Monday, May 26, 2014

Combustion Junkies

I remember the first time I ever fired a gun.  It was hot, probably somewhere in the middle of July and my friend offered to take me shooting.  We stopped by his house and picked up his Springfield XD-M .40 and went on a little drive to some extremely isolated little region of the world where you could tell other people had also gone for target practice.  I was such a noob that it felt like the first day I threw a leg over a bike. We got out of the car and I glanced out over a barren landscape at some dust devils that were racing over the fields off in the distance.  It was like the scene out of a western.  I felt a little bit like what Clint Eastwood must have felt like as I squinted and brushed the hair away from whipping my face. The sun was lingering overhead and I could feel it instantly searing the back of my neck.  He popped the trunk and pulled out some ear protection. I was grinning but on the inside I was nervous. 
Out of loose tins and bottles that were laying around, he made up some makeshift targets, propping them on random pieces of wood and broken furniture. Behind it was a large dirt hill that cast just the right amount of shadow. He gave me some pointers and put the gun in my hand. It was heavy and hot and at that moment it became real to me. I laugh when I am nervous and I let out several giggles, a few chants of, "I don't know about this." And finally I had settled into a moment where I finally pulled it all together. As I raised the gun toward the target, my ear protection cancelling out everything but a subtle hum of wind, time seemed to slow and I felt my palms instantly sweating against the polymer grip. I remember thinking that if I didn't make my decision soon it was going to slide out of my hand. I took a breath, exhaled and focused my sights. At that moment the vast landscape around me had become an orange/tan blur. When it finally fired after that lingering suspenseful moment where I could hear nothing over the sound of my own heart in my chest. I was elated. Combustion; one powerful pulse of energy that propelled a single object with such intent that I simply couldn't stop smiling at the sheer genius of the engineering behind it. I felt the force of the recoil push back against me, startling me but as I held onto it and felt the energy resonate and dissipate through my body, I thought: "Holy hawt dayum... that's a lot of power!"  

"Crap... she's reloading."
Fast forward a couple of years and I've spent a lot more time over the last few months shooting other people's guns, learning, questioning, doing research, shooting some more and simply falling in love with shooting.  There are these things in life that may not have been introduced to us as kids, but that we find later on and become enamored with.  As my friend (the same friend who took me shooting on that fateful day), drove me back to my house after I had officially laid the money down and signed the paperwork on my first handgun this weekend, he asked me: "Did you ever think that would own a gun?"  Without hesitation I grinned, "Well no, but to be fair, I never saw myself riding a motorcycle either... when I was a kid I envisioned myself as a writer living in a neat little loft in New York City." Sometimes, in life, we don't get to choose where our path goes (whether we follow the rules or not) but we do get to choose how to make the most of it and sometimes we have to challenge ourselves to step outside of the mold, to pop the bubble and try something new. 

I can't put words to how innately I am moved by the power of the combustion process; whether I am holding it in my hand and squeezing a trigger, reeling back the throttle and leaning into the corners, or pressing the but of a shotgun up against my shoulder and trying to nail a clay disc that is sailing through the air. Life manifests itself in many ways, and it all starts with a spark that we have to lend ourselves to igniting... even if we've grown accustomed to living in the dark.  

Recycling: Converting a 400 Single Cylinder into a 4 Inch Barrel

It had been a long time since I watched one of my bikes leave my driveway for good but a few days ago Claudia, my beloved DRZ when to a new home.

I bought Claudia a couple of years ago from a guy who put a whopping 5,000 miles on her before he upgraded to a BMW.  She had been meticulously taken care of and she was in stock condition.  Of course, I could barely get the toes on one foot to reach the ground so I did some modifications, lowering links (I know... I am shamed), shaved the seat, handlebar risers... And when it was all said and done, I could get the toes down.  

We had enjoyed more amazing rides together than I ever could have imagined; trips to Laguna, the solo rides, the time when I asked my friend to take me up some fire roads and instead we wound up at an Off-Road Vehicle area on 80% street tires after which time he reassured me I would be fine... even though time and time again I fell over... repeatedly; with the exception of the moment when I followed him up one side of a hill and found myself confronted with only one option: riding her down a 6 story hill trying to avoid falling into the rut on the center line, and chanting "shit, shit, shit" repeatedly in my helmet all the way down as my heart pounded and I was certain that at any moment the front wheel would grab and I would go toppling ass-over-tit down the hill with a bunch of experienced dirt riders (probably total hotties too knowing my luck) held up behind me, watching in amusement the carnage of some chick in street gear wiping out before their very eyes.  That didn't happen though, and I still find that to be one of my favorite experiences on two wheels, just for the sheer amusement value of it.
DRZ's are such great bikes.  For a 400 single, it had quite a bit of stamina, even though I probably rode it harder than it could handle ( and by "probably" I mean... "definitely").  Even though they aren't the full super-moto, they are agile enough to go where you wanna go without much fuss; unless you're wanting to go down a freeway at 100 mph.  But really, who can complain about that.  This is the bike that introduced me to how much more fun and effortless it can be to ride a bike that is flickable, spunky, and light to the point where even on asphalt the pegs are delicately lingering within an inch or so from the asphalt if you're really on it in the corner. Although, the Avon Destanzias are great tires and I have to give them quite a bit of credit when it comes to asphalt prowess. Still, I am not surprised that she sold as quickly as she did.

I put the DRZ up on Craigslist and almost immediately I had 7 total inquiries, most of them serious.  At one point I received an email from a guy who offered to pick it up right then and there for my full asking price, but seeing as how it was 9:30 at night after a pretty eventful day at work, I wasn't really feeling like entertaining so we arranged for him to come get the bike the next day. The next day, after a few text messages regarding the details of the bike, he called to say he was on his way: "Yeah hi, I've been talking to a guy about a DRZ?" he says shortly after I answered his call. 

I cracked a devious smile.  Sometimes I forget about the fact that women riders are still some kind of rare breed in the central cali valley. Never mind the fact that my name is contained in my email and I don't know a lot of guys who go by "Rose."  "No, you've been talking to a chick about a bike and the bike is all ready for you to take home."  I said playfully. There was a pause on the other end, some stammering, another pause and then: "Have you been doing the work on it?"  I was trying very hard to stifle a chuckle.  Before too long he showed up and took the bike home. 

I didn't cry.  I was strong, but I definitely felt my heart grow a little heavy as I boxed up all of her accessories in a rubbermaid bin and carried it over to his truck. As I watched him ratchet the tie down straps, I remembered all of the awesome rides I had taken on that bike.  I could say that I felt regret, but honestly, I really didn't. If anything, there was a small weight lifted from my shoulders that I no longer felt obligated to get her back up to snuff when I had so many other projects going on.  More accurately, what I felt was bittersweet relief.  

I will definitely get another supermoto.  If there is one thing that my little 400 DRZ-S ignited in my soul, it was the experience of riding a bike that is light, agile, and torquey on the street.  If nothing else, it ignited my inner hooligan, and reassured the gypsy in me that my long distance travels and wanderlust could be carried out with a lot less lower back pain than I had previously experienced in doing it on a sportbike.  I will miss my mighty DRZ, but all is not lost.  A chunk of the proceeds from her sale went toward one of my newer hobbies: shooting.

Farewell Claudia DRZ, Hellllllo Claudia Springfield... XD-S 9...

Friday, May 2, 2014

Gas, Grass, or Cash... No One Survives for Free

It's 2:45 in the morning and I really shouldn't even be awake, except that I am.  I'm only really made aware of the fact that I am awake by the fact that my stirring is disrupting the peaceful slumber of the dog; who makes her discomfort known with exasperated sighs and a nudge with a nose or a paw as she tries to weather the storm of my restlessness. It's a lot like sharing a bed with human, except she doesn't snore... loudly.

The truth is, the world fascinates me today.  It does every day, but every so often there are these moments where I am awakened to something a little more profound than usual... like the fact that we live in a country that is in a major recession, that there are about 4 million people relying on unemployment benefits in the U.S., and the middle class is slowly receding into the ocean of poverty; and yet... we are paying upwards of 35 thousand dollars for a full size pickup truck that gets 22 miles per gallon of gasoline that costs almost 5.00 a gallon.  For one, it's unfathomable to me that any everyday Class C vehicle could cost that much.  Secondly, It's mildly disturbing to me.

I'm not sure at what point I became disconnected for the going rate of material possessions but today, as I was juggling a major financial decision, I stumbled upon this brutal reality. The decision is whether or not I should commit to $30,000 in student loans just to finish my bachelors degree and go to work in an industry that I already know the grim odds for stable employment and return of investment on my degree.  You might be thinking, "well you should have chosen a more lucrative and marketable degree," but if you can show me an industry outside of banking, pharmaceuticals, oil, and prisons that IS doing well enough to be stable in this economy, then I might take your word for it.  All of that aside, I'm pretty sure that a degree in Psychology will become significantly marketable in the future... if it isn't already. In fact, the irony of those industries and their relative success isn't lost to me.  As consumers we are led to spend money, inebriate ourselves from the struggle, spend a lot of money on gas (because if you're going to want access to the finer things in life, you're gonna have to drive to get there), or go to prison. At the root of it all we are conditioned to be unhappy or unsatisfied so that we continue consuming to fill the voids in our lives.

I am unhappy with that reality but it doesn't make me unhappy in my life. It has taken me some time to be able to make that distinction but it's true.  I am unhappy at the idea that people... perfectly capable human beings are conditioned to be unhappy and taught how to identify all of it's causes (don't worry, there's a pill for that), and yet never really taught how to identify or pursue happiness.  I recently saw a commercial for a pharmaceutical for some new condition that no one has ever heard of: the pitch was something along the lines of: "Do you frequently randomly burst out laughing?  Do you ever just start crying? If so you may have ... bla bla bla..." Coincidentally, I burst out laughing at it.  I mean they might as well just come right out and say it: "Do you ever feel any emotion at all?  Because if you do, you might be human... It's a rare disorder in which patients experience empathy and desire, willpower, love, excitement and a full gammut of other uniquely human phenomenon."  "But don't worry... we're gonna keep you nice and deluded so your daily life as a consumer won't be disrupted."

The idea of spending 30 or $40,000 dollars on a vehicle is extremely unappealing to me when they aren't even made out of steel anymore.  They are made out of plastics and we just buy into it, agreeing to these insanely unrealistic loan terms and winding up owing more than the car is worth when it comes time to sell or even make repairs to it. I also don't understand why I have to invest $30,000 in a piece of paper that says you know some stuff you read in a book which supposedly makes you qualified for a job.  I am not saying that it's not worth investing in education, I think everyone should invest in education... they should invest time in asking questions of their world and deducing the facts for themselves.  But I hate that my "education" is more contingent upon me sitting down and finding out which degree is the most marketable and will see the greatest return on investment, and less about sitting down and figuring out where I can contribute the most and find the most happiness. Happy people make happy consumers and I have the strangest feeling that with the statistics and reports on quality of life that have been released, consumers aren't buy out of happiness, they are buying out of despair.
What's your dream house?
I wish that we were taught the importance of human integrity and work ethic from a young age.  I wish that children were taught to look into themselves and see that they have value as people, not consumers. Because when we feel that we have value, that we are autonomous, we are more likely to regard others the same way.  I don't need a psych degree to tell me that. I don't need a psych degree to tell you that either - ha ha! I also wish that we would learn to see the value in what we do and not by how much we consume, because if we did... if we spent more time looking at the quality of what we produce, then we might also, by default, doing a better job... maybe.  Perhaps that is wishful thinking.  I try to abide by these things, or to at least give them life but I'm still human, after all. But I do my best... to live within my means.I can't claim to have any answers, but I sure have a lot of questions.

Monday, April 28, 2014

Vintage Racing: Revving Up History On the Big Track - Conclusion


There are just things about bikes and racing that make me smile when I am a part of it... even as I look back on my pictures from the day I think about how in our technologically advanced society, bikes have gotten so much more complex, so much more precise, so much faster and so much more powerful.  While I am not one to live in the past, as a motorcycle owner, I am glad to see these old bikes still running on a track, not being forgotten but instead finding their own place in the present, a place where cobwebs and retirement to the living room aren't yet a part of the plan; and where header pipes still burn and tick at the end of the day.

Maybe our culture isn't as disposable as it seems...


As the last race came to an end I gathered my camera in my backpack and fired up my bike. I smiled as I considered that my mighty ZX6R would one day (probably very soon ha ha) be holding her own in a vintage class as well.  I am continually impressed when I still see these B models at track days, but in amateur racing they are fewer and further between.  Not that that really means anything... an end of an era only marks a new beginning and life is full of opportunities to be alive.

Life Support  
I pulled out onto the highway and headed west toward the sunset.  The winds had picked up and the challenge had become to make the ride as comfortable as possible for the next 40 or so miles.  As I rested my chest on the gas tank and rolled on the throttle, I listened to the murmur of the motor and thought about how many times I had ridden through worse conditions just for the sake of going for a ride.  As the wind bullied me into a perpetual lean, and I gently resisted it's attempts to push me into the other lane, I cracked a smile. It ain't a ride if it's easy.

On the way down the mountain I passed truck after truck hauling trailers strapped down with bulky shiny Harley Davidsons; operators were scrambling to get ahold of, and secure their tie downs.  I couldn't help but chuckle at the irony: they sure don't make those bikes like they used to... (ha ha)

If you are interested in learning more about the American Historic Racing Motorcycle Association and Vintage Racing events in your area, I highly encourage you to visit their website here: http://dev.ahrma.org/.

And if you are interested in seeing more of my photos from the day's event, you can check out the album on Smugmug, here: http://theapexdream.smugmug.com/Sports/Willow-Springs-Vintage-Races/38813744_KjtVz4


Vintage Racing: Revving Up History On The Big Track - Part 2

I rolled up to the entry booth and signed in.  The wind was gently nudging me around as I scribbled my name and paid my entry fee.  Once I entered I was greeted by the sights and sounds of vintage racing nostalgia. I rolled up to the bleachers along the front straight and propped the bike on it's kick stand. I had made pretty good time and there were still 6 races left to put my photographic prowess to work.  I sauntered up to the gate along turn one, set myself up a few feet away from the corner worker and starting snapping off shots.

Behind me the paddock was extensive. Motorcycles, scooters, side-cars and other make-shift motorized machines were strewn about as people feverishly tended to tire pressures, tire warmers, shuffled around for wrenches and clacked away on hard parts in an attempt to dial in their machines in time for the next race.  

After a few laps of taking pictures, I had wandered into the pits to explore.  There were hundreds of bikes, Hondas, Kawasakis, Benellis, BSAs, Harley Davidsons, Suzukis,  Nortons, Ducatis, and more.  Different sizes, colors, modifications, and on more than a few occasions I found myself watching some of these guys and go around the track, fully tucked on motorcycles that I could swear had smaller, more fragile frames than most of today's mountain bikes.  Still, they made it look and sound amazing; reeling back the throttle and infusing life into these old relics of motorcycling history and riding them like there is no tomorrow.  It was spectacular, the aroma of race gas, the whine of two strokes and the thunderous roar of the twins duking it out in the Sound of Thunder class. I chatted up the builders, the riders, and the support folks, I watched as entire families wrenched on bikes, test rode bikes, and came together for pre-race high-fives, hugs and encouraging cheers before the racers went out onto the grid to line up for another heat of friendly rivalry. My love of bikes and racing culture was even more affirmed; this is how every red blooded American should be spending a weekend. Nascar, football, Jerry Springer... these things simply can't hold a match to two wheeled racing.





Vintage Racing: Revving Up History On The Big Track - Part 1

This weekend was the weekend of the American Historic Motorcycle Racing Association's vintage races out at Willow Springs.  Truth be told, I had been counting it down for a few weeks now; not as a racer, but as a spectator.  Usually, I am doing a track day on Streets of Willow at the same time that this event is being held at the big track, but this weekend I didn't have anything going on and I had specifically set aside the time to take my camera out and get some good practice in.  My original plan was to go out for both days but a storm blew through town and put a damper [pun] on my Saturday plans. Instead, I wound up going down to LA with a friend to pick up his bike from a shop, and bumped my travel plan to going on Sunday instead; because dropping in for a visit at a cramped dusty bike shop in sunny Los Angeles is close enough to a day spent hanging out with bike enthusiasts at a cold, rainy and windy desert race track... heh heh!

I woke up pretty early and checked the weather forecast.  It was still looking pretty gloomy in my neck of the woods so I figured I'd wait it out a couple of hours and see if the clouds passed. Not that I mind riding in the rain, but probably 35 of the 60 miles is through the higher elevations as you wind through the Tehachapis and the weather is usually a little worse when it comes to cloudy and cold. Around 11 I checked again: partly cloudy and chilly in the mountains, and there was a weather alert for wind gusts between 40 and 50 mph from the mountains into the desert. I can handle a little wind, and it's usually always windy out at Willow Springs anyway so I grabbed my camera, filled up the bike and hit the road. 

It was sunny and cool, perfect for my leather jacket with just a long sleeved shirt underneath.  I took the back-roads out to the highway and as I rode along the sweeping curves I looked over into the foothills and saw a dirt bike rider pacing me from a dirt trail just off the roadway.  I raised my hand up and gave him a wave and he returned the gesture with a wave and a wheelie before breaking off and disappearing on the other side of the foothills, a little part of me was charmed even though I'm sure he thought I was a guy.

Once I hit the highway I paced myself a little more modestly to avoid any unnecessary law enforcement interventions.  I made my way up into the Tehachapi pass,  and along the way I encountered hordes of Harley riders making their way toward some unknown congregation point. There must have been a convention somewhere. We exchanged a few polite waves until the roads separated and I once again picked up the pace.  At 4,000 feet I had reached the summit and it was noticeably cooler but bearable.   I was pretty happy that the sun was still out and as I exited the freeway to catch another back road I was greeted with a trademark gust of wind, giving me a gentle nudge as a warning for what was in store.

Tehachapi Willow-Springs Road carves it's way through the mountains and some consider it a scenic route because of the windmill farms that sit just a few miles off of the main highway all the way through the pass and at the higher plateaus in the desert floor just on the southern side.  The windmills are quite massive, towering over the roadway in a way that makes you feel like nothing more than a tiny field mouse scurrying through the land of a thousand giants.  Most of the corners are blind sweeping corners with variable drops and rises to match the changing landscape.  I enjoy the ride because its a shortcut to the track, and it's a lot more entertaining than the slabs of overcrowded freeway that wind all the way around the mountains and out into the desert before backtracking to the race track.

It is absolutely impossible to miss the track from the two lane road that leads to the main entrance. With the exception of a few houses strewn about in the distance surrounding it, the track is basically laid out in the middle of nowhere in the California desert and yet, only a few miles from the city of Rosamond.  The infamous "Omega" of the big track lays like a ribbon along the side of a hill and you can usually make out the smaller Streets of Willow, and Horse-Thief mile tracks as you look closer.  Either way I get chills every time I approach.  "The fastest track in the west" has a way of maintaining a powerful presence in the landscape, even if some of the buildings are a little older and faded... the green paint just adds to it's charm.  It is a true racing complex that has been a mecca for a variety of different types of racing since it was built in 1953. It always seems fitting to me that this is the local stop for the vintage races.


Saturday, April 26, 2014

A Wench Wrenching

It's a known fact that the more of your life you spend riding there will be equal amounts of time invested in wrenching... whether you are doing it yourself or paying someone else to do it.  In my case, I simply can't afford to pay to have the maintenance done on my bikes so I do the majority of it on my own or with the help of friends. I hang on by the thread of a bolt, by the fiber of a cloth, by the link of a chain; barely keeping up with the maintenance on the suggested intervals.  A lot of people think it's pretty cool that a chick wrenches on her bikes but as much as I enjoy it, I do it more out of dire necessity than I do for cool points -although I like cool points... way more than I like cookies so I'll take 'em if you're givin' 'em out!

The thing about motorcycles is the more you get to know about them... the more you either come to love them or become completely turned off by them;  usually you fall deeper into love with them - unless you're suffering from a psychological disconnect from all things awesome. In all that I've learned in all of the miles, there is still a LOT I have left to learn.  But sometimes I take a minute to reflect on how far I've come and it amazes me that I've ridden through as many different pairs of tires; that I've done as many oil changes, coolant flushes and other trivial procedures as I have... to the point where sometimes it seems like more of a chore than it does a learning experience.  But then I think about the fact that I, like many other people, am prone to taking things for granted... like how much wrenching has really evolved me as a person and has cut further into the love of motorcycles that I have, and how much I really enjoy it when I am knuckles deep in a task... even if I am poking fun or mocking my own frustration. It also helps that I have friends with a sense of humor.

Wrenching Bitch Face... well kinda... I was really just goofing off and looking like a dork...
Last year, after swapping the motor into Amelia (my beloved ZX6R), I had set aside some of the pieces from the old track bike to use as refurbish bits.  I hadn't gotten around to getting the jobs done since they weren't immediately pressing, but on Easter I decided that the hesitancy in my front caliper pistons (a creaking and delayed engagement) was something I should probably take as a sign that it's time. Besides, I had to replace that low beam-bulb as well.  I had made mention of the upcoming task to a friend of mine who later popped in with his Vacula* bleeder system and made the whole draining and bleeding process 3 times quicker. I mean, I'm not normally one to endorse products here, but this thing has made multiple brake fluid changes so easy... but you'll need an air compressor or someone with a really strong set of lips and vacuum pressure in his/her lungs... maybe even a tolerance for really awful chemical flavorings.

I had already started disassembling some bits from the other bike and decided that while I was at it, I would replace the master cylinder, the front brake reservoir and the calipers since mine appeared to need a little love... although not as bad as they could be.  Why not right?  I mean... how much beer do we have?

Brake pads still have some life... calipers could use a little cleaning but not bad for 40+ thousand miles
The brake task was done in record time.  I took the bike out for a test ride and while the brakes worked significantly better with improved response (read also; 'the way they should') I noticed that at 9,000RPMs and up my motor let out a significantly improved (read also; degraded) grind from within her motor.  My heart sank a little but I still hadn't done the oil change yet and that bike tends to become a little outspoken when her oil isn't kept up to spec.  She had been running low lately though so of course the motor is burning it... orrrrrrrrr those stupid oil fairies are back again.  This is the life on two wheels. I let out a bittersweet smile, gave her an endearing pat on the gas tank, and continued on a meager pace home.

Once Vacula (read also; " The Evaculator" "Evacula" and a few other nicknames we threw out whilst making jokes throughout the process) had done it's job, my friend was on his way.  I was left to my own devices and I cracked a fresh beer and got situated with oil and filter and more wrenches.  We were alone, me and my bike,  as we had been so many times before in this garage.  As I carefully unbuttoned her fairings and laid them aside, unscrewed the oil drain bolt, the oil filter, and waited patiently for it all to drain, I realized that while I wasn't even really thinking about the process, I was exactly where I wanted to be on a nice evening.
Fresh Brewed Daily
As the oil drained out I got to work on cleaning up the chain and spraying it down with fresh lube; wiping off the excess and pausing to admire random components on this bike that I have owned and ridden the crap out of for years but always find something to pause and swoon over; it's a beautiful machine with beautiful lines, beautiful power, beautiful everything.  It's a love affair, for sure, these bikes. "Just hang on for me a little longer, baby... we are meant to do great things together." I muttered as I examined the drain bolt and the filter.  I've been uttering these words for years, it seems, and yet I am not ungrateful for the mileage I've gotten out of the ZX6R.  It has been a great bike, and no doubt will be for thousands more miles.

A lot of people buy bikes, burn 'em up and get rid of 'em and that's a nice luxury to have, but at the same time there is something I enjoy about rebuilding - even if I haven't formally hit the rebuild point and I am still holding her together with spare parts... something about taking something and trying to make the most of it.  As much as I probably ought to, I don't see things as disposable and when a bike has carried me this far, and survived longer than any boyfriend I've ever had... there is something to taking a few minutes and spending some quality time in a garage with the vessel that has always been able to keep up with me and readily fires up for me whenever I need it.

Sun-faded rear sets... but they still hold me up

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

What a Drag It Is Getting Old

So it's pretty needless to say that a lot has been going on in my life at a very rapid pace lately. I've accepted a couple of different opportunities with regard to my career and writing pursuits (they aren't mutually exclusive). For the position I accepted helping launch a new program, I had to go do the usual physical, TB test, fingerprinting, yadda yadda yadda. So I hop on the bike and get my day rollin'. I get the finger-printing done in almost record time, which opens up my day for a loooooong waiting period at the occupational clinic. I sign in, shuffle my helmet and jacket around and get situated, expecting to be sitting there for a while. Anyone who has been through the process knows it can be a bit... boring.

Within a minute I was called back. Yessssss.... green light! I muttered to myself as I gathered my things. I was pretty happy about this smooth pace that I had been having during my day and I cooperatively made my way to the back, cheerfully greeting the aide as I walked through the doorway.

Now... years ago (which is about how long it's been since I've had to do a work related physical) this was cake. But I have since come to realize that few things will burst your bubble of eternal youth quite like the vision test. I've always been extremely proud of my visual capabilities. I've held pretty consistent at 20/20 for the last few years and I fully expected the same results today. You might say I was almost cocky about it. She told me to pick the line that I could read the easiest without straining my eyes and rattle off the numbers. Then she instructed me to do the same whilst covering my right eye. I found both of these tasks to be pretty easy. I eagerly scrolled my way all the way to the bottom and selected the line that was second from the base. “Okay, now cover your left eye and do the same.” It was then that I scrolled down the same page and found that my beloved line had abandoned me in a blur of incomprehensible characters. This cannot be?! I gasped internally and hesitated before beginning. “I think I smeared something in my eye,” I pointed out whilst rubbing my eye.
It won't be long before they're takin' my keys
I looked back at the picture and there was only minimal improvement; “Okay... M... F... T... S...” I started reading aloud awkwardly, picking up confidence as I went along, “...what is that, a K?” I asked nonchalantly with a nervous laugh. I paused to glance over at her with my left eye still covered. I could only imagine what I must have looked like holding my hand up there and looking at her for confirmation with one terrified eye while the rest of my face tried to play it off. My blind eye flawlessly read the expression on her face as I hurriedly returned to the picture and again squinted, reading off the last few letters with the desperation of someone who just wanted it to be over. She acknowledged my results by writing them silently on a paper.

Sure.  I could have probably picked a more legible line, but this was serious. I refused to accept it. I refused to accept this imperfection in symmetry. I tried to brush it off as we made our way to the scale but it was lingering in the back of mind. I tried to peek over her shoulder casually to see what she had written but her long, pretty brown hair was in my way every time. Damnit.

“Okay go ahead and step on the scale and we'll get your weight.” Oh this should be equally enlightening. I thought to myself defeatedly. I haven't weighed myself in months. I never really care to but several months ago when I was still with the ex I had measured myself in at 130. I stood there as she slid the measuring mechanism (whatever they are called) from side to side ranging from 140 and then back to 110 until it balanced itself. I felt myself pinch my eyes closed in an apprehensive cringe as she slid it closer to 140. The suspense was killing me but in a humorous way. I felt myself let out an exasperated chuckle, ooooh god just let it land already! “Alright, 126,” she said as she scribbled the notes on her form. I opened my eyes in disbelief. “Huh? Really? 126?” She looked at me, “Hell yeah! I need to be single forever!” I scoffed out loud. I jokingly thought to myself Maybe I should adjust my suspension to account for this?

Old isn't always a bad thing...
She walked me to an exam room where I waited in silence, plopping myself up onto the padded table where the tissue paper crinkled under my but. Posters were hanging on the wall with diagrams of human anatomy. Immediately I placed my hand back over my left eye in my own internal challenge. “Alright damnit...” as I scrolled around to find the smallest font possible and strained my eyes to the point where a Jedi master would have generated enough power to level the dwellings of every planet in the universe. My concentration was shattered by a knock at the door. It was the doctor.


“Hi there!” She began going through my paperwork and reading back questions. “Any medical history?” “Yeah,” I began, “a motorcycle accident in 2006 where I sustained a broken scapula, some cracked ribs and a lacerated spleen during which time I also took a blood infusion.” She looked up from her paperwork and her mouth was agape. I was still inconspicuously squinting at the poster with my left eye pinched when I caught her gaze and relaxed my stare. “I wasn't expecting that!” She said in awe. I responded which a chuckle, “Yeah, neither was I!” I said. She continued her exam, poking and prodding and looking in my ears and tapping on my knee caps, all the while we are chatting and laughing and in the back of my mind I am wondering where my impeccable visual abilities have gone. I felt a mild emptiness as I considered the harsh reality that... I am getting old, and so are my faculties. Like my old tired bike, my body is telling me that it's time to start stretching more, exercising more, eating better, and looking out for myself. And then there's my reasoning telling me, “Shit, it's a miracle we've made it this far and still have faculties to begin with.”  

When you do it with style...

Monday, April 14, 2014

Ridin' Under a Blood Moon

Every 2nd Monday of the month our local euro riders gather for a bike night.  I don't own any European bikes but I suppose I've been cordially invited as a guest.  Of course, not everyone rides a eruo bike, there are a few classics from all over the place.  I enjoy going because the group is laid back and friendly.  Today just happened to be EBN and I found it a convenient coincidence that it was on such a beautiful evening where the moon would be shining down in full force.

Tonight's turnout was much bigger than the last few; a lot of Triumphs, a few BMW's a couple of Ducatis, a couple of KTMs and a few other stragglers were spread out in our self assigned designated parking area.  I always feel a little giddy when I see a lot of bikes because... well bikes are cool.  So as I rolled through the lot I let out a little giggle and narrowed down my parking spot right next to the old 750 triple.  It is, by far one of my favorites at the event.  Beautiful original black and green paint scheme and matching custom helmet.  I never get tired of looking at it.


There were bikes for everyone to love, though and a good group of people who love talking about them.

We had special parking. ;)
At the end of the night I had decided that I would probably take the long way home. I very seldom ever find myself out and about at night, but the luxury of where I live is that it's pretty close to the outskirts of town and tonight was just too good of a night to pass up a nice cruise out to the lake and back under a brilliant full moon.

I cued up my tunes and bid my friends farewell, making my way back across town and popping in for some gas.  I always get chills before a ride on a beautiful night, and I was certain my decision would not disappoint.  Just me and the bike like we had done so many times before.

Before I proceed with the rest of this blog it should be known that I cannot be held responsible for anything anyone does following what they've read here.  I do not advise, nor condone trying anything you read here.  My experiments and experiences are always performed in a familiar environment where risks have been thoroughly assessed and appropriate safety measures have been taken. Let it be known that if you try anything, even so much as taking a swig of hot coffee from an establishment that I have mentioned here, you could die.  Life is weird like that and because of that I am making it known that these experiences and decisions are decisions that I make on behalf of and FOR myself and myself only.  Do not try this at home.

A few days ago my low beam went out.  Something about water getting into my headlight and I just haven't gotten around to pulling it apart and fixing it so I've been running on the high beam.  As I descended from the hill, a cool night breeze tickled my neck and I cracked my visor to take in the sweet smell of blossoms and foothill soil.  I was the only vehicle on the road for miles and the only light was that of the moon casting down on the foothills and illuminating the road beyond the focal point of my headlight.  Suddenly, a thought scurried through my head and brought a devilish smile to my face.  Kill the lights and just cruise.  I had the throttle steady about 70 and the road was a series of broad winding sweepers that I could probably ride in braille if I had to. I glanced over my shoulders to make sure I was truly alone (even though the light of another vehicle would have been entirely too obvious). I couldn't shake the urge so I muted the tunes, opened my visor and flipped my highbeam switch off.  Instantly the roads went dark with only the faint ambient light of the moon to light my way. 

It was bright enough to work, and it was awesome. I don't know why it was awesome, it just was.  It felt natural, pure, untainted by the harshness of my artificially generated light source shattering the beauty of the desolate landscape. Here I was on a motorcycle, exposed in a vast darkness in a realm of uncertainty.  It was humbling in some ways, when considering how reliant we are on things like light sources to guide us on our way through the darkness - how dependent we are and how terrified we become when something malfunctions and one of our natural faculties are impaired.  Sometimes, we forget that have natural abilities to find our way even in the dark, and as my eyes adjusted I could see more than what I expected I could of the road ahead. After a couple of miles I flipped the lights back on.  Like a light sabre the darkness was broken with the beam of my headlight and I could see the bugs emerging from oblivion and smearing themselves on the nose of my bike that I had just cleaned prior to going to bike night.  

I cruised through a park and then wound around behind the foothills where I tried my little experiment again.  To be moving that fast, compelled by a motor in a natural environment was a strange yet invigorating feeling: I felt my vulnerability amplify and with it so did my instinctual awareness. My senses heightened for those few brief moments and it was a sort of calculated awakening. While some might consider it stupid, or playing chicken with nature, to me it was a measure of faith and confidence.  I wasn't riding beyond my abilities but there was definitely a little faith required in hoping that a deer didn't run out in front of me; but that's not any different than riding with a headlight on.   

There are times in my life, during a ride, where I have a fleeting thought of what someone might think if I died at a given moment. After the fact, I have to admit that I chuckled a little at my dark sense of humor imagining what the dialogue would be or how stupid people would think I was if my roll of the dice hadn't paid off.  In the grand scheme there are much larger gambles that I, and many others have taken in their lives. I hardly consider this to be anywhere near even the middle of the spectrum of danger.  But I can already hear the song of the flamers because, still, society has this shameful avoidance of taking chances at all cost because things are dangerous.  But if only society could experience what I experience every time I ride my bike on any given occasion.  If only they knew what they were missing they might have a sense of adventure and come to realize that it's not about dying for trivial things, it's about what you live for because in the end we all arrive on death's doorstep.

Sunday, April 13, 2014

Musings From the Scary God-Mother

In picking up where I left off with my last post, I feel like there are some things I should clarify regarding my views on gender roles, feminism, and the like.  See, where I think feminists go wrong is in thinking that the double standards only go one way; true women still tend to get awkward glances, rude comments, and we endure discrimination and imbalanced standards but so do men. Of course, there is also the argument that many women realize that sex sells (because it does) and they have opted to use their sexual power for personal gain, oftentimes at the expense of others (i.e., gold diggers). Still, there is very clearly defined image of what makes a man a "man."  Something about testosterone and machismo has men, time and time again, defending their glory in some of the most trivial of confrontations. In my own life, it has made for hours of lasting entertainment at barbecues, parties, gatherings and the like. Many of my guy friends still hold to the belief that a man should be able to provide for his wife even if she elects to work full time and earn her own living.  I think this is great, but I don't think that, if we are going to go on blast with demands for equality, women should expect to be rewarded or even accommodated simply for being women.  

This topic has been on my mind a lot lately as I have been hanging out with my god-sons, aged 7 and 10.  At 7 years old my youngest god-son is convinced that I am his girlfriend, and any time we go on an "adventure" he considers it a date.  "You realize you're going to be the pinnacle of what he looks for in women when he gets older, right?" his mom points out as we are driving to the nickel arcade a few weeks ago.  I can already see it unfolding as ten years into the future he rolls up to dinner with a tattooed, nerdy, somewhat socially awkward, analytical, outspoken, motorcycle-riding hooligan chick by his side. I won't lie, there is a little part of me that is proud of the fact that I can set an example that represents the counter-culture chicks, not only for selfish reasons but also because the more he is used to seeing women outside of the normative lifestyles, the less likely he will be to buy into the mainstream ideals not only of what women should be, but who he should be and what he should aim for as a man.

But while we are on the subject, if we are going to use the term "man" in terms of character qualifications then we should probably hold the same standard for "woman." To me, all if it is universally applicable.  I don't care how pumped up, pressed on, and airbrushed a chick is, if she can't carry herself with integrity, self-respect, and regard others with honesty, dignity and value then she isn't a "woman" in the same way that a coward wouldn't be considered much of a "man."  I think our society has found itself a bit off-course in defining the merits of people by the shallow standards that we have; all of which seem to center around the idea of "what can this person do for me?"  If I can indirectly aid in presenting and fostering the idea of self-determination in my god-sons then they will be less likely to find themselves in unhealthy relationships, instead looking at more meaningful qualities that make a person a good person.  These are my hopes for both of my little minions. 


Of course, there are also the other key important life lessons that we have been working on, such as the importance of gear, how to correctly bang your head and throw the horns to Ozzy songs, the craft of air guitar, and when to appropriately deliver the phrase: "ain't nobody got time fo-dat!" - among many others.  I have already cleared space in my day-planner for a visit to the principal's office to explain why junior responded to his homework assignment by saying: "Ain't nobody got time fo-dat!" Although, I can't be held accountable for "You ain't right!"  He picked that one up somewhere else. :)

Women-ism: Equal Parts Feminism, Humanism, and Realism

Of all of the places I've ever watched a sunrise (which isn't many since I am most certainly not a morning person)  I have to say that watching the sun come up over a race track has a special place in my heart.

Last month I had the chance to make some extra cash doing tech-inspection at a testing day for the AFM races at one of my local tracks.  It was pretty much a no-brainer when one of our local racers mentioned that the track was looking for someone to roll out for the day and tech bikes. Before I even finished reading the announcement an eager screech erupted from my soul to the tune of Ooh! Ooh!  Pick me! Pick me!  I called the track under my friend's recommendation and participated in a brief interrogation during which I was told, "This won't be that complicated, most of these bikes will be set up and ready to go." I got out to the track just in time to see the sun break over the eastern mountains. We were told mostly to check for tears and damages to gear and make sure that kickstands were removed and major bolts were safety wired.  I'm used to that process, having quite a few friends who race, so it was pretty straightforward for me.  My partner was of the opposite experience, he knew bikes but he openly admitted to having no interest in track days and absolutely no knowledge of racing. There was a humorous irony in our partnership since I had no interest in motorcycle clubs, burnouts and wheelies. He had a tattoo of his motorcycle club name, I had a tattoo of a sprocket, chain and compass representing my free-spirited approach to riding, and my passionate commitment to living the journey of my life on two-wheels.  Of course, there was also the obvious gender differences and as much as it doesn't seem necessary to point that out, there was a certain irony throughout the day that resonated from the focal point of gender roles.

I've mentioned before that the culture of motorcycling has a variety of different sub-cultures; in our cases he was more of a street/club rider and I never really got into that scene. We were our own representatives of two different subcultures and we got along well, both of us enjoying different aspects of the day but also revealing our biases on random occasions; for instance, as I overheard him ask a gal "Are you sure?" after she responded with "Expert" to the class designation that she was riding in. I looked up to see him eyeing her quizzically and she responded with, "I know, I know... it's because I'm a girl..."  I looked back at my own task at hand whilst giving a chuckle and shaking my head. He was as polite as could be, but still it was a bit surprising to me that the question was asked in the first place.

The paddock is alive with the sound of racing
I imagine I probably seemed a little socially inept as I had a hard time remembering faces if they weren't accompanied by bikes. I had long forgotten the "girl" incident when, at some point, a gal that had arrived late was making her way out onto the track. My cohort had taken notice of her earlier and was openly inquiring about how skilled she is on a bike.  As she approached the track my cohort uttered some uncertainty, "I'm not sure how I feel about that... I mean... it's cool that women want to ride motorcycles and all, but this is an intense sport."  I paused to stifle an endearing grin as I waited for him to tell me that he was kidding.  He didn't. "Welcome to the new age, my friend," I responded with a shrug and a playful grin. 

Perhaps it seems so normal for me because of how long I've been riding and the particular circle of friends that I keep.  In my circles there are usually a few women and there are plenty of women older than I am that can ride extremely well.  I have to admit that I was taken aback by his reaction to seeing women out on a race track, and for a moment we both sat in silence on opposite ends of the perplexity spectrum. It just seemed so odd to me that not only was he unaware of this culture of women in racing, but also that he apparently had mixed feelings on the subject. That actually happens?? I thought to myself.
She's got a bun in the oven... and it ain't a baby
Sometimes I forget that I don't always live on the same page as the rest of the world.  In a lot of ways I've gotten used to it.  Before I was a motoress I was a pool shark, and before that I was a PC gamer (first person shooters, death-matching, *sigh* the good 'ol days). I've also known a lot of other women who participate in these activities as well.  There has always been an element of surprise in how we are received when we demonstrate skill or even passion in any of these areas. "You're pretty good for a chick," I've heard stuff like this my entire life and while I can't say it ever really offended me, it does continue to surprise me that so many people have yet to catch on.   I mean, it seems like a no-brainer to me, but I understand that not everyone is exposed to the world in the same manner that I am as a tom-boy. While I wouldn't consider myself a feminist, I do consider myself a humanist (she who promotes the exploration of meaningful life experiences and self-determined aspirations), so I suppose the idea of "gender-appropriate" behaviors isn't something I ever really bought into. But it's a lot more feasible to point that out from the perspective of a woman who has always played in a man's world than it would be to grasp it from the perspective of a man who has always lived in a man's world.

This is one thing I like about the track/racing environment; it's par for the course for ladies to be out there right alongside the guys.  No one thinks much of it and it's an environment where everyone is out there riding their own pace, trying to improve their pace, and yet everyone is out there doing it with people who share the same love and passion for it.  In the paddock you're among friends, on the track you're on your own but in the best possible way. I especially have respect for the folks who are out their getting their daughters into racing from a young age. It sure as hell beats entering your toddlers into beauty pageants - don't get me started on little girls in beauty pageants. I don't think it leads to nearly as rewarding of a life as the life led by a woman who was always encouraged to inquire for herself as to what makes her life meaningful (be it racing motorcycles or becoming a welder), and to decide for herself the scope of what she has to offer the world as an able-bodied self-determined woman.  But I will probably delve a little deeper into this during my next couple of posts.

Masterbaking with Napoleon Syndrome: A Recipe for Disaster Part 2

I got home, clicked on some tunes and took a deep breath. I started with a little Xavier Rudd - some nice bluesy classical guitar to serenade my sanity.  This recipe looked gnarly and it was going to be a lot of tedious work. Slowly and gradually adding, by the spoonful, flour into my stiffly beaten egg-whites (and other ingredients)  was something I imagined was important so as not to compromise the consistency of the batter and while I was immediately proud of the fact that I got the consistency right, after the15th spoonful of flour I found myself glancing over at my trusty Kitchenaid mixer.  I bet I could totally do it that way now that enough of a dough has formed. Oh yes... I was already looking for the easy way out. But in my defense, it really did accelerate the process. Thus, after the 17th spoonful, I had completely caved to my lazy side and transferred my little ball of dough into the mixer, put it on low and dropped spoonfuls of flower in while I multitasked with starting the beans for my chili, and the potatoes for my potato salad.  When it was all said and done the dough was velvety soft and firm enough to roll out.  I again relished in pride with a shimmy of my hips and a brief dance with the dog, who had taken up residency in a spot on the floor where she laid with one eye open anticipating dropped gods.
Rollin' in the dough...
By the time I got to separating the dough and beginning to bake my sheets of pastry (for lack of a better term) I was already starting to a feel a lull in motivation.  I was about an hour and a half into me endeavor and my acoustic hippie jams were great in the beginning, but I needed something that packed a little more punch.  So I cranked up a playlist of 5 Finger Death Punch, Journey, Tool, and a energetic mix of bands and started on the next phase.  After the 3rd hour I openly declared with an exasperated sigh, "Oh, I have sooooo much respect for professional bakers now."  Not that I didn't before.  But I felt like it was worth declaring. My friend had taken to texting me a pic of his "light lunch" to which I responded with a pic of my work station and the simple words: "... a light endeavor, surprise!"  I figured it might be difficult for him to make out the wording on the top of the recipe but I proceeded anyway, surely maybe the pic would stand out... the pic of what the cake was supposed to look like when it was done; all 16 layers of crust sandwiched in equal layers of rich custard.
Upon review I can see how this might be a bit obscured on a tiny cell phone screen...
After a solid 5 hours in the kitchen I took a break.  I hadn't really done that great of a job at modifying my recipe to meet my needs, and I did an even poorer job of actually baking the dough to spec.  What came out was misshapen wafer-like cookie sheets, so I knew was looking at some excess in the custard department - since the recipe yielded enough for me to have to break out my oversized wok in order to appropriately execute the demands.  An hour of carefully mixing 9 egg yolks, butter, vanilla, 6 cups of milk and a wealth of other ingredients and ensuring that the heat didn't reach the boiling point all while "stirring constantly," was a little trying on my patience; add to it the fact that I needed to mix the custard constantly while it cooled as well. By this point I had already finished up the potato salad and had it chilling in the fridge, and the beans were simmering nicely. I had even managed to get the pork loin into the oven to slow roast for a couple of hours as well.  I was nearing the home stretch!  All I had to do was assemble my brilliant masterpiece and throw it in the fridge to chill and form. This was the easy part!  I stretched my back, cracked my neck and got to work. I fully expected (by the looks of the dough) that it was going to look nothing like the pic and maybe even completely look like shit.  I didn't care.  I was proud of myself for staying committed and not throwing everything in the trash and hittin' up Marie Callendars for a pie. 

Coincidentally my pork loin roasted itself nicely with the final step being a few minutes on the grill for a nice golden crust. "It's time for wine!" I proclaimed and cracked open a bottle of chilled white for a celebratory swig whilst preparing for my friend's arrival. An hour or so later he arrived and the feasting began.

The goods...
Dinner was exactly as I hoped it would be.  Nothing was overdone or under-done and I was even somewhat surprised, given how preoccupied I was with the dessert.  When it was finally time to break out the dessert I proudly reached into my fridge and broke out the cake.  "I decided to give it a go at making that cake you were telling me about."  I cracked the ring from the first mini springform pan and transferred his cake onto a plate.  We looked at it quizzically.  It looked amazing, but nothing at all like it was supposed to and I was pretty sure that while it was my ineptitude at proper execution, it was also the fact that it probably hadn't chilled long enough.  What mattered was that it had chilled long enough to eat... and so we did.

My masterpiece

Midway through dessert I made a comment about how funny it would be if I spent all of that time only to find out that it wasn't the right cake.  "It isn't... but its still good!" he said with a chuckle.  "What?" I paused, "I thought you said it was some Russian cake that was all complicated to make?!"  He responded with laughter, "Nooooo I said it was a German Lightning Cake that was a basic coffee cake that was simple to make."  "What?!"  By now I couldn't help but laugh.  Grabbing my phone, I Googled the Lightning Cake recipe and found it to be not only significantly less labor intensive (guess I could have gone on that ride after all), but non-requisite of any specialty pans, minimal ingredients, and straight forward; Prep time: 1 hour.  I laughed some more,  "Awesome!"  I shrugged, "Oh well, it was well worth the experience, and now there will be an awesome story to tell for generations to come... what is your favorite cake, anyway?" He responded with a simple answer: "Orange cake."

Since that night the story has been told 4 different times and has secured itself a spot in stone as an ongoing joke. I suppose a legacy is still a legacy, even if it is forged by accident.

Friday, April 11, 2014

Masterbaking with Napoleon Syndrome: A Recipe for Disaster Part 1

Over the years I've managed to develop quite the reputation for myself as an accomplished cook.  I made my first Thanksgiving Turkey when I was 14 and even before that I have fond memories of standing on a chair stirring sauces and helping my grandma with casseroles.  When I am feeling particularly adventurous I have even been known to make ravioli from scratch.  The one thing I've never managed to wrap my brain around is baking - well with the exception of pre-made cake batter that I can doctor.  I am terrible at baking, but it's not for lack of trying.  Every year at Christmas I try and fail in the baking department, with the exception of macaroons and brownies.  Last year I made an attempt at some sort of rum cookie that came out of my oven looking and tasting like tiny squares of porcelain.  I should have just broke out the paints and sent them to people as Christmas ornaments, or maybe even donated them to our local skeet shooting organization. Thus, I have often stood in my kitchen staring in disbelief at what has come out of my oven; referencing the recipe images and looking back at my atrocities while scratching my head.
Previous success: Stuffed Chicken Breast with Blue Cheese and Bacon-Wrapped Asparagus
  So about a month ago during a trip down to LA, my friend had mentioned that there was this cake he recently had that he wanted me to try and make.  My only response was to point out my ineptitude in the baking department.  Fast forward a month and it is my friend's birthday.  At the moment, I've just returned from a trip to the Bay area for another friend's baby shower, and I paid rent so my abilities to accommodate any sort of birthday gesture were... well limited at best. We made plans for me to throw some goods on the grill and maybe hang out for a bit.  Oh! I'll surprise him by making that cake he was talking about! My spirit jostled with excitement at the thought of embarking on this uncharted kitchen adventure, and at the thought of how impressed my friend would be at not only my memory of our conversation, but at what would surely become my newfound prowess with flour and egg ingredients. I've never been known to have a very good recollection of conversations, names, or faces so it came as no surprise that at the moment I couldn't remember what the hell the cake was.  I think it was a Russian dessert...
Bacon-wrapped-chicken-wrapped cheddarwurst and Bacon-wrapped Filet
(Oh yes, it was amazing)
Google Search: 'russian cake'. There it was, the Russian Napolyeon Cake.  Ahhh yesss... that's what it was.  I remember him saying something about custard... *print recipe*. Upon reviewing the directions it was becoming more and more apparent that my plan had become much larger of an undertaking than the description he gave of this "simple" cake.  Commands like "Stiffly beat two large egg whites," "gently fold 2 cups of flower in by the spoonfull," and "layer the ingredients into a springform pan..." immediately made my furrow my eyebrows and crinkle my nose suspiciously at what I was getting myself into.  What the hell is a springform pan?!  Google search: Springform Pan - Target $8.95 for a set of three miniatures.  Perfect!  I will make individual sized cakes and he can take one home! With a scoff, I blew off the concerns over the complexity and skill level required for the task and a "what could go wrong?" It was all coming together in a beautiful, flawless barrage of imagery in my mind.  I cracked a confident and cunning smile and made my way to the store for my goods.

As I parked the bike outside of Target, a couple of guys who were on break pointed out what a lovely day it is for a ride.  It was, indeed, but there was work to do.  There were hours of preparation for the dough, another hour or so for the custard and then the hours required for my masterpiece to chill and form. There was no time to ride today, I was on a mission.

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

A Little Bit About Dogs...

I have always been a firm believer in the fact that animals can improve the quality of life for their owners... under the right circumstances. Having a dog is a lot like choosing to adopt a child; they require time, attention, and money if you want them to be well-behaved and adjusted to life in your home. Not every dog is a good fit for every person so it's important to do your research and realistically assess what you have to offer before committing to bringing an animal into your home.  It is a major pet peeve (ha ha) of mine when people adopt animals without doing their research into the traits of the breed, or without looking at whether or not they can realistically invest the time and effort into being responsible pet owners; instead throwing their dog in the yard and letting it bark all night long, or allowing it to become an unsupervised destroyer of all things present... or worse, neglecting it altogether.  Animals don't get to choose their owners and it is a sad day when a dog is punished for his owners irresponsibility.  But I digress...

I have often considered that I may be on the inevitable path to curmudgeon-dom when I'd rather spend a Friday night curled up on the couch watching movies with the dog, than I would on an awkward date, or in an overcrowded bar. In fact, the only real complaint I have about my Friday nights with the dog is that she doesn't have thumbs and therefore can't play board games with me, or help me wrench on the bikes. Well... that and the blank expression she gives me when I try to engage her in conversations on social issues, ethics, philosophy, or bikes. But I've gotten the same look from many of my human counterparts as well so it certainly wouldn't be fair to hold that against the dog.

About a year ago I started seriously pursuing the quest of bringing a dog back into my life. I had been tossing it back and forth in my head for the better part of 6 months before that.  My ideal dog was an older female dog of mild temperament that was in need of re-homing because her family couldn't keep her or relocate with her. Preferably a mid-sized dog - even though I love big dogs, I didn't want to run the risk of having to keep a Great Dane or a Mastiff in an apartment if worst came to worst in life - you know like, if I had to... for some reason... kick my boyfriend out because he was lousy at paying rent and not being a complete prick ha ha. So there was this little dog... a puppy.  I didn't really want a puppy but for whatever reason we clicked and she became my forever friend.

The months that followed Piper's adoption went much more smoothly than I anticipated.  She was easy to house break, she was easy to crate train, she didn't whine a lot, she never barked, she was amicable under most circumstances; at track days, in the garage with the bikes, and even in the yard by herself.  Just about the only thing she didn't take to was riding on the bike... although, as I sit here reminiscing, I have to admit that she pretty much sucks at yard-obstacle courses too (ha ha).  To be fair, I haven't really tried that hard.  She has been quite the pivotal pal in many of my explorations and hard times and she has reinforced my belief that dogs are much more self-aware and intelligent than we give them credit for. Even in all of the commands that Piper has learned, she has picked up so much more in simple verbal and non-verbal cues, such as those that pertain to morality; right and wrong behavior.  She's a terrible liar.

Piper's reaction to being asked, "Did you steal?"
The fact that many humans don't care to really challenge or engage their dogs is in no way an indicator of a dog's capacity.  There are often times when I watch Piper assess a situation - such as when and how to approach the cat.  Or I watch her decide on whether or not a risk will be worth the reward - such as whether or not to run full speed in a drive-by tumbling with the cat as the cat saunters arrogantly around in the back yard (the cat does not appreciate this).  Most days she's a risk taker, a dog after my own heart but one who lives on the brink of uncontrollable excitement at the mere sight of her leash and harness. Many times I've wondered what the world looks like in her eyes, in her mind.  I wonder what she feels when she expresses shame. There are so many things we can learn from animals in the way of what to appreciate in life...

Of friends...  

Of new places and exploring...

Of the importance of hard work...


And love...

"I brought you this flower... but I kinda ate it."