hppants
Well-known member
On Christmas Eve, I woke up to blue skies. It was relatively cool (mid 40’s), but the stiff north wind made it feel colder. Still, with nothing on the agenda until later in the evening, I decided to take a ride. I packed a leftover BBQ chicken thigh and a pork chop, along with a Satsuma and a bottle of water. Past that, there were no plans. I decided to see where my imagination would take me. I had no idea how that would actually play out.
With the FJR warming up as I backed out of my shop, I clipped my right mirror on a post. In an instant, I knew that I broke the mirror tab on my front frame piece. I knew this because the mirror was “loose” at its mounting point, a tell-tale sign of a known weak point on the FJR. I also knew what’s involved in an “oops” of this nature. Whether repairing or replacing the damaged piece, it must be removed. To do that requires a complete disassembly of the entire front clip of the motorcycle.
That “one hit” on the post turned out to be quite a “wonder”.
Sitting on the bike in the driveway, I was pissed off at myself. I knew what I had done and I couldn’t take it back. A younger Pants would have pulled back in the shop, called the ride off, and stomped back into the house, terrorizing anything and anyone in my path. A younger Pants would have instantly started a full scale Pity Party, complete with a blaming session on anything but myself, including inanimate objects as the situation warranted (“that stupid Post – how could it be in the way?”). It could have gotten much worst – with the right encouragement, a younger Pants might have taken his party to the next level, the kind that includes things like hammers, axes and hatchets – you get the idea.
But I’m not a younger Pants anymore. As the testosterone levels off, so has the attitude. The world is a huge place, and I’m not nearly as big as I used to be. Despite my best efforts, I can’t control a lot of what happens and I never could anyhow. There are some things in life that will just occur regardless of what I think. When those things surface, I really have just 2 choices: I can pitch a fit and sit in the corner and suck my thumb, or I can take a deep breath, rejoice in the blessing that no one is hurt (hopefully as is the case), and move forward in the matter. The revelation comes in the fact that regardless of which choice I pick, the end result is exactly the same. The energy spent in the fit is completely useless. However, when I choose “deep breath”, the experience is far more easy for me and those around me.
So on Christmas Eve in the driveway, I took a deep breath. I exhaled slow and miraculously, the tingle in my fingers went away. My head stopped itching. I looked over my left shoulder and in my imagination; I could see the street calling me. The song changed in my ear buds and This Must Be the Place by The Talking Heads started, with its catchy beat and intro. Instantly, I was at a more peaceful place.
I pulled the clutch, dropped the bike into gear, and took off.
Now, my new attitude is not fool proof. As I taxied out of the neighborhood, a flashback of the work ahead for my bike appeared. As I previously mentioned, that process is familiar to me. I was brought back instantly to my crash from a little more than 3 years ago, in which I replaced the same broken frame piece. At that time, I was 2 years into a return to motorcycling after an 18-ish year hiatus from riding, one that is certainly familiar to many of you.
In late 1990, while my wife was pregnant for our first child, I remember coming home from work one day. At the dinner table, an unplanned topic of conversation came up. My wife gave me the real truth about how a young expected couple needs both parents. A kid needs a dad – all of a dad – 100%. She minced no words about it – a kid needs a dad that can go to work every day and bring home the milk and diapers. We were already struggling a little; we could surely not afford a screw up. In an instant, I knew what she was talking about – the bike had to go. I agreed to sell it, which I did shortly thereafter.
Over the years, I was teased with the idea of returning to motorcycling. Occasionally, a bike would catch my eye and I’d start day dreaming. Perhaps a bike would pull up next to me at the red light. I would tune out the kids screaming, my wife talking (perhaps screaming), the radio, or whatever. I’d dream about where that rider was going. What adventure was he taking? Other situations like that would get me thinking. Every 4-5 years, I’d ask my wife if I could buy a bike. “How ‘bout now, Mom? Can I get a motorcycle?” The answer was never direct. My wife was far too smart for that. We’ve never had a declarative kind of relationship. No, she’d remind me about my responsibilities, about the kids, and about our needs. She would let me answer the question for myself. The proverbial light would turn green, and I’d continue down the safer path.
Then in 2009, I picked up a Quick Quarter, the local Buy/Sell/Trade rag. For some reason, I glanced through the motorcycle ads and my mind started wandering once again. It was a beautiful summer morning, a little warm but good riding weather. Over lunch, I told my wife about my readings and once again, asked rhetorically “Mom, how about now?” What happened next was unforeseen. She put her fork down, raised her head, and in a very matter-of-fact tone stated “Look me in the eye.” Unusually, she had my complete and undivided attention. “Are you going to be careful?”
I swallowed a lump of saliva. I paused to process her question. This is big -real big. This is a defining moment and the next thing that comes out of my mouth is incredibly important. As I inhaled, with all the courage I could muster, I answered.
“Yes Ma’am, I will.”
“OK then.” was all she replied.
Holy Shit – what just happened? Not giving her a chance to back slide through interpretation, I left it alone and changed the subject. I quickly gobbled the rest of my lunch and retired to the home office to study the Quick Quarter and plot my next move. That didn’t take long – later that day I called a guy about 5 miles away selling a mid-80’s Honda Nighthawk 700s for $1,500.00. I went over and immediately, I was taken back 19 years. The owner touched the starter and in an instant, the motor roared through the mac 4-1 header and I got goose bumps. Uncharacteristically, I gave him 15 Benjamins without question and rode it home.
That day, my world changed in every way possible. Over the next year, I made new lifelong friends. I discovered countless adventures that were previously sitting right in my own backyard, but I was too blind to see. I threw the bike in the back of my truck and brought it to the mountains twice. I discovered what real twisties are. I generated something to look forward to. I gave myself time to be with my thoughts. I got to know the guy under the helmet and thought much about him. I met other riders of all kinds. Tire kickers, squids, pirates, Iron Butters, commuters, dual sporters – every kind you can think of. I related better with some than others, but in all I saw the twinkle. That spark that only another rider can see and appreciate. You can’t describe it adequately in words. You can feel it, but only if you pay your dues and throw a leg over, if you dare.
The next year, the addiction grew. I sold the 700s and bought a ’96 Honda Nighthawk 750. This bike was more suited to longer day trips, which I was craving. In a year, I rode that bike almost 18,000 miles, none of it commuting to work. I took my first “driveway to driveway” multi-day tour on the bike. I went to the Texas Hill Country to ride with some friends I met of all places, on the Internet. It was spiritual and upon returning, I knew the kind of riding I wanted to do and wanted much more of it.
A friend introduced me to Sport Touring motorcycles. He rode a Honda ST1300 and I was completely blown away. Another friend let me ride an FJR1300 and that was it – I knew what my next bike would be. In August 2011, I got a call from my neighbor, also a rider. He knew I was ape shit over “some kind of crotch rocket bike, but I can’t remember the name.” He called to say he found one for sale and he thought it was the one. “It says FJR1300 on the side of it.” Holy crap – that’s the bike. I went over to look at it that afternoon and rode it. A 2005 model with only 5,000 miles on it, it was a veritable cream puff. His asking price of $7,995.00 was in the market range, but way over my budget. I walked away, but gave the seller my phone number.
The next day, the seller called me back and said he was getting desperate. In 3 months, I was the only person to even look at the bike and he wanted me to know that he would entertain any offer. So I warned him of the upcoming insult, and then told him I could pay $5,000.00 and no more. The silence on the other end was deafening. Apparently, my low ball offer slit his throat. Finally, he stated that he could not go that low, but would take $7,000.00. I knew that his counter offer was a fair price, but Pants pays cash for his toys and I just couldn’t swing it – I didn’t have that much money. I told him that I would pass and he reluctantly hung up the phone.
An hour later, my phone rang and it was the seller. As I looked at his number on my cell phone, I realized that I was about to steal the motorcycle of my dreams. I answered the phone and the seller started this diatribe about how his son needs money, he is getting ready to go off shore to work, and he has to sell this bike today. He asked me to meet him in the middle at $6,000.00. I told him that I was sorry to hear his story, but my only offer was my final offer. I told him that I had fifty 100 dollar bills in hand (at the bank), and if he’d accept, I could be over there in an hour. After a long pause, he caved and I was on my way.
I was ecstatic beyond words. Christmas in August! This was no Honda Nighthawk. This was a bonified litre bike. Excellent wind protection, hard luggage, shaft drive, smooth as silk. It has over the highway character, with sport riding characteristics. This was going to be my ticket to the next level of motorcycling. For the first weekend, I did not ride it. I joined an FJR forum and read every thread I could get my hands on. I read that website forward and backward, well into the night for several days after work. I learned about maintenance tips and decided to spend the first weekend getting my bike in tip top shape. It was like a rite of passage, spending quality shop time with my new friend. I took great care of her, checking all fasteners and fluid levels twice. Now she was mine, and we were ready to go.
On the second weekend, I planned a day trip on my new to me toy. I hardly slept the night before, I was so excited. It was August, and on the Gulf Coast, it’s hotter than a firecracker. I left the house a dawn and headed north. In full gear, I was sweating from the word go, but it didn’t matter. This bike was incredible. A little heavy at a stop light, but once you get to 20 mph, it loses 200 pounds. The power of this bike is ridiculous. Downshifting is not needed, just twist the wrist and she goes like a bat out of hell. The suspension is very good – I stop a few times and play with the dampening adjustments. A little tweak here and there makes a huge difference. I find a few known curvy roads and push her a little. No, I pushed her a lot. Effortlessly, she handles curves posted at 40mph at speeds twice that with room to spare. My riding is getting very aggressive as I pull into the town of Ville Platte. I’m giggling inside my helmet at my new toy. This is it – I’ve found the bike of my dreams and it might not get a whole lot better than this.
As I pulled out of Ville Platte, I was running up the gears pretty good. I wasn’t being a squid, but shifting at around 5K at about ¾ throttle, the needle on the big center gage was moving clockwise at a decent clip. As I glanced back at the single lane road, I spotted a truck stopped with no blinker on. I didn’t realize it at that instant, but he was waiting for on coming traffic and planning to turn left. In a ½ of a second, I was closing fast on him and committed a ridiculously stupid newbie mistake. I stomped on the rear brake and the tire locked up instantly. As this was happening on a gentle right hand curve, the rear end instantly swung to the left. Without thought, I counter steered and with the tire still locked, the rear end shifted hard to the right pointing the bike right at the truck. Simultaneously and by the grace of God, the truck was executing his turn as I began the inevitable low side across the intersection, crashing where the 6000 pound vehicle was stopped just a split instant before. As luck would have it, I let go of the bike just before my impact with the road. Thankfully, the bike would go its way, as I went another. My knees hit the belt sander first and I was able to come to a stop basically in a lying down sliding position.
In the middle of the road, I popped up immediately and although adrenaline was pumping, I knew I wasn’t hurt badly. I estimate that I hit the road at 30-ish mph. My jacket, gloves, and pants were rashed, but I had no abrasions on my skin. The bike had slid to the shoulder of the road. Several people stopped and asked me if I was OK, including the pickup truck driver, who happened to be an off duty fireman. He helped me pick up the bike and I stood there on the shoulder for about 10 minutes and calmed down. Thereafter, I realized that I could ride the bike home, and decided to do so.
It was the most mentally agonizing 35 miles of my life. I was distraught with grief. I rode like an idiot. I got caught up in the immense power of this new bike. I had no idea that the FJR’s brakes would be that effective. I had no idea how to handle an emergency situation on such a different machine. I knew the original tires on the bike were 6 years old and hard as rocks, yet I chose to run them anyway and they made me pay.
More importantly, I lied to my wife. I told her that I would be careful and I flat out lied. We had talked about the real possibility that despite my most careful ways of riding with all the gear and the MSF course and everything, a car could pull out right in front of me and take me out. But no – that didn’t’ happen. What happened is that Pants got distracted staring at his speedo, then got target fixed on the truck, then stomped on the wrong brake, then over reacted when the bike did something unexpected, then crashed and burned and was damm lucky not to be in a body bag for his stupidity. I wrecked my dream bike and I have only myself to blame.
I got home and went straight inside. I took one look at my daughter and broke out into tears like a shameful, scared, and deranged lunatic. My wife consoled me and in her usual clear headed way, calmed me down. My mental wheels spun all afternoon and into the night. I was done with riding. If I can’t be safe, I don’t deserve to ride. I was going to bubble gum the bike together, get rid of it, and close this chapter of my life. Fantasy football, here I come.
Over the next weeks, I started re-thinking things. My wife was very encouraging about the idea of returning to riding. I wrote down some thoughts and she knew how passionate I had become about riding. I went back to the scene of my crash and played through my mistakes very methodically. I got a lot of help from Ebay and the FJR forum and was able to fix the bike relatively inexpensively. My good riding friend Loki came over and encouraged me to get back on the horse. We took it very easy as I was kind of scared. But we had a fantastic ride and by the time I got home, I knew that I would keep the FJR and keep riding. My wife was not at all surprised by my decision.
For the 3 years and 50,000 miles that followed, what happened can only be described as incredible. Another riding friend introduced me to motorcycle camping. I’ve ridden mountains, plains, river banks, hills, and beaches – 14 states worth. I’ve hiked trails and bathed in lakes. I’ve read road side signs and detoured based on bill boards. I’ve ridden over a week with absolutely no plan or agenda. I’ve smelled the world. I’ve listened to people tell me their history. I’ve gotten out of the box that is my life.
I’ve made more wonderful friends through riding, and we’ve shared some fantastic journeys together. Some of these journeys were only a few miles, some thousands. Some hours long, some weeks. Each has its own place in my memory, each has given me much more than I could have ever imagined. I’ve had wonderful fire side conversations with these people and learned about who I am and what I want to be. I’ve eaten meals from hole in the wall joints that would please royalty. I’ve discovered and re-discovered what’s really beyond that next curve. And the one after that.
I’ve taken thousands of pictures of my rides. I’ve written about my adventures and others find my stories to be interesting. My mother and father, who clearly do not approve of my riding but accept it as my choice, love reading my ride reports and peeking into another part of my life. It hasn’t changed their opinion of the bike, but they now understand why I do it.
My wife has decided to join me on some rides, and this gives me great joy of our intimate time together on the bike. She’s not into riding as much as I am, but she enjoys the journey as much as the destination. My nephew has recently gotten into riding, and I’ve been blessed that he chose to ask me to mentor him through the process. The joy I’ve received in watching Jacob experience the early pleasures of riding is very rewarding.
Believe it or not, I thought about all of this during my Christmas Eve ride. I ended up riding to the coastal marsh in an area where I often chase redfish. I stopped at a nameless canal bridge on the side of the road to eat my left over BBQ. I used my bike as a wind break while I hung my feet over the edge of the bridge and looked onto the water. My mind wandered through my past adventures. I thought about how patient and supportive my wife has been throughout our 27 years together, and it humbled me. I thought about how our two kids have turned into these amazing young adults, and it made me proud. I thought about my dumb ass move that morning – my broken bike mirror. I thought about my relatively new attitude about life – my “go with the flow” philosophy, and this was comforting and enabling to me. After all, it got me to where I was at that time, quite literally.
But I also wondered a lot. I wondered what journeys are ahead for me and my motorcycle? Where will we go in 2015, 2020, and even farther ahead? What will I learn about myself and others?
Who knows the answers to those questions. I’ll just have to wait and find out. I’m Ok with that – the world is a good place indeed and I’m thankful to be part of it.
On Christmas Eve I had a One Hit Wonder. And it was magical.
With the FJR warming up as I backed out of my shop, I clipped my right mirror on a post. In an instant, I knew that I broke the mirror tab on my front frame piece. I knew this because the mirror was “loose” at its mounting point, a tell-tale sign of a known weak point on the FJR. I also knew what’s involved in an “oops” of this nature. Whether repairing or replacing the damaged piece, it must be removed. To do that requires a complete disassembly of the entire front clip of the motorcycle.
That “one hit” on the post turned out to be quite a “wonder”.
Sitting on the bike in the driveway, I was pissed off at myself. I knew what I had done and I couldn’t take it back. A younger Pants would have pulled back in the shop, called the ride off, and stomped back into the house, terrorizing anything and anyone in my path. A younger Pants would have instantly started a full scale Pity Party, complete with a blaming session on anything but myself, including inanimate objects as the situation warranted (“that stupid Post – how could it be in the way?”). It could have gotten much worst – with the right encouragement, a younger Pants might have taken his party to the next level, the kind that includes things like hammers, axes and hatchets – you get the idea.
But I’m not a younger Pants anymore. As the testosterone levels off, so has the attitude. The world is a huge place, and I’m not nearly as big as I used to be. Despite my best efforts, I can’t control a lot of what happens and I never could anyhow. There are some things in life that will just occur regardless of what I think. When those things surface, I really have just 2 choices: I can pitch a fit and sit in the corner and suck my thumb, or I can take a deep breath, rejoice in the blessing that no one is hurt (hopefully as is the case), and move forward in the matter. The revelation comes in the fact that regardless of which choice I pick, the end result is exactly the same. The energy spent in the fit is completely useless. However, when I choose “deep breath”, the experience is far more easy for me and those around me.
So on Christmas Eve in the driveway, I took a deep breath. I exhaled slow and miraculously, the tingle in my fingers went away. My head stopped itching. I looked over my left shoulder and in my imagination; I could see the street calling me. The song changed in my ear buds and This Must Be the Place by The Talking Heads started, with its catchy beat and intro. Instantly, I was at a more peaceful place.
I pulled the clutch, dropped the bike into gear, and took off.
Now, my new attitude is not fool proof. As I taxied out of the neighborhood, a flashback of the work ahead for my bike appeared. As I previously mentioned, that process is familiar to me. I was brought back instantly to my crash from a little more than 3 years ago, in which I replaced the same broken frame piece. At that time, I was 2 years into a return to motorcycling after an 18-ish year hiatus from riding, one that is certainly familiar to many of you.
In late 1990, while my wife was pregnant for our first child, I remember coming home from work one day. At the dinner table, an unplanned topic of conversation came up. My wife gave me the real truth about how a young expected couple needs both parents. A kid needs a dad – all of a dad – 100%. She minced no words about it – a kid needs a dad that can go to work every day and bring home the milk and diapers. We were already struggling a little; we could surely not afford a screw up. In an instant, I knew what she was talking about – the bike had to go. I agreed to sell it, which I did shortly thereafter.
Over the years, I was teased with the idea of returning to motorcycling. Occasionally, a bike would catch my eye and I’d start day dreaming. Perhaps a bike would pull up next to me at the red light. I would tune out the kids screaming, my wife talking (perhaps screaming), the radio, or whatever. I’d dream about where that rider was going. What adventure was he taking? Other situations like that would get me thinking. Every 4-5 years, I’d ask my wife if I could buy a bike. “How ‘bout now, Mom? Can I get a motorcycle?” The answer was never direct. My wife was far too smart for that. We’ve never had a declarative kind of relationship. No, she’d remind me about my responsibilities, about the kids, and about our needs. She would let me answer the question for myself. The proverbial light would turn green, and I’d continue down the safer path.
Then in 2009, I picked up a Quick Quarter, the local Buy/Sell/Trade rag. For some reason, I glanced through the motorcycle ads and my mind started wandering once again. It was a beautiful summer morning, a little warm but good riding weather. Over lunch, I told my wife about my readings and once again, asked rhetorically “Mom, how about now?” What happened next was unforeseen. She put her fork down, raised her head, and in a very matter-of-fact tone stated “Look me in the eye.” Unusually, she had my complete and undivided attention. “Are you going to be careful?”
I swallowed a lump of saliva. I paused to process her question. This is big -real big. This is a defining moment and the next thing that comes out of my mouth is incredibly important. As I inhaled, with all the courage I could muster, I answered.
“Yes Ma’am, I will.”
“OK then.” was all she replied.
Holy Shit – what just happened? Not giving her a chance to back slide through interpretation, I left it alone and changed the subject. I quickly gobbled the rest of my lunch and retired to the home office to study the Quick Quarter and plot my next move. That didn’t take long – later that day I called a guy about 5 miles away selling a mid-80’s Honda Nighthawk 700s for $1,500.00. I went over and immediately, I was taken back 19 years. The owner touched the starter and in an instant, the motor roared through the mac 4-1 header and I got goose bumps. Uncharacteristically, I gave him 15 Benjamins without question and rode it home.
That day, my world changed in every way possible. Over the next year, I made new lifelong friends. I discovered countless adventures that were previously sitting right in my own backyard, but I was too blind to see. I threw the bike in the back of my truck and brought it to the mountains twice. I discovered what real twisties are. I generated something to look forward to. I gave myself time to be with my thoughts. I got to know the guy under the helmet and thought much about him. I met other riders of all kinds. Tire kickers, squids, pirates, Iron Butters, commuters, dual sporters – every kind you can think of. I related better with some than others, but in all I saw the twinkle. That spark that only another rider can see and appreciate. You can’t describe it adequately in words. You can feel it, but only if you pay your dues and throw a leg over, if you dare.
The next year, the addiction grew. I sold the 700s and bought a ’96 Honda Nighthawk 750. This bike was more suited to longer day trips, which I was craving. In a year, I rode that bike almost 18,000 miles, none of it commuting to work. I took my first “driveway to driveway” multi-day tour on the bike. I went to the Texas Hill Country to ride with some friends I met of all places, on the Internet. It was spiritual and upon returning, I knew the kind of riding I wanted to do and wanted much more of it.
A friend introduced me to Sport Touring motorcycles. He rode a Honda ST1300 and I was completely blown away. Another friend let me ride an FJR1300 and that was it – I knew what my next bike would be. In August 2011, I got a call from my neighbor, also a rider. He knew I was ape shit over “some kind of crotch rocket bike, but I can’t remember the name.” He called to say he found one for sale and he thought it was the one. “It says FJR1300 on the side of it.” Holy crap – that’s the bike. I went over to look at it that afternoon and rode it. A 2005 model with only 5,000 miles on it, it was a veritable cream puff. His asking price of $7,995.00 was in the market range, but way over my budget. I walked away, but gave the seller my phone number.
The next day, the seller called me back and said he was getting desperate. In 3 months, I was the only person to even look at the bike and he wanted me to know that he would entertain any offer. So I warned him of the upcoming insult, and then told him I could pay $5,000.00 and no more. The silence on the other end was deafening. Apparently, my low ball offer slit his throat. Finally, he stated that he could not go that low, but would take $7,000.00. I knew that his counter offer was a fair price, but Pants pays cash for his toys and I just couldn’t swing it – I didn’t have that much money. I told him that I would pass and he reluctantly hung up the phone.
An hour later, my phone rang and it was the seller. As I looked at his number on my cell phone, I realized that I was about to steal the motorcycle of my dreams. I answered the phone and the seller started this diatribe about how his son needs money, he is getting ready to go off shore to work, and he has to sell this bike today. He asked me to meet him in the middle at $6,000.00. I told him that I was sorry to hear his story, but my only offer was my final offer. I told him that I had fifty 100 dollar bills in hand (at the bank), and if he’d accept, I could be over there in an hour. After a long pause, he caved and I was on my way.
I was ecstatic beyond words. Christmas in August! This was no Honda Nighthawk. This was a bonified litre bike. Excellent wind protection, hard luggage, shaft drive, smooth as silk. It has over the highway character, with sport riding characteristics. This was going to be my ticket to the next level of motorcycling. For the first weekend, I did not ride it. I joined an FJR forum and read every thread I could get my hands on. I read that website forward and backward, well into the night for several days after work. I learned about maintenance tips and decided to spend the first weekend getting my bike in tip top shape. It was like a rite of passage, spending quality shop time with my new friend. I took great care of her, checking all fasteners and fluid levels twice. Now she was mine, and we were ready to go.
On the second weekend, I planned a day trip on my new to me toy. I hardly slept the night before, I was so excited. It was August, and on the Gulf Coast, it’s hotter than a firecracker. I left the house a dawn and headed north. In full gear, I was sweating from the word go, but it didn’t matter. This bike was incredible. A little heavy at a stop light, but once you get to 20 mph, it loses 200 pounds. The power of this bike is ridiculous. Downshifting is not needed, just twist the wrist and she goes like a bat out of hell. The suspension is very good – I stop a few times and play with the dampening adjustments. A little tweak here and there makes a huge difference. I find a few known curvy roads and push her a little. No, I pushed her a lot. Effortlessly, she handles curves posted at 40mph at speeds twice that with room to spare. My riding is getting very aggressive as I pull into the town of Ville Platte. I’m giggling inside my helmet at my new toy. This is it – I’ve found the bike of my dreams and it might not get a whole lot better than this.
As I pulled out of Ville Platte, I was running up the gears pretty good. I wasn’t being a squid, but shifting at around 5K at about ¾ throttle, the needle on the big center gage was moving clockwise at a decent clip. As I glanced back at the single lane road, I spotted a truck stopped with no blinker on. I didn’t realize it at that instant, but he was waiting for on coming traffic and planning to turn left. In a ½ of a second, I was closing fast on him and committed a ridiculously stupid newbie mistake. I stomped on the rear brake and the tire locked up instantly. As this was happening on a gentle right hand curve, the rear end instantly swung to the left. Without thought, I counter steered and with the tire still locked, the rear end shifted hard to the right pointing the bike right at the truck. Simultaneously and by the grace of God, the truck was executing his turn as I began the inevitable low side across the intersection, crashing where the 6000 pound vehicle was stopped just a split instant before. As luck would have it, I let go of the bike just before my impact with the road. Thankfully, the bike would go its way, as I went another. My knees hit the belt sander first and I was able to come to a stop basically in a lying down sliding position.
In the middle of the road, I popped up immediately and although adrenaline was pumping, I knew I wasn’t hurt badly. I estimate that I hit the road at 30-ish mph. My jacket, gloves, and pants were rashed, but I had no abrasions on my skin. The bike had slid to the shoulder of the road. Several people stopped and asked me if I was OK, including the pickup truck driver, who happened to be an off duty fireman. He helped me pick up the bike and I stood there on the shoulder for about 10 minutes and calmed down. Thereafter, I realized that I could ride the bike home, and decided to do so.
It was the most mentally agonizing 35 miles of my life. I was distraught with grief. I rode like an idiot. I got caught up in the immense power of this new bike. I had no idea that the FJR’s brakes would be that effective. I had no idea how to handle an emergency situation on such a different machine. I knew the original tires on the bike were 6 years old and hard as rocks, yet I chose to run them anyway and they made me pay.
More importantly, I lied to my wife. I told her that I would be careful and I flat out lied. We had talked about the real possibility that despite my most careful ways of riding with all the gear and the MSF course and everything, a car could pull out right in front of me and take me out. But no – that didn’t’ happen. What happened is that Pants got distracted staring at his speedo, then got target fixed on the truck, then stomped on the wrong brake, then over reacted when the bike did something unexpected, then crashed and burned and was damm lucky not to be in a body bag for his stupidity. I wrecked my dream bike and I have only myself to blame.
I got home and went straight inside. I took one look at my daughter and broke out into tears like a shameful, scared, and deranged lunatic. My wife consoled me and in her usual clear headed way, calmed me down. My mental wheels spun all afternoon and into the night. I was done with riding. If I can’t be safe, I don’t deserve to ride. I was going to bubble gum the bike together, get rid of it, and close this chapter of my life. Fantasy football, here I come.
Over the next weeks, I started re-thinking things. My wife was very encouraging about the idea of returning to riding. I wrote down some thoughts and she knew how passionate I had become about riding. I went back to the scene of my crash and played through my mistakes very methodically. I got a lot of help from Ebay and the FJR forum and was able to fix the bike relatively inexpensively. My good riding friend Loki came over and encouraged me to get back on the horse. We took it very easy as I was kind of scared. But we had a fantastic ride and by the time I got home, I knew that I would keep the FJR and keep riding. My wife was not at all surprised by my decision.
For the 3 years and 50,000 miles that followed, what happened can only be described as incredible. Another riding friend introduced me to motorcycle camping. I’ve ridden mountains, plains, river banks, hills, and beaches – 14 states worth. I’ve hiked trails and bathed in lakes. I’ve read road side signs and detoured based on bill boards. I’ve ridden over a week with absolutely no plan or agenda. I’ve smelled the world. I’ve listened to people tell me their history. I’ve gotten out of the box that is my life.
I’ve made more wonderful friends through riding, and we’ve shared some fantastic journeys together. Some of these journeys were only a few miles, some thousands. Some hours long, some weeks. Each has its own place in my memory, each has given me much more than I could have ever imagined. I’ve had wonderful fire side conversations with these people and learned about who I am and what I want to be. I’ve eaten meals from hole in the wall joints that would please royalty. I’ve discovered and re-discovered what’s really beyond that next curve. And the one after that.
I’ve taken thousands of pictures of my rides. I’ve written about my adventures and others find my stories to be interesting. My mother and father, who clearly do not approve of my riding but accept it as my choice, love reading my ride reports and peeking into another part of my life. It hasn’t changed their opinion of the bike, but they now understand why I do it.
My wife has decided to join me on some rides, and this gives me great joy of our intimate time together on the bike. She’s not into riding as much as I am, but she enjoys the journey as much as the destination. My nephew has recently gotten into riding, and I’ve been blessed that he chose to ask me to mentor him through the process. The joy I’ve received in watching Jacob experience the early pleasures of riding is very rewarding.
Believe it or not, I thought about all of this during my Christmas Eve ride. I ended up riding to the coastal marsh in an area where I often chase redfish. I stopped at a nameless canal bridge on the side of the road to eat my left over BBQ. I used my bike as a wind break while I hung my feet over the edge of the bridge and looked onto the water. My mind wandered through my past adventures. I thought about how patient and supportive my wife has been throughout our 27 years together, and it humbled me. I thought about how our two kids have turned into these amazing young adults, and it made me proud. I thought about my dumb ass move that morning – my broken bike mirror. I thought about my relatively new attitude about life – my “go with the flow” philosophy, and this was comforting and enabling to me. After all, it got me to where I was at that time, quite literally.
But I also wondered a lot. I wondered what journeys are ahead for me and my motorcycle? Where will we go in 2015, 2020, and even farther ahead? What will I learn about myself and others?
Who knows the answers to those questions. I’ll just have to wait and find out. I’m Ok with that – the world is a good place indeed and I’m thankful to be part of it.
On Christmas Eve I had a One Hit Wonder. And it was magical.
