More motorcycle crap to bore and amuse you as progress continues on The Duke....
Threading the Needle Backwards
Yesterday was a wash-out weather-wise, with rain on and off most of the day, and heavy cloud cover. We got a deluge shortly after lunch that left standing water in the ditches, and wet roads
; the sort of conditions that make you decide NOT riding sounds like a good idea.
I did manage to sneak in a quickie right before sundown Friday
. The sun had descended to the point where it no longer resembles a policeman's 3 million candlepower searchlight in your eyes as you grope about blindly for your driver's license, but rather, a calm, tangerine orb hanging as if it were floating, just above the horizon
..the kind you can look straight at without going blind. I jumped on Lazarus and took full advantage of the situation, arriving back home as dusk morphed to darkness, bug-splattered and satisfied.
This morning arrived cool, sunny and windy. The Merry Little Breezes had knocked over a pair of hanging flower stands on the deck, and the trees swayed and rustled...
not ideal riding weather, I thought. Besides, the wife was at work and had left a Honey Do list as long as your arm (assuming you are not a small child or a Little Person), and woe to he that doth not completeth the list before She Of Queenly Stature arrives home
-in Earth Hours, about 2:30 PM CST (14:30 Military). I set about my Manly Tasks, and knocked off the majority in short order.
It was then that my MPD* kicked in. (*Motorcycle Psychological Disorder).
For those of you who are normal, I will explain this.
1) You glance at the clock
2) You judge how much time before She Of Queenly Stature arrives home
3) You divide by how many tasks on the List are yet uncompleted, and how much estimated time there would be to complete said tasks
4) Multiply by the minutes this leaves you to ride.
It is, I might mention, irrelevant whether or not you actually complete said tasks
; only that you look busy as hell and are hard at work when S.O.Q.S. walks through the door.
By my calculated eye, I had a good hour or more to bust a move. Not wanting to psych myself up unnecessarily, I glanced out the window for a last-minute weather check
.
Sunshine.
Billowy Clouds.
Diminished winds.
As I walked out on the deck, I heard Lazzy's siren call
. "Dude. I can't breathe in here. It's all stuffy and ****."
Now, Cruelty to Motorcycles is one thing I cant abide
. Why do you think I have FIVE of the damn things? Every time I see a poor, abused, mistreated motorcycle, I feel like Sarah McLachlan holding one of those cute, cuddly, one-eyed kittens on TV
...please,
won't you help save these poor motorcycles? (close-up of an abused Nighthawk)
I open the door. Lazzy squints in the bright sunshine. I run the mental calculations again. Check;
we're good. With time to spare. I thumb the starter; Lazzy rumbles and purrs like one of Sarah's abused little kittens
..
Rex sits there, silently. He knows hes being punished for last weeks little insurrection. Parts are on order
. I know I could probably do just fine, with both safety switches bypassed, but hey
, I don't play that way. It's like playing Russian Roulette with THREE rounds in the cylinder. Besides; uprisings must be quelled, examples must be made
...sins must be atoned for. Rex is on Time Out. Besides
, I'm on a tight schedule here. S.O.Q.S. will be home in a couple hours. No time to waste bickering with Rex. Bad Rex. Bad Buell. Sit.
I close the door, leaving Rex with himself to reflect on his boorish behavior from the previous weekend.
Lazarus has been on his best behavior lately, starting up at the mere hint of the touch of a well-placed thumb, warming up quickly, and purring like a kitten with a saucer of warm milk once he gets there. Today is no exception. I scan the gas gauge; just a smidge over a half-tank. Enough to get me by. But, as any pilot knows, gas in the tank is like money in the bank. I decide to top off on my way out. I snick Lazzy into gear and wend my way out into the street, and out of the neighborhood, stopping at the corner 7-11 for a Unleaded Slurpee.
A quick swipe with the debit card and before you can say Boo! fuel is running out the top of the filler neck and down the sides. Not even five bucks
. It's like having an extra bandolier of ammo. A minute later I'm on the highway, winding through the gears. This is awesome!
Cool, breezy, bright blue sky with errant white cotton balls skittering aimlessly across...
what a day! I can smell fresh springtime in the air, the fresh crispness of the cool front that has moved in. Lazzy seems to be enjoying it as well, leaning deep into the corners and feeling unusually perky on the throttle. I start out taking my usual route, then arrive at the crossroads of where I usually head north, ultimately going west, then south to east on the return leg. But, I'm feeling rowdy today, and at the last second, cut east. I've decided to ride the route in reverse; threading the needle backwards, you could say. Why? Why not? I've never seen the run from this side of the road!
Its different, strange as it may sound! Things seem
, well, turned around, if you will. I don't mean that in a smart-*** way; things really do seem different. At one point, I approach an intersection; common sense tells me I need to make a right turn, but the intersection appears totally unfamiliar from this view. Unsure, I proceed through the light, realize I SHOULD have turned, but keep going straight to see where I'll end up. This plan gets foiled several miles down the road when the road becomes torn up and grooved by construction and re-paving in progress. Much as I'd like to follow my hunches as to where I think it will lead me, I turn around, not wanting to risk a spill on the rough, grooved pavement. I do a U-turn and head back the way I came, marveling in the beautiful countryside I've discovered and vowing to explore this route further when I have more time (and the construction is finished).
Back to threading our needle.
I pick up where I should have turned right before, and turn left (as viewed from the opposite direction
..ah, yes; now it looks familiar. Lazzy is performing spectacularly; itching to cut loose. But we're behind traffic here, and I realize the wisdom in restraint, lean back and enjoy the ride. We blitz on merrily, eventually coming to a four-way stop at the intersection of two country highways. My speed-governing traffic elects to continue straight ahead. Me; I was gonna turn here anyway!
I cut right and roll on the power, looking straight ahead as Lazzy rights himself, I see nothing but black asphalt ribbon, blue sky, and nary a car in sight in either lane. Lazzy ticks through the gears smartly, and I'm in OD before I can even think about it, still screwing on the throttle; sixty, seventy, seventy-five, then I dial in a bit more
; eighty...
now Lazzy's soothing purr begins to take on a howling tone as the twin pipes begin to trumpet out their song of freedom. This is Life; this is Liberty, this is the Pursuit of Happiness
..we're talking HOT pursuit, baby
DAYUMM! Thoughts flash across my mind like lightning dancing in distant thunderheads; Lazzy, under a tarp in some guy's garage for seven years; Lazzy; motor's top end spread out all over my workbench; the bent valves I replaced, the teeny-tiny valve keepers, the lifters I replaced and those that I cleaned and reused. The myriad of valve springs, the cam chain; so small and fragile-looking
..all this, whirring between my legs at eight thousand RPM, with the very distinct possibility of grenading itself into a thousand pieces of schrapnel if I've done just ONE thing wrong
.
But I haven't done one thing wrong. The motor continues to howl mercilessly; seamlessly
, like a cheetah in full stride, Lazzy blazes on, effortlessly; never missing a beat. Most of my rides on Lazzy have been shorter, closer-to-home rides. I save the longer treks for Rex. But, something is happening here, today, between Lazarus and I; something unexpected, something unexplainable
..bonding, if you will, for lack of a better word. A trust, a confidence; Im finding myself becoming endeared to this precise little engineering marvel. And something is happening to Lazzy, as well. With every mile, every twist of the wrist; every lean and roll, he runs better. Tighter. Smoother. And then it happens; on that long, winding ribbon of ebony; we become one.
This is something I've only experienced in the past with Rex
.(and a couple of cars that come to mind)
I thought it a special bond between one man and one machine that could not be shared with another
..Wrong! Lazzy and I were morphing into a ballet-like choreography; I would think right and before I could even feed the input into the bars, Lazzy was leaning right
..a sort of telekinetic Metalspeak between man and machine.
Blips appear on the radar at 12 o'clock, and we end up behind a caravan of four Harley baggers; radios blaring and tiny American flags fluttering in the breeze. We slow and automatically fall into staggered trail position behind them as they belch out their rumbling, laid-back tractor noises; sort of like slowing down your wild mustang to trot along behind a lumbering herd of buffalo. Still, I find it somehow disrespectful to go screeching around them, like flipping off a brother, almost, so I loiter, hang back, and pace myself.
Its all good;
at the next intersection, they bank lazily right, like squadron of B-17s turning on a downwind leg, thundering out radial engine sounds as if they were sporting real Wright Cyclones. Lazzy snorts with delight as I screw it on again, and listen to him howl.
Finally, I reach the end of the ebony thread and have to turn off onto a smaller, slower thoroughfare; we pass the very spot, where only the weekend before, Rex tried to put me on foot. I wonder for a brief moment if the Ring-thingie still resides in the High Chaparral in the ditch; then toss the thought aside as casually as I'd tossed the Ring-thingie in the ditch and get back to the business at hand
...riding. Clouds drift lazily across the bright sun, shading the brilliant blaze of light for a few minutes, then bid their fond farewells, destined for parts unknown. I wonder for a mere second the hour, then discard the thought as quickly as it came
. WHO CARES?!! I think.
This is what my inner child lives for; to be free, and wild, with the horns of the bull in my hands and the heart of a warrior shrieking out its war cry between my knees! I feel a kinship with the Plains warrior of the 1800s, tearing across the Great Plains at full gallop, wind in his hair, sun in his face, with a spirited stallion under him. Inside my helmet, I let out a war whoop
; HOKA HEY!!* then, feeling rather foolish, grin and dig in for another fist-full of throttle. If this were a war pony I'd be digging my heels into its flanks and smacking it on the *** with my quirt.
All too soon, South and East begin to look like Home. And then, just that quickly, I'm rolling up the drive, gravel crunching noisily under my tires. I open the garage door and switch off the key
and I'm greeted with silence, save for the ringing in my ears from the combination of howling exhaust and wind inside my helmet, and the echoed cries of the ghosts of a thousand Sioux warriors. Off come the helmet, gloves and jacket, I roll Lazzy into the stable,
but not before I stroke the small of his back
as a Plains Indian brave might stroke his favorite war pony. Things are different today, somehow.
Rex eyes me warily as I gently walk my steed into the stable
.He can feel the magnetism; the bond. And he doesn't like it; not one bit! We stare each other down
. Huh..youre not the only animal in this barn, Hoss, I say, and glance at my cell phone. Reality snaps back like a slap in the face.
Jehosephat! That was calling it close! 2:05
..She Of Queenly Stature will be on her way!
Moments later, as I'm skimming leaves out of the pool (one of the many anointed tasks on The List) I hear The Queen arrive
.
Hi, Hon
..she says,
Whatcha doin? Ahh, just skimming leaves, I reply. Were you home all day? Everything looks
kind of a mess, she questions.
Yeah, pretty much. I mean, I went out for a quick ride, is all. I got everything on your list done, I add
. (like the child in the classroom who drives home the issue that he did ALL the homework!) OK, says She Of Queenly Stature, and then; I'll start dinner soon. A sly grin steals up one side of my face as I eye the garage and wink
and whisper; Hoka Hey!
* Hoka Hey!
..Lakota Sioux war cry, meaning Its a good day to fight, or words to that effect; in other words, the battle cry of a fearless warrior
