Saturday, December 29, 2007

Just humming, sitting pretty in the wind, marking time and traffic.  No cops, no signs, no  (holyshitwhatisthat.  It looks 50 feet tall from here and bright as hell.  That's no fume burner, that's got to be a real fire.  Should I pull over and call 911?  It's so dark and that flame is lighting up the whole Santa Clarita Valley, there's no way five people haven't reported it yet.) Back to the road and the headlights.  I wonder if that's a real fire.  I wonder.  But I don't really care.

*slam* where do you think you're going, just where, huh?  Ten-thirty.  Check your watch, get up, go, get out of here, get down on that throttle and up to speed.  There's the cops and signs! And railroad tracks, and taillights, and civilization!


Friday, December 28, 2007

"In downtown Mexico City thousands of hipsters in floppy straw hats and long-lapeled jackets over bare chests padded along the main drag, some of them selling crucifixes and weed in the alleys, some of them kneeling in beat chapels next to Mexican burlesque shows in sheds..."

- Jack Kerouac, On the Road

Wednesday, December 26, 2007

Travel is like a fantasy, an empty, sometimes immoral but endlessly attractive dream?  Like small children we are drawn to it, not in malice but in curiosity because moving objects fascinate us and the sun lights the landscape in bold colors.  There is always something new to see and always something to ward off boredom, whether one sleepily realizes it or not.  The simplicity of life and its weaknesses and appetites, endless appetites are most easily found on the road.  

There is a book written about this and it is called "On the Road" by Jack Kerouac.  I'm going to go finish reading it.  It's awesome.

Monday, December 24, 2007

alone.  I'm the only one awake in the house.  Boyer's asleep in his own bed in his own room in his parents house.  Mr and Mrs have left for midnight mass, and I am left with the hum of the fridg, the gentle breeze from the ceiling fan, and the incessant whine of John's fricking computer fan. *unplug*

silence.

it's good for the psyche.

I distract myself cheerfully by conjuring memories of stained gray lit plastic snowmen, caved-in Santas and rags of lights drooping toothily from eaves.  The fog in the Central Valley blankets all in a cold damp embrace.  Another puke-brown California Christmas.  I'm trying to think of an appropriate quote from Southpark to insert here, but maybe Kakashi can supply me with the proper quote.  No, in fact I'm sure he can.  Something which mocks the phrase "puke-brown".

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.


Thursday, December 20, 2007

Emptiness means safety...

Twin orange ticked dials peer up at me from underneath water drops...the blue dot signifying "brights" casts a magenta aura from the windshield over everything.  As long as there is room to disappear, there is a place to hide.

two lines painted down the middle /

of the county road /

disappears like an old time riddle /

the black damp curtain of the night air washes up over my exposed neck and up my pants legs. I shiver in the cold underneath my stuffed clothing. The left side blinker wakes up.  blink. blink. blink.  No traffic in either direction.   No life, only silence and rain....the air smells of mud and damp sage.

would you pass the guitar around /

glare black twists around the naked white cliff as I let go the clutch.  The reflection of my approaching headlights shimmers a path straight into the rocks.  Swing it, swing the path towards that emptiness alongside the cliff...emptiness is good, it means safety.  If you can't see where you're going, you'll be all right.   The time to start worrying is when your future is staring you in your face like that granite friggin' cliff.

she took the girl left the cradle /

coffee spilled on the kitchen table /

it's been a long day.  Long, frustrated, ill and cold.  Forget it, leave me my wet road home and pocket full of bills and head full of nonsense, it's better that way....

(lyrics by Nancy Griffith, "Other Voices Other Rooms")

Illuminati Aptera. 340 mpg, expected cost $26,000. Hybrid powertrain, and two seats.

But I love the way it looks. Perhaps this car will do for the green car industry what Cirrus did for the aviation industry back in the late nineties. It has a striking resemblance to the Cirrus SR20, the light airplane that revitalized the dormant general aviation industry in 1998:

Cirrus still builds SR20's up in Duluth, MN and is working on a single-engine personal jet:


Pretty.

Tuesday, December 18, 2007

"Your blood-alchohol level is definitely over the limit.  You're not fit to drive, let alone write."

"What are you talking about?  I'm not drunk; I'm just a little tired.  Can't you tell a tired man from a drunk one?"  

Oh, I didn't know there was a difference. Sorry. I swing around the chair and face the opposite wall.  The computer screen glows purple on half the face I see reflected in the window glass.  The other half isn't there. I'm not drunk.  It's obvious.  I'm delirious.  Or something stupid like that.

The rain continues to fall outside the window, raindrops streaking the glass, slithering down where half the face should be.  The purple glows in the silence.  Somewhere in the background a quavering woman's voice echoes, singing, singing of a painful night behind the wheel, painful tears where happiness should have been found in the darkness and rain next to the freeway.

It's her own damn fault for not staying where she was and waiting patiently.  Screw her.  I turn back to the purple screen and alt-q.  The silence becomes deafening.  I get up from the desk chair, walk to the black window and peer out into the sheet of falling rain.  Take a deep breath.  Remember not to be foolish.  For the present is where reality lies, not in the past, no matter how vividly the past may be brought to life.  Those memories belonged to those times, were relevant to those times only, must not be dredged up from a contented grave...must not....they turn evil and consume all....

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Peace and quite reigns in the grounds crew office as the entire crew is off taking finals and getting ready to leave for Christmas break.

I have a few minor chores to perform, four plant lists to finalize, an archive of plans to make.

The BMW dilemma is on the back burner for now. The owner is not in a rush to get rid of it. I'm thinking my original idea of starting out on Suzi was merited. If vehicles and the rebuilding thereof is to be part of my life, experience gained in working on a motorcycle first will be more rewarding than working on a car first.

Okay, so that differentiation stuff.

"According as the content of the notion or conception of God or consciousness is determined, so too is the attitude of the subject to him; or to put it otherwise so too is self consciousness in worship determined...."

"It was therefore a one-sided view if the natural theology of former times looked upon God as object of consciousness only...it could never in reality get beyond the idea of an essence. It was inconsistent, for if actually carried out it must have led to the other, the subjective side, that of self consciousness."

A notion defined by man determines an attitude of man; if self consciousness in worship is ignored, then does God become subjective. I'm not quite following this twist. Is it that familiarity breeds contempt; lack of respect for the notion of God leads man (who originates the conception) back to himself since lack of respect by defintion lowers the object to the same level (or lower) as oneself? Or is it simply that the presence of God as a concept (essence) only leads man who seeks to worship him back to himself (who originates the conception). Perhaps these two are not fundamentally different views.

"It is just as one sided to concieve of religion as something subjective only, thus in fact making the subjective aspect the only one. So regarded worship is absolutely sterile and empty; it's action is a movement which makes no advance, it's attitude toward God a relation to nullity, an aiming at nothing."

Reverse extrapolation from this paragraph can help me with the previous one. Advance (progress forward from one extreme to another) and relation (the being or state of advancing) are integral parts of cultus, then. So if God exists as essence, there can be no relation since 'essence' (object) is an extreme of a different kind from 'man' (subject). Advance from one to the next is then also impossible since comparison of two extremes varying in kind is impossible (apples and oranges). But I'm not sure that this is exactly what Hegel wishes to conclude in the first paragraph. There IS a Cartesian move taking place in here somewhere; I sense it.

Monday, December 10, 2007

So I have the opportunity to buy a 1976 BMW 2002 for cheap.

But my finances are such right now that I'd have to sell Suzi to do it.

They'd be about equally expensive to, ehem, fix up. Suzi would be a couple hundred cheaper, I'm guessing.

I'm not sure if I'm quite ready to own a four-wheeled vehicle again.

Not sure. But I must admit to myself that over the last couple of months I would not have been able to do without my roommate's car. A 3-drawer plastic cabinet simply cannot be strapped to a motorcycle. On the other hand I'm not buying 3-drawer plastic cabinets all the time. Additionally, Suzi costs me nothing to keep (insurance $23 a year), whereas this car would cost insurance just sitting there. I can begin work on her whenenver I have the money. On the other hand a car would be nice in the rain. On the other hand I harbor dreams of riding an old motorcycle across the country. On the other hand I could just as easily harbor dreams of riding an old BMW car across country - OH and it would SAVE ME MONEY ON MOTELS because I could SLEEP IN IT!!! On the other hand, cars are by definition bottomless pits of money, on the other hand motorcycles are only half of bottomless pits of money. Cars have an electrical system. BMW's have a crappy electrical system. Oh wait, Suzuki used Lucas electronics on its motorbikes so Suzi has an even worse electrical system. On the other hand the BMW electrical system is bigger and more complicated. On the other hand...oh help.

*pain and agony*

Sunday, December 09, 2007

Lectures on the Philosophy of Religion

G.W.F. Hegel

What object we have before us in the philosophy of religion

I. The relation of the philosophy of religion to its presuppositions and to the principles of the time
1) The severance of religion from the free worldly consciousness
2) The position of the Philosophy of Religion relative to Philosophy and to Religion
a. The attitude of philosophy to religion generally
b. The relation of the philosophy of religion to the system of philosophy
c. The relation of the philosophy of religion to positive religion.
d. The relation of the Philosophy of Religion to the Current Principles of the Religious Consciousness
e. Philosophy and the Prevalent Indifference to Definite Dogmas
f. The Historical Treatment of Dogmas
g. Philosophy and Immediate Knowledge

3) Preliminary Questions
4) Division of the Subject
a. The General Notion or Conception of Religion
b. The Moment of Universality
c. The Moment of Particularity, or the Sphere of Differentiation
d. The annulling of the Differentiation, or Worship
e. Of Judgment, or Definite Religion
f. Revealed Religion

No, I'm not crazy. I really want to know what he thinks. I really care. Hegel is key. Without Hegel I will never attain the basic understanding of modern theology that I seek.

So prepare yourselves for a drier, healthier, less practical more theoretical more philosophical bent to this journal. The imagination has been joined by the mind. (It's about damn time, really.)

Further discussion on the Annulling of the Differentiation to come. I need to work this out.

Wednesday, December 05, 2007

"son of a BITCH!"

- Jack Bauer

Thursday, November 29, 2007

I was presented with a disturbing ethical dilemma this morning.

Should people with kids engage in high risk activities such as motorcycling? They are responsible for raising their kids and they can't do that if they're dead.

This concerns me because if one day (God forbid) I should marry and have children, perhaps one day (God forbid) I may have to remove the ostensibly risky activity of motorcycling from my life.  Sell the motorcycle, in other words.

Now I have no intention of getting rid of motorcycling.  Ever.  No.  Not.

Whether having kids is or is not my vocation is not something that is up to me.

However, if it should be, I would be in a pretty position indeed if one is truly so beholden to progeny as to be obligated to stay alive to raise them.

Thoughts?  What are the grades of obligation in this context?


so the GS is slowly dying. I don't like it. But dammit, I only have two paychecks a month to work with, and they aren't large....

When I started it up two nights ago, it idled kinda funny. Kinda like that 1243 firing order was off a *little* bit. When it was cold, anyway. And it idles at 1800 rpm - a tad fast. And it leaks a quarter sized blotch of oil a day where it used to be a dime. And, well, it just feels arthritic. It's as fast as ever and shifts as effortlessly as ever. I always forget how much fun this thing is to ride. And how good it looks sitting there hunkered over in the parking lot with the classic round headlight and four glistening pipes.

But it's feeling its age, it needs some loving I can't afford to give it right now, and it's sad when that happens. Oh, promises, promises...

Monday, November 19, 2007

"Just two more days and I'll be astride the V-Strom, headed for The 5, headed for the desert (or the small town of Tehachapi California). Two more days! Another trip...

Oh yes, there's going to be a houseful and Thanksgiving. But somehow the real reason for being excited is the road and the desert in this late-fall-super-oxygenated atmosphere."

And so it was.  So it was.  

In the end, one place is home:  the road.  One place I always look back to, one place I  have come to know.  The road affords a kind of security, comfort in its transitoriness, its anonymity, its cruelty, its sameness.  On the road, I know I don't know what I will find next.  All I know is that it will be handled the same way all unexpected things are handled, according to the nature of the road.  People are passed, faces blur by.  Places that are home to people pass by, self sufficient in their scenery, in their lakes and trees, meaning home to their inhabitants.

The road is home until I get tired and start falling asleep and then may God bless me with a nice, warm ditch.

(my current ditch is just great.  I'm a happy man.)


Saturday, November 17, 2007

"It's like sliding down a mile long razor!" - Pat


Here's what heavy braking on grooved pavement does to your rear tire.

I almost rearended that Kia, too.  Little gold bastard.

Friday, November 16, 2007

Citabria: $84.00 an hour. Includes fuel. (100 octane low-lead at I'm guessing 5.00 a gallon)

Instructor: $42.00 an hour.

Total: $126.00 an hour.

Hours required for certification: 40
Hours it will probably take: 55

Total cost: $6930

And I took out a 4,700 dollar loan about five months ago and have paid off about 1/6 of it on my current income. Five months, 700 bucks. So supposing I have that loan off my back (which might happen within a year as I leverage the dregs of my savings), I will be able to afford one hour of instruction per month. One hour. Yuck.

It will take me, oh, three and a half years to get my private pilot's license. My private pilot's license! And that's only the beginning!

So what does a dream cost? I've just found out. More than I can spend unless I rob a bank. America has always been the place where one is supposed to be able to realize dreams, but there is a difference between absolutely attainable and practically attainable. Perhaps I...

damn it. there must be a reason why the only thing I want to do is impossible.

Sunday, November 11, 2007

flying down the 101
in a hail of little droplets
chasing grooves in the pelted concrete
sucking in the ocean's breath
I lost the sunshine somewhere
don't know where it went
my knees are wet I can't see far
and what that exit meant
as it slid by in the fog and mist
was more than just a street

It was heat and light and liquid warmth
my hands curl up in damp
I need to find a coffee-shop
where I can stop
and stretch
and flex my fingers
and shut gray fairyland out
quick side note, unrelated:

I have noticed, dear readers, that those of you who moderate comments on your own blogs have ceased to approve many of the comments I have made. I am wondering, simply out of curiosity, whether the comments I make are in any way objectionable? Simply out of curiosity, I say; your response to my query will not affect my posting habits, language, or attitude in any way soever (unless of course there is a dire problem with these and I reserve the right to define "dire")
gosh I hate car shopping for other people.

I hate brokering sales agreements.

I hate ATM's.

I hate the world.

So much hate.

*growl*

Friday, November 09, 2007

"Why the nostalgic mood? I think I know more about your childhood now than there is to know."

"Oh. It's Friday. I felt like making something up. Just kidding."

(snort) "If you're going to post, post about something relevant and worthwhile. Nobody cares about your stupid memories. I mean, come on! I mean, really."

"Did I talk about memories? Gosh, I'm good. Hand me that cloth, will you?"

"You're in a bad mood, today. Are you listening?"

"Yes, I'm listening! So shut up!"

"Anyway."

"So yes, anyway."

Perhaps it is not necessary for me to prove that I can be funny, after all. No, not really.

Thursday, November 08, 2007

blog massage

let me know how it looks.

It wants to rain. I'm thinking I might have to get a pvc rainsuit one of these days. Not as easy as it sounds like; motorcycle gear manufacturers only produce Generic Rainsuits for the 5'9" Man.

Anybody had experience sewing PVC?

Saturday, November 03, 2007

Quotes from Peter Egan

continuing contributor to Cycle World and Road&Track Magazine. His book, Leanings, from which these gems are taken, is available at your friendly local bookseller for $25.95 US. Here are some samples:

"The odometer showed just over 11,000 miles, or 3000 more than I'd left with. I was burned-out, punch-drunk, and traveling in a senseless state of tunnel-vision from the long ride, but as I crossed the border I still managed to grin. My bike was running perfectly, I hadn't been issued a single traffic ticket, my bald rear tire was still holding air, I'd not meet even one unpleasant person on the entire trip, despite vague and shadowy warnings to the contrary, and there had been, incredibly, no rain in seven days on the road..."

* * * * *

"I asked if I could have the remains of yesterday's Milwaukee Journal , which lay on the bar, and then retired to the men's room. I stuffed the want-ad and comic sections, respectively, down the pantlegs that covered my left and right thighs; two more pages went up around my calves and tucked into my boots, and the entire front page was spread across my chest, tucked into my belt, and buttoned into my shirt. I emerged from the men's room and crinkled my way stiffly out of the bar, to the momentary distraction of a row of bored farmers who were watching the halftime show of a Texas football game...."

* * * * *

"For instance, if you jump out of an airplane and find your parachute doesn't open, you realize very quickly that your problem is much more basic than a malfunctioning silk canopy; the real problem is that you are 5,000 feet off the ground and falling through space. That is, you are in a place where you don't belong."

Monday, October 29, 2007

It is Monday. Insurance claim duly canceled. I'm sick, so I called in sick to work, and now I'm sitting in my apartment peacefully blogging. I haven't had a good sit down without a dozen duties crying about my ears until now, and it's really nice.

I need to learn this piece of financial software I downloaded for my Mac, though. I'm barely keeping any kind of track of my financial expenses. I check my account balance every day or every other day and lament its erosion, but I have no clear idea of where it's actually going...

Thursday, October 25, 2007

I am making an insurance claim. The damage was more than just cosmetic; the radiator isn't just dented, its shifted and brackets are bent. My fragile eggshell of a bikini fairing didn't protect much of anything.

And it could stand to lose the scratches, too.

The representative will be by, this afternoon. Here at work. He will look at the bike and tell me what to do.

I'm scared. I've never made a claim before. All I can think of to protect myself from the evil insurance company who wishes to cheat me out of my hard earned premiums is to take pictures of everything. But I've already done that....

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

It seems we ought to have a patch.

We've only done two rides but they've been so much fun. We see the world as a work of art, whether by the hand of man or by the hand of God - we seek tangible experience of Someplace by plowing through its air, listening to its sounds, feeling the mood of its people, and then coming to a stop in a corner and quietly watching them march by.

Our favorite views are restaurant windows looking out, and mountaintops looking down, and lakesides and oceansides looking across. Our favorite food is the favorite food of Someplace, our favorite music is the wind through the helmets, our favorite conversation is silence.

We ride machinery (old and new and old-and-new) that gets tweaked and maintained and talked about every other day. We're always on the watch for someone else's idea of a cool car. And there is never any week's notice, never a planned stop or a planned meal, we ride to ride, ride to be free from all that planned-out smartness and efficiency. We never ride to get anywhere, except accidentally, because we're already there.

And we've got a long long list of California places to see...

We need a patch

Monday, October 22, 2007

Due to the insane Santa Ana scirocco we're getting prematurely, The Blue Wedgie-Thing got blown over in the parking lot yesterday. Because I had it covered, the scratches and dents it recieved were minimized, but nonetheless it is still scratched and dented. Not enough to warrant an insurance claim (gasp) (those are for actual crashes) but enough to utterly change my viewpoint of the whole New Motorcycle Ownership situation. Now it's definitely been degraded to Used Motorcycle Ownership (if 12,800 miles doesn't do it, a few scratches will).

And, strangely, it's far more comfortable. The ice has been broken and instead of being overly obsessive now about keeping the thing's appearance pristine I can relax a bit about where it's parked and...well...how dirty I leave it...

Friday, October 19, 2007

I have that smiling feeling inside that I have whenever I decide that the ancient Suzuki is going to be dragged out from under her cover, injected with a shot of motor oil, pummeled into life, and ridden aimlessly and joyously all over the place until Sunday when she is sent back to bed and PVC-induced peace and quiet. These are the fun times, the times when I can pull out my toy, my hot-rod, the unnecessary and wasteful indulgence I allow myself, and play with it all weekend long. It's like the Saturday morning early, opening the garage door slowly and watching the sunlight creep upward across the low swoop of muscle-car filling the darkness. Pulling off Suzi's cover and revealing the tarnished red of the trapezoidal tank, the hard glint of the four-pipe headers and gatling-gun exhausts, and finally the massive freight-train headlight, always brings a thrill that says "weekend" and "speed"...

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

sleeping

I should be sleeping

It's been a crisp fall day with enough moisture in the air to dampen the view of local mountain peaks. Walking back to the motorcycle shop from the Habit hamburger joint after a satisfying lunch, I had memories of my twelve-year-old self striding along bumpy dirty grass, paper glider in hand, trying to get some distance between the fence over here and the trees over there so I could launch the thing and hope for some decent glide times....swwwooosh click stopwatch beep beep beep beep

thirteen seconds

damn

this thing needs some adjustment

And I run over to the tall grass where the glider has landed and I collect it and walk back to the clear area for another try. Maybe fourteen seconds this time.

It's a GLORIOUS day outside, the air smells like dust and leaves and coldness and I don't even have to think about math homework!

The ride back to work on the freeway, new tire on the front rim, was clear and cold and that wonderful autumn invigoration persisted. I love fall. I really love fall...I like to see the cobalt blue profile of my motorcycle reflected in the side of tanker trucks, like I loved to watch the slim white profile of the paper airplane slicing through the sky....now I glide on freeways, with the wind chuddering against my knees instead of running across grass with the wind lifting the airplane in my hand....life changes in funny ways like that.

ok, now I'm going to sleep. Now.

Sunday, October 14, 2007

Like an artist I stand with my hands on my hips surveying the blank canvas that is a largish living room. The room has a mountain of stuff in the middle of it, tumbled about like cardboard boulders. Hmmmm....

For once I have a piece of my own life to myself!

"And we should get some good religious art in here, get the bookshelves set up. Futons in there, that sofa over there, my desk can be in here. And I want a good desk. I'm the filing kind of person, y'know, I want to have a place for all those manila folders packed in boxes. I'm going to be organized. Unlike your sorry butt."

"Yah, unlike your sorry ass I've got all my wash done and you haven't, and I'm organized. It just doesn't look to you like it, 'cause you're a fool and can't recognize efficiency."

I'm too preoccupied with the picture in my head to care about a retort. Kakashi emerges from the second room folding a pair of pants. "What're we going to do for bookshelves anyway?"

"I talked to my dad, he wants to build us one."

"That would be cool."

It would be cool, but I know my dad well enough to realize that bookshelf will join my mother's dressers in the state of permanent potency. We'll find something at a thrift store.

I have my own place and therefore my own basis for living, my own retreat. A man's home is his castle and my little hole in the wall in western Santa Paula is the place to which I may return to right myself and find the roots of the matter again when I've lost it all.

And that knowledge feels damn good...

Tuesday, October 09, 2007

a good weekend

San Fran was a blast. I wish I had more days to see it all, but I saw a lot. Bluegrass history and unparalleled skill in the form of Doc Watson; an epic sunrise on the Golden Gate; and the Blue Angels ripping around the city, short glimpses between the towering skyscrapers.

Friday, October 05, 2007

It's Friday afternoon, a cold crisp day. I don't feel like blogging, but I'm tying myself to my desk for a few hours. I'm also trying to psyche myself for more fun this weekend; I'm riding motorcycle up Highway 1 to San Francisco, tonight and tomorrow morning. This has been a dream of mine for some time; and the circumstances could hardly be better. I have companionship of Toque-and-honey, a three-day weekend before me, and the prospect of glorious cold weather. A time and a place to leave cares behind, because like my evil angel they can't quite go 55 mph. (Or can they? Can they, now? I try not to think about that, but somehow I am thinking about it.)

And in four hours and fifty-one minutes, I can leave it all behind simmering in the Heritage Valley and let new worlds and new valleys wash over me and clean it all off...except it won't. "come to me ye who are burdened and rest, for my yoke is sweet and my burden light" the day may come when I begin to understand those words but that day is very far off....

Tuesday, October 02, 2007

Perhaps because I do not say whether I live or die or when I live or die, it can't matter to me. Such a matter being out of my hands brings me a bit of three-year-old brashness. I just live my life making decisions that make sense, and you know what, accidents happen! There's no reason why I should be an exception! So I can't be an exception, and that accidents don't seem to happen to me means nothing more than catch you later, dude.
The headlights are circular. And bright. And diverge as they approach. My peripheral vision meantime is busily measuring the distance between my front wheel and the slow car's left front fender.

Crap.

This car and that truck and my motorcycle are all going to converge on the same spot. But I'm going to make it. I know I am. 7000 rpm 8000 why am I stuck in cooling wax why is this damn thing so slow but I'm going to make it I'm going to make it I'm not going to die

dodge right

the oncoming truck blurs by, slapping me hard with its wake.

The driver I have just cut off slows down in my rearview mirror. I look up, frightened. The curve of the road is...in my face. And I am going too fast. Far too fast. I cover the brakes. But I may not brake, braking at this point is not allowed. I slam the motorcycle over deep and hold it. Hold it down....down, far over.....upright and out. Out. Now I may brake.

I'm feeling just fine. Great, in fact. I'm not drunk, I'm not tired, I'm not angry, I'm not even near being stressed. Is there something wrong? What's wrong? Is it me? I begin descending the Grade, slowly and carefully.

Why is the car in front of me now pulling over? I'm not that close to his bumper.

Now about halfway down the Grade, I downshift before the fourth hairpin from the bottom. And now as I roll on the throttle to power through the turn and my right boot scrapes the pavement, something that I trust gives squeak.

I am all over the seat and the rear wheel is all over the road what the hell just happened I CHECKED THIS TURN OUT, IT WAS CLEAN

keep it stable keep it up keep it upright


I touched the pavement with my boot, and the motorcycle seemed to tuck together and straighten itself out. Another pair of headlights flashes by my face. I am surprised. I have ridden tired, ridden dirty, ridden stressed but now I am none of these things and this, this is not funny...I am not amused.

At this point there is only one sensible thing to do and I do it. I pull over, find my phone, and call a friend in the area and ask her to tell me to get off the road and get into shelter.

Later, hunched over a roll and a beer at a sushi house in Oakview, I ask myself. Why? My judgement, usually so conservative and sensitive, is today intent on killing me. I am driving normally, only today normal driving has nearly killed me twice. To drive normally is what I do, yet today it is It is against my instincts. I am very, very frightened. But I feel fine...

Friday, September 28, 2007

Ladders. Lying in the back of pickup trucks, lying across the racks on utility trucks, dangling off the mounts on stake-side trucks. They're the #1 foreign-object threat to motorcyclists in California, statistically, especially on freeways. And so whenever at a stoplight I roll slowly toward the dusty bumper of Miguel's Landscaping 1-ton Ford (with expired registration), I check carefully to see if there any device firmly attaching the deadly six-foot hunk of aluminum to the truck.

If not, I grimace and change lanes as quickly as possible.

If there are tiedowns, I grimace and change lanes when convenient, or keep a loooong following distance (which has the beneficial side-effect of inviting another vehicle to move in front of me, intercepting the threat).

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

I think the rear tire on my blue motorcycle is almost shot.
oh gosh, it's 11:30 and I should be asleep in bed. Kakashi is a few feet away on the floor, pretending to sleep, and wondering what is so important that his roommate had to jump out of bed, disturb a quiet room by rustling his glasses off the shelf and shuffling his laptop out of his bag and tripping over his shoes and opening the laptop on his bed and filling the room with bright white light from the Apple symbol on the case. Blasted roommate. Ow.

All because said roommate had a thought about the view of the mountains and the sunset he got, up on the freeway across the arroyo. It was a oil-painted desert quiescent through the buffeting visor, and such views should really make one's day, instead of being taken for granted. Why do we take all this simple stuff for granted and then complain that life has no beauty? Do we not condemn ourselves to our own hell of pragmatism and economy?

Sunday, September 23, 2007

The Angeles Forest lies along a spiny ridge defending the LA basin like a curled alligator. There is a road that snakes along this ridge, originating from the basin. Hy. 2, the Angeles Crest Highway, is its name. On this road there is a little blue speck crawling, all alone, from the heights of La Canada toward the crest. The speck travels around curve after curve until it becomes lost, with the road, in the trees and canyons.

The speck emerges finally at a junction. The Forest sweeps away and below to the left of it into an enormous valley, walled on the far side by blue mountains speckled with naked rock. Up and to the right, the Crest is only a few thousand feet away. The sign points to the right: Wilson Observatory. The speck dodges right and disappears again into the curves.

We see the speck again, parked and still, at the peak of a ridge with lots of buzzing electronic equipment and sundry domes of an astronomical observatory. There is a 75-foot tower tearing into the belly of the cumulus cloud that looked so fat and white from below.

Mist swirls about the tower and the surrounding trees. There is nothing to see. Below the flat parking area there is a milky abyss. I had hoped to get a view of the city; the air below was clear as a bell. But just my luck to have the mountaintop enveloped in the guts of some cloud. I sit down on a large rock and stare upwards at the roiling cotton fleece curling and boiling upon itself.

It was surreal, sitting there watching ridge turbulence rage just a few feet above my head. It was a sight fit for those Weather Channel fast-frame tornado shots, or for special effects in some movie. Special effects...that was it - I was sitting here in God's own special-effects studio watching the sky tear itself to pieces....crazy, absolutely crazy....

Thursday, September 20, 2007

So, is it absolutely, imperatively necessary to live in a place with twisty roads to justify owning a motorcycle?

This question came to mind as I mulled over an old, old message from a very good friend who was contemplating selling his Suzuki SV650 (the first bike I ever drove; he probably has sold it by now; I should give him a call). The reason adduced for this was the flatlands of central Wisconsin don't afford much in the way of tilted pavement. "I don't have all the nice twisty roads you do, and I just don't ride it that much anymore". (Okay, there is more to the story: he's two years married and now has a little one and the greatest nemesis of the Rider is not safety or practicality or weather but marriage)

But I got to thinking: if southern California were all straight roads, would I quit riding?

Not by a long shot. It would be significantly less fun, since I wouldn't have the pleasure of pitting five or six forces of physics against each other simultaneously.

But not having twisty roads wouldn't change the way I see the landscape and smell the air any different. It wouldn't change the way I can bolt past any four-wheeled vehicle that isn't German or Italian, even though I only have 62 hp at command. It wouldn't change the fact that I can park wherever I damn please. And it wouldn't change the fact that I can go all week on twelve US dollars of fuel.

It has something to do with my bike and something to do with me. (Well the bike I have has something to do with me). But the fact that I don't own a hunkered-over crotch rocket but rather something that poises me in a relatively comfortable upright posture doesn't make me subconsciously need to be flicking through curves all the time. I sit on my backside, not on my hands - that makes a difference.

I enjoy the smells in the wind and the dusky mountains in the distance and the general vast openness of a world freed from window frames. I treat the experience like an artist, because that's how I think of it. Riding slow lets me see that stuff more easily than if I'm concentrating with every fiber of my being on lines and apexes and brake points. Not that I don't get a thrill out of such stuff, but most average days on the average ride home from work I'm too tired to push the limits. But not too tired to feel the cold wind evaporating at least 70% of stress from my body....

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

I swerved into the left lane and bumped up over the entrance ramp in the gloom. The Shell station didn't look much different than it did at night, though it was seven in the morning and I was still in that state of rough drowse that precedes waking. A gray day, a possibly wet day...

I rolled down onto the floodlit pump pad and sat there until I finally got the transmission wiggled into neutral. gah. wet. I found my debit card and slid it into the slot on the wall of shining red and white plastic that was the pump face.

"Hi, it's good to see you!" oh shut up "Welcome to Shell!"

I removed my card.

"Hey, it's good to see you!" PLEASE! "Welcome to Shell! You can start saving immediately with every purchase you make on the Shell Card! Apply Now!" Yes, yes, I feel welcome. It's that little "hey" at the beginning of the second greeting, otherwise identical to the first. I feel special. I, a valued customer, have a special weakness for CREDIT CARDS at SEVEN IN THE MOTHERFREAKING MORNING!

The voice was echoing from the 14" TV screen mounted above the pump face, up and out of my peripheral view. The unnaturally synthesized voice cackled on through the floodlights. "And today! In Hollywood, the Bionic Woman discusses her thoughts on what it's like to be...the Bionic Woman..."

I can't wait to get out of here. The tank bubbles full, and a drip of fuel evaporates on the edge of the filler hole as I jerk the pump handle out of the tank and jam it back into its slot. I close the cap, flick the switch back on, hit the starter button and rev the v-twin to drown the artificial voice. Just another day in the middle of another week in the middle of another month in the clean, peaceful city of Moorpark in the Republic of California...where the skies are blue every day (except today), every child has Kellogg's for breakfast and every mom has a clean minivan...

Monday, September 17, 2007

I found a few new Kaplansky songs online and am listening to them. Listening to Lucy Kaplansky makes me want to learn to play the guitar and sit out under the stars and sing grimly romantic songs.

Suzi was idling strangely on the way home from work. You know when a friend hollers something up the stairs they would never say: that's what the idle burble sounded like. I thought to myself, peering under the tank at a stoplight about to turn green: crap now what fell apart in there. I revved the motor expecting a clatter.

Got to adjust those valves and sync those carbs, or stop riding the friggin' thing, one of the two.

The burble went away. Maybe dirt in the fuel.

Today was Monday and it should have been a bad day. In fact it was a bad day except I insulated myself from it by playing hooky from the office and getting myselif all green and grimy mowing wet grass. Gosh I don't want to talk to anyone anymore.

And I need to find a permanent pillion. Oh no, wait - girlfriends mean responsibilities and junk like that. I'm not there, simply not there yet. "I never thought I'd end up here - guess all the best things disappear..." I like seeing the world on my own two wheels with nobody to screw up the balance, I hate seeing the word only through my own two eyes, I like seeing the world with nobody to answer to, I hate seeing the world with no one to give it to, I like seeing the world with nobody to whack their faceshield on the backside of my helmet everytiime I shift, I hate seeing the world with no one to take pictures of standing next to it..."I'm falling like a leaf from the family tree / don't need you the way you need me"...."remembering a song from long ago, it's round and round that's the way things go / way things go / way things go..." (guitar lick)

You get what you pay for...reap what you sow...what goes around comes around...we clutch at a home or a job to get us some security but the whirlwhind of consequences grapples and drags us and sweeps us along its hellbent path...

Saturday, September 15, 2007


I just got to ride a fast Italian piece of machinery.

It was a Ducati Monster 900 with Staintune duals. My gosh, what a redefinition of "v-twin exhaust note". What a redefinition of v-twin, period! Now I know what a v-twin with character is like, and my Blue Wedgie Thing is not such an one. By comparison it sounds like it's shouting through handkerchief on hard throttle, whereas this Staintuned Duke had a seriously open throated, healthy blatter.

That exhaust note hurt my chest, and was turning heads all the way down the block.

I felt like I had stolen a Ferrari and gotten away with it. It was awesome. Everything about the machine from the dry racing clutch to the spot neutral steering felt exotic.

My apologies to all Ojai denizens who were extremely annoyed by the inconsiderate jerkface crawling down the street at 15 mph blipping the throttle and rattling their superfood drinks. But he was having fun. I don't think any motorcycle has put such a smile on my face since I bought Suzi, which would be about ten months ago.

Friday, September 14, 2007

10,500 miles on the blue wedgie-thing.

yeeaaahhh.....

And it hasn't even been a month.


The trip went well, but as I expected I was wound too tight on smooth driving pay attention whether I was having fun or not (and failed to drive smoothly). There were those " this is really cool" moments, though...

The Rock Store was cool. I enjoyed supper. The food was insanely expensive, but good!

Now I want to get a few more dudes out there with their girls and make it a bigger group. Once a month or so, let's have a Homeschool Distortion gang ride. That would rule.


Sunset on the beach, with two ladies both lovely and brave...

Thursday, September 06, 2007

...looking forward to a spin along the Mulholland this weekend...I'll have company in the form of Toque and honey on his XJ600 and I'll have a first-timer with me riding pillion.

My gosh, I'll have to psyche myself for this business of having some fun. Fun is not something I acquire: it's something that is given to me, and not always when I expect it. Just another eccentricity of mine. I work. I can make myself work. Can't in a million years make myself have fun and hey: there's already something awry when it's a question of "making". So, people, if I'm not in the mood to love the world this weekend, I'm going to be one smooth-shifting autopilot with a camera and a plastic smile. (At least pillion will have fun. She has no problems there)

I know how you feel
no secrets to reveal
nobody knows me at all
and very late at night
and in the morning light
nobody knows me at all

- The Weepies

Saturday, September 01, 2007

It was spotted with hard water stains, but cleaner than when I brought it in.

The blue Zuk was parked in the shade over next to the building. I walked over, swung into the saddle and sat there staring at the blank LCD instrument panel. As much as I enjoy driving Suzi back and forth to work, the thought of combustion leaking through a broken head gasket and a trail of oil drops along the way makes me squirm.

A switch of the key, thumb of the button and the V-twin is chugging at 1200 rpm. Sounds the same it always has. Let's see, the invoice here says...filter element, 10w40 - good, NGK plugs - good...and three hours of time for a total of 200 bucks. Not great, but acceptable. This is reality, after all. Tapping with the hammer is one thing, but knowing where to tap costs about 80 dollars an hour these days. I should be a motorcycle mechanic.

Friday, August 31, 2007

*flop* The jacket and gloves go down on the seat, and I carefully balance the helmet on top of them. No, I should put it on the ground. I can't have it falling and getting damaged. I set the helmet on the pavement.

I fumble my phone out of my pocket and speed dial Kakashi.

"Hey, I was just about to call you."

"Yeah, um, where are you?"

"Ahhhhh.... (Terry Pratchett and traffic noise fill the background) ....hhhhh...just south of Santa Barbara."

Dammit.

"Well, I needed a ride to go pick up my bike from the dealership, but they close at six, and you're what, an hour and a half away, so obviously there is no chance you'll be back by then."

"I haven't hit the Santa Barbara traffic yet and I'm on the 101. How was the traffic on your way down?"

"The 118 sucked, as usual. **** I hate the 118. And yes you are going to catch hell once you get south of S-B. Whatever. I'll call the guy and say I'll pick it up tomorrow."

"You'll have to do that cause I ain't gonna be home before seven, buddy."

No, you're not. Dammit. And I have no other options, either! I live out in this mothereffing neck of the woods where I don't know anybody and have no options...How long will it take to walk...no, forget that, it's 5:30 already. Forget it. I'm going to go take a shower and sign out for the night. I'll get there when I get there, the dealer will just have to understand that...

(don't get me wrong, I'm quite grateful to have a free bed, but this has got to end)

Thursday, August 30, 2007

I love old metal like I love old leather boots. It's seen the weather and the pounding and has survived the toil. Everytime I downshift Suzi at a stop sign I feel the old steel cogs slipping apart and slipping together; or rather, I don't feel them. Parts mating and meshing and revving in their old worn tracks, chain and cams humming through their patina of oil. Riding the Sharp Blue Number every day makes me forget how comfortable aged machinery is. It exudes a bit of that teenager insecurity.

Tuesday, August 28, 2007

I have a bad feeling about this, this whole thing about where I'm living, what I'm doing...

Too much TV, not enough GRE, and nowhere to put my feet up. The temptation to go rent a motel for a week has never been stronger. I'm collecting parts but not installing them; wasting time and not doing anything about it; brooding on the past and not moving ahead. Why should one try to know oneself if not for the purpose of improving on who one is? Why do old impractical dreams never die? Why does making money taste so bad? Everything in my life is perfect except I have no structure and no home; what do I have to complain about? Nothing, really.

Why do I miss life, when living it is so impractical, so hard to justify, so contrary to first principles? Where did my first principles come from?

Monday, August 27, 2007

9,200 miles on the blue wedgie-thing that doesn't have a name.

Hot damn.

I'm gonna have 10,000 miles on this thing before another month is out, just watch me.

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

Anniversary

I've kept this odd journal not only alive but healthy for a whole year now.

gosh, what has changed.

And what hasn't changed?

Sunday, August 19, 2007

They are gone, dreams drifting on a wisp of smog curling down the freeway. Smiling hazel eyes, a laugh fades into distance, a holographic memory across a room. I want to kick myself for remembering. Kick myself.

It's brooding, it's...not leaving the past behind...a past that lied to me, I lied to myself...

The shining river of grooved pavement rattles rhythmically conjuring a memory of a burgundy hoodie and a dark brown head bent over a pencil...

...lied to myself...

You'd think I'd learn a lesson about reality, after once or twice. But over and over like this...there is no hope, no excuse for this strange insanity. Romantics are the curse of the earth.

Saturday, August 18, 2007

If one gets out of life what one puts into it, which one does, then the vacuum when established is as insatiable as a jet intake.

"I don't know how to SWITCH OFF!"

- Sgt. Nicholas Angel, Hot Fuzz

Thursday, August 16, 2007

I stand outside the window let the ash rain down
I can't see the sun and you can't see the rain
place your hand on the window glass it doesn't cover mine
keep looking past my shoulder let the ash rain down

Monday, August 13, 2007

Homeless

I am now a footloose drifter living out of laundry baskets....well, not quite sleeping on a park bench but sleeping at my roommates aunt's house for the next month....

Sunday, August 05, 2007

Ride #2






Shinier than the day it was new.

2007 Suzuki V-Strom, flogged halfway across the country from California to Minnesota and back in June. Now has just over 6,000 miles on it.

(and before you ask, no, it's not got a proper name nor is it likely to get one anytime soon. There is something dramatically unromantic about brand new plastic motorcycles)

Monday, July 30, 2007

Ibuprofen, a drink, and a smoke. Where did I put the damn bottles?

gah. Why do I want to be an architect? Why does my head hurt? Why is it my fault?

Sunday, July 29, 2007

The sun is filtering redly through a smear of brown across the sky.

Controlled burn. I breathe deeply testing for smoke; it isn't there.

A dry summer; I've wondered that the DNR hadn't started doing this earlier...

Monday, July 23, 2007

The clutch slides gently closed under his open leather fingers and smoke billows from the rear wheel. The tach needle swings upward and then drops as the tire melds with asphalt and then

launches

the bit of red and black metal hurtles forward, its rider crouched tightly over the bars. Iridiscent warped blue gauges reflect off the chromed visor - he has morphed into a metallic animal, left foot flicking hydraulically each time the tachometer needle crosses the redline.

One red light

two
three
fourfivesixseveneight

Sunday, July 22, 2007

the more I run the more the scenery stays the same

Thursday, July 19, 2007

"I think I should start looking for another job."

"What why are you doing all right?"

"The pressure's getting to me. We go around in the afternoon
I get up in the morning and say good morning and snap off the orders
blah blah blah and then, all right LET'S DO IT.

And we go
It is one thing to set the bridge on fire.

It is another thing to stand there and watch it burn.

"What did you do?"

"Why are you doing this? Why?"

because it makes sense

screech

Monday, July 16, 2007

more trip

Under the ten thousand watts of the noontime Nevada sun, I can no longer stand the hardened foam and the 55.2 degree angle of the footpegs. The throttle snaps closed and the chain pulls the motorcycle down from speed and we angle off the freeway, throbbing silence rising, crowding the helmet and throbbing heat sinking into collar and sleeves. The Mobil sign shimmers in the heat, the pump roof projects a massive rectangular black hole in the desert. I roll into the black hole next a pump and sigh inside.

I stand up (both knees crack), I take off my helmet and peel off my gloves, and take a deep breath of hot dust. “t's friggin' hot.”
But things have been this way for black-leather for a while, and he's become used to it. It's a matter, for him, of exploring the good things about the solitary path he's chosen, becoming attached to these, and avoiding the pressure around him to see things according to anyone and everyone else's point of view. It sounds selfish except to the discerning; for to make friends one does not have to be like them, and other points of view are useful only insofar as they help one discharge the requirements of utilitarian friendship or cooperation.

Saturday, July 14, 2007

My friend in the black leather had seated himself near the left end of the 20-stool bar. He ordered the house special that night: a pint of india pale, and sat with his elbows on the bar, hunched over the glass. Judging by the position of his head and what I could see of his face in the dead TV screen overhead, he was fixing a stare in either of two directions: straight ahead or straight toward the far edge of the bar. Beasts or gods. There is an unforgivable sin: that of rejection of any currently accepted authorities in the broad field of nonconformity, consequent to the rejection of the authorities over the sheep. It is not only unforgivable, it appears irrational. It does not proceed from weakness; it proceeds from a choice made on premises known to the chooser alone. He is truly alone in his sin; all thinking men shake their heads at him. Black leather props a heel against the steel ring under the stool. Excommunication used to be a penalty that destroyed societal and business ties as well as religious ones, and it has again taken on its old significance. Black-leather has been excommunicated, which rules out the possibility of his being a god. Hence only "beast" remains, and that is the category into which he has been placed. The classification denotes him as sub-rational, and this has inevitable consequences.
Aristotle says that the man who lives outside society is either a beast or a god. This quote was running through my head as I stood the motorcycle on the sidestand and pulled off my helmet. Across the street he was doing the same. He shoved the key deep into his black leather pocket and walked toward the Brew Pub, unconscious that he was being followed at a distance.

I entered the well-lit brewery nearly on his heels and went to my customary table in the corner. The place was nearly empty as it should be on a Wednesday night. It was never very full except during the late night hours of Friday and Saturday. The waitress showed up to take my order, knowing what she would hear before I said anything. She only worked Tuesdays and Wednesdays since she was facially disfigured: she had no nose. I couldn't figure out why a pub in this heavily trafficked part of town would hire a noseless waitress, but here she worked, and my secret nickname for her was Faceless. For some reason I always tipped Faceless half my five or six-dollar bill; maybe I felt sorry for the cruel trick violence had played her, or maybe I wanted her to keep her job here. I liked Faceless even though I rarely spoke a word to her; she was important and symbolic in some way.

She would probably resent being thought of as a symbol; after all she was a human being with her own loves and hatreds. Nonetheless Faceless was one reason I patronized this place - Faceless, the chocolate stouts and awful but fitting bric-a-brac. And the counters and tables were scrubbed clean every night until they shone. This, and the good lighting, lent a cold and impersonal atmosphere to the place.

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

So post something about my trip.

Yeah.

Well, I have some pictures. I don't know. It's hard to take a picture of desert broiling up into the sun, or of hard speedboat wakes of wind turbulence grasping me my main force and shoving me into the fast lane. Hard to take a picture of a South Dakota accent or even South Dakota much of anything. Or Wyoming, for god's sake. Well, SD has the Badlands, and WY has Yellowstone, so there are redeeming moments.

The main thing was, my once a year ritual of being on the road for an extended period of time and being disattached to everything and everyone was routinely performed and I felt better afterwards as I always do. It's a natural consequence of boring into one's job and one's life and eating it and breathing it for a year. Breaking loose really helps.

Why is the main patron of a smoke shop in St. George Nevada the middle aged woman? And why was the proprietor of said shop maintaining a humidor FULL of empty premium cigar boxes?

Why do RV's set up such an evil vacuum on the freeway?

Why do national parks cost so much? Why does the KOA campground in Cody, WY charge $29.95 for a patch of rough dirt?

Why do small towns still exist with gravel main streets exactly wide enough for a team of oxen to hang a U-turn? And run gas stations out of an abandoned co-op?

Why does Salt Lake City at nine p.m. give me the creeps?

Why isn't there any shade to sit and eat a clif bar and drink SoBe in Southern Wyoming?

Why does Suzuki make such hard friggin' motorcycle seats?

Why don't Wyoming cops pull me over for doing 15 over the speed limit? And why are Wyoming drivers even worse than Minnesota drivers?

Why do I feel so lightheaded at 9,100 feet? The motorcycle doesn't seem to run much different.

Where is the nerve in my back that I'm convinced will never be the same? I can't reach it...and it hurts...

Saturday, July 07, 2007

Monday: Getting back home.
Tuesday: Wondering where everything is. Going out and drinking a lot at a place on Hy.33
Wednesday: Waking up at noon with a headache. Talking my head off about my trip to an interested listener. Ordering pizza for supper. Going to the beach and having a large, expensive collection of high-powered fireworks blow up in my face like a grenade.
Thursday: Everything goes wrong at work.
Friday: Everything goes wrong at work the first half of the day. I buy my roommate an iPod for his birthday present.

Why don't I sit down and properly think about what just happened to me? There's no time for friggin' artistry.

Monday, July 02, 2007

I'm back. It's over. And my butt is sore. And I have new muscles in my left forearm from clutching through six-speeds over and over and over and over.

I noticed this for the first time tonight: The Santa Clarita valley smells like dust and citrus. It's a very distinct smell, but not one I've ever noticed before.

Friday, June 29, 2007

Motorcycle touring freaking rocks.

Ok, now that I've got that off my chest...

It was a 2.5 day whirlwind to Kansas City on a new bike that was being broken-in on the way. I stopped in Flagstaff to get the oil changed at the prescribed 600 miles, and from there on it was hold the fist back below 5000 rpm till I got over 1000 miles. Which meant 50 mph on the freeway and probably curses from the truckers. (66 mpg though...)

Power restriction then eliminated, I was able to cruise above 68 mph and get less than 60 mpg. Joy. The little 650 doesn't launch me around like Suzi does, but it's electric smooth at the higher rpm's and handles unflappably. Solid, planted, all about it...

I wanted to camp on the way out, but time restrictions ruled that out. I pulled eight hours from 3:30 Tuesday afternoon, twelve and a half hours the next day, and then thirteen hours the day after that, arriving at my friend's house in KC at 4 am. Don't do this, by the way. I don't recommend it. I was a pulverized wreck straggling in the door.

I'm camping now, though, on my way back from MN. Tonight in a luxurious KOA campground with WiFi in the lonely badlands of South Dakota. Tomorrow, probably someplace in Utah.

And yeah, I'm enjoying the hell out of this trip. I'm a permanent addict to motorcycle travel. Road trips are good, but motorcycle road trips are awesome.

Friday, June 22, 2007


My new scoot. $6,499 out the door at LA Honda.

I left the dealership Tuesday afternoon with zero miles on the odo; I'm in Kansas City, Kansas right now with 1400 on the ticker.

Runs like a top. 60 mpg at an average cruising speed of 55 mph (5000 rpm break-in limitation)

Very user friendly, seat's a bit hard for long distances though. It likes dirt roads. Lacks power compared to Suzi, but everything lacks power compared to Suzi.

Saturday, June 16, 2007

"Suzi, see the driver in that dirty van up ahead? He's hugging the white line and pissing me off."

Chunk-chunk two gears

and the matrix of Saturday beachgoers are standing still, frozen in time, poised with coffeecups to their mouths or with cellphones to their ears or with cigarettes about to be flicked out the window.

6500 rpm. I am in hyperspace. The only sound in the atmosphere is a frenetic 4-cylinder scream. The only sight is an extended blur, four wide gray stripes converging in the distance.

Chunk back one gear

HA TAKE that gridlock or gridpause or whatever the hell you call this slowly moving porridge of cars. CAGERS! So glad I'm not you. This is my road, alright, and I can get exactly where I need to! I can put it there up ahead! Or over in that hole there up ahead! Anywhere!

chunk back another gear

the world is in motion again, the coffeecups reach the lips, the cellphones lie against the heads, the cigarettes are flicked and the freeway is again a blase mash of people in toyotas all trying to get somewhere else.

"Suzi, you're awesome. I don't think I'll ever be able to sell you even when I get a new motorcycle pretty soon. " My pocket rocket, the one-time superbike, the one thing I own that can launch me beyond all reason...No, I don't see how I could sell it. I can see porting and polishing and redoing the pipes and repainting the tank and...holy crap, can you imagine what kind of a hot rod this bike could be, if it were properly hot-rodded?

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Where the land stops and the ocean begins: where familiarity stops and mystery begins, where the ground under your feet gives place to empty air....The Santa Monicas' open arms embrace the blue abyss, but strangely, it is a comforting abyss. Not black, but blue, healing rather than destroying...it's strength is felt in the wind when you open your window to feel it, felt in your mind when you relax your worries and do your best not to think.
(1) Shiny new guardrail (2) Sagebrush-coated foothill (3) an aqua blue floor fading away to emptiness for a million miles. I pull over onto the shoulder next to the guardrail, cut the motor, and set the bike up against first gear. I swing my legs over the guardrail, and perch on one of its wooden supports.

There is so little to see here, looking out the mouth of a gigantic funnel, yet so much to see. I'm in a box with three sides: a mountain wall to my right and to my left, the highway bottling up between them to my rear. But ahead, openness...these outstretched arms of the Santa Monica range, yearning after infinity. Infinity as a plain of blue, tainted at its landward by seaweed. Blue. The color of loyalty (solidity, unchangeableness). The color of the everlasting sky and sea. The ocean never changes. The arms of the mountains may crumble and fade away but the ocean will always be the same.

Stretches of smooth water snake their way across the face of the Pacific, slithering to nowhere. Blue sky, blue sea, unfathomable depth up and down. The erosion and rubble and whispering of the land fades to the background, retreating under the silence of the double blue infinitude crowding into the canyon's open arms...A black Audi convertible hums past, downhill at high rpm. I watch it idly, as it spins and hums away around the smooth gray curves lowering to the ocean. Sunlight sparkles off its chrome. This is California, I think to myself, a place of sand and sage and rubble that we escape from by climbing into our shiny black Audi and humming our way down to the clean blue infinitude and letting that infinitude blow in through our hair and dissolve the mess and grindings we carry in our world.

Friday, June 08, 2007

HA! I found a V-Strom for under MSRP!

T
here's a dealer in LA that sells them. I sent them an email, they sent me back one, I called them on the phone. They sounded professional and had-it-all-together. Their financing sucks, though, so I'm headed to my bank after lunch.

Wednesday, June 06, 2007

But the dealers won't sell their V-Strom 650's for anywhere near MSRP which is $6,700. I was quoted, by Eric at Cal Coast Motorsports, $8200 for one. And he said this with a straight face, as if it were nothing unusual, something done every day, something people accept.

Screw him. Screw CalCoast. I'll keep fixing Suzi, thank you very much, because there is no way in hell that an ugly, low-performance 650cc commuter bike is worth that much in today's dollars. I'll buy a used SV650 with 10,000 miles and slap my windshield on it for 3 grand.

Thieves.

Tuesday, June 05, 2007

I have a job!

I will be a member of the TAC staff, for as long as I want to, starting July 1st. Full benefits including health insurance! I need no longer tempt fate!

I will also be making a bit more money. This has put crazy ideas into my head. I have been surfing motorcycle dealership websites, reading reviews, and generally daydreaming...I feel disloyal to Suzi, but maybe I wouldn't have to sell her. Maybe I could have my cake and eat it too.

Maybe...I could have two motorcycles: a reliable one and a fast one.

Oh, I don't know. We'll see. There is a certain romance to depending on an old undependable bike, but that romance is beginning to wear off. I'm losing the Zen in the Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Suzi runs so damn good, but she breaks so damn much. She was a superbike back in the day...but her needs are proportionate to her performance and she's 78,000 miles old. And that's old, for any motorcycle. Even for a monstrous roller-bearinged anvil of a motorcycle.

So, yeah. Those V-Strom 650's that dealers are having a hard time keeping in stock and which you can't find in the classifieds because people like them so much they aren't selling them - if I plunk down a grand and finance for 36 months that would be 190 a month. I might be able to handle that.

We'll see.

(it really stinks they only make them in blue and gray. All my gear is red.)

Friday, June 01, 2007

The gasket kit is ordered. This time next week I should be disassembling a cylinder head.

Thank god for mechanic friends. They are indispensable.

Monday, May 28, 2007

If, in any relationship, I lose sight of the other person, for whatever reason, after a period of time I will begin to worry. Worry and become upset and irrational. Small things begin to take on massive proportions; a neglected mailbox or late arrival at the supper line somehow begin to provoke intense anxiety where none ought to be. And this goes as well for the kind of relationship I have with a hunk of aluminum and steel tubing called Suzi. In the last two weeks, the motorcycle has been sitting in the parking lot, leaking oil and gathering dust. I replace and straighten the cover over her periodically, thumb a drop of oil off the engine, and frown at my thumb. And the ill feeling never goes away. I fiddle with the windshield. I centerstand the motorcycle several different directions and get a different oil level reading each time. I kick the tires. And because none of this fooling around tells me anything at all about the motorcycle, I then kick myself for obsessing and go away and ... continue to worry.

The machines in my life, like the people in my life, are subject to constant breakage and destruction. Nothing is reliable, and there is nothing I hate worse than broken parts I can't see breaking. So I watch everything all the time to ward off impending doom.

So for my own sanity and peace of mind, I have to have a good sit down and communing with whoever or whatever I'm losing track of. I did that today with the motorcycle.

I woke up around 8:00 am (late), and over my dish of oatmeal, trying to plan out my day, I hit upon a crazy idea. Why not, since I have nothing in particular to do, see HOW far I can get north in one day on PCH?

No sooner thought than put into action. By 9:30 I was on 126 West. I kept going and going and going all day, the cliffs in the distance unfolding one after another, luring me on. I stopped at Morro Bay to eat something, and finally turned tail at Lucia. I hadn't quite made Big Sur, I was about 50 miles short.

I arrived back on campus at 9:30 pm. Twelve hours on a motorcycle. My throttle wrist was stone, my shoulders and back were a mass of shooting nerves, and the derriere wasn't feeling much. Nonetheless, tired as I was, I was happy. Because the motorcycle ran so smoothly (while soaking my shinguards with oil) that I almost forgot it was there. hmmmmmmmmm. it was nice. It was reassuring. I can take this thing across the country and it won't break down on me. That thought was very reassuring. There are no clonks or thuds or stiffnesses to mar the flying on the freeway; it's all liquid smooth and it's all good. It's all good. When one concentrates on all the little stuff that's breaking one loses sight of the big picture, which is that this big old bike runs really damn well...

Saturday, May 26, 2007

i am dead. tired.

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

It's inexorable. The slow creep of oil back from the #3 exhaust mount. (I can see it in my minds' eye as I twist the throttle down to 4,500 rpms). The flying pistons are cramming oil into the crack in the head gasket, forcing it out past the looming, dirty exhaust collar. The screaming 75mph wind grasps the oozing sludge and slams it back against the cylinder wall, tearing it and pushing it, shoving it by main force along the flat plains of the air-cooling fins. It spreads out there, and slows down, pauses, even comes to a stop as I throttle down to 55 mph. But then speeds increase again, and the creeping flow resumes its march, closer and closer to the cliff at the rear of the motor...closer...closer...peels off in ropes of tiny globules and smack.

One after another, they bury themselves deep into my denim pant leg, piling up, spreading. I know without looking down that I now carry the brand of old motorcycle on yet another pair of jeans.

If and when fortune smiles upon me I will have a garage. I will have a torque wrench. I will have a complete set of sockets and open-ends, internet parts sources, and long, empty weekends with which to properly act the part of Old Motorcycle owner.

But this has not happened. I'm a college student. I live in a room. My motorcycle lives out in the parking lot. I currently possess a screwdriver, a pliers, and a 6mm open-end wrench.

Monday, May 21, 2007

It's been a sticky, gray homogenous porridge of a day.

All my friends are gone. The place is dead.

Suzi has three oil leaks that are getting progressively worse. And they will be very, very expensive to fix unless I take a week and do it myself.

My gut hurts.

I don't want to study for the GRE. I don't want to spend $60 on a landscape architecture magazine subscription. I don't want to research housing options. I don't want to look for a job. I want to lie back and take it easy and rest and take a vacation. Like I did all last week. WAIT, IT'S BEEN ONE WHOLE WEEK OF SUMMER ALREADY!

Saturday, May 19, 2007

Four posts in two days.

This indicates that I am bored and sick.

gah.
This has been haunting my imagination for the last two days. I have to admit it is one of the most evocative short bits I've ever seen written by any of my friends:

"It was a still night in winter near the limits of a small town in northern Italy, during the later part of the Second World War. A scrawny adolescent girl was sitting in the snow by herself, leaning casually against a battered brick wall. A sleepy, thoughtful look hung about her half-closed, dark-rimmed eyes. Bundled close about her small body, held in place by obviously chilled fingers was a worn-out wool overcoat, all rumpled and smudged with age. She wore a tired but faintly contented smile and looked rather comfortable despite the harsh night air.

"'S cold," I commented, lighting a Camel. I wondered if she spoke English. She looked vaguely Slavic. She didn't answer right away and I took my first drag.

"Do you have a place to get warm?" I asked. I bent toward her, to hear her reply.

There were holes in her coat. Little tears or rips here and there, filled with rich red-brown syrup, frozen to ice in the bitter night.

Slipping from my fingers, my cigarette went out in the snow beside me as I gently touched her face. She was dead.

Toque (crashboxing.blogspot.com)

Original post may be found here

Thursday, May 17, 2007

At the bottom of the grade, I coasted carefully to a stop, so carefully I overshot my intended parking target and we stopped beyond the corner by Boccali's Pizza. I tipped the bike onto its sidestand and cut the motor. She slid down onto the pavement and stood there, flexing one leg and then the next, propping up the smoked visor. Her long brown hair lay tangled down the back of the armored vest. “Oh, you're so lucky. It's so gorgeous, the fields with the horses in them, it's like flying. It's so beautiful. You're so lucky.”

You are lucky, too, you know. Because you weren't afraid of motorcycles you got to be First to Fly. “Oh, I know. It really is like flying, flying along the ground. I really love it, you know.”

And I stare off into the citrus grove. I can't tell you this, but I'm so glad you're with me here so you can know it too. I don't know how to tell you how much I appreciate sharing this with you, to look into your eyes and know the beauty you see is somehow the exact same beauty I see. I'm always alone when I see beauty from my motorcycle, and I hate that. I hate just seeing it alone, for then something's wasted, some facet goes unseen and unappreciated and beauty doesn't deserve that. It's a crime to waste beauty. Maybe when the tree falls in the forest with no one to hear, it doesn't make a sound. But somehow when the horses in the meadow go unseen, it's different. There should be someone to see the horses. It seems a waste of something good.

So I'm very glad you're with me now. I know that I will never see you again. You will go back to your busy life and busy job and two cell phones and boys and online computer games and Florence, Italy, and you will forget about flying on the motorcycle. But even if you forget, I will remember. I will remember the awe and wonder in your brown eyes, your arms trusting me in the curves, your head turned to the side, that we saw the same thing together, and that beauty wasn't wasted that time. I will remember, and who knows, maybe, just maybe, you will remember too.

“Well, it's getting late, I guess. We should probably start getting back to campus now....you ready to head back now?”

“Yes. Oh gosh, my hair is a mess”.

(Yes, your hair is a mess, for God's sake...deal with it)

I twisted the throttle down slowly and carefully, catching a stomach full of 60 mph air. The road lay straight, a ribbon stretched and glistening in the hazy afternoon sun. Fences flew by quietly on either side and serried rows of nut trees unfolded. Her arms and body relaxed and I felt her head turn to one side. We flew along, wind blasting my face under the open visor, flew along for miles until the ribbon showed a twist far ahead.

I slowed down well before the first curve channeling us toward the valley. Her arms tightened around my waist as we banked through the initial curves, back and forth , back and forth. This was the preamble to the famed Dennison Grade, an asphalt snake clinging to the mountainside, easing the passengers on its back down into the sheltered Ojai Valley.

We approached the first wall, and as it slid back to reveal hazy emptiness, I tapped the motorcycle down into second gear and banked into the first curve. Her body slid up against mine. I caught a glimpse of our shadow as it swung by, a pair of shoulders and helmets and long hair blowing back in the wind.

We leaned and shifted, back and forth, back and forth, swallowing curve after curve. I kept it revved in second, nursing the grip to minimize bucking. The big 4-cyl shouted harshly into the wind, holding its cargo back against the incline. Her arms lay lightly around my waist as we swung down low into a hairpin corner.

(you should be grabbing me for dear life, but you like it, don't you)

We swung up and out, then down low into the next. Up and down, up and down. The rhythm is soothing, mesmerizing, we descend like a seagull circling and tacking, back and forth, back and forth...

Friday, May 11, 2007

give me the wind /
and a wide open road /
curves and leather /
three pedals and a shifter /

Thursday, May 10, 2007

Blah blah blah.

blah blah.

Blah blah blah blah.

Thursday, May 03, 2007

I'm not sure if I missed her or she missed me, or we both missed each other, but in any case I made a choice and it was the wrong choice. I slipped and stumbled yet again. Now there is the same sinking sight of quiet irony in the dark blue hoodie and brown skirt that I remember from so long ago. Yet the pain is diminished somewhat by a layer of acrylic cynicism accumulated over a summer of listening to the silence and a year of listening to even emptier noise. Oh, don't let it be this way, I beg myself, and the cynicism only folds in on itself quenching all rebellion.

Monday, April 16, 2007

In response to the entirely founded but entirely confused rumors blowing about campus at the moment, I am not engaged to be married. I AM NOT ENGAGED!

My namesake the woodworker is. That he has my name is the sole foundation for this pernicious rumor.

If anyone gives me another congratulatory hug, I will...

...never mind. I'll do nothing. Nothing....

Saturday, April 14, 2007

Art is an imitation, as Aristotle says in the Poetics, but an imitation of what? One might think that a drawing or a painting is an imitation of what we see.

And that is true, but what we see is not just what registers on our retina. There is an experience connected with seeing, without which "seeing" means nothing to us. The experience of "seeing" is drawn from the collective sense, from smell and touch, from all the senses operating under a certain condition at a certain time.

I can draw a picture of a house, but unless I can hint at the experience of standing there in the pouring rain staring despondently at a locked gate, I have not produced art. The cold wind, the dampness of the air, and the sinking feeling of mistakenness (or of the victim) are all present in the experience and somehow have to be expressed by pencil or brush strokes.

An atmosphere can be created by using emphasis and texture to provoke memories of certain experiences. Bold, contrasting strokes and washed out colors often evoke the feeling of hard light and heat at high noon. Smudges and pastels evoke the feeling of staring down a valley in a drifting mist.

These are the kind of things that go to make art. It's an imitation of what the whole man sees, not just the eye, and sticks in your memory like an experience does.

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

Art is such a necessary thing for those of us who need to encapsulate the lessons we have learned, for future reference, lessons that for the sake of propriety or privacy cannot be stated in blunt terms. Yet art is only for artists, and is not always at the beck and call of convenience or mood.

(the orange eyes are drilling hotly into my back, I can feel breath panting behind me, it closes the narrow gap one pair of drumming feet desperate to escape and two pairs desperate to capture. One pair vault duck and slide spitting gravel clawing aside two pairs swinging wide and regaining the chase. The only thing keeping them behind is my will, only my will to stay ahead to stay above not to let it take over my life...)

Friday, April 06, 2007

You might like the gypsy life
You judge your progress by the phases of the moon
Get your compass and your sharpest knife
People love you when they know you're leaving soon ...

- John Gorka

I have nothing to say, really. My thoughts run in circles and I watch them run, lazily, knowing that they don't really matter...like children before they grow up...

The graduates that I used to know, who helped me through a rough childhood and mentored my struggles, are here for a visit. I look into their faces and try to see who they used to be, I remember the good times I had with them, the good times that are irrevocably part of my past and whose import I have not yet realized.

I smile and hug them and say hello how are you and listen patiently as they tell me. About their jobs, their homes, their wives or husbands and their lives.

And they look at me curiously, wondering who I am. And we both know that we may as well be strangers now, for what we shared then we share no longer. It's back there in the rearview mirror, a pleasant memory, but no more than that...I am sad, somehow, sad that the feelings I felt about them then can never come back. I'm standing on my own two feet now, I'm independent, and I have my own life in my own two clumsy hands.
I now realize what my dad meant when he said not to worry about making friends in college, because I would never keep in touch anyway. There would be no reason to.

I have failed them, those "seniors", those friendly people who took me under their wing, an awkwardly old and ignorantly wise freshman. I have not passed on the gift of friendship they have given me, I have betrayed their kindness. I have not passed on the tradition of caring tacitly intended to be handed down from one class to the next. I did not have it in me. I did not have the moral strength to extend the same welcoming hand to my younger brothers and sisters. And I am ashamed, but unrepentant, for I cannot be other than who or what I am.

"changing it rests" as the fire and love and strife dude used to say, what was his name - Heraclitus? Heraclitus knew how to put it. The sand dunes blow into each other, shift and slide, but the desert stays the same, always changing and forever the same.

(wow. This was a long post, for a bitchy one.)

(Oh, and vacations really suck. I hate vacations. I intend to avoid vacations in the future. I simply don't know what to do with myself. Half of my two life activities, reading and working, are gone. It's awful!)

Saturday, March 31, 2007

Suzi was undamaged except cosmetically. A long strip of road-rash on the right pipe, and a slightly abraded crankcase cover. No levers, fins or anything else was bent or broken. I was lucky.

I still feel like crap, like incompetent, like stupid, and the second helmet and dreams of riding friends places is now pushed far into the background. At least until my knee heals up and I forget the vertical horizon and the cliff gaping under the rear wheel. Never ever ever take a street bike on a dirt road. They ain't like cars. Maybe you can offroad in a Crown Vic but you sure as hell can't offroad in a Suzuki GS1100.

The Air Force Thunderbirds are flying out at Point Mugu this afternoon; I'm going to try and make the show after Linux class (if there is Linux class)

Friday, March 30, 2007

I dumped Suzi into the gravel yesterday. Braked into a turn on a gravel road, hit a bump, the throttle jiggled, and suddenly the back tire was in front of the front tire and the horizon was vertical instead of horizontal and gas was spilling out of the tank and my knees hurt. Prodigious swearing and rapid examination of all body and motorcycle parts ensued while I tried to think what to do.

I don't have time right now to tell the rest of the story.

Tuesday, March 27, 2007

I'm sitting here in Jobu's apartment listening to the cheery patter of old friends known for four years. The newly-24 is chortling over her beer at the half-intentional antics of our gracious host.

Iron and Wine slides coolly along in the background; wafts of cinnamon float from the oven. Jelen is busy over the apple slices.

It's been a long, long time since I've been to such a chill party.

I love my friends, all of them, but especially the ones right here with me....