I don’t like to plan. I like to make lists. Then I forget my list or otherwise lose it and I end up winging the whole affair. Plans are worse. I start with good intentions, being a good soldier of the organized and prepared, then I find myself getting mired in the details, where a devil is rumored to live; my brain does somersaults over a bunch of unknown variables, I fall behind schedule before actually falling behind schedule. This, then, marks the end of the planning phase and it predictably transitions into the winging phase. Recognizing the doom that besets the willing in a pattern of historic repeatability, I said “fuck this” a long time ago and embraced my inner shooting-from-the-hip gunslinger of half-baked ideas. Besides, where is the fun in following a meticulously researched itinerary? That’s like being at work. Screw that. No adventure to be found in the overly managed lifestyle. Hence, I have a tendency to get derailed and end up looking like the flaky, unreliable sort.
As to why my next article is late? Where to begin? Ah, riding > writing. In other words, I procrastinated writing my next piece in this re-emergence trilogy of mine and went riding the rocket instead of writing about riding the rocket. Come Monday, I’m on a tight schedule, but I am prepared to knock it out of the park nonetheless. Prepared with a touch of trepidation. As I sip coffee sitting on my front stoop enjoying the mid-morning sun of late summer (fuck, it’s hot as hell already!), pondering random words made into sentences and those then turned laboriously into somewhat sensical paragraphs a 5th grader should be able to follow, my rescue comes in form of a phone call from Athens. The Wing Woman has found a newborn kitten in the bushes in front of her office building. By the time I got my crap done, packed the bike and am geared up to ride the 90 miles like a hellion to her house, the kitten count has gone from one to three. I am coronated surrogate queen, one nipple (teat) short of knowing what to do. We are both clueless, but we pull it off. The feeding schedule is rough: every two hours. It takes roughly 30 minutes to get through the whole kitten gang, then cleanup and prep; by the time you drift off to sweet sleep the alarm wakes your tired ass up again, not that you were really asleep yet anyway. By the second full day of playing queen mother of feline angels to three fluffy furballs that weigh a little over 160g per helpless purr, it’s like Zombieville around here.
They are now 22 days old. We are on Day 10 of being responsible of meeting their every need. The feeding schedule has relaxed to four-hour intervals with playtime and socialization in between. Their development is an amazing journey to witness. Every day they are a little bigger. Every day they are a little more able. Every day their personality is a little bit more unique. Every day we discover they have learned something new about being mini-cats.
The queen has been summoned. She must prepare her milk for her teeny charges… I leave you, then, with some adorable kitty porn. Caution: Cuteness Overload.
And now you know what happened here. We haven’t ridden a motorbike in so long, the battery in Wing Woman’s Viffer died a slow and lonely death sitting neglected in her garage. She was so desperate, she rode her DRZ to the limiter on new knobbies doing 80mph (as far as I could tell) on the tarmac. After all that abuse, it tried to die on her, too. Mine still runs, but I have forgotten how to ride…
This is what it’s all about. This is why I do the things I do in life. The Isle of Man TT is the road race of all road races. It is the embodiment of all the facets of motorcycling that makes my soul sing, that set me free. No other place on earth, but on my bike in control of my machine, dancing through the curves, can make me feel this alive. Only then am I truly in charge of my own destiny. I am boss. I own it. The victory and the defeat are wholly mine. To be able to grid up for this race (and survive) is what this girl’s dreams are made of. Carry on. Miss Busa still needs about twenty years of skill development. 🙂
It’s time. Practice Week starts tomorrow (26th), the paddock is full and the weather is more than perfect.
Here’s another one of those “fan films” that perfectly encapsulates what the TT is about. It’s the sounds of the countryside punctuated by race cans, filmed during 2010 Practice Week, by the roadside at the 13th Milestone aka “Bottom of Barregarrow”; featuring stone walls, a century-old cottage, a terrifying dip in the road, all taken at not less than 150 mph. It has been known for riders to scuff their shoulders on that wall. One or two have scuffed their lids on it.
What is not apparent here is that this corner is part of the way down the long descent into Kirk Michael village, so the riders do not, and have not dropped below at least 120 mph for miles. You can hear the spikes in the engines’ revs as their…
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I was heading west on University Parkway, the stretch of US-29, a four-lane divided highway, between Athens and Atlanta, GA. It was late afternoon on a Friday and a thunderstorm was threatening overhead. People don’t mess around that time of the week. They are ready to get home to start their weekends or, like me, are already on their way to the party and are in a hurry to get there. Time is of the essence when the workweek is done. The average speed on the west-bound side was between 70-75 miles per hour. The east-bound side had been shut down due to a traffic accident and was backed up for miles. I gave quick thanks to the God of Speed for not being stuck in that mess.
Traffic was medium-heavy and I was averaging about 80 mph, making sure that I wasn’t the fastest vehicle on the road but keeping up with the faster cars of the crowd. I noticed a white sedan that had passed me, but then settled down to about my pace a little distance ahead. I eventually caught up and passed the car again. No big deal, it happens, I paid the car no mind as I continued to fling myself westward toward the horizon, bouncing around in my seat, tapping out the rhythm to some Lady Gaga tune with my right foot; I think it was “Bad Romance”. My thoughts were already occupied with playing in the twisties that were scheduled for the following day. The car eventually picked its way back through traffic and got ahead yet again.
Now it’s getting a little weird! After a while boredom and curiosity get the better of me and I am in hot pursuit of my highway stalker. It doesn’t take me long to catch up with my target. The car is still hanging out in the left lane, so I scoot over and slowly pass them on the right. I see what looks to be four college-aged kids bouncing around in their seats, hair flying, talking animatedly and obviously checking me out. Oh, shit! A carload of cheerleaders! They point and wave at me and I smile, — even though they can’t see through my darkly tinted face shield — I nod and give them a peace sign with my outstretched clutch hand. Then I grab a fistful of throttle, twist it quickly to the stop and treat them to a completely “unnecessary display of horsepower”. Gratuitous. I can’t help myself. I have no excuse. I pull triple digits for a few seconds, pass another vehicle by executing two acute lane changes to get a little high-speed lean for effect and then let the engine slow me back down to the speed of traffic.
It doesn’t take very long for them to catch up. Two songs, maybe. I’m astonished to see them again. When they pass me on the left, I see one of them is holding a sheet of notebook paper up to the passenger side window. It reads in bold-red Sharpie print:
I prop open my visor so I can make eye contact as I pace them. I smile and give them a thumbs up and a fist pump with my free hand. I yell: “Hell yeah!” even though they can’t hear me. I speed up and they stay directly behind me as my wing women until we part ways at a red light a few miles up the road. I turned right and they kept going straight. Each of us heading towards weekend adventure. I wish I could have taken a picture of this or had the video camera going. It’s the little things like these that make even a bored and hurried flight down a two-lane seemingly never-ending straight worth it. For one little instant my path merged with that of four strangers and life was just good.
That’s one of the reasons I ride.
Riding a motorcycle connects you intimately, even if only for a short moment, with others and the world around you. You become part of that world, rather than being isolated and distanced from it like you are when sitting in a car. This is one of those reasons why bikers refer to cars as “cages”. I’m sure of it.
Check out Pam’s blog, Helmet or Heels. Pam is a fellow lady motorcycle rider, and was kind enough to ask me to be featured in her new series: “Profile of a Female Motorcyclist” I am in awe that she would ask me to become part of such a great group of ladies who share one common bond, their passion for motorcycles and the ride!
I “met” this next gal in cyber space. I was new to riding, Twitter, and blogging but somehow found dear Em Alicia from Augusta, Georgia. Right now I feel like a preschooler (my motorcycle skill level) trying to introduce a rider with a PHD in all things motorcycle. Find Em Alicia or @MissBusa on Twitter. She also has a blog filled with stories of her adventures in riding, The Girl Gets Around. And check out her Facebook Team PLD Racing page! This gal has some skills!
How long have you been riding a motorcycle? I bought my first scoot in September of 2008, so 3 years 7 months.
How did you learn to ride? My husband taught me the basics in two sessions. Halfway through the second outing, he sent me out into traffic. I made him follow me in the car to “watch my six” the next day…
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[Note: This post won’t make sense unless you are a regular reader. It is in reference of being fired from my job last December. The “Angry Bird” series covered some of my rants in response to how a hostile work environment took a toll on my health and well-being, how it affected my dream, and ultimately lead to my [wrongful termination] dismissal. It is posted here as an affirmation of a renewed vow to living well. To rise above and beyond, to refuse to fall back into the “victim role” and its accompanying depression and feelings of worthlessness. The final entry to numerous blog posts mentioning to varying degrees how this has hindered my journey.
This is my justice!
In the therapeutic sense of writing a “letter to the abuser” (that is what it is called during trauma work in psychotherapy) you are not to send it to the person in question. You are to symbolically destroy the hold it has over you by physically destroying it, however you see fit.]
As news would have it, “Big Red” got canned. Big Red would be the party ultimately responsible for orchestrating my removal from her sight after employing 18 months of “unprofessionalism” in concert with her Evil Minion, my direct supervisor, resulting in damaging my personal and professional reputation, not to mention causing severe financial distress to my family. Big Red got fired, canned, given the walking papers, kicked to the curb, made obsolete, was superseded, and told not let the door hit her in the ass on the way out. The following month. I’m not sure for what, but it doesn’t really matter. I’m sure she undid her own self, people like her almost always do. That’s the problem when you’re playing cut-throat like a hotshot CEO but you’re a Little Leaguer on the Middle Management Team. There’s always someone with a bigger knife and a bigger thirst for blood and you just so happen to one fine day be in their way.
KARMA IS A BITCH, isn’t it?!? Must suck to give up almost twenty years of hard “work”. So many years of maneuvering, cheating, lying, and washing the blood of others off your pudgy claws, all in the name of advancement at any cost and all for nothing. Must really blow to give up a job at a company where every single person disliked you, had zero respect for you, talked trash about you and called you unflattering names behind your back, while sweetly smiling and wishing you a fan-fucking-tastic good morning. Big Red was the nicest one I’ve heard circulating, in case you were wondering. Must suck that you lost your six-digit income. Must suck to be you.
But I wouldn’t really know. I am a good person who can look herself in the mirror every day, knowing that she always tries her best to do right by the people in her life, especially family. Knowing that she endured, coping the best she could under hostile fire and still tried to do the right thing by standing up for herself, even if it didn’t make a damn bit of difference in the end and got her fired.
And here I am still doing the right thing by being humane and not suing the pants off of your company and then going after you personally. My husband thinks it was the wrong move. Sometimes I think it was the wrong move. You were breaking several laws, and your employer settled for less reasons under iffier conditions. It damn sure could be just the thing to finance a doctorate and a fine racing career at the club level. But I couldn’t live with myself if I had your blood on my hands, even if you weren’t family. But I think I may have taken you down had you not been my husband’s sister. Yes. Yes, I think I would have.
Even after all you’ve done to me, directly and indirectly, after all the years of mistreating me and using me for your own petty feel-good reasons. I kept my trap shut out of deference to my husband and the rest of your family. Kept my trap shut, smiled and pretended to be your friend and acted as family would. And yet, here you are still telling lies. Still making me out to be the antagonist, still convincing yourself and everyone around you that you did absolutely nothing wrong and make it a point to bring up how much you have done for me in all these years. How you have given of yourself and always were there for me. And look how you are repaid. The shame! Even after all that, I’m still doing the right thing by not retaliating by demanding justice. Oh, it so sucks to be you.
You have finally reaped what you sowed and that’s good enough for me. It’s just sad that harvest time took so long to get here… and it’s just a little disappointing that I can’t tell you what I think of you to your face, rather than having to spill my guts in this virtual letter.
Don’t kid yourself that I am still bothered by your egotistical self-centeredness and all that comes along with it. You don’t rate all that high in my priorities. I’m not even going to continue wasting my precious energy on hating you and wanting to get even. It’s simply a therapeutic tool to end the final stage of the grieving process and to enable myself to move on and put the past where it belongs without having it control my present and my future with its seething pain and nagging self-doubts.
Why? All because I had already made plans for New Year’s Eve 2009 and I refused to cancel out on people because that would have been rude. All because I didn’t go over to your house and take those stupid golf cart rides freezing my balls off and getting ostracized for not drinking enough keeping pace with your level of consumption. Why? Because it never dawned on you to give us more than three days’ notice. How many times have you cancelled out on our invitations or just sent your husband over?
I’m glad you could save face through all of this and rest comfortably in your knowledge that you (and by extension your kids) have been wronged by me. It was an expensive enough price that was paid, it had better be worth it.
I’ll go out on a limb here and make another prediction: You’ll die alone. Just take a long hard look at yourself and how you’ve been treating others in your professional and personal life. There’s still time, but somehow I doubt you will make good use of it. Narcissists need professional help to empower them to do what comes natural to most people.
That’s ok. I’ve taken out the trash, and with this final rant I have rid myself of all toxins that threatened my well-being and inner peace. I may be broke, I may lose my home, I may have to declare bankruptcy and put my dreams on hold. But even in the worst case scenario, I still have friends. I still have people who enjoy my company and like me for who I am. I won’t die alone, I know that.
Sorry for your terrible loss.
P.S. Maybe you should try adding apologizing to your undoubtedly considerable skill set. I hear it works fairly well when you screw up royally or have been a complete ass for one reason or another. Most of us real people take turns doing that, you know. It’s actually a socially acceptable practice and the injuries inflicted upon your ego are rumored to be fairly short-term. Worthy of consideration.
P.P.S. Oh, and I forgive you. But I damn sure won’t forget!
And now I’m just a Bird. Without a Pig’s worry.