To Farm or to Bike...

Or Both???

I grew up on a little 60 acre farm in Western Illinois. Learning to ride on dirt and gravel and mud, flipped a switch somewhere that could not be turned off.

These early formative years are where people develop communicative skills. My young years roaming the woods and working with farm implements and reading and tending plants prepared me for a life of communicative silence. Talking to a tractor does nothing. Arguing with a pig is simply futile. Explaining the meaning of the blue sky to a Yamaha is meaningless.

Motorcyclists and farmers share this communications mode. A simple shifting of weight or twist of the wrist can communicate far more that words can. This mode of communication has for the most part been lost by the human race. Whether by hubris or ego or societal pressure or apathy or the desire to define everything in a generally acceptable format, this subtle yet powerful communications mode is not only consciously ignored, but in some cases, shunned.

Maybe this is why I revel in solitude. I communicate well on my terms. Maybe I will farm and bike.

The Big 42!

For one reason or another, this post was somewhat difficult to start. So, why not start with the number 42. According to Douglas Adams, in his iconoclastic, and throughly humorous novel, Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy, the number 42 is the answer to Life, the Universe and Everything.

Well, this year, I celebrated my forty second birthday. Now, with most people, this is just a sign that one is into 'middle age.' Strangely enough, this means something else to me. Specifically because of the day I turned 42. You see, I turned 42 on April 2. 4/2. 42 on 4/2. Interesting, eh? This only happens to people born on April 2nd, of a year ending in 66. So, one day every 100 years.

What does that have to do with motorcycles, or just about anything? Nothing really, just a way to start this post.

Here is a story about attaining spiritual enlightenment. This is likely paraphrased and bastardized, but the spirit and root of the story remains...

A young student of Zen asks his master, "Master, if I study two hours every day, how long will it take before I attain enlightenment?"

"Four years," he replies.

"But Master, what if I study four hours every day?"

"Eight years," replies the master.

The student is now becoming slightly agitated. "Master, what if I study hard every day for ten hours? What then?"

The master smiles. "Then you will likely never reach enlightenment."

That story explains to me, why "searching for myself" is a worthless pursuit. The more energy put into such an effort will merely move my goal farther away. I did not go to the Laughlin River Run to search for something. I went to experience something new. And I did. And I didn't like it. As comfortable as I am on my bike, riding a lonesome road, is just how uncomfortable I was at the bike rally.

If I would have simply bypassed the rally and continued to ride through the Colorado River valley, into the farming area, in one respect, I would have been happier. But I didn't. I stopped. But I am happy for having the experience, even if it was not a pleasurable one. I suppose, a persons' happiness is as beauty; it is in the eye of the beholder.

That brings me to alfalfa. The plant, not the character in the old black and white serial, "Little Rascals." Alfalfa, for those who don't know, is a forage crop. In layman's terms, it is hay. Cows and horses and other animals eat it.

You never see alfalfa growing in the desert or a forest. It simply cannot survive unaided in these environments. The farms I rode by on my motorcycle this weekend were indeed a respite for my soul, but the green alfalfa fields were aided; irrigated with water from the Colorado River. Without that aid the plants simply could not survive.

Perhaps it is the same with people. Some are taken or willingly remove themselves from an environment they thrive in, and end up in a place that they cannot thrive. They need irrigation to survive. Is that living or merely life support? The alfalfa is irrigated and grown to the benefit of the farmer. Perhaps it is the same with people.

Searching for ones' self in a life support environment is as counter to attaining the goal, as the proverbial student mentioned above, studying harder and harder. One should not search for themselves, one should search for an environment wherein they thrive. Then their true selves will become apparent.

Ride safe-

Another 200+ Mile Day!

Henderson, Nevada to Needles, California and back again. That, plus a little riding around totaled nearly 230 miles. The Laughlin River Run and Bike Rally was too tempting to pass up. It was... interesting.

BUT... before the commentary, the pictures.

One of the many motorcycle parking lots.

And another one.

My little Rebel with Nevada's very own SolarOne, a huge solar electricity generating plant, in the distance.

The rally was interesting and the ride challenging. It's not so much that I learned an aspect of motorcycling that I enjoy, as is was the opposite. There were tens of thousands of motorcycle riders there. As a new experience, it was enjoyable. Will I do it again? No. I would much rather ride alone. Perhaps that holds a different meaning.

More tomorrow when I am more awake.

Motoboss Airspeed Mesh Jacket - Review

So it is getting to be summer time here in Las Vegas. Temperatures in the lower eighties may sound nice, but that sun has a tendency to cook anything in black leather. So, I set out to look for a nice mesh jacket.

My requirements:
-- Must be lightweight.
-- Must have good air circulation.
-- Must be high visibility.
-- Must have good armor and/or padding on the shoulders, elbows and back.
-- Must cost no more than $110 USD.
-- Must have a removable liner.

My normal motorcycle dealership, Ride Now, had a minimal selection. They carried a few Fieldsheer jackets that seemed to fit. I settled on an almost completely silver and white jacket. The only problem I could tell was that the back armor poked my shoulder blades, making by backpack unusable. They set it aside for me anyway.

I then went to Cycle Gear and tried a few. They had blue & black, and red & black (see above picture) styles of the MotoBoss Airspeed. Their large size fit wonderfully. No poking, snug fit around the waist, and comfortable wrist and neck openings.

The jacket has several hidden zippers and pockets. It has the standard two external pockets that are rather small. One hidden internal pocket in the back is more than ample to store the liner and a few other soft things. Hard things poke my back. There is another, smaller hidden pocket on the inside front. It is big enough for some snack bars or whatever.

There is ample padding and armor on the shoulders, elbows, back and even the forearms. The adjustment straps on the arms seem to be a bit loose, even on the tightest setting, but it is acceptable.

There is also a zipper on the inside back to attach a pair of matching riding pants. I didn't have the money, so that will need to be later.

Total cost was right at about $100.

So, this jacket rates a 5 out of 5 noob stars. Its only detractors are the small external pockets, and the somewhat loose fitting adjustment straps on the arms. After a few thousand miles of Vegas heat, I may have a different opinion, but for now, I LOVE it!

(p.s. - congrats to me... this is post #100!!!)

Angry Riding

Have you ever had one of those 'Angry Riding' days? It's not that you are angry or upset. There is just a feeling, a vibe of angriness and upset.

A long lost friend would at times e-mail or IM or call me when she was feeling vibes. She swore by them. Admittedly, I rarely felt more of a tickle, but there was something. Today it was obvious.

As I rode across Las Vegas, from East to West, it was almost palpable and quite unsettling. It started as a light ahead of me turned yellow. I didn't have enough power to accelerate and get through, so I braked. Unfortunately it was new asphalt and the small spot of oil was undetectable until I was right on it. Rear tire lost traction and we fishtailed to a less than perfect stop.

At the next stop light, an idiot cager on a cell phone decided to turn right in front of me. Brakes held and I swerved out of the way. Fantasies of a one-fingered salute swam in my mind.

Turning onto Sunset by McCarran Airport is where it really struck me. The anger nearly overwhelmed my senses. Wind and noise and heavy traffic and road and sun and this huge void of anger was an assault on my senses. Thoughts of fire and brimstone went through my mind, smelling the burnt rubber from landing aircraft

I ride down Sunset to my destination, nearly being run over twice. I even used my little horn a couple of times. Speeding cagers surrounded my little bike, all speeding more that ten MPH over the posted limit.

Coming back I choose a different route. It is no better. There is road construction and the typically three lane street narrowed down to one lane in spots. Cagers were jockying for position, one coming within a few feet of my rear tire. "Come on!!! Can't you see me?!?!? I'm wearing bright red and silver reflective mesh for gawd sakes!!!"

Typically arriving at home is a little melancholy. Not today. I was quite pleased to turn on the computer, put my helmet down, light a smoke, make some coffee, and do a little reading.

Angry riding days just aren't any fun.

Suds, Porn & Dirty Motorcycles

So, there I am, writing an article about washing motorcycles and I need an image or two. My camera is not behaving well, so I thought I would do a little surfing to find some place-holder pictures.

Oh My!

I went to Google Images and looked up 'Suds'. Nope. Out of four pages, nearly 50% of the pics were boob-shots. Not what I wanted.

OK, 'suds + motorcycles'. Better, but still about 25%. Nothing I am interested in.

Fine. So I try 'mud + motorcycles'. Still, 25% or so are bikini shots; many with fewer clothes than that. Sex in the mud? I will pass, thank you.

So the article just has blank spots where the pictures go until I get the camera fixed. But, this makes me wonder... Is porn that prevalent? If so, then I see where the US male population's spare time goes. I'm not blaming porn for the fact that the US is no longer the manufacturing powerhouse it used to be. But, maybe it is a symptom of a larger problem.

Theres nothing wrong with a dirty movie or two, but in excess, anything is bad. Porn, drinking, smoking, poor diet, speeding on a motorcycle, swallowing goldfish... When it becomes an obsession, that's where the problems come in.

Let's see, riding fast on my little Ninja, down I95 or watching Steel Magnolias... Well, that's a fairly easy choice, but do you speed down I95 rather than paying the bills or going to classes or work? Now that's a problem.

Moderation in all things, be it motorcycling, porn, drink, smoke, eats... you name it. That will help keep us all safe and balanced.

Systems & Zen - Part II

According to Wikipedia, Zen is "... notable for its emphasis on mindful acceptance of the present moment, spontaneous action, and letting go of self-conscious and judgmental thinking." This is the essence of the relationship between Zen and motorcycles.

"...mindful acceptance of the present moment, spontaneous action..." This is its core. Whether riding down a dirt trail or five lane asphalt super highway, safety and proficient motorcycling relies on that core.

"...the present moment..." means everything. It means the weather, the road, the smells, the other riders and drivers... the everything. That is the razor's edge. That is the moment that must be accepted as a whole, without subdivision, without judgment.

According to Robert Persig, in his seminal work, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, "A motorcycle functions entirely in accordance with the laws of reason..." Its individual pieces work together to express several concepts into one complex machine. The levers and pistons and cables and pads all working together as one.

To be a safe motorcycle rider, and understand the true beauty and joy of piloting a five hundred pound machine down the road, one must accept these things. There is no good. There is no bad. There is only the now; the razor's edge. There is no time for anything else.

There are no brakes, no pistons, no clutch, no tires. The bike and rider must act as one. Any judgment, classification or separation of any part of this assembly reduces the effectiveness of the system, the beauty of the system. Focusing on one riding skill may adversely affect the very thing being focused on. A rider who wishes to improve their braking skill should not concentrate on that one thing to the exclusion of all others. Good braking is not simply using the right foot and right hand with the proper pressure. It is so much more. It is throttle control and balance and clutching and shifting. It is everything.

The human brain is not good at multitasking. At any moment while riding, there are a huge number of events. This is the everything that must be processed in the brain. It is more than daunting; it is overwhelming. Processing each point of data with any reasonable facsimile of efficiency simply cannot be performed.

Processing brake and clutch pressure, throttle, wind, balance, lean, surface condition, the everything can only be effectively done as a whole, not as its parts. Riding down a twisting road is not throttle and brake and clutch and lean and shift. It is simply riding. Perhaps life should be treated more like this.

Systems & Zen

It was all I could do to maintain my stoic composure. I wanted to correct her so badly, but doing so is not simple nor without its dangers. Today my ex-wife saw my new copy of "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance".

"Ken, I am so proud of you! You are such a good rider and read all these books on safe riding and now you are reading about motorcycle maintenance so you can take care of your bike better and be more safe so that you can enjoy more and safer riding..." And, yes. It does go on. I am pleased anytime she can speak a single sentence within the span of sixty seconds.


Part of my mind wanted to tell her what it is really about. The more reasonable side of my consciousness won over. My mouth remained shut as her wandering monologue sidled into how some poor young Mormons happened to stop by and how she 'made their head spin.' Yes, I know that feeling all too well. I do feel for the young fellows. They were simply out doing what they felt they should, and they happened to run into her.


As for ZMM, initially I thought it was going to be an introspective travelogue. I missed its true nature completely until the narrator explains who "Phaedrus" was. That took me by surprise.

Alas, I was going to write a little about multitasking, and proficient riding and the beauty and functionality of viewing a motorcycle as a system rather than thousands of discrete parts. But, it is nearly 1:30 AM and the beer is kicking in. Tomorrow, the real Systems & Zen post. Promise.

Literature & Motorcycling

For one reason or another, literature and motorcycling seem to go hand-in-hand. Perhaps it is the introspective nature of the lifestyle. Maybe it's the rebellious nature of both motorcycling and adventurous literate works. Perhaps it is the mental mindset. Not that there is a lot of motorcycle literature, but what there is, is fairly high quality. Quality over quantity. Form and content over the medium. This should be the core of any true motorcyclist.

My new found avarice for reading has been rewarding in and of itself. Rereading Ayn Rand's "Anthem" and "the Fountainhead," new books like Neil Peart's "Ghost Rider" and Lois Pyle's "Lois on the Loose." Older classics like Saul Bellow's "Seize the Day," W. Somerset Maugham's "The Razor's Edge" and Gabriel Garcia Marquez's "100 Years of Solitude."

I just finished reading Lois Pyle's "Lois on the Loose." She certainly deserves a A+ for chutzpah. Riding from Alaska to Ushuaia, Argentina on a Yamaha XT225 Serow was nothing less than one hell of a ride. She suffered breakdowns, personal conflicts with a fellow riding partner and quite a few other issues. Unfortunately, as fantastic as that ride must have been, she excelled in presenting her irritations and tribulations rather than the adventure of the journey.

I do expect some introspection in my motorcycle literature, and her book did yield some, however shielded by her writing style. There is some direct introspection, and even some philosophical discussion at the end.

In all, I give this book a 3 out of 5 stars. It's not a book I would give away or sell, but not one I would want to re-read right away. It is an entertaining read, and at that level, I do recommend it to anyone wanting such. I am looking forward to reading her new book, "Red Tape and White Knuckles."

Ride safe, all!

God must hate me...

**No, that is not my sentiment, but one I hear a lot. Here is a little biker story for you. Hope you like it.

A biker out on the road is pushing his limits, trying to ride long and hard to his destination. His body jittery from too much coffee, cold and wet from a light evening thunderstorm, continues into unknown darkness. Engine sputtering, he switches to reserve, thinking, 'Damn, there should have been a town out here by now! God must hate me.'

Ten minutes later, he sees a camp fire, tents and a few bikes along the side of the road. He pulls over to ask directions. They are all warm and dry and laughing and drinking and generally having a great time. The guy manning the fire introduces himself.

"Hi buddy! I'm Mike. The woman over there in the red hat is Sharon, my wife. She rides the old CBR440. Kim and Nikki are her sisters, riding those matching DR-Z 400's and mine is the old BMW. Damn you look cold and wet! Why don't you stay for the night, have a drink and some burgers. I've got plenty. Oh," he winks, "Kim just got back from four years in the arctic and Nikki was divorced a few months a months ago," he laughs. "This might be an enjoyable rest stop for you."

"Oh no. I have a few hundred more miles to go. Thanks anyway. But, do you happen to have some spare gas? And, where the hell is Interstate 213?"

"There's some spare gas in my Jerry Can, but I213? No idea. I'm not from here. When we ride, we just ride. Only ask for directions to get back home when we are ready."

The biker gets the Jerry Can and empties it into his tank.

"Thanks a lot for the gas, Mike. Here's ten bucks, I really should be going."

"Keep your money, " Mike laughs. "You just be careful out there, OK. And check into a hotel or something. There's another storm coming, I think. Sure you don't want to ride it out here? Plenty of beer and burgers!"

"Nah, I need to go. Thanks a ton!" And the biker mounts his ride and sets off down the asphalt into the pitch black.

Five miles down the road, without warning, the asphalt becomes graded gravel. Lightning in the distance illuminates the large warning signs. "Caution! Road Construction Ahead!"

'God must hate me...'

Ten more miles down the road and it becomes little more than a pot-hole filled rough single lane gravel road. Lightning is flashing all around as the storm gust blows him from one side of the road to the other.

He passes over several old bridges, as the wind picks up. He comes around a sharp corner to see a large lighted sign, 'Local traffic ONLY!' but he goes on. 'God must hate me...'

Not five miles down the road and it becomes a mixture of mud and gravel. The road construction equipment safely tucked in a large machine shed not fifty yards away. He continues on. 'God must hate me...'

It starts hailing. He takes the next blind curve too fast, bike looses traction, slams against the guard rail and launches him to his death, down a two hundred foot chasm.

He awakes in a blinding light. Surrounded by beautiful green pasture and trails, he is sitting on a fully dressed, immaculate Triumph. He rubs his eyes. 'What in the hell is this place?' he wonders.

At that moment, a brilliant white Harley Hardtail chopper crests a nearby hill. It's rider effortlessly pilots his bike down the hill and stops right in front of the biker.

"No, son. This isn't quite Hell," the old man says, taking off his helmet. He is in all white leathers with a long white pony tail and flowing white beard. He shakes the biker's hand. "Son, I'm Saint Peter. Welcome to heaven!"

"But..." the biker stutters, "I'm dead? I had plans! Things to do! And, now I'm dead?!?!?! God really does hate me!"

St. Peter scowled, "Shush, man! The boss doesn't like that kind of talk! And, it's bullshit! Let's look at your last evening on earth, shall we?"

"Remember that diner where the cute waitress gave you that black coffee and her phone number? HA! That was espresso to keep your butt awake. And that first little thunderstorm? Same thing. Getting lost and running out of gas? Why didn't you just get off the road, pitch your tent and have a drink?" St. Peter shakes his head.

"Remember that road getting worse? We were working our butts off to get that done before you got there. Those signs, and the road, the weather, the bridges, the machine shed... we did it all to save your sorry ass. YOU just had to make the choice to stop."

Then St. Peter lowered his voice and winked. "We even offered you free beer, hamburgers and," he cleared his throat," the company of two beautiful, intelligent, single women. That was Michael's idea."

"But no, you had to go on..." he trails off to a sad whisper. "God doesn't hate you. Look at all those opportunities he offered. You were too blinded to see. That's the same with most down there."

Gentle tears running down St. Peter's face, he puts his helmet on and fires up his bike. "Let's go, son."

Accidents

Since I am holed up in the house for yet another sick day, I thought I would do some reading about motorcycles. (Like, I never, ever do that!!!! :-) )

I google motorcycles, and Buell Blasts, and the Yamaha TW-200 and the Triumph Bonneville. Somehow I accidentally searched on Google News and ended up with pages of motorcycle accident reports. Some morbid curiosity overtook me, and I started counting which accidents were the motorcyclists' fault.

1. Too much speed and loss of control. Rider was in the wrong lane and collided with a truck.
2. Small truck sideswipes a rider.
3. Rider looses control and collides with tree.
4. Rider looses control and collides with stop sign.
5. Rider without right of way T-Bones a truck (killing three people).
6. Rider fleeing police (he had a suspended license) looses control and slams into a traffic sign.
7. Rider was put into the hospital after hitting a stationary street sweeper. He was weaving around cars that were stopped in traffic behind an accident.
8. Man buys a brand new Harley, takes off into the dealer's parking lot, looses control, smacks into a parked vehicle and dies. No helmet.

So, from those eight incidents, only one was not blatantly the riders fault. Seven times in eight was the rider. Yes, riding is dangerous. The danger is within the riders, not the cagers. It is our responsibilities as riders to drive that danger out. If we do not, we will kill ourselves.

Another Day of Scrubbed Plans

Yes, another day of scrubbed plans. Not called off due to weather or bike problems or any ethereal voice telling me to stay home. It is all due to a lovely little virus. Earlier this week I started to feel some congestion in my sinuses and a little fever. Nothing to keep me from going to work, or forcing me to stay on the couch.

Tuesday night was the worst. Wednesday I even decided to drive, not completely trusting my balance. Thursday was much better. My sinuses were opening up and overall I was feeling much better.

Sitting down last night, I planned out a day-off-work ride up to Pahrump, then Ash Meadows, and back to the house. Throttle hand twitching, I went to bed last night fully expecting to be on the road by seven AM.

The 5:30 AM alarm went off this morning and all I could do was cough and hack and spit out green globs of sickness. I wobbled out to the kitchen, hoping I would regain my balance and ability to breath without coughing more than two or three times every five minutes.

No luck. After a Vitamin C chewable, three cups of green and mint tea, and a little breakfast, the plans are pushed off to this weekend.

Regardless of plans, there are always events that can alter them. Recognizing and accepting these altered plans is a fine ability, so long as alterations do not become the norm.

Riding History Redux

This is not a typical motorcycling blog entry, on the surface anyway. This entry starts with a retelling of two vivid dreams I still recall from childhood. The memory of these dreams has been carefully protected, deep inside. Why, I am not sure yet, but they are safe and it is time I record them on a more permanent medium.

Slowly waking up one lazy Summer Saturday morning for cartoons and an afternoon of fun in the country, a loud train whistle in the distance jolts me upright. I look out the window, to the top of the valley that surrounds our farmhouse and see an old steam engine chugging along with several passenger cars behind. I rub my eyes but the locomotive is still there. Only six years old or so, my brain even then could remember no train tracks in the area. Consciousness still fuzzy, I dart down stairs yelling, "Mom! Mom!"

She is in the yard hanging clothes on the clothesline. Running over to her, I look up the hill again to where only a few minutes ago there was a steam locomotive from the late 1800's. I remember being confused.

"Mom, are there train tracks on the hill?"

"Oh, no," she smiled. "Why don't you run on into the house and get some breakfast."

Even more confused, I walk slowly and quietly, looking at the top of he valley, straining my ears to hear the train whistle. After a hearty breakfast and an hour of cartoons, the imagery of the train was pushed into the back of my brain, and filed under the category of weird dream. Caught in an altered state, just between dream land and the real world, my adolescent consciousness did its best.

The second was pure dream with no intermingling or intertwining of consciousness beyond the understanding that it was a dream. I am sitting on an outside porch, a very young child of three or four, playing with a rather chubby baby. To the side was a very young version of my father washing his hands and face with cool fresh well water from a wash basin. Since I was in my early teens when this dream occurred, the time frame was fairly easy to determine. It was the early 1900's, maybe 1930's or so. The dream mostly took place at an old house that wasn't so old within the time frame of the dream. It was white and nicely kept.

The next frame was of me, a little older, dressed in mourning black, riding in a wagon next to a crying woman and another man, both dressed in black. In the back was a simple casket. I knew the destination but the road looked unusual. The sun was at an odd angle. I awoke simply thinking of this as a common dream.

Decades later I become interested in the history of the place I grew up. Maps and stories and family trees and histories were for the most part easily accessible in the internet.

My first entry into odd feelings of deja 'vous began in 2003 when I found online, a very late 1800's Illinois railroad map. The dream became vivid in my mind and goose bumps ran down my back. There, near the top of that valley where I grew up, ran the telltale hash marks of a railroad. Running from New Boston, near the farm, then up to Rock Island. No other maps showed this line, either before or after.

The originator of the map told me by e-mail that the it also showed lines that were planned for construction, as well as existing lines.

Then I looked at an old plat map. It was from the 1920's if memory serves. I notice something odd. The road I remember as a child, that ran from our farmhouse to the cemetery was not there. Instead there was an angular road at that time, now gone and covered by a corn field. The other dream jumped from my deep memories. THAT explained the odd angle of the sun.

Riding my motorcycle out into the desert and places less traveled, there are times when I swear I can hear people talking, children laughing. Dust clouds rise and rumbles in the distance for no apparent reason are the norm.

What is it that separates the now from the then? What separates the now from yesterday's other possible futures? Maybe they are all riding along together with only a thin film between.

If this is the case, and yesterday and tomorrow and today and yesterday's other tomorrows are all intertwined, and night time dreams and fantasies are merely peeks to other times and possibilities, there is but one type of person who will discover it.

That person will be a motorcyclist, riding down a desert trail or jungle road or snow covered tundra. That is the only type of person who could grasp the entirety, the concept, the Zen of everything and nothing in an instant.

Riding History

South of Henderson is an extension of Horizon Ridge. Or rather, the paved Horizon Ridge is an extension of a desert road that served miners and settlers alike in the mid to late 1800's. People in Arizona and New Mexico wanting to come take part in the Nevada Gold and Silver Rush would come west, cross the Colorado River near Laughlin or other points south, then follow the river north. Searchlight was an important stopover for miners and settlers alike. At the time, Boulder City did not exist, so the road was almost straight from Searchlight to the small settlement of Las Vegas.

The old desert road from Las Vegas to Searchlight. This was a good part.

To the east of Sloan Canyon this desert road undulates up and down, right and left, just a bit, around small mountain foothills. This is knows as Dutchman's Pass. Between Dutchman's Pass and Sloan Canyon is a mine, and supposed ghost town of Quo Vadis. Unfortunately my Honda Rebel is just not the right vehicle to get there. But, before I leave the area, I WILL get there.

I am not sure why there is this attraction. Quo Vadis was a very small, very short lived town, supposedly with a few saloons, a church and a few houses. I read somewhere that only a foundation for one of the saloons still exist.

Perhaps it is the feeling, the drive, and perhaps the need to explore; to do things that are not of the ordinary. This was not an ordinary ride... nearly 20 miles of desert riding on a Honda Rebel.

Now, if you will pardon me, I need to go figure out how I can afford to get a little Yamaha TW200. No way can I do a lot of desert riding on the Rebel.

Lone Rider

Looking at my pay-stub from last week, I decide to have the 'V-Word' talk with my boss. And I received three straight weeks of vacation later in the year. That is rare. Typically vacation is limited to one week at a time. I have three. Plans for my solo-ride across the country are coming together. Updates as they occur.

My Home

Why do I feel more at home on roads like this? My skin is not my own unless it is wrapped in leather or body armor. My head feels incomplete unless it is encased with a helmet. This is my home, always transient, always moving. Searching for a green field with trees and a garden and an old farmhouse; a place that may only exist in my mind; a place to plant and to grow and to enjoy. I shall continue to ride alone, two wheels to asphalt or gravel or dirt. I am alone but not lonely.

A friend lost, knowing not why nor for certain how. Accepting is all that can be done. Accepting that I lost a friend. Accepting that my home, a place of peace and growth and healing may not exist; may not come to be. Perhaps it is all for the better. There is no looking back, only wishing the best for those behind.

And I ride alone.

Ebb and Flow of The Universe

There is a certain ebb and flow to the universe. The tide comes in, the tide goes out and the end is the same as the beginning. To fret and worry too much about the interim is a waste. There are good times and bad, and when all is summarized, it is just time.

For the past several weekends over the course of a few months I have been spending considerable amounts of time attempting to repair my ex-wife's car. It wasn't in terribly good shape when we bought it. We were told that it needed new struts, new engine mounts and a little oil change, and that was it.

Well, I don't think the guy was completely straight up with us. One of the spark plug cables was busted. Two of the spark plugs were completely destroyed to the point where the little four cylinder engine was only running on two cylinders. The heater hoses were in such a state of disintegration that they were literally falling apart. Several weekends, a few skinned knuckles and probably too much money was spent repairing these, as well as some other problems.

The car was at the point where I felt safe riding in it. The motor seemed to be purring and not overheating or clanking. New tires let the car track straight and true down the highway and there was a certain satisfaction to driving this machine around.

Apparently she had had enough. This weekend, on the way home from picking up my daughter from the airport, the engine threw a rod. That car is now, for the most part, scrap.

Ebb and flow.

Saturday was quite the opposite adventure. I awoke about eight, fired up my bike and headed out of town. I rode out of Las Vegas to the West, past Red Rock Canyon. There is always a smile on my face when I can see Las Vegas in my rear-view mirrors.

Out on State Route 160, traffic was light and the ride beautiful. I was surprised at how willing my little Rebel was behaving. 75 miles per hour was no problem at all.

I arrive in Pahrump, NV for smokes and coffee. After a pleasant chat with an elderly gentleman about motorcycles and trucking, I continue North to Johnnie, Nevada. For the most part, Johnnie is a ghost town. There is a house trailer, and another building that could pass as a house, but that is the only thing there that could be classified as recent.

Old mining equipment and remnants of buildings still litter the desert there. Twenty minutes or so of riding the trails and I am back on the asphalt to Crystal, Nevada.


There isn't much there, in the little town of Crystal. Two legal brothels, a Museum of Brothel Art (that just happens to be closed for renovations), very small bar, a Piper airplane on a desert landing strip and a few houses. After a brief chat with the owner of the plane, and a more than brief lamenting that I had no camera, I left on the road I came in on. It is little more than asphalted desert rubble.

Purple and white and yellow desert wildflowers are blooming all throughout the area. Some sort of small cactus is blooming as well. Its blooms looking more like a tangle of red hair than a flower.

I stop again at Pahrump and have lunch at the Pahrump Cafe. Should anyone ride your bike through this quaint, quiet little town, I highly recommend it. Just stop at a gas station and ask for directions.

I try to delay my inevitable return to Las Vegas by riding a lonesome desert road out to California. There were more motorcycles on that road than cars or trucks. It was beautiful.

Returning, riding past Red Rock Canyon, I feel the pressures of Las Vegas begin their assault. I will miss the adventure of riding out into the desert and its inherent solitude, but I will not miss Las Vegas.

So, 250 miles later, I park my bike and crack open a beer.

It's all ebb and flow. Fighting against it will only tire you out and piss you off.

View Larger Map...This map is not accurate and shows the route where I rode into California incorrectly. Click the "View Larger Map" for a more accurate representation...

Conspicuity Enhancement - On a Bike Near You!

Do some motorcycles just catch your eyes? Do some look spooky or menacing or just down right scary? Well, they are supposed to. Researchers call it "conspicuity enhancement".

According to Honda scientists, slanted headlights on the front of a motorcycle designed to look like a face, giving it an 'angry' look, are "significantly" more visible to other drivers. Chrome and bright colors may do a lot to grab cagers' eyes, but these scientists are even using Functional MRI to confirm their statements and support their research.

Many other motorcycle manufacturers, such as Triumph, Suzuki, Kawasaki, Yamaha, Ducati and Buell are catching onto this as well. Many of their bikes have face-like qualities to them, usually menacing or angry instead of warm and fuzzy. This is because the human brain recognizes these sort of features in a face and relays it to the conscious very quickly. That way, drivers' brains force the motorcycles into perception rather than filtering them out.

Here is a nice article about this research: The canada.com website.

And the Winner Is!!!!!!!

Just a quick note in passing, the Motorcycle Bloggers International voting is over and the ballots have been counted! Some of the winners include:

• The Honda EVO 6
• BMW Website
• Triumph Street Triple 675
• Lois Pryce

And the list goes on! Jump over to the MBI Website to see all the winners... and a few losers.

Arthur C. Clarke, March 19, 2008, RIP

see more crazy cat pics
This is not a blog entry about motorcycles and riding, per-se. This is about the loss of a fantastic author and thinker. The world of science fiction literature and telecommunications technology lost a great mind today. Arthur C. Clarke died at the age of 90 at his home in Sri Lanka.

He was born in England and served the Royal Air Force during World War II as a RADAR Specialist. He was knighted in 2000 by the Queen of England, and in 1945 described the utilization of geostationary orbiting satellites as perfect platforms for stable, global communications. Hence, the Clarke Belt.

I attribute much of my early development as a person, science fiction reader and amateur writer to many of his books, including Rendezvous with Rama, 2001: A Space Odyssey, Childhood's End, Against the Fall of Night, and 2010: Odyssey Two. As a matter of fact, I have a copy of The Fountains of Paradise on my book case at work.

Please, take a moment and say a silent 'thank you' to Sir Arthur C. Clarke for what he has given us. May he rest in peace.

Special thanks to Daniel Meyer for finding the cat picture. I had no idea he had died until I read Daniel's blog, and the picture he found was perfect. You may read more about Mr Clarke on his Wikipedia page.