I'd forgotten something, which I didn't remember until I pulled off the road on the way back from Pine Mountain.  The overrun extended a bit out into midair, a corner cliff projected into space.  I could see the whole valley from there, the deserted ribbon of pavement winding itself down, down and around into the canyons of the Sespe Wilderness.  The sun was setting and the valley bathed in yellow haze.  I had to smile.  My mind was clear of all the detritus that city-bound life had filled it with; my reflexes fresh and sharp from fifteen miles of gravel-and-sand strewn pavement and cold gusty winds.  I couldn't remember what led me out here, but now that I was out here, it sure felt good.  It felt good to wrap the v-twin out to something north of 7,000 rpm.  It felt good to grind off another layer of rubber from the toes of my boots.  (The Pirelli Scorpion is definitely the tire to get next time, by the way.  I think I have a winner.  Proper tip-in, proper progressive stick).  It felt good to play sportbike for a while and remind myself that some day I will upgrade the suspension.

Reflexes are strange things.  You train yourself to react to the corner, to the rocks and branches and tumbleweed and whatever appears round the bend.  But you sit above your reflexes, supervising them, guiding them, seeking to construct a flow from *brake*, *downshift* *roll on*, *roll off again*  There is a definite flow, but like life it is always changing shape.  The perfect riding line is a myth, a spectre, always changing always leading you on.  In your pursuit you lose everything else in the rearview mirror and if you're lucky you'll remember only what was important...

I ought to update this thing every once in a while.

But like an old car wrapped in plastic and left in the backyard, I expect to forget about my blog except on those rare occasions I feel impelled to say something.  And those occasions have become pretty rare.  I guess that means that I am doing rather than saying; and doing is good.

I called darii on Saturday; we talked movies for a while and at the end of the talk I said something to the effect of "screw it, I'm coming up there and we're going to go watch Coraline".  And I did.

I threw a few things into a backpack, swung it into the tailcase, spent a minute or two fiddling with my rain pants, and took off into the gray evening (it's gonna rain) without a second thought.  I kinda miss just taking off halfway across the state just at random; I have too many rationalizations these days to justify such harebrained action.

Three hours later I was up at the house, and we were laughing and drinking and messing about just like old times.  It was good.  We hit up a 10 pm showing of the movie and it was the first time I'd ever been in an empty theater with one friend.  We took full advantage of the opportunity to talk, loudly and irreverently, throughout the whole weird movie.

Yeah, I miss doing stuff of this ilk.  You get old, you get sane, and life just isn't fun anymore...

Large fusion reaction in western sky blotting out all visible objects with its overpowering radiance. Heavy traffic emerging from the center of the inferno, whipping by on either side. Squinting doesn't help see stuff.  Curses, curses on picking this time of day, or night.  There is supposed to be an intersection coming up here somewhere but be damned if I can see it.  Oh.  There's the barber shop off to the right.  Intersection should be right here.  Should...be....

Red light = 1.

Motorcyclist = 0.

Red light = 1.  A long honk lashes the air.

Motorcyclist = WTF.  Glances at the mirrors. Burnt retinas make out the receding glow of a red traffic signal.  Not cool. People die doing stuff like that.  Death by inattention, it's called.  So ladies and gents, wake up if you want to live, yeah?

(and sunglasses can help with that sometimes too)

Ventura is so beautiful at night from that little turnoff of Foothill where I didn't dare stay more than five minutes with my lights shut down and visor open.  Too much traffic. Some passing meddler would call me in..."I'm seeing some suspicious activity by the avocado orchard, yeah it's a biker just sittin' there, lights are all off, must be waitin' to meet somebody"

I'm in no mood to deal with inquisitive cops right now....no mood at all...

beautiful and the stars are out and it's ice cold, the aloe are coated with frost...

It is late at night, and the world is a horrible place full of panic.  I should go for a motorcycle ride to nowhere.  They can't follow me or find me there, as long as I keep moving, as long as I keep the brights on....Where?  Which nowhere?

*grasps helmet*

Streams of water dribble from the crack in the roof edge; the silent patter of rain trickles into the gutter and washes out of sight. (Dammit for not waking up at exactly the right time! Why did she have to leave early today?!) I work the cover off the bike, one corner at a time, helmet and sticky gloves in the other hand. (Should have wiped all that excess mink oil off these). The helmet goes on the seat, and I squeakily bend down to unlatch the padlock from the rear wheel and straighten up, vinyl stretching and squeaking everywhere. Cold air washes through the carport, cold air smelling of damp citrus leaves. (I hate wearing all this vinyl. hate it. but it keeps me dry, so I shant' complain). I pick up the helmet and shove it down over my face *flthlppp* snapping the visor closed like an astronaut about to perform a spacewalk. Which, in some removed sense, I am. The wet atmosphere is hostile to core temperature and early morning consciousness.

I glance briefly at the clean motorcycle, soon to become muddy and dirty, and then slide over the seat, squeaking. We'll see how good the new Scorpion S/T is in the wet and nasty. I back over the gutter and the little waterfall hits me in the back of the neck, inducing shivers. Have I never mentioned that I am NOT a fan of riding in the rain. If I were in Oregon I would hate my life, for sure....

The chain of stoplights along Harvard Boulevard slowly blink red, beginning far, far away and sequencing backward. Something about the dusk haze of 3 hours of running around tending to all the little scattered chicks makes me want to twist the throttle and leave things behind for a few hours.  That and remembering past lives and not being able to sleep.  I'm not awake enough now; the afternoon was long and I am drowsy.  And here I am at the carport already, good grief. The motorcycle ticks over quietly to itself.  I cut the ignition.  Do I really not want to go anywhere? Should I lock it...I lock it. Cover it.  Start walking, gloves in hand.  Tonight, not the night for aimless and desperate wandering.

It's Thursday and I'm not looking forward to Monday, sort of like one doesn't look forward to the last curve at the end of the road because one is so exhausted from negotiating all the previous ones...

...my motorcycle is in the garage, without a rear wheel, waiting for a final-drive chain, so I am in a very, very foul mood. This is why I need to own more than one vehicle, so that my abilities to get about continue uninterrupted. Life cannot be lived, staying in one place.

I dread getting old.

SO I'm a Californian now.

I went home for Christmas and it wasn't home anymore.  That's how I know.

(Oh well, we all have to grow up someday.)

It sure was nice to have some peace and quiet for two days straight, though.  To be able to walk outside and hear nothing but silence,  DEAFENING SILENCE, and the distant gobble of wild turkeys.

"ya didn't get to heaven but you made it close, you made it close"

-Coldplay

31,000 miles.

Nein problems. (well, ok rattly cam chains, but that doesn't count)

Suzukis rule.

Annoying fact about sequential gearboxes: you can't downshift from 6th into 1st.

This is annoying chiefly when traffic comes to a smoking halt on the uphill freeway, and all one's attention is focused on stopping at the expense of shifting.  And then one is left, stock-still, while everyone begins to move off on their merry way.  And one ignominiously struggles off to the left side of the road and works the throttle and shifter until such gear is reached that one may actually move.  By this time traffic is moving at a goodly clip next to one's right shoulder and one hopes and prays everything clogs to a stop again, so that one may rejoin the stampede.  And then (a gap!!) one loses patience and performs a spectacular redline merge, bits of retread and litter flying in all directions.

bleach.

yeah, the solvent kind.

My hands smell like bleach.  (Had to scrub a sidewalk)  And that smell is penetrating...

I finally got around to ordering and installing the Suzuki gel seat for the DL.  Long, long overdue.  It feels like a different bike now, really, now that I don't feel like I'm sitting in a tree crotch.  Distances are now tolerable without ibuprofen.  And damn, the new seat just looks classy.  Slick, stylish fabric on the drivers half with elegant stitching all round the passenger accomodations.  It looks almost handmade. Almost.

Yeah, yeah it's getting there.  What amazes me about this motorcycle is that is has been perfectly acceptable bone stock for over a year and a half, and 30,000 miles.  The slightest addon's and modifications are necessary, and when made, seem to make a vast difference in the quality of living.  The electrical headlight switch relay boosted the headlight output by a good 40%; the Givi top box added all the practicality I need; the crash bars saved the radiator recently; the centerstand needs no explanation and now the seat makes it seem like I got cranky and fed up with the stock seat and replaced it, like any loving owner would.

Now all I need is handguards and to spend 3 minutes with a screwdriver and raise the windscreen...

oh yes, and I need to wash the damn thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, and now of motorcycle tires.

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

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

So far then, we have:

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

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

The search continues...

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

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

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

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

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

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