It was bound to happen, one day it did…Posted: August 16, 2009
Unlike our male counterparts, us biker chicas earn stars when we drop our bikes. It had been decreed, by unanimous quorum of a bunch of female riders at a now-defunct ladies-only online motorcycle forum, not too long ago in the recent past, to be added to the unwritten bylaws, the following two amendments:
- We will only do PLP (parking lot practice) if there’s chocolate (or a similar acceptable treat) involved as reward for our courage in inflicting possible pain and suffering upon ourselves, our egos, and our machines in the quest to improve our riding skills.
- We will receive little gold stars for every time we drop our mounts at speeds below 3 miles per hour. Pink stars are also available for those who support breast cancer research and believe in the power of Pink. Upon further consideration, stars can be any color, to match your bike or your fancy. However, you do not earn stars for dropping somebody else’s ride!
…yes, I am now a four-star dropper: At mile 6290, on 08/16/09, I got laid by the Fat Lady.
I have video of the event (not really what I had in mind when I mounted the camera to its mount that day). It’s on YouTube, and hubby has no problem showing it around to EVERYbody. Hell, he has no problem TELLING everybody we meet, if the conversation should lend itself to him slipping it in there. Anyway, I had a hangover, a slight headache, probably was dehydrated, hadn’t had my coffee yet (ok, enough excuses of contributing factors already) and was not really paying attention to what I was doing. Hubby forgot his phone, and he had to turn around and get it. So, I started backing up and cutting the wheel right, to set up for my u-turn to go back down the street to the house. I bumped the curb with my rear tire, while the front was still turned, which bounced the suspension, lifted my feet off the ground and she started falling over to the left. I tried to hold her, but couldn’t (the girl only weighs in at an obese 573 pounds) and when I realized that it was past the point of no-return I got out of the way. I still ended up with my ass sitting in the middle of the road, about 10 feet away from my poor ‘Busa, that was now in its natural state: laying on her left side, taking an asphalt nap. Manx came to my rescue and helped me lift her back up. I immediately hopped back on and put the kickstand down. I then proceeded picking up parts: My clutch lever had broken off at the breakaway notch and the peg feeler caused the tip of the left foot rest to break off. I stuffed the bits in my pocket, and told hubby to go get his phone. I’m surprised I wasn’t more pissed off than I was. Disappointed in my stupidity, yes. Angry? No.
Before hubby left to fetch his Blackberry, I asked him how my fairing looked, he answered with a resounding ‘fucked up!’ I could only see the top panel, which had popped out and was looking a little roughed up around the edges. The FI light was on and I was still in gear. Needless to say, the engine wouldn’t crank. After a brief moment of panic, I regained the use of my brain, killed the engine cut-off switch and put the transmission in neutral. Toggled the switch back to the ‘on’ position and the Fat Lady purred back to life like nothing happened. That was good enough for me; when hubby returned we went on to ride to his work. Only then did I get off my bike to survey the damage and took the requisite photographic evidence for posting online later. ☺
And what moron decided to make the plastics under the white paint black? That idiot needs to be taken to the town square to be properly flogged, then tarred and feathered. I’m sure there’s a bunch of engineers in Japan at Suzuki’s headquarters, in the RND department, sipping Saki and laughing their Asian asses off. Makes me wonder if the Tupperware under the black ‘Busa is white. That would be a kick in the crotch from our Saki-drinking brethren. But later I found out, and I have this on authority, that my conspiracy theory has been proven to be of mythical proportions, since the black Hayabusa’s Tupperware is black, as it should be.
Note to self: Next time, when you’re backing up, and are still in gear (like you almost NEVER are) and you’re about to lose the Fat Lady to an episode of narcolepsy: Gas that mother and you won’t have to pick up pieces off the street and use $70 worth of ColorRite touch-up paint, which is tediously applied in four layers.