The Second Conquest of the Incas

cowboys

Late that night a primitive urge to commune with nature made us grab our bottles and walk outside. We sat down on the front step. Charly leaned against the post and clutched the bottle against his chest. “This is good, compadre,” he said. “This is what I have always needed.”

“So you are happy, Tocayo?”

Charly sighed peacefully. “Everybody should feel like this.”

“Tocayo, I think everybody does.”

“They do?”

I nodded.

Charly looked at me, then took another swallow from his bottle and looked around. When he looked back, I wasn’t beside him anymore. In a sweet fog he wondered why. He raised the bottle to his lips, careful not to drop it, and took a great big swallow. I had gone somewhere. That was alright. Everything was alright. A little later Charly noticed that the noise level inside the bar had increased. I better check it out, he thought, and stood up.

He stepped inside. At the bar, I had a bottle in each hand and was pouring both of them down my throat together. The indians were yelling encouragement as best they could under their condition. Half the alcohol ran down my neck and into my clothes, but I kept guzzling.

From the door Charly chuckled. That was the coolest thing he’d ever seen. He turned around and walked unsteadily out to his step, then sat down carefully, leaned against the post, and cradled the bottle in his lap. The night was beautiful. So many stars. He sighed and took another swig. Eventually the bar quieted down and little by little the patrons began to emerge, carefully maneuvering down Charly’s step, sometimes using his shoulder as a guardrail. Glad to be of service, Charly thought to himself, and watched the indians walk slowly away, stumbling and weaving their way home, keeping track of the road by tripping against the rocks along the edge.

A little later the double doors opened with a loud smack and I came tumbling out. Just as I reached the step, I wrapped both my arms around the poles to arrest my forward motion and with a tremendous groan hurled a stomachful of vomit over Charly’s head in a fine arc onto the hardpacked mud of the street.

Excerpt from Chapter 42, Part Two of Tocayos.

Image courtesy of https://www.arts.gov/art-works/2014/painting-grit.

Peace of Mind

Inspirational blog by one of my favorite people.

surfing for balance in Silicon Valley

Prologue (4.3)

“Success is peace of mind which is a direct result of self-satisfaction in knowing you made the effort to become the best you are capable of becoming.”        Coach John Wooden

I love basketball.

I don’t have many regrets in life, but quitting the Corona del Mar High School basketball team my junior year is one that has stuck with me through the years. I showed up late for a Saturday practice (in my wet suit of course…), and coach Tandy Gillis made sure I would not want to do that again. And I didn’t. At the end of practice I sheepishly told him I was done. Quitting the team. Enough already. I was 17 years old and didn’t need some basketball coach telling me what to do.

CdM_Class_1973

Coach Gillis was a bit of an icon, which of course I appreciate much more now than I did then. Tandy…

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Brr-Dam

OldColoradoCityIt was 16° F (-9° Celsius) when I left Perry Park at 7:45 this morning on my way to the Pikes Peak BMW Club meeting at Mother Muff’s Kitchen in Old Colorado City.

The Gear

Base layer for my torso was a thermal turtleneck from waaaaaaay back in the day.  The thing is warm, itchy, and indestructible.  Next was a thin cashmere V-neck sweater.  Cashmere is warm, feels softer than a baby’s butt, and can be had cheap at Jos A. Bank.  The combo is surprisingly warm, but leave the pipe and David Niven accent at home.

Over the top of the sweater I zipped up another old favorite, a fleece jacket from The North Face.  Finally, my trusty Klim.

I covered by bum and netheregions in the quick-dry UnderArmor motorcycle shorts, which are, oddly enough, cozy warm.  Then a pair of Hot Chilis.  Then a pair of casual BMW riding pants with the rain liner in.  Thermal socks.  Aerostich Combat Touring boots.

Under my Arai helmet but over my Klim jacket I worse a fleece balaclava, and just about pulled my back out making sure there were no leaks around the collar.  I put on an ancient pair of Dainese winter gloves, and turned the heated grips on my R1200RS to High.

Once you get all that gear on, the only cold weather hassle left is dealing with the fogging lens on your helmet.  Easy enough to manage, though: keep helmet open until you pick up some speed, and open it each time you slow down.  The RS has the stock shield, which directs plenty of air at my helmet, so that approach worked well for me.  Dealing with fogging would be more of a hassle on a bike with a full fairing.

The Ice Cream Headache

It was a sunny morning, but the Front Range was completely frosted over.  I didn’t take a picture, but this one is pretty close to what it looked like the entire route from Larkspur to Old Colorado City.

FrontRange

http://sergiophoto.photoshelter.com

It took about 5 minutes for the ice cream headache to show up.  It wasn’t the worst I’ve had, but I did have to concentrate to get past it.  My setup had no air leaks anywhere, and the heated grips kept one side of my hands warm.  The topside did get a bit chilly, but never numb.  The tips of my thumbs went numb, and my feet felt about as chilly as the top of my hands.

The only other rider I saw was a guy in jeans and a hoodie riding his 600 home along I-25.  I wonder what the story was behind that early morning ride.

Mother Muff’s Kitchen

I felt immediately comfortable with the crowd from Pike’s Peak BMW club.  Craig, Lee, and Bex were kind enough to invite me to sit with them.  It’s always nice when the locals are friendly to the new guy.  Made me glad I rode up there.

Mother Muffs is the red storefront at the upper right:

MotherMuffs

By the time I left, temps had warmed up to the low 40’s, so I stowed my gear, slipped on my flip-flips and Hawaiian shirt, and rode home singing Gypsies in the Palace.  The temps in Larkspur were only 36°F by the time I got home (around noon), but it still felt downright tropical compared to the first part of the ride.

Old Colorado City somehow manages to hang on to its low-rent charm at the foot of Pikes Peak.  I always enjoy riding down there.

OMR

Father Bartolome

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And, as so often happens in Catholic school and horror movies, a figure materialized on the teacher’s platform. No one saw or heard him walk in. A little unsettled, one by one we, the students, we turned in our seats to face the apparition. He was a towering man in a dull black cassock and crisp white priests’ collar. His giant hands clasped a bedraggled Bible against the front of his body. He was completely bald. He was ancient, and his old cassock hung thinly over his broad, bony shoulders, the sleeves not long enough to cover his arms or hide his powerful hands. Though 2 meters of height, he stood straight as a redwood. A priest that tall had to be North American, I thought, but his leathery skin was more olive than pink, and his features were almost indian, his eyes almost black.

He studied us with great concern, and remained silent until the last student had turned around.

“I am Father Bartolome,” he said in a voice that crumbled like old wood. “I am here to teach you social justice.”

Excerpt from Chapter 33, Burguese’s Lower Lip, in Part II of Tocayos, which I’ll publish in 2016.  Part I is available from Smashwords.

A Man’s Heart

jamesbond

Isabel sighed and looked at her daughter directly in the eye.  “Your idealism has made you bitter.  You expect impossible things from a man, then hate him, and perhaps resent all men, when he does not do for you what is impossible for him to do for any woman.  A woman has a woman’s heart.  A man has a man’s.”

Excerpt from Chapter 29, Ringing the Little Bell, Part 2 of Tocayos.  I hope to publish Part 2 in the summer of 2016.  Part 1 is available here.

Against the Wind

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There I was.

Somewhere in the Southwest.

Riding into a 30 mph headwind.

Again.

My teeth grit.  The ligaments on my neck popping.  My arms gripping the bars with the desperation of a monkey losing a tug of war for a clump of bananas.  Between the wind, the engine vibration, the lumpy road, and the semis passing me, my brain was turning to mush.

Little did I know the damned wind would push and shove me the whole way to Cortez.  And then to Tropic.  And Zion.  And Death Valley.  I would get a brief tail wind on 395, and then it would be all headwinds again all the way to Los Gatos.  I wouldn’t have minded, except that I didn’t have a windshield.

MightyKIt’s not that I’m opposed to windshields on principle.  It’s that they suck.  There have been exceptions.  Like the Mighty K.  A 2004 BMW K1200RS.  My summer fling while living in New England.  I’d dropped into a BMW dealership to keep a friend company, and I was smitten.  The faster that thing went, the better the wind flowed around me.  The Mighty K would have been ideal for the West.

Since I violate the Harley uniform guidelines by wearing earplugs and a big old Arai 3/4 helmet, Harley fairings and windshields rattle my eyeballs.  On account of that acoustic effect that occurs when the kids open the window in the back seat.

You ‘re too sensitive

Tyler Durden muttered in my ear before asking the Service Manager at San Jose Harley if he had any rope.

We’d stopped there to install a new set of tires since I’d worn my old ones down to the nubs.  It took a couple of hours on account of the rear wheel on the Softail Custom is a bear to get on and off.  The first time I changed my own I threw a lot of tools around the garage before I managed to fit that 200 mm tire in between the brake caliper and everything else that’s in the way.  Ever since, I’ve allowed the dealer to enjoy that particular pleasure.

While I was waiting, I wandered into the showroom, which is why the dealerships locate it  next to the Service Department.  A dozen shiny new touring Harleys, developed as part of Project Rushmore (a nod to the rebirth of the Indian Motorcycle Company), were lined up beside each other, sparkling.  Harley claims that Project Rushmore improved the notoriously bad airflow around the new touring bikes, among other things.RoadToad

Baggers are for for babies

Tyler would know.  That’s my 2004 Road Toad.  My first attempt at improving wind and comfort on long rides.   The fairing was as big as it looks in the picture. Maybe bigger.

The salesman ignored Tyler and pointed out the appeal of the Street Glide.  It’s a bonafide touring bike, he explained, but it’s still cool, like a 1969 Lincoln with suicide doors.

Tyler tied a knot into the rope the service manager had requisitioned for him.  While he did that, I thought about telling the salesman that when I want breakfast, I pound my fists against my chest and my woman brings me breakfast.  But the truth is, I’m the one who makes the coffee in the morning, both with cream, hers without sugar.  I gently wake her with the aroma.  Then we sit on the bed and talk about our feelings.

“Why don’t you take it for a test ride?”  The salesman asked, handing me the keys.

All salesmen must die

“Oh, I couldn’t,” I said sheepishly, ” I still have to ride my bike back to Colorado.”

2014-harley-davidson-electra-glide-ultra-classic-explicit-pictures-photo-gallery_2“It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve shipped a bike back home,” the salesman said as Tyler yanked on the kickstand of the first touring bike.

It toppled onto the silver one next to it, but the second bike was so massive it managed to hold up the first one.

Undaunted, Tyler walked to the other side of the lineup, lifted the Red Sunglo and Vivid Black Ultra Glide Limited off its sidestand, and pushed it over.  This time it worked.  Like a stack of dominoes, one 900 lb Project Rushmore behemoth after another toppled onto the one beside it until they hit the first two, which almost, almost managed to hold up the pile, but in the end gave in and toppled over with a loud crash.

Now you have room to get some real motorcycles in your store

Tyler handed the keys back to the salesman, who accepted them, standing there, as stunned as the sales manager who had just run out of his office.

That day’s distance from Springdale, Utah to Stovepipe Wells, in Death Valley, was 433 miles.  Elapsed time was 8 hours, including a one hour detour into North Las Vegas to get my expense receipts scanned, on account of Tyler made me blow that off before heading out.

The picture of the Harley Davidson Ultra Limited is courtesy of www.autoevolution.com.

GiG

Of Dust Bowl Okies and Hot Biker Mommas

Image

That picture of me is the last time I was cool.  And I don’t mean James Dean cool.

Turns out, James Dean was killed not far from Paso Robles, where Route 46 and Route 41 intersect.  The Texaco station at the intersection of Route 46 and Route 33 has the whole story.  They say it was the last place he stopped before his wreck.  They also have a re-created Dust Bowl truck in a display among the pistachios, walnuts, and maple-covered almonds.  They found it somewhere, cleaned it up, added the utensils and other items the Okies carried, and brought it into the store.  They even had a picture of the same truck to guide their efforts.

Looking over the old truck and reading about the difficulties the people fleeing the Dust Bowl endured, I felt like a wimp for whining about the harsh suspension and non-existent wind protection of my Softail Custom.  They even had a statue of Grannie holding a plate of cookies.  She would have made a good biker Momma.

Missus Fender Bunny is a good biker Momma, too, though I’m not 100% certain that’s what she aspires to.  Why I subject her to such abuse I’ll never know.  I’ll ask my priest, if he’ll still speak to me.

It was 108 when we got to Baker, California.  When she pulled off her helmet, I could see that she was suffering from heat exhaustion.  We got in the shade and sipped a little warm water.  Wet her scarf and put it over her head.  After a while we went inside to enjoy the A/C.  You have to be judicious with the A/C, or when you walk back out, it feels like a furnace.  After a while she started looking better, so she stood up, clapped her hands, and bought a can of Red Bull.

When we got back on the bike it was 109.  Did I mention that she has relatives in Oklahoma?

We rode from San Simeon to Las Vegas in just under 12 hours.  Total mileage was 420 miles, more or less.

GiG