Do it in the dirt

It was January and I was sitting at work with a computer in front of my face. I was soon distracted by the sound of rain ricocheting off the glass of my office window. The sound was distinct. It reminded me of the frantic clawing of an animal trying to escape its terrarium. This stirred my desire to escape the seemingly endless deluge of precipitation that starts in November and continues though February.
Despite the fact that I grew up on the east coast where the winters are long, cold and miserable, this prolonged soaking was taking its toll on me. My thoughts about hookers in insulated knee-socks faded by late December. In early January I was lusting for sun-drenched babes in string bikinis with their with pert tits and pointy nipples poking at my eyes. And now, in the closing days of the month, I was considering a plan to surgically transform Girl Wonder into a curvaceous, mammary-enhanced centerfold laying spread-eagle on a sandy beach where I would hump her until my ass developed skin cancer.

Even though it seems that my moral compass had been set too close to a vaginal magnet, the truth of the matter is that I was craving the sun and all the frolicking that comes with it. I turned back to my open browser, which was conveniently located on google.com. I thought for a moment. What will I search for... Sex or motorcycles? Once again, motorcycles overpowered my libido. Instead of surfing for nude beaches in South Florida, my desires had been sublimated by some two-wheeled fantasy. I had to add some dirt to the mix to make it interesting. I typed three words and the name of a city into the search field: DIRT BIKE RENTALS, SAN DIEGO. Near the top of the results list was California Motorsport Adventours.

I clicked on the link and began reading about three days of riding at the Glamis Sand Dunes. Too long. Then there was the one-day, Quad riding, lobster-eating trip to the Cantamar Sand Dunes in Mexico. I had lived in Boston long enough to be sick of lobster, and I thrive on two-wheeled fun, not four. And then there was the one-day tour in the mountains of Southern California. Bingo. Considering the fact that I haven't been on a dirt bike in 22 years, the Laguna Mountain Tour seemed to be perfect. I would be able to ride in the sun with Girl Wonder, I could take it easy and try to keep my spine in one piece, and they provided everything we would need, including a guide.

The price of the package was $175 per person. It included transportation to and from Pine Valley, a Honda XR 400, a full tank of fuel, riding gear, instructions and someone to lead us around. I called them up and asked for available dates. The weekend of February 15th was clear, so I made the reservation for Girl Wonder and I, booked a flight and marked my calendar with the words "escape."

I called up Girl Wonder and informed her that we were going to take a little tour in Southern California. I explained the whole dirt bike thing and told her that it would help her get over her fear of riding on gravel. "But I never have ridden za dirt bike before – they are very tall and I cannot touch za ground." "No problem," I assured her. "Besides, there will be a guide and he will give you some training." She reluctantly agreed... as if she really had a choice in the matter.

February came quickly, and we soon found ourselves in San Diego. We spent most of our time stuffing ourselves with shredded beef and bean burritos and as many award-winning marguaritas as we could tolerate. Getting liquored up was essential since we were staying at the luxurious Motel 6 in El Cajone. The hotel was full of lifers who had obviously been evicted from an Oakie trailer park To the left of our stark and barren room was Billy Bob, a representative of the nouveau white-trash mini monster truck crowd. Everytime someone passed his jacked up Toyota pickup, a synthesized voice would say, "Step away from the vehicle!" This would unleash a cacophony of barking from the dogs locked in the room to our right. And living above us was some kind of super stud who had obviously overdosed on Viagra and was manically humping the box springs. For hours we listened to non-stop squeaking and creaking, but strangely there were no other sounds penetrating the paper-thin walls. I figured that Tom Bodet had been given a free room to keep him from jerking off in public and he was now upstairs pounding one of the local strippers into a dry, crusty pulp. Surely she'd be screaming after the first hour of machine-gun fornication. Nope. Not a sound, other than the springs. I began to think that maybe she had split after empting his wallet and our sex machine of a neighbor hadn't realized it yet – or worse, she was now a cadaver ready for embalming. Needless to say, it was damned difficult to get a good night's sleep at this place.

Sunday morning, after loading up on huevos rancheros, we sped North on Interstate 8 for a full sixty seconds and then took the first exit in Santee. I turned on the radio only to be rewarded with bad news. The weather forecast promised to replicate, as closely as possible, the very climate we were trying to escape from in Seattle, albeit a tad warmer. We got to CMA's building about 9:15 and swung open the door to find Phillip, an almost stereotypical California surfer/snow-border/desert rider type, complete with wild shoulder length hair and a relaxed enthusiasm that can only come from years of mastering a combination of adrenalin-inducing activities and smoking lots of reefer. He was smiling an enormous smile and extended his hand. "Hi, I'm Phillip, are you ready to ride?" he asked. "Oh yeah," I replied, as I shook his mit. "You need to sign these forms so that if I take you out and kill you can't sue me," he chuckled. Girl Wonder looked nervous, but she signed the forms. These kind of releases are always amusing to me. They are very much like a software license agreement – if you don't click on "agree" you don't get to play. I signed too, and wondered how many people have ever read the fine print.

We walked through the back of the building into a large garage area. Phillip told us to pick out any gear that we needed. We grabbed jerseys, riding pants, knee pads and a kidney belt. We both decided to use our own helmets, gloves and boots, but we could have shown up naked and would have left looking like supercross stars. They truly had a lot of gear available, but nothing for rain, of course. Fortunately we had brought some of our own.

We piled into a truck loaded with three dirt bikes and a ramp. Since CMA does not accept credit cards, Phillip drove us to an ATM so that I could lock my account by withdrawing the daily limit. With $350 now in his Acerbis jacket, Phillip headed for the mountains.

The drive to the ORV area would take 45 minutes to an hour, so Phillip kept us entertained with stories about mutilated riders. In the middle of his story about the poor sod he had to cart back from Mexico after he did a complete ground-loop and spectacularly broke his back, I pictured myself lying in the desert with several vertebrae poking through my skin and a small flock of vultures pecking at my eyeballs. That Mexican Lobster tour looked a whole lot less appealing when I considered the total lack of an emergency support network.

Since we were on the subject of mangled backs, I mentioned my own twisted spine. It turns out that Phillip also suffers from several herniated discs. He didn't say how it happened, but with 25 years of dirt biking in the desert I assumed that he had thumped one too many cacti.

Phillip appears to have spent his entire life in a circle whose circumference can be plotted by connecting dots placed on Palm Springs, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, San Diego and Northern Mexico. After spending enough time in the kind of desert heat that turns your face into a super-sized slab of beef jerky, he had moved to San Diego. Across the street from his new digs lived Sven, the German transplant who owns CMA. They began riding together and the rest is history.

The closer we got to our destination, the foggier it became. This fog was punctuated by a light rain. We exited the highway and found ourselves in ORV heaven. Phillip quickly stripped down to his underwear and starting putting on his gear. "I am au-natural," he quipped to Girl Wonder with a big grin on his face. We joined in the quick change and then watched Phillip wrestle the bikes off the truck. He started the little mud beasts up, which took quite a bit of work given their cold-blooded nature. One by one the bikes thundered to life.

Phillip seemed eager to get underway, so we climbed aboard our Hondas. Since GW had no previous off-road experience, she got the bike with the best throttle and grip guards. Phillip gave us one instruction: don't go wide in blind turns or you risk being hit by on-coming ORVs. "Man, I am stoked about riding in the rain... this is totally crazy!" he exclaimed. Phillip snicked his bike into first and wheelied off. We cautiously followed.

The first part of the trail system was an actual dirt road, but the terrain in the San Diego area is never just dirt. It has more rocks mixed in than the surface of the moon -- rocks the size of golf balls, rocks the size of avacados, and rocks the size of a school bus. I stood up on the pegs for stability and looked back at Girl Wonder to see her white-knuckling the handle bars and looking altogether terrified. She must have been convinced that I deliberately planned this torturous ride so that she would lose control of the bike, careen into the abyss and wind up as a limbless wad of flesh never to be seen again until some future archeological dig discovered "Lucy II."

Phillip, on the other hand, was riding up the embankments, switching direction midway and then cutting a track in the dirt with his spinning rear knobby. Girl Wonder and I were riding pitifully slow and he was obviously trying to shake off the boredom. After a half-mile of suffering, he stopped us to see how we were doing. Girl Wonder wanted to know what the hell she was supposed to do to keep the bike in some state that remotely resembled control. Phillip's advice was simple: let the bike do what it wants and just try to stay on top of it. Frankly, I was amazed that she was sticking with it. I had never ridden anything so rocky before and I wasn't having an easy time of it either -- especially since the rain and fog had reduced our visibility to 50 feet or so. Not only that, between the drizzle outside and the fog that was forming inside our helmets, our face-shields were making things worse. Girl Wonder and I both started riding with them up, hoping to not be hit in the puss by some geomorphic projectile.

After a brief rest, Phillip decided that we weren't being challenged enough so he veered off the main road and onto a series of tight trails. Girl Wonder was now facing a slalom of panty-twisting corners -- one after the other -- with rocks, boulders, mud and elevation changes thrown in for shits and giggles. Phillip's advice must have triggered a personal epiphany for her, though, because no matter how tight or technical the trails were, she refused to be stopped by the conditions. Only twice did she take turns too wide, which caused her to ride off the trail. With tree branches and bushes whacking her left and right, her face-shield slammed shut leaving her blind. She just stayed on the throttle and let her intuition guide her way through the brush until she was able to lift the obstruction. The second time this happened she became lodged in some bushes and wiped out. She simply righted the bike and said, "Get zis thing started for me."

I was also getting comfortable. Inspired by Phillip's antics, I was power-sliding through corners with complete confidence on the well-balanced Honda. The motor was wonderfully torquey and delivered its power in a completely predictable manner. Even when we were riding uphill on waterlogged clay -- conditions that resulted in sudden and unexpected direction changes -- the bike was easy to direct with a little body-english.

In the late afternoon the trails were becoming dangerously muddy for inexperienced hacks such as ourselves. I watched some eager dirt bike fashion model go sideways and slam her big Suzuki down in a slithering pile of muck. She pulled herself out from under the frame and stood in a prone position for a good ten minutes while trying to shake off the pain. Inspired by her misfortune, we decided to call it a day.

Phillip had spent the previous day performing stunts on sand dunes for an Italian film crew. He was a bit sore, and now he was drenched, muddy and cold. I think he was relieved that the day was ending. He complemented us on our spirit of adventure, saying that most of their clients would never have considered riding in those conditions. He also praised Girl Wonder's relentless drive to keep going no matter how difficult the trails were.

As we were heading back to San Diego, the weather cleared. The area we were riding in came to life with a magnificent display of color. My legs were feeling sore, but otherwise I felt great. It was a tremendous experience, even with the Seattle-esque weather that could have easily dampened our spirits.

The rest of the day would be spent loading up on more of those award winning margaritas. We would eat our last shredded beef and bean burritos and later attempt to slip into a food coma so that our Oakie hotel-mates would fade into the din of El Cajone. As my head hit the pillow that evening, something occurred to me: I haven't had lobster in quite a while, but I think I know a good place South of the border...

Excerpts of Vercours Riding Trip, May 2001

Introduction

The following are my notes from an article I never finished:

After our return from yet another trip to California for a fix of mainline curve addiction, I realize that I have made another transition in medium in my life. Years ago it was photography that consumed every waking moment, then music, then writing, then film-making and finally furniture making. Whilst visiting a muscian friend in Vermont after making that transition from music and film to furniture making, I sheepishly tried to justify my latest change in direction. I produced a small photograph of a cabinet that I just completed. My friend said, in response to the photo, "You are clearly jammin' in wood, man."

I am now jamming in motorcycles. I have always had a rather myopic fixation on a particular medium at different times throughout my life -- a fixation akin to a form of autism, being barely able to concentrate on more than one thing at a time, but excelling in some quirky obsession. I have survived in relationships only because I have been able to involve my significant others in my work. When I was a photographer I was involved with a narcisist who couldn't resist being in front of a camera. When I was a musician, she was a singer, when I was a writer she was a lit major, and when I was a furniture maker she was a bulemic weight-lifter who eventually began to resemble Paul Bunyan... well, the latter relationship didn't work out quite the way I thought it would. It took lawyers and money to undo that damage.

"Motorcyclist" is how I identify myself, and Girl Wonder, my significant other for nearly a decade, is a natural born moto-fiend. If she had started earlier she would have been a racer, as I actually have to work to stay ahead of her these days. And we are on a quest to find the holy grail of roads in which to execute the perfect set of twisties -- the one road in which we have a pact that if one of us crashes and are obliterated, that the other will tie-strap the head of the fallen victim to the triple clamps like a Viking gargoyle and finish the run. While motorcycling may not be an art, cornering surely is, and to this we have dedicated much of our lives.

It is with this particular pursuit that we find ourselves on a plane to France with the famous Vercors as our final destination. We managed to find cheap seats on British Airways from Seattle to Lyon for $550 round trip. The seats were so cheap, apparently, because no other full-fare passenger would have tolerated being wedged between to other passengers like a porn star in a double-penetration scene. To make matters worse, this happened to be the nursery section of the cabin. One particular newborn screamer was seated directly next to me and the only thing that calmed the wrinkly parasite down was a tit in his mouth, and even the novelty of that seemed to be wearing off. I conspired that I could possibly get a few winks of sleep if I could just rub his fucking soft spot with all the force my thumb could deliver until he was cross-eyed and quiet. Fortunately for him and my criminal record, he fell into a deep slumber after sucking mom's tit dryer than Dean Martin's martini glass.

London

Our first stop was for a five-hour layover in London where we used our time to meet up with a friend and former business associate from Boston -- now working in the motherland as a software engineer/consultant. Eric picked us up at Heathrow and drove us to Windsor to catch a local brew and walk about the town to get a feel for British existence. The first thing you notice, if you are a motorcyclist, is that all the local bikers are wearing full leathers, boots, gloves and helmets, with very few exceptions. The second thing you notice, motorcyclist or otherwise, is that the country is full of ugly people, especially the women, who appear to have been tossed out the window of Ugly's AMC Pacer. I asked Eric if he had noticed this and he replied, " it seems as though the country was started by two ugly people and they've never recovered from it."

The only thing uglier than the people is the food, but at least you can find a decent Indian restaurant to jump-start your taste buds after they reflexively retreat from culinary abuse. It's no wonder that the Brits have such a love affair with Indian cuisine -- and as a conciliation prize the Indian people are whole lot more attractive to look at.

We used our short time to catch up on America politics, movie and book reviews and our respective future directions. After a pint outside the gates of Windsor Park, on Britain's first sunny day in a year or so, we had to depart for Gatwick. Eric dropped us off and we bid each other farewell until our next rendezvous, probably in Paris if all goes well.

Lyon

We boarded our plane and had a quick, uneventful flight to the Lyon airport. While disembarking, I noticed that British Airways had placed a red carpet at the end of the stairs so I figured they must be trying to make up for the cramped quarters and bitter snacks. I stepped onto the little red square only to discover that it was colored Astroturf soaked in chemicals to kill foot and mouth disease.

We had to drive another hour through tight and twisty mountain roads to arrive at the Girl Wonder family compound. In that hour, I took notice of some of the major differences between the US and France. At an even 6 feet tall, I tower over most people in South France by at least 12 inches. And I look like an Attila the Hun with my body by Stairmaster. The French do not appear to work out, but don’t picture a bunch of pudgy beret-wearing pouty-lipped cheese eaters. They are as thin as Iggy Pop on a hunger strike. The French appear to maintain their waif-like figures by eating small portions of high fat foods such as red meat, sausage and cheese, consuming alcohol at all meals except breakfast, and smoking cigarettes by the faceful. This diet is not approved by the American Heart Association, but it seems to be working fine for the French, at least when they are young. Many French, in their late thirties and early forties, acquire the exploding rivulet, Charles Bukowski-like complexion that comes from the constant flaring of facial capillaries in reaction to a steady stream of Cote du Rhone.

Another thing you can’t help but notice is how clean the towns and villages are. Without a McDonalds, Burger King and Wendy’s on every corner, the place isn’t littered with Styrofoam tumble weed and oil-soaked French fry vessels. The fast food thing is a cultural mismatch for the French, who do not consume food in their cars and they are not in a hurry when it comes to eating, or much else for that matter.

Despite the fact that the French are laid back in ways that an American can only achieve with Prozac or moggies, they drive like crazed maniacs. I have never seen such egregious and reprehensible conduct on the roads anywhere else – except Boston of course. No Frenchman can tolerate the presence of a vehicle in front of them and they will pass any and all obstacles at the crest of a hill, in a blind curve, while arguing on a cell phone. If you thought cell phones were an American obsession, you were wrong. Americans may like their cell phones, but the French LOVE them.

According to a riding buddy who works for a large telecom company, only 40% of Americans have cell phones, whereas 70% of Europeans pack the noodle-melters.
Motorcycles, scooters and mopeds are also much more popular than in the states. Both men and women have some experience on one or more of the above, but unlike the Brits, most do not subscribe to safety gear other than helmets and a fashionable leather jacket. If you do see a fully-clad rider they are most likely British, German or Dutch.

Swarms of derestricted two-stroke scooters and mopeds attack the streets with engines that sound like a mosquito on steroids. The range of motorcycles is vast. You will see everything from RS125 race replicas to big Dual Sports and Harleys, all filtering and lane splitting in an attempt to keep the snarled and congested streets manageable. And there is nowhere near the animosity and contempt towards bikers as there is back home.

We rested and drank away the jet lag for a few days in Roanne and then boarded a train heading south. Our destination was Holiday Bikes in Lyon, where we had reserved a Yamaha Fazer and a TDM. From there we would head even further South to the Vercors, an area surrounded by shear cliffs, deep gorges and cascading rivers, alpine prairies and wild forests, jagged ridges and high plateaux. And throughout each of these geographic archetypes, there are roads with curves tighter than my pants when I’ve got a raging chubby.

The Agency

We arrived in Lyon and walked to the Holiday Bikes, about 6 blocks from the train station. We easily found the building, which appeared to be an apartment complex with a few retail businesses on the bottom floor. There were no signs or indications as to the presence of anything motorcycle related. I had found Holiday Bikes on the Internet and they had locations in at least a half dozen cities in France, so I expected something that resembled a real business. As instructed, we rang the buzzer for “suite” 3, took the elevator and entered what appeared to be an apartment. It was an apartment, in fact, and it was being used as a branch office. The “office” looked like an unclaimed baggage room at an airport. The place was littered with an avalanche of paper and helmets and motorcycle bits. I made my way to a table spotted with coffee stains and croissant flakes in the middle of the room to sit down and relieve the leather wedgy that gathers when you stand in a race suit for too long. I knocked a helmet off of a chair to sit down and There was so much debris on the floor that I could only extract the chair far enough to get the surface for a single cheek.

In one small Oasis of organization sat a computer, fax and telephone. Girl Wonder did most of the talking since French is her native language. Despite the condition of the office, the pixy of a rental agent dress in body-hugging black attire which empahised his growth-stunted, cigarette-thin stature, had our paperwork in a well organized folder. We listened to the usual spiel about our responsibilities, about the $1300 insurance deductible and holding the agency harmless for maiming ourselves on their bikes. I largely missed the details because my French is only good enough to well fed and drunk, so after providing copies of our licenses and entrusting credit card slips to the paperstorm aftermath, I left and waited out front. Pixy boy and his sidekick emerged from the parking garage a few minutes later on the bikes.

I mounted the TDM and GW climbed about the Fazer. By now I was sweating profusely from being tapped in leathers, so I was anxious to get under way. We needed gas though, because the tanks we only half full.

The TDM is big sweaty farm animal which is capable of inspiring true discomfort, especially in your ass. The TDM is Yamaha’s butt-ugly answer to the Adventure-Touring paradigm, not that many of these bikes could win a beauty contest even if it were judged by blind swine. Powered by an 850cc vertical twin, it’s a big oaf of a bike with strange, yet moderately comfortable ergos. The handlebars are high and wide which results in surprisingly light steering. Piloting this misfit through thick and nasty traffic is a breeze, and visibility is good since you are perched atop the crows nest of a seat. The seat is 33 inches off the deck. If you are a vertically challenged rider you’d better be wearing heals. And the foam padding is also paper thin, so expect your ass to ache as if it were beaten with an oak cricket paddle.

The TDM has a sloppy five-speed gearbox that combines with the 10-valve 849cc vertical twin cylinder power plant to generate enough torque to drag Robert Downey Jr. into rehab. The space between gears is generally good, although the gap between first and second is a bit of a stretch. This results in strange power delivery at low revs. Rolling the throttle on and off usually produces an unwanted lurch which is just the kind of thing you want to avoid when piloting a bike through tight curves.

The bike can corner though. Lean angle feels exaggerated given the height of the bike, but once you become acclimated to the sensation, you can really push the TDM through tight bends. The suspension has a lot of travel, but the front seems to be too softly sprung. This is most noticible when squezzing the binders which compress the forks in a big gooshy dive. The brakes also lack power and feedback. I am biased since like my woman, I never want to use more than two fingers -- and with my Triumph, that’s all you need to loft the rear.

Post Crash

He was dressed in tight black clothes which fulled revealed the fact that he had the body of a prepubescent girl. He went over the bike, commenting about the larger damage and whining about every micro scratch in the clear coat. This was in clear contrast to our experience with Cruise America in California where the rental agent specifically said not to sweat the small stuff -- these were rental bikes and they expected a few scratches -- they'd only be looking for road damage. I was taking it all in stride until he started balking about the scratches in the peg feelers. Given the enormous difference in our size, I figured that I could snap the twiney motherfuker in half and leave him bleeding from both eyes in the parking garage. A quick collection of our paper work and credit card slips and we'd be home free. He would never be able to identify his assailant with his hollow eye-sockets and I could use my bad back as an excuse as to why I could't have possibly perpetuated suck a forceful attack. These ideas rose and fell as he would complain about the slight roughness on the weld of the muffler was a problem, but he would not charge us for that. I nearly executed my plan, though, when he pointed out that the saddled bags had abraised the clear-coat on the side covers. Girl Wonder handled him with reason, with me looming in the background.

With his list, he quickly totaled up the damage: One mirror, one turn signal, one brake lever, the upper fairing, and the left lower fairing all for a quick and dirty 4,000 french francs, or approximately $600 US. There was not a lot we could say.

To help us swallow the cost like bad medicine, he suggested that we lie to our insurance company and tell them that we knocked over his motorcycle by accident -- not by riding it, mind you, but by pushing it over in some strange act of negligence. I assured him that there is no insurance in America that was going to pay for the act of an individual, but if he'd let me use his phone, I would check with my Platinum MasterCard since they often include an insurance benefit or two. I called citibank, and the woman said they do cover rental cars, but motorcycles are excluded. c'est la vie. We'd have to take our lumps and take solace in the fact that GW didn't get hurt.

The Camel and a Modded, Wadded Bandit

Girl Wonder and I flew into LAX for the weekend and stayed in lovely Inglewood. Somehow the wires got crossed with hotels and phone numbers, so our ride to pick up our rental bikes was a no show. Instead, the hotel called a bandit taxi cab to take us to Moturis in Compton. The taxi cab driver was a black Jabba the Hutt - a mass of solidified fat with a spine floating freely in the middle. She spoke like she was the winner of a broken glass and razor blade eating contest from the oil and sweat-soaked front seat that had taken the shape of her amoebic form. We left the hotel parking lot in a shower of sparks as the mid '80s Impala wagon bottomed out and set course for Route 105. Despite the fact that the meter was "broken," the ride cost only $13 and we were there in a short time.

Just as we were extracting ourselves from the taxi, Rick finally showed up. We saddled up an F650 for GW and a R1100GS for me. Rick noticed that the rear tire of my ride had a three-inch-wide flat spot and the sides of the tire had never been ridden on before. We were soon on our way to the Rock Store to meet up with Rick's friends Brian and Thumper. In the first turn where I poured on some power, I momentarily lost the ass end from the waxy tires. Along the way I kept wondering how anyone in their right mind would purchase such a top-heavy and clunky machine, especially considering the price tag. Just getting this stupid thing off the side-stand had required all the strength I could muster.

At the Rock Store, we ate chili for extra rocket power and chatted it up with Thumper, a very interesting and friendly character who was there on his beautiful Norton Commando. After gassing up, a bunch of us followed him down a paved cow-path in Malibu. It took everything I had to stay with him. Riding this BMW on very narrow twisties was like wrestling a camel. I was really starting to hate this monument of engineering girth. Girl Wonder was appreciating her ride only slightly more as a result of the buzzy, clunky, cheap feel of the F650 - especially its vague transmission. The light steering was working in her favor though, until she almost ate a ditch. We reminded her that holding your breath and closing your eyes in the turns is not the proper way to visualize the exit of a curve. Anyway, Thumper was quite competent on that old Norton, especially considering that he was riding two-up.

We stopped and rested at the end of the trail. Rick has mentioned to me a number of times that I should have purchased a T-Bird Sport instead of the standard version into which I'd dumped a bunch of dosh so that it more closely met my riding style. After watching him drop his Sprint in the parking lot, I started thinking that maybe he should have bought a Speed Triple since he seemed to be making quite an effort to remove the plastic.

On day two, we headed up into the San Gabriel Mountains with a bike club of which Rick is a member. There were quite a few riders and somehow we got stuck behind two really slow riders and the sweep. GW is not comfortable passing in curves, so a few of us were stuck until the first rest stop. To amuse myself, I lofted that heavy camel's front wheel into the air - proving, of course, that shafties can wheelie. By this time, I had started getting used to this pig. Raising the seat helped get me up over the bars and Rick had dialed off some of the preload on the rear suspension. Like a fat chick who dances well and gives good head, I started overlooking the butt-ugliness and shitbox transmission that seemed to fly into some nether region of loose parts and gnashing bits from time to time (very Sportster like) and actually warmed up to the beast. This bike was very comfortable on the highway and would probably be great on long trips. Would I ride it off road like a dirt bike? Not a chance in hell!

After a rest and water break in the high desert, we picked up the pace. One mile later, I came up on a member of our group who wadded "his" street fighter in a rocky, gravel-filled corner. I asked if he was OK and then helped him pick up the modded, wadded Bandit (it was actually his girlfriend's bike). The chain was off, the lights were busted up in a way that made the bike look like a nerd that got his ass whooped in a playground dispute over a Snoopy lunch box and the poor bike was pretty scraped up. Since the clutch lever was broken off, the Bandit had to be towed down to the nearest gas station.

The rest of the day was filled with high-speed fun and no pain other than the aching in my hands from wrestling the bars in some very aggressive counter-steering. I kept the speed at or below 100 mph, but some of these kamikazes were riding well over 120 mph. One older gent with his wife riding pillion was pushing a Black Bird around canyon walls like it had wings. Pretty fookin' amazing!

By the end of the day, GW and I were exhausted and my hands were so weak that I could no longer feed myself with silverware. We locked the bikes up for the night and hobbled through Inglewood in search of finger foods. It's experiences like this -riding in the mountains and canyons on the outskirts of urban chaos - that make LA a jewel. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on your perspective, the sprawl and pace often mask these treasures.

© 2000 by Peckham, All rights reserved.

Best Mill for a Buell

Harley Davidson has been able to expand their product line without investing a penny in R&D by acquiring Buell. Buell offers Harley the unique opportunity to design a contemporary engine, and they really need to as the problems with sticking their infamous 45 degree V-twin in a sport bike are abundant. The fact that Erik got that thing in the frame qualifies him for a National Science Foundation grant.

Harley’s use of a simple motor that they slightly redesign every hundred years is a wise move from a manufacturing perspective. There’s not much in the way of retooling and parts are never a problem. In the field, they are easy to work on because of their simplicity. In fact, the only prerequisite to being an HD mechanic is the ability to perceive consciousness.

Anyway, Buell represents an opportunity for HD to create a new mill - maybe even an excuse to experiment with water cooling - without upsetting the tribe. A worthy choice might be something similar to the engine Aprilia is using - a 60 degree V Twin with two counterbalancers. This type of engine represents a good compromise between engine size (length) and vibration. And the narrower V allowed Aprilia to use throttle bodies that share the same shaft for the throttle plates - no synchronizing needed.

Unlike contemporary Japanese twins, the Aprilia mill shakes and vibrates subtly, making you feel like you're riding a real motorcycle. A similarly designed HD engine would preserve enough of the characteristics that are the hallmark of the motor company’s current product as well as represent a natural evolution and refinement of where their product stands today. Then, after the cruiser boom is over in 10 years and people are buying mower kits for their Road Kings, HD has a place to go with their new technology.

So, the best engine for a Buell is still a Harley Davidson - just not one that is in production. Hopefully in these boom times, HD is setting a little scratch aside for R&D so they don’t have to rely on another act of congress to bail out their myopic approach to motorcycle production.

The Retro-Apocalypse

Why are so many motorcyclists caught in a whirling mass of nostalgia? The nostalgia tornado is so pervasive that we might be headed for a "retro-apocalypse" in which we are so nostalgic for nostalgia that the biker culture, as we know it, collapses.

Perhaps we are so ravenous for the retro-cycling experience because we're frustrated living in a society that moves faster than Bill Clinton on a first date. The vast majority of our culture evolves so rapidly that we need to look back. Baby boomers pine for black-light posters and sit-ins, Jimi Hendrix and motorcycles that barely existed back then.

Manufacturers that formerly made us miserable by pushing new culture at breakneck intervals are now feeding us benign, sanitized, old culture. Instead of inventing a new culture, they are redesigning the past - giving us a new package and watching us gobble it up like bar peanuts. And there's something more perverse going on. Corporations are using nostalgia to depict American culture and society as something that it isn't - altering time-lines and blurring reality.

The Harley Davidson Heritage Softail Classic is an example of a 1950s fictional resurrection sold to the public in much the same way that "Leave it to Beaver" appears to be a documentary depicting family values in a utopian society. There's something about a bike made to recreate the 50's that you just can't accomplish with something state of the art. The Heritage Softail Classic fits the bill in this respect.

In reality, it was the Bristish motorcycles that dominated the 50s, not Harleys. Americans were exposed to bikes that could actually make it around the bend as well as go fast while they were on their tours of duty. They lost interest in the fat, sluggish Arkansas Travelers of the time. Only the '57 Sportster had the looks and balls to fill a few blood sinuses and that was at the end of the decade.

The Heritage Softail Classic is marketed to Boomers so that they can experience an unrealistically idyllic 1950s - so they can feel young again by riding the bikes they wouldn't have been old enough even to reach the handle bars on. A symbiotic relationship exists between the boomers who want to mix nostalgia with their stool softener and the manufacturers who are selling distorted historical representations as a means to curb the aging process or re-live the an illusionary past.

Nostalgia anchors us to our past, and it also anchors technological development in a retro-crazed market. If this retro-overdose continues at its current velocity - if manufacturers have to reach further and further into the past for design inspiration - we'll likely see the Steam Velocipede resurface. This will signal the end... the retro-apocalypse.

If someone parks too close to my Triumph, I’ll strap on a bomb and head for Quincy Market!

The heedless and palpable disregard for the safety of others, in most places on this Earth, is the definition of gross negligence. In Boston, it is the definition of the way the majority of people handle their automobiles.

There are plenty of Bostonians out there who think that this reprehensible behavior adds to the charm of the colonial armpit. These are the same people who are willing to sue a car manufacturer for not being able to turn off the airbag. But hell, if they can’t read road signs, why should anyone expect that they’d be able to read an instruction manual, a warning, or exercise the most minute amount of common sense.

If you have any doubts about these claims, stand at the corner of Commercial and Washington Streets at 8:30 in the morning. You could finance the booze bill for an Irish wedding in a three-hour ticket-writing spree.

The ultimate driving experience in this fair city is to be on a motorcycle surrounded by steel-encased psychopaths in New England’s equivalent to the movie Thunderdome. A short cruise around town would even turn Mother Theresa into a punk-ass bitch.

So, the Transmetropolitan Biker’s new coping mechanism is unconditional rage. Lock and load baby, and let the craziest motherfucker rule.

I am not endorsing road rage, the acting out of anger from behind the wheel of the family station wagon. Nope. I am suggesting that after you have put me in the zone of danger by cutting me off, tailgating, or pulling one of those famous left hand turns from the right hand lanes, I’m going to park an enormous fertilizer bomb under a nursery! Hell, if someone parks too close to my Triumph, I’ll strap on a bomb and head for Quincy Market!

When you read about the suicide bomber, the clock-tower sniper, or a gunman on the subway in next week’s Boston Globe, you will know that they were all bikers mowing disrespectful drivers down like so many slats in a picket fence. We tried to influence the collective conscious with smart little slogans such as "Motorcycles are Everywhere." We tried old-fashioned consideration too. It was a flop. And when you fail to win with reason and common sense, Transmetropolitan Bikers will simply resort to ultra-violence. After all, an affirmative defense to murder is self preservation.

ACCIDENT FACTS:

The failure of motorists to detect and recognize motorcycles in traffic is the predominating cause of motorcycle accidents. The driver of the other vehicle involved in collision with the motorcycle did not see the motorcycle before the collision, or did not see the motorcycle until too late to avoid the collision.

The most frequent accident configuration is the motorcycle proceeding straight then the automobile makes a left turn in front of the oncoming motorcycle.

Intersections are the most likely place for the motorcycle accident, with the other vehicle violating the motorcycle right-of-way, and often violating traffic controls.

Boomer Bikes

In the good old days, American males in black leather jackets tooled around on hefty Harley-Davidsons and roaring Nortons, Triumphs and BMWs. They ate meatloaf and mashed potatoes, drank whiskey from a bag and fornicated on the merry-go-round at the local picnic area.

Then, during the summer of love, some jackass convinced the Rolling Stones to use the Hells Angels as stage security at the ill-fated Altamont concert in California. The Hell's Angels terrorized the audience and knifed an innocent spectator to death as the Stones performed Sympathy for the Devil. It has been rumored that the poor bastard that wound up dead came to the concert on one of those little Honda 50-cc motorbikes that the Beach Boys sang about in 1964. The Hell’s Angels, in a brutal demonstration of savage nationalism, ended the summer of love on a violent note and defiled a whole genre of American-built motorcycles.

Regardless of what you believe, anyone associated with huge cruisers got a bad wrap. In response, everyone went out and bought those cute little Japanese bikes that appeared in Honda shops around the country. America was crawling with lightweight and mid-weight dirt bike-derivatives with names like Ninja. A revolution was born. The net effect was that dope-smoking country bands like the Eagles became popular, Harley-Davidson nearly went bankrupt and the European bikes all but disappeared.

That's changing now as America rediscovers its manliness: thick-tired, high-powered bikes with chrome engines, metal-flake teardrop gas tanks and high-rise handlebars.

The rebirth of the heavy cruiser is a direct response to the aging baby boom generation. As they've gotten older and wealthier, many boomers are indulging in things that were familiar when they were younger...or when their fathers were younger. They're rediscovering icons like the convertible sports car, dry martinis, vintage cigars, huge slabs of red meat and anything that pre-dates Don Henley. A big-ass bike is the next logical forbearance.