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November 27, 2008
Guest Blog: Brian Brown's F1 Saga (A San Francisco Tale)
[This tale surfaced on the 851-888 board in response to crackhead vandalism of motorcycles in San Francisco. Evidently people are breaking off sparkplugs to make little crack pipes. Who knew? Today, Brian Brown shares the tale of his F1. If you lived in SF in the 80's as I did, then you may know some of the characters. — Ed.]
Set the way-back machine to the year 1986. I stopped by the local Ducati dealership in Berkeley, California: TT Motors. There on the small showroom floor is the most awesome motorcycle that I had ever laid my eyes upon, a brand new Ducati F1b. It was everything that I could ever hope for, a modern street legal (well in some parts of the world) Ducati TT1 road-racer.
At the time, the selling price of $7195 was more that I could afford. But I asked the owner, John Gallivan if I could sit on it anyway. As I imagined myself roaring around Laguna Seca (hopefully not making any audible sound effects with my mouth), John told me that I would never be able to ride one. Right then I vowed to prove him wrong.
About a year later, issue #51 of the DIOC newsletter appeared in my mailbox. There in the classified ads was a mint condition F1b in Denver, CO with only 1200km on the clock. The owner Paul Greaves wanted to trade it for a Darmah or 900ss plus cash. Not having either, I thought that he might deal for straight cash. I rang him up and we settled on a price of $5500. I was a little worried about buying a bike sight unseen, but Paul as-waged my fears. He said that he would crate up the bike and ship it out to me. If I opened up the crate and didn't like it, I could just pay the freight to ship it back to him. If I liked it, I would wire him the funds and he would send me the title. Needless to say that it was love at first sight when I lifted the lid.
I couldn't wait to ride it, but there was one problem. In order to fit the motorcycle in the crate (some metal framed Kawasaki crate), Paul had to remove the oil filter. No problem, I just pop over to TT Motors and get a new one. No, they didn't have one, nor did the other local dealer Barber Brothers. A call down to Pro Italia revealed the ugly truth, there was a national backorder on oil filters! No, this couldn't be! I called down to Cagiva North America in Gardena, California and the next thing I knew I was talking to the only parts guy, Darrell. I told him of my plight. He said that yes, they were on backorder, but he happened to have one filter squirreled away if I wanted it.
A couple of days later, I was on the road. But there was a problem, the bike had little power below 4000rpm. Thinking the bike might have been rejetted for the altitude of Denver, CO, I called every Ducati dealer that I knew of to try and get jetting information for the F1. None of them had any information, some said that the F1 was a race-bike and that it was normal to not have power below 4000rpm. Finally I talked to John Hoffman (RIP) at Cycle Specialties of Athens, Ga. Having raced an F1b, he was very knowledgeable about the bike and had the factory manual with the correct jetting specs. I raised the needles a couple of notches and the bike was fixed!
For a little over a year I was in heaven, having my own personal semi-legal TT1 race-bike for the street. I even bought a set of Dainese Marco "Lucky" Lucchinelli leathers to match the bike (though I couldn't find the AGV Lucchinelli helmet). It only took Cagiva North America six months to send me a shop manual and a new headlight lens (the original was cracked in transit during shipping).
March 5, 1989, I came down from my condo apartment to give my friend a ride to the airport. There in my carport was an empty space, only a broken Kryptonite lock and a popped ignition lock cylinder remained as evidence as to what had transpired. My beloved Ducati had been stolen. I was devastated.
Over the next year I tacked up wanted posters at every motorcycle shop in the area. Whenever I saw an F1b, I had to go look at it to make sure that it wasn't my bike. My girlfriend put up with me going on an on about the bike. She couldn't replace the bike, but when my birthday came around, she made a cake with a perfect F1b drawn in icing on the top.
June 3, 1990, Kawasaki was sponsoring Kawasaki Day at Alice's Restaurant in Woodside, CA. I didn't really want to go, but they were giving away an EX500 and my friend wanted a chance to win the bike. As I walked around, I noticed an F1b sitting at the gas pumps, it was running and the rider was getting set to ride it away. When I got about 10 feet away from it, I realized that it was my old bike. I turned to a friend and told him to get a cop. I then walked over to the bike and hit the kill switch. The rider asked what was I doing, and I told him that it was my bike. As we argued back an forth the woman that owned the gas station told us to take it off of her property. The rider started to push the bike faster and faster, until I reached over and grabbed the front brake lever. Just then, a CHP officer showed up. He listened to both of our stories, then proceeded to handcuff the rider and lock him in the back of the police cruiser.
It was the hit of the show, everyone congratulated me on recovering the bike. Many people had stories of having had bikes stolen, but never found. The crowd urged the cops to let the suspect out and we would deal with him in our own way. Since the bike was evidence of a crime it had to be impounded, and a normal old-fashioned sling type tow-truck showed up to haul it away. I cringed at the thought of my beautiful bike's fairing cracking as they tried to strap it to the back of the sling. Fortunately, Brian Halton of CityBike was there to save the day. He offered to transport it to the impound yard in the CityBike van, following the tow-truck so that the tow driver was still paid for the tow, everyone was happy, well except for the dirtbag in the back of the police cruiser.
The insurance company had paid me off in full for the bike (I won't go into how hard it was to get them to do that, let's just say that it a Herculean task), so they now owned the bike that I had just recovered for them. I called them up to let them know what I had done, and to find out how to buy the bike back. They said that it would be auctioned off, and that I had to be the high bidder in order to get it back.
Then came the bad news, the officer in charge of the case said that the dirtbag had proof that he had bought a new frame for the bike. Since he was the legal owner of the frame, the impound yard was to dismantle the bike and return the frame to him. Then more bad news, the insurance company changed impound yards that they do business with, now what was left of my bike was to be transported from Redwood city to Rancho Cordova, CA, almost 100 miles away. But "Don't worry" the insurance rep. told me "Your car will be taken good car of". Then even more bad news, it seems that I would not be allowed to bid on my bike. There was a scam going around where someone would insure a new car, strip it of all of its parts, dump it in a field and report it stolen. The insurance company would pay them off and then they would buy it back at auction and reassemble it. Now their policy was changed to not let original owner bid on their old vehicles.
I showed up at the auction and had a friend who ran a salvage yard bid on my bike. When we got there, what was left of my bike was sitting outside on a pallet in a pile of gravel. They had lost the gauges, electrics, swingarm, shock, and all controls. Basically all that remained was the fairings, tailsection, wheels, forks, brakes and engine. The paintwork on everything was badly scratched. I was the high bidder at $175.
A few weeks went by and I received another call from the officer in charge of the case, it seems that the dirtbag needed money for lawyers fees, and was I interested in buying the frame back for $500. I told him sure and told him to give Mr. Dirtbag my phone number. Dirtbag called and a time/place was set to meet for the swap. I packed my girlfriend's Ruger .357 Blackhawk into my bag just in case, but Mr Dirtbag flaked and never showed up. Mack at Munroe Motors called me and said that Mr. Dirtbag had called them to see if they were interested in buying the frame. I told them to buy it and I would pay them for it. Pat Munroe R.I.P. wanted to make $100 on the deal, which irked me a little as they were the ones to sell Mr. Dirtbag the replacement frame, even though I had F1b Wanted posters plastered up on their wall. You would have thought that they could have put two and two together.
When I got the frame, I was delighted to see that it still had the shock, swingarm, footpegs and controls still attached to it. I guess that the impound yard didn't know what the work "frame" meant. I purchased all new decals for the bike and had John Burkhard repaint everything. He did a fantastic job, it looked perfect. I started calling every Ducati shop on the planet to find the missing parts, fortunately this was before most people had started to restore F1s and many racebike take-offs were still around.
I had the bike 98% done when I started to lose interest in it. The magazines were raving about the new 1992 900ss and I had to have one. I ended up selling my 1977 wire wheel 900ss and the F1b for $4500 each. It was one of the most stupid things that I have ever done. The new 900ss was the biggest piece of shit that I have ever owned. If you looked up the word "Lemon" in the dictionary, there was a picture of my new 900ss. I should have known that it was a bad sign that my new bike was delivered to me with an empty tank of gas, not even enough to get out of the parking lot. It's valve guides wore out before the first service, had major clutch problems, broken head studs, bent rear axle adjusters, improperly assembled carburetors, etc.
In 1994 a work-mate of mine saw an ad in the SF Chronicle for a Ducati F1b. $5500 later, he was the new owner of what turned out to be my old bike. For the next 12 years he took wonderful care of the bike. Installed a Fox shock to replace the horrible Marzocchi unit, revalved the front forks and did general maintenance and preservation/restoration of its condition.
Two weeks ago, I came into some unexpected money. I was thinking of what to do with it when the F1b popped into my head. I stopped by my old workplace to have a chat with my mate about the bike. He was a little surprised, as he was going to put the bike up for auction on Ebay that very day. Needless to say that it is now back where it belongs, in my garage. I took it for a ride the other day for the first time in almost 20 years. It was as if someone had turned back time, just as I remembered it, will all of its little quirks.
I'll never sell it again. Now if I could only find my old 1977 900SS.
Ducati Forza!
Brian Brown
Here's a shot of it in my truck the day I brought it back home:
Posted by Underblog at 7:54 AM | TrackBack
November 1, 2008
Small Worlds
When I began looking in earnest for a Ducati F1, I turned to a contact from the Morini and the Ducati 851 internet presences (as you can imagine, the best of groups dedicated to these machines have rooted themselves in completely different webspaces). At the time, my fellow 851/F1/Morini buddy asked me if I knew a fellow by the name of Emiliano here in Albuquerque. I did not, though I had heard his name mentioned earlier as someone in the area knowledgeable in moto italiane.
Much later, when I posted the Ducati 750 for sale on Craigslist, a potential buyer came over to check it out. He asked me if I knew Emiliano, and once again I acknowledged my ignorance. However, this time I got a number. Not Emiliano's number, but the number of a mutual friend who had his number.
Weeks later, once I had given up on selling the Sport through Craigslist and was awaiting delivery of the F1, I called the heretofore mythical Emiliano on Saturday. I suppose I called him just to introduce myself and talk Italian bikes. I had also taken to heart the seller of the F1's counsel to seek out a local who also had one of these bikes, to confirm the best routing of cables, wiring, and hoses. Emiliano and I talked F1's and Morini's, and it turns out that he had once purchased the Benelli spares of a dealer no longer in the biz. What remained of it was sold to a German fellow. He also passed on buying a few still-in-the-crate F1's here in Albuquerque, when he could have gotten them for a song. But isn't that always the case? Emiliano had had Morini's in the past, several 3½'s. He presently has a Montjuich, and is on the hunt (passively, I expect) for an SP5.
When I was reciting the list of bikes in the garage (what are we up to now, seven?), I slipped in that PJ's had just sold the Sport for me. Emiliano replied, "I know that bike, I have it here now in my shop!" Now that is a small world. Later in the day, I called him a second time to ask how much fork oil to put in the forks of the Benelli. He recommended 180cc to begin with and see how it worked. It worked fine.
Posted by Underblog at 5:36 PM | TrackBack
October 27, 2008
F1, Finally
After 7 years of searching, mas o menos, I have finally found a reasonably priced Ducati F1. The timing is horrible, as our investments—like everyone else's—are cratering. On the other hand, the national calamity is causing many folks to reevaluate their collections. I hate to think that I am profiting from someone's misfortune, but their is little doubt that the marketplace for vintage bikes is taking as much of a hit as any other investment.
Not that I plan to ever sell the F1, once it arrives here. As I mentioned above, I have looked for one of these for several years. The last time one sold at a price I could afford ($1000 more than this one) was back in 2000-2001.
Though the price is certainly right, I am concerned about the track history of this particular example. However, a fellow Morini-list and 851-list Ducatista emailed me that the modifications this bike has are ones that cost alone has prevented him from making to his own F1. He loves his F1 so much that he told his wife that he wants his ashes to be placed in the gas tank so that they can be buried together.
Now comes the excruciating part: arranging and paying for delivery, viewing the bike in person, and of course getting it all dialed in. I am viewing this as a long-term relationship but really what I want to do is take it for a spin before it gets too dreadfully cold here.
Posted by Underblog at 2:42 PM | TrackBack
October 26, 2008
Further Adventures With Roomie
It seems that all the riding I have been doing lately has been with Roomie. I suppose that she is making up for lost time. In any case, the riding has been spectacular.
Two weeks ago, we went for a day trip on the Chimayó Santuario - Peñasco - Dixon Loop. That trip (263 miles total, a new Roomie record!) was full of fall colors. However, Roomie had not worn quite enough layers and so she declined the High Road to Taos in favor of a quick descent into the canyon through Picuris Pueblo and Dixon.
Notwithstanding the chill of that ride, her enthusiasm for going up to Taos remained unabated and so after consideration of the clothing we could fit in the saddle bags (as it turns out a useful constraint) she was ready to take off Friday morning for a day ride to Taos and a day ride back. Instead of stopping at Santuario for tamales at Leona's as we had two weeks prior, we continued on NM 503 past the turn-off for Santuario and toward Cundiyo and Santa Cruz Lake. After dining at Sugar Nymph's Bistro in Peñasco (well worth the drive), we decided to take the High Road into Taos rather than the Mora - Angel Fire scenic route. The High Road turned out to be even shorter of a ride than I had predicted in Peñasco, taking us all of 45 minutes to complete.
We arrived at the budget-date hotel seriously early, and so we did a quick loop around Ranchitos Road to La Posta and got stuck in Taos' now infamous traffic before visiting a friend. Once the visiting concluded, Roomie joined me in the hot tub (another first!) back at the motel. She is now more prepared to entertain the idea of putting a hot tub behind the studio having experienced the benefits after a long day in the saddle.
Next day, the F650 barely wheezed up enough juice to get going. Once warm, it started just fine. By the time we were done visiting our friend in town, it was noon. We took US 64 out to Angel Fire (the stretch from town to the 585 cut off was lovelier than I remembered) and NM 434 south to Mora. In Mora, we decided to head back to Dixon (Roomie's favorite part of the ride—she must like the canyon) and lunch at Sugar's by the Rio Grande. It did not disappoint.
We really lucked out on the meals this trip. Lunch at Sugar Nymph's was excellent, dinner (Kung Pao Scallops!) at Hunan Chinese also delicious, and the barbecue beef sandwich at Sugar's in Embudo Canyon also excellent. We look forward to next season and more meals at these places.
Posted by Underblog at 11:55 AM | TrackBack
August 4, 2008
Bernalillo and Back
Under normal circumstances, riding to Bernalillo and back along 2nd St and NM 313 would not be an especially noteworthy event. This time, however, Roomie accompanied me on the back of the Ducati. Two weeks ago, Roomie and I went out and purchased her a helmet just in case she wanted to ever take a ride with me. Later that day she surprised me by stating that she was ready to go for a short ride on the Benelli, by far the most approachable of the bikes in the garage. We zipped up 2nd St to Alameda, across the the river, and over to the Indian restaurant. We both had a great time on that ride, and we left it at that.
Saturday, she was not sure if she would feel as safe on the Ducati. As a stop gap measure, we drove once around the block, and she was astounded at how much safer she felt on it versus the Benelli. What two decades in age and three decades in technology will do for one's confidence! Anyway, we took the 750 Sport to the Range Cafe in Bernalillo, Roomie borrowing the Vanson perforated leather jacket while I sweated in the Schott Perfecto. But we both thoroughly enjoyed the ride, and Roomie did not even flinch when we passed a very slowly moving vehicle on the way home.
Before we take a ride up to Madrid (or Heaven forbid, Santa Fe) we will have to find Roomie a proper jacket and perhaps some gloves. Certainly, this new interest of hers in motorcycling has given us much more to talk about, and I for one am looking forward to where it goes from here.
Posted by Underblog at 2:16 PM | TrackBack
Pam and Don
Friday, I went over to Pam's storage area to take a look at the Benelli 125 she had for sale. Arriving there early, I spoke to her neighbor Don who was polishing out his 2005 Night Train Harley, which had had much of its blackout surfaces replaced with chrome. He was nice enough, with two Motori Franco Morini and one Honda mini-bikes under a cover in his living/motorcycle room.
As it happens, the Benelli that Pam was holding fast to her sales price was not a 4-stroke "egg motor" but rather a 2-stroke. I was therefore not interested in it. Don came over from across the street and after not having seen a Benelli in the past couple of decades, he came across two in one day. After some explanation of the mechanical differences between 2 and 4 stroke engines and how to tell one from the other, Pam and I parted company. The Benelli probably could be made to run for not too much more money, but then one would have a 2-stroke 125 and just how often would that bike be taken out of the garage? Once again, I am relieved to have found a motorcycle that I can pass up.
Posted by Underblog at 1:55 PM | TrackBack
May 19, 2008
Traffic
When I dropped off my AMRG buddy at PJ's the other day a week ago Friday, I took Academy from San Mateo to Tramway. On the return, I took the same route, only to see an overturned SUV, the concomitant pulled over cars ("witnesses"), and the usual suite of emergency response vehicles. Fortunately, the incident occurred in the opposite direction of travel. Had we been a half-hour later, I am sure we would have been stuck in traffic for a very long time.
Posted by Underblog at 6:19 AM | TrackBack
April 28, 2008
How Motorcyclists Get a Bad Name
On the way home from PJ's Saturday, I pulled up behind a Honda Interceptor piloted by a middle-aged man wearing shorts. As Walter Alter used to say, "If you ride a motorcycle while wearing shorts, God will laugh at you." In addition this chap was wearing sneakers with no socks. Needless to say he was not wearing a helmet.
My impression of an underclothed motorcyclist turned from bad to worse when he proceeded to accelerate past everything in sight and commence weaving from lane to lane, slamming on the brakes when he arrived at a stoplight. I guess one is never too old for idiocy.
Posted by Underblog at 1:09 PM | TrackBack
April 26, 2008
Madrid Loop
Saturday, I took the newly serviced 750 for a little spin along two routes I have ridden numerous times, though never in the same day. Oddly, the one time I did such a loop, I was in a car. (I cannot yet bring myself to say "cage" for car.) I began up 2nd St, taking it to the northern terminus of NM 47. From there, I rode a block of Roy Rd to NM 313. NM 313 is a lovely straight stretch along the western edge of Sandia Pueblo to the Town of Bernalillo. Like 2nd St., it is part of the pre-1937 alignment of Route 66. Above Bernalillo, NM 313 turns into Old Route 66 and snakes through larger rural lots and structures whose business for the most part abandoned the road when I-25 came through. Beyond Bernalillo, one enters Santa Ana Pueblo, a small hamlet surrounded by irrigated farms. There are some nice curves on the way to Algodones, but one must be mindful of the presence of vigili. Above Algodones, Old Route 66 opens up to several long straights. And indeed on one of them a sheriff's SUV was parked. Where Old 66 drops off at the freeway, it is possible to squeeze a few more interstate miles in by heading west toward San Felipe Pueblo, and then back east toward their casino on the interstate. After 10-15 miles on the interstate (basically climbing La Bajada grade), it is possible to take a frontage road from the Waldo Crossing exit near the rest area. The frontage road is nearly as fast, though the road is somewhat less maintained than the freeway. Where the frontage roads ends just past the National Guard Armory, NM 14 crosses. After a quick pit stop (45 miles to the gallon!) at the Allsup's, I proceed south toward Madrid.
NM 14 goes up and down several hills, past the prison and the Santa Fe Adult Detention Center (located across the street from one another). A little farther down NM 14 is the Cafe San Marcos, where Roomie and I ate when we drove this loop in the Miata. There are a few curves before passing the village of Los Cerrillos. Madrid is three miles of S-curves away. Motorcycles abound.
After a quick stop to stretch and drink a cuppa Earl Grey in Madrid, I continue down NM 14 to another Old Route 66 segment, now a frontage road for I-40. Right around Carnuel, the odometer reads 100 miles so far. It is only another 2 miles to PJ's, where I am delighted to tell them how well the 750 is running.
Please see the map below for the route information, even though the map displayed does not seem to display properly in Firefox. According to the vast project that is the internet, folks are working to make GoogleMaps and Firefox play better together.
Click and zoom out 3 or 4 clicks to see the route.
Posted by Underblog at 2:40 PM | TrackBack
March 27, 2008
No One Ever Crashed When We Rode
I heard from KB yesterday for the first time in years. He and I go way back. We met through friends and a common café in San Francisco right around the time I acquired my Lambretta SX200. He remembers (or should remember) when I graduated to "big wheels" and bought first the Honda CB350, then the BSA A65 Lightning, and ultimately the Morini 500. He And he respected my decision to stand by the little wheeled members of the stable.
We used to ride together every couple of weeks, first meeting for coffee and discussing the route then riding either north south or east of San Francisco to the coastal mountains and river valleys. We shared some other interests: fine art, wine, food, real estate, etc, but it was and is motorcycling that formed the real bond between us. I liked riding with Kent because when I tired of riding on large sweeping curves where the Guzzi's 2:1 advantage in displacement became evident, he never complained when I insisted on super-twisty roads where the Morini's flickableness and the road's narrowness prevented his passing me.
At one point, he shared a South of Market flat (with enclosed carport) with my Morini-friend TC. Though that particular arrangement did not work out in the long-run,* the three of us did once manage to ride to Yosemite. The ultimate object was Mono Lake, which happens to be the caldera of a dormant volcano. Walking back from dinner to the little housekeeping cabin, we felt the unmistakable rumble of an earthquake. The next morning we learned that all the roads in and out of the park, save one, were closed due to rock and mudslides. Thwarted in our attempt to photograph Mono Lake, we rode our bikes back to Healdsburg, where my future bride served us dinner.
KB has managed to hang on to his Guzzi CX100 Le Mans the entire time I've known him. He has made some substantial upgrades to his own fleet, adding a Guzzi 750 Sport (euro-model), a Le Mans 1000 (which he keeps in OR for Left Coast riding), and a 850 Le Mans. He was always more ready than I to suffer four-wheeled passion than I and has acquired since I've known him several Alfa-Romeo's, Porsche's, and most recently an Audi A4 Quattro. This last vehicle he deems a nod to practicality, since he needs a reliable way to get from Long Island City to his cabin up in Connecticut.
We talked about riding together again some time, perhaps near his place in the Adirondack's, perhaps in New Mexico. With the 851, he says, I might be able to finally keep up with him.
* After all, as Keynes famously said "In the long run, we are all dead."
Posted by Underblog at 6:05 AM | TrackBack
February 10, 2008
Albuquerque Motorcycle Riders' Group
Today I rode this. After lunch at the K & I Diner on South Broadway, about half of the group of 13 continued south to Los Lunas, picked up NM 6, and rode northwest to I-40. It was a lovely day for a ride, and it was nice to share it with other motorcyclists. In fact the company was ideal. Mostly older, but not entirely, and no squids.
NM 6 is very much like NM 47 from Belen to NM 60: mostly rangeland, light traffic, high speeds, occasional curves. Kinda ho-hum, but it was nice to be out in the sunshine. I hope to do another ride with these folks where the roads are more, shall we say, challenging.
Posted by Underblog at 4:55 PM | TrackBack
February 6, 2008
Tripe Down Memory Lane
I recently received an email from an old friend, who had been looking in a box full of Stuff From A Former Life. He came across several issues of Snappy Jack News, a scooter fanzine of sorts I produced for most of 1985 in San Francisco. He was missing Issue No. 4, and was hoping that it had some cool pictures in it.
I produced the early issues of SJN in my room at the Civic Center Hotel, a fleabag at 12th and Market. It was the kind of place that organized the clientele by floor, and the bathroom was down the hall. When I told a friend (who by a twist of fate now lives in Albuquerque) I was on the 5th floor, he cooed "They must have loved you to place you up there." He lived on the third floor. Later, I moved across the street to 23 Franklin Av, above the parking lot that was the staging area for motorcycle rides that met at Dudley Perkins. Interesting stuff went on in that parking lot, since it was a convenient place for the prostitutes sex workers to take their johns.
At first, I typed up the galleys for SJN on a typewriter. Later, I rented time on an Apple /// or a Lisa at a little desktop publishing place on California between Polk and Van Ness. Headlines were done with Letraset sticky-back letters and occasionally whatever stick-on lettering I could get my impoverished hands on. I was a big fan of zippotone and Letraset tapes. Page layout was done with spray mount. The biggest expense was having half-tones made of the photos. They looked like crap if I didn't do that much. Fortunately for my finances, I often imposed on friends in the printing biz to do the photowork for me.
Reading the articles in No. 4, I am reminded that I spent a fair bit of my weekends riding up and down and around San Francisco's hills, and then writing about it later. Plus ça change, plus ça même chose. I begged and cajoled my friends to contribute to SJN, and they did, sometimes. Walter Alter could be relied upon to provide a stream of consciousness, but I ended up writing most of every issue. I credited folks as they wanted to be credited, and offered advertising in exchange. And now, immortality.
Snappy Jack News, Jun-Jul-Aug 1985 4.4 Mbyte pdf.
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January 26, 2008
Madrid and Back
The weather looked as nice as forecast (mid-50's) this morning, so I thought I would go for a short ride up to Madrid. The twisties up there some of my favorites and I like the coffee at the Mad Hatter. Another reason Madrid appealed was that it offered an easy exit strategy. If it got too snowy or cold, I could turn tail and quickly return to Albuquerque. I reckoned on the way back I could stop by PJ's and take a second glance at an 888 that PJ scored at a recent auction.
I checked the air in the 851's tires and was glad I did, because the pressures were a little low. I fueled her up and was once more amazed by how that bike can still make the hair on the back of my neck stand up, even sitting still. I wheeled her out of the garage and took a quick picture with the bike; the last one I took of the bike and me together was while she was still wearing the modified Ducati cans. The Conti's look oh-so-much more sweet, even if they have that fine print stamped on them that they are for closed course use only.
The ride to Madrid was cold but pretty uneventful. And I was reminded of how much more the 851 has that I do not take advantage of when I wound her up to about 120 mph and wasn't even in top gear. Once in Madrid I parked on the old freight scale and had an Earl Grey at the Mad Hatter, where a surprisingly-good-sounding bluegrass band was performing. Despite the music, I wanted to drink my tea in the sunlight outside. And of course the best sunlight was on the scale next to the Ducati.
The ride back down the hill was just as lovely. I noticed distinctly more motorcycles out and about as the day warmed up. Below Cedar Crest, I observed that a Sheriff's patrol car was several cars ahead of me, another motorcycle in front of him. In an abundance of caution, I slowed up and pulled into the right hand lane. Several more motorcycles approached coming up the hill. Just as I rounded the corner, one of the motorcycles flipped right over, end over end. Cartwheeling up NM 14.
I pulled over, as did the po-po and the three other motorcycles. The young rider wore a leather jacket that had "ARMY" embroidered across the back. He appeared to be OK; I am sure adrenaline was coursing through his veins in prodigious proportion. One of the trailing riders said that "there was no reason why he should have crashed: the road was clear, there was no sharp lean angle, he wasn't out of control." The rider who tossed his ride offered only that a car ahead appeared to be slowing suddenly and he grabbed a hand full of brake. We all walked over to the bike; it was totaled. It appears to have been a Suzuki Boulevard, a "muscle-cruiser" in blue. One of the other riders picked the guy's cell phone, which seemed to have survived intact.
Back at PJ's, we discussed what likely happened. Mike offered that he probably locked up the front wheel, which in turn pushed the forks sideways. Once that happened, the rear of the bike effectively launched itself over the front. While I am not about to give up riding (and the three motorcyclists seemed content to go on with their ride), bearing witness to such action hammers home the commandment to stay within one's limits with these machines.
Posted by Underblog at 3:42 PM | TrackBack
January 13, 2008
Kiwis in Italy, 1989
It is not just I who thinks that Italy is motorcycling nirvana. On my 1989 trip, I spent a fair bit of time with a couple from New Zealand who were in the process of exporting several Italian bikes Down Under. I always thought this would make a nice sideline business, though I have never had either the capital or the ganas to pull off such a trip. Malcolm and Sue rode with us to Breganze to visit Oro Ricardo, and the next day joined us on a sightseeing visit to Venice.
That spring, this couple shipped back home in a small container two Morini's (a 500 and a 3½); a Guzzi V7 Sport; a Laverda RGS 1000; and a Guzzi Ercole three-wheel truck. Ducati's must have been too expensive at the time, because I knew Malcolm had them in Wellington. At least he had the t-shirt collection to represent. Now that I own a Ducati or two and have thought about doing what they did nearly 20 years ago, I wonder how the business worked out for them and what they are up to now.
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January 4, 2008
Why I Love New Mexico
My goal for the day was to get the 750 Sport registered. Before I went over there, I figured I had better remove the license plate (which had most recently adorned the Maicoletta 275) before the inspection. I quickly thought of bringing the plate along, since I was hoping to assign it to the 750. I ended up leaving the plate in the garage.
I rode the 750 over to the MVD, stood in line for five minutes and waited about 20 more for my number to be called. The woman at the window said it would be no trouble to transfer the plate, but that she needed the corpus delecti in order to complete the task. So back I went home. I like the DMV here because they will offer a "pass" so you can bypass the line once you've waited so long for your number to be called.
When I returned, I walked up to the next available clerk. Once we were outside standing next to the bike, he told me that the lack of a visible engine number was not a problem since he had two locations for the VIN on the frame. While the plate was being assigned to the 750, I said hi to Jane of the North Valley who scored me three sequential license plates and tried the dickens to get me a fourth (I cleaned her out that day). Regardless, I now have a sequence of license plates (P84419 through P84421) on my Italian "Red Fleet." Perfect for photographing. And now I have a Desmo and a spare, all legit and ready for a motorcycle-licensed friend to come riding.
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December 16, 2007
Open House
So I had this idea to attend the open house as PJ's yesterday. The kind folks there had yet to see the 750 Sport, so there was an opportunity for a little showing-off. A little ice had formed overnight in the mud ponds in the driveway, but it was clear and sunny enough outside that I thought it might get warmer as a made it across town.
The 750 Sport started up after a minute or so of exertions with the choke on. When it finally started, the steam coming out the exhaust could also be seen coming out of the header pipe, which is wrapped. This observation indicates that the pipe-wrapping was installed to cover up a damaged pipe. Luckily, there happens to be a pipe for sale on eBay. I think I will have it ceramic-insulated (not cheap, but probably the best solution) before I install it.
My usual path to PJ's is to take Paseo del Norte (a freeway-type facility) to Tramway, which runs along the base of the Sandia Mountains and is free of trucks. I like this route because all the turns are right-handed, and because the signals on both roads are pretty well timed. Once I started on Paseo, I realized just how cold it was. And the fact that I was climbing about 1000 feet between the ranchita and Tramway meant that it was getting colder still. As I rounded the "porkchop" corner at Tramway, there was snow on the ground. Within half a mile there was snow on the shoulder. Melted snow dampened the road and I had to consider how this would affect my braking time. Fortunately, I am becoming more practiced at finding neutral on this bike, a known gremlin.
By the time I arrived at PJ's, my jaw was thoroughly numb. I dutifully watched the sales staff attempt to close sales on the two 848's in the showroom. The person who appeared the most interested was quite small and could only put one foot on the ground at a time. The sales person mentioned that his "riding style" would be affected. Indeed. Chris (I think that is his name) came out and checked the 750 over. Also, one of the techs took a look as well. We went back inside and while Chris helped a tech order parts, I helped myself to bagels and coffee. As my face returned to room temperature, I checked out helmets. Weight-wise, they are all about the same as the HJC I have presently. However, I am leaning toward the Shoei RF-1000. I wore Shoei's for years (first black, then red), but budgetary constraints pushed me into the HJC back when we lived in Maryland.
Unfortunately, the open house per se did not start unti 6:00pm. I had things to do that afternoon, so I was not about to return in a cage just to score a free beer or two, especially since Roomie would have nothing to do with it. I hopped on the interstate (again, to save myself left turns) and witnessed a tremendous queue of vehicles at Louisiana, presumably to Christmas-shop in Uptown.
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January 2, 2007
Snow Day
My Friday plan to take my father, who had been here for a ten day visit ("It was when the flights were the cheapest!"), to the airport to put him on a 1:45 flight. We arranged for him to amuse himself downtown until noon, and then he would swing by the office.
By 8:30 or 9:00 in the morning, it was snowing pretty good. In Albuquerque, mind you, which means that systems shut down. The weatherman said it would let up by 11:00 a.m., turning to rain. At 10:00 a.m., the Boss said the office was closing at noon. At 10:30, Boss said the office was effective immediately.
I drive around downtown Albuquerque looking for him, and return to the office at the appointed site a half-hour early. A half-hour late he appears saying "I rang the doorbell twice and no one came!" We drive to the airport, where the ticket agent says that as of that minute, his flight is scheduled to leave. By the time we get to the gate, the flight has been canceled. No problem. We'll just get him on the next flight. Turns out the next flight is the following Wednesday, five days later!
While we retrieve his bags, I call Roomie and ask her to please find him a flight that leaves sooner. By the next morning, 12-13 inches of snow blanket everything, leaving branches on top of the house, the garage, the adobe shed, and all over the driveway and yard. But it looks nice.
The snow slows, Pop gets on his plane, and the weatherman says that the snow should melt overnight. The next day, it is 14 degrees outside. I am not expecting the snow to melt any time soon.
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December 19, 2006
Canoe Country
It is the time of the year when we get the annual newsletter from Canoe Country Outfitters up in Ely. This means it is time to begin planning for the annual pilgrimage to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness. At this point, Roomie and I are weighing the pros and cons of camping in the various months. June is black fly month; July transitions to mosquitoes in August, and September can be a little cooler. July and August have warmer nights, which means one can travel with a lighter pack. Once we pick a time of year to go, I will apply for the permit. Then we can see who is willing and able to schedule so far ahead for a summer canoe trip in the Wilderness.
I already have nearly a week of vacation time coming to me, but I will be taking Boxing Day off. At any rate, I shall certainly have plenty of time banked by June.
Not coincidentally, we also received in the past week gift certificates from Piragis Outfitters also in Ely. Two years ago this past August, I celebrated my 40th birthday up in the BWCAW. Among the invitees were my mom and stepfather, who were the only folks to take us up on the invitation into the wilderness for a few nights. I swam to Canada on my birthday. The following year, Roomie was under deadline and unable to make the trip. I was prepared to go by myself into the wilderness but at the second to last minute my stepfather volunteered to take the bow seat and make a weeklong trip with me. At the last minute, my mom decided she was not fit for the portages but would come out and use Biscuits & Gravy while I paddled with her husband. She spent the week in an Ely motel and exploring the Arrowhead region on Lake Superior. The two of them had been looking at alternatives to Palo Alto, where they had me and spent the past quarter-century. The trip was a resounding success, as was my mom's week in Ely. When the two of them were at MSP airport returning home, they said to one another "You know real estate is pretty reasonable up there; maybe we should come back and take a look." And they did. Roomie and I had already moved to Higglety Pigglety Farm, but I was called away in October to take a look at a house with them. That deal ultimately felll through, but they did make an offer on another house (one I had seen with my stepfather at the realtor's suggestion). Last May, they moved to Ely. As of this past weekend, they are delighted with their decision. They love the small-town life and the myriad opportunities for real involvement and real friendships.
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November 5, 2006
New Found Memory
Several months ago I found this along the wall in front of the house. I treasure these finds.
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September 6, 2006
Justice Denied
I looked forward to my day in court. On my way over to the courthouse (my appointment was on the 7th floor), I thought about how I might confront and cross-examine the government's witness against me (i.e. the parking control officer). Would I say "Describe the vehicle you ticketed. Any distinguishing feature at all?", knowing that the officer had ticketed a silver Honda? Would the officer have altered the ticket to reflect a Ford Taurus?
Such thoughts evanesced as I entered the courtroom. Though it was done on a budget, they really tried to make the room imposing. Wood veneer on the pews, marble facing behind the bench. While waiting for the 10:30 session to begin, I overheard the traffic cop (a motorcycle cop, given his boots and jodphurs) explain to a woman the criminal justice system likely to be imposed on a first time DWI offender. Session began after a brief roll call, where most of us actually present in the room answered back "Here!" to the clerk as she read off our names.
The first people to get justice were those for whom warrants had been issued and had been picked up doing things like running red lights and stop signs and had some criminal history and were not OR'd. Most of them plead no contest on the basis of stupidity. Some were going to spend a week or two in jail because they could not afford to pay a fine. Three defendants required the services of a translator.
The cops who came to testify were uniformly OK with whatever the recommendation the judge had, and in some cases had already worked out arrangements with the defendant, e.g. the defendant had already provided proof that the issue (usually an expired license or registration) had been addressed.
Eventually, a whole group of five us were called to the stand. The judge explained that the issuing officer was a no show and that the charges against all of us were being dismissed. So an hour was spent in court, and another to show up to try and get the case dismissed administratively. Were it not for the fear of retribution, I would write a letter to the parking enforcement officer's boss explaining how much time and productivity was lost—both mine and the court's. The value of my time lost was certainly greater than the amount on the original ticket.
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August 14, 2006
Too Quick
I was too quick to declare victory over the forces of City Hall. It turns out that my not having the type of vehicle to which a parking ticket was issued was insufficient cause for the ticket to be dismissed administratively. Or else administrators are not authorized to dismiss tickets issued in error. I enter once more the belly of the beast September 5th at 10:30am. I pray that the parking enforcement officer actually shows up so the judge can see the person who wasted her time, mine, and that of the administrators with which I have already spent time. And I hope a blot goes on their record.
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July 21, 2006
You Can Beat City Hall
We got a cryptic notice in the mail last week, informing us that a warrant had been issued by the County because we had failed to pay a parking ticket. Since the alleged violation took place on a Monday in a neighborhood and street we seldom frequent, my gut reaction was to reject the assertion that a ticket had been placed on Biscuits & Gravy and that we had failed to notice it.
This is where record-keeping is really handy. Neither Roomie nor I spent any money in that neighborhood that day, and moreover the time of day of the violation was 10:34 am, when she and I both are likely to have been working.
Using my flex day for errands like this, I drove down to the County Courthouse to contest the ticket. The rent-a-cop security guard said to me "Did you read the sign on the door? No lighters, knives, or chains allowed?" Then I saw that a chain connected my wallet to my keys (so I don't lose one or the other). I walked outside, disconnected the chain and dropped it in a large empty planter just outside the courthouse. I read the sign on the building and it did not mention chains. I mentioned this to the rent-a-cop. Then I walked through the metal detector and subjected myself to a weapons search, including pulling up my pant legs to show that I did not have any carbon fiber weapons.
I took a number and walked right up to clerk window 14. I told the handsome young woman behind the counter that I believed my ticket was issued in error. "What makes you think it was issued in error?"
— I was at work around the corner from here all day, and my wife works at home.
— [Looking at screen] You mean you don't have a silver Honda?
— No I don't. As you can see on the warrant, my car is a Ford. Plus the color is wrong.
The clerk called over a supervisor and asked her if I would have to go to court to contest it. The supervisor instructed her to make a copy of the warrant, and write down a telephone number on it so I could check in a week or so to make sure the case was dropped.
Not only was I presumed guilty until I proved myself innocent, I had to take time out of my schedule to show them their error. More than the $30.00 savings, righteousness drove me downtown on a precious day off.
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February 28, 2006
Italy, 1989: Part Three
From Bologna, I made my way south on the Autostrada to Rome, arriving at my sister's place in a light rain. Rome is a city best explored by motorcycle or motorino. But motorini are second-class citizens in Rome's vehicular hierarchy. While in Rome, I carried several passengers: my sister's best friend from Bethesda and my father, whom I gave a ride to Trastevere with his watercolor pad under his arm. Good times.
After the wedding, I headed back to San Liberale to work at the Motoraduno Ducati. My German came in handy, and I learned what more things were called in Italian. Except for Maurizio, English was not really an option. The Ducati Raduno was as they eccezionale. I did not appreciate the wealth of Ducati's at the time, but there were F1 Santamonica's, Mike Hailwood Replicas, and bunches of lesser models present. We rode bikes up to Cima Grappa, where a huge ossario contains the remains of 100,000 war dead. We toured wineries, and took a major field trip back to the Ducati factory, where I met Fabio Taglioni and the factory PR director Nadia. We took home all kinds of swag.
Maurizio let me ride one of the bikes from his stable, a retired TT2 racer with a red tubular frame. It had been converted to mono shock, and was certainly a trick bike. I would later take it for a spin in the Dolomites with the Kiwi's.
Toward the end of the weekend, Maurizio asked if I would like to come back and work over the summer. I suppose he saw that my Italian was progressing to the point that I could communicate with others besides him. And besides, I could split up wood from the giant woodpile adjacent to the kitchen door as fast as anyone. They had tentatively hired a good-natured, tall, and handsome fellow but he was turning out to be rather slow. He did however bring in meticulously stacked boxes of wood! He had, as another boss was fond of saying, "no sense of urgency." I told Maurizio I had promised a friend that I would visit him in Berlin first, but afterward, why not?
The rest of the week was spent more or less taking the Laverda in to get new tires and a good servicing before heading north. I got the hang of the San Liberale pace. Work like mad on the weekend so that Tuesday is free for motorcycling. We would sit out front on the patio with our latte macchiato's and listen to the motorcycles coming up the road. "Bicilindrico? No? Quattro? Forse Walter sul Benelli." As often as not, we were right about the motorcycle if not the person riding it.
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February 22, 2006
Italy, 1989: Part Two
I picked up the cheapest ticket from SFO that I could find, one that required an overnight stay in Vancouver (which the airline paid for), a stop in Calgary, and a change of planes in Amsterdam. Finally, I arrived in Rome, where the first order of business was (after recovering from my first ever bout of jet lag) calling Maurizio and asking him to assemble a list of possible candidate motorcycles for me to purchase.
I got directions from Maurizio to take the train up there; "You can stop at either Bassano del Grappa or Castelfranco Veneto." I chose the latter because it seemed more convenient. At Termini I had no sooner completed the word Castelfranco then the clerk began to interrupt me with the choices. "Veneto. Castelfranco Veneto." From Rome to Padua the train is an express, or at least quite fast. At Padua, I changed to a local. This train was filled with schoolchildren, folks with shopping bags, and moved very slowly. It also passed through much more beautiful scenery. Maurizio picked me up at Castelfranco in the Fiorino. I threw my bags in the back and off we went to the restaurant. We probably stopped several places along the way and did errands. Somewhere around here I have journals that better recall exactly where we went.
Maurizio instructed me that an important local phrase was "Vai in mona." I asked if this was an Italian phrase or Veneto slang. He responded that it was originally Veneto slang, but that the rest of the country had adopted it. One of the first places we stopped (I believe it was the butcher, who has a fondness for prosecco) Maurizio kept asking me what phrase I had learned. Knowing that it was probably slang for "Go fuck yourself" or some such brute parole I finally turned to Maurizio and said "Vai in mona."
After dinner my first night at San Liberale, I helped clear the table and learned where the dishwasher was. I then asked if anyone would like a caffe. This felt perfectly natural to me since I had been working behind the counter of espresso joints in the Bay Area for years. It was this first night I learned that in Italy, cappuccini are a morning thing. Only Germans have them after dinner.
The next day, we drove around and looked at used motorcycles. I was astounded at the inventory in these places. Each place had dozens of Italian motorcycles. There were several Laverda triples, but they had been too modified for my taste. I thought that a more or less original bike would be less likely to have been abused. At one of the shops, we found a 1971 Laverda SF750, or as they are called in Italy sette-mezzo. It still had the original Laverda saddle bags, which were too small and too brittle to carry much. The price was L1.000.000, or roughly 750 American dollars. We trailered the bike back to San Liberale, and the next day I set about getting the battery charged, the oil changed, the tires inflated and so forth.
While in San Liberale, Maurizio and I arranged that I would return after my sister's wedding to help out at the Ducati rally he was hosting in April.
T. had called me at my sister's place in Rome, and I had called Maurizio and arranged to get us into the Morini factory. As it happened a friend of his from Israel was going to be picking up an 851 from the Ducati factory around the same time, so we would be able to visit both factories. I was amazed by this, since my friend L. had been turned away from the Ducati factory when he visited Italy. I rode the Laverda to Bologna, blowing fuses along the way until I replaced the last burned fuse with a L500 coin. Problem solved. I arrived at the hostel exhausted; in the morning, I would meet T. out front of Via F.lli Bordoni, 6/A.
A draftsman named Paolo guided us past the old race bikes and 500 Turbo prototype onto the factory floor. I have a few photos up here, and many more in albums.
[To be continued.]
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February 21, 2006
Italy, 1989: Part One
I do not often take requests here at Underblog Rides Again. I do not often get them, either. But the request comes from Mr. Pompone, and I am honored.
Exactly 17 years ago, I was planning my first ever trip to Europe. Like most people in their 20's, I had been planning to go there for some time. However, my sister's wedding in Rome made a trip across the Big Pond (or rather the Pole) inevitable. And so I began to plan in earnest for a trip that I would make across the continent via motorcycle. I planned on staying for three months or so.
I had had the Morini for only three years then, and I would regularly ride along the coasts. mountains, and rivers of Northern California as my primary source of recreation. My first thought was to bring her over and ride her there. My friend T.¹ was going to Morocco to work on a film and was bringing his Morini Camel along. We had each invested in Givi luggage for our Morini's, and we talked about the possibility of meeting up while we were both over there. I gave him my sister's number in Rome.
In the pre-internet days, it made sense for me to write letters to all the European Morini clubs to ask them what they knew about what I would later learn was called mototurismo. I heard back from Morini Klub Deutschland, who had enclosed a copy of their newsletter La Strega,² the Morini/MV Agusta Club of France, and the Morini Riders' Club in the UK. But the most thorough and enticing correspondence was a packet from a place called San Liberale. It contained maps of the region (after all, it is just about impossible to find San Liberale—population 50—on a map); flyers for upcoming motorcycle events; and postcards of a Ducati trip across the USA, the Morini Club Italia, and some restaurant called Ristorante da Memi. Clearly, this was the expertise that I needed. I telephoned Maurizio immediately.
From Maurizio, I learned that used Laverda's went for about the same price as it would cost for me to ship the Morini. I could however at the end of the trip sell the bike and recover some of the cost of purchase. He said that there were several Laverda's for sale in the area. He also mentioned that he had friends in all the motorcycle factories and that it would probably be possible to arrange tours of them while I was there.
[To be continued.]
¹ T. purchased the first Morini 500 that I was ready and willing to buy by responding Saturday night to an ad in the Sunday paper. He and I also shared an interest in Citroën automobiles.
² La Strega: the witch. Morini 500's had a decal on their tailpieces of a witch astride a flaming LaFranconi exhaust pipe.
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September 23, 2005
Food Savvy
John and I sat out on the bench in front of the Jimtown Store, phrasing a Help Wanted advertisement to be placed in the Santa Rosa Press Democrat. John wanted to know how to incorporate the phrase "food savvy" into the ad.
—What is food savvy?
—Well, I'll tell you what food savvy isn't: We were at Cousteaux's. . .
—Wait, you go to Cousteaux's?
—Their bread is awful, but their cookies are good. Anyway, we pointed at some cookies in the case and asked the girl behind the counter what they were. She said "I don't know what they are called, but I think they have anus in them."
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July 28, 2005
It's Humiliatin'!
Last night, Roomie deigned to attend a softball game. I have played with some of these folks for a while now, and it was the last game of the regular season. Plus the temperature was in the high 60s - low 70s and nary a mosquito was harvesting blood meals to serve to her prospective young.
Once the beer arrived, it was all downhill: Roomie got to see the worst pasting we have experienced in the three years that I have played.
We arrived short handed, but fortunately substitutes from one of the friendly other teams were willing and able to play. I have to say "friendly teams" because our opposition this night was not one of the friendly teams. In retrospect, the first clue was that their team was composed of failed jocks and total bimbos. The guys probably played some ball in high school, but were not scouted and ended up in fraternities, where they routinely taunted each other and anyone else of whom they were not afraid. But why bimbos? My theory (derived from high school experience) is that only bimbos date failed jocks. Self-respecting jockettes and aspiring lesberados such as the women on our squad would never play alongside men whose lack of self-esteem compels them to make a nice game like softball look ugly.
Without a doubt, we helped the game look ugly too. I was placed on first base, where I can reliably catch the ball when it is thrown to me. However, the mark of a real first baseperson is that s/he can scoop the ball when it is thrown off the bag, yielding the single but preventing the extra base. This is a skill that I have yet to master, and indeed may be one that must be learned earlier in life. Two outs were converted into extra bases by wild throws that a competent first baseperson (which, unfortunately, we have lacked all season) would have controlled. On offense, I actually played all right, getting hits in all three at bats. I even scored one of the two runs we ended up with, sparing us the humiliation of a total skunking.
It must be admitted that our opponents could really swing the bat. Some of their hitters hit only foul balls, but a few routinely hit long balls over our fielders. You might think that their obvious superiority in this skill might make them taunt and complain less. One of their players complained loudly when called out for bunting because he made a full if purposely weak swing. He and some of his teammates never understood the counsel "It is not whether you win or lose, but how you play the game." When our pitcher began to get frustrated with our opponents, I began to join the rest of the team in wishing for the usually-dreaded "mercy rule" to be called.
Memory of the loss will fade in time, but I hope to long remember my comrades and the taste of cheap beer on this cool and pleasant Minnesota evening.
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July 13, 2005
Bigfoot Bob
One of our regular customers at Nutglade was a retired merchant marine named Bob. He complimented us on our coffee, but I think that he was not too particular: he added a few shakes of salt into each cup. We called him "Bigfoot Bob" because of the stories he would tell about the Bigfoot he had seen in the woods of Siskiyou County. In the greatest detail he would describe how they did all the chores at a friend's ranch and telepathically project movies in the forest canopy. "I was watching this movie, and it looked familar, and then I realized that the little boy in the movie was me. I knew it was me because there was a cast on the arm I had broken earlier that summer." Roomie was kind of freaked out by Bigfoot Bob. He did have a randy side, like when he told stories of women with breasts the shape of coke bottles and the secret of Wonder Bread's success. But I think she objected most of all to his detachment from reality, and the fact that he was so interested in sharing his world.
Recently, a friend sent us the Bigfoot Bob archives which I had given him some time ago.
Book 1: Our Giants.
Book 2: Our Giant's [sic] Domain.
Book 3: Our Giant's Children.
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July 3, 2005
Why Famous Dave's Is Famous
We began our meal somewhat disenchanted with Famous Dave's. We love the decor in there, even if the look is more antique store chic Gasoline Alley than genuine. It makes me think of all the happy antiques dealers, glad to be rid of those giant rusting "Standard Oil" signs. However, our original plan of Rooster's take out was thwarted by the fact that they are closed on Fourth of July weekend. Roomie orders the rib early bird platter and I the rib and catfish E.B. platter. With two waters, the total is $15.60.
The first slipup was that Roomie's fries arrived on my plate and my cole slaw ended up on hers. This was easily fixed. The food was good, and the corn muffins far superior to the hockey puck rolls at Rooster's. We decide to split a bread pudding (when they do it a slab of almost french toast drizzled in cinnamon goo and garnished with both ice cream and whipped cream). Roomie went up and paid and we waited patiently, reviewing our respective copies of City Pages.
Roomie tells me that they have forgotten our order. I counsel her to keep waiting for a bit; perhaps the order did go through on time and they are making it now. It is a longshot. When a woman in a white polo shirt (instead of the routine black tees) walks by, I flag her. She comes by the booth and touches Roomie's shoulder.¹ "We ordered a bread pudding, a while ago." I say. "I'll take a look and get it out to you immediately." It hardly came out immediately, but I suppose that they had to warm the thing. One of the young blackshirts, a sweet young man, brings us the bread pudding.
A few minutes later he returns with the money for the bread pudding. "I was hoping they would do that" said Roomie. I said that I thought they might. We bask in our free dessert. A while later, the woman in the white polo shirt comes by "My name is Joanie and I am the manager here. I looked at your tag and I noticed that you waited for your dessert a really long time, like half an hour or so. Here's a gift card for your next time here, and I apologize for the slip up."
We accept the card and thank the manager. Over dessert, we talk about how cool it is that Famous Dave's allows its managers to give out gift cards when the staff screws up. Roomie mentions that she got nothing but scowls recently at a cafe when they screwed up her order and all she wanted was what she ordered. But Famous Dave's does more that allow its managers discretion to give away a meal: they make it a policy to give these cards out when they screw up. On the back of the card, it says "Please forgive our foul-up and accept this gift card as invitation to give us another try."
Many years ago at a sales management training session, I was told that if a customer has a good experience somewhere, she will tell about 2-3 people about it on average. On the other hand, if something goes wrong, she will tell an average of 11 people. Smart businesses know that they can afford to lose people no less than their competition. We will go back to Rooster's because the ribs are better and we like to support small hole in the wall places, but there is something to be said for a chain of command and smart corporate policies.
¹ This is a standard management training trick. Any time a manager touches you, it is because she has been instructed to do to disarm your resentment and to establish a friendly bond between the two of you.
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June 27, 2005
A Pair of Kings
I went to REI today after work, mostly to cheer myself up. Roomie and I awake with backaches when we use our Thermarest Trail sleeping mats, and I was tempted to purchase lighter weight, though non self-inflating air mattresses which are both thicker and lighter than the Trail. They also happen to be on sale. On the way in, I see a hobo type by the door putting some laces on his shoes.
I could not find the size mattress I wanted on the shelf, but the customer service clerk checked the computer and found there were supposed to be two there (there had been four when I called on the weekend). While clerk looked around in the back for the mattresses, I used the bathroom which was right behind the customer service area. Behind the flush plumbing on the urinal was a business card "Please Elect 'Iowa Poet Blackie PRESIDENT." On the flip side was an advert for a book of hobo poetry. Being the Sharpie I am, I put the card together with the figure by the door.
Clerk returns empty-handed, and proceeds to call in a floor clerk to pick up the trail. No luck. After passing by the area one more time, to see if perhaps someone was walking around with one and had returned it, I check out the lighter weight (and not as infernally hot as my Down Time) sleeping bags. Definitely lighter. On sale, too. In any case, I resist.
On the way out I walk past the hobo to the door. And then I think of Road Hog, who was once King of the Hoboes and who lived in Dunsmuir, and I stop. I return to the hobo, who is still lacing his boots (and probably ducking the rain and / or the sweltering heat inside).
— Say, did you ever know a fellow by the name of Road Hog? I guess he was King of the Hoboes some time back.
— Road Hog? Sure! I haven't seen him in years. How do you know Road Hog?
— He used to live in the same small town as me. A good guy.
— I heard he was a gravedigger.
— He was. He was the caretaker at the cemetary in the town I lived in. I remember when he took the job.
— Really? Road Hog was a good guy. Of course he had his brushes with the law.
— Yeah, the bank robbery. What was he thinking? I heard he died a ways back.
— Did he?
— I believe so, yes.
Blackie pulled out a Hobo almanac and reminded me that some robber baron was born on this day a long time ago. I told him I had never heard of the man. Then he pointed out that 100 years ago today, the IWW was founded. "How about that? Today is the centennial of the Wobblies!" And so it is.
Blackie then gave me a "free sample" of his poetry. I can't say I'm a fan; the rhyming of every other line makes me read just the rhymes rather than the words. However, I did notice that the sheet he gave me advertises a $30.00 price for his book of poetry, while the card in the loo advertises it for 10.
Recently, I have been trying to figure out whether it is better to think that things happen for a reason. Perhaps my reason for going to REI was not to indulge a thirst for lighter weight packs but to connect somehow to a fellow who has hitched a ride on the northbound freight. Godspeed, Road Hog!
Posted by Underblog at 9:07 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
June 15, 2005
Jim
I was responsible for turning Jim onto Lambrettas. He and I lived at this flophouse on Rausch Alley known as the Crossroads and he had admired my SX200. He knew that Lambretta's were what you wanted; Vespa's were simply too tinny. I took Jim over to the Batcave and before long he had a Series II TV175 of his own. He would smoke Winston's and talk about how he was going to ride it to Seattle and visit his kids, who had gone with their mom when she left him.
Jim had a pretty impressive résumé, but he was frank about the mental collapse that had thrown his life into chaos. Many people at the Crossroads had similar stories: bad luck or bad genes (or a combination of the two) had landed them there, at the last rung above homelessness. For me, after living in the Rambler, it was a step up. For others (like Jim) it was a step down. The scooter, however, was a very large step up from the bus: For Jim no less than the rest of us, it symbolized freedom.
He spent long hours every day at the Batcave fixing up the Series II. His purposeful ignoring of its cosmetics was refreshing. When the sidepanels were rusty, he primed them and left them unpainted. The primer attracted dirt, but it protected the metal underneath. He was content to leave the passenger seat uncovered; he wasn't taking on passengers. While the piston broke in, Jim would go on rides with us to Palo Alto or the airport.
He did make the trip to Seattle on his scooter. Evidently the scooter performed flawlessly. He described motorscootering long distances as more like flying than like driving. But something had changed in him: His cynical distrust of institutions had morphed into something more paranoid. It was going to take more than riding a scooter from San Francisco to Seattle to win back the love of his family.
The Crossroads had fallen into receivership and the new manager was an untrustworthy and greedy lawyer; I worked for him anyway. Eventually we all claimed some rights as tenants and got a small settlement. I lost track of Jim as I built a new life around working in cafés and flirting. The next time I saw him he scared the Bejeebles out of me: His hair had gone totally wild and his always penetrating eyes seemed even more so. He smelled of the street. "Eric Webster" he declared with some finality. We talked for a while and parted. Several years later I was living on Clementina Alley (still south of Market!) when I saw him again. He looked cadaverous. His eyes were all that spoke. In them I looked for recognition but saw only fear. I shivered as if I had seen a ghost. It was the last time I saw him.
At the Crossroads one night, Jim and I once argued over which version of "Mr. Tamborine Man" was better, the Byrds' or Dylan's. In typical mod fashion and with the hubris of youth I claimed the former. Jim thought otherwise. He claimed that the Byrds owed their careers to Dylan. Come to think of it, he was probably right about that too.
Posted by Underblog at 6:33 AM | Comments (4) | TrackBack
June 2, 2005
Résumé
The shortest item on my résumé is the entry for 1992-1998. "Nutglade Station: Owner-operator cafe, bar, and bed & breakfast. Did it all." Words do not seem to do justice to my involvement with the six year project.
It was an incredible learning experience, socially, politically, and economically. I began bright-eyed and optimisitic and left having learned lessons completely different than those I expected to learn. As with the most important lessons, I learned mostly about myself: what I could and could not do, what I could and could not expect of others (e.g. the public), and what the fun and distinctly unfun parts of operating a business were.
I also learned that worklife problems are secondary to personal problems: Nutglade was the first major test of our new marriage, which was quite literally born there.
I have delayed creating a proper homage to Nutglade, perhaps out of fear of all the emotions it will dredge up; saying goodbye to Nutglade was the first time Roomie ever saw me really cry. Babies will eventually grow up to break your heart, and Nutglade was no exception.
While Nutglade liberated me to make full use of all my faculties (from designing posters for the acts we hosted in the bar to schmoozing with the Sheriff), it was also extremely confining. I did not choose my friends, but rather they chose me: My worklife was my social life. Vacations were few and far between, I forewent my education, and nearly every day of the year was scripted. It is hard to imagine moving to a place for the scenery and spending so little time admiring it.
Despite the exhaustion I feel merely in recalling my worklife there, I miss it sometimes. The people, the sense of knowing what I am going to do next, participation in a real community. But I wouldn't go back there without one Hell of a budget.
Posted by Underblog at 6:43 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
May 31, 2005
False Pretenses
Saturday, we went to REI. I confess that we purchased the Dog Dome, if for no other reason than to silence the on-going discussion on the topic of whether the dog would sleep in it. (She does, but she does not like it as much as we had hoped. I suspect that she will "condition" herself to it well, however.) While at the store Roomie noticed an upcoming event "Boundary Waters 101." On Sunday, we made a date for this evening to check it out: Smarty-pants may not know it all, after all.
When I got home from work today, I asked if my date would be interested in "dining out" at IKEA, our recent guilty pleasure (though not an expensive one) beforehand. I should have known better. Traffic was light and we had plenty of time to listen to Human League, Tommy TuTone, and something that sounded a lot like New Order. Too much time in fact, and after our Jumbo Dogs, Lingonberry pop, and softee-style frozen yogurt, we arrived at REI 45 minutes early.
We wander about the store, committing to memory every item of even the remotest interest: 68 lb. canoes (too heavy); enormous six-person tents (too many people too close); Buzz-Off™ clothing (too expensive); tungsten fry pan (too small for bannock); microfiber shorts (not in my size); tarp poles (could be useful, hmm, 2 * 12 oz = 1.5 lbs); the tent stake department (the arrow stakes are now sold in red-anodized—sexy!). The most tempting thing was a pair of little tubes for squeezable food along the trail. I remember my mom having identical ones when she was in her Sierra Club phase back in the mid-1970s.
— Let's just get the tubes and go home.
— I should have known better than to give you the reward before the lecture. [Heads toward door.]
— Soft frozen yogurt. . . But let's get the tube things.
— Enh.
— They're cheap.
— What'll we use them for?
— Peanut butter.
— And what will we put the peanut butter on?
— [Pauses] Bannock.
Case closed.
Posted by Underblog at 7:28 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
May 3, 2005
Boring Dream Fragment
<dream>
Even my dreams are boring lately. I recall that I was talking with two other Yanks about the time they spent in Berlin. One was describing that he lived close to the Wall in the French sector (which I supposed to be near Wedding). The other claimed that he too was near the Wall, but that the streets were named after American states. [I don't recall any streets named after American states in Berlin].
</dream>
There are three possible bases for this dream, at least on the dimension that I can perceive.
- earlier in the day I had been thinking about how nice it would be to visit my sister in Italy again. The unintended consequence of establishing the principle that your kids leave the house after high school is that they make lives for themselves far away from their parents. The result of this in turn is that we children visit our parents California and Maryland, but not nearly as often the other siblings in their native environment. This is a shame.
- I did stay in the French sector of Berlin. Freienwalderstraße to be precise. On my way to the apartment for the first time, I rode my Laverda on the Stadtring and overshot Freienwalderstr. and began to cross a bridge, where a guard armed with a submachine stepped out beneath a huge sign "YOU ARE LEAVING THE FRENCH SECTOR." Welcome to Berlin.
- I had too many sweets yesterday: a Dr. Pepper at lunch, a Kit-Kat at the office, a Capri-Sun at home, and ice cream for dessert. This may also explain why I awoke at 4:41 am.
Posted by Underblog at 6:31 AM | Comments (6) | TrackBack
April 17, 2005
What Was That Called Again?
Back in 1987 or so, I worked for a San Francisco designer. She was Japanese, as were most of her clients. One of the highlights of my employment there was when Tokyo: Form and Spirit" came to SF-MOMA. I was especially taken with a lecture we attended on an idiomatically Japanese concept, a term for both the passing of the seasons and the sadness associated with the passing of the seasons. I forget the term, and it is maddeningly frustrating to try and look up a term in a language that one knows all of three words. The closest I have been able to find is this entry by Jonathan Delacourt.
The graphic designer was the last employer I truly treated shabbily. I told her I was going to Italy for a few weeks or maybe a month, and then I spent six months over there without sending her so much as a postcard. Needless to say, she was not interested in hiring me when I returned and I never put her down as a reference. And here I am, witnessing the changing of the seasons, and yet feeling some sadness at it.
Posted by Underblog at 8:15 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
April 3, 2005
Bartending
Shouts a neighbor:
—How were your steaks last night?
—Excellent. But I had the swordfish. Also excellent. Neat place. Good drinks too.
—My son's teacher tends bar there.
—What is your son learning?
[Laughter] Mixers this week, Next week he does blender drinks.
—Invite me over for the final exam!
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