Torture
Having the Road King torn down on the lift makes for a bittersweet form of mental anguish and self-induced torture.
June, as the devil's month, affords me little if any riding time. My vocation's dependence on local agriculture's annual harvest of grain means the sixth month is filled with excited and demanding phone calls from the salt of the earth rather than extended trips aboard the 2-wheeled instrument of death. Granted it's only been like this my entire life, but that does nothing to lessen the sting as untold thousands (it seems) of motorsickles blaze by my site of indentured servitude. The only thing worse than wrenching on a 3500 diesel motor at 8 pm on a June Sunday is having your friends rattle pipes and honk as they pass by on a beer run. Bastards ... I hope the bugs were thick and the air was thin.
In the interest of sanity preservation and probably some sort of zen-like preventive maintenance practice (thanks, Bob Pirsig) this harvest I decided to tear the blue and silver beauty down for some minor surgery. My reasoning; I'm over 50K miles so there are things that need done, and if the bike is disabled I won't be daydreaming of ditching work and burning up the asphalt with my Iron Livered friends. The theory was I'd be less apt to get shitty and bitter about being unable to ride if my favorite bike was disabled and unridable. Plus, I've heard all sorts of horror stories about the cam chain idlers on twin cams and wanted to assure myself all was well.
The maintenance thing has panned out like a champ. In fact, the rear chain idler is cut pretty deep and a piece was resting in the bottom of the case behing the cam plate. Justification of prarnoid disassembly!
But you just can't resist the urge to ride. So I cheated. While my mount waits for a Thunderheader and I toil on cam chain idlers in my 'spare time' The Lizard's Cop Bike was just too tempting. Entrusted with his prized possession while he serves Uncle Sam in The Sandbox my legendary rationalization skills took over and dictated the motorsickle truism: "They're made to be ridden." That was all I needed. Plus you should have seen it sitting there. All alone. Forsaken and sad. Calling to me like a UNLV coed, "Ride me, You Jackass! Ride ME!"
200 or so miles later this past Saturday I'd mapped a route for the Running Of The Rats, defamed countless no-riding posers, made some new friends, spread the good word of Runs That Don't Suck, suffered wind rain and hail, backtracked to find the local Air Guitar Master hiding under an awning, and taken beauty queen and local hero Miss Meredith for a ride. In a skirt! Yes!
I can think of only a few better ways to end a short Saturday ride than toting one of your wife's adorable friends through local dives (the better ways all end with me sans wife - and friends). On the motorsickle. And did I mention the skirt? Mmmmm ... skirrrrttt ...
First time I've ridden the cop bike, with its bat-wing fairing, farther than a simple 'trade me bikes' hop. Whether it's my limited stature or just the nature of the fairing that damned thing directs a great deal of wind into places it should simply pass by. The staccato drumbeat my Oakleys tattooed on my nose left a nice red raw spot for a day or so, and the top end of the turbulence accentuated the lower annoyance by directing bugs straight into my scarred forehead. The hail, thankfully, caught me on the side of the noggan. Direct hits form hard rain suck like finding a root on your Thai hooker. The next morning. In your ass.
I know I'm not the only jackass out there who laughs out loud at the weather deities when that ray of sunlight appears at the end of a dark nasty patch. Tempting Thor's hammer cracks me up, it feels like winning. Like you've outsmarted mother nature, mugged on her sister, goosed her cousin, and had her hot mom flash you some tit. Then glided into the clearing scot-free and blameless for some sun-soaked scrogging.
Decidedly dirty analogies today. Must be some pent-up frustration.
Which reminds me, I trust everyone does so already but you have to check out Doug at 40 On 2's 'Inside The Helmet' post. I've contemplated an IPod or satellite radio for the mind-numbing monotony of I-70, et al. but wonder, "Would this lessen the time I spend in deep introspection, meditation, and the quest for a higher plane of enlightenment?"
Upon further contemplation I realized it would just get my mind off the carnal conquest roll call my mind plays ad nauseum. And I'd hate for anything to interrupt the flow of perversion. So XM and the kick-ass earbuds from Aerostich will have to wait. Besides, I spent all my money on new exhaust.
So last weekend was great. Despite working entirely too late Saturday, being cussed by area agriculturists because I do not feel a lack of planning on their part constitutes a crisis on mine, sustaining a hail welt or too (yeah, I know, "wear a helmet"), and dragging ass to work on Sunday only to be cussed again. On a Sunday. By the same folks. After they'd hit church and had a big meal. All it takes is a little ride to nice places with people who don't suck. That evens things out. At least for me.
Oh, and I thought this was funny; had a friend email me a link he found on James' site: Why Bike. Love the disclaimer next to my link. Guess I could try and tone it down a little.
No. Fuck that. DEATH TO THE TOWEDS!
Ride it or give it to your sister, punk.
June, as the devil's month, affords me little if any riding time. My vocation's dependence on local agriculture's annual harvest of grain means the sixth month is filled with excited and demanding phone calls from the salt of the earth rather than extended trips aboard the 2-wheeled instrument of death. Granted it's only been like this my entire life, but that does nothing to lessen the sting as untold thousands (it seems) of motorsickles blaze by my site of indentured servitude. The only thing worse than wrenching on a 3500 diesel motor at 8 pm on a June Sunday is having your friends rattle pipes and honk as they pass by on a beer run. Bastards ... I hope the bugs were thick and the air was thin.
In the interest of sanity preservation and probably some sort of zen-like preventive maintenance practice (thanks, Bob Pirsig) this harvest I decided to tear the blue and silver beauty down for some minor surgery. My reasoning; I'm over 50K miles so there are things that need done, and if the bike is disabled I won't be daydreaming of ditching work and burning up the asphalt with my Iron Livered friends. The theory was I'd be less apt to get shitty and bitter about being unable to ride if my favorite bike was disabled and unridable. Plus, I've heard all sorts of horror stories about the cam chain idlers on twin cams and wanted to assure myself all was well.
The maintenance thing has panned out like a champ. In fact, the rear chain idler is cut pretty deep and a piece was resting in the bottom of the case behing the cam plate. Justification of prarnoid disassembly!
But you just can't resist the urge to ride. So I cheated. While my mount waits for a Thunderheader and I toil on cam chain idlers in my 'spare time' The Lizard's Cop Bike was just too tempting. Entrusted with his prized possession while he serves Uncle Sam in The Sandbox my legendary rationalization skills took over and dictated the motorsickle truism: "They're made to be ridden." That was all I needed. Plus you should have seen it sitting there. All alone. Forsaken and sad. Calling to me like a UNLV coed, "Ride me, You Jackass! Ride ME!"
200 or so miles later this past Saturday I'd mapped a route for the Running Of The Rats, defamed countless no-riding posers, made some new friends, spread the good word of Runs That Don't Suck, suffered wind rain and hail, backtracked to find the local Air Guitar Master hiding under an awning, and taken beauty queen and local hero Miss Meredith for a ride. In a skirt! Yes!
I can think of only a few better ways to end a short Saturday ride than toting one of your wife's adorable friends through local dives (the better ways all end with me sans wife - and friends). On the motorsickle. And did I mention the skirt? Mmmmm ... skirrrrttt ...
First time I've ridden the cop bike, with its bat-wing fairing, farther than a simple 'trade me bikes' hop. Whether it's my limited stature or just the nature of the fairing that damned thing directs a great deal of wind into places it should simply pass by. The staccato drumbeat my Oakleys tattooed on my nose left a nice red raw spot for a day or so, and the top end of the turbulence accentuated the lower annoyance by directing bugs straight into my scarred forehead. The hail, thankfully, caught me on the side of the noggan. Direct hits form hard rain suck like finding a root on your Thai hooker. The next morning. In your ass.
I know I'm not the only jackass out there who laughs out loud at the weather deities when that ray of sunlight appears at the end of a dark nasty patch. Tempting Thor's hammer cracks me up, it feels like winning. Like you've outsmarted mother nature, mugged on her sister, goosed her cousin, and had her hot mom flash you some tit. Then glided into the clearing scot-free and blameless for some sun-soaked scrogging.
Decidedly dirty analogies today. Must be some pent-up frustration.
Which reminds me, I trust everyone does so already but you have to check out Doug at 40 On 2's 'Inside The Helmet' post. I've contemplated an IPod or satellite radio for the mind-numbing monotony of I-70, et al. but wonder, "Would this lessen the time I spend in deep introspection, meditation, and the quest for a higher plane of enlightenment?"
Upon further contemplation I realized it would just get my mind off the carnal conquest roll call my mind plays ad nauseum. And I'd hate for anything to interrupt the flow of perversion. So XM and the kick-ass earbuds from Aerostich will have to wait. Besides, I spent all my money on new exhaust.
So last weekend was great. Despite working entirely too late Saturday, being cussed by area agriculturists because I do not feel a lack of planning on their part constitutes a crisis on mine, sustaining a hail welt or too (yeah, I know, "wear a helmet"), and dragging ass to work on Sunday only to be cussed again. On a Sunday. By the same folks. After they'd hit church and had a big meal. All it takes is a little ride to nice places with people who don't suck. That evens things out. At least for me.
Oh, and I thought this was funny; had a friend email me a link he found on James' site: Why Bike. Love the disclaimer next to my link. Guess I could try and tone it down a little.
No. Fuck that. DEATH TO THE TOWEDS!
Ride it or give it to your sister, punk.
posted by NOPCKL at 5:56 AM
2 Comments:
Uncle Louie coined the term, possibly whilst inebriated, for those who tow their motorsickles rather than ride them.
Toweds. We thought it a good pejorative term for the trailer cowards.
By the way, dig your blog. Very good.
Love the blog! It is the highlight of my day to read your new postings. Is that sad or what?
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