My husband wanted to go on a bike vacation for his birthday and finally become one of the initiated, one of those tough biker dudes who “did the Dragon”. He can now answer the question, that inevitably gets asked of a man when any number of motorcycle riding hooligans find themselves together in a loosely assembled mob of smelly leathers and dirty denim. He can now hold his head high, stick his burley chest out , striking a manly pose; stand tall and answer loudly and proudly: “Yes. I have slain the fabled Dragon. I have gone north in search of the mythical beast and I have drawn blood.” Translation: I found him whilst on his afternoon snooze. I snuck up on him and totally stepped on his tail! The beast woke and breathed fire upon my wife who had been to its lair on a previous raid to inflict pain and suffering upon the monster with the aid of a merry band of rocket-riding wild women. My wife put her knee down and the Dragon slithered off in search for easier prey, such as three drunken Hog Wranglers on a Moonshine run, and his spare set of testicles.
…and they lived happily ever after, for about a week or so. Can we please do this again? Like every year? How does every second week in May sound!?!
Works for me.
Dear Miss Busa,
It has come to my attention that you have become infamous with my colleagues at work. As I was gearing up for a nice little ride on my motorcycle; you know that thing that works IF you keep it upright at speed? Anyway, as I was getting ready, Bobby walked over to me to say hello. The following is the conversation as close as I can recall:
Bobby: “Heya, Joe!”
Me: “Hey, Bobby! How’s it going?”
Bobby: “Pretty good. Great weather to ride, huh?”
Me: “Yes it is. Where’s your ride? I see you are cruising around in that big new Ford of yours.”
Bobby: “Yep, but I’m about to start riding my Hog again. The gas prices are killing me.”
Me: “Uh-huh, save some of that green.”
Bobby: “Got that right! Say where’s our girl, Crash?”
Me: “She wrecked her bike. Guess following me to work in the truck isn’t as much fun as riding.”
Bobby: [looking incredulous] “She wrecked it again? How freakin’ fast was she going this time?
Me: “A little over 120 miles an hour.”
Bobby: [now chuckling] “Guess the roads are safe again … for a little while.”
As you can plainly see, you are reinforcing your reputation with your latest antics at the track.
This is a desperate plea to you. I am begging you! When I said to come back with your shield or on it, I didn’t think you’d take me so literally. I want you to win, but gee whiz, I thought you’d do it in the customary way, you know: first across the finish line. Well, I guess if you’re going to be Number One in crashing, we should lobby WERA to include a Crash Class in the award ceremonies.
“… and Miss Busa wins the Golden Turd for the most impressive and expensive lowside this weekend.”
I have written the acceptance speech for you, too:
“I’d like to thank WERA for putting on a great weekend; the corner workers for schlepping my bike out of the gravel trap yet again, I know you guys are getting tired of it, so thank you; many thanks go out to the medics who have conveniently relocated the ambulance to wait near Turn 1. You guys rock! I would also like to thank my sponsors: BMW Parts Division, FedEx for their awesome overnight service, Bondo, and Blue Cross & Blue Shield of Georgia. Last, but not least, I need to show my gratitude to my mechanic; however, I’ve done this so often, I’ll have to start working on my own shit.”
Anyway, my point is: congratulations, you’ve earned renown points. I love you, Babe, you keep doing what you’re doing, if you aren’t crashing, you aren’t trying.
Your loving sponsor
Mr. Slow surprised me a few days ago with an announcement that just made my day. No, that is not entirely true. So far it has made my week. I have been floating around about an inch off the ground ever since. Happily elated and in a shamefully good mood.
I’m not a romantic person. I find romance awkward. It seems so staged. Performed. Fake. The initiation sequence of the scoring program. Just add alcohol. I find these moments of the heart in everyday life, no candlelight dinner and moonlit walk on the beach required. One such happenstance is when hubby snuggled up to me in the middle of the night and informed me, sandwiched in between two unrelated sentences of our late night half-whispered conversation, that he was going to watch his baby race.
“I have Friday off,” he pauses, then adds: “and Sunday,”
He then told me that I should do a track day on Sunday. After spending a few days tossing the idea around, I quieted the responsible adult voice in my head that insisted on not spending any more money, but rather start paying off a loan or two early; and with that I went online and reserved myself a slot in the intermediate group.
We are making a weekend of it. I asked Joe if he isn’t going to get bored hanging around a race track for two days. He simply replied: “I have my photography.”
I have been trying to get to a track for over four months now. I considered throwing myself off an overpass if I didn’t get any real throttle therapy pretty soon. Every time it looked as though I could make it, something happened that prevented me from going. I am finally getting close to getting my much needed fix to feed the addiction and cure the winter blues and ease the withdrawal symptoms.
I need to bring an extra set of tires. Definitely.
I have a surprise for him, too. But I won’t tell him until we’re at the gate paying our fee to get in. If I can manage and keep my excited little blabber mouth shut for another week.
Miss Busa has told me in the past, that I need to blog more often, so I thought I’d throw this one out there today.
Recently I’ve become interested in things of the “more vintage” age. So, as is always appropriate, I thought I should look into the maintenance of said old things. When things turn around 40 years old, they have to be treated differently. Sometimes extremely differently, sometimes only slightly.
Let’s start with maintenance. Although things over 40 do require special attention, I’m finding it’s not a lot different than what I was already used to. I mean, she… er, I mean that vintage item has always required that special loving touch. Vintage items should be checked out by the doctor, I mean service tech a little more often. You may find that the equipment overheats a little quicker, than turns cold. It’s not always a problem with the thermostat, sometimes it’s a matter of hormones, I mean a clogged radiator.I have noticed that you just can’t ride a 40 year old as hard as newer model. On the other hand, I have noticed that the old gal can go longer, if not as fast. Many people believe that an older model is simply broke in better, more comfortable to ride. I can attest that I find this true for me. 40 year old equipment is quick to tell you exactly what it needs, and when it needs it. Change that oil when it’s scheduled, don’t put it off. Lube all the points that need it. Oh, and for goodness sake, don’t forget to put the seat down, you’ll never hear the end of it!
You’ll find that the “antiqued” things in your life will become more and more precious to you. I know that I don’t want to be without those that have been with me for a really really long time. Sure sometimes 40 year old things don’t always put out the power and surge that you want, but one thing’s for sure, it will be with you at the finish line. Just make sure you satisfy all her… I mean the antique’s needs.
In closing I’d like to say that although a brand new crotch rocket can do the quarter in 8.5 seconds, there is much to be said about a ride that will take you all the way through the long haul and stick with you through all the trials of life. Newer isn’t always better, sometimes the wisdom that comes age is better than a world record held by the newest speed bike.
Happy Birthday Miss Busa, I love you and will ride… er… stick with you to the end.
Royalty-free image I have bought the usage rights to and have then modified. Please respect that, and do likewise. However, if you would like to use this particular version on your site, please get in touch with me first. I do find the stuff people steal from me, eventually.
I don’t even know how the subject came about, but we’re tooling down I-20W on our way home from jobs we both hate, in weather we both got screwed by and employers who couldn’t care less. Not like they have to be out here in this crap, being up for over 24 hours doing what we do (respectively). Sucks to have superior driving skills! 😉 But that’s another story and not one for this blog.
After having been able to get in about 3 to 4 hours of sleep in the backseat of the truck, waiting for Mr. Slow to come in from his run, I feel almost human again. The zombie-like feeling that had plagued me for the better part of the morning has finally abated and I had occasion to try out my new goose down ultra-light sleeping bag in 30-degree F weather so I didn’t have to sit there and idle for hours. At least now I know I’m good for track days even when the nightly temps dip into the 30s (and I even get to crack a window for some fresh air). Good to know, especially if I had vegetarian chili recently. =D
Where was I? Oh yeah, the subject of the iPhone came up when Mr. Slow announced that he was going to get me one for my birthday, since I hadn’t told him what I wanted. I replied that I didn’t want one. He gave me a confused look, then brought up that I had been talking about it. I reply that yes, maybe when my BlackBerry gives up its ghost and I am in the market for a replacement.
“How much are those things anyway?” I ask.
“With a 2-year contract, probably a couple hundred bucks. That’s my guess.”
“$200??? Heck with that, you can get a freakin’ minibike for that price!”
“You really want one of those?”
“Hell yeah! You look totally retarded on one and they look like a ton of immature unadulterated fun! They go like 50 miles per hour before performance upgrades and tweaks!”
“Holy shit! Well, then get one of those and that’ll be your birthday present.”A few over-the-hill jokes later we were home and online shopping for a pocket rocket. Besides, granny has to have something appropriate to teach her grandson Shant, the Nubbinator, the fine art of dragging knee when he turns three. With a speed governor, of course, and a remote kill switch. I wonder if they make one-piece racing leathers for three-year olds with little knee pucks and all that…
I think I might race those instead. Hell, with an engine costing about $100 and a set of fairings or slicks around the $35 price point… it’s racing on a mini-budget! I wouldn’t even need a damn sponsor. Hahahaha… Of course, now I have to figure out how to mold & shape fiberglass so I can make the thing look like a baby S1000RR! It is scheduled for delivery on the 18th. w00t!!!