Senin, 10 Januari 2011
Rain and Forum thought police reloaded
Much of the state I live in has become a disaster zone with floods equaling the worst on record and rain forecast to continue into the next month. Things are looking grim for many people. If you would like to help please donate to the official relief fund. As for riding there is not a lot anyone can do. I am considering pulling some parts of the CB and getting them polished or perhaps sending
Jumat, 07 Januari 2011
With Enough Speed I Could Make It
*** continued from previous post ***
Finally the line to board the boat begins to move. Slowly. Very slowly. So slow in fact that it made me contemplate if driving a 900,000 pound bike down an incredibly steep slope with Canadians fore and aft was really such a good idea. The brakes on the Vision are great . . . but man, did my legs wear out. I had to paddle that puppy most of the way.
Of course, the insanely steep hill bottoms out and then climbs up an INSANELY steep ramp up to the level of the boat. For a moment I want traffic ahead of me to clear so I can gun this baby. Catch some air. I think if I did it right, hit the angle of the ramp at just the right speed I could probably not kill us.
Probably.
We wait our turn and the Ferry-folk point us to where we should park the bike. The space they have allotted us is maddingly small, and they want me to pull so far ahead that the tire is almost touching the bulkhead. It is then that I notice something is amiss. Something is very, very wrong. The staff manning the Ferry are . . . well . . . there's no other way to put it - they're smiling. Smiling and friendly. Instantly my spidey-sense tingles. It's a trap of some sort, of that I'm sure. I've ridden enough ferries in my day to come to understand how ferry staff should behave. They do not smile. They do not make eye contact. They sigh a lot. They're armed. They have all the personality of a pit-bull PMSing. I tense - just exactly what is your game, Canada? What diabolical schemes do you have for the people from THE STATES? Will they eat us? Are we the 'afternoon tea' for this boatload of maple-leaf worshiping hockey sacks?
Turns out my fears were unfounded. They were just nice. I'm not used to that kind of crap. I find it unsettling.
So we park and mom debikes. Or disbikes. Or crawls off the frickin' thing. Take your pick.
Another motorcycle pulls up behind us. It's a Suzuki S-50. They used to call them 'Marauders', I think. It's quite a bit smaller than an 800cc Suzuki C-50 that you ride - a bullet-proof cruiser if ever there was one - but it is still a good solid bike none-the-less. The person riding it is a young woman, and we find that she is very sweet and very shy. We strike up a friendly conversation, and I can't stop thinking of how much she reminds me of you and how much I wish your sister and you were here with us.
*** the journey continues - stay tuned ***
Finally the line to board the boat begins to move. Slowly. Very slowly. So slow in fact that it made me contemplate if driving a 900,000 pound bike down an incredibly steep slope with Canadians fore and aft was really such a good idea. The brakes on the Vision are great . . . but man, did my legs wear out. I had to paddle that puppy most of the way.
Of course, the insanely steep hill bottoms out and then climbs up an INSANELY steep ramp up to the level of the boat. For a moment I want traffic ahead of me to clear so I can gun this baby. Catch some air. I think if I did it right, hit the angle of the ramp at just the right speed I could probably not kill us.
Probably.
We wait our turn and the Ferry-folk point us to where we should park the bike. The space they have allotted us is maddingly small, and they want me to pull so far ahead that the tire is almost touching the bulkhead. It is then that I notice something is amiss. Something is very, very wrong. The staff manning the Ferry are . . . well . . . there's no other way to put it - they're smiling. Smiling and friendly. Instantly my spidey-sense tingles. It's a trap of some sort, of that I'm sure. I've ridden enough ferries in my day to come to understand how ferry staff should behave. They do not smile. They do not make eye contact. They sigh a lot. They're armed. They have all the personality of a pit-bull PMSing. I tense - just exactly what is your game, Canada? What diabolical schemes do you have for the people from THE STATES? Will they eat us? Are we the 'afternoon tea' for this boatload of maple-leaf worshiping hockey sacks?
Turns out my fears were unfounded. They were just nice. I'm not used to that kind of crap. I find it unsettling.
So we park and mom debikes. Or disbikes. Or crawls off the frickin' thing. Take your pick.
Another motorcycle pulls up behind us. It's a Suzuki S-50. They used to call them 'Marauders', I think. It's quite a bit smaller than an 800cc Suzuki C-50 that you ride - a bullet-proof cruiser if ever there was one - but it is still a good solid bike none-the-less. The person riding it is a young woman, and we find that she is very sweet and very shy. We strike up a friendly conversation, and I can't stop thinking of how much she reminds me of you and how much I wish your sister and you were here with us.
*** the journey continues - stay tuned ***
Kamis, 06 Januari 2011
A Bevy of Beavers
*** continued from previous post ***
"The boat runs every half-hour. Or every hour." She pauses. "Or maybe hour-and-a-half." She shrugs. "It'll get here when it gets here." She looks at the long line of cars in front of us, and looks and the semi's backing up behind us. "Hope we all fit. It isn't a very big boat."
In my mind's eye I picture a smallish canoe with a Canadian Mountie in the bow, decked to the nines in his traditional uniform. The canoe powered by tame beavers. Now there's a thought: can you tame a beaver? That would ROCK! I would lash like six tame beavers to a rowboat and have them pull me around. Ah someday . . . the good life. What would you call a group of beavers? I think a bevy. A bevy of beavers. A bevy of beavers at my beck and call.
Damn I crack me up.
Mom and I prepare ourselves for a long, long delay. We hadn't figured this little escapade into our schedule, and although it is still early in the day I'm beginning to get a bit concerned about exactly what time we are going to arrive in Carnack, Alberta. We have Glacier and part of Banff National Parks to drive through, and although we will be on the Trans-Canada highway most of the time, I really, REALLY, want to get there before nightfall. For various reasons. Not the least of which is I promised your Mom.
Suddenly the girls let out a squeal. "Oh . . . there's the Ferry Grandma! It's coming!"
I look out into the brilliant blue water and am greeted with a pleasant surprise: There, skimming across the lake, gliding like a back-handed pimp-slap on a sweaty thug's face, is a ferry that looks like it will hold about 50 cars. Plenty of room. It's a one-deck, flat-bottomed craft with an elevated wheel-house off to the right side. Very old school, yet it looks fairly new. I notice it's hauling some serious ass in the water. It is, after all, staffed by the same speed-crazed maniacs that drive the roads around in these parts.
The Ferry is moving faster than even I had realized, and before you know it everyone has bidden adieu to their "line friends", crawled back into their vehicle, and started their engines. Mom and I hurriedly gear up, climb on the bike, and wait for the next phase of our adventure. But you know that odd feeling you get when you've been in line with someone and the conversation has run its course and then you realize that YOU'RE GOING TO THE SAME PLACE SO YOU ARE GOING TO BE WITH THEM FOR A WHILE YET ONLY NOW IT'S AWKWARD BECAUSE YOU DON'T HAVE ANYTHING ELSE TO SAY?
Yeah. That's how people were looking at us. Like they might just sit in their cars, pretending to be engrossed in what has become the most fascinating steering wheel they have ever seen, in order not to have to notice us standing outside their window. The Ferry, in all its glory, has no seating - no room at all really except for the deck which is now lousy with Canadians.
It takes a bit for the Ferry to unload. There are 18-wheelers. Campers. SUVs. Cars and delivery vans and trucks galore. We even get to see a small rear-end accident between a camper/trailer and a rental car as they exit the boat, so that's a bit of a spectacle. Really - you can't buy entertainment like that. We all slow and gawk as we board. In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have giggled like a maniac at the people exchanging insurance information, but what's done is done. You can't put the cat back in the box. It does no good to close the barn door after the horse has run away. Unless you want to spite the horse in case it wanders back. But if you do that, you also need to reinforce that you are spiting the horse, because as you well know, subtlety is usually lost on an equine. It would probably be best to tape a sign to the barn door that reads "I'M LOCKING THE BARN DOOR SO YOU CAN'T GET BACK IN. SO --- FUCK OFF HORSE!".
Seriously, you can't be too blunt with a horse.
*** the journey continues tomorrow ***
"The boat runs every half-hour. Or every hour." She pauses. "Or maybe hour-and-a-half." She shrugs. "It'll get here when it gets here." She looks at the long line of cars in front of us, and looks and the semi's backing up behind us. "Hope we all fit. It isn't a very big boat."
In my mind's eye I picture a smallish canoe with a Canadian Mountie in the bow, decked to the nines in his traditional uniform. The canoe powered by tame beavers. Now there's a thought: can you tame a beaver? That would ROCK! I would lash like six tame beavers to a rowboat and have them pull me around. Ah someday . . . the good life. What would you call a group of beavers? I think a bevy. A bevy of beavers. A bevy of beavers at my beck and call.
Damn I crack me up.
Mom and I prepare ourselves for a long, long delay. We hadn't figured this little escapade into our schedule, and although it is still early in the day I'm beginning to get a bit concerned about exactly what time we are going to arrive in Carnack, Alberta. We have Glacier and part of Banff National Parks to drive through, and although we will be on the Trans-Canada highway most of the time, I really, REALLY, want to get there before nightfall. For various reasons. Not the least of which is I promised your Mom.
Suddenly the girls let out a squeal. "Oh . . . there's the Ferry Grandma! It's coming!"
I look out into the brilliant blue water and am greeted with a pleasant surprise: There, skimming across the lake, gliding like a back-handed pimp-slap on a sweaty thug's face, is a ferry that looks like it will hold about 50 cars. Plenty of room. It's a one-deck, flat-bottomed craft with an elevated wheel-house off to the right side. Very old school, yet it looks fairly new. I notice it's hauling some serious ass in the water. It is, after all, staffed by the same speed-crazed maniacs that drive the roads around in these parts.
The Ferry is moving faster than even I had realized, and before you know it everyone has bidden adieu to their "line friends", crawled back into their vehicle, and started their engines. Mom and I hurriedly gear up, climb on the bike, and wait for the next phase of our adventure. But you know that odd feeling you get when you've been in line with someone and the conversation has run its course and then you realize that YOU'RE GOING TO THE SAME PLACE SO YOU ARE GOING TO BE WITH THEM FOR A WHILE YET ONLY NOW IT'S AWKWARD BECAUSE YOU DON'T HAVE ANYTHING ELSE TO SAY?
Yeah. That's how people were looking at us. Like they might just sit in their cars, pretending to be engrossed in what has become the most fascinating steering wheel they have ever seen, in order not to have to notice us standing outside their window. The Ferry, in all its glory, has no seating - no room at all really except for the deck which is now lousy with Canadians.
It takes a bit for the Ferry to unload. There are 18-wheelers. Campers. SUVs. Cars and delivery vans and trucks galore. We even get to see a small rear-end accident between a camper/trailer and a rental car as they exit the boat, so that's a bit of a spectacle. Really - you can't buy entertainment like that. We all slow and gawk as we board. In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have giggled like a maniac at the people exchanging insurance information, but what's done is done. You can't put the cat back in the box. It does no good to close the barn door after the horse has run away. Unless you want to spite the horse in case it wanders back. But if you do that, you also need to reinforce that you are spiting the horse, because as you well know, subtlety is usually lost on an equine. It would probably be best to tape a sign to the barn door that reads "I'M LOCKING THE BARN DOOR SO YOU CAN'T GET BACK IN. SO --- FUCK OFF HORSE!".
Seriously, you can't be too blunt with a horse.
*** the journey continues tomorrow ***
Rabu, 05 Januari 2011
Do dogs go to Heaven?
Absolutely hysterical that this happened.
These two churches face each other across the street from one another.
These two churches face each other across the street from one another.
Motorcycles, Spontaneous Combustion and the 'Pfffftttt' Years
*** continued from previous post ***
I love her immediately. The way to a man's heart may be through his stomach, but the way to a biker's heart starts with "Wow. Nice bike."
Of course, as is normal, she then proceeds to tell us every horror story in her repertoire associated with a motorcycle. It's mandatory you know. When people do this, all I hear is the line from 'Christmas Story', "You'll put your eye out with that!" Evidently, she had known many a good man that had, through no fault of their own, spontaneously combusted while riding a motorcycle. But not before their legs were ripped off by vicious moles. And their arms, well, they simply fell off. Fell like over-ripe plums in a summer breeze. Not really a reason for the arm thing other than they were on a bike. She never came out and said it, but strongly implied that what else could one expect from such a lifestyle?
Once she finishes with her itemization of accidents, deaths, severed limbs, halitosis and chronic constipation, we strike up a proper conversation. She's Native American. Although in Canada, "Indians", as they are sometimes referred to by the less educated, are called "Carl". No wait . . . that's not right. They are referred to as "First Nation People". Although she calls herself an Indian. And maybe Carl. The sociological structure of Canada is highly confusing to me.
She looks at our license plates. "Oh, you're from THE STATES!"
Yes. Yes we are. And we are not armed. Probably. Mostly.
We continue talking. We learn that she and her granddaughters, who are now running back up the hill - at a pace that makes me want to sweat or puke, I can't decide - have been camping for the last week with their extended family at an annual reunion. I think she said there were 60 or 70 people at this particular gathering. I'm impressed. I could barely manage the 11 of us in Winthrop. For three days. I give her a silent, "Well done good lady, well done."
The girls have now joined us. Sweeties. Probably 10 and 12 or 13, but not in that stage of what I fondly refer to as the "Pfffffttttttt" years. As in, whenever you ask a question of a child in this stage of development, you get the same answer. "How was school today?" Answer: "Pfffffftttttttt." "Would you like some toast?" "Pffffffffttttttttt." "Shall I kill you with a brick, or would you prefer to be dumped by the side of the road to be ravaged by a homicidal UPS driver with a speech impediment?" "Pffffffttttttt."
We chatter away. Time passes. Seasons change.
I ask Carl how often the boat runs, and how much it costs.
"Oh, it doesn't cost anything. There's no roads up here you see. No way to get across the lake. So the government has to provide some way across, and there's no way they could charge for that." She then chuckles.
I don't say anything out loud, but I beg to differ. In THE STATES they would have found a way to charge you, tax you, and made you feel guilty for even driving up here in God-knows-where in the first place.
*** the journey continues tomorrow ***
I love her immediately. The way to a man's heart may be through his stomach, but the way to a biker's heart starts with "Wow. Nice bike."
Of course, as is normal, she then proceeds to tell us every horror story in her repertoire associated with a motorcycle. It's mandatory you know. When people do this, all I hear is the line from 'Christmas Story', "You'll put your eye out with that!" Evidently, she had known many a good man that had, through no fault of their own, spontaneously combusted while riding a motorcycle. But not before their legs were ripped off by vicious moles. And their arms, well, they simply fell off. Fell like over-ripe plums in a summer breeze. Not really a reason for the arm thing other than they were on a bike. She never came out and said it, but strongly implied that what else could one expect from such a lifestyle?
Once she finishes with her itemization of accidents, deaths, severed limbs, halitosis and chronic constipation, we strike up a proper conversation. She's Native American. Although in Canada, "Indians", as they are sometimes referred to by the less educated, are called "Carl". No wait . . . that's not right. They are referred to as "First Nation People". Although she calls herself an Indian. And maybe Carl. The sociological structure of Canada is highly confusing to me.
She looks at our license plates. "Oh, you're from THE STATES!"
Yes. Yes we are. And we are not armed. Probably. Mostly.
We continue talking. We learn that she and her granddaughters, who are now running back up the hill - at a pace that makes me want to sweat or puke, I can't decide - have been camping for the last week with their extended family at an annual reunion. I think she said there were 60 or 70 people at this particular gathering. I'm impressed. I could barely manage the 11 of us in Winthrop. For three days. I give her a silent, "Well done good lady, well done."
The girls have now joined us. Sweeties. Probably 10 and 12 or 13, but not in that stage of what I fondly refer to as the "Pfffffttttttt" years. As in, whenever you ask a question of a child in this stage of development, you get the same answer. "How was school today?" Answer: "Pfffffftttttttt." "Would you like some toast?" "Pffffffffttttttttt." "Shall I kill you with a brick, or would you prefer to be dumped by the side of the road to be ravaged by a homicidal UPS driver with a speech impediment?" "Pffffffttttttt."
We chatter away. Time passes. Seasons change.
I ask Carl how often the boat runs, and how much it costs.
"Oh, it doesn't cost anything. There's no roads up here you see. No way to get across the lake. So the government has to provide some way across, and there's no way they could charge for that." She then chuckles.
I don't say anything out loud, but I beg to differ. In THE STATES they would have found a way to charge you, tax you, and made you feel guilty for even driving up here in God-knows-where in the first place.
*** the journey continues tomorrow ***
Selasa, 04 Januari 2011
Chapter 4 - FERRY OF THE DAMNED
* * * after a short mid-winter break, we return to our story with Chapter 4 of the ongoing saga * * *
A few more minutes and we see the sign for the Ferry, and follow the only path available to us - which I now notice is wet - looks like it may have sprinkled a bit in the last hour - and start a rather steep descent towards the lake.
We had been gently climbing for the last mile or two, but I hadn't realized how much we had climbed. We came around a bend in the road, and saw a line of cars parked on the incline, waiting to board the boat. I cruised behind the last car in the queue, turned off the bike and set her gently on the kick-stand. I stayed on the bike while Mom climbed off the back. I didn't want to leave the bike unattended. Did I mention how steep the hill was? Think of one of the hills heading to the waterfront from downtown Seattle. But without the bums. Or the smell of urine. Actually, replace the vagrants with tourists, and the smell of urine with the smell of trees, and the saltwater with fresh water, and the . . . well, this is just getting silly now. It was steep. Let's leave it at that.
Anyway, we are sitting there with nary a boat in sight. Now what?
"I wonder how much this will cost? Not that I really care, and not that we have a choice, but I'm curious."
Mom pulls off her helmet, and attempts to smooth her hair. It is a lost cause. I don't tell her that though, because I like my teeth.
"I don't know," Mom says, "I don't even see any signs listing the charges."
By this time a few other cars have pulled in line behind us. People are getting out of their vehicles, stretching their legs, walking their dogs, and generally doing what people do when they wait for a Ferry. Two teenage girls, carrying a bag of chips, explode from the car behind us and run down the ramp bursting with giggles and squeals to see if they can spot the Ferry. The woman driving the car climbs out, yells after the girls to be careful, then sort of loiters by the driver’s side door. Mom and I give her a quick smile and nod of our heads in a "Look at us, we are friendly American types from THE STATES and will not harm you. Probably. Mostly.", which seems to put her at ease. I hate to generalize like this, but these Canadians are way too trusting. I smell an opportunity. Anyway, she strolls over, gives the bike a good once over and says, "Wow. That is a really nice bike."
I love her immediately. The way to a man's heart may be through his stomach, but the way to a biker's heart starts with "Wow. Nice bike."
A few more minutes and we see the sign for the Ferry, and follow the only path available to us - which I now notice is wet - looks like it may have sprinkled a bit in the last hour - and start a rather steep descent towards the lake.
We had been gently climbing for the last mile or two, but I hadn't realized how much we had climbed. We came around a bend in the road, and saw a line of cars parked on the incline, waiting to board the boat. I cruised behind the last car in the queue, turned off the bike and set her gently on the kick-stand. I stayed on the bike while Mom climbed off the back. I didn't want to leave the bike unattended. Did I mention how steep the hill was? Think of one of the hills heading to the waterfront from downtown Seattle. But without the bums. Or the smell of urine. Actually, replace the vagrants with tourists, and the smell of urine with the smell of trees, and the saltwater with fresh water, and the . . . well, this is just getting silly now. It was steep. Let's leave it at that.
Anyway, we are sitting there with nary a boat in sight. Now what?
"I wonder how much this will cost? Not that I really care, and not that we have a choice, but I'm curious."
Mom pulls off her helmet, and attempts to smooth her hair. It is a lost cause. I don't tell her that though, because I like my teeth.
"I don't know," Mom says, "I don't even see any signs listing the charges."
By this time a few other cars have pulled in line behind us. People are getting out of their vehicles, stretching their legs, walking their dogs, and generally doing what people do when they wait for a Ferry. Two teenage girls, carrying a bag of chips, explode from the car behind us and run down the ramp bursting with giggles and squeals to see if they can spot the Ferry. The woman driving the car climbs out, yells after the girls to be careful, then sort of loiters by the driver’s side door. Mom and I give her a quick smile and nod of our heads in a "Look at us, we are friendly American types from THE STATES and will not harm you. Probably. Mostly.", which seems to put her at ease. I hate to generalize like this, but these Canadians are way too trusting. I smell an opportunity. Anyway, she strolls over, gives the bike a good once over and says, "Wow. That is a really nice bike."
I love her immediately. The way to a man's heart may be through his stomach, but the way to a biker's heart starts with "Wow. Nice bike."
Senin, 03 Januari 2011
Husqvarna SMQ Concept, 2009
Husqvarna SMQ Concept, 2009
SMQ – A New Concept of Bike
SMQ basic idea is to give birth to a complete new kind of motorcycle.
Exciting and easy to ride, with great handling and excellent manoeuvrability, incredibly light and fun.
Everyone will enjoy riding the SMQ, thanks to its low seat c.g. (center of gravity), tight body and power-toweight ratio.
Clear and crisp architecture. Rigorous design are tell-tale of Husqvarna lineage, whereas a well balanced mix of vintage flavour and modern technology praise the model with a “vintech” look together with a naughty character.
Shapes elegance, sensuous bodywork, details and finishing makes it 100 percent an Italian design product.
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