My friend shared his experience of taking his spare bike out for a ride and having the famous, ‘minor mechanical malfunction’, which left him on the side of the 405 freeway with no tools other than his expert command of the various Anglo-Saxon profanities. During his stay along the greenery at the side of the road, he shared his disappointment and disgust at the fact that several riders tooled on by, waving at them….but not ONE bothered to stop.

No one.

Now he spent several paragraphs on our Chapter chat line talking about how the more experience riders always give homage to the ‘Wave’ and how every rider worth his salt is bound by honor to stop and see about helping a stranded fellow. Yup. That’s the way it used to be, he said, and that’s the way it’s SUPPOSED to be…..it just AIN’T anymore. He railed on about how bummed hi was that no one seemed to give a rat’s ___ about his, sitting there counting his spokes.

It’s all these new riders, he claimed. These nouveau-chic, weekend-riding, new-leather-clad, no-tool-carrying, non-mechanical, un-brotherly chumps who don’t understand that the great wheel of biker karma keep on turnin’ and someday THEY will be stuck on the side of the road…..with no tools….and no cell phone….in the rain.

THEN they’ll know how he felt.

Several members of the chat group went on to sympathize with his plight or to say that THEY, personally, would ALWAYS stop for a biker, even if they didn’t have tools or know how to fix his problem; or to commiserate with his accusations of a lack of comradeship among bikers; or to say that it surely must have been an isolated experience, since they, themselves had always found help when THEY needed it.

All of their input may have been true, in their own experience. I’m sure that they would have stopped, if they had just happened along that road, at the time he had been broken down. But, let’s just set “If I coulda-woulda-shoulda aside for a minute.

Here is the real question that we should be asking ourselves: How often do we talk about the traditions of riding that the more experienced folks take for granted? How often do we do the educating and handing down of the things that will ensure that newer riders KNOW about them?

It’s easy to sit and b**ch and complain about the lack of brotherhood among one group or another….but what are YOU doing about it?

With so many factory choppers and bobbers now being tossed out the door by dealers all over the country, you see fewer bikers out there that even HAVE the space to carry tools. And, I’m almost ashamed to say it, many, MANY of the new riders have the money to buy the bike of their dreams….but not the slightest clue how to take care of it or fix it on the road. It’s easier to just take the thing into the dealer and get the service done.

Maybe so….but stuff happens. And, contrary to popular belief, not everyone carries a cell phone. So, if you ride along and spy a rider sitting at the side of the road, don’t make the assumption that he or she has already called for AAA and a hot latte…..Stop and ASK!!. If they wave you on: fine. You did what you are supposed to do. But, if they look up with the expression of a drowning man seeing a lifeline, you’ll be glad you stopped. Even if it was only to lend them a couple of minutes on YOUR cell phone to call for help.

My point is, TALK about it, especially with new riders. Ask what emergency gear they carry and urge your dealers to point this out during a sale. I think it is a huge disservice to a new customer for a salesperson not to mention the need for a good, basic tool kit. It’s an extra sale item, of course, but it also gives them a chance to educate new riders about traditions.

A good riding jacket has pockets for all kinds of stuff, including a cell phone. But a good riding ATTITUDE has the ability to change lives by the simple act of being able to help another rider. To paraphrase an old movie line: “If we talk about it, they will learn!”

So keep the traditions alive…

…and Ride Safe out there!

It’s also the time when car and other multi-wheeled conveyance operators struggle to remember the fact that there are people out there riding something that weighs less and is harder to see than they are.

That would be US.  Just a bunch of bikers.  Brothers (and sisters) of the road, but, all to often, ones who don’t get noticed until we become a speed bump.  My friend Jena sent me this little soliloquy and I read it twice and knew she meant it to be shared.  So, in that spirit, I dedicate this little observation lesson to those who drive things with four or more wheels.

Hey!  We’re out here, too!

I saw you hug your purse closer to you in the grocery store line.  You didn’t see me put an extra $10.00 in the collection plate last Sunday.

I saw you pull your child closer when we passed each other on the sidewalk.  You didn’t see me playing Santa at the local mall.

I saw you change your mind about going into the restaurant.  You didn’t see me attending a meeting to raise more money for the hurricane relief.

I saw you roll up your window and shake your head when I rode by.  You didn’t see me, riding behind you when you flicked your cigarette butt out the car window.

I saw you frown at me when I smiled at your children.  You didn’t see me, when I took time off from work to run toys to the homeless.

I saw you stare at my long hair.  You didn’t see me and my friends cut ten inches off for Locks of Love.

I saw you roll your eyes at our leather coats and gloves.  You didn’t see me and my brothers donate our old coats and gloves to those that had none.

I saw you look in fright at my tattoos.  You didn’t see me cry as my children were born and got their name tattooed on my skin and in my heart forever.

I saw you change lanes while rushing off to go somewhere.  You didn’t see me going home to be with my family.

I saw you complain about how loud and noisy our bikes can be.  You didn’t see me, when you were changing the CD and drifted into my lane.

I saw you yelling at your kids in the car.  You didn’t see me pat my child’s hands knowing he was safe behind me.

I saw you reading the newspaper or map as you drove down the road.  You didn’t see me squeeze my wife’s leg when she told me to take the next turn.

I saw you race down the road in the rain.  You didn’t see me, get soaked to the skin so my son could have the car to go on his date.

I saw you run the yellow light just to save a few minutes of time.  You didn’t see me, trying to turn right.

I saw you cut me off because you needed to be in the lane I was in.  You didn’t see me, leave the road.

******

I saw you waiting impatiently for the line of my friends to pass.  You didn’t see me.    I wasn’t there.

I saw you go home to your family.  You didn’t see me, because, I died that day you cut me off.

I was just a biker and a person with friends and family, but you didn’t see me.

******

This riding season, let’s all take time to keep our eyes open and our ears peeled.  There is always someone who is “other-directed” while sharing our road.  Don’t let yourself become a statistic.  Life is too short….and too precious…not to pay attention.

Ride Safe……but Ride!

 

There is something about bikers that demands that traditions be observed. I don’t mean the “national holiday” or “it’s your birthday” kind; I mean the ones we make for ourselves.

A good riding experience is often repeated, even named and retold in stories. Same with bad experiences. They get rehashed, shared, and in the case of the unfortunate accident or laydown, they may even become legendary. (at least in the mind of the participant!)

All you have to do is mention that you had a close call and most bikers within the same zip code will be happy to share THEIR close calls with you. We love to tell these stories, I think, for several reasons. First, misery loves company! If I gotta feel bad, EVERYONE’s gonna share! Second, there is wisdom in experience. When I tell you about the blind corner down that road, maybe it will keep you from developing the case of road rash I have just recovered from! Third, if I tell you about something marvelous, it makes a connection. When I show you that stretch of perfect turns to carve, it becomes a bond we share.

It’s that third reason that causes me to write about the New Year’s Ride.

Lots of us have traditions we observe in the riding world and one of mine started when I was at the tender age of 17. A mere high school lad, skinny and with lots of attitude, but not much money, I had saved up my meager bucks for two years to buy my second two-wheeled vehicle. The first one was a 150cc scooter, which still sits in my garage today, but that’s another story. I had always, always lusted after a BIG bike. Now, the Seattle cops had an auction each year to get rid of their old Hogs and I was determined to go and make a bid on one. My Dad (God bless him) agreed to match my funds, if I got good grades, so I trotted down to the auction with a total of $550. Big dough in those days.

I came home with a 1963 Panhead and a title that said, “mine”. I was about three feet off the ground! I immediately called my four biking buddies and off we went. It was late in the Fall and the weather was not great, but we didn’t care. As time passed, the winter turned rotten, but the Pan was my transportation, so I rode it back and forth to school.

Winter break came, and the bike sat in the garage until after Christmas. The day before New Years, I got a call from my friend Roger who said it was sure rotten that we couldn’t ride (He had a Triumph Bonney). Fueled by youthful bravado, we decided that, rain or shine, come hell or high water, we would ride on New year’s Day!

The next day dawned crisp and cold, but miraculously clear. We had agreed to meet at a neutral spot so neither of us could back out. I showed up and he was there, bundled up and grinning. Any biker knows the feeling of seeing a partner at the rendezvous, ready to ride! You get a rush, knowing that the wheels will turn and the miles will fly by.

We rode.

I don’t remember the route, just that we rode. It was damn cold, I remember, and we didn’t ride for very long. But we rode. And that was the start of a tradition for me.

Every year, on New Year’s Day, I ride. Over the many years since that first ride, there have been a few when I didn’t have a bike. But every New Year’s Day that a two-wheeler sits in the garage, I go out and put on some miles. Sometimes alone, sometimes with a group, but always on that day. It’s kind of a validation that I do for myself, but I think of those who have ridden with me sometimes. Many of those rides include my old friend Roger. But we drifted apart for awhile, so I rode with new friends and partners.

A ride on the first of the year means something in the Northwest. In this part of the country, the weather doesn’t always cooperate. In California or Nevada or Texas, you can do a January ride in a t-shirt or light vest. Not here. I have had all kinds of bikes, and you haven’t lived until you’ve ridden a chopper with a 16” over front end in the freezing Seattle rain! I see you nodding your heads.

I’ve talked with hundreds…maybe thousands of bikers. Lots of us have a tradition of an annual ride or event or gathering that we make a part of our lives. Mine is no different. The ride is, of course, open to anyone. The only requirement is having a bike and showing up! There is no check point, no poker hand to play, no donation, no ride pin. It’s a pure experience. Riding for the sheer joy of watching the white lines go by under the pegs and feeling the buzz of the engine in the grips. That, and the look in the eyes of my riding partners when the ride is done. You know that look. If you go to the dictionary and look up the word ‘brotherhood’, that look is the picture you will find.

So……you up for a ride?

And, let’s face it; there is no shortage of amusing things that happen to you, and around you, when riding down the road. I say ‘amusing’ because saying’ life-threatening’ or ‘idiotic’ may be a little too specific.

Being a barely competent internet type, I take part in several bike and hobby based message boards. On one of them recently, I used the term ‘squid’ to describe a sport bike rider who I observed doing something fairly stupid on the freeway. I was taken to task by one of the readers, who thought I was casting aspersions on all sport bike riders by using that term.

Casting aspersions?; Moi?: Nothing could be further from the truth.

I have heard all sorts of definitions of the acronym ‘SQUID’, but the one I was referring to in my message was “So Quickly Dead”. It had nothing to do with the type of bike the guy was riding, and EVERYTHING to do with the WAY he was riding….in other words, dangerously. I was also poking some fun at the situation.

So, I wrote back to the reader and said, “Oh shucks, you found me out! You have discovered that I have…..a sense of humor!!!! GASP!!”

I know a couple guys who ride sport bikes, and of course, I have had many
other bikes in my (long) riding life, including cruisers, dirt bikes, sport bikes and baggers. Lord knows that motorcycle riders in general need to have a solid sense of humor just to go out on ANY road where the majority of other vehicles outweigh them by a factor of four, and can’t see them either! I don’t consider the term ’squid’ a sport biker put down, any more than I take offense to the jokes about Harleys leaving oil tracks wherever they park, or being based on
technology from 1936, or having all the stock horsepower of any robust
500cc two-stroke.

I ride with three long time friends who have, respectively, a Honda, a Moto-Guzzi and a Vulcan. They always give me the jab when I show up: “Ok, we’ll keep it down to a speed you can manage!” My usual,
lightning-like come-back is, “No problem. I’ll try to keep too many people from ogling at MY bike when we park. I know how it delays your escape.” I love it!

Regular readers of this column will recall that I have talked about my own experiences with doing stupid stuff on two wheels. I am not immune to making bad judgment calls, but I try to learn from them and not repeat a pattern. Especially when that pattern is one that will cause me to lose large portions of epidermis. I kind of like my skin: it keeps my organs in their proper place, so I don’t want to sand too much of it off.

If ya ride a bike….ya gotta have a sense of humor. One day, I will
ride my restored 150cc Lambretta scooter to the Harley Owners Group meeting, in full leathers, just for a joke! I look forward to hearing the cheap shots
of the entire Chapter at that time, and I wouldn’t miss them for the world.

So, just in case anyone took offense to my use of the term ’squid’,…..SORRY!
But, hey I never claimed to be perfect.

Just terminally cool!

Ride Safe.

And drips, and drips, and splashes, and oozes. Then, just for fun it drips some more.

Consequently, winter riding drips. I know….I hear you saying it: That’s what rain gear is for, Kick! Yeah, well, I got rain gear. Winter still drips, dammit.

I sit here, in the house, watching the steady drizzle of our glorious Pacific Northwest, thinking, “Hey, that’s what makes this part of the country so green and beautiful all year ‘round!”

That type of thinking is called ‘putting a good face on tragedy’. I’d rather be riding and that’s all there is to it.

Oh, I DO go out in the rain. All the time. I strap on the gear and ride with a smile on my face, but it isn’t as much fun as in the sunshine, and anyone who says so is selling rain gear.

Drip, drip, drip.

I contemplate the various, small rotten-weather tasks I could do in the garage. Routine maintenance and those little fix-it projects that, somehow, don’t seem to get done in the summer. Yeah! I could go out there and stick in the new battery and troubleshoot that intermittent flickering tail light. Probably should slap some blue lock-tite on the mirror that is a little loose.

Drip, drip, drip

You know how the Eskimos have over 200 words for ‘snow’? Well, here in the Pacific Northwest, we have over 200 words for ‘rain’. Rain, sleet, drizzle, mist, heavy mist, damp, groundwater, puddling, piddling, frog strangler, downpour, sheeting rain, driving rain, freezing rain, hail, rain and snow mixed, wet frost, dew, condensation, morning showers, afternoon showers, frigging never-ending showers!

I must really be bored. I should be out riding. Yeah, that’s it! I’ll go for a ride! All I have to do is get out the riding jacket, boots, Thinsulate shirt and gloves, rain pants, rain jacket, helmet, keys (oops, gotta take off the gloves and put the keys in the OUTSIDE pocket).

By the time I get all geared up, the rain will probably stop. Then I have to take all this junk off again!

Drip, drip, drip.

Now where did I put that parts catalogue? I should get that list of pieces figured out so I can get the parts ordered. That would be a GREAT rotten-weather project, too! No time like the winter to do some upgrades and spruce-up stuff. It might even be a good time to add those shelves and cabinets in the garage!

Maybe I should get another cup of coffee, so I’m energized and all ready to go. No point in doing a project unless you have enough caffeine! While it’s brewing, maybe I’ll just check the game on TV.

Yeah, I could just watch for a while and have my coffee. Then I’ll be good and ready for those projects.

Drip, drip, drip.

Geez, the day is almost shot now. And that garage gets dang cold in the evening. I should take a trip to the McHome Hardware Mega Depot Store and get a good, strong space heater. Then I could work out there whenever I wanted to. I oughta grab six-pack for the garage fridge while I’m out, too. Ya never know, a buddy might stop by and it wouldn’t be cool to have nothing to offer.

Oh man, the game is just getting good. Maybe I’ll watch the rest of it and get a good start on all this stuff in the morning. Yeah….that’s it.

Ride safe out there. I’ll be right with ya.

“Factory choppers” is another term for that type of bike, and it has come to mean those bikes that are built to look as if they are one-off customs. The whole idea of a ‘chopper’ started out as a form of lightening and hot-rodding up the bikes of the fifties, sixties and early seventies, so they made a personal statement, as well as went fast.

It was a counterculture sort of movement, back in the day, and those of us who took part knew that we weren’t about to see anything else like our bike being ridden by any other dude out there. That spirit of individuality and rebellious style gave birth to the whole ‘chopper’ craze and it’s still going strong.

Now, you can buy that kind of ‘originality’ and attitude, if you just have the green. The catch is, so can everyone else.

Don’t get me wrong: I love the way the cruiser and chopper market segment is growing and impacting the culture of two wheels. Call them factory choppers, manufactured customs, cruisers, or whatever, bikes like these are the single largest growing segment of the motorcycle business, and have been for several years. EVERYBODY wants to look low slung and cool, and be seen as ‘bad to the bone’.

I have no problem with this, mind you, but it has some odd repercussions.

Bike shows have had to revamp their class structures to differentiate between the bikes built by the dozen in a factory, and those built to spec in some guy’s shop.

Back in the day, if you rode a chopper, you dang well built the thing yourself, or with limited help. Today, with shops like American Iron Horse, Confederate, OCC, Big Dog and Thunder Mountain, about the only requirement to having a chopper is to flop down the credit card or cash. You don’t even have to know what the basic geometry means or how come the thing may pull to the side with that 280 rear tire.

I’ve talked with guys who bought their rides for the paint job or the pipes and really didn’t know that the look of their scoot was designed around a set of racing qualifications like the Pro-Street class bikes.

And, maybe they don’t have to know that.

The rambunctious dudes who kick-started the chopper movement were all about personal statements, but they also had to know some basic engineering and handling facts. And, most of us couldn’t afford to have some specialty shop (even if there WERE any) build their bikes. We did it ourselves cause we were CHEAP, and cause it was fun! Riding one of those pretty much guaranteed that a crowd would gather whenever you parked it. There were very few of the ‘bolt-on custom parts’ you see now.

Now, that same sort of bike costs between $30K and $100K and it still amazes me how many people can lay down that kind of money for what is essentially a toy.

Oh, I know that those bikes are ridden, but not many of them are daily riders. The majority of the factory chopper owners have other primary transportation. They probably even have another bike, or two. These things are hobbies.

So, back to the stolen bike story. The lowlives who swiped that bike weren’t riders interested in the sport. They were jerks who were looking to literally chop the thing into its component pieces and sell them off as quickly as possible. That kind of thing happens all too often, and there are a lot more of those expensive semi-customs out there for them to steal.

Can you say ‘security system’?

Yet, I wouldn’t trade the ‘cookie-cutter chopper’ craze of today for those jackleg, build it yourself times. The truth is, the sport is healthier than ever and the number of riders is growing every year. The idea that people ‘outgrow’ motorcycling is laughable, and if the trade off is a lot more of the expensive bikes out there to be targets for thieves, then it just means that we all have to do what we can to help the sport stay strong.

There will likely be a big insurance claim involving that stolen bike, and that’s too bad.

But the fact is that there is a huge segment of the population who can justify spending $25K to $50K on a hobby that enriches our sport. The popularity of factory custom bikes, on TV and in the news, makes us, and our bikes, just that much more visible and ‘fore-brained’ for those who drive four wheeled vehicles. And anything that makes us more visible is a good thing, as far as I’m concerned. And, who doesn’t like to have a crowd admiring your ride, when you park?

Watch your bike….and ride safe!

Gotta look good, ya know.

With one thing and another, the time had run out on me, as also usually happens this time of year, so it was the night before the run. So I decided to just pack up and ride.

Morning dawned and I rode to pick up my backseat partner and the two of us cruised on over to the local dealership, where a pre-Run breakfast was underway. This was perfect for two reasons.

First, there is always something cool happening there before big events. Second, the shop would be closing down right after the breakfast ended at 9AM, so the staff could all go to the Run.

Nice!

Sausage, eggs, hash browns, coffee, OJ, bread……I mean, this is the food of the gods! So, suitable stoked and having met up with a goodly crew of riders, we headed out for a short hop down to the Mukilteo ferry and a nice ride up Whidbey Island to Anacortes.

In the hallowed halls of the weather gods, there were smiles all around as the guy in charge of sunshine and blue skies worked overtime to make the day nearly perfect. Twenty or so bikes in our group and all levels of riders made the ride a nice relaxing putt. We stopped along the way to relax at the Deception Pass bridge and then sauntered on to Anacortes.

For those who have been to Oyster Run, you know that it is one of the biggest all-bike rallies in the state, and this year was no exception. Unofficial count had the attendance at 20,000, give or take a bike. We met up with countless groups of folks I only see each year at the Run, and many more who were there for the first time, as well as those who came from quite a distance.

During the day, we strolled along the main street and ate oysters, drank cold brews and generally enjoyed the company of rowdy, disgusting, leather-clad biker trash. Oh, wait…..that’s me!

About the only disappointment was that the unusually warm summer has resulted in the condition known as red tide. That meant no raw oysters, unless you are interested in colonic distress.

So, instead of oyster shooters, there were lots of baked, steamed and grilled bivalves to be had, and these were simply huge! I am proud to say that I downed my share.

Also missing this year was at least one of the beer gardens, although there was another one at the extreme north end of the street. Naturally, it required a visit, just to verify that all was well.

It was!

As the day wore on, there were plenty of vendors’ booths to check out and old acquaintances to renew. One of our group had never been to Sturgis and asked if this gathering was anything like the big rally is reputed to be.

What would YOU answer? Well, that’s what I said, too.

As the sun began to get long in the west, we decided to take the most winding and scenic ride back to town that we could find. Our goal was never to come within sight of any kind of actual freeway or even a decent sized highway. Twisting through the reservations and back roads, we made it and even got to ride in the shade part of the way.

Now, I don’t know if this was the perfect ride. Heck, EVERY ride is perfect. But, as days in the saddle go, this one was right up there. I’m already thinking about next year.

Guess that gives me plenty of time to clean up the bike!

Ride safe!

In the four or five seconds it took to leave the paved surface of the road and hit the gravel, a whole range of questions and scenarios rolled through my mind.

There was, of course, the instant of denial and the inevitable, “Oh S@%T” factor: “I can’t believe I just let it get out from under me like that. Man, this is gonna hurt.” This went through my mind fairly quickly, because the edge of the road surface was rapidly approaching me and I had to think over other things.

The surroundings of this little tableau were actually quite nice. Sunny day, dry road surface, nice greenery on either side. No shoulder to speak of. The road had been making a gentle left hand bend, which, in the wonderful words of the professionals at the scene, I had “failed to negotiate.”

Yup. Failed miserably, I’d say, if leaving the road entirely constitutes a failure.

I had, by this time noticed that the road, which was slightly banked in the run, had a shoulder which dropped off by about a foot and then gracefully became a gravel pit for about fifteen feet. The farther off the road you got; the larger the gavel became, until it resembled the cornerstones of buildings.

It was colorfully strewn with various items to catch the eye, such as pieces of tire, plastic containers and un-named body parts. I may have noticed a ’48 Pontiac, as I went sliding by.

See, I had been doing about eighty and really bending the bike around this turn. I was cool: a rider of at least fifteen years experience (therefore totally bulletproof, of course), and I just KNEW that I could do those things I had seen in the videos. Unfortunately, the bike apparently did NOT know that, and, as I lost control, I realized that a new, educational experience was about to happen.

This one would be titled, “How much Demerol would you like, Kick?”

As I slide along, I also thought about the upcoming ‘dismount’. Those who have done this know that it doesn’t work like those cool dirt-bike broad slides and a stand up finish. You generally fall over. Hard.

So, as I’m heading for the gravel, still doing about sixty-five, I remember tapping the brake pedal, in a vain hope that I might keep the bike more or less upright when I left the road. I also remember consciously trying to ease the front brake on, rather than clutch the lever demonically, so as to leave myself some small shred of control. (Professional racers and safety instructors: just go right by this part.) I didn’t say it was a GOOD plan. It’s just what ran through my mind at the time.

So….I hit the gravel.

NOW we’re having some fun! Woo hooo! Absolutely NO steering to speak of, and it feels like I am riding through giant pillows filled with Motor Honey. I can actually feel the muscles in my shoulders and forearms running out of juice. Must be a little tense up there. Can’t worry about that, now, because my left foot isn’t responding too fast.

Oh, that’s why: broke it. No problem, I got another one. Besides, the boots will hold it together while I attempt to stop and remain alive.

Nice scenery, I notice, as the rocks in the gravel become lawnmower-sized. Those trees don’t look close enough to hit at any real speed.

By now, I have scrubbed off enough speed that I am down to about forty and the brakes are actually responding. Unfortunately, they do not appear to be strong enough to let me avoid the steel chain link fence ahead, which, I note, is painted a happy yellow color. I remember thinking that the yellow gouges will probably not go well with the color of my tank.

In what must have been a good joke for the gods of bike crashes, I actually hit the fence and it sort of catches me. One of the fence posts breaks and the whole affair sort of stretches out like a tennis net and rebounds, dumping me on the ground in heap of bike, gravel, dirt, tree branches and body parts, mostly mine.

So, the final scene looks like this:

Bike – Left side scrapes and gouges, gravel stuck in various unlikely spots, right foot peg bent nearly vertical (that’s when my foot broke), handle bars scraped and grips ground off. Right side nicely scraped with chain link fence-shaped scrapes (complete with happy yellow paint), and much chrome gashed up. Oh yeah…no mirrors left.

Me – Broken left foot, strained right shoulder, bruises and a helmet full of sweat.

Result – Extremely lucky, and now possessed of a great volume of new knowledge. It could have been far worse.

All this took place many years ago, on a bike I no longer own. I have become a better rider in many ways since then, but I have also gotten older and my reactions are probably slower. The lessons learned from that crash are part of my riding ‘mind-set’ now, and I have added things along the way that make me a smarter and safer rider. I am past the point of having to prove anything to anyone, and, for me, ‘winning’ is having a great ride and coming home to enjoy the thought of taking another ride tomorrow!

Today, as I tossed my leg over for a ride, I had that quick blip of memory of taking it down, as I frequently do just before a ride. I think of it as a mental wake up call and a quick smack upside the head that says, “HEY! Yer not perfect, and stuff happens! Keep yer eyes open and yer mind sharp.”

Have fun, but ride safe.

Oh, I know….it’s too easy to go for a ride and find all kinds of great places to carve turns and roll on the throttle through a canyon or two, or even enjoy the scenery of a ride along the shore of one of the hundreds of lakes or shorelines.

But the REALLY important stuff is about where you’re gonna stop to eat! [If you are looking for some great road food, check out NorthwestCycleNews.com sister site, BikerCuisine.com - Ed.]

I have friends who live to get out there and just rack up the miles. These iron-butted individuals thin nothing of rolling on four or five hundred miles a day, all weekend. The only thing they stop for is gas and bladder relief.

In fact, these guys don’t stop for the weakest bladder in the group; it’s the STRONGEST bladder that determines the stopping places. Talk about iron!

Now, I respect those guys, but I generally prefer a bit more relaxed and meandering style of ride. My all time favorite rides have been those that didn’t really have much of a destination in the first place, and included U-turns, unscheduled stops, dead ends and of course, unexpected little burger joints, cafes, eateries and bakeries!

I’m less concerned about gas stops than I am about cinnamon roll stops!

Everyone has a preference for road food, but over the years, I have ended up stopping at Mexican places more than any other single type of spot. Maybe it’s the simple fare….maybe it’s the cold brew with a lime (just one is my limit until the ride is done), or maybe it’s the fact that I can down a few jalapenos or torridos and the radiator effect keeps my cool for the next five or six miles!

Whatever it is, I always feel a slight tug on the bars when I see a sign with a sombrero on it up ahead.

This is not to say I ONLY stop at Mexican places. A bakery is REAL hard to ride past. In fact, I have been known to ride miles out of the way just to stop at a good bakery. I have discovered an interesting dietetic fact that you may want to share.

Any calories consumed by eating baked goods during a ride, are automatically used up by the second half of the ride! Therefore….they don’t count!

(Is anyone actually buying this line?……….Didn’t think so!)

There are also some ‘caveats’ about eating during certain rides, that I feel I should pass on to those who are less experienced. I think of it as a public service.

Soup is not a good choice if you plan to do any serious off road riding right afterwards. It tends to slosh around and occasionally escape!

Chili is a solid base for a cold weather ride, but try to arrange to be towards the rear of the group for the next half hour or so. Rider courtesy!

A frosty brew or two are great…but only at the end of the ride. (See other stories in this mag relating to ‘squids’, ‘stupid rider tricks’ and getting huge tickets.) If you drink during a ride, there is only one place I want you to be…..WAY behind me.

Spicy jerky is great to ride with. You can put some in your jacket pocket and then take a piece out and snack while you ride. Remember not to wipe your eye with the same hand or glove you used to handle the jerky, or you’ll be pulling over pretty quick to pour water in your eyes.

Chocolate does not work in the summer. If you don’t eat it right away, it liquefies in your pocket or saddlebag and then gets all over everything. It is especially irritating to try to clean off your grips. Or your mirror. Or your face shield. Or your….never mind.

Having a passenger is good for getting snacks handed to you on the road. Sometimes you even get a little extra protein, if a bug hits the food on the way to you.

Finally, this tip from a rider buddy…..No matter how many cup holders your bagger has, it’s not a good idea to drink things in cans while on the road. Aside from the relative stupidity of tipping your head back to drink (and thereby taking your eyes off the road), there is the feeling of lunk-headedness that occurs when you try to take a sip and the wind blows the liquid out of the can and onto your face or beard or down into your riding jacket.

Not a great fashion statement.

Now stop reading this and go out and ride!

But Ride Safe!

Geez, I love riding in the summer. Communing with nature and the song of the road. You can ride along at whatever speed floats your boat, and just become one with the wind and the gentle …

Splat.

OK. Now that was just a fluke. How could a bug come out of nowhere and ride the wind currents directly into my nostril? Ah well, at least it was just a little bug. You can snoff a no-see-um right out with a quick snort and be on your way.

Riding along Highway 20 towards the eastern side of the state is a beautiful trip. The trees are majestic and the road has lots of nifty turns you can carve. As I power out of the last S-turn, it seems like the asphalt belong just to me…

Splattt!

Oh, man! That was a big one. Fortunately, it missed my nose this time. Instead, it chose to die while embedding itself firmly between helmet and cheek. I can sort of feel it squirming its last little throes in there as it gets mashed into my sideburn. Ahh…I’ll just reach up and swipe it outta there with my glove.

Ooops. Wiped it down over my cheek instead of swiping.

Well, it’s only natural to have a couple of bugs hit you along the ride. No biggie for an experienced rider like me. Heck, I can probably dodge ‘em, if I can just see ‘em coming.

So, the road goes on. This highway is really beautiful. It goes through the forest and past Marblemount, then out along Diablo Dam. The viewpoint there is truly spectacular and worth a stop for a picture or two. Plus it will give me a chance to wipe that bug off my face.

After a nice little rest, it’s back on the road towards Winthrop. The destination there is Sherrie’s Sweet Shop for a funnel cone, and Three-Fingered Jack’s Saloon for a meal and maybe a cool brew. I can almost taste it now and…

…Holy moly! It’s a…SPLATT!

Ok, not funny. That was no bug. It was about the size of a softball with the wings of a dragonfly, and it hit me square in the right shin. Felt like a rock! Man, that guy really ate his wheaties. But he’s deader than a doornail now, so I’ll just ignore the big green and yellow gob of bug guts on my chaps.

Heck a little bug juice is practically required, for a big bad biker!

The road over Washington Pass tops out at over 5400 feet. Thanks to EFI I don’t have any altitude problems and the bike is running great. I sail down the highway, heading for the valley that will lead me into Winthrop and …

Splort!

Yeeesh. THAT was gross. Apparently, the government has been doing genetic research on bugs, to produce one that has more gooey guts than a can of pea soup. They must have released this guy as one of their earlier, failed efforts. Full in the chest, he got me. The thing was roughly the size of an Apache gunship, with about the same mass. I think I’ll need to use the hose, when I get to Three-Fingered Jack’s.

You know, a windshield might be a good investment. Maybe I’ll look into that when I get back.

I can see the signs of Winthrop in sight. Coming around the corner past the Barn, where I’ve had some good times in the past, I know that there is about two blocks to go. I slow into town and downshift for the stop sign. Made it!

Schlopp!

Oh why not? What’s one more six legged, green-gutted, kamikaze bug at this point in the ride? So it mashed itself to a pulp on my forehead? So what? I’ll just go into the restroom on the corner and clean up before I go into the bar. No point in scaring the kiddies.

When I get in there, I look in the mirror and only then do I realize the full extent of the damage. Aside from the big ones, there are literally dozens of smaller cruisers, shuttles and a couple of troop carries that have plastered themselves onto my gear. I look like the outside screen of a bug-zapper.

The horror….the horror.

Ride safe.