I Am a Truck Drivin' Man.

I had to drive up to Austin, this past Saturday. Austin is only a couple of hundred miles away, but when I have to drive the truck it seems twice that.
There I was, mini trucking up the Interstate, when I looked in the rear view mirror and thought, “Dammit, that scooter’s right on my ass!” so I fired a couple of.22 rounds rearward (deafening Jill) to make the crazy sumbitch back off. The bike didn’t back off an inch! I moved to shoot again, then, I remembered that the motorcycle was my daughter’s Yamaha that we’d loaded into the bed only an hour before.



Okay, it wasn’t quite like that.

Daughter has moved to Austin to attend college and I promised I’d get her motorcycle to her.
I guess I thought I was going to load the bike, take it to Austin, eat lunch and drive back to Corpus town. I didn’t figure on my little woman wanting to visit with the kid and see some long-time friends we hadn’t seen in a long time. My little up-and-back errand became a weekend jaunt.

Now, I can imagine nothing more boring than a road trip in a cage except, possibly, sitting in church while listening to my brother talk about how much money he has. Yep, my eyes glazed, right away.

I was watching the scenery change and checking out the familiar features I’d see whenever I drove my folks back and forth to San Antonio. San Antonio? Our route wasn’t supposed to take us toward San Antonio!
I realized, then, that I’d missed a turn, the turn, seventy miles back.
The lucky Flour Bluff girl hadn’t said anything; after all, you can ride the Interstate through San Antonio to get to Austin, that’s just not the shortest or most pleasant route.

Just south of San Antonio is the town of Pleasanton (“Birthplace of the Cowboy”). There, we hung a “Northeast” and a short 52 miles later we were back on track_ for a while, at least.
I’d printed out maps for a route that skirted Austin and its infamous traffic and should have taken us into the city practically at Daughter’s door. “Should have”, had I not neglected to print the part the part of the map that shows a crucial junction. It just wasn’t my day for turns.

After a scenic ride in the country, we regained the Interstate and a few miles and minutes later, found our exit. Motoring the short distance to the apartment complex and into the parking lot, I looked at my instrument panel just in time to see the temperature needle peg “Hot”.
I parked.
The layout of the complex looked so familiar that, while Jill looked for Daughter’s building, I just looked around. Some residents in the swimming pool eyeballed me as if they’d never seen a truck driving man.

After we unloaded the bike, and while Missus and Daughter confabbed, I looked under the hood.
The overheating appears to have been caused by a failed radiator cap. I filled the radiator and had no further cooling system problems; I'd say that's reason for, at least, cautious optimism.

Our visit was enjoyable and the return trip uneventful. I guess that's the best I could hope for.

Two Cents and Billy Lane

I was reading one of those news forums, you know, the kind where you can post a comment on the news, or a comment on a comment, for that matter. The subject was celebrity bike builder, Billy Lane, and the outcome of his legal maneuverings regarding the charge that, while driving drunk, he passed a number of vehicles with his truck and hit an oncoming motorcyclist, killing him.
While some forum readers disparaged a legal system that allows for wide latitude in sentencing for a particular crime, the consensus was that Billy drank, drove and killed with his truck and that he should pay the price, regardless of his celebrity status.
That he used his wealth to try to mitigate the punishment didn’t endear him to readers who, in the same circumstance, would in all likelihood have been represented by a public defender and sentenced to the maximum punishment.

That was the bread; here’s the meat:

One commenter posted, “Fuck Lane, kill a biker, go to jail”.
He was answered with the question of whether that applied in this case because the victim was riding a “moped, or something” and was hardly a “biker”.

That sentiment was echoed in the mass emailing of an article by, "Katmandu", a Lane groupie who also seems to think the value of one’s life depends on whether he straddles a motor scooter or an 800 lb. fashion statement.
Excerpts of a rather tedious bit of sea lawyering, and my thoughts thereon, follow.

Let me run it down to you in a way you will understand.

Gerald Morelock was on a SCOOTER, one of those slow moving, un-suitable machines for a major roadway, not a motorcycle. And for god’s sake, do not call him a biker.

Oh, great, another skirt going to run it down to us in a way we’ll understand and tell us about “Real Bikers”. That' s pretty presumptuous, I'd say (translation: In a less politically correct time she’d be shaking her tits at the Playmate Lounge instead of running it down in a way we’ll understand).

She writes of Billy Lane:

“He’s not the damn poster child for DUI vehicular manslaughter. The lifestyle we live and love reached up and slapped him down, hard, and YOU tell me you don’t ever drive with a buzz on. I say that’s bullshit”

My response:
1. Wrong, darlin’, he is the poster boy; he drove drunk and killed someone. Had the victim he been your dad/brother/husband you might have a different take on it.

2. “The Lifestyle”? Jesus, please. If I ever prattle on about living a “Lifestyle” just go ahead and cave my head in.

3. Sure, I’ll tell you I don’t ever drive with a buzz on. I’ve been sober for over 25 years, but thanks for the stereotype. You “say that’s bullshit”?
I don’t know if whomever you hang with tolerates your mouth; perhaps he's too busy living The Lifestyle to teach you respect, but your statement has been given the consideration it deserves.

That you drive impaired, endangering yourself and those around you, is less than a lame cop-out for Billy’s misdeeds. That you did time for something similar doesn’t give you special insight or an elevated status, in my book. It just means you are, or were, a fuck-up who paid the freight.

And why wasn’t Morelock’s alcohol level brought up?

Maybe because he didn’t kill anyone, ya think?

What about his lack of experience on a scooter, witness concession that he entered the highway without looking into oncoming traffic?

It doesn’t take much experience to stay in your own lane, ask around.
I don’t know why the witnesses had to concede anything, but Morelock didn’t die from not looking into the lane he wasn’t turning in, Lane killed him with a truck. Nice attempt to put the victim on trial, though.

“Kill a Biker, go to jail.” was and still is a bumper sticker we’ve used for years, in attempts to get the general public to open their eyes to our headlights. Hearing it used in a court of law against one of our own was surreal, vicious, and just plain wrong.”

(She actually published that and allowed it to be emailed to a large number of people.)
So, we were just kidding? I don’t think so. Lots of riders believe that
“Kill a biker, go to jail” is a good idea, meant to be taken literally, even by famous rich people and retired politicians.

Yes, someone died. People die, get used to it.

Said that to Morelock’s family, did you?

This “motojournalist” even suggested that the victim’s legal choice to forgo wearing a helmet should have been considered as a mitigating factor. That reads like an opportunistic politician or an Associated Press hack wrote it rather than someone living “The Lifestyle”.

But, I digress. This isn’t about some smoke-blowing chick or some other snotty poser trying hard to convince the guys that he's a Real Biker, it’s about values and accountability.

Values aren't something that can be turned off when they become inconvenient. We value life, or not, for instance. There should be no sliding scale designed around the size or make of machine one rides, one's wealth or club. That doesn't say we value life, that says we value status.
If we have values, then we demand that people, including ourselves, accept the consequences of actions. In the courthouse, sentencing guidelines are an attempt to make the the punishment for crime both even handed and sure.

Kill a motorist while DUI, go to jail.

Can you smell that smaell?

From the Associated Press:

President Barack Obama took on both the defense establishment and freespending lawmakers on Monday, saying they were draining the nation's military budget with "exotic projects."


From The Canadian Free Press (via my inbox) :

First Lady Requires More Than Twenty Attendants

Recession, Depression, What, Michelle Worry?


"In my own life, in my own small way, I have tried to give back to this country that has given me so much," she said. "See, that's why I left a job at a big law firm for a career in public service, " Michelle Obama


No, Michele Obama does not get paid to serve as the First Lady and she doesn't perform any official duties. But this hasn't deterred her from hiring an unprecedented number of staffers to cater to her every whim and to satisfy her every request in the midst of the Great Recession. Just think Mary Lincoln was taken to task for purchasing china for the White House during the Civil War. And Mamie Eisenhower had to shell out the salary for her personal secretary.

How things have changed! If you're one of the tens of millions of Americans facing certain destitution, earning less than subsistence wages stocking the shelves at Wal-Mart or serving up McDonald cheeseburgers, prepare to scream and then come to realize that the benefit package for these servants of Miz Michelle are the same as members of the national security and defense departments and the bill for these assorted lackeys is paid by John Q. Public:

1. $172,2000 - Sher, Susan (Chief Of Staff)

2. $140,000 - Frye, Jocelyn C. (Deputy Assistant to the President and Director of Policy And Projects For The First Lady)

3. $113,000 - Rogers, Desiree G. (Special Assistant to the President and White House Social Secretary)

4. $102,000 - Johnston, Camille Y. (Special Assistant to the President and Director of Communications for the First Lady)

5. Winter, Melissa E. (Special Assistant to the President and Deputy Chief Of Staff to the First Lady)

6. $90,000 - Medina, David S. (Deputy Chief Of Staff to the First Lady)

7. $84,000 - Lelyveld, Catherine M. (Director and Press Secretary to the First Lady)

8. $75,000 - Starkey, Frances M. (Director of Scheduling and Advance for the First Lady)

9. $70,000 - Sanders, Trooper (Deputy Director of Policy and Projects for the First Lady)

10. $65,000 - Burnough, Erinn J. (Deputy Director and Deputy Social Secretary)

11. Reinstein, Joseph B. (Deputy Director and Deputy Social Secretary)

12. $62,000 - Goodman, Jennifer R. (Deputy Director of Scheduling and Events Coordinator For The First Lady)

13. $60,000 - Fitts, Alan O. (Deputy Director of Advance and Trip Director for the First Lady)

14. Lewis, Dana M. (Special Assistant and Personal Aide to the First Lady)

15. $52,500 - Mustaphi, Semonti M. (Associate Director and Deputy Press Secretary To The First Lady)

16. $50,000 - Jarvis, Kristen E. (Special Assistant for Scheduling and Traveling Aide To The First Lady)

17. $45,000 - Lechtenberg, Tyler A. (Associate Director of Correspondence For The First Lady)

18. Tubman, Samantha (Deputy Associate Director, Social Office)

19. $40,000 - Boswell, Joseph J. (Executive Assistant to the Chief Of Staff to the First Lady)

20. $36,000 - Armbruster, Sally M. (Staff Assistant to the Social Secretary)

21. Bookey, Natalie (Staff Assistant)

22. Jackson, Deilia A. (Deputy Associate Director of Correspondence for the First Lady)

There has never been anyone in the White House at any time who has created such an army of staffers whose sole duties are the facilitation of the First Lady's social life. One wonders why she needs so much help, at taxpayer expense, when even Hillary, only had three; Jackie Kennedy one; Laura Bush one; and prior to Mamie Eisenhower social help came from the President's own pocket.

Note: This does not include makeup artist Ingrid Grimes-Miles, 49, and "First Hairstylist" Johnny Wright, 31, both of whom travelled aboard Air Force One to Europe.

Copyright 2009 Canada Free Press.Com

canadafreepress.com/index.php/article/12652

Yeh, I know, The Canadian Free Press has to publish this because the USA media is too scared they might be considered racist. Sorry America!



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Off-bike Pursuits

About two years ago, the luckiest woman in Flour Bluff told me I'd just have to ignore what the voices were saying and, instead, pack up the big yella bike for a ride to the Davis Mountains, in West Texas.
While there, we visited the McDonald Observatory and made arrangements to attend a night program that included viewing the heavens through powerful telescopes.
Naturally, skies that had been cloudless all week, clouded, relegating the telescopes to the status of interesting gizmos.
On the ride home we camped at Sonora and took the tour of the Caverns of Sonora. We were the only visitors and were given a tour that would have been the envy of most cave groupies. If the cavern was a trade-off for the astronomy tour, we came out ahead.

Near dark, Wednesday, August 12, 2009, the luckiest woman in Flour Bluff suggested we cage out to Padre Island and do a little meteor gazing. It seems that, yearly, the earth passes trough the trail of debris left by the Swift-Tuttle comet and some of that debris burns up in our atmosphere as meteors.

No sooner said than did. We parked our little truck by the Packery Channel, not really out of town, but with an advantageous view towards a non-light-polluted area. As I swung the truck to point the tailgate toward the northeast Jill noticed the most beautiful lightning display from a far-off thunderstorm.
That's right, friends and neighbors, slow-moving clouds were easing in from the north, timed to obscure the rising of the constellation "Perseus", the area of the sky from whence come the meteors. We must have built up some kind of astronomy karma along the way. We do better in caves.

Hours later, rain fell on our parched corner of the world, the air cooled and the wind died, it was nice. Still, I'm a little regretful that we didn't see, possibly, one hundred meteors in an hour; one hundred shooting stars. I was going to wish my ass off.

Free Speech in America

News you don't read

Infowars dot Com.

"Increasingly, Google and its properties — the vastly popular video site YouTube and equally popular Blogger — are tools for shutting down opposition to the government. On the weekend, Google removed an Alex Jones video critical of Obama’s policies.

Google has worked closely with the governments of the U.S., the U.K., Germany, Japan, and most notoriously China to censor content on its websites. Google works directly with China to filter search results on the Google Chinese search engine concerning the Tiananmen Square protests of 1989..."

Riding on the Side

Sitting in the shady patio of a Fredericksburg restaurant, Spider and I sipped cold ones and watched the T and A parade while our womenfolk carried their economic stimulus package (read: credit cards) to the local shopkeepers. It's a small town in a small world, though, and, directly, we were spotted and approached by Black Bob.

Now, Black Bob is neither "black", nor "Bob", but is, in fact one of those very fair people sometimes called a "glow-in-the-dark Anglo". We already have a "Whitey", though, and "Black Bob" just sounds better than "Black Ernest".

"What do it be like, Bleed?”sez I, in my best tan ghetto voice.
Black Bob replied that he'd totaled his bike about eight months back and that at least part of the time since was spent recovering from a broken elbow and "3rd degree burns and miles of road rash."

We allowed as how that sucked pretty bad and inquired as to the details.

"This dude in a truck turned in front of me.
I had the choice of T-boning him or laying her down. I laid her down."

Wow, “laid her down”.
I searched my memory, certain I’d never been asked to perform “lay her down”, not back when I initially tested for my license nor 30 years later, when taking the Experienced Rider Course.
But then, youth took a toll on my powers of recall long before age did any ravaging; maybe I’d learned “lay her down” and then forgotten it, along with my ATM password and Hot Rhonda’s phone number.

I do remember at least part of a long-ago night when I stood on my little Honda’s drum brakes before T-boning a station wagon in similar circumstances. I got a broken arm, broken leg and my first new motorcycle out of it (no burns or road rash, though).
No new bike for Black Bob. He said that he’s too old for that, now, making me wonder just how hard he hit that truck (so I asked).

“Well, actually, I never hit him, I stopped sliding, before, but it was his fault. It’s lucky I laid her down”.

I stared at his back as he wandered off and wondered why he thought the side of his motorcycle would stop him faster than its tires and why he’d rather be sliding along beside or, worse, under his bike rather than sitting on top of it.

Spider’s voice intruded on my thoughts, “The trick is to stay with the bike and bring it back up as you slide out from under the truck on the other side”.

Encouraged by my blank stare, he continued, “Do you remember that Cherokee gal who rode down from Virginia with me on my old Triumph?

I signaled the waitress.

On a Night Like This

The ladies and I agreed that we should ride out to find a restaurant that featured pie and palaver about matters both extraordinary and mundane. We did, and the meeting was fruitful, as was the pie.
Afterward, the Hot Granny decided to call the night a day and head for the barn. Jo, on the other hand, allowed as how she coveted a little wind therapy. Being the proud possessor a tank of gas and five-dollar bill, I felt a moral obligation to help her out.

You got to understand that, despite all the other attractions of motorcycling, there is nothing I enjoy more than a late ride under a clear sky and a full moon. Even having a sweet-tempered hottie on the snatch pad can't diminish the pleasure. Thursday was such a night.

I reckon there is no sight as soothing to the savage breast as moonlight reflecting off of water and we had lots of both as we made the circuit around the bay, "riding the loop", as it's called, locally.
After we boarded the ferry to cross the Intracoastal Waterway, Jo looked over the rail and into the water to spot the huge Redfish that feed in that lighted area. Her enthusiasm for fishing was shared with the deck hand, newly emigrated from Nevada; I'm sure he thought us an unlikely pair.

We dawdled getting through Port Aransas and when I finally had the big yella bike pointed south on the state highway and headed home, it seemed as if we were the only people on the island who were awake.
I had the needle set on 65 mph, the legal speed, and was in that altered state familiar to road riders when head lights, seemingly out of nowhere, appeared in my mirrors.

The car overtook us so quickly that I might as well have been parked. There's no telling how fast he was moving, but what was disturbing was the apparent intention to pass on the shoulder. He was pretty close when I could tell, for sure, that he was going around on the right so I gunned the bike and moved toward the center stripe, jarring Jo out of her reverie just as the car went by.
I flashed my brights without any illusion that the driver cared that he hurt my feelings but, seeing as how my pillion was a little rattled, I couldn't see any advantage to losing my temper. Once sure that the distant headlights in my rear view remained distant, that is, that no one was chasing this moron, I settled down and enjoyed the remainder of the ride.

Now, I got home safe, as you might guess, since I wrote all this stuff down, but it could just as well have gone badly. The cager could have been so engrossed in his phone conversation that he didn't see my taillight till he rear-ended and killed, or crippled, us.

Note that in Texas it's customary to move to the shoulder to let faster traffic pass. Even though the highway was empty there's the possibility that I might have quickly moved right to let the jackass by just as he, illegally, overtook me on the shoulder. It would have been embarrassing to be killed at 3:00 a.m. on an empty road.

Your day can be ruined in a heartbeat, keep your hand upon the throttle and your eyes upon the rail (and rear views).