Stuck in Hell, Part 3.
It’s been a few weeks since I posted Stuck in Hell and Stuck in Hell part 2. They were generally well received, and given that y’all are largely a captive audience, I thought I’d post more random flows of consciousness for you to digest in between those dinky polls and the latest “I crashed my ride” posts.
The sun is shining, not a cloud in the sky, and I’m stuck once again in my Dilbert Cartoon cubicle, waiting expectantly for 5.00.01 to roll around. So, I have two hours to burn. I mean, I have two hours to be a responsible employee, working diligently to make more dollars for our erstwhile shareholders…
Yeah, right…
Ten minutes gone while I contemplate how to write this.
I’ve always been obsessed with noise and horsepower. When all the other “normal” kids were out kicking a rugby ball around, or playing doctors and nurses – I was looking for some two wheel disaster to either rebuild, or to jump, or jump then rebuild. My mates and I would look for things to jump our bikes off, and they were the sort of things, that if we had any common sense, we wouldn’t attempt to jump off. Like garden sheds. Or into swimming pools from the second story deck. Or onto car bonnets. I saw that on a movie; but it’s less funny in real life to have the monumentally pissed off car owner chase you.
One day I saw a video of Evil K and his ill fated Las Vegas jump. It was a startling reality check to understand that I was a rank amateur, and this guy was using a Harley to jump canyon’s and Casino’s. And he was fearless. I made me realise the value of THINKING BIG. I realised that I needed speed, and in order to achieve speed, I needed more than pedal power.
Ironically, it was through pedal power that I got my worst injuries. Broken wrist. Wrists. Shoulder dislocations. Compound fractures (which are less cool and fun than they sound). Several concussions, (which kind of explains the ramblings that I pass off as literature). Collarbones, ribs, fingers, and my big toe. I need more reconstructive surgery for my right knee (fractured knee caps are no fun). I realised that if I really wanted to soar, I needed power, and lots of it. After all, the reason I was breaking bones was lack of speed. Certainly it wasn’t lack of brains, right?
So, being obsessed with doing stupid stuff, I needed to build an understanding of noise and horsepower. The two are intertwined in my mind, can’t have one without the other, right? The louder the better, because louder means faster. Speed is entirely visceral – 250 kph in my Alfa 166 was quiet and orderly, the roar of the motor furiously muted. Where’s the thrill in that? 150 kph on a virtually unmuffled RGV250, wind screaming over my lid, engine sounding like it was about to angrily throw a rod through the crankcase, ending in massive destruction and a huge fireball – just about perfect in the thrill stakes.
1 hour, 33 minutes to go. I type slowly; I have stitches in my index finger from an adventure last weekend, so I’m typing virtually one handed. Meaning with one finger.
I also started to realise that I was never going to be a good jumping stunt guy sort of rider. It was all a bit beyond me. Mainly because I started to realise that casts are really uncool, and chicks don’t actually like skinny kids with scars and casts.
But noise and horsepower were a real revelation. My teenage years were spent in the holy pursuit of speed, looking for some two wheel disaster to rebuild, to create more noise, and therefore more speed would be created (while all the other normal boys were kicking a rugby ball around or chasing skirt).
Some interesting facts. Cops do not have a sense of humour. On an unrelated note, public highways should never be used to test very useful theories about top speed. Did you know for example, that you can get more speed by putting your chin on the tank and by raising your butt out of the saddle. And that checking that you’re not leaning out when adding nitrous is best done on a dyno. And that cops with moustaches are generally less fun when you ask them about the health of their boyfriends.
Then university happened, and I could only dream of my next two wheeled DIY disaster. I can remember sitting in the university library, pretending I was reading actual university work. This was true for most of my mates too, except they’d be scoping out all the first year university girls, looking for weakness, looking for the girls with the looser moral values who would at least give head after a few brews at Shadows. I was hiding the latest performance bike magazine in my books – loose woman weren’t really all that high on the agenda.
I would sit and dream about which bike, and how to extract noise and horsepower – the bike that was the benchmark for me was the ZZR1100 (and to a lesser extent, the GSXR750 – I later bought one simply because I’d always wanted one from the way the reviewers would write about it being loud and fast). I had ridden a mate’s ZZR1100 a few times. It was long, and quiet, and kind of smooth, but it had huge power and torque. I used to ride it down the motorway late at night after finishing my bar job – 275 kph was a blast, but even then all I could think about was how much cooler it would be if it was louder – surely that would be worth some horsepower. Or maybe a turbo. I’d read about the CX500, and if a turbo could make that ugly assed POS faster, then surely it’d work on a ZZR?? Or a turbo AND nitrous. That’d be like Kylie Minogue AND her sister (it was the 90’s, give me a break).
Then I discovered real speed. The Hayabusa. You need to say the name with more reverence, like you’re saying the name of the hottest chick you ever met. Hayabusa. Now clearly, I’m writing this next bit about a mate’s experience, it’s not my own experience, and I don’t recommend speeding. But imagine my mate’s surprise, 3am, chin on the tank, butt raised up for a little extra speed (well, it worked on an RGV right?), on the rev limiter in sixth, wind screaming over my lid, engine sounding like it was about to angrily throw a rod through the crankcase, ending in massive destruction and a huge fireball – just about perfect in the thrill stakes - when he saw a police car on the side of the motorway (it was a private closed motorway, not a public road). A police car with surprised looking cop standing beside, complete with radar gun?? Lucky escape with that one. For my mate. Ahem.
So, here I am, sitting dreaming about noise and horsepower. The bike magazine hidden between textbooks has given way to the interweb – you can surf quietly between meetings and dream. While the married guys in the office are watching the office chicks walk by, discussing the chances of looser moral engagements at the next office drinks, I’m busy dreaming about adding a blower to the gixer. Or building a supermono, or a 450 moto (450moto.com). Or a Hayabusa, with a big turbo, lengthened swingarm, and the loudest exhaust in the known universe.
I’m an early thirties sad old fuck.
I’m going to be sitting in my rocking chair in the old folks home for unwanted familiy members who are losing their marbles and drooling. My mates will be sitting looking at the nurses, reaching for Viagra, and blessing their parkinsons (think about it).
I’m going to sitting staring at my mobility scooter. Trying to work out how to let the noise out and make more power.
4.42. Home time in 18 minutes, hope you enjoyed the read.
It’s diametrically opposed to the sanitised existence of the Lemmings around me in the Dilbert Cartoon hell I live in; it’s life at full volume, perfect colour with high resolution and 10,000 watts of amplification.
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Originally Posted by madbikeboy
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