Somehow the gremlin that lives in the VX800 has gotten himself (herself?) trapped in my head and is trying to bust his/her way out.
Tonight I practically had the damn bike finished. I filled it up with coolant, and a few minutes later I heard a strange noise. Like dripping.
Like coolant dripping.
From an impossible to get to place, it turns out.
Presently, I have a headache so nasty that a beer sounds freakin' awful. So... I guess the review is going to be postponed for a bit, given that tomorrow is the first day of National Novel Writing month.
Stay tuned, kids...
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
1.5 hours, 4 bolts, 2 covers...
You know, 3 of those bolts and 2 of the covers went on lickety split.
But that fourth bolt...
The fourth bolt was the kind of bolt that you have to stop 45 minutes in and halfway through tightening, say "fuck it" and work on something else for a while.
Right now that bolt is still only half-tightened. It's in a tight spot, and I can only tighten it a quarter turn (or less) at a time.
One good thing about sweating over one rotten stinking bolt for way too long? The ice-cold, American macro-brew afterwards.
I've got more wrenching to do tomorrow night, and as a special Halloween treat for y'all, I'm brewing up another Manly Beer Review.
But that fourth bolt...
The fourth bolt was the kind of bolt that you have to stop 45 minutes in and halfway through tightening, say "fuck it" and work on something else for a while.
Right now that bolt is still only half-tightened. It's in a tight spot, and I can only tighten it a quarter turn (or less) at a time.
One good thing about sweating over one rotten stinking bolt for way too long? The ice-cold, American macro-brew afterwards.
I've got more wrenching to do tomorrow night, and as a special Halloween treat for y'all, I'm brewing up another Manly Beer Review.
Pickup Truck Drivers - What the hell is wrong with you?
Why is it always an idjit in his shiny, pretty, never-seen-a-days-work pick 'em up that wants to race me? Newsflash for you people: I am faster than you. Way faster. In fact, my slow bike is faster than you.
Racing you would be like a ten year old kid pushing over a toddler and laughing because the littler kid is weak.
I don't need to outrun you to know I can. That's why I don't. There is only one truck-like vehicle I would be interested in racing, and that's Mr. T's van. I hear it's hella fast...
On my ride home today I had two trucks (at different times) diligently racing to stay in front of me, as if I couldn't blow past them without even getting into the Triumph's powerband.
Now, the reason this irks me so much is that these small-pee-pee-havin'-inbreds that need to prove whatever-it-is put me in a dangerous/frustrating situation. I end up stuck right next to a blowhard in a huge chunk of rolling metal. My options are to:
Racing you would be like a ten year old kid pushing over a toddler and laughing because the littler kid is weak.
I don't need to outrun you to know I can. That's why I don't. There is only one truck-like vehicle I would be interested in racing, and that's Mr. T's van. I hear it's hella fast...
On my ride home today I had two trucks (at different times) diligently racing to stay in front of me, as if I couldn't blow past them without even getting into the Triumph's powerband.
Now, the reason this irks me so much is that these small-pee-pee-havin'-inbreds that need to prove whatever-it-is put me in a dangerous/frustrating situation. I end up stuck right next to a blowhard in a huge chunk of rolling metal. My options are to:
- Speed and get in front of the truck. Yeah, right. Because I like tailgaters. And guys who think I've just threatened their masculinity in some way. Speeding in front of them means I have to continue going fast to stay away from the jerks.
- Fall back. Yeah, right. Because I like tailgaters and screwing up the flow of my own ride to stay behind Steve-Dave and Sue-Ann-Jo-Jo.
- Hang out and hope I don't get run over. Yeah, right. As if I trust any of the other slack-jawed morons on the road.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Where the Magic Happens this Year
Decision Reached: Holy Rollers II is the November Novel.
You'll be able to read it here, starting November 1.
You'll be able to read it here, starting November 1.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Something Approaches
Thursday is November 1st.
Yikes.
That means after today I've got 3 days to get my act together for National Novel Writing Month.
I've got three novel ideas in the Thunderdome that is the creative part of my brain, fighting to see which will emerge as this years Nano attempt. One idea has already hacked off most of the limbs of the other two (eg. it's already partially planned), but now it's kind of tired and the others are hungry for revenge.
Anyways, the official Phoenix pre-Nano party was today. I briefly considered going before I remembered that as a budding eccentric, reclusive writer, the last thing I should do go out and make new friends.
Good thing cooler heads prevailed.
Yikes.
That means after today I've got 3 days to get my act together for National Novel Writing Month.
I've got three novel ideas in the Thunderdome that is the creative part of my brain, fighting to see which will emerge as this years Nano attempt. One idea has already hacked off most of the limbs of the other two (eg. it's already partially planned), but now it's kind of tired and the others are hungry for revenge.
Anyways, the official Phoenix pre-Nano party was today. I briefly considered going before I remembered that as a budding eccentric, reclusive writer, the last thing I should do go out and make new friends.
Good thing cooler heads prevailed.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Michelob Lager - Yet Another Manly Beer Review
My favorite purveyor of malty goodness was sadly lacking in beer options for real men tonight. They must get their shipments on Wednesdays...
As such, I settled on a six-pack of Michelob lager. I've never had Michelob, that I can remember. Well, I did snatch a couple quick swallows of my dad's Michelob Dry when I was a kid, but that hardly counts. At $5.99 for a six-pack, the price tag was a little high, but real men do splurge for the good stuff once in a while.
Now, we all probably know Michelob for their ill-advised "Ultra" beer, for low-carb diet doofuses. Or maybe not. Michelob advertises more than Schlitz, but that isn't really saying much. Part of the Anheuser-Busch family of beers, Michelob is the brand that kind of got forgotten.
Originally intended as a beer for men of exceptional taste, one might worry the brand is edging towards Micro-Brew status. It's not, don't worry.
Since there were no cans of Michelob available at my favorite local retailer, I had to settle for the weird lava-lamp-lookin' bottles. Apparently in the way-back, Michelob bottles won a fancy design award. Then they stopped making fancy bottles. Then a couple years ago they started up with less-fancy, goofy looking bottles.
Whatever.
The beer itself, if you were to pour it into a glass (which, as we know, men do not do unless they are pouring it into a glass that holds more than one bottle/can worth of beer), is a darker golden color. The head is thin, as would be expected. We American men don't drink foam, after all. If we did, we'd be at Starbucks instead.
If I had to describe Michelob in one word, it would be: bitter. If you like hoppy beer, Michelob is for you. The bitterness isn't overpowering, but it is the first noticeable quality of the beer. As such, this is a beer I would recommend for drinking along with a cigarette. The two complement each other nicely, and inspire one to kick back and remark "There's nothing like a cold beer and a cigarette at the end of the day."
Not that you should smoke. Or drink alcohol. That shit'll kill ya.
There are a few, dare I say it, fruit-like undertones to Michelob, and a significantly more complex taste than a lot of other Macro-brews. Jesus, this stuff is practically fancy beer. So, if you're the type who adds extra Velveeta to your Kraft Mac & Cheese, Michelob is probably for you.
Personally, I won't be getting another six-pack of Michelob. It's alright, but I found Miller High Life preferable, and cheaper.
Check out my previous Manly Beer Reviews here:
As such, I settled on a six-pack of Michelob lager. I've never had Michelob, that I can remember. Well, I did snatch a couple quick swallows of my dad's Michelob Dry when I was a kid, but that hardly counts. At $5.99 for a six-pack, the price tag was a little high, but real men do splurge for the good stuff once in a while.Now, we all probably know Michelob for their ill-advised "Ultra" beer, for low-carb diet doofuses. Or maybe not. Michelob advertises more than Schlitz, but that isn't really saying much. Part of the Anheuser-Busch family of beers, Michelob is the brand that kind of got forgotten.
Originally intended as a beer for men of exceptional taste, one might worry the brand is edging towards Micro-Brew status. It's not, don't worry.
Since there were no cans of Michelob available at my favorite local retailer, I had to settle for the weird lava-lamp-lookin' bottles. Apparently in the way-back, Michelob bottles won a fancy design award. Then they stopped making fancy bottles. Then a couple years ago they started up with less-fancy, goofy looking bottles.
Whatever.
The beer itself, if you were to pour it into a glass (which, as we know, men do not do unless they are pouring it into a glass that holds more than one bottle/can worth of beer), is a darker golden color. The head is thin, as would be expected. We American men don't drink foam, after all. If we did, we'd be at Starbucks instead.
If I had to describe Michelob in one word, it would be: bitter. If you like hoppy beer, Michelob is for you. The bitterness isn't overpowering, but it is the first noticeable quality of the beer. As such, this is a beer I would recommend for drinking along with a cigarette. The two complement each other nicely, and inspire one to kick back and remark "There's nothing like a cold beer and a cigarette at the end of the day."
Not that you should smoke. Or drink alcohol. That shit'll kill ya.
There are a few, dare I say it, fruit-like undertones to Michelob, and a significantly more complex taste than a lot of other Macro-brews. Jesus, this stuff is practically fancy beer. So, if you're the type who adds extra Velveeta to your Kraft Mac & Cheese, Michelob is probably for you.
Personally, I won't be getting another six-pack of Michelob. It's alright, but I found Miller High Life preferable, and cheaper.
Check out my previous Manly Beer Reviews here:
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Where the Street Lights End
Downshifting to bring the Triumph into its powerband, I count down the last three streetlights and lunge into the darkness beyond the last row of McMansions. I hit a bump in the dark, and the road changes from smooth and new to rough and old. The tiny lights of another city shine in the distance for a few minutes, before the view is obscured by mountains.
This is the border of the middle of nowhere, at night.
I turn on the brights and keep my eyes on the sides of the road, watching for the vicious, spiny, venomous creatures that live in the desert and dart across the road at night for thrills. The headlights only illuminate the road to the top of the next hill, after that is darkness and possibly death.
A new pair of headlights appear in the distance ahead of me. I dim my own headlights, and keep my eyes on the white line to my right as the pick-'em-up truck rolls by on my left. I switch to my brights again and wait for my night vision to return.
I reach a stop sign at the center of nowhere. Another pick-'em-up, this one with only one functional headlight, stops on my right. There are three men in the truck.
I roll through the intersection and the truck turns and follows me. Soon, I realize I can see my own shadow in front of me.
Shit. The truck is so close to me that it's one headlight is projecting my silhouette in sharp relief on the road ahead. This is not good loops through in my head as I try to ignore the headlight reflecting in my mirrors, blinding me, and navigate the curves in front of me.
There's nowhere to pull over in the middle of nowhere (This is not good.), so I ride on until an opportunity appears to get this truckload of fucktards off my ass. (This is not good.) The air temperature drops. (This is not good.) After a few miles (This is not good.), I reach a bridge with a paved breakdown lane (This is not good.), get to the right, and brake hard (Ha ha, fuckers!).
The truck passes me, and fear turns to rage. Who are they to risk my safety like that so far away from civilization? I can only assume malicious intent. The motor screams 600 cubic centimeters of hate as I accelerate and get back onto the road, hoping the force of my anger will blast the truck off the road.
Fortunately for them and my conscience, their crummy truck does not explode or careen into the nearest convenient volcano. My rage subsides, and I ride on. The spooky mood I worked to cultivate prior to the stop sign in the center of nowhere was gone.
Eventually, I hit the end of the road, and have to venture towards the place where the streetlights begin once more.
As I ride, I notice a new set of headlights in the distance behind me. Feeling mellow, I change to the right lane and wait to be passed, still rolling at a calm and reasonable 80 MPH.
Soon enough, I'm passed. By the Highway Patrol.
Oops.
They speed past me, apparently indifferent to the forward velocity of my transport. I ride on, without slowing down.
After a mile or so, the Highway Patrol car suddenly pulls over to the left and brakes.
Shit.
I roll off the gas and get my speed down to a legal 62 MPH. I don't want to look guilty, so I speed up again to a solid 65 MPH and pass the patrol car.
I maintain my rate of travel and keep an eye on the headlights that be receding.
Why aren't they receding?
Why are they getting closer to me?
Soon enough, the patrol passes me again, this time very slowly. They're checking me out, no doubt about it.
I try to decide if I should give the officers a cheery wave, and decide against it. Instead, I look at them briefly, then back at the road ahead of me. Nothing wrong here officers, carry on.
Soon enough, the patrol car is out of sight and I take a minute to wonder what the hell that was about. I come to the conclusion that it was my lucky night, or the cops are gearheads, and leave it at that.
Before long, I pass the landfill. The wind is blowing the wrong way, and I try hard not to breathe through my nose. At least, I try until I realize the air has a taste too, and I'm disturbed by that fact more than the smell.
A light appears in the distance, and I quickly arrive at the first streetlight. I'm relieved and disappointed to reach civilization again. Soon enough I reach the streetlight that means I'm home so I stop the bike, head inside and go to bed. There'll be more riding tomorrow.
This is the border of the middle of nowhere, at night.
I turn on the brights and keep my eyes on the sides of the road, watching for the vicious, spiny, venomous creatures that live in the desert and dart across the road at night for thrills. The headlights only illuminate the road to the top of the next hill, after that is darkness and possibly death.
A new pair of headlights appear in the distance ahead of me. I dim my own headlights, and keep my eyes on the white line to my right as the pick-'em-up truck rolls by on my left. I switch to my brights again and wait for my night vision to return.
I reach a stop sign at the center of nowhere. Another pick-'em-up, this one with only one functional headlight, stops on my right. There are three men in the truck.
I roll through the intersection and the truck turns and follows me. Soon, I realize I can see my own shadow in front of me.
Shit. The truck is so close to me that it's one headlight is projecting my silhouette in sharp relief on the road ahead. This is not good loops through in my head as I try to ignore the headlight reflecting in my mirrors, blinding me, and navigate the curves in front of me.
There's nowhere to pull over in the middle of nowhere (This is not good.), so I ride on until an opportunity appears to get this truckload of fucktards off my ass. (This is not good.) The air temperature drops. (This is not good.) After a few miles (This is not good.), I reach a bridge with a paved breakdown lane (This is not good.), get to the right, and brake hard (Ha ha, fuckers!).
The truck passes me, and fear turns to rage. Who are they to risk my safety like that so far away from civilization? I can only assume malicious intent. The motor screams 600 cubic centimeters of hate as I accelerate and get back onto the road, hoping the force of my anger will blast the truck off the road.
Fortunately for them and my conscience, their crummy truck does not explode or careen into the nearest convenient volcano. My rage subsides, and I ride on. The spooky mood I worked to cultivate prior to the stop sign in the center of nowhere was gone.
Eventually, I hit the end of the road, and have to venture towards the place where the streetlights begin once more.
As I ride, I notice a new set of headlights in the distance behind me. Feeling mellow, I change to the right lane and wait to be passed, still rolling at a calm and reasonable 80 MPH.
Soon enough, I'm passed. By the Highway Patrol.
Oops.
They speed past me, apparently indifferent to the forward velocity of my transport. I ride on, without slowing down.
After a mile or so, the Highway Patrol car suddenly pulls over to the left and brakes.
Shit.
I roll off the gas and get my speed down to a legal 62 MPH. I don't want to look guilty, so I speed up again to a solid 65 MPH and pass the patrol car.
I maintain my rate of travel and keep an eye on the headlights that be receding.
Why aren't they receding?
Why are they getting closer to me?
Soon enough, the patrol passes me again, this time very slowly. They're checking me out, no doubt about it.
I try to decide if I should give the officers a cheery wave, and decide against it. Instead, I look at them briefly, then back at the road ahead of me. Nothing wrong here officers, carry on.
Soon enough, the patrol car is out of sight and I take a minute to wonder what the hell that was about. I come to the conclusion that it was my lucky night, or the cops are gearheads, and leave it at that.
Before long, I pass the landfill. The wind is blowing the wrong way, and I try hard not to breathe through my nose. At least, I try until I realize the air has a taste too, and I'm disturbed by that fact more than the smell.
A light appears in the distance, and I quickly arrive at the first streetlight. I'm relieved and disappointed to reach civilization again. Soon enough I reach the streetlight that means I'm home so I stop the bike, head inside and go to bed. There'll be more riding tomorrow.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
But... WHY?
Tonight I spent a solid two and half hours in the garage working on my other bike. Given my sporadic bursts of work towards getting the VX800 roadworthy once again, I've forgotten what a horrible, evil, cruel and generally rotten trick the Suzuki designers played on all of us. It's not as bad as, say, a Ford Bronco II in terms of impossibility, but it's getting there.
After grunting and swearing and taking several stretch-and-calm-down breaks, I finally got the last valve adjusted (yay!).
This stupid valve-adjustment has to be one of the most stupidly difficult things I've ever done. It's not that adjusting the valves was that hard (though it wasn't a walk in the part), it's that the previous owners had done some weird stuff to the bike.
Like this double-ended bolt holding on the rear intake valves on the hard-to-get-to side (and sealed with loc-tite, naturally).
It took me an hour of grab-twist 1/20th rotation-grab with a pair of needle nose vice grips to get that little bastard out.
Why?
Why would anyone put that kind of fastener in that spot? It would have been easier to put a proper bolt in. The hardware store sells them for fifty cents (or less) each.
I can only assume that someone was fucking with me.
Making matters worse was the open-mike-night going on across the street at the coffee shop. "When the Lights Go Down In The City" wasn't good when Journey did it, and Steve Perry was a significantly better singer than whoever the yodeler at the coffee shop was. *
Well, I'm going to bed now, because I hurt and I'm severly annoyed and I want this dumb day to be over.
*Note to open-mike-night performers: Pink Floyd, Journey and Radiohead songs sound simple because the musicians in those bands were/are phenomenal. Even other bands who have made it can't perform them as well as the originals. Please stop covering them.
After grunting and swearing and taking several stretch-and-calm-down breaks, I finally got the last valve adjusted (yay!).
This stupid valve-adjustment has to be one of the most stupidly difficult things I've ever done. It's not that adjusting the valves was that hard (though it wasn't a walk in the part), it's that the previous owners had done some weird stuff to the bike.
Like this double-ended bolt holding on the rear intake valves on the hard-to-get-to side (and sealed with loc-tite, naturally).
It took me an hour of grab-twist 1/20th rotation-grab with a pair of needle nose vice grips to get that little bastard out.Why?
Why would anyone put that kind of fastener in that spot? It would have been easier to put a proper bolt in. The hardware store sells them for fifty cents (or less) each.
I can only assume that someone was fucking with me.
Making matters worse was the open-mike-night going on across the street at the coffee shop. "When the Lights Go Down In The City" wasn't good when Journey did it, and Steve Perry was a significantly better singer than whoever the yodeler at the coffee shop was. *
Well, I'm going to bed now, because I hurt and I'm severly annoyed and I want this dumb day to be over.
*Note to open-mike-night performers: Pink Floyd, Journey and Radiohead songs sound simple because the musicians in those bands were/are phenomenal. Even other bands who have made it can't perform them as well as the originals. Please stop covering them.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
More eBay Goodness!!
Get a load of these neat-o Atlas Editions/Edito-Service Motorcycle Photo Cards I'm selling on eBay right now.
They're pretty. There's 20 of them. They've got motorcycles on them. You've got $5.99 buring a hole in your wallet.
GIVE ME YOUR MONEY.
Get over to eBay and start bidding before some other chump makes off with these cards.
They're pretty. There's 20 of them. They've got motorcycles on them. You've got $5.99 buring a hole in your wallet.
GIVE ME YOUR MONEY.
Get over to eBay and start bidding before some other chump makes off with these cards.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Manly Beers Continued - Miller High Life
A small confession - back in my beer-snob days, I would refuse Miller High Life even if it meant I didn't get any beer.
Oh, the shame.
I didn't know about the proud tradition of this fine American pilsner. The Champagne of Beers has been on the market since 1903. That means American men have been savoring the High Life for almost 105 years. Think on that for a minute. Nearly 105 years of Miller Time, and counting...
Ok, so tonight I brought home this six pack of unassuming beer I found hiding in a remote cooler in the liquor store. For $3.60, I figured I could afford to pour it out if it sucked.
But, the thing is...
It doesn't suck.
Really.
High Life is what I would call a good pizza beer. It won't replace my beloved Grain Belt Premium, but since I live in a state where the glorious butter-beer is not sold, High Life will do the trick. It's light, crisp, and thoroughly satisfying. The head is rather thin but, come on, it's a pilsner.
My big complaint? The liquor store didn't have cans. I don't know if High Life even comes in cans. Glass bottle have this horrible habit of breaking when they get knocked off the shelf in the garage. With a can, there's a chance that you can save the beer in time and not lose all of it.
Anyway, get yourself to your local brew-seller and start living the High Life.
For a previous manly beer review, read here about Schlitz.
Oh, the shame.
I didn't know about the proud tradition of this fine American pilsner. The Champagne of Beers has been on the market since 1903. That means American men have been savoring the High Life for almost 105 years. Think on that for a minute. Nearly 105 years of Miller Time, and counting...
Ok, so tonight I brought home this six pack of unassuming beer I found hiding in a remote cooler in the liquor store. For $3.60, I figured I could afford to pour it out if it sucked.But, the thing is...
It doesn't suck.
Really.
High Life is what I would call a good pizza beer. It won't replace my beloved Grain Belt Premium, but since I live in a state where the glorious butter-beer is not sold, High Life will do the trick. It's light, crisp, and thoroughly satisfying. The head is rather thin but, come on, it's a pilsner.
My big complaint? The liquor store didn't have cans. I don't know if High Life even comes in cans. Glass bottle have this horrible habit of breaking when they get knocked off the shelf in the garage. With a can, there's a chance that you can save the beer in time and not lose all of it.
Anyway, get yourself to your local brew-seller and start living the High Life.
For a previous manly beer review, read here about Schlitz.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Moto-Naughtiness
One of the tricky aspects of motorcycling that really ought to be touched upon in rider's training classes is the amount of temptation the average sickle bum has to contend with every time he/she gets on a bike.
Given the nimble handling, quick acceleration and small size of all but the least-capable bikes, there are a lot of opportunities to be rather naughty. Incidentally, that is the real reason your mom said you weren't allowed to have a motorcycle.
In gridlock, it's easy to slip between lanes (and cars) to keep moving. On ramps provide no end of thrills to those of a certain mindset. Then there are the myriad parking opportunities. Where can't a fellow find enough space to park his motorcycle? Sure, the rules say I'm not allowed to park on the sidewalk, but my heavy boots tell a different story.
The joys of hooliganism aside, the worst part about all this temptation (for me) is a strange mental tic of mine. Whenever I do anything even slighty illegal, I get the Judas Priest song "Breaking the Law" stuck in my head. Not the Beavis & Butthead version, mind you. The real deal.
Does this happen to anyone else?
Given the nimble handling, quick acceleration and small size of all but the least-capable bikes, there are a lot of opportunities to be rather naughty. Incidentally, that is the real reason your mom said you weren't allowed to have a motorcycle.
In gridlock, it's easy to slip between lanes (and cars) to keep moving. On ramps provide no end of thrills to those of a certain mindset. Then there are the myriad parking opportunities. Where can't a fellow find enough space to park his motorcycle? Sure, the rules say I'm not allowed to park on the sidewalk, but my heavy boots tell a different story.
The joys of hooliganism aside, the worst part about all this temptation (for me) is a strange mental tic of mine. Whenever I do anything even slighty illegal, I get the Judas Priest song "Breaking the Law" stuck in my head. Not the Beavis & Butthead version, mind you. The real deal.
Does this happen to anyone else?
Monday, October 08, 2007
Riding to Work... on a Saturday?
One of the problems with working as a salaried code-monkey (apart from having to live with being a code-monkey) is the ever-present possibility of computer related trouble on weekends.
For the last year, this hasn't been an issue, and I can count on one hand the times I've had to stay late. Truly, I have a great gig.
All the same, things go wrong eventually. This weekend, things went wrong.
It wasn't a huge issue, and I really should have been able to take care of it from home. Except, for some reason, I couldn't. As an experienced programmer I can tell you, computers suck.
So, I had to go in to the office. The weather was friggin' glorious! Apparently we're having "unseasonably cold" weather. Elsewhere in this great nation, that sucks. Here in Phoenix, it's like Plowfest came early.
Due to the glorious weather, low level of traffic, and the high spirits that tend to accompany such conditions, it was hard to behave. I hear that the police tend to notice more if one is piloting the only vehicle on the road at twenty five miles per hour over the speed limit. I had to constantly check and lower my speed on the freeway.
Now, unlike most mega-metropolises, downtown Phoenix is entirely dead on weekend. It was just me, the Triumph and a lot of stoplights on the city streets Saturday afternoon. The stoplights, of course, provided ample opportunities for hard acceleration.
Hard acceleration usually leads to excessive speed on a vehicle that can hit 60 mph in 4.5 seconds from a dead stop. Oops.
Anyway, I resolved the situation at the office with a quickness, and did my best to ride at a sedate and prudent speed on my way home.
I'm sure you all know how that turned out.
For the last year, this hasn't been an issue, and I can count on one hand the times I've had to stay late. Truly, I have a great gig.
All the same, things go wrong eventually. This weekend, things went wrong.
It wasn't a huge issue, and I really should have been able to take care of it from home. Except, for some reason, I couldn't. As an experienced programmer I can tell you, computers suck.
So, I had to go in to the office. The weather was friggin' glorious! Apparently we're having "unseasonably cold" weather. Elsewhere in this great nation, that sucks. Here in Phoenix, it's like Plowfest came early.
Due to the glorious weather, low level of traffic, and the high spirits that tend to accompany such conditions, it was hard to behave. I hear that the police tend to notice more if one is piloting the only vehicle on the road at twenty five miles per hour over the speed limit. I had to constantly check and lower my speed on the freeway.
Now, unlike most mega-metropolises, downtown Phoenix is entirely dead on weekend. It was just me, the Triumph and a lot of stoplights on the city streets Saturday afternoon. The stoplights, of course, provided ample opportunities for hard acceleration.
Hard acceleration usually leads to excessive speed on a vehicle that can hit 60 mph in 4.5 seconds from a dead stop. Oops.
Anyway, I resolved the situation at the office with a quickness, and did my best to ride at a sedate and prudent speed on my way home.
I'm sure you all know how that turned out.
Monday, October 01, 2007
Hard Lessons (for Someone Else)
Saturday night I went to Joe's Farm Grill again with a group of chums. As we were leaving, we saw a young woman, a young man (apparently not previously acquainted) and a very pretty new Bajaj scooter (which belonged to the young woman). The guy was trying to start the scooter, and we heard her say "here, let me." She got it started, and then let the guy back on.
This was her first huge, dumb mistake.
Dude got on again. This was his first huge, dumb mistake.
He revved the scooter way up, and we heard her say "No, like this" and then "That's the brake, this is the clutch."
Then we saw the impossible happen: Dude did the biggest wheelie ever, on a 4-stroke scooter. If it hadn't been for the rear fender, I'm sure he would have ended up underneath the bike.
As it was, the front end slammed down again, to one side. He wobbled a bit, and then dumped the pretty new Bajaj. Hard.
I ran over to help him collect his teeth, but luckily for him they were all still plugged into his stupid head. No souvenirs, I guess.
The damage to the bike wasn't too terrible. A bent fender, a broken headlight lens and maybe some twisted handlebars.
I don't know how, but the young woman refrained from strangling the son of a bitch.
Lessons learned:
This was her first huge, dumb mistake.
Dude got on again. This was his first huge, dumb mistake.
He revved the scooter way up, and we heard her say "No, like this" and then "That's the brake, this is the clutch."
Then we saw the impossible happen: Dude did the biggest wheelie ever, on a 4-stroke scooter. If it hadn't been for the rear fender, I'm sure he would have ended up underneath the bike.
As it was, the front end slammed down again, to one side. He wobbled a bit, and then dumped the pretty new Bajaj. Hard.
I ran over to help him collect his teeth, but luckily for him they were all still plugged into his stupid head. No souvenirs, I guess.
The damage to the bike wasn't too terrible. A bent fender, a broken headlight lens and maybe some twisted handlebars.
I don't know how, but the young woman refrained from strangling the son of a bitch.
Lessons learned:
- Never let someone else ride your bike unless you have personally witnessed their riding abilities.
- If you are flirting with a cute scooter girl, wrecking her bike is a good way to guarantee you'll be sleeping alone that night.
- Never let someone you don't know ride your bike.
- Never ride a bike that belongs to someone you don't know because, sometimes, shit happens.
- Dude, wheelies are way cooler when a scooter does them.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)