Moto Broad

Cataract surgery for the left eye was 10 days ago; it wasn’t perfect (some difficulty getting all the cloudy lens out; a bit of scarring already — apparently that’s not uncommon in younger patients), but there’s still a huge improvement in vision (well, on one side, anyway). The blinding glare is gone — it’s like having half a clean windshield. I yielded to the temptation of the warm spring day after work today and went for my first ride since the surgery.

Colors and contrast are improved: whites are bright and clean in the post-op eye, still slightly subdued and yellowish in the “old” eye. I can see more detail in shadows because there’s more contrast. Distant vision is sharper than it was before, but I still need reading glasses. And I no longer fear riding at sunset. I’ve approximated the improvement in the Yield sign photo: the left side gives you an idea of the results of surgery. It’s not quite as perfectly sharp, but it’s a heckuva lot better.

I’m afraid to get anything — even dust or pollen — in the eye, so I bought a pair of cheapie gasketed sunglasses (Undercover Eyewear from Mountain Motorsports in Conyers; $20). They’re reasonably dark, supposedly protect against UV rays, but aren’t polarized. Later, I’ll find some higher-quality shades, but it was the gasket that most appealed to me. They do a good job of keeping out wind and particulate matter (a very good thing on a day with 6000+ pollen count). Even though I have a full-face helmet, there’s enough airflow to provide a ram-air influx of pollen and dust that I feared would glom onto the healing eye.

This Tuesday, I go for the second surgery. I’m looking forward to having a matched set of eyeballs (but I’m glad I’m not a spider with another six eyeballs to fix).

My country neighborhood

The air today was flavored with the crispness of freshly-cut grass fields, with a touch of the impending rain. It’s not cold yet, but there are pools of cool air at the bottom of dips in the road. Soon it will be time for the jacket liner and longer socks. Yum.

Jeez! Just nearly got squashed by an idiot tow-truck driver. I’m in the left lane, with my turn signal on. He’s behind me in the same lane. Light turns green. I start to pull away, and HE PULLS OUT TO THE LEFT OF ME, BEATING ME INTO THE TURN. If I hadn’t had a runoff lane, he’d have killed me. I stopped in the runoff lane (while screaming at him through his open passenger window). AND THEN HE STOPS TO THE LEFT OF ME!

Just sits there. Like I’m going to be crazy enough to pull past him?! I’m still screaming. Finally he starts moving again. I wait to make sure he’s actually going, then pull in some distance behind him.

He pulls into a decel lane entering a subdivision and stops. Maybe he wants to apologize, maybe he’s mad, I don’t know. I’m not taking the chance. I slow as I pass him and shout “Watch where you’re going!!”

Perhaps I should have stopped, and given him a lecture, or an opportunity to apologize, but I was so shaken that I just wanted to get home.

Just goes to show you that all the caution and bright yellow safety clothing can’t protect you from a case-hardened moron driving a moving weapon.

Blue-sky day with cottony white clouds, so of course I rode the bike to run my errands. Stopped at Wendy’s to try the new Asian chicken thingies (let me save you a trip. Bleah.) Walking back to the bike, I was nearly knocked over in the parking lot by a woman who was driving, texting, and smoking a cigarette, with two screaming kids in the back seat. I squawked at her, but she was oblivious. After a quick glance, she pulled out into the street, driving up over the curb — ka-LUNK.

People sometimes ask if I’m scared, riding a motorcycle. It’s not the motorcycle that scares me. It’s the idiots behind the wheel.

A friend and I rode our bikes through the oven of Atlanta today (mid–to-high 90s) because, well, we thought that if we moved fast enough we wouldn’t be miserable (we were wrong). As a couple of old farts, we thought it might make us feel young again to go listen to some indie bands (we were wrong about that, too).

We went to funky East Atlanta to participate in the Corndogorama Music Festival. Cute area; despite living in the adjacent Inman Park area for several years in the 70s-80s, I’d never been to East Atlanta. I’d go back just for the Blue Frog Cantina alone.

The theme for this year’s Corndogorama was “Yes, We Corn.” We declined the opportunity to have our photos taken with the official Corndogorama placards, despite strong temptation (below).

(Photos aren’t the greatest, but not bad for a cellphone, eh? Courtesy of my BlackBerry 8330 Curve. Love it.)

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I teach software classes for the continuing education arm of a local university, and occasionally have to teach a class on Saturday. The dress code is business casual, which I’m fairly sure doesn’t include grungy t-shirts and motorcycle boots. It’s a 60 mile round trip, gas prices are going up, and yesterday the lure of dry, sunny weather was too much. So I shoved dress shoes and a wrinkle-resistant shirt (yay TravelSmith) in one saddlebag, and my lunch in the other. I figured my black jeans would pass muster.

Traffic was light, and the cool morning air was invigorating. The ride put me in a good mood for class. I wondered if I had scandalized the lady working the front desk, but it turned out that she is interested in learning to ride. I changed my clothes and subdued my helmet hair, and the students no doubt thought I was a perfectly nice lady-type person. No hint of the hooligan.

Usually the ride home from school is tiring, with stop-&-go traffic on the 4-lane highway, and it seems longer going home than going in for some reason. But yesterday it was enjoyable, and over too quickly. Funny, that.

One of the joys of motorcycling is the closeness to your surroundings: you have a full sky overhead, the landscape is a complete panorama, uninterrupted by metal pillars — and you can smell so much. It’s not always good, of course (do I detect the piquant bouquet of freshly flattened polecat?) You catch quick samples of a driver’s cigarette, a passing diesel’s too-rich mix, a woman’s overpowering perfume, stale burger-joint stench.

But when it’s good, it’s wonderful, at least here in the South.

There’s freshly-turned earth and new-mown lawn this morning. There’s delicate wisteria in late March/early April: it’s not strong, and if you really want to wallow in it, you have to park the bike and stick your face in one of the lavendar bunches. Soon there will be magnolia (also a park-and-smell experience). But right now, in early May, might be the best. On my morning ride, I drank in the rich drafts of honeysuckle, blooming in huge stands beside the country roads. Wave after wave; I never get tired of it. No dismounting necessary — it hangs in the air, heavy and sweet, almost visible.

A large insect on the outside of your visor will be gone the instant you take off from the stop light. Not to worry; just ignore it.

A large insect that splats on your visor while you’re moving irks you, but you can factor it out and look around it (tip: don’t try to wipe it off. A splat is less distracting than a long yellow smear.)

However, a small insect inside your visor will speed around endlessly, like that stupid kid Billy in “Family Circus.” Don’t bother to lift the visor in the hopes of blowing it out; it doesn’t work. It will make you cross-eyed and drive you crazy until you pull over, flip up your visor, and mash it.

I’d never make it as a Buddhist.

At last! Blue skies, 70s and 80s, with big white fluffy clouds. Good news: great for riding! Bad news: hard to stay inside and write when the country roads beckon.

So I try to justify rides, like going to the bank and post office, but taking the lo-o-ng way home. This morning I rode to get my nails done (yes, really), and get a haircut. It seems sort of a shame to get all fluffed up, and then pull on the helmet. But it’s worth it for the grin as I sail home (the long way, natch). It almost makes up for the 3 pounds of pollen I think I inhaled; I’ll bet my lungs look as if they’re lined in yellow velvet.

Now that I’ve had my fun, it’s back to the keyboard for me.

After snow last Sunday, the temperatures in the 70s were too much to resist today. I ran all my Saturday errands on the bike, tucking things here and there in the saddlebags and tank bag. My left hand was off the handlebar quite a bit, waving at fellow riders coming the other way, from bundled-up tourers this morning to guys in tank-tops and shorts this afternoon.

There are a few variations on The Wave;

• One finger pointing down (usually cruisers)
• Slightly downward two-finger peace sign (usually sportbike pilots)
• Short sideways wave (usually tourers covered with bags)
• Full standard wave (usually scooters)

I’m not hip enough to know if there’s any significance to the angle or duration of The Wave. And then there’s The Nod, used when both hands are occupied shifting, turning, or taking off. There are those who don’t wave or nod, of course, but they are few.

Whatever the particulars, it’s a nice brotherly gesture toward a stranger who shares a fondness for two wheels, and it makes for a bright little moment on the road.