Scrumptious Word Morsels

According to my status update from earlier today, there are only two kinds of motorcyclists: Those who have crashed, and those who are going to. (Personally, I think that saying is kind of stupid, because you can make impressive-sounding dichotomies out of anything. Need an example? There are only two kinds of people: Those have died, and those who are going to die. See?)

Anyway, this morning was apparently my day to crash, and crash is exactly what I did. I was coming down Campbell at about 5:45 a.m., and I was in the middle of the first left turn (the big one). I had started in the outside of the lane, as I should have, except that I ran into a small problem about halfway through the turn. The recent storms must have washed dirt and sand onto the road, and then cars went and pushed that stuff towards the inside and outside of the lane.

Well, my front tire ate up some sand, and then I don’t quite remember what happened next. Either the loss of traction flicked me, or else I tried to adjust and nudged the handlebars, but at any rate, I started heading off-road. Since the shoulder of Campbell is all dirt and tiny rocks right there, it was pretty much over for me at that point.

The bike slid out in front of me, and I followed shortly after it once it managed to shake me off (a low-side crash, as it’s known). After about 30-40 feet of sliding, bike and rider came to a stop in the dirt off to the side of the road. At that point, I did what any motorcyclist would do: I picked up the left turn signal, put it into my backpack, picked up the bike, and rode home.

The damage report is as follows:

• Decapitated left blinker
• Scraped left mirror
• Bent shift lever
• Torn-up left foot peg
• Cracked left fairing
• Scraped engine case
• Scraped left handlebar grip

All in all, there was relatively little damage to me because my protective gear did its job. Except for the dirt and dust, you can’t even tell my jacket was in a wreck. Gloves are a little scraped, but fine. Boots are scraped, but fine. Helmet is undamaged and didn’t get touched. Jeans have a couple holes in the left knee, but those are cheap to replace. I’m missing some skin off my left hip, so if you happen to come across it, I’d like that back.

I guess I’m just really thankful for the circumstances of the spill, and for the fact that I’m able to write about the whole ordeal just 14 hours later. I mean, there were no other cars on the road, I wasn’t seriously injured, the bike wasn’t seriously hurt (only about $300 hurt), and I was able to ride the thing home and park it just fine. So, thanks for watching out for me, Lord.

People have been asking me if I’m going to keep riding. I think you can tell from my tone in this post that I’m going to keep riding. I’m repairing the bike as soon as possible, and then I’m gonna ride it until the odometer stops turning. Stuff like this happens. It’s just a matter of whether you pick the bike up and keep going or whether you give up and refuse to learn from your mistakes. After all, there are only two kinds of motorcyclists…

I’ve got a cute picture for you below. It makes me hungry for dinner. How about you?

No, I’m not talking about that. Get your minds out of the gutter. Jeez!

I’m talking about the motorcycle, obviously. My dad and I were doing some routine maintenance last weekend (thanks again, Dad), and it dawned on me that my new mode of transportation is still without a proper name. The name needs to be feminine, of course, because all fast, sleek, dangerous things with motors have female names.

Off the top of my head, I was thinking Ruby, Autumn, and Vanessa. I don’t know why the top three names I came up with are stereotypical stripper names, but they are.

Got a better idea? Comments are open.

Tucson got pounded with what was arguably the best storm of the entire summer last night. We’re talking horizontal rain, winds that almost knocked my bike over, and flooding all over the place. Oh, and power outages. Lots and lots of power outages.

Power was out at my apartment last night from about 8:00 p.m. until sometime in the middle of the night. I stood on my balcony, which looks out southbound over the city, and literally watched rows of lights go out until all of Tucson was black. The only lights I could see were air traffic control towers and beacons at Davis-Monthan and the Tucson “International” Airport.

So, I woke up this morning, and the power was back on at my apartment. Cool. Fire up the UPSes, reboot the router, reboot the servers, reboot the Vonage adapter, and we’re back in business. I get in my car and start driving to work, only to get about one mile before hitting a wall of cars. We’re bumper-to-bumper and barely moving down a road that you can normally go 50-55 mph on.

Since we’re mostly stopped, I start posting tweets in an attempt to warn others who might be thinking about heading down the same road. I speculated about what the problem might be, and as it turns out, the traffic signals at River/Swan were completely. Only, instead of a cop directing traffic, the county had put up four stop signs around the intersection. Fantastic.

After watching several near-collisions, I came to the conclusion that people don’t know how to react to a 4-way stop at a major intersection. When I got past the blockage and a little closer to work, I realized traffic lights were out everywhere. “Hmm… I wonder if power is out at the office.” Sure enough, power was out at the office.

A few people had gotten to work ahead of me, and they were waiting around to see what would happen with the power situation. As you can imagine, it’s difficult for programmers to get work done when all the desktops, servers, and network connections are completely wiped out. So we did what any good employees would do given the circumstances: we played foosball for an hour.

That brings me to the present. I’m currently sitting in a Starbucks that happens to have power, recounting my morning in blog form for you, my loyal readers. It’s been about two hours since I left the office, though I’m supposed to get a call when we’re back online. I’m not particularly looking forward to that call, as it means a lot of babysitting servers and fscking* work for me.

* Just in case you were wondering, that’s not actually vulgar, though it might appear that way on the surface. Follow the link to find out what the fsck I’m talking about.

I knew the cost of motorcycling when I got into this whole mess, but I never knew the toll it would take on the innocent ones. On my way home tonight, a rather large and juicy bug had the misfortune of being put down by my enormous noggin. It was the first time I’ve ever killed anything with my head. If it’s any consolation, the little guy’s last efforts were not in vain: he scared the crap out of me when he hit my shield and exploded all over the plastic.

Make note of this for future reference: motorcycles have neither seat belts nor windshield wipers.

Sorry for the camera reflection in the photo. Even without a flash, it’s hard to take pictures of really shiny objects without becoming part of the picture yourself.

Since I’ve talked about it enough during the past three or four weeks, most of my loyal readers know that I recently purchased a motorcycle. That was almost two weeks ago. Well, this weekend, I finally started learning how to ride it. And it is fun. It’s more fun than I could have imagined, and it’s more fun than I’ve had in my car in a long time.

I’m gonna be honest and let you guys in on a little secret: I never learned how to drive a manual transmission car. Now, before you start throwing things at me, let me explain. When I started driving in about 2000, nobody I knew had a stick-shift car, so I learned on an auto. That was all well and good for about eight years, until I wanted to drive something with a clutch and a manual gearbox. In case you didn’t know, 99% of motorcycles have manual transmissions.

I had no idea how sensitive the friction zone of the clutch would be, but I think I’m starting to get the hang of it. I’m becoming more intuitive about feeling when it starts to grab and then slipping it some more and applying the appropriate amount of throttle to get going. And let me tell you, this thing gets going. With the Protege, I hit the gas and the car is like, “Yes, sir. I’ll make a note that you’d like to accelerate. How about we take another second to enjoy the scenery, though?” With the bike, it’s like, “I hear ya, buddy. Hold on to the grips, just in case this turns out to be a bad idea.”

With my geek buddy Jim from TFUG (Tucson Free Unix Group, i.e., Linux), we logged about 5-6 hours in a parking lot between yesterday and today. After I felt comfortable this afternoon, we hit the road on our respective bikes and I got my first taste of navigating through traffic. Thankfully, Sunday afternoon traffic is pretty light, and it made for a nice, easy ride. After twisting around the Foothills a bit (literally, roads at the base of the mountain), we went to La Encantada and came back when it turned out to be packed.

Oh yeah, at some point along the way, I made it up into fifth gear, and it was a blast. I’m really enjoying the whole “motorcycle” thing, and I’m happy I got a bike when I did. If I’m feeling up to it, I might try riding to work tomorrow. It’s a straight 4 miles through 3 traffic lights and a left turn, and traffic is pretty sparse when I get into the office before 8:30 or so.

Vroom!

Fresh-picked and hand-delivered from the skies to your computer monitor, here’s today’s sunset captured in glorious 1s and 0s for maximum enjoyment. Thanks, God.

I’ve been putting this post off because I don’t even know where to begin, but I think we’ll hit the good first and then come back for the bad and the ugly.

So, I got a bike on Wednesday! And it’s pink, and it has training wheels and streamers and a horn and… not really. But I could get all those things if I wanted them, and this bike would still be badass. (Since badass is in the dictionary, I figured it was probably OK to use it on a PG-rated site.) The motorcycle is a 2005 Suzuki GS500F in black and red, and it’s only got about 1800 miles on it. Practically like new. Let’s see some pictures, shall we?

Unfortunately, the carport where the bike is parked in the pictures is probably where it’s going to stay for a few months. For you see, mine is a tale of gross incompetence and blunder by our prestigious community college, which I’m no longer proud to say I attended for three years. I was signed up to take a basic riding course offered through Pima Community College and sanctioned by the Motorcycle Safety Foundation. For whatever reason, the course is taught on-base at Davis-Monthan AFB—as if PCC were too good to use their own wide-open parking lots. The timing of the class was absolutely perfect: I got my bike Wednesday, the first class was on Thursday, and the last two were Saturday and Sunday. I’d be licensed and riding on the streets by Monday of the following week. Or so I thought.

I showed up at DMAFB at 5:10 Thursday night in preparation for the 5:30 class. I didn’t know where I was supposed to go, and I like being prepared, so it was better to be 20 minutes early than 1 minute late. The rest of the students started trickling in around 5:25, and the instructor finally showed up right at 5:30. Everyone but me has a handful of papers and their passports. “Strange”, I think to myself, “but whatever”. After the instructor signed a few people in, he asked me for my waiver and my passport. “My waiver and my passport?” I ask. “What waiver?” Well, guess who didn’t get the memo! Yep, that would be me. PCC sent out a packet of information to every student in the class—every student except me, of course.

Now it’s 5:35 and I’m panicking. The passport (or birth certificate, which I also did not have on me) serves as proof of citizenship, and it’s required to get on base. I’m pleading with the instructor and the gears are turning as I propose all kinds of solutions. There was even an Army guy taking the class who offered to sign me in as his guest, but no dice. I promised the instructor I would produce a passport on Saturday if he’d let me in, but he wouldn’t go for it. He did, however, tell me that class would actually start at 6:00, and he asked me how far away I live from the base. When I told him it was thirty minutes north of there, he asked me if I could make it back in time (by 6:00). I didn’t stick around long enough to see this guy’s motorcycle skills, but one thing’s for sure: his math skills aren’t too great.

I went home despondent and pissed off, mostly because I knew the next available class wasn’t until October 2. Now it’s time to put Plan B into action, though. I know you’re wondering what Plan B is. You’re thinking to yourself, “He can’t possibly be stupid enough to try and teach himself how to ride.” If you were thinking that, you would, in fact, be wrong. I’m taking the written test at the MVD sometime this week to get my Class M permit, and I’ve already read through the manuals put out by the Arizona MVD and the MSF—twice. In fact, the MSF manual that’s available online is the exact same one they use in the class I’m (re-)scheduled to take. I also ordered Proficient Motorcycling: The Ultimate Guide to Riding Well from Amazon, and that’ll be here Wednesday. Finally, I have several friends who are experienced riders, and I plan to enlist their help as I navigate through the treacherous terrain of local parking lots.

Wish me luck! Oh, and if anyone needs some organs that are in good shape (good genes, no smoking, and minimal drinking), I think my friends have started a pool. Get in touch with them if you want dibs on any of the good stuff: the biceps, the face, the flowing locks, etc.

I cleaned the living room today and finally got rid of the last of the boxes and various piles of crap (not literally, don’t worry) left over from the move… which was two months ago. But now the room is completely empty except for a few random instruments stashed away in the corner.

I have no TV and no couches and no money to buy either, so I’m thinking I’ll just move the motorcycle into the living room and use that as functional furniture. It would see more action in there than it would on the street, but that’s another story for another day. A story for tomorrow, in fact. With pictures.

For a moment, let’s assume that I went and looked at a bike very similar to the one in the previous post. Oh, what the heck—since we’re just assuming, let’s say I went and looked at that exact bike, down to the year and the color. Now let’s assume that the aforementioned hypothetical bike was in perfect condition with only 1700 miles on it, and for a moment, let’s assume that I put down a $100 cash deposit towards the total purchase price of $3700. [Assumptions are fun, aren't they?]

Now suppose that the seller told me that there’s a lien against the title of the bike. If you’re not familiar with how loans work, this essentially means that the institution financing the current owner still owns the bike because it hasn’t been paid off yet. This presents an obvious problem for me in the area of titling. When I give the seller a certified check for $3600 (the price we agreed upon minus the deposit), I expect to receive the title in return. Well, since the seller doesn’t own the bike “free and clear”, she doesn’t have the title in her possession, either.

On the surface, it seems like the only way to resolve this is to have the seller take possession of the bike through whatever means she can. If that entails borrowing money from friends or family to pay off the remainder of the loan, then I think that’s what needs to happen. The heart of the issue is that she’s trying to sell something she doesn’t own! OK, but I really want the bike, so I’ve been scheming and trying to come up with a solution that will work for everyone. Even though I graduated from one of the best business schools in the country, they don’t teach stuff like this (useful stuff, that is) in the classroom. Here are my options as I see them:

1. Subtract amount of seller’s outstanding lien from sale price of the bike and pay this amount to seller. Pay balance of lien directly to lending institution and receive title in return. Example: seller still owes $2000 to her bank. Subtract that amount from $3600 to get $1600. Seller gets check for $1600, bank gets check for $2000, and I get a notarized title.
2. Go with seller to one of her bank’s branches and complete all paperwork on the spot. This could work, but it presents several problems:
   1. The transaction would have to be completed during normal banking hours, meaning everyone would have to take time off work.
   2. The lending institution could be located out-of-state or even online.
   3. The lending institution might not have the title on hand if, for example, it’s stored at some central location.
3. Give the seller a check for $3600 and trust that she’s going to make good on the lien and mail me the title when she gets it from her lender (usually within 15 days). Unfortunately, even though I like to think of myself as a nice guy, I’m no idiot. Remember, I’m the one who carried my pistol to our initial meeting after hearing about people using Craigslist to bait unsuspecting victims into armed robbery.

So what am I supposed to do? Does anyone have experience with dealings of this kind? I’m going to call my credit union tomorrow and find out how situations like this are normally handled, but I appreciate any and all supplemental input.

Gracias.

Not quite an SV650, but those are mighty hard to come by these days. Here’s a 2005 Suzuki GS500F, which I’m checking out tomorrow (and in the color configuration shown below, too). The more I research this bike, the more I like it. Detailed motorcycle post still forthcoming.