Moto Mind-Control

So the Triumph has been in the shop for far, far too long now. I brought it in recently for it's 12,000 mile service, and discovered it needs a new chain. Yay! And the shop needed to order the new parts to replace it. Double yay!

In place of the S4, I've been scooting about on the Vepsa for the last couple weeks. It's still fun.

I've noticed a lot more tailgaters and people getting too damn close to me at stoplights, as well as general fuckery on the part of the Phoenix cagers.

I've discovered two tricks that seem to work well for controlling the minds of the unwashed cager masses.

• If you can't get out of the way of a tailgater (In the HOV lane, traffic next door is too slow to move over), start weaving in the lane. I don't know if this scares the asshats, or just makes them notice me, but 9 out of 10 times they back off.
• At stoplights, keep an eye on your mirrors. When you see a cage approaching behind you, flash your brake lights a few times. I don't know why, but this really works for slowing them down and getting them to stop further back.

Incidentally, messing with tailgaters is great fun. On my way home recently, I wound up getting off the freeway directly behind someone who had been riding my ass. Due to the nimble handling and brisk acceleration of the Vespa, I was able to consistently maneuver my way ahead of this car for the rest of my ride home. I consciously stayed out of their lane (no need to let them ride my ass some more), but zipped ahead and through traffic.

The driver got so pissed. Really, you can't pay to have that much fun.

Something There Is That Doesn't Love A Cage

"Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence."
- Robert Frost, "Mending Wall"

Poetry eludes me. I had to study that damn Robert Frost poem for several months when I was in school. If I had bumped into Robert Frost at the time, I would have made sure to bump him hard, with my pointy and frosty cold shoulder.

I think the boring old bastard was on to something, though, at least in the poem above.

I've been thinking about cages lately. Humans seem to love cages. We, of our own free will, put ourselves in cages as often as we put others (willing or not) into cages. We put cages around things we like, around things we don't like, between us and the people around us, and after we've caged everything, we sing because we're secure and happy and don't have anything to fear.

Or so we think.

But the fear creeps in to our little cages. It comes and stops our songs. So we start building new cages to keep the fear out. The fear is tricky, though. It slips right through our new cages, so we try to build even stronger cages. Other people come and sell us new, bigger, better, more sophisticated cages, and kindly build them right around us. How nice of them! They're concerned about our well-being! Right?

We'll keep the fear out, and the rest of those rotten bastards too, we think to ourselves as we watch the bricks and bars rise around us.

Soon it's too late to wonder if the cages are keeping danger out, or keeping us in. One day it dawns on a few of us that in our race to keep out the fear, we also blocked out beauty, wonder and joy.

Most of us slowly forget about real living. Instead, we accept the twisted beauty and "wonder" that we've foolishly let in to our cages. Real beauty passes unnoticed. Real wonder is suppressed. We teach any new cage dwellers to live and feel just like we do.

The cages don't care what we do. Their only concern is keeping out out, and in in. Everyone else in the world is trapped in their own cage, so they can't help us get out of ours. And then we find out the people who sold us our cages like us right where we are, thank you.

To top it all off, we've got thousands of years worth of cages keeping everything seperate.

And so, we end up fucked. All there is left to do is try and break down the cages we so carefully built around ourselves. Busting out of our cage is hard enough, but adding to the difficulty are the people who have fooled themselves into believing that they love being caged. If you try to get through any of the cages they built, these people will fight you tooth and nail. They'll fight you because you're trying to let the fear get in to them again.

Be wary of those happily caged, because the fear has already taken them and you don't want to end up on the wrong end of a fight-or-flight decision.

Cages are the physical manifestation of our collective fear. When you see a cage, stop to think about whether that cage really needs to be there. A lot of times - most of the time - the cages aren't protecting us from anything.

The most noble thing we can do is escape from the cages keeping us in, and break down the cages we built around others.

Coffee and Milk In a Tube

Seriously, New Zealand must be a wonderful, wonderful place to live. And a product like this could only have been invented by a motorcycle touring fiend. Stick a metal canteen full of water under your seat/on top of the motor and when you need to stop for a break, squirt a bit of coffee-concentrate in your mug and add hot water.

I wonder how it tastes.

If you aren't familiar with Sandwich Girl's blog (how I found out about this amazing product) about life at McMurdo Station in Antarctica, well, you oughta check it out. No motorcycles, but damn interesting all the same.

Success has Many Faces

For example, tonight, I was most successful in learning several new ways not to take the radiator off the VX800.

I did successfully remove a radiator hose, by cutting that sumbitch open and yanking it off. You'd better believe that was satisfying, too.

Anyway, I can't get the darn radiator loose. The fan shroud (or whatever you'd like to call it) hits the frame. And, of course, I can't get the fan shroud loose because one of the previous owners evidently removed and 3-ton epoxied every stinking bolt on the bike. Seriously, some bolts just should not have loc-tite on them...

One other discovery - it is now officially darn hot in the garage. You all know me, though. I prefer to do my wrenching in the post-apocalyptic desert heat. The sweat keeps my brain lubricated.

Me Thinks

Just an assortment of small thoughts and observations today.

• I've been riding the Vespa to work this week. I always forget that the Vespa demands a different riding style than the Triumph. On the freeway, if I'm stuck behind a slow driver, I have to remember to just kick back and enjoy the mellow ride. When riding the Triumph, on the other hand, I just have to kick it in to a lower gear (or not) and enjoy passing that slowbie.
• Lady Luck hasn't decided on a name for the Vespa yet, but in my mind I've been calling it The Magic Chair.
• Today, I made one of the local crazy people very uncomfortable by accident. I thought he'd said something to me, so I asked "What's that?" He twitched a bit and said "I didn't say anything to you. Are you dreaming?" and a bunch of other stuff under his breath. He's probably afraid of my new haircut.
• By the way, did I mention my new haircut? I took a cue from Surly and chopped all that hair right the hell off. I haven't gone all the way to skin yet (I want to let my scalp get used to the idea of air and sun first), but I'm going to. The reason for this is: I realized that hairless people are frequently the movers and shakers. Think about it: Ming the Merciless, Lex Luthor, Daddy Warbucks, Dr. Steel... Whether you like their goals or not, you have to admit that they get shit done. Why? Because people respect the genius with the chrome dome. No one respects the hippy.
• Short hair feels great in a helmet.

Well, That Probably Isn't Good

I got up the motivation tonight to go out to the garage and start fiddling with the VX800 again. As I mentioned before, I need to take the radiator off in order to really get to the rounded bolt on my valve cover.

So, I removed all the necessary bolts from the radiator, and then went to drain it.

Nothing came out. Well, maybe one drop escaped. Otherwise, nothing.

That explains why the fan and temp light weren't working.

They'll Take Over Your Life

On my ride in to work this morning I rode by (ok, blew past) a DeTomaso Pantera. The Pantera was stuck in the fast lane, while I was enjoying every last inch of the HOV lane.

Some of you long-time readers might recall that I have a bit of a thing for Panteras. They're kind of odd cars: an italian-built monocoque chassis with a mid-mounted Ford V8, and a German (bullet-proof, or so I hear) transmission. They were only imported to the U.S. for 3 years.

For several years, I schemed and plotted and dreamed about how I was going to get my twitchy little fingers on one of these exotic, rust-prone beauties. I printed out pictures of them and used them to decorate my cube. I read about how to clean one's Pantera with clay and a spray bottle to keep it from melting into a puddle of rust. I spent hours going through die-cast models at every big-box store I went into looking for one to keep on my desk (until I found 20 of them on a bargain table at the grocery store. So THAT'S where they were.). I had dreams about driving my Pantera around.

Suffice it to say, I was a touch obsessed.

This morning, I saw the Pantera, thought "Hey, neat," and continued on my merry way without a second thought.

How could that be?

Motorcycles.

If you ever wonder what I'm thinking about, it's probably motorcycles. Sometimes pizza. But usually if I'm just sitting there, I've got motorcycles on the brain. Riding 'em, fixing 'em, plotting to sell 'em, looking at 'em - it's what's on my mind if I'm not otherwise occupied.

And why not? Motorcycles are awesome! I realize some people don't enjoy the sport, but for me riding a fast, black motorcycle is taking a giant step closer to nirvana. And a Pantera, stylish as it is, just can't beat a motorcycle when it comes to speed, handling, versatility, gas-mileage and adoring looks from the ladies. Not to mention value-for-money.

So instead of being jealous of the presumably-mustachioed Pantera driver, I kept riding, enjoying the freedom, power and grace of my sweet, sweet motorcycle.

Life is good.

Sure, I just need a few bungee cords...

On Saturday I dragged Lady Luck out riding with me. I was going to look at musical instruments, and one of the best ways to avoid making a purchase in the heat of the moment is to arrive on a vehicle that can't transport the new toy.

The new toy in question, of course, was an upright bass. I've been dreaming about getting one and learning to play it for several years.

The trick in double-bass-shopping is finding a dealer who sells double basses and knows what the heck they are talking about. Many stores carry them, fewer have a salesperson that knows anything about them, and fewer still have nice instruments and knowledgeable staff.

Our first stop was at the String Emporium. The proprietor is the Assistant Principal Double Bass in the Phoenix Symphony Orchestra, so it's safe to assume he knows a bit about the bass. Steve showed us (and played) several beautiful instruments.

He was curious about Lady Luck's Vespa, since he dreams of owning a scooter. He was also curious about how I was going to bring home a bass on my motorcycle. I told him I just needed a few bungee cords and some luck.

After talking to Steve for a while, we rode over to the String Shop of Arizona. They have a super cool store, but none of the basses in my price range sounded as nice as the ones at the String Emporium (several of the basses that were way out of my budget sounded nice, though). I felt the coolest part of the String Shop was the large chest of drawers they had containing a variety of violins and violas. I need drawers full of musical instruments.

The String Shop was fun because nobody expects a rough-looking biker and a scooter-chick to walk into a store that gets most of it's business from orchestra kids and their moms.

Speaking of orchestra kids and their moms, one of the orchestra kids was waiting to get into mom's car when I started my bike. She just about jumped out of her skin. I felt kind of bad, but mostly amused (the Triumph isn't THAT loud, it's just a weird noise when it starts).

Anyway, by that point I'd tried a heck of a lot of basses out, and decided to get a bass from the String Emporium. So, now I'm the proud owner of a beautiful Roth bass (that is somewhere between 30 and 50 years old).

For those of you wondering how I got the bass home on my Triumph... I didn't. Some things just aren't possible (without a sidecar).