Long Distance toys

I now have several items to make long distance riding more fun, especially on long day rides of SaddleSore distance (1000 miles). Even in the range of 500 miles, these "comforts" will be good to have even if I don't use them. One item I don't use--just never felt a need for it is the Throttlemeister. I got it only because my throttle hand has a wrist that is held together with a  6 inch titanium implant. I figured the Throttlemeister might help when I needed to rest my wrist. But so far I've not felt the need to use it more than a few times. 

I am also not a listener of music on my rides. But it sure came in handy in the 800 miles phase of the SaddleSore, when it was dark and quite lonely out there. I had just enough Ipod juice to get me through the last 200+  miles. Coming back from VA recently, my Ipod got me through twelve hours of riding that Saturday. There is something comforting and relaxing about riding in the dark with love songs playing in your ear. 

This brings me to my new XM satellite portable radio. One thing I've missed on early Saturday morning rides is listening to National Public Radio, C-Span and CNN. Now, I can if I desire. My other newest toy is the Amazon Kindle. What does that have to do with riding? Well, it has to do with packing for my rides. I typically carry four books with me, which takes up far too much room. On those multiday rides when I've tried to take one book, I invariably end up going to a local bookstore and buying books! How crazy is that?! 

Nothing satisfies me more than ending a long day of riding with reading the night away. And, I've just never learned to read one book at a time.  Though I love the physical book, the smell of new--and old--pages, the whole tactile experience, I can't spare the space to tote four books with me on each trip. Initially, the Kindle felt like indulging in a forbidden pleasure, like cheating on books. I've gotten over that. I traveled with it to and from VA. In it, I carried 11 books in a package thinner than the newest Ipod and about the size of a paperback. It comes with an internal Oxford Dictionary and a Theasaurus. I can make margin notes and highlight passages of each book and store my notes as backpages to each book. It's an addicting device that promotes minimalist packing.

Riding this season is about distance + fun, which will be a huge challenge given that I work each day. I read that some mileage club distance riders, to keep in ride-shape, will take an evening or early morning ride of a few hundred miles. One rider came home from work and after dinner, would ride for three or four hours. I hope for a BunBurner this ride season, that's 1500 miles in 36 hours, which I think should be easier than the SaddleSore.  I can actually factor in a nap with the BunBurner--couldn't do that on the SaddleSore.  

At some point during the weekend I'm bound to test out the XM. With regards to my toys, I should add the new heated jacket and pants--and the bike's heated grips. All this reminds me of the adage it's better to have something and not needed it than to need it and not have it.

Stamping Time

We've had some funky weather lately. My riding has been cold and wet and often, both. I'm not complainging--it's better than not riding at all. But the times are a changin' .  The weather reports for the coming weekend will plung Chicagoans into serious summer heat. For me, it is never too hot to ride.  So, I'm heading to Iowa.

Last season I purchased a "Passport: To Your National Parks" book to collect stamps from National Parks, Historical Landmarks and Monuments, Battlefield sites, National Seashores and a host of other sites in the U.S. National Parks Service Program.

I mostly bought the passport book in consideration of another Iron Butt Association ride, this one is their National Parks Tour, which requires a visit to 50 sites in 25 states within one calendar year. This sounds doable until you take out a map and realize linking 25 states together in a short midwestern ride season will be a challenge. But a few weeks ago, the bug bit me try this tour. Why not just do it? Even if I don't complete the tour, my efforts will not be wasted--it's a win-win for me.  

Too bad I didn't grab a stamp or two on my way back from VA last week. Oh well...this gives me another reason (like I need one) to get back to the VA area.  So, it is official stamp collecting time.

My first stamp pursuit will be this weekend as I head to Harpers Ferry, IA to visit the Effigy Mounds National Monument. I wish it were farther away, as the entire trip will be under 600 miles.  If I'm going to have a decent showing in the BMW MOA mileage program, I'm going to need to up my weekly mileage, which is another way of saying, add more fun to the diet! 

Whether I make my 15,000 miles goal I've set for myself, is relevant only to me. Yes, I'm goal driven--probably too goal-driven for some but I take no prisoners. This is my riding goal that only needs to make sense to me. Nothing works for me like a nice long, long ride to cure the dark corners of my life/work.

First stamp coming up!

Bringing Jesse Owens home

(Note to the reader: Sorry for the overly long, draft post. As you can see, I've been rather scant on the posts lately, so indulge me a bit as return to regular blogging). 

Part I

Thursday night

Jesse Owens, my 2008 BMW F800ST, is now in my possession! Insert the voice of Fernando Lamas here, “He looks MAA-VAH-LUSS!”

Claye, a wonderful friend whom I met at the 2008 BMW rally, met me at the airport, hosted me, and allowed me to hang out with her. Being with Claye, Sylvia and Fritz at their home is something I would gladly do even if I didn't need to retrieve my bike. I'm convinced now that my accident last summer brought us all together and for that I'm grateful. How else would I have met Sylvia and little dog Fritz? Given that this wasn’t a trip per se, more like a pick up and leave, we didn’t have much time to visit but we fit in a lot of stuff. Still, great company, excellent food, lots of motorcycle talk and sharing of news on cool gadgets, gear and travel tales. Claye and Sylvia are serious riders and it's a joy to talk to them about it and other things.

(Fritz, the guard dog)

Another thanks to Claye who picked up my bike for me on Thursday, which allowed me to check the bike out that night rather than wait until Friday when Morton's opened. Claye test rode it too, amassing about 30 miles. I was able to get a real rider’s perspective. She liked the ride although she felt the riding position was a bit “aggressive.” The bike checked out and after her ride, Claye tucked it in her garage-like shed. I'm grateful too that the Throttlemeister didn't rear its head during her ride (more on that later). Between Claye and Sylvia, six bikes bring joy and challenges to their lives. Sylvia’s newish, mint condition V-Strom is the latest addition. A bike that will surely lead to many adventures this season.

Friday morning

I was overcome with joy at seeing my bike Thursday evening. It reminded me of the day it became mine. I took a ride along Truslow street until it dead-ended. I picked up another part of Truslow and continued that until Truslow ran out again. It is a smooth road with long sweeping curves and enough rolling places to make the ride interesting. The ST is a great bike. I come alive when I ride it.

(Fritz keeps watchful guard on the ST)

Claye and I spent part of Friday hanging out in her wonderful backyard. That afternoon, before we headed to Morton’s so I could finish up the paperwork on my bike, we had a little (mis)adventure. Fritz the dog is the cutest thing on four legs. He is a hard working dog and valiantly served as my therapy dog the last time I was there. Fritz probably weighs in at 7lbs—I don’t know. . He looks like a miniature Doberman with massive ears. Before leaving for Morton’s, Fritz disappeared, which had us searching high and low for him. I prayed for his discovery—losing him while I was there would be nothing short of horrible. I’d feel like a walking black cloud. We found him. Let’s just say, to sort of quote Cyndi Lauper, “Dogs just wanna have fun.”

(Enjoying a bit of R&R)

(Claye outside Morton's)

Saturday A.M.

(Ready to hit the road, Jack)

Saturday, I donned my new TourMaster electric jacket liner (glad I didn't get the vest) the whole way, I rode comfortably without the pants and remained dry. That is, until the temps dropped at night. Add to that some pretty robust winds in West Virginia and Maryland that blew from the mountains and swirled around open spaces. I was on high alert with plenty of opportunities to practice counter-steering. Riding into the glare of the setting sun was often blinding. It's a discombobulating sensation even if momentary. Survival mode helped me focus closely on the painted lines. Still, it offered some periods of challenge that I don't recall ever being an issue before. It reminded me why I love my Nolan N 102 helmet. The sun visor, which is attached to the exterior top of the clear visor, is a smart design. I just flip the smoky color visor top down when I need it. I used to love my HJC Sy-Max helmet. But it forced extra work and a tricky installation—not want you need on an all day ride.

(A view from Sideling Hills Wildlife Management Area)

Not until nightfall Saturday did the temps drop low enough to make me think about putting on the heated pants. I never did-- not because I didn't need to. My lower extremities were off and on cold. Several times, I thanked my German motorcycle makers for the heat the ST throws off around the legs. I hugged the tank as tight as I could. I wanted to get to the hotel and stopped only for bathroom and gasoline.

(Martin Fabrication Lights)

Saturday night I tested out the new moto-like lights, by Martin Fabrication. Excellent accessory—thanks, Lucas for telling me about these. Riding in the black of night, I was able to throw considerable light across the lower front of the bike and along the side of the road—a most comforting feeling given that my arrival to Zanesville, OH took far more time that I imagined. This was due to three things: weather, physical issues, and my propensity to debate the GPS and some of Claye's directions.

Last on my list of time robbers: the directions. I selectively followed Claye’s direction, mixing them with my own and sometimes the GPS. Somewhere near or after Berkeley Springs, I lost ground. I don't recall much of US Hwy 522, which I should have taken to I-70. I wound up taking on I-68 rather than I-70. No biggie, I checked the map and kenw I would pick up I-70 later. Only later was really really late. I rode I-68 forever and a day! Eventually, I hopped on I-79 and spent time on that too. Don't ask me why or how. I just did. I started feeling as if I'd never leave West Virginia, a state that is not on my list of favorites. When I'm not pressed for time, I don’t mind venturing off track—it's actually fun, part of the whole "it's the journey" mentality. Ordinarily, I'm painstakingly meticulous about my directions—at least in the preparation phase. Then in real time, I play loose with the directions because I know my official route and I've built in some wiggle room. But this was different and by the time my own desire to get moving reached my brain, it had gotten cold enough, too dark and the anvil I felt I was carrying on my head was screaming in my ears.

I arrived at my Zanesville hotel right around midnight! For the most part, I had been riding since 9:15 a.m. that morning—from Fredericksburg, VA! When I rolled into Zanesville, I remember saying, “Where in the H-E- double hockey sticks did fifteen hours go? That's IBA territory except that I had little to show for it. That's when I forgave myself and remembered the three time robbers: the rain, an increasingly sore neck and my cavalier disposition regarding the directions. You play, you pay. It rained from Fredericksburg, VA until about 20 miles south of Berkeley Springs and heavy rains saturated at least two or three locales, which made handling the huge sweeping curves along scenic Highway 17 interesting and fun—albeit, wet fun. But it slowed travel considerably. The neck, well, I think it’s just smarting and letting me know the healing continues. The increasing inability to turn my head sans pain forced me to make many short stops. If I didn’t turn my head sideways, the discomfort wasn’t too bad. It makes sense given that I have only recently been able to return to lifting weights. Three weeks ago, I would rather have given birth than do the simple neck rolls and shoulder shrugs with weights, which used to be easy warm ups to my regular routine. What I used to do with 10lbs weights, I can only do with 3lbs now. Improvement take time. Just part of the healing process.  Nothing more, nothing less.

(Jesse Owens)

Part II  Zanesville, OH to IL via Indianapolis, IN

Sunday, April 12, 2009

It is Sunday morning and the memory of last night's cold hits me again when I open the door to retrieve my heated pants liner from the bike . Lesson learned from Saturday: wear the pants! One glance at the bike, all covered in frost, made me shiver involuntarily. As I disarmed the alarm I made a mental note to carry a bike cover with me next time. I touched the frost on the top case and thought again of last night and whispered to myself that the ride season has officially started. I don't mind riding in the rain. It's the long, bone chilling cold rain that demands all my attention and takes away a tiny part of the joy of riding. I barely noticed the farms and scenery that lined the way. My photographic memories are virtually nonexistent.

I left Zanesville with every intention of making three stops regarding my underground railroad research. After being directed to the wrong place by the hotel proprietor and looking over at the interstate, I decided to head home by way of Indianapolis for lunch at Shapiro's deli. The pain in my neck throbbed but it nothing to worry about.

The ride began with temps in the 30s. The sky was blue jay blue with huge puffy clouds—not a drop of rain predicted from OH to IL. I donned full heated gear but frankly, couldn't get the pants to fire up --totally my fault, as I learned later. The jacket was sufficient and the heat from the bike again helped the lower legs. It took me about an hour to settle down into the ride. I stopped more than usual that first hour. A brief stop is all I seemed to need to recover. Otherwise, I felt great.

(Pickerington, OH The AMA and the Motorcycle Hall of Fame Museum)

I have friends in Granville and thought of them as I passed that exit. I decided to stick to the interstate, figuring I needed to see this not as a trip per se, but a simple task to retrieve my bike. I can always return to see what I missed. The goal now was to get myself and the bike home. But when I reached Pickerington, home of the AMA and the Motorcycle Hall of Fame Museum, which I’ve visited before, I stopped. Although the hours indicate that they should have been open and a few cars were in the parking lot, they were closed. I took a few pictures and left.

After a light lunch, I decided to focus on riding. Listening to music soothed the sore neck. I wanted to get to Shapiro's Deli and indulge in real food. Some say that interstate travel is boring. It’s not my favorite travel method, but I don't find it brain numbing on a bike. I am tortured more by it in a car. I made it to Shapiro's around 3ish. I had a tuna sandwich that ought to be illegal—it's that good. I thought about a full Easter meal there but I don't like riding with a heavy meal in my belly. Lots of people evidently escaped cooking Easter dinner and ate at Shapiro's. I don't eat meat; still, the meat at Shapiro looks and smells good enough to change any vegetarian’s mind. Seriously. If you are within 100 miles of Shapiro, go there for breakfast, lunch and dinner! I found out about Shapiro's from my friend Brent Miller. His brother meets there with some BMW riders each week. I never met up with the group but I now go to Shapiro’s every chance I get to route myself through Indianapolis. It's only about 200 miles for my house, which means it's an excellent day ride choice. I must say, Chicago has some excellent delis. But they are all within a few minutes ride—what fun is that?!

Belly full from half of a tuna sandwich, ice tea and lemon cake, I was ready to roll. Except for a horrible back up in a couple of spots on I-65, the trip was uneventful. My music (which I rarely listen to while riding) ran out on Paul Simon's “Graceland,” leaving me ample time to solve the worlds problems and enjoy the rest of the ride.

One big ride issue...

Well, I wish I could say the trip was perfect. It wasn't. One major problem to report. The Throttlemeister got in the way in a big way. As I've said elsewhere on this blog, I’ve used the Throttlemeister once or twice. I got it in anticipation of problems with a severely fractured wrist (non motorcycle injury) that is held together by a titanium implant. I’ve been told it will “eventually” give me trouble. Being proactive, I thought the Throttlemeister might be a good thing to have if I was going to do a SaddleSore or other IBA ride. I did a SaddleSore and never felt the need to use it. Still, it's on the bike if and when it becomes needed. You know the saying, it’s better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it…or something like that.

Imagine my surprise when riding Saturday when the bike started surging, unexpectedly. It was rather unsettling and more than a bit scary at times. At first, I brushed it off, thinking that my new cold-weather gloves, which are bulkier than I'm used to, had accidentally activated the Throttlemeister. But it started getting odder. When I pulled in the clutch, the engine seemed to rev loudly. Mind you, when this started happening, I just thought it was user error to which I paid closer attention. Then I noticed that downshifting was darn near impossible. Right before the down shift, I'd pull in the clutch, give the engine a blip and that blip would lock the throttle at that spot and the bike would accelerate. Whether I twisted the throttle open or closed, it would remain there. In other words, there was no, give or spring to the throttle.

I pulled over several times and adjusted the throttle. It would function well (I mean it would be deactivated and stay in the non-use mode). Then after 20 or so miles—sometimes less—it would gradually take over again. I'd pull over again and go through the same drill. Outside of Berkeley Springs, I got out my anonymous book and thought of calling for help. I thought of local dealerships. It was drizzling and rather than wait, I thought I'd try it once more to see how far I'd get. I can hear some of you say that this was dangerous and I probably should have stopped riding. I realize it wasn’t a great idea but I kept a very steady throttle hand and checked the play in the throttle at ever traffic light. For the most part, it behaved much of the rest of the way. When it didn’t, I was able to periodically check the spring in the throttle to ward off the unexpected throttle locks.

(A nice rearview, I think...)

Before leaving on Sunday, I checked the adjustment on the Throttlemeister. It appeared to be holding in place. Things changed in Indianapolis, however, where I noticed it had worked its way on again. Such things never happen at a good time. After leaving my great meal at Shapiro's, I blipped the throttle to downshifted. The throttle locked and I had to do a quick correction—I had plenty of time to make the adjustment. This was the most frustrating part of the ride, not something I want to experience again. I will have my mechanic check this out.

A Brush with a BMW Celebrity

While there, Claye got me interested in joining the BMW mileage program. Claye racked up the miles last year and placed well. Had I finished the ride season last year and been part of the mileage program, I would have been in the 13,000 miles range—not a lot but a nice start. Instead, I finished the year with only about 7519 miles after six months of owning the bike.

To join the mileage program, I need signatures of two BMW MOA members. Claye was number one. Friday, while at Morton's I forgot to get the form signed, which meant a return there on Saturday. It meant riding in the rain in the opposite direction of heading home. When I arrived, I asked the first salesman I saw. He was actually the dealership owner. He apologized for not being eligible to sign the form. He scanned the room and looked thoughtfully at those in the shop. Then he looked outside and his face had that light bulb moment appearance.

Before entering the dealership, I noticed a rather elderly gent, preparing to take off. His apparel looked ancient, like those garments favored by the super long distance riding crowd. The dealer looked outside and said, “Hey, how about a celebrity?” He was looking in the direction of the man I had noticed earlier. “How about David, he's a celebrity. He's passed the million miles and has been honored by BMW riders.” His name is David Swisher and before he could get away, we went outside and Mr. Massey, the dealer, made the introductions. Mr. Swisher was gracious, eager to oblige. He even had to dismount and disconnect himself from his bike to unearth his wallet from his top case to apply his official BMW member number. At this point, I am clueless on the identity of this man but judging from the looks of his bike, he and it have seem many places.

He signed the form and agreed to pass on the task of filling out the details to Mr. Massey. I thanked him and wished him well and followed Mr. Massey to the showroom, where he located Mr. Swisher’s info on the computer and completed the form. One word about Mr. Swisher? Amazing. Talk about pressure. I have a lot to live up to. Upon arriving home, I did a brief search on Mr. Swisher. I hit the jackpot. I'm impressed with his motorcycling feats and feel honored that he signed my form.  

The ride took 846 miles to complete: 430 miles on Saturday and 416 miles for Sunday. The season has been launched. I am eager to rack up some long, safe miles in some exciting places.

...Back in the saddle again...

Who was the cowboy who sang that?

Yesterday I fired up the Suzuki SV650 for my first ride since the “get off”. From my extra motorcycle cloths and equipment stash, I geared up--it pays to have extra jackets, pants, gloves, and helmets as my main boots and main jacket remain in VA. The weather Gods were looking down on me. By the time I arrived home, the temps had reached 72 degrees by mid afternoon.

The goal: a nice ride to Kankakee River State Park, which, if one goes the direct route, is reachable in about 27 miles making for a nice 50+ miles first outing. Dave had planned a back road route, which I think meant it would take about 40 ish miles to reach the park. With weather this nice, I didn’t feel taxed by the wind. It was windy and we encountered some robust gusts, which after about 25 miles Dave recommended turning around and heading back. It’s true we were being tossed around but it didn’t bother me. That I was on two wheels and loving every minute, made the wind a non-issue for me. Dave’s new bike is less than a week old. So, given that he didn’t feel comfortable forging ahead, we turned around. However, I would have continued on, blah, blah, blah…What amazes me about this ride is that it was supposed to, according to many people, be a time when I would be nervous. I can’t count the number of people who kindly warned me that the first time getting on a bike might feel a bit disorienting; I might feel nervous, or even frightened. Some said I might relieve the accident. Others told me that one “get-off”—even a minor one, was enough for him to hang it all up. I am glad I heard these warnings. I considered myself immune to these feelings. But the conversations made me give this lots of thoughts while I was home healing. I couldn’t imagine this happening to me.

Well I got on the bike and that was it. It was like meeting an old friend. I had no nervousness, no fear, no concerns and didn’t think of the accident. I thought only of David Hough and I watched everything like a hawk. I felt alert yet on guard. Going from the BMW back to the SV was interesting. One works for the SV ride. That’s not a complaint. One is forced to be far more conscious of every thing. One must think of the gear one is in. It’s even more difficult on the SV to let down the kickstand! I have to be the most vigilant—far more than on the BMW—of throttle control. The Beemer pulls out slowly and is smooth throughout. I don’t have the “wheeling waiting to happen” feeling on it. The SV is a wheelie waiting to happen every second. I love that about the bike. It has tremendous power and pull from first gear throughout. The Beemer seems tamed by comparison and catches up in the higher gears. In my opinion, the Beemer, my most favorite bike to date, has a different fun factor than the SV. If I had to pick one, it would be the Beemer. I can hear someone say, “Yes, but you weren’t on the offending bike!” Therefore, this wasn’t a true test. That’s an important point. We shall see…I just don’t scare easily. I see riding my bike home and finishing my ride as a wonderful challenge for which I feel prepared.Before we arrived home, we stopped at a German restaurant, where Dave had corn beef, cabbage and boiled potatoes—it was after all, St. Patrick’s Day. I had two bites of very bad fish, which the dog later appreciated.

Update. Today, the shoulder and back are smarting but not nearly as badly as I thought it might after nearly 50 miles. Nothing a dose of Aleve won’t settle down.

I am so back in the saddle again!

The Big Red Bird, etc.

Saturday was all about riding (via car, unfortunately) to Savoy, IL to retrieve the new red BMW F650GS. Now that I've sold my car, being in a car for long spans of time is rather taxing. We made it and the big red bird-looking bike was sitting in the back room of Twin Cities, BMW, where a group of Saturday riding regulars were hanging around consuming Dunkin' Donuts and coffee and shooting the breeze. The bike was parked in center of the small area and with the riders sitting or standing around, it looked like they were paying their respects to a departing friend.

A woman who appeared to be around 80 was among the group. Soon she came up to me and showed much curiosity in the bike. "No, it's not mine." She wasn't sure she liked that particular Beemer. In fact, she wanted me to know that she rode BMW when they were really BMWs, when they were "not equipped with all this new fancy stuff." Although she was sweet, nice elder citizen and we chatted easily and for some time, she seemed to have some issues with change--at least in regards to BMWs. She also voiced concerned that the tank bag would prevent the rider from seeing the instrument panel--frankly I was too. It's a towering bag. With the tank bag market being what it is, I wouldn't have gone with that particular bag--but hey, it's not my bike. To each his own.You can tell from the pics that the bike is well-equipped. By the time Dave left, he had had his new Zumo hooked up, had donned his new Gerbings to handle the low 50s temp, and had made his appointment to return in April for the 600 miles service. I got a nice free black tee-shirt out of the deal. After what seemed like a long time, he was ready to hit the road. We headed out in different directions. This trip became a new test for me too as I drove the 100+ miles back. Would my collar bone or the ribs bother me? They did not. Much. I'm fine and ready to put this all behind me.

I stopped at my favorite little Thai-Japanese restaurant in Champaign, IL. I'm told there are other similar establishments there that are far better. I like this one and the two times I've be in it, there has never been over three other people there. Hmmm...Still, the crab fried rice hits the spot so well! Welcome to the garage, big red, which really isn't big at all. It's a 650 label but really is a detuned 800cc, which I was surprised to see the 798cc on the specs. Although the bike has some accessories already installed, it is definitely farkle time. Dave said the seat is "terrible" and hurt after an hour, partly due to the very upright seating and the extra demands this places on the tail.

Sunday, Dave tried the bike out on gravel. "It does better than Queenie (aka Suzuki SV650) does on gravel." Being able to ride on gravel and do a little off roading is why he wanted a more suitable bike and the reason poor Queenie will be searching for a new home. Countdown to VA: Retrieve the F800ST April 10th!

A new Bike, the smell of Spring and the Call of the road...

There’s a new bike in the garage! Dave has purchased a red 2009 BMW F650GS. Saturday, he’ll take delivery of this accessorized dual(ish) sport two-wheeler. In addition to the new farkles he’s ordered for it, he’s don new Gerbings for cold weather motoring. Looks like Queenie will find a new home with the help of Johnny at Motoworks Chicago. Lucky is her new owner whomever that might be. If s/he has half as much fun as I’ve had on her and then Dave, they will wear a permanent smile. If I could, I would keep Queenie, but it’s not about what I want, it’s about what I need. I don’t need two bikes. Period.

Last week, Dave rode Queenie, his longest and probably last long ride on her, to Savoy, IL where he test rode the F650GS. That’s all it took for him to sign his John Henry. He arrived home exhausted form battling a strong headwind the whole way down and darkness on less than idea roads for the return trip. He clocked more than 230 miles and despite his exhaustion, he sounded quite elated that his winter of researching bikes is now over. Too bad he wasn’t able to get the bike at Chicago BMW but they didn’t have a red one in stock. Mike Abt put a call out for other dealers to send him one before his expected shipment (a “couple of months) came in. In the meantime, Dave found one on his own at Twin City BMW in Savoy, where they sell not only motorcycles but BMW automobiles too.

We are also the proud owners of The Spot—thanks, Dave. I think this is his way of keeping track of me. Now, to me, this should eliminates the need for phone calls every night and each day, right?

The date has been set: On April 9th I shall fly to VA and retrieve Jesse O. To make sure the trip can go off as planned, I’ve finally invested in heated clothing as one can never expect the weather to cooperate. I’m up a s Tour Master Synergy jacket and pants. I had to buy a BMW adapter to make it a plug and go. “Why didn’t you get Gerbings?” My simple answer is, personal choice after doing my own independent research. I also invested in some heavier gloves that are nicely lined and absent of a thick palm area in order to allow the heated grips to heat up the hands. The outer areas of the gloves are nicely thick but not so much that it interfers with the controls.My solo trip schedule is coming along fine. This ride season will be different than others, where I only concerned myself with my own schedule. Now, I “must” include Dave on some rides. I’ve agreed to go on some day rides with him. I even agreed to do an occasion weekend ride. But I’m really trying to get across the importance of my need to do 95% of all my riding solo.

I have two advanced classes set up, one for the beginning of the ride season and one near the end. I always look forward to the SRTT classes offered by Ride Chicago. This year, I have a friend who lives in Canada who might becoming just to take the class. I hope that he can make it—that would be too cool—and I’d take the class again even if I’ve already taken it.

I also have another forum pal coming to Chicago. He’s coming from England so he won’t be bringing his bike. I’m looking forward to being an ambassador from my city. I used to give tours for my alma mater (the University of Chicago) and although I’m terribly rusty, I’m looking forward to showing him places one would never see on any Chicago tour. He’s a blues fan so I’ve been checking out the best most non-touristy places.Life is good. My brother’s case continues and I have my moments of sheer anger and sadness then I remember my brother and I do what I can to enjoy the moment and then take each moment as it comes…

I can smell Spring and I can hear the road whisper my name.

Two wheel riding begins...

It seems the ribs have healed--at least enough to no longer feel a daily reminder. The doctor has pushed and probed some still sore spots but it's minor. I'm a serious walker and this past Saturday, I walked 10 miles. Yesterday, I walked from 60th & Ellis Avenue to downtown Chicago, amassing another 10ish miles. The only post-walk problem I have is a minor ache in my back, which goes away with one little blue Aleve. The neck and collar bone is another matter. It smarts some and I now think I know why. Arm swing! The break has result in a rather noisy shoulder and neck area, lots of clicking and popping. It makes sense that swinging one's arms might cause some cackling and later soreness. But! It is far less problematic than even two weeks ago. So, I'm thinking this is all good news. Weather permitting, I will be on my bicycle soon, which I think will be an good substitute test of how this old gray mare is really healing. I'm optimistic that it's just a lot of rust that I have to clear away from the bones and joints. I think some targeted yoga and weights should help smooth things out. So I'm on a mission to be in the best ride-fit shape by April 1. I haven't lifted any weights since the accident--except for the dinky 2lbs therapeutic weight used to promote mobility in the left collar bone and shoulder area. My return to using free weights for the whole body begins in earnest next week. I'm actually looking forward to lactic acid soreness from new exercise efforts. For the most part, the bike is finished. I want it here now! Tuesday, February 10, 2009 was 62 degrees F in Chicago. Motorcyclists were everywhere! I envied them all and ended up with a case of self-induced whiplash. I'd hear that unmistakable sound and spin around, moving my neck faster than a still healing collar bone can tolerate. For reasons too complicated to mention here, I missed the CycleWorld Motorcycle show that was here this past weekend, an event I look forward to each year. It's always a nice mid-winter retreat to signal the coming riding season. Oh well...it will come again. Tuesday's glorious weather was the signal this year that riding season is around the corner.

My first trip of the season is to Fredericksburg, VA to retrieve Jesse Owens. Given that I have little to no time off work, this trip will be pretty straightforward--no time for touring. But the pleasure will be in the ride. The cost of shipping the bike ranges from $475 to around $900. The former is doable but i would never pay the latter. And, the only fun way, is to fly out and ride the bike back. Thoughts of my reunion with that wonderful F800ST carries me through the days...

It's all relative, isn't it?

If what happened last Sunday, had happened many years ago, say 25 years ago, before my daughter was born, or before I was born, I'd probably think of it as a personal tragedy. But it didn't happy many years ago, it happened on Sunday, January 25th, a most fitting day for a woman whose 94 years on this earth was lived piously and devoted to family, church and community. My maternal grandmother, who lived more than two decades after my grandfather died, departed this earth quietly, peacefully and with the full knowledge that she was loved deeply. She always loved Sundays for it was the day that she didn't mind spending in church--all day in church! Grandma spent her life executing her beliefs.

I am among the privileged who lived with my grandparents during some formative years of my life. She is the last of the four grandparents I was fortunate to know fully.  My many conversations with her and my unconditional devotion, respect and love for this woman, make this a poignant occasion; but it is not paralyzingly sad like I used to think it would be whenever I thought of her dying when I was young.  

Today is the celebration of  her humble, long life. I will remember her stories about growing up at a time when opportunities were denied people and women like her. She was a fabulous arm-chair historian who would tell me, "I didn't read this in a book, I lived it."  I remember when I was young and she made me come in the house, right in the middle of a serious game of double dutch, to watch and listen to some preacher-man give an "important" and "historic" speech.  I was mad because this fouled up my jump rope game.  Today, it is only because of her that I now can say I saw Martin Luther King deliver his "I Have a Dream" speech on television.  In hindsight, I recall how I settled down and enjoyed getting swept up in the collective euphoria and energy of my relatives who cheered and commented on the speech in all the right places.   

I will always remember that she smiled and her eyes brightened when I told her, four years ago, that I had a motorcycle.  She never distrusted my judgment. Her passing was inevitable and as she used to say, "it happens to the best of us and to the worst of us."  It is indeed a celebration. 

I am blessed and fortunate to have had her in my life.  The way I see it, I will ride this, and all the seasons to come with another angel to accompany me and hep light the way. 

We're ready--Almost!

Jesse Owens is nearing completion. Yay!!

A small nick I had on the right side of the bike (unrelated to the accident) is also being repaired. Chicago BMW estimated that it would cost $600 to replace the entire panel (my desire). I chomped on the bullet and ordered the panel. When the replacement panel finally arrived from BMW (Germany), it was damaged! Back it went. Glad I asked Morton BMW in VA, where Jesse's been since October, for an estimate. Their quote was $100 less than Chicago BMW. Morton also told me about a guy they "highly" recommend, who does repair and detail work. I went with him and saved a few bucks--and feel better that I helped keep a small entrepreneur in business. Some friends told me to leave the boo-boo alone because it gives the bike character--yeah, right. I wished their bikes similar character. If Jesse were an old bike, I might leave that mark alone, but I earned that scratch when the bike was barely a couple of months old--far too new to endure a blemish.

When Jesse comes home he will look new and that matters to me. I am still scratching my head over my "get off," so having Jesse flawless will be therapeutic. Jesse will sport new moto-like lights. Just when I was going to plop down my hard earned dollars for PIAA lights, I decide to go with Martin Fabrication lights, which were recommended by a trusted friend who knows about all this stuff. Come spring I will fly to VA and ride Jesse home. No date in mind yet, but I'm working on that. Since it might still be cold, Jesse will have a new, auxilliary fuse panel to plug in the winter jacket and pants--which I don't yet own--working on that too.CycleWorld Motorcycle Show makes a stop in Rosemont, IL in February. I will be there! It will be my third visit, Dave's first. The show has become symbolic for me. It means the ride season is around the corner. I am looking forward to serious motorcycle-ride therapy. I am still challenged by the demands on my energy and time. But I'm working to get free. The bones continue to heal--way too slowly for me. I really thought I'd be whole by now! I've accepted that it is only in my dreams that I'll get to do some cross-country skiing this winter. Oh well...this too shall pass. In the meantime, I'm doing all I can to embrace living in what feels like the arctic plain! We're under a weather advisory--nothing new here. We have heavy, whirrling snow, frigid temps, and a wind chill that will slap the skin off your bare face. Brrrrrrrr! Yes, Jesse and I are ready--almost.
***
Note: Liberty Mutual finally admitted their error and corrected the problem. Still, as soon as my insurance with them has expired, I will be looking for another company.

Finally, a new year!

The last few months I've been waiting for this new year like no other. I'm inspired by new things and new opportunities to begin fresh. I'm willing myself to feel better. Physically the collar bone is healing. I can't believe that it hasn't already. I continue with the exercises but I have developed some sort of chronically sore neck and shoulder that I'm told is normal. The ribs are healing too. Although rolling over in my sleep on my back wakes me up immediately! Ouch! I'm convinced, however, that the ribs will get stronger soon. I now have bumpy parts at each break site, evidence of calcification around the fractures. That's okay but my once smooth collar bone now sports a fairly large lump that resembles a mountain peak. I see it as I see my motherhood-earned stretch marks: these are the dues one pays for the choices made. 

Emotionally, I'm better too. I know for certain that each day brings hope for better days ahead. To all those whom I've promised to get back to, I will very soon. I am looking forward to catching up on all my friends' blogs, which I've missed terribly. Now that the holidays have passed, I can shift my focus back to more self-selected tasks. While I know that the new year can deal me anything, even some more difficult times, I am strengthened by surviving all that has come before. 

The image in the picture is a gift from my dear friend, Claire. The little girl is painted on wood. She is holding onto hope. She hangs on for me too.

Happy New Year. May you show strength in all that 2009 brings your way.

One more thing. Thanks to all of you for everything!

Holiday Greetings and New Year's Wishes

As the year draws to a end and another one begins, I am sending all of you well-wishes.   May your holidays be filled with joy, happiness and gratitude that you've come this far, that you've survived the highs and lows, the good and the bad, the joys and the sorrows. No matter the challenges we've all faced, we're still standing. We're all blessed and fortunate to see another day and believe once again in the power of hope and what tomorrow may bring. 

Wishing you all health, peace, and balance in all that you do in the coming year.

Holding each of you in my heart.

Happy Holidays! 

Ring out the Old and Welcome in the New Year.

Thanks for sticking with me this year.  See you on the other side!

The continuing quest for answers...

I'll try to keep this short. My life feels consumed by the circumstances surrounding my brother's death--just in case the readers here haven't figured that out by now. I am sorry that feeling stuck keeps showing up here. Believe it or not, I am getting a better.

The officer assigned to the case has finally gotten the paperwork processed to pull the rental car off the road. It's been three weeks (plus) since the hit and run. The officer told me that the car is "very clean" with the exception of evidence of bullet holes! This is consistent with the story the driver told the police, which is that he was being shot at and he didn't, as far as he knows, hit anything or anyone. He claims that another car was involved. I asked the police if he asked the guy why he changed the tires on the car. The answer: They were damaged due to bullets. This is insane! Could it be they were changed to cover up evidence of the accident? I asked why he hadn't been arrested for again driving another rental without a license. The police officer told me. "Someone else would have to arrest him, if I did, I could be charged with harassing him." I just don't get this at all.

The officer told me that there is "no doubt" that this driver hit and killed my brother. He needs an eyewitness or the driver's conscious would need to lead to a confession. IF, however, the car, which has been sent to the State of IL police for investigation of DNA evidence, is returned without DNA evidence, the case is basically closed. Unless someone can put him behind the wheel, this guy walks. The passenger has mysteriously disappeared, we think, because the rumors are flying that he's being sought. No one seems able/willing/ to provide anything but anonymous information.

I've written to an investigative reporter with one of the newspapers here and I'm still waiting for a response. Last week, the house belonging to one of the people whose name I gave to the police, was "shot up" as part of some gang conflict. I don't believe this has anything to do with the case but is symptomatic of the problems frequently transpiring in that community.

If the car is returned with DNA evidence that matches Michael, the January court date for the driver then will be upgraded to a felony. He'll be in January court to address three relatively minor citations he was given when he turned himself in.

Finally, another person who has information on the case has been visited by the mother and grandmother of the driver. The rumor is that she is being paid to keep silent. I've talked to this woman to find out why she hasn't called the police with the info she has. Her excuse, "I'm sick and coughing blood. And, I don't have minutes on my cellphone." I resisted the temptation to say I'd get the phone turned on. To date, I've been squeezed for a total of $500 by another "eyewitness."
I've been shown the error of my ways and will not go down that route again. Desperation will make one do strange things and the people who have unfortunately learned to survive by any means necessary can smell a sucker a mile away.

So, I remain determined, but frustrated and more than a little exhausted.

Yo-Yo post and emotions...

The last post is evidence, I hope, of my desire to move on to more motorcycle related posts. I am trying. However, it seems that this period of my life is dominated by my brother Michael's tragic death. I am heavily involved in the investigation. In fact, from what I've been told, I've supplied the investigator with most of the information he has.  I've been helped by generous, amazing people in the community. I'm frustrated and more than a little perturbed that the man who struck Michael still walks the streets--and drive--with impunity. 

I've supplied the license plate number of the car; the name of the passenger in the driver's car; info that the car was a rental (which turns out to be true!); and, the name of several people who saw the man in the car. Yet, he hasn't been picked up. That is until, last Wednesday. He turned himself in to the police accompanied by a lawyer. The community has been mounting pressure in the form of subtle distancing. Some have repeatedly asked him to come forward. The rumor on the street is that his family has encouraged him not to come forward.  

The investigator called me Wednesday night and said, "I have good news and I have bad news." The good was that he was in the police station that very moment. The bad is that he was going to "walk out" with only a few traffic tickets.  One ticket was for driving without a license. Another was for knowing of a traffic accident and not reporting it; the other, I think, was for leaving the scene of an accident. He said he didn't do it and that another car was involved.  The police officer was restricted in what he could ask him because his lawyer prevented that. The officer told me that his man has a "long criminal record" and that he "knows the system" and that he just might get off if no one can actually put him behind the wheel. I don't get this. What about the mounting evidence that does every thing short of that? It's called hit and run, for heaven sake! A person does it and leaves the scene, often long before anyone can get a plate number. But in this case, it happened in a relatively small community, where every one knows everyone else. Where there are no secrets in such places. Where people talk to each other and confessions are inevitably given to friends who talk...

But every person, and there have many, who have called the motor vehicle department anonymously and they have supplied this man's name. This information has been unequivocal in its consistency. No other name has been mentioned!  I even obtained the name of the person who helped the culprit change the tires on the rental car! Yet, this car has not been impounded. I'm trying to resist the feeling that the investigator doesn't care enough to make this a priority case. I could be wrong. But it's how I'm feeling. I keep asking why the car hasn't been impounded. The last response I was given is unacceptable. "We're working on that but the rental company said the car is currently being rented, so we're waiting until it is returned." What the heck is that all about?! That's a bunch of DNA evidence that is being destroyed! The rumor is that the car was re-rented by the same family.  Why doesn't the police have the power to say, "That car is suspected of being involved in a traffic fatality, get it here immediately!?" I can't help feeling that if Michael was a Bush or a Kennedy or even an Obama, his case would garner more attention. I'm hoping this is just my anger talking and not the deep corners of my heart. 

I pressure the investigator often to find out what is happening with all the names I've supplied, some of whom have been interviewed. But I keep hearing that they need someone willing to put their name on paper, to come forward in a public sense. What the police don't seem to get is that these people are afraid. They live in a place where the police do not always "serve and protect."  This man is supposedly part of a crime family.  One threat has already been issued. One person supposedly has already received money and/or drugs to keep quiet. I understand the community's fear. I understand also that many fear the police too. Good people have been harmed in the past.   From their perspective, it must be difficult to know the good from the bad. I get that. And, I'm trying to appreciate the bind this puts people in. Still.The guy is now driving another rental car. I gave the police that license plate number too. I am out some money for paying for some of this information. I am not rich. I can't afford this and I only did it for one critical piece of information. The person didn't know I would pay nor did the person ask. But s/he is in obvious dire financial muck so I did it for his/her children and as a token of my appreciation that the person risked personal safety to come forward and do the right thing. This individual recently moved from the community to a place I will not mention here. This person can put the guy at the scene, standing over my brother. This person saw him drive away. This person saw him return and blend in with the crowd that had assembled at the scene. This person saw the car drag my brother. What more do they need to arrest him?!

The police has told me that they "hope" that by the time he comes in for the traffic tickets they can upgrade the charges to a felony but this is a big "IF." I've been told to prepare myself that this could take a year or more. I don't get that. Why can't they lean harder on the guy who was the passenger, the man who helped change the tires, or, the guy who was threatened to keep quiet--why hasn't these been pursued to the nth degree? 

The investigator told me that when a hit and run occurs, that case will take primacy over old cases. Michael's case is considered old. He was hit 21 days ago; he's been dead 17 days. Strange how something so recent to us, something so fresh in our hearts is considered "old."

I am not a litigious person. But I have contacted a lawyer to see if I can get info on the rental company (Alamo!) and get that car examined. Apologies again for unrelated motorcycle content. I'm trying to switch gears, no pun intended.   But this case is what's on my mind. Not motorcycles. At least not today. Just this.

Get Your own ride!: Triumph Sprint ST or BMW F800ST?

Re-entry rider, Dave has now, after only one season of riding the Suzuki SV650, turned his attention to dedicated tourers. I'm glad he's thinking of a ride he will select and that he doesn't feel obligated to hang on to the SV650. I can understand why he'd want to select his own ride. Riding styles and tastes and comfort levels are subjective. Still. I'm going to hate seeing the SV650, aka "Queenie," go and unless I can come up with a good reason to keep her in the family, I think she'll be putting a smile on a new owner's face come next riding season. It's a shame 'cause that little bullet-proof bike has it all. It's a naked, standard bike that thinks it's a sportbike. It's like owning a fun, frisky pony but without poop to clean up. 

Dave has found that the SV, while a "great" bike on which he has already put about 2000 miles, is not perfectly set up for him. He feels it vibrates too much, which contributes to prematurely tired and achy hands. I never felt any such vibration. He's tried to loosen his grip, wear different gloves, but his problem persists. I suggested those foamy grips that slip on the handlebars but so far he's not tried those.A new bike is in order because he's now figured out the kind of riding he wants to do. Used to be that a bike did whatever you asked of it; just point it in the direction you wanted to go and there you went! Specialization is ubiquitous--no area of our lives have escaped the joys--and curse--of specialization.  A month ago it seemed as if he were leaning more toward gravel and back roads riding. I suggested the V-Strom or the new BMW F650GS or 800GS. That changed with is his historical interest in roads like Rt. 66, Lincoln Highway (Rt. 30) Dixie Highway and Rt 1 and desire for long distances with an emphasis on comfort. He wants an out of the box ride-ready bike, not one he'll have to invest extra monies to get tour ready.  So, his move to the sport tourer has evolved rather naturally. 

The December issue of Road Runner has an article on the Triumph Sprint ST and one ride story taken on Moto Guzzi's Norge. While Dave likes both, each is heavier than ideal for him as are other sports tourers such as Yamaha's FJR, Kawasaki's Concours, and Honda's VFR.  Dave doesn't want a bike too much over 500lbs wet. This reduces his choices considerably. The Triumph is almost too heavy but doable. He likes the matching hard bags that are standard on the bike, the ABS, the gel seat, and its technical, performance features. If he could get the Sprint ST in red, or a nice blue one, he's be ready to sign his name. But dealer distance, resell value, insurance costs and maintenance issues need to be weighed first.

A serious contender must be the BMW F800ST, my bike--and I don't even like matching couple stuff! I'm recommending it nonetheless. I know he'd love the bike.  I offered him several opportunities to sit on it (not ride it) and he always said, "I'll try it later." Now he regrets that. When the new bike itch starts pestering you, one of your life's goals it seems is being able to sit on as many two wheel motorized vehicles as possible. Until the spring, I am bikeless. I'm rooting for him that he finds a bike he loves and one that he feels he HAS selected entirely on his own and not one that he's settled for because of inheritance. Honestly, I had ulterior motives about him taking over the SV.

I remember reading on a woman's oriented motorcycle forum about a woman who wanted to get into motorcycling, which initially thrilled her motorcycle riding spouse. He used this as an opportunity (she didn't say this directly, but it was there between the lines) to buy himself a new bike because he would kindly give her his bike. Well...his bike didn't fit her! It was some behemoth HD and not only did it not fit, she didn't like the dang thing!  She had her heart set on some cute small displacement bikes that she thought would suit her well.  To her, the HD  was too big, too intimidating, and too manly looking.  When she mounted it, it generated instant fear, which is no way to build confidence as a rider.  Her husband also didn't think she needed the MSF course, he said, "If I can't teach you, no one can." Well, it ended up being a disaster for the woman. She hated the bike and dropped it repeatedly, which did not sit well with her husband, who continued to push her and yell at her to adjust to the weight, even telling her she'd "grow" into the bike. His reasoning was that she could flatfoot the bike so it was a perfect fit. The woman deserves a purple heart for tolerating such utter nonsense!  

The woman decided to abandon her riding. She gave up, which her confused husband didn't seem to understand why. Some of us suggested she take her desire to ride into her own hands and not rely on her husband to teach her, pointing out that she would be best taught by someone who is certified to teach motorcycle safety skills, someone who would not yell at her, and would patiently help her build confidence. Where she lives, the price for MSF is rather hefty. We suggested she save the money and take the course. We encouraged her to start anew the following season.  I wanted to tell her to unload more than that heavy bike, but I kept this to myself.  She could pay for the MSF class and get a small displacement bike to build skills and confidence on rather than believe her husband about "growing" into a bike. Some encouraged her to talk to her husband and try to get him to agree with her plans. Although I didn't share this with anyone, that recommendation would have not been on my list of things to do--he sounded beyond help--but that's just me. I truly believe in the emancipation proclamation about freedom.  The point of this tale?The SV650 was my bike. Dave inherited it from me and has enjoyed it immensely for many miles. As much as I'd like to keep the bike, he needs and deserves to get his own ride, one that he researches, one that whispers his name when he sits on it. I almost hope he doesn't get the BMW F800ST. I'd always feel a tad goofy having identical bikes--but I'd get over it if he decides to join the BMW F800 family. The  '09 F800ST comes in new colors so we won't match there--and, as I remind him, I'm a solo rider. It's not like we'll be together all the time.

I wish him well as he continues his quest. I'm preparing myself for truly letting go of the SV650, which shouldn't be terribly difficult...I've been surprising myself a lot lately on what I can get through...

A tribute to Superman

Note to reader: This is another, more personal entry. Feel free to skip. Believe me, I’d rather have more motorcyle related material to write about but for now, this is my life.

Friday, November 21, 2008 at 3:37 p.m. my brother Michael died. Not an ordinary death but a brutal one at the hands of a hit and run driver whose conscience has yet to compel him or her to come forward. Vehicular homicide, they call it. Whatever. This individual couldn’t have known Michael, not like his family and friends knew him. To know Michael would make it impossible to objectify him and leave him abandoned on the street near death. Crowded into the ICU over the last few days, especially minutes before he was unplugged, were some of the many people who did know him and love him.

Michael was a really funny guy—even when he didn’t always mean to be. When we were younger and under the same roof, I used to tell him that he should go to Hollywood and hang out on the streets, someone surely would discover him and appreciate this talent. I often added because “I don’t!” I’d say that because I was one of his favorite targets, particularly when we were young. For the most part, I refused to let on to him how funny I thought he was. He called me “Gurl” more often than not, or “Big Sis” in reference to birth order rather than to my size. I’ve always been way too serious and Michael enjoyed making me laugh.

Every girlfriend who came to visit me suffered the torture only Michael could administer. Michael would ask them for a date, tell them how “fine” they looked, and would spend much of the visit pestering them to make him their love interest. All of them laughed and thought he was cute. I just thought he was annoying. He was a skinny kid, imagine the J.J. (Jimmy Walker) character from the 70s sitcom, “Good Times” and you’ll have an idea of just how skinny Michael was—not the dreamboat he considered himself. A couple of days ago, I called one of those girlfriends whom Michael loved to flirt with. She was heartbroken at the news. She asked me to whisper to him that he had to make a full recovery if he ever hoped to have a chance with her. She is a happily married woman but we both knew that Michael would laugh at hearing that and that if there were some way to return to collect on that, he would. But from Tuesday night when he was brought in, to Friday afternoon, he never regained consciousness.No matter what was transpiring in one’s life, Michael could find some odd humor in it. If you could mix Eddie Murphy with Rodney Dangerfield, you’d get Michael. His teasing of me when we were growing up often made me retreat to my bedroom with the door closed. I was forever reading and Michael was forever interrupting that in any way he could. He’s stand there on the outside of my closed door talking with his mouth pressed to the edge, distorting his voice--anything to continue torturing me. Once I bought my own orange juice and put it in the refrigerator and probably put my name on the carton (with three brothers, I often did things like that). Michael told me that he drank from the carton. I was grossed out and royally perturbed. Michael inherited that orange juice. I always had my suspicions that he hadn’t drank from it and said it only make me surrender it to him. As a child, I used to get mad at him for deliberately breathing on me. Yet, when I left for college and came home for visits, one of the first questions I’d ask is, “Where is Michael?”

Two, among the millions of funny, memories I’ll cherish: Michael was about seven years old, which made my other brother eight and me nine. We were sitting in front of the television watching Superman on a hot summer afternoon. My pregnant mother was preparing dinner and my father hadn’t made it home from work. We had no air conditioner so the window to our second floor apartment was open (it had no screens). Michael stood up and announced, “I’m Superman. I’m gonna fly.” He extended his arms and circled the room. We ignored him to watch the real Superman. Michael disappeared somewhere in the house. When he returned we didn’t notice that he had tied a blue plastic bag, the kind clothes are returned in from the cleaners, around his neck and it trailed behind him like a cape. He announced, “I’m Superman, watch me fly.” We ignored him. I saw him in my peripheral vision. Then we heard him say, “Look, I’m gonna fly.” I turned to see Michael sitting on the window ledge. In an instant he was gone!

For another split second I sat in disbelief. I must have been thinking, “Did he just fly?” I jumped up and looked over the window ledge. There he was, in a heap on the ground with that plastic bag in place and blanketing him. I ran to the kitchen to tell my mother who told me to return to the television so that she could finish dinner preparations. It took persistence to make her understand that Michael had somehow exited the room via the window. She ran faster than I thought a mother could. Michael was moaning on the ground. Fortunately, he suffered only a broken arm and a stern lecture from my parents, especially my father, not to play Superman ever again. Just an aside: Michael’s cast had to put on twice because he picked the inside cottony fuzzy stuffing out so much that it weakened the cast and it had to be redone. Warnings to him about how own cast removal followed.Funny story #2. We were up very late at night with my father watching television, so it must have been a Friday or Saturday night. The rule was we could stay up as late as we wanted but when sleep came upon us, we’d have to go to bed. Michael fell asleep and our father told him to go to bed. Michael protested that he wasn’t sleeping. He was given another chance and another. Finally, had was ordered to rise and go to bed. Michael stood up and wobbled, barely able to walk. Except for the glow from the television, the living room was darkened. Michael didn’t turn around as he should have to leave the room. Instead, he walked to a corner of the room, stood there for a brief moment and then we heard something. The sound wasn’t immediately familiar to me. But it was to my father. I remember him yelling, “Boy, what are you doing?” Michael was urinating! Apparently, he was sleeping walking—the only thing that could explain why he went to that corner, unzipped is pants and let go! We later teased him about “peeing” in front of us and sleep-peeing. Our father’s yell bolted Michael alert and our collective laughter turned a black kid very red. Words can never describe his embarrassment nor can words capture the years of teasing that incident brought him. Whenever his teasing got to me, I could always add: “At least I don’t pee in front of people.” His response was usually, “Gurl, shut up!” Then he’d laugh. I’ll have to think hard on it, but I don’t ever remember Michael ever being really mad at me.

Michael was kind-hearted and generous with what he had, which wasn’t much. Still, he wouldn’t hesitate to share part of that with anyone. Judging from the neighbors who came to see him in ICU, it is not an understatement to say that everyone loved him. The men, women and teens who happened to be there when the machines were unplugged, weep openly. I witness women leading their grown sons out of the room. I saw teenagers vowing to find out who did this horrific thing to Michael.

I was somewhat relieved that he would never live with those injuries he suffered. Michael was not the wheel-chair or vegetable type--no one is, really. I was relived that, given that his life was no longer viable, we let him go on the date that we did. That next day, November 22, was my birthday, which forty-five years ago became indelibly marked by JFK's assassination--a day that I remember too well. Adding Michael to that date would have caused me grief beyond measure—and not something Michael would have wanted.Gone now is a man who once tried to fly like Superman.

RIP

Postscript: Michael never hesitated to tell me how much he liked both of my motorcycles. In fact, a time does not exist when he wasn't proud of something I'd accomplished.