And away we go!

It's that time of year again. I'm counting down the hours until my 2nd track day on Monday, July 13, this time at Road America in Elkhart Lake, WI. I've graciously received a vacation day to do something utterly stupid. Mostly Naked once told me that I would be incredibly wired before track day, and there would be multiple bathroom trips and no sleep. He's also Mostly Right. I didn't have any of those issues before Brainerd last year, though. I attribute it to ignorance and comfort. I knew Brainerd's track layout well enough even though I never rode on it, so I was comfortable and relaxed, and had NO idea what was coming. I walked away from Brainerd, tired and pleased, but I rode at my pace, didn't push myself and frankly, was kinda "meh." I was actually surprised at my reaction as were a couple of others. There was no adrenaline, no abnormal quantity of bathroom breaks, too much sleep.

This year, an entire month before this Monday, as soon as I saw turn 14 at Road America, up a hill to the start/finish, I felt a jello-y quiver in my gut. It got worse a few days after when I clicked the "Submit" button on the website to pay for the opportunity. Now it seems the last couple of weeks, there's nothing else I can think about. I realize most of the thoughts, again, are logistics (don't forget to bring the bike...OR the key), but there's a hyper, spazzy, mildly terrified inner child who's not thinking about anything, except for the riding itself.

Road America is an incredible visual for a track. It's 4 miles long with 14 turns, elevation changes, and long sweeping turns and straights. Brainerd, by comparison is 3.1 miles, 10 turns, flat and tight. Brainerd boasts AMA superbike races and NHRA drag races, but RA not only has AMA superbikes, they also host indy cars as well. In my mind, a race track that can also race open wheel, super-fast, race cars is intimidating indeed.

So I'm a wreck. Anyone who makes the mistake of talking to me these past few days ends up having to hear all about my impending track day, because it's all I can think about. Sometimes more than once (I'm so sorry, "Vern.").

Man, I can't even get this blog out clean. My brains are scrambled.

Last year I wrote up a will and once again, I present my bequests, updated to reflect new friends and new items.

* * *

I reiterate for this year's event:

In the incredibly unlikely (Mom, read that again. Incredibly unlikely.)...I, Kuj, being "all there" at the moment, do hereby blah blah blah.

To my Mother, I bequeath:

• My relaxing "f**k it" attitude. Some things are just not worth the energy. Your only daughter, your sunshine, your favorite child (yeah, I said it) doing a track day, for instance.
  
• Hammick #1, for the purposes of finding the above mentioned attitude.
  
• The three-season porch.
• Your weight in Leinie's Berry Weiss.
• A brand-spanking new Leinie's sweatshirt twice a year.

To my Father, I bequeath:

• An extra sturdy door hinge for the passenger side of the coupe. Because whoever takes my place next to you isn't going to remember to not throw the door open either.
• Two weeks in the Rat Rod mecca out West. Make it a month.
• A toy hauler (see above).
  
• The official title of "Ruffian" (as bestowed upon you by local author, Michael Perry).

To my Brother, I bequeath:

• A job working for Weird Al. He's probably exhausted himself trying to swap out lyrics.
• A bullhorn for your butt. The sound is funny, the smell is not. One hopes the afterlife excludes foul odors.
  
• My bike (again). I'm still picturing that nice end table.

To my cousin Heather, I bequeath:

• The funny.
• Douchebag radar.
• $1400 bucks. NOW can we drive the Ya-ha-ma into a lake?

To my cousin Beefcake, I bequeath:

• The re-gifted Dark Lord. Re-gifted.
• A custom-built Beamish can hat.
• A lifetime supply of grounded shoes.

To my Aunt Joy, I bequeath:

• Facebook.
• Facebook.
• Facebook.
• Somebody to read non-fiction to you.

To my best friend Trish, I bequeath:

• My brother. Take him on your next vacation. You can use the amusement.
• Shorter pants for your gorgeous.
• A pair of scissors. Rush the stage at the next Wilco concert. You can do it.

To my dear friend Billy, I bequeath:

• Somebody to say "Dork" to.
• That one t-shirt. Yes, I found it the other day. I still have it.
• My mp3 player.

To my dear friend Art, I bequeath:

• Someone to yell "ART!" across the room to you.
• One-line zingers to use on Ben.
• Dunt-dunt-dahs.

To my dear friend and riding buddy, Turd, I bequeath:

• All 78 Steam entries. Yes, I did say I have a problem.
• Even more appreciation for "beep."
• Lots of "Proud Daddy" moments.
• /fart
  

To my newest dear friend "Vern," I bequeath:

• As requested, my hair. You'll fit right in it...heck, you're already used to the cold wind on the back of your head whenever anyone walks by.
• Also, as requested, my vocabulary. Though the secret is to have a thesaurus handy, I somehow manage to store the good ones away in the brain, however infinitesimal it may be. Anyway, you're no slouch either. "Brother, can you spear a mime?" That kills me...
  
• A pipeline from Jefferson Street in Chippewa Falls to FtC, with a multi-tapper on your end of it, of course. And all the Beamish left in the fridge.
  
• The world's largest book of anagrams...oh never mind. You wrote it.
• Hammick #2. It'll feel great when the yard's done.
• Firefly and Serenity. Alex will stop giving you the crazy look, and you two will have lots to talk about.
• My sweet, sweet beach cruiser. Only if you promise to ride it in costume.
  
• Enough money to fix up the bus. Keep the Boop drapes. (Boop drapes...that made me laugh).
• $5K. Get a motorcycle. Start slow. You'll love it.

To my newest dear friend Jasonopotamus:

• A full-on poster of Gothapotamus.
• A full-on poster of I Am Junk.
• My memory of the 1983 White Sox. LaMar Hoyt, Greg "The Bull" Luzinski, Harold Baines, Tony LaRussa, Carleton Fisk. I'm sorry...that's all I know. Of baseball. In totality. Besides "Where's the beer guy?"
• Someone to punch you in the arm, so you don't have to.
• My M*A*S*H collection. And let that cut under your nose heal. :)

To my still incredibly gracious boss, I bequeath:

• A bottle of Skyy (for honoring me, of course).
• Someone who will entertain you with really stupid things...like printing blank transparencies. That always gets a laugh.
• Steel mesh gloves for handling lifts of paper and opening boxes.
• Your very own censoring bleep. I wish I had bothered to buy one...

To my neighbors across the street, I bequeath:

• A three-season porch on the back of your house.
• A rattle can to cover up those racing stripes (yes, I had neon lights under my car once. Shut up).
  
• A sixer of Milwaukee's Best.

To the Chippewa Valley Sportbike Club, I bequeath:

• It's your fault I got into this mess in the first place. Have my guilt. Have my mom's too. Hers is really good. :)

Remember people: Think Irish funeral!

Moldy Oldie

I started a blog back in 2005 on MSN and only entered a couple of posts into it, but tonight, while driving home through Amish country with Turd after listening to a cover band for a couple of hours, the "caution: horse and buggy" sign reminded me of this post...back when I was a wandering fool who would take any motorcycle available. Fahjah had loaned me his Softail and Brother offered up his Buell (before I crashed it, anyway). Turd, por vous.

Here's the post from Summer, 2005.

So, I’ve been a motorcycle momma for a couple of months now…I’m pretty comfortable on both the Softail and the Buell.

This past Saturday, I took Tom’s Buell out to Augusta/Osseo with Fahjah and his friend Dennis. Things were a-stirring in Osseo (or Augusta…I forget) for Bean & Bacon Days (big Bush’s Baked Beans plant in town). We were traveling to Dennis’ parent’s house outside of town. Awesome place to live…top of a hill…100-some acres of your own property and a constant breeze (poop free smell!). I tell you, in a 2 or 3 mile stretch of road, I’ve never encountered more horse doody, pea gravel or Amish in my life. The Amish wave at EVERYONE. ALL of them wave at EVERYONE. They are completely expressionless, but they wave. I was a waving machine that day. Wave at the Amish boy walking on the side of the road in his suspenders, hat, and bare feet. Wave at the Amish 20-something gentleman in his black carriage (pulled by HUGE blond draft horses) as he goes by. Wave at the Amish girl who stops working in her family’s garden as we ride by and….waves. I waved at every bike too. I figure if you’re lucky enough to ride a bike, you’re lucky enough. Made me wonder…do the Amish hate partying like it’s 1699? Especially with all of us “English” (what the Amish call all non-Amish) in plain sight with all our innovative and high-tech toys and equipment? And, you know, things that make life a little easier, like running water, indoor plumbing, a dishwasher? Especially the kids. I can’t help but think that 11ish year old girl in the garden on a beautiful sunny Saturday afternoon was thinking, “I hate this shit. Where are my damn shoes? I could travel exactly two miles and get a pair of Shaq-Fu Reeboks and waltz through the horse crap in comfort and style. Maybe I’ll pick up a MP3 player and finally get to hear that Weird Al Yankovic song ‘Amish Paradise.’ Then I’m going out to the hill behind the house with my boyfriend and sit in the back of his Camaro complaining about what an asshole my dad is.” I wonder if I was born into that life and, living in 2005, would like it. Maybe if I didn’t know any better….of course, today some Englander just rode by on a horse of shiny metal and leather…there’s a potential better out there. Screw this dress crap. Jedediah, Amos, Father Eldon, I’m outta here. I’m gonna come back and bust a cap in your ass for making me do homework by candlelight. No husband wants a wife with rougher hands than his! And I’m bringing back a set of GOODYEAR’S for that frickin’ buggy!

Anyway, it made me want to stop and just chat. I was intrigued. But I was busy…had shit to avoid and places to go.

Global Warming is the poo. Take a big whiff.

Riding in November? Never thought I'd experience that up here. Winter seems to come a little earlier here in the Chippewa Valley. Earlier than in Illinois, and that's only about 4 hours south of here. As a motorcyclist, I jump on any opportunity to ride if it's warm enough out. I usually save the desperate, upper 30 degree rides for the beginning of the year, when I've been off the bike so long, I fear I will have forgotten how to ride.

So it was a balmy upper 70's a couple of days right around Halloween. I've said it before and I will reiterate again: I have the best boss. Ever. I like to think I work hard for the man and I try not to ask for much. But my resolve was weak when, after a few weeks of temps in the 40's, then we get the mid-70's days, I begged for an opportunity to bail out of work at noon. And he let me. Twice.

I recently purchased a sweet digital video camera that's small, waterproof, and mountable. My dad happily (almost giddily, I'd say) fabricated a custom mount for the gas tank on the Freaky Tiki and it all works most splendidly. With that, I'd like to share a sample of video footage from an October 30th ride, complete with my one of my top ten favorite riding songs ("Hard Sun" by Eddie Vedder). I'm trying out some new video editing software, so this is kinda messy amateurish.

Hwy 95 is out near Arcadia, Wisconsin and it's a relatively unremarkable road. You typically won't find us riding on it except for this one spot. Although, after this hill climb, the rest of 95 is all fast sweepers, which, it turns out, are my favorite kind of turns.

Not bad for a hundred dollar camera eh? M.N. and my brother, whom are experienced, fast, and are my motorcycling mentors, are officially uncomfortable watching me. I call that a win. Not because I'm fast...I'm not. But because I've progressed so quickly in one season, they may not be convinced that I've tapped my true ability to ride well. I have miles to go, yes, but the second half of this season has made me prove to myself that I do, indeed, have some great potential at this sport. Sorry, Momma. [insert evil laughter here]

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. :-)

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...

I'm TOTALLY patting myself on the back for this...

My Blog. I can.

Those of us who populate the sportbike club are of a like mind when it comes to gear. On Sundays, we all wear as much gear as we can. Most of us carry that habit into the remainder of our time on our bikes as well. So when we see a guy on a ginormous-engined sportbike, in a t-shirt and shorts, sunglasses, baseball cap (on backwards, of course...for aerodynamics) and flip flops, we pooh-pooh them as a "squid." Mostly because they do the rest of us "actual" riders no good in the eyes of the non-motorcycling public, but, personally they amuse me because they almost never leave town, likely have not yet crashed in that get-up and had to have ground-in gravel removed from their skin (after my first crash I wanted more gear than I already had on and I didn't even suffer more damage than a jammed shoulder), and they sport HUGE chicken strips on their tires. Yeah, but they look cool and have that giant cc motorsickle. Pffft.

Motorcycling terminology lesson: "Chicken strips" are the unscuffed strips on the outside of the tire tread, indicating that the rider does little-to-no leaning in a turn. Any fool can go fast on a straight. But it takes a special kind of stupid to lean into a turn. And Mister, I am that kind of stupid. See here: First, a photo taken of a squid's 1000cc sportbike outside Gold's Gym...

That lighter colored 1-inch-or-so strip? Chicken. Also, the rider has spent WAY more seat time upright and in straights than any turning. That's what that sharp angle is closer to the center of the tire. This tire would be more commonly found on a cruiser in this condition because cruisers aren't designed to do much in the way of leaning, so instead of a round even wear, the tire develops a flat spot down the center.

Now...after this past weekend and my "graduation (which I will speak of in another post)", here's my tire (shiny bit along the edge is my chicken strip):


I'm pretty damn impressed with myself. But...hey, HUGE TANGENT. That's not what I'm all self-back-patting about. Though I did. A lot. This past Sunday was AWESOME (later post). Back to the squid thing.

Mostly Naked and I were sitting around La Casa de Gasa, when he asked me, "Do you have some kind of software where you can mess with a picture to make it look like something else?" I just happen to be brushing up on InDesign and Photoshop at work to add to my skill set. So I was excited about this project. After posing my subject outside squid-like...mostly naked (status quo)...and a little Googling for the right background...and about seven hours of noobie-style poking around in Macromedia Fireworks...and some nagging to finish the thing...I present Mostly Naked and his squidly impression. In flip flops.

No Mostly Nakeds were harmed in the making of this photo.

Here's the two pictures I used:



Goood job Meeee...

If you're gonna be slow...

...try to have a sense of humor about it.

My helmet, as viewed from behind


And yes...it's reflective. :-)

Everything I've ever done was out of fear of being mediocre.

Guess old Chet Atkins wasn't lying..

Sunday turned out to be a good day for me. A friend of Brother's was in town with his girlfriend for a wedding and they both ride sportbikes. So there were five of us from our house on the club ride. Turned out we had our biggest group so far...twenty, I think.

Here we pause in Chetek for a roller dog and Corn Nuts.

I felt pretty good when I woke up today. Normally, I get a little gut ache and the first half of the ride, I'm twitchy and panicky. Not today. I spent the night before telling myself I wasn't going to wig out, slam on the brakes and creep through the gravel. I was going to Eat. It. Up. And, convinced myself that going off the road was NOT an option.

I updated my mp3 player with some new, gravel-eatin' music and set out with the rest of the group as we headed north to Chetek. On the way up, we took the same route where I went off the road last month. The turn before that one was the dirty one this time, but I breezed right through. Seconds before I came up to "the turn" was when I recognized it. And, honestly, I have no idea how I could tell. There is absolutely nothing that gives it away; no signs, houses, marks in the pavement (not even from me). Yet there it was. And it was dirty with gravel. But since I rode off, enough vehicles have ridden through it to create clear lines through the turn. And I Ate. It. Up. When we stopped at the next intersection, Mostly Naked was waiting with the rest of the group, looking back for us stragglers. I pumped my first in the air and let out a whoop! in my helmet. Victory. THAT felt good.

County highway D heading south from Chetek is probably my absolute favorite road we've ridden so far. It's clean, there's a sizeable paved shoulder and it winds through the trees with fast sweepers and changes in elevation. There is a benefit to being hind tit...if the group gets far enough ahead, you can zoom through a stretch at whatever speed you're comfortable with, and there's nobody in your way. The leader is the only other one who gets to enjoy that.

I was just...switched on.

Gravel comes in different shapes and sizes, as we all know. The smaller it is, usually coincides with the fact that there's more of it. Sand would be the worst. The bigger the pieces, the less there are typically, and if you run over it in a turn, you'll feel the weight shift a little, like a wiggle, but as soon as the tire returns to the pavement, you're on your way. A little knowledge, from me to you.

Bawk!

Yeah...I made it about a mile before I told Mostly Naked (not too calmly, either) to turn around so I could get my own bike. I'd like to pin the whole decision to not ride 2-up on the suit, because this was only the second time I've ridden in it and it's still stiff and binding and mildly uncomfortable. I'd also be willing to say it was because I was sliding all over the back seat and couldn't grip Mostly Naked's tank without slipping around. Honestly, though, too scared. I think I would've been able to ride 2-up if I had my regular riding clothes on...but now that I'm back home I know better. Sitting way up on the "perch," bouncing around, sliding forward off the seat, having nothing substantial to hang on to without crushing the pilot...I will probably never ride on the back of a sportbike ever again. I need to be able to grip the bike with my legs. I have to have handlebars to hold on to. I'm suddenly aware of a bit of a control issue too.

So we turned around and I got my good old Triumph out and fan-folded myself in my suit on my own bike and we rode. Much better.

Faster can wait. I'll wear the mantle of Hind Tit begrudgingly, but at least my heart rate will climb back down off the ceiling. Annny minute now would be sweet...

That Thumping Sound....

...is coming from inside my chest.

Oh dear God...I talked myself into riding on the back of Mostly Naked's bike tomorrow (at his suggestion, obviously) as we travel to Whitehall to hang some posters for our big ride/party coming up on August 9th. I've dubbed myself the Club Hind Tit because I am the rear-most rider in the group rides. Mostly Naked usually leads the rides. Please note, it's now 10:30pm on Friday, and I'm already amped...maybe it's scared. Probably both.

Funny enough, we spent most of the time this evening hanging out at The Joynt on Water Street discussing how I must be broken inside because I've gone skydiving, crashed a motorcycle twice, and done a track day...all of which were without the usual human surge of adrenaline. Now, I'm wide awake...and what's this? Adrenaline? Think I'm gonna wear that hotbox leather suit tomorrow? HELLS YEAH.

I was just wondering if I should bring my camera and take some video from the back seat, but I think this first time I should just concern myself with that silly hanging on and concentrating on being a non-entity on the back.

What started the whole thing is that I don't feel like I'm improving fast enough and I'm getting frustrated at being in the back all the time. However, whenever I'm out on a ride I consciously tell myself to ride at my own pace...which I do...and enjoy even. Mostly Naked pointed out that I'm only in my 1st/2nd season of really riding and I just plain won't be fast for some time...at least not fast AND in control. Coming from a guy who's been on a motorcycle for...what did he say...maybe 15 years already? That doesn't make it any more soothing for an instant-gratification junkie.

So, as I'm sitting here, all a-quiver, I'm mulling over the possible blocks to my improvement. And yeah, they're all in my head. Stupid head.

1) I don't trust my tires or my bike and just how much they can do (Mostly Naked pointed that one out).
2) I don't trust me to handle whatever happens unexpectedly with clear thinking and graceful, quick reaction.
3) I frickin HATE gravel, ergo it spooks me. How come it's always in the corners??
4) Blind turns and blind hills are creepy if there's no one in front of you to follow.
5) I'm afraid if I unass my seat I won't be able to get back on (picture one of those people bouncing along the side of a horse when they lose their balance, but can't get out of the stirrup...and try not to laugh).

I ask myself, how come all these people in front of me can get through all these issues and I still don't see them until they stop to wait for me at the next change in route? How come I get to be so mental? It occurs to me, the reason for the lack of excitement in response to how I'm currently riding? I don't test myself. Yes, I'm really REALLY new compared to most of the riders in the group, but jeez...how long do I have to be the hind tit? One guy joined up this year and rode behind me because he was all panicky in turns...but one day, not too long after, he passed me and I never saw him in the back again.

No, I'm not going to go out and try to kill myself. I have a fairly strong sense of self-preservation. I'm not...brave. At least not to my satisfaction. Darn me. I am however rambling on hurriedly because I'm as excited as a 7-year-old at Christmas at the prospect of riding behind Mostly Naked tomorrow. I hope I don't throw up in my helmet. Also, he won't be mostly naked. He'll be mostly armored.

***

In other news, The Joynt is a bar I lovingly refer to as "The Place Where the Pot Smokers Congregate." It's very nearly a guarantee that anytime you walk in there, you will spot a tie-dye t-shirt or pony-tail accompanied by full beard. They have a neon sign over the bar that READS (not "says"...Mostly Naked has taken to correcting my grammar (if you can believe that)) "No Light Beer." Happy Hour? Of course! This is Wisconsin, after all. What? $.40 taps? YES. I walked in with FOUR DOLLARS and walked out with empty pockets and a sturdy buzz. This place is a study in eccentricities. Initially, my dad took me there for a drink and, coming from a sheltered, over-franchised Chicago suburb, I thought this place was a total hole. Now, it's grown on me...it's like visiting with an old war veteran; it's crusty, worn and dusty on the outside, but there's inherent charm, history, and stories if you sit still and observe long enough. With one exception; the war vet likely won't have the finest beer in all the land (Point, Grain Belt, Leinie's, Berghoff).


I'm going to try to go to bed now...and in the spirit of over-exaggerated, adolescent reactions, "OH MY GOD! He TOTALLY touched my arm in gym class today! WEEEEE! D.K. & Z.D. 4 EVER!"

..toodles...

Q: How do you avoid looking like a gimp?

A: Leave the ball gag at home.

The more I've been riding, the more protective gear I've been buying. Aside from the original helmet, armored gloves and jacket, I now have racing boots and a back protector. It's a lot of stuff to put on, but I've gotten to the point where even just riding a block to the gas station, I can't NOT wear the back protector, helmet, gloves, jacket and, at the least, thick boots. It just doesn't feel safe without the gear.

And now I own a leather racing suit.

Before my first track day back in June, I tried ordering a full suit off the rack and had no luck. I am WAY too...ahem..."curvy" to fit the waifish outfits motorcycle apparel companies are churning out. Usually, I have to resort to men's gear, but a man's suit wouldn't work...guys have no ass area. I, however, wear three. Asses.

So that rack suit shows up, I don't fit it, and it was a scramble to get my old blue and gold jacket and a borrowed pair of racing pants (that just BARELY fit) to a local seamstress to get a zipper put in both, so they'd make one piece (a requirement for track day). It did the job, but was not my first choice for long term.

No, I don't plan to ever race. I don't have the need for speed. Just fun. In my case (as with most people, I'm guessing), increased speed is fast becoming a by-product of experience, whether I like it or not (I do, weeee!). However, I want to do many more track days and a full leather suit is a necessity. Most of the guys in the club wear full suits whenever we ride.

I decided, after track day, to research more on the internet...it was obvious I was going to need custom fitting. For the asses. All three. A trinity, if you will. Suits can be expensive. Custom suits, well, they border on the ridiculous, but the better the fit, the more the armor stays put, and the less likely you are to spontaneously combust from the inside due to abrasion against your skin. You won't see a custom-fitted rider rolling around on the pavement screaming, "I'm on fire! Help me, Oprah Winfrey! Tom Cruise, use your witchcraft to get the fire off me!"

Here comes the part where every sensible-thinking person goes "whoa." I found a company in California, that might as well be a no-name, who offers a variety of racing suits for $480 with FREEEE custom-fitting AND shipping. Yeah, I thought it too..."Oh right. I throw $500 out there and 'wait-and-see.'" But, with the depressing thought that there is no suit out there ready-made to fit my trinity, I was getting desperate. Besides, the name brand suits cost MUCH more than 480 smackers. Granted, you can't tell for sure if this company knows their stuff about racing (most importantly, crashing)...more than once the thought crossed my mind, "What if the first impact makes all the seams blow apart like the skin of an over-ripe tomato?" I gave it a shot anyway, expecting to be disappointed the whole time.

While it took longer than promised (5 weeks instead of the 2-3), I had been receiving prompt responses to my emails and when I was given a tracking number, found that the suit was already in New York, on its way from, get this...Pakistan by way of Dubai. I guess I support sweatshop work however I can. When it finally arrived, I opened the box outside, in case of scorpions. Come on, it came from a freaking desert!


Pro's: It fits like a glove. The leather seems thick and the seams sturdy. It came with armored shoulders, elbows, knees, knee pucks and thick pads on the hips and back. I got to choose the pattern and colors. They say it's buffalo leather...for all I know it's made from cats, but I'll go with it.

Cons: It's hot as hell...they didn't use perforated leather anywhere or fabric stretch panels, so if it's at all muggy or hot out, I parboil inside. But, I'm also taking into consideration the fact that I've been riding in less-protective gear that is more breathable. I acknowledge the trade-off for safety. Another con: there's too much leather behind my knees and in front of the suit on the gut area. It's entirely possible that's my fault with those two areas. I had the seamstress here in Eau Claire measure me standing up instead of on the bike. I've started researching local tailors to find one who specializes in leather racing suits to see if I can get those fit issues remedied. One more con...any physical anomalies in your stature become glaringly obvious when you're wearing a second skin. Yeeeeeesh.


Overall, I think it was a good purchase, and I'm hoping with more wearing, it will be worth the current discomfort during break-in.

The company looks like they have a lot of great looking apparel for regular use as well. You can see more at LividLeather.

Kuj Recommends The Following Junk...

Whenever we go on a club ride, we usually do one-stop shopping at a gas station. We can fuel up, take a break, get a cool beverage and glom down crap.

My travels have introduced me to these delectables:

Dark Chocolate Mint 3 Musketeers
Java Twix
Gummy Lifesavers (Mixed Berry)

Spazzy Synapse Firings

I don't understand how DAYS can sneak by in between posts. My fans must have collapsed, mere inches from the life-giving fountain of useless burblings that is me. All one of ya. Mom. I kid.

I've got nothin. I've been either painting, working or riding. All, which, for the most part, make for a boring post.

The house is very nearly finished being painted. A couple of coats here, another coat there and we get the rest of the summer off.

Our club ride last Sunday was...interesting. We rode a little farther than we usually do and went south of La Crosse through the Mindoro Cut and then back through it toward home. Another Triumph rider went splat just out of the cut in the first turn. His bike broke one of the fence posts and then hovered halfway into the abyss below. Being a Triumph, aside from a scraped up plastic, a bent shifter lever, and a couple of superficial boo-boos, he finished the ride. I thought I'd drop mine on its side for fun as I was pulling off the side of the road to assist.

I need an automatic, retractable kickstand. There's nothing blonder than forgetting to put your kickstand down. Twice. Worse yet, an old dude on a Goldwing had pulled over to let me pass before the Cut and then stopped next to me to help our fallen rider. I was close enough to him that when I dropped the bike, my instrument cowl brushed up against his leg. Didn't affect him. He merely turned his head in my direction and asked, calmly, "Are you okay?" No sir. I'm stupid. Are you okay? Don't sue me.

***

I went for a ride with my dad and his friend last night up to a new tavern on Lake Holcombe. Very nice. Ted's Timberlodge. All pine and slate and stone with a great view of the lake. That was a 70 mile trip. Then I got home and realized I didn't deposit my paycheck, so I rode to the bank branch farthest from my house. At some point I decided to get lost. "I wonder where EE goes? I'll follow it till it ends. Oh, it ends at H. I'll turn left here on H and ride that till it ends." That one was a long one. By the time I got to the end of H, it was getting darkish and all I knew was that I was south. And the farm guys in their pickup trucks were looking at me in a "paddle faster, I hear banjos" sort of way. I found a familiar route and followed it home...85 miles.

***

How are you guys dealing with the gas thing? I think it's around $4.22 here. I could tell you that I've taken an active approach in taking my motorcycle instead of my car, but I like to ride too much. I keep finding the looooonng way home. Honestly, I'm surprised I even know what the price was...I must have glanced at the pump. I don't care, I haven't cut back, I say spook the caribou, start drilling in Alaska, and give me all the 93 octane fossil fuels ya got. I don't think this makes me a bad American. Let's just say I'm doing all I can to hold up my end of the Pursuit of Happiness.

This Saturday the club is heading up to the Twin Cities for a benefit ride. A guy who used to ride in the club (whom we know as "Fez") has an 11 year old little brother who is in remission from Stage 4 Hodgkin's and they are throwing a little party for him. I'm looking forward to seeing Fez again and meeting his brother, but it will also be an all-day motorcycling jag. Yea for me! And Brother is actually going to ride with us for the first time this year.

***

Admittedly, my useless ramblings are more entertaining than current events...but sometimes you just have to build up the good stuff.

And I can't get "Mamma Mia" out. Of. My. Freaking. Head.

And Trish got Italy moments after I threw down my Hawaii gauntlet. Shush, Trish. Threaten me again, and I post up your artwork on the notes we passed from high school. Love to the W-W's!

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.

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.