Walk the Razor's Edge

There Are Times...

2012-01-02T07:43:00.000-08:00

Have you ever been riding a lonesome twisty road when just ahead, at the apex of a turn there appears a slight patch of gravel? No time to slow, no way to avoid the inevitable potential of going down. Adrenalin surges and with everything you have, legs grip the bike, hands press against the bars and a slight smile forms in one corner of your mind.

There it is.

Rear tire hits rubble, centrifugal force pulls the rear of the bike out and away from balance. Body reacts, adjusts to stabilize. So much less than a moment later, rubber re-engages asphalt, grabbing for a safe hold and finds it. Suspension compresses with new found safety of traction. Bike wobbles for a moment as the human-machine regains stability, finding a new trajectory.

Sweat drips from under your helmet, down your face and that internal smile is expressed and a verbal "YEE HAW!"

Not that a rider seeks out these gravel patches in life or desires to experience the terror of hitting them, but the exhilaration of a conquered danger and the chance of a new path is simply sublime.

Prayer for the Silent Warrior

2011-12-14T11:45:00.000-08:00

Hold fast your sword and tight your shield against the oncoming night. They are battle worn and show the scars of skirmishes won and lost but in your hands are peerless, flawless and shall lead you and all you love through safely until the blessings of dawn grace the universe. Demons and vermin cower at the glint of moonlight on your blade. Tempests rage against your armor yet you hold strong. When the singing of heaven-borne birds herald the oncoming morn I pray you find repose beside the blue-green crystal waterfall, for there I shall be and you may rest your weary head on my shoulder and weep and rest.

Prayer for the Silent Warrior

-Ken Linder 2011

Underqualified

2011-11-02T22:40:00.000-07:00

As a proper preface, while going through a few of my boxes I discovered some backup CDs from days gone by. There was a phase where I dabbled in something called flash fiction and other forms of short story telling. Here is one that had been hiding a while.

Just so you know, gentle reader, this story has nothing to do with my own Dad. I just needed a character to convey an antagonistic current, and well, this is how it turned out.

---------------

“Underqualified! Again,” his father would say over and over. It was his mantra of self loathing.

“Jamie, I hope one day you ain’t underqualified,” he would say, old computer in front of his glazed eyes, bottle of whiskey in one hand, cigarette in the other.

“But Dad,” his son pleaded with a hint of desperate, youthful helpfulness. “Why don’t you just go to school and learn something. Get good and then you can get a job. I know you can. Just try, ok?”

He lay his head on the table in perpetual desperation. “I can’t, Jamie. I’m too old. Companies want the young workers, not old bastards like me.”

“But, Dad…”

“Go play, son and leave this old man alone.”

It was the same, night after night. Searching the Internet and newspapers for jobs, half bottle of whiskey and pack of cigarettes consumed in solitude before collapsing on the tattered couch or fourth hand easy chair. At the age of twelve Jamie just stopped trying. He was unqualified to help his father. Those that could help were ”stupid,” or “didn’t know shit,” or “didn’t know how hard his life was.”

“Jamie, come on, hun! If we are going to make the 7:15 ferry we gotta make tracks!”

Through the tears, he smiled. Standing at his Dad’s diminutive, newly cut gravestone, head bowed, he prayerfully whispered, “I love you Dad. Fuck you and your goddamn underqualifications.”

Turning, he wiped the tears from his face and waved to his girlfriend waiting with their bikes by the gravel road. Putting on his helmet and gloves he thought, ‘Fuck your underqualifications. Life is waiting for me to grab it.’

My New Little Scoot

2011-10-29T20:13:00.001-07:00

May I introduce my newest member of the family... A classic 1981 Honda CB900F.

She is an ancestor of the entire current Honda sport bike line. They were only sold in the states in 1981 and 1982 but marketed in other places from 1979 to 1983. That was the first generation; there was a second generation in the mid to late 2000's that was also known as the Hornet in Europe and the Honda 919 in the states.

Onward...

1981 Honda CB900F -vs- 2004 Harley XL1200C

The ride is a LOT different. With my Sportster, almost every bump and rock in the road causes a minor tremor. With the CB, the suspension just absorbs the energy. It can still be felt, but the feeling of being slugged in the backside with a 2x4 isn't there.

While I am not necessarily one to ride fast around corners, the CB does make it fun. Where the Sporty would dive into corners, needing pressure to keep her from laying over all the way, the CB just glides into them while maintaining wonderful balance. AND, in tight corners I could feel the Sporty's rear tire slide ever so slightly. Quite disconcerting. And it isn't the tire. Several rear tires have been on my bike with the same feel.

There is no sliding sensation on the CB. It's as if there were steel claws on the tires. She takes hold and doesn't let go. Heck, I was doing the motorcycle range at the local college parking lot and was able to do the figure-eight at 15 to 20 MPH. THAT was fun.

Honda didn't design the CB series to be fast from the starting line but get that engine to 4500 RPM and she could eat my Sportster for breakfast. Yes, the torque from the Sportster's V-Twin makes for fast starts, but after about 40 MPH, the CB could leave her in the dust.

Balance... wow what a difference. My Sporty is pretty stable, but the CB can creep along at 5 MPH all day without a problem.

And speed... I have pegged the Sporty and it is a scary thing to feel. The CB speedo only goes to 85 MPH and the engine cranks at about 6200 RPM for that. Her red line is about 9000 RPM. Plenty more speed than the max on the speedometer. And, hunkering down close to the tank gives a nice stable, safe feeling ride.

Mileage...

Here is where the Sporty beats the CB. Hard or moderate riding both yield a mileage of about 55-65 MPG on the Sporty. On my CB, it is 40 - 45MPH. Not so good.

Looks...

Yes, this is subjective, but going to throw it out. My Sportster has been mistaken for several different Harleys. There have been compliments here and there. However... I have only owned my CB for one week and people will just be walking by, stop, look and start up a conversation. Yesterday a neighbor stopped on his way to work and bet me he could tell me what bike it was. He lost. While the paint job doesn't agree with the sensibilities of some, the looks are classic.

Ride...

No more numb ass!!!!! Riding the Sportster was akin to motorized flogging on trips over 200 miles. Today I put about 175 miles on my CB with no uncomfortableness at all!

So... Please don't disown me... and please don't tell my Sportster (although I think she already knows), my old little grandpa of a Superbike is without a doubt my riding favorite.

If you see me on the road, and who could miss a bike painted like this, just give me a wave. See ya all out there!

A Little Riding Video

2011-10-28T13:25:00.000-07:00

This guy has it DOWN!

Double click the video to make it full screen. It is DEFINITELY worth it.

What's In A Name?

2011-10-18T22:33:00.000-07:00

What's in a name?

I have Athena, my 2004 Sportster.

I have Reb, my Honda Rebel.

Then there is Vixen and V3, my two, soon to be sold Suzuki VX800 project bikes.

So, what to call my new bike...

Maybe after a long quiet ride on a lonely desert road it will come to me. I pick her up on Saturday... My throttle hand is twitching. Unique bike in itself. Unique custom paint. Maybe sort-of a unique rider. Maybe, just maybe a good match.

Pulling the Plug and Pulling the Trigger

2011-10-16T20:31:00.001-07:00

There comes a time when one must say, enough is enough.

This morning I swapped ignitions, coils, plugs, carburetors, airboxes and some primary fuses. The best she could manage was a rough idle and occasional rev to about 3000 RPM for 30 seconds.

Here's the catch... she was only hitting off the rear cylinder. The front was firing, and burning fuel but generating almost no energy. My initial, thumb on the spark plug hole compression was false. This time, slowly turning the engine to TDC on the front cylinder yielded something I had feared. One of the exhaust valves was not closing. As a secondary test I removed the airboxes, cranked the engine over with the starter and placed my hand on the front carb's air intake. There is suction, but the rear carb almost sucked my hand in.

So, final analysis... Rear carb needs better adjusting and the jets need to be looked at & cleaned, replaced or who knows. Front cylinder likely has a sticky exhaust valve.

Damn it, Jim! I'm a computer programmer, not a bike mechanic!

Honestly, I NEED some long road time, not long garage time. She has given me a great education into the inner workings of a fine motorcycle; she has helped me learn many things about myself; and now the final lesson - knowing when to say when.

Without a doubt, someone with more talent and time and tools could have her going in little time. That person is not me.

So, this week... when time is available, I will be bagging up all of my VX800 parts and pieces and offering them for sale. I hope whoever buys her will be able to do the honorable thing, and get her running.

Now, on to pulling the trigger... I need something smooth running, somewhat simple, somewhat different, somewhat older or classic, something reliable. I pick her up tomorrow.

Classic 1981 Honda CB900F Superbike. Custom paint, 22k miles, custom saddle... a real head turner. Definitely something I could ride all day without my butt falling asleep and feeling like I was beaten up after 500 miles. More pics tomorrow.

When Too Much is Not a Good Thing

2011-10-16T08:28:00.000-07:00

Yes, too much may not be a good thing.

Now with enough room in my garage and with it clean enough to not be considered complete chaos, I broke out my project bike. $110 at Nevada Suzuki for a new battery and diagnostics were ready to commence.

Crank, crank, crank, pop, crank, crank, pop. She would barely hit, enough to show that at least she was operable enough to mix some fuel, compress and cause it to ignite, but not enough to be self sustaining.

A few little squirts of starter fluid and she kicks off for twenty seconds and stops. OK. That reduces the possibility the problem is with the ignition system. Even though I drained the fuel from each carb, there is still gunk in the fuel system, so I keep squirting and running until she finally pops and starts running a little.

20 seconds... 30 seconds... 40... 50... a minute. She is alive and breathing fuel, but just barely.

I shut her down and feel the exhaust pipes. Rear cylinder pipe is nice and warm. Good. Front cylinder pipe is cool. Damn! That is the one I had problems with before.

So, while the battery gets a little charge I pull the plugs. With its compact powerplant, just pulling the plugs is a challenge in itself. But, they do come out and the above picture is what I find. Carbon fouling.

Here is where I made a previous diagnostic failure. Memories of my Dad teaching me to read plugs are coming back and I see the error. Before I would pull and read and since they were wet and black, I thought 'oil leak.' But no black smoke. Diagnostic fail.

It wasn't oil, it was fuel. How do I know? This time I leave the plugs out for a few minutes. If it were oil making them appear wet, they would still appear wet after a few minutes in the air. If it were fuel, it would float away in the air and the plugs would look dry.

Dry.

There was something to chew on now; hard diagnostic analysis. Possible causes: rich fuel mixture; weak ignition; poor compression.

Poor compression is possible, but simple 'finger-over-the-plug-hole' indicate there is compression. It may not be up to spec, but there is. And, if there is indeed a compression problem, it is likely in the valves. There is no cross contamination between engine fluids to indicate any gasket or piston ring failure. So, compression is at the bottom of the possible issues list.

Weak ignition is possible and with my spare parts pile, I can easily replace the coils, plug wires and CDI. Actually, the last time I worked on her, I did swap out the coils and plug wires, so that likely isn't it. But, maybe the CDI. This is high on my list of possible culprits and with a little swap, is easy to confirm or dismiss.

Rich fuel mixture is another strong possibility and very likely the culprit. Getting in there to make fine adjustments is a challenge but not too tough.

So, #1 - Rummage through the garage and find the spare CDI and swap that out.

#2 - If that doesn't work, get out the tiny screw drivers and tweek with the carbs.

Looks like a good wrenchin' Sunday.

Karma Police

2011-10-13T08:00:00.001-07:00

While the actual mechanics of Karma are, in my opinion, curious at best, the effects seem natural. You do good things, associate with good people, good things are likely to happen.

You do bad things, associate with bad people, bad things are likely to happen.

Well, I was arrested by the Karma Police, tried and given a sentence. There is no argument of its appropriateness and quite difficult to argue that the punishment does not suit the crime.

Earlier this year I promised someone a spare part from my project bike. Other things in my life pushed and shoved and because of miscalculation of priorities, this promise was pushed so low that it was never fulfilled. For the last month this gnawed on me like a rabid honey badger. So, the only thing that could be done was to contact this gentleman, explain the situation, offer an apology and attempt to make it right.

While gracious, he did say that over the course of the summer, several blue streaks of swearing did indeed, and much deserved, were shot my way. Honestly, I deserved that.

So, last night I spent some time in my garage preparing my project bike, a Suzuki VX800, for another shot at getting it to run. That's when the sirens went off and the Karma Police arrived. The arrest and sentence was swift, decisive and apropos.

For starters, the new battery I purchased about a year ago was not just dead, but had rigor mortise; only about 2 volts. After three hours on the charger, the voltage was still about 2 volts. Dead. Gone. Worth little more than the value of lead in its core.

But there was another part of the sentence... While checking out the chassis, dark spots could be seen on the fender near the front forks. Not one, but both front fork seals were now shot and leaking fork oil like it was running through a sieve.

Nothing irreparable, but quite appropriate. Fair enough. Time to accept the sentences, learn from their lessons and continue moving forward.

Of Friends and Bikes

2011-10-01T19:39:00.001-07:00

Over the past several weeks I have received apologies from several friends for their lack of contact with me, or slow response to my e-mails or phone messages. These were heart-felt apologies, not some meaningless platitudes to calm any unsettled feelings they may think I have. One even went so far as to say she was a bad friend.

People have lives and friends are friends, regardless. It is not the frequency or quantity of contact that keeps true friends, it is the quality of that contact.

Now, on to motorcycles.

Yes, I am keeping Athena. We have a long ride coming up in January and she needs a little help preparing. Today while riding around, a mental tally started... $350 for a tune-up and check. $250 for a new set of tires. If the clutch is going again, that's another $200. $75 for a new battery cover and kit. And there was more.

The weather was nice and quite a few bikes on the road, many of them fresh and new and sparkly, not squeaky and a little sun-burnt and decorated with minor bumps and abrasions like Athena. And I thought... What if I just traded her, saved the repair money and not worry about it?

As her purr, her roar, her potential energy under me slightly sniffed with a cold, the speedometer hit 85. We weaved slightly in our lane, teasing the markers and likely confusing the drivers falling behind us. We were dancing.

One doesn't change good dance partners quite so easily. Guess I had better get that tune-up scheduled and new tires picked out.

Just a Bucket List Revisited

2011-09-30T16:30:00.000-07:00

Before I get to the point of discussing the status of my little bucket list, something needs to be mentioned about my ventures into the world of online social media. For a few days this week a good friend came to visit. While it was brief, the discussions we had were good. No, not good, they were deep, involved, complex and sublimely enjoyable.

This visit was good for the both of us on many levels. I discovered I am not necessarily bad at verbal communications, I just find it more difficult than having on-line relationships on places like Facebook. Sometimes the right thing isn't easy and the things that are easy aren't necessarily right. So, for a while, Facebook will only be a 'once in a while' thing.

And, for me, the ease of verbal communication is directly related to some property of the other party. That property may never be identified or quantified. Maybe it shouldn't be.

Bucket list... We also discussed our bucket lists and something surprising was discovered... I am scared of it. The individual items aren't frightening, and the fact it is directly related to my mortality doesn't phase me in the least.

What is frightening about my list? That at this point, the only thing between these undone items and accomplishing these things is myself.

On one side of the fence is the bucket list. On the other is myself and standing right there on the fence is a second instance of myself with a flame thrower in one hand and flipping me off with the other.

That's it. Just me, and for some reason that scares the hell out of me.

On the bucket list... But first a story.

2011-09-23T22:41:00.001-07:00

Over the past few days there has been some internal need to review and revise my bucket list. However, that will be for my next post.

Last night was a long one; "Roll Out Friday" as we call it. The maintenance schedule for our main piece of software only allows for downtime on Fridays from 3AM to 6AM. And this was not a typical maintenance release. Three new modules were planned for integration as well as the typical bug fixes.

So, the entirety of this week has been preparation for this little event. Since one of these new modules was mine, by default, I get to help roll it out.

Two nights ago I only had enough time for about 5 hours of sleep, what with bug fixes, testing, administrata, interfacing with users and taking care of some personal things... like baking cookies for my daughter. :-)

Tired... Over tired. Needless to say, four hours of sleep in the last 34 hours does not play well with introspection.

So, I have a lot of stories, do I? OK, here is one of petty theft back in 1998 or so. The statute of limitations on this is likely expired and there is no telling where these people are at this point... So here goes.

A new Star Wars movie had just come out and, as many techie people are, our computer techs and network engineers were fans. Not just fans, but fans with a slightly deviant thread running through them.

A plan was hatched. Several went to the opening of the newest Star Wars movie at a local casino theater where they saw several life-sized cutouts. In their minds, having a Dark Sith Lord watch over them at staff meetings would be comforting... somehow.

With the quiet lack of non-approval from the VP and director (they both were fans as well), several engineers dressed up in matching, official looking attire, drove to the casino, walked in and without a word from security, took the cutouts.

And so, for the remainder of the year we had a life sized Dark Sith Lord in one corner of our meeting room and Darth Vader in another. I remember the first time I saw them. It was about 6AM when I walked into the black dark room and turned on the lights. Interestingly enough this didn't startle me a bit; it had happened before. But, that's another story.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend...

2011-09-20T18:18:00.000-07:00

Maybe not so much.*

A friend of mine once told a woman I dated briefly that '...he is full of stories. Just ask him.' Well, I suppose I am. The curious thing is that they are for the most part true.

So, last night after making enough cookies to give the Cookie Monster a stomach ache, it was time to step outside a bit, relax and finish my glass of wine. And for those of you wondering, yes, merlot does indeed go well with sugar cookies. :-)

At any rate, the weather was quite enjoyable and at ten PM, most things are settling down in the neighborhood. A fellow I have seen around here wanders up and introduces himself; we start chatting about how the local area is going down hill and the new vandalism taking place and the increase in drug activity.

I was honestly starting to like this person. Was...

Then the light veil, if one even existed, slightly dropped to reveal a certain something about this initially likeable person. While we both shared a common interest with regard to the neighborhood, his idea of a good neighborhood, as it turned out, is a bit... culturaly monolithic.

The epitaphs he used are in no way welcome here; just know that after he started revealing this certain attitude, the only civilized action available was to excuse myself.

I do not tollerate child abuse, domestic violence, selling drugs to kids and racism... period. "The enemy of my enemy is my friend?" Not necessarily.

*Not sure where I read the entire quote, 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend? Maybe not so much.'

Ratrace-0 ** Razor-1

2011-09-19T19:00:00.001-07:00

It realy feels like an addiction in a way; not unlike putting down the pack and not lighting up.

I know the enemy, and he is somewhere inside... wanting to buy stuff. And he is tricky too, just like the nicotine monster.

"Just a little."

"Just this once."

"It won't hurt a thing if you just make it quick."

Sitting here at home, working away this afternoon, the mental list of things to do after work started growing and growing. At its genesis was a simple task; ride to the post office and change my address. Then a simple list of items I needed from the grocery store - just a few things like sugar and zip-lock baggies and some fresh fruit.

Then things started going a little sideways.

For some reason I started thinking about the Knights Templar and how I would like to read more on them. OK, $30 for a book from Barnes and Noble. I can do that.

Then my mind wandered to the bare walls. Last weekend I unearthed my old flying charts.

Hmmm... Maybe I will take this Las Vegas Terminal Area Chart to the little framing place down the street and see how much it would cost for them to flatten the creases and place it in a frame. That would look nifty.

Oh, and a bike! How about stopping by the bike shop. You need more exercise, you know.

You haven't had beer in a week, why not stop and get a bottle or two of microbrews?

That's where I pulled the reins.

What do I need? I need to minimize. This is not minimizing - this is an attempt to justify wants. I don't need a book on the Knights Templar; there is plenty to read in this place. While a Las Vegas TAC would indeed look very nice hanging on the wall, it is not a need. Yes, exercise would definitely be a good thing, but why spend $100 or more on a bike when I can just focus on my hiking while adding a bit of cardio? And the beer? OK, maybe not a need, but it does rank up there in the wants.

What do I need? I need to enjoy the things I have and the people I know.

Tonight... Baking cookies with a little glass of wine, accompanied by music from the stereo I picked up at a garage sale several years back.

You need wine, cookies and some good conversation? Get yer butt over here. :-)

Little Sunday Night Comedy

2011-09-18T22:41:00.001-07:00

OK, so it's a little programmer, engineer, Dilbert-esqu but always make me smile a little.

The Minimizing Challenge - Success!

2011-09-17T18:14:00.000-07:00

--With a drop of pragmatism thrown in for good measure.

This morning I received a gift rare in today's world. After gathering the necessary items, including an interesting book by J. D. Salinger to help wile away the necessary down time, I strapped it all onto the back of my bike and headed to the DMV. My tasks were simple; return the license plates from my truck and Suzuki project bike, and change my address.

A few words about my project are in order. In my garage are quite a few things that are honestly not needed - things like a mattress that is nearly as comfortable as sleeping on a mostly uninflated air mattress on sharp rocks, a washer/dryer pair that would likely require the assistance of a small crane to lift them up to my apartment and four motorcycles, none of which run well, if at all. Three of those are my project bikes. One frame is already spoken for and will soon be making its way to Washington State. The other two nearly intact but not running motorcycles will likely be sold soon.

There is a reason for this. While I do indeed enjoy working on them and generally tinkering in the garage, I want to ride. Now, I have the time and the opportunity and certainly the desire. There is no need to have them sitting there in my garage, taking up space and hanging out in my mental swap file. So, one was registered last year when it was actually running and the plate needed to go back so I could drop its insurance. Should have done that months ago.

At any rate, a trip to the Nevada DMV was in order.

I pull up to the building and immediately wonder, 'Is this a holiday? There are at most two dozen cars and a few bikes here.'

After parking next to a very nice looking Goldwing trike, de-helmiting my head and gathering my things, I walked into the building. My jaw dropped.

The only line in the entire building was for the practical driving tests!

Walking up to the initial desk where number slips are issued, and telling the lady what I needed to do, she handed me a number and said, "Wait for it...."

"G 231 to desk 5 please!"

Um... I didn't need to wait? At all???

Not 10 minutes later, not only were the plates returned and my address changed, but my license was renewed!

So, what to do!?!?!

Little extra cash and all morning just for me. First and foremost... a trip to Leather Headquarters to buy a pair of nice lounge shirts. Taking a woman out for a nice meal may indeed require something a little more formal than a black biker t-shirt.

Then the mind started spinning... not a good thing.

'OOoo!!! A new camera!'
'A travel bag!'
'New gloves!!!'

Luckily some new minimalistic rule in my brain fired off, 'What, are you nuts? You already have a camera, you once rode to North Carolina with nothing more than two backpacks and a duffel bag and don't start about your gloves, they are fine!'

I did end up spending a bit of money that was unexpected but pragmatically, it was the right thing to do. Maybe that will be the subject of my next post.

Be Careful What Ya Throw Out!

2011-09-15T21:44:00.000-07:00

So minimizing and simplifying has it's logistics side too.

I have been holding off on selling my truck until after the move. Sure, the new apartment is only about 100 yards from the old one, just try moving any distance with only a motorcycle. Not a pretty picture unless everything can fit in the saddle bags.

So, late last evening I cut a deal. It wasn't necessarily as much as I wanted, however, given the issues it had, the offer was acceptable. Title was signed over; plates removed; key handed over; handshake; and it was gone for good. On the plus side, no more insurance, no more registration costs, and being that it was a high mileage vehicle, no soon to be necessary repair bills. On the down side, if something doesn't fit on the bike, I don't haul it, no more option of what to take somewhere and if my bike breaks down, the bus is the only option for transportation until she is repaired.

So, late last night one of my daughter's friends messages me. In my garage are some things of hers that she wants. No problem. We set a time for this weekend that I will bring them. Laying down, just about asleep, eyes pop open and the word 'crap' distinctly comes out of my mouth. I downsized without thinking, and I knew about her stuff and now have no way to get it to her.

Maybe its the same with all this extra stuff we want to get rid of; all the clutter. There may indeed be other things that we don't want to get rid of that rely on this clutter, or rather the existence of the clutter.

About 35 years ago my Dad taught me how to remove a rotted wooden fence post from a stack of good ones. Give it a few taps and see what moves. Just continue with with little taps and maybe a pull this way and that, watching the pile for movement. If other posts start to move, adjust the pile or maybe tap a good post in the rotten post's place. If you aren't careful, the whole pile could come down on you. When you are done, the rotten post will be out and the pile will be just as strong as before.

Got clutter, baggage or junk that you don't want? Remove it with determination and care or the whole pile might just come down.

Going With the Flow

2011-09-12T22:58:00.000-07:00

A lone car broke the brief palpable silence, but it was enough. Living in Las Vegas with its go-go-go nonstop, break-neck speed just doesn't play well with my psyche. That palpable silence is a strong fragment of memory from my childhood years on the farm. There, in the middle of a light winter snow, there was a peaceful, palpable silence. It was heavy but not oppressive; somewhat like a heavy blanket you pull up under your chin; comforting.

Tonight the move is complete and a brief ride was in order. My friend suggested it first; that I go on a little ride. While something longer would likely be more recharging and enjoyable, a night time ride to the Lake Mead Rec Area entry gates would suffice.

It isn't far and the round trip is less than 20 miles. The air was refreshingly cool and traffic minimal as lightning danced in the mountains to the east. That is where I wanted to go. I wanted to dance with the lightning.

Coming over the pass, leaving Las Vegas and its incessant din behind, the storm on the Nevada side of the lake disappeared. About a mile down the eastern side of the pass I slow and turn into a parking lot just before the entry gates. Here is a restroom, parking area, trail head and only the moon as an overhead light. Perfect for someone seeking a splinter of peace.

I share the lot with no one. Only the receding dance of distant lightning shares the space. It is quiet and peaceful. The transit of the moon across the sky makes as much sound as the wind.

Now lightning is dancing to the south and is is not receding; it wants to dance with me. There are times when it seems as if every cog, every lever, every rain drop is immediately working and all is well.

A car coming over the pass breaks the spell. The brief duration of that singular existence was long enough to reset a few internal switches. I smile, give the oncoming lightning storm a rain check and head home for a late dinner.

Honestly, it's likely better to watch lightning dance by itself.

Extrania

2011-09-04T08:21:00.000-07:00

I know 'Extrania' isn't a word, but it should be.

noun

1. Item, thought or other entity that is not essential.

2. Something that is irrelevant or not pertinent.

3. A piece or part that does not productively contribute to the functioning of the whole.

Extrania. I got it. Don't think you have any extrania? Move from one home to another and extrania is likely to be discovered.

Physical extrania is the most obvious and easiest to deal with; just get rid of it! Drop it off at Goodwill or Salvation Army, give it to a needy neighbor, post it on CraigsList or have a garage sale. If someone wants your extrania, let them have it!

Internal extrania is a little different. Like physical extrania, it tends to accumulate unnoticed in the nooks and crannies of the mind. This mind clutter, luckily, has properties of its more tactile version. Moving makes this extrania obvious and easy to toss aside.

Experiencing long periods of internal dialog on long rides really sweeps the corners and dusts the bookshelves. For many, removing this extrania of the mind is best accomplished on the back of a motorcycle. The physical minimalism of this mode of travel tends to creep into one's soul, making the unneeded obvious.

At that point, it's up to the individual to deal with the extrania as they see fit. Keep it or pitch it along the median... It's all up to the rider.

And A Few More Changes

2011-09-01T21:09:00.000-07:00

Looking back at the last six months or so, I am honestly surprised at how much has happened. Just to recap...

Rear bike tire went flat at 80 MPH. Honestly, it wasn't terribly frightening; the front wheel started bouncing and as I slowed, she felt like I was riding on thick pudding.
The battery cover of my Sporty fell off while riding down I-215 at 65. Hearing 'chink...clink...clank' while riding is typically not the harbinger of happy tidings.
Had the opportunity to spend two weeks with my daughter while getting all her education details situated back in Iowa.
During this same two weeks, the joys and inequities of the federal student aide program became quite obvious.
Blew the primary oil seal on my Rebel... Again.
Learned from my Dr. that a few ailments associated with my occupation are starting to become apparent.
After putting on some additional, undesired weight, took up hiking again.
Got another tattoo.
And...

And... lost a close member of the family. First, a warning and bit of context. Below is the recounting of a tender subject with some; the passing of a furry family member. As for context, my ex wife was taking care of him until his medical needs exceeded what she could handle, at which point he came to live with me. Because of this, and the fact that our daughter lived with me, there was some amount of necessary interaction. We don't hate each other; we just don't want to associate much, other than when necessary.

At any rate, what follows is something I wrote not long after his passing...

A moment perhaps, a second. His head gently dropped. A second needle was inserted and second chemical injected. The drugs were efficient and painless. The doctor checked for heartbeat and respiration; none. He was gone. No more pain or exhaustion or seizures or cancer.

A scream of love and concern and sorrow echoed from my bedroom. Sprinting up the stairs I found my daughter sitting, crying, petting Jake as he lie helpless on the floor in the throes of another seizure. I hug her around the shoulders. “I am going to get your mom.”

Lying there within the physical comfort of his favorite blanket, Jake now passed, 'B' sobs, “Please get three pebbles.” I understand. After retrieving three stones, tucking them next to the mortal coil of a friend and tucking the blanket around him, I kiss him on the head and whisper, “If we meet again, it would be an honor my dear friend. I love you.”

This was not the time to break down and cry. To everything there is a season, and this was not it. Peaceful for eternity, Jake's remains lay safe in my saddle bag. Crying in a full face helmet is not conducive to safe riding.

Staying in Motion

2011-08-31T23:05:00.000-07:00

Sometimes things in motion need to stay in motion.

The last several months have carried along a few changes. For starters, my daughter made the choice to move out of the nest and do what she wants; to pursue something she has talked about for years. While she is not pursuing an MD, I am damned proud she wants a PhD.

The house is quiet in an enjoyable and somewhat unsettling way.

Another change, a good change, I am no longer a smoker. Sometime early this year, I just didn't go to the smoke shop. No patches, no drugs, no acupuncture; I just quit. Do I want a cigarette? Absolutely. Am I going to have one? Absolutely not.

I tried reading Walden's Pond again for the fifth time. Didn't take. Same as my love life. Earlier this year I dated a nice lady briefly but it didn't take. Honestly, I'm good with both.

Perhaps more importantly are the things that sat unattended during this time. This blog, one of the better things in my life, purposely sat unattended. Back in February, that was my intention; to move on; write the last chapter in this book and close the cover. Some books don't like to remain closed.

Another item that sat unattended is my Suzuki project motorcycle. She is honestly rather sad. Clearing boxes and general junk from around her over the course of the last few days revealed two badly leaking forks. After three days on the charger, the battery could barely hold enough charge to spin the starter. Click-click-click-click. Motorcycles are meant to ridden, meant to be operational. Once that equilibrium is reached between rider and machine, little energy is required to maintain a mutualy productive relationship.

Here's to things in motion that should stay in motion, and to things not yet in motion. It's nice to be back.

Damn It!

2011-08-26T21:55:00.001-07:00

Who left the lights on?

Goodbye with a Goodbye

2011-02-22T20:01:00.000-08:00

To everything there is a season. This is the season to say goodbye.

Admittedly, my little blog here has suffered from a lack of attention. Years ago it served its purpose. Through it I met several fine people and was able to express my feelings in a form I could understand; writing. I think that now it is time to close up shop here.

I will still check into my Facebook account from time to time; many of you have my phone number; and many of you have my e-mail address. I am not falling of the face of the earth... yet anyway.

So, I am going to end this blog; this chapter of my life; with a goodbye that was an unintentional goodbye.

Post Mark: Nov 8, 1983; Nov 10, 1983; Nov 17, 1983

From: Kenneth Linder, Milan IL.

To: Kenneth Linder, Joy, IL

Nov 7 1983

Dear Kenneth

How are you? I am fine I guess. How is Crystal & Lemuel & Manuel & Leola now? Your mother was up to Muscatine hospital to see me a little bit last Tue the 1st. I guess it was. How is the Shotwell getting along now? They are not going to cut on me. I could die on in the cut.

Well, how is Sharon getting along in school and how are you getting along. Has Manuel been to office the last two weeks? I take 7 pill 2 & 3 & 4 &5 + time a day. What did she say after she came over and seen me hospital she didn't stay long and left on the run. Ruth said she came with a kid but the hospital said they can't come upand see me. Did she bring them up. My left foot hurt and sleep all the time so I guess I will live till I die.

Well I love you all. I don't get to see you guy. I am on a hell of a diet - no salt or sugar or pork.

Someone said that you mother has lost her friend in New Boston now is that so?

How is your grades in school.

I guess I will close for now, don't tell your mother or she will get mader than hell.

With Love

Dad

Kenneth Linder

P.S. I would like to see you and talk to you. That all...

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Also in the envelope that holds this letter is this:

In Memory of

Kenneth Wayne Linder

Date of Birth

December 2, 1927

Date of Death

November 10, 1983

Time and Place of Services

Monday, November 14, 1983

1:30 PM

United Methodist Church

Officiating

Rev. William Eastin

Rev. John Weishar

Organist

Mrs. Shirley Dunn

Place of Internment

Eliza Creek Cemetery

Pallbearers

Everett Linder

Raymond Linder

Jerry McLee

Richard Sells

Robert Sells

Steven Miller

------------------------------------------------------------------

Time to close up shop here. Could the last person please turn out the lights?

Vivam usque dum moriar.

Alas my Rebel, I Barley Knew You.

2010-12-15T06:00:00.000-08:00

It is time to prepare a farewell to my friend. We have seen and been through a lot together. She was not only a new mode of transport, but opened a life changing door.

Without the two of us meeting, it is quite likely most of the people I now know, would not even have crossed my path. Without her, the family I am now part of, would be forever beyond the horizon.

Without her I would never have met fellow bloggers and riders like Ms M, WooleyBugger, Iowa Harley Girl, Big Al, Biker Dietitian, Chessie, NormaJean, Bolty, Doug, Lady Ridesalot, Balisada and many more. It is no great understatement that my little Honda Rebel has been the catalyst for change in my life.

However, she is not happy. She sits in my garage, only coming out once or twice a month for a little ride around the neighborhood. A motorcycle isn't meant to sit idle. My little Honda Rebel needs an owner who will rider her. Hopefully I can find one.

Them Wheels are Spinnin'

2010-12-14T07:16:00.000-08:00

Several years ago, a rather astute and relatively close work associate made an observation, "You really spin your wheels a lot, don't you?"

It's true. Some days I catch myself spinning badly. Perhaps it is human nature.

Starting a new project is far easier than following through with a difficult or stalled project. Creating new projects becomes it's own reward. Completion yields nothing; the number of things started is what matters. For better or worse, my brain is filled with things such as these.

My Suzuki VX800 project is stalled due to problems with my front carburetor. Farkling & equipping my Harley Sportster into a touring machine, is going no where because I am still paying for the bike. Learning to fly is stalled due to lack of funds and time. The operating system I started writing in 2004 is still only a few hundred lines long due to lack of time. The dozen or so stories I have floating in my mind are still floating, also due to lack of time.

These are all excuses and I know it. T'is far easier to leave obstacles in place and start over. T'is far more rewarding to obliterate the obstacles and keep moving.

Now, That's the Spot

2010-12-06T18:42:00.000-08:00

Yes, there is is. As life proceeded, with its ups and downs, opportunities and adversities, lonely roads and groups, something hibernated. Reading of Ms M's recent Iron Butt accomplishment gave that little hibernating critter a nudge.

Over the last few months I have had the opportunity to buy a few things and pay off a few debts. The feeling of paying off a credit card was fantastic. Next up is paying off one of my bikes and taking care of another little debt. It's good.

As I sat here in my garage a few weekends ago, my little Suzuki just looked at me. She has been taking low priority for quite a while and understandably wanted attention. Within minutes the seat, tank and front air filter were on a little work table. 30 minutes later the front carb was apart and in pieces. Timing is not always my forte. I forgot something that had been scheduled for weeks. So, bike, parts and tools were pushed to the side... Pushed to the side like this little sleeping critter.

While shopping around for a light bar for my Sporty and a small scope for my pistol, the little critter rumbled. And, as normally happens, I ended up browsing over to ADVRiders. If you are not familiar with this site and are a motorcycle rider, just grab your favorite beverage and give it a visit.

At any rate, the critter seems to be wide awake now. Rather than looking at light bars and pistol scopes, motorcycle tires and tents and riding gear seems to be filling up my screen. It's time to get that Suzuki running 100%, buy some long distance riding gear, get some luggage and a tent, schedule some time off and get out of here.

Maybe the Northern California Wine Country... Maybe Canada... Maybe a few thousand miles of lonely two lane roads. Maybe ghost towning with a buddy. Anyone want to go for a ride?

Curious Times

2010-12-02T08:36:00.001-08:00

Yes 'curious.'

So I meet a new female friend on line. We start e-mailing back and forth. I send her a picture of myself in full leathers, sitting on my bike. Also tell her that I work from home.

She says that I would likely scare her kids and she wants to know if I am paralyzed or something.

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot? Seriously. Addressing any single item here would be a disservice to the overall WTF...

Why is it, people of the fairer sex that I would honestly like to spend time with are 500 or more miles away? Ah, well. I have plenty to keep me occupied, and my cold medicine to keep me warm. Perhaps poor substitutes for companionship but will suffice for now.

A Fun Little Saturday

2010-11-27T22:01:00.000-08:00

Ya, I overdid it again. The morning sun was bright, the air still and warming, the traffic light and coffee hot and strong.

Guess what I did today.

A few days ago I discovered a little gun shop called Spurlock's. Really, a great, laid back place. Most sales people at other, more prominent Las Vegas area gun shops seem to wince or snicker when they discover I am only interested in .22 rifles and hand guns. This isn't necessarily true; but is a test of sorts.

The sales person at Spurlock's passed with flying colors. Without wince or snicker he showed me his selection of .22 long guns. One caught my eye. A Marlin 25MN .22 magnum rifle. As you can see from the above picture, once the sights are dialed in, it is quite effective at 50 yards. Yes, that is a quarter I hit at 50 yards.

Respect. Just respect what the customer wants. Maybe that is what is needed in relationships; simple, straightforward, unflinching respect.

Oh, today I ordered a Beretta NEOS from Spurlock's and they have a nice little 380 that caught my eye. Just respect.

Another Project?

2010-11-26T19:51:00.000-08:00

Last Saturday I broke, or minimally, damaged my foot. While quite painfull, at least it was colorful. The hues of blue and purple were quite... intriguing.

Wednesday my boss was nice enough to let us off work early. No, I didn't kick back and relax; no time. Given three hours before sundown, taking advantage of the available light, I manage to change the oil in my pickup, do a little electrical diagnostic work and remove and disassemble the front carb from my Suzuki.

I thought it would be a good idea. My foot had other thoughts. Where just that morning, most of the purple and blue was gone, it was back; pain included.

So rather than work on my bike today, which would involve a lot of bending and moving and Ibuprofen, I started another little project... The restoration of a Winchester Model 67 single shot bolt action rifle.

After reading a few websites that discussed gun restoration, and a few purchases at the local sporting goods store, I was ready. First the old finish had to be stripped. That was easy, just a

few squirts of remover, 15 minutes and it came right off. That was the easy part.

Then was the sanding. With a coarse grit sanding foam block, 180 I believe, then with a 360, it was ready for a steel wool scrub down. While my arms got a nice work out, my left foot didn't need to move around much.

After wiping the whole thing down with a dry cloth, it was time to apply the Tru-Oil finish. The instructions said to apply with my fingers? O... K...

Honestly, the first coat went on nicely. This is an old gun, likely from the late 1930's and has a real walnut stock. After some more rubbing down with steel wool and a few more coats, she is going to be pretty!

(Just a note... the dark marks in the stock are stains from the previous owner. Sanding them out might not be a good idea as there is no telling how deep in the wood they go.)

My Yearly Trip to North Carolina - With a Bonus!

2010-11-25T11:13:00.001-08:00

This is what I awoke to see, nearly every morning a few weeks ago. Having morning coffee on the deck overlooking my friend's farm was sublime.

This yearly pilgrimage began three years ago when I rode my little Honda Rebel to visit. It wasn't easy riding a little Rebel 5800 miles round trip, but without a doubt, the friendship and fantastic view was worth it.

Last year I rode my Sporty down to Florida, then up to my friend's farm, and then back home. There was little time to visit on that trip. This inconvenience was likely a blessing; her boyfriend was a little psycho.

So, this year I flew. The visit time was much longer and her boyfriend is a great fellow. There was just something missing and I know what it was. It was the ride; the journey that was different.

What was the bonus? I spent time sharing stories and having a beer in front of a bon-fire with none other than Wooley Bugger! Buddy, I am definitely riding back there so you can show me some of the back roads and museums.

Did I Do Something Wrong, Officer?

2010-11-21T08:55:00.000-08:00

I have only a few speeding tickets to my name. That didn't matter.

I have had multiple FBI NCIC background checks over the course of the past two years. That didn't matter.

I was not carrying contraband. That didn't matter.

Opt-out was not explained to me. That didn't matter.

When I purchased my flight ticket from Orbitz last month, I do not recall agreeing to a violation such as this. It didn't matter.

Yes, I went through a backscatter X-Ray machine at the Raleigh Durham airport.

While not necessarily a prude, the knowledge that some un-named person somewhere saw me naked is a little unsettling. There is no transparency. Doctors or other medical professionals seeing me "au naturale" can be researched and reviewed. A lawyer can check up on any law enforcement officer giving me a pat-down. Not so for this.

While I am not a scare monger, conspiracy advocate nor against any form of lawful protection, this is troublesome. Jokingly, I can think, 'Damn, someone saw me naked and I didn't even get lunch out of the deal.' Nonetheless, it is disturbing.

When planning my next trip, I will seriously consider utilizing other modes of transportation.

Little Hiatus

2010-10-29T21:21:00.000-07:00

Yes, I have been absent from this blog for a while. The real world called and I answered.

Now, there are some things that simply cannot be discussed. There are some things that are far too trivial to be mentioned. And then there are things to write about and discuss and reminisce and ruminate upon. The latter will be fodder for likely the next year. Just to recap my current state of being:

1 - I have three running (for the most part) motorcycles. My primary riding bike is a Harley Davidson 2004 1200cc Sportster Custom, also known as a HD XL1200C. Then there is my first bike, a 2007 Honda Rebel. She has a few mechanical issues but nothing that can't be rectified with my tools and abilities. And finally, there is my 1991 Suzuki VX800; my project bike. Currently the later is having issues with the front carb but she runs.

2 - Still single. Had a few dates but nothing serious or involved ever came of them.

3 - My daughter will soon be leaving to the great mid-west. If all goes well, a year from now she will be in the undergraduate program at University of Iowa studying psychology.

4 - Work is quite throughly filling my days. In today's economy that is a good thing; and I am certainly not complaining.

5 - I now exercise my Second Amendment rights about once every other weekend at an outdoor range not far from where I live.

6 - I won a Kindle reader at a recent company picnic. This thing is amazing!

So... if you fall into any of the following categories, please give me a call: know much about balancing multiple carburetor V-Twin motorcycle engines; know about the University of Iowa; want to go on a date; know anything, or want to know anything about carrier call detail records, rating, phone switches or high-throughput data processing; want to go shooting one weekend; or have reading suggestions.

Oh, since my little Acer Netbook seemed to have run off with someone, I replaced it with a little Dell Mini this evening. Not sure how this will work out; we shall see.

Messages, Searching & Trips

2010-08-21T23:42:00.000-07:00

A lot of miles in a car. Not my idea of an ideal trip but my daughter enjoyed it, and honestly, so did I.

A week ago, my daughter, her boyfriend and I embarked on a road trip from Las Vegas to New Boston, IL to see my family. Oil problems in Utah, going down the wrong way on a one way in Colorado, flat tire in Colorado, motel fire alarm and emergency vehicles in Iowa City...

By most definitions this was indeed an adventure and a good trip. Pics and commentary soon.

Ever have a 'sign' come up and smack you on the face, saying, "Hey, ya, I'm talking to YOU?"

Little Geeky Sunday

2010-08-08T16:20:00.000-07:00

On call...
Lack of sleep...
Nice thunderstorm last night...
Saving my clutch on Athena until I can afford a clutch job...
Cannot concentrate on my book of the moment ("Alas Shrugged," by Ayn Rand)...
Taking several peoples' advice and not working on my project bike, Vixen for about a month...

So, I turn back to an old hobby... Ham Radio. I spent yesterday afternoon mounting my antenna to a ladder in my little 'patio' area, tuning everything up, and... No signals. Bands are pretty much dead.

What that generally means is that there is no ionospheric propagation for the frequencies I can use. Ionospheric propagation is the bouncing of radio signals off the ionosphere, allowing a radio signal to travel thousands of miles. Well, there was none. The ionosphere is excited by unsettled space weather - sunspots. Very few sunspots, very little ionospheric propagation.

So, I built a little ham radio geek website while cleaning house. KC7RAD's Ham Radio Mashup Page. Eh... Why not...

Switching Gears

2010-08-01T08:34:00.001-07:00

It is time for a hiatus from my restoration project. The last attempt at cleaning the carburetors yielded nice shiny aluminum and brass that seemed to fit well and meet all service manual specifications.

What I actually got was a rear carb that spat out fuel as if it were being dumped on the ground. Likely suspect in this is the float or needle valve.

The operation of removing the carburetor is not minor. Several electrical connections must be disconnected, several cables removed, fuel lines disconnected and the airbox partially disassembled and carefully slid out of place. As much desire there is to take care of these issues, the Las Vegas heat expressed in the garage is just too much.

Combine that with Atena's clutch and other maintenance items needing attention, and the result is obvious. My VX800 needs to be shelved for a short while. It is better to have a well maintained, rideable bike than several partially rideable ones.

Dating Site Humor

2010-07-29T11:41:00.000-07:00

As I sit here eating lunch, wishing it were cooler outside, leafing through my e-mail, a friend mentions an internet dating site. Thoughts of updating my profile and maybe checking things out come to mind. But then, as is typical, my mind turns to humor.

So, here are some definitions and comments on the possible true meanings of the things some date-seekers post. Hope you get at the minimum, a few chuckles out of this. No disrespect meant to anyone, especially those who drive VWs.

Humourous Dating Site Definitions Explained!

Retired ~~ Has not been able to hold a job for the last decade.
Well Off ~~ Average bank account is $100.
Owns his own place ~~ Lives out of his VW Microbus.
Enjoys traveling ~~ See above item.
Multilingual ~~ Can swear in Spanish, Italian and French.
Takes care of his parents ~~ Has lived in their basement for the last 25 years.
Likes walking on the beach ~~ ...looking for lost change.
Enjoys the outdoors ~~ The VW Microbus needs to be fumigated once a year.
Full head of hair ~~ Beware the dreaded comb-over.
Easy going ~~ Enjoys a LOT of herbal supplements.
Enjoys growing things ~~See above item.
Athletic ~~ Jumps to conclusions on a daily basis.
Likes loud music ~~ Volume button is broken on the radio.
Enjoys quiet evenings by a fireplace ~~ The VW Microbus gets cramped once in a while.
Studied Pharmacology ~~ Currently or previously a drug mule.
Frugal ~~ Water is free, right?
Doesn't watch TV ~~ Either cannot afford cable or satellite service, or does not know how to operate a remote.
Enjoys technology ~~ Uses an iPhone or Droid to text friends and post on FacecBook about 50% of the time while on dates.
Enjoys reading ~~ While Calvin and Hobbes can be greatly entertaining, it is not literature.
Old fashion ~~ Doesn't believe in brushing teeth and showers once a week.
Rides bicycles ~~ Necessary when the VW Microbus breaks down.
Enjoys a drink now and then ~~ Has a separate refrigerator for the beer and box wine.
Well dressed ~~ Could mean many things. When combined with 'Frugal', this indicates a lot of ill-fitting t-shirts that have faded pictures of nearly naked ladies. When combined with 'Old fashioned', this indicates they wear the same clothes they did in high school.
Enjoys pets ~~ Free-range ants, cockroaches and a bees nest do not constitute 'pets.'
Likes weight training ~~ 12 ounce curls.
Enjoys running ~~ Especially after the police discover he is 'Easy going.'
Extravagant ~~ Spends all their money and overextends their credit on crap no one needs and they will use once, if that.
Has a large investment portfolio ~~ His drinking buddies bought him two shares of harley Davidson stock when he turned 40.

OK, I need to get back to work. Can anyone add to this list???

That Wasn't So Bad

2010-07-21T06:26:00.000-07:00

After a day or two to reflect on my carburetor issue, and all the help from the kind folks on the VX800 e-mail list, it was time to dig in. Honestly it was not all that difficult. The success or failure of the carburetor cleaning is yet to be seen but the process of disassembling, cleaning and reassembling the front unit was not very difficult.
One big problem with this carb became evident within moments. The diaphragm was not seated properly when the previous owner had the carbs rebuilt. Honestly, it is a wonder this one worked at all.

There is the rear carb yet to clean, and the success or failure only to be determined once both are strapped back onto the engine. Sometimes a task that seems daunting is honestly rather small after a day or two of hydration and reflection.

Plans and Limits

2010-07-14T15:58:00.000-07:00

"Failure is nature's plan to prepare you for great responsibilities." -Napoleon Hill
"It is an ill plan that cannot be changed." -Latin proverb.
Those two quotes seem quite apropos at the moment. There is no anger nor even a hint of irritation; just a tired, hot confounding pressure in the back of my head, radiating out to my knees and fingers.

For the last three days I have pushed against the oppressive Las Vegas summer heat and aching pressure in my fingers and knees in an effort to clean and check the carburetors on my VX800. They were successfully removed, cleaned and reattached, all without blood loss or single broken part.

At about 7PM yesterday with the thermometer displaying 105, I mounted the tank, turned on the petcock, opened the choke, turned on the key and hit the starter. She cranked and cranked and barely caught once and then backfired. And that was the end of my work for the day. The battery was dead from excessive cranking and there was a puddle of fuel on the ground below the front carburetor.

Apparently I had maladjusted the rear carb so that the needle valve would not allow sufficient fuel into the bowl, and I had not cleaned the front carb enough as it was still overflowing. The course of action was obvious. The air boxes and carburetors had to come off again. The carbs had to be opened up and cleaned and inspected and readjusted again.

And my 40-something body is telling me, 'enough pushing for now.' All spare time for the past four days, excepting the times where temperatures were over 115, has been spent in the garage. My (according to my doctor) pre-arthritic fingers and knee are telling me to take a day or two off.

Maybe it is time to have someone else work on a thing or two. Would it soil my desire to rebuild this bike if I paid someone to take care of the carburetors for me?

Minimally, she does have new fuel lines, a few new vacuum lines and I know how to get in deep if necessary.

Patience, Grasshopper

2010-07-11T20:27:00.000-07:00

So, Friday I picked up another VX800. For only $200 I bought a 1990 (first model year) donor bike. Plans... What are plans if they aren't bent or broken a little?

The initial plan was to get this bike and use it as a test-bed of sorts. The previous owner told me that just before it was put in storage about six years ago, the entire engine was rebuilt; both top and bottom end. The rear carburetor started giving him issues so he just parked it in one of his storage units and drained the fuel.

Over that time he sold, gave away or had stolen several pieces from the bike. There was no fuel tank, no plastics, no speedometer worm gear on the front wheel and no exhaust. Perhaps a challenging project at best for many. Given I already have two 1991 model year bikes, this was a purchase dream come true.

On Saturday I started cleaning her up and checking parts. It occurred to me that rather than just using this as a parts bike, why not just build on this one instead? Sure, I have a great bit of time invested in the other VX carcass. It was cleaned, painted, clearcoated, received a new steering head bearing set, completely re-wrapped wiring harness and likely quite a few other things.

Optimistically I picked up a fresh battery, oil filter, oil and battery strap from Nevada Suzuki. After returning home I replaced the oil and coolant. Carefully attaching the battery, all the electronics seemed to check out except for the brake light switch for the front brake. No problem, I had a working one. The choke cable was seized but an afternoon soak in WD40 took care of that. Plugs were giving off a good spark, oil pump was able to generate acceptable pressure when cranking, cylinders and valves were holding compression; it was a very promising and productive day.

After mounting the exhaust system (incorrectly the first few times I may add), the temp had soared to near 115 in my garage. As much as I really wanted to continue working, continuing would have likely been a little dangerous.

This morning, bright and early at 5:30 I couldn't sleep. There was an excitement in the air. I wanted to hear her run, as admittedly unlikely as that could be. Bikes usually don't crack right off after a six year nap in storage.

By 6:45 I had a mixture of SeaFoam and fuel in the tank and had installed a new fuel line and fuel filter. After taking my daughter to work, it was time. With fire extinguisher close by, I mounted the tank and connected the fuel line. With the petcock open, all fuel lines and electronics were methodically checked. We have GO.

The choke is open, key on, clutch in, I hit the starter. Within five seconds of cranking the front cylinder starts catching. It was exciting but not elating... yet. Then the rear started to catch. Blue and white smoke and all sorts of dust and dirt start flying out of the exhaust. A few twists of the throttle and the bike is showing life! She is limping and coughing and sputtering but is alive.

Now I am elated!

The blue smoke is from old junk hydrocarbons that have accumulated in the engine. The white is from the SeaFoam. All is good. Then I smell fuel. That is something I didn't want. As sublime an experience this was for me, attention to every little thing was necessary.

Under the bike was a large pool of fuel. Hitting the kill switch and turning on my vent fan I go over everything. After consulting a few people it was obvious. The floats or needle valves were gummed up. This caused fuel to be pumped out the carb breather tubes and enrich the air/fuel mixture to a point where running the engine would be a severe challenge.

After several further running tests, each time the engine running smoother and more confidently, it was obvious the carbs needed to be removed and cleaned. The temp was about 115F. As much desire there was to continue, as much drive as there was to hear her growl again, doing so would have been, as it would have been on Saturday, dangerous.

Yes, she growls. Two separate people heard her run and they both used the same adjective; growl.

Before the dis assembly process began, I HAD to do it. After a few minutes the plastic pieces and seat were mounted. She is tall, narrow, she growls, balance is better than any bike I have ever been on, and in the saddle, she feels wonderful.

Motorcycle Quote of the Day

2010-07-07T08:38:00.000-07:00

"As recent memory serves, the most I have felt at home is while on two wheels, riding a solitary road."

Close Enough

2010-07-03T05:29:00.000-07:00

While attending college, one is exposed to quite a few jokes about their course of study. Here are some of my favorites:

Q. How did the programmer die in the shower?
A. He read the shampoo bottle instructions: Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

How many programmers does it take to change a light bulb?
None – It’s a hardware problem.

What’s the difference between drug dealers and computer programmers?

Drug Dealers	Computer Programmers
Refer to their clients as “users”.	Refer to their clients as “users”.
“The first one’s free!”	“Download a free trial version…”
Have important South-East Asian connections (to help move the stuff).	Have important South-East Asian connections (to help debug the code).
Strange jargon: “Stick,” “Rock,” “Dime bag,” “E”.	Strange jargon: “SCSI,” “RTFM,” “Java,” “ISDN”.
Realize that there’s tons of cash in the 14- to 25-year-old market.	Realize that there’s tons of cash in the 14- to 25-year-old market.
Job is assisted by the industry’s producing newer, more potent mixes.	Job is assisted by industry’s producing newer, faster machines.
Often seen in the company of pimps and hustlers.	Often seen in the company of marketing people and venture capitalists.
Their product causes unhealthy addictions.	DOOM. Quake. SimCity. Farmville. Facebook. etc...
Do your job well, and you can sleep with sexy movie stars who depend on you.	Damn! Damn! DAMN!!!

One of my favorites, while not specifically about computer scientists is told and written in various levels of sexuality and innuendo. Here is a fairly clean version:

A man and a woman are at opposite ends of a basketball court. Every 5 seconds, they walk HALF the remaining distance towards the half court line. A scientist says, "They will never meet, it is useless"; an engineer says "Pretty soon, they'll be close enough for all practical purposes".

Maybe this has some deeper connotations. We may never meet a specific goal or complete a project exactly as desired or designed. However we just may get close enough for all practical purposes.

Baby

2010-06-29T12:07:00.000-07:00

Yes, this made me giggle for some reason. Maybe I am just loosing it; or maybe random guffaws at spam is a sign of a healthy mind. Eh... Who knows. OK, here it is.. I am still chuckling...

Subject: I LOVE YOU
From: Baby

Hello, (miraclelovedd@hotmail.com)
My name is miracle, i saw your profile today when i saw searching in google search and became interested in you,i will also like to know you more,and if you can send an email to my email address,i will give you my pictures here is my email address (miraclelovedd@hotmail.com) I believe we can move from here! Awaiting for your mail to my email address here.
miracle.

Don't Cry Like A Bitch When You Feel the Pain

2010-06-26T21:58:00.000-07:00

It was out of no where, a sucker-punch, a cheap glancing shot. The hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention as the demon scratched at it's grey cell walls. He wanted attention, an he received it.

Walking out of the bookstore for a smoke and inner communion with the jail keepers, he hit again. This time not a glancing blow but one directly to the center of my back. He meant business this time.

But this time it was different. Straddling my bike, bringing this steel and rubber and chrome beast alive, we prepared. Hot asphalt and blood red setting sun swayed to my request; we rode.

What Will the Neighbors Think?

2010-06-25T11:12:00.001-07:00

And so, there was wrenching to do.

A friend of mine will be borrowing my Honda Rebel until her bike is fixed. It would not be prudent handing over the key before being certain the bike is in fine working order.

Over the past two months or so I have been wrenching on her here and there. The crankshaft oil seal needed to be reseated. Engine, fuel tank and carbs cleaned out. Spark plugs changed. That sort of thing.

Well, the rear brakes needed to be checked. With only about 6,000 miles on the front brakes, they are fine. However, those rear brakes felt soft and somewhat ineffective. So, my task for last night was to remove the rear wheel and check the brakes. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the Rebel, the rear wheel has drum style breaks, necessitating the removal of the wheel just to check the darned things.

Alas, I do not have a bike jack or stand. A buddy of mine who lives in the same apartment complex does have a bike stand/jack but it is far too wide. Being designed more for large cruisers and dirt bikes, making it fit the Rebel would have been time consuming and tricky.

So, I MacGyver'ed it. With three tie-down straps anchored to the rafters, and some spare rope, there came to be a bike winch of sorts. I would lift the bike up a little at a time while my daughter tightened each tie-down strap. Suspended, the bike was honestly rather stable and secure. Not that I would recommend this method for larger bikes but it worked well with my little 350 pound bike.

Should probably remove the tie-downs and straps before the neighbors see them. Wouldn't want them to think anything funny is going on in there. :-)

Motorcycle Plastic Repair - Adventure in Plastic Welding

2010-06-20T09:28:00.000-07:00

Aside from a few other things going on in my life, I have been busy experimenting with chemical plastic repair on my project bike. And guess what... SUCCESS!
If you are so inclined, you can read of my plastic repair success on my VX800 blog, part 1 and part 2.

NOW! New and improved with Part 3 - Repairing a completely broken piece.

No Offense and No Disrespect, But...

2010-06-16T12:16:00.001-07:00

Nearly a decade ago when I started to grow out my beard and hair, my loving work associates started something that still follows. "No offense Ken, but you look like Captain Caveman."

And so I did.

It was a crazy time where I work. Projects and new clients were coming fast and hard. This particularly crazy morning was after a 24+ hour stint in the office; this co-worker was certainly sharp in their observation.

But it was said in jest, in good humor. There was no malice intended.

Perhaps some kind blog reader out there can clarify something... Why do some people preface a patently offensive or disrespectful comment with "No offense or disrespect intended, but..." ???

"No offense, but you stink and look like Captain Caveman." And your point?

"No offense or disrespect but you ride like shit, can't write a decent program to save your ass and the grammar you write with reminds me of my brother's three year old. No offense of course." STFU!

No one said this specifically, it is merely an example. Over the course of the last week many hours have been spent reading public comments on different news articles. This seems to be a new theme, attempting to divert responsibility for comments that indeed offensive or disrespectful. Perhaps it is a societal facet becoming more evident.

Regardless, no offense or disrespect intended, it is disingenuous, irritating and I just don't like it.

Abby Sunderland Saved - Soap Box Out Again!

2010-06-12T07:40:00.000-07:00

Abby Sunderland Rescued

Not terribly certain why these comments are rubbing me the wrong way, but DAMN am I irritated. Here are some from this CNN article with my personal response.

"yngvi No, those that put time and effort into rescuing her, have done more of value than she will ever do." So... You can look into the future? Violate the laws of physics that easily and know what she is going to do? Let's talk about the stock market.

"demmieKrat Sad that so many here wouldnt spend tax payer money to rescue a "thrill seeking" teen but would gladly spend tax payer money to repair any gluttonous fast food junky ... that plops their azz in the USA" -BRAVO!!!

"alboze It is no wonder we are witnessing the demise of the once great USA. With all the wooses that are criticising a heroic effort of an extremely brave pioneer, the great heroes of the past must be turning in their graves. You should be ashamed of yourselves! The boat is licenced and has all the safety equipment required by the Coast Guard to make it eligible to be rescued in the event of failure. Are you guys saying that rescue services should be reserved for commercial vessels in the South Indian Ocean? That would be whalers and toothfish poachers and of course a few extreme tourists who have a lot of money. For the people who are afraid to leave the comfort zone of 911, there are adventurous people out there who have a life. It is great people like Abby who once made America great and sissies like you that will result in America's fall. Well done Abby!" - BRAVO!!!

"yngvi You forgot to mention that the boat was not the right type for this kind of journey and older, more experienced sailors have said it was foolhardy to do in winter." #1 - wrong. That type of boat was designed and built specifically FOR the open and rough seas. Foolhardy... Many people thought the Wright Brothers were foolhardy, and Christopher Columbus and Magellan.

"MalTempo Priceless daughter. Yes, the price is the cost to taxpayers. How many more of these daredevil imbeciles must we pay to rescue?" So, we should not pay to rescue someone? Should the Search and Rescue check credit scores? "You have an emergency? What is your credit card number?"

"ghj Does anybody remember that little girl Jessica from a number of yrs. ago? She was 7 or so. Flying across the country w/ her dad. They crashed and died. 'nuff said'." I have flown. I have lost a friend, a trained, seasoned instructor and FAA check pilot when he was instructing a student. Wresting control of an aircraft from a 7 year old is NOT hard to do. Training accidents happen regardless of the student's age.

--------------

Some of these people's comments truly irritates me. I think perhaps I will do something dangerous and adventurous rather that sit on my couch watching television or play video games while eating fast food and let my brain atrophy. I'm riding.

The Abby Sunderland Effect

2010-06-10T22:04:00.000-07:00

If you have not already read the news about Abby Sunderland, here is a brief bit from The Guardian Weekly (click here to read the entire article).

"Rescuers launched a desperate search tonight for a 16-year-old Californian girl attempting to sail round the world single-handed, after she set off distress beacons in stormy conditions in a remote part of the Indian Ocean.

Abby Sunderland's parents lost satellite phone contact with her today after she had told them she was repeatedly knocked down in 60 knot-winds and 50 foot seas, about 2,000 miles east of Madagascar. An hour later the US coast guard notified them that two emergency satellite beacons on her 40ft yacht, Wild Eyes, had been activated."

I hope she is rescued and at worst, has a minor broken bone and minor case of hypothermia. It is my opinion that she shows a great deal of determination, personal ambition and Joie de vivre; all key properties of an adventurer.

The comments posted by readers of articles about this unfortunate situation range from supportive to uninformed to imbecilic. Unfortunately, the majority of comments fall into the later portion of the spectrum.

Since this is my little stage on the interwebs, I am going to take my little, rarely used soap box, and make a few comments about the comments others have left. Registering on a dozen websites to make comments just is not that productive.

So, my fair readers, here is what I read:

This sentiment was posted so many times it strengthened my belief that the pseudo-anonymous public would rather speak an uninformed opinion than read and perhaps change a personal opinion. Many, many places, ad nausium, people posted their concern that so much money is and will be spent paying for the search and rescue. First of all, there are insurance policies for this particular situation. If she has it, great; you people lamenting, "...Oh, now WE are paying for her..." can ST%U. Secondly, there are loose international treaties covering Search and Rescue and fiduciary responsibilities. Google "search and rescue treaty," do a little reading, learn a little.
This is one of my favorites: pirates. "THAT IS PIRATE AREAS AND THEY KNEW IT!" "The only thing she has taught people is sailing around the world by yourself in pirate infested waters is stupid." "Did someone else, such as a pirate, board the boat?" OK, all you pirate folks, check out here: The Live Piracy Map. Abby is roughly between the southern-most tip of Africa and Australia, and just a little south. That would put her about 3,000 miles from known pirate activity. Next.
"...Horrible parents..." "...child endangerment..." "...the parents should be held responsible..." blabla friggin' BLA! Let's do a little logic, reasoning and abstraction here, shall we? It is my understanding she was a fairly experienced, certified and trained sailor; not a 'weekend at the Yacht Club' sort of person. So, let's extract that into an abstraction; person A is certified to perform B. Further, person A was trained to perform B. Now, let's fit that abstraction into something more concrete; drivers licenses. A 16 year old gets a driver's license. But there is more, say that person had already been driving for years, and trained for years to drive. If that person proves themselves as being a competent driver, should they be restrained from driving and exercising their certification? And further, if there is an accident while they are driving, are the parents to be held responsible?

Seriously, some of these comments are aggravating me near the point of anti-social behavior. Should we keep our children indoors, on the couch playing video games in a nice child-proof sterile home, or out in the world? Adventurers such as Abby push at our preconceived notions of things. In order for the human experience to be expanded, the envelope must be pushed.

Honestly, the comments some people have made are disgusting, inappropriate, ill-conceived, uneducated, illogical and disrespectful. Everyone has a right to their own opinion. Here is mine...

I hope she is rescued and tries it again, several times as a matter of fact. People such as her do not typically come about (as proven by the majority of comments I read.) She is an adventurer and it seems to me her parents did what they could to prepare her for this journey; and for that they should be applauded.

It seems to me the majority of the public commenting on this story would rather live meek, safe lives while judging people and their actions behind the pseudo-anonymity provided by the internet.

Soap box is put away and I am checking out for a while.

Vixen Has Her Brain Stem!

2010-06-06T20:40:00.000-07:00

No abstractions or metaphors here. This was a hot, busy Sunday.
Vixen has her brain stem! I ripped her wiring harness apart, scrubbed it down, taped it up in protective wrapping and assembled the front end. HOLY COW! Read all about it here if you are so inclined.

She is definitely coming together.

Found When Not Looking

2010-06-02T11:45:00.000-07:00

It has been said that to truly find something, one must not be searching.

While at Nevada Suzuki last week, the owner and I were discussing my little VX800 restoration project. I had ridden in to say 'hi' and order the radiator guard mounting screws, headlight assembly dampener and ignition module boot/holder/rubber thingie.

Last year he told me of his VX800. In the 90's he had several and ended up selling all but one. His VX had engine problems and a fellow rebuilt the entire engine in exchange for some money that was owed. The owner told me she ran like a top for a little bit then the rear carb began malfunctioning. He had other things to worry about and put the bike in a storage container.

Over the last ten years or so he sold off the headlight, exhaust system a few other items.

After buying my first VX about a year and a half ago, and subsequently deciding to rebuild her, I started searching for a donor bike. I became nearly obsessed. For months I would check CraigsList and E-Bay and the local classified ads and even the auto auction houses.

Late in 2009 I made the choice to back off. If one became available, all the better; and there by chance I found a donor in San Diego. By merging VX #1 and VX #2 I now have a complete frame, front end, wiring harness, drive train, seat and tank.

Oh but that engine. Both engines in my garage combined could not operate properly. Minimally about $400 worth of parts will be required to make these engines merge into a functioning internal combustion engine.

And, after the analysis of the situation and needed parts, I did not search any of the places I used to. Sure, occasionally I would peek to see if anything was out there, but there was minimal stress; plenty of other things to deal with.

While talking with the owner, he tells me his VX is out of storage, and at his home workshop. He is ready to sell it. The engine should be in good shape and simply require a good cleaning; same with the carbs.

I don't honestly know much about her; She may be a match, or with all the different minute variations, she may not be. But it is worth looking; worth the time thinking of the possibilities.

I know where she can be found; the more apropos question is "Where do you want to ride?"

Ohhh... My aching Fingers...

2010-05-29T22:04:00.000-07:00

Today was a busy, painful day. My pickup is having some clutch, transmission and electrical issues so a few hours this morning were spent wrenching on it. All that could be found wrong on this first cursory review was a broken vacuum line and a loose crankcase breather pipe.

My hands were hurting. So, I retired to my bedroom to take some ibuprofen and play a little on-line game a neighbor introduced to me. It is a first-person-shooter game that, even for this non-gamer can provide a fun little escape.

In this game I like to snipe. Not much movement is involved, just good aiming. Well, one of the other players was a little irritated with me. "Why don't you move around more? Get a higher score?"

"Well," I replied, "my fingers aren't terribly young anymore and don't move that well. Actually, they hurt."

After the ibuprofen kicked in, I went back down to clean some nuts and bolts from my bike on a wire wheel. After about a dozen my fingers started to hurt again; and I wondered... 'Just how much punishment have these fingers been through?'

And, so I retired to my computer to figure it out. Follow me if you will...

I have been a computer programmer since about 1988; that's 22 years.
If I have worked on average five days a week for 22 years, that's 5720 days.
An average programmer produces about 300 lines of code per day. There have been days when I produced no code, simply doing research or data manipulation or testing or debugging. Then there are the intense days when I have produced over 600 lines of code. So, I am sticking with the 300 line average.
And, so, over the course of the last 22 years, I have created an approximate total of about 1,716,000 lines of programming code.
Let's assume the average line of computer code is about 25 characters. Many are longer, many shorter. This is just a good ballpark number.
This yields a total of 42,900,000 characters my two little hands have produced.
Further, divide this by four fingers (Ignore the thumbs) and that gives us 5,362,500 characters or keystrokes per finger for the last 22 years.

That's a LOT! Is it any wonder my fingers hurt?

The Life of a Telecommuter

2010-05-28T16:58:00.000-07:00

Well, onto a more concrete, less abstract topic... Telecommuting.

For the past month or two I have been working at home. Being a professional computer programmer does seem to lend itself to this particular mode of employment. There is also the 'cool factor...' In front of me is two laptop computers; one sporting a Windows 7 running on a seven core 64 bit Intel processor, tickling nearly eight giga-bytes of RAM. The other is sporting Windows XP Pro on a 2 GHz Celeron processor. Both have dual LCD screens, one of which is a high-def wide-screen format.

Then upstairs is my Linux file server and desktop 'play' system. Not bad on the 'geek nirvana' scale.

However there are some danger points in this mode of employment; namely, lack of saddle time.

Commuting to work yielded about 30 miles of daily riding. Now I barely get 30 miles of riding each week. That is not something easy to adjust to.

Then there is the damned kitchen. I wake up about 5:00, make coffee and take my daughter to work. I am usually in front of the computer by 6:30. Walking into the kitchen for more coffee is an exercise in self control. Ooooo the snacks and munchies that await in cupboards and on refrigerator shelves.

After the first three weeks, I started getting healthy snacks like apples and carrots and the like. But still, thoughts of cookies tickle my brain stem. Ooooo... I could whip up a batch in no time and have them baked before lunch. Who would know??? :-P

Putting the Parts Together

2010-05-21T16:41:00.000-07:00

Honestly, this post has been tumbling around for a while, just waiting for the proper words and metaphors and the right day. From time to time, a fellow blogger and friend, Ms. M and I play off each others posts. I am not sure who started it, but she wrote an entry that inspired this one. While perhaps a bit delayed, writing this post before now would have been premature.

Rebuilding a motorcycle requires patience, time, a little money and determination. There are few shortcuts. Less patience requires more money. Less time requires more money. Less determination and the bike may never be rebuilt.

More money bypasses many of these things. With more money, people can be hired to rebuild the engine or powder coat the frame or even perform the complete rebuilding process. Doing this, however, tends to distance one from the bike; it creates a chasm of sorts.

I have a lot of parts. I have a lot of projects.

Let's say for a moment A person, an old bike mechanic walks by my garage and notices all of the parts, and the nearly complete, almost rolling frame.

He offers his assistance but tells me it will cost a beer now and then. And, the old parts I have lying around need to be thrown away, "The only way these parts are gonna fit together is if ya pitch the ones ya don't need. If ya pitch a few good ones, don't worry. We can get others or make new ones that fit even better."

He tells me it may be tough and there is no guarantee she will run when she is all back together, but he will do what he can.

Sure, I may do fine without his assistance, but here is a fellow offering to help. He loves these old bikes and wants to see this one run again.

So, do I throw out a few good parts, buy him a few beers and accept his assistance or continue down my current path, lugging old parts where I go?

Do I accept the short term hardships, challenges and possible losses to get her running well again or continue down the safer course?

Little Restraint Needed

2010-05-19T09:43:00.000-07:00

As much as I enjoy my Sportster, and as much as I enjoy my little Rebel, there is a special place in my being for adventure riding. Sure, one can partake in riding adventures on any bike, my little cross-country adventure on my Rebel was proof of that. However, available time for such a ride is rather rare; I am only glad my boss rides and could be convinced a three week vacation was in order.

The back roads, the narrow paths, the solitude and beauty of areas less traveled has, as far as can be remembered, held a special place. While moving into my apartment, an old notebook was found at the bottom of a box. "Over 60" was scrawled in red permanent marker over its fading green cover. Inside, on the first few pages were plans and route ideas I had formulated in the mid-90's for a trip above the 60th parallel. Optimistically it was to take place in the year 2000.

Perhaps it was a bit of escapism from the facades of Las Vegas, or perhaps other things. Regardless, the year 2000 involved no travels to the Northwest Territories or the Yukon. It was spent in a certain layer of insanity.

That being neither here-nor-there at this point, I want to ride the trails and gravel roads. Both my Sportster and Rebel can do it, albeit poorly. They were not meant for this sort of riding.

A bike on my 'short list' of next stable additions is the Suzuki DR650 line of dual-sport bikes (pictured above). Last night was spent reading reviews and history of this line, and I was hooked. The DR's are light, simple, efficient, durable and popular. Alas, due to all of these fine attributes, the resell value is quite high, even for those made in the mid 90's.

Going out to the garage to grab a beer I see my project bike. 'What are you thinking??? Your adventure bike is right there! Patience!'

Sure, she is a bit heavy, weighing in at about 450 pounds dry. Sure, she is more of a 'standard' than dual-sport. Yes, it is a V-Twin, not a thumper or inline twin like other adventure bikes. But, what am I thinking? SHE IS the adventure. It has already begun! For the most part, a bolt-by-bolt rebuild by a novice bike mechanic, reconstructing a unique bike with a few additional tweeks to make her off-road worthy.

Fantasy adventures may be fun, but the concrete adventures are the ones that stay with, and are a part of us.

An 'Ill-Advised' Ride on a Honda Rebel

2010-05-18T08:38:00.000-07:00

Yes, the urge was there. Two years ago I took my little Rebel on an ill-advised ride from Las Vegas to Kitty Hawk and back. Last Saturday I took her on another 'ill-advised' ride. We went out on some desert roads to the South East of Vegas. Damn, that was fun. Maybe I need to get a real adventure bike.

Lessons From Mice

2010-05-15T21:33:00.000-07:00

It was a fabulous morning. The sky was brilliant blue, the sun mild, sneaking its way up past the mountains to the east. The wind sang a delicate melody in the trees as the birds chirped out a dissonant harmony.

While taking my daughter to work at six AM, she discussed her day, "I am going to get off at noon, come home, separate the mice, have a bite to eat and then 'caterday.' You up for that?"

"Sounds like a fabulous plan, Bri."

"I really want to get those mice separated into their big tanks. They will have SO much more room and won't get pregnant again!"

As a bit of explanation, my daughter has a pet Ball Python. He eats a mouse about every other week. So, after she got him several months ago, I purchased two feeder mice for him. Unknown to me, one of the mice was pregnant. She had ten babies a few weeks later.

Bri separated them but one of the males got out and visited the female cage. You may have heard how promiscuous rabbits are. Well, they must have learned from mice. The one male got six of the females pregnant over the course of a single night.

And so, four of the females had babies that survived; about 19 babies in all. One momma mouse had only three. Bri called them the 'chill' mice. Momma was calm and enjoyed human contact as did her kids. "These," she said, "I am keeping as pets."

In all, the 'chill' mice were three females and one male, including the mother.

Prior to today, each mother and her litter were in different containers. The males and females needed to be separated so that they didn't procreate further; as they were coming close to sexual maturity.

My daughter had two nice aquarium style containers prepared; one for males, one for females. They had fresh bedding, new ceramic food dishes, exercise wheels, and just about everything a mouse destined to be snake food could want.

On the way home from work she seemed excited about her mouse chores, making sure it was the first thing she did; and it was, even with her work clothes on. After the procedure was complete, she called me in from the garage to watch the shenanigans.

The males, as males of most species do, were sniffing butts and fighting for dominance. Honestly, they were not a lot of fun to watch; running around, eating, drinking, fighting...

But the females! They were fun. Many would dig under the bedding and hide. Bri would scoop up a bunch of bedding in her hand, let it tumble out and there would be three or four mice running around on her hand.

Others females were running on their exercise wheel, the mommas knowing how it worked, but the babies would grab on and twirl around as their mommas' ran. We sat there for nearly an hour guffawing and belly laughing. They seemed to be having the times of their little mousey lives; running and jumping and making mistakes and trying again; and eating and drinking and generally being great entertainment for two humans.

After a bit we decide to break from the laughing and retire upstairs for 'caterday.' 'Caterday' is one day of the week we spend looking at goofy websites such as icanhascheezeburger and the like. And more laughing for about an hour commenced.

When were were both exhausted from laughing our brains out, I put my baseball cap on and head down stairs. My plan was to run to the store for groceries and then make dinner. There was a delay.

I look over to see what silliness the female mice were doing now, only to be faced with a horror. While we were upstairs laughing together, the sneaking sun became furious and made its way through the window, through an open spot in the shade and into the tank. Seven mice were dead and four barely holding on.

I grab the tank, pull it to the shade and sprinkle the still live mice with water. Just an hour ago they were clean white mice, living it up; playing and running and exchanging mousie stories. Now they were dead or barely living. They were burning up. We did what we could with the living ones; the last one to die, expired in my daughter's hand.

Only one ultimately survived; 'chill' momma. And even though she survived immediately, the next 24 hours will likely indicate whether she survives longer. Bri has already said that should she live, she will certainly not be snake food; she has earned a long mousie life.

Perhaps there is a lesson here. Perhaps we should play more, and not care whether we fail or succeed so much, and keep trying when we do fail, and maybe after falling off the wheel a dozen times, try it one more time.

One never knows one's last day or hour or minute. Play, enjoy life, hop on the wheel.

State of Indeterminate Unsettlement

2010-05-14T08:12:00.000-07:00

These are not necessarily bad times in the Razor household. My daughter and her boyfriend are both employed and paying their rent. Further, my daughter starts her second year of college in a few weeks and is determined to earn her Masters in Psychology. To that end, we have been discussing graduate schools, and at her prompting, not mine!

I have two motorcycles in my garage that are running well and my VX800 project bike is proceeding well with only a few minor glitches. Nothing bad or depressing there.

The weather has been nice; not the typical Las Vegas heat of May, heralding in the blow-torch desert summer heat. There have even been a few light showers to break the endless blue skies.

Work has been interesting and thrown a few new challenges my way. About three weeks ago I started working from home. My employer of more than a few years decided to move to a different building. In their effort to minimize costs, volunteers were sought to work from home. Guess who volunteered.

Aside from the strong temptation to go downstairs to the kitchen for snacks and the occasional twinge to visit my garage to enter into some wrenching, it is actually proving to be successful.

Perhaps this is the catalyst for my recent unsettlement. Previously my daily commute required a thirty mile ride round trip. Now, I may get 20 miles of riding every week. Withdrawals perhaps?

Well, Saturday morning I have some ill-advised riding planned. A three day Memorial Day ride is in its planning stages. Perhaps these will help bring some much needed quiescence.

A Truly 'Wrenching' Weekend

2010-05-02T22:06:00.000-07:00

Upon review of my previous post listing the interests I have had over the years, there was one glaring omission. There are simply some things that are so entwined as to be obvious beyond enumeration. I am, and have been a ham radio operator since 1983. KA9RVK, first licensed as Novice class.

Oh, the sultry Illinois nights spend rattling out Morse Code, chatting with folks all over North America. Earned my Tech Plus certificate in 1985 and used my radio equipment to be a storm spotter. Passed my General exam in 1999 (I believe) and received the call KC7RAD. Most of my equipment was sold in the mid 2000's to cover various expenses relating to... changes. BUT, if all goes well, I shall be back on the air again soon.
And, here is my stable. On the left is "Athena", my Harley Sportster XL1200C. In the center is "Reb", my Honda Rebel. On the right is "Vixen", my Suzuki VX800 project bike. Recently "Vixen" has been the object of my attention.

Not long ago she transitioned from 'tear down' status to 'rebuild' status. I hit a wall; a wall so solid I was ready fold. It was the engine. Honestly, there are two VX800s in my garage; one rebuild and one donor. The rebuild bike's engine has issues; the cylinders need to be bored out to remove rust damage. It was my hope that the donor bike's engine would be in better condition. Better, yes, but not by much. Rust in the cylinders, bad pistons, rusty primary crank gear, carbs that required complete rebuilds. It was not a pretty picture.
Then it hit me, where are the bolts? There are these parts that require major rework and I have no idea where the bolts are. What am I doing? I am not a motorcycle repair professional, let alone one with skill to perform a bottom-up restoration! Parts with out bolts, without something to hold then into a functional piece of motorcycling beauty is nothing! Parts of a life with nothing holding them together; is that nothing as well?

After posting my frustration to the VX800 e-mail list, a fellow building a custom VX800, and author of the VX800 Restoration Project sent several great e-mails. They were the kick in the seat inspiration that was needed. It isn't about building a perfect bike. It isn't about having deadlines or hard goals each week or month. It isn't about worrying whether the bolts are all there.

It is about the rebuild and about enjoying the time spent doing what few do to an uncommon motorcycle. It is to be enjoyed. The pieces will fit together eventually. The bolts will be located. This is an act of enjoyment not toil.

Perhaps less time and concern should be wasted worrying about the connecting pieces of a life and more spent on enjoying the act of connecting. Finite things, regardless of their connectivity should be enjoyed.
And so, this weekend was spent, for the most part, in calm wrenching bliss. The radiator and general cooling system for my VX800 was disassembled, cleaned, tested and reassembled. The foot pegs, mounts and shields received the same treatment, plus the shields received several coats of flat black engine enamel

Enjoy and be mindful that the screw driver may be sharper than you think.

Interests and Hobbies and Thoughts, Oh My!

2010-04-27T19:15:00.000-07:00

Before continuing on this narrative, as boring as it is likely becoming, I am changing gears. While thinking of the classes in college that I excelled at, one stood out as being odd - Communications. It was the standard communications course required for all baccalaureate students. Most of the coursework was focused on public speaking. Why can I publicly speak on a topic but have difficulty speaking on an interpersonal level?

Throughout my professional career I have given training sessions and seminars to hundreds of people at the same time, in the same room without any hesitation or apprehention whatsoever. Something a work associate said to me years ago stood out, "Damn, you do a lot of things. It's a wonder your brain doesn't explode!" Well, or something like that.

Perhaps that is it. Growing up on a very rural farm, verbal communication and interpersonal relationships were not as important as being able to put pieces of knowledge together and acting upon them. Perhaps that is why I am more comfortable with e-mail and chat; there is time to cogitate.

Cogitate what? Knowledge? Information? Data? Personal experiences? Is there too much of this stuff tumbling around in my gray matter to be an effective interpersonal communicator? So, I started to mentally list some of my interests. After the first 25, the choice was made; I had better write these down. To keep it simple, the list contains the items Topic, First Year of Interest and a * indicating current interests. Dang there is a lot of junk tumbling around.
Farming, 1972, *
Sustainable and Organic Agriculture, 2005, *
Reading, 1975?,*
Science Fiction, 1980
Writing, 1991
General Science, 1975?
Space, 1968
Astronomy,1978?
Physics,1977?
Aeronautics (airplanes and flying in general), 1977?
Geology, 1982
Philosophy,1986?
Nanotechnology,1986?
Cosmology,1982?
Quantum Mechanics (a.k.a. 'Weird Science'), 1986?
Anthropology/Archeology, 1987, *
Historic and Prehistoric Native American Culture and History, 2010,*
History,2009,*
Music,1977
Orchids,1978?
Orchid Breeding, Genetics and Hybridization, 1996
Meteorology (specifically severe meteorological conditions), 1978?,*
Electronics (analog), 1975?,*
Radio Electronics, 1976?
Electronics (digital), 1978?,*
Physiology, 1980?
Microbiology, 1978?
Pharmacology, 2000
Firearms,1981?,*
Firearm Restoration, 2010, *
Martial Arts (Bujinkan and Kenpo),1983 and 2006
Photography, 1987
Travel,2007
Motorcycle Riding, (briefly in the early 80's) 2005,*
Motorcycle Repair & Restoration, 2008,*
Broadcasting, 1983
Webcasting (i.e. internet radio), 1994
Hypnosis, 1982
UFOs and Paranormal, 1984
Coffee,1980,*
Comparative Study of Cultural and Theological Cosmologies, 1986
Model Rockets, 1979?
Stone Masonry (specifically, something called 'slip form stone masonry'), 2007
Hiking,2006
Bicycle Riding, 2005
Beer Making,2001
Wine Making, 1976?
Baking & Cooking, 1970,*
Woodworking, 1982
Geography, 2009
Cartography, 1982?
Domestic Violence & Abuse,2003?,*
...likely more...

Maybe this is the cause of my inner insecurity with interpersonal communications. Too much stuff rattling around in there. Perhaps I should take up wine and beer making again to kill off some of those brain cells. JUST KIDDING!

From Day 0 - Part Twenty

2010-04-27T08:34:00.000-07:00

It is time to get past college time.

Firstly, just to clear any misconceptions, my first ex and myself still converse occasionally and are on good terms. Honestly, aside from a few infantile, alcohol fueled outbursts as I moved into my own apartment, we have always entertained a friendly relationship. She has two great sons, a good husband and a decent job.

OK... college. After moving into my own apartment, the shell closed. It was comfortable. Work and classwork consumed most of my time.

Honestly, this was likely the healthiest I had ever been. My apartment was in an old building on the town square of Macomb, IL. I owned a little Mercury Bobcat but loaned it to my ex. So, with an average of five miles of walking every day, general exercising was not an issue. I even had 6-pack abs!

After a semester of recovering from the divorce (regardless of how logically reasonable it was, it still hurt), my grades were recovering and reasonable. There were plans rolling around for further education. School was becoming fun again, regardless of my un-social life.

Life was school, playing with what would soon be the internet, extracurricular programming, longingly looking at the female students and planning my further education. Aside from that and the occasional night at local bars, there was no socialization. The life of a 'lone wolf' was satisfying yet left certain voids.

Things were coming together in a somewhat socially dysfunctional way. I still remember my Systems Programming class; a graduate level course that for the most part I slept through. Being conscious through an 8 AM class after working until midnight was not always something easy to accomplish. It was finals week and this class's final was on Thursday; my last final of the semester. The night before was one filled with drinks and semi-social stupidity. 8 AM, still thoroughly buzzed from the night before, head pulsing I took the final and stumbled home. Aced it.

So, with the semester over, grades in good shape, work keeping me busy, my counter-social self started the ball rolling for graduate studies at the University of Wisconsin, Madison. The plan was to take a year off, work with my Grandfather and then enter graduate school to earn my masters degree in Computer Science. Little did I know, these plans would never come to fruition.

Special Relationship

2010-04-25T09:46:00.001-07:00

We spoke briefly last night; the first time in just over a year. This morning we chatted and spent nearly an hour of quality time becoming reacquainted. Yes. We have a special relationship.

There were no thoughts of women or work or phone calls or computers or reading or writing. It was nothing but riding.

Please do not misunderstand, I like my Harley Sportster. I like my Suzuki VX800 project bike. However, my little Honda Rebel 250 and I have a special history; one that honestly few share.

With the help of Jack from Jack's Rebel Warehouse and the local Cycle Gear, my Rebel is alive and breathing again. She still coughs a little and the engine dies once in a great while at stop signs, but she lives.

For me, the minimalistic Rebel brings a tranquility that my Sporty cannot. She is quiet, unobtrusive, unpretentious and simply fun to ride. If she does fall over, picking her up is not a problem at all. Gas mileage? She is a teetotaler, averaging nearly 75MPG. When we were on our cross country ride in 2008, her mileage was calculated at nearly 90MPG during one slower, straight and flat stretch.

Now, if you will pardon me; I have some neighborhood riding to do and yard sales to check out.

From Day 0 - Part Nineteen

2010-04-23T13:14:00.000-07:00

Sometime during the first semester I fell into a certain group of programmers that were honestly not known for their high social standing. Yes, they were hackers. While I partook in only a few minor, mischievous pranks, some of the funny business they instigated was honestly on the darker side of the line between legal and illegal.

They were misfits; cultural disconnects; social dropouts. I fit in quite well as a sidekick.

One fellow by the name of 'Tomas' had a penchant for espionage, robotics, science fiction, lock picking, foreign languages and sneaking around where he didn't belong. He was tall and thin and liked the occasional cigar. Last I heard he was doing 'something' for the government in Europe.

Another fellow who went by the name 'Greeny' had a Dr. Who fetish, and was almost never seen without a crazy scarf around his neck. His hair was even the same as the good Doctor's. He was the angry, devilish, sometimes black-hat hacker who lived UNIX and thoroughly enjoyed confusing the heck out of clueless users by piping ASCII animations to their terminals. Several years ago he was the head of a large company's security team.

Another sidekick, 'Pinky' had some decent skills of her own. Typically she was the quiet prankster, not really letting people in on her tricks. She was admittedly hot and enjoyed dressing like a punk-goth rocker. She was likely the most intelligent one of the group. I am not sure what happened to her after college.

There was another woman in the group but for the life of me, cannot remember her name. She was more the academic but enjoyed the occasional prank.

The last one I remember was a dark fellow, brooding and angry with a taste for beer. He hung around the group but had the intelligence and temperament of a grade schooler. Last I heard, about 20 years ago, he was living with his parents taking odd jobs.

This is where troubles in my interpersonal relations became apparent. The hacker group was not an issue; it was my then new wife and more socially acceptable associates. While it was stupid to lie about things such as working until 3AM on a program with the group, or experimenting with the nascent internet all night, I did. It was not to do any harm, mind you, it was rationalized into protectionism; protect my wife and friends from the occasionally mischievous things we did, and protect me from criticisms. Part of me wanted to be 'normal,' whatever that is.

If I were quiet, and the things I took part in were not illegal, where's the harm?

We were divorced after our Junior year.

From Day 0 - Part Eighteen

2010-04-21T18:57:00.001-07:00

A few minor things have been left out of previous posts for the simple matter that there would be some future context in a later post. Here is one of those minor things.

While a junior in high school I became interested in broadcasting. Little did I know how ill equipped I would be. It was a summer day and I was invited to meet with someone at WRMJ, the local country station regarding a high school internship. After attempting to read about ten minutes of content, the person I read for politely suggested that should I be interested in the broadcasting field, perhaps something technical would be a better option.

After finally adjusting to college life in my second semester, I started looking for a job. Well, the ones that paid were of course all taken, but there were volunteer spots open. The broadcasting bug bit again.

There was a volunteer position available at the college radio station WIUM. Specifically, it was reading news and magazine articles for broadcast on a sideband of the station's FM carrier. Blind and visually impaired folks could receive a free received specially tuned to receive the signal.

So, I practiced, tried out and got the volunteer spot. I was still not proficient at reading things out loud but apparently good enough. Before too long I was the night operator, there all alone, completely in control of the station. To me, at the time, that was COOL!

My boss was an interesting character, Tom was his name I believe. And he was unique. According to him, he was the only man in the country that read Playboy for the articles. Yes, he was blind, and yes, he read Braille Playboy.

At the start of my Sophomore year, apparently word got around the broadcasting group that I was looking for a job that actually paid money. So, without much hassle, I was offered a job at Broadcast Services. It agreed with me so much that I held that job until I left, three and a half years later.

Oh, the stories... Late nights on video shoots, running the audio board, duplicating tapes, working on the satellite TV system... Oh, yes... Contrary to what my Mom and Grandma told me, I WAS paid for watching TV.

From Day 0 - Part Seventeen

2010-04-16T06:36:00.001-07:00

Ah, college days. My Mom and Grandfather took me on that two hour ride to Macomb, Illinois on a beautiful Saturday to confirm classes and move into my dorm. This was my first introduction to culture shock.

People were everywhere. There were lines of students for everything; for dorm room assignments; meal tickets; financial aid confirmation... lines everywhere. I was a proverbial fish out of water.

After it was over I was settled... After a day of tumult, confusion and culture shock it was done; classes confirmed and dorm room 1307 in Henninger Hall assigned.

At the time this was a 'men-only' dorm. Fourteen floors, two elevators and a seriously long climb to the 13th when the elevators were out of order.

My girlfriend came the next day and was assigned a room in Bayliss Hall. This was a good thing for us, as Bayliss is connected to Henninger by a common cafeteria.
The only two first semester classes that stand out in my mind are English 101 and a four or five credit pre-calculus class.

English was easy.

Pre-calc was the first class I had EVER failed. It was difficult and fast-paced and combined with my general culture shock, the results were not good.

F!

Another Brief Intermission - Tales from the DarkTimes

2010-04-15T10:38:00.000-07:00

From Day 0 - Part Sixteen

2010-04-14T04:49:00.000-07:00

OK. After receiving a hot two hours sleep I was called into work. Being on-call can have some serious down-sides. Luckily it is only one week out of every six. That being stated, it is about 5AM and the brain is partially disengaged. This will be quick.

Before completely launching into college life, a few unmentioned highlights of my grade school and high school life.

I built my own computer from scratch. Not the kind like one would build today; rather from chips and resistors and the like.
There was that crush on a high school teacher.
A second cousin nearly molested my brother and myself. He was caught with another under age boy and last I heard was serving 25 years. IMHO, ought to be life.
The discovery of a real Native American Indian relic on our farm. It was a foot weight used to teach the young how to safely run in the woods without making a lot of noise.
My call to the fire department when a tractor caught on fire.
The summer afternoons in the hay loft with my girlfriend (nuff said).
My first 'drunk' at the age of 15 on beer we bought from a cop.
Likely the wildest thing I ever did; delivering newspapers in my underwear in February. Yes, it was a dare.
Playing taps at memorial day services for nearly five years.
Playing valve trombone, trumpet and baritone in the school band. (Not all at once.)
Scoring second place in the high school math competition as a Junior.
Seeing my first concert. It was Rush in Dubuque, Iowa on their Moving Pictures tour.
Seeing Kiss play with the Plasmatics opening.
Sitting in an Apache helicopter.
Skinny-dipping.
Nearly dropping my Galaxie 500 into the Mississippi River.
My first telescope.
Days spent fishing and hunting with my Dad and Grandfather.

So much for quick.

From Day 0 - Part Fifteen

2010-04-13T20:03:00.000-07:00

My time in college yielded some interesting experiences but few photos. So, that being stated, many of the photos here are absconded from various websites.

Even as young as seven years old, the flame of flight burnt deep within. Somewhere there is a picture I drew in second grade of me in a space capsule heading to the moon. Through the remainder of grade school into high school I dreamed of piloting my own plane. Being a member of a poor farming family and with no airports nearby, this was far from a reality and I knew it. So, in my Junior Year of high school I applied to the Air Force.

It was a long shot. I wanted to fly. I wanted to honor my grandfather who honorably fought in WW II. My grades were marginally below their requirements but decided to apply, regardless.

About six months later there was a letter for me from the Air Force. I was tingling... This could be it! It was a thick manila envelope. Rejections do not come in large envelopes, do they???

ACCEPTED!!! Well, not completely. It was a letter stating that I had passed the initial criteria. The rest of the paperwork were forms and requests and agreements and requests for further information and medical release... Medical release. I read down the list of exclusionary medical conditions. There it was. Hypoglycemia. There would be no piloting for me any time soon.

At any rate, that left Western Illinois University, my primary college of choice. Field of study? Physics major, math minor. At the end of my freshman year, following my first ever failed course, pre-calc, there was some reevaluating to do.

After a few trips to my physics counselor, my major was changed to Computer Science with a dual minor in Math and Industrial Education - Electronics.

Oh, and yes, my first programming class did use punch cards. ...You smart-alec blog readers. :-P
===================================
I read this sometime in the second or third grade. While I am certain the full weight and meaning of the words were well above my understanding, it's power and beauty was recognized. The dream of slipping the surley bonds of earth became firmly entrenched.
-------

High Flight

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew -
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untresspassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee
No 412 squadron, RCAF
Killed 11 December 1941

From Day 0 - Part Fourteen

2010-04-12T08:26:00.000-07:00

Before my college days are briefly recounted, there was a little incident on the farm that I find to be rather telling regarding the "farming life" and medical self sufficiency. Yes, it is a little gruesome but I am still here writing this, some thirty years later, so apparently I survived.
South of the house was our corn crib that I helped build, the 75 year old barn and a hog shed. After a few years of idleness, the ground around the hog shed had grown up with weeds. The picture here quite closely shows what it looked like. So, my Dad, brother and myself set out one day to chop these weeds down so we could put pigs back in the area. These weeds were BIG; many as tall as seven feet with stalks more than two inches in diameter.

My brother and Dad equipped themselves with machetes. I took the sickle. So, there we were chopping at the base of these tree-weeds when I made a strong chop down. Luckily I was not using an axe.

The point stuck in what I thought was a weed stalk. I twist the blade to free it from the weed. It popped. This wasn't a sound, it was a dull snap felt through my leg. The point of the sickle had not lodged in a weed. It was firmly embedded in my ankle, likely the lower Tibia.

As nonchalant as can be, I told my Dad what happened and we walked back to the house. After he cleaned it out, still feeling no pain, I inform my Dad I wanted to go upstairs and lie down. The last thing I remember was him telling me that was not a good idea.

The next thing I remember was staring up at the ceiling near the stairs with a wet washcloth on my head and my Dad laughing a little. "Guess you ought to stay down here a bit, Slugger."

Ya, I stayed downstairs for a while until my brain reengaged. :-)

Intermission!

2010-04-09T16:02:00.001-07:00

Well, as you may or may not know, I am now working from home. Yes, full time telecommuting does seem to suit me.

While waiting for a little 800MB file to load to SQL today, I discovered an old digital camera. With a little tinkering I turned it into a webcam. Hey, why not. There are less productive things that could be done.

If you are so inclined, just browse over to my webcam page. I will likely change the camera location from day to day. Maybe I will move it down to my garage, point it outside or maybe point it at my daughter's mice.

Maybe I will just turn it off. Who knows.

No worries, it is work friendly. No girlfriend and no current prospects. Back to work...

From Day 0 - Part Thirteen

2010-04-08T23:24:00.001-07:00

As two of my gentle readers pointed out, the picture in my previous post was NOT a Chevy Vega, but rather a Pinto. It certainly looked like I remembered. My mistake.

Hopefully this is a correct picture of that POS. I distinctly remember the rear left axle coming loose from the body where rust had consumed everything but the carpet. It was a manual transmission and when driving down the road and shifting, I would need to steer slightly in one direction to keep it on the road. Oh what fun.

Then came the day of the farm auction. By this time my Mom had left my Dad. He had no choice but to sell. On that day I drove there to do what I could to help. It started.

The tractors that I help tear apart and rebuild sold. The combine that I spent a summer repairing sold. The old broom machines that belonged to my paternal grandfather sold.

Then he asked me something; a question no one has ever and can never ask. "Son, if you want the farm, it is yours. You say 'yes,' and I will stop it now."

And he could have.

I was 17 and had been accepted into Western Illinois University for fall semester in 1984 to study physics. I said no. It had been in the family for nearly 100 years.

Within a few months my Dad passed away. Within days I received a letter from him, sent the day before.

About that time I earned my first amateur radio license - KA9RVK and my girlfriend earned KA9RVL. Cool, eh?

She and I and about four other students from our graduating class were inducted into the National Honor Society and shortly thereafter graduated.

The summer of '84 was spent scrapping up money and getting ready for college. What changes were ahead, I had no clue.

From Day 0 - Part Twelve

2010-04-05T22:53:00.001-07:00

OK, going to make this a short one. It was my Junior Prom. (Actually, I believe this was a picture before my Senior Prom... ah well) My date and I took another couple with us to the prom. Being the epitome of the phrase "White men can't dance," For the most part I sat on the sidelines.

When it was done, we changed clothes, got in my Galaxie and started on the hour ride home. About seven miles or so north of New Boston, a nasty noise starts coming from under the car. My first thought was that one of the glass-packs had fallen. Pulling over to the side of the rural blacktop, getting out and inspecting the situation with a flashlight, there was no mistake. It wasn't the muffler or even an exhaust pipe. It was the frame of the car!

Yes, the frame of the car had rusted through, failed and was gouging into the asphalt!

So, at 3 AM, my date, the two drunk people I was driving and myself headed toward New Boston. After about a mile a car pulls up behind us and flips on the lights. A cop.

Number one, he understood the situation as he had seen the car along the side of the road. Number two, my date's dad (may he rest in peace) was a cop and my date knew this officer. So, regardless of the fact we were out far later than curfew, he taxied the two drunk kids home and my date and I to her house.

The next day my car was drug back to the farm and sold about a year later for $50.

Then came my first motorcycle. It was a Yama-suki I believe... Yamaha chassis and Suzuki engine. Oh did we have fun. Regardless of the fact she was more of a street bike, we scored many miles of muddy farm roads.

She was similar to this 1978 Yamaha 360, but I KNOW the engine was near 500cc and the mufflers were punched through.

One time my brother was the passenger as we went into New Boston to deliver newspapers. She ran out of gas about three miles from the farm. I was a noob rider and had been running on reserve instead of main. Ah well.

We walked back to the farm to retrieve my POS Vega Hatchback. Can't believe my dad spent 400, 1982 dollars for this piece of crap. So I drive to where the bike was, we picked the motorcycle up and put it into the hatchback!!!

Unfortunately, the previous owner of the bike was having a hard time getting the title and I was having a hard time paying for it, so the bike went back after I rode it for about 3 months.

Then there was this beast. For $300, yes, only $300 in 1983 I could have purchased a 1967 GTO Convertible. I drove her a few times. Oh, man. Even at 55 MPH, punching the accelerator would cause the rear tires to loose their grip on the road.

The paint was rough and top ripped up, but that was it.

Alas, I passed it up.

From Day 0 - Part Eleven

2010-04-04T19:25:00.000-07:00

Homework was never my forte. Sure I received decent grades and could write reports and papers quite well, but homework? ACK!

Even though I had been driving a truck since I was 13 or 14, I took my test at 16 like most others my age. My great grandfather had left a Ford Galaxie 500 when he passed. My grandfather sold it to me for $100.

Oh, the memories in that car. On my first date the leftover pizza was accidentally forgotten on the top. Needless to say, pizza boxes do not adhere well to car tops at 50 MPH.

Then there was the time driving home after a snow storm when the lights failed. In the city, this isn't much of a problem. In the country, it is a real challenge to stay on the road. Since they hadn't been plowed yet, there was no visual way to determine whether the car was on the road or not. So, I drove about 20 MPH for eight miles in the dark with no lights, feeling for the edge of the road. The snow was light and fluffy, and as such this technique work acceptably.
Here she is, a 1964 Ford Galaxie 500. This is just a picture from the interwebs, not actually my car. Surprisingly though, the color is even the same as mine.

Even though she only had a 289 cubic inch engine, I tweaked her enough with a hotter ignition system, glass pack high performance mufflers (twin exhaust pipes, of course) and a larger carburetor. Her rear wheels could spin with the some of the better student vehicles.

Throughout high school I was the quiet one... The one who studied ham radio and Morse code with the shop teacher. The one who tossed a shot-put out a third story window to measure the acceleration due to gravity (it's 9.8 meters per second squared if you are wondering.) The one who repaired the school's VandeGraff Generator, shocked himself to the floor and said "Oh Fu*#" as the physics teacher stood there trying not to laugh. The one who hung out with the head-banger-Black-Sabbath-loving crowd. OK, there was only four of us.

Even as a high school student, as quiet and passive as I might have been, there was one thing that was not tolerated. Not at all.

Only twice have I ever hit another person (other than my brothers when we were young kids - OH, did we get into trouble with Dad when we fought).

Once after lunch at school an ex-grade school friend started making fun of my girlfriend. She ignored him, I told him to quit it. He ignored me, grabbed my girlfriend's wrists and shoved her against the wall. Without though I grabbed his arm, twisted it around his back. As he turned to face me, his face met with a roundhouse punch.

Another time, another guy, this time it was the heel of my hand to his jaw. He flew back against the wall, I followed, pinned him and after a few choice words, let him go.

Quiet, geeky, unsocial, quirky and a very short fuse for the right match.

From Day 0 - Part Ten

2010-04-03T08:35:00.000-07:00

OK, one more post before I go out and give my Harley a tune-up.

There was little time for kid-play now. During the summer I worked for local farmers cutting weeds out of bean fields and putting up hay. I may not have been athletic but I could toss around fifty pound bales of hay with no problem.

Less time was spend in the woods but they were enjoyed more and more. School and taking care of the family were of paramount importance.

While we never touched, my lover occasioned the farm several times. Each time was different. I was awestruck as any adolescent could be.

My grandmother bought me a white suit for my entry into eighth grade. I HATED it but said nothing, thereby not hurting her feelings or disrespecting. I wore it twice that I recall, once on the first day of school and once for class photos.

With the money from my farm work, I purchased my first computer, a Sinclair ZX81. For its time, the ZX81 was fairly advanced. It had a Z-80 1 MHz processor with a whole 32 k of ram. Yes, it furthered my geek status and was oh-so fun.

About this time two other events occurred that some blame for the way I am. While running around the farm with some family kids, my head and a very stationary cottonwood tree collided. Even to this day the scar is obvious.

At that time, I was deeply interested in ham radio and shortwave radio. At a local antique/junk store I purchased a Hallicrafters SX-100 shortwave radio receiver. Just north of the farm house was a pig shed set up to be a chicken hatchery. Since my dad had run electricity there for the chick lights, my brother and I used the unused portion of the shed as a club house, complete with heater and radio and chairs and a little black and white television.

One day as a storm came in, I ran to our club house to disconnect the enviable 100 yard or so long antenna from the radio. Just after breaking the connection between aerial and radio, lightning struck the tree at the other end of the antenna wire. The next thing I remember is the smell of burning flesh and my sore back from being thrown to the wall. Part of my right hand was red and pulsing and a little burnt. Luckily the radio was OK.

It was my sophomore year when I met my first real girlfriend, Sharon. Hormones compensated for my social ineptitude and flailing attempts at romance. We spent some good times together in high school and college.

She was smart, quick witted, caring and, might I be so bold to add, had a great body.

We were married after our freshman year in college and divorced about 20 months later. Some portion of this failure can be placed on our collective immaturity. A good portion I fear could be placed on my interpersonal malfunctioning.

And now it is time for something I can grasp - motorcycle wrenching.

From Day 0 - Part Nine

2010-04-03T06:49:00.000-07:00

This morning I am reminded once again of mortality. While searching for pictures of the high school I attended, I find an obituary for my first wife's dad. He passed last year at 70. He was a cool guy. May he rest in peace.

At any rate, after reviewing my recent posts it became obvious that they were a bit more verbose than I had planned. So, gentle reader, there will be some effort to reduce some of this verbosity.

Pictured above is the Jr. High School and High School I attended for six years. The Westmer Warriors, we were known as. All of the other kids and tumult and nasty high school students that seemed to thrive on scaring the hell out of the young students simply seemed to harden my outer shell.

While preparing for PE class in seventh grade, some high school students tried to hang me. Luckily the ligature snapped.
My inner science geekiness was becoming more and more obvious. A crush on a little blond was sincere but she preferred the athletic, outgoing type. Ah well.

This was in a time and place where science geekiness was a magnet for persecution. Known as "The Doctor" or "Eagle", the former reflecting my extremely short hair cut, these nicknames were not complementary. I could reasonably explain basic electrical theory or computers or photosynthesis or oxidation or radio wave propagation but couldn't throw a basketball or football to save my ass. Thus, I belonged to the lowest student caste.

The long school bus rides to and from school was a mix of torment and peace. Attempts to sit alone and read were frequently successful. Other times I was subject to ridicule, having my books taken and thrown about.

Entering high school was a non-event; just another grade. It was now that I discovered how ill my Dad was. He had type 1 diabetes and suffered a minor heart attack. To keep the family financially sound, he had taken a full time job at a local foundry. To help, my Mom took a waitress job. That left me to take care of my two younger brothers and sisters after school. I cooked and cleaned and did farm chores every night. After the heart attack, he quit the foundry job and unsuccessfully applied for disability. When we worked on the farm together it was my job to watch for insulin reactions. Several times it was necessary to lead him back to the house like a puppy and give him juice to raise his sugar level.

I was diagnosed with hypoglycemia and an ulcer.
I met my first real girlfriend, later to be my first wife.
I became a geek/rocker/social dropout.
I owned my first motorcycle.
I flirted with my lover.

From Day 0 - Part Eight

2010-04-02T19:49:00.000-07:00

As much as I loved softball, it was simply not in my genes to be very athletic. After leaving sixth grade and the grade school for the Junior High in a different town, I didn't participate in any athletic capacity in organized athletic events, save the required PE class.

As a matter of fact, my sixth grade class was the last in Eliza Grade school. In an effort to minimize expenses, the school district relocated the students to New Boston Grade School. Luckily, the school building is still used as a community center.

It was no secret that my maternal grandmother did not like my Dad. Rather than speak my mind, keeping quiet seemed the best course of action. After all, she was my elder, and not one to be disrespected by her grandson, regardless of how disrespectful and incorrect her statements were.

And, so I learned a valuable mis-lesson that coincided with my inherent shyness; stay quiet.

That old rifle and I would bask in the raw sounds of nature. There was no right or wrong; nature has no morals; nature survives. Days spent among the glacier carved valleys and streams communing with raw nature is a sublime experience everyone should have the opportunity to partake.
And here is another picture, courtesy Google Maps. The farm, all 60 acres are highlighted by the yellow rectangle. The farm building are indicated by the red circle, and believe it or not, when I was twelve, the area highlighted in blue were my basic boarders.

It was quiet, there was no one else during my wanderings to confuse my explorations. It was simple nature, physics, chemistry, biology, geology; all things that I could grasp, minimally at any rate. People; on the other hand, there was no grasping.

So, I wandered and thought and explored; this 'pre-teen' and his Dad's .22.

Even as a thirteen year old, my dad trusted me to guide his friends on mini-hunting trips. One winter night, the type where the world seems to have stopped and the stars and Milky Way seems to be only an arm's length away, my Dad was sick and could not guide his friend on a raccoon hunt.

"Now, listen to Kenny, he knows his way around out there, OK?" my Dad cautioned his friend.

It was bone chilling cold when we departed the warmth of the wood heated house; in the teens if I remember correctly. My brother, only eleven years old, placed in my care, came along for the hunt.

I do not mean to disrespect those who have passed, but this fellow should have just stayed back at the house and played cards. Only two things defined him as partaking in a raccoon hunt: his raccoon dog; and his gun.

We walked to the northeast, into the woods. At the first creek, we turned south to follow it. Knowing where we were at that point was not an issue. Roughly an hour later my landmarks ended. "Stan, we really should turn right here and go up over the field."

"Oh, nah. Just a little further." Well, I still knew roughly where we were but said nothing. Then we saw the 'No Trespassing' sign. That was no good. One neighbor was very strict keeping trespassers out.

I spoke up, "Stan, Eliza Creek is right ahead. We really need to turn around."

"We can't leave the dog out here alone!"

I wanted to tell him that my cats had more raccoon hunting ability than his dog, but I just followed.

Ten minutes later we were on the banks of frozen Eliza Creek. "OK, Stan... Lem and I are freezing. We NEED to turn around and go up that ridge and go home."

With numb feet I followed as he turned and followed Eliza Creek; not the way I indicated. Lem was doing fine but a little chilly. I was becoming hypothermic. This place was new and honestly, I recognized nothing.

About 15 minutes later, he wanted me to get him back to the farm. Telling him I was not certain of the best way, he became pissed off, grabbed my brother's hand and walked quickly down the shore of the now partially frozen creek.

My boot broke through ice. Pulling up, I continued walking. Three, four, five, six steps. Something was wrong. I was walking in a patch of wild raspberry bushes without a boot. There was no pain from the thorns. The other two were far ahead when I ran back and grabbed my now water filled boot out of the stream.

My foot sloshed, numb to the world. Ahead, some other hunters had met Stan and Lem, and put then in their pickup. I got in and they took us home. My feet were white and wet and cold and numb. The pain experienced as they came back to life with lukewarm water and the wood stove was something I could have done without. My dad had the foresight to wash out the punctures in the soles of my foot with alcohol while still numb.

Not happy with Stan, my dad asked, "Where the hell were you?"

"I don't know, some stream somewhere."

My dad turned to me, without his asking, while still shivering I answered in a truly not happy tone, "Eliza Creek."

What my Dad said to Stan at that point is unknown. They went out for a smoke and my Mom brought us steaming hot cocoa. Later, I was told that my Dad chewed his ass out for not listening to me.

Ya, a 13 year old pwned his ass.

From Day 0 - Part Seven

2010-03-30T21:25:00.001-07:00

Just about the same time I was discovering girls, my Dad was instructing me in something far less complex; firearms.

Pictured here is a Winchester Model 67, single shot, bolt action rifle chambered for .22 short, long and long rifle. My dad purchased his for a mere six dollars in the late 1930's through a Sears and Roebuck catalog.

This was the gun I first learned to shoot, and admittedly I was pretty good. Taking a squirrel at 100 yards was not unheard of. Considering all it had were the old iron sights, that was pretty good.

Even today I have an old 67 being restored.

Search as I might, a certain posting has been lost. I would have bet anyone there was a posting about this next event in my life. Apparently not.

If you look back to this post, there is a picture of my grade school. To the lower left is a ball diamond, complete with lights, bleachers, refreshment stand and even an outhouse. In fourth grade it was little more than a backstop overgrown with vines and brush.

Toward the end of my fourth or fifth grade there was a favor burning in my soul. A desire beyond anything else. OK, it was just a thought, but all the same, I wanted to play baseball. It is a relatively quiet sport; nothing like the basketball I failed at.

My Grandfather, pictured here with my brother and myself on his farm, was the prime target. He loved baseball and was a fan of the Chicago Cubs. So, long story short, in 1977 or so, I asked him to start a baseball team.

Within a year we were playing softball on a manicured field, lights were installed, the backstop rebuilt and bleachers cobbled together. We played softball. Starting as a short stop, the catcher didn't like the position so I took it. We had one pitcher, and one catcher. That made for some very long summer games.

In another year there were outhouses and a refreshment stand on the site. We were not the only team playing on the diamond. Now there were several adult softball teams sharing our field.

I last saw the field in 2005 and nearly 30 years after a simple request of a fifth grader to his grandfather, it was still in use.

During the second season I arrived home after hunting or walking the woods or some other activity, to find my Mom on the phone sobbing and speaking to someone in barely understandable words. There was little I could do to calm her, she just rubbed my head.

Something bad had happened, someone or something had died; it was all quite unclear. After she hung up the phone and composed herself, she asked to speak to me. The numbness started but from where, I was uncertain. "Kenny, Mike is gone," she said, tears still welling in her eyes.

"Gone where?"

"There was an accident, Kenny, in front of your Uncle Milo's house. Mike was riding his dirt bike and a truck hit him."

Mike Butler was our pitcher and a close grade school friend of mine. This plaque is on the refreshment stand at that ballpark.

From Day 0 - Part Six

2010-03-30T19:55:00.001-07:00

Not long after meeting my lover for the first time, and just before discovering girls, my inner geek started showing himself. Many recess periods were spent browsing the little school library. Then there was the mysterious object in the corner. The front door was thick glass with a switch for some sort of blower on the top. Inside was a sink and bottle upon bottle of things like this.

I had singularly discovered a hidden gem. This little school had a fully stocked chemistry lab, including something I believe is called a fume, or exhaust hood.

My first experiment, at the age of eight, was the effects of extremely weak solutions of Thorium Nitrate on petunia plants. Result: they don't grow so well.

After that, a solution to my shyness was discovered; reading and science. I still remember the look of my fourth grade substitute teacher when I asked her to explain the Lorentz Contraction.

Ah, the Musser Public Library in Muscatine, Iowa (pictured here). About once every month we went into town to buy groceries and other necessities. While my Mom and Grandma, shadowed by my brothers and sisters shopped for freezy-pops and milk and other necessities, I was here.
My shyness mattered not in this place of knowledge. Here I discovered ham radio and computers and electronics and physics; and Isaac Asimov.

My reputation as an oddball had begun.

As the other boys were trying to get girlfriends or take up sports, I was reading Asimov and Bradbury and Sagan.

Shy, non-athletic oddballs with penchants towards science do not tend to be 'chick magnets.' At the time, I was good with that.

From Day 0 - Part Five

2010-03-30T18:52:00.000-07:00

Yes, before I discovered the fairer sex, before my first girlfriend, unknown to my seven year old self, we met. It was a tempestuous first encounter, and all subsequent meetings are as such. She raises something deep and visceral and primal in my soul.

Alas, we have not seen each other in about ten years. I look forward to our next encounter.

Ah, the fairer sex; girls; women. It was a basketball practice at the little Eliza Grade School when I felt the gentle nudge of hormones. Not being terribly athletic, anytime I managed to accomplish a save or score a few points was cause for celebration. We were skins. The ball went wild; a mob of ten boys all around me scrambled to control the sphere. I jumped with all I had through the mob. With one swift flash of my hand, the ball was smacked directly toward our team captain. He went up... SCORE!

Tammy screamed, "Way to go, Ken!"

After practice, I seem to remember a hug or two from her and a few other girls. She asked me to the Sadie Hawkins picnic the following year. We spent a little time together and perhaps held hands; typical grade school behavior for the time. I was awkward, and still am in the romantic arts. After fifth grade, we were merely friends.

In 1984 or 1985 my fiance and I were driving home from college for a few days of R&R. We round an S-curve not far from our destination and we meet my first girlfriend, my friend, driving the opposite direction. We all wave.

Arriving at our destination a minute later, we get out and start chatting with my fiance's friend. In the distance rose a tall shaft of black smoke near the road we had just been driving.

A grain truck had swerved, out of control on the S-curve. My grade school friend had no where to go; no escape route. They collided head-on. They identified her body by a small tattoo on her foot. May you rest in peace, Tammy.

From Day 0 - Part Four

2010-03-29T18:31:00.000-07:00

Ah, but I am getting ahead of myself yet again.

Sometime just before my first sister was born, I was treating my Dad's John Deere Model A tractor as if it were a jungle-gym. Oh, the glories I could sing of; balancing on those huge tires; bouncing on the seat; sitting on the very front top of the radiator; swinging upside down from the steering wheel... Well, maybe not that last one. While attempting this trick, my leg slipped and gravity had its way with me. While plummeting to the ground, my head had a chance encounter with the flywheel cover.

Some people believe this is one of the primary causes I am the way I am. Honestly, I believe a more probable cause would the head trauma suffered from running full-steam into a very stationary cottonwood tree. But, again, getting ahead of myself.

The man you see on the right caused a great deal of trauma in my childhood. Living in a rural area does not lend itself to a plethora of television stations, especially in the early 70's. Our black & white television could receive channels 4, 6, 8 and 12; CBS, NBC, ABC and PBS respectfully.

Mornings when there was no school were spent doing early morning chores, watching Sesame Street at 8, Captain Kangaroo at 9, and then off to some tomfoolery out of the house.

What to my horror when Captain Kangaroo... The CAPTAIN!!!! How??? Why????!?!?! The Captain was preempted for the Watergate hearings!!! OK, I am over it...

My kindergarten through sixth grade was spent at this little school in rural Illinois, just west of Eliza, Illinois.

Since my kindergarten class was only a half day, the dozen or so five year old bundles of energy were driven home on a short little panel van, alternatively in a little yellow bus.

Yes, I rode the short bus.

This is where I discovered girls.
This is where I discovered that I was not cut from the normal skein of cloth most others are.
This is where I discovered that I was a budding geek.
This is where I met my first girlfriend.
This is where I met a very good friend that died in a motorcycle accident.
This is where I changed a thousand lives.
This is where I met my lover.

Nice cliff-hanger, eh?

From Day 0 - Part Three

2010-03-28T13:09:00.001-07:00

Here is a great photo of my Dad, myself and my Mom. Taken in 1967, the background shows what I believe is Weed Park in Muscatine, Iowa. If you look carefully in the background, there is the Mississippi River.

Weed Park was a fantastic place of wonderment, adventure, freedom and pure terror. Back in the days when less attention was paid to what the kids were doing, we would roam the park from North to South, East to West. Sometimes we would sneak away to a small spillway and play "Fort."

The "Barrel of Fun" ride was not really a barrel and really never much fun. It was a large wooden cylinder made of 2-by-4s, in this 'house,' constructed so people (and some very unhappy kids) could walk into this cylinder and spin it. Even at the time, all I could think was, "How much fun could one have running in a human-sized hamster wheel?"

Then there was an item of pure terror; four corrugated pipes, intersecting at 90 degrees in the center, in an "X" shape. On top of this was a large mound of dirt. This contraption, obviously constructed by the devil himself, cause unimaginable nightmares. Inside the pipes, constructed so the hapless children could crawl through, never to be seen again, the atmosphere was cool and dank and smelled of a cacophony of biologic and bodily fluids. Even at the manly age of eleven, I would run away when one of my older playmates would try forcing me in one of those gateways to the netherworld.

Of course, it was a relatively harmless contraption for the day. I still firmly believe the devil himself constructed it, and will discuss it no further. :-D

As an adult I truly try living without regrets. The mistakes made are learning tools. The mistake is recognized, precursors and causes identified and analyzed, apologies given where necessary, and I move on.

It was 1982 in Weed Park. On this sunny summer afternoon my girlfriend and I were out enjoying the day while most of my family were under a shelter, visiting and catching up with everyone's news.

We came back to the shelter for some tea after a long walk, when my Dad (picturedabove) made a snide comment about my long hair. Mind you, my "long" hair did not even cover my ears. What the comment was, I do not recall. For all that matters, it could have been a relatively minor jab, not really intent on injury.

I left the house within a few weeks.

Here in Weed Park, a decision was made, a mistake. Two years later the mistake was recognized, the precursors and causes identified and analyzed. There could be no apology given. The farm was gone, and my father as well. The family farm was sold just weeks before he passed in 1983. Dad, may you rest in peace. I will always be your "Lil Slugger."

From Day 0 - Part Two

2010-03-28T12:30:00.000-07:00

At a very early age I acquired a skill that would serve me well. Even at a year and a half, I could stir and bake and cook with the best of the pre-schoolers.

In this picture, a batch of home made bread is being prepared for baking. To this day, I still enjoy baking bread. As a matter of fact, currently my little apartment was filled with the sweet scent of cinnamon apple oatmeal bread; my own recipe.

Yes. Yes, indeed I was a farm boy

On the left is a pic of me on a path that I learned well. To the left is a pond that my dad built. To the right was the house and farm buildings.

On the right is a picture of me holding tight to my brother, making sure he doesn't fall off. The pony we were on was named Windmill. He and I have history. I learned to saddle and bridle and ride on old Windmill. Then on one fateful spring day, he and I were out surveying my domain, or as much domain an eight year old can have. A neighbor horse runs up in her pasture and commences whinnying and making a horse version of a challenge. Windmill bucked me off and charged over to the horse.

Within a week, Dad traded Windmill for a cow.

Heavy equipment and farm machinery were as common to me as a video games are to modern kids. At ten or so I could drive a John Deere Model A and Model B tractor, and reasonably, for a ten year old, drive a Caterpillar D-21 bulldozer. Well, I think it was a D-21, maybe a D-25. It has indeed been a while.

The smell of burning diesel and fresh soil and fresh air, the sound of the birds singing and a chugging engine, the clear sky, the green trees and grass and underbrush; these things are embedded in my being. They are close friends; ones I hope to visit soon.

Razor, from Day 0

2010-03-28T07:48:00.000-07:00

A few people, both on-line and off have asked me, "What's calling?" Well, the answer is quite simple but requires a bit of context. That being the case, I will bore you all with a photo history of yours truly, Razor. It will require several posts, so if you don't wait with baited breath for the answer, who could blame you?

Where am I? Physically, I mean? I live in Las Vegas. The mecca of gambling and nightlife of North America; bright and shining, with no closing time, is certainly not where I grew up.

This isn't always what Las Vegas looked like (believe it or not.)
This picture of the Las Vegas Strip, taken in 1951 (courtesy of photosfan.com) shows an early Las Vegas. The Dunes Hotel no longer exists; in it's place is the modern day Bellagio.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

My Mom and Dad met in 1964 and were married early in 1965. She was working at the little rural general store in Eliza,Illinois and he worked the small family farm a few miles away.

I was born in this little hospital on a chilly spring morning in 1966. I was the first born of two brothers and two sisters; five kids in all. (photo courtesy of CardCow)

Initially I was a sick baby. According to doctor's notes, it was something akin to measles and asthma. After a few weeks, as confusing as the illness was to my parents and the doctors, it was gone. Throughout the next five years or so, the asthma would still be a problem. Luckily I grew out of it.

After being medically cleared to go home, my Mom and Dad brought me home, where I would spend the next 17 years of my life.

This 60 acres of rural Illinois fields and woods and streams had been in the family since around 1870. It was my home in all senses of the word.

This aerial photo from 1955 does not do it justice. (Photo from American Aerial County History Series No. 22 by John Drury, published by The Loree Company, Chicago, IL)

I was a typical farm baby. Here I am at my first family reunion, obviously sleeping off whatever home-brew is in the jug next to me.

The outdoors was my friend, showing a natural affinity for the farm and nature. The house was old and not terribly modern. While there was plumbing supplied with water from the well, toilet facilities were out back in a small building. Yes, we had an outhouse and took baths in the back porch. Generally this was not an issue, but Illinois winters proved a bit challenging.

In 1968 the family increased by one; my brother Lem was born. His real name was Charles Lemuel but this was never really accepted. As a matter of fact, to this day he will not even answer to Charles or Charlie or any version of the name.

First memories vary for many people. Mine is of the Apollo 11 moon landing on July 16, 1969. The old black and white television crackled with static as it displayed the astronauts exploring the lunar environment. It fascinated this three year old beyond words, and placed a firm fascination of science and exploration into my mind.

Remembering the LEM clawing and screaming against the lunar gravity, bound for home, is a memory I hope will never fade.

New Experiences...

2010-03-14T14:48:00.000-07:00

New experiences are not always enjoyable.

Early last week my ex asked me to come over and help her with the cat. He is getting a bit old and has a cone around his head so he doesn't lick a nasty raw spot on his tail. She just needed someone to hold him while she dressed the raw spot. No problems.

I go over and help. With the cat now roaming around the apartment all pissed-off, I walk into the bathroom to use the facilities before leaving.

When I walked out to leave, this is what I saw. Well, rather similar anyway. Imagine the left side of this prism only, in your far left peripheral field of vision. The shimmering colors seem to radiate from a point equidistant from the ends, where it resembles a bright flashlight being shown through a fan.

Officially this was something called an Optical Migraine. Generally it is the presentation of symptoms related to a migraine, without the severe pain. Since then, there has been a dragging, dull, 'dry' headache in the back of my skull, difficulty sleeping and a bit of depression. Nothing to worry about right now, as allergy season is starting to kick off here.

If this headache is still going on in a week, I am to go back and see my Dr. again. Where did I put that Ibuprofen?.....

Ride out to Hoover Dam

2010-03-07T17:43:00.000-08:00

There was simply no resisting.

My last attempt to ride Hoover Dam resulted in Bikus-Interruptus due to Christmas Day traffic. With the new camera and temps in the low 60F range, there was only one thing to do. Ride and video it.

While there was more traffic than I like, it was a nice ride down the canyon, across the dam and into Arizona. The cause of the lighting issue with the camera became apparent this afternoon while looking at, and editing the video. With the camera mounted 90 degrees, it's aspect ratio is taller than wide. Thus, it is receiving more light from the sky than if it were mounted horizontally. The electronic shutter closes just a bit and makes the landscape look dark in many places.

The program I use to edit and render, Microsoft Movie Maker, adds to the problem and darkens it more, with each reduction in quality.

So, next week I will order the proper mounts from GoPro to mount it horizontally to my helmet.

The windscreen mount experiment failed. The video from the camera while attached there was so shaky as to be pretty much worthless. However, it was horizontally mounted and the lighting was fine.

At any rate, here it VLOG 5 - My ride to Boulder Dam.

Oh, about 1 minute in, and at the end, note the nifty new bridge being built over the dam! When it is complete and traffic is flowing, the dam will likely be cut off from all traffic except tourists.

P.S. The song is Blue Sky Blond by Thieves and Villains.

GoPro Hero Wide 5MP - Initial Results

2010-03-06T20:07:00.000-08:00

So, I like to video my rides. Unfortunately stuffing my big-ish camera into my helmet and taking mediocre videos is a bit disheartening. Several months ago there was a sale here, on the GoPro Hero 5MP camera set for $165. Cool, but not $165 cool.

As luck would have it, one came up for sale for only $120 on CraigsList. So, to me, it IS $120 cool. (I would have rather had the previous owner's custom Aprilia for $120, but, hey...)

It is a rather small camera, with no fancy color display; just a mechanical viewfinder, LCD mode and status indicator on the front and two buttons. The one on the front is power and mode. The button on the top is for shutter and options.

The camera comes with a plethora of mounting options and a water tight case. The image above shows the camera in it's water tight cast. According to the manual it can be submerged by up to 30 feet of water and continue to record. GoPro Hero Wide Web

At any rate, here is a sample video I took this morning. This version of the Hero has a wide angle lens that presents a different perspective, for me anyway.

What, Where? (or Craziness on the Interweb)

2010-03-04T18:16:00.000-08:00

In life, WTF moments happen along from time to time. For some reason riding a motorcycle regularly seems to bring these out of the woodwork. Seemingly everywhere a rider looks is a potential WTF moment. As an example, there used to be a giant billboard on the strip near the Circus Circus Casino that read, "Vasectomy!!! It's easier than you think!"

Seriously... Is the Las Vegas Strip a prime spot to advertise cheap Vasectomies???

Well, today, according to the World Wide Weird, I discovered some fantastic things about some towns in Illinois. According to Google, these services or things are available:

Private Investigators
Foreclosures
Travel Deals
Open Houses
Employment Opportunities
Concerts and Shows
Home Rentals
Middle Eastern Singles & Dating
Native American Singles & Dating
T1 and even DS3 Telecom Services
Taxi Services
etc... ad absurdum...

What are these towns? Arpee, Illinois is one of them. Never really a town, it was a railroad stop and junction in the mid and latter 1800's. The other really was a village; Sunbeam, Illinois. This place was populated by only a few people in the mid 1800's. By the early 1900's it was a prarie ghost town.

This sort of internet junk could easily throw off someone trying to do research. Imagine what a less than ardent high school student could write about these two places if their only research tool was the internet.

"Was founded in the mid 1800's and now has a flourishing mixture of Middle Eastern and Native American cultures..."

Welcome to the internet... Could this really be the wasteland of the 21st century?

Coincidences

2010-02-25T00:03:00.000-08:00

What are coincidences?

Seriously?

Are they simply juxtapositions of two or more things or events that show a commonality? If event A never occurred, would event B be noticed? Does A cause B? B cause A? Is there some unseen string tying the two together, only to be observed by a single person?

If I dream of a black Harley Street Glide with a four leaf clover painted on its tank, and then see that same bike on the commute home from work, that would seem odd, yes? Perhaps viewing the bike would shape the memory of the dream so as to engineer a false commonality. Maybe it was really a Triumph Bonneville with a fig leaf on it's tank riding around in my dream. Memories, especially of dreams, are fluid and fleeting, many times coming into false focus based on similar physical stimuli.

Any more, I will be damned if I know how some of these unseen things in the universe work.

This morning I wrote a little piece about Hearing a Call. The Call is unique and can mean different things to different people. Some calls are internal; some exhibit external presentations. Mine is a private call at the moment. No, I am not giving up motorcycling. No, I am not "switching teams." An, no, I am not entering the priesthood. When the time is right; timing is everything... or nothing at all.

At any rate, this morning I wrote what I wrote. This evening after leaving work, on my way to run a lengthy errand, an advertising truck caught me eye. If you are not familiar with these vehicles of questionable quantitative value, they are typically flat-bed trucks with large signs mounted to the bed. Some of them have signs that change. Others' signs are static.

This particular one was static. It was in oncoming traffic, waiting to turn left, across my path of travel. Needless to say, vehicles in this position throw imaginary red flags while I am riding. As I pass, the sign was obvious. The ware or service being advertised was unimportant. The huge words in yellow on blue, once read, would have caused my chin to drop if not for my helmet's strap.

I swear... This is what it read.

"Something is calling, Answer It!"

This stuff is just too odd for fiction.

Picture, "End of Confusion" by Wim Grooten.

There's a call for you, Razor...

2010-02-24T06:57:00.000-08:00

Omnipresent as the universe is the call. Persistant and ubiquitous as water tumbling gently in ageless streams, it is there for those to hear.

As children, all are capable of hearing the gentle bell heralding the call. Over time deafness is beaten in by others or by ourselves. We are all capable of hearing again, however not knowing what to listen for, or when the call will come, makes this task of hearing no less difficult.

Some fear it. Some factor it away in cold logical equations such that the remainder is considered rounding error. Some feel it is not within them to answer. Some are told it is better not to answer. Some apathetic souls simply sit and watch television as the bell patiently asks for attention.

I understand there is a call for me... Be back soon.

Socialy Inept & A Choice of Good -vs- Good

2010-02-16T21:38:00.000-08:00

I ride a motorcycle. To me its physics are simple; throttle and brake and gyroscopic effect and fuel and road condition and speed and weight. When I can afford it, I fly. Here, the physics are pretty simple as well; thrust and drag and gravity and lift.

This is my public announcement to the world... I am socially inept. Nuances that others see and understand, fly tall red banners for all to see, yet for me they are nothing but tattered rags ruffling in the breeze. They serve no purpose but to place tiny markers in my mind, and I move on.

Decisions... Here is something I posted on my Facebook status: "What path doth one take when both are of the righteous and just?"

Please tell me. My choice was made before the situation, with it's logic that I could not argue. It was there, the irrefutable logic presented as flags; nuances that hold no comprehension in my mind. It required an interpreter.

Perhaps I will get my ass kicked for not seeing the nuances. In the proverbial sense, it has happened before.

Valentine's Day Ride

2010-02-14T22:26:00.000-08:00

As fate or luck or the universe would have it, Valentine's Day this year is a solitary 24 hours in a calendar of 8,760 hours. Nothing new. There are less attractive alternatives to a solitary Valentine's Day. So, this day when so many celebrate being with someone special, I do as well.

What did I do? Ride, of course! Originally the plan was to spend the day in my garage, working on my project bike. By 10AM, the weather was in the low 60s and the bright blue sky perfect for riding.

This No Trespassing sign was a little unsettling. A Laser Shock???

This one made me giggle a bit.

This is the time of year when the desert starts to turn green. Couldn't resist taking a few pictures while doing a bit of hiking.

ROTFLMAO!!! These ranchers certainly have a sense of humor!

The long lonely road. How apropos.

And finally, a little video of the ride. Hope it doesn't bore all who decide to watch. :-P

Television - Just Shoot It!

2010-02-10T12:44:00.000-08:00

Six months ago, my daughter, her boyfriend and I moved into an apartment. Since the cost of moving and getting the appropriate things set up was coming out of my bank account, a bold decision was made.

No cable TV. No digital converter, either. If my daughter or her boyfriend wanted it, they could pay for it. And, I am here to say, people CAN survive without it.

Well, more than survive; thrive.

Since being deprived of this mind-sucker, my daughter has acquired a job and loves it. Sure, it's Burger King, but complaints are minimal. Her grades went up an entire letter grade in ALL classes. YES! And, she now has a pet snake that SHE paid for and SHE takes care of.

Her attitude toward life and money and responsibility has entirely changed for the better.

Her boyfriend has acquired a job he likes and is doing well.

And what of I? Well, my project motorcycle is slowly moving along; I have finished four fiction books; started reading and researching the history of the county where I grew up (Mercer County, IL); taking classes in preparation of helping at a local domestic violence center; have a few websites that are in the process of being built; taught my daughter's boyfriend how to change the oil in his car; ridden across the country; started to write a few short stories; started creating videos of my rides and while I work on my VX800; and a few things that are certainly forgotten.

So, my suggestion, if at all possible, leave that television off. Or if you like, dispose of it like the person in the above video.

If I could only get my two room mates do clean the apartment and do the dishes...

Liars, Damned Liars and Statisticians

2010-02-06T16:02:00.000-08:00

Over the past week, statistics have been raining down on my head. While I do not purport to be an expert in the field of statistics, I do know enough to be dangerous; where and what to question.

Recently a Child Abuse study was released by the US Department of Health And Human Services. Using reports from CPS, LEO (Law Enforcement Organizations), school officials and other 'sentinals', the study estimates there were 743,200 incidences of abuse in 1993 and 553,300 in 2005/06. Further, there were 879,000 estimated incidences of child neglect in 1993, and only 771,700 in 2005/06.

Keep in mind that the source of this data is not strictly from child abuse professionals. This provides a wider and deeper investigation into this social ill. However, including data from individuals provides a bit of variability in the reported data. Some of this variability was filtered through a more or less standardized reporting criteria, but that latitude of variability still exists.

Further, the reporting data was sampled over two, three week periods and then annualized. Two third of the sampled counties were studied from the first week in September through the first week of December. The other one third of the counties were studied from the first week of February through the first week of May. This left, for the most part, these months unreported: December; January; May; June; July; and August.

One of the first things taught in statistics class is to ensure a random, representative sample. Anecdotal evidence as relayed to your's truly, indicate a sharp but brief rise in reports immediately after Christmas and New Years. Neither of these peaks are included in the sample periods.

Further, using the 2008 Quarterly Domestic Violence Report from the Nevada Department of Public Safety, the peak months of reported DV is April, May, June, July, August and September. National monthly or quarterly statistics were not readily available, so, this will need to suffice.

See any issue? The federal report missed several months of high reported abuse.

Further, other government studies show different numbers. According to the CDC, there were 905,000 childhood victims of maltreatment from October, 2005 through September, 2006 as reported by state and local child protective services. According to the Health and Human Services report, a total estimated of 1,256,600 occurred. This latter number included an estimation of official and unofficial reports. So, if there were 905,000 official reports, unofficial reports would constitute 351,600. Sort of low, in my opinion.

To make things just a little stranger, the US Census Bureau reported there was a total of 1,860,259 reports of child abuse and neglect that were investigated in 2007. This number blows the Health and Human Services report out of the water.

Either way, if that number is greater than one, it is too many.

Cave

2010-02-03T18:57:00.000-08:00

It can be so easy to slip back into our own caves. The warmth and gentle humid breeze welcomes one back with dark open arms. The world, so confusing and different and startlingly sharp prod the weak back home to the well worn lonely stone prison.

And many are happy to go.

With others, apathy and weakness alters the escape velocity ever so subtly. Over time many find their trajectories aimed back to where they started with such force it may seem impossible to halt the slide. And they impact, and feel the warm safety of their old cave, and stay.

The boulder at its mouth placed there for the previous resident's protection. This infinite grotto sobs and cries out for the person's return. In the heavy air an unearthly scream peels out to the universe, vibrating in resonance.

Standing there unwavering, armor stained and dented from battles won and lost. Brown, tarnished shield held firm in a black leather gauntlet clad scarred hand. Spear, mirror polished, razor sharp with the marks of many battles, ready as its master, without a moment's pause.

This cave shall never be inhabited again.

Motorcycle Vlogging - Premier

2010-01-11T20:12:00.000-08:00

Yes, I have now entered the wonderful world of motorcycle vlogging. Borrowing AtlasRider's method for taking videos while riding, this was an interesting experience. Placing my camera inside my helmet, just in front of my nose, almost no peripheral vision was compromised.

And so, with no further delay, my premier motorcycle vlog post.

Song is "Nina Straight" by Stasola; used here under A Creative Commons license. A better, larger format version can be downloaded here: www.radstream.com/vlog/ridetowork2_0003High.wmv If it is not there, well... There is only so much space available on my hosting account.

There are a few modifications that need to be made before much more video is shot. First and foremost, my helmet needs to be adjusted to allow for my camera. There is a small piece of plastic near my chin on my helmet that needs to be removed. It is only there to support the poofy soft padding, is not structural and is not necessary for the integrity of the helmet design.

Additionaly, the small piece of plastic causes the camera to look down slightly.

AND, I have a habbit. When a small battery goes bad, I do not throw it away. It is tossed in a saddle bag or drawer or pocket. Well, about 1/3 of the way to work my camera batteries give out. I pull over, get two batteries from my saddle bag, start the camera and take off. About 2/3 of the way to work, the same thing happened again!

The batteries just put in the camera must have been nearly dead in the first place! After a bit more digging, Fresh Duracells were locate and put in the camera. That's the stuff!

Another reason to ride, as if I NEED another one; to make videos. Wonder if this is something I could mention on a first date...

"I ride motorcycles, read science fiction, enjoy camping, love watching thunderstorms, oh..." voice lowered to a whisper, "I also vlog."

Christmas Ride, 2009.

2010-01-10T22:49:00.000-08:00

For one reason or another, I did not post a word, a peep or a picture from my 2009 Christmas ride. My daughter and her boyfriend went to Sedona to be with his parents for the holidays. So, with the cookies and treats all baked and delivered, no Christmas meal to prepare, no hustle to make the place presentable to guests.

What should I do??? Hmmm... Free day, $10 for gas. I am going for a ride.

Pardon the quality of this video. I may be a computer professional and all, but this is the first time attempting to create a video while riding. Be sure to turn the audio down before watching. The wind noise can be a bit too much.

The video was taken while approaching the little "B" place marker below.

View Larger Map

My initial idea was to ride to the Hoover dam, snap a few pictures, check out the new bridge being built and ride into Arizona for a bit. NO luck. After passing through Boulder City, cars and trucks on their way over the dam were bumper to bumper. And, I was there as well, putting along. The heat from the engine after about 30 minutes of this clutch slipping headache told me it was time to stop, let my bike cool off and turn around.

Which I did.

The day was beautiful. There was no way a beautiful riding day like this should be wasted, so I turned south and rode through a tiny little mining town called Nelson, past several abandoned mines, past the infamous Techatticup Mine, on to the Colorado River.

Pictures coming up. Must sleep...

October, 2008

2010-01-06T19:36:00.000-08:00

October, 2008. Colorado, interstate 36 eastbound, ten miles or so from the Kansas state line.

It was quiet. The air was clean, with a slight breeze from the West. Red winged blackbirds flitted and played in the light skies, pausing only a few moments to land in a fence row or on the ground.

Hundreds of miles of solitude on two wheels. There are times and places where the road and life become one. I'm good with that.

Breaking the Habit

2010-01-05T06:37:00.001-08:00

The amount of time and attention spent on simple, online social interaction was a true surprise. Rather than the typical 45 minutes of work and 15 minutes of checking e-mail and Face Book and news groups and forums, these multiple 15 minute breaks were consolidated into one 30 minute lunchtime escape.

And, that is not all. Yesterday evening was spent making a slow barbecue chicken dish, brownies, spending time with my daughter and reading. There was no running upstairs to check e-mail or Face Book. It was quiet and productive and relaxing.

Regardless of the relaxing nature of last night, frustration did peek it's head into the living room. Money is at a negative level; this is honestly an interesting experimental week in thriftiness and minimalism. There is money for gas, and that's about it.

Then there is the desire to be out in the garage, wrenching on Vixen. It is chilly outside, dark when I get home after work and for me, that environment is simply not conducive to wrenching.

Perhaps that is a good thing; lessons in patience are always welcome. It will be warm in the evenings soon enough.

Then there is the post sinus drip, the nausea, the difficulty sleeping, the restlessness, the scratchy throat. But, this is a good thing. Details later.

Dr. Oz Wants Me to Have More Sex

2010-01-04T07:01:00.000-08:00

That's right. In a recent article by Dr. Mehmet Oz, M.D., there are three suggested New Years resolutions for 2010. These are, in no particular order: get more sleep; never let yourself feel hungry; and have more sex.

Item number one? Check. For the past several months, effort has been extended to get seven to eight hours of pillow time. Honestly, I feel SO much better getting more sleep.

Item number two has never been an issue. MY issue is in the method of not feeling hungry. Instead of grabbing a bag of corn chips or licorice out of the vending machine at work, I need to keep fresh fruits and vegetables available. And, not the crappy ones, but the ones I like.

Now the tough one... more sex. According to the good doctor, "Sex is an indicator of many things, and if you aren't having it at least once (and ideally more) a week for 30 minutes, it could mean something is dangerously wrong."

Once a week, eh? If I factor in arrears, that's... well... I am at least 250 sessions behind. Ideally more? I am so screwed.

OOoo.... Please pardon the pun. Read the whole Dr. Oz article here.

Why One Needs GOOD Tools

2010-01-03T21:25:00.000-08:00

Today was a wrenching day. The clutch has been dragging on my Harley Sportster, so out comes the manual and tools.
First things first. I prop my sporty up so that she is leaning slightly to the right and pop out the kickstand just in case she tips toward me. Once 500 pounds start coming down, a kickstand will stop it; my arm will not.

Following the service manual, I loosen the clutch cable adjustment.
And then start to remove the "derby cover" with a Torx socket. It happens. This socket has been used about six times to remove and torque this cover. Apparently today was the day to fail. Before complete malfunction, I was able to torque the bolt, so the cover is still secure.
It may not be terribly obvious here, but the Torx socket is quite chewed up and quite completely useless at this point.

After this little failure, readjusting the clutch cable, I see this.
Great, a nice little 3mm finish crater in the left front of the tank, likely due to a rock.

So, what do I do? continue wrenching on my VX800 project!

25,000 Miles in 2010

2010-01-01T13:33:00.001-08:00

In the spirit of my 25,000 mile goal for 2010, here are my odometer readings. My first year of riding in 2008 netted a total of about 16,000 miles. 2009 came in at about 19,000. 25,000 miles in 2010 shouldn't be too tough.

26,969 on Vixen, my Suzuki VX800. Hopefully she will be running and operational by the end of 2010.

17,225 miles, all mine, on my Honda Rebel.
And, last, but certainly not least, 67,929 miles on Athena, my Harley Davidson XL1200C Sportster.

Walk the Razor's Edge

There Are Times...

Prayer for the Silent Warrior

Underqualified

My New Little Scoot

A Little Riding Video

What's In A Name?

Pulling the Plug and Pulling the Trigger

When Too Much is Not a Good Thing

Karma Police

Of Friends and Bikes

Just a Bucket List Revisited

On the bucket list... But first a story.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend...

Ratrace-0 ** Razor-1

Little Sunday Night Comedy

The Minimizing Challenge - Success!

Be Careful What Ya Throw Out!

Going With the Flow

Extrania

ex·tra·ni·a

And A Few More Changes

Staying in Motion

Damn It!

Goodbye with a Goodbye

Alas my Rebel, I Barley Knew You.

Them Wheels are Spinnin'

Now, That's the Spot

Curious Times

A Fun Little Saturday

Another Project?

My Yearly Trip to North Carolina - With a Bonus!

Did I Do Something Wrong, Officer?

Little Hiatus

Messages, Searching & Trips

Little Geeky Sunday

Switching Gears

Dating Site Humor

That Wasn't So Bad

Plans and Limits

Patience, Grasshopper

Motorcycle Quote of the Day

Close Enough

Baby

Don't Cry Like A Bitch When You Feel the Pain

What Will the Neighbors Think?

Motorcycle Plastic Repair - Adventure in Plastic Welding

No Offense and No Disrespect, But...

Abby Sunderland Saved - Soap Box Out Again!

The Abby Sunderland Effect

Vixen Has Her Brain Stem!

Found When Not Looking

Ohhh... My aching Fingers...

The Life of a Telecommuter

Putting the Parts Together

Little Restraint Needed

An 'Ill-Advised' Ride on a Honda Rebel

Lessons From Mice

State of Indeterminate Unsettlement

A Truly 'Wrenching' Weekend

Interests and Hobbies and Thoughts, Oh My!

From Day 0 - Part Twenty

Special Relationship

From Day 0 - Part Nineteen

From Day 0 - Part Eighteen

From Day 0 - Part Seventeen

Another Brief Intermission - Tales from the DarkTimes

From Day 0 - Part Sixteen

From Day 0 - Part Fifteen

High Flight

From Day 0 - Part Fourteen

Intermission!

From Day 0 - Part Thirteen

From Day 0 - Part Twelve

From Day 0 - Part Eleven

From Day 0 - Part Ten

From Day 0 - Part Nine

From Day 0 - Part Eight

From Day 0 - Part Seven

From Day 0 - Part Six