Silenzio! Ruhe! Pass the earplugs!

Loud Pipes Save Lives. A statement a lot of bikers swear by. I have never really cared one way or the other about this heated and controversial argument. Roll what you feel good with. If you believe that your 110dB eardrum shattering ass end will keep you alive and well, go for it. I myself am of a more stealthy persuasion. I like my bike to purr like a kitten rather than sound like the end of the world is nigh. Although I wear earplugs most of the time when I’m riding, I couldn’t stand having to wear them because my own pipes are so freaking loud that I can’t hear myself think. It would annoy me, break my concentration, rob me of my inner peace. My bike isn’t really all that quiet in the upper RPM ranges either, but it’s not like I hang out there very often, given the kind of riding that I’m engaged in 90% of the time. I wear earplugs on the track, even though I hate it, because I can’t understand what people are saying unless I’m looking directly at them, which causes a lot of “Huh? What? Could you repeat that?” and a fair share of “I have not a clue what the hell is going on!”. Once I’m out there I prefer to have my ear canal blockage in place. It makes the world eerily quiet, but not completely devoid of sound.

Why don’t I like loud pipes? Personally, I don’t believe excessive noise saves our heinies. Cagers are too engaged in their own little bubble of cranked stereos, cell phones glued to ears, and engaged conversations with their passengers. They don’t even hear your thunder until you are right on top of them. Too late to be of any good other than to piss them off because now they can’t hear what their buddy on the other end of the 3G connection is saying. I also don’t want to listen to myself roaring down the street all the time. And I don’t want to attract any unnecessary attention. Needless to say I would wake the neighbors leaving home for work on my horrendous schedule about seven mornings per month. Even though one of my neighbors told me to blast my horn when I come home, since she can’t hear me ever since I got rid of my beautiful Harley Davidson. She’s an awesome woman. Always watching out for me and making sure I am safely inside my house in the wee hours of the night. She’s seen “some stuff” go down in her time, let’s leave it at that.

Have I considered getting a race exhaust for some performance enhancing fun? Sure I have. But I can’t find one I can live with and give me the performance increase that I would want to see when dropping that kind of money. I suppose the loud pipes will have to wait until I can afford a dedicated track/race bike.

I don’t really follow politics or am I a “motorcycling activista” but I think that the state of affairs is such that all that noise generated in honor of “loud pipes save lives” or “stupid fast performance for squidly street fun” is awfully close to turning into “loud pipes kill rights”.

When the douches wearing pinstripe suits and ties that are cinched way too tight, who never even rode a motorcycle, finally get around to banning our aftermarket pipes with the sweet exhaust notes and the delicious performance increases that come with those triple-digit decibels, I will cry in my beer next to the fella whose conviction was settled on the loud end of the noise spectrum. At least I can say that I wasn’t part of that particular problem. Maybe when they finally get to ban literbikes for public street use, you could point a finger at me… maybe.

I don’t think “majority rule” isn’t quite what the motorcycling public or the “biker subculture” need. The majority doesn’t even ride anything more than maybe the subway or the commuter train, yet we are ruled by them. Oh no… I’m getting politic! I need to leave and wash my mouth out with antibacterial soap! Stat!


S1000aRRgh: Show Me The Money!

The check BMW sent me for “being inconvenienced and missing out on the prime riding season” has arrived. No strings attached. More on that later. I’m taking that puppy to the bank once I have figured out wether to turn paper into fiberglass or carbon fiber or anodized red aluminum or wait a little while longer and buy an AMB Tran-X 260 transponder. Maybe I should say screw it, wait a real longish while and get a GPS transponder with a nifty little data collection module stuffed into the Pirate’s ass and do my own thang via wireless download to my MacBook hehehe… but then I still have to rent the freakin’ AMB box anyhoo. Crap. But I like numbers… I like a little crunch in the morning with my coffee. I hate creating spreadsheets, but I sure do love looking at them when they are automagically created for me and… ah, hell! Decisions, decisions… what to get first… I also have my sights set on a set of Chicken Hawk tire cozies with adjustable temp controllers. Yeah, I should really wipe the drool from my mouth right now and quit dreaming. But it’s so much fun… and frustrating… but fun… but frustrating… *sigh*

Oh, what I logged on here to say was this: The Suits & Skirts at Beemer Yankeeland USA have paid up and I can now unprotect the corresponding blog posts that would have been in violation of said unsigned agreement; apparently they couldn’t handle my little email I sent them when I gave them a deadline of my own in response to theirs… more probable of a scenario? It wasn’t worth the hassle. But, I am sort of proud of that one. It’s been a while since I played lawyer without a clue (nor a bar) and damn it, if that last time I tried it didn’t cost me 200 smackers extra in traffic court for dissing the judge. I guess I’m out of the hole and back into the green now.

Patience, my lovelies, it’s in the works. The next installment is in final draft, should be going up before close of BusaBusiness today. =D

The Pirate and the Heroine (Re-enactment)

"...as the butt of her hero and the Pirate disappear around a sharp and hardened twisty…" ~Chesshirecat

Ok, so it's not really hardened and sharp, more like a lazy eastern Georgia sweeper on the soft side of the hilly twist.

Oh, hell I almost forgot to mention the reason for such a gadget: I am trying to figure out the most effective, fuel efficient but yet fastest route to work on a Monday morning. That is all. I swear. Uh-huh. Yes. That’s it. I’m also trying to set a new rec… oh, I mean, I’d like to shave about 10-15 seconds off that commute, so I can sleep in a little longer… Yeah. Can’t blame a girl for wanting to get a little advantage over the rest of the crowd. No, you can’t! Won’t! Oh, what’s that… NASCAR on TV?!? I gotta gooooo……. bye.


Traffic Court: A Day Late & A Dollar Short

This is definitely not my week! First I crash, then the next day I drag my battered, bruised, and drugged up body to the mailbox and what do I find? A letter from the Solicitor General: You are cordially invited to a High Performance Awards ceremony. Please RSVP. Ah crap! They haven’t forgotten about me after all. Shit! I got a bench trial scheduled in 6 days! How about a little more lead time? I smell a continuance. Last August I was  busted going an alleged 78 in a 55 on my way home from work. This was not two weeks after I got stopped by a motor officer for doing a similar speed in a 45 who also told me about a little speeding ticket avoidance strategy. And no, it wasn’t “don’t speed in the first place.” Enough said. Damn, that Hayabusa is quick, deceptively so! Maybe that’s one of the reasons I developed that blasted riding kink of constantly staring at my speedo. Anyway, I tossed the letter aside, I was in too much pain to even deal with that little inconvenience. Fast forward: Day before the trial. I take an online crash (no pun intended) course in criminal defense law and then take the BAR exam: Read: I ingest massive amounts of questionable legal info I find online and have myself a few cold brewskis. I’m gonna beat the rap! Stick it to the man! Save myself $84. My energy burns fast on an empty tank. I finally give up and decide I’m just gonna wing it. I have neither the patience nor the brain for it, my head is still hurting and I’m starting to get anxious. I’m not sleeping well at all. I’m practicing my ‘defense’ which now has been reduced to: “Your Honor, I move for a dismissal due to lack of evidence.” (copper doesn’t show) or “Your Honor, I would like to, at this time, change my plea to Guilty and not waste anymore of the court’s time. Here’s my 84 smackers, I’ll be on my way.” (copper puts in an appearance). So sad, considering I was a Criminal Justice major in college. Hahahahaa…. but damnit, all this crap always happens at the worst possible! Freakin’ Murphy and his law. No excuse, I could have had this shit prepared and ready to go a long time ago, but didn’t want to deal and as more time went by, I actually thought they decided $84 wasn’t worth their time.

So after a sleepless night and a coffee-deprived morning of digging through my closet to find a few pieces of clothing worthy of State Court, a stop at the ATM to get some cash out, we finally arrive at the court house. We are directed upstairs and the familiar spiel begins. They don’t call my name. I’m beginning to think we’re in the wrong court room when a bailiff sticks his head in to announce that if we got a letter in the mail to go to the other room. We get up, letter in hand, and do as instructed. We end up in a court room where a lot of the word ‘sentencing’ is thrown around. Shit! Whatever happened to the part in between? I could have sworn there was something going on between arraignment and sentencing, but what do I know. I ain’t no stinking lawyer. After the first two cases are called, I can’t shake the ‘there’s something wrong here’ feeling, so I get up and ask the bailiff at the door. He looks at my letter and says I’m in the wrong place but he’ll find out where I need to be, he takes the letter and leaves. He speaks with a woman in the hall, she points out that the letter states that my court date was yesterday, and that I missed it. WTF?!? What do we do now? Downstairs to the Solicitor’s Office. I could have sworn today was the 31st AND Thursday. I had it half-right, but now I might have a bench warrant out for my arrest. Holy Helena! I’m such a dumbass! After about 15 minutes of kicking around in this little room that serves as the reception area of the Solicitor’s Office, I am told that I owe them TWO HUNDRED AND EIGHTY stinking dollars! So an $84 68-in-a-55 speeding ticket has turned into $280 worth of forfeiture by failure to appear in court. For that kind of money, I want to at least get an opportunity to flip off a judge! Hubby and I only have $260 between the two of us, so we have to go make yet another cash run! They should really install an ATM in the Law Enforcement Center, then they could charge us desperados a $10 ATM fee and make some more money for the State of Georgia. Oh crap! I just gave them an idea…

Miss Busa’s Lessons Learned in Speed Demon Law:

  • If you are a CDL holder in the fine State of Georgia the 13mph and under rule does not apply. Any speeding ticket gets reported, whether I go 1 mile over or 13. So, I’m going to have to make it worth my while next time: 38 in a 25, 58 in a 45, 68 in a 55, and 83 in a 70. 😉 (“But, Your Honor, I wasn’t using my Class A, I was, at the moment in question, using my Class M…”)
  • Up to 13mph above the speed limit carries no points. (83 in a 70! Wooooohooooooo!)
  • If you don’t show up in court it is going to get REALLY expensive, so make sure you got your date straight and check it twice.
  • They take cash AFTER the court date but not BEFORE. WTF?!?
  • A speedy trial in GA is considered getting around to it within two years after the fact of legally witnessed rocketeering on public streets. So much for that 45-day thing, huh? And even if you are able to assert the ‘right to a speedy trial’ defense, you better put your request in writing, return receipt requested. And it is only available in a court that can impanel a jury. (I had that one covered, but failed to assert my right with a letter.)
  • It’s easier to defend against radar than it is laser. (Laser jammers are legal in GA, but radar jammers are not. This one gets a lot of peeps off the hook, the probs with radar, read up on it, very useful!)
  • Next time, don’t stop. ;P
  • You can find out what they got on you with a little process called ‘discovery’. What a shame, I didn’t know that option was available in traffic court.
  • Do your research first, go to the scene, take pictures, get your shit together. It doesn’t go away, just because you ‘don’t want to deal with it’ and have other crap in your life to deal with. Get it out of the way, have a game plan, then at least you got your case prepared while it’s fresh in your memory and then who cares how long it takes. Or you can just go ahead and mail in your fee for a guaranteed loss.
  • I’m going to plead ‘not guilty’ again, if… no when the time comes. I’ve learned a lot from this ‘epic fail’ of an experience. My ticket, had I shown up 24 hours earlier and got my ass spanked by the prosecution would have still only been $84 and had I won my case, I would have been stuck with a free ride and no insurance premium increase, all you’re out of is your personal time and you get to exercise your brain. =)

Oh, and that one little thing…. don’t speed in the first place…. hmmmm….. that’s cruel and unusual punishment on a Hayabusa. Cruel! I tell ya, cruel!

On the way out, one of the two officers at the  security checkpoint yells at me as I come down the stairs: “You’re going to jail! … (shortish pause) … April’s Fools!” I don’t miss a beat as I hop down the last few steps and round the corner around the checkpoint: “I have just paid 280 bucks that say: Not a chance!” He replies: “Ran a stop sign?” I smile and say: “Nope!” as I push my way through the double doors to smell the sweet air of warrant-less freedom.

Learned something else: Apparently running a stop sign in GA sets you back around $280. I’m sure there’s probably 3 points on that, too.

This concludes Miss Busa’s Epic Fail in her first trial experience. I should really fire my attorney!!!

For some reason my butt hurts…