For info on the Shy Man's Guide to Success with Women (or any of Terry Heggy's other writing), please visit www.shyperson.com.
Motorcycle blog #5 -- The Ozarks circa 1979
If you've taken my "Shy Person's Guide" class, you've heard the story about the woman who told me I had used "the worst opening line ever" on her. Happily, I recovered from the bad start and ended up going on a date with her, which went quite well, thank you. We ended up staying in touch after that ski trip, and shortly after I got my new Yamaha XS-750-SF, I decided to ride down to visit her.
Her name was Kaye, and she was the head groundskeeper at the State Capitol in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Yeah, I know...I had never really given any thought to the fact that a Capitol would require a groundskeeper, either, but I was to learn many things during this trip. For example, did you know that at that time, Lousiana had the largest percentage of illiterates of any state in the country? (The reason Kaye knew that was that not a single person on her staff could read or write. And yeah, the head groundskeeper had a staff of some twenty people. Heck, she might still be doing it for all I know. Oh, and yeah, she could read -- quite an intelligent lady, despite the seemingly contrary evidence that she was willing to be seen in public with me. College degree, and all that -- but I digress.)
My new Yamaha was gorgeous. Bright red, and tricked out with all the accessories; Windjammer fairing, matching saddlebags, two-tier semi-bucket seats, quilted backrest, highway footpegs, and of course, cruise control. It was an oh-so-smooth three-cylinder powerhouse with shaft drive and a 4.1-gallon gas tank. When I bought the thing, I felt compelled to give up my BÖC-logo blue helmet and get a sparkly red one to match the bike. I even had a "visibility jacket" -- a eye-searingly brilliant yellow, with the word "Yamaha" tastefully displayed down the natty vertical "racing" stripe. Even with my plastic-wrapped sleeping bag bungeed onto the backrest, I must say that I looked cool.
I decided that the trip would be on no particular timetable. I'd cruise down through the Ozarks, pop over to visit a college buddy in Galveston, then boogie on across to Louisiana. I'd get there when I'd get there. If I saw something interesting along the way, I was going to stop and check it out. I felt exactly like the guys in "Easy Rider", well, except for the stupidity, the drugs, and the heads-getting-blown-off parts.
The trip out of Kansas and over to Arkansas was wonderful. Most Americans think that Kansas is all barren flatlands, and a good section of it is, but the southeastern corner of the state is a paradise of lush rolling hills; the kind of thing that us free-riding biker types just love.
One of my favorite things about being a cyclist is the bond you have with all the other bikers on the road. Sure, the Harley guys think that those of us on "rice-burners" were somewhat lacking in the patriotism department, and we in turn felt that the Harley guys were somewhat deficient in the "recognition of technological excellence" department. (Harleys are much improved these days, by the way. But back then, they had a tendency to underperform, leak oil, and break down regularly.) And the guys who rode British or Italian bikes were looked upon as being just a bit off-center, much the same as people who like Bob Saget are viewed nowdays. But every single biker you passed on the road -- regardless of his/her machine's origin, regardless of whether he/she was pro-helmet or pro-brainsplatter, and regardless of personal passions for or against piercings & body art -- every single biker would wave at you as you rode past. Every biker I met at rest stops, regardless of whether he was wearing an accountants-only green polyester leisure suit or the pelts of jungle animals he'd personally killed with a monkey wrench, would chat amiably and offer to help you with navigation, tourist tips, and zen-based motorcycle maintenance. Despite portrayals in popular movies ("Every Which Way But Loose" comes to mind), bikers are outstanding people.
The ride into Arkansas passed without incident. But once I got into the Ozarks, it began to drizzle. "No problem," I thought, "I've got rain gear" (see motorcycle blog#2). I pulled over and suited up.
OK, it wasn't real rain gear -- that was too expensive. Instead of buying one of those yellow rubberized sea captain outfits, I improvised. I had a green one-piece coverall -- you know, the kind that Texaco grease monkeys used to wear, where it said "MELVIN" above the pocket. I had purchased this thing for a couple of bucks from the discount rack at JC Penney's, sprayed the hell out of it with ScotchGard®, and had successfully stayed dry within it on a couple of ski trips. Now, ScotchGard® is a fine product, and it repels water like Gilbert Gottfried repels decorum; but it cannot overcome the inherent limitations of low-thread-count fabric. It worked well enough in a light drizzle, but my afternoon Ozarks drizzle quickly turned into a good old-fashioned toad strangler of a gullywasher.
The Yamaha didn't care. The drive shaft was fully enclosed, and the air intake was tucked out of harm's way. I knew the bike could handle it, because I had once ridden through a flooded intersection where the water came up over my knees with no harm done. And at first, I just enjoyed the ride. I figured that I could make it to Hot Springs with no problem. And the winding mountain road was so pretty...
As I rode, though, several things crossed my mind. I began to make mental notes: 1) Spraying water repellant on a crappy coverall is no substitute for a high-quality rubber suit. Upon return to Wichita, check into used HazMat suits, or at least some made-for-bikers rain gear (including boots). 2) Next trip, remember that a little straight line on a map that seems to represent a half-hour drive at 55mph, might actually represent several hours worth of exhausting negotiation of hairpin turns, encounters with road-hogging Winnebagos, and challenging slalom courses made from the corpses of road-kill armadillos. 3) Since I'm already soaked, do you think peeing in my pants would make me warmer?
Finally, I dripped into Hot Springs around 10pm. I was cold, tired, and fed up with discomfort. My original plan had been to camp out that night, but hell with that – I was getting a motel room and taking a long, hot bath.
The first motel I saw looked like something that even the cockroaches would avoid, but I stopped anyway. The turbaned desk clerk informed me that not only was the dump hideously expensive, but they only had showers…no tubs. I moved on.
I soon discovered that I had the misfortune of cruising into Hot Springs on the very same night as the start of the National Port-A-Potty Convention. Every single non-toxic motel room in town was booked to some guy who sells plastic toilet condos. Heck, these convention guys probably carried their own sanitizer, so maybe even the filthiest rooms in town were taken. Seemed to be true -- by the time I went back to the first sleazy craphole I’d visited, they didn’t have any rooms, either.
I was tired, and cold, and I just wanted to find a place to crash. But since nothing was available in Hot Springs, I got back on the bike and rode on. The rain had stopped, and I figured that there was some microscopic chance that I could survive long enough to make it to the next town.
About a mile out of town, I spied a small park. Good enough, I decided. Since my sleeping bag had been double garbage bagged, it ought to have been dry. A bath would have been so nice, but screw it. I needed to get out of my sopping coverall.
I found a picnic table in a remote corner of the park, and unrolled my sleeping back on top of it. I hung my wet clothes on the bike handlebars, put on a dry pair of underwear, took out my contact lenses, wadded up my extra T-shirt for a pillow, and crawled into the sleeping bag. I was still cold, and not particularly comfortable, but I was soon fast asleep.
My slumber did not last long. The sound of voices made me sit up on the picnic table. I tried to see where the noise was coming from, but without my contact lenses, all I saw were vaguely monstrous shapes silhouetted by incoming car headlights. I felt sure that I’d stumbled upon a lair of Omega Man zombies or something, and that within moments, they’d be feasting upon my sweet and tasty brains. I fumbled in my pack for my trusty Boy Scout knife, popped it open, and gripped it like I’d seen James Coburn do in “The Magnificent Seven”.
After about 20 minutes, my not-yet-eaten brain finally caught on to the fact that the park’s other occupants were completely unaware of my existence. In fact, they seemed to be nothing more sinister that a group of high-school kids celebrating the outcome of some sort of sporting event. Due to the volume with which they spoke to each other, I suspected that massive quantities of alcohol were being consumed.
I tried to go back to sleep, but didn’t have much luck. Each time the party sounds began to fuse into background noise, there would be a whoop of shrill laughter, or the clang of a poorly-aimed beer can ricocheting off a trash can. I amused myself by trying to think of really creative curses to cast upon these wretches and their offspring and their parents and their pets and…
After a couple of hours of hearty partying, the teens got back in their cars and left to violate uncounted traffic regulations on their way to their respective homes. I finally was able to return to dreamland. I floated into slumber with visions of warm beaches, beautiful women, and soothing music. In my dream I could hear the gentle sounds of waves lapping at the shoreline, wispy breezes nudging puffy clouds, and harmonious flutes paying homage to the serenity of nature. It was a slumber land of total peace and good will…if it weren’t for that infernal banging and growling –
Banging and growling? Huh? I woke with a start and realized that my isolated little park was indeed a popular place. It had been invaded again.
With my 20/300 uncorrected vision, it took me a while to figure out what was going on. But by listening carefully over the sound of my pounding heart, I was finally able to determine that the local trash cans were being thoroughly searched by a pack of wild dogs. Not the African kind, of course, but more the Cujo kind.
There were several hundred of them, all snarling and drooling and panting, with their razor sharp fangs glinting in the moonlight.
...Uh, OK, there wasn’t any moonlight, and there were probably only a half-dozen dogs or so, but it still got my adrenaline pumping. As they came my way, I imagined their feral canine thought processes; “Hey, look…on that table! Ah, here’s some fresh meat – a little stringy, perhaps, but still more satisfying than all those empty beer cans.” I began to prepare for a bloody battle, with my own thoughts racing. “They might tear me into tiny pieces before it’s done, but I swear that the steel of my Boy Scout knife shall give a good accounting of itself, by Crom.”
Sure enough, the pack soon had my table surrounded. My nearsighted eyes darted back and forth, trying to assess the threat from my blurry foes. Even this close, I couldn’t tell whether they were some sort of rabid Ozark devil-wolves or just a bunch of Aunt Claudia’s backyard mutts who’d strolled away home – but I knew they weren’t just harmless little Chihuahuas or wiener dogs. I couldn’t actually see any foam dripping from their lips, but I had no trouble at all imagining it in copious quantities.
Then it was over. Whether it was due to a signal from the lead dog, Jedi mind control from a helpful Obi Wan type hiding among the trees, or the fact that they just didn’t think I’d taste very good, the dogs all just wandered off to search for better grub among the remaining garbage. I think one of them might’ve peed on the back tire of the Yamaha before he left, but I’m not even sure of that. But it looked as if I’d survive the night.
I did go back to sleep, but it sure seemed like a short time before the sun was up, shining me awake. I briefly considered trying to roll back over and get some more shut-eye, but figured that with my luck, the local Ladies Quilting Club would be rolling into the park at any minute, clanging their utensils as they whipped up a nice breakfast of ham and biscuits. I got up, put on some clothes, wadded up the still-damp Texaco outfit, and tossed it into the saddlebag. In less than 3 minutes, I had my contact lenses on and the sleeping bag once again wrapped in Hefty bags.
The 750 fired right up, and I didn’t look back. I didn’t care or have any idea how far I’d travel that day, but I knew I didn’t want to stick around Hot Springs any longer. I twisted the throttle and jumped back on the highway.
About a mile down the road, I saw a rest area overflowing with trucks carrying plastic outhouses. I’m not sure how it smelled, but I was pretty sure that those guys had gotten more sleep than I had.
The most disappointing thing about the entire night’s ordeal was when I found out how agonizingly close I’d been to a night of comfort and bliss. Exactly one-half mile beyond the rest area, I encountered a brand new mammoth motel complex -- abounding with “Vacancy” signs. There was a Holiday Inn, a Travelodge, and a Ramada – right next to each other. Not only did they have inexpensive rooms with sumptuous jet-equipped bathtubs, but they had free HBO and Cinemax. I thought about stopping for breakfast, but decided that I didn’t want to explain why I had tears in my eyes. I rode on.
As you may have guessed, the rest of my trip contained other adventures, but those shall have to wait for another time.
Stay warm and dry, my friends.
Terry
Wednesday, June 18, 2003
For info on the Shy Man's Guide to Success with Women (or any of Terry Heggy's other writing), please visit www.shyperson.com.
Motorcycle blog #4 -- The Middle Years circa 1972
It's one thing when my stupidity endangers my own life...but quite another when I almost get my best friend killed.
Mickey had a girlfriend. Her name was Gail, and she was beautiful. And even though I really enjoyed spending time with Mickey, I was certainly happy to support his romance with Gail. After all, I liked her too -- hell, everybody did -- and I also enjoyed her entire family. So when Mickey asked me to help him with a "romantic date" project, I enthusiastically agreed to support it.
He had a tandem bicycle, and the idea was that he and Gail could go for a romantic picnic aboard the bicycle built for two. Sounds good. But the problem was that Gail lived in the town of Bel Aire, which was about 20 miles away, and neither of us had a bike rack that would hold the tandem.
I know what you're thinking -- "Not a problem. Simply invite Gail over to Mickey's house and begin the ride from there." Sure, that's a completely rational and logical idea...so of course, we never thought of it. Instead, we decided to explore alternatives for getting the big bike over to Gail's house.
Our resources consisted of a 1971 Ford Pinto with a stick shift (black -- Mickey called it "Bucky"), and a twenty-foot long hunk of rope. The solution was obvious.
We tied one end of the rope around the rear bumper of the Pinto, and the other around the steering column of the bike, just below the handlebars. I'm not sure what logic we used, but I was selected to drive the car while Mickey perched atop the bike to steer it. I was quite inexperienced with handling the Pinto's stick shift, but apparently Mickey thought being on the bike would be more fun than being in the car.
Twenty feet may seem like a fairly long rope, but by the time we tied the knots the bicycle was only a dozen feet behind the car. Still that may seem like a lot, until you think about tailgating on the highway. Yeah, did I mention that we were going to Gail's house via the Interstate? And that Mickey would be helmetless, barefoot, and wearing shorts?
It was rough figuring out how to accelerate the car gently enough to ensure Mickey's comfort. I probably burned a few years off his clutch's lifespan, but we managed to get going. We negotiated the neighborhood without incident, and made it up the freeway on-ramp with no problems.
In fact, the entire journey down I-285 was a lark-and-a-half. I didn't exceed the speed limit, but there were still a few cars that we passed. I loved seeing the looks on their faces as a guy on a bicycle went cruising by them in the fast lane. Mickey was grinning like a monkey, and happily waved at all the cars. He even pretended to pedal, so that it would seem he was under his own power. People would point and wave, and everyone seemed to be having a great time.
It didn't really ever occur to either of us that anything unexpected would leave Mickey as nothing but a greasy smear across hundreds of yards of pavement. If I braked suddenly, he was fender paste. If there was debris on the highway, he'd be catapulted like a French castle's cow. If a tire blew, he'd be a bloody tumbleweed, leaving Schwinn components and little Mickey bits all over the Kansas landscape. But we didn't think about any of that.
Until we got to Bel Aire. The trip had gone smoothly, and I had shown unexpected mastery of the intracacies of shifting, braking, and accelerating. But about a block from Gail's house, we had to make it around one more corner -- and it was one too many.
The tow rope somehow snagged the end of the bike's handlebars, jerking the wheel hard over to the right. Fortunately I was still watching in the rear-view mirror, and I stopped right away...but not until after the bike had done a couple of manuevers it was not designed for. The fork was crumpled, the frame was bent, and poor Mickey was a bloody mess. Thank God none of his injuries were serious, but it was evident that the picnic date was going to have to be cancelled.
I really don't remember much about what happened after that. I know that we got Mickey the appropriate first aid, and I assume that we somehow got the mangled Schwinn over to her house as well. The Pinto wasn't hurt at all, and other than the horrible mental scars, I didn't suffer any damage, either.
I don't recall if Mickey and Gail ever got to go on the romantic bike ride. I do know that they broke up during our Freshman year, over something incredibly stupid. I'm pretty sure that if they'd have stayed together, Mickey's life would've turned out far better than it did -- but after a few bad years, he's doing great now.
As for me, well, there was one other time I took a bicycle up to highway speed -- but that was during a triathlon and it was on a racing bike coming down the mountain on highway 24 into Manitou Springs. I had on a helmet and gloves, and had practiced many long hours for just such an event. I also eventually mastered the stick shift, and even bought a Pinto of my own.
Did the great highway bike ride influence my decision to buy a motorcycle? I'm not sure. But I do know that I have a couple more interesting bike stories to tell.
Stay tuned, my friends.
Terry
Motorcycle blog #4 -- The Middle Years circa 1972
It's one thing when my stupidity endangers my own life...but quite another when I almost get my best friend killed.
Mickey had a girlfriend. Her name was Gail, and she was beautiful. And even though I really enjoyed spending time with Mickey, I was certainly happy to support his romance with Gail. After all, I liked her too -- hell, everybody did -- and I also enjoyed her entire family. So when Mickey asked me to help him with a "romantic date" project, I enthusiastically agreed to support it.
He had a tandem bicycle, and the idea was that he and Gail could go for a romantic picnic aboard the bicycle built for two. Sounds good. But the problem was that Gail lived in the town of Bel Aire, which was about 20 miles away, and neither of us had a bike rack that would hold the tandem.
I know what you're thinking -- "Not a problem. Simply invite Gail over to Mickey's house and begin the ride from there." Sure, that's a completely rational and logical idea...so of course, we never thought of it. Instead, we decided to explore alternatives for getting the big bike over to Gail's house.
Our resources consisted of a 1971 Ford Pinto with a stick shift (black -- Mickey called it "Bucky"), and a twenty-foot long hunk of rope. The solution was obvious.
We tied one end of the rope around the rear bumper of the Pinto, and the other around the steering column of the bike, just below the handlebars. I'm not sure what logic we used, but I was selected to drive the car while Mickey perched atop the bike to steer it. I was quite inexperienced with handling the Pinto's stick shift, but apparently Mickey thought being on the bike would be more fun than being in the car.
Twenty feet may seem like a fairly long rope, but by the time we tied the knots the bicycle was only a dozen feet behind the car. Still that may seem like a lot, until you think about tailgating on the highway. Yeah, did I mention that we were going to Gail's house via the Interstate? And that Mickey would be helmetless, barefoot, and wearing shorts?
It was rough figuring out how to accelerate the car gently enough to ensure Mickey's comfort. I probably burned a few years off his clutch's lifespan, but we managed to get going. We negotiated the neighborhood without incident, and made it up the freeway on-ramp with no problems.
In fact, the entire journey down I-285 was a lark-and-a-half. I didn't exceed the speed limit, but there were still a few cars that we passed. I loved seeing the looks on their faces as a guy on a bicycle went cruising by them in the fast lane. Mickey was grinning like a monkey, and happily waved at all the cars. He even pretended to pedal, so that it would seem he was under his own power. People would point and wave, and everyone seemed to be having a great time.
It didn't really ever occur to either of us that anything unexpected would leave Mickey as nothing but a greasy smear across hundreds of yards of pavement. If I braked suddenly, he was fender paste. If there was debris on the highway, he'd be catapulted like a French castle's cow. If a tire blew, he'd be a bloody tumbleweed, leaving Schwinn components and little Mickey bits all over the Kansas landscape. But we didn't think about any of that.
Until we got to Bel Aire. The trip had gone smoothly, and I had shown unexpected mastery of the intracacies of shifting, braking, and accelerating. But about a block from Gail's house, we had to make it around one more corner -- and it was one too many.
The tow rope somehow snagged the end of the bike's handlebars, jerking the wheel hard over to the right. Fortunately I was still watching in the rear-view mirror, and I stopped right away...but not until after the bike had done a couple of manuevers it was not designed for. The fork was crumpled, the frame was bent, and poor Mickey was a bloody mess. Thank God none of his injuries were serious, but it was evident that the picnic date was going to have to be cancelled.
I really don't remember much about what happened after that. I know that we got Mickey the appropriate first aid, and I assume that we somehow got the mangled Schwinn over to her house as well. The Pinto wasn't hurt at all, and other than the horrible mental scars, I didn't suffer any damage, either.
I don't recall if Mickey and Gail ever got to go on the romantic bike ride. I do know that they broke up during our Freshman year, over something incredibly stupid. I'm pretty sure that if they'd have stayed together, Mickey's life would've turned out far better than it did -- but after a few bad years, he's doing great now.
As for me, well, there was one other time I took a bicycle up to highway speed -- but that was during a triathlon and it was on a racing bike coming down the mountain on highway 24 into Manitou Springs. I had on a helmet and gloves, and had practiced many long hours for just such an event. I also eventually mastered the stick shift, and even bought a Pinto of my own.
Did the great highway bike ride influence my decision to buy a motorcycle? I'm not sure. But I do know that I have a couple more interesting bike stories to tell.
Stay tuned, my friends.
Terry
For info on the Shy Man's Guide to Success with Women (or any of Terry Heggy's other writing), please visit www.shyperson.com.
Motorcycle blog #3 -- The Early Years circa 1966
Sometimes I really wonder how I've managed to live this long.
When I was a kid, every kid in the neighborhood had a bicycle -- and rode it everywhere. We rode down to the creek to catch crawdads, over to the pool for a swim, and down to the playground to, well, play.
Mine was a red Hawthorne 24-incher. (I think it came from a Western Auto store.) It had a lamp on the front fender, a reflector on the back, a wire basket bolted to the handlebars, and an industrial strength kickstand that rarely got used. Gears? We didn't need no steenking gears. One speed, baby -- the faster you pedal, the faster you go. Top speed around 15 mph. Cruising range limited only by the boundless energy stored in youthful legs.
I actually learned to ride on my sister's J.C. Higgins "girl's" bike. Though it was embarrasing to be seen on a bike without that fork-to-saddle crossbar, it was actually easier to ride. (To me, it seemed silly for the boys to have that bar and for the girls not to -- we were the ones who had delicate body parts located right in that bar's impact zone. Though my understanding of female anatomy was vague at best, I was pretty sure that they'd be able to handle a crotch-bar impact better than we could. When questioned on the subject, my dad explained that the girls' bike design was originally conceived so that females could ride bikes modestly while wearing a dress. "Dad," I said, "that's stupid. When's the last time anybody's seen a girl riding a bike in a dress? C'mon, man, this is the Atomic Age -- get with the times." In response, I got the standard raised-eyebrow look that silently says "why do I have to put up with this insolent no-nothing punk?" -- a look that I have since incorporated into my own parental repertoire.)
Once I got my Hawthorne, I rode it everywhere. Those old single-gear fat-tire beasts were built like tanks, so no one felt any obligation to be gentle. When one arrived at his destination, he'd simply leap off the bike and proceed with business, ignoring the crashing sound as the bike fell to the earth. As we got older and more experienced, we began to try to disembark at higher and higher velocities. The unwritten requirements of "coolness" demanded it.
Following the logical progression that kids instinctively understand, we eventually made our way to the playground at Peterson Elementary School -- they had horizontal bars. If you rode under the bar, grabbed it, and let the bike go, well, it would be spectacular.
[Side note: In those days, we called the horizontal bars "monkey bars". We also used the name "monkey bars" for those tooth-chipping collections of steel pipe that formed a giant geodesic cube. Ah, the memories of watching the attractive kids learning the rudiments of romance while perched high above the playground -- while us dorky kids were so desperate to show off that we found new and exciting ways to injure ourselves on the very same equipment. Man, those were the days.]
I suppose that our playground bicycle sessions were educational in some ways. We learned about the basic laws of physics. Oh, maybe we didn't use terms such as "friction", "drag", or "kinetic energy", but we did figure out that the faster you went, the further your bike would travel on its own after you grabbed the monkey bars. We marked lines in the sand to indicate the current "world record" riderless bike travel distance. Then we'd try to go even faster.
Though I didn't know the scientific term for it at the time, I was about to get up close and personal with the concept of "angular momentum". I carefully calculated the correct distance to the bar, and rode the bike back to that point. (Too close and you wouldn't be able to get up to top speed. Too far away and you'd get tired before you got there.) I solemnly waved to the imaginary crowd, took a deep breath, and took off.
I had measured perfectly. I reached the bar at the precise moment I hit top speed. I grabbed the bar with both hands and the bike zipped off without its rider. I was later told that the bike went on as if it were still being steered -- straight and true. It rolled until it finally ran out of steam, then it seemed to sigh, pause for a second, and then gently topple over on its side. My buddies cheered for the new never-to-be-broken Beamon-like record.
Unfortunately, I missed it. I had grabbed the bar, all right, but the velocity I had hit with caused my legs to keep going. Just like a gymnast doing a giant loop, I felt my feet go up over my head until they were nearly vertical. Then I lost my grip on the bar.
I'm still not sure why I'm alive today. As I lost my grip, my body stopped rotating. It felt as if I were frozen in space for a millisecond, with my feet directly above my little pin head. Then I started down.
I hit directly on the top of my head. All I can say is that it's a good thing that kids have flexible skeletons, cuz I surely should've broken something. As it was, though, I managed to survive without permanent disability. (Well, OK, my neck still gets stiff sometimes, and I have trouble remembering things like, well... you know, stuff.) I sat there mumbling until my buddies came over. "I think I wanna go home," I said.
I had a headache for a few days, but otherwise was back to normal right away. And I'm pleased to say that my bike was unharmed, and provided many more years of stellar service. (It was finally "retired" when we bought Mike Pearce's old Schwinn 10-Speed, which ended our family's one-speed era once and for all.) But my horizontal bar-grabbing days were over.
Not my involvement with stupid bike stunts, though. I'll tell you about it in the next blog.
Play safe, my friends.
Terry
Motorcycle blog #3 -- The Early Years circa 1966
Sometimes I really wonder how I've managed to live this long.
When I was a kid, every kid in the neighborhood had a bicycle -- and rode it everywhere. We rode down to the creek to catch crawdads, over to the pool for a swim, and down to the playground to, well, play.
Mine was a red Hawthorne 24-incher. (I think it came from a Western Auto store.) It had a lamp on the front fender, a reflector on the back, a wire basket bolted to the handlebars, and an industrial strength kickstand that rarely got used. Gears? We didn't need no steenking gears. One speed, baby -- the faster you pedal, the faster you go. Top speed around 15 mph. Cruising range limited only by the boundless energy stored in youthful legs.
I actually learned to ride on my sister's J.C. Higgins "girl's" bike. Though it was embarrasing to be seen on a bike without that fork-to-saddle crossbar, it was actually easier to ride. (To me, it seemed silly for the boys to have that bar and for the girls not to -- we were the ones who had delicate body parts located right in that bar's impact zone. Though my understanding of female anatomy was vague at best, I was pretty sure that they'd be able to handle a crotch-bar impact better than we could. When questioned on the subject, my dad explained that the girls' bike design was originally conceived so that females could ride bikes modestly while wearing a dress. "Dad," I said, "that's stupid. When's the last time anybody's seen a girl riding a bike in a dress? C'mon, man, this is the Atomic Age -- get with the times." In response, I got the standard raised-eyebrow look that silently says "why do I have to put up with this insolent no-nothing punk?" -- a look that I have since incorporated into my own parental repertoire.)
Once I got my Hawthorne, I rode it everywhere. Those old single-gear fat-tire beasts were built like tanks, so no one felt any obligation to be gentle. When one arrived at his destination, he'd simply leap off the bike and proceed with business, ignoring the crashing sound as the bike fell to the earth. As we got older and more experienced, we began to try to disembark at higher and higher velocities. The unwritten requirements of "coolness" demanded it.
Following the logical progression that kids instinctively understand, we eventually made our way to the playground at Peterson Elementary School -- they had horizontal bars. If you rode under the bar, grabbed it, and let the bike go, well, it would be spectacular.
[Side note: In those days, we called the horizontal bars "monkey bars". We also used the name "monkey bars" for those tooth-chipping collections of steel pipe that formed a giant geodesic cube. Ah, the memories of watching the attractive kids learning the rudiments of romance while perched high above the playground -- while us dorky kids were so desperate to show off that we found new and exciting ways to injure ourselves on the very same equipment. Man, those were the days.]
I suppose that our playground bicycle sessions were educational in some ways. We learned about the basic laws of physics. Oh, maybe we didn't use terms such as "friction", "drag", or "kinetic energy", but we did figure out that the faster you went, the further your bike would travel on its own after you grabbed the monkey bars. We marked lines in the sand to indicate the current "world record" riderless bike travel distance. Then we'd try to go even faster.
Though I didn't know the scientific term for it at the time, I was about to get up close and personal with the concept of "angular momentum". I carefully calculated the correct distance to the bar, and rode the bike back to that point. (Too close and you wouldn't be able to get up to top speed. Too far away and you'd get tired before you got there.) I solemnly waved to the imaginary crowd, took a deep breath, and took off.
I had measured perfectly. I reached the bar at the precise moment I hit top speed. I grabbed the bar with both hands and the bike zipped off without its rider. I was later told that the bike went on as if it were still being steered -- straight and true. It rolled until it finally ran out of steam, then it seemed to sigh, pause for a second, and then gently topple over on its side. My buddies cheered for the new never-to-be-broken Beamon-like record.
Unfortunately, I missed it. I had grabbed the bar, all right, but the velocity I had hit with caused my legs to keep going. Just like a gymnast doing a giant loop, I felt my feet go up over my head until they were nearly vertical. Then I lost my grip on the bar.
I'm still not sure why I'm alive today. As I lost my grip, my body stopped rotating. It felt as if I were frozen in space for a millisecond, with my feet directly above my little pin head. Then I started down.
I hit directly on the top of my head. All I can say is that it's a good thing that kids have flexible skeletons, cuz I surely should've broken something. As it was, though, I managed to survive without permanent disability. (Well, OK, my neck still gets stiff sometimes, and I have trouble remembering things like, well... you know, stuff.) I sat there mumbling until my buddies came over. "I think I wanna go home," I said.
I had a headache for a few days, but otherwise was back to normal right away. And I'm pleased to say that my bike was unharmed, and provided many more years of stellar service. (It was finally "retired" when we bought Mike Pearce's old Schwinn 10-Speed, which ended our family's one-speed era once and for all.) But my horizontal bar-grabbing days were over.
Not my involvement with stupid bike stunts, though. I'll tell you about it in the next blog.
Play safe, my friends.
Terry
Tuesday, June 17, 2003
For info on the Shy Man's Guide to Success with Women (or any of Terry Heggy's other writing), please visit www.shyperson.com.
Motorcycle blog #2 -- The Trip to Topeka circa 1978
I was in love. She was a brown 1976 Kawasaki KZ400 with new tires and a back rest. I'd just bought this sweet girl a few days before, and was anxious to put 'er to the test of the open road.
I had almost purchased a motorcycle once before. When it became obvious to my dad that it would be easier for all of us to deal with my college experience if I had my own transportation, he briefly flirted with the idea of buying me a bike rather than a car. It'd be a lot cheaper, both in initial cost and in recurring expenses. We even went so far as to test ride a piece-of-crap used euro bike that some guy down the street had sitting in the yard with a "For Sale" sign on it. I wasn't allowed to drive it, but I got to ride around the block while hanging on to my dad's waist. It was fun.
Two reasons we decided to go with an automobile: reason #1 was that our used euro-crap test ride was a little squirrely, since the rear tire was grossly underinflated -- didn't bother me, but I think it reminded my dad of what his mother had constantly repeated, which was reason #2. She said, and I quote, "Them things should be called 'murder' sickles, cuz they'll kill ya as dead as a polecat in bear trap." I didn't really understand the analogy, but the message of two-wheeled danger apparently had gotten through to my dad. I'd have to wait until I had my own job, and my own apartment.
Finally, I did, and the KZ400 was sitting right out front, buffed to a high shine. After somehow managing to survive the ride home from the dealership, I was eager to get all my accessories together and go for a longer trip. Let's see, I had a helmet and..., well I guess that was all I needed. Oh, wait, yeah, the license plate. Picked that up at the DMV and was ready to rock.
Well, not quite. The dealer had not provided nuts and bolts for attaching the license plate. I rummaged through my apartment's junk drawer and found rubber bands, Elmer's glue, a couple of thumbtacks, and an expired coupon for a Lime Mr. Misty. No nuts, no bolts.
I could go to the hardware store...or I could improvise something quickly, get on the road, and go to the hardware store on Monday. Yeah, that's the ticket. My old swim team (the Wichita Swim Club) was participating in a meet in Topeka, and the lovely Gage Park pool. A perfect destination for my inaugural road trip!
I scrounged around until I found a couple of those paper-coated wires that were used to tie the open end of a bread sack, and used them to attach the license plate to the Kawasaki. Sure, it flapped around a bit, but I figured it would hold for a trip to Topeka and back; it's all on the Interstate, fergawshsakes.
I put on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, my Bob Wolf Pro tennis shoes (cheap Adidas knockoffs), my hippie-stompin' motorcycle ridin' purple mirror sunglasses, and my special hand-decorated Blue Öyster Cult logo motorcycle helmet. The tank was topped off, the tires were properly inflated, and the sun was smiling down on me in a promise of a most excellent adventure. One kick and the bike was humming. Within minutes I was heading north on I-35.
I felt great! The breeze tickled my mustache and the hairs on my legs as the wheat fields zipped by in all their amber waving glory. I'd heard the old joke about the happy biker who had bugs in his teeth, but I smiled anyway. I was having the time of my life.
Wow. When I had driven this road in a car, I'd only gotten a hint of the scent of the oil fields, but now I was experiencing the full body of their aroma. As I passed the cattle ranches, I inhaled deeply, savoring eau de cow in a way that simply is not possible from within one of those pitiful 4-wheeled contraptions. I felt as if I were a part of the landscape, rather than just a steel-wrapped cocoon slicing through it on an oblivious mission to get from Point A to Point B. I was quickly learning how wonderful it was to be a biker.
The Fabulous Flint Hills were spectacular. I passed Emporia in great spirits. Halfway to Topeka and feeling fine. Oh, sure, there was a little tingle in my fingers from where my hands had been pounded numb from vibration, and there was a nascent cramp in my gluteus region, but it was only minor stuff. Well, maybe I was a little bit thirsty, but I didn't want to stop at HoJo's; I wanted to get to the pool to show off the KZ400 to my swimming buddies. They were going to be SO jealous.
It occurred to me that I should've used some sunscreen as my arms were starting to get a little burnt. Fortunately, there were some clouds on the horizon. I'd be OK soon.
There are three things they should tell you before they let you take a motorcycle off the showroom floor: 1) Always wear proper protective gear (which includes gloves, long pants, and boots, as well as a helmet & faceguard), 2) When it's warm, the asphalt under your kickstand will melt and the bike will fall over unless you carry an old Folgers lid to place under the end of the stand, and 3) Always be prepared for changes in the weather. Oh, and they should probably recommend against using bread sack ties as license plate bolts.
It got cold fast. Summer rain doesn't seem to be a problem when you're standing around at the local park after a leisurely neighborhood softball game. But when it's whacking your knuckles at 75 mph in the middle of Tornado Alley, it just flat stings! And of course, as it got darker I had to take of my groovey sunglasses in order to see the road...so I was getting little ice picks jabbed into my face and eyeballs as well. Within seconds, my shirt was soaked, my arms and legs were covered with goosebumps and my teeth were chattering, bugstains and all.
At the first opportunity, I pulled over under a bridge. I got off the bike and walked around in an attempt to warm up. "Hmmm," I thought, "wonder what happened to my license plate?"
It was really kind of neat, listening to the hot motorcycle engine ping as it cooled, and to the rain and wind as they did their best to encroach on my little sanctuary. I felt much better without the pinpricks of raindrops stabbing me at high velocity...but I was still cold. In fact, I soon realized, I could get hypothermia under this bridge just as easily as I could out on the road. And with the sky looking as if there'd be no end to this storm for a long, long time, well...
I got back on the bike. At first I tried going slow, to minimize the pain from raindrop impact. I estimated that it reduced the pain by 20%, but increased the expected trip duration by 100% -- you do the math. I gritted my teeth and cranked the throttle. The sooner I got to Topeka, the sooner I'd get relief.
There isn't much more to tell about the trip. I pondered many things; the likelihood of death, the fact that I'd sing like a canary if ever tortured, and the eternal question of whether they made handlebar grips that didn't translate every single vibration directly into carpal nerve damage. Did I ever think that I could stop and try to flag down a 4-wheeled Samaritan? No, dammit, I'm a tough-assed biker dude. (Well, either that or a pitiful imbecile whose brain had frozen and ceased to function. Your call.)
Well, finally, the Topeka toll booth rolled into view. If I'd have been able to stop shivering long enough, I'd have heaved a deep sigh of relief; I was going to live! I put on my turn signal for the exit ramp, and prepared to gently let off the throttle.
But I couldn't! My hand seemed to be frozen in the 75 mph position. And worse, my other hand was frozen in the "no way in hell am I going to be able to operate the clutch" position. There was a brief moment of fervent prayer, followed by a longer moment of Curley/Shemp "woo woo eeee beee bee" chirping, and then finally, some microscopic motion from the hideously deformed monkey paws that were masquerading as my hands. With a full-arm spasm I was able to release the throttle, and with a matching spasm on the left I was able to throw my entire forearm over the clutch lever and pull it toward myself. With my toe pressing on the rear brake, the bike began to slow down. Due to my Frankensteinian arm position, I didn't have complete control of the handlebars, but thank goodness, the Kawasaki was a stable little beast. I finally got the thing stopped.
I stood beside the toll booth for several minutes, working with my hands to try to breathe life back into them. Tried stuffing them under the armpits, flailing them wildly about, and finally foresaking my last remnant of macho pride, stuffing them into my pants. After several minutes of public embarrassment, I was finally able to mount up and continue on to meet my swimming pals.
I'll confess that my memory is hazy about the rest of it. I'd imagine I crawled into the swimming tent much like a Foreign Legionaire crawling into the oasis after spending three weeks in the Sahara (well, except that I was frozen rather than freezing). Someone took pity, and helped me hobble to a motel room. I do know that I stood in a warm shower for a full 50 minutes before enough life returned to my body to allow coherent thought and deliberate movement. I'm not sure what I did about dry clothes, but somehow, I was able to survive the weekend.
And believe it or not, the ride back to Wichita was frightfully pleasant. The only problems were some hand stiffness, minor buttocular cramping, and the constant fear of being pulled over for failure to have a license plate.
Shortly thereafter, the sleek Kawasaki was forced to endure adoption of embarrasing appendages -- dual saddlebags. No, they didn't look cool, and didn't enhance my image as a hippie-stompin' hardcore badass biker dude...but they were a great place to store jackets, raincoats, gloves, water bottles, and yes, extra nuts and bolts.
Ride on, my friends.
Terry
Motorcycle blog #2 -- The Trip to Topeka circa 1978
I was in love. She was a brown 1976 Kawasaki KZ400 with new tires and a back rest. I'd just bought this sweet girl a few days before, and was anxious to put 'er to the test of the open road.
I had almost purchased a motorcycle once before. When it became obvious to my dad that it would be easier for all of us to deal with my college experience if I had my own transportation, he briefly flirted with the idea of buying me a bike rather than a car. It'd be a lot cheaper, both in initial cost and in recurring expenses. We even went so far as to test ride a piece-of-crap used euro bike that some guy down the street had sitting in the yard with a "For Sale" sign on it. I wasn't allowed to drive it, but I got to ride around the block while hanging on to my dad's waist. It was fun.
Two reasons we decided to go with an automobile: reason #1 was that our used euro-crap test ride was a little squirrely, since the rear tire was grossly underinflated -- didn't bother me, but I think it reminded my dad of what his mother had constantly repeated, which was reason #2. She said, and I quote, "Them things should be called 'murder' sickles, cuz they'll kill ya as dead as a polecat in bear trap." I didn't really understand the analogy, but the message of two-wheeled danger apparently had gotten through to my dad. I'd have to wait until I had my own job, and my own apartment.
Finally, I did, and the KZ400 was sitting right out front, buffed to a high shine. After somehow managing to survive the ride home from the dealership, I was eager to get all my accessories together and go for a longer trip. Let's see, I had a helmet and..., well I guess that was all I needed. Oh, wait, yeah, the license plate. Picked that up at the DMV and was ready to rock.
Well, not quite. The dealer had not provided nuts and bolts for attaching the license plate. I rummaged through my apartment's junk drawer and found rubber bands, Elmer's glue, a couple of thumbtacks, and an expired coupon for a Lime Mr. Misty. No nuts, no bolts.
I could go to the hardware store...or I could improvise something quickly, get on the road, and go to the hardware store on Monday. Yeah, that's the ticket. My old swim team (the Wichita Swim Club) was participating in a meet in Topeka, and the lovely Gage Park pool. A perfect destination for my inaugural road trip!
I scrounged around until I found a couple of those paper-coated wires that were used to tie the open end of a bread sack, and used them to attach the license plate to the Kawasaki. Sure, it flapped around a bit, but I figured it would hold for a trip to Topeka and back; it's all on the Interstate, fergawshsakes.
I put on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, my Bob Wolf Pro tennis shoes (cheap Adidas knockoffs), my hippie-stompin' motorcycle ridin' purple mirror sunglasses, and my special hand-decorated Blue Öyster Cult logo motorcycle helmet. The tank was topped off, the tires were properly inflated, and the sun was smiling down on me in a promise of a most excellent adventure. One kick and the bike was humming. Within minutes I was heading north on I-35.
I felt great! The breeze tickled my mustache and the hairs on my legs as the wheat fields zipped by in all their amber waving glory. I'd heard the old joke about the happy biker who had bugs in his teeth, but I smiled anyway. I was having the time of my life.
Wow. When I had driven this road in a car, I'd only gotten a hint of the scent of the oil fields, but now I was experiencing the full body of their aroma. As I passed the cattle ranches, I inhaled deeply, savoring eau de cow in a way that simply is not possible from within one of those pitiful 4-wheeled contraptions. I felt as if I were a part of the landscape, rather than just a steel-wrapped cocoon slicing through it on an oblivious mission to get from Point A to Point B. I was quickly learning how wonderful it was to be a biker.
The Fabulous Flint Hills were spectacular. I passed Emporia in great spirits. Halfway to Topeka and feeling fine. Oh, sure, there was a little tingle in my fingers from where my hands had been pounded numb from vibration, and there was a nascent cramp in my gluteus region, but it was only minor stuff. Well, maybe I was a little bit thirsty, but I didn't want to stop at HoJo's; I wanted to get to the pool to show off the KZ400 to my swimming buddies. They were going to be SO jealous.
It occurred to me that I should've used some sunscreen as my arms were starting to get a little burnt. Fortunately, there were some clouds on the horizon. I'd be OK soon.
There are three things they should tell you before they let you take a motorcycle off the showroom floor: 1) Always wear proper protective gear (which includes gloves, long pants, and boots, as well as a helmet & faceguard), 2) When it's warm, the asphalt under your kickstand will melt and the bike will fall over unless you carry an old Folgers lid to place under the end of the stand, and 3) Always be prepared for changes in the weather. Oh, and they should probably recommend against using bread sack ties as license plate bolts.
It got cold fast. Summer rain doesn't seem to be a problem when you're standing around at the local park after a leisurely neighborhood softball game. But when it's whacking your knuckles at 75 mph in the middle of Tornado Alley, it just flat stings! And of course, as it got darker I had to take of my groovey sunglasses in order to see the road...so I was getting little ice picks jabbed into my face and eyeballs as well. Within seconds, my shirt was soaked, my arms and legs were covered with goosebumps and my teeth were chattering, bugstains and all.
At the first opportunity, I pulled over under a bridge. I got off the bike and walked around in an attempt to warm up. "Hmmm," I thought, "wonder what happened to my license plate?"
It was really kind of neat, listening to the hot motorcycle engine ping as it cooled, and to the rain and wind as they did their best to encroach on my little sanctuary. I felt much better without the pinpricks of raindrops stabbing me at high velocity...but I was still cold. In fact, I soon realized, I could get hypothermia under this bridge just as easily as I could out on the road. And with the sky looking as if there'd be no end to this storm for a long, long time, well...
I got back on the bike. At first I tried going slow, to minimize the pain from raindrop impact. I estimated that it reduced the pain by 20%, but increased the expected trip duration by 100% -- you do the math. I gritted my teeth and cranked the throttle. The sooner I got to Topeka, the sooner I'd get relief.
There isn't much more to tell about the trip. I pondered many things; the likelihood of death, the fact that I'd sing like a canary if ever tortured, and the eternal question of whether they made handlebar grips that didn't translate every single vibration directly into carpal nerve damage. Did I ever think that I could stop and try to flag down a 4-wheeled Samaritan? No, dammit, I'm a tough-assed biker dude. (Well, either that or a pitiful imbecile whose brain had frozen and ceased to function. Your call.)
Well, finally, the Topeka toll booth rolled into view. If I'd have been able to stop shivering long enough, I'd have heaved a deep sigh of relief; I was going to live! I put on my turn signal for the exit ramp, and prepared to gently let off the throttle.
But I couldn't! My hand seemed to be frozen in the 75 mph position. And worse, my other hand was frozen in the "no way in hell am I going to be able to operate the clutch" position. There was a brief moment of fervent prayer, followed by a longer moment of Curley/Shemp "woo woo eeee beee bee" chirping, and then finally, some microscopic motion from the hideously deformed monkey paws that were masquerading as my hands. With a full-arm spasm I was able to release the throttle, and with a matching spasm on the left I was able to throw my entire forearm over the clutch lever and pull it toward myself. With my toe pressing on the rear brake, the bike began to slow down. Due to my Frankensteinian arm position, I didn't have complete control of the handlebars, but thank goodness, the Kawasaki was a stable little beast. I finally got the thing stopped.
I stood beside the toll booth for several minutes, working with my hands to try to breathe life back into them. Tried stuffing them under the armpits, flailing them wildly about, and finally foresaking my last remnant of macho pride, stuffing them into my pants. After several minutes of public embarrassment, I was finally able to mount up and continue on to meet my swimming pals.
I'll confess that my memory is hazy about the rest of it. I'd imagine I crawled into the swimming tent much like a Foreign Legionaire crawling into the oasis after spending three weeks in the Sahara (well, except that I was frozen rather than freezing). Someone took pity, and helped me hobble to a motel room. I do know that I stood in a warm shower for a full 50 minutes before enough life returned to my body to allow coherent thought and deliberate movement. I'm not sure what I did about dry clothes, but somehow, I was able to survive the weekend.
And believe it or not, the ride back to Wichita was frightfully pleasant. The only problems were some hand stiffness, minor buttocular cramping, and the constant fear of being pulled over for failure to have a license plate.
Shortly thereafter, the sleek Kawasaki was forced to endure adoption of embarrasing appendages -- dual saddlebags. No, they didn't look cool, and didn't enhance my image as a hippie-stompin' hardcore badass biker dude...but they were a great place to store jackets, raincoats, gloves, water bottles, and yes, extra nuts and bolts.
Ride on, my friends.
Terry
Monday, June 16, 2003
For info on the Shy Man's Guide to Success with Women (or any of Terry Heggy's other writing), please visit www.shyperson.com.
I broke my ribs.
The two bottom ones on the right side. Same ones I busted in a motorcycle crash back in 1980. Kinda puts a dent in my enthusiasm for completing the great home run quest, if you know what I mean. Twisting motions cause great agony, and even though the bulging muscles in my massive upper appendages may suggest superior home run power using nothing but the arms, the fact is that I unconsciously tend to rotate the torso when I swing the bat. Habit, I guess.
So the dinger quest is on hiatus. I promise an update when the blasts continue.
Anyway, back to the saga of the broken ribs. I shall begin by providing some history.
I got my first motorcycle in 1978. I had recently started my first "real" job, and was wallowing in my newfound wealth. I didn't see any point in spending my income on frivolities, such as furniture, cooking utensils, or stylish clothing -- and I already owned a nice color TV and a low-mileage Ford Pinto with a bitchin' racing stripe. So, what the heck, I thought, let's join the hip world of two-wheeling macho men. Maybe chicks would like me if I was a bad-ass biker dude. Couldn't hurt, eh?
I went to Duckwalls and asked the clerk if they had any "motorcycle-ridin' hippie-stompin' sunglasses". They fixed me up with some purple-mirrored wireframes that hid my eyes and looked like a sunset reflection off an oil slick. Perfect. Time to go chopper shoppin'.
Now, a lesser man would be slowed down by not ever having ridden a motorcycle nor having studied the concept in any way, shape, or form. In fact, I'm not sure I'd ever even spoken to anyone who had ridden a bike -- but that didn't stop me. The first shop I went to had a lovely used low-mileage brown Kawasaki KZ-400 at a reasonable price. (What's "reasonable" when you haven't done any research at all? Uh, well, whatever's on the price tag, I guess. Hell, I've got a job...no worries.)
I wrote a check, signed the papers, and was handed the keys. The salesman rolled it out the door and waved goodbye. Of course, I had to stop him before he got back inside the store. "Uh, sir," I said. "How does it work?"
After the obligatory stunned moment of silence, he showed me how to start it up and how to shift gears. He was kind enough not to say it, but I could read in his eyes that he was praying I'd at least get out of sight of the store before I torpedoed myself into the back of an AMC Gremlin and exploded in flames.
I rode off the lot with my 1970's hair flowing in the breeze, sunlight reflecting off my glasses and blinding bystanders. Surprisingly, I got the hang of shifting gears fairly quickly. The idea of "1 down, then 4 up" didn't make any sense to me...but I accepted it and was pretty smooth right from the start.
What I didn't get was the idea of cornering. The darn thing didn't steer like a bicycle at all. I felt bad about it, but there were a couple of times where I really didn't have any choice but to drive through someone's yard as I didn't quite negotiate a turn. Instead of stompin' hippies and impressing chicks, I was apologizing to little old ladies for putting tire tracks through their posies.
Somehow I made it home alive. I parked the bike, got a buddy to take me back to the store to pick up my car. While I was there, I bought a helmet that looked like the sparkly blue bowling ball I'd used when I'd rolled my lifetime high of 180. I used some reflective sticky-back tape to decorate the helmet with a Blue Öyster Cult symbol (for safety, you know), and I was ready to ride. (Well, ride around the apartment complex parking lot, anyway.)
I got better. I felt confident enough to ride the Kawasaki to Topeka that weekend for a swim meet (but that's another blog). In a few months, I felt confident enough to succumb to the urge for MORE POWER, and I bought my Yamaha XS750SF. That's when I started crashing.
Many other Yamaha memories shall eventually be covered in these pages, but this blog is about rib injuries, so I'll skip the country road crash with stitches and the grand "one day before the wedding" blood all-over-the-streets fiasco. The event I'm concerned with here was not nearly so dramatic.
I was riding to work at the Boeing Military Airplane Company. It was a full daylight, dry road day. Traffic wasn't too bad. I'd like to be able to say that my mishap was caused by an out-of-control semi truck driven by an incoherent Jan Michael Vincent, but the truth is that I simply turned a little too sharply and hit an inconspicuous patch of dirt. The realities of friction coefficients being what they are, my tires obeyed the laws of physics and relinquished pavement contact duties to other parts of the bike and its hapless occupant. Biff.
I didn't slide far. There didn't seem to be any blood, and there was nothing but minor scratches on the Yamaha. I'll confess that I did sit in the middle of the intersection for a few moments, probably with a puzzled look on my face. In situations like that, you always ask "How did that happen?", "What did I do wrong?", and "Did any hot girls see me do that?". Then you suddenly realize that people in minivans want to drive across the exact spot of pavement upon which you sit, so it would be best to move on. I stood up, grabbed the bike by the handlebars and stood it up. As I did that, a million points of light exploded in the right side of my abdomen. After a more-or-less appropriate amount of cursing, I said to myself, "Hmm, must be bruised. I'll be sore for a couple of days".
Ha. Turns out that I had indeed cracked the ribs, and would be in pretty much constant pain for the next several months. Therefore, you can imagine how depressed I was last week when I felt that exact same pain in my side.
No, I didn't dump my bike this time. I was running late for my drive to karate class, and I needed to get the cats in the house since no one was going to be home until late. Well, Annie came right in when she heard the fridge open, but Max was too far away. I went outside, and quickly found him in the neighbor's yard. Folks say that cats won't come when you call, but Max did. Well, almost.
He sauntered up to the fence between the yards. He acted like he was going to cooperate, and I started thinking that maybe I'd make it to class on time after all. But wait, this is a CAT, isn't it? He just sat there looking at me from the other side of the fence, tantalizingly close, but not quite close enough to grab with ease.
As I said, I was in a hurry. I leaned over the fence and bent down to put my hands on him. So far, so good. But I couldn't really pick him up from this unleveraged position -- so I leaned onto the fence rail and used it for a fulcrum. As a method of gaining leverage to pick up the cat, it worked fine. As a demonstration of compatibility with skeletal integrity, it was woefully inadequate. I heard (or perhaps just felt) a small "crack", and instantly knew that I should've just let the stupid cat stay out all night.
Yeah, I got him in. And yeah, I made it to karate class on time. And yeah, I did crack the ribs. Ouch. (In fact, I have said "ouch" -- or one of its less-polite synonyms -- an estimated 47,000 times since the incident.) Yes, I know that the doctors say I should rest, relax, avoid deep breaths, and drink plenty of beer...but I am continuing to attend karate class, swim practice, and other non-sedentary activities. Will my behavior slow the healing process? I dunno...probably. Will my injury last as long as it did after the motorcycle crash? Well, duh! -- I'm 20-some years older now; I'd guess I'm gonna feel it for decades to come. Hell, I'll probably become a weather-predictin' old coot -- "Big storm a'comin'...mah ribs sez so, by gum." And over the next few months I'll grimace every time I move my torso. Oh well. That's the way it is, I guess.
I no longer have a motorcycle. I could get rid of the cat, I suppose, except then some other danger would surface to take his place. Maybe I'd hurt myself putting on a too-tight pair of socks, or become a victim of an electric toothbrush on a rampage -- I don't know. But I'm not going to worry about it. I'm just going to go out and get a new pair of groovey mirrored sunglasses, and go from there.
Have a healthy day, my friends.
Terry
I broke my ribs.
The two bottom ones on the right side. Same ones I busted in a motorcycle crash back in 1980. Kinda puts a dent in my enthusiasm for completing the great home run quest, if you know what I mean. Twisting motions cause great agony, and even though the bulging muscles in my massive upper appendages may suggest superior home run power using nothing but the arms, the fact is that I unconsciously tend to rotate the torso when I swing the bat. Habit, I guess.
So the dinger quest is on hiatus. I promise an update when the blasts continue.
Anyway, back to the saga of the broken ribs. I shall begin by providing some history.
I got my first motorcycle in 1978. I had recently started my first "real" job, and was wallowing in my newfound wealth. I didn't see any point in spending my income on frivolities, such as furniture, cooking utensils, or stylish clothing -- and I already owned a nice color TV and a low-mileage Ford Pinto with a bitchin' racing stripe. So, what the heck, I thought, let's join the hip world of two-wheeling macho men. Maybe chicks would like me if I was a bad-ass biker dude. Couldn't hurt, eh?
I went to Duckwalls and asked the clerk if they had any "motorcycle-ridin' hippie-stompin' sunglasses". They fixed me up with some purple-mirrored wireframes that hid my eyes and looked like a sunset reflection off an oil slick. Perfect. Time to go chopper shoppin'.
Now, a lesser man would be slowed down by not ever having ridden a motorcycle nor having studied the concept in any way, shape, or form. In fact, I'm not sure I'd ever even spoken to anyone who had ridden a bike -- but that didn't stop me. The first shop I went to had a lovely used low-mileage brown Kawasaki KZ-400 at a reasonable price. (What's "reasonable" when you haven't done any research at all? Uh, well, whatever's on the price tag, I guess. Hell, I've got a job...no worries.)
I wrote a check, signed the papers, and was handed the keys. The salesman rolled it out the door and waved goodbye. Of course, I had to stop him before he got back inside the store. "Uh, sir," I said. "How does it work?"
After the obligatory stunned moment of silence, he showed me how to start it up and how to shift gears. He was kind enough not to say it, but I could read in his eyes that he was praying I'd at least get out of sight of the store before I torpedoed myself into the back of an AMC Gremlin and exploded in flames.
I rode off the lot with my 1970's hair flowing in the breeze, sunlight reflecting off my glasses and blinding bystanders. Surprisingly, I got the hang of shifting gears fairly quickly. The idea of "1 down, then 4 up" didn't make any sense to me...but I accepted it and was pretty smooth right from the start.
What I didn't get was the idea of cornering. The darn thing didn't steer like a bicycle at all. I felt bad about it, but there were a couple of times where I really didn't have any choice but to drive through someone's yard as I didn't quite negotiate a turn. Instead of stompin' hippies and impressing chicks, I was apologizing to little old ladies for putting tire tracks through their posies.
Somehow I made it home alive. I parked the bike, got a buddy to take me back to the store to pick up my car. While I was there, I bought a helmet that looked like the sparkly blue bowling ball I'd used when I'd rolled my lifetime high of 180. I used some reflective sticky-back tape to decorate the helmet with a Blue Öyster Cult symbol (for safety, you know), and I was ready to ride. (Well, ride around the apartment complex parking lot, anyway.)
I got better. I felt confident enough to ride the Kawasaki to Topeka that weekend for a swim meet (but that's another blog). In a few months, I felt confident enough to succumb to the urge for MORE POWER, and I bought my Yamaha XS750SF. That's when I started crashing.
Many other Yamaha memories shall eventually be covered in these pages, but this blog is about rib injuries, so I'll skip the country road crash with stitches and the grand "one day before the wedding" blood all-over-the-streets fiasco. The event I'm concerned with here was not nearly so dramatic.
I was riding to work at the Boeing Military Airplane Company. It was a full daylight, dry road day. Traffic wasn't too bad. I'd like to be able to say that my mishap was caused by an out-of-control semi truck driven by an incoherent Jan Michael Vincent, but the truth is that I simply turned a little too sharply and hit an inconspicuous patch of dirt. The realities of friction coefficients being what they are, my tires obeyed the laws of physics and relinquished pavement contact duties to other parts of the bike and its hapless occupant. Biff.
I didn't slide far. There didn't seem to be any blood, and there was nothing but minor scratches on the Yamaha. I'll confess that I did sit in the middle of the intersection for a few moments, probably with a puzzled look on my face. In situations like that, you always ask "How did that happen?", "What did I do wrong?", and "Did any hot girls see me do that?". Then you suddenly realize that people in minivans want to drive across the exact spot of pavement upon which you sit, so it would be best to move on. I stood up, grabbed the bike by the handlebars and stood it up. As I did that, a million points of light exploded in the right side of my abdomen. After a more-or-less appropriate amount of cursing, I said to myself, "Hmm, must be bruised. I'll be sore for a couple of days".
Ha. Turns out that I had indeed cracked the ribs, and would be in pretty much constant pain for the next several months. Therefore, you can imagine how depressed I was last week when I felt that exact same pain in my side.
No, I didn't dump my bike this time. I was running late for my drive to karate class, and I needed to get the cats in the house since no one was going to be home until late. Well, Annie came right in when she heard the fridge open, but Max was too far away. I went outside, and quickly found him in the neighbor's yard. Folks say that cats won't come when you call, but Max did. Well, almost.
He sauntered up to the fence between the yards. He acted like he was going to cooperate, and I started thinking that maybe I'd make it to class on time after all. But wait, this is a CAT, isn't it? He just sat there looking at me from the other side of the fence, tantalizingly close, but not quite close enough to grab with ease.
As I said, I was in a hurry. I leaned over the fence and bent down to put my hands on him. So far, so good. But I couldn't really pick him up from this unleveraged position -- so I leaned onto the fence rail and used it for a fulcrum. As a method of gaining leverage to pick up the cat, it worked fine. As a demonstration of compatibility with skeletal integrity, it was woefully inadequate. I heard (or perhaps just felt) a small "crack", and instantly knew that I should've just let the stupid cat stay out all night.
Yeah, I got him in. And yeah, I made it to karate class on time. And yeah, I did crack the ribs. Ouch. (In fact, I have said "ouch" -- or one of its less-polite synonyms -- an estimated 47,000 times since the incident.) Yes, I know that the doctors say I should rest, relax, avoid deep breaths, and drink plenty of beer...but I am continuing to attend karate class, swim practice, and other non-sedentary activities. Will my behavior slow the healing process? I dunno...probably. Will my injury last as long as it did after the motorcycle crash? Well, duh! -- I'm 20-some years older now; I'd guess I'm gonna feel it for decades to come. Hell, I'll probably become a weather-predictin' old coot -- "Big storm a'comin'...mah ribs sez so, by gum." And over the next few months I'll grimace every time I move my torso. Oh well. That's the way it is, I guess.
I no longer have a motorcycle. I could get rid of the cat, I suppose, except then some other danger would surface to take his place. Maybe I'd hurt myself putting on a too-tight pair of socks, or become a victim of an electric toothbrush on a rampage -- I don't know. But I'm not going to worry about it. I'm just going to go out and get a new pair of groovey mirrored sunglasses, and go from there.
Have a healthy day, my friends.
Terry
