page 7

(uematsu nobuo - farm boy (piano))
Remind me to tell you what happened to my DOT rear indicators when I lowsided.
You know, lowsides are a hell of a lot less scary than highsides. I think because the lowside is kinda simple, in the way that the bike just can't do any more for you the way you rode it. A highside is something deeper, a kind of distress and miscommunication between you and the bike.

And that's rough.

So, I was having a great day, going through the Dragon and coming around through the Skyway the other way. I thought about all kinds of things and got leaned over a little further, but this time I knew when I was starting to push it and took it easier.

But I'd left my jacket pocket open or something, after the gas station where the 411 and the 360 meet, one leg before the Skyway, and my wallet must've slipped out when I was leaned into a righty. All my eggs in one basket, there. All kinds of ID. In fact, basically all the kinds except for passport and birth certificate. I know, I know. I'm such a retard.

But I got in touch with my bank through the auspices of a nice lady at the bank Wheeler sent me to when I told him about it, and they're overnighting me a card. I'm going to have to do some more canceling and blocking and damage control, but at least I shouldn't be stuck here.

I hope. (The Gap without gas...)

You know, there's really no more music I can give to you that'll tell you what I'm feeling when I'm riding, what I'm talking about...

The music is the engine and the wind and the sun and the sights. The feel of naturally sliding off the seat into the inside of the corner, looking at that little yellow line, watching it curve yet somehow straighten.

I rode back from Robinsville where I put all the loose change I had (half gallon's worth) into my tank. I took it easy, riding at my guess at the most efficient point on my tach (6th, 57mph, 4900rpm), and clutching down big hills. You know, I've gotten to a point, I was thinking, where I feel really good about the way I ride. Like, you know, I'm not blindly riding the point between insanity and stupidity.

Like I'm not riding the bullet anymore.

Me and the bike, we get along now. We're talking to each other a lot more. It answers my emails sometimes. Sometimes we're not quite sure how to act around each other, and sometimes we get a little out of control and do stupid stuff on our own, but it seems like we can always look each other in the eye and smile. And that's pretty close.

Taking it easy on the way back, without moving an inch off the seat of the bike, I could feel the gentle motion, riding caresses. I won't lie to you. It feels sensual. Something white guys like me aren't allowed to talk about. But it feels like waves and the sea, and the wind, holding onto a lover tightly yet gently, things like that...

Gently sailing around, as smoothly as really cornering.

I'm trying to say I love you.

As soon as I realize it it gets out of my mouth.

I write to you, staring out at all the nice things in this small but mile-deep valley. I looked down at the creek and wondered who the first one was, who looked at one of these and said, "I will take the power out of this."

Who took us down that path.

The three Harley riders left their Jack Daniels, their beer, and their Coca-Cola, and I guess I'll take a nip off the Coke. I do need a little sugar. I haven't had a meal today and I -know- Junior would say it's because I hadn't had breakfast that I lost my wallet. Damn it, Junior...

I told my sob story to the lady at the front desk because my card'd be coming through here, and she even wrote me a new meal ticket. Man, everyone just wants to be my mom. What is the deal, here? I bet you're just sick of this, but there is no way I can be so endearing. I'm even wearing my shirt that says "STICK TO COFFEE AND ALCOHOL". I'm not sure I -want- to be this endearing, but I guess if I'm going to continue being this dumb, I'll need to hang onto this, as well as my Stupid Shield (you know, the one that makes my lowside nice, keeps my bones from breaking?).

So, I guess Carrie doesn't get her ride. Well, I'm nobody's ticket out of here, even for a momentary escape. Not even me, right now, I guess.

It's hard, though, to write all this stuff down, to exercise the deep things inside that I'm told to call determination and passion, when I can't go out and twist the throttle. I have to hold still again for a bit. I have to hold on. But my clutch is slipping.

My clutch is slipping.

What a terrible dream. About not being able to see you at the race, in concert, in P_____, even though none of those things make any sense. And my friends were being cocks.

Well, I know I'm reading too much into everything. But this is because I came here for one thing.
Ride bike. Lean bike. Save bike from fall.

It's only a special kind of fun, and this is a passenger test. This way I'll be much more sure when I get to give you a ride again. Now there's a hope I can get myself wrapped around.
I love you.

On bicycles, it seems to be no big deal to get the front wheel up. Not so with rockets. Yet the impression is that it is. The truth is, these fucking dampers have you -clamped- down to the road. When you think about your feeling, about the feel of bikes, isn't that strange?

(nobiuchika eri - lights)

But this place is fun, and if and when the power grid goes down, the residents'll survive. They know how.

All these seasoned, different riders, all their stories or whatever, no matter what they came from to get here, they all came here. To the Gap.

When you first put your gear on in the morning, it's snug and cool. Just like the bike, you warm up and loosen up.

It's real easy to get out of control here, to go down like the guy who put his Harley down in a corner that looked like mine. Or the REPSOL guy. But statistically, the accidents might be a dead bike, a helicopter ride for you, but just the same, you can come away like me. Strange...

Ride that promise through the corner. Stay alive.

Because the worst thing a friend can do for another is die on them.

Highway littering: maximum $1000 fine. The state is unhappy if you leave parts of your bike or you on the road.

Canadiens: Hey, if I paypal you enough money for a second dual cam, will you get me bike and head footage of a run through the 129?

(uematsu nobuo - the oath (piano))
My pipe echoes through the poplars as I shoot down the Skyway in the other direction. Going through the Dragon after doing the Hellbender was not enough of a warm-up, but I didn't hurt myself. It's different, though, the reverse route.

Weighting the inside footpeg is totally underrated. I can get so much more lean, I have to put more throttle on just to keep my line. I also stick my head way down, towards my inside hand. It feels like I reel myself in through the corners, by my head. By the floating image of my vision. It's amazing. And a little scary.

I have to hold some of this technique back, and save it for the track.

It's seemed to me, over these few days, that double the posted speed limits is more or less where you start to push it. Depending on where you are, the danger can increase pretty fast from there. The word-of-mouth record for the Dragon is about 11 minutes, 15 seconds. That's an average speed of just shy of 60mph. SCARY.

But in other places, you can hit 120, eye the corner from far away, and sit up, use your body as an airdamp, engine brake, and get on the front brake, then drop into the inside, pulling yourself and the bike around smoothly.

Did I mention I love you?

I'm still alive.

I have this dream of being with you. Just being with you. I ride and think and stand and talk with the ethereal feeling of your presence, here a kind of timeless memory, clinging to me, surrounding me.

It's no shame, I think, to tell you I need it. I need to be able to feel you, in the world. I can close my eyes and float in the ocean, spin around, and know nothing about location except to see your light in that lightless place.

With my eyes open, walking around? It's like everything has a kind of mental blacklight on it. Everything with its own pre-emptive glow. Before light hits it.

Allow me to wax eloquent for this.

He drives, staring down the road, but his focus directed towards the shotgun seat. She asks him,
"What do you love?"
His reply is quick.
"Black pepper."
She smiles at the corners, sitting, facing him, and asks again.
"What do you love?"
He's a little bit slower.
"Rainy-tasting things."
She chuckles, he smiles. He hasn't taken his eyes off the road.
"What do you love?"
His reply is firm and gentle.
"The ocean."
Her smile is radiating a faint light. She continues.
"What do you love?"
He glances at her for the merest fraction of a second.
"The light, and the shadow."
Now she speeds up.
"What do you love?"
He stalls.
"Uh...warmth when it's welcome--"
Like a whip.
"What do you love?"
He regroups, but only for a moment.
"Things that frame the sky, and things that expose it."
Relentlessly.
"What do you love?"
He signals, clutches, downshifts, engine brakes, puts his foot on the brake pedal and as he makes the trip from 20 to zero, pulled off the road at a little stop, he looks directly at her in what seems like slow motion. Her face carries a note of apprehension, now, his reaction was so quick.
5mph.
0mph.
The suspension rocks back, dampening the last bit of weight transfer.

"I love you."

If, like a photograph of an endless reflection of a pair of mirrors, you could put a camera between their faces, you would see the light in their eyes. The light that looked like a line piercing through both of them, in exactly the same place.

But these things disappear quickly, for they are acted upon.

...

I think one of the reasons I'm swearing so much here, if not just because all the amped bikers here have slightly dirty mouths, is because I too am amped. I need straight fuel intensifiers, I need to jab you with these impressions. I want to shake you by the shoulders and drag you through a turn screaming. Screaming out of excitement, not pain.

The places where the passion running through me gets out, I'm calling interjection.

There's only one other thing like it.
I love you.

Love, joy, and admiration,
and a lot more,
running through my veins,
making circuits through my heart,
-T.

(donavon frankenreiter - butterfly)

I know you shouldn't ride if you feel pushed, or feel pushed if you ride. The first one I'm great at, mostly because I'm a contrary bastard. The second one...

Well, I know I'm always carrying that feeling through corners. I carry it through straights. I carried it all the way here and I bet I'll bring it to T_____ with me. When I'm in the zone, yeah, I ride like a bat out of hell.

I'm sorry.

But I do it because all the excitement I have flows through the corners, through the tires, through the bike, through me, and goes all the way to where you are. When I look through corners far enough, I see all the way to where you are. I see the days passing and me riding through them.

And maybe, if I'm lucky enough to make it through this whole-assed, half-brained, completely-baked trip, I can pull up, putting my hands on the brakes one last time, to where you are. A slight ascending feeling, the weight moving through your body, then a gentle let down to the ground. I place my feet on the ground, thumb the engine cutoff and push the kickstand with my left heel. I raise my visor with my left thumb and turn the electronics off.

I bring my gloves under my chin and fumble with the strap, pull my helmet off, and sigh.

That's as smooth as I get, because then I look at you and everything else gets jumbled.

Ah, well. That's something I think I can live with.