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...

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....

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

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...

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"...

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.

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...

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.

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....

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...