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From 2001 to 2003 I wrote five "True Confession" articles which were published in various magazines. Now, I share them with you! |
Summer 2001
True Confessions of a VTwin Mama Whether you’ve been riding for thirty days or
thirty years, every rider has her own collection of riding mishaps, some
secret and others not! Sure, some slip-ups are just that – easily
laughed at and shared at the end of the day, with only a dent to the pride
or wallet as a reminder. Other mistakes though, are so serious that they
result in a promise to never do that again, if only …So, in the spirit
of things, I’m willing to share part of my list in an act of true
confession. Oops officer, I could have sworn this was a
no-helmet state. This actually happened on a trip from Chicago to Cape
Cod. I had a guide that showed me which states required a helmet, but the
type was small and I misread one of the states. The officer let me off
with a warning when I showed him the little book. Big time egg on my face. The parking spot was level when I first looked at
it. Yes, I tipped over my bike parking it on a very small
incline. No one saw it happen, so I quickly muscled my bike back up and
got the thing settled right. I learned that day how heavy a bike really
can be. And how red my face can get. It’s a little thing called regular maintenance. One fourth of July I decided to go for a day cruise
by myself. Unfortunately, about 60 miles outside of town, the bike
suddenly lost all power and stopped running. A good Samaritan, a former
motorcycle racer, and his wife helped me figure out that one of the
battery cells had gone dry. The couple gave me a place to stay and I got a
new battery the next day. A thump on the head for not checking things over
even though it was a routine ride. Why the headlight is shining sideways instead of on the road.On the way to Sturgis my first year, the headlight
popped out the frame and was dangling. A nice man pointed it out at a road
stop and offered to fix it. A few days later, when I needed to ride
through the Black Hills at dusk and into the night, I realized I was
riding extra slow because by headlight was shining off into the woods.
Note to self: help is good, but you’ve got to check things over also. My bike is faster than your car. I was young, the stretch of road was remote, and when
I pulled up next to the cutest guy with the fastest looking little sports
car at the one stop light around for miles, it seemed like fun to peel out
and show him I could really ride well. At least the 0-60 kind of well.
Sure, I won, but I was an inexperienced rider and could have gotten into
real trouble fast. I learned to leave the ego at home and respect the
road. Packing cloths for a long motorcycle trip is an
art form. I didn’t think I needed my leather jacket or rain
gear on a 10 day trip through Wisconsin and Michigan one hot August. One
day it decided to sprinkle, then rain, then pour. Out on a two lane
highway, Mother Nature got me from above while the big eighteen wheelers
sent waves of water splashing over me. I grit my teeth for hours until I
couldn’t take it any more. The owner of the small hotel that I found in
the middle of nowhere was very kind, but I bet he was laughing pretty hard
otherwise. Note to self: pack for all weather. Sometimes you just have to say no. Everybody was going to go ride a particular curvy
mountain in some state that was mostly flat otherwise. The thought of
doing extra tight turns made me queasy, so I opted for a day at the pool.
I learned to take some good-natured ribbing. I also learned to respect my
instincts and do what I thought was right for me. Rain, rain, go away or at least don’t kill me. It was lightly raining that summer day, just enough
to make the oil from the trucks and cars form a nice slick surface. I was
traveling too close to the truck in front of me when his brake lights came
on suddenly. My first mistake was to jam on the rear brake, and I started
sliding sideways. My second mistake was to let off the rear brake, but
through some miracle, I jerked the handlebars up at the same time, and the
bike did a little zigzag around the truck into a center lane. I was
shaking for some time after that. Back to riding school for me. Drinking and riding never go together. Ever. It was one of those typical all day rides, where you
ride from one motorcycle-friendly place to another. One drink at this
joint, another at the next place. When my front tire went off the road
onto the gravel at 70 miles per hour on a sharp S-curve, I should have
bought the farm. Instead, I flew into a bean field of soft dirt. I’m
glad I had training on how to go down with the bike correctly. I also
relearned that thanking God after the fact was not good enough, so I
stopped drinking and riding. Enough said.
True Confessions of a VTwin Mama I have non-riding friends who insist on introducing me to new people by saying, “This is Petra – she rides a motorcycle.” Perhaps it is for the shock value. I know that I immediately go into shock – contorting my smile into something that approximates a confident, intelligent woman who could not be categorized as a “crazy biker.” Maybe that’s where I am making my mistake. Because invariably what follows are highly
opinionated statements about how dangerous riding a bike is, questions
about whether I wear a helmet (and then a considerable opinion on that
subject), and possibly even the latest statistics from a local or national
report remembered in too much detail (and didn’t I read that one –
I’m a rider so I must have seen it . . .). But this is nothing compared to the person who has the guts to ask, “Can I have a ride?” Now the smile on my face freezes as I run through my options so that I won’t embarrass my host, put off my new acquaintances, or actually commit me to action in any way. Here’s what runs through my brain: 1. I’m at a social function, and if I have my bike with me, do I have to stop my fun so that I can run you around and you can look cool on the back of my bike? What if this draws a crowd and more people just want a “short” ride? I bet the party’s hostess won’t appreciate that her entertainment has been redirected. 2. If I don’t have my bike with me, am I obligated to take your name and number and arrange to see you again even though I don’t know you and am not sure if I want to? 3. I originally rode as a passenger, but since I bought my own bike, that never interests me anymore so why are you interested? Is this a Betty Boop/ Easy Rider/ Hells Angels fantasy of yours? Will one turn around the block satisfy you? Won’t you be disappointed when you find out I’m a real person with a real job, house, dogs (fill in your own stuff here) and have real problems just like everyone else? Talk about busting your bubble. I don’t want to be responsible for that. 4. Do you know how much practice it takes to have a passenger on a bike, especially one that thinks they can help you ride the bike by leaning into turns and wiggling around because their butt hurts? I have to clench my teeth the entire time and evoke way too many prayers that I’d rather save for when I really, really need some help. 5. I don’t have any extra helmet with me and besides, you really don’t want to smush your hair. 6. What is my current insurance coverage because quite frankly, my liability is the same no matter whether we go around the block or further. And if the bike goes down, it’s usually the passenger that bites it, not the rider, and I don’t know you well enough to potentially hurt, maim or kill you. I’m sure your date, boy/girlfriend, fiancé, wife/husband wouldn’t appreciate that. If I’m in good form, my frozen smile will convey a sense of thoughtfulness. I’m waiting for the bright light to pop on and deliver something witty like my good friend Doug Lewis would say -- “If you want a ride, go to an amusement park.” I add a lilt to my voice, a tilt to my head and a twinkle to my eye to soften the blow. © 2001 VTwin Mama
True Confessions of a VTwin Mama Sometimes Mother Nature puts too much time in my hands and I get to thinking about all the things I don’t like about riding. It’s not that any single one of these things would keep me from riding altogether, although if they all happened at once I would probably be scared out of my leathers. Take bugs for instance. Really, take them! Actually, I’d like to broaden this category to include anything with wings that can fly. Like the seagull that swooped me one day and almost left my clutch hand inoperable. Let’s face it, if you go to slow, the state bird of Wisconsin – the mosquito – is going to get you and if you go fast, especially in and around June, getting whapped by a June bug is a distinct possibility. Thump.. Ouch. Maybe you’ve learned to keep your mouth shut while riding, but I still get caught up in the glee of things, roaring biker songs at the top of my lungs, leaving me vulnerable to a bug swallow or two. I don’t subscribe to the protein theory of bug chew. And you can’t tell me that cleaning your bike keeps you awake at night in anticipation – or can you? We should expand the adage, “Chrome don’t get you home,” with, “and it’s unreasonable to expect that it be kept in perfect shiny condition at all times so if a friend calls for an impromptu ride you won’t be embarrassed.” Same goes for the paint job and all other portions or parts of a bike except the mirrors which are an intricate part of keeping you alive while riding, so no excuses. I personally would like to lobby whatever part of Congress could get me help with this next issue, the gas tank, and more specifically, it’s holding capacity. I readily admit that I chose a bike that only gets me 120 miles to the tank. Still, living near the mountains, and wishing to hear the roar of my pipes in pristine woodland settings, gas stations simply are placed in random enough patterns that you could spend your entire ride vacillating between stopping too often “just in case” or not often enough, to render you gasless in an area where there is no detectible cell phone signal. So what I’m proposing is that we lobby for in-ride refueling, a mobile service that ultralights could provide and for which I would gladly pay a small premium. Wait, come to think of it, those types of planes sound like mosquitoes and I might get confused and tried to swat it away. Back to the drawing board. Helmet hair smush is another one of my perennial favorites as I have yet to find a hairstyle that can survive a helmet and still shake out nicely. Maybe a buzz cut will in order for this year! It simply can’t be any worse than trying to artfully arrange yet another bandana or scarf. Really. Finally, there is the sore bottom syndrome. After 22 years of riding, I’ve yet to find a seat that can carry me through a whole day’s worth of riding without wishing I’d never seen a bike ever. I agree that this syndrome is more a spring and early summer affliction, until calluses are worked into the buttocks padding, but nonetheless, seat design could sure use a leg up. How about those hernia donut rings – now those look cushy! The bottom line (hee hee) is that I love riding, but could do without some aspects of it. According to this particular tirade, I need to move to the moon to take advantage of the bug-free atmosphere with almost no gravity so if the bike runs out of gas, who cares, it’s easy enough to push, while suspended on a revolutionary seat designed by someone who has figured out to condense gas into a the size of a sugar cube that will propel you for a really long way and isn’t concerned what my hair looks like. What are the
odds? © 2002 VTwin Mama
True Confessions of a VTwin Mama You would think that all your motorcycle maintenance mistakes (M3 ) would be made in the first year or two of riding, but in the act of true confession, I readily admit that I still goof up now and again even after 23 years of riding. Go figure. When I was first told about the miraculous qualities of duct tape, I of course heard the person say “duck tape” and couldn’t immediately figure out what ducks had to do with riding a motorcycle. Live and learn (and quack as it were). My first real introduction to this “carry it all the time” sticky haze-gray tape was when I bought my third bike, and after handing over the money and gleefully riding away, the clutch cable separated from its lower pivot point about two miles into my ride, rendering itself useless. Voila! Duct tape to the rescue, courtesy of my riding partner who joined the two parts together and allowed me to get home. A handy item to have at all times! Even this year, when the first beautiful day was predicted for the area, and on a weekend no less, I went to fire up the bike after a hiatus of only four months. It was simply a no go. So I figured since I hadn’t drained the tank at the end of the last season, or incorporated a gas-stabilizing additive, two very simple techniques, that new gas was called for. Oh, the bike sounded like it wanted to start then, but just didn’t have the necessary oomph. So what was wrong? Then the light clicked in my head as I remembered the adage, “it’s usually something simple, stupid,” and proceeded to pull the spark plugs. Yuck. Fouled to the maximum, and on a Sunday, with no possibility of buying new ones. A little bit of cleaning up with fine grit sandpaper did the trick, but by then the battery had drained down to almost nothing. There’s nothing like having a trickle charger on hand for these less-than-aha moments. I’ve come to respect the necessity of oil changes but still loathe the messiness of it all. I’ve spilled more motor oil on concrete in relation to the bucket it was supposed to be draining into and then it (the bucket that is) usually sits around until I get to the point were I finally haul it off to the local gas station for disposal. The owner’s manual makes it seem so easy and mess-free. I find that having a good automotive mechanic’s hand scrub solution around is a must -- dishwashing detergent just doesn’t cut it! And bleeding off brakes in order to change the fluid is the reason I started yoga lessons – in order to bend my body into position to squeeze the brake while turning the bleed valve that infinitesimal amount and watch for air bubbles that signal the job isn’t done yet. Who thinks up these contortions anyway? Note to motorcycle designers: I’m getting older, not more agile. Now checking the tire pressure is a real no-brainer, but I managed to screw that up one year as well! It started with a well-meaning friend who gifted with me a pair of those pink pig tire stem caps to commemorate the start of my journey to Sturgis. I admit that I fleetingly checked the rotation clearance in the garage, but it wasn’t until that first riding break that I thought I heard a fine wheeze of air from my bike, but not putting two-and-two together, made it to the second stop before I realized I had a real problem. Sure enough, the cap on the rear tire had ripped the valve stem, and chewing gum, and even duct tape, was of no help. So here’s to the local mechanic’s garage that keeps motorcycle tires on hand because they just know that something nutty enough like this will limp into their station. Thank you. If you are thinking that none of these silly things can happen to you, or they never have yet, just wait. All it takes is some new fangled fringe thing that you’ve added to your bike to get wrapped up in the spokes or melted onto your exhaust pipes to let you know that not everything is predictable. M3 rules! © 2002 VTwin Mama
True Confessions of a VTwin Mama Raise your hand if you’ve ever been scared during
any portion of a ride. ‘Fess up now – it’s true – there are
moments in everybody’s riding experience that has set their heart to
beating just a tad bit faster than is absolutely necessary. Let’s
chronicle a few of those “stomach in your throat” moments that we all
hope will never happen, but by gosh, they still do anyway! Where’s The
Next Gas Station?: This is one of my personal favorites, especially
now that I live in an area surrounded by mountains with itsy bitsy little
towns that always have a bar, but not necessarily a gas station. And
sometimes, even if they do, it might be closed on Sundays, a favorite
riding day for most, don’t you think? There’s nothing like flipping
the lever to reserve on your gas tank and wondering what it is going to
feel like pushing your bike over that hill that you just know will pop up
at the most inopportune time. Can you just feel your heart beating a
mile-a-minute as you contemplate this? Rough Road
Blues: Another perennial favorite of the riding set, this happens when
you’re headed down the road at a fair amount of speed, when all of a
sudden, those nasty “Men Working” signs appear and without warning,
you’re flying too fast on sifting lanes of paved/grooved/unpaved
sections that send your front wheel to lifting clear off the ground.
I’ve ground my teeth together a few times hoping to keep body and soul
together. Sure, eventually you manage to slow down, but then the cage
behind you finds it necessary to ride your bumper for as long as it takes
to really grind your molars down. It’s just not pretty – that’s all
I’m saying. Cages with
Trailers: This happened to me for the first time after riding over 20
years. I’m in my lane, the right lane to boot, and a car with a boat
trailer fully loaded passes me on the left going down a steep downhill
curve in a mountain pass. So what if his boat-trailer wheels swung one
third of the way over the line into my lane. The cage is still fully in
its lane, so that must be ok. I must be with the military and therefore
expendable! I wanted to pass out on this one it scared me so much, but
given the choice of crashing over the barrier into a 500+ foot drop, I
opted to pray. And rightly so. A Bad
Mechanical Sound Starts: You’ve been riding your bike for some time,
so you are “intimate” with the normal sounds your bike makes. Then a
small grinding noise makes it way into your happy thoughts as you’re
cruising along, or maybe it’s a thunk, hiss, clink, ping, tap or rap.
This simply is not good and you know it. Quick calculations ensue as you
strive to remember where the nearest dealer or independent shop is, or
push-come-to-shove, a save haven to pull over until help can arrive (cell
phone to the rescue!), or worst-case scenario, leave the bike if
absolutely necessary (under duress, of course). This will churn the ‘ol
stomach acid for sure! Hot Bike, Hot
Guy: Whether you’re single or married, there’s nothing like a nice
looking man on a great looking bike to send your heart a ‘fluttering!
Sure, technically it’s not a “scared ride” thing, but I thought
I’d throw it in because a number of weird things can happen, especially
if that hot guy/hot bike combo happens to join your ride somehow. I’ve
been known to fumble with the kickstand, pull out in line wobbly wonkers
and miss going into second gear, hitting neutral instead, with the
tell-tale throttle roar to announce the miss! Here I am, an experienced
rider, riding like a second-grader. Sigh. The bottom line is that there is no shame in feeling
the jitters every once in a while – but it sure helps to share these
experiences in an act of your own true confession. It’s just another
part of the rider’s reality and a badge of courage when we make it
through the trials and tribulations that accompany any ride. The journey
is always interesting, don’t you think?! © 2003 VTwin Mama |
| © 2001-2003 VTwin Mama |
