Yamaha on ice

I almost came down this morning. I did my usual survey on the way to my bike, looking for frost and ice, but everything looked nice and wet and grippy. It was cold though, so I pulled a careful little turn out of the driveway. No problems: the road surface seemed fine. I made it a block down the street before I realized that not was all as it seemed. I was going around 30mph in a straight line, with no load on, and suddenly the bike got really snaky. I corrected a couple of times with balance and steering, but there was nothing, no grip anywhere. The front end began fishtailing – shit, maybe I’ve overcompensated. For a second I thought for sure we were going down. I checked my mirrors, looking for bonus danger as I got ready to go tobogganing. My heart beat faster, but I kept my cool and remained loose. Somehow we remained upright.

Stupidly I kept going (slower now), hoping the main roads were in better shape. I needed to get to work. Indeed the main roads seemed fine at first, but I started noticing that the pavement on the edges of the normal driving line looked a little darker and not as wet. It wasn’t shiny or white like normal ice – this was the mythical black ice looking at me, not offering even a glint of a wink of reflection. Right! We’ll just stay on the main driving line! No problem. Two wheels is always do-able.

I love living in a climate where year-round riding is possible. It’s a good reason to get up and go to work. I don’t mind the cold (if my electrics are working right) and I enjoy the challenge, the buzz, the control. Driving on two wheels is now such an ingrained part of my day that I feel lost when I’m forced to take the car. But sometimes it gets tricky.

I stopped for gas. On the way back out I put my feet down as I waited for a gap in the traffic. The pavement under my feet was slick as snot. The slightest readjustment of weight and I would have dropped the bike right there. I was glad I wasn’t on the Dragon.

My concern was growing, but my stubbornness couldn’t be quelled. A little ice? Pah. I’m gonna drive this bike till I get where I’m going. Sure, maybe we’ll slide around a little, but I’ll get there, in style, just like I always do. But all that bravado couldn’t deny the growing certainty: these conditions were not biker-friendly.

Naught for it, gotta get to work, so I accelerated onto the A8. I soon pulled out to pass, taking it very gingerly. A mistake. As soon I crossed the white lines the rear end came out. What? I put my foot down and slowly let off the gas until we reacquired stability and some semblance of traction. Fuuuck. On a dual carriageway? Where were the spreaders? It showed 5 degrees on my browser widget when I left. Surely the ice was melted by now? Maybe I need a better widget.

I should have turned back long before, but I stupidly kept going. Hell, I’ve driven in icy conditions before. You just have to pay attention. Sure, on this morning I couldn’t even see the ice, but as I puttered along in the slow lane (an unusual and somewhat humiliating experience), I was starting to glean its intentions. I could see slightly darker patches of pavement, lacking in shine, and there: barely visible frost crystals around the perimeter. It wasn’t full-on ice – just thick invisible frost pulling that old masquerade. Slippery trickster.

Less than a mile later I spotted two lanes of stopped traffic ahead. Someone off the road, no doubt the ice. I snaked my way through the middle. Not the best move – the ice was thickest here, and mostly undisturbed. And still invisible. My feet were down, going slow, let’s just get past. I kept thinking about the rest of the roads on the way to work. I could take my usual B-road, but surely it would be even worse – much worse. Every other option I could think of left me with a bad feeling.

So I decided to just get through that accident and turn the fuck around and go home. I should have done just that after my first heart failure on my own street. When I finally made it through the traffic I could see the carnage: one small car up on the guardrail, side and front smashed to hell; another car facing backwards with a few scrapes; and a big 18-wheeler with no apparent damage. I saw a woman leaning against one of the cars talking on her cell phone, so I just kept going. There was broken plastic and crap all over the road – aha! – finally some traction! No cops or ambulances yet, and what with only a short line of traffic, it had probably just happened.

So I got on by, made a U-turn at the roundabout, and slowly headed for home. Well, not always slowly – there was some good traction here and there, some good continuous texture on the pavement – what, like I wasn’t going to let that engine breath a little? There’s a relationship between a man and his ride. She needs to be let loose at every good opportunity, lest we lose the passion for each other. I gave her what she needed for a few moments and then settled down for a crash-free ride home.

I was glad to finally slot my Yamaha into her little spot. I’d made it. It was still only 9:30 am but I was knackered. I called in to work and told them I’d be working at home for the day. Nice if you can get it.

The thing is I enjoyed that ride. I liked the challenge of learning the ice’s tells. I liked my movements, I liked how the bike responded. It was a ridiculous exercise of course, and I’m lucky to have not dumped her. But next time I think I’ll just take the snowmobile.

Update
The accident I saw on the M8 turned out to be lethal. An off-duty police officer had lost control of her car and was killed. I sure didn’t see that kind of carnage as I passed by, but I wasn’t rubber-necking – I was studying the surface and trying to remain upright.
Spooky, tragic, sad. Maybe it’s a message: I made the right decision in returning home.
To my wife: I promise that next time I’ll make that decision sooner.

My disgusting boy

I have a ten-month old boy, and he’s utterly disgusting. He’s tolerable straight out of the bath, but this baby-fresh loveliness only lasts as long as his first drool. It gets steadily worse from there.

If Bruce is exclusively in my charge I make sure he’s squeaky clean at all times – especially during mealtimes. I put on his full-body bib (the best baby gadget I’ve come across) and clean up after each spoonful. A full pack of baby-wipes is nearby, along with a face cloth and a roll of paper towels. I do not give him finger food or allow him to feed himself. No toast, no biscuits, and especially no bananas.

But it still doesn’t matter. Even what looks like a perfect open-mouth opportunity goes awry: he’ll swat the spoon away at the last second, spraying both us and the general area with gunk. And when my wife is feeding him – forget it. I won’t touch either one of them until they’ve both been in the bath and changed their clothes. I’ve actually seen her spoon up bits of food dribbling down his chin and then put that spoon into her own mouth. It’s horrifying.

Sometimes, for “fun”, she’ll even allow him to feed himself. This is thoroughly revolting. I can’t say how much it grosses me out. He grabs handfuls of this nasty-looking creamed vegetable puree and just squeezes it through his grubby little paws for awhile, before finally spreading it all about the general area of his mouth. What little makes it in gets spit out in a disgusting trickle down his chin, neck, and into the inside of his vest. Beautiful.

Bruce likes his toast. He takes a soldier and squeezes it through his fingers, then forces an end into his mouth, leaving the bulk of it hanging out. He then proceeds to “blah blah bah bah mah mah mah”, chewing and babbling and spitting all at the same time. The highchair tray is soon covered with half-masticated goo, as is his face and nasty little fingers. He then gets this purposeful look on his disgusting little face and starts hurling foul bits of half-chewed toast onto everything.

His high chair is permanently covered with a shiny sheen of dried-up goo, mottled with petrified bits of banana and assorted slimy lumps. Between mealtimes he likes to crawl around under it, picking up left-over crumbs and solidified bits of fruit and munching on them. I’m feeling sick just thinking about it.

We try and share mealtimes together, but I’m finding it increasingly difficult. It’s hard to eat when you’re struggling not to throw up.

I’ve taken to carrying around some extra paper towels in my back pocket, just in case. I get panicky when I run out.

It’s not just that he’s inherently messy: it’s also his mother. She seems to think it will help him develop naturally if we allow him to eat how he wants. Sometimes she’ll just leave us, right in the middle of his dinner. My anxiety rises as I notice he’s fully soaked in some kind of nasty green puree. Bib-less, and not a wipe to be seen. And I’m still trying to eat my own meal. And, right on cue, he starts screaming, done with his high chair and demanding to be let out, and now I have to be the one to do it. I love this boy dearly, but the thought of touching him in this state makes me nauseous, so I yell out to my wife, “HONEY DON’T LEAVE ME HERE WITH THIS REVOLTING BOY!”

The mess is not just confined to the house. I went to roll down the window in the car the other day. The window switch was covered in some kind of half-dried mucous-like grunge. Fucken hell. Probably yoghurt with live banana chunks. My old self would have just kept going – and going, and going, as fast and as far away from this gooey nightmare as I could get. But instead I just sighed and wiped my finger on my jeans. Fucken gross, but what are you going to do?