He Shoots Motorcycle Riders

Jonah FINALLY got a chance to upload the bajillion photos he took at Track Day. Go nuts! Tommy's in the Intermediate sessions, red/white/blue helmet, blue bike. Me: novice, blue/gold jacket/helmet, black bike.

Click here, then click on the first picture under "TrackAddix-BIR June Photos posted." There's two ass shots---just warning you.

Oh I Wish I Was A Waterlogged Weiner

Friends: people who borrow my books and set wet glasses on them. - Edwin Arlington Robinson

Trish and I are enjoying a fit of nostalgic turd slinging between our blogs. A recent post of hers prompted me to leave a cryptic comment. Which she dutifully answered. And then, as if to say, "Oh Yeah?!?", she left an equally cryptic comment on my last post: drowned hot dog.

In the spirit of relaying embarrassing stories, I offer my return shot...

Long, long ago, in a suburb far, far away a good mutual friend of ours was celebrating a birthday. I decided to throw a surprise party for her at my house. It was hot, we had a pool, a grill and no booze. That's right. No alcohol. Please keep in mind, we were all in high school and either in Marching Band or were National Merit Scholars. Some of us were both, as evidenced by the complete lack of common sense.

No sir, this was booze-free because it was a parent-aware party. Besides, we frequently went to another house to drink Bartles & Jaymes, Bloody Brains and room-temperature tequila shots (Mom? Remember when I slept over at Becky's? Not so much.). Anyway, my mom had full disclosure of this party at her house and willingly co-hosted, but that didn't stop us from acting like drunken monkeys. It started out harmless enough...all of us running around in the pool until we generated a fairly strong riptide, playing chicken, trying to drown one another, grilling burgers and loading up on junk food, all while jamming to "Pour Some Sugar On Me" and "Talk Dirty To Me"...when they were new songs.

As night fell, well, that's when the debauchery began. Popping balloons on the grill, flinging raw meat and launching flaming marshmallows at the townhouse behind us, your standard party fare. I'm fairly certain that night was the first (and possibly only) time that the Hanover Park po-po had to respond a call of "a hailstorm of beef and firebrands." I'm so proud.

I recall my mom answering the door while a uniformed officer of the law struggled to keep his composure and ask that we refrain. In turn, my mother ventured out to the back yard to report same issue...while struggling to retain her composure. And so was born the phrase that wandered the halls of Lake Park High School for many months, as uttered by my dear mother, "It is not nice to throw raw meat at the neighbor's house."

While a good time was had by all, there inevitably came the dread clean-up, which, unfortunately, had to be carried out by daylight...maybe 3 or 4 days later. After scraping the burned rubber off the grill grate, running the lawn mower to suck up the remnants of hamburger and marshmallow goo out of the grass, the time came to pull the solar cover off the pool and perform the weekly ritual of skimming and vacuuming. Found in the cool waters...one lawn chair, mildly rusty; one pair of sandals, leather, but more importantly, not mine; and...get this. A full-on hot dog.

The slogan goes, "They plump when you cook 'em." Well, look here, Mister. I can tell you for a fact that they plump when you leave 'em floating in a swimming pool for 3 days. There it was, floating serenely in the crystal clear water, surrounded by a slick of greasy pork/beef/turkey effluvium.

Take a peek in your fridge at the average hot dog. Now picture it about 3 times that size. We're talking humiliatingly large when compared to most men. It gave John Holmes a run for his money (so I've heard).

Despite the metamorphosis that took place in our pool, that wasn't the gem of this story.

So I get the skimmer. You know, the flimsy plastic-framed window screening on the end of an equally flimsy aluminum pole. And I went fishing for the meat stick. I watched with horror as I lifted the skimmer under the huge tube steak and it proceeded to bend the skimmer at a frightening angle, roll right off, back into the water and....fall apart. Try not to throw up in your mouth a little.

Also, I think our dog peed in Mike's shoes. Looking back, he deserved it.

Two wheel addendum

A couple of you asked about the track and track days. Here's a map of BIR:

Good website for track information just about anywhere: Trackpedia
Another good website for track day info: TrackDayMag
Their calendar has more info on track days in various regions. Some have lap videos. The track day websites say "sportbike," but just about any bike can run a track if it'll pass tech inspection. I've seen pictures of full-on Harley dressers, old Honda cruisers, motards, etc.

If anyone's interested, a couple of us are looking to go out again somewhere later in the year.

Soon as I see that the pro photographer has posted pictures, I'll put more glorious "ME" shots up.

Four wheels move the body; two wheels move the soul

I'm not dead. You're all screwed out of your bequests.

My post from the CVSC forum:

In hindsight, yes, I should have signed up for the School of Speed. On my own, I learned no more or less than I already knew, which for all we know, could be completely wrong. I guess I misunderstood that the novice class would have instructors giving you tips and suggestions...alas, that was exclusively for the Speed Schoolers.

It was an awesome event. My experience, however, was somewhat different than the expected. I think it was based on my attitude to just go out, ride at a pace that is comfortable for me, and also, not crash more than once a month. I'm full up until July.

I'm not looking to be faster, I don't want to race, I'm not in anything to win. I just want to be a smooth operator, and have a shit-ton of fun doing it. Of course, that didn't stop me from pushing my speed envelope some. I did tape over my speedometer (but not my tach), which I'm grateful for doing. For someone who gets the minor wiggins when pushing 90 on the street, it seemed utterly ridiculous that it was possible for The Hind Tit to fly through turn 1 at 130 (which, if calculated correctly, based on gear and RPMs, I think I did). For me, track day was more about little personal milestones. That turn 1 thing? That was a big one. Here's some more:

• Scuffing a toe in turn 3.
• Hitting the rev limiter while passing a rider.
• Passing not one, but TWO riders. More than once.
• The look on my brother's face when he told me he was proud of me.
• Getting to be the one in leathers for once, instead of just watching.
• Learning that I could really lean WAY the heck over and still stick like glue to the pavement (even that weird, greasy-looking stain in 10).
• Figuring out which turn worked best with which gear.
• Feeling my front tire leaving the ground just the slightest out of turn 9.
• Seeing the same melty rubber boogers on my tires that I see on the fast boy's meats.
• Using almost no brake at all (no small feat at 40 miles an hour)/sarcasm.

All while hearing the "Top Gun" soundtrack playing in my head.

Of course, spending time with you good people was a significant highlight of the weekend. I'm always willing to take advice to better my skills at motorcycling. The encouragement and acknowledgment mean a lot. Though, the "go all rear brake" advice? Not the best advice one could give. You know who you are.

None of us crashed. Nobody even went off the track in our group. I believe we represented the CVSC with class and style and I'm proud to be a part of this group. We may not be psycho fast, hot shit, or as young as we once were, but you can't go wrong with a bunch of good people who look out for each other. And farts. They're funny.

I enjoyed every minute of it, and I can't wait to tell my grandchildren how Grandma rode a motorcycle at Brainerd. ....all right, so it might be somebody else's grandchildren. At any rate, I fed a large portion of my ego and it made me feel damn good to do something not every 36 year old woman would do. I can check that off my list, but I'm certainly not done.

It was a splendid opportunity, and one I won't soon forget. However, packing myself into a make-shift leather suit (the jacket is an old one of mine; the pants, borrowed) forced me into deciding whether to sit up and breathe, or lay out on the tank and turn blue. Guess which I opted for. I did order a custom-fit suit that I should be getting in another week or so. From a company in California. That no one's ever heard of. This should be interesting. I have this nagging feeling I should've just gone to the local redneck bar (I mean, ONE of the local redneck bars) and thrown 500 bucks into the air. I'm sure it would've been money well spent. A hockey puck full of chew here, a hayseed there.

Pictures? Heck yeah. I can't wait to see what Jonah posts on momentumphoto.net. We're talking pro photography. I'm fairly certain Jonah can make me look like a fast, white Halle Berry, he's that good. It looks like it will be a long wait for him to post up, but I have a handful of images taken by me or friends in the group. I spent 10 minutes alone looking at me. Obviously.

Also? Eleanor? Not so much with the badass. Stole that from "Talladega Nights." Obviously.

Let the pictorial splendor commence...

Some clubbers...

Brother and I

Moi

Brudda

Fastest Hammock Ever

In the pits

CVSC in the hizzouse

Momma, I'm goin' fast!

America is all about speed. Hot, nasty, badass speed. -Eleanor Roosevelt, 1936

Becoming a motorcyclist changes your view regarding death. I recall, not long after I got my license and then became more comfortable with riding, thinking, "I DO NOT want to die. I will wear every piece of protective equipment I can think of and will make sure I'm well-rested beforehand and completely sober. But, if it does happen to be my time, meh. What can you do?" This should not be confused with BEFORE I was comfortable with riding, when I most often thought, "I'm TOTALLY gonna die."

Okay...so I've slipped up a little on the well-rested part. Which went hand-in-hand with the hangover a couple weeks back on a Sunday morning club ride. What little lesson did the Universe impart to me? Foggy brains are no good on a ride. I was all over the place, wasn't paying attention, reacted slowly. Stupid, really. And if one more rat bastard told me I needed to smile more, I was going to have to head-butt them with my helmet (However, I'm not THAT stupid. Head-butting hurts).

This past weekend's rub with the grass teaches another lesson: Don't be an ass. Tangent --> Speaking of ass, I'm now into the third washing of those jeans. And the butt-specific grass stains? Etched in. I asked our newest roomie, "Are you any kind of laundry guru? Know anything that'll get out ground-in shame? How about those tough embarrassment stains?" Note to self: He is no laundry guru. If that red t-shirt of his (the one that says, "When Chuck Norris parties, he doesn't throw up. He THROWS DOWN") goes in with my lights, I just know I'll end up with pink socks. I can only own one article of pink clothing at a time. Tomboy law.

Back to "don't be an ass." The events of this past Sunday bring to mind a wise and often-overlooked bit of sage advice. "Go that way. REALLY fast. If something gets in your way....turn." Uh huh. Also, duh.

***

I'm not terribly superstitious, but I believe an occasional little bit helps. My Icon jackets come with a little St. Christopher medal sewn into the inside pocket. I'm not Catholic, but it's nice to imagine a diminutive sweatshop worker--I like to picture a mother with many children--sewed this into my jacket with particular care and, as if knowing it would end up in my possession, would say to the aether, "Don't be an ass, Kuj. Even faith can't cure stupid."

Whenever I get on my bike, I give the freaky tiki on the tank a little pat, and say to myself, "Yeah, you could cack today. So, be vigilant, have a blast, and do what you can to return with all 20 digits, 4 limbs, both eyes and a head (I hear those are important), and whatever brain cells you still had when you left the house earlier."

Next week, I'm leaving for the Brainerd Intl. Raceway up in Minnesota. It's a Central Roadracing Association weekend, and a friend of mine is racing Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. I love spectating, particularly when someone I know is out on the track. Motorcycle roadracing is a far more exciting sport to watch because it's so edge-of-the-envelope when it comes to speed, inertia, gravity, etc. And the pilot's all out there, skin, leather and plastic, pavement. Knees in the breeze.

Sunday night, the CRA organizers pack up and go home. But we'll be staying overnight again, because Monday all day is a TrackAddix track day. If you've never heard of "track day," it's basically an opportunity for those us of the non-racing persuasion to get to ride on a bona fide race track (and the NHRA dragstrip, which is part of the road course). Cheap too. Try $165 compared to a race weekend total of around $1500.

Gone is the gravel and sand, wildlife of the non-human variety, mini-vans, pedestrians, drunks, greasy horse poo, tar snakes and bicyclists in those icky shorts and cone-shaped helmets. It's just you, your bike, a 3.1 mile track and plenty of knowledge to be gleaned from riders with all kinds of experience.

This will be my first track day, and I've been told many times that track day makes you a much better rider, because all the above issues that make you hyper-aware on the street, disappear to let you concentrate on how to ride. I'm in the novice class, and we get to ride for 20 minutes every hour for most of the day. There are also instructors on-hand to walk you through the track before you start and offer suggestions as you ride.

I'm all excited about it, but I'm fairly certain I was less stressed out about buying my first house. Most of the stress is logistics (what to bring, how to bring it, will I get to have sex with a random blind man, I should shave in case I'm in an accident, etc.). I'm guessing when all the necessities are out of the way, the actual track day will have me as wired as my first skydive.

This introduction of more risk into my life had me thinking this morning about the what if...and I remembered back in high school when we had a Senior Will drawn up where we left various ephemera to the underclassmen. Well, the popular people evidently participated in the Senior Will. The rest of us on the fringes were evidently left off the "I will my foul sweat socks to Stumpy the Junior Jock Strap boy" list. I guess that beats being left a foul jock strap, depending on how you look at it. Also? Not crying about the Will. All the popular kids were douchebags. Being a band fag was fine with me. Especially that one day when the band got free lunch. For 2nd place in the nation. The football team never got that. Meatheads.

***

In the incredibly unlikely event of my demise on-track (Mom, read that twice. Incredibly unlikely), I, Kuj, being "all there" at the moment, do hereby blah blah blah.

To my Mother, I bequeath:

• My Bare Minerals kit, only used once. Using it on my corpse will likely result in a flawless complexion, unless oil-producing glands continue to function post-mortem. If that's the case, there's just no God.
• The bucket full of collected things in the spare room closet.
• The "claws" you talked me into buying at the Ren Fair.
• A song lyrics web page of your choosing. Bone up on your Duran Duran, since you know every other song on the planet.
• My sanity.

To my Father, I bequeath:

• Someone to follow you around one day a week, spouting useless, often-ignored phrases such as "Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad" and "Why won't you buy me that car when I graduate?"
• My XM radio. You can never listen to too much Motown and Blues.
• Sportbike tires for Rachel.

To my Brother, I bequeath:

• A mail sorter the size of a small, third-world country. Just admit it, you won't open your mail when I'm gone, either.
• A cork. Obviously.
• A hot tub. Filled with Guinness.
• A case of Febreze. In case the cork gives.
• My ability to not sweat the petty things, before you perforate your colon from stress. Don't forget to pet the sweaty things. Obviously.
• My bike. I picture a nice end table.

To my cousin Heather, I bequeath:

• My sense of humor and rapier-like wit. The trick is to not announce, "I'm funny!" Although, that worked flawlessly the first time. Huge laugh. HUGE.
• Many tiaras.
• A case of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup. Don't think about the human flesh thing.
• Whatever patience I had left to deal with this "laugh first, ask if you're okay later" family of ours.
  

To my cousin Beefcake, I bequeath:

• Your own bar. Tappers as far as the eye can see.
• A tiny, fart-riding cowboy. Weeeeee!
• Extra-long socks.

To my Aunt Joy, I bequeath:

• Anything decorative that still didn't get hung up on a wall or placed...decoratively. You are a magician of the domestic.
• A lifetime supply of that appetizer from Wildfish.
• No winged f**kers.
• Someone to make sure your nightshirt is on right-side out next time you huddle in the laundry room during a tornado warning.

To my best friend Trish, I bequeath:

• A simultaneous, alternative life. You need the Jimmy Buffet lifestyle; you have no idea. Flip-flops, umbrella drinks, mostly nude, fairly tanned pool boys. Never mind. Talk your gorgeous husband into a flattering Speedo. Make him mow the lawn.
• A hammock. From which to watch Speedo husband mow the lawn. Don't forget the umbrella drink.
• And a babysitter.
• My total and utter disgust for the Wilco drummer's hair. Okay, I'm dead, I can come clean...my total and utter disgust for Wilco's music too.

To my dear friend Choz, I bequeath:

• My Frank Sinatra CD. You've probably spilled Captain Morgan on yours by now.
• My fountain of useless knowledge for NTN trivia.
• My absolute enjoyment in something as simple as a good boat drink and an after-dark excursion aboard the good ship.
  

To my dear friend Billy, I bequeath:

• Every last cd I own (except Frank, obviously). You just can't ever have enough music. You'll love Enya.
  
• That one t-shirt. You know the one.
• My Wilco drummer "memorabilia."
• Full length posters of every "hot chick" who's ever been your "intern."

To my dear friend Ben, I bequeath:

• An ass-smacking hand made of plaster. I swear I'll get back at you one way or another.
• A new hamstring, evidently.
• The title of "Pseudo-Sommelier" for trying to keep the Winery thing going after I moved.
• The simple amusement of "Not Saint, Le, Eau."
• That look on your face when you denied stepping into a strip club 20 minutes after your arrival in Eau Claire.
• Speaking of that, a god blessed chauffeur.

To my dear friend Art, I bequeath:

• A straight pinky.
• No more agita.
• A lounge very near your desk, complete with the Taco Bell dog and "female appointments" calendar.
• A lifetime supply of choco-buttons.
• A dead, sweaty, fake Elvis with camel toe. Yeeesh.
• A ticket for any airline except America West.
• A drunken stroll to the Las Vegas Strip Walgreen's for "beanercheese."
• A $20 sushi lunch.
• A $120 Mexican dinner.
• A new SSCo username.

To my dear....well, to Junior, I bequeath:

• A car radio with one station. Mexican.
• A California Closet consultation for your cubicle.
• An end to polo shirts with a single, horizontal stripe. You and Alan from "Two and a Half Men"? Twins.
• Bernie. You have him follow you around at midnight. See how you like it.
• Your lips bronzed in the shape of "Tooosday." Somebody else may enjoy the sight as much as I once did.

To my incredibly gracious boss, I bequeath:

• An employee who's less of a pain in the ass. And cheaper. But better.

To my neighbors across the street, I bequeath:

• A parking lot.
• Stock exhaust pipes.

To the Chippewa Valley Sportbike Club, I bequeath:

• A case of Anti-Monkey Butt.
• A case of Taint Paint.
• A case of Gold Bond.
• A case of Beamish.
• A case of happy pills.
  
• A case of duct tape.
• A case of zip ties.
• A case to hold it all.

To El Presidente, I bequeath:

• Your very own case of duct tape and zip ties.
• A chiropractor.
• A monkey paw.

To the entire Chippewa Valley, I bequeath:

• More radio format choices besides Country AND Western.
• Lou's.
• Portillo's.
• Siri Thai.
• Wildfish.
  

To Skrawny, I bequeath:

• My ass fat.
• All the tears you made me shed in sheer hilarity.
• A cabinet full of beer steins.

To my ex-boyfriend, I bequeath:

• My old sweatshirts. You freak.

Don't forget to play the music on my mp3 player at the funeral...party it up!

Weeeee!

First, this post is mostly for my Momma. All is well! Tackle these tough grass stains, Shout!

Second, WARNING! Gratuitous butt shot.

Short story...Club Ride, left turn, much gravel, target fixation. Hello ditch! I held on longer than I thought I would. No boo-boos, just an achy hip, a bent mirror clip and a completely FILTHY tiki.

Road Trippin' (Finis)

The Memorial Day Journey? Most excellent!


We cut out of the EC around noon on Saturday. Here's Brother, Fahjah and I prior to departure.


We traveled through an area known as "The Cut" just outside of Mindoro. Very scenic and VERY twisty. There's no way to describe it, so check out this video of some Harley dudes cruising through it. About 2 minutes in, you'll see "The Cut," which is two soaring stone walls on either side of the road.

Stole this excerpt from an internet article:

Imagine what it was like, though, before the gas engine and rubber-tired horsepower came along to ease the climb. A century ago this path was so steep that wagons hauling cargo to and from the cooperative creamery in Mindoro, over the uppermost point on Phillips Ridge in country where up and down are as linked as black and white on the dairy cows all around, took a longer alternate route. If horses had been spurred up the ridge, they certainly would have said neigh.

To get a better connector between the creamery and the railroad station at West Salem, then, area farmers and county officials decided to dig the ridge down, low enough and wide enough for a narrow two-lane passage, still steep and winding but manageably so. Dig down they did, through hard rock with the help of only wheelbarrows and hand tools for the most part, 74 feet down, 25 feet wide and 86 feet long.

The second highlight of the trip was Wildcat Mountain State Park. While Brother and I had ridden through the Cut before, Fahjah had not, and we were ALL new to Wildcat. Another fun ride. This park is on Hwy 33, about a half hour outside of Richland Center.

More video of the Harley dudes through Wildcat.

A pit stop in Richland Center.

Frank Lloyd Wright was born in Richland Center on June 8, 1867. A building he designed still stands downtown...the A.D. German Warehouse.

We finally got into the NW 'burbs of Chicago around 10pm. It was about 10 hours but the route we took broke up the ride and a handful of stops kept us from getting too sore.

Brother and I found luxury accommodations at Hotel Joy...and we spent some quality time with hotel mascot, Zip-Loc (okay, the dog's name is Sadie, but I like Zip-Loc better).

We were treated to a gourmet sushi meal in Bartlett (yes, Tom actually eats sushi now) and a nostalgic scoop of Mint Chocolate Chip and Rocky Road ice cream from Baskin Robbins. Thanks for the quality hospitality, Auntie!

We spent Sunday evening with the Auntie and our favorite cousins, Heb and Beefcake. After parking the bikes for the night, we indulged in Beefcake's collection of home-brewed beer. Delish! And we tortured Heb about her date that night. Delightful! Also, a junebug landed on my aunt and I watched with evil enjoyment while she shrieked, "Get it off me! Get it off!" Then I saved her and flicked it off her arm. I'm sure she's grateful. No thanks necessary. :)

Monday, we made our way to East Dundee for a Memorial Day ceremony at the cemetery where my Uncle Dan is buried. This was the main reason for our trip down. He fought in Vietnam and returned to marry and raise a family, but he succumbed to cancer 10 years ago. His widow, my Aunt Armadillo, came up with a fitting day of reflection, grateful appreciation and BBQ!

We thought it was only fair to head out to Hillside and visit my grandparent's graves as well. My grandfather served in World War II. I swear, the silk flowers were not put there by any of us. They were sitting on Grandma's gravestone when we got there and it looks like they had blown off a nearby grave ornament. Cool if you ask me. Also, Aunt Pat? Evidence that your quarter went where you intended. :)

The day we went to the grave sites, it was in the 80's. Our trip home on Tuesday? 44 DEGREES. Thankfully, it wasn't long before it warmed up to a "balmy" 60 or so. The rest of the ride was as enjoyable as the voyage to Illinois.

Another 10 hour trip and we were home safely.