flash412
Loose Cannon
If we live long enough, there comes a time when we will all have to relinquish the keys to the bike. My pal Edward and I probably rode 75,000 miles together, mostly around Tennessee, western North Carolina, North Georgia and southern Kentucky. Due to occupational repetitive motion injuries, he's had surguries on shoulders and wrists and elbows over the last decade. He decided that it just hurts too much to ride for even an hour and he can't afford the consequences of going down. Edward's "toaster tank" R75/5 was named "Gaugain." He sold his bike recently and sent me this note (posted with his permission)...
From: xxxxxxx
Date: Fri, 25 Jun 2004 10:02:51 EDT
Subject: <sigh>
Greetings from the other side, (you know, that side that doesn't own a
motorcycle)
Yesterday I stood on the porch and watched my motorcycle being ridden
off by a stranger. Though, after 124,000 miles, the $2,300 in my pocket didn't
do a lot to lighten my heart. The air was crystal clear and everything seemed
like it was in slow motion, sorta like the time I was sliding down an East
Tennessee backroad on some hillbilly's spilled antifreeze. I stood there
listening until there was nothing to hear and in the quiet I heard some giant door
slam on 38 years of riding two wheels. A void in the cosmos like I had never
felt before. It sure sounded good, but he was a little rough on the shifts and
there was no need to blip the throttle like that when he stopped at the stop
sign.
There is nothing left in the shop but all those parts (that were supposed
to have kept the bike running for the rest of my life), and some curling
pictures of David and I scattered all over the Blue Ridge. There are several
shots tucked behind a license plate that says "I Lean" and I can still remember
the soft bumps of a valve cover kissing pavement on fully loaded days going to
Suches. It will be impossible to recreate the sensory world of cornering with
my hands on the bars (steer with the shoulder), feet on the pegs(a little more
weight on the inside), eyes on the apex (don't look over therrrrrreeeeeeeee..),
and ears locked to that funky muffler on the R80 G/S in front of me, waiting to
hear it come on the pipe so I could open my throttles to the stops and
enjoy the g's. There was never a more trustworthy riding partner than the Flash
and I will be eternally grateful for the miles we had. We got away with
murder out there.
Nothing like a toaster tank to start a conversation, and it was my ticket
into the gates of the ROK. Ah, the ROK, "DEAL WITH IT". I don't think those
early rallies fully appreciated the creative and aesthetic contribution we
made to their repressed and sanitary world. Who else would have built such big
bonfires at Maggie when the weekend didn't get above 30 degrees? Who else
would have helped Frank Cheek release his inner ******* so often and so
completely? We had it all figured out for a while there, no?
It was a learning experience to keep up with the pace as the bikes around
me were continually upgraded. I never got around to slipping those 900 jugs on
that 750, but the dual plugs and Hi-comp pistons helped a little.
Ultimately, though, it was no contest with the disc brakes, horsepower and
granite-headed learning curve until the old toaster and I got "Stung" like all
the rest. It is a testament to Rich's skill that throughout the mayhem around us,
nary a wreck nor lay-down has marred the history, ('cept for that little thing with
the ice, which any of us can understand).
There are some memories that I don't expect to ever go away, and not all
of them happened at 90 feet per second. Opening the tent flap on a foggy
morning to see the dew dripping off the mirrors, marveling at the lack of anything
that could rust on such a marvelous machine. Ah, find the roach before I pull
on my jeans and just sit there looking for a while. Noticing how beautiful
the new yellow Elephant boy tank bag cover looked perched atop the chrome, black
and aluminum sculpture. Wondering just how far into the Georgia dirt a
side-stand would go and how much oil there might be on the bottom left-side plug
and how long it will take to burn off and clear away. Smokey sez, only you can
pre-fire forest vents. Smokey mourns, indeed.
Did we race? h*ll yea. Everytime we got on them, we could even do it
without gas, if need be. It was always unspoken competition, but we all knew
what we were doing. To this day, Van Huss doesn't know how easy it was to keep
up with him in the corners, only the straights allowed him some distance.
Sheffield was always out of sight, but on the rockets he rode, there was nothing
else to be expected. Some of us were nuts, as shown by road-side oil changes
on the way to dinner, and some Wizards of Oz couldn't ride 5 miles on a new
bike without tossing it off the road.
Were we crazy? Thankfully, yes. Did we love what we were doing? No need
to even ask. Will I miss it? Yes, I will, but bikes wear out, break, or
leave with strangers on sunny summer afternoons. Ultimately,they are just
things, and things are not as important as people. More to the point, the friends
I made over the bikes, (that would be y'all) are more important than a new set
of K-81's or a warehouse of Mobil 1. I wouldn't trade the times we had, and
the times we may, for a brand new Spagthorpe anything.
I really, really, liked my bike, (ol' 4000483), but I do love you all.
Keep it up, fast, and safe. And if you have to choose, well..... two out of
three ain't bad.
xoxox
Edward
From: xxxxxxx
Date: Fri, 25 Jun 2004 10:02:51 EDT
Subject: <sigh>
Greetings from the other side, (you know, that side that doesn't own a
motorcycle)
Yesterday I stood on the porch and watched my motorcycle being ridden
off by a stranger. Though, after 124,000 miles, the $2,300 in my pocket didn't
do a lot to lighten my heart. The air was crystal clear and everything seemed
like it was in slow motion, sorta like the time I was sliding down an East
Tennessee backroad on some hillbilly's spilled antifreeze. I stood there
listening until there was nothing to hear and in the quiet I heard some giant door
slam on 38 years of riding two wheels. A void in the cosmos like I had never
felt before. It sure sounded good, but he was a little rough on the shifts and
there was no need to blip the throttle like that when he stopped at the stop
sign.
There is nothing left in the shop but all those parts (that were supposed
to have kept the bike running for the rest of my life), and some curling
pictures of David and I scattered all over the Blue Ridge. There are several
shots tucked behind a license plate that says "I Lean" and I can still remember
the soft bumps of a valve cover kissing pavement on fully loaded days going to
Suches. It will be impossible to recreate the sensory world of cornering with
my hands on the bars (steer with the shoulder), feet on the pegs(a little more
weight on the inside), eyes on the apex (don't look over therrrrrreeeeeeeee..),
and ears locked to that funky muffler on the R80 G/S in front of me, waiting to
hear it come on the pipe so I could open my throttles to the stops and
enjoy the g's. There was never a more trustworthy riding partner than the Flash
and I will be eternally grateful for the miles we had. We got away with
murder out there.
Nothing like a toaster tank to start a conversation, and it was my ticket
into the gates of the ROK. Ah, the ROK, "DEAL WITH IT". I don't think those
early rallies fully appreciated the creative and aesthetic contribution we
made to their repressed and sanitary world. Who else would have built such big
bonfires at Maggie when the weekend didn't get above 30 degrees? Who else
would have helped Frank Cheek release his inner ******* so often and so
completely? We had it all figured out for a while there, no?
It was a learning experience to keep up with the pace as the bikes around
me were continually upgraded. I never got around to slipping those 900 jugs on
that 750, but the dual plugs and Hi-comp pistons helped a little.
Ultimately, though, it was no contest with the disc brakes, horsepower and
granite-headed learning curve until the old toaster and I got "Stung" like all
the rest. It is a testament to Rich's skill that throughout the mayhem around us,
nary a wreck nor lay-down has marred the history, ('cept for that little thing with
the ice, which any of us can understand).
There are some memories that I don't expect to ever go away, and not all
of them happened at 90 feet per second. Opening the tent flap on a foggy
morning to see the dew dripping off the mirrors, marveling at the lack of anything
that could rust on such a marvelous machine. Ah, find the roach before I pull
on my jeans and just sit there looking for a while. Noticing how beautiful
the new yellow Elephant boy tank bag cover looked perched atop the chrome, black
and aluminum sculpture. Wondering just how far into the Georgia dirt a
side-stand would go and how much oil there might be on the bottom left-side plug
and how long it will take to burn off and clear away. Smokey sez, only you can
pre-fire forest vents. Smokey mourns, indeed.
Did we race? h*ll yea. Everytime we got on them, we could even do it
without gas, if need be. It was always unspoken competition, but we all knew
what we were doing. To this day, Van Huss doesn't know how easy it was to keep
up with him in the corners, only the straights allowed him some distance.
Sheffield was always out of sight, but on the rockets he rode, there was nothing
else to be expected. Some of us were nuts, as shown by road-side oil changes
on the way to dinner, and some Wizards of Oz couldn't ride 5 miles on a new
bike without tossing it off the road.
Were we crazy? Thankfully, yes. Did we love what we were doing? No need
to even ask. Will I miss it? Yes, I will, but bikes wear out, break, or
leave with strangers on sunny summer afternoons. Ultimately,they are just
things, and things are not as important as people. More to the point, the friends
I made over the bikes, (that would be y'all) are more important than a new set
of K-81's or a warehouse of Mobil 1. I wouldn't trade the times we had, and
the times we may, for a brand new Spagthorpe anything.
I really, really, liked my bike, (ol' 4000483), but I do love you all.
Keep it up, fast, and safe. And if you have to choose, well..... two out of
three ain't bad.
xoxox
Edward
