Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
solder points on gossamer-thin foil, sealing layers of mechanism. It was surgical, penetrating
to the nerve center to take years of the life of his very used scoot. At a different dealer he
traded for twice the first offer. “Hell, even if a guy had to spend the money to put in new jugs
he'd still have a great ride.”
The first mark of a true thief is his ready rationale. Jerry's resume was peppered with logic,
reason and good deals, really, through years of ever more challenging odometers. Hardly cir-
cumspect, he got a reputation, and customers came from miles around. “Fuck. Two, three
hundred bucks, I'd wind 'em back a hundred grand. It doesn't matter—if a car or a motorcycle
is a piece o' shit, it'll show anyway. I did a couple junkers but then decided not to do that any-
more. If a car is in good shape, the mileage doesn't matter. I never fucked anybody. They were
all good cars. Ran great.”
I couldn't really trust Jerry, and his circus wagon of a ride ran like a semi with rocket
thrusters. It looked frightening in curves—a fear that proved correct. But I gave him the nod
when he wondered aloud just how crazy it would feel to ride something half as big with the
same power to weight ratio. Pride is not a virtue.
Heads turned for my response, as if Jerry had offered alternate sexual relations. The wry
eye of the Canuck contingent followed the volley. “What? You guys think Jerry wants an anal
romance? You got the V-twin addiction. Your nuts are sagging halfway to your knees, and all
you can come up with is bigger engines.”
Har har. What a laugh. So Jerry and I would trade for a stretch. For me it was a whack
off the tee on hugeness at a hundred-ten horsepower. It all came back in a curve or two, the
weight, the folding, the bulldogging. Like anything, you adapt to make it easier, give a little
more here, hold in some there. I didn't get cocky but that didn't matter; I went into a tight one,
misjudged by a freckle on a gnat's ass on the hundred-ten horses and went over my head. No
biggy, I'd just, er, oh . . .
A seasoned rider survives by application of basics, like braking. Front and rear brakes
must apply together, but the back brake can be lethal. Bicycle riders fear front brak-
ing—stopping the front wheel of a twenty-two pound machine at speed can throw a rider over
the handlebars. But a motorcycle is hundreds of pounds, and it's the back brake that can eject
a rider in a phenomenon called high-siding. If the back wheel locks in braking, the tire skids.
If the brake is released in that skid, the rig will spring the other way like a boulder from a cata-
pult. High-siding must be avoided.
But drastic conditions call for drastic measures. I stomped to lock the rear wheel. Into the
skids I pop-released, springing back to vertical and then some, which meant laying it down
the other way. What an immortal moment, actually planning best conditions for a lay down.
But the cliff wall to the inside did seem the lesser of two evils. Nobody talks about a con-
trolled high side—I made it up on the split second, savoring the admiration of peers over a
cold one only an hour up the road. At least I wouldn't eat a gob full of grill. But too far over,
