Commute
The Commute
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It is late in the day when I finally set myself free of the confines of the cubicle. I sneak through the hallways like a fighter pilot downed behind enemy lines. In the parking garage I set my helmet on the bike. A quick once over of the important parts to assure myself that the machine is going to get me home. It's a bit dirty and road weary; but still tight where it counts.
I hit the starter and it barks to life with a startled rumble; sounding like Lauren Bacall after a gentle, yet, firm goosing from Bogart. Her whiskey soaked voice chuckles promise and heat at me. Long dual sport suspension, dual sport wheels and wide bars remind me of the old slogan "Long legged and easy to live with"
The light is fading with late afternoon toward early evening under gray skies. The traffic frenzy is at its crescendo. The surface streets offer no promise of escape routes to avoid the crush. Any shortcuts are more risk than their worth at this time of day. Nothing to do but suffer the stop and go. Stop and go. The bikes motor coughs once; as if impatient. "C'mon big boy. Gimme a good twist. And put some stank on it"
Sorry baby. We’re stuck for now.
Finally we get toward the final right hand a t a light to get onto the ramp for the 520 freeway. The ramp is a long, banked S-turn. Short left, long sweeping right. Uphill. Great camber. And an HOV lane restricted to cars with more than one person, a rare event; and motorcycles. We are held back by one, lone minivan. The woman behind the wheel signals to go right, but just can’t seem to grow the courage to make the turn, no matter how clear it might be. My fingers drum the brake lever. The motor again ripples with a cough, saying "What’s the matter honey? Can’t jump the curb? Not man enough? Cant get it up the six inches of cement?"
Bitch.
I clunk into first and give the throttle a handful. The big bike bounces over the curb and flops down the far side, cutting past the timid minivan's bulk. Artless and ungraceful, but we are moving. And motion is key.
As I pile the revs toward redline and second gear, I spot a sport bike joining in from the far left turn lane. He slumps as if thinking "Oh shit. That old fart on that big pig is going to slow me up."
Really? The bike feels it too and snarls as I bang it into second with the throttle pinned and dive into the left hander. I bang my way up another gear as we roll over to the right hand turn. At the same time I shove my weight forward, elbows out and dump more gas into her hungry heart. The bike howls with joy. The pavement rises quickly and I feel it skim the toe of my boot. I calmly pull my foot back so just the toe is on the footpeg and let the pavement lap higher at me.
The bike howls with joy as we straighten and claw for altitude. I check the mirrors. The sport bike is a long, long ways back.
Still climbing we meet traffic filtering from the regular lanes, across our holy HOV sanctuary to merge with regular traffic embroiled in the regular evening forced march. The bike and I dodge and dance. Slowing, shifting, accelerating, jinking. We will run several of these gauntlets on the way home.
There is one stretch on 520 that is particularly bad. The Holy HOV Sanctuary is the right line. Regular traffic restricted to two left lanes. But every short, blind, antique, 1950s era ramp that vomits a steady stream of caffeine wired, work fatigued and cellular connected box inhabitor forces these mindless drones to cross the Holy HOV Lane. It's like flying a plane through a crossfire where the projectiles are two ton projectiles piloted by amphetamine-crazed kamikaze pilots. The bike and I have a total of two miles to prepare before diving into the rush hour brawl.
At first we are out of synch, running the field like Captain Kirk dodging alien deathbeams; unnatural, over planned and rehearsed, formulaic. But soon we enter the Zone. The bike and I are wedded in an unholy biomechanical matrimony. We dodge a suddenly halted SUV. We brush past yet another minivan trying to squeeze us into the rusty metal guard rail. We give it a saucy hip-check with a boxy saddlebag in passing, leaving it to honk a startled protest that fades under the weight of einsteinian law. We juke, we bounce, we slide, we glide. A moving target is hardest to hit. And we are definitely moving. My senses spread, split and connect; tendrils of understanding stroking the minds of the drones, feeling their intentions before they are aware of them, anticipating every stupid move they make. I can see their futures. The drones in their mechanized beasts claw at us. They lunge and try to drag us down under the weight of their lumbering lowest common denominator. They hate us for we are not only not like them, but we spit in their faces with wide grins and dance out of reach.
Suddenly we break free of the herd and lead the way. We catch the front like a wave and ride it joyously to the streets of our own neighborhood. The back streets of the neighborhood let us cool down like a runner after a hard race. We drift by houses not yet occupied by their drone owners, savoring the connection we have.
In the driveway I let the bike idle a few moments, chuckling to herself before I switch the motor off. There is a reason it is called the 'kill' switch. But as I roll the bike into the garage, I can hear bike groan and ping; sounding like afterglow and ready for a long nap.
Until tomorrow, bitch.
4.26.05
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It is late in the day when I finally set myself free of the confines of the cubicle. I sneak through the hallways like a fighter pilot downed behind enemy lines. In the parking garage I set my helmet on the bike. A quick once over of the important parts to assure myself that the machine is going to get me home. It's a bit dirty and road weary; but still tight where it counts.
I hit the starter and it barks to life with a startled rumble; sounding like Lauren Bacall after a gentle, yet, firm goosing from Bogart. Her whiskey soaked voice chuckles promise and heat at me. Long dual sport suspension, dual sport wheels and wide bars remind me of the old slogan "Long legged and easy to live with"
The light is fading with late afternoon toward early evening under gray skies. The traffic frenzy is at its crescendo. The surface streets offer no promise of escape routes to avoid the crush. Any shortcuts are more risk than their worth at this time of day. Nothing to do but suffer the stop and go. Stop and go. The bikes motor coughs once; as if impatient. "C'mon big boy. Gimme a good twist. And put some stank on it"
Sorry baby. We’re stuck for now.
Finally we get toward the final right hand a t a light to get onto the ramp for the 520 freeway. The ramp is a long, banked S-turn. Short left, long sweeping right. Uphill. Great camber. And an HOV lane restricted to cars with more than one person, a rare event; and motorcycles. We are held back by one, lone minivan. The woman behind the wheel signals to go right, but just can’t seem to grow the courage to make the turn, no matter how clear it might be. My fingers drum the brake lever. The motor again ripples with a cough, saying "What’s the matter honey? Can’t jump the curb? Not man enough? Cant get it up the six inches of cement?"
Bitch.
I clunk into first and give the throttle a handful. The big bike bounces over the curb and flops down the far side, cutting past the timid minivan's bulk. Artless and ungraceful, but we are moving. And motion is key.
As I pile the revs toward redline and second gear, I spot a sport bike joining in from the far left turn lane. He slumps as if thinking "Oh shit. That old fart on that big pig is going to slow me up."
Really? The bike feels it too and snarls as I bang it into second with the throttle pinned and dive into the left hander. I bang my way up another gear as we roll over to the right hand turn. At the same time I shove my weight forward, elbows out and dump more gas into her hungry heart. The bike howls with joy. The pavement rises quickly and I feel it skim the toe of my boot. I calmly pull my foot back so just the toe is on the footpeg and let the pavement lap higher at me.
The bike howls with joy as we straighten and claw for altitude. I check the mirrors. The sport bike is a long, long ways back.
Still climbing we meet traffic filtering from the regular lanes, across our holy HOV sanctuary to merge with regular traffic embroiled in the regular evening forced march. The bike and I dodge and dance. Slowing, shifting, accelerating, jinking. We will run several of these gauntlets on the way home.
There is one stretch on 520 that is particularly bad. The Holy HOV Sanctuary is the right line. Regular traffic restricted to two left lanes. But every short, blind, antique, 1950s era ramp that vomits a steady stream of caffeine wired, work fatigued and cellular connected box inhabitor forces these mindless drones to cross the Holy HOV Lane. It's like flying a plane through a crossfire where the projectiles are two ton projectiles piloted by amphetamine-crazed kamikaze pilots. The bike and I have a total of two miles to prepare before diving into the rush hour brawl.
At first we are out of synch, running the field like Captain Kirk dodging alien deathbeams; unnatural, over planned and rehearsed, formulaic. But soon we enter the Zone. The bike and I are wedded in an unholy biomechanical matrimony. We dodge a suddenly halted SUV. We brush past yet another minivan trying to squeeze us into the rusty metal guard rail. We give it a saucy hip-check with a boxy saddlebag in passing, leaving it to honk a startled protest that fades under the weight of einsteinian law. We juke, we bounce, we slide, we glide. A moving target is hardest to hit. And we are definitely moving. My senses spread, split and connect; tendrils of understanding stroking the minds of the drones, feeling their intentions before they are aware of them, anticipating every stupid move they make. I can see their futures. The drones in their mechanized beasts claw at us. They lunge and try to drag us down under the weight of their lumbering lowest common denominator. They hate us for we are not only not like them, but we spit in their faces with wide grins and dance out of reach.
Suddenly we break free of the herd and lead the way. We catch the front like a wave and ride it joyously to the streets of our own neighborhood. The back streets of the neighborhood let us cool down like a runner after a hard race. We drift by houses not yet occupied by their drone owners, savoring the connection we have.
In the driveway I let the bike idle a few moments, chuckling to herself before I switch the motor off. There is a reason it is called the 'kill' switch. But as I roll the bike into the garage, I can hear bike groan and ping; sounding like afterglow and ready for a long nap.
Until tomorrow, bitch.
4.26.05
posted by Z at
11:29 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home