MALAHAT, CHUCKANUT, AND "ROCKET CHICK"

I put another 400 miles on my new bike this weekend with Lorinda. We rode about 400 miles by going from Seattle to Anacortes, took a ferry to Sidney (on Vancouver Island), then rode to Nanaimo, took a ferry from there to Tsawassen, B.C., then rode back down through Blaine to Seattle.

Most important fact from this weekend: I have completed Phase 1 of my engine break-in period and can now go over 4,000 RPM without worrying about the engine. I'm supposed to keep the revs below 6,000 RPM for another couple hundred miles.

Our ride from Sidney northward was quite a treat, because we climbed the famous Malahat Drive which provides stunning views of Saanich Inlet. There is where I got my first real taste of what it's like to ride a motorcycle on "twisties". Aaaaahhh, so much fun. My tires still sport some pretty wide chicken strips, but I can live with that. Literally.

After spending the night with Lorinda's father in Nanaimo, we rode to Duke Point to catch a mid-day ferry back to mainland B.C. (Tsawassen). One of my favorite things so far about riding a motorcycle is that you get to go to the front of the line at the ferry! And you get to disembark first. While we were waiting for the ferry at Duke Point, the B.C. Hell's Angels (or some subset of them) rode up behind us on their appropriately decked-out variety of Harleys. Suddenly my crotch rocket didn't seem so cool any more. I also decided that I, too, need to put a red-and-white sticker on my bike which says either "If you can't beat them, have them beaten" or "Fuck off or get beaten". That way I'll fit in better when I find myself cavorting with Hell's Angels. Oh, and a tattoo. But I draw the line at the shirtless, black leather vest look. I'll stick with my synthetic mesh.

When I parked my bike in the ferry I was extra careful to make sure I put my kickstand down so I didn't drop my 600 pound bike against the Harley to my left and thus start a lovely domino chain reaction of collapsing Harleys. I told you bikes can kill you!

One of the toothless, tattooed Harley dudes (yeah, THAT one) became enthralled with the cool tail light on Lorinda's Suzuki (it *is* pretty cool, with its parallel dual vertical red lines). He proceeded to examine the tail light on all his fellow Angels' bikes to see if anyone had a light as cool as Lorinda's. I heard him loudly exclaim to one leather-clad colleague, while gesturing our way: "...you should see Rocket Chick! You need to get a tail light like hers..."

Lorinda shall hereafter be referred to as "Rocket Chick". Once given a nickname by a Hell's Angel, one must always be called by that name.

And I have to say: the sound of 15 Harley engines revving (prematurely) inside the lower deck of a ferry while we were poised to emerge was quite thrilling. Loud, but thrilling. The only thing similar I've experienced in my life was sitting in an NBA basketball arena during a deciding game of a playoff series, when your team is the underdog, and they're playing at home. (The sound of my Kawasaki was absolutely dwarfed; I had to triple check to make sure my engine was even running).

Since it was about 90 degrees out on Sunday, the 30 minute wait at the border was absolutely excruciating. We practically melted inside our black gear. I think I have burns on my feet from the transfer of heat. Ugh.

However, the suffering was forgotten when, an hour or so later, I took Lorinda through my version of Malahat. We rode through Fairhaven and then followed Chuckanut Drive south to Bow. Again, I got to experience some fun twisties and Lorinda had so much fun she almost insisted that we turn around and backtrack so we could ride it again, immediately.

We stopped for dinner at The Outback Steakhouse in Burlington. I wrapped my right hand around the cold glass of ice water in an attempt to subdue the throbbing pain which was the result of gripping my throttle so hard. I am still adjusting to the repetitive stress of the vibrations of the bike. Lorinda shared with me that she felt the same way a year and a half ago, and assured me that the pain does go away eventually.

As we approached Seattle along 99, crossing over Fremont, the setting sun lit up the downtown skyscrapers in spectacular fashion and regal Mt. Rainier glowed imposingly in the distance. Thank god for my full face helmet or I'd have dead bugs splattered all over my teeth because I'd had a perma-grin for several miles.

I think I'm going to like this road-tripping thing. As long as I don't piss off any Hell's Angels.

At the risk of turning my blog into some sort of Motorcycle Diary, I must share that I rode my new motorcycle on the freeway for the first time yesterday and I managed not to die. That makes me extremely happy.

Here is a picture of The Lovely and Talented Lorinda and her protegé Max:



By the way: 80 MPH on a motorcycle is heart-thumpingly cool. I don't have any plans to find out what 80 PLUS feels like. Stay tuned, however. The engine break-in period is almost complete.

While cruising north yesterday towards Bellingham on a satisfyingly flat and mostly straight stretch of I-5, my thoughts turned to rock climbing. I realized suddenly that the compulsion which places me on the end of a rope while I cling to a rockwall is the same compulsion which now places me on the back of a crotch rocket. There are times, while rock climbing, that my body feels completely exhausted and my fingers, arms, or calves ache painfully and I simply want to... let go... But I can't! Not if I'm going to stay alive. So I simply DON'T let go. Similarly, the motorcycle experience engages my biological survivalism in a way that my day-to-day Dilbert-like office existence does not. I'm not saying that I am a thrill-seeking maniac in search of a dramatic death. I am merely saying I am bored. I don't like taking dramatic risks, but I do like a little stimulation now and then.

The Mountaineers' Bible, which has probably sold more copies than Gutenberg's Bible, is aptly titled "The Freedom of the Hills". Most alpine adventurists will tell you that they crave the visceral engagement they acquire when faced with steep challenges and breathtaking beauty. Crossing a glacier and summiting a snow-covered two-mile-high volcanic peak constitutes a true sense of freedom.

Riding my motorcycle has elicited something similar for me. I have now discovered a Freedom of the Roads which was not available to me while behind the steering wheel of a 4-wheeled cage.

My dad is so going to kill me.

That is, if my new motorcycle doesn't take care of that first. I just brought home a new Kawasaki Z750S tonight:



It's a 2005 model but was still in the dealer showroom so was marked down considerably. In spite of the markdown, I'm still not going to confess how much money I just spent on the toy.

On my very first ride this evening, I rode to the top of Queen Anne hill (which isn't far because I live halfway up Taylor Ave), got gas, then rode home. (It's been a long time since I filled up a gas tank for under $10!). While I was filling the tank, the clouds unleashed a heavy downpour of rain and I got to experience two wheels on wet pavement. I guess I better hurry up and buy some serious biker clothing if I'm going to try riding in Seattle. My jeans and Columbia jacket are now hung up to dry.

OK, what I WILL confess is that I had Lorinda ride the bike from the dealership in Renton back to our place. I didn't want to run the risk of having my first freeway ride coincide with serious rainfall. She gushed about the bike's rideability and I suspect I may have to fight her over my own bike. Good thing I like her Suzuki SV650S. I may end up riding it a lot.