28 September 2008
 
Putting on the Brakes
 
The Chinese are back from space, although there is always uncertainty about the timing of the press releases from them. Maybe they will be back tomorrow. One thing certain was that the deal to bail out the banks was passed in time to affect the opening of the Shanghai markets.
 
That is a relief. Maybe the brakes are being put on the panic in the global ecomony. Maybe this will be OK.
 
Whatever. It is a lost weekend. I overdosed on football and 53-inch high def screens in Chicago last weekend, and besides, Michigan was probably going to get pummeled by Wisconsin in their 500th game in the Big House in Ann Arbor, so I avoided the television altogether.
 
It rained, on and off, and I was basking with unexpected inactivity after the big contract win announced late Friday. I tried to put my mind in neutral, putting aside the trepidation of what we have to do tomorrow to start executing it. 
 
I took the Harley Night Hawk out for the first spin yesterday evening, after the rains passed. I have been wondering what to do with the thing. It is 660-pounds of steel whimsy, and quite impressive when I pull the cover off. I have tried to remember to start it every few weeks in its position deep in the bowels of the Big Pink basement. The exigencies of the pool life during the summer had caused me to defer dealing with it; and my pal Admiral Mac tells me I have to sell it to avoid mischance.
 
I agree with him, but there are mechanic issues that still need to be addressed. There are no power outlets in the garage, and thus we are totally unprepared for the advent of the electric car. Consequently, there is no way to keep a trickle-charger on the truck or the bike. I have to remember to get them started to keep the batteries up to speed.
 
Yesterday I fired up the Syclone to drive for a few miles to keep a charge on the battery and cycle the fluids in the turbocharger. 
 
I have a new parking slot for it down in the garage; I had hoped that parking next to Tony's sleek black ‘Vette would give me a little more room, and then he impulsively bought Joe's sleek formal black Cadillac, which has negated the extra room afforded by the move. The new slot is only a few down from where the Hubrismobile rests, so at least it is convenient. 
 
The Harley Night Train has the partial space by the elevator entrance. Modern times have eliminated the kick-starter and replaced it with a 6-volt electric ignition. With some trepidation, I got ready for my first ride on the sleek beast. I have previously dropped the thing on its side while attempting to horse it around with keys clenched in my left hand, then and melted the leg off my baggy polyester sweat-pants on the hot exhaust pipes. That took a couple visits to the garage to scrape off the melted plastic without marring the finish on the chrome. That is part of the trepidation part- the bike is not inherently malevolent, but it is undeniably big and has a mechanical imperative all its own. 
 
It deserves complete attention. No. Better said, it commands it. 
 
Anyhow, I wore boots and jeans for t his adventure, which mentally I rehearsed as the equivalent of Howard Hughes' famous near-flight of the Spruce Goose on the waters of San Francisco Bay. I did not wear a helmet- it was not my intent to get going fast enough to be thrown from the thing. I thought perhaps taxiing around and getting to know the clutch in first gear would be enough. Besides, there is no helmet law in Illinois, and the bikers I saw in Chicago last weekend were proudly bare-headed as they whizzed by on the streets.
 
God, the thing is noisy. The engine labored a bit before it caught- the battery was low, and I made a note to remember to start it every weekend. I tried to remember exactly what they had taught us at the motorcycle safety course months ago in Richmond.
 
Unlock the front fork. Mount from the left. Bring the bike upright, front wheel centered. Kickstand up. God, it is a heavy thing. Unlock ignition and turn to "run." Safety shut-off to "on." Ignition button "on." Shudder. Roar.
 
I let the bike warm itself for a few minutes, nodding to people who emerged from the elevator lobby. I felt both ridiculous and powerful at the same time. Sitting there on the saddle there was no way for them to know I was less than a novice, and a complete fraud. I knew, though. 
 
When there was no one in view, I pulled the clutch in and dropped the foot shifter down under my boot until it clicked and the green "neutral" light went dark in the middle of the fat tank in front of me. I was pointed outward from the parking space, and I experimented, releasing the clutch just until there was friction and the machine began to creep forward. I pulled the lever back. Then I mouthed the words, "What the hell," and let it creep out again until the bike started to roll. 
 
Going that slowly, I mimicked what we had done on the course by the DMV, wide goose-stepping moves with my legs to stay upright and stable until I was able to horse the bike around the corner and on the long axis of the garage. I let the clutch out and got both boots on the pegs, teetering a bit as the gyroscopic imperative kicks in.
 
At the garage exit there is a pressure sensor to raise the door. Clutch in, roll over it slowly. Plenty of weight to actuate it, Boots down to wait a moment until the rising door won't catch me in the face. 
 
Then out into the late afternoon light, first time out.
 
There is a fairly steep incline to exit the garage and enter the parking lot the surrounds the dusty mauve building. Don't stop and roll backward, fool, gun it a bit. There is a plastic hump to keep the rainwater from draining into the basement; front wheel over, rear wheel hangs up. Teeter. More gas, not too much, fool or you will rocket into the parked cars. Look right, turn right. Clutch out. Feet on pegs. Where is the foot brake? Feeling for it with my right boot, it is awkwardly placed under the tank. Parallel to the building, there is DJ emerging from her car after the Saturday death-watch at the funeral home. Resist the desire to speak, stay focused, there is another speed hump and another quick right turn coming up. 
 
"Where is your helmet?" she said as I rumble by. 
 
I force a grin and do not respond. The bike lurches over the hump and I manage to get it around the corner. There is a long straight-away across the back of the building, and things are fine for a moment. All my synapses are alert for cars pulling out of their slots. Being able to stop is much more important than getting it to go fast. My hand is curled over the the brake lever. Is that wrong? Remember the lower pedal. 
 
Another speed bump and a chicane to the ramp that provides access to the garage on the west end of the building. There are too many variables to think of and I bring the bike to a stop, trying to work the foot and hand brake in tandem. I fish for the shift pedal, bring it up into second and kick it down until the green "N" stays illuminated. Cautiously releasing the clutch until certain it really is in neutral, I drop the heavy chrome kick-stand and crank the handles over to the left. 
 
I got off and walked far enough away from the beast to light up a smoke without blowing us up. I looked at it shuddering. I found the access card in my wallet to slide into the reader to open the garage door, and placed it in my left pocket where I could get it. Then crushed out the smoke, got back on the bike, and decided to do a victory lap around the building. 
 
The whole thing was more than faintly ridiculous, and I stalled the bike going up the hill on the way to the front of the building. I forgot to look right as I tried to negotiate the turn and the bike predictably wanted to continue straight into the shrubs. I got it to do generally what I wanted, and made the circuit without mishap, dodging a determined woman in a Subaru at the back of the building. I pulled up daringly close to the card reader, and slipped the card in.
 
I did not dump the machine as I slipped the card back in my pocket. The door creaked up and I let the clutch out and rumbled in, passing Falene in her scrubs heading off for the Saturday night shift. I gave her a jaunty wave and avoided crashing into anything. Clutch in, I goose-stepped the bike into my parking place by the garage, clicked the pedal into neutral, dropped the kickstand and shut it down. 
 
Bathed in sweat, I swung the handlebars to the left and dismounted. It probably would have been better to back it into the parking space, but that was quite beyond my extent capabilities. 
 
Interesting event. I think I liked it. When I got back to the unit, I discovered that Michigan had managed to put the brakes on the Badgers and pulled out a victory. I sort of wished I had watched it.
 
This would be easier if life worked like Chinese press releases, and you could orchestrate everything before hand, you know?
 
Copyright 2008 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com