Moto Broad

In a post about 18 months ago (”Blinded by the Light”), I described how blinding the setting afternoon sun was: I could see nothing else, and my eyes recovered so slowly from the glare that I couldn’t handle the quick light/dark transitions. I thought it was just a combination of lighting conditions and old, scratched sunglasses.

Turns out it may have been something more — the beginning signs of cataracts. If I didn’t feel old before that diagnosis, the C-word did the job.

Now it all makes sense: my reluctance to ride into the setting sun, the difficulty dealing with oncoming headlights at night, the increasing difficulty reading street signs because of double images (the manipulated image above gives you an idea). The good news is that cataract surgery is apparently not as traumatic as “We’re going to cut something out of your eye” would lead one to believe, and friends who’ve had the procedure rave about the results.

The bad news is that, because of my extremely high deductible, it’s going to cost me the equivalent of a Triumph Daytona 675.

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.

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.

Scientist Ryuta Kawashima (developer of the “Brain Training” software titles) and Yamaha Motor Company have teamed up to test the effects of motorcycling on the brains of middle-aged men. The results? Daily motorcycling sharpened their memories and reduced their errors at work.

See the full story here.

Guys, if you’re looking for more ammunition to convince your wife to let you have a bike, this can’t hurt. Tomorrow afternoon, I’m going to go out and spend a few miles improving my brain.

I have put 6000 miles on the SV, and probably put 1000 on the first SV, but I’m still kind of green (I think). Oh, I’m fine navigating through the metro area, and I seem to have quit falling over in parking lots. But next weekend I’m taking a true motorcycle trip with my gentleman friend, up to Two Wheels Only motorcycle resort in Suches, GA. The area is full of twisty roads that sportbikers love, so I should be thrilled, right?

I’d say “cautiously optimistic” instead.

I do need the practice on roads that are more challenging than my well-worn runs around Atlanta, I know. And people with less skill (and certainly less cautious natures) than I have ridden north Jawja and lived to tell about it.

But I’m so guilty of overthinking and overanticipating: I read about the blind curves, the bozo bikers, the careless locals, the slick tar snakes patching the cracked asphalt, and I tense up. Ah, well: I will just ride at my own pace, stay away from the center line, and try not to embarrass myself. Who knows — I may actually enjoy it

I swear, I’m not riding my bike for fun. I’m riding it to save the environment. Well, at least, to save my wallet.

Damage from Hurricane Ike has put a kink in the gas supply pipeline for the Southeast. The shortfall is exacerbated by the particular “clean” gas mandated for the Atlanta metro area: it’s hard enough to get gas, harder still to get the designer blend. Governor Sonny Perdue was a little late applying for an exemption, so relief has been delayed. (It really adds to Georgia’s sheen of sophistication to have a governor named “Sonny,” doesn’t it?)

The situation is exacerbated by the dramatic posturings of news anchors (after all, hyperbole sells more ads, right? These are the same guys who populate Severe Weather Warning Command Central Headquarters, warning us of impending sleety doom if the temperature drops below 60). Local motorists overreact, and suddenly the Escalades and F-150s are lined up for half a mile at the QuikTrip.

I’m lucky: I don’t have to commute, and most of my clients are out of town, so I drive 40 miles to the airport, park, disappear for three days, and drive home. Otherwise, I’m chained to the keyboard, writing. But I have a couple of local gigs coming up, and I’ve warned my clients that I may show up on the bike, with my hair looking even worse than usual.

If there’s absolutely no gas (and I saw quite a few empty stations today), eventually it will catch up with me, too. But the Honda’s full, and if I can find premium, I can fill the bike with much less than the $20 limit we’re seeing at some stations. I can go about 180 miles on a tank, and, even in Atlanta, that’ll hold me for a while.

Calm down. It’s not “Mad Max” out there yet. And it won’t be, if y’all will just go back to watching NASCAR and stop watching the news.

Since I began riding, my long-suffering gentleman friend has patiently slowed his pace so I could keep up (or, if he was behind me, to avoid rear-ending me). I couldn’t understand why I was so slow on the road, compared to my lead-foot pace in a car. I think I know now.

I’ve always hated wind in my ears: after an hour at the beach, I’d be putting my fingers in my ears. Even with the full-face helmet and the chin bar, the shrill whistling was unpleasant. I tried a bunch of different earplugs, but they either wouldn’t seat (I apparently have very tiny, labyrinthine ear canals, according to my ENT), or would fall out, or their core would stick out and hurt when I pulled my helmet into place.

But a couple of weeks ago, I had some custom earplugs made at the BigEar booth at a bike show (www.bigearinc.com). They squeeze quick-setting silicone gook in your ears to follow all the little nooks and crannies; I’m sure it looks as if you’re having your head caulked. Continue Reading »

Someone posed the question, “Why do you want to ride a motorcycle?” I know I’m comparatively new at it (just a skosh over a year), but it’s taken deep root. So I replied…

I always loved cars. At 12, when girls are supposed to want horses, I wanted a Porsche 356. Took me 18 years to get it, but I did. And promptly tore it apart and rebuilt the engine. Built VW engines. Did various and sundry brake jobs and tuneups. Loved the smell of petroleum products (back in the days of leaded gas). Competed in SCCA (Ladies’ BStock 1984 Solo I champ. Wahoo.), then got into computers and let my hands heal up. Had friends with bikes, thought, “Hmm…why didn’t I ever think of that?” Took MSF course, bought SV650, haven’t stopped grinning since. Exhilaration of acceleration. Full sky overhead. Smells and sounds instead of insulation. Swooping through a curve, leaning through a corner. Alone with my thoughts. No conversation. Mmmmmmmm. Think I’ll go for a ride before the rain rolls in…