Gypsy's Leisure

Who Says You Can't Tilt a Harley?

2011-12-23T00:20:00.000-08:00

One of those fabulous displays of police motorcycling skill discovered on Google Video during the wee hours of the morning.

Lights Out

2011-12-18T17:51:00.001-08:00

I've experienced some trouble with the auxiliary lights that were included with the purchase of my BMW 1150 RT. What I suspect started months ago as an intermittent short in one of the lights grew into a full failure of the brake-side fog light in the early days of December. After I returned from the Blue Ridge Parkway, I noticed, particularly at night, as I went over a bump in the road, the light would flicker and sometimes go out. Another bump and the light would return. I decided that in order to ascertain whether the problem lay in the fog light itself or somewhere in the spaghetti junction of wires and leads, I needed to work my way back toward the harness and test the leads as I went.

My first approach was to check the bulb, socket, and the wires leading directly from the fog light housing. I hoped for a simple loose or bad bulb, easy in and easy out. When I removed the top caliper mounting bolt, which also secures the light housing, the bolt was difficult to break loose. I applied some WD40 and when the bolt still refused to turn freely, I applied heat via a propane torch. I feared that the bolt had seized somehow in the caliper. Upon removal my fears were confirmed. The silver on the mounting screw indicates that the threads from the caliper had twisted out with the bolt. The most likely culprit would be mismatched metals between the aftermarket mounting hardware and the stock brake caliper. I decided to remove the right side fog light as well. While the mounting bolt disengaged without a hitch, it showed a remarkable amount of corrosion on the threads.

The errant bulb theory didn't pay out as it appeared to be in good operating condition, no discoloration of any kind. When I tested the socket I received no current. I decided to trace the wire to the first lead and test the connection at the lead. As the wiring extended beyond view under the gas tank, the tank needed to be removed before I could proceed. With the self-sealing quick connectors in the fuel lines and the accessibility of all parts required to disconnect from the RT's right-hand side, the RT's tank has to be one of the simplest tank removal systems I've run across.

Until I can properly repair the short in the system, I decided to remove the aftermarket equipment as a precaution and install original equipment mounting hardware in the front brake calipers. I discovered that not all of the threads for the left hand caliper had twisted loose and a significant enough portion remained to accept the OEM hardware and hold the caliper in position. The leads remain in place, taped and held with fresh zip ties, should I decide to install any additional equipment of my own.

Over the past six months of ownership, I've come to appreciate the simplicity of the Beemer's stock systems. The valves are easy to adjust. In fact, it takes more time to remove the body panels than to actually adjust the valves. The wiring and connectors all seem to be located in logical areas and are simple to separate. It seems as if the machine is put together with a rider in mind, one who is encouraged to do his or her own work. My complaint with many aftermarket parts lies in the fact that they are often complex for the sheer sake of complexity or are not manufactured to specifications comparable to standard equipment. As it stands, I converted the bike back to the simple, stock setup. And in my book, simple is just plain better.

Riding the Ridge: Interlude--The Road to Willville

2011-11-12T16:58:00.000-08:00

My first night camping in the Shenandoah National Park left me a little wary of the experience the following day. I'd spent a near 200 miles in the saddle during my second day on the Blue Ridge, and I hoped to find a more comfortable place to lay my head than I found in Mathew's Arm the previous evening. One of the truly remarkable pleasures of traveling the Blue Ridge Parkway by motorcycle lies in the abundance of cycle only campgrounds sprinkled at regular intervals beginning at roughly the half way point when running the Parkway from north to south. For the uninitiated, these spots are campgrounds that cater only to motorcyclists or, in certain cases, those travelers towing motorcycles.

I pulled in to Willville Motorcycle Campground located off of the Parkway at mile marker 177. A few miles west on Route 58 revealed a gravel drive and a large orange sign announcing the bike camp to the left of the road. What Willville offers, like many of the motorcycle only campgrounds I've had the pleasure of visiting, is the company of others of the two-wheeled persuasion. In my experience, camaraderie can be in short supply in campgrounds frequented by RV's, families squeezed into minivans, or school buses packed with cub scouts. MC camps offer amenities that rarely are standard at conventional campgrounds, such as laundry facilities to accommodate motorcycle gear, some form of communal shelter, hot showers, and often times coffee and other beverages for a small donation.

Willville was more pleasant than most. From the moment I arrived and established my camp in the grass (no gravel tent pads here), the owner and other riders went out of their way to make me feel as if I'd been there for days. I parked my butt in one of the easy chairs under the shade of the central pavilion and didn't leave the camp for two days.

I managed to meet a few of the regulars as well as a couple others like myself just passing through. One oldtimer promised to send anyone who would drop him an email a list of all known gas stops within one mile of exiting the Parkway. He'd built the list over years of traveling the roadway himself and information gleaned from those passing by. I was tempted to stick around through the early part of the coming weekend to take part in a Ural rally that would call the camp home over about three days. From the stories my fellow campers told, riders of the unique Russian marque are as charismatic as their machines. But being a youngin' (not yet retired), quite a few more miles of Parkway beckoned before I had to turn the Beemer west toward Kentucky. I left on a Friday morning, heading south.

Too Bad the Writing Doesn't

2011-11-05T19:20:00.000-07:00

Last Christmas, my wife purchased several books off of my Amazon wish list. As one of those typical motorcyclists who will probably find the opportunity to tour exotic places by bike a distant dream, I've been rather fond of reading the exciting accounts of those riders who actually manage to pull it off. While I dearly love to read the exploits of Ewan McGregor and Charlie Boorman, it's always intriguing to stumble upon a book written by one of the rest of us. The not so super rich, that is.

When I added The Road Gets Better from Here to my list of must-reads, the title and subtitle fascinated me. The photo on the cover is absolutely spectacular. Surely, this must be the book that exemplifies how the rest of us would tour the Road of Bones through the former Soviet Union. I know I couldn't afford a fully loaded BMW GS1200, the helmet cams, the support crews with all the spare parts. My friends certainly wouldn't have come along for the ride. Most would have had me committed for even suggesting the idea. I want to ride my motorcycle around the world. Really? Wait right here; I have a special white coat I want you to try.

I appreciate everything about Mr. Scott's adventure--the audacity of climbing on an enlarged dirt bike and heading out into foreign countries, the magnitude of the time involved in the journey, the limited resources of the common man dedicated to a dream. I appreciate everything except the narrative. It reads like a blog entry--a 400 page blog entry. After about the first hundred pages, I felt as I'd been bouncing along on the passenger pillion across the rutted landscape. That's not a good thing; it's a KLR650 we're talking about here. I was tired and worn out. I kept having to refer back in the book to remember what nondescript person in which nondescript country I was reading about. In short, the narrative is tedious, and that's without the typing errors.

I've put off writing this review for so long because I've desperately wanted to like Mr. Scott's effort at mototravel journeling. My disappointment in this book is in that it doesn't begin to convey the panache of such a journey. While the book gives us the facts of the trip, it fails to entertain the reader. Traveling by motorcycle on a limited budget isn't just a challenge for most of us, it's a fact of life. Mr. Scott, however, should have used the funding he saved from the trip and spent it on an editor.

Gateway to the Gorge

2011-10-30T15:10:00.001-07:00

Over the weekend, I took the Beemer on a short excursion to the Red River Gorge Geological Area located to the southeast of Lexington, KY. I was hoping to catch the last of the fall foliage. Traffic through the area was minimal. The temperature may have had something to do with it. In the sunshine, the temps rarely crossed out of the upper 40's. At night, they dipped into the high 30's. While the leaves have passed their peak, enough of the fire of Autumn still clings to the branches to make the ride worthwhile.

The Nada Tunnel runs an east/west route into the heart of the Gorge. Originally cut through the rock with steam-powered drills, dynamite, and hand tools, the tunnel was completed in 1911 and was the only through way to the Gorge's interior. The tunnel was designed to accommodate 25 and 35 ton locomotives used to haul timber from the interior to the saw mill at Clay City. The Clay City mill, at one time, was the largest in the eastern United States.

According to local lore, only one man was killed during the construction of the railway tunnel. Apparently, he attempted to thaw several sticks of frozen dynamite by the heat of his campfire and well. . .

The tunnel is 900' long, around 20' in height, and 15' wide. The excavation crews began the project in 1910 and completed it in a little over a year in 1911. Given the tools of the times, the tunnel is a marvel of early 20th century engineering.

As a gateway into the Red River Gorge, the Nada Tunnel prepares the eye for the stunning vistas of the rock formations and blaze of Autumn color that lies beyond. The valley in which the Red River flows has been home to human beings for over 14,000 years; the earliest evidence of people living in the region can be found in the artifacts they left behind in cliff shelters. As I threaded my way along the narrow road under fading trees, listening to the river shush it's way through the valley, I wondered what I would leave behind for others to find. Perhaps only an echo of my passing, lone horse and it's rider.

Rescue Attempt

2011-10-30T14:00:00.000-07:00

This video arrives via my wife who discovered it posted to cuteoverload.com. The footage illustrates how, even in the midst of an endurance rally in South America, a Beemer rider will stop to perform a little charity work.

Riding the Ridge, Part One

2011-10-23T17:34:00.000-07:00

In the early part of July 2011, I decided to test the BMW's worthiness on the road and embarked on a journey that would ultimately take me down the Blue Ridge Parkway from it's northern to southern terminus. The first day of the trip I spent on the interstate heading north through Cincinnati and Columbus where I turned west on interstate 70 through Wheeling and into Western Pennsylvania. After spending a few days at my father's house, I turned the bike south through Maryland and into northern Virginia and Shenandoah National Park's Skyline Drive.

I slept that first night in the park at Mathew's Arm, a campground positioned at about the 22 mile mark along the Drive. I wish I could say that the stay was pleasant, but the gnats along the parkway must have been holding their annual world conference. The winged pests were in such thick numbers that all of my photos along Skyline Drive contained the dark flecks of their pulpy little bodies. While the bike was in motion, the windscreen deflected most the bugs, but as soon as all forward momentum ceased, they descended on you in a horde. Stopping to converse with other riders at one of the plentiful and otherwise beautiful overlooks was always accompanied by constant waving of limbs.

My first day along the parkway was spent in the good graces of the weather gods. I always seemed to be where the rain was not. At one particular turn off, I was standing in the sunshine when another rider heading north stopped to inform me that the sky had opened just a few miles south and a deluge had commenced. He advised me to use caution; it was raining hard enough that he was having trouble navigating. When I resumed travel, I never encountered anything further south than wet pavement, the vapor already rising into the hot July air in thin wisps.

The storms diminished the gnat population. Even being near the tumultuous weather provided a relief from their incessant buggery. I have yet to be able to explain the reason behind their disappearance, but the gnats just ceased to exist the further south I traveled. They didn't gradually dwindle away; they just stopped altogether. I don't know if this was caused by weather change, elevation, a change in habitat. Whatever the reason, I was glad to be rid of them. It would mean more agreeable environment while off the Beemer.

I'm always surprised at the mini wasteland accompanying the transition from Skyline Drive and the northern end of the Blue Ridge Parkway. It appears as if there was once a gas station and perhaps a small hotel just at the convergence of these two roads. They've been abandoned for years, just shells left from a different time. I always mean to stop and snap a few photos of the place, but never manage it when I pass by. It still strikes me as one of the loneliest places in the world. It's the type of emptiness created by distant, fading memory.

Skyline Drive, according to the guard manning the gate upon my arrival, was undergoing maintenance, mostly repaving. Much of the blacktop looked fresh enough to worry me in areas where the pavement was wet. I suspect that the rider who warned me of heavy rain earlier in the day experienced oil skimming the road surface following such a sudden downpour. The speed limits along the Drive demand a more sedate pace than I normally prefer, but with wet areas and fresh paving, I kept the RT only slightly over the mandated limits.

The Blue Ridge Parkway offers numerous points for quiet reflection. During my first day of riding, I passed through the highlands of northern Virginia on my way to my second camp in the lower elevations of the Virginia midlands. The country isn't the only thing that changes. Life, along with the accents of the people I had the good fortune to meet, slowed as I rode south. Toward my second stopping point, grits began to appear on the menus of the small town restaurants in which I sought respite from the heat. As I turned off the Parkway in the late afternoon, I could feel my spirit leaning West like a compass. Somewhere across the misty ridges of the Appalachians, the old bones of the mountains tumbled down into the foothills of the Bluegrass State. But the high elevations of North Carolina awaited before I would turn the bike toward home. For now, it was time to camp.

Essence of Machine

2011-10-18T17:10:00.000-07:00

Every now and again, I come across something on the web that exemplifies the spirituality behind riding and wrenching on bikes. This video is one of those somethings.

MACHINE from matt machine on Vimeo.

New Tools: Google Maps

2011-10-15T08:01:00.000-07:00

As a way of peaking my interest in roads a bit closer to the city, I've been tooling around with the Terrain function on Google Maps. It's been a useful way of locating the twisty roads within a stone's throw of the homestead. Prime examples are Route 1526, Route 1020, and Route 44 snaking through the hill country just south of Louisville and the Jefferson Memorial Forest.

View Larger Map

Fall Fever

2011-10-09T13:21:00.000-07:00

I finally managed to squeeze a little cash out of the monthly budget to replace the dead battery in the Ninja. After a bit of coaxing, the bike fired over and settled into a smooth idle. Since the bike's been sitting for a while, I worked my way through the preflight checklist. The oil level seemed fine, and I had filled the tank prior to parking the bike one month ago. Brake fluid and light checked out. Turn signals were operational. Time to ride.

Manslick Rd. skirts the southern edge Iroquois Park in South Louisville before topping a ridge into the St. Andrews area. For a brief four or five miles, this road twists through some marvelous fall foliage inside the Louisville city limits. And while the curves tempt a rider to push the envelope, the sheer number of mailboxes decorating the roadside provides a warning as to the possibility of vehicles entering the traffic around blind corners.

I'd forgotten about how much fun the Ninja can be on a piece of blacktop threaded through the woods. The 650, particularly following a few months on the much heavier BMW, makes me feel like a fighter pilot. The Ninja dives into the corners. The bike encourages me to hang a knee off the side. After sliding through a corner, the Ninja seems to say, "Now let's turn around and take it again like we're supposed to."

I used to believe that I didn't have room in my life for more than one machine. Today, dodging through the dappled shadows under the fading leaves, I realize that I have enough room in my life for whatever awakens that desire to see what's around the next bend in the road.

Ride safe.

Kein Kraut für Mich, Bitte

2011-10-02T16:19:00.000-07:00

I spent most of the month of April 2011 searching the Cycle Trader ads for used Kawasaki Concours 1000's. I'd decided after some discussion with my wifey that a dealership bike would be preferable. We learned that we might still stand a chance of financing a later model through Kawasaki. Therefore, I limited my selection to bikes ranging from 2004 to 2006. What I located was a 2004 near Canton Ohio. The dealership was a 350 mile trip from my residence and I had the weekend to do it.

I called the dealer. They had the bike and assured me that it was a remarkable specimen of the late model variety. I asked them about the price (around $3500 with under 20K on the meter) and they indicated they'd be willing to negotiate provided I could slap down a significant down payment. I could. I called on a Friday and told them to expect me on Saturday morning.

I saddled the Ninja late Friday night and shot north up the interstate. I left at around 9:00 p.m. and slid into the parking lot of a motel just shy of Columbus at 11:30 p.m. This was one of those trips born out of necessity more than the pleasure of riding or travel. No pictures on this run. The motel was attached to a night club and had several abandoned gas stations located just across the road. When I inquired about the room rate at the desk, the receptionist asked in return, "How much you got?" I told her I had 30 bucks. "Sold," she said. The water in the shower smelled of cabbage, and my mattress had a blood stain on one side. In the morning, I turned in my key to a bleary-eyed young man at the desk. He asked me if I wanted a cup of complimentary coffee. Remembering the scent of the water the night before, I declined and rejoined the flow of traffic northbound on the interstate. I'm still not sure the hotel actually exists; if I went by that particular spot off the road, would I only find an empty gravel lot and the haunting smell of leafy green vegetables?

I reached Canton by mid morning and faced some disturbing realizations. The dealership was having a Triumph open house that was being coupled with some sort of radio show. The place was crawling with people. I guess I'd hoped that I'd have a rather pressure free shopping experience. The Concours in question turned out not to be a 2004 but a 2002, and was in decidedly less than pristine condition; much of the right lower fairing was crushed and badly bondoed back together. The 2002 had over 30K on the clock rather than under 20K. When I asked about the 2004, I was told that the particular bike about which I was inquiring (and had received photos of, mind you) had been sold the previous week.

Me: "What about a test ride on the '02?"

Dealer: "Can't do that."

Me: "I was told a test ride on the '04 wouldn't be a problem."

Dealer: "That bike's been sold."

I was self-consciously aware of the odor of cabbage that wafted from me now and again.

Disgusted, I left and rode through a light drizzle the remaining miles between Canton, OH and West Alexander, PA to visit with my father, cutting across the northern panhandle of West Virginia in the process. I spent that evening visiting with my father and set off down Ohio Route 7 the following morning. Route 7 follows the Ohio River all the way to eastern Kentucky and remains one of my favorite roads to travel. I picked up U.S. 60 in Kentucky and stayed with it into Louisville. With the detours, the trip stretched nearly a 1000 miles in the span of 48 hours. By the time I arrived at home, my anger toward the dealership had abated. I imagine the older model Concours don't receive much prestige in dealer's eyes these days, especially in light of a Triumph open house.

I opted out of making any further 1000 mile weekends, and wifey and I discussed the purchase of a motorcycle from a local dealer. This meant that a Concours 1000 was out of the question, but opened the door for the purchase of a used Concours 14. There were several of these machines, mostly '08's, available at reasonable prices from the local dealerships. Maybe a Check Engine light wouldn't be such a bad thing.

On the way home after work the next week, feeling a little discouraged, I stopped by the local Harley dealer on Arthur Street here in Louisville. I still enjoy looking at Harley's, the Sportsters in particular, and some of the new models really stir the soul. While I've moved past the Harley stage of my life for the time being, I can still appreciate their machines. There isn't another cruiser manufacturer out there that does what HD does as successfully or as consistently. And I've always admired their sales strategies, just not enough to purchase another one.

HD Sportster Forty-Eight

But the important detail of this little story is that HD of Louisville is also BMW Motorcycles of Louisville. I hadn't even considered a Beemer as an option. I test rode an R1200RT several years ago and found them absolutely fantastic, just what I'd always wanted in a touring rig. Plenty of power, mostly on the low to mid-range. Great suspension, actually a marvel of the motorcycling universe. Lots of nifty little doodads like heated grips and electric windscreens and powerlet adapters all as standard equipment. Wanted one until, that is, I happened to glance at the price tag. I figured that I'd have to sell one of my kidneys on the black market to afford a new model and banished the idea of owning one from my mind. In the meantime, the HD dealership had acquired the BMW franchise and were now carrying a wide variety of used models by the Bavarian manufacturer. While I went into the dealership to drown my sorrows in leather and chrome, I emerged with this.

So now I've officially sipped the Kool-Aid. But as I discovered in my recent expedition down the Blue Ridge parkway, this 2004 BMW R1150RT more than lived up the mystique of the Marque, and as far as I'm concerned, the reputation is well-deserved. After climbing off the Ninja following my 1000 mile weekend, my spirit felt refreshed but my spine wondered why I ever bothered to own a motorcycle in the first place. A thousand miles on the Beemer and I'm ready to stop for lunch. Well, dinner anyways, and hold the cabbage please.

Gotta See a Man About a Horse

2011-09-18T10:43:00.000-07:00

Shortly following my return from Tellico Plains, TN in March of this year, my wife and I gave serious consideration to acquiring a new machine. While we talked about owning another motorcycle for several years, the stars did not seem to align in just the right way to turn those discussions into reality. In early April, several changes in our finances gave the first glimmer of hope that the possibility of owning another bike was more than dreaming. We were two months away from paying off the loan on our truck, and six months away from completing the cycle of payments on a new furnace. After reviewing the mechanical and electrical gremlins in the Ninja upon my return from the Smokies, my wife made the comment, "You know, we can probably afford another bike now."

My obsession became like a horse pressing the starting gate. However, before I could begin, my spouse and I established some ground rules for the process.

I agreed to begin my search using the intergoogle in order to establish distance and availability factors.
No purchases would be made using the intergoogle.
No purchase would be finalized without a test ride, whether the machine of interest was new or used.
A "buy it today or the price will be different tomorrow" attitude from dealers or private sellers would illicit an automatic "Bye!" response from yours truly (preceded usually by a "Hell no!" over the phone by wifey).
I agreed to remain within the parameters of the basic motorcycle type for which I was obsessing (i.e. not to leave to check out a Concours 14 and return with a Ducati 999).

Having concocted these basic guidelines, the much more difficult question of what exactly we were looking for in a motorbike-for-two needed to be sorted out. Sitting around the kitchen table with some soft jazz in the background, the scent of fresh bread baking in the oven, and the reassurance of a strong cup of coffee, we formulated our list of must-have's.

Wifey's List:

The bike must be designed for carrying two people.
The rear seat must be comfortable.
The bike must be designed to carry things along with the riders.

My wife's requirement of a comfortable pillion comes from her memories of riding two-up on a Harley Sportster in the bygone days of our early courtship. On one such trip around the county in which we lived, a total of no more than 80 miles, she tapped me on the shoulder and shouted into my ear, "Pull over, please. I have to get off this *&%#ing thing."

Lest those readers cry out that my wife should ride her own, let me inform you that up until my crash in 2005 on the Harley, my wife rode beside me on her Honda Rebel 450. After the accident, she never threw a leg over the saddle alone again. She assures me this is not out of fear of riding and hopes to ride her own again in the near future.

My own list of must-have's was a bit more extensive.

The bike must be designed to carry two passengers.
The bike must have hard luggage.
The bike must be "sporty" in it's ride style.
The bike must have a good reputation for reliability by those who favor the machine (nonexclusive online forums are an excellent place to garner information).
The bike must have. . . presence. . .(I'll get to this one in a minute).
Dealership support would be nice, but must be something I can do most of the work on myself.
While the bike can have. . . presence. . . it must not contribute to my reverting into a knuckle-dragging, boastful, loud and obnoxious piece of greasy societal mayhem.

There. That about does it.

Presence. I desired a bike that called to me from the garage, a machine that just to look at was a pleasure. Motorcycles with presence turn eyes toward them and cause them to linger, the mind to envision where it will carry you, and the heart to yearn for the road. It's arguable that all motorbikes have presence, and I would certainly agree. But some exude more of this quality than others. For instance, since the first time I ever laid eyes on one, I've coveted a Triumph Speed Triple. Why? The machine would be completely impractical for my needs. There's no room for a passenger or any real luggage, no shielding of any kind from the elements of the road, far more power than I can responsibly use on public roadways. What is it about that bike that causes my blood to race even while the bike is standing still? Because it's a muscle with two wheels attached, fire and iron and little else. It appeals to my basic animal nature and nothing more. And in the realm of desire and obsession, as a selling point, no more is required.

But the presence I wanted during the misty mornings of April appealed to a higher nature. I wanted a bike that just by gazing at it, transported me to places far from home. In that vision, I could crawl free of a tent heavy with dew, gear up, and move off through Kentucky hill country as the wispy vapor of early morning fog rises from damp fields and stands of pine. I wanted a machine that could accomplish this day after day after day without complaint, a motorcycle that aligned the compass of my spirit toward the horizon.

The list I crafted hunkered down at my kitchen table during a chilly Spring evening looked like this.

Kawasaki Concours 14

Suzuki V-Strom 1000

Moto Guzzi Norge

Honda VFR

Kawasaki Concours 1000

Harley-Davidson Electra Glide

OK. So the Harley's on the list purely for shits and giggles. While I'm sure the Electra Glide carries two passengers in comfort and it certainly has presence, it pushes the definition of "sporting" ride. Speaking only for myself, of course, I also risk a return to the draggery of the knuckles stage of my existence. Once my leg was over the saddle, I'd probably mutter something about "throbbing power between my legs" or some such nonsense. Besides, it's a wee tad out of my price range. . .new or used.

While the VFR, I'm sure, is a marvelous piece of modern motorcycle engineering, it fell off the list for two reasons. Look at the rear seat. . . er. . .perch on that thing. My wife would get a nose bleed. It was also a bit above what I was willing to spend for a new or new-to-me machine. And then there's the technical know how necessary to maintain a dual-clutch, throttle by wire. . . wait, that's three reasons. Moving right along.

The Moto Guzzi dazzles my eye every time I look at it. It looks put together right in all the right ways. Price range, even used, would be at the upper limit but affordable. But let's try a little experiment, shall we? Go out your front door, get on your cycle, and ride across town to the Guzzi dealership. What's that? Don't have one? Really? I'm convinced that locating a Moto Guzzi dealer requires membership in some exclusive club. The dues? How about your soul or maybe just your left testicle? Let's not even talk about what happens if you have no testicles.

That leaves the Kawi's and the V-Strom. The description of the Concours 14 says "variable valve timing" among other engine oddities. Guess what happens when I try to get in there with a wrench? Busted, that's what happens. The first Kawi with a check engine light. No thank you.

No offense to V-Strom owners. I've heard wonderful things about the V and the Wee, but both are as pleasant to the eye as a bag of baby puke. But you know what they say, "Beauty is in the eye of the V-holder". To each his own; presence comes in many forms.

I began to lean heavily toward the Concours 1000 after several days of thought. While that edition of the iconic sport-tourer was replaced by the 2008 Concours 14, the elder of the model line still commands a loyal following. Reports of it's reliability are legendary. Well, legendary among Concours owners, anyway. It has a big, comfortable seat and locking hard luggage. My thought was that I could spend half as much for a used Concours 1000 as I would on the 14 or the V-Strom, have a reliable bike, and save some money for farkles. So that was it, my mind made up, I began the quest for a gently used Kawasaki Concours 1000 that would carry me across four states.

Bucket Seats

2011-09-08T19:31:00.001-07:00

Easy Indeed

2011-09-06T15:54:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned in my last post, I experimented with a packing system for food that I adopted from the book Motorcycle Camping Made Easy by Bob Woofter. I found the system, which involved labeling and packing various foodstuffs according not only to day but to each meal of the day, a useful way of planning for an extended stay in the back country. In the course of writing the previous post, I found myself reflecting on the usefulness of the entire book.

Camping, now in it's Second Edition, despite receiving mixed reviews from the motorcycling community, remains one of Whitehorse Press' most popular releases. The book spans 255 pages from soft cover to soft cover. The contents are split between preface, acknowledgments, and introduction, 13 Chapters, lists of equipment suppliers and state by state offices of tourism, an index, and rounding the whole thing out, a handsome picture of Bob himself accompanied by his author bio. The central body of Camping progresses from a philosophy of motorcycle camping to a chapter by chapter review of the various categories of gear. The book culminates in camp skills, preparing meals, and an excellent chapter on recording and sharing the experience. Made Easy's photographs remind me of the point and shoot efforts I've engaged in myself. The true gems of the book are the quotes from various "experts" tacked in the margins and the recipes in Chapter 11, Camp Cooking the Modern Way, such as the one for mincemeat pie on page 212 complete with photos.

In my mind, what makes Mr. Woofter's work a definitive classic, isn't the seriousness with which he approaches his subject, but rather the brevity with which he approaches motocamping. Rather than spend his time endlessly debating the "best" tents, stoves, sleeping bags, etc., the author approaches those subjects from the point of view of offering general guidelines. He leaves arguments of "best" and "bestest" to the manufacturers themselves, which allows us to proceed relaxed through the book as if...well...as if we're already seated by the side of a campfire somewhere, listening to the pop and shush of the fire and the quiet strumming by some dude who packed his geetar all the way from Arizona on the pillion. Oh, and let's not forget the crisp dry smell of the Autumn air or the ratcheting symphony of crickets, shall we?

The book's major detractors state that Camping is oversimplified and understated, and that quality, quite simply, is bad. I would agree that the book is simple. It doesn't overextend it's reach or purpose. I argue that due to Made Easy's simple nature, it remains a work that can be approached again and again. It's an excellent book for beginners, because it doesn't overwhelm. It's an excellent book for experienced motocampers because we all need occasionally to forget that we know all there is to know and have an easygoing mentor remind us of the basics. What Mr. Woofter reminds us all of, whether novice or so-called expert, is to relax, enjoy the ride, and kick back at road's end with close friends.

Not So Foregone Conclusion

2011-09-05T17:11:00.000-07:00

In mid-March of this year, with the threat of late season snow still crisping the air, I loaded the Ninja with what looks to be all of my worldly possessions and set off toward the Appalachian mountains of East Tennessee. I'd been riding the public transit system around Louisville most of the winter, biding my time for the first shreds of Spring to visit the Ohio River valley. The forecast warned of rain, but on the morning I rolled the Ninja out of the garage, not a single cloud obscured the sun. The temperature stretched into the mid-60's and I'd put in for a week of leave from the trenches.

I was anxious to run the bike through it's gears. I spent the cold months tearing the cycle down in the garage, searching for electrical gremlins that had slowly infiltrated the system over years of use, and changing fluids, brakes, and tires. Having exposed the last of my gremlins to the light of scrutiny, I saddled up and pointed the bike south. Though the Ninja remained a mechanically sound machine, I knew that in all likelihood, this would be it's final extended trip. My wife and I had been discussing the purchase of a larger machine capable of carrying the two of us in comfort. I'd all but received her blessing to start the quest. I planned to allow the Kawasaki to live out it's leisure years with an honored spot in the garage and spirited weekend jaunts through the local countryside, while the new bike, whatever it would be, would become my workhorse and tourer de sport.

On this trip, I intended to do more camping than riding and decided to forgo the usual--and more comfortable, I might add--motorcycle campground in favor of a secluded spot along one of the old fire roads. Armed with my AAA Southeastern Campbook and Kentucky/Tennessee State Series map, I chose a primitive sight, aptly named North River Camp, along the North River tributary of the Tellico River. While it might appear that the road accessing the camp was inhospitable to Ninjas, the bike cruised along the packed gravel bed with little problem. I experimented with a system for packing food I adopted from Bob Wofter's Motorcycle Camping Made Easy in the hopes that I could limit my treks between wilderness and town. I wanted to immerse myself in the woods, to park the bike for extended periods and disappear along shadowed paths on foot. I couldn't accomplish that to as full an extent if I was forced to make the 24 mile round trip into Tellico Plains for food each day.

With the exception of a chilly ride down the Dragon and the Cherohala Skyway, I set up camp on a Saturday afternoon in fading light and remained in camp until the following Thursday. The tent, a Coleman Hooligan 3, held up against the damp and windy weather admirably. At one point, after a particularly long day of hiking along the ridge above my camp, I returned so thoroughly worn out that I crawled into the shelter after a quick bite to eat and only removed my shoes before sliding into the sleeping bag. As is usually the case, I awoke in the middle of the night needing to visit the facilities--in this case, a large rock just off to the left of camp. I heard the steady rhythm of rain on the fly. I made a hazy mental note to bring an empty quart canning jar with me on any subsequent trips for the purpose of indoor plumbing. What I stepped out into that Wednesday night was a full-on sleet storm, one of the chilliest trips to the loo that I can remember. The following morning, the day of my departure saw early morning temperatures below 20 degrees.

Altogether, I spent just under five full days camped in the Cherokee National Forest. I chased the river most of these days, at times strolling along it's edge on the gravel roads as the water carved it's way down out of the mountains. On more than one occasion, I followed it from above, walking paths that twisted along the ridge used by the Forest Service to battle fires. When time came to break camp and ride for home, I felt rested and tuned. Eventually, the temperatures reached the upper 50's, and despite a steady drizzle, I was comfortable motoring along in the thin rind of my rain suit.

I stopped in the town of Burnside, KY late Thursday evening. My neutral indicator light had been flickering for much of the afternoon. I waited all day for the rain to penetrate some hidden and excruciatingly difficult section of the wiring harness and short out the entire system. I decided not to push on in the dark for home and retired to a mom and pop motel at the edge of the town limits. Having ample time before check out the following morning, I lifted off the seat to see if I would be lucky enough to find the likely culprit without too much digging. As luck would have it, I'd picked up an unwelcome guest during the cold nights at camp while the bike sat idle.

Unfortunately, my visitor chewed through much of the wiring that controlled brake lights and some of the indicator lights. I doctored a quick repair with the electrical tape I brought, and suffered a prayer to the highway gods that I'd make it back to the cozy confines of my own garage before my ass caught fire. What followed this little trip was a week of tearing the computer out of it's bracket and splicing in new wiring to replace the meal my guest had made of the original. My experience as an electrician being what it is, I put on a pot of coffee each evening and some slow jazz and took my time with the repairs. All's well that end's well.

Six months later and the Ninja sits idle next to my new machine and waiting on me to replace it's now dead battery. Truth be told, the trip south probably squeezed the last of the good juice out the old cell anyway. I feel a little guilty when I walk into the garage, like a neglectful parent. I bought the 650 after my Harley was destroyed as an attempt to recapture the motorcycling of my youth. It delivered more than open roads and scenic vistas, more than speed and thrill. It allowed me to reclaim my sense of wonder. For that, I have only gratitude.

Transcendance

2011-08-06T18:34:00.000-07:00

Sometimes life just shows up at the door with a bag of snakes and asks you to sort them out. In the process, the peripheries of life, even those we care about, often fall by the wayside. I find it hard to believe that its been nearly a year since I last posted, but that would seem to be the case. And as is the case with many writers, once the act of writing is neglected, a twisted sort of insecurity about writing keeps one from the act. And the snake eats it's own tail.

The past year's seen some significant changes in my life. My wife and I have relocated to Louisville. We decided to trade the country for the city. I'm fortunate to now have ample garage space rather than just a bare patch of off-level concrete driveway. The trade off comes at a small price. Instead of being two minutes from the nearest stretch of open highway, I must now navigate at least twenty minutes of speeding cars with drivers on cell phones, elephantine city buses, pedestrians materializing suddenly from between parked cars, and let's not forget the drunks weaving their way home from the bar and their latest failed pass at Kathy Sue Loudermilk. Still, the luxury of working indoors on a bike despite the weather dims all potential sacrifices. Did I mention that the garage has its own central air and heat, eight banks of fluorescent overhead lights, and 110 amp underground service?

I've added another horse to the stable as well. I think I'll postpone the introductions for a little while, in the interest of suspense. Rest assured, the Ninja's still pulling strong with 79K miles on the clock. Well, except for the discovery of a dead battery last Wednesday. Seems my blog hasn't been the only thing I've neglected.

I've spent more than a few days on the road over the past year, and a few nights motocamping in some of my favorite locations. I reintroduced myself, as well as acquainted my new machine, to the wonder that is the Blue Ridge Parkway. As soon as I sort out the photos, I'll give you a glimpse into some of those journeys.

Now that I'm settled in at the keyboard, I wonder what kept me such a long time away from this place. That nameless fear--and senseless, I might add--of writing dwindles with every tap and click. My wife has a signature that accompanies all her electronic correspondence, one I find most appropriate.

"If you hear a voice within you say "you cannot paint," then by all means paint and that voice will be silenced."
-- Vincent Van Gogh

The Dangers of Commuting

2010-08-29T09:23:00.000-07:00

Some would argue that the dangers of commuting to work on a motorcycle arise from navigating through traffic that, in the best of conditions, does not acknowledge the presence of the cyclist. Undoubtedly, this is true. Each day the commuting rider subjects himself to distracted or short-tempered drivers using their vehicles to jockey for lane position even if it only means gaining a single car length before the traffic grinds to a standstill. The risk of physical injury during the commute home from work can be quite a great deal higher than the morning rush hour. Everyone wants to get home, but fewer people are in a hurry to get to work.

Every motorcyclist on the road, whether commuting or not, faces these risks. But the commuter faces a danger that often goes unrecognized. I'd call it a spiritual danger, or if uncomfortable with that notion, a philosophical risk. The danger is quite simply to loose oneself in the traffic, to focus so intently on the process of navigation from point A to B that the significance of traveling by bike breaks down. Almost every rider with whom I speak agrees that a fundamental link between the health of the human spirit and the act of motorcycling exists. As the old saying goes, "You'll never see a motorcycle parked outside of a psychiatrist's office." While I don't necessarily agree with that statement, I'll acknowledge that one of the activities I anticipate throughout the work week is the opportunity to get out and get lost on some back roads over the weekend. Doing so replenishes me and allows movement at an undetermined pace. So much of my life, including my daily commute, can be measured by predetermined units of time and distance.

Lately, I've been stuck in the groove of the commute. The bike sits idle in the driveway on the weekends. I grease the chain and check the oil level in preparation for the ride into the city each day. My dedication to this blog slips away and before I know it, two months have past since I last posted. So I'm heading out this afternoon for a little undefined saddle time, a piece of uncrowded highway, and a renewal of the spirit.

Ride to Work Day

2010-06-20T17:22:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow marks the 19th annual Ride to Work Day. During any given day of the week, motorcycles and mopeds comprise only 200,000 of the over eighty million vehicles people use to commute to work. On the third Monday of June, however, the number of motorized two-wheeled transport used during the commute rises remarkably. Considering that over eight million motorcycles and mopeds are registered in the United States, we have a lot of room to make a sound impression.

We illustrate that we can conserve energy and space. Most motorcycles consume far less fuel and produce fewer harmful emissions than even conservative compact cars. Commuting by motorcycle demonstrates efficiency in the way motorcycles convert that fuel to usable power. Only the world's fastest cars--and expensive, might I add--can produce the range of power available even to motorcycles in the 600cc bracket, and few of those cars, if any, claim the fuel consumption rates of their two-wheeled counterparts. Motorcycles can be parked just about anywhere. In the parking garage where I house the Ninja during my time at work, it shares a small out of the way corner with a Honda Helix. The space these two vehicles occupy isn't really a space, but rather, one of those lost corners completely unusable by even the smallest cars. Though only two of us have recently used this space, practice a little judiciousness and the space could easily manage two additional machines.

With the spill in the Gulf of Mexico pouring tens of thousands of gallons of oil into the sea each week, I can think of no finer demonstration of outrage than to utilize a method of transportation that has the potential to hit Big Oil where it can do the most damage. We can hit them in their pocket books. Granted, one day will do little to alter the grand scheme. My hope remains that if a fraction of riders taking to the asphalt tomorrow commute again the following day and then the day after that, the slow trickle toward a more permanent shift begins. While we're a long way from being free of the consumption of fossil fuel, we can find cleaner and more responsible methods of consumption.

There has been much finger pointing lately regarding just who is to blame for the Gulf spill catastrophe. Protesters call for President Obama to take action and Tony Hayward's head on a silver platter. Truth be told, if we really want to see who's to blame, we should all take a hard look at ourselves in the mirror before slipping our helmets over our heads in the morning. We create the demand and only we have the power to do anything about it. Ride safe. Ride free. Ride wisely.

Twist and Shout

2010-06-03T19:43:00.000-07:00

The Kentucky Highlands, as they're known in these parts, contain roads that appeal to many appetites. Along any given stretch, one can find complex curves, rolling hills, and long, smooth expanse of unblemished asphalt. Referred to as the golden triangle by those who live within it, my favorite stretches of road run through country bordered by three interstate systems bridging the cities of Louisville, Lexington, and Cincinnati. It's easy for me to disappear for a day into the hills and loose track of time.

Just this past Tuesday, adding an extra day off to the holiday weekend, I decided I'd make a run to two out to a particular spot of roadway that I appreciate for the view and the turns. Rt. 22 pierces west into the very heart of Louisville, but the section that particularly concerned me lies just about a mile to the east of the hamlet of Gratz, positioned on the banks of the Kentucky River. 22 can be scenic once the city and suburbs are left behind, winding through farm country on it's way toward Owenton. While the road holds few surprises other than the scenery and can be ridden at a brisk pace, one particular section deserves closer inspection and a higher level of skill.

One or two miles after exiting Gratz, Rt. 22 makes a scenic but hard left out of the valley and begins twisting it's way up the hillside in a series of tight coils. It's as if a crew of road engineers were transplanted for a few days from the Appalachians and then whisked away once road construction crested the hill. This short section, perhaps only a half-mile long, nevertheless is worth a few passes. Due to the incline, descending the hill offers challenges not encountered in the ascent. The corners along the upward side will sharpen a sport bike's foot pegs during a spirited run. Guardrails and cattle fences line both sides of the road and missing a corner will result in fast descent down the gravel roadbed into barbed wire. I encourage keeping an eye peeled for rambunctious cagers crossing the center line in the turns, gravel trucks speeding to the nearby quarry, and patient clopping of Amish horse and buggy.

Red River Gorgeous

2010-05-30T05:08:00.000-07:00

Repairs completed and weather warming, I packed the tent and sleeping bag on the bike and took off for an overnight to the Red River Gorge Geological Area. Renowned for the well preserved sites of prehistoric peoples who lived and traveled through this area, the Gorge contains the largest concentration of natural rock shelters in the eastern United States. In more recent history, the Shawnee natives settled in this region prior to arrival of European explorers. The federal government established the geological area in 1974 by designating 29K acres and in 1976, the National Park Service declared the area to be a Natural National Landmark. The government established Clifty Wilderness in 1985, an eastern section of the gorge set aside for natural study and in which no modern development of any kind occurs. In 1993, U.S. Congress indicated that a 19.4 mile section of the Red River, after which the area is named, be set aside as a National Wild and Scenic River.

While there are many areas in which to camp in the Daniel Boone National Forest, camping in the Gorge itself is highly regulated. For instance, camping in the Clifty Wilderness requires leaving any motorized vehicle behind and setting out on foot. Established campgrounds, such as Koomer Ridge, lie just outside the boundary of the geological area and provide amenities such as flushing toilets and showers. I wanted something affording a little more solitude and decided to try John Swift's Lost Silver Mine Campground, a privately owned primitive ground located two or three miles inside the boundary on the bank of the river. Rt. 77 threads it's way through the Nada Tunnel, a 900 ft.-long, single lane road originally cut through the rock by hand and steam-powered drills, and is the only road looping through the area.

Preceding the tunnel and immediately after, Rt. 77 spans two-lanes and the tendency to open the throttle and play can be overwhelming. However, road conditions vary widely from mile to mile. Due to the large number of hikers and rock climbers accessing the Gorge, vehicles group on the shoulders of the road near trail heads, restricting the width of the road. These vehicles drag cinders from the roadside onto the tarmac and these patches of black gravel hide in the shade of the overhanging trees. As I entered the Gorge on a sunny Saturday afternoon, I rode through a group of Harley riders stopped by the roadside. A man and his wife traveling two-up rode through one such patch, lost control, and slid off the road. They dropped down a steep embankment into an area of boulders and trees along the river. Needless to say, the couple was not having as pleasant an afternoon as I. An ambulance was on it's way, but due to the limited access to the area, the couple were stretched on the grass of the embankment. A half an hour had passed between the crash and when I passed by. The twisted wreckage of the motorcycle glinted from amongst the rocks nearly twenty feet below the surface of the roadway.

Heavy rain inundated the Gorge and surrounding country the previous week. Sections of Rt. 15 running from just east of Lexington to the Gorge were closed due to flooding. This entire section of Rt. 77 cascaded down the hillside and into the river, tearing away the pavement and the trees. While the area surrounding the Gorge may seem like a motorcyclist's playground, the uninhabited sections are relatively small. Family farms and small towns dot these Appalachian foothills. It's not uncommon to encounter commercial traffic and farm machinery, and these industries take precedence in consideration for repair of roads.

I arrived at an empty campground and chose a sandy spot beneath shade trees toward the rear of the grounds. I carried a gravity fed filtration system with me and collected water from a stream feeding the Red River about 50 yards from my camp. Due to the flooding the previous week, drift wood swept down river and onto the bank piled against the upriver side of trees. With the temps ranging from 70 to 90 degrees during the day, I gathered enough dry firewood to last me through the evening and into the next morning. Forecasts for the region promised that overnight temperatures would drop into the upper 30's, what I consider to be perfect camping weather. I brewed a pot of coffee and settled down to read in the last of the golden, late afternoon light. A group of people canoeing the river passed through, stopping on the sandy bank to eat and take pictures.

I believed that I'd have the campground to myself as the sun set and the sky began to rust it's way toward twilight. As I was situating my supplies for easy access in the dark, the crunching of tires on the gravel access road alerted me to a group of guys approaching my campsite by car. While most folks visiting a campground are usually just searching for a little solitude of their own, I'm always a little leery of others when I'm camping alone. I've had the profound experience of being robbed, once at gunpoint, while camped in isolated areas.

The car parked in a spot on the edge of the small stream from which I'd drawn my drinking water. The four men in the car didn't exit their vehicle for a half an hour. When they emerged, smoke billowed out into the still evening followed by raucous fits of coughing. They'd paid for a trunk full of firewood, but by the time they'd finished getting high, full-on night shrouded the camp and made searching for kindling impossible without a flashlight. I started my own fire with flint and steel and a handful of dry pine needles. Great flashes of light blossomed amongst the trees as the men doused their pile of damp wood with charcoal lighter and gasoline. When it was burning well enough to shed a little light on the wooden cornhole game they were in the process of assembling, they took hiatus to complete the baking process. And then the fire went out. This process was repeated over a dozen times throughout the night.

They erected their tent in the dark with much cursing and fumbling. Due to the fire remaining unlit more than ignited, they positioned their car toward the game area and turned on the headlights and the stereo. The alcohol arrived. I considered my options. I could confront them, but with just myself and no weaponry, not the wisest of choices. At 130 pounds, I'm not perceived as much of a threat. Go figure. People become unpredictable and dangerous where mind and mood altering chemicals are concerned. The campground owners did not remain on the premises at night. Judging by the exorbitant rate of consumption, I decided to do nothing and await the inevitable. Their commotion reached it's peak around midnight and then quickly choked off. At least they remembered to turn off the car headlights.

In the morning, I emerged into a campground shrouded in mist. I rebuilt my fire from the smoldering embers of the previous night and brewed fresh coffee. My neighbors had crammed four adult men into a youth model tent that was now collapsed on one end, tent poles lying stretched out on the grass like a pair of splayed legs. Empty beer bottles were tossed in the undergrowth as far as 20 yards from their camp. I finished my coffee and was in the process of finding their ineptitude laughable when I paid a visit to the stream to rinse my dishes. One of the men had decided to evacuate his bowels sometime during the night in the shallow water; he'd left his soiled underwear behind as well. I found myself praying that they'd all come down with a raging case of pneumonia and croak.

Thankfully, I stayed only one night. I broke camp and jotted down the license plate number of the vehicle. Unfortunately, the ranger station was twenty miles away in Stanton and closed on Sunday. I spent the rest of the day visiting the area's stunning overlooks. I stopped for a home cooked breakfast at a hostel-style inn geared toward the rock climbers of the region before gassing up and heading north toward the horse country around Lexington.

Few things upset me as greatly as disrespect for the natural environment. I was taught as a boy that when I camp, I place myself in the care of that environment. I was educated to see my responsibility, my duty even, to ensure that those who come after me are not aware that I preceded them. This philosophy attracted me to motorcycling and eventually led me to unite these two passions. I pass through, just a flash of silver on twisting, country tarmac, and leave no trace, as water over the rocks, wind through tall grass.

Chain, Chain, Chain

2010-05-29T03:55:00.000-07:00

I alluded in my recent post on camping in the Smokies that I ran into some trouble of my own making while traveling this year. When it comes to maintenance, I've often had to learn the hard way that something needs to be completed in the interval specified in the owner's manual. The challenge when dealing with components that rely upon measurement of wear patterns arises when trying to extend the life of the component to it's maximum. My trip to eastern Tennessee this year taught me that when a chain reaches the end of it's natural life, it has absolutely, positively reached the end of it's natural life. There can be no wringing a few extra miles of usefulness out of a worn drive chain.

My preferred destination is Tellico Plains, the starting gate of the Cherohala Skyway. From my home in northern Kentucky, I must ride over 350 miles to reach this town. In March of this year, I set out with an already taxed drive chain for an extended weekend in the mountains. First let me say that my maneuver wasn't just foolish, but dangerous. Of course, hindsight is always 20/20. What started as poor judgement on my part could have easily become a costly mistake. A worn drive chain can jump sprocket resulting in a crash and yet another trip by bus to the emergency room. In many regions of the Appalachian mountain chain, a rider could leave the road, disappear into the brush, and not be recognized for days, if at all.

At the least, worn drive chains no longer respond appropriately to adjustment and can damage other drive line, such as sprockets, or transmission components. Fortunately for me, none of the above incidents occurred. I limped the Ninja home after a single day and arrived in my driveway with a chain seriously binding in more than one location. I decided to spend the remainder of my vacation disassembling the final drive and thoroughly cleaning my machine. As the pictures indicate, a good bath was sorely overdue.

All body panels were removed and cleaned from each side. One of my least favorite aspects of chain-driven machines is the chain itself. While this method of drive is relatively simple to maintain and affords a tremendous amount of power to the rear wheel, I've never been able to keep one very clean with the type of riding in which I engage. Old chain gore refuses to be scrubbed away without a little labor. After several days accompanied by an ample supply of elbow grease and Simple Green, a motorcycle was discovered beneath the grime on wheels I'd parked in the driveway. I took the time to change my oil and filter, replace the rear tire, inspect the brake pads, and check the frame for breaks in the welds, a failing reported by several web communities on the first generation of this Ninja model.

And the chain needed replacement. While this requires a few specialized tools, such as the chain breaker and riveting tool pictured to the left, the procedure is relatively simple. Manufactured by Stockton Tools, the instrument I purchased came with simple instructions, and with the aid of several on-line how-to tutorials, I performed the job myself. Keep in mind that the last time I replaced a chain was with my father's assistance when I was ten. Very simply, the old chain needed "cutting" and it's replacement required that it be sized, which involved removing links to bring the chain to the proper length. In this case, that would be 114 links. The chain I purchased, of the x-ring variety, arrived with 120 links. Adhere to the old axiom, measure twice, cut once. An inability to perform basic math will result in...well...let's just say I measured once and paid twice.

The trickiest part of the entire process comes when placing and riveting the new master link. Rather than use a clip-style master link, which involves a retaining plate slid over the ends of the link pins to hold the master link together, I utilized a rivet link. The outer plate of the link is pressed into position using the riveting tool and then the heads of the link pins are mushroomed out to hold the outer plate in place. Much of this must be done by feel and careful inspection to avoid pressing the outer plate on too tightly. An over pressed master link will damage the tiny rubber x-rings and cause the new chain to bind. Needless to say, I learned my lesson from my first mistake and took my sweet time.

Another hotly debated topic contests whether the sprockets must be replaced at the same time as the chain and whether both sprockets should be switched out at the same time. I chose to replace the smaller drive sprocket due to wear, a slight forward lean of the teeth upon inspection. I did not replace the rear sprocket as the teeth showed an even and predictable decline. Several factors influence how fast a sprocket will show wear. Aluminum sprockets, for instance, usually wear faster than those made from steel, and the differing alloys used by various manufacturers can deteriorate at varying rates.

Averaging 15K-20K miles per chain is considered by most sources I consulted, including my regular mechanic, as high mileage. My old chain accumulated 25K miles, and when I think hard about it, probably should have been replaced between 20K and 22K miles. I sometimes fall into the trap of trying to extend the life of my machine's components. In reality, some parts are just designed to wear out and be replaced. This is the third chain fitted to the Ninja, and the first replacement I've undertaken myself. While not altogether complicated and a learning experience, I dream more frequently of shaft drive.

Cat Tail

2010-04-24T12:22:00.000-07:00

Mickey the cat taking siesta
in my Cortech Tail Bag

Camping and Riding the Smokies, Part...Whatever

2010-04-15T19:39:00.001-07:00

Last Spring, I began a series of posts to which I never returned. I'd envisioned a grand tour of the Smokies and surrounding environs all through the summer with episodic posts detailing my traveling exploits. My plan to supplement these ramblings with picturesque shots of mountain highway ultimately fell through. Instead of a summer throwing the bike into languorous curves, I spent a week in the hospital and another month in outpatient therapy, my vacation time whittled down to nothing more than splinters.

So, I'm returning to my grand vision now, a little more humble in scope. Better late than never, right? Well, maybe. My brief foray into the eastern Tennessee mountains nearly ended in disaster and disaster of my own making at that. But I'll get to that a little later.

From my earliest days of touring, back when I darted about the state on a 440 KZ, I preferred motorcycle camping to staying in motels. At first, camping was simply a matter of necessity. A $50 motel room meant less money for gas and, ultimately, a shorter period of time on the road. Spending $8 for a campsite allowed me to range farther afield. Then there are those times when I've paid nothing for a spot to throw a tent up after a day cruising lazy back roads. I've camped behind abandoned buildings, in vacant lots, and in farmer's fields, with their permission of course. For a starving college student on a shoestring budget, these situations are a dream come true. My motel experiences have always been dubious. I've rented rooms for $25 dollars and been treated like royalty. On the flip side, I've forked over $90 dollars and been ready to pack up in the middle of the night and slink away like a bad dog. By contrast, rarely have I had an unpleasant stay in a $30 dollar nylon dome from Target, and the experiences have always been memorable. I woke up in the middle of the night at Carter Caves State Park on a humid Wednesday in late June several summers ago to watch (and smell) a pair of skunks knock a plastic box containing donuts off of trees the next site to mine. Which just goes to show, all creatures love donuts.

In my mind, motorcycle touring and camping share many of the same traits. So many similarities, in fact, that the idea of staying in a motel after a long dusty day in the saddle, feels alien by comparison. Motorcycles embody freedom. Some would say freedom incarnate, really. The experience of freedom in the magnitude that motorcycling rewards demands vulnerability. As riders we're subject to the unpredictability of the elements. We're at the mercy of other vehicles, as well as the whims of the idiots who pilot them. A bad breakdown in a remote area often means hitching a ride or, more likely, a long walk to the next service station. Crashing, God forbid, usually results in a trip to the hospital. Our gear sits in plain view. I believe motorcyclists offer more fox-hole prayers than any other population. Riding into Atlanta during rush hour I recall myself saying, "Please, God, if I live through this, I promise I'll never do anything this stupid again."

These "drawbacks", as most motorists would call them, generate our solidarity. Stranded by the roadside with the whistle of a punctured front tire for company, cars whizzing by, its always comforting to hear the stumbling gait of a motorcycle engine gearing down as its rider prepares to slide onto the gravelly shoulder to offer, if nothing else, moral support. Motorcycle camping enhances this experience, indeed, can sustain the sensation indefinitely. At least, as long as one is willing to go without a hot shower.

I sometimes prefer the solitude of remote camping, as I described in Part One, to mirror a 450 mile day alone on the bike. For my latest excursion, I chose the possibility of a social venue by camping at Hunt's Lodge Motorcycle Resort. The southern Appalachian mountains are unique for motorcyclists in the respect that these types of campgrounds are plentiful. Hunt's Lodge offers sleeping cabins or free-range camping, hot showers, coffee, and the pleasure of company as a group of old road dogs relax around the fire pit swapping lies. In spite of the amenities, the spirit of freedom and the sensation of vulnerability required to sustain it, are preserved.

My suggestion is to begin slow and inexpensively. A $30 tent from Target will keep you just as dry during a thunderstorm as a $400 tent from your local plush outfitter. Which is to say, you'll be wet. Take extra cash with you for food in case that state-of-art cook stove refuses to light in the wind. Or in case you throw it into the woods in the dark and can't reacquire it. Buy a sleeping pad; its less expensive than a chiropractor. Don't skimp when it comes to sleeping bags. Make sure your cell phone is fully charged; plugs do not grow naturally in the woods. Above all, experiment. Take a brief trip to somewhere close by with several options in case things don't go as planned. This is a good way to test gear, to find out what actually works well. When you're sitting in the tent pondering what on earth possessed you to purchase that combination can opener-signal whistle-flash light, you won't regret as much tossing it in the dumpster on your way out than you will if you're deep in the forest and realize that this amazing device took up the same same space as a drybox of matches.

While camping at the Blue Ridge Motorcycle Campground several summers ago, a BMW rider approached me and said, "I see that you're as compact as I am," meaning that I had developed over many years of stupidity, luck, and trial and error the ability to carry everything I need for several days on the road with limited need for human interaction. I couldn't help but smiling. That line from Spaceballs crossed my mind, "I see that your Schwartz is as big as mine."

Oh, and don't forget to enjoy yourself. See you in the woods.

Why Let Sleeping Dragons Lie?

2010-04-13T07:09:00.000-07:00

The famous US 129 has reopened to traffic from the North Carolina side of the highway. According the article from Clutch & Chrome, motorcyclists may enter the corrider at Robbinsville, NC and turn back about two miles before the rock fall. Be careful out there, folks. I imagine that with the road only accessible from one direction, emergency services will have a more difficult job extracting injured riders.

A Cheer for the Cherohala

2010-04-11T05:21:00.000-07:00

Prior to my departure for the Cherokee National Forest, a fellow rider from work asked me what I was going to do there with the Dragon closed. I had to explain to him, with a more than a little sarcasm, that other roads do wander through that region of the country. Case in point is the beautiful Cherohala Skyway, a 36 mile highway bridging North Carolina to Tennessee. It crosses through two national forests, the Cherokee and the Nantahala.

Where the Dragon epitomizes the technical, riders on the Cherohala can expect solitude and some of the most profound scenic vistas to be found on any road in the region. During months like March, weather on the Cherohala can be unpredictable, and I've found that the best way to approach riding not just the Cherohala but the entire region is to dress for a wide variety of conditions. Being a fan of textiles, this usually isn't a problem. Temperatures in the Tellico River valley were near 75 degrees by noon the Saturday I started my climb into the mountains. Temperatures near the Cherohala's highest points favored snow. Even in the valley during the early morning hours, the temps can drop into the freezing range.

What I appreciate most about riding east Tennessee during the early part of the season is the lack of crowds. While I don't mind sharing stories by the fire with a few of my fellow travelers, the last thing I desire while trying replenish my spirit and take in the view is to constantly glance into my mirrors for the next rocket-boy attempting to race his way up my exhaust pipe. The Cherohala offers a clean ribbon of tarmac uninterrupted by commercial traffic, the glitz and glare of billboards, and stoplights. Plenty of pulloffs provide opportunity for photographs and space to stop and allow faster riders to proceed without the risk of dodging into oncoming traffic.

Home to the Over-the-Hill tribes of the Cherokee prior to the arrival of white settlers

The Over-the-Hill Cherokee were so named due to the fact that this was the terrain one needed to cross in order to make contact with the natives

The natives treated the peaks and valleys of east Tennessee and western North Carolina as sacred. It only takes one pass through the Cherohala's sultry curves to connect with that sense of spirit, one moment to fall in love with this long, quiet highway.

The Dragon is Dead, Long Live the Dragon!

2010-04-03T05:59:00.000-07:00

I recently returned from a brief foray to the Cherokee National Forest, one of my favorite places on earth to ride and camp. While the entire area serves as a Mecca for motorcyclists, one road draws riders from all over the world more than any other in the region. US 129, named the Tail of the Dragon, actually refers more specifically to an eleven mile stretch of highway sporting 318 curves spanning east Tennessee and western North Carolina. The road crosses through Deal's Gap, a pass in the mountains likely named after white settlers, but used by Cherokee natives centuries before the arrival of white explorers.

A rock slide occurred on March 14 and Tennessee authorities closed the infamous Dragon at the state line on March 17. Efforts are underway to reopen the road, at least from the Deal's Gap Motorcycle Resort to the area of the landslide.

Spokes Women

2010-03-28T11:17:00.000-07:00

My wife and I were watching CBS Sunday Morning today when this segment on motorcyclists of the fairer sex aired. And there's always a little something for the guys; anyone who doesn't find Melissa Paris absolutely hypnotizing should have their head examined.

Watch CBS News Videos Online

And here are a few links to those organizations covered in the segment.

American Motorcycle Girls
Roar Motorcycles
Melissa Paris

Do I Have Bugs in My Teeth?

2010-03-18T18:27:00.000-07:00

Out here in the country, its hard to miss the coming of Spring. The air sweetens, and the green fades into the grass along my favorite twisting tarmac. The ice releases the chatter of the Little Kentucky River. The farmers turn earth and prepare for the first planting of the season, the smell of grave and good harvest.

Motorcyclists are emerging from their winter hibernation. One minute, I'm alone in frigid temperatures and the next, I'm surrounded by my own kind. Its as if they bloomed along with the first flowers and trees. The boar grunt of the Harley bounces off cars parked along the gentile boulevards of small town Kentucky as bands of roaming bankers and lawyers take to the streets. The farting bee-can of the elusive high speed squid filters down to me out of the hills as I settle the bike onto the side stand in my driveway.

Yes, we're all out again. And so are the bugs. If ever there's a surer sign that the deep freeze of winter is coming to an end, I have yet to experience one as disgusting. Due to the fact that I have a brain, I'm fortunate to own a cranial protection device. Inside, I take in the gentle pitter-patter of countless little lives being snuffed out against the protective shield. Its kind of like rain, only gooier.

To all my brethren only now emerging into the light, to all of those purchasing their first horses this season, and to those once lonely sentinels of the frozen asphalt, ride safe, ride hard, and ride free.

Chillin'

2010-02-14T19:18:00.000-08:00

Seems like in the winter months I go into a state of suspended animation. Oftentimes, I'm leaving for work in the dark and returning home at night. Here in northern Kentucky, we've experienced above average snowfall this year, and the temperatures over the previous two weeks have been below average for this time of year. Not a good combination, if you ask me. While I don't find the cold daunting, the Ninja definitely wasn't built with ice in mind.

Fortunately, the county and state highway crew performed admirably following last week's snow. The sun slid out from behind the gray dome of an overcast sky and the mercury hovered at just above freezing. Good enough for me. I'll take time where I can find it in the cold months. An old rider once told me that any day I could throw my leg over the saddle was a good day. After tilting the horizon along icy byways in the eastern portion of Henry County, even the hope of distant Spring is enough to sustain my spirit.

Need a Lift

2009-11-27T08:42:00.000-08:00

Since the ultimate deterioration of my fuel pump at the road's edge several weeks previous, I've experienced the overwhelming urge to begin doing some of the basic work on my bike. In the past, I handled much of the routine maintenance from oil changes to valve adjustments. Due to the amount of riding I've done in the last couple of years, I left much of that in the capable hands of certified mechanics. I no longer have a garage to call my own either, a fact I hope to remedy just as soon as I write that international best-seller. For the time being, my purchase of a rear-wheel stand permits me to perform basic care for my Ninja, chain adjustment and lubrication for instance. The stand makes oil changes less tedious.

From my earliest days of riding as a teenager, the motorcyclists with whom I associated encouraged rider maintenance of machine. Such practice familiarized the rider with the bike and, in the event of a breakdown far from home, that rider would likely be better equipped to sort out the underlying problem. Perhaps, such a rider might even possess the skill necessary for emergency roadside repair. And as any longrider can tell you, such spur of the moment fixes rely much on knowledge of the specific machine. The cycle I come to know at 50K miles will not be identical to the machine I rode out of the showroom. An intimacy between between operator and vehicle must be cultivated.

One need not tear the engine down to the block to develop such intimacy. For myself, merely peeling away the plastic skin and taking a good look at what lies beneath furthers that relationship. Though I lacked the ability to fix the problem at the edge of the road, knowing the sound of my fuel pump at start-up enabled me to correctly diagnose the issue. This comes from no real examination of the pump itself, but rather from the times I have sat next to the bike in a quiet place and laid my ear against the tank to listen to the workings after I have turned on the ignition. No problems to identify, but only to satiate my curiosity.

How is it that I know I have a stiff link in the final drive chain? At speed, the feel of the machine has changed, a vibration present now that did not exist one month ago. I feel a revolving sensation through the footpegs, a thrum that alternates between a soft and hard sensation. Lift the rear of the bike from the ground, peel away the covers, and rotate the rear wheel. Inspect each link as it revolves around the sprocket. There it is, a light binding in a single link. Then the intimacy begins. Cleaning and scrubbing the chain shows that it remains in positive condition with little corrosion and limited wear. The teeth of the sprockets are not hooked, still "toothed" rather than "finned". The scent of solvent and gasoline settle into my hands.

The bike is lowered. Gear donned. Rider and machine ease onto the highway for a test of the work. The vibration is gone, replaced by the constant, smooth buzz as the the transmission snicks through gears and the engine seems to pull the rear wheel along. It's this communion that reminds me, trapped in the narrow box of my office later in the week, that much of who and what I am exists only when in motion, in the graceful arc toward a tilted horizon.

Want a Real Bike?

2009-11-07T10:15:00.000-08:00

It's Tough Getting Old

2009-10-18T10:39:00.000-07:00

I've noticed that when I'm experiencing a problem with the Ninja, I neglect my blog. Seems like this year, my machine developed a few more quirks and not those of character building variety. For instance, the computer that controls the fuel injection system will not always initialize the system on the first turn of the key. On occasion, I must turn the key to the off position, wait a few seconds, and then turn the power back on. This usually works and I can start the bike and ride with no interruption in fuel delivery. I enlisted the help of everyone from the dealer to my favorite local bike shop to examine the problem and they just shrug and tell me that the computer does not register any problems. I think maybe I'll try a fortune teller next. Couldn't hurt, right?

Several online 650R forums list fuel pump failure as a "rare but expensive" problem. They weren't kidding. Mine crapped out about a month ago. I figured this to the source of the erratic start up behavior, but I replaced the pump and nothing has changed. I worried that the inconsistent initialization of the fuel system damaged the first pump and now the replacement pump may be at risk. A new fuel pump costs around $250. A new computer sings to the tune of about $500. Here's the dilemma. With 53K miles on the clock of a $6500 bike, do replace these faulty components, or do I cobble the bike together until the engine cannibalizes itself or until I can afford a new motorcycle, whichever comes first. For the uninitiated, the first of the above choices occurs most frequently.

Until the inevitable, I comb the electrical system for shorts in between rides. I hate when a bike's age compromises it's long distance capability. Options at this point include owning a pickup truck, which I do, and purchasing a good roadside assistance service, which I have. However, my pickup is a Chevy, which means it works well about half the time. Fans of the all American automobile won't receive an apology from me. My next truck will be a Toyota. Not all roadside assistance programs are the same. I've learned to be careful and ask questions before buying. For example, AAA's basic programs don't cover motorcycles, not even so much as a tank of petrol should you run your horse dry. Coverage requires the additional purchase of the recreational vehicle subset. I simply tacked roadside assistance coverage to my insurance policy for a small fee.

Perhaps I'm being too much of a negative Nancy. Some postives arise from this point in a bike's aging process. The more riding I do, the more riding I want to do. I closely examine the machine I currently have, not physically necessarily, but with the eye of the mind. What does it have that I appreciate, power, speed, torque, flickability? As my mind wanders over the shaded lanes I imagine riding in the future, I ask myself what do I wish my current cycle had that it lacks? And I begin the long process of sifting through motorcycle propoganda searching for the "next bike", the machine with which I can turn those imagined lanes into twisting highways of reality. Even at this early stage, I can envision myself on something German or Italian, something sensuous that speaks not just to logic and need, but to that passion which ignites the spirit and new possibility.

Baked with Love

2009-09-20T07:51:00.000-07:00

Was out for a quick ride the other day and came across the Bimbo Bakeries truck. The website states that their products are "always baked with love." I couldn't stop giggling in my helmet. Hmmmm....I wonder if they take custom orders?

Rider on the Storm

2009-08-23T09:16:00.000-07:00

While on the way home last week, I took shelter from this storm under the awning of a used car dealership on Highway 60 east of Louisville. I glimpsed the radar prior to leaving work and knew that a break in the front would allow me access to the northeast corridor of Interstate 71. Assessing that I had fair chance of making it to the house relatively dry, I pulled over to don the yellow crossing-guard-of-doom rain gear and wait on the nastiness to grind it's way southeast.

One of the maxims that I've come to appreciate in motorcycling regards expecting the unexpected. In general, this philosophy keeps a rider alive and is epitomized in such statements as "cover your controls" and "ride as if you're invisible". Being prepared for and riding in adverse weather exemplifies this practice. I haven't traveled without some form of rain gear on the bike in over a decade; the lesson came hard-learned. In my early twenties, I rode out of Owensboro, KY for a trip of about a hundred miles or so. When I left my apartment, the sun was shining, a light breeze blew the scent of drying tobacco through the woods and fields of southern Indiana, and the temperature barely crested 70. By the day's end, a storm system moved into the area and it started to rain. With only my leathers, I soaked to my skin quickly. The temperature dropped into the lower 60's. I discovered that the body can go hypothermic when wet in as comfortable a temperature as 60 degrees. Add in the wind chill factor and I'd slapped together a receipe for a near-death experience. The resulting pneumonia could have been prevented, in all likelyhood, by a thin layer of plastic.

During a lull in the storm last week, I decided to make a break for the interstate and try to stay ahead of the next wave of thunderstorms. What I hadn't counted on, indeed, what no one factors into the equation, was an accident blocking the north bound lanes of I-71. Before I could ride to the shelter of the rest area and nearest exit, the rain poured down. By the time I climbed off the bike and slouched in under the overhang of the area's vending pavilion, I could not longer see through the sheets of water and blinding lightning. The thunder beat my chest like a drum.

But I was dry, thanks to the thin, plastic rind of my rain suit. And reasonably safe under the roof of the shelter housing the vending machines. Motorcycling fosters patience. Ride long enough and far enough and the weather will turn against the rider, no matter how righteous his karma. The other lessen I learned during that sodden ride years ago was to listen to my gut. If my head busied itself with figuring routes around the storm and my heart stroked my ego with how tough I would be for motoring through a tempest to the far side, then heed the voice of caution, located somewhere between my lungs and my balls, and pull over. Prop myself up between some vending machines among the stray cigarette butts, close my eyes, and bask in the soft spray of hard rain.

Twist of the Wrist

2009-08-09T11:30:00.000-07:00

I've recently realized that I'm not well connected to any form of motorcycle community. When I examine my own riding history and style, I find I've been that way most of my riding life. I usually ride alone. A benefit to solo travel includes being able to stack on as many miles as my skinny butt can handle without having to worry about my fellow riders stopping 300 miles before I'm ready. I've always written off some of the drawbacks to my anti-social tendencies. I'm talking about the loneliness that only a lone rider feels standing at 5,000 ft. on the Cherohala Skyway in March watching the clouds sift through the skeletal trees. Cheery, ain't it. Truth be told, I've never much cared for the company of other human beings, even my own kind. Riding the Ninja 650 doesn't exactly attract those motorcyclists in whose company I'd genuinely feel welcome. Most riders mistake it for a sport bike when it's really a standard with some plastic for show. As a result, I frequently draw the attention of the squids, whose vacant heads annoy me, who can not exercise restraint in spinning that yarn about how they crashed their precious GSXR-750 on the interstate while pulling a wheelie at 90 mph and can't wait to try the stunt again next week.

"Just as soon as I get another bike," they say, eyeing my 650 in a way that always makes my heart drop a little.

Another disadvantage to my lack of communion with the motorcycling general populace is that I often miss events like the one night only opening of Twist of the Wrist: Louisville Art on Motorcycle Culture. It just so happens that while screwing off....err....surfing the net at work last Thursday, I came across an article in the cyber version of the Louisville Eccentric Observer detailing the opening of the show and the lives of some of the artists exhibiting. The motorcyclists and artists interviewed for the piece described their love of vintage machines in particular. Having owned several quirky old bikes myself and cultivated a wallflower's interest in two-wheeled culture, I decided that this was something that I had to check out.

Now, I'm not going to wax poetic on the virtues of modern art or the reflection of society such art provides. I just don't have it in me and, frankly, I really don't care. Vintage bike society intrigues me while vintage bike artist society I find somewhat aloof and unreachable. While I'm not one of those riders to sit around and discuss the shaping effects of motorcycles on rebellion in our modern culture, I can appreciate a stunning photograph of a laced wheel strung with cobwebs as the machine to which it's attached slowly rusts into the forgotten ground of a motorcycle salvage yard. It appeals to the lonewolf in me. Sarah Lyon, a female rider, mechanic, and photographer, contributed the most stunning piece in the show, her bronzed pair of leather motorcycle harness boots, which witnessed 30,000 miles of Sarah's travels on two wheels. All of the small imperfections immortalized in those boots spoke to me in a way that reached past my intellect and kicked me somewhere in my gut.

And even this anti-social got a chance to practice his communication skills a little bit. Here's a few photos from outside the show that capture one of those rare moments when my keepers let me out from under the stairs.

Here I am discussing a Honda C350 project with another attendee

Gives new meaning to the term Iron Butt

Assorted scooter trash discussing the shaping effects of motorcycles on rebellion in our modern culture

In the end, for me, it's always about the bikes

Open Sesame!!!!!!

2009-07-16T16:55:00.000-07:00

Finally. The cap openeth and the stench of vaporized gas wafted forth. I, however, can't take credit for completing this puzzle. I attempted every chemical solution that I safely know how to perform in order to coax the lock into releasing. I called the local locksmith and he refused to examine the lock as soon as I informed him that it was a part of a motorcycle gas cap. In the end, I dropped the bike at the local dealership who called the locksmith who picked the tumblers of the stuck lock and exclaimed, "Who squirted all this stuff in here?"

Drats!

2009-07-08T14:58:00.000-07:00

My last alchemical attempt to free the lock on the Ninja's gas cap has not been successful. An old friend suggested that I douse the lock with PB Blaster in the hope that the powerful solvent would allow the lock to be broken free. Even following repeated application and time to soak, the lock would not budge.

I'll have to remove the lock, possibly by drilling it, and force the teeth holding the cap to the tank to retract. This will destroy the cap which will require replacement, a scenario that I'd hoped to avoid due to the expense of purchasing a new assembly. Once again, I'll be consulting an old hand prior to any major surgical procedures.

Anniversary of Doom, Redux

2009-07-07T13:49:00.000-07:00

Yesterday marked the four-year anniversary of my motorcycle crash. The accident changed my life in some very fundamental ways, such as how well I can walk, but the incident also pushed me to examine my attitude regarding motorcycling and the type of riding in which I truly wanted to engage. Read the full tale here. When my Harley was destroyed, it opened the door to new dimensions of motorcycling I'd previously not considered. Those interests evolved into sport-touring and renewed participation in motorcycle camping.

Over the past few days, however, I found myself reflecting back on my old American V-twin. I realized that I miss that troublesome machine, which has probably attributed to my browsing the local HD dealership and gazing longingly at the curves of all those chromed horses. Sometimes I close my eyes and still hear the lope of that 1200 engine, a stumbling gait at low idle, a steady roar at 2500 rpm through 3/4 inch drag pipes. The affinity between rider and motorcycle approaches the spiritual. Ride any machine long enough and it makes a mark upon the rider that passes through the flesh, tattooing the soul. Long after that machine passes out of the rider's life, the memory of it calls back to him across time, like a name shouted in the wind.

Locked Out

2009-06-30T19:33:00.000-07:00

The liquid graphite failed to ease the gas cap lock into functioning. I thought, perhaps, that if I removed the lock ring from around the cap and lock mechanism, I'd be able to reach the outside of the lock. Unfortunately, that's not how the cap is constructed. The outer ring functions simply as a stabilizer and alignment device for the actual cap. Due to the fact that the cap is hinged to the lock ring, the lock ring can not be removed by unbolting it from the tank. The teeth engaged through the lock hold the entire assembly in place even when the lock ring's bolts have been removed.

I'm going to seek assistance from some older riders to see what they suggest. And a few prayers to the gods of the open road probably wouldn't hurt either.

Frozen in the Height of Summer

2009-06-29T18:07:00.000-07:00

I've been having some trouble with the locking mechanism on the Ninja's gas cap for a couple months. It's been stiff and difficult to turn the key in the lock. I've said to myself over and over that when I got a few spare minutes, I'd lubricate the lock and the latch components below. As I was indisposed last week, I was unable to ride. I returned home to discover that the lock had seized. I am attempting to free the stubborn bastid by injecting liquid graphite into the lock.

It's Raining; It's Pouring....

2009-06-18T17:56:00.000-07:00

Ride to Work day transformed into squelch to home day and kicked off a week laden with spotty but dangerous weather. The Ohio River Valley witnessed brief but powerful storms this week. The one we experienced this morning was enough to knock out the power at work. I've had to don the crossing guard of doom rain gear more than once this week.

Ride to Work Day

2009-06-15T03:47:00.000-07:00

Today is the 18th annual Ride to Work Day. In the past, the day was observed in July. A change was made to a Monday in June in order to better promote the idea of motorcycles for transport to the general public. This year, Ride to Work Day is endorsed by the Federation Internationale de Motorcyclisme in the international community.

50 Years of Honda

2009-06-13T06:17:00.000-07:00

Honda celebrated fifty years in the United States this week. On June 11, 1959, American Honda Motor Company, Inc. was formed in Los Angeles, California. Honda is given credit for revolutionizing the American motorcycle industry with the release of the step-through model seen above, the Honda 50. This machine helped coin Honda's signature pitch, "You meet the nicest people on a Honda."

Honda also celebrates their introduction to the world of motorcycle racing this week. In 1959, Honda debuted at the Isle of Man TT Race. The company has plans to commemorate their anniversary with special events to be held at the 2009 race.

Read a little more about it at Clutch and Chrome and the LA Times.

Murder Cycles

2009-05-24T17:13:00.001-07:00

Lounging in the cool dark of my local cinema for a matinee screening of Terminator Salvation, I witnessed the debut of several new Terminator machines. Among these killers are the moto-terminators, an automated, two-wheeled death dealer based on Ducati's Hypermotard platform.

Camping and Riding the Smokies, Part One

2009-05-24T04:26:00.000-07:00

On April 2 of this year, I squeezed a few days out of a hectic work schedule to ride into the Cherokee National Forest for a few days. When traveling by motorcycle, I'm always partial to camping by bike. It's a bit more complicated than riding up to the motel and checking in, but the rewards measure out in my enhanced peace of mind and sense of self-sufficiency. I took few photos of the ride to the area. I got a late start and worried that once I hit the mountains, I'd lose the light while trying to find a suitable campsite. However, I generally follow Route 127 south through Kentucky and into Tennessee. Route 68 branches off and passes through Tellico Plains, my usual entry point into the Smokey Mountain area.

A view of Tennessee
State Route 68.

Options for camping while riding the Smokies vary depending on the level of comfort the rider desires. Motorcycle campgrounds like Hunt's Lodge located just south of Tellico Plains on the aforementioned route 68, offer amenities sometimes lost in more primitive camping, such as hot showers and laundry facilities. Usually, I opt for one of these campgrounds and there are several to choose from in the region. They provide a more secure setting for leaving gear unattended and companionship when returning from a long day in the saddle.

I wanted more solitude than usual and chose a primitive location at Spivey Cove, a campground situated along the Tellico River. The location is over 15 miles east into the mountains from Tellico Plains. To my knowledge, there is no gas or cell phone service available once exiting Tellico Plains. Following the signs for the Cherohala Skyway will lead to Tellico River Road on which Spivey Cove campground is positioned. River Road, a single lane of asphalt, winds along the valley against the flow of the water. It's easy to let the eyes wander from the road for long stretches, but the road is shared by fisherman, kayakers, hikers, and fellow motorcyclists. Missing a curve could result in a deadly fall into the river.

River Road and the Tellico River

The road leading into Spivey Cove

Being the middle of the week, the campground hosted no occupants other than myself. I chose as remote a spot as possible relative to the campground entrance, a level shelf on the side of a hill encircled by pines. While the Cove had pit toilets, there were no showers or plumbing carrying drinking water. The only source of water, a small stream running down the mountain to feed the Tellico River. The nearest ranger station was 12 miles to the west near where River Road joins the Skyway. I arrived with enough light to set up the tent, a $30 purchase from Wal-Mart, by the way, and to gather a little firewood before settling down with a cup of coffee, a book, and the breath of the wind through the trees.

Unloading the machine

Setting up the tent

Home sweet home, at least for the next three days

Be Aware

2009-05-10T08:55:00.000-07:00

May is Motorcycle Safety Awareness Month. Groups such as the Motorcycle Safety Foundation and the National Safety Council in the United States utilize programs to increase awareness of motorcycles in regards to those who share the roadway with us. The MSF's Motorist Awareness Tips outline ten points all motorists should know about motorcycles, and the Foundation launched a website, For Car Drivers, designed specifically to educate drivers to the particular hazards faced by motorcyclists. Even the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration gets in on the act with it's Share the Road campaign.

While I applaud the above organizations for their efforts in educating non-riders, May is also a time when we as motorcyclists should be examining our own habits. When was the last time any of us took part in an MSF certified training course? Certain manufacturers offer rider education programs of their own, like Harley's Rider's Edge program. Do we check our gear, assuming we wear it, for signs of break down and does that gear need to finally be replaced? Sites like Rock the Gear, started as a collaborative effort between Brittany Morrow, known as the Road Rash Queen, and the MSF, promote a postive combination of proper riding technique and modern motorcycle-specific safety gear. Ultimately, it's up to the rider to determine just how much polish the rider's skills and gear require.

TRIUMPHant

2009-05-02T16:15:00.000-07:00

Because it was my birthday on the First, I spent the afternoon at my local Triumph Motorcycle dealer, Commonwealth Motorcycles. One of my colleagues clued me in to the fact that Commonwealth was offering demo rides on select models of the Triumph line. All I needed was a clean driver's license, a helmet (and other gear I deemed necessary for my safety), and the willingness to swear that I wouldn't break any laws, including the posted speed limit. So the sales team scanned my driver's license, and I signed my name on the dotted line, with my fingers crossed behind my back, of course. I spent a small chunk of my afternoon tooling around downtown Louisville astride the Triumph Street Triple.

Derived from the Daytona 675, the mill of the Street Triple has been tuned to provide riders with more mid-range usability than it's race-bred counterpart. After learning to negotiate with the touchy throttle, I exited the parking lot and, with a quick twist, vanished down East Jefferson St. The exhaust note is throaty with the bike at a standstill but let out the reigns a bit and the engine winds out with the same high-pitched whistle found in any Japanese crotch rocket. Sitting on the machine, I leaned farther forward than I'm normally accustomed and the position, though a "standard" one, felt awkward. The mirrors made me feel claustrophobic mounted as they were on the bars and not on any bodywork. All of my misgivings while astride the bike in the parking lot evaporated when I took to the street. The Triple feathers through corners, light and airy in it's handling. Effortless snicking through the transmission had me checking the digital readout to be sure which gear I entered, and the bike yeilded few if any flat spots. The brakes drag the machine down from speed with precision. I could actually see something other than my shoulders in the mirrors!

I circled through the east end of town in what I considered to be a long loop. Lifting the visor upon my return to the dealership, there wasn't need to ask whether I enjoyed the ride or not. My grin said it all. After describing my route to the mechanic, he simply nodded and said, "You sure weren't gone very long."

Headin' to the Boneyard

2009-04-21T16:46:00.000-07:00

I stopped to fill up at the Pilot station in Sligo, KY and spotted this whole flatbed full of bad luck. Seriously, I hope none of the riders ended up at that great Hole in the Wall in the sky. Just a none too gentle reminder to ride like you're invisible.

Preview...Postview...Whatever

2009-04-21T03:58:00.000-07:00

Back in August, my wife and I attended a special screening of Long Way Down, the two-hour director's cut, in a local theater. Unfortunately, I wasn't a subscriber to the channel on which the entire series aired starting later that same evening. I thought I'd post the preview from that series here. Enjoy.

Long Way...Through?

2009-04-20T16:46:00.001-07:00

As a big fan of the original book and television series, Long Way Round, I was excited to learn that Ewan and Charlie planned another epic adventure. This time, the pair planned to ride from the point farthest north in Scotland to the furthest point south in Africa, a trip of nearly 15K miles. They rode in the shadow of the pyramids, cruised along the Nile, and dodged elephants in the deserts of Namibia. The two visited several charities throughout the trip, including Unicef and Riders for Health, an organization of motorcycle riders delivering medications to those without access to those medications throughout rural Africa. The friends stopped in Rwanda to visit the sites of horrific genocide. As usual, they sampled the cuisine of each country through which they passed.

So why am I not as satisfied with Long Way Down as I remember being when finishing my read of Round? I picked up and read Round as a paperback before I watched the TV series. When I finally purchased and viewed the actual video series, I was doubly amazed with the magnitude of the journey. With Long Way Down, I'm already aware that the series for television exists. The book, constructed in the same manner as Round, that is, Ewan and Charlie alternate as the narrator of their tale, served merely to whet my appetite for what I believe will undoubtedly be another monumental piece of motorcycle film making.

I cite only minor annoyances with the book. At one point, Ewan's wife, Eve, visited the pair and traveled with them for about one week. The book's narrator's continue unaltered in their telling of their tale, though they separated following Eve's arrival. I would like to have seen entries in the book by Eve, as she becomes such an integral part of the story for a short while. While the pair do little to acknowledge the effect of Eve's arrival on the overall mood of the journey, it's clear that she acts as a sort of antagonist against the two friends. Permitting Eve to use her own voice as a narrator could perhaps have diminished her standing as an outsider. It also would have created structurally in writing what occurred thematically in the book.

Though I found the book to be a slower read than the first time I experienced Ewan and Charlie's writing, Long Way Down's worth the read. In the least, it peaks the interest and may act as a primer for the video series. I spent most of this last weekend watching the Round series again and hoping that Long Way Down would live up to the legacy of it's predecessor. What I truly enjoy about the books and the series is that it steers readers and viewers away from the stereotype of the biker as an American outlaw. We can ride long and hard, be free in the wind whether on this continent or another, sleep under the open sky, and still retain our sense of compassion for one another and the human race in general.

Shifting Gear

2009-04-19T16:59:00.000-07:00

Time really can get away from me. I was trolling around some of my favorite forums and reading blog entries when I realized that I haven't posted to my own blog in over a month. And a lot has happened in the previous thirty days to post a few updates. I put the Ninja in the shop for a few days...well, a few days transformed into about three weeks while I waited for a valve cover gasket to arrive from Jupiter or some place. I replaced the rear tire. I chose another Bridgestone Battleaxe as I'm drawing between 12 and 15K miles from each one. The valves were adjusted, the air filter replaced, fuel filter renewed, rear brake pads installed, and oil and filter changed. Despite the wait for parts, the bike was returned to me by the shop dialed in and running as if I'd just ridden off the showroom floor.

I finally got around to replacing my aging Joe Rocket Ballistic 4.0 jacket with the Motoboss 3/4 textile jacket in the photo above. The Rocket leaked at each vent and, I believe, some of the seams. Given that the Ballistic was over three years old and had seen nearly 50K miles in weather ranging from light rain to snow, I figured it worthy of retirement. I'm pleased with the Motoboss thus far. I've had the occasion to be caught out in heavy rain while wearing it and wasn't disappointed with the quality of rain resistance. Waterproofing has always been tricky at best when it comes to motorcycle gear.

"Is it waterproof," I've asked.

"That depends," is the response. "Waterproof like light drizzle...yes. Waterproof like a midget dipped in liquid latex...no."

I'm pleased to announce that the salesman for my Alpinestars boots was indeed correct. Over the previous month and then some, the stiffness gradually faded away. These boots are indeed some of the most comfortable road boots I've ever had the fortune in which to stomp around. While not at the stage of a comfortable well-worn pair of sneakers, I'm pleased that I can spend the day in them and not pull them off in the evening nursing blisters. Did I mention they're Italian. Oh, yes....Italian.

I spent a few days at the beginning of April camped in the Cherokee National Forest of eastern Tennessee. I'll post the photos I've taken later, including some shots from the Dragon by Killboy. I met a variety of individuals in the few days I camped and rode the area. The hospitality shown to motorcyclists in the region always amazes me. Whether I've visited in the height of summer or during the birth of the season as I did this most recent trip, I'm never disrespected by the locals. My thoughts inevitably spin to planning the next ride into breathtaking Appalachia, sometimes before the mountains have even disappeared from my mirrors.

These Boots Are Made For Walkin'

2009-03-08T17:58:00.001-07:00

With the advent of a new riding season, I required a replacement for my three and a half year-old Cortech Solution waterproof road boots. Over the last six months, the waterproofing of the boots has become dubious. The harder the rain, the more water works it's way past the seals. Lately, "hard rain" has become a broad category. Often, I'd climb off the bike at work and squelch my way down the hall to my office, doomed to wander the corridors in wet socks for the day.

To be fair, the Cortech's have seen nearly 50K miles of on-cycle use. If I'm riding, I spend the day in my boots, strolling around the office. While on tour, I hike short trails in them, provided my right ankle can take the strain. The bottoms of the no-slip rubber soles have been worn smooth. Fine white stress lines web the outer leather shells, and the soft, inner material, known as K-315, has degraded to a hard, flat panel, like walking on a piece of balsa wood. Small chunks of K-315 occasionally attach themselves to my socks for a free ride through the house.

Like saying farewell to an old friend, I have a hard time discarding something as comfortable as an aging pair of boots. Seems to me, the longer I utilize a boot, the more hospitable an environment they prove to be for my feet. In fact, the Cortech's haven't made it to the trash yet. Visitors to our house discover them sitting neatly by the door, leaning against the Alpinestar Web Gore-tex boots I purchased to replace them. Why replace them? There are two areas that just seem to make the world a brighter place when they're dry. The first is my testicles, and running a close second, I appreciate toasty lower digits. There's nothing quite like the sensation of water slowly soaking into socks, like milk supersaturating cereal left too long uneaten in the bowl.

When shopping for replacements, several factors play a role in my choice for the next pair. Waterproofing is a must. No squish, squish. While I'm not interested in winning a fashion show by any means, boots with style add a little flair to any motorcyclist's ensemble. Basic black remains a static choice with me. Then there's the practical things to consider. Dry boots mean dry feet which keeps feet healthy, especially between those lower digits I mentioned earlier. Nothing like intolerable athelete's foot to cause problems at 70+ mph. The Alpinestars have hard armor on both sides of the ankle and the shin. The Cortechs do not, which is the main reason influencing my decision, comfortable and reliable though they may be, not to purchase a second pair. I evaluate not only the motorcycle with the dawn of the spring season, but the effectiveness of the gear I use as well.

After shelling out the cash, I slide into my new boots for the ride home and stuff the Cortechs into the saddle bags. I grimace a little as I walk out of the store. The Alpinestars are a little stiff. "Don't worry," the salesmen calls after me, "they'll break in after a while. There's nothing like a pair of Italian leather boots. After a while, they'll be as comfortable as an old pair of tennis shoes."

Oh yes, Italian; I think my new boots and I are going to become old friends.

Long Time, No Post

2009-03-03T18:24:00.001-08:00

We've had an eventful February here in northern Kentucky, first the ice storm followed by the wind storm. Both catastrophies were accompanied by loss of power. At one point, I was unable to make the drive to work for three consecutive days. Normally, I'd relish the idea, except when it's only 35 degrees inside my house. Throughout all of this, brief windows offering the opportunity to ride have presented themselves. When the sun peeled away the gray overhang and the snow dwindled to a less than treacherous accumulation, I'd fire up the 650, plug in the Widder vest, and cruise down to the local Waffle House for a steaming cup of java.

Plunked down at the counter, with a little Patsy Cline whirling out of the juke box, I'd dream of the coming spring and the empty highway. That's one thing that a long, cold winter's good for is dreaming. All ready, I'm thinking of the twisting asphalt paths through the Smokies. I'm fantasizing about that perfect campsite on the edge of the lake where I can watch the fish flash in the sun before dropping with a plop back into the water. Most important, I'm wishing for a machine with the pre-season maintenance completed: new rear tire and brake pads, new filter elements for fuel line and air cleaner, oil and filter changed, spark plugs swapped out, coolant changed, valve adjustment completed.

I guess I can sit and sigh over the vision of spring yet to come, or I can drag my lazy butt off the stool at the awful waffle and hunker down in the driveway with the toolbox. Despite the lack of practicalities completed, I've put in my request with the employer for a little time free from the trenches during the first week of April. Now if I can just get the inside of my head and the outside in the driveway to meet in the middle, I'll be a contented man.

Every Now and Zen

2009-01-10T06:40:00.000-08:00

I'll be the first to admit that I've never read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance in it's entirety. I've picked it up several times and worked my way into it's pages only to pull away when my admittedly short attention span became entranced by something requiring a little less work to enjoy. Thanks to Mark Richardson's book, Zen and Now: On the Trail of Robert Pirsig and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, I know I'm no longer alone in that sentiment. In his book, the author makes reference to having begun Zen and the Art several times before cultivating the discipline to complete the read and then returns to Pirsig's book a second time in order to develop an enjoyment of the work.

It is following this second passage, completed on the author's 41st birthday, that Mr. Richardson begins to plan his own motorcycle journey. He will retrace the Zen route, planning to remain as true to the original work as possible. The author has done his research through referencing several guidebooks and by communicating via letter with the Pirsig family. Just prior to his 42nd birthday, Mr. Richardson sets off on his Suzuki DR600 to follow Pirsig's narrator west from Minneapolis to San Francisco. The author transforms into what his book refers to as a Pirsig Pilgrim or Zen Pilgrim. In his travels west, the author stops at locations mentioned in Zen and the Art and contacts persons depicted in the original work.

As Mr. Richardson will tell you, Zen and the Art isn't really about motorcycles at all. Robert Pirsig used the journey by motorcycle of son and father as a metaphore for investigations philosophical. Zen and Now isn't really concerned with motorcycles either. Following the original route, Mr. Richardson examines how the Zen and the Art philosophy impacted his own life. The author reflects on his relationships with the people closest to him, mainly his wife and children, and contemplates the Quality of his life. The meaningfullness of the writer's life parallels the autobiographical text in Zen and Now on the Pirsig family. In the end, it's not so much redemption offered up by Mr. Richardson as the opportunity for enlightenment, both for himself and the reader's view of the Pirsig family.

While the book contains no photos of the journey, for it doesn't truly require any, pictures from the author's journey can be found at the companion website, Zen and Now.

Indian Reborn

2009-01-09T22:06:00.000-08:00

Indian Motorcycle has announced the opening of it's first seven dealerships. The 2009 Indian Chief will be produced as a limited production model. A grand total of 750 motorcycles will roll off the line this year. The company promises the expansion of it's dealership network in it's press release by July 2009. The company will also produce a line of apparel to include jackets, pants and jeans, footwear, and a line of accessories.

The new Chief will be powered by a 105 cubic inch air-cooled engine, the Power Plus, complete with fuel-injection. The drive train will consist of a six-speed gear box and a belt final drive. The bike weighs in at just under 800 pounds. The Chief line includes four variations, the Standard, Deluxe, Roadmaster, and Vintage. I'm partial to the Vintage. With it's sloping, classic fenders, chrome guards and grab rails, leather fringed seat, and white-wall tires, undoubtably, it is a rolling work of art. An expensive work of art, the bike cashes in at a little over $35,000 according to the brochure on the company's website. While I admire the machine's lines and timeless detail, I'm afraid with a price tag like the one listed above, I'll only be admiring from afar.

Video with a Twist

2009-01-03T06:46:00.000-08:00

Looking for something to chase away the winter doldrums? Discovery Turbo Channel offers motorcyclists the opportunity to view several series of videos taken from popular television programs aired on the Discovery Channel, including the American Chopper and Biker Build-Off series. While I do enjoy watching the production of a chopper, there's only so much dysfunctional family drama centered around American iron I can take.

Of particular interest to this rider was the Twist the Throttle series. Twist focuses on the manufacturers from around the world, including a few Japanese, Italian, and British companies. The episodes provide a brief overview of each company's history, such as Kawasaki's start as a shipping company or Bimota's beginning as a heating and air conditioning business. Each episode progresses through how and where that particular brand of motorcycle is manufactured to an enticing exploration of a brand's iconic models, such as Honda's CBR1000RR.

With limited riding time through the colder months, I'm always looking for methods of keeping my wanderlust in check. A few good books and a series like Twist keep me dreaming of open highway, dry pavement, and the sun on my back.

Happy New Year!

2009-01-01T05:44:00.000-08:00

Here's the video of Robbie Maddison's New Year's Eve jump in Vegas. Yup, gravity still works.

Brrrrr...

2008-12-06T14:14:00.000-08:00

I've been neglecting my blog for the past few weeks. Not that I haven't been riding. I've fired up the Widder vest and been riding into work each day as the weather permits. Having a 45-mile commute, I must not neglect to research the conditions for the return trip prior to leaving the house in the morning. Yesterday, the forecast was dry but cold as the area awaited the next front system to push into the region over night. I left the house at around 7:30 a.m. to the tune of 21 degrees. While the Ninja runs well in cold weather, I've experienced some difficulties with the lever blades freezing up. I sometimes have to get out a hair dryer and defrost them to avoid the levers sticking in place.

On the way home yesterday evening, I stopped to swap out the tinted face shield for the clear when an older gentlemen and his wife exiting a convenience store asked how I avoided freezing to death. At this point, the temps had risen into the lower 30's. I gave them a run down of my gear. The couple was particularly amazed at the electric vest. The old man confessed to being a rider in his younger years and recalled a tale of near freezing to death in old leather gear.

The conversation gave me the idea of posting a layer by layer account of the gear I use and how I suit up. It'll have to wait, however, until I'm feeling a bit more industrious. I've been feeling a little on the low side since getting up this morning and seeing this in the drive way.

But I'm Feeling Much Better Now...

2008-11-08T05:35:00.000-08:00

During Clinton's 1996 administration, the president introduced the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act (HIPAA). The basic idea behind the Act was to end discrimination against individuals with pre-existing medical conditions by employers. While the final rules enacted in 2001 prevent denial of health care coverage to anyone participating in any recognized legal activity, such as motorcycling, a loophole in the Act permits denial of benefits despite the right to coverage. Under the current legislation, a motorcyclist has the right to coverage but may be denied the benefits of the coverage despite payment of premiums if the motorcyclist's injuries were sustained while riding the motorcycle.

Two new bills, H.R. 1076 and S. 616, the HIPAA Recreational Injury Technical Correction Act attempt to close this loophole and end the discrimination against motorcyclists with pre-existing injuries. Requests to representatives and senators can be sent via email or in print from the AMA's website.

The injuries I sustained in "the crash of '05" will likely haunt me for the remainder of my natural life. Considering that the damage was caused by a kid in a car speeding through a stop sign at twenty over the posted limit, I'm against the notion that I may have to keep footing the bill for someone else's negligence. Especially when taking into account I'm a motorcyclist with high levels of insurance coverage who dutifully pays his premiums. Frankly, that's a notion that I, or anyone in my position, can not afford.

Feeling Blue

2008-11-06T17:29:00.000-08:00

Forgot to post the pics of my ride up the Blue Ridge Parkway this summer. Better late than never, I suppose. With the winter weather closing in, I find myself reflecting on the longer rides through gorgeous country I've taken over the previous year. Here's a few shots from the Ridge taken during late June 2008.

Top of the World

Looking Glass Mountain

Shadow on the Mountain

Grandfather Mountain

Any port in the Storm

Brits in the Blood

2008-10-30T13:35:00.000-07:00

I hop on the elevator after leaving the bike in the garage. It's about 38 degrees, and I'm full gear. The thermostat cable hangs down to my knees from under my shirt like a cybernetic umbilical cord. I punch the number for the first floor, and the pale eye on the control panel illuminates as the elevator door slides closed.

I get to share the ride with one of the building maintenance men. "Cold out there, ain't it?" He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his coveralls and grins at me.

"Yup." I smile back. I can't say much else as my face is too cold. I laugh instead. "A Ninja. I ride a Ninja." The face shield of the helmet I'm carrying mists over with condensation.

"Mmmm, fast," he says. He lowers his head and sighs. "I ride old British bikes." He smiles at me again and not all his grin is joy. "I'm a glutton for punishment."

We both laugh. The elevator doors open, and we spill out into the lobby. We separate, both on foot.

Big Green Machine

2008-10-27T18:33:00.000-07:00

Motorcycle.com published an online article detailing the diversity of the Kawasaki company. The article outlines how Kawasaki began as a shipping company in 1878 and follows the company's progression into the mid-1990's. Today, Kawasaki's holdings include not just the powersports division of which I'm so fond, but also Kawasaki Heavy Industries, manufacturer of aerospace components, tunnel-boring machines, biomass powerplants, robots, and bullet trains. Read about it here.

Temple to the God of Speed

2008-10-26T16:01:00.000-07:00

One more spot I have yet to visit in the flesh.

A new motorcycle land speed record of 360.913 mph was set at the Salt Flats on September 26 of this year by rider Rocky Robinson and his team, Top 1 ACK Attack. The previous record of 350.884 mph was set in 2006 by Chris Carr and builder/owner Denis Manning.

Tilting the Horizon

2008-10-26T06:56:00.000-07:00

I almost forgot how exhilerating a new tire can be, just how far a bike can lean on fresh rubber. I spent a few hours yesterday on the local roads, tilting the horizon through Amish country.

Old House and Truck

Delapidated Barn on the Edge of Amish Country

Tobacco in the Barn

Overlook Along the Little Kentucky River Valley--Rt. 1036

Little Kentucky River Valley from Rt. 202

On the Road Again

2008-10-25T06:46:00.000-07:00

I picked the Ninja up from the shop yesterday morning and rode it back to the house. Although I nearly entered withdrawal from not being in the saddle for almost a week, I decided to leave the bike at home and take the cage to work. It was raining, and I didn't feel like risking a new front tire, new front brake pads, and a virgin chain and sprockets against the wet pavement.

I'm planning to get a little saddle time in this afternoon in the dry weather to take the shine off the front tire. I'll probably find an open parking lot somewhere so I can practice a little emergency braking with the new brake pads. The new chain and sprockets run so smoothly they felt like they were greased with butter. All the "repairs" made to the bike over the previous week were actually routine maintenance. With a little over 38K on the clock, it was just a matter of time before some of the hard-wearing parts needed replacing.

I'm looking forward to catching some of the Autumn foliage with the camera later today. There's a brief period between rust brown and on the ground around here where the leaves put on a quintessential display.

So, what's the cost of the 650's routine mainenance?

New front tire: $160.00
New front brake pads: $38.00
New final drive chain: $80.00
New font sprocket: $35.00
New rear sprocket: $55.00
Labor: $90.00

The cost of being able to dip low enough into a corner to scrape a footpeg and still be able to stop in event of an oncoming vehicle crossing the centerline: pricele...wait a minute...that comes to about $460. Holy shi...(THIS COMMENT CENSORED BY THE NATIONAL COMMITTEE FOR EXCELLENCE IN BIKER CONDUCT. HAVE A NICE DAY.)

Well, at least I'm on the road again. Here I am, shellin' out the cash again...

Ninja in a Bind

2008-10-18T20:09:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, while exploring local roads, I could feel the chain on the bike was binding. When under load, in other words while pulling forward in gear, the chain would pop hard enough to reverberate through the bike. I could feel the vibration through the foot pegs. Normally, assuming proper tire inflation and up to date maintenance, the Ninja rides as smooth as velvet. In it's current condition, an irregular rhythm has crept into the 650's steady grind.

I cleaned the chain, degreased and scrubbed. Initially, the cleaning lessened the sensation echoing through the pegs and frame. But as the week wore on and the fresh chain lube thinned, the binding grew steady worse.

So, the bike's in the shop again for the second time in two months. I'm probably looking at a new chain and the possibility of replacement of the sprockets. The front tire, a Bridgestone, has peaked over the past 10,000 miles. A new front shoe should arrive by Wednesday. The shop's going to take a gander at the front brakes as well.

I have a tendency to blame the manufacturer rather than miles when something wears out on my machine. I recall repairs made on machines I've ridden in the past, like the Virago, for instance, which devoured three starters before reaching 20,000 miles and constantly fouled plugs. Or the '78 Yamaha, my first bike, which ran for a total of 15 seconds on my first attempts to start it up, 15 spluttering, coughing seconds. Compared with those examples, the Ninja's crisis might better be described as routine.

How Low Can You Go?

2008-10-17T20:22:00.000-07:00

I'm leaving the Waffle House this evening after a late dinner with friends when the grill cook calls to me from over the counter. "You on a bike?"

"Yep," I say. I hold up my helmet.

"You're gonna freeze tonight." The cooks smiles. He's only got a couple teeth left in front that aren't black.

I raise my arms in the Joe Rocket jacket. "It's insulated, ballistic nylon. Waterproof, too."

"Still cold out there."

"I've got heated gear."

The cook's jaw drops open. "What? You've got a heater on your bike."

"It plugs into the bike and has it's own thermostat." I hold open the flaps of my jacket. "I wear it under this. But it's not quite cold enough for that yet."

The cook shakes his head and returns to the grill, standing over which, I'm certain, he is toasty warm.

Cafe Racer

2008-10-15T18:52:00.000-07:00

The 650 Ninja's heart thrums like a cafe racer dressed in formal wear. In a city like Louisville, the beat of that heart parallels the pulse of the cafe life. Cruising up Floyd Street and heading for River Road, I catch the glow of an illuminated espresso sign at Floyd's intersection with Market. I can see the neon open sign in the window and decide to stop in for a late night cappuccino before riding home. The Espresso sign hangs over the entryway for Derby City Espresso, a brightly lit shop tailored with leftover furniture, bar stools, local artwork. The barrista whipped up my beverage, and I sauntered out onto the downtown sidewalk to a table by the street to enjoy it. The angled spaces lining the north side of Market Street are perfect for motorcycles, and the table out front under an umbrella and shade tree permits a lustful eye to roam over the machines backed to the curb.

THINK!

2008-10-14T18:35:00.000-07:00

I was burning some time cruising through Google Video and came across this safety promotion from the UK. Great footage, fabulous machine, and snappy soundtrack.

THINK! is a road safety campaign in the United Kingdom aiming to reduce fatalities among motorcyclists and others who share the road with larger vehicles. The website reports the goal of reducing road injuries by 40 percent in adults and 50 percent in children. The site also proposes that the purpose of Government campaigns concerning road safety is to reinforce the notion of personal responsiblity for safety on public roadways. It'll be nice when that idea catches on over here.

The Heat is...Off?

2008-09-30T20:29:00.000-07:00

I purchased the October 2008 issue of Road Runner magazine this last weekend which came complete with massive pull-out advertisement from Harley-Davidson. While the ad was impressive in itself--a pullout, fold open poster on one side and forthcoming improvements to the 2009 touring models on the reverse--I was most intrigued by some of the promised improvements. Most notably, HD has rerouted the exhaust system on the new tourers to better shield the rider from the heat produced by the exhaust during low speed or stand-still situations. Even more impressive, HD promises a rider activated control switch that temporarily deactivates the firing of the rear cylinder. Kudos to Harley-Davidson for response to rider needs that aren't necessarily centered around attitude and appearance.

Apocalypse Now

2008-09-28T08:27:00.000-07:00

Things have not been going well in the world of machines this month. Shortly before what was left of hurricane Ike blew through this region and knocked the power out for a week, we had a lightning strike in the area that fried my modem and router despite surge protection. My desktop crashed shortly after power was returned. The blower motors on both cars have ceased to function. Considering I'm still using the bike as primary transportation to work, I wasn't all that concerned....

....Until the stator fried on the bike while I was heading into work just about a week ago and left me stranded under a bridge overpass during a thunderstorm. It was one of those moments where you mentally and spiritually step away from your life and take a good look at the state of affairs and then begin to chuckle. The chuckles stretched into guffaws of hysteria. I may have wept a little and cursed the gods. Even the homeless folks collecting stray bottles and cans steered clear of me.

When things dried out a little, I attempted to diagnose the problem. While knowing it was electrical in nature, I determined after checking connections, fuses, and saturation of controls that the problem was beyond my ability to repair on the side of the road. Fortunately, I own a pickup truck. I dropped the bike off at the local dealer who diagnosed the faulty stator. Unfortunately, the problem wasn't covered under extended warranty and cost a whopping $650 parts and labor. Stator repaired and computers returned to a functional state, I pass the joys of mechanical dysfunction on to you.

What's That Smell?

2008-09-09T05:46:00.000-07:00

Changed the oil in the bike the other day and did something really stupid immediately following. I'd swapped the Fram filter for a K&N which requires the lower cowling to be removed. Simply draining the oil and replacing the fluid can be done without pulling off any of the body work. I rarely do this. If I'm going to get greasy, then I might as well go the whole nine yards.

With the lower fairing removed, I fired the engine over, let it warm up a little, and then walked around the machine checking for leaks. Seeing none, I shut it down and (here's where stupid comes bopping along) was so excited to get out on the road, I decided to put the plastic back on right away. While wrestling it into place, I reached around the edge of the fairing to get a little leverage and planted my fingers directly across one the bends of the exhaust.

The pipes were so hot they felt cold. And then there's that brief whiff of cooking meat and I hopped around the driveway clutching my burned fingers and swearing. No major damage, however, just missing fingerprints, light blistering, and a slightly poached ego.

Labor Day Lounging

2008-09-03T04:06:00.000-07:00

I did absolutely no riding this Labor Day. None whatsoever. I didn't even sit on the bike through the holiday. The thought crossed my mind sometime on Saturday morning, early while the air was cool. By the time I hauled my butt off the couch, I'd been up much of the night watching Predator and Predator II, I stepped out the kitchen door into a steamy afternoon. I turned around immediately and resumed my post in front of the television.

I did leave the house for most of Sunday, but I took the cage. My wife and I visited some friends in Elizabethtown, KY for some food and an evening playing games. Yes, that's the same Elizabethtown for which the movie was named.

I spent Labor Day again parked in front of the boob tube for a 15-hour Star Trek TNG marathon on the Sci-fi Channel, a viewer's choice marathon. Oh yes, 15 hours of Jean Luc Picard, Warf, Data, Q, Dr. Beverly Crusher, and, God forbid, even little Wesley. So while the bike occasionally called to me from the driveway, I spent the weekend indulging my inner goober.

How Many Bikers Does It Take...

2008-08-20T06:26:00.000-07:00

...to change a light bulb? Well, in this case, only one. I lost the low beam lamp on a ride home in the dark a few days ago. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to find a replacement bulb at any place like Wal-Mart. I phoned the local Kawasaki dealer in Carrollton, KY. They had a replacement and for a mere $20, I could ride down there and pick it up. So I rode down to the dealership and forked over the cash. I decided to plug the sucker in right there in the parking lot. Remove the seat and retrieve the tool kit, and a few turns of an allen wrench later, and the left cockpit panel lifts away. The fit and finish of the 650R is a blessing and curse. The light weight plastic allows easy access to anything the covers conceal. The fairing also buzzes like a swarm of angry bees at low rpms due to the lack of any buffering materials between the panels. I toyed around with ways of isolating the panels, but had little success in dampening the buzzing. After awhile, I just got used to it. In fact, if the fairing doesn't vibrate, I start to worry that something might be wrong. I used to say the same thing about my Sportster and oil leaks.

So I paid more for a light bulb a little larger than the nipple from a baby bottle than I would for a quality oil filter. I run Fram's most of the time, by the way. But both lights are functional again. I would say that the headlight system on the 650R succeeds as one of the most effective systems I've had on any bike. And in this neck of the woods, on roads choked with raccoon, deer, and the occasional stray dog, function definitely triumphs over form.

Long Way...In?

2008-08-13T06:15:00.000-07:00

Normally, I take Interstate 71 south into Louisville to work. The weather's been so fantastic this week that I decided to see just how long the commute would take if I stuck to back roads. The humidity in the nothern Kentucky region has been stable around 39%, which is absolutely unheard of for this time of year. On I-71, the commute takes just over 35 minutes, but it's a mere exercise in survival. The commute via my favorite country roads took nearly an hour and a half. Though it consumed more time, the rural route payed in highter dividends for the spirit. Part of my route included a brief stop on Wolf Pen Branch Road in western Henry County to add the liner to my jacket.

A Thoroughbred By Any Other Name

2008-08-09T07:31:00.000-07:00

The deal is done. Harley acquired all shares of Italian motorcycle manufacturer, MV Agusta, for the price of 70 million euros. That's about $108 million stateside. Read more about it at Cycle News or at Forbes.com.

I've got mixed emotions over the union. On one hand, Harley's brand loyalty and marketing power could do wonders in bringing MV Agusta to the forefront of the motorcycle world. The MV Agusta group, according to the above sources, racked up a sizable debt. No doubt, as successful as Harley has been financially over the previous decade, the Motor Company could solve the Italian manufacturer's financial difficulties.

But on the other hand, MV Agusta motorcycles are legendary for their performance and power. The Italian brand is considered one of the thoroughbreds of the industry. While Milwaukee considers it's brands as "premium", I have to question whether what classifies a brand as premium can be determined solely by level of sales. Harley's definition seems to be more a measure of marketing rather than of performance. And I'm forced to question whether a thoroughbred remains a thoroughbred if it's over bred.

The Finer Edge

2008-08-07T18:34:00.000-07:00

I refuse to tiptoe through life only to arrive safely at death.--Unknown

I experienced four close calls this afternoon during the fifty mile commute home from work today. After saddling up at 5:30 p.m., I decided to head across town to the local cafe for a cappuccino and some light reading and to wait for the traffic to thin out. Preparing to merge into the left-hand lane on a one-way street, I signal, check over my left shoulder for traffic, and prepare to slip the bike over the dashed center line. I've seen no oncoming vehicles. I double check the mirror for cars and catch a flash of red in the glass. A Honda Accord speeds by as I tilt the Ninja to remain in the right-hand lane and out of harms way. The driver crosses into my lane without signaling and grinds to a halt at the light. Her approximate speed in the 35 mph zone I estimated at 50+ mph. I arrive at the light and the driver ignores me, staring stone-faced out the windshield. I shake my head and slip off to the left toward the cafe.

I've read the above quote, origin unknown, on several motorcycle sites. It's a statement of independence against those people who respond to the fact that some of us choose to ride with, "But don't you know they're dangerous?" Non-riders might interpret the quote as a complete disregard for life and limb. Yet, I've observed as many riders wearing varying degrees of safety gear alluding to the above statement as those riders who wear nothing more than a t-shirt and bandana.

On SR146, a minivan, cell phone glued to the driver's ear, lumbers into my path of travel. I clamp down on the front break to bring the bike to a stop. On a one-lane county road, a white Bronco rounds a blind corner fast and can not stop in time to avoid hitting the oncoming motorcycle. I countersteer the bike to the right and pass close enough to the driver-side door to witness the startled expression on the driver's face.

It's turning out to be the kind of day where I've considered pulling the bike over to the edge of the road and shutting it down. I've contemplated laying down in the grass somewhere along the shoulder, mostly to let my heart crawl back down out of my throat. It's the kind of day where I ponder throwing my arms up at the sky and proclaiming, "Relax! I'm nearly home. I get the point."

Back on the two-lane, I'm setting up for a twist through my favorite set of curves on route 1606, a lazy "S" beneath the I-71 overpass. Not even into the first turn, a delivery truck emerges from behind the trees, completely in my lane of travel. The driver panics and cuts the wheel hard toward the appropriate lane. The back of the truck fishtails along the double yellow, then settles into it's new and sudden trajectory. I roll by on the right, the rumble cuts on the shoulder buzzing in the handlebars. I get a good look at the truck driver's face. His mouth is pinched into a rictus resembling pain.

Sometimes I wonder if the risk is worth the reward. A day like today sharpens my instinct for self-preservation to a fine edge. I stare at the bike when I'm finally at home and wonder if my life would be all that terrible without the ride. Then I remember the cool morning commute where the traffic just seemed to melt away, leaving me alone at high speed to get my head straight before work. I recall stopping on that old one-lane in the tall grass along the shoulder and taking in the scent of drying tobacco carried to me on the wind as it whisks through a nearby barn. I visualize the perfect spin through that set of S-curves with the bike leaned to within a half-inch of traction loss, my head angled toward the top-riding mirror. No gravel in the corners. I can feel all over again the arc as the motorcycle cuts along the centerline, and the pull of the twin as I twist the throttle and rocket out of the turn toward home.

Risk and reward. I often forget that riding transports one beyond brain chemistry, outdistances mere cause and effect. Riding gives me the opportunity to examine the world without boundaries, to recognize my limits and sometimes push beyond them. The motorcycle folds the eye of the rider in upon himself that he might glimpse and refine his spirit through the lens of risk.

A man who won't die for something is not fit to
live.--Martin Luther King, Jr.

Disabled Motorcyclist

2008-08-05T18:37:00.000-07:00

I rode the bike to Owensboro, KY yesterday evening to have my orthopedist examine my right ankle. Since it's reconstruction following the crash in July 2005, walking on it has always brought a certain level of discomfort. Lately, however, that level has reached an intensity that alarms me. I find myself hobbling around the house not just at the beginning of the day, but throughout the day as well. I've experienced a grinding sensation when applying pressure to the foot when I step. Sometimes, the grinding is severe enough to produce an audible pop that can be heard several feet away.

The doctor reviewed the x-rays and confirmed that conditions within the ankle have deteriorated over time. I now not only have the original injury to think about but arthritis and bone spurs as well. I'm being referred to a specialist in the Louisville area in order to go over options. As it stands, I've been given a few alternatives to the current setup to mull over, including a total ankle replacement and fusing the bones of the ankle. Fusing the ankle, while a more reliable method to handle the deterioration, severely limits the mobility of the joint. Similar to a knee or hip replacement surgery, ankle replacement preserves the flexibility of the joint, but has questionable long-term reliability. We even went as far as to discuss the use of cadaver bones to replace the damaged ones in my ankle. Spare parts!

During my rehabilitation in 2005 and 2006, I spent quite a bit of time online looking for help for disabled motorcyclists. I still wasn't sure how much mobility I'd have with my damaged right leg or if I'd be able to support the weight of a bike using that leg. I discovered a loosely connected network of riders offering support to one another, not just in the sense of the emotional, but in modifications made to motorcycles to enable riders to continue riding. With a possible surgery, which would be my third, approaching and the chance for reduced mobility, it just might be time to dust off that old list of resources again.

Long Way Down

2008-08-02T05:20:00.001-07:00

I have the good fortune to live near a theater that showed the two-hour director's cut of Long Way Down. The cut shown in theaters serves basically as a premiere for the television series set to air on Fox Reality Channel later this evening (9:00 p.m. ET). Unfortunately, I'm not a subscriber. Looks like I'll have to wait for the DVD series to hit the stores. According to the website, I'll have options to purchase the series as a separate set of discs or as included with the ultimate fan kit, a package deal with DVDs, book, soundtrack, and t-shirt.

I really enjoyed the first adventure Ewan and Charlie filmed. My initial exposure to Long Way Round came through the book rather than the DVDs. I wasn't aware a TV series even existed until I picked up the printed account of the trip. While it seems the primary focus of the later series has been video, I'm pleased to see that a book will find it's way onto my reading list.

The director's cut of Long Way Down was shown in one of the small theaters "in the back". When my wife and I rendezvoused at the cinema, there were already a few bikes parked out front, mostly BMW's. The theater was packed, something I hadn't really expected. The audience laughed at the jokes, ooowed and awed at the scenery and the animals, gasped at the atrocities of Rowanda, and applauded at the finish. Afterward, we loitered in the parking lot to talk bikes and trade tales of our own adventures, even if they were just treks across Louisville through rush hour traffic.

Motorcycle Crashes on Modern Marvels

2008-07-26T19:21:00.000-07:00

Caught the episode detailing some of the science behind crashes. A portion of the series segment focused on motorcycle crashes and how scientists study these crashes in order to develop state of the art equipment to minimize the damage done to riders.

Independents vs. The Dealers

2008-07-26T03:10:00.000-07:00

I dropped the 650 off at my favorite local shop for maintainance. I used to enjoy performing the work myself and still do a few of the routine tasks such as changing oil. Mostly, I just can't squeeze the time out of the day to tear a bike down the way I once could. It's the price I pay for chosing a career that doesn't directly involve motorcycles.

I figured I might have an oil leak as well and wanted the guys at Cycle Works to give the bike a thorough inspection. It took them a little longer than usual but I've finally got the machine back. In the past, it hasn't been uncommon for them to return the bike to me within two days. This time took about a week. Apparently, one of the mechanics was down in the back and they got a little behind in work.

Any time the work takes a little longer than I'm accustomed to, I get a little antsy and start thinking of other shops where I might be able to take the bike. I prefer independent shops like Cycle Works because I get treated with respect while my machine's on the lift. My experience with dealerships, almost across the entire spectrum of manufacturer, has been that if I appear not to have a significant dollar amount to spend, then I'm not worth the trouble of approaching. I've been to dealers where I've been received by absolutely no one, even when staff are on the floor and doing little more than speaking with one another.

So I pick up the bike, engage in a bit of pleasant conversation, and ride off on a machine that's dialed in like it rolled off the showroom floor. I'm also not treated like an idiot for not knowing all the inner workings of the machine. No website for the guys at Cycle Works, just word of mouth and a spot of advertising. I was drinking coffee at a local micro-roastery when the owner struck up conversation over the machines we ride. He suggested the Works when I told him I needed someone to tune the bike. The place had been recommended to the coffee bar owner by a motorcyclist that stopped to try and help the owner with a flat. I've passed the word on to those who just want their bikes handled with as much care as they would give if they had the necessary skill. One motorcyclist helping another motorcyclist.

Cycle Works, 3302 Preston Highway, Louisville, KY (502) 366-7102

Ride to Work Day

2008-07-16T05:49:00.000-07:00

Today is the 17th annual Ride to Work Day. Ironically, I'm in the cage today due to the bike being parked at the mechanics garage for maintenance and an oil leak. Good Morning America ran a brief segment this morning touching on increased use of motorcycles and scooters by the American public. Predominantly, the piece focused on the rising cost of fuel and the efficiency of two-wheeled transport. A video segment highlighted an interview with a Vespa dealer in the San Diego, California area. Apparently, all of the dealerships in that area retailing scooters sold their entire stock. Piaggio, the owner of the Vespa label, experienced record sales for this year.

I wasn't able to find a link to the footage or story anywhere on GMA's website. However, I did discover references to the piece among the comments posted by viewers. Motorcyclists are chiming in concerning the lack of safety gear worn by Chris Cuomo. He rode to work with a top notch helmet and a brightly colored textile jacket, but must have forgotten his gloves and boots. The light-weight business slacks aggravated a few posters.

I think I'll send Chris a comment of my own. I don't want to jump down his throat over safety issues. What about those of us who have been riding to work for years? Some of us have made motorcycles a large part of how we live prior to the rise in fuel costs. Not saying we should receive some sort of extra credit, but the perspective of experience could prove useful to those wondering whether the two-wheeled life is right for them.

Blue Ridge Snippets

2008-07-11T04:46:00.000-07:00

I'm working on some photos from a recent trip up the Blue Ridge Parkway. While I'm sizing and tinkering, I thought I'd post a few of the small video clips I managed to record along the way.

Mania Accelerated

2008-07-10T19:15:00.000-07:00

My usual morning commute follows I-71 a crowded 35 miles into downtown Louisville. It's the fastest approach to the city from where I live, but it's also a high risk ride. The interstate only spans four lanes. Once past I-265, the Gene Snyder Freeway, there are only two exists before entering the city. I-264, with Waterson Parkway, functions as an inner bypass loop and exits to the left off of I-71. There's Exit 1, Zorn Avenue, which serves as access to River Road running past the Riverfront Park area and my prefered route of travel into downtown. But it's populated by heavy trucks hauling scrap metal and gravel and I'm likely to be tailgated by BMW and Mercedes sedans hauling ass into the city from Oldham County. While negotiating these limited pathways toward my place of employment, there's precious little room for mistakes. The traffic flow tends toward the bumper to bumper variety with speeds in excess of 75 mph in a 55 mph zone. I've witnessed some of the most shocking behavior while traveling through this gauntlet of speed and risk. This morning, a black Lincoln Towncar in the fast lane parallels me just before the tight, left-hand exit onto I-264. At this point, the fast and cruising lanes seem to change places. For a brief instant, the two harmonize and then the traffic in the cruising lane slips forward and rockets into the turn where I-264 east bound splices into I-71 south. It was in that moment of singularity, of unity at speed, that I glanced into the Lincoln traveling the left-hand lane to observe the car's driver leaning into the passenger seat to spit into a cup positioned there, a toothbrush protruding from the side of his mouth. A quick glimpse at the speedo indicates I'm at 70 mph. Then I'm sliding past, he's behind me, and I'm shaking my head as I lean into the curve. Just a few more miles and I'm safe at work. Secure for another eight hours before chancing the afternoon mania.

The Drive Home

2008-07-08T17:58:00.000-07:00

When coming home from work, I take I-71 North out of Louisville. For an interstate, there are relatively few exits between downtown and my exit 35 miles away. One in particular, the second Buckner exit, can be hazardous for travelers on the highway and those entering the flow of traffic. The ramp spits cars out from behind a rock wall onto an all too brief acceleration lane just over the crest of a hill. It's not uncommon to top the rise and find a slow moving block of steel and plastic lumbering into my path of travel. Today, I wasn't disappointed. Just over the rise, I meet a black Honda Civic. I'm riding at 75 and the Honda's driving at 40. I swing into the passing lane and cover my controls, getting ready for the car to dart across both lanes to clear others behind me in the cruising lane. Instead, the driver eases into the slow lane and waves as I pass. I'm so used to not being seen at all, that the thanks catches me off guard. It takes a few seconds before I return the wave and merge into my original path of travel.

Anniversary of Doom

2008-07-07T15:44:00.000-07:00

It dawned on me while sitting around a quiet table with friends yesterday evening that July 6 was the anniversay of my latest crash. Three years to the day. While crossing an intersection in Owensboro, KY on my way back to my office, a 21 year old kid pushed his 1989 Olds 98 over the speed limit and through the stop sign perpendicular to my line of travel. It was 2:30 in the afternoon, steamy, and I recall seeing the flash of the car's grill as it bounded out of a dip in the pavement and into the sunlight. Time ground to a standstill. I had enough time to think, "Oh, this is going to hurt." And then I was pimp-slapped by God. I had no idea something could strike me with that much energy. The force propelled me over the car's hood and into the windshield. Though I never saw it, the police and EMT's theorized that my head busted the glass. Impacting the curvature of the windshield shot me upwards and to the side in my direction of travel so that the rear of the car passed beneath me. I hit the ground on my left side and the bike, a 1995 Harley-Davidson XLH 1200, came to rest on it's right side a half a block south of my impromptu landing pad.

I had a few things leaning in my favor that day, things I attribute to my still sucking air today. I was wearing a full-face helmet. This was a big one for me. Three weeks before the crash, I'd decided I'd had enough of playing Russian roulette with the drivers around me and purchased the first lid I'd worn in five or six years. It wasn't anything spectacular, a basic all-around shell, foam, and visor. It cost me a little under a 100 bucks. I remember the first rides with it on, especially in late June, feeling like I was suffocating. I'd stop some place and pratically rip the thing off to get air.

Boots. I was wearing a well-worn pair of Red Wing lace-up work boots, the reddish Oxblood colored kind. The doctors told me that if I hadn't had on sturdy, above-the-ankle shoes, I'd have lost my right foot. Apparently, the car sandwiched my right leg between the grill and the bike. The leg snapped, moving the foot over and upward inside the skin toward my knee. I remained conscious all the way until they rolled me into the ER, where the numbness of shock wore off and the hazy sub-reality of morphine took over.

I always take a little time out of the day during my Anniversary to remember the police officer and EMT's who cared for me during the first moments following the accident. Each of them was a motorcyclist. At one point, I asked the officer what had happened to my bike and he said, "Uh...well, I wouldn't worry about that right now, bud." And then the EMT's whisked me onto a spine board and into the ambulance. Well, maybe not whisked. More like trundled. Trundled with extensive swearing supplied by me. During the ride to the hospital, the EMT told me about her bike and how she was considering selling it because of the all the accidents she'd witnessed over the years. To this day, I sincerely hope she hasn't.

I mark this anniversary as a special one not just because I survived, but because the experience changed my approach to riding forever. The helmet did it's job and although badly torn up, permitted me to arrive at the hospital with little more than a moderate concussion. I haven't ridden without one since. The EMT's cut the boots off. After I learned to walk on my reconstructed ankle, I had the Red Wings restitched only to find that I couldn't wear anything that laced up around the ankle. The constrictive leather aggravated the hardware in my leg. Though they're not as stylish, my kevlar reinforced, waterproof roadboots are almost as comfortable as those faded, old Wings. Almost.

And as for the Harley? She died with over 56,000 miles on the clock. The insurance company totaled her. When the adjuster met me at the bank to deliver my share of the HD's worth, he arrived on a BMW GS650. Though I was on crutches, that bike whispered something to me about the nature of my life on two wheels that I would spend the next nine months deciphering. That whisper transformed into an examination of the fundamental beliefs around why I turned to motorcycles in the first place, a calling to interpret the world through wind and speed, a steering of my spirit toward home.

Riders Rising

2008-07-06T06:00:00.000-07:00

With the rising cost of gas, people are turning to motorcycles and scooters as efficient options for transport. As a result, a number of new and returning riders are appearing on the roads. Never a bad thing, right? With the number of riders on the rise, motorcycles are gaining attention in the media. Here's a prime example from The Washington Post. I've read several sources over the previous months citing many of the points outlined in the above article. Some new riders are purchasing their two-wheeled transport based solely on fuel economy. Don't get me wrong. It's not that I don't appreciate getting my dollar's worth at the pump, especially with the gallon in rural Kentucky climbing above the $4.00 mark. Safety, at least according to the above article, doesn't seem to be lacking. Record numbers of riders are enrolling in training courses across the country. Realistically, the number of new riders creates a demand disproportionate to the number of instructors and courses.

What concerns most long-term riders, this one included, is what will happen to these new converts as we progress toward the winter months. Here in the States, motorcycles make up a minute amount of the total vehicle traffic. Such a position gives rise to a particular bond among motorcyclists, a commonality that stretches across such boundaries as socioeconomic class, age, and brand affiliation. While some outright hositility exists between riders of various makes and models, most longriders will stop for a fellow rider stranded on the roadside regardless of what badge the tank carries. Truth be known, even in the recent past, there have been too few of us gracing the highways to let a simple thing like bike preference interfere with helping another motorcyclist.

It's homogenization of motorcycle "culture", if such a thing exists, that worries me the most. Do we teach, if only by example than no other method, to stop for a rider in need? Why do we wave to one another? These questions, and others similar to them, while not as immediate to the introduction to motorcycling as issues of training, are central to the passing on of this "culture" from one generation to the next, a generation measured in miles and stories told by gatherings at the road's edge.

Note from a Gypsy

2008-07-05T19:37:00.000-07:00

Welcome to my little space under the stairs. It may not look like much, but pull up a cushion and get comfortable. You'll find the space sparsely furnished, a situation I hope to rectify over time. Check back every now and again and we'll see if I manage to add a few chairs to the circle. I intend these pages to chronicle my experiences as a motorcyclist. I'm a bit late getting started as I've been riding for the past fifteen years. So why start now? I survived a collision in the summer of 2005 that could very easily have killed me. When I review that day in my memory, I find myself coming painfully close to the concept of my own mortality, a condition, I believe, of which all bikers are aware to some degree. Having faced that realization and deciding to continue living life on two wheels, I'm also haunted by the idea of providing some tangible record for my brethren as well as outsiders should I suddenly find myself cruising the Lost Highway without having made plans to do so.

Over the last fifteen years and 200K+ miles, I've ridden a variety of machines. My current sled is the one you can see in the photo above, a 2006 Kawasaki Ninja 650R. I traded my '05 Ninja 250 in favor of a little more horsepower. In addition to the extra ponies, I received a balanced fuel-injection system, excellent braking power, and improved wind protection. All the above rolled into a bike designed for riders short in the inseam.

Previous to owning and riding Kawi's, I saddled a 1995 Harley-Davidson 1200 Sportster, a beautiful aqua-pearl, thundering American V-twin. Its life tragically came to an end on July 6, 2005 at approximately 2:30 in the afternoon on the hood of a 1989 Oldsmobile 98. I nearly lost my right foot in the crash. Two surgeries, two steel plates and nine screws later, and I'm walking and riding again.

I briefly owned a 1993 Yamaha Virago 1100 before trading it in on the HD, which was the only good thing I did with the Yamaha. Never again. Stay away, kids, from the Virago 250, the only surviving member of that lineage, unless you have a strong preference for starter and wiring difficulties.

I piloted a 1982 Kawasaki LTD 440 for over four years and 35K miles. I reserve a special place in my heart and soul for this scooter as it was the first bike I owned capable of carrying me over the horizon without the constant use of a wrench. I've spent many an evening hunkered by a fire, watching the tarnished light flicker in my steed's deep black finish, savoring the thrum of roadsong echoing in my bones.

If you're familiar with motorcycles and motorcyclists at all, you've probably heard the statement: if I have to explain, you wouldn't understand. Perhaps that's true. It just may be that the only real way to glean understanding of the two-wheeled life is to hitch up your jeans, throw a leg over the top, and get into the wind. Here's to hoping that these pages, while insufficient to convey riding savvy itself, may nudge you a little further toward the practical experience. Ride long, ride safe, and ride free.