James Burleigh
Well-known member
PART I.
A few years ago when I first started riding murder-cycles, a buddy of mine who used to ride gave me a warning: "A driver in the lane right next to you," he said, "will look RIGHT AT YOU, and then merge into you."
I'll be damned if that exact thing didn't just happen to me on the freeway coming home from work Friday night. Never had anything like it happen before. In fact, I pride myself in having had very few (very very few) "close calls" in all my miles of urban commuting (a thought echoed by Amy Holland in her "From the Editor" piece in the May Friction Zone). In reflecting on the incident, I've concluded that the subject driver was clinically insane, either permanently or temporarily.
But man, that Friday ride home was a strange one anyhow. :huh: We like to say casually that drivers are out to get us. But this was the first day I ever felt that drivers were literally trying to kill me. (Well, maybe except for that one time when I had my Sportster and the driver ahead of me on the freeway on-ramp slowed deliberately, almost causing me to fly through his back window. :glare: )
Anyway, that Friday afternoon I’d learned that my new Gerbing heated liner had finally come into California Sport Touring (CST), and I was anxious to go pick it up on the way home from work since it'd been weeks since I ordered it, and commute mornings are still chili con carne--something like 60F! :cold:
CST closed at 6:30. It was about a 45-minute ride there from work, including getting to my bike and suiting up. But that day I wasn't able to get out of work till about 5:40. I felt rushed, and the adrenalin (friend or foe?) was beginning to seep into my blood. I could feel it in the form of a tension in my chest (no, not a pain like I felt last Thanksgiving :no2: ).
When I got on the road I threaded my way through thick rush-hour traffic in downtown Berkeley, trying to get to the freeway. I've always said that I like to go fast on a motorcycle, but that I hate to be in a hurry on a motorcycle. What happened next was proof that it's a bad idea to be in a hurry on a motorcycle:
As I threaded my way in traffic toward a signal, I abruptly changed lanes into the lane on my left, and just as I crossed the line a car in the same lane went flying by inches from my left shoulder. Where in the hell did he come from! Well, if I'd looked I might have been able to answer that question. :fool: (And that was more proof that a "soft" lane change habit can save your bacon.)
I finally got on the freeway after that sobering reminder to pay the f**k attention and calm down (I could still feel that adrenalin in my chest from wanting to get to CST before they locked my sweet new warm liner behind cement walls).
As soon as I got on the freeway I realized it was the worst kind of freeway commute traffic: fast-moving Friday light. It’s the worst kind because it combines the aggression and anxiety (anxious to get home) of rush-hour commuting with high freeway speeds (75 – 85, with the occasional ***-hat weaving in an out at 90+). This giddy cocktail of adrenalin and speed create a high-risk environment for motorcyclists, and in such conditions I generally feel like an ant on a sidewalk, wondering “Where are they gonna get me from?” So my guard was up more than usual (is that even possible?).
Finally I rolled into CST, where I picked up the new heated liner and as many free motorcycle mags as they carry. And oh yeah, a set of headlight bulbs, because when I pulled up to the front of the store with its reflective glass panes, that’s when I realized both my low beams were burned out. WTF! That, and my left turn signal indicator was burned out. What was I thinking! (How embarrassing—And you call yourself a safety-conscious motorcyclist?)
From there it was time to hit Highway 4, that four lane (two each direction), rural, rolling, winding public race circuit. But I’d got my liner and tamed my adrenalin, so I would just mellow out, albeit with my brights on, and let the commute maniacs fly by me. At least that was the plan….
Highway 4, that public race circuit....
(Oops. Look at the time. GTG! Have to go test out my new heated liner while it's still really cold this morning (66F), then do lesson planning for my Thursday lecture, then go have a Mother's Day BBQ.... More later....)
A few years ago when I first started riding murder-cycles, a buddy of mine who used to ride gave me a warning: "A driver in the lane right next to you," he said, "will look RIGHT AT YOU, and then merge into you."
I'll be damned if that exact thing didn't just happen to me on the freeway coming home from work Friday night. Never had anything like it happen before. In fact, I pride myself in having had very few (very very few) "close calls" in all my miles of urban commuting (a thought echoed by Amy Holland in her "From the Editor" piece in the May Friction Zone). In reflecting on the incident, I've concluded that the subject driver was clinically insane, either permanently or temporarily.
But man, that Friday ride home was a strange one anyhow. :huh: We like to say casually that drivers are out to get us. But this was the first day I ever felt that drivers were literally trying to kill me. (Well, maybe except for that one time when I had my Sportster and the driver ahead of me on the freeway on-ramp slowed deliberately, almost causing me to fly through his back window. :glare: )
Anyway, that Friday afternoon I’d learned that my new Gerbing heated liner had finally come into California Sport Touring (CST), and I was anxious to go pick it up on the way home from work since it'd been weeks since I ordered it, and commute mornings are still chili con carne--something like 60F! :cold:
CST closed at 6:30. It was about a 45-minute ride there from work, including getting to my bike and suiting up. But that day I wasn't able to get out of work till about 5:40. I felt rushed, and the adrenalin (friend or foe?) was beginning to seep into my blood. I could feel it in the form of a tension in my chest (no, not a pain like I felt last Thanksgiving :no2: ).
When I got on the road I threaded my way through thick rush-hour traffic in downtown Berkeley, trying to get to the freeway. I've always said that I like to go fast on a motorcycle, but that I hate to be in a hurry on a motorcycle. What happened next was proof that it's a bad idea to be in a hurry on a motorcycle:
As I threaded my way in traffic toward a signal, I abruptly changed lanes into the lane on my left, and just as I crossed the line a car in the same lane went flying by inches from my left shoulder. Where in the hell did he come from! Well, if I'd looked I might have been able to answer that question. :fool: (And that was more proof that a "soft" lane change habit can save your bacon.)
I finally got on the freeway after that sobering reminder to pay the f**k attention and calm down (I could still feel that adrenalin in my chest from wanting to get to CST before they locked my sweet new warm liner behind cement walls).
As soon as I got on the freeway I realized it was the worst kind of freeway commute traffic: fast-moving Friday light. It’s the worst kind because it combines the aggression and anxiety (anxious to get home) of rush-hour commuting with high freeway speeds (75 – 85, with the occasional ***-hat weaving in an out at 90+). This giddy cocktail of adrenalin and speed create a high-risk environment for motorcyclists, and in such conditions I generally feel like an ant on a sidewalk, wondering “Where are they gonna get me from?” So my guard was up more than usual (is that even possible?).
Finally I rolled into CST, where I picked up the new heated liner and as many free motorcycle mags as they carry. And oh yeah, a set of headlight bulbs, because when I pulled up to the front of the store with its reflective glass panes, that’s when I realized both my low beams were burned out. WTF! That, and my left turn signal indicator was burned out. What was I thinking! (How embarrassing—And you call yourself a safety-conscious motorcyclist?)
From there it was time to hit Highway 4, that four lane (two each direction), rural, rolling, winding public race circuit. But I’d got my liner and tamed my adrenalin, so I would just mellow out, albeit with my brights on, and let the commute maniacs fly by me. At least that was the plan….
Highway 4, that public race circuit....
(Oops. Look at the time. GTG! Have to go test out my new heated liner while it's still really cold this morning (66F), then do lesson planning for my Thursday lecture, then go have a Mother's Day BBQ.... More later....)
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:dribble: :huh: <_< :angry2: 
