Yesterday (not today) since the temps had climbed above 70 (actually reached the mid 80's for a while) made a little impromptu Sunday RTE with the spousal unit up to the
Yankee Smokehouse in Ossipee, NH for lunch.
On the way up we took a few of the funner roads that way, one of which is Route 156, a twisty little route that runs alongside Pawtuckaway Lake 'tween Raymond and Nottingham. There was fairly light traffic for a Sunday, and there are a few good (marked) passing zones that let me dispatch a couple of speed-limit driving cages, one at a time, only to be disappointed to see the dreaded flashing blues in my rearview mirrors.
Quickly reviewing my prior actions in my head, and with my wife over the intercom, I realized, Hey, wait a minute here... I didn't really do (much of) anything wrong! I had (uncharacteristically) only passed in the passing zones, and wasn't really going all that fast (on an FJR scale).
Not only that, but my trusty Radar Detector had been totally silent the entire time.
After finding a safe wide place to pull off the roadside, I flipped open the modular helmet to take full advantage of displaying my grizzled Van Dyke, removed my riding gloves and dark sun glasses, and waited for the impending LEO interrogation to begin.
He approached and asked for my license and registration. As I began to pull them out he then explained that he pulled me over because he didn't know why I had passed those two cars back there who were doing the speed limit.
"Any particular reason you did that?"
I withheld any comment.
"You were going at least 60."
"Oh, I don't think I was going 60."
(I'm thinking to myself, no... more like 70. But you didn't get me on radar. )
"Those cars were going the speed limit. You had to have been going 60 when you passed them"
No comment.
After a long period of searching records in the cruiser he returned and handed me a yellow performance certificate (not a full award because it was just a warning) on which he noted I was going 60 in a 40 mph zone and that this was established by radar. Either my man was full of it or I gotta get me a new canary.
But any day with a warning instead of a ticket is a good day.
And then... the ribs were well worth the effort.
Those are their smokehouse beef ribs and they were not undercooked in the least. All of that wonderful red color is the smoke-ring. Fresh loaf of hot corn bread with maple infused butter. Josie had the thin sliced Beef Brisket sammich which was almost as good as my ribs.
The only downside to this place is they do tend to draw a good sized crowd, especially on the weekends, many of which are on two (and over proportionally three) wheels, the majority of whom are members of the Pirate Dress-Up club.
As we were coming out of the restaurant we got to watch as a buccaneer biker chick on her very own Hardley decided to make some custom body alterations on my (still nearly new) 2014 FJR1300 out in the bike parking area. Seems that in her attempt at getting her "big hog" into the narrow motorcycle only space next to mine, she "couldn't keep her up" and "just had to lay her down." Right onto my left side saddlebag.
Of course all the gallant Hardley Ablemen dashed to her assistance and instantly righted the napping Sportster before any chrome became oil stained, or the bike became too accustomed to the horizontal position it had so readily engaged.
In
her defense, while the Ablemen, (including her main squeeze) were laser focused
only on the condition of her shiny 800, Chickee, though clearly on an adrenaline high, was quite apologetic and concerned for my bike's condition. Apparently she has not received the full brainwashing treatment from the black and orange crowd yet.
After a quick but full survey, the total damage to my new Bass Bote
Red Beauty was found to have been one fully amputated saddlebag reflector, period. The double-sided foam tape had simply let go and the reflector was lying on the ground. Nothing else was even scratched. How lucky was that?
I told her after I'd looked at it, that I kind of like it better without the reflector (which is true) and that I may just go home and remove the other one. Maybe she had done be a solid with the reflector-ectomy. Her bike had also not suffered any visible damage. I suppose my FJR had adequately insulated her pride and joy from any tarmac rash.
All in all I was lucky
twice in one day, we had an otherwise fantastic ride day, the FJR returned nearly 45 mpg on the tank when I filled her up (250 miles on 5.6 gallons) and that's pretty darned good for me. I'm pretty sure that I just used up a good percentage of my karma stash in one glorious afternoon. I might have got lucky a third time yesterday, but I'm not the type to tell those kind of tales...
