Day 4

Recovering from Day 3.  Pics of Day 3 later when I have time.

Ironman The Movie is fricking cool.  I have not had so much fun watching a movie in forever,  (or since Batman Begins).

Day 2

Sleep.

"You may think you're headed off on some great adventure.  But I've got news for you."

More sleep.

Day 1

Still without a plan, I pushed the "on" button on the coffeemaker and plopped blearily down in front of the laptop.  Google Maps.  Where haven't I been.

I've been along the coast; I've been up to 's Barbara, I've been down to Santa Monica, and everywhere in between.

There's some stuff by Santa Clarita I haven't seen though, so that's where to head.  I downed my coffee, zipped into the textiles, and trotted off to the carport.

Mm, this feels good.  The half helmet will be an experiment.  I picked this thing up last week so I could put on and take off a helmet without removing glasses.  It works for that purpose; but an unexpected side effect is that I feel I've taken the blindfold off.  I can SEE everywhere, and the little retractable sunshield shades the upper half of my face protecting my eyes from bugs, if not my teeth.

I rolled out onto the freeway, headed east into the wrack of building gray clouds.  I hope it doesn't rain.  I'm NOT interested in experimenting with how heavy drops of water feel on my face at 60 mph.  It's not supposed to rain.  This is California, it won't, can't rain.

...won't rain...

...And it didn't. I was spat upon twice, but it never rained and I broke out into the sunshine at Castaic Lake with nary a welt on my chin.  The chosen route was Lake Hughes Road, a curving highway slicing off into the Angeles Forest.  It winds, winds, long 45 mph sweepers, hither and yon as the canyons deepen and the mountains begin to lose themselves in cloud.  Before long I was slithering along sheer rock faces, striated in strange volcanic patterns broken by stark poles of charcoal where redwoods had once been. "Maintain Defensible Area" signs admonished homeowners to keep a firebreak around their property.  The pavement was rough and shook the V-strom's suspension mercilessly; the road was evidently not well traveled and not a subject of taxpayers' money.  I arrived at Lake Hughes, a small town with a big saloon around which the local Nissan 300ZX racing club had gathered, t-shirts, mohawks and all.

The subsequent three hours were spent exploring a road called Bouquet Canyon road.  This road is a trickster.  You begin at the beginning, become lost in its beauty and at the end it dumps you right out where you started, in my case Lake Elizabeth (yes, Elizabeth, there is a lake named after you.  It's a resort, really, and a pretty posh one at that).  

I returned via the way I came on Lake Hughes Road.  Five hours is a bit much for one day's loop of pure riding with no real destination, eh?

Memorial Day Weekend coming up.  Where to go, where to go.

It is about going. The thought of staying at home is, of course, inadmissible.  Heck even last year I found myself blearily fingering my keys between bites of late breakfast.

In fact, Memorial Day this year marks the first anniversary of First Long-Ass Ride.  The epic crosscountry of a month later was only a gleam in my eye; I had to find out first if I could actually handle twelve hours in the saddle.

So the PCH was the logical proving ground.  Had never been there, was long, and was convenient.  I left at 9 am and flogged north to a little town called, oh what was it called. And then I turned around and came back and all I came out with was numb hands and a sore neck. The experiment was a success, and I decided that I could handle whatever I could be reasonably expected to throw at myself in the way of endurance attempts.

And Highway 1 is of course the most gorgeous highway in my little world and provided ample material for reflection upon the heroics of the veterans of the Second World War, particularly those assigned to the defense of the West Coast and more generally those in the Pacific Theater.  One looks at the big rocks with velvety green grass, the nestled houses, and reflects upon the homes in a beautiful land which perhaps was the only thing keeping some boys marching....to protect this beauty from an evil foe.....

So, where to go, ...... hmm......

Another long surreal stretch of freeway lies behind me, it is late at night, I am back in my hot dry apartment and it is time to sleep.

I wish the dude at the machine shop would call me back and tell me that he hates Japanese four-cylinder, 16-valve motors and that I should have known better than to bring him the piece of shit to fix.  And tell me to take it somewhere else.

As it stands, I'm going to have to draw it out of him.  I give him till Wednesday.  If he does not call me back on Wednesday,  I call him and ask if he can fix it or what, if he doesn't want to fix it, it's all cool JUST LET ME SODDING KNOW!  I DON'T HAVE all summer. Well I do, but that's not something I should think about....

"F--- it, Dude, let's go bowling."

- Walter, "The Big Lebowski"

For sale; baby shoes, used once.

 - Ernest Hemingway

Skid marks next to the heavy padlocked chain indicate the slipperiness of the carport floor.  Spatters of wax are scattered along the floor, in a line with the rear wheel.  I meditate upon the motorcycle-chain links running along as I spin the rear wheel around, spraying the chain with an aerosol can, adding to the layers of wax on the floor....Hemingway, Papa Hemingway, the master of the art of concise.  What I wouldn't give to have a bit of directness in MY style...

"Hence the simple assertion that Hegel denies the principle of non contradiction gives a quite inaccurate view of the situation. What Hegel does is give a dynamic interpretation of the principle in place of the static interpretation which is characteristic of the level of understanding.. This principle operates in dialectical thinking but it operates as a principle of movement." A History of Philosophy, Vol. 7 Frederick Copleston, S.J.

why does life have to be so complicated?  But it is said to be simple, it's just life and one lives it.  Existentialists.

(existentialism = the new f-word...)

No more.  I'm going to run away from complexity for about six hours until the sun wakes me up again and god forbid the heat in this stuffy apartment doesn't keep me awake all night thinking about living...

Existentialism and by a more remote coin, phenomenology, end in despair.  It is a sad picture to see, man gazing at himself, shielding himself from the reality that is a damaged and dysfunctional being, searching for hope through himself and finding none for there is none to be found.  For man to seek himself as an object is to contradict the very philosophy he espouses, and for man to seek himself as a subject is nonsense.  Hence existentialism as such can have no end, and without an end it remains an abortion of thought.  The imitation of existentialist thought by artists such as Roy Lichtenstein, Jasper Johns, Sam Francis and such expresses this visually.

For this reason the new springtime heralded by the new philosophy of The Person also must end in despair, shortly to be followed by the new theology of the Person.  The roots of this new theology are to be found in phenomenology, whatever heritage the blossoms may claim.

....

it's coming, there's a couple of bits and pieces that fit together...

time does not erode necessity

friendship exists for a purpose

unanswered questions draw answers more powerfully than any force on earth, even the fabled force of love is helpless against x + y = constant

words, containers, perception, mistaken human opinion

where does it all end?  For if questions have answers, it really does all end, there is a real end, a real Thebes.

So, what good is history?

What good is ethics?  What is the real value of these things?  What is the worth of studying human behavior when the grace of God blocks any possible closure?

What is the worth of studying faith?  Why does one fall prey to its mystery?  Why can one not believe that faith may not BE understood?

WHERE do the ends meet, or rather where do the ends exist?  So much fighting, so much war, and it's all about faith, all because of belief, all because of what we say we know when we really don't know it, we just believe it because someone told us we had to....

Unfortunately for my own sanity I believe in the principle of non contradiction.  Contradictions between truths do not exist, for that defeats the very definition OF truth. Where contradictions exist, therefore they must only be apparent.  

"What's all that about?  Come on, what's it about?"

Never mind.  Just never mind.   I tried talking to you years ago and it didn't work, so it won't work now.  Just...go away.

What if everyone rode motorcycles?

The streets would be totally different. Narrower lanes, perhaps six lane roads that now exist as four. Retaining walls to block the wind and noise would be more numerous. Parking lots, vast acreage of asphalt, would fall into disuse and be reclaimed by nature. Instant Pennzoils would have chain-tighten services instead of automatic transmission services. Everyone would know how to drive stick shift. Everyone would pack light: small lawn chairs would sell like hotcakes. Small trailers would be popular for carrying groceries, and side cases would be child seats for the ones who couldn't pilot their own machines. Engine size would be limited to 250 cc for those under 18 and 90 cc for those under 14. Bubble fairings and lightweight roll cages would abound in the aftermarket. Driver training would be far more intensive and regulated. And transportation budgets in thousands of families would be cut by half.

Of course, no one would go anywhere when it rained, the phenomenon of living in cars would disappear, the accident rate would rise and accidents would be gorier and involve more children....

This shopping center goes deserted at dusk, only one or two other customers were hastily finishing up their purchasing. I was alone with my handbasket and two or three items in the back of the store, headed toward the produce section. His face, looking out from the freezer amidst the cut green beans, caught my eye as I walked past. I looked again and recognized him and then recognized his sisters. I hadn't seen this family in years and they live nowhere near here. I greeted them silently and they waved back silently. Or perhaps my hearing was gone due to pressure changes. It was certainly good to see their faces again and to recall the memories of kindness in the brief times I shared with them.

Good to see their faces, yes...but where were the rest of them? I only saw some of them there. They must have split up. Like a small child playing peekaboo I kept my head down, my face averted, hoping to find them before they found me. The freezer ended at a plastic double door, and the next freezer section began beyond it. There a small body was hiding behind a cart, where I would have completely missed her if I hadn't been looking. She lifted her head briefly and I recognized her face. Overcome with joy and relief I ran across the aisle, knelt next to her and embraced her shoulders, whispering "I am so glad to see you, so glad...it's been forever..."

She wiped my hand off her shoulder and moved away, terrified. The black plastic flat she had been filling with carrots slid toward me and she dropped the vegetable she had in her hand. I slid myself back on my heels, frightened, wondering what I had done to scare her. The paper bag in her arm morphed into a woodcut puzzle with incredible detail, a farm scene with buildings and bony trees. The flat of carrots had also transformed into a wooden puzzle, a stained landscape burned onto its face.

I became aware of someone else standing over us. I looked up and her father was there, leaning against the shopping cart, smiling gently down at us.

She turned her face away, watching me intently from the corner of her eye. A drop of blood ran down the side of her face.

I stood up and turned around and walked away, all relief quenched by old familiar agony. Nothing would change, nothing can change...

fun and games day 3

So there's this road I've talked about before.  The Angeles Crest Highway.

It's one of those legends among sportbikers, you know, like Deals Gap in Virginia or the Ortega Highway in San Diego or the Mulholland Highway in Malibu.  Gaggles of brightly colored sportbikes flow along its curves on nice weekends such as this, jinking and gunning and fighting for lines.

Anyway, today being a nice day, I took a detour on the way back from church and followed the signs to Highway 2, the Angeles Crest Highway.  My original intention was to have myself a nice lazy scenic cruise for about 20-30 miles, find a good overlook and curl up with Hegel for an hour, turn around and come back.  Sounds idyllic, right?  Right.

The original intention was shot all to hell by a red Ducati 99something whose rider obviously was not intent on exploring the limits of his (her?) bike, nonetheless staying tantalizingly out of range of my increasing lean angles.  After about five minutes of this unintentional hide and seek I gave up, found fourth gear, and began systematically scrubbing sidewalls.  I was steadily catching up, and after a few miles found the pace Ducati was holding and we climbed together to 6000 feet.

Ducati turned around and went back down, but I wasn't quite to my 170-mile point of no return on the fuel gauge.  So I went a few more miles and whallah, the most perfect overlook opened before my eyes.  I had passed a couple of ski slopes and the conformation of the land here allowed for a few wide open views of L.A.  I pulled over, found a fallen tree comfortably balanced on the 45-degree ski slope, sat on it and read for about 10 minutes, then turned myself sideways and fell asleep. (If it weren't for the fact that I was rather precariously lying on a cylindrical shape about 5' off the ground, in the open sunshine getting burned, and with a dinner appointment looming, I would quite happily have not woken up until sunset.)

I struggled myself awake to check my phone messages.  I had a voicemail but service was so bad I couldn't connect.  It was 2:30 anyway, time  to go, time to get someplace where I'd have cell reception.

I held to my plan of lazy cruising till I passed the restaurant place.  Wafting restlessly behind a green Ford Excursion, I noted a growing swarm of sportbikes building behind me.  A yellow Ducati was in the lead followed by a black CBR and a blue SVS and numerous others.

The truck pulled over to let us pass, and like salmon from an open floodgate we rushed headlong through the open gap.  Crap.  Now I'm leading this whole pack of rice racers. I hate this.  I'm not on a sportbike, so either I pull over or I stay in front.  And I can't stay in front long if I choose that option because (1) I don't have big fat tires on a taut little chassis and (2) I don't have a lot of experience running twisties hard.

I resolved to go what was comfortable and if they just had to pass me, well they could go right ahead.  I proceeded to go what was comfortable, slicing my lines as precisely as I could and keeping the v-twin spinning at 5000.  To my surprise the yellow Duc stayed where it was.  Okay, here's another dude not interested in wrapping it out.  Obviously.  Because there's no way a 417-pound, 62-horsepower 2-cylinder dual purpose commuter is going to smoke a Ducati.

And evidently no one behind him weren't interested in pushing the envelope either because no one passed anyone.  I kept doing my thing, wondering if there were more SVS genes in the machine I was riding than I gave it credit for.  The thing is, the V-Strom is so planted and predictable it really is very easy to toss around, notwithstanding its heft, lack of power and skinny tires.  I ground deeper and deeper into each successive curve, watching the pack disappear behind me...slowed up in the straights and they caught up, took off into the curves again and they fell back.  The yellow Duc stubbornly hung on, but he suddenly seemed to feel the need to hang a knee out on some of these curves.  Had I really picked up the pace that much?

Apparently I had, because no one was very close behind him anymore.   And it stayed that way till we arrived at the more civilized portion of the road, the one with prominently posted speed limits and more traffic, we all slowed to normal riding mode, said mental goodbyes and arced off to each of our individual destinations.  I kept going straight hoping to find a convenient gas station before I headed home.

That felt good.  Even if the competition wasn't trying, I had to feel a bit of pride in the ol' Strom showing its SV heritage through the daily denim exterior, and at least entertaining a Ducati-led wolfpack for a good half an hour or so.  Eh, she can play hard when she feels like it.

(before anyone asks, Ducati is an Italian marque, v-twin with 1000cc displacement, noted for excellent handling and numerous Superbike championships)

'Lost' is skipping and mistracking on me, and my computer's all dood, yo' only gots thirdy-fi' minutes lef' so give it up already.

Also I found out today that not only is machinery aware of my existence, but Highway 33 which I once took for a very dead, very inanimate strip of asphalt is also conscious of me.  It likes to be ridden hard except where its icy and cooperates nicely as long as I am talking to it (via twistgrip).  But the minute I stop paying attention it will throw me off it and look at me as if I betrayed it.  However if I were to stop paying attention and get thrown off, I would be too dead to care.  So it doesn't matter.

Had convergence today (an experience involved in riding 33 hard).  It went like this:

Tanker truck crawls up hill at 25 mph.

Blue motorcycle buzzes back and forth in tanker truck mirror like an angry hornet.

Tanker truck pulls over half off the road into a turnout without stopping.

Large cleft rock approaches at end of turnout.  Tanker truck begins to pull back into the lane.

Blue motorcycle, riding centerline, comes abreast of truck.

Road curves left between approaching rock cleft.

Blue motorcycle notes approaching rock at end of turnout, notes closing gap between truck, rock and curve.

Blue motorcycle drops a gear or three and launches.  Small rocks cascade down onto the road behind it. Tanker truck pulls back fully into lane just in time to miss blue motorcycle.

Blue motorcycle meditates on mortality for about twenty seconds till the next curve comes up.

"If the life of the Absolute is to be constructed by philosophy, the instrument will be reflection.  Left to itself however, reflection tends to function as understanding (verstand) and thus to posit and perpetuate oppositions. It must therefore be united with transcendental intuition which discovers the interpenetration of the ideal and real, idea and being, subject and object. Reflection is then raised to the level of reason (vernunft) and we have a speculative knowledge which 'must be conceived as identity of reflection and intuition.'"

Why not Hegel, let's replace the Geist with some sodding 'transcendental intuition'.  Drag it all down to the level of the mind, will you.

(I love the word 'sodding'.  It's phonetically related to the word 'sodden')

By the way, props to Kakashi for making me borrow from the library Copleston's history of philosophy from which the above quote was taken.  It really is helpful and goes a lot quicker than mucking through original texts.

I am confused.

"About what?"

If I knew what I was confused about, would I be confused?

Where is the beginning in this pile of knots?  How can a rope have five ends?

"Maybe your problem isn't the pile of knots, [epithet]"

Yeah, [epithet]!

([epithet])

drinking painted lines like water

skiing asphalt holding tight

wave on wave twisting rocks

left and right

crests of surf hit his face

gulping salt monoxide

watching keenly, weighing distance

he runs gap of closing sharks

merging on the offramp

merging huddling flashing right

runs it through crashing behind

tiptoe tipshift up to a stop

a gentle squeeze and settle

toward silence, composure, left look right

Some engineer can surely shave a few seconds off those stoplights on the Boulevard, no?

Time to work without stoplights, 8:07 am: 12 minutes
Time to work with stoplights, 8:15 am: 19 minutes

If only I had the balls to lanesplit, the stoplight problem would be considerably alleviated. But I don't. Lanesplitting is something I only do when desperate (like passing on the centerline inside a blind curve)

Accidentally revved the Weestrom to 11,000 rpm on the way to work today. Redline is 10,500.

I don't think I hurt it...

I really need to get up earlier in the morning. And get to bed earlier on the previous evening. And eat supper earlier, make supper earlier, get home earlier, and leave work on fricking time.