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...

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...

What?! There's a girl under there? Who knew?

I had an impulsive burst of girly shopping and picked up a few things...



And NO girl should be without one of these sweet, sah-weet modes of transportation...


I also picked up a pack of white crew socks. Hey, they have "Hanes" stitched in pink, okay??

First one in, last one out da club

About three weeks ago, our sportbike club hosted their 22nd annual Laguna Seca ride...which, if you are keeping track of professional sportbike racing, is nowhere near the actual Laguna Seca race. Anymore. But "CVSC Ride Then Drink Thingy" seems trite.

It's held on a Saturday, we have about a 150 mile ride beforehand and an after-party at a bar/hotel about 20 minutes or so south of EC in Osseo. This year I decided to skip the ride, mostly to help out the other two club members in the kitchen cooking up the fixin's, but also because the Laguna ride usually attracts many more people outside the club and I wasn't all that thrilled with the idea of riding with so many new people at once. Besides, HELLO! Food! All day being around it!

One of our club members hooked us up with a pig and roaster and did all the shopping for the rest of the chow. We had (aside from the roast pig) ho-made salsa, ho-made potato salad, and baked beans. He also picked up bacon from Sam's Club that was maple-flavored and was DELICIOUS. It was so good, I could smell maple syrup the rest of the night...though I think it was on my upper lip.

He and the other club member got to the bar way early to start cooking the pig. I showed up later in the morning, after getting lost on a county road and then spending about 5 miles worth of Cty Rd K poking along in newly laid, deep gravel. Honestly, the DOT is out to get us motorcyclists.

The remainder of the day was spent with the chop, chop, chop, boil, blend, mix and drink. Then...THE PULLING OF THE PORK! SOO-EEE!

Me, the Master Chef (Andy) and Sous Chef (Andy's son Zack)

Meanwhile...on the ride...

Mostly Naked on his newly mostly naked bike (hint: I've recently re-nicknamed him "Dances with Pine Trees")

Brother on his pristine machine


My Roomies...out front

The after-party...well..

Our 19-year-old club member ("son" to Mostly Naked and I) who, last week, left us for his first year of college in North Dakota...and to learn to fly Army helicopters. We miss him already, the little punk.

A little puke on the beer pong table, which, predictably, ended the beer pong tourney.


And this...well...I might have to get permission to tell this story. This is above a stall in the women's room. That's all I think I should say.

Suck it, Thoreau!

I've been hard pressed to come up with a viable post this past week or so...I have new purchases to share and still need to blog about the big club party, but I can't sit down and type much more than this at the moment.

Mainly because I am struggling to read every last word of Walden. I am fighting tooth and nail against using the book during the early morning hours on weekends for target practice on those GOD-BLESSED NOISY ASS CROWS. Because Walden? Totally sucks. Please, SOMEBODY tell me why this is a classic? Is there a deeper meaning in the discussion of growing beans? Should I do complex math in order to see the "Aha" moment in the ridiculous lists of expenditures and profits? I can't even find a meaningful line to add as my signature in the sportbike club forum so I look all pretentious and smarty. BTW, the current signature is one of my own quoting, "In the end, there can be only one. Two usually requires some stretching."

I'm becoming more and more worried that my comprehension is shot, because I thought a "classic" book was loosely defined as a beloved story passed down from generation to generation. What's with this book? Is it me? Is there some adult version of a reading comp test? Fahrenheit 451? That was a great book. I deem it a classic.

Walden has been in the "library" next to the "throne" for the past week, and when I realized we were down to our last roll of poo tickets, I glanced in the direction of the book and yes, just briefly...

"Will it hurt less if I wad it or fold it?"