Mr. Slow apparently has tired of the abundant Pavement Ends signs peppered around this area or maybe he has finally succumbed to all my whining about being bored with the uninspiring layout of our roads; or just maybe he wants to go off on some adventure? Dirt. Plenty of it around here and I’m plenty scared of it, but this girl conquers her fears (eventually). Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut about the only hope he ever has of getting me off the asphalt is a little unadulterated fun sliding sideways around a flat track. And by sideways I mean horizontally on metal, after vertically on rubber.
We were waiting on Ron of BMW of Atlanta to finish putting my bike and her handler into their customer database and write up the work order for us to sign, so the Pirate could get her now 2400-mile overdue 12K service and three minor recalls done; one of which was an updated owner’s manual, which told me among other things that it is now unlawful to operate the Pirate with her red coding pill inserted on public roads; one was a new sticker that goes somewhere under the fairing which is tremendously important; last but not least she was treated to an updated drop sensor and a new breather hose for the crank case. As I was browsing the gear selection, Mr. Slow told me he wanted to check something out and made a beeline to the adventure bikes.He’s really got it for the R1200GS Adventure in Shine Yellow Metallic. The same crappy yellow with a hint of puke green in the paint pail as this year’s new S1000RR color. Yuck. But he’s a weirdo, and his fashion sense is nowhere appropriate but on the golf course. I hope it was just the fluorescents casting the evil green shadow on what I thought was a sunflower kind of yellow from what I saw of this year’s RR online. I sat on the F650GS, which I take to be the smaller sister of the aforementioned monster; definitely more my size. After sitting on the R1200GS, just for giggles, I knew there was no way I could do anything but stay on the pavement with that giant of an Enduro, which is just his size.
We’re well on our way of becoming a couple of Warsteiner guzzling, Beemer riding, motorcycle racing, grownup kids who refuse to act their age; toilet humor is considered an art form around here and is graded on a 10-point scale.
Now, it’s just a matter of paying off both of our bikes to enable Mr. Slow to set his evil plan in motion. The plan to kill off Miss Busa and make it look like an honest goat trail tragedy, so he can collect the price on her overly-insured, adrenaline-fueled head (racing voids the warranty, after all) and live the sweet life of the rich (but not so much famous).
A message to the Dearest: Just remember, I will send you messages from beyond the grave by rearranging the alphabet magnets on the fridge. Please leave three sets of letters and numbers and a full collection of refrigerator poetry words, or crap is going to fly Poltergeist style. Just sayin’.
What in the devil is wrong this morning? Traffic is pretty heavy, but moving along at almost the pace of a Georgia Super Speeder, which is highly unusual for a Wednesday on both counts. It’s raining, has been pretty much all night from the looks of things. I’m running late, so I’m pretty much in a hurry. Business as usual on I-20. I’m passing most everybody, a few get to pass me. Yeah, you’ve read right. It’s a privilege, one which can be revoked at any second. 😉
Once I merge onto I-520E it’s a different story, as is evident at the merge point of the two opposing I-20 ramps feeding into I-520E. It takes some seriously creative riding to get in between all the slowasses, the hesitant mergers, the leadfoots, the space holders, the distractedly engaged, and the mobile jabber junkies. Yes, I have categorized the crowd by their default behaviors when driving becomes more complicated and the brain starts running the risk of overloading. Inconveniences such as intersections, on/off ramps, cloverleaf ramps, and merge points are all prime spots to observe the Common Cager (incola communis rotae cavea) in their natural habitat.
I make my way towards another day filled with opportunity of earning Pirate Coin (read: I’m going to work to make the bike payment) through the succession of merge points that is Augusta’s own scaled-down version of Atlanta’s infamous Spaghetti Junction or Columbia’s suicidal Malfunction Junction. After slicing and dicing and duking it out with a cager crowd that is denser, faster, and more aggressive than usual, which makes the situation also more unpredictable than is the norm; I finally find myself some empty-enough asphalt I can settle into and go with the flow of traffic.
My bliss, however, doesn’t last long, and as the wild bunch behind me catches up, I find myself surrounded again. Damn! I hate this. I can’t stand being around this much metal. That goes against my rule of riding as if invisible. I don’t like being caged in (pun intended), it gives me few to no outs and not enough time to react to set an escape in motion if it became necessary. I like to control the situation. And I do that with the throttle.
I have planned my escape and am working my way towards the freedom that is a much airier stretch of asphalt not too far ahead. As I see an opening to escape the imminent clutches of a semi-truck spraying me with grimy rainwater its tires sling off the road surface and a tailgater in an SUV, and risking getting stuck there, I take it and quickly change lanes, squeeze in between two cars, ride the left side of the white line, then gas it a little too enthusiastically to take advantage of the next opening. I slide the rear wheel, it starts stepping out to the right. I don’t even have to think about it; nor is it an event that registers even the slightest twinges of panic in me, nor does it upset the Pirate, as is evident by the DTC light remaining dark. A simple acknowledgement, followed by trained action.
I pin the throttle, then dive left with a quick nudge on the left grip, aiming for the left wheel track of the left lane; as I do, the rear wheel hooks back up. I straighten myself out, pass the semi truck, and after one more set of rolling road blocks (two cars pacing each other slightly offset, taking up both lanes and backing up impatient caffeine-deprived, half-asleep morning commuters for miles) I am finally free. I feel like putting on blue face paint and showing my arse while yelling “Freedom!”.
I was kind of proud of myself. I smiled. It wasn’t too long ago where I would have had to pull over and dig out the emergency pair of replacement panties. And here I was complaining not too long ago that I can’t improve my skills on public roads anymore. That street riding has become mostly mundane, boring and uninspiring. I guess I underestimated the power of constant and conscious repetition of isolated skill practice. I definitely have increased my crap weather riding skills and my confidence must be solidified.
I noticed another thing, I have reached a milestone of sorts in my riding: I haven’t been singing in the rain. That means I am not nervous or anxious anymore and the need for intense concentration has passed. I still sing on occasion when I drag knee though, I’m pretty sure of it. 😉
As a side note: I’m rolling Dunlop Sportmax Q2s, the rear in Hayabusa size (a leftover from some long-ago tire sale): 190/50 as opposed to 190/55. I can reach the ground better in my race boots, but I think I lost 6 mph off the top end… *giggles* and my speedo reads about 5-7 miles slow now. Oh well… it won’t be on there forever. I really do love those tires. I think I might even like them better than the Metzeler Racetec Interact K3 (K3s are medium-hard) that came on the bike; and they are cheaper, too.
Originally Aired: October 30th, 2010
Bringing My Baby Home
Previously on S1000aRRgh…
After I pretty much lost it on the phone I laid into Mr. Slow. All of my frustrations, all of my anger, all of my stress jettisoned at once in a whirlwind of a profane verbal shit-storm of epic proportions. I call it venting; psychologists would probably label it transference. Needless to say – and I don’t blame him one iota – Mr. Slow left the building; in a hurry, I might add, to save his sanity, no doubt. I had to apologize profusely to him later on for being such a jackass. I was treating him poorly and I wasn’t even mad at him. Apparently BMW North America doesn’t care. We were told they would “call us right back”, after calling the dealer and “getting to the bottom of this”, but they didn’t. It was painfully obvious that he dealer couldn’t give a two-bit shit less as they’re still clinging to their contrived story. I felt helpless in all this. I hate feeling helpless! There aren’t but a few things in this world that are worse for me than the feeling of being unable to do anything. I suppose there’s nothing left to do but wait for the phone call that will inform me that my bike is ready to be picked up. Waiting isn’t one of my strong suits either; especially the kind of wait that doesn’t come with a definite expiration date.
Making peace with the situation, but nevertheless tirelessly working to get the bike and myself ready for running the You-Know-What at You-Know-Where and then celebrating the occasion with You-Know-Who kept me from committing random acts of homicide; it gave me something to do and something to look forward to, a luxury carrying a hefty price tag of approximately $700.
BMW NA does finally call. We are informed that they have looked into the matter, that it was deemed unreasonable for the repair of my motorcycle to take this long, that they are so very sorry that this issue led me to miss almost a month of prime riding season, that this is completely unacceptable and that she is going to forward our case to Marketing to see if there is any way we can be compensated for being inconvenienced like we have.
A few days later Blue Moon Cycle calls. It is Daniel wanting to keep us updated on the status of our repairs:
“The part has cleared customs. It should be here tomorrow.”
Still no tracking number, I see. I suppose Customs doesn’t issue those after all, eh? Ah, I’m just such a ray of sunshine. I get ticked off all over again. Did I or did I not tell you people to not bother me until my bike is ready to be picked up? Overnight shipping, I have learned as a German who gets packages from the homeland on a fairly regular basis, apparently takes two weeks now. The audacity! My aunt once overnighted a book to me, t’was the day before Christmas and… and I still received it the next day, which was Christmas Eve, no less. DHL to the rescue! That little luxury cost her an arm, a leg, and 27% of her eternal soul. My point is… ah, who cares! I know what the point is. They never ordered the part when they said they did, lied to us to cover up their mistake… and blamed it on customs… ah, here I go again. Enough! It’s making my blood pressure rise just writing this. I detest a damn liar more than anything. Line Feed. Carriage Return.
Two days later, a Friday, my bike was ready to be picked up. Joe and I decided to go Saturday morning after we both got off work and had occasion to squeeze a little nap in. We leave around noonish. I wind up with dash rash on my spine and a bloody elbow on the way and am told at one point to stay in the truck when we get there.
“What? … Why?”
“You can’t keep your cake hole shut. That’s why. I don’t wanna go to jail today.”
Pregnant pause, then: “Cake? I want cake.”
Dash rash?!? WTF? What in the Sam Hell are you people doing in your truck? Well, I’m getting my gear sorted because hubby wants me ready to jump on the rocket and leave.
“You stay in the truck. You hear me? If somebody comes over tries to talk to you, ignore them. Don’t even look at them.”
“Ok, ok. Gotchya. Stay in the truck. Keep trap shut. Pretend people are invisible. [pause] C’mon I swear I won’t say anything.”
“No. I don’t trust you. Stay in the truck.”
“Whhhhyyy-yyy?” [takes on a playfully whiny tone]
“You can’t keep your cake hole shut. I know you!”
Where was I? Oh, the dash rash. I drop something. I don’t even remember what it was now, but I undo my seat belt and stick my head under the seat to go hunting for whatever it is that I’ve lost. Picture this: Head resting on the floor mat, one hand braced to keep from falling over, the other groping around in the semi-darkness between old (but fresh looking) French fries, dust bunnies, lost change and whatever else makes its home under there. Two feet wedged between the seat cushion and the lumbar support, balancing precariously on toes, ass hiked way up in the air. Screech! The noise of the sudden loss of forward momentum is accompanied by an incredulous proclamation of “Holy shit!” Meanwhile, in the Land Down Under, my head rolls onto its spine, my posterior is catapulted forward until my back impacts the dash. My feet are now stuck to the windshield with my ass resting on the dash and it takes me a minute to undo the pretzel I find myself in. Damn the physics of an object in motion… I hear an apologetic “Sorry, Foxy” from the driver’s seat. Then, as I slowly emerge from the Underworld, he proceeds to tell me the rest of the story in an excited I-can’t-believe-THIS-shit staccato:
“I almost hit a deer. A freakin’ deer. In freakin’ Atlanta! The guy in front of me swerved, I missed it by inches … and it kept on going. I think it jumped over the wall.” He looks around: “I don’t see it anywhere. I think it jumped over the divider and kept right on going! A freaking deer! Over the wall. Jumped over the freakin’ wall!”
I scan the Interstate behind us. Six lanes of traffic and nothing going on. Just the flowing, uninterrupted organized sheet metal chaos as always. Wow.
“Damn, that takes skill,” I muse, “hooves on asphalt, definitely a low traction situation. Like a dog on linoleum.” I giggle at the thought.
A little later we pull into the joint and park. Mr. Slow gives me a stern look:
“Stay here! I’ll be right back.”
With that he gets out and heads into the direction of the service department. I look around. There are two dudes chatting it up over a vintage bike in the back of a pickup truck. The parking lot is pretty full. I get out of the truck. Nobody else around. Good. My heart is starting to pick up the pace a little. I recognize it for what it is: the beginnings of my system going into “Flight or Fight” mode. It is a somewhat awkward moment. I’m half hoping somebody is going to give me the opportunity to chew their ass, but I’m really wishing for a quick, unobserved, unmolested departure. Never mind the unobserved part, it’s too late for that; but the guys are still engrossed in what they are doing and pay me no mind. While I’m putting on my riding gear standing next to the truck Steven walks out the front door with the cell phone glued to his ear. I knew he saw me, because he was looking right in my direction and he promptly turned around and went back inside. Sadly, my quarrel isn’t with him. He sold me the bike, always been straight up with us, no bull, just straight with a chaser of the best places to eat.
This hurts a little. Maybe he didn’t see me after all? No, he had to have seen me. Yeah, this hurts. Before all this went down, he was the one who came practically running across the parking lot when I pulled in, basically telling me that he put the coffee on or would I rather have a Diet Coke this fine morning? Sad, no, it’s depressing. He was the one who offered me a slot in Keith Code’s California Superbike School for half-price, the same week I was scheduled to attend the Kevin Schwantz School at Barber Motorsports Park. Had to turn it down though, because there was no way I could get out of work. Apparently word got around and my email was probably circulated as Exhibit A for the prosecution and of course, I’m the bad guy here. The guilty party. Look at this disgruntled unhappy, ne’er can please her, rude customer who — when not getting her way — runs crying to Corporate to stir the shit pot and all we ever did was bend over backwards for her. Oh, how you can misjudge people… Wrong! Oh well, he’s on their team. He’s got a job to keep after all.
I’ll miss Jean-Marie, too. The man you see for your gear and apparel needs. He always greeted me with “Hello, Speedy Morrigan.”, which made me giggle. Or “How is the only woman riding an S1000RR doing today?” His wife is a fast woman, too. She rides a Blackbird. Oh, the stories he told. His wife and I would have gotten along splendidly to the chagrin of our husbands, I’m sure. ☺ He always answered my questions, texted me updates on my orders and had me look at bike part porn, telling me my Double-R would benefit from this and that… yeah, he had me pegged as one of those high performance junkies right from the start. He showed me stuff on his bike, made suggestions, we had rapport. I know it’s business, and as such he was an excellent sales person. But that’s how it’s supposed to be, or used to be, or should be. I liked it.
They were almost like family. My newfound BMW family and at first I thought I had died and went to heaven. After the level of service I got used to with my poor, neglected Hayabusa, this was like a dream come true (fleeting as one, also). But what can you do? I have talked to several people, all the shops around the Augusta area suck. Even the place in Aiken isn’t worth going to anymore. There are several decent enough places that will work on your bike, but if you own a new bike, need to keep up with scheduled services and have recalls and warranty to worry about, you’re screwed. You would think with the economy the way it is and with motorcycle sales declining these people would kiss your feet and wipe your ass while you wait for your 3K service to be completed. They have to be there anyway to earn their paycheck, so why the shitty customer service? They all act like they don’t really care whether or not you come in with your bike and open up your wallet. The “we’ve made the sale so we don’t care jack anymore” attitude doesn’t really make sense to me. Yeah, you got me on that first one. But I damn sure aren’t going to be back to buy the next one from you! And if history repeats itself (let’s hope not), I’ll be strolling onto your sales floor about once a year to get a replacement for the one I just wadded up. My Suzuki dealer lost my sales business anyway, since I was treated like I was out of my mind when I told the sales manager that I was wanting to trade my Harley-Davidson Sporty 1200L in for something a little more “my style”. When he asked what I was looking at, I threw a confident thumb behind my right shoulder:
“This white Hayabusa.”
He looked down his nose at me, cocked an eyebrow after sizing me up and sarcastically uttered one word:
Dripping, drawn out, with just the hint of a high pitched man-whine on the last rubberized syllable. I looked him dead in the eye and repeated:
Then turned around, grabbed Mr. Slow by the arm and dragged him outside stating flatly:
“I am not buying a bike from them even if it were the last white Hayabusa on the planet.”
The deal they offered us was shit anyway. Good riddance. I ended up keeping the Sporty and buying my dream bike from a dealer in Hayesville, NC. Good peeps up there. They made me feel at ease and welcome. They’ve made us an offer we couldn’t refuse. The deal was pretty much handled by phone and email and when we got there it was but a formality with the paperwork. No hard selling, no macho BS, and 10% off the gear we bought and a really good deal on my Shoei Flutter RF-1000 lid. I wonder if they have good service, too.
Meanwhile, back in the service department….
Joe walks in and informs them that he is there to pick up his wife’s S1000RR. Daniel apparently hadn’t gotten the memo that explained that the game was up and promptly laid another lie on Mr. Slow:
“Hey, Joe! I’ve called Corporate and I’m working out a good deal for you.”
Mr. Slow takes a breather, a moment of strategic silence, and replies calmly, but firmly:
“I called Corporate. They then called you. I think we are done here.”
With that he pays for the extra service I had requested when I was still swallowing their spoon-fed lies in the name of “benefit of the doubt”, grabbed the Pirate’s keys, did an abrupt about-face and walked out.
He met me at the truck, handed me the keys and told me to look the bike over VERY carefully before I took off on it. I did. I was being watched by the two dudes who were still hanging out in the parking lot. I felt awkward. I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there. I wanted this to be over with. I got on my knees, checked out the bike, took note of the clean work they’ve done on the requested drilling of safety wire holes on selected bolts and nuts; they had even wired them up for me. I started the engine. The S1000RR came to life and sounded smooth as always, looked great, she was clean and seemed to be in good shape. Their work, as always, seemed to be of superior quality. I never had a problem with their workmanship. I sighed heavily as I pulled my helmet over my head, put on my gloves and prepared to leave. As I put the bike in gear and slowly eased out the clutch I noticed how tense I was. My hands on the controls were jittery and I felt a little nauseous. The four holes the dudes in the parking lot had burned into my back with their uncomfortable stares were ablaze. I was starting to perspire. I took a deep breath and tried not to think about it. What I need now is to stall the bike or fall over trying to make a turn or have an incident in the form of any of a number of “This Girl Can’t Ride” adventures.
As I completed my right turn out of their facility I started to feel relieved and the anxiety quickly left my body. I spent the next few miles testing the bike and putting it through the paces. She felt great, shifted smoothly (she always does after an oil change), sounded as she should, handled as she should (well, handled as she must considering the miserable shape my Interstate-abused front tire was in.) and the brakes also performed as they always have. I felt alive again. I hadn’t ridden in almost five weeks and it had gotten on my nerves something awful. And now I have about 150 miles to make up for lost time with my baby: A Pirate Named Trouble.
Miss Busa is baaaaaaaaack!
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
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.
…or: You Southerners Haven’t A Clue
Southern Fun Fact: “Snow blower” is not a synonym for “cocaine junkie”.
I’m standing next to my bike, putting my gloves on while letting the S warm up a little before I take off for work. It’s only 33F according to the radio-controlled clock in the living room. The outside temperature sensor is stuck to the wall under the front door’s eve and usually reads a little warmer than it should. I’m already shivering. As I jack myself into the temp controller velcroed to my bike’s tank I have to wonder how I even made it through my previous two winters: the first with barely appropriate riding gear, the second wearing nothing but UnderArmour ColdGear, two layers of clothing and my textile two-piece all-weather riding suit. I am older, skinnier, still anemic and probably turned into a Marshmallow Butt the moment I was first introduced to the modern marvel of agitated electrons that is heated motorcycle gear. I’m thankful this cold evening for being fortunate enough to have it.
During the commute my vest is eventually turned to “Full Blast Nuclear Winter” and my gloves end up somewhere in the mid-range of their dial. My neck is being bombarded with freezing cold air that somehow found a way through the tiny gap created by my earplug wire between my jacket’s collar and my Ninja/Bank Robber headwear also known as a balaclava. We’re talking the cap here, Mr. Slow, not the Turkish dessert! No mention of that yummy, honey-dripping, freshly ground nuts filled, rosewater infused, many-layered paper-thin phyllo-dough pastry that is a delightful piece of heaven on earth but so much sweeter. Hmmm… hmmm… *wipes the drool off the corner of her mouth* Where was I? Oh yes, it’s damned cold. I’m working on an acute case of precision frost bite on my neck, but I’ve got tunes! The wind chill alone drops the effective temperature from 26F to 16F; add to that my average speed of about 60-70 mph. Speaking of wind: it is gusting at even colder bursts of ice cold air and the bike is being pushed around side to side, so I opt for the middle third of my lane. This doesn’t scare me as much as it used to.
On the Harley it was a hair-raising experience. I remember the first time I experienced strong cross winds coming back from the International Motorcycle Show in Greenville, SC in February 2009. I had only been riding for five months and the wind pushed me all over the road. I managed to stay in my lane, but I was extremely nervous and didn’t like it much at all. I had to constantly remember to stay loose from the waist up, easy on the handle bars, lean into the wind, counter-steer and try not to focus on the visions my brain treated me to; visions of some Harley-riding chick running off the road and wrecking herself. The Hayabusa never wavered from her path. Unlike Kittyhog, The Fat Lady just cut through the crap weather, all I had to remember was to tuck in behind my Double Bubble windscreen and not let my body act as a sail. However, even sitting upright, the ‘Busa wasn’t much bothered by such annoyances as wind gusts. It seems the S1000RR, with all its aerodynamic wind-tunnel tested fairing panels, bobs around like a pirate ship in rough seas. Her precision handling and predictable manners make it a confidence inspiring rather than fear provoking experience; especially with a freshly mounted, properly scrubbed-in new front tire.
I really had forgotten what a precision missile the S1000RR really is. I suppose I had gotten used to riding around on front rubber sporting a flat middle and excessive non-use towards the edges. After my test ride in March of this year, I had excitedly exclaimed that I only had to think about turning and the bike would react! It was lust at first sight and love at first ride. I herewith apologize to all the Hayabusas in the world, especially to The Fat Lady, may her soul rest in pieces and her heart live on in someone’s SmartCar. *crosses herself in a moment of silence* I love you, always will; you are dearest to my heart, but you guys can’t corner worth a hoot!
When I arrived at work, I started shivering as soon as I parked and unplugged myself from the Pirate’s heat. I hurriedly went inside, ran up the stairs and loudly proclaimed: “Holy cow! It’s cold out there!” in lieu of the customary “Good evening, ya’ll!” I decided to stay in my gear until such time when I stopped shivering and felt warm again. I watched my co-worker run out the gate in a half-sprint, get in her car and all but lay rubber as she pulled out of the parking lot. Gotta get that engine cranked up to operating temp before the heater is going to work! I had to giggle. My fingers weren’t all that cold, but my legs and butt were chilling like Amaretto served on the rocks and my crotch was a frozen Winter Wonderland. My security officer promptly informed me that he wanted to play in my park and sing filthy Christmas Carols. He actually called me later and serenaded me over the phone, something along the lines of “Frosty the Snow Ho.” I informed him that my park was closed to through traffic from dusk until dawn. He almost fell down the stairs on his way out. This definitely calls for my specialty: Weapons Grade coffee with real cream. I put the pot on. Four hours later it’s still freezing in here. The heater is on full blast, but there is a definite draft in this building and the furnace just can’t keep up.
I swear I saw snow flurries. Later this sighting was confirmed by an external source. I can skip the Haldol tonight, I wasn’t hallucinating after all.
Photo Credits: Kudos and thanks go out to Jamie aka @jls1970 on Twitter. She graciously let me use her pic in this post. Visit her blog That’s What She Said. Tell her Miss Busa sent you and give her these. She’ll know what it means. *hands you a tube of lead-free solder and a push-up bra*
Let me just state for the record: I’m a dumbass.
I’m washing the bikes for the Christmas ride on Saturday. Yes, Mr. Slow’s Samsonite Missile sees a sponge on occasion and it’s usually I’m the one who is holding it. The decorations stick better on clean bikes and mine needs a front tire change and some much needed chain TLC anyway, which has been horribly neglected (at least as far as my own standards on chain maintenance go). I’m kind of half-sabotaging that one, because I really dislike the stock chain, but can’t justify buying one just because I don’t like the way I have to baby the tension. The thing also rusts just by standing next to the bike thinking about water. It’s a piece of crap. I don’t mind, BMW had to go cheap somewhere and consumable parts is where it should be done. It’s cold, I’m freezing my buns off and I decide I’ll help with the evaporation of water by cranking the bikes up.
I walk around my S1000RR and pull the exhaust plug out and crank her up. I continue blowing the water off of Mr. Slow’s Connie with my nifty little motorcycle dryer he bought me for Christmas when I still had my Harley two winters ago. I smell something faint but noticable and wonder who’s bike is the stinker. WTF? This doesn’t smell normal. Then I remember that hubby had complained about the smell of glycol a while ago and I dismissed it. He had that checked out, however they didn’t find any antifreeze leaks. I keep drying his bike, I want to get this done, since my partially wet clothes and feet are really starting to bother me. I’m a moron for coming out here playing with the garden hose in the first place, but you do what you have to do to get that one last bike wash of the season in so you can look good in the upcoming group ride. Vanity is a cruel mistress. I should have said “screw this” we’re ridin’ dirty.When I’m finished, I walk around my bike to shut it off and notice the half-melted plug on the ground and with an overly loud and distressed exclamation of a compound-word describing male offspring fornicating with his female parent, I look into the Pirate’s tailpipe.
Meltdown in the S1000RR’s formerly pristine exhaust. I don’t know what to do, so I leave it running to keep the mess from hardening while the pipe cools and start packing up my junk and take it inside to give myself time to think.The damned thing is perforated. Arrrgh! I guess, it’s best to shut it off and poke around in there to see how bad it is and how I’m going to go about getting the mess out.I could have sworn I pulled that thing out! I must have been distracted or something… I have a habit of forgetting that damn thing! I don’t think I’ll be replacing that since, unless I run a string from the plug to the ignition key with a huge red tag that says: “Remove Before Flight”, I will keep forgetting to pull it, even when I think I haven’t. Apparently my overly active and easily sidetracked brain can’t be bothered with silly little details like this.
Arr! Arr! She be a dumb wench! Arr! Arr!
The lesson learned today (is a rerun since I didn’t get it the first few times): When something seems off, go investigate!!! I never do though, I always think myself out of it. One way or another my initial instinct gets overridden by some strange somewhat related thought that fits the scenario a little and my lackadaisical self goes with it… la dee da dee da, laaa deeee daaaa…
I opted for letting the mess sort itself and didn’t fool with it anymore. After a few stinky rides the Pirate took care of my mess, and it is as if it never happened. Not only is the S1000RR stupid-fast and more intelligent than the common high school grad, it is also self-cleaning.