Two foot-itis

Two foot-itis is a well known but little understood malady that affects boaters of every stripe. The symptoms of anyone suffering from two foot-itis include the view that no matter what boat they have right now, one that’s two feet longer would be infinitely better. Or in bovine terms, the grass is always greener....

While I don’t know what the motorcycle equivalent is, I’m sure there must be one as the sickness also affects us. Virtually every rider I have ever met will profess great love and respect for their current ride, but that passion is always tempered by a desire for something bigger, newer, older, chromier, louder, quieter, red, black, or faster. In fact if we had our way and limitless funds we’d be changing bikes as often as we change our socks, or better yet we’d simply do a “Leno” and collect one or more of everything our little hearts’ desired – a custom one, a jet-propelled one, a V-8 powered one, a three-wheeled yellow one.....

But there, protecting us from our own baser instincts, are the spousal unit, the banker (often one and the same), the kids and the mortgage, so we dream away hoping for that lottery win or pay raise that would enable us to indulge our little fantasies. And what makes it all bearable is the sure knowledge that every other rider of our acquaintance is in the same boat – or at least we thought they were.

Which brings me to the point of this story. The brother, a proud (and I thought happy) owner of a 2000 Road King, just announced he’s traded up to a brand new ’08 model.
This is a very strange occurrence because I haven’t heard of any relatives dying recently, and even if they did, none of them have any money to leave behind. Or perhaps the lottery finally paid out, although I haven’t seen his picture in the paper recently holding a big check. I also know for a fact that his wife has not been on an extended vacation in Basutoland so this must have been done with some prior knowledge and acceptance but, like all good Presbyterians, her arms are just slightly shorter than the depths of her pockets so this was not likely a birthday present (besides his birthday is in April).

Perhaps it was the old mid-life crisis line – “Well dear, the way I see it I can either get a new bike or a mistress. What do you think?” Naw, probably not. Didn't work for me either.

Regardless, however he managed such a stunning coup I can only look on in envy and say, “Well done. When can I take it for a ride?”

What a difference a week makes!

This photo was taken from the car when driving home from Washington D.C. last Wednesday. This in spite of weather forecasts that were predicting temperatures in the mid-teens Celcius (high 50's Fahrenheit). At the time I was sure I had seen the last of any decent riding conditions and would be putting the Lowrider (she really needs a proper name) away for the season.

But then the weather changed, as it is wont to do on occasion, and turned absolutely beautiful - Indian Summer may have been late this year, but when it came it was glorious.

So today, under a clear blue sky and with the mercury hovering around 20 degrees C, I got in a rare November ride. The leaves are all off the trees and the sun is getting low in the sky, but the lads (and lassies) were out at the golf course en masse (I doubt the parking lot has been this full all summer), straggler flocks of geese were heading south, and blaze orange was the fashion of the day as it's the middle of the deer hunt right now. And I wasn't alone. Hooked up for a few miles with another rider on a late model Indian (don't know the marque that well, so no idea what model it was), and then got blown off the road by a couple of young fellers on sports bikes trying for a speed record along our narrow country lanes. Good for them. If I was still riding my Commando we might have had some fun.

But now I have a problem. The original excuse for the ride was to top up the gas tank for winter storage, but it was such a nice day I didn't come straight home but instead wandered around the countryside for a bit. Result - I now have only a 1/4 tank of gas, exactly what I had when I started out. I wonder if this weather will hold another day?

Getting old - or - Not a "real" biker any more?

Took a look out the window this morning. The sun was shining in a deep blue cloudless sky, and across the lake the bright reds and yellows of the maples stood in stark contrast to the dark green evergreen forest.

Took a look at my schedule - clear. “Aha”, I thought, “perfect day for a fall ride”.

Then I actually went outside – and froze my ass off. Temperature was only slightly above freezing. The car windows were covered in frost. And there was a steady, stiff northern wind blowing. No way was I going to add a 60mph wind chill factor to already hypothermic riding conditions, so off came the jacket and the helmet went back on the shelf for another day.

It wasn’t always thus. There was a time when I used to look forward to riding any day there wasn’t ice or snow on the roads, and did, on occasion, manage to get a ride in every month of the year, even in the depths of a Canadian winter. I always figured that if those sonsabitches at the insurance company were going to make me pay 12 months a year like I lived in Florida or something, I’d damn well ride 12 months of the year. Yeah, that’ll show ‘em. And then they can pay to have the frostbite damage fixed too. Now we’re really showing ‘em!

But that was then and this is now – a few decades later. I still like to ride, but not under any conditions. Beating the insurance company doesn’t seem so important any more. I avoid the rain like the plague – and snow, doubly so. I avoid driving as much at night as I used too – I say it’s because of all the deer on the roads out here, which is true, but it’s also because my night-time vision isn’t quite as good as it used to be. And memories of being so cold after one long ride that I, the bike, and the missus would have done Laugh-In's Arte Johnson proud the way we came to a stop and then simply, slowly, toppled over in a parking lot, are no longer just more incentive to get out there and do it again.

Nope. I have now reached the stage of maturity where comfort and safety trump “What the hell. Go for it.” I may not put as many miles (kilometres up here) on a year as I used to, but when I do ride I get home feeling relaxed, happy, and ready to go again – when the conditions are just right.

Two-legged, four-wheeled buffalo

I recently had the experience of being surrounded by a herd of buffalo in Custer State Park in South Dakota. A large number of us were motorcycling through the park when we came across this herd, consisting of perhaps 100 of these very large animals, spread right across the road. No matter what we did, they would not give way until the Griswold family in a grey minivan showed up and slowly inched their way through. We followed like a bunch of ducklings right on momma’s tail feathers

Curious about the behaviour, I checked at the next information centre and was told that, for some reason, buffalo just do not recognize motorcycles as anything to worry about. They will get irritated by the noise, but visually, a motorcycle has no impact on them at all.

I was reminded of this today when a buffalo-minded pickup truck driver just about rearranged my skeletal structure for me.

Fortunately I was doing the speed limit in a 40 kph zone when he pulled out from a strip mall exit, tires squealing, crossed the oncoming lane of traffic, and pulled right into my lane and my space. Emergency braking exercises to the rescue, I avoided hitting him (and he, me) but by no more than a few inches. After a bit of fancy footwork to hold the bike upright, I chased the culprit down to the next traffic light where I pulled up to the driver’s window. The conversation went something like this:

“What the %$#@^ was that about back there?”
“What?”
“You just about ran me off the road!”
“Where?”
“Coming out of the hardware store.”
“I did? Jeez, I’m sorry. I didn’t even see you.”
“Well that’s *&%^$ obvious. You could have killed me and you wouldn’t even know it. Godammit pay attention before you do kill someone.”
“Sorry man.”

Yeah, right. Sorry man. The driver was maybe 25, a blond-haired surfer type dude (except there is no surf here and the surfer dude look went out in 1970, but never mind, this is Arnprior). And he really didn’t see me.

Which brings me back to buffalo. This guy would most likely have behaved differently if I’d been driving a minivan, but on a motorcycle I was a non-entity. Totally invisible.

But what’s even more worrying is that my normally pretty good sixth sense didn’t give me any tingles at all until I had a windscreen full of white half-ton. Have to watch that – it’s not infallible after all.

Amazing miniatures

A friend sent me some photos of miniature motorcycles made from watch parts. The images were amazing, as you can see from the picture above, but there was no indication who the artist was.

Well it didn't take long (thank you Google!) to discover the artist is a Brazilian sculptor, Jose Geraldo Reis Pfau.

Check out his web site for more of his amazing work.