Emergency bike wash

I washed my Yamaha FZ1 today for the first time in weeks. Months, probably. Cue shock and awe among the general biker population. What kind of a man? Not washing means not loving, means not caring, means, in the end, neglect. Poor Yammy.

My rear tire challenges this conclusion. 4,000 miles and it’s down to the steel belts. Neglect? We doubt this.

We say that driving the snot out of a highly-rated tire suggests enthusiastic usage of the machine – within, of course,  its recommended operating parameters. I drove that tire to the dealer carefully, paranoically, though that wasn’t my primary purpose there. The brake disks were getting replaced again. Problems at the factory with their lathe or something. I’m now on my third set on the front and second on the rear. I change them more than I do my tires.

But that’s not why we’re here. We were talking about not washing motorcycles.

The emergency bike wash was necessary to suck up to the head mechanic at the dealer. He’s given me trouble in the past. Says they can’t honour the warranty unless I look after it. A fair enough statement, but I don’t know. Have you ever seen what a bike looks like after two or three weeks of winter driving in Scotland? Not so shiny anymore.  But he didn’t see it quite the same way. Gave me a stern talking to.

This is the only Yamaha dealer any where close to me, so I need smiles and goodwill, especially as these warranty issues gather steam. So I did a quick rinse with the hose, a quick once over with a soapy sponge, another rinse to finish. Quick and lazy. I tightened and lubed the chain, too, while I was at it – he might really have had something on me if he’d seen the shocking state of it.

I washed the Dragon often and with due respect. Those lingering, soapy moments were perhaps my favourite thing about that beast. But this Yamaha is no dragon. She’s a beater. A fun beater, full of warts and cramps, freaky fast for sure, but certainly no looker. So why bother spending two hours of painstaking scrubbing of rims and spokes when I really just don’t care? Sure, I want her to last, so I spray her down with anti-corrosion when I think of it. I maintain tire pressures (at least semi-annually) and adjust and lube the chain. I may not trail my fingers over her like I did the Dragon, but that doesn’t mean I ‘m just going to throw my money away.

Some guys spend more time washing than riding. It’s the same with boats, too. Yachties down to the marina of a Sunday just to scrub and polish, leaving the dock maybe once in a season. Someday may have not always been the most polished of boats, but I kept all her systems in good working order. And I left the dock. Surely that’s the point?

Go to any bike meet. Aside from the grunge they picked up on their way there, every last one of them is spotless and gleaming, no matter what gutless thumper is cradled within. Car owners across the UK can relate. Here, if you have a motor, no matter how pathetic, you wash it. At least as often as your neighbour.

I used to ride with a guy* that brought two terrycloth towels with him everywhere he went. Once we stopped – for a coffee, a beer, a vista – he’d pull out the damp one and begin cleaning off mostly-invisible spots of dust, followed by a careful but furious polish with the dry one.  I didn’t understand. Me, I’d park my Vera within line of sight, then stand back and smoke, taking in the vista, my emotions heightened by her silhouette. She was something to look at, especially dirty. That was Vera’s thing. She was better dirty.

Bikes are for riding, not cleaning. But maybe, in most biker’s eyes, the one they’re on right now is their own Dragon. Who am I to say?

I used to drive a gorgeous Kawasaki ZRX11. I had her for five years and didn’t wash her once. It became, almost, a matter of pride. When I lived In South Carolina I’d park her on the dock close to Someday. Convenient, but salt water and metal fall madly, sickly, in love. A parasitic relationship going nowhere good. Sometimes I’d see another ZRX and I’d think, wow, that does look good. Seems every ZRX owner but me was obsessive in their worship. Oh well, I’d think. It was too late anyways, and surely not worth the effort.

Washing a bike is fundamentally different than washing a car. The innards are inside-out, so it’s not just body panels – it’s every metal bit, especially their fasteners. Nuts and bolts get fuzzed with corrosion, rusting at the faintest smell of rain. I ride every day, no matter the fickle Scottish weather. A proper wash is a compete detailing job that takes a certain sick level of devotion that I’m glad to be lacking.

In the end, the head mechanic didn’t say anything, at least not about her filth. It was the steel belts in the tire that caught his attention. I don’t think that impressed. And the parts man continued his gradual distancing – I think I make him uncomfortable. Too many questions, demands.

I understand the obsession. I’ve flirted with it myself. But for this bike – for all the bikes I’ve ever owned – I’d rather ride than polish. And besides, a little road spoodge speaks to the motorcycle’s true purpose, which is not about short skirts and lip gloss.  It’s about you, the machine, and the road. The spoodge is a bonus.

*Chris, if you’re out there, get in touch.

Children’s books

Our little Bruce is growing fast. He’s got loads of energy – running, climbing, yelling, shouting… especially the shouting. He likes asserting his ebullience and notifying his maker that he’s still here doing His good work. Sometimes he’s like a Scottish squall – you’re sitting there in a peaceful, thoughtful mood and all of sudden this fast, ferocious dynamo comes tearing through and completely shatters your ruminations. The only difference being that the squalls here aren’t anywhere near as amusing.

He’s only a year and half but his presence is constantly felt. He’s loud, sure, but I suppose I’m getting used to it. But the whining. Oh the whining. He just went through a phase (at this age a "phase" lasts at most a week) of constant whining. For something, anything. It was probably something else bothering him and he couldn’t tell us. He’s got loads of words now, but his monologues are still pretty much incoherent.

But there are quiet moments. You’d think these would be a god-send, a moment for me to relax and actually read an entire paragraph in one go. But that doesn’t work. It’s worrisome. It’s better when you can hear him, because you know more or less what he’s up to. Running around screaming lacks a certain serenity but at least you know all is well. Banging and smashing from the other room is also usually OK. And a few moments of silence, followed by a mad mirthful cackle? Usually not so good.

It’s complete silence which is the most concerning. He could be up to any amount of sneaky trouble. Climbing up onto the roof for instance. Or up in my room smoking. I wouldn’t put it past him.

But usually the sudden and welcome calming of the atmosphere is just him gone to his room to read. I watch sometimes through the crack in the door. He’ll go over to his bookcase, pull out a book, take it over to the one clear spot on the floor, sit down, and start reading.

Ok, so it’s not proper reading just yet, just looking at the pictures, following the story, pointing at things and talking in his own language with a few intelligible words thrown in. But that’s reading, right? Sure it is.

He’s got some good books. But he’s got some weird ones too.

Alligator Pie
If I don’t get some I think I’m gonna die. I like all the poems; they’re all silly and fun, and I remember them from when I was a kid. But the pictures are just one bad dream after another. The artist was clearly on acid when he drew them. Bruce is OK with the rhymes but struggles with the bad trips.

Bigger Digger
Now this one is just stupid. A little digger gets stuck, and then a bigger digger has to come – but guess what? It gets stuck too. Any guesses as what’s next? You got it – a bigger bigger digger. It’s all just idiocy. I cringe when Bruce chooses this one. Repetitive tongue twisters with no real story or good things to look at – it’s no fun for either of us.

The New Baby Train
New babies come from… trains. Kind of confusing when you think about it, but the art is excellent and there’s lots of choo choos. Always popular for that train-crazy kid.

My Seasons
The kids in this book are obviously retarded. Every last one of them has this dumb little smile on his face. This is not unusual in kids books, and I don’t like it. I don’t see the point in condescendence. The common denominator isn’t interesting to children. More blood and guts! I think he’s almost ready for Jacob Two Two and the Hooded Fang.

Scarface Claw
A good story but soon gets repetitive. Bottomley Pots all covered in spots – you’re made to say this about a dozen times through the story, not to mention all his buddies with their own personal rhyming nicknames. However, if you can slog through the silliness there’s an awesome scene at the end: SCARFACE CLAW! Very frightening, and always something to look forward to. It’s a great formula for kids books – some good and scary action as a focal point.

My Babies Faces (or something – you get the drift)
A Canadian picture book full of pictures of ethnically diverse babies. Annoyingly politically correct. I think there’s one white baby in there. It’s not that I mind black babies – some of my best friends are black babies – I just don’t like kids books that preach and teach as if they’re on some kind of mission.

Hop On Pop
Dr. Seuss has some good books, but they’re too full of tongue twisters. Maybe kids like them but I don’t enjoy reading them. There is one good lesson in this one though: You must not hop on Pop.

Goodnight Moon
A classic. I remember reading this to my little sister when she was a baby. Beautifully illustrated. But who’s the old lady whispering hush? If it was his/her grandmother, why don’t they just say so? I have suspicions.

The Tiger Who Came to Tea
This is a good one. There’s a playful whimsy about it and a distinct lack of preaching. Sure, it’s a bit dated now, with Mommy staying at home cooking and shopping while Daddy goes to work, but hey, doesn’t sound bad to me. I guess I’m a little old-fashioned myself.

Curious George Takes a Train
I used to love curious George books as a child. But the one thing I always wonder about is: who is Mrs. Needleman, and what is The Man in the Yellow Hat going to do to her when they get to where they’re going? There’s always something a little off going on in the background. This I like.

The Hungry Caterpillar
An excellent little baby book, with a good story, with counting and lots food items to learn and identify. I like this approach to combining a bit of learning with a good story – the story still comes first.

Pat the Bunny
This is one sick little book. Every page has some kind of obscene insinuation.
"Judy can pat the bunny. Now YOU pat the bunny. How big is bunny? Sooooo big!
Paul can put his finger through Mummy’s ring. Now YOU put your finger through Mummy’s ring."
And so on. You’ve got to see some of the pictures too. It’s downright dirty. Was the author having a little joke with us?

Writing a good children’s book is a lot harder than you’d think. It’s a careful juggling act, balancing children’s perceived intellectual capacity with adult concepts. There must be humour, and whimsy, and maybe a fright or two. Learning is a bonus but must come second to the story.

If I could find a willing artist, I might just give it a go.

Public Toilets

I hate public toilets. No matter how recently it has been cleaned there’s always a wee piddly puddle on the floor in front of the toilet or urinal. Fuck, I say, spreading my feet so I’m not standing in it. Sometimes, after I’m done, I notice more piddles than when I started. Fuck, I say again, then zip back up and go.

Or when I enter what I know to be a perfectly functioning toilet to find someone’s crap floating there, or worse – the seat all covered in splatter. Why can’t people sit down when they’re doing that? Sometimes it’s vomit, of course – not unusual in Glasgow toilets, no matter what time it is.

But this isn’t as bad as the urinals, especially in this country. They are often just a stainless steel trough, wide enough for four men to relieve themselves together in a jolly line. Here the piddle pools are everywhere. It stinks. It’s gross. There’s a stupid vandal-proof ad affixed just so on the mildewed wall. I hate ads. You can, if you like, look down at the goings on below, but there’s something off with that. When I see other guys do it I wonder what they think of it, their relationship with it. I prefer to stand ramrod straight, staring dead ahead, cringing if my peripheral vision catches a milker. I hate these guys. They make a big show of how difficult an operation it is to pull our their equipment, then take its length in their hand and start to pull. (Now, for you girls out there, you must remember that we’re not looking, oh no, that would be the worst imaginable breach of etiquette. We don’t look, but sometimes we just can’t help noticing, as we’re staring dead ahead, that the next guy is really getting into it.) At this point I know what’s coming so I’m hoping I can finish up first – but no, too late. He starts milking it, getting right into his disgusting ritual: milk, squirt, milk squirt – and he’s not even halfway though. Man. I just hate it. Why can’t you just let it flow? It’s not gonna come out any quicker doing it like that. Is it some kind of autoerotic thing? Is he getting off on this?

The thing with these guys is that if I’m still going (those last few pints can really build up) I’ve also got to witness the ending. I want to look the other way but there’s a new piddler just joined the festivities. I’m not going to look down like he is – this is a fucking public toilet man! – so I stare at the perfect Budweiser girl in her red and white bikini, this vacuous look on her face that reminds me of the women in South Carolina. My memories distract me for a moment, and now I’m just finishing up – but, fuck, so is he. Getting his shoulders right into it as he waggles it for all it’s worth. He’s gonna give himself whiplash at that rate, soil his clothes. Dude – what’s the deal? My imagination paints a picture for me, of what kind of man he is, with this friends, with his women. What kind of paper he reads, what he talks about. The picture doesn’t turn out pretty.

And then he tucks it back in – an even more elaborate a performance than when he brought it out. What is all that about, Sigmund?

I studiously avoid any form of interaction in a public bathroom. Eye contact is bad, but talking is even worse. There’s one particular type of offender which makes me shudder. “Hey! How’s it going?” the dude says, as he ensconces himself in a cubicle. I mutter something, trying hard to convey my discomfort at his verboten social faux pas. But he carries on, louder now, “Hey, that’s some bike you got there!”. Before I can respond he’s noisily started his proceedings. A disgusting squelching sound is echoed and amplified by the toilet bowl. He keeps talking, punctuating with groans and unmentionable awfulness. Oh, the horror.

A pubic toilet should be a quiet, calming environment where a man can enjoy some solitary down-time. A place to relax, read the paper, perhaps even mutter to one’s self quietly. Some people just don’t get it. Jovial frivolity and exhibitionism ahead of quiet contemplation.

Workplace toilets come with their own set of problems. For instance, there’s the washing of the hands dilemma. Me, a pee is just a pee and I’m fine just getting on out of there. But there’s an unwritten decorum in professional toilets: wash your hands, no matter what. Skip this frivolous ceremony and you’ll be the topic of office gossip forever more. Believe me, I know.

And can’t I just have a private moment? Please? I’m pissing here – or worse. And buddy there is asking for my thoughts on yesterday’s company meeting. Come on. I sit right next to you, why don’t you wait till we’re back at our desks? I can’t tell you how much this bugs me. It’s so intrusive.

I hate public toilets, but I suppose I can take comfort in the fact that they’re not all like the one in Train Spotting. Then we’d be in real trouble.