I bought a motorcycle

Motorcycles scared hell out of me. I wouldn’t touch the Triumph bike that my friend Adam bought last summer. I carried around the reconisably preposterous assumption that a motorcycle will, if given a chance, fall upon or mug me. Adam insisted that he felt anxious about motorcycles too previous to completing the Motorcycle Safety Foundation Course -- the operative word here being ‘previous.’ The course, he told me, assuaged a good deal -- not all -- of his unease about these powerful compact machines. He gushed about the confidence the course gives a rider; he fell reticent when I asked about the issue of other road drivers. He rallied back at the 4 day course price : $25. I’m ashamed to admit that $25 sits perfectly within my cost horizon of self-improvement. I pay less than that for a good dinner, so why not invest it towards abolition of a phobia? When the 2010 course registration opened in February, Adam sent me the web link. I signed up within hours, taking the first May weekend course. And so the man terrified of motorcycles (which I admitted to the course instructors) received top marks on the Motorcycle Safety Foundation Program written and road exams, the gold standard for new rider training. Pat on the back, OK?

I didn’t think much about which motorcycle to buy. The Kawasaki Ninja fits my personality and needs seemingly perfectly. It helped a lot that I know a Ninja owner who gave good reviews. Tiffany had a lot of good things to say about her Ninja 250 (which she bought practically new from a woman in Kansas City). The N250 receives near universal praise as the gold-standard ‘beginner’s bike.’ I wondered in the long-term whether the Ninja 500 made greater sense. Would I ‘outgrow’ the N250 as many motorcycle reviews cautioned? I did research into this question and largely chased my own tail -- thanks, Internet! So, I asked breathing humans.

I brought up the bike search to a student. He was enthusiastic. A relative of his buys and sells bikes, and he will enter the buying market when finished with school. I mentioned the Ninja and he kept up the enthusiasm until I said that I’d get a 250; he actually recoiled, as if a spider walked over my shoulder, and lectured me (a disconcerting reversal) which I paraphrase for brevity and grammar: “a 250 makes no sense, professor. If you buy it new, the dealer will rip you off for a thousand dollars over the MSRP; a used bike you never know how the owner abused or neglected it and you’ll still over-pay.” OK, I countered, but a car buyer faces the same problems. These scams are inherent to any purchase. “True,” he replies, “but the N250 is the bottom of the bike heap. You’ll sell that bike next year for a more powerful bike like a N500 anyway and never get for the N250 what you paid.” I found this argument hard to parry. He saw his advantage and pushed forward, “look on Craigslist, professor; everybody sells their 250." I felt pretty stupid, but I respected this wisdom. Passing a safety course readied me for the motorcycle world in the way that learning to swim prepares one for life in the Navy. Seductive and wholly inadequate. That night I looked at the Craigslist entries and felt additionally stupid. The student spoke the truth: the N250 is overwhelmingly represented in sales to the N500. Still, I couldn’t join his conclusion that the N250 equals a bad investment. What I saw in the student/Craigslist experience was a classic correlation/causation relationship. Further research clearly needed conducted because I had to admit lots of riders know things that I do not.

I talked to three colleagues about the N250 v N500 debate. Each of them set me at ease that no meaningful difference in maintenance/mechanics/logistics exists to justify spending more on the N500. That settled, I moved on to the desire to ride into either Chicago or Detroit (both approximately 150 miles away). The responses, if I didn’t know better, could have been scripted: they each said “get the N500." What? They each cited the vague notion of ‘power’ when pressed on the reason. Each assured me moments ago that no meaningful difference existed between the bikes except for, of course, the N500’s larger engine. Now, a 150 mile drive necessitates the additional $2000 towards the N500? I felt lost, so, back to the Internet! A handful of motorcycle review websites make similar claims about highway use. None of the websites though make specific mechanical/logistic reasons for advising away N250 riders from the highway. It especially bothered the researcher/critic in me, that those knowledgeable in the cycling field cannot give a better example than ‘highway = power = 500.’ I don't drive into either city but once per month as it is; still, I find it hard to square that idea of a 150 mile drive bringing ruin down on a modern-day N250. But, back to what I might not know... putting down three to four thousand dollars on a bike not wisely driven into the cities would make me a mighty disappointed man.


Wednesday night I found a Craigslist post for a Ninja 250 in Holland.

Thursday afternoon I found the website Ninja 250 Rider’s Club. I signed up as a new user to their forum area and posted a summary of my dilemma. I expected very little. What I received instead was a response tsunami -- some anecdotal, some hard-core mechanical. The forum users took patience with a newbie and wrote thoughtful responses; whereas I worried like hell about getting the 4chan treatment. The most valuable response directed me to the Ninja 250 Wiki. Reading through it for hours, I went to sleep Thursday feeling certain that the N250 qualified as the best fit.

Friday morning I secured a loan through my credit union. The purchase of the motorcycle took most of Friday, of which I can complain not one bit.

Two related notes of embarrassment: during the test ride with the seller and Adam watching nearby, I couldn’t remember how to start a motorcycle. I accepted a swift reminder, curved away through the seller’s neighbourhood where an eighth mile away the bike stalled. The lessons from the MSF class took hold: don’t panic, cycle through the checklist of fuel, clutch, gears, engine cut-off, Choke. I remembered/found the Choke after 5 minutes of standing stupidly on the road’s shoulder but only after making a distress call to the seller.

Friday afternoon the bike legally belonged to me. It's a beauty: 2008, 1800 miles, no physical damage, red, stock.
When I walked out of the Secretary of State's office, I chatted with Derrick over the phone and the reality of owning a motorcycle -- my first -- hit like a punch. A punch of awesome.

The seller drove the bike to my house and I returned him home. Back at my place, with the bike and I alone for the first time, I secured the license tag with anxious relish. The neighbours and I chatted about the bike (Mark thinks I’ll pop wheelies and attend Bike Week events, Kim thinks I’ll be conservative to keep insurance premiums down. She’s the most accurate of the two). I took the bike around my neighbourhood streets to practice the very basics: shifting, stopping, turning, etc. I stalled it twice though didn’t need five minutes and a sheepish phone call to resolve the problem. After half an hour of confidence building manouevres, I moved onto moderate streets at 35m/h. I recall Adam’s comment earlier that day “you’ll feel you’re driving 80m/h, only to look down and see the speedometer at 40m/h” because he was right. Driving along State Street (speed limit 35m/h) I felt certain the bike hurtled along at 50m/h and shocked to see the needle fluttering at 30m/h. Wow. Motorcycles make a reasonable person feel like an old car driver: normal speeds seem excessive. I eventually progressed to a 50m/h three-lane street -- with stop lights! -- which served a great excuse to accomplish two things, both on Holland’s north side: dinner and a visit to Adam and Tiffany. (Credit where due: Adam accompanied me all through the purchase process, like a good friend!). Tiffany hadn’t yet returned from work, so he and I chatted while he attempted to repair a problem with her 2005 N250. The sun fell lower and lower. I realised that, whether I wanted it or not, I was going to get my first night drive. Of course, I arrived home safely and happy: 47 miles in a few hours on the first day of motorcycle ownership.

Taking stock that night before bed, I learned three things: 1) people -- pedestrians and inside cars -- stare at bike riders. 2) the four wheel automobile drivers, are appallingly inconsiderate. 3) motorcycle riders acknowledge each other using hand or head gestures.

Saturday afternoon, I rode to Grand Haven to visit a colleague who invited me to do so if I bought the bike. The trip challenged me on a few fronts: unfamiliar roads, wind gusts, lots of traffic. I confess to losing ever so slight control of the bike on a left curve. The wind pushed from the right and I failed to adequately slow down. My bike went a few inches over the shoulder’s white line. I felt embarrassed. That would qualify as a penalty within the MSF exam. I cleared my mind of anxiety as the class instructs riders to practice and continued on my ride (though making the mental note to practice these curves in future).

Saturday night, I rode into Saugatuck and Douglas along the back roads (32nd to 64th St) and loved it. Lovely straight country roads and summer sunshine. No errors in handling that time. You know who made errors? GODDAMN tourists who can’t figure out what the hell they’re doing DESPITE their GPS units providing soothing instructions. Turn signals, assholes; can you use them?

So ends the first twenty-four hours of being a bike owner. Adam reminds me that I’m not yet a Jedi. No, I need the proper gear: two jackets, one mesh and one leather. Then, perhaps I’ll be properly ordained. He’s one to talk, though; that guy hasn’t yet taken his bike onto the highway. Can’t blame him. That shit is scary.

A golden age

The concept developed with stealth. When I noticed its presence, driving southbound US-31 from lunch, it seemed perfectly benign in the context of philosophy: a natural part of the mental décor, like a bathmat or planter to a house. I live right now in a personal golden age. That sounds awfully grand; pretentious, even, and if so perhaps due its immediacy on the page. The idea, as mentioned, must have developed organically over time as not to cause alarm when noticed. Maybe my brain built a defence mechanism? Anyway, like the best clichés, the threat of its going away helped to notice that I had a golden age at all.

A ‘golden age’ is identified by contrast: how one characterises the ages before and after the one under inquiry. Those of Anglo extraction commonly trace a link to the reign of Elizabeth I of England. That era of English history is known as England’s ‘golden age’ for its relative domestic peace and prosperity. A lovely allegorical portrait of said qualities exists right here. The time before good ‘ole Bess sat her ass on the throne is noted by historians as gruesome religious/civil violence. Guess what defining qualities are best remembered in the era after Bess’ throne warming ass?

If I split the term ‘age’ into a calendar year, the most recent -- starting with the house purchase exactly one year ago -- two words apply completely, honestly and beautifully: Peace and Prosperity. Meaning, that... oh shit. Something’s going to happen. Before pessimism gets the better of me (hah!), some detail needs attention.

When living in a golden age, one wants what one wants when one wants it and on one’s own terms. Why? Because the good days will seemingly never end.

Last month my boss announced at a department meeting that our hours of operations may return to 24/7 from their present 16/5. I had a goddamn fit. Retaining a ‘normal,’ reliable schedule count as one of the greatest benefits of working in this department. Losing the schedule to something far more capricious - and to a process best described as an internecine melée - sends my brain into a spiral of melancholy. Yet, some context changes the manner of my response. In the intimate context, in my immediate family I am lucky to have full-time employment. My mother and one brother remains unemployed well over a year. The other brother recently lost (maybe regained) his job. My dad (luckily?) can no longer work due to a medical problem and will remain on disability for the rest of his life. In a larger social context, I live in the state with the nation’s highest unemployment rate (14.9%). Considering a possible work schedule change from either of these perspectives gives me pause; nobody in these hypothetical schedule revision meetings mentioned a thing about layoffs, so what exactly are the reasons for my distress? 14.9% of the state may well consider me a selfish little bastard, complaining about receiving strawberry jam instead of raspberry jam on his sandwich while other people are hungry. My relatives, I glean through casual conversation, enforce the notion that employment on any schedule counts as a medium-grade miracle.

The college changed, under duress, the hiring process of part-time faculty. The process by which administration assigned courses to PTF went into the air roughly simultaneous to the changes at my ‘day job.’ Too much uncertainty! Not to let the anxiety simmer, senior people within the college’s administration either quit, retired or accepted different positions. Shifting sands! Relationships with people I built at the college evaporated, seemingly overnight. Thus far, the administration treated me very well, assigning to me numerous challenging classes in Holland and making themselves available to help when I asked. Two fears surfaced within days of learning of the administrative turmoil: that the college could not offer any summer courses and second, that I’d lose the preference to work within the Lakeshore campus.The first fear came not to pass. The college offered me an a summer course. The second fear lingers, as said course meets in Grand Rapids. Because I seemingly live in a personal golden age, I felt aggrieved by the assignment. The Grand Rapids course doesn’t fit my preference. I like the income. I dislike the location. One fear possibly realised seems too much. That seems petulant.

Maybe the ‘golden age’ is instead an age of selfishness; that the resources (including time) at my disposal feed a machine of self-interest (my house, my whims, my vacation) rather than something larger. At 31, am I hearing a biological clock? Last week I thought about creating a bumper sticker reading “Britney Spears Can Have Children But I Can’t?”

Perhaps the culture of ‘having it your way’ crept into my worldview.

Perhaps my life needs shaken up by challenges. Life is going too well. I can’t shake this suspicion.

Body conscious

I have the habit of stepping onto the bathroom scale every day. The scale is pretty: an Ikea white plastic and glass design.
Last night, 136.5; Monday, 136.0. This weekend at the gym, I caught a glimpse of my stomach in a mirror during a set of chin-ups. A voice -- my own -- clearly and calmly claimed that, ‘you can’t go to the beach like this.’ Landed on my feet, I felt dizzy. What the fuck was that?

A small bulge at the navel drives me to distraction. It resists eradication in spite of a healthy diet and general exercise (plus targeted routines including crunches, leg lifts, and knee-ups). My present waist in size in the ready-made pants analogy is 30. I look into the mirror to grimace while pivoting left and right. Why will it not go away? Every day I cover up in a small t-shirt, aggravated. When engaged in conversations of diet/fitness, the intransigent bulge invariably arises and the other person invariably says some version of “you’re not fat.” Which isn’t the point.

The “once a fatty, always a fatty” paradigm exists. This nasty truth is, well, nasty. I didn’t expect it. It seems like a post-modern version of the ‘you can take a boy out of the jungle...’ cliche. I’m neither dumb nor anorexic (can a double negative fly here?). For a man my age and height, the quantitative stuff reads well. I know this. My doctor told me this. What in hell keeps the body consciousness around after losing fifty pounds? Why the use of italics? Anyway, knowing that my perception is warped by a cognitive dissonance sucks. I feel confident in handling the quantitative. Numbers represents goals that I can reach through effort and work. The problem doesn’t lie in the quantitative but qualitative; that’s a fight I’m less confident to engage. Subjectivity is a vehicle used to my detriment. Qualitatively speaking, no reason exists to feel ashamed/embarrassed about my body (aside from a bit of paleness).

My fear is that, after months of working on this little bit of body, the exertion comes to a lot of shadow-boxing. In other words, that I’m battling the missing fifth and sixth pieces of the ‘six pack’ instead of something more important. Perhaps I’m fighting a skewed perception.

I need a hobby

The Winter term began.

Ciela is limping after Ryu inexplicably chased her through the house.

It’s 2010.

The Spanish course my employed paid for went to waste. I didn’t use it.

The number of area friends I have now is the same as three years back.

Enthusiasm for house projects waxes, wanes.

I owe the bank $0 for the Passat.

Time at the office feels wasted. Motivation comes at a premium.

Apple (may? will?) releases a Tablet today.

The State of the Union speech is definitely today.

I need a hobby.

What kind of skull?

JD Salinger died. NPR’s obituary on yesterday’s “All Things Considered” brought out tears.
Fine, that likely means I’m a phony. Fine. If I must be a phony, let its awful presence exist in public.

What kind of skull do I want to have when I’m dead? Yorick’s honourable goddamn skull. That skull. I want to feel in love with Yorick’s skull. That skull; the object of envy.

My skull, according to R1 wisdom, is a third rate dome stuffed with second rate brains. My skull opens (the jaw is part of a skull, right?) to push out the pedestrian. My skull, destined for the Museum of the Possibly Interesting but Probably Not. The museum across the way from where the Indians, Africans, and jade chips reside. Precocious primary school children with gold stars adjacent their name are rewarded with a day trip to the latter museum; the disappointing, the dull Middle children of Miss Kellen’s third grade go to my museum. Maybe they’ll see my skull.

My goddamn skull.

I didn’t always scorn my skull. The stuff inside my skull, once upon a time, earned honours; my skull travelled the globe, lay on pillows next to desirable men. My stuff inside my skull emulated foreign accents. Nostalgia for a skull not present.

Alas, poor skull; who knows you?

My goddamn skull.

It's 704a, Tuesday

I was alone at the cafe twenty minutes ago; now there are three others. Two of the three brought bibles, the third reads a thick maths book while holding a thick calculator.

Yesterday, a coworker went to the photo gallery of this site. “Your pictures won’t load,” he said. I confirmed this with a frown. “I like to look at your pictures when it’s dead like this at the office,” he explained (unnecessarily but welcome). “I should update that site during dead times like this at the office,” I responded (unnecessarily). From the refused pictures I realised the thirty-plus days since the last update here embraces my meeting a new person who agreed to date.

I notice that my writing output, either public or private, dwindles during times of personal changes. By that I mean, writing production reduces as uncertainty increases. Perhaps it’s a matter of trust? I don’t trust myself to write honestly; that i’ll express feelings poorly, immaturely, so express nothing at all. It’s some form of escapism. Virginia Woolf wrote that nothing ever happens until it is written down. She likely meant that for the wonderful things deserving posterity though it applies without a doubt to the situations one wishes could be forgotten.

You must be tired

Derrick is in and out of doctor’s offices, newly starting physical therapy; he endures routine injections for pain management for a condition unrelated to the initial week-long hospital stay; the extended unemployment makes him stir crazy; a ceiling fan fell from its moorings to demolish his laptop laying defenceless on a coffee table below. He tells me these things and says, “you must be tired.”

Two weeks including Canada

The summer term officially ended (for me) yesterday. Two weeks until the beginning (for me) of the Autumn term. Two weeks I should fill with productivity -- but won’t -- catch up on my reading -- but won’t -- could catch up on my travelling -- and will! Yes, when it’s leisure there’s not much cause to avoid. Derrick agreed to watch Ryu for a week whilst I head to Canada. A good ole’ fashioned American road trip, in Canada. Three days in Ottawa, three days in Toronto makes for a awfully decent potential vacation. I’ve not ever been to Ottawa. Why not see the country’s capital? I hear it’s dreadfully boring but I heard similar opinions about Canberra. Those turned out to be mostly true -- but! -- for a day, one can’t go wrong with sightseeing; plus, one shouldn’t pass any opportunity to hassle some Feds. Ottawa’s geography makes it an attractive destination, as it’s across a river from Quebec. Quebec, many may already be familiar, is France in Canada. Yes! Flannel wearing Canadians speaking French. C’est un bon monde! I’ve not practised French with any seriousness since Sophomore year in college. It’ll be a lot of fun to be, tangentially, in a French-speaking country. Maybe I’m not fair to Ottawa, singings its praises for what it cannot change: being near la Francophonie. Anyway, I’m looking forward to the very long drive to Ottawa from Detroit: 10hrs says Google Maps. Nobody break into my house!

Motherfuckers

Matt, Adam and I paid for our respective dinner at New Holland Brewery Thursday night without our respective credit cards. Debit cards, in the latter cases. She’s going to charge you for my pizza, Adam predicted. We have identical debit cards. I grimly agreed that the odds of a screw up were large, especially so considering we three invested the last 10 minutes cataloguing the waitress’ deficiencies.

(sidebar: the painfully handsome guy who comes into the cafe every day and is also a student at the seminary just made out with his waspish girlfriend. man, you can do so much better than her!)

The waitress returns to our table apologising... we knew it! Sir, do you have another form of payment. She’s looking at me. Adam and Matt look at me. I look blankly. Adam offers a story our cousin bank cards declining lately for their own reasons. I hand over my Chase card. She cheerfully takes it and wanders away into the back. Our conversation returns to the inexplicable nature of credit cards and their inexplicable habit of making people feel like deadbeats. Oh well, she’s back and it’s time to go. I’m sorry, sir. This card is expired. It expired in August. The $10 from my earlier ATM stop can’t be refused, right? What the fuck is going on?

Plans for the gym? Strike. Plans for coffee in Saugatuck? Nope. Plans for reading? Nuh-uh. Home to check credit cards? Yeeesssss.

To make a long story slightly less long, I discovered that somebody stole my checking account information. Two pending debits appear in my checking account: on for $22 from an Ihop and one for $220 from a Publix, in that order. Now, having lived in the South I happened to know that there are not any Publix on the Michigan side of Cincinnati. I also know that, having been the boyfriend of a vehement food snob, Ihop couldn’t *pay* me to eat $22 worth of their food, these two transactions are totally bogus. I called the emergency number on the back of debit card. The woman canceled the card with a formality I found odd only later. Then I called the credit union emergency number next. They advised going into the nearest branch at first open. The Holland office opens at 9a. It is currently 844a. C’mon.... C’mon!...

Having money stolen from you is pretty awful. What’s slightly less awful is that the amount isn’t very much by some standards. My colleague Ayman had thousands of dollars taken from his checking account. Some scheme operated by an organisation in England deducted pennies from his account, which he understandably didn’t notice, then removed the much larger amount days later. The salt rubbed into the wound though was that Ayman was on vacation in Lebanon when the fraud happened. His bank, as he tells it, took care of the situation by closing the account, opening a new one and returning the stolen money. Without knowing what my credit union will do in this situation, I can only hope that they behave with the due diligence as Ayman’s bank: they trace the transaction, close my account and give me back the stolen money. $240 may not be much money to some people but it’s a goddamn fortune for me. Oh! And the salt in my wounds is that the motherfuckers overdrew my checking account. Fuck you, thieves!

The manager of the local credit union branch confirmed that no less than five debits came through my account Thursday night from Palm Beach County, Florida. Each transaction required a separate printout for me to sign and date confirming their fraudulent nature. The manager then sent them via fax to what I assume is their fraud department in Grand Rapids where I further assume someone pushed buttons allowing the money be returned to my account.

On the whole this incident, while shitty, was largely painless. A new debit card is on its way and is expected next week. I cannot pay until it arrives. The book on order from Amazon rejected. What money taken was returned the same day. Props to the credit union for handling the incident with professionalism. I want to follow up with the branch manager on Monday out of curiosity as to how they’ll handle this situation. So far as they’re concerned, some people stole hundreds of dollars from them. It’s not only me saying “fuck you, thieves!” My credit union must be thinking “let’s file felony charges!”

May I pray for you?

My head was splitting. An occupational hazard of teaching is smelling fumes of dry-erase markers. The class was nearly finished anyway, so I cut my lecture short allowing them to leave. The headache heralded a migraine; difficult to look at the book, torture to think and speak. They filed out. One student stayed behind. He stood nearer the door to where I stood near the board packing things up. I hoped that whatever he needed would be simple, a ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ and better yet could be answered on the way to the car park. Stuffing papers and books into my bag I noticed two things, both of which alarm me and cast overboard the hope of a simple exchange. First, this guy is young; or, at least, he looks very young. Seemingly no more than seventeen but surely at least nineteen (it is a 200-level course, after all). That thought had not fully formed when the second hit me: he’s shaking. He walked over to the table strewn with my stuff with what I describe in hindsight a hesitant swiftness: moving with a speed that could fail at any moment. He comes to a stop, a stuttered termination of motion that matches his voice. He has a question but doesn’t know how to ask it. Say it, I suggest with what I hope is an assuring smile (who can say, when one has a headache? i could also have inadvertently sneered). Spit it out, don’t worry.

He asks about my headache. I point to the markers -- occupational hazard, I explain. The chemicals are unkind. He shakes, standing to my left. I have something to ask and I hope you won’t be offended. Okay. Let’s hear it.

I heard the voice of God.

Okay.

When you said that your head felt like it was “splitting open” (in the interest of editorial disclosure, I am terribly clever with imagery) I heard God’s voice tell me to pray for you. For the pain. Some people might be offended, and I’m not trying to offend you at all but it’s something I really need to ask. If I can pray for you.

Oh. Well, okay. I shift weight from foot to foot. But you don’t need my permission to pray.

He doesn’t look at all relieved. He continues to tremble and stare at the desk. Well, he said, I need to...

His hand is over my head, just touching my hair. I look at him. His eyes are still downcast. Several moments pass like this. Triangular. Finally he speaks: Lord, I pray that you will take Professor Martin’s headache....

90 minutes later, I had eaten dinner and walked the dog. Laying down for bed, I wondered whether to report this incident to the dean. Switching off the light, the regret of not taking two ibuprofen knocked against my temples.