I grasp the white tightrope with groping fingers, feeling my way across the face of the cliff.  The glistening city shows, in a sideways glance at the triangle of mirror, and is gone.  Ice smears the asphalt, the wipers chudder across the pelted windshield, and the blindfolded glimpse of road ahead wavers, pulls inward and fades to bright white

The glaring eyes of a descending monster peer at me, headlong through the fog. Their rainbow coronas grow in size until the beams whip by, trailing long green scars in the dark. That was close.

Steady on, roll it slow, feel your way, feel the headlights along that bright white fogline, the fogline that is your salvation.  Tiptoes now, icy icy, don't stray an inch because the edge is there, the cliff is there and you will die.

Another monster shows between the wagging wipers, another pair of intolerable eyes tear the darkness into green swipes and are gone.  Feel it, feel the road now...

It is not a question of which viewpoints are positive and which are negative; merely that of the positive some have a higher priority than others, which mean that some have a lesser positive value.

Unity over progress, except that progress that transcends unity; morality over unity and the good of the whole subservient to the good of the part.  Whether the subjective has more value than the objective is a silly, silly question, for of things differing in kind no relative comparison may be made.  Yet between things differing in kind, differing as the image differs from its principle, a relation exists.  Whether the subjective has more value than the objective becomes, then, the only question, for if the creature is to have any value toward the creator, he must know himself as much as he must know his creator.

I think people would be grateful if I stuck to tire reviews.  Sorry.

So, and now of motorcycle tires.

Dunlop D607 Trailmax tires are not very good. They are cheap, but they are not good. They slip and slide about in the wet, feel squirrelly in the dry, are completely worthless on dirt, wear out quickly, and generally blow chunks. They skate across tar strips, and two fingers on the front brake easily lock up the front wheel on wet intersections.

Not cool. Matter of fact, they're WORSE in the rain than the Bridgestone Trailwings that came on the thing, and I didn't think that was possible. Nothing has yet measured up to the expensive Metzeler Tourances that lasted forever, or until I put 3 nails through them; stuck like glue; but were expensive and made the bike feel like it wearing snow-gloves on its wheels. And I hate that. The Strom doesn't exactly have laser-precision steering in the first place, not being a sportbike; so I am very particular about getting a good tire for that.

So far then, we have:

Steering Accuracy: Bridgestones
Dry Stick: Metzies
Wet Stick: Metzies
Dirt Stick: Metzies
Corner Confidence: Metzies
Longevity: Metzies
Price: Bridgestones

Dunlop didn't even score one, so they get scratched off. *scratched*

The search continues...

It looks light gray and rainy and I smell rain in the air, but I know better.

It was not so long ago when I was learning about not skidding a 550-lb, 108-horsepower gorilla of a motorcycle. Blown dust and leaves and faded red 1982 paint, the smell of gasoline in the morning, filling up at the pump for less than ten dollars. The harsh shout of a 4-2 exhaust. Old suspension springs bottoming out over railroad tracks. A chest full of 70 mph air, and research online to see what windshields were about. Agonizing whether I had enough money to afford a proper full coverage shield. Evil, frosty bleary mornings shivering under my jacket, mind over matter and destination over journey spurring me on. All that stuff. It was a long time ago, and the crisp edges of the new experience and New Way to See the World have worn down to smooth blue grooves of daily routine. It gets so nowadays that I can't remember the last time I was thinking about the line I took through the last curve, or what gear I was in, or what intersection was the most dangerous, I just sort of ride and think to myself about whatever problems I think about and before I know it I am home, or somewhere else, and that is that.

It's fall. I should go ride somewhere just to breathe in fall-ness.

"Not by bread alone is man saved but by every word that comes forth from the mouth of God."

Belief: the sure knowledge that something is true; be it by proof or by trusted testimony.  Belief may not be caused by sensible things alone, nor may it be caused by an abstract idea alone.  Both must be involved for the soul and the body believe, for knowledge to be had.  And of these, of the soul and body, the soul has primacy for its motion is closest to God.  Hence the primacy of the Word in the causation of belief.  Yet this is not to discount the necessity of the sensible, hence the necessity of signs, in the history of God's people; sacrifice, sacraments, without which signs belief may not be had.

Good morning America, it's another beautiful day in California, and as long as there is the potential for rain, there is hope....

"Hey.  You know you should never post when under the influence, tired, and bitter.  But you ignore me every time I talk to you so go ahead, knock yourself out.  The day you learn to restrain yourself will be the day you begin to evolve, and that day I await with great anticipation."

"Oh, bitter, are we? Oh, tired are we? You're damn funny."

"Stop talking to yourself."

"I'm not talking to myself, I'm talking to you."

"Stop talking to yourself."

"You're evolved."

"You're #@*#$."

(Evolution is the new existentialism, in case anyone was wondering.  Next it'll be socialism, and after that I'll make something up to use as a new swear word)

"I don't think I understand what he's talking about. I see his mouth moving and all that's coming out is blah, blah blah blah."

Faith is said to evolve

but evolution may be of two kinds for the motion of logic is either circular or linear

the first is an infinite progress which is a travel from lesser to greater along an infinite line, which is a reductio ad absurdum since the only infinite motion possible is on a circle, and motion on a circle may hardly be considered progress.  Motion on a continuously created infinite line is also reductio ad absurdum, for it would be coincident with the progress of evolution, thus denying the existence of the line.  This first sort does not resolve, then, to the principle of non-contradiction. (the principle of non-contradiction: that the same being may not both exist and not exist in the same manner, at the same time and in the same respect)

the second is a travel from lesser to greater along a line having an end, which progress presupposes an end which may be reached, thus culminating the evolution at its highest possible degree.  Only this second sort resolves to the principle of non-contradiction and is that which in orthodox thought is called "expression" of faith rather than faith itself.

If faith is a simple being it may not evolve

If faith is a complex being or an attribute it may evolve

rejection of simple faith -> acceptance of evolution of faith -> acceptance of subjectivity of faith (for all evolution exists within the subject) -> crushing of individual subjective expression of faith and acceptance of consensus -> theological slavery to any blind fascist

all this, to escape the theological slavery of objective truth?  And now, more miserable than we were before, we must tread the path of blood and tears, back the way we came, back to find faith where we left it two hundred years ago before Descartes....

if I were the sort to develop crushes on movie stars I would have a crush on Summer Glau, mistress of the creepy poker-face and of the little girl inside just trying to figure out how the world works (while it goes up in flames in her wake). Go watch the Sarah Connor Chronicles and see why. Actually no, huge waste of time, watch Firefly instead. Far creepier in Firefly. 

(Fortunately for all of you I'm not of the sort, otherwise this blog would be much more stupid than it already is.)

(NB: She was homeschooled from third grade through high school.)

it is hot.

I can't sleep.

I ca-a-a-n't sle-e-e-p.

it is ten thirty at night.  There is nothing more I need to do but go to bed (BUT I CAN'T SLEEP).  My coffee-maker is all set up and programmed to start at 7:30 am so I don't have to fumble about in the freezer for coffee-grounds.  The bowls and spoons for breakfast are washed.

The night noises filter in through the open door.  A pickup truck revs its engine, stops and the noise of squealing rubber fills the silence as it takes off down the street.  Some kid getting all excited.  One can hear the occasional yelling from across the street, a child crying.  Boys on skateboards rattling along the sidewalk in the dark, pushing and mocking each other.

Someone's timer goes off next door.

It is quiet.  The screen glows peacefully to itself.  So many things I didn't get done today and that I won't get done tomorrow unless this heat wave breaks and I feel capable of doing something other than sit collapsed in my desk chair all evening...If I was someplace humid I'd be positively dead right now...

The quilted polyester was stifling in the unseasonably warm September sun.  The road was radiating black tar smell and flies hovered in the tree shadows.  I've been getting a bit "over" motorcycling lately; I've been doing it too much.  WAY, way too much hollow-eyed, jaw-rattling freeway, too much stoplight clutch-hand cramping, there is a rattle noise from the engine I've been told not to worry about that's become REALLY irritating, and, well, just all the damn running around for practical purposes is getting old.  Even my geeky old refuge of playing space invaders with holes in traffic and squeezing 3 more mpg by short shifting 500 rpm, has gone.

In short, I really had to debate with myself whether to go for a fun ride on a clear-as-a-bell fall day.  Had to debate whether to nap, read or ride.  I napped while deciding.

Two hours later there I was, hell-bent sideways on a 65mph sweeper on my favorite backyard road: Hwy 33.  This is where I come to remind myself that the V-Strom is a sport-bike, too; that I needn't convince myself beyond hope of doubt that it's just a gas-saving econo-truck.

I set about reminding myself while not revving things through the roof of my mouth.  The scenery along this road is perfect, it really is, for doing speed and road-test stuff.  The picture changes from sage-brush covered cliffs and creekbed and tunnels at the bottom, to twisted, gaunt northern trees and naked rock at the top.  It begins to look like Iceland or something that ought to be driven by with Sigur Ros in the earbuds.  Great valley sweeps swing into view, mountain ranges on either hand trailing to infinity with a thin thread of asphalt snaking along between them, a tiny speck of motorcycle buzzing along that like an insignificant insect.

I practiced emergency braking in curves.  Funny how good brakes on motorcycles are.  A quick grasp of two fingers on my right hand promptly dislocates my eyeballs (no, I kid not: a front wheel on verge of lockup produces serious facial pain).  If there was a rabbit THERE snap squeeze owwwww bounce chirp HERE.  The rabbit is safe.

I was able to cure the unwanted neutral problem between first and second gear by readjusting the shift lever; but the false neutral between fifth and sixth gear is a mechanical problem that can't be cured by an adjustment.  It only happens occasionally, and less than it used to; and it's more an embarassment than a problem; one is occasionally suprised by a zing to 8000 rpm when it should have been 6th gear, and reacts by re-slamming the lever which bangs everything back into place.

Curve after curve, swing after swing, picking out the perfect line like a searchlight in fog.  This thing truly is balanced nicely, all I have to do is get a new front tire.  Got some headshake.  The handlebars oscillate when I let off the throttle and that's because the front tire is worn out.  I grind lower and lower to the ground, feeling the sides of my boots scrape along the flying asphalt.  I really miss sledding as a kid, having the ice and snow skitter past my chin four inches away.  I don't miss getting road-rash on my face from the snow, though, the times when it went wrong. Nor do I fancy getting road-rash on my face from actual road.  One must never ride as fast as one can, on public roads.  There are too many hazards; gravel, birds, pedestrians, gravel, oncoming traffic, gravel, fallen rock, gravel, sand....I wonder if that fork-brace will really improve the handling noticeably? I can't say as that I notice a lot of float and the shaking bars aren't helping, nor is the numb front tire.  I suppose I'd have to go with new springs and heaver fork oil to really make a phenomenal, outlook-changing experience.  But if I redo the suspension then it would be a street-bike, not a go-anywhere anypurpose thing anymore. Not that I really go anywhere except street.  There isn't anything public BUT street around here.

On the way back, at the top of the Grade, I pull over to check my cell-phone messages and noticed that I'd ground some more rubber off the sides of the tires.  Now I'm down to 1/8 inch from the edge of the sidewall.  Maybe I WAS pushing things a bit.

"And who is my neighbor?"

Someone once warned me that if I became mired in the science of religion I would defeat its purpose. It's very frustrating. Whether one lives with respect to the whole or with respect to the parts...it's a no-win scenario, for the whole lives in the parts without giving up its fundamental unity. This is an impossible task for deduction, analysis, the picking apart of a thing into its component parts.

The Church has no component parts. It has "members". An analogy cannot even be made to the body and its limbs because those may be broken apart and identified without destroying the whole. The Church may not be named without naming the whole, nor may the whole be named without naming the part for it is One and without division or separation.

The abstract consideration of, and action toward, the whole as such seems to undermine its life force. Consideration of the whole-without-part leads to a mindless slavery to Law at the expense of the Spirit.

The concrete consideration of the part, of the "neighbor" and daily duty would seem to contribute to the life of the whole, and a contribution to life is certainly commanded by Christ. Consideration of the part without whole, however, leads to a spirit of obedience such that results in misplaced trust and consequent blindness to the good of the whole. What man, focusing on his corner of the universe, his circle of needy, can possibly look beyond it? What responsibility does he bear to the rest of the Church? In short, what is his place among his neighbors?

What then is the meaning of duty for the Member? How must he live his life that he excludes blindness yet does not overstep obedience; that he lives by Spirit yet remains loyal to Law?

Loyalty and obedience; turned from virtue to scourge by modernism, which wields them with vast casualty against an unwitting Church to this day. There is an intense atmosphere of loyalty that I've struggled through for years that runs deeper than any other collective virtue I've known (if one may speak of collective virtue); yet I do not know whether to call it virtue or foolishness. All I know is that I cringe whenever I hear mention of loyalty in newsletter or speech. I cringe because I know what it means and where it leads and I begin to understand the weeping of Christ over Jerusalem....

"Shepherd once tol' me, if you can't do somethin' smart, do somethin' right."

 - Jayne, Serenity

In an age where there are no right answers, the questions take a back seat to action.  Seventy-five miles of bumpy freeway couldn''t jiggle the bubbles in any other way.  I have to return to where I started, throw the knife into the ground, and realign the crosshairs.  Training talks, you see. Aristotle was right. A man is what he was made to be.  We do not choose the age we live in.  Nor do we choose the character we play.  We stand there in costume with stage weapons and....then....the lights go purple and no one knows what happens after that until someone comes along with a pen and paper and a title for a history book.

I wonder whether doing the motorcycling club-style is really the thing.  It's a social undertaking in which one must worry about the one in front of you and the one behind you and bisecting the distance so one looks Respectable and Professional in the eyes of the unseeing world; but it really is so much better when the wheels stop turning, the bike is motionless, and one does not have to gulp apple juice amidst a roaring silence.  One has someone to talk to, perhaps share an experience with, and that's pretty fun.

And lunches are so much better with other motorcyclists than they are by oneself.  One is not off at the corner table under the palm tree with one's cigarette and coffee cup with a 10' radius carefully kept by all passersby lest they be knifed in the back.  One is not looked at askance by normal people as a freebooter from the outer planets and a threat to society.  One is simply having fun with one's friends.  Of course, the 10' radius is still kept by strangers, but it's less....embarrassing....somehow.....

And that is nice.

I am single and free.  Yet how often do I take advantage of this fact to blow off the world for a couple of days and Do What I Want?

Noli recently alluded to a recurring necessity I seem to have, to "go find a big sky and find myself under it" and while big skies do not exist in California (too many mountains), perhaps a long road will do, similarly.

And I am so sick of work and my neighborhood.  Why don't I just go away?

Why not indeed.  In about three seconds I had it all mapped out: get on the bike and ride.  Don't care where, don't care how, don't care what it costs.  Just haul ass till ass hauls me.

I have only one style of cross-country travel: decide whether or not I need to get somewhere today; if in the affirmative, find a freeway and pin it, if in the negative, find a deserted, twisty country road where there are speed limits, and creatively pin it.  I stop to take pictures when I see pictures.  And for gas.  And maybe for lunch.  But for the most part I don't take a lot of joy in contemplating local treasures, since I am alone and it would seem strange for a helmeted alien to be standing in front of an antique shop talking to himself.  I don't take pictures of people, they might get offended and their faces are none of my business anyway.  I take pictures of things.

It isn't about the places, after all - it's about passing through the places, feeling their feel and smelling their airs and seeing their church steeples and moving on, always moving on to the next place. It's about experiencing nature's own special effects studio.  But mostly it's about moving. Places move, they move past me, because motion is relative and MY place happens to be moving. And a happy place it is indeed.  The uttermost limit of what is contained is a now-broken-in-finally piece of foam, a windshield and too-wide handlebars with too-narrow grips.  Could be better, in other words, but hey I'm not complaining.  Except when I knocked in that lady's mirror, lanesplitting in San Francisco; but that was just a reminder that I shouldn't lanesplit with such a pig of a motorcycle. ("pig" being a technical not derogatory term applied to dual-sports that are too heavy to be really maneuverable)  Anyway, not to ramble.

Any travel story is useless without pics, so here we go.

Weekend stats:

Approx 1200 miles

20 hours, of which 17 were spent in one riding day

40 mpg average on the freeway (doh!)

New speed record set from Livermore to Santa Paula: 6.5 hours

2 Monsters

1 cigarette

5 Advil

I have no motorcycle.  It is in the shop til Friday. (twas tipped in parking lot. again.)

I hate my life; it is not worth living.

fresh young faces, invigorated conversation, and "where are the hedge shears"

sigh.

I hope they all work out, for my own sake. I don't want to go around breaking knees at the same rate I had to last year. And I hope they all work out for their own sake because no one ever realizes how much easier life is made by consistency and responsibility on the job...esp. when one does not have a lot of time to play with.

Well I’ve drunk to drown, on every ocean I’ve been 
Lake Tanganyika, where the crocodiles swim 
Halifax, Nova Scotia to Van Diemen’s land 
Well I drank with the Sultan, down the Suez Canal

Cause Every Dog Has Its Day 
Like every woman, she gets her own way 
And if there’s a ship that sails tonight 
I’ll captain that too, just to be there with you

- Flogging Molly

The road is a deceptive beast, it is.

I thought of the imagination-trips I made when I was a little kid, riding my gray stallion through the hills of Apache country.   I was heavily armed with a Winchester rifle and two Colt .45's, (appropriately shaped birch branches) herding cattle through the gullies to Yuma through the most dangerous country in the West. Now, packaged in a cheap Korean car listening to Latin trance to keep myself awake, I was on the blazing white rails of Highway 10, completely unarmed, just trying to get through without notice.

The slash canyons and tumbleweed rises of Geronimo's country unrolled itself to the foot of the mountains, dusky far from either side of the high freeway.  The trailers and dusty cars of Geronimo's people lay scattered amongst the hills where once brush huts and twists of smoke used to arise.  It was a sad sight, it was...the sagging Oldsmobile creeping along the road, loaded down with humanity and mattresses.  The clotheslines run from the rotting trailer roof to the scrub oak, framing a huge graffiti tag on the wall of the decrepit dwelling.  The stoic glare on the weatherbeaten face of the young man leaning against the streetsign, backpack in hand.  They know what they had and what they lost and how it was taken from them, oh they remember.  And I, the white man, leaned on the accelerator to escape the accusing stares of the broken storefronts and gaping windows.  Sounds like a war zone, you say.  Isn't it a war zone, I say.  They will never forgive us, and we have forgotten them.  We give them their casino permits and welfare, but they are irrelevant to us.  We have their land; if they don't want to partake of our culture, well that's their own foolishness, eh?