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Tag: Ride Life

Brief description of what to expect from posts here.

Type II Fun

“Let’s go rescue Max!” I exclaimed to Rob.
Rob Brooks is Road Dirt’s owner, editor, chief cook and bottle washer and I was in Rob’s living room, having flown from Washington State to his house outside of Atlanta, Georgia to ride Honda’s CB1000R Black Edition and Triumph’s lovely Speed Triple 1200RR.  As I fed Rob’s dog Dez copious amounts of cookies under the table, Rob was using social media to track the progress of Max Flinders, MotoAmerica Superbike racer and all around good guy, whose tow rig puked transmission parts, stranding him in Alabama.  Rob’s reaction to my suggestion was predictable.

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The Writing On The Wall

Our life is but a blip in the expanse of time and tomorrow is guaranteed to no one.  Money, fame, and millions of Facebook or Instagram followers will not buy anyone an extra day.  God decides that.  It made me reflect on how I would end the sentence on the board.  If I had the chalk, what would I write?  Years after taking the picture, I know the answer.

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The Tracks Of My Father

After my father’s passing on September 1st following a nearly year-long losing battle to a debilitating stroke, Phil suggested, “You should put together a little road trip with some of your closest friends who knew your dad, and ride a bunch of the roads he and your mom rode for years around Georgia.” What a great idea, I thought, so here we were, a small cadre of my close and long-time friends, preparing to set out on a few of Dad’s and Mom’s favorite day rides across a weekend. There was no way we could ride them all in our short time here, as Mom and Dad traversed so many miles of back country routes across central Georgia, but we could hit a few of their favorites, then keep coming back to discover and ride more.

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Against The Wind

Some years back on a cross-country excursion with my old riding pal Mike, while crossing Oklahoma and north Texas westbound on I-40, we found ourselves struggling against 30-40 mph winds blowing north, pushing on us from our left. At highway speed (doing about 75-80), passing or being passed by semis and the crazy turbulence they generate, Mike and I literally had our hands full keeping our luggage-laden touring bikes in our lane. The winds howled two days against us, determined to toss us into the ditch or under some truck’s tires. But we prevailed, albeit completely exhausted. Quite the nerve-wracking stint in the saddle, to say the least.

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Bridge Runner

Not far from the quasi-bohemian Arts District of downtown Los Angeles, the defeated remains of a beloved bridge are mourned. The Sixth Street Bridge’s mighty 30-foot reinforced concrete pylons stood as sentinels of the city gates. This area of Downtown LA remains a kind of urban frontier, the frayed edge of a city that seems neither alive nor dead, a shadowy place that draws motorcyclists and adventurers to its wild concrete canyons. Some long-abandoned brick warehouses and factories are now living spaces, bars and no one is quite sure what else; others house only past lives and bad dreams. If you like riding on the edge, this is home.

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