Chain, Chain, Chain

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.

Why Let Sleeping Dragons Lie?

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

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.

Rider on the Storm

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.

Ride to Work Day

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.

Be Aware

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.

Headin' to the Boneyard

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.

These Boots Are Made For Walkin'

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.

Ninja in a Bind

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.

THINK!

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.

What's That Smell?

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.

The Finer Edge

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

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.

Motorcycle Crashes on Modern Marvels

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.

Mania Accelerated

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

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

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.