good for you
to have a brush with death
every once in a while
these white hot flashes
serve to clarify the mind
why i ride motorcycles
that these things happen
you gather up
no one the wiser
how near a thing that was
your vision sharpened
a new focus
on what counts
learning to ignore
anything that doesn’t propel one forward
the thing about death
is that it just doesn’t manage very well
showing up from random places
at random times
and usually not
while doing the things
would accept should kill you
so you can ride the wall of death
everynight my friend
you can smoke camels
wrangle the big cats like Gunter
or be shot out of a cannon
like The Human Cannonball
none of the things
that should kill you will kill you
there’s way more than a million ways
to be struck or missed by the lightning
i know that you want
lurid twisting orange fireballs
of exploding hightest gasoline
what you get though
is blue light
a dark spot on your arm
and a silent doctor
with a concerned look
on his face
I’ve got to tell you, I get the worst PMS.
I can tell from that look on your face that you have no freaking idea what I mean.
PMS, or Parked Motorcycle Syndrome, is a debilitating condition. PMS leaves sufferers irritable, depressed, and prone to seemingly impossible extremes of emotional volatility.
And so it is with me, too.
After two days or so, I’m nervous. Jumpy.
I make these inexplicable spasmodic rolling motions with my right hand and wrist.
After about five days, I can be observed sitting rocking in the center of the rug in my den, quietly making little motor noises with my lips and tongue.
After about 7 days, I am reduced to staring out the window, insterspersed with brief spasmodic weeping.
After about ten days, I’m queing up to be fitted for that nicely tailored snug natural canvas sportsjacket with the arms that tie together in the back.
It had been thirteen days since I had ridden a motorcycle.
The fact that my lay up was a result of Doctor’s orders wasn’t making it any easier.
In fact, it was making it particularly harder.
A trip to my Dermatologist to have a bad looking spot on the back of my upper right arm examined had resulted in a nearly immediate return for some outpatient surgery.
As a full-blooded American — which is to say a 50% Irish Catholic, 25% Christian Arab and 25% Polish Jew (although there could be more stuff in there for all I know) — my fair skin is prone to hocking up all sorts of bumps and oddballs. Squamous cells, Basal Cells — a Carcinoma or two.
Considering none of my outside has ever seen the sun-containing world outside an Aerostich suit, this is puzzling, but nonetheless true.
I ought to qualify for some sort of high volume scrape ’em and 4 suture club discount.
All of these things are a tad annoying, but 98.8% harmless.
This wasn’t one of those.
This was why we needed some fast lab work, and a post haste return visit.
After spending 90 minutes making surgery can-we-please-talk-about-something-else-smalltalk with my Doctor which was supposed to be 30, a much bandaged and still more sutured me was toweled off, propped up, and sent home with the instructions “not to lift anything heavy for 4 or 5 days”.
In my slightly stress-goofy state, I remember thinking “Well, I guess that rules my K1200LT right out.”
My first notion that something was amiss came after the local anethetic had worn mostly off, and a nice beer seemed like something that might have therapeutic uses.
I decanted a Nanticoke Nectar, leaned down to enjoy the fresh hop bouquet, and then took the glass into my right hand. Everything was preceeding swimmingly until the glass — moving delightfully in widescreen slow motion — got about 6 inches from my achingly thirsty lips. As the glass got closer and closer, it moved with increasing resistance, running into the new limits of my arm’s flexibility, which apparently contained a great deal less arm than it had this morning.
Friends I’d spoken with about the the diagnosis and precedure had warned me about this. The protocol involves being very conservative, and that translates to removing a fair amount of additional tissue.
I muttered a favorite oath — one I suspected would get a good throttle stretching run over the next three weeks or so — set the glass back on the counter, and resolved to learn to drink left handed.
So there I was, stuck on the couch, comtemplating my own mortality while snared in immobility.
It was pretty dark.
And I was going absolutely nuts.
For the first week or so I was too beat up to even consider escape. If we went out Sweet Doris from Baltimore was behind the wheel.
On or around day 5, I regained enough flexibility that I could split time between drinking left handed and drinking right handed.
Having discovered this, I immediately walked out to the garage, swung a leg over the Slash 5, and assumed the position.
Given that motorcycle’s almost custom fit to my body, it was heartening that I could sit astride the bike comfortably — there was no pain to rest a portion of my weight on my arms.
Then I tried the throttle.
This was going to take a while.
It wasn’t the last such trip I made to the the garage and to my Toaster Tank.
Progress was slow, but it was progress.
Day 13 after the surgery dawned sunny, cold and windy.
My arm, though, seemed like it could stand to be wound WFO without too much discomfort.
At lunchtime, I went back to the garage, and sat back on the Slash 5. I took a few tentative rolls of the throttle. No klaxons.
I walked over to the garage door, and gently raised it.
I rolled the bike forward off the stand, and then rolled it backwards into the open door, and gingerly placed it back onto the Reynolds Ride-Off stand.
It was go time.
I wandered back inside and gathered up a set of boots, my Duluth Trading Blacktop jacket — notable because of its built in fleece lining and lack of any armor — and a fresh surgical adhesive dressing and some of the prescription antibiotic ointment my doctor had provided.
I went into the studio where Sweet Doris from Baltimore was working a new painting.
“I’m going for a ride, Baby. Could you please put a dressing back on my arm?”
“I don’t think that’s….”
Folks that know me well know that I never get like that.
This one time, I got like that. Sue me.
Out in the driveway, I snapped the collar of my jacket shut and pulled on my gloves. I swung a leg over, opened the left fuel petcock, and pushed in the ignition pin. Having sat for a while, the boxer swung through two or three more compression strokes than was customary before the engine fired. I swing the choke off before it was smart to do so, and had to repeat the drill. Afer 15 seconds or so, the engine was taking throttle, and assumed its steady near-human heartbeat of an idle.
I pushed off down the driveway, toed the gearbox down into first, and banked left up the street.
I took the long way around the neighborhood — gently rolling the bike left and right — a baby-step version of the racer’s tire warming manouvre — checking to make sure I could position the bike without running into the lowered limits of my flexibility and strength. Thanks to boxer balance, what little I had was enough.
At The Jefferson Pike, I made the right down towards The Brookside Inn, and deliberately thockked the old girl up through the gears until I shifted into fourth.
With temperature in the low 40s, the sun was shining bright in a clear sky, the wind blowing hard, this old school ride — no windshield, no heated grips, and just a set of elkskin gloves — was letting me experience the day with an unparalleled vividness.
It was bright. It was cold. It was great.
Never has such an old slow motorcycle made me feel so alive.
As much as I didn’t want to overdo it, I didn’t want to stop, either.
After a brief run up The Pike, I made the right up St. Marks Road. St. Marks leads down into The Bottoms — I just wanted to just be alone next to the creek, feeling the wheels working underneath me and being kissed by the broken sunlight coming through the trees. Where the road comes down to Catoctin Creek, it follows the streambed closely, making a series of gentle lefts and rights, with the ancient road surface providing endless contours for the suspension to follow.
After a long time as a wallflower, it felt oh so good to be dancing again.
St. Marks has a medium long straight, and feeling good, I gassed it.
I wasn’t the only one that was feeling good, apparently.
Old boxers love cold dense air, and 50 horsepower never felt so powerful. The Toaster’s sleeper motor — with its big bore kit and small valves — was right in the sweet spot, and it hit with everything it had.
I didn’t need an action cam to know about the smile in my helmet.
At the creek sits an old iron framed one lane bridge. I got up on the pegs and gassed it again — getting just a little air as I left the bridge deck.
Away from the creek St. Marks climbs steeply. The sightlines are restrictive and the road twists, snakelike, as it rises up the hill. I gassed it again and was pleasantly surprised as the front wheel lightened up and lightly skimmed the pavement over 60 or 70 feet.
Slash 5 power wheelies don’t happen very often, but today was clearly a special day.
I might hurt later, but right now that front wheel wasn’t the only thing that got lifted.
Back in the driveway, I remarked that my gear removal speeds had recorded better split times.
Then again, today wasn’t about speed, it was more about simple existance.
My Toaster is clearly a motorcycle that gets used. Its got dirt. And gear oil. And mud. It hasn’t got any ‘pretty’.
Today, though, it was a thing of beauty.
I grabbed my phone out of the phone holster that is built in to my favorite brand of cargo pants to check for messages. I had a voice mail.
“Mr. Shamieh? This is Jennie down at Dr. Han’s office. Just wanted you to know that the biopsies and labs came back, and they’re all clean. You have nothing to worry about. Call if you have any questions. ”
Seemed like a pretty good time to reacquaint myself with drinking beer right handed.