead stop for the
third time I called Roadside Assistance. Alec told me gas was on the
way within 20 minutes. Just then a guy with a Harlery sticker in the
window of his old Chevy pickup pulled over and offered me gas. He had
two cans of it sloshing around in the back of the truck. But I

thanked and excused my benefactor saying I'd already called and help
was on the way.
As I walk back to my bike, Alec calls back and says he's sorry but the
service he originally called no longer does business with RSA. If I
still wanted it, I'd have to advance $150 and apply for reimbursement
later. And no he did not know if the whole amount would be covered.
Since then he's found Debbie in Fallon who sounds like a nice lady.

and will be here in 45 minutes.
I blame this mathematical error on the delightful time I had for the
last two days in Elko and Paradise. I was reliving those delicious
meals and great stories when I passed Lovelock.
Well, that it from mile-marker 61 on 80 West.

Bob 25 Heber, Utah to Elko, Nevada

2009-08-28T04:09:00.000-07:00

Well I found out this morning where I ended up the day before. I was
on the southern end of highway 92 above Sundance. This little stretch
of road is a great find. If I hadn't been so low on fuel I definitely
would have ridden it south to north and come out at American Fork.
After that it was Interstate through Salt Lake and all the way to Elko
where I will spend an extra day with family.