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Motorcycle Resolved
FUCK, I DIDN'T know. And who cared anyway?
Who needed that heady, depressing shit with a motorcycle trip to plan?
Well, it was easy, dismissing Harley Davidson for Triumph. But it was time to move on—or
get back. Less was more with half the weight at half the price and twice the performance.
Freedom from embarrassment felt like a bonus—who wouldn't want away from a dog 'n
pony circus played out by a fat-gut wanna-be crowd and a bunch of V-neck poseurs ? he trans-
ition felt uplifting, lean and mean as a skinny kid scrambling for the whole wide world out of
split-level confinement. The suburbs are comfortable and Harleys are fun, primitive and heavy
with poor build quality and a silly scene. Freedom from the lifestyle, the merchandizing and
the imagery felt like a hard won victory, and there we were again.
Surviving surgery hones the appetite for a ride. Cold, wet weather seemed less threatening
post-op.
I cancelled again on seeing the itinerary. The road captain called to urge, “Come on, man!”
The tedium came back in numbing clarity.
“No. Are you crazy? Four-fifty a day? That's torture.”
“Most days are only three-fifty. You can do that.”
“I can ease a broomstick up my ass too. We've done three-fifty plenty. And four-fifty. It
hurts. It's far enough to guarantee a mountain pass—or three mountain passes. It hurts in nice
weather. In cold and rain it's torture. Not once, ever, was it fun or enjoyable.”
“That was miles. This is kilometers.”
“This is kilometers?”
“Yeah, man. Come on!”
“Oh.”
Let's see: point six times three-fifty is two-ten. Four-fifty would be two-seventy. Hmm. That
might do, with a comfort quotient extrapolating from two hundred fifty miles requiring x en-
ergy to three fifty at 2x, more or less, depending on weather, curvature and delays. And age.
Four-fifty would run 2x 2 . “You're saying the daily mileage—that's mileage, as in miles—will run
two-ten to two-fifty?”
“Yes? You can do this!”
“Maybe. Let me think . . . Why kilometers?”
“British Columbia, man. BC bud!”
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