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.

Couch Surfing

Here I am again. Ensconced on the couch. It is sunny and looks a little breezy and I am full of tacos. But it is a perfectly fine way to spend the second of my two days off. I wonder if others look at their "weekends" this way? Probably not. Straight from the old contract. "Second of two days off."

Hoping I can get the motivation to pry myself up and take a ride. Oil freshly changed, chain freshly lubed and even the chain guard freshly cleaned of its accumulated gunk. That is how I spent much of my productive time yesterday (first of my two days off). It's not rocket science, but more of a meditation, I find. It's the journey, not the destination. The slow journey. I need some more stuff to make it a little less goopy on the cement outside the garage. If I could just get a few more weeds to grow into the cracks, I could always park it over them and they would catch the drippage. 'Course they also might catch fire after all that, which would be a sight indeed: a motorcycle over a hot weed fire. Not so very nice. Another perfectly good idea gone into the dumper.

This touches on the subject of "the small things in life." The "being" part (versus the "human doing", as someone said). I've been concentrating on the merits of this idea for quite a while now, as it has always suited me, but I have struggled against it for a great many years. Less stress with the "being." This translates: whatever seems good to be doing or not doing at a given moment is fine. Enjoying it? Valhalla. The should's and could's and what-not are immaterial. It's not a perfect system, of course. Ya gotta do certain things eventually. It's just that the list of "things" gets remarkably smaller and less important. Like all those appalling emails that seem to be so popular amongst older folks (65+...creeping closer and closer) that exhort one to "dust less, enjoy life more!" These are the very people, I think, that have spent most of their lives doing all those other things that "had" to be done: cleaning, fixing, straightening, doing all the kid-related stuff, appointments, and on. Especially the former: cleaning. Not like your regular cleaning, from what I have surmised, btw, but the kind that used to be the norm for your garden variety housewife of 40 years ago.

I guess if it had been me, I'd have been the recalcitrant, smoking, diazepam-taking, crabby wife whose house didn't quite make the grade, as judged by "the other wives." I never did chew all the way through the "Feminine Mystique," but the pages I did get through gave me the idea vividly enough. Not hard to figure out where the mystique came from: boredom and dying life aspirations. "What are they THINKING and what do they really WANT??" Uh, I'd like some real mental stimulation and a whole adult life. No mystery there. Unless you figured women were not really human beings in the same mental sense. I happen to know someone whose life was shaped by that bifurcated social reality. I lucked out, I suppose, between the era and my childhood. Choosing between the abundant possibilities was the more pressing concern to me. Not that it wasn't also clear that there were still "limitations," societally speaking, like funding for school sports and and who was asked to move tables and who was not (e.g. physical abilities). That would be a long diatribe whose time is gone I think.

As usual, time marches on and so does "progress." At least in that area a bit. The possibilities open more each day, I think. But, it is really what the individual conceives for herself, isn't it? That is my strong suit, though I have scaled things down a bit, just out of laziness. Laziness is a luxury, I've come to realize. This sitting on the couch stuff and pondering the stories of the day, the things I might buy to help me on my way, the discussions over motorcycle projects & plans, or just inane banter, the communication with others in email and Facebook and even a dumb game or two (yes, you, Mafia Wars).

Where is the sunshine in all this? It's not only out there, right where I can see it, through the picture window, but also as a state of mind. And that's a good way to wrap up this post.

My First Blast

I have been remiss in adding to the blog for a couple months.

Back in late May, I became the proud owner of a 2003 Buell Blast, delivered to me courtesy of the Harley Davidson dealer that did the 1K service. It was all very exciting. The seller was very nice and allowed me to test ride it around the neighborhood to be sure I wanted it. It was so different than the MSF class bikes or my Reflex. So...burbly. The Blast is a very different ride than your standard rice burner or even a UJM (Universal Japanese Motorcycle). For starters, it's American made. Buell is owned by Harley Davidson, started by a former HD guy. It is much more elemental. The term "thumper" is definitely accurate at idle and very low speeds, even at 492cc's. But, as others have noted, it smooths out in the higher gears. I'm just psyched to have "my first motorcyle," and put my newly-learned MSF skills to use finally. Great class, but, oh, how fast the skills seem to fade without use! Shocking. As they say after passing the class, "you are now qualified to ride a motorcycle at 20mph in a closed parking lot." Very true. Actually my first motocycle is technically a Honda Reflex, a 250cc scooter. But, no clutch. Automatic transmission. Alot of body fairing. Don't drop or you will be sad and your wallet will be even sadder. Super cute and cool looking and very fun to ride, but not the same. I feel guilty not riding it in favor of the Blast, but I've been trying to get out and gain experience with the manual bike.

I've put about 500 miles now in the last two months, and it has truly been a blast, each and every time I get it out. It is nimble, nimble, nimble and turns on a dime. Corners and curves are so much fun, it can be a little scary. Over, over, over...yes! I have yet to scrape a peg, but don't like idea of it, despite the siren call of the turns. The little thing just goes right over. Quite lovely really. I am afraid I will be spoiled for other bikes. I catch myself thinking about what my next bike will be (a Suzuki sv650, btw), but then feel guilty, as my little Blast is so cool and unusual and fun. How could I? I have yet to see another on the road, but now find that I notice every other bike out there. So I know I haven't seen one. Have gotten a few interesting reactions too. Questions, folks checking it out while parked and one fellow even backed up at a stop to check it out, then gave me a thumbs up. Entertaining and fun, to be sure.<

The Blast is more of a naked bike. I hated the look at first. Went round and back between small cruisers, beginner sports bikes and other naked bikes. Then I had to have a Virago 525, which Yamaha no longer makes. Had to had to had to. But then I came back to the little Blast. This is the nature of obsession.

Now, if I could only find a pair of boots that inspire me and that I could walk in too...

With the weather now hot and hotter, it is a challenge to put on all the gear and take the bike out during much of the day. My new windshield that is so fabulous at freeway speeds unfortunately also keeps my jacket from thoroughly venting as it used to. I found out yesterday that if I lean to the left a bit, I get a little rush of air through the jacket vents. Ahhhhhh! But, I seem to be getting used to that hot, sweaty feeling when sitting at lights especially. It is just so much fun that I can put up with the heat. On the positive, with the windshield in the way I also don't cool down too quickly once the day's swelter begins to die. Riding at night, though dicier for visibility, it truly thrilling. Hypnotic almost. I always liked driving at night, but riding at night is extra enthralling. Fewer cars in general, of course, but, I don't know... Looking forward to the weather cooling down. Never have liked the broiling waves of endless asphalt that seem to be the rule in these parts. Blech. Trees, trees, where are my trees?! Nope, just a lot of road, which, in this case, is just as well, as I can ride onto it on the bike. Despite all the gear (and it's ATGATT, for sure: All the Gear All the Time), even short trips to the store, or Post Office are fun. Who knew?

And, to add to the fun, I managed to solve my first performance problem with the help of a truly awesome and useful Yahoo Group dedicated to the Buell Blast. A couple screw turns and some exploratory part removal later, no more stalling before warm up and occasionally (!) at lights. 'Course, the new-rider-re-start-the-stalled-bike-as-the-light-turns-green moments were, to say the least, character building. And strangely morale-building. Getting oneself out of an unfamiliar sticky situation pumps the ego (as well as the adrenaline). Considering that it sat for most of its previous life of four years with only 1K miles on it, things could have been so much worse. But no! Service manuals are great. Thank you Buell Blast Yahoo Group! I can't recommend it enough for any who are interested.

Keeping a wary eye out for the cages (cars) is the priority, of course, since so many accidents are caused by cars not looking for and not seeing bikes. So, am perfecting the Zen of Motorcycle Riding. Keepin' outa trouble and away from trouble, which is all around, it seems, courtesy of the ubiquitous cell phone, in large measure. More on that later, perhaps. Meantime, I enjoy the ride ever more each and every time I'm out. Mm!! Keep the rubber side up all!

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...