Not today

I’m not a morning person, and I’ve got witnesses to back me up on that. But there is one morning ritual I hope to never give up: the donning of the gear. Riding trousers, boots, motorcycle jacket. The helmet, and optimistically, the sunglasses. And finally, outside now, as the bike warms at idle, the donning of the gloves: the final signal of intention. We’re going riding now.

I do this twice a day, every work day, and as often as I can on the weekends.

Recently, there’s one final step that’s been added to the ritual. As I pull slowly away into traffic, I find myself saying a little mantra, quietly, but as mindfully as possible: “Not today”. I make sure every part of myself has heard it, listened to it, and acknowledged it. Only then do I get going.

Not today. We will not be coming down today. I do make mistakes sometimes: misreading the road surface, or coming in way too fast for a corner, or just not being fully present in the monotony of rush hour traffic. Not today reminds me to stay sharp. (I don’t want to come down tomorrow, either – I don’t want to ever come down, let alone get into a bad situation with another vehicle – but a daily commitment is more effective than some vague, perpetual intention).

One ride at a time, as it were.

It’s not all within my control. Probably not even mostly. But being mindful allows me to influence that small sphere of fate which is within my control. I get so much pleasure from riding this bike, going ever faster, pushing her, pushing myself, especially with these tires.

These tires are special. Fitting these Metzler Z8’s was like a visit to a southern Baptist church. The bike is transformed. What was heavy and cumbersome is now a glorious ballet of lightness and surefootedness. She has found a new spiritual direction, leading me to hitherto unknown states of near rapture.

This is, obviously, a dangerous turn of events. It’s become more important than ever that I remember the mantra: not today.

My ride to work and back is mostly B-roads. I can take the motorway if I like, but I don’t. The back roads are better. Hills and farms. Rises and dips and blind corners. A jump into a counter-banked corner, followed by a 1st gear peg-scraper, exhaust burbling on the downshift, and then a short-shift into second as I swing her back the other way, braking again for another first-gear corner. It’s sheer satisfaction. It’s intense.

Most of these back roads – and there are many options between work and home – have very little traffic. But there are tractors and sheep and cow-shit. And even the occasional young woman on a horse, all decked out in her riding kit, seriously sexy but very annoyed at my racing engine.

So I drive hard but restrained. If I can’t see over this next rise then I’m certainly not going to be nailing it. I drive for the sight-lines, the general road conditions, and the likely presence of human or non-human road-kill.

There are ways to increase one’s chances of survival. I’ve got more than a few defensive driving tricks up my sleeve, which I may explore in another post. Yet some would say the most effective way to stay out trouble is to just not ride at all. I could crack my head slipping in the bathtub instead of on a greasy roundabout.

When I talk to my wife about bikes she says she’d rather me take the train. Fair enough, but surely trains are just an unfortunate but necessary way to get home after a night out? They lack a certain satisfaction.

Or I could just drive slower, though that’s not the first thing that comes into my overly-motorcycled head. Driving slower on two wheels is downright dangerous. Higher revs and blurring scenery increases my awareness. Cranking that throttle a little gets me paying proper attention.

But it’s always back to the ritual. Not today, I say to myself, as I pull into traffic. We may ride hard today, but we’re not coming down. Not today.

12 horses

I usually don’t mind riding in the rain, but this morning was a bummer.

My FZ1 was due her 12,000 mile service, which meant riding twice my usual commute. I was wearing my guaranteed 100% waterproof trousers, my usual double-shelled 100% waterproof jacket, thick winter waterproof gloves, and the usual waterproof stompers.

On paper I was wet-proof.

But this is Scotland. I don’t think there’s rain gear anywhere on the planet that can withstand the freaky meteorological chaos of this miserable, sodden land. The rain doesn’t come down, it comes horizontally, and sometimes even up. Staying dry – even at sane speeds – is an unattainable fantasy.

This morning I made about thirty good miles before the seeping started. This is not a nice moment. You feel that slow ice water trickle, and it doesn’t matter what you’re doing – if the front wheel is off the ground or you’re scraping the pegs – you feel it acutely, and know that the ride can now only descend into unpleasantness. Ingress has been established. There’s no way back. Come, the trickle says, come join with me and dampen what we can. Dampen until all sense of comfort has been claimed.

This time it started in the heel of my left boot, spreading out through my toes. I knew it was over. Through all the defences there was found a breach. The little fingers on my right hand were next, spreading fast. Cold, so cold – the discomfort deepens into a full-on ache.

Seeping is not just unpleasant but distracting too. I picture my destination, miles away, with the knowledge that once I’ve dropped off the bike I’ll have to get on the loaner (if I’m lucky) and then wrestle these nasty wet gloves back onto my frozen hands, and then just head back up the road, more miserable than ever. Gritting of teeth. Shaking of fist. Futile revving of engine. Out. Of. My. Way.

I made it to the dealership just seconds after crotch-seep. My day is now officially ruined. I picture walking about the office displaying my freshly-peed pants. A nice look.

There’s really only one thing I like about my Yamaha dealership: it’s the two girls than run the store upstairs. The blond – who I’ve seen in leather – greets me warmly. My boots are squelching as I walk. A puddle forms where I stop to talk to her. She laughs. I tell her how I feel. I think I even swore. She commiserates – she rode in too – but somehow she looks dry. I felt better though. She knew about seepage, and that was nice. But then I had to go downstairs and set up the gig.

Downstairs is like metal bits in your oil. The parts men moan; the mechanics scold.

The basement is an inevitable and depressing part of service. The only plus is that they have a few classic bikes sitting there unused and unloved. A 1974 Honda CB650: beautiful – I’d like one in my living room. And the 1980 six-cylinder CBX – I’d like to ride it, hard. But I don’t want to be there. The parts man is frowning. He answers the phone and addresses the unseen caller as “friend”. It smells of burnt oil and dirt and unwashedness. Close overhead the neon bleaches everything. I feel awkward too, at a disadvantage, because I know that no matter how friendly I am, I will still be quietly judged. They don’t like me much there. Mostly because I don’t wash my bike enough.

When I finally get back upstairs I ask the blond if I can borrow a bike for the day. She’s happy to see me again (how long does it take to just hand over the keys?) and tells me: “Of course!”.

All that I am hoping for at this point is a Yamaha Diversion 400 like they gave me last time. But then the dark one comes along – usually just as accommodating as the blond – but this time she’s arctic. She looks at the blond and then back at me. “Nope. We have a test on Wednesday, so everything’s out. Well, unless you want a YBR?” The blond has left quietly. But everything’s still OK – I’ve been offered a bike and I have many miles to go.

She tells me it’s a 125. I say sure, that sounds like fun. Little did I know. I sign some papers. I’m given the keys by the new guy, and he’s telling me how to press the different buttons, which are exactly the same as every other bike on the planet. I’ve just stepped off a 150hp motorcycle and here he is telling me this wee shiny beauty only has 12.

12 horses! Was he serious? How was I going to get to work on this?

I decided against the motorway. I quickly planned a route that would bypass the M8, leaving me playing in city traffic with not much more than a motorized bicycle. Through lovely Paisley (a shit-hole, as most Scots describe it, and so far I’ve seen nothing to the contrary) and on to my destination.

I donned my helmet and lovely sodden gloves and pulled into traffic. I immediately realized what a different game I was now playing. This was not a beast I was driving, it was a vole. A blind, fragile thing that I knew nothing about and that I could not trust. I couldn’t even pass a bus.

When I finally got to work I had a new admiration for all the poor suckers who have to go through graduated licensing. I also had a headache, due to the unique engineering of the suspension.  That thing was dangerous in traffic. No acceleration, no brakes, no traction. Yet I also had a feeling that I just didn’t know how to ride it yet.

Fuck, I said to myself, not for the first time that morning. I was now at my desk, trying discretely to pull off two layers of sodden socks. I spent the day barefoot in my office slip-ons. I hoped no-one would notice, but at the same time I didn’t care. It’s hard feeling torn all the time.

At day’s end I was still cold and it was still raining, but the ride back to the dealership wasn’t so bad. My work day was over and I would soon be riding my proper machine home to warm socks and cold beer. I was starting to get the hang of the 12 horses – you basically just keep the throttle wide open and change gears like a trucker. When you need to slow down, you don’t: instead just find your way past all the traffic without losing momentum. That bike was stupid on the trunk roads – I struggled to reach her top speed of 57mph – but once in 30mph traffic she was a blast. I was zipping and deking and dodging and just wringing that little bike’s neck. I was loving it. I brought her back to the dark-haired one with a grin. “Man, I like motorcycles”, I said. She was surprised, but I think pleased that I liked it.

After a load of abuse from the dour crew downstairs, I was back on my own bike, that monster that does 85mph in in first gear. It was nice to be back, and although she felt a little unwieldy, I was amazed by her stability. I drove slowly at first, relishing the easy power, but I was soon spinning that engine up to the erogenous zone. The 12 horses were an interesting diversion, but I do believe I’ll stick with my 150. Even in the rain.

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.

Lost in MaryHill

I got lost in MaryHill the other night. Well, maybe lost is the wrong word. I knew where I was, I just couldn’t find where I was going. Not that that’s anything new – I get lost all the time in Glasgow. And Edinburgh. And Sterling – any UK city really.

Part of the problem is the strange signage they use here, or lack thereof. There’s no norm, no pattern you can depend upon. Sometimes you’ll see a street name on the corner building, sometimes on a low sign on a little brick wall. But no standard signpost with one sign showing the road you’re on, and the other showing the crossing road. And even if you somehow find out the road you’re driving, its name changes every few blocks.

Roundabouts are worse. At least with the intersection you have a chance of finding a street sign, but on roundabouts all you get is either a numbered roadway (B707; A81) or the neighbourhood which lies beyond. If you take the neighbourhood sign, there’s no further sign to let you know you’ve arrived there. Just another inevitable roundabout giving you entirely new names, which means either you’ve just gone through it or you’re lost again. (Or both, which is my usual).

So here I was in MaryHill, my Google printout having directed me to an abandoned lot in the middle of a council housing estate. I was looking for our new rehearsal space. The rest of the band was waiting. I was already 15 minutes late.

MaryHill is not the worst place to be lost in Glasgow, but I can think of better. It’s a sad, run-down section of town, full of litter, boarded-up council houses, closed shops, and zombies. As I tucked my Google map printout back in my pocket, I noticed a mother with a buggy walking towards me. Well, sort of shuffling actually. She had this pinched, weathered look, as if her life thus far had been hard. Maybe I could ask her… but I thought better of it. It’s not that I didn’t think she could help – it was more selfish than that. I didn’t want her to confirm the rapid (and quite possibly unfair) judgment I’d already made of her.

So I tucked the map back in, zipped up my pocket, put on my gloves, and got going again. A tank bag with map pocket sure would help me now. But that’s just more kit you’ve got to secure…

I knew the place was close, I just couldn’t find the street. Up and down the side streets, creeping up on past the traffic at stoplights, frustrated at the interminable waits (this is a problem in the UK, the long red lights due to the separate pedestrian cycle), going up the same street again, down the other one, around and around, U-turns and everywhere the traffic.

Now, I did have their number with me just in case, so I headed back down to the high street in search of a pay phone. More stop and go, but finally, now miles away from where I think the place might be, a phone booth! But traffic is heavy, can’t get across, gotta keep focused – this is the worst time to get frustrated. I visualize what would happen if I lost my situational awareness. Drive enough on two wheels and this morbid visualization process becomes quite graphic. I see three tonnes of metal hurtling into the space that should be empty but is now occupied by me and my bike. I have made a mistake. Here comes the hurt.

I managed to keep my cool and got my bike up onto the sidewalk to park. More time wasted as I take off my gloves to hunt for the phone number and a handful of change. Pen might help – but fuck, it’s in my trousers, under my motorcycle trousers, so I gotta stand there in full view of everyone and unzip myself to get to it. There’s two rough-looking pubs just across the street with a bunch of MaryHill types standing outside smoking, making no pretence about studying my plight. Fuck you. Into the phone box. Wait – the helmet’s probably gonna have to come off… where to put it… Sometimes driving a bike can be a big pain in the arse.

The phone doesn’t work – says credit only. Good! Just what I needed. Ok, there’s another one right next to it, let’s try again. Prop up the helmet, put the change on top, get the pen and paper out for directions, and start again. Nope. This one looks like it’s working but the coins go right through it and the dial tone changes to a shrieking feedback loop. Nice.

Fuck it. Gather my stuff, back in the pockets, close the zips, helmet and gloves back on, find the key for the bike, back to play in the traffic again.

The next phone booth has its coin slot glued closed. Nice neighbourhood. That’s enough – I’ve given up on the phones. I asked a few people but no-one really knew anything or wanted to talk, except for the drunk I tried to avoid: "Whashe go at?" Ah, damn. I don’t want to be rude, so I say, "yeah, she goes pretty quick right enough." Not good enough, he wants to keep at it: "Shagood’un – washe top out at?"

I told him I gotta go, and I did.

It occurred to me that a mobile phone could really save the day here. All sorts of normal people have them, but I long ago swore an oath to remain mobile-free. They’re too annoying. Or rather, their users are. They can be entirely nice, interesting people, but armed with their gadgets they become selfish, rude, and obnoxious. I guess I could give in and buy one, but that would go against my principles. I guess I just like to make life difficult for myself.

By now it was starting to rain, though the sun was shining and what I could see of the sky was blue. The rain is actually falling from clouds several miles away, but the Scottish squalls send it far and wide, resulting in a thoroughly unpleasant horizontal assault. The top of my helmet remains dry; the rest of me is soaked within seconds. Just then there’s a rainbow…

Finally, I was given solid intel from a gas-meter guy in another wrong street. I still managed to fuck it up a few times, but finally, there it was: a shithole of an industrial complex called GLASGOW NORTH. I had found it, and I was only an hour late.

I grabbed my drumsticks and headed in to rock.

Attack mode

Motorcycling is always a highly enjoyable and rewarding activity, but you never really know what the next ride will bring. I tend to be a moody person, and this extends somewhat to my riding. My motorcycling moods depend (among other things) on the weather outside, the weather inside, the general state and health of the bike, and, of course, how recently I’ve had sex.

Sometimes I just tool along, going with the flow, not causing any ripples. Maybe a little faster than the official speed limit*, and perhaps an easy overtake here and there, but mostly just hanging back, daydreaming a little, letting the robot do most of the work. Sitting on the surfboard and letting the waves take me in.

But most of the time I’m more involved, engaging with the experience: frequent overtaking, looking for the good line, finding the best patterns through the traffic. This is my default riding mode. It calms me down yet keeps me awake and alive. I’m not taking any unnecessary risks, but I’m not bored either. It’s a happy compromise: a skilful and enjoyable ride with just a touch of danger.

But there’s this other mood that hits me, without warning, from time to time. It’s what I call attack mode.

Something happens in the centre of my driving cortex that shuts down the robot and leaves me fully in charge. I become aggressive, competitive even, driving like a man possessed. Everything is fair game – dry corners, wet corners, gravel, cow shit – the road surface doesn’t matter, as I’m now playing with a full deck. I am driving at my best and getting better throughout the entire run.

I can’t predict when this mood will take me, but it’s most often in the mornings. (Evenings, on the way home from work, my head is often full and my brain is tired. Computers do that – they take it out of you.) But some mornings I’m all bushy-tailed and ready to roar. It happens slowly at first, as I notice myself passing 20 cars in a row. Then the first roundabout comes up empty and I find myself having my way with it. Sometimes it will just stay at this level – a little more interested in the corners, maybe allowing the engine to breathe a little – but in full attack mode, things quickly begin to elevate.

I am soon riding at an entirely different level. All thought is focused on my dance with the bike as we keep pushing each other. Yeah? You like that? Let’s do it again, harder this time. Attack the apex, like last time, but more. Redline it, and again, as I pass a couple of cars on that long straight past the farm. Do you have any idea what redlining an FZ1 is like, in both second and third? Attack mode is like an ever-heightening crescendo. And instead of tiring me out, I just get thirsty for more.

There’s a feeling of not wanting to let the engine mellow out, or let the tires lose any heat. The bike is digging it and giving back beautifully so I just push it harder. This engine loves being revved, and the tires are now so hot and well-scrubbed that I can push it even further, so I do. There’s no slowing down at this point. We’ve reached ultimate attack mode, and every corner, every opportunity for red-line acceleration is grasped with my whole being, leaving me near-hysterical with a giggling, adrenalin-fuelled feeling of excellence.

All extraneous thoughts are blocked and sent back. It’s an interesting state of mind, as there’s no time for random thoughts to form and fragment and layer upon each other. It’s like some kind of turbo-mindfulness, where every part of the mind and body are focused on the series of events that unravel as we rapidly approach the next corner. Traffic, road surface, junctions, sight lines, body position. The eyes are everywhere but the mind is hyper-calm. We are impeccable.

In this mode, the attack-mode, there is only one voice, with a single purpose. Its directive is simple: More. Faster; harder; push.

Performing well at such an intense level brings a deep satisfaction. And every time I do it (which isn’t as often as I’d like), I become a better rider.

Hard braking, the front end compressing, feeling the road surface and the tires’ grip through my feet, hands, shoulders, and backside. Then on the power again, the front end rising as the back end squats, feeling the vibration and the screaming glory of 12,500 RPMs. And I am truly happy, fulfilled, even amused. Scared? Yes, a little, for fear keeps the rubber side down.

By the time I pull into work the engine is purring like a besotted kitten. The brakes are glowing; the tires are almost melting. And me, I’ve got a big silly smile on my face. I didn’t see that attack wave coming, but boy, I rode it as well as I could.

I used to ride like this all the time. Things were simpler then. I was out there for that reason only – to attack, to push everything as far as it would go. In my maturity I’ve (perhaps unfortunately) developed this annoying tendency for restraint, even safety. How boring!

But I’m still here, and once in awhile, when the mood strikes, I manage a good proper ride. And for me, that’s what motorcycling is all about.

*No laws were broken in the writing of this post.

The revs; the roads; the schizophrenia

I’ve not been posting as much about my new Yamaha as I did the Dragon. Sure, she’s not so new anymore, what with 2,000 miles on her and looking like she’s just been through the Dakar, but I do believe an update is in order.

The Revs
The amount of pull she has between 8,000 and 12,000 rpm is just freaky. I feel like a little kid on one of those crazy rides at the fair. Holding on for dear life, laughing like a lunatic, but foaming at the mouth a bit too, wanting desperately to get off. What – it’s gonna spin around again? And upside down this time? No, no, no, it’s too much to take. At that point you’re just holding on waiting for this carnival ride from Hell to be over, but of course once it’s done you just jump off and run to the back of the line so you can do it all again.

That’s what it’s like playing in the power band. It’s just insane.

I’ve driven fast bikes before. The ZRX11 had some good pull. The Dragon was dangerously quick. But this little FZ1 is just sick. The thing about that kind of acceleration is that you get a taste for it, and soon this stupid little voice in your head starts thinking about more. I have a feeling I’ll be making a few tweaks here and there over the coming year.

But this Yamaha, she ain’t pretty. The GTR14 took my breath away every time I looked at her. My Yamaha has more of a work-horse look about her, especially with all the salt and road filth from winter driving. I’ve always liked that dirty look, always had bikes like that, but I do miss the Dragon. (It’s not that I miss driving her, not really – I just miss having her).

It’s difficult to give a proper break-in report with all the crap on the roads. It’s winter, and though I enjoy my daily commute though the varied local terrain, I’ve not yet been able to throw this bike around properly. I got her just as winter started, and here we are (maybe) just approaching spring. That’s three months of shite roads. Three months of owning a (possibly) excellent bike, without yet really knowing.

The roads
The roads, they’re slick. All winter long they’re slick. It’s like a lottery. This is my third winter in Scotland and I still can’t tell from a glance what kind of traction I’m going to get. Sure, I can see that the grip is going to be poor, but how poor? Corner number one was a gripper; corner number two is a slipper. The paranoia grows, but somehow, so does the confidence.

The roads here are slippery all the time, even if it hasn’t rained in days. Part of it is the salt they put down in a cold spell; part of it is just the general shittiness of Scottish winters. The road surfaces are a winter-long gloop of retained moisture, absorbed gas fumes, salt, sand, and various other road-snot.

I could write all day about the various surface conditions you find around here. They change every day, every moment.  In the winter I actually enjoy the rain  — that hard, heavy rain that comes down all day. All the crud and slime gets washed away. Now it’s just clean, wet pavement. Bring it on.

But mostly it’s a freezing fog followed by a miserable drizzle. The pavement loves this combination – it gleefully soaks up all that oil and gassy exhaust, every day giving the finger to us two-wheeled die-hards.

I have different moods when I’m riding in these conditions. Sometimes my every nerve ending gets involved with finding the perfect way through: hips off the side, head and shoulders into the line, arms relaxed, my soul on the high-side peg. But then there’s a straight bit in front of me, clear of traffic, and I forgo the finesse and twist that throttle until it feels like I’m entering some other dimension. Hoo boy. Gotta be careful. There’s a whole boatload of hurt in that power band, but like my one-year old son asserting his will, I just can’t stay away from it.

I have a feeling that this little bike I have here is going to be a right blast once me and the road surface are seeing eye to eye. This is a good winter bike, but it’ll be some weeks before I can say whether it’s the bike for me.

The Schizophrenia
It’s getting schizophrenic: danger and boredom come together to form an adrenalin-fuelled ennui. I talk to myself about it on the way to work. I dream about it.  I’ve had enough. I’m ready now for the long long days, the dry B roads, the confidence to take my best line through a hard corner without this constant obsession with wiping out. I want myself to scare myself rather the slip doing it for me. We’re almost there, oh I hope we’re almost there.

Take heed you young whippersnappers, and take care. Keep it slow and easy for just a little while longer.  We’re almost there.

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.

Dragon in the showroom

I saw the Dragon today. I was at the Yamaha dealership getting the Fazer’s first service. There was no missing her – there she was, striking a pose in the middle of the showroom floor. A real looker, that bike. I walked past her a number of times as I waited. Each time there was some other emotion there, creeping up around my edges like some new but familiar smell. I knew this bike, knew it well, done some good things with it. I looked for envy, I watched for lust, but I didn’t find it. Of this I was glad. I still admire the GTR14, still think it beautiful, and I was happy to see her. But I surprised myself – I didn’t so much as touch her, let alone trail my fingers in a lingering, wistful stroke.

She was sporting an expensive-looking new front tire. I knew that if I drove her now that some of the handling issues would be solved, that she’d turn so much easier, might even have some of that throwability I so cherish. But I had no doubts.

I could feel myself there. It was strange. Not so long ago that bike was me. It was like seeing an old photograph of myself in some long-ago setting. A feeling of recognition, even warmth. It was a life solidified on the showroom floor. Seeing her there was seeing a reflection of myself in a way that no mirror could ever do.

Only 5,000 miles on this beauty, but now she seemed very much used, a bit scuffed up and not worth a second thought. I saw flashes of speed, of competent carving, of heart-racing mistakes. I saw too the downside, the parts that came before, the emotional conflict.

The experience of seeing her there, down off her pedestal, was fascinating. It was my own story sitting there in that room. The wee scuff marks on the seat, on the tank, on the rear tire – they were all still there. That bike was no longer a machine of its own. For whoever rides her next I’ll be there too.

The strangest feeling was the sense of maleness she now seemed to broadcast. She was always a female to me, but now, it was more like seeing me than seeing an ex-bike. I felt my wife there too, in the background, looking at me in that way she does, even missing me in a way, but I wasn’t even gone.

The Dragon was obviously an important event to my motorcycling self. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced anything quite like this. Usually, when it’s time to sell the stuff that has touched me in some way, the buyer takes it and is gone. This is different, being able to see her anytime I want. I’m almost feeling lonely just thinking about her in there. I’m here, she’s there, but we used to be the same.

Loyal Kawasaki Rider Defects to Yamaha

Special report by Felicity Houston from The Kawasaki Loyalist Weekly.

Long-time Kawasaki rider, AndrewZRX, has traded in his latest Kawasaki for a 2008 Yahama FZ1 Fazer. The switch has forced Scottish Kawasaki dealers to re-assess their marketing strategies, while Yamaha dealers have been deluged with trade-in queries. The chief designers at Kawasaki in Japan have had all leave cancelled as they head back to the drawing boards in a bid to stem the tide of desertion.

Yesterday I had the opportunity to talk to Andrew about his decision to defect to Yamaha. We sat sipping pints at the Continental Café in Gourock. Our table overlooked the river Clyde, and more importantly, the parking lot in which Andrew’s new Yamaha FZ1 sat waiting. The rare Scottish sun glinted off the Yamaha’s Ocean Blue paintwork, the reflection of which could be seen dancing in Andrew’s eyes as he spoke about this life-changing event.

“Yeah, she’s lovely, isn’t she? I mean, she’s no GTR14 looks-wise, but look at that engine. This bike doesn’t have to show off like some of those Kawasaki’s do.”

A wistful look passed over Andrew’s face as he recalled The Dragon. But there was no hint of melancholy in his voice as he continued:

“This bike here is what motorcycling is all about. I don’t want a torture rack masquerading as a touring bike. I don’t want shit handling just for the CC’s. They say there’s no replacement for displacement, but you always gotta find someplace in the middle, right in the middle of things where there’s room to look around, to see things as they really are, to establish a open line of perpetual communication with the opportunities that two wheels can bring. There is no need for extremes without fallback, you know? There must exist a perfect plane of give and take, where both wheels can tell their own stories.”

I sensed that Andrew was trying to tell me something, but I wasn’t quite getting it. I asked him, “Are you talking about compromise?”

He looked uncomfortable for a moment, but then drew closer to me.

“Do I look like some sort of metrosexual hipster? Compromise? Get real. What’s horsepower got to do with compromise?  Nyet. Nada. Zilcho.  A bike should sense what you’re going to do next, and you should be able to sense its intentions also, at the subatomic level. Have you ever felt your eyeballs compressing, your inner ear vibrating, your very spine humming with chi? There’s no discussion along these lines. Think of a wormhole. Think of your mind and body traveling through it, somewhere between this world and the next. This here Yamaha rips a seam right across it without me having to so much as think about it.”

He trailed off for a moment, then continued quietly,
“The sound of that ripping plays with your head. Maybe one time you’ll not come out the other end. I don’t mean crashing – I don’t talk about crashing – I think about it all the time but I have no words for you about crashing, no –  I’m talking about sanity here. There’s a thin line. Sometimes it’s hard to come back.”

It is becoming increasingly obvious to me that Andrew needs more socialization with other bikers. He’s like a man describing a majestic oak tree to an Eskimo. Maybe a group therapy session for ex-Kawasaki owners?

“My first bike was a Honda CB650. I think we all have to own a shit bike once in our lives – and hopefully just the once! Good God! Imagine the night terrors if I had to drive that horror-show every day!”

A visible shudder. A grimace. There was no-one home for a moment.

“But I soon came to my senses and got rid of it. My first real bike was a 1978 Kawasaki KZ650. Her name was Vera Lynn, and I’m still in love with her.
My soul is made up of scattered little pieces, like a worthless clay pot shattered on a dirty concrete floor. Vera was the glue that put it back together. There’s still cracks though… you can see the light through them, but if you look from the other side it’s just darkness.”

I gave him a moment, and then said softly, “What happened to Vera?”

“The centre cannot hold. She did exist. I asked of her, and she gave it. Maybe someday I’ll tell the whole story, but a muse is a dangerous and fickle animal. She was right, but that doesn’t make me wrong… I put 160,000 miles on that bike, all just me and her: it’s a long way for a muse. She was a Phoenix as well: I brought her back from the dead. There are stories to be told here, but I won’t go into it now.

“You’re wanting the Kawasaki story, right? Fine, we’ll get that out of the way.
Next was a 1983 Kawasaki KZ750. Faster, but no Vera where it counted. Then I got this mad idea that I could be Frankenstein. I pulled the 750’s engine and popped it into Vera’s frame like some kind of sick joke. There was serious bad mojo all over that project.

“I’m no miracle worker with a wrench, so I said fuck this. Instead of taming Frankenstein, I bought a new 2000 Kawasaki ZRX1100.”

“What is it about you and Kawasaki’s?”

“I don’t really know anymore. I kept thinking of all those lonely miles and I couldn’t imagine anything else. To me the Kawasaki was like Jesus on a stick. All the others were just pale copies, forbidden idols. The old Kawasaki in-line fours are all that used to matter. I used to think they’d turn until the world stopped.”

“Except…didn’t one of your Kawa’s explode?”

“Well, yeah, go figure. I put my heart and soul – all my intent – into the ZRX, and then the fucker blows up. Connecting rods right out the front of the case. Can you hardly believe it? I mean, sure, it had 99,500 miles on it, but it should have gone for another two hundred, easy. My devotion to Kawasaki left me in a pool of bottom end and burnt oil.”

“But you kept the faith. You stayed with Kawasaki in spite of the treachery.”

“Yeah. It’s like faith I guess. Just because you have a moment of doubt doesn’t mean you just leave the church and declare yourself a Satanist.”

Some would say he’d done just that, having moved to Yamaha…

“Staying with Kawasaki can be likened to finding a soulmate,” Andrew continued. “If, back in your misguided and inexperienced youth, some lovely woman gave you her everything – her mind, her soul, her body in all the dirtiness you can imagine – and then she got old and died – would you not seek again for her likeness? Otherwise, would not your very essence slowly seep away until you’ve dried out into a worthless, desiccated husk, searching everywhere for meaning but finding nothing but a void?
It is for this reason I stayed with Kawasaki. I had a dream. Maybe, just maybe, I could find good Vera’s qualities made manifest in another Kawasaki in-line four.”

“And? Did you find another Kawasaki soulmate?”

“Sort of. Think for a moment, if you will, of what happens to time when accelerating at a great rate. Einstein says it slows. My shaman once suggested to me that time actually speeds up, but in a convoluted way that catches up on itself when you get to your destination. So, a decision has to be made: do you live a life of eternal longing, or do you just get on the damn thing and ride?”

It seemed there was a certain logic in what AndrewZRX was saying, but when I thought again, I realized I had no fucking idea what he was talking about. I decided to get back on track:

“So then came the Versys. What did you make of that ride?”

“Fucking fantastic. A right blast. Not an epic blast, mind you – her front end was too light, and there’s never enough horsepower in a day. But if you could take that bike and just tweak it a little – like another fifty horses – we might just be on to something. But anyway, she was just a stop-gap until I could afford the ooh-shiny bike I’d really wanted, the GTR14.”

I was of course very familiar with this bike. The editor at the Kawasaki Loyalist Weekly had described it as “possibly the best bike I’ve ever had the pleasure to ride”. This was the very reason I was here. I was to find out how it all ended in such tragedy.

I got right to the point:
“There are many who say the GTR is the bike of 2008. It’s a nice looking bike. Smooth, comfortable, variable valve timing, powerful as hell… surely the GTR is just a natural progression for you, the next step towards the perfection you seem to seek?”

“Yeah, that’s what they want you to think. They pull you in with their fancy feature list.  And when you see one, you wonder if maybe there is a God after all. She’s so sexy. But as my uncle Jemfar used to tell me: beware of womanly excess, for it is but an illusion.”

At this he looked me up and down, pausing at all the wrong of places, then sighed and smiled at the same time.

“I’ve been wrong before, Felicity. But you seem a geeky enough sort to get my gist, which I’ll put in a nutty little shell for you:
Some bikes are exciting for their promise of transcendence.
But the only bikes worth owning are exciting for their delivery of that transcendence.
Do you get what I’m saying?”

He was finally making some kind of sense.  “Yes, I think I see what you’re trying to say. You’re saying there’s more to motorcycling than big tits.”

Andrew gazed across the Clyde towards the Holy Loch, then down at the parking lot where his Yamaha waited patiently. He finished the last sips of his pint before finally turning back to me, saying, “I suppose that’s exactly what I mean. But that’s enough talking. Let’s ride.”

Andrew's new Yamaha FZ1 Fazer

Related posts:

My new hobby

Previous two-wheel posts

My new hobby

You may have noticed some disquiet brewing. Some unrest seeping through these pages. A wind of change has been blowing down through the craggy munroes and across the cold, deep lochs.

Yes, it’s true. I’ve been struggling with one of the most important relationships in my life, and I’m afraid there’s nothing for it but to dump her.

I know I’ll miss her, so I’ve decided to hold on to her until I find a more suitable partner.

I’ve been spending my Saturdays trying out potential new companions. And she doesn’t even seem to mind – I just leave her waiting in the parking lot while I take the new one out.

And boy, I’ve been having some fun! I wish I could have three or four, rather than just be stuck with the same one all the time!

The problem is the right down and dirty, if you know what I mean. She’s beautiful, and knows just what I need when the time comes, but she’s just so serious. Not nearly playful enough.
I hope my wife doesn’t read this, cause she might think I’m talking about my girlfriend. No, all is well on that front, and with the wife too, though she keeps hounding me for more children. I find the conceiving part entirely agreeable, but five seems four too many to me.

It’s the Dragon that’s got me down. She’s not what I was wanting. I had put this beautiful machine (yes, she’s still beautiful) up on a pedestal, convincing myself that she embodied all my requirements. But she does not.

If you want a fast bike, this is it. If you want a silky smooth bike, this is it. If you want a looker – there she is.

But something’s wrong.

She’s not fun, not fun in the way I like motorcycles to be. She’s a chore to drive at low speeds. One of the things I love about driving motorcycles is the flickability factor, the throwing it around silliness that always brings a smile. All my previous bikes have satisfied in this regard, the Versys especially. But The Dragon disappoints. I don’t think I realized how much I enjoyed that part of biking – not just comfort and speed, but let’s throw this thing over in the next roundabout and wring her neck on the way out kind of fun.

The Dragon’s steering geometry is all wrong. She’s not balanced – too much push. And if you wring her neck in first gear she’ll flip ya, flip ya for real. She excels at what she was designed for: sport touring. But she fails in the roundabouts and B-roads – the very joie in my vivre.

I am miserable. I made a big mistake. The Dragon must go.

So I’ve been spending my Saturday afternoons (and even some extended lunch breaks) showing up at various motorcycle dealerships, ready to look and talk and ultimately ride.

And ride I have. In this country you sign a form and they just give you the keys. “Just put a couple of pounds of gas in it, ok?” – and you’re off. I’ve obliged them. I’ve had some good rides, sometimes for the entire afternoon.
I did the same last autumn, when I was looking for a replacement for the ZRX11. In the past year I’ve had a go on least a dozen different bikes. Sometimes they’re just loaner bikes from the dealership while I leave mine for servicing.

Even if you soon realize this particular demo bike isn’t for you, why not just keep going for a bit? Seek out some more challenging terrain, explore the B-roads, find some straightaways… a nice way to spend an afternoon.

I’ve been driving motorcycles for more than twenty years. Not just here and there, but as often as I can. They are now an inseparable and crucial facet of my very being. As such there’s a few things I’ve come to expect:

• Comfortable upright riding position
• Handles well at all (reasonable) speeds
• Decent wind protection
• Hard panniers
• Scary-fast
• Not too ugly.

The GTR fails on the second point. But there are a couple of bikes out there that might just meet these requirements…

Two favourites

The BMW 1200GS Adventure:

The BMW 1200GS Adventure

A tractor, but extremely throwable, once you get the knack for it. Put that thing over in a 1st gear roundabout and you can probably roll a cigarette at the same time. So stable, so forgiving. Good power, too – 1200 – but not enough. I would love to have a bike like this, but it doesn’t check all the boxes. The fun factor is total, but there’s not enough scare in it. An odd looking bike, too: the designers were obviously all engineers.

The Yamaha FZ1 Fazer:

The Yamaha FZ1 Fazer

Not the same kind of fun as the BMW Adventure, but wow, fun fun fun! Gorgeous feedback on the handlebars – I think part of the trick is to have a solid single-piece handlebar instead of these wonky two-piece whatchamacallits. This bike reminds me of the old Kawasakis I used to ride, but with a lot more power. It’s faster than my ZRX, and near enough as nimble as the Versys.

There’s a couple of other nice things about the FZ1 ‘Gen 2’:

Same bike as above - with touring package

–There’s all sorts of aftermarket kit available. You could easily spend the price of the bike over again just with add-ons. This is a very popular bike, and well-respected in the biking community.
— I drove the Kawasaki Z1000, and liked it a lot. This is like that. I would have gone for that one, as I’m a Kawasaki boy from way back, but the Yammy has a touring kit. Full faring, hard side cases, and a bunch of after-market windscreens to choose from. You can turn this into a “mile-muncher” if you so desire. And I do. I will not give up my hard saddlebags or my wind protection.
–It’s got one hell of a power band, with a redline of 12,000. It goes. You can consider the scary-fast box ticked.

I’ve got a decision to make.

So what’s it gonna be then, eh?