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)

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. 

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.

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 so rapidly

The tire is warming and expanding

Which 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