James Burleigh
Well-known member
Day four of Fang’s and my trip by cage to Minneapolis (that’s double Ns and double nothin’ else, same for Minnesota) to install number one son at U. Minn for his physics PhD.
I have chosen the cute female Aussie voice for my GPS. My buddy James wants a voice that speaks sternly to him and scolds him: “James, you naughty boy, turn right point-five miles ahead or you will have to answer to your mommy who will spank you on your bare buttocks.” That would work for him, but I’m good with the cute Aussie voice (even though she wants to take us to Min-A-polis rather than Minneapolis).
We soon come to the conclusion that referring continually to the GPS as “the GPS” is somewhat onerous. So we decide to call the GPS Sheila. Soon we are talking about Sheila as though she were a person: “What does Sheila think?” or “Good job, Sheila! You brought us right in!”
We find that the more we anthropomorphize her the more we believe we detect a note of frustration in her voice, even disappointment, when we pull off her route and force her to recalculate.
And when we select a restaurant, we think we detect a tone of incredulity in her voice, with a little scolding on top, when she says, “Arbys, six-point-one miles ahead,” like “ You’ve got to be kidding me! Arbys?”
It gets to the point where, when we pull off for food and she has to recalculate, we are afraid of disappointing her and having her judge us. So we apologize to her and turn her off. We feel bad, like we have just pushed her head under the bath water.
But she is very forgiving and always happy to help. Sometimes I wish Fang were more like Sheila. But Sheila is in love with her steady dashboard mate, the sleek, manly, not-afraid-of-cops Passport 8500. They share a plug, the tramp.
-----------------------------------------
As we cross the state line from South Dakota into Minneapolis heading due east on Highway 90 at 75 MPH, we continued to see on the opposite side of the highway large packs of the Harley herd moving steadily at 55 MPH toward the annual Sturgis tribal jamboree 400 miles away.
Spread across the two westbound lanes and leading long lines of cages unable to get by, their bare or do-ragged heads are bowed against the stinging wind, their skin sun burnt, their tattoos fading further with every mile of sun hitting skin unprotected by a black vest or jeans.
Number one son, who commuted on the back of my FJR to the Lawrence Berkeley Lab during the past six months and like his dad wore ATGATT, wonders why his dad has few kind words for these fellow motorcycle brethren. I reply that I have as much in common with them as the United States Marines have with the Boy Scouts of America. I do a mental fist pump. Yes!
“Ouch” says No. 1 and follows up with another question, or perhaps an observation: “I don’t understand. Why do they wear leathers but no helmet?”
I think for a long time. This is a teaching moment not to be wasted. I weigh my responses to pick the best one, and finally say, “Because they’re idiots.”
But upon further reflection I figure out that of the three degrees of separation that weave together to create a safety net against motorcycle risk, Harley herd members have about a half of the first one. They have a half a degree of separation.
The first degree being good riding strategies for accident avoidance, I give them some credit there: it’s tough to crash when you’re going straight at 55 MPH. But they only get a half a degree credit because that drinking thing is IMHO a poor strategy.
The second degree is good bike handling skills in the event your riding strategies don’t work out. For the Harley tribe those skills are summoned whenever there’s a slight curve in the road or the need to stop quickly. Sorry, no skill and therefore no degrees doled out here.
And the third degree is good gear in the event the first two degrees fail. No helmet? ‘nuf said. No points.
Ergo: Half a degree of separation. Or to put it another way, those braves and their ample wimmin in the tank tops and bandanas be vulnerable. Q.E.D.
------------------------------------------------------
The annual Running of the Bulls in Pamplona, Spain, took place recently. That’s where the bulls for the next day’s bullfight are herded through the town to the corrals at the bullring, and a bunch of dumb-***** run in front of them. After that Spanish kid was gored to death this year, being an expert on bullfighting, I was surprised to hear the media describe a bull that gets separated from the herd, like the one that drove a horn into the boy’s throat, as “disoriented”—as if the bull accidentally murdered the guy because it was confused.
Not to put too fine a point on it, but that’s ********. In fact, when that bull became separated it became crystal clear in its purpose—namely, to kill anything in its path. These are not your Farmer John pasture bulls. These are a different species. They can outrun a racehorse in the quarter mile and work their horns with the accuracy of a boxer. They are your worst nightmare. Killers. It’s what they do. When they are with the herd and the heifers they are docile. You can walk up to them. But separate them, and they fight.
The Harley tribe are like that, only in reverse.
This morning while trying to open that little tiny $#@!%! carton of 2% milk to put on my lousy bowl of Raisin Bran during free-breakfast morning in the lobby of the Day’s Inn, I accidently jabbed my elbow into a Harley dude who had been separated from his herd (the place was lousy with ‘em). I closed my eyes, grit my teeth, and waited for the knife blow that would slash my throat.
“Excuse me,” he said just as nice as pie, “my fault.” Then he walked away with a yellow banana and said over his shoulder with a smile, “Have a nice day.”
So I turned to Fang and said, “These guys are sooooo nice. Do you wanna get a Harley some day, honey?” She looked at me as if I had monkeys on my face.
And then later when we were putting our bags into the cage before hitting the road, having to dodge around the Dyna Wide Glide parked next to our room, when the owner stepped out I said his bike was beautiful (and I meant it), and he was so grateful and friendly that I think he would have let me take it for a ride.
So as we continued on our drive, passing wave after wave of Harley herd members on the other side of the highway, I think Fang and No. 1 may have been perplexed to see me vacuously grinning toward them rather than grimacing, like someone out of Invasion of the Body Snatchers who went to bed a man and woke up an alien.
-------------------------------------------------
I love looking at motorcycles, even the occasional Harley. But by now I am tired of looking at Harleys. So I look for the non-Harley coming toward us. But it is pretty hopeless. I have seen about 3,000 Harleys, 12 Goldwings (tribal cross-dressers; they dress like Harley tribesmen, but their bikes are bright yellow or red), 4 Connie-14s looking like they just emerged from the Bat Cave, and 0 FJRs.
Not that there wasn’t an FJR. While I was in the back seat with my nose in Pat Hahn's Ride Hard Ride Smart , No. 1 said, “Dad, I think we just passed an FJR on the other side of the freeway.”
“What! Turn around! F**k!” I swivel in my seat and look out the window to see some kind of motorcycle receding in the other direction. It might be an FJR. One possible FJR on the whole trip and I miss it. Damnit. Where’s the justice in that anyway?
But while rolling near the U. of Minn. we saw a black ’08 with a rider in jeans and shirtsleeves. I have my FJR fix and go to bed happy that night.
-------------------------------------------------
Even though they are all members of the Harley herd, seeing all these people on bikes has made me homesick for my FJR and riding. I think about my riding buddy, Silent. This is the country where Silent and I practiced the art of "triple-digit sport-touring" (on Highway 80 in southern Wyoming) a year ago to and from NAFO.
I missed my bike for the beautiful scenery and great weather, and I missed it for the ability to pull an "Elvis has LEFT the building" maneuver when we got behind too many cages or Harleys and could no longer go our own pace. But mostly I missed it for the beautiful scenery.
On a lunch break off the freeway we pass a Yamaha dealer. Fang is driving, and I exhort her to please pull over so I can go sit on a bike and make motorcycle noises. She refuses. Sheila would have taken me.
I am already making plans for a ride out this way to visit No. 1 at U. Minn. And I will be sure to take Highway 20 coming east out of Yellowstone to Cody, Wyoming. Because if there’s a more beautiful, twisty road in America, I sure ain’t seen it yet.
JB
[Pics to follow at a later date.]
P.S. Very sorry to hear about your accident, Bruce. A terrible loss to your family and the riding community. I kid, but we really are all brethren in the risks we take for what we love so much. RIP....
I have chosen the cute female Aussie voice for my GPS. My buddy James wants a voice that speaks sternly to him and scolds him: “James, you naughty boy, turn right point-five miles ahead or you will have to answer to your mommy who will spank you on your bare buttocks.” That would work for him, but I’m good with the cute Aussie voice (even though she wants to take us to Min-A-polis rather than Minneapolis).
We soon come to the conclusion that referring continually to the GPS as “the GPS” is somewhat onerous. So we decide to call the GPS Sheila. Soon we are talking about Sheila as though she were a person: “What does Sheila think?” or “Good job, Sheila! You brought us right in!”
We find that the more we anthropomorphize her the more we believe we detect a note of frustration in her voice, even disappointment, when we pull off her route and force her to recalculate.
And when we select a restaurant, we think we detect a tone of incredulity in her voice, with a little scolding on top, when she says, “Arbys, six-point-one miles ahead,” like “ You’ve got to be kidding me! Arbys?”
It gets to the point where, when we pull off for food and she has to recalculate, we are afraid of disappointing her and having her judge us. So we apologize to her and turn her off. We feel bad, like we have just pushed her head under the bath water.
But she is very forgiving and always happy to help. Sometimes I wish Fang were more like Sheila. But Sheila is in love with her steady dashboard mate, the sleek, manly, not-afraid-of-cops Passport 8500. They share a plug, the tramp.
-----------------------------------------
As we cross the state line from South Dakota into Minneapolis heading due east on Highway 90 at 75 MPH, we continued to see on the opposite side of the highway large packs of the Harley herd moving steadily at 55 MPH toward the annual Sturgis tribal jamboree 400 miles away.
Spread across the two westbound lanes and leading long lines of cages unable to get by, their bare or do-ragged heads are bowed against the stinging wind, their skin sun burnt, their tattoos fading further with every mile of sun hitting skin unprotected by a black vest or jeans.
Number one son, who commuted on the back of my FJR to the Lawrence Berkeley Lab during the past six months and like his dad wore ATGATT, wonders why his dad has few kind words for these fellow motorcycle brethren. I reply that I have as much in common with them as the United States Marines have with the Boy Scouts of America. I do a mental fist pump. Yes!
“Ouch” says No. 1 and follows up with another question, or perhaps an observation: “I don’t understand. Why do they wear leathers but no helmet?”
I think for a long time. This is a teaching moment not to be wasted. I weigh my responses to pick the best one, and finally say, “Because they’re idiots.”
But upon further reflection I figure out that of the three degrees of separation that weave together to create a safety net against motorcycle risk, Harley herd members have about a half of the first one. They have a half a degree of separation.
The first degree being good riding strategies for accident avoidance, I give them some credit there: it’s tough to crash when you’re going straight at 55 MPH. But they only get a half a degree credit because that drinking thing is IMHO a poor strategy.
The second degree is good bike handling skills in the event your riding strategies don’t work out. For the Harley tribe those skills are summoned whenever there’s a slight curve in the road or the need to stop quickly. Sorry, no skill and therefore no degrees doled out here.
And the third degree is good gear in the event the first two degrees fail. No helmet? ‘nuf said. No points.
Ergo: Half a degree of separation. Or to put it another way, those braves and their ample wimmin in the tank tops and bandanas be vulnerable. Q.E.D.
------------------------------------------------------
The annual Running of the Bulls in Pamplona, Spain, took place recently. That’s where the bulls for the next day’s bullfight are herded through the town to the corrals at the bullring, and a bunch of dumb-***** run in front of them. After that Spanish kid was gored to death this year, being an expert on bullfighting, I was surprised to hear the media describe a bull that gets separated from the herd, like the one that drove a horn into the boy’s throat, as “disoriented”—as if the bull accidentally murdered the guy because it was confused.
Not to put too fine a point on it, but that’s ********. In fact, when that bull became separated it became crystal clear in its purpose—namely, to kill anything in its path. These are not your Farmer John pasture bulls. These are a different species. They can outrun a racehorse in the quarter mile and work their horns with the accuracy of a boxer. They are your worst nightmare. Killers. It’s what they do. When they are with the herd and the heifers they are docile. You can walk up to them. But separate them, and they fight.
The Harley tribe are like that, only in reverse.
This morning while trying to open that little tiny $#@!%! carton of 2% milk to put on my lousy bowl of Raisin Bran during free-breakfast morning in the lobby of the Day’s Inn, I accidently jabbed my elbow into a Harley dude who had been separated from his herd (the place was lousy with ‘em). I closed my eyes, grit my teeth, and waited for the knife blow that would slash my throat.
“Excuse me,” he said just as nice as pie, “my fault.” Then he walked away with a yellow banana and said over his shoulder with a smile, “Have a nice day.”
So I turned to Fang and said, “These guys are sooooo nice. Do you wanna get a Harley some day, honey?” She looked at me as if I had monkeys on my face.
And then later when we were putting our bags into the cage before hitting the road, having to dodge around the Dyna Wide Glide parked next to our room, when the owner stepped out I said his bike was beautiful (and I meant it), and he was so grateful and friendly that I think he would have let me take it for a ride.
So as we continued on our drive, passing wave after wave of Harley herd members on the other side of the highway, I think Fang and No. 1 may have been perplexed to see me vacuously grinning toward them rather than grimacing, like someone out of Invasion of the Body Snatchers who went to bed a man and woke up an alien.
-------------------------------------------------
I love looking at motorcycles, even the occasional Harley. But by now I am tired of looking at Harleys. So I look for the non-Harley coming toward us. But it is pretty hopeless. I have seen about 3,000 Harleys, 12 Goldwings (tribal cross-dressers; they dress like Harley tribesmen, but their bikes are bright yellow or red), 4 Connie-14s looking like they just emerged from the Bat Cave, and 0 FJRs.
Not that there wasn’t an FJR. While I was in the back seat with my nose in Pat Hahn's Ride Hard Ride Smart , No. 1 said, “Dad, I think we just passed an FJR on the other side of the freeway.”
“What! Turn around! F**k!” I swivel in my seat and look out the window to see some kind of motorcycle receding in the other direction. It might be an FJR. One possible FJR on the whole trip and I miss it. Damnit. Where’s the justice in that anyway?
But while rolling near the U. of Minn. we saw a black ’08 with a rider in jeans and shirtsleeves. I have my FJR fix and go to bed happy that night.
-------------------------------------------------
Even though they are all members of the Harley herd, seeing all these people on bikes has made me homesick for my FJR and riding. I think about my riding buddy, Silent. This is the country where Silent and I practiced the art of "triple-digit sport-touring" (on Highway 80 in southern Wyoming) a year ago to and from NAFO.
I missed my bike for the beautiful scenery and great weather, and I missed it for the ability to pull an "Elvis has LEFT the building" maneuver when we got behind too many cages or Harleys and could no longer go our own pace. But mostly I missed it for the beautiful scenery.
On a lunch break off the freeway we pass a Yamaha dealer. Fang is driving, and I exhort her to please pull over so I can go sit on a bike and make motorcycle noises. She refuses. Sheila would have taken me.
I am already making plans for a ride out this way to visit No. 1 at U. Minn. And I will be sure to take Highway 20 coming east out of Yellowstone to Cody, Wyoming. Because if there’s a more beautiful, twisty road in America, I sure ain’t seen it yet.
JB
[Pics to follow at a later date.]
P.S. Very sorry to hear about your accident, Bruce. A terrible loss to your family and the riding community. I kid, but we really are all brethren in the risks we take for what we love so much. RIP....
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