Looking out - How not to suck

In a previous entry I flippantly referred to my motorcycle side mirror that was missing a nut, and how I was a huge jerk for not just getting it fixed since I knew more or less what I was doing and exactly what I'd need to get it done.

Well, riding home from work one day last week I heard the familiar sound of a small metal nut loosing from my bike and dinking it's way to the street below. Now, this noise could have been anyting: I could have run over a screw, or a car could have been clicking nearby, it didn't mean that my bike had just lost one of the precious securing devices that keep it in one piece. But I knew, somewhere deep inside, what it really was.

It wasn't until the next morning that I found out for sure. My mirror was now free to do as unsecured major visual apparatus usually do in moving vehicles: cause havoc. During a lean it shimmied a half-inch out of it's hole and I overcorrected for what had appeared to be the bike falling over by screaming like a little girl and riding nearly into a ditch. The rest of my ride was a disgruntled attempt to keep the mirror secured to my jacket without punching two new screw holes in my torso.

I want to make it loud and clear that I was literally taking my life into my own hands by not fixing this earlier: that nut could have ended up in my chain or wedged into any moving part of my bike that would have resulted in a short and likely fatal lesson in dancing with traffic. I managed to scrape by and didn't even check to see what had happened, putting myself in danger twice.

That weekend I took the freewheeling device and the freewheeling girlfriend in the car to home depot to determine the nut sizing and grab a socket wrench extension. Anyone who has worked on a bike will tell you the less often you need to dismantle things the better, and the extension would allow me to tighten it without taking apart the entire head.

Home depot is the only place where I have no shame in talking to a sales rep. I don't know if it has something to do with the inviting atmosphere of warehouse/dungeon or the cheerfully colored Halloween vests, I just feel secure among the 5-story tall bathroom fixtures and grow op hardware. I cornered the first terrorized employee in orange and grilled him for information on where to find hardware.

"Good day good sir. Might you point me towards the nuts aisle that I might repair this symbol of my irresponsibility?"
"What? Uh hardware is in aisle 9."

Off we went and shortly I had accosted another victim. He took the mirror with only my muted attempt to inform him of its metric nature in mind and quickly located the nut I needed. Before leaving I told him I appreciated his handling of my nuts and asked where I could go to find a socket wrench extension. This is not a remark that the hardware isle reps find humorous.

Final stop was the tool section where I shopped extensions for ten minutes. Did I have a Husky or Craftsman back home? Was there a difference? What if one of them was metric and the other was imperial? If I buy one and I'm wrong I'll have to go through the intense embarrassment of a tool return, which as we all know involves surrendering your man card to the authorities.

"Hi, I want to return this extension."
"Was it defective?"
"Uh, no."
A pregnant pause.
"Is there something wrong with the device?"
"Nope."
The clerk becomes suspicious. He narrows his eye and sizes me up. "Sir, did you purchase the wrong extension?"
"Possibly."
"Get out sir."
"But-"
"Sir, don't make me repeat myself."

Becoming bored of my silent reverie of several minutes (I'm prone to retreating into a fantasy world when I've been given too many options) my girlfriend finally got tired and pointed out a full metric set with a snake extension that was about the same price as the solid extension I was agonizing over. We then narrowly avoided the armed Home Depot security guards and absconded with the merchandise through trickery and deceit.

Pictured: Trickery and deceit

There's not much to it after that, I reinstalled my mirror and fitted the nuts on by hand before turning to my new best friend to tighten them up. The mirror is no longer a problem and I learned a valuable lesson about not procrastinating.

Note: I was originally going to end this with one of those goofy half-sentences like I can't ever finish anything but then two weeks later I peeked at my post drafts and noticed I'd never posted it, so I think that seals it then, no?

Dodging Storms

A study in opposites: a computer tech programming websites next to a full-face white helmet, white armored leather jacket, black armored pants.
I hurry my gear on, throwing the jacket with the spine protector over a canary yellow polo. My wallet, phone, ipod, and car keys are nestled in the backpack beside 2 laptops and a kindle. A struggle later and it’s slipped over my armored forearm. I’ll be the most expensive thing on two wheels in a minute or two.
It doesn’t look great out, the clouds are a little too ominous, the air is a little too sweet for less than a mile off the parkway. It’s going to come down, and I’m not quite ready for slick roads on two wheels.
“Hold on, your backpack is open.”
“Are the zippers on the side? Can you put them there?”
“Huh?”
“Uh, can you pull the zippers around to the side? When they’re on the top it opens. I’ve gotten home two or three times and it’s been wide open.”
“Yeah.” He closes my backpack up and I can feel him pull the zippers over.
“Thanks man! Have a good weekend.”
I snatch my helmet off the desk and walk down the hall. It occurs to me that I look huge; the armor adds a good inch to my frame, riding boots add another to my height, and I’m moving fast. I smirk at the thought of secretaries hurling stacks of paper as they dodge me.
I wave to the security guard as I pass his desk then pull my helmet over my head, snug against my face. Every piece of gear is important, every piece protects. When I see someone on a bike with shorts and a wifebeater, I wonder how long they’ll have their skin.
My bike stands out among behemoth SUVs, a dwarf there in the center of its allotted space.
My visor collects tiny gems. The storm is here.
Grasping the right handbrake I throw a leg over and sit in the saddle, turn the key, and kick up my kickstand.
Ignition.
Now to dance.
I slip through the parking lot, weaving on the asphalt floor and slithering around cement islands. Is it coming from the West, or the East? How long do I have until downpour?
The light to the on-ramp is red and I can see traffic is stopped going East from my vantage point opposite. If I go left I can do a few traffic tricks and jump the gridlock, but I’ll miss the HOV entrance. And the rain is coming.
The light changes.
Now the race.
I pull around the car in front of me and take the inner lane, jumping to the speed limit with a throttle wring then jumping lanes again to get around an SUV napping at the newly changed light. If traffic is light at the overpass…
Bingo! I slip in before the light changes and ride the service road. Traffic is still backed up. What a mess.
I wring the throttle again and leapfrog a line of cars using the entry to cut off the traffic, nestling in to the highway and starting the slow migration left toward the HOV.
There’s that feeling you get in traffic sometimes, after you’ve made a decision you wouldn’t normally make because of some new data - a sign blinking ‘Two Lanes Closed Exit 53’ and you wonder how close to 53 you should go before jumping on to the service road to dodge the bulk of traffic - and I’ve got it.
Thing is, in the car I’d just be in for a boring crawl in climate control. On the bike I’ll be taking a shower. Soppy wet underwear in waterlogged khakis. Raindrops at 55 miles an hour hurt.
Should have made the left.
But, I’m not wet yet. Keep crawling. Still have time.
I look over at a woman in an SUV scowling at the backup. Everyone seems to notice when you look at them from a bike, or they’re always about to look at the bike and you only sometimes notice. She turns to me, looks down at my two wheels and gives me a snide look. You’re fucked. Yep.
The lane moves. We’re a good quarter mile off and I swing out to peer down the lane. It’s open, the cars are favoring the right. That’s an invitation, right?
A drop of rain on the back of my neck. Go!
The white striped pre-entrance zone to the HOV will be deadly in another five minutes, coated by rain and slick as oil. For now its an ally against the traffic. I pass over it like a bird gliding over the ocean. Before me the sky is open, bright and blue but behind it is dark, ominous and vivid.
The entrance opens and I transition, no one near me.
I pull the throttle all the way out and catch the wind like an open parachute: every gust shakes me, I lock my neck to resist the buffeting winds. The storm approaches, gnashing at my back. Always check the weather in the morning. Idiot.
Little gemstones populate my visor, headlights flash on in my mirror. The clouds dance above, wisps and tails twist like tendrils, a shadow growing behind. 56. 55. Exits and miles between. A midnight blue Honda Accord, a white pickup truck. I wouldn’t wish a white pickup truck on my worst enemy.
Green sign overlooking the lane. “Motorcycles Permitted”. Thank god.
It’s darker. Raindrops on my windscreen. You never know when the rain will make every strip of paint a frictionless plane. Coming up on a bumper and the HOV exit to my real exit approaches.
I dart over the dotted line and pull the throttle, popping up to 70 and jumping past about fifteen queued cars. The road at the head of the snake is clear, I swing out and migrate to the outside lane.
The sky roars, a fine burning slice of light in the dark behind me. There’s a particular way the front of a storm looks, like a haze masking the vehicles, the paint on each car a shade darker then they should be.
I jump into the entrance lane, discarding all pretense of politeness. I’m about to be soaked, you’ll all be warm and dry. Let me squeeze on by, I swear you won’t even see me in a quarter mile.
I come up on backup up traffic at the merge, pick my spot between two cars, and slow for it. But the car I’ve picked isn’t moving as traffic accelerates. Is he napping? I jam the break, slow to a stop beside him.
He waves, knows perhaps. Or realizes why I am urgently darting between the hulking metal death machines. I wave, throw into gear and move up a spot. No time for pleasantry's my good man. Storms to dodge and all that.
The traffic eases, unbinds. We move. Storms comes.
There’s my exit. What’s another traffic violation? Go!
The great round burn. Exit arc.
Green light at the intersection: Bonus time! Left turn and I’m parallel to the storm front.
Weave like a skier, burst like a sprinter. Those your strengths, wouldn’t you know?
A grand curve, a switchback. Heading back at it. Can you dodge something you’re driving straight toward?
Answer: Yes. Dodging storms.
Home stretch, coasting to my parking spot.
Cover it, protect it, engine’s burning hot.
But we’re safe and dry.