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"Yeah, it just seems like the throttle bodies are going out of sync..."
"...So, how was it?"
"I started it up, and the clutch worked..."

Everywhere you walk, you hear conversations like these.

For some reason, my feet just aren't getting circulation overnight, and so it took a while to massage the blood into them. Well, all the toes are alive, so I guess it's no sweat. (Well, sweat might be one of the problems.)

The whole time I'm here, my heart rate is at least 10bpm above normal, an undercurrent of excitement always going on. Perpetually stoked is now an understatement. I'm perpetually amped.

All the old guys (who are more interested in conversation and stories than the guys on rockets) seem surprised that I did some 6000 miles on a rocket. I'll admit I'm glad I replaced those tires. I'll admit I didn't think I would make it through Middle America.

But now I'm here, and damn, it was worth it.
And I even have an incentive to get back -- MotoGP. Nothing can go wrong here-- unless I lowside doing 60mph over the recommended speed for a corner, and attempt to occupy the space my bike is taking up when I hit a wall. But everybody who goes down here is immortal. At least a little bit, at the Tree of Shame...

Yesterday clutching got too slow for me, so I switched to powershifting on the down too. I can't wait for it to warm up a little more, so I can go lean it over. I was thinking about this feeling, of the rear wheel sitting at the 'bottom' of the corner once you're leaned over right, looking 'up and out' of the turn...

When you get like that you feel locked in. Bolted. Like the turn is all straightened out, you twisted off the bike at an angle directly opposing the lean, staring out of the turn...

...Feels great.

Now go lean over more!

...

Coming from the east, the Dragon gets cracking at the Tennessee state line.

So I fired it up at the end of the day and it purrs like a kitten. I'm starting to hear different songs in the engine, different sounds and shapes.

(king crimson - starless)
Vince was right; the 135 at night is like a fucking videogame. Reflectors, sport bikes, and high speeds. But if the 135 is a landing strip, the road back to the campground is like navigating by candlelight. With my brights on.

While we're floating, hovering in this space, shooting forward through turns in the dark, let's collect our thoughts.

"MSN Messenger? (Naughty Girls Only) add Passion8Bassist@hotmail.com"
-Bathroom graffiti on the last gas station before the Gap road turn.

"I TRIED TO CONTAIN MYSELF--BUT I ESCAPED"
-Sign at the Hellbender gas station.

"Turn the gas on dummy"
-Sticker at Wheeler's

The Canuck (courtesy of Junior)
Left hand held out, index finger pointing sideways. Eh?

The Low Two Snap
Left hand under, two fingers pointing back. Thanks for making passing you painless. Bye.

I was thinking that you could just map every turn here, and take the burden off the state, and reduce injuries, by building this road somewhere else, but then I realized it would just be a really nice track.

Everyone here is insane. Including me. Let me emphasize it. I told you the contact patch is no bigger than the palm of your hand? Well, Darryl says it's a fucking dollar coin. Maybe he was talking about just one tire. Holy fuck.

"...The Queen of Britain is the head of state."
"...But why?"
"I thought Celine Dion was the head of state."
"Actually, it is Shania Twain."
"If you put Shania Twain on your money I will move to Canada."
-Conversation overheard at the Iron Horse lounge

Wheeler's is a mom and pop place. I was honest when I was jawing and told 'em that my mom doesn't know I have a bike. This is unruffling to me because as I said, I am just as insane as everyone here. Let me put it this way. Everyone here is the person you see tearing by you on the freeway on a rocket. Everyone here is the group that flies by you on the mountain road. Everyone here is the creepy inhuman impression you get looking at a person in full race gear, no skin showing, in the same colors and looking like one piece with their bike. And I'm becoming more and more like that.

I slide my shoulders down and my knee and elbow extend. I stare in a way that most people can't, because they've never tried--I look at something in continual motion: the path of my bike-body pair, in continual feedback from my head watching it. Impressions...

Well, the nice mom gives me a T-shirt and a business card. Aw. Thanks, Ma Wheeler.

The corner is a straight line, mapped onto the geometry of the perspective created by my head, eyes, body, wheels, throttle...I hold my course and the world rotates under me.

I love it here. When was the last time you heard me say something with such unabashed excitement? Yes, I love it here. Rafting rapids next to stretches of natural green they outlaw mowing, twisties everywhere, huge, pristine lakes, and gigantic views. If they had skydiving in combination with any of these, there might not be a reason to leave.

As the turn ends, the throttle comes on. The bike gives full voice, and things slip by, as I am forced into my "seat." I'm taking it easy on accelerating out of the corners. But that is so long ago, earlier today...

I got Wheeler to fit me new Pirelli Diablos since he didn't have BT014 (stock) tires in stock, and Junior taught me how to scrub 'em. Everything is smoother now, and these tires I can trust implicitly. Yes!

Brian (Daytona 675) says a liter is too much for the Dragon, by the way. But others have disagreed. The throttle is the breather...

Well, I'm full of dinner and excitement.

And I can honestly say,
That I'm filled with love, joy, and admiration for you. I love you.

I never finished my story about Lew. I almost forgot. Chapter Two.

So, Lew took of for Atlanta, and planned 2 years of leeway for his travels. Which was good, since, in Moab, Utah, he got it. He was walking Punky (who looks like a tiny 10lb. version of Benji) when he saw another dog across the main road he wanted to socialize with. He wrapped Lew up in the leash, and then faked him out to get loose. Well, he got out onto the road, just in time to get crushed by a passing car. Right then and there, his heart quit. Lew says he was lucky to get to the local vet's and find the doctor's wife who knew how to perform CPR on animals. She gave Punky a push, and he fluttered. Then pulsed back to life. Lew was in the bathroom crying, and he heard a knock, then got the shock. Punky was in a coma, but the next CAT to ascertain the damage was in Grand Junction, Colorado: 100 some miles away. And Punky had a brain injury. So Lew tells the vet to get on the horn with the local airstrip that they usually use for skydiving, and tells 'em to work out a deal. Not too long after he's on a taxi in Grand Junction, heading for the animal hospital. They tell him that the only CAT scan is in the VA joint, and it's booked up today. Well, he tells 'em through clenched teeth that he didn't just fly 100 miles with a fucking medical emergency for this. He says they must have caught the signs that they were about to have a raving fucking lunatic on their hands, because within an hour they had the scan. Well, luckily, it was just a bit of bleeding near the thalamus, which was treatable. Lew helped Punky recuperate for a month, hoping each day the brain damage from deoxygenated brain cells wasn't permanent. And luckily, Punky was okay. He got back up onto the tank bag, and they both took off for Alaska. Hell yeah.
I'll finish this tomorrow. I'm beat. Night.

My left elbow all the way to all my knuckles hurts like hell. I've been pushing it, and pulling it, all day. I don't know if I'm steering with my left hand or if my right arm is just stronger. Tomorrow it'll be stiff, and remember all the things it's been through today.

(uematsu nobuo - tifa's theme (piano))
With every corner I turn, I fall passionately in love with you.

Let me slay another beast. I don't just do this to feel good. I mean what I say here.

"Only a biker knows why a dog hangs his head out the window of a car."
-Sticker

I love you.

Everyone here is breathing such rich exhaust. Well, except for the Harleys, I guess.

I want you to feel safe like that. The way you did when you were on my back, sailing down the freeway, a bullet in the middle of traffic that would certainly maim us both, if not kill us. That in the middle of that sea there was nothing to be afraid of. I want to give you that feeling.

And in the middle of the night, there's a galaxy of stars.

I'm taking it easy on this road because it's night, I left my winter gear at the campsite, and I'm freezing. If my arms and shoulders are jittery, the bike is. I talk to it where I touch it. I feel my way through it, with my hands. As if it were a kind of glove, a kind of hand. One that was very much alive with the road under it.

I'm glad things ended the way they did. I feel strangely like I've gained a lot of ground, the miles getting caught up to by the progress. Like filling all those empty times in K____ and Mis____ with fire in my memory. All these images...

"My mom says I can fix anything. I can't let Mom down, can I?"

"If my tires ain't squallin', I ain't haulin'."

"Someday I'm going to hurt myself. Today is not the day."
-Signs at Wheeler's

But it's so enticing, getting your head into a corner. Your perception pointed -into- it, out of it, through it.

There's an unsettling number of churches in the Gap.

The rider, the bike, and the road form a kind of triangle, sort of. The bike is leaned over to coil its acceleration around the turn. The road tilts, or the rider's world tilts. Rider hangs off the bike, head pointed through the corner, body proportionately matching the bike's angle, center of gravity like a needle pointed from the tire's miniscule contact patch, adjusted by the COG, then pushed into line with the lean angle by the throttle. Pressing the tire into the ground.

(nujabes - aruarian dance)
In a way I can't believe I'm still alive. But not in the shocked way with an empty cold feeling in your chest. In the way that's like a pure endorphin/adrenaline wash, that suffuses you when you get by something that might've killed you, but it's far behind now, so, pick up speed...

The way it is now, I can take much higher speed without significant lean. I feel like the corners are slower and easier now. Even now, when I thought the night would be worse. Gliding by...

In the GP coverage, they only mention the teams and factories in passing. It's the people, the racers...
And Hayden goes down. Huge, catastrophic highside. That REPSOL bike is toast.

Lowside, lowside, lowside.

Today on my second run through the Dragon, going the other way, I follow Junior's buddies, Vince and Darryl, flanked by Jim. They're a bunch of crazy Canucks, Junior a big black guy, the rest middle-aged crackers, yet somehow tinged psychotic. (Maybe it's because they ride bikes.) I'm heating it up. I'm amazed at how much faster I'm getting. I was 30mph slower yesterday. And now I'm leaned over. I'm pacing with them. I get my head out, I get my elbow and knee out, I lean around the corner. I'm keeping up quite reasonably.

I'm coming out of a blind right (why do I even bother mentioning it, almost every corner here is blind), banked and coming down to a left hairpin, and I give it a little gas to boost my exit speed and get to the outside in time to trail brake for the hairpin. Or something. Anyway the rear wheel steps right out and I have enough time to think, "My elbow? Isn't that the wrong part to be dragging?" before the bike is on its side and I'm sliding toward the inside drop off with it. I'm told it's a sixty foot drop, but luckily the bike catches on a dead log, and sits there, wheels up. I sit right up while all this is happening, in the 'oncoming' lane (it's the Gap, every lane is oncoming. You're fucked.), and run towards my bike. I look at it, and yank my helmet off and pull my earplugs out.

A lady from the Killboy photography group that takes photos here comes over with a tow strap, and her workmate, her, Jim, and Darryl help me push the poor thing back up, then gently roll it over to the outside of the corner. I've sheared off the tip of my right footpeg, scraped my right tail fairing, again, and wore down my right slider puck. I'm glad I bought those.

But the real problem is when I try to start it. It was fully upside down long enough for the gravity-dependent oil system to fill the cylinder. Jim's the man with machines, and his wisdom is that one of the cylinders is packed with soup and the piston won't crank, it'll get hydrolocked. So he says give it time, it should evaporate off if we just jab the starter switch and push it out the exhaust valve.

Well, that doesn't cut it. We get the gas tank and airbox off and find out why. The airbox has a little bit of oil in it, and the first throttle body is filled with it. I drain the airbox, we tilt the bike over and spill the oil out of the throttle bodies. These are the valves that flip to let air into the engine when you "give it gas." Jim says he likes this stuff.

We try to get the coil off the plug mount, but it's sealed on there too well. But Jim tests the starter and it gets a few cranks. Reassuring. Junior and Vince come by and crack up. They're glad I'm okay, and so this shit is hilarious. This is CPR for my bike. We used up the battery with the starter motor so Jim's even got the jumper cables out.

Vince and Junior crack jokes and then they take off for a bit. Darryl says God was fucking with me. Says he just flicked my rear tire out, but everything else is fine. What the fuck, -eh-?

Well, eventually we get packed up and get her started. Smoke, smoke, smoke. We just let it run to burn the oil out of the exhaust. Then we take it easy and they lead me back out to the overlook, then we turn around. One of the hotshots up there tries to tell me about the smoke but I wave him away, and he settles for telling me to be careful laying it down. Hoho.

So, in a way, I feel a little bit glad about this. That first slow highside was brashness with the throttle, but it gave me a foolishness that I've only now been able to erase. I'll show you the footage if you don't believe me. I was smiling and laughing even as we got the bike over to the outside of the corner.

Back in New M_______, I paid the cost of not trusting the vehicle, just as J____ did, which is what got him his shattered wrist. The only difference was my braking was better. It still cost me almost a thousand dollars, which, luckily, is only money. And this little line of a scar on my hand. I told myself then, "let the next one be a lowside!" C______ didn't understand when I told him, and I don't know if I'll ever be able to explain to him because his ego's in the way.

So now, I have an error that I can deal with. Something I can make something out of. The tires were cold, I hadn't scrubbed them far enough, Jim says they're called "Slipperellis" because they're shitty until you get them hot. Darryl says 85 degrees outside and three runs through the Dragon before you get nuts with those.

The double yellow is somewhat hypnotic, but I guess that's a safety feature. These roads are impressing themselves into my brain fast, although only the locals (yes, there are -locals-) know all the corners on the Dragon. They say they don't brake. Well, being here has taught me to touch the brakes before every turn. Subtract that couple mph you can get back later, as your safety margin. I flash my brakes for anybody who might be tailing me and reel myself through corner from my head to my tail.

Think of it as a rollercoaster. A rollercoaster whose speed you control, for which you are responsible for keeping on the rails. Now why am I afraid of rollercoasters? They're slower than this. Their contact patch is larger than all of the tips of my fingers put together. That's the impression I get. Dancing around a corner, holding yourself down with the tips of your fingers.

After the GP race some five, six people went down. Gold Wings and Harleys too, and those guys usually just make noise and go slow. Cops come out of the woodwork. Head taps and slow down waves everywhere, and in the end we have to turn around before the lookout, there's some accident so bad up there. So this is what the place is like on lockdown. Luckily, the cops here just try to maintain damage control. They know better than to try and put pressure on this place. It'd just get more people killed. So they strap 'em to the backboards and ambulances come hauling by. Even the ambulance drivers must be skilled here. Strong stomachs, too.

One more blind constant-radius right before a few sets of little hills and the campsite. It's going to be colder tonight, but I'm just riding through it all. There's a guy who lives on the inside of this corner, and has a US Mail truck. Must be strange for him, engines screaming around that corner all the time.

The rear tire has so much feeling to it. Bolting you in place, into the corner, sliding out and digging in when it's about to step out, telling you all about how the road feels. My rear tire is a 180/55 (180 millimeters wide, 55% of 180mm tall), but you can get even more rubber from a 190. That's a lot of rubber to scrub, though. And Jim says that as soon as you try to modify one part, you cascade out to the engineering of the machine. If I got crazy enough to need a 190 I'd have to change my wheels, then my swing arm, then my suspension, and if I were lucky, I could stop there and just tune, tune, tune. It's an expressive piece. The bike's grip on the road, its grip on you.

I make it down to the campsite and luckily this lounge is always open. I set up and start banging away, even though I could sleep sitting up. Motorcycle afterglow. I told the crazy Canucks that I needed a cigarette and pillow talk with my bike, after that last ride.

We had time for one more ride, where Vince got his bullet cam taped to his helmet and filmed Darryl up the Dragon, then me down. Then me and Junior down the Hellbender. I tried -not- to drag a knee, and just be smooth, and I think it shows. I'm amazed at the shit I'm doing now, considering it's not even the second night.

I'm doing 116 on a straightaway on the 135, in the setting sun, and my fuel light comes on. Shit. I upshift and it goes away. My injectors must be pulling hard, because I'm near the redline. I downshift for a sweeper, and when I come out it happens again. I upshift and take it to 130, 135. I realize it was my fucking shift up light, I'm at peak power, the fuel light is over -there-. Hahahahaha.

We get back to their motel, and talk shit and go to Wendy's. It's the only place that's left open on a Sunday in this town. I talk to Jim about F1 vs. MotoGP, and how straight-line performance went totally to the GP bike under testing, but the F1 car was pulling at least 3 times as many G's. He says that's not really impressive considering the F1 car has almost 2 feet of tire and thousands of pounds of downforce. A bike has an advanced dynamic suspension system called a rider who is optimizing the tire's potential at every point on the track. So the ratio of performance to contact patch is phenomenal. Right now there's no way to engineer a competitive solution for bikes, but as soon as it's done, there will be a rider to give Alonso a run for his fucking money. Hoho.

What did I learn? I use my pegs to weight the inside of the turn. I loosen my shoulders and slide them into the inside. I stick my head out towards my inside hand, and my ass and elbow follows. I lay my outside arm on the side of the tank and stare out of the corner.

And I enjoy myself.

Trying to keep my toes warm,
-T.

(heart - keep your love alive)