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Tag: motorcycle riding

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My Mechanical Mistress

I have a “girl friend”, a separate love interest, that I simply cannot keep my hands off of. This passionate affair dominates my life, is never far from my heart and mind, and oddly, my wife not only tolerates it, she approves, even encourages it. What a great woman.

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Two Points Of Contact

Both motorcycling and skiing are about managing two finicky points of contact with bravery and skill. The rush of wind and speed is the same with both. Lean angle with either always equals risk, speed will always equal radius and more speed will always equal more brakes. The sublime joy of two points of contact means you have to lean, you have to carve, you have to trust your traction, and yes, you have to be just a bit crazy.

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The Budget Biker: Eat Right, Ride Cheap

Does it sometimes feel like a foreclosure sign has been hung on your head?  Everyone seems in a funk, and just too poor to spare any fun. Or maybe just the fiscal fear of fun is enough to keep you home, where there’s free TV and a nice, cushy couch to nap away your troubles.

Like everybody else, motorcyclists have been suffering through this plague and sputtering economy. But this does not mean we have to cry like a bunch of babies, stay home, and mumble about the days we could afford food and gas. We just need to be a little more creative, tighten our chains and use our brains. There are ways, my broke friend, to stretch nothing into something.
Wily veterans have long used sneaky, well-kept secrets and crafty tricks to get the most out of what’s left of their last oily, tattered dollar. Riding relieves stress and puts miles between you and the revenuers and bill collectors. The plan is so simple you’ll wonder why you’ve been moping around like a sissy who lost his lollipop.

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The Mantainer

Angry skies followed us out north of Wenatchee that September day, dark and menacing they were, rumbling all the while, waiting for the perfect moment to drench us in their fury. When the skies cracked open they poured out their anger in an intolerable rain that drenched the forested land, hammering away at us and our bikes, a misery from which there was no refuge. We had to keep going. Stopping just prolonged the agony.

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Old Man Gave Me The Finger

He was an old man with a tan wrinkled face and blue overalls, like Uncle Jesse from Dukes of Hazzard.  He sported a long white beard like Santa Claus, a small black skull cap helmet with tan leather gloves and black work boots astride an early 70s vintage Harley Davidson Electra Glide.  Naturally, I gave him an extra long look.
He gave me the finger.

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