"F is for Factoids"

(Admit it, you thought I would do "F is for Fast," didn't you? Fooled ya!)

Here are some interesting (at least I thought so) and mostly random motorcycling facts gleaned from a variety of recent sources:

• According to the US Department of Transportation, as of 2003, there were 5,370,000 motorcycles on US roadways, averaging 1,800 miles per vehicle per year, for a total of over 9 million miles traveled. (Of course, I -- and many of you reading this -- have skewed those numbers. I currently have 4 street legal bikes, each of which averages a lot more miles per year than their figure indicates ... meaning there are a lot of bikes out there only being ridden to church on Sundays?)
  
• According to the US Census Bureau, out of a total of more than 129 million commuters, 147,703 regularly ride motorcycles to work (again, that's 2003 data). Unbelievably, that's only about a tenth of a percent. Perhaps those figures will change as the price of gas continues to skyrocket...?
  
• According to the Motorcycle Industry Safety Council, only 4.3 percent of the 6.5 million motorcycles registered in the US are used as year-round primary transportation. An additional 9.9 percent are used seasonally for this purpose. (My inference: most motorcycles are used for recreational purposes only, roughly 85% according to those figures, and very few motorcyclists have discovered the joy of heated gear.)
  
• US DOT statistics say the average US driver travels 29 miles per day and is driving a total of 55 minutes at an average speed of 32 mph. (Damn, that's slow!) The UK's Motorcycle Industry Association has compared car and motorcycle travel data, which suggests that traveling by motorcycle can shorten in-city travel time by more than 50% and mixed (rural and city combined) travel time by 33%. (I admit that a US comparison might not be as favorable, since California is the only state I know of that tolerates lane-splitting and I don't know of any state's motorists who don't reach for a sidearm at the mere thought of motorcycles filtering to the front at traffic lights. Both are common practice nearly everywhere else in the world.)
  
• According to the Texas Transportation Institute, the average roadway delay per person in 2001 was 26 hours per year. In 2003, it was 47 hours per year, an increase of 81 percent. We can only assume this trend has and will continue. In other words, people flush away a huge portion of their lives sitting in automobiles, wishing they were somewhere else.
  

My point in all the above should be obvious. You'd spend less time commuting and/or stuck in traffic if you rode a motorcycle. Even when you are stuck in traffic, at least you're on a motorcycle! You'd spend less on gasoline (the average motorcycle gets 40-something miles per gallon; and, hey, my BMW regularly gets 62!). And finally, on a motorcycle, you'd be just as cool as me and my buds ... instead of some nerd in a minivan.

Okay, enough on the daily commute to and from that soul-sucking social conformity known as "the job" ... how about everyone's favorite road hazard, deer? According to Sate Farm's claim statistics, 10 states with the most deer crashes between June 1st 2005 and June 30th 2006 account for more than half of all such claims:

• Pennsylvania
  
• Michigan
  
• Illinois
  
• Ohio
  
• Georgia
  
• Virginia
  
• Minnesota
  
• Texas
  
• Indiana
  
• South Carolina
  

Unfortunately, I have no information on how many of those are motorcycle-deer collisions, but we can assume those are still the top 10 states in which to hit deer, no matter what you're driving. It's nice to see that Oklahoma isn't in the top ten! (Oh, and just an aside, when I was taken down by a deer in 2003, I was told by my insurance adjuster to always say I was hit by a deer, not I hit a deer. Makes a difference.)

Maybe we need some good factoids to focus on. How about these numbers related to customer satisfaction (courtesy of J.D. Power and Associates)?

• New motorcycle owners experience fewer problems with their bikes than in previous years.
  
• The number of problems per 100 motorcycles was down from 2005, with engine problems (though also down) still being the majority reported.
  

Not a lotta meat there, though, eh? Sorry, it's what I had. How about this one?

• Figures released by the National Insurance Crime Bureau show a 135 percent increase in motorcycle thefts over the last 5 years, with 70,000 motorcycles reported stolen in 2006.
• Most popular targets are new model sportbikes, with Suzukis at the top of the list.

Yikes! I'll be keeping a close eye on my CBR. But let's get back to something positive:

• The Motorcycle Industry Safety Council reports that motorcycle sales surpassed the 1 million mark for the fourth straight year in 2006, continuing a 14-year surge that began in 1993 with sales increasing every year since.
  

And, finally (from Popular Science, Jan 2007):

• 31 million Americans show signs of compulsive Internet use and are possibly addicted.
  
• 30 percent of U.S. businesses have fired employees for problematic web surfing.
  

Uh oh. I gotta get back to work now. And what are you doing surfing the Net at this time of day anyway...?

A Restless Existence

In my last blog entry, I wrote:

Lately, I've been starting to think of mine as a "restless existence" (a term borrowed from Neil Peart, to be perfectly honest about it). Give me time, and I'll try to put what I mean by that into words here in a future blog entry. Essentially, though, I think it all boils down to an addiction to motion, an affliction in which my brain, my heart, the very interaction of the molecules that make up my being simply can't sit still. Let's go somewhere, my soul whispers. Why are we sitting here at home when we could be jamming to the wind and the hum of the tires on pavement?

What was I trying to say?

I'm not entirely sure I know, but as I sit here at my 9-to-5 desk, absofreakinglutely bored out of my ever-loving mind, listening to those droll, dedicated minions for whom all this office crap seems somehow important (I just want to shake some of them and scream, "What the fuck is wrong with you; is this all you want before you become mulch?!"), I know the easy cure is to get on one of my bikes and ride. Somewhere. Anywhere. It's pouring down rain outside and I don't care. Put me on the bike and let me feel the sluice of the rain channeled through the tread in my tires. Let it run cold and damp down the back of my neck as I lean over the gas tank. Leak through the zippers and cause me to shiver as my rain gear fails. Blind me with the glaring double-vision of headlights refracted in the beads of water streaming over my visor. Let the lightning find me. Let the wind put me in a ditch. Let those motorists who can't drive worth a damn on a good day, let alone in a downpour, run me over and break every bone in my body. Fuck it. It beats sitting here dying a little bit more with each passing minute.

It's more than all that, though. I feel it at home, too. Gotta go. Gotta be moving. Can't sit there and watch the rest of the family anesthetize their brains with American Idol, Dancing with the Stars, The Bachelor, and other boob tube idiocy. (What moron put that self-aggrandizing peckerhead Simon what's-his-name on television anyway? Probably the same one who put on Doctor Phil. I'd like to tie a rope around Dr. Phil's ankles and drag his fat ass behind the ZZR for about 30 minutes in front of all his adoring housewives. Sorta like Achilles with Hector outside the walls of Troy: "Is this your hero? Is this the best you can come up with?") There's something missing around the ol' homestead. The wife of however many million years it is now (I've lost count) has about as much passion for and interest in me as I have Harleys out in the garage (which is to say absolutely none and there's no need bothering to check back for the next billion years or so 'cause it just ain't gonna happen). This is that phase all women go through, I'm told by every other 40-something male going through the same thing. Deal with it. Well, fuck that, too. There's passion to be found in the dizzy, exhilarating speed of the sportbike, the adrenaline of being on the ragged edge at full lean, the slippery side-wise movement of a dualsport tire as a steep rocky trail challenges forward momentum, or the sweet scent of a pine forest at the top of that very same hill ... the camaraderie of your brothers who share a love for the same sense of 2-wheeled freedom and anarchy ... the wind and its susurration in your ears at the end of a long day, orchestrating the phantom motion of the bike still moving under you ...

Or maybe it all has to do with self-worth? There's a satisfaction and fulfillment in forward motion, in having a destination (or even the utter lack thereof) and advancing toward it. I can't seem to find that sense of accomplishment anywhere else these days. It comes only from having chosen the best line through a curve, in having kept my dirtbike vertical through a particularly technical section of trail, in surviving another suicidal afternoon in traffic ... in just one more mile ticking over on the odometer. Anopause is supposed to be the male equivalent of menopause (personally, I think women invented the term just so males at a certain age could be told it was normal to quit having sex), that period where testosterone levels drop and males no longer find satisfaction and self-worth in the pastimes of youth: sports, sex, killing one another, etc. This is that time when a man is supposed to quit chasing tail and put all his energy into his career and/or artistic endeavors, when he's supposed to come home late and tired, wave to the faithful wife in passing, go to bed, and get up the next morning to do it all over again. Well, my career's a real bore (and not going anywhere in this lifetime) and my creative period (that whole award-winning, self-sacrificing author schtick) was much too frustrating to even contemplate revisiting ... so I think I'll "get my kicks on Route 66," so to speak.

Or is it a recharging of my system? My brain, heart, and soul seem wired to forward motion. It's as if there's a gyroscopic battery charger in my head, the sort of thing that kicks in when the front tire's coming up off the ground, triggering my synapses and overriding the slumber my brain cells slip into while in sedentary mode. Speed is addictive, but it's also cathartic, rejuvenating, and inspirational. I'm too lazy to research it for you, but I'm 99% positive that studies have proven a connection between motion and health. Take away Grandad's ol' Plymouth and before you know it, you're sizing him up for a pine box, know what I mean?

Or maybe my restlessness is tied to this whole growing old business and my failing health? Things just don't work like they used to, it seems. Aches and pains are the norm these days, part and parcel of growing old. I've broken too many bones, abused too many joints, and eaten one too many Quarterpounders. There's also that whole Lymphoma thing and treatment regimens in 2001 and 2006 -- the last of which I totally bailed out of because I'd simply had more than enough, thank you very much. They weren't kidding when they said interferon wasn't for sissies ... or moody SOBs like me either. When I'm riding, there's no doubting I'm alive and no interest in checking out anytime soon. Depression just doesn't do 120 mph.

A restless existence. Between rides, I'm a pain-in-the-ass. Pacing. Scowling at maps. Prodding at the Internet to yield up something other than the same recycled crap. Traipsing through the living room and sneering at the television (longing to do bodily harm to Dr Phil). Spending money I don't have on gear for future outings. In short, I'm no fun at all.

So I think I'll go riding now. After all, I've got a brand new rain suit. See you out there...?

---

Postscript: For more of this sort of whiney, angst-ridden, "Why I Ride" drivel, you might read the "A Squirrel For Breakfast" chapter of my ride report for last year's Oklahoma Dualsport Rally at Clayton. It's all about pacing and cages and the freedom that comes with being an adventure motorcyclist. You can find it on my website, http://bahwolf.com, under "Photos & Essays," "Motorcycle Adventures," among the reports listed for my BMW F650GS Dakar.

Destination: Lake Texoma & Catfish Platter Inc.

People don't normally ride 125+ miles each way just for dinner, but then we've already established that I'm not normal. Lately, I've been starting to think of mine as a "restless existence" (a term borrowed from Neil Peart, to be perfectly honest about it). Give me time, and I'll try to put what I mean by that into words here in a future blog entry. Essentially, though, I think it all boils down to an addiction to motion, an affliction in which my brain, my heart, the very interaction of the molecules that make up my being simply can't sit still. Let's go somewhere, my soul whispers. Why are we sitting here at home when we could be jamming to the wind and the hum of the tires on pavement? I don't even try to fight these feelings. The only question is what motorcycle to take ... though I do worry quite often about how I will afford tires and gas!

Anyway, when my friends Greg and Elaine, who live in the Dallas-Fort Worth area, mentioned a great catfish restaurant near Lake Texoma, what else would you expect me to say except "I'll meet you there for dinner." It's been a while since the ZZR has gone anywhere except back and forth to work, so that's what got rolled out of the garage today. I've yet to find a more comfortable rocketship.

The mighty Kawasaki ZZR1200.

Now I could buzz down I-35, but that's just not me. I worked my way south via backroads, including Highway 102 and the old one lane bridge just north of Byars. I don't know why, but old bridges seem to intrigue adventure riders. It's probably the ephemeral nature of these old structures that resonates with us: the certain knowledge that eventually the ever expanding flow of 4-wheeled traffic will spell the end of the old bridge; the fact that its rusty iron charisma will eventually be replaced with a concrete structure that looks just like every other bridge and overpass they're building these days. A bridge can have a personality, don't you think?

Objects in the rearview mirror...

Highway 177 carried me south through Sulphur and Madill. From Madill, 377 takes you south toward the lake and the smell of catfish fillets fryin' up crispy golden brown. If you cross the bridge over the lake and hit the Texas border, you've gone too far. You want to get to the Catfish Platter early, because the place definitely draws a crowd. As the sign says, they're only open three nights a week.

If you see this sign, you've gone too far.

Greg and Elaine arrive on their new Goldwing.

I only beat my friends by about 20 minutes -- perfect timing, more or less. Just enough time, in fact, to take a quick look at the lake. I was home before dark, avoiding the nightly roadway wanderings of forest rats (i.e., deer) and even escaping detection by the local revenue collectors sitting with their radar guns at both ends of the town of Asher (jeez, guys, get a friggin' life already!) -- thanks in part to all the friendly motorists madly flashing their lights at me.

All in all, a great day's ride, a great dinner, and absolutely great company. Thanks, Greg and Elaine!

Any suggestions for dinner next weekend?

"E is for Eureka Springs..."

No matter how many times I go to northwestern Arkansas to ride, whether on one of my sportbikes or on my dualsport, I always have a great time. The pavement around Eureka Springs is generally well-maintained and twisty as you like, weaving through the verdant Ozarks like a boa constrictor in need of a good chiropractor; there's the infamous Pig Trail (State Highway 23), of course, as well as old favorites like Highways 21, 16, 123, and others. The offroad stuff ranges from sightseer heaven overlooking the Buffalo River to as challenging as you've got the stones to make it single-track. The huge plus, of course, is that all this great riding is just a broken brake lever's throw from Oklahoma City. Not to mention the fact that Eureka Springs is, in and of itself, a really cool little town.

This past weekend, Eureka Springs played host to a ZZR rally, with something like 35 riders in attendance, most mounted on the mighty ZZR1200, but a few on the new ZX-14 (dubbed the ZZR1400 in Europe) and an assortment of other bikes. This rally was organized by my riding buddy Crazytrain and plugged on the ZZR Bikes website for many months. Since I rarely miss an opportunity to ride (a) with Crazytrain and (b) in the Ozarks, I'd really been looking forward to this one.

I chose to leave my ZZR at home in the garage (it needs tires) and take my new CBR1000RR instead (it came with new tires -- ha!). The plan was to meet my buddy Greg in Talihina Thursday night; he would also be riding his brand new CBR. Greg and I would do Talimena Drive and play around in Arkansas, meeting up with the ZZR boys in Eureka Springs Friday evening. There was scattered rain in Oklahoma on Thursday, and wouldn't you know it, a bunch of it scattered in my direction just as I was getting ready to leave the house about 4 o'clock in the afternoon. Thanks again, Mother Nature! I sat on the bike in the garage for about 30 minutes watching it come down, hoping it would pass through pretty quick. I hadn't ridden the CBR in the rain yet, and with nearly 160 ponies at the rear wheel, I was worried it might be a bit squirrelly on wet pavement. Finally, though, I just said screw it and rode. I didn't want to arrive in Talihina after dark -- too many deer in the area! Turns out I only had to ride in the rain for about 30 minutes and the CBR handled it well. Despite the massive amounts of "Get Outta Dodge Fast!" packed under its purty blue 'n yeller plastic, it really has a very manageable throttle.

I blazed out my usual route: Highway 9 to Highways 71, 2, and 1. Somewhere on a desolate stretch of 9, with me running about 90-95 mph and nothing but cows as witnesses to the crime, I crested a hill and found blue and red lights flashing from quite a ways down the road. It was a local sheriff type with someone already pulled over. I backed off the throttle, but didn't worry about it too much. Probably cruised past him doing 70-75 in a 65. Well, he musta been done, because he pulled out behind me, never bothering to switch off his happy lights from one customer to the next. At first I couldn't even believe he was after me. I let him follow me for a bit while I gradually slowed down, looking back over my shoulder with my most incredulous "Who, me?" posture going strong. When I pulled over, he proceeded to tell me that he'd clocked me at 85 (and even showed me the radar gun), but he was going to do me a favor ... yada yada yada, the usual drill. Damn, my second ticket in 5 months!

Now, maybe he did clock me at 85 ... but personally I think that was the reading from his last ticket ... or the ticket he wrote two weeks ago Tuesday ... or whatever. He wrote me up for 75, then told me the ticket would only cost $25. What?!?! $25? Why even bother? Hell, for $25, I'll speed through there every friggin' day of the week, Bubba! $25 isn't even worth the time I'm wasting sitting here jawing with you, Occifer. When I cautiously mentioned that I couldn't believe the ticket was so cheap, he let me in on the honest truth that it's all about revenue. At $125, most people go to court and fight the ticket, lots of people never pay them and cost the police time and money issuing bench warrants, and blah blah blah, it's all a great big money-making scam and the money rolls in just as fast as you please at a measly $25 a pop. The guy's about 350-400 pounds and his patrol car probably needs a new set of shocks and he's from someplace called Hanna, Oklahoma -- that I've never even heard of, nor have the faintest clue if I even passed through the stupid burg* -- where the donuts are probably coming up hot and fresh right now, thank you very much. Sign the dotted line and be on your merry way, Mr Sportbiker (and don't forget to mail in your $25!).

So I did. And pressed on. I'm calling bullshit on the whole incident, though, and would be willing to bet anything that the next person coming over that hill at anything above the speed limit got clocked at ... you guessed it ... 85 mph.

I rolled into Talihina in plenty of time to beat the nightly parade of deer venturing out on the roadways to check out the pretty lights. Greg's bike was already parked at the hotel (Kiamichi Inn, same place we always stay: cheap but clean). As usual, he didn't come to the damn door when he heard me pull up -- probably already gone to bed. I revved the engine a couple times. Honked the CBR's funny little toy horn. Nothing. I finally kicked the door nearest his bike. Some strange guy yanked it open and glared at me. "Sorry, buddy. Wrong room. Where's the guy that owns the red and black bike?" "Beats the hell outta me," he said and slammed his door. I moved on to the next door in line which, fortunately, turned out to be Greg's room. He was watching television, flipping from channel to channel at high speed and grumbling like a gorilla with Attention Deficit Disorder. What, did he think there would actually be something on worth watching?

We had dinner at the little cafe on Talihina's main drag -- parked next to a VTX cruiser and one of those new sportbikes imported from China or Korea or Taiwan or some place. Hyosung? Not a bad looking bike, but I don't think you'll be seeing one in my garage in this lifetime. We didn't even have time to get our helmets off before a 15-year-old kid came running out of the cafe to drool over the CBRs. Turned out that the cheapo sportbike was his -- a little 250. Certainly more stylish than a Ninja 250 (but I'm betting not nearly as reliable) and I'd have killed to own one when I was 15, even if it fell apart in a year or two. (I'm not saying it will, mind you, but I wouldn't bet money against it.) The Honda VTX belongs to his dad, they're having dinner inside, and why don't we come join them. So we did. Nice folks. The kid was wearing race leathers (ebay booty) and a good helmet, so he was starting out right, but he did mention that the red sportbike was Number 2, as he'd already thrown down a black one. Dad was an OB/GYN from Muskogee who was now working at the VA Center in Talihina -- talk about a change in perspective! Anyway, Greg and I enjoyed their company while we waited an inordinately long time for our food.

The CBR1000RR and I above the fog on Talimena Drive.
In the morning, Greg and I woke early to heavy fog. We dried the bikes with hotel towels, then had breakfast at the same cafe (Sorry, I don't recall the name of the place, but you can't miss it), hoping the fog would burn off while we ate. It didn't. We headed up into the mountains anyway, climbing above the fog line in short order, which was nice because I've been through there before when the fog went all the way to the top and I had to tiptoe through at 20 mph because I couldn't see a damn thing. We snapped a few cool pics at one of the overlooks, but generally just blazed up to the lodge at Queen Wilhelmina State Park (I watched for Danny's old tent as I went past, but it was gone), where we stopped for a pee break. Then it was on into Mena. From Mena, we worked our way north on 71 and 23. Once north of I-40, the really good roads began. We had plenty of time and were in no hurry to get to the hotel in Eureka Springs, figuring that most of the ZZR boys would be out riding anyway, so we decided to make a nice big loop incorporating some good twisty roads.

At a gas station somewhere, a pack of sportbikes came howling down the road and I immediately recognized the unique Micky Mouse headlight configuration. A second later, I recognized the lead rider, another riding compadre of mine named Charlie. Charlie rides a ZZR dressed in the pretty blue plastic that the Canadians got one year, but we Americans didn't ... something to do with trashing his original bodywork in a getoff. He was leading about a dozen yahoos, some of whom I knew by screen name from the ZZR website. Howdy-do's were exchanged, the CBRs were drooled on a bit more (to be fair, I was drooling on the ZX-14s), and Greg and I decided to join the pack for the remainder of their ride.

Eventually, late in the afternoon, we turned for Eureka Springs, but not before it decided to rain on us. I think we rode about 30 miles in a downpour. My Gericke jacket proved itself minimally waterproof for the second or third time now. Boots and pants held up fine. I wasn't wearing waterproof gloves, so those got soaked. Fortunately, it was plenty warm. Dinner for me and the Gregmeister was Pizza Hut. We tried to swipe free salads from the salad bar, but the waitress added them to our bill. If I'd known I was gonna get charged for it, I'd have really tanked up on the salad goodies instead of the piddly little helping I actually took! Greg went to bed at his usual 8 pm or so, while I waited up for Crazytrain's scheduled late arrival ... but I finally got tired and went to bed, too. Supposedly Crazytrain arrived about 15 minutes after I went to bed. He had a couple guys on ZX-14s with him, one of whom promptly dropped his bike in the parking lot after making the long haul all the way from Houston. D'oh!


CBRs in the rain, Friday afternoon.

Saturday, Greg and I were up at dawn and spent hours waiting for everyone else to get their act together. We broke into groups and spent the day riding in glorious sunshine. You couldn't have asked for a prettier day! We rode with Crazytrain's fast group, which really should have been labeled the "Stupidly Effing Fast Group." Riding around like that is so much fun it ought to be illegal ... oh, wait, it is illegal. There were a couple guys in the group who were so unbelievably fast that I know I'll never match them, but the CBR and I did fine, keeping up with 90% of the pack when we felt like it and drifting along in the rear and enjoying the scenery when we didn't. The bike itself is a huge part of the equation. It handles about ten times better than my ZZR ever did. Turns via some new-fangled mental telepathy interface or something. Brakes are from some alien technology unheard of in any other bike I've ever owned. Suspension has you so connected to the road, you can actually feel insect turds as you run over them. Certainly more power than I know what to do with. Damn comfy seat for a "crotch rocket." And so on. I only ever had one out-of-control moment when the bike was launched from a bump in the road. The CBR and I were literally airborne for a few seconds in the apex of a 35 mph sweeper that I was taking at about 80 mph. Not a good thing on a sportbike! We came through it unscathed, however, thanks to the incredible handling of the CBR.


Anybody got a towel?

Our group's ride was not without incident, though. A ZZR rider went down in what I know as ZRod's Corner (because this is where ZRod once rode his KLR straight through the curve and off the side of the mountain, just barely missing a huge boulder and several large trees). This is a 10 mph downhill switchback on the Pig Trail. If you've ever ridden there, you probably know the corner. It turns downhill (if you're riding north to south) through more than 180 degrees, doubling back under itself. Might be a 240 degree turn or something ungodly like that ... all downhill so that you're hard on the brakes and stuck to the seat by the proverbial pucker. Anyway, one of the ZZR riders in our fast group lowsided there and went down over the edge, narrowly missing the same trees and Volkswagon-sized boulder that ZRod had missed a couple years ago. Probably not the only two motorcycles that corner has claimed over the years. The bike was rideable -- after it took 4 or 5 of us 10 minutes to muscle it back up the bank and onto the road -- but it's looking at a new set of plastic now. I took a photo of it back at the hotel later ... along with shots of two other ZZRs that went down in the "slow group" that same day.

After getting home on Sunday and checking the ZZR website, I learned that two other bikes went down Sunday (Greg and I left for home early Sunday morning), one of them being my buddy Charlie, the other being a young guy on a ZX-6R, for a total of 5 bikes down out of the 35 or so in attendance. This is a horribly high percentage, and it's a miracle no one was injured. The problem with group rides like this is sometimes testosterone takes over or people get in over their heads following more experienced riders or ... I dunno. To everyone who attends these things, though, please be careful.

Sunday morning, Greg and I were up at dawn again and bugged out while most folks were still sawing logs. We set a nice, leisurely pace down Highway 23 to I-40. Somewhere along the way, a hillbilly in a pickup pulled out into the road and just stopped there, daring us to t-bone him. Less attentive riders might have done just that. Greg and I braked to make sure the dumbass wasn't going to back up, then shot by his rear bumper with about a foot of roadway to spare. He looked right at me, made eye contact and everything, completely unapologetic. What was he thinking?

At I-40, we got off the bikes, cleaned the bugs from our visors and parted with a hug. Greg continued on south for Dallas and I grabbed some interslab for a rocket-propelled ass-hauling to OKC, the speedo on the CBR hovering in the 95-100 range most of the way. I was home in about 4 hours and 15 minutes, the fastest I've ever made it home from Eureka Springs. Tried to listen to my iPod while slabbing, but the damn thing locked up on me three times before I gave up and put it away. I think the little hard drive inside gets shaken around too much when I wear it on my sleeve or maybe it gets too hot out in the sun. It works better stuffed inside my jacket, but then I can't work the controls, and if I get pulled over it's one more thing I'm fumbling for so that I can hear the friendly officer (who might think I'm digging in my jacket for a gun or something).

Ouch!
Again, Ouch! What is about these ZZRs and left hand turns?

My ZZR is glad it's never been loaded into the back of a truck looking like this!

That's my weekend. The Ozark Swiss Hotel in Eureka Springs was excellent, even feeding all of us on BBQ'ed ribs and brats and whatnot Saturday evening ... for FREE. At $45 a room, you can't beat that. The rooms were way above average -- nice fluffy towels (sorry for using them to clean bugs off my helmet and CBR), pillow shams, fancy throw pillows, soft beds, cable TV (so Greg can channel flip), etc. I've never stayed there before, but will be certain to make it my hotel of choice from now on in Eureka Springs (except for the dualsport rally there every March, which is already set up at a different hotel).

What else? Greg and I saw a bear on Friday. We dodged about a dozen squirrels -- what is it with those suicidal little bastards? And the chicken strips are gone from my CBR's tire. What more can you ask for?

If you own a ZZR and missed the rally, cross your fingers that they do it again next year and make plans to attend. Watch the ZZR website for info. Practice riding your bike between now and then, though. The pavement in that part of Arkansas takes no prisoners. You either spank the curves ... or they'll damn sure spank you.

---

*So I just checked the map and Hanna is four or five miles south of Highway 9 and at least that many miles back to the west of where this donut jockey stopped me. I was nowhere near the stupid place!

---

Addendum: Those who read my motorcycle adventure blatherings on a regular basis know that I often include snippets from my riding buddies. This is from an email from the Gregmeister, talking about the ride home on Sunday:

I slowed down Sunday ... I really don't know how many give silent respects for those killed and fallen along that road [he's referring to Arkansas State Highway 23], but that peaceful Sunday morning I rode for them, the ones there with flowers and crosses and tears and monuments left behind to remind the living to slow down and think ... we all are but moments and a thin thread away from them. I noticed them all, the ones I could see and the ones the sunlight framed and etched into my memory. Each and every one of them told me the same thing as I passed ... THEY ALL WHISPERED SOFLTY FROM THE SIDE OF THE ROAD, "Ride safe today, ride one for us" ... I will never forget slowing down enough to listen to them.

Thanks for riding with me once again, Greg. Hope to share the road with you again real soon, my friend.

"Ain't THAT the truth!"

Found this quote and just had to share it:

The automobile has not merely taken over the street, it has dissolved the living tissue of the city. Its appetite for space is absolutely insatiable; moving and parked, it devours urban land, leaving the buildings as mere islands of habitable space in a sea of dangerous and ugly traffic.

-James Marston Fitch, historic preservationist (1909-2000)

"D is for Danger..."

"Motorcycles are dangerous!"

That's what non-riders are always telling me. I didn't own my first motorcycle until I was 19 or 20 and out on my own ... because the general consensus in my parents' house was that motorcycles certainly are dangerous. (When I did finally get a bike, I was promptly hit by a woman in a red Mustang, then spent 7 weeks in traction and most of 1981 in a cast. Dangerous indeed!) "Donor-cycles" is what Emergency Room professionals call them. Most riders I've known have had at least one accident and uncountable "moments" on the mean streets.

I've generally been of the opinion that the real danger to me and my scooter comes in the form of other motorists. This puts the threat in something of a "manageable" category for me. Makes the risk level acceptable, if you will. Ride on the street long enough (perhaps I should say "survive on the street long enough") and you develop skills and instincts; you learn to read the cage drivers, anticipate their inattentiveness, carelessness, and just plain ol' selfishness. It's something of a game (albeit with serious consequences): How will they try to kill me today? I've gotten good at the game over the years and generally feel pretty safe on my bikes.

I assumed the threat and risk assessment was essentially the same for other riders. However, recent statistics aren't exactly supporting this line of thought. Since I work for the Air Force and am a motorcycle safety focal point for my organization, I'm often provided with accident statistics and details. Thus far, there have been seven motorcycle fatalities in the Air Force this year. This is from a recent report:

Of the seven mishaps, six were single vehicle mishaps. The only mishap involving another vehicle was a result of loss of motorcycle control, with the rider veering into oncoming traffic. Preliminary analysis tells us that all seven did not maintain positive control over their own motorcycle. None were caused by a four wheel operator failing to see or account for a motorcyclist.

Not good at all. As if the cage drivers weren't enough of a threat, untrained riders are out there crashing -- and dying -- all on their own, simply because they're incapable of handling their motorcycles. My personal theory on this is that these riders don't get enough saddle time. These are your weekend riders, your bar-hoppers or shopping mall cyclists. Riding a motorcycle with any degree of skill takes a huge amount of practice. Acquiring experience without paying too high of a price (recall that I was run down by a woman in a red Mustang!) is the trick. The keys to a new rider's survival during this dangerous period are training, such as that offered by the Motorcycle Safety Foundation, and the mentorship of experienced riders as a member of various clubs and organizations. Saddle time, lots of it, is paramount. Riding offroad is certainly a big plus, too.

How do my speculations bear up when compared with real-world data? Here are some very interesting ("disturbing" might be a better word) motorcycle safety statistics from the Insurance Institute for Highway Safety (IIHS) which pertain to the general U.S. populace:

1. Deaths of motorcyclists have skyrocketed during the past decade, while deaths have decreased among passenger vehicle operators.

2. Motorcyclist deaths have more than doubled since 1997, and in 2005 accounted for 10 percent of all motor vehicle crash deaths, up from 5 percent in 1997.

3. In 2005, a total of 4,439 motorcyclists died in crashes, up 14 percent from the 3,904 in 2004.

4. The number of deaths on motorcycles was about 34 times the number in cars per mile traveled in 2005.

5. 71% of motorcyclist deaths in 2005 occurred during the six months of May through October. Fatalities peaked during July through September and were lowest during December through February.

6. 59% of motorcyclist deaths in 2005 occurred during Friday through Sunday.

Bullets 5 and 6 certainly point to a higher number of accidents among summer and weekend riders, those motorcyclists who, in my opinion, do not have the requisite skill level to handle an ever more powerful offering of street machines.

A National Highway Transportation Study on Motorcycle Safety indicated that an emphasis on the following areas can reduce motorcycle fatalities:

1. Failure of motorcyclists to appreciate the inherent operating characteristics of their motorcycles
2. Failure of motorcyclists to know the limitations of their motorcycles
3. Failure of motorcyclists to follow speed limits

Even though their wording seems to point a finger at the "limitations of motorcycles" (if you ask me, today's motorcycles are so capable that it's impossible for anyone short of Valentino Rossi to actually "out-ride" them and exceed their "limitations"), I think we're really still talking about skills acquired by riders who need to spend many, many hours in the saddle. To survive, you absolutely must be an expert at operating your motorcycle. Weekend warriors would be better off taking up golf. Motorcyclists who exceed their skill levels -- whether that relates to speed, cornering, or just plain understanding traffic situations and how bad shit unfolds on the street -- are accidents waiting to happen.

Let's all be careful out there.