Bikes that talk to me!

Lately, a few bikes have be talking to me. Some I can ignore. The venerable dualsport Suzuki V-Strom, the KTM Enduro and the Kawasaki KLR650 are attractive but not designed for the vertically challenged. I've read about lowering kits and to that I say, there are too many fish in the sea...To varying degrees, these bikes sport that naked, minimalist look I love. Still, I don't do the kind of riding that warrants these type of motorcycles. Hmmm...I could be wrong but it seems a little like owning a fancy sports car that is never taken on the highway.

By far, the motorcycle that has spoken to me the longest and loudest is unequivocally the BMW F800ST. I'm not the only one smitten. Rider magazine named the F800 ST "the best tourer in 2007"! That's huge! Since its inception this middle weight tourer has won a slew of accolades for its performance and comfort excellence.

Since that one memorable ride last summer, I hear the F800ST calling me by a childhood nickname--we've become that close! The ride was exhilarating--pure joy. Lightweight, flickable, and amazingly responsive. The F800ST is heavier than my SV yet feels lighter and sleeker even with the ST's fairing. Compared to Queenie, frisky pony that she is, the ST feels tame and more behaved. By the end of the ride, I discovered that the ST masks it playfulness--it's there--it just doesn't show it all at the gate. Although I don't fancy fairing--the more naked the bike, the better--I think a little lower leg protection might be a good shield against head winds. I love the F800ST's on board info that monitors tire pressure, displays the fuel gauge (which the SV lacks), is fuel injection (although I appreciate a well-carbbed bike like mine), gear indicator and heated grips. ABS? Well, I could live without it, I think. I've read ABS pros and cons and it seems one of those personal preferences that some 'cyclists like to debate. I've learned solid braking skills without ABS. I still practice braking, including emergency braking--as much as one can simulate an emergency. Is ABS an added security or a false sense of security? Will non-ABS be the reminder to keep those braking skills sharp and not rely on technology? Is ABS an industry driven option that we only think we need? Does riding today's faster, more tech savvy bikes make ABS essential? I'm hoping my pal Crusty will lend his expertise/opinion here. I see it this way: It's better to have something and not need it than to need something and not have it. Maybe that philosophy doesn't apply to ABS brakes?

Then there's the F800S, the sportier, more naked sibling of the F800ST. It's a jazzy looking bike and can be made easily into a tourer with some luggage and a taller windscreen. Leaning over the tank, however--even slightly--on a 300 miles day trip would be havoc on my aging sacroiliac. Sitting on the F800ST can't feel more comfortable. My test ride, probably around 10 miles, was sweet, smooth and still the memory of it is sharp. What attracts me --besides the ride--is the handling ease. It feels a lot like Queenie. In fact, I heard someone compare the BMW F800ST to the SV and claims that the F800ST is "like an upgrade to the SV650." Someone else said it's like the SV with the fun factor removed. Hmmm? I'm not sure about that. IMHO, the fun factor on the F800ST is not in your face like the SV650. It's true too that the ST's throttle seems more tame initially. By third gear, the fun factor had kicked in and there three gears still left!

Shortly after the appearance of the two 800 models, rumors filled motorcycle forums with talk of a F 800 GS model. Long before the GS became reality (it's now available in Europe and soon to be available in the USA), drawings of what it might look like could be found all over the Internet and I toyed with the idea of possibly falling in love again. For those who want more than the BMW's F 650GS but less than the behemoth R 1200GS, the F800 GS fits the bill. Early reports are that it too is a winner. I like the looks of the F800GS and appreciate that it can go just about anywhere it's pointed. But didn't motorcycles once go anywhere a long time ago, before all the specialization? What's the difference today? It's not like I actually will do any off road riding. Then again, perhaps I would if I had the right kind of bike. Okay, who am I kidding? I'm leery of backwoods in this country and especially alone.

I just know that the F800ST eats streets for breakfast! I'm listening to it talk to me. Given my passion for long distance touring and my plans to do some major cross country riding, the F800ST meets my demands for high performance, excellent build, light weight, nimble/flickable- fun, comfortability and cuteness. I want a great little sport-tourer that can pile on the miles with as little wear on me as possible. What's that I hear...sounds like a German accent?

Goose Lake Prairie State Natural Area: 152 miles of lessons

My preference is to get on the road early. Sunday's planned ride started off a tad cooler than I expected. I wore my Tourmaster, silver and black jacket and black overpants, which performed as expected. I packed hiking boots, camera equipment and a fruit lunch. I navigated an Interstate most of the way. Riding into a head wind contributed to much of my initial discomfort. Still, the thrill of embarking on my first real ride of the season kept my mind off my increasingly cold, gloved fingers. By the time I had exited the city and entered the hinterland, I forgot about my numb digits. As I pushed increasingly west and south, I settled in and located that comfortable zone of being alert yet relaxed.

The streets show the ravishes of winter. Repair work is omnipresent. Clearly the patching is done without regard to two-wheeled travelers. In places, huge craters and ruts cover half the lane! Gouges and poorly marked road shifts make riding seem like an obstacle course event. Patched road surfaces are also problematic as some are often doctored with that slippery black stuff that looks like electrical tape snaking down the road. In one unavoidable spot, I felt the back tire slide just enough to elevate my heart rate. Far too many repaired edges are ragged and raised enough to trap a motorcycle tire--that is, if one isn't paying the closest attention to the road's surface.

I am out of ride shape! Admittedly, I slacked off over the winter and shouldn't be surprised. Since rescuing the bike from winter camp, my "trips" have been of short duration so I've avoided confronting the result of my winter vegetation. This journey was payback! On this, my first real trip of the season, my ankles cracked, creaked and complained after about 20 nonstop miles. My knees begged for stretching; my neck felt the weight of my helmet. Ignoring these bodily grumbles required considerable mind control! It helped that I did a full body parts check and ordered myself to loosen up my shoulders, keep my thighs tank tight, and position my feet comfortably on the balls. It took me more time than I care to admit to find that sweet seating spot. I am, however, thrilled to report that my lower back didn't fail me. It is the one thing I worked on over the winter.

Last ride season, I tried to visit many state parks, forest preserves, natural, and wildlife areas. Continuing with that theme, I settled on Goose Lake Prairie State Natural Area, located in Grundy County. According to its literature, prairie once covered nearly 60 percent of Illinois and Goose Lake Prairie, which is the result of glaciers, best reflects the grasslands and marshland of the area. Goose Lake Prairie is also home of many birds with at least 175 species having been recorded since 1970. Unfortunately, the ones I spotted were faster than my camera skills. I did see a spotted sandpiper and a couple of Henslow's sparrows. And, something rather large flew over head and looked rather raptor-like but I couldn't ID it from the rear and so far away.

Goose Lake Prairie now totals more than 2500 acres and is the "largest remnant of prairie left in Illinois." The diversity of grasses is stunning. It took me more than 2 hours to cover most of the grounds. It is understandably soggy but the trails are beautiful and the sounds one hears are truly symphonic! The trails are isolated (I saw one person the entire time). When I saw this individual, I immediately realized I left my weapon of choice packed on the bike but I was too far to return to the bike. He carried a huge tripod extended. I made up a mental story of him killing innocent hikers and photographing their dead bodies. I had my Nikon D80 and N80 with me and decided either one would make a good weapon if needed. You know what they say, "You can take the girl out of the city, but you can't take the city out of the girl."

Buffalo once roamed this area before it became Goose Lake Prairie, but the place is now home to far less formidable wildlife. Today the area contains red fox, coyote, prairie dog, deer, cotton tail rabbit, muskrat, beaver and badger. While on the trails, I thought of how a visit to a place like this would be a healing trip for kids mired in the bustling inner city. For some children getting away from the city is rare and difficult. Places like Goose Lake Prairie are wonderful respites for hearing yourself think, for deep breathing, for listening to sounds created not by mankind, but by nature's orchestra of birds, bullfrogs, and cricket, to mention a few.

Goose Lake Prairie is best known for its mammoth variety of grasses, some of which grow as tall as 12 feet. The Tall Grass Nature Trail is well-marked and doesn't allow you to get lost. I'm now impressed with my new knowledge of big bluestem, switch grass, Indian grass, bluejoint and prairie cordgrass, among which I can probably only identify two on the list--if my life depended on it, that is. Walking along paths with varied hued grasses lining the whole way is surreal. Grass color, style, and personality are unequivocal. I especially like the round clumps that create a textured landscape in the middle of smooth flat grasses. Looking out on the vast prairieland is breath-taking and the absence of trees had a visually striking impact my conscious mind.

After finishing the trails (I think I missed one, shucks), I head north to Heidecke Lake, which is part of the state's fish and wildlife area program. It claims 1,300 acres of "prime fishing." To avoid over fishing the exact amount of fish one can catch on a given day is clearly posted. I plan to return to the area--I enjoyed it that much!

Fortunately, the ride home was uneventful. I took a very circuitous route, enjoying the two lane stretches of road that took me farther west than I needed to go but it was a welcomed relief to avoid the Interstate for some of the return trip. Regardless, it is evident that winter has not be tough just on us humans. The roads have been battered, forcing anyone on two wheels to take extra special precautions out there. In closing, as I write this, I feel the outcome of having been a slackard over the winter. The correction begins today!

Ride total: 152 miles

Safe riding!

Visiting the Dead, Part II

I'm learning to have more patience with whiners, particularly now that I've become one on more occasions than I care to admit. I'm realizing that my riding alone, which I prefer, has little to do with how I feel about other people and most everything to do with how I feel about myself. I'm realizing too that this is not some recent personality flaw. It's choice, which I know doesn't negate it being a personality disorder. Neither is it a "stubborn" streak that someone recently attributed to me. On rare occasions, I actually know I'd enjoy a ride with another person and I accept that it will be over-stimulating. The kind of stimulation I seek from a ride, comes for the ride, not from worrying about those I'm riding with, which I know I'd do to some extent. I don't want such distractions. Yet, I know I can prepare myself for anything. I'm a team player when the situation calls for it.

But I prefer singles tennis over doubles. I'm real sociable, believe it or not, and have tons of comrades around the globe. Still, I prefer to ride alone. Why am I whining about that here. Well, I'm feeling a bit defensive. I'm not a misanthrope. Seems like every ride season I'm engaged in the negative discourse on motorcycling riding.

Generally, I don't care what others say about what I do. Sometimes I get sucked into the vortex of stinking thinking and the need for air is immediate. Perhaps because it's the start of the season, but the questions are coming. "Why do you like/need/want to ride?" "Don't you know how dangerous it is to ride." "What about your family, isn't it unfair to them?" Here's my favorite: "I just couldn't do that to my family." Another favorite: the universal story of knowing someone who knows someone who was killed in a motorcycle accident. My short coming? Allowing myself to feel defensive about these comments. Like any one else, I'm not immune to these things ringing in my head, particularly if I'm already grumbling about other life issues.

Tomorrow will mark one week since my gal pal has been home. I've probably put about fifty miles on her thus far (the weather is improving, my work life is not). Not counting the cell phone drivers who seem to feel that the "Rules of the Road" do not apply to them, I have enjoyed these measly miles. I've had two drivers literally share the lane with me. Some cabbies continue to play Pac-Man and come way too close. Getting caught in rush hour traffic means accepting that there is no such thing as a "space cushion." Too many drivers behave as if any gap is an open lane invitation for them to fill that space. And, when did turn signals become optional? So, when I have those experiences and then hear the negative voices droning in the background, one is going to need something to recharge the human battery. Add to this, a ghastly work load that violates United Nations Human Rights policies and you'll understand better the origins of the whining.

Still, grumbling should have time limits. To prevent mine from spiraling out of control, I took a visit to one of my favorite thinking holes, a place where people no longer have a second chance, where most residing there would probably prefer not to be there. It's a visit to a place that always gives me a fresh perspective on life and living, a place filled with both told and untold stories and more history than the history books can record. For me a cemetery visit is the best antidote for whining, a panacea for what ails my over-stimulated mind and body. Visiting an old cemetery, reading the headstones, feeling the once lived history entombed there is a much needed correction, a sort of re-calibration of the soul. I always feel reinvigorated when I leave, ready to brave again what can sometimes feel like a harsh, cold, thoughtless world. Some people don't need or want such getaways and might think mine is rather macabre. That's okay. It works for me. Just like riding works for me. Riding gives me that regular, albeit seasonal, boost I need stay grounded, focused and mindful.

It's time to ride! First trip coming up.

"Share Your Adventure" with SPOT!

"Share your adventure ...," so says the advertisement for Spot, a messenger tool (i.e., satellite plus GPS) that allows you to inform others of your exact whereabouts. For some of us this might be more info that we want to share but the beauty of Spot is it puts you in control of just how much you want to share. You can select up to ten email addresses of family/friends whom you want to keep track of you. Think of the safety factor. Think of the possibilities for families who want to keep track of children--well perhaps it's not that great an idea for teenagers.

For me, this sounds like a perfect little gadget for the solo adventurer. In the UP of Michigan, cell phone coverage is dismal! Throughout Canada--forgetaboutit! I'm forced to check in with family via public phones (which I detest) or hotel phones or email--if I stay in a hotel with Internet service. The Spot allows one to send a text message that will include your satellite position. With the help of Google mapping, family/friends can zero in on your exact location. Cellular coverage becomes irrelevant. All the Spot needs is a clear view of the sky and a subscription service.

Another super feature of Spot is the ability to instantly connect to emergency help. This is the peace of mind loved ones will appreciate. I don't have a Spot yet. But riding solo moves this to the top of the list of essential tools for distance riding. For more than a week in Ontario, I had no mobile service and it would have been neat if, every now and then, I had the ability to send a message saying "I'm okay." I recall long days of riding and finally reaching the hotel just before dark and the last thing I wanted was to make the customary call or set up the computer to send an email. The Spot could make checking in easier and allow others to check in on me when they desired.

I'm looking forward to doing a gear/gadget review of this little doohickey after I get my hands on one.

Tripping...

Well, the jury is still out on Nova Scotia. It remains, however, my numero uno travel destination for the big summer trip. An important family event stands to push this trip to the summer of ’09. Dang! I will continue to plan as if I’m going but it’s looking iffy. So, on to some alternate “big” trips.

My goal to complete the five great lakes within five years is always a nice alternative trip. Visiting Nova Scotia would have allowed me to get in one great lake, two if I really wanted to push it. I could do one side of Lake Erie and Lake Ontario on the way to Nova Scotia and the opposite sides of the lakes on the return from NS. I’m afraid that strategy would take much of the fun out of circling the lakes. These lake areas are rich in history, surrounded by magnificent landscape, charming people and delicious regional cuisine. To sail around these lakes without soaking in the areas' offerings would defeat the purpose of exploring the lakes. It’s best to keep the lake circling to single trips, not something that I wedge in during Nova Scotia. Sometimes I am carried away with goals that if I don’t watch it, I can forget the much bigger gift of traveling just because…

Realistically, Lake Huron is more likely my big trip. Next summer, I’m confident that I can get Lake Erie and Lake Ontario completed together in a couple of weeks.

Another destination:

Amherstburg, Ontario is a place I’m looking forward to re-visiting. My first trip there was via car and I, as someone who tolerates auto tripping, loved that particular adventure. The National Black Heritage Museum is in Amherstburg. It’s a place everyone should visit if in the area as there is much US history alongside the Canadian. The Museum honors runaway slaves who sought refuge and freedom from American slavery in Canada. I remember the museum was rather emotional; I wasn’t alone then so I contained myself. This trip, I’ll be able to stay longer. While there, I will take a side trip of less than 30 miles southwest of Amherstburg to Colchester, Ontario, the home of Elijah McCoy, who born in 1843[?], is still considered master inventor par excellence. Don’t know who McCoy is? Don’t feel badly. Most people, unfortunately, don’t know the man or his brilliance. Surely, most have heard the phrase, “It’s the real McCoy,” which has come to mean “authentic,” “perfection,” and "the real deal." This railroad man holds approximately 70 patents!

McCoy’s parents escaped Kentucky slavery and made their way via the Underground Railroad to Canada, and settled in Colchester. McCoy was a born inventor, tinkering and perfecting things at an early age. He was fascinated with trains and how engines worked. Due to racial prejudice and discrimination, McCoy couldn’t get a mechanical engineering job. When his family moved back to the US, McCoy took a job as a firefighter in Michigan with the railroad, where he oiled engines. McCoy continued with inventing and following his passion for machines.

McCoy contended that oiling engines while they were stopped as opposed to oiling the parts while they were in motion wasn’t an efficient process. The moving parts needed to have the oil flowing around its nooks and crannies. To remedy this, McCoy invented a lubricating cup, which was patented in 1872. Here’s what one website said about the automatic lubricator,

“This device allowed machines to continue to operate as oil continuously flowed to the gears and the moving parts. McCoy's invention revolutionized the machine industry.”

I could wait to visit Colchester on the Lake Erie trip, as it is nestled along that circle. Buy why wait? I’m practically there when in Amherstburg.

Another trip:
William Murphy’s Traveling Across Ohio has me excited. I trust Murphy. I used his MI book, with the same title (Michigan), so much that it is held in place with a rubber band. If you are a history buff, Murphy’s rides emphasize the social and geographic history of place. I’m thinking of doing the Dixie Highway Ride. This road runs through my (suburban) neighborhood and has a history that begins around the same time as the Lincoln Highway, which is also near me. As Murphy explains, the Dixie Highway is a multi-legged road with one leg running from Sault Sainte Marie, MI to Miami, FL, and another from Chicago to Miami. In Ohio, it runs from Toledo south to Cincinnati. I'm considering the Cincinnati leg. While there, I'd like visit the National Underground Railroad Freedom Center, which I’ve tried to do before but learned it was closed due to some professional athletic game that virtually closed down the area. Bummed to say the least!

Then there's old faithful: The Lincoln Highway. I’m tempted to get up one morning and just ride it east bound until I tire of it. I’ve ridden chunks of it west but relatively speaking, not far past Dixon, IL. Lincoln Highway, the first road to stretch across the US is approximately 3,400 miles in length from New York to San Francisco, CA. It covers twelve states. I have a house less than one mile from a point along Lincoln Highway. I’m itching to do the whole thing, but pieces of the OH, IA and IL might be all I can realistically do in the foreseeable future. I hear the PA portion is absolutely gorgeous…hmmm? Of course, if time--and funds--were nonissues, I'd fly me and my bike to NY, start there and ride west to San Francisco. That's on the long list.

Other plans still under construction…

On another note, my gal pal Queenie is home from winter camp. Two weeks ago, the weather made for some great riding, which I couldn’t enjoy fully. My city sticker had expired, which I'd forgotten about over the winter! Thus, Saturday ride was short--from the shop to home well, there were a few detours. Sunday’s ride was brief too but oh, so sweet, with temps near 70 degrees F. Forty-eight hours later, the temps had dropped more than 30 degrees! This week has been cold and mostly wet. Still, I rode Friday when, for a few hours, the temps hit 60 degrees. It was terribly windy, making the bike a challenge to keep in my lane. At one point, I found myself humming Paul Simon's "slip slidding away...the nearer your destination, the more you're slip slidding away..." Yet, the short ride was much needed. Saturday was cold and wet and rained all day. With new sticker in place, I was tempted but I have the whole season ahead of me. Saturday's rain was expected to turn to SNOW on Sunday! We were spared!

Still, winter made a returned this past weekend.

The joy of trip planning--and a painful reminder

Trip planning has an appeal all its own. I realize now that it isn't just about where I'm going to travel, it's a process. Trip planning is a ritual of sorts that signals the riding season is around the corner. Last season, I didn't go to all the places I had planned on but every place I went, I truly wanted to go.

As a researcher, I love nothing more than pouring over things, looking behind the statistics, unearthing long dead things, and poking around in unfamiliar places. To me, curling up with a map and travel guide is more fun than one should have alone.

When I was little and would ask my parents a question about some esoteric tidbit, they would frustrate me by saying, "Look it up, that's what a library is for." They lived, I believed, only to make my life difficult. In retrospect, I think their refrain was a wise one. Early on my search for answers took me deep inside libraries and gave me a parent-approved, ready-made excuse to be excused from most chores and family duties. Looking up stuff had some wonderful hidden rewards! I enjoyed annoying the most patient among my teachers when I wielded my new found knowledge as a weapon against boredom. For me, K-12 was mind numbing--and you know what they say about idle minds... Books and stories held secrets. I feel that way still. And maps...well, they hold the most secrets of all.

While taking notes on places to visit, it dawned on me that this is my third riding season since my return to motorcycling. According to the famous Hurt Report (that really is the researcher's name!), a rider with "two to three year's experience is even more likely to crash than the new kid," as quoted in Proficient Motorcycling by David Hough. This sounds counterintuitive but it really makes sense. After a couple of successful seasons (i.e., no accidents), a rider can become "cocky" and mistakenly feel that s/he knows all there is to know. They start to ride on automatic rather than ride with a consciousness that this could be the last ride ever. I don't ever want to visit that zone.

To stay mindful, I go through the motorcycle check before my daily mount. I've actually gotten on the bike and gotten off again when I've forgotten this step. I don't expect the machine to change much in these daily checks--it's not about that really. it's a way of getting my head and heart ready for riding. It slows me and everything else down (in a good way), it gives me time to think about what I need to remember and execute on the road. This fun we take on can be deadly at any time. This time to slow down matters is also the hidden benefit of donning gear. Personally, I don't ever want riding to become a quick and easy thing I do. Driving my car had become that way. I would just hop in, buckle up and drive. Fortunately, I only drive stick shifts. I think do so imposes a bit of this "mindfulness" that I'm referring to.

Two things I've vowed to do to launch each riding season: 1) take an advance riding course, which I'm scheduled for next month; 2) read one or more of the classics (anything by David Hough, or the MSF's Motorcycling Excellence, or year's worth of my favorite moto magazine's riding skills articles).

I do something too that others might think rather morbid. I read accident reports. Some people probably don't want such reality checks but I think that most two-wheel riders need it now and again--it's great anti-cocky research. Until recently, however, I didn't know just how powerfully such an exercise could affect me. While visiting one of my favorite haunts, Adventure Riders forum, I happened across what I thought would be an interesting ride report. I paused to read it and soon found myself hooked. It told the emotional story of Clayton Schwartz's trip on a KLR650 from Seattle to Argentina. I couldn't stop reading. If you ride two wheels, take the time and read Clayton's aka "Ozymandias" story. Please, read it to the end.

***

Queenie returns from winter camp today. The weather looks great the entire weekend! A little parking lot practice is in order to reacquaint myself with my gal pal. Tomorrow, a short trip.

Ride safe. Ride smart. Ride mindful.

Comfort food needed, but "I don't want a pickle!"

When I was around 7ish, my twin cousins, Floris and Doris (yes, that's their real names) used to bribe me to spend the night with them almost every Friday night. They did so with pickles. Big, juicy dill or sour pickles that their father brought home from the pickle factory where he worked. It worked every time. I loved the things. We used to bite off the top, the pointiest part and stick a peppermint stick down it and suck up the sweet-tangy juice. It may sound gross now, but that was tummy-licious snacking then. But there is such a thing as too much of a good thing. I think I tired of having the twins fight over whose bunk I'd share. After all, they only lived downstairs from me and I much preferred my own bed. I had my fill of pickles by the time I was 9. Today, I detest the things. I've eaten enough to last beyond a life time.

A couple of days ago I had one of those insane days at work and I needed comfort food for lunch. Miller's Pub in Chicago makes pretty dang good grill cheese sandwiches but I always have to remind them that I want it with cheddar cheese, not American cheese. I patiently tell them how much American cheese makes me sick, sick enough to upchuck. They get it wrong more often that I care to reveal. I almost always forget to tell them to leave off the pickle--'cause I don't want a pickle. I don't even want it near my sandwich. The word we used as children for really gross food was "vomit-ticious"--and pickles to me definitely are.

Today at work I felt on the precipice of a mammoth meltdown. Murderous thoughts crossed my mind a couple of times. Whenever I feel like this, a motorcycle ride is the panacea. When I get on my bike, I am all business. I am focused. I am centered. To ride safe, nothing can distract me. Whatever is ailing me, must be shelved. Having to focus my energies and attention on the task at hand, amazingly calms the nerves, regulates the breathing, and relaxes the mind. After finding that zone, that place when everything is clipping away at a good pace, the fun begins. Mentally, I am always in a better place at the end of a good ride.

I needed to ride today. In the worst way. Although a bit chilly, I would have endured the temps. Even the angry, robust winds wouldn't have discouraged me. After all, this is the Windy City. I have braved winds that made the bike seem to ride at a 45 degree angle. But Queenie isn't home from winter camp yet. So, I came home and did some motorcycle 'net searching--a poor substitute for a ride, but it's all I had. It did help quell some thoughts of work place homicide.

In my web searching, I found something that captures my sentiments EXACTLY. Arlo Guthrie and the Motorcycle Song.

"I don't want a pickle, I just want to ride my motor-sickle"

Listen and watch Arlo!

Sing it Arlo

Obama, race and motorcycling...

What does Obama's "Race" speech have to do with motorcycling? A cursory glance and the answer is probably "Nothing." But a closer study--to me at least--and race has much to do with riding. As I listened to CNN and MSNBC and various local news stations deconstruct Obama's "Race" speech, I was putting together early plans for the riding season.

Like many, Keith Olbermann of MSNBC praised Obama's speech. For him it had universal resonance. Olbermann considered it reasoned and intelligent in a way politicians are not known for demonstrating. Olbermann felt Obama particularly poignant because Obama's speech drew us in on a personal level. His considered thoughts about his grandmother, explaining how in spite her stereotypical and often cringe-worthy comments, he loves her. She is family and he could never reject her. He spoke of similar feeling about his minister, even while he rejects the content and tone of his message.

Olbermann felt that this mirror Obama was forced to put on his life could encourage a public discourse on race. Olbermann went on to talk about his own grandfather whom he loves but heard use the "N" word when his baseball(?) game was interrupted to announce the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. Olbermann remembers his grandfather's admonitions not to touch a black person because it would rub off on him and he would turn black. As a child, Olbermann found these race lessons disturbing and confusing and hard to reconcile in a grandfather he loves. But he has. Many people are forced into this kind of mental reconciliation concerning family and friends we love but with whom we do not agree.

Olbermann remarked that we all probably have people like this in our lives who say inappropriate and unacceptable things. While I may not agree entirely with Olbermann, I get his point.

Cognitive dissonance. That's what was running through my mind while listening to all the post "Race" discussion panels. Simply put, cognitive dissonance occurs when one holds opposing or conflicting beliefs about the same thing. These views co-exist--in an itchy sort of way. The discomfort, particularly if one struggle too long and too hard at reconciling and bringing meaning to the conflicts, ultimately can lead to all sorts of crazy-making thoughts and behavior.

An example of cognitive dissonance I remember hearing in a college class pertained to being an American. Accordingly, we are expected to be patriotic, to love and honor country. But the country can be wrong and do wrong. I recall first reading about the "Trail of Tears"? Cognitive dissonance. Read the Constitution. For me, it leads to cognitive dissonance. I recall my grandfather's tales of serving during WWII and telling me that black soldiers were relegated to sitting in the back of army trucks--behind captured German soldiers because of segregation and how serving in segregated units contradicted American ideals and how it felt returning home to a society as uncivil as ever to him and those who look like him. Let's just say his stories of growing up in Louisiana in the mid 1900's were character building. Many people lived with cognitive dissonance. Yet, until the day he died he remained a man proud of his service to his country, a country that denied him full citizenship during the formative periods of his life. Cognitive dissonance. So, where's the motorcycle connection?

Well, I'm a free woman. I come and go when and where I please--mostly. Riding solo is my right. I know the dangers and I recognize and accept the risks. I am not naive. I consciously quell the voices inside that whisper about strange and evil men lurking about, waiting to slash and murder those that dare to venture out alone or far.

I suffer from wanderlust via two-wheels. I can stay close to home but I read the papers. A stray bullet can shatter a window and a family's life as a child is killed while watching television in the safety of his own home. I ride because it's fun--it brings me peace and a joy that restores my warm-fuzzies about humans and nature in a way that nothing else does. Out there, on my own, I am renewed and and the strength within is unearthed. Yet that joy and peace is often interrupted in some small way that matters a lot. For the most part, I choose to ignore it (or navel gaze on it here) .

As I now hover over atlases and maps and tour guides, my mind fills with dreams of traveling to far too many places than time and funds will allow. Like a kid in a candy store, I consume far more than I can digest. Last summer I didn't go to half the places I put on my wishlist, but I logged a ton of miles just going where I wanted, soaking up memories and taking pictures that pull me through the harsh Midwestern winter.

While planning, a bout of cognitive dissonance creeped in. Deep down, I fear certain places. These tend to be remote (meaning they are beyond the urban centers). They are the kind of places that when I ride in, it is obvious that I am the main tourist attraction. Many places are like this. In some of those places I feel fine. In some others, I feel extra-terrestrial or like I'm sporting a tail. I hear the comments, I see the elbow nudges, and the pointing children (whom I can forgive). None of this ever deters me, mind you. I go where I please and as long as no one puts a mean hand on me, you will not read about me in the newspaper. It can get exhausting, however.

I live in these united states, where principles of equality, freedom, pluralism supposedly applies everywhere and defines our nation. Thus far, however, I've not had a riding season without at least one incident, one experience that is strictly racial. I know we motorcyclists get crazy stuff happening to us on the road all the time. I get that too. I'm referring to something else. I'm referring to eating in a restaurant. A pit stop. A hotel reservation made on the spot. Stupid comments yelled from a car---obviously some people didn't get the memo--and haven't heard about it either--written in 1865.

Our founding fathers Hamilton, Jefferson, Madison, Franklin all owned slaves. Yes, I know one must understand these human failings in the context of history. Cognitive dissonance. I know it well.

I believe in the democratic ideals this country espouses. The reality is that some don't believe these apply to me. Other people's problems can suck the peace and joy out of motorcycling. Riding, in spite of the venom out there, is my way of exercising my freedom.

This riding season, my mettle will be challenged to the max. I admit to fears--rooted in ugly facts--of riding alone through the South. I am reminding myself that my experiences outside the South haven't been a piece of cake. Can riding South be any worst? Collectively, my relatives would say "Yes." But two dear friends now live in the South. I've accepted their invitations. So why has Billie Holiday's "Strange Fruit" been running through my mind?

It's easy to get stuck in the toxic mucky-muck and never step beyond one's bubble. I must believe that there is more good out there than bad. Cognitive dissonance. And when I dwell in all the contradictions, I tell myself, "This too shall pass." I force myself to refocus on the good. When that doesn't work, it's yoga breathing or taking pictures of flowers or going underground for alone time with a good book.

My riding plans are underway. Come hell or high water, a solo trip South is on the list. Tennessee and North Carolina, here I come.

Ramblings...

Well, my new work schedule, 4:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m., launched this week. Actually, it was my decision to switch to a schedule more harmonious to my normal sleep habits. I am distracted, exhausted and stressed by a traditional 9-5 work schedule. Normally, by the time I get to work, I've already been up six hours, which means I drag myself through the remaining work day. Given this and the current work load before me, I decided to work on my schedule rather than on some archaic corporate clock. Still, now that I'm no longer totally self-employed, having to be somewhere on any schedule and working regularly with others is taxing. It wears me out. Work environment can be over stimulating and downright toxic, to say the least. (See the lone motorcyclist? It was 56 degrees Sunday!)

I ride solo for many reasons. It's my time to be alone with my self and my thoughts. It's the only time I can do exactly what I want to do when I want to do it. If my bladder screams, I stop; if I want to ride the whole dang day, there is no one with whom I need to negotiate. I've found that I prefer solo work too. In less than a week of the new hours, I'm feeling less stressed by the work environment but it has done nada for the stress the job itself generates. (How it looked a couple of weeks ago)

Tonight, in spite of feeling exhausted and crabby, I took time out to peek in on some of my favorite "haunts." I didn't get to comment much or at all on some sites, but the visit leaves me feeling inspired and missing old pals. I may not want to ride or work with others, but I thoroughly enjoy hanging out in cyberspace with kindred spirits.

So, I'm fighting back! Regardless of the chaos of work, I need regular 'net visits with pals, like Crusty the Biker, Sojourn Chronicles, Motorcycle Misadventures, Scooter in the Sticks. Do drop in on them too. And here's a special "Shout out" to a new fav, Jack Riepe at Twisted Roads. Reading him guarantees a smile or outright belly laugh! Tonight, he helped me deal with the pangs of severe PMS--not the kind you're probably thinking of--although reading him might work for that too!(Seen at a motorcycle show)

Here's to my favs--looking forward to catching up and reconnecting!

Musings on music, culture, hopes of riding soon...

In the wee hours of Tuesday, February 26, I had the television on so low it was barely audible. I do that sometimes to feed my news-junkie habit. As I busy myself doing other things, I can hear the faint discussions transpiring from the TV. Occasional I turn to glance at it or pause to take in a snippet of news. Rarely is there much else on at three in the morning; in fact, some news outlets, like ABC World News Now, repeat the same news ad nauseam throughout the night.

Tuesday’s post midnight news was dominated by the Clinton vs. Obama debate. I had heard every political pundit and analyst debate who the winner was and had reached a saturation point that made me listen with only half an ear. Then came some huge news—and I’m not talking about the umpteenth snowstorm that was transpiring in Chicago outside my window. In minutes, an announcer said, the New York Philharmonic Orchestra would be performing “Live” from Pyongyan, North Korea. My ears tuned in.
For more than a year, plans were being laid for this concert. It would be the first and largest cultural exchange with North Korea. The announcer called the event historic.” I longed for the music to start and when it did, magic happened. I sat mesmerized, forgetting about the snowstorm, trying to forget about the fact that motorcyclists were out riding on Saturday and now, on Tuesday, we would be digging out from an estimated 5-8 inches of snow.

Lorin Maazel, the conductor, and the orchestra fascinated the audience. The orchestra began by playing the anthems of North Korea and the USA. The orchestra played Gershwin, Dvorak and Wagner. I especially loved Dovorak’s Symphony #9 in A Minor, better known as the New World Symphony. I don’t think I’ve heard it performed better. Gershwin’s “An American In Paris” seemed to have special significance and I couldn’t help but think of the Americans in North Korea. Panning the audience showed the raw emotions evoked by the music. Some faces seemed lost in the music as people listened with their eyes closed, others moved their heads ever so slightly; one person, a woman, dabbed her eyes.

Thunderous applause followed each piece. An effusive audience showed their appreciation with stand ovations, the last one lasted five minutes! The concert ended with the playing of Arirang, a much-loved folk song evidently adored by both North and South Korea. The audience was visibly moved throughout the concert but the finale brought the house down, so to speak. The concert was followed by a discussion with the audience. Watching Maazel interact across cultural lines added true class to the evening. Such cross-cultural exchanges are demystifying, they facilitate a much-needed understanding among humans outside of all the political caterwauling.

North Korea’s best cellist said he yearns to travel and perform abroad and hopes that the successful visit by the New York Philharmonic Orchestra’s created such opportunities. Music really is a universal language--you could see it on the faces in the audience. I could feel the connection thousands of miles away.

While this blog entry nothing to do with motorcycling, it has a lot to do with traveling to distance lands, which is what appeals to me most about motorcycling. For many reasons, not the least of which is political propaganda (on all sides), individuals and groups must be bridge builders and bridge crossers. As I continue to research places to ‘cycle this riding season, I shall remain mindful of the historic cultural exchange between North Korea and New York Philharmonic Orchestra.

Now, if only the riding season were in sight!

California beckons! And, where or where can I get my moto clothes cleaned?!

Recently, a work-related assignment sent me to CA, specifically the Bay area. It was four degrees Fahrenheit when I left Chicago and, of course, the wind chill made it feel like minus 11 degrees F, according to the weather report. By the time I reached Menlo Park, CA where I stayed for part of the trip, a blue sky and the sound of motorcycles at every turn made me forget my roots and wonder what it would be like to live in this part of CA. Riding year 'round, having mild winters, ridding myself of the need for a car...I can live with that--happily. Then I remembered the earthquakes ...

In Palo Alto, on Stanford University's campus, bicycles are ubiquitous! A tour guide said there are 14,000 students enrolled there and 12,000 registered bicycles . I don't know if this includes faculty and staff who ride to work, but the place reminded me of images of China's congested two-wheel traffic. Riders zipped around campus, which appears devoid of overt bicycle lanes . How they manage to avoid crashing into each other is beyond me. But bicyclists seem to know who has the right of way and how to avoid cell-phone talking strollers immersed in conversations so important that they are exempt from following any rules of the road, and bicyclists seem also adept at avoiding tourists, who stop wherever the mood strikes to read the campus map.

I didn't miss the special parking set aside for motorcyclists either. Very thoughtful.

Next stop: University of California at Berkeley, the massive flagship school in the mammoth UC system. Talk about set aside motorcycle parking! It's everywhere! I saw a young guy riding a silver '02 SV650. I couldn't restrain myself from striking up a conversation with him and given that I am old enough to be his mother I knew he'd know that I wasn't trying to pick him up. I asked him how he likes the SV. He loves it! I've yet to meet an owner who doesn't.

He told me that he pays a nominal fee to park on campus but that all street parking is free for motorcyclists. He's able to literally ride to his classroom building. He also introduced me to many of the bike's upgrades, none of which he added, by the way. He got a "great" deal because the previous owner did all the work. He had Givi luggage and rack, Corbin seat, and a "slip-on" exhaust system, which gave his bike a nice, deep throaty sound--definitely not loud. Still, his neighbors complain about it. Their problem, he said, is that they simply don't like motorcycles. They've complained but his landlord, who lives on the premises has sided with him and also contends that the bike's exhaust level is a non-issue. Frankly, I'd add that "slip-on" in heart beat. It wasn't loud at all! It brought to mind a Ducati I once heard...

While walking the streets of Berkeley, motorcycles were omnipresent. Parked along each street, sometimes lined up four and five cars deep. I saw several SVs and if I didn't fear an arrest and didn't respect other people's property, and no one was around to catch me, I swear, I would have tossed a leg over one of them and just had my own little personal thrill for a minute or two.
San Francisco, near Fisherman's Wharf, was a haven for motorcyclists. By then, I'd become less obvious in my glee at seeing and hearing a bike go by. I focused on the riders. Every one I saw wore a helmet--including the passengers. I did notice that many wore the beanie helmets, which I surmise is an attempt to circumvent the mandatory helmet law 'cause those helmets sure didn't look very protective.

Beautiful weather the entire week made me wish I'd made arrangements and had the time to rent a bike while there. I must return in March and if time and funds permit, I think I'll look into that...Upon my return to Chicago, and despite the fact that I was met with single digit temperatures and a wind so cutting that it could easily rip the skin off your face in only a few minutes of exposure, I felt inspired to get my moto jackets and pants ready for the riding season. I diligently separated the hand washables from the dry clean only. The first cleaners hesitated to say he could clean the garments. Something about the leather and textile mix? Within days, I learned that they could not clean the garments. Supposedly, the leather parts could be cleaned but there was concern about the textile.

Recommendation: "Clean it yourself." Later, I stopped into another cleaners and explained my situation. "Oh, yes, we can clean that." But upon examining the two jackets and one pair pants, a husband and wife team said they would check with their cleaners (the cleaners has a cleaners?--outsourcing, I guess). Well, long story short, they won't or can't do it either. I have about six or seven jackets and several pairs of pants. These three items are the exception with regards to cleaning. Every other garment can be hand washed in cold water. And, I typically avoid purchasing clothes that need professional cleaning. I bought these garments because they are cute--and protective. See, it's easy to get the protective part, but as a female, it's challenging to get the cute part. It's difficult to acquire garments that fit your shoulders and taper a bit in the waist. Contrary to what some motorcycle cloths makers think, female riders need more than a garment made for a male but in a smaller size. It's about the cut and the style and...oh, don't get me started.

I'm not a clothes horse; however, I've become a fashion maven about motorcycle wear. I don't ride comfortably when the jacket I'm donning doesn't fit well and reminds me of being a child trying on her father's coat. I've made too many purchases that initially seem suitable, only to find out later that they don't ride well. One doesn't wear such garments, they sort of just hang on you. So, now I have these two jackets that ride well that I absolutely fancy but can't get professionally cleaned!

Fortunately, I have other jackets and pants that can be handwashed. But I tell you, they are not as much fun. They are functional, yes, but not necessarily fun. I desire and deserve both. For example, I love my FirstGear Kilimanjaro jacket--it's definitely my favorite.

For long trips, I never leave home without it. There are those days, however, when the FirstGear is in the laundry and it's a beautiful day out, where I know I don't need to worry about rain protection or plummeting temps and I want something a bit more stylish.

I bought a silver TourMaster Transition jacket, which I wore around the store for a long time, debating its practicality. I bought silver to match my helmet and the trellis on my bike. Bad idea! The jacket is a dirt magnet! I can stretch three, maybe four outings out of it before desperately needing to toss it in the laundry--that's way too much work. Thus, it hardly gets worn.

The quest for an intrepid cleaners to tackle my jackets and pants continues. But just in case the search fails, the back up gear is clean and raring to go.

It is 22 degrees F this morning. Still, if I take a really deep breath, after the nose hairs thaw a bit, I can smell spring in the air. I really can...