Two wheels of a different kind

One of my brothers lives about 3000 miles away, so we don’t get to see each other very often, but when we do we have some great times and some great stories to tell afterwards. This is one such story. It is, strictly speaking, a tale of two wheels; it’s just that the two wheels are the rollers on a belt sander rather than the wheels of a motorcycle.
The last time I visited, and after the requisite couple of beers to catch up, we ended up out in the garage (where else?). When I’d last been there it was little more than a shed that you could fit a car into, but since then he’d insulated, finished the inside, put in cabinets, lots of shelving, good lighting and so on including putting in a brand new garage door – which now displayed three large dents, in a roughly triangular shape, about 2 feet off the floor. Naturally I asked what happened.
“Well let me tell you about that, but first have another beer.” he said. “You ever listen to the CBC?”
“Of course.”
“Well one day they had on this program where this guy was talking about belt sander racing. I didn’t catch all of it ‘cause I was working on the truck at the time, but these guys would race belt sanders for fun.”
I’d heard of belt sander racing, but couldn’t quite figure where this was going.
“So I was out here one day and came across that 4-inch sander over there” he said. “Well it works pretty good, so I thought I’d give it a try. I cleared a path from here to the door, put on a course sanding belt,  duct-taped the trigger closed, sat on it, and plugged ‘er in.”
“You sat on it? You’re not supposed to ride the thing!”
“Yeah, so I found out. Keerist, did it ever take off! Damn good thing the cord was only 6 feet long because even after it pulled out of the wall I was still going like hell when I hit the garage door.”
Now I’m laughing. Hard. Beer coming out the nose hard.
“Yup. Those two lower dents are my knees. The top one is my forehead. And an $800 door too.
“Didn’t try that again.”

But you didn’t see me

This has been around for a while, but with spring come more bikes on the road and, unfortunately, more accidents, so it seemed timely to post it again. (Thanks to The Lonely Rider.)

I saw you hug your purse closer to you in the grocery store line.
But, you didn't see me put an extra $10.00 in the collection plate last Sunday.
I saw you pull your child closer when we passed each other on the sidewalk.
But, you didn't see me playing Santa at the local mall.
I saw you change your mind about going into the restaurant.
But, you didn't see me attending a meeting to raise more money for the hurricane relief.
I saw you roll up your window and shake your head when I drove by.
But, you didn't see me driving behind you when you tossed your cigarette butt out the car window.
I saw you frown at me when I smiled at your children.
But, you didn't see me when I took time off from work to run toys to the homeless kids.
I saw you stare at my long hair.
But, you didn't see me and my friends cut ten inches off for Locks of Love.
I saw you roll your eyes at our leather coats and gloves.
But, you didn't see me and my brothers donate our old coats and gloves to those that had none.
I saw you look in fright at my tattoos.
But, you didn't see me cry as my children where born and how I have their names written upon my heart.
I saw you change lanes while rushing off to go somewhere.
But, you didn't see me going home to be with my family.
I saw you complain about how loud and noisy our bikes can be.
But, you didn't see me when you were changing the CD and drifted into my lane.
I saw you yelling at your kids in the car.
But, you didn't see me pat my child's hands, knowing he was safe behind me.
I saw you reading the newspaper or map as you drove down the road.
But, you didn't see me squeeze my wife's leg when she told me to take the next turn.
I saw you race down the road in the rain.
But, you didn't see me get soaked to the skin so my son could have the car to go on his date.
I saw you run the yellow light just to save a few minutes of time.
But, you didn't see me trying to turn right.
I saw you cut me off because you needed to be in the lane I was in.
But, you didn't see me leave the road.
I saw you waiting impatiently for my friends to pass.
But, you didn't see me...I wasn't there.
I saw you go home to your family.
But, you didn't see me...Because I died that day you cut me off.
I was just a biker...
A person with friends and a family.
BUT, YOU DIDN'T SEE ME!! 

Please ride safe.

Rheinlander, Wisconsin

I’ve not done much distance riding for many years, but there was a time when we’d bungee the tent, sleeping bags and an extra pair of jeans to every protuberance on the bike (a Honda CB 550F) and take off for a few days or a few weeks. Some of our best motorcycling memories come from those trips and the amazing people we would meet on the road. This is one such experience we had in Rheinlander, Wisconsin.
My wife and I were coming back East from Vancouver Island. It was the last week in August, and it was cold! Temperatures for the past few days had barely risen above 60F, which gets damned cold after a few hours in the saddle with no windshield.
We had decided to swing down into the States to go south of Lake Superior, and so it was that we found a small mom and pop campsite just outside Rheinlander. At first we thought they were closed because the place seemed empty. But we’d had a long, cold day and decided to stop and camp anyway – open or not. As it turned out, they were open, but the cold weather – and the fact it was mid-week – meant that we were the only campers. The owner indicated we could have any site we wanted, but pointed out a nice, flat spot for our pup tent, close to the office where we could get some basic foodstuffs if needed. And seeing how cold we were, gave us a couple of cups of coffee to warm up while we set up.
Perfect. We paid our $10, pitched our little tent, and were sitting there enjoying the coffee and discussing supper options when this massive motor home cruised in. Looked like we weren’t going to be the only campers after all, if you call a 40’ house on wheels camping, that is.
After checking in at the office, this bus started cruising around the campground, and around, and around, finally stopping right in front of us. The 60-something-year-old woman got out and came over to our table, somewhat apprehensive and all apologetic, and said that we were occupying the only flat spot large enough for their “camper”, and would we mind moving?
“Of course not. Give us 5 minutes.”
Pulling up 4 pegs and shifting a pup tent 20’ is no big deal. So we did. And went back to our coffee to a chorus of thank you’s from hubby, who got down from behind the wheel after positioning the motor home on the site.
Later, as we were coming back from the office with some hot dogs that were going to be our supper, the woman stops us and says she has a roast beef in the oven if we’d like to join them for dinner. We’d been on the road for 8 weeks, subsisting on hot dogs, sandwiches, chilli, and whatever else could be cooked in a pot over a campfire, so roast beef? All right! A quick cleanup to get some of the road grime off, and we were at the dining table, enjoying a fine piece of meat. The food was delicious and these folks were everybody’s grandparents – interesting, funny, with lots of stories and pictures of the kids and grandkids. We were quite enjoying ourselves.
At one point while we were talking about our trip, the wife asked, “Aren’t you afraid sleeping in a tent?”
My wife replied, “No. The animals leave you alone. As long as you have no food in there with you, you’re fine.”
To which the response was, “Animals? Hell girl, I’m talking about people! Aren’t you scared of the people?”
Now that had never occurred to us, but it took the conversation off in a whole other direction that ended up with this elderly couple showing us all the guns they had stashed in and around that motor home. Having grown up a hunter, and with a few years in the military, I was no stranger to guns, but the arsenal these folks had was truly impressive. A handgun in the purse, another in the glove box, and one under the pillow (seriously!). And those were just the ones they told us about. But the piece de resistance was a short-barrelled Belgian shotgun – 20 gauge if I remember correctly – that he pulled from under the mattress. Hand carved stock with an engraved action, this little shotgun was truly a thing of beauty, to be used “if anybody bangs on that door in the middle of the night”. Warning duly received.
We visited for a while longer, finished our coffee and headed off to our “unsafe” tent, both determined that neither hell nor high water would have either of us banging on that door in the dark.
By the time we awoke the next morning they were gone and we were alone again, in a campground near Rheinlander.

New bags

When I got my Dyna, I thought it was just fine the way it was – no extra bits hanging off and just a tiny rack that was as much cosmetic as functional. I was content… until I spent a couple of days riding with my brother who had enough secure storage on his Road King for his rain suit, his jacket when it got hot, his lock, his spare gloves, a few tools, a case of beer, a couple of bags of Doritos, and every issue of HOG Magazine going back to the last century. I, on the other hand, had my crap strapped on to every surface I wasn’t actually sitting on, and had him ride behind to pick up the stuff that would periodically squeeze out from under the 100 or so yards of bungee cord and bounce onto the highway. At the next gas stop all the various and sundry items would be returned, tied down again (hopefully better this time) and we’d continue riding.
It didn’t take much of that before bags rose to the top of the must-have list.
Now anyone who has been through this will know that there are at least 500 saddlebag  manufacturers out there, every one of them with the absolute best product(!) at the very best price(!). But it didn’t take much research to discover that anything that was a) well made; and b) looked good would not only break the bank, but put a pretty serious dent in the spousal relationship as well.

“$1,000?!?”
“Uh, yeah, but they’re really good bags.”
“What have you got to carry that’s worth $1,000?”

Well, since she put it that way…
So it’s on to Craig’s List and Kijiji looking for deals. Forget eBay – it’s pretty much nothing but dealers these days. “Buy now” the ads say. Well I can go to my local dealer to do that. Auctions are becoming rare as hen’s teeth on that once famous auction house unless one gets really, really lucky.
But you can still find deals on the other two, and I did – a gently used set of H-D bags for about a third the cost of brand new. So one man’s customizing project became another man’s thrift shop and now I can carry my own beer!

Under a cloud

Older readers will remember Joe Bfstplk from the L’il Abner comic strip. He was the character constantly followed by a black rain cloud; a jinx who seemed destined to be forever leaving one disaster after another in his wake.

What brought me to this was the recollection of one of the more memorable experiences from my long-past days teaching the Basic Motorcycle Riders Course.

One of my students was a young man, 20’ish, who wanted to get his motorcycle license. The first hint of trouble came when he was having a lot of difficulty balancing the small dirt bikes we used for training. As it turned out, this was the first time he had ever been on two wheels as he had never learned to ride a bicycle! Okay, I thought, we can deal with that, and eventually I got him wobbling around the training area, very slowly, in first gear. So far so good. He only fell off a few times and didn’t hit anything or anyone (I was mostly worried about me!), and he actually got his feet up on the pegs once or twice. Progress.

Once he stopped tipping over, it was time to introduce him to second gear. At this he was completely lost, totally unable to grasp the underlying concepts of gear shifting. The bicycle analogy didn’t work because he’d never ridden one. Shifting gears in a car had no relevance because he’d only ever driven automatics and never really thought about what the 1, 2, D on the shift lever meant. But reverse he got, with all its obvious uselessness on a 125 cc dirt bike. Out of ideas, I brought a senior instructor over to try and explain it. No go.

But with faint hope we persevered, and so followed a period of him racing across the training area at 30 mph in first gear, the engine screaming in agony, or stalling because he was trying to start off in 4th. He was simply unable to process the concept of matching engine speed to road speed.

After a couple of very frustrating hours – for both of us – he realized he wasn’t getting it, and so we agreed that perhaps motorcycle riding was not in his future – at least if he wanted a future. I gave him his money back and he left the course early, much to the relief of the entire instructional staff.

Then two weeks later I read in the newspaper that an apartment balcony had broken free and crashed onto the balcony below it. Fortunately there were no injuries, but the balcony belonged to … you guessed it. My student.

Joe Bfstplk would have been proud.