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.


Frosty The Snow Ho visits the Frozen Winter Wonderland

…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.

This Is Snow, Sweetheart

Jamie (@jls1970) sent me this friendly tweet to remind us Southern girls: "@MissBusa 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*