SwollenRaccoon
Well-known member
"To ride, or not to ride. That is the question. Whether 'tis nobler to suffer the stings and arrows of outrageous freaking cold....."
You get the idea. Late October, Minnesota, and motorcycling mean that this may be the last decent chance to ride for the season. Got up early, and noticed that it was 26 degrees F outside. Thank God that by the time we left Rochester at 10AM, it was 37 degrees. Time for the linings to go in the jacket and pants, boys and girls. Young Jason (jeagle) and I left for Wabasha, where we met up with Marc (gramps). First things first. A photo of the two maple trees in my neighbor's front yard.
Here's Marc and Jason trying to regain some heat from the sun, in Wabasha.
It's interesting to me what happens when riding in the fall, when the leaves cover the road. When it's windy, like it has been the last month here, the leaves and corn husks flutter on and above the road. When I was young, my dad taught me how to throw a knuckleball. When he threw me one, it always made me laugh, because of how the ball wobbled and moved erratically on the way to my glove. When I got older, I came to learn that the wobbling was caused by the ball trying to seek aerodynamic equilibrium. A properly thrown knuckleball has almost no rotation, and as it passes through the air, one seam will cause drag, and as it starts to rotate, the seam on the other side comes into the cleaner air, causing more drag on that side. And on it goes, back and forth, wobbling to my tattered glove. When I was a junior on the JV baseball team in high school, I spent almost every spring afternoon throwing batting practice to the varsity. The only thing these studs wanted to do in BP was to hit the ball out of the park, which my very unchallenging fastballs and non-curving curveballs easily allowed them to accomplish. Then, about once per batter, my very funny catcher, Mike, would signal for me to throw a knuckler. I obliged. A knuckleball is slow, and looks as big as a melon to the batter, and these guys would take swings that would have hit the ball a country mile, if they had made contact. They would miss the ball by at least a foot, sometimes more. My catcher would laugh like a maniac, and the batter would threaten my younger, skinnier, more timid person with significant bodily damage if I were to throw another one like that. Immediately, Mike would signal for another knuckleball. No stinking way. These seniors know I have to go to the same locker room as they do, and I preferred to maintain my physical well-being more than I wanted to make Mike laugh again, no matter how much I enjoyed that. Weak fastball it is. There ya go, big guy, build that self-esteem back up. Good, maybe my underwear will remain intact, un-wedgified, as it were.
Sorry for the ramble. The point of the knuckleball story is that I see some leaves waddle across the road in a similar manner when I go for a fall ride. Sometimes, approaching a leaf, I can't tell if it's a small squirrel or bird, with the funny leaf waddle. It wiggles back and forth, from side to side as it crosses the road, looking almost alive. Some of the corn husks roll like a helical scarf, some slide, and some float through the air like a drunken hummingbird. It's the End Of The Season Dance, performed by all the deceased flora. Autumn, doing it's moulting for the year. In other words, get ready for the white shit. (Sorry, all you folks in the northeast. You got yours already.)
Enough of the metaphors. So there I was, following Jason around a left-handed corner, and POOF....what the hell?! Does Jason have a feather cannon mounted on his tank? Nope. A kamikaze grouse had flushed from under the guardrail, hitting Jason's right mirror-mount base. A feather explosion, with the carcass (or what was left of it) flying over his bike, as well as mine. At our next stop, we noticed a clump of feathers jammed under his mirror mount, and I even found a grouse feather under my gauge cluster. Thankfully, no damage to his bike, although there apparently was some to the grouse.
I hate stopping to take pictures, but I got a few anyway. Our friend, Marc, partway up the hill on Buffalo county EE.
And young Jason, same spot.
A couple of not-very-exciting action photos, same road. Sorry, I'm not much of a photographer. First Jason.
Now Marc.
We had a nice lunch at the Wing Dam in Fountain City. I've had great food there before, but my sandwich was disappointing. Don't get the philly cheesesteak there. Not bad, just very bland and boring. It looked like Jason and Marc's sandwiches were better. We all got the clam chowder, which, to my midwestern taste, is some of the best I've ever had. Funny, we've got beef all around us here in the midwest, but we're 1,300 miles from the nearest live ocean clam. Bland beef sandwich, awesome clam chowder. Go figure. Sorry, no food porn. I think I was too busy trying to warm up to remember to get the camera out.
All in all, a very nice ride. Maybe the last of the season, and if it is, I have some very nice mental snapshots to help get me through the winter. The temperature topped out in the low 50s, so the afternoon was comfortable and fun. Got home before 4 PM, with 222 miles for the day. Thanks Marc and Jason, for making it a very nice day.
You get the idea. Late October, Minnesota, and motorcycling mean that this may be the last decent chance to ride for the season. Got up early, and noticed that it was 26 degrees F outside. Thank God that by the time we left Rochester at 10AM, it was 37 degrees. Time for the linings to go in the jacket and pants, boys and girls. Young Jason (jeagle) and I left for Wabasha, where we met up with Marc (gramps). First things first. A photo of the two maple trees in my neighbor's front yard.
Here's Marc and Jason trying to regain some heat from the sun, in Wabasha.
It's interesting to me what happens when riding in the fall, when the leaves cover the road. When it's windy, like it has been the last month here, the leaves and corn husks flutter on and above the road. When I was young, my dad taught me how to throw a knuckleball. When he threw me one, it always made me laugh, because of how the ball wobbled and moved erratically on the way to my glove. When I got older, I came to learn that the wobbling was caused by the ball trying to seek aerodynamic equilibrium. A properly thrown knuckleball has almost no rotation, and as it passes through the air, one seam will cause drag, and as it starts to rotate, the seam on the other side comes into the cleaner air, causing more drag on that side. And on it goes, back and forth, wobbling to my tattered glove. When I was a junior on the JV baseball team in high school, I spent almost every spring afternoon throwing batting practice to the varsity. The only thing these studs wanted to do in BP was to hit the ball out of the park, which my very unchallenging fastballs and non-curving curveballs easily allowed them to accomplish. Then, about once per batter, my very funny catcher, Mike, would signal for me to throw a knuckler. I obliged. A knuckleball is slow, and looks as big as a melon to the batter, and these guys would take swings that would have hit the ball a country mile, if they had made contact. They would miss the ball by at least a foot, sometimes more. My catcher would laugh like a maniac, and the batter would threaten my younger, skinnier, more timid person with significant bodily damage if I were to throw another one like that. Immediately, Mike would signal for another knuckleball. No stinking way. These seniors know I have to go to the same locker room as they do, and I preferred to maintain my physical well-being more than I wanted to make Mike laugh again, no matter how much I enjoyed that. Weak fastball it is. There ya go, big guy, build that self-esteem back up. Good, maybe my underwear will remain intact, un-wedgified, as it were.
Sorry for the ramble. The point of the knuckleball story is that I see some leaves waddle across the road in a similar manner when I go for a fall ride. Sometimes, approaching a leaf, I can't tell if it's a small squirrel or bird, with the funny leaf waddle. It wiggles back and forth, from side to side as it crosses the road, looking almost alive. Some of the corn husks roll like a helical scarf, some slide, and some float through the air like a drunken hummingbird. It's the End Of The Season Dance, performed by all the deceased flora. Autumn, doing it's moulting for the year. In other words, get ready for the white shit. (Sorry, all you folks in the northeast. You got yours already.)
Enough of the metaphors. So there I was, following Jason around a left-handed corner, and POOF....what the hell?! Does Jason have a feather cannon mounted on his tank? Nope. A kamikaze grouse had flushed from under the guardrail, hitting Jason's right mirror-mount base. A feather explosion, with the carcass (or what was left of it) flying over his bike, as well as mine. At our next stop, we noticed a clump of feathers jammed under his mirror mount, and I even found a grouse feather under my gauge cluster. Thankfully, no damage to his bike, although there apparently was some to the grouse.
I hate stopping to take pictures, but I got a few anyway. Our friend, Marc, partway up the hill on Buffalo county EE.
And young Jason, same spot.
A couple of not-very-exciting action photos, same road. Sorry, I'm not much of a photographer. First Jason.
Now Marc.
We had a nice lunch at the Wing Dam in Fountain City. I've had great food there before, but my sandwich was disappointing. Don't get the philly cheesesteak there. Not bad, just very bland and boring. It looked like Jason and Marc's sandwiches were better. We all got the clam chowder, which, to my midwestern taste, is some of the best I've ever had. Funny, we've got beef all around us here in the midwest, but we're 1,300 miles from the nearest live ocean clam. Bland beef sandwich, awesome clam chowder. Go figure. Sorry, no food porn. I think I was too busy trying to warm up to remember to get the camera out.
All in all, a very nice ride. Maybe the last of the season, and if it is, I have some very nice mental snapshots to help get me through the winter. The temperature topped out in the low 50s, so the afternoon was comfortable and fun. Got home before 4 PM, with 222 miles for the day. Thanks Marc and Jason, for making it a very nice day.
