Alas, Poor Buell Blast…

The bike that was my first real motorcycle has ceased production, I found out today. That's it, the little cube in the picture (well, not MY bike). Although it wasn't a classic and it was underpowered and guys with small weenies liked to make fun of it (mostly in the safety of print) and there weren't many of them out there, and it did get curious stares often, I did love it. Oh, yes, I loved my little Reflex too, but not quite in the same way. The scooter was sleek, refined, smooth and needed no additions; it was a complete blue work of art.

My little Blast was more wart-like. But simple, basic. It was a steal, used, and had a mysterious starting/back-firing issue at first that the illustrious HD/Buell mechanics failed to solve. Instead, a denizen of a terrific little online forum offered a simple solution that resulted in a bike that, while still a burbly, tater-tot-sounding single, an itty bitty Harley, ran like a top after that. It was a little, lightweight but bomber piece of naked goodness. Yes, I made my first offering to the bike-eating juniper with my little Blast. Discovered the true horror of freeway rain grooves. My first adventures in cosmetic mods and their addictive qualities, not to mention the meditative satisfaction of simply polishing, gazing and contemplating the possibilities, were had with my Blast. It was not fast, but could turn on a dime, if you would only do the balancing. It ate twisties for breakfast, if you were only brave enough to let it run wild.

If I had never had visions of freeway riding of any consequence, this is the bike I would still have. Self preservation at speed in crazyland called. The lure of the "road trip" and the call of the modern Huck Finn adventure called. Yes, the dumb but vast super slab was whispering my name. So much easier to hear when there are no doors and windows around you. Strange siren call. Still I took my first road trip with my Blast, even if it ended badly and solo with double luggage strapped and stacked onto every last millimeter of its little pillion space. It was my ride up a harrowing late-night, chilly, black twisting pass of sudden and fierce gusting winds, after a long, too hot day of sweat, and too many extra unplanned miles. Not to mention the crash. My first ride, nonetheless.

Apparently Buell feels that the Blast does not deliver the proper message or impression of the entire line that is its bread and butter: American Sports Bikes. Too bad. I thought it was a great intro bike myself. I didn't give Buell a second thought originally; they were ugly. Cruiser dreams only. Then, unexpectedly, the ugliness grew on me. Somehow the oddity began to appeal. I don't think I would have ever given Buell another thought if it were not for the Blast (the Lightnings are über ugly I still think).

So long, Buell Blast. You were my wee potato mobile for a formative riding year. My first moto-crack high. You taught me how to handle the basics and even appreciate that 360 lbs was lighter than I thought was possible, even as I had to huff you up out of the grips of the evil driveway shrubbery one day. Another first. Sweet dreams.

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Ogling

Through luck of association and the goodwill and enthusiasm of a dear friend, I acquired a motor scooter recently. A fine little scooter indeed. I was ecstatic, of course. It was unexpected and sudden. But it has turned out to be a gateway drug. You see, there are many things in life that sound like fun and that I know are fun, and one of them is motorcycles. Not the hyper testosterone-drive-like-an-idiot-sportbike type of motorcycle fun. That holds little appeal, I must say, including track stuff. It is more on the level of a modern Huck Finn appeal. I like fast well enough. But I like the romance part more. I don't mean candles and flowers and mournful sighs of longing "romance." I mean the spirit of adventure. You know, get on your little twiggy raft with some hard tack, your dog, Blue, your best friend and push off into the unknown. Not that there's that much "unknown" left for most of us urbanites any more, unless a more severe adventure (say, Denali) is in your mind's eye. No, I mean the idea of the thing. Something a little less protected. But, more than that: Something less predictable, more whimsical.

I discovered way back that it wasn't the potential perils of an adventure that floated my boat, but the romantic appeal. The individual struggle. Even if the struggle was plain and simple. The struggle with one's own thoughts, hopes and fears, for example. Sorta corny and narcisistic, I guess. For most, they run off and have a handful of kids and put all of that into them. Fine enough. No less narcisistic, I think, however. Just another being into whom you can place the same things. But that is not me. I suppose, it never was since ever I can remember thinking (an intriguing thought in and of itself: self awareness in thought). Around the age of seven. It is very striking to a seven-year-old, I can tell you. Very exciting. In some ways, it still is. But I digress.

So, here I am with this cute little thing, motoring about when I have a chance. Negotiating the intrigues and roadblocks of the DMV. Contemplating the possibilities. The obvious ones: commuting with less gas, more fun (and a bit more hassle: gear), less wear and tear on the car, better parking. The boring stuff (except for the fun bit). But adventure. There's the thing popping up in the back of the eyeballs (the mind's eye, afterall). Pinter pause. So I scour the web for info and tidbits concerning motorcycling, gear, my little scooter, reviews, techniques, pick my friend's brain for advice and options, all in the service of this little niggling idea. And before you know it, I am nearly consumed, drinking the Kool-aid, beginning the ceremony. I am only hampered by the limitations of my permit status and a naturally letter-of-the-law perspective in these matters (safety being one of them). This is considerable, actually, given my schedule and my other desire not to be the equivalent of single again. It is more fun doing things with your "most desired other creature" (sounds strange, doesn't it? I like it). Solo is good for when I just can't be bothered (which is distressingly often, I have found) and want to do what I want to do. Or don't have a choice. Also, distressingly often. But again, I digress.

Plotting the possibilities, I discover an ongoing travelogue of a guy who is scooting around Alaska with what looks like his camping gear (!). I didn't look closely (I'll have to look it up again), but it was so motivating to see. Mind you, this scooter does go freeway speed, if you don't weigh more than a house. More of a studio apartment. But, at the same, it looks a little wacky, which, of course, draws me further in. More Kool-Aid. Now, this might seem depressing to some of you (echo), but, I swear, I am starting to feel as if just contemplating adventure, reading about others' adventure--especially the perilous kind, mountain kind, is simply enough. I never thought of myself as much of an adventure story reader (*yawn!*) until I picked up "Into Thin Air" and "Into the Wild." Riveting. Vicarious. So that's what everyone has been blabbering about all these years! But not all types. Water-based? Not so much. Mountains and woods, yes. Climbing, definitely. Horses? Not so much. Hiking in all terrain? Definitely. Colin Fletcher's Complete Walker III &IV, I sucked down as fast as my slow-reading cells would carry me. A period when I got out, but was and still am hampered by my own over-active imagination, my childhood fueled by tales of terror. But that is for another post.

Stream of consciousness. It's just me. I do go on.

So, I am plotting. Lurking. But, much as I enjoy the look of a classic cruiser, including the new variants, I find that, lo and behold, I do not like them for actual riding position. Footpegs forward: No good. The nice scooter uprightness is too comfortable and I feel in control. So now, I sense that the sport bike look is growing on me, though I know that it will put my short torso too far forward for comfort. The touring bike is out of my range, especially for what is essentially an experiment. Perhaps someone will leave me a lot of money and I will be able to resist the temptation to save it all in an IRA. Stranger things have happened. Like my little scooter. Have I said how much I do love it? Sleek, light, simple (no clutch) and easy to maneuver. But it makes cars look even more sinister than when one is on a bicycle, ironically. With my bicycle, I know that they know I won't be going even 30 mph (on a downhill, maybe). And I'll be off to the side. But with my scooter... *shiver* I like to think of it as a survival mechanism. And, there is the specter of looking cool. But I chopped that down right away (thank you, M!) by getting a pair of actual riding pants with armor and skid resistance, instead of my way cooler jeans that would last about a half second in a skid (I know, I read it in testing reviews). I feel safer and so much less cool (the hip armor has this effect). I don't have much in the hip department, but now, thanks to these pants, I got a complimentary pair of saddlebags to go with the bike. So, I narrowly avoided the specter of coolness that I've shunned for low these *** years (you can figure it out from my earlier post).

Also, despite a lot of back and forth, as a direct result of the Kool-Aid-drinking, I decided that instead of winging the DMV skills test for my regular license, I'm gonna take an MSF course to learn how to properly ride a "real" scooter. One with a clutch and shifter. It seemed the wisest thing to do and opens up the options. I can ride my scooter day or night, with passenger or not, or pick up a more powerful vehicle and...wander much further and faster onto the wild tarmac, where the scary things are. If I can only get past the thing under my bed...