Thursday, October 23, 2008

Hot Chrome

I really learned how to ride motorcycles in the high desert of Idaho
where we would crank up dirt bikes year 'round.
I remember one January I couldn't resist the urge to take a quick ride.
My gloves were unlined cowhide.
It got so cold I stopped and wrapped my hands around the hot exhaust pipe to warm them.
It dried the cowhide up so much I had to discard the gloves afterward.
I bought my first Harley when daughter Samantha was just about 9 years old.
When I arrived home with it, Sam ran out to look.
She was so taken by the paint and chrome she walked right up to it and accidently touched her leg against the hot exhaust pipe.
It healed fine but it wasn't a good experience.
From that point, I always knew to warn little kids as they approached the bike to look.
With my second Harley, I got to the point where on hot days,
I would take rides wearing shorts.
I knew there were certain positions that could cause me to touch the inside of my calf against the hot pipes but I rode that way anyway.
Every once in a while I would forget and get burned.
That didn't stop me.
(Note:  Brain Surgeons, Rocket Scientists and Joe the Professional... do not dwell on this site)

Saturday, October 18, 2008

Human Traffic Cone?!

Over the years my family has come to accept that I have my share of eccentricities or idiosyncrasies.  Yes, the words mean pretty much the same and yes,  my family likes the “idio…” version best.
My shirt here is made by RK Stratman
Its the best of Muscle T's
That's because of the fit on the shoulder
And the quality of the cotton.
They are not always easy to find as Stratman
has discontinued using the finishing seam
on the shoulder...Communist bastards.

Many have to do with the fact that I am a certifiable Harley-Davidson fanatic.  For example, I collect Harley themed dealer t-shirts.  “Well.” you say, “Everybody who rides Harleys does.”  

Yes they do but I take it one step further.  I collect Harley “muscle-t’s.”  These are the kind that are manufactured without sleeves.  I have them in black, white, grey and yes, Harley-Davidson orange.  I wear them constantly when I am not traveling.

It is, in fact a habit I am proud to share with my neighbor, Joe Sixpack, who has been referred to in some circles as "Joe The Plumber."

It’s the orange ones that put my family members over the proverbial top.  In short, they can’t stand them. When I wear orange muscle-t’s my loving, affectionate son Tyler has taken to referring to me as “Pylon” and when formality dictates; “Traffic Cone.”  Since I am in charge around here, my response is typically, “Hey, let’s show a little respect.  It’s ‘Traffic Cone Sir’ to you buddy.” 

Anyway, it’s not so Joe.  I have visual proof as you can readily see in the photos that accompany this affidavit. Me and my orange t-shirt? = A traffic cone/pylon?

I think not!

There is a book about all this yes... it is called "Badass" and you can click on the title to find it or right HERE

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

The Gump Group


Not too long ago, the Coyote and I made a trip on Highway 50, often titled"The Lonliest Highway in America".  It was a return trip from out East and we had decided to pick up Highway 50 just outside of Salt Lake City then stay on it all the way to Sacramento. 

In that roughly 600-mile stretch of road we saw some remarkable scenery, a few small towns and what I call the four Forrests. Not trees mind you, but the Gump type– you know, like in “Gump. Forrest Gump.”  The first one we saw was a biker, as in bicycle, who was out in the middle of a 50-mile stretch of nowhere.  Next we saw a solitary jogger in a similar situation.

Then we were heading through some foothills into a valley and along the side of the road was another solitary figure.  He had two large garbage bags full of something lying next to him and he was sitting cross-legged staring out into the valley below.  Finally we were a few miles out of a little town and there was a guy clad in shorts and shoes only, heading for what looked like nowhere.

Now as I recollect these guys all had some things in common.  They all looked fairly old.  They all had gray hair and beards and they all were thin.  So what the hell does that mean?  Maybe it is this:  If you want to get old, turn gray and get thin, head for the loneliest highway in America, Highway 50.

That night we settled in at an old mining town named Austin, Nevada. Austin had a handful of stores and three tiny motels.  The rooms were cheap at $35 and clean to boot.  We moseyed (That is what you do in an old mining town, right? You mosey!) up the street to the town restaurant and bar and had a couple hamburger steaks with fries backed up by a couple damn fine longnecks and turned in early in preparation for the last leg home the next day.

Thursday, October 9, 2008

Imagine a Pebble...and a Harley

You are a small pebble

Lodged 
In a groove
Of a rear tire 
Of a Harley-Davidson
You are cozy there
But tightly embedded

Resting
On a concrete garage floor

Suddenly
You are disturbed
By the brief whine 
Of a starter
Then a loud
"potato, potato" rumble
Of the exhaust
It's just inches from you
And it sounds like
An avalanche 
Of your much bigger
Brothers and Sisters  
Boulders

Spinning
Soon, you begin moving in a slow circle
That moves you like a chair in a ferris wheel
Up, then down and around
Punctuated by a regular darkness
That marks the spot where tire meets floor, then road
Right where you are lodged in the tread
You find yourself being backed into the street
Out of the quiet sanctuary of a garage
Then you hear the exhaust rise and fall
As someone prepares to release the clutch 
And launch the Harley into forward motion
Then, it happens
The exhaust explodes in noise
You feel the force of several G's
As the motorcycle rapidly gains speed
And your Ferris Wheel spins faster, and faster

Faster
From your vantage point at the rear wheel
It seems like the world will end
At least for you
At any moment
The wheel is spinning rapidly
The tire is warming, expanding
It makes your perch in the tread
Loosen and seem all the more precarious
At any moment you may be thrown free
And land who knows where
This is not a proper existence 
For a small pebble!
But then you realize
It could be worse
You could be a 

Boulder
That is wearing away to a rock
That is wearing away to a stone
That is wearing away to a pebble
That is wearing away to a grain of sand