Ramped: A Special Shout-outPosted: April 21, 2011
I get home from work and, blame the lo-carb Monster I had before leaving, have this idea of doing Mr. Slow a solid and getting the bike off the truck, so he wouldn’t have to worry about it before leaving for work the following morning, since he’s usually pressed for time as it is. He can’t even mail my stinking letter to WERA so I can get my status changed from Provisional Novice to Novice. Boo you bastid! 😉
I have to, of course, put the kickstand back on the Pirate or she won’t be standing up on her own. I almost forget about that, can you imagine? Stuck at the bottom of the ramp with no place to go. The bike stands are in the sun room and the chock still on the truck. There’s one for the books right there. Ugh!
“Crikey Mate!” *whispering excitedly* “Here we get the rare opportunity to observe Miss Busa in her natural habitat. She is crouched. Ready. Her breathing controlled, but shallow.”
*pauses in anticipation* “What is that? She hesitates… her eyes dart back and forth. The Busa shakes her head. What is she doing? Something has disturbed her.”
*waits and observes* “She’s tapping her toes alternately. I can make out her anguished grunts. The Busa is becoming agitated… this is exciting! What a rare treat!”
*barely contained excitement noticeable in his voice* “This is the moment… we still don’t know what has the Busa so on edge. What is she…” *trails off as he hears a grunt, a scraping sound, a crunching noise… and a thud*
“She fell over?!? Cut! Cut! Cut!” *jumps out of the bushes, brushing off green spring leaves, then stomps away angrily, a distracted camera man in tow*
“Damn females of the species are worthless!”
I put the ramps in place and secure them to the hitch receiver’s tie down anchor points. I reinstall the kickstand (sans its accompanying safety switch), and proceed to take the Pirate off the truck she’s called her home for the past four days. The bike won’t budge. I try both sides. The only thing that moves is the wheel chock. Arrgh!
Several cars make their way into the neighborhood. I feel ridiculous yanking on the grips while putting my entire body into it. But this isn’t the first ridiculous thing I’ve done in the name of racing. Just ask me about getting red Duck tape slapped on my nose… Sometimes you have to do what you have to do in order to do what you have to do.
My brain finally kicks into gear and tells me I need a little help. Gravity is such a downer. I jump off the truck, take the ramps down, and drive it into my driveway. As I bump over the rounded curb at an angle, I see the Pirate swaying dangerously back and forth. Holy Shit! She isn’t tied down anymore. I ease the truck’s rear tires over the curb, hoping I didn’t just bent the hell out of something critical. Dumbass! No sense of worrying about it now. I straighten out the truck and pull up as far as possible to get out of the street as much as I can.
I secure the ramps once more. This time I have no problem getting the bike’s front wheel out of the chock. Booyah! I put her in Neutral and drag the front brake as I slowly walk her down the ramp. I am on the left side of the bike and am dangerously close to my edge of the ramp. I decide I need to pull up and straighten her out just a little to get back to center. I turn her on and as soon as I put her in gear she dies. Damn! While I was installing the kickstand I rotated it, to make room for the wrench and then completely forgot to put the safety switch back into the up position. Now the Beemer’s brains think the kickstand is down. Crap!
I slowly reach down with my left hand and put the transmission back into neutral, so I don’t have to hold the clutch in while I make my way anxiously down the ramp. Several more cars come into the subdivision, slowing as they get to where I am unloading, since the ramps are sticking out into the street. I will definitely have an audience if I fall off this ramp and get buried under a 473-pound S1000RR in full race trim. Yup. Take a number, look it up. How embarrassing would that be???
Never mind that now. I feel my right calf tensing. I had problems with muscle spasms during my race weekend. Oh, please, not now. I can’t afford to get a cramp just now. No! No! No! I continue to inch my way down the ramp. I’m not nervous anymore, but tense with concentration. I can do this. I must do this!
Before I know it, I’m down the ramp and in the street. I am back in familiar territory. I walk the bike over to “my side” of the driveway and park her at a 45-degree angle with the rear tire almost bumped against the curb. I look around. Quiet. Almost dark. I can’t see a single soul.
My neighbors are douche bags! I cannot believe that not one of those dudes stopped to at least give me a chance to say, “thank you, but I think I’ve got it.” Yes, I needed to prove to myself that I can get the bike down the ramp, too. I really rather not rely on my “Girl Card”. I’m a stubborn German, which doesn’t help matters much. The whole “bike down the ramp” business was really the last hurdle to going to the track by myself. I want to be self-sufficient. I really dislike having to rely on others. Getting to rely on someone is awesome, especially when you get to take turns. Having to because you are out of options? No thank you. Not that I would have had to get the bike down by myself at the track, mind you. I can’t speak for people at track days, but racers don’t stand around to “see what happens next;” at least not the ones that I’ve met so far and I didn’t even have to play the Girl Card.
“Douche!” *lets the word trail off her lips making a flushing noise*