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...

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.

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.

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