The Cell Phone Menace

I usually don't immediately pass drivers ahead of me in the HOV lane that are going too slow. I've found it's necessary to observe the slowbie's habits, especially if they have tinted windows.

This afternoon, I wound up behind the stereotypical frustrating hybrid driver in the HOV lane. Couldn't maintain speed up hills. Would speed way up when someone passed on the right, then slow down again for no apparent reason. I noted a speed variation between about 80 mph and just over 55 mph.

If the driver is just slow, I just pass and don't think about it any further. But when they're inconsistent in their slowness, I keep back until I can get a car or two of cushion between my rear end and their front end.

That opportunity didn't present itself today, so I had one slow ride (except for occasional quickness) home. Eventually, the slowbie ahead of me got to the right, and I passed. I glanced over and, wouldn't you know, they were on a cell phone.

I think there is enough anecdotal evidence about the dangers of drivers on their cell phones to justify immediate vehicular detonation when they're spotted...

Apparently I've Got A Target On My Butt

I knew she was going to do something stupid. I just knew it. You know, universe, I wouldn't mind being surprised for the better now and then...

A little red Japanese coupe of some sort I'd spotted the second I let the clutch out came screaming into the intersection from the right, oblivious to the red light until it was too late to do much except scrub off some speed. I braked, hard, and was choosing my best option when I heard squealing tires behind me. I hoped it was just my back wheel, and thought "Fuck. Today?"

If you're at all anxious at this point, rest assured, my nickname is Lucky for a reason.

Somehow, the little red Japanese coupe of some sort hung the tightest right turn I've ever seen, and suddenly there was nothing but open lane ahead of me. The driver made several apologetic waves and was clearly freaking right the hell out, so I just waved as I passed her. No harm, no foul.

Which is right about when the adrenaline rush settled down and I discovered I'd braked hard enough to mash my nuts against the gas tank. Note to self - don't ever do that again.

I was quite awake for the next two miles of my ride, and good thing too, because some jackass turned left in front of me. He just stared at me with a stupid expression on his face, and got a much less friendly gesture from me than the driver of the little red coupe.

You know, I'm aware that riding has risks. I'm aware that I'm invisible on the road. But I'm not accustomed to having so many "oh shit!" moments within a couple miles.

Mafia Mike's PIzza - Lightning Quick Unofficial Pizza Review Follow-up

Back here I said Mafia Mike's needed practice. They got it. So good.

That First Taste

One taste. One taste and you'll know whether or not motorcycles are really for you. The first time you swing a leg over the seat, grab the bars and feel the motor thrumming underneath you, the first time you realize how loud any motorcycle is compared to the stifling cocoon inside any car produced more recently than 1967. The first time you feel the clutch catch and the bike moves and you'd better damn well hang on because it'll be just as happy to leave without you.

One taste is enough to know if motorcycles are really for you. You'll know if you really want to keep hanging on, and make the machine do your bidding. Motorcycles are not tame, like cars, those sleepy dogs that will gladly wait for you to get your act together and protect you whether you deserve it or not. Motorcycles will not forgive stupidity. A motorcycle will be happy to pitch you off and leak petroleum products all over you if you don't have the grit to hang on until you reach whatever destination awaits you. A motorcycle will, at some point, bite you.

One taste will let you know if you're really cut out to ride.

There are those, I think, who fall in love with the idea of motorcycles. They've got one in their garage, probably on a battery tender, life support for a machine destined to moulder away unloved, hidden, and caged because its owner didn't pay attention to that first taste.

But for some of us, that first taste touched something hidden. Something buried far away in the depths of our minds. Something locked up by so-called rationality, and the shrill warnings of authority figures we should have ignored in the first place. And when we felt that energy surge from the motor, through the handlebars, up our arms, arcing across the resistance of common sense and into our spirits, something primal broke free. It shook loose and took hold, told us that this motorcycle was the key to a freedom that cannot truly be explained, cannot be packaged, cannot be sold as much as the lizards in the marketing machine wish it could be. Because this is the freedom to set aside fear, to see risk, danger, death staring right at us, and to stare right back into that darkness and ask, "What have you got?"

And you can't leave the key to that freedom rotting in your musty garage. One taste is all you need to know if motorcycles are really your thing.

If that first taste is not good to you, listen to yourself. Find something else you groove to. Your own brand of freedom is out there, somewhere. Find it. Love it. And leave the motorcycles to those of us who can handle them, who want to handle them, who need to handle them.

And for those of you who had that first taste, and discovered you like it, if it left you craving more - I am sorry. Your family will think you've lost your mind. Friends and acquaintances will try to show you the error of your ways. People are going to worry about you. They're going to tell you about their friends or family who were bent into new and unexpected shapes by demon motorcycles. Some will be hostile. So you'll make new friends. Friends who understand. Friends who also found that first taste irresistible.

And you will lose some of them. Motorcycles do not forgive stupidity, or inattention, or a lack of control. And it does not matter who was stupid, inattentive or out of control. The squishiest person involved is the one who gets hurt.

It's a risk we're aware of, and I won't lie and tell you we don't fear death, or injury. But would you rather fear pain and death, or fear life?

Motorcycles are not for everyone. That first taste will let you know if motorcycles are really for you.

Riding To The Doctor

Utter incredulity. That's was the expression the nurse wore when I stomped into the clinic this morning with my gear on, carrying my helmet. Apparently, not many folks in Phoenix have the grit to ride to the doctor's office.

I've heard a bunch of stories about doctors giving motorcyclists long lectures about their choice of transportation, and was wondering if I'd get to experience a "murdercycle" lecture during one of my appointments.

During the last couple of weeks, I've actually been to a couple of different medical offices and, naturally, I rode to each appointment. At each, I half-expected an anti-motorcycling lecture, but apparently when I responded, "every day," to the question "So you ride a motorcycle?" they decided I was a lost cause.

Well, that's not strictly true. One of the nurses told me that "a lot of people" don't like bikers. I wanted to say, "Nuts to them," but she was holding a rather long needle at the time, so I decided it might be best if I were diplomatic.

Luckily, we quickly got back to the topic of my immediate health and away from the dangers of motorcycles. I've tried explaining to people that, statistically speaking, it's mainly old, drunk guys that don't ride often who get killed, but they never listen.

Anyway, the good news is that I survived the trips to the doctor unscathed, because it would be terribly ironic to have a nasty wreck on my way to or from a medical office...