The Ural Chronicles

I have been thinking about a sidecar rig for a couple of years now and signed up for sidecar training (you have to have a special endorsement in Washington state). I thought it would be neat to take  each one of my grandkids on a moto-adventure when they reach age 13, and I know full well their mothers would never allow them on the back of a two-wheel moto! Plus I thought it might be a sort of a two-birds, one-stone kind of thing to have a bike with which I could commute AND take off road. So I started looking around and had pretty much decided on a Ural, recommended by a buddy of mine who has one and loves it.

 

A Ural is a Russian made sidecar rig which is a knock-off of a 1939 German BMW R71.  There are various versions of the story, but basically Stalin wanted a durable motorcycle for his troops, so he either negotiated a deal with the Germans or flat stole the bike and had it reverse engineered.  The original BMW R71 was built as a simple and sturdy machine so that, as one writer put it, “the German farm boys could work on them in the field.”  According to the Ural website, “Harley-Davidson also copied the BMW design and delivered about 1000 Harley-Davidson XA (Experimental Army) flat-twin shaft drive motorcycles to the US Army during World War II.” 

So I started pricing out the Ural, deciding what amenities I would like, how much the bike and amenities would cost, and whether my budget would handle any of it.

Then on Wednesday last week I trolled craigslist here in Seattle and found a Ural Patrol listed. I quickly sent the info to my buddy and asked him what he thought. His response was that if I was serious about getting a sidecar rig then I would be an idiot not to buy this one, as it was a steal. Then I got on the Ural forum (sovietsteed,org) and found a discussion about this specific bike, the gist of which was "Doggone it, I wish I didn't already own a Ural, 'cause this is a smoking deal."

Gulp.
So a friend and I headed south on Saturday to have look-see. There is some minor surface rust on various parts, no doubt a combination of Pacific Northwest weather, Russian coating technique, and the fact that the bike was not garaged but only covered under a car port. The engine ran fine, the electricals worked, and the bike is loaded with extras.

Gulp.

So we cut the deal, settled the paperwork, and it was my bike to take home - 40 miles away. Except I have never driven a sidecar rig before, which you would think would be no big deal … but it is.  I have been madly reading about how to drive a sidecar rig for the past couple of weeks and even got a 96 out of 100 on a written exam, but it is sort of like trying to learn to swim on dry land - you may understand the theory but reality is something else.

I have not been this terrified on a motorcycle since I was 15 years old and learning how to ride my buddy Norm Wantland’s Honda CB 160.  Steering a sidecar rig is precisely opposite from steering a two wheel moto; the skill sets do not transfer and in fact actually oppose one another.  My brain knows this, but my muscles don't know this. Thus when I pulled out of the guys backyard into the alleyway, I headed towards a trash can and reactively counter-steered to avoid it - the correct technique to use to avoid a collision when you are on a two-wheeled vehicle.

Except that is precisely the wrong input on a sidecar (see paragraph above!), so I immediately ran over the big-ass trash can belonging to the neighbor next door. The good news is that I then got to practice driving in reverse, to get the bike back off the trash can.

Down the alley I set off, desperately yawing back and forth as the bike pulled left and right - accelerate, pull right; panic, let off throttle and apply brakes, which immediately pulled the bike left. And so on. When I got to the end of the ally I was supposed to turn left, where a buddy was waiting to lead me home, but the bike was pointing right so I said "Nuts, I'm going right and circle the block."

And so it went through town, and since it was raining and I was wearing my helmet, I had to pull down the face shield, which of course fogged up my glasses, significantly reducing sight lines. An inexperienced idiot on an 800 pound machine is bad enough, but a blind terrified  inexperienced idiot in the rain? Sigh.

Soon enough I had to enter the freeway via the on-ramp. Do you have any idea how many people get really mad at you when you are entering an on-ramp curve at only 15 miles per hour because you are terrified you are going to flip the doggone bike? Lots.

Once on the freeway I ran it in the right lane all the way up to 55 MPH and managed to miss only one connecting by-way because there was no way on God's green earth I was going to try to whip across two lanes of traffic to get on the left-side exit. So I went down to the next exit where I had the privilege of pissing off eleventy-seven more off- and on- rampers.

The next forty-five minutes were some of the longest of my life. I was gripping the handlebars so tight I darn near broke them off. My brain kept screaming, "Steer, don't lean; steer, don't lean!" And at each mile marker I would think to myself, "only thirty minutes more, only twenty-five minutes more, only twenty minutes more ... ad infinitum." At last we reached my exit, I took the off-ramp at a legal and not unreasonable 25 MPH, made a sharp right-hand turn safely without requiring two lanes, and motored the rest of the way home. Finally at my street I pulled over to the curb to park so I could open the garage and rearrange the other vehicles, and promptly ran the friggin' sidecar up over the curb because I am not used to having four feet of Russian dead weight hanging off my right side. But I decided to make lemonade and just counted it as my first off-road experience.

Now the bike is in the stable with the other steeds, my heart-rate is close to normal, I have changed my undershorts, and I will limit my excursions to the parking lot until after I complete the three wheel course.

But you know, after my blood pressure returned to normal I started thinking about how too often we settle into a comfort zone and never challenge ourselves.  At some point we do in effect choose to quit learning; we stop trying new things because we think we might look silly and worry about what others may think. 

What a shame!  Little children don't worry about how they look - they just do it!  The excitement of learning something new, of expanding a horizon far outweighs any sense of "I can't do this."  At what point does that creative urge to explore and expand get socialized out of us, I wonder?

So I am going to learn to drive a sidecar rig, even though I will look pretty dumb for awhile (by the way, the guy I bought the rig from actually called me late on Saturday evening and said, "I just had to call - I have been so worried about you since seeing you drive off!") but eventually I will learn how to drive it with skill, just like I did the two-wheeled moto.

So sign up for piano lessons, or take a beginning Spanish class, or learn how to paint ... just don't ever quit learning!

By the way, if you ever hear anybody call a hack rider a sissy because they are riding on three wheels, just hand them the keys to a side car rig and watch them soil themselves ...

Iron Butt 2012

I suppose all of us who ride have some sort of Biker Bucket List.  I certainly have mine and am checking the items off at the rate of about one each year; last year it was to complete a forty hour police motor officer training course and pass the final exam, next year it is to qualify as a Motorcycle Safety Foundation instructor, and this year it was to complete an Iron Butt.

The Iron Butt Association (trademark above) is a group dedicated to long distance and endurance riding.  There are several levels including the Saddle Sore 1000 (1000 miles in under 24 hours), the Bun Burner 1500 (1500 miles in 36 hours), and the Bun Burner Gold (1500 miles in under 24 hours) with various other permutations of those rides.  The creme de la creme of riders participate in the bi-annual Iron Butt Rally which involves accumulating points while traveling 11,000 miles in eleven days!

I have ridden some long distance days, but the longest was only 850 miles in about sixteen hours so it seemed prudent to start my Iron Butt connection with the Saddle Sore 1000.  I had planned on doing it by myself, but it turned out there was an organized and sanctioned group Iron Butt ride planned out of Seattle, so I joined in as it is far more pleasureable to travel with others and a great deal easier to document since there are "official" organizers and witnesses.

So at 4:15 AM on Saturday, June 30th I set off from my home to meet up with 18 other folks in Seattle and begin the test of brain, bike, and butt!  Truthfully I have been spoiled by my past affiliation with the Black Mountain Motorcycle Club in Arizona, which places great emphasis on organization and group riding discipline.  The same emphasis was not placed on this run, which was a bit more like every (wo)man for (him)herself.  We divided up into three groups based on the mileage range of the motorcyle but the three groups quickly dissapated into various other smaller sub-groups, probably a result of the various skill levels evident. Some folks were experienced riders but lacked group riding skills while others lacked much in both areas!  Along with various skill levels there were also many bikes represented including the BMW 1200 GS, various and sundry Harley Davidson's, a couple of Can-Am Spyders, a Honda Goldwing, and even a Yamaha V-Max.  But in spite of skill or ride, some eighteen hours after departing from Seattle we all made it back to the final rally point in one piece and on time, the only breakdown having been that of our group organizer!

The scenery was beautiful and the weather delightful, except of course the final 150 miles which involved traveling over a dark and rainy pass, which is to be expected since that was when we were the most tired and riding the most dangerous!

Traveling 1000 miles (actually I ended up traveling 1100 miles since I had to commute to and from the star/finish locations) in 18 hours allows one a great deal of opportunity for thought and reflection.  Since this was after all an endurance race, I spent a great deal of time thinking about how much of life involves simple endurance.  We speak of genius, hope for luck, and celebrate the overnight success, but the truth is that most achievement is accomplished through sheer endurance and refusal to quit. I believe it was Thomas Edison who said that "success is one percent inspiration and ninty-nine percent perspiration" and my own experience would support this notion.  Completing an advanced education - including graduate studies - is as much about the ability to endure as any native intelligence.  Einstein is quoted as saying "It's not that I'm so smart, it's just that I stay with a problem longer."  Getting the job you want usually means knocking on more doors than demonstrating any brilliance, and a succssful career often means simply never allowing the vicissitudes of life to hinder your willingness to put one foot in front of the other.

So I have another item checked off my Biker Bucket List, but more importantly I have another reminder that life, like the Iron Butt, is mostly about simply not quiting!  Like Babe Ruth said, "You just can't beat the person who never gives up."

By-pass

I received news the other day that a moto-acquaitance was in a pretty bad accident, leaving him with a punctured lung, broken ribs, and cracked vertebrae.  He is a very knowledgeable and experienced rider and part of a club that places great emphasis on safety and smart riding.  His story is a reminder that bad things can happen to anyone very quickly.

While participating in a group ride he stopped to make a minor repair to the bike and for convenience sake put the bike on the center stand after having put down his side stand.  When he finished the repair he pulled the bike off the center stand and started it up; putting it into gear he took off down the road, having forgotten to retract his side stand.  When he leaned into a left hand curve the side stand hit the ground and did not retract but instead bounced the bike along, in his words, "like a pogo stick."  After a few bounces he high-sided and smashed into a sign post, bending the post and leveling the damage on himself described above.  Needless to say his friends were terrified; they immediately called the paramedics and he was air-liftd to a nearby hospital, where he is now recovering and  awaiting further surgery.

Most modern bikes have a built in safety feature with the side stand: the engine will cut off if the bike is kicked into gear with the stand is down.  This is to help ensure that the rider will not take off with the stand down resulting in the kind of accident described above.  ANY bike can have a problem with the side stand down, the degree of which is determined by the design of the side stand itself.   Based on many engineering factors relative to the size and shape of the bike, some side stands tend to face more forward and are therefore more difficult to retract, while others angle more towards the center.  But to avoid any potential problem, more and more manufacturers are including the cut off switch in the basic design of the side stand.

 

 

My friends bike had such a cut off switch but as is wont with anything electrical, he had been having some problems with the switch engaging inappropriately and so had simply by-passed it.  A long time rider, he was used to not having such a device and had never had any trouble remembering his side stand or if so, the stand had merely retracted upon impact with the pavement.

Until now.  Probably because of the design of the side stand (not inappropriate for this particular bike), the side stand did not retract on impact but instead remained extended, causing the pogo stick phenomenon described and resulting in a very bad crash.

All of us forced into making complicated decisions regarding many aspects of life.  Often we attempt to avoid a particular problem through "by passing" the root issue with what appears to be a simple solution.  While the KISS (Keep It Simple, Stupid) approach can often be effective in certain circumstances, one must ask if the by pass really works in the long run or does it instead lend itself to potentially more disasterous consequences?  At work or in relationship, as in motorcycle mechanics, the simple solution may not always be the best solution, if by choosing simple we ignore the root of the problem.  If we treat the sympton without treating the problem we can often create a bigger problem for ourselves, even if unintentionally.

A Project Bike is always ... a Project Bike!

Last weekend I celebrated the completion of a three year project ... the conversion of a 1986 Harley Davidson Sportster into an Old Skool Chopper.  The original owner was a real gear-head and had hopped up the engine so it was a real get-and-go machine.  The subsequent owner, a young man with more testosterone than sense, thoroughly thrashed the body, but the engine was still a monster.  So by the time it came to me it was in need of a great deal of work and seemed to me to be a wonderful way to learn about Harleys.  And so I did ... more than I really wanted to learn! 

Over the years I did the work I could do, jobbed out other things that were beyond my abilities, until finally last week the finishing touches - forward controls and upsweep pipes - were added and the dream realized.  The weather over the past few days has been beautiful so I have been riding the H-D to work, enjoying the glow of a completed project.

Until Tuesday.  I was stopped at a light and when it turned green I twisted the throttle and the engine died.  Assuming that I had just stalled it (something that has occured more often than I would like to admit) I hit the starter, fired it up, twisted the throttle and got the same result.  It quickly dawned on me that something was blocking the fuel line, which has happened before.  I was purposely running the gas tank low, since I had put some Sea Foam in the tank to help clean the carbs and wanted to run it through.  Obviously there was something alien floating in the tank which was now blocking the flow of fuel.  Nuts.

Having experienced this sort of thing before in my life, I had a couple of coping strategies.  The first was simply to choke the engine, providing more input, which would allow me to get to a gas station, fill the tank, and free said alien to float away from the trap.  Although this had worked in the past, not this time.  So on to strategy #2 - shake the bike back and forth to see if the offending article could be dislodged.  I can only imagine what my fellow commuters thought, seeing me standing there shaking the bike back and forth.  Perhaps that somewhat psychotic looking behavior by a man dressed in black leather explains why there was no honking, in spite of the fact that I was holding up traffic.

Sadly for me, shaking did not work either so I dog-paddled the bike over to the side of the road.  I tried choking it again and shaking it some more, with the same result - nada.  Since I had no tools, nor would I have particularly wanted to dismantle the fuel line and tank by the side of the road, I fell back on the last remaining strategy and called my buddy Pat to bring his truck.  Luckily he was available and said he was on his way.

The day was glorious, so I took off my jacket and waited patiently in the sun.  I later realized it was good that I had no tools with me, as I probably would have thrown them at all my motorcycle "brothers" who whizzed past and just looked at me.  So much for The Code.

Pat arrived, we loaded the H-D (we are actually getting pretty good at loading this particular hunk of junk ... ) and took her back to my house, where she sits awaiting my attention.  Sigh.

The day was not lost, however.  As stated, it was a beautiful day, so I was not stranded in the rain.  I have three bikes in the garage, so I simply jumped on another and made my way to work (a bit late).  And I realized that in all the years and miles, this was only the second time in my life I had to be carried home ... the last time I was fifteen and given how I abused that first bike, it is a wonder that I ever made it home at all!  Given my averages I can expect my next lift home to occur when I am around 95 years old.  Cool - something to look forward to!

Weather or not ... to ride!

It is the time of year up here in the Great Northwest when the temperature rises (a bit) and the rain slackens (a bit).  Still not sunny and dry for more than a couple of days at a time, but at least less cold and less rainy than the winter months.  Therefore it is also the time of year when one sees many more motorcycles on the road, all shiney and clean and rarin' to go.  And thus it follows that it is the time of year when I scream out "Where have you all been for the past six months?"

Commuting daily on a motorcycle, regardless of temperature or moisture, allows me a certain self-righteousness.  There were only two days in the past twelve months when I begged my wife for her car rather than ride two wheels on icey roads; she graciously acceded after checking our financial situation and coming to the conclusion that I was still worth more alive than dead.  Heaven help me when the numbers suggest otherwise ... but I digress.

So whether the weather is good or bad, sunny or cloudy, cold or warm, I ride.  And hence my self-righteousness.  But I am quick to add that I understand why many folks choose not to ride in inclement weather as it can be quite uncomfortable without the proper gear and downright dangerous without the proper concentration.  We moved up here from Arizona and, needless to say, driving in the hilly, urban Northwest poses significant challenges not faced in the flat hinterlands of Rio Verde, AZ.  So, honestly, the first months of my daily commute were not without fear and trepidation.  I cursed the inclement weather, yelled at boneheads who cut in front of me, and often prayed that the light at the top of the hill up ahead would remain green, thus allowing me to avoid balancing a 750 pound machine at a peculiar cant.

Eighteen months later commuting is a great deal more fun.  I still yell at boneheads, but no longer curse the traffic signal engineers for failing to understand my needs or bemoan the fickle nature of the weather gods.  Rain or shine, warm weather or cold, I hit the road with a smile on my face.  It is amazing how an initial commitment, followed by determination and discipline over a long period of time, changes one's perspective ... which of course occurs after one's abilites have changed.  I now hit the road with an entirely different outlook, determined to enjoy the ride regardless of the weather.  And in some ways, the riding itself becomes better the more intense the weather!

Like last week, when I headed out to Pasco, WA for a conference.  I am still a newbie to the state of Washington, so I don't have a real handle on weather conditions relative to the time of the year; I still think like a mid-westerner, I guess, which means that to my way of thinking late April means warmish days and cool nights.

Wrong.  At just 3000 feet, tooling along through the Snoqualmie Pass, it was 36 degrees with thick snow laying on the ground on both sides of the road.  Dark and overcast, I was glad that I had risked being too warm rather than too cold and put on my medium weight gear and layered my clothing.  It was still quite chilly for 45 minutes though, and once over the pass I was delighted to see sunshine.  What I realized on the ride was that the previous  year-and-a-half of crummy weather riding provided me with far more skill and confidence, so I traveled with no fear, only concentration.  When I finally got to a bit of sunshine it dawned on me that while I was enjoyng the scenery far more, the ride was less intense.  Interesting ... the cold and crummy weather actually intensified the riding experience itself.  Remembering that cold can lead to poor decision making and knowing that trouble can occur very quickly on wet roads, I had given all my attention to riding.  No meandering thoughts, no contemplating higher meaning, just full throttle attention to the task at hand ... Mu-shin riding!

I can't say that I will now prefer cold riding to warm, but I will certainly have a new appreciation for what it can provide for me.  And I wonder how many other less than optimal circumstances actually provide me with an opportunity for increased awareness and consciousness?  Growth requires the dialectic of tension and release, of stress and relaxation, so while it is foolish to seek tension on purpose, it may likewise be foolish to seek to avoid it altogether.

Learning Curves

Virtually all of the motorcycles I have owned in my life have been metric, save one: the 1986 Harley Davidson I picked up three years ago 'cause I am a Boomer and every moto-Boomer has to have the V-twin Chopper he wanted when he was young but could not afford. The H-D's body had been pretty thrashed by its current owner, but the engine had been worked on by the original gear-head and was an absolute monster, so my dream rebuild began.

And the nightmare started. I am an average weekend shade-tree putterer whose biggest asset is probably the fact that I know what I don't know, at least usually. While I knew that I didn't know p'diddly about Harley's, what I didn't know was how much less than p'diddly I knew about Harley's.

So the journey - and the learning - began. I learned about how what some folks call "bolt-on" ain't; I learned that when something doesn't seem right, STOP; I learned that a minor mis-step is not made better by continuing to muddle along; I learned that a small independent moto tech can be your best friend IF you have the sense to tell him the truth when you screw up!

So it is three years later and I am just about there; the upsweep pipes and forward controls were to be mounted this weekend, oil and filter changed, and BOOM! off to the races with a sweet looking Old Skool Chopper, like the one I couldn't afford when I was a kid. Look out Easy Rider!

My buddy Pat came over on Saturday to help; I had pulled all the old parts off (another learning: taking old shit off a bike is usually a whole lot harder than putting new shit on), laid out the new parts, read through the instructions, and off we went. Six hours, many busted knuckles, and a couple of "Now what?" moments later, she was all finished up. Just needed to put in the oil and fire it up.

I had already drained the oil ... or at least I thought I had. In my experience to drain the oil you root around under the crankcase, find the drain plug, unscrew said plug, and drain the oil. So I rooted around, found the plut, unscrewed the plug, and watched as precious little oil drained out. "That's odd," I thought to myself," as I regularly check the oil level and it was fine just a week ago.

And yes, the oil has been changed during the past three years; but given that I was putting less than 500 miles per year on the bike as it was often in parts, it got changed when I took the bike in for something that I knew was WAY beyond my threshold, like rebuilding the wiring harness.
Since they were going to have to pull that stuff anyway, it just made sense to let them change the oil once each year as well.

But I digress; setting aside my puzzlement, I opened up the oil tank and lo and behold saw a tank full of oil! Once more the buzzer went off in my head: "That can't be good." Luckily I have progressed far enough on the learning curve to know when to STOP! and think a bit. In fact, I was so puzzled that I even consulted the shop manual ...

Now there's a concept, huh?

You know what I learned? Where eveybody else puts the drain bolt for the crankcase oil, Harley put a drain bold for the transmission; so I had drained the transmission of oil, not the crankcase. Sigh.

OK, no problem. Just go buy transmission oil and put it in the transmission, right? Nah ... nothing's that easy. Turns out the access cover into which one places the transmission oil requires a very specific H-D tool to open and it also appears some previous owner tried to open that access cover with a hammer & chisel! There was no way on God's green earth I was going to get that open without that very costly proper tool, which I will probably use twice in the next decade. For the same amount of money I can load Chopper on a truck and haul her to a professional and have him/her replace the oil ... for the next TWO decades! So an appointment is made for next week and the saga continues as my dream ride remains elusive. Easy Rider can remain easy for a couple of weeks.

But what the heck; I am learning a lot (like never buy another Harley!), having a good time, my brain got a lot of good exercise, and have done nothing irrepairably stupid. I guess there are worse ways to spend a beautiful weekend and you know what?

That ain't near the dumbest thing I have done in my life!

Road Stories

I met a big shot in our community the other day. He is quite proud of the three high end Harley Davidson's in his garage, including a 100th Anniversary CVO. Not too shabby. He told me with great flourish about his adventure a couple of summers ago, a 4000 mile long-ride from Seattle to Las Vegas with five of his buddies. I listened politely as he repeated several times that it was 4000 miles. I smiled as he spoke of the "adventure" as though it was something truly remarkable. While a nice long ride on a well attended and beautiful bike, riding on the remarkable highway system of America (curiously, this fellow is very much anti-government and I wondered to myself just who he thought built those magnificent highways) with cell phones, friends, and a platinum credit card is nice, it must be put into perspective. Let me tell you about some real adventures.

Let's start with C.K. Shepherd, a Brit who, upon concluding his front line military service in the First World War, decided he wanted an adventure - by himself - and in 1919 set out on a motorcycle across America on a Henderson. He left New York and some three months, 4,950 miles, five new cylinders, three pistons, three sets of bearings, two connecting rods, eleven "sparking plugs", and over 142 falls (he quit counting at that point - US roads in 1919 were not exactly moto-friendly) later he arrived in San Francisco.

Then of course there is Jack Newkirk, a nineteen year old kid in 1939 when he set out with one change of clothes and a State Farm Atlas on his 1930 Harley Davidson VL Big Twin to see both the New York Worlds' Fair and the San Francisco Golden Gate Exposition. His route just happened to take him through a little place in South Dakota called Sturgis, and he just happened to meet a fellow who introduced himself as "Pappy," one of the Jackpine Gypsies ... who just happened to be the Clarence "Pappy" Hoel who organized the first Sturgis Rally in 1938. Through rain, sleet, desert, and having to fix his points with a rock, Jack made it across American to San Francisco.

And let's not forget the ladies, like Peggy Iris Thomas, who, along with her airdale in a box on the back, rode a 125 cc BSA Bantam from Nova Scotia to British Columbia, Canada down through the western USA into Mexico, back into the USA and up the Atlantic seaboard to New York City, a journey of some 10,000+ miles. Oh, and she did this in 1952. Or how about another British lass, Lois Pryce, who traveled 20,000 miles through North and South America on a Yamaha XT225 Serow ... yeah, that's right, a friggin' dirt bike!

I love long-rides; every summer I hit the road and have ridden as far as 8,000 miles in one journey. And one has a right to feel some accomplishment in achieving a long ride of any sort ... but such a ride, like so many things in life, needs to be put into perspective. It is nothing to ride such distances today on trustworthy machines, with cell phones, GPS, and hotels and gas stations available every few miles. We ride our rides, and admire folks like Ewen McGregor and Charley Boorman when they make a well-supported trip around the world or across the African continent. But the truly remarkable riders are individuals like C.K. Shepherd, Jack Newkirk, Peggy Thomas, and Lois Pryce who set out alone and unheralded to see the world and to blaze new trails not for glory, but for themselves. That is courage.

Good, good, good, good Vibrations?

If you do not care much for metaphysical speculation, quit reading now. If, however, as so many who ride you speak in almost spiritual tones to describe the feeling you have when you ride, read on.

More and more scientific research in is providing empirical evidence for what spiritual traditions have claimed for millenia. Not always is science proving that which is claimed in the holy books of various traditions, but it is helping us to understand the why and wherefore of that which certain traditions have held as truth. For example, some of the laws which are found in the Jewish Torah or what Christians refer to as the Old Testament, are clearly understood today to be health related; foods and practices prohibited by certain of those laws we know today to be clearly unhealthy. Through observation and using the knowledge available at the time, the ancients recognized a certain relationship and thus created laws related to protecting members of their tribes.

Now we also know today that some of the established laws and beliefs were based on cultural norms not necessarily related to what we would deem as scientific, and we have discarded adherance to those beliefs, such as the Earth being 6,000 years old and the center of the universe.

With those caveats, let us consider what science and some spiritual traditions have to say about vibration, and combine it with some thought about motorcycles.

In the Hindu tradition it is believed that all creation - plants, animals, humans, everything - comes from the Primordial Vibration; in Sanskrit this concept is referred to as the Unstuck Sound or "the sound that is not made by two things striking together." One might also use this imagery related to vibration when considering the Muslim, Jewish, and Christian traditions which embrace the narrative that "God said" (speech pathology having taught us that speaking is in fact the result of vibration) as the prelude to the creation of all matter: "God said let there be light ...God said, 'Let us make humankind ..." and so forth.

In the material world we recognize that all ordinary audible sounds are the result of two objects in concert: vocal cords, waves against the shore, wind against the leaves, etc. In physics it is held that everything is the result of occilation or vibration; E = MC2 is the mathematical foundation indicating that all matter is an expression of energy (supposedly Einstein stated that "Everthing is vibration" though I have as of yet not discovered the original source quote).

What does this have to do with motorcycling? First, we know that motorcycles vibrate; since the advent of the self-propelled two-wheeled riding machine engineers have been seeking ways to reduce vibration to endurable proportions. Yet for all of us who ride, the "vibe" of the machine is in fact important. In an interesting book by Stephen L. Thompson entitled Bodies in Motion, the author sets out to explore this aspect of the rider-machine relationship, the response of the rider to the vibration produced by particular motorcycles . He argues against the assertion that motorcyclists ride only for social reasons and instead maintains that we ride for primarily psycho-biological reasons. He holds that while culture can induce one to first try riding a motorcycle, it is genetic heritage that causes one to experience the pleasure (he is not speaking here in sexual terms!) that many riders describe and thus keep on riding.

One must agree that at some level there must be something different about the rider who chooses to experience the viscissitudes of wind, rain, temperature, and the danger of riding a two-wheeled platform that is relatively prone to de-stablization. It certainly would not appear to be the most rational of decisions ... yet we ride. Why? And the answer "If you have to ask you would not understand" does not suffice for me, for I AM a rider and yet at times wonder why, even as I clamber into my gear and climb on the bike for yet another wet and cold sojourn.

That is why I was so intrigued by Thompson's thesis. We know riding is not a rational event, but is it necessarily an irrational event? Is there something simply non-rational, something one might even call spiritual, that results in such a choice? More and more science is experimenting with the interface between biology and spirituality; for example researchers are discovering that certain parts of the brain light up in response to practices such as meditation and prayer. It seems that some humans are hard-wired in such a way as to be more receptive to so-called spiriutal stimuli. Tomio Hirai has done much to map the brain in response to Zen Buddhist practices and simply because we can understand how something works does not mean that we have discovered the why or first cause. Hence my excitement about Thompson's thesis.

Alas, Thompson provides us only wth an intriguing thesis backed up by no real empirical evidence nor reasoning. His "book" is really a series of disconnected essays with a veneer of scientific research applied. Half the book is a series of charts that demonstrates the results of vibration testing on various bikes, conducted at Stanford University. The ultimate conclusion is that different bikes vibrate at different rates in different places.

No shit. I can put my seven year old grandson on my Harley, my Triumph, and my Kawi and he can tell me they feel different. I don't need two hundred pages (!) of appendixes from tests done at Stanford to tell me that.

And that is the disppointment. I think Thompson is on to something; in Zen Buddhism it is believed that any activity can result in the achievement of Enlightenment if only one pursues that activity with full mindfulness. So why not through motorcycling? How often have I heard motorcycling referred to as "the lazy man's Zen"? Perhaps it is the physical vibration of the bike that somehow triggers something in the brain that connects in ways we do not yet understand with that which we label "spiritual". I know in my own life I have had experiences on the bike that I would call spiritual, and I know that although I see value in all types or motorcycles, I do have my "default" preferences for riding and would be at a loss to explain exactly why. So perhaps differing vibrations from differing bikes do resonate in different ways with various people - although I would not entirely discount the social aspects in discussing why someone rides a particular bike.

So keep riding; maybe the Beach Boys were more right than they realized?

"I'm pickin up good vibrations,
She's giving me excitations,
Good good good good vibrations ...."

Image or Authenticity?

A couple of weeks ago I went to the International Motorcycle Show here in Seattle. I go every year as it is an opportunity to get out, see the some of the latest and greatest from the major manufacturers, and it is just fun to hang with some buddies.

Like most years, this show had displays of classic bikes which are always neat to see, lots of vendors selling all kinds of crap that I have lived without for years but now must have, and of course the plethora of outrageous bikes along with jaw-dropping prices.

A bike in latter category that gave me pause was a heavily tarted up $35,999 V-Twin Bagger, loaded with a comfort fit gel seat, fairing, backrest, grip warmers, every conceivable electronic device possible to load on a bike, a primo paint job, all topped off with a chromed skull emblem on the front of the fairing.

A bike with a chrome skull ... for $35,999? Anyone who could afford this bike probably does not live a skull lifestyle. I stood in front of that bike for a long time, thinking that a purchase such as this is about image, about the look, not the living. But goodness knows there is a great deal of image around motorcycling.

Years ago I was fed up with the ministry and was offered a job in sales with a deal of a major US motorcycle manufacturer. I was ready to dump the collar and don the chaps until the sales manager concluded his pitch to me by saying, "We don't sell motorcycles, we sell a lifestyle."

That's when some bells went off. I realized that if I was going to sell a "lifestyle" that I much preferred it to be one that comes through belief in something more than a material object that has built-in obsolescence. So the local church is my vocation and riding my avocation ... a decision I do not regret for one minute!

Recently I came across a website dedicated to thrashing all things Harley-Davidson and though the author is quite witty I thought some of his rants a bit extreme, especially as he claims that he does not care about image but just rides what he wants to ride. Which sounds good except that what he wants to ride is always a sportbike, which definitely has an image associated with it. I challenged him on this in an email and never got a response ...

But the truth is that in challenging him I was challenging myself as well. My first bike at age fifteen had nothing to do with a biker image; it was just the next step in extending my freedom. But isn't that something to do with image, with who I wanted to be?

Soon I came to love riding in and of itself; on my Long Rides five hundred mile days are minimal and it is an act of discipline for me when I am with buddies who love to stop and smell the roses. I take two or three classes each year to improve my riding skills, and although my default bike tends to be metric, I currently own a Kawi, a Triumph, and a Harley and appreciate each for what it has to offer. The only reason I don't own a sport bike is that after about five minutes of that hunched over position my middle-aged back is screaming at me ... but man, do I love the power and zip those devils possess!

So on the one hand I could claim that I don't care about image but yet ... in my heart of hearts, I know that I do care. When I was fifteen and riding my little Honda down the road and a dude on a chopped H-D gave me the upraised clenched fist in a sign of moto-brotherhood, I became part of a tribe and still have that image of unity burned in my memory. I love it when I am on the road and stop at a gas station and have some kid who is dying to get out of that one-horse town talk to me about his dreams. I love it when at that same gas stop some old guy will talk about the ride he had back in the day. I love it that my parishoners are tickled that their pastor rides a bike up the ramp to the front door of the church each day. When people ask me about my riding, I always make it clear that I commute every day, rain or shine (mostly rain in this part of the world!) and am not just a fair weather rider. And honestly, all of that is about image, at least to a degree.

So how do we differentiate between what we do for image and what is somehow authentic to our selves? I honestly don't have an answer ... perhaps it is a chicken and egg sort of question. Maybe we try on images, not unlike clothes, as we seek to determine who and what we really are. In my life I have known people who imagined themselves rebels or pioneers or laid back when in fact they were really quite traditional settlers who had little patience for that which was beyond their control! But they tried on the image for a while before becoming comfortable with who they really were, but in my opinion were often better for trying on that image (and here I am not talking about being some sort of gangster or bad ass biker, but folks who try the Nine to Five and find it does not fit, or the pseudo-Hippie who realizes he likes a regular paycheck).

I know that in my own life my struggle with image has in fact made me a better human being; the truth is that I am a pizza loving, beer drinking redneck; I grew up around a beer distributor so can be quite profane, patience is not a virtue I possess, and I still think flatulance is funny. These are not necessarily the top qualities one seeks in a pastor. But by modulating what some might call my "authentic self" with an image that is in fact important to my profession, I have become a better person. There is nothing wrong with discipline and in fact I think it may be quite neglected in our time.

So on the one hand maybe image is not all bad. Maybe image can help us extend our own boundaries, or become better people, at leat when we choose positive images. And while I have my doubts about the image of a chrome skull on a $35,999 bike, who am I to judge?

These are the Good Old Days

As a middle-aged Boomer, every now and then I get a hankering for something from "the good old days," a piece of nostalia from my youth. This craving is no doubt fed by watching such programs as "American Pickers" where every week I see something that reminds me of my long ago!

Like the memory of my first car, a 1964 VW Beetle, the first year the crank sunroof was available. The car was cheap, great on gas mileage for the time, easy for a sixteen year old to repair, and greatly extended my nomadic range... not to mention my date-ability. So the hunt was on and I anticipated some sort of nostalgic epiphany as my middle-aged self connected with my youthful self.

I followed up several leads, only to find junk at the end of the rainbow. All it takes is a couple of minutes to spot a cracked head, twisted frame, or some other malady that the seller is trying to pass on to an unsuspecting buyer. But finally I found a 1968 model in cherry condition with no major issues (you will always have some issue with a used vehicle). So my wife and I jumped in for a test run, drove up and down a few streets, accelerated, stopped, shifted gears, and the car continued to prove road-worthy. Finally we returned to the home of the seller, I thanked her for her time and we got in our car and drove away.

My wife was quite puzzled; "You said it was great?" "Yep," I responded. "It was great ... for a thirty-five year old car. But what a piece of crap to drive!" My nostalgia for youth had been superceded by my appreciation for 21st century technological improvements such as EFI, disc brakes, and power steering. Luckily I got that "Bug" out of my system BEFORE I bought it.

But it bit again a few months ago when I decided I needed something better than my KLR for commuting daily. Having learned at least a little bit from the Great VW Hunt, this time I decided to upgrade my nostalgia a bit and looked at motorcycles that had a retro look but kitted with modern technology. I focused on the Brit bikes that were the "must-have" of my youth, such as the modern Bonneville and the updated Royal Enfield. But even updated they were puny; when I twist the wrist, I like to go and when I squeeze the brakes I like to stop. I had become spoiled by all that modern tech has to offer and so the brain overrode nostalgia once again and I ended up with a Triumph Tiger 800, a relatively new model which is perfect for me.

All of this got me to thinking about nostalgia and about how often I hear "The times were so much simpler years ago; those were the good old days." No, the times were not simpler, YOU were simpler. In childhood and youth I got up, ate breakfast, went to school, played with my friends, ate lunch and dinner, watched some TV, went to bed and did little more than anticipate the next day. I was the simple one: my needs, wants, hopes and desires were focused in the moment and with the task at hand, which is actually very Zen like.


As I was riding to work on Christmas morning, I felt that way again. It was a lovely dry morning, the Christmas Eve services had been wonderful, my kids and grandkids are doing well, the roads were clear, and I felt that wonderful sense of simplicity wash over me. That is when it hit me. What made the good old days ... well, the good old days, were not things, but me. If I had different possessions back in the day, like if my first car had been a Corvair instead of a VW, then that is the car I probably would have been seeking. And if it was me that provided that wonderful sense of simplicity back then, it could be recovered, since it is not dependent upon a possession but an attitude. Simplicity is a state of mind, not a possession.


So maybe the lesson here is that THESE are the good old days.