Rush Hour Rambling

Weather: 6°F (-14°C) and cloudy.
Road Conditions: Cold and dry.

The “shingle” on my cubicle at work.

DO NOT DISTURB. That’s what the image above says to my coworkers, from eleven to eleven-thirty a.m. every workday. It is during those precious thirty minutes that I am engaged in an activity called “blunch”.

Blunch is my own contraction of “blogger’s lunch”, and it is off-the-clock time that I use to take care of the administrative details of running RHR. Most days I spend this time filtering spam and answering comments, but some days I actually post an entry, if I have one just bursting to get out of my head.

Sometimes, I spend my blunch researching Mapquest and Google Earth for the next Ramble Plan. Looking for interesting routes, past restaurants I haven’t tried yet, or historic features of our fair Twin Cities, causes those thirty minutes to pass in a flash.

“So, when do you eat?” -I can hear you asking…

Well, I have a weird metabolism. I need fuel in the morning, but I never seem to have time for breakfast. In order to beat the waves of morning rush-hour traffic, I leave extremely early. So when nine o’clock rolls around, and I get my fifteen-minute break, I quickly dispose of the contents of the brown bag I have brought from home, or nuke a couple of burritos and scarf them down. That gives me all the energy I need to get through the day, and ensures that I’m hungry when I get off work… just in time for the next RHR Restaurant Review.

My bosses appreciate this arrangement, because they don’t have to worry about me surfing the web on company time. I appreciate it because I can do this out in the open, without worrying about who might be looking over my shoulder.

If someone does sneak up behind me, on a Friday like today, this is what they will see…

My “Friday Shirt”. (photo by Tracy Mayer)

I like to think it sends a subtle message about how I might react to interruptions.

The more perceptive amongst you will have probably figured out by now that I did not ride to work today. I drove my truck, on the freeway, with the rest of the mechanized herd of workforce zombies. It wasn’t fun, and it did not inspire me, but I just didn’t feel like riding in single-digit cold this morning.

The Windsock and Crystal Ball Guild tell us we are in for a “cold-snap”, which should last for a week or more. Hey, it’s the middle of January in Minnesota; this is expected. Hell, it’s way overdue. We should thank the poor folks in Denver for soaking up all our misery this year. But I haven’t made a commitment to ride every day this Winter like I did last year. I’ve nothing to prove, and really nothing to gain by riding when it is uncomfortably cold outside.

While I am driving, however, I will be thinking about riding, and constructing the framework for future posts. You might read another retrospective, or another “war story” from my hooligan past. Every time I sit down behind this keyboard, something happens. Most of the time it’s a good thing. Sometimes not. I trust you will let me know if I start slipping.

Weather: 38°F (3°C) and cloudy.
Road conditions: Dry with traces of salt and sand.

I suspect this bike is held together by Existential Gravity.

The exotic machine pictured above appeared in our parking lot at work one day. Normally, it was parked outside of the shipping company next door. The man who owns it rode it to work, every day, during the normal riding season. I don’t know why he had to park it in our lot on that day, or why he was lurking in the swamp watching me, as I took pictures of his mount after work.

Well, if he is determined not to be seen, I thought, I will pretend I don’t see him.

I actually met the guy once, over a year ago, while we were both getting gas at the local station. The bike was in better shape then, but the tires were much worse. Cords were showing on the front. He told me he always rode the rubber off his tires, rather than throw them away prematurely, as the manufacturers want you to do. I nodded sagely, and said, “Is that a fact?”.

“Oh yeah,” -he said, “them wear bars are nonsense. You can go right to the bottom of the tread without blowin’ `em out.”

“Uh-huh…” I said, as I walked around the bike. The rear tire was worn down square. I couldn’t imagine what that felt like leaned over, and decided that he rarely did. Lean it over, I mean.

Still, you can see a hint of roadwise savvy in the layout of the, er, custom accessories. I can sympathize with the ice-chest/backrest, which might be a welcome feature on warm days or long rides. But then I look at those long bolts sticking out of the frame, way up high just under the patchwork “fairing”, and I shudder. Those are intended as highway pegs, aren’t they?

I can see it now: Sit back against the cooler, put your feet way up on those highway pegs, twist that throttle, and watch the white lines flicker by… fall asleep and plow into the radiator of that oncoming eighteen-wheeler.

SPLAT!!! LIGHTS OUT, GAME OVER. No thanks…

Click on these images and look closely… all will be revealed.

The whole creation gives off competing vibes; of artistic aspiration versus utter desperation.

There can be no doubt, the man lives from paycheck to paycheck, barely scraping by in our modern industrial nightmare. But the playful artwork on that amazing fairing shows the spark of creativity that keeps him going. The haphazard arrangement of the rear turn signals shows a healthy disregard for mainstream sensibilities.

Ammo can panniers are an idea I’d actually considered once, when I bought my KLR, Frogwing. But their heavy weight and the problem of fabricating the right mount drove me to cheaper soft luggage instead. I never considered wood as an option for building the mounting racks. In my world, this just isn’t done. Clearly the signature of an unfettered mind.

No slave to the aftermarket is he. Just look at those one-off exhaust tips! You almost hope that the thing burns a little oil, so you can watch it smoke on down the road. The more I look at this commuter ratbike, the more I think about things that I usually keep at a distance. Things like social justice and politics. But maybe I’m reading too much into this.

I’m thinking that this is the best bike this man can afford. But what if it’s the best bike this particular rider can conceive? What if every quirky, hardware-store and scrapyard nuance is exactly what he wants on his motorcycle? The machine has obviously evolved over a long period of time.

Some folks build ratbikes as rolling sculpture; funky, counter-culture art projects. Then they pose on them at rallies and trendy gatherings, playing the enigmatic bad-boy with the artistic soul.

But this bike is a perpetual work-in-progress. Form is subjugated to fit and function, each modification bringing the machine closer to the rider’s vision of travelling perfection.

I never saw this bike, or it’s eccentric rider again after the day I made these images. I’ve often wondered whatever became of them.

Maybe his boss was embarrassed to have this bike parked on the property, where customers might see it. Maybe he was given an ultimatum: “Park that thing somewhere else, or drive a car to work like a normal person.”

Maybe that ate away at him all day long, until finally, he decided to climb aboard his Perfect Transport and ride off into the sunset. Maybe he’s out there right now, down in the desert Southwest, rolling along with his feet way up on the highway pegs, leaning back against that cooler, watching the white lines flicker by…

Weather: 33°F (0°C) Under sunny skies.
Road Conditions: Mostly dry, with sand and salt prevalent. Still wet and icy in shaded areas.

Scarlet starts off her Saturday with a bath, down at the Big Splash.

Look at that sunshine! January in Minnesota… I still can’t get over it.

As soon as I rolled out of bed this morning, I knew I would be riding most of the day. All the weather reports I could find agreed that this would be the best day of the weekend. Rain mixed with snow is forecasted for tomorrow.

First order of business was to give Scarlet a bath. All the road grime and salt spray picked up during our commutes last week had left her looking pretty humble. But as you can see in the photo, she cleaned up nicely.

Next, it was off to Motoprimo in South Minneapolis, to meet with Jonathan, the sales manager, and discuss one of the new features I have planned for Twenty Ought-Seven. His reaction was favorable, so I am going to go ahead and announce it here, right now. Can I get a drum-roll please?

Introducing “Ride to Work Road Tests”!

RTW Road Tests are going to be different than the typical magazine test rides in that I am going to evaluate dealer demo-bikes from the perspective of the daily motorbike commuter.

There will be no top-speed test runs or racetrack antics. These will be real-world evaluations in freeway traffic, and rambling home on the sidestreets. I will research whatever farkles* are available for each bike to enhance the commuting experience, and give a gut-level report on how it actually feels to ride each bike to work, including reactions and opinions from fellow riders. This is going to be Fun.

*In case you didn’t know, “farkle” is the current, multi-purpose synonym for “accessory”. The advantage is that it can be either a noun or a verb, depending on usage. For instance, “I’ve bought some new farkles for the KLR.” – might be something I would say to my friends at First Thursday. But more likely, I would tell them, “Frogwing is now fully farkled.” -which would mean that I have added all the accessories I need to enjoy the ultimate KLR experience.

So, that is one of the changes I alluded to in my New Year’s review. The other one I am still working on, and it is still in the Top Secret phase of development. This one will take awhile, but it is going to be a Beautiful Thing, if I can pull it off.

Leaving Motoprimo, I felt energized. Scarlet and I rambled down the residential sidestreets towards the Ford Bridge again, and headed in the general direction of home. I had no idea where I wanted to go, so I decided to just relax and see where the winds of whimsy blew us.

We ended up in front of this place…

Scarlet rests in front of the historic Hypolite Dupuis House.

Built in 1854 by a fur trader named Hypolite Dupuis, this house is on the southeast corner of the Sibley Historic Site in Mendota, Minnesota.

Nice place, I thought, to have been built by a French fur trader. Clearly there was more here than meets the eye, from the main road through town anyway. I decided to investigate further, if for no other reason than to figure out how to pronounce that ridiculous name…

Scarlet and I turned around and rolled down the access road into the property. It was heavily shaded back there, with patches of snow and ice to contend with. We took it slow and easy, looking around at what can only be described as a time warp. They certainly don’t build houses like this anymore, at least not for normal people.

The Big Bad Wolf wouldn’t stand a chance with this…

Here’s a short lesson on old-school home building from the “Friends of the Sibley House” website:

In 1836, Henry Hastings Sibley hired John Mueller who with the aid of many voyageurs, trappers and Indians, built Sibley a home overlooking the Minnesota River. The house was made of limestone cut in large blocks from a nearby quarry. The laths were willows and rushes cut from the banks of the river, woven together with reeds and grasses. The insulation was mud and clay from the river bank mixed with straw. The larger timbers which were used for braces, joists, beams, floors and window sills, were all hand hewn and joined together by wooden pegs. The roof was covered with clapboards split by hand. The house was plain, but substantial, two and one-half stories high with a portico in front.

General Henry Hastings Sibley was Minnesota’s first Governor. I’m betting he had his house built like a fortress because it was a few miles from the protection offered by Fort Snelling, and this was still somewhat of a frontier back in those days.

As for the funny French name, “Hypolite”, I could only find out the etymology from a Google search on the web. This traces back to the Greek “Ippolito”, which roughly means to “release the horses”, or something like that.

But back at The House, there were a couple of lycra-clad athletes unloading mountain bikes from the roof of their Saab, to ride on trails through the woods in back of the property. College folks, no doubt…

I asked them how to pronounce Hypolite, and they both told me it is: (hip’-uh-lite).

If you ask me, that sounds too easy. I figure it for four syllables, with the accent in a weird place. It is French, after all.