Last week I ran across a link about a group of old school adventure bikers from the 50′s that put anything I’ve ever done on a motorcycle to shame. And they were doing it on old Harley hardtails.
Check out some of the absolutely wild pictures and stories over at http://www.advrider.com/forums/showthread.php?t=29723
I got my cruiser last year because I love the look, and it’s a really nice ride. On the other hand, I found myself spending lots of time and money on performance upgrades to a bike that will never be a firecracker. I was also riding my cruiser much harder than a cruiser was ever meant to be ridden, and such behavior is just asking for trouble.
So I decided to finally start acting my age. Rather than spending more effort and cash to get tiny gains out of the C50, I realized that the most cost-effective upgrade I could do to my bike is to just get another one.
Say hello to my 1995 Honda Fireblade CBR900
I’d like to follow this announcement up by saying that there’s no way I’m giving up my C50 just yet. I’ve just gotten her modified to suit me perfectly. I love riding her to work, taking long relaxing rides, and sharing the experience with passengers. What this does mean, however, is that when that devil finds it’s way up onto my shoulder, I now have a proper machine to handle the extremes that I like to push. I’ve already bottomed out the frame on the C50 a few too many times, so sparing it the really rough scraping runs will probably be the best for its (and my) health in the long run.
Without further ado, a little about my new (to me) bike.
I’d been casually looking at crotch rockets for the last few months, getting a feel for what was out there, and what they were going for. I was tentatively planning on purchasing one this fall once they got cheap and I had the money to spare. For some reason, I was particularly motivated a few Sundays ago, and spent about an hour on Craigslist, narrowing things down and making a few calls.
I scheduled a few showings later in the afternoon, and rode out to them on my C50. I figured that showing up on a bike lent me a much better chance of being granted a test ride if I saw something I liked. The first bike I saw, a 1997 GSX-R750 was a bust. It didn’t look to be in really good shape, and it wasn’t really screaming my name.
The second bike I saw was my CBR900. As soon as I saw it, it made me happy. It’s got a bunch of scrapes, dings and cracks in the plastic, but from about 10 feet away, it looks fine. The biggest clincher for the bike is the performance upgrades. I don’t have a TON of info about this bike’s history, but I can infer a lot.
It’s obviously got a steering damper on it, along with a Two Brothers carbon fiber slip-on exhaust. The rear tire is oversized by 1cm, and the clutch is shortened. The seller let me know that the owner before him had the headers ported and installed a high-performance intake filter. The whole setup was jetted and dynoed to run on 93 octane. I really wouldn’t be surprised if there was significantly more work done to the bike than I know about.
The seller (who said he weighed 220 lbs.) claimed that he once got the bike going 170mph, uphill. I weigh 150 lbs., so I don’t think speed will be an issue for me. A stock ’95 CBR900 is supposed to have ~124hp. With all of the modifications done to it, putting an estimate of its current power at 130hp is probably a gross understatement. Add this to the fact that the bike weighs 400 lbs, and I feel that this bike easily has a 5 times faster pickup than my C50. No joke. I could probably do 0-100 in like 6 seconds. I’m not sure if I want to try timing that…
Because of the expensive modifications (several thousand dollars worth, at least), the entire lack of a passenger seat (or passenger pegs), low mileage (11,000mi @ 15 years old) and the custom paint job (with promotional logos), I’m inclined to believe that this bike has history as a track bike. I doubt I’ll ever know for sure, but for what I’m looking for it is perfect.
After taking the bike for a test drive and thinking “Holy shit! This thing is unreal!!” I decided that this bike would be mine. $4,200 later, and I’m now it’s proud owner. I’m quite sure the bike is worth more than that, especially given how much work has been done to it. For now, it fits the bill of “performance machine, not show-room looks.”
At the very least its making me think a lot less about the performance limitations of my C50 (except when riding two up, then I just feel bad for it struggling in first gear.)
In legal terms, ‘death by misadventure’ is the result of a lawful act executed carelessly or recklessly. [1]
The majority of people out there will read that sentence and think “Idiots. They should have been more careful and maybe they wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”
A small minority see the words ‘misadventure’ and ‘recklessly’ and our minds immediately begin to imagine what sort of fantastic feat would qualify for this accolade.
The saner of humans are content to manage their risk and arrive at their deathbed surrounded by their friends and family as they quietly pass on. The slim rest of us imagine laying in that same deathbed regaling our friends and families with near-death stories, brave heroics and impossible odds. We crave that chemical addiction of adrenaline and long for the next high.
We do things that others blanch at. They call it ‘reckless’ with disdain, but the word rings sweet in our ears. When they say ‘reckless’, what we hear is ‘fantastic’, ‘odds-defying’, and ‘eye-widening’. This evolutionary need for misadventure is at the core of our nature, and must be preserved against the sterility of modern living. Adrenaline addiction is what made our ancestors keep going on the hunt, day in and day out, irregardless of the physical trauma it wreaked on their bodies. If they had chosen the safe route of self-preservation, their tribe would have been lost to hunger.
In modern times, there is no longer a need to put our safety on the line to provide for those around us. In fact, ‘misadventure’ at this point in human history is generally detrimental to those we care about. We are told by society on whole that danger is bad, self-preservation is good. The hard truth is that misadventure is bad for you, your family, your friends, and everyone around you. So, then, why do we do it?
Pure selfishness is at the core of misadventure, and I will not apologize for it. There are countless ways to help those around us, but I generally would not put riding motorcycles, bungee-jumping, and leaps of faith in these categories. Sure, we may come up with fantasies in our head about how all of our experience doing reckless things will rise boldly to save the day, but even that is just fanning those flames of addiction. We conjure stories in our minds combining these misadventures, jam packed with action, all for some altruistic goal, but we know it’s just a story. I’ve never read in a newspaper of somebody riding a motorcycle off of a cliff, deploying his parachute, base-jumping into a hostile guerrilla camp, and freeing a damsel in distress. Those stories never pause to think “hrmm, there must be a safer way” because that doesn’t quench our addiction.
Underneath that sanitized, logical layer of thinking, man is an animal. On a grand scale, man is driven by instincts and emotion. Everything that people desire is driven by a instinctual need. Sex, family, power, wealth, camaraderie, knowledge. These are all things that as humans we crave. When we say that we want to be the CEO of a big company, we are really saying that we want to have the power and the respect that comes with it. “CEO” is not an emotion that your mind craves. Influence is. Why then, must we pick and chose what desires we chase, based upon what others deem “necessary”?
In my mind, misadventure is synonymous with freedom. It’s that feeling where the world seems to slow down all around you and you can feel your heart beating in your chest. The background noise fades away and your ears pick out what’s important like a radar. You truly feel everything that you touch, yet pain doesn’t exist. The world is rough and physical and intense and all it wants to do is play, and you intend to play back. Your mind clears and you understand all that happens around you like you’ve done it a thousand times before. You are on the edge of losing control, but through will, skill, and a little bit of luck, you know that you can steer the ship through the storm.
I get that feeling when I’m riding a motorcycle. I get that feeling when I explore an abandoned subway. I get it when my world enters ‘Crisis Mode’ and saving the day falls on me. That feeling of adrenaline overtaking my body is unmatched by anything in the world. I long for higher highs, and the lows seem to drag on for an eternity at a time. Leaning over a cliff “to get a better view” is a thin excuse for getting that next fix. Like a moth, drawn to the flame, I’ll keep taking that chance and flirting with disaster because away from the fire, I can’t weather the cold.
So… StackExchange supports “flair” profile tags. This is what one of those tags for BikeBuffs looks like.
I just launched a motorcycle Q&A site called BikeBuffs. It’s build on the StackExchange framework, and is meant to be community driven. Anybody can ask a question, or even help answer one. I’m imagining it being open to any make/model of bike, but as it starts off I have a feeling it will be somewhat geared towards owners of the Suzuki C50, as it’s a bike I know a lot about.
Took the MSF (Motorcycle Safety Foundation) course last summer, and picked up a used ’06 C50 (mid-sized black and chrome cruiser) last October, and there’s a little bit of a story behind how I got it.
Had been scouring Craigslist looking for a good deal on a C50 (after reading lots of reviews and deciding that it would be the best first bike for me). Figured that shopping in the fall would get me the best deal. Finally, I found a great deal down in Baltimore. $4200 for a stock black ’06 C50 with 11k miles on it. I was totally pumped. After arranging a showing, I got a bank check made out, and went to visit my friend Alison down in Baltimore for the weekend. A detour of my weekend with Alison was a visit to the seller of the C50.
I met the seller, Mike, at a wharf where he worked and we went over the inspection together. Everything was perfect. I was going to be the proud owner of a shiny (kind of) new bike. I gave him the bank check, and he gave me the title. We arranged for me to pick it up the following Monday after I squared away insurance and registration. I was one happy camper.
Monday comes. I get the title and insurance handled during lunch. I also arrange for Dan, one of my housemates, to drive me the 2-1/2 hours down to Baltimore to pick up the bike. Everything was set, aside from one small detail: the weather.
The radar screen for the northeast at this time was like a bad lawn. Patchy green all over the place. There was a GINORMOUS northeast storm going on, but would I let that small detail stop this newbie rider from attempting to ride 150 miles through it in 40 degree weather on a new bike?!? Hell no!!! I watched the radar all day, and found a gap in the rain. I plotted my course. If I left at 8pm, and took a roundabout route out of the northwest of Baltimore, it was looking like I could stay high and dry. With my foolproof plan in place, I set off for Baltimore.
It was already dark by the time I got to the wharf to snag my bike. I got bundled up before I hopped on. Boots, pajama pants under my jeans, t-shirt, long sleeve shirt, sweatshirt, fleece pullover, and my leather jacket. I put my thick wool gloves on over another pair of knit gloves. I was all set to weather the wind and the cold, and maybe even some brief sprinkles if my route didn’t go to plan.
I hopped on the bike, my first time since I took the MSF course 2 months before. Hrmmmm…. this bike feels a lot heavier than those 250cc bikes I learned on… Ah well, it’s Rock’n'Roll time! I thank Mike, attach my car’s GPS to the fuel tank, and tell Dan that we’re good to go. He knows that he’ll be taking the highway back through the rain, and that I’ll be taking a long way to avoid the storm. In just a few miles I’ll be on my own.
I pull out of the wharf’s garage. Easy does it. Nice wide turns. Avoid the potholes. Give her a little throttle to get stable. This is easy! I pull away from the wharf, following Dan’s little red Civic. Riding down the back-country roads, I feel like I could do this forever. Sure it’s a bit chilly, and it’s sprinkling a little, but I’m riding carefully, and as long as I corner and break gently, the rain won’t be a problem if I hit it, right?
Out of the country roads, we hit a few red lights. 600 some-odd pounds of bike is a lot harder to handle at low speeds than those little MSF bikes… guess I’ll have to be pretty careful. Slow and steady, I pull out onto the main roads. Dan’s highway ramp is coming up. That’s alright. My fuel light is on and I need gas. Guess Mike must have garaged it for the winter before he decided to sell it.
At the gas station I fill up, grab some trail mix for energy and check my GPS so that I can anticipate my route. I get on my bike, put on my helmet, flip the ignition and turn the bike over. That’s when it hits me. That calming rush of peace. It’s that feeling you get when you realize you are committed, you are out of control, past the point of no return. Resistance is futile, so all you can do is enjoy the experience. It’s the feeling you get the second you launch off of a giant snowboarding jump, or step off a bungee jumping platform. You have control over yourself, but nothing else. You are committed, and truly alone. You alone command your fate. You.
I drift back to reality. It’s go time, because this adventure isn’t going to have itself! I pull out of the gas station and I’m on the road. The sprinkling has stopped. This is going to be a beautiful ride. I’m riding smart. I know who’s around me, and I have my outs planned. A few cars pass me, but that’s fine. The speed limit is as fast as I need while I’m learning this bike anyhow. Ya know… it’s actually pretty cold out here. I bet this is why people get windshields. 60 MPH winds on you are actually pretty strong (Tropical Storm speeds says Wikipedia!).
I hop on 695W heading around Baltimore. GPS tells me that in 12 miles, I’ll be turning onto 85N and be leaving the city. This riding thing ain’t that bad!
It starts with a few droplets landing on my GPS. “Damn it!” I think to myself. “I hope it doesn’t get wet inside and stop working.” More droplets land on it, followed by even larger ones. The sprinkles are getting thicker and heavier. I wipe off my faceshield. 6 more miles to 83N.
Like I just rode onto the set of Road to Perdition, I get hit with a torrent of rain. “Holy shit!” I think to nobody in particular. Brakes. I need to slow down and brakes are what I need. Easy on the front brake, ever so slight on the rear, downshift into fourth gear. The last thing I want is to lock my brakes or slide out. I ease the bike down to 45 MPH. This feels safe. It’s raining hard now but I’m in control. I’m not sure what I was so worried about… rain’s not that bad.
I saw the radar earlier. This must be one of those little patches on the fringe of the storm. In 15 minutes I’ll be through this and clear all the way to Allentown.
5 more miles: The rain keeps pouring. When I packed for this trip I was thinking that rain meant slippery roads. I wasn’t thinking that Rain + 40ºF + 50 MPH winds – Windshield = Cold. Very, very cold.
5 more miles: I’m on 83N now. Just a few more miles to go ’til I’m through the storm. This rain can’t last. I saw the radar earlier. There’s no way it can keep raining.
5 more miles: Doubt is creeping in. It’s still raining hard and my legs and hands are soaked to the bone. My leather jacket is keeping my body dry, but I’m not sure how much longer I can take this.
5 more miles: I’m starting to feel a bit tired. My brain isn’t as sharp as it was when I left the wharf. It’s dulled enough to not realize that it’s dulled. What it is still sharp enough to notice is that my limbs are starting to feel very heavy. At first I assume it’s because of the rain. I’ve got a lot of water on me, and with all these layers, my clothes are pretty heavy. On the other hand, I’m not feeling as cold as I was before. A bell goes off in my brain.
Oh shit. Hypothermia. Oh shit….. oh shit….
I flex my fingers. They barely move. I can see them try to bend, but I can’t feel them move. I try to lift my left hand off of the handle bar. I feel like there is 100 lbs. attached to it. My legs…. oh god, I can barely move my legs. They wiggle a bit, but it feels like a Herculean effort to lift my right foot 1 inch off the floorboard.
SHIT! Hypothermia…. shitshitshitshitshitttttttttt
Stay calm. Don’t do anything stupid. At least I noticed it while I can still do something about it. All those years of skiing and snowboarding paid off… might have saved my life tonight…
I can’t make it home now, I’m barely out of Baltimore. I haven’t even been on the road half an hour and the trip is already turning into a nightmare.
Alison! I need to get to Alison’s apartment. I need to get dry and warm. I need to rest. If I leave early I can still make it into work on time tomorrow morning… I need to get off the road as quickly as possible.
There’s an exit coming up and I pull off onto it, and right back onto 83S, back to Baltimore. I finger Alison’s apartment into my GPS. Thank god it was still in there from my visit this weekend. Calculating… Got it! 20 minutes… that’s a long ways, and I’m not doing so well…
5 more miles: It’s still raining hard. I’ve already had 2 cars make dangerous passes and almost cut me off… I’m getting really scared. I don’t want to die out here….
Somehow the thought of pulling over under a bridge still hasn’t occurred to me. Leave my bike until morning?!?! I just got her! I just need to get to Alison’s…
Finally, I get off the highway. City speeds are a lot less cold, but I’m still getting weaker by the minute. I’m riding very cautiously, going 5 under the speed limit and frantically checking all around me for traffic. I don’t trust anyone out here. I know that traction is minimal and my reflexes are shot. As I climb a slight hill, Garmin says that I’m within 5 minutes of Alison’s. That’s great, since I’m not sure how much longer I can hold out.
When I crest the hill, I find a stoplight is perched directly ahead of me, maybe 100 feet further down. As I approach it, the light turns from green to yellow. I’d better stop. The last thing I need is to get broadsided by a driver that doesn’t see me. I apply my brakes and downshift.
It was bound to happen. My legs feel like I’m wearing cement shoes, and have about as much grace as Mike Tyson knitting. With gloves on. What was supposed to be a light application of the rear brake turned out more like a curb stomping. My rear wheel locks, and I start to slide. The bike’s tail whips back and forth a few times, but I keep the wheel locked. At this point, keeping it locked is the only reason I haven’t flipped topside. I keep applying light front brakes while sliding and eventually bring the bike to a stop, upright, 10 feet into the intersection.
Holy shit. Adrenaline.
I try to back the bike out of the intersection, but walking it backwards up a hill isn’t going so well for me, especially in my weakened state. I wait awkwardly in the intersection while a few cars make wide detours around me.
For as scary as the slide was, adrenaline is what I need right now. I’m still not to Alison’s yet, and it looks like I still have 3 miles to go. Can’t go over it, can’t go around it, gotta go through it. Stay strong.
Two miles down the road, and I’m not doing well at all. I’ve gotten so weak that I can barely hold myself up, nonetheless handle a bike. Every second is terrifying. Even though I’m only a mile from Alison’s, I think about riding the bike up onto the sidewalk and leaving it for morning. I honestly don’t know if I can make it one more mile.
Keep riding. Can’t quit now, just make it through. Almost there.
After an agonizing 2 minutes of tense city riding, I arrive at Alison’s apartment. I find a spot to park the bike and stumble to her door. My brain feels like guacamole. I’ve had better self control 15 beers deep. I haven’t even taken my helmet off, so I knock on the door with my head. Specifically, I slump against the door several times, because the effort of raising my arm is too much right now.
No answer. Fuck. Yup…. “shit” has turned into “fuck”…
I have a cell phone. It’s in my pocket, and hopefully not too wet. 3 minutes later and I manage to get my gloves off. Quite an accomplishment given that my hands were shaking the entire time and I had no control of my fingers. 2 minutes later and I’ve gotten my cell phone out of my pocket. I’m slumped on the ground, in the rain, against Alison’s door at this point, struggling to operate my phone. The tiny buttons seem to be made for midget children. 2 more minutes and I’ve dialed her number.
She picks up. “Hey, what’s up?” “Ummm, are you home?” “No. Why?” “Getting back to Allentown with the bike didn’t work so well. I’m at your apartment and need a place to dry off and crash for the night.” “Well, I’m actually walking home right now. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
As much as I can’t wait to get warm, I know that help is on the way, and a few minutes isn’t really all that long to wait. I pick myself up off the ground so Alison doesn’t see me looking like a disheveled mess (though it’s not like she hasn’t seen that before anyways).
When Alison rounded the corner to her apartment, it was one of the most relieving moments of my life. She let me in, got me set up on the couch and showed me where the drier was. I thanked her, made myself a sandwich, and went to bed.
I woke up at 4am when my cell phone’s alarm went off. If I leave now, I can still make it to work on time. I grab my clothes from the drier, fold Alison’s blankets, and head out the door.
It’s still sprinkling lightly, and it’s chilly, but nothing like last night. This is doable, I’ll just have to ride at a moderate speed and be aware of the weather.
I’m no more than 30 minutes outside of Baltimore when it starts raining again. What started as light sprinkles got progressively heavier by the minute. Luckily for me, I was already on the lookout for a Wegmans to grab some breakfast. I pulled into the parking lot just as the rain really opened up.
By this point I was pretty wet already, so I decide that I’ll grab a coffee and a muffin and wait for the rain to clear. An hour passes and it’s still raining. This sucks.
One more hour passes. So much for getting to work on time.
One more hour goes by, and the weather for all of Eastern Pennsylvania looks like shit on the TV. I call into work to let them know I won’t be making it in today. I’m pissed, but grateful to be alive, and happy to know that now I can take my time and ride safe.
Yet another hour passes and the rain has lightened, but is still drizzling. I’ve read through an entire Wall Street Journal at this point and just want to go. On the other hand, I don’t want a repeat of last night… and I’m still a bit wet.
At this point, shame is out the window. I decide to take drastic measures, and pull a stunt that any hobo would be proud of. I grab Ceran Wrap and some dish-washing gloves off the shelves and go through checkout. I walk straight from the checkout line to the bathroom, where I find an empty handicap stall. Once inside, I proceed to strip, and wring out my clothes over the toilet. Classy, huh? Dried, I put my pajama pants back on, then wrap my legs and feet in the Ceran Wrap before pulling my jeans and boots back on. I pull the dish-washing gloves on, under my heavy mittens. Hell yeah! I’m waterproof baby!
I set back out, onto the highway, and from there on the day went well, given the circumstances. Yes, it was still cold as hell, and yes, I did have to stop every 30 minutes to walk around and clap my hands til they regained feeling, but overall the ride back home went well. When I finally arrived back home at 4pm (12 hours later) I was cold, wet, and exhausted, but glad to be alive, and proud as hell for weathering the storm. Since then, my C50 has become somewhat of a trophy to me, because to be honest, I feel like I earned that bike. She’s my baby and now, we ride as one.
My C50, before modifications
This weekend I met up with a bunch of folks from VolusiaRiders.com for a rally weekend up in the Poconos. I’ll start by saying that it was a great group and we covered a lot of pavement and had some damn fun times while we were at it.
I headed out of work a few minutes early on Friday in order to get there before the night was too late. When I got home, I mounted a new windshield on my bike. My old one was causing me some bad buffeting (wind induced headache) issues at speeds over 65 mph. I stuffed my saddlebags chock full of clothes and such for the weekend. At the last minute I figured “Well, I don’t have a passenger. Might as well strap the hookah to the back seat.”
Good to go? Yup. I’m off. It was a pleasant ride up 33 to 209, but highway is a bit boring. From 209, I got onto 402, which was a lot more fun. It’s about 40 miles of backwoods state highway. Lots of hills and flowy turns. Halfway up 402, I noticed a bike behind me. I made a pass, he followed suit. Seems I just made a friend. We ended up riding together, passing cars and enjoying the road for about 20 miles. Eventually I arrived at the motel that the rally was meeting up at, and the random Harley and I parted ways.
When I arrived at the Sandy Beach Motel, I didn’t know what to expect, but the scene looked exactly like I expected (funny, I know). I pulled in, climbed off my bike, and was immediately greeted by some friendly faces. It was an overload of faces and names. I was brought around to all of the subgroups of people and introduced around. Did they really expect me to remember all their names? This was sensory overload. I was the new guy in a group of old friends. Only option was to jump right in and make them my friends too.
After a welcome beer, an inaugural cigar, and about 20 introductions later, I excuse myself to unload my bike. I check in at the front office for my key, and head to my gear. I detach the saddle bags and unstrap the hookah case. Somebody sees it. “Brought your trumpet to practice?” they rib. “Yup. I usually start around 4am.” After a quick unpacking, I find out where the nearest beer distributor is. After a quick half mile ride, I’m there, grabbing myself some Blue for the weekend, and I’m back at the motel.
Everyone is hanging out, shooting the shit and showing off their newest bikes and the mods they’ve done to them. My bike is old hat to all of them. Most of them had something similar years ago before they upgraded to bigger bikes. I’m told by a few people that seeing my bike there is “nostalgic”. Ya, that’s a confidence booster. On the other hand, I’m still new to riding, and am the youngest person there by more than a decade. I’ve got plenty of time to get that bigger bike when the time is right and the money is there. For now, having something that’s a little underpowered may be a good thing to save me from myself (and the wildly stupid things I tend to do.)
At one point in the night, a random biker and his fiance drive into the motel parking lot in a truck, with an Indian motorcycle strapped in the back. He was driving by, saw the bikes and decided to stop and say ‘hi’. Biker culture never ceases to amaze me. Of course, all of the VR folks wander on over and are talking with him for a while and checking out his bike. As he leaves, they invite him to go on the ride tomorrow morning with them. Really? I realized that there’s a sense of camaraderie associated with biking, but how extensive it is something I’m still getting used to. Heh. Guess I should have invited the Harley I was riding with earlier into the party…
As the night gets later, the party thins out, and I bring out the hookah.
Lighting the hookah
Everyone gathers around to relax and chat. It was a whole lot of fun, and was a nice experience to get to talk to some of the guys in a more close-knit setting. After pushing it late into the night, everyone is starting to think about the rapidly approaching morning, and bedtime suddenly seems like a fantastic idea. Until tomorrow morning boys.
I wake up the following morning to find a pile of chairs stacked against my door.
Chairs on my door
Unfortunately, when I opened the door, they failed to fall. Not wanting to deprive the guys of their spectacle, a quick boot later and chairs were scattered everywhere in front of my room. A quick ride down to the gas station for a top-off and a Powerbar breakfast, and I’m good to go.
The group splits off into the “slow group” and the “aggressive group.” Obviously, given my riding experience, I lined up with the slow group. HAHAHA!!! Yeah right. Aggressive group it is! Let’s ride!!! Off we go, stopping a few miles down at the Zane Grey Landing to hopefully meet up with the slow group. 45 minutes pass, and they still haven’t arrived. Wow. They sure are slow.
As we head out, one of the guys, Greg, offers up “Hey, wanna give my bike a test ride?” It’s a Yamaha Stratoliner, with an engine about twice the size of my C50. Well… hell yeah I want to ride it. Thanks man!
Gregstur's Yamaha Stratoliner
We ride to the next stop, and I get a chance to play on the Liner. The geometry was a little funny for me, but that’s just because I like to lean back when I ride. Of course it was a lot heavier than my ride, but once it got going, at actually handled pretty well. The biggest difference was the pure power. It was smooth and quiet, but had about as much power as you wanted. It will definitely be a bike to consider when I start looking down the upgrade path. The other thing I noticed from following behind it is that MY BIKE IS LOUD!!! Borderline obnoxiously loud for a group ride (sorry guys!)
The next stop is a beautiful outlook over a river.
Ledge over the lookout. I didn't jump!
We stop to take some pictures, and even spot a bald eagle. Next stop are some waterfalls at a state park. Absolutely beautiful. Everyone loiters and wanders around around the park for a while. Eventually we head back to the parking lot. Shit. I’m a moron. I left my lights on and…. yup… my battery is dead. Great. Guess I gotta pop start it. I start rolling it down a hill and drop the clutch. Stall, no go. Some of the guys offer to help, pushing my down it. Still not enough. Eventually, 5 minutes and a whole lot of sweat later, my bike is up and chugging along. Thanks everyone!
Group photo
After a few more stops, we arrive at our destination, an outdoor BBQ rib joint. In all honesty, those ribs were top 10 I’ve ever had. Calling them the best would be a stretch, but they really hit the spot after a long day riding. 5 hours of riding to be exact… to arrive at a place 15 miles from the motel. It’s a beautiful thing, just riding for the sake of riding.
Finally, back at the motel, foolishness abides. Before the festivities get under way, however, Sixpack offers to let me take a spin on his bike. It was probably pretty obvious that I’d been staring at it all weekend. It’s a tricked out Victory Vegas that is beautiful beyond words. And looks aside, that baby can haul!!! I only felt limited by how fast I was comfortable going, and never the bike holding me back. The raked out front was an interesting experience to handle, but it just took a little getting used to.
Sixpack's Victory Vegas
From there on out, the night degraded into barbecue, birthday cake, Cornhole, and general debauchery. All in good fun, of course. The following morning consisted of packing my stuff, strapping it all to the bike, and dropping off my room key. I then headed over to the next-door diner where I grabbed breakfast with some of the gang.
Well fed, and ready for the road, I said goodbyes and took to the road. At some point along the ride I decided I really didn’t have a whole lot of incentive to get home quickly, so I just started taking random exits and turn-offs. I just kept heading south, based upon the sun, content knowing that I’d just hit 78 at some point or another. It probably added a bit over an hour to the return ride, but it was just a pleasant, relaxing experience.
Back safe and sound, my bike needs one hell of a wash. Hopefully I’ll get on that some time this week, but for now, I’m just relaxing and recovering from a great weekend.