LIST OF STUFF I need to get:

(I) Head

(a) cam chain

(b) cam chain tensioner

(c) cam chain guide

(d) cam end cap screws (originals chewed :))

(e) get messed bolt hole helicoiled

(II) Cylinders/Bottom End

(a) piston rings

(b) countershaft seal

(c) oil pump rebuilt

(III) Body/Frame/Electrical

(a) regulator/rectifier

(b) new turn sigs.

(c) new plug wires

....seems there might be something I'm missing....

GOOD NIGHT!

THERE IS A F***ING BEE UNDER MY SHIRT!

hazards

pick a shoulder

THIS *******ING ******* ********* ************

******* ***** ******ING******

neutral kickstand switchoff biting tongue wait for oncoming traffic wait PULL SHIRT FLAPPING JACKET

little ******ER ***********

I did my best to disconnect from my accustomed telemetry mode and look up from the tachometer and straighten up from the road every once in a while.  In between turns I snatched glances into the yawning gulfs in the distance.  I wished I was riding passenger and not having to drive; even smog ridden, the emptinesses framed by twisted granite castles were grand.  Images flooded in, from a half forgotten anime movie...sunbursts of colored rock, towering pyramidal fastnesses.  I arced round cliff after cliff, expecting at any turn to find a steam-powered blimp hanging in midair.

The road elevation signs kept reading higher and higher. 6000, then 7000 feet.  The air was cold, the birds twittered in the silence, the asphalt hummed beneath the tires.

California 2, at least the western part, is basically 45 miles of linked sweepers along the crest of the Angeles Forest mountains above LA (Sierra Madres?)  The pavement is smooth and of high quality, so that where there are no rocks on the road, an expert rider can hold sustained speeds of 75-80 mph.  But there are usually rocks on the road, and few of us motorcyclists are truly expert at lines and brake points, myself included.

So I'm usually to be found puttering along somewhere in the vicinity of speed limit in the far right wheel-track, waving people by one group after the next.  (When nobody is looking though I will find a nice low gear and dive into a curve, grinding a little bit more off my boot toe.  Like that group of green fish I got stuck with in a long curve.  I was uncomfortable letting them pass me in that curve, so applied the lash and dug in tight.  I bet there's a visible bootmark all-ll the way through the apex.  It's amazing how much grip a worn-out, leaking Tourance rear tire can muster)

Even cruising along, I'm struck by how different one's impression of the world is at succeeding 30 degree angles of bank.  One may get a GREAT view of the bottom of the canyon because there one is, hanging over the edge of it.  One becomes very intimate with all the little bits of debris along the side of the road and one wonders to oneself what their stories are - discarded camera batteries, childs' tennis shoes.  Redwood trees smell much different from sagebrush and scrub at the lower altitudes; the air smells very different.  And of course on the other side, the sky side, there is the coldly iridiscent mackerel sky, the Face of the Earth sculpted in granite glowering down upon one.  (That's all the stuff one sees before one slows down some more and begins applying imagination and memories from the aforementioned anime-movies to the scenery....)

I read stuff and find great quotes that I say to myself: "I have to post that on my blog sometime" and then I forget and don't.

Which is appropriate because no one reads this blog for quotations from books.

Although its content might be more substantial if quotations from books were its content, as opposed to filler posts like this one.

I'm still trying to figure out a good three-week adventure for a vacation this summer.  It has to be road-trip-ish.  It has to go to places far away.  It has to be fun.  It should make me a better human being and educate me on the great truths of the universe.  And so forth.

Only in California.....

....on Highway 126 may one be half asleep in the car, the pop station wailing in the background, when a good friend breaks the silence to announce that the singer is the goddaughter of his father and that this particular song held #1 on Itunes.com for six weeks straight.....

"Heh. Hehehehehehehehehehhhhh."

"Heh."

"You've lost it."

(silence.  I know.)

"hehh."

When will I realize that I'm really not that funny, and that people only smile and laugh because they care about my feelings and they don't want to see the expression on my face that would result from an honest expression of their feelings. Am I the only one out there who holds this opinion? If so, it doesn't matter.  Why? In the end it's irrelevant.  Experience tells me it's more relaxing to be unfunny and ignore the fact.  Kind of like someone trying to imitate a retard, but with no malicious intent.  But the attempt must remain just that, an attempt; for success would turn me into a comedic character (comedians imitate retards successfully).

Day 3

Day 4

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

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

Day 2

Sleep.

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

More sleep.

Day 1

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

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

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

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

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

...won't rain...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- Walter, "The Big Lebowski"

For sale; baby shoes, used once.

 - Ernest Hemingway

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

....

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

time does not erode necessity

friendship exists for a purpose

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

words, containers, perception, mistaken human opinion

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

So, what good is history?

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

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

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

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

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

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

What if everyone rode motorcycles?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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