Hey, Kool Aid!

Last night I briefly touched on my raging addiction to motorcycle road racing. As it happens, I'm pretty much a motorcycle nut all the way around (not just for racing), so I thought I might use this space to recount my personal history as a motorcycle enthusiast. This will happen in many parts over time, and is likely to be interrupted by whatever other inane ramblings I decide simply can't be kept to myself for another second...but I will write it all, eventually. Think of it as my Moto-memoir.

Ok, don't do that. And, if the word 'memoir' ever appears here again, somebody kill me.

I only remember a very few things from my early childhood. I remember my evil 3rd grade teacher, Mrs. O'Brien. I remember my Grandmother playing Cheevers on the kitchen floor with me (if you really want to know what 'Cheevers' is, use that as an excuse to add a comment). I remember my dog, Thor. And, I remember my Dad's 1968 Olds Cutlass 442. That's about it.

That 442 was a pretty bad ass car, and my Dad brought home more than a few trophies from the local dragway with it. Even at 4 years old, I knew that there was something pretty cool about stuff that goes fast. And, as I got older, I turned into a right and proper gearhead. I loved muscle cars, but I also was drawn to performance driving. I read Car and Driver magazine religiously, studying every driving technique article I could find, I bought books about driving, and I practiced my technique around the family farm. It is a minor miracle that I never totalled any of the family vehicles, but I managed to keep myself and my Mom's 82 Celica in tact. By the time I was of legal driving age, I was a 100% dyed-in-the-wool driving enthusiast.

This is the part of the story where I should relate a fabulously witty and interesting anecdote about how some magically transforming event happened, and I was reborn a motorcycle fanatic. Sadly, I have no such story. My good friend Tyler had a dirt bike when we were kids, and I had fun riding that, but mostly, motorcycles were cool things not at the forefront of my daily thoughts. If I go back to my middle school years, I remember my Dad picking me up from baseball games on his CB750, but even this, while lots of fun, failed to really make an impression. Wierd, eh?

Anyway, the fact of the matter is that I had a little bit of money saved up, and it was burning a hole in my pocket. I decided that buying a motorcycle was as good a way as any to both spend the money and irritate my parents (I was 18 at this point), so I went on a mission to do so. I checked out the local newspaper classifieds, and there was exactly one motorcycle in there that was both street-legal and within my budget. I drove across town to check it out, asked a few questions (which one is the brake, how does it shift, etc.), plopped down $400, and it was mine. I was now the proud owner of a 1978 Honda CB400T Hawk. It was orange, in pretty darn good shape, and had period-appropriate fiberglass saddlebags on it (these were Kool Aid tight by the way...more later).

I rode that Hawk all summer, and never crashed it once (another minor miracle). I had no Earthly idea what I was doing as far as riding a motorcycle. I had no idea how it actually steered, I didn't know about how the front brake is so important, and I definitely didn't appreciate the idea that there might be more to safety than a good helmet. But, luck was on my side, and I get to sit here today with all of my limbs and functions in tact. Looking back, all I can say is "whew."

However, even though I was without skill, I did my best to make up for it with enthusiasm. Never in my short life had I experienced something as scary, exciting, fun, fast, scary, and, umm...fast (I know, enough with the fifty cent vocabulary...sorry). I was completely hooked. There is no feeling quite like the one you get the first few times you ride a motorcycle, particularly if it's your motorcycle. I was absolutely stunned by the intensity of riding, and as soon as I was able to think anything other than "wow," I realized I'd found more than a simple diversion.

And ya, for all you jaded S.O.B.'s reading this, those feelings were generated on a 25 hp 400cc 2-cylinder motorcycle...really.

Oh yes, I did say that I'd get back to the Kool Aid thing. One of my best friends had shaved his head that August, just a few days after I bought the bike. At 6'4 and over 20o pounds, Don was a big guy, even at 17 years old. Don needed a ride to town one day, and I let him know that I would be working until 5pm or so at my house painting job, but I'd be along after work to pick him up.

Later that day, I rolled into the driveway, spare helmet tucked into one of the saddlebags, and there was Don waiting for me. The moment I saw him, two things became immediately apparent. First, Don had clearly been out in the sun all day, judging by the bright scarlet color of his freshly-shorn scalp and the accompanying look of misery on his face. Second, Don's giant mellon (he rides bikes himself these days, in a XXXL helmet) was not going to be happy being squeezed into the size medium open-face helmet I had with me, a situation certain to be exacerbated by the radiation burn science fair exhibit that was his scalp.

I parked the bike, hopped off, and opened the saddlebag to get the helmet. Upon opening the lid, I learned that my bags were water-tight, as proven by the gallon of red Kool Aid that had previously occupied my Thermos. The capless Thermos was now afloat along with the included drinking cup and cap, a Boston Red Sox hat, and my passenger helmet.

Sadly, there was nothing kool about the red mixture of sugar, water, and saddlebag grime, as the bike had been parked in the sun all day, and the black bags did a fine job of bringing the sweet soup up to 120f or so. I reached into the hot liquid and retrieved the helmet. Of course I dumped the Kool Aid onto the ground, but the padding in the liner was saturated. I tried very hard not to appear amused as I held it out for Don to put on.

Nothing in this world is as simultaneously hilarious and tragic as watching your hairless, sunburned friend squeeze his giant hairless sunburned head into a 3-sizes-too-small hot-Kool Aid-soaked helmet. Even the cascade of liquid refreshment pouring over his face couldn't hide the exquisite agony he was experiencing. I like to think that the Kool Aid somehow soothed the sunburned flesh as it was squished out of the foam liner like dirty water from a wrung mop.

I did learn an important lesson here. If you're going to give a friend a ride, make sure your Kool Aid is properly iced. From what I was able to gather form the expletive-laced tirade Don unleashed in betwen gasps, coughs and yelps, warm Kool Aid apparently doesn't feel too good on a freshly sunburned scalp.

On a side note, the helmet was an open-faced red number, with no face shield of any kind. Ironically, beween the horrible sunburn and the red helmet, Don bore an uncanny reseblance to the Kool Aid guy in those old commercials. Funny, that.

Anyway, we made it where we were going that evening, incident-free. Looking back, I am very thankful for my luck that summer because I gave crash-free rides to many of my friends, and I had not even a shred of a clue what I was doing. As Autumn drew near, it occured to me that there was really only one possible course of action.

I needed a bigger bike.

Jonesin' Big

Anyone who is actually reading this knows that I'm addicted to motorcycles. This addiction has taken on a few different forms, but the most recent, and thus far, most intense manifestation of this addiction is road racing (see pic). Well, in case you haven't noticed, it's WINTER! Damn, I hate winter.

Normally, I can feed the monkey by performing unnecessary maintenance to my race bike, but I'm currently suffering from empty garage syndrome. I've recently sold my newly acquired SV650 racebike to make room for the R6 that will take its place (more on this later). But, as I don't yet _have_ the R6, I'm jonesin' big time.

One saving grace is that I sold my van and trailer, and bought a box truck to get to the track next year. It's a work-in-progress for sure, but the idea is that the front half of the box is for sleeping and getting out of the rain, and the back half is for bikes 'n stuff. I've pretty much gutted it, so as to set it up just as I want it...this work will have to hold me over. Stay tuned for truck pics, and for details on my racing plans for 2006.

Just when I thought I was out...they pull me back in.

Every year, I flirt with a temporary 'maybe it's not that bad' attitude towards the holidays. And, as time marches inexorably toward the zero-hour that comes Christmas Morning, I'm inevitably reminded that it is, in fact, that bad. The details of what in particular reminded me this time are unimportant.

I’ve dreamed of a world where December was removed from the calendar since I was a kid. “The Holidays” have not traditionally been my favorite time of the year, and I’m not sure why that is. The leading theory is that after my parents divorced, I worried too much about whose house I was at for how long, on which days, etc. so as to not insult or irritate either of my parents. Before you break out the Kleenex, I'm not about to blame anyone, or cry a river about how my childhood was crap and nobody loved me. My childhood was fine, and plenty of people loved me. However, the stress a kid is subjected to when parents are divorced is undeniable, and formative experiences related to it are unavoidable. Is my loathing of Xmas the result of one or more of these experiences? I don’t know, and I don’t care, really. If I ignore possible age-old causal factors here, and just think about what bugs me now, it seems pretty clear.

We all like to believe that it’s really the thought that counts when giving presents. Here's an experiment for you. Go home to your parents (or substitute any 2 gifting-level peers in your life) and give one of them a plasma TV, and give the other one a pair of Reeboks. Please video tape the resulting facial expressions and send me a copy. Thanks.

Yes, this is a tired subject. Nobody thinks that the “commercialization of Christmas” is good (well, except maybe the anchor stores at the local mall) but this isn’t quite exactly what bothers me. Besides, I don't blame the people receiving the gifts...hell, I am not immune to the same feelings. If my Mom bought my brother a new car, and bought me a pair of pants, I'd be pissed for at least an hour or two- I admit it. This is exactly why I hate this holiday so much. Ok, maybe I do blame the people receiving the gifts.

Why am I reduced to this? What happened to me? I was so irreverent as a kid…how the hell did I get sucked in? One minute I was laughing with my bestest cynical buddies at the idiots stuck in the Xmas rush mall traffic jam, and the next I’m trying to figure out how I can make sure everyone perceives me as successful, and at the same time, is shown how much I care, by way of the presents I buy. I’m fairly confident that I’m not alone on this, but it’s ok if you’re in denial…it’s hard to be honest with yourself about such things. Maybe it’s too much like admitting defeat.

I’m not stupid. I know full well that none of this crap is the fault of The Holidays in particular. These sentiments exist for everyone, all year long. It’s just that during the four weeks between 11/27 and 12/25, we’re forced to deal with them front and center. I suppose acknowledging all of this stuff is a pretty good step towards overcoming it, so it’s not all bad. Then again, it might be easier to lead a campaign to have December removed from the calendar.

Another gem from Pat R.

"I'd like to say to the good citizens of Dover: If there is a disaster in your area, don't turn to God. You just rejected him from your city," Robertson said on the Christian Broadcasting Network's "700 Club."

My good pal (ok, not really) Pat Robertson busted out with the above quote in a recent broadcast of The 700 Club , and you can read an article about it HERE [**oops...dead link. If I find another I'll post it**] . The whole thing boils down to Pat's belief that God will shun the townspeople (and the town itself, apparently) of Dover, PA because they have ousted some members of the local school board who support the teaching of 'Intelligent Design' in public schools.

I don't think it's necessary to go on about how I don't believe in any form of Creationism, or how public school is no place for religious indoctrination. Rather, I'm concerned with this formidable threat put forth by Pat.

Let me get this straight. If a disaster smashes my town and we've rejected Intellignet Design in the school system, I can assume that God won't be stepping in to help me clean up the pile of crap that used to be my house?

I have to wonder how many Christians groan and want to hide under the covers every time the latest inane blathering from this guy makes it into the mainstream press...

The Plunge

How ironic…or something. Here I am, writing my first ever blog entry, and I’m doing it in MS Word. My php/WordPress installation didn’t go as well as I’d hoped, and I absolutely had to write tonight. You see, I’ve been telling myself since the Reagan administration that I wanted to be a writer. ‘A writer writes’ as they say, and by this definition I’m not a writer at all. So, I promised myself that no matter what, tonight I was going to sit down and write something.

Well, at 11:52pm EST, I realized that technically speaking, ‘tonight’ was running out fast, and I hadn’t written anything. Actually, this isn’t entirely true, as I did write an email to my web host support that goes something like this:

“Please help me get WordPress installed and working. I am lame, and as such, am unable to figure out how to fix it my self. Thanks.”

Anyway, I’m sure I’m no different than the other 57 bazillion people on the planet who want to write, but never seem to get around to it. We bumble around every day, doing the things that people do, and all the time there’s a tiny part of us that watches…dunno what exactly, but it’s watching. It’s watching, and storing information, in hopes that when we get around to the writing, all of this great stored-up info will be available for inspiration.. I don’t know about all of the other potential writers out there, but I seem to be unable to tap that store, and the times I feel like I want to write seem to necessarily coexist with the times I’m least able to come up with something that I want to write about.

Why is this? I have no idea, but today, around two in the afternoon, I decided that I wasn’t going to wait for Inspiration any more. When I was 15, I really thought I was going to be a writer of some sort. I’m 38 now, and so far, umm…not so much with the writing…and not to put too fine a point on it, that sucks.

So, here I am, writing about wanting to get started with some writing. And, here you are, reading about it. I can’t decide if this is interesting or tragic, but what the hell. I’m writing, and a writer writes.

Thank you for reading.

In the Beginning...

I actually started this blog a few weeks ago on Yahoo 360, and I've since discovered that Yahoo 360 sucks. So, here I am. The post dates of the first few dates are the same because that was me moving my posts.

Thanks for stopping by!