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...

"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.)

"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.

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.

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*

"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.

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?

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."