I have been struggling with the world around as I perceive it. Mostly disturbing because I am part of it and most harsh on myself I can feel. It is my attachment to my phone, My bad driving, My frustrations with people I must interact with. Like the pissed off check out manager who cant swipe my card either. I am America. Check it out on instagram. A picture of pecker head perfection. Piss on your neighbor. All my friends are made up. But my old truck has loud ass fucking pipes. I smoke weed all day playing Super Mario bros NES and am drinking beer for lunch. Don’t bust my balls at the stop light bitch. I’m working a real honest 9-5. Keep your chicken picken fingers off my bread dough. I get up and make an honest effort every day to find meditating moto jesus farting on my yoga mat. I am my own 18 year olds laughing bald spot of a douche bag biker. Cash register clinking polo shirt petrol pimp. Two wheels of glory spent my life writing this story. From a bmx back ally barspin to hired moto ninja racer. The real freedumb I have found is profound. Double bound. Or else I would be in the pound. I am going to take this exit and abscond.
Monday, November 6, 2017
I can't help it. And Wallace (@brapp_snapps) takes such lovely pictures. Just out playing on the Lil' Goose. I am so lucky to have this bike, It is more fun than a barrel of drunk monkeys. A proper set up MX race bike indeed. The suspoosh is so amazing be it a bit under sprung for me but I don't want to mess up the shim stacks as the 15 year old boingers are unlike anything I have ever ridden. IT is apparent though that I am packing on a lot of extra beer gut since pikes peak (25 lbs!) And it is only a 125 but with a power plant that I imagine was built by Mike Gosselarr, when it is on the pipe it is getting it. The little tiddler is confidence inspiring enough for me to try and get my bar in the dirt. Just having fun. If only these pictures had sound...
Wednesday, October 11, 2017
Fuck, I need more weekends in my calendar. Every thing the radio tells me, all the things the TV shows me are trying to steal my life away. I don't need your lower rate finance plan or your season blow out sale on denum dungarees. Take your over priced plastic piece of kiddy hauling cage and just dump it in the junk yard where it will end up within a few years any way. The free man needs none of this capitalist slavery. Freedom is a dirt bike or something of such simple nature. Be apart of the system enough to get by and keep gas in the tank but keep the knowledge of the truth in a financial driven society. I wish I could escape it all but it is everywhere and in it is the last small shred of the American dream. I am far more fortunate than I let my self believe but what more could I want than my two wheeled toys and those to share in them. The years are ticking by and I see that life is not anything more than a good chance for me to fuck off every chance I get. Make a few bucks during the week and wring the shit out of what ever throttle I can every weekend. Here today gone tomorrow. Respect for you and respect for me and future generations. Respect the will to live and die free. WFO.
Thursday, October 5, 2017
Every Morning when I get to work Baja gets out of what ever mode of transportation we took to get there. Bicycle trailer, motorcycle or the less exciting van like we took today. As I unlock the door she makes her way to one end of the parking lot to sniff what ever dogs sniff. As I go inside to start wheeling out bikes she makes her way to the other end of the parking lot. This morning I had to piss and by the time I came out with my first bike I was oblivious to the fact that she was not any where near where she always knew to be. She was gone. Dog gone. After the second bike was wheeled out I registered that she was not herding my heels and watching out for the things that a heard dog watches out for when her master is maneuvering motorcycles through a 30" door. This has happened before as A free range dog will often wonder in to the neighbors shop if the door is open and she so inclines to visit. I checked. Not there. I walked up the street a few houses but I knew she would never wander. I knew she had been snatched. I have seen it nearly happen several times before. She is friendly to greet a car that pulls up into our parking lot just like her mother and all the other collie pups we raise on my parents ranch. City life is not the same as ranch life and some do-gooder people don't really think about what good they are actually doing to their surroundings. I called the automated city animal control. I called the police dispatch and left the needed info. Black and white, No collar, no tracking chip. Please call me back. My heart sank deeper than any lost object sucked into any black hole in all of unknown space. I sat by the sidewalk like a piece of road kill and felt the worst feeling I have felt for such a long time. 11 1/2 years of a collie dog that is beyond words. A true best friend. A long life by the standards I have implemented upon my companion. It has not been easy at my side. The crashes. The all weekend fetch sessions. The RC toy chasing. The whiskey riddled songs I sing with my broken 6 string. Fuck, the women, The hot vans. for the love of kibbles and bits. It has been a good long trip. The thoughts behind my melting face as I watched the cars pass by. This morning I felt such shit. Such total and complete shit. I accepted my irresponsible ways. Fuck collars. Fuck not letting my country dog prowl her own damn parking lot. fuck it all. And then I saw an animal control police vehicle, I ran out in front of it causing it to swerve off the road. The officer said he had just picked up a dog. black and white. Could I be so lucky. Did he have my dog in his truck. I peered into the dark tinted window and through the caged door of a tiny kennel I saw two sad big brown eyes meet mine. WHEW! I finally lost it. I hugged the officer three times. He gave me the number of the people who picked her up. I had visions of my fist breaking jaws before but now that my best friend was back with me I let my nerves wind back together. I lay on the floor of my shop and let her saliva become sticky and then dry upon my face. I called and a lady said that her daughter had picked her up and wanted to talk to me. both the mother and the officer had said how my dog was wanted to be contained by another. The instant gratified teenage girl wanted what was not hers. Is it like some game they play on their shiney balck rectangle? Is this justified to the mind of a self centered do-gooder. brainless. My door was wide open not 30 feet from where she was snatched. The entitled teenager voice on the phone sent shivers down into my ranting raving anti humanism good deed hating deep dark corner of my soul. She reprimanded me to go to wallmart where they sell dazzled collars with names. I reminded the young lady that with out dog snatching my smarter than the two of us dog needed no such dignity defying device. but thank you for letting you mom call the animal control. thank you just the same. and have a good day. you too. I fear I dont belong in such a time or society. I fear the City cant contain my capitalistic venture that allows me some freedumb in our world of corporate power and currency obedience. But those brown eyes are all I need to see to know that to be free we only need what we need. Nothing more. Our world is just what we make it. Emotion aside and inside all I need is what I got. Companonship. A loud motorcycle or two. Some tasty nuggets. And Love. Love in all the different ways people dish it out. Love.
Tuesday, September 19, 2017
Tuesday, September 5, 2017
Monday, August 28, 2017
Wednesday, August 16, 2017
I still call it Carl's bike but I reckon I own it now, at least in physical form. I was happy to make her my own and carry on with it where Carl left off. First up was a new race body so as the original could be preserved. I am happy with my spray paint job and 1993 ZX7 design but Scott my neighbor who runs Vinyl Works knocked it out of the park with the Ninja font Newbold's Motorbike Shop decals. I mounted up some remaining Pikes Peak tires and before heading to the track I stopped by Carl's old house. His garage was completely as he left it with a few pieces of yard work and miscellaneous house-work junk now starting to pile up on what he left behind. His vintage triumph dirt bike's top end lay neatly scattered on the work bench with two years of dust now settled onto the job. I riffled through his race parts bin hoping to find the kit harness computer link cable I needed to operate the kit ECU. I grabbed a cell phone chord out of despair but later found it would not hook up to anything kawasaki. I got a bit weird feeling when I started to find things I knew Carl was treasuring. I found sprockets and brake pads and other bits for the ZX10 but with nobody to ask if it goes with the sale of the bike or not I left it all. I grabbed the service book, the ZX10's tire warmers and left. A few minutes down the road I realized I left without grabbing the spare set of wheels that came with the bike. The main thing I went there for. I didn't know if I should turn around or what I should do, I just went to the race track; doing the only thing I ever know how to do. My first few outings on the bike went well. I was overcome with the bikes speed but very pleased with how it kept it's composure and instantly I felt more at home on it than any other racing street bike I have ridden. Fuck is it fast though. Practice sessions completed and I was amazed at how easy the bike was to ride. Then My race came and after I did the warm up lap I gridded on the back row as I have not raced in almost a year and had no points. I launched at the start light but the bike stayed in some sort of limiter mode. Computers. Not having a book for the kit ecu or a computer I could not find any faults. I drank two beers and went to sleep in my little old shitty camper I love so dear. The rain came down hard while I slumbered and I hoped I was not going to need the rain tires that were still sitting in Carl's garage. I awoke to a brilliant sun rise over the corn fields surrounding the race track. The bike ran spot on in practice and I was only left now with the premier race of the day. It was my first time racing the premier class, my first time on a liter bike, and my first time racing short course in almost a year. As I staged I noticed I was the only bike without a brand new tire mounted. Again, I gridded last. The start light went out and I got pinched out in the first corner. I saw elbows bumping in front of me and bikes checking up. I hit my apex onto the long back straight and as I grabbed gears I felt the sensation of flying. The bike is a missile! I out braked and made my way around a few bikes. A few laps in and I was passed back by one of the racers. I figured I was done to settle in the back of the pack with my lack of experience and un sure of my stamina for the 14 lap money class race. But then I started to gain on the rider so I passed them back again, I caught some other riders and passed them as well. I was pushing hard but I felt like I was with in my limits. At the end of the long straight I missed my brake marker at what must have been close to 180mph but I kept it on track and kept the hammer down. My rear tire was giving up the fight as I snarled my way up out of the corners, the traction control keeping things in check. I pushed on and finished my fastest lap of the race right before the white flag came out. 15th place out of 26 expert racers. Plenty of room to improve. The world has much to offer. Fuck yeah! I did it. I raced a liter bike. Carl's liter bike. My liter bike.
Wednesday, July 26, 2017
Sometimes life has me feeling like a dog on a leash that is all tangled up and wrapped around my legs like a twisty vine. So when Warren asked me if I wanted to spend six days riding up to Jackson Hole Wyoming I figured I could use some unwinding. Fuck it. That is why I own a goldwing. We stopped by my parents ranch, slept under the hay shed, rode the back roads including the legendary all dirt Irish Canyon. 20 miles from our destination we got blasted with a hail storm that left us with oozing welts, soggy britches and feeling alive. When we reached the camp the Bolts crew had tacos, cliff diving, and swimming in mountain streams colder than any thing I have dared to know. A quality group of active people. We did the turkey tour through yellow stone and saw the classic shit. On the way home the shovel head gave up the fight with bad internal noise. Fucking Harley Fucking Davidsons. I don't get the craze. I did get the explosive shits though. Picture me squatting roadside in the reed grass blasting out my internals when out of nowhere the girls high school volley ball team comes walking down the road. Classic. And we doubled up nuts the butt on the goldwing and lived out our dumb and dumber dreams. Life is what we make it and the people we share it with are what help make it worth making it.
Tuesday, July 18, 2017
Round number three of the Colorado Hill Climb Association. Only four motorcycles entered. If only I could convey how fun this kind of racing is. I can't. It is weird misfit heavy horsepower car stuff and maybe that is why nobody shows up with a bike. Maybe Hill Climb racing is only thought to be drag racing with a long ass swing arm. Maybe proper Hill Climb racing needs a better name. Maybe I like it so much because nobody gets it. Flattrack/Dirt track everybody seems to get and I don't know why but I have had zero interest in racing on the dirt ovals for some time now. Maybe I can put into words for some to understand why I like the weird misfit easy going Hill Climbing.
I cut some grooves in some customers old take off tire, load the van and stock up on beer on my way out of the hot and overcrowded city. A few hours into the mountains and it is raining, cold, and flat out fucking beautiful tits. I unload and set up pits and get on my XR to go pre run the course. After getting to the finish line I pass through an active mine and keep going up on some old mining roads. I get lost. I take the beer out of my pocket and drink taking turns holding it with my cold and numb hands.
Cuddled in my 50 year old down Northface mummy bag in the van drifting off to a deep pre-race slumber to the pitter patter of mother nature watering the race track. At dawn's crack I emerge from my cocoon enough to start the coffee a perculating. After a few hours it is my turn for one of four saturday practice runs. The awaiting has left me anxious to hammer on the throttle and not wast any entry speed into the densely treed hair pin corners. Full bar lock loam sliding. 5th gear needle threading. Adrenaline. In the pit I drop a few jet sizes. On the next run I drop a few seconds and break the course record I set three years ago. Sardine sandwich and a few more seconds dropped on a few more runs. Whiskey, spam, and another night of my van's roof drumming out the sounds of hero dirt perfect traction. Sunday is the day of worship, two race runs with a weird veteran decision to sit out the over saturated second run out of it not being necessary for the win. Perhaps age is setting in. Could be wisdom. Could be bullshit. 40 applauding racecar drivers can't be all that wrong.
|I'm going off the rails on a crazy train|