I don’t think I’m going to make it. I feel unsure on my feet and generally unwell. My head hurts, I have sleep-deprivation induced nausea and I have to go to the doctor to score some medicine if it is indeed an ear infection. I have worked on prepping my bike all night. It was slow going since I kept having to take breaks to rest my body. The bike is not even ready yet. I still need to change the oil and flush the radiator to replace the antifreeze with distilled water with a properly measured shot of Water Wetter mixed in.
But first off to the see my doc. I almost fall asleep in the waiting room. Must. Stay. Awake. I feel shaky inside. My name is finally called and after enduring the nurse and her insistent need for vital signs I am sent to my room. I almost doze off waiting for Doc to put in his appearance. He finally does and as I straighten up to greet him a wave of dizziness hits me. I hate that. It throws me off balance and makes me feel icky. I call it “vertigo” but that’s not the right term. I explain myself to the man, he gives me a diagnostic rundown then tells me it’s my allergies that have caused fluid to buildup “in there” and that’s where my dizziness and momentary loss of sense of balance come from. He prescribes me antibiotics, don’t forget your doctor’s note, and be on your way.
Mr. Slow is trying to help me get the bike ready, but I’m too addled in the brain to form a complete sentence or make sense enough so he could follow what I’m trying to tell him. I have’t the energy. We end up yelling at each other and I’m so angrily exhausted now that I tell him where he can go and that it isn’t JenningsGP with me. I don’t need this shit, I’m flying solo. He disappears into the bedroom to get some sleep, since he, too, has been up all night at his job. Somebody has gotta drive. But he can’t sleep since we’re mad at each other.
Kiss and make up like a couple of zombies and back to work. I can’t get the damned oil filter off the bike, it takes two frustrating trips to the auto parts store to get a tool that actually works. My sleepy anger finally gets the thing off so the rest of the oil can drain out. I clean the cavity that accepts the screw-in filter, replace the oil drain plug gasket, screw the drain plug back in after cleaning it, torque it down and resecure it with safety wire. I screw in the new wrench-off K&N filter, hand tighten it as instructed, safety wire it using the hole provided and dump in four quarts of Motul synthetic race oil. When I get to the last quart I find I’m too tired to check the level half-way through the bottle. I crank up the bike, let the engine circulate the oil, shut it off and put in the rest. Four quarts out, four quarts in. Logical. I don’t exactly know if four quarts came out, since I spilled a bunch of it because my catch pan wasn’t big enough to cover the area between the drain bolt and the filter. Arrgh! Now I have to clean this mess up. I don’t have the oil spill stuff they have at work. It looks like kitty litter and is absorbent as hell… kitty litter… hmmm… I have some of that. I go inside and get a few scoops of Tidy Cats and it does the trick quite nicely.
On to the radiator flush. I can’t get the damned clamp off the hose coming out of the water pump. Lowest point on bike, only place I’m reasonably sure of that it’s a radiator line and not an oil line. I’m shooting from the hip here. Yikes…
I hate being so weak. And I hate hose-freaking-clamps! I am getting frustrated again. It’s going on two o’clock and I have yet to pack! I am saved by Joe who apparently got a power nap in. He gets the hose off and runs to the auto parts store again for some anti-seize. We get the radiator flushed and replace the antifreeze with Water Wetter mix.
Note to self: Sweep up kitty litter before you flush the radiator. The stuff turns to muck the color and consistency of wet concrete; and the whole point was not to have it end up in the sewer system. At least it wasn’t but a small amount. Crap! happens when you’re in Zombieland.
It’s almost four o’clock. I’m now feeling like death warmed over. I think I might be seeing things… I am starving, I hadn’t eaten since the evening before. I am dehydrated. The dizziness is getting worse.
Joe sets up the ramps and once they are properly secured I ride my bike up into the truck. Yes, I know. No riding bikes up ramps unless you are a professional on a closed course. I’m too short, my feet don’t touch the ground once the front wheel is a little ways up on the ramp. I do not trust myself to be able to hold the bike on the incline, so I just ride it up and get on the brakes right before I engage the wheel chock to make sure I’m properly aligned.
Now you know why I can’t get the blasted thing down on my own. I can’t walk it down, I would have to shove off and roll backwards across the angle where my feet cannot reach. That freaks me out. And I’m neither strong nor coordinated enough to walk my bike down, while standing to the right of it, trying to hold it upright and manipulating the front brake lever.
Oh Lord, won’t you buy me a race trailer? All my friends have toy haulers, I must make amends.
After securing the bike, I take a shower, pack my clothes and personal stuff and we’re off to the races. Which race, you ask? The race against the time the gate closes. If we don’t make it there before then, we’re sleeping outside on the side of the road. We still have to stop at “Little China” to pick up extra tie downs and a few other essentials, including the medicine my doctor had called in. After inhaling a veggie burger meal from Burger King and downing a bottle of water and my Diet Coke, I curl up in the passenger seat and try to sleep.
Sick and tired and I’m going to go do what? Yes, I seem to have the Darwinian gene: “Hey y’all come watch this!”
…so my hubby spent more of my hard-earned BusaCredits and made me take two days off work (which I practically had to lie, steal and cheat for, or so it felt…. like they were doing me a favor, gawd….anyhoo…) and he took off one day (Thursday), and booked us a place up in Helen, GA, which is about 150 miles north of here. A fake German town with an amusing history. Since I’m German this is going to be an interesting adventure in German words spelled wrong in neon. LOL What I really care about is that it’s going to be twisty roads to the place and all around the place. So, I’m going to take my trusty Mac, make use of the modern technological marvel that is satellite imagery and scope out some ‘worthy’ roads for myself. This is probably going to be Kittyhog’s last road trip with me, since she might be going to a new home on Saturday, to a lady who wants to learn how to ride.
I should be getting ready instead of hanging out online, there’s so much to do, but I’m such a procrastinator. I’m looking forward to going. This is my first overnight motorcycle trip that is taking place solely for the purpose of searching out windier roads. I went to the IMS in Greenville, SC in February and we stayed overnight but we didn’t do any riding. It was pretty much a two-wheeled commute. Purposeful. This is strictly pleasure. Kind of nervous, but also excited. New roads, new challenges. Hopefully, I won’t be a sleazeball in the next two days. 🙂
I will report back on Sunday, hopefully with some piccies courtesy of Papa Razzi (my 5-pound, 2-foot, red-ring telephoto-lens carrying Canon fanboi of a husband!)
Update: May 4, 2009 at 11:11pm
My first ‘real’ motorcycle trip was pretty much pushed on me by my hubby. He says: “You better get Thursday and Friday off because we’re going for a ride.” He already had gotten it off, and I had to pull out the heavy manipulation to get my days off. It wasn’t looking good at first, but the powers that be took pity on my wretched self and gave me two off in a row. Trust me, this was a MAJOR accomplishment where I work. So, it was going to happen. I don’t plan anything, because we all know what happens to the ‘well laid plans of mice and men’. I like to shoot from the hip, go with the flow, cross bridges when I get to them and deal with stuff as it presents itself. I was never a girl scout, so I don’t believe in ‘coming prepared’. Where’s the fun in that? I figure all the preparedness I need is in the form of a PDA and the trusty ole MasterCard.
Hubby basically planned the trip, what little planning there was, since he’s a trucker and if he knows anything it’s roads. I think he has an internal database inside his head where he stores EVERY road he’s ever been on, no matter the vehicle he happened to be in. I think he has photographic memory when it comes to asphalt and concrete. I on the other hand get lost in parking lot course marked by orange cones. All the moaning about the roads not being curvy enough around here was finally catching up with me. Hanging off of my Harley Sportster and trying for new ‘personal bests’ in the few good corners we do have around here probably didn’t help much either. Getting rid of the Chicken Strips on the left side of the rear tire probably had something to do with it. It was all going to come to the point where I had to put my money where my mouth was. I was pretty nervous, not scared, but a little anxious. But I was looking forward to it, too. Definitely. I was ready, just not 100% confident in my riding skills that I had accumulated over the past few months.
The trip started out two hours behind what passes around here for a schedule. That’s normal, too. I don’t care. Vacations are for not meeting deadlines, for not making a big deal out of anything, and simply just going with the flow and enjoying oneself doing it. If I wanted to meet a deadline or stay on a planned schedule, I’d stay at work. Some people don’t seem to grasp the concept. And those are the same people that need a vacation from their vacation when they get back home. Plans are diametrically opposed to having a good time, but that’s just me. I come home relaxed and recharged. But I digress… We pack up the farm animals (the hog and the cow) and I tell hubby that I want to stop by Harley to get my hands on a tinted shield for my helmet. So, we ride on over to the dealership and I go inside to make the purchase. They didn’t have any. Bummer. I come back outside and basically have to push some old dude out of the way with the door to get out. Hubby had an audience, and guess what they were talking about? Not Harleys. They were talking about the wife’s plans for trading the hog for a Hayabusa! Gawd… you leave these bums to their own devices for FIVE short minutes and here they are, gossiping like school girls. Here I was in the middle of it, feeling like an animal at the zoo, having to listen to ALL the (MALE) opinions. How you can’t go slow on a ‘busa. How a buddy had one and traded it for a Harley Road King after barely a month. How somebody got killed on one. How that ain’t no bike for a little thing like me. Puuuuuullllleeeeze! My only response was the sweetest, most ladylike smile I could muster and calmly stating that the throttle goes both ways. Then I got on my hog, stuck my Big Ears stereo earplugs in my ears, cranked up my iPod, put my helmet and gloves on and… blasted out of there very unladylike with my cat ears flopping in the breeze, hanging off on the top of the hill and dragging knee to make the corner at speed…. No, not really. But that would HAVE been cool and showed them gruffy old Harley dudes that girls can ride anything they set their mind to. LOL
So, we’re on our way. It’s business as usual, since I’ve been exploring these roads for a few months now. The way there was pretty much straight and boring. So, I concentrated on the scenery and the smells and just going with the flow. I was called a ‘Squidly’ at the first gas stop, since I passed a logging truck that was going 50 in a 55, after being behind him what seemed like forever and a day, by going 90. Not so. I had to defend my passing technique to cruiser hubby, but told him straight out. I rather get a speeding ticket, then hang out in the opposing lane of traffic, taking my sweet time getting around a semi-truck that is causing turbulence in the air currents and the driver of which may just be making a sandwich, smoking a cigarette and yakking on his CB and swerve over in the lane and kill my sorry slow, riding-along-at-speed-limit butt. When I make the decision to pass and deem it safe to do so I hustle. Sorry kids. But every one of us has to make that sort of decision for themselves. Fast forward. It’s getting curvier when we’re getting close to Helen. But the fun is taken right out of enjoying a sequence of S-curves at slightly elevated speeds by several ‘Slow Congested Area’ and ‘Limited Sight Distance’ signs that seemed to be sprouting everywhere. I’ve learned my lesson on out-riding my sight distance and the good student I am, I dutifully slow, and do the right thing. When my GPSr tells me we’re at the hotel, it’s lying. Our brand is nowhere in sight. I’m in the lead, so I cruise along in first trying to find the place. We’re on the right street, but apparently the addresses and the actual coordinates do not mesh properly, which is a common occurrence really. At least in my experience. So, I get to the end of ‘Edelweiss Strasse’, stop at the 4-way and look at Joe, shrugging. He takes the lead. What’s the first thing he does? He hangs a left over a speed bump into a gravel strewn, potholed parking lot to assess the situation. You have got to be kidding me. I pop open my shield and ask him if he ever surveys the area he’s about to pull into? This is the suckiest place to stop in all of deserted Helen (it’s the off-season, so fortunately for me, I have no witnesses if I decide to kill him or lay my bike down, or both)! He just giggles (he knows how I’ve felt about u-turns lately and I think it’s part of his ploy to engage me in some much needed practice) and then says: “Watch This!” and proceeds to waddle-walk is bike around the tight lot and comes to a stop facing the other way. He turns, looks at me and says: “There is no shame in waddle walking.” All I can think of is what a ‘hole he can be, but he’s right. However, I can’t waddle walk anymore, I found out. After all the practice of keeping feet on pegs, I’m way too fast to waddle walk. I try to do a hybrid, but I should have just done what my muscles wanted to do, but no. There is no shame in waddle-walking. This was the most miserable turn ever. Too fast for walking, too slow for counterbalancing, not in the right frame of mind. Indecision causes scratched paint. Luckily I had it enough under control (if you can call it that) not to have a visit from my favorite Uncle. Uncle Gravity, that is. So, we head back out and finally find the hotel, which we passed, but couldn’t see since the sign was covered by a bush and the front of the building was facing parallel to the street.
We pull in next to two other motorcycles, these are sport-tourers, a Beemer and a Triumph, both of which look like they’ve seen a little more than asphalt in their time. Serious bikers. Maybe we should park with the lame cagers on the other end? Nah. We mean business, too. Well, at least I do. Don’t know about my marshmallow butt husband… speaking of which, the pillion is a lot more comfy than the front seat, what’s up with that??? More on that later. I’m all excited. Mountains means curvy roads and the place is deserted. VERY good. There are people sitting out front in rocking chairs watching us. I decide to actually back in my bike, which I do without a problem. I get all giddy, bounce up and down in my seat and cause my helmet, which I had put on the right-hand mirror, to fall off and bounce across the parking lot. Yeah. You go, girl! Go show off, see where that gets ya… Oh well. I’m too excited now to be embarrassed. We go check in, drop our stuff off and decide we’re gonna go eat, on foot, since we both wanted to have a few beers. Hubby changes, I live in my gear, so I have to wait on him… we inquire at the desk where a good place to eat is and follow his directions. First place didn’t have anything in the way of veggies on the menu, so we opt for Plan B. BiggDaddy’s. I have a portobello mushroom burger, home fries, and beer. Some local brew, or something. Started with a T then Gold. Tappani. Tephani, Tiffany.. something… Not a clue, I felt adventuresome. I got drunk on two beers (I always do, since I don’t drink very often) and have diarrhea of the mouth… the topic of discussion? Bikes, bikes, bikes…. Of course, that’s all I talk about lately. Then we wolfed down deep friend cheese cake and went back to the room by detour to the local liquor store. A six pack of Warsteiner for the road. Fast forward, because we are boring people.
Next morning, we barely make it in for the free continental breakfast around 9ish. The other bikers are gone, of course. Real bikers get up at the crack of dawn, we rolled out of bed early, proud to be up at nine. Hubby is a night-shifter, I try to stick somewhat to his schedule otherwise we would never see each other. Besides, mornings suck anyway. While drinking Warsteiner the previous evening I had found myself the bestest motorcycle road ever. Almost as curvy as the Dragon, but with a lot less traffic, I’m sure, and hopefully with a more reasonable speed limit. One problem though: The weather had changed drastically, over night, and there was a storm front moving in from the northwest. Bummer. The clouds hung ominous and black and pregnant in the mountains. We scrap our plans. ☹ Neither of us has any rain gear, I have waterproof liners for my stuff and can probably hang, but Joe was in his summer mesh and would be soaked in no time. Dang it, we need to get around to buying some rain duds. I’m bummed out…. When I leave the hotel by the side door, it’s already raining. Yay! We pack our bikes, get gas and head out. We’ve decided to head southeast, but not too far south, since that would take us out of the mountains and try to stay out of the storm’s way and maybe still get some twisties in. We do. Hubby knows how to find promising roads… I found a decent alternative in the Chattahoochee National Forest. Unfortunately, the roads were wet and there were ‘tree boogers’ everywhere! Not a good combination, nice and slick. So I had to really curb my enthusiasm, but it was good nonetheless. Good practice. After we did one loop, hubby wanted to know if I wanted to go around again. I almost said Hell, yes! But thought better of it. I don’t want to be one of those ‘holes that wear out their welcome by bothering people who are fishing and camping nearby by tooling around the same stretch of road all day. We pretty much headed home, but tried to stay in the ‘hills’ as long as we could, but the weather was playing catch up. Fast forward. The last 40 or so miles before I-20 were painful. My bum was getting sore from all the vibration, my hands and feet were no better. I finally decided that riding on the pillion was way more comfy, so I tooled down the road sitting on the back with my feet on the pegs and my arms stretched out to the handlebars. Ah, so that’s how it feels to ride on a V-Rod. Glad I didn’t get one, forward controls suck. ☺ You definitely see more back here, because you sit up higher. People in cages were giving me strange looks, but a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do. My hubby pulls up next to me at one point, paces me, pops his shield open and we both yell at each other: “My arse hurts!’ and then we cracked up laughing. Yeah, we’re marshmallow butts, alright. The Sporty is a great commuter bike, but a tourer it is not. Hubby is looking into getting a new seat for Mr. Spock, his 2009 Kawasaki Vulcan 900 Custom SE (it’s blacked out like the Nightrod Special…., awesome looking bike!)
The last 20 miles were on I-20. On the on-ramp I almost became a cager sandwich, hold the mustard, plenty of pickle. What a bunch of boneheads. Hubby was way ahead of me, because I got caught waiting for traffic and a red light on the way out from our last gas and coffee stop. So, I’m accelerating down the ramp, with two vehicles in front of me: a semi-truck and a passenger car. I start slowing my approach, since the Interstate is packed around the ramps. Cars are getting over as they can, to make room, but it’s all backing up. The semi merges like a pro. The cager behind him is clearly an idiot: he slows, I catch up with him, fast. He has a hole, he won’t take it. Now traffic is going way faster than him, and it’s starting to get dangerous for me. Decision time. What to do, what to do? I see a hole, crank on some throttle to get back up to the speed of the traffic flow, merge in smooth as butter and at this precise moment Mr. Merge-I-Cannot decides that he needs my lane more than I do, since he’s started making judicious use of the rumble strip already. He comes over towards the middle third of my lane. To avoid being sideswiped, I’m now forced over the white line and now I’m lane-splitting with Mr. Merge-I-Cannot and the car to the left of me, in the passing lane. The dude to the left of me looks like he is about to freak out on me, so I do the only thing I can think of doing before he starts weaving in his lane. One erratic cager’s enough. Slowing down clearly is not an option, there’s cars everywhere. I gas it hard and extract myself out of this rolling metal and plastic booby trap. And I don’t slow down until I have the whole gaggle behind me. I wonder if somebody called in my tag for ‘(w)reckless driving’? I caught up with hubby (as I always do) and sleazeballed my exit. Yeah, I didn’t think I was as close as I actually was. I thought I had another mile to go. Passed a slow semi, then had to squeeze by a car to make it. Yeah, I had to end the trip by being Miss Squidly.
Oh, and hubby toted his entire camera gear with him and didn’t snap a single freakin’ picture! What a lamer! The only thing I got to show for are cell phone piccies I snapped of the food and beer. Ha!