The onset of springtime and summer makes me antsy. I'm coming out of the hibernation mentality that descends on me around November, the air begins to warm up and smell like wildflowers and dust, and the sun is clearly climbing the ecliptic to its intense spotlight position for the summer.

I went for a ride on Sunday. I laughed inside to think I was going nowhere for fun, doing what people normally do with motorcycles. A strange and unusual concept indeed, after the gray wintry grind of nine-miles-one-way-nine-miles-back, dirty water splashed across the blue bodywork and scuffed windshield. Now the mud has dried to dust, and the same blue tank and same scuffed plastic windshield are out there pointed into a dappled-shadow fairyland straight from a Honda TV commercial. Highway 192 winds and stops and turns and winds again through some of the ritziest country residentia in the nation. Palm trees, boxwood hedges, yucca gardens line the highway. Low brickwork walls with ornate wrought iron gates shield great majestic hacienda dwellings from public eye. Mostly.

So this is where all the high powered film directors and movie actors and lawyers and computer programmers and retired Caltrans superintendents live. Who needs Beverly Hills, seriously. In fact, I've DRIVEN Rodeo Drive and they've got NOTHIN' on these folks. Nothing.

So the sunshine and shadow flits along, the motorcycle patters and putters along and I ask myself, as I always do, why I don't do this more often on weekends. People come from far and wide, go on vacation, spend lots of money just to be here, to do what I'm doing on a whim on a random weekend. As far as I'm concerned, it's free and a common fact of existence. I can come up to Montecito whenever I want and all it is going to cost me is ten dollars in gas. (Not even that.)

So in a way I'm not in the best position to appreciate the legend. But I don't really care about the legend as much as the sunshine and curves.....

The Fieldsheer pants arrived last night.  They are longer than my regular jeans, and provide as much coverage as I can reasonably ask of non-tailored pants.  Very, very sturdy nylon construction.  I feel like I got my $189 worth.

Speaking of cash outlay for gear, it is said that one spends $2000 on one's first motorcycle and at LEAST $1000 on gear.

So far:

$99 jacket (cheap due to polyester construction; I love it, but now that I've wised up to this polyester/nylon thing replacement is imminent.  When I have the money.)

$160 helmet.

$29.99 gloves.

$79.99 gloves.

$49.99 gloves.

$160 boots.

$100 torso armor

$50 elbow armor

$50 knee armor

$90 riding jeans with kevlar knees

$90 .....

Aforementioned Fieldsheers.

Another helmet for passenger doesn't count cause I don't wear it.

Grand total: $1,147.97

And I just bought another pair of riding jeans because I'm unhappy with one of the two I have. Both pairs are slightly short in the inseam, but one of them has this odd anomaly I only noticed today.  One leg is shorter than the other. I mean, how do you make pants with one leg shorter than the other??  It's like half an inch short on the left leg!  I also had to have them modified beyond belief since they only came in Long in some gigantic waist size.  So I can't return them. Not a happy investment overall.  (But they're better than Levis)

So that's gonna add 90 bucks.

I have to buy a mesh jacket for the summer.  $150-200.  Suffering through last year incased in a waterproof suit of plastic that is my current cheapo jacket was not pleasant.

Then eventually a leather jacket, the ultimate status symbol of motorcycling.  The final initiation into serious ridership.  That's gonna set me back 500 green ones.

So yeah.  Two thousand bucks.

But how much does human skin, blood and artificial titanium bones cost, at the hospital, eh?

(Answer: about $100,000.00 by some reports, with associated complications)

When we left each other the first time it was like the world was coming to an end.  Now we're all grown up, full of our own goals and our own worries, and the departure is met with just a half smile and words about the next destination in life.  I tell myself it doesn't hurt nearly as bad because I'm old enough not to care.  But its a lie.  One is never old enough not to care, never stoic enough not to cry inside as the little car rolls off forever with those familiar faces 

now you dream only in peaceful blue /

the morning doesn't even scare you /

anymore /

you are phoenix with your feathers just a little wet /

baby the ashes just look pretty on your eyes /

dry your wings in the sun /

you've only begun to understand /

when its time to move on /

there is no one to hold your hand /

so let go /

let go /

let go /

Deb Talan, Ashes on Your Eyes

The first thought and question every morning in February is answered by a quick glance out the window above my head. Is it raining or not?

This question will become irrelevant in a month. I slide out of bed and dress deliberately, mentally picking through 6:30 am pre-caffeine wool to determine whether there is Anything I Am Forgetting.

What am I forgetting?

Keys. Have keys. Have phone. Have wallet. Have helmet. Have gloves. Computer is off. I unlock the door and step outside into a cloud of my own breath. I exhale again, testing the air temperature. Cold. Probably 40 degrees. The weather is severe-clear, the neighbors' dogs are barking tinnily in the cold.

The carport is dark and even colder. I swing a leg over and push the motorcycle outside, fumbling in thick ski gloves. The fuel-injected motor doesn't care what temperature it is. I touch the starter, and with its usual quiet composure the v-twin shakes itself awake. The pattering lope echoes from the adjacent apartment walls. Now three dogs are barking across the canal.

I drop it into gear and ease off into the back alley. Round the corner, round the street. Bleary faces wrapped in scarves peer around opened car doors. The headlights of Dial-A-Ride fill the opposing lane and old ladies with canes, mummified in shawls, stump deliberately down the sidewalk. The neighborhood is still really asleep at 7:00 in the morning.

At the corner stopsign, I balance the motorcycle without moving my foot off the peg. I have to keep rolling; haven't acquired the skill to do this while motionless. Children bundled with pink backpacks and earmuffs, swinging water bottles, huddle around the steel lamppost.

Green, swing out into the far lane, clicking up at each 4500 rpm. Frosted, sleepy cars roll out into the broad, crumbled frosty street, white clouds of vapor obscuring the left taillight on each. The suicide lane is filled with left-blinking SUV's and donut trucks. I wing quickly by, unseen, poised to swerve.

The cold breeze accelerates to a wind as I reach a clear stretch of the Boulevard. The steam is blown from the inside of my helmet and the sun flashes blindingly above the neighboring overpass, bathing brick in the intense industrial orange of early morning. The wool is beginning to clear somewhat, but I'm still bleary and in need of coffee and breakfast.

Watch traffic, watch the soccer moms, watch the delivery trucks out of the corner of my eye. A beautiful day, just another beautiful cold freezing day on a cold freezing seat in a cold freezing town in February.

(and the bank thermometer says 41 degrees)

"Never meddle in the affairs of dragons, for you are crunchy and good with ketchup."

- forum poster on Pashnit.com

Real problem, cheaper solution

Well, I lost patience over the last rainy weekend having to change pants twice a day. When the sky broke open one saturday I skipped down to Cycle Gear in Oxnard and ordered up some FG Air overpants. They were too short, and I discovered a company called Fieldsheer that actually makes a tall size with a claimed inseam of 37" !!!!!

I'm a fan. Forward thinking, these people. I ordered a pair and am waiting on the call to pick them up.

Yeah yeah, they're $80 cheaper than the custom Cycleport ones I was going to have tailored to me, and they won't fit as well, but ... I'm not ordering them online either, so I can work with the dealer if they don't fit or I don't like them.

Oh yea, and apparently not all 600 denier fabrics are created equal. It is bruited about that polyester weave has little tensile strength compared to nylon, which worries me riding around in my 99 dollar Carbolex jacket (100% poly says the tag). It looks like Suzi is gonna have to sit in the garage a few months longer till I get my gear issues sorted.

$300 for a jacket vs. $10,000 for skin grafts: that's what we're looking at here. Problem is, I'm reluctant to admit I made a bad investment in cheap gear in the beginning (ignorance is bliss, truly) and don't want to have it laying 'round unused taking up space...

At least the pants have a 1000 denier (thicker) nylon shell, it ought to hold up. What I need to do is find a mesh jacket with leather panels on the back and shoulder for this summer (Cortech GX Air? 200 bucks) and then next fall I'll just have to buy another better jacket to replace my beloved Tourmaster Jett. Or maybe someone will further inform me about exactly what the hell Carbolex fabric IS, and it will be fine, and I won't have to worry.....

Anybody know anything about plastic fabric? I purposely avoid leather because it's hot, heavy, not waterproof, can't be thrown in the wash machine and is hella expensive (although not nearly as much as aforementioned skin grafting)

Ahh, Sunday.

A time to relax from busi-ness and getting-things-done and goals and the horse whip.

A time to take a break, ideally take a break, from it all.

At least, I should be able to realize this ideal given that I have no responsibilities, etc.  Of course, since I'm not really settled in yet, that's not entirely true; I'm not yet past the stage of budgeting a few hundred dollars each month for household improvements.  I'm trying to transition, with varying levels of success, from "poor college student status" to "low-income but independent from food stamps and social security" status.

What are Sundays for such a one?  Well, to date, all the housework I neglect during the weekend in which I go out and about to supply myself for my needs in goods and gear.  And if I have time left over from that, to peer up at some vast intellectual mountain with its jagged peaks covered in mist, shift my feet, and wonder which of those trails leads to the top.

I decided not to continue Hegel; I think I've gone as far as I'm going to get with him.  The book open in front of me now is Wojtyla's "The Acting Person". Yays: more phenomenologies!"*

It's raining peacefully, the wind is tearing through it like a three-year-old through TP and messing it all up.  Thomas Tallis is radiating equally peacefully from the pandorabox.** 

*"Glutton for punishment", the library gnomes snicker as they disappear round the corner of the stacks.

** When am I going to get off this filler kick?  It's not that things haven't been happening, it's just that my Muse seems to be gagging on something....

Real problem, real solution

I found pants.

They are custom made, according to measurements you send Cycleport in the mail. Cycleport is a UK based company making gear for bikers in Northern Europe, and by all accounts pretty good stuff.

As it ought to be; these retail for $289.99, approximately three times what I paid for my freaking JACKET and twice what I paid for my helmet.

Now all I have to do is convince myself that this is money I should spend right now instead of buying a second pair of $49.99 rainpants from Sport Chalet and living with the wet crotch problem.

Earlier this afternoon I set off from work wondering if I'd still be dry when I got home.  According to my experience the more complicated and patchwork any solution is, the more likely it is to fail.  And my solution to how to stay dry on a motorcycle in the pouring rain is patchwork indeed.

First, there's my helmet and jacket and gloves.  

The full-face helmet design keeps out the water.   It works.  Nuff said.

The jacket is waterproof.  It works too.  I just have to remember not to put anything in its pockets because the outer carbolex layer to which the pockets are attached gets soaked through instantly.

My $50 Alpinestars waterproof gloves are not waterproof.  They keep my hands dry for about an hour and then some pinhole leak on the throttle glove begins to soak the goretex lining.  Then I have one gooey cold hand and one dry warm hand.

The pants are superlight and superthin rain pants by Sierra Designs.  They are designed to literally pack into the hip pocket of your jeans.  Quite a feat if you ask me, but they're not durable, they're only 33 inches on the inseam and they slowly leak at the crotch.

To address the fact that the pants aren't nearly long enough, I have gaiters.  These things sit down around my ankles and have stirrups that hold them firmly atop my waterproof hiking boots.

The assembly keeps me surprisingly warm and dry.  For the most part.  But I am in a perpetual quest for some decent 36" inseam rain pants so I can dispense with the clumsy gaiters.  If any of you know where such a thing may be found please let me know.

Filler

filler.

annoyed.frustrated.com

Such a thick barrier of polyester, smoke and cheese between my mind and the blue winter wind. When will summer come again? Will I still be free when the summer comes or will I be held prisoner by $5 gas?

Word of the Week

"Whooptefriggindoo." - interjection; a slang term used as an intensifer of "whoopdedoo", normally in the context of extraordinarily overdone statements of fact or observation of excessive and unnecessary means.

I just discovered yesterday that Suzi has a cross-flow cylinder head design just like the old sixties Chrysler Hemi's and some BMW engines.

The deeper I dig into the background of this particular model of motorcycle, the more fascinating it gets.

The Metzeler Curse

Yesterday I found the THIRD nail in my rear tire I've had since buying new tires less than 1000 miles ago.  THIRD NAIL.  This begins to disturb me greatly.  Either I'm riding on the wrong roads, the tread pattern is such as to embed rather than reject bits of metal, or The Elephant just has taken a dislike to me.

Whatever it is, I'm losing patience. 

www.metzeler.com

Milestone

The Blue Wedgie Thing ticked over 15,000 miles today. The digital display blinked over in the gray light and water drops of a rainstorm over the 210 Freeway.

15,000 miles on a motorcycle is like, oh, 40,000 miles on a car, or whatever magic number it is in the automotive world when a vehicle goes from "new" to "used". Whatever mileage it is that's right after the first major service. So now I own a used bike. Another used bike.

Well, that's ok, because it has scratches on the side from being blown over in the wind, it has a couple of modifications that I have no intention of reverting and I intend to make more when I have money. And besides it's just a good kind of bike to own because it can do everything. It's gone across the country, it's scrabbled up horseback riding trails, it's forded streams and I ride it back and forth to work every day, rain and shine. It shields me from the pains of having to spend money on gas and insurance, and it's pretty to look at.

And it's still almost new.

"Spirit is knowledge; but in order that knowledge should exist, it is necessary that the content of that which it knows should have attained to this ideal form, and should in this way have been negated." On Religion, "Revealed Religion" - GWF Hegel.

The existence of spirit, or truth as abstract, and its subsequent negation by its being made determinate is the one of the few things I've been able to identify as a consistent thread in Hegelian dialectic.  The whole exercise has been very, very frustrating. I can't stand up and summarize this work in any kind of order, besides perhaps the three elements of religion he defines midway through the work.  I am really in over my head.  Way in.  This does not bode well for my future understanding of modern (post Vatican II) theology, and I'm not getting any encouragement from anyone.  "Why waste your time with this naturalist crap when you could be educating yourself on Newman or Thomas?!"

Oh yes. Naturalist.  That brings up another thing.  Jargon.

According to the dictionary on my Mac, the Oxford American Dictionary:

rationalism = The theory that reason rather than experience is the foundation of certainty in knowledge

existentialism = A philosophical idea or approach that emphasizes the existence of the individual person as a free and responsible agent determining their own development through acts of will.

empiricism = The theory that all knowledge is derived from sense-experience

naturalism = a philosophical viewpoint according to which everything arises from natural properties and causes and supernatural or spiritual explanations are excluded or discounted.

humanism = an outlook or system of thought attaching prime importance to human rather than divine or supernatural matters.

personalism = a system of thought that maintains the primacy of the human or divine person on the basis that reality has meaning only through the conscious mind.

phenomenalism = the doctrine that human knowledge is confined to or founded on the realities or appearances presented to the senses.

Have I missed any?

Just humming, sitting pretty in the wind, marking time and traffic.  No cops, no signs, no  (holyshitwhatisthat.  It looks 50 feet tall from here and bright as hell.  That's no fume burner, that's got to be a real fire.  Should I pull over and call 911?  It's so dark and that flame is lighting up the whole Santa Clarita Valley, there's no way five people haven't reported it yet.) Back to the road and the headlights.  I wonder if that's a real fire.  I wonder.  But I don't really care.

*slam* where do you think you're going, just where, huh?  Ten-thirty.  Check your watch, get up, go, get out of here, get down on that throttle and up to speed.  There's the cops and signs! And railroad tracks, and taillights, and civilization!

"In downtown Mexico City thousands of hipsters in floppy straw hats and long-lapeled jackets over bare chests padded along the main drag, some of them selling crucifixes and weed in the alleys, some of them kneeling in beat chapels next to Mexican burlesque shows in sheds..."

- Jack Kerouac, On the Road

Travel is like a fantasy, an empty, sometimes immoral but endlessly attractive dream?  Like small children we are drawn to it, not in malice but in curiosity because moving objects fascinate us and the sun lights the landscape in bold colors.  There is always something new to see and always something to ward off boredom, whether one sleepily realizes it or not.  The simplicity of life and its weaknesses and appetites, endless appetites are most easily found on the road.  

There is a book written about this and it is called "On the Road" by Jack Kerouac.  I'm going to go finish reading it.  It's awesome.

alone.  I'm the only one awake in the house.  Boyer's asleep in his own bed in his own room in his parents house.  Mr and Mrs have left for midnight mass, and I am left with the hum of the fridg, the gentle breeze from the ceiling fan, and the incessant whine of John's fricking computer fan. *unplug*

silence.

it's good for the psyche.

I distract myself cheerfully by conjuring memories of stained gray lit plastic snowmen, caved-in Santas and rags of lights drooping toothily from eaves.  The fog in the Central Valley blankets all in a cold damp embrace.  Another puke-brown California Christmas.  I'm trying to think of an appropriate quote from Southpark to insert here, but maybe Kakashi can supply me with the proper quote.  No, in fact I'm sure he can.  Something which mocks the phrase "puke-brown".

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

Emptiness means safety...

Twin orange ticked dials peer up at me from underneath water drops...the blue dot signifying "brights" casts a magenta aura from the windshield over everything.  As long as there is room to disappear, there is a place to hide.

two lines painted down the middle /

of the county road /

disappears like an old time riddle /

the black damp curtain of the night air washes up over my exposed neck and up my pants legs. I shiver in the cold underneath my stuffed clothing. The left side blinker wakes up.  blink. blink. blink.  No traffic in either direction.   No life, only silence and rain....the air smells of mud and damp sage.

would you pass the guitar around /

glare black twists around the naked white cliff as I let go the clutch.  The reflection of my approaching headlights shimmers a path straight into the rocks.  Swing it, swing the path towards that emptiness alongside the cliff...emptiness is good, it means safety.  If you can't see where you're going, you'll be all right.   The time to start worrying is when your future is staring you in your face like that granite friggin' cliff.

she took the girl left the cradle /

coffee spilled on the kitchen table /

it's been a long day.  Long, frustrated, ill and cold.  Forget it, leave me my wet road home and pocket full of bills and head full of nonsense, it's better that way....

(lyrics by Nancy Griffith, "Other Voices Other Rooms")

Illuminati Aptera. 340 mpg, expected cost $26,000. Hybrid powertrain, and two seats.

But I love the way it looks. Perhaps this car will do for the green car industry what Cirrus did for the aviation industry back in the late nineties. It has a striking resemblance to the Cirrus SR20, the light airplane that revitalized the dormant general aviation industry in 1998:

Cirrus still builds SR20's up in Duluth, MN and is working on a single-engine personal jet:


Pretty.

"Your blood-alchohol level is definitely over the limit.  You're not fit to drive, let alone write."

"What are you talking about?  I'm not drunk; I'm just a little tired.  Can't you tell a tired man from a drunk one?"  

Oh, I didn't know there was a difference. Sorry. I swing around the chair and face the opposite wall.  The computer screen glows purple on half the face I see reflected in the window glass.  The other half isn't there. I'm not drunk.  It's obvious.  I'm delirious.  Or something stupid like that.

The rain continues to fall outside the window, raindrops streaking the glass, slithering down where half the face should be.  The purple glows in the silence.  Somewhere in the background a quavering woman's voice echoes, singing, singing of a painful night behind the wheel, painful tears where happiness should have been found in the darkness and rain next to the freeway.

It's her own damn fault for not staying where she was and waiting patiently.  Screw her.  I turn back to the purple screen and alt-q.  The silence becomes deafening.  I get up from the desk chair, walk to the black window and peer out into the sheet of falling rain.  Take a deep breath.  Remember not to be foolish.  For the present is where reality lies, not in the past, no matter how vividly the past may be brought to life.  Those memories belonged to those times, were relevant to those times only, must not be dredged up from a contented grave...must not....they turn evil and consume all....

Peace and quite reigns in the grounds crew office as the entire crew is off taking finals and getting ready to leave for Christmas break.

I have a few minor chores to perform, four plant lists to finalize, an archive of plans to make.

The BMW dilemma is on the back burner for now. The owner is not in a rush to get rid of it. I'm thinking my original idea of starting out on Suzi was merited. If vehicles and the rebuilding thereof is to be part of my life, experience gained in working on a motorcycle first will be more rewarding than working on a car first.

Okay, so that differentiation stuff.

"According as the content of the notion or conception of God or consciousness is determined, so too is the attitude of the subject to him; or to put it otherwise so too is self consciousness in worship determined...."

"It was therefore a one-sided view if the natural theology of former times looked upon God as object of consciousness only...it could never in reality get beyond the idea of an essence. It was inconsistent, for if actually carried out it must have led to the other, the subjective side, that of self consciousness."

A notion defined by man determines an attitude of man; if self consciousness in worship is ignored, then does God become subjective. I'm not quite following this twist. Is it that familiarity breeds contempt; lack of respect for the notion of God leads man (who originates the conception) back to himself since lack of respect by defintion lowers the object to the same level (or lower) as oneself? Or is it simply that the presence of God as a concept (essence) only leads man who seeks to worship him back to himself (who originates the conception). Perhaps these two are not fundamentally different views.

"It is just as one sided to concieve of religion as something subjective only, thus in fact making the subjective aspect the only one. So regarded worship is absolutely sterile and empty; it's action is a movement which makes no advance, it's attitude toward God a relation to nullity, an aiming at nothing."

Reverse extrapolation from this paragraph can help me with the previous one. Advance (progress forward from one extreme to another) and relation (the being or state of advancing) are integral parts of cultus, then. So if God exists as essence, there can be no relation since 'essence' (object) is an extreme of a different kind from 'man' (subject). Advance from one to the next is then also impossible since comparison of two extremes varying in kind is impossible (apples and oranges). But I'm not sure that this is exactly what Hegel wishes to conclude in the first paragraph. There IS a Cartesian move taking place in here somewhere; I sense it.

So I have the opportunity to buy a 1976 BMW 2002 for cheap.

But my finances are such right now that I'd have to sell Suzi to do it.

They'd be about equally expensive to, ehem, fix up. Suzi would be a couple hundred cheaper, I'm guessing.

I'm not sure if I'm quite ready to own a four-wheeled vehicle again.

Not sure. But I must admit to myself that over the last couple of months I would not have been able to do without my roommate's car. A 3-drawer plastic cabinet simply cannot be strapped to a motorcycle. On the other hand I'm not buying 3-drawer plastic cabinets all the time. Additionally, Suzi costs me nothing to keep (insurance $23 a year), whereas this car would cost insurance just sitting there. I can begin work on her whenenver I have the money. On the other hand a car would be nice in the rain. On the other hand I harbor dreams of riding an old motorcycle across the country. On the other hand I could just as easily harbor dreams of riding an old BMW car across country - OH and it would SAVE ME MONEY ON MOTELS because I could SLEEP IN IT!!! On the other hand, cars are by definition bottomless pits of money, on the other hand motorcycles are only half of bottomless pits of money. Cars have an electrical system. BMW's have a crappy electrical system. Oh wait, Suzuki used Lucas electronics on its motorbikes so Suzi has an even worse electrical system. On the other hand the BMW electrical system is bigger and more complicated. On the other hand...oh help.

*pain and agony*

Lectures on the Philosophy of Religion

G.W.F. Hegel

What object we have before us in the philosophy of religion

I. The relation of the philosophy of religion to its presuppositions and to the principles of the time
1) The severance of religion from the free worldly consciousness
2) The position of the Philosophy of Religion relative to Philosophy and to Religion
a. The attitude of philosophy to religion generally
b. The relation of the philosophy of religion to the system of philosophy
c. The relation of the philosophy of religion to positive religion.
d. The relation of the Philosophy of Religion to the Current Principles of the Religious Consciousness
e. Philosophy and the Prevalent Indifference to Definite Dogmas
f. The Historical Treatment of Dogmas
g. Philosophy and Immediate Knowledge

3) Preliminary Questions
4) Division of the Subject
a. The General Notion or Conception of Religion
b. The Moment of Universality
c. The Moment of Particularity, or the Sphere of Differentiation
d. The annulling of the Differentiation, or Worship
e. Of Judgment, or Definite Religion
f. Revealed Religion

No, I'm not crazy. I really want to know what he thinks. I really care. Hegel is key. Without Hegel I will never attain the basic understanding of modern theology that I seek.

So prepare yourselves for a drier, healthier, less practical more theoretical more philosophical bent to this journal. The imagination has been joined by the mind. (It's about damn time, really.)

Further discussion on the Annulling of the Differentiation to come. I need to work this out.

"son of a BITCH!"

- Jack Bauer

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."

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...

Ladders. Lying in the back of pickup trucks, lying across the racks on utility trucks, dangling off the mounts on stake-side trucks. They're the #1 foreign-object threat to motorcyclists in California, statistically, especially on freeways. And so whenever at a stoplight I roll slowly toward the dusty bumper of Miguel's Landscaping 1-ton Ford (with expired registration), I check carefully to see if there any device firmly attaching the deadly six-foot hunk of aluminum to the truck.

If not, I grimace and change lanes as quickly as possible.

If there are tiedowns, I grimace and change lanes when convenient, or keep a loooong following distance (which has the beneficial side-effect of inviting another vehicle to move in front of me, intercepting the threat).

I think the rear tire on my blue motorcycle is almost shot.

oh gosh, it's 11:30 and I should be asleep in bed. Kakashi is a few feet away on the floor, pretending to sleep, and wondering what is so important that his roommate had to jump out of bed, disturb a quiet room by rustling his glasses off the shelf and shuffling his laptop out of his bag and tripping over his shoes and opening the laptop on his bed and filling the room with bright white light from the Apple symbol on the case. Blasted roommate. Ow.

All because said roommate had a thought about the view of the mountains and the sunset he got, up on the freeway across the arroyo. It was a oil-painted desert quiescent through the buffeting visor, and such views should really make one's day, instead of being taken for granted. Why do we take all this simple stuff for granted and then complain that life has no beauty? Do we not condemn ourselves to our own hell of pragmatism and economy?

The Angeles Forest lies along a spiny ridge defending the LA basin like a curled alligator. There is a road that snakes along this ridge, originating from the basin. Hy. 2, the Angeles Crest Highway, is its name. On this road there is a little blue speck crawling, all alone, from the heights of La Canada toward the crest. The speck travels around curve after curve until it becomes lost, with the road, in the trees and canyons.

The speck emerges finally at a junction. The Forest sweeps away and below to the left of it into an enormous valley, walled on the far side by blue mountains speckled with naked rock. Up and to the right, the Crest is only a few thousand feet away. The sign points to the right: Wilson Observatory. The speck dodges right and disappears again into the curves.

We see the speck again, parked and still, at the peak of a ridge with lots of buzzing electronic equipment and sundry domes of an astronomical observatory. There is a 75-foot tower tearing into the belly of the cumulus cloud that looked so fat and white from below.

Mist swirls about the tower and the surrounding trees. There is nothing to see. Below the flat parking area there is a milky abyss. I had hoped to get a view of the city; the air below was clear as a bell. But just my luck to have the mountaintop enveloped in the guts of some cloud. I sit down on a large rock and stare upwards at the roiling cotton fleece curling and boiling upon itself.

It was surreal, sitting there watching ridge turbulence rage just a few feet above my head. It was a sight fit for those Weather Channel fast-frame tornado shots, or for special effects in some movie. Special effects...that was it - I was sitting here in God's own special-effects studio watching the sky tear itself to pieces....crazy, absolutely crazy....

So, is it absolutely, imperatively necessary to live in a place with twisty roads to justify owning a motorcycle?

This question came to mind as I mulled over an old, old message from a very good friend who was contemplating selling his Suzuki SV650 (the first bike I ever drove; he probably has sold it by now; I should give him a call). The reason adduced for this was the flatlands of central Wisconsin don't afford much in the way of tilted pavement. "I don't have all the nice twisty roads you do, and I just don't ride it that much anymore". (Okay, there is more to the story: he's two years married and now has a little one and the greatest nemesis of the Rider is not safety or practicality or weather but marriage)

But I got to thinking: if southern California were all straight roads, would I quit riding?

Not by a long shot. It would be significantly less fun, since I wouldn't have the pleasure of pitting five or six forces of physics against each other simultaneously.

But not having twisty roads wouldn't change the way I see the landscape and smell the air any different. It wouldn't change the way I can bolt past any four-wheeled vehicle that isn't German or Italian, even though I only have 62 hp at command. It wouldn't change the fact that I can park wherever I damn please. And it wouldn't change the fact that I can go all week on twelve US dollars of fuel.

It has something to do with my bike and something to do with me. (Well the bike I have has something to do with me). But the fact that I don't own a hunkered-over crotch rocket but rather something that poises me in a relatively comfortable upright posture doesn't make me subconsciously need to be flicking through curves all the time. I sit on my backside, not on my hands - that makes a difference.

I enjoy the smells in the wind and the dusky mountains in the distance and the general vast openness of a world freed from window frames. I treat the experience like an artist, because that's how I think of it. Riding slow lets me see that stuff more easily than if I'm concentrating with every fiber of my being on lines and apexes and brake points. Not that I don't get a thrill out of such stuff, but most average days on the average ride home from work I'm too tired to push the limits. But not too tired to feel the cold wind evaporating at least 70% of stress from my body....

I swerved into the left lane and bumped up over the entrance ramp in the gloom. The Shell station didn't look much different than it did at night, though it was seven in the morning and I was still in that state of rough drowse that precedes waking. A gray day, a possibly wet day...

I rolled down onto the floodlit pump pad and sat there until I finally got the transmission wiggled into neutral. gah. wet. I found my debit card and slid it into the slot on the wall of shining red and white plastic that was the pump face.

"Hi, it's good to see you!" oh shut up "Welcome to Shell!"

I removed my card.

"Hey, it's good to see you!" PLEASE! "Welcome to Shell! You can start saving immediately with every purchase you make on the Shell Card! Apply Now!" Yes, yes, I feel welcome. It's that little "hey" at the beginning of the second greeting, otherwise identical to the first. I feel special. I, a valued customer, have a special weakness for CREDIT CARDS at SEVEN IN THE MOTHERFREAKING MORNING!

The voice was echoing from the 14" TV screen mounted above the pump face, up and out of my peripheral view. The unnaturally synthesized voice cackled on through the floodlights. "And today! In Hollywood, the Bionic Woman discusses her thoughts on what it's like to be...the Bionic Woman..."

I can't wait to get out of here. The tank bubbles full, and a drip of fuel evaporates on the edge of the filler hole as I jerk the pump handle out of the tank and jam it back into its slot. I close the cap, flick the switch back on, hit the starter button and rev the v-twin to drown the artificial voice. Just another day in the middle of another week in the middle of another month in the clean, peaceful city of Moorpark in the Republic of California...where the skies are blue every day (except today), every child has Kellogg's for breakfast and every mom has a clean minivan...

I found a few new Kaplansky songs online and am listening to them. Listening to Lucy Kaplansky makes me want to learn to play the guitar and sit out under the stars and sing grimly romantic songs.

Suzi was idling strangely on the way home from work. You know when a friend hollers something up the stairs they would never say: that's what the idle burble sounded like. I thought to myself, peering under the tank at a stoplight about to turn green: crap now what fell apart in there. I revved the motor expecting a clatter.

Got to adjust those valves and sync those carbs, or stop riding the friggin' thing, one of the two.

The burble went away. Maybe dirt in the fuel.

Today was Monday and it should have been a bad day. In fact it was a bad day except I insulated myself from it by playing hooky from the office and getting myselif all green and grimy mowing wet grass. Gosh I don't want to talk to anyone anymore.

And I need to find a permanent pillion. Oh no, wait - girlfriends mean responsibilities and junk like that. I'm not there, simply not there yet. "I never thought I'd end up here - guess all the best things disappear..." I like seeing the world on my own two wheels with nobody to screw up the balance, I hate seeing the word only through my own two eyes, I like seeing the world with nobody to answer to, I hate seeing the world with no one to give it to, I like seeing the world with nobody to whack their faceshield on the backside of my helmet everytiime I shift, I hate seeing the world with no one to take pictures of standing next to it..."I'm falling like a leaf from the family tree / don't need you the way you need me"...."remembering a song from long ago, it's round and round that's the way things go / way things go / way things go..." (guitar lick)

You get what you pay for...reap what you sow...what goes around comes around...we clutch at a home or a job to get us some security but the whirlwhind of consequences grapples and drags us and sweeps us along its hellbent path...

I just got to ride a fast Italian piece of machinery.

It was a Ducati Monster 900 with Staintune duals. My gosh, what a redefinition of "v-twin exhaust note". What a redefinition of v-twin, period! Now I know what a v-twin with character is like, and my Blue Wedgie Thing is not such an one. By comparison it sounds like it's shouting through handkerchief on hard throttle, whereas this Staintuned Duke had a seriously open throated, healthy blatter.

That exhaust note hurt my chest, and was turning heads all the way down the block.

I felt like I had stolen a Ferrari and gotten away with it. It was awesome. Everything about the machine from the dry racing clutch to the spot neutral steering felt exotic.

My apologies to all Ojai denizens who were extremely annoyed by the inconsiderate jerkface crawling down the street at 15 mph blipping the throttle and rattling their superfood drinks. But he was having fun. I don't think any motorcycle has put such a smile on my face since I bought Suzi, which would be about ten months ago.

10,500 miles on the blue wedgie-thing.

yeeaaahhh.....

And it hasn't even been a month.

The trip went well, but as I expected I was wound too tight on smooth driving pay attention whether I was having fun or not (and failed to drive smoothly). There were those " this is really cool" moments, though...

The Rock Store was cool. I enjoyed supper. The food was insanely expensive, but good!

Now I want to get a few more dudes out there with their girls and make it a bigger group. Once a month or so, let's have a Homeschool Distortion gang ride. That would rule.

Sunset on the beach, with two ladies both lovely and brave...

...looking forward to a spin along the Mulholland this weekend...I'll have company in the form of Toque and honey on his XJ600 and I'll have a first-timer with me riding pillion.

My gosh, I'll have to psyche myself for this business of having some fun. Fun is not something I acquire: it's something that is given to me, and not always when I expect it. Just another eccentricity of mine. I work. I can make myself work. Can't in a million years make myself have fun and hey: there's already something awry when it's a question of "making". So, people, if I'm not in the mood to love the world this weekend, I'm going to be one smooth-shifting autopilot with a camera and a plastic smile. (At least pillion will have fun. She has no problems there)

I know how you feel
no secrets to reveal
nobody knows me at all
and very late at night
and in the morning light
nobody knows me at all

- The Weepies

It was spotted with hard water stains, but cleaner than when I brought it in.

The blue Zuk was parked in the shade over next to the building. I walked over, swung into the saddle and sat there staring at the blank LCD instrument panel. As much as I enjoy driving Suzi back and forth to work, the thought of combustion leaking through a broken head gasket and a trail of oil drops along the way makes me squirm.

A switch of the key, thumb of the button and the V-twin is chugging at 1200 rpm. Sounds the same it always has. Let's see, the invoice here says...filter element, 10w40 - good, NGK plugs - good...and three hours of time for a total of 200 bucks. Not great, but acceptable. This is reality, after all. Tapping with the hammer is one thing, but knowing where to tap costs about 80 dollars an hour these days. I should be a motorcycle mechanic.

*flop* The jacket and gloves go down on the seat, and I carefully balance the helmet on top of them. No, I should put it on the ground. I can't have it falling and getting damaged. I set the helmet on the pavement.

I fumble my phone out of my pocket and speed dial Kakashi.

"Hey, I was just about to call you."

"Yeah, um, where are you?"

"Ahhhhh.... (Terry Pratchett and traffic noise fill the background) ....hhhhh...just south of Santa Barbara."

Dammit.

"Well, I needed a ride to go pick up my bike from the dealership, but they close at six, and you're what, an hour and a half away, so obviously there is no chance you'll be back by then."

"I haven't hit the Santa Barbara traffic yet and I'm on the 101. How was the traffic on your way down?"

"The 118 sucked, as usual. **** I hate the 118. And yes you are going to catch hell once you get south of S-B. Whatever. I'll call the guy and say I'll pick it up tomorrow."

"You'll have to do that cause I ain't gonna be home before seven, buddy."

No, you're not. Dammit. And I have no other options, either! I live out in this mothereffing neck of the woods where I don't know anybody and have no options...How long will it take to walk...no, forget that, it's 5:30 already. Forget it. I'm going to go take a shower and sign out for the night. I'll get there when I get there, the dealer will just have to understand that...

(don't get me wrong, I'm quite grateful to have a free bed, but this has got to end)

I love old metal like I love old leather boots. It's seen the weather and the pounding and has survived the toil. Everytime I downshift Suzi at a stop sign I feel the old steel cogs slipping apart and slipping together; or rather, I don't feel them. Parts mating and meshing and revving in their old worn tracks, chain and cams humming through their patina of oil. Riding the Sharp Blue Number every day makes me forget how comfortable aged machinery is. It exudes a bit of that teenager insecurity.

I have a bad feeling about this, this whole thing about where I'm living, what I'm doing...

Too much TV, not enough GRE, and nowhere to put my feet up. The temptation to go rent a motel for a week has never been stronger. I'm collecting parts but not installing them; wasting time and not doing anything about it; brooding on the past and not moving ahead. Why should one try to know oneself if not for the purpose of improving on who one is? Why do old impractical dreams never die? Why does making money taste so bad? Everything in my life is perfect except I have no structure and no home; what do I have to complain about? Nothing, really.

Why do I miss life, when living it is so impractical, so hard to justify, so contrary to first principles? Where did my first principles come from?

9,200 miles on the blue wedgie-thing that doesn't have a name.

Hot damn.

I'm gonna have 10,000 miles on this thing before another month is out, just watch me.

Anniversary

I've kept this odd journal not only alive but healthy for a whole year now.

gosh, what has changed.

And what hasn't changed?

They are gone, dreams drifting on a wisp of smog curling down the freeway. Smiling hazel eyes, a laugh fades into distance, a holographic memory across a room. I want to kick myself for remembering. Kick myself.

It's brooding, it's...not leaving the past behind...a past that lied to me, I lied to myself...

The shining river of grooved pavement rattles rhythmically conjuring a memory of a burgundy hoodie and a dark brown head bent over a pencil...

...lied to myself...

You'd think I'd learn a lesson about reality, after once or twice. But over and over like this...there is no hope, no excuse for this strange insanity. Romantics are the curse of the earth.

If one gets out of life what one puts into it, which one does, then the vacuum when established is as insatiable as a jet intake.

"I don't know how to SWITCH OFF!"

- Sgt. Nicholas Angel, Hot Fuzz

I stand outside the window let the ash rain down
I can't see the sun and you can't see the rain
place your hand on the window glass it doesn't cover mine
keep looking past my shoulder let the ash rain down

Homeless

I am now a footloose drifter living out of laundry baskets....well, not quite sleeping on a park bench but sleeping at my roommates aunt's house for the next month....

Ride #2

Shinier than the day it was new.

2007 Suzuki V-Strom, flogged halfway across the country from California to Minnesota and back in June. Now has just over 6,000 miles on it.

(and before you ask, no, it's not got a proper name nor is it likely to get one anytime soon. There is something dramatically unromantic about brand new plastic motorcycles)

Ibuprofen, a drink, and a smoke. Where did I put the damn bottles?

gah. Why do I want to be an architect? Why does my head hurt? Why is it my fault?

The sun is filtering redly through a smear of brown across the sky.

Controlled burn. I breathe deeply testing for smoke; it isn't there.

A dry summer; I've wondered that the DNR hadn't started doing this earlier...

The clutch slides gently closed under his open leather fingers and smoke billows from the rear wheel. The tach needle swings upward and then drops as the tire melds with asphalt and then

launches

the bit of red and black metal hurtles forward, its rider crouched tightly over the bars. Iridiscent warped blue gauges reflect off the chromed visor - he has morphed into a metallic animal, left foot flicking hydraulically each time the tachometer needle crosses the redline.

One red light

two
three
fourfivesixseveneight

the more I run the more the scenery stays the same

"I think I should start looking for another job."

"What why are you doing all right?"

"The pressure's getting to me. We go around in the afternoon
I get up in the morning and say good morning and snap off the orders
blah blah blah and then, all right LET'S DO IT.

And we go

It is one thing to set the bridge on fire.

It is another thing to stand there and watch it burn.

"What did you do?"

"Why are you doing this? Why?"

because it makes sense

screech

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.