Just like riding a Bike...

I have to challenge the old cliche'. Riding a motorcycle is not "just like riding a bike"... :( Just a little history - I have been riding bicycles, mini-bikes and dirt bikes since I was very young.... It was a fun way to grow up and it allowed my father, brother and I some very quality time together. My brother (shown in the picture) and I would take that very mini bike, and cruise through a home made dirt course in the woods.. with jumps (BTW - all the dirt from the jump came from the hole directly behind it - so there were consequences to not making the jump). We werent the smartest kids in the neighborhood. My dad was a motorcycle enthusiast... he was pretty bold, doing some motocross and steep hill riding. He also had a Suzuki road bike which he passed on to my brother who rode it to and from college. Anyhow, he made sure that we had motorcycles growing up. In July 07 I purchased a street bike from a friend of mine. I was not worried in the least about it.. in fact, I was super thrilled. It was my hope that the bike would allow me to ride often and explore near and far. My Bike, a Yamaha FZ 6, typically called a 'crotch rocket' when some asks what type of bike I have.... is a respectable first road bike. Lots of power which is both a blessing and a curse, a great look and any sport bike enthusiast recognizes it as an "amazing example of human engineering". The seating position is somewhere between upright (ala Harley Davidson) and laying on the tank (ala Super Sport Bike).... All that said.... 20+ years have passed since Ive been on a road bike. ( I did wreck the last one, by the way, but thats another story all together). I have riden my new bike every week that weather would permit it. In the beginning everything was going great. I cruised around town from stop light to stop light.. slowly reducing my fear of other vehicles, then of long sweeping left hand curves (Ive asked several folks and this seems commonon). Im pushing my speed up beyond the speed limit (sorry, officer), and have decided to begin taking longer rides. Amazingly, this is where the real issue is. For the past few weeks I have been taking longer and longer rides with my Uncle and Aunt. The latest route has been an 86 mile trek from my home out rt 208 into Orange County and back up the winding roads to the courthouse. As I had said earlier I had become pretty adept at running my errands around town, but I wasnt getting the full affect of what a real ride was about.

What I found out was the riding is soooo much more than getting on the bike and letting it run. Fast is a desire, but one that you need to work up to. Honestly, Im happy at this point if I stick with the speed limit. But other things came up unexpectedly too...

Wind. Of all variations. I can be cruising on a road surrounded by trees and the second the road opens up to a field or crossing a bridge.. and wham!! wind comes out of no where. Its jarring. and it shakes the mind more than just a little. Another form of wind comes from BIG trucks passing from the other direction. This wind comes with the threat of becoming a bug on the windshield of a behemoth truck. By comparison, Im so small the trucker doesnt even know that I was there and certainly wouldnt know if he ran over me.

Crowned Roads with no shoulder. Theres something that surprised me. Get an image in your head of me on my bike staying plumb with the earth, while the road grades off to my right. You feel like your gonna fall off the road. My fix has bigger ramifications than the problem. I hug the yellow line..... that puts me closer to the... you guessed it... BIG trucks. And anyother vehicle that may cross the line into my path.

The absolute biggest surprise for me is the physical and mental stamina required to ride longer distances. Yes, I said stamina. The first 30 miles, I started to feel the strain on my arms. My traveling mates suggested that I relax my arms... and consider taking my hands off one of the handle bars for a little while to relax them... So, I fully understand that this can be done. But I have to say, I have sooo many things going on in my head... mostly centering on the things that can cause me harm, I assure you that taking my hands off the wheel, at this point anyway, aint gonna happen. 55/60 miles per hour on a crowned road with a truck coming in my direction with one hand on the wheel, just makes for bad mojo. We've made this trip twice in two weeks... although this isnt the only motorcycle riding that Im doing, its this ride that has absolutely worn me out. My forearms and back are so tired that I cannot ride the next day with any confidence.

You say.. what about the mental stamina? Try going 86 miles with the thought of having to do everything right on every mile.. knowing the consequences are much more severe than falling into a hole on the other side of a dirt ramp. Its work.

Is it enough to make me stop... no... but its not Just like riding a bike either.

PaintBall - Part I

Paint Ball ******* I meet new people all the time. I always engage them about their interests. I’m frequently surprised with their responses. I met Steve and Matt some months ago and in short conversation quickly realized that we had a lot of common interests. Their favorite activity is Paintball. Naturally I was invited to play. Half the fun of a new sport for me is gearing up. Off to the Paintball Store I went. My new gun, a Tippman 98 Custom Pro, described as “virtually indestructible” was not the low end of equipment, but as I found out on the field, there was considerable space between it and the top end. Semi-automatic weapons with names like “Ego” and “Ion” with embedded electronics and automatic feeders supplying 30 paintballs per second to a trigger happy warrior were there. My gun, an air tank, and a face mask that made me look like Skeletor were enough to get me started. It was a rainy day when I arrived in the boondocks of Hartwood with my new gear. It was clear that considerable effort had been put into this private paintball field. Steve and Matt and some others had been working with this two acre plot to create a space where they could hone the skills of their “Home Team”. A rough hewn fort at both the high side and the low side of the field became the castles from which warring teams could advance or protect. A variety of man-sized construction conduit lay in between. Black and corrugated – each piece had been strategically placed and modified for its new purposes each showing the now faint markings from previous mock battles. Enormous root balls from fallen trees, a rain swollen creek, and stacked logs at key intervals that allowed for a protected advance, retreat or ambush, the sloped field had all the makings to enable adventure. Steve was the leader of the team and the field. Despite his few words, he was clearly in command, everyone waited for him to give the word regarding what game, when it started and what happened next. Matt, faithful lieutenant and formidable paint baller himself would ensure that everyone complied. Tim, the man to see to get the hookup for almost anything, he brought the compressed air, had an endless supply of batteries for the higher end guns he was selling cases of paintballs, and even packs cigarettes to the camouflaged soldiers. Me, clearly a newbie, these guys made sure that despite my inexperience I had a good time. We chose teams using two different colored paintballs in a hat. 8 in each color were blindly chosen one by one by each of the 16 players. Based on the ball you were either labeled “Evil” (a brand of ball) or something that seemed considerably less significant. My favorite game was called “Hamburger Hill” where the ‘evil’ team was chosen to advance on the high side in an effort to take the fort, while the other team was given a prior opportunity to set up an ambush waiting for the most opportune time to strike. 3 hits and a player is out. The honor system and some very colorful paint are used to validate a player’s status. I can’t accurately describe the primal urges or the adrenaline rush that comes from knowing other humans are shooting at you. A shot to the mask got my attention, the splatter of paint crept through the mask onto my face. It helped only slightly to know that these balls of paint were not going to kill me. I had make an effort to keep a calm head. I was put out by two more hits of bright paint on the sole of my muddy boot. Apparently my enemy was an extremely accurate shot and I never even saw him. I ended the day muddy, wet, physically tired, bruised by paintball hits and thrilled at the thought of coming back.