dir/new_school/rant: M o t o r c y c l i n g

 Slam into the back of a car. Your body is thrown forward. It doesn't seem real. One moment, everything is cool, the next moment some fool cuts into your lane and stops.

 50 mph. Hit that rear bumper and you hear it, your flesh thunking against a much stronger force, the cartilage in your knee turned to some soft squishy material, the center of all pain.

 Your head is like a jerky camera. Everything is moving fast, but you catch it all; the sky, the ground, the look of amazement on the faces of the drivers in the opposite lane. Spectators to your decline.

 Your cycle turns with the force of the blow, throwing you and the twisted piece of metal between your legs into the opposing lane of traffic. Danger from all directions. A car bumper catches a rear portion of the cycle,  the two points meet and catch hold, throwing you back into the fray.

 You fall to the ground, bouncing like a ball, your mind grasping for reality. You bounce once, twice, maybe three times. Was that my elbow I heard snap? Maybe my leg again.

 Everything stops, it's over. It wasn't real. The sky seems very blue.

 Believe it or not, you've stopped moving. Face forward in the road. The rushing sound of the wind that you endure whenever you ride your bike has stopped, but things aren't over. You try to get up off the ground and throw yourself into the next lane, to avoid another motorist who can't stop his metal beast from crushing you.

 Pain and rage take over. Kill the driver! He's sitting in his car with this stunned look on his face. He only wanted to get some gas, pick up the paper, maybe buy a Baby Ruth and a Coke for the ride home.
 It's a strange fuel, adrenaline. It can lift a man off the ground, leaving him heedless of the agony running through his body. Mix that super fuel with maddening pain and you have a blurry hold on rationality. You lurch like a B-movie monster, tears blurring your vision and a throaty moan coming from your mouth.  Had I reached his car, I would have surely strangled him.

 Fall down, too much pain. Up again. Fall. Up again. The pain is enough to bring you back to clarity. The pavement rushes up to meet you, your brow wet with sweat, and your ears full of the ticking notion that less than a moment has passed.

 The world spins, people look at you in that gawking fashion, waiting to see if you're dead, maybe they'll see some blood. Your motorcycle is still close at your side, and you can see the rear wheel spinning idly, reminding you of roulette. You move your toe, one of the few things on your body that doesn't hurt, and switch off the engine. The wheel slows to a stop. It's a sunny day, but the first few drops of rain begin to fall. You add your tears to them and scream at the sky.

 It's Friday. You were going to work until your path crossed with some John Doe, a man so intent on his gas and paper that he didn't even see you in broad daylight, or didn't think that you might not be able to stop. Your body is twisted into unnatural shapes. Your motorcycle is bleeding oil on the pavement. For the drivers out today, you'll just be a passing thought. A story they will tell their children to discourage them from buying a motorcycle.

2.

I’m on my fourth bike.  The motorcycle which I rode when I had the accident in the story above was my second bike.  I still own my first motorcycle, though it lies mostly in pieces, in the garage of my parents house, waiting to be restored.  My first bike was totaled out in an accident when some asshole cut me off at a intersection. 

 Imagine you’re riding along and suddenly someone cuts in front of you, seconds pass like years, as the brain either brings everything into focus or shuts down in fear.  My hands, feet, the brakes, the locked burning wheels are a mixture of flesh and metal intermingling.  The synapses fires with a resolve for survival, that nothing else can compare to. 

My goal is to lay the bike down.  My choice is either to brake hard and sit tight or to nudge the bike to the ground, where the abrupt change in path and velocity will abruptly change the trajectory of the bike.  You learn to lay a bike down by instinct, something passed down from the old timers…

 "You don’t want to hit it" they say "You want to lay that bike down and take the rash baby" 

If I lay the bike down, I’d buy a few seconds, they count for so much in the ballet of an accident.  It’s like a action sequence, the car turns, the bikes begins to twist sideways in slow motion, until you nudge it and then you can feel time catch up, jagged frames taken out of the perspective, almost jerky for a second.  When the motorcycle hits the ground two things happen, it’s speeds up and is flung away from you-unless your pinned down, you slow down as your clothing is eaten away on reentry with the earth.  If you’re dressed well, you’ll only bone bruise and take a beating, if you’re badly dressed and not in gear, your clothing will quickly be eaten away and your flesh will follow soon afterwards. 

The bike and my body went down as commanded.  The Bikes, flies ahead of me as my leather and jeans begin to brake across the pavement, the bike and car barely meet, it’s still enough force to throw the bike into a concrete island where a small sapling is snapped in half and the motorcycle flips, once, twice, landing ten feet from a gas pump.  I’m on my back, sliding fast; you can smell leather and clothing burning, the smell of your own flesh is sickening to your nostrils.  As I began to take on perspective, I stop my free slide and begin to tense my body and as I straighten my legs, the heels of my Rockports hit the asphalt and the traction of my shoe tread is enough to abruptly stop me and bring me to my feet. 

I am ignited by rage and I turn in the middle of the street.  I don’t know why-other then to kill the driver, but I start to follow after the car, with a murderous intent.  The only thing worse then a bike accident that is not your fault is one where the driver tries to bail on you.  I do want very much to kill him, in my peripheral vision I can see the warm, dull, spray of blood as my arms pump up and down. 

The driver who I can only imagine is quite dazed and confused is more so perplexed, when he sees his rearview mirror feeling up with the image of a large black man following him down the street and to my amazement, he stops.   I was shocked and exhausted enough to actually not drag him out of his car and beat him senseless.  He quickly stammers out that we can work an agreement and that their is no need to call the cops. 

The cops are called. 

I was lucky, the bike was a twisted mess, repairable, but totaled by the insurance company.  I used it to buy my second bike, which I eventually sold after I lost my nerve to ride and went without a bike for years…

3. 

Four years later I realized my life was quite blasé, I was driving a Chevy Blazer which I was quite happy with, but something was missing.  My riding buddy and close friend Paul, who’d I’d recently started hanging out again said "You should get another bike, cruise, smoke cigars and chase babes" I didn’t think much of it, I was afraid, but the seed had been planted and I began to haunt motorcycle dealerships, sitting on new bikes.  Everything I’d owned up until then had been relics.  I would ride something new, something totally bad ass.  I would ride again. 
I bought a new bike, a shiny Honda Magna 750cc and on the first night I was terrified.  I had not ridden in years, but the freedom was there. 
Their is something about a bike, the high it brings, the sense of freedom and actually truly understanding the mechanics of what it is to travel down a road, at say, seventy miles an hour.  In a car, you are protected, insulated and a bit desensitized to the actual experience, in a bike, you look down around your magic carpet ride and you can see the pavement rushing behind you.  No car gives this feeling. 
I have taken more spills on bikes, many of them which I survived by the scant count of seconds, but the feeling, the heart pounding acceleration is love, it honestly is freedom. 
As a child I remember going to the tallest hill in my neighborhood, the kinda hill you can’t pedal up.  Walking my huffy Starfire with the motorcycle crank handle that "Vroom Vroomed" when you twisted it and then waiting at the top of the hill for minutes. I always understood that this hill, which was near a forest preserve and a part of a busy intersection was incredibly dangerous.  I was the only bicyclist who ever seemed to frequent this ghetto roller coaster.  And as I’d rest my foot on the pedal and idle my motorcycle crank, I always appreciated the air and surroundings.  The experience, bolting down this steep two hundred yard incline was a deliverance from any ache or longing I had.  At the bottom of the hill, the experience was no less satisfying as I’d always bring my bike to a sharp stop, looking over my shoulder at the behemoth I had just traversed.  The five mile ride back to my house was a joy after that. 
She’ll sometimes say that motorcycling is one of those dangerous "boy things" which she’ll never understand.  This is a sad thing to think, cause their is so much KungFu to find in the experience.   I will die, you will to, but when you pass on, will it be filled with memories of what a safe existence you had or one filled with a remembrance for the things you did, the chances you took…I’ll take those chances.
 

Editorial
 
JLW speaks out against macho bullshit and what riding a motorcycle means to her 

 Slam into the back of a car. Your body is thrown forward. It doesn't seem real. One moment, everything is cool, the next moment some fool cuts into your lane and stops.

 50 mph. Hit that rear bumper and you hear it, your flesh thunking against a much stronger force, the cartilage in your knee turned to some soft squishy material, the center of all pain.

 Your head is like a jerky camera. Everything is moving fast, but you catch it all; the sky, the ground, the look of amazement on the faces of the drivers in the opposite lane. Spectators to your decline.

 Your cycle turns with the force of the blow, throwing you and the twisted piece of metal between your legs into the opposing lane of traffic. Danger from all directions. A car bumper catches a rear portion of the cycle,  the two points meet and catch hold, throwing you back into the fray.

 You fall to the ground, bouncing like a ball, your mind grasping for reality. You bounce once, twice, maybe three times. Was that my elbow I heard snap? Maybe my leg again.

 Everything stops, it's over. It wasn't real. The sky seems very blue.

 Believe it or not, you've stopped moving. Face forward in the road. The rushing sound of the wind that you endure whenever you ride your bike has stopped, but things aren't over. You try to get up off the ground and throw yourself into the next lane, to avoid another motorist who can't stop his metal beast from crushing you.

 Pain and rage take over. Kill the driver! He's sitting in his car with this stunned look on his face. He only wanted to get some gas, pick up the paper, maybe buy a Baby Ruth and a Coke for the ride home.
 It's a strange fuel, adrenaline. It can lift a man off the ground, leaving him heedless of the agony running through his body. Mix that super fuel with maddening pain and you have a blurry hold on rationality. You lurch like a B-movie monster, tears blurring your vision and a throaty moan coming from your mouth.  Had I reached his car, I would have surely strangled him.

 Fall down, too much pain. Up again. Fall. Up again. The pain is enough to bring you back to clarity. The pavement rushes up to meet you, your brow wet with sweat, and your ears full of the ticking notion that less than a moment has passed.

 The world spins, people look at you in that gawking fashion, waiting to see if you're dead, maybe they'll see some blood. Your motorcycle is still close at your side, and you can see the rear wheel spinning idly, reminding you of roulette. You move your toe, one of the few things on your body that doesn't hurt, and switch off the engine. The wheel slows to a stop. It's a sunny day, but the first few drops of rain begin to fall. You add your tears to them and scream at the sky.

 It's Friday. You were going to work until your path crossed with some John Doe, a man so intent on his gas and paper that he didn't even see you in broad daylight, or didn't think that you might not be able to stop. Your body is twisted into unnatural shapes. Your motorcycle is bleeding oil on the pavement. For the drivers out today, you'll just be a passing thought. A story they will tell their children to discourage them from buying a motorcycle.

2.

I’m on my fourth bike.  The motorcycle which I rode when I had the accident in the story above was my second bike.  I still own my first motorcycle, though it lies mostly in pieces, in the garage of my parents house, waiting to be restored.  My first bike was totaled out in an accident when some asshole cut me off at a intersection. 

 Imagine you’re riding along and suddenly someone cuts in front of you, seconds pass like years, as the brain either brings everything into focus or shuts down in fear.  My hands, feet, the brakes, the locked burning wheels are a mixture of flesh and metal intermingling.  The synapses fires with a resolve for survival, that nothing else can compare to. 

My goal is to lay the bike down.  My choice is either to brake hard and sit tight or to nudge the bike to the ground, where the abrupt change in path and velocity will abruptly change the trajectory of the bike.  You learn to lay a bike down by instinct, something passed down from the old timers…

 "You don’t want to hit it" they say "You want to lay that bike down and take the rash baby" 

If I lay the bike down, I’d buy a few seconds, they count for so much in the ballet of an accident.  It’s like a action sequence, the car turns, the bikes begins to twist sideways in slow motion, until you nudge it and then you can feel time catch up, jagged frames taken out of the perspective, almost jerky for a second.  When the motorcycle hits the ground two things happen, it’s speeds up and is flung away from you-unless your pinned down, you slow down as your clothing is eaten away on reentry with the earth.  If you’re dressed well, you’ll only bone bruise and take a beating, if you’re badly dressed and not in gear, your clothing will quickly be eaten away and your flesh will follow soon afterwards. 

The bike and my body went down as commanded.  The Bikes, flies ahead of me as my leather and jeans begin to brake across the pavement, the bike and car barely meet, it’s still enough force to throw the bike into a concrete island where a small sapling is snapped in half and the motorcycle flips, once, twice, landing ten feet from a gas pump.  I’m on my back, sliding fast; you can smell leather and clothing burning, the smell of your own flesh is sickening to your nostrils.  As I began to take on perspective, I stop my free slide and begin to tense my body and as I straighten my legs, the heels of my Rockports hit the asphalt and the traction of my shoe tread is enough to abruptly stop me and bring me to my feet. 

I am ignited by rage and I turn in the middle of the street.  I don’t know why-other then to kill the driver, but I start to follow after the car, with a murderous intent.  The only thing worse then a bike accident that is not your fault is one where the driver tries to bail on you.  I do want very much to kill him, in my peripheral vision I can see the warm, dull, spray of blood as my arms pump up and down. 

The driver who I can only imagine is quite dazed and confused is more so perplexed, when he sees his rearview mirror feeling up with the image of a large black man following him down the street and to my amazement, he stops.   I was shocked and exhausted enough to actually not drag him out of his car and beat him senseless.  He quickly stammers out that we can work an agreement and that their is no need to call the cops. 

The cops are called. 

I was lucky, the bike was a twisted mess, repairable, but totaled by the insurance company.  I used it to buy my second bike, which I eventually sold after I lost my nerve to ride and went without a bike for years…

3. 

Four years later I realized my life was quite blasé, I was driving a Chevy Blazer which I was quite happy with, but something was missing.  My riding buddy and close friend Paul, who’d I’d recently started hanging out again said "You should get another bike, cruise, smoke cigars and chase babes" I didn’t think much of it, I was afraid, but the seed had been planted and I began to haunt motorcycle dealerships, sitting on new bikes.  Everything I’d owned up until then had been relics.  I would ride something new, something totally bad ass.  I would ride again. 
I bought a new bike, a shiny Honda Magna 750cc and on the first night I was terrified.  I had not ridden in years, but the freedom was there. 
Their is something about a bike, the high it brings, the sense of freedom and actually truly understanding the mechanics of what it is to travel down a road, at say, seventy miles an hour.  In a car, you are protected, insulated and a bit desensitized to the actual experience, in a bike, you look down around your magic carpet ride and you can see the pavement rushing behind you.  No car gives this feeling. 
I have taken more spills on bikes, many of them which I survived by the scant count of seconds, but the feeling, the heart pounding acceleration is love, it honestly is freedom. 
As a child I remember going to the tallest hill in my neighborhood, the kinda hill you can’t pedal up.  Walking my huffy Starfire with the motorcycle crank handle that "Vroom Vroomed" when you twisted it and then waiting at the top of the hill for minutes. I always understood that this hill, which was near a forest preserve and a part of a busy intersection was incredibly dangerous.  I was the only bicyclist who ever seemed to frequent this ghetto roller coaster.  And as I’d rest my foot on the pedal and idle my motorcycle crank, I always appreciated the air and surroundings.  The experience, bolting down this steep two hundred yard incline was a deliverance from any ache or longing I had.  At the bottom of the hill, the experience was no less satisfying as I’d always bring my bike to a sharp stop, looking over my shoulder at the behemoth I had just traversed.  The five mile ride back to my house was a joy after that. 
She’ll sometimes say that motorcycling is one of those dangerous "boy things" which she’ll never understand.  This is a sad thing to think, cause their is so much KungFu to find in the experience.   I will die, you will to, but when you pass on, will it be filled with memories of what a safe existence you had or one filled with a remembrance for the things you did, the chances you took…I’ll take those chances.
 

Editorial
 
JLW speaks out against macho bullshit and what riding a motorcycle means to her