12 SECONDS AHEAD (blog) - KITUNDU: Recent Episodes
Walter Kitundu
12 Seconds Ahead is a podcast which shares the motorcycle related thoughts, experiences, ideas, and inspirations of Walter Kitundu, an avid biker, artist, composer, instrument builder, bird photographer, and MacArthur Fellow. The show is scored with his original music.
It’s cool and very windy this morning in Chamberlain. My plan is to get Sheridan, WY today, a distance of 450 miles. First things first, amble on down to a cafe and get some breakfast. After a walking passed it twice I realize the nondescript storefront hiding in plain sight is the cafe and I retreat from the blustery chill into the deeply local, knick-knack strewn, restaurant. A few blank stares from the regulars escort me to my seat and soon I’ve got my hands warming on a cup of the finest watery coffee a dollar can buy. It really hits the spot. New surroundings and old company, the septuagenarians in the place have settled down and it feels like any other small town from my past, like Lakefield, MN, or Galesburg, ND. I have a history in places like these and part of me feels very much at home.
A brisk walk after breakfast to take in the Missouri River in its blustery splendor and I’m heading back to the hotel to pack up and get on the road. Today feels like one of those days. The bloom of the first days is behind me and today feels like business. I’ve got to get some miles done and put Yellowstone in my sights.
I gas up the bike and head across the bridge and out of town. South Dakota is more beautiful than people give it credit for but it does have its moments of tedium. After a long stretch of highway I finally cross the 100 mile mark for the day and it feels like the next 350 will be hard fought. The the wind is keeping me on my toes on this stick-straight, monotonous 80 mph interstate slog. Luckily there is the ever present, myopic, ahistorical settler narrative to raise my ire and keep me awake.
Here’s my facebook status update from this portion of South Dakota.
“In the rolling hills west of a tourist trap 1800s style town along I90 are two sculptures. One depicts the settlers on their horse-drawn wagon hightailing it back to the town. The other, three native Americans on horseback, weapons drawn, in full pursuit. The fact that indigenous people can be historically and repeatedly portrayed as the aggressors in some fanciful celebration of this nation's sordid origin story troubles me to no end. There is no reflection, no sense of the injustices of this occupation, no memory of the cultural and actual genocide, just blind trust in the inherent God given infallibility of the U.S. I'm looking for a sign of some moral and historical perspective but it must be hidden behind (likely under) all the colonial settler bullshit billboards.”
Nothing like noticing the calculated inversion of historical atrocities to keep your energy up on a long trip.
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I finally cross the line that signifies Wyoming and the landscape begins to change accordingly. However, the thing I notice most are the harrowing crosswind gusts trying to suddenly turn my helmet 90 degrees, giving me a serious neck workout. Miles and miles of this are sapping my strength and Sheridan seems a long way off when I look up and see a Red-tailed Hawk flying past me carrying a snake in its talons. I am totally reenergized!
I pull off the interstate to gas up I realize I’m in some pain. My helmet has always made an impression on me, literally. It leaves an inverted triangle shaped dent on my forehead but it was never an issue on shorter rides. Now with the incessant winds and pressures at highway speeds it was actually beginning to do harm and driving me crazy.
I took out my multi-tool and proceeded to operate on my fancy helmet. This was to be the first of many issues I’d have with it in the coming days but at least, for now, I had some relief!
The rolling green of Wyoming rolled more and more and the landscape began to get expressive as the light started to fade. Clouds had moved in and the gray was muting the colors as I finally rolled into Sheridan and found a place for the night.
I went to a local sports bar for dinner and a beer and the older fellow next to me at the bar began to talk about this country having some serious problems. I agreed but was pretty sure we differed on what we considered problematic. This went on until he started outlining his plans for Jesus’ imminent return. I guess my response wasn’t what he was looking for and we continued our meals in silence. Nice enough fellow but reading the room wasn’t his strength.
Now I was within a day’s ride of Yellowstone. Sheridan was a waypoint in route to a place I’d always wanted to visit. I stayed in an unglamorous part of town, close to the highway so I could get moving as soon as I was motivated. My time spent in Sheridan was utilitarian. Sometimes that’s how it has to be.
Onward!
It’s hard to leave the comfort of family. Today is the day I leave behind what I’ve seen and head out into the countryside to face unfamiliar roads, unpredictable conditions, new faces and places. To be honest, I’ve had a slow start. But after my niece Mary performs a safety check on the bike, Lilly gives me a heartfelt sendoff!
My plan is to get to the middle of South Dakota to a town called Chamberlain, on Interstate 90. I’m hoping to get off the Interstate highways for at least half the day by taking highway 50 through the Yankton Reservation. This is a line I picked out on the map because it looked interesting, passed Lake Andes (lakes often mean birds), and because I’m interested in the current realities of indigenous people, which the main roads tend to ignore, and I guess I’m seeking interaction and experience.
One of my main goals for this trip was to learn and seek out stories that aren’t represented in the guidebooks and tourist attractions that celebrate a carefully cultivated version of history that relegates Native Americans to a purely historical role as noble nuisance, bit players in the founding of a nation. The erasure makes me want to take detours to trouble that narrative whenever I can on this trip through North America. As a non-native person who has both European settler and Tanzanian indigenous roots, the cultural acceptance of genocide and marginalization on this scale rankles me, but I acknowledge it isn’t my history. It just resonates with me as a brown person and my curiosity isn’t fueled by some twisted touristic motivation but by an enduring sense of solidarity.
That said, my first stop is a sporting goods store to get some dehydrated food and a tiny swimmer’s towel that will pack small on the bike. Approaching the store I’m offered the chance to sit on a bronze bench and take a selfie with a founding father. Just the kind of whitewashed ahistorical experience I’m trying to avoid. This is the midwest so inside I’m greeted with patriarchal bumper stickers, taxidermied ungulates, a bevy of firearms, and a display case full of samurai swords… makes sense. The camping section is on point though and I grab some freeze dried stroganoff and discover the little towels are something I must have imagined.
Enough dilly dallying, get on the damn bike already. I make my way out of the western suburbs of Des Moines and onto the blurring rhythmic straightaway that is I80. It’s a slog when the heat is rising and the bike hasn’t quite settled in beneath you. Plus I’m strangely tired today. It’s like the adrenalin of the first day has worn off and left me drained.
After the first rest stop I’m back at 70 miles per hour and it’s 1pm and a brown blur appears in the green streaky area in my peripheral vision. It’s a deer hurtling toward the interstate. I roll off the throttle and brace for evasive action but the deer comes to a pinpoint stop at the edge of the road, pauses, and then leaps. The timing was such that the leap would have been disastrous if it were into the road but luckily for me and the deer, she leaped back into the grass and disappeared. So much for a lack of adrenalin, the new spike lasts me a few miles as I play back all the possible scenarios and reassert my belief that watching for animals is not just a dusk and dawn responsibility.
Once past Omaha and heading north along the Iowa-Nebraska border the heat and monotony begin to take their toll. Despite singing maniacally into my helmet I am really drowsy and feeling off. I take a break at a rest stop and eat an energy bar, drink a bit, but the strange feeling persists and eventually I make it to Souix City and wander around the one way streets feeling more and more out of it before deciding to pull into a restaurant. Some air conditioning, a lemonade, and a big salad bring me back to life and I’m feeling reasonable an hour later. This day is dragging on.
I’m bolstered by the almost immediate arrival in a new state, South Dakota. I stop at the Vermillion Visitor Center and the attendant is warm and welcoming as I evade the heat and fill up my camelbak. He tells me of the wonders of Highway 50 and says it’s how many bikers get to Sturgis, a slower back road option with more interest than the superslab. Frankly I’m relieved to get back down to sub 80 mph speeds. I haven’t adjusted to the pace on the SD interstate and it always feels like I’m pushing my luck just hitting the speed limit. I’m also glad the road I picked out weeks ago has some biking relevance and history. I can’t wait to amble through the small towns and farmland but at the moment I’m still feeling strange and depleted.
Things change for the better as soon as I head west on Highway 50. The pace is relaxing and although it’s getting late in the day, I’m in no hurry. The light becomes golden in the late afternoon and suddenly I’m rejuvenated. The rolling farmland is lush and green and the miles begin to fall away as I approach the Yankton Reservation.
It’s still hot and I’m riding with my suit unzipped to increase ventilation but it isn’t just air that gets in. From time to time I ride through backlit clouds of insects as they scatter across the road. One cloud holds an unlucky bee that strikes my neck just under my helmet at 60 mph. The initial impact isn’t bad but moments later I feel my neck catch fire and realize I’ve just been stung. Now I’m frantically flailing about with a gloved hand trying to brush away the bee while standing to allow the wind to help dislodge the creature, right hand on the throttle and front brake scrubbing off the speed - all the while remembering that the last time I got stung by a bee I broke out in hives.
The sting is pulsing and after a while I figure the bee must have been blown off. Six miles later I arrive in Lake Andes to find a rather desolate and quiet town. At an intersection I jump off the bike and shed my suit in the heat. I’m not sure how the sting will affect me and I’m a little shaken at the possibility of an allergic reaction so far from the main road. As I shake out my shirt the bee that stung me drops unceremoniously onto the ground having stowed away in my t-shirt for the last 10 minutes. Luckily they can only sting you once. My instinct was to crush it underfoot but I figured the bee was having a worse day than me so it wandered off dazed as I caught my breath.
A car pulls up with a woman and two men and they asked if I’m ok. I tell them I’m just resting and that I’m heading to Alaska. They perk up and ask me if I want to party. Now my eyes clear up and I see that they are not in the best shape. Clearly drunk and or high, they are looking for something I’m not interested in giving them. They are pretty insistent and it seems like there is a critically important backstory to this trio that will remain a mystery. I start to feel spooked for the first time on this trip.
I finally mention I have a long way to go tonight and they relent but they won’t leave. One of the men says “let’s go” but the woman behind the wheel says she wants to watch me leave because “he’s damn sexy.” The awkward meter is now off the charts and I get back on the bike as quickly as possible without looking like I’m rushing at all. It’s already running. I took care of that when I started to feel like I might have to make a run for it. I leave the inebriated locals and get back into the wind and ride toward the setting sun, my neck still warm from the sting, my suit zipped tight, and an eye on my mirrors in case they change their minds and decide the party is still on.
The sun is lower still and the light is deeply golden when one of the telephone poles on the right breaks the pattern. The jagged top reveals itself to be the outline of a Great Horned Owl that dives toward the east and swoops into low level flight, powering across the field aiming for the encroaching night sky. A diving owl lifts all spirits - unless you are a mouse, snake, skunk, bunny, or any number of small delicious creatures.
Soon the sunset gets beautiful and I stop to take some pictures. The cows are fascinated with Nyumbu, my bike. It means wildebeest in Swahili and it’s the only name that stuck. Now this wildebeest is surrounded by cousins and the darkness is falling fast.
I emerge onto I90 and head west toward Chamberlain but it’s a little farther than I was hoping. I’m tired again and it’s dark and I’m terrified of meeting any animals on the road. I push my speed to 70 (the limit is 80) and I’m being passed in the dark by semi trucks, conflicted about whether to keep up with them for safety (and a quicker arrival) or stay slow for safety in case of animals, and because I haven’t acclimated to cruising at 80 fully loaded just yet. I ping-pong between the two strategies, tailing trucks and cars for a while as they pass me, imagining them as a shield against the encroaching hordes of creatures, and eventually slowing back down when they accelerate toward 90 mph.
Mercifully the sign for Chamberlain appears and I make it safely into town and pull into the first inviting motel I see. It’s a good fit and by the time I lube the chain, unpack, and settle in it’s nearly 10pm. A late night steak dinner at the bar next door and I call it a day. Day 2 has been a weird and long one. It started off so difficult before becoming really interesting and fun. It just goes to show you that a bad day can change into a good one at any time. This soothes my optimistic soul and has me excited for tomorrow’s ride.
It’s amazing how quietly a trip like this begins. Cleaning out the sink and taking out the trash while the bags sit packed by the door and the bike still slumbers under its cover. Today is the day. Thank goodness Shirin already left for Los Angeles because this would be so much harder if I had to ride away from her into the unknown. On top of that, we are expecting our first child and the idea of leaving for a 10,000 mile motorcycle trip has my nerves up. Good thing it’s rainy steadily outside. I just tell myself that’s a good sign. It means fair weather is just around the corner. Right?
Chicago traffic lives up to it’s reputation and the rain helps center my focus. I’m not interested in laying it down on the way out of town within a few miles of home. I make a few stops to dial in the balance of the bike but more to satisfy my desire to know that my tire pressures are right and all those little noises that didn’t exist before today are still just figments of my charged imagination.
Finally I’m getting settled in and the miles begin to roll by. I’m shrouded by the mist and spray emerging from the wheel wells of semi-trucks and passing cars. The sun peeks out from time to time but mostly I’m swaddled in rain gray gloom. The nerves eventually fade but they never disappear after a few hundred miles I approach the first milestone of the trip. The Illinois/Iowa border marked by the wide swath of the Mississippi River. The wind makes taking a selfie an exercise in concentration but later I’m glad to have captured the gray mood and my all too serious demeanor.
It’s my job to get places safely and I have thousands of miles of getting places safely to do in the next weeks so I take my work seriously. I think of my wife and our child-to-be. I think of my brother whose home I’m barreling toward through these cornfields, of My Mom and Uncle and the children’s hospital they are building in Tanzania, and how every mile will help provide a new ambulance for them. I think of Alaska in all its abstract glory, lurking somewhere down the road ahead, a mental mirage that I won’t trust until the mountains and mosquitos assert themselves.
And I think about my father. After his passing in 2011 anxiety quietly worked its way into my blood and bones and the proximity of my mortality felt close enough to touch. I wound up having a panic attack that put me in the hospital and spent the next 6 months trying to tamp down my overactive fight-or-flight system. It was soon after that I dreamt up the notion of this trip as a way of healing. I needed to know I could be ok when miles from help, that the world could be beautiful and benevolent. I needed the boundaries of life to stretch into the distance just like the horizons I hoped to cross in the more remote areas of the continent.
The outskirts of Des Moines appear and the first day on the road draws to a close. The rain has passed and it's been replaced by a blanket of warm thick air. I rode through here a week ago on a 1,000 mile trip to test my gear and get myself used to multiple days in the saddle. Still, I manage to take a wrong turn and and get lost on familiar ground before eventually rolling into my brother’s driveway amidst the hum and heat of summer insects. The shade of leafy trees embraces the house and since no one is home I sit down and listen to the ticking of the cooling engine and let the tingling subside in my hands and head.
Day one is complete but it replays itself in an attempt to mimic the rhythm that I hope will develop in the weeks to come. I met strangers on the road who were interested in the bike and in the journey to come. Some would follow along on social media and even support the journey with contributions to the hospital. Now I’m in Des Moines surrounded by my brother’s family and very happy that my mother is visiting from Tanzania. It feels like a great place from which to ride off into the unknown tomorrow. I’m still very much in my comfort zone and the challenges are yet to come.
In the evening I watch my nieces perform in a dance recital and think of my wife and of our child and of bears and racists and spastic deer and mechanical breakdowns and lightning and glaciers and the fact that I’ve ridden only 340 of what I think will be about 10,000 miles that lay ahead. One mile and one moment at a time. For now I’m at peace and happy to be finally underway.
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California is the only state in the country that permits safe lane splitting, or filtering, as it's more commonly known abroad. In other countries it is expected for bikes, scooters, and motorcycles to lane split. I've heard that in California it was tolerated in the old days because air-cooled motorcycles kept overheating in traffic and it just made sense that they got to keep moving. Now it is common practice regardless of the type of bike, but it is highly misunderstood and seen as reckless and dangerous by those who don't ride, or haven't learned the facts about this technique.
As a new rider I also thought this seemed crazy at first but as my confidence and my knowledge grew, I began to understand the benefits of lane splitting. It is counter intuitive, but when done sensibly, it can actually be safer than tucking in to the stop and go of regular traffic flow.
There are a lot of distracted drivers out there and most don't have motorcyclists in mind. Starting and stopping introduces many occasions for rear and front end collisions, and motorcyclists don't often fare well when bumped, even at low speeds, by large vehicles. Congestion also increases when bikes take up another space and don't flow through toward their destination. Lane splitting is entirely optional and no one should do it if they aren't comfortable.
When I started, I did this pretty tentatively. One car here, another few cars there, always pulling back into the lane when I could. This helped confirm that it was possible and got me used to the sensation of slipping in between slow moving vehicles. After a while I got more comfortable and employed this tactic more and more, but always stayed super alert. This isn't a thing to do when you are tired or feeling off your game.
The CHP advises not filtering between wide vehicle like trucks and buses. In this case traffic was moving slowly enough, there was a small car on the left, and the lanes were wide enough that I could proceed safely.
Here are some tips that helped me learn how to filter with care.1. The space between cars is actually the safest space.
This seems weird but it's true. It is really unlikely that two cars cruising next to each other will suddenly smash into each other, side to side. They can certainly drift toward one another and close the gap dangerously, but this is rare and cars generally stay consistently apart for the second or two you happen to be between them.
2. A car with an empty lane next to it is the REAL danger.
Turn signals are often only used by drivers to let you know they just changed lanes. Throw the thought that they might be trying to let you know what they plan to do out the window. As such, many cars will leap into the lane next to them when they see that it is clear of vehicles (this doesn't include bikers because A) they aren't looking for bikers and B) because you probably just emerged from 6 cars behind, filtering through traffic, and they have no clue that it's even possible for you to be there. They base their decisions on interactions with other cars and assume other spaces to be clear. This is just force of habit. So when you see a car with an open space next to it, beware the sudden lane change. I usually move into the center of the open lane which makes me more visible by placing me in a place where traffic is expected to be, and it also positions me better if I need to escape by moving over to the next lane.
3. Unpredictable things happen.
Don't fly through at such a high rate of speed that you can't react in time if someone changes lanes ahead of you. Those people who ride through 10mph traffic at 50mph are just tempting fate. I'd rather save my luck for other occasions.
4. Stay alert.
Sometimes you get concentration fatigue and just need a break. Go ahead and pull back in to traffic and take it easy for a while. Lane filtering may be safe when done right but it can be tiring to exercise that level of heightened focus. It can make regular attentive riding seem relaxing.
5. Use your judgement.
If that gap seems to small don't risk it. What's the rush? There will be another opportunity soon enough as traffic rearranges itself. If it's raining, the road is slippery, visibility is down, you are carrying a wide load, you don't feel up to it, traffic feels oddly aggressive, etc... save the filtering for another day.
6. Watch out for other motorcycles!
There will inevitably be other bikers out there comfortable with lane splitting at a higher speed. Keep a look out for them approaching from behind and make room. Also, when you decide to START lane splitting, MAKE SURE there isn't another motorcyclist already in that gap. We sometimes forget to watch out for each other. On the other hand, be courteous and careful when passing other bikers in congested situations. Realize they might be about to make a move and pass with caution.
Here is some additional info on lane splitting.
From the National Agenda for Motorcycle Safety report: “Study of the safety implications of lane splitting.”
“A motorcycle’s narrow width can allow it to pass between lanes of stopped or slow-moving cars on roadways where the lanes are wide enough to offer an adequate gap. This option can provide an escape route for motorcyclists who would otherwise be trapped or struck from behind. There is evidence (Hurt, 1981) that traveling between lanes of stopped or slow-moving cars (i.e., lane splitting) on multiple-lane roads (such as interstate highways) slightly reduces crash frequency compared with staying within the lane and moving with other traffic.
“Although lane splitting is allowed in just a few areas of the United States, notably California, it appears to be worthy of further study because it offers a means of reducing congestion in addition to possible safety benefits. It is widely used in many other countries.”
The California Highway Patrol recently issued their Lane Splitting Guidelines
I hope this gets adopted in Illinois before I move there because it will be a hard thing to unlearn for the sake of a relatively arbitrary ban that isn't supported by the facts. I'm sure I'll get used to it though. Winter will probably be the tougher thing to abide.
This episode is an introduction to 12 Seconds Ahead and recounts the harrowing tale of a recent "left turn" accident on city streets.
Just over a month ago I met someone, rather I met the side of his car... hard.
In the trauma unit in the emergency room at SF General Hospital.
When I think about the incident I picture my growing comfort on the bike creating a space for him to live inside of. A space in which he could be returning home from the airport, preoccupied with traffic and his thoughts, and be wrong about the number of lanes he needed to cross. A space in which a man floating toward him suspended on two wheels, comfortably heading through an intersection framed in green lights, wouldn't register as a possibility, until the moment we met... hard.
A ghost of an intersection from Google maps. Rush hour is a different story.
This was my vantage point as I headed home as rush hour was building. The two lanes to my left were filled with stopped traffic, including beyond the intersection. Everyone stopped, waiting for the traffic to eventually filter onto the Bay Bridge, one block up. The sign to the right states "do not block intersection" and the people complied as they texted and chatted, and vied for position.
I was in the lane marked with a green arrow and the view was much as it is in this picture, green light, no cars ahead, and none behind. I was cruising through the intersection at a sub-speed limit 25mph when the man I was about to meet (red arrow) decided to head for home. He surmised (correctly) that both lanes of oncoming traffic were stopped and that the third lane was the parking lane and therefore devoid of traffic or hazards (incorrect). His assumption about the third lane applied to the fourth lane which was occupied by some construction equipment. The third lane was occupied by me, motoring along, and comfortable in my assumption that green meant go, and that others had the sense enough not to leap across a lane before looking. I didn't know my comfort was creating a space big enough for an RX-7 to hide in.
I had just read about what to do in case of a motorcycle accident. I had watched a few video clips showing some unlucky riders and some foolish ones skirting the fringes of common sense and paying the cost. I'm not one to delight in these things but I watched because I felt a responsibility to know what the risks were and to have a sense of how things go wrong when they do go wrong. It's amazing that my research happened 4 days before my involuntary field work.
So I was incredulous when I saw a grey sports car materialize in front of me, offering no escape to the left or right. I couldn't believe what was about to happen. I hit the brakes hard but barely slowed in the second between his appearance and impact. There was just no time.
My front tire hit and was swept to the right as he continued. It would be another few seconds before he realized that I even existed. The tread pattern left fountain-like streaks as my handlebars hit next and the bike decelerated to a standstill instantly.
I was thrown from the bike and somersaulted over my left shoulder, over his trunk, and into open air. I knew it was going to be bad so I braked and braced and the next thing I knew I was floating...
I landed on my head and upper back which, in hindsight, probably kept my limbs out of harm's way. The impact with the car was shocking. The amount of energy transferred, along with the ferocity and speed of the transition from everything being OK to something being awry, was unsettling to say the least. Hitting the ground was no picnic either.
I knew from my earlier research that the first thing you should do is take stock of the situation before you try to move. I knew adrenaline would be sheltering me from the pain and I could do serious harm by being impatient. I sat up and a headache bloomed in my helmet. My pant leg was sickeningly bent at the shin but my leg was in there, straight and unbroken, partnering in a momentary optical illusion.
I realized that I was sitting in the middle of an intersection during rush hour and heard voices asking if I was OK. I said, "I think so," and a couple of construction workers asked if they could move my bike out of the road for me. I staggered to me feet, amazed that I was actually alright but dizzy with the shock of it all. Plus, I was stunned and trying to get a handle on what had transpired, the film playing over and over again in my head.
The man who caused the accident appeared and was prepared for a combative exchange. He too was trying to make sense of what had happened, trying to make sense of the loud jolt that shook his car and shifted his trajectory from homeward bound to a curbside stop.
"Should we talk about what happened?" he said.
I agreed and he started describing what he saw. It became clear that he had miscalculated the number of lanes and when I tried to correct him he raised his voice and seemed worried that he might not get to tell his side of things. I stopped him and said that I wasn't interested in being antagonistic or angry. I was interested in talking about what happened clearly and honestly so we could get at the truth. To his credit, he calmed down immediately when he realized he wasn't in for a fight.
Thankfully, he was very cooperative and was fully insured. You could see him trying to find a logical explanation that removed him from blame but the facts clearly implicated him.
I began limping because I'd apparently injured my calf as I separated from the bike, likely hitting the topbox on my way out. The adrenaline was fading and the pain began to creep in. A California Highway patrolman appeared and so began the surreal process of processing an accident. I was headed for the twilight zone.
The force bent the upper section of the fork clamps shearing the bolt that secured it to the steering head.
In order for the police to write a report, someone has to be injured. In order to recoup your losses via insurance, you need a police report. If I'd landed on my feet like a cat and strolled away, the accident and the damage to my bike would not be enough to warrant the SF Police department getting involved and I'd have been on my own trying to recover damages. I was advised by the State Trooper to wait for the police to arrive.
They arrived and repeated the story about injury being necessary for a police report. At this point I was walking around, taking pictures of the scene, but my calf, back and neck were complaining a bit. Still, not life threatening I thought. The policeman asked if I needed an ambulance. I said no. He said he needed me to be injured in order to write the report and I said again that I thought I was fine but my leg and neck hurt a bit. At this point he ordered me to sit down and stop moving and called the ambulance. He said it was for my own safety and that the EMTs would check me out and I wouldn't have to go to the hospital if I chose not to.
Once the ambulance arrived the EMTs asked me a few questions and within minutes they had removed my leather jacket, armored pants, and strapped me down to a board with my neck in a collar and my head fixed in place. They said that the "mechanics" of the accident, the fact that I was traveling at over twenty miles per hour and there was "separation" from the vehicle, mandated I be taken to the trauma unit at the emergency room.
I looked at the guy who caused the accident as I was lifted into the ambulance and consoled myself that he clearly knew that this wasn't my doing, that I wasn't seeking some trumped up injury claim, that I had entered this weird space where my autonomy was removed so that the police and medical professionals could do their jobs, and be seen to be doing their jobs, as per the policy, regardless of the reality of the situation.
The technician in the ambulance acknowledged that, at least for the time being, the system had me in its grip. I was thankfully able to refuse an I.V. after a vociferous argument. He relented and said he didn't want to make my day any worse, quietly knowing they would try to stick me in the ER a few minutes later.
My bike was to be towed. The police officer was surprised that this had been my first accident and mentioned how many motorcycle accidents he had been in. He was a fellow rider but made it very clear that his kindness to me was not a result of our shared pursuits, but of the facts which clearly demonstrated I was not at fault. He offered to wait while I called BMW roadside assistance from the back of the ambulance. The best they could offer was a nearly 3 hour wait. The police tow truck arrived sooner and my bike was whisked away to an impound lot while I was en route to the emergency room.
The trauma physicians were openly glad to have a patient who could talk back, and even happier to have one that could leave under his own steam. They gave me a good going over and then disappeared to aid those who were actually in serious need. Apparently they'd had a rough day. I was diagnosed with a sprained back and neck and released into the arms of my fiance whom I'd had to call and say "I've been in a motorcycle accident and am being taken to the emergency room, but actually I'm just fine." A mixed message for sure.
It was Norouz, Persian New Year, and we had plans to jump the fire and celebrate. Although once I got home all I wanted to do was collapse on the couch and retreat from the surrealism of the day. I decided luck had solidly been on my side and I needed to take full advantage of my retained mobility and consciousness. It could have been so much worse.
A half-second sooner into that intersection and instead of wading through a crowd of jubilant Iranians, I'd have been knocked out, nested in a hospital room, missing a leg, or worse. I had been very lucky.
I'd also been smart enough to wear armor from head to toe, which contributed mightily to my well being. I also had health insurance and my bike was insured. The fee for a 7 minute ride and treatment at the trauma unit at SF General approaches $15,000. The damage to the bike topped $10,000, nearly totaled. Thank goodness everything was in place.
Everyone, from the police to the EMTs to the nurses, insurance adjusters and mechanics, did their jobs well and were kind and responsive. I've had unsettling encounters with the police before but in this instance they were on point. Another piece of luck.
Sent to my friends that evening to prove I was OK
So I was lucky to survive unscathed (apart from some serious bruising and soreness), and I was also unlucky to find my trajectory included the side of someone's car. Luck is a weird thing. I did everything right and still got into an accident... or did I?
I had been feeling pretty confident on the bike as a result of years of careful riding and skill building. I actually practice emergency stops and work on braking, situational awareness, slow and high speed control. I am not a hooligan. I understand that there are risks involved and I wear all my gear all the time. I even get a little nervous before every single ride.
I'm confident but not foolish. I split lanes, use the throttle to actively position myself in safer situations, I ride defensively but I'm no shrinking violet. I've encountered plenty of foolhardy drivers but usually seen them coming a long way off and had exit strategies prepared. But this was different. I was going 25 mph through a solidly green light and ended up in the ER.
I realize that my mistake was in assuming that a green light meant go. I discovered that no situation is beyond suspicion. An intersection is a meeting place and there is a higher likelihood of things going wrong in a place where everyone is called upon to make sudden decisions. The light was so, so green. I should have been more suspicious.
Of course as motorcyclists we can't ride paranoid. It would sap the experience of all its joy. Have you ever started imagining a catastrophic failure while you're cruising on the bike at 75mph? Ever heard a strange sound and had the looming realization that your very life depends on a series of complex mechanical interactions thrumming along between your two wheels? Ever given any thought to those two little contact patches that serve to keep you upright in an endless variety of situations?
I went riding two days after the accident so I wouldn't develop any paralyzing associations about motorcycling. It was strange to be so hyper alert, so vigilant. I still haven't quite lost that and it's a very good thing. It contributes even as it fades and comfort returns.
I've been chastised several times in a patronizing tone for deciding to keep riding. I ask those folks why they never ask people who've been in car accidents why they continue to drive. The response is usually silence. I know it's because they care, and because they have a socially fueled, exaggerated sense of the risks. They aren't alone in their concerns. I react strongly because I feel those things too. I grew up in a house where motorcycles where banned. I have parents in the medical profession who have seen the awful results of being so exposed when things go wrong. I carry that fear with me and it's why I work so hard to become a better rider and mitigate the risks.
Now I'm at the age when things begin to feel established, when my friends are long since married with children and being risk averse isn't square. The age when the consequences of my decisions rest not just with me or my family, but also with my new wife, and soon with my children. What then? What of those tiny contact patches then? How will I feel about grey sports coupes sheltering in the space my comfort creates? How will I feel about weighing the joy and invigoration of a ride through the redwoods, chill morning air licking through my helmet as I meander through dappled light draped on the forest road, with the risk of wet patches, leaves, deer, sunday drivers, sunday riders, lapses in concentration, and the like?
I'm not interested in dying. I am deeply invested in what it means to be alive, all the sensations, be they bounty or privation, thrills, beauty, calm, intensity, or longing. I'm down to do it. Each day life gets shorter and I want it to be rich with embraced possibility not abandoned dreams or adopted fear. I want to participate instead of retreat.
To live is to risk. There is a quote by Helen Keller that cuts right to the heart of the issue.
"Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing."
Something rings so true about this. There is a distinct danger in looking back on 30 "safe" years on the couch. Surely there is harm in not taking risk. In the end, some form of couch madness or disease will spring up and grab you as surely as you might encounter misfortune in the wild. Without romanticizing or hyping the whole "died doing what he loved" mantra, there is something appealing about being out in the world, engaging and seeking rather than trying desperately to cordon off and protect a certain state of being in a life that is subject to, and essentially defined by, change.
So I'm still riding and loving it. I've got some dreams wrapped up in two wheels and only miles filled with border crossings and star filled nights will allow them to unfurl. I'm excited and proud to be a motorcyclist, bird watcher, instrument builder, artist, surfer, salsa dancer, father, husband, etc... Those pursuits inform and shape my life and while I could eliminate one and still have a rich existence, It would be incomplete. Circumstances may very well edit that list for me and if that happens I'll have to embrace the new constellation of possibilities.
I'm lucky to be reflecting on this without any lingering physical effects from my tumble. The mental repercussions reverberate. I'm truly grateful, and I want to stay present, deeply engaged, and keep seeking.
Let's go.
11 year old rubber isn't the safest option when you consider the critical importance of tires to your riding experience. Not wanting to take my chances I opted for fresh tires and went with a decidedly on-road approach since I have a set of dirt ready wheels ready to go if the mood strikes. The new tires are mainly for the daily commute, and for better grip in the wet, foggy conditions that often occur in San Francisco.
I set about removing the rear wheel and eventually got the old tire off. I decided to save the old tube to use as a spare and installed a new one along with the new Bridgestone Battlax rear. I muscled on that new tire and thought I was being careful but the narrowness of the wheel combined with the depth of the rim made it tricky to see just how the tube was situated. Inflating the tire to seat the bead revealed a large leak right at the valve stem. I had to backtrack and remove the new tube, replace it with the old one, and try, ever so carefully, to get the tire back on. This time I adjusted the tube every few minutes while carefully levering the new rubber into place. It really is just a matter of technique and patience.
4000 miles versus 0 miles
In the fading light, I decided to swap out the front too. Having learned my lesson, I took my time and took special care with the new tube while reinstalling. I had to inflate the tire to over 60 psi to get the bead to seat properly, but once on it held pressure and the job was done.
The next morning I headed out into Marin County on the Bolinas-Fairfax Road. It's a favorite of mine and has enough curves to scrub in a new set of tires on one 60 mile round trip. I planned to meet some friends at the Bolinas Museum to walk them through my latest exhibition "The Ceiling of Our Day."
I was surprised to find it had rained in the early morning hours and the roads were wet. New tires are already slippery because of the release agent used when formed at the factory. Even on dry roads caution is generally encouraged. Undaunted, I set out with great care and gingerly made my way out to highway 80.
When I hit the San Rafael Bridge, which is heavily grooved, the new tires started dancing. It felt like the wheels had come loose and the bike was shimmying under me. The dual-sport tires I had on never behaved like this but I knew it was normal for grooves to impart this kind of wiggle so I relaxed into it and all was well.
The dam at Alpine Lake. The tires handled the wet conditions well.
Alpine lake just after the morning fog had retreated.
The other nice thing about this road is the lack of traffic. Even on the outskirts of a major city like San Francisco, you are unlikely to encounter more than 4 or 5 cars along this 10 mile stretch.
Redwood trees on Mount Tamalpais.
After it scales the backside of Mount Tamalpais, the road descends in a flurry of twists down toward Bolinas Lagoon.
A hairpin turn on the Bolinas side. Click to zoom...
Bolinas Lagoon and the Pacific Ocean beyond. Click to zoom...
Couldn't resist adding another portrait of the bike in such a lovely setting.
My friends and I spent some time in the show and got to catch up over lunch and discussions of architecture, education, nature and the arts. Inspiring conversations with terribly bright and kind individuals of great vision.
Donlyn Lyndon and Alice Wingwall with Rumba exploring the exhibition.
We watched a few Osprey and Harbor Seals at the mouth of the Lagoon and said our goodbyes. I buzzed back along Highway One, the road baked dry by the sun and the bike handling beautifully along the cliffs and sweeping coastal hills.
I went on a circuitous hundred mile meander over the hills and through the woods, down the coast and around the mountain today to get the new rear tire properly scrubbed in.
The light near the top of Mount Tamalpais was astounding as it scattered through the redwoods.
It's always interesting getting to know the feel of a new tire. In this case I had just changed the oil and done some chain maintenance so the bike felt like a different animal until it settled in. It was at once smoother because it shifts like silk after an oil change, and weirdly vibey because the new rubber has a distinctive tread that plays rhythms at low speeds.
Bolinas-Fairfax Road was its usual curvy-glorious-uninhabited self as it transported me to the coast. Then I ambled down Highway One, pacing the setting sun back to the bay, rising just in time to catch it as it descended golden over the coastal hills above Muir Woods.
It illuminated a west-facing outcropping of rock and revealed a perfect outdoor venue for shadow theatre,
The long weekend also gave me the chance to reassemble the bike's good luck charm which looked over me through Death Valley on the trip to and from the Overland Expo. (read the trip report HERE)
It was nice to put in some miles and I'm grateful for the weather which could have easily been grey and considerably colder. I'll give credit for that one to the bird on my tail.
As I stopped to take this picture of light dappled through the afternoon haze on Mt. Tamalpais...
A man pulled up in his car and we began talking about the light and the state of the world and litterbugs, and the suspected source of the haze. He was generous enough to ask if I'd like a picture taken of me on the bike, and he was capable enough to take this stunning photo.
On my way home I had to stop for just one more...
Nearly 2 months ago I realized I wanted to motorcycle thru Africa... for real. Not like I wanted to think about maybe sometime possibly going... I decided that as long as I have the power to do so... this will happen. So I happened to wander into a bike shop with a dream... Pictured above is the nearly stock, pristine, unbesmirched, ultra-low-mileage beauty that lay in wait. You never see dirtbikes this stock, this clean. People are always tinkering with them trying to improve on what super highly trained motorcycle engineers in Japan have meticulously crafted. I enjoyed and savored the non-tinkered with bike... for 2 days. Seven weeks later...
...behold the Africa Bike (more or less). There will be additions and subtractions I'm sure, but for now I'm focusing on sensible additions that will help make a trip like the one I envision possible (not to mention training for such a trip). I couldn't care less about it being the fastest or most powerful KLX, I'd rather have steady-as-she-goes reliability and simplicity. Suggestions are welcome.
Here is the quick list in picture form with details to follow. Click on the image to see a larger version.
First up, luggage options. Since my trip to the Overland Expo I've been sold on soft luggage, particularly when the going gets rough. It keeps the bike compact, light, and more agile. I'd rather have a leg pinned under a soft bag of my dirty socks than under a bag of my dirty socks sealed in an impenetrable and unforgiving aluminum case. So I decided on Wolfman racks because they can take a hit and can be used as grab handles to shove the bike around. Sensible - yes. Cool points - also yes. Good combo.
A home-made windshield made from a plastic kitchen garbage can. Sensible - yes. Cool points - hell no. Nerd points - yes indeed.
Following that bubble of light through the night is mesmerizing but remember moto-antics are disconcerting to the panic-prone nocturnal denizens of the roadside. All the better to see them with, LED lights from Denali help resolve some of the mysteries of the night.
85 miles between gas stations is silly. A 17L (4.5 gallon) tank gives me at least 200 miles and its translucence takes guessing out of the equation.
200 miles on that slab of a seat is made more bearable with a sheepskin from Alaska Leather. Practical - yes. Weird - awesome.
Lockable tiny top box. Soon to be repositioned on a larger rack that can accommodate a fuel can and dry bag.
Riding on dirt means spending time on your feet. Standing over the stock bars is tiring but these 3 inch risers bring the bars high enough so you can focus on the road ahead and not the burgeoning pain in your hunched over back.
Sometimes you've got to lower the pressures in your tires to deal with offroad conditions. This little 12 volt outlet allows me to re-inflate the tires easily with a tiny pump. I can also charge my phone, camera, and power up the GPS.
Having a tachometer helps me take the measure of the engine. Down the line it won't be crucial but while the bike is still new to me, it helps me relate and calibrate the bike's sound to its inner workings.
Hi-test chain in a used bicycle inner tube provides a lot of security for around 10 bucks.
Since I got the bike I've also wanted the security provided by a kick start. This meant opening up the engine and delving into it. What?! OK, I have to learn how to maintain and repair this bad boy so here we go. With the adult supervision provided by my good friend Mose, I cracked the case open...
and a few hours later reassembled and kicked the bike back to life. Sensible - yes. Badass quotient - exponentially increased. Also, there is a Tonns Fabrication bash plate installed to protect the engine from errant rocks, logs, etc...
I look forward to the day I get to roll this bike over the Tanzanian border. We will both be back home again.
So there it is. I have a W.E.R. steering damper to install to stabilize the bike offroad and in more technical situations, and then just a whole lot of riding. The bike feels great. I realize I'm fortunate to be in the position to entertain such notions of world travel. I don't take it for granted. I hope to share the experiences in ways that are generative and generous.
It's a lovely day in Northern California. The sun is shining and for once I haven't even considered the temperature. The KLX is awesome and the commute to and from work today was great. The trail wings are great on the Pacific Coast Highway's freshly paved surface and even the holiday traffic wasn't a bother once I realized the bike likes to live in its upper register. Overtakes were simple and direct. This bike is what I'm pinning my Africa hopes on. It may be 5-7 years from now but everyday it becomes a sliver more real and I can picture the reality of what is now just a dream, an inkling. I can smell the dirt and feel the uncertainty of police checkpoints and the silence of roadside stops, helmet off in the heat, birds and distant traffic, footfalls and Maasai kids staring me down. And that is just one moment in a litany of moments in one country on one continent.
I still have to learn how to fix my bike and learn Kiswahili and get to Alaska and Panama and Tierra del Fuego. But for now the dream is enough. I have some badass overalls coming to me from Mondo Enduro's own Austin Vince in the colors of the Tanzanian flag (courtesy my sweetheart) and I can picture myself riding the dunes in the Namib desert in them... that really is enough for now. More messing with the bike, more riding, more obsessing. I may be married with kids by the time I go but I know it will make me a better man. A stronger man. A more generous and considered man. And it will put my "home" in context. It will allow me to take the quotes off the word home and feel connected like I ought to. I am Tanzanian after all. Mimi ni mwafrica. Kabisa.
This is a photo laden post but don't miss the video which is short and gives a great sense of the trip.
I started out with the BMW boxes, but as I left I discovered my soft luggage from Andy Strapz in Australia had arrived.
I switched over and was amazed that the bike could be so much lighter, more compact, and still carry the same load. It seemed promising.
I started with french toast at the famous bike stop on Highway 35, Alice's Restaurant.
After careening through Panoche Valley and lumbering down Interstate 5, I emerged in the vast, open landscape of the Carrizo Plain.
I wasn't the only one moving through the plains that day.
It has an endlessness about it and is one of my favorite places in California, especially in spring when the whole area is submerged in wildflowers.
Southward still lie the mountains and the sinuous Highway 33. I stayed the night with some dear friends in Los Angeles after 520 rapturous and rigorous miles. The next day I put my head down and rocketed across the desert adding another 515 miles to the tally bringing the grand total to 1035 miles in two long days. But at last I was at the Expo. I set up camp and awoke early to discover just what I had gotten myself into.
Right away I met the inimitable Bill Dwyer, author of Anxiety Across the Americas, which was great timing as I was rife with anxiety being alone among thousands, a thousand miles from home.
Then I took in the legendary Austin Vince's tremendously engaging talk about making a proper film of your journey.
Soon another of my moto-heroes popped up in the form of the incomparable Lois Pryce. She signed my windshield for good luck and raised my spirits. Eventually Ted Simon, Chris Scott, Austin and the Mondo Sahara crew, and filmmaker Sterling Noren all contributed their signatures!
Their words of encouragement would immediately come in handy.
The next morning I joined a group ride with about thirty 1200GS riders. It was slated to be a "basic" 2 hour ride and ended up lasting for four, rutted, rocky, tree-lined, sandy-bermed, dusty hours. I stayed with the top two or three riders and learned a tremendous amount as I outpaced most of the group and felt wonderfully challenged but in control. It was invigorating and confidence-inspiring. Sterling's words to "Ride hard and take chances" resonated.
This is the dusty face of contentment and newly found confidence!
Another highlight was the well crafted Adventure Travel Film Festival hosted by Austin Vince. We got to enjoy the world premiere of Mondo Sahara followed by a Q&A with the team.
Just like that the weekend was drawing to a close under Arizona's dramatic skies.
The next morning it was time to roam. At least one of us had that option...
I made my way north to the Hoover Dam and through Las Vegas to a place I had always dreamed of going.
The internet had assured me the temperature would peak in the 80s... I was artfully deceived.
Here I am sinking to new lows in the wide, hot, open spaces of the morbidly named park. Apparently the first non-native travelers who tried to cross it ran into troubles. One person died during the trip and that tarnished the place's reputation enough that it was labeled the valley of death. The name stuck. Descending through the Funeral Mountains will still put a chill down your back and refresh any uncertainties you might have. (click the image to see it properly)
The scale of the place actually reminded my of the Ngorongoro Conservation Area in Tanzania... except not green. There were some proper dunes to be found and they stood lovely and forbidding in the late afternoon light.
Leaving Death Valley through the vast Panamint Valley and high desert.
I stayed in Lone Pine in the shadow of Mount Whitney. The end of a 550 mile day.
It is morning in Mono Basin, and the famous lake and its gangrenous tufa formations continue to spark curiosity and fascination.
A sunrise in miniature.
Returning through Tioga Pass and Yosemite National Park was what you might expect... simply beautiful. Perhaps I'll head to the Expo again next year. Many thanks to everyone who supported my trip, from the lovely people I met, to my employers, and crucially, to the love of my life. More journeys lay ahead...
Here is the eventual line I scrawled across the map as I meandered. Click it for more detail.
As an aside, here is a video chronicling one of the hazards of returning to civilization after having enjoyed the pleasures of more remote regions.
Our destination was a steep valley that my friend North found in the mountains northeast of Georgetown. The red squiggle actually shows our route from morning until we came to an unexpected bump in the road.
This was the goal... to weave through the trees beyond Rubicon Road and get to a tiny bridge that could carry us across the river to unknown and uncharted territory. We hoped to reconnect with Interstate 80 after navigating through what looked like passable trails on the satellite photos.
So I got the bike packed up for an overnight trip into the hills.
I ended up in Dixon after a low-frequency front-end wobble at 80 mph had me puzzling over the recent changes I'd made to the bike. Suspension, steering damper, new tires? I rechecked all the bolts and decided to crank up the preload on the rear shock and hope for the best. The oscillation was self correcting which was good if still unsettling. I got in tune with it and soon was back up to speed and feeling safe again.
Reaching the South Fork of the American River it finally felt like I was away from the congestion of the central valley.
This was the scene that greeted me at that particular pullout.
North and I met up at a friend's home in Garden Valley and contemplated getting our camp set up before the forecasted rains arrived.
Not a bad place to spend a night. The lightning storm was an added bonus at 3am.
The next day we set off to find Rubicon Road and North, eager to get off the pavement, found some rain-slicked single-track to dirty up his bike before the main event. Here he has just recovered his bike from a hole in the forest off Darling Ridge Road.
We eventually found Rubicon Road and the riding was amazing, and challenging, and rainy, and rocky, and slick... Click the image above to see it full size.
Before I get too ahead of the story, here is the video of what happened on that particular Easter Sunday.
Here is a link to the story as told by still pictures from my helmet-cam.
The road eventually came to an abrupt end courtesy of a landslide that had reclaimed the hillside. It was a beautiful place to have to stop. Click the image to see it full size.
We figured it was as good a place as any to have lunch.
Heading down that ravine trail in the rain, over sharp rocks, mud, moss, branches, ruts, etc... surely counts as a legit way to get my first off road experience. It was epic. Thanks to North for leading the way, in his inimitable fashion, on worn out street tires that had no business being on the trail.
North and I reflect on the events of the morning.
We could see that tiny bridge in the distance but there wasn't any hope of getting our bikes down there.
North contemplates the trails snaking up to the opposing ridge.
I practice timing celebratory jumps in anticipation of crossing equators and such.
While setting up to pose for what I'm sure would have been the most epic heroic self portraits at the end of the road, North backed his bike up to the edge of a sheer forty foot drop and dismounted only to have the kickstand sink into the mud and the 600lb bike fall onto the very edge of the cliff. It was a scary moment that I couldn't quite believe I was seeing as it unfolded in slow motion.
We managed to drag it away from the edge and get it righted again but not before, feeling slightly unsure of etiquette, I grabbed my camera to document the proceedings.
I wound up heading to Grizzly Island at the end of the day to look for Short-eared Owls and relax a bit. It was a fantastic day with incredibly beautiful and challenging terrain.
Just a few images from the commute tonight. The highlight was a Red-tailed Hawk flying next to me through the trees during the descent to the lagoon.
Bolinas Lagoon.
Taking a break at Alpine Lake.
The new tires are remarkably competent in the twisties which is a relief.
I think I finally have this bike dialed in. Tires, seat, suspension, lighting, heat controller, windscreen, steering damper, luggage, muffler, and a little hummingbird. It feels locked in, comfortable, and responsive. It is a custom fit and I'm incredibly grateful to have it. It saves me gas, let's me see miraculous things, notice shifts in the weather and topography, and generally feel connected and engaged.
It is a symbol of possibility and promise and I'm astonished at how much I care about this chunk of metal, plastic, fuel and rubber. It is an investment and it supports an ambition to see more of the world. I've been dealing with anxiety and panic since I lost my father a while back and this bike is a project that helps me heal and feel like things will be alright... like I'll find myself far from home in some remote place that holds only the wind and a fading light and no people, and somehow with no connection or chance of getting help I'll still be sustained and propelled by an understanding that the world can be benign and rich and enthralling, not just filled with harbingers of illness or reminders life's fragility.
So This thing is invaluable for preventing tankslappers (a dangerous situation where the front wheel oscillates violently from side to side), and for easing progress through rutted, rocky terrain, and sand. It also helps during long wind-battered highway stretches. It basically lets you control the rate at which the handlebars can be moved and minimizes sudden jerky movements. Here is a quote from the Ralle-moto folks, gleaned off the BestRest website: "...the steering damper... it excels at keeping the wheel pointed where you want it. A steering damper is like having an extra set of arms that never get tired. You'll get the bike through the difficult section, at a high enough speed to keep the bike stable, while still maintaining control.
Steering dampers are a great tool for eliminating front wheel deflection because they prevent unexpected side-to-side movement. Every road and trail has unseen potholes, ruts, etc. Good riders are always watching for those hidden obstacles, avoiding them whenever possible. The damper will help keep your bike tracking straight ahead even if your tire hits something your eyes couldn’t see!"
I had to remove the handlebars, and risers, the "gas tank" cover" and get to these two specialty screws that join the ignition column to the bike's frame. A vice grip worked in lieu of the proper tool. This is the pin assembly that will later fit into the damper vane.
The whole things rests on a 30mm riser that ties everything together and creates a mounting point for the damper unit.
Here is the damper unit installed before the handlebars are replaced.
You can see the ignition column on the right. The pin assembly is screwed into the base. The pin, which is static, sits in a slot under the damper unit which is connected to an internal vane which moves through oil.
The damping can be adjusted in both directions, away from center and return. The dials change the dimensions of an internal port restricting the flow of oil and affecting damping rates.
The finished installation. This is a simple bolt-on install and even allows me to use my old risers.
A shot with the dash to put everything in context. Looking forward to hitting the trails this weekend.
Decided to swap my Heidenau K60s for some TKC 80s in anticipation of some offroading next weekend. I'd never changed anything but a bike tire before so after studying a few videos I got out my tools and decided to go for it.
I made sure that I only used the tools I carry on the bike. That way I can be reasonably confident I'll be able to do this work when far afield. Getting the rear off the wheel was the biggest challenge. I ended up improvising with a short piece of plywood (which now I guess I'll have to pack) and eventually I got the tire off, swapped, and pumped up.
Looks brilliant and after a short test ride I can say it feels great too. Like it was built for the bike. Tomorrow I'll give it the first good run on asphalt. They aren't spectacular in the wet, but I'll just have to be more careful.
Next up was the front. This was the following day and I didn't get started until an hour before sunset.
This little jack was a nice way to get the weight off the front, though I realized that stones in my panniers would also do the trick.
Sadly, as I struggled to get the new tire on, I managed to pinch the tube and once the pump ran for 4 minutes with no increase in tire pressure, It was clear I had made a mess of it. Now it was getting dark, and I was still determined to finish the job, so I got a headlamp and considered the rest practice for getting a flat at night on some distant gravel road.
After busting my knuckles again and properly scratching up my rim, I plugged in the pump and was thrilled to see the numbers climb. 32 psi in the front... for now.
Got the front on after two hours and learned some good lessons in the process.
Alpine Lake.
Passing through the Carizzo Plain.
Late afternoon on Mount Tamalpais.
The PCH heading toward Bolinas.