Apparent Wind

In sailing terms my apparent wind was directly on the bow at around 115 knots. Of course that would be a pretty ugly (and possibly fatal) ride on a sailboat. In this case the “bow” was the nose fairing on my GSXR 1000 and the apparent wind was the combination of our indicated speed of around 90 mph and the 20 to 30 mph wind we were bashing our way through. We were on our way home from the inaugural Moto GP race at the Indianapolis Speedway and a weekend visit with Kristin and Brian.

 

To most people the weekend would have to rank as a near total bust. As improbable as it sounds a hurricane had formed itself off the coast of Africa, traveled across the Atlantic, beat up Cuba and Hayti, filled the Gulf, hammered Texas, flowed northeast and arrived at the Brickyard at the exact same time that the first ever Moto GP race at the venerable facility was scheduled to start. What are the odds of that? (Well, 100% apparently.) Friday practice should have been done on wave runners instead of motorcycles. There was standing water all over the track and a literal stream flowing across turn one. This did not prevent the Moto GP guys from howling down the front straight at better then 150 mph and braking, somehow in all the water standing on the front straight, to plow though even more water at a lean and at some still insane speed. Saturday was nice in spite of the forecast. Brian and I got to watch the only laps to be turned all weekend on a dry track and by GP qualifying time those guys were absolutely flying.

 

Sunday saw Deb and I high in the stands waiting for a race that might never start. We had scrambled all weekend making travel plans to ensure that we got home Sunday night regardless of the weather (work called). If they had rescheduled the race for Monday we would simply have to try again another year. As it turned out they started the race, got in about 16 laps in steadily deteriorating weather, and finally cried “Uncle” and threw in the red flag. By then it looked like the only person still “racing” was a bloke named Valentino Rossi, (5 times world Champ and looking to gain the title again this year). Everyone else looked to be just hanging on for dear life. Understandable. Up in the stands we spectators were riding out driving rains and breathtaking winds. I don’t know how high the gusts were, but it was certainly the highest winds I have ever felt while standing outside and exposed. Debris was flying all over the place, cans and plastic and even a cooler or two. The famous square pole that sits near the start/finish line at Indy to list the race positions was visibly swaying, power off, lights out and dark. It was a bit of a ride for everyone, racers and watchers alike. Anyway, after a long day at the track and “good-byes” at Kristin and Brian’s house, here we were running for home and still being spit on by the diminishing energy that was once known as “Ike.” Night fell as Deb kept an unrelenting pace, her big ZX-14 oblivious to the dying storm and thundering westward. The GSXR and I trailed along, me laughing at us two grandparents being out on a night like this. I don’t know where it comes from, this strange twist of the mind that finds life and joy in being nose to nose with dying hurricanes, bashing through a dark night on a pair of motorcycles, or thinking about heading to sea in a man made craft driven by wind in sails. What most would call a weekend ruined I recall as a low-key kind of adventure, good story stuff, and something I’m glad I didn’t miss. Adventures seem to work that way. We should have taken the truck. We knew the weather was iffy, I knew work would probably call and it didn't take a pilot to suspect that Sunday could be a tough day for anyone outside. But we took the bikes instead. Once on the bikes we should have bailed out Saturday evening and run for home before the storm. Sure we would have missed the race, but how much sense does it make to risk that kind of possible ride for a couple of hundred dollars in tickets? At the last minute, with the rain still falling and the wind still blowing, we could have left the bikes in Indy for a couple of weeks and used the kids' car to get home. We mounted up instead, encased in multiple layers against the falling temps. It was a fun ride home and a really good weekend. Next week we get back to Nomad and I may get a chance to show her to a couple from Kansas City who are looking to by a Com-Pac of their own. (No, Nomad is not for sale. They just want to see one before writing a check.)

Road Buzzies

Deb and I spent the holiday weekend playing hide-n-seek with Sheriffs, State Police and various other traffic enforcement officials by leaving little Nomad to her own devices while we took the bikes to visit friends in the mountains of Arkansas. It was a shorter Labor Day ride this year as we chose to leave Saturday rather than making the late night run Friday after work. Though at times we set a pretty good pace both on the ride down and then home again today, yesterday was our only day to snort around the fantastic roads of the Ozark foothills with some fleet footed friends. The pace was a little less frenetic than years past since most of our group was riding two up and all of us had many, many miles in our rear view mirrors. (Meaning we were far older than the average sport bike crowd.) Still, we made change for a dollar more than once and Mr. Law-n-Order would not have been pleased had we tripped any of his radar traps.

One Mr. Poe-Poe did pass us while we were bottled up waiting on a chance to pass a decrepit “good-ol-boy” pick up truck, shaking his finger at Deb as he went by. Even in a group of sport bikes all going the same speed Deb, all leaned over on her big red ZX-14 super bike, looks like she is the one speeding. (I would love to see the look on his face if he found out his gesture was aimed at a soon to be three time grandmother who could still outgun him, all his little Poe-Poe buddies, HIS mother AND his grandmother!)

Sunday night after the ride was time for some good cheer, tasty (and potent) libations, and friendly talk all around. Deb and I buying Nomad came up since moving onto a boat will inevitably mean the end of our serious motorcycle riding; something that has been a big, big part of our lives. Most of our closest friends have been made among motorcyclists, many of our fondest memories involve riding as well as some of our best adventures. Walking away from the bikes to climb onto a boat full time may be (assuming it happens) the biggest adjustment. Exploring that adjustment was the topic of much discussion. I don’t think we actually settled the issue to anyone’s complete satisfaction. For myself I see the boat more as a “next-step” rather than a “replacement.” The argument can be made that the peak (if you will) of my riding is putting in multiple hundred-mile days on a super bike while being able to ride it to a good part of its potential. In a very real sense it just doesn’t get any better than that. But where to you go from there? Faster? Not a good idea. As fast as I can go is faster than most (not all, but most) people can go, and way, way faster than anyone should go. Further? To prove what? We get where we want to go, make Pittsburgh in a day, grind out miles that would cripple even some of the kids riding sport bikes. When we ride we enjoy what we know. 

When we sail we explore what we don’t know. Part of what I like about getting older is actually knowing a thing or two now, (unlike my 20 year old self who only thought he knew some stuff). And a big part of what I don’t like about getting older is mostly knowing what to expect. There is very little “new.” Most days are just minor variations on themes long since memorized. This is not all bad, or at all bad. Knowing what is coming makes up for my slowing reaction times, and I mean that in many more ways than just dodging the wayward SUV or building thunderstorm. There is a comfort in that, a certain dignity, expertise that cannot be faked or earned in any other way. But… 

There is another side to living that gets harder and harder to hang onto, the side that is surprised, delighted, and exuberant. The bike still lets me touch that, on a long stretch of empty road when I pin the throttle, bang through the gears and howl with an engine that is pulling past 10 grand and putting $1.40 on the speedometer. Or those perfect corners when you trail brake all the way to the apex, feeling the tires come up on the edges, obliterating the “chicken-strip” and maybe slipping just a twitch as you dig it out of the corner. Right there, on that edge, is the real reason our hearts still beat and our blood still surges, but that gets harder to find as the years go by. Maybe I hope that living on a sailboat will let me keep in touch with that part of living long past the time when I can throw a bike around like a kid. (And without the need to be that far outside the law. I’m not sure, but I think at a buck-40 you go straight to jail without passing “go.”) To find surprise in a new place, exuberance in a tack well done, delight at living in a different way. Or perhaps, sitting here this evening after a good weekend of riding, I’m just enjoying a case of road buzzies?

The conundrum

My eldest daughter, Kristin, has a thing about noise, specifically man-made machine-type white noise, the type of which seems to proliferate with the advance of technology. While I, ever the technocrat, adore all things technologically cool, it occurred to me this weekend as Tim pulled the fuel lever to kill the engine that she may have something there. The silence enveloped me in the cockpit, punctuated only by the breeze, the bow wave, and the occasional seagull and I found myself sighing with relief. So much so, that when we neared "Party Beach", a strip of sand that hosts 3 or 4 dozen power boats each weekend, and began to play chicken with said bearers of drunken party-goers, I found myself bearing away just enough to head out to quieter waters at the roaring speed of about 1 knot. This may seem strange for the rider of the world's fastest production motorcycle and is, in fact, a conundrum I have been unable to answer yet when asked (and it happens often). There is something so primitively basic about the need for peace and quiet: thoughts need time to dance and blend without interruption, in order to culminate in those rare and wonderful epiphanies we sailors are famous for.

And yet...we packed up the bikes tonight to head home and as soon as I twisted the throttle...I guess I have a need for speed sometimes as well. I guess I'll have to ponder it a little longer next time on the boat. If those power boaters will just leave me alone long enough to think, that is.