Opened the door this morning to get some of that complimentary continenal breakfast so ubiquitous amongst the hotels scattered by the exit ramps across the country to find a loose chain hanging from the sprocket.
Craap.
Now, I ordered a replacement chain before I left, but RK sent me a 520, when what I needed was a 530. I sent it back, but didn't get the replacement before I had to leave for this trip. The tensionsers were almost out to lock, but I figgered the chain had another 3,000 miles in it. What could I do? I had been anticipating this trip for years. Had to hit the road.
Now, this morning in the parking lot up in Roanoke, the chain was loose, but the sprocket was still good, so I put the wheel out to maximum, loaded up the duffle bag, and off I went.
After lunch in Rogersville, TN, another look at the driving gear, reveals the chain hanging much looser chipping teeth off the vortex sprocket.
Decision time. Roll in through Knoxville, or chance it down to deals gap.
Despite the impending damage, the bike is running fine up at highway speeds. If I roll through Knoxville, I could get on the 75, and probably put on some miles on the 75 through Georgia, but then I'd miss Deal's Gap.
Deal's Gap is an international motorcycle destination, and there's a good chance I'll be able to find someone around there with a chain breaker/riveter to take a few links out and tighten this slopping licorice stick up.
Got off at rte. 338 to heading south to the great smokey mountains. Pulled over at a tourist center (actually a front to lure unsuspecting tourists in for a time share presentation) in Kodak, TN, and spoke with the girls at the counter. All the motorcycle shops are closed today and tomorrow, so the soonest I'll be able to get the bike fixed is on Tuesday. After much deliberation and consideration, I decide I'll try to hit the road, and put some miles on. About 5 miles down the road, the chain jumps the sprocket. Speedo at 10 mph, riding the shoulder I made it back to a hotel in Kodak. Survey the terrain, it's pretty bleak. 3 hotels, 3 gas stationjs, a Kristal burger, Subway sandwich shop, Flapjack Cabin, crappy chain Barbecue and a fireworks superstore. Not even a bar.
So I ask the girl at the counter in the hotel where there's something to do. She says Pigeon Forge, 15 miles up the road. Pigeon Forge is the home of Dollywood and I saw a brochoure in the hotel for a cheesey Elvis impersonator, so I figured I'd try to make it up there.
I barely made it up the first hill, chain sliding around a stripped sprocket when a couple cops pull up.
"Having some trouble with your motorbike?"
"Yeah, the chain's loose and the sprockets stripped. I'm trying to make it down to Pigeon Forge. Is it the rest of the way straight, or is it hilly like this?"
" Oh, it's pretty hilly. You gunna need a tow truck for this?"
"Naw, I'll just ride down the hill back to the hotel."
"What hotel?"
"There were three hotels about 1/2 a mile back. I'm gonna stay there."
" You sure you don't need a tow truck?"
"Yes. Thanks for the offer though."
"Alright well, y'all have a good night."
"Yeah, you too."
Head on back to the hotel and check in. Call up Papa Biker and have him overnight my chain breaker, some sockets and wrenches, and a couple spare sprockets. Order a replacement master link and extra piece needed for the chain breaker from Rebel Sprockets.
Back in the room with a 12-pack of Miller and a bag of Pork rinds. I fucking hate pork rinds, but this is the South, and I'm gonna be here for a couple days, so what the hell.
God hates me.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Sunday, November 18, 2007
I Love Virgina part 2.
There was a second leg to the Skyline drive run down further through the Blue Ridge mountains, but the goal was to make it to Knoxville, TN, and my second couchsurf tonight, so a bit chilly, and hungry from the ride, it's off to route 81 to put on as many highway miles as I could, there were about 350 left to go.
On the highway, riding along at just a little quicker then the speed limit. 50 miles to Roanoke, just passed a state trooper busting up an unlucky brother. Sun is setting, air's getting colder, stomach is rumbling, and the right hand starts to get heavy. Throttle twists counterclockwise. The engine humming along like a turbine, suddenly the needle is in the healthy triple digits. Suddenly that state trooper from a few miles back is on me.
Fuck.
Hopefully they don't arrest in Virginia for triple digit speeds.
Fuck. They do.
Trooper (nicest, most polite cop I've ever met BTW) says I've got to follow him back to the station. They sit me down, and a glimmer of hope when the magistrate can't get the computer to connect to the mainframe, and they debate what to do with me.
"How much money you got on you boy?"
"Hundred bucks. Wait, I stopped for gas. 85."
"Well, he ain't even got any money on him"
"Come with me"
They take me on back for booking, and I get my call.
"You got any friends or family you can call?"
"Nope, I'm 500 miles from home"
"See that number on the wall, that's the bail bondsman. Try him"
Dude asks tons of questions, and says he's on the way.
They catalogue all my stuff, and there's alot of it, I'm out for 11 days. Spread your cheeks, lift your sack, take a cold shower, and smile for the camera.
Got me a set of navy blue sweats that don't compliment my biker boots at all, and a plastic crate full of blankets and liquid soap in a packet. A crappy mattress and it's off to jail with me.
On inside I get to meet the best of rural Virginia. They're all very interested to meet me.
"Wudjoo do?"
"Speeding."
"Damn, they arrest you for that? How fast was you going?"
"Hundred. How come you're in here?"
"Stabbeed my woman 7 times in the chest."
"...uh...(thinking to myself: Please bail bondsman, get here soon)"
The guys inside seemed friendly enough, and I stretched out on the bunk and started getting in to a National Geographic article on the Untouchables of Indian. It was actually quite comfortable, and I was hoping the bail bondsman wouldn't get there until tomorrow so I didn't have to buy a hotel room. But he did, and I got out at 10.
Bondsman was a very friendly dude, and we wound up Bull Shitting for about an hour. Bond was $500, and this greedy fuck wanted $150. I had agreed to that on the phone, but found out inside that it was supposed to be 10%, so I asked him about this. He said some shit about his minimum being $100, so down to the ATM I went, and got his filthy lucre. I was suprised at the high caliber of these rural Virginia girls, even the chick working behind the counter was a cute blonde. Prolly dumb as dog shit too. The very best kind.
Made it on down to Roanoke, and stopped to the only place in town open late with food, the Texas Tavern. Decent Chili dog. Where's the closest cheap hotel.
On the highway, riding along at just a little quicker then the speed limit. 50 miles to Roanoke, just passed a state trooper busting up an unlucky brother. Sun is setting, air's getting colder, stomach is rumbling, and the right hand starts to get heavy. Throttle twists counterclockwise. The engine humming along like a turbine, suddenly the needle is in the healthy triple digits. Suddenly that state trooper from a few miles back is on me.
Fuck.
Hopefully they don't arrest in Virginia for triple digit speeds.
Fuck. They do.
Trooper (nicest, most polite cop I've ever met BTW) says I've got to follow him back to the station. They sit me down, and a glimmer of hope when the magistrate can't get the computer to connect to the mainframe, and they debate what to do with me.
"How much money you got on you boy?"
"Hundred bucks. Wait, I stopped for gas. 85."
"Well, he ain't even got any money on him"
"Come with me"
They take me on back for booking, and I get my call.
"You got any friends or family you can call?"
"Nope, I'm 500 miles from home"
"See that number on the wall, that's the bail bondsman. Try him"
Dude asks tons of questions, and says he's on the way.
They catalogue all my stuff, and there's alot of it, I'm out for 11 days. Spread your cheeks, lift your sack, take a cold shower, and smile for the camera.
Got me a set of navy blue sweats that don't compliment my biker boots at all, and a plastic crate full of blankets and liquid soap in a packet. A crappy mattress and it's off to jail with me.
On inside I get to meet the best of rural Virginia. They're all very interested to meet me.
"Wudjoo do?"
"Speeding."
"Damn, they arrest you for that? How fast was you going?"
"Hundred. How come you're in here?"
"Stabbeed my woman 7 times in the chest."
"...uh...(thinking to myself: Please bail bondsman, get here soon)"
The guys inside seemed friendly enough, and I stretched out on the bunk and started getting in to a National Geographic article on the Untouchables of Indian. It was actually quite comfortable, and I was hoping the bail bondsman wouldn't get there until tomorrow so I didn't have to buy a hotel room. But he did, and I got out at 10.
Bondsman was a very friendly dude, and we wound up Bull Shitting for about an hour. Bond was $500, and this greedy fuck wanted $150. I had agreed to that on the phone, but found out inside that it was supposed to be 10%, so I asked him about this. He said some shit about his minimum being $100, so down to the ATM I went, and got his filthy lucre. I was suprised at the high caliber of these rural Virginia girls, even the chick working behind the counter was a cute blonde. Prolly dumb as dog shit too. The very best kind.
Made it on down to Roanoke, and stopped to the only place in town open late with food, the Texas Tavern. Decent Chili dog. Where's the closest cheap hotel.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
I love Virginia!
Friday night I made it down to Winchester, VA and crashed with Tim and Leesa. Great couple, just a great experience all around. I had to hit the road right after breakfast, but I wish we could have had more time.
Get to the entrance to Skyline Drive at Shenandoah around 1:30 am, the park ranger tells me there's an entrance fee, so I had to turn it around and pull some cash out of the machine back in town. When I get back, instead of a friendly park ranger, there's a sign in the booth that says to pay when exiting. Yeah right. The ride starts off at an incline climbing in altitude the side of a sheer drop. Off to the right, a magnificent view of the valley, to the left, the Blue Ridge Mountains rolling off into the distance, painted the deep red of late fall. Long, sweeping twisties through some of the most beautiful country in, well, the country. 100 miles of mixed terrain: mountains, and deep woods, and meadows, and views, and just amazing.
Once the incredibleness of the surroundings sets in after about 30 miles, and road concentration starts to set in, I start thinking about how to take these turns quicker, and smoother. I like to think I'm pretty good, generally I take the posted speed limit, and double that, and that's the minium speed to take the turns at. But I remember an article I read in Bike magazine about leaning in to the turns, really getting in to them, hanging off the bike, ass sliding side to side getting in to the turns. And I start thinking "How are you supposed to slide your ass from side to side when it's planted on the seat?" Here comes the breakthrough.
Get your ass off the seat.
I remembered another article, most probably from the same fine publication, discussing the differences between the quintessentially American cruiser, and European (in origin) sportsbike, and how they reflect the respective cultures from which they developed.
America being a big country, with lots, and lots of long, straight roads begat the cruiser. With a relaxed riding position, it's designed to be comfortable for long stretches, on straight roads. Big, fat, heavy, loud, comfortable, and very cool looking, They're quintessentially America. But they handle like a bloated hogzilla. They're even fucking called Hawg's fercrissakes. Cowboy's rode across the plains with their asses planted in the saddle.
Europe is a collection of relatively small countries. There aren't any super-mega highways. Lots of cool, windy, twisty roads. European sportscars are designed for handling over acceleration. This is where horse racing developed, and motorcycle racing. How to horse racing Jockey's ride their thoroughbreds? They're in a forward leaning crouch, over the torso, with their heads close to the horse's head. They don't sit down in the saddle, they ride bent at the knees, standing up in the stirrups.
So I got my ass out of the seat. Bent at the knees, standing on the pegs.
It was a revelation. It added another 20 mph to my run.
Phenomenal. Until I lowsided pulling over to check directions. I killed the road and the twisties, but got taken out by a pile of gravel. Always the way it goes.
Nice guy from Texas pulled over to help me get the bike back on the road. He stopped short from telling me to slow down. But I know he wanted to.
Get to the entrance to Skyline Drive at Shenandoah around 1:30 am, the park ranger tells me there's an entrance fee, so I had to turn it around and pull some cash out of the machine back in town. When I get back, instead of a friendly park ranger, there's a sign in the booth that says to pay when exiting. Yeah right. The ride starts off at an incline climbing in altitude the side of a sheer drop. Off to the right, a magnificent view of the valley, to the left, the Blue Ridge Mountains rolling off into the distance, painted the deep red of late fall. Long, sweeping twisties through some of the most beautiful country in, well, the country. 100 miles of mixed terrain: mountains, and deep woods, and meadows, and views, and just amazing.
Once the incredibleness of the surroundings sets in after about 30 miles, and road concentration starts to set in, I start thinking about how to take these turns quicker, and smoother. I like to think I'm pretty good, generally I take the posted speed limit, and double that, and that's the minium speed to take the turns at. But I remember an article I read in Bike magazine about leaning in to the turns, really getting in to them, hanging off the bike, ass sliding side to side getting in to the turns. And I start thinking "How are you supposed to slide your ass from side to side when it's planted on the seat?" Here comes the breakthrough.
Get your ass off the seat.
I remembered another article, most probably from the same fine publication, discussing the differences between the quintessentially American cruiser, and European (in origin) sportsbike, and how they reflect the respective cultures from which they developed.
America being a big country, with lots, and lots of long, straight roads begat the cruiser. With a relaxed riding position, it's designed to be comfortable for long stretches, on straight roads. Big, fat, heavy, loud, comfortable, and very cool looking, They're quintessentially America. But they handle like a bloated hogzilla. They're even fucking called Hawg's fercrissakes. Cowboy's rode across the plains with their asses planted in the saddle.
Europe is a collection of relatively small countries. There aren't any super-mega highways. Lots of cool, windy, twisty roads. European sportscars are designed for handling over acceleration. This is where horse racing developed, and motorcycle racing. How to horse racing Jockey's ride their thoroughbreds? They're in a forward leaning crouch, over the torso, with their heads close to the horse's head. They don't sit down in the saddle, they ride bent at the knees, standing up in the stirrups.
So I got my ass out of the seat. Bent at the knees, standing on the pegs.
It was a revelation. It added another 20 mph to my run.
Phenomenal. Until I lowsided pulling over to check directions. I killed the road and the twisties, but got taken out by a pile of gravel. Always the way it goes.
Nice guy from Texas pulled over to help me get the bike back on the road. He stopped short from telling me to slow down. But I know he wanted to.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Key West Turkey ride.
In about two hours, I'm going to be on the road to Winchester, VA. Tomorrow morning, I'll be riding Skyline Drive through Shenandoah to Knoxville, TN. Sunday morning, Deal's Gap, Dragon's Tail, and Cherohala Skyway, ending the day in Savannah, GA. Spend a few days under the sun in Miami, and then off to Key West.
I've wanted to make this trip for years, but they took away my license in 2006, and I didn't have the chance in 2005. This year I've got the bike, and the license, and the motivation. If it was a choice between sitting around a dinner table all night with three condescending humorless accountants, or nightclubs & E on white sandy beaches, swimming in crystal clear waters while drinking Mai Thai's, well, that ain't no choice at all.
3 of the best rides in America on one trip. I woke up with that nervous anticipation you get as a kid on Christmas morning. I can't wait to get out there on the road.
This is going to be an annual pilgramidge, so anybody out there want to make the ride next year, gimme a shout.
Here's the route:
http://maps.google.com/maps?f=d&hl=en&geocode=1932037673482937650,38.919880,-78.193690%3B17378530705292756068,38.767870,-78.232480%3B1788691951501113967,38.661390,-78.317260%3B770619417151806217,38.545580,-78.390710%3B14559284942800649887,38.364630,-78.555180%3B12548960267934763408,38.097790,-78.781210%3B16186435554723444439,35.557290,-84.010570%3B8622334245503131432,35.339820,-83.813780&time=&date=&ttype=&saddr=nyc&daddr=202+N.+Washington+St.,+Winchester,+Virginia,+22601+to:US-340+%4038.919880,+-78.193690+to:Skyline+Dr+%4038.767870,+-78.232480+to:US-211+%4038.661390,+-78.317260+to:Skyline+Dr+%4038.545580,+-78.390710+to:Spotswood+Trail%2FUS-33+%4038.364630,+-78.555180+to:Skyline+Dr+%4038.097790,+-78.781210+to:knoxville,+tn+to:US-129+%4035.557290,+-84.010570+to:Tapoco+Rd%2FUS-129+%4035.339820,+-83.813780+to:35.362176,-84.306335+to:savannah,+ga+to:777+S.+Federal+Highway,+Pompano+Beach,+FL+33062+to:miami,+fl+to:key+west,+fl+to:600+S+Persimmon+Avenue,+Sanford,+FL+32771&mra=dpe&mrcr=2&mrsp=11&sz=9&via=2,3,4,5,6,7,9,10,11&sll=35.619349,-83.768005&sspn=0.962278,1.851196&ie=UTF8&z=9&om=1
I've wanted to make this trip for years, but they took away my license in 2006, and I didn't have the chance in 2005. This year I've got the bike, and the license, and the motivation. If it was a choice between sitting around a dinner table all night with three condescending humorless accountants, or nightclubs & E on white sandy beaches, swimming in crystal clear waters while drinking Mai Thai's, well, that ain't no choice at all.
3 of the best rides in America on one trip. I woke up with that nervous anticipation you get as a kid on Christmas morning. I can't wait to get out there on the road.
This is going to be an annual pilgramidge, so anybody out there want to make the ride next year, gimme a shout.
Here's the route:
http://maps.google.com/maps?f=d&hl=en&geocode=1932037673482937650,38.919880,-78.193690%3B17378530705292756068,38.767870,-78.232480%3B1788691951501113967,38.661390,-78.317260%3B770619417151806217,38.545580,-78.390710%3B14559284942800649887,38.364630,-78.555180%3B12548960267934763408,38.097790,-78.781210%3B16186435554723444439,35.557290,-84.010570%3B8622334245503131432,35.339820,-83.813780&time=&date=&ttype=&saddr=nyc&daddr=202+N.+Washington+St.,+Winchester,+Virginia,+22601+to:US-340+%4038.919880,+-78.193690+to:Skyline+Dr+%4038.767870,+-78.232480+to:US-211+%4038.661390,+-78.317260+to:Skyline+Dr+%4038.545580,+-78.390710+to:Spotswood+Trail%2FUS-33+%4038.364630,+-78.555180+to:Skyline+Dr+%4038.097790,+-78.781210+to:knoxville,+tn+to:US-129+%4035.557290,+-84.010570+to:Tapoco+Rd%2FUS-129+%4035.339820,+-83.813780+to:35.362176,-84.306335+to:savannah,+ga+to:777+S.+Federal+Highway,+Pompano+Beach,+FL+33062+to:miami,+fl+to:key+west,+fl+to:600+S+Persimmon+Avenue,+Sanford,+FL+32771&mra=dpe&mrcr=2&mrsp=11&sz=9&via=2,3,4,5,6,7,9,10,11&sll=35.619349,-83.768005&sspn=0.962278,1.851196&ie=UTF8&z=9&om=1
Thursday, November 15, 2007
I got another fucking ticket tonight.
So I got the letter from the Traffic Violations Bureau on 10/29 about that headlight ticket I got back in September saying that I needed to come in and answer the ticket by 11/19 or my license was going to be suspended, and I was going to be default convicted if I didn't take care of it by 12/19. So I headed on down to the TVB on Rector st. right after work tonight because Thursday is the only day of the week the TVB is open later then 5, and I needed to take care of this before leaving for Key West tomorrow.
Now, I decided to take Broadway down because that's the most direct way. Now, I know there's a police checkpoint on Broadway, and they pull over every bike that drives by. That's why every time I have to get down there, I make a detour around the checkpoint, so I don't have to deal with their bullshit, but tonight I had to get there fast, and I figgered that since everythings all right and tight with the bike, I'd be OK. I was wrong.
I get down to Broadway and Cedar St. around 5:20, and Officer Rosebeak decided that a motorcycle driving down Broadway in mid November presented such a serious threat to the safety of lower Manhattan that it needed to be pulled over.
At this moment I've got a split second to decide what to do. Pull over and toe the line, or twist the throttle. and ride away. Last time I passed this checkpoint and they pulled this shit with me, I just rode away. And I got away just fine. But tonight, for some reason, I stopped. I tell him I need to get to Traffic Court before they close, which is two blocks away. Officer Rosebeak says that's not his problem and he doesn't care.
So Officer Rosebeak looks over the bike, see's I've got the inspection sticker and the plate is in the right place with the registration sticker on it.
Officer Rosebeak: So, why isn't your plate bolted on?
NYC Biker: Because I take it off every time I park the bike.
Officer Rosebeak: Why do you do that?
NYC Biker: Because I've had my plate stolen from me 3 times already.
Officer Rosebeak: What's with those headphones?
NYC Biker: They're earplugs to protect my hearing.
Officer Rosebeak: Are they earplugs or ear phones?
NYC Biker: Both. They block out the noise because motorcycle riding is very noisy. I'm trying to protect my hearing.
Officer Rosebeak: Are they attached to anything?
NYC Biker: Yes.
Officer Rosebeak: What?
NYC Biker: And Ipod.
Officer Rosebeak: Alright, give me you license and registration and insurance.
NYC Biker: Here you go.
Officer Rosebeak goes to his copcar to write me a ticket.
10 minutes pass. I go over to his copcar.
NYC Biker: Is it alright if I park my bike, go to traffic court, and come back in 20 minutes?
Officer Rosebeak: No. Your traffic court isn't my problem.
So I go back to my bike, and stare at my watch. Officer Rosebeak gets out of his copcar and starts walking in my direction, so I walk over there to get my shit back.
Officer Rosebeak: I told you to wait by your bike.
* Please note: Officer Rosebeak did NOT tell me to wait by my bike. Broadway at Cedar St. in lower Manhattan is one of the busiest intersections in the country, with tons of vehicle and pedestrain traffic, and it's a police checkpoint with tons of cops around. Officer Rosebeak was just being a dick and a P-I-G Pig.
I get my shit back, mutha-fucka wrote me up a ticket for driving with earphones. So I ask him:
NYC Biker: Do you ride motorcycles?
Officer Rosebeak: Yes, we ride Harleys.
NYC Biker: So then you know how loud it can get with the wind noise.
Officer Rosebeak: Yeah well, you're not going to ride around while wearing earphones.
NYC Biker: (Thinking to self: Fucking dick)...
I grab my shit back and leave.
I totally could have bounced on this POS, but because I stopped, and did what I was supposed to do, I got stiffed with a ticket from an A-hole cop. What's the message here?
I need to stop stopping for the cops. I fucking hate those guys.
Now, I decided to take Broadway down because that's the most direct way. Now, I know there's a police checkpoint on Broadway, and they pull over every bike that drives by. That's why every time I have to get down there, I make a detour around the checkpoint, so I don't have to deal with their bullshit, but tonight I had to get there fast, and I figgered that since everythings all right and tight with the bike, I'd be OK. I was wrong.
I get down to Broadway and Cedar St. around 5:20, and Officer Rosebeak decided that a motorcycle driving down Broadway in mid November presented such a serious threat to the safety of lower Manhattan that it needed to be pulled over.
At this moment I've got a split second to decide what to do. Pull over and toe the line, or twist the throttle. and ride away. Last time I passed this checkpoint and they pulled this shit with me, I just rode away. And I got away just fine. But tonight, for some reason, I stopped. I tell him I need to get to Traffic Court before they close, which is two blocks away. Officer Rosebeak says that's not his problem and he doesn't care.
So Officer Rosebeak looks over the bike, see's I've got the inspection sticker and the plate is in the right place with the registration sticker on it.
Officer Rosebeak: So, why isn't your plate bolted on?
NYC Biker: Because I take it off every time I park the bike.
Officer Rosebeak: Why do you do that?
NYC Biker: Because I've had my plate stolen from me 3 times already.
Officer Rosebeak: What's with those headphones?
NYC Biker: They're earplugs to protect my hearing.
Officer Rosebeak: Are they earplugs or ear phones?
NYC Biker: Both. They block out the noise because motorcycle riding is very noisy. I'm trying to protect my hearing.
Officer Rosebeak: Are they attached to anything?
NYC Biker: Yes.
Officer Rosebeak: What?
NYC Biker: And Ipod.
Officer Rosebeak: Alright, give me you license and registration and insurance.
NYC Biker: Here you go.
Officer Rosebeak goes to his copcar to write me a ticket.
10 minutes pass. I go over to his copcar.
NYC Biker: Is it alright if I park my bike, go to traffic court, and come back in 20 minutes?
Officer Rosebeak: No. Your traffic court isn't my problem.
So I go back to my bike, and stare at my watch. Officer Rosebeak gets out of his copcar and starts walking in my direction, so I walk over there to get my shit back.
Officer Rosebeak: I told you to wait by your bike.
* Please note: Officer Rosebeak did NOT tell me to wait by my bike. Broadway at Cedar St. in lower Manhattan is one of the busiest intersections in the country, with tons of vehicle and pedestrain traffic, and it's a police checkpoint with tons of cops around. Officer Rosebeak was just being a dick and a P-I-G Pig.
I get my shit back, mutha-fucka wrote me up a ticket for driving with earphones. So I ask him:
NYC Biker: Do you ride motorcycles?
Officer Rosebeak: Yes, we ride Harleys.
NYC Biker: So then you know how loud it can get with the wind noise.
Officer Rosebeak: Yeah well, you're not going to ride around while wearing earphones.
NYC Biker: (Thinking to self: Fucking dick)...
I grab my shit back and leave.
I totally could have bounced on this POS, but because I stopped, and did what I was supposed to do, I got stiffed with a ticket from an A-hole cop. What's the message here?
I need to stop stopping for the cops. I fucking hate those guys.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
My night with Jesus Freak 2000
Ungh, ok, so I lined up a place to say with this dude Jay up in Troy, NY. From his profile and the conversation, he seemed like a decent enough dude. I got to Albany around 7, had a look around the town to get my bearings, and found a kinkos to do some work on the Internet. I give a call over to set up a time to stop by 9:30, we're set.
On the ride up, I listened to the whole Beatles catalog in my ipod, but once I got to town in order to get all psyched up, I switched over to Kid Rock. Aaaah, yes, nothing quite like white boys pimping like the K-I-D, strapped with A-K's straight from the Chinese, to stir up a little anti-authoritianism. On my way over to the house, I remember those Israeli guys who crashed over my place, and how they came walking in with a six pack of Corona's. The illustrious Mister Rock had just been bragging about how he could drink about 15 Heinekens. Perfect, to supplement that bag of apples I picked up at an upstate orchard, I'll bring a six-pack of Holland's finest.
So I roll in, and am met by an older woman who informs me that I should park the bike in the garage, and come on in, and so I do. I get inside, and introduce myself; the older woman's name is Carol, and she's Jay's mom. A 29 year old guy still living with his mother? Seems highly irreuglar, however I don't know the story; maybe he's keeping this ship afloat. Jay's just outside on the phone. When I ask where I should put my stuff, and she says that Jay's room will be good, and that this black girl sittin' there in the kitchen could show me where it was. She appears to be between the ages of 18 and 23, and I assume she's Jay's girlfriend.
I pull out the six pack, and offer beers around, declined universally, and ask if Carol minds I have one, go on ahead she says. Beers in the fridge, I hand over the bag of apples and tell her how much I appreciate the place. After about 20 minutes of mildly awkward small talk (experience with couchsurfing, work, etc.) during the course of which I meet Kyoto, the Japanese foreign exchange student, Carol heads on upstairs for bed, and Jay comes in. I offer him a beer, which kinda freaks him out a little. He tells me there's no alcohol in the house, so I ask him what to do with it, and he says to put it out in the garage, and I respectfully oblige. I am after all a guest, and I want to respect the house.
More small talk with Jay. After about 15 minutes I learn that in addition to doing marketing consulting work for Phillip Morris, Jay travels extensively doing evangelical work.
NYCBiker: Dude, that's really cool that you get to travel around so much. That must be awesome to have a job that let's you see so much of the country.
Jay: Yeah, I have to say that my life has really changed so much for the better thanks to God.
NYCBiker: Who?
Jay: God.
NYCBiker: Oh yeah, that guy.
Turns out Jay's a Jesus Freak, and he travels extensively spreading the word of Jesus, as if there's anybody out there that hasn't heard of him by now. I have a look around the room, sure enough there's bibles everywhere, and instead of artwork, there are framed psalms hanging on the wall. Oh Fuck. The weirdness continues when Omboogway comes walking in.
Omboogway is introduced to me as Jay's brother. Carol and Jay are white. Omboogway is black and clearly has a Nigerian accent, and like the black girl I met earlier, appears to be between the ages of 18 and 24. If you've ever seen the movie Garden State, there's a scene where Zack Braff first goes over to Natalie Portman's house, and it's kinda shabby, and there are animals running around everywhere, and then her Nigerian brother comes walking in. Well, Zach Braff is kinda overwhelmed by his surroundings. It was that type of experience. Jay also refers to the young black girl as his sister as well.
So, everybody heads on off to bed, and I'm thinking "Hell Yeah!" because I'm exhausted and want to get some sleep, when in walks Ming, a young Asian chick. I'm spread out on the couch in the living room with my sleeping bag. and she wants to chill and talk. Now being a guest, I didn't want to be rude or anything, so I have to chill and BS with Ming. She refers to herself as Jay's sister. Ming breaks out her laptop, so I figure I'll get on that WiFi, put up an ad on Craigslist Casual Encounters, see if I can't get some Albany pussy while I'm up here. Eventually she goes to bed and I can get some zee's. Or so I though.
I pass out for about an hour, but wake up to the sound of music playing. Now it's not blasting out the speakers, but it is playing loud enough to keep me up. I look over, and see that Jay's got his door open, and I hear its... its... Jesus music! Jay's playing fucking Jesus music! What The Fuck! Now, I'm thinking, "Ok, so this dude clearly loves Jesus, and many people like to listen to music to fall asleep, hopefully the CD will just play through, and won't be on repeat". Again, I'm trying to be a gracious house guest, but this is extremely rude and inconsiderate. I might think that Miles Davis is the shit to relax to, but I would never expect a house guest to share my taste in music, and I would never do something to disturb a guest while they're trying to get some sleep. The fact that it was Jesus music only made it that much more annoying. Equivalent to me playing George Carlin or Bill Hicks all night.
So it's not a CD, and it's not on repeat, but it's not stopping. As the night goes on, I'm thinking "this mutha-fucka is playing his whole Itunes Christian rock catalogue. I hear some bitch preaching about how we have to testify, and getting more and more pissed off by the minute. This SOB is trying to subliminally Jesus-ify me while I'm sleeping!
Around 5 in the morning, I start thinking how awesome it would be if I had my
special isolation headphones so I could play the ocean sounds in my Ipod, get some Zee's and say Fuck-all to this rude, Jesus-loving piece of shit. But the headphones broke, and I sent them in under warranty. Bastard. Takes me another half an hour to come up with the bright idea of downloading some kind of nature sounds mp3 to drown out the Jesus. Brilliant! Jungle rain mp3 in, set to repeat, play. Jesus go bye-bye. First thing in the morning, I'm packing up all my shit, and hitting the road. Here comes the sleep.
On the ride up, I listened to the whole Beatles catalog in my ipod, but once I got to town in order to get all psyched up, I switched over to Kid Rock. Aaaah, yes, nothing quite like white boys pimping like the K-I-D, strapped with A-K's straight from the Chinese, to stir up a little anti-authoritianism. On my way over to the house, I remember those Israeli guys who crashed over my place, and how they came walking in with a six pack of Corona's. The illustrious Mister Rock had just been bragging about how he could drink about 15 Heinekens. Perfect, to supplement that bag of apples I picked up at an upstate orchard, I'll bring a six-pack of Holland's finest.
So I roll in, and am met by an older woman who informs me that I should park the bike in the garage, and come on in, and so I do. I get inside, and introduce myself; the older woman's name is Carol, and she's Jay's mom. A 29 year old guy still living with his mother? Seems highly irreuglar, however I don't know the story; maybe he's keeping this ship afloat. Jay's just outside on the phone. When I ask where I should put my stuff, and she says that Jay's room will be good, and that this black girl sittin' there in the kitchen could show me where it was. She appears to be between the ages of 18 and 23, and I assume she's Jay's girlfriend.
I pull out the six pack, and offer beers around, declined universally, and ask if Carol minds I have one, go on ahead she says. Beers in the fridge, I hand over the bag of apples and tell her how much I appreciate the place. After about 20 minutes of mildly awkward small talk (experience with couchsurfing, work, etc.) during the course of which I meet Kyoto, the Japanese foreign exchange student, Carol heads on upstairs for bed, and Jay comes in. I offer him a beer, which kinda freaks him out a little. He tells me there's no alcohol in the house, so I ask him what to do with it, and he says to put it out in the garage, and I respectfully oblige. I am after all a guest, and I want to respect the house.
More small talk with Jay. After about 15 minutes I learn that in addition to doing marketing consulting work for Phillip Morris, Jay travels extensively doing evangelical work.
NYCBiker: Dude, that's really cool that you get to travel around so much. That must be awesome to have a job that let's you see so much of the country.
Jay: Yeah, I have to say that my life has really changed so much for the better thanks to God.
NYCBiker: Who?
Jay: God.
NYCBiker: Oh yeah, that guy.
Turns out Jay's a Jesus Freak, and he travels extensively spreading the word of Jesus, as if there's anybody out there that hasn't heard of him by now. I have a look around the room, sure enough there's bibles everywhere, and instead of artwork, there are framed psalms hanging on the wall. Oh Fuck. The weirdness continues when Omboogway comes walking in.
Omboogway is introduced to me as Jay's brother. Carol and Jay are white. Omboogway is black and clearly has a Nigerian accent, and like the black girl I met earlier, appears to be between the ages of 18 and 24. If you've ever seen the movie Garden State, there's a scene where Zack Braff first goes over to Natalie Portman's house, and it's kinda shabby, and there are animals running around everywhere, and then her Nigerian brother comes walking in. Well, Zach Braff is kinda overwhelmed by his surroundings. It was that type of experience. Jay also refers to the young black girl as his sister as well.
So, everybody heads on off to bed, and I'm thinking "Hell Yeah!" because I'm exhausted and want to get some sleep, when in walks Ming, a young Asian chick. I'm spread out on the couch in the living room with my sleeping bag. and she wants to chill and talk. Now being a guest, I didn't want to be rude or anything, so I have to chill and BS with Ming. She refers to herself as Jay's sister. Ming breaks out her laptop, so I figure I'll get on that WiFi, put up an ad on Craigslist Casual Encounters, see if I can't get some Albany pussy while I'm up here. Eventually she goes to bed and I can get some zee's. Or so I though.
I pass out for about an hour, but wake up to the sound of music playing. Now it's not blasting out the speakers, but it is playing loud enough to keep me up. I look over, and see that Jay's got his door open, and I hear its... its... Jesus music! Jay's playing fucking Jesus music! What The Fuck! Now, I'm thinking, "Ok, so this dude clearly loves Jesus, and many people like to listen to music to fall asleep, hopefully the CD will just play through, and won't be on repeat". Again, I'm trying to be a gracious house guest, but this is extremely rude and inconsiderate. I might think that Miles Davis is the shit to relax to, but I would never expect a house guest to share my taste in music, and I would never do something to disturb a guest while they're trying to get some sleep. The fact that it was Jesus music only made it that much more annoying. Equivalent to me playing George Carlin or Bill Hicks all night.
So it's not a CD, and it's not on repeat, but it's not stopping. As the night goes on, I'm thinking "this mutha-fucka is playing his whole Itunes Christian rock catalogue. I hear some bitch preaching about how we have to testify, and getting more and more pissed off by the minute. This SOB is trying to subliminally Jesus-ify me while I'm sleeping!
Around 5 in the morning, I start thinking how awesome it would be if I had my
special isolation headphones so I could play the ocean sounds in my Ipod, get some Zee's and say Fuck-all to this rude, Jesus-loving piece of shit. But the headphones broke, and I sent them in under warranty. Bastard. Takes me another half an hour to come up with the bright idea of downloading some kind of nature sounds mp3 to drown out the Jesus. Brilliant! Jungle rain mp3 in, set to repeat, play. Jesus go bye-bye. First thing in the morning, I'm packing up all my shit, and hitting the road. Here comes the sleep.
Monday, October 29, 2007
NYPD Extortion Racket.
NYPD Traffic Division came and towed my bike last week. Yeah the bike was on the sidewalk, but that's not why they took it. That's why they were allowed to take it. I've been parking my bike on the sidewalk for years. I try to be considerate about it. I park it in a way that will have the least possible affect on the pedestrian foot traffic. Never block doors or entranceways to businesses or establishments. Don't pull it up if there are people present. It wasn't bothering anyone, but they came and took my bike.
Why. Why would they come and take my bike? Why would they go to the trouble of calling in a special unit to cut my $100 chain, and grab my bike? Why indeed! It was for the money. They came and grabbed my bike because there was another $185 they could add to the city budget.
"Oh, but Mister Biker man, you shouldn't have been parking on the sidewalk, that's illegal."
Shut-up you! Have you never in your whole life exceeded the speed limit? Or jaywalked? If you've ever driven around with a burnt out taillight, you've broken the law, and let he who is without sin cast the first stone. But I digress, this is all beside the point.
The point is, tow trucks and impound lots are a state sponsored extortion racket. If goomba the ginzo came along and grabbed your shit, and said you could only get it back if you paid him $200, he could be arrested for extortion. If he went around doing this to a whole bunch of people, he'd be looking at racketeering. There are only two justifiable reasons to tow, and they are:
If a vehicle is interfering with the flow of pedestrian or vehicular traffic - it needs to be removed.
If a vehicle is abandoned - it needs to be removed.
The Hobbs Act defines "extortion" as "the obtaining of property from another, with his consent, induced by wrongful use of actual or threatened force, violence, or fear, or under color of official right."
Traffic Enforcement is just how the government euphemistically describes one of it's many extortion rackets.
Why. Why would they come and take my bike? Why would they go to the trouble of calling in a special unit to cut my $100 chain, and grab my bike? Why indeed! It was for the money. They came and grabbed my bike because there was another $185 they could add to the city budget.
"Oh, but Mister Biker man, you shouldn't have been parking on the sidewalk, that's illegal."
Shut-up you! Have you never in your whole life exceeded the speed limit? Or jaywalked? If you've ever driven around with a burnt out taillight, you've broken the law, and let he who is without sin cast the first stone. But I digress, this is all beside the point.
The point is, tow trucks and impound lots are a state sponsored extortion racket. If goomba the ginzo came along and grabbed your shit, and said you could only get it back if you paid him $200, he could be arrested for extortion. If he went around doing this to a whole bunch of people, he'd be looking at racketeering. There are only two justifiable reasons to tow, and they are:
If a vehicle is interfering with the flow of pedestrian or vehicular traffic - it needs to be removed.
If a vehicle is abandoned - it needs to be removed.
The Hobbs Act defines "extortion" as "the obtaining of property from another, with his consent, induced by wrongful use of actual or threatened force, violence, or fear, or under color of official right."
Traffic Enforcement is just how the government euphemistically describes one of it's many extortion rackets.
Power to the People.
Last Friday a coworker asked if I would be in on Monday, as there was a consultant coming in and if I would be available for meetings. So I had a look at the vacation time I requested a while back (never heard a confirmation from my boss), and discovered I had this whole week off. So, I decided to head on up to the state capitol, Albany to do some legal research.
A few years ago New York State instituted a new law wherein they're able to impose a second fine for traffic infractions under a specific set of circumstances, which are very easy to trigger. Known as the Driver Responsibility Assessment, it was passed in late 2004 as part of a budget bill, ostensibly as a way to generate more revenue. It's a bullshit law, and I've been meaning to start up a PAC specifically to lobby for it's repeal. But I needed more information. I wanted to find out who drafted and sponsored this bill, who voted for it, and how much money the state is collecting from the citizenship as a result of this.
Having 2 years intimate experience with a state institution (SUNY Buffalo), and the machinations a person has to go through to get the simplest things done, I fully expect this trip to be an exercise in futility. I'm sure the civil servants of New York State will be working their hardest at what they do best, which is being the most difficult and uncooperative SOB curmudgeons they can be. Under the pretense of serving the public interest, the primary motivation of Public Officials is to do as little work as possible, and get you out of their face as fast as they can. This means the run-around, feigning ignorance, and downright incivility.
I've lined up a place to crash off couchsurfing up in Troy (5 miles northeast of central Albany) with this dude who seems alright. Lets see how it goes.
A few years ago New York State instituted a new law wherein they're able to impose a second fine for traffic infractions under a specific set of circumstances, which are very easy to trigger. Known as the Driver Responsibility Assessment, it was passed in late 2004 as part of a budget bill, ostensibly as a way to generate more revenue. It's a bullshit law, and I've been meaning to start up a PAC specifically to lobby for it's repeal. But I needed more information. I wanted to find out who drafted and sponsored this bill, who voted for it, and how much money the state is collecting from the citizenship as a result of this.
Having 2 years intimate experience with a state institution (SUNY Buffalo), and the machinations a person has to go through to get the simplest things done, I fully expect this trip to be an exercise in futility. I'm sure the civil servants of New York State will be working their hardest at what they do best, which is being the most difficult and uncooperative SOB curmudgeons they can be. Under the pretense of serving the public interest, the primary motivation of Public Officials is to do as little work as possible, and get you out of their face as fast as they can. This means the run-around, feigning ignorance, and downright incivility.
I've lined up a place to crash off couchsurfing up in Troy (5 miles northeast of central Albany) with this dude who seems alright. Lets see how it goes.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Couchsurfing
A couple years ago, I was planning a cross country motorcycle trip, and I arranged for a place to stay in every city I was planning on visitng through Craigslist. The ads offered a place to stay at my place here in NYC, if they put me up at their place when I was in town. Unfortunately, I crashed that bike on the Long Island Expressway coming home from a weekend in Montauk, so I didn't get to go. About a year ago I was thinking how great it would be if there was a website where people could exchange a crashpads while traveling. That's how I discovered Couchsurfing.com.
I've got next week off, and I've decided to go up to Albany for some political activism. I've lined up a place to crash off couchsurfing.com. Lets see how it goes.
I've got next week off, and I've decided to go up to Albany for some political activism. I've lined up a place to crash off couchsurfing.com. Lets see how it goes.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Vendetta Off.
I'm sitting there in the barber's chair; mop of shaggy hair freshly shampooed and conditioned. Sal the barber takes up position- shears at the ready, just about to begin the arduous task of taming this unruly mess before him when... my phone rings. I hate being one of those douches who whips out their cellphone at the worst possible moment, but I did have to take this call. It's building security.
According to the head of security for my office, the building had nothing to do with my bike getting towed, and the cops took another bike just down the block. Now, I'm
speaking to him on the phone, so I can't look for the nonverbal pantomimes that give away a lie (Thank you Quentin Tarantino via Dennis Hopper), and I'm not good enough to tell from vocal inflection, so I guess I'll have to take his word on this one.
OK, so maybe the cops decided to get on out there, and grab every bike on this one street yesterday, but why now? Late October, on a rainy day? Why not the middle of July, in the height of bike season, when there's tons of bikes around? I guess I'm gonna hafta just let this one go. My coworkers are telling me that $185 for a few years of parking is a good deal. That's a good way to make some lemonade out of it.
Life is tough here in the Big Apple, and you got to be tough to get by. I'm not hurting anybody, and I never do anything that would endanger anyone besides myself. My chosen form of transportation does not contribute to traffic or parking congestion, gets vastly superior gas mileage, & wears out the roads at a minimum of 1/7 the rate of a typical car. Yet I have never taken so much heat as I have since I switched from a car to a bike. And I used to drive around like a maniac in a black '97 Trans-Am!
Having to take lumps from The Man all the time for no reason is bullshit. Any conjecture that bikers bring it on themselves is naive, simple and narrow-minded. The cops are specifically ordered to target motorcyclists. That's a fact I've had confirmed by every police officer I've asked (half a dozen). They can be remarkably candid here in NY.
According to the head of security for my office, the building had nothing to do with my bike getting towed, and the cops took another bike just down the block. Now, I'm
speaking to him on the phone, so I can't look for the nonverbal pantomimes that give away a lie (Thank you Quentin Tarantino via Dennis Hopper), and I'm not good enough to tell from vocal inflection, so I guess I'll have to take his word on this one.OK, so maybe the cops decided to get on out there, and grab every bike on this one street yesterday, but why now? Late October, on a rainy day? Why not the middle of July, in the height of bike season, when there's tons of bikes around? I guess I'm gonna hafta just let this one go. My coworkers are telling me that $185 for a few years of parking is a good deal. That's a good way to make some lemonade out of it.
Life is tough here in the Big Apple, and you got to be tough to get by. I'm not hurting anybody, and I never do anything that would endanger anyone besides myself. My chosen form of transportation does not contribute to traffic or parking congestion, gets vastly superior gas mileage, & wears out the roads at a minimum of 1/7 the rate of a typical car. Yet I have never taken so much heat as I have since I switched from a car to a bike. And I used to drive around like a maniac in a black '97 Trans-Am!
Having to take lumps from The Man all the time for no reason is bullshit. Any conjecture that bikers bring it on themselves is naive, simple and narrow-minded. The cops are specifically ordered to target motorcyclists. That's a fact I've had confirmed by every police officer I've asked (half a dozen). They can be remarkably candid here in NY.
Vendetta On.
After work yesterday, I took a walk on down to chelsea to get my bike out of the impound at pier 76. Quite displeased at having to lay out $185 of my hard earned money just to get my bike back. Yeah, it was parked on the sidewalk, yeah your not supposed to do that, but it wasn't bothering anybody, wasn't blocking the sidewalk or the entrances to any businesses. It was a victimless crime, with an impact so minimal as to be insignificant. So why would they come and cut my chain (which cost over $100) and take my bike? Somebody must have called in and complained.
Despite my offer of $100 cash and a lapdance at the hustler club, the guy who escorted me to get the registration out of my bike declined to let me ride away. I told the clerks that I'm an Ecological Superhero doing battle with the forces of Global Warming, but it didn't matter. It still took them an hour to process the paperwork and I still had to pay the full fine. While I'm standing there, I see another dude with a bike helmet, so I strike up a conversation. Turns out, his bike got towed off the same street, albeit a few avenues over. When I finally got it back, I went to speak to the pound supervisor to find out who I should sue for the damage to my bike. I showed him one of the cut chain links (the chain was still hanging off the bike, locked up to the frame) and asked if the NYC tow trucks had the necessary equipment to cut a chain of this type. he said no way, the police had to call it in. Off to the Midtown North precinct I flew.
I initially went to file a police report for destruction of personal property. My exchange with the secretary went a little something like this:
PO'ed Secretary: What time did you park the vehicle?
NYC Biker: 9 am.
PO'ed Secretary: What time did you notice the chain had been cut?
NYC Biker: 1:30 pm. But, the bike was still there, and the chain was still intact when I went down for a cigarette at 10:30 am.
PO'ed Secretary: But the incident occurred between the hours of 9 am and 1:30 pm?
NYC Biker: The incident occured between the hours of 10:30 am and 1:30 pm. I went down there to smoke a butt and everything was still fin...
PO'ed Secretary: (Rudely interrupting) The incident occurred between the hours of 9 am and 1:30 pm, is that correct?
NYC Biker: (Annoyed) More specifically, the incident occurred between the hours of 10:30 am and 1:30 pm.
PO'ed Secretary: Did the incident occur between the hours of 9 am and 1:30 pm?
NYC Biker: Yes, the incident did occur between those hours.
I don't know what it is about me that makes these civil servants , who always seem to be black and surly and female and middle aged, even more blacker and more surlier. But they are some of the most frustrating people to deal with. Worst attitudes. Anyhoo, when I tell her my bike got towed - it is a felony to file a false police report, and I know that one would come back to bite me in the ass real hard, she goes over and tells the lieutenant what's up.
Lieutenant turns out to be a decent guy, and spends some time explaining the whole process. I show him the link, and he tells me they would have had to call the Emergency Services Unit in to cut a chain like this, because only they've got the gigantic, gas powered rotary
saw that can cut this type of chain. When I ask if this team just drives around the city cutting bike chains, he says no, it would have had to be called in special.
I leave with the impression that some uptight douche called and requested the bike be removed.
Vendetta on.
Despite my offer of $100 cash and a lapdance at the hustler club, the guy who escorted me to get the registration out of my bike declined to let me ride away. I told the clerks that I'm an Ecological Superhero doing battle with the forces of Global Warming, but it didn't matter. It still took them an hour to process the paperwork and I still had to pay the full fine. While I'm standing there, I see another dude with a bike helmet, so I strike up a conversation. Turns out, his bike got towed off the same street, albeit a few avenues over. When I finally got it back, I went to speak to the pound supervisor to find out who I should sue for the damage to my bike. I showed him one of the cut chain links (the chain was still hanging off the bike, locked up to the frame) and asked if the NYC tow trucks had the necessary equipment to cut a chain of this type. he said no way, the police had to call it in. Off to the Midtown North precinct I flew.
I initially went to file a police report for destruction of personal property. My exchange with the secretary went a little something like this:
PO'ed Secretary: What time did you park the vehicle?
NYC Biker: 9 am.
PO'ed Secretary: What time did you notice the chain had been cut?
NYC Biker: 1:30 pm. But, the bike was still there, and the chain was still intact when I went down for a cigarette at 10:30 am.
PO'ed Secretary: But the incident occurred between the hours of 9 am and 1:30 pm?
NYC Biker: The incident occured between the hours of 10:30 am and 1:30 pm. I went down there to smoke a butt and everything was still fin...
PO'ed Secretary: (Rudely interrupting) The incident occurred between the hours of 9 am and 1:30 pm, is that correct?
NYC Biker: (Annoyed) More specifically, the incident occurred between the hours of 10:30 am and 1:30 pm.
PO'ed Secretary: Did the incident occur between the hours of 9 am and 1:30 pm?
NYC Biker: Yes, the incident did occur between those hours.
I don't know what it is about me that makes these civil servants , who always seem to be black and surly and female and middle aged, even more blacker and more surlier. But they are some of the most frustrating people to deal with. Worst attitudes. Anyhoo, when I tell her my bike got towed - it is a felony to file a false police report, and I know that one would come back to bite me in the ass real hard, she goes over and tells the lieutenant what's up.
Lieutenant turns out to be a decent guy, and spends some time explaining the whole process. I show him the link, and he tells me they would have had to call the Emergency Services Unit in to cut a chain like this, because only they've got the gigantic, gas powered rotary
saw that can cut this type of chain. When I ask if this team just drives around the city cutting bike chains, he says no, it would have had to be called in special.
I leave with the impression that some uptight douche called and requested the bike be removed.
Vendetta on.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
My bike got towed today.
At 1:30 this afternoon, I was coming back to work, and took a swing around the block to have a look at my baby; my pride and joy, my sun, my moon, my guiding star, but she was gone. The lamp post to which I had chained her every working day for the last 4 years was missing not
only my motorcycle, but also the super-duper, industrial strength, highest grade steel, mega chain used to secure my wonderfulness, and keep her safe from the clutches of the evil, scum-sucking bike thieves prowling the streets of this city. And the chain had worked, until today.
The messed up part about all this is that I had just been down there on the sidewalk at 10:30, and noticed an NYPD tow truck idling down the block. I even said to Bruce the maintenance guy, that I hoped the truck wasn't there for my bike. But it was. And he was waiting for the emergency services unit to get there with the gigantic, gas powered circular saw to cut my super chain. I had approximately 4 hours to ponder who would have requested my bike be towed.
There was that POS new head of security at the building across the street. He gave me some shit about the bike on the sideway, but it was worked out when I pointed out that the bike across the street had no effect on him or his job.
Maybe the head of security for my building called it in. I got his number from the front desk and left a voicemail.
Maybe it was the manager of the clothing store on the first floor. Can't imagine why he would care though, the bike is parked in such a way that it doesn't impede the sideway, and is nowhere near the entrance to any business or establishment.
Let me think and see if there was anybody I might have offended, inadvertently of course.
I'm going to figure this one out. It's a vendetta, I must have my revenge.
Whoever did this must be made to...
Suck.
My.
Balls.
only my motorcycle, but also the super-duper, industrial strength, highest grade steel, mega chain used to secure my wonderfulness, and keep her safe from the clutches of the evil, scum-sucking bike thieves prowling the streets of this city. And the chain had worked, until today.The messed up part about all this is that I had just been down there on the sidewalk at 10:30, and noticed an NYPD tow truck idling down the block. I even said to Bruce the maintenance guy, that I hoped the truck wasn't there for my bike. But it was. And he was waiting for the emergency services unit to get there with the gigantic, gas powered circular saw to cut my super chain. I had approximately 4 hours to ponder who would have requested my bike be towed.
There was that POS new head of security at the building across the street. He gave me some shit about the bike on the sideway, but it was worked out when I pointed out that the bike across the street had no effect on him or his job.
Maybe the head of security for my building called it in. I got his number from the front desk and left a voicemail.
Maybe it was the manager of the clothing store on the first floor. Can't imagine why he would care though, the bike is parked in such a way that it doesn't impede the sideway, and is nowhere near the entrance to any business or establishment.
Let me think and see if there was anybody I might have offended, inadvertently of course.
I'm going to figure this one out. It's a vendetta, I must have my revenge.
Whoever did this must be made to...
Suck.
My.
Balls.
Monday, October 22, 2007
I'm looking to get my first motorcycle, what kind should I get?
I've been spending some time on the Yahoo answers board, answering motorcycle related questions. One question I've noticed keeps coming up, and that's "What kind of motorcycle should I get for my first one?"
Short answer:
A 1984 Honda CB750
Long answer:
You should go and get yourself an early 80's Jap bike of between 500 and 800 cc's.
and here's why:
1) They're cheap. There are TONS of these bikes around and you can get a decent one for $500. You don't want to spend alot of money on your first bike, because it's your first bike. You're going to drop it. Probably a few times. You might even crash it. Imagine how pissed you're gonna be when you find out replacement plastics for that Ducati 1098 lying in your driveway are going to cost you $2,000. With the money you save on the initial purchase price, you can go get yourself some proper kit (jacket, boots, gloves, helmet), a 150 piece toolbox from Sears and a shop manual for your bike. All of which (including the bike) are availabe on ebay for cheap, by the way.
2) They're reliable. And that's what you want. You want to RIDE a motorcycle. Not work on it. Those jap bikes from the 80's are like most Japanese things from the 80's. They're so well made, people get tired of them before they break. My dad's still got a Sony Trinitron from the 80's that works great. He'd probably like a new plasma, but he's too practical to relace something that's in perfectly good working conditon. Jap bikes are the same. They were/are so well made, they'll run forever if properly maintained. What's that? You've seen some hipster rocking around town on a '69 Triumph Bonneville, and think it looks so cool? Yeah it looks cool, but you (or your mechanic) will spend more time working on that bike then you will riding it. I've got a buddy who just bought a 2006 Moto Guzzi back in July. Against my strongest protestations. I told him to get a Honda, but he went for it. The bike's been in the shop 10 times already. In 3 months!
3) They're easy to work on. Those Japanese have an extremely rational culture. The bikes that come from the land of the rising sun have had a little more thought put into their design, and it shows. You can tell they thought through and planned for maintenance. European bikes can be a puzzling maze of emotion and idiosycronisity (Yes I realize that that word doesn't exist. I've created a malapropistic neologism, so fuck you).
But I thought you just said Japanese bikes are more reliable, and that I didn't want to work on it! What gives mister? Well, little Billy, I'll tell you. All machines require maintenance to keep them going. You can either pay someone to do the maintenance for you, or you can learn how to do it yourself. Which one sounds more in the true spirit of motorcycling? There may also come a
time when you'll HAVE to get that bike running yourself. You'll be out on a lonely country road dozens of miles from the nearest town. You haven't seen a car for hours. The battery in your cellphone will be dead, or there'll be no signal (most likely the former). The sun will be rapidly setting, and you'll hear hungry wolves howling in the distance. The bike will be dead, and you'll be left with a 2 choices: sit there and cry, or get the damn thing going. Will you know enough to check the reserve tank? The fusebox? Will you have spares? Will you know how to get the bike started after you've drained the battery cranking the starter for 20 minutes straight?
Most likely, you'll get a flat tire somewhere. Somewhere where there isn't a motorcycle shop. But there will be auto garages. Lots of them. But despite your most earnest protestations and begging and pleading and pledging your first born, they will all refuse to repair your tire. Every single last one of them. Even though they have the equipment and tools, and material and half their employees are having a farting contest. Do you know how to fix it? Will you have the plugs, so you can limp back to your shop?
4) You will learn alot about motorcycles. And cars for that matter. The underlying technology on a motorcycle is exactly the same as on cars. With a cheap old japanese bike, working on it won't be as intimidating as on a $25,000 Harley. If you fuck it up, so what? The damn thing only cost $500. But you won't fuck it up. Over time, you'll see how easy lubing and adjusting chain tension, changing the oil, filters, brake pads, fork seals, spark plugs, adjusting the valve clearences are. You will derive a sense of satisfaction from the work, feel great about saving the money, and build competence & confidence in your mechanical prowess. You'll be suprised how easy it is. You'll learn all about what everything does, and how all the components are interrelated. Knowledge is power they say, and in this case it's power over yourself. So you won't be dependent on some bigoted redneck out in the sticks to fix your tire. Ever hear anyone say something about motorcycles and freedom? If you can't take care of your own, you're just another punter.
5) You will learn what kind of biker you are. When you get the motorcycle bug, you get excited by every bike you see. You find yourself staring longingly at a shiney cruiser on the street, or your head snaps every time you hear a sportbike fly by. Starting with a standard motorcycle, you'll find out what you like about it.
You might get off on the adrenaline of a well executed run through some twisties, want to go faster and challenge yourself. You're a sportbike rider.
Maybe you like to just cruise around enjoying the scenery. You're a cruiser.
Maybe the standard you've got is just fine. Awesome. You're all set.
In the highly unlikely event that you don't even like it, well, you only spent $500, so no biggie!
Short answer:
A 1984 Honda CB750
Long answer:
You should go and get yourself an early 80's Jap bike of between 500 and 800 cc's.
and here's why:
1) They're cheap. There are TONS of these bikes around and you can get a decent one for $500. You don't want to spend alot of money on your first bike, because it's your first bike. You're going to drop it. Probably a few times. You might even crash it. Imagine how pissed you're gonna be when you find out replacement plastics for that Ducati 1098 lying in your driveway are going to cost you $2,000. With the money you save on the initial purchase price, you can go get yourself some proper kit (jacket, boots, gloves, helmet), a 150 piece toolbox from Sears and a shop manual for your bike. All of which (including the bike) are availabe on ebay for cheap, by the way.
2) They're reliable. And that's what you want. You want to RIDE a motorcycle. Not work on it. Those jap bikes from the 80's are like most Japanese things from the 80's. They're so well made, people get tired of them before they break. My dad's still got a Sony Trinitron from the 80's that works great. He'd probably like a new plasma, but he's too practical to relace something that's in perfectly good working conditon. Jap bikes are the same. They were/are so well made, they'll run forever if properly maintained. What's that? You've seen some hipster rocking around town on a '69 Triumph Bonneville, and think it looks so cool? Yeah it looks cool, but you (or your mechanic) will spend more time working on that bike then you will riding it. I've got a buddy who just bought a 2006 Moto Guzzi back in July. Against my strongest protestations. I told him to get a Honda, but he went for it. The bike's been in the shop 10 times already. In 3 months!
3) They're easy to work on. Those Japanese have an extremely rational culture. The bikes that come from the land of the rising sun have had a little more thought put into their design, and it shows. You can tell they thought through and planned for maintenance. European bikes can be a puzzling maze of emotion and idiosycronisity (Yes I realize that that word doesn't exist. I've created a malapropistic neologism, so fuck you).
But I thought you just said Japanese bikes are more reliable, and that I didn't want to work on it! What gives mister? Well, little Billy, I'll tell you. All machines require maintenance to keep them going. You can either pay someone to do the maintenance for you, or you can learn how to do it yourself. Which one sounds more in the true spirit of motorcycling? There may also come a
time when you'll HAVE to get that bike running yourself. You'll be out on a lonely country road dozens of miles from the nearest town. You haven't seen a car for hours. The battery in your cellphone will be dead, or there'll be no signal (most likely the former). The sun will be rapidly setting, and you'll hear hungry wolves howling in the distance. The bike will be dead, and you'll be left with a 2 choices: sit there and cry, or get the damn thing going. Will you know enough to check the reserve tank? The fusebox? Will you have spares? Will you know how to get the bike started after you've drained the battery cranking the starter for 20 minutes straight?Most likely, you'll get a flat tire somewhere. Somewhere where there isn't a motorcycle shop. But there will be auto garages. Lots of them. But despite your most earnest protestations and begging and pleading and pledging your first born, they will all refuse to repair your tire. Every single last one of them. Even though they have the equipment and tools, and material and half their employees are having a farting contest. Do you know how to fix it? Will you have the plugs, so you can limp back to your shop?
4) You will learn alot about motorcycles. And cars for that matter. The underlying technology on a motorcycle is exactly the same as on cars. With a cheap old japanese bike, working on it won't be as intimidating as on a $25,000 Harley. If you fuck it up, so what? The damn thing only cost $500. But you won't fuck it up. Over time, you'll see how easy lubing and adjusting chain tension, changing the oil, filters, brake pads, fork seals, spark plugs, adjusting the valve clearences are. You will derive a sense of satisfaction from the work, feel great about saving the money, and build competence & confidence in your mechanical prowess. You'll be suprised how easy it is. You'll learn all about what everything does, and how all the components are interrelated. Knowledge is power they say, and in this case it's power over yourself. So you won't be dependent on some bigoted redneck out in the sticks to fix your tire. Ever hear anyone say something about motorcycles and freedom? If you can't take care of your own, you're just another punter.
5) You will learn what kind of biker you are. When you get the motorcycle bug, you get excited by every bike you see. You find yourself staring longingly at a shiney cruiser on the street, or your head snaps every time you hear a sportbike fly by. Starting with a standard motorcycle, you'll find out what you like about it.
You might get off on the adrenaline of a well executed run through some twisties, want to go faster and challenge yourself. You're a sportbike rider.
Maybe you like to just cruise around enjoying the scenery. You're a cruiser.
Maybe the standard you've got is just fine. Awesome. You're all set.
In the highly unlikely event that you don't even like it, well, you only spent $500, so no biggie!
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
How to live out your childhood knight fantasies, without coming off as a nerdlinger.
Cruising down the Astoria Blvd service road to the Grand Central Parkway tonight on my way back home from Long Island, it struck me how the accoutrements of the contemporary biker are very similar to those of the medieval knight. We wear helmets with visors, heavy leather jackets, gloves and boots as armor, we participate in an activity
considered extremely dangerous by the vast majority of the populace, we have specialized games to demonstrate our machismo and virility, and of course, our method of transportation is the modern equivalent of a horse. Once in a while, we can get into fights. But that's not the primary purpose of this activity.
As I'm riding down the street I looked around, and I noticed my jacket was black leather (albeit with an orange and white stripe across the chest), my helmet was black, and a good percentage of my bike is black. That's when I was reminded of the black knight, a minor character in Arthurian legend, but one that resonated with me when I first heard the story of King Arthur as a kid (watch Disney's The Sword in the Stone, he makes a very small appearance, trying to yank Excalibur out).
So, then I went and looked up Black Knight on the repository of all human knowledge, Wikipedia. And here's what it says:
A black knight is a soldier or knight who either is not bound to a specific liege or does not want his liege, or himself, to be identified and so does not bear any heraldic standards or has blackened them out.
How appropriate, and surely more then just a passing coincidence that the figure with whom I most identified as a kid in King Arthur is an independent, free agent.
I think most boys dream about being a cowboy, or a knight at one point growing up. Unless you're in the Southwest, living out that Cowboy one is a bit tricky. It hasn't been fashionable to wear cowboy boots in public for about 30 years now. And unless you want to get labeled as one of those medieval festival freakshows, you best be leaving that suit of armor at home.
Get yourself a bike though, and you can actually live it, as opposed to playing dress up.
considered extremely dangerous by the vast majority of the populace, we have specialized games to demonstrate our machismo and virility, and of course, our method of transportation is the modern equivalent of a horse. Once in a while, we can get into fights. But that's not the primary purpose of this activity.As I'm riding down the street I looked around, and I noticed my jacket was black leather (albeit with an orange and white stripe across the chest), my helmet was black, and a good percentage of my bike is black. That's when I was reminded of the black knight, a minor character in Arthurian legend, but one that resonated with me when I first heard the story of King Arthur as a kid (watch Disney's The Sword in the Stone, he makes a very small appearance, trying to yank Excalibur out).
So, then I went and looked up Black Knight on the repository of all human knowledge, Wikipedia. And here's what it says:
A black knight is a soldier or knight who either is not bound to a specific liege or does not want his liege, or himself, to be identified and so does not bear any heraldic standards or has blackened them out.
How appropriate, and surely more then just a passing coincidence that the figure with whom I most identified as a kid in King Arthur is an independent, free agent.
I think most boys dream about being a cowboy, or a knight at one point growing up. Unless you're in the Southwest, living out that Cowboy one is a bit tricky. It hasn't been fashionable to wear cowboy boots in public for about 30 years now. And unless you want to get labeled as one of those medieval festival freakshows, you best be leaving that suit of armor at home.
Get yourself a bike though, and you can actually live it, as opposed to playing dress up.
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