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.

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.

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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?

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.

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

There'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.

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.

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.)

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

Thank god for mechanic friends. They are indispensable.

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...

i am dead. tired.

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.

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!