4 Valve Victory in the Canyons
I see the corner coming — the deep bend, the strange camber, the way the road rolls against itself as it tilts right and climbs north. Part of me cringes. Feels out of sorts, as if today isn’t really my day. But the bike doesn’t flinch. It never backs down. It never echos my personal conundrum.
Instead it just settles down.
Then the tires grip. And the chain spins. And before I know it the little bit of lean angle that remains disappears as the throttle rips backwards with vengeance…
Instantly valves open, the heart flutters, and the engine revs… Wildly revs…
And for all the worry in the world, now there is nothing to do but hang on…
Effortlessly, the bike fires — forward — Imposes its own will on the asphalt. Claws its ways up the hill as it rips big, heady chunks of asphalt out of its way. The road surface has no choice but to let go. To surrender. To give in.
The push is incredible. The drive out of the turns sublime. The self-created forward momentum astounding.
Beneath me a battalion of horsepower is on the attack and I can feel its every move. The bike hunkering down, the revs increasing, the exhaust bellowing and by the time I reach the top of the lonely canyon wall, it’s clear that the roadway has been forced into a unique form of submission.
It hasn’t just been defeated, it’s been conquered.
In world where nothing seems secure, and so much suddenly seems fluid, I find myself smirking at the thought that for this one moment in time, on this one particular day, a 4-Valve L-Twin engine seems to have the power to defeat anything and everything in its path. Forward momentum never felt this good.
1098 Mod: Installing Speeymoto Rearsets
Installing the Speedymoto Rearsets on the 1098S
With the rain rolling in, Sunday seemed like a great day to install the new Speedymoto Rearsets, that I picked up from Desmoworks, on the 1098S .
When you open the Speedymoto box, the very first thing you see is a set of instructions - This gave me great confidence to wrench myself - And after reading the included instructions through and through several times, I thought what the hell, what do I have to lose? Everything seemed relatively simple - unscrew this, put on that, torque to this - but perhaps all of that was a rather naive assumption, as somehow in the space between the reading and the first wrenching, the installation of the rearsets got a heck of a lot more complicated than I had anticipated.
Originally I had thought to myself how hard can swapping out two pegs you put your feet on be?
As it turns out, not as simple as one thinks…
What I had so cleverly ignored was the linkage — both the shifting and the braking — neither of which replicated the pieces they replaced nor was as simple as you’d think to install — Granted, I’m the first to admit I’m a rider and a not a mechanic.
However, even with a few hiccups here and there, tonight I find a beautiful satisfaction in the wrenching — There’s truly something magnificent when you put new parts on your own bike. All the bolts might fall off tomorrow, but for right now I keep thinking about the twisting and turning of the bits done with my own hands and it seems so much more meaningful and so much more profound, as if the machine and I have become even closer, if that were possible, thanks to the hardening of a little bit of loctite.
A Clearing in The Mist
Misty Morning on the Ortega Highway
Just a quick snap from a quick ride up and down the Ortega in the rain… Not my favorite ride of the year, but better to be out on the bike than not…
Curving Flashbacks
In the Canyons with Trevor
Top of Stunt during Fire Season
Few quick picts from a sweet ride through the canyons with Trevor Navarra, a rather accomplished still photographer…
Private Canyon
Sweat is beading up. Bits of perspiration grow unchecked. First there’s one. Then two. Now, three. Until the moment comes when the collection of water hits its critical mass and the weight exceeds the liquid’s suction power.
A second later, I feel the momentum of the bead as it rolls down my back and the cool-yet-warm-yet-idyllically perfect SoCal wind buffets the side of my helmet and exposed parts of my neck and I have to smile.
It’s November and at last I’m riding again.
How perfect.
Cresting the canyon, I wring back the throttle as the bike launches forward. The gauges go up, the gears spin faster, the exhaust audibly rises and the road bends – oh, boy, does it bend…
Going back and forth left and right and up and down, in equal measure and in all directions, before it suddenly shouts out straight ahead. Slowing rising, as if the road is just biding its time… Just sneaking a peek at what comes next. Just letting you catch your breath. Never fully giving itself away, never quite letting you know its intentions. And then there’s a kink.
A little jut that shoots you straight out under the trees. The shadows overwhelming your senses… It’s just darkness and a prayer.
You gulp for air and wonder what might lie on the road surface – but just then the sunlight comes back. Casting its watchful eye on your adventure once again… Right before the road rolls over itself, and you gasp… The jarring 180º up-hill assault brings the tarmac back on to itself and as you gaze at it, you too return to earth.
A second later, the bike dives-in. Leans left. In your mind, you think about traction and forces, and science and force, and all kinds of madness… And in a heartbeat it’s over…. Before I know it I’m hanging above the coast and the canyon, peering out at an endless expanse of nothingness. Clouds that cover all and yet offer no definition between sky or ground or even horizon. It’s just one big bland colored canvas that’s wrapped around everything that I can see.
Yet even though it seems colorless there’s vibrancy.
And lots of it.
Hitting the stop sign, I pause for a second and tell myself — no, remind myself — I should breath.
My head feels like its spinning so fast, I’m shocked… Can’t remember the last time I felt this way…
My heart races… And I smile…
I’m alone – completely alone – And in my very own private canyon.
*****
Minutes later, the road barks. The 1098S vibrates with an urgency I haven’t felt in quite awhile – the windscreen shakes wildly, the seat wiggles up and down, there’s a beat to the moment. A sense of booming and bamming…
The engine hurls itself forward with such vigor that I almost feel powerless to stop it by myself. There’s a third-person video-game quality to it all. The ride surrounding my outlook on life so fully and in such a dedicated manor that there’s seemingly little left to do. I feel lost. Out of control. Out of touch.
However I’m there… I’m in the moment…
With each new kink in the asphalt, the road openly communicates. The handlebars scream instructions as the Tires dip and dive and avoid conflict-riddled patches. I feel engaged. I feel in touch. I feel in control.
The engine rumbles and howls and screams… Rapidly increasing and decreasing the bellowing exhaust notes, each flick of the wrist echoing through-out the canyons and right off of the rocky walls.
Coming up to the top of Saddlepeak Road, I my eyes fixate on the width and breath of the San Fernando Valley. It’s clearer than the Coastline, but not by much. I can see birds fluttering, other traffic, hikers, bicyclists… Yet all I can hear is the soundtrack of my own private canyon. The Rattle and Hum of the Individual Experience as it was meant to be had… Solitude in Speed… Gød how I have missed this…
Organic Comfort
The road is rising. Lifting up. And reaching out.
Searching perhaps.
For where to go next.
As am I…
I think…
Hugging the side of the mountain, the road anxiously bounces, frenetically jumping left and then right and then back left again. Over and over and over again. Each kink flowing into the next, with such little regard for the rules of reality that at times it seems almost overwhelming.
Yet it never quite gets away.
Never makes that full and final break that ends today and starts tomorrow…
Instead coming out of each successive corner, the road surface jumps ahead just enough to show you how little control you have over it before it slows back down and nimbly allows you to find your groove once again.
That addictive groove. The one that all riders crave.
When you can see no evil nor hear no evil. When you and the bike symbiotically connect with such frightening ease that what seemed fast yesterday is now downright mellow in comparison.
A slow mellow.
As the road snaps right, I catch my first peak at the ocean ahead and smile. The rush of the ride is coming to an end. I can see it beneath the faint haze that’s hanging over the crystal blue water. Half of me thinks that this is a good thing. That there’s no way I can sustain this pace safely. That I’ve ridden today to far out of my comfort zone.
Yet the other side of my head just defiantly smirks. Because like everything else comfort zones are organic. They live, they breathe, they grow. Expanding with confidence or contracting with fear.
And today it’s wider and deeper than its been in ages.
Mellow Movements and Perspective
On The Road to Recovery
Tugging on the brake, deep in the corner, there’s a loud ‘thunk’. Then a blip. Or more appropriately a rev or two. And the bike bounces.
It stands up. Says I’m here. I’m free. I’m out to play. And then the pace picks up…
The machine basks in the glory — The sounds of an L-twin being let loose on curvy roads uninhabited by traffic …
Suddenly I feel a strange mixture of excitement and fear…
And I smile.
I think to myself, this is exactly what it’s supposed to feel like. This is in fact me…
And I smile again.
There are only so many moments one can allow to pass by - and today, of all days, it finally feels as if I’m meant to be in this bit of time, this space, this cross-section of the here and the now. Because I finally feel like I’m coming back around.
I’m returning to who I am.
It’s been a mere 56 days since I dump the 999. And they have not been easy days…
I think about what happened constantly. I analysis it. I reflect on it. I ask myself what I could have done to avoid it.
Perhaps that’s just human nature at play. Or perhaps I’m making a far bigger deal out of this than I should… I don’t know…
However to say that I’m over it is a total exaggeration. I’m not. And I’m not sure I should be. However, while the inevitable weights on my mind, there’s a certain glory, and pleasure, in being set free.
A certain sensibility in coming back around to the mindset that it’s possible to lose oneself in the uncontrollable. To lose oneself on the open road. To feel as if life is alive. That whatever organic nature there is to our being, it exists in the asphalt that gets us from the here to the there… That while none of us can ever really choose our time or place to go out, there’s something unique about feeling like you’re living in the chunk of time you’ve been granted…
I don’t mean to get all mystical here, but today I took the 1098S out and felt alive… Obstinately because the 10 needed to be run. It’s been in a track configuration for quite awhile now. But as we all know old gas in the tank is bad gas in the tank. And, more importantly it seemed like it was time… Time to take the beast out…
Of all the bikes that the old man and I share, the 1098 is undoubtedly the most twitchy. It’s the most real. The most powerful. The most alive. The one with the holier than thou brakes. The one that revs the loudest, bangs the best, and seems the most scary. It’s a machine that asks quite a bit from you — not so much physically, but rather mentally. It’s a machine that does specific tasks quite well — but to make that happen, you’ve got to on the top of your game… You’ve got to be living in the moment…
And yet today, it was perfect. It was sublime. And it was absolutely wonderful… It did everything I asked and more… Yet…
When waking up at 9am, I roll over and ask, am I awake enough to make this work? Am I where I need to be in order to take this bike out? Can I control it? Can I be what I need to be in order to make it work?
These are questions I never used to ask myself. Thoughts that I never fathomed.
I was the guy, who incorrectly thought, given enough time could learn to do just about anything on a bike. But mortality, and crashing, and reality, have a nasty way of proving their point….
I am not a god. I am not a pro racer. And I will never be.
The learning curve, while exponentially increasing over the years, quite possibly has hit its mark.
I say that not to sound defeatist, but rather because post-crash I find myself questioning the very nature of how I ride and where that riding takes place…
Up until now I’ve ridden with the sole intention of trying to getting better — to improve — each corner was challenging not because of its own virtue, but rather because of the virtue I imposed. At times I looked at a kink in the road and thought to myself, ‘this could be a knee down corner’ or ‘this is a bloody fast spot’… But post-crash it occurs to me that perhaps there is a point where the street no longer allows you to improve. Perhaps there’s a point where riding amongst everyday traffic effectively gets graded on a curve… A moment where the skill of riding and the enjoyment of riding settle their differences and diverge once and for all. Perhaps they take different paths and never look back. Never cross over again…
And tonight, I find myself wondering what it is that truly I love about riding?
Is it the speed? The adrenaline? The rush? The journey? The vistas? The thought process? The living in the moment? The ability to get lost and yet be somewhere? The imagine of the machine in its own environment? The reality that I’m controlling the uncontrollable? The excitement of the back and forth movement in a chicane? Or is it just being out there? Being alive? And being alone amongst the picturesque bits of nature?
I ask, because I’ve just spent the last four hours getting mentally lost on a road that up until now I would have told you was more or less boring, but today, post-crash, it seemed riveting. It bent and twisted and came back over itself in a way that felt entirely new. As if I it had been reborn — yet it wasn’t. I was. Instead of looking down on it, today I found myself enlightened. I looked through the visor and saw nothing but excitement and potential, and thought to myself, ‘was this here before?… Did I miss it?’.
I don’t quite understand how that’s possible… How one can look past something for so long and then wake up one morning and go ‘wow’…
It’s as if the road was the symbiotic twin of the awkward gal in high-school who blossoms later in life… The one you never saw coming… Until one day, she arrives and you wonder, why didn’t I see that before? How could I miss such potential?
Part of it, no doubt, is because I’ve tried to go back to basics, but beyond that, I find myself wondering what it is that I truly expect out of the street and what chances I’m really willing to take outside of a controlled racetrack…
What is safe? What is secure? What is acceptable? What is it that I truly love about riding on the open road? And, ultimately, what do I need to do to feel that sense of living? If 70% gets you to that feeling on the street, why go to 80% or 90%???
These are all questions that keep coming to mind… And ones, I didn’t really ask before…
And while I don’t exactly know the answers, what I do know is that it’s not the bike, nor the tires, or the road surface, but rather it’s my inability to trust myself that haunts my riding right now… The demon that haunts me isn’t based in logic, reality or the here and the now… Rather it’s the inability to let go of the past, to see through the moment of concern and the ability to forget that holds me back…
Buttonwillow The Italian Contingent Arrives
The 1098S at Buttonwillow
The clock says 3 when I wish it said 4…
It’s amazing how missing one hour of possible sleep seems like such a missed opportunity when you’re just a few hours away from setting out for the next great adventure to test yourself and your soul…
Rest after all is a weapon, as they say. Yet right now I’m feeling like the guy who brought a knife to a gun fight while laying in bed and listening to the void of silence that city life creates this early.
If it weren’t for the trash trucks and transit authority, I’m not even sure I’d know I was awake. Yet I am…
Rolling out of the bed, the dog slowly raises his head and quizzically looks at me, as if to say, ‘I know you’re totally insane and all, but this is nuts’.
I’d like to think it’s the only time this thought will cross my mind this morning but instead it’s just the first salvo of the day. Because to some extent anyone who signs up for a trackday and finds intrigue in seeing the bleeding edge of their skill set probably qualifies as slightly mad.
On one hand it’s a completely beautiful thing; when you can match the right bike with the right environment and take a purely mechanical object and transform into a magical creature that fulfills a fantasy. Yet you’re also taking your prized possession directly into an utterly combustible atmosphere that has dozens of both real and imagined landmines that you’ve got to navigate successfully in order to survive.
Perhaps at its core it’s exactly because of this conflicting duality that tracks provide such an intense draw and offer such challenge and intrigue. Or maybe as the dog seems to be suggesting perhaps I’m just somewhat nuts. Hard to tell when the even the coffee pot shrieks in disbelief when you fire it up before it’s timer has gone off.
photo by vanhap
A dozen tie-down straps later, I’m losing layers of clothing at a surprisingly rapid rate. Sweating in chunks in the back of the pick up truck bed as the mildly stifling heat of an empty and pitch-black neighborhood works its way over me when the local paperboy shows up.
No more then fourteen, the kid makes eye contact as I tighten the tensile strength of a hand built synthetic strap derived spider web. Disbelief scrolls across his face while he feigns indifference. No doubt he’s wondering who in their right mind would choose to not only get up this early but also start hustling when they don’t have to? It seems counter intuitive to say the least and at this point I’m not entirely sure I disagree with him. The idea of sliding back under the covers seems like a noble thought indeed. But then to do so would remove the possibility of today’s scheduled enjoyment.
A second later the kid tosses yet another paper, which lands with a unexpectedly loud thud, while I light my first smoke of morning and give into today’s temptation — The idea that in just a few hours I’ll be surveying a pristine track on a causal California Monday with my own weapon of choice.
It’s time to finally let the 1098S out to play again.
I suppose we all buy the bikes we do with certain images in mind; perhaps it’s a great sport-touring journey up a virgin coastline or an ever gaining adventure across a desolate landscape. Maybe it’s the crystallized picture of dirt flying over the front fender as you whack the throttle in between the dunes or a collection of pixels that showcase a grinding puck going down in the perfect canyon corner. Or perhaps it’s something simpler; the image of your own two hands wrenching on your beloved beast in the garage. I suppose I’m no different. (more…)
The Puzzle Comes Together
The bike is running at a wicked pace through a pristine slice of California Wine Country, which sits on the edge of a desert that’s exploding with change, when all the pieces start to finally connect again. Suddenly. Effortlessly. Easily. It all makes sense, as if that much desired and somewhat foreign ‘see no evil, do no evil’ reality has once again been reborn.
What an incredible difference just a few days can make…
Gunning the engine, there’s a wail of interaction, an everlasting echo running through the canyon walls, and a touch of excitement as the bike downshifts and I begin a symbiotic dance through the turns. Bits of breaking meet a touch of front-end dive and a long, low, lasting tilt. It’s a much-needed change, especially after a few rides that bordered on the dysfunctional, or at least the emotionally downtrodden.
By the time the road begins to truly tighten and constrict the very civilization I’m escaping, everything feels ideal – and nothing it seems is going to be able to upset either the bike or myself today. Absolutely nothing… What a wondrous feeling… (more…)
To Ride or Not To Ride
[Photo by Rick Clemson]
The sun is well past its prime and I’m feeling unbelievably angry — angry at the motorcycle, angry at the mountain, angry at myself, even angry at the new CRG levers…
Because I waited to long to get on the bike and just go…
I let the day slip past me under the false pretenses of a cloud-covered disguise and a morning filled with wasted time. Now halfway through the ride, my penance seems to be a road that’s permeated by an apprehensive collection of near constant tension.
It’s the kind of strain I try to avoid by going for a ride in the first place – but today it lurks under the asphalt like a hunter stalking its prey. Holding low, hiding out, just waiting to see your weaknesses. Waiting for that one single mistake when it capitalize and take charge for the foreseeable future.
And I can feel it bearing down… With each flick of the front end…
The strain of its eyes. The heat from its breath. The emotional turmoil it creates within. It’s the kind of foreboding thought-process that somehow ensnares you - traps you in a self-fulfilling circular prophecy written in your own continual failure.
Worst of all, you witness at each bend in the road; within a missed mark or an overtly loose line or that one stone that somehow stand tall right at the apex… And right now I find myself feeling this amazingly powerful sense of internal rage – the kind of raw, bitter, unrelenting anger that I haven’t felt in ages – because I can’t shake this feeling, I can’t just enjoy the ride, and perhaps most importantly because I – and I alone - created it in the first place…
I decided far to late in the day to go for a ride when I clearly lacked the mental space to enjoy it, and now I’m paying the price, one corner at a time.
