Caged - or the lamentations of a rider trapped in an automobile
Horror of horrors. The Sunday night Triumph inspection revealed bare cords on the rear tire. I knew it was getting low on tread, but the bare carcass really caught me off guard. I think the speed with which it went from not-quite-legal to dangerous was faster than any tire I’ve used before, so I’ve crossed that brand off my list for future use.
This morning, reality set in. I have to drive the “cage” to my day job!!!! What?!?!? That’s inhuman. Isn’t there a county, state or federal law to provide me with a loaner bike until I get mine back on the road again? It’s immoral I tell you…..
So I walk out of the house wearing comfortable clothes, a light jacket and carrying a cup of coffee. It feels weird to be heading out to work without a helmet, a leather jacket, a riding suit and boots. I sit down in the plush leather seat of the Buick, turn the ignition key, and the engine comes obediently and quietly to life. No fiddling with the choke, no rumbling of the exhaust, no looking down at the ground for unexpected leaks. The engine purrs without noise, vibration….. or authority. The radio is barely audible on some soft rock station that my wife had listened to when she drove it last. I adjust the seat with a simple push of a button and tilt the wheel down to the optimal position. Click the seat belt into place and ready to roll. Instead of a light pull on the clutch and a snick into first gear, I grab a handful of the bent-stick automatic, put the needle over the “D” and that’s all there is to it. No noise, no balancing, no mechanical resonance, no open air.
Roll on toward Highway 50, keeping the radio low so I can hear the engine. I have to put the window down a bit so I can hear it better. It seems somehow unnatural to be moving and not be able to hear the power plant doing work. The car is too quiet. And I can’t smell the pine trees. And I can’t see above me. Maybe I shoulda asked the wife if I could drive her car. It’s a convertible, at least I could have had the top down.
I hit the ramp to Highway 50 and have to consciously remind myself to press with the right foot instead of rolling the right wrist. But the car is soooooooo slow. So I step down harder. It gains speed. Kinda. Finally at about 4800 rpm I can hear the engine is really working but I am only going about 45mph. C’mon Buick, get your butt moving! I’d be doing 80 by now on the Triumph! It shifts up a gear with a mushy, squishy shift that any grandpa or government wonk would love. Bah.
Merge into traffic at a grand old 67 mph and settle into formation with all the other cages on the road. The tranny makes its last mushy, squishy shift up into overdrive and the engine settles down to 1900 rpm. Now I can’t even hear it over the wind so I might as well roll up the window. I carefully sip my coffee. It’s a nice attribute, but not necessary.
Suddenly I feel sort of warm and that’s when I notice the electronically-controlled heater is bringing the interior temperature up to a digitally-set 76 degrees. What the hell do I need heat for? I’m riding INSIDE a fully enclosed structure! I push the heat button off and the digital display dutifully tells me it is 48 degrees outside. Aww, man, that would be perfect riding weather in my suit, jacket and gloves! And the bike makes so much power in the cool temperatures! My heart sinks. The Buick has to downshift just to crest a 6% grade…. Ugh.
So I think, maybe tomorrow I will wear the gloves when I drive in. Maybe that will help me feel more at home. And then I hearken back to the 1980’s in SoCal when we used to deride and mock the Porsche-driving candy asses who wore driving gloves all around LA. Sorry, but you should only be wearing gloves driving a car if you are on a race track or if the thermometer is somewhere south of 20 degrees. OK, so no gloves. And the helmet…. well, that ain’t happening. I know if I saw an idiot wearing a helmet inside a Buick my first call would be to the Department of Homeland Security. Depression sets in.
What if someone sees me? In a Buick? Oh, the humanity….
I sip the coffee again and then turn the radio to an all-news AM station. When I say “turn”, of course I am showing my age. You don’t “turn” a radio dial anymore, it finds everything automatically for you. The news broadcast somewhat occupies my mind, being as I am an information junkie. But I am reminded of my “average” status once again as the traffic slows to 30 mph and I have to slow with it, being as I cannot use the diamond lane. Sure enough, a guy zips by in the diamond lane on a Suzuki V-Strom. He is free. I am in bondage. And only half way to work.
The next 20 minutes are a blur as I trudge along a pedestrian pace with all the other cages. No wonder the people always look so depressed when they commute. There is no stimulation. That’s why they have their cell phones, do their makeup, play with their radios and GPS devices. Nothing is exciting their senses! They are bored. I am bored. I can’t smell anything, hear anything, see anything. It’s like being in an IMAX 3D experience. Everything moves, but nothing moves.
At last I turn into the driveway at work. I have to go directly past the motorcycle reserved parking area. Right there, that’s where I always park the Triumph, right there. I wonder who will park in “my” spot today? I hope none of the other riders will see me. Then again, I know they’ve been in my shoes. So will they empathize or will they gloat? They better not gloat – I am in no mood…..
I swing the 4-wheeled lump into a parking spot big enough to hold three bikes. As I get out and shut the door, it locks automatically and I can just walk away. That’s it. No worries about the kickstand or locking the forks or any other thing. It’s just “over.” It does so much for me, automatically, that I feel more like an ancillary piece of equipment rather than an operator, a driver, a pilot. I wonder if I’ll still have a soul by the time I get that new tire on the Triumph…..
Until next time, stay "tuned" and upright,
jack
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Caged - or the lamentations of a rider trapped in an automobile
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