The pages have just enough give and just enough flex to offer pretty good impact protection, and the spine gives rigidity and structure to the package. Put the whole thing in your messenger bag spine first and don’t forget to stop and appreciate the irony.

I’m going to buy a Triumph, dammit. When I attended the Triumph demo event a few weeks ago, I got to ride three brilliant Triumph motorcycles back to back. I was impressed with each of the bikes I rode, but I was impressed with Triumph as a manufacturer even more. When I can afford to, I want to own something from their stable. The tricky part is deciding which bike to have. Each of the three bikes I rode that day were brilliant, but in different ways. In this post, I’m going to focus on the Thruxton, Triumph’s cafe racer version of the Bonneville. It was the first bike I rode, and the one I was most interested in when I heard about the event. I opted to ride the Thruxton first because it’s the closest to what I’m used to riding and it’s also the least powerful. I figured that the 889cc parallel twin of the Thruxton would be easily manageable. Additionally, I was reassured by what a Triumph sales guy had told me back when I first demo rode the Bonneville.

You can’t really over-ride it. It doesn’t have more power than the suspension can handle, so it’s pretty easy to stay out of trouble.

My Thruxton was in a line of about a dozen Triumphs. After our safety briefing, we all made our way out to our respective machines. It took a second to locate the ignition key located off the left side of the headlight. My demo Thruxton was fitted with an aftermarket exhaust, so when I started the bike I was very surprised to hear such an aggressive “BRAP! BRAP” when I twisted the throttle. At idle it was nice and quiet, but its raspy roar instantly got everybody’s undivided attention with a couple twists of the throttle.

There’s a time machine quality to the Thruxton. It’s so a bike of the past, yet so undeniably modern. It looks and feels so classic, yet it was tight and precise in a way only a modern engineered machine can be — even this tired demo model. Most notable is a surprising lack of plastic on the Thruxton. The only plastic I noticed on the whole bike was the gauge cups and the hand controls. But even these pieces were very sturdy, heavy and of high quality. It’s obvious at every level that this is a well thought out machine that’s been expertly manufactured.

Our demo route was a 14 mile ride on 55 mph country roads. On all three of my demos, I don’t think we saw more than half a dozen cars. We left the dealership in a line of about ten demo bikes with three escort riders. The Thruxton and I were last in the line of demo bikes. Rolling slowly on the throttle and gently releasing the clutch, the Thruxton pushed forward easily. The more twins I ride, the more I want one. The low-end torque of those double jugs made starting from a stop an effortless enterprise for this moto newbie. It’s very stable at parking lot speeds. I thought the rear controls might be a little tricky to get in and out of, but they were no problem at all. The shifter was crisp and notchy, and the brakes felt well balanced front to rear. The reason the foot controls are on rear sets is due to its dropped handlebars, but both were easy to reach and didn’t cramp my legs. Though not as aggressive as clip-ons or even clubman bars, the Thruxton’s low bars are still low enough to put a lot of pressure on my hands. Even with the highway wind in my chest, my hands were pretty uncomfortable almost immediately and stayed that way for most of the ride.

As we pulled out onto the main road of our route, I opened up the Thruxton’s throttle for real for the first time. The torquey nature of the 900 twin came growling to life instantly and smoothly. Gearing up into 5th, I kept looking for gears. It just didn’t seem right to be doing about 70 mph and still have so much power left. The growl of that aftermarket exhaust was made entirely of grin. Seated comfortably on the Thruxton’s solo seat, the bike propelled me forward eagerly. I expected more vibration from the engine, but this parallel twin is very well balanced and the Thruxton didn’t buzz my hands or feet. The bike was surprisingly powerful for no more of a motorcycle than it seems to be, but just as advertised it’s perfectly matched to its suspension. The engine has a terrific, distinctive character that’s unlike anything I’ve ever ridden. It’s raspy and torquey, yet still very eager to rev for a twin.

For such a stylized motorcycle, the Thruxton was surprisingly comfortable. That’s especially surprising because I’m a big guy. At 6′ 3″ most motorcycles feel pretty cramped. The Thruxton was especially comfortable in the seat, which is surprising given that it’s pretty firm. I want that seat for my Honda. The rear sets didn’t cramp my legs and I never felt like I had to reach for the shifter or search for the rear brake. My only discomfort was in the palms of my hands. The forward, cafe racer handlebar position meant a lot of weight on my hands. I didn’t have any numbness or outright pain, but the pressure was uncomfortable after only a few minutes and I couldn’t imagine spending all day on it. Perhaps it’s something you get used to. Too bad, as the rest of the bike was such a blast to ride. Beyond their position, the hand controls are comfortable, easy to use, and very high quality. They didn’t feel like parts bin controls that you’d find on a lot of bikes these days.

Tucking the Thruxton into the sweeping turns of these southern Minnesota back roads, it felt a lot like my CB650 — stable, planted, undramatic, precise, but without feeling clinical or boring. The front end felt solid and appropriately heavy. I had to manhandle the thing just a little bit into and out of the corners, but I liked it that way. It seemed appropriate for this kind of old school bike. The suspension soaked up the bumps without feeling stiff or mushy. Where it differs from my regular ride most is in the engine character.

At the end of the line of bikes, I was able to fall behind a bit and race back up to the group. This was entirely too much fun! All the Triumphs I rode that day had two big things in common. The first was their brakes. The Thruxton stopped powerfully, with quick, responsive brakes just like I like them. The power between front and back was balanced very nicely and there was no drama, even under harder braking. The second thing all these Triumphs had in common was how they almost don’t need transmissions. The Thruxton was so torquey, it didn’t seem to care at all what gear it was in. I swear, you could probably start it going in 4th from a dead stop no problem. At higher speeds, there’s no need to downshift for passing. Just screw it on, and listen to the thing growl while you’re shot out of a cannon. That experience started with the Thruxton and just got more intense with the more powerful bikes I rode later.

Here’s the thing though. If I bought a Thruxton, it wouldn’t be for the performance. Even though it’s more fun than should be legal in most states. The Thruxton is about history, about heritage, and about that cafe racer tradition that’s all too foreign to our shores. It’s so modern, yet still so classic and undeniably british. At this, it’s real purpose, is where the Thruxton really shines. It’s got all the shiny bits available for the Bonneville, including the 3D chrome tank emblems, chrome bar-end mirrors, rear-set controls, chrome wire wheels and a solo seat — completing the cafe racer look. The quest for authenticity doesn’t stop there though. The Thruxton’s engine doesn’t look like a 21st century powerplant, but tucked inside those carburetor bodies is a fully electronic fuel injection system. So what you get is a fully modern bike with authentic classic design. How great is that?

The twenty minutes I got to spend aboard the Triumph Thruxton were far too few. I have no criticisms save the handlebars, but that’s not really even the Thruxton’s fault. Almost any motorcycle is going to need adjustments before it will fit you correctly, especially if you’re a taller rider like I am. For most, I imagine it’s perfectly comfortable. I misspoke earlier when I said that all the Triumphs I rode that day had two things in common. It was actually three things. After riding each, I didn’t want to give it back. This was especially true of the Thruxton. My mind isn’t made up yet that this is the Triumph for me, but the Thruxton can be summed up in one word: charming.

Eventually I gave in. After a full winter of ogling Triumphs down at Moto Primo, I got to demo a Bonneville. It was my first motorcycle ride and I couldn’t even begin to evaluate the bike because I was mostly just hanging on for dear life. There were other bikes I’d like to demo, but it just didn’t seem like a good idea. For example, Triumph’s Tiger fits me like it was made for me, but I didn’t dare ride that 1000cc monster with so little experience. I’d also been eyeballing the then newly introduced Street Triple — a bike that weighs about the same as my Vespa GT but with nearly 100 more horsepower. I’ve come a long way since then. As of today, I have about 10,000 scooter miles behind me and about 1,000 miles on my Honda CB650. I’m hardly seasoned in motorcycles, but I actually know how to ride a bike now. So when I got a marketing email from Triumph that a demo ride event was coming to the Triumph dealership in Belle Plain, MN I knew I had to attend.

I arrived at Belle Plain Motorsports a little before 10:00 and was sad to see that they were only allowing two rides per rider per day. There were five Triumphs I wanted to demo: the Bonneville, Thruxton, Speed Triple, Street Triple and Tiger. With opportunity for only two rides, I decided on the Thruxton and the Tiger because as cool as the Triples are, I’m going to actually buy either a Thruxton or a Tiger (or both) in the future if I can swing it. Beyond that, I wanted to really complete that Bonneville ride I’d taken so long ago. In the end, I was able to score a third ride on a Street Triple R because nobody was riding it that demo session. Score!

I signed the waivers and listened to the pre-ride safety briefing. The way they organize these events is pretty ingenious. Triumph provides about two dozen demo bikes — one or two of everything in their lineup. Those bikes are lined up in two columns that make up two separate demo groups. The dealership provides local ride escorts to block the ride groups, and those blockers then take a line of demo bikes and riders on about a 20 minute backroad power cruise. The course for us here in Minnesota was 14 miles of perfect blacktop including some somewhat aggressive curves, elevation changes, and a handful of desolate stop signs. It was nothing difficult or technical, but it was definitely a lot more fun than some long stretch of straight highway would have been.

I’m going to write about the three bikes I rode in separate posts, but I want to say a few things about Triumph in general. Firstly, everything I rode was a solid, well-engineered, finely detailed machine. None of the bikes ever felt cheap or sloppy. Secondly, all three bikes had amazing brakes on them. Thirdly, their stable of inline twins and triples are so torquey they just about don’t need gears. Just twist the throttle and off you go. This made their bikes not simply powerful, but easy to ride powerfully.

Lastly, I was really impressed with this event. Obviously, the dealership had their hand in it too, but I learned some really interesting things from one of the dealership guys who happened to also be a ride blocker. He told me that Triumph puts on these traveling demo events across the country instead of wasting money touring with the International Motorcycle Show. I’ve been to the International Motorcycle Show. Its only real value is that it’s in the dead of winter and gives all of us cabin fevered petrol heads somewhere to go and nerd out about bikes for an afternoon. What Triumph has done is brilliant, if you ask me. Instead of getting to sit on a Triumph, which I can do at the dealer whenever I want, I actually got to ride several of them. If my calendar had been more open, I could have attended yesterday and rode even more. It would be possible to ride almost one of everything they make. Does Honda do anything like that? Does the local Harley dealership have one of everything available for demo? More than that though, this was a decidedly bullshit-free event. All I had to do was sign a waiver, wear my gear, and show up with a valid motorcycle endorsement on my driver’s license. No credit card information needed. No taking down my insurance info. No hurdles. No bullshit. Triumph was there for the express purpose of me riding and evaluating their machines. They’re proud of them, and they should be. The whole event communicated clearly to me that Triumph is genuinely interested in my business. Well let the countdown begin, ’cause I’m buyin’ me a Triumph as soon as I can swing it. The tricky bit will be deciding which one. More on that to come. Stay tuned.

To understand the genesis of the Third Thursday event, you have to know about another event: First Thursday in Minneapolis. I haven’t yet attended, but on the first Thursday of every month, at Dulono’s Pizza in Uptown, hundreds upon hundreds of bikers swarm the scene. I’m told it’s an absolute madhouse. It’s a mob of people and bravado and bikes — a real anything goes sort of situation. It’s on my list, but I imagine it’s not the kind of event that I’d enjoy too often. Third Thursday at Bluecat Motors is billed as the antithesis of that scene. It’s a much more casual get together, of fewer bikes, and a very relaxed atmosphere. There’s usually a taco truck to feed everybody and Relic is around to pinstripe your bike on-site if you so desire. It sounded like a fun time, so after several days of dedicated wrench work on my Honda, I was ready to make an entrance.

This would be my first real ride with the new bikini fairing in place, which I was excited for. Would it make any difference? Would it stay put? Would it be noisy or put the wind up my helmet in some weird way? I shot up Hwy 35E toward St. Paul and was very pleasantly surprised at how much that little fairing took my torso out of the wind. Rolling at 70 mph was so much more comfortable without the buffeting wind in my chest the whole time. What’s more, I can easily and comfortably duck down behind the windscreen. My freshly changed air filter had amplified the already distinct whine of the intake tract and added a noticeable amount of zip to the throttle — all now much easier to hear with a good deal of the wind noise quieted by the fairing.

As I pulled into the Bluecat lot, I saw about 35 bikes ahead of me loosely parked in three rows. I coasted up, my inline four whisping and growling under me, and came to a stop beside a great ’70s era Honda cafe. There were three guys just the other side of it, bottles in hand, checking out the bikes around them. As I rolled in, I couldn’t help notice them notice me and my bike. Through the last sputters of idle and even my helmet and earplugs I heard one of them lamentably say “Yeah, that’s what my bike’s gonna look like.” I pulled off my helmet and stuffed my gloves inside it. I looked over, nodded hello, and there they were — still ogling my CB650. As groovy as I think my bike is, the idea that strangers would think it’s cool hadn’t even occurred to me. I set the bike on its side stand and dismounted. They were still checking it out. I couldn’t help but think this must be kind of what it’s like to be a good-looking lady. As I walked out into the pack of parked custom mopeds and tricked out old UJMs, I glanced back at my bike. My Honda CB650 is far from the grumpy, raspy, neglected thing it was when I bought it. With its maintenance up to date, its carbs synced, some ill-fitted accessories removed and the new fairing fitted, it’s turned out to be a hell of a machine. Seeing it with fresh eyes, I realized, yeah, that’s a damn good-looking bike.

I didn’t take five steps before I ran into some of the usual suspects from the local scooter crew. Excluding work people, I can count on one hand the number of people I know in the Twin Cities who don’t have two-wheeled mischief of one variety or another. It’s become my favorite thing about living here. Not only are there so many great places to ride, but there are great people to roll with. I was also very pleasantly surprised to see that some of my scooter buddies had also made the jump to motorcycles, just as I had. Fellow RMB rally volunteer Joe had ridden his new Royal Enfield Bullet 500 — a lovely retrospective english bike. His wife was on her new SYM Symba (a Honda Super Cub clone). Soon Pooter showed up on his motard and even Dave Harrington rolled in on his scooter after not long. I hadn’t expected to know anybody at this gig, yet here were so many fun scootheads — here to check out the bikes, the tacos and the chill atmosphere. It was such an eclectic mix of people and machines that the whole thing was downright charming. There was a whole pack of souped-up mopeds, the occasional new-school Triumph, a couple Harleys, and a lot of old Jap bikes like mine. Great stuff — this is going to have to become a regular thing.

I couldn’t stay long. The sun was getting low in the sky and since The Mrs wasn’t with me, I wanted to head home. Just as I fired up the CB650, Ryan, the owner of Bluecat Motors, came by on his way to another bike. We couldn’t talk too well since my earplugs were in and my helmet was on, but it was good to see him again. He’s the one who got me into this stuff, after all. Him and his groovy little shop. On my way down the connecting street, I gave the CB650 the customary too much throttle — making my motorcycle exit in a loud howling roar of four Japanese cylinders for everybody in the lot to hear. Damn, it sounded good.

But before I could take off into the windy hill roads of Wisconsin, I had work to do. Any bike trip requires preparation. In order to make this day’s journey happen, I had some wrench work to do on the motorcycle. Hanzo needed an oil change, a double-check on the carburetor synchronization, and a rebuild of the master cylinder for the front brake.

On Monday, I changed the oil and filter and simply couldn’t believe the difference it made in how the bike runs. On most motorcycles, the engine oil also lubricates the transmission and the clutch. So when the oil is old and sketchy, it’s not just the engine that suffers. New lube in my CB650 completely transformed the bike. The transmission was less notchy, the clutch was lighter, and the engine pulled harder and smoother than ever. The nagging hesitation I’d feel in the engine when quickly screwing on the throttle disappeared completely. Best of all, the exhaust note got just a touch sweeter. Four cylinders on those four pipes makes the CB650 howl like an old italian super car — a real aural delight. Now for the brake.

If you stop to think about hydraulics, the physics involved are just amazing. That a little 1/2″ diameter steel piston can bring more than a quarter ton of bike and rider to a stop on just the squeeze force of my fingers is downright incredible. Rebuilding the master cylinder for the front brake involved basically just pulling the guts — the piston, springs and seals — out of the assembly and replacing them with new ones. The thing that made this particular rebuild tricky was the fact that it was encrusted with nasty old brake fluid residue. More specifically, getting the snap ring off the handle end of the piston took longer than the whole rest of the job. The biggest lesson learned for me was that money spent on good tools is never wasted. After breaking a set of cheap snap ring pliers, I had to pony up the extra $10 for a real tool. Then I had a bit of Mythbusters-style fun creating longer “fingers” for the pliers. I took some 1/8″ piano wire, ground the points down for snap ring use, then torched the springy steel a few times and dunked them in old motor oil to harden them. It worked like a charm! Unfortunately, all the tool wrangling had cost me a day. Thursday was coming and I couldn’t ride without a front brake.

Now that I was able to get to the internals, I was pretty horrified to find that not only was the brake fluid black as ink (new fluid is nearly clear — like corn syrup), but every interior surface of the mechanism was completely encrusted in burnt fluid and disintegrated rubber. If you’d handed me this thing and told me you found it on the bottom of the ocean, I would have believed you. Lots of scrubbing, scraping and washing out later, the cylinder and reservoir were ready for new components. I rinsed everything out with rubbing alcohol to evacuate any remaining water. Then after that dried out for a minute, I lubed up all the components with fresh brake fluid for reassembly.

Wednesday arrived and once office hours came and went, it was time to bleed the system. Using just some silicone tubing and an old butter dish, I was able to get all the air out of the system in about 20 minutes. Not bad at all for my first brake bleed. A quick test ride confirmed that not only did I have brakes, I had better brakes! Score. My trip was on!

Thursday morning came and I had three things on the agenda. 1) Eat good food. 2) Clean out my shop, The Lab of Doom. 3) Ride to Maiden Rock Winery and back. With breakfast conjured and consumed (egg biscuit sandwiches for the win!), I pulled all four bikes out of my garage shop so that I could do some much needed cleaning. The previous month of wrench work and prototyping had tools and debris everywhere. I spent the next couple hours putting tools away, gathering up trash, and vacuuming up dirt and sawdust with great satisfaction.

With the Lab of Doom sorted, I had one last piece of wrench work to do before I could head off for the enchanted lands of cheese and bratwurst. There was a bit of stumble left in the CB650′s idle, so I wanted to double-check my carb synchronization. Being old hat with the proceedure by now, I was able to get everything hooked up quickly and sure enough, the #3 cylinder was way off from the others. A few wrench turns later and the motor was butter smooth again. Hopefully this time it’ll stick.

Roaring down Hwy 55 toward Hastings, MN I quickly realized that this trip would be a lot more enjoyable if I had some earplugs in. A quick pitstop at Walgreens made for much happier riding. That first stretch of Hwy 55 was the first time I’d ridden that fast for that long. At just under 6,000 rpm, the Honda handled 65 mph with no trouble at all. Vibration was minimal and even without a windscreen the wind in my chest was present but not unpleasant. This was it. This was motorbiking for journey’s sake. I ate up the miles and was in Hastings before I knew it.

Turning north on Hwy 61, I made my way through Hastings and intersected Hwy 10 toward Wisconsin. This road eventually merges with Hwy 35 on the Wisconsin side — The Great River Road, they call it. Well they’re not kidding. It’s a magnificent piece of highway. Mostly two lane, mostly 55 mph speed limits, sweeping turns, lots of elevation changes, and more often then not a spectacular view down onto the mighty Mississippi river. It was about 75º and not a cloud in the sky. You just couldn’t ask for better riding weather.

I rumbled into Hager City for an experiment. As I’d put less than 200 miles on the bike to date (and run out of gas once already), I didn’t yet have a good sense for what kind of range to expect from a tank of petrol. There’s no fuel gauge on the CB650 or even a sight glass — just a trip odometer and a reserve position for the petcock. The books say the gas tank will hold 3.7 gallons of gasoline, but just how far will that get me? I’d expected that the bike got somewhere between 30 and 60 mpg but that’s quite a range for prediction. Quick math at this particular tank of gas showed 37 mpg. Not bad. Not Vespa good, but not bad. That meant that on a bursting full tank of gas, I could expect not quite 140 miles of range. Put more pragmatically though, I’d better make 100 miles my fill up point of no return. I reset the trip odometer and headed out again onto the open road.

My destination, if you could really call it that, was the Maiden Rock Cidery and Winery. All along the Great River Road there are wineries, pubs, diners, ice cream shops, museums and local flavor. The towns are spread out and for all their tourist treasure, none of the 50 miles or so of Hwy 35 that I’ve explored so far feels like a tourist trap. The sights feel much more Route 66 than Disneyland. The Maiden Rock Cidery and Winery is a couple miles off the main road nestled into the kind of rolling farmland you’d expect to see painted on the side of a tub of butter. The vineyard and huge barn main building are the opposite of opulent. They’re nice, but they’re not trying very hard. I liked that. This was a place where time wasn’t a big deal — a place where there was no mobile phone service and they liked it that way. Maiden Rock makes a wonderful variety of hard ciders and apple wines as well as your expected Pinot Noir and other grape varieties. Beverage choices aside though, it’s a wonderful place off the beaten path to simply sit in the shade and do some reading.

My book this year is Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. It’s the story of man who sets off on a motorcycle trip from the Twin Cities. Fitting, no? My day’s aspiration was to find someplace quiet and scenic, smoke my pipe, and read a chapter of Zen before heading back to the cities. Signage at Maiden Rock insists that you “please smoke in your car” so I set off in search of a better place of quiet solitude. Luckily, this Pipen Lake area of the Mississippi is littered with scenic overlooks. Within 10 minutes, I’d found a perfect, shady little picnic table overlooking the mighty river some hundreds of feet below. Where I sat is essentially where the glacier stopped so many eons ago. Looking west across into Minnesota, I could see the beginnings of the great plains below this mountainous perch. A lovely view indeed.

Half way through my chapter of Zen, I heard what sounded like a large airplane headed my way from the south. It loomed loud and rumbly in the distance and I thought that any moment I’d see a DC-3 or B-17 go rumbling by at eye level, following the river. The noise grew and grew to epic anticipation. I searched the skies as the groan approached, larger and larger, faster and faster, until finally the sound was upon me. The doppler shift came and passed but the sound was still huge and ominous. I still couldn’t see anything. There was no plane. Was there some massive boat below? What the hell? As the noise continued to rumble the countryside, not knowing its origin was more disconcerting by the second. It sounded like whatever it was, it would crash into that very spot at any moment. I walked the ten yards forward to the chain link fence that rowed in the overlook. I wanted to peer over the cliff and try to glimpse the ghost ocean liner that surely must be haunting the water below. I peered over the fence and then face palmed myself.

It was a freight train.

About 25 feet in front of, and 25 feet below where I was standing was a line of railroad tracks that ran along the river cliffs. Empty coal cars sped by at what had to be close to 70 mph. I could just see the tops of them. Feeling hilariously foolish, I returned to my table, my book, and my pipe.

I took up pipe smoking about a year ago when I fell in love with the pipe as an object. I’ve started carving a few and there are a couple different pipe rack designs in my project queue. Actually smoking one is something that I almost never do, but a day of such riding leisure all but demanded a bowl of smoke. As I read and puffed away, a man and woman in their late 50s arrived on a big Harley touring bike. The whole Great River Road is crawling with motorcycles. They’re at least 50% of the traffic and that’s one of the best parts of riding the road. The two of them walked up to the overlook and swooned at the view of Pipen Lake. His cell phone rang and I couldn’t help but overhear his conversation. Apparently he’d just been laid off that week down in Florida and came to Wisconsin to visit his lady friend. This was his escape from his newfound unemployment. There was something so sad, but so resiliently hopeful in how he talked about it. I’ve been there. It’s not fun, but it’s also strangely freeing. Unencumbered by steady income or regular office hours, it feels like life could take you anywhere — to both fortune and peril. It’s scary. It’s depressing. It’s exciting. It’s the kind of fun you hope not to have too often but it can be downright enjoyable for a little while, before the panic sets in.

Other visitors came and went to the overlook over the hour I was there. Most never got out of their cars or off their motorcycles. I couldn’t help but wonder if they’d wanted the overlook to themselves — that if I hadn’t been there they would have gotten out and walked around. Why do we do that? Why are we so passive about sharing space with strangers? I do it too, and seeing these folk do it made me re-examine that motivation in myself.

I wanted to get home in time to make epic sandwiches for myself and The Mrs, so it was time to go. I packed up my book and tapped out my pipe and fired the bike back up. I’d done the trip there in four stops, now it was time to ride back straight. More than anything, I wanted to know if I could stay comfortable on the bike for the 90 minute trip back to the TC.

For the whole day, what I’d been so happy to discover was how my outlook on road progress was so much different on the motorcycle. What I mean by that is that for the first time I can remember, I drove at or below the speed limit. I didn’t care when I got where I was going. I didn’t care if I got where I was going. What mattered was the journey. The joy was in this piece of road — just that bit of tarmac between me and the horizon. That’s all I needed. I didn’t have any back pain. I didn’t have any discomfort in my hands or wrists. In fact, with my new handlebars I’m able to rest my elbows on my knees and ride lounged forward. It was just me and my motorcycle at one on the blacktop. As I rode into the setting sun, I felt like I could just keep riding all day and night and not stop until I hit ocean. It was profound and deeply personal. This was mine in a way few things ever seem to be in life.

As I got closer to home, I had a small, momentary argument with myself that I want to share. I wondered what time it was. I didn’t want my wife to have to wait on me too long for supper. I looked down at my controls and gauges and wondered where I could strap a watch or a clock. Then I caught myself. Don’t you dare. I thought. That’s completely contrary to the very nature of this machine. A clock on a motorcycle is an abomination. That series of thoughts completely encapsulated how I felt about the whole trip. This was something almost sacred — a worship of motion and machine — time had no business there.

About a year ago, my wife and I attended a simulcast event featuring the crew from Rifftrax doing a live riff on Ed Wood’s B-movie masterpiece, Plan 9 From Outer Space. If you’re unfamiliar with Rifftrax, they record hilarious satirical audio commentary for the movies in your DVD collection. If you think that sounds an awful lot like Mystery Science Theater 3000, you’d be right. It’s the same brilliant people behind both. As much fun as that event was — especially seeing it in a theater with a big audience — the most significant takeaway for me was their opening act, Jonathan Coulton. I bought his seminal record, Best. Concert. Ever. and have probably listened to it at least a hundred times.

Now stick with me for a second here, ’cause this gets a tad Kevin Bacon. When I found out that Jonathan Coulton would be coming to Minneapolis in October of last year, I snapped up a pair of tickets right away. The show was amazing, but just like with the Rifftrax event, the opening act, Paul and Storm, sort of stole the show for me. The easiest way to think of Paul and Storm would be that they’re basically Tenacious D for nerds. From their very first number, Opening Band, all the way through The Captain’s Wife’s Lament, they more than warmed up the crowd. But beyond that, they sang backup for about half of Jonathan Coulton’s set and frankly, his music is always better when they’re part of it.

Back at home base, I started following Paul and Storm on Twitter, much to my enjoyment, and found that they were connected to a whole network of awesome, nerdy people. This included Adam Savage — best known for, well, blowing shit up on the Discovery Channel’s Mythbusters, but his off-show work giving talks at TED and other events is fantastic as well. I also rediscovered Wil Wheaton, who is probably best known for his roles in Stand By Me and Star Trek The Next Generation. I was a little younger than Wesley Crusher back when I was watching TNG and always wanted to be the smart kid who saved the day. These days, Wil is an author, prolific blogger, and all around awesome guy and I still find myself wanting to emulate the awesome. He’s still acting from time to time, including appearances on The Guild, The Big Bang Theory, Leverage, and Eureka, but most of his time is spent writing as an independent yet successful author and producing a couple of very good, very funny podcasts — making him sort of the nerd’s David Sedaris.

Long story short, I’ve become a really big fan of all four of these guys and what they’re doing both on and off stage. So when Wil started talking about the idea of w00tstock on his blog, I hoped from the beginning that if the show happened, it’d make its way to this end of the country. When w00tstock Minneapolis was announced, I bought tickets within the first 10 minutes. The show sold out very quickly, showing just how much nerd love there is here in the Twin Cities.

Attending the show, at the amazing Guthrie theater, was a fantastic experience. It’s way too much to really describe and truthfully, you really had to be there to grasp the whole experience. For me, the highlights were definitely Wil Wheaton’s hilarious telling of how he lost his Rocky Horror Picture Show virginity, Molly Lewis’ ukulele song about wanting to have Stephen Fry’s baby, and well, the moment when I inadvertently heckled one of my heroes, Adam Savage.

Adam’s presentation was a touch of very funny storytelling mixed in with sort of a slide presentation about his love of costumes. Adam has made elaborate costumes ever since he was a teenager. This continued during his time working at Industrial Light and Magic, and these days, he’s even made it a contest at conventions like ComicCon in San Diego to find him in costume…if you can. Last year, the first person to find him got a Mythbusters-themed iPod and this year, whoever finds Adam among the throngs of other costumed nerds will receive a Mythbusters iPad. To be extra tricky this year, Adam revealed to us, his wootstock Minneapolis audience, what his costume will be ahead of time. But in this case, it’s not going to make him any easier to find. This year, Adam is going as a Storm Trooper from Star Wars. The brilliance of his idea is that there will be literally hundreds of people wearing that costume at ComicCon, guaranteed. Those out of the know are going to wonder why every three seconds someone is asking if they’re a Mythbuster.

When Adam revealed his costume and we all got the joke and the diabolical genius of his choice, I couldn’t subdue my MST3K comment reflex. Give me a break, they’d just been on stage! Half under my breath, I muttered “Aren’t you a little short for a Storm Trooper?” (If I have to explain that to you, then you are definitely reading the wrong blog post, my friend.) I said it to myself mostly — not really to anybody in particular, but the people in the 3-4 rows in front of me heard it and heads and shoulders shook with laughter in a wave out from where I was sitting — like I’d dropped a stone into water. It was just disruptive enough that Adam noticed from the stage. He peered out in my direction through the spot lights, his body language saying “what did I miss?” The pause was just perfect, so I went for it. “Aren’t you a little short for a Storm Trooper?” I said at full stage volume, trying my best to match Carrie Fisher’s delivery. The whole place roared with laughter and hoots and Adam let out a zinged “Oh!”, chuckled and then semi-indignantly rounded in my general direction.

Actually I’m a little tall for a Storm Trooper. All of the original Storm Trooper costumes were made for these british guys who were a lot shorter — so you can’t fit in that armor. SO THERE!

He would know. It was so perfect. I zinged him and he nerded out on me in retort! You can see the whole exchange at 9:00 in:

The show wrapped up, as any Paul and Storm event would, with a half-hour-long rendition of The Captain’s Wife’s Lament, but one of the final announcements Paul made before they started the song was especially indicative of the whole attitude of this event. Paul told us that the whole cast would be out in the lobby after the show to sign autographs, take pictures and that they didn’t want to turn anybody away. That would mean everybody would have to make it quick, but they wanted to make sure that everybody got a chance to say hi. Not everybody in the show is crazy famous, but I bet Wil Wheaton and Adam Savage can’t go too many places without getting recognized. Yet here it was 12:30 A.M. on a Monday night and the cast was going to take the time to connect with everybody who wanted to. I saw later on Twitter that the cast didn’t leave the venue until nearly 3:00 am. That’s got to be the new definition of gracious.

The Mrs and I exited the inner theater and found ourselves in the lobby just as the theater staff was announcing the merch line “forming here” and “going that way” and the receiving line “forming there” and “going that way.” We just happen to be in the perfect spot to be one of the first 20 or so people in the receiving line. I’d brought the Mythbusters issue of Popular Mechanics with me hoping to get Adam’s signature on it. More than anything, though, I just wanted to meet him. I wanted to shake his hand and in the short span of that surely forgettable interaction try to somehow tell him how much I appreciate all his shenanigans, w00tstock included. I also really wanted to meet Wil Wheaton. I’ve enjoyed his blog and podcasts so much over the last year and wanted to express my appreciation for all that effort, all that sharing of himself, and all the hard work that he obviously put into spearheading what became w00tstock.

Within five minutes, the whole cast was lined up behind the information table in the upper lobby of the Guthrie Theater and the line was moving along quickly. What I realized in retrospect was that I met 3/5 of the principle cast of one of my favorite shows, MST3K, and it didn’t even register. Sure, I thanked them for their part of the show and all that, but I was so focused on Wil and Adam at the far end of the table that the awesomeness of who I was meeting in that moment was completely lost on me. Sorry guys! You’re awesome! I got to Paul and Storm and greeted them and Wil somewhat at the same time. Wil shook my hand and I blathered something about being a big fan of his blog and especially his podcasts and thanked him for helping to put the show together. He was very gracious and seemed as happy to meet me as a fan as I was to meet him as…him. Now there’s a guy made of awesome! As the line moved a tad further, I found myself sort of between Wil and Adam and was at kind of a loss. This was it. This is why I was here. I didn’t know what else to say, so I just told the whole truth.

“I feel kinda like a dog who’s been chasing a car, and now that I’ve caught it, I don’t know what to do with it. You guys are awesome, I’m really a big fan, and I don’t know what else to say.” Both of them laughed and Adam reached out to shake my hand. I leaned in over the table a bit and said “I want you to know that you’re seriously one of my heroes. You’re the reason I build things in my garage. I’ve got a little one-car garage space converted into a shop, just like you do, and I’m down there all the time tinkering with one thing or another. So thanks for all that you’re doing.”

“Ha! I bet it’s still bigger than MINE!” Adam replied. “Here, if you’ve got a little shop like mine, you need to know about these.” He’d already signed my issue of PM and had now spun it 90º and started writing along the spine. “Check these out, they’re fantastic for storage.” He’d written a name I recognized from the PM article about his shop.

I was ready to burst. Adam Savage wasn’t just politely talking at me, he was talking to me, and he was doing me a favor. Holy Mythbusting, Batman.

“Wow, thanks so much! Would you mind if I got a photo with you? I’d love to have something to hang up in my shop.”

“Absolutely!”

He looked around him really quick to try to see how he could make the photo happen easily. I ducked down at the end of the table next to him, and he leaned in. The Mrs snapped the photo and there we were. He shook my hand one more time.

“Thanks so much, and I’m SO sorry I heckled you!”

“Oh that was YOU?”

“Yeah!”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll take anything for a good laugh line!”

“Awesome. Thanks!”

And that was that. The Mrs and I headed home and I’m pretty sure I took half my normal number of steps. In one of my transparent fits of giddy, she turned to me and said “Just because you can die now doesn’t mean you have to.” God, I love her.

Thanks, w00tstock. Come back soon.

In the weeks since The Mrs and I procured a pair of old Honda motorcycles, we’ve uncovered a handful of mechanical things that these bikes need before they’re truly roadworthy. There’s dry rot on the CM400′s tires. It needs a new chain and sprocket set. It’s running a bit lean, and needs its front fork seals redone. Worst of all, it’s got a significant fuel leak from the carbs and I’m not sure where from yet. My CB650 needs a new tach cable and desperately needed its carbs synchronized. It’s nearly due for a new rear sprocket and chain, and both bikes were in need of overall tune up and maintenance. So the long Memorial Day weekend was a perfect opportunity to get my hands greasy and get these motorcycles sorted out.

Starting with The Mrs’ CM400 twin, I consulted the service manual for the tune up procedures. Air filter, then plugs, then valve clearance, then carb sync, then compression test — I love how methodical these procedures have to be. No use in syncing the carbs unless the plugs are correct. I tore into the bike, removing first the seat and then the side covers and fuel tank. It’s amazing how quickly the bike gets bare. I pulled the air filter and it’s still looking pretty new. Some canned air through the element and it went back where it came from. Plugs were a tad scorched. The bike is indeed running lean. I hopped on the Vespa for a quick run to the O’Reilly’s down the street, where I bought them completely out of NGK plugs for our bikes and borrowed their compression tester. Next I cracked open the valve covers and removed the engine’s side cover so that I could turn the engine over at the generator. Valve adjustment is strange business, but if you follow the instructions, it’s actually pretty easy. It’s hard to imagine that the difference between .003″ and .004″ should matter, but it does. Sliding the feeler gauges in and out of those gaps feels a bit like dentistry — or at least what I imagine dentistry to be like. I’d much rather stick my hands down into greasy engine than somebody’s mouth. Yuck.

With all the cold service mischief managed, it was time to fire up the CM400 and get it warmed up to operating temperature for a compression test. The fresh plugs and adjusted valves gave the motor a fresh, sharp sound it didn’t have before. It’s still popping lean though. My money is on the Air Cutoff Valve. I shut it down and extract both plugs again, only to find that the borrow-a-tool compression tester kit from O’Reilly’s doesn’t include an adapter for this size of spark plug. In the end, I had to buy my own tool, but it’s worth it now to have the equipment in-hand whenever I want it. Both cylinders were within one psi of each other. Hooray for healthy rings! Unfortunately, in hooking up the gauge I noticed a pretty epic fuel leak coming from somewhere underneath the carbs. That will warrant further investigation. The carbs are due for a cleaning and I’m going to replace the Air Cutoff Valve for good measure anyway, so that leak will have to wait. I’m just hoping it’s something simple like a loose bolt or a bad bowl gasket.

The CM400 twin was pretty easy to wrench. Now for the CB650′s four cylinder mill. Twice the valves, twice the plugs, twice the hassle for everything. Plus this bad boy needed a carb sync, which I’ve never done before. Four carbs — this should be interesting. I started down the same list as the CM400. Air filter, plugs, valve clearance, etc. The valve clearance was a very different animal on the CB650. Instead of gapping where the rockers meet the top of the valves, you gap the other end of the rockers where they meet the cam lobes. It took me a few rotations of the crank to make sure I was at top-dead-center on the correct cylinders. The valves were all pretty tight. The “free play” I was supposed to feel according to the book for was really hard to perceive. There were a couple moments there where I wasn’t sure if I should just leave them alone. But after consulting the book a couple more times, I decided to trust the book and trust myself. Besides, leaving them tight will only get them burned in the long run.

After lots of feeling ’round and adjusting set screws, the valves were in order. Time for the plugs. The CB650 takes an 18mm spark plug, which fit none of the three spark plug sockets I had. I snagged a deep socket on another Vespa O’Reilly’s run, but it wasn’t a plug socket. I pulled the #4 plug first, which was easy to do with the gas tank off. I gapped a new plug, slathered its threads with anti-sieze grease and replaced it in the cylinder. Now for #3, except there was a problem. The socket wouldn’t fit down into the opening, so I stole the plug socket from the CM400′s tool kit.

Every once in a while, I want to travel to distant lands, find a particular engineer. and beat the hell out of him. Whoever designed that toolkit plug socket is on my list now. The fact that it doesn’t have a proper 3/8″ or 1/4″ driver receptacle is just ridiculous. Instead it’s just a pair of opposite holes for you to stick a screwdriver through and twist. Thing is, there’s no room for that on this motor. It took about 15 minutes to get the plug extricated from the cylinder, even after removing the tach cable mechanism for extra room. There’s just no excuse for that — and in my shop no less! I had the tank off the bike, a nice little stool to sit on and everything. Ideal conditions! I can’t even imagine having to use that tool on the side of the road somewhere, in the rain.

I wrangled the other two plugs out and replaced them, but it put the kibosh on doing a compression test on this bike for now. Especially since the bike has to be warm to do it. That’d mean extricating the plugs with the wrong tool while the whole motor is hot. No thanks. I put the bike back together and took it for a quick spin ’round Eagan. The fresh plugs made for a nice crisp throttle response. I could just hear the valves in a way I couldn’t before, which is a good thing. As my dad says “If you can hear the valves, at least you’re not burning them.”

The following day, I procured two key tools for the long-term maintenance of this bike. I bought a proper, super long, thin wall spark plug socket and a 4-cylinder carb sync tool. It set me back a some cash, but it’s worth it in the long run. Sync tool in hand, I set about performing the synchronization on the CB650. With four separate carbs, these Honda mills essentially have four separate throttles. If the carbs aren’t in sync, then each cylinder is getting its air/fuel mixture at a slightly different time. This can mean rough running and significant engine vibration. The sync is accomplished by balancing the vacuum between the carbs, which you do with what looks like a set of four thermometers crossed with an octopus. What’s tricky is that you’ve got to run the test with the tank removed — meaning that you’ve only got the fuel in the carbs to work with — which is only about five minutes worth. The motor has to idle while you use set screws in the top …

You’re not even remotely still reading this are you? Sorry, this thing has gotten a little long. Cutting to the chase in 3, 2, 1…

It took me about 4 hours total, just to do the carb sync. Every time I’d start to get the carbs close, it’d run out of gas. It was pretty maddening. Finally, the four readings matched for just a second before the engine started to sputter out of fuel again. I called it. Done. That was the best I was going to do. A quick compression test showed all four cylinders really close to each other. So it looks like the engine is in really good shape, but I was pretty tired getting there.

One thing remained. I simply had to ride the bike after so much effort. It was about 10:00 pm. With the tank and seat back in place and all this tune-up work finally done, I expected it’d run a little better or smoother. It turned out to run like a completely different motorcycle. The engine was so smooth it was like the bike ran on milk instead of petrol. It felt about 30% more powerful too. It finally felt like the superbike the CB650 is acclaimed to be. Amazing. As much as I’ve liked this bike all along, I absolutely love it now. So much power, and just so smooth. First gear starts are easier too. Love it!

I returned to my garage, where next door my neighbor and his posse were prepping a 24 Hours of Lemons car. The driveway contained his Lancer Evo, a Viper, and an Acura NSX. I didn’t care though. They could have them. I had my three decade old UJM now running spectacularly at my own two hands. That’s priceless.

Check out Gabe’s full write up over at MotoringFile »

I didn’t buy this Honda CB650 with intentions of commuting to work on it. That’s what scooters are for. However, today found me riding the big bike downtown. My mechanical knowledge of motorcycles is still squarely in the newbie camp, so I needed to get this motorcycle evaluated by a proper mechanic. Hand me a car service manual and the right tools and I can fix damn near anything. Motorcycles won’t be that different, but I’m still getting up to speed on all the bits and bobs. So it was my intention today to take the bike by Bluecat Motors and let one of their expert wrenches take a look at it. Mostly, I wanted to make sure I wasn’t riding around on something super dodgy and unsafe. I also wanted to make sure I hadn’t paid too much for it.

The parkway route I take into downtown Minneapolis is very manageable on a motorcycle, even for a neophyte such as myself. The right hand turns at stop signs in the mill and warehouse districts gave me lots of good opportunities to get better at my low-speed clutch work. I still suck at it, but I’m getting better. But for all my progress, I pulled into the parking garage still feeling pretty awkward with the whole enterprise. Though I rarely feel this way in the moment, I’m really enjoying the challenge of basically learning to ride all over again. With balance and situational awareness well in hand, it’s down to getting to know the bike and its idiosyncrasies. That, and the clutch in 1st gear.

The work day came and went and with the spring wind gusting 30+ mph outside. I donned my jacket, helmet, and gloves ready to ride away on my iron horse. Choke on. Fuel on. Key on. Kill switch to on. I hit the start button and the bike kicked over somewhat reluctantly. I’m told these old air-cooled Hondas are a bit cold-blooded, but mostly by people trying to sell me one. That wasn’t the issue here, though. The starter wasn’t sounding particularly enthusiastic. The bike did start, though, so I let it sit for a moment to warm up. Time to go. Clutching into 1st gear, I accidentally stalled it. Not a big shock. No big deal, I thought, I’ll just restart. No such luck. Apparently I was out of battery.

One of the few things “wrong” with this motorcycle when we bought was the battery. The seller said he had to keep a battery tender on it, but that it “should last you through the summer, but it’s on its way out.” Well whether or not it would last me the summer, it wasn’t lasting me the work day. Dammit. I’d even put the battery on the tender last night. The starter wheezed anemically four or five turns of the engine before it finally refused to turn over at all. The headlight went dark. My dash lights got dim. Hmmm…

Not only did I still want to get over to Bluecat before they closed, but it’d be at least an hour before The Mrs could rescue me if I couldn’t get running on my own. I thought about a jump, but I didn’t have cables and then further realized that I didn’t even have the right wrench to remove the seat and even get to the battery. Shit. Way to plan ahead, Salzman. I figured my only hope was to bump start it — to get the bike rolling, put it in gear, and then feather the clutch to turn over the motor. If I only had a hill. I then looked over my shoulder and realized that the parking garage was exactly that. How convenient?

I flicked up the side stand, grabbed the handlebars and started pushing the bike up one level in the garage. Geez this thing is heavy! It was embarrassing and humbling to find that the only thing worse than my current art of motorcycle maintenance is the pitiful state of my cardiovascular endurance. After only 15 yards up a semi-gentle slope, pushing a mid-size motorcycle, I was huffing and puffing like I’d just fled a werewolf on a pogo stick. Turning back downhill, I dropped into 1st gear and twisted the key into the “on” position. Clutch in. Pushing off, the bike picked up a little speed and I pulled my feet up. I feathered the clutch, but too soon. The bike lurched, fired two or three times, then belched to a stop. I’d gone about half way down the slope between levels of the garage. You’ll have to pull the clutch back in once it’s running, dumb ass.

I try again, headed straight for the garage exit and its yellow drop arm. The bike burbled and sputtered and backfired. Still couldn’t quite get it to catch. Back up the hill. I figured out quickly that even with the clutch in, I needed to be in neutral or the bike was even harder to push. Man I hope this works this time. Back down I went, waiting until the last second to feather the clutch with the most momentum I could build up. The bike finally fired up all the way. I pulled the clutch in and gave it some throttle, but the bike died anyway. I quickly figured out that I was in that awkward part of the bike’s warmup process where it’s not warm enough to idle off choke, but too warm to idle right on choke. I placed my helmet and jacket on the wall by the entrance and steeled myself against the weight of my obstacle. There was nothing for it, I had to keep trying. I wasn’t going to just wait around for help. I’m a motorcycle rider now, dammit!

Instead of going back up the same slope again. I turned the corner and headed down the slope to the next level below in the garage. This time the bike got running outright. I pulled the clutch and jammed on the throttle in a desperate attempt to get some rpms on the motor, build some heat, and get it to where the damn thing would idle. The bike snarled and backfired up around 5,000 rpms. I kept revving until I finally got brave enough to try to idle the bike, get turned around and head back up to where I started.

It didn’t quite work out that way.

The bike died straight away. What followed was about half an hour of exhausting, maddening penance to the motorcycle gods. I shoved my boulder up that spiral of hills over and over again, only to have it roll back down, run for a moment, then sputter out. Every few tries, the bike’s charging system would put just enough juice back in the battery for one good start attempt. Those were small victories that kept me going. Eventually, the bike got warmer and a little more willing to run. Then my exhausted, neophyte motorcycle skills would bite me right on the ass. Twice I got the bike started at the very bottom of the garage, rode it successfully back up to the entrance, then spaced out and didn’t pull the clutch back in when I stopped to collect my helmet and jacket.

My arms and legs got more and more tired. My expletives got louder and louder. At one point, I lamented not having my pipe Zippo on me so that I could just open the tank, light the son-of-a-bitch on fire and walk away. Finally, after about 45 minutes of toil, I managed to get the bike back up to the entrance, and even idling semi-happily. I re-donned my rider gear and headed home. I was genuinely worried that I was going to be too fatigued to ride safely. Bluecat was going to have to wait. I’m going home.

I headed back up the parkway toward Eagan. I was thoroughly parched, but the moving air over my sweaty self felt great. More than that, I felt great for having overcome my boulder’s burden, even if I was exhausted. I felt like I’d tamed the horse I was now riding. I felt defiant toward the challenge of riding and maintaining a motorcycle. I can do this. The motorcycle then gave something back to me on that ride home. I’d somehow earned its respect. What the CB650 gave me was a taste of what riding a motorcycle was really all about.

As I entered the cloverleaf on-ramp onto Highway 55, I had an SUV trying to drive up my tail. Alright jackass, follow this. Once I’d apexed the curve, I cranked the throttle. The bike rocketed up through 3rd, 4th, and 5th gear and left me hunting for a 6th gear that isn’t there. I glanced at the speedometer and it said 75. I checked my rearview mirror and Mr. Tailgate had barely exited the ramp a good four seconds or so behind me. In return for my shlepping it up a hundred concrete hills, the Honda had obliged me with a small taste of just what it was capable of. Thanks buddy, you rock.

“Yeah, let’s do it!” I hoofed Hanzo backwards and fired him back up. The Mrs started up her own steed and we were off for a cruise. The first question was where do we ride? I know my favorite scooter routes really well, but there’s so much more road out there now. I wanted something fluid, but not crowded. We opted for Pilot Knob Rd. headed south out of Eagan toward Farmington and Apple Valley. My clutch work was still terrible, but I managed to get going without stalling out. The Mrs followed along staggered behind me in the inside part of the lane. This is our normal formation. I envied the low-end torque of her twin — makes it much easier to clutch out in 1st gear.

Finally making the turn onto Pilot Knob, I opened up the throttle and let the flood of horsepower pour out the tailpipes past 6000 rps. The cam chain started rattling and I shifted up into 3rd, twisting hard on the throttle again on my way up to around 50 mph. I finally settled in 5th and the windy cruise of Pilot Knob began. Checking my ill-adjusted rearview mirror, I saw The Mrs was a little ways behind me. This thing has some balls on it. Once we make our way out of Eagan proper (what there is of it, anyway), there’s this great swooping downhill right, uphill left curve set. I wanted to feel the bike out a little better, so I squeezed down on the throttle, tucked down against the tank, and pulled the bike down into a deeper lean for the turns.

I started giggling. Seriously. It was uncontrollable.

I was cackling like a crazy person inside my helmet. I get it now. This is why people ride motorcycles. This feeling of power and stability is why motorcycles embody so much passion for so many people. I get it now. The stress of just 15 minutes ago was gone. The bike and I were one now. I’d get better at the clutch in 1st. That didn’t matter now. All that mattered now was me and the machine — the growl of the exhaust — the stick of the rubber — the howling pull of 4th gear up a hill doing 60 mph. I get it now. I wanted to find everyone who’d ever told me that motorcycles were something to be feared and punch them in the face.

I have petrol in my blood now. The exhaust note of my Honda’s four exhaust pipes has left a rasp in my voice. I have motor oil in my joints. In the days that followed, I could think of little else but the next opportunity for me to hop aboard my japanese road warrior and tempt the fates of easy speed and unforgiving physics. That’d have to wait, though. While the weather cleared, it’s time to change out the handlebars. I get it now. That, or it’s got me.