Riding in 300 Degree Weather

Riding a motorcycle in Alabama requires the rider to either be impervious to heat or to revel in presenting oneself at restaurants, work, etc. as a sweat-soaked, bedraggled, helmet-haired goober. Now that my scalp has relieved itself of most of my follicles, the helmet-hair is no longer a major problem. However, arriving at the office sopping wet is, if not disgusting, at best, very uncool.

Alas, riding the bike is essential for me. I've owned and ridden bikes since I was whatever the minimum age was to get a motorcycle license back in the late '60s. I think I was 14 or 15 when I handed over my hard-earned Hardees paychecks to procure a (keep this quiet) Honda Cub 50. Hey! You gotta start somewhere.

I managed to make an enemy on the local police force within a few weeks of getting on that little booger. A couple other 50 owners and I were cutting through a high school parking lot while, unbeknownst to us, several police bikes were in hot pursuit of us. Undoubtedly we were suspected of dealing in firearms or drugs since we were on two wheels. Anyway, we had cleared the parking lot when an officer pulled alongside (hell, we were on 50s...he could have walked up alongside) and offered to escort us back to the school lot. Upon arrival at said parking lot, we were confronted by an officer covered in mud alongside his bent and twisted Harley police bike.

"You little turds! Look what you caused me to do!" We had to suppress our laughs at the sight of this large uniformed dude, muddied and red-faced and ready to kill us all. Three 15-year-olds on Cub 50s had "caused" this burly policeman to crash his Harley-Davidson!

Hell if I remember the outcome of that mess, but I do know that not long after that incident, the same officer was working security at the hamburger restaurant where I was employed. He asked me if I'd ever been maced. Being somewhat law-abiding at that point in my life, I answered, "Why no, I haven't been maced, sir." Looking back, that turns out to have been a really bad answer. Mr. Policeman pulled out his spray and commenced unloading it into my face. Now in case you've never been maced, let me 'splain how it felt. It ain't good. You try to stretch your eyes as wide open as possible to get air to them. But that doesn't help alleviate the intense burning. So you close them and rub them. Bad move. The scalding of your eyeballs gets more intense with every attempt to ease the pain. I would suggest that mace is a darned effective means of subduing an adversary. However, it appears that mankind, other than myself, has evolved to a point where mace is ineffective. You never hear about it being used today. Tasers, pepper spray, and/or bean bags propelled from a rifle are deemed better methods of stopping a thug in his tracks. If I'd been a little smarter, I woulda sued the PD and I'd no doubt be living a life of leisure today in Pago Pago or in Lee County, Alabama with AU coeds attending to my every need.

Ah, but I digress. Bikes are freedom. Or at least as much freedom as we can experience when family, job, bills, illness, dog shit and ever-lengthening nasal hair are a part of our daily lives. Even a 15 minute ride to work is an adventure. Rather than being entombed in a car or truck, when you're riding...you're out there. You're not traveling through the scenery so much as you're a part of the scenery. Yes, a zen moment. Let's pause...when on my bike, I am one with the universe. It's true. Temperature variations are crisply perceptible. As you hit a bottom on a country road, the temp can drop noticeably. You smell things that you miss when traveling via four wheeled contraptions. Honeysuckle slams you in the face as you barrel down a country road. Ligustrum (or hedge to us southerners) wafts over and through you. Of course, a dead possum swirls its odor all around inside your helmet as well. Okay, there's one negative. But as long as you're able to dodge the incompetent drivers, the makeup appliers, the texters, the "By god, I like the left lane, so I'll stay in it as long as I like" crowd, and the pulpwood trucks which dominate the highways of Autauga County, Alabama and the area around Perry, Florida...then you're good to go!

No doubt, millions of motorcyclists have tried to describe what riding is to them. Bike magazines have devoted articles to readers' descriptions of riding a motorcycle. I don't think it can be done. At least not to where a rider can convey to a non-rider what it's like. The best description I've found is that it's similar to how a dog loves to hang his head out of a car window. So I guess it's just a natural thing. I like to go too fast, to haul ass through a series of sweeping curves, to climb Mt. Cheaha or run through the Tail of the Dragon in the Smokies, to head down Highway 19 to Tampa, or just bounce around central Alabama looking for people I haven't met or places I haven't eaten or things I haven't photographed. These things need to be done...and by god, I'm the guy who's gonna do them!

I may post pics from previous rides on occasion, as dictated by my incoherent rambling. Riding will not be the sole focus of my blog, as I have many subjects that I love to babble about. Ask anyone who knows me. If I don't have an opinion about something, I'll make one up on the spot just to get a reaction. This blog will be dangerous. It will be frightening. And it will be totally useless, just like 99% of television, film, and blogging.

My bad. I forgot what I started writing about. Get used to it. If you intend to visit this blog, you should know now that that will be a regular feature.

I've been through quite a few bikes since that Cub 50. A Yamaha 250 with a sissy bar about 6 feet tall, a Kawasaki 500 Triple (bad brakes, bad suspension, great mill), a Yamaha 750 Special, a Suzuki 850...several year gap here to raise 2 boys...a Suzuki Volusia, and, since 2003 my baby, my beautiful Honda VTX1300S, which has safely delivered me thru many, many miles of fun.

Gotta figure out this blogging thing. Do I relate what I did today? Or what I did 30 years ago? Both? Simultaneously? Whatever...

Be prepared for unannounced shifts in topics, rudeness, opinionated discourse, tales of beer consumption, and hopefully some levity. I'll do what I can. My sweet wife may be shocked/stunned/inclined to begin divorce proceedings/move to South America based on what she sees in here. I have to risk it as I am always brutally honest and my power to change the past has been extinguished.