I was appointed Tail Gunner. This position, in a group of bikers, is the last biker in the line. Years ago it was assigned only to the most experienced rider. The Tail Gunner would stay with anyone who breaks down. He needed to know the trip directions and have above average mechanical ability. But since my Dad started riding in the 1950's things have changed.
Now the Tail Gunner only needs a cell phone. That's it.
The whole group twitters. Large screen GPS systems are handlebar mounted next to the satellite radio.
So, as we used EZ pass to pay the Throgs Neck Bridge toll, my mind began to drift. What has time done to bikers?
On an early morning run my Dad's 1947 Harley Knucklehead would wake up his parents. Since my Irish Grandfather was a Golden Gloves boxer, the bike was started half a block away. Other bikers in the group would have to meet up at a specific location and time or miss the ride.
Last Saturday I received a 6 AM text message "Done with your Latte yet?" Only Andrew, the toughest of bikers, would have the guts to ask such a question. Andrew spent countless hours mapping out the Mt. Greylock and Mohawk Trail ride. He checked the mountain's historical significance twice, knowing full well about the wrath he encountered at a Diner in Newburgh.
Andrew joined multiple blogging groups to understand each pothole in the road ahead. He emailed all those invited with the final plan, highlighting the hairpin turns. A Dunkin Donuts coupon was attached to the email signaling good times ahead.
To prevent Rich (Sometimes call Rick. I'm not sure why.) from bailing out of the ride Andrew posted happy motivational thoughts on his Facebook wall.
Just after the Korean War my Dad and his friends had tattoos. Tats were a very rebellious statement before being accepted by society. Now ink-work is done at the mall.
None of the bikers on last Saturday's road trip has a tattoo. Are we rebelling against rebellion being accepted? Do tough guys need barbwire tats?
Dad told me that when gas stations were closed small quantities could be taken from the pump-hose. It was enough to get about half a tank.
Gas stations that close at night? Times sure have changed.
Mt. Greylock, MA had about four gas stops. All of which was done using credit cards at the pump. (No need to climb off the bike and meet the drunk cashier pedaling lottery tickets.)
Gas wasn't always the primary reason to stop. One time it was because of heavy rain. The next stop was for dry socks. Yes, we found socks for sale at a gas station.
My Dad taught me that counter-steering while locking up the rear wheel is the quickest way to turn in a panic. "It makes the bike twist in an unnatural way but it works."
Dan, the biker with soggy socks, rides a Yamaha FJR1300. It's a very advanced motorcycle with anti lock braking and fuel injection. (No, it won't stop the rain.) Bikes today won't let you lock up either wheel while braking. And some bikes will automatically apply the other brake if you only use only one brake.
Dad loved drinking beer and smoking cigarettes while telling exaggerated biker stories.
I drink black coffee and blog.
The more things change the more they stay the same.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Escaping Electricity
It started as a nutty idea. Some maniac in the family decided that we need to travel in to the woods and pitch a tent. Spend good time and money to get back to nature.
I have a better idea. We can just lay in the grass, invading the space of an unsuspecting neighbor. A coffee machine perking just a few feet away from the pool.
Or we can read Henry David Thoreau and have a informal group discussion. The concept of 'getting back' to nature is like people getting back in shape. Most people think they were once in shape but, in reality, we were all just young.
Growing up in Queens, nature was located in the abandon lot near Aqueduct racetrack. It's still there, I checked via google Earth.
My parents had the same misconception of a vacation. We spent weeks at a time in the Catskills. A large canvas tent barely kept out the frequent rain if you didn't touch the sides. It was the only type of vacation my parents could budget. It's good to have those memories.
Lisa's side of the family began my rural nightmare in 1991. They waited until I was married then sprung it on me. On the first trip it rained so much we left. My brother in law, Pasquale, was yelling "With the money I spent on this tent I should have bought a @#$% canoe!"
He was cursed with a nylon tent. You don't even have to touch the sides for them to leak. That should have ended camping forever. But Lisa's family continued to book campsites all over New York State. Year after year I would be dragged to visit the possible filming location for the movie Deliverance.
To help ease the pain I recruited other family members. Last weekend my niece Jennifer opted instead for a Horror Convention in Rochester. Can you imagine a vacation so twisted that a horror convention is the better option?
When we added some reluctant friends to the camping list it became less like camping and more like a large outdoor picnic. Alcohol being the next helpful ingredient.
Mongaup Pond has poor fishing but some attempted nonetheless. Canoeing is a popular pastime.
Everyone vocally pondered things around the campfire. "How many stars can you see?" "If Pluto is a dog, what is Goofy?" "What's your dream job?" (Note: No one picked Forrest Ranger... or Elevator Mechanic)
The kids played charades and telephone. (The youngest now being Rebecca at age 12.)
Almost twenty Summers later, Pasquale & Karen now own a pop-up trailer. Billy put a large magnet poster on that same trailer "I love gay porn".
Many of my nieces and nephews are no longer kids. I laughed as they reminisced about prior years of rainy camping weather when they were young.
No texting in the Catskills. I doubt the locals even know what it is. Battery operated radios are the only connection to a civilized society. My three angels adjusted well to the Amish lifestyle because they know it's temporary. The poke wars will resume shortly.
I have a better idea. We can just lay in the grass, invading the space of an unsuspecting neighbor. A coffee machine perking just a few feet away from the pool.
Or we can read Henry David Thoreau and have a informal group discussion. The concept of 'getting back' to nature is like people getting back in shape. Most people think they were once in shape but, in reality, we were all just young.
Growing up in Queens, nature was located in the abandon lot near Aqueduct racetrack. It's still there, I checked via google Earth.
My parents had the same misconception of a vacation. We spent weeks at a time in the Catskills. A large canvas tent barely kept out the frequent rain if you didn't touch the sides. It was the only type of vacation my parents could budget. It's good to have those memories.
Lisa's side of the family began my rural nightmare in 1991. They waited until I was married then sprung it on me. On the first trip it rained so much we left. My brother in law, Pasquale, was yelling "With the money I spent on this tent I should have bought a @#$% canoe!"
He was cursed with a nylon tent. You don't even have to touch the sides for them to leak. That should have ended camping forever. But Lisa's family continued to book campsites all over New York State. Year after year I would be dragged to visit the possible filming location for the movie Deliverance.
To help ease the pain I recruited other family members. Last weekend my niece Jennifer opted instead for a Horror Convention in Rochester. Can you imagine a vacation so twisted that a horror convention is the better option?
When we added some reluctant friends to the camping list it became less like camping and more like a large outdoor picnic. Alcohol being the next helpful ingredient.
Mongaup Pond has poor fishing but some attempted nonetheless. Canoeing is a popular pastime.
Everyone vocally pondered things around the campfire. "How many stars can you see?" "If Pluto is a dog, what is Goofy?" "What's your dream job?" (Note: No one picked Forrest Ranger... or Elevator Mechanic)
The kids played charades and telephone. (The youngest now being Rebecca at age 12.)
Almost twenty Summers later, Pasquale & Karen now own a pop-up trailer. Billy put a large magnet poster on that same trailer "I love gay porn".
Many of my nieces and nephews are no longer kids. I laughed as they reminisced about prior years of rainy camping weather when they were young.
No texting in the Catskills. I doubt the locals even know what it is. Battery operated radios are the only connection to a civilized society. My three angels adjusted well to the Amish lifestyle because they know it's temporary. The poke wars will resume shortly.
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