Rush Hour Rambling

Weather: 17°F (-8°C) Under partly-cloudy skies.
Road Conditions: Mostly dry, with lots of icy patches down the middle.

Minnesota in March, aka “Hell Froze Over.”

First, let me say that the photo above is not my own. I have no way of knowing who made it, as it was sent out on one of those anonymous emails that goes around every office. So I’m not going to worry about copyright infringement here.

I want to thank the photographer, whoever they are, for expressing my exact feelings on this sixth day of March, in the year Twenty Ought Seven. Existential Gravity has ahold of me, and it’s not letting go. I truly do feel like I am living in Hell, frozen over.

The primary reason for this, of course, is that I am forced by my own promises and responsibilities to drive back and forth to work. After “The Baron in Winter” last year, I promised my wife that I wouldn’t take risks like that again. At least not until we could afford a couple million dollars in life insurance…

Driving the truck is going to drive me insane. While caged in it’s comfy interior, I cannot make the kind of moves through somnolent traffic that I can on my nimble Frogwing. I have to go along with the flow of workforce sheeple, all of us on the conveyor belt which leads to our slow, inevitable slaughter.

In order to distract myself from these morbid thoughts, I turn on the radio. Bad Mistake…

Talk-radio idiots babble about political situations that I can do nothing about, in between commercials for products I do not want or need. So I turn to my CD player for some relief. The ancient rock band “Rush” sings a dirge about the “Working Man”, and I can totally relate.

This is followed, ironically, by a song called “Big Money”, and it pisses me off. Now I have the caffiene from my morning coffee blending with my adrenaline from the music, so which song comes next? How many of you have heard “Red Barchetta”?

Now I am doing seventy-fast in a fifty-five zone, passing people like cones in a slalom course, in a truck that weighs over three thousand pounds. Heady stuff, and totally irresponsible. How old am I?

Apparently I never progressed beyond sixteen, behind the wheel…

At least I am not balancing a Mocha Latte on my knee while holding a cellphone to my ear. I am just as aware behind the wheel as I am on a motorbike. I scan the mirrors, both hands on the wheel, except when I am shifting, and always in total control of the machine.

But I get no joy from this. It is just a necessary evil in my daily routine. Driving became mundane the day I discovered riding.

Lately, I’ve been poring over maps, reading motorcycle magazines and articles on the web, and dreaming of the day when I can take Frogwing on another long road trip. It’s time for this cold, white madness to end. Maybe I don’t belong in Minnesota. I’ve been thinking that for years. But a secure job and family ties close by make it difficult to leave.

But I will say this: You can’t beat that first long road-trip of the season, after a long Winter in hibernation. Spring is coming, and I can’t wait. As soon as the salt and snow are gone from the roads, Frogwing and I will be ready.

Weather: 15°F (-9°C) Under cloudy skies. Intermittent snow flurries.
Road Conditions: Snow and ice abound.

My home, “Ton-Up Manor”, after our latest blizzard.

It’s three forty-eight on Saturday morning as I type this. My girls are sound asleep. It’s been an eventful day.

Friday morning started with a call to my workplace, to find out whether or not we would even be open. The recording told me we wouldn’t, and to enjoy my weekend. Yeah, right… Eight hours of vacation time down the drain.

Emily’s school was closed as well, and there was over a foot of heavy, wet snow piled on the remnants from our last storm. Old Man Winter, with only a month or so left on this year’s lease, has finally decided to visit us with his fluffy white fury. Still, we’ve seen much worse than this in years past.

I briefly considered going back to bed, but the coffee had just finished brewing, and the smell proved irresistable. I had to psyche myself up for the coming battle, shovel vs. wet cement, down the length of my sidewalks. Thankfully, my neighbor has a nice riding snowblower rig with which he always clears the driveway. He doesn’t know it yet, but he has a thank-you card with a gift certificate from the local steakhouse coming, as soon as we can get out and about.

Since I don’t have any riding related news for you, I thought I would share the contents of a phonecall I took at work on Thursday. Buster Brown called on his way back from Copper Canyon, in Mexico.

A Buster Brown Update…

Yes, I know, I’ve used this shot before. It’s the only image I have of Buster Brown riding.

“We’re sitting outside a motel in Alpine, Texas right now. It’s sixty degrees and sunny, not a cloud in the sky as far as I can see.” -he said. He always knows how to push my buttons.

“We’ve been watching the weather reports from up there on cable, and figured we would spend another day or two down here to let it all blow over before we get back. I’m leaving the DR650 on the trailer today though, I’m sore all over.”

Apparently it had been an interesting trip. I asked him about that.

“Well, it’s been a great ride except for the fact that my bike has developed a propensity for spilling it’s liquid petroleum products all over the ground. I’ve spent considerable time carving mesquite sticks to plug certain orifices on the bike.”

This sounded intriguing. I asked him to elaborate.

“One morning I got on the bike, and fuel was leaking all over the place as soon as I turned the petcock. After investigating briefly, I found the carburetor float-bowl drain screw was missing. I looked around for it, but could only find a mesquite stick of about the same diameter. So I whittled this into the approximate shape, and self-threaded it into the hole. Then I secured it with a piece of safety wire, and we were on our way.”

Later on down the road, the oil needed topping-up. Buster pulled the filler plug, and left it lying there after filling the sump with fresh oil. It wasn’t until they were several miles down the road that he discovered that same fresh oil was coating his pants leg. Mesquite to the rescue again. Buster is getting pretty good with his whittlin’ knife by now.

On to Chihuahua they rode. While looking around for the Pancho Villa museum, they met a fellow who directed them to a place where proper replacements could be purchased. With the new plugs in place, he had no more troubles for the rest of the trip.

Now, Buster Brown is an old-school rider. He came up with these remedies at the side of the road, on the spur of the moment. I often wonder how modern riders, who expect their bikes to function as trouble-free appliances, would cope with such adversity. Not all of them depend on their cell phone and a triple-A card, but I know many who do.

Motorcycling is supposed to be about adventure, and part of the adventure is overcoming adversity in creative ways. That’s one reason I like riding with Buster. He’s quick-witted, resourceful, and he spins a helluva good yarn. I don’t hold the fact that he is a lawyer against him. We all have to make a living somehow. Besides, that kind of creativity is a real asset in the courtroom…