Gypsy's Reboot

When glancing through the last posts in this blog, I experience the sensation as if I discovered something I'd thought lost.  Akin perhaps to finding an old box of parts stuffed under a work bench, I read through old entries as if turning over an odd foot peg or dusty mirror, marveling at the speckled patina slowly consuming the mirrored surface of the chrome and dusting away sticky strands of cobweb.  The odor of old gasoline absorbed into a cardboard box triggers memories of long hours spent in the garage, worrying away some problem threatening the next day's ride.  With a grease-stained rag in one hand, I wipe the grit and grime from those old parts, turning and examining each for wear.  In the measured age of yesterday's parts lies the hope of the ride tomorrow.  

All gypsies must come in from the road from time to time.  The horse must rest and be cared for.  The wanderer brings in tales of the wild places, those of open highway and wilderness as well as the view of interior places fostered by long hours in the saddle and the pulse of an engine.  It is time to dust off those old parts, hold tools in the hand until metal warms to the touch, and recall the profound fortune which allows us to be vagabonds - if only for a weekend at a time.

Note from a Gypsy

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.