Or "How Loud Pipes Nearly Cost Me My Life"
A friend and I took a much needed ride today. The long and short, we started in Thousand Oaks, CA and ended up in Santa Barbara using only back roads. We had some lunch, and since it was unseasonably cool and damp, decided to call it a day.
We decided to slab it back. As soon as I hit the freeway onramp, my heart dropped. Traffic on the 101, purportedly the most travelled freeway in the world, was three lanes, bumper to bumper for as far as the eye can see. It was lane sharing time.
California drivers are one of two types. Some eagerly move out of your way. Others try to cut you off. So, lane sharing can get interesting to say the least. At best, it requires a lot of concentration to avoid getting squashed.
I putted alone through about ten miles of this mess with no end in sight. My riding partner, who was in front of me on the offramp, hit a small gap in traffic when he pulled onto the freeway. The gap was immediately closed by an 18 wheeler and I never saw him after that. After traversing about 15 miles of this nonsense, I decided to get off the freeway and take the back roads home.
So I got off the freeway and started my lonesome trek home. It was pretty awesome. Very little traffic. Clean roads. Life was good. Because I was tired, and my nerves were frayed from the jaunt on the freeway and because there were cops EVERYWHERE, I decided to be a good boy on the ride home. Speeding, which is the state pastime in CA, would be OK, but absolutely no crossing double yellows.
You have to understand, most people EXPECT, motorcyclists to pass on a double yellow. Lots of cars will even move over to let you past. But, I decided that unless someone actually pulled off the road, I wasn't going to pass on the double yellow. My decision actually seemed to piss a few drivers off, but the ticket for crossing a double yellow is huge and invites and added reckless charge, so NO.
I made it about 1/2 way home before my decision became frustrating. First, I came upon two bikers following a string of cars through some moderately twisty bits. One bike was a sport tourer, like an FJR or Concourse. The other Was a Gixxer 1000. The dude on the Gixxer was having a heck of a time keeping the bike between the lines. The Concourse rider was actually pretty good. He never strayed out of his 1/2 of the lane through the twisty bits.
I did not want to follow these two all the way home, so I turned off the main road and took a shortcut to get in front of them. This worked great, but I found myself behind a huge 18 wheeler. Luckily he turned off, so I started to wick it up. No sooner do I get rolling, when I come upon 4 Hardley Abelson riders (two abreast - mostly). Now we get to the title of my post.
Have you ever seen the Clint Eastwood movie, "Every Which Way But Loose?" Picture those guys. They shopped at the same garage sales.
So, if you thought the Gixxer guys were point and shoot guys, believe me, you've never met these fookers. They would park it in the corners, then blast off, well as much as a Harley can blast off, down the straights. Of course, their bikes had no baffles whatsoever so the noise was ridiculous. True to my pledge, I refused to pass them on the double yellow. Unfortunately, there was only one place to pass on this road, and it is frequently patrolled by LEOS with radar, so I decided I would just follow them. I wasn't in a huge hurry. Life was good, I was trying to break my prejudice against loud Harley riders. After all, we are all bikers, right?
So, as I'm following this motley crew, I observe their riding style. Roll up to a corner marked 30 mph at 50, click down two gears (rev matching of course to hear that awesome Harley thunder) look for a place to park int the corner, ride though the corner at 25 mph, decide you can't find a space then blast out of the corner like a bat out of hell (literally, not figuratively, the bikes weren't that fast) approach another corner and repeat.
On one of these corners, a 30 mph left hander, the last bike motioned for me to slow down. Apparently, he was concerned for my well being on this treacherous up coming corner. I responded by reaching back and scratching my ass as I rode though the corner one handed.
I still stuck to my plan, but I actually let them speed away from me more. I think it gave them a chubby to watch me vanish in their mirrors, but I don't know that they thought when I showed up on their asses ever time they reached a corner.
Unfortunately, it became apparent that these guys were headed for the same destination as me. My route took me right past a HD dealership. But, I knew our route would have a couple of legal passing opportunities. All I needed to do was be patient. This time, however, my patience almost backfired (no pun intended).
As we pulled from a side road onto the main drag, we encountered two men. One was on horseback. The other was leading a beautiful white stallion. The stallion looked like an enormous Arabian. As the azzhole Harley riders performed their point and shoot technique to enter the road and accelerate to 70 mph, with all four engines popping and snorting, both horses startled. The man on horseback was almost thrown, and the horse being lead kicked violently rearward then reared up (Lone Ranger style) and began trying to stomp the guy leading him. Fortunately, after the first two Harleys roared past, he got the horse under control, but this scene actually seemed to please the Harley douches. If that horse had broken loose and charged across the road, I might have been killed.
About a 1/2 mile ahead, the first passing zone I mentioned above appeared and with renewed vigor, the douche bag Harley riders, certain to teach me who was boss, poured on the gas. I could almost see there wee willies shrivel as the mighty Superduke blew by them like they were standing still. Of course, that straight was followed by a 30 mph right hander and while I had no problem negotiating it at twice that speed or more, while our heros had to go through the revving downshift ritual. I was, of course, long gone by then. It wasn't long before the road turned twisty and the Harley fags faded into memory. That is, until I encountered a string of cars toddling up my favorite canyon road. Ten minutes later, the Harley boys showed up behind me again.
One final passing zone and they were gone for good. They are probably still scratching their heads trying to figure out what that black bike with the orange accents that was fast as lightening was. After all, orange and black are Harley colors, aren't they?
Lessons learned: (1) Loud pipes are just as apt to kill you as to save your life. (2) Sometimes it pays to cross a double yellow. (3) Avoid Harley fags like the plague.
A friend and I took a much needed ride today. The long and short, we started in Thousand Oaks, CA and ended up in Santa Barbara using only back roads. We had some lunch, and since it was unseasonably cool and damp, decided to call it a day.
We decided to slab it back. As soon as I hit the freeway onramp, my heart dropped. Traffic on the 101, purportedly the most travelled freeway in the world, was three lanes, bumper to bumper for as far as the eye can see. It was lane sharing time.
California drivers are one of two types. Some eagerly move out of your way. Others try to cut you off. So, lane sharing can get interesting to say the least. At best, it requires a lot of concentration to avoid getting squashed.
I putted alone through about ten miles of this mess with no end in sight. My riding partner, who was in front of me on the offramp, hit a small gap in traffic when he pulled onto the freeway. The gap was immediately closed by an 18 wheeler and I never saw him after that. After traversing about 15 miles of this nonsense, I decided to get off the freeway and take the back roads home.
So I got off the freeway and started my lonesome trek home. It was pretty awesome. Very little traffic. Clean roads. Life was good. Because I was tired, and my nerves were frayed from the jaunt on the freeway and because there were cops EVERYWHERE, I decided to be a good boy on the ride home. Speeding, which is the state pastime in CA, would be OK, but absolutely no crossing double yellows.
You have to understand, most people EXPECT, motorcyclists to pass on a double yellow. Lots of cars will even move over to let you past. But, I decided that unless someone actually pulled off the road, I wasn't going to pass on the double yellow. My decision actually seemed to piss a few drivers off, but the ticket for crossing a double yellow is huge and invites and added reckless charge, so NO.
I made it about 1/2 way home before my decision became frustrating. First, I came upon two bikers following a string of cars through some moderately twisty bits. One bike was a sport tourer, like an FJR or Concourse. The other Was a Gixxer 1000. The dude on the Gixxer was having a heck of a time keeping the bike between the lines. The Concourse rider was actually pretty good. He never strayed out of his 1/2 of the lane through the twisty bits.
I did not want to follow these two all the way home, so I turned off the main road and took a shortcut to get in front of them. This worked great, but I found myself behind a huge 18 wheeler. Luckily he turned off, so I started to wick it up. No sooner do I get rolling, when I come upon 4 Hardley Abelson riders (two abreast - mostly). Now we get to the title of my post.
Have you ever seen the Clint Eastwood movie, "Every Which Way But Loose?" Picture those guys. They shopped at the same garage sales.
So, if you thought the Gixxer guys were point and shoot guys, believe me, you've never met these fookers. They would park it in the corners, then blast off, well as much as a Harley can blast off, down the straights. Of course, their bikes had no baffles whatsoever so the noise was ridiculous. True to my pledge, I refused to pass them on the double yellow. Unfortunately, there was only one place to pass on this road, and it is frequently patrolled by LEOS with radar, so I decided I would just follow them. I wasn't in a huge hurry. Life was good, I was trying to break my prejudice against loud Harley riders. After all, we are all bikers, right?
So, as I'm following this motley crew, I observe their riding style. Roll up to a corner marked 30 mph at 50, click down two gears (rev matching of course to hear that awesome Harley thunder) look for a place to park int the corner, ride though the corner at 25 mph, decide you can't find a space then blast out of the corner like a bat out of hell (literally, not figuratively, the bikes weren't that fast) approach another corner and repeat.
On one of these corners, a 30 mph left hander, the last bike motioned for me to slow down. Apparently, he was concerned for my well being on this treacherous up coming corner. I responded by reaching back and scratching my ass as I rode though the corner one handed.
I still stuck to my plan, but I actually let them speed away from me more. I think it gave them a chubby to watch me vanish in their mirrors, but I don't know that they thought when I showed up on their asses ever time they reached a corner.
Unfortunately, it became apparent that these guys were headed for the same destination as me. My route took me right past a HD dealership. But, I knew our route would have a couple of legal passing opportunities. All I needed to do was be patient. This time, however, my patience almost backfired (no pun intended).
As we pulled from a side road onto the main drag, we encountered two men. One was on horseback. The other was leading a beautiful white stallion. The stallion looked like an enormous Arabian. As the azzhole Harley riders performed their point and shoot technique to enter the road and accelerate to 70 mph, with all four engines popping and snorting, both horses startled. The man on horseback was almost thrown, and the horse being lead kicked violently rearward then reared up (Lone Ranger style) and began trying to stomp the guy leading him. Fortunately, after the first two Harleys roared past, he got the horse under control, but this scene actually seemed to please the Harley douches. If that horse had broken loose and charged across the road, I might have been killed.
About a 1/2 mile ahead, the first passing zone I mentioned above appeared and with renewed vigor, the douche bag Harley riders, certain to teach me who was boss, poured on the gas. I could almost see there wee willies shrivel as the mighty Superduke blew by them like they were standing still. Of course, that straight was followed by a 30 mph right hander and while I had no problem negotiating it at twice that speed or more, while our heros had to go through the revving downshift ritual. I was, of course, long gone by then. It wasn't long before the road turned twisty and the Harley fags faded into memory. That is, until I encountered a string of cars toddling up my favorite canyon road. Ten minutes later, the Harley boys showed up behind me again.
One final passing zone and they were gone for good. They are probably still scratching their heads trying to figure out what that black bike with the orange accents that was fast as lightening was. After all, orange and black are Harley colors, aren't they?
Lessons learned: (1) Loud pipes are just as apt to kill you as to save your life. (2) Sometimes it pays to cross a double yellow. (3) Avoid Harley fags like the plague.