Nails To Put On The Screws

Showing Team Spirit

That's right. Miss Busa is showing some Team PLD Racing Team Spirit. =D These nails apparently are good for an extra 2 foot-pounds of torque and 6 HP on the top end.

After a 90some mile ride with Mr. Slow I went to the mall, sweaty and no doubt smelling like a real biker chick, to get my hair done. On the way home I decided to stop in and get my nails done, too. Promptly was talked into a pedicure. Truth be known, my dawgs could use a little TLC; they’ve spent the better part of the past two years in motorcycle boots. Now they are all nice and soft, and sort of womanly looking. My little monkeys haven’t looked this good in a long time. Two hours after entering the salon, I was standing in the parking lot hoping I could get my race gloves over my newly acquired claws. Tight fit. I should have had her trim them shorter. Texting is a pain in the arse and so is typing. Not to mention I have to take my track tires off tomorrow and put the street rubber back on the Pirate’s feet. We shall see how strong this gelled-in acrylic-bonded stuff really is. My cats do seem to enjoy the new finger weapons. Better belly scratches. 🙂

Of course, I get caught after dark on the first day I’m using my new tinted face shield. This ought to be interesting to say the least. There’s a dude across the parking lot watching me as I get my gear on and my bike warmed up. What the hell? Well, I suppose those nails and the new do, all coordinated in team colors, are already working their magic. Another dude pulls up, waiting for me to back out of my space so he can shove his car in. Uh, dude? There’s an empty one two spots down. It’s the American way, can’t risk walking an extra 12 feet and burn all those extra calories.

The dark smoke face shield isn’t all that bad at night and if it wasn’t for that huge pile of bug guts front and center I could see just fine. It’s cold again, so I cruise along tucked behind the windshield with my chin resting on my tank bag. Yeah, going 35 mph doesn’t really do anything for me. But it’s cold, the line is a double-yellow and I’m feeling a little funky about the levers. Those nails act like little tension springs every time I curl my fingers. Eh. This will take some getting used to.

A few miles down the road I make a huge error in judgment. I’m cruising along at 5 miles under the limit behind a car and finally run out of patience. These people really should know that this road has a posted speed limit of 55, but no… the majority of motorists traveling this stretch of asphalt insist on doing 45 all the way through. That’s just unreasonable. There’s gotta be some sort of electromagnetic interference in the area that short-circuits everybody’s need to go 5 over. Oh well. As I reach the start of the dashed line, I see headlights up ahead, but judge them to be of no concern, since they are still quite a distance away. Wrong! As I lay into the throttle my error in distance/speed calculation becomes quite self-evident. I give it all she’s got and get back over on my side of the road just in time, but not before I make the poor bastard I’m passing activate his brake lights. Now I’m slightly embarrassed, so I keep up my speed a while longer just to make sure the dude behind me doesn’t get another chance to read my tag. Gawd! It’s been awhile since I had a brain fart of this magnitude. I’m only human, too. I consider making an unobserved right turn and lose the guy but then decide against it. Hell with it. I screwed up. If he should catch up with me at the next red light and give me a scolding I’ll just have to apologize and tell him that’s a lonely one point for his team since I’m already two points ahead in the stealing of right-of-ways and attempted vehicular homicide by inattentive driving, in the past four days alone.

At the next intersection the light changes to green as I downshift into first gear, so I get back up to speed when a pickup truck turning right onto the street from my right decides to prematurely exit the turn lane and occupy my lane space instead. I swerve into the yellow striped no-zone that divides the two lanes of traffic and immediately get on the gas to clear the danger before I run out of space and find myself in oncoming traffic. Unfortunately, the sand that the county tossed all over the main intersections during our Annual Snow & Ice Day was still there, collecting in all the places where traffic doesn’t disturb it any further. I probably would have seen it, if it hadn’t been for that blasted tinted visor. The rear immediately stepped out, loosing traction due to me being hard on the throttle and I ended up in a violent fishtail.

All I could think of was how weird it felt; as if the bike was anchored by its front end and shaking its rear back and forth; all I could manage to do was not think about it and stare up the street where I wanted to be, all the while musing at how snappy the entire motion really was. I thought that if I hadn’t trained myself to hang onto the bike with my knees and thighs pressed up against the tank and keeping my upper body loose, I probably would have been bucked off. Yikes! I don’t remember really, but muscle memory must have modulated the throttle enough to keep it under some semblance of control until I cleared the sand and made it all the way past the offending vehicle and back into my lane. I found myself turning around in my seat, looking at the dude in the truck, as soon as the rear was back in line and behaving itself. That’s the second time today that someone really envied me my lane space and decided to take it over.

Earlier, on the way to the mall, I had to use the shoulder to get away from another moron, this one of the female persuasion in a huge SUV. Lady, if you can’t see over the damn steering wheel, you should consider downsizing. Seriously.

Thank god for 193 horses and 83 foot-pounds of torque. I freaking love this bike!

Tomorrow I’m going to get my foils done and I’ll have my newly renewed Girl Card ready for Tuesday’s photo shoot with Papa Razzi. Go Team PLD!


Are You Intexticated?!?

Since we had some crap weather heading our way, I arranged to have the Sponsor’s truck to drive to work and leave the Pirate at home. I was working nights and was not a happy camper when I was rudely ripped out of Dreamland not three hours after arriving by Mr. Slow’s announcement that he has to go to work early.

The Pirate's Christmas Bling

The Pirate's Christmas Bling: I lost the 'L' on the ride there, but later found it stuck to the left side panel. I would like to apologize to the citizens of the CSRA. That snow storm? Yeah, it was my fault. Sorry about that.

I grumpily roll my tired self out of bed and throw on the first set of wrinkled clothes I find in the dark room. I am pre-coffee and not quite awake. As I shuffle down the hall to grab my phone I mumble something along the lines of an official refusal to drive. I stumble down the driveway and climb into the passenger side of the truck and off we go.

A while later, I am jarred out of my sluggish too-damn-early-for-this state of mind by the telltale noise of tires bouncing over the interstate’s rumble strip. What the hell? I look over at my husband eyes cast down, playing with his phone, which he is holding in his right hand resting on the center console.

“Are you freaking texting?!?”

He response: “No. I’m just checking something.”

That does it. “You should know better!” I’m incredulous. “I have to dodge assholes like that every time I go to work and you are one of THEM?!?”

“I wasn’t texting.”

Now I’m pissed. I try to snatch the phone out of his hand, he’s faster, but I’m more tenacious and finally succeed in grabbing his phone and shove it into the little space on my door handle.

“What the hell does it matter what you were doing?!? You are weaving all over the damn road! Texting fucking kills. What would you do if some asshole made your wife wreck herself? Or worse, kills her.”

He is starting to argue the point; I can see it in his body language. Then he finally hangs his head: “I’m sorry. You’re right. You are absolutely right. I’m a professional driver. I get overconfident when I’m in my own truck.”

“You do that shit when you’re driving in the big truck?”

“Hell, no! I can’t afford to.”

“You are forgiven. Don’t let it happen again. You know I’m gonna shred you on my blog, right?”

“You have every right to. I deserve it. I know better.”

“Damn, straight.”


No, thank you. I don’t smoke!

Cigarette butts out of car windows have homing devices built into their filters. They lock onto their target, enter the slipstream and take aim at the nearest motorcyclist. If I had a penny for every time… oh well, I could buy a pack of premimum pre-rolled and filtered cancer sticks of my choice.

I am tired of it! If you assholes would just take a moment to think how it would make you feel if some joker walking ahead of you flicked their half-smoked Marlboro over the shoulder at you and it hit you square in the chest. You both would end up sitting in the back of a squad car not ten minutes later, like 7th-grade school boys in the principal’s office. There would be an altercation, and tell me it isn’t so. I’ll eat a pack of Camels lit if you would just brush the ashes off your clean, neatly pressed dress shirt and go about your business without so much of a thought of letting the smoking offender know how displeased your are with their lack of consideration and total disregard for their surroundings.

Chances are the motorcyclist two car lengths behind you feels the same way. The jacket I am wearing cost more than your damn business casuals including your loafers and your cheap knock-off watch. I’m going to go out on a limb here and venture a guess and say that in some cases my ride and gear are worth twice the Kelly Blue Book value of your smelly-ass rolling dirty ashtray of an automobile. We are not just some hooligans who had it coming anyway.

If you don’t want the butts in your car, wait until you get to your destination to fire up the next coffin nail, you stupid moronic waste of human trash. Not to mention that if you flicked your butt at a cop you would get fined for littering! Hefty!

Have you ever considered what could happen if that burning projectile you so carelessly jettisoned from your fresh-smelling (and I mean that with every ounce of sarcasm that I have left) environment found its way into a motorcyclist’s helmet or down their jacket collar? And don’t you dare laugh at the thought. You wouldn’t after you spent some time educating your inconsiderate self in the ways of aerodynamics. Although you probably are too narrowly focused (I just spent the last of my sarcasm/cynicism allowance) to grasp the concept.

The next time you toss the rest of your drink, your lit cigarette, your girlfriend’s IUD out of your car window and then act surprised when some irate bitch on a supersport is pacing you close enough to clip your mirror while shaking a mad fist at you and staring you down with red glowing eyes, hoping you’d pull over so she can lay you out flat on the rumble strip, you might be able to venture a guess as to what the possible cause of her anger is.

We are living, breathing human beings who want the same thing you do: get to our destination in one piece, within a reasonable timeframe and with the least amount of stress and aggravation possible; maybe even arrive in a decent enough mood. The only real difference? We choose to use half the number of wheels to get around. Now quit treating us like we are just another vehicle and part of some machine. That “thing” plopped on top of that motorcycle — that is now close enough for you to reach out and touch — is 57% water, just like you and is very vulnerable unlike you in your cage constructed of high-tech plastics and metal alloys, with airbags all around, rolling down the avenue on four pieces of round rubber which are probably too low on air pressure.

Quit behaving like the world is yours and nobody but your deluded self matters. Next time don’t be surprised when I come up alongside you with my emergency window breaker and a can of mace at the ready. What do you think us two-wheeled menaces to society have stashed in those tank bags anyway? That’s where we keep a bottle of water, our stockpile of marshmallows, a handful of ball bearings, a couple of Glocks, extra high-capacity ammo clips, pink lip gloss and some hard candy. Now you know.

The “share the road” philosophy embodies more than just a sentiment to move over two inches for a bicyclist or a pedestrian. It also does NOT entitle you to laying on your horn every time you see a woman walking or cycling!

Oh, will you look at that?!? I still have a balance in my profanity/name-calling account.

You fucking douche bag litterbugs!


The Dingleberry Chronicles: Today Is A Good Day To Die! NOT!!!

Good freaking GAWD! What the HELL is WRONG with you people!!!! Learn how to drive you motherhumpers! Now, with that out of the way, maybe I can calm down. ARRRGH! Ok, maybe now. SHIT! Nope, still not there. Gawd-freakin’-dammit I am not ready to be a grease spot on the expressway! FUCK! Ok. I think I got it. *inhales deeply, then exhales slowly*

I narrowly escaped being sideswiped by some fucktard in a full-sized pickup truck! I suppose the necessity of him making his exit was more important than my life. I couldn’t believe it. I was in the right lane on the 45-mph starting section of the Calhoun Expressway. I was rolling at a pretty good clip, so there’s no way I annoyed some speed demon on four wheels who is late for whatever-the-hell. I knew he was there, but didn’t expect him to speed up and cut me off to make the exit ramp that I was inconveniently blocking with my soft tissue and plastic parts. I can still see it, first the wheel caught my attention, then my vision came partially blocked by this huge front fender. I could make out the details of his headlight and turn signals. The chrome bumper with the black accent trim. Red. A nice red. Like a fire truck. My reverie (WTH woman?!?) is interrupted by the realization that if nothing happens here, our vectors will intersect very shortly, resulting in my Beemer’s nose being buried in his front wheel and me probably being high-sided into the left lane or even into the concrete divider, or worse, over it. My brain ceases all higher function. Snap! I realize that my throttle is being ripped wide open by my hand, I notice in amazement the bike quickly diving right then straightening back out as the S1000RR hurls itself forward. It’s like I’m watching myself from the inside, but using somebody else’s eyes. A discernible detachment. Like a first-person perspective, but not my own. As I realize that I have narrowly escaped (I don’t ever want to find out how close I came to certain death today) I experience snapping back into my body, I let go of the throttle, crank my torso around to my right and give the asshole, who is now making his way down the off-ramp, an enthusiastic one-fingered wave. Then I lose myself again. I faintly notice that my heart is hammering hard against my chest. I swear I can actually hear its staccato-like beats. My hand returns to its place on the throttle grip and I run. Run for my life. I can’t stop, I take the first curve of the expressway at almost knee-dragging speed. I’m not sure how fast I am going, but I’m sure it’s a little over the speed limit, which has increased to 55 mph. I think I’m going to throw up. I slowly return to myself and get my throttle hand under control and center myself back on the bike. I am surprised how quickly my systems return to normal, but my spirit is still preoccupied with the what ifs. I’m still feeling a little weak in the stomach. A few miles down the road, a wind gust picks up my front tire and sets it down slightly to the left. Holy crap! I don’t need THIS right now. I really don’t. As I make my way through a curve, another gust hits my broadside and the bike feels like it is being picked up. The suspension partially unloads on BOTH ends! How the hell is THAT possible? I’m running wide but compensate by more lean and a pinned throttle. Now I’m on the verge of having one of those girly freakouts. I’m putting as much weight over the front end as I possibly can without actually sitting on the tank and continue on. I need comfort food! Now! I decide to get back on the Interstate and hit a Mickey D’s at a nearby exit. I hate Mc Donald’s, but for some reason it is where I need to be. I need cookies, hot chocolate and some nasty fries. As I accelerate up the ramp and crest the top while merging left, another gust of wind hits me with full frontal force and causes my front end to get extremely light. I’m still on the gas, and no doubt have no contact on the front wheel. As I go over the crest of the ramp and into the traffic lanes I feel like I’m flying. Literally… I think I just caught some air, consequently I also end up in the left lane a heck of a lot quicker as anticipated. Luckily that is where I was headed anyway and there was no traffic to give me a second chance to kill myself today. I’m sick of this. I want to be off this cursed rocket and want to stuff myself with gross fast food.

It’s amazing what muscle memory can do for you to save your ass when your brain has gone bye-bye on a personal holiday. Thanks be to the God of Speed and his most faithful followers, who by printed word, formal instruction, and video tutorial have taught me well. If it wasn’t for you, I’d surely would have been on my way to transcend, to cross over with John Edward, to push up daisies, to meet my maker, to take a dirt nap, to enter the Underworld,…

Today was not a good day to die.


Driver’s Education – A Refresher….

Jamie, thank you for this invaluable resource for all those dumbasses who can’t drive and have not the common sense to apply applicable traffic laws to keep us all from chewing on our forearms: Driver’s Education – A Refresher…..


Westbound and Down and Dirty

So, I’m on my rocket propelled Samsonite, looking for an early morning with Miss Busa. Love of my life waiting for me (read as sleeping). So I’m westbound on I-20. There are three lanes of traffic. I’m in the granny lane, the license plate DOES read “Mr.Slow.” I see a white Lexus coming onto the interstate, so I move to the center lane to allow the car ease of entry. In other words, white paint transfer on my Connie won’t look very nice. See, I’m a nice driver: make room for others, mind my manners, all that bull shit that is about to go out the window.

Mr. Lexus, with the now visible aviator sunglass, decides that the granny lane is not good enough for him anymore. He wants my lane now. So without a glance at me, he comes on over. Of course I do notice this, mostly because I’m allergic to road rash. Screw that, I dodge to the hammer lane, and look dead at the guy. He must ‘feel’ me staring at him, because he looks at me and throws both hands into the air in the “WHAAAAT?” gesture.

That pissed me off a little, so I decide to show him what for! Ok, squid warning. I know that this makes no sense, but I’m really ticked off now. So I decide enough is enough, I pull my bike hard toward the Lexus piloted by the aviator sunglasses wearing, cool breeze jerk. I think I surprised him a little. Maybe. He pulls his luxury Toyota into the right lane, surprising me; then really astonishing me, he goes all the way to the shoulder. As I accelerate away, I’m laughing so hard, that I have tears running down my face.

The Lexus driver got back on the road, I made it home with a tale to tell: everyone happy. Just so no one is worried, no Lexus drivers were harmed during the making of this blog entry. If the bastard had pulled over, it may have had been different.


If I Had A Cage… I’d Be Done By Now.

Miss Busa has lost her groove...

I'm not the only one 'not feeling it'. But what can you do?

Hubby and I decide to go on a little photo shoot to take some pics of me on the new bike. I suit up in my Yu Lady onesie for the first time in who knows how many weeks. I’m sweating as I pull that thing up, since I haven’t been exactly living the healthy lifestyle by eating right and working out. Phew. A little tighter than I remembered, but I’m still sort of in Dainese shape. I have to get gas and we agree to meet at ‘the corner’ to get busy. On the way over there I feel sort of off… I don’t know how to explain it. Just off somehow, not in tune… as I make the first pass by hubby (he had set up while I was fueling) I know I’m not feeling it. I do several more passes, at one of which I have an encounter of the blue kind and am glad I’m sort of going the speed limit, my feeling of ‘offness’ intensifies. I finally pull up next to hubby and ask him to meet me in the church parking lot. There I tell him that the corner sucks balls and I want to go somewhere else, that I’m not feeling it and I can’t get enough lean on this curve on the S1000RR. He isn’t happy, but he humors me. He wants to know where I want to go… I think for a while, then tell him about the spot I have in mind… I place it wrong from memory, but he figures out which corner I’m talking about and tells me to follow him. We get on the Interstate and a few miles down the road, I have an experience that I’d rather forget.

Traffic is medium-heavy. I’m following behind hubby’s truck, changing into the fast lane when I see a semi-truck pulled over on the shoulder, which is the reason hubby’s changing lanes. He passes another semi-truck in the ‘Granny Lane’ (the right lane) and as I come up on him, I see that he has his left turn signal on, apparently he wants to get over, too. Decision time. My first impulse tells me to speed up, get out of this guy’s way, followed by the thought of ‘you always speed up; slowing down is never an option for you’ spoken in my hubby’s voice from a conversation we had after he bought me the Beemer and chewed my ass for a good four hours while I was at work. Mind you, this wasn’t a lecture, this was a serious conversation about riding style, skill, and being a squid and I had it coming. He just held his tongue for almost a month until he had purchased me another bike, so I wouldn’t think it was about the money or the wrecked Hayabusa. I deserved it. I was an idiot by riding what is essentially a drag bike the way I did. I dragged tail pipe, in a left turn from a stop at an intersection. I’d say this lecture was long overdue. However, I didn’t like to hear it. Meanwhile, I’m rolling towards uncertainty, torn. My riding in traffic has always been proactive, decisive and aggressive when need be. I read patterns, I see, I act to stay out of trouble. My riding style and how I deal with traffic around me is certainly different from my husband’s. When we ride together and traffic gets bad, it’s each (wo)man for himself. I pick my way, he picks his. I usually end up ahead of him, because I use my power and maneuverability I have over cars to my advantage. There’s a reason why I refer to this as ‘Combat Commuting’. He doesn’t like it, but neither do I like the way he rides in traffic. I think his way is dangerous, he thinks my way is. We agreed to disagree, since we’re both keeping it rubber side down and out of harm’s way. Our respective methods work for us. Torn, I make the decision to slow down, but the semi is not getting over. His turn signal is still on and he’s progressively slowing down. I don’t know what he’s going to do. I CAN’T READ HIM!!! I am now past the point of gunning it past him and I do NOT want to end up in his blind spot when he finally does make a move. Suddenly, I hear horns blaring, I jerk my head left and see a silver SUV blowing past me on the left-side rumble strip, which is too narrow to be called a shoulder. He’s throwing up rocks as he whips past me. At this moment all sanity leaves me. My overactive imagination treats me to a mental video detailing what would have happened if he had hit me squarely in the ass. I see myself exploding and body parts raining all over I-20 West. I would have died not knowing I was dead. I would have just ceased to exist. I don’t want to die like that. I want to stare death straight in the face and see it coming! I want a transition between life and death, for crying out loud! Body parts. I shake myself and rip it like I’ve never ripped it before. I pass the SUV, who no doubt had not paid attention to the massive slow down that was caused by the bottlenecking of vehicles around the stopped truck on shoulder. I wonder if he had dropped his phone while he saw my tail lit up by brake lights closing in on him at a surreal rate of speed. I can’t shake it. My breath is rapid, but yet I remain calm and in control of my machine. I’m not scared. I don’t know how to describe what I’m going through. Not fear. Not shock. Maybe awe. I don’t know. I’m dumbfounded, really. I feel disconnected from my decision and I recite in my head over and over that I should have went with my first instinct. Gun it and get the fuck out. Yeah, that was one hell of a bad judgment call. ONE HELLA BRAINFART!

Miss Busa's still looking for it...

Nope, it isn't here either... the lost groove. Time to pack it up and go elsewhere.

We get to our destination and I make a u-turn, pull up next to hubby and tell him that I’m not feeling it and I just want to go the fuck home. He looks at me with concern: “Something happen?” – “You could say that.” – “You ok.” – “Yes, I’m fine.” – “What happened?” – “On I-20… that truck…” – “What?” – “Can’t talk about it right now, let’s just go.” He follows me. I’m going the wrong direction. I’m frustrated. Ah, hell with this. I get back on I-20, then get off on the next exit and pull over at a lane for a mobile weigh station setup, which is currently unused and vacant. I park my bike and get into the truck. I explain. We get into an argument, he apologizes. I apologize. Other stuff comes up, we’re a mess. We both apologize again.

Fuck me, if this doesn’t fall into the ‘ride your own ride’ category. He feels like I’m blaming him. I’m not trying to, I’m just trying to make him understand what led up to the brainfart that could have made me go bye-bye in the most glorious of meat explosions ever. No Special FX needed. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I knew how it would sound, but I also needed to talk to my best friend, the one person in my life I trust implicitly. But some things have no place there. This is one of them. I’m at wit’s end. Two in a row! TWO IN A FUCKING ROW! Yesterday, I came within fractions of an inch of a collision with some jackass who decides to cut me off at the last possible second. Now this? If I had a car I’d be done with street riding. I really am not having any fun at the moment… and I’m still not scared. WTF?

I feel like the life got sucked right out of me. Now what am I going to do to keep my sanity? Do drugs? Become an alcoholic or pay a shrink $150/hour? Meh.

I’m better than this.

Hubby told me later on that these trucks belonged to the same carnie outfit, the one with the left turn signal on? Wasn’t his turn signal at all. He had his four-way flashers on, but had a few bulbs out. Same goes for his buddy on the shoulder (who was still moving, DRIVING very slowly), four-ways on, but a few bulbs short of a proper signal. SOMEBODY GIVE THESE FUCKWADS A GODDAMN TICKET!