39 degrees O.A.T minus 70 mph wind chill. Anybody got numbers on that? (My stiff fingers tell me about 15 degrees).

All I can say is, a turtleneck, polyester fleece, lined cordura jacket, and a plastic armor vest are NOT NEARLY enough to keep core body temperatures from dropping to the convulsive-shiver point. (Adeomata, maybe you have some interesting analytical observations to make on the human body's response to windblast? or are you that far yet?)

An hour afterwards I was still shivering, though somewhat less convulsively.

(See, I had a courier run to make today at an inconvenient time making it necessary for me to alter my travel plans ahead a few hours. It was FREAKING COLD! (something in the nature of the human response to cold makes it necessary for me to state that in capital letters)

So, now I have an empty motorcycle, and a seriously overdrawn checking account. I tried at the gas station but they refused my debit card.

Looks like I'm holding still for a while. And given that it's still very cold outside, perhaps that is a good thing - I won't catch pneumonia.

A chilly winter morning, half a tank of gas in my motorcycle, and a seriously overdrawn checking account.

Ack. It's a Saturday! I wanted to do as much town stuff today as possible, and now I'm pinned on campus. And I'll have to call Dean and ask him to drive me to church tomorrow. Ack.

(College bookstore screwed up and finally debited my "lost" check at the worst possible time).

Time to mobilize the mercy resources. Thanks be to God I have a number of them.

I guess we all have to go through this at some point in our college lives.

I've decided it's a cross in disguise, that I brought it on myself, and no, don't ask because I won't explain. (I'm being cryptic. I'm sorry.)

Three people currently populate campus: myself, Saki, and the Sashinator. Soon to be joined by Isabella circa midnight.

I don't understand all the noises going on around here. I was walking down the campus road this evening after dark past the Bernards lot and heard, through the dead silence, an odd clicking noise coming from Sean's car. Sounded like automatic locks cycling on and off. I didn't go closer to investigate but continued my walk. Conversation with him later revealed that his car does in fact like to cycle its own locks, apparently from sheer boredom (or a short in the wiring)

Then there were these odd "thunking" sounds coming out of the empty kitchen. I was told that it was the ice machine, but gosh, that ice machine is noisy.

And right now there is a rumbling noise emanating from the ping-pong room. Like faraway thunder but not.

And now my monitor backlight is making a screaming noise. I'm signing off. Some spirits must be trying to get my attention....

I had a lovely Christmas with my San Diego family; my sleep deprivation melted away (or at least settled to the far background) in the topsyturvy bustle of a large household in which everyone including the (barely familiar) visitor is expected to make dinner. Chaos insued; but due to the apparently bottomless patience of these amazing people, it was pulled off (uh, searching for correct adjective; coming up short for correct adjective) ...well. And the food was good.

After supper we went to view the local Christmas light extravaganza, on foot, me with little girl on my shoulders and her scarf wrapped around my neck - it made an awfully effective rein...

Friends swelled the numbers after we got back home, and we made it a night of Irish music and dance. It's odd, there is so much talent buried in these little gatherings, so much talent that won't see the light of day except in the living room, and perhaps it is best that way.

Once we wore our feet out, we settled down to the Christmas tradition in this household: a 500-piece puzzle carefully sorted into three sections.

I finally left at eleven after trying for an hour. Oh, there's more I have to say and can't say it. I'm unsure how to take this blessing: I can never tell the difference between a blessing or a cross in disguise....

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

I hope you all get more sleep than I will tonight. I'm leaving at 7pm to drive JoBu to the airport, after which I am heading back to OLA for midnight mass, after which I set out for a small town north of San Diego called Poway. I ought to arrive around 6 am.

Somewhere between airport and church, I ought to grab an hour of sleep, in the drivers seat of the Nighthawk. We meet again after a long parting. I'm afraid of what I'll find wrong - will it be more than the flaky cruise control tonight? (Is JoBu taking care of her?) (Really?)

They are all insane. 1/4 of the way through, I conclude that all the characters are simply insane. The women are hysterical, the men have lost their wits, the children are monsters.

I like Tolstoy better. At least I can relate to his characters. I can't relate to Dostoevsky's people at all except on a blurred and passing level. My own moments of insanity are just that: moments.

Page 246. I like Ivan Karamazov. He asks difficult questions.

I need sleep. I can't read anymore. good lord, I need sleep...and I have to do lock up at 2 am. Thank goodness I'm not a prefect all the time...

"and if today I heard she was in trouble or needed me or if there was anything I could do I would do everything I could to help her. She doesn't even know me." Straight brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, the clearest hazel eyes in a sharp German face. Quiet, so quiet. An animal inside those eyes, patiently awaiting independence and and the patience is wearing thin. And when it breaks out no one will stop it. This house of cards will crumble before it.

I listen to the footsteps of the wolf. I can't get up, I don't want to get up. I am welded to her eyes and the goodness I want to be there. Her beautiful hazel eyes. It's a complete...

"Enough! Enough with the hazel eyes shit already! You gonna fight, or you gonna sit there and let me drink your blood?!"

...complete construct. It isn't real. The eyes aren't real. I made it all up. I'm in love with a fake. The hell with the hazel eyes. But they will never go away, they always circle back and haunt me, with the wolf. She goes hunting with the wolf.

But the wolf is real.

snarl

I roll over with my fists clamped to my ears. "There isn't...won't be any blood left for you to feed on, you cursed. Do you know where I am? Do you know where I'm going to be? I'm going so far away you'll never be able to find me. I'm going to go so fast, you'll never be able to catch me..."

The wolf crouches slowly, sheer contempt in its orange eyes. It knows, as I know, that I will never go so far, never go so fast, never hide so well that it and she, both of them, will never circle round to find me and hold my face to a broken memory like broken glass. If I heard she was in trouble I would do everything to help her...

Blogger is finally running as fast as it ought to be.

I just made a discovery: I can transport a week or more worth of groceries without even filling up the saddlebags. Motorcycles are fun AND useful!! 3.69 gallons of unleaded premium moves me 140 miles and costs $11. Motorcycles are fun and cheap, too!

Brothers K. is NOT reading as fast as I want it to, yet I feel like I'm flying through the book. I'm about to break 200 pages already. But I have 600 more to go...I'll never get to my thesis. Damn you TAC seminar schedule...

I'm tired and cranky. Steve invited the five or eight of us down to his house to watch movies. Heck, I say, I've already blown the evening grocery-shopping, why not blow the rest of it.

The bike is still warm, so I'm going to gocart down to the gatehouse. Save a few minutes that way, and after the movie maybe I can build a fire and make some small dent in the mountain of pages in BK. I wonder what movie Steve has lined up for tonight...last night it was Lady in the Lake, definitely not M.Night's best work, but it had its comic moments - good acting...

Alone, in the dark, but with a means of escape: a blazing fire, fake cocoa, and Brothers Karamazov.

I love Russian writers. And musicians.

I'm going to go wander back down to my dorm and call my parents before it gets too late. "Mom, Dad, I got through finals week and I'm ok. Sitting by myself down here. Work starts tomorrow. Yeah, I'll be busy. Maybe going to San Diego for Christmas. How cold is it? Really? Brrrrr. I'm going to go drink hot water with cocoa-flavored sugar mixed in with it and read stories about Russians before I go to bed. Yeah, sounds good. Talk to you later. Love you. Bye."

Shouldn't take me more than five minutes.

I'm blogging because it's half an hour before dinner and I have nothing to do.

I rode down to Howdy's this afternoon to pick up Suzi's shop manual. I like to get a repair manual for any substantial piece of machinery that I own as soon as possible so that, if it breaks, I won't be totally helpless.

I decided that today being nice and humid and warm, it would be a good day to tighten the girth, adjust the stirrups and rein and...ride onto the freeway. It was time. I'd been riding secondary roads in heavy traffic, curvy roads in light traffic, and now it is time to chip a few more off the eggshell. I rolled through town, reviewing in my mind all the things I'd heard and theorized about blind spots and high speed obstacle avoidance.

I sat at the red light across from the Chevron station, bouncing the forks, praying to the Blessed Virgin, and thinking to myself, 'ok tiger, this is it'. The next few minutes will determine whether or not a motorcycle is truly practical transportation for me, and in a more remote sense, whether or not I will spend the rest of my life as a hopeless cripple. Well, not thinking about that second part.

The light glowed green, I snapped on the blinker and handed out the clutch. The freeway ramp glistened satin in the late afternoon sun as I toed Suzi through all five gears. Hmmmming along the superslab at 60 mph, I thought to myself, hey this isn't all that bad. Here I am, with a massively broad, perfectly smooth road to ride on with no intersections, mailboxes, telephone poles or four-foot canals to slam into. And I'm sitting up high, I can see all around, and gosh, the wind smells good...

...and gosh (twisting the throttle slightly and pegging the needle at 70) hanging on is a lot of work...I wouldn't want to sit here holding these handlebars for dear life for hours on end....

...(twisting and pegging at 80) gosh this is a lot of work and not so much fun and (thunk) wait what's that slapping my backside slowing down, slowing down (detwist to 70, then 60) I can't turn and look damn those saddlebags I bet I look stupid, really stupid right now and a minivan passed me on the left. I looked sheepishly towards it, expecting someone to be gesturing toward my (apparently) loose and flapping bags. Thunk, slap thunk thunk. Okay, I'm not going to pull over in rush-hour traffic. I'll just ride another mile to the Main Street exit and deal with the mess then.

Off the freeway, jet across into the left turn lane and slow, all is calm 30 serene mph. I slow to a stop at the red light and kick into neutral. The bags had flapped up off the sides of the bike, twisted against the grab strap and twisted themselves into a truly ghetto-looking mess on the rear seat. Damn. I guess riding on the freeway with empty bags is not an option unless I keep the speeds below 70.

I cranked over to the bike shop, picked up the book, stopped by Target.

part deux

I had to pick up some highlighters, as I was out of them.

I found my desired el cheapo brand and made beeline to the express lane to make my $1.60 purchase. The cashier took a second look at me, a towering mass of cordura and plastic armor. "You a motorcyclist?"

"Yes" - poking my card in the slot - "I am."

"What kind of motorcycle"

"I uh, I ride an 82" - the machine spits out my card; I key the pin - "Suzuki GS1100."

"Ah. I ride Harleys. I like them."

I looked at her again. She was probably younger than I was, but didn't have a lot of piercings.

"Mm. I like my Suzuki....it's reliable..... gets good gas mileage....."

"Have a good day."

"Yeah, you too."

I think I have unwittingly taken my place in a new strata of society. Motorcycling is indeed a way of life, as I'm coming to learn, and those who ride come to know those who ride...(especially when those who ride have to walk around everywhere looking like, well, bikers...)

It should be interesting. It's kind of cool. We'll see what happens.

My question right now is this: Are Harley drivers and Jap drivers supposed to, well, get along?

I mean, is this like Chevy vs. Honda? What's the etiquette is in this strange new society? Am I supposed to even give the wave to these Harley dudes? So many new things to learn about...

Last final is over.

I hope I haven't failed. I don't think so, but at this school, that means nothing.

One more final to go, one more afternoon submerged in Aristotle. I hope the snorkel doesn't leak.

I had Suzi's brake lights fixed on Tuesday, coinciding with my second and final payment on the bike. She's all mine now, and even better, people can tell when I'm stopping. The brake light wasn't entirely awol before, but required absurd amounts of pressure to click into life, and thus only useful by squeezing the brakes gorilla-fashion when stopped. Did no good for the crucial slowing-down part.

But now it's all fine and properly touchy. Now I need to be disciplined about keeping my right toe from creeping foward off the peg and onto the rear brake lever, so I don't say "stop" when I'm not stopping. But that shouldn't be too hard.

Okay. Aristotle. (pushes chair back from desk) Let's do it.

What's cooler than a box of crayons?
A bigger box of crayons.

Philosophers disagree not on the distinctions made, but on which distinctions are important.
-Berquist

Longitudinal waves in the lunch line.

A falling leaf rotating about its axis.

A dull pain at the capital vertebra.

Lack of imagination, and bicycling in sand.

Suzi sounds good in a tunnel at 6000 rpm. *heh*
And 62 degrees + 55mph wind chill at the bottom of a valley is FRICKING COLD!!!! ((shivering))

Most important values:

Generosity, under which is comprehended the willingness to go to ridiculous lengths to do good to other people.

Reverence, under which genus is comprehended the species respect.

Respect for God.

Respect for parents.

Respect for friends.

Respect for nature.

Of these, respect may not be what it seems.

Ok, adeomata, I like the Pascalian approach better.

Masses of cumulus clouds pad the horizon and a gentle late-summer breeze dusts through the alfalfa fields as I pedal toward the empty intersection. I could smell freshly mown hay and alfalfa and listened to the rustle in the popple trees. A car or two swished by and left dents in the breeze. I sniffed the air and turned my head to let the airstream wash over the side of my helmet.

"I'm really going to miss this. I don't think they have sunsets this nice out in California. At any rate I'll be far too busy to enjoy them."

I couldn't breathe enough of the clean country air that had been shoved over thousands of miles of flat nothingness. I figured I'd miss it.

Fast forward four years...(heh. four years)...and I'm sitting on the crest of a ridge seperating the peaceful Upper Ojai Valley in the north from the populated bustle to the south. Faraway bustle, way-down-there in a shimmering carpet of streetlights. Up here, on this little mesa of weeds and sage, it is absolutely, frozenly, frighteningly still. I listen hard and the silence is deafening. The air smells of dust and citrus and vegetables and sage. The flat tinsel quilt that is Oxnard scintillates in waves. The sun has sunk behind the mountains on the western coast and left them fingers of rough lava thrust into a rim of fire. The lava rears out of the ocean in a couple humpbacked forms - the Channel Islands.

I had never seen such colors in the sky. I guess I had forgotten to look, or was paying too much attention to the nondescript smell of the breeze. My eye traveled from the place where the sun used to be, all the way up and over and across the hemisphere. Burnt-red orange yellow pink purple deep lavender to blue and all the way back to reddish blue again and then chalk-blue on the eastern horizon. The eastern mountains stood out chalk on chalk, beige against the blue. The moon hadn't risen yet, but I knew that when it did it would be a massive orange ball. SoCal moonrises are one of a kind.

Half an hour later I was striding down the gravel road in the dark. It took me twenty minutes to hike back to where I'd parked the bike, collapsible-chair and backpack a not-yet-uncomfortable weight against my back. I found all as I had left it- helmet clipped to the side lock, saddlebags untouched, bike still upright in the gravel patch. I slipped the helmet on, swung a leg over and thumbed the starter. The motorcycle growled quietly to itself and we glided away onto the twisting saddled ribbon otherwise known as Sulphur Mountain Road. It's a road that goes on and on, twists and turns and ducks and dives like a roller-coaster and you never know what the next turn is going to look like. Suzi handles a like a bike 2/3 her weight even at 20 mph.

I caught glimpses of Ojai through the trees as we slithered in second gear through twist after twist. The road warped right and left in the yellowed bar of the headlight beam. The tach and speedo glowed warm orange, both needles down and out of my peripheral vision. It was okay, I didn't need to know. I was going too slowly. A quick check showed 2000 at 25 mph. I quickly got a feel for how loud 30 mph exhaust note sounded, and went by that.

Something bounded away into the trees ahead. Maybe that doe I saw earlier, on my way up. Where there's one there's two. I passed the spot and glanced around, no animal life in sight.

It seemed like fifty twists later before we finally plunged into the cold lake of air at the bottom of the valley. Business as usual now. The road shook itself straight, we coasted up to the stopsign behind the dumpsters, and carefully nosed out into the two-lane, headed home. I'd make it back for supper after all.

Thanksgiving break was peaceful and relaxing and properly vegatative. I spent it at Kakashi's house and partook of a real family Thanksgiving dinner, numerous sessions of youtube-watching, two episodes of the Simpsons, an EXCELLENT movie (the 'Proposition') video games and various other time-wasting activities. It was nice.

I also took the opportunity of being in the vicinity of a 'Beverages and More' to replenish my stock of liquor with a seventy-five of Fighting Cock bourbon. Supposed to be pretty good stuff. We'll see. I also aquired (finally!) some proper shot glasses. Goodbye to the days of drinking out of teacups; may they never return.

I need to get some work done on my thesis. Now that the bike project is off my mind, I ought to have the leisure to do so.

Well, this is only a filler post, I've got nothing to say, and I'm waiting for a phone call. I'm going to go back to the Communist Manifesto (interesting reading btw, I highly recommend it).

Happy T-day, ya'll.

"Suzi"



Not bad for 24 years old, eh?

Kakashi: "Do you have to take pictures NOW? It's almost dark outside!"

Tasik: "But I want to have something to post - it's been days now."

Kakashi: "The pictures are going to suck."

Tasik: "I don't care, alright. We'll take better pictures later."

Kakashi: (grrrrrr)

Tasik: "And don't bother editing them."

Kakashi: (grrrrr)

Dang it, Blogger is being recalcitrant.

I'll try uploading pictures again tomorrow.

Spent an hour or so on Sat. practicing threshold braking. Managed to lock up rear wheel numerous times (one of which sent me into a scary skid - a good education in what not to do). I did not succeed in locking up front. This big girl hauls herself down in a hurry - braking from 30 mph seems to require a lot less distance than in a car.

Smooth, oh so smooth...I just can't get over that lovely four-cylinder resonance (and it's only on stock pipes!)

Whilst commenting on another blog and typing the phrase " '82 Suzuki GS1100E" it came to me that the perfect name might very well be the make abbreviation in the title transfer form.

Year Model - 82
Make - Suzi
License plate # - etc.

Suzi.

It's smooth. It's red.

I think it will work.

Just blew fifty bucks on a cheap bike cover, a quart of motorcycle oil, and a can of Blue Magic chrome polish.

The flying blue shadows are still imprinted on my memory. I haven't felt this good in a long time. A very long time.

When I was little I wanted to fly. Now I'm partially realizing that desire...

I found her! I found her! And she's mine! (dreams do come true)

Not sure what to name her yet, but she's the same age I am, and purrs like a...cat. It's a Suzuki 1100 (yes, an 1100cc) seventy-four-thousand miles old, and has the well worn, well oiled feel of an old leather boot. It's faded metallic red, all the pipes and metal glowing in sheer mechanical beauty. Not a spot of rust (except maybe under the exhaust pipes somewhere) And because it has a real engine, I can feel the exhaust note in my chest (crazy grin).

I drove her into town this morning to fill her up with gas. It was a beautiful experience, the cold wind pressing my jacket and visor, the blue shadow blur EVERYWHERE, the engine gently warm against my knees and seat, the exhaust grrrrrrsnaprrraprrrring to itself.

I'm in love.

I can't go on about it, because it's lunchtime, but pics are coming soon, I promise....)

I successfully completed the MSF Basic RiderCourse last weekend. I highly recommend it; it's fast paced, but fun, and you learn to do just about any low-speed maneuver you want to do with a street bike. You learn to swerve, u-turn, ride over 2x4's, and stop fast. Well, sort of fast. We didn't actually do any threshold braking where you get up to speed then haul it down at the squeal limit. But we did practice fast stops in turns, the whole straighten-up, square-bars and hammer the brakes. We were taught never to brake where the bike isn't perpendicular to the ground, always turn the head in the direction we want to go, always downshift while braking, so on etc and so forth.

I passed the final riding test with zero points (points are negative), and was given a completion card by Bob who had to stand on a chair to reach (all the MSF instructors' names are Bob. If anyone messes up, it's Bob's fault.)

Now all I need to do is carve a sliver out of next week and go to the DMV and get my motorcycle endorsement. The light approaches from the end of the tunnel...

I also bought my upper-body armor and jacket. Elbow guards, armored vest and a plain old cortex jacket. Now I'm covered with more armor than an LA cop. Nothing fancy, although I did spend time staring wistfully at the $500 Italian leather togs...

All's I need now is knee armor, rainproof pants, some kind of neck protection, and boots.

Oh yes, and a motorcycle. That part of it is...uh, not progressing....

And my muse is lost in the desert. I hope she finds her way out of it soon, because I'm getting frustrated...

I will welcome the rain, the cold, anything to wash down this convulsed atmosphere. Rain will melt the edges, slick the rough surfaces, calm the hurricane and maybe even bring my appetite back.

Okay, that was random.

I'm still watching the craigslist parade, watching and waiting for that perfect deal on a mid-80's Suzuki 500cc naked-frame. Less-than-perfect options march by, an '89 Honda CBR F1 that's been lowsided and has 51,000 miles, an '82 Honda 550 that's hardly been ridden, sundry and divers 250's, and then there was that '83 GS1100E that Howdy had. I was a bit taken with it, actually. In spite of it's wretched-excess bulging-valve-covers four cylinder massiveness and expected 35 mpg, it was clean, a burnt-orange color, and looked pretty damn comfortable. I wouldn't mind putting away a few freeway miles astride that beast. The question is, would I mind filling up as often as your average Geo Metro driver....

But I'm getting impatient now. I have a thesis to work on, and I don't have the time to always have motorcycle shopping in the back of my head. I just want to get a bike and a cover and luggage and park it and not think about it. I need to think about other more important things.

I got me a lid.

And so it begins...

MSF course starts next Wednesday.

I still haven't found a bike. Apparently 450-500 CC's go like hotcakes here in SoCal. A 250 is just too small for me, and an 1100 is too damn big and wasteful. Where's my happy medium?!

The coffee shop somehow seemed far too noisy and bright, even from my corner underneath the potted plants. The misty darkness outside looked inviting and comforting, so I wandered out into the cold. Hands jammed into pockets, I slogged across the muddy lawn, mind sliding on three inches of cloudy ice into a blurry snowbank. Two hours of Hegel, two other hours of not looking anyone in the eye in a crowded room, I was tired of it, tired of people, tired of all the nameless things that remain nameless because I have no more energy to give them shape.

There were only five cigars left in the box. I dimly remembered Kakashi's voice echoing into my sleepfogged ears: i'm grabbing one, and my reply, you're buying the next box, and his rejoinder, i don't care.

I couldn't sit down anywhere though. I hate it when I can't sit down and have a peaceful smoke. This is my campus, dammit. I've been here four years, literally, and I should be able to sit wherever the hell I please. . Apparently I wasn't the only one who found the night an inviting place to be; there were people everywhere in the dark. Voices of couples whispering and giggling followed my back as I crept restlessly from darkened bench to darkened bench. I had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

I finally sat down on a relatively deserted, dimly lit flight of steps and sucked on my cigar for a while. Eventually the mist began to soak into the back of my collar, and determinate shapes began to soak into my mind. The slick feel of the remote on my car keys as I placed it into John's hand, the aged-leaf feel of the monstrous wad of twenties I got in return, a day later. It's going to hit me sooner or later. I know it will. I no longer own a car. I no longer possess a possession that I sank heart and soul into getting and keeping for five years, and WHY THE HELL DOESN'T IT MAKE A DENT? Why does it seem like Nighthawk's only sleeping as they pull the sheet up over her clay wings? Why am I sitting here staring vacuously out into the fog, still sliding over the ice, three inches of protection between me and any disaster in the world?

(I still don't feel very intelligent.)

I'll write up something soon. I promise...stuff has happened, my life is different, and I'm not used to it.

(That didn't sound very intelligent.)

(I don't feel very intelligent.)

(Maybe I better post tomorrow.)

(Yeah.)

I need to find a good motorcycle helmet and appropriate armor. Was planning on heading down to CalCoast Motorsports this afternoon to check out such. I'm really on the fence about colors. My favorite color is glowing blood-red, but flame orange or yellow is going to be more visible, and therefore more safe. Is my vanity a worthy tradeoff for safety? Do I really care?

This is SoCal, remember. There are more cars than people and more people than roadspace.

But yellow is such a painful color...

I turned in my thesis proposal at 9 pm last night. If I wasn't such a lazy bastard I would have had that done a week ago and my conscience would have lain in peace for a whole week, and I would be that much less ragged today...I just don't know what's good for me.

overpass walls glow dusty in my insect-yellowed brights
graffiti tangles boldly with mirages from the day

I hear the cold wind rushing lulling me to sleep
I hear the engine breathing rushing me to death

I snap wide with a jerk the car's across the road
mountain fills the window frame terror fills my blood

I hear the cold wind rushing keening through the rift
fingers stiff and shoulders straight and glass driven deep

overpass walls glow dusty in their insect-yellowed brights
graffiti tangles boldly with strobes and blue and red

*drool* I want it. I want it bad.

Honda Nighthawk 750 Specifications

Manufacturer: Honda
MSR: $5799
Model ID: Nighthawk 750
Model Year: 2003
Type: Cruiser
Emissions: California version differs slightly due to emissions equipment.
Available Colors: Red

Honda Nighthawk 750 Engine:
Engine Type: 747cc air-cooled inline four-cylinder
Bore and Stroke: 67.0mm x 53.0mm
Compression Ratio: 9:3:1
Valve Train: DOHC; four valves per cylinder
Carburetion: Four 34mm CV
Ignition: CDI

Honda Nighthawk 750 Drive Train:
Transmission: 5 Speed
Final Drive: O-ring-sealed chain

Honda Nighthawk 750 Suspension:
Front Suspension: 41mm fork; 5.5-inch travel
Rear Suspension: Dual rear shocks with five-position spring-preload adjustability; 4.3-inch travel

Honda Nighthawk 750 Brakes:
Front Brakes: Single disc with twin-piston caliper
Rear Brake: Drum
Front Tire: 110/80-18
Rear Tire: 140/70-17

Honda Nighthawk 750 Dimensions:
Rake: 0 degrees
Trail:
Wheelbase: 59.3 inches
Seat Height: 30.9 inches
Dry Weight: 463 pounds
Fuel Capacity: 4.8 gallons

My connection is really slow today. I don't know why. Probably because I chose to get up at 9 am instead of 6 am, it's smoky overcast, and the entire world seems to have slowed to a crawl.

Reality is somehow grayer when I oversleep. I feel (somewhat) more rested, but that feeling is (somewhat) canceled out by the knowledge that I half my day is gone forever. Half my seminar reading, half my thesis work, half of jogging on deserted narrow roads through the cold SoCal dawn.

I'm sober, and calm. Object of the day is to complete Monday's Hegel and to ponder thesical things. A modest goal, but according to murphy's law, it may not be entirely achieveable.

The friend to whom I intend to sell my car showed up again today to discuss payment options. We decided that a 1/4 down payment with five payments after that would constitute a fair deal. He will make the down payment in November after I complete my MSF course, if he still wants to buy the car by then. Resident pessimist says that he will find something cheaper that he likes better by then, and I will pay over 200 dollars to get my motorcycle endorsement, for nothing.

Someone I know well stopped me last night. I was wandering through the commons in a half-drunken haze, to leave a commons coffeecup I had just purified of brandy. "Hi, what's up?"

"My car died, and it looks like you're selling yours. Could I..."

Yeah, no, uhhhh, absolutely no problem you can drive it let's run down to my room and get the keys. What can I tell you about the car? (what can I tell you about the car) Well, I've had it for five years and it's a good car (some problems though) I had the tranny rebuilt this summer and new water pump and new rear brakes and it drives like a dream. Her name is Nighthawk, yeah, weird but my car had to have a name I REALLY DON'T WANT TO SELL IT but it's getting to that point you know I just don't have anything left to keep it up, yeah, you'll like it. head up to the parking lot. you need to get home tonight, let me show you the basics, let's take it around campus....

We took it around campus. I was vaguely aware that I was, in fact, selling my car. Selling my baby, my life, my freedom. Everything I sweated for those miserable months in the packing plant, in younger simpler years.

Letting it all go.

But the alcohol smeared this awareness so badly I chattered away cheerfully, automatically, enthusiastically.

you'll like this car, John, it's a great car, feel that power? Feel those power windows and power locks and tight brakes? You'll like it I'll even drop my price a bit, since I know you and there are a couple rough edges. We can work out a payment plan if you can't front the price right away talk to me Sunday...

yeah talk to me Sunday...

For Sale
1995 Buick Regal
Custom Coupe

25 mpg mixed driving
29 mpg freeway
antilock brakes / dual airbags
ice cold AC
reliable 3800 engine / good tires / new rear brakes / new water pump
Kenwood CD and speakers

This car is very clean inside and out and has been well maintained by a loving 2nd owner. All service records for his time of ownership are available.

132,700 miles on engine and 100 miles on newly rebuilt transmission.
$2500 firm
Abovementioned price may include free oil changes and minor maintenance for as long as the car stays on campus. To be negotiated with the buyer.


*****

WHY?! WHY, ye gods? Why hast thou decreed that man's freedom be taken so lightly and so mercilessly? Why has thou abandoned me to rot in this prison of greensward, jasmine and dusty books?

The sun is glowing like a citrus fruit through the fleece otherwise known as sky, the air smells like smoke, and it's raining ashes. And I should be working on my thesis.

But I wanted to post just to mention Nighthawk's return to campus. The car is now back in all of its dusty glory, and mechanically functioning like the made-over bird it has become. And in order to keep it that way I have it under a cover and in the corner of the parking lot FURTHEST from my reach. The weapon is muffled and stored, freedom shelved...until need calls...

Binge posting is like binge drinking; never a good sign.

I have a quote sent to me by my favorite tutor hanging on the cork-board in front of me:

"His mother should have thrown him away and kept the stork." - Mae West

Although I have no idea who Mae West is or her significance in history, I'm rather liking her blonde sense of humor right now.

Here's another gem, of an entirely different brand of humor:

"I am enclosing two tickets to the first night of my new play; bring a friend....if you have one." - George Bernard Shaw to Winston Churchill

"Cannot possibly attend first night, will attend second, if there is one." - Winston Churchill in response

Ah yes. Very swift.

Again, I have nothing charitable or intelligent or good to think or say, which is partly why I am copying the intelligent sayings of other people. At times like these the proper thing to do is take my hands off the keyboard and go to bed. To bed. And sleep.

...and sleep....

may the morning bring peace and refreshment to this soul, which does not really deserve it.

Damn, the 5-year-old in me has never really gone away, has he? I'd venture to guess that I behaved better at five too. At least according to my grandfather's video footage.

I can smell the ocean through the thick nausea of traffic and messenger-boy rush. I don't know how.

I finally got to oil my boots two days ago. I feel a bit better. Truly, a man needs to maintain his equipment to maintain his morale...

I'm being delinquent and taking half and hour off from work to blog. This happens occasionally when CPU overload occurs (the extra 40% happened when my thesis topic was rejected). I cease to care about anything that I happen to be doing at the moment, put my head down on the keyboard, and sit very, very still.

I just don't give a damn at the moment about the fact that I have five hours of work-study left to work, an untouched lab assignment for this afternoon, an untouched all-school seminar reading, and an untouched math assignment for this morning. I don't care. I can't carry it all anymore. I give up.

Nighthawk has become a faint memory of glistening purple-gray and steely turbine-whine and faded american flag on the brakelight. I don't know if I'll ever see her again, and if I do, I don't think she will ever be the same. I visited her a week ago and the interior was dark with fingerprints and the purple faded with dust.

Campus is fading into mist and cold. I take a cup of tea and my headache to the deserted rear of the commons and sit down under a yellow light and attempt to read and my mind drifts off into nothingness while my eyes scan the words on the page. And the winds begin to sing.

(slap) Ouch.

Why is my coffeecup empty already?

TASK MANAGER

number of processes running: 5

cpu useage: 88 percent

log off
restart
change password

Providence is very kind. My last paycheck was bigger than I expected. That sixty-hour week really added up.

I'm ready for another sucker punch.

Speaking of sucker punches, I might get Nighthawk back this evening. Like a bedraggled cat waiting hopefully next to its empty food dish, I carry a borrowed cell phone and a shred of expectancy...

Providence is kind. I will be able to buy books this semester.

I was hoping that I wouldn't have to get my boots all full of granite binder again today. I need to oil them, and they can't be oiled when they're dusty like that. If I want to oil them, I'll have to wash them first. But I'm too lazy to do that at the moment, so I'll neglect it another day....

Ragged chaos, ragged nerves, ragged and tattered and torn and back to tattered again. Sew the shreds together, bind the psyche back into something usable, it's going back into service in four days. FOUR DAYS, dammit.

I have nothing to say, nothing that will not be impatient, angry, selfish and uncharitable.

I have to be in such a bad mood for my last day of work tomorrow. Pity.

The half moon floats in a black bed of sky, sliced in half by the rear-window defroster element. Strains of Creed emanate faintly from the car speakers. Kind of an odd viewpoint, it is, lying there across the back seat, head propped up on backpacks and fridge and denim jacket. The black sky continues to float the moon like a piece of banana adrift on blueberry sauce. I am not thinking about food at the moment. I am thinking about how freaking huge the Arizona sky is, how dark it is in the middle of the desert. I am thinking how weird it is to be staring at the stars out the back window of a car speeding down the interstate at 80 mph. Behind a vague sense of God's presence out there in the blueberry sauce, lay a confused clatter of long grass, un-purchased schoolbooks, car in the shop with a 1200 dollar transmission repair, an unmoved room, and all the annoyances of life together waiting to pounce upon my consciousness the moment I woke up....

300 miles of nothing through an Arizona night
300 miles of centerline sucked into my brights
300 miles of emptiness from God's house to man's
300 miles of downhill from patience to ragged chaos

I guess that just means I'll have to figure out how to hotwire the damn thing.

I'm back.