1199S ABS 1200-mile weekend

10w50 elf synthetic was provided by my dealer.

Styler said:

Day 2 - the next 450 miles

3:30 AM. Why am I awake?
I crawl out of bed to adjust the motel air-conditioner from "Hi-Cool" to "Off".
"....; it's freezing in here," I whisper to myself. As I turn to jump back into bed, she catches my eye. It is then that I become fully awake, aware of my context and of her.

Red. Vibrant. Sleek, and a little dirty. She looks like she should for having been ridden hard for so long and for the first time. Parts of her remain clean, shiny and new, while others are coated in dried splatter. I fixate on her. "Kills bugs fast" I mumble. Hunched over, hugging myself for warmth, cold overcomes my admiration and I jump back into bed. I stare into her eyes and wonder how bright those funky LED lights really are. Good enough for unlit country back roads? Maybe.

It won't be light out for two-and-a-half hours. I need to sleep. Besides, riding in the dark around here can't be too smart; critters were everywhere yesterday. And if the roadside carnage tells me anything, it's that many of the wild things don't make it to the other side; not at least as they intended anyway.

Unable to fall back asleep, I find myself thinking about last night"¦ Ben, his wife, Paul and their Harley trikes; likely their last ride together, capping off a life-long friendship started in high-school, surviving a war, and decades thereafter. At least that was my detached and private conclusion for Ben and Paul. One that only a stranger can make so casually. Agent Orange, still at work. I used to mock trikes. Now I understand what it can mean for a motorcyclist that can no longer support the weight of a bike, walk 50 yards, or breath with anything more than 25 per cent lung capacity. It's still freedom; it's still a V-twin, and it's still road trip and an adventure.

Lying awake, I also relive the moment last night in the motel room when I realized I had ridden the last tank of gas with my pack unzipped. It reminded me of how I felt when, in a crowded big-box store one Saturday morning, I noticed a stranger noticing me from 20 yards away, then suddenly walking directly towards me with such casual purpose, only to quietly informing me that my pants were unzipped. Indeed, it's a similar emotional sequence. An initial horror; your face flushes as you become warm and a hollowness occupies your gut and you ask yourself: "....; how long has it been like that."

While in this case I retained my dignity, I did lose the charger for my iPhone, a pair of disposable latex gloves containing a long-week-end's supply of ear plugs, toiletries and an Arai helmet bag that contained my accumulated dirty laundry - one dirty pair of new, black dress socks, one dirty pair of new, stretch-cotton skivvies, and one dirty black V-neck undershirt. Nothing that cannot be replaced. However, riding without earplugs wont be fun; then again, maybe it will be a guilty pleasure until I hit the interstate for that 40-mile blast to Donelson Cycle and the first service. Anyway, one good thing did come of it; the loss of my phone charger necessitated a trip to the sprawling truck stop across the street to replace it (they have everything in these massive truck stops). I came back with a charger, flashlight for checking the oil, ibuprofen, toothbrush, and a small bottle of Crown Royal and a cigar. And so, upon my return, I joined Ben and Paul outside of our rooms. I follow Ben's lead and drag the chair from my room and joined Paul in his wheelchair for a smoke as we looked at their bikes and drink rye whisky. We share stories, ambitions and lies, some with ourselves.

3:45 AM. I'm wide awake, yet tired.
I check in at work by reviewing the accumulated email on my Blackberry. I stop on an email from a colleague asking if I have named her yet? I turn off the Blackberry and reach for my iPhone and Google "Italian girl names." A few peak my interest. It has to capture her beauty, wild, yet playful side, the attraction, the affectionate yet dangerous allure. I'm reminded of the other night: "Be careful; she can be a hand-full..." and so I decide that it will come to me when the time is right. You don't rush decisions like this.

4:00 AM. I look outside. It's warm and dark.
I'm hungry. The truck stop is open around the clock and so I decide it's time to pack, eat and then get on the road. At least there's a full moon.

Within minutes I'm wheeling her outside. One last look around the room and I'm gone. So as not to wake my fellow travellers, I push the her away from the motel and fire her up as I roll into the street, only to shut her down minutes later in front of the truck stop diner. The red Ducati looks out of place among the massive diesels. And yet, she leaves no doubt among anyone that passes her on their way in for breakfast that she has a story to tell.

Lois is waiting tables and keeping the morning conversation going among a couple of drivers. Truckers are a great source of weather information. They seem to trade their weather reports of the road ahead for the road they've just come from and a little human interaction. I listen in on their exchange. Eggs, toast, bacon, weak truck-stop coffee and a pancake prep me for the road as I am entertained by the cook who dances and sings to rock classics while he works his grill.
"Blinded by the light. Swept up like ?? in the middle of the night."
I could never make out that lyric; apparently either could he.

5:00 AM. I gotta get outa here.

To be continued"¦

Click to expand...

"
Good sh_t mann .... good ishh !!!

I have 650 miles on my S . No starting problems at any temperature. Just incredible handling and performance. Compared to my 996 this bike enters corners effortlessly. Total neutral steering. Instant throttle response. I'm following the manual to the letter as is recomended by the engineers that built the motor. I wont go to 7000 rpm until I have 1500 miles on it. My oil usage seems to have stopped at 250 miles. I see some smoke after cold start ups when I rev it up. It is white and does not smell like oil smoke.

Keep the story coming ! Nice work !

Your writing style is entertaining, have you ever thought of as career as a writer of novels? Your story reads like a crime thriller.

5:10 AM. I head north on HWY 19.
Leaving the bubble of light provided by the truck stop’s overhead lamps, I enter the country roads with the beaming full-moon aiding my progress. Her LED lights are impressive, bright and have a white clarity about them that I have not experienced before. Regardless, the undulations, twists and turns of the road limit their reach and thus my speed. I never could get comfortable riding beyond the range of my lights, particularly on winding, country roads frequented by too many deer and other critters.

The moon beams quickly fade; they are no match for the fog that soon envelops us. My speed slows as does tempo of the motor. At low speeds, minimal wind-noise, the darkness, fog and a lack of earplugs work in concert to accentuate the sound of combustion and its affect on the entire mood of the moment; it’s a joyous experience. Guilty pleasure, indeed. Moving along with engine pumping just over 4000 RPM, I pass through a sleepy village in a cloak of white fog and darkness. Echoing off the buildings that line the road, the firing of each cylinder must reveal my passing to all those tucked into their beds. I liken the sound to an automatic shot-gun – if there were such a thing.

A lane change as HWY 19 and another part company. I am suddenly much more aware of the turn signals as their yellow light bounces back off the surrounding fog. In fact, not once during the morning ride do I accidentally activate the options for selecting Race, Sport or Wet modes, something that has occurred numerous times over the last couple of days. You see, I never want to be the guy driving with a turn signal indicating something that I have no intention of doing; that’s just asking to be taken out. And so I have developed a habit over the last thirty years of periodically pressing whatever button is supposed to cancel the indicators… just to be sure. That said, I am quite taken by the indicator switch’s electronic “mechanism”. Still, unless I change, unintentionally activating the options screen for the various modes will become an ongoing minor annoyance.

We descend into a river valley towards a bridge. The fog thickens yet I maintain speed. A possum scurries out in front of me. Head down, neck extended and his legs moving a mile-a-minute, his upper body remains weirdly still as he hurries into our path. I think “how odd” the combination of his sneaky posture and rapid gait as we swerve to miss him. Again, a critter’s life is spared by her impressive translation of my intent into motion… truly remarkable.

Approaching the Interstate 70, I pull of HWY 19 for gas. Three Harley riders with ape-hangers eagerly glance my way. I’ve noticed that they always do when we approach. They can’t help it; it’s an unconscious mind-body reaction, the booming V-twin an ingrained signal among the Harley brotherhood. They quickly look away, almost embarrassed. It’s the same look I get walking through an airport terminal in leather-soled, Italian shoes. Men hunched over laptops immediately look up, triggered by the sound of hard soles on polished concrete. They anticipate a woman in high heels walking towards them. Wear rubber-soled shoes and it never happens. And like them, the Harley riders pretend not to react, notice or care, self-conscious of how they have been betrayed by their involuntary reaction to years of conditioning.

Just after 6:00 AM and I’m back on the road, heading east on Interstate 70 towards St. Louis. I position myself back in the saddle and low over the tank for the blast back to the dealership. Yet, I’m worried by the opportunity I present for the police in their quest for revenue. A 2010 Porsche 911 Turbo passes me in the outside lane. It’s identical to Allan’s car, a colleague at work. Last fall, he asked me to drive it back from the airport when he unexpectedly had to take another flight during our business trip to Sault St. Marie. I remember thinking during my drive back to work that day: “This is the only car I’ve ever driven that accelerates like a bike... Porsche, the ultimate rain gear.”

6:13 AM. The dash changes from night mode to day mode. Cool.

I pull in behind Porsche-guy and we cruise along at a steady 85 MPH towards the city. I shadow his every lane change from a safe distance and occasionally slow when he does, no doubt heeding the warning from his radar detector. We part ways, just before my exit, he on his way to work and me on my way to one of the best motorcycle dealerships in North America.

I pull into the back parking lot of Donelson’s Cycle at 7:10 AM. Ten minutes behind “schedule” and just under two hours before they open. Brian told me that he’d have to wait a couple of hours before she’d be cool enough for him to service her. I arrive with 604 miles on the clock. I’m almost surprised by how, with no particular route or agenda, we’ve managed to be at the dealership at the right time with the right amount of miles on the clock. But then again, the trip has just been like that, going our way.

I park her in front of the dealership’s pick-up, open the tailgate and dump my pack in the back while I proceed to change into my jeans and t-shirt. I hunker down in the back of the pick-up using my leathers as both mattress and pillow. I should really try to get some sleep.

8:20 AM. Kim arrives with a box of doughnuts and invites me in for coffee and deep-fried, sugary bread. No sense waiting out here for another 40 minutes. I’m invited to explore the massive dealership, it’s museum and the hundreds of new Ducati, Triumph, Honda and Yamaha bikes on display. She directs me to the employee’s lounge and tells me to make myself at home if I want to have a nap on one of the two futons in the room. I make my way to the Ducati T-shirt display and begin looking for some more evening wear.

To be continued...

Sounds like a nice shop !

This is really good stuff Styler.

Thanks for all of the kind words.
Donelson Cycles is a destination in itself. They have some of the original bikes from "On any Sunday" in their museum and many other rare machines.
I'll try to write some more soon; but it I may have to wait until Sunday night.

Styler said:

That said, I am quite taken by the indicator switch's electronic "mechanism".

Click to expand...

Are you referring to it self-cancelling after 500m?

That's a great feature. I'll have to acquire the same mindset change to just leave it alone

As my friend the dictator would say this story is verrrry aladeen!

Why no pictures?

he lost his charging cable for the iphone

Styler said:

Day 2 - the next 450 miles

3:30 AM. Why am I awake?
I crawl out of bed to adjust the motel air-conditioner from "Hi-Cool" to "Off".
"....; it's freezing in here," I whisper to myself. As I turn to jump back into bed, she catches my eye. It is then that I become fully awake, aware of my context and of her.

Red. Vibrant. Sleek, and a little dirty. She looks like she should for having been ridden hard for so long and for the first time. Parts of her remain clean, shiny and new, while others are coated in dried splatter. I fixate on her. "Kills bugs fast" I mumble. Hunched over, hugging myself for warmth, cold overcomes my admiration and I jump back into bed. I stare into her eyes and wonder how bright those funky LED lights really are. Good enough for unlit country back roads? Maybe.

It won't be light out for two-and-a-half hours. I need to sleep. Besides, riding in the dark around here can't be too smart; critters were everywhere yesterday. And if the roadside carnage tells me anything, it's that many of the wild things don't make it to the other side, at least not as they intended anyway.

Unable to fall back asleep, I find myself thinking about last night"¦ Ben, his wife, Paul and their Harley trikes; likely their last ride together, capping off a life-long friendship started in high-school, surviving a war, and decades thereafter. At least that was my detached and private conclusion for Ben and Paul. One that only a stranger can make so casually. Agent Orange, still at work. I used to mock trikes. Now I understand what it can mean for a motorcyclist that can no longer support the weight of a bike, walk 50 yards, or breath with anything more than 25 per cent lung capacity. It's still freedom; it's still a V-twin, and it's still road trip and an adventure.

Lying awake, I also relive the moment last night in the motel room when I realized I had ridden the last tank of gas with my pack unzipped. It reminded me of how I felt when, in a crowded big-box store one Saturday morning, I noticed a stranger staring at me from 20 yards away, then suddenly walking directly towards me with such casual purpose, only to quietly informing me that my pants were unzipped. Indeed, it's a similar emotional sequence. An initial horror; your face flushes as you become warm and a hollowness occupies your gut and you ask yourself: "....; how long has it been like that."

While in this case I retained my dignity, I did lose the charger for my iPhone, a pair of disposable latex gloves containing a long-week-end's supply of ear plugs, toiletries and an Arai helmet bag that contained my accumulated dirty laundry - one dirty pair of new, black dress socks, one dirty pair of new, stretch-cotton skivvies, and one dirty black V-neck undershirt. Nothing that cannot be replaced. However, riding without earplugs wont be fun; then again, maybe it will be a guilty pleasure until I hit the interstate for that 40-mile blast to Donelson Cycle and the first service. Anyway, one good thing did come of it; the loss of my phone charger necessitated a trip to the sprawling truck stop across the street to replace it (they have everything in these massive tributes to commercial road travellers and their culture). I came back with a charger, flashlight for checking the oil, ibuprofen, toothbrush, and a small bottle of Crown Royal and a cigar. And so, upon my return, I join Ben and Paul outside of our rooms. I follow Ben's lead and drag the chair from my room and join Paul in his wheelchair for a smoke as we looked at their bikes and drink rye whisky. We share stories, ambitions and lies, some with ourselves.

3:45 AM. I'm wide awake, yet tired.
I check in at work by reviewing the accumulated email on my Blackberry. I stop on an email from a colleague asking if I have named her yet? I turn off the Blackberry and reach for my iPhone and Google "Italian girl names." A few peak my interest. It has to capture her beauty, wild, yet playful side, the attraction, the affectionate yet dangerous allure. I'm reminded of the other night: "Be careful; she can be a hand-full..." and so I decide that it will come to me when the time is right. You don't rush decisions like this.

4:00 AM. I look outside. It's warm and dark.
I'm hungry. The truck stop is open around the clock and so I decide it's time to pack, eat and then get on the road. At least there's a full moon.

Within minutes I'm wheeling her outside. One last look around the room and I'm gone. So as not to wake my fellow travellers, I push the her away from the motel and fire her up as I roll into the street, only to shut her down minutes later in front of the truck stop diner. The red Ducati looks out of place among the massive diesels. And yet, she leaves no doubt among anyone that passes her on their way in for breakfast that she has a story to tell.

Lois is waiting tables and keeping the morning conversation going among a couple of drivers. Truckers are a great source of weather information. They seem to trade their weather reports of the road ahead for the road they've just come from, and a little human interaction. I listen in on their exchange. Eggs, toast, bacon, weak truck-stop coffee and a pancake prep me for the road as I am entertained by the cook who dances and sings to rock classics while he works his grill.
"Blinded by the light. Swept up like ?? in the middle of the night."
I could never make out that lyric; apparently either could he.

5:00 AM. I gotta get outa here.

To be continued"¦

Click to expand...

mines name will be:

BRUNILDA: Italian and Spanish form of Old Norse Brynhildr, meaning "armored warrior woman."

Phil said:

mines name will be:

BRUNILDA: Italian and Spanish form of Old Norse Brynhildr, meaning "armored warrior woman."

Click to expand...

Whoah, sounds like the name of linebacker for the Pittsburgh Steelers, not a sexy, feline Italian.

great read Styler

Rhino said:

Are you referring to it self-cancelling after 500m?

That's a great feature. I'll have to acquire the same mindset change to just leave it alone

Click to expand...

I was referring to the feel of the switch in the side-to-side motion.
I did not get much of a chance to use the self-cancelling signals; they only work below 50 MPH and I tend to cancel the signal as soon as I have made my lane change or turn.

Some photos...
Sorry; I did not take very many.

She's a beauty, thanks again... We'll be eagerly waiting for the next chapter in your adventure Cheers

Ha, that is a great pic of the beauty in your hotel room.