Golf is Satan's Game

I realize it may be boring to some passersby because my blog leans heavily on motorcycling and its inherent adventures. So I was going back over some older posts and suddenly, stories from my past began to bubble up to the surface.

This one's a doozy...but probably only hilarious to me. Which is fine. My purpose in starting a blog was 1) to stop annoying the CV Sportbike Club forum-goers with my brain droppings and 2) to keep a sort of online record of my lifetime exploits, so that when I'm old and frequently crap myself, I can go back over all these posts and read about someone who didn't want to change the world, make a difference or do anything other than say, "I lived a good life." That said, on to the anecdote...except that, in the strictest sense, nothing I write about is short.

Back when I lived in Illinois, the company I worked at for 14 years had a golf league from April to September. I can't remember now why I got involved in the league. I suppose it was like anything else in my life that suddenly interested me...someone I liked, knew, or had a crush on inadvertently sucked me in. I enlisted the aid of a co-worker or two who knew how to whack a ball and before I knew it, I had a $100 set of lefty clubs and was hitting the driving range. A lot. Turns out if something doesn't immediately frustrate the crap out of me, I actually apply myself. Not that I ever got really good at golf...I think my lowest score was a 54 or 53 on 9 holes. But when that happened, it was right around when the U.S. Women's Soccer team won that big thing...and yes, in imitation of Brandi Chastain, I whipped my shirt off and ran around the green, in celebration, wearing...whatever the hell I was wearing under my shirt.

The usual Wednesday ritual involved 9 holes of golf, followed by a lovely evening in the company of good friends and co-workers, a friendly and hilarious bar staff and a pleasant atmosphere conducive to analyzing the game. Ach, we'd drink pitchers of beer and smoked cigars till we closed the place. Nearly every Wednesday. If the local authorities had ever caught on, they'd only have to work on Wednesday nights to fill their ticket/arrest quota for the month.

One of the more tame evenings, I had remained in the clubhouse along with a fellow coworker from my department, whom I affectionately referred to as "Junior." The little smart ass. To be fair...and on a tangent, Junior was a lot of fun. He brought out the prankster in me. Which I didn't know I had.

Prior to his departure on his first business trip with our boss, I informed him that, since he was leaving his vehicle in the parking lot over the next few days, he should give me the keys to his car in case it had to be moved. I was able to back that up with a true story, whereby I left my car in the parking lot one weekend...and was contacted on a Saturday that a local paving company was repaving the lot with a fresh layer of sealer. I was too late, and the dopes actually schmeared the goo directly around my car.

Junior gave me his keys and the next day, I called him to see how his trip was progressing. As I was sitting in his car. In line at a local car wash. You see, it was January or February and his car, a way fun RSX, was normally blue, but at this point was covered in an even layer of road salt. So I called him...never let on that I was in his car...or had made off with it, for that matter. I washed it, promptly returned it to the same parking space at work, then changed all his preset radio stations to Mexican stations. He'd probably claim to this day, that his car was clean when he left. Because all he was really upset about was the radio presets. He didn't believe that I actually took the car.

Another time, while he was on another business trip I cleaned his entire cubicle out (he's an engineer, ergo, a slob. He will, however, tell you that he has a "system."), and put up "This Space for Rent" signs. Take a look.

Great fun. For me.

Anyway, now that you have a little backstory into my relationship with Junior, it may help to understand where this next story comes from.

End of golf night. Junior and I are walking...er stumbling...uh yeah, walking back to our respective cars and I pull my trusty vehicle up to his driver side window to have a last-minute conversation with him. Honestly, I'm laughing right now as I type this. There was a lab tech who worked at the company who was, for lack of a better term, odd. And, looking back, I think, possibly smitten with me. Now, I will be the first to admit that my reaction to somebody being interested in me when I'm not interested in them, well, it turns into a Benny Hill skit. Because I'm a chicken-shit douchebag. At least I was. I think now I might just be chicken-shit.

Junior and I...chatting, driver side to driver side. Odd pulls up in his car on the other side of Junior, as I beg Junior, "Don't you leave me." Odd says to Junior, "I want to ask Kuj something." Me begging..."don't you dare....Junior...Junior!" As Junior slams on the gas pedal and flies away. To which I then slam on the gas pedal and fly away. Junior is gone. I mean gone. Like a fart on Wall Street...in the wind (props, Momma). Odd is hot on my trail as I haul ass out of the parking lot. I am already on my cell phone, calling Junior and coloring the air blue at him for leaving me. Then I inform him that Odd is following me...I'm laughing really hard right now relaying this story to you, you can imagine how hard I was laughing then. I finally get Odd off my tail about two or three miles down the road. Or he gives up. Whatever.

By now I'm in hysterics, I'm laughing so hard that the tears are rolling down my face, I'm screaming in to the phone and Junior actually had a tone of concern in his voice. He says, "Where are you?" I say, "I'm at such-and-such intersection." So he meets me there, we both get out of the car, and start convulsing. Seriously, I think snot was running out of my nose. The two of us laughed so hard, there was physical aching. After relaying "The Chase" to him, Junior suggests, "Oh, we need to get you a drink." Mind you, it's already midnightish on a Wednesday. We end up at a dive bar near my house and after a couple of beers, I believe I recall saying, "You know, one day we'll look back on this and laugh."

Don't Ride Angry

Heck with that...Ride angry. It brings out the intestinal fortitude.

Over the winter, some club members decided to keep in touch by meeting for an occasional drinky-poo. Sometimes we feel the need during the riding season too. In some cases, it's the only time we use our cars. So, a Friday or two ago a handful of us wander off to the Joynt for 40-cent Premium Grain Belt taps. Undoubtedly, the only pride of New Ulm, Minnesota. Horrid everyman beer, cheap yet surprisingly, minimal hangover. Must be all the water in it.

To summarize the evening: Kuj drinks too much, is nagged for a lifelong bad habit to the point of absolute irritation, and, with hurt feelings and a "repression-in-progress" attraction issue rearing its frustrating head, walks the mile (uphill) home in the pouring rain after dark. Kuj empties drunken, pained soul on to Best Friend Trish via phone call. BFT offers comfort, compassion, advice as best she can to a rambling, sauced dope. Kuj wonders after talking to BFT if Kuj might be too old to be behaving in this manner. Then sleep takes Kuj. Sweet, sweet sleep.

Saturday passed with a weight in my chest and silence. Angry, hurt, need for solitude.

Sunday morning finds me amped up for the club ride. No more than usual. At the meeting spot near a gas station, I wander into the BP and grab a bottle of V8 and a package of little chocolate donuts, The Donuts of Champions (RIP John. RIP SNL).

Our Secretary, Mileageguy (forum names are used to protect the populace), was the ride leader that day. The route he picked was a great combination of new and old to me. Most of it was clean, open, higher-speed sweeping turns, and roads you could see all the way through. I've learned this is to my liking. VERY MUCH to my liking.

I can never explain how these little epiphanies arise in me. It always seems to be a combination of events or things that one can never really replicate. But they are almost always memorable. This combination? V8, little chocolate donuts, the copper wolf and crescent moon pendant my brother gave me that I decided to wear that day, the drunken, Friday night dip in spirit, greasing up the butt of my leather suit with armor-all (I stick to the seat otherwise), the roads, the suit, my first attempt at getting off the seat in turns to be able to go faster and confidently execute smooth turns.

When we stop at intersections to wait for everyone (me) to catch up, it's also an opportunity to move around in the lineup. About halfway through the first part of the ride, I just had this moment. Or something. We were zooming along some great roads and I realized how good I felt. I was actually following right along with the mid-pack guys. At a gas-up stop, Mostly Naked and Turd Furgesson were standing nearby and M.N. said, "Have your Wheaties today? Good job!" I said, "I think I gradu-ma-tated!" The gang stopped at an intersection just before this wild, uphill section on 95, and I jumped in front of the faster guys...M.N. and Turd. Mostly Naked passed me again, but Turd stayed back. Holy hell, that was fun. Off the seat, knee down, the pavement visible up close in the corner of my eye. It was the first time I can remember ever feeling the adrenaline pumping, heart racing, feeling out of breath. But without fear. Not even on track day did I feel like this.

The first stop after that section, we paused for the group and I was caught up in a big, one-armed hug, and I hear Turd holler through his helmet, "I think you DID gradu-ma-tate!" Later on, I told him how nice it was...that it felt like a proud daddy moment. He said, "I did feel a little like a proud daddy...I can't get that kind of moment for myself anymore. I have to look elsewhere."

Let this guy hug you. It's nice.

Somewhere around the halfway point in the afternoon, I took a couple of turns a little wider than I was comfortable and realized my time for personal glory was subsiding...and I dropped back to my Hind Tit status. After that, it was just a calm Sunday drive. Brother was on the ride too. He hung out behind me for a little bit early on, gave me a thumbs up as he passed me and then told me later that he couldn't ride behind me anymore. He wasn't sure what was going on in my head and said he couldn't watch. M.N. said something similar...something about watching me ride, leaned over, on the double yellow stripe (which is sometimes slippery), and cringing a little.

Best. Day. Ever.

Lesson learned? Get drunk once in a while. Cry. Walk home in the rain. Swear and writhe at the air. Take a break in a park. Feel pain. Swim in it a little. It truly does make you stronger. And most of all...do something that scares you once in a while. Because the feeling you get from accomplishing something that up until that moment terrified you, is fantastic. And the memory of your own moment of glory lasts a long time. Longer, if you put it down in a blog. :-)

I SWEAR I'm clean

Not a single illicit drug has ever entered my bloodstream. All I had to eat a number of hours before bed last night was McDonald's Surf-n-Turf.

So explain this red-headed stepchild of a dream...

I'm queued up for a flight at a very small terminal. Turns out the terminal is part of a university. Turns out the plane is a fancy LearJet...corporate-looking. It's a neat charcoal gray with red and white striping. Turns out I have to run back to my "dorm" for something. The flight attendant is chilling in a chair in the terminal..she's cool...she says, "Eh...we'll wait." Well, yeah, there's only 8 passengers or so...

So I take off like OJ in the old Hertz Rental Car commercials. And I can leap and run and not be winded. In almost any dream I have, I move like I'm stuck in mud. It's terribly frustrating. But not this dream.

I'm sprinting to my dorm in bare feet and as soon as I approach the next building on the campus, there are people lying on the pavement in random places, all of them are black. The people. And they all have telltale projectile vomit spray patterns on the pavement coming from their open mouths where they lay. One black guy in a red jogging jacket lays on the sidewalk with his vomit pattern, but there's a big pool of blood and another vomit pattern near him, presumably from two other people.

I keep running, and now have to steer myself in my bare feet AROUND another vomit pattern (without a person), and watch as two black people get up and walk away, both with their mouths wide open, both projectile vomiting as they casually wander off. I recall yelling something out to them...something mundane, like "Hey you barfers! What the hell?"

Then I wake up. 15 minutes before my alarm comes on. Damnit. Or yea...because..well, vomit.

Thath not guud...Or, Kuj the Wrecked Sprocket (thanks, Momma)

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Not the book. MY Zen and MY Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.

Some riders are diligent and thorough. They will keep track of the life of their tires, their oil, their valves, etc., and will likely be able to rattle off the exact dates for when they come due.

Me?

Well, here's my "diligent" maintenance schedule:

Male in my life #1: "When's the last time you changed your oil?"
Me: "Dunno. Probably time."

Male in my life #2: "Chain looks a little loose...and bindy."
Me: "Really? Guess I better clean and tighten it."

Me: "What's your tire pressures?"
Male in my life #1: "34, 32."
Me: "Okay."

Me: "What's your tire pressures?"
Male in my life #3: "35, 41."
Me: "Okay."

Male #3: "Ooo, look who's starting to show cords!" Motorcycling terminology lesson: "Showing cords" means the tire's BALD. An example from M.N.'s last tire...



Me: "Wow. Must be all those burnouts I've been doing." /end sarcasm
Male #3. (after close examination): "Eh, you've got miles left to go on that tire."
Me: "What, till I SLIDE?"
Male #3: (smirks and drives away...in a car)

And yes, more than one male told me it was time for a new sprocket. I even ordered one, but suffered a shipping snafu, so it was delayed. I did not stop riding. Then I had what could best be described as an "event". Not an accident, nor a surprise...more of a stupid..."Oh hell. Red light. Oh hell. There's a Civic parked there. I should brake here. Oh hell. I'm going much faster than I at first guessed. Oh hell. The front brake isn't enough. I'll add in some rear brake. Oh hell. Is that my back tire sliding around? Oh hell. Oh hell."

Everything did its job. I stopped. I was safe. I even laughed a little...nervously.

El resulto?

You see...a sprocket should have TEETH whereby, engaged by the CHAIN, makes the back wheel turn, thereby making the bike go vroom. No teeth, well, then you're just riding a toboggan. Total count: 21 of 45 teeth remain. I have since replaced that glorious evidence of torque (after riding it that way for two days unknowingly) and hung it on the garage wall as an "offering to the god of speed." Or possibly, more appropriately, "The Buddha of Redneckly Maintenance."

...could you just imagine 24 pieces of aluminum flinging every which way? Wish I had a camera.

Incidentally, I just ordered a helmet camera. And a heart monitor. I'm conducting experiments. And mounting the camera somewhere on Mostly Naked so I can see myself. Yes, so I can see myself.

...you would too.

The Tribe's Version

If you know anything about Harleys, you might have heard of "The Legend of the Bell."

Story goes there's "Road Gremlins" that love to ride along on motorcycles and cause mechanical troubles. But, they can't stand the sound of bells ringing. So, installing a small bell near the bottom of your motorcycle makes them fall off. It's a fairly lame legend, but the idea is kind of amusing to me. Reminds me of one of those "Amazing Stories" episodes (if I remember it right), where some guy is on an airline flight that's flying through a bad storm and every lightning flash shows a gremlin out on the wing laughing wickedly and yanking wiring out.

Anyway, that legend of the bell thing is fairly specific to Harleys. I'm so happy to have found something similar (yet thoroughly different) to start with just the Tribe, regardless of two-wheeled make and model. Feel free to let me know if you other family members would be interested in hanging one on your motorcycle/bicycle...I think it really personifies the love and sense of humor in the Kuj Tribe.

Yes, it's golden poo...but it's LUCKY!

Turns out the Japanese kanji for "lucky" is eerily similar to a shortened version of the word "poo." Yep...sounds like us. And it's GOLDEN!

I've never been more excited waiting for the arrival of poo...