Behind Bars - Life. Motorcycles.

Sorry I called you a Yeti

2012-02-23T14:51:00.000+01:00

Istumbled into the living room last weekend while my wife was Skypingwith her family, which means I entered the conversation. Now, it'snot like I was at a dinner party and cornered by the annoyingneighbors, this was just family, and they couldn't see me –so I could have backed out quickly and gracefully if I hadn't frozenup like a cheap air conditioner, but my pause let Kelsiespot me, her eyes full of the love light inspired by one of twoscenarios: 1. You're in the first hour Grace Period ofa visit to your relatives, or 2. You're thousands ofmiles away. She looked up at me and said, “Oh, did you come tochat, too?”

“Oh,ha ha. Chat? Of course I did, because I love you a million! I wasn't just looking for my mug, nope.I came to talk to family, good husband that I am!”

It'snot that I have anything against the in-laws, we get along quitewell, and other than the fact that our Skype and phone conversationsgenerally are built around, “Well, we don't know much more...”followed by tongue clicking, a short pause, then a fifteen minutestory (rinse, repeat,) I have no complaints. This particular day,however, I felt as social as an arthritic cat in a room full oftoddlers, but I inserted myself. It may sound like pandering givenall the shit I've probably slung in this installment, but I do like talking to them, providedI can keep them on topic. (My father-in-law houses my three motorcycles, and is the proud owner of abrand new K1600, fresh off the German presses,” and as luck wouldhave it (for me and my sociability,) he's ridden it every month sinceit arrived back in October and going to try to go for every monththis year. It's easy to keep the topic to motorcycles.

I know what you're saying in Texas and southern California, “Wow!Every month! How remarkable!”to which I respond, “Shut your fat, stinky gobs.” I know howsnarky you can be, you Texans, with your sun, and your dry heat, andyour... Austin. (Seriously Texans, what else is down there? I don'tknow how to deliver a good-natured hard time...) It's warm in thesouth, I get it. Up North, not so much. We're built for somethingdifferent. People overload and drop lifeless at 79 Fahrenheit, and they peel off alayer of clothing and hover around the A/C when the mercury creepsover 66. In fact, my brother once sobbed for a week when thetemperature stayed over 90. (That's an out and out lie, but I want tosee if he still reads.) Minnesotans, South Dakotans (and the like) haveblood that freezes at the same temperature as vodka, and skin thatsmokes at 84 degrees. They don't handle heat well. Which explains whynortherners have such a pervasive fear of the firesof hell while frozen plains elicit shrugs. Kind oflike an extended winter? Is there ice fishing? No? Well, I'll bring my knitting then.

“So!”you say, “I get it,northerners handle cold, not heat, which makes them as tough asfrozen turds! So... why is it impressive to ride all winter if it'sdone by one of these hardcore yeti?” Because it gets cold – likesurface of Uranus cold. (Ha, Uranus,) and I love to love the K1600,the new techno-marvel has traction control so he's likely blastingthrough drifts of snow at 80 mph. Plus, that fairing redirecting theclouds of methane gas around your body. BMW has done some damned nice work there, so nice, that if you could maintain 132mph (and had alarge enough tank) you could drive to the Azores under theAtlantic and stay dry, the K1600 fairing would keep you in an insulated pocketof air for the entire trip. That same pocket of air helps to push thefrozen wasteland air around you.

Plus, there's the stereo, and the storage... and the heated grips. And heated seat. And heated gear. A plug in jacket of allthings.

Actually, you know what, scratch that, I think he's riding in thecab of an Easy Bake Oven powered by a straight six.

Alright, still. When I wander into the living room (apparently forgetting which room is thebathroom) and find them mid-conversation, there is always a topic ofconversation, because he's always just gone somewhere... Hey,I drove Beemer to Nebraska last weekend to look at some woodworkingtools. Or, Hey, Idrove the Beemer to Wisconsin to look at some lumber. I drove toCanada to check on a horizontal mill, to California for breakfast, orto the moon to check on some rocks. Itworks.

Even as I sit pining for my Connie('09 Kawasaki Concours) or even myit-won't-quite-die-in-spite-of-my-best-effortsHonda ('78 Honda cb550k) I've got a good topic of conversation and alittle taste of the life. So,I don't mind when he says he took my F650GS ('06) two-up on the fieldroads into town. That's what it's there for, and dammit, if Iwere there, I would be doing theexact same thing. If I can't ride, I at least want to hear about it.I want to hear about that and chunk of land in northwestern SouthDakota that he recently found (no doubt while checking on a newlathe) that would be perfect for a couple of F650GSes, and that itwouldn't be so bad for a guyto pick up his own GS and ride on up there. Vicarious living, pipedreams and smiles, sure, and I'm pretty sure that during the wholeconversation the pixelated eyes of of my mother-in-law seated next tohim rolled back so far that she could see her own thoughts –another motorcycle?!

Heymay be as serious about buying a GS as Donald Trump is about hismarriages, or his hair, but we get along because of it, and so long as they keep spinning yarns about bad weather and good riding I won't mind blundering in on a conversation.

Motorcycle Mind Control and Pretty Pictures

2012-02-16T11:41:00.001+01:00

This week I would like to pass along special thanks to the boys (and girls) at the forum http://forums.sohc4.net/, I asked for some photos for this week's posting and they really came through. I owe 'em. I've spent a lot of hours there and gotten a lot of help keeping my old beast on the road. Thanks.

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Ioften wax on like a slathering, lobotomized fanboy about my '78 HondaCB550K. There are many explanations for this, but my favorite comesfrom “The Hubcap Man.” He owned The Hubcap Store of Heaven,appropriately, and claimed thatsuch a sanctified station gave him insight into a great many things –not the least of which was the knowledge that if you had ever, ever,by anyone in your entire life (at any time) received an injection,you then carried a microchip in your bloodstream capable of a greatmany things, including tracking your movements, your thoughts andcontrolling your opinions. The only solution was to eat a very strictdiet to alter the chemistry of your blood (turning it alkaline,) amonths-long process that would liberate you from the oppression ofgovernment mind control.

Ifthe government has access to this kind of technology, then surelymany established corporate enterprises also have developed their own(proprietary) microchips. So this is my theory. Mind control. Becausemost days it makes as much sense as any other theory, andit puts me at ease with myobsessions and indiscretions, I can blame Honda. I also like it because it's quite clever on the part of the company, because let's be honest, if it came down to a livinglife with a mind-control microchip or three months substitutingquinoa for sausage, I'd keep the microchip.

(Forthe record, I think they got me when I donated blood behind a Hondadealership in Virginia in the spring of '08. The white tent had a bigred cross on it and a long line of people, but I've grown to mistrustanyone who fits the letter U into “Blood Drive.”)

Iknow what you're thinking. Steffl, that sounds absurd. You're talkinglike a crazy person. I know! Why would a microchip make you likemotorcycles from the 70s? Why not new motorcycles. I know! But I think I've got it sorted. I figure by the time Iwas up they ran out of 'good' chips and I got a holdover, a less-sophisticated (and probably much larger) mind control device from the 70s. I imagineit's wandering around in my cortex like a roving cat, blocking bloodflow to various parts of my brain (ask my wife) and shooting motorcycle images directly into my synapses like alaser light show on the ceiling.

Crazy?Overblown? Stupid? Of course! But, what else couldcompel a grown man to buy a machine that, at best, copies the styleof the sexier British. (A word pairing that I expect will not be usedagain for some great length of time.) What else could compel a man to buy a machine that is more expensive than something morereliable? Why would anyone want to buy a motorcycle balanced like atumor-studded turnip, a motorcycle with the power-to-weight ratio ofa Hoveround, or a motorcycle that smokes like it's baffled with LuckyStrikes? And why all the question marks? (???)

Idon't know, therefore,mind control. Because I've passed up prettier machines, betterexamples of history, and more powerful machines (ones so powerfulthey would make me shit myself faster than a high-powered suppositoryand box of bran flakes.) The whole situation has nothing to do withlogic. (Then again, after last week's gentle tirade on the Americanobsession with safety, I think motorcycles have a tenuous grasp on logic. At least, I'm seeing myself that way.)

Mylove for these bikes makes no sense, but I'm not alone I have myHonda - the Boulder,(often seen written [Expletive] Boulder - )but I also have a community of illogical, irrational (possibly braindamaged) men and women willing to put enjoyment above even our ownsafety who feel the exact same way. It goes well beyond that, too.(Ahem: Riepe has hisFireballs and his MacPac, Mr. Chang has his Yoshie anda whole group of tug cyclists, and Keith has his Billy andthe whole world of scooterdom.) When we all die early from heartattacks, we'll be able to (from our death beds) point the finger atour favorite marques and their errant microchips clogging our arteries, andadequately deny that it had anything to do with all the sausage and, of course we wouldn't change it.

Welike the illogical joythat a chance encounter with another, similar craft inspires becausethere is a deep connection there, the motorcycle becomes more than avehicle. It's part hobby, part art, part relic, part savior, partlifestyle – that and about a million other things. Each person candivide it up in his or her own way, but it's both personal and shared.

Forme, that old machine represents something else, too. A kind of people who wantto take things into their own hands, renaissance men who want tounderstand and connect and build and know. It's also a connection toanother time. To another zeitgeist,the spirit of another age. Motorcycles represent this in a wayuncommon to most other material objects. Their styling has little to dowith function, their power has little to do with practicality. They're overblown, fun, crazy and impractical, They're full of the spirit and the feel and the opinions of a particular time just as much as they're full of the old cliches, freedom, spirit, open road. You can see all of that in a machine from the past or present, and mind control or not, if you understand the language the lines of a particularmachine and it can speak to you like a photograph or a well-writtenstory. You can feel things beyond the sum of the parts, beyondthe sum of your senses – something in your heart and soul and mind.Something illogical that lives in you, unmasterable like a chronicdisease. But let's face it, wherever we picked up the bug, from a brother, a magazine, or a shady blood drive, we don't wantto get rid of it.

But, isn't it Dangerous?

2012-02-09T14:07:00.000+01:00

Afive-year-old boy walked up to me a few years back, his face grippedin seriousness. He looked up at me and said, “Brady, motorcyclesare dangerous!” This fact, I'm sure, was recently revealed to himby his grown ups, and of course, it's true. I couldn't help but laughas I told him, “Yes, they are.”

Iwasn't laughing at him– I imagine I laughed like Santa Claus would laugh (if he werereal, of course) if the boy had asked him “Is Christmas Busy?” Inspite of my levity, the boy remained level, curious, and asked, “Thenwhy do you do it?” He was very serious, his face bunched tight inthe confusion only experienced by children who are trying tounderstand the paradox of adulthood. The confusion stemming from thebeginnings of logic – It's dangerous. I'm not supposed to dodangerous things. Why do youdo it? He might as well ask the big man in the red suit the samequestion, or ask it of their parents why they pretend he's real(particularly since this was at a Jewish school). Why do you doit?

Thefat man needs to leavepresents as much as zombies have to eat brains and politicians haveto lie. It's what makes them who they are, it's what fills theirlives, it's in their nature – just as it was in the nature of thischild's parents to be concerned and to teach him how to be safe.

Ishould clarify how enigmatic this is. Most kids upon seeing mymotorcycle have a different response (even to my '78 Honda, whichlooks like it was stored in an Iranian mine field for 20 years.)Their eyes bulge out of their little faces - as if suddenly injectedwith CO2, and their chins drop to their chests uncontrollably likethey've retreated to infancy for the chance to drool on themselves.They absolutely love it, and they loved it even more when I would Ipop them into the saddle and hold them in place – splayed likesuperman in flight, chest on the tank and reaching for the controls.This sent them into ecstatic joy (the boys, anyway) causing them topoop skittles in delight for the next 15 minutes. The same thinghappens to me when I enter any shop, museum or parking lot withmotorcycles on display. That isin my nature.

There'smore to life than just your nature, though. It's a strange thing yournature. It's there to beembraced but also to be... controlled, mitigated – tempered. At thesame time, the culture of the United States promotes celebrating yournature to the point of excess. Our advertising encourages anorexiaand our stores encourage obesity. (Think cheap fatty food andelectric carts.) A confusing mix. You can have either extreme. Thehardest message to find is the one that endorses responsibility,moderation.

Weightisn't the only part of the human condition the US treats strangely.As you might guess, it's our desire to be safe. I advocate safety,but I don't endorse extremesafety – culture and parenthood have changed since I was young –an inevitable side effect of time. In the 80s I was told, “Not togo in the sun for too long onthe first day at the lake,” which nearly always resulted in apeeling burn. This was when SPF 8 was optional and SPF 15 reeked ofoverkill. In those days I roamed free in woods and nobody feared Iwould be eaten by a venomous bear. I even fawned over pictures thosedeadly two-wheeled contraptions.

Weknow more now, so there are more things to worry about. SPF hassurpassed 60, which is still considered inadequate and often replaced(or augmented) by swimming shirt.Parasols are coming back into vogue. It's kind of like the 1920s atsome beaches these days, only without the exposed shoulder. I get it.Safety. Personally, I prefer strips of gauze dipped in wax (notparaffin, because it might be carcinogenic) because It keeps the offthe sun and keeps me dry (and floating) on the beach.

Can I blame parentsfor being protective? No. Of course not. Can I blame people fortrying to be safe? No. For being prudent? Of course not. Being safemakes sense. If you had a habit of making toast in the tub you wouldprobably not be reading today, but,there is a fine line, and different people draw it in differentplaces. It's summed up in a little internet gem I found a couple ofweeks ago.

Weavoid risks in life so we can make it safely to death.

Now,the waters of personal philosophy and morality are dirty, turgid andconfusing. There are levels of risk, and most people worry a littlebit about which SPF they have and worry a lot about trying to fixbreakfast in standing water. Rightly so. And, of course, there areextremes on both ends. In the Midwest “Skin Crayoning” is commonenough. (No shirt, no helmet on the bike.)

So,what is risk, what is danger? What and how much is acceptable?

Iwear shorts on the beach becauseof (not in spite of) the sun. I like the warmth on my back, thebreeze on my shoulders, hell, I like gettinga tan as much as that might shock some people. But, I (try to) put onsunblock before my skin peels. I also eat potato chips. I love them –can't get enough. I can reduce a bag chips (crisps overseas) tonothing but a pile of grease (and an impending case of the trots) inunder 4 minutes, and I'll do it without remorse. But,I only buy them once every other month because I know it's in mynature. A bit of moderation.

Ialso like leaning into a tight curve, I like the angry growl at highrevs, I like greasy hands, burns and bloody knuckles of Saturdayrepairs. I like motorcycles.They reach some basic part of my nature. So yeah kiddo, they'redangerous, and yes, I will continue to use them. I would prefer thewind in my hair, but I pull on my helmet before and my boots and mythick jacked before I ride. It's a compromise. I may laugh, butunderstand me, this is as serious as life can be. This is aboutunderstanding who you are and squeezing something out of life. It isabout knowing your nature, understanding that you can be safe, butsafety will only take you so far. Sometimes, you just need to lay flat on the tank and splay your arms like superman while reaching for the controls.

The Hofbrauhaus, Munich. I Believe I Ordered a Half Liter...

2012-02-02T12:31:00.000+01:00

Hobrauhaus Munich. The author and the Swede pacing themselves

“Areyou ready to visit the Hofenflugennarbenhausen?” Swede asked.

Ilooked up at the big, blonde grin. His knowledge of German wasrudimentary at best, but at least he was willing to try. You've got to admirehis spirit, even if he wasn't willing to try very hard.

“Doyou mean the Hofbrauhaus?” I asked.

“Isthat the one with the the big tables, the music, the pork and the bigbeers?”

“Oneof them, yes.” This was Germany, afer all.

“Thenyes, let's got to the Hofenbratensteinencalenhoppenhausen.”

“Alright,this way.”

I ledthrough Munich – from the dull green oxidized copper of the citycenter's glockenspiel, through the busy side streets, and past a halfdozen kebap shops – tinyand full of life, spewing their hot breath of slow turning, spittedmeat whenever their doors opened. We walked under the dull gray skyof January, the cold but not frozen winter, through the wet-but-not-raining-weather, weather that had hung on for a month. Weather thatbegs you to bring an umbrella but never lets you use it.

Wewalked past chocolatiers, past coffee shops advertising puffy krapfen– like donuts but with filled holes and filled centers – wewalked past curry restaurants and fine dining establishments, and ofcourse, past the hot breath of the kebap houses.

“God,I'm hungry.” Swede said. “Maybe we could eat at one of theseplaces.”

Mealsare a big deal for the big Swede. I suppose that's normal foranyone over 6'5”. Eating and drinking become serious tasks.

“Ithought we decided to eat at the Hofbrau. I was going to get you thefull Bavarian experience.”

“Yeah.I suppose. But maybe we should check out some of these other placesafter, take it easy, you know.”

Takeit easy. No problem. It was youridea to head to a beer hall, Mr. Space Bag, (so called because in college he frequentlypulled the plastic bag out of a box of Franzia, put it on hisshoulder and worked his way through it during the evening.) It was now just after noon. Initially, we had thought we could save the indoor activities for later, but the weather did notencourage vagabonding or loafing. Perhaps that's why Germans are seen as suchindustrious people. Long, uninviting winters.

The Hofbrauhaus Munich - one of many pillars and wait stations.

Theglass doors and basic-for-Munich facade of the Hofbrauhaus don't dothe place justice. Inside is a beer hall, serious beer hall – rowafter row of large, sturdy picnic style tables, and on Saturdaythey're full of men in lederhosen hoisting steins to theirsculpted, white mustaches. On Saturday it's damned nearimpossible to find a seat, but the atmosphere is singular – loud,close and happy. It's the kind of place that can best be summed up bythe men's restroom. There were two or three dozen urinals and sixplaces to “sit.” It's functional. A purpose built building.

The Hofbrauhaus Munich - The band

Wewalked into the building, past the band tooting in ¾ time, past themassive, square pillars that melt into great arcs in the ceiling.

“Thereare a lot more open tables than I thought there would be the way you were talking.” Swedesaid.

Therewere a lot of places to sit – nothing like the elbow to elbowcarnage normal to a Saturday – of course, it was Tuesday - at lunchtime. We found a completely empty tablewithin sight of the band.

“So,”the dirndled waitress said and looked at us. It's the standard service-industry greeting – ata restaurant, bakery or the deli counter - "So" isthe first thing you hear. To see it written out like this couldmake you think of an indignant truck-stop waitress, chewing gum, sixmonths pregnant and angry at life, but that's not it at all. “So,”usually, is almost sung – like the sigh emitted when entering a hotbath after cutting wood all day.

“So,bitte schon,” the woman said, then continued on into a string ofGerman.

Ihoisted my brows, “English?”

“Ah,of course, English menus are coming. What to drink?”

“Beer,”I said and looked at Swede. We exchanged the look of confederates inthe Garden of Eden who planned to open a rather remarkable fruitstand. “Light or dark,” I asked him.

“Light,”he said, “and not the hundred-foot-huge ones.”

Thewaitress understood most of this, but I had to clarify the difference between "hundred foot huge" and "not hundred foot huge." .5Lsize. We still had plans to do something with the rest of the day,after all, but for the moment we settled into the atmosphere. Theband started a song – as vaguely familiar as any polka. They are all, to me,reminiscent of my grandfather's porch with the AM radio set to KNUJ,as if the dial itself had permanently been locked to ¾ time –somehow found between 1600-1700 mhz. I couldn't stand it at the time.I can't get enough now, that place, too, had the smell of kraut in the woodwork, deep, like an ancient coat of stain.

Asis the style of the Hofbrauhaus, a group of four Germans joined us at ourtable, and we now made six, but they sat at the other end of the table and we couldn't really hear them, and hardly felt crowded.

Obviouslypurpose built.

Abit later our food arrived. Sausage, kraut, dumplings, pork,potatoes.

“Theydon't much care for color in Germany, do they?” Swede asked. I'mpretty sure the brightest thing he had seen since landing wasmustard.

“No– I suppose not.”

“Thefood, the weather, the sky, the landscape, the buildings...”

Itwas winter, but therewas a point in there. The colors on this trip – and indeed much ofBavarian life – were as muted as a doctor's waiting room, and theweather, too was so gray and cold and wet. The appeal of agregarious, warm beer hall was obvious. We drank another half literof the dunkle (dark.)

Paulaner im Tal, Munich.

Fortifiedof stomach and spirit we headed back into the city to see what itheld for us, and after a short walk, we decided it what we already knew. It was cold, gray and wet. All good excuses to duck into Paulaner im Tal, another establishment with beer. (I've been told there are quite a few inMunich.) Oddly, this one too was not terribly busy, and at 3:30 on aTuesday afternoon, we again had no trouble finding a seat. Theatmosphere was different, still warm, but more a standard restaurantthan a boisterous beer hall. It was, again, cozy and notoutside. So we stayed awhile and drank more beer, though I'm not surehow much and decided to head back, responsibly, and have a quiet night to be ready for our trip the following morning.

Itwas about then, just after 5:00 in the dull, almost candlelight glowof Munich's storefront windows that we made our way to the entranceof the U-Bahn (subway) station. We stood in that glow, thejust-after-dark ambiance particular to European cities and neededonly put a foot on the escalator to head home. I looked at the bigSwede.

“Alright.You ready to head back?” I asked. But just posing the question ledto a conclusion already foregone. If I had really wanted to go back Iwould have said so, and I asked, because Swede had that look – themix of travel exuberance backlit with a healthy dose of malted beverage. That look similar to (but not quite the same) as the look he got before he would say we should buy Franzia.

Hetold me that we should return to theHoffenblaggerhauserrauserdaurenachtenbloggenhoffenhausen.

Iagreed. Just one more half liter.

“Justone more,” has undoubtedly been the undoing of many a (potentially)great man. And our “one more” was was the nail that locked ourcoffin closed.

Wefound our table, still vacant, sat, and ordered “just one more.”After a small bout of confusion the waitress, she came back with two fullliters of beer. We had been walking the ragged knife blade of good(fair) judgment. A half liter may have staggered our precarious step, but that full liter not only caused our step tofalter, it smashed the blade beneath our feet, it stole the very pathfrom us.

Andthen a couple of friendly Germans joined us.

Hofbrauhaus Munich. 1L of beer - we didn't complain.

Ourliters disappeared in the way it does when friends, new company andgood atmosphere come together in a perfect synergy to createsomething (cliché warning) better than the sum of its parts. We wereso lost in pleasant conversation that we lost track of liters andhalf liters - lost in a swirl of anecdote, hoisted glass and smiles. I do know that Space Bag Swede outpaced me at a ratesomewhere between 2-3:1. Big man, big appetite, big thirst.

Weleft, of course, when our new friends left, realizing what we haddone, not really caring.

Swedetold me on the way back to the U-Bahn that he like theHoffenbogentootnhoosn. I'm not sure if the volumes of beer he hadtaken since noon helped or completely destroyed his pseudo-Germanaccent, but the point stuck. Hoofenbognaustntnen was a good place.

I'mnot sure how he felt about the place the next morning, when we foughtthrough swollen eyes, bloated heads and stewed bile (we only ever at the one meal) to make our train, which left forAustria at 9:00. Once, as they say, is enough.

Winter Daydreams

2012-01-26T12:48:00.001+01:00

It'sabout this time of year that I usually tip the mothballs out of thecavity of my guitar, dig through the sofa for a chewed-on guitarpick, and take perfectly good cuts of music and run them through ameat grinder. Well, when I say about this time I'mbeing loose. It's typically around November that the six-string comesoff the wall. I'm a bit late this year.

Winterdoes it, I hate winter. Something about the dull slog after Christmasthat wears on until spring. Memories of bland, gray days crammedbehind a school desk only to navigate home in the bitter cold andyearn for the summer again, the warmth, the lake, water, sun. Wintergot me Saturdays cutting trees with my father for the wood stove –knee deep in snow... or shoveling the car out of a snow bank.

Actually,snow banks were the best part of winter. It's more of a sport thansoutherners might realize. First, of course, you need to get itstuck, and then you need to get yourself free. It's like muddin' witha thick pretext of oops.Even a hobby like that isn't enough to keep you busy for a fullMinnesota winter, and you can only slide sideways in a 1980 GrandPrix for so long before you smash out the headlight assembly –turning your father into a mix of Yosemite Sam and Animal (from TheMuppets.) The risk/reward ratio is just too great.

Thismeans that there are about 8 days in winter that I enjoy (reduced to6 since dad sold the snowmobiles – it's hard to use them when youlive 1,000s of miles away.) Three of those days are Christmas,Christmas Eve, and New Year's Eve. (Not New Year's Day.)

Consideringwhen winter starts inthe North, that's 3 random days of enjoyment spread over 5-6 months.Now, don't go sending me pamphlets on depression or SeasonalAffective Disorder, I just don't like the cold. Strange for anorthern boy, but the cold turns me into more of a hermit than evenusual. That's why theguitar comes out.

Music,of course, has an inherent warmth. (Well, it has any moodthat a competent writer wishes to inject.) But music is also the keythat opens a door to another place, another time. If I put on WhiteSky by Vampire Weekend, I'm onthe Oregon coast in the seat of the Kawasaki Concours, the sun ishigh and waves crash into the sand far below. Kelsie is on the backand we're loaded with roughly 400,000 pounds of gear. A thousandcorners wait in the distance and we've got nothing but freedom ahead.Melatonin by theSilversun Pickups drums up images of highway 231 outsideCharlottesville. Expansive, groomed yards, thick broadleaved treesand the kind of grand houses where you expect horses are stabled. Theentire album Brothersby The Black Keys brings on images of my old gravel driveway, of lostvalve cover bolts, the reek of gasoline, and a full-on, bloodyknuckle battle with a set of carburetors. (There are, of course,plenty of songs that haunt me,too. Songs that spill out memories of suicide and lost friends. As arule, I avoid them between October and March.)

Thereare plenty of songs that bring on warm memories, and glorified,obviously, Photoshopped clean of their imperfections. None of thosedays was quite so perfect in reality, there were traffic jams andpipe burns, but in life, sometimes that's as close as you get toperfect. And the past is... well, the past. Memories let you relivethe best parts – old romances are better than they were, an old jobwas more fulfilling than this one (and on and on, ad nauseum.) Musiclets you touch those memories and whatever you've highlighted in yourpast, and playing itputs you face to face with that emotion, the mood. It lets you smellthe pollen at a turnout, or reminds you of the hot breath of summerday – stinking with the dead mice cat gifts that fill the trash andthe stale reek of hydrocarbons covering your shoes. Even thoseimperfections can emphasize a day. Imperfections that add character.

So,in winter the guitar comes out when listening isn't enough to copewith the thick gray, long nights and idle hands that warn ofstagnation.

Unfortunately,this year we left for Germany in late August, the sun was high, thedays long and warm, and and we were only recently back from amonth-long motorcycle trip. As you might guess, I saw no reason tobring a guitar all the way from the states. No guitar, no motorcycle,no tools and only a laptop. It was November before I realized the thescale of my mistake, and that's when I realized how insane overseasshipping costs really are.

It'salmost February, but I finally got to strumming again, thank God for European Amazon. I'm backto daydreaming of fingerpicking my way through the summer heat, glassof iced tea (with a healthy dose of lime) near at hand. Daydreamingabout that rack of carburetors that still needsattention, and that maybe I'llget to it when the sun is well past its zenith. Winter is the timefor daydreaming, the time for planning and preparing yourself for allthat summer excitement – riding and adventure. There are plenty ofways to do it, but for me, if I don't have a garage then I needa guitar.

Salzburg, Austria

2012-01-19T14:35:00.002+01:00

View of Salzburg countryside from our hotel. Photo by author.

Swedish, man of the world, college friend, and PhD of neuroscience. A man who will forever live in my mind as a slit-eyed giant with a near-empty space bag (removed from a box of Franzia) on his shoulder came to Munich last week. He crashed through my front door yelling "Folklore!" (his inexplicable nickname for me. In fact, maybe that would be a better name for a blog...) And we set to work making up for lost time.

He lives in London these days, so the trip was (relatively) short and he came with a thirst for travel. We pondered the situation over (liters of) beer in search of a destination. We had time to explore Munich, but we needed to get away - it had abused us. (Or rather, we had a distinct lack of self control at the idea of clawing our way through [several] beer lists.) Berlin was our first choice, but as we had both traveled over the summer and subsequently moved across the ocean, the situation called for frugality. Berlin, at about 350 miles from Munich was not a cheap destination, round trip tickets were pushing 200 EUR - each. This is twice what his plane tickets cost.

Just a few hours to go at the Hofbrauhaus - 1L at a time.
Munich, Germany. Photo by innocent bystander.

The answer? Austria - and at less than a quarter of the price. We decided to leave Friday morning at 9:30, which would leave us plenty of time to get ready.

We woke soaked in our own indiscretion. With all certainty I can say that it is a terrible idea to enter Munich's Hofbrauhaus at noon on any day of the week, including Thursday, and it's a particularly bad idea when you travel with Mr. Space Bag and beer can only be ordered by the liter after 6:00 p.m. It's particularly bad when travel is on the agenda for the following day and you eat a pound of guacamole before bed, (roughly half pound of onions) Getting out of bed by 7:30 was not a problem. In case your chemistry is rusty - mixing a gallon of beer with a half pound of onions produces either toluene or Chanel No. 5. I can't tell them apart. I rolled out of bed in the 'predawn' hours of Friday morning (read: 7:24 and cloudy as hell) to find the Swede already awake and convinced that we should have eaten at least a second meal the day before.

Salzburg, Austria in the evening over the Salzach river. Photo
author.

Here's where trains really shine, all we had to do was show up and sit. I had arranged all the necessary papers before our HB adventure, so the process was simple. The only problem was that we looked extremely friendly (big spoon - little spoon) sitting next to each other when there were four seats to choose from. Neither of our stomachs could tolerate traveling at close to 100 MPH in reverse.

Salzburg is a beautiful city, old and interesting like many cities in Europe. Complex and interesting enough to take a couple (or more) days of your time, but condensed enough to walk. Unfortunately, half way through our first day, my new shoes sent driving spikes of pain through the balls of my feet, as if a wood-splitting wedge had been sunk between my metatarsals and each step pushed it deeper. There was a lot of stopping by the end of the day.

Salzburg, Austria and the Salzach river. Photo by Author.

Author on one of themany rivers on the Salzach. Photo by
the Swede

However, we did manage to see most of the city and it is fantastic. There is an expansive English Garden, an amazing climb on the Kaputznerberg (which, as follows in the vein of many hikes in the area, it has a restaurant at the top.) We also saw the Salzach river, which bisects the city. There are many bridges that cross between the two halves, the ends of which have vendors selling Gluhwein (hot, spiced, red wine) and toasted chestnuts for cheer.

There were also musicians, some better than others. It was in Salzburg that we found the worst performer of any street, anywhere. It was as if the scat man (you remember him, right?) was hit in the frontal lobe with a pickax, then given a detuned guitar. There were no discernible melodies or chords, just a random mix of ba, pa, da and la (though he was bouncingly emphatic.) He used this bouncing enthusiasm and pseudoguitarism to used to dupe any busy passers-by into thinking he was a bone fide musician, thus conning them out of a few coins before they could actually analyze the narrow breadth of his musical talent.

It was so bad I questioned the man's life; I waffled about his motives. Did he really have a full, frontal lobotomy? Should I feel bad for this poor, pathetic soul, or, was the 'music' part of an act, a double-blind to look as pathetic as possible in the hopes of gleaning more donations? I don't know. I know that I laughed for a quarter mile in spite of the driving pain in every step.

Across the guitar man's bridge, over the river, the architecture is just beautiful, and like many other European cities it appears that old facades have been maintained and the whole city has a uniform look - like Paris. Some may complain about the lack of diversity in such a system, but it is (in my opinion) quite attractive as a whole. It's a wonderful place to walk and see.

English gardens and the castle in Salzburg Austria.
Photo by author.

We noticed some things over the next couple of days. Culturally, Austria is different, vastly different, from the United States, and even quite separate from Germany. As we walked to our hotel for the first time, we passed a number of cigarette machines, where a packs of 'coffin nails' were a mere 3.50 EUR. This may seem on par with US prices, but in Germany cigarettes are close to 5 EUR (6.50-7.00 USD per pack,) and in London I'm told they're even more expensive. It appears Austria never got on board with the whole anti-smoking, anti-vice campaign. But more on that later.

When we checked into our the hotel, we asked after a Thai restaurant that we passed on the way in. This produced a puzzled reply from the clerk, "Restaurant? No, I don't know of any Thai restaurant..." Of course, we had seen one, so we pressed him, and he responded, "Oh, yeah, that place. I wouldn't call it a restaurant... more of a shack." We asked if they served food, he said they did - and we couldn't see what else you could call a building that served food.

Salzach river in Salzburg, Austria. Photo by author.

Shack is a generous term. It was like entering a coffin-sized greenhouse with a space heater blowing pure plasma into the 'room.' No, it was like climbing into the back of a crowded 1960 (in 1960) Lincoln Continental with the windows closed, the heat on high, and a tiny Thai woman with a pack of Marb Lights glued to her left hand, smoking like a thin-lipped chimney. The driver takes your order for green curry the guy sitting bitch cooks the food, and the shotgun passenger washes the dishes. Good food, though.

There was a lot of smoking, usually indoors. It was just a part of life. Also, every tenth shop sold lingerie. Not lingerie like you get at Target (stores inc.) The "fancy pants" stuff like you see on the cover of GQ. These things piqued my curiosity. I found myself exploring the Austrian acceptance of vice and its affect on their culture. Parents and children walked down the street hand in hand, passing lingerie shops with no ill effect. Their society certainly hasn't collapsed, in fact their unemployment rate sits close to 4% and they spend less than the US on health care per capita with a longer life expectancy. It gave me cause to think about the nature of freedom, education, and the ability of an informed populace to make good decisions for itself instead of trying to legislate through it. Do strange dangers lie beneath? Maybe, but it sure didn't look that way.

More of Salzburg from the Kaputznerberg. Photo by author.

Our last day in Salzburg we got a big more information about these cultural differences. We walked from the hotel to the downtown area and passed two points of interest, a flamboyantly pink building, unabashedly advertising it as a men-only establishment, and also a row of fliers pinned under the wiper blades of parked cars. They were brightly colored, festooned in yellow and pink advertising the "Vesuv" - a nightclub. (A play on Vesuvius, I'm sure the erupting theme intentional.)

It was around this time that I remembered that Austria permits prostitution, which sparked another conversation. There were no girls on the street, however, it was legal. After this bombardment of interesting facts you may feel that the Swede and I are nothing more than a couple of commonplace perverts, and I suppose that's possible enough. But, whatever you've gleaned from as a reader I must say that we, by the standards of an Austrian city, looked like puritans.

I even felt a bit embarrassed when the Swede and I entered a cafe for a walking break (those painful shoes, remember.) It might just have been my imagination, but I think we looked (again) like big spoon and little spoon, and whether the waitress thought the same thing or not, she seated us at a table the size of 50-cent piece and lit a red candle. Tres romantique. Whatever she thought, though, she didn't bat an eye, and that's Austria.

As a culmination of this 'other side of Salzburg,' we stumbled on the 'main' sex shop on the way to the train station. It's literally just 100m - 150m walk. After our morning, we weren't feeling particularly bashful. After all, if you go to Amsterdam, it's worth at least seeing what all the fuss is about, isn't it? In Austria, you should see what the Austrians see (at least some of them.) Inside, the patrons and shopkeepers were also less than bashful. I won't break into specific detail, aside from (as near as I could tell) the store had just about anything you could dream up - but the more interestingly, the shop was in the middle of a neighborhood and the clientele were completely average folk. Sure, there was a guy in a leather, studded vest, but there was also a young couple and a 50-something woman with a short hair who had a tiny dog on a leash as she perused the store. On her way out she struck a conversation with the shopkeeper in such a benign tone that they might have been discussing the weather Olympic hopefuls, or the soccer team. Just a part of life. We decided to ask the shopkeeper about the culture of Salzburg. He laughed at the idea of a 'redlight district' in such a sleepy town, but then went on to tell us how the laufhaus works. You go inside, find the picture of a girl you like, push the button underneath, and she comes to meet you. He added that they have a lot of beautiful women, really a lot. Funny, as an American, to hear that a redlight district seems outlandish, but there was more than one laufhaus in town. I imagined one of these houses in the sleepy town where I grew up and my head almost exploded.

I regret that we didn't make it to the castle and missed a couple of the other attractions, but the sensation of a railroad spike dissecting my foot bones was too much. Fortunately it's only a few euro to go there, and I intend to go back with Kelsie. I can be pretty sure that she won't be interested in the more robust cultural differences, which is fine. You can visit the city and barely notice them. It's not like they attack you with temptation, the more extreme cultural differences sit quietly in the background waiting for you to find them (if you don't include indoor smoking, which plays second sin to none these days in the US) but there are a lot of other subtleties and beautiful things to see and interesting things to do in Austria - a place full of culture, openness and beauty. And, maybe next time, I'll get to that 50-cent piece of a table and share it a bit less awkwardly.

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Behind Bars - Motorcycles and Life has been sliding sideways into Life... leaving motorcycles behind. I've noticed it happening. I've lamented it, in fact, and just this morning I said (out loud, to nobody in particular) I miss my bikes. The problem is that we live in Germany. Now, I don't consider the country or the fact that we're in Germany (or the fact that we're living) problems, it's that there are no motorcycles here. On top of that, it's winter. Winter outside Munich is a bit like living in a cloud, and living in a cloud is not the charmed existence that Star Wars Episode V might have you believe - it's wet, cold, windy and gray. You can tell the sun is out, but you're never quite sure where it's at. Typically, being trapped indoors doesn't bother me, but two things are working against me - one has nothing to do with this blog - against all good reason I decided not to bring a guitar to Germany. The other involves motorcycles, which were too expensive to drag across the ocean. leaving no electrical gremlins to hunt, no blown tires replace or elusive carburetor clogs to (unclog) fix. It's just us, books, bad weather and evenings of internet television. So there you are, no play for Jack and all that. Sorry if this motorcycle blog spends the next 8 months focusing on travel and culture with less of a focus on the two wheeled slice of life. Believe me, I miss it.

I can hear you out there internet, lamenting my pain, poor me. Right. Poor guy gets to live a year in Europe. Tough life. You know what? It's ok, be snarky, because you're right, but it does make writing a motorcycle stories damned difficult, however, as I try to base the events here on fact.

So, here's the thing. I might not write about motorcycles as frequently as usual in the next few months. This is a common occurrence in the blog-0-sphere, but I've tried to avoid it as much as possible. Alas, unless there is an overwhelming outcry to read fiction, this is the situation, so I'll quit complaining and get to the story telling.

GI Joes and Tech School. An Essay on Being Happy.

2012-01-05T11:37:00.000+01:00

As a kid the coolest thing in the entire world were GI Joes(alternating periodically with Legos and TNMTs.) My collection of Kung-Fu GripAvengers for Justice was small, particularly compared to my friend who had halfa metric shitload, but I had all I was going to get – I went to the grocerystore with my old man often enough (only to emerge from the toy aisle and hearthe words “Put that back,”) to understand that toys are expensive and (in myfather's eyes) I had plenty. In hindsight, I probably did.

Still, the mini M-16s, the cool outfits, and the cars! Therewas a vehicle that actually shot plastic missiles that wasblindingly fantastic, and at that particular moment, it was more important thanmy heretofore yet unexplained testes (Which I might have traded for one.) Atthe time, it was really important to augment my stash. Not just for myhappiness but also for my social status. It was a pre-adolescent battle of theJoneses, and I was losing.

But, my concepts of happiness and society were... immature,and many parents propagate (or permit) those ideas inadvertently (or withintention.) Mine did. After all, it's easy to do – you just stand aside as yourchildren make a short leap of logic. One GI Joe is proven to providehappiness... therefore many would be awesome, and that vehicle that actuallyshoots plastic missiles might cause you to shit your pants in ecstaticwonder.

Within reason, the logic actually holds up. When I gotRaphael (the Ninja Turtle,) he climbed the basement couch for days, if notmonths. I was playing and I was happy. Getting Leonardo made me evenhappier. (They worked together.) But, the logic breaks down somewhere,complicated arguments can be formed – the (upper) middle-class eats a hell of alot of anti-depressants (for all the stuff they own) and idolizes drunks onreality shows, etc. I might be in the same position if I was suddenly won thelottery. What challenges would be left to overcome? Wouldn't I becomeacclimatized to the pile of toys? When wonder is a part of daily life it ceasesto be wonder. It becomes average. It's pretty hard to be awed at the Fourth ofJuly if every night entails a $200/bottle champagne and world-class fireworks –eventually you go to bed with earplugs. I can't speak for everyone in thatposition, but to me, living is drained of life when the words challenge,creativity and anticipation are removed from the lexicon.

And besides, you've only got two fucking hands. No matterhow big the army, you'll always pick out your favorite GI Joe (or two) and havethem kick the ass of every villain on the battlefield – but I neverthought of that, which led me, like many, to college.

My interest in biochemistry came from a careerpamphlet I saw in the 8^th grade that contained the average wages ofeach profession. Hey, more plastic is more happy, right? Mix that notion withthe middle-class desire for children to 'rise above' or whatever, and boom. Iwas to be a biochemist. Or something.

The biggest problem was that biology (in which I excelled)was boring. Really boring. I found it about as enticing as a Friday night withmy right leg in a bench vice, my left in a bear trap, and a wolverine smellingmy (now understood) wedding basket. As a good friend would say, “Fuck that.”

Amen.

Now, here's the skinny, while my parents are loving,thoughtful people, when I bought a guitar the consensus was “Waste of money –you'll sell it in three months...” (I'm now 5 or 6 guitars into the habit,) andwhen I spent my free time repairing my '80 Grand Prix – which gave me pleasureto no end, the response was “That car isn't worth the effort.” 15 years laterI've come to agree with my dad on one thing, I didn't need more toys.

It wasn't the having that made me happy, it was the playing.I spent free time my free time – time that could have been used for anything– to play the guitar and to fix the car. I still spend my free timereading about and rebuilding motors (though 70s inline fours these days,) butsomehow that was not factored into the life equasion.

As I was growing up the consensus in my mind, if not myhouse, my family, my town, and my country, is that young boys (and girls) needto get themselves ready and go to college. I learned a lot about myselfat university and I made good friends, but I never opened a page of BiochemistryMonthly in my free time, I was still obsessed with the guitar and the ideaof building things. It was the notion of being a scientist thatstood out for me, just as it was the notion of earning an educated living (to buythe things I really wanted in my life) that started me down that road.

I don't want to trade my experience at college. Ilearned a lot about myself in those years and made good friends, but if I hadknown in time, I would have gone to tech school and would be building guitarsor rebuilding motors today – or (at the very least) I wouldn't have chosen acareer based (at least half) on the amount of action figures it would laterprovide.

My wife might argue against me on the next point as I havethree motorcycles in the garage, but I feel I managed to sidestep the idea of collectingmy way to happiness. I understand that no matter what I've still only got twohands and my effort and resources should be directed toward challenges,creativity and anticipation. Each motorcycle gets used, and each is anadventure waiting to happen every season. Do I still buy things like an idiotexpecting more than they can provide? Of course, that's human nature.

Totier Park with a CB550K. Why Normal People avoid Vintage Bikes

2011-12-29T15:57:00.002+01:00

1978 Honda CB550K. Ragged, but as good as life gets.

I got lucky. Kelsie and I both enjoy travel, exploration, and motorcycles– not only that, but her parents do, too. Her folks take opportunities forforeign travel when offered, and make opportunities to explore theUnited States. While we lived in Virginia, they used their Black, HondaGoldwing to ride from South Dakota, cross half the country, and pay us a visitin Virginia. At the time, I was on my second “real” motorcycle – the 1978 CB550K,a beautiful machine ahead of its time in reliability and handling – like aswamp boat in a slough of inflatable canoes.

A Goldwing is “The perfect bike for when everything is 5 hours away,” isLeigh's motto about the machine. The Wing was not built as a track day rocketand may only draw the “chicks” if you lend them your hemorrhoid cushion, buteven at over 800 pounds the beast moves like a rocket sled, straight and fastwith enough torque to tractor pull the 550 cross country. If you hooked up mylittle 550 and pulled in the opposite direction it would have no more effectthan a strong headwind – even with the 550's upgrades, which keep it from(completely) dying at idle and enhance the steering to the level of an unladengarbage truck, Leigh's endless wellspring of Let's go riding attitudewore me raw, particularly where my body met the saddle. Still, when yourfather-in-law says “let's go riding,” you don't say, “My ass hurts too much,”you say, “Let's go!” no matter what kind of Marquis de Sade seat the previousowner installed or how intense the sensation that someone jammed an oysterknife between two of your thoracic vertebrae.

Goldwing GL1800 - a different state, but the same machine.

After repeating this process for a couple days, my stoic facade falteredand betrayed my true feelings about riding 378 miles to Colonial Williamsburgand back.
“Or, we could just take an easy ride today...” Kelsie offered. A rideto Totier Creek Reservoir was proffered – an easy short jump down scenichighway 20 instead of hundreds of miles of the Honda screaming at 8,000 RPMs,brain melting in unfared riding at 75 mph.

I accepted the proposal. First, though, we stopped downtown for picniclunch supplies. The day was hot, as if the axis of the earth had shifted in thenight, bringing central Virginia closer to the sun than any place on earthdeserved with the possible exception of New Boston, OH. (I'm sorry the innocentresidents of New Boston, but I bought a Cow Tail candy from your city and feltsick for the next three hours.) Even with the perpetual grind of our tiny A/Cunit, the sun turned our house into a kind of sauna – a weight-loss getaway forsupermodels and other suicidally-anorexic members of high society. The idea ofcooking indoors had the same appeal as a tanning vacation in the Sahara. Awaterfront picnic was the best course of action.

At the store, we found cheese, sausage and the best baguettes availablein town. Leigh loaded the supplies in his cavernous, black storage as there waslittle room in the 550's bags for anything other than wrenches, glass tubefuses and a rubber carburetor mallet. I cannot explain the train of thoughtthat compels a man (me) to purchase and adore a certain machine, but claptrapor not, I haven't been able to part with the 550, and I even loved thatmachine on that day when it took the last two fuses in the package justto get out of the parking lot of the grocery store. Fortunately I had anotherbox and learned that an electrical short with the starter button could destroyfuses faster than the family to load cheese and bread into Leigh's Easy BakeSaddle Bags. Thank god I carry two boxes of spares.

We got underway, cruising south on an average chunk of Virginia road. Ifrenetically beat the 550's ass just to keep in front of the Goldwing as Leighcruised behind, feet on the highway pegs, carelessly inspecting the scenery. Weenjoyed the cool air and gentle turns. One of the wonderful things aboutVirginia roads is the coverage of trees. It's perpetually hot in summer withthick humidity that fills your existence like a barber's steaming towel. Underthe tree canopy, though, the sun might not meet the asphalt for months. The airis cooler and humid but not smothering.

We enjoyed the scenery and stopped a couple of times on the short tripout to Totier Park. When we got there, we set up under a tree by the muddywaters and Kelsie and her mom, Pat, set to getting things ready. Leigh verballyoutlined a “Ram Air” system he planned to implement for the ride home –something to counter the Virginia heat and Goldwing radiators. He made the heat soundunpleasant, similar to straddling a blow dryer in Death Valley.

After we ate, we laid in the shade like glutted pride cats, then Iwatched Leigh enact his Ram Air plan. By the water he found small, semi-rigidplants, which he liberated and braided into hoops at the base of his pants.This held the bottoms open like the base of a hoop skirt, allowing for directwind injection with his feet on the highway pegs.

He finished and was eager to try his invention. We put the rest of thecheese in his saddlebags to melt, and Leigh started the Goldwing and Pat loadedup to the soft, electric purr of the machine. I jumped on my machine, turned tocheck on Kelsie, and hit the starter.

The instrument panel went dead.

“Aaarrghhh, right, don't use the starter. Dammit. OK, off, hon,” I said, and opened the saddle bag and dugunder a pile of screwdrivers for a new fuse. I found a yellow tin-and-plasticcontainer labeled Buss 15A and pulled it out – empty. I dug for the othercontainer, the new one, and found it wrapped in a greasy, blue rag and pulled it out thenshook it – also empty.

“Uh... Leigh?” I said, and explained the situation.

“Out of fuses, huh? Should be easy enough to fix – let's go into thishere town and dig us some up.”

This Here Town was Scottsville – one of many small towns in the US wheretwo kinds of people are born, those who turn 18 and leave (only to return for highholidays,) and the others, who only travel far enough to visit borderingcounties. It's an attractive town, though enigmatically placed at exactly 30miles from anywhere, with one barber shop, a dollar store and threerestaurants. Not the kind of place where the auto parts store is open onSunday.

I got on the back of the Goldwing and found myself in a position I neverwould have expected. There may have been a backrest between Leigh and myself, but theideas of straddling and father-in-law had never come togetherbefore that moment, and the whole situation felt a bit “funnier” than either ofus might have preferred. Still, it was only a mile into town, and we made it toan auto shop where we found a friendly country gentleman.

“Have you got any 15 amp glass fuses in there?” I asked.

“Nope. Sure don't.” He replied.

I looked behind him, the building was was stuffed full of shelves,drawers, benches and tool boxes. It was an old shop with piles of equipment stacked to the rafters.

“You sure you don't have anything? My bike won't run without one... I'llgive you $5 just for one.”

“Nope, sorry. Know for a fact I ain't got nothin' like that.” He said.You can try up the road at Walter's. He got all kinds a stuff.” He reached upto close the shops overhead garage door and left us there. We walked back to the wing.

“My ass he doesn't have any fuses, that place is half the size of myfarm.” Leigh said. “More like he's done for the week and got cold beer waitingfor him.”

Leigh was right. If I had offered him a cold beer he would have likely tore up half the shop to help my cause. As things stood, however, it was back to funny riding. Leigh drove through town, the to thehighway toward “Walter's” where I felt my spine compress into the backrest andtorque distort my cheeks. Time to quit giving him shit about owning atwo-wheeled tractor...

Walter's, as I'm sure our country gentleman knew, was out of business,and given the bulled holes in the faded “closed” sign, I speculated that it hadbeen there for quite some time. There you have it, Walter's, as well as theNapa are closed on Sundays, and neither the gas station nor the dollar storesell glass fuses – odd as that might seem.

By this point the ladies had been waiting at the park for some time, andwe decided to stop at one more country gas station before heading back to Charlottesville– 30 miles away. We pulled into a half-gravel lot with a couple ofweather-beaten pumps. Inside the wooden floor creaked hard. Rows of shelvesthat might have come from a defunct K-Mart were filled with bungee cords and Hostess cakes. Half the beercoolers were empty, out of order. Greasy, pale pepperoni pizza spun in a glasscase, and fried chicken waited under a heat lamp. Oh god. The ceiling isgoing to collapse while we're here...

Leigh looked at me, “Well, I suppose you should ask, though it doesn'tlook very promising.”

The woman at the counter pondered our question, then pointed to the back corner of the store. “Check back there,”she said. We followed her finger to a crude, partition wall made fromplywood and covered in cheap plastic common to cut-rate bathroom remodels. Thesection was walled off from the rest of the store, hiding whatever was back there, the same way *wink wink*massagers might be hidden. As we approached, I wondered if she understood whatI meant when I asked for glass tube fuses - and just how funny we looked pullingup together.

Sure enough, the strange partition room held every conceivable ancientfuse in existence, and for a few dollars we were out the door.

As we rolled back up to the ladies, Pat asked, “Well, any luck?”

“Yep,” Leigh said, “the Ram Air system works great.”

“It's kind of... strange out here,” I added "I'm not sure what the locals think of us when we pull up."

The 550 kicked into life with an easy puff.

“Alright,” Leigh said, “you ready?”

“Yep.”

“Remember not to use that electric leg.” he said, he whirred into life. and off we went. Thank god for family.

The '85 Nighthawk, A Machine Propelled by Snake Oil, Mystics, and Good Faith

2011-12-22T12:03:00.000+01:00

A few years back I bought a 1985 Honda Nighthawk 450. It was my firstbike, purchased from an average man carrying an aristocratic name – somethinglike Cannonball Bremenhold Jacobson III. The little Honda was was a great firstbike in every respect – it was light, peppy but not dangerously powerful, andhad room for two. It also had the sex appeal as a wet sock, so it collapsed mydesire to showboat. Any attempts at hot dogging caused onlookers to contorttheir faces in confused disbelief, much like the Hugo's Hunchback before hestarted yelling “She gave me water!”

There was a small hitch with the Nighthawk, though, the kind of rookiemistake easy to make on a 700-dollar budget. The machine would start, run andride beautifully, then, a half-mile from home it would die. When I say “die,” Imean the machine would sputter and burst like an epileptic horse until it collapsed, making no further sound than the pulsing melody of a whirring starter motor. Passersbywould often think I ran out of fuel and offer to help. I would then explainthat my machine functioned only within a half-mile radius of my house,and when that radius was breached, the machine would take two hours to reset,leaving me waylaid. Their offers changed to exhortations of “Oh, sorry. Goodluck!” as they watched me push from the driver's seat. I’mhappy to help, of course, so long as you don't expect me to get out of this car.

Of course, instead of pushing the machine, I could have left for the required twohours and let the bike establish a new “home” and half-mile radius; however, Iinvariably opted to push. I had sexy biceps and thighs in those days, inaddition to a healthy cardiovascular system and a large map that decorated my office, one stabbed withpushpins in a vague circle, one mile in diameter.

As one might expect from the owner and purchaser of a $700 dollarmotorcycle, many home remedies were tried to cure the machine's flagging health.Mystic interventions were common, ranging from the less-effective Gunkmotor additive, to the more useful laying of hands and burning of sage.Periodically, after a particularly strong intervention, the motorcycle would run particularly well, and exceed its usual, half-mile radius, as if propelled by supernatural forces.This initially led to great joy and a renewed belief in the mystic, but alwaysended with a pushpin, if not anomalously placed, (blue for sage, gray for Gunk,pink for laying of hands, and so on.)

After a Friday evening with one particularly strong psychic medium, (awoman who claimed to channel the ghost of Sorichiro Honda's estranged mistress,Ashley, from Detroit,) the Honda ran particularly well. This, of course,inspired Kelsie and I to use the motorcycle for its intended purpose – a notionheretofore unspeakable – riding and enjoyment. I felt confident in the healingpowers of Ashley, from Detroit, we climbed on and headed through town.

I've yet tomeet anyone who prefers thick, city traffic to a beautiful country road, yetfor some reason our Saturday morning destination was Sears, which meant anin-town drive up the melee of highway 29 – an eight-lane cinema of vehicularhomicide. Many things in life are more relaxing than highway 29, including (though obviously not limited to) usingyour motorcycle to jump derelict vehicles (without health insurance,) orpunching as suicidal bear. For some reason, however, I felt compelled to stayin town. Perhaps it was Ashley herself whispering into my ear. Whatever thecause, we opted to stay in town instead of taking our fitful steed to theVirginia hills, where the only signs of life read: No Trespassing.

Kelsie and I left home quite happy. We rolled through town on the littlered machine, and it cooperated. We puttered on, up and out of the cul-de-sac,stopped at a few stoplights (and more importantly, left thosestoplights,) and started our battle up 29.

Things were fine until we approached a 7-11 about and a half from ourhouse, the machine first coughed, but continued, then it shuddered and pulsed,which I knew to be the beginnings of the death rattle, so we made our wayacross three lanes of traffic as the machine settled into an all-out epileptic fit, shititself, and died – or died and then shit itself, I was too busy navigating bymomentum to pay attention to the order.

Highway 29 had no shoulder, and more importantly, a mile-and-a-half wasentirely too far for manual transport, even for my toned legs and biceps. Mrs.Chu, our psychic, had earned the Honda a black pushpin twice as far from home as any of theothers, but it was still a pushpin day, and I had no idea how to get home.

In almost no time at all, a 30s-something ex-military man, tall with salt-and-pepperblack hair pulled into the 7-11 next to the Honda. He rode a thick, low-slungcruiser, and new to motorcycles, I assumed that this butch bike and rider were herefor a bit of chiding, if not downright nastiness. But, immediately he startedasking about us and our troubles. Turns out, he had just gotten back fromriding the Keys and knew what it was like to be broken down with no help. Hesaid not to go anywhere, and rode away to fetch ancient gray Civic, thenescorted us home.

During the ride, I explained the situation – the Honda, the misfires, thefading and the failing, the Gunk, anointed oils, and Mrs. Chu's psychicintervention. He was understanding. “Ashley, from Detroit?” He said. “She toldme that the Torakusu Yamaha had a lover by that same name.” The conversationturned to things mechanical. What had I tried, what was my plan of action? Itold him about the new fuel filter, amongst other things, but that my realsuspicion lay in the head gasket. “Just replace it,” he said “you seem capable enough,and on a small motor it's not as hard as you think. Also, Mrs. Chu's fee of29.95 might have paid for the gasket.”

I wanted tothank him, offer him some small token or gesture for his generosity, for hisinsight, but as soon as we reached our house, he only said, “OK, good luck!”and drove off.

Of course, he was right. All the magic potions that had gone into thecrankcase were no more than rebranded Snake Oil, and it was time to quitdicking around. A couple hours later, Kelsie escorted me to the Honda by way ofour Mazda 626, and watched me flog the poor machine home in fits and spurts,and plant it in the driveway, awaiting a brown truck to deliver a giftboxes containing a new head gasket and a Clymer manual outlining the procedure.

I still assumeCannonball Bremenhold Jacobson III was an honest injun – he even asked after themachine by way of email a few months later. I was able to tell him that notonly had I diagnosed the problem, but had also fixed it, and it was a teeth-cuttingtask that opened the worlds of wrenching and motorcyclists in one stroke. Mr.Jacobson may not have realized the lemon he sold me, and I never could haveunderstood how sweet it could make my life.

Since those days, I may have intimidated a few new riders by marching up on on them, particularly my thick,Kawasaki Concours in recent days, but I've learned a few things since the Nighthawk, namely how important it is to reach out and bereached when trying a new community.

IPA and Helpful Neighbors. How to Drop an Air Conditioner from the Window.

2011-12-15T12:13:00.000+01:00

Virginia summer is as hot damp, and disgusting as a fart in the shower. The heat breaks 90 climbs past 95, and settles in for a long afternoon, turning the front door into a gateway straight to hell. Today is one of those days. I peek through the shades and give my motorcycles forlorn looks. It's dragon’s breath out there today, and I'm not brave enough to ride. Today, I should find a fan, take off my pants and suffer through it, mostly because I’m too stupid to install an air conditioner without it falling a full story to the concrete below, shattering into a bent hulk of copper shrouded in vaporized coolant. I can’t sit this out, though, because we’re moving, but lifting boxes has left me sweat stained and dripping, maybe I could sit, just for a little while.

I try to stay motivated. In other neighborhoods, it might be easier. You might hear, You’re moving? What do you need, boxes, lifting, help packing? But what they my neighbors say is Oh, you’re moving? Do you know what’s better than moving? Beer. Of course, their argument holds truth, and the only thing better than beer that is lots of beer. So, when Zach shows up to the rat maze that used to be my living room with a bottle of India Pale Ale and the argument: Moving bad. Beer good. I have no refutation. In fact, I figure that if I drink enough, I might just break an ankle stumbling through it on the way to the bedroom, and could justify hiring a moving crew. If not, I’ve got at least one more day to pack my entire house. Also, maybe after a few beers I’ll forget that somehow I need to move three motorcycles across the country. What the fuck were you thinking? Why would you buy a new motorcycle three months before moving cross country?

But Zach offers consolation, a farewell case of IPA, and as I settle into the faded, green plastic chair on his deck, he pulls two from the fridge and brings them out and pops the tops, letting the caps fall to the wood with a muted clink. The bottle he hands me is cold and coated in sweat condensed out of the heavy summer air. The sun slid behind the mountains a little while ago, but it will be light for a few hours yet. The heat will last all nigh

“When are you leaving?” He asks.

“Wednesday.” I say.

“Like, this Wednesday?”

“Yeah, my in-laws are coming on Sunday with a big-ass trailer. We'll load it up and roll out.”

“Wow, just like that.” He says.

“Just like that.” I say.

The space between my back and the chair holds the same steady, horrible temperature used to incubate strains of bacteria. I'm covered in sweat – so thick I shake it off like dog instead of wiping. It runs down my face copying the condensation on my beer. I examine the pattern, there is only condensation on the part of the bottle still holding beer – which, in spite of our short conversation, isn't much. Zach sees me investigating.

“You want another?” He asks.

“Yeah, this one disappeared.”

“Yeah, it's hot. God, is it hot.”

He reappears with two more bottles, repeat ad nauseam. Three hours later, Justin shows up with a cooler full of PBR. “So, you're leaving Wednesday?” he says. “That’s not long, better drink up.” In spite of our head start, he chases us down with his Pabst. It’s one of those nights that could have turned sad or nostalgic, but ours is a graduate school street, transient, and departure speaks of the end of school, forever. Sometime after midnight, I point to the motorcycles under the street light and say, “Do you know I’ve got to figure out how to get those fucking things into a trailer?” They both look at the machines, and Justin says, “Hey man, don’t worry about it.” Zach looks at me and says, “Yeah, that’s good advice,” and he nods like one of those birds that bob their heads into water.

“OK, I don’t think I will,” You don’t make friends because how helpful they are, you make friends because they make sense to you. Sometime later, I head for my house, and manage to stumble through the living room with no broken bones and drift into the bedroom, still damp from the summer night. Out the window on the concrete landing below is a pile of copper and an empty compressor. I wish the magic could be put back into the air conditioner.

The only option is to lay down and sweat it out and sweat it out with the windows open. The smell of week-old garbage seeps into the house through the open windows. The neighbors were not very considerate when they moved out and a pile of bags still sit in front of their house. It smells like our cats are leaving wet farts through the house. I still have to pack up half the house. We still move on Wednesday.

I wake up the next day with a pressure behind my eyes and swollen hands. It's that particular mix of dehydration and fluid retention particular to American beer. At 8:00 and 80 degrees, half the house is still waiting to go into boxes. I stare at the boxes, unable to make sense of them with my brain floating in a puddle of stale PBR. Occasionally, I get up and walk outside just to remember how oppressive the sun is. “Oh, fuck it.” I say.

I want to ride in spite of the heat. I grab my gear, black boots, black jacket, black helmet, I look at the black BMW. With all the gear, I feel like a portable sweat box, so, I put the jacket back. My logic, that losing skin might help me cool off. But in the back of my mind, I know it would just let the heat in faster, but it’s hard to care. The BMW seat is so hot it burns through my jeans and irons my scrotum flat. I stand up after I shift into second, the air cools the seat and dries the sweat from my arms and takes some of the heat with it. Then I'm dry – ready to split – in the sun. I'm back in the breath of the devil.

I get to a red light intersection and a Harley pulls up next to me. I look over, and the yellows and reds of his tattoo sleeve diffuse with sweat in the sun. I'm sweating again already, too. He turns to make eye contact and nods. “Hey.” He adds, in a gesture that takes almost as long as the light does to change. Slow. He's not out for speed. Maybe he dropped his air conditioner, too.

Back home, it’s a bit cooler. The windows are shut and the shades drawn against the day, but it's not quite enough. I turn on the fan, and sit down in my boxers. Thanks for the beer, Zach, I think. I still have a house closets full of crap that need to go in boxes, but not today.

Country Livin' - An Army Jeep, Dyed Chicks, Go-Karts and Family

2011-12-08T13:39:00.001+01:00

Kelsie walked in to ask a question while I hammered at the keyboard. “We're going to Fargo this weekend to visit my Aunt and Uncle. Do you want to come along?”

Fargo... in North Dakota? We just got here, we moved cross-country from Virginia to flat-chested South Dakota – forsaking mountains, culture, and even a proper beer selection in the process. Would I like to visit your relatives further from civilization, in the kind of place where hermits go when their caves feel crowded? Of course I would! I mean, I do have those tickets to the fourth plane of hell for this weekend, but if you bring a set of thumb screws, there's really no difference.

My best attempt at guarding my thoughts.

I looked at her and tried not to let my face betray my thoughts. She stood next to me, a residual smile of excitement on her lips from talking to her mother and the thoughts of visiting her family. She was excited, and inexplicably elated to visit at a farm, where the bulk of life found is in livestock. She stood there, radiant, eyes full of love.

“Sure, hon, I'll go.” I said, and she bounced back up the stairs to confirm our attendance at the gravel and manure expo. “Dear god, what was I thinking?” I motorcycled across country for adventure, for stories, to see the country – and now this? I wondered which box the pile of moving cardboard held my hip flask.

Later at dinner, Kelsie's mother, Pat, looked at me.

“So, Brady, I hear you're coming to Ken and Virjean's.”

“Yep. That's the plan.” I bobbed my head, as if to prove... something.

“I'm kind of surprised, I didn't think it'd really interest you. Like, maybe you'd think it was too boring or bumpkin or something.”

Christ. Nobody even expected me to come along? “Oh, no, It kind of sounds like fun.” I said, and loaded my fork with sausage. Perhaps if I packed my mouth full of it, I could mumble my way to convincibility.

“Well, it should be fun. Are you looking forward to seeing Ken's restored vehicles, then?”

“The... what?” I held the overloaded fork, forgotten, and smashed the area between my brows into an inverted V.

“His vehicles. You didn't know?” She asked.

Kelsie chimed in, “Uncle Ken restores old vehicles, mostly military stuff – he'll probably take us for a ride in his old Jeep.”

“Old... Jeep? How old?” I asked, still holding the fork.

“I don't know, pretty old,” she continued, “like the ones they had in MASH.”

“It's his hobby,” Pat said, “once they're fixed he doesn't do much with them, but he's got buildings full of things like that.”

“Neat.” I said, because Oh, thank god! would have betrayed my stoic facade. After all, I dragged 16 tons of vintage Honda parts across the country, but first, I sorted every component and fastener type, then by descending size - from memory. I could get lost in a barn full of old cars for two days.

North Dakota (photo by author)

We left the next morning, and after a three hour drive, we pulled up to the farm. It was an early afternoon filled with endless North Dakota sky, blue and rich like cobalt and oil paint. Each cloud looked placed by the hand of an artist, put there to highlight thick blue over waving acres of green. A red barn trimmed in white sat off to one side, countered by an average, single story Midwestern farmhouse on the other. Virjean met us outside, and brought her narrative of farm life, the rains were too heavy and frequent, the ground so wet that the pumps had been running nonstop for days, the grass needed mowing, the field needed spraying, the dog is friendly but watch where you step, she likes to leave treasures, and did we want something to drink? There is Iced tea and lemonade... We followed her across the gravel of the driveway.

She showed us into the house, large with linoleum floors and an open kitchen. The living room furniture had come well before their first child, Brian, who currently waffled between to college or trade school. The only new piece of furniture in the house was one that he had built in his shop, a beautiful oak entertainment center. The boy should forget college, he would enjoy building desks far too much too much to spend his life behind one.

Chicks (photo by author.)

The ladies circled in the kitchen and resumed old conversations that made as much sense as a random pages from Russian novels. I fully understood why men, historically, spent so much time at the hunt, and wondered if I shouldn't have feigned tuberculosis this morning. Fortunately, someone walked in and said, “OK, I think we're ready to start with the chicks.”

Wait, what? Chicks?

The whole family (and a few neighbors) walked to the grass outside the red barn with a pile of little, yellow birds. This was part of an Easter-themed 4-H project for the fair the next day, and what followed was a sort of bucolic wizardry heretofore unknown to me. The kids rubbed the fluffy birds with food coloring which the soft down soaked up. The result was a sort of ambulatory Easter egg. Well, that was the theory, for the moment the wet birds looked like drowned cats, but the kids did well, they grabbed birds fearlessly, and showed a sense of adventure, realism and resilience unknown to people born the city. Nobody was afraid of dirty hands or chicken poo, and nobody ignored the fact that the now cute birdies would grow out of their colored gowns, and grow into a short life of laying eggs, or an even shorter life in a roaster pan. Even so, everyone smiled and laughed their colorful hands. Kelsie's young cousin, Kate, showed her magenta bird to anyone who would look. Then they left the birds to dry in the warmth of their heated coop – where they 'cheeped' along with the voices of talk radio, always left playing in the background, because “They like the company.”

As the 4-H group broke apart and headed home, I must have had the look of now what on my face, as Kelsie looked at me and said, “Did you know that Brian has a go-kart?”

Brian straightened himself – the same way I do when approached by strangers interested in my motorcycle. He immediately turned from his conversation and said, “Do you want to see it?”

“Let's go.” I said.

Five minutes later, Kelsie and I stood in the shed with Kate, as Brian enumerated his... modifications. “The driver's wheel linkage snapped, so we had to weld that back together, the front brakes don't really work, so don't go too fast any time you think you might want to stop, the exhaust is kind of loud because we had to drill holes in it, the machine comes out of gear if you touch the shift lever wrong, don't ride the motor too hard because it's Chinese...”

Chicks on display

Basically, it could only be certified safe in China, India, and 6 southern states.

“Alright, show me where I can drive!” I told him, and we took off through ditches and woods, where the low branches whipped just above our heads, and out past fields where we figure-eighted around his mom's segmented vegetable garden. Then he took me back to where the ladies were patiently waiting and jumped out. “I'm going to see if I can get the other one running.” He said. Wait, there is another one? Why aren't we using that, it has to be better than this thing!

Kate walked up to me as I crawled into the seat.

“Alright, I'm coming, too,” she said. I looked at Kelsie and raised my brows.

“Have fun!” she said.

“Will do.” I said, then I looked at Kate. “Do you know what drifting is?”

“What's that?”

“Put your belt on.”

And with that, we took off down the dusty, gravel road, past the red and white barn, past the goats and into the woods.

“You ready?”

“Yep!”

I hit the gas and slid around a set of trees into a mud-and-grass path through the woods. Dirt spat from behind the tires and grass clumped into the low welds in the frame. We shot out of the trees and into the ditch, then back to the empty gravel of the county road. “Whoooooa-hoooo!” I heard from my co-pilot. I smiled. "This is called opposite lock.” I yelled, and we slid from the gravel of the country road into the neighbor's drive, between his field and silos, and then gassed the little machine more until the rear end spun around and we faced the way we came. Then we did it all over again.

Back at the house, Kelsie came outside and waited.

“OK,” she said, “my turn!” And then I really gave it the beans. She laughed as we slid sideways through the yard, dress blowing in the wind, and as we slid past the little, red barn were Brian emerged with his other kart and chased us down. The clatter was deafening, his other machine had no muffler, no roll cage, one seat, and was operated by pulling the throttle cable with your hand. I'm glad I got to ride the machine that I did.

Inside for dinner, Kate's dad asked if she had a good time.

“Yeah!” she said, “I learned about drafting! It was crazy!”

“Hey now,” I said, “I'm Mr. Safety!” I yelled, half deaf from racing with Brian.

“Oh no you're not,” the girl countered, “you're... the OPPOSITE of safety!”

“Shhh, you're not supposed to tell them that or you won't get any more rides...”

“OOOhhhhhh.”

And we ate together, the whole family – half of us reeking of exhaust, and the other half with brightly mottled hands. Everyone together, joined for no other reason than a country fair, a couple of 4-H projects, and the desire to be together. A family joining for the sake of family.

Later, I got the tour of the old vehicles, including the Army Jeep and a Model-A Ford truck, mid-restoration. I helped shear a goat and got that ride in the the old army Jeep as the sun set over the corn and beans of North Dakota. Ken took us down paths that were once roads, now overgrown and useless to everything except four-wheelers and restored Jeeps. I don't know where we went, but there was no rush to get there. We puttered in low gear as the sun warmed the sky through oranges and reds and framed Kelsie in warmth, reminding me of what I already knew – that she was beautiful and I was lucky, lucky for her, lucky for family. Fortunate to be with these people in the middle of nowhere, where there may be fewer people, but there is much life between them. We drove until the sun dipped almost out of sight, leaving the world burgundy and blue – cooling for the night.

The next morning, Mikayla came to breakfast with the chicken she was to show at the county fair, and she ate her toast while the fat hen sat quietly on her lap, and I looked forward to another in the middle of nowhere.

German War Cats - a Visit to Minneapolis

2011-12-01T12:01:00.001+01:00

Minneapolis Skyline from the highest point in the region, at Prospect Park in the summer of '11. Photo by the author.

From neutral, the Kawasaki slaps into first gear like a wooden dowel on teeth. It's a satisfying sound with the feel of breaking bones and mechanical witchcraft, but it represents precision engineering and functioning components. It says the machine is in gear and ready for anything – breakfast downtown, dinner in another state, or sometimes the machine is just ready for the operator to dump the clutch and stall the motor. That was the case on this particular August morning. What a great way to start the 100 miles to Minneapolis. It's best to be humbled early in the trip - the driveway is better than the freeway where a detuned ZX motor can still get you into a lot of trouble. Still, I hee-hawed in disbelief as I opened my visor and looked around. Fortunately, 80 degrees is “hot” in Minnesota and accompanied by the dull drone of central A/C units, closed windows and drawn shades, so the humility is mine alone. On a cooler day, dad (longstanding member of the Browbeat school of parenting) would have heard, and ventured to the kitchen window to “encourage” my efforts. I started the bike again, and the motor ran easy out of the driveway, warm and smooth like finished wood.

On the way out of town, I passed the grocery store and its big red letters on pale stucco, then crossed the dull concrete bridge over the Minnesota river. The waters were still swollen with winter melt at the end of summer, and it's banks had claimed some surrounding woodland. I felt good, and the machine felt tight, even though I knew that the specially-designed paving stones used to construct the Connie's seat would slowly mold the muscle and bone of my ass into a useless wedge shape known as“Kwak Bottom,” but in the first few moments of use, that didn't matter, the bike seemed planned... “tight.” I entered the arc of the acceleration lane to highway 14 and rolled on the throttle – the front end went light, and the motor struck like Thor's hammer, then the butterfly valves opened and the pipe spat rabid growls through 2nd gear.Then, I clicked through four gears into overdrive, and settled into the countryside and the slow ride to Minneapolis.

The Sex Machine - A 2009 Kawasaki Concours 14.
Photo by author.

In Nicollet, Minnesota, I passed a brown, 1978 CB750K that I lusted after, and turned north toward Minneapolis and a weekend with the big Swede, a college friend and PhD of neuroscience who enjoys chess, philosophizing, and (at one point) shouting NAMBLA jokes while paddleboating with my (then) 17-year-old brother.

A ride through this part of the world can be a struggle for the uninitiated – a repetitive, verdant desert, with hills shamed by cow mounds, and terrain as varied as beige carpet. There are exceptions, a river here, a lake there – but the freeway to Minneapolis does not bend to for scenery. As a child, it's torturous, repetitive and slow. As an adult, it's one of life's gifts, a place to be free with your thoughts. On highway 169, my eyes picked the route and marked potential hazards, my body adjusted controls, and my brain had just enough remaining energy to sort thoughts and clean shop. I hit the zen of the ride.

I used the time to think about what the trip meant. Both Swede and I were both full of excitement, we saw each other only a couple of times a year, but he was at the end of his PhD and preparing to move to London, and soon Kelsie and I would be off to Munich. It would be the last time I ever visited his grad-school apartment – with the thin walls, bad plumbing, and peeling linoleum. The end of an era. With any luck, it would also be the last time I saw Julius C. Pepperman – his cat – which is one of the few remaining animals of its genealogy. It's a specific line of feline beast bred by the Germans during WWI for its ferocity and utility in trench warfare due to one, specific mutation – the mustard gas gland – which releases a flesh-dissolving gas when hissing in its own trademark way. (An aural mix of foaming espresso machine and rusted swing... or leaking air hose and dropped butter knife.) The furry abominations where so tenacious that the Germans were unable to eliminate them all at the end of the Great War, and soldiers who survived the cat often suffered “shell shock” and suffered insomnia lest their houses were sealed airtight every evening. They were also wholeheartedly against Italian coffee and metal flatware.

Needless to say, I was in no particular rush to meet Swede's cat again, it tried to enter my bedroom and murder me in my sleep the last time I visited.

When I arrived, I was able to park in his driveway, as his car was missing, gone with his wife on errands. I dismounted and began the orthopedic stretches prescribed against Kwak ass. Inside, I dropped my bags in the spare room, and Swede gave the necessary single-arm embrace of male friendship. J. C. Pepperman entered the room and fixed his angry, golden eyes on me. He moved slowly to his haunches and began to pressurize an organ deep in its bowels.

“That fucking cat, man.” I said. “It hates me, and it's going to kill me with that breath.”

“Ha, I guess it's got halitosis or something, but you're the one who put a sock on its head the first time you met it.” Swede said. That may be true, but I still kept my door shut at night, fearful the little beast would poison me in my sleep.

It was an amazing summer day, and Swede suggested we explore the city. I liked the idea, until I thought about it, without a car, it meant I (at 5'-11¾” and 145lbs) would drive Swede (at 6'5” and 220lbs) on the Kawasaki – a prospect as inviting as rollerskating downhill while holding an aquarium, but we only had two options, ride into the city playing the Ambiguously Gay Duo, or spending the day inside with J.C. Mustardgas and his hateful, fiery eyes, and pressurized hell gland. I told swede to put some real shoes on.

Minneapolis is bastion (largely) of tolerance against a wall of Midwestern red states. It's a good thing, because when you put another man, (and one who stands six inches taller than you,) on the raised rear seat of your motorcycle, the usual surges of testosterone and unquestionable manhood of riding are gone, instead you feel like little spoon. To remove any ambiguity about my manhood, I removed my riding jacket and put on a different shirt, one that could leave no question in the minds of observers – the one with three dolphins jumping out of the ocean through a pink sky toward the moon. It's a pretty tolerant place.

The same tolerance that permits shenanigans on a motorcycle also tolerates a thick hipster culture, thriving music scene, and heavy influx of immigrants. Many of the people who start new lives in the Midwest land in Minneapolis, and the mixture of cultures produces interesting cuisine, which is why the effeminate express headed directly toward campus, and Bun Mi. The Dinkytown restaurant does bahn mi, a Vietnamese-French sandwich. Though this iteration is not a strictly pure form of the sandwich, it's damned tasty. Its origins are a bastardization and mixture of French and Vietnamese cuisine, a little further deviation hardly seems out of place. We continued our March of Manhood as Swedish drank bubble tea, and then got back on the motorcycle, where I continued my role as prison bitch.

The author, Brady, and his very tolerant wife in Seattle. Photo by Ollie.

We passed over the Mississippi River, and I decided that one day I need to ride the length of it, though this time I struggled to keep us from dropping into it. Swede tried to kill us every time a short skirt came into view. The bulk of his fat head craned to look at the summer-clad ladies, and his mass pushed the motorcycle around in the lane, close to the edge of the bridge. I had to tell him to stop, putting an end to the one activity that kept us from looking like a Freddy Mercury fan club. Not that the girls seemed to mind. It was probably the least offended they've ever felt by a motorcyclist leering at them - they probably assumed he was checking out their shoes.

We wound up at Prospect Park to have a look at the skyline and enjoy the weather. Then it was a quick stop at the liquor store for saddlebags full of IPA and scotch which we drank in the mismatched rockers on the porch while watching the breeze push the leaves around. I locked the porch door to avoid a cat claw vasectomy, and we talked of the future and our impending lives in Europe. Oddly, we'd be closer together in the cities of London and Munich than in Minneapolis and Charlottesville. Mostly, we just spent time together like old friends, enjoying the good times. Somewhere in the backs of our minds, we were both contemplating the end of the Minneapolis era, the end of the apartment. I loved that place, equal parts hovel and palace, and each trip there was an affirmation of life, as well as nourishment that would carry me until we would meet again.

I'll miss Minneapolis. I already miss Minnesota. The terrain is familiar and feels like home -- just like the house where I grew up and the apartment where I spent time with my friend – but really, it's the people I miss – the family, friends. It may be hard to see my family, but at least the Swede is only a short hop over the channel, and the best part is that he left the crazy warcat in Minnesota with his mother.

A Thanksgiving Story - Swede, Raptorman, and the Honda Death Trap

2011-11-23T11:09:00.001+01:00

Swede and the Death Trap

“Swede” is sixand a half feet tall and brilliant – a PhD in neuroscience andamateur philosopher. In college, our dinners at “The Caf”explored the depths of causality and fatalism, and generated a planfor a high-speed rail system that looked a lot likethe “Vision for High Speed Rail in America.” (The napkins wentmissing. I suspect I know where they wound up.) In addition tophilosophy, Swede came to my aid when I was assaulted by an angrysteroid gobbler. Swede pulled the deranged, pimply maniac off of me,thus limiting the number of resulting stitches to the single digits.He later said, “His neck was so thick, I had to use both arms tokeep him in a headlock.” That's real friendship.

He'snot a fighter by nature, in fact, I have more memories of him with a “space bag” on his shoulder (the silvery bag from inside a box ofFranzia, white zinfandel) drinking his way to the moon – his eyesslowly turning into slits like paper cuts, and his smile growing sowide I wondered if the top of his head might in a fall off when helaughed. Luckily, laughter just made him spit Franzia across theroom. Ah, Swede.

Aftercollege we both moved and married. The space-bagging ended, and hemoved to Minneapolis for grad school. I married, he married. We keptin touch, but meeting up was hard. Tradition helps, and Thanksgivingwas our big celebration. If nothing else, he would fly to Virginiaonce a year, because after four years of studying French, what Ireally learned was how to run a kitchen.

Ispent 30+ hours a week slogging in the French kitchen of TheCountry Pub during college,which left the real-world skills of how to drown meals in butter,cream, and wine-rich sauces, and more importantly, how to use a meatthermometer. I became the chef of Center Avenue (glorious culinaryking of both cityblocks,) and my Thanksgiving was not to be missed. So, Swede calledin mid-October, as per usual.

“What'sup, folklore?” He asked. He's the only person in the world to callme this.

“Notmuch – did you buy plane tickets?”

“No...I haven't. Every time I think of your cats, I can't breathe. Justthinking of the nasal nightmare I experience at your house scares meoff.”

“Dude, come on, it's Virginia – there are amillion things to be allergic to here, I don't think it's my cats.You have a cat, just bring your allergy meds.”

“Folk,It's bad, I can't breathe in your house, it's like someone jammedpeppered dicks* up my nose.”

“Look,Swede, it's Thanksgiving, and my birthday is just a day after. You'regoing to visit, so buyyour ticket or I'll stab you.”

“Fine,alright, I'll do it today.”

Justover a month later, Swede touched down at CHO to a balmy 58 degrees.

“Hey!Folks-a-popping! How are ya?!”

“Great,how are you doing.”

“Ha,good! It's warm as hell here, wow!” He said. Virginia is theequator compared to Minnesota winter. “Do you like, 'play' outsideyet or what? We should get some bicycles or something, this isgreat.”

“'Play?'No, I usually still ride the Honda to work, though, unless there isan ice storm or something.”

“Stillriding, then? That's good.” And he nodded with approval. “How'sColonial Manner?” He asked. Apparently any house south of Iowa is aplantation, and every white rocking chair deserves a pitcher of mintjuleps. Colonial Manner was the name he gave my 45-square-foothouse in Virginia.

“Great,and the cats are waiting for you...” I said.

“Eeeehhyah.Great.” He said.

Aswith most reunion tours, the details of the first day fade as thehour approaches midnight. Memories are replaced with joyous feelingsof conviviality, warmth and friendship. I remember Swedecomplimenting my recent purchase of a 1971 Honda Passport (vomitorange and barely operational) as we pulled into the driveway, andafter that it was all laughter and wine.

Thenext day, Thursday, I cooked thanksgiving dinner in the same fashionas always – with elaborate attention to detail, wearing my Sundaybest, and completely hung over. The gaseous remnants of “digestiveaids” pushed on the backs of my eyes (Le digestif, in French, istypically one strong drink at the end of a large dinner tohelp settle the stomach,) but my lack of coordination only caused onemishap – a big splash of turkey-grease on the kitchen wall. Iremained clean in my fancy clothes, however.

Theguests included Raptorman, Pierre, and their dates. We all sat downto a healthy spread - garlic mashed potatoes, gravy, cranberry sauce,stuffing (Stove Top... what? I likeit,) and of course ahuge, golden Turkey with thyme and garlic. I carved the beast at thehead of the table and passed out portions like an old-time head ofhousehold. We ate, and we drank our way through the bottles of redsand whites that the guests brought. We enjoyed friendship and werethankful to have such good friends to spend the day with – whileMoof the cat was thankful for the turkey-flavored wall. Whenever theconversation lulled, the soundtrack of raspy tongue on paint playedin the kitchen as Moof did his best to clean what I had missed.

Afterdinner, the men folk retired to the front step and the white rockersof Colonial Manner at Swede's behest – an attempt to get outof the oppressive warmth of the inside (Minnesotan, remember) andescape the “nasal AIDS” emanating from the cats – and ofcourse, to digest. Raptor passed the bottle of brandy, and seriousdigestion was about to start. Then, Swede commented again on theHonda Passport.

“I'llprobably need to ride that thing later.” He said, taking thebottle.

“You'llprobably need to ride it now, or not at all. Once you startdigesting, that death trap will easily kill you.”

Raptorstarted laughing, the 40-year-old machine had originated from hishouse, and had come to me cheap and non-operational. It still wouldonly roll start (at over 10 mph,) wouldn't idle, had paltry brakesand buzzed a deathly noise that reminded me of the failing heatshields on the space shuttle.

Istarted the machine and handed it to Swede. When he sat, the springscreaked and collapsed under his weight. He looked like a giraffefucking a corgi. Raptor groaned, it was he's the one who coined thephrase, “Goddamn death trap!” Swede engaged the clumsy footclutch / transmission, and the front wheel jumped off the ground ashe took off up the hill.

“Iwonder how long he'll live?” Raptor said, laughed, and tucked intohis digestion.

Pierresaid, “Is it OK, really, I mean is it OK to drive, it looks verybad... maybe it will break?”

We cheered every time he lappedthrough the cul-de-sac and raised our snifters as if to say “Lookwhat we've got, get off that Kevorkian pile of shit and enjoy thespoils of life!” but he kept riding, sporting a huge grin thatreminded me of Franzia and made me wonder if the top of his headreally could fall offwhen he laughed.

Eventually,he came back and we killed the bottle of Brandy while the women folkdid the dishes (I'll take no flak, thank you! I cooked!)Then we moved through wine, beer, scotch, and (if I remembercorrectly) we wound up at the kind of classy joint that stays open onThanksgiving and hasBig Buck Hunter. That's the problem with good friends you seldom see,as Swede says, “You're so excited to see each that you celebrateuntil forget your time together.”

Iremember enough, that thanksgiving was good friends and warm hearts.We've all gone our separate ways. Kelsie and I are in Germany, andSwede and his wife live in London, but we have Christmas plans forthis year. I will never some of those friends again – Raptor andMoof are both gone forever - but their memories live on. I'mthankful for the time I was able to spend with them, and the happymemories they left me. So, to all of you on Thanksgiving, I wish youfond memories. Happy thanksgiving! Enjoy!

_________________________________________________________________________________

*That'sright. Peppered dicks – I'm not making this up, the man has a flairfor words. Other Swede-isms include “100-foot-huge” (self-imposedpenis reference) 50-foot-huge, (penis reference, for others) as in“This guy is 50-foot-huge...” which is also his strongestcharacter reference. Additionally, there is the matter of hiscat's name. The brown and black mottled cat was first named Schmeehhhhh, after the noise it produced instead of meowing. (Thisnoise also produces a repellant gas capable killing rodents anddissolving flesh.) The cat lived as Schmeehhhhh for a couple ofmonths, then took on the following names (in no particular order)Pih-kah, Fighter-Warrior, Pepparrman, J. C. Peppercat, and JuliusC. Pepperman. Occasionally, Swede would sing “Jesus ChristPeppercat” to the tune of “Jesus Christ Superstar” when theanimal entered the room. These are the names I've heard, andI visit him about one week per year.

The Electric Zero XU - with only 42 Miles of Range?

2011-11-21T14:10:00.001+01:00

2011 Zero XU (From Wiki Commons) The 2012 version has belt drive and other updated systems.

Every time I look at “alternative” (or “non-conventional” or “electric”) motorcycles, I lose a little more perspective on what a motorcycle really is, and like a lot of people, I spend a lot of time focusing on what these new machines cannot do. For example, the new Zero Motorcycles XU has a range of only 42 miles. 42 miles! I was instantly reminded of the little, electric Jeep my neighbor had when I was growing up. Talk about a cool toy – shaped like a car with a gas pedal, brakes, and it moved of it's own volition. Fuckin' A! It was the coolest thing in the entire world, until I saw him run it up his driveway. It climbed with the furious torque of a watch motor. I was happy I didn't waste Christmas on that.

I know a new electrobike is not an anemic Power Wheels from the late 80s, but manufacturers need to overcome that stigma while trying to dig out a niche somewhere between scooter and motorcycle. These machines have serious identity problems. They're basically chimeras – machines with the heads of lions and the bodies of goats... or the the heads of Iphones and the bodies of toasters. Chimeras.

So, what is an electric? Is it just a glorified scooter, or...? I mean, you could use one to cross the country just like a regular motorcycle... provided you had three months of vacation and a damned good cartographer, but even that depends on which bike you used, and still doesn't make it a motorcycle. It all falls onto the spectrum of chimeric variety, with some models more motorcycle-ish and aggressive, while others are more docile and practical. This electric, the XU, where does it fit? The small range says scooter... but not completely. A range of 42 miles is like driving on the reserve tank all the time. Who the hell would want that?

As it turns out, I do – here's why. The town where I currently live is only two miles long. I could cruise every street it has before it crapped out. I could easily get groceries with it. Also, my last commute in Charlottesville, Virginia was only 5.8 miles round trip. It always felt longer, (probably because I was on the way to work.) Even if I added a stop at the grocery store after work, the loop only totaled 10 miles. That left plenty of miles left in the batteries, so, I added a third destination, Target. Kelsie and I both agreed Target was “Way the fuck out there,” but, even with three stops mileage only totaled 24.8 miles. The XU has an in-town radius of 42 miles and a highway mileage of 28 miles. Cool, and a hell of a lot more practical than I ever thought.

It also has regenerative braking, better mileage, and better braking than the previous model. It's ninja quiet, belt driven, and twist-and-go simple. Good for scooterists or motorcyclists who like to park on the sidewalk. Then, there is coolest part, it only weighs 220 pounds. 220 pounds! That's less than my college roommate. (Incidentally, my college roommate who, at over 250lbs, exceeds the weight limit of the machine.) Seriously, it's way cooler than that shitty electric Jeep. Of course, there is still the potential to run the batteries dry, but if you run go flat, you and two friends could toss it into a hatchback and haul it home. Or, remove the battery pack and recharge inside a Starbucks. (Quick charger required for indoor charging.) You can plug into any standard outlet and siphon electrons for refueling and Angry Birds for the two hours you need to wait. Plus, it's not like anyone can drive off with it while the battery pack is out of the machine – unless they throw it in the back of their hatchback...

2009 Kawasaki Concours 14 - all this for only $10,600.

I want one, I mean, really want one. The problem? It's the same as all toys... money. Base price is $7,695.00. Shipping to your door is another 500 beans, (unless you have a dealer close by, unlikely.) You can add bags to haul groceries (+$349.99,) a windshield +$99.99,) and a quick charging unit for indoor/2-hour charging (+$595.99). That's close to 9K. It may be cool, practical and fun (remember only 220 pounds!) but I paid only $10,600 for my brand new Kawasaki Concours out the door. It may weigh three times as much, and I can't park it on the sidewalk, but I just can't justify the price – which is too bad - but my first bike, a 1985 Honda Nighthawk 450 was operational for $1500. A brand new Suzuki TU250X is $4100 and gets 79/mpg. There is a bit of separation, those bikes require a bit more skill to ride (with a clutch and transmission.) But learning that skill seems worth $4,000 to me.

Protect IP and Censorship Legislation

2011-11-19T09:28:00.000+01:00

This is a decidedly non-political platform - a place where I hope readers feel comfortable and know that no partisan agenda is being launched at them. Right now, however, there is legislation being rushed through congress that could change the way that the internet, even we bloggers, work. It could influence the way some of our favorite websites function, such as Facebook, Youtube and Google (which owns Blogger, lest we forget.) The new law would give more power to Hollywood and the government to censor our content. While I admit there is copyright abuse on the internet, I do not welcome the government and Big Media censoring what we can and cannot access on the internet, and this bill can ban entire websites for a single infringement.

"[O]rdinary users could go to jail for five years for posting any copyrighted work - even just singing a pop song."

The following video is a bit sensational, but is a basic rundown of the bounds of PROTECT IP. I encourage you to watch and decide for yourself, as there could be implications for you and your blog, or the websites you currently use and enjoy. The following video is from http://fightforthefuture.org/pipa

I will not plead or twist arms, I do not need to start a civic discussion, but I do want to inform my readers of what is happening, and if you feel opposed, I encourage you to stand up and say so at one of the following links. Online petitions and letters to your members of congress only take a minute. (Literally, well, maybe two minutes.)

http://fightforthefuture.org/pipa/

http://www.opencongress.org/bill/112-s968/show

If you feel so inclined, feel free to use, post and repost, even copy and paste the "Protect IP and Censorship Legislation" blog entry as much as you see fit, but please remember where it came from. (www.behindbarsmotorcycle.com)

You Meet the Strangest People on a Kawasaki - The Black Hills, Big Jim and his Excelsior-Henderson

2011-11-17T15:31:00.000+01:00

Excelsior-Henderson

Kelsie and I werein the Black Hills of South Dakota, as near as I could tell, in themiddle of nowhere, but I was told that the town of Lead (leed) wassignificant, it used to hold the western hemisphere’s mostproductive gold mine. However, I had absolutely interest in historicdistricts on that day. It was one of the two days in the lastcentury when southwest South Dakota reached (and surpassed) 140,000degrees (Fahrenheit.) The skin of my arms was crackling and searing,and my body was pumping out its last drops of sweat, as if to helpthe sun lock in the moisture as I baked me in my inside my blackgear. I would rather look like the Michelin Man in a whiterefrigerator suit than everbuy gear based on “cool factor” ever again.

Black Hills on the way to Jim's place

Wepulled into the strangest service station I've ever visited. Outfront a Triumph Rocket III was parked, and in the garage were anumber of interesting old bikes. A door from the tiny garage leadinto an adjoining room, only instead of a waiting room and office,there was a fudge shop, as if an elf had slowly tried to sabotage amechanic with a sweet tooth over the course of years. In the lot, Iopened the saddle bags for water. We had grabbed two extra bottlesfrom the BP fridge during our last stop for gas, but after 75 milesthey might as well have been full of dog piss, hot and strange to getdown. We drank anyway, and then I started to take off my jacket,which, though “breathable, perforated nylon” stuck to me like awet condom.

“It'stoo hot for all that shit today.” A voice came from behind me.

I turned around to find Big Jim – a good name for a fudge shopmechanic with a sweet tooth.. He looked like John Goodman, if JohnGoodman were capable of killing Buddy Holly, stealing his glasses,and wearing them seriously.

Ithought about saying “Hot enough to boil your nuts right out of thebag...” But I opted for “It's hot, I'll give you that.”

Isat at at the picnic table kiddy corner from the big man and sharedthe shade of the umbrella. I was desperate for protection from thesun, and I crushed the bottle to speed the piss water into my throat.I tried not to give the vibe that I liked to be stabbed.

BigJim, looked at my '09 Kawasaki Concours with the same eyes a quarterback gives the chess club. He squinted behind the thick glassof his black frames and asked, gave my bird shoulders a cursoryglance, then looked back at the Connie. “How big is that thing? Sixhundred?”

“Fourteen-hundred.”

“Mm.”He said, and gave a small nod of approval. Apparently I made theteam, because he kept talking. “Last year a guy came through hereon an old piece-a-shit Honda 350 that broke down on him.” I lookedat Big Jim. I like old Honda pieces of shit.

“Anold Honda?” Like aCL or a CB?”

“Yeah,an old CL. He and a group of his friends fly to Wisconsin every yearand buy machines for less than 500 bucks. They drive themcross-country through here.”

“wow.”

“Yeah,so his Honda craps out, so I sell him an old Kawasaki.” I guessthat's the link to my Kawasaki. “He worked on it backin the shop, cleaned the carbs and got on the road. I've still gotthe old CL in the back somewheres.”

Hecontinued to look straight forward as he talked – some kind ofpost-trauma stress thing, or an animal sprawled in the shade of thesavannah, expending as little energy as possible to stay cool.

“Soundslike a good time.” I said, and I decided that wherever I live next,I'm going to do the same thing. Maybe, though, I could up the ante to$800... As I was contemplating, Big Jim started a new thought.

"Youremember the Excelsior-Hendersons they made back in '99-00?"

“No,ah...” I said, though I wanted to. “I don't.” For getting a nod of approval and being accepted into the circle of confidants, I didn't feel like I washolding up my end very well.

Excelsior-Henderson

“I'vegot one in the shop over there. You want to have a look?” he asked,and broke his thousand-yard stare to look at me. Is this an honorhe bestows to everyone, even the guys that dump through town on tinyold Honda 350s, or did I earn entry into some kind of big-bike club?

“Mindif I snap some pictures?” I asked.

“Whatever.”He goes into the shop and heaves his weight into the machine. Withall his mass, he's able to move it like a Radio Flyer wagon.

“That'sa good machine. It's got two forks.” Jim wheels the big, graymachine into the sun, and the chrome shines. The fender is big,decorative, but not comically so. For the first time since I satdown, he seems to genuinely enjoy himself. His mouth doesn't smile,it's his eyes.

“Theyonly made 1,800 of these.” He said.

“Canyou even get parts?”

“Ohyeah! They were set to make another 10,000 machines before they wentbust, there are a tonof parts. I can get a gas tank for two hundred bucks.”

“Noshit?”

“Yeah, and a new alternator costs eighty bucks!”That really seemed toplease him.

Excelsior-Henderson

Thismust be the crown jewel of his collection. Ithought. We sat back down and stared at the machine.

“The motor is at 50ºwhere Harleys are at 45º... but I never had much use for one ofthem.”

“Youdon't like them? Don't like the brap brap? Or...?”

“Likea barking dog. All bark, no bite. Now thatoneover there.” He pointed to the Rocket III. When I drove past it onthe way in, I thought it looked like a city bus, thick and heavy.“That'll do 0-60 in 2.6 seconds, andset off the alarms on them Beemers a block away. I like that.”He smiled.

“Ha.That's even faster than my Kaw at 2.9, and I don't think much getsaway from that. How big is the Rocket?”

“Twenty-three-hundred.Biggest one out there.”

“Holyshit. What's it weigh?”

“Sixfifty.”

So,hardly a city bus. “No wonder it's faster than the Connie.”

Ilooked at Kelsie, who had been hiding in the shade on the side of theshop, and who was probably bored to tears by Big Jim and his millionmotors. I could have sat for an hour longer, but Jim noticed myglance at Kelsie, and I guess he took it as a cue that theconversation was over.

“Well,it's been good to talk to you.” He said and pushed down hard on thepicnic table to move his mass vertically. Then, he walked into theboiling sun, chucked a leg over the Triumph and did his best to setoff all the car alarms in a block radius.

“Whata strange guy. Interesting, but strange.” I said to Kelsie.

“I'llsay. Let's get some more water.” She said, And we took off towardSpearfish.

A Game of Burgmanship – A Fuel Cell Machine that Comes so Close...

2011-11-14T12:46:00.001+01:00

Suzuki Burgman Fuel Cell (From the Suzuki Press Release)

Mondays are becoming "Alternative Motorcycle Mondays." A look at motorcycles and technology that impact our future. As such, I thought it would be good look look back in news to March (of 2011) when the Suzuki “Burgman Fuel-Cell Scooter has [became] the world’s first fuel-cell vehicle to earn Whole Vehicle Type Approval in the European Union,” according to the Suzuki press release. Which means the scooter can, legally, be sold in any of the EU member states.

The scooter itself is a basic 125cc Burgman platform that generates energy through a fuel cell built by Intelligent Energy, a “global company located in the US, UK, Japan, and India.” The cell provides a similar power output to its gas-powered brother – though the folks over at Motorcycle News say it's down just a bit on pep.

A fuel cell produces electricity, so the drive is electric, and is powered by the exclusively by the cell during light loads and cruising. During heavy loads and acceleration a Li-Ion battery helps with the load. The battery is regenerated by the cell as needed, and also during regenerative braking. Unlike conventional combustion drive, the cell stops producing power when none is needed, and is therefore quite efficient. It sounds like magic, but it's just chemistry and a clever invention called the polymer electrolyte membrane (PEM.)

The horror of High School Chemistry returns!
This is how hydrogen is typically found in
gaseous form. In a fuel cell (at the catalyst,) the
electrons are stripped, separating the two
hydrogen atoms, leaving only the proton
(center) which can pass freely through the
Polymer Electrolyte Membrane (PEM)
Ill.: Ron Kurtis' School of Champions

The PEM fuel cell inside the Burgman requires two gasses, oxygen and hydrogen. Both gasses are diatomic, which means they are almost always bound together in pairs – H2 and O2, and they do not want to separate... stuck together like kids after prom, but they can be separated. The trick is a catalyst, usually platinum. An negative current draws the hydrogen gas toward a catalyst, and the catalyst splits the two amorous

PEM fuel cell. (Wiki Commons)
Only the H protons pass through the
membrane and pass to the other side
of the fuel cell, where they meet with
oxygen to form water.

hydrogens apart. In the process, their electrons are removed and gathered by the system as electricity. Without electrons, the individual hydrogen atoms can pass through the PEM to the other side of the fuel cell. There, the hydrogen meets with oxygen (which has also been through a rough catalyst break up.) True to their teenage nature, they all want to hook up again – forgetting old pairings and forming new bonds, making H20 – water.

Oxygen – 02 – is easy to get, it's in the air, (around 20%.) But, hydrogen gas is rare, very rare, only 0.000055% of the atmosphere, and that's our problem. Hydrogen does not naturally occur in any real quantity, so we can't just dig it up it – it needs to be created. Though there are many ways to make it, it takes a lot of energy to form, and we're not very good at it. It's also much more difficult to store and dispense than gasoline – in addition to containing less energy by volume (though more than batteries.)

In spite of the shortcomings, the Burgman can go up to 220 miles before filling, as the capacity of the fuel tank was doubled to 10,000 psi. Yes, 10,000 psi. If you haven't pissed yourself thinking about driving 10,000 psi tank (of the most flammable element on the planet) into traffic, then it's enough fuel to take you 220 miles if you average 20 mph. It sounds ludicrous to drive so slow, but the Burgman Fuel-Cell is comparable to a 125cc scooter, made for traffic and cities. Also, remember that the fuel cell only runs when it needs to, and the battery can regenerate by braking. As your speed increases your range decreases, and at 40mph you can only expect about 100 miles before you need fuel, if, and it's a big if, you can find it.

Immediately, the fuel problem had me saying, “which is why I would not buy a fuel cell vehicle right now...” but, it turns out that there is a public H2 station just 7 miles from where I live. A lot closer than I ever would have believed, and almost makes a hydrogen vehicle sound reasonable... Unfortunately, a 15 mile round-trip is roughly 10% (depending on the ride) of the tank capacity, and on further inspection, the nearest fueling station can only fill to 430 bar (6,236.62 psi.) Which means for 15-mile trip, I could only ever fill to 3/5 capacity.

So, am I ready to buy a fuel cell vehicle? Not quite. If we ignore that the Burgman is not actually on sale yet in the EU, and we ignore cost (since we don't know the MSRP of the vehicle, or the fill price of the tank.) There is still a big problem, infrastructure. 7 miles away is just a bit too far for fuel, especially when that will only fill the tank a little more than half. Then, what if that filling station closes? More are being built, but some will surely close. Most H2 stations in my region belong to companies that build cars or produce hydrogen... they were not purpose-built for the end user. Without a guarantee that fuel will be available and convenient, there is no reason for me to switch.

So, I can't commit – but I came close, and the playing field is leveling. The machine itself is sound. It acts like a scooter and basically is the same as a 125 Burgman. Plus, unlike batteries, you can fill it in five minutes and get back on the road. So, it's all about cost and infrastructure, and if Suzuki (or any of the producers of hydrogen vehicles) want to sell these things, they need to make the end-user feel comfortable with the switch. There will need to be a push for fueling stations before there is a demand for H2 vehicles.

It makes sense to me that all interested parties should work together - manufacturers, governments, and fuel companies should build a 10 year plan guaranteeing that hydrogen, starting in metropolitan zones, will be accessible and convenient, perhaps even at a fixed price that would hold for five years, after which it can be reevaluated for another five years...

So, what does this new Burgman mean for riders? Not much, yet. It's just one footstep. However, it is a reason for governments and fuel companies to start thinking about expanding, really expanding the hydrogen infrastructure into something practical. Is hydrogen and the fuel cell the wave of the future? Who knows, though it does seem like a leader, and deserves a fair shake. This is just one more piece of evidence to their credit.

How to Impress your Peers

2011-11-10T18:00:00.000+01:00

Kelsie and I spent the last two months living in a 26-square-meter apartment, which is tighter than parking a car in a refrigerator. Needless to say, when our angels of mercy (the secretaries responsible for locating housing at Kelsie's job) found us a new place, we were excited to move - even if we couldn't move in for a couple of weeks... and when we got the address, we were like kids when the presents first go under the tree. We had to have a shake, so we left to scout out our new, luxury, 3-room mansion. It was was less than a mile away, after all.

I don't know why, but I'm often put in charge of navigation. I'm about as reliable as a cat playing chess, and even though Kelsie knows I maneuver by divining rod, and I wasn't the one who had looked at a map, I “led” the way on our recon mission. That is, I pointed confidently in a random direction and said, “That way!”

It's a good thing neither of us was in a rush to get back. Only in Germany can you stroll into a neighborhood where the streets are named after famous logical, orderly people, physicists, like Heisenberg, Einstein, Röntgen, and Max Planck – and get completely lost. Whoever “planned” the streets had the sense of a bird hitting a window.

However, this was not a problem, because I also had a secret agenda – to gather photos for an upcoming article. In the midst of my bumbling, I spotted a yellow, BMW 1150GS tucked in an open garage, and lost interest in the new apartment and smiled at Kelsie.

“You think he'd mind if I took a few pictures?” I said, and started to walk toward the house.

“What?” she said. “Oh, no... Oh no, no, no. Oh, come on, don't.”

Kelsie loves to talk to strangers.

In the yard, two 20-somethings played a game of table tennis. I poked my head in through the gate door.

“Hello, does that yellow motorcycle belong to you?” I asked.

“Sorry?” the young man said as his brain switched to English. “Oh, no, that belongs to our neighbor, I can get him if you'd like.”

“Sure.” I said, and the young man disappeared inside, presumably to warn the owner that some crazy American was here to shit up his life. Behind me, Kelsie bounced on one foot, then the other. Her eyes set in an exaggerated roll, cheeks were on fire with anxiety.

“You nervous?”

She lowered her head and gave me the serious eyes. A moment later the house door opened, and a man in a basic, gray sweater came out.

“Yes, hello, can I help you?” He seemed... kinda serious, and I suddenly felt as if my tongue came detached from the base of my mouth. Must be nervous energy floating around out here... why did I start all of this?

“Hi, I was just wondering if I could take some photos of your motorcycle... I, uh, I'm writing an article...” I tried to explain that I wasn't some random creeper, that I was indeed writing a magazine article for the BMW owners club... really, just a normal guy who goes knocking on the doors of strangers... Just a normal guy... He cocked his head and squinted at me.

“You want pictures... of my motorcycle?” he asked, as if I wanted to watch his wife shower, maybe take snap some shots of that, too. Just a few, you know, I won't paste them all over the internet or anything... He wasn't upset, but apprehensive and confused by the whole situation.

I decided to change tactics, hoping that motorcyclists around the world are the same. I would use the one line that debilitates 90% of riders, myself included, the thing you can say that instantly brings a smile to faces and breaks down walls like the Kool-Aid man.

“You have a very nice motorcycle,” I said, “I have a few myself.”

The next thing I know, he's asking if I would like him to wheel it out of the garage and into the driveway for better light. It's funny how that works, of course, you must be a rider yourself. If a man walks up to me and says, “Nice bike,” but does not own a motorcycle, I thank him for the compliment, and and drive away wondering if the guy was competent or crazy.

As soon as he had it in the middle of the driveway, he confirmed that motorcyclists, everywhere, share some things in common. The next words out of his mouth were, “I crashed it, there is some damage...” As if to apologize for tricking me into thinking he had a nice machine, but I know why he did it. I'm reminded of all the times I drove the '78 Honda CB550 on the Blue Ridge Parkway and received compliments. “Yeah...” I'd say, “there's rust here, though, and the carburetors... well...” It's all I could see, I guess it's the same everywhere.

He turned out to be a nice guy – he passed me his business card so I could email him copies of the good photos, and then I thanked him for his time, and pointed decisively in a direction, and we left him there, smiling.

Back at the 12-step apartment, I had traded emails with Christian. He said that since I was interested in buying a motorcycle in Germany I should look into the F800, but no matter what I bought he would help us see the Alps when the weather was right.

I passed the details to Kelsie and she looked at me in disbelief.

“You knock on someone's door to hassle them on a Sunday, have them do manual labor for you, then they offer to guide you through the Alps by motorcycle? I just don't understand.”

“I don't know, honey, I just... love talking to people.”

Electric Motorcycles - Chipping away at the Future

2011-11-07T13:32:00.002+01:00

Thisyear I met two coal miners on Harleys in Yellowstone - two of thenicest guys I've ever met, even though they snickered at my “Japbike” through crooked, yellow teeth. I think I even heard the termscooter. I almost offered to race – to defend the honor of importedmachines and set some facts straight - but I knew the outcomewouldn't change anyone's mind. I would have had just as much lucktrying to convince them to quit their jobs in the mines because of pollution andclimate change. When the only job in town is at the mine, youwork in the mine. You worry about food, shelter and your familybefore existential threats to the future of the world.

I do not mine coal. My life is quite different... I spend a lot of time with scientists and put a lot of faith in them - so much, in fact, that I married one. Others do not put the same stock into the results of tests (or drag races as I do,) nor do they trust the theories and results of a mystical ivory tower. I've seen the machinery, and trust the results; therefore, I worry about pollution and climate change. I knowthey're both heated and controversial, but the effects could bedevastating. There are arguments against, particularly that scientists have made a few large, historical blunders, including phrenology,spontaneous generation and coitus interruptus. (Without which, most of us would not be here today.) But, the modern scientific method has given us phenomenal breakthroughs, including atomic fission,gene-replacement therapy, and Latisse ®– a solution for inadequate lashes. Still, we still have a long way to go.

Electricvehicles are the perfect example of how much progress we still needto make. Instead of functioning as viable replacements for gas vehicles, electricvehicles are largely impotent copies. Anyone who has consideredbuying an electric motorcycle knows what I'm talking about – the lack of speed, slow recharge time, and very limited rangeleaves the word “scooter” stuck in your throat.

We have a lack of will to move away from gasoline machinery - which is why I'm happy to see that Lightning Motorcycles, who claim "absolutely no compromises," produced an electricmotorcycle that broke 215 mph on Bonneville salt in August '11. The details are a bit fuzzy, as the Lightning Motorcycles website has yet to announce the achievement, but Youtube has the evidence, and it's touted by other websites. Call it what you want, but a machine thatgoes 215 miles per hour is anything but a scooter, no matter how badly that word sticks in the back of your throat like a wayward pube. I think even mycoal-mining friends from Wyoming would agree. It might not be thebike they want, or even the first machine I wouldchoose, but it sure as hell isn't a scooter. It's a step in theright direction, and strives toward, "Innovation Through competition."

Lightning Motorcycles tout a range of 150 miles in town and 100 miles on the freeway. While that's not good enough for atour of the Rockies, it's good enough to get most people to work andback, and you don't have to draft a Prius just to get there. It's even enough for a small jaunt on the weekend. And, just maybe, if a company like this were to expand, it could produce a few good-paying American jobs, though the question of what will replace gasoline is still very much in the air.

Fear the Panel Vans, Don't Fear your Life

2011-11-02T19:42:00.000+01:00

The South

Rural Minnesota ishomogenized. The town where I grew up was more exaggerated than most,and that stretched beyond the skim milk tones of the people thatlived there. I don't want to call it xenophobia, because that wouldimply that the populous knew that different things existed. Part ofmy graduating class thought there were only two types of people inthe world – Catholics and Protestants.

Lovely

Of course Iexaggerate, not everybody in the state thinks that Wiccan is a typeof basket, not everybody in my town, or even my graduating class.Minnesota is pretty progressive in its own way, and we even electedan actor into the office of governor. You know, the musclebound guyin Predator, Running Man, and Batman & Robin... the one who talkskind of funny. Remember him? (No, the other one.) Progressive!Right?

Whateverthe politics or misinformation, Minnesotans are bred from generationsof northern European farmers and they will always have apprehensionsabout outsiders, particularly people who live life without winter.You can argue that winter arrives at the solstice in warm climes justas it does in cold ones, but you will never convince a man who hassnowmobiled to work that it's even close to the same thing. Winter isa time when fashion takes a four-to-six month break for mismatchedwarmth, and Minnesotans believe that a life without winter shouldonly be granted as a reward for a life of toil or to ameliorate thesymptoms of rheumatism.

Asculture, these views do not stir up wanderlust in its people. Most who dotravel go only as far as their trail of breadcrumbs will allow, andthen only when absolutely necessary. Being away from home is backedby keen misgivings. Generations stayed on their homesteads, or darnclose, and would travel no more than 200 miles south until technologycould guarantee that ice cubes and air conditioning would beavailable, thus preventing spontaneous combustion.

Inspite of all of this, Kelsie and I moved to the “The South,” andVirginia became our home for 5 years. After a couple of years werealized that the extended, (and brutal) summer was norm – and nota hallmark of the apocalypse, or earthly foothold of of hell'sdomain. It turned out that the South is just a place where you canwear sweatshirts in winter, and a have a good laugh at people whocomplain.

Occasionally,Kelsie and I thought of taking the motorcycle and traveling even further south, but the memoryof that first, debilitating summer held us back. Besides, we werestill basically northerners, why go further south into the hot unknown?There could be some seriously scary things down there, like gators, probably swampthing, and God forbid, cayenne pepper. As if it wasn't hot enoughwithout the spice.

Predictably,my first motorcycle trip out of Virginia was a bullet shot toMinnesota through the friendly and familiar states of Iowa, Illinois,and Ohio. Good, trustworthy, Midwestern states, and nobody tried tokill me on the entire trip.

Thefirst trip made me braver, and our second trip was a bit bolder, andquite a bit longer – from Minnesota all the way to NorthernCalifornia and back – 6,000 miles over three weeks, and stillno one tried to kill either Kelsie or myself.

Thisis the sort of thing that flies in the face of conventional, ruralwisdom, which states that everyone you don't know is trying to killyou. Maybe I just made that up, but it is the wisdom that came out ofmy house and parents, or at least the 90s propaganda that polluted my Tom andJerry reruns – all strangers want to lure you into a panel van,haven't you heard? I didn't just make this up, and Silence of the Lambsproved it's true.

Panel vans or no,we survived all of it – the 6,000-mile trip and five years inVirginia. A couple of milk-skinned, corn-country Minnesotans managednot only to survive the road, but also live through half a decade in the South, and enjoy it. In the end,life in Virginia even shared a lot of similarities with where I grew up, though there were very notable differences. For example, I learned a few new things -namely, how elastic certain anatomical regions become in real heat.

Inever really thought of Virginia as “the South.” I saw it as beautifuland a bit too warm – but life there was just life. And if that'strue of Virginia, where else is it true? With a taste of life and travel, I understand why so many who leavethe prairie stay gone for so long – if not for their whole lives.It's not so bad out there, in the world – there's a lot to see.There's nothing like going home, to your culture - who youunderstand, love, and trust in a way only possible in your own tinychunk of the world, but don't let comfort and fear stand in the wayof life.

Old Friends Reunited, Seattle Washington and Revelations

2011-10-26T11:49:00.000+02:00

Seattle from Lake Washington

Olivermoved to Seattle years ago, and I hadn't seen him since. We haven'tspent much time together since high school – middle school, really– in the days when my social anxiety was so thick, It would probablyhide under medication if I were in school today. Thank God forOllie, when you've got a friend like him, you don't need meds.

I waslooking forward to these few days more than any other. Kelsie and Ihad ridden more than 2,000 miles on our way to Seattle, and afterfive years, I would see an old friend again. We made it to Oliver'splace sometime after six. He was surrounded by new friends, people Ihad never met or even heard of. His girlfriend was there, a womanhe'd been dating for years and whom I knew only by name – newfaces, a new life. Ollie was in the middle of it, where he alwayswas, smiling. His life may have changed, but physically, hehadn't changed at all, tall, meager shoulders and an easy smile. Howdo I fit into this? Do I fit into this? Should I have come?

Hebroke out of the group and walked over when he saw me. “Hey, man,it's good to see you.” He said, in the soft voice you use whensomeone wakes from a coma. We hugged, and the whole room seemed tosigh contented like the end of a Sandra Bullock movie. (Not that I'veever see one.) We stood there, smiling like idiots at each other.

Ollie's new look

It'sthen that I noticed something hadchanged about him – beyond the comic mustache, which made him looklike Snidely Whiplash... there was a difference – his eyes hadchanged. The youth was fading from them. I've noticed the same,subtle change in myself as I age, but Ollie's eyes were different.The twinkle was still there, but he was still carrying the baggage ofhis childhood. The room was full of young friends, vibrant people whoall loved Ollie for the same reason did – the acceptance andtolerance, the patience and wisdom that seems to run deeper than hisyears. He is the warmth, the fire that people gather around to healtheir hearts and bring light to their days – but in his eyes, Icould see the fatigue, the strain of carrying his burden and helping with the burdens of others, the way he had helped me with my burden when we were younger.

Wecaught up with “Did you hears?” and “She's got twokids?” We caught up byremembering the old days. We remembered old girlfriends. We toldeveryone the story of the time we donated a hubcap to the “HubcapMan of Heaven” and his store. (True story.) We drank, and laughed,and shared, and smiled.

Justbeing with him reminded me of the old days and gave me a certainsense of peace and levity, but, in the end we went ourseparate ways, again. I suppose I'll see him again some day, though who knows. The gaps between our visits have grownlonger, and each time it's just a bit harder to pick back up wherethings left off. Of course, the bonds of deep friendship never really break. They made fade, but the troubles thatwe have shared and the times we have seen will always bewith us. I will always love him for his friendship, and the way he supported me when I needed it - the strength we shared. When he left, some of that stayed with me. Not all of it, but enough to slowly build my own.

For years I wanted that source of strength back, but I realized this summer that I no longer need it. Now I just want the friendship, to share in the warmth, and to bring my own. The old cliché – about how you can't go back, it's true, but you can visit, and sometimes that's all youneed. The visit can teach you about yourself and show you why not to mourn thepast. Without it there is no growth, and you could never have become the person you are today.

42 Days in Atlantic City, Working Girls and Laundry

2011-10-19T11:41:00.000+02:00

Duncan may have been in my living room,but he took to the stage like a 50s lounge act. He paced thedimensions of the 5x7 rug as if he were chased by spotlights.Occasionally, he would stop to take a tug of his martini, but ingeneral, his hands were too busy with flailing gesticulation to bebothered with liquid. This was probably for the best. I could nolonger count the number of times we had put ice in the shaker, and Ididn't know if there was any gin left. He seemed to be holdinghimself pretty well in spite of all this, but a game ofone-upsmanship had been playing all night. Stories were told, eachwilder than the last, until Duncan finally had enough, he launchedhimself from the couch to take his rightful place on the stage. “Ohyeah?” he said, “That'snothing!” He had just returned from a several-month long road trip,and had apparently prepared a monologue for just such a situation.

You guys know I was up in New York visiting Charlotte, right?Well, on the way up, I stopped in Atlantic city... I spent a bit ofmoney there, and was in the good graces of the casinos...

“Good graces,” it seems, results from spending $25,000 in lessthan a year. In the time I had known Duncan, he was famous forshopping at the Asian Market – where pork belly was cheapest. Hewould use that to make bacon at home. Bacon, mixed with beans andrice was what held his diet together. In spite of the lard, he keptin shape by splitting wood behind his house. He did this by hand,with a maul and wedge. This labor worked in two ways – he seemed toenjoy acting like a lumberjack, and he saved additional money byburning those logs in winter. His only indulgence, to my knowledge,was a BMW R90. This machine had been modified into a cafe racer,strange as it might seem, with 1000cc jugs, lightened flywheel, andswappable tail end to allow for passengers. The whole thing waspainted baby blue and off white, in a theme that reminded me of mydad's 1960 Chevy Impala. It was breathtaking to behold. The bike haddocuments for everything, dating back to the very beginning of theArabic system of numerals.

I have no idea how he paid for any of this, his yearly expenses wereless than what some people spend on a pair of shoes, or a handbag. Orsoap. I had never seen him go to work, nor had I ever seen him spendmoney - though he refused to worry about it. A friend once calledhim the only 'independently wealthy' person he know. Duncan onlylaughed and said, “I wish.” Now he spent twenty-five grand at thecasino... The man was an enigma. How could he afford the highroller's club? What secrets lay beneath?

I'll tell you more about Charlotte another time. I think you boysmight be particularly interested in some of those stories. Anyway, during my first trip to AC, Imet some girls - working girls - when you're putting money on the tables, it's hard notto meet one or two. There was one girl named Darla – or Susan,though none of the girls went by their real names – who let mecrash at her place once my complimentary suite came to an end.

My free hotel stay may have ended once I stopped dropping serious cash, but they gave me a platinum card which is good for a year – it was my pass into the club, that card opened up all the doors. There were a lot of things I didn't have to pay for, particularly drinks. Once you're a highroller, they want to keep you happy, and drunk, and putting money onthose tables.

At first I didn't care, I figured, Hey,I've had my fun, and I moved on... I left Atlantic City andwent to New York... to Charlotte's place – which is a whole different set ofstories – but while we were cruising New York State I came up witha new idea. I had to go back to back to Atlantic city with my platinum card to I wanted to see how far I could take things – the high rollerstatus, I mean. I wasn't going to spend any more money thanabsolutely necessary. I was going to live as high class and free as longas possible.

I knew I couldn't get any more rooms. That ship had sailed – youhave to spend a lot cash for that. So, I found Darla – Susan – and stayed with her. I split my time between the casino andadventures with the working girls. I wanted to know how the systemworks – what was free and what wasn't? What was in the grey area?

Duncan stops here to grab his martini, and all this starts to sinkin. My friend, or acquaintance, or whatever he was at this point...this guy standing in my living room spent a month and a half livingwith prostitutes? From my point of view, he disappeared one day inJune, home one day, gone the next... It was crazier than I hadimagined... he was in Atlantic City dodging pimps? Doing research? He didn't seem phased by any of it, just a normal part of life. He just drained his martini started back in on his story.

I figured once I got back home, I would write a book about it,about all of it, or maybe two books – how to live the life of ahigh roller as cheaply as possible, and what it's like to have the life of a prostitute. Susan – Darla – really liked to like thatidea. Nobody really knows whatit's like, she would say. I thought, deep down, she mightwant to give up the life. I even offered her a place to stay – Imean, Christ, the life of a prostitute is no easy thing. I actuallytold any of the girls that they could leave, and live with me until they got situated,but they wouldn't leave – none of them – which is why I thoughtit would be such an interesting story.

Anyway, there I am – Atlantic City. I'm not giving the casinosanother damned dime if I can help it, and I'm doing pretty well,finding the cracks... but one of the thingsI can't figure out is laundry. Lots of these places have laundryfarms on site, but they charge like a billion dollars for laundryservice. I spent over a week trying to figure out the best way to getit done for free. I even wondered if I could bribe a maid, butthought it wouldn't fit into a high roller book very well – plusit's just another way of spending money. Eventually, I wound up in a huge fight with aguy at the front desk of the hotel. I showed him my "h card andeverything – but there was just no free laundry.

Keep in mind, I had been in Atlantic City for thirty-some days atthis point – most of them with Darla – and shewas telling me to do my laundry with herat the laundromat! Ibasically told her fuck that!You have to pay for the laundromat. I've given a lot ofmoney to this town already!

So, toward the end of my 42 days, I finally figured it out. Go bigor go home, or both. I was ready to start writing, anyway, so I hadnothing to lose. I dumped all my clothes on Charlotte's bed andstarted to put them on. That cafe bike doesn't have much space fortravel, so you can imagine how funky my five shirts and three pairsof jeans were. Anyway I put everything on, and put my jacket over thetop. Squeezing into my boots was the hardest part. With all thosesocks, they were tight as hell.

I walked from Darla's over to the casino. I showed the guard atthe front door my diamond card, and he didn't even blink. I felt likeRaphie – you know that kid in AChristmas Story? But the guard didn't even give me a secondlook. I walked straight through the place, past the slot machines,past the buffet, way to the back to the hotel part.

There usually isn't a guard at the the door in the back, but therewas a party that night. It might have been a Saturday – I kind oflost track of days living with prostitutes. Anyway, I showed the guymy diamond badge and waved into the room like I knew someone there.He looked at the card, but not really at me.

The whole place was set up pretty nice. It was the pool area, andwere tables were set up with a buffet line and everything, but therewere still a few people using the pools. I sat down in the corner andwaved to the two girls in the hot tub. I took off my jacket andboots, put them on my chair, and walked across the room.

I smiled at the ladies on the way over, but a brunette with big tits just sipped her champagne and rolled her eyes. Her friendstarted to laugh, so I figured fuck em. I sprinted the last six feet– and almost broke my neck trying to run in my socks – then Ijumped into the tub and yelled LaundryDay! I did a cannon ball right in the middle. It was pretty big for a hot tub, but I think they both lost their champagne, and thatbrunette did not leavethe party with perfect hair.

I tried to swish around as much as possible, you know, to get thefunk out of my clothes. On my way to the other pool, y'know as arinse cycle, the door guard grabbed me. I was ready to wash hisclothes, too, but a second guy showed up faster than a jackrabbit and they started to pull me out of the room. They almost didn't let me get my boots!

I'll bet the blue-hairs at the slot machines had never seenanything like that before. I didn't fight them, I know when I'm beat,and I didn't need the police showing up, but they wouldn't let go anddragged me all the way to the curb. I don't know why they took me outthe front door... they left a huge water trail through the wholedamned place. Ha! At least it was summer, or the walk back to theapartment would have been hell.

I dried my stuff in Susan's bathtub, which took quite a while, andleft on Monday. I figured I should give Atlantic City a break – butI'm still getting airfare vouchers to different casinos. My name is still on the high roller list. Just lastweek I took Jane to Vegas for a free weekend in one of the newcasinos. I get these things all the time. They still fly me all overthe country. You should come with once Steffl, they're great...Anyone want a martini?

And with that, he retired from the stage. I later found out that his casino junket had been financed by thestock market. 2008 was a terrible year for most people, but Duncaninvested $25,000 into Bank of America – which he somehow tripled.Nobody knows where the initial $25,000 came from, but the suddenwindfall explained his disappearance in summer '09.

I don't know whythe hotel and casino didn't call the police - maybe that platinum cardhas more sway than I understand. God only knows. I have no idea how much of that $50,000 is left, if any. As soon as he got home, he got back to splitting wood.

Frozen Goods - Motorcycles in Feburary

2011-10-12T09:02:00.000+02:00

On board the CB550K. This was one of the last rides of the season, in very prudent weather.

I was standing at the sink, elbow deep in dishes, soapy water pooling on the green, faux-marble counter. Those pools of counter puddles slowly run together like converging tributaries, gathering force until they reach the edge- where the water drips to the floor, or more often is slowly absorbed by the river delta (my jeans) leaving a three-inch thick dark spot on the front of my pants, wet from hip to hip. The kind of streak that could be confused with incontinence - if my manhood were the shape of a beaver’s tail. As it is, it’s just dishwater.

My house was built back when asbestos was considered safe - apparently before medical knowledge had advanced enough to include vitamins. I assume this is why the counter stands roughly three feet from the ground, built for someone shorter, malnourished. Whatever the case, at an even six feet tall (wearing shoes and only two pairs of socks) I stoop over the sink, back bent like a pissed off cat, and slosh around in the water like a kid in the bathtub. I hate doing the dishes.

It’s not how I would normally spend a Saturday afternoon, but Kelsie left for Germany at the end of December, and I had fewer friends than I thought. After two months of life alone, my stack of video games stood defeated, and with nothing better to do, the house was cleaned down to a gnat’s ass, dishes included. I was sweating from the exertion.

I opened the window behind the sink to let some air in. Then I dried my hands and opened windows throughout the rest of the house. February? Really? It’s one hell of a nice day out there...

I gave a cursory glance to the thermometer just outside the front door. It read 52 degrees. Bullshit. It had to be 60 or better. What do you expect when you spend $3 on a thermometer? Accuracy? Most of the fall leaves had blown away, and in front of the house the Honda (1978 CB550K) sat under its cover. I took a look around the house, clean floors, clean dishes, clean toilet - nothing but a cat with less brains than heart and a clock ticking towards 3:00.

I wiped some of the post-pool-party sweat from my forehead, and grabbed my winter riding jacked from the closet, pulled on my boots, and dragged my helmet out to the curb.

The Honda started with one kick. And why not? Why not start with one kick in the middle of winter, it won’t start when I’m late for work, but in February, with varnish in the tank... it starts right up. It immediately understood its error and tried to kill, but I gassed it hard and took off. The air felt good on my hands, veins still bulging with heat. The dust of old leaves blew out from under the neighbor’s white Volvo and across the road, and I had something to do. Who needs friends?

The roads were empty, Old Lynchburg Road in particular - a nice stretch just outside of town that is broken into two chunks of roughly ten miles. About two miles in, I began to cool off, stop sweating and hit that place of contentment - where you connect to your machine, your thoughts focused and maneuvers confident. Where the sound of the motor calls out your name like an old friend. It had been months since I last rode, but I could go all day. In fact, I was determined to ride as long as the sun was in the sky.

I twisted through hills and under bare trees. The world was the brown of bark and rust of old maple leaves. I passed the artists colony and its heaps of derelict vehicles, I passed the gravel driveway that is always half washed into the road. I felt good, really good - until the nine-mile mark I, when I decided to be honest with myself. There was no way I could ride all day. I didn’t even want to ride home.

In fact, during the course of the first ten miles, I had several... for example, that my fingers burned with cold, and the ones that didn’t burn with cold were numb. I pulled over next to the pink brick church, hugged the motor for warmth and listed my errors.

The thermometer ($3 is plenty to pay for a thermometer, by the way,) which was correct at 52 degrees, was also sitting in the sun - on Old Lynchburg Road It was not 52 degrees, nor was there sun. At 3:15 (in winter,) the sun had all but disappeared behind the Blue Ridge Mountains. The housework (and splashy bubble bath) had me sweating. I was now aware that the inside of my jacket had the clammy appeal of used running socks, and the worst was that I had not changed my pants since dish time - leaving a wet strip from hip to hip - just tall enough to cover... everything, which had staged a tactical retreat, and was headed north to warmer climes. I clamped onto the bars, turned the bike around and ran home.

By the time I made it, the cold had immobilized many of my fingers, which produced pain like electric light when I used them. It wasn’t cold enough for frostbite, thank god. I went inside, closed the windows, turned up the heat and started hot water flowing in the tub. Once out of the wet clothes, I could only frown at nature’s retreat. I didn’t get out of the tub (or move the motorcycle) for a long time.

Happy Birthday, Raptorman.

2011-10-04T13:32:00.000+02:00

Honda CB550K - Yellow. (Later painted green.)

In front of the house, the dogwood tree was white with blooms. Occasionally a petal would drip to the ground before its time, but most blooms would hold on for weeks, choking the world with pollen. The Honda (1978 CB550K) sat under that tree, its green tank sickly yellow with the tint of pollen. The Mazda in the driveway was the color of mustard on bread, jaundice. Soon the blooms would fall from the dogwood, heavy and white, then pile around the wheels of the Honda, like drifts of snow, eventually turning brown and melting away. Not yet, though, right now, it’s spring.

Kelsie and I sat inside with the windows open and the radio on. Saturday mornings in spring are slow, NPR radio shows, tea and toast. At noon, I looked at Kelsie.

“Go for a ride?”
“Sure. I just need to change into my gear.”
“OK.” I said. “I’m going to go see if Raptor wants to come. Take your time.”

Kelsie choked on a sigh. It said I didn’t know that’s what I was getting in to. Kelsie enjoyed Raptor’s company, but the man was - intense.

“Alright.” She said. “How long are you going to be gone?”
“Just long enough to see if he wants to come along. Why?” I scrunched up my forehead like a puppy with a new command.
“It’s just, that... sometimes... sometimes you say that and then you’re gone all day.”
“No, I’ll be quick, I promise. See you in a few minutes.”

I grabbed my helmet and took off. It was warm enough for my tee-shirt, but I would put my jacket on for the longer ride. On the way to Raptor’s place a little boy pedaled a plastic car as I rode by. He stopped pedaling and watched me, like a dog fixed on a piece of meat. I revved the machine and his trance was broken, he jumped inside the little plastic car and blinked several times. Frozen in position, I thought he might cry - then he started smiling. “Mom! Mom! A motorcycle! Mom did you see...” and he ran inside. I smiled inside my helmet. “Don’t get too excited, kid, I’ll bet your ride is more reliable. It’s probably go better brakes, too.”

I parked in Raptor’s driveway next to a slash five I had never seen running and I walked through his porch past a boxer motor, pile of wrenches, three motorcycle batteries and a half upholstered seat, something he had started but never finished, maybe three years ago. I kicked the door. “Raptor?! You in there!?” No answer. I looked at the boxer motor with a “bad clutch.” You want me to sell the Honda and “graduate” to one of these things? I’ve never even see one run. I’ll keep the Honda. I kicked the door again. “Raptor? You home?” I turned around and counted vehicles. F650GS, 1966 Volvo, piece-of-shit truck - all his functioning machines were accounted for. Must be sleeping.

I opened the door and walked into the kitchen.

“Raptor! Raptorman! You still sleeping?”

“Steffl? That you? What the fuck do you want?”

“Going riding, it’s a beautiful spring day, get your ass out of bed.”

“No way, man. I’ve been sleeping for maybe 3 hours, you’d better fuck off.”

“Can’t do, man, too nice. Get your ass up.”

He sighed from the bedroom, loud enough that it traveled all the way through the bathroom walls and into the kitchen, where I was looking for a glass clean enough to use.

“Stefflman, you’re one tenacious fucker, you know that?”
“Yep.”

“You’re not going to leave are you.”

“Nope. Now get your ass out here, it’s time to go.”

“God, can’t I even have a few minutes? I need a little time to...”
“No minutes, no time. Kelsie is waiting, I told her I’d be back ASAP.”

Another sigh. I opened the cupboard and took out an old pickle jar, filled it with water, and sat down on the Mexican blanket covering the old couch. He found me in the living room and sat down in the green chair, lit a cigarette and started to pull on his boots. I took a drink of water.

“I didn’t know we had any clean glasses.” He said. I looked my drink. Nothing floating.
“Clean enough, I guess.”
“Huh.” He took a quick drag, then held the butt between his lips and grunted the boot onto his foot.
“Those things are bad for you, you know.”
“What? Oh.” He looked at his smoke. “Fuck you. I don’t intend to live long enough for it to matter.”
“You ready?”
“Yeah yeah, Jesus, will you give me a minute?”
“I’m going to wait outside.”

I straddled the bike and stuck my keys in the ignition freeing, my right hand to work the strap on my helmet. I drew a B in the yellow dust on the tank. Ah spring. The screen door slammed, and Raptor flipped his butt into the flower bed. I heeled the kick-start arm into place and rotated the motor to the compression stroke. I dropped my weight through my leg into the machine. It only coughed, as if allergic to the thick, yellow cloud. “Come on, you fucking pig.” I pulled out the choke and started over. The bike caught, and I revved the motor and dumped the clutch before it had a chance to die. Raptor caught up, and we rolled back to my place. Kelsie was reading a book when I walked in.

“You ready?”
“You’re back? That was faster than I thought it would be.”
“Yeah, I pushed him pretty hard.” I looked at him lighting another cigarette out by his black F650GS.
“I wasn’t sure if I’d actually get a ride today, I’m glad you didn’t take too long.”

We mounted up, and I made Raptor take the lead. Every time we went out he found some new, strange stretch of hillside I had never seen - like when he took me to the flooded quarry. He described it as Redneck Heaven around Fourth of July, tattooed hillbillies drifting on plastic floaties. Today was not so exotic, just an average stretch of Virginia countryside in spring - the gauntlet of fall leaves and bare winter branches were now replaced with green buds, singing birds and other cliches. It was beautiful. The kind of ride that leaves a memory you chase all summer.

In front of some Baptist church in a nameless down, Raptor stopped. “You want to try the F650? Try out a real bike?” Which meant, of course, he wanted to ride the Honda again. He had first tried it a few days ago and gave it a surprisingly good review, for a Beemer rider.

This was my first experience on the F650, a machine I now own. My first steps were full of trepidation. The odd puff-puff-puff at idle always felt like it would die, the angle of the seat tried to tear my gentleman’s equipment from it’s home, and the vibration was insane. How could a machine with a thirty years of technology on the Honda vibrate like this? We continued to roll through the country and the Beemer grew on me. I appreciated the quiet Jetson’s-car chirp of the motor at 3,500RPM.

The sun was high and put the pregnant glow of spring into the countryside. The whole world ready to burst. We rolled through hills and slow twisties. We passed a cow pasture that might have fallen out of a cheese commercial. We slowly pushed into the afternoon, and a lull set in. We approached an intersection thick with cross traffic - not very common in the sticks of Virginia, and followed Raptor close to the yield sign. I hit the brakes, and the F650 stopped easy nothing at all like the Honda.

Raptor hadn’t stopped though. He wasn’t even slowing down. What the fuck is he doing, some kind of daredevil shit? I watched him get closer, not slowing. WHAT THE FUCK IS HE DOING?! WHAT THE FUCK!? He approached the intersection at full speed.

Then there was the sound of full lock on the rear tire. A screech like the Angel of Death rushing in. The rear end fished one way, then the other. Raptor was forward, ass coming out of the seat, body over the bars. The rear wheel chose to swing up on his left side and caught up with him. The front and rear tires met the edge of the intersection together. Cross traffic did not stop, and a red, logging truck was taking its right of way. In my mind, the conclusion was foregone. Raptor’s current pace would put him under the wheels of the truck, crushing Honda and man like a handful of saltines.

The bike was primed to lowside and slide into the intersection when the rear wheel found traction. The force was transferred suddenly to the body of the bike, pulling it out of its low angle lean and pushing it upright - and then past upright into a textbook high side crash. He wouldn’t slide into traffic, he would be thrown into traffic. Game over.

Only it wasn’t. He smashed his left foot down, then and hopped on it three times. The truck cleared the intersection. Raptor stood above the bike and looked back at us.

At the side of the road, Raptor lit a cigarette. “I don’t know, I just didn’t even see it, I... I don’t know. I don’t know where I was, but I didn’t even notice. I thought for sure I was going to high side, you know where the bike flips over... but, shit, all I could think is this is not the way I want to go.” He rambled for a while and smoked another cigarette. We rode slowly back to my place.

This is not the way I want to go. He’s put some thought into this.

Back home we found something to eat and sat outside in the rockers. Raptor smoked and stared.

“You alright?”
“A bit shaken up after that, it brought in a dark cloud. That’s not the way I want to go. I decided that a long time ago. I don’t want to waste away in a hospital fucked up by a logging truck. I want some control over the issue.”

I gave him a hug, and he looked at me as if he had no idea who I was. Dark cloud was his term for a sudden onset of a short, depressed mood. It wasn’t feelings, per se, it was chemicals. No amount of affection would pull him out of it. I had no idea how to help him. I took a cigarette and sat with him and smoked.

A year or so later, Raptor took control over the issue. He stole a handgun and decided never to ride again. 2,500 miles away from that intersection and the rockers where we sat Raptor ended his own life.

I’ve got warmer memories of our time together, but September 9th is his birthday, and the date we held a memorial for him. I didn’t understand the symptoms and severity of what was going on in his life - the erratic sleeping, the dark clouds, crazy moods, drinking, and how he removed himself from his friends. He told me once:

Sometimes I just don’t want to get out of bed - I just want to lay there in a fetal position and rock. Staying in that position doesn’t make me feel any better, it just feels like that’s all I can do. Once I get up I can get through it, the worst is over... but getting up is next to impossible.

How could I hear that without freaking out? I don’t know. I didn’t understand any of it at that point. Part of it was that I met him after he was off his meds, after her was in a permanent bout of depression, after the spiral had started. He didn’t like meddling or prodding, he always had you believe he was in control, but he wasn’t.

I’m not a huge fan of causes. I feel like there is too much lip service going on. The real question is, what are you willing to do? I always worried I would lose a friend if I pushed too hard - but I lost a friend anyway. For a while I blamed myself - now I do that less. It still hurts, I still wish I would have done more, known more, something. Sorry man - and happy birthday.

Ihr Handwerker. Clearing the Fog.

2011-09-28T12:53:00.000+02:00

Peace

I’m at the front door of our German apartment. For some reason I got up and walked the six steps to get here, but why? I look at the door handle, a long cylinder of brushed nickel. Why did I get up? I look down - I’m not going outside... I’m not even wearing shoes. Do I have brain damage? After a few seconds, I figure there was no reason for me to walk to the door, so I sit down at the computer and get back to work. Two minutes later I’m at the back patio door staring at the clay roofs of the neighboring apartments. Why did I walk over here? I look at the TV which has no answer, it only speaks German, I look at my computer desk where I should be seated. I don’t know. I keep getting up for no reason - I’m frozen in a broken mental loop, like someone who was hit in the head while searching for their keys, I’m forever looking... for something, even though my car has been taken away. Then, staring out the back window, I figure it out. I miss my broken shit.

I have three motorcycles, an ‘09 Concours, an ‘06 F650GS, and a ‘78 Honda CB550K, and I love them all. Ask an elementary school teacher which student is their favorite and their gut reaction will be the honor roll kid. If you’ve got a really good teacher, they’ll smirk a little bit. If you’re really lucky, they’ll lean in close to your ear and whisper the truth. Really, it’s the hard-luck kid, the one who yells sometimes, who throws things. The one who soaks up all their time, the one whose love and trust had to be earned, because the reward is the greatest. Oh, Honda, my problem child.

Why? Because that kid’s got personality - not tea party elegance, he’s not trying to impress. He’s honest and make you work to earn his trust and respect. But at the end of the year you’ve earned it. It’s rock solid and unshakable, you know each other.

The Honda is like that. It acts like it’s ready to go into the scrap heap. It fights progress, doesn’t want help, and even on it’s best days as a motorcycle it’s slow and heavy. It takes a process to start and its relationship with idle is tenuous. It demands time for blown fuses, stuck floats and fouled plugs. It wrecks clothes and driveways with oil stains, and at the end of the day, I feel like I’m losing my soul to the relationship - and I probably am. But I do have one positive thing to say about the time I spend stooped in the dirt, busting knuckles, I don’t pace my house when I’m done.

Life gets into your head. One tiny piece at a time sneaks in and pings off the back wall - bills, groceries, deadlines, family. It bounces once, then again. It bounces and picks up speed like a blast of grapeshot in a rubber room where the physics are all wrong. In my head this goes on until my brain is the swirling center of a nebula, thick directionless fog, that grows thicker until I find myself staring at my feet by the front door asking why did I get up again!? Why can't I focus?

Fortunately, there is a comfort in the mechanical. Everything has a place, an order, a tolerance - unlike my life. Every problem (and there have been many) has a diagnosis - be it simple or complex. It's like House (you know, Dr. House, the TV show.) In my head, I create a list of symptoms and come up with an underlying cause. If I don’t have enough information, I run tests. Eventually, I come up with a diagnosis, and when it’s wrong I start back at the beginning.

This process can take an hour or a month, but the process clears fog in my brain. My thoughts become manageable and organize themselves.

Here in Germany I have no Honda with a a stuck carb float. I don’t even have a broken toaster, or a set of tools to take one apart - so the focus slowly leaks out of me, until eventually I’m blurry and pacing the length of of my apartment unsure of what I'm doing or where I was going. Today, I took a warped frying pan outside and looked for ways to knock it back in shape. It didn’t provide quite the same satisfaction, so I went to Ebay. There is a ‘77 CB550K for next to nothing. The current owner isn’t sure, but he thinks all of the parts are there to put the motor back together. I wonder. We don’t really use the ‘patio...’